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.