I've Got a Date!

Helloooooo Chicago!

I'm happy to report that dating prospects in the Windy City look good...VERY good. In fact, I was asked out less than 48 hours after moving to town. And, it happened in the cutest way. What more can a girl ask for?

Like any good law-abiding citizen, I headed to the DMV immediately after settling into my new apartment (ok, admittedly, I may have learned the hard way that it's far easier to deal with this stuff on the front end than to fix it later, but that's not the point).

And, like anyone that has a driver's license, I dreaded the visit to this office. In an attempt to limit the amount of time devoted to the less-than-pleasant experience, I hopped on the bus with my newly purchased CTA pass before 8am.

Unfortunately, it was raining. A lot. And I got lost. Thus, I spent twenty minutes wandering around downtown looking for the right building, well aware that my chances for a good driver's license picture were vanishing with every wrong turn.

Anyway, I eventually arrived at the DMV, bedraggled, but determined. I had done my research and had every document I could possibly need - and then some - to prove my new residency in Illinois. There was just one thing the multiple state, city and DMV websites failed to mention - they don't take Visa! Discover, Mastercard, Amex and check - all a-ok. But Visa, the most widely recognized credit card in the world, known for being accepted globally, is NOT a valid form of payment in th eyes of Chicago driving authorities.

Out I went back into the rain to track down two different ATMs before I could compile the necessary cash for the day's expensive transactions (seriously, $200 to transfer the title of my car!).

Finally, finally, I had everything I needed and all I had to do was wait for the office to open. Luckily, I was second in line. Thinking it might be a good idea to silence my cell phone to prevent any untimely interruptions, I pulled out my new Nokia and began to fiddle with it. Except, I could not for the life of me figure out how to put it on vibrate, or worse, turn it off. At this point, I turned to the guy next to me and laughingly explained my problem. With a grin, he was kind enough to help me out (I knew I had missed Midwesterners for a reason).

As we followed each other from station to station within the office, filling out the required paperwork, I eyed him up and down. My age, blond hair, runner's build, 5'11"ish and definitely cute.

Hmmm....this has possibilities, I thought. Granted, he was there to register his new moped, but since I didn't know anyone else in the city yet, it wasn't like I really had a ton of people knocking down my door to hang out.

And then it happened. In true Jerry Springer-style, proving perhaps every stereotype about government employees, the DMV erupted into a legitimate cat fight. Two of the clerks, at windows across the room from each other, began to scream back and forth about how neither knew how to do her job - and the rest of the employees took it in stride as though it was a regular occurrence!

While entertaining, this ridiculous situation also afforded me the opportunity to chat with DMV-boy. Turns out, he went to a neighboring high school in Minnesota! With great happiness, I concluded my business, but sadly turned to leave. I started to wave good bye, while wondering if I should ask him to get a cup of coffee, when he read my mind and asked ME if I wanted to go out sometime. The Chicago dating stars had aligned!

Even better, as he was getting my number, it was his turn in line, and he told the DMV clerk "Just a minute." The shock reverbrated around the room - someone was telling a state employee, a person who had the power to make his life miserable, just a minute?

"I'm trying to get a date here!" he said loudly.

Sigh. If this works out, it's going to be an adorable story for the grandkids.

Date Diary DC Relocates to Chicago

That's right! Date Diary DC is about to become Date Diary Chicago!

I've recently accepted a new position in the Windy City, and will be moving there at the end of the week.

Look for updates as I get settled and learn my way around a whole new dating pool!

Follow Up: Defining the Relationship, or Rather, Non-Relationship

A couple of you were kind enough to comment on last week's post and praised Jamie's succint rejection of Josh. In the same breath, you also criticized me for my inability to follow suit. But that's ok - I totally agree with you. I am a coward in this area!

On the plus side, though, I tend to end up with funny stories to share with others (and write about in this blog) as a result of my middle-school behavior. And, turns out, I'm not the only one who doesn't like to define the non-relationship.

My experience with Cory and the embarassing situation at O'Sullivans (where I unsuccessfully tried to hide my face behind my scarf, a girl's back and finally the collar of my jacket to avoid being recognized) was bad - but my friend Julia's got me beat on the mortification factor.

In college, we spent a summer in London, and after spending the second half of the trip hanging out with Matt, she finally went on a date with him when we got back to school. Except, turned out she really only liked him as a friend (and she was busy being infatuated with her eventual husband who she met at the same time). In Julia's words:

So Matt was the proverbial "nice guy" -- nice, funny, but not exactly Heath Ledger (who's always been my fav). We became good friends when we studied abroad together, and upon returning home, he asked me out. I thought to myself, "Why do
nice guys always have to finish last?" and set out to change the world by saying
yes.

The night of our date came, and I decided to wear slacks and a nice shirt -- an in-betweenly dressy outfit because I wasn't sure where we were going. I opened my dorm room door to find Matt in jeans, a T-shirt and dirty tennis shoes. Uh-oh, I was overdressed, but, seriously, at least a polo to impress a girl on a first date would have been nice.

He took me to a hole-in-the-wall Mediterranean place, which had good food but not good first-date atmosphere. Afterward, we played bocce ball on the lawn in front of my dorm, which turned out to be a fun post-dinner activity.

We talked and laughed, but I still wasn't feeling "the vibe." I had conveniently made plans after the date as an escape clause, so I mentioned it was time to go. He walked me to my car, and as I proceeded to awkwardly end the date with a handshake (yeah, I'm lame, I know), he swooped in for the kiss.

There's no way to describe that kiss besides that I thought a salamander was in my mouth. All I could think was "Get it out!"

Not that Matt himself was horrible. It could have been my own mortification that made the kiss weird, but we just didn't click.

But rather than just giving Matt the "let's just be drinking buddies" spiel, Julia instead became very, very busy in the next several weeks.

To further put a nail in his dating coffin, I had met my now-husband the night before my date with Matt, and I ran into him at the party I went to with friends after our dinner / bocce ball evening.

There was no hanky panky going on there, but, unlike my experience with Matt, I felt the vibe right away.

When Matt called a few days later to try to set up date No. 2, I made up an excuse. When he called later on, I let it go to voicemail and never called back.

There was just one problem - Matt, like the rest of us, was a journalism major. And rather than stalking Julia incessantly with text messages (crazy I know, but this was back before we were all attached to cell phones), he chose to write a column about it in the Maneater, Mizzou's student newspaper.

Framing it as a how-to guide about blowing him off, Matt shared with the entire student body (around 27,000 at the time) exactly how he felt about the situation in "Hey girls, don't let Pierson happen to you."

The column was clearly based on his experience with me, and I was ashamed and embarrassed. I should have just done the mature thing and told him it wasn't going to work, but I thought I was sparing his feelings by not saying outright: "Matt, I don't want to be with you and your salamander tongue."

Guess not.

So I'm not the only one with problems.

Scraping Bottom

Yep, it's official. I am now scraping bottom of the dating barrel.

I actually looked at someone on Monday, who I would never normally date and who's definitely off limits, and thought "Hmmm...I wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship with him?"

It is very definitely time to try Match.com...again.

I've been on a bit of a hiatus from online dating because - ok, excuse time now - I broke my foot last July on my first day of vacation in Italy and used it as an excuse to eat everything in sight. By the time I was able to run again, it was the holiday season, and I think we all know how that ususally works out, even for those with the best intentions.

Moral of the story is, I've been a bit scared of blind dates because I'm not sure my pictures match the real me at the moment. But that's all finally changing. I'm running Grandma's Marathon in June again this year, which puts me smack in the middle of the training program right now. And even better, this week I've actually STARTED the training. So, I'm giving myself a deadline.

I have until April 15 to shape up, and then it's back to fishing in the online dating pond.

Watch out boys...I'm going to be back before you know it

And in the meantime, I still have lots of other funny stories to write about. Here's a sneak peak: The Dating Radius, Lei Boy, The Year of the Lobster and many, many more. So keep reading!

Defining the Relationship, or Rather, Non-Relationship

In college, whenever one of the girls started to see a new guy, we’d laughingly begin to ask after a few dates (or drunken encounters at various house parties) if they’d had the DTR yet. The Defining the Relationship talk.

We’d get all excited and giggly about the prospect of someone’s soon-to-be new boyfriend. However, since school ended and the real world began, particularly the part where we’ve embraced the online dating concept, more often than not we seem to be Defining the Non-Relationship.

As my friends and I take turns regaling each other with stories about our many bad dates, each one worse than the last, the common thread is almost always, the boy wants to go out again. Although we spend many, many phone calls commiserating over our shared inability to find “The One,” we’re at least able to console ourselves with the fact that there are guys interested - just not the ones we like.

My friend Jamie is a case in point. She's recently been testing out PlentyofFish.com, and finally decided to meet up with someone, even though it involved traveling to the dreaded Bethesda (I'm sorry, but there's just no easy way to get there from Arlington!).

A couple of drinks later, followed by a parking ticket and the awkward hug good-bye, Jamie was on her way home again without having made a "Loooooove Connection."

But the next day, her inbox was home to the following:

Jamie,

It was nice to finally meet you in person.

I liked the way you looked into my eyes unwaveringly. The eyes are the windows to the soul. What did you see in mine? I'm interested to hear what you thought of me in person. You seem like a legitimately good person.

I'd like to see you again sometime, but in a different setting. Maybe I could show you around Great Falls if we have a nice weekend when we're both free. We could share our gratitude of nature as we walk through the trails along the Potomac.

How's that sound to you?

Josh

Thus the need for the Non-Relationship Talk. When I'm the one that has to give the speech, it typically involves a conversation where I say things like "Oh, I'd love to get together again, but I'm traveling for work this week...and next." Or, more likely, I just ignore my phone for days at a time to avoid having to explain the feelings are not mutual. He usually gets the message after the third unreturned text.

Clearly, I have a problem with having the non-break-up talk. I know I should just man up and tell it like it is, but my resolve always seems to break down somewhere between the dial tone and when the phone starts ringing, leaving me with awkwardy Cory-type moments.

I Think I'm Getting Old

I've reached a new low.

Last week on Friday night I decided to stay home and watch TV, rather than heading out on the town.

That in itself is bad enough - apparently, at the ripe old age of 26, the work week is just so exhausting that I have no energy left by the time the weekend rolls around. Instead, I now need a full 24 hours to rest up BEFORE hitting the bar. In my defense, this is the time of year when I travel a lot, and if I give it a few more weeks, I'm sure I'll return to my more lively, ready to rally at anytime self (I hope).

Anyway, it gets worse.

As I planned a blissful night with my DVR, catching up on such sophisticated television as "One Tree Hill," "Life Unexpected" and "The Bachelor," I decided a six-pack of my favorite hard cider and some cookies would really make the evening perfect.

I headed off to my local Giant in comfy sweatpants and favorite Mizzou sweatshirt, compromised with Woodchuck in place of Hornsby's (which this store apparently does not carry - mental note for next time), and headed to the register, grabbing the new US Weekly on the way (Vienna & Jake: Dark Secrets!).

The cashier rang up all my loot and - GASP - did NOT card me! How can this be? The grocery store always requests an id for booze - I think the birth date actually has to be entered into the computer to finish the sale.

Am I really so old and haggard that my being of legal drinking age is no longer even slightly questionable? Seriously?

This does not bode well for the chances of my aging gracefully. I think I need to go look up the latest on Botox - stat.

Repeat Sightings

Why is it that whenever I'm deliberately stalking someone, hoping to "conveniently" run into him at some local watering hole, I never seem to be in the same place at the same time? And yet, it never fails that when I have no desire to ever set sight on someone again, there he is?

There must be some law of physics to explain this, and perhaps if I hadn't been the girl to set almost everything on fire during my science class experiments I might know what it was (seriously, it's a miracle I passed ninth grade physical science without burning down the school).

In any case, you'll never guess who I saw on Friday. Drumroll please....that's right, the Teletubby!

Apparently, he not only hangs out in Arlington during massive blizzards, but also now travels as far as Tysons Corner for lunch - at Chipoltle to be exact.

And how incredibly apropos since I had just been telling a co-worker about this blog as we walked into the building.

Let me back up....for those of you who are not familiar with my Teletubby drama, you can read the whole story here.

There we were, a group of eight of us chowing down on our burritos, when I looked up to see him heading to a nearby table. Other than the sheer shock of running into him in such an unexpected place (he works in DC and lives in Springfield), it was actually a bit of a novelty to be able to point him out to some of the people that had previously read about him.

Luckily, he didn't notice me, but I had the "privilege" of walking out behind him and noticing once again just how impressively big he looks - definitely good "big spoon" potential. Tear.

As the saying goes, when it rains it pours, and apparently that's the case with unwanted "bad date" sightings because I also came across the horrible first kiss guy on Saturday at Clarendon Grill.

The place was packed with excited Journey fans who wanted to hear the cover band Frontiers, and I was suffering from a mild case of claustrophobia. You were lucky if you could manage to make it to the bar, much less keep track of who you came with (I had to search long and hard to find my roommate after a trip to the John Girl room), but of course, I had no problem running into the one person I'd rather run away from.

When I saw him outside, I did a bit of a double-take. "I know that guy," I thought. But it took me a second to place him. And then, it all came flooding back. His disgusting tongue thrusting into my mouth - repeatedly. Ewwwwww!!!! Again, who does that on a first date?

Thankfully, luck was still in my corner and I managed to turn away before he saw me.

Have I really run out of men to date in DC already?

Delete

I did it. I have officially deleted Charlie's number from my cell phone. No more drunk dialing, or worse, calling him on my way home from work when I have nothing to do.

A clean break is best, right?

Of course, I do still have his work number, and his new landline, in my phone book but I've only ever called those in emergencies. So that's not the same thing, right? I mean, I've still cut him out of my life. Even if I do have his cell phone number written down on a post-it and tucked inside my wallet.

Or, so I thought. No sooner had I deleted him, than he suddenly reached out to me. It's as if he has a sixth sense letting him know when I've reached the breaking point, and it's time to reel me back in.

And, of course, I fell for it. At least, the first two times. Which inevitably ends up with me going out of my way to meet him somewhere, having a great time, spinning all kinds of daydreams in my head the next day about why it's different now, and then crashing back to earth when it's not.

But now, I'm done. For good.

It's not that Charlie's a jerk (or any of the other far more hostile euphemisms my friends prefer to use). He's honestly a good guy - he just happens to be toxic for me (yes, as in a bubbling green goo that eats you from the inside out) because I've been unable to accept the classic "He's Just Not That Into You" situation he presents.

Regardless of whether I'm in a crush stage with Charlie at any given moment, at one point I considered him my best friend in DC, and I'm not ok with the transition we've made to casual acquaintances who hang out once a month.

Thus, the reason he's able to have such a mind-altering effect on my day. I'm always hoping "this time" it will be back to the way it was. But I know now, in the infinite wisdom gained from being shot down again and again over a year, that sometimes you can't fix things just because you want to.

Definitely a good thing he's been deleted. Good-bye, Charlie.

The Perfect Date

Last week, Melissa Blake was kind enough to invite me to be a guest on her blog, "So about what I said," at

melissabxoxo.blogspot.com. Every Tuesday, she posts dating stories as part of her "Tales from the Trenches" and I wanted to share my story about the perfect date.

Three and a half years ago, fresh out of college and on my first day of work at my new job in, my co-worker told me I’d never have a problem getting a date in Washington, DC.

Finding someone I’d want to have a second date with, however, would prove far more difficult. I think that was likely the most accurate statement I’ve heard since I’ve been in the area.

As many first dates as I go on, there are so few I have any interest seeing again. And of those that I do, almost always the second date then leaves little room for discussion about a third.

And then, it happened…the most perfect first date. I was on a business trip to Manhattan a few weeks before Christmas when all the stars aligned for a single wonderful evening.

Having finished my meetings for the day, I tried to arrange dinner with a friend, but was left to twiddle my thumbs when she had to work late. Rather than sitting alone in the room that night (all of my TV shows had already gone on hiatus for the holidays), I decided to call someone I’d met the last time I was in town.

Brad was the funny guy at the bar when I was waiting out a rainstorm in July. We’d kept in touch, and amazingly, he had no plans for the night. He was not, though, the type of guy I had any sort of romantic interest in.*

We arranged a meeting place, and from there, the whirlwind began. Drinks and a shared burrito at a little Mexican place on the Upper West Side, followed by a walk in Central Park. As we watched the Zamboni machine clean the skating rink, we bemoaned the fact it was already closed, but consoled ourselves by moving onto an Irish pub.

Walking the city by night in December is truly a beautiful sight. And, as any girl who likes romantic comedies knows, it’s an unforgettable experience when done with someone of the opposite sex.

Realizing neither of us was ready to head home after another Guinness, we instead walked up Fifth Avenue to see the display at Saks, and more importantly, the tree at Rockefeller Center.

And as we stood looking at the twinkling icon, he kissed me.

Good food, good conversation and a night filled with visits to the types of landmarks you find only on the big screen - what more could a girl ask for only a few days before Christmas?

And yet, perhaps the best part of the evening was that there would be no second date. Instead, it was a single evening of fun and romance, without any pressure for it to lead somewhere else.

We still text occasionally, and both know we’ll never be more than friends. But Brad will always be the guy I shared one perfect evening with.

*Several people commented at melissabxoxo.blogspot.com that I wrote Brad off too quickly. It's true that my friends tease me about all my "criteria" for dates, but this was one of those "what happens on a business trip stays on a business trip" types of circumstances - it was never supposed to go anywhere!

Mice are for Men

I like to think I'm a pretty handy girl. I have my own tool box and a black belt in Ikea furniture assembly. Hair balls in the shower drain, no problem (even when of the ridiculously disgusting variety). Removing unidentifiable objects from the refrigerator? Got it covered. And somehow I became my house's resident IT department.

Granted, I think single people should receive a 50 percent off discount when trying to buy a home (how am I supposed to afford the same mortgage that two incomes can?), but overall, I consider myself pretty self-sufficient.

Except when it comes to Mickey Mouse.

I live in a cute, charming house in a nice neighborhood in Arlington. There's just one little problem - we've been overrun with mice for a year. On the plus side, I wouldn't say we're infested. We typically only have one or two at a time...but it's all the time! Numerous phone calls to the exterminator have yet to yield results. Yes, there are now poison and traps everywhere, but the mice keep coming. Our handyman has been over every inch of the exterior filling in anything that looks like it might be an entry point - and every couple of weeks we still wake up to a lovely (read: incredibly gross) surprise in the kitchen.

Turns out, as independent as I like to think I am, I'm utterly incapable of dealing with dead mice. I tried - once - but the trauma just proved too great for me. While I'm our house's expert trap-setter, I have a complete meltdown if I have to deal with the results. When I attempted to remove the offending creature, with the aid of a shovel and grill tongs, the situation quickly deteriorated to the point of screams and tears, leaving me emotionally drained.

Which brings me to the theory that mice are for men.

These are not cute, cuddly creatures. They are nasty, disease-spreading, cookie-eating rodents who have no place inside the four walls of our house. Disposing of them should be the work of men - this is your chance to prove your manliness and ability to protect house and home. I've seen the state of the bathrooms that many of you use blissfully every day - manhandling this six-inch long pest should prove no problem for you.

And yet, when we called upon the male specimen residing in a separate apartment in our basement during one particularly disturbing encounter with Mickey this summer, he proved useless.

As usual, we had set traps the night before and when we woke up that morning, noticed one of them was missing. A quick e-mail chain to various offices established that no one had made the early morning trip to outside with a furry corpse.

"The trap must have gotten pushed behind the trash," we all agreed. Except, a thorough inspection of the kitchen that night revealed it was really and truly missing. As we looked around the floor in confusion, our attention slowly turned to the stove.

"A mouse couldn't possibly drag the trap, could it?" I asked nervously.

With a considerable amount of trepidation, I pulled the stove away from the counter and cautiously peered into the space I'd created.

"Ummm, ladies....found the trap," I said. "And it's been sprung."

Thinking this an ideal opportunity to contribute something in the clean-up department, I grabbed the specially-designated mouse broom and started to slide the little wood and metal device away from the cupboard wall so I could reach in and grab it.

Except...it was stuck. "Eeeek!" I screamed. "There's something on it!" Everyone gathered around debating what to do. Far braver than I, Lauren reached for the broom and tried to move the trap into the open again.

"It's not just stuck on something, the mouse is still alive!" She shrieked.

That did it - I was not cut out for this kind of work. Luckily, there happened to be a speed trap stationed right outside our front door that night. "Is this the kind of thing we can ask a cop for help with?" I asked, in all seriousness.

We concluded we weren't ready to look that helpless just yet, and instead went in search of Matt, our downstairs neighbor. He was happy to help us deal with the situation - but his version of help was simply to bang his hand against the side of the cupboard to scare the mouse out of its hiding place. No such luck, of course, and that was as far as Matt was willing to go on the chivalrous front.

Finally, Kimberley - a petite 5'2" former sorority girl - took matters into her own hands.

"This is ridiculous," she said. "Hold my feet - I'm going in." And with that, she grabbed the grill tongs (seriously, these things are useful for so much more than just maneuvering food) and threw half her body into the cavity between the stove and the counter.

"I've got it!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Bag!" And we quickly handed over the makeshift shroud so she could toss everything inside and bolt for the door.

When she reappeared, the rest of us were in awe.

I guess mice aren't for men - they're for very brave women. Good thing too, since we caught another one last night.

Teletubby Trouble

I'm baaaaaack!

And I have more to write about than ever. For those of you who read this regularly (particularly my friend Julia's husband who was kind enough to complain the other day about the lack of new posts - good to know boys think my stories are as funny as girls do!), I'm so sorry for my absence. Between the holidays and work, it was difficult to find time to write, but never fear - the dating did not stop!

While there have been many adventures recently, perhaps one of the most interesting is the story of the Teletubby - and yes, the fact that he was dressed in such a way should have been a clue this would not end well. I met said Teletubby, yellow not purple - a very key distinction to note, on Halloween.

My friend Jamie and I had headed to Sign of the Whale in an effort to stalk Charlie (who everyone will be happy to know I have since cut off all communication with, but more on that later). When my efforts were not panning out, I turned to the nearest boy. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I'm happy as long as I'm at a bar and in costume, but someone fun to dance with always makes it that much more interesting - and all the better if his costume happens to be a great conversation starter.

Anyway, to skip to the more interesting parts, we exchanged numbers and went out for dinner a few nights later. It certainly seemed that the date went well - after we finished eating we grabbed a drink, and then lingered on the sidewalk saying good-bye (aka exchanging good night kisses - I know, ewwww on the pda). But then he never called!

And no, this was not a case of him waiting for me to get in touch as I texted the next day to see if he might want to do something later in the week. Clearly, he just wasn't that interested - which is fine, but why go to all the trouble of making it seem like you are? I mean, if I go out to dinner with someone and have no desire to see him again, you can bet I bolt out of the restaurant pretty quickly rather than suggesting another date.

Fast forward to December and Holiday Blizzzard of 2010 (16 inches of snow in 24 hours - enough for even this Minnesota girl), and I'd nearly forgotten about the Teletubby incident. As the DC area's snow removal services leave a little to be desired, most people were limited to walking places that particular weekend. In the true spirit of a snow day, my roommates and I gathered up all the Uggs and wellies in the house, pulled on our mittens and trekked to Carpool for one of the most fun Saturday nights I've had since I moved to the area. After a brief stint at Union Jack's, we returned to Carpool to finish out the evening before walking home.

As we flashed our ids at the bouncer, I did a double-take at the guy out on the porch - it was the Teletubby! Not only did he not call, he actually had the gall to show up at MY neighborhood bar - in a blizzard no less! This is not the same as the Corey situation (the bouncer at O'Sullivans) - the Teletubby lives a good 20 miles away, so I never really expected to run into him again, and certainly not in Arlington when the metro is shut down and the only thing moving were a few four-wheel drive vehicles.

I was so flabbergasted, I proceeded to share the entire story with the bouncer, including my absolute incredulity that the Teletubby could be there - albeit, out of costume. Fueled by a hard cider or two, my storytelling skills were just warming up, gesticulating included, when the guy walked inside with this bashful look on his face. I turned from the fascinated gaze of the bouncer (ok, it might have been more a look of amusement as he thought about how his friends were going to laugh when he told them about the "crazy" girl he met at work that night), and asked the Teletubby why he never called.

"I called," he said.

"Umm, no, you most definitely did not," I responded. And then returned to my friends at the bar, why the Teletubby moved off looking nicely chastened (this was not my imagination - even the bartender said he seemed pretty embarassed to have run into me).

Suffice it to say, by the end of the night I had made quite the impression on the bouncer, who now recognizes me each time I walk into Carpool as "the girl with the Teletubby story."

And nothing further from the Teletubby himself - but at the very least, he helped make the Holiday Blizzard of 2010 that much more memorable and continues to be good for a laugh among my roommates.