3 Balls and a Magician

This story is intended for mature audiences... that might wipe out any of my friends reading this, but I'll go ahead.  Most of them have already heard this story.

Back in the spring 2005, I finally had a fling with Pockets. As one of my best girlfriends describes, he has girls falling out of his pockets -- so I'd tried to avoid sleeping with him, as you see pretty much every woman who comes in contact with him ends up sleeping with him. Some men, too, but that's only speculation.   Then there was that day, and he made all the right moves and I was in the process of dumping a guy who had treated me poorly, and there we were.  We fooled around one other time in the spring of 2008.  I can't justify the second time.  I only tell you this to set the stage.

Over the summer of 2008, I went back to visit this best girlfriend of mine for her birthday.  At her party, three of us are sitting around, joking about how each of us has slept with Pockets.  And isn't it funny that he has three balls.

Wha?

I somehow had failed to notice that Pockets had an extra testicle.  The look of shock on their faces that I was somehow unaware of this was priceless.  We laughed for a very long time that I could miss something like this.

A couple of weeks later, back home, I meet an interesting man at a local street fair.  He's attractive, intelligent, and claims to be a magician.  I get to know him better - he's a magician by training, also has a degree in architecture and works at a kitchen and bath showroom, and really enjoys wine.  I found that interesting enough to merit dating the Magician for a little bit.

One of the first few times we slept together, something a bit odd happened.  We're enjoying a little cuddling, and the Magician takes my hand, and guides it down to his *ahem* package.

And he says "how many balls do you feel?"

For about 30 seconds, I'm mortified.  Have I missed this AGAIN? Where are all these testes-enhanced men coming from???  But for the life of me, I think it feels like two, so I gulp and sheepishly say "two?"

"Yes!" replies the Magician.  Then takes my hand away, reaches down there himself, fusses about, then brings my hand back and proudly asks,

"Now how many do you feel?"

The Magician made a ball disappear.  He was sooooo proud.  The appropriate response might have been something akin to awe or getting turned on, right?  Maybe offering to go search for it?  Who the hell knows.  I lost it.  For five minutes solid I did not stop laughing.  Finally, the Magician got me quiet enough to explain why it was so funny.  While he sort of appreciated the humor of the situation, he really didn't appreciate being laughed at or compared to Pockets.

Oh well.  He's the one who was making magic tricks out of his balls.  You kinda gamble when you do that.

As it turns out that he was not actually very motivated in life or work, and liked to blame his 83 year old father for why he had not really succeed in life.  So things didn't go very far with us. But he did leave me with a fabulous story.

who doesn't deserve sweetness?

Apparently, me.

Well, it's not that I don't deserve it.   Of course I deserve it.  But when it arrives by the truckload and seems unending, I just don't know what to do with it.

Newfie is very sweet... yesterday, he sent me a note for our "happy 1-month" since our first date.  I should feel ecstatic that there is a man out there who keeps track, and by-golly he's keeping track for me!  for us!  Instead, I feel a mix of guilt and claustrophobia.  Guilt because he's so crazy about me and I'm off making dates with other men -- even though I've been clear with him that I'm not being exclusive.  And claustrophobia because it's unclear to me if Newfie has anything else going on in his life outside of work and me - and I'm not ready to be someone else's everything.  I did that once already, and it wasn't pretty.

So, really, it's not Newfie who is making me claustrophic.  It's the ghost of Grumpy Pants.  

I've got a crush... and the story about Blue Balls...

To be fair to Newfie, I developed a crush on Mr. Nice Guy before I knew much about Newfie.  I conjured an evening to get Mr. Nice Guy to my house for dinner (we have mutual friends).  Mr. Nice Guy is - well - a truly nice guy.  He's the kind of guy that's been single forever, but doesn't appear to be the consummate jackass bachelor.  He has lots of female friends, perfect manners, interesting hobbies and a great job.  Conversation with him is genuine and engaging.  He was the only person at the dinner party to help with the dishes.  Drool.  Oh, and he's a nice Jewish boy.  All these things are blinding to someone like me, and how I miss that he might have issues to still be single at 42.

He invited me (and 400 other people) to his birthday dinner last night, and birthday hike today.  I skipped the dinner in favor of the smaller group activity of hiking - there were only 7 of us who actually hiked.  I wish I could tell him that I have a crush, ask him out.  Am I imagining some intent/flirtation when he puts his arm around me, touches me on the thigh while we are in the car?   I hope not.  I got it bad.  And that ain't good.

And right about 11am when I show up to brunch (before the hike) is when the world reinforces just why I started this blog... There at the restaurant, sitting right across from Mr. Nice Guy is Blue Balls.  I couldn't make up stuff this good.

Remember I told the story about the predator at speed dating (see google-fu)?  And that "other nice woman" I ended up hanging out with?  She really was a cool lady - cool enough to fix me up with a friend of hers I (for reasons to be explained shortly) dubbed Blue Balls.  We went out for several weeks, and at the end of every date, on my doorstep, he would grope me so intensely that he was just about dry humping me.

For the record, if you get that aggressive before I invite you upstairs, I'm not inviting you upstairs unless I actually plan to sleep with you within about 5 minutes of walking in the door.  And I had an issue with Blue Balls - he would not invite me to his home.  I don't trust a man until I see how he lives, see for myself what books he keeps on his bookshelf, if he's smart enough to hide the porn, and figure out where he buys his groceries (a cupboard full of cheap Ramen for a 40 year old is bad news).

I suppose it made things worse for this guy that I had just read the best dating advice EVER.  Don't force a conversation with a guy about where a relationship is going.  Just be clear that you are not sleeping with someone unless you are in an exclusive relationship.  I questioned if this was good advice, until I tried it on Blue Balls.

After a few weeks of Blue Balls getting frustrated with the action on my doorstep, Blue Balls called me and we proceeded to have a 45 minute conversation where he kept saying that we had reached a "plateau" and he was frustrated.  And that he wasn't the type of guy to use this expression, but I was giving him blue balls.  (I guess you ARE the type of guy to use that expression, then.)

I repeated to him: "We're not exclusive, and I don't want to sleep with someone unless we are.  It's not fair to you, to anyone else I might be dating, and definitely not to me."   For the record, there really wasn't anyone else.  But that's irrelevant.

A smart man who really was interested in me would have said "I'm not dating anyone else." 

Blue Balls did not say this.  He emphasized the plateau, his frustration, that he never invited me over because he was a slob, and then he broke things off.   I was sad, in a way.  I wanted "the next level" with him, too - but our definition of next level was completely different.  I hoped he would open up his home and let me get to know him better.  He hope I would open up my bedroom and get busy.  Or at least that's how it seemed in our conversation that night.

About a year ago (maybe two years after our little dating diversion), I saw Blue Balls at a happy hour....  what I said must have finally sunk in, because he came up to me and said something to that effect, owned up to being a bit of a jerk and apologized.  If I was sweet, I would probably revise his nickname - but what fun would that be?  I have a feeling Blue Balls is a decent guy whose hormones made him miss a really important cue.

I'm glad I didn't sleep with Blue Balls anyway - that means there's no issue when I try start something with his friend Mr. Nice Guy.  Right?

the kiss-off

Over the past couple of years, I have noticed an alarming trend in my dates.  I'll call it the kiss-off.  I will admit to three times at least in the last couple of years that this has happened to me... on a first or second date, he returns me to public transit so that I can make my way back home (such is the life of urban dating), plants a very surprising kiss on me, and then disappears.

The first time it happened was with Bike-Co.  We'd corresponded on J-Date.  He had that geek-chic thing working for him.  We met for a drink at a bar that I randomly suggested, and is one of his favorites.  One beer in,and we both seem smitten.  We make our way to dinner, and I've lost track of time and place.  This is one of those first dates.  But we both have to work the next day, and it's still only a first date...  So he walks me to the train, and kisses me passionately.  It took me off guard, and I know I had one drink too many for it to be a perfect first kiss, but my knees melted anyway.  But that was the last I heard from him. Ever.

Kiss-off #2 was slightly different...  I'll call him Smirksalot.  He's one of those guys that doesn't really have a full smile - even in the broadest of happy expressions he somehow seems to be smirking, but it's sexy and it works on him.  I'd run across him, I kind of knew who he was, and I conjured an introduction at a happy hour one night.  The intro was all I needed, he seemed interested from the get go.  We talked about all kinds of things, he was fascinating, intelligent, engaging...  and yummy. He asked that night if I'd go out with him sometime, and then (miracle of miracles) actually called the next day and made a date.  We went to dinner, then a post-dinner drink, and then he made a move.  It was a romantic, passionate move, and I'm a sucker for passionate.  Plus add to the recipe that I was smitten, clearly gullible, but smart enough not to let it go too far.  An hour later (after many more kisses and moments), he took me to my train to get home.  And never called again.  (Though he's still a friend on facebook... odd that.)

Hopefully, I'm going to learn my lesson on this... but there's at least a #3 story.  We connected through eHarmony of all things, but realized before we met in person that we actually knew each other professionally.  He will be known as Cap, as he is always wearing a baseball cap.  I'm convinced he probably wears it during sex, something about always being cold....  But that seems unimportant now, right?  Cap and I met for a first date at the bar of a very fancy restaurant.  At first I was a little uncomfortable, but that quickly faded and it turned out we had a lot to talk about and so much in common.  I really enjoyed talking to him.  The second date was equally great - a nice glass of wine, missing the first showing of the movie because we were distracted and lost track of time.  But we grabbed a quick bite, made it to the 2nd showing.  Then he walked me to my train, and totally caught me off guard with the kiss.  I'll confess on this one, it was not my best showing.  I felt for Cap.  But it wouldn't have mattered.  It was the Kiss-Off.

Someday, someone will explain the Kiss-Off to me.

a little update on Newfie and other diversions

It's true... I've been hiding behind stories of my past dating life, going back 20 years, to avoid talking about Newfie.  What if he ever reads this?  He might just realize that I am, in fact, an evil person and he should run like hell.  Except that I'm not actually evil - just very conflicted and (honestly) terrified of committing to someone without being more sure than I am now about where it could lead.  Giving up 3 or 6 months to a guy wasn't such a big deal when I was 27 or even 32 or 33.  But now time just seems so -- I hate to say it -- precious.  The whole religion/marriage/kids/"I'm going to be 40... Someday..."  thing.  It's not that I'm in a rush to get some guy to the altar, just not willing to be exclusive with someone before it feels right.

Newfie has found a little bit of game.  Post-Newfoundland conversation, he actually backed off a step.  But not totally.  We went out last Saturday, had such a great time that I thought I'd ask him to join me at my friend's Christmas party.  (Haven't gotten their report yet, kinda scared to ask).  And that night as I drove him home, he preyed on my weakness, and we fooled around a little more than I'd intended.  Given that the gender roles are a little flipped in this equation, I know he assumes this means something.  He wants it to mean something.  And I just feel guilty.

Then Newfie left for his home state for Christmas, on the other side of the country.

The night after he left, as mentioned in the last post, I had dinner with Slacker.  Somewhere near the second class of sake, I felt something very different towards this man.  It was like Angela Lansbury's voice in my head... "there's something there that wasn't there before."  And the flirtation commenced.

I've known Slacker for over 12 or 13 or whatever years.  We were housemates.  Many a night that man stumbled up the stairs, drunk or whatnot, and about passed out next to me in my bed.  He never so much as put a hand on my leg or arm in a way that was anything other than platonic.  The last time I saw him was six or seven years ago, and still... nothing...  but maybe Wednesday night there was something about the how much each of has changed/grown/gotten better looking (loving the silver streaks in his long hair!).  Anyway, suddenly there is chemistry. 

So from the 2nd cup of sake until he was standing next to me in my apartment several hours later, I was asking myself "what do I want to do about this?"  And I could avoid answering it.  That is until HE asked me what I wanted to do about it.  His question was in the form of a kiss.  A very nice kiss.  I'm still thinking about the kiss.

Hang on... be right back... just want to enjoy the kiss for another second...

And nothing happened.  I felt guilty, and Slacker knew it.  Even though my feelings are conflicted about Newfie, and I've made no pretense about dating other people, I'm still attempting some kind of loyalty.

Slacker slept on my couch that night (he was hiding out from his brother's crazy in-laws).  The next morning,  as he accompanied on my commute to work, we checked in with each other about the previous night's events like the mature, communicative adults we've become.  We agreed that nothing should happen that would ever lead to awkward.  I'm not sure what that could be - I haven't felt awkward around Slacker for a moment in my life and can't imagine that I ever would.  But I can't seem to think in the present, I wonder what a little fling with Slacker would lead to.  And I have a trip planned to his town in about 6 weeks for a little family gathering - what happens then?

Joe College, who has become my oracle of dating advice, thinks I'm being very clear that I "want to cut the puppy loose" and that there's no lines being crossed, since I've never said I was dating Newfie exclusively.  And Joe College likes the sound of Slacker. 

Since when did Joe College become an oracle?  And how do I really feel about monogamy and other such forms of loyalty?  One guy I dated said he was incapable of poly-dating.  I have always poly-dated, but that's because I don't often end up rolling around in bed with guys early on, and guys rarely last more than a few dates so I'm better off keeping a few around.  Newfie is clearly different - generous, genuine and sweet, unafraid to be totally present with me.  Something is definitely faulty in my wiring that I haven't declared him my territory and pissed a big circle around him to warn other women away.  Maybe my issues are real, but they are also the types of issues that don't matter when I am crazy about someone.

But Slacker?  Where the hell did that come from?  It's a good thing I don't believe in mistakes.

Casual Dating: The Randy-Andy phase

Last night, an old friend of mine was in town.  Who also happened to be my housemate for a while.  We'll call him Slacker -- mostly because when he lived with me, he was emerging from his slacker days.  He wasn't a total slacker, he worked 9-5 (temping), but he played a lot of guitar and spent a lot of time at bars with friends playing foosball.  I can't complain much, as that's part of how we became friends.  At any rate, these days Slacker is quite successful so the moniker is kinda ironic.

Slacker was really amused by my dating life. Still is.  (He's not shocked that I started a blog...)  But back then he played an active part in it, since this was in the days before we all had cell phones and guys always called the house.  And had to talk to Slacker.  Who really enjoyed his role in the whole process.

So all men in this blog will have nicknames, save Randy and Andy.  I was dating them both at the same time, and they were total opposites.  And it was so fun for Slacker to say "how is Randy-Andy?  Is Randy being randy these days?"

Randy: a co-worker of mine (Yes, I know, I swore I only dated a co-worker once.  I lied.)  A brutish, arrogant, obnoxious, pompous marketing guy that I was always arguing with in meetings, and sparring with over drinks at happy hour.  Go figure - there was sexual tension.

Andy: a sweetheart of a kid that I met at an alumni happy hour for my college, totally soft-mannered, soft-spoken, seemingly kind and gentlemanly.

Here's the twist:

Randy had taken a vow of celibacy during the brief time he attended a seminary.

Andy was quite impressive at putting on the moves at the end of a date.

Randy introduced me to his parents while they were in town.

Andy just wanted to introduce me to horizontal.

However, the real humor of this "phase" for me lies in Slacker recounting the phone calls.

Typical phone call with Andy:

Andy: "Hi, this is...."
Slacker: "She's not here."

Andy: "Well, could you tell her I..."

Slacker: "No."  click

(I would, of course, get the message that Andy had called... Slacker enjoyed himself, but didn't want to wreck my chances just in case Andy was a nice guy.)

Typical phone call with Randy:

Randy: "Betsy there?"

Slacker: "No."

Randy: "Bye." click

Slacker clearly preferred Randy's communication style.

Nothing ever happened with either guy...  Randy was probably lying about the celibacy/seminary stuff (I was young & naive), and just wanted a sweet, presentable girl for his folks.  Andy and I just kinda fizzled (that's code for I wouldn't put out fast enough so he moved on). It's too bad Randy never actually got randy with me.  It's very confusing that Andy was actually the randy one, and Randy was just... dandy.

I'm going to stop thinking of more reasons to say Randy Andy.

the hottest geek ever

I know the rules are that you never dip your pen in the company ink.  And it's probably a bad idea to be the other woman.  So how bad of an idea is it to be the other woman when all three of you work for the same company?  Very, very bad...

Sexy-Geek was certainly aware that he was a geek.  I doubt he realized he was sexy. Piercing blue eyes, salt and paper hair pulled back into a pony tail, a well-kept goatee (and normally I don't do facial hair, but on him...mmmm... ), broad shoulders, deep voice, and a boyishness that was just yummy.  He was "older" - just a few years, but it seemed like so much at the time.  I was always stopping by Sexy-Geek's office - usually it was work-related, and occasionally it was because it was fun.  Sexy-Geek had a geek job, and he (among other things) was responsible for scanning people's email and hard drives and finding whatever raunchy policy-violating nasty stuff they would download.  I saw the most pornographic Flinstones cartoon I can ever imagine.  I will never look at a picture of Dino the same again.

Don't get me wrong here - it was rarely that kind of stuff.   Usually we just laughed about geeky things and I flirted like a teenager with a crush on her teacher. 

Then there was happy hour.  A lot of happy hours...  (I was in my mid-20's after all).  For the longest time, I wasn't even aware he had a girlfriend.  Surprising, because they had been together for years. Because she had kids, he was mostly with her on weekends, so on week nights he acted like a single man.  I remember thinking she wasn't particularly nice to him, that he was sort of insecurely enslaved to her, and he could do so much better... like me...

But then there was happy hour.  And he put Fat Bottom Girls on the jukebox, and meant it to seduce me.  He really did (mean it).  That's probably the night I went home with him.  He really did (seduce me).  And it didn't occur to me that if the girlfriend knew about me, or ever found out about me, I would not be writing this blog today.  She was scary.

The affair lasted not more than few weeks...  It involved one of my best moves ever, which Sexy-Geek still talks about.  Ultimately, though, we were much better at flirting with each other than anything else.  I called it off, and miraculously we remained friends and the girlfriend never found out.

I might just be telling this story to brag.  Or to laugh at myself that I let myself get seduced by Queen (ah, the irony). Or maybe to confess out loud that once in my life I was the other woman.

Or maybe I'm telling this story because I did this thing which should have been really awful, but managed to escape unscathed, and I'm still a decent person.  The best part of the story is that Sexy-Geek left the girlfriend not long after our fling, and found the woman of his dreams.  I take a little credit for this. 

I think he's flirting with our waiter

I'm really never sure what to call those ongoing things that are never quite committed relationships, but aren't the occasional one-night stand, but do have important emotion and intimacy, but are long distance and the relationship never really takes root.  So for convenience sake I'll call them love affairs.  One of those grand affairs was with a man who never had a nickname, he meant so much to me from the beginning, so now I have to make one up.  I'll just call him Far Away, since he lives halfway around the world. 

The story of my first date with Far Away I'll save for another day.  For now I'll say that we met because my boss at my new company fixed us during my first trip to said far-away country (the headquarters of my company).  It took us nearly two years and lots of business trips to actually fall for each other, but when we did it was nothing short of spectacular.  So we planned a spectacular romantic getaway - a week in the snowy French Alps skiing and cuddling up by a fire at a slope-side lodge.

Most of the time when I tell the story, I tell all the lovely details (swooshing down the slopes of Chamonix, that lovely fireplace, driving into nearby towns for dinner, kissing by the rivers and staying warm together).  I usually leave out the part that for most of Far Away's life he was gay and part of the trip was the two of us working out the issue and what it meant to us and our future.

Conveniently, most people assume the relationship didn't pan out because he lived halfway across the world.  Seriously, that was the least of our issues.

Now some of you reading this are going to get all caught up on the technicalities of gay versus bi and all that.  Get over it.  Far Away gets to call it whatever he wants, it's his life.

So over the course of the week, the question of "can I deal with his past and present and future of having a romantic connection to men -- even if he's in love with me now?"  It probably would have been a much easier question if he hadn't had a fling with a man just before our trip, so freaked out was he about falling in love with the first woman since the last man.

And really, all through the beginning of the week I was thinking "hey, this isn't so bad..."  Really I was.

Then one day, mid-way through our skiing, we are sitting at lunch at the lodge.  It's sunny and the vista of the Alps out the large picture windows is like a post card, we are sitting near to each other, holding hands, and close to the big stone fire place, laughing and loving each others' company.  And then our waiter comes by - a lovely man, diminutive in stature, with narrow shoulders and narrow hips and a totally flat stomach, high cheekbones, sultry eyes, and a feminine grace with which he carried himself.  I was stricken with jealousy that a man could have a more appealing woman's body than me.  (Back then I was insecure about my curves... not so much these days!)  He could easily have made a mint in a drag show as the lady-boy, and worn nearly no make-up. 

Far Away's whole posture changed.  He had a crush on our waiter.  And not wanting to leave me out of this, Far Away turned to me and said "isn't he the most attractive man you've ever seen?"  While I'm sure a fantastic reply would have been "I'm looking at the most attractive man I've ever seen", somehow my brain froze up and NOTHING came out of my mouth.  I am rarely speechless, but this one got me.

Far Away was flirting with our waiter. And a man whose feminine physique and prowess was totally unlike mine.

So I wondered about the most appropriate response.  I figure jumping on his lap, getting totally affectionate, laying claim to my man in front the waiter and seeing if I could (ahem) distract Far Away somehow was not going to work.  Certainly attempting to dissuade him would reveal how totally intolerant I would be of the situation (and I wouldn't want him to think that I was struggling with this... ohhhhh nooooooo).   My response in the end was to smile and nod, say very little, eat my lunch, and plot some form of an evening seduction while we were out on the slopes for the afternoon. 

The seduction never really happened... (which is kinda sad, because every romantic getaway to the French Alps should include lots of romance.  By a fireplace).  But I did figure out what my limits were with Far Away.

That was pretty much the end of any romantic attempts.  OK, not totally the end.  But maybe the beginning of the end.

Plan A, Plan B, Plan C...

So the woman who gets the blame for this blog shall be known as T.  We've been friends since we were roughly 13 or 14, but we met before that - and she is probably the only friend I can remember exactly the day we met, what we were doing, where we were... but I digress, that has nothing to do with dating.

T has been like a sister to me since 8th grade.  Our lives and the choices we make about our lives over the last quarter of a century have become vastly different. And yet I feel like she understands the whole my life better than just about anyone.  Particularly because she can call out these crazy points of reference for something that happened back in 1987, and it somehow explains everything.

Why 1987?  Because that is the year T produced a small notebook as a gift to me in which she had inscribed on each page of the book a plan for boy on whom I had a crush.  It started "Plan A" then "Plan B" followed by "Plan C" and so on.  I will deny any suggestion that she actually managed to fill all 26 pages. The truth of it is that I had interests in many boys... crushes... delusions that they might like me... She listed their names, then we chatted endlessly discussing what I liked about them, and then fantasizing about which I was most likely to act on or try to make happen.  (T never had this concern... the male population always flocked to her side, wanted to be in a relationship with her, it was astounding.)

Nothing ever came of any of the plans.  Just shy school-girl crushes that the boys never even knew about.

I'd love to say I've outgrown this behavior.  Really, I would.  But I haven't.  Rather than call them Plan A, Plan B, Plan 2845, I now give the men I date nicknames.  My friends prefer it this way.  I have many, many flirtations, a large number of first dates and a decent amount of second dates.  And I'm a story-teller -- I get excited, and want to tell my friends about this new crush.  But I found that they had trouble keeping track of the names.  So this began my habit of nick-naming men, and a (petty) practice of not "naming" these men until I'd made it to a third or fourth date.

Yes, still these days I develop crushes, I think crazy thoughts about "when will he ask me out" and speak about a boy as if there is a legit chance that something could come of it... and then that fades away. 

Maybe I should put that metaphorical notebook away, stop planning, and focus on someone wonderful and new? 

Google-fu Matters

Meeting people is easy.  Meeting people who want to ask me out on a date is slightly more difficult.  So, of course, I've tried the gamut of things...  online dating, fix-ups, a matchmaker (yes, really), and speed-dating.  

Of all the things, speed-dating (image borrowed from Psychology Today) is the avenue that makes the most sense to me.  I can talk to any stranger, I smile a lot, and with a little alcohol I'm even funny and charming.  I even come up with wonderful questions that aren't 1) what kind of car do you drive; 2) how much do you make; and 3) what do you do for a living.  I want to know what book you keep on your nightstand... and maybe what you did last Saturday... if you have a nickname... anything.  And if the you are half interesting, we wind up in a great conversation for 8 whole minutes.  I've managed a date or two each time I've done this - a much better investment of my time and money than online, I'd say.

So I'm kind of excited when I show up to speed dating for Jews one Tuesday night.  But there's no registration desk, no sign, no one to check-in with.  I find the most decent looking guy at the bar, sit down next to him, order a glass of wine... and he turns to me and says "Are you here for speed-Jew?"  I tell him that I am.  And, with a bit of a smirk, he replies "It's canceled."  I thought he was joking at first -- but no, he wasn't.  The organizers had double-booked the space and were scrambling.  My bar-mate, another nice woman and I end up talking, and decide to take off for some nibbles and better wine.

But on the way out, a man stops me and says "But I haven't met you yet."  So I tell him "You have now!"  We talk for a moment or two, during which I find out a few things about him... and, since I'm keeping this all anonymous and stuff, I'll just say that much of what he said implied that he was well-educated, reasonably well-off and interesting.  But a thing or two didn't add up (why is a guy with his professional stature living in a small apartment in that area of town?).  Whatever, I thought, I just gave him my business card and went off with the other two great folks.

The next day, I get an email from him - and the name displayed on the email doesn't match what he gave me the night before, or how he signs the email.  Another thing that doesn't add up.

It's time to pull out my best weapon in meeting lots of strange men: online searching.  I'm good at it.  Some people use kung-fu for self defense, I use google-fu.  So I do a little digging based on his email address.  It took about 30 seconds to find out the guy had been arrested in well-known sting operation that targets would-be pedophiles. 

Yes, you heard that right.  I saw a video of the arrest.  I was shaking.  And then I was grateful that I figured out BEFORE.

I hope that my future dates will forgive me if I do a little google-fu.  I have a good reason. 

the presbyterian... history repeats, right?

My VERY first boyfriend will hereinafter be referred to as the Presbyterian.  (Why?  Because I'm Jewish - the fact that he wasn't was a very big deal.)  And tonight, as I was out with Newfie contemplating how to get this blog rolling instead of focusing my energy on his wonderful company, I realized that end of my relationship with the Presbyterian is probably something I have repeated throughout many of my failed dating attempts.

But be kind to me... I was 13.  I didn't know!  I was at an all-girls school, he at the local all-boys school.  We were both shy.  I don't, in fact, remember much of what he said to me...  he was painfully shy at that spring dance, where we danced one slow dance with that jerky side-to-side sway that 6th graders danced in the 80's -- oh yes, my hands on his shoulders, his hands at my waist, both of us straight armed and stiff.  Like a bad John Hughes movie.  Then he held my hand and then he was my boyfriend.  (Note: this is not the thing I've repeated.  I at least dance twice with a guy before I assume he's my boyfriend. But I digress.)

In the lives of 13-year-olds with over-protective parents in the mid-80's, dating is pretty much limited to school dances and phone conversations.  And in the intervening 4-months as spring stretched towards summer and I moved on to a new co-ed school that fall, even as I scrawled my name as "Mrs. Presbyterian" all over my notebooks, we spoke on the phone barely once a week.  I was in junior high now, and thought... maybe I should play the field a little bit.  There are boys here!  And I hadn't seen the Presbyterian since I became his girlfriend 4 months ago.

Even though I was a major dork, I hoped for just a little bit more... so I dumped him on Saturday afternoon.  A few hours before, his dad had said to him "don't you want to take your little girlfriend to the (major NFL team) football game next week? I have tickets for all of us!"  But I dumped him before he could invite me.  I cut out too soon for him to extend the invite.

I've often wondered... did I cut out too soon, really?  Or was it too little too late?  And can I really take something that happened when I was thirteen and assume it represents a pattern in my adult life?  Curious, eh? 

So really, that this occurred to me while I was at dinner with Newfie tonight may have worked in his favor.

I suppose there's a reason I'm still single.

I nicknamed a man "Newfie" this week (image borrowed from Wikimedia).  And Saturday night, on our date, I actually explained to him that his approach to dating reminded me of a Newfoundland running at me from across a park field, full bore, forgetting that he weighs 150 pounds and will surely knock me over.  Don't get me wrong, Newfoundlands are ADORABLE.  I would get one - 150 pounds of pure love and "I wanna be a puppy, don't I fit in your lap" and happiness all bundled in black fur and drool.  But if that dog is running at me from across a field, I'm going to do my best to get out of the way and not get knocked to the ground.

And I actually explained this to Newfie.  And I thought he understood.  Then two hours later, on our 5th date in two weeks and after having brought me bouquet of flowers (for the 2nd time) and a holiday present, he told me he wants to be clear the he is not dating anyone else.  WHAM.

Naturally, I freak out.  I consulted all the wrong people -- including my ex "Joe College" -- who told me I wasn't allowed to run away. Because this guy is sweet and crazy about me and smart and makes me laugh a lot and lots of good stuff.  Probably the best advice I got was "you know, some guys aren't good at dating... and that's a good thing."  (Because, really, what prize do you get for being great at dating?)

The advice came a little too late as I'd already uninvited him to something on Sunday.  It stung, it was awful, what was I thinking?  Clearly I'm not good at dating, but I do seem to do a lot of it. 

At any rate, in telling the story to my friends I finally realized three things.
1) It's time to actually share my stories, and perspective, on dating.  I'm still single at 37. I started dating when I was 13-ish.  I've never been married.  I'm not a freak.  But I do have nearly a quarter century of dating stories built up, and before my best friend flies out here and locks me in a hotel room for weeks on end I'm going to start telling these stories bit by bit.  She thinks they are funny.  So this is for her, most of all.
2) I've managed to stay positive and appreciate the humor even in the most unpleasant of it, and making my friends laugh with me is what allows me to continue this.  So if I share more, maybe I will be even more positive! So maybe it is for me, most of all.
3) I'm 37.  That's prime.  So I want it to be the prime of my life.  So it will be -- and I'll reflect on my past funny escapades, and hope I get to share the best with a whole lot of people who have no clue who I am.