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. . .