Date #9: Chivalry is not dead

I'm in trouble.

I knew this was going to happen. All day I knew it. I couldn't sit still at work, knees bouncing, fingers tapping. I was restless. I'd cross to the window, stare at the blue sky, the clouds moving past the buildings, the city alive below me, scanning the streets, anticipating something. But what?

Date #9.

I winked at him on Match.com one week ago today. There wasn't anything particular about his photos that caught my eye. In one he was wearing shades. In the other he was sans shades, but so far away it was difficult to make out that the figure in the photo was human, much less a man. It was what he had to say in his profile that piqued my interest. He loved old movies, boycotted reading The DaVinci Code, and - he disliked cats. He wrote me a VERY witty and extremely well thought out email. I responded with equally matched scintillating sentences, and my private email account. I also asked if he was in witness protection - and would it be too much trouble to see a close up shot? He obliged, and there wasn't anything extraordinary about his face. In the photo, he was at a bowling alley, surrounded by beer bottles, with a sort of serious expression, not even looking at the camera. But there was something about the way he expressed himself...and expressed interest in me. We exchanged a couple more emails and I offered my phone number.

Monday night he called while I was at rehearsal and left a voicemail. I returned home too late to return the call. Tuesday, on a whim, I emailed him and asked him to dinner. He responded that he was working late that night, but he loved my initiative and how about Wednesday?

Perfect.

What I knew of him before the date: He's a partner in a lawfirm in the loop specializing in commerical litigation. He's 6'0. He's 34. He's Catholic (though I wasn't sure if he was practicing), he has an ecclectic taste in music and movies. His favorite drink is a martini up with an olive. He drives a truck and just recently rehabbed his house. By himself.

That was it.

We exchanged a couple emails on the day of the date, sorting out the where and the when for dinner. The where? Cafe Iberico - a fabulous tapas restaurant. The when? 6:00pm. I was being picked up for rehearsal near an El stop at 8:00, so he chose something in that vicinity - very thoughtful. He apologized ahead of time for wearing a suit, as he didn't bring a change of clothes. I told him that with me in my skirt we'd make the perfect picture of corporate America.

At 6:00 on the dot, I am sitting at the bar, crossing and uncrossing my legs, opening and closing my flip phone, fluffing my hair, glancing around the room, watching pedestrians go by, waiting for him to arrive. I'm so nervous I could pee. Several men walk in talking loudly, a young couple, a priest. At about five minutes past six, a pick-up truck pulls to the curb and out steps my date. I know it's him. And in that instant I know I'm totally done for. He is wearing a navy suit, white pressed shirt, blue and yellow striped tie. He is gorgeous. He strides toward the door, and spots me immediately. Do we hug? Shake hands? I think we hug. I can't seem to recall now. Immediately he's apologizing for being late (2 points) and that he sent me an email but wasn't sure if I got it, etc. I'm just nodding and smiling and "It's ok" - ing. The truth is, I am too bowled over by his looks, his manners, his suit, his smile...him, to say much of anything.

We're shown a table and he allows me to choose where I'd like to sit. Before I can reach to touch the chair - he is there, pulling it out for me. (2 points) We sit and immediately start chatting. He's asking about how my rehearsals are going, where I grew up, how I first got started acting. I tell him I was voted by my class to be the narrator in the Thanksgiving presentation in first grade - and he tells me he played a turkey in his first grade Thanksgiving presentation - and wet his pants. It was our first bonding moment. We order drinks. A martini for him, a glass of sangria for me. We're talking so much we forget to order. We both admit to being starved and after our server drops by for the third time, we open our menus. I start to get a bit nervous. The idea behind tapas (as most know) is to order many 'little plates' and share them. I have no idea what food he likes, doesn't like, etc. The whole process seems daunting and I'm staring at my menu unsure of what to say, how to proceed. He says, "Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?" I laugh. "No. But I'm not a huge fan of seafood." He asks my opinion on a couple of dishes and when the server returns, orders for the both of us. I love that he took charge (2 points). We're talking non-stop. I learn that he's the baby, born and raised in Chicago, he is a practicing Catholic and his favorite movie is "Casablanca". He had originally wanted to be a fighter pilot, but didn't have perfect vision so being a lawyer was his back-up plan. He told me what he loves about his profession and what he loathes. How the work is hard and the hours are long, but he strives to maintain a balance. At one point he confessed something to me. Something that made me blush.

He'd Google'd me.

He starts rattling off reviews I'd received in productions and commenting on roles I'd played. I am hugely flattered that he did his research (2 points). I then admit to him that I'd gone through my trusty Sullivan's Law Directory and read all about him - and his firm- online. Though I was disappointed to not find any photographs of him looking everybit the dashing litigator. "Like this?" he asks, and strikes a very legal pose, arms crossed, holding a mimed pair of spectacles to lips. I throw back my head and howl. The food comes and we dig in. He offers me every plate before he takes some for himself (2 points). In a moment of weakness, I beam at him and gush, "I'm...I'm having a great time!" He smiles. "Me, too." We spend so much time talking that the food goes mostly untouched. In fact, I realize I'm not that hungry afterall.

He seems to be a man from an earlier era. The era of Dean Martin, cigars and big band music. An era where women wore red lipstick and pumps and pantyhose on a date, and men wore suits and were chivalrous. Where a date included swing dancing, a drive in a car and sharing a soda.

He's frequently checking his watch to be sure we leave in enough time to get me to the El stop. (So thoughtful - 2 points) We finish our meal, and in an instant he's paid the check and we're walking toward the door. He offers me a ride to the stop and I accept. We're standing outside waiting our turn for the valet and a homeless man approaches, asking for change. "I'll have change in a minute," my date says and returns his attention to me. A minute later the homeless man returns asking for change. "I'll have change in just a minute," he repeats, not at all rude, but firm. A minute later he's paying the valet, and making good on his promise to the homeless man. (2 points)

He opens my door for me and we're off. He has Frank Sinatra playing on his CD and I don't want to go to rehearsal. I'm having such a grand time. We arrive at the stop all too quickly and he turns to me and says, "I had a really great time with you." I smile. "Me, too," I say. "Would you like to go out again?" He asks.

"I would love to."

"Great." He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I step out of his truck, shut the door and wave. I start to walk down the sidewalk and turn back to look at him. His head is turned to look at me and we catch each other's eye. I wave. He waves back. And then he is gone.

I am on a cloud for the rest of the night. Even now as I type this, I am not here, but hovering above in some giddy bubble, floating.

This right brained, heart on her sleeve, incurably idealistic romantic is struggling to be practical, level headed, guarded, blase. He said he would call. But the possibility exists that he may not. He may have been so much of a gentleman that he asked to see me again only to tie up the date nicely and end on a positive note.

If nothing more comes of this, I can say that it was lovely to be reminded, through countless chivalrous gestures, that I am a woman. To be in the company of such an intelligent, caring, interesting, funny and warm man.

The bar has officially been raised.

The Weed

When last I wrote of "The Dentist", I had given up on him. He was too bizzee drinking and blowing me off to warrant any more of my time or energy. I had weeded him out of my dating garden, tossed him onto my compost heap of rejects, never to think of him again.

But the funny thing about weeds is they keep coming back.

Almost a week after he had blown off our Sunday date, I heard from him. He left a voicemail saying, "You're probably wondering what happened to me...if I fell off the planet or something, but the truth is - I've been a very sick kid. I'm sure you're busy with rehearsals, but call me if you get a chance."

I yanked him out of the soil and flung him aside. (i.e. I did NOT call him)

Two days later he called again. I was out at a going away party for a friend of mine and in the cab ride home, discovered the pesky weed on my voicemail. "Hi Carrie...I'm calling you back again. You must be busy. Please call if you get a chance."

I had my clippers out, poised and ready to obliterate him again, (i.e. delete his voicemail) when - in a moment of mercy, perhaps clouded by the effects of a double pint of Blue Moon - I called him. I got his voice mail and gave that weed one more chance to stay in my garden and perhaps become something more dignified, like a tulip or a nice sturdy shrubbery. "Sorry I haven't called sooner," I said, "but I was quite shocked to hear from you. I had assumed that you just weren't that into me - which is fine, as that can happen. So. I'm calling you back. Hope to hear from you. Bye."

An entire week goes by without a word from him. I calmly walked out to my garden and danced a jig on that weed, trampling him with my garden clogs.

The weed came back.

Last night in the middle of rehearsal, in the form of yet another voice mail. I am typing it word for word:

"So, this is quite possibly the most random phone call you'll receive this evening. I'm sure you thought, 'This guy has totally written me off again', which I didn't. I'm back at work and have joined the world of a productive person and...I had a very interesting encounter with a bicycle as I was jogging along the lake last week. Two broken ribs later, I have just not really been all that psyched to go out or call very many people. So, give me a call if you would like to, if I'm still deemed worthy of such a phone call and let me know how you're doing and what you're up to and if you're still crazy busy. I'm sorry it's been a week. I know that's not acceptable. And I'll just quit rambling now and talk to you later. Maybe. Ok. Bye."

He broke his ribs?! Maybe my metaphoric weed pulling has somehow transferred into an odd sort of telekenesis, much like the Stephen King novel bearing my name?

Alright friends.

My weed whacker is poised and at the ready. Should I use it? Should I end this once and for all? Or do I give him another chance to thrive?

Please advise!

Date #8: The Rambling Man

It's a well known fact that I have a tendency to, well 'ramble', at times. My brother, parents and various friends can all attest to this. Whether it's in the email form, the blog form, or on the phone - sometimes this gal cannot shut up. In the past, people have tried various ways at 'stopping my mouth'. I remember once when I was 21 and at a dance club, I had met this guy and we were cozying up on a couch, talking - rather screaming - at each other over the music. As he sat there, I began to ramble about college and how my summer was going and how the music in this club is always so great and it takes me back to junior high and - BAM - he leaned in and kissed me. I was floored. "I was...I was talking." I sputtered. "I know," he said, with a smirk, "I was trying to shut you up." Since then I've been a bit more sensitive to my talking tendencies - I look for the signs - if my date is yawning, fidgeting, or if his plate is empty, for instance, whilst mine still looks like it just came out of the kitchen - I know I need to shut up for a bit.

Well, my friends, I met my rambling match with Date #8.

We started exchanging emails over Match.com. Now, my 'typical' pattern with these internet dates is to spend as little time as possible emailing. Afterall, the point is not to find a pen-pal, but a playdate, and potentially a partner. While it is somewhat important that a person can express himself, it's more important that we hit it off in person. The same goes for talking on the phone. I try and keep the first phone call to a half hour or less. Chat a bit, make a plan for meeting, and get off the phone.

Easier said than done with this one.

This past week was a bizzee one for me, and for my date as well, and so communicating by email was really the most convenient way. His first email was fluid, a tad humorous at times and well thought out. I appreciated that. I responded in a like manner. Over that week, we exchanged ten emails, and his grew longer and longer with each correspondence. Initially, I was matching him word count for word count but soon I found myself struggling to keep up with his pace. Much like the "Candy Factory" Episode of I Love Lucy, I couldn't keep up with the endless string of words coming along that conveyor belt. I was madly answering each question he had while rapidly commenting on everything he had shared with me and furtively asking him more questions, etc. and by the end of writing an email, an hour had gone by, I was just plain exhausted, more than a bit irritated and in desperate need of chocolate. Toward the end of the week, I gave up trying. I could not compete. I was spent, drained, wiped out. And we hadn't even had a date, yet. In my last email to him I could only muster enough strength to type my phone number.

I knew he would be calling sometime early Friday evening. I also knew that we were planning to have a Sunday afternoon date. When he called I was prepared to spend about 20 minutes chatting, ending with the decision of where to meet and hanging up with a "see you soon!"

He called. The conversation was great at first. He's a saxophone player from Indiana and he works in the music marketing industry. He'd been taking some French lessons and so we were speaking broken french to each other. 25 minutes into the phone call I try to steer it toward Sunday and making a definite plan. He says he may have practice with this jazz band he is starting to play with - but he's not sure, because, "Well...there's a story about this band, and well - let me just start at the beginning..."

100 minutes later I am still on the phone with him, with no end to this story-that-isn't-really-a-story in sight. I'm praying that my cell phone battery will die or that my house will catch fire - anything to get me off the phone with him. In a moment of desperation, I push the mute button on my phone and scream at him to relieve some of my pent-up frustration. When I release the mute button, he is still talking, and for a moment I contemplate screaming again, without pressing mute.

Finally I'm able to get a word in and pull the conversation back to the task at hand. I say, "So, Sunday afternoon. What would you like to do?" And he says, "Oh. Well. What do you want to do?" This irritates me even more because not only has he been rambling for the past 100 minutes, but he doesn't have a plan for the date.

I ask if he does brunch. "No."

What?? Who ever heard of anyone living in Chicago who doesn't do brunch?!

I tell him to meet me at Uncommon Ground at noon for lunch (their brunch menu goes until 2pm, but I'm not telling him that).

I arrive at noon and the place is packed. He calls and says he'll be 15 minutes late due to the trains. I put my name on the list and wait. I spot him as he's waiting to cross the street and I want to hide. He's wearing denim shorts that go to his knees, white socks and black tennis shoes. He has a black rayon short-sleeved shirt and his greasy blonde hair is sticking out from underneath his backward black baseball hat. We're soon seated and he takes off his hat. His head is shaved about an inch and a half above his ears, all the way around. His hair is long everywhere else, giving him a very 'roadie for Motley Crue circa 1989' look. I wonder why I didn't notice this in his pictures, and wish he'd throw manners out the window and put his hat back on. I order French toast, he orders the egg, ham and cheese croissant. (Call me crazy, but that sounds like brunch to me).

And a funny thing happened. For all his earlier verbal and literary stamina...here on our date he seemed to have run out of things to talk about. I took the 'rambling reins' for a bit, but found myself to be much more interested in my fruity french toast than in my date.

The check came and it sat on our table for a bit. I excused myself to use the restroom and when I came back said, "Well, shall we get going?" He pushed the checkbook toward me and said, "You owe $12." Excusez-moi? He opened the book and there were a handful of bills and coins. He had used exact change - and taking note that my french toast cost one dollar more than his croissant - told me exactly what I owed.

And this rambling girl was left speechless, mouth open, and not a chocolate bon-bon in sight.

I have run out of words for this date.

For Mom

I talked with my mom on the phone today and we were catching up on what had been going on in our lives. She had a show open, her seasonal allergies are giving her hell, and she and my father just bought the 'for sale' sign that is now gracing the front yard of the house I grew up in. My parents also just celebrated their 32nd wedding anniversary. As we were chatting, she asked if I had been going on any dates lately. What?

"Mom, have you not been reading my blog?" I asked.

There was an awkward silence.

"Well. No. I stopped reading it after I got to the part where the pants and the skirt had come off."

She's referring, of course, to the 'Up Date' on Date #3 wherein I mentioned that my guy friend and I had briefly crossed that border into 'Makeout Land' - but then decided we're better off in 'Just Friendsville'. According to my mother, from the way I worded things, it seemed as though we had gone all the way to the 'Shire of Shag'. *gasp*

Allow me to clarify to my mother, my grandmother (I didn't even know you owned a computer!), my priest, our family friend Agnes and anyone else my mother gave this blog to and who may now have a tainted and tawdry image of me as a result of that post.

The name of my blog is "Sexless in the City".

SEXLESS. Okay?? I'm looking for the real deal and will not be sidetracked by meaningless romps.

I love you, mom, and I would never do anything to shame or embarrass you. And if I did, well, hell! I certainly wouldn't blog it!

KIDDING.

Now, pardon me, while I readjust my halo.

Oh Mon Dieu!

This technically isn't a 'date', but I just had to post it. I received an email through Match.com in very broken English from a Frenchman who is living in Boston, but staying in Chicago for a few days on business. He wondered if I might be free for dinner. Why not? Well, it turns out our schedules did not line up, but he sent me this very charming email:


Hi Carrie

Thanks for your sweet email…you wrote that chocolate covered everything and when placed in good hands, life is like a chocolate: Take something bitter, something dry, something wet, and a little bit of leaven, mix well, and let it someplace hot. The result is something sweet like you :-)


What?

Something tells me that the above would've sounded much better when spoken in French...or even with a French accent...maybe while eating French toast. But in this format? Pure frommage.

Date #7

Well, boys and girls - after a brief hiatus from the online dating world (mostly due to a bizzier than normal rehearsal schedule) - I'm back. It feels grand to once again be gallavanting about the city of Chicago - on a mad quest for true love. Or something like it. And I do believe that with every picture posted, every profile filled, every email exchanged - I am somehow one step closer to finding 'him'.

This latest date was from Match.com. I was a member of this site three years ago, when I lived in Michigan. A year ago I thought of joining up again, and even marked a couple profiles as 'favorites' - but never went further than that. I joined two weeks ago officially, and discovered they still had my old profile on file. After some tweaking and updating (I'm much wiser than I was three years ago - ahhh, that twenty-something Carrie was sooo naive) my profile was ready for posting. Almost immediately I began shopping for men - which is what a girl feels like - a girl in a man-candy shop, that is. Yum. Each page loaded with varying specimens of midwestern Chicago male morsels. I began 'winking' at anything that caught my eye...and soon the 'winks' were being returned. Including Date #7.

The opening line of his profile read:
"At ease with yourself, passionate about life, & appreciative of the importance of close friends? Love city life in Chicago? Looking for a healthy balance of family, close friends, fun acquaintances, work & play? That's what I try to do and it's made the past few years some of the best & exicting of my life."

There seemed to be a nice energy about him, and I liked that.

We began communicating. I learned that he was from Louisville, his mom died three years ago, his younger sister got married two years ago and he just finished taking the bar. A couple days later we talked on the phone and I learned that it was his 32nd birthday. He attends Mass at St. Alphonsus where a friend of mine is the cantor. He is also a lector. We talked about educational childhood computer games like 'Lemonade Stand' and 'Oregon Trail'. I told him I always died of cholera, and he said he usually died 'fording the river.' Soon we decided to meet for dinner. Joey's Brickhouse at 4:15pm on Friday afternoon.

I was in rehearsal that day, and walked over from The Theatre Building. As I was approaching Joey's, I saw what appeared to be a middle-aged man out front, holding a closed umbrella. As I came closer, I realized it was him. Maybe it was his slightly hunched shoulders, or his hairline - he's bald in back and his dark brown hair is thinning on top - but it gave the impression that he was older than his actual age. He has very fair skin and the palest blue eyes I'd ever seen. We hugged and he told me that Joey's was closed - it didn't open until 5pm. Ooops. So we decided to go to Harmony Grill instead.

The food was delicious - he had a burger, I had a salad, and we split an impossibly large 'side dish' of sweet potato fries. The conversation was non-stop. He asked me questions about me and my career and what brought me to Chicago. I learned that he has two female roommates - friends from college - and it's a very 'Three's Company' set up. I told him that mine was more of a 'Will and Grace' arrangement. This led to a discussion on television and movies and he told me that Tom Cruise was once his babysitter. Unfortunately, my date was only 4 years old at the time and the only thing he can remember from the experience was that it was snowing out. I asked him what sort of law he wants to practice - he wants to be a prosecutor - doing criminal cases. We talked about going to Catholic school and being Catholic.

It was a very enjoyable time. Three hours and three beers later, I couldn't tell if he was 'into me' or not. And I wasn't sure if I was 'into' him. He seemed very nice and friendly and easy to talk to - but that elusive chemistry factor didn't seem to be present - at least not yet. After we parted with a hug on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, he asked if he could email me or call me and get together again. (Of course, that's what they ALL say, so only time will tell if he meant it.)

UPDATE:
Saturday afternoon I received a call from him. I was in the middle of rehearsal and had to sneak out to answer the call. He wanted to say "Break a leg" on my performance that night. I was TRULY touched that he remembered I had an opening Saturday. BIG POINTS. I'm not sure when I'll see him again, but I shall keep you all informed!

AND IN OTHER BIZARRE NEWS: As I sat here typing up this latest entry, I noticed I had a voice mail message...FROM THE DENTIST. Will wonders never cease? Apparently he had been sick (I'm resisting all urges to insert a 'binge drinking' reference here, and - oops, too late.) He wondered if I had been wondering what happened to him (Answer: No). He knew I was busy this weekend with rehearsals, but hoped to hear from me soon. Keep drinkin' - er HOPIN', buddy.

An Up 'Date'

Ok, so many of you have been emailing me and calling me and otherwise harassing me - eager to learn the skinny on some of my dates. Simmah down. I shall tell all. Though I must warn you, the reality is infinitely more mundane than you could ever hope for.

Date #1: There's no Place Like Home: - I never heard back from him. Perhaps he got in too late from his date with me and his mom has grounded him. Indefinitely.

Date #2: Did you blink? You missed it: Haven't heard a thing, though there is a rumor he was recently kicked out of a "speed-dating" convention for being 'too' speedy. Go figure.

Date #3: It's All About the Pants: - Ok, this one gets complicated. In a nut shell: The pants came off. The skirt came off. Briefly. Then the pants went back on. The skirt went back on. And they've stayed on ever since. We're both ok with the fact that it went there -but happy to be back where we started. We see each other a couple times a week and discovered that the song "We don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time" really does have some truth to it.

Date #4: Great Expectations: - He emailed me about a week after our date and asked if I'd like to go sing karaoke with him sometime. Talk about a completely random offer. If he sings karaoke the way he behaves on a date, I'm wondering if he'd pick a duet and then sing both parts by himself. Selfish bastard. I never emailed him back.

Date #5: Much Less Painful Than a Root Canal: - *sigh* Many of you had such high hopes for this dentist - as did I. Our first date was so much fun. I did notice that he had more than a few stories that involved heavy drinking, but I didn't think too much of it. Two nights later when he drunk dialed me, I thought it was 'cute'. The next day when I talked to him and he was horribly hungover and didn't remember calling me - I was momentarily stung, but then thought, "Well, if I'm still in his cell phone, that must be a good sign." We met for lunch the following week and had a great time. He asked about how he could get a ticket to see the staged reading I am doing next weekend. I wasn't too sure if the physical chemistry was there, but I enjoyed his company nonetheless and thought I would stick with it awhile. Three days went by and I didn't hear from him, nor did I call him. He called Friday night and we chatted, though he was tired and not making too much sense (I now wonder if he was drunk). We made plans to see each other on Sunday and he would call me then. Sunday rolls around and he calls - sounding awful. He is hungover yet again after going out with his roommate and her gay friends. "Boy, those gay boys can drink," he says.

"So are you gay?" I ask - completely over it.

"No! I just...I tried to keep up with them. And now...I'm not feelin' so hot. So, I'm going to have to cancel - I'm sorry. I'll call you later." In the background I hear women's laughter and general good cheer. Hrm. Either he really is hungover or he's just not that into me. And either prospect is not attractive. Good night.

And now...

I recently joined Match.com and have a few dates in the works. But I'm in the throes of rehearsals for two shows. Bear with me and I'll be back soon!!