I am, in fact a, literate, privileged white person who loves the Decemberists.

Last night, I went on a date. I know, what, I’m actually writing about a date?! Well, one of the three men I was seeing ended up politely telling me that he’s too focused on his career right now and doesn’t want to date. I’m not upset; he was sweet but it was early on and we had only been out a few times. At least he was polite enough not to ghost like Swayze on me.

I ended up bored at work yesterday, scrolling through Tinder and Bumble. I’ve had very few matches these days; I don’t know if it’s because I’m pickier because I’m pretty satisfied with my other two menfolk, or if I’m going through a drought period of matching. That actually happens; there will be weeks where I’m flooded with matches and people talking to me, and then weeks where I match with nobody. It’s been this way since I joined. Yesterday, I matched with precisely one person. In a strange twist, though, he actually messaged me and we started talking. Yes, I have to say, for the amount of matches I have on both apps, the amount of people I have talked to is quite low, and the amount I’ve met in person is even smaller. I get ignored a lot, honestly. It doesn’t bother me, it’s all part of the weird app dating scene. And again, at this point, it’s more out of curiosity than anything else. I’m quite satisfied with the man I’m seriously casually dating (that’s a thing), and my FWB. But, as there’s no monogamy happening at this point, why not scope around and see what’s going on?

So, he messaged me. In my profile there has always been, and will always be, a reference to  It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. At the bottom of my profile is this quote:

(Not the picture, obviously, although I should probably just put it in my pictures.)

I get a lot of response/questions about that quote. The FWB messaged me about it originally, saying, “My spaghetti policy is very strict: I don’t accept any impastas.” I knew we would get along. On my first date with casual-yet-serious, the line was brought up, and we ended up talking about It’s Always Sunny, which he didn’t know much of, but knew enough to converse and for me to try to convince him to watch some more of it at some point (still working on that). So, this gentleman, whom we will call Dan, started right in with It’s Always Sunny references. I was impressed/pleased. Awesome, this guy knows his stuff! We ended up talking for a bit, and he jokingly called me James Bond, and asked if I was free for a drink. Normally, I wait a while and talk to people for at least a couple days before I meet them. He works between Mountain View and Palo Alto, and suggested somewhere around there. Now, that’s a good 20-30 minutes in light traffic for me to drive further north towards the city, making my commute home longer. When I told him this, he suggested we meet down in Los Gatos, which is much closer to home for me. I figured, what the hell, and accepted. Plus, he wanted to meet at a place with funky pizza and fancy cocktails. Don’t think, just go. So I went.

Now, I will say, his profile said he preferred wine over beer (that’s a plus). Faulkner over Dickens (also a plus). And Magritte over Warhol (disagree entirely). I told him before I left that I love Warhol, so he was aware of this situation and my counter-stance. He also said he’s looking for a hiking buddy, and I’m not into that shit, and I also told him that. He didn’t mind. Dan was there before me, somehow, and I sat across from him at the table. We were talking casually at first. I ordered a fancy cocktail and he ordered the same one, even though he originally told me he was just going to have a glass of prosecco. He was not impressed with the drink, apparently. I, being the asshole I am, had to immediately ask him about why he’s anti-Warhol. Dan told me that he had gone to school in Pittsburgh, and so had been to the Warhol museum, and that he hates it. “It’s garbage. It’s not art.” I, of course, will not take that shit. This is pretty much how that conversation went:

“So, why do you consider Warhol and other pop art, NOT art?”

“Because it doesn’t take a long time! It’s not skilled; anyone could do it.”

“All art has to take a long time and be complicated to make in order for it to be classified as art?”

“No, of course not, but…”

“But that’s exactly what you just said. Is the fact that it’s taking everyday objects and turning them on their heads to show society how little we value things, is that what upsets you? The fact that it’s a representation of popular culture skewed?”

“Yeah, it’s not really art! It’s like, here’s a soup can, great. Anyone can do that.”

“But that’s the point!!”

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it. It’s not art to me.”

“But a painting of a pipe that says, ‘this is not a pipe’ underneath it is?”

“A man with an apple in front of his face? C’mon! Surrealism makes you think way more than Warhol ever could.”

“I disagree. I mean, I do like Magritte, and surrealism. But Warhol was right, too: ‘In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.’ How else do you explain the Kardashians?”

“No, they’ve been around way longer than 15 minutes. And Kanye! That’s why.”

“They were popular before Kanye.”

“Yeah, but he’s like, extending their influence.”

Clearly this was not going anywhere. I get his points, on some level, but he was not budging at all. And, of course, neither was I. I can at least concede to liking Magritte and not putting down all surrealists; they’re just not my favorite. I recognize why they are artists and their contribution to the art world, because I’m not a total asshole.

So, I changed topics. “You like It’s Always Sunny, too? I love that show.”

“Yeah, I like it, but, I mean, I don’t know. There’s just no redeeming value to it.”

“Why does it need to have redeeming value? Can’t it just be a silly show for people to enjoy?”

“Well, yeah, it’s funny and everything, but it’s just a bunch of self-absorbed alcoholics getting into shenanigans.”

“Yes! Exactly! That’s the point!”

“Yeah, but, I don’t know…I like things with redeeming social values tied into them, that are like, re-affirming, somehow.”

Okay, that’s fair. But hi, contradiction, how you doing? Maybe the redeeming social value for me is the fact that it doesn’t have one. Maybe I enjoy a silly show that is nothing but silly and totally unrealistic and whacked out that makes me laugh and forget about things? Makes me forget all the bullshit and daily worries and anxieties that I host inside? That’s redeeming, in my opinion. But, it’s not HIS opinion, so fuck it. We kept talking about TV shows; he asked what other ones I watch. We had none in common except for Parks and Rec. We switched to music. He asked about my love of the Decemberists, which is deep and unending, and I admitted that. He said, “so, that makes you a literate privileged white person, you know?” Yes, yes, I’m aware. I asked about his favorite bands, which turned out to be Brand New and Death Cab for Cutie. I immediately pointed at him, incredulously, and said “Uh, so, you know you’re a literate, privileged white person as well, right?” He laughed and agreed. But seriously? You felt the need to call me out as a literate, privileged white person, when you are the exact same thing? Sorry, 25-year-old white male software engineer in Silicon Valley, I will not put up with that shit. I am aware of my white privilege. I recognize it. Please don’t shame me for my favorite band when your favorite bands are equally as based in nerdy white privilege, thanks.

For as much as we disagreed, it was kind of fun to have nerdy passionate banter about things. We got a second round of drinks and ordered pizzas. Everything was going along okay; at least we were laughing about the uncomfortableness and how we totally disagreed on nearly everything. We ate our pizza, kept talking and I gave him my theories on the differences between the Decemberists, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, and Radiohead, along with the hardcore fans of each band. Basically I was just making broad, sweeping generalizations and judging people, but it was quite fun. I said I was an example of a typical Decemberists fan, and he is an example of a typical Death Cab fan. I’m not wrong on either one of these, by the way. He was wearing a hoodie and plastic Rivers Cuomo-style glasses, and a band t-shirt with jeans. He was coming from work. Hi there, Silicon Valley software engineer stereotype, nice to have a date with you. In fact, when I relayed this to my boss this morning, he said, “sounds like a Silicon Valley programmer: self-centered asshole.” We talked about books, and actually agreed on some literary topics. He hasn’t read any DFW but House of Leaves is on his bookshelf, waiting to be read. He also said some redeeming things about fighting the patriarchy, I will give him credit for those. I even told him straight-up, "Okay, you're not completely terrible. That just redeemed you."

I told him my theory that, at heart, we are all garbage people just trying to be better every day, but that honestly, most people don't have their shit together and we are all secretly awful and just trying to get through the days. He told me he fundamentally disagreed, and that there are no bad people, not really, just people who have had bad experiences who then act out. I mean, that's so sweet and naive on the one hand. On the other, I had to again point-blank disagree, as I know people who have not experienced trauma who are total assholes, and people who have experienced horrible things who are gentle, loving souls. (The garbage people theory is mostly a joke and based on the fact that, at heart, I feel like I am a garbage person. Most people would disagree with that statement, but I feel that way a lot of the time.) I wish I could be that wide-eyed. Alas, I've been through too many fucked-up situations to be so trusting and naive. Maybe he's Anne Frank in disguise? I would love to believe that most people are truly good at heart, and in fact, a lot of them are. But there are so many people that I've known and had to interact with who are just awful individuals that I can't believe they were turned that way from bad experiences. I don't know. Human behavior is not one of my areas of expertise. Or maybe I really am a jaded, cynical bitch. Garbage person #1.

We had finished our second drinks and were winding down the evening when he looked at me very seriously. “Okay, now, we’ve talked about things important to you: books, movies, TV shows. I’m a foodie; food is my thing. Do you have any likes or dislikes?” Now, here’s the thing: I fucking love food. I eat a lot. I will eat a lot of things. For a long time I was a picky eater; but in the past few years my palate has broadened and there’s a short list of things I don’t eat, and even then I can be flexible if need be. I don’t like nuts, but I’ve eaten them in things recently and I didn’t die. I’m not a fan of fruit or things with seeds in them, honestly. Weirds me out and the texture of most of them is just gross to me. Minus peaches, oranges, lemons, limes, and cooked apples. Otherwise I probably won’t eat fruit. Maybe a bite or two of a banana or a blueberry or two. It’s my own thing; I get it. But I didn’t mention either of those things to him. I explained that I love all sorts of cuisine: Asian food of all varieties, sushi, Mexican, Thai, a good burger (bacon cheeseburger preferably). And then I admitted the three foods I actually hate and generally don’t eat: tomatoes, celery, and rosemary. He nearly had a heart attack. Now, I can handle tomato paste in, like, curry or if it’s not at the forefront of the food. I don’t like pizza sauce. I don’t like marinara. I don’t like tomatoes on my sandwiches. I barely use ketchup or hot sauce (minus Frank’s because I’m from Buffalo, you goon). Have I knowingly ingested tomatoes in the past few years? Yes of course I have. Do I prefer not to eat them? Yup. I hate the texture of celery and it tastes like wet dirt to me. A Bloody Mary is basically the most disgusting drink I can think of. I would rather die from a horrible hangover than drink that shit. Oh my god no no no no no DISGUSTING. Gimme a mimosa or a bellini, please, thank you. I will begrudgingly eat celery if it happens to be in some soup, but I will try my hardest to either pick it out or just eat around it. Otherwise, nope. And how do people eat rosemary?! It legitimately is a pine needle just fucking hanging out in your food. It makes as much sense to me as chopping up a pinecone and sprinkling it on your food. Just, why?! Ugh.

Dan, however, was not amused. “What?! Those are, like, the best foods! I feel like you just insulted my best friends.” Seriously. Because I apologized for insulting those foods, and he corrected me with, “No, not foods. Friends.” Urm. Right, then. He apparently worked in an Italian restaurant for almost two years, and instead of being disgusted at the sight of pasta sauce, was still deeply in love with it. Ok then. He politely walked me to my car, we hugged goodbye. I sent him a message thanking him again when I got home and admitting a Death Cab song came on while I was driving and that I do like some of their songs. I haven’t heard from him. I’m not expecting to. Cons: most of the date. Pros: a free meal and cocktails, a blog post, discovering a new restaurant that I can go to with someone who actually likes me. I think I win.

I just really needed a picture of Colin Meloy as a palate cleanser. That's the only reason for this picture. Although do we really NEED a reason to look at the most perfect man in the universe except for the fact that he is perfect and just the BEST ugh seriously stop that, Colin. You're too perfect.

In which I am shallow: part three (the grand finale).

(Background: Part One. Part Two.)

My TimeHop notified me the other day that this date happened, and it reminded me that I never finished telling all of you about the ridiculousness that occurred at the end of one of the worst dates of my life.

We pulled up to Brad's house, after nearly being killed. I was about .005 seconds from peeing myself, so I followed him in to use his bathroom. The house was nice; really spacious. He had roommates, of course, because San Francisco is outrageously expensive for no damn reason other than it's San Francisco and one of the best cities in the world, so they can rip you off completely to live there. I tell him that I really have to go to the bathroom, and he tells me he has his own bathroom connected to his bedroom, which is in the basement. I basically sprint down the stairs to his room. His room is unremarkable but seemingly adult; no Ikea furniture, but there are a lot of boxes as he is packing to move. I run into the bathroom. It's a surprisingly spacious, clean, gorgeous bathroom. Brad yells down at me that he's going to get us some wine. I'm simultaneously peeing and ferociously texting my friends for advice; thankfully, they answer quickly and tell me that if I'm uncomfortable/having that awful of a time, I need to GTFO. I wash my hands, walk out of the bathroom, out of his room, and start up the stairs. I'm hoping I can get out the front door before he even knows I'm out of the bathroom. I'm more than halfway up the stairs...and he starts walking down with a bottle of wine and two glasses, shoes clacking on the wooden steps. Oh, fuck. You know that part in 10 Things I Hate About You, where the dad catches Bianca sneaking out and says, "Shoulda used the window?" Yeah. That's what was going through my head. If only he didn't live in the basement! (Also I can't find a gif or picture of that scene anywhere, so here's a related one, instead):

Brad looks confused. "Where are you going?" 

"I...uh...I'm leaving. Sorry; I'm uncomfortable. I need to go home." 

"But we were having a nice time. I have wine for us! We don't have to do anything; we can just cuddle and drink wine."

"No, no, I need to go home, I'm not comfortable."

"You can't drive all the way back now! Just relax. Aren't you having a nice time?"

"It's like 9:30; it's fine. I just need to go home."

Now, before I say this next part, I should say a couple of things. One: he had admitted to me that he likes to dress in costumes. I have no problem with this. I like costumes! Dressing up is one of my favorite things. And, yes, I know this is different for everyone, and in his case, we aren't talking about cosplay or LARPing. We are talking fishnets and latex and such. Again, this was his deal, not mine. I am not one to judge someone for their sexual proclivities. In fact, I love a man in fishnets. Particularly, this man:

(Do you see those legs?!? My GOD. That FACE. THAT CORSET. PLEASE.)

I wrote my Master's thesis on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, focusing on gender performativity and masculinity. I am not a slut shamer. I am kink-friendly, perhaps kinky myself. I just think I'm open-minded about most things in that arena. So, with all this fresh background for you (in case any of this is somehow a surprise; in which case, you definitely don't know me in real life, but you should because I'm pretty fucking cool), let's pick up where we left off, shall we?

"I should go home, really, it's fine. I'm sorry. I'm just uncomfortable."

And, I swear to RuPaul, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Did you see something?"
"What? See something?"
"Yeah. In my bathroom. Did you see something that freaked you out?"
"......No."
"Are you sure? If you saw something, we can talk about it."
I have now become convinced that there must be either a gigantic dildo collection (which would be fine, really, as long as I didn't have to use them) or, more likely, a dead fucking body, or six severed heads on the windowsill.
"No, I didn't, but I definitely need to leave."
"Can I at least walk you out?"
"Uh, okay."

I sprinted up the stairs and to my car. He caught me on the sidewalk and trapped me in a giant hug. "Please don't go. Please. It's okay; we can just cuddle together. We don't have to do anything." BIG BAG OF NOPE. If we have already talked about how you like to dress up and how I'm fine with it and then you are worried about what I might have found in your bathroom?? Fuck. No. Get out of here. Go away. You are creepy and you're terrifying me. No. I got out of his hug, got to my car, immediately locked my doors and pulled up my GPS. I watched him go back inside his house. I instantly unmatched him on Tinder, blocked him on all social media, and started driving home. I called my friend Sara on the drive back and told her what just happened. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!?!" was her response, because yeah, WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!

I sped home, arriving in just over an hour. In that time, I got twelve texts and a phone call from him. The texts were asking if it was a power trip, if this was a game, if he was supposed to beg me to stay, how I should tell him exactly what went wrong. "Come on, it'll be fun, tell me what I did wrong."

And so he did. I never answered his texts; presumably, he got the hint. I assumed he moved to Chicago.

Time passed. My birthday is in April, six full months after the horrible date. My lady friends and I decided to go out in the city to the gay clubs and go dancing. Yay birthday! Yay dancing! Yay hot gay men in San Francisco! The first club I wanted to go to was beyond packed, so we decided to roam around the district to find another bar/club. Most places were madhouses or overpriced, except for one spot. My friends decided we should check it out. They all go in before me; there's a few people ahead of us in line. My first friend is ID'd, pays her five dollars, goes in. Second friend is getting ID'd and I look at the bouncer. He seems familiar. He's in an Ace Frehley-style wig with a mask, some short shorts, fishnets, a whole getup. He looks me in the eye as my second friend goes in. It's Brad. It's fucking BRAD. And now I have no choice but to go up to him.

"Hey gorgeous, how have you been?" he asked while hugging me.
"Oh, uh, hey!"
"So, tell me, what did I do wrong?"
"Uh.....you just came on a little strong, that's all."
"Well, that's me! No no, you're not paying, keep your money." And I did keep it, and used it to immediately buy myself a shot when I got to the bar. I explained the situation to my friends, but as he was working the door and there was a small group of us, we figured it would be okay. Actually, it was a fun little bar and we ended up staying for a while and dancing. I danced on top of a banquette multiple times, once with a hot dude wearing tiny underwear. I saw Brad a few more times, and he talked to me once more, briefly, as he walked past me on the dance floor.

Later, as we were leaving, he had two women all over him. So, good for him, I suppose. I've never gone back to that bar. I've been up in the city quite a few times since then; thankfully, that was the only time I saw him. But on my birthday? Working the door at a gay bar?! Who does this happen to?!!? Oh, right. Me. #blessed

In which I am shallow: part two.

(For background information, please read In which I am shallow: part one.)


It's a Friday in October in Northern California. So, naturally, it's one of the hottest days of the year. In Silicon Valley, it's nearly 100 degrees; in San Francisco, it's in the 90s. San Francisco is not a warm city, so when the heat is on, it's stifling. This is, of course, the day in which I meet Brad for a second date. I leave work and drive in hellacious Friday traffic up into San Francisco to meet him at his apartment. As it is with San Francisco (henceforth just known as the city), everything is uphill and winding, including the road to his place. I park; he comes out and greets me. We immediately get into his car and try to decide where to go. As it is unseasonably warm outside, and a Friday night to boot, we are expecting it to be nearly impossible to get a table at most places.

He is driving and trying to decide where we should go. He keeps putting his hand on my thigh, and I keep brushing him off. At a red light, he looks over at me, grabs my face, and starts to devour me. Again, I push him away. "Ooooh, are you one of those people that gets nervous in a car?" he asks. "Yes, absolutely," I respond. And it is true; I am very anxious in cars unless I am driving or I trust the driver completely. Otherwise, I will be panicking for most of the trip. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 because I was so afraid of cars and driving. Funny that five years after that I drove myself across the country and now make a major daily commute. Anyway.

Brad takes me to the Haight, a neighborhood I had ventured around with my family at the age of 12, but which I now fully appreciate and love. I wanted to go into every thrift store, talk to every person, just take the whole experience in. Brad, however, was totally unimpressed and couldn't have cared less; but whatever, he lives in the city, why should he care?

We end up in a tiny Asian restaurant that is, yes, packed, and stifling. So much sweat started pouring out of me as we waited in the narrow entry to write down our names for a table. At this place, you have to write your name down on a chalkboard, and they will erase you when your table is available. I don't remember specifics, but I know someone came in and Brad was a dick about them writing their name down for some reason.

We start chitchatting. We order. Again, he is unnecessarily rude to the waitress. I'm getting pissed, and my gut is telling me to abort the situation. But I am now literally stuck in San Francisco, on a date with a man I'm starting to realize is a gigantic bag of dicks. And not in a fun way. Being that I am an English nerd, I try to bring up books as a topic of conversation. "Oh, I don't read that much," he said. I said something along the lines of, "Yeah, I get it, it's hard to find the time; you told me that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is your favorite book though, right?" And I swear, he said, "Yeah. Well, actually, I've only read parts of it. But I liked the parts I read." YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IS A BOOK YOU HAVEN'T EVEN READ?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?! A lot. A lot was wrong with him.

(This is something I need to remind myself of, as it has been proven to me since Brad that you do not. date. people. who. don't. read. At least, I CANNOT date people who don't read. Also I met John Waters and he was amazing and I love him forever.)

Our food arrives. Brad is snarky to the waitress about something; I shoot her an apologetic smile. It's tasty, but it's spicy, and I am so sweaty I swear I'm sliding off the chair. I put my hair up in a ponytail; Brad asks how I manage to make that look adorable. Oh, a compliment! I'll take it. But I am so worked up and pissed that I immediately respond with something rude. So he takes the opportunity to say, "How does someone with your personality work in a wine tasting room?" Me, genuinely confused: "What?" And his response was one of the following; I can't remember clearly because I went into a rage blackout in my mind: "Well, you're just so sarcastic and bitchy," or, "Well, you're just such a sarcastic bitch."

Listen. I know I can be a sarcastic bitch; I'm well aware. But that part of my personality is brought forth when I am uncomfortable and/or angry and/or hangry. In the rage blackout of my mind, I realized that I am acting this way because I am uncomfortable around him. I am not having a good time, regardless of how pretty he is, because he's fucking creepy and I need him to get away from me right meow. RIGHT MEOW.

He quickly followed up that comment with, "But I like that about you. I like that you're a bitch; it's hot." Okay, no, no, no, we are not doing this, no. Thankfully, dinner is almost over. Unfortunately, my bladder is full and I need to pee something fierce. The restaurant is packed, and there's one bathroom, and there's a giant line, and I have no opportunity to use it while Brad walks out of the restaurant. I'm screwed. I just need to pee! And to get the fuck away from this guy.

Walking out, I'm about two steps off from running smack into a naked man walking down the street. Seriously. Naked dude. Just wandering around. I'm flabbergasted, and ask Brad if he saw him. "Oh, that? Yeah that's normal. You're in San Francisco." Definitely not in Kansas anymore. As we are walking to the car I hear a noise: the click-clacking of heels on the sidewalk. I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that, in fact, Brad is wearing men's dress shoes that have heels. Stacked heels. Stacked heels that fucking CLACK ON THE SIDEWALK. I nearly peed right there. I mean, this is San Francisco; nobody would mind, right?

It's happening....It happened. It happened.

We get in his car to drive back to his place. At this point, I'm concentrating on not peeing and not having a total freakout on this creep. I don't know if you're aware, but San Francisco is a very hilly city. Getting anywhere requires you to go up and down a lot of hills. There's also a lot of stoplights. At nearly every stoplight, Brad tries, again, to put his hand on my thigh and/or make out with me. I again remind him that I am nervous in cars, and to please don't fucking touch me. He acquiesces, somehow. The road up to his apartment is a super steep, winding hill, because of fucking course it is. There's a minivan in front of us going under the speed limit, which pisses Brad off. "What the hell are they doing? This isn't okay." So he decides to pass them, which would be fine if we were on, you know, a highway, instead of a two lane residential street with a double fucking yellow line going upward towards a blind curve in the street YES THIS IS A GREAT IDEA BRAD YOU ARE SO SMART YOU MUST READ A LOT!

Of course, there's another car coming down the road, directly towards us, and Brad veers us back to safety just in time. I seriously was about .004 seconds from peeing everywhere, but he probably would've liked that. I must have screamed or made some kind of noise, because Brad looked at me, incredulous, and said, "What? We had plenty of time. We were fine!" BITCH I ALMOST DIED WITH YOUR STUPID HIGH-HEELED WEARING ASS ON A RANDOM STREET IN SAN FRANCISCO. NO. Thankfully, his house was less than a block away. Unfortunately, I still need to pee, and I have no idea where I can do that except in Brad's house. So I got out of the car, and I followed him inside.

In which I am shallow: part one.

I recently returned from a nice long visit back to Western New York. I had a lovely time, and got to see tons of people, many of whom mentioned they love my blog. It was surprising, but so wonderful to hear that people enjoy what I have to say about dating and all its related drama/craptasticness. Honestly, I took a break from dating from about January-June, and now I am casually seeing someone that, yes, I met on Tinder. He's gorgeous, sweet, funny, treats me like a queen, and I would say more but you don't care about the good things, you just want to know about the fail whales. It's okay. I'm with you.

Back in September, I met a man on Tinder. Not just any man. Legitimately one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen (until recently). I was shocked when we matched, even more so when he actually started talking to me. We seemed to click, although I admit to having a slightly weird vibe, which I was willfully ignoring because HELLO HANDSOME. We didn't end up meeting in person for a few weeks, as we both had traveling scheduled in our near futures, and he lived in San Francisco. We ended up texting a LOT, perhaps too much. His grammar wasn't the greatest, but again, willing to make sacrifices. I know, you can say it: I was thirsty. I am not ashamed. Okay I am slightly ashamed, but shit happens, and I can't take back what ended up transpiring.

Now that that's out of the way... We ended up meeting for dinner at a Thai restaurant in Palo Alto. If you are unaware of Northern California's various divisions, Palo Alto is where Stanford University is located. It's full of rich people and smart, preppy college students. He got there before me, and was seated in a corner booth, arms splayed over the top of the booth, taking up lots of space. He stood up to greet me...and we were the same height. Now, I'm not a short woman, and both of my big-time exes were about the same height as me. I'm just mentioning this now as it's important later on. Ooooh, suspense. I'm going to call this guy Brad. So, Brad sits back down, and resumes sitting in the same position, arms akimbo over the top of the booth. Strange, but whatever. Again: GORGEOUS. Like slap-your-mother gorgeous.

(In which I am Louise Belcher for a change, rather than Linda or Tina. I am also constantly living with this feeling at the moment.)

We're looking at the menu, and our waitress comes over, and Brad is immediately very rude to her. She walked away and I called him out on it, saying, "Uh, you were actually totally rude to that woman just now." He said something along the lines of, "No, I'm here a lot, and if I don't order this way, they mess up my food." For the rest of the night, I am overly polite to all the waitstaff at the restaurant. Our conversation flows relatively easily, with several strained/awkward spots. But hey, first date, right? His favorite author is Hunter S. Thompson, and his favorite book is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Slightly cliche, but at least he likes to read. He mentions that he's leaving his job and moving to Chicago with his sister at the end of October. Okay, this wouldn't be a long-term thing anyway, but I can have some fun with this guy, potentially.

The food is fantastic, and I am, again, overly polite and sweet and smiling to the waiter who brings it out. He smiles at me and glowers at Brad. We are talking about something and all of a sudden, Brad grabs my knee under the table. I smack his hand away. "Ooooh, feisty," he said. "No, it means don't touch me, thanks. Also why do you sit with your arms on top of the booth like that?" "It's more comfortable for me." Mmmmmkay, sure. He suggests we go get dessert. I will never say no to dessert. So we walk across the street to a French cafe that's also a buffet-style dessert place. I mean we went to heaven. Come on that's MAJESTIC. BUFFET OF FRENCH DESSERTS?! But we ended up leaving because he had a hissy fit that they were out of eclairs or some shit.

He held my hand as we walked down to the Cheesecake Factory. He didn't order anything, he just said he wanted to watch me eat cheesecake. Ooooookay but shit I will NOT turn down cheesecake. I'm roughly certain about 30% of my body is made of cheesecake. Just call me Dorothy Zbornak. #spiritanimal

When I was finished and the waiters were ignoring us because, again, he was rude to them, Brad asked if he could sit in the booth next to me, and cuddled me uncomfortably in the restaurant. I am shooting glares at any waiter that's passing and in my mind saying, "bring the fucking check NOW OKAY THANKS." At the same time, it was weirdly flattering. I am not a tiny person, by any means, and at the time, I had gained some weight and felt totally unsexy. But here was this man, who wanted to watch me eat and wanted to grab me in public because he liked me that much. That's flattering, right? No?

We finally leave; he says he'll drive me to my car. I say that I prefer to walk. He asks if, when we get to my car, I'll drive him to his. I say no. He doesn't understand why I, you know, don't want to get in a car with him. I explain briefly that, you know, I barely know you and that's just not happening tonight. All of a sudden, middle of walking, he stops, turns, and kisses me. Hard. Full-on makeout session happening in the middle of the sidewalk for about 10 seconds before I stop him and keep walking. Uh. Okay then. I get to my car, he asks yet again for a ride to his car. I refuse. I drive home. I'm trying to decide how to feel about all of this. Of course I now know he's a total asshole, but at the time, he was a gorgeous dude who was into me at a time of even-lower-than-usual-self-esteem. He sensed the vulnerability I was trying to hide from him, and from the world at large. It was a strangely magnetic quality.

We kept texting after the date. He was so sweet in text, even with not-fantastic-grammar. I consulted with Ashera, explaining my mixed emotions. She said to just go out with him again and have some fun; he's moving soon, and why do I need a serious boyfriend? If I go again and it's awful/I get bad feelings, drop him. If we go out and have fun, drop my pants. So, I agreed to meet him in San Francisco that Friday night for a second date. To be continued...