Ice cream and killer silences: Are you listening to me at all??

The second CL date was with a guy whose name is completely irrelevant. My friends and I call him Ice Cream Guy. I should’ve known better than to agree to go out with him in the first place, but that was before I became adept at the preemptive weed-out.

Here are portions of a chat exchange from the day before our date:

him: can I ask a totally rude and personal question?
4:12 PM me: ok
him: ok - you have to promise not to get offended.
me: I won't make such a promise.
4:13 PM him: how many guys have you been with?

See? Right there. That’s where I should’ve closed the window. Never talked to him again. But, like I said, I was new to all this and hadn’t developed good strategy yet.

me: well, I'm not offended, but I'm also not going to go there.
Just a personal thing.
him: well - I'm just a little scared of CL for one thing.
I met a few really slutty girls
…
him: can I ask if it's less than 10?
me: I'm just not going there.

(after he asks if I have plans, which I do, and if those plans are with a guy from CL, which they are)…

him: don't kiss the guy tonight
me: oh lord.
5:23 PM I want to pretend you didn't say that.
him: hey
i'm the jealous type
me: I see that.
him: no kissing tonight for u
5:24 PM me: … it's time for me to head home.
…
him: u keep you lips and hands to yourself
5:29 PM me: No promises….
5:30 PM him: ok

So I stupidly still met the jealous guy the next day because we already had plans, and I really don’t like not following through.

Time for the date. I arrived at our designated meeting place a minute or so early, and perched with a book against a wall. The book was typically engrossing, but the blistering July heat and nasty humidity distracted me, and I realized I’d been there for a while. I checked the time -- he was 10 minutes late. Read some more-- 15 minutes. And some more-- 25 minutes. I was aggravated and, by this time, doing a little more than ‘glistening’ in the sun. My cell rang. 32 minutes late, and he was finally there.

When I answered, he said he saw me. I looked around. No one near me fit the picture or description he’d sent me. The guy in the picture was tall, tan, and lean with a Mr. Clean-shaved head, a goatee, and a passably cute face. The guy I saw walking toward me was squatty, pale, and packing more than a few extra pounds (not that I can talk, but, hey, I don’t falsely advertise). Aside from his nose, I didn’t think anything about his face looked remotely similar to the picture.

Again, I should’ve made an exit right then. I know. Boy, do I know.

We made introductions and began walking. And walking. And walking. And walking. There wasn’t much conversation during all this. He set the pace at high speed, and the heat wasn’t abating. After about 15 blocks (we’re talking just over a mile
here), I was drenched, he was drenched, and we were finally at the ice cream place. We each got a cone and sat down to chat.

It started off bad and only got worse. After only a few minutes, it became painfully apparent that he was listening to nothing I said. Example:

Ice Cream Guy: So, you’re a writer, huh?
Me: no, not really a writer. I’m an editor.
Ice Cream Guy: Oh, yeah, editors are important (blah, blah, blah)
… (minutes later)
Ice Cream Guy: So, what kind of stuff do you write?
Me: um, I’m not really a writer.
… (and yet again)
Ice Cream Guy: Would you ever write a screenplay?
Me: Well, no. For two reasons, the main one being I’m not really a writer, and the second being that making dialogue believable is incredibly difficult.

In addition to finding out that Ice Cream Guy had no desire or ability to process new information, I also gleaned the following information during our labored conversation:

1. Contrary to his claim that his ‘job’ is something dealing with finances, the guy was actually unemployed, and…
2. living with his parents, which…
3. might have been forgivable since he’d supposedly just finished his masters program, but…
4. he wasn’t really looking for a job, and…
5. seemed generally unmotivated in every area of life.
6. He was an obvious liar, and not even of the fun variety... you know, the ones who say interesting things.

I looked down when I was about halfway through my cone, and he’d just finished his. Despite the napkin dispenser conveniently located right there on our table, he’d managed to let chocolate drip down to completely cover both his hands and make a nice little puddle on the table. I wondered who I was with, a three-year-old?

Looking back, his trip to the john to scrub up was yet another perfect opportunity to give him the slip. Every time I think of this day, I want to kick my own ass for not leaving at this point. I have absolutely no excuse, none, for not leaving right then.

He came back from the john and began a new line of questioning. He wanted me to tell him a story of an adult nature. A story of mine. Hold on. What?! I declined, changed the subject. “C’mon, tell me about a one-night stand or something,” he insisted. I felt obligated to point out his inclination to believe all the girls on CL are sluts. “I’m not giving you reason to lump me into that category.”

It was at this point the already painful conversation pretty much ceased. Don’t get me wrong, I was trying-- offering topics, asking questions, commenting on our surroundings (now why I was trying, I have no idea).

Again, I should’ve made my exit. But I was stupid: I agreed to walk down to the water with him, and we sat in near silence on a bench while life happened all around us for what felt like eternity. Finally I said I should get back, and we began our lengthy trek to the Metro. I thanked the gods we weren’t heading in the same direction because I think I might've flung myself onto the third rail if I had to endure his presence any longer. When we said goodbye, I wished him luck with his job search, and he assured me we’d be in touch again. Ha!

I told you this guy made Neil* look like a prince.


---
Ice Cream Guy contacted me through chat the day I started this blog. It'd been more than two months since our date, and I didn't realize this particular screenname was attached to him. He asked if I'd had sex yet (more about The Resolution later), and the conversation was over. Again, WTF?!


* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)

The Pressure Cooker: Dinner as the First Date

Neil* sent one of the first serious responses to my ad, and he included his IM. I chatted with him while I read and responded to some other messages I’d received. We covered the basics (Where are you from? What do you do? What music do you like? etc.) and exchanged photos. He was neither gorgeous nor hideous, he seemed like a nice enough guy, and we seemed to have quite a few interests in common. So when he asked me out after a couple hours of chat, I said sure. I almost immediately regretted agreeing when, after I asked what he had in mind, he said he wanted take me to dinner somewhere "special."

My belief is that going out to dinner is one of the absolute worst first dates you can have. In fact, dinner alone shouldn’t be a date until you’re completely comfortable with the person you’re dating. My reasons for this belief are plentiful. One, you're eating (obviously), which, for me, introduces problems including, but not limited to: maintaining conversation while trying to trudge through a menu (I’m one of those people who finds menus daunting and takes forever to choose, usually only selecting when the server comes 'round for the umpteenth time and I feel I can dawdle no longer); maintaining conversation while stuffing your face; not spilling your food or drink or your date’s food or drink on yourself or on your date (I fail at this almost daily); overcoming the odds of the exponential increase in the potential for foreign objects becoming lodged in your teeth.

Then, of course, there’s the whole eye contact thing. You’re sitting across from this person you barely know or don’t know at all, and you have to decide just how much eye contact is enough. Too little and you’re avoiding him; he might think you find him unattractive or that you have something to hide. Too much and you just make everyone uncomfortable. Then there’s the fact that most restaurants just don’t offer a great deal of stimulation for conversation if the one you’re having happens to fall flat. Medieval Times and Marrakesh aside, you probably aren’t getting loads of interesting things to talk about heaped upon you at your dining establishment of choice (and I wouldn’t necessarily recommend first dates that involve eating only with your hands, so both those restaurants are off my dating list).

Then there are the questions about your date’s behavior… How does he react to poor service? Will he pitch a fit and call the manager if the bread isn’t warm enough or if the bartender gives him two olives instead of three in his martini? Does he get loud after a glass or two of wine and disrupt everyone else’s dinner? Will he try to order for you? What if he wants to eat off your plate? Does he leave lousy tips? Are his table manners akin to those of a Marmoset monkey? Will he try to stick you with the bill? In meeting someone for the first time for dinner, these are all questions to be considered.

Aside from my general distaste for dinner as the first date, that this guy thought I was worthy of something ‘special’ after our relatively brief exchange made me a little wary. And even if it hadn’t, I hadn’t been on an actual date in more months than grace a calendar year, and I’d never been on a date with someone I’d never met. I wasn’t pleased with the whole proposition.

“Oh. Dinner? Really? I was thinking something low-key, without a lot of pressure,” I responded.

Nonetheless, he persisted. “I just mean somewhere I haven’t taken another date.” And so it was decided: by the next day we had reservations at a semi-swanky Dupont restaurant the coming Wednesday evening. Another prospect I found none-too-thrilling, since it wasn’t something I’d budgeted for, and I’m a firm believer in paying (or at least offering with conviction) my share.

I arrived a few minutes early and hung around outside hoping he’d arrive soon. He didn’t, and I found myself inside faced with a host who seemed hospitable enough, but I realized I had no idea what this guy’s last name might be when asked for the reservation. Fortunately, Neil came over from the bar just in time to rescue me, and we were promptly seated.

Neil ordered a bottle of wine and some steamed mussels for an appetizer. Mussels? The prospect of digging the little rubbery buggers out of their shells without sending one flying across the room à la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman was a little daunting. Somehow I knew it’d be less endearing if I did it than it was with her. Plus, there was a decided lack of guys in tuxedoes standing around waiting to catch flying mollusks. So the pressure was on.

Fortunately, I managed to keep my mussels at our table, perhaps even on or near a plate, but it didn’t make the experience less intense. Unfortunately, that was about the only intense thing about our date. Actually, it was about the only thing remarkable in any way. The food was good, as was the service, but, although the conversation was pleasant enough and wasn’t painfully dull, it tended toward the mundane.

Neil, as nice and successful a guy as he is, seemed to have no capacity for imagination. Call me childish, or whatever you will, but I enjoy the company of people who can keep up in a conversation that ranges from how much Matt Drudge Rules Our World to whether or not pirates actually kick more ass than ninjas to what the big deal about Chuck Norris is to the big ol’ mess we’re in to how gross it is to think of Screech having sex (not to mention the gross-out factor of the Dirty Sanchez). I’m happiest when having conversations that seem to flow seamlessly from one topic to another, however discordant they may be.

Anyhow, the main revelation in the conversation with Neil was his workaholic tendencies, and I had to wonder if and when he’d have time to date at all. When our meal was complete, he paid the tab (which helped my wallet and hurt my pride a smidge) and politely walked me to my door. We exchanged general goodnight pleasantries with mention of “doing this again” sometime. I e-mailed him the next day to thank him again for dinner. That was pretty much the end of it.

On immediate reflection, I thought of the date as less-than-desirable. Hadn’t I asked for a great conversationalist? Someone with a great imagination? Neil was neither, and although I realized the date wasn’t terrible, I thought it left a lot to be desired. Since I’d posted my ad that Monday, I’d been receiving more and more responses. By the time I got back from dinner with Neil Wednesday night, they probably numbered in the 70-range, so I had a little hope that I’d have some more pleasant experiences.

The next two outings with CL guys made me re-evaluate my analysis of the date with Neil. Compared with them, Neil looked like a prince, dull conversation or no.


* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)

Adventures in CL dating: How it all began

When I moved to D.C. in February, I had but one major ambition: to get a job. I found some temp work immediately, thanks to the string-pulling of a college pal. Soon thereafter, I turned to various sites and began looking for a position to serve as the start of my career. It didn’t take long for craigslist to stand out from monster.com, dcjobs.com, and all the other sites I was cruising daily as the files stacked higher on (and around) my desk. Ultimately, I found a position that was perfect for me and a hiring manager who thought I was perfect for the job, thanks, in great part, to the wonderfulness that is CL.

Later, I used CL’s free stuff section to offload some bulky unused furniture and an abused outdoor umbrella my roommate had been too lethargic to get rid of himself. And, after that, a friend and I used the site to find a new apartment together.

I can’t deny I’d killed a good deal of down time at work cruising through the missed connections section, or, sometimes (usually by way of Wonkette) through the personals. But the Monday afternoon I found myself reading through post after post in the men seeking women, women seeking men, and women seeking women sections (I’d been warned to steer clear of men seeking men while at work, or I’d’ve likely gone there, too), I had what I would later come to describe as a temporary lapse in sanity: I decided I’d post an ad.

Thinking myself high above all those "shallow" posters who require a certain height, weight, ranking on the scale of attractiveness, level of education, and income, I attempted to be witty and leave my options open. The ad read:

Care to prove me wrong? -- 24, Dupont

I find myself here looking for a man, which is problematic since I’ve come to believe men are just as much mythical creatures as unicorns and sincere politicians. However, I’ve decided to see if my wonderful, reliable DC craigslist is as wonderful and reliable in the personal department as it is in the jobs and free stuff departments.

So, in the grand tradition of the craigslist litany of requirements, here goes:

If you are:

- a straight male,
- between the ages of 23(ish) and 33(ish),
- a great conversationalist [who is just as content discussing today’s headlines as you are participating in long (discussion-form) tirades (about anything and everything) that push you to the edge of your imagination],
- intelligent,
- honest,
- tolerant of those unlike yourself, and
- in search of good company,

give me a shout.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t really consider what would follow the posting.

In the next half hour, I got no responses. Then a few trickled in, most of which said something to the effect of, "If you don’t give your physical stats, everyone just thinks you’re fat, ugly and desperate like the rest of the women on CL." Great. Something I hadn’t noticed before but that suddenly resembled hope deflated in me, and I decided I loved CL even more for allowing me to dive into Internet dating anonymously and without expense. If you’re going to get rejected by scores of guys on the Internet, it’s best no one has to know and you didn’t waste money on it, right?

But by the time I got home from work that night, my inbox had about a dozen responses aside from the thoughtful informers mentioned before. I began responding to the first few e-mails and chatting with a couple of the guys who included their IM. By the end of the night, the number of messages had more than doubled and I had a date scheduled for Wednesday.

I went to bed excited. My last "real" date was a nearly-disintegrated memory, and I thought going out with Neil* would be interesting.


* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)