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.