Just Sit there and Look Pretty

Ok, I admit it: Guys with an accent are marginally more “hot” than guys without. Let’s clarify: Guys with accents from, say, London or Ireland are hotter than, well, Joliet, IL.

One evening in downtown Chicago, my friend Stephanie and I were hitting some pubs. It was well into the evening while at this particular pub that I cannot possibly recall the name of when I was making my way through the crowd back from the bar to our table. There’s an Irish band playing and a mass of people from one wall to the next.

Being a very petite woman, crowds really aren’t my “thing.” But I make do. I excuse myself through some pretty rowdy but not necessarily obnoxious men half-way back to my table. One of them—probably the most muscular man that has ever touched me—took hold of my forearm and pulled me up to him.

I am used to big men feeling the need to pick me up. Heck, even taller women pick me up. No, you can’t put me into your pocket. And my bite is worse than my bark, so antagonize with caution (think: Chihuahua).

Here I am squished up next to the very firm and formidable body of a strange man. And we were now the center of a Man Circle as at least four of his construction worker-looking friends surrounded us. Where was my girl friend? She would really be thanking me right now!

I was preparing some statement in response to his uncivilized method of getting my attention, when suddenly some part of my female brain notices that if you’re going to be held captive by a strange man in a bar, this guy would likely be your first choice.

Every muscle of in his arms was screaming to bust out of his shirt—and not in the “you saw me in The Birdcage” sort of way. I wasn’t even that concerned about the bruise I was surely getting on my arm because he clearly didn’t realize his strength. I shifted in his arms to get into Cute Mode and my little girly brain was happily riding an endorphin wave when suddenly he spoke.

Huh?

Ok, I’m in a crowded bar with a band. What did you say?

HUH?

Disappointing: He really is plowed. I’m sorry. What did you say again?

Maybe I’m drunk? Once more, with feeling.

You know The Teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons? Add a few words to her lines and that’s pretty much what I heard.

After much effort and laughter (the laughter you give when you resign yourself to participating in a pathetically declining situation), I discovered the reason for our inability to effectively communicate: Way too many accents.

I apparently have an accent because I come from a small town in Central Illinois. The more tired I get or alcohol I consume, the more I drawl. And this beautiful specimen of a man in front of me trying desperately to jump the language barrier spent his first 15 years in Ireland and his last 10 years in London.

I watch period films. I know people from Ireland. He was definitely speaking English, but I had no idea what he was telling me. He was persistent and sweet (from what I could understand), so by the end of the evening, I did give him my number (in writing).

When he called, we tried to arrange a date, but during our “conversation,” every other thought I had was “Say what?” Every girl dreams of the movie moment when she meets a man with a sexy accent. It implies culture, sophistication, and everything James Bond.

I talked to him a few more times on the phone, but every time, I felt like a jerk asking him to restate what he said. I didn’t want to be the girl that laughs at everything she didn’t understand either. There was no way around it. I had to toss this fish back.

I guess sometimes speaking the “Language of Love” can literally result in hearing sweet nothings. Sigh.

Sure, it’s Still Ice Cream, but…

So he’s intelligent. He’s amusing. He’s a good kisser. He’s attentive but not clingy (yes, even women need space). I actually want to see him more often; even if that means having beer take up space in my fridge. Heck, I may even consider sharing my pillow, but eventually compatibility comes down to sex.

We can be the best of friends off the course, but when it’s time to play and he just can’t seem to make the shot, he shouldn’t be surprised if I’m not so eager to team up with him again. Right? Can this skill really be coached?

I admit I have stayed in a relationship too long when the sex was, well, dissatisfying. When I finally told my friends and even my mother about my predicament, they were horrified to say the least. Why would I stay in a relationship with no passion? Why was I settling? Did I think it would improve over time?

I’m nothing if not reasonable. I rationalized that he was a perfectly nice man and we got along, so why toss him aside? We could work on it and somehow make it fun. And I didn’t want to embarrass him or insult him, so I thought it would be best to make this a covert operation. So I bought a video.

Let me first state that I am not the porn-watching kinda gal. I’ve tried. I even picked out some really “great” porn as a surprise for my husband on Valentine’s Day. He was quite surprised and happy with my choice (thank you, helpful lesbian in the video rental shop). Unfortunately, he watched it without me.

Despite my attempts to coexist with porn without incident, whenever our paths have crossed, it’s been a less-than-satisfying experience for me and whomever it was I was with at the time. From one boyfriend’s video of a “niece’s dance recital” in the camcorder (yes, there were girls and I guess it was a group dance of sorts) to stumbling onto my husband’s porn stash while looking for our car insurance policies, porn insists on making its presence known.

I am not the woman that denies her man privacy or space. And I completely understand that men are visual creatures and enjoying porn once in a while does not make a man (or woman) creepy or unfaithful. I grew up in a town with a very famous strip club right off Main Street. I’m sure many people I went to college with put themselves through school by way of employment at that very establishment.

But still, when I innocuously plug my iPod into the computer and suffer an onslaught of pop-up window after pop-up window of mini-porn movies, I have to wonder if the joke is on me.

I digress. So I purchase this instructional video for my boyfriend. I present said video as something new and fun. I drink two glasses of wine before sitting down to watch video with boyfriend. Five minutes into foreplay, video begins to fervently skip.

There’s something undeniably amusing about stuttering porn.

That was my last attempt to befriend porn. Shortly after that incident, but not directly related, that boyfriend and I parted ways. It was then with renewed perspective that I realized when I want vanilla-chocolate-chip ice cream and someone offers me vanilla ice cream, yes, it’s still ice cream, but it’s definitely not going to hit the spot…even with sprinkles.

No Matter How You Spell It

Bachelor Number 1 and I exchanged a number of seemingly informative and, by all accounts, acceptable emails before I agreed to meet him for a drink at a popular steakhouse. He was employed as a police officer from The City. I’d never dated a police officer, but my uncle was a detective sergeant and we like him in the family, so that was good enough for me.

We had not agreed to dinner, having instead decided to eat beforehand and just have a drink and “see how it goes.” In my 20s, this would be unthinkable—rude even. In my 30s, I have the sense to know that agreeing to dinner could result in a minimum of two very awkward or agonizing hours spent with a stranger. We’ve all been there—on the receiving end of a one-sided conversation or desperately trying to pull a conversation out from the dead. Why put yourself through that unnecessarily?

So I arrive at the steakhouse a sensible five-minutes early. Now a woman by herself in any bar environment is uncomfortable. I could have been “fashionably late” to ensure I didn’t have to sit by myself for a while, but I didn’t want to keep this man I had never met waiting for me. I wish he’d have made the same consideration.

Ten minutes and two waitresses pass. Finally, I order myself a drink. I check my phone (both to see if he called and to appear under no uncertain terms as though I was, indeed, waiting for someone important). I read through the menu and consider appetizer options. I touch up my lipstick. Fifteen minutes.

I consider calling him, but then I decide if he was blowing off our date, calling him would make me appear desperate. The nice man and woman in the little table next to me comment: “Who would make a woman such as yourself wait like this?” Me: “Someone I haven’t met.” They ask me to join them, and I thank them sincerely but decline. Two more minutes pass and finally my date arrives.

BN1 seems a little frazzled and he apologizes, giving me the standard excuse for running late in The City: Traffic. He sees I have a drink already and he orders himself a beer. I notice his difficulty making eye contact—moreover, I notice his eyes darting all over the place. Is he high? This is disconcerting. He goes so far as to look over his own shoulder. Is he watching a game on one of the TVs? He seems on edge, which makes me uncomfortable and glad I agreed to a drink and not an entire meal. Resume small talk.

BN1 declares he’s starving and asks me if I want any food. I remind him that I ate BEFORE coming to meet him. He decides to order a dinner salad. Wonderful. We briefly review that he is a cop and that he's been Internet dating for about eight months now.

His huge salad arrives and BN1 digs in with frenzy. Am I sure I don’t want any? Definitely don’t want any. This could be a while. Should I order another drink? At this point, I’ve already paid for my first drink. Considering how BN1’s eyes keep darting all over the place, I decide I’m better off without another drink.

His darting eyes are making me paranoid, so I finally ask him what he’s looking for. He doesn’t understand my question, so I explain. He laughs and says that since he’s a cop, he’s “trained” to be “on the lookout” and it’s natural to him to behave this way. I reassure him that the likelihood of anything “going down” at this nice steakhouse was slim to none. He laughs at me. Since I can’t relate, I decide that I’d rather be with an observant cop than a lazy one.

I read from his profile that he has a son. That’s a topic of interest and importance to me, so I inquire. How old is your son? He’s five. Resume small talk with questions about being the father of a 5-year-old. Mostly I want to see how he talks about his relationship with his son. Is he involved? Is he proud? Is this a source of frustration for him?

Then I ask: What’s his name? His name is John.

Then I ask “How do you spell that? J-O-N or J-O-H-N?” This seems like an innocuous question. I could probably walk up to 1,000 people with sons named “John” and ask them this question without incident. But not tonight. Not on this date.

“Funny you asked that!” he says without looking up from his salad. “It’s spelled with a ‘Q’.” If I were eating, I would have spit up my food. Instead, I assume I misheard him. “Excuse me?” I ask. “With a ‘Q’,” he confirms.

I have a pretty sharp sense of humor by most standards, so I wonder if this a joke, you know, “John Q. Public” or does he love James Bond movies? Is he mocking my question? No, he’s serious. Completely serious.

“How do you spell ‘John’ with a ‘Q’?” I ask, omitting the pronoun “Dumbass” at the end of my question.

He repeats, “With a ‘Q’.”

Me: Like Q-U-E or Q-U-E-U-E?

Him: No, just a “Q.”

Me: Holding back both the biggest WTF laugh in the world and the urge to slap him. Am I on candid camera? He was looking around like a nutcase this whole time. Who names their kid “Q?”

He explains that he wanted something different. “That’s different alright,” I confirm, wishing I had another martini. Apparently the mother of his child felt this was also a reasonable name. I have nothing to say to that.

I asked him what he thought would happen to his son when his name was called at school. He told me that his son would have to tell people how to pronounce his name correctly. I unsuccessfully tried to reestablish the fact that in no language I’m aware of (and I am “aware” of four) do they spell “John” or translate “John” with just the letter “Q.”

I realize this is pointless. I realize I’m sitting next to a person that could be certifiably something. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that either his sense of humor or sensibility is amiss. Then he does the unspeakable, well, at least it turned me speechless: BN1 actually looks at me with vacant, goo-goo eyes, stretches his pale, skinny arm out, and pets the side of my face.

Seeing this action coming toward me in slow motion, I feel my head forcing itself against the back of the booth. I would have sucked my entire head into the back of the booth if that were a possibility not beyond dimensional laws. For a split second, I even hope my alter ego in some other dimension (assuming they exist like scientists assure) was able to suck their head into the booth. I was not successful. I sat there with my eyeballs bugging out of my head as this strange man petted my face.

I asked him what he was doing. He smiled, apparently certain that his smile would still my frantic heart, and replied, “I wanted to see if it was real.”

Now I’m completely repulsed, “If what was real? My face?”

“...if your skin was real.”

If someone normally TOLD me I had nice skin, I’d be flattered and appropriately courteous. But no, petting someone’s face—someone you just met—is not a form of flattery. I am quite certain that in some countries, he might actually have lost his hand to this affront to my personal space…and hygiene. Ew.

I honestly don’t remember what we talked about after that. Eventually he finished his gigantic salad and I was able to call it a night. I didn’t even want him to walk me to my car, but naturally, he insisted.

At some point by my car, he thought it was the perfect moment to move in for a first kiss.

This time, unopposed by immutable laws of physics, I was able to suck my head out of range.

Plan IE

"Does a string of bad dates really equal one good one?" — Carrie (again), Sex and the City

There have been a number of things introduced in the last decade with the purpose of improving the life of The Single Woman. Spray-on pantyhose. Those breast-enhancement things that look like chicken cutlets. Starbucks Doubleshot (to get to work on time the morning after a good date). Some even say Plan B, but I’m not going there. And then there are Internet dating Web sites.

I have two good girl friends that met their husbands through Internet dating services. What’s more, my ex-husband met HIS fiancée through an Internet dating site. Who am I to judge? Apparently casting a wider net works when one tries to net the right fish...for some.

So I answered the lengthy questionnaire with honesty and serious consideration for who the system might puke out as my viable prospect. It may have taken me an hour to answer the questions, and there were points during the process that reminded me of the Myers-Briggs’ personality assessments. But time and second-guessing aside, this was preferable over spending an hour figuring out what still qualifies as "fun clothes" in my wardrobe, asking myself why I don’t own any hoochie shoes, re-establishing a relationship with my estranged eveningwear makeup, dragging “self and friends” to an undisclosed bar location, subjecting “self and friends” to spending too much money on drinks and bad music, and finally engaging in the inevitable candid discussion of the phenomenon that only the weird, offensive men seem to hit on women in a bar.

Dating Web sites manage to turn optimism and excitement into sentiments more akin to frustration and anxiety. And after a couple of actual “prospect” encounters, more aptly put: Fear and loathing. My harsh criticism wasn’t born overnight, but rather over the course of many.

Ladies and gentleman, I introduce Bachelor No. 1...

Right Back Where I Started From—Intro

"It's like the riddle of the Sphinx...why are there so many great unmarried women and no great unmarried men?" — Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

Somewhere between the stick turning pink and his three-week stint in Germany, I realized my marriage had tumbled from “we’re expecting” to “not quite what I expected.” I can’t blame one thing or one person for the adhesive wearing out of whatever was keeping our relationship together. The pretty pink faded in just shy of three months, and when he returned from work in Germany, we were living as strangers.

So three counselors and over three grand later, I was right back where I started when I moved to Chicago seven years earlier. But this time, I was no longer a wide-eyed twentysomething: I was in my 30s. Actually “in” my 30s. And I didn’t realize exactly how different an experience dating in my 30s would be from dating in my 20s. For one thing, it became “dating with a purpose.”

I can only imagine how it must feel from a man’s perspective to date a woman who is “dating with a purpose.” Sure I went on a few dates that I knew were likely to be “onesies,” but for the most part, we reach a point where it’s just easier and actually more enjoyable to clean out your DVR than spend several hours with someone you know you won’t recognize in a month.

The romantic scenario where you meet at a wedding reception wasn’t going to happen: My friends were already married and I haven’t crashed any kind of party since college. I’ve never once met anyone at the grocery store, zucchini section or otherwise. The only men that ever approached me at the health club were promoting their personal training services. Did I need to change my entire lifestyle? How would that be authentic—I’d be misrepresenting myself and then we’d all be disappointed in the end.

Of course, does any other feeling come with “The End?” It’s never as satisfying as the warm-fuzzy closure you receive from a childhood fairytale. “The End” of my marriage was excruciating. The End of my divorce was expensive and depressing. The End of every relationship involves one or both people feeling rejected, hurt, or even angry. The End is never accompanied by a feeling you want to put between two leather spines and pull out before bedtime…unless you like wallowing.

Optimistic that the odds were in my favor—I had never tried to meet men in an overcrowded metropolis—I was sure this whole “single situation” would rightly turn itself around in no time. The rental car guy asked for my number. My hairstylist set me up with a cute friend. I was game. I was “open.” I even read “The Secret.”

So this is a blog about my dating experiences between two marriages. Why would I want to rehash dating experiences or expect anyone to care? Two reasons. First, because everyone has “that friend” that’s still single and no one can figure out why. And second, so as to reassure my family and friends that I am, indeed, not hiding some dimorphic condition—psychological, physiological or otherwise.