My Anaconda Don't

First off, happy one year Singleversary to me! I am celebrating how I’ve celebrated this whole year: not dating someone who treats me like shit. Yay go me! And now, on to regularly scheduled programming.

We judge people based on how they look. That’s a lot of what Tinder and really all online dating is predicated upon. You find this person physically desirable, so you want to get to know them in some way. This also happens in everyday life, at bars, restaurants, coffee shops, clubs, walking down the street. Based upon your own personal standards of what you find beautiful and attractive, you are drawn to people and repelled by others. Women are often unfairly forced into very narrow definitions of what society views as attractive. I could go on some very long, ranty, feminist tangents, but I’ll spare those for now. You may get a very long-winded post about feminism and online dating soon, though. (You will, don’t worry.)

For now, let’s just say I don’t particularly conform to the current societal standards of beauty. I am not blonde, nor thin, and I don’t have a big ass, which is particularly ‘in’ at the moment. I am okay with all of this. I’m a curvy, busty, unnaturally redheaded ball of sass and wit. I’ve been told I’m the come-to-life Jessica Rabbit, and I’m more than okay with that comparison. Again, however, even though I have the boobs (and then some) and hips and thighs, I also have a bit of a tummy, and my ass is flat. Always has been.  I’ve started doing squats to help, and they have, slightly. But by and large, I have a pancake butt. I attract people who are attracted to boobs because I have those in spades. Now everyone who knows me in real life knows this because it’s obvious. On the interwebs and on Tinder, however, not so much, because I don’t exactly take photos of my butt and put them on the internet. I’m not a Kardashian. To paraphrase Judge Judy, don’t pee on my leg and tell me I’m famous.

All of this does have a point, I promise. This man messaged me on Tinder. This is what happened.

Originally, I was going to tell him I lost my butt in an ‘assident,’ but I wasn’t sure he would understand. I’m sure there will be someone else to try it out on. At least we both found out quickly that we would not be a good match. Because… ick. If you lose all interest in me because I lack a big butt, well, you’re missing a hell of a lot more than just a booty, sir. Also I'm guessing he doesn't really have an anaconda. And even if he does, my own anaconda don't want none. I have a lot of latent feels about how we treat women in society, how we are more than just our bodies, the Venus Hottentot and rise of the booty as a sign of sexual fertility and femininity, etc, but this is a lighthearted blog about dating, so I shall spare you all. For now.

The Man Who Met DFW

I am a gigantic David Foster Wallace nerd. Ridiculous. I took a class in grad school called Maximalist Postmodernism, purely because we were going to read Infinite Jest. It was one of those books perpetually on my to-read list, but it’s such a daunting task that I had always chickened out, so I forced myself to do so. And I loved the professor teaching it, and postmodernism is one of my English nerd ‘things,’ so that didn’t hurt. I carried that book around for a month, and did a good job reading a significant portion of it. After that semester ended, I did finish it, and subsequently read it another time, going through and making my own extensive annotated notes. I have since read a LOT of DFW. I call him my literary lover. I have a not-so-mild obsession. I have to pace myself through his works, because they are finite now, although there’s a recently released giant tome called The David Foster Wallace Reader that I want so desperately it’s disgusting. So if you are looking for a present for me, please feel free to buy it. Sooner rather than later because I will probably break down and buy it for myself within the next few weeks.

Anyway, when I first moved to California, I decided to get an OKCupid account. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had an OKCupid account, but I had never actually used it. I decided to properly activate it and see what it was all about. Unpopular opinion time: I feel OKCupid is actually worse than Tinder. Seriously. At least with Tinder, or Coffee Meets Bagel, you have to match with people in order for them to message you. On OKCupid, anyone can message you (at least that’s how I understand it/what happened to me). I was bombarded with messages from random people. Within a month, not even, I ended up deactivating the thing because it was so awful. And there are plenty of people on there looking to just hook up, trust me. I hate that assumption. “Well you’re on Tinder, of course people are assuming you just want to have a one night stand.” No, actually, on most dating sites there are people just looking for that. Check yourself. But that’s an entirely separate, ranty post of its own.

On my OKCupid profile, I had listed some of my favorite movies, including, “Pretty in Pink (minus that bullshit ending);” and TV shows like The O.C. Seth Cohen is one of my dream men, along with Jason Schwartzman, Wes Anderson, and Colin Meloy, and David Foster Wallace. Of course, my DFW obsession was also listed. His first message to me started with, “Yeah, the ending of Pretty in Pink is pretty bullshit, isn’t it? And The O.C. was great until the final season when you could tell Rachel Bilson was phoning it in.” And then he told me that he had once met David Foster Wallace. I looked at his profile, where he listed some of his favorite things as avocados, used bookstores, and David Bowie. Ding ding ding LET’S GET MARRIED PERFECT SIR. He lived in Oakland, but said he would meet me down where I live, and we could get drinks at an Irish bar called The Poet & The Patriot. I was so down with the whole situation. This was my first date in California, and I was so, so excited.

He was already at the bar when I arrived. The conversation flowed easily, and we sat and talked for about two hours. It was actually a very nice time. He walked me to my car, and shocked the hell out of me by kissing me. Not that I minded. We made plans for a second date. I decided that, being new in town and it being the beginning of July, that we should go and stroll the boardwalk, ride the rides, and be terrible Americans together. He agreed. We met up at the boardwalk; he was extremely late, but I was trying to be understanding considering he had a super long drive down to me. Okay, not that big of a deal. We rode some rides; it was going well. We played air hockey in the arcade and it was an intense rivalry. (He beat me by one friggin goal. I’m still bitter about it.) And all of a sudden, things started to go south.

Part of the boardwalk’s outdated attractions/décor are statues of cave people placed on random benches and sections of the park. We had just gotten off my favorite ride, the flying swings, and were walking by a bench that had a large, grotesque African-American female cave woman sitting on it. I was disgusted, and all of a sudden, he pointed at it and said, “Hey! Look! It’s RuPaul!” And I almost punched him in the mouth. That is just wrong on a hundred levels, a very shallow one being that I, personally, am a gay male drag queen in the body of a twenty-six year old woman, and I loooooove RuPaul. Love. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, stupidly, for making that joke, instead of decking him and walking out.

It was the week after the Fourth of July, and he had been down in Southern California visiting his family. He was regaling me with stories of his trip as we walked around the boardwalk. At one point, he started talking about having to pick up a pizza at Domino’s for his family, and how all the employees are behind a bullet-proof glass shield that they have to pass your pizza through. I was going to make a comment about crime, poverty, Los Angeles, etc., when he kept going and said, “But these were the kind of people who looked comfortable behind bullet-proof glass. And this was confirmed when I opened the pizza and the toppings were in the shape of a license plate.” WHAT. I didn’t know young Johnny Depp circa Cry-Baby was secretly working at a Domino’s in Los Angeles. LET’S ALL GO THERE NOW! Allison Vernon-Williams, get in this car!

In actuality, though, I was seriously grossed out at this point, and once again trying to figure out how the hell to get out of this date. We got onto another ride, that was a bit faster than I had anticipated, and when we got off it, we walked and sat on a park bench because I was mildly nauseous and not okay to drive home or do anything at that moment. The conversation turned to movies, music, TV, books, etc. He mentioned DFW again and how cool it was to meet him and get a book signed by him. And then I noticed that he had a habit of referring to celebrities as if he knew them. For example, he kept calling DFW “Dave,” as if they were bros. “Oh yeah, Dave was such a great author.” Yes, yes he was, but just because you met him once doesn’t mean you get to call him Dave. We talked about the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, which had saddened both of us. I have a relative who is an addict, and it’s heartbreaking to witness. It is a serious issue, addiction; and PSH’s death was upsetting to me on a few levels; but much like Robin Williams’ death, I understood that it was not a failure on the part of the deceased. Depression and addiction are serious issues that lots of people struggle with. He felt differently, however. “Yeah man, Phil’s death. That’s so upsetting. But I’m so mad at him! Like, you had so much talent, Phil, how dare you waste your life and do that to yourself! I’m so mad at him.” Okay, yeah, you can get away from me right now, sir.
At that point, I'd had more than enough. My nausea from the ride had faded, but my nausea from this classist, possibly racist, jerkhead had increased. Done and done, sir. I told him I was still nauseous from the ride and needed to go home. He walked me to my car again; this time I just gave him a quick hug because no way in hell was he getting to kiss me after all that shit came out of his mouth. I never heard from him again after that; presumably he understood that I was not feeling it. I'm glad we never had to have the awkward confrontation in which I would call him out for being an asshole. I probably should have said more in the moment, but I was so astounded by a lot of what he said that I couldn't form a response fast enough that would be more articulate and nuanced than, "Fuck off!" Oh well.

The Worst Pablo Neruda Ever.

I possess a Master's Degree in English. It hasn't done a lot for me at this point, except to solidify my nerdiness and sound impressive at parties and on job interviews. People will ask me questions about grammar, spelling, syntax, etc. And no, I'm not an actual expert in any of those areas, but thanks for thinking of me! Yet if someone does not know which "your" to use in a sentence, for example, or cannot spell worth a damn, I admit to being prejudiced against them. It bothers the hell out of me, particularly when it's coming from a person who says they are a college graduate, or working on an advanced degree, or work in a specialized field. I do not hesitate to call people out on their shitty spelling and/or grammar. For example:

Yeah okay I'm kind of a sarcastic bitch, but I admit that in my profile, and in my daily life, of course. But I mean, c'mon dude, what am I supposed to do with that?

Somebody needed to tell him.

I am quite lucky, however, that most dudes have not gotten violent or rude with me; I've seen enough examples on the internet of men getting disgusting towards women when women put them in their place or reject them. I've only had one guy message me to say "Lol your huge." I said, "Excuse me?" He said, "Your fat haha." And I said something along the lines of "At least I can spell and know proper grammar, fuckface." And then unmatched him. This was back in July or August and sadly I didn't take a screenshot. Lesson learned: always screenshot when something ridiculous happens to you with social media. Always.

Recently, I matched with a guy who almost immediately began sending me dirty "poetry." At first, I thought they were Drake or Chris Brown lyrics, and I was disappointed in the lack of originality. And then I realized no, these are in fact original "erotic" "poems." Then I was just grossed out. Behold:

His profile mentioned recently starting to drink coffee, hence, the line about coffee. And, you know, HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO RESPOND TO THAT? "Oooh baby yeah/You're one of the bad boys /Whatchu gon' do /When they come for you /Bad boys, bad boys." Yet it didn't stop there. I'll just let our conversation speak for itself.

All things considered, I feel like I was quite nice and helpful. He actually went on to thank me again for being so helpful. I also missed a screenshot of that because I was doing other things and when I went back to Tinder to get that final caption, he had unmatched us, and my Tinder lothario had vanished. Always get a screenshot, Nicole! Terrible.

Sometimes, men just need to be called out on their gross bullshit. And I'm not afraid to do that if the need arises. *Insert dick joke here.*

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Me.

Sorry for the absence, darlings. Holidays and travel and all that jazz; speaking of, I hope you all had a lovely holiday season surrounded by the people you love, and also, your family. 

It occurred to me over the past few weeks that I have yet to discuss any of my dates from Tinder proper. Thus far, it has just been about dating in Buffalo. Well it’s a new year; time to rehash more recent dating fails! I’m going to talk about my latest Tinder date, which, while it is by no means the worst one I’ve been on, is exemplary of the kind of date/man I seem to attract.

His name was Buck.* I actually broke one of my Tinder Rules (full set to come) (not like that, perv) by swiping right to him: there was no clear picture of his face, but I liked his other pictures a lot, and his description seemed funny and sardonic, so I figured, what the hell? We started talking, and things seemed to go pretty smoothly at first. It turned fairly quickly into a playful butting of heads, but I enjoy a challenge. He told me he didn’t understand my love of Talking Heads, and judged my musical taste harshly because of it. And then he admitted that he had only heard one or two of their songs. I’m not quite sure why I agreed to meet someone who was already admittedly judging my taste level, considering that he himself admitted that he listens to almost exclusively 60s music. Which is great; I love me some Beatles and Monkees. But I’ve learned to be very skeptical of people who only listen to one genre of music, and Buck is confirmation that I should be wary of those people. Homogeny is boring. 

We agreed to meet for a drink near the hotel where he was staying. He was in town for a few weeks for work from Southern California; I wasn’t expecting much except to maybe have a few drinks and meet a new friend. No such luck. Traffic was horrendous that night. What should have been a 10-15 minute drive took an hour, and then I couldn’t find parking. I texted multiple apologies full of cuss words at the traffic, lack of parking, my anger at the Gods of Travel, etc. When I finally walked into the tiny dive bar, he was not there, even though I was extremely late. For a minute I thought I’d been stood up. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my cute dress and expectant face in this dirty, skeevy bar. Perfect. I went to the bathroom, and finally got an answer to my distress signals. He himself was running behind but showed up quickly enough. I was still hiding in the bathroom. When I walked out, I saw him at the bar, and I instantly knew… that I did not like him. I should’ve just kept walking. At this point, however, I was pissed off and in dire need of something alcoholic, even if it meant keeping him company for a half hour.

We were almost the same height (he was slightly shorter) with longer blonde hair and a mustache. The only way I can describe him is a young David Crosby, complete with acne and a jacket with elbow patches. No offense to Mr. Crosby, but that’s not my style. And I don’t mean an actual, young Crosby. I mean take your mental picture of Crosby in his mid60s, and just take off about 40 years. That's exactly right. Buck bought my drink, and we sat down at a table to have incredibly awkward and stilted conversation. He explained that he had been late because his shoes were in the bathroom, and his roommate (or whatever) had been in the shower. I tried to get him to answer why his shoes were in the bathroom in the first place, but his explanation made almost no sense. “You know when you’re running late so you take your shoes off in the bathroom instead?” No, no I don’t. He also said he had to “wax Mario.” Thankfully, that was not his nickname for his penis (that I know of). He had put in his Tinder profile that he had a mustache named Mario, which I thought was a joke. It wasn’t. He seriously calls his mustache Mario, and referred to it as a person. Oookay.

I quickly changed course, and brought up his dislike of Talking Heads. Buck responded that he had listened to a few more songs, and didn’t hate them completely, but still didn’t understand how they are one of my favorite bands of all time. Just then, “Burning Down the House” started playing in the bar. I thought it was fortuitous, and said I would go to the jukebox to put on more Talking Heads. He explained that no, actually, he had an app on his phone that synched to that jukebox, so he could play whatever he wanted. I said I would still go put money in. He said that whatever I tried to play would pop up on his phone, and he would continually block it. I asked if I could play songs through his phone, then. He asked if I would look through his phone and I told him genuinely I would not. I didn’t get his phone. I started pounding my vodka so I could get the hell out of there. 

More random subjects were discussed. He asked about growing up in Buffalo and what there is to do. I said a lot of eating and a lot of drinking. He said, “that sounds boring.” Clearly you don’t know how to do either of these things properly, sir. He told me how pretty I am. And then this exchange happened (not quite verbatim but pretty damn close):

Buck: You have a ten-dollar smile.

Me: What? Ten dollars? People usually say a million dollar smile.

Buck: When I was growing up, we were poor, so ten dollars was a lot of money to me. So I say a ten-dollar smile.

Me: Is ten dollars still a lot of money to you?

Buck: No, of course not.

Me: Well, the expression is a million dollar smile.

Buck: No, that’s way too much.

Okay, asshole, point taken. By this point I believe I have finished my drink, and I’m trying to think of a way to leave. The bar has slowly filled with regulars. I feel trapped. I’m not sure how to proceed. And then he starts asking me if I will put his hair in a manbun. Really. He became insistent quite quickly.

Buck: Please? Pleeease? I don’t know how.

Me: Uh, you gather your hair and put it in a bun on top of your head.

Buck: But I can’t!

Me: Yes you can.

Buck: How about if you put my hair in a bun, I’ll put yours up in a ponytail?

Me: *gathers all my hair, puts in ponytail in under 5 seconds.* I’m quite capable, thank you.

Buck: But you’ll get to play with my hair!

Me: My hair is exquisite; I don’t need to touch yours.

I needed out. He noticed my drink was gone and his beer was only halfway finished. He offered to get me another; I declined, reminding him that I have a long drive back home. I started to panic. I could just leave, right? Or is that rude? Just be honest? I was feeling like a coward, my ten-dollar smile long gone from my face. Suddenly, a decision occurred to me. I would employ the mythical “friend is in trouble” phone call that women have used for years to get out of bad dates. Am I proud of this decision? No. Should I have been an adult about this whole situation? Yes. Yet I was overwhelmed and aggravated and needed a quick out.  I texted my friend Sara, under the guise of texting my mother (whom I had been texting earlier in the date, actually, about a recipe for Thanksgiving), and told her I needed out of a bad date ASAP. She did not disappoint.

About two minutes later, my phone rang. Sara’s name popped up, but when I answered, it was her boyfriend. “Hey, it’s Anthony.” “Oh, Anthony, why are you calling from Sara’s phone?” “Don’t freak out, but Sara and I were just in a bad car accident.” “Oh no! Let me leave this loud bar!” I mumbled some apologies to Buck, slamming together phrases:  “Oh shit, car accident, friend, have to go, might be back, let me go talk outside” grabbed my purse, and nearly ran out the front door. As soon as I was a few feet away, I told Anthony I had gotten outside. He was worried that I would take the whole thing seriously, but I assured him I knew better. Then Sara got on the phone, and I thanked her (and Anthony) profusely as I walked to my car and figured out how to get home. But first I noticed that Buck had apparently added me on Snapchat at some point leading up to the night, and had sent me six snaps that I hadn’t seen. I never added him back; I have no idea what those snaps were. Probably manbuns. 

*Not actually his name, but it was nearly this bad. Should’ve been the first clue.

Status Report

Before we go any further into my sordid dating past, Ashera had the idea that I should provide a status report on my life and current relationship information; what it’s like to be single for a while after two back-to-back relationships, etc. Because Ashera is right about everything, I agreed. Seriously. That lady holds the key to the Western gate; she knows all. And it’s almost her birthday so I believe I’m legally obligated to do whatever she asks/says/demands.

Captain’s Log: December 11, 2014. I have been single for almost exactly ten months. And it’s fucking amazing. This time last year, I was struggling in my relationship. I wasn’t happy. I knew I wasn’t happy, and that I hadn’t been for a long time. I was not good about expressing those feelings because my ex was having a tough go of things, and I felt selfish for being unhappy. Of course, he was treating me poorly, as he had for nearly four years. I had built-up resentment and anger; I was so incredibly frustrated and stuck and exhausted from trying for so long. I am not saying I was the perfect partner. I know I wasn’t. I could have been a lot better, and I know it. Yet I did give it my all for as long as I could, and it still was not working. Most nights I didn’t even want to get together with him. I just wanted to go home and hang out with my new, awesome roommates, or enjoy some quiet solitude cuddling with my cat, Gomez (or Donuts, depending on whom you ask). The thought of having to get together to hear him complain about all the daily injustices he suffered became too much. I yearned for more Nicole Time. Time with my friends, time with myself, time spent doing what I wanted to do, which was often drink faux champagne in the bathtub while watching Six Feet Under. I was comfortable with the thought of being alone, for the first time in years. The first time my ex and I broke up, it wasn’t quite the same.

Yes, we had broken up before, about this date two years ago. We were living together and going through a rough patch, when he suddenly announced to me he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. He started staying at his mom’s house; I lived alone, surrounded by memories. It was horrible. My anxiety levels had increased in recent years, but I started to have regular panic attacks. I couldn’t face it. My whole life with him was around me, every single day, but he wasn’t there. He had never really been there. I tried to handle the situation, and was starting to get to a decent place, when we ended up having to help each other move out of that shitty apartment at the end of January, because most of our friends bailed on moving at the last minute. We relied on each other, and of course, had ex sex. My feelings were re-awoken. We started talking and getting together, mostly for sex, because that’s what we did best together.

We attempted to keep it casual at first, but how do you casually date someone you had lived with, had recently broken up with, and had spent almost three years together? It wasn’t possible. I gave him the ultimatum: we are together for real, or we stop this completely because I can’t handle it. I thought that was very honest and upfront, which was something I was working towards: being honest and not just saying everything was fine when it wasn't. He agreed to give it another shot. It started out wonderfully and was going quite well for a few months. I was ecstatic. Ashera (and all of my other friends) were not so pleased, but they supported me and loved me because I have excellent friends whom I love dearly.

And then the hypocrisy started to re-emerge. My anxiety came back. His usage of stimulants and substances increased and began to piss me off even more. We started having real fights. It all came rushing back to bite me in the ass again (not in a fun way). As noted before, we broke up shortly before our four(ish) year anniversary, at the beginning of February, 2014.

I went through a lot of shit the past two winters, trying to reconcile many disparities and figure out what I want and who I am. Luckily, now, ten months single, I finally have a better understanding. I do not have to worry about his reactions to what I want or how I feel. Do I obviously still bear some resentment towards the ex? Yes. Am I proud of it? Not necessarily, no. In a lot of ways I have forgiven him for things that were done and said. But I’ve realized I really had to forgive myself, because I hold the most anger towards me for putting up with all that I did for so long. I am not perfect. I am, however, more complete and more ‘Nicole’ than I have been in years.

In June, I took the chance and drove myself and my cat across the country to California to live with my aunt and uncle and start again. If I had thought more about it, I honestly don’t know if I would have taken the risk. I left all my amazing friends, most of my family, a decent job, a great apartment, all for the unknown. I had to. Life out here is so incredibly different from life in Buffalo, but in a way that works for me. I love the weather; cliché but true. I am not a fan of cold and snow. I don’t ski or snowboard; I’d rather be inside reading and drinking hot chocolate or wine in front of a fireplace. And living in NorCal, I get to do that. It’s like magic. Almost everyone I’ve met is friendly and open. I’ve made new friends. I have a temp job that pays decently, and I work part-time pouring wine on weekends for a winery that I love love love. The owners are another set of ‘adoptive’ parents (I have a few). My aunt and uncle are fabulous people, and my eight-year-old cousin is just as crazy as I am. I feel like a big sister, and I’ve never gotten to be that before. I feel loved, but not in a smothering, oppressing way. I feel loved in a genuine, hey-we-are-here-for-you-no-matter-what kind of way. And it’s not just from my aunt and uncle. All of my friends and most of my family were incredibly supportive of my choice to move and try this whole West Coast thing out. I’ve realized how incredibly lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life, all across the world. Not everyone gets to have the support I’ve had, and continue to have. In short: being single is fucking awesome.

Of course there are bad days. Everyone gets lonely, whether you are single, dating, married, domestically partnered, etc. That’s the human condition. But I choose to recognize and realize that I am part of something vaster than I can comprehend, and generally speaking, I am happy. I am complete with myself. I have never been a believer in soul mates, or that one person has the possibility to complete me for the rest of my life; how is that possible? Every person grows and changes. We are all constantly evolving. The Nicole typing this now is a very different Nicole than the one who left Buffalo just shy of six months ago. Single Nicole is very different than caught-in-bad-relationship Nicole, who was very different from beginning-of-relationship-sunshine-and-roses Nicole. I have changed so much in the past ten months. I believe I have grown stronger and more secure. Ultimately, our opinions of ourselves are what really count. I’m fucking amazing. So are you.

I’m also ecstatic that I have realized my potential to flourish outside the confines of a romantic relationship, because who knows when the next one could begin? Every day is full of possibilities. But I have a solid relationship with myself, now, to base and branch a relationship off of. I know that, for me, I am enough. All the casual dating is just for fun. Why not? I am still new to the area, still trying to figure it out and explore and discover what is around me. Mostly, it is a pretty good time.

Yet I have to confess: I have recently begun talking to someone that I think I would like to have stick around for a while. Even if it’s just a friendship for the moment; I am enjoying…whatever is going on. That in itself is a revelation for this current Nicole, who reviled relationships up until…recently, I guess. Not saying this is going to turn into an actual, serious relationship. It would be difficult; we don’t live in the same state. I have no clue what the future holds. I just realized that I am enjoying talking to someone and feeling things I have not felt in a long time. In a way, it’s just nice to know I still have the capacity to feel this kind of thing, however faintly, however fleetingly it lasts. I was pretty certain for a while that I would never, ever, commit myself to anyone again. (And I know you're reading this....hi. :))

When I originally started writing this post, I went on a long rant/tangent about my ex and our breakup(s). I realized, though, that once again, I was making my life about him. This is not about him. It is about me. I am important. I am fantastic. I am still forming. My status is metamorphosis and transformation. I am a phoenix, testing out her wings. Some days I’m in the ashes. Most days, however, I am soaring through the sky. Cue the Ani DiFranco:

Sake it to me, baby.

It was one of my best friends ideas for me to go on a date. Well, actually, that’s not 100% true. I was talking to a friend of mine who had moved out of Buffalo, and told him that the ex and I had broken up. His first reaction was to be upset that he and I had never had sex (sorry, dude); the second reaction was that he had a friend back in Buffalo who was single and really cool. I got his name, Ted*, and stalked him on the book of face. Turns out, we had a few friends in common, and I recognized him from back when I worked on-campus. He was cute, and seemed cool based on what I gleaned from social media. I texted one of my bestest lady friends, Ashera, who also knew him. She immediately approved of this situation. “He’s a really cool guy! And super nice. I can’t think of anyone who could say something bad about him. And he has likes cats.” Well, that was easy enough.

I told my OOS guy friend to go ahead and see if Ted would be interested. He was! I was a little bit shocked, to be honest. This was merely a few days after the dead ex-girlfriend incident (see post below this one, entitled “Margaritas on a Tuesday”). I was given his phone number, and proceeded to text him. We became friends on the book of face. Oh, and this was all going down during a sex toy party being thrown at my apartment. So I had a gaggle of women around me encouraging me to talk to him, go for it, your ex sounds like a horrible douchebag, etc. I was also a bit drunk, which helped calm my nerves just a tiny bit. Ted agreed to meet me for sushi that upcoming week. The ladies all congratulated me, and we celebrated by drinking even more and twerking around my apartment. It was a fabulous night.

To say I was nervous would be a serious understatement. This was my first official “first date” in years. I did all of the stereotypical stupid girl shit. I tried on all my clothes and had my roommates weigh in to pick out the perfect outfit. I raced home from work the day of, to make sure I would have time to primp and perfect every last stupid detail, from my hair to which pair of boots look best with this dress, are you sure? Positive? Because this decision could make or break everything. The minutiae are the important part of a first date, after all. I know how ridiculous this sounds, but aren’t we all guilty of this? I wish I could say that, by now, these nerves and the pressure have eroded, but sadly that is not the case. I get terrified before every first date to this day, but this was the worst by far. I screamed multiple times in my car just to release the pressure. It sort of helped. Ashera told me to calm down; I’m just going to make a new friend. That’s all. She has given this advice to me hundreds of times by now.

Ted was already at the restaurant when I arrived. He stood up to greet me, which I thought showed character and a generally nice attitude. The date went well, I think. He tried sake at my insistence. I don’t think he enjoyed it, but shit, he was willing to give it a shot. He was trying to maintain a healthier diet and hadn’t really eaten a lot of Japanese food before. I love Asian food, particularly Japanese and sushi, so I helped as best I could. We had good conversation; a few awkward pauses but I figured that was normal for an almost-blind date. He was sweet; he offered me his leftover sushi and didn’t check his phone once. He paid. I was impressed because, overall, I got a nice vibe and had a good time. We hugged outside the restaurant, and I went home quite pleased.

My roommates, Jackie and Maddie, and Maddie’s boyfriend Andrew, were home drinking wine and hanging out in the living room. I explained every damn detail, and they drank it up, along with a lot of wine. Andrew was particularly impressed. “What? He sounds like a gentleman! This is what you needed! I love him. I love him. He’s great. I love him.” I was trying to not freak out any harder than I was. The date had gone well. Now what? Shit. I hadn’t prepared for this possibility. Andrew told me the time after the first date was particularly important to play “the game.” “Text him saying you had a nice time, and then don’t text him until he texts you first. Just wait.”

I am an impatient person. I have a lot of good qualities, but patience is not one of them. I am of the immediate gratification sway, which is why I’m bad with money and terrible at planning ahead. I texted him saying I had a good time, and tried not to say anything for a few days. I am really, really bad at this aspect of the “dating game.” The whole “if you like them, don’t talk to them for a while. Make them miss you.” Bitch, what the hell is the point of that? I don’t like games. I don’t like having to wait or make people wait to prove a point. Again, I am impatient. If I like you, I want to tell you immediately. I want to talk to you all the time. It is pretty easy for me to tell if I like someone or not; usually within the first ten or so minutes of discussion, I figure it out. There are exceptions to this rule. But by and large, no matter how I feel about you, I figure it out pretty fucking quickly.

Apparently, in a fit of pique sometime between then and now, I deleted our old conversations from my phone. So while I don’t know exactly when I texted him again, I know I texted first to ask him to hang out that upcoming weekend. There was a “birthday party” for Lou Reed at one of my favorite bars, and Ashera and I were going. I figured that would be okay; invite him along to hang out with a mutual friend and maybe it wouldn’t be too awkward to text him first to get together again. Ted responded that he had plans already, but that he would let me know when he was free again to hang out. Ashera assured me this was a good sign, and to just let it be. I did. We went to the bar that weekend, I may have met someone there and that might be a story for another time (it totally is).

The day after the party, I went to Wegmans to get groceries. I bought everything organic, gluten-free, etc, in an attempt to start a healthier diet. I still do this sometimes. I go through phases. I’m not perfect. Anyway, I texted him about my outrageous grocery bill for trying to buy all healthy food. He responded in the affirmative, since this was something he was struggling with too. And then I never heard from him. I texted him later that week, to ask about getting together again. No response. I had the courage to call once, and the voicemail was full, and he never called back. Ashera and her boyfriend, also named Andrew, thought this was strange, and insisted something was probably wrong with his phone. His roommate, Jamie, also a friend of Ashera’s, couldn’t explain it either. “He just doesn’t want to get laid, I guess,” is what Jamie told Ashera. He went inexplicably ghost like Swayze. I don't know why. Maybe I was just too excited, or too fresh off a relationship. He could probably smell it on me. Ted was technically the first ghost, but he has certainly not been the last.

Now, almost a year later, he and I remain friends on the book of face. We occasionally comment on things or like one another’s posts, but by and large that is it. We actually had an encounter a few months later, in a night I can only describe as fucking ridiculous, and which I will detail in a future post. I think we are cool now. If I were to run into him again, I wouldn’t have any issues. It just didn’t work out, and that’s fine. Ted, if you’re reading this (and there’s a good likelihood that you are), hi. I hope Buffalo is being kind to you, and that your cat is doing well.

*Not his real name.