That Girl

Five years ago, I was an unhappy girl. I was living with my parents, working part time as a theatre director and choreographer, part time as a low-paid actor, and part time waiting tables at a local restaurant. The latter most of these positions was lucrative money-wise, but dampening spirit-wise. I was frustrated and stuck. I did not have a boyfriend, nor did I feel particularly date worthy. I did however, have a rather innocent crush on my chiropractor. He was tall and handsome with wavy hair and Wally Cleaver looks. He smiled a lot. He asked me about my day. He noticed when I cut my hair or lost weight. I would lay on his table and he would rub my tired back. Sometimes, on particularly hard days, he would perform an adjustment that I affectionately referred to as "The Maneuver". It was a chiropractic procedure, but if we had not been wearing clothes, I'm fairly certain it could be found in the pages of the Kama Sutra. And for a dateless twenty-something who was broke and living with mom and dad, it was enough.

I was working a double at the restaurant one long and dreary January day, and was nearing the end of my dinner shift, when I came around a corner and spotted my handsome chiropractor seated at a booth in the bar. Across from him was a beautiful brunette with shoulder length hair and large eyes. They were laughing, leaning in toward each other, completely unaware of me, let alone anyone else in the restaurant. They were so obviously in love. I smiled to myself, a sad, sort of wistful smile and went back to sorting silverware, bussing tables, running food and sweeping my section. A plaintive Cinderella. Later, I passed by the front of the restaurant and caught sight of them once again. They were standing in the lobby, both in black leather coats. She was holding onto a bag that presumably contained leftovers. He leaned in to give her a kiss, she wrapped his scarf around his neck, and then he disappeared through the doors. It was a cold, wet night, and it occurred to me that he was probably going to get the car and bring it around, so she wouldn't have to walk as far. As I stood there quietly observing, she turned around. Her face was lit up with a smile so radiant that it was nearly impossible to not smile myself. Her happiness was so tangible I could almost feel what she was feeling: Giddy, warm, grateful. Our eyes met and she lowered her head briefly, smiling sheepishly. Seconds later the car pulled up and she skipped out the door, ducking into the passenger side and off to the rest of her evening with her handsome date - my chiropractor.

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The Dashing Litigator and I are on a mission. A mission to find two perfect pumpkins. It is a brisk and wet Sunday night, my show has just closed and we are on a date. We pull up to a makeshift streetside pumpkin patch, lit by strings of lights and guarded by a sturdy and temporary trailer. There are rows upon rows of pumpkins that will - in another six weeks - be replaced by Christmas trees. The seller of the pumpkins and dweller of the trailer is Ron - a large man with long fuzzy hair poking out of his grey woolen watchman's cap. He's layered with several shirts, the outermost being a dingey green flannel, and his gloves are fingerless. He smiles at us, greeting us with a "Hey there! Feel free to look around!" and I notice he's missing a couple teeth.

Immediately I'm off, darting across rows of pumpkins, squatting to take a closer look at some, picking up others, examining their 'carve-ability'.

The Dashing Litigator is watching me, laughing. "Ooooh! I see the little girl Carrie! She's coming out!" I find my pumpkin, a fat, sturdy one, and plonk it on the table. Ron takes out a soiled rag and wipes the mud off of it. The Dashing Litigator finds his pumpkin, too. A smaller one - as his theory is, "The smaller the pumpkin, the less guts to scoop out."

Ron adds bluntly: "Man, aren't them things a pain in the ass to scoop out?" We laugh hysterically and wonder what the Illinois pumpkin growers would think of Ron's very 'bad-for-business' blabbing.

Our pumpkins are rolling around in the back of his truck, as we head off to our next stop: Dinner. It is the night of another White Sox game. The second game of the world series. The Dashing Litigator takes me to yet another new restuarant - 42 Degrees N. Latitude. The bar is crowded and smokey, but he leads the way to the restaurant part and soon we have a front row seat to the game by way of a flat screen tv. We are one of only two couples in the room, which is warm and lit with candles.

Dinner is lovely. Even though the game is on, we manage to split our attention between each other and the White Sox. We are sipping wine and feeding each other pasta and when we see the poor fans at the game who are wearing ponchos, soaked and miserable, the Dashing Litigator says, "Now this is the way to do it." I am feeling content and happily filled. We order two desserts to take home - an apple bread pudding and a pumpkin cheesecake, and put on our coats to leave. Outside it has started to rain again. As we approach the door, the Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, "You wait here. It's raining. I'll bring the car around." He kisses me quickly before disappearing through the revolving door, bounding across the street, dodging raindrops. I am holding our desserts in a bag, and I smile, hugging the bag to my chest. I turn around to face the inside of the restaurant and momentarily catch the eye of the bartender, a dark haired woman of about my age. She smiles at me, and I find myself embarrassed and shyly look away. When I turn to face the street, my Dashing Litigator is there. I push through the doors, jump in his truck and we are off to the rest of our date. We will carve pumpkins and the Dashing Litigator will learn the hard way that "The smaller pumpkins have the most guts". We will make coffee, cuddle on the couch and watch the final innings of the game. We will share our desserts and I will fall asleep in his arms, warm and cozy.

This is for the Carrie of five years ago. The Carrie that numbly lived her life in a holding pattern. Endlessly circling the runway waiting to take off, but terrified to leave the safety of the ground. The Carrie that watched love happen to other people and wondered, as she straightened her apron and counted her tips, if it would ever happen to her.

Wondering if she would ever be 'that girl'.

Puppy Love

Last summer, when I was doing stock theatre in Cold Water, Michigan and living with a host mom (whom I called my 'ho sistah', as she was far too young to be my mom), I fell in love with Logan - the sweetest, most kind, gentle and loving chocolate lab there ever was. I can recall coming home from a long day of rehearsals to his big brown welcoming eyes, and taking long walks with him along Cold Water lake. Often I'd be sitting out by the water, my nose stuck in my script, only to be delightfully distracted by the scratches of his paws on the metal dock as he ambled up beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. In that stressful, crazy whirlwind of a summer, Logan was a calm, chocolatey source of solace on four legs. It was during this time that I decided - if I were to ever get a dog of my own- it would be a gentle, sweet, loving chocolate lab- just like Logan.

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The Dashing Litigator and I are day dreaming out loud together. Talking about our future homes in New York City and Miami Beach, surfing lessons, traveling to Paris, children, our plans to take over the world. These conversations are light-hearted and innocent pipe dreams without promises that flutter to the surface now and again, making us smile and look at each other with brighter eyes. To us the future is a clean slate with no pressures and endless possibilities.

We're day dreaming out loud about dogs when I tell him about Logan, my summer love. He tells me that though he never had pets growing up, he's always dreamed of having a chocolate lab. He even has a name picked out: Duncan. I love it.

One late morning after enjoying a delicious Sunday brunch at Square Kitchen, we're strolling down Lincoln Avenue hand in hand. We're enjoying the sunshine and the lazy luxury of the day when we encounter a chocolate lab who has been curbed outside a bookstore, lounging on the sidewalk. We pause and talk to him for a bit before continuing on, smiling at each other silently and knowingly.

It is Wednesday afternoon. I'm at work, eating my lunch at my desk, when suddenly an email drops in from the Dashing Litigator. The email reads: "Please tell me why I should not do this." Attached to the email is a picture of a two week old chocolate lab puppy being held entirely in the palm of the hand of a smiling young woman. The woman, it turns out, is the daughter of one of his secretaries at the firm. Her boyfriend's dog just gave birth to a litter of labs. Among them - only one chocolate lab - a boy.

I am instantly reduced to a pile of 'awww-ing' mush. As the puppy is only two weeks old, it will be available for adopting in about 5 weeks. The Dashing Litigator and I exchange a few emails - and just like an attorney - he lists out the pros and cons of this potentially huge and life changing purchase. The arguments are virtually equal on either side. I call him and my heart is saying, "Do this! He's soooo adorable, how could you not?" And my head is saying, "This is a major thing! You're trying to sell your house, you work long hours...you've never had a dog before! This is a huge committment!" But what I end up saying is:

"It's Duncan. You have to have him."

He agrees and then says, "Well...you would help me with him, right?"

Without question.

Later that night, the Dashing Litigator picks me up for a date - our first real 'going-out' date in a couple weeks. What follows is a fabulous evening that starts with pumpkin martinis at the very cozy Bungalow Lounge, then dinner at Feast in Bucktown and finally a giddy after-dinner drink in the Signature Room, atop the Hancock Building. Being with him is, as usual, never boring. We talk of many things, including our now verymuch official 'boyfriend and girlfriend status'...but we don't talk about the potential puppy.

And then we are in his truck and stopped at a light. "Look!" he exclaims. I turn my head, and there, in the other lane and facing the opposite direction - also stopped - is an SUV. In the backseat with his head out the window, is an adult chocolate lab. Our window is also open and I find that I can't contain myself. "Hellooooo puppy!!" I call. The pup's ears perk up and he cocks his head. The Dashing Litigator laughs. The owner of the canine is nonplussed, and soon they are on their way and out of our sight.

"Where is your head right now?" I ask him.

"I know it would be a lot of work. But it might be nice to have a living thing to take care of. And if I wait - would there EVER be a 'good time' for it?" I am silently pondering his point when he leans into me and nuzzles my neck, drawing in quick sniffs and tickling me like a puppy dog would. I laugh and push him away. "Great. Then I'd have two puppies to contend with!"

As we drive, I look out the window, feeling the cool fall night air on my face, the Dashing Litigator's fingers laced through my own, feeling everybit the picture of contentment. I sigh an audible sigh.

"You know," he says, "I love being out with you."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"Because everyone smiles at us."

My heart melts at that observation. It is quite possibly the sweetest observation ever made in the history of mankind. Or at least dating-man-kind. And again I find myself slipping.

And I think about this two week old chocolate lab puppy. This puppy that could quite possibly be the first of our outloud 'daydreams' to come true. Duncan. I know that I would love this dog - I feel as though I already do. This dog would be the Dashing Litigator's, of course, but as I am now a part of the picture, I can't help feeling he would be partly mine, too.

And then I have a mild panic attack. What if this relationship ends? Not only would I lose the man, but I would also lose the dog.

The thought of the former makes me feel sick.

But the thought of the latter makes me feel suicidal.

I decide there is only one clear solution if this dog is to become a part of my life:

The Dashing Litigator must never become apart from it.

"The Linda Look"

When I was a teenager and had entered into the world of dating, the time would eventually come when my boyfriend would meet my parents. Granted, the times that this actually occurred were relatively few and far between, and more often than not centered around huge events like homecomings, winter formals, or proms. The doorbell would ring and my dad would flip into paparazzi mode, capturing each awkward moment for posterity. My date, feeling cramped and on display in his rented mall tux and too tight shoes, fumbled with my corsage. Me, feeling wobbly in my high heels, my permed hair teased within an inch of its life, wearing my mother's blush because she said I looked too pale, and wearing a dress that I would never wear again - attempted to gracefully descend the staircase. My mother would stand off to the side, smiling, but quietly assessing. The smile, to the casual observer, would appear warm, nearly genuine. "Mom, this is Jason. Jason this is my mom." She'd step toward him, with the same smile and shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jason. I've heard so much about you." Then dad would call to us for "...one more parting shot of the happy couple!" Finally, Jason - or whichever date it was, it didn't matter - would turn his back to either get my coat, open the door, or shake my father's hand. It was in that moment, I would catch my mother's eye. The smile would have vanished - just briefly - and be replaced by "The Linda Look." The Linda Look was meant only for me and managed to convey mild annoyance, disapproval and dismissal all with a single expression. The lips set in a line, the eyes narrowed, the ever so slight shake of the head. It was the kiss of death for any poor young suitor of mine. And the look, like Linda herself, was never wrong.

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I'm standing in my bedroom in my apartment, surrounded by piles of skirts and tops. I have tried on at least 6 different outfits and nothing seems right. Too slutty, too conservative, too casual, too dressy. I'm standing half dressed with my head in my closet, frustrated, rummaging for something decent to wear when my phone rings. It's mom. She and dad have been traveling to Chicago by train and have just arrived, an hour later than expected, but they are now here. They've rented a car downtown and will soon be on their way. It is early afternoon. I throw on jeans and a black sleeveless tee, and decide - for now anyway - that will do.

My phone rings again and this time it's the Dashing Litigator. He has been out and about, and has called to check in and confirm the plans for the evening.

5:15pm. Srega Nona. See you then.

The Dashing Litigator is about to meet my parents.

My parents are in town for a 24 hour whirlwind stop that will not only include a first time meeting with the Dashing Litigator, but also tickets to my show that evening. After a couple hours of catching up with them and enjoying the gorgeous fall day, I get down to the real business at hand. Like an attorney prepping a client for a cross examination, I address my parents. They are not to bring up any embarrassing episodes from my childhood, they are not to mention marriage, children, their shared dreams for grandchildren, past boyfriends of mine, or that time that I cut my own bangs in the 6th grade and looked like an Ewok for three months. And even though I am very open with my parents and I have shared with them countless tales of my adventures with the Dashing Litigator, they are to pretend that all they know of him is what they have read in this blog.

Mom - typically calm, cool and collected - suddenly appears nervous. As we're walking out the door, she notices my father is wearing a yellow knit Nautica shirt with black pants. He looks very casual, very nice. She gives him a disapproving look and tells him to put on his leather jacket - even though it is 65 degrees out - as that looks nicer. Dad is confused, hesitant to oblige this bizarre wardrobe request. He resists. I tell them both to hush and climb into the back seat of the car, slamming the door.

We are all a bit edgy.

We arrive at Strega Nona and walk through the door. The Dashing Litigator is sitting casually at the bar, facing us. It occurs to me that it has been more than four days since I last saw him, and the sight of him now quite literally takes my breath away. He is wearing a deep blue dress shirt and khaki slacks and his smile floods me with both warmth and reassurance. I realize that these are my parents, and I have no reason to be nervous. He, on the other hand, should run straight out the door, had he any sense.

Too late.

Introductions are made and soon we're seated at a cozy four-person booth. My parents on one side and us on the other.

Our server comes by and takes our drink order. Mom orders a Bacardi Cocktail, which is some sort of daiquiri drink that she tried once in 1973 and has ordered ever since. And as she has learned from experience that no bartender under the age of 45 knows how to make this drink, nor has ever heard of the drink, she carries a typed out recipe card with her at all times. It is at this point that she pulls said card from her wallet and hands it to our server. My father, without missing a beat, says, "Don't worry, I'm just having a beer." I am laughing too loudly at this very 'Stiller and Meara' routine before me and when I turn to the Dashing Litigator, he is doubled over as well. He leans over to me, whispering excitedly, "Oh my GOD! They are just like my parents!"

"Is that a good thing?" I ask.

"Absolutely!" he grins, and gives my hand a squeeze.

And aside from a few conversation fumbles on my parents' side - including one ill-timed mention of a colonoscopy - the evening is a success. The banter is non-stop and he really seems to be enjoying himself. My parents ask him questions about his family, his job - and he answers them all gracefully and with ease. He asks them about their house in Maine, how things are with selling the house in Michigan. I am feeling elated, proud, happy. Under the table we are alternately holding hands and patting knees. After our plates are cleared, the Dashing Litigator excuses himself to use the washroom. My father takes that opportunity to walk over to the bar to watch the end of the Notre Dame game.

And I take this opportunity to check in with Linda. I turn to my mother, bracing myself for that "Linda Look" I know so well. But she is smiling - a broad, genuine smile. And nodding her head.

"So...? Isn't he great?" I ask.

"He's wonderful." As her smile widens, I study her face. I detect a flicker of something else, hidden beneath the smile, behind the eyes. Concern. Concern for the heart of her eldest daughter, who is so clearly falling for this handsome man. This look is a different sort of Linda Look. Or perhaps it's an after effect of the Bacardi Cocktail.

I turn away to search for the Dashing Litigator, wondering where he has gone - and then I spot him, standing beside my father, their backs to us, both watching the football game. Occasionally one leans into the other to comment on a play or offer his personal commentary. It's a lovely moment, a bonding moment, and I smile, feeling myself sigh and slip a little further.

When the bill comes, the Dashing Litigator is quick with his wallet and generously offers to pay for half of our dinner. My father protests, but soon it's a done deal and we are heading outside. I am, once again, moved by his generous gesture and want to kiss him - but hold back.

Dad takes a couple pictures (he can't resist) and we say our goodbyes, mom hugging a surprised Dashing Litigator, and dad - probably wanting to hug him, too - but opting for a firm handshake. I say my own quick goodbye with a tight squeeze and a chaste kiss on the cheek.

As we're driving to the theatre, my parents are enthusiastically endorsing the Dashing Litigator and talking about what a great dinner that was. They truly enjoyed themselves.

We arrive at the theatre and I head backstage, leaving my parents at the box office. I plunk down my bag and pull out my phone. Though I just saw my Dashing Litigator, I miss him. Though we were together, I was so tense, so nervous for him, for my parents, for everything, really, that the time felt so fleeting. I want to call him.

I do.

He answers and says, "I miss you. Is that odd? I just saw you."

I miss you, too.

We are laughing, babbling, giddy. Finally able to be ourselves. We are like teenagers, even at 30 and 34. I tell him how much my parents loved him and he says he enjoyed them as well. He says that his mother is so much like my mother.

"Well, then they should get along famously." I say.

"Or they'll butt heads!" he laughs. He continues, "When you meet my mom, you'll see. She's very feisty. Dad may have a say in some major decisions, but it's all about mom."

I am laughing, but my ears have perked up at those five words:

When you meet my mom

This is the first time I have heard him mention such a possibility. And though I don't know 'when' this will happen, the idea of it makes me feel warm and happy and excited.

And then I remember my mom and her "Linda Look".

Oh dear God.

I can only pray that the Dashing Litigator's mother doesn't have such a look.

Heaven help me.

The Teeter Totter

When I was in the 2nd grade my favorite recess activity was the teeter totter. The bell would sound and I'd make a beeline for the row of sturdy boards, always opting for the red one. I'd be joined by a friend, usually Karen Kett, (who matched me in height all the way to high school.) We'd level the plank to make it easier to mount and soon we'd be off, bobbing up and down, soaring up to the sky, patent leather shoes dangling, and then softly back to the ground. Up and down. Up and down. I remember the rush in my tummy, the woosh of the wind in my hair, the giddy exhileration of this very simple activity. Sometimes Karen would hold her end to the ground for awhile, allowing me to hover over my world, smiling in the sun. I would let go of the handle and stretch both hands into the air, feeling the breeze tickle my fingers. One afternoon we were positioned this way - with me on the up end of the teeter totter, my head back, smiling, legs swinging, about as euphoric as a seven year old can be.

Suddenly the recess bell. Time to head back into the classroom.

Karen, acting on purely Pavlovian instincts, bolted from her seat on the ground, scrambling to the school in a flurry of ribbons and blonde curls.

Thud.

In an instant I was on the ground, the wind knocked out of me, covered in dust - shocked, hurt, completely caught off guard. Abandoned. Numbly I walked back to my classroom, rubbing my sore bottom, trying to catch my breath. Confused, stung.

It was awhile before I got back onto another teeter totter. (Especially with Karen Kett) And when I did get back on, it was with both hands firmly gripping the handle, both ears pealed for that kill joy bell. The once blithe, carefree exuberance I had derived from my favorite activity, had forever been replaced with a more guarded gaiety, a jaded joy.

20 plus years later, in my budding relationship with the Dashing Litigator, I am once again on the 'Up' end of the teeter totter, and with those same trepidations. Like that seven year old Carrie, I am nervous. Terrified of crashing into the dirt again, sputtering and stunned.

Perhaps it's because my last two forays into romance have ended painfully and abruptly. Perhaps it's that we are at the 6 week mark and that's when my eHarmony faux-mance fizzled.
Perhaps it's because I'm a girl and think too much about where things are going, instead of enjoying where we are.

I revealed these feelings to the Dashing Litigator, stuttering and stumbling over my words with all the articulate eloquence of a toad. As I spoke, I covered my face with my hair, hid behind pillows and tried in vain to abandon the subject. I was on the up end of the teeter totter, alright - terrified, flailing, fumbling for something real and true to hold onto. He was on the ground watching me grapple for some sense of security. Some sort of reasurrance. What was I looking for, exactly? I didn't know. All I knew was that I was terrified, poised for a fall, feet dangling.

And then, with the kindest eyes, he said to me, "Carrie, I've been hurt before, too."

And just like that I realized I wasn't alone.

I don't know if the Dashing Litigator has ever been dropped on his ass from a teeter totter, but he, too has been bruised by the abrupt ending of the romance recess bell.

We all have.

To get back on that proverbial teeter totter takes courage. It is always a risk. It will always be scary. One never knows if and when the bell will sound and the ride will end.

But I can feel myself beginning to trust, to stretch out a tentative hand to the sky, to begin to look upward with my face to the sun. And whenever I feel that familiar twinge of panic, I look into his eyes, recall the countless thoughtful ways that he has conveyed his feelings for me, and I breathe a little easier.

Who knows when or if this ride will end? If any of the recent disasters in the world have taught us anything, it's that nothing is certain.

But to live with a death grip on the handle bars of life, teeth gritted, terrified - that's not living.

And so I shall endeavor to live fully in every joyous moment - not only in my life, but in my relationship with the Dashing Litigator. To really soak up and treasure every little discovery, experience and connection that we encounter on this passion playground.

Steps

First:
I am overwhelmed by those of you that have come out of your cyber shells to encourage me, support me, and cheer me on. I am humbled and happy that the ramblings of my romantic life have somehow brought hope and comfort to so many. Thank you, whoever and wherever you are. x.
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An amazing phenomenon occurs when you start dating somebody - men suddenly come out of the woodwork, hoping to woo you. Men who once wouldn't give you the time of day before are now banging down your door. Even men who are strangers - on elevators, in airplanes, the El. It's almost as if they have this radar. They're in the soulmate supermarket and suddenly they've been alerted that a 'hot commodity' is flying off the shelf and now they simply must have it.

First, there was 'The Weed' calling me, then there was an old Match.com emailer named Jack. Jack's profile had caught my eye and we had exchanged a couple engaging emails before he suddenly, and without warning, dropped off the cyberplanet. This was about 6 weeks ago. He reappeared just as mysteriously asking me to forgive him for the lapse in communication. I guessed that the reason for the lag was that he had been dating someone, it didn't work out, and now he was back in that supermarket, shopping. He agreed. I responded with my now customary, "Timing is everything" email and clicked 'send'.

I decided to ask my friend Jim about this phenomenom. How I can go months without so much as a look from a man, and suddenly now that I'm seeing somebody, they're everywhere. Jim is a dear friend of mine and has been in a relationship for about 5 months now. Being a self-proclaimed serial monogomist, he's become my male relationship guru. His take? "There's a different energy about you when you're in a new relationship. Your focus is ahead, strong, confident. To a casual observer it's like, 'Wow...I don't know what she's looking at or where she's going, but I wanna find out.' They're drawn to the energy that is coming off you." Interesting.

But what of the Dashing Litigator?

I am standing in my kitchen dressed in blue jeans and a snug black top that bares my shoulders. My shoulders that have been dusted with an iridescent powder to draw attention to my collarbone. I read somewhere that the collarbone is a sexy body part. At least that's what I keep telling myself every time I skip the gym or the ab section of my workout. "Who cares about my chubby tummy, when I've got a sexy collarbone?"

It is another dark, windy night in Chicago. It has just rained and brought about a temperature drop of about 15 degrees. Fall is certainly upon us. I am awaiting the arrival of the Dashing Litigator who should be by at any moment to whisk me away to dinner. It has been three days since I saw him last and the sense memory of our parting kisses still causes a warmth to seep through me, from my toes to my lips, spreading them into a warm, gooey, lovesick smile.

It is Wednesday. And it has been exactly 5 weeks since the Dashing Litigator first stepped into my life and into my heart. I wonder if he will notice the significance of the day? I close my eyes and am shocked to realize how nervous I am. Still. I know this feeling. It is the same that comes on opening night, waiting in the wings, mouth dry, heart racing. It's an excitement; a delicious anticipation mingled with sheer terror.

Much of the anxiety over him...still...is that I don't know what we are. Are we just casually dating? I know that I have no desire to date anybody else. But is he? Has he? Are we inching toward boyfriend and girlfriend status? Is he one of those committment-phobes that doesn't believe in labels? Do I even need a label?

The doorbell.

I don't need a label. I need a drink.

I step outside and he is standing there, too dashing for words, in his suit and smile. (He ended up meeting with a new client at the end of the day and left the office just in time for our date). His first words? "Hello lovey. You look cute. And it's a Wednesday. Can you stand it?" (He did notice).

The Chicago wind is whipping the trees and he pulls me to him, wrapping me in the warmest of hugs, our cheeks pressed together. We are standing that way when suddenly my next-door neighbor steps out onto his porch - his porch that is so close it's practically a Siamese twin to my own porch. We both start to giggle, caught in an act of PDA. I try to free myself from his nuzzling noose, but he just holds me tighter, determined to turn me into the harlot of my block. Look at that shameless hussy canoodling out in the open for everyone to see!

Soon we're off in his trusty truck and he confesses that, for the first time ever, he doesn't have a plan for the evening. I can hardly blame him, considering he's been battling the flu bug of the century for the past three days, spiking to a fever of 104.5, sleepless nights, hectic days. It's a wonder he's alive, let alone there with me now. I'll take the man over a plan any day.

We drive, and along the way I'm telling him about The Weed and how funny it is that he popped up after so many weeks. The Dashing Litigator admits to having some old dates resurface in the past couple weeks, as well.

This is news.

I am holding his strong smooth hand, which is resting on my thigh and I turn to look at him. I'm wondering if he's been dating other people. I decide to act as though he has. And I decide to act as though this is totally cool. It is quite the Tony award winning performance. "Wow! Really? Well, ok. Am I at least in the top five?"

He laughs. "Pleeeeeease."

"Top 3?" I venture.

"Come on. But seriously, no. I can't date more than one person at once. I mean, there was a time when I could - and I did - but at this point in my life? No. I can't do it. I won't."

"Me neither."

And just like that we were dating. Exclusively. Ok, then. I smile and lean my head against the headrest, feeling some of my 'opening night jitters' wane.

Steps. I'm learning that relationships are a series of steps. Some small, some challenging. And over the next few days we will climb a little higher, take a few more: Sharing feelings, step - being vulnerable and revealing imperfections, step, step - meeting a small circle of his friends, including his best friend - STEP - the significance understood with the seemingly small purchase of a toothbrush, step - the addition of a carton of half and half in the refrigerator of a man who takes his coffee black, step, step - and tonight - the Dashing Litigator will be my date for a dinner party being thrown by my director. Every cast member is bringing their significant other, and for the first time in a long time - I, too, have someone rather significant to bring.

And that - for me, anyway - is another big step.

An Apropos Season (Part III of III)

Ever since the Dashing Litigator combed the internet to find my blog (needing scarcely a hair pick, I might add) read it, and left me feeling more naked, vulnerable and idiotic than I've ever felt in my entire life, I've been sitting here paralyzed. I take full responsibility for it's untimely unveiling. I was caught off guard, caught up in the moment, caught in the arms of the Dashing Litigator (arms that would make Fabio look like a prebuscent preteen, I might add) and I hiccupped...tossing my proverbial cookies all over his six-pack stomach. In just a few mouse clicks I had gone from the guise of a girl who has got it together, who still has a few great cards in her hand, to having them all dumped out on the table, completely crapped out. My gut instinct was to quash the thing entirely. Mayday! Mayday! Abort! She's goin' down in a flurry of curls and red feathers, taking a dating nose dive, crashing and burning, doooooomed!

The day that the Dashing Litigator exposed me and my dirty little black blogging-book was a dark one indeed. It was a particularly hellish day at work. We were in the throes of mediation madness and I spent the majority of it refilling coffee, picking up boxed lunches and engaging in forced-friendly chit chat with clients. I had much going on and was unable to tend to my own personal crisis. Throughout the day, the Dashing Litigator flooded my inbox with reassurance. He complimented me in dozens of ways on my writing style, encouraged me to continue - that he would not be able to live with himself if he were the cause of its demise, that he would not look at it ever again, and when I asked him point blank if this discovery had sent him running, he said:

Maybe running to. But not from.

It was enough. On our date Saturday night, he was to pick me up at 4:30pm for an evening that would include dinner and a ticket to my show. It was 4:32pm when he rang my doorbell. For those two minutes in between, I hyperventilated, paced, nearly vomitted, and almost called my mother - convinced that I really had scared him away. That I had revealed too much. I then recalled something my friend Brooke told me the day before: "Carrie, if he's the right guy, he won't be scared away. The right guy won't run."

When I opened the door to his handsome and smiling face, my heart felt hopeful. Relieved. He was there. He wasn't running away. But I still grabbed ahold of his hand, anyway - just in case. I still felt naked, foolish and in desperate need of some reassurance, but sucked it up and smiled, acting as though I wasn't at all phased by what he now knew. Over the course of the evening, a glorious, lovely evening - I received countless tokens of reassurance, bestowed upon me in a variety of caring, genuine and thoughtful ways as only the Dashing Litigator can do.

It was the internet that first introduced us. And now it has been the internet (in a rather embarrassing way) that has somehow brought this Crazy Actress closer to her Dashing Litigator. I'm wondering if this normally very open girl, should begin to keep some things sacred. I have the Dashing Litigator's blessing to continue my writing of our adventures, (he's actually been demanding that I continue) and his word that he will abstain from reading up on them. And I trust that.

But perhaps it is time that I keep 'this' private. Who really wants to read up on my mushy romantic ramblings, anyhow?

Who is even out there reading this? Thoughts? Opinions? Who are you? (I know who some of you are) Who are the rest?

P.S.
As I sat here to compose this blog (after first calling to check in on my dear Dashing Litigator who is in bed sick with the flu), my phone rang. It was The Dentist. (aka The Weed) The last time I heard from him was on the day before my first date with the Dashing Litigator, nearly 5 weeks ago. The Weed wondered who was 'supposed' to call. According to him, it had been a couple weeks and he was wondering. I engaged in mild chit chat before asking him if he'd ever heard the expression Strike while the iron is hot. He had.

"Well, " I said, "I would be the hot iron, and somebody else has struck. Repeatedly."

We wished each other well, and hung up. I promptly deleted him from my contact list in my cell phone - the fact that he was still there was merely an oversight. And besides, in this garden that I am slowly creating...this garden of friendships, life experiences, budding romance - there is definitely no longer any room for weeds.

A Recipe For Humiliation: (Part II of III)

To make this deplorable dish of Humble Pie you will need the following:

1 part Dashing Litigator
1 part Crazy Actress
Add to this duo 2 steins of German Beer.

Let sit in Brauhaus and marinade in a sauce of accordians, keyboards, muzak, saurbraten, and weinerschnitzel. Add a dash of 'Hilda', (our server) and a pinch of 'Mexi' (Germany's answer to John Tesh) for extra flavor.

After 90 minutes, transfer the two to Carole's Karaoke 'blender' to mix it up a bit. Throw in equal parts drama queens, rednecks, misfits and nightcrawlers.
Add to this any karaoke song that has a cat reference...for that seems to drive the pair into a tizzy of PDA.
Add 2 bottles of Bud Light.

Pour this mixture into a beautifully rehabbed pad - er pan and cook at 350 degrees for 2 hours. Be sure to add the red wine, dark chocolate, Frank Sinatra hits, slow dancing, moon watching and lip locking.

Watch closely.

You'll know the Dish of Humiliation is ready when the crazy actress begins to bubble and overflow. When she erupts with the words, "I have a dating blog and there is more than one post about you, dear dashing litigator."

Bon Apetit.


Me? I may just eat crow...or perhaps the egg that is on my face.

My Hero (Part I of III)

To say that yesterday was a bad day would be the understatement of the year. (See previous post). I commemorated the passing of my four legged friend by walking to Lake Michigan on my lunch break, sitting on a bench, watching the sailboats float by, holding a picture of my beloved Cole in my lap, listening to Sarah MacLachlan and sobbing. I returned to my desk, solemn and quiet. Just when I thought I had cried every last drop, my brother called me - weeping - from work, and then I was at it again, closing myself in the conference room, holding him in a long distance embrace from Chicago to Boston. An hour later I called my mom to check in with her - she was the saint who sat with our Colebaby as he fell asleep for the last time. She shared with me the details of Cole's final hours - his meal of scrambled eggies and bacon (his favorite), the two scoops of ice cream (he must've already been in heaven!) The absent minded veterenary assistant who greeted my mom and my dog with a too cheery "And what are we here for today?" The poem she read to him, how he licked her cheek, how she held his head in her hands and felt it grow heavy...then cold. Coming home to an empty doggie bed, a water dish, a now useless fenced-in 'dog run' on the side of the house. This loss is definitely one my family will feel for some time, and we will all deal with it in many different ways.

I cried my way through the rest of the day. My friend and coworker Jim couldn't help but laugh at me every time he passed. "What?" I snapped. "I'm sorry, " he said "It's just that everytime I pass by your desk, you're blowing your nose." I pouted and threw my soggy kleenex at him. All day, well meaning friends had emailed me their condolences, e-cards and text messages. And each one brought a fresh enslaught of the old water works.

At about 4:45pm I'd decided I'd had enough of this pity party. I shot the dashing litigator an email. I hadn't heard from him all day, but knew that he was in the throes of showing his house and making stellar court appearances. I sent him a very sarcastic email, bestowing myself with the "Debbie Downer of the Year" award for my day of depression...my trail of tears. He replied immediately, saying he had just arrived in the office and was I able to chat?

Minutes later I found myself back in the conference room, behind closed doors, but this time I was shaking with laughter...not convulsing with sobs. He allowed me to talk about Cole, to share what I was going through and offered his utmost sympathy. He never had pets growing up (he was allergic) but I so appreciated his sensitivity to me. He then asked if I would be alright for my performance that night.

"I don't have a performance tonight, " I said.

He then asked if anyone was going to cheer me up for the night and what my plans were. I told him I had planned to hit the gym, then hit the hay...as it had been 'a day'.

We hung up reconfirming our date for Thursday (that's right, folks, THURSDAY. The dashing litigator decided that seeing me on Saturday was not soon enough.) I returned to my desk and sent him an email thanking him for cheering me up.

But the dashing litigator wasn't finished bringing me cheer. Nor was he satisfied with waiting until Thursday to see the crazy actress. He asked to see me later that night, after we both had put in our miles on our respective treadmills at our respective gyms. I agreed.

At 8 o'clock I'm standing outside the Brownstone Tavern, holding my breath as my litigator steps out of his truck and literally 'dashes' across the street - wearing his now customary suit and tie - to greet me. He envelops me in the warmest of hugs and to say he is 'a sight for sore eyes' would be another understatment of the year.

What follows is the most perfect ending to a very emotional day. We sit outside...at first across from each other...then side by side (I'm so happy he notices the too far away physical distance between us). We talk and laugh and share and grew even closer.

I confess that I fear he will grow sick of me...with this evening being only 'Part I' of a three part dating week with the crazy actress. He assures me that this will not happen.

I feel close with him and completely myself. Holding his hand feels as natural as breathing. I feel safe, cared for, beautiful, adored. We talk 'past relationships' (a typically heavy topic) and I am relieved to hear that we are coming from very similar places.

The White Sox game is on...it is a tied game, bottom of the ninth...a crucial game. When the patio closes and we are moved inside, I suddenly find that we are surrounded by flat screen tv's and rowdy sports fans. A 'typical' guy would look past me, easily diverted by the moving balls and ticking clocks. But he is not typical. I excuse myself to use the restroom to give him time to watch his beloved team. When I re-enter the room, his eyes are on me and only me.

This feels nice. This feels safe. This feels good.

I'm wondering what Part II will have in store...

For Cole

Times Like This
A friendly face, the kind of face that melts you with a grin
The kind of eyes that welcome you the minute you walk in
A tender glance you simply can't refuse
At times like this, a girl could use
A dog

He listens when you tell him things - there's nothing you can't say
And unlike certain people, you can teach him how to stay
And if the world is giving you the blues,
He cheers you up by chewing up the news.
It's things like that, that make you choose
A dog

Other people need romance, dancing, playing around
Other people need constant fun - well I'm not one
I have my feet on the ground.

Give me
A quiet night, a stack of books - a tuna melt on rye
A simple walk together underneath a starry sky
And suddenly the night is something rare
And all because there's someone special there
Who's gazing at the views
His head upon your shoes.

It's times like this I sure could use...a dog.
__________________________________________________________

I love you, Cole. And I will miss you dearly.
You will always be a part of our family and I thank you for the many times you licked away my tears and cheered me up. You are the greatest dog ever and I'm so grateful that God chose us to be your family. x

Cancellation Blues

My head is throbbing and my heart is laden with heavy sighs. As I walk home from the train on this cold and grey day, it begins to rain...and I care not. Karen Carpenter sings a plaintive "Goodbye to Love" through my iPod as I trudge through the gloom and the damp and the wind, climbing the steps to my apartment.

The dashing litigator has canceled our date.

Early this morning he sent me an email asking how the opening of my show went. (Very well! In fact I just learned that we were "Jeff Recommended") He said he was feeling a tad sick but that we were still on for tonight.

An hour later he wrote: "Carrie, I am dying. Would you mind if we rescheduled for another night? Otherwise I anticipate that you will see the meal I just ate when I see you tonight." Eek.

Truthfully, I was not feeling so hot myself. We had an opening night reception and I had a bit too much of the bubbly and not enough zzzzz's. I probably wouldn't have been at my best. But I was still bummed to not be able to spend time with him.

Especially since it looks as though we won't be seeing each other until next weekend when he suggested he come see my show and then take me out afterward.

I was ok with these plans. I'm a bizzee gal, he's a bizzee guy. We are bizzee people with fabulous lives who are striving to make time for each other. Quite commendable, really. Quite grown up. Quite. Throughout the remainder of the day, however, my calm, cool, collectedness quickly slipped into doubt, depression and downright derangement.

I recalled a conversation I had only yesterday with my friend - the pants guy. He had all but convinced me that I was ridiculous for putting all of my dating eggs in one manbasket. That as long as I was on match.com and the dashing litigator was on match.com, he was dating other people and I should, too. I protested, "I cannot pursue more than one person at once! How can you adequately get to know someone if your focus is split?" He disagreed. "This guy may be into you, but if he's as great as you say he is, I'm sure he's seeing other people. This is Chicago. Why shouldn't he? And why shouldn't you?" I hung up feeling empty and wondering if he was right. We've only had a few dates and so far they've been so few and far between that perhaps we're not really going anywhere. Perhaps he's just not that into me.

My head began to swim, replaying every relationship I've ever had, especially the most recent ones in memory. My summer eharmony romance...I had thought things were going so well. I slapped that 'girlfriend' label on without hesitation and wore it proudly until it was ripped from my chest, taking a layer of skin with it, leaving me red and raw. And my winter wonderman...the impossible dreamer who was my warm, downy comforter wrapping me in a cozy cocoon for three bitter winter weeks in Chicago, before returning to his native Australia...taking his heat and my heart with him.

I lifted my head and stood tall. I was resolute. I will not go through this again, if I can help it.

I decided to go back onto match.com. I have been receiving emails from potential suitors (some of them quite fetching), but had been responding to each with a very courteous "Thank you, but I've just started seeing someone. Good luck to you." email. Now things had changed. With my friend's words and my own bruised ego fresh in my mind, I logged onto match.com. I read a very nice email from a seemingly nice guy and clicked to respond. I found it to be a rather arduous task. Quite simply, my heart wasn't in it. I strung together some mildly engaging sentences and clicked 'send'. I sighed. Idly, I searched for my dashing litigator's profile, wondering when he'd last been online, wanting to see his handsome faraway face.

And a curious thing happened.

I could not find him. I scanned through profile after profile, frantically, before finally entering his username. My jaw dropped at what I saw: This user has hidden his profile.

This means one of several things. He's not pursuing anyone on match.com. He's pursuing someone else. He's pursuing me.

And any of the above scenarios suits me just fine.

I will strive to be patient (a difficult task for an Aries) and to live my very full life here. I will be gentle with myself and with my friends - my friends who have listened to more than their fair share of my neurotic ramblings over the past couple weeks. I love you all and I thank you for wrapping me in hugs (choke holds?) and for providing me with your patience, your precious airtime minutes and sweet chocolate for this very single soul.

When things calm down for the dashing litigator and the crazy actress - when opening nights and house closings, court cases and weddings, family engagements and social obligations - are out of the way, hopefully this 'datingship' will be underway...and we can finally find a tranquil bay to really set sail.

Until then, I will find the joy in this unexpected 'dateless' Thursday night. Eating Chinese cashew chicken and watching Taxi with my roommate. Laughing, resting, reconnecting. Taking a hot bath and getting to bed early, catching up on much needed beauty sleep.

Could be better...but could definitely be worse.

A Meal Ticket (Date #3)

As I sit here to compose this latest blog entry, I am smiling, laughing, and fresh from Date #3 with the Dashing Litigator. After our incredibly romantic second date we exchanged emails trying to coordinate when we'd see each other again. It was decided (mostly due to my crazy and hectic rehearsal/performance schedule) that we would meet for lunch some day this week. That day was today. Today is Wednesday, which makes it not only our third date, but also our third Wednesday date. *cue Twilight Zone music*

What I had pictured in my mind for this lunch date was a typical, casual affair. I'd walk a few blocks from my office, he'd walk a few blocks from his, and we'd meet in the middle somewhere in the loop, at a Potbelly's or Corner Bakery. We'd dine on sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, or salads with plastic forks, talking over the din of the lunch rush with all the other skirts and suits. Then we'd part with a casual hug and go our separate ways.

But there is nothing typical about the Dashing Litigator.

At 11:30 he picks me up from work looking gorgeous in a black suit with pale blue pressed shirt and bold yellow tie. He whisks me away to Chicago's Little Italy neighborhood. There we drive around for a bit looking for parking, nearly knocking off his passenger side mirror when he zips down a narrow alley. I laugh hysterically, while he is nonplussed, saying it will 'add character' to his trusty Chevy truck. His driver's side door also 'has character' in that every once in a while he must open it part way and then slam it shut again, to secure it. Each time he does this, I momentarily panic, thinking he is trying to escape the date. He laughs.

He takes me to Tufano's, an authentic Italian restaurant that has been around for more than 60 years and only accepts cash. The specials are scrawled on a chalkboard that runs along one wall, and the walls have that Tuscany feel, plastered, painted a dry mustard color and with intermittent patches of exposed brick. We choose a table near the window and the place is virtually empty, save for a couple of small parties.

The time absolutely flies by. We talk about (in no particular order) my show, my career, lesbian gym teachers, taking naps, his upcoming trip to Florida to buy a unit on Marco Island, and weddings - or rather, things we know that we want and don't want for our wedding. Well, not 'our' wedding...but, well, I mean it could be...but no, it's just the third date people, geez! I wouldn't want to assume anything and - ok. Shutting up now.

We order bruschetta. He orders meatballs and sausage (cutting them up to share with me when they arrive) and pasta. I order the eggplant lasagna. We share everything and can't understand people who don't like to share their food. All too soon it is time to go. I glance at my watch and realize I am officially 2 minutes late for work.

We hop back into his truck and make tracks for the south loop. We're making great time when suddenly I'm aware of a police car, lights flashing, about a block behind us. He continues through two green lights before making a left hand turn. "I think that police car is chasing us!" I shriek, clapping my hands. He isn't so sure, but just then we see the blue lights round the corner slowly gaining on us. He pulls to the side of the road and sure enough, so does the police car.

He is completely cool and calm. He turns to me, winks and says, "I told you. Never boring, right?" According to Grumpy Officer Murphy, my date made a turn in a lane that was not designated for turning. And for that, in Chicago, they fine you $75. He handles the whole situation, which could've been quite embarrassing, with ease. I am smiling and laughing and enjoying this adventure with him, even though it has now made me nearly a half hour late to work. He assures me that he will contest the ticket - and being a lawyer, how could he not?

Soon we are back on the road. As we drive down Jackson, one whole side of the street is lined with a red carpet. I tell him to let me out - that I can walk the rest of the way on the red carpet and appease the paparazzi. He puts on his best Golden Globe announcer voice and says, "And now coming down the red carpet, Tim Robbins...oooh, and look at who's just stepped out, folks. You can tell by her gams, it's Carrie Wickert!" I collapse in hysterics and I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt and now I really don't want to go back to work.

We pull up to my building and begin the arduous task of figuring out when we can see each other again. With my show opening and his trip to Florida - that next date would have to be Thursday. Of next week. I lean in and give him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and cross up to my building, turning to wave at him before I disappear thru the revolving door.

Minutes later I'm back at my desk, smiling and sighing and wishing next Thursday were already here. I go to the copier to run some things off and when I return there is an email from him - thanking me for meeting him for lunch and confirming that we are on for next Thursday, (actually he wrote he would "...love to get together Thursday") and that he will most definitely 'torment me' via email in the time between.

I must admit, even with our mutual hatred for cats, I am slowly turning into one smitten kitten.

Me. Ow.

To be continued...

Stick a fork in me...I'm done

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Chicago has never looked lovelier, brighter, sunshinier. I feel light and warm - I'm smiling, sighing, laughing for no reason, and singing "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady. Even the smarmy homeless men who typically taunt me, seem to tip their hats as I pass. Why is this? What is the reason? Something in the air? The water? My coffee?

No, my friends. I am currently basking in the warm, gooey afterglow of a stellar second date with "The Dashing Litigator".

After our first date it was four full days before I heard from him. By the third day I was thoroughly convinced that he was not interested and I would not hear from him again.

And then on day four he appeared in my inbox asking me when I would be free to get together. I danced around my apartment like a lovestruck teenager who's just been asked to the prom.

After a few emails coordinating schedules, we arranged a date. Last night.

The evening played out like a movie. He rang my doorbell promptly at 7:30pm wearing dark blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, greeting me with a hug and whisking me away to Mon Ami Gabi, a beautiful french restaurant in Lincoln Park. He looked as gorgeous as I remembered him and his ready smile put me immediately at ease. We dined al fresco amid trees sparkling with white lights and waiters wearing bowties. We sipped beaujolais, dined on steak roquefort, and laughed. The chivalrous theme of our previous date pervaded this one as well. At one point - from laughing and mild allergies - my nose was a bit stuffy. I apologized for sniffling and he laughed. He left the table after a bit to use the restroom and when he returned he presented me with several neatly folded tissues. He then politely turned his head while I blew my brains out. I know it was a small gesture, but add that to the countless other 'small ones' (Making a reservation in advance, opening my door, pulling out my chair, offering me every bit of food before he took some for himself) and it equalled one heckuva Prince Charming.

I cannot adequately convey the magic of the conversation, which was dazzling and electric. A veritable 'Cirque de Soleil' of stories, shared observations, verbalized dreams and wonderings. Our eyes scarcely broke contact. We were both leaning in toward each other, unaware of anything around us. I lost track of time and space.

Three hours later we found ourselves at "Katerina's", a jazz club in our neighborhood. We cozied up at a table - he swilled a bourbon on the rocks, I sipped a merlot. We listened to the swing band and I completely forgot that it was a 'school night'. An elderly couple was on the dance floor dressed to the nines, swing dancing gently and gracefully to the music. We watched them and smiled at each other. He squeezed my hand. Every time we spoke we leaned in to each other - at first because it was necessary in order to be heard, and then just because it was nice be close.

I warned him repeatedly that I may turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of twelve. He took off his watch and set it on the table and when it was midnight, we stood to leave. He drove me home and immediately asked, "When do I get to see you again?" Because of my hectic upcoming tech week and show opening, a lunch date would have to do - sometime next week.

I thanked him for a truly lovely evening and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek...but apparently his lips were feeling left out.

And we couldn't have that.

I currently feel like I have high fructose corn syrup oozing out of my pores. This morning I greeted my roommate (who was trying to make breakfast) with a too-cheery-for-6:30am "Gooood morning!" I only had about 5 1/2 hours of sleep and yet I feel invigorated and refreshed and if my mood were a Crayola crayon I would be razzle dazzle rose.

Perhaps this latest mushy post is merely a precursor, heralding the 'end time' of this blog. The end of an era of dead-end dates and disappointing duds.

Oh, wouldn't it be lover-ly.

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!!

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.