Now for something completely different

Happy birthday to blog, happy birthday to blog, happy birthday to “unlikely In Love”, happy birthday to blog!!

Now, where is my cake? Hellooo? Did NOBODY ring me a cake? Disappointing.

Yes, people, you have been crazily reading this thang for a year. Can you believe it? ME NEITHER. When I started this thing last September I wasn’t sure there would be a week’s worth of things to write about, let alone a year. So I did a bunch of stuff towards the idea of “a woman looking for wove” because it was the thing I’d decided to focus on. Here we are a year later and I’ve learned a few things:

I really like writing.
I really like myself, overall.
I really don’t like pursuing romance.

I other words: I want to quit the hunt!

Don’t get me wrong, people: I’m not saying “I will never be in a relationship” or “I vow to be single forever!” First, I don’t make vows. Vowing is a lost artform, and I don’t work in that medium. Other then a wedding how often do you hear people really make vows? I’m just saying.

Also I’m not anti-relationship. I’ve always had the same feeling there: I’d like to have a relationship if it happened. I see folks around me who are all in-lovey and they seem pretty happy about it, and yippy for them.

I just don’t want to work at it anymore.

Call me lazy, call me a quitter, call me skippy. (I won’t answer to any of them, just so you know. Especially skippy.) It’s not about that. It’s about this: for me pursuing this makes me feel many kinds of bad. I just don’t like it at all.

When I’m at my new excellent job I feel excellent, because I’m good at what I do and people tell me that they appreciate me for my work and I can really succeed just by working my ass off. My job makes me feel excellent.

When I’m at my tap class I’m floating like a butterfly while also stinging like a bee. I look cool and I’m part of this bigger thing that looks cool and it’s fun like kicking paintball ass! My tap class makes me feel cool.

When I’m writing I feel creative and smart and even funny sometimes and I have a solid confidence that you crazy betches will enjoy some of what I do when I put digits to keys. (Wove ya, you crazy betches!) My blog makes me feel clever.

When I’m trying to find a dude I feel fat and dorky and insecure and desperate. I get much more rejection then anything else, mostly because I’m putting myself out there in the line of rejection fire. I’m making this relationship thing seem tremendously important to me when it just ISN’T and that makes me feel stupid. Hunting for a dude makes me feel just plain bad.

So here’s the plan for the future of the blog: I’m a single woman who is really good at being single, and who doesn’t feel bad about it. Heck, I’m so good at being a single woman I’m gonna go to the local community college and offer to teach a class on it! And that’s what I’ll be writing about from now on. Maybe there are other single dames out there who need to feel better about living a life mano-e-no-mano? Come to me, my students! Because I’m here to tell you that being single is just fine – follow me!

One last thing: there will still be talk of men. I saw Mr. Rockstar yesterday and he’s even hotter then I thought. I went to a party and made a point to know if there were any single men there (nope) just in case. I am not becoming a nun or taking a vow of celibacy (see previous paragraph regarding taking vows) or swearing off of men. I’m just not chasing anymore – I’d rather be chased.

The Men in my Life who are Either Not Men or Not in my Life

I had this date on Saturday. One of the best ever! We had sammiches for dinner, and I got onion rings even though they make me toot (not in the good way. Actually, in the toxic and most likely fatal way) because I just knew he wouldn’t care. I think he would even have been impressed.

We went to see Transformers, and they actually ARE more then meets the eye! Lots of excellent explosions and hot chicks and cool cars and did I mention the explosions? And their excellence? Man, I wish someone would give me just a little brick of C4 for Christmas… My date was so about sharing. Every twenty minutes or so he would nudge me and tell me “This is awesome.” And you could tell he really meant it. Plus also he shared his candy, and didn’t ask me to share mine at all. Possibly because he didn’t like peanuts, but still it was sweet.

After the movie we went back to my place and I watched him play my ancient Nintendo 64 game Yoshi’s Island. Love that game. I’ve been playing it for probably a decade and I’ve never completed the final level, mostly because I only play it about 5 times a year. But when I do play it? LOVE that game! And so did my date, which makes him just that much more cooler.

We had such a great time that he slept over! And we had yummy diner breakfast the next morning, where in he introduced me to the concept of a Bacon Waffle. “Waffle accompanied by some strips of bacon?” you ask? Exactly what I thought too! And that idea gets three thumbs up on the yummy-o-meter, to be sure! But no. A Bacon Waffle is a waffle. With bits of bacon in the batter.

Sayin’ that again: waffle chocked full of baco-bits. In the waffle. Inside it’s normally waffle-y goodness. And this is something he always gets, smackin’ his lips and makin’ “goody, goody!” noises.

Now he tried ninja logic about how “I like waffles. I like bacon. So why wouldn’t I like a bacon waffle?” And so I countered with “I like chocolate. I like mashed potatoes… you can see where your crazy ninja logic has brought us now!” But he insisted, through overflowing mouths of bacon-waffle-happiness, that it was good.

All of this date story to say this: If all of my dates could be like the one with my 9-year old nephew I might just find wove. I’ll have to settle for movie candy and bacon waffles for now.

*****

Dr. Cyanide is married. Married with cats. Doesn’t sound as impressive as “married with children” but anyone who is a true cat enthusiast (and who possibly participates within a cat blog ring, or has been invited to do so) knows that cats are every bit the serious, life-long commitment that kids are. Plus cats never grow up or gain knowledge. Knowledge such as how to stop pooping in the flower bed, or that the vacuum isn’t a predator. Or to drive. Whatever. The bottom line: he’s so totally not available as to be covered in bees and filled with poisoned gas.

But still he winks.

And so my decision is just to use him as the carrot (dirty) to make me take extra pride in how I dress to come to work, and make me arrive to work on time and make me stay chipper and excellent in my work persona. Forever to earn the occasional off-limits, not-for-me wink. See how I found the pony there?

*****

My 13-yr old nephew is in a rock band. Well, he’s in a band. And they hope someday to rock. Right now they’re way too involved in remembering the chords and beats and words. To watch them perform is like watching someone taking their driving test: they’re concentrating 100% of the time, they’re completely focused on the mechanics of what they’re doing and they don’t look like they’re having any fun. At all. Let alone stage dives or throwing the drumsticks or mighty, mighty windmills!

My sister and I are trying to help them with the coolness thing, but it’s not sticking. We told them that they don’t need to be nearly as actually cool in their performance if they look cool standing there, and so we think they should all wear ties. All of them. Not necessarily button-down shirts or anything, but over whatever they decide to wear they should all be wearing ties.

So far they don’t get it. Silly boys…

Still, I go to all the performances. I go for three very good reasons:

1. My nephew is family! You support family. You want to make sure that they keep doing the cool things and you do your part by being there, and by screaming when they have a drum solo and by saying things like “I was really impressed at how LOUD the CYMBALS were!”
2. They are doing something cool, and how often can you say that the things that your adolescent nephew likes to do are actually cool?
3. Hot band teacher.

The guy who is leading the rock-and-roll way for these future Johnny Rottens and Axl Roses is a minor local celebrity from a band of his own. So he already knows how to be super cool. He rocks the sun glasses and the black jeans and the occasional soul patch (which normally I hate – looks like you’ve been eating crummy things and have no napkin. Or mirror. Or nerve endings between your lip and chin.) and probably rocks breakfast cereal and bunny slippers because hey, the dude is a rocker! He’s got rocker cred! Anything he does, it rocks.

And when I go to see the boys do their thing I get to watch Mr. Rockstar rock stuff from afar. And that rocks too, so… (some day he will discover that I’m alive and I will squeal and preen and then I will throw undergarments at him, because I hear that’s how you show love to rockstars. Right? Granny-panty-cannons? Hello?) Hello Cleveland!

*****

My little Mr. Man turned 1 on Sunday. By which I mean that when I got him (on the 23^rd of December) they told me “this kitten is 3 months old” and I did some quick math (December minus 3 months, carry the leap year, add Tuesday…) and decided that his “birthday” from now on is on September 23^rd.

And happy birthday to Mr. Man!

For his birthday I did the three things I knew he’d most love:

• I gave him chicken-flavored IAMS wet food for dinner.
• I gave him some dairy-flavored treats on the top of his wet food.
• I got out the cat dancer toy and let him HAVE. IT.

It’s kind of not right how much this cat loves this cat toy. It’s basically stiff (but pliable) wire w/ little paper dowels skewered upon it, and for him it is the best thing man has ever made. He loves to grab one end, and then grab the other end. Except that due to the laws of “this is how this works” you can’t grab one end and the other end, because when you grab one end and then move toward the other end the other end moves AWAY from you. Always. Move part A = part B moves, out of sympathy. So that results in hours and hours of a small (except that he is so not small anymore!) black kitty zooming in a perfect circle, round and round and round, on the living room floor.

Fun fact: kitties get dizzy, but they don’t puke. At least not from the dizzies.

I also let him watch me flush every time I used the facilities. He’s always been fascinated with flushing. The second my rump is no longer blocking his view he’s there, front paws up on the seat, watching. Transfixed. On the edge of his- er.. edge of my seat waiting for the big finish. And then I flush!

And then he runs away because water got flicked onto his head.

Fun fact: kitties don’t have much of a learning curve. Water flicked on your head the first time and the second time probably means water flicked on your head every time. But he will continue to stick his little kitty head into the jaws of water-splashery death.

Finally, I gave him his first taste of “organic catnip.” Boy oh boy did he not care. Not at all. I kept pointing to the little pile, and he’d sniff it and then look at me like “what? What do you want me to do with this sad little pile of dust and twigs? And more importantly, what did you do with my beloved cat dancer? CAT DANCER!!!! GIMMEEEE!!!!!”

Luckily Lulu was happy to clean up that sad little pile for him. She is SUCH a giver.

They attract like a flower; I attract like a bug zapper.

OK, so we’re sitting around waiting for baby. And we’ve covered movies and television and books and “man, I’m really tired. Are you guys tired? I’m tired…” and now we’re covering that required long, long, super-comfortable silent time.

And then somebody (probably me) brilliantly goes “Hey, Femtastic had a date!” Such a thrilling topic of conversation. Well, you read the post, right? And then you had the required follow-up nap? From the boredom? From the post? Right? That post.

Anyhoo, we chat about the date and how it was pretty boring and fairly ho hum and not much to talk about, except for the part where he thought that “hey, I’ve had to flee the state to avoid being shanked for drug money I’d pilfered not just once, but three times” was appropriate first-date conversation matter when it is clearly more of a 4th-date story!, but otherwise hoing and humming (and that didn’t sound as dirty in my head before I typed it) and it’s all good.

And then suddenly we’re in this weird tangent where my lovely, lovely, super-beautiful bestest friends start to tell me that the reason that I’m single is simply because I’m not doing enough to change it, and that I’m sitting around at home waiting for wove to be delivered to me like a pizza (mmm, deep-dish, Hawaiian-flavored wove…) and that I should take advantage of their years of wove-having experience. Because the experiences of two ravishing, vavavoomish hottie-mc-hot-hots have so much to teach me.

Seriously, though, I have to admit that this whole thing kind of ticked me off. I know my chums are being nothing but supportive, and that they really want me to find wove. They may want it more then I do? Maybe that’s what they’re talking about when they say that I’m not doing enough. Because I know they can’t be saying I should be actively doing more then I already am because DAMN! Give a sister some credit for doing a ton of crap already!

Here’s the part that bugged me: “Listen to us because we’ve got more experience at this then you do.” They do have more experience at having relationships and wove and baum-chikka-baum-baum because I think I mentioned that these are truly fabulous-looking women? And hotties? And I think I mentioned that their vavooms are all va-va-va-ey? I’m talking more then just amazing looks. They’re engaging and hypnotic and sexy and they’ve got “it” and call it what you will, but as long as I’ve known them they’ve never lacked for attention. From boys, from men… from women… from stray cats, dust bunnies, the smell of a summer’s day… They attract! They’re attractive! It’s the way of their people!

And that’s totally excellent for them. Not to mention quite a lot of fun for me. I’ve spent the years standing back and marveling from the sidelines. Not just at the sheer attraction thing, but at the stupidity that their levels of “wow” can cause in others. A guy once rode his bike into a light pole! Dead on, right into a 20-foot pole! Because he decided that made more sense then “stop looking at the amazing women in their Halloween costumes, dude!” I’ve actually enjoyed this show for years.

But it has nothing directly to do with me.

See me? I’m the funny one. (I am too, and you can just shut it. But please laugh first, because I’m the funny one.) I’m the bold one, and the foolish one and the one just crazy enough to do the crazy things. But I don’t attract people; not like they do. I’ll not have someone come to me first; it just isn’t going to happen. In 37 years the only relationships or even hints of relationships that I’ve had all started with me. If I’m ever going to have a connection it’s going to be because I stepped up and made the first move. And that’s just not the experiences that my beautiful, magnetic, hypnotic friends have had. For them it’s a matter of letting the outside world know when it’s ok to approach and make a move. For me it’s all about making the move.

But in the end I think this: how much they must love me to not see the difference, and to think I’m playing the same game that they are. When they say “listen to our years of experience.” I just hear “we think you’re amazing too, baby.” To that I only have this to say: thanks, ladies!

So maybe this hasn't been all for nada.

So I think I maybe might a little bit have lost a smidge of teenyness of weight. Maybe. Or maybe a couple different pairs of pants all got stretched-out some. But MAYBE not. Maybe all the stuff I’ve been doing, which is stuff like biking in to the office and running up and down 4 flights of stairs at work and did I mention the snazzy black shoes with the flashy silver taps on the heels and the toes that go tappity-tappity-flappity-tap when I shuffle off to Buffalo? That stuff? Right, well maybe that stuff is finally working!

And it better be because I was starting to get pretty annoyed with all the doing I was doing and yet still pulling on pants and holding my breath to fasten them. Chubby and pissed off is no way to begin a day! (and in case you’re wondering, the most bestest way to begin a day is at about 10am, with the smell of French toast waiting for you. Sleeping on a bed made of $100 bills. With a live-in foot masseuse. And there should be a cheeseburger in there somewhere too, but I haven’t figured out how to quite work it in yet. What were we talking about?)

Right, thinning! So don’t ask me how much I weigh right now because I don’t know. I haven’t looked at a scale in over 15 years. (I can’t say that I haven’t stepped on one because the dumb nurse at the dumb doctor’s office keeps making me do it. But I don’t look at the numbers, and I don’t let them tell me what they say either!) I don’t think focusing on the numbers is good for one’s sanity. My Dad will get super-excited over a drop of 3 lbs and super-bummed by a gain of 2! Not me. For me all that matters is:

-how do I feel?
-how do I look?
-can I fit into my clothing?

So I started this new job and started biking in to the office almost all the time. And the following excellent things happened: I was getting exercise; I wasn’t polluting AND I wasn’t buying gas. I filled my gas tank once in a whole dang month! How excellent is that? Take THAT, diggers of oil and refiners of gas and sellers of gas and such! Ha HA! Plus I shun the elevator (except when I first get to the office, but that’s just because I’m running late. Because hello? They won’t let me wake up at 10am and come wandering in then! Ridiculous…) so I’m running up and down all these stairs. So much exercise, with the promise over and over that it’s gonna give me all this energy. The fitness people all say it. “want more energy? Exercise more! Voila – instant fish!”

Which. Is. CRAP!! Know what time I was crashing most nights before I started getting exercise? 1:00am. I stay up late. I like to stay up late. I’m an “up late” stayer and happy that way. Know what time I keep crashing these days? Like 10:30! Barely after dinner time, people! I don’t have TIME for that much sleep! I come home from whatever, have dinner, sit to settle my food and wow, now I’m waking up on the couch and it’s 4am and dark and sleepy and I guess I’ll just go to bed, eh? And hey, where the heck is all that energy I’m supposed to be getting from all the biking and running and tapping? Energy! I’ve been promised energy!

And I’m still chubby too. Grumble, grumble…

But lo, yesterday I pull on some pants and they’re not feeling so tight. Not so tight! Not that I’m not still chubby, because it’s the way of me and my people frankly. Not that I didn’t have to suck it in a bit to get that button buttoned, because “ssssup!” But I’m pretty sure… kind of sure… I THINK that the pants felt less pinchy. And I’ll take that. (and then I’ll take a nap. On my money bed. Huzzah!!)

Boozin’ it up for Wove.

I’m afraid that I’m going to have to become a wino. I don’t WANT to – oh no! I HAVE to. Because as the movies are constantly telling me, there is no step I should not take – for wove!

Honestly, though, here’s the deal: There’s this new place kind of in my neighborhood that sells wine, but they also have these singles events and someone recommended I check something out. I think “Hmmm, this could be promising. I go, I drink a little wine and I check out the dudes… Except that I don’t like wine. But otherwise – perfect.”

I don't like wine. No really, I have never liked wine. To me it’s always tasted like grape juice that has been through a very traumatic experience and turned bitter and nasty from it. Like this is what grape juice tastes like if it walked in on it’s parents doing the nasty at the age of 11, or Welches that has been touched below it’s label by a bad, bad person. Or forced to watch mimes who play the accordian. You know. Bleachy!

Before you ask, I don’t like beer either (aka apple cider that watched it’s puppy run out into traffic) or hard alcohol (any good beverage which lost it’s entire family in a tragic hot air balloon accident). The only alcoholic beverage that I kinda like is hard cider. Also I don’t like being drunk, I don’t get tipsy and tend to go straight from sober to “stand back, she’s gonna spew!”

Clearly I am the perfect candidate to fine love in a wine store.

The thing is I’m kind of running out of both steam and ideas, especially with the online thing. So I’m trying to “think outside the box” where “think” means look for available dudes and “outside the box” means not online so much. I tried this singles thing at our animal shelter which sounded cool but ended up being couples bringing their happy doggy family to listen to music and drink wine. Oh, and did I mention that 75% of the couples were lesbians? So I was surrounded by happily-partnered pairs of lesbians? With their three huge dogs per family? And wine? And that I met nobody? Anyone? Anyone? Did I mention any of that?

Where was I? Oh yeah, let’s go to the wine store to find twoo wove.

So there’s a deal next Friday (not this Friday, which I would call THIS Friday, but rather the Friday that is next in line, which I identify by calling it NEXT Friday. And can I say how amazing it is to me how confusing that whole issue is all the time?) where it’s a singles mixer, and you wander and drink and (this is there language now) “meet someone new in a non-intimidating and relaxing atmosphere!” Of course I don’t like wine and I’m an intimidating person, so I scoff at this claim a bit. But not so much that I’m not gonna spend $10 to check it out!

And for those keeping score: I’m still totally smitten with Doctor Cyanide and I’m 97% sure I’ve seen ringiosity on his hand; I haven’t heard from Potential Dude and can I just say: “whew!”; I’m starting my second tap dancing class tomorrow night and I’m atwitter and agog with tappy tingles in anticipation! and I’ve been at the new job for just over one month. And I still don’t know what the cah-RAP I’m doing. And (knock on wood) nobody else seems to have noticed. (hope they don’t find this blog!)

Newest Princess hits town

Hey, everybody who is still super-pregnant and wishing it would be over already take one step forward.

NOT SO FAST, MY QUEEN!!

Yes, as of about 4am on Friday morning The Royal Family went from one princess to two. And me? I was there! I was the one holding the right leg. D’ya hear that, my dear Queen? The one holding your right leg? That was me. I was also that annoying voice that kept saying both “pull back those knees!” and “you’re a f*cking rockstar!” You can punish me for both such things in any way you like.

But you were a f*cking rockstar.

My people, let’s bring the lights down low and start the soft music for a minute, can we? I wanna get “rll” with y’all.

So I’ve known this mama-woman for a million years, two weeks and 8 hours, right? I know things about this woman. I know that despite how lovely she is her burps can topple skyscrapers. She bakes like a Keebler Elf (in the good way) and will answer any question with “In your butt.” ANY question. When you’ve known someone this long you figure you know it all and nothing can surprise you.

And then you watch them squeeze a whole little person out of their cooch in 31 minutes. And you bow down on that clean hospital floor and realize how not worthy you’ve always been!

People, cooches are small! They’re a finite space! And babies – even little babies – are much, much bigger then cooches! And even though I know how this works and I’ve seen this stuff three times now it still just flabber-boggles me that things can stretch and move and make smallness bigger and babies come shooting out – SHOOTING OUT – Of a cooch!

Alright, I’m gonna try to stop using that word now.

Bottom line is this: no one in the world is stronger then she is. Not just because she pushed a baby out of her… out of her... her "ahem-ables"… but they asked for 3 pushes and she gave them 5. They promised her drugs and then drugged her not a bit. “Yeah, umm, sorry about that – give birth anyway, ‘kay?” They gave her this complex litany of things to do (deep breath, keep in that air, pull here and push to there and don’t do this with your butt and paint the ceiling and conquer Europe and holy crap, she’s makin’ people here!) and she did it all. And the most she complained about it? One time she said this:

“it hurts.”

Ummm, ya think?

So I know you guys are totally not getting how amazing she is – you’re just thinking “so what I’m hearing is ‘she gave birth’ – whoop that is larger then normal” but you weren’t there, my little ones. She was made of steel with a frothy meringue center. She was an oak tree covered in cherry blossoms. She built the Eiffel Tower and then painted it banana yellow. Do you get it?

Well you weren’t there. I was there. She was flawless. I just stood there asking myself “where does she keep all that damn strength?”

In her butt.

(Love you my Queen, and welcome little Princess Longtoes.)

PS: The King was awesome too. Especially for somebody without a cooch.

Common Ground of Sorts

No, I’m not dead. Not in a ditch, not killed and mangled and also more killed in a dark alley or anything like it. I have survived “date number one” safe and sound, and I’m sorry that I took so long to come back and post, thereby causing some concern on at least one person’s part.

My lack of posting is not from lack of TRYING, let me assure you! The desire was there. I really wanted to write, and tried and tried, but I kept smacking my face into keyboard from the falling asleep. Because the subject was BORING. The date wasn’t particularly good, or exceptionally bad. It was just really, really ‘hmph.’ Very “Eh.” Awfully “whatever.” I tried to figure out a way to explain the experience, because I knew I was gonna have to tell you guys something. And finally I found the perfect analogy in my head.

This date was a 90-minute ride in a public elevator.

You know how when you’re in an elevator w/ someone else you just make small talk until the elevator gets where you’re going? Like that. And you know how you keep checking to see if you’re close to your floor yet? Like that. And you know how people never look directly at you in an elevator? Like THAT.

Not kidding. Not once did Potential Dude look directly at me. Not once! At first I just figured it was the awkward beginning stuff, where you are really aware of the length of your nose or how hot your hair is on the back of your neck, and then you wish you had a mint no matter what you’ve had to eat that day. So hey, maybe Mr. Potential is obsessed with the size of his eyeballs or something.

But after half an hour? Hellooo, I’m over here!! I’m the thing w/ boobs and a purse sitting immediately to your left! Looky-looky-loooooookyyyyyyyy! And nuthin’. If he hadn’t told me this story about Sarah Vaughn calling him a “blue-eyed devil” I’d have had no idea he had eyes at all! (OK, that’s a lie. I’d have noticed if he had NO eyes. The gaping holes in his head, the putting his hand in the butter – these things would have stood out some. I’m sure. I’m just sayin’…)

Mostly my reaction to the date was pretty much no reaction. Seriously, it was just a non-event. Nothing to be tingly about, nothing to be pissed about. The highlights went something like this:

• Dang, I’m sweatier then I’d expected after biking there. I will hie myself to the bathroom for paper-towel-bath.
• Here comes a dude – I hope this is the date! Otherwise? Awkward…
• OK, older then I’d hoped for. Or he’s lived a really hard 45 years!
• Yeah, I am pro-making a toast at a good friend’s wedding too. So we have that in common.
• Crap, I missed my bail-out call from the Queen! (luckily she called back. Because she was willing to go into labor based only on a signal from me. Just to get me out of a painful date. That’s love, people! But I let her go on, labor-free for now)

Tangent: he totally knew what that call was for. I’m all “oh hi, how are you? No. No. Yup. Ok then, I’ll see you later!” yeah, he wasn’t stupid. I could tell from his whole demeanor (I was gonna say ‘the look in his eyes,” but, ya know, eyeless Joe and all that…) that he knew exactly what the other side of the conversation was. “I’m fine, unless you think I need to go into labor right now? I don’t? So you’re ok for now then? Good luck!” So then I knew I was giving him a kind of signal, like “hey dude, I just gave up a perfectly good chance to ditch you. But I stayed, so I must be invested in something here.” And I was kind of worried that he’d take it as too much encouragement. But that was SO not something I needed to worry about! (what floor are we on now? Elevator so slow…)

• Oh good, we’re talking about movies. I like movies! Of course we don’t like any movies in common.
• I’m sorry, did he really just tell me that he had to move to a new state because he was running from people who wanted to kill him for owing them drug money? Three Different Times? Someone catch me as I swoon. And by swoon I mean wish that I’d asked The Queen to call back in 20 minutes…
• Hey, the server is kind of cute
• Yes, I, too, would spend over $1,000 to see the Beatles in concert. So we have that in common.
• Ok, we’ve talked about movies that I liked and he didn’t, jazz music which he loves and I hate, the fact that he thinks people who read graphic novels are lame (Batman is awesome and anyone who doesn’t agree is made of poop and eggplant)… are we to my floor yet?
• Hey, I could never finish the Lord of the Rings books either! So we have that in common.
• Points for using the words “precocious” and “epoch” both in sentences, both correctly and both without sounding like you were showing off.
• But still I’m glad we’ve reached my floor. All the small talk was so exhausting.

The last time I went on a date was over 15 years ago. So I definitely don’t have experience at this. And maybe awkward and vaguely boring small talk is what all first dates are supposed to be like? Doesn’t matter – either way I won’t be seeing Potential Dude again. I think he’s on the same page there.

So we have that in common.