This Guy's the Limit

The top is better than the bottom. High is better than low. Up is better than down. Gravity keeps us grounded as much as it steals our heads from the clouds and drags us back down to earth...to reality. So, when B asked if I wanted to meet for drinks at the TOP of the Hancock Building, everything I'd ever learned about being "high up top" led me to accept. I fought the little voice in my head that said, "I'm sorry...you live in Chicago, right? Why don't you throw on some white Keds, an 'I heart the Windy City' zip-up hoodie and make a dinner reso at Uno's? Yeah, head on up to the Signature Lounge and enjoy the view. Tourist."

But, sometimes, you have to be a tourist in your own city. You have to get a completely different perspective. You have to see a completely different view. I was game.

It was a foggy day so the "view" was hazy, clouded and left something to be desired. But, in the distance, I could make out the Rock 'N Roll McDonald's.

"Look!" I yelled and pointed in the direction of the golden arches. "McDonald's!"

I could feel the tourist in me screaming to escape all the way from the imaginary Keds on my feet up to the Windy City-lovin' hoodie on my head. What was I doing? I chalked it up to nervousness...and nostalgia for cheeseburger Happy Meals. The blonde, Eastern European waitress made her way to our table to take our drink order. I went with my signature drink...seeing as though we were at the Signature Lounge (see what I did there? That's called bad journalism). Goose dirty martini up with three blue cheese olives.

"Yeah...I'll have the same," nodded B. Huh, I thought to myself. I really expected him to go with a Labatt Blue draft beer but he was quite the fancy man, it seemed.

Let's back up for a moment.

B is a hockey player. And that really doesn't mean much one way or the other to me. I don't have a problem with it but I'm also not a fiend for it the way that some women are. They hear the word "stick" and lose their minds. I hear the word "hockey" and hope their car/apartment/room/jacket doesn't smell like a locker room. So, although B was wearing clean clothing and didn't smell like the depths of hell (also known as the inside of a hockey glove), his hair resembled a cropped version of a "business in the front, party in the back" 'do. And so did his vocabulary.

I'm the first to admit that half of the words I say are abbreviations, derivations of movie quotes and sometimes, just plain made up. But, acceptance is the first step. Or is it the second? Perhaps denial is the first. Wait, what? Yes. Denial is the first. And that's the river B was riding on. De. Nial. His incorrect assignment of definitions to words that didn't deserve them was both confusing and entertaining. I held back asking if he had always used "affluent" to describe people who spoke Spanish well...or just when referring to the VP in his office. On the flip side, I watched as he shifted in his seat uncomfortably when I used words with more than three syllables and let out what I can only describe as an incredibly bad, and not-at-all practiced, forced guffaw on five or six occasions.

As I reached my third blue cheese olive, it became clear to me that B and I weren't on the same level...of any floor...in any building. I could tell that he felt the same. But we both knew that if one of us ended the date at one drink, it would be more awkward than both of us pushing through a second one.

Helga stopped by again and we ordered two glasses of the Malbec. The fog cleared slightly. I pointed out the McDonald's again. I'm serious. Finger pointing. Childlike excitement on my face. Traffic copter announcing. B responded with, "Wow, you must really like McDonald's."

Our wine arrived. I asked if he grew up with any pets.

"Nah. I'm not really a pet person. I mean, dogs are alright, but I would never get one."

My childlike McFlurry-spotting excitement drained from my face as my eyes squinted into what I can only assume looked like a combination of confusion, anger and disgust.

"So...when you see a dog on the street...you feel nothing?" I asked matter-of-factly, in the most casual way I could muster.

"Nah. I'm not really a dog person."

At that moment, in the baritone vibrato of Dennis Haysbert, the voice inside my head said, "we're done here."

We blew through a few more questions that neither of us cared to know the answer to and finished our glasses of Malbec in under seven minutes flat. Helga was impressed. She dropped off the bill and scurried away with the evidence.

I faked a reach for my wallet and he faked not being annoyed to pay Hancock prices for a whole lot of nothing. Take my advice, people. Do not go on a first date on the 95th floor of a building. Because the ride down from a bad one lasts an eternity.

As we walked outside, each of our half hugs added up to a first and final goodbye. The Signature Room's Tagline is "The sky's the limit." But in the case of my date with B, it was 950 feet.

V-Day or D-Day?

For the mother of all holidays, Valentine's Day, I was a guest author for the3six5, a blog featuring 365 days of posts, told by 365 different people, from 365 points of view. A very cool and innovative concept. 

My post for February 14, 2012...

February 14th. Such a polarizing day. Whether you are single, committed, casually dating, happily married, recently divorced, or pretending to be (or not to be) in love with someone, you can’t avoid the day.

Valentine’s Day shows up on the same day, every year, mocking or celebrating your life choices.

And I’ve been in both boats.

Today, as with every day, I spent a great deal of emotional and strategic energy planning my outfit. Ever since I closed the door on my Catholic uniform-wearing days, outfit selection has occupied more time than I’d like to admit. But today’s mental tug of war pulled me between the two polarizing personas I could choose to be perceived as embodying today.

If I wore red, I would be implying that I supported the day; that I was on their team. One of the people with romantic dinner plans and a dozen roses on the way to her stark desk. One of the people who cooed at the Hallmark commercials, instead of scoffing at them. One of the people who didn’t “see red” when she saw red.

If I wore black, I’d be pegged a cynic. A soon-to-be spinster. Miranda Hobbes' understudy…untrusting, unhappy and one candy-coated heart away from a public mental breakdown.

I wore neither.

I settled on a colorful, non-black, non-red, patterned dress. My outfit screamed effortless ambivalence. What? TODAY is Valentine’s Day? I totally forgot. I would fool them all.

But I soon realized it was I who was the fool. Everywhere I turned, I couldn’t escape it. My StarbucksTall Blonde was served up in a cup littered w/ hearts and sweet nothings. Forbes “thought of the day” discussed love at first sight. (Or as I like to refer to the theme of relationships in my younger days: love at first slight.) #HappyValentinesDay was trending on Twitter worldwide.

I may have not made a choice to be on the Lovers or Haters team with the choice of my color palette. But the world was forcing me to make the choice now.

So to keep this V-Day from turning into D-Day, I’ve decided.

I choose red.

I’m thinking a nice California Cab will do just fine.

The Straight Gay Man

I love people. Short, tall, big, small, straight, gay, black, white. If you are a good person, I will like you. If you are a bad person, I will buy you a six pack of Miller High Life. Now, the person I'm interested in dating is judged by very different criteria. I have a minimum height and education requirement, maximum cologne-usage limit, first-date shoe expectation and jean size barometer (his jean size must be bigger than mine). But, there is one thing that he, hands down, without question, absolutely, positively CANNOT be. 

And that thing is gay. 

When I first walked into The Bluebird, a trendy wine bar slash Belgian beer mecca, I was impressed. The lighting was perfect. It was the kind of lighting that made everyone look good. Like movie-star good. Or at least extra-in-a-movie-star good. The slightly unattractive were now sexy ugly. The girl who desperately needed a hairbrush now had Blake Lively bed head. It was a happening place. So, when I saw B, my date, I was already warmed up...and he fit the bill. He was tall, was a college graduate, cologne smelled amazing...did my 10th grade crush wear that? Wait, is that Cool Water? His shoes were impeccable. They were these Italian leather, beautifully crafted, caramel-colored beauties. 

These shoes should have been my first clue. 

In my defense, I was high off the visually stimulating crowd...the endorphin-infused aesthetics of the mahogany bar. And so the fact that this guy was more than likely sporting this season's Gucci men's lace up dress shoes did not quite register. We ordered two Belgians and started to chat. I found out that he grew up in a very religious household in a very religious town. He was home schooled with his siblings from the first day of pre-school to the last day of high school. 

What is that word you're trying to think of right now? Run. That word is "run." 

He spoke about the strict hyper-Christian way he was raised...and then we meandered through the valley of avoidance, into the forest of denial and straight towards the land of homosexuality. And we spent two hours there. 

It turned from a first date into a therapy session. B was clearly struggling to admit who he was. Maybe he didn't even know it. I spoke emphatically about how his parents' views were narrow-minded and small. Things got heated. I desperately wanted to map out how to get him out of this crazy family and break out on his own and be free to be B! 

Then I took a deep breath, got oxygen pumping back to my brain and realized that I have a little habit of taking on projects. Especially when these projects are packaged and rolled up into a tall, intelligent, good-smelling man. I muttered, "Enabler!" under my breathe...to which B perked up. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh nothing...just reading the menu. Whadda ya say? Another round?"

B stood up and sashayed up to the bar. And that's when I saw it. I squinted my eyes and moved my head and upper body ever so slightly in B's direction. Yep. Just what I thought I had spotted. Discreetly peeking out of the seam of his left Seven Jeans' pocket was a small red tag with yellow writing. It read: 26. 

Oh. Hell. No.

I haven't been a 26 waist since high school. Scratch that. Middle school. There was no way this could work. I had visions of him picking up a pair of stone washed boot legs from the chair in my room, slipping into them and while swimming in the jean material, exclaiming, "Whoa! These are NOT mine. Yikes."

He had to go. 

I knew deep down B was a straight gay man. And one day, he would grow up to be a gay gay man. But I didn't have to help him get there. I could take a night off from projects and enabling and leave that up to someone else.

B turned his head back over his right shoulder towards our high top table and asked, "What kind of beer do you want?"

I paused, gave myself a knowing nod and responded, "I'll take a Miller High Life." 

The Poisonous Nut

My mom has passed on great life lessons to me over the years: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you; never brush your hair in public; respect your elders (unless they're a-holes); no outfit is complete without lipstick. And she was right. About all of these gems of wisdom. 

So, when she told me I was being irrational by writing off a guy ("S") simply because he went to Ohio State, I took (reluctant and forced) pause.


For those of you who don't know, I hate Ohio State. I realize "hate" is a strong word. And that's exactly why I'm using it. I hate the institution, the football team, the former and current coach. Hell, I hate the state of Ohio. Do you know what their mascot, a "Buckeye," is? It's a poisonous nut. Seriously. When they hired Urban Meyer as their head football coach a few months ago, @ESPN_BigTen tweeted: Is Ohio State ready for a rock-star coach?


I responded with this: I guess if "rock star" is a euphemism for "felonious," then yes.


But, perhaps I was being too harsh on S. The reality is: If I were a hiring manager, I would scan S's resume, be impressed by his professional accolades and personal interests only to come to the end of the first page where "college attended" was located; whereupon I would immediately feed S's resume directly into my shredder. This is behavior Webster would define as "discriminatory." And is one of the many reasons I can never be in HR. 


I once saw an ESPN commercial about a Michigan/Ohio State couple; and my friend's cousin's ex-boyfriend's step aunt went to Michigan and married a dude from that school in Ohio. So, that must mean that these couples must exist. Right?


I was determined to find out. 


S and I met for drinks at the Long Room, a cool, hole-in-the-wall bar that has an amazing beer selection. The interior was much cooler than its exterior. (Which turned out to be the exact opposite reality of my date, S.) 


We exchanged some introductory niceties and began to mull over the menu. It was huge. It went on forever. I honed in on the Michigan beer section and bit my tongue just before I was about to let out a taunting Ohio State jab. No, I thought to myself. You don't even have your beer yet. Just try to be mature. 


When our beers arrived, S and I held our pints of frosty brew up and clinked glasses, "To maturity!" (Side note: Before our date we agreed to act like bigger people than we actually were and avoid discussions around our schools.) 

So, we talked. I learned that he does analytical research or something or another for Careerbuilder.com and he does Improv on the side. You know, he’s one of those people who says, “If I could do anything, I would be a performer.” [Insert four-second beer chug.] I knew this was going to be a challenge…because I AM a performer…I just don’t get paid for it. He has one sibling (married w/ a kid); parents have been married for 30-something years...and they ALL live in Ohio. (When he told me this, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar and it looked as if I had taken a bite out of lemon. I’m pretty sure he noticed.)

I tried my hardest to avoid talking about/bashing Ohio State, but instead wound up bashing Ohio as a State. (The doctor still hasn't called with the results from my Sports Tourettes test, but it's not looking good. And as far as the medical community knows, there is no known cure.)

We pushed through to our second beer and even did a “you pick my next beer and I’ll pick yours” game, to which he declined my first two selections for him. So, that went well. I spent a good deal of time defending Bell’s Brewery and my Mexican restaurant choices in Chicago…he’s not a fan of El Tapatio. I was pretty much done at that point.

But then came the clincher. The real icing on the cake. 

He never went to Ohio State. 

He went to Miami of Ohio.

Don't get me wrong, I have no real problem with Miami of Ohio (besides the fact that it's located in Ohio and has the word "Ohio" in it). Heck, Nick Lachey went there and he married an amazing woman.

However, studies show that the ONLY thing worse than an Ohio State grad is an Ohio State fan who did NOT got to Ohio State. I had reached my threshold of Sports-Tourettes-challenged maturity. We closed our tab. 

When we walked outside, S offered me a ride home. Wow, I thought. This guy is more of a masochist that I am. [Insert one full minute of back and forth –“I can take a cab” “Are you sure? I can drive you.” “Are you sure? I can take a cab.”] Anyone watching this conversation would have passed out from boredom. I finally gave in. When we walked up to his car and it was a Toyota Camry, my Automotive Facts Tourettes kicked in.

“Hey…S? Did you get the recall yet? How are the breaks on this bad boy?” 

Needless to say, when he dropped me off, there was no mention of a second date.

The next day, I sent a text which I’m sure was the final nail in the coffin: “Had a great time last night. Thanks for the beers and (acceleration-controlled) ride home.”

I haven’t heard from him. And I never will.

In closing, I don't think S realized at the time – nor do I think he even fully realizes today – but regardless of alma mater, he is the true definition of a buckeye...in every sense of the word. 

Striking Out

When I was 18 and then 21 and then 24, I viewed New Year's Eve as a magical night. A night where the possibilities were endless. Where the mistakes and mishaps, hiccups and hook ups, loves and jobs lost would magically dissipate into the cool, crisp night air. And when that clock struck midnight, Cinderella didn't lose her pumpkin - or her killer gown and updo - but instead, I had the possibility of finding my prince. I drank the New Year's Eve Kool-Aid. All 130 bucks or so of what each of these potentially life-changing nights cost me...at 18....and then 21...and then 24. 

Until I moved to Chicago. 

That is when I quickly learned that New Year's Eve is the night you have to get through in order to get to the real deal: New Year's Day. And it was on a very special New Year's Day in 2009 that I met P. He was everything I wanted on paper...tall, great hair, Big Ten alum, Seven jeans, Belgian beer in hand...could the Heavens have finally aligned to bring me a boy with the Three B's? What are the "Three B's" you ask? I'll tell you. Big Ten, Belgian beer and...wait for it...bowling. Now, how, you ask again, did I find out that he was into bowling upon our first meeting at a very special dive bar in Lincoln Park? Because, I respond. I'm sick. That's why. 

In college, I became somewhat of a regular at Colonial Lanes - the epitome of a townie bowling alley. And this was back when you could still smoke indoors. So, it gave "townie" and "alley" epic new meanings. I used to walk in, gangsta-style flick my chin up at the first waitress I saw, wink (which stood for 2 pitchers of Miller Lite at my table stat), grab my shoes from Billy behind the counter and start the hunt for my strike ball (10 lbs) and spare ball (12 lbs). Yes, I was a regular. Yes, I used bowling terminology such as "rolling," "PDW," and getting a "gobble gobble." Yes, I rolled a 220 at one point and averaged 180. Yes, I had a lane name that I used when I rolled: Thugpassion. Yes, this was all true.

But, note this, my friends. Burn this in your brain as you continue on with the rest of my story: I did NOT own my own ball. I figured it was a slippery slope. Once I committed to a ball, there was no telling how many times a week I would be at Colonial. I had visions of myself dropping out of school, buying a quaint house/trailer a few blocks from the alley and spending my days rolling game after game, soon forgetting what daylight looked or felt like. I'd raise my children, Converse and Levi, there with their father close by my side as he deejayed cosmic bowling. Slippery slope.

So, I resisted the urge to buy my own ball. I remained a "casual bowler."

My first date with P was set. We were headed to Southport Lanes, the hot spot for the casual bowler. I say this because it is 80% restaurant/bar and 20% bowling alley. The bowling alley length is not up to regulation standards (yes, I know this) and they don’t have mechanical arms that reset pins mid-roll. They have dudes who smoke pot at lunch and stand behind the backs of the lanes with PBR in one hand and cane in the other. They reset the pins when they feel like it (or when you yell, “A little help here?!”). They can be bribed. If you’re not doing well, simply stuff a few dollar bills into your bowling ball thumb hole and pretty soon everything’s coming up roses. Or in bowling terms: you’re throwing down strikes. In other words, it’s not real bowling. At all. I thought it would be better this way because I’m extremely competitive. Like certifiably competitive. So, I thought I was doing myself and P a service by picking a fake bowling alley with real alcohol.

I thought.

I arrived on time, ponied up to the bar and ordered a beer. P arrived a good ten minutes later. I was less peeved by his tardiness when he sheepishly, and somewhat secretively, made his way to my bar stool. His hands were behind his back. Oh em gee. Did he bring me flowers?! Or a bottle of Patron? I was stunned and excited. This guy is legit! I knew Big Ten was the way to go! That was, until I saw what was really behind his back.

HE BROUGHT HIS OWN BALL.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell here, but seriously?

1.     When your date also shows up with a purse, you’re in trouble

2.     When that purse has a 12 lb personalized bowling ball in it, you’re in bigger trouble

My reaction fell somewhere between confused and horrified. His reaction was pure horrification.

“I thought this was like a legit bowling alley! Not a bar slash bowling alley,” P squealed, attempting to shift his bowling ball bag under his trench coat.

“Yeah…not so much.” I slowly responded…not really offering much help to his plight. I mean, have you ever heard of the Google? Do a little recon before you don accessories to your first date, brah.

We made our way over to the two lanes with our rented shoes (I guess he didn’t want to bring a full workout bag on the Brown Line) and set up shop.

The next 32 minutes were painful. P threw gutter ball after gutter ball.

“What’s on these lanes? It’s like oil or something. Or butter! What the $%#*”

“Yeah…I’m not sure,” I replied. “My house ball seems to be handling the lane just fine.”

This only served to further infuriate P. I gave him a $5 bill to send down the lane. He took it. And he still lost. Even after the pot-smoking, PBR-drinking dude used his cane to knock down strike after strike. I guess when you strike out early on, there’s no coming back from it. (Yep. That’s what we writers call a parallelism.)

Turns out, P was also certifiably competitive. Folks, when two certifiably competitive people compete, one person wins and the other person gives themselves a hernia.

After losing handily in bowling, P’s rage had made its way from his bowling hand to a pulsating vein on his forehead. “You shoot pool? Let’s do this. Rematch!”

Holy hell, I thought, this guy was nuts. I was immediately attracted to him again.

We headed to the pool tables and racked the balls. I pride myself on knowing my way around Billiards, but that particular night was not my night when it came to pool. Ball after ball, P shot them with such force into pocket after pocket (while also yelling out, “Yes!” “Suck it” and “Booyah!”) that I turned into the one who was no longer having fun. Around ball four of his run on the table, P excused himself for a bathroom break. I immediately summoned the waitress over and took shots of Patron with her.

The night ended shortly after our pool game. We couldn’t exactly go to another bar…because of the excess baggage.

So, we walked outside and hailed two cabs heading in the same direction.

P yelled over the top of his cab door, body half hanging out of the car, “Welp…that was…so, have a great…yeah.”

It was his best strike of the night. 

Slow Dating

I have experience. Life experience. Work experience. Dating experience. Yet, I hadn’t tried – nor was I prepared for – speed dating. In theory, it’s genius. But, in reality – like most other genius ideas – it didn’t quite live up to its tag line. I’ve done the bar thing, the online dating thing, the “no, but seriously, this time this guy is GREAT”-friends-with-good-intentions-amateur-matchmaking thing. Some have lasted longer than others. But, this speed dating novelty really seemed like it could work. 15 guys, 15 girls, five minute mini-dates. Genius.

Let’s be honest. We all know within five minutes whether or not we want to continue talking to someone. This is why the bar thing has been as popular as it has for so long. Let’s review: you walk up to a bar, order a drink, turn to Random Dude #1 on your right and make a visual assessment: cute; hell no; married (why do they let them outside?!); too short; tall enough; bad shoes; nice jeans; dad? Guys can fall into more than one of these categories. But after that 5-10 second assessment, you’re ready to a: flirt or b: walk away. And either option flies.


When you go on a blind date, you’re stuck for at least the length of time it takes to drink one cocktail and wait for your waitress to bring the bill. (Side note: why is it that when you’re on a terrible date, the waitress is never anywhere to be found? Ever. There should be a special pager that waitresses wear, where pager code 9-1-1 stands for “get me the hell out of here.”)


Okay, where were we? Right. Speed dating. Genius idea because you cut out the unnecessary full-length date with Mr. Not-gonna-happen. So, I was psyched.


I brought with me two friends whose proclaimed intention was not to participate, but to sit at the bar nearby and hold up cards w/ a rating system: 10 for “lock it down” to 1 for “get up and run.” I vetoed that particular plan but was happy to have them there as my moral support squad. When we showed up to the venue, it was a cross between a really ghetto airport bar (appropriately populated with middle-aged men pounding beers until the last possible moment before they had to depart for their flight) and a sad corporate cafeteria. The name of the place was French…but the décor and atmosphere were much more Franglish. This was bad sign #1.


Bad sign #2: The looks on the faces of the women ranged from complacent to trepidatious to desperate. The guys looked like the junior class of Northwestern’s chemistry department.


Bad sign #3: There were 14 women and ten men. Let me back up a bit. A few days before the speed dating event, the registration for women closed because it was full. Lucky (unlucky) for me, I made it in under the wire. Curiously, I looked at future speed dating events set up for the next month. ALL of the spots for women were full. So, are we desperate or are we desperate? That’s the real question.


I sat down and as the men filed in, I took a bigger swig from my pint of Matilda, and I made direct and determined eye contact with the waitress that telepathically translated, “I’m gonna need another one…like now.” She understood. The first broseph to sit at my table looked like he was really looking for the National Junior Honor Society Convention. I ventured a mental guess that he was around 17 (although I knew that the minimum age of this shindig was 21). He was 24. Not too far off. We made some extremely awkward and forced introductions, which included a mild disagreement about what road the McCormick Convention Center was actually located on. With all his gesticulating, I noticed a gold band on his left ring finger. “Say what?” was my first thought. “Are you married?” is what I actually asked the NJHS rep.


“No!” he exclaimed – either offended or flattered…I couldn’t tell which one. “This is a promise ring.” Yep, I nodded to myself. Of course it was.


“And who did you make the promise to? Your mother or your father?”


He looked me square in the eyes, slowly clasped his hands together on the table, leaned slightly forward and with conviction and reverence replied, “To God.”


Well alrighty then – it was gonna be hard to compete with that.


His next line of questioning centered around my preferred radio stations. I informed him that I don’t have any…because I don’t have a car…and I have iTunes and Spotfiy. All of those words were lost on him. We sat in silence for 20 seconds, both looked out the window and said in unison, “Look! It’s raining!”


The next three or four men struggled with the English language. To their credit, they had only moved to the United States three or four years ago. I helped one of them learn the difference between “their” and “they’re.” And let’s be honest, that grammatical anomaly trips up even the most seasoned English-speaking vet. The rest were a handful of Midwestern boys of average height, average looks and average personalities. And by my highly scientific mathematical calculations, that averaged out to nada.


I did, however, meet three other lovely ladies who also came up with the same answer to the aforementioned mathematical equation. We exchanged cards and tried keep our voices down as we exclaimed, “I mean, REALLY? [Insert half cry, half laugh.] REALLY?”


I returned to my moral support squad, deep into their third and fourth cocktails. They showed me the photos they took of me chatting with #4 and #6. They gave me the old, “you never know until you try” speech so we could justify my 30 dollar spend on ten bad dates instead of three awesome cocktails. They pointed out the trash can where I then, immediately, deposited my speed date selection sheet.


In conclusion, speed dating – like most other genius ideas – did not in fact live up to its tag line. So, will I ever do it again? My unwavering answer: only if two drinks are included.

Zero to Awkward

It had been awhile since I'd been on the dating scene, so I was pretty excited for what I thought would be a promising date. We did the email dance for a bit. "Where'd you go to school? You like Baskin Robbins Winter White Chocolate too?!" You know the drill. So, when he suggested dinner for our first date, I had a pang of anxiety and a jolt of excitement. Excitement for the fact that this dude was willing to commit to a full meal before actually meeting me (could this mean that he would maybe commit to me for life as well?). And anxiety because a full, lengthy meal with a blind date who you know five minutes into meeting will not be making it to date #2 can be torture. But in the spirit of positivity and all that other crap, I was in. So, it was set: 7:30, Wednesday, Quartino. But, to tell you what happened next, I need to give you a little back story.

K, as we will refer to him, is an Illini. He's 31, lives in Lakeview, has a dog AND he's tall. Truly, perfect on paper. His spelling and grammar in emails were impeccable. (A sick turn on for me.) He wanted to have a bet between us for the Michigan/Illinois game. (Competition AND collegiate sports all wrapped into one? Sign me up.) So, based on our previous Baskin Robbins Winter White Chocolate conversation, we settled on ice cream as the prize for the game winner. Sort of third grade; sort of endearing. I went with it.

Flash forward to Tuesday (day before the date). K sent the obligatory (although largely forgotten gesture by most men/boys) text, "Looking forward to tomorrow." All systems seemed to be GO.

And then Wednesday came.

At 5:04 p.m. (that's 2 1/2 hrs until date time), I received the following text:

"Hey, what do you think about getting ice cream? I had to push back my dentist appointment, and didn't eat before the cleaning, so I just had a bite to eat. Maybe we can do Quartino next time..."

Go ahead, folks. Go back and read that again a few times. I know I did.

And here were the thoughts that went through my mind:

1. If you knew you were eating at 7:30, why did you mow down on whatever you did at 5 and not, instead, have a snack to tide you over?
2. You're a dude, right? You really can't muster up some hunger again three hours after eating?
3. I don't do sans-imbibing dates when I'm meeting someone for the first time. It's a cardinal rule.
4. It's freezing. I don't want ice cream.
5. WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME ANY OF THIS?

Shouldn't he have just sucked it up, shut up and met me at 7:30? I'm sure he could have eaten enough for me to not accuse him of being anos (anorexic). I literally sat stunned for a bit, because I wasn't sure how to respond. I was less disappointed and more pissed. I wore heels to work, damnit! So, I responded with this:

"I need to eat dinner so I guess we could meet at 8. And I'd rather get a drink."

Simple, to the point. Or so I thought. His response:

"I'm trying to cut back on the boozing...And I'm having a shitty day. Would you rather just reschedule?"

Let's go through the numbered-points exercise again, shall we?

1. Aren't we all trying to cut back on the boozing in one way or another? Don't tell me that. Just show up, have one drink instead of five and give yourself a pat on the back that you didn't black out on a Wednesday when you get home.
2. It's November. This is when I ramp up my boozing...all the way into the new year when I go to the gym on Jan 1 and feel as though I've accomplished something great...not only for myself or my country, but the world.
3. We're not dating and yet, I'm already bearing the brunt of your "shitty day"? Sign me up for more of that!
4. Would I rather reschedule? Well, you're a combo of Sober Sally and Debbie Downer tonight, so I'm thinking, yeah.
5. Did you just use "shitty" in a text message before we've even met?

So, at that point, I came to the decision that all was lost. But, because I didn't want him to head straight for the Ben & Jerry's in his freezer and drown his sorrows in a pint while watching "Someone Like You," I responded: "Sure" I did not use punctuation to show him just how pissed I was.

So, that was that. What I was really most upset about though was the fact that I was getting a haircut at 6:45 and now would not have a date to showcase my freshly snipped ends and professionally blown out hair. That was the real tragedy.

Until 6:30.

6:30 is the time when I received my second to last text message from K. As it turns out, he was deep into his Heath Bar Crunch pint and had just witnessed Ashley Judd crying over her breakup with Greg Kinnear.

"Sorry about tonight. Was looking forward to meeting you. Hopefully it's not too awkward now :o)"

The only thing that makes a situation awkward is saying that it may or may not be awkward. The only thing that makes that more awkward is sending a follow-up text calling the awkward text mentioning the awkwardness awkward."

7:25 p.m.

"It's too awkward now, isn't it? Wish you the best."

And that my friends, is how you go from zero to awkward in under two hours flat.

I will leave you with a lolcat translation of the last two text messages from K. And let's be honest. They don't sound that much different from the originals:

SRY BOUT TONITE. WUZ LOOKIN FWD 2 MEETIN U. HOPEFULLY IZ NOT 2 AWKWARD NAO :O)

IZ 2 AWKWARD NAO, ISNT IT? WISH U TEH BEST.