Blind date - wait, did we meet?
Surfing the net recently a Match.com popup popped up. I thought “Gee, I should take a look.” And I did. One fellow really caught my eye. He was articulate, big plus. Among other things, his great fishing photo struck me. But peeps, as we all know, I am nothing if not frugal. Possibly parsimonious. Whatever. I searched the web for free dating sites and “Plenty of Fish” ranked high and is totally free. Okay. Time for me to venture back into the dating scene. I signed up.
Within the hour, and I am not (for once) exaggerating, there was THE fisherman sending me a message. I responded that I’d been looking for a fisherman as I needed fish frames (that would be the carcass for you non-cooks) to perfect my beurre blanc sauce.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Music swells in the background. Think literary love stories, crossed signals, little misadventures, like Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxane, such lovely tales. Well, this is nothing like that.
Joe and I make a date (his name turns out to be Joe) – which he at the last moment cancels. Food poisoning. Okay. That shit happens (har har.) We reschedule for the Monday.
That would be today. A workday. Okay – home. The beauty prep begins. On state occasions I curl my eyelashes, wear mascara and eye shadow, shave my underarms, don earrings and a necklace. I did that today. As well as armor up (thank you Spanx, ultimate women’s support undergarment.) So with everything pushed up, out, and generally into place, even wearing new underwear (not that there was the remotest chance of Joe getting lucky – wearing new underwear is a power move – you know you’re wearing the cute stuff and it gives ya some edge. You know?)
I leave right on time. Half hour to Roseburg. Zip. Catch I5 exit 150. Three miles later two DOT trucks pull in ahead of me, one in each lane. One with a reader board “Rolling Slowdown. Do Not Pass.” WTF. My car, the first vehicle behind these two traffic- slowing pain in the ass DOT, masters of the universe, slow to 20 mph. For no discernable reason. For friggin 10 miles. They offramp at exit 138. Let me do the math for those of you math impaired. 10 miles at 20 mph = 30 minutes. My timeline is shot. I phone Joe, who is not picking up, and leave a message just before 7 p.m. State the facts, running late. The DOT trucks pull off (I mentally give them the finger, fuckers.) And have 13 more miles, some through the city.
I arrive at the restaurant. Take a quick walk through. This is the bad thing about blind dates. One is never quite sure. So I enlist a server – I tell her my rather humorous tale – she is sweet – and goes off to check men who sit singly within the bar. I flirt in the meantime with a cute baby who gurgles and smiles at me. I respond in kind. His mother comes up and asks “Are you on a blind date? – I met my husband on one.” That’s so sweet. The thing here is she actually MET him. Hmmm.
I phone Joe again to say that I have arrived and am at the bar. He never shows.
My bank account is depleted by a glass of wine that cost $8.80 before tip, whine, whine.
A total waste of mascara…
I am an eternal optimist and figure I dodged a bullet with this guy. Goodbye Joe.
Within the hour, and I am not (for once) exaggerating, there was THE fisherman sending me a message. I responded that I’d been looking for a fisherman as I needed fish frames (that would be the carcass for you non-cooks) to perfect my beurre blanc sauce.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Music swells in the background. Think literary love stories, crossed signals, little misadventures, like Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxane, such lovely tales. Well, this is nothing like that.
Joe and I make a date (his name turns out to be Joe) – which he at the last moment cancels. Food poisoning. Okay. That shit happens (har har.) We reschedule for the Monday.
That would be today. A workday. Okay – home. The beauty prep begins. On state occasions I curl my eyelashes, wear mascara and eye shadow, shave my underarms, don earrings and a necklace. I did that today. As well as armor up (thank you Spanx, ultimate women’s support undergarment.) So with everything pushed up, out, and generally into place, even wearing new underwear (not that there was the remotest chance of Joe getting lucky – wearing new underwear is a power move – you know you’re wearing the cute stuff and it gives ya some edge. You know?)
I leave right on time. Half hour to Roseburg. Zip. Catch I5 exit 150. Three miles later two DOT trucks pull in ahead of me, one in each lane. One with a reader board “Rolling Slowdown. Do Not Pass.” WTF. My car, the first vehicle behind these two traffic- slowing pain in the ass DOT, masters of the universe, slow to 20 mph. For no discernable reason. For friggin 10 miles. They offramp at exit 138. Let me do the math for those of you math impaired. 10 miles at 20 mph = 30 minutes. My timeline is shot. I phone Joe, who is not picking up, and leave a message just before 7 p.m. State the facts, running late. The DOT trucks pull off (I mentally give them the finger, fuckers.) And have 13 more miles, some through the city.
I arrive at the restaurant. Take a quick walk through. This is the bad thing about blind dates. One is never quite sure. So I enlist a server – I tell her my rather humorous tale – she is sweet – and goes off to check men who sit singly within the bar. I flirt in the meantime with a cute baby who gurgles and smiles at me. I respond in kind. His mother comes up and asks “Are you on a blind date? – I met my husband on one.” That’s so sweet. The thing here is she actually MET him. Hmmm.
I phone Joe again to say that I have arrived and am at the bar. He never shows.
My bank account is depleted by a glass of wine that cost $8.80 before tip, whine, whine.
A total waste of mascara…
I am an eternal optimist and figure I dodged a bullet with this guy. Goodbye Joe.
Comments