The Taming of the Jew

Hairdressers sometimes make the best confidants and have a knack for understanding whatever it is their clients want to talk about.  My hairdresser, Amy, knows how to make me feel my best while helping me to look my best (tall order, I know).  Not only does she give the best blowouts this curly haired girl has ever had, but she has dated all of the other losers and ass clowns that I just haven’t gotten around to yet.   Between the two of us, we have experienced the best disappointment that Portland has to offer.  Last Saturday, I am in Amy’s chair, and we decide that we should end the Blonde Ambition Tour and go with some Like a Prayer Hair.  Plus, she thinks that going a little darker would make my blue eyes really stand out, and this can’t hurt on the dating front.  After we decide on the exact tone, she mixes the color, breaks out the foils, and we begin our time honored ritual of comparing horror stories. 

Amy's excited to tell me that she has been dating someone for the last couple of months that she met on this site called Tinder.  I've been so tangled up in eDiscord’s 39 levels of incompatibility, that I have apparently missed this craze sweeping the nation.  I am amazed at the instant gratification of this site; you create an account via a Facebook connection (this takes about fourteen seconds total), and then are matched with people within a certain geographic radius to you.  You can see some of their Facebook pictures, and the site provides something like 500 characters of space to write anything your little ironic heart desires.  There is a pretty even mix of stupid Ron Burgundy quotes and inspirational Dali Lama crap.  If you like them, you swipe to the right; if you don’t, you swipe to the left.  Fascinatingly simple and fast-paced!  Now, if you swipe to someone to the right, and they do the same when they see you, then you are “matched” and can chat with one another.   After a little tutorial on Amy’s phone, I am amazed by this, and I download the app while I’m under the dryer and start to play. 

Instantly, I feel liberated.  It’s so refreshing not to have to sift through a mound of profiles that all read the same way.  I promise you, I don’t care what service you use or how much science is behind it or how clever someone may think they are, everyone has the same cliche profile.  Trust me dudes, I get it, you like to hike, your friends describe you as easy going, you like trying new restaurants and travel and you're "up for new adventures."  You’re going to post a picture of you on top of a mountain or by some body of water, and there's a selfie that you took in your car.  You are looking for a girl that is active, "drama-free" and fun-loving that has a good sense of humor.  I've seen hundreds of these online dating profiles, and they are all the same.   Every. Single. One. After a certain point long ago, I stopped giving a shit about the last book you read.  And I know that when you say it was a book by Stephen Hawking it is a lie.  You’re a liar.  If you say you’re 5’10” you’re also trying to convince me that you’re not a little Polly Pocket, but I know better.  You're a fucking tater tot.  Own it.  Now, I look at your pictures and check for proper punctuation and capitalization.  That’s it; anything else may make me vomit.  I think I would actually be intrigued to read a profile of a man that wanted a boring, bitchy couch potato that doesn't like to laugh and refused to eat anything other than Easy Cheese or leave the house.  I’m not that girl, but I still might cling on to that dude just because he’s so deep. 

So, Amy’s styling the new do, and we are both scrolling through the closest in proximity that Tinder has to offer.  I’m getting lots of matches, and the minimal investment on my part brings me great hope and joy.  Look, swipe, forget; repeat.  It’s not very long (I mean just a matter of minutes) before I snag an attorney, 36, with a one line reference to Woody Allen in his clever-quip section of his profile.  Well, I Love Me Tinder!  We start chatting, and it goes very well.  After about 20 minutes of chatting, he does ask if I would like to meet the following day to watch a football game at a well-lit, very public BridgePort Brewpub.  There is also a parking garage across the street for when the parking gods don't have my back.  I accept this meeting; what’s the worst that can happen?  It’s not like he’s going to set himself on fire, right? 

We meet on Sunday to watch an NFL playoff game, and we immediately engage in great conversation.  He’s witty, not unattractive (I generally close my eyes when I kiss, so I can be forgiving in the looks department provided that everything else is in order), and we are having a fun time.  After about an hour, we decide to order food, and he tells me that he can’t eat pork or shrimp.  Now, I’m not horribly oblivious here, but I figure it’s better to ask than to assume.  So, I ask and he confirms.  My lawyer is Jewish; totally fine with me, but I must admit that having grown up in the Bible Belt, I am not very familiar with Jewish culture and customs.  I’m always up for learning new things, and this is actually one of the things I love about Portland.  There is so much more cultural diversity than in the South.  Back home, we have Baptist, Methodist, and Other; other means Presbyterian or Pentecostal, by the way.   Also, the South is not really the best place in the world to keep kosher.  This is where people fry their shrimp in bacon grease.  In fact, I am having a hard time even imagining a life without bacon.  I mean, isn’t bacon proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy?   All joking aside, I’m open to dating someone from a different background, bacon or not.  Let’s just see what happens here. 

At some point very early in the conversation, we talk about James Bond, and I tell him that Roger Moore is my favorite Bond.  He asks me to marry him.  Today.  After the game.  At this point, I assume that he’s joking and being playful, and I decline the offer based upon the fact that he owns a cat.  I’m allergic, and this seems like a playfully reasonable cause to decline a first-date wedding.  We chat some more, and he tells me that his dad is going to love me, although we will have to ease him into the fact that I’m a Gentile.  He actually uses the word Gentile, as if we are reading from Exodus.  Also, his father can never see a Christmas tree at our house.  Our house?  Easy there, cheetah.  This guy is a divorce lawyer, and I am wondering if so much exposure to sad and contentious relationship endings has something to do with aggressive need to be betrothed.  (I moonlight as an armchair psychologist, and I’m now very much looking forward to googling attachment disorders when I get home).  Again, I am coy and say something to politely postpone his rush to the huppah.  We discuss restaurants and whiskey and The Blues Brothers.  He then tells me that at our wedding, I’m going to have to sit in a chair while people lift me up and we have to hold on to some sort of handkerchief.  While I’m thrilled for my free seminar in Jewish studies, this marriage talk is starting to make me a little itchy.  I tell him that I’m a simple girl, and I am more into the Rose Garden on a Tuesday sans guests; I’m also not very religious.  I hope that if I throw up some objections with a serious face that I can create our first lover’s quarrel, and he will call off the wedding.  On the other hand, I could play this one out.  I now know that this dude is the mayor of Dysfunction Junction, but I do think I can get enough material here for a new blog post (horrible, I know).  He then says that we must move forward with a Jewish ceremony, but maybe we can limit the guest count.  I've known the Jew for about 2.5 hours, and this is the third or fourth reference to marrying me.  Not just getting married in general, but marrying me specifically.  I guess he just loves my Hebrew name.  I know I’m charming and funny and a total catch, but slow it down Speed Racer!

 

Sometime late in the second halfover, he comments on my pretty blue eyes.  (Thanks to Amy for my Like a Prayer hair; maybe it is helping my eyes to stand out after all).  At this point, I oh so innocently step in it. And by “it” I mean a big pile of un-kosher shit.   I mention that I wish my eyes were as blue as my mother’s, but I suppose the mix with my father’s brown eyes yielded more of a blue/grey mix.  This is something that I have said many times in my life because my mother seriously does have the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen (it is true of her sisters as well).  I comment that they are powerfully blue, and I wish that I had inherited that trait of instant entrancement.  However, by power, I do not mean white power, or the power to create a superior race.  And when I said entrancement, I didn't mean encampment.  My future ex-husband proceeds to tell me about how he has heard the whole supreme race story before.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, Hitler, Holocaust, etc etc etc.  Jesus, help me.  I just got off the Blonde Ambition Tour, and now he’s accusing me of being an anti-Semite. Can we not talk about genocide on the first date please?  Christ Almighty,  I love Jewish people.  I am friends with Jews.  I've had Jews over to my house (wink, wink, Kramer).  At no point in my life have I ever considered anyone outside of my mother, my father, and myself in this Crystal Blue Equation about my eye color, but my little lawyer is arguing a case that somehow this involves him and his people. Boy did I just step in some shit here.  Seriously, I can understand why blue-eyed WASPs might be a sensitive topic, but wishing I had eyes more like my mother's has nothing to do with him or his people.  Get off the cross, dude.  Not all bad though, maybe he will give up on wanting to marry me before the fourth quarter. 

No such luck.  When the check comes, I say something funny (it's a curse), and he talks about "breaking the glass" again.  In my kindest bitchy tone, I tell him that I don’t think he could afford the ring I would want, and I refuse to settle for less.  Doesn't work.  He pays the check and gives me a kiss. Relatively innocent little kiss, but then my little Jew tries to show me his Roman hands (I am quite enjoying writing this Judeo-Christian shtick, I must say.  If it offends a reader, just click here).  I tell Handsy McGeestein to cool his jets, and he apologizes profusely.  He begs me to let him make it up to me next week; he’ll show me he can be a gentlemen.  I have my doubts, but I do need good stories for my blog.   I tell him that I agree to give him a mulligan, but he has a lot of ground to cover.

 

Later that night, I get a text that he has started falling for me.  Fuck.  Then I get a Facebook friend request from him.  Shit fuck. The next day, he asks me if I can meet him in the Rose Garden next Tuesday.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.  Maybe turning this into blog research was not such a good idea after all.  Thankfully, I have a trip to go out of town, so I can use the time change and distance to my advantage here.  On my flight out of town, I get a message from my little Jew that he has a great idea for us when I get back.  Instead of that gentlemanly date that he promised, he offers to grab some champagne and come over to my house with it.  Who is this guy?  Are you kidding?  You don’t know me.  I don’t know you.  You cannot come over to my house because I don’t want your crazy, clingy ass to know where I live.  I don't want to meet your father Abraham or have men bounce me above their heads while I'm wearing a dress (in the South, that's how girls get into trouble).  None of this sounds good to me.  None of it.  I reply to the email and tell him this sounds like a skeezy proposition, and I find it to be presumptuous and inappropriate.  He replies and says "I'm sorry that you misinterpreted me."  Now you're blaming me for the fact that you're loony tunes?!  Pretty sure I'm interpreting this one just right.  I tell him that we can finish the conversation later when I get back from my trip, mainly intending to never speak to him again.  The next day, I get this email.  It’s so fabulous and psychotic, that I felt inclined to post it verbatim. Truly, this is a copy/paste, typo and all.  

  

“Couldn't sleep, and I was thinking that you are great, really.  But this is moving a bit too fast for me and, well, the fact that we "needed to talk" so soon is too much for me.  I was in a relationship recently where we dove in too fast, and I don't want to make that mistake again.

I don't want to go too fast, freak out, and then leave emotional rubble.  I want you to go out and meet a great guy who can move the pace you want right now emotionally, and doesent have a cat.”

Someone needs to have some Prozac with their Manischewitz.  All I heard about on this date was how Jewish he is, and how he wants to marry me even though I'm not Jewish, and how we will have to hide some of my non-Jewish traditions from his parents.  So how am I moving to fast here?  Crazy Town. If anyone needs an emotionally unstable divorce lawyer, or if anyone would like to divorce an emotional unstable lawyer, I know just the  Jew for you!!!  Hallah …

     

I'm Burning,' I'm Burnin,' I'm Burning for You

I’m traveling now, and my next first date won’t happen until next week (big money, no whammies).  As such, I think it would be a good time to share a story that is maybe one of my favorite and most often-told date stories – literally, my hottest date ever with someone we should probably refer to as Ash.

Somewhere in the first half of my twenties, I used to frequent an establishment in Gallatin, TN called (now, don’t judge me) The Cowboy Saloon.  Seriously, please don’t judge me.  I was young, and it was a small town.  Plus, the owner of this place used to tour with a famous country music band, and there was always an amazing crowd of talented singers there.  Like most of the Nashville area, karaoke night was like going to a concert, the beer was cheap, and there were plenty of men to innocently twirl me around the dance floor.  Beneath this snarky exterior, I like to twirl. . . shocking. I know.  (Attention men, especially Portlanders - I hope you will realize that dancing is one of the easiest ways to woo women.  I know no woman that doesn't like to slow dance or be turned on the dance floor, even if that dance floor is in your living room, and you've been married for seven years, and even if you only use the same moves you used at your 8^th grade homecoming dance.  Really guys, understand that romance is the original Rohypnol; it’s a three minute investment of your time, and you don’t even have to exert much effort.  I promise it will get you so much farther than telling me about your interurban chicken coop or by putting some pomade in your cheesy-ass mustache).

So, one evening at this redneck dancing mecca, I notice a tall drink of water sitting at the bar, and in this small town, it is not common to see people in places like this that are strangers.  Let’s just say that the people that went to The Cowboy Saloon didn't Yelp.   For any Todd Snider fans, it’s kinda like the Devil’s Backbone Tavern.  For anyone not a Todd Snider fan, remedy that, stat!  So, Ash is sitting at the bar being all quiet and mysterious, and one of my girlfriends notices that I’m tossing glances his way.  Being the bashful girl that she is, my friend Elaine gets up from her chair with no warning, goes over to him, and says, “My friend over there wants to talk to you.”  Ummm, mortified.  I was just pimped out by a good friend at a place called the Cowboy Saloon.  I used to go to cotillions for crying out loud!  Mama would certainly hang her head in disapproval of this, and Memaw would have palpitations.  Fortunately for all of us, Mama and Memaw have been spared a lot under the ‘ignorance is bliss’ clause.

Ash comes to join our table, and we begin talking.  He was once a touring musician, playing drums with a famous artist that most people under the age of 60 would know.  I would drop his name here, but I would just hate for anyone to trip over it.   We end up chatting for a few hours, and of course he asks me to dance.  He’s a pretty good dancer, and my eyes start doing this twinkling thing that usually gets me into trouble, and I turn to putty.  Sometime around last call, he asks for my number, and if he could take me on a date next week.  I am excited, and impressed, and of course, I accept.  I’m also in a hurry to get out of there as quickly as possible.  It’s always best to get out of these places before the ugly lights come on –it kills the romance and no one wants to be that girl.  To meet a man in The Cowboy Saloon that has all his natural teeth, not even a whisper of a mullet, and who has traveled the world is more rare than finding a man that will pay for dinner on a date in Oregon.  Maybe Elaine isn't such a bad friend after all. 

Now, Ash has just moved to this area, and he’s unfamiliar with Nashville, so I offer to drive during our date (he did have his own car though, a Jeep I believe).   Also being unfamiliar with the Nashville area, he makes a call to the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel and gets recommendations from the concierge for nice places to take me to dinner.  I was young then, but even now, I would be impressed by the swagger involved here.   Unlike most of my little Northwest knuckleheads, he actually gives a hoot whether or not I might have a nice time on this date.  Oh, and then there’s the fact that he put in a little effort too!  He wore clean clothes, shaved, and stood up when I excused myself to the ladies’ room.  You know, the charming stuff that lets a girl know that you dig her.  What a novel concept, right?  He moves up the charm ladder another rung.  We have a very nice dinner at Midtown Cafe in Nashville where there is ambiance, a sense of romance, no sign of a handlebar mustache.  We also didn't have to wait in line for two hours in the rain to get a table because they actually take reservations.  Hint, hint Portland restaurant scene.

 

He impresses me with his knowledge of wine and music.   He’s also a talented carpenter, and he tells me about growing up in Northern California.  Maybe Mama wouldn't have disapproved so much after all.  Now, somewhere during dinner, there was a little, well . . . incident.  The linen napkin in our bread basket sort of hovered a little too close to our votive candle for a little too long, and it caught on fire.  This is not what got Ash his nickname, but I had no idea that Ms. Cleo was sending me a message.  He handled it perfectly though.  He simply and quietly picked up the basket, and stuck the burning end of the napkin into his water glass.  No fuss, no muss, no scene.  This man is all charm and sophistication!   He moves up one more rung.  I think at this point, I was so enamored that my eyes were twinkling like a Nudi suit.

 

After dinner, Mr. Freakin’ Wonderful and I stop into a Nashville honky tonk and listen to some music.  We have a blast, and he chats up the drummer of the house band during one of their breaks.  They know some of the same people.  His touring drummer story has been confirmed!  Up one more rung!  It all seems to good to be true, and it is at this point that our fairy tale goes up in smoke. 

I’m driving us back to Gallatin, and somewhere along the way, Ash asks if he can smoke in my car.  At the time, I was a smoker also, so I say sure.  He pulls out his smokes to light up while I’m driving us down a dark Highway 109, being as bubbly and as flirty and as twinkly-eyed as possible.  This guy is the cat’s meow!  At least until I look over and realize that he’s on fire.  Flames, real ones, are in my passenger seat.  Seriously, this guy has really set himself on fire in my car.  Flirting immediately stops.  Expletives replace the flirting.   This is not a scenario that I have prepared for.  

There was no way for me to pull over on the right side of the road, so I swerve across the oncoming lane into an empty parking lot.  Ash is EN FUEGO!!!!!!!  The car is still moving, and he leaps, head first, out of my 1995 Nissan Altima.  Against the pitch black backdrop of night, this is the most Steven Seagal/Leathal Weapon-looking thing I have ever seen.  Man on fire, moving car, screaming twinkly-eyed girl.  As a passer-by stops to help us, Ash is screaming to get his flaming shirt off his body.  This is not at all how I had envisioned the "undressing" part of things going.  The man who stops to help us works at the local hospital and says that these burns are serious, and he needs to go to the hospital right away.  Ash says he’s fine, and doesn't think he needs it.  He doesn't feel much pain at all.  This is because he burned all of his nerves, and he doesn't realize that his back looks like a forgotten campfire marshmallow.  I insist that I am taking him to the hospital immediately. 

As I’m helping him back into the car, we check him over for signs of road rash as well.  I was still going pretty fast when he took that header out of the passenger seat.   At this moment, both of us simultaneously realize that in all of the chaos, he lost control of some of his, you know, bodily functions.  So, to recap, he’s topless, half of him is cooked extra well done, and the other half is steak carpaccio.  Oh, aaaaaand he pissed himself.  I guess it’s too late to rewind back to talk of South American wines and slow dancing, huh?  I know that now is not the time, but I make a mental note that I am going to have to ratchet him back down a few rungs on this charm ladder after we make sure he’s okay.  Even though it is an accident, there must be some sort of deduction for self-incineration on a first date.  The ride to the hospital is a short one, and it’s during this time that he lets me know that he dropped his Zippo and it must have caught his shirt on fire.  Children, this is reason #597 not to smoke – run away Zippos can ruin an otherwise perfectly good evening.

At the hospital, he is taken back for treatment while I am left in the waiting room with his phone to call his parents in California to let them know what has happened.  First date, and I’m waking up someone else’s mom and pop to introduce myself and let them know what has happened to their son.  #Awkward.   A little while later, he gets hopped up on morphine, his pee pee pants get exchanged for a hospital gown, and he starts asking for me.  The morphine has made him very amorous, and he tells me and anyone else that will listen how sweet I am for bringing him to the hospital and how much he enjoyed our date.  Okay, maybe I’ll reconsider ratcheting him down after all.  Even if it is a drug-induced stupor, it is sort of cute. 

The docs let me know that the burns are so severe that they cannot treat him at this hospital, so he has to be transferred to the burn unit at Vanderbilt Medical Center.  He has second and third degree burns over 10% of his body, and he will need skin grafts.  Holy Balls.  Those Steven Seagal stunts are really quite dangerous!  I ride with him in the ambulance to Vanderbilt and stay with him through the night.  Over the next few weeks, I visit him in the hospital almost every day, and I bring him books and magazines to entertain him while he is healing.  His family doesn't come to see him, and he doesn't have any real friends that he can call in Nashville, so I am his surrogate family during this time.  

By now, my family and friends have all heard this story and are asking me horribly funny questions like “Do you think he still carries a flame for you?”  or “Do you think you will get burned out on him?” or “I guess your hottie really is a hottie.”  For weeks, I hear this crap (I guess it helps explain a few things about my sense of humor, no)?   There was great interest in the story, and it spreads like (God, forgive me for this) wildfire. I should have charged money to show people the charred passenger seat in my car, as that little show-and-tell was in high demand.  It seems that people doubted my tale until they saw the black burn marks in my beloved Altima.  For months, my Aunt Deanna would call me anytime she heard a song that reminded her of this story and play it for me or for my voice mail.  “Burning Ring of Fire,” “Eternal Flame,” “Well They Call me the Fireman,” “I’m Burning, I’m Burning, I’m Burning for You.”  This was the greatest hits on my voice mail for a long time.  I didn't realize that fire was such a recurring theme in all musical genres.  Trust me, Deanna was calling a lot.

It quickly became clear that our love was not meant to be.  After a few weeks, Ash had to go back to California to finish his extensive healing process, and my life moved on without him.  We part on relatively good terms, but seeing someone at his worst when you barely know one another can make it a little difficult to get back to that unicorns-and-glitter experience.  A month or so passes without hearing from him, and I notice an unusual charge on my bank statement.  It is a payment to a mobile phone carrier that I don’t use.  I call to inquire, and they tell me that its payment for a phone bill, and they give me the phone number associated with the bill.  It’s a California area code.  Wait, that’s the Burn Victim’s number.  The crispy little shit stole my credit card number while I was visiting him in the hospital!  What an Ash-wipe!!  I had once hoped for a second date that would start as magically as the first.  Now after the flames and the hospitals and the morphine and the stolen credit card and police report, I just hope the little fucker burns in hell. (Mama, please do forgive my language).  

    

 

 

 

Shorty Wanna Be a Thug . . .

Several weeks ago, I was trolling one of my dating sites like a predator looking for some tasty morsel to devour.  Really, I was probably on the couch with my fluffy little dog watching the Real Housewives of Topeka or some other such show with a social conscious while daydreaming about how nice it would be to have a new beau to kiss on New Years.  However, since this is my blog, I'd rather take some creative liberties and paint the powerful and sexy visual for this one.  So, I'm the lioness looking for dinner when I see a tall, dark and handsome thing from the Pacific has sent me a message.  Looks like Mama may be feasting on a Fijian soon . . .

After we make it through our Intro to Mating 101 syllabus of hobbies and interests and family and work, we set a date for happy hour at Henry's in the Pearl District.  This location makes me particularly happy, not because I love Henry's but because there is underground parking nearby.  One of the many things that this southerner was not prepared for when moving to the wild, wild west was street parking.  Parallel parking just seems so savage and cruel to me (translation - I suck at it).  But his suggestion of Henry's means that I don't have to spend another 15 minutes circling for an end spot.   It's a big win and gives me many more footwear options.  Another thing about Henry's that is amusing to me is that they allege to have over 100 beers on tap, except, of course, for whichever one I order.  It's freakin' magical - after I order a beer, my server will disappear for a few minutes, and then come bouncing back empty handed to tell me that they are out of that one beer.  I could order a Tree Hugger, Tricerahops, or Redhook ESB or even a PBR, doesn't matter what I pick, I'm not gonna get it.  It's kind of a cool party trick actually, and at first it annoyed me, but now I'm just happy to keep the trend alive.  This night, I order a Stella . . . wait for it, wait for it . . . Little Bunny Foo Foo comes hopping back to tell me that they're out.  I'm sure there is some deep karmic lesson in me always picking that which is unavailable, but we are going to gloss right over that for now and just get whatever my waitress recommends.  I think it was a blonde.

Now, appearance wise, Shorty was no liar.  He is very good looking, beautiful really, and even better looking in person than his pictures; he's well-groomed, smells like heaven, and well, he's just generally very clean.  I like clean.  He's as tall as an oak, and I'm a sucker for a man that towers over me regardless of what shoes I wear.  As I'm quietly lusting over him, I briefly imagine Shorty may be attacked by the Kissing Bandit tonight.  Realizing that I need to cool my hormonal jets, we continue talking.  Sports and gym talk mostly.  Lots of golf.  Don't worry, this guy is way better looking than Vijay Singh, but I'm starting to get the feeling that he's just not as . . . well traveled?  (I really hope that sounds as polite as possible).  Really, it's hard to get this guy off any topic outside of 49ers football, MMA, golf, and his 24-hour fitness workout regimen.  I'm happy to talk about sports, but in my experience, conversations about Manny Pacquiao and Payne Stewart aren't easily transitioned into any form of romance, let alone deep connection.  So, I take a sip of beer, bite my lip, and rack my brain for something else to talk about.  But before I can ask it . . . he builds the conversational Bridge to Nowhere . . .

"Do you like spicy food?" he asks.  I smile and say that I do.  He gives a big grin back at me and says "Me too."  And then it just awkwardly hangs there, very awkwardly, in fact.  I ask if he cooks a lot of spicy food, or if he has a favorite restaurant or type of cuisine, and I get a nonchalant "No" to both questions.  WTF?  Do I like spicy food, and that's it?  Wait, did I just out myself as having some sort of salacious sriracha fetish without my knowledge?  Is this some new dating lingo that I just don't understand?  It's so hard to keep up with all this stuff!  I was in shock when I found out about looners, and I was one of the last to know!  Should I pretend to need to make a call so I can google this spicy food question to see what kind of girl he really thinks I am?  A bit of panic sets in as I try to figure out my next move, and thankfully our Little Bunny Foo Foo comes back to offer me another one of the beers that I didn't really want to begin with.  I decide I'll just let it go for now and I'll google it later.

I manage to change the subject to music, which is a topic that I find to be universally appealing and comfortably generic all at the same time.  I had no warning that when I mentioned that I liked some old school hip hop what would unfurl before me.  I have struck a chord, and I just can't keep up with the fervor in which he is rattling off song lyrics and bouncing in his chair.  It's a little alarming actually.  It is in this phase of the evening where he earns his moniker, Shorty. Suddenly, he puts his hands up in the air, wavin' 'em round like he just don't care.  Literally, he does this.  I'm not making this up.  We're both laughing hysterically, but I think for different reasons.  I get to hear about he and his boyz at the club back in the day, how much he loves still loves NWA and such.  He's really pushing for me to go to dancing with him tonight, but I politely decline 47 times, and he finally concedes to some other time.  I realize that he is so delighted to release his inner gangsta that I really want to start talking about golf again.  Who would have ever thought I would think of Fred Couples as a life line one day?  Fo' real, I gotta get out of here before he actually calls me boo.

I throw out the old "I gotta let my dog out" excuse to end the night just before the wheels come off.  We get the check, I wait the 5 minutes, he doesn't go for it.  I say screw it, throw my card onto the check and say "Let's split it," and go to the restroom while the waitress is processing our payment.  This date gets the award for worst case of personality whiplash, and I'm reeling to understand how we started at Augusta National and ended Straight Outta Compton.  And then there's that spicy food question . . . I still don't know what that was about.

He walks me to my car, then he asks if I will drive him to his car because it's so cold.  There's no good way to say no to that without sounding like the worst person in the world.  Shorty may want to be a thug, but I know he's really harmless.  Bless his heart, he just got a little too excited. Besides, I'm in the home stretch, what's another 3 minutes driving him to his car?  We're rounding a corner, and he let's me know that his is the white sports car at the end of the next block.  I get closer, and I realize that he drives the car that I loved most when I was in high school.  It's a late 90s Camaro Z28 with T-Tops.  Yes, people, T-Tops.  I pull over to let him out, give him a friendly hug good night, and watch him walk to his car.  As I get a visual of him cruisin' with the T-Tops off to "Picture Me Rollin'" I realize that Mama almost pounced on a Fijian landmine . . . We may not have a second date, but Shorty . . . I ain't mad at cha . . .  

I do wonder if he uses a wifebeater or a Jamaican beaded seat cover in that Camaro.  I guess I'll never know. . .

  

They're Called Grooms for a Reason . . . Trim That Shit

Recently, I had the pleasure of going on a first date with a man that I will refer to here as Totcho Libre.  I'll explain the pseudonym later.  We met on eDiscord, and after a couple of weeks of virtual correspondence, I was hopeful that we would have a delightful time.  He is in his mid-thirties, no children or ex-wives, college educated, and has been employed with the same company for the last decade.  We have similar taste in music and restaurants, and he is witty while maintaining proper subject/verb agreement.  From the pictures on his dating profile, he is a little on the hipster side, but nothing too alarming: a reasonable beard and shirts with snaps.

The date is set for a Polish restaurant on Hawthorne Blvd that neither of us had been to previously.  Not knowing much about Polish food, I figure that some sauerkraut might be involved, so I make sure to throw some Altoids into my purse.  If things go well, some good conversation and the right eye contact could be the right combo for a goodnight kiss!

After spending an unreasonable period of time looking for a parking spot, I arrive at the restaurant just three minutes late but looking as fabulous as I possibly can.  Fresh manicure, new handbag, meticulous makeup, and some sexy shoes with 4" heels.  (I have learned that the #1 thing that men lie about on dating sites is their height.  Totche Libre said that he was 5'10", so I picked shoes that would allow me to judge exactly how much of a liar he is).  I scan the room, looking for his beard as my form of identification.  And then I see it . . .

Either his profile pictures are extremely out of date, or he has been eating prenatal vitamins like candy.  That beard probably has its own voting privileges in Multnomah County.  There's no way in hell I can kiss that, and with my curly hair and that Brillo beard, if he got close enough, we could be stuck together like Velcro.  Seriously, this dude looks like a Hasidic Jew, but without the cute little curls or the conviction of religious beliefs and tradition to justify it.  My excitement fades, and I take my seat.  Now, I know that Totcho Libre has recently gotten over the flu, but if I can find time to paint my nails for this date that has been planned for a week, he can find some time to make love to a weed whacker before showing up.  Alternatively, he could take 2.7 seconds to snap a new selfie that accurately represents his Rapunzel-like aspirations and post it to his profile.  Really, this is not too much to ask.  

We go through the standard first-meeting pleasantries, order our food, and I internally reset my expectations.  Maybe he will be a buddy for concerts; that would be good, right?  Our food comes, and two bites in, a piece of sauerkraut shrapnel gets stuck in the billowing tufts of his beard.  Now, part of me is finding this funny enough to be the evening's silver lining, but the polite southern belle in me is trying to decide the best way to handle this.  Should I say something?  Should I hope that another hearty bite will loosen the thing, and the fermented cabbage will fall freely to safety?  Should I just stare at it, and hope that he'll realize that I'm not making eye contact for a reason?  Oh, who am I kidding?  Jimmy Hoffa is probably hiding in that thing, and there's too much food left on his plate to think that this one little shred will be the only casualty to that beard tonight.  I decide that we should just finish eating, and I'll let him know at the end of the meal about the sampler platter that's remaining on his face.

Throughout dinner, I stick to the safe topics like restaurants and music, and then our server clears our plates.  In what I can tell is a common ritual if not a compulsion, his elbows go on the table, and then he begins twisting his whiskers.  This part actually mesmerizes me. Totcho Libre has his own home-grown Sham-Wow on his face.  A few twists, and that beard releases three times its weight in food particles!!  The UN should contract this dude to drop rations in third world countries using his after-meal mandible!!!!   I can't stop staring, and I'm watching with the same fascination that I stare at my little gems of Wal-Mart when I travel back home.

Finally, the check comes, and Totcho Libre doesn't go for it immediately.  It's possible that he's entranced by  my beautiful blue eyes and just doesn't want the night to end.  Possible, but not probable.  It's clear that we are in a standoff.  I continue chatting for another 7-10 minutes, and then I realize it's time to cut my losses.  I better offer to split the check before he gets the wrong idea and thinks that I'm lingering because I'm smitten.  I grab my wallet, and of course, he says that it would be great if we could split the check.  If I have to pay for my own dinner on a first date, I'll chalk it up to the cost of doing business just to get home soon.

We leave the restaurant, and I ask in which direction he is parked.  "Oh, that's another thing about me, I haven't had a car in 12 years."  I'm generally turned off by guys who post photos of their cars on dating sites, but now I'm starting to see some merit in it.  Concerned for his carbon footprint?  Nope.  He continues "My license was suspended 12 years ago after I got into an accident without proper insurance, so I sold my car and never got another one."  Bitchin'

It's also at this time that I realize that he's a 2" liar.  If he's 5'10", I'm the Queen of Sheba.  It's freezing, so I offer him a ride. I can't let the little sprite shiver at the bus stop.  He's nice enough, I just know this is not a love connection.  It's during the long ride home that he tells me about the stripper that he once dated after meeting on eDiscord (is this really where strippers go to meet men these days?), and about the merry-go-round of roommates that he has.  Sometimes there are just two of them in the house, sometimes there are four.  Thrilled that it's almost over, I tune out until he tells me which hostel is his, and I pull over.  He tells me that he had a great time (of course he did, because he totally outkicked his coverage on this date), and he'd really love to take me to his favorite food cart sometime for Totchos.  (For any non-Portlanders reading this, that's nachos made with tater tots.  Tots are kind of a Portland thing).  My mouth said "Text me" but my heart said "I'm Nacho Totcho Mama."    

   
    

Keeping Up Appearances

For the last three years, this Tennessee girl has been looking for love in Oregon.  I've had a few heartaches and dodged a few bullets since then, but I am moreover compelled to share the comical aspects of dating in Portland.  Don't get me wrong, I have had more than enough laughable dates during my time in the South.  However, a mullet-donning redneck is a known quantity for me, easily identifiable (and thankfully avoidable) from quite some distance.  An ever genteel Big Johnson T-Shirt, a conspicuously juicy wad of Copenhagen, or a Confederate flag window tint are like flashing neon signs describing the man behind them.  In my mind, they are manna from heaven, kind of like my GPS yelling at me to make an immediate u-turn, he's not my kinda party.  There is the safe coziness in this, a social Snuggie of sorts.  

In Portland, on the other hand, hipsters mingle among the status quo (or maybe they are the status quo), and every measure of oddity or wonder can be lurking behind a burly beard or a pair of skinny jeans or a vintage tweed jacket.  It's beyond challenging for this Southern girl to discern the successful metrosexual professional from the unemployed (or unemployable) candle-making chucklehead.  I have to weed through the facial hair, the birth control eyeglasses, and the tattoo jungle to see what lies beneath, and even then it's a mixed bag. If a man invites to me to the farmer's market for a date, it could be because he wants to buy some organic fennel for an amazing dinner that he will cook for me later, or it could be because he plays the didgeridoo there so that he can make rent for the week.  I don't yet know when the GPS of Love is telling me to make that u-turn with enough advance warning to avoid calamity or comedy.  And until I can figure out how to update those maps, I'm just going to blog about they hilarity that OK Stupid! and eDiscord bring my way.  

Oh, and I promise, there's plenty to come about the average looking dudes who brush their hair and wear clothing that is not certified pre-owned.  I've dated those too, and they too can bring their unique blend of delightful disappointment to bear.  

Disclaimer: I understand that as a good and kind person, I'm not to judge a book by it's cover, and its what's on the inside that counts, and it takes all kinds to make the world go round, and every other inspirational cliche, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Like the Psychic Friends Network, this is meant for entertainment purposes only.  I love Portland and its people, I just don't want to get close enough to kiss them all.