I'll Give You A Second Date

When did having sex on the first date become an expectation? I mean, we all know the unspoken 3rd date dilemma, but the first?! After you've just met someone?! Listening to friends, this is becoming more and more common.

Dinner--talk--laugh--get asked for sex in car before leaving parking lot--answer no--date over.

I've had the first date sex offer a few times, sometimes in the car, sometimes at the table.  Never ceases to amaze me. I mean, we just met, I hardly know you, you hardly know me, and yet you expect me to sleep with you?! Um, no. Ever hear of self respect? No? Ah, I see, your perky little member is crying too loud to hear your brain.

I had one date literally ask which sexual positions we would explore after dinner.  I lost my appetite almost immediately, particularly while watching him showcase his ability to lick food off his fork. I'm not sure if he was trying to be sexy or if that's really how he eats his food. Either way, it made me nauseous.

The most recent was Second Chance Charlie.  After dinner, before dessert arrived, he offered up the sex deal.  It was rather classic, considering he apparently wouldn't be able to make the long ten minute drive home and told me about a hotel up the street.  Super. 

Well, I shut down that little gem pretty much as our dessert arrived.  It was then S.C.C. pulled out his phone and proceeded to arrange a booty call after our dinner.  Awesome. 

Me, noticing his sulk change to that I'm gonna get some grin: "Did you just booty call someone?"

S.C.C.: "Don't take it personally."

Me: "Believe me, I don't."

S.C.C.: "I respect that you don't do it on the first date, I do, and because I do, I'll give you a second date."

Me, the shocked smirk stretching across my face: "Think you'd be better off sticking to your booty girl, there." 

Bet he would've keeled over had he known I'm a V-card holder.

So...

Dinner--talk--laugh--get asked for sex before dessert--answer no--date makes booty call--date offers second chance date--answer no--date over. 

So, is this a trend?  Random luck of the draw? Whatever it is, I'm thinking I should just prerecord my answer and bring it with me.  Then, when critical question oozes from date's mouth, I can whip out a little recorder and play said "no."  Bit concerned I'll develop some sort of twitch if I have to keep giving the same answer over and over again.

When A Salad Looks Like A Pillow

Ever go on a date you really didn't want to go on just to please someone you know?

I found myself on one of these dates, something I affectionately refer to as ANDD (to be revealed at the end of the post). 

Bless him, I'm sure there is a match for him somewhere out there, but...it ain't me. (Throwin' in some slang! Yee Haw! And, no, I didn't slang it up on the date...we Texans save our slang for very special occasions...like a Cowboys game).

Conversing was a challenge, he hated sports, and laughing and/or joking was out of the question since at some point along his life he must have had a humor lobotomy.

When I asked him about his favorite sport, he said, "I'm not a sports man. That must be refreshing for a woman to hear."

Unless said woman loves sports. I instantly knew this man would have thought I was a crazed lunatic during the NBA Finals.

At one point, he started talking about some random topic like leaf pigmentation and all I could think about was how comfortable my salad looked.

The last time I worked so hard to keep the yawns at bay was during a lecture on Pythagorean theorem. The growing desire to rest my head on the table and use the salad as my pillow was rather disturbing...as was the fact that I didn't want to use toothpicks to hold my eyelids up--I wanted to jab them in my eyeballs just to get some sort of reaction from the man. 

We had nothing in common.  Zero. 

Moral of the story: When your salad looks like a pillow, you are on an ANDD, Ass-Numbingly Dull Date.

Dating Sucks...Oh, And New Harry Potter!!!

Dating is a boil on the butt of humanity. It's the hair wad clogging the drain, the monster under the bed.  Ever worn a pair of tall boots and had an insane foot itch? That's dating.

Oh, but a good date can be magical, you say? Well, I suppose it can be magical...as magical as any of the Unforgivable curses. Crucio! 

Speaking of Unforgivable curses...how many of you are ready to see Voldemort taken down by one Harry Potter? Well, place an undetectable extension charm on your favorite bag, pack it full of spell books, and don't forget your wand as you make a date with the final Harry Potter film--a date that won't disappoint.

Prepare for the most incredible Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II movie trailer yet--people just can't stop watching it! 

Dating & Post-Game Reactions

Dating: I haven't been in the dating game for a while now.  Really not wanting another Mr. Bo Tangles or past-life werewolf.  I know I need to get back into the cesspool that is dating, but, honestly, I really don't know how to meet a *cough* normal man who is actually looking for something more extraordinary than a one-night-stand or temporary love. Sigh. There has to be another soul somewhere out there looking for something special in this big old world. 

New music favorites: Have you heard the song Without You, by Keith Urban? It's about his wife, Nicole Kidman--it's a beautiful song...makes the single heart hurt a little, but still...it's beautiful. :)

Post-Game Reaction: The day after euphoria lingers, but there are some bubble-bursting folks all primed and ready for the next round. So, I thought it might be kind-of fun to share some feedback with y'all.

Happy/Funny Feedback: (please keep in mind, some are Lakers-haters--I'm sorry to any Lakers' fans in advance for their comments).

"Yay! Ding-dong, Lakers are done!"
"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!" (sing-song voice)
"Mavs, all the way!"
"Damn, not a Mavs' fan, but they were monsters out there."
"Might have been wrong about those Mavericks after all."

Bubble-Bursting Feedback: (some are Lakers' fans; some are Mavericks-haters).

"Yeah, they'll get swept next round.  Sorry."
"Mavs will self-destruct before it's over."
"Enjoy it now. They're going to choke."
"You do know they didn't just win a title, right? They are going down."
"Big deal.  They beat the Lakers.  It's not like they've won the whole thing."

So, did the bubble-bursting folks actually burst my euphoric bubble? Nope, not in the least. See, we fans know it's a long road to the championship, but this series win was huge. They were the underdog.  No one gave them a chance against the Lakers.  This is a big deal. To me, the Mavs looked like one hungry team. They want it, and I hope for all it's worth they can bring this thing on home. I know they'll give it their all.

How did I respond to the sourpusses? I simply smiled.  It's amazing how a simple little smile can unnerve (and effectively quiet) a sourpuss.

Wrong Things, Cold Showers, & Country Music Abuse

First, I'm so sorry I haven't been reading and commenting on blogs lately.  Between a wonky internet connection, deadlines, and, you know, the usual b.s., free time has been slim.  I'm going to start catching up tonight, though. :)

Wrong Things (possibly): (Clarification: This didn't happen to me.  Noooo, I'm still dateless and single).  Okay, so, I am really wanting to hear y'all give me some feedback on something: Imagine meeting a guy.  Imagine hitting it off.  Imagine great conversation, laughter, and an overall fantastic first impression.  Then, all of a sudden, he asks you a couple of questions like the following:

Would you ever consider dying your hair blond...like, really blond? What is the most you have ever weighed? 

Now, do those questions bother you? Any yellow caution flags popping up?  How about some red flags?

Cold Showers: Yep, it has happened again.  My dang hot water heater has decided to flake.  This is a practically new water heater thingy, and this is around the 3rd time it has gagged itself into a catatonic state.  I awoke to barely-there warm water, which proceeded to fade very quickly, leaving me to shower in COLD water.

Do you have any idea how icky it is to shave in ICE COLD WATER? Ouch.  So, shaking like a leaf, I washed my hair, shaved, did the body wash bit, etc., and emerged uber-shivery.  I'm seriously sick of my hot water heater.

Oh, and, once again, I think I can safely say that a cold shower does nothing for the hormone thing. 

Country Music Abuse: My country music station is so mean.  I get that you are going to hear your fair share of sad songs and love songs--that's country music...it's real and raw.  But, to play three ridiculously heart-wrenching songs in a row? Cruel and unusual punishment.  So, what were the songs? Well, I can't remember the third one...I think I was fairly well bruised by the time song three rolled around, so I scoffed and flicked off the radio.

1.  When I Said I Do--Clint Black & Lisa Hartman Black (a happy marriage love song). My reaction: Bite me.

2.  Little Moments--Brad Paisley (one of my very favorite songs...and so true).  My reaction: Sigh. Smile. Maybe one day.

Take a listen and smile. 

Vomit Day #1: Mistaken Valentine.

So, I thought I'd tell you how a girl who loves love, adores pink, and is a sucker for romance, literally loathes Valentine's Day.  I've never, ever had a good one. Seriously, I have rigid rules for that God forsaken day (another post for another day).

Mistaken Valentine:

Do you remember the flower tables in school? I dreaded them. Every Vomit Day those damn tables would pop up covered with big white buckets full of friggin' flowers.

The worst part? This whole flower-giving shindig went down in the cafeteria IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So, every single self-professed "it" kid knew who got a flower, who didn't, who wanted one, who cried (yes, some cried...I didn't...not in public, anyway), etc.

The stress was unreal: Am I going to get a flower? Who might give me a flower? Oh Dear God, will pick-a-nose boy give me a flower?

Well, on this particular day of blithering bile, I had it on good authority that someone was going to give me a flower. Sadly, I was quite excited in spite of myself. Lunchtime arrives, and I'm a little anxious. Could this be my first actually GOOD Valentine's Day?

Of course not.

Boy after boy approached the wicked flower table, purchased a flower, then delivered it to their chosen girl, while an entire lunchroom took note. Finally, a boy I didn't recognize purchased a pink carnation and began walking in my direction. My friends were all nudging me, yanking on my sweater, etc.

Just as he was about to hand me the flower (and, yes, I was in mid-stretch for the stupid thing) I heard a voice in the distance shout, "No! Not her! The girl behind her!"

Fan-friggin-tastic. 

The boy meekly apologized, then handed the flower to the girl behind me--he literally reached over my head to give it to her.  As he did, a drop of water fell on my forehead. Humiliation personified.

Apparently, he was just the delivery boy...and I was the wrong address.

Needless to say, I didn't get a flower.

I loathe this day with a Medusa-like passion.

Crush, Crushed, Crushing

I've always wondered what it would be like to run into a former crush. Apparently, fate doesn't realize that "wonder" doesn't equal "want."

Background Rundown: My crush asked me out; I stupidly said yes like a foolish crush-blind girl with foggy-brain syndrome. During the course of the date--pretty early on, actually--he started asking me when we were going to have sex, whether I would do things to him right there and then, etc.

A little shocked by his bluntness, I soon realized I was on a date with Sex-Only Guy. SOG didn't give a hoot about the person; he just wanted to "bang." He didn't know about my V-card, but he quickly figured out that I'm not a wham-bam kind-of girl, much to his dismay.

According to him, he thought I was "a naughty girl in good girl clothes."

At the time, he said he would take me out again IF I'd "eff" him. I told him that's not going to happen; he said it was a shame and he's going to have to "regrettably" let me go.

And that's how a crush crushes. (Not that I want a guy like that...it's just a little disappointing when your crush turns out to be nothing like you expected or hoped).

Fast forward: The random run-in turned into, well, more of the same. After showcasing his ability to masterfully craft urban dictionary lingo into a compliment on my appearance, he asked if I was still "...the good girl or would I be willing to go around the corner."

Nothing changes.

I thereafter confirmed my good-girl status, to which he shook his head and groaned, "Shame."

Me: "You said that before, as I recall."

SOG: "Why not go wild? If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure I'd want you more than once."

Me: "Well that doesn't in any way make me feel like a can of beer or anything."

SOG, laughing: "Some women are like beer--you can't stop at one. It's a compliment."

Me: "And when you hit the end of the six pack, it's onto the next." He laughingly agreed and liked my sauciness. "Yeah, I'm not into to being a beer can."

SOG: "All right, all right, I'm not getting anywhere. It is too bad, though. You should probably give some thought to how things work...there's a reason you are still single."

Me, working to control my temper: "Really? Enlighten me."

SOG: "Men want Pamela, not Audrey."

I knew instantly what he meant--he talked quite a bit using movie/celebrity references. Men want the blonde-bombshell-sex-symbol-type like Pamela Anderson, not Audrey Hepburn.

SOG: "You're the Audrey."

Me: "That much I got, oddly enough." After a brief pause, I had a thought.  "But, here's the thing some men don't understand--the Audrey's can be every bit the Pamela...they just save their Pammy moves for the Harrison Ford's or the Sean Connery's, rather than waste them on the Charlie Sheen's."

I was quite proud of that little comeback, especially considering Charlie Sheen is one of his idols. [Note: Recent Charlie Sheen news had him partying for two days, where one of his special guests was a blonde porn star--undoubtedly the ideal scenario for SOG].

So, men want Pamela's, not Audrey's, according to Charlie, er, SOG. What do you think? Should this be a crushing revelation to the Audrey's of the world, or just a crappy concept formed in the mind of an egotistical prick? Personally, I prefer the latter.

Maybe we Audrey's should modify our image by re-naming ourselves Undercover Pamela's or Saucy Audrey's. Hmm. Maybe not.

My Ovaries Are Deadly Weapons...Apparently.

Wake-up: Huh? Is it already morning? Given the sun in my eyes, I'm assuming it is. Ick. Bad night. Little sleep. Crap dreams: Death Eaters (yes, of the Harry Potter variety) were after me; I didn't have a wand, so I threatened to smite them with my ovaries. Indeed. I told them my ovaries "...bite and are pissed at still being there, alone, unfertilized." I was saying this while flying backwards on a broom.

Truly, deeply troubling.

What's more troubling is how I intended to "smite" them with said ovaries.  Cringe. Mustn't think on it.

Should have known this would be a rough one from the second my toes touched the floor. Been moving furniture about my room--not an easy task when single, but I was determined. Moved my desk out and over about 1/2 inch. My newly painted big toe naturally found it. Hurt like hell. Chipped nail, very red, and, ah, of course it would start swelling a bit. Terrific. Now have Quasimodo toe.

Shower: While shaving, my razor apparently needed to shave my left middle fingernail. Fantastic. Now have strangely misshapen fingernail in manner of Phantom of the Opera's mask.

Quasimodo toe and Phantom bird finger. There are no words.

Lunch: No soda. Excellent. Replaced with water...boring, but healthy. Grilled chicken Caesar salad...and chocolate covered Christmas cookies.

Afternoon: Hmm, interesting news. According to Mutual Acquaintance, Mr. Bo Tangles is a little annoyed I didn't give in. In fact, according to Mutual Acquaintance, he said, "I couldn't get in."  Ewwy. Am now an inanimate object...like a car with the keys locked inside. Yes, just the kind of man I'm looking for! Right.

Evening: Must wrap presents. Seriously. I love doing the bows, but the actual wrapping-paper-part is so not my thing.

My Dallas Mavericks are making me nervous...PLEASE WIN!!!!! OH GOD HELP ME...MARION MISSED A FREE THROW!!!!!

19.4 seconds remaining...12.9 seconds...Dirk makes his free throws...6.9 seconds...5.9...Dirk made his shots...OVER! MAVS WIN!!!! Great game!!! 'Nother tough road game coming up.

Phew.

Overall, the most intriguing part of my day was recalling my dream--me, on a broom, locked and loaded with my smite-able ovaries. Maybe I could be a new superhero...Ovary Girl! Maybe not.

Gotta Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair

Place: Nice sushi restaurant...I hate sushi.

Flag one. 

Plan: Group date--Me, my date (who I will refer to as Mr. Bo Tangles), a friend of mine, and friends of his. Mr. Bo Tangles said he would take care of everything; invite all parties, including my friend; he really wanted to "impress me." His words. And, boy, did he impress me.

Scene: Me, Mr. Bo Tangles, and three couples I have never seen before.

Dilemma: Where is my friend? Could he not make it? Did he bail?

Answer: Mr. Bo Tangles "forgot" to invite him.

Possible flag two.

Before Dinner:

Mr. Bo Tangles: "I'm sorry, but it's driving me crazy."

Me, trying not to feel queasy over the fishy menu: "What is?"

I barely turned my head and the man had his hand in my hair, pushing it behind my ear.

Mr. Bo Tangles, tucking my hair tightly behind my ear: "Sorry, but you have this one little section of hair that is just flyaway and it's driving me nuts."

Flag three?

Me, stunned: "Uh, oh, well...it is windy out, so..."

The other couples looked extremely uncomfortable. One of the guys starting talking football to ease the moment, which worked beautifully until...

Mr. Bo Tangles: "Ugh, it came loose again.  Maybe if you didn't get so expressive in your conversation."

Ugh, DEFINITE flag four. 

Me, gently nudging his hand away as he tried to re-tuck my hair: "Your friend and I are having fun talking about the Longhorns. Come on, just have fun and forget the hair. I mean, it's hair, not some beast that's going to attack you at any minute." Although, I kind-of wished my hair could reach out and smack him.

Everyone laughed, but not Mr. Bo Tangles; nope, instead, he stared at the side of my head with the offensive strand of hair. I swear, it was like he was trying to visually flatten it down--now there's a new take on a superpower--super ion flat iron eye beams! Oooh, watch out Superman!

Dinner: Um, yeah, not so much. I spent most of the time trying not to regale them with a live production of The Bold and The Gagging.

I noticed Mr. Bo Tangles talking to one of his female friends, even taking her outside for a moment. Very odd. When he returned, he was all smiles.

Female friend: "You have such pretty hair!"

Me: "Oh, well, thank you."

Maybe she had a talk with him; maybe he's finally off this hair-obsessed kick. 

Female friend: "I bet it would look gorgeous in a ponytail. Here, let's see what it would look like."

Maybe not.

Without much time to process what was happening, the woman began pulling it back into a low ponytail. If that wasn't shocking enough, she tied it back with...are you ready...a scrunchie. I haven't worn a scrunchie since the 1990s; at that moment, I suddenly recalled an episode of Sex and the City...and the infamous scrunchie.

So, now, the hair I had worked hard to have look nice for this date is destroyed and slicked back...into a scrunchie. I am part mortified, part ticked beyond belief, particularly when I see Mr. Bo Tangles--his smile could not get any wider; it was triumphant, almost gloating.

He conquered my hair! Hurray! It was like he wanted a Yankees-World Series-like celebration. All I could picture was how I'd ditch the confetti and toss this raw fish crap instead.

I kept the regrettably cloth hair-tie in place for a bit. When I did remove it, he scowled.

Mr. Bo Tangles: "Why did you take it down?"

Me: "Because this is me. I'm not a pull-your-hair-back-in-a-scrunchie kind-of-gal, and when I do pull it back, it's with an ouch-less rubber band that matches my hair. Besides, I like my hair long and free. And, frankly, when I've taken the time to fix it for a date, I don't particularly care for someone seeing fit to mess it up.

Mr. Bo Tangles: "I just thought you'd look even prettier if..."

Me: "I'm not looking for someone to change me to meet some impossible idea of who he thinks I should be. He'll never be happy and I'll never be good enough.  That's no way to live...for either party."

Married male friend: "I like your hair however you want to wear it. That little wild strand is pretty hot."

Uh, uncomfortable moment alert! His wife looked murderous.

And that, my dear blogging buddies, was the end of said date. Add it to the list.

Note to self: Find man who likes sometimes unruly hair.

Date Dung Don't's

From the minds of girls comes: Date Dung Don't's. Date Dung Don't's are those things a guy does that can turn a date into dung really quickly.

1.  Please don't tell me I'm nothing like the girls you usually date. Why? Because I automatically figure you are just “testing the waters” with me. Right or wrong, it's the impression we get.

Example:  “I told my friend you are nothing like the girls I usually go for. She said maybe that's a good thing.” He should have stopped talking here.  He didn't.  “I mean, you're not a bleach-blonde, you have a brain, you're educated, you don't have fake boobs, and you don't look like a slut.”

Me, somewhat dumbfounded: “Have you EVER dated anyone outside of your...type?”

Him: “No, you would be the first. No pressure!”

Believe me, there was zero pressure.

2.  Please don't tell me you are a bust with women; that you can sometimes feel angry towards women. Why? Because I figure you might have some deep-seeded anger management issues.

Example: “Women just seem to leave me. I fall really easily, and somehow they use me and run. Pisses me off. I have to hit a pillow.  I don't think you're like that, though.”

Me, thinking: Where's the nearest escape exit. Seriously.  "I would never use someone.”

Him: “I knew it. We can tell our kids about how mommy was the only one to hold daddy's heart and not break it.”

Me: Yeah, I'm running.

3.  Please don't ask what I'd like to do on our first date, then do the complete opposite. Why? Because it shows me that you either: a. don't listen or b. don't care.

Example: “I'd love to introduce you to my friends.”

Me, thinking: This is our first date, we just met...I hardly know him and now he wants to surround me with all the people he's comfortable with!? I'm cool with hanging with his friends, but not when I don't even know him very well. “You know, since we just met, and I hardly know you...I just think it might be a little...

Him, finishing my thought: “...uncomfortable. Of course, I should have realized that. We need to know each other first.”

Me, relieved: “Exactly. I'd love to meet your friends, just not...”

Him, again finishing my thought: “...on the first date. I totally understand.”

After dinner, he nervously suggested we go around the corner. I was perplexed by his suggestion because we had plans to go across town. He was really persistent, so I just caved and went with him. After five minutes, I realized why he brought me there: all of his friends rounded the corner. I was completely blindsided. It was a weird experience. My date would go off with his friends, presumably to get their opinions, leaving me with their girlfriends, who, though very nice, talked about things I couldn't possibly contribute to, considering they clearly all know each other very well. On the plus side, his friends were nice and gave me a “thumbs up.” Much appreciated.

Dating.

The Howler

*Note: Thought it might be fun to recall some of my more interesting dates, quasi-dates, meetings, whatever you want to call them. Soon, I will talk about my theory on the whole Accidental Enchantment vs. Seriously Screwed Up Curse. The following may be evidence of a curse.

Sadly, I'm not talking about Ron Weasley's howler in Harry Potter, although it would be pretty cool to get one, despite the whole, you know, scolding-yelling-angry-mom thing.

And, no, I'm not referring to some sexy werewolf-man a la True Blood. 

No, instead I'm talking about the questionably normal, human guy who, out of nowhere, stops to howl at the moon.  *pause for the WTF comment* 

After said howl (which was a pretty impressive impression of Alcide), wolf-wannabe-guy says, "That's what I like to do during sex.  It's hot."

Wondering about his mental state, I asked, "Do you believe yourself to be a werewolf?"

Laughing, wolf-wannabe-guy says, "No, of course not."

Ah, good to know. Excellent.

"But I was one in my past life."

Crap. I'm on a date with a past-life werewolf. Terrific.

Five Ways To Ruin A Date

1.  The Spit Up: Your date takes a bite of a delicious-looking pork dish, makes a retching sound, then proceeds to cough it up on the table.  Wishing to gag at the half-chewed piece of pork sitting lifeless on the table, you stare at your date...Dear God...he has his hand in the air, waving at the waiter. Are we in school?

"I have a tricky palette," he says, as if spitting his food on the table is perfectly acceptable.  

2.  Finger Snaps: I hate when people disrespect waiters and waitresses. It's just rude. Snapping fingers is a no-no. To start snapping your fingers to get your date's attention? Bad. Very bad.

Snap! Snap! "Your food isn't going anywhere. Are you hearing me? I like to know your paying attention."

Yeah, because a woman is incapable of doing two things at once. Rude.

3.  Drink Robber: It's quite a shock when your date reaches over, grabs your drink, and starts guzzling it. 

"That sauce was way too hot, and I don't like water."

4.  Bad Tipper: Kind-of goes with the snapping thing...tipping your waiter a quarter is unacceptable.  Your waiter had to deal with chewed up pork, a waving hand, snapping, serious complaining, and you want to leave him a quarter?

"Poor attitude, poor tip," he says, plopping it down.

Let's just say you would never leave your table without making sure your waiter is well-tipped. No exceptions. Tip rectified on the sly.  

5.  "Between My Teeth": Time for the goodnight kiss...and you're not really into it. He smiles, and has a massive bit of something green in between his two front teeth.

"Um, you have something between your teeth," you say gently. After everything, you feel the need to point it out.

"Yeah, you," he says arrogantly.

"Beg your pardon?"  Uh, what?

"I've got you between my teeth."

"Oh-uh, um, well that's sweet...and kinda creepy...a little cannibalistic, but..."

"No, no," he laughs, "you don't get it, isn't that cute!" Tapping your date's head as if it's empty is also a big no-no.  "I'm referring to that song...I've got you between my teeth."

"I'm pretty sure it's 'I've got you under my skin.'"  

The inability to carry a tune isn't a date-killer...getting the lyrics wrong to an absolute classic is surprising, but still not a date-killer.  Sarcastically tapping your date's head and pinching your date's cheeks, while singing the wrong lyrics in the wrong key with a giant green thing in between your teeth, after spitting up your food, snapping at your waiter and your date, and expecting your waiter to clean up your chewy-spit-up-meat, yet not leave a proper tip, is kind-of a date killer.

Result: No kiss, no second date.

Blind Dates Blow

Everyone remembers their first blind date. Some learn from the first and vow to never again enter the hell that is the blind date. Others, simply file the first experience in a dark, cobweb-covered corner of the mind and slyly deny having ever been forced to partake in such demeaning tactics, since they are far too fortunate to ever need setting up by a friend. Then there are those who went through the hell, but need occasional reminding.

Usually crafted by a scheming friend determined to take responsibility for your pathetic love life, the dreaded two words enter your otherwise peaceful, albeit *somewhat* pathetic existence: Blind Date. The chunks rise up in your throat, sweat drips down the base of your neck, as your friend animatedly carries on and on, making the whole ordeal impossible to refuse. You try to say no, but an unfamiliar, almost gargled, "N-n-okay," escapes your lips. Idiot.

My first blind date was with a mute...or at least that's what I thought. He. Never. Talked. I found myself babbling about everything and nothing just to keep the deafening sound of crickets out of my head. About the only sound he made was when he reached the end of his drink and began slurping it through the straw. Ah, five minutes of not having to talk...I could just listen to the caressing sounds of slurping. I was about to call my friend and ask her why she would set me up with someone who didn't speak, when an older, handsome stranger asked for my number.

Hmm. He is a stranger, but he is: Man--check. Handsome--check. Talking--double check.

Suddenly, I heard a deep sigh from behind me.

"I guess I'm not lucky in love."

Shocked, I turned to find my silent movie date moving his lips and hanging his head. So, he's just shy! I politely refused the handsome-talking-stranger-man, and returned to my date...where he didn't talk the rest of the night.

After that one, how could I even think about entertaining the idea of another blind date? Oh, but I did. This time around, he knew how to talk...a lot...non-stop, in fact. My voice was never heard. Oh, and I have a wealth of information I will never need, including, but not limited to: all of his ex's bra sizes and hair colors; the size of his dog's genitals; the difference between Crest and Colgate toothpaste; and how much better he has it than someone named Frank. I must have looked like a bobble-head doll.

With a slight case of vertigo, I exited blind date hell, never to return again. I did, however, return with a valuable piece of advice. Should you ever succumb to the curse of the blind date, be sure to ask your friend: a. If the man can talk, and b. If the man can shut up.

UPDATE: Since I wrote this quite late/early, I figured I needed to add a few thoughts:

1. Silent man was a very shy guy. Turns out, he was seriously introverted.
2. Not-so-silent man loved himself a bit too much. Oh, and he carried a mirror in his pocket, so he could check the status of his hair.