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Either his profile pictures are extremely out of date, or he has been eating prenatal vitamins like candy.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."