The Courtly Bulldog Part 2

Part 2

The Courtly Bulldog and I arrived at more or less the same time, but in different areas of the park. He called me to find out where I was, so I stayed put and guided him to me in my spot in the shade. So I really didn’t get a good look at him until just a couple of seconds before saying hello.

Have you ever seen a movie where they’re panning over someone from the feet up and you’re super invested in what this person is going to look like? That’s how it was because the Courtly Bulldog was approaching me from behind some trees.

I got worried when I saw his shoes—black loafers. And then he got closer and I saw navy blue slacks—pleated!—that were hiked up somewhere above his belly button. And then the bottom of a green polo shirt that was tucked in to the slacks. And then, oh my God, a huge beard. To complete the look, he was wearing giant old man glasses and he lumbered ever closer without moving his arms from where they hung limp at his sides.

He was about ten feet away from me, and I knew he’d seen me but my mind was screaming, “NONONONONONONO!” and I was desperately trying to figure out a way that I could pretend I wasn’t me, just some girl who looked like me and was on the phone in the place I’d said I was. 

Then he said my name and I knew that there was no way I was getting out of here without taking a walk with this guy. I reminded myself to be nice. Yes, I was still annoyed about the day before. And yes, I found him intensely unattractive but it wasn’t his fault. It wouldn’t kill me to take a walk with someone, and at least I knew he had decent conversational skills.

As it turned out, the Courtly Bulldog was only good at communicating via phone and text. In person, he was insufferable. At some point I made a throwaway comment about how squirrels are the jerks of the animal world and he was like, “Well, I’m sure that technically there are worse animals. Consider that bears are a menace not only to humans but other wildlife…” and I stopped listening.

Later on, I was interested by the texture of some weird pine needles (which is probably the best indication of how this date was going) and when I touched them, I said, “Huh, they’re kind of like rubber.” Then he corrected me and told me that no, that was not their texture at all. I nearly tore a branch off the tree and shoved it in his mouth to stop the condescension. But I didn’t do that and I’m calling it a win.

Eventually I stopped talking because every damn time I tried to say something or make a joke, he would take it in the most literal way possible and correct me. I think he thought he was making witty banter. Now, I don’t particularly mind awkward silences, mainly because they don’t embarrass me. But the Courtly Bulldog seemed unable to bear the conversational vacuum and he tried to fill it up by humming to himself, off-key.

At some point as we were nearing the home stretch of our walk, he said, “Goodness, you really are short.” And then he proceeded to reach out and pat the top of my head. Like I was a dog. I quickly ducked out from under his clammy hand, and said, “No.”

He was shocked that patting a woman on the head was a major faux pas. Alternatively, I was shocked that I hadn’t started screaming yet. He made things worse by repeatedly saying, "Well, there must be something I can do to make it up to you." And he was serious. Not trying to make a sexy innuendo, or being self-deprecating. No, he wanted me to name something he could do to make me un-annoyed at him for being a boring, lady-head-patting dud. What was I supposed to say? 

Finally, we had made a circuit of the park. I could see my ancient toaster oven of a car, and it has never looked so beautiful to me. I said, “Well, this was nice. You have a good day.” He said something back. I have no idea what it was because I was smiling and nodding and edging toward my car.

The whole way home, I was chain smoking and laughing a little crazily like I had just had a near-death experience. My roommates asked me how it went, and I said, “I am so mad. I don’t want to talk about it.” So we had margaritas and tried to pretend the whole thing never happened.

Except he texted me the next day. I didn’t want or know how to reply, but I felt kind of sorry for the guy. I crowdsourced the question and my Facebook friends came up with a pretty good but firm sendoff, which I texted back about an hour later. And that was the end of that.

I felt a lot of things in the wake of my recent dating failures: relief, disappointment, irritation. I considered taking a break from online dating and just playing video games instead. But eventually I strengthened my resolve. I started doing this because I wanted to find out who was out there and meet new people. Statistically, I had to come across someone who didn’t make me want to tear my own face off.

It was with this half-assed sort of optimism that I responded to an overture from the Ginger Capuchin. I was in for possibly the worst date yet.

The Courtly Bulldog

I started talking to the Courtly Bulldog when he sent me a little comment about the Hello Kitty cotton candy maker my roommates and I had recently purchased. I’d mentioned it on my profile, because if you have a Hello Kitty cotton candy maker, it’s not the sort of thing you should keep a secret.

Anyway, we hit it off pretty quickly. Unlike the Sexual Bear, this guy’s values were a little more in line with my own and we had similar senses of humor. Despite my failure to be cool and not-vindictive the last time around, I was still determined to play nice and at least attempt to keep things in perspective.
Though I was nervous that the Courtly Bulldog only had one picture, and that was a close up of his eyes. Still, though, I liked the personality that came through our texts and I figured I’d see where things went.

So. After about a week of trading quips and a couple of phone conversations, we decided to meet in person for a walk around the Capitol Gardens. Some of you will remember that the last time I did this, it didn’t go well. But the guy was seriously fixated on the idea that we should take a walk for our first date. I chalked that up to the fact that he seemed kind of old-fashioned and a little sheltered, but he seemed cool enough to outweigh the concern I felt about that.

That Saturday I made myself pretty and headed downtown. I texted to tell him that I was leaving and I’d see him in about 45 minutes. When I got downtown, I was a little early, so I stopped by my sister Heidi’s apartment to say hello. While I was there, I checked my phone and saw that I had gotten no reply. This was a problem because the Courtly Bulldog and I had planned on just meeting up in the park, but not in a specific place.

I texted again to ask if he was still planning on meeting me and I got nothing in reply. I talked it over with Heidi and her boyfriend and we decided to wait until ten minutes after the date should have started before we all left to do something else.  Maybe, we reasoned, he had been in a terrible accident.

Ten minutes came and went. I left him a polite voicemail informing him that since I hadn’t heard from him, I assumed we were done and wished him a nice day—I only sounded a little sarcastic, which made me proud.

Heidi, Jo, and I went out and had a lovely lunch and then we spent some time looking at espresso makers at Crate and Barrel. We were in a BevMo about three hours later when my phone rang and I saw it was the Courtly Bulldog himself. I hesitated, but eventually my curiosity won out and I answered.

He apologized profusely. Apparently, he had decided to take a nap—seriously—and slept through our date. It was just stupid enough to seem like a thing that had actually happened. I accepted his apology through rather gritted teeth and hesitantly agreed to meet the next day at the same place and time.

In case you’re wondering why I did that, here’s the thing: I was dead set on being more accepting of people’s flaws and mistakes. This was a relatively foreign concept to me, but people kept saying things like, “You’re too hard on men,” and “you have such high expectations of people.”

And that’s why on Sunday, I went through the whole prettification process again and headed back downtown even though I absolutely didn’t feel like it.

But no, really, I should just have passed.

The Sexual Bear

All right you guys, I know it’s been about a thousand years since I updated. I got lazy, but I’m going to make it up to you. We’re going to go through the backlog of assholes, dilettantes, and man-children I’ve encountered in the past couple months, which will be fun for all of us.

So, to pick up where we left off, I had just sabotaged the hell out of myself by slinking away from the Math Unicorn. It was time to do some soul searching and also some pep-talking.

I decided to be more open to people and their imperfections. I’m certainly not perfect, I thought to myself, and it would be unfair to expect everyone to rise to my high standards. I would listen to what people had to say to me and not reject them out of hand if they said something I thought was stupid. If I actually liked a guy, I wouldn’t disappear two dates in. Yeah! I was going to be awesome and understanding and pleasant, dammit!

And that’s where the Sexual Grizzly came in. He seemed normal at first, which they all do for the most part. He wasn’t my usual physical type, but he looked ok and didn’t seem like he was intent on eating the skin off my face or anything, so I gave him my number and we commenced a texting courtship.

He worked in a college library during the day, and he was pretty smart. He made me laugh quite a bit and had the skill of giving me compliments without seeming like a creeper. Overall I liked the cut of his jib. But something seemed a teensy bit off-kilter, like he wasn’t telling me something important. Initially, I filed this feeling away with things that are noteworthy but not necessarily ominous.

A flag went up a couple days in when he said he was also a DJ at local fetish parties. This gave me some pause; while I’m really not bothered by people on the Fet scene, the instances of polyamory are fairly high and I’m a completely monogamous kind of girl. He made some reassuring noises about it just being a gig. I gave him the text version of the side-eye, but I reminded myself that I was practicing not shutting people down right off the bat.

And then came the day when, at his suggestion, we played Truth or Dare, on the understanding that I did not want any pictures of his junk. When answering the question, “Why did your last relationship end,” he seriously told me, “I guess it’s just because I’m a very sexual person…my girlfriend couldn’t handle that.”
LOL, what, dude? But no, you’re totally trying not to be judgmental. Roll with it!

So I went through my usual spiel of, “Blah blah religious upbringing, love, not happening anytime soon, blah.” I figured that would take care of it.

But no, he was all (to paraphrase), “Oh, that’s so awesome and special! I’m down with that and stuff and I appreciate your honesty and whatever.”

Side note, do men actually appreciate honesty when it’s not what they want to hear?

Anyway, since I was wearing my Pants of Being Accepting of People I talked to him for a few more days. His messages got more and more explicit, though, because he was such a sexual person and whatnot. I was starting to get annoyed so I threw out a suggestion that might have been kind of a trap.

“We should meet in person! Let’s get coffee!” I sent a picture of myself being super smiley and not at all looking like I was trying to call the Sexual Grizzly’s bluff. On the off-chance that he accepted, I named the daytime in a very public place.

But wouldn’t you know it, he was busy! But he super wanted to meet me, it was just that he had his final due for film class (I know, right?) and so much was going on. But we should totally keep talking and meet up when he wasn’t so pressured.

I was like, “Aww, that’s too bad. I understand.” I think at that point, without realizing it, I had gone to the Dark Side of being understanding. I kind of wanted him to just admit what his game was even though I should have already disengaged at that point. But when someone starts to play games with me, it’s hard not to play to win.

The last day I messaged him, I just asked him how it was going and the reply I got was pretty operatic. Imagine violins here, by the way. He was so overwhelmed, you guys. His final was overdue and the editing equipment was broken and his mother had had a nervous breakdown and was going into a sanitarium the next day which was also his birthday and he was so stressed! Oh, woe!

I sent a sad face.

He continued, “And sex is one of the ways I deal with stress.”

I said, “O RLY? Well, I told you what my deal is, so you have fun banging random chicks. Sorry you’re stressed, though. Later!” Then I erased his phone number and spent the evening dissecting the whole ridiculous charade with my girlfriends.

He tried to message me a few times after that—most recently last week—but it was too late. I’m afraid the Sexual Grizzly’s sexual aura was just…too sexual for my delicate lady self to handle.

The Math Unicorn Part Two

It will come as a shock to absolutely no one that I have a deep fear of commitment. As soon as pesky feelings of affection come into play, I start getting squirrely. Thoughts of, "I like him and we should see where this goes," quickly transform into, "He's texting me again to ask how I'm doing? Stop smothering me!"

And so my regularly scheduled trip to Crazy Town was continuing apace on the night of my second date with the Math Unicorn. I wasn't in full-blown anxiety mode, but I was keeping a wary eye out for signs that he might suddenly leap up and propose marriage and seven children.

As it happened, he was late. This caused my vanity to war with my sense of relief that he might not be that into me. Thoughts raced through my head. Was this a strategy to get my attention, or some sort of power play? If so, I was intrigued. Had I come across someone who also secretly thought of romantic relationships as a kind of sudden death match that either ended in love or operatic tragedy? I would give him twenty minutes and then leave.

He showed up ten minutes late, sidling delicately into the alehouse looking nothing like a romantic mastermind. I wondered if his bones were hollow.

Things progressed well from there. We talked about David Bowie and bluegrass influences in modern rock--your usual pretentious stuff. After a while, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere else for something to eat. I cautiously agreed, thinking that I could probably take him in a fight if I had to. Still, when I got into his car I watched him like a hawk just in case he was going to take out a scalpel and try to harvest my organs; the joke would have been on him anyway--at this point, I'm sure my lungs and liver would be virtually worthless on the black market!

In any case, I needn't have worried. It turned out that the Math Unicorn was a very polite man. Too polite. We went to like three different places, but because it was near 10:00 they were all getting ready to close. I would have gone in, enjoyed my meal, and left a good tip. But I stayed quiet. You see, I like men who show me that they aren't afraid to go for what they want, be it Thai food or my affection. I'm high-maintenance, I take a lot of wrangling, and I need someone who won't let me run circles around him. So this became a little unexpected test and I was watching carefully. 

He hemmed and hawed and finally we ended up at a little pizza place that catered to wannabe hipsters. There was no one else there except a group of self-consciously loud teenagers and a very drunk couple who couldn't stop pawing at each other. After we placed our order we sat down and resumed chatting. The drunk girl at the next table told us she liked us very much and I complimented her grandma jewelry. It took 45 minutes for two slices of pizza to get to us.

45 minutes of hell.

Anyone who's gone shopping with me knows that when I'm faced with bad customer service, I'm polite right up to the point where I snap and then practically declare a blood feud. I start quoting Genghis Khan and my eyes probably turn red as I levitate and call down curses on whatever poor employee is responsible for the bad service. But, being on a date, I had to sit there and smile and keep it all in. Who's annoyed by this abysmal service? Not me!

The Math Unicorn took a different approach. Thirty minutes in, he gave a little sigh and said, "I'm trying not to be annoyed. This sure is taking a long time." And that was it. I wanted to yell, "Get annoyed! We should demand a free meal!" But no, like a lady I went outside and called my girlfriends to talk it out.

Eventually, the pizza came. It was good. Then the Math Unicorn and I left, and he drove me back to my car. We shared an awkward hug. I went home.

A few days later, he asked me out again. I never replied. A few days later, when I was hashing this all out with my therapist, she exclaimed, "That was a horrible thing to do!"

I know, Therapist. I know.

But I feel like every time I go out or have extensive talks either online or in text with people, I'm learning things about how I'm dysfunctional--or alternately, what parts of my personality are awesome. It gives me something to work on. And in the relatively low-stakes world of online dating, I hope that the men I leave in my crazy wake are aware, even in some small way, that they were just out with a woman who isn't quite there yet, but is trying.

I'm a walking, talking case of, "It's not you, it's me."

In case this ending leaves you with sad face, don't worry. I'm still having a good time!

The Math Unicorn Part One

The Math Unicorn first messaged me with a cute little comment about the teacup I'm holding in my main profile picture. For a week after that, we chatted back and forth, making strategic historical jokes to gauge each other's intelligence and being complimentary. Finally, he asked me to meet him for coffee.

It was Earth Day, one of my least favorite pseudo-holidays not because I hate the Earth, but because my work always holds a huge outdoors extravaganza and I always get a sunburn. I took the day off.

The afternoon I set out for our date, it was approximately a thousand degrees outside and sweaty children were cooking eggs on the sidewalk while bands of roving marauders fought wars for control of the local water supply. I mean to say that there is no air conditioning in my car and I flush bright red when the temperature creeps above 75.

There was no parking, because of course there wasn't, and I had to walk about five blocks. Did I mention that heat also makes me feel fat? By the time I got to the coffee shop, I felt like Jabba the Hut with a purse. The Math Unicorn was already there, daintily sipping an iced mocha. My first thought was, my God, he's so delicate I could carry him around!

Here's an illustration of how I thought this first meeting went:

So yeah, less than ideal, but he was actually very charming. And damn, that man was smart, too! He taught math and had a degree in philosophy. We started hitting it off and my skin started to resemble something like its usual bone white and I started to feel charming again.

I felt so charming and pleasant that I heard these ridiculous words come out of my mouth: "It's such a lovely day, we should take a walk around the Capitol."

"Oh yeah," he said happily, "that would be great."

"No, you fool!" my brain screamed at me as I picked up my purse with a flirtatious smile, "Think about your skin! You'll look like a tomato with boobs!"


"Let's take the shady way," I peeped.

So we took our walk around the Capitol and he said a lot of very intelligent things and I tried to sound intelligent back while also desperately hoping that he wouldn't notice I was winded from years of smoking and turning red like a malfunctioning television screen.

At last, we got back to the coffee shop. I was saying something about dinosaurs that I'm sure was amazing. We stood there awkwardly for a minute. I thought he was thinking about asking me to go somewhere else, and I wanted to go if he did, but I also needed to get my core temperature down before I spontaneously combusted. I was sure the Math Unicorn would never recover from seeing that, and nobody likes a sad unicorn.

So I said, "Well, I had a great time!" We hugged and he drove off and I took the death march back to my car, which doubled as a sweat lodge on the way home.

Snags aside, it was a promising first date. Sure enough, the Math Unicorn asked me out again the following week--this time, an evening date (heavens!) at a joint that specialized in Belgian ales. The night and alcohol are two things I handle very well, so my confidence ratcheted. No Jabba the Hut this time! Oh no, I'd be cool and collected, all Vampirella but not as gothy with my bad self.

I started planning my outfit accordingly.

Stay tuned for The Math Unicorn Part Two!

The Prince of Persia

I love getting messages from people. It always gives me a giddy little thrill--somebody picked me! They think I'm interesting and pretty! And usually those little notes are from very nice, articulate people. But sometimes the anticipation of the message is better than its actual contents, sort of like getting a beautifully-wrapped box full of granny panties for Christmas. The message I got from the Prince of Persia was the second kind.

 

Prince of Persia: Hi There... You look gorgeous, beautiful smile, and sexy lips. Are you interested in FWB... wana give it a try?

 

My reply was short and sweet:

The next day after my articulate rebuff, I got this: 

Prince of Persia: Thanks for replying, let me know if you change your mind in future ;)

 

Gross, Prince of Persia! Let me parse out what's wrong with what you just said, aside from the grammar, spelling, and punctuation. You started out all right; I do like it when people notice that I'm gorgeous with a beautiful smile. However, the following chart will show how you immediately nose-dived into creeper territory by mentioning my "sexy lips," which, from any guy I've ever met, means, "Here's I want you to do with your mouth." 

Aside from that, it also tells me you didn't read my profile, which indicates I am not interesed in being FWB with anyone. Furthermore, to ask me that in your very first message means that, even if I was interested in that arrangement, you don't care anything about anything that I say, think, or feel. What you're looking for is "benefits" without "friendship." I'm pretty sure that's what hookers are for.

 

Prince of Persia did not get it--and I really should have known. Instead, he wants me to know that his skeevy, one-sided offer is still totally open if I change my mind. Lucky me!

 

And, like that box of giant Christmas underpants, I release Prince of Persia back into circulation to be picked up by people who don't know or want any better.

The Nautical Rhinoceros

The Sunday after I joined a popular free dating site, I was playing through Red Dead Redemption for the second time. I was dressed in a striped shirt and plaid pajama pants and the smudged remnants of yesterday's makeup. Needless to say, I was feeling sexy.

So of course it came as no surprise when I got an offer for a date that afternoon from a dude I'd never even chatted with. He wanted me to know he had a boat. His pictures were fuzzy; he clearly didn't know how to use the rotate function when editing pictures. I got a vague impression of a happy rhinoceros wearing sunglasses. Laughably, he invited me to go see the Rivercats since the sun was shining. I declined to mention that I hate both sports and sunlight, but I suggested an alternate location and time for coffee and he agreed.

With nothing better to do, and having never been on a blind date before, I was committed to meeting the Nautical Rhinoceros. Dutifully, I took a shower and put on makeup, matching clothes, and heels. I went to the coffee shop we'd agreed upon and waited with my Kindle and a latte.

He didn't show up. That was fine. I love a good latte and a read, and I was into this for the new experience more than any actual interest in the Nautical Rhinoceros.

On my way home, I got a call from the man himself, apologizing for missing me. He had some sort of business blah blah boring boat (I stopped listening.) Anyway, he wanted to meet me on Garden Highway at a Chevy's. I thought, "Whatever," and turned around.

He was late to our second scheduled meeting that day because he was seeing a man about a horse or something. He looked like an aging dude-brah, and I was already inclined to dislike him, but this point I was hungry and food was in the near future. As we walked toward the restaurant it occurred to me that men don't have the luxury of referring to themselves in a positive light as "curvy."

He said, "I see you've got the whole freckles thing going on, I like it."

I've never appreciated this compliment because it seems like negging. I wanted to say, "Yes, my skin is genetically predisposed to produce excess melanin in localized patches when exposed to prolonged sunlight." What I said was, "Yes. Thanks. I'm Scottish."

With that auspicious start, we were seated and our waiter brought us chips and salsa, which I didn't eat. There is no way to maintain gravitas while eating chips and salsa and I hate showing weakness to strangers. He dug right in, though, and soon had a big chunk of chip on his upper lip, which I did not point out. When our food finally came, he pointed out how many calories were in my flautas. Politeness won out and I refrained from pointing out that he wasn't precisely a slip of a thing, himself.

It got worse from there. He felt like it was first date appropriate to ask a lot of very personal questions, to which I replied in monosyllables and let him think what he wanted. I enjoyed the hell out of my fattening flautas. Since our waiter was hot, I left him a tip that the Nautical Rhinoceros pointed out was too much. I explained I liked to tip well. 

He asked the waiter for scratchers, which are some kind of lottery coupon for free food in the restaurant redeemable at your next visit. The hot waiter brought two, and the Nautical Rhinoceros took both, even though we had gone Dutch on our meal.

Finally--finally--the meal was over. He was inclined to sit and have a leisurely talk until I got my purse and stood up. In the parking lot, he told me to look over the river and tell him which was my favorite boat. I picked a two-story yacht, which was much nicer than his trawler. He went on to describe boating as a lifestyle and then to tell me everything I should do to make my car better. 

I said I had to go and he went in for a hug. I just wanted to leave, so I hugged him for about a second and then disengaged. He kept hugging me as I stood there with my arms dead at my sides and only stopped when I stepped back.

With that, my first (and last) blind date was over. For some reason, I have not heard from the Nautucal Rhinoceros since that one magical day.