Sorry for the late post tonight, gang. But I still have 1.5 hours left until EOD so resolution: still in tact. I had great intentions to post right after work, but then one thing led to another and I was out drinking beer, eating hot dogs and draining my checking account to $5.26. Whoops!
Anyway, a quick story I’ve been meaning to share: due to my utter lack of game and my impending family Christmas party, where I’ll surely be asked by each and every aunt & cousin if I’m seeing anyone and have to answer each and every time that nope, still single, nope no cats yet, yep I’ll definitely consider the Himalayan Long Haired, I’ve also heard they’re great at sensing loneliness and meowing appreciatively when they sense their owner is trying to make a pun, thanks for the suggestion, I’ve decided to re-dip my toes in the pool of online dating.
And I’m taking it seriously this time. For real. I updated my profile with normal photos (Ok, one photo in a penguin costume. And the Rose photo. But otherwise all normal), and relevant information and I’m being open minded. Really, really open minded, apparently. My first date, post ‘taking it seriously’ was last week and Holy Shit, you guys.
So, this guy seemed a little kooky but immediately offered to take me out for buffalo wings, which is pretty much the fastest way to my heart/pantalones so I agreed to a date. I (mis)read his profile information as off-beat, weird, class-clownish. I should have read them as totally fucking weird.
Touching just the highlights: he loves science fiction (fine) and doesn’t own a TV (warning sign) and has really, really small hands (call me shallow, but small hands give me the willies.) He’s developing a website that he calls ‘Facebook meets Match.com’ but instead of being anything at all like either Facebook or Match, the site provides subscribers with inspirational notecards (I think?) that give them hints on how to be more confident on the subway (??). So it’s more like Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul meets NYC MTA meets a printer. Once, in high school, he rode a bus from Boston to Michigan to live on the streets, like a homeless person, just for fun. Sometimes, he carries a tambourine around town so he can have ‘theme music.’ (He didn’t bring it on the date, unfortch.) He truly and deeply believes that there is a 65-year-old man in Cincinnati who is able to cure AIDS by having sex with infected people. Like, really believes this. (Don’t ask me why we were talking about AIDS on a first date. It’s already been established I have no game.) He made a vest out of cooler ice packs that he wears around during the summer so he doesn’t get hot.
“Like on your body?” I asked?
“No,” he responded (the duhhhhh was implied), “over a t-shirt. It’s too cold right next to your skin.”
“Riiight. Obviously. But doesn’t that get your t-shirt wet?”
“Yes (duhhhh still heavily implied) but it’s summer. It’s OK to have a wet t-shirt.”
“Sure. So, you just wear this to like, the office?”
“Yeah, under my suit. Or to the bars. I just ask the bartender to store it right next to the vodka so it stays frozen.”
Of course! Right next to the vodka! “Hiiiiii, barkeep! Mind slipping this bizarre ice-pack vest in next to the Stoli Raz? Wouldn’t want her to melt.”
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg (collar of the ice pack vest?), the details I could remember. I should have brought a tape recorder. Dude was straight up ODD.
So yep! Things are going grrrreat. Open minded! At least I’ll have a good story to share at the Christmas party, I suppose? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go fit my Himalayan Long Haired for a teeny, cat-sized, freezer vest.