I don't think I can go on any more of these internet dates. They're starting make me feel like there's no point in living, given:
1) the state of humanity in general; and
2) the way servers continue to bring more beer instead of cheques, even when you give them a pleading stare that should make their hearts bleed and then sprint to the till to cash you out.
Here's a little quote from last night's Hurratio:
'Basically the last two years of my life have been taken up with suing the University because they won't give me enough lab space. I mean, I have to keep human skeletons in my HOUSE because of those idiots. So, that's been pretty time consuming. Well... that, and the divorce.'
HUMAN SKELETONS, INTERNET. IN HIS HOUSE.
Also: it took him over 3 hours to drink 1.5 beers. For the first time ever, I ditched a date early. I just couldn't wait the additional hour for him to finish that last half pint. No excuses, no feigned illness or 'emergency call'. I just had to go. And then I did. Yeah. I know. BRUTAL.
So Internet. If you have any ideas as to how I can meet The Dude without being subjected to further idiocy of this sort, I would love to hear them. I know you people are reading. Come ON. Help me out.
Showing posts with label Prong Two in Action. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prong Two in Action. Show all posts
Friday, September 10, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Lecture Man
As promised last time, I finally got off my callipygous little ass and went on a date. I did it for you, really; I did it for ProngTwo. The blog part, not the finding love part. Not one of us thought this date was going to result in real actual Drooling Babbling Incoherent Love, did we? I mean, a guy who ends all of his emails with a condescending "hint" is hardly the type of guy you're going to be swooning over unless he's obscenely good looking and dressed in a suit made entirely of real one hundred dollar bills. And turns out to be that guy who plays Don Draper on Mad Men. And even then... unlikely. So I trundled myself off to this date, knowing full well that it was bound to be good fodder for the blog. A blogfodder date. Is that a term? It is now.
Internet, this guy did not disappoint! And lucky for all of us, this was the kind of date wherein my role was to listen and not speak. For behold, it was a date with Lecture Man!
Lecture Topic One (2 minute mark):
Me: So... tell me about yourself.
Lecture Man: Absolutely. Just broke up with my girlfriend of four years. She kept the house. Mutal breakup. Well, between you and me I think she was cheating on me though I never got total confirmation. We had this house down by blar de blar with a detached wah wah wah and something mind-crushingly boring about getting screwed over via the first-time buyer's laws...
Me: ....
LM: ...more details about a house that I no longer own, blah, blah, blah, that BITCH kept everything.
Me [snapping to attention at the word bitch]: Right. So. Does your family live in Toronto, too?
Which led us to Lecture Topic Two (30 minute mark):
LM: Mom lives in Toronto, she was basically a single parent. I mean, I saw my Dad all the time - he lives in New York. But now we don't speak to each other. Basically, he's a little bit of an asshole. Actually, you know what? He's not just a little bit of an asshole. He's a giant asshole.
Me: ...
LM: A bunch of horrible statements about my Dad that you'd never want to hear ever, let alone on a first date.
Me [pointedly not ordering another drink]: ...
LM [ordering beer number three]: ... and that was when I was... what? Maybe ten or eleven? I mean, what a DOUCHEBAG. And then, the year I was in grade 9...
Me [with a slightly murderous edge to my voice]: Okay. So. Did you get into traveling when you were a kid, or was that when you were older?
Which led us to Lecture Topic Three (one hour mark):
LM: Have you ever been to Europe?
Me: No, but I...
LM: Oh, if you haven't been to Europe, you haven't really traveled. I've been to Italy twice. It's so amazing. You'll have to go someday. Not an option to not go. Since you haven't been, you probably don't know that in Venice, you have to get around in these BOATS called "GONDOLAS". If you get a chance, you could look that up online, but you're never going to get a real sense of the city unless you've been there because...
Me [becoming silently engrossed in the unfolding drama of a birthday party a couple of tables over]: ...
LM: ... called the Sistine Chapel. Have you heard of a painter named Michelangelo? You may have, he's pretty famous, though don't worry if you haven't. You'll probably want to read up on that before you go, though, because he was pretty important...
Me [cursing my decision not to bring a recording device to accurately capture this drivel]: hmmm, yes. I'll have to look him up.
LM: ..waxing poetic about the beauty of this city in Italy called "Rome" wherein they have a place that's part of the Catholic Church that you may not have heard about called the "VATICAN"...
Which led us to Lecture Topic Four (what may as well have been the 14 hour mark):
LM: ... the influence of the Catholic Church, something wildly inaccurate about the Pope, several rabidly anti-Catholic statements, blar de blar... Oh God, you're not CATHOLIC, are you?
Me: Nope.
LM: ... good, because those assholes...
I have no idea how we got to Lecture Topic Five, since my undivided attention was directed at thwarting LM's attempts to order beer number five and instead getting the server to bring the motherfucking CHEQUE for CHRIST'S SAKE (eternity mark):
LM: ... the G20 disaster last month. I mean, I don't vote. What's the point, right? But if I did, you can bet your ass that my vote wouldn't go for any of those corporate goons...
Me [gesturing wildly at anyone who even remotely appeared to be employed by the bar]: ...
LM: ... basically a police state within the next two years. Everyone's too busy being brainwashed by CNN to even NOTICE that....
Me [alternating between the universal sign for cheque and the universal sign for choking]: ...
LM: I'll have another pi...
Me: WE'LL TAKE THE BILL.
LM: Oh. So early? It's only 11:00.
Me: Yeah, well... it's a week night and I have to work tomorrow, so...
LM: Oh, you have one of THOSE kinds of jobs. What do you do anyway?
Me [tossing some cash on the table]: Communications. Okaytakecarenowbye.
LM [shouting after my retreating figure]: This was really fun! Let's do it again sometime soon!
I have not called Lecture Man for date number two. And now aren't we all glad that I didn't give him my phone number? Yes. Yes, we are.
Internet, this guy did not disappoint! And lucky for all of us, this was the kind of date wherein my role was to listen and not speak. For behold, it was a date with Lecture Man!
Lecture Topic One (2 minute mark):
Me: So... tell me about yourself.
Lecture Man: Absolutely. Just broke up with my girlfriend of four years. She kept the house. Mutal breakup. Well, between you and me I think she was cheating on me though I never got total confirmation. We had this house down by blar de blar with a detached wah wah wah and something mind-crushingly boring about getting screwed over via the first-time buyer's laws...
Me: ....
LM: ...more details about a house that I no longer own, blah, blah, blah, that BITCH kept everything.
Me [snapping to attention at the word bitch]: Right. So. Does your family live in Toronto, too?
Which led us to Lecture Topic Two (30 minute mark):
LM: Mom lives in Toronto, she was basically a single parent. I mean, I saw my Dad all the time - he lives in New York. But now we don't speak to each other. Basically, he's a little bit of an asshole. Actually, you know what? He's not just a little bit of an asshole. He's a giant asshole.
Me: ...
LM: A bunch of horrible statements about my Dad that you'd never want to hear ever, let alone on a first date.
Me [pointedly not ordering another drink]: ...
LM [ordering beer number three]: ... and that was when I was... what? Maybe ten or eleven? I mean, what a DOUCHEBAG. And then, the year I was in grade 9...
Me [with a slightly murderous edge to my voice]: Okay. So. Did you get into traveling when you were a kid, or was that when you were older?
Which led us to Lecture Topic Three (one hour mark):
LM: Have you ever been to Europe?
Me: No, but I...
LM: Oh, if you haven't been to Europe, you haven't really traveled. I've been to Italy twice. It's so amazing. You'll have to go someday. Not an option to not go. Since you haven't been, you probably don't know that in Venice, you have to get around in these BOATS called "GONDOLAS". If you get a chance, you could look that up online, but you're never going to get a real sense of the city unless you've been there because...
Me [becoming silently engrossed in the unfolding drama of a birthday party a couple of tables over]: ...
LM: ... called the Sistine Chapel. Have you heard of a painter named Michelangelo? You may have, he's pretty famous, though don't worry if you haven't. You'll probably want to read up on that before you go, though, because he was pretty important...
Me [cursing my decision not to bring a recording device to accurately capture this drivel]: hmmm, yes. I'll have to look him up.
LM: ..waxing poetic about the beauty of this city in Italy called "Rome" wherein they have a place that's part of the Catholic Church that you may not have heard about called the "VATICAN"...
Which led us to Lecture Topic Four (what may as well have been the 14 hour mark):
LM: ... the influence of the Catholic Church, something wildly inaccurate about the Pope, several rabidly anti-Catholic statements, blar de blar... Oh God, you're not CATHOLIC, are you?
Me: Nope.
LM: ... good, because those assholes...
I have no idea how we got to Lecture Topic Five, since my undivided attention was directed at thwarting LM's attempts to order beer number five and instead getting the server to bring the motherfucking CHEQUE for CHRIST'S SAKE (eternity mark):
LM: ... the G20 disaster last month. I mean, I don't vote. What's the point, right? But if I did, you can bet your ass that my vote wouldn't go for any of those corporate goons...
Me [gesturing wildly at anyone who even remotely appeared to be employed by the bar]: ...
LM: ... basically a police state within the next two years. Everyone's too busy being brainwashed by CNN to even NOTICE that....
Me [alternating between the universal sign for cheque and the universal sign for choking]: ...
LM: I'll have another pi...
Me: WE'LL TAKE THE BILL.
LM: Oh. So early? It's only 11:00.
Me: Yeah, well... it's a week night and I have to work tomorrow, so...
LM: Oh, you have one of THOSE kinds of jobs. What do you do anyway?
Me [tossing some cash on the table]: Communications. Okaytakecarenowbye.
LM [shouting after my retreating figure]: This was really fun! Let's do it again sometime soon!
I have not called Lecture Man for date number two. And now aren't we all glad that I didn't give him my phone number? Yes. Yes, we are.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Hurratio XVII
Hurratio XVII is probably dead. I say this because we had a fabulous first date, complete with excellent witty banter, a captivating and sincere discussion about our respective careers/passions, and a decent amount of hockey-related trash talking. I'm pretty sure even the waitress wanted us to have a second date - that's how awesome date number one was. Consequently, this is how we ended the evening:
HXVII: So listen, I had a really great time. Can we do this again sometime?
Me: Me too - I'd love to meet up again soon!
HXVII: What's your schedule looking like next week?
Me: I have house guests arriving on Thursday, but sometime before that would be great!
HXVII: So... should I call you?
Me: Definitely! You've got my number, right?
HXVII: [getting out his cell phone]: Let me just make sure I've got it... it's 416-xxx-xxxx, right?
Me: Right.
HXVII: Okay, I've got your number! Talk to you soon?
Me: Talk to you soon.
And... NOTHING. Not a call, not a text, not even one of those pathetic OKCupid winks. Just a long blank silence. Which means he died, right? Sudden coronary, traffic accident, lightening: something like that. I mean, I haven't been perusing the obituaries, because I don't want to invade Hurratio XVII's right to a private, stalker-free memorial service. But I'm thinking he's definitely bit it sometime in the last seven days. RIGHT?
HXVII: So listen, I had a really great time. Can we do this again sometime?
Me: Me too - I'd love to meet up again soon!
HXVII: What's your schedule looking like next week?
Me: I have house guests arriving on Thursday, but sometime before that would be great!
HXVII: So... should I call you?
Me: Definitely! You've got my number, right?
HXVII: [getting out his cell phone]: Let me just make sure I've got it... it's 416-xxx-xxxx, right?
Me: Right.
HXVII: Okay, I've got your number! Talk to you soon?
Me: Talk to you soon.
And... NOTHING. Not a call, not a text, not even one of those pathetic OKCupid winks. Just a long blank silence. Which means he died, right? Sudden coronary, traffic accident, lightening: something like that. I mean, I haven't been perusing the obituaries, because I don't want to invade Hurratio XVII's right to a private, stalker-free memorial service. But I'm thinking he's definitely bit it sometime in the last seven days. RIGHT?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Updates
The Lead Guitarist
Well. I finally decided on A's 'balls out' approach to the LG situation and just asked him if he wanted to meet up. The reply from LG was that he would definitely love to set something up (YES), but he will also be busy all summer (WHAT?). The Wing Woman asserts that LG is actually busy all summer and has a variety legit/complicated issues to contend with that will get in the way of his doing any summertime dating. I strongly suspect LG is employing Dating Guideline Number Three. Either way, a date with LG is probably not on the horizon. I have officially put the ball in LG's court and now I'm walking away. Perhaps he will bean me in the back of the head with the ball and take us all by surprise. But if I were you, I wouldn't wait for it.
Hobbits
Conversation my friend had with her autistic son after discussing The Hobbit Story with him:
Mom: So what did we learn from this story?
Son: If a hobbit comes to the door and I manage to catch him, don't lock him in my room.
The Interwebs
Did you know that going on eleven frillion blind dates with single guys who are mainly employed in the tech industry and consequently are a thousand times better at writing HTML than conversing with a real live woman can remove your Will to Live? Yeah. I took a little break from the interwebs dating over the past month. This freed up my time for some very important activities:
I'm meeting up with Hurratio XVII at Margret tonight, 8pm.
Well. I finally decided on A's 'balls out' approach to the LG situation and just asked him if he wanted to meet up. The reply from LG was that he would definitely love to set something up (YES), but he will also be busy all summer (WHAT?). The Wing Woman asserts that LG is actually busy all summer and has a variety legit/complicated issues to contend with that will get in the way of his doing any summertime dating. I strongly suspect LG is employing Dating Guideline Number Three. Either way, a date with LG is probably not on the horizon. I have officially put the ball in LG's court and now I'm walking away. Perhaps he will bean me in the back of the head with the ball and take us all by surprise. But if I were you, I wouldn't wait for it.
Hobbits
Conversation my friend had with her autistic son after discussing The Hobbit Story with him:
Mom: So what did we learn from this story?
Son: If a hobbit comes to the door and I manage to catch him, don't lock him in my room.
The Interwebs
Did you know that going on eleven frillion blind dates with single guys who are mainly employed in the tech industry and consequently are a thousand times better at writing HTML than conversing with a real live woman can remove your Will to Live? Yeah. I took a little break from the interwebs dating over the past month. This freed up my time for some very important activities:
- Season Six of The Sopranos.
- Drinking multiple gin and tonics (with cucumber) in the back yard with impunity, having no place to drive to or be sober for in the foreseeable future.
- Sorting out of differences with The Cat: we had a very terrible fight over my repeated absences, wherein we both said and did things we regretted such as biting (him), name calling (me), and throwing large plastic cat toys (me again). My dating hiatus has allowed us to cement our reconciliation. And by reconciliation, I mean that the biting, name calling and throwing is back down to reasonable levels.
I'm meeting up with Hurratio XVII at Margret tonight, 8pm.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Lead Guitarist
Well. ProngTwo has been suspended in a state of panic while I dither about The Lead Guitarist. It appears that I may have Fucked Things up Big Time by emailing him in a vague overly-cool way, leading him to believe that I am mostly interested in recruiting him as an audience member for my band. Shit shit shit.
My band is admittedly really awesome. But I'm not part of the band so I can Break Out and Get Signed and Make It. I just like hanging out and playing great tunes and putting on the occasional show for friends and family. My dreams to be a Famous Rock Star died a natural death in my early twenties. As they should. So the only reason that I even mentioned the band to the Lead Guitarist was so that I could establish that I am also Super Cool and HEY! we both play in bands for fun don'twehavesomuchincommon!? Which seemed like a great strategy. Until the email exchanges went like this:
Lead Guitarist: Hey! Great to see you! Your band sounds cool, too. Let me know if you have any gigs, and I'll come out and see you.
Me: Gigs gigs gigs, blah blah blah, I'm so cool that I'll pretend that I'm emailing you just because you asked about my band, blar-de-blar, dates for gigs that you will not be able to attend.
LG: I can't make it to any of those gigs. But let me know if you have any other shows coming up.
Me: Sure. I'll definitely let you know. Totally.
LG: Yeah, do that.
Me: ...
So now we have nothing more to say to each other on the gig front since there are definitely no more gigs to invite LG out to. Who knows what I should do next? Lots of people, as it turns out! Here's the advice I've accumulated so far:
T: Wait a week. Then invite him to a music-related event. Preferably one featuring your musician friends.
Colin: Don't mention the gigs any more. Just ask him out for a drink. Send the email on Wednesday.
Hot Chicca Co-worker: Don't email him back at all. Let him ask you out.
The Wing-Woman [a friend of LG's]: We'll plan a BBQ and invite both of you. That way you'll have a chance to get to know each other without any pressure. [Glitch: the BBQ may never be scheduled given WW's insane schedule]
My Boss: You should just enjoy being single. Once you get married and have kids you'll NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN.
The Cat: Watch me kick the shit out of this stuffed puppy!
My Mom: Just be yourself, Honey. Who wouldn't love you!?
A: Go Balls Out. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but perhaps a retraction of sorts. Something like... "At the risk of being too bold... since I won't be playing any shows in the near future... maybe we could get together anyway, you know, for a drink or something..."
Me: ACK!
So. Time to weigh in, people. No idea is too outrageous. I'll just be over here checking my email every 30 seconds in case LG decides to spontaneously send a message to That Insane Chick From Last Friday.
My band is admittedly really awesome. But I'm not part of the band so I can Break Out and Get Signed and Make It. I just like hanging out and playing great tunes and putting on the occasional show for friends and family. My dreams to be a Famous Rock Star died a natural death in my early twenties. As they should. So the only reason that I even mentioned the band to the Lead Guitarist was so that I could establish that I am also Super Cool and HEY! we both play in bands for fun don'twehavesomuchincommon!? Which seemed like a great strategy. Until the email exchanges went like this:
Lead Guitarist: Hey! Great to see you! Your band sounds cool, too. Let me know if you have any gigs, and I'll come out and see you.
Me: Gigs gigs gigs, blah blah blah, I'm so cool that I'll pretend that I'm emailing you just because you asked about my band, blar-de-blar, dates for gigs that you will not be able to attend.
LG: I can't make it to any of those gigs. But let me know if you have any other shows coming up.
Me: Sure. I'll definitely let you know. Totally.
LG: Yeah, do that.
Me: ...
So now we have nothing more to say to each other on the gig front since there are definitely no more gigs to invite LG out to. Who knows what I should do next? Lots of people, as it turns out! Here's the advice I've accumulated so far:
T: Wait a week. Then invite him to a music-related event. Preferably one featuring your musician friends.
Colin: Don't mention the gigs any more. Just ask him out for a drink. Send the email on Wednesday.
Hot Chicca Co-worker: Don't email him back at all. Let him ask you out.
The Wing-Woman [a friend of LG's]: We'll plan a BBQ and invite both of you. That way you'll have a chance to get to know each other without any pressure. [Glitch: the BBQ may never be scheduled given WW's insane schedule]
My Boss: You should just enjoy being single. Once you get married and have kids you'll NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN.
The Cat: Watch me kick the shit out of this stuffed puppy!
My Mom: Just be yourself, Honey. Who wouldn't love you!?
A: Go Balls Out. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but perhaps a retraction of sorts. Something like... "At the risk of being too bold... since I won't be playing any shows in the near future... maybe we could get together anyway, you know, for a drink or something..."
Me: ACK!
So. Time to weigh in, people. No idea is too outrageous. I'll just be over here checking my email every 30 seconds in case LG decides to spontaneously send a message to That Insane Chick From Last Friday.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Breaking News: ProngTwo is NOT dead inside
So after about a frillion dates with guys I've wanted to flee from as fast as... um... shit. What's something that's really fast? A cheetah. Yeah. I wanted to flee from those guys like a cheetah. No wait. No wait. I'm a gazelle and THEY are the cheetahs. And I'm fleeing because instead of being all sleek and cool and awesome like cheetahs, they're actually more like jackals with their slobbery crooked teeth and weird anti-social idiosyncrasies...
You know what? Never mind that whole metaphor. Gazelles, cheetahs, jackals. Just scrap that whole bit. I'm nothing like a gazelle. I mean, who are we kidding? I don't even run for the bus; I just take my time and wait for the next one to show up.
ANYWAY. After going on all of those bad dates, I was beginning to wonder if the problem wasn't so much the guys as the possibility that the old Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has been kicked around a few too many times by the Douchebags of ProngTwo Yesteryear. Maybe these guys I've been hanging out with are totally awesome, but I just can't see that because I'm basically dead inside. Which, you know... not great for the overall success of Prong Two.
But then! This weekend I met The Lead Guitarist, a long-time friend of The Lawyer and The Lawyer's Wing-Woman. And you know what? The Lead Guitarist did not activate the cheetah/gazelle reflex. At all. In fact, I may have done that retarded little arm-pumping action when I saw that he emailed me on Sunday. Though probably not. I mean, what kind of loser does that stupid arm-pumping action anyway? Pfftt. (Probably) Not me. In all likelihood, I am the picture of email-receiving coolness. AS FAR AS YOU KNOW.
All this to say that regardless of how things progress with The Lead Guitarist, I'm very relieved to report that despite all the abuse the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has weathered, it's still functioning within normal parameters. Which may or may not include arm-pumping. Or whatever.
You know what? Never mind that whole metaphor. Gazelles, cheetahs, jackals. Just scrap that whole bit. I'm nothing like a gazelle. I mean, who are we kidding? I don't even run for the bus; I just take my time and wait for the next one to show up.
ANYWAY. After going on all of those bad dates, I was beginning to wonder if the problem wasn't so much the guys as the possibility that the old Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has been kicked around a few too many times by the Douchebags of ProngTwo Yesteryear. Maybe these guys I've been hanging out with are totally awesome, but I just can't see that because I'm basically dead inside. Which, you know... not great for the overall success of Prong Two.
But then! This weekend I met The Lead Guitarist, a long-time friend of The Lawyer and The Lawyer's Wing-Woman. And you know what? The Lead Guitarist did not activate the cheetah/gazelle reflex. At all. In fact, I may have done that retarded little arm-pumping action when I saw that he emailed me on Sunday. Though probably not. I mean, what kind of loser does that stupid arm-pumping action anyway? Pfftt. (Probably) Not me. In all likelihood, I am the picture of email-receiving coolness. AS FAR AS YOU KNOW.
All this to say that regardless of how things progress with The Lead Guitarist, I'm very relieved to report that despite all the abuse the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has weathered, it's still functioning within normal parameters. Which may or may not include arm-pumping. Or whatever.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Set Up with Control Issues Man
I've enlisted my friends for help with Prong Two. Mostly, this involves listening to hours of my complaining about the idiocy of the Horatios, which I appreciate very much. But also, some of my friends have gone even further by agreeing to arrange Set Ups with likely candidates. Don't think I haven't noticed your darty eyes and sweat-stained arm-pits when I've asked you set me up, you poor hapless Friends of ProngTwo. I get it: Set Ups are a risky business for everyone involved - things can go awry and then The Friend can get blamed for the results.
THEREFORE: I hereby promise not to blame you if your acquaintance from the ping-pong club turns out to be one of those guys who talks to his Mom seventeen times per day and spends the majority of the date explaining how my personality is substandard in comparison to hers. (I do not promise to refrain from writing about Momma's Boy here, though. If I have to sit through that crap, I reserve the right to make pithy remarks about it.)
Which leads me to... Control Issues Man (CIM).
I met CIM through my very obliging friend The Baker (Retired). The Baker (Retired) golfs with CIM's best friend. Conversations ensued, email addresses were forwarded and BAM... CIM and I were exchanging emails. So far, so good. Until the night of the date.
Conversation One (via phone)
Me: So... what time do you want to meet?
CIM: I'd like to watch some of the hockey game, so maybe a little later on?
Me: Yeah, that sounds great. After the game?
CIM: Possibly. Call me after the end of the 2nd period and we can discuss.
Me: Oh. Okay. Um... talk to you later.
Conversation Two (via phone)
Me [at 2nd intermission]: So, what do you think? Should we meet up?
CIM: Okay, let's meet at Gate 403 in my neighbourhood.
Me: Sure, sounds great.
CIM: How are you getting there?
Me: I think I'll drive.
CIM: Cab or transit is a better idea. I can tell you how to get there by transit.
Me: Oh, that's okay. I think I've got it.
CIM: So you're taking transit?
Me: Um... no. I think I'll drive.
CIM: Oh. Transit would be better. Or cab.
Me: ...okay... well. See you at 9:30ish?
CIM [sighing audibly]: No. How about you call me when you're close?
Me: uh... really? Okay.
Conversation Three (via phone)
Me [having parked my car]: So... I'm here.
CIM: Have you parked your car?
Me: ... yes.
CIM: Where did you park it?
Me [starting to get annoyed]: ... um.... on the street. On Roncesvalles.
CIM: Are you sure you're parked legally?
Me [in a forced cheerful tone]: YEP!
CIM: Did you check?
Me: Are you at the bar now? I'll just hang up and meet you!
Conversation Four (at the bar)
Me [gesturing with the straw from my gin and tonic]: ...blah blah blah, my job, blar de blar...
CIM: [reaches across the table, takes the straw OUT OF MY HANDS and places it on the table next to his drink] There. That's better.
Me: Oh. I'm sorry. Was I bothering you?
CIM: Yeah. I hate it when people fidget. Don't worry. It's not a big deal. I just won't let you have any more straws. And since you drove instead of taking transit LIKE I TOLD YOU TO, I guess you won't be having any more drinks anyway. So problem solved.
Me: ...
I hit CIM with GNTEP at the end of the date. He still suggested we get together again sometime soon and promised to call later that weekend. I was appropriately vague (progress!) Which is probably why he sent me an email later that week telling me that he thought we'd be better off as 'friends'. In accordance with Guideline Number Two, I didn't reply. Obviously.
So. Bring on the Set Ups, Bitches. Do you think you know The Dude? Or alternately, do you know someone who will make excellent fodder for a ProngTwo post? Shoot me a message and we'll hook it up, yo. No in-betweeners, though. It's the boring ones that kill me.
THEREFORE: I hereby promise not to blame you if your acquaintance from the ping-pong club turns out to be one of those guys who talks to his Mom seventeen times per day and spends the majority of the date explaining how my personality is substandard in comparison to hers. (I do not promise to refrain from writing about Momma's Boy here, though. If I have to sit through that crap, I reserve the right to make pithy remarks about it.)
Which leads me to... Control Issues Man (CIM).
I met CIM through my very obliging friend The Baker (Retired). The Baker (Retired) golfs with CIM's best friend. Conversations ensued, email addresses were forwarded and BAM... CIM and I were exchanging emails. So far, so good. Until the night of the date.
Conversation One (via phone)
Me: So... what time do you want to meet?
CIM: I'd like to watch some of the hockey game, so maybe a little later on?
Me: Yeah, that sounds great. After the game?
CIM: Possibly. Call me after the end of the 2nd period and we can discuss.
Me: Oh. Okay. Um... talk to you later.
Conversation Two (via phone)
Me [at 2nd intermission]: So, what do you think? Should we meet up?
CIM: Okay, let's meet at Gate 403 in my neighbourhood.
Me: Sure, sounds great.
CIM: How are you getting there?
Me: I think I'll drive.
CIM: Cab or transit is a better idea. I can tell you how to get there by transit.
Me: Oh, that's okay. I think I've got it.
CIM: So you're taking transit?
Me: Um... no. I think I'll drive.
CIM: Oh. Transit would be better. Or cab.
Me: ...okay... well. See you at 9:30ish?
CIM [sighing audibly]: No. How about you call me when you're close?
Me: uh... really? Okay.
Conversation Three (via phone)
Me [having parked my car]: So... I'm here.
CIM: Have you parked your car?
Me: ... yes.
CIM: Where did you park it?
Me [starting to get annoyed]: ... um.... on the street. On Roncesvalles.
CIM: Are you sure you're parked legally?
Me [in a forced cheerful tone]: YEP!
CIM: Did you check?
Me: Are you at the bar now? I'll just hang up and meet you!
Conversation Four (at the bar)
Me [gesturing with the straw from my gin and tonic]: ...blah blah blah, my job, blar de blar...
CIM: [reaches across the table, takes the straw OUT OF MY HANDS and places it on the table next to his drink] There. That's better.
Me: Oh. I'm sorry. Was I bothering you?
CIM: Yeah. I hate it when people fidget. Don't worry. It's not a big deal. I just won't let you have any more straws. And since you drove instead of taking transit LIKE I TOLD YOU TO, I guess you won't be having any more drinks anyway. So problem solved.
Me: ...
I hit CIM with GNTEP at the end of the date. He still suggested we get together again sometime soon and promised to call later that weekend. I was appropriately vague (progress!) Which is probably why he sent me an email later that week telling me that he thought we'd be better off as 'friends'. In accordance with Guideline Number Two, I didn't reply. Obviously.
So. Bring on the Set Ups, Bitches. Do you think you know The Dude? Or alternately, do you know someone who will make excellent fodder for a ProngTwo post? Shoot me a message and we'll hook it up, yo. No in-betweeners, though. It's the boring ones that kill me.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Leaving the Apartment
If you're going to launch into a project like Prong Two, you have to have more than one search strategy in order to find The Dude.
Okay. Well. You don't have to have more than one search strategy. You could sit at home night after night sifting through thousands of OKCupid profiles until your eyes start bleeding and you've lost all sense of reality and your social skills wane into oblivion until one day, instead of laughing when somebody says something funny, you croak out "LOL" like some kind of horrible android and reach out your withered index finger to click the phantom 'like' button that's floating in front of your bloodshot eyes.
But then, what if The Dude is the kind of person who would rather eat boiled tripe every night for a year than do online dating? I wouldn't blame him - I agree that there's a distinctive and unpleasant tripe-like flavour to online dating, though I sally forth anyhow. Oh-HO, I am the picture of bravery. But if The Dude is not quite as brave... NO JUDGMENT. And also, I will not find him on OKCupid.
So then: more than one strategy. That's what we're discussing here. Stop trying to distract me with your extraneous discussions about tripe, Internet. Jeez.
I have found that every single other strategy for meeting The Dude requires me LEAVING MY APARTMENT.
I can hear your gasps of dismay now: "Why would you ever want to leave your apartment, ProngTwo?" you cry. "It's stocked with snacks and WiFi and shelves full of good books and is not populated by lunatics and miscreants (except for the cat). Only a FOOL would venture out of a haven like yours." And you know, you people wouldn't be wrong. Except that The Dude is for sure, absolutely definitely NOT in my apartment. Yes, I have checked under the bed.
Generally speaking, I hate leaving my apartment. This is not to say that I'm a shy person: I am not shy. (You people who know me in Real Life can quit your goddamn sniggering right now.) I'm more... uh... I think the word we're all casting about for is "misanthropic". Which, I know: terrible, straight to hell, blah-blah-blah. But I'm working on being a lot less misanthropic in the interest of Prong Two. Recently, I have even been known to do shocking things like Attend Parties and Mingle with Strangers.
I know. I'm such an inspiration. You're welcome.
This is not to say I'll be planning an outing to Canada's Wonderland to mix with the unwashed masses anytime soon. Or visiting that horrible wasteland of weltschmerz known as Marineland (you may be surprised to find out that not everyone loves Marineland, you jingle-writing cretins). I have my limits.
Okay. Well. You don't have to have more than one search strategy. You could sit at home night after night sifting through thousands of OKCupid profiles until your eyes start bleeding and you've lost all sense of reality and your social skills wane into oblivion until one day, instead of laughing when somebody says something funny, you croak out "LOL" like some kind of horrible android and reach out your withered index finger to click the phantom 'like' button that's floating in front of your bloodshot eyes.
But then, what if The Dude is the kind of person who would rather eat boiled tripe every night for a year than do online dating? I wouldn't blame him - I agree that there's a distinctive and unpleasant tripe-like flavour to online dating, though I sally forth anyhow. Oh-HO, I am the picture of bravery. But if The Dude is not quite as brave... NO JUDGMENT. And also, I will not find him on OKCupid.
So then: more than one strategy. That's what we're discussing here. Stop trying to distract me with your extraneous discussions about tripe, Internet. Jeez.
I have found that every single other strategy for meeting The Dude requires me LEAVING MY APARTMENT.
I can hear your gasps of dismay now: "Why would you ever want to leave your apartment, ProngTwo?" you cry. "It's stocked with snacks and WiFi and shelves full of good books and is not populated by lunatics and miscreants (except for the cat). Only a FOOL would venture out of a haven like yours." And you know, you people wouldn't be wrong. Except that The Dude is for sure, absolutely definitely NOT in my apartment. Yes, I have checked under the bed.
Generally speaking, I hate leaving my apartment. This is not to say that I'm a shy person: I am not shy. (You people who know me in Real Life can quit your goddamn sniggering right now.) I'm more... uh... I think the word we're all casting about for is "misanthropic". Which, I know: terrible, straight to hell, blah-blah-blah. But I'm working on being a lot less misanthropic in the interest of Prong Two. Recently, I have even been known to do shocking things like Attend Parties and Mingle with Strangers.
I know. I'm such an inspiration. You're welcome.
This is not to say I'll be planning an outing to Canada's Wonderland to mix with the unwashed masses anytime soon. Or visiting that horrible wasteland of weltschmerz known as Marineland (you may be surprised to find out that not everyone loves Marineland, you jingle-writing cretins). I have my limits.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Stood Up
Internet, I've been stood up.
It's hard to tell why. The official explanation, offered 30 minutes before the date was slated to begin, was: "something came up". But because of the Dubai Man debacle, I don't give out my phone number any more. AND, since I still don't have an iPhone or Blackberry or Triage (Treo? Tree-o?), I didn't get the cancellation email until after I'd waited for over an hour at the cafe and finally headed home. LAME.
Luckily, I'm quite skilled at hanging out at cafes on my own. I'd brought a book my friend The Lawyer had loaned me - Gang Leader for a Day, by Sudhir Venkatesh - which was so fascinating that it took me 20 minutes to even realize that Hearratio P. Stand-Up was late. Also, we're in the midst of those glorious three days of Toronto Spring when it's no longer the shit-end of winter (wherein the heavens spit down angry sleet like a disgusted Polish Babcia presented with substandard pierogi) AND not yet the (oh-god-kill-me-now steam-bath sweat-drenched) scorching Toronto summer. A breezy sun-soaked hour on the patio at La Crema with arguably the world's greatest latte in hand and something good to read is not an hour misspent.
But back to the stand up. Even though I didn't have a horrible time waiting around for the no-show, 30 minutes does strike me as awfully late notice. Possibly even rude? I suppose I expected an explanation more involved than "something came up". Something more along the lines of "family emergency" or "car trouble" or "I'm terrified of meeting a total stranger for a cup of coffee." Am I being too anal? I realize that if I hadn't been so paranoid about the providing-my-phone number-to-potential-psychos issue, this guy could've just called me. But even then - EVEN THEN - I think I'd still be a little bit annoyed.
On the other hand, my Office Drone milk-bag complexion now has a tannish hue. Plus, I've made some excellent progress on my ongoing internal Crips vs. Bloods debate. I really do think I look better in the blue.
It's hard to tell why. The official explanation, offered 30 minutes before the date was slated to begin, was: "something came up". But because of the Dubai Man debacle, I don't give out my phone number any more. AND, since I still don't have an iPhone or Blackberry or Triage (Treo? Tree-o?), I didn't get the cancellation email until after I'd waited for over an hour at the cafe and finally headed home. LAME.
Luckily, I'm quite skilled at hanging out at cafes on my own. I'd brought a book my friend The Lawyer had loaned me - Gang Leader for a Day, by Sudhir Venkatesh - which was so fascinating that it took me 20 minutes to even realize that Hearratio P. Stand-Up was late. Also, we're in the midst of those glorious three days of Toronto Spring when it's no longer the shit-end of winter (wherein the heavens spit down angry sleet like a disgusted Polish Babcia presented with substandard pierogi) AND not yet the (oh-god-kill-me-now steam-bath sweat-drenched) scorching Toronto summer. A breezy sun-soaked hour on the patio at La Crema with arguably the world's greatest latte in hand and something good to read is not an hour misspent.
But back to the stand up. Even though I didn't have a horrible time waiting around for the no-show, 30 minutes does strike me as awfully late notice. Possibly even rude? I suppose I expected an explanation more involved than "something came up". Something more along the lines of "family emergency" or "car trouble" or "I'm terrified of meeting a total stranger for a cup of coffee." Am I being too anal? I realize that if I hadn't been so paranoid about the providing-my-phone number-to-potential-psychos issue, this guy could've just called me. But even then - EVEN THEN - I think I'd still be a little bit annoyed.
On the other hand, my Office Drone milk-bag complexion now has a tannish hue. Plus, I've made some excellent progress on my ongoing internal Crips vs. Bloods debate. I really do think I look better in the blue.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Starving Artists
You know those girls who are total goners for the painter in the garret who uses packets of stolen mustard and ketchup instead of those fancy oil-based paints he can't afford; the novelist so destitute he's using paper towel lifted from the Harvey's bathroom in lieu of real paper; the song-writer who lives in his guitar case under a bridge? It appears that I'm no longer one of those girls.
Am I a jerk for because the Starving Artist now makes me weak with hunger instead of weak in the knees? Probably. But my Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Hold has recently been usurped by my HEY-let's-be-practical brain, who insists that The Dude is someone who will be able to pay his half of the mortgage in the foreseeable future. Either that, or the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has finally grown weary of having the shit kicked out of it via the parade of inappropriate pairings it's been subjected to and has finally put its foot down. Okay, hearts don't have feet. Whatever. It's a metaphor, just go with it.
So okay, before everyone gets up on their high horses about economic elitism and Women Who Want a Free Ride, let me be clear about something: I'm not on the lookout for some über-rich guy who will fling me across the globe in his private jet, inside which we'll have money fights using pillow-sacks filled with one hundred dollar bills and snack on diamond encrusted crackers smeared with gold-plated caviar. For one thing, that scenario can hardly be good for one's digestion. For another thing, I like taking care of myself. You know that feeling you get when you pay your all your bills and still have some cash leftover to go hog-wild at the iTunes store, or you use your bonus to book a week on the beach with a perpetual margarita melting in your hand, or you slap down a down-payment for a condo - and you know that YOU are the hard-working bad-ass who made that all happen? I LOVE that feeling. I'm not looking for a fancier life or someone to shower me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. If I want more money, I'm pretty sure I can make it myself.
So then, what's the big problem with the Starving Artist, you ask? Excellent question, internet. Let's use Screenwriter Guy, a recent OKCupid match, as an example. This guy is great - funny, articulate, intelligent, ambitious, cute. We met for drinks at The Yellow Griffin, and I was completely charmed by Screenwriter Guy's sparkling personality. But as the evening progressed, he revealed that although he thinks of himself as a screenwriter, his prolific efforts have yet to produce any actual film footage. At 33 years old, screenwriting is his only game plan - he supports himself by working part-time at a video store and part-time at a coffee shop. Screenwriter Guy has been so intent on this goal that he has eschewed post-secondary education and steady employment; all of his energy and focus has been devoted to his creative outpourings. And you have to respect that kind of tenacity.
On the other hand, aren't there some pretty major compromises involved in teaming up with someone whose dream career, 15 years in the making, is still in its infancy? Isn't it okay to think about my own hopes for the future - the ones that involve kids and family and building a life with someone - and understand that unless Screenwriter Guy changes his goals, mine will probably be shelved until he gets "his big break"? Isn't it a good idea to choose someone whose plans for the future sort of line up with your own?
We went on a second date last night (I really do like this guy), and over our cashew chicken and meekrob at Young Thailand he told me that he's dated women who've wanted him to give up on his writing aspirations in exchange for a degree and a steady paycheque. Those relationships never lasted long. And who can blame him? While I'm still a complete idiot when it comes to relationships, I'm pretty sure you don't go in hoping the other person is going to change - and especially when the thing you want to change is a defining element in who that person is.
As great as he is, Screenwriter Guy and I both headed for home last night with the tacit understanding that a third date wasn't going to happen. Still, it was nice to hang out with a guy who wasn't addicted/terrified/dead inside/trying to lure me into a one-night-stand with promises of hotel-room tea. And when I see a shot of Screenwriter Guy accepting his Academy Award ten years from now, I'm totally bragging to my kids about how I went on a date with him once.
Am I a jerk for because the Starving Artist now makes me weak with hunger instead of weak in the knees? Probably. But my Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Hold has recently been usurped by my HEY-let's-be-practical brain, who insists that The Dude is someone who will be able to pay his half of the mortgage in the foreseeable future. Either that, or the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has finally grown weary of having the shit kicked out of it via the parade of inappropriate pairings it's been subjected to and has finally put its foot down. Okay, hearts don't have feet. Whatever. It's a metaphor, just go with it.
So okay, before everyone gets up on their high horses about economic elitism and Women Who Want a Free Ride, let me be clear about something: I'm not on the lookout for some über-rich guy who will fling me across the globe in his private jet, inside which we'll have money fights using pillow-sacks filled with one hundred dollar bills and snack on diamond encrusted crackers smeared with gold-plated caviar. For one thing, that scenario can hardly be good for one's digestion. For another thing, I like taking care of myself. You know that feeling you get when you pay your all your bills and still have some cash leftover to go hog-wild at the iTunes store, or you use your bonus to book a week on the beach with a perpetual margarita melting in your hand, or you slap down a down-payment for a condo - and you know that YOU are the hard-working bad-ass who made that all happen? I LOVE that feeling. I'm not looking for a fancier life or someone to shower me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. If I want more money, I'm pretty sure I can make it myself.
So then, what's the big problem with the Starving Artist, you ask? Excellent question, internet. Let's use Screenwriter Guy, a recent OKCupid match, as an example. This guy is great - funny, articulate, intelligent, ambitious, cute. We met for drinks at The Yellow Griffin, and I was completely charmed by Screenwriter Guy's sparkling personality. But as the evening progressed, he revealed that although he thinks of himself as a screenwriter, his prolific efforts have yet to produce any actual film footage. At 33 years old, screenwriting is his only game plan - he supports himself by working part-time at a video store and part-time at a coffee shop. Screenwriter Guy has been so intent on this goal that he has eschewed post-secondary education and steady employment; all of his energy and focus has been devoted to his creative outpourings. And you have to respect that kind of tenacity.
On the other hand, aren't there some pretty major compromises involved in teaming up with someone whose dream career, 15 years in the making, is still in its infancy? Isn't it okay to think about my own hopes for the future - the ones that involve kids and family and building a life with someone - and understand that unless Screenwriter Guy changes his goals, mine will probably be shelved until he gets "his big break"? Isn't it a good idea to choose someone whose plans for the future sort of line up with your own?
We went on a second date last night (I really do like this guy), and over our cashew chicken and meekrob at Young Thailand he told me that he's dated women who've wanted him to give up on his writing aspirations in exchange for a degree and a steady paycheque. Those relationships never lasted long. And who can blame him? While I'm still a complete idiot when it comes to relationships, I'm pretty sure you don't go in hoping the other person is going to change - and especially when the thing you want to change is a defining element in who that person is.
As great as he is, Screenwriter Guy and I both headed for home last night with the tacit understanding that a third date wasn't going to happen. Still, it was nice to hang out with a guy who wasn't addicted/terrified/dead inside/trying to lure me into a one-night-stand with promises of hotel-room tea. And when I see a shot of Screenwriter Guy accepting his Academy Award ten years from now, I'm totally bragging to my kids about how I went on a date with him once.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Dubai Man
I've always thought of the Driver's Office as the great equalizer: rich or poor, young or old, you are forced to take a number and shuffle into the holding area for between two and thirty-seven hours before being informed that you've filled out the wrong form by a disgruntled government employee who will hit the 'next' button under his desk like it will activate a trap door, plummeting you to your death via an alligator-filled moat.
I met Dubai Man at the Driver's Office. It's hard to say what prompted me to think he was a normal human being. It could have been that my brain was over-cluttered by the sound of shrieking children, whose parents were too busy comparing tattoos to prevent them from clinging to the underneath of my chair like grubby howler monkeys. It could also have been that the sound of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns blasting from Horse-Laugh-Man's iPhone scrambled my senses.
At any rate, I now suspect that the Driver's Office holding area is populated entirely by miscreants and lunatics. The sane people have discovered some other way to renew their driver's licenses. I am (relatively) sane. Why hasn't anyone let me in on the secret way to avoid the crazies of the Driver's Office? You people suck.
Anyway.
Dubai man smiled winningly at me several times. I smiled back. We both shook our heads in disbelief at the howler-monkey/Horse-Laugh-Man situation. His clothes appeared to be clean. He was reading a novel. Comparatively normal.
My number was called, and after I'd presented the correct documents, a stone from the top of Everest and a vial of Christ's tears from the crucifixion, my picture was taken and I was given my new license. Time to get back to the office. Impressively, Dubai Man got up out of his seat, approached me, and ASKED IF HE COULD BUY ME A COFFEE.
Let me just say that it's not easy to approach a stranger and ask them out. It takes courage and confidence. I was immediately impressed. And also very late for work. As a result, Dubai Man asked for and received my cell number.*
Things started going a little south when he called me later that night and arranged to meet me for a drink the following evening:
Dubai Man: I'm staying at a hotel on College street. Why don't you meet me there?
Me: oh... you don't live in Toronto?
DM: No. I live in Dubai. I'm from Toronto, but haven't live here in some time.
M: You live in Dubai? Wow, um... are you planning to move back to Toronto, or...
DM: It's a very complicated situation. But I'll explain it to you when I see you tomorrow at my hotel.
M: Right... I was thinking we should meet at Kalendar - it's also on College and closer to my place. Would that work?
DM: Sure, see you there.
This is the point at which several small alarm bells began ringing in my tiny paranoid brain. I've found that the phrase "it's complicated" rarely signifies a positive situation. It's never "complicated" in the sense that someone's planning to give me a unicorn that craps money but is having trouble transporting the unicorn to my house, for instance. It's usually "complicated" in the sense that someone would like me to invest my life's savings in their scheme to genetically modify ponies into unicorns that crap money. "It's complicated": not my fave.
At Kalendar, Dubai Man was not keen to get into the complicated nature of his residence in Dubai. "Toronto people are WAY too interested in what they do for a living!" he claimed. "We live in a time of global integration - where we live is insignificant!" he cried. Well, sure. That's often true. But what's the big mystery, Dubai Man? Evidently, that was none of my business.
I was already pretty fed up with this guy when the conversation took a sharp turn:
DM: Enough about all of that. I am very much looking forward to spending the night with you.
Me: Uh... Ha Ha.... well. Not the WHOLE night. Ha Ha.
DM: Oh yes. I think it will be very beautiful.
Me: Uh... no. I don't think so.
DM: [reaching across to take my hand] Oh yes. I think we will have a very beautiful time together.
Me: [pulling my hand away] What? NO! Dude, that's totally not going to happen.
DM: But why? But you are so beautiful and you're not like other women in Toronto. I can see that you are spontaneous and open. You're not cold like the other women in Toronto. I know I'm right. I can tell from your smile.
Me: Actually, in this case I think you can assume I'm just like every other woman you've met in Toronto. So anyway... where did you grow up?
DM: You're afraid to spend the night with me because I'm black. Ha ha ha! You little white girls are always so scared. Tell me: have you been in a room alone with a black man before?
Me: Are you kidding me? Because you're black? Look, I'm not going to sleep with you tonight, and that has nothing to do with your race. This is totally insulting.
DM: Who? Who is this black man you have been with? YOU TELL ME.
Me: [placing some cash on the table and getting up] All right. That's enough of that. Time for me to go.
What transpired next was an amusing little scene amid the Friday night College Street throngs wherein I hailed a cab while Dubai Man trailed after me shouting:
"Don't do this to me! You can't do this to me!! Just come to my hotel and I will make you tea. TEA. Please. PLEASE. I will explain everything to you when we go to my hotel. We will have tea. You cannot do this!"
There was a brief struggle as the cab pulled up, when Dubai Man desperately latched onto my wrist and tried to prevent me from leaving. But within moments, the cab was speeding away and I was parting with about $25 more than my budgeted transit fare to get home.
I had three calls from Dubai Man on the way home. The cab driver, in addition to offering to call the police, advised me to ignore the calls. Eventually the guy would get the message and leave me alone. This advice proved to be true, though it took Dubai Man twenty-six calls in five days before he finally gave up.
So in conclusion, the Driver's Office is probably not the best place to meet prospective dates. TAKE HEED.
* A serious aside about dating safety: I have made it a policy to keep the info exchange to a minimum when I first meet somebody. Mostly, I've found that withholding my last name or giving out an anonymous email address is overkill. There are a LOT of trustworthy people out there. But as the Dubai Man story proves, sometimes being cautious can save you a lot of trouble later on. Safety, Single Girls: it's not rude, it's just smart.
I met Dubai Man at the Driver's Office. It's hard to say what prompted me to think he was a normal human being. It could have been that my brain was over-cluttered by the sound of shrieking children, whose parents were too busy comparing tattoos to prevent them from clinging to the underneath of my chair like grubby howler monkeys. It could also have been that the sound of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns blasting from Horse-Laugh-Man's iPhone scrambled my senses.
At any rate, I now suspect that the Driver's Office holding area is populated entirely by miscreants and lunatics. The sane people have discovered some other way to renew their driver's licenses. I am (relatively) sane. Why hasn't anyone let me in on the secret way to avoid the crazies of the Driver's Office? You people suck.
Anyway.
Dubai man smiled winningly at me several times. I smiled back. We both shook our heads in disbelief at the howler-monkey/Horse-Laugh-Man situation. His clothes appeared to be clean. He was reading a novel. Comparatively normal.
My number was called, and after I'd presented the correct documents, a stone from the top of Everest and a vial of Christ's tears from the crucifixion, my picture was taken and I was given my new license. Time to get back to the office. Impressively, Dubai Man got up out of his seat, approached me, and ASKED IF HE COULD BUY ME A COFFEE.
Let me just say that it's not easy to approach a stranger and ask them out. It takes courage and confidence. I was immediately impressed. And also very late for work. As a result, Dubai Man asked for and received my cell number.*
Things started going a little south when he called me later that night and arranged to meet me for a drink the following evening:
Dubai Man: I'm staying at a hotel on College street. Why don't you meet me there?
Me: oh... you don't live in Toronto?
DM: No. I live in Dubai. I'm from Toronto, but haven't live here in some time.
M: You live in Dubai? Wow, um... are you planning to move back to Toronto, or...
DM: It's a very complicated situation. But I'll explain it to you when I see you tomorrow at my hotel.
M: Right... I was thinking we should meet at Kalendar - it's also on College and closer to my place. Would that work?
DM: Sure, see you there.
This is the point at which several small alarm bells began ringing in my tiny paranoid brain. I've found that the phrase "it's complicated" rarely signifies a positive situation. It's never "complicated" in the sense that someone's planning to give me a unicorn that craps money but is having trouble transporting the unicorn to my house, for instance. It's usually "complicated" in the sense that someone would like me to invest my life's savings in their scheme to genetically modify ponies into unicorns that crap money. "It's complicated": not my fave.
At Kalendar, Dubai Man was not keen to get into the complicated nature of his residence in Dubai. "Toronto people are WAY too interested in what they do for a living!" he claimed. "We live in a time of global integration - where we live is insignificant!" he cried. Well, sure. That's often true. But what's the big mystery, Dubai Man? Evidently, that was none of my business.
I was already pretty fed up with this guy when the conversation took a sharp turn:
DM: Enough about all of that. I am very much looking forward to spending the night with you.
Me: Uh... Ha Ha.... well. Not the WHOLE night. Ha Ha.
DM: Oh yes. I think it will be very beautiful.
Me: Uh... no. I don't think so.
DM: [reaching across to take my hand] Oh yes. I think we will have a very beautiful time together.
Me: [pulling my hand away] What? NO! Dude, that's totally not going to happen.
DM: But why? But you are so beautiful and you're not like other women in Toronto. I can see that you are spontaneous and open. You're not cold like the other women in Toronto. I know I'm right. I can tell from your smile.
Me: Actually, in this case I think you can assume I'm just like every other woman you've met in Toronto. So anyway... where did you grow up?
DM: You're afraid to spend the night with me because I'm black. Ha ha ha! You little white girls are always so scared. Tell me: have you been in a room alone with a black man before?
Me: Are you kidding me? Because you're black? Look, I'm not going to sleep with you tonight, and that has nothing to do with your race. This is totally insulting.
DM: Who? Who is this black man you have been with? YOU TELL ME.
Me: [placing some cash on the table and getting up] All right. That's enough of that. Time for me to go.
What transpired next was an amusing little scene amid the Friday night College Street throngs wherein I hailed a cab while Dubai Man trailed after me shouting:
"Don't do this to me! You can't do this to me!! Just come to my hotel and I will make you tea. TEA. Please. PLEASE. I will explain everything to you when we go to my hotel. We will have tea. You cannot do this!"
There was a brief struggle as the cab pulled up, when Dubai Man desperately latched onto my wrist and tried to prevent me from leaving. But within moments, the cab was speeding away and I was parting with about $25 more than my budgeted transit fare to get home.
I had three calls from Dubai Man on the way home. The cab driver, in addition to offering to call the police, advised me to ignore the calls. Eventually the guy would get the message and leave me alone. This advice proved to be true, though it took Dubai Man twenty-six calls in five days before he finally gave up.
So in conclusion, the Driver's Office is probably not the best place to meet prospective dates. TAKE HEED.
* A serious aside about dating safety: I have made it a policy to keep the info exchange to a minimum when I first meet somebody. Mostly, I've found that withholding my last name or giving out an anonymous email address is overkill. There are a LOT of trustworthy people out there. But as the Dubai Man story proves, sometimes being cautious can save you a lot of trouble later on. Safety, Single Girls: it's not rude, it's just smart.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Dr. Asparagus and Mr. Bland
Dr. Asparagus was the first Not-Horatio I met on OK Cupid. His opening email was articulate, intelligent, devoid of any of the reviled cave-man internet jargon:
Hurrattio: omg u r hawt LOL wassup. Hurratio.
Me: [delete]
Also, Dr. Asparagus was funny. I mean, the dude successfully pulled off some witty banter about tapeworms. There was also some mention of ninjas and zombies and a world domination plot involving the Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar. FUNNY. And when I informed him that he was the first Not-Horatio I'd met on OK Cupid, he demanded to know what he'd won as a Not-Horatio Prize. I told him he'd won asparagus. Obviously. His response was wildly enthusiastic. Obviously.
If you're ever looking for a gift box that will hold a bunch of asparagus, you are a fool to head to the dollar store. A FOOL. You will roam the isles hither and yon, and you will see a multitude of gift boxes in a variety of shapes and sizes. None of these boxes will hold an intact bunch of asparagus, and you will fritter away your pre-date lunch hour trying to obtain help from clerks* who are unable to help because (1) they are carrying on an in-depth cell phone conversation about That Bastard who refuses to pay child support, or (2) they are unsure what you mean when you say "gift box" and therefore direct you repeatedly to the wrapping paper isle.
Michaels is your store for asparagus gift boxes. And as a bonus, you'll find matching ribbon and tissue paper with which to elegantly bundle and wrap your asparagus. I went with green asparagus (did you know the white stuff costs about triple? What a scam.) I'm not going to lie to you, internet: it's entirely possible that this box of asparagus was the most attractive first-date spoof gift ever.
Flash forward to Insomnia Cafe, 8 pm. The man I assume to be Dr. Asparagus arrives, sits down and blinks across the table at me. Only it ISN'T DOCTOR ASPARAGUS. It's his non-evil, non-diabolical personality-devoid twin, Mr. Bland:
Me: So, how was your day?
Mr. Bland: My day was good. *blink, blink*
Me: Great. What did you get up to?
Mr. B: Work. *blink*
Me: Ah, yes. Me too. What is it that you do?
Mr. B: Consulting *blink, blink*
Me: Oh, okay. Management consulting? O...
Mr. B: Yes. *blink*
Me: And what's that like?
Mr. B: It's good.
Me: ...?
Mr. B: *blink*... *blink, blink*
Me: Oh! I've brought you something! [fishes Asparagus Box out of bag]
Mr. B: Thanks. [blinks at the box with consternation, does not touch it]
Me: Oh... no. It's nothing fancy. It's just a joke. You should open it!
Mr. B: [opens the box cautiously] Oh. You actually bought me asparagus.
Me: Well yes. It's your Not-Horatio prize... remember how I'd told you that your prize was asparagus? Uh... it's just a joke.
Mr. B: Okay. I do like asparagus. Thank you.
Waiter: Are you two ready to order drinks?
Me: YES WE ARE.
I would provide a further transcript the conversation that transpired during the time it took me to down one vodka martini, but it hardly seems worth the effort. T and A have postulated that Dr. Asparagus spent hours composing his notes to me, but wasn't able to pull off anything spontaneous when confronted with a real live woman. I like to imagine that Mr. Bland hired someone else to send those emails. Perhaps that guy would be interested in meeting me for a drink?
* Do dollar store clerks work on commission? This would surely explain their global unwillingness to help you sift through the crap on display for the single item of cheap kitsch you're there to purchase.
Hurrattio: omg u r hawt LOL wassup. Hurratio.
Me: [delete]
Also, Dr. Asparagus was funny. I mean, the dude successfully pulled off some witty banter about tapeworms. There was also some mention of ninjas and zombies and a world domination plot involving the Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar. FUNNY. And when I informed him that he was the first Not-Horatio I'd met on OK Cupid, he demanded to know what he'd won as a Not-Horatio Prize. I told him he'd won asparagus. Obviously. His response was wildly enthusiastic. Obviously.
If you're ever looking for a gift box that will hold a bunch of asparagus, you are a fool to head to the dollar store. A FOOL. You will roam the isles hither and yon, and you will see a multitude of gift boxes in a variety of shapes and sizes. None of these boxes will hold an intact bunch of asparagus, and you will fritter away your pre-date lunch hour trying to obtain help from clerks* who are unable to help because (1) they are carrying on an in-depth cell phone conversation about That Bastard who refuses to pay child support, or (2) they are unsure what you mean when you say "gift box" and therefore direct you repeatedly to the wrapping paper isle.
Michaels is your store for asparagus gift boxes. And as a bonus, you'll find matching ribbon and tissue paper with which to elegantly bundle and wrap your asparagus. I went with green asparagus (did you know the white stuff costs about triple? What a scam.) I'm not going to lie to you, internet: it's entirely possible that this box of asparagus was the most attractive first-date spoof gift ever.
Flash forward to Insomnia Cafe, 8 pm. The man I assume to be Dr. Asparagus arrives, sits down and blinks across the table at me. Only it ISN'T DOCTOR ASPARAGUS. It's his non-evil, non-diabolical personality-devoid twin, Mr. Bland:
Me: So, how was your day?
Mr. Bland: My day was good. *blink, blink*
Me: Great. What did you get up to?
Mr. B: Work. *blink*
Me: Ah, yes. Me too. What is it that you do?
Mr. B: Consulting *blink, blink*
Me: Oh, okay. Management consulting? O...
Mr. B: Yes. *blink*
Me: And what's that like?
Mr. B: It's good.
Me: ...?
Mr. B: *blink*... *blink, blink*
Me: Oh! I've brought you something! [fishes Asparagus Box out of bag]
Mr. B: Thanks. [blinks at the box with consternation, does not touch it]
Me: Oh... no. It's nothing fancy. It's just a joke. You should open it!
Mr. B: [opens the box cautiously] Oh. You actually bought me asparagus.
Me: Well yes. It's your Not-Horatio prize... remember how I'd told you that your prize was asparagus? Uh... it's just a joke.
Mr. B: Okay. I do like asparagus. Thank you.
Waiter: Are you two ready to order drinks?
Me: YES WE ARE.
I would provide a further transcript the conversation that transpired during the time it took me to down one vodka martini, but it hardly seems worth the effort. T and A have postulated that Dr. Asparagus spent hours composing his notes to me, but wasn't able to pull off anything spontaneous when confronted with a real live woman. I like to imagine that Mr. Bland hired someone else to send those emails. Perhaps that guy would be interested in meeting me for a drink?
* Do dollar store clerks work on commission? This would surely explain their global unwillingness to help you sift through the crap on display for the single item of cheap kitsch you're there to purchase.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Hporatio Two
Hporatio Two sat down for brunch at The Beaver Café, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, took a deep breath and talked.
For 75 minutes.
It was the kind of monologue that's peppered with nervous laughter, self-depreciating commentary and a lot of computer-related technical jargon that is virtually indecipherable to the average non-android. At one point he gesticulated so wildly on the subject of audio editing software (or possibly a hacking software that has given him complete access to all FBI files? It was hard to tell) that he nearly overturned his water glass. But was Hporatio Two stymied into pausing or even taking a breath? Indeed, he was not. His skin - glowing with the ghostly non-tan of the Tecchie UnDead - glistened with sweat as he tossed out non-sequiturs and painfully humourless puns with abandon.
I took SMALL bites of my steamed egg scramble and rye toast. I drank three cups of coffee. The waitress refilled my water glass four times. My plate was sparkling clean long before he took a single bite of his breakfast burrito.
Nevertheless, I've been thinking about giving Hporatio Two another shot. Nerves suck. And statistics reveal* that 98% of shy guys calm the f*** down and interact like normal human beings on the second date. Possibly, a guy who names his cats Lucy and Ethel can't be all bad...
*98% of statistics posted on this blog are fabricated.
For 75 minutes.
It was the kind of monologue that's peppered with nervous laughter, self-depreciating commentary and a lot of computer-related technical jargon that is virtually indecipherable to the average non-android. At one point he gesticulated so wildly on the subject of audio editing software (or possibly a hacking software that has given him complete access to all FBI files? It was hard to tell) that he nearly overturned his water glass. But was Hporatio Two stymied into pausing or even taking a breath? Indeed, he was not. His skin - glowing with the ghostly non-tan of the Tecchie UnDead - glistened with sweat as he tossed out non-sequiturs and painfully humourless puns with abandon.
I took SMALL bites of my steamed egg scramble and rye toast. I drank three cups of coffee. The waitress refilled my water glass four times. My plate was sparkling clean long before he took a single bite of his breakfast burrito.
Nevertheless, I've been thinking about giving Hporatio Two another shot. Nerves suck. And statistics reveal* that 98% of shy guys calm the f*** down and interact like normal human beings on the second date. Possibly, a guy who names his cats Lucy and Ethel can't be all bad...
*98% of statistics posted on this blog are fabricated.
Horatio One
Is there a Twelve Step program for iPhone addiction? Perhaps Horatio One could be a member. This guy could NOT put his iPhone away. He wanted to. He tried to. He couldn't do it.
Horatio One: So, it says on your profile that you're really into salsa dancing?
Me: Um... really? No, I don't think that was me...
H: Oh, sorry. I could've sworn that was you. [pulls out iPhone for the 342nd time]
M: Yeah, I've actually never been salsa dancing but it sounds... what are you looking at?
H: I'm just looking at your profile... hang on.
M: Oh. Wait. What? You're looking at my profile RIGHT NOW?
H: Yeah, I was SURE you said something about salsa dancing.
M: Uh... no.
H: Yep. You're right. You didn't say anything about it in here. Must've been someone else.
M: Right. Well. Anyway. Is salsa something you're really into?
H: ...
M: Horatio?
H: Sorry, sorry! My friend just responded to my twitter post. Hang on...
M: ....
Horatio One: So, it says on your profile that you're really into salsa dancing?
Me: Um... really? No, I don't think that was me...
H: Oh, sorry. I could've sworn that was you. [pulls out iPhone for the 342nd time]
M: Yeah, I've actually never been salsa dancing but it sounds... what are you looking at?
H: I'm just looking at your profile... hang on.
M: Oh. Wait. What? You're looking at my profile RIGHT NOW?
H: Yeah, I was SURE you said something about salsa dancing.
M: Uh... no.
H: Yep. You're right. You didn't say anything about it in here. Must've been someone else.
M: Right. Well. Anyway. Is salsa something you're really into?
H: ...
M: Horatio?
H: Sorry, sorry! My friend just responded to my twitter post. Hang on...
M: ....
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