Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, March 09, 2005 Geeks. Sheesh. So, um, has anyone seen it?
5:09 PM
When You're Single, the Fun Never Ends, Part II
Single people have to shoulder the burden of life on their own. One salary. No back up. When you're single and out of work, you're it baby. There's no one pick up the slack in the household income. I know, I know, there are plenty of married couples living on one income, two people, one income, even more tricky. I know. But when that one income is gone, there are two people out there looking for work, two skill sets, one extra chance that a job will be found and income returned into the household. Plus there are all those tax incentives for married people, too.
When the IRS sees: single, never married, no children, they all (yes, the entire IRS) go out for lunch. On the single, never married, no children's taxes.
We all know this. And no, tax breaks are not a proper reason to get married.
But.
Here's something which really bothers me, and you can call me a pathetic loser, I don't care, because I know it's true.
Furry Creature had to go to the vet. Okay. No big deal.
Turns out he needed some surgery.
So instead of picking him up after work, I had to leave an hour early to meet with the vet.
You know where this is going.
I'm an adult. A professional adult. A professional salaried adult.
Who works a swutting lot of hours - early mornings, late nights, weekends - at no "extra" pay. I do this because it's my job and I am a responsible person.
Because I am a responsible person, I take care of my pet.
Who needs surgery. Which required me to leave work an hour early.
And yes, the timing is not great. Things are happening at work. Some serious things. Things which require a lot of meetings and strategizing and phone calls and emails and extra work.
But.
My pet's health v. work? Not a choice for me. Particularly since it's only one hour.
How many people in my office actually put in their prescribed 7.5 hour days? Two, maybe three, four including me.
How many people in my office never, ever work a second past their quitting time because they have to pick up their kid at day care, go to a pediatrician appointment/soccer game/band concert/parent teacher conference/etc.? All except two, maybe three, four including me.
How many people in my office make at least one extended (10 minutes or more) personal phone call a day pertaining to said kids and affiliated activities? All except two, maybe three, four including me.
How many late nights, early mornings and weekends have I worked, alone, without help, because everyone else has kids/spouses? Too many to count.
Those two, maybe three, four including me? Single, no children.
And yet the one time I need to leave an hour early because my pet had to have surgery and I have to speak with his vet and get home care instructions, I am given nothing but a lot of resistance.
Someone said: It's just a cat.
Someone else said: I hate cats.
Someone else said: My vet has weekend and late night hours.
Everyone else said: I can't stay, I have to catch a train and pick up my kid at day care.
I said: I'll remember this next time I'm getting dinner from the vending machine at 9:00 at night because I'm making the deadline you missed.
I am making a pledge to the Universe.
If you're single, you can pledge along with me.
Single Person's Office Pledge
No more late nights, early mornings or weekends for this job.
When a deadline is looming and someone is begging for help because they have to go to a child affiliated event I will say: It's just a kid.
Or: My doctor has evening and weekend hours.
Or: I can't stay, I have to feed my cat and get ready for a date and then go on that date. One of many dates because I'm single, foot loose and fancy free. How many years have you been pulling the same person? Gosh, is it 15 already? Huh. Wow. I like a little more variety than that.
When someone brings their kid who was too sick to go to school into the office because they were bad parents and didn't have back-up/emergency contingency plans for the care of their child, and didn't want to "lose a vacation day" staying home with said sick child, I will leave the office. I will simply get up and leave, citing several incidents where many people in the office fell at the same time, patient zero? A sick child brought into the office.
When someone tries to pressure me into buying insanely overpriced wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, weird off brand candy, tins of popcorn, or any other fundraising item from their child's school, church, camp, after school club, I will say: No. I don't need or want what you're selling. Furthermore, if your child's school/church/camp/club can't suck enough money from the taxes or donations from the parents of said children, perhaps a budget re-evaluation is in order. (The exception will be Girl Scout cookies because, well, they're just really good.)
When someone whips out photographs of a child, I will whip out photographs of my cat, my date and I gettin' freaky in Vegas, and myriad photos of my shoes.
When someone has books full of wedding photographs on display, I will display photographs of all the dates I've met online.
When someone won't shut up about their child's appendectomy, I won't shut up about my father's heart surgery.
When someone shares the joy of potty training their precious child, I will share the joy of dealing with my mother's incontinence.
When someone sends me one of those "wisdom of children" emails, I will send them a raunchy joke complete with porn site links email.
When someone gives me a gift registry for an office wedding/baby shower, I will circulate a house warming/I'm too poor to buy this stuff on one income gift registry.
When someone refuses to go out of town on assignment because they are going away to celebrate their anniversary, I will send them 100 Cialis spam emails. (or CiBalis)
When someone actually goes out of town on assignment but takes their spouse and children along, on expense, I will invite my friends and a date to go with me and drink their way through the mini-bar. On expense.
When someone buys a new home and shares every step of the process with everyone in the office, I will share every minute detail of moving and apartment hunting and will loudly proclaim, "Man, 30 years. That's a long time. I don't think I could stand to live in the same place 30 years. I mean, what if you don't like your neighbors or they build a nuclear test facility a mile away or you just really hate the house? That's a long commitment. I only have a one year lease on my apartment. If I don't like it, I can move."
When someone quits because they want to be a stay at home parent or want some time off to figure out what they'd really like to do with their life and the spouse is going to support them, I will lobby to move into their office (if it has a better view and desk) and say, "Good luck with that. It's rough making ends meet on one income."
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Oh, to live in a society which arranges marriages. We all know the statistics on these marriages. Arranged marriages last. The system works. It seems odd and maybe even wrong to most of us living in modern Western civilization, but, us mod Westerners have been wrong about a lot of other things, too.
I actually trust and respect my parents. I actually trust their ability to find me a man I would actually like. Okay, the whole making a deal and chateling me off to him might be a bit of a reach for them, but hey, none of us are getting any younger and they are concerned about what’s going to happen to me when they die. (They know I’ll be fine, they raised an independent daughter more than capable of taking care of herself. But I know the break-up and my woeful life since then has concerned them and upsets them. They just want me to be happy. They know how much I miss him. They know I’m lonely and would really like “a man in my life.” Hence the worry about what will happen to me when they’re gone.)
And the reality is: They certainly couldn’t possibly choose any worse men than I do.
The problem is even they don’t meet a lot of eligible bachelors. My parents know a lot of people. They are very involved with their community. They’ve never been the types to sit around watching telly - though they love the History channel and Discovery. They don’t like “old people” (meaning, people who are old and sitting around when they could be out doing things) My parents enjoy being with people who are involved and interesting and vital. They travel a lot. (well, they used to, and hopefully will again) Seriously, especially now with my mother’s never ending doctor appointments thrown into their already packed days, those two have a more active social life than I do. If anyone would chance upon an eligible bachelor, it’s them. But no. My niece and I were scoping a good looking doctor at my mother’s clinic a few weeks ago. Noticing our interest, my mother quickly told us she’d already done the legwork. Of course she had. Too old for my niece, too young for me, a big ego, not a very good doctor, possibly gay.
Thanks mum.
Yeah. She’s doing better with her speech. But not that well. Interesting how she can speak so well when it comes to men...
Atta girl, mum.
Since my parents aren’t meeting a suitable man for me, looks like it’s still my problem.
However.
There’s another outmoded practice which might be helpful.
The worthiness testing phase.
“So, you want to date my daughter, eh? Well son, we’re going to have a nice little chat about your intentions.”
I’m not kidding. Having my parents and possibly (shudder) my brother screen my would-be dates might not actually be a bad idea. Except that my parents are not “like that.” They’re polite and live and let live and have always encouraged me to make my own decisions, never interfered with my friendships (or life) and would basically suck at screening my dates. “Get you a drink, son? You a scotch man?” my father would say. My date would either be a scotch man, pretend to be a scotch man in hopes of impressing my father, or would say, “no, more of a white wine drinker.” (My father’s antenna would spring to life on this one. Even though he’s been known to drink white wine himself, he would never drink it in a situation like this. A situation where men are men and the drinks are strong. A situation where vying for top dog status is at issue. Later, after we left, my father’s comment to my mother, based on the white wine incident would be, “a bit light in the shorts, that one.”) My mother would barrage the date with food. Lots and lots of food. And questions about his family. Never ending questions about his family. And the two of them have this tag team lit quiz thing which, while it goes over well with some of their friends at the club, is rather off putting if a person hasn’t actually read a book lately. Or ever. My parents go around assuming everyone is always in the process of reading something. It’s never, “have you read anything interesting lately?” It’s “what are you reading?” which when barked by my father sounds more like an accusation than an attempt at lively conversation. Name a book, any book, any author, any period. One of my parents will have read it, or at least know of it. And on the off chance you mention a book neither of them has read, you better believe one of them will trot out and find a copy and read it. Even pulp crap - they don’t read it, but they have a surprisingly (shockingly, actually) deep knowledge base on dime-store authors. If by some bizarre chance the lit quiz isn’t invoked, at some point in the conversation some topic will be discussed and one of them will refer to a book. And if the guest has not read the book, one of my parents will excuse themselves and then reappear with the book: “Here we go, I think you’ll find it interesting/enjoyable/educational.” Movies? Music? Oh brother. Let’s not go there. Because my parents will. They keep very current with movies and music. Don’t be fooled by their retirement status. This has been the ruin of many poor dates visiting my parents. (Which is one reason why I am glad I’m the youngest. I saw the carnage left behind after my sister’s and brother’s dates got sucked into a conversation about movies or music with my parents. I always kept my dates far, far away from my parents as long as possible. Which explains part of my woeful teenage social life.) My niece foolishly brought a boyfriend over to my parents’ house last year. He’s in a band. My father asked him what sort band it was, you know, who are his influences? The poor lad all full of his college aged cockiness said, “we’re original, we don’t have any influences other than ourselves.” I think you can figure out what happened. He left their house with two cd’s freshly ripped with recordings which “obviously influenced him but he just didn’t know it.” My niece really hated me that day, it was all my fault, yes, me, my fault. I was the one who set up my father with a cd burner and iTunes.
It’s not that my parents don’t mean well. Or that they’re horrible hosts. Or that they are rude demanding people. They just, well, they just try so darned hard. And they’re intelligent people. Among their set, the art of conversation is important. Keeping up with things is important. Sharing information is important. Learning about other people and places and things is important to them. They care, so they probe. When someone gives them a book or music or information they theretofore didn’t know about, they are excited and eager and grateful. When my friend married a South African, my parents spent two hours with him wanting to know all about South Africa from the point of view of someone who lived there. Nevermind the poor guy probably really didn’t want to talk politics and social reform that evening, but my parents have an eagerness that is difficult to resist. Especially accompanied by scotch and lots of food.
Yes. This is what my would be suitors would have to endure if my parents were to arrange a date for me. (or a husband, oh geeze, instead of an evening being third degree-ed, it would be like boot camp. Still.Though. That might not be so bad. If a guy could survive that, willingly, and pass my parents’ approval, then he’s probably got long term husband potential for me. Hmmmmm. I might have to actually give this more thought.)
Another option I am weighing, is that of the chaperone. Seriously. Someone with my best interest at heart. Someone with whom I am comfortable around and can be myself, in front of a date, no less. Someone who cares about me enough that they’ll be cool with the date, not interfere, but be a part of it, but slightly back, silently making mental notes about my suitor. Notes about things I might not catch, or care about because, heck, I’m on a date with a guy who actually showed up! So what if he has a heroin habit and is “self employed” in a vague industry? I’m on a date with a guy who showed up!
See what I mean? This really might not be a bad idea. It’s much like taking a negotiator with you when you are about to purchase something expensive or out of your area of expertise. You are stupid and blinded by desire. You cannot be trusted alone with the sales person. You need back-up. You need protection. You need a negotiator. And really, going on a date is much like buying a television or car or real estate. The whole chaperone thing might not be a bad idea. Not so much chaperone as negotiator. Yes. I like that.
Oh sure it harkens back to days of yore when women were not allowed to choose their own dates and were accompanied on every date (with a preapproved man chosen by her father) by a chaperone because the date, though pre-approved, (see how much this really is like buying a television or car or real estate?) cannot be trusted alone with the girl (again, very much like buying a television, car or real estate) because men are men, and they all want only one thing, or well, maybe two, and once the booze starts flowing and the charm starts whispering, well, the next thing you know the girl is in a compromising position from which it will be difficult to recover. One which she will regret. If not the next morning, the next week or month. Yes. Very much like buying a television, car or real estate.
Yes. That’s it. I need a date negotiator. But who?
Frankie and Benjy were always my first line defense squad when I met a new guy. After a few dates they were my "checking out the new guy team." They’re good. Really good. But they don’t live here anymore. (I can chart the decline of my dating success to their departure, which also indicates the need for a chaperone, erm, date negotiator.)
Arthur? No way. He hates everyone and has a tendency to angrily rant which can really bring down a date.
Bone. Hmmmm. Yes. Bone. Maybe Bone.
But will he do it? Will he agree to this?
Somehow I doubt it. He’s not the chaperone type.
Hmmmmm.
MAF? No. Gay won’t work in this situation.
Neither will a woman.
It needs to be a guy. A guy guy.
Because guys know guys. Guys won’t be taken in by my date’s dreamy eyes or luscious lips or adorable ears or sexy hands. Guys can cut through the charm crap in seconds. (for the record, so can I and most other women, but we’ll forgive it because of aforementioned body parts, at least on the first few dates.) And most importantly, guys know when another guy is the sort of guy who will slate out women the second they go to the ladies room. Guys can take that opportunity to say things like, “whoa, what about the waitress, eh? Man is she hot!” Guys can get all jocular and banal. Guys can be guys and bring out the guy in my dates. And only then will The Truth be fully revealed.
In fact, Bruce had a really good idea. A date pre-screen. Have the date meet up with the Date Negotiator before the date. This could be tricky. The date couldn’t know he is being screened. It would take a lot of planning and sleuthing and effort, but it could be done. The Date Negotiator could then observe the potential date in a natural environment, behaving the way he normally behaves, then give a full and detailed report to me. I could then decide if I wanted to continue with the date plans, or STAND HIM UP! Okay. No. I wouldn't do that. It was just kind of fun to try it on for size. Still. I would be forwarned about the date's potential cad factor.
Hmmmm. Yes. This could be good.
I must find a Date Negotiator.
Who...who...who cares about me enough to do this, but not so much that they are harboring "feelings" for me?
My brother.
Oh swut.
My brother.
The obvious choice.
Apart from the fact that he lives 2,000 miles away from me he is the perfect choice. And he would love to do this, too. This would be the moment he's been waiting for since the day I was born. And he'd be really good at it. He's cool, but not too cool. He's a guy, but not (usually) too much of a guy. (He hasn't belched in public for years, and learned prowess in this area does not impress girls) He has my best interest at heart, he knows me well, he knows what I like v. what I need. Hmmmm.
If my brother isn't here to do this, what I need is a rent-a-brother.
And I, in turn, could offer my services as rent-a-sister.
Maybe this has already been done. Maybe such services already exist. Note to self: Research this.
Sunday, March 06, 2005 The Fun Just Never Ends When You're Single
What do you do when your date doesn't show? Drink yourself into oblivion? Go home and cry? Go home and watch TV? Go home think up new and exciting ways to kill yourself?
What's that? You've never been stood up on a date?
Oh yeah. Right. Yeah. I forget. It's not actually a normal thing for most people.
It's happened to me twice in the past two weeks.
For those of you who have never had the pleasure of being stood up on a date: yes, it really happens. The no show date. In my case the no show date is the show-but-didn't-like-what-he-saw-and-slipped-out-before-I-noticed-him date.
Fickle, shallow, rude, immature people do this. Not the sort I want to associate with anyway. In the big picture it's probably a good way to eliminate a lot of, well, just a lot more stuff having to do with people you don't really want to associate with much less date anyway.
But it's annoying, so you know what? It's my blog and I'll rant if I want. And if one person reads this and realizes what standing up a date does to the other person and grows up and doesn't do it again, then it will be worth the post.
Lots of men like me, really like me, before they see me. I could be married to a lot of really great guys by now if none of them ever met me in person. Oh, I show them a photographic essay and history of myself before we meet in person. But there's something weird about photographs. Apparently some people (though not many) forgive photos thinking, "she's got to be better in person..." or "she does have a nice smile" or "wow, her eyes are really green" or "nice rack." But when men are face to face with reality, none of those mean anything.
Make way for, "Wow, she isn't better in person" or "a nice smile or really green eyes aren't enough to stimulate me after all, even with that nice rack. I'd be embarrassed to introduce her to my friends, and if my ex saw me with her, well, I mean, I'd lose all those revenge points I've earned. And hey, there has to be physical chemistry, right?" Or the dreaded and far worse, "maybe in time I could come to find her attractive" usually followed by "but it's too much of a gamble." Come to find me attractive? Oh please. Don't lower yourself for me. Go out and date all those supermodels who are waiting for you.
There's no new ground here, I've written about this in the past.
I've been stood up on dates. I'm used to it. I'm not saying it doesn't hurt as much as the first one, but after the first few, I garnered the realistic expectation going into a date that there's a 50-50 chance he'll be a "no show."
But the one last night really bothers me because a) I thought this was a guy with potential. Smart, witty, and not exactly GQ material himself; b) I agreed to a Saturday night date, drinks and dinner for a first meeting, yes, a real date-date. At his insistence; and c) that Saturday night date required me to meet him three hours after arriving home from being out of town for four days. (yes, again, the fun never ends at work).
I went to a lot of bother for this date.
Got off the plane, which of course landed at a gate which is the furthest away from, well, everything (O'Hare is like a TARDIS - it's much, much larger inside than it appears on the outside) and began the shift gears and get ready for a Saturday night date with a new guy relay. I hurriedly walked through the miles of concourse checking clocks along the way, eliminating items from my pre-date to do list as the minutes evaporated. (Stroller and three children in the way! There goes the pedicure. Back-up at Cinnibun causing the line to clog the concourse! There goes the Wow Wow face mask. Line of pillow toting hungover college kids returning from Spring break. There goes the relaxing post travel/pre date soak in the tub...) Prearranged car and driver were not at the prearranged meeting point. (Note to self, never, ever let Boob Job handle these details, never, not once has she got it right.) Rang the car company. Driver's at another airline, another terminal. They'll send him over. Which took 35 minutes. I could have been home. So much for deep conditioning my hair and doing a few push-ups to tone up my arms before the date. Traffic was horrible. So much for the welcome home snuggle and play time with Furry Creature.
By the time I got home I had to employ guerilla date readiness tactics. Fortunately I've been going on dates a long time, I've got lots of experience in date preparation. In fact I've earned date preparedness merit badge several times over.
So while I didn't get to do all I would have liked to do between flight/date, I pulled together a pretty good look (for me, about the best it gets). I had the driver drop me a few block from home so I could pick up a cute little top I scouted at a shop on my street last week. I bothered to fuss with my hair. I mean really fuss with it. I mean really, really fuss with it. I used all the good make-up. All of it, everything, I even applied foundation with a cosmetic sponge.
I know.
See? I didn't skimp on anything which matters. I only eliminated the niceties which would have helped me mentally shift gears from a rough few days out of town to party girl out on the town. I bothered. I bothered a lot. When I really didn't feel like bothering.
But when I checked my email, there was a message from him written about the time my plane landed. "I know you're out of town, but I hope you get this before tonight. I can't wait to finally meet you in person. I feel like a teenager I'm so excited. 7:00, the bar of ABC restaurant. I'll have a glass of merlot ordered for you."
Okay. A little over the top, but, he's excited to meet me. He's interested in me. And he is smart and witty. He remembers I like red wine. He obviously cares at least a little. Don't want to disappoint him. Who knows? Maybe this is the start of something big! It buoyed my energy and enthusiasm for going out.
Because I was running late because I arrived home from out of town only three hours prior, I spent the money on a cab to the pre-assigned rendez vous restaurant bar.
I arrived at 6:50. Yes, in the right time zone. No sign of him (or any man) at the bar. Good thing I'm not shy about just walking right in and finding a place at the bar because I've done a lot of that over the course of 50 First Dates. I ordered a glass of wine. Chatted with the bartender while keeping an eye on the door. The place was getting busy and crowded, lots of people coming in and crowding the host stand. Still. The bar was relatively empty, I was positioned in a clear site line of the door. I was posed as fetchingly and invitingly and warmly and friendly as I know how. More time passed. More people came in, more people were seated, no sign of my date. My date who "felt like a teenager" because he was "so excited" for our date. Check my mobile. Yep. On. Functioning. No missed calls. No messages.
I was sipping slowly, but I couldn't nurse that drink much longer.
45 minutes late. He's swutting 45 minutes late.
We have a table reservation due in 15 minutes. The place is packed, if he's truly running late we'll miss all chance at dinner here.
Okay, ring him.
I don't usually extend this courtesy. But this guy was different.
His phone went straight to voice mail.
"Hi Shallow/Fickle Immature Rude Cad (isn't it interesting how that has a sycophant ring to the sound of it?), it's Trillian. I'm here at the bar of ABC restaurant. Looks like you're running late. Give me a quick ring if you want me to push back the table reservation. Here's my number again, I hope you're walking in the door now and don't get this message until after we've met!"
7:55, five minutes before our reservation, I saunter over to the host stand and make apologies. "Looks like my friend is running late, any chance at a table in a half hour?"
"We're really packed tonight...we're holding a table for someone who hasn't showed yet, if your friend gets here before they do, it's yours."
"Great, thanks."
Notice how I broke the no-show-that's-it-I'm-out-of-here time limit rule.
Because this guy was different. He was so darned excited about getting together. He sent an I can't wait email. Surely something like traffic or a flat tire or serious emergency must have happened. He's not the stand up sort of guy. He's not the fickle oh geeze she really is ugly bolt now before she sees me type of guy.
Or is he?
Let's dissect.
He was going to be there waiting with a glass of wine for me. I got there ten minutes early. If he arrived after me, this could have thrown off his game plan. Still. No big deal for grown-ups, particularly a grown-up so excited for this date. Which is why I passed the 20 minute mark and stayed. Men's room? Maybe, but 45 minutes? If he's got an issue that big he probably shouldn't be going out for drinks and dinner. On a first date. There was never a time when there was anything but coupled up men at the bar. No way could one of them been him. There were two groups of three women, clearly girls night out, clearly none of them looked anything like me, no mistaking them for me. I gave him my mobile number when we made the date plans. He correctly read it back to me. I left him the number again when I rang to see if I should try for a later dinner reservation. I got his voice mail, I had his correct number. No possible phone number miscommunication. There was that pre-date email of excitement and anticipation so the date and time and place were correct. No miscommunication there. But that email is also the flaw in the no show theory. He was so darned excited about the date. And our email and phone conversations also point to a guy who is interested and anxious to meet, and not one indication that he is a fickle, shallow, rude, immature cad.
But where is he?
I was seriously, honestly, sincerely concerned for him. All signs pointed to something gone seriously wrong for him.
8:30. The host came into the bar and said he was going to have to give the table to someone else. I understood.
Boy did I understand.
An hour and a half after I was supposed to begin a promising date, I understood that I had been stood up. Again. And it was starting to feel more like a check her out first then duck and run than a serious personal emergency. Still, I thought, it doesn't ring true with what I know of his character. I took a cab home.
Checked my email.
Nothing.
Played with Furry Creature and took that long bath I wanted to take earlier. Brought the 50 First Dates Chart up to date. So the evening wasn't a total waste.
11:00.
Sleepy, a little drunk and worn out from a hectic work week, I fell into bed.
Woke up early as usual.
Checked my email.
Among the friends and relatives notes was an email from rude, immature, fickle, shallow cad. Sent at 3:00 AM, and judging by the misspellings, he was drunk when he sent it.
"Dint want to concern. Something came up with feind and lost track of time."
That's seriously it. No apology. No "d'oh, I'm an idiot and a loser."
Calling his bluff, I responded. (I was feeling cheeky)
"Okay, I'll give you one more chance because I like you. How about one night this week?"
I know, I know. Really, really out of character for me. I'm not usually persistent like that. But I was feeling cheeky and I'm trying, you know? I'm trying to really try. To make an effort, to play the games, to find someone, anyone, who will spend time with me. This was date #34, I've only got 16 more dates on 50 First Dates.
I didn't really expect a response to that email.
But in a few hours, boy did I get one.
"No. Get the hint."
I'm not kidding. Obviously he sobered up and was feeling nice and cocky and apparently angry at me for being as ugly as I look in the photos I sent him.
He obviously did show up for the date and didn't like what he saw and ducked and ran. Why is this obvious? Because of the huge, sudden change in personality. The huge, sudden lack of interest and enthusiasm. Okay, maybe, maybe he's the most bi-polar guy on the planet. But. I've been through this before, I know the signs.
I get the hint.
Message received loud and clear.
I know people think this, I know people say things like "don't embarrass yourself" and "take the hint, loser." But. I didn't want to, and hesitate to bring up the topic of his appearance. This is a guy who, may I remind you, is no catch in the looks department. Even being kind with the photos I've seen, he's the sort of guy your girlfriends would be at a loss to say nice things about - "he's um, he's, he seems like a nice guy..." is probably the best they could muster.
But I don't care! I liked his intelligence and wit and conversation - we were already developing a rapport. Or I thought we were. I'm not completely stupid. I don't go around reading more into things than what is actually there. I can and do take hints. I know when a guy is not interested. I don't push it. I try to maintain class and dignity and write it off to "just not The One." I'm not the sort of person who is turned on by rejection. It doesn't fuel my fire. Bow out gracefully is my motto. He was the one pushing for a date. He was the one who wanted the Saturday night date-date. He was the one who sent the pre-date email. And yet I'm the one who is supposed to get the hint?
Oh, I get the hint all right, obviously he's a jerk and shallow and rude and immature and a cad.
I won't email him, I won't call, and I've blocked his email addresses (yes, plural, he gave me his work, yahoo and hotmail email addresses, yet I'm the one who's to "get the hint?")
But this episode really swutting bothered me for bigger reasons. I want him to reimburse me the $26 I spent on cab fare to and from the date which wasn't. I want him to reimburse me $10 for make-up (and a cosmetic sponge) and hair products I used. I want him to give me $15 for new stockings because I ruined a brand new ultra sheer pair when I snagged my ankle on the bar when I got up to check on the table. I want him to give me $53 for the top I bought to try to impress him on the first date. Yes, guys, this is a minimal investment on a first date. Many women will get their hair and nails "done" at a cost of $50+ depending on where they live. Many will purchase an entire new outfit (the sky's the limit on that cost). "Bothering" to do our best to look good for you, to make a good first impression, costs a lot of money. Trust me, there is not one woman on the planet who doesn't spend some money and time on a first date, because there is not one woman on the planet who doesn't feel she needs a little boost in some area of her appearance. And the more "special" the guy, the more money and time she'll spend on pre-date preparations.
So, to Shallow/Fickle Immature Rude Cad and all the millions of people like him who leave dates sitting in bars, coffee shops, parks and other date meeting places the world over, here's what you should know and why you need to answer for yourself and your actions. Here's why I want some answers. (And not just because I'm apparently into emotional abuse)
Because I did bother.
Because I did think you were different.
Because I did like you.
Because you were excited to meet me.
Because it seemed like we were hitting if off well in email and on the phone.
Because you didn't seem fickle or shallow.
Because of all that I stayed and waited for you. I endured the humiliation and embarrassment, personal and public, of being stood up on a date. Because it was obvious I was stood up. I was all dolled up. I was checking the door every minute. I was trying to act cool and nonchalant, but a broad all dolled up on her own sitting at a bar nursing a glass of wine screams to the world: I'm waiting for a date. And at some point she is going to have to make that long walk to the exit. By herself.
Why, when you saw me and decided "no," did you not at least ring my mobile and make a lame excuse? How can you possibly think it's okay to see someone waiting for you, decide you're not interested, leave, and leave her sitting there waiting for you? Obviously you're rude. And shallow. So I might as well ask the wind for an explanation.
But I would like to know how you justify this behavior. It would be helpful for me so that in the future I can eliminate men like you from my possible date list. Somewhere in your personality are indicators that you are capable of this behavior. And I missed those indicators. I'm a pretty good judge of character. But I didn't see this coming from you. Please, enlighten me. Tell me why and how you did this to me. Because yes, I would rather stay home alone with my cat than endure one more round of humiliation, embarrassment and bruises to my self esteem with someone like you.
