Oh man, you're screwing with my emotions here

Does anyone else get as excited as I do to get snail mail that isn't comprised solely of junk and bills? I was sorting through the credit card offers and shopping mailers today when I came across a card. Roommate gets cards all the time, so I automatically tossed on her pile. But when I glanced down a moment later, I noticed it was addressed to me.

My instinctive reaction was to think, "OOH! A card for me? Who's it from?? It's not even my birthday or anything. Yay, yay, yay, yay, yay!" I was like a kid at Christmas. For about half a second. And then I caught the name on the return label. It was from NRA. What in the hell?!?

I opened it up and found a really thoughtful card and note expressing his condolences for the loss of my grandfather last week. My first thoughts were a rather strange mix:

Oh, how sweet.
Man, he really can't spell.
Jesus, Belle, you're a bitch! Cut him some slack on the spelling!
He's so much better communicating in writing than in person. So much might have been different if he could have just talked to me.
Could've, would've, should've... it's all bullshit!
Seems like he's really trying here.
No, seriously. How did I ever date someone who confuses "hear" and "here"? And "your" and "you're"?
I bet his sister told him to send me a card.
How do I respond? Do I respond?
How does he still have my address? I can't remember his. But if I keep the envelope, I'll have it.
He can be so sweet.
Why wasn't he this sweet all the time when I was with him?
What the hell am I going to do with his address, wait until next year and mail him a Valentine's Day package?

Still don't know what I'm to do or think about this. But I've got to run. Roommate gave me a pity invite to her date with Psychic Garbage Man tonight. Putt-putt, here we come.

Dating, Belle's just not that into you

So far, the CL ad I posted the other day has netted about 15 responses that were decent enough for consideration. I responded to a couple, and neither of them has written back. I could sit around moping that those two didn't deem me worthy of a second round, but I'm not. I'm sitting here looking at my inbox and all these messages to which I've yet to respond, and I'm completely unmotivated to do anything with them.

While the ad, which sought someone to help me with the basics of softball, sounded like a good idea for a not-too-date-ish way to meet someone, I'm not kidding anyone, least of all myself. The truth is that I only posted it so I could get some more material for this blog. And, honestly, I think that's kind of crappy for me and for whatever poor slob might get pulled into the mix. Obviously, I'm not feeling the whole dating scene right now, and I don't think it's a good idea to force it on myself.

I do have a date on Friday. Again, it's solely for the purpose of harvesting blog material. And This Guy figured out what a plan is and reserved my presence for an upcoming Saturday. Other than that, I'm just not that into the whole scene. I don't want to abandon blogging, so I'm going to be thinking of how I can maintain this space without pushing myself into scenarios I'm not enthused about or spinning all over the place without some kind of focus.*

* Reading this just now made me think I sound like a horrible person with no regard for others. And a big dork who cares more about her blog than it's cool to admit. What the hell? At least I'm honest.

Oh Internets, you connect us

1. The Jackass read the post about him and Blonde Beauty and apparently sent the link to some friends. Hi there, and thanks for the readership.

2. A guy Roommate has been out with a few times, to be known here now and forever as Psychic Garbageman, did some Internet sleuthing and found Dating is Dead. Hi to you, too, Psychic Garbage Man.

3. I posted an ad on CL seeking sporting instruction, and guess who sent the very first response.

Just guess!

No? No guesses? Okay, I'll tell you. It was NRA Guy. Thought it best not to respond to that one. (Or the married one. Or the one who attached a pic of just his torso, even though his abs were remarkably defined.)

Forgiveness: Are we selling it or giving it away?

Ms. Potato and I grabbed some drinks and appetizers before the concert Friday night. The young couple occupying the table next to us was celebrating a birthday. When the girl opened her gift, Ms. Potato and I noticed that oh-so-recognizable little blue box. A bracelet and a necklace from Tiffany. The bits of their conversation we couldn't help but overhear led us to believe that the two were a relatively new couple.

Ms. Potato: They haven't been together long.
Belle: I know. What I don't understand is him getting her those gifts now. Isn't he just setting a high standard and making it more likely he'll disappoint her in the future?
Ms. Potato: No, he's making a promise of things to come.

I pondered Ms. Potato's take and decided she's right. Seems like the best way for a guy to get a girl to stick around longer than it's worth her while is to woo like hell at the beginning.* He gives her expensive jewelry or brings her flowers or wine when he comes over for dinner. Then, when he reverts to his natural state of being a lazy, selfish asshole, his little lady will look back at those super sweet things he did at the beginning and forgive him. Again and again.

I asked Ms. Potato if this tendency to forgive makes us idiots or if it speaks the depth of our good nature and desire to believe the best of people. Perhaps it's a combination of the two. Perhaps it's neither.

Roommate and I had a related discussion when reflecting upon a Sunday matinee. Roommate said she could see how women could keep going back to men who are abusive. With no prompting from me, she said it was that women want to believe in the goodness of the guys they're with.** That when a guy says he'll never hit her again, she truly and honestly wants to believe he's telling her the truth.

The Misogynist weighed in on another topic last night, calling the women "weak-willed" who believe the guys who say they will change or who stick with the guys who morph from Prince Charming to a beast just when the relationship is starting to progress.

It seems many of us agree that women keep forgiving and/or believing guys who don't really deserve it. So is it that initial investment that keeps us coming back? The long, witty e-mails or poems? The nice dinners or flowers? The Tiffany jewelry?

Or is it that we really are starry-eyed and naive when it comes to guys? Is there something in women that makes us unwilling to believe that men (or people in general) have no capacity for sincerity and change?

* I know I'll probably get blasted for stereotyping and whatnot. Obviously there must be exceptions to anything I'm saying here, but I am going with my generalizations.
** I weighed in with the thought that abusive guys are more likely to date more dependent women. Granting that my first-hand knowledge of the abusive relationship scenario is somewhat limited, I definitely believe this to be true.

The Twilight Zone: Wait, didn't she just break up with you?

One of my friends is currently in the dating Twilight Zone.

Blonde Beauty met ­­­­The Jackass at a Mardi Gras party downtown in 2006. The two began dating, and she held out for what I consider an exceptional amount of time before taking the act to the boudoir. Almost immediately following their first carnal encounter, The Jackass earned his moniker. After many weeks of wining, dining and dancing* and then finally getting some action, he showed his true colors for the first time and basically went MIA.**

Blonde Beauty was, of course, hurt and angered by his sudden departure. She called him out on his inappropriate behavior. He apologized. That didn't quite smooth things over, and the two stopped seeing one another.

Fast forward a bit, and somehow The Jackass started wooing Blonde Beauty all over again. This time, he did a better job from the start, and they entered a relationship that, although not without problems, seemed to be progressing nicely. Blonde Beauty was comfortable with him. It became understood among her friends that the two were a couple. They began spending nearly every day together. He almost had us convinced he was a completely different person from the one who vamped before. Almost.

Then, totally out of nowhere, he told Blonde Beauty that he was being "cautious and guarded" with their relationship. He kept saying that he wasn't ready to move in together, despite that neither of them had actually mentioned even considering such a move. The entire conversation came as a surprise to Blonde Beauty, who had back-burnered any reason she might've had to question their relationship.

There was a great deal of talking, none of which generated an agreeable result. He wanted to slow things down, take a step back. She wanted to know what kind of arrangement they'd have before she signed the deal. Would they go back to just dating? Stop the daily contact? The sleepovers? The sex? He refused to define his request. When she insisted on talking about what he wanted to change, he, in a jackass move as old as time, essentially shrugged his shoulders then tried to shift the blame onto hers. "I'm willing to work at this. Do you not think it's worth it?" And, then, there was a break-up.

After a week or two of complete misery, Blonde Beauty found a message from The Jackass in her inbox. They went to dinner. He told her he was an idiot. Yadda, yadda. Blonde Beauty was wary, but The Jackass said the right things, and they were on again.

It only lasted a day or two before The Jackass came back to tell her he really only liked the idea of her. That she's a great girl with all the qualities he knows he should want, so he was trying to make himself have feelings for her that were never there. Of course, this hurt her more than the original breakup.

Blonde Beauty was burned, unhappy, angry, hurt, depressed. She became fire-shy and wary of any guy who wanted to take her out. When she finally took my advice and did accept a date, she found something she wasn’t ready for. The Jackass’s Twin.

She met Jackass’s Twin at another Mardi Gras party (similarity one). He asked for her number, and they talked on the phone several times before going out. Prior to their first date, Blonde Beauty had already noted several similarities between The Jackass and Jackass’s Twin. They live within on block of each other. They’re both from the same region. They both have siblings in the same city. It just kept going on and on.

Blonde Beauty went out with Jackass’s Twin other night. They had a lovely time together before she found out he’s the same religion as The Jackass.*** This was the last straw for my friend. The similarities were just too great. Even though The Jackass and Jackass’s Twin don’t necessarily share common interests or personalities, the coincidences are far too great for her to ignore anymore.

Even though Jackass’s Twin might be a perfectly wonderful dude, I’m completely in favor of Blonde Beauty’s decision not to see him again. If she did, she’d constantly be reminded of her ex, which is the opposite of what she needs right now.

The whole idea of dating someone else was to help her get over The Jackass and remind her that there are other guys out there much more worthy of her time and affection. Unfortunately, it backfired this time.

* Many of these initial dates were miserable failures by Blonde Beauty's account, but they did sometimes involve dancing.
** Much, much later, he told her she was the only "one-night stand" he'd ever had. Can someone please, please, please get this guy a fucking clue? You don't date a one-night stand for months before having sex with her. If you did, the name would be a misnomer. In his description, I suppose it qualifies as a non-sequitur, but, at any rate, the guy's a freakin' jackass moron.
*** The religion thing had caused its own problems in her relationship with The Jackass, which Blonde Beauty had chosen to work through.

Stop Resisting: Adults make plans. Deal with it

The other night, This Guy told me he wanted to see me this coming weekend. I agreed, and he moved on to a new topic.

Since then, Roommate has asked me to attend an open bar event with her Saturday that will give me a perfect excuse to wear the dress Ms. Potato gave me for my Birthday, which I've yet to don. A friend's daughter is in a play that I can only attend on Sunday afternoon. Blonde Beauty asked me to go to the Snow Patrol concert with her on Friday.*

When I talked to him last night, he seemed quite perturbed that I didn't just block out the entire weekend for his half-assed request. This annoyed me. Maybe even angered me.

Here's a newsflash, kiddies. We're adults. We've officially entered the working world. These aren't my do-everything-on-a-whim-and-deal-with-the-consequences-as-they-come college days. Five days of my week are pretty much eaten by the work thing. The other two are precious. And if I don't make some kind of plans before they arrive, I'm slightly more likely to be sitting on my arse doing nothing than I am to be out having fun. Why? Because my friends are also adults. Adults who have jobs and responsibilities and tend to make plans for themselves before the weekend arrives, too.

I don't want to come across as anti-spontaneity. That's not it at all. I love to be spontaneous. But it's hard to do so all the time. If I'd waited for This Guy to fill me in on his plans for us at his leisure, I probably would've been stuck with nothing to do all weekend but go out with him.

I'm beginning to notice this trend more and more. In the last week, I've had two guys ask if I'd want to "go out sometime." When I said I'd be up for it, neither of them even attempted to discuss making a plan. They still haven't. It's not like I'm sitting around waiting, thinking to myself, "Gee, I hope Johnny Internet calls tonight. I came home and got ready just in case he wanted to take me to that movie we've been talking about."

That's right, contrary to what seems to be popular belief, asking if someone wants to do "something" does not constitute an actual plan.

I went out with another guy one time months ago. We've spoken occasionally since, and he always says we should hang out again. The guy was nice but had the mental capacity of a cockatiel**, so I've pretty much avoided it. After breaking up with NRA, I was feeling lonely one night and said "sure" when he repeated his request. His response? "Great. Sounds like a plan." NO! No, idiot, it is not, in fact, a plan. A plan is when you establish a date and a time and a meeting place and, perhaps, some kind of idea of what you're going to do in that time.

If my friends and I want to see each other, we don't say, "We should get together!" "Okay, great! Sounds like a plan!" We actually make plans. We say, "I'll be at this place at this time on this night; you should be there, too." or something similar. That's what a plan is!

Do you all encounter this BS, or is it just me? I'm hesitant to say this is a male quality, but I'm barely holding back at this point. It might be more accurate to say it's a lazy Internet dater thing, but I don't have enough data to know for sure that it isn't just my magnetic pull on guys who can't commit to a freakin' date a few days in advance. Sheesh.


* Before committing to Blonde Beauty, I told her I had to check with This Guy about our plans, which I think was rather generous of me.
** The guy literally just repeated everything that was said about a million times. I'm not dissing cockatiels, but I could've sustained about the same level of conversation with one.

Weekend Highlights

Belle: I think I'm only going to count sex from now on if it's really, really good. And, by that standard, I'm practically a virgin.
The Misogynist: (nearly choking on his Tom Collins and falling off his barstool) You have to put that in your blog.

Highlights from the weekend:
* Watching the Caps beat the shit out of Toronto.
* Watching one of the players pummel another's head into the ice repeatedly. (I looked for a video on YouTube, but I couldn't find one.)
* Getting educated about donkey punches. (Only verbally, kiddies. Seriously.)
* Yummy Caribbean fare.
* Chatting with the Ann Coulter look-alike at the table next to us.
* Getting called both a Nazi and a Republican by a random dude who wouldn't leave our table.
* Telling said random dude to hit the road.
* Managing to avoid all the March Madness.
* The exchange below:

Guy from Band Trying to Get Belle's Monies*: Help me out! I have nine kids at home!
Belle: You have nine kids?
Guy: Yeah. Nine kids!
Belle: Well that's just completely irresponsible. Ever heard of condoms? I mean, the world is overpopulated as it is. Do you realize you've robbed me of the chance to have even one child with a clear social conscience?
Guy: (Speechless, still holding hat out for monies)
Belle: Nine kids. That's just ridiculous. Seriously. Buy some condoms with the money in that hat. And use them!
Guy: (Moves away)


In other news, I woke up Sunday and checked my cell. Seeing no missed calls or messages, I told my friend I thought NRA might actually be ready to leave me alone. I knew St. Pat's was one of his big excuses to get drunk, so I thought the king of the drunk dial would definitely hit me up. Since he didn't, I figured he'd moved on.

I was proven wrong when I got home later to find a missed instant message from him during prime drunk-dial hours. I suppose it makes sense; he said he'd deleted all my contact info. He was probably fortunate enough not to memorize my number like I did his. I hate that I did. I'll be walking down the street, and his number will just pop into my head. First the area code, and then I realize what's happening and try to stop it. And fail. And the whole thing runs through my mind, reinforcing the memory of the number itself, and just generally fucking with my head.

Anyway, even with that, it was a pretty excellent weekend.

* I didn't give him money, and I didn't feel bad about not giving him money. I paid a freakin' cover at the door, and part of that money goes to the band. They weren't even that good, anyway.

Sports Tickets and Reflection

When I moved here 13 months ago, I had exactly two friends in the area (Ms. Potato and Travel Buddy), both of whom were instrumental in the getting me here and the getting me a job and the getting me a place to stay aspects of moving (which covers pretty much every aspect, I believe). They are, obviously, pretty much freakin' awesome. And when I moved here, I was fortunate enough to be sort of grandfathered into a group of friends via my connection to these two. We (the larger group) spent the summer of '06 drinking and partying and making out.* Then I started dating and moved to the 'burbs and the friends went back to school and winter came and the group, although I hesitate to use the word "defunct," kind of became a shell of its former self.

So today, when a coworker came into my office and gave me two (sweet) suite tickets to tomorrow night's Caps game, I started thinking about who I might take. Roommate is out of town for the weekend. Travel Buddy is so not the sporting type. Ms. Potato's parents are in town. The rest of the larger group is either coupled (making a last-minute, one-half-of-the-couple invite for a Friday night tricky and unlikely to be accepted) or out of town. My one friend at work is married and has a kid, so I'm thinking that's a no-go. So that leaves me with a blazing question: Who can I ask?

And so I started thinking. My first reach was for SWB, since he was online at the time and likes sports and such. Then I thought about that for a second and realized I still haven't decided if I really care to see him again. Then I thought of Fabric Softener Guy, but he has a girlfriend and I don't think he's that into sports. Then I remembered The Misogynist.

I've argued and argued with The Misogynist that he can't have the name because it belongs to someone I knew in a former life, but he's insistent, so I'm relenting. He insists on the name because I apparently accused him of being one many months ago. I don't even remember this conversation, but it sounds like something I'd say, so I'm sure it's true. I've been talking to him for [insert higher power]-only-knows-how-long now. Before I met him, I sometimes couldn't handle his humor in chat. It took meeting him for me to figure out that he's mostly joking when he says things that might make me want to call him a misogynist (or any number of less flattering names).

Several months ago, when I was still dating NRA and SWB, I was given tickets to a Wizards game. SWB was gallivanting off to Amsterdam the next day and already had an engagement for the evening, and NRA just flat out refused to join me because he was too busy or something. Anyway, this left me without an arm on which to hang, and I certainly wasn't going to show up at the corporate suite without someone to accompany me. The Misogynist was online that day, and I ended up inviting him. We met, he explained some basketball stuff to me, we had a good time. We had drinks afterward and determined that the meeting was not really a date. We've been in fairly regular contact since. He's provided a good ear and some decent straight-guy-vantage advice when it's been called for.

So I asked him to join me. Looks like that's a go, which is good, but for several hours this afternoon, I was left in this period of "friendless" flux. I didn't feel hopelessly friendless, as I know I have really good friends scattered throughout the country. I did feel like I should have more friends who I can do things with when those mentioned above aren't available. Did ya notice that all the friends I have were either from a former life, through friends from a former life, from work, or because I started dating online? Suddenly, this makes me quite sad.

* There was really only one "Yay! It's finally spring! Let's have a cookout and get trashed" make-out party. Well, it didn't start as a make-out party. That's the part most of us remember, though. Good times.

Sweet bliss

This has nothing whatsoever to do with dating, but I had to share... this has been a wonderful day!

I was pleasantly surprised to find my last post linked on dcblogs this morning. Several bloggers who made their way here and commented as a result will be getting regular reads from me, and that makes me happy.*

Then I got to cut out of work early this afternoon. Why? Because I needed to pick up my passport. Why? Because I'm going to Amsterdam. Tomorrow. This will be my first trip to Europe, and I'm excited beyond belief!

When I left the passport agency, official documents in hand, I headed toward my travel buddy's house to surprise him, and a man on the street who didn't seem creepy or homeless told me I was cute (God how I miss living in D.C.) and just about made me cream myself because my day was turning out so well.

Top all that off with an afternoon beer buzz on a weekday, and you have what I call near-perfection.

*sigh*


* And, let's face it, when I started this blog in September, it was primarily for my friends' benefit, but the writer in me was secretly hoping all along that someone else somewhere would find my musings at least slightly entertaining. This is all a boost to the ego. I don't keep up with traffic stats or anything, so I'm judging readership solely on feedback, which is typically slim.

Cleavage and Public Service

I went out with Mr. Disney* again last night. His only request was that the place we went served Sierra Nevada. My only request was that the place we went wasn't his hotel bar. We each got our wish.

Dinner was nice. He has a very dry wit and a great deal of self-confidence (read: he's a self-admitted asshole). We had a conversation that was entertaining at the time but which leaves me struggling today to remember any details an outsider would find remotely interesting.

Hmmmm... scratch that. There were the five or so minutes devoted to discussing my regular display of cleavage as a public service. It went something like this (the abbreviated version):

Disney: (After a few moments of silence) Mmmmm.... boobs (Happy sigh)
Belle: (Laughs)
Disney: What? I'm not looking at your boobs.
Belle: I noticed. I thought that was funny.
Disney: What, you would've thought it a great compliment if I stared at your boobs all night?
Belle: No, but I'm just surprised you haven't been looking more. I mean, I put this shirt on for a reason. The waiter has checked me out more than you, and I think he's gay.
Disney: You put that shirt on for me? Because you knew I liked boobs?
Belle: Well, you and every other straight guy on the planet like boobs, and I put this shirt on because I'm doing a public service here.
Disney: Wait, what?
Belle: Okay... it's like this... I could hate my boobs like all my big-breasted friends who spend all their time trying, unsuccessfully, to hide their boobs and disappointing themselves and everyone else in the process. Or, I can wear shirts that show a little (glances down), okay, a lot of cleavage and potentially give a few guys a little something to make their day better.
Disney: Interesting... but how is it a public service?
Belle: Well, let's suppose some guy is having a shitty day. His boss yelled at him, he had a flat tire, he was late leaving work, his wife's going to bitch at him... everything's going wrong. But just before he gets in his car, he glances over at my cleavage. Maybe it lightens his mood a little bit to think about my boobs. And maybe, just maybe, when some douche cuts him off in traffic, he doesn't run him into the ditch...
Disney: Because he saw your boobs! That's great! It is a public service! You totally save lives!
Belle: I know, right?

The actual conversation went on to include, among other things, the term "nipplage" (how does one even go about spelling that?) and how a peek of as much isn't part of my service agreement.

The rest of the date, much less interesting.



* A friend pointed out that I hadn't identified the source of Mr. Disney's moniker in my last post about him. The reason for the name is that he professes a deep, lasting love for Disney World. He's one of those annual passholders. He claims he goes about once a week, even if it's just to grab a beer. He seriously seems to believe it's the "Happiest Place on Earth," which is a misguided belief on his part for two reasons: 1. A cursory search of the internets revealed that the phrase actually refers to DisneyLand, Not Disney World. 2. He claims that beer options are pretty much limited to Bud and Miller in the parks. WTF? How could you possibly think the happiest place on earth exclusively serves these sorry excuses for beer? (Before I even hear any crap about it, I know I have been seen consuming Miller Light, and I will choose it over Bud if those are my options, but it's certainly not my preference, and it doesn't fit into any scenario I can imagine that has the word "happiest" in it.)

On Birthdays: I'm it? Really??

Does it make me lame that I was actually excited to get tagged for a meme? Lulu, you made my day, and after dealing with the people at the passport office, I really needed it. Thanks!

Anyway, it works like this:

1) Go to Wikipedia
2) In the search box, type your birth month and day but not the year
3) List three events that happened on your birthday
4) List two important birthdays and one death
5) List one holiday or observance (if any)


For the events, I'm avoiding the horrible things that went down and sticking with the more pleasant.
1. 1930: Mickey Mouse comic strip made its first appearance.
2. 1968: Johnny Cash recorded the album At Folsom Prison (of course, live at Folsom State Prison)
Wait! I spoke too soon when I said I'd only share sunshine and daisies. I had to include this because it was the actual day I was born, it happened right here, and I'd never heard a word about it before now.
3. 1982: Shortly after takeoff, Air Florida Flight 90 737 jet crashed into Washington, D.C.'s 14th Street Bridge and fell into the Potomac River, killing 78, including four motorists. In a freaky coincidence, a Metro Rail train derailed, killing 3 people.

Birthdays:
1. 1961: Julia Louis-Dreyfus
2. 1977: Orlando Bloom
Deaths:
1. 888: Charles the Fat, Holy Roman Emperor (Ha! Never heard of this guy, but Charles the Fat! Ha!)
2. 1941: James Joyce (I know I only had to do one, but Joyce also stood out because I remember loathing him while I endured suffered through A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.)

Holiday:

Apparently, my special day was the first day of the New Year on the Julian calendar and is still celebrated as Old New Year in Russia, Ukraine, and some other places. (I prefer British comedian Bob Mills' proposal that Jan. 13 is the day beyond which the penalty for wishing someone a Happy New Year should be death. Sounds like my kind of guy.)

Let's see... I'm tagging... Jamy

This Guy: By the Numbers

I went out with This Guy this weekend with whom I've been out a couple times before. Here are some figures that represent our encounters:

Total Dates: 3
Total Time Since Initial Meeting: 8.5 months*
Average Time Lapse Between Dates: 2.8 months*
Average Length of Dates: 3.7 hours*
Average Time Spent Discussing This Guy's Crappy Job per Date: 1.25 hours*
Average Time Spent Discussing Fashion per Date: .35 hours*
Times Belle Introduced Fashion as a Topic: 0
Average Number of Adult Beverages Consumed by Each Party per Date: 4
Types of Ethnic Food Consumed: 3
Persons We Witnessed Pissing on the Street: 1**
Vomit Puddles Successfully Navigated Around: 14***
Films Viewed: 4 (Two of which were shorts preceding a feature at the DCIFF Saturday. Check it out if you get a chance.)
Shitty Palm Readings Received by Party: 2
Times This Guy was More than an Hour Late: 2
Times Belle was More than an Hour Late: 1
Times This Guy has Attempted to Hold Belle's Hand: 0
Times This Guy has Attempted to Kiss Belle: 0

Okay, so if you've read this blog before, I'd imagine you're wondering where This Guy's pseudonym is. I'm wondering that myself. I mean, I've been out with him three times, and I haven't yet blogged about him because I haven't been able to come up with anything to call him. Well, that's not the only reason. I mean, I also can't come up with that much to say about him. He's a nice enough guy. And I have a nice enough time while I'm with him. And... that's about it.








(Ummmm... Did you really think I'd stop there? Oh. Man. You obviously don't know me at all.)

I talked to This Guy via instant messenger the whole time I was dating NRA. He knew the score in that area, and our virtual conversations, much like our interactions in the tangible world, have never been flirty, so I didn't feel bad keeping our connection. When I first told him I was seeing someone, he lamented that he'd "somehow missed [his] opportunity." (Gee, I can't possibly think of how that happened...)

One night last week, we were discussing my toying with the idea of taking on an additional responsibility that would likely suck up most of my free time. He commented that the thought of that made him sad. Frustrated with his constant references to the-dates-that-never-are, I asked him if he ever intended to ask me out again. I suppose that was the motivation This Guy needed; we suddenly had a tentative plan for the weekend.

After confirming our plans Saturday afternoon, I readied myself and headed for the Metro (which I'm about damn fed up with on the weekends. I understand track work has to happen at some point, but holy freakin' hell, half an hour between "shuttle" trains is ridiculous!). After waiting on the platform for about 20 minutes, I got a call from This Guy telling me he wasn't leaving work on time (no shit! By the time he called, he was supposed to have been gone for half an hour). He was going to be late. Something like an hour late.

Needless to say, I was a bit miffed. Had he called half an hour earlier, when he was supposed to leave work, I would've just goofed around on the internets for another hour before leaving my house. Having opted for a smaller purse than I usually carry on Metro excursions (and considering I'm still reading SWB's mammoth loan), the only reading material I had was a day-old Express. I considered going to Kramer's and buying myself a book and a glass of wine, but decided I'd kill time downing pints at Biddy's instead. My old roommate came to meet me, and I spent much less time resenting This Guy than I would have if I'd been sitting somewhere alone for an hour. When he called to say he'd arrived, it was his turn to wait a few more minutes for me.****

So we met, saw the Cine Latino selections***** then headed out for dinner. He mentioned Ethiopian food, and I hadn't yet tried it, so we ended up going here. So, okay, we all know Ethiopian food is eaten with one's hands, using injera instead of utensils. When we got to the restaurant, I excused myself to wash my hands. This Guy just sat there. I politely suggested he might want to wash his hands as well.

This Guy: What? I'm clean.
Belle: We just got off the Metro. You are most certainly not clean.
This Guy: Sheepishly goes to wash hands.

What is it with guys? I mean, seriously. Anyway, I found the food decent, and I'd go back if someone wanted us to go, but if I'm going to eat with my hands, I'd much rather take my business to Marrakesh and have their delicious food, fantastic atmosphere, belly dancers, etc. The other benefit provided by going to Marrakesh is that you don't walk out of the restaurant and straight into Adams Morgan. (Granted, you're probably going to walk out of Marrakesh and get straight into a taxi or your car rather than walk down the street, but that's neither here nor there.)

After dinner, we headed across the street so This Guy could have his first (and likely only) palm reading. It was sufficiently disappointing, and we headed out, once again pushing our way through the drunken masses and doing our best to avoid the puddles of fresh puke (and the chunky residue of old puke puddles... apparently regurgitated jumbo slice forms a strong bond upon contact with concrete) as we went.******

Aside from seeing a guy pissing on the bridge (who told us, emphatically, "That wasn't me!," when we passed) the most interesting bits of the remainder of the night consisted of me making fun of This Guy for being far too concerned with women's fashions and being far too concerned myself with Roommate's whereabouts (perhaps more on that later).

Like I said, This Guy is nice enough, and I have a nice enough time with him. I feel like three kiss-less "dates" in eight months pretty firmly places us in the "friends" category, which is fine with me, as his concern with women's fashion kind of worries me that my gaydar is off and his affinity for stories that start with "This is gross, but..." doesn't really turn me on.



* These figures are rough estimates.
** It was really a bridge, but you get the idea.
*** Which is what you get for being in fucking Adams Morgan. Gross. Same goes for the note above.
**** This guy actually tried to give me shit a couple times during the evening for going to get some beers while waiting for him. I assured him that, if he had any wits about him whatsoever, he should be glad that I entertained myself in this manner rather than by letting my resentment build as the seconds ticked by. Somehow, I don't think he was convinced.
***** Ranked: Good, Fair, and Excellent, respectively, by Belle. This Guy ranked them the first and last "Excellent," but crossed out "Fair" (the lowest available ranking) and wrote "Horrible" for the middle film. Also, one should note, that the first film, Linea Blanca, was replaced by Faces of Hope due to technical difficulties or something.
****** Our efforts (and the efforts of the moving drunken masses) were more than a little hampered by the groups of smokers huddled outside each bar's door, which also made me really want to have a smoke myself. Damn smoking bans. Meh.