Date #6: "Datingpalooza"

Well, this has been one heckuva week for me from a dating perspective. I had joked to some friends and coworkers that with the prospect of 3 dates in 4 days, I was gearing up for "Datingpalooza". I thought it would be fun and exciting to be out each night with a new 'potential', living the life of a carefree single gal in the city. What I didn't count on was the confusion, the anxiety and the exhaustion. Confusion over keeping all of these dates straight. (Who grew up in Minnesota? Who's the oldest child? Who's a Republican?) Anxiety over remembering exactly what I've told to each of these dates beforehand so I'm not launching into witty stories that they've already heard. Exhaustion over all of the above, plus the added energy it takes to be 'on' all the time - not to mention the wear and tear on this thirty year old body from going out every night.

By the time last night's date rolled around, I was feeling the effects of four days of "Datingpalooza". I was tired, cranky, and mentally drained. In hindsight I should have canceled this date...but, hardcore dater that I am, I slapped on that wristband and headed back out into the dating mosh pit.

This was a lavalife date. He's three years younger than me, a second year law student and an aspiring musician on the side. His profile said he was hoping to meet "...a creative type who is witty, kind and compassionate." Hrm. Okay! Soon we were emailing. He just moved up to Bucktown from Hyde Park and doesn't yet have internet or cable hooked up. I asked if he also slept on a straw mat and took a horse and carriage to work. We had one very disjointed phone conversation. Disjointed because his cellphone kept cutting out so I was only getting every second or third word that he was saying. (He claimed that the reception 'out in the barn' wasn't too great.) I found the remark funny, but it was still mildly frustrating. Somehow, though, we managed to set up a date.

He was to pick me up at 6:45 and we were to go to the Lincoln Avenue Taste Fest. At 7:15 he finally shows up. A half hour late. This is mildly irritating. First impression? Short. Which is not a bad thing, really - but when somebody puts 5'10 on their profile, well, you sort of have a different visual in mind. He is probably 5'6. Thankfully, I am wearing my flattest sandals yet again. I haven't had dinner and I'm a bit hungry, tired, and headachy. He unlocks my door, I get in the car, and we're off. We spend the next half hour driving around looking for parking. We're turning down this street, stopping short on that block, swerving to miss pedestrians, circling and circling and soon I'm feeling downright nautious. It's clear that we're not going to find parking anywhere near the fair, and come to think of it - I just really want to eat and go home.

I tell him this - well, not in so many words. I say, "You know, if you want, we can skip the fest and just find someplace to eat? I'm open to anything." He agrees and asks how I feel about icecream. Oh, let me count the ways. He takes me to a little icecream parlor near his place - that also has 'real' food. It's been around since 1921 and reminds me a lot of Sander's, back in Michigan. There is so much kitsch and crap being sold - dolls, stuffed kittens, needlepoint work, etc. and the tables are wedged in together so tightly that you have the feeling you're really at one huge dining table, practically sitting on the lap of the patron in the next booth. Definitely not a place for claustrophobics. We order sandwiches and malts. The conversation takes effort. I will fully admit it's mostly due to my current 'state', but I'm trying my hardest to focus. He has a cat named 'Cat', and a friend who has OCD and once binged on 4 pounds of blueberries until he threw up, because he couldn't stop eating them. Fascinating. I involuntarily touch my finger to my temple and rub it a bit. "Are you feeling ok?" He asks. "No, actually. I have a bit of a headache." We eat our meals mostly in silence. At the table next to us, two little girls are celebrating their birthday, and they're so close we almost feel guilty for not having bought them a gift. At one point, a server (a woman who is probably in her 70's) tries to squeeze past our table and nearly topples over my date's malt. She shoots him the dirtiest look as if to say, "You put that there on purpose, sonny." This causes both of us to laugh hysterically. Laugh because our tiny table is so loaded with food you can't even see the table. Laugh because we feel like Alice in Wonderland, where everything is shrinking and we're like giants sitting on doll chairs in a dollhouse. Laugh because this is the oddest dining experience either of us have ever encountered.

The rest of the meal passes uneventfully, and after he pays, and I tip, we head back out to his car. He says, "Do you need to stop somewhere and get some aspirin before I take you home?" This truly is a sweet offer and I feel a tinge of guilt for not being completely honest with him. He drops me off at home - speeding away before I even have my key in the door. I climb the steps of shame to my apartment, pop two aspirin and flop on my bed.

Just then I get a call from my friend (see post: It's All About the Pants). He's about to get some Chinese and just hang out at his place. I ask if he wants company. He picks me up, and a half hour later we're on his couch, listening to music and talking as he eats his chicken chow mein. I feel myself relax and my headache start to fade.

I realize that while there is a lot to be said for the excitement of going out on dates, meeting new people and experiencing new places in the city, sometimes it's the quiet, simple comfort of just sitting on a couch with a friend who knows you (and who happens to be an attractive guy) that is pure bliss. There's no confusion over who he is, no anxiety over trying to remember shared conversations and stories, no exhaustion from the energy of being 'on'. I'm free to sit on his couch without any expectations -without being aware of how my hair looks, if my tummy is sticking out, or if I have something in my teeth.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't given up. This was just a reminder that I should probably leave all "Datingpalooza" adventures to teenagers, hipsters, and other people with more energy. I've learned through this experience, that perhaps I'm more of a 'one date a week' gal.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crash out on that couch for a just a little while longer.

Date #5: Much Less Painful Than A Root Canal

When I first learned that my date was a dentist, I have to admit - every negative experience I had with a dentist came flooding back. The dentist who called me a 'baby' for crying during my post root canal crown replacement. The amount of money I had to pay out of pocket for said 'root canal' for not having insurance at the time. Steve Martin maniacally drilling and singing "I am your dentist" in the movie version of 'Little Shop of Horrors'. Based on my own experiences, I fully expected 'this' dentist to be cocky, mean and certifiably nuts. I mean, what kind of person wants to be a dentist anyway?

Thankfully, none of the above traits came close to 'this' dentist.

We were matched on eHarmony and after going through the 'Five Phases of Communication' we were emailing and talking on the phone. I found him to be hysterically funny and easy to talk to. He's from Denver and complained about the fact that when people meet him, they automatically assume that he must be this hard core Aspen Extreme skier. He can't ski. I sympathized with him, saying that when people find out I grew up near Detroit, they automatically assume that I'm this hardcore rapper and that I know all sorts of things about cars - or at least how to hotwire one. I don't even own a car. His voice had that Michael J. Fox as Alex P. Keaton quality to it - young, energetic and bright. I tried to picture 'this' dentist and in my mind I saw a boy in a suit with a labcoat over it - looking very Doogie Howser, DDS .

So, after three very enjoyable phone chats, we were planning our date. We decided to meet late on Friday for dinner. I had a few errands to run after work and was not going to be available until after 9pm. He lives downtown and offered to come up to my neighborhood, where I would meet him outside the El station. Since he just recently finished his year of residence at Northwestern - where he basically lived 24 hours a day - he had never ventured out of the downtown area. As is fairly typical in Chicago, the trains were running erratically. It took him nearly an hour to make a trip that should have taken half that time. As a result I was wandering the streets of Chicago for a good half hour waiting for him. I called him several times to check in, but since he was underground, his phone went to voicemail. When I finally did reach him, I apologized for the four times I called him: "I'm sorry for calling you so much, you must think I have A.D.D." And he said, "No, don't apologize - it was a great boost to the ego."

Finally we find each other - both starved, but relieved. First impression? Cute! He is the exact same height as I am (so it was another outing for the 'flats') and he does indeed have this boyish look about him. If I had to guess his age, I would've said 18- 20. He's 29. Almost immediately I had the distinct feeling he was checking out my teeth, focusing on my smile. When I called him out on it, he laughed and became slightly embarrassed: "I don't even think about it. It's a total subconscious thing. I look at a girl's teeth before I look at her breasts."

We end up at Uncommon Ground - I know what you're thinking - are there no other restaurants in this city?! But it's the closest restaurant to where we were, and I knew it would be quiet and the food would be good and I was introducing him to my neighborhood and - wait. I don't need to justify this to anyone. I love that place, and they love me and I will eat there every damn day if I want to. So there.

After chatting up our server Nathan, and a table visit from the manager Steve, we end up splitting a bottle of wine and several dishes. The conversation is non-stop. He's asking me all sorts of questions and truly expressing interest in me and what I have to say. I find myself wanting to learn more about him. What made him want to be a dentist? What was it like to go through his parents divorce when he was only five? How does he feel about having a gay brother?

I also felt this bizarre need to inform him of my dental history - to sort of tout my superb oral hygiene. In a rush, I tell him that I've only ever had one cavity and I floss every day. I did have a root canal but only due to an error by my orthodontist. However, I should point out that I do have a bit of gum recession, as a result of some over-zealous brushing. I wondered if I had a piece of food in my teeth, would he tell me? He said he'd not only tell me, but he carries a 'scraper thingie' with him at all times for such an emergency.

I tell him he has a great personality, and I mean it. He laughs and says, "Does that mean I'm fat?" We talk movies and music (He loves Christopher Guest movies and Tori Amos), our families, our eHarmony experiences and how we're finding life in Chicago.

The night flies by and soon my friends at "UG" are closing up. He picks up the check and after he signs his name, I ask if I can see his signature. I'm commenting on it, when I happen to glance at the tip amount that he's leaving our server: $7 on a $60 bill. Immediately I start to panic. There is no way we are leaving that paltry tip for our server. Especially here. I'll never be able to show my face again! I excuse myself to run to the restroom and while I'm in there I pull out a $5 bill. Maybe I can find Nathan, slip this to him and return to the table all without my date noticing a thing. But the door to the restroom is directly in view of our table and there is no way. I'm panicked. I squeeze back into my seat, with the $5 bill wadded up in my hand, trying to think of a different plan. Just then I notice he is scribbling something onto his receipt. "I don't know what I was thinking!" he says. "Did you notice what tip I had written down? I had left him $7. $7 on a $60 bill!! I waited tables for years while in school. I should be shot. I'm so glad I caught that."

Me, too.

I nonchalantly slide my $5 bill back into my wallet and find that I can breathe once again. We leave "UG", and I smile with relief, grateful that I will be able to return to my favorite place without the scarlet stigma of 'cheapskate' attached to me.

We walk back to my place and he comes up for another drink. He's commenting on how cozy our apartment is, he's looking at my pictures and asking questions about the people in them. I'm verymuch enjoying his company and he seems to be enjoying mine - but it's always so hard to tell.

It gets to be quite late and soon I'm yawning. I walk him out and we stand on the porch talking and winding down. He hugs me and we make plans to have lunch together on Tuesday, as he will be downtown at work. Suddenly this very confident dentist turns almost adorably boyish and awkward. "Ok, this is the part of the date that I'm not very good at...I mean, well, you know - saying goodbye at the end of the night and all that. How do we...um, I mean, do I-" I lean in and give him a quick kiss, to shut him up and put him out of his adolescent misery. "Ok," he says, "Well, good. That's...that's perfect. Good. Goodnight." He sort of stumbles down the steps of my porch and walks away, whistling.

Later, as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing (and flossing) my teeth - I think of him. Who knew that a dentist could be charming, funny, sincere and adorable? And while I may have negative past experiences from those dentists forever lodged in my psyche, I have to say I'm kind of looking forward to seeing this dentist again.

Date #4: Great Expectations

Every time I prepare for another one of these blind dates, I go through a mental sort of checklist as I'm getting ready. Aside from the obvious (teeth brushed, hair fluffed and lips glossed), I also make sure that I strip myself of any 'expectations' that I may have about the date. I carefully unzip them and discard them on the bed - along with the various skirts and tops that have been tried on, hastily removed and rejected. By the time I leave my house I'm looking great and feeling expectation-free.

But there are certain things that are perfectly natural to expect when you're meeting somebody for the first time. For coffee. Allow me to explain...

This date was with a friendster of a friendster of a friendster. I had been browsing the site from the confines of my cool apartment one hot and lazy Saturday when I stumbled upon a very intriguing looking face. He was smiling at me, and from behind his very Buddy Holly -esque spectacles, I could see that he had very kind eyes. I browsed further and really liked how he expressed himself. I learned that he was a teacher, he loved board games, and he sited Madeline Peyroux as one of his favorite vocalists. I sent him a message. He responded. And eventually we were planning to meet for coffee.

We were to meet at "Uncommon Ground" (my 'Cheers'-everybody-knows-your-name-place) for coffee at 7pm. I arrive at 7pm on the dot and am greeted by Kristen, a hostess there. (See? They DO know me!) I tell her I'm meeting somebody - a boy - and after casually (alright NERVOUSLY) glancing about the room conclude that he has not yet arrived. I am about to have a seat by the door when she says, "Hey. There is somebody that's by himself in the next room. It could be him." I ask her what he looks like. She arches an eyebrow as if to say, 'Shouldn't you know?'

"Well, it's sort of a ...blind thing. I mean, he's not blind. It's a, well...I've never seen him before." She graciously offers to walk me into the room, allowing me to hide behind her until I can discern if the man seated by himself is, in fact, MY blind man - er, date. It is. And here we go.

I approach the table and immediately have the sense that I'm interrupting someone's private little dinner: A cup of coffee that has several sips missing, the torn up sugar packets, the half-drunk glass of courtesy water, a mostly eaten hummus plate once loaded with veggies and pita slices, the open book laid at just the right reading angle. All signs point to the makings of a quaint little table for one. As I stand there quietly observing, he is chewing and reading, chewing and reading. He suddenly looks up and sees me, sips some water to swallow his food, wipes his mouth with his napkin and thrusts out his hand. "I'm sorry. I got here early and I was hungry, so I...ordered some food. Would you like some?" I glance over to the sad little glob of hummus and remaining few pita slices. I can't tell which is more pitiful: The plate or his offer. I decline.

The server comes over and asks me if I'd like a $4 martini - they're on special tonight. I'm about to ask for a coffee - as that is what I was 'expecting' from this date- but then my thoughts are interrupted by a slurping sound and it's him sucking down his coffee and I think, my God - he must have the patience of a tse tse fly to not be able to wait FIVE MINUTES for somebody that you're supposed be having coffee WITH and you know what? Screw it. "I'll have a lemon drop martini, please."

Five minutes later I'm sipping a very tangy, very citrussy, very yummy four-dollar lemon ginger martini and feeling some of my edginess wane. I sip and I listen to him. And listen to him. In between mouthfulls of hummus and pita he talks about how he discovered he wanted to be a teacher, how much he loves his students, how it took him forever to graduate college, etc. etc. He talks about applying for jobs, being rejected for jobs, interviewing for jobs, etc. etc. At one point he throws up his hands and says, "Well! Enough about meeee!" Just then the server comes back and asks if he'd like some more coffee. "Is it free?" He asks. The server nods. "Is it decaf?" She nods again.

Oh, good night.

I'm sure he's a decent guy, even though he seems to be an old man trapped in the body of a mid 30's man, talks about himself incessantly, and has two cats.

And as for him starting the date without me, my quiet moment of vindication came in the form of a long blonde hair that had been hiding in the hummus, unnoticed, and made its appearance just as he was about to polish off that last bite.

And I'm sure he wasn't 'expecting' that.

Date #3: It's all about the pants

Recently I began 'hanging out' with a guy who first contacted me online. It wasn't through Match.com or Lavalife or eHarmony or any of these 'dating sites'. It was through 'Friendster'. So...a 'friend site', if you will. (Which will prove to be quite prophetic). He commented on my taste in music, I commented on his hair, and the friendster-ship was born. We exchanged two very casual emails. Soon we began spotting each other in and around the city. Finally, after three such sightings, he suggested it was "...the universe's way of telling us we should get together for a drink." Not being one to ever go against the universe or it's urgings (especially when a cocktail is involved), I was happy to oblige. One problem: At the time I was still dating the Camarro driving, shot glass collecting, eHarmony match numero uno. Pfft. I put a reluctant kabash on the cocktails and sent him the email equivalent of a handshake and a "nice knowin' ya".

But oh, what a difference a day makes. Or, in this case, three days.

After taking three days to fully recover from the bruises made to my ego, I emailed him. Three days after that we were sitting outside one of our neighborhood bars (for it was discovered we live blocks from each other) enjoying a beer and talking about music, our day jobs and various tales involving poop. (Ok, so HE was telling me tales about poop.) Which sounds sick when I type it out, but was actually squirt-beer-out-your-nose funny at the time. Really! We ended up going back to his place to listen to music and talk and finish off a bottle of wine. Later he walked me home and we parted with a hug. We've 'hung out' several times since then, always enjoying each other's company (he thinks I'm hysterically funny and smart - which are both obvious qualities, I know - but so few seem to get that), always walking me home, and always ending in a hug.

I read somewhere once that men and women can't be 'just friends' because inevitably someone wants to get in the other person's skirt or pants and is just hanging around until that day when that skirt or those pants come OFF. Or words to that effect. I thought of that as I spent time with this new friend, trying to decide how I felt about him. Or rather, how I felt about his pants. "I like his pants. They're very nice. They're cut pretty well, hang nicely and seem very comfy. But perhaps his pants look better ON him. And should stay on him." And so it went. He's a musician, working in a day job that he hates. He loves good food, good music, the Cubs, and Dairy Queen. (I know what you're thinking - he's an enabler. But I don't have a problem, ok?!) He dishes out tough love, has a sincere interest in what I'm trying to do here, and most importantly: HE'S ABOVE 6 FEET TALL. 6'4" to be exact. My once woefully neglected 2 inch heels are outta the closet and back on the street - they (and I) couldn't be happier. Not only that, but there's a certain indescribable sense of femininity that a girl feels when in the company of someone who is so tall. I call it the Scarlett O'Hara Effect. Put me next to a tall, dashing Rhett Butler of a man and instantly I feel small and feminine, fragile and protected. I start involuntarily batting my eyes, fanning myself, and speaking in a southern accent.

But frankly, my dears, who gives a damn? What is this "friendship" meant to be? And how do I feel about those pants, anyway?

Well. The moment came last night, somewhere between the first bottle of wine and the last spoonful of my (SMALL, ok?) blizzard. The verdict? We are just friends, and his pants look much better ON him. And even though there is a sense of relief that comes from knowing where to 'put' him, there is a bit of sadness, as well. Sadness in realizing that - Oh, poop. Nope, you're not it.

Many of you may be wondering, "Why? He seemed so great!" And the truth is, he IS great. And there are many things I enjoy about him. But there are also certain core values, beliefs and ideals that I hold close to my heart that are non-negotiable (thank you mom and dad), things that I could tolerate in a friend, but not in a boyfriend.

Will I still hang out with him? Sure. Whenever I want to see live music, enjoy my favorite frozen treat, break out my heels, or take a trip to Tara, he's my guy.

Date #2: Did you blink? You missed it.

Well, here I am to report on my second blogged internet date. Ever. It's currently well after midnight, but don't let the late hour fool you into thinking I've been out having a raucous good time with a fantastic guy that was SO fantastic I lost track of time and space and sanity and all the rest.

I've been home since 9 o'clock.

In the time since, I've stopped at Dairy Queen - again (yes, I know what you're thinking), paid some bills, changed into my jammies, and watched all 196 minutes of Schindler's List, a movie I had not yet seen. So you see, it has been a most productive evening.

But this is supposed to be about the date, and so it shall be. Though I'm not sure you'd call it a date, and quite frankly there isn't much to report, but well - here it is:

This was yet another eHarmony match. His name was Robert. I shall call him that because from his pictures he looked verymuch like Robert Sean Leonard, with the dark hair, dark eyes, and cleft in the chin. We met at Uncommon Ground, my most favorite-est place. It takes me about 20 minutes to walk there from my apartment, and at about 7:25 he called me to say that he was already there and seated outside at a table. I thought that was very nice and courteous. I arrived shortly thereafter, spotted him, and the date began.

I knew that Robert was supposed to be 5'9 - and so I wore my flattest shoes yet again. But when he stood up to shake my hand/half-hug me, he was more like 5'7. No matter. I sat down. The waiter came over and took our drink order. I had a Blue Moon, he had "some German beer that comes in a funky bottle". The waiter brought the drinks. I told Robert how this was my favorite restaurant and that they had the best, most delicious food. (I am starving.) The waiter comes back to take our order and Robert says, "Oh. We're just having drinks." What? When did we decide this? No matter. We're talking about our drinks and what we drink in general and he says, "Well, I would've had a martini, but I have to drive home in an hour." An hour? Geez. I'd better start covering some ground. That's not much time.

Not much time, true. But not much time was needed. He was very nice, though a bit of a soft talker, which made conversing awkward at times. He has a place just off of Lake Shore Drive and he grew up in the suburbs. His parents and sister live out of state. He likes to paint - which I found fascinating, considering he's a computer geek, and is right now trying to do more consulting work with webdesign that would exercise both his left and right brain. He's a nature guy and loves mountain biking and running. Overall the conversation was pleasant, not too awkward, but I didn't feel that spark. And perhaps he sensed it, too. Or maybe I was just distracted by the smell of the savory dishes being served all around me, and the sounds of my stomach gurgling as it digested itself. Again - no matter.

Later when he asked what I had going on for the rest of the evening, I answered, "This. This was my evening. Well, and I suppose dinner. I haven't had dinner yet, so...food. Food will be my Friday night. You?"

"Well, I'm getting up at 6:30am to go running with some friends, so I'll be getting to bed early."

Great. He'll be getting fit. I'll be getting fat.

*sound of alarm buzzing* Oh, wow. I guess that hour is up. That was fast. Nice meeting you, Robert. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be off to my next date - with the Queen of Dairy.

And...scene.

Date #1: There's No Place Like Home

*whew*
Ok. Here we go. As I type this I have just been dropped off by one *Scott, my first blogged internet date. Ever. Scott and I were matched on eHarmony. The plan was to meet at *Sylvia's at 8pm. I was there at 8pm, wearing what has now become my 'first date' outfit. Black flowered skirt, with sleeveless black v-neck top. And sandals. My most flatest sandals. Scott is 5'8. I am 5'8 and a half. And this girl loves her heels. Trista asked me yesterday on the train, "Are you going to wear flats? Or wear heels and...give it to him?"

I wore flats.

Scott showed up ten minutes late, but to his credit, was very apologetic and had trouble parking. First impression? Tom Cruise looks (without the scientology freak factor) and the BLUEST eyes EVER. He looked ten times handsomer in person than his online pictures, and I was pleased as punch. We sat at the bar. Or, rather, I was already sitting at the bar and he sat down beside me. I had a glass of red wine, he had a Corona. The conversation was easy. We talked music, family, the arts, ice cream, Seinfeld. You know. The important stuff. I'm verymuch enjoying myself at this point. He's laughing at my stories, I'm finding him very charming and a good listener...and funny! Sylvia herself comes over and hugs him, telling me he is the best *saxaphone player EVER. (He's played a few gigs there - he's a jazz musician). He puts a hand on my knee as he excuses himself to run to the restroom and I take that as a DEFINITE good sign.

He returns and we talk more. I ask about where he's from. *Schaumberg. "Oh," I say, "do your parents live near you?" Without pause he says, "Yes, well, actually I live with my parents. I've been sorta saving to buy a place." Now, I'm not one to be the pot calling the kettle black, as I did live with my parents until I was well into my late twenties, but Scott is 34. 34!! Am I wrong in being a little alarmed at that? And he's lived at home since he was 24. TEN YEARS! Is he saving to buy the Taj Mahal?! I want to say: I think it's time to grow up, Scotty. I think you've been playing this "baby of the family" card a little too long. But - in the interest of the date (and this blog) I didn't freak out. I made him feel like that wasn't a huge deal...and even told him about my own prolonged stay at home, to hopefully make him feel better. But the thing is, he didn't need ego stroking. His living with his parents at age 34 was as natural to him as folding his laundry. Which his mom probably still does for him. Oh, gawd...that's so unfair of me. But probably true, right?

Ok, moving on. Right around this time I notice he's sweating. Profusely. He asks if I'd like to go get icecream - to cool off. I say a'la Renee Zellweger in 'Jerry Maguire' - "You had me at hello- er, cookie dough." We stand up to go, and that's when he notices it. My obvious height advantage. He kinda furrows his brow and tilts his head a bit. We walk out the door and down the sidewalk and he says, "You're....how tall?" 5'8. "Huh. Ok." Why do I feel like he doesn't believe me? Oh, my kingdom for a tape measure!

The rest of the date is actually fun. We go to Dairy Queen, I pay. We sit outside and chat. It's nice. The thing is, I really enjoyed his company. He was funny, he was intelligent, he was cute! He thought I was funny, too! But could I date someone who is 34 and still living with mom and dad? "Hey, my parents are going out of town. Two words. Par. Tay." or, "Dad's makin' waffles in the morning, wanna sleepover? I call top bunk!" *Shiver* The truth is, it didn't seem like he had any plan to move out any time soon. If anything, he kept touting how great and supportive and wonderful his parents were.

Pffft. I dunno. He dropped me off with a hug (oh, and for those that are wondering, he drives a Toyota Corolla) I really don't give a flying fig about cars, but it has been brought to my attention that a man's car says a lot about him. What does a Corolla say, then? "Deathly afraid of cutting the apron strings"??

And here I sit. In my first date outfit. He asked if he could call me again to go out and I said "Sure."

Maybe I need to mull this one over a bit. Weigh the pros and cons. Maybe it's too soon to judge? Any thoughts? Please do share.

Until then, I remain....sexless in the city.

* PLEASE NOTE: Names, locations and occupations have been altered to protect the identity of this mama's boy

Back in the saddle again...

After regaling my friends and family over the years with tales of my online dating adventures, and being told "You should write a BOOK!" I've decided to do the next best thing, and jump on the blogging bandwagon. Yeehaw!

As some of you know, it has been one week since I was dumped by my eHarmony match
(29 Key Dimensions of Compatibility my ass), and I am ready to take on the online dating world once again!

Hoping to meet somebody who doesn't have a pet albino ferret, live in Australia, or collect shot glasses that he displays in his house. Not too much to ask, right?

I fully realize that I am opening myself up to a world that may include: hurt, embarrassment, humor, disappointment and disbelief...but hopefully along the way it will include love. *cue sappy Lifetime Movie of Week music*

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night...