Date me, D.C.!

We need to talk

2011-10-06T20:04:00.000+01:00

I've never been good at accepting when things are over.

Phone conversations only end for me when the person on the other end of the line pauses awkwardly then says, "Well... I'm gonna have to let you go." I don't make my exit from dinner gatherings until I notice the hostess loudly shoving plates into the dishwasher, moaning about how much she can't wait until she can put on her pajamas. I'm frequently the last person at a party, still whooping and hollering off the front porch at 4 a.m., long after everyone else has gone to bed.

It's been no different with the two defining relationships of my life.

I vividly remember a blisteringly hot day in Rome in July 2007. I'd gone there on a vacation of a lifetime with my mom, and we were sitting on the edge of one of the Eternal City's intricately carved fountains, desperately trying to rehydrate. As I drank from straight from the fountain's spigot, I poured my heart out to my mother about all my doubts about my relationship with Ex-BF v. 1.0, all the things he did that bothered me and how I wasn't sure I really loved him anymore.

"Life's too short to be unhappy," she'd said to me, gazing off into the distance with a look of regret in her eye.

She was right. But I didn't break up with him until the following March, when his plans to move closer to my apartment forced my hand.

Of course, then I'd jumped right into seriousness with Ex-BF v. 2.0 without learning anything from that experience. Six months into our relationship, I'd begun to move my things into his condo, the fledgling stages of our cohabitation.

Another vivid memory: I was sitting at my desk at work, furling my brow.

"What's wrong?" a co-worker asked when she sensed something was off.

"I just moved in with my boyfriend," I said, inhaling deeply. "And I think I made a mistake."

She gave me a look that told me she understood what I was going through.

"It's never too late to change your mind," she said. "Trust me."

But I didn't change anything. Despite my instincts, I lived with him for nine months -- until the day I came home to find all my things neatly stacked in a pile on our living room floor.

In all of these cases, I know what's happening around me. I can always feel it -- a vague sense of dread that clings to me, collapsing my lungs and churning my stomach.

But due to some sense of... I don't know, duty? Responsibility? An unwillingness to disappoint people? I ignore my instincts, and I let my situation fester until someone else makes the decision for me.

Today is Oct. 6. Two years ago yesterday, my already crumbling relationship finally disintegrated. Two years ago tomorrow, I'd come home to that aforementioned pile.

I didn't make that choice back then. And I promised myself I would never let that happen to me again. I would make the decisions in my life; I would walk away when I knew it was time.

And so, bearing that in mind, I need to walk away from this blog.

Two years ago, I was 26, freshly out of seven years of fully committed relationships. I felt like I had wasted my 20s, spending the majority of the years with two men who were completely wrong for me. I'd never "dated." I'd never been on a real date in my entire life.

I started this blog to chronicle the adventure. I wanted to meet men, go out, have drinks, feel infatuation, gush. Make mistakes, and learn from them. And I needed a creative outlet -- I hated my job, and I was constantly bored.

And I did all of that. I did more living in those two years than most people do in their entire lifetimes. I've canvassed this city. I've learned what to do, what not to do, how to talk to people (believe me when I say this: conversation is a learnable skill). I've held happy hours, been interviewed and, in one particularly awesome case, been recognized in public.

But now -- today -- I'm in a totally different place. I'm not a rookie -- I'm so good at first date chatter that I ALWAYS get asked out on second dates. I get asked for dating advice, and I legitimately immediately know the answer.

And the best thing ever? I have an absolutely AMAZING job -- one that I got as a DIRECT RESULT of writing this blog -- that constantly engages my brain and affords me the creativity that I so desperately craved. (And the amount of money I make to do so can only truly be described as "sinful.")

I'm not the person I was when I started this. And it's taken me to a place where I don't quite fit anymore.

So, for once, I'm making the choice and closing this chapter of my life. It's time to move on to something else.

What all that entails, I'm not entirely sure. I do know a few things: For starters, I'm not going to stop tweeting. It's fun, all my friends use it, and it's more addicting than crack cocaine. So if you follow me, rest assured I'm not going anywhere.

I'm also not going to stop going on dates -- the goal is still to find someone and settle down, and the only way to do that is to keep putting myself out there and meeting new people. Just for this new stage of my life, it's not the quantity that matters, it's the quality. I don't need as many experiences to beef up my resume; at this point I've had plenty.

Maybe I'll write a new blog; maybe I won't. Maybe I'll start that book everyone tells me I should write; maybe I'll just keep teaching others how to do it for me.

But regardless of what I decide to do, I'll tell you this: Through the mirror of the men I've dated, I've learned a lot about myself.

That's been invaluable. And I don't regret a single moment.

So... can we still be friends?

Implosion

2011-09-19T04:23:00.000+01:00

I don't even know where to begin this blog post.

I went out with a guy for a first date this past Wednesday. It was fantastic. He was funny and charming, and he took me to Pearl Dive Oyster Palace on its opening night. We talked and laughed and kissed for over an hour at the end of the night.

He contacted me immediately the next day and kept in contact throughout the rest of the week, asking me out again for Saturday.

I was SO EXCITED. I carefully crafted every text and email response, running most of them by Sassy Marmalade first. I didn't even blog about it because I didn't want to jinx it.

Then comes Saturday night. I stop by a birthday party first. I do a shot because I'm so nervous about seeing him again. He meets me outside the bar and takes me to Riot Act comedy club in Penn Quarter. Before the show, he asks way too many questions about the blog, to the point where I get uneasy. I felt uneasy throughout the entire show. Something was just... off. Those questions just felt unnatural.

Show ends. We leave. We're walking along the street corner, and he says the following:

"I've been seeing someone else, and it's progressed to the point where we're going away for the weekend together. Also, I just don't know if this is real for you."

I'm horrified.

For starters, let's look at the obvious: If you're dating someone else seriously enough to take a full weekend trip, then WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKING OUT OTHER WOMEN, ASSHOLE??? I bet she'd LOVE to know just how much you kissed up and down my neck and all those things you whispered in my ear. If you're going away for a weekend together, SHE'S YOUR GIRLFRIEND. And by taking me out, you're a fucking cheater.

And beyond that... how many times do I have to write that yes, this is, in fact, real for me? For better or worse, I invest in every single person I go out with.

Every. Single. Person.

I INVEST. This is not a fucking joke to me. And I invested in YOU. And to tell me you don't believe this is "real" for me is too goddamn condescending for words. My heart is on the line EVERY TIME.

I walked away from him on the street corner that night. I was going to go home, but then I rounded the corner to Chinatown and on instinct walked back to the bar with the birthday party. Tears had already started forming in my eyes. I found A Single Girl and sobbed to her in the bathroom.

"At least you aren't that other girl," she said. "She thinks she has this great guy who's so into her he's taking her away for the weekend and when she's not looking he's making out with you. At least you aren't her."

Yes, true. The wool is pulled over her eyes and I guess I'm glad I know now rather than later what a prick he is. But it's not even that I'm upset about him. He's just some guy. It's about that second part of what he said.

I can't keep doing this. Guys don't take me seriously with this thing. I'm tired of being just novelty. I think at first, when I started writing this, it was OK because I wasn't ready to be with someone anyway -- I'd been in a relationship for seven years and I needed to be by myself for a while. The blog created a wall around me to block me off from getting serious with anyone. But now, I'm 100 percent ready to be serious, and I've still got this wall.

So, I don't know what I'm going to do. I've got Doing the District now, so maybe that can just be my creative outlet. I just know that I can't keep putting myself through this. I can't keep letting men like him treat me like I'm expendable.

OkCupid fails: Why I'm not writing you back

2011-09-16T16:00:00.001+01:00

Well, as anticipated, OkCupid has been a big goddamn disappointment. I realize it hasn't been that long that I've been on this godforsaken excuse for a dating site, but... son of a bitch. You'd think that in a city where the average education level is a master's degree that I'd get something moderately more advanced than masturbatory grunts, but apparently not.

Seriously, message after message has just been... bleh, bad. I read them and feel compelled to bang my head against the keyboard repeatedly.

With that in mind, a story to tell: One day recently, I was going through the messages I'd received, finding nothing that piqued my interest and losing all hope in humanity. I decided to poke around the section with my "Matches" and see if there were dudes tantalizing enough to write to (I very rarely exercise this option -- I find it better to be pursued than be the pursuer).

As I was scrolling down the feed, I took note of each man's message button.

Have you used OkCupid? If not, here's a handy guide:

This button means the person replies "often."

This button means the person replies "selectively."

This button means the person replies "very selectively."

But the thing is, you only see the message buttons when you're looking at someone else's profile. When you log into your own page, the site doesn't tell you how selectively (or not) you reply. So, I got curious and logged on with the business account I use when I'm doing profile reviews/rewrites and looked at my own profile page.

My button? The bright-red stop light.

Oh man, I thought. Am I being too picky? I was surely trumpeting the message: "NO CAN HAZ!!! DO NOT WANT!!!"

Maybe I should reconsider some of these people, I posed to myself. With that, I went back through my inbox.

...sigh. No, I definitely SHOULDN'T reconsider anyone. You want to know why? Here, I'll tell you why:

THE MAN: Age 35, from Bethesda

THE MESSAGE: "Hi, I'm intrigued, and I'd like to get to know more about you. Based on your profile I thought we had lots in common, from writing to humor to planning to supporting education. Let me tell you a little more about me:"

FIFTEEN (!!!) PARAGRAPHS LATER...

"I promise to keep other questions for an in-person meeting."

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: Jesus Christ, is this a dating email or a novel? You might as well have started your message with "Call me Ishmael." TL/DNR! Also -- it's just as boring as the real Moby Dick.

THE MAN: Age 33, from Arlington

THE MESSAGE: "Hi...Your profile stood out to me thanks to your detail and humor, so I wanted to introduce myself. I am another person who has absolutely no desire to work on the Hill. I also really have no desire to date a vegetarian. That would simply drive me nuts.

How long have you been in the DC area? What do you like the most about it?

I've been on the road a lot of late...so I'm going to close with one more question for you: what's the next trip you'd like to take and why?"

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: Well, clearly my profile didn't stand out too much, because you MESSAGED ME ON A DATING SITE LAST YEAR. This particular gent and I exchanged a few emails while he made use of a "free weekend" offer from the dating site, and when his time ran out he failed to follow up with me. I was somewhat put off by his scamming the Match.com system back then, and this time I'm REALLY put off by the fact that he's still using the exact same profile picture he was using a year ago (which makes me question just how old that photo actually is -- and whether he looks ANYTHING like it).

THE MAN: Age 32, from Falls Church

THE MESSAGE: "Five stars for this beautiful girl"

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: And five stars right back at you for your gigantic face mole. Seriously, that thing should have its own ZIP code. I fully acknowledge that I am far from a model and I will gladly date awkward-looking men (and have done so many many MANY times), but goddamn, I have my limits.

THE MAN: Age 39, from the District
THE MESSAGE: "I've never worked on the Hill either, and I live in DC. So, you gotta correct that mistake, my dear. :)

I'm not a vegetarian. I like the meat. 'Nuff said.

So how would you digitally transfer your head? I think you'd need a scanner, first of all.

If you'd like to know the other places you missed the mark, I'd be happy to tell you."

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: WTF? You didn't entice me; you insulted me! Repeatedly! On pretty much everything in my profile! I'm fairly certain the kick-her-in-the-shins-then-run-away tactic only works up until about fourth grade. And even then you still need a sandbox.

And THAT'S what I've got to work with. Sigh. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm totally going to die alone.

"Doing the District" launch party!

2011-09-15T14:07:00.000+01:00

Between last night's date and tonight's impending date -- provided both give me the OK to blog about them -- I swear to baby Jesus I will have a legitimate blog post soon (everything I've put in here lately has been crap and we don't even have to pretend otherwise).

But I just wanted to make a quick update to invite you all to the Doing the District LAUNCH PARTY on Sept. 20!

Here are the pertinent details:

It's going to be at Mie N' Yu in Georgetown. Have you had their drinks? Because they're fucking awesome, and you should.
They're giving us FREE APPETIZERS. FREE APPETIZERS, PEOPLE.
They're also reserving the upstairs Venetian bar and lounge for us.
Finally, the first 20 guests to arrive will get SWAG BAGS WITH COOL SHIT IN THEM.

Click here for the Facebook invite and add yourself to the event! Should be a good time had by all!

This place reeks of "sad girl" right now -- LAME

2011-09-11T01:03:00.000+01:00

Since I've been on exactly zero dates since the labor union guy (OkCupid is proving to be a big fail -- blog post on that coming once I finish Photoshopping some shit), I have nothing to write about to push that last sad-sack post out of the top spot. The man well has run dry.*

However, I did start an awesome new series on where to meet men in D.C. for my sister site, Doing the District. So, go check that out while I get my shit together over here.

And keep your fingers crossed for me that the labor union guy calls when he gets back to town.

*Haha, that kind of sounds like "Manuel"... OK I'm tired.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog programming

2011-09-09T02:06:00.001+01:00

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -- I know people are probably fucking sick of this by now but something just happened and I have to write about it, have to cry about it, have to kick things and pound my fists into walls until my knuckles bleed, have to heave guttural screams until my lungs are ragged and mucus smears across my face with my mascara and I collapse into a shivering pile of grief.

I don't know why I did it. I never did it before -- not even when we were dating. But tonight, somehow, the idea popped into my head and before I knew it I was clack clack clacking on the keyboard and there it was.

The entrepreneur mentioned in passing that he'd used dating sites. Tonight, I logged on Match and took a guess at his screen name.

I was right.

From his profile:

And, what about you? You are better off for having your heart broken once, maybe twice. You have a slightly more than vague idea of what you want from life. You help people. Your friends are as good as gold. You know a good thing when you have it. You don't take things for granted. You recognize why some people are good. You aren't afraid to laugh at yourself. You can tell funny stories. You respect yourself and like to be healthy. And, you're willing to figure things out together -- albeit with a friend or a lover. And, you've got enough confidence and moxie to keep up.

Oh my God. In what part of that did I fail? Why wasn't I enough?

The labor union guy

2011-09-04T21:44:00.001+01:00

Right before I wrote about my date with the fundraiser, I updated my Facebook page to say that a new blog post would be coming soon.

Before I go any further, I should come clean with the following: If you "Like" me on Facebook, I take at least 20 minutes out of my day to Facebook-stalk you. (And let me just add that if you love me at all, you'll loosen your privacy restrictions so that I can click through the photos you use for your profile pictures.)

Anyway, I updated my page's status, and a gentleman left a comment.

"What's the topic?"

"The newest man to throw his hat into the ring, aka the fundraiser," I responded.

"Interesting. How does one go about throwing said hat into the ring? Or is the ring so full of hats right now that the ring can't handle another hat?" he asked.

... so, like I said, I Facebook-stalk people. And this particular gentleman? Oh boy. Blond, fit, nice smile... he could SO throw his hat into the ring. He could throw his hat into the ring all night long.

"Um, are you inquiring for yourself or for others?" I eagerly replied. "For you, you email me because I have totally Facebook-stalked you and you are hot. For others... well, I guess they email me, too."

Of course, he "liked" that comment.

Then email me he did, telling me that he worked for a labor union and that he'd like to buy me a drink when I had a chance. Done and done. I made plans to meet up with him at Lost Society at U and 14th streets on the Thursday of the following week.

However, that was two days after our extraordinarily raucous happy hour at Blue Banana. Not gonna lie -- I was a little worse for wear the following day. And I still wasn't feeling 100 percent as Thursday rolled around. So when it started pouring down rain outside, I asked to reschedule for Monday instead. The labor union guy seemed disappointed, but he agreed.

At long last, it was Monday and time for our date. We were supposed to meet at 6:30 at Lost Society, but I ended up leaving work late. I texted the labor union guy to let him know I was running behind, and he told me to take my time.

That meant, however, that he ended up arriving at the restaurant way before me.

"You're not going to believe this," he texted, "but Lost Society isn't open on Mondays."

Twice we'd had plans for the steakhouse, and twice we were denied! I texted the labor union guy from a cab and told him to meet me on the roof of El Centro D.F., which is just a few blocks down 14th.

I ended up getting to the restaurant around 7, and made my way to the bar upstairs. It wasn't very crowded, but I didn't see the labor union guy at first.

Just then, a group of patrons relinquished their bar stools. And, like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the deep, the labor union guy appeared through the parting sea of people.

As cute as he was in his pictures, he was even cuter in person -- in better shape and smartly dressed in a suit from work.

Woohoo! I thought. Why is this man single? HOW is this man single??? I win again!

We made eye contact, and I waved as I walked over to take the bar stool to his right side and introduce myself.

When he spoke, he had a pretty significant speech impediment.

Aaaaaand THAT’s why he’s single.

The thought just crept into my brain -- I couldn’t help it! But it’s not like I was going to say anything about it, so I just continued with the standard initial get-to-know-you first date conversation.

A few moments later, he said the following:

“So, I’m deaf in this ear” -- he pointed to his left -- “and I have significant hearing loss in this one” -- he pointed to his right -- “so that’s why I have to have you sit on this side of me. And if I’m staring at your lips, I’m not trying to be gross or anything; I just have to really concentrate to be able to understand what you’re saying.”*

Aaaaaand THAT’s why I’M single. I AM A FUCKING ASSHOLE FOR THINKING THAT THING EARLIER.

Anyway, that whole conversation led to a pretty funny exchange about how when you talk to most guys in D.C., they’re half listening to you but their faces are turned away and their eyes are scanning the bar. To that, I said something along the lines of “Well, I’m looking right at you, but I’m looking at that guy with my peripherals so when you go to the bathroom I’m going to go over there and talk to him next,” which made the labor union guy laugh pretty hard.

And that actually brings me to one of the things I liked best about him: I feel my most comfortable, my most at ease, my most happy when I’m around people who share my moderately twisted sense of humor. I’ve always said I want to be with a man who makes me laugh, but the correlating sentiment to that is that I want to be with a man who I make laugh. I love watching my sister, Annie, interact with her husband because I can tell he thinks she’s the funniest person on the face of the planet. The labor union guy thinks I’m similarly funny.

He also clearly likes my blog, which provided me with one of the most personally embarrassing moments I've ever had on a date: The labor union guy totally read the post I wrote about rejoining OkCupid and not dating guys from blog anymore. I know this because he made a comment about being psyched that he'd been "grandfathered in" -- a phrase I'd definitely written. Then he went on to quote me verbatim where I'd called my time with the entrepreneur "Orgasm Tour 2011."

I have never regretted anything I've written in here so much as in that moment I regretted writing THAT.

We had a couple of drinks at El Centro that were varying levels of gross and we were relatively unimpressed with the bar as a whole, so the labor union guy suggested walking down the street to Cork for dinner. The one thing I always implore my dates to do is take me somewhere I’ve not yet been, so that restaurant fit that requirement.

We continued chatting about our jobs, our friends and life in general as we walked down the street. I get the sense that the labor union guy is an extrovert with lots of friends and a social calendar just as full as mine, which is really attractive to me.

The labor union guy and I rounded the corner to Cork, and lo and behold: It was closed, too! I guess they were on a summer vacation? What the hell? It just was kind of funny that both places he suggested ended up being massive planning failures.

We decided to go further down the street for the small plates and sangria at Estadio, and we were lucky enough to snag a spot at the corner of the bar pretty quickly. We ordered some dishes to share and kept up our banter.

The labor union guy is also from the Midwest, having grown up in Michigan and gone to college in Madison, Wis. My best girlfriend Alyssa lives in Madison now and I've visited there a couple of times, so we had a lot of things to talk about concerning the area.

We ate our delicious food and had two rounds of sangria, and it occurred to me that I should look at the clock -- I'd completely lost track of what time it was. It was past 10, and I definitely needed to get home. We settled up our tab and walked outside.

He kissed me on the street corner before hailing a cab. It was totally awesome, and I couldn't stop smiling all the way home.

I immediately texted the labor union guy to tell him what a good time I'd had, and he texted back to say the same.

In the days that followed, we tried to figure out a time to get together again, but, sadly, our overflowing calendars just didn't mesh. Then I traveled south to visit the Non-Student in her new digs in North Carolina, and he headed out for a week with his family, so we made tentative plans to see each other again when he gets back.

So, who knows what will ultimately happen. Momentum seems so key in the early stages, and the timing for this was just a little off. I'm hoping he doesn't forget me when he goes out of town (or get put off by anything I write in here about him).

But if it happens, it happens, I guess. I'm past the point of being optimistic at this early stage of the game. It took a while, but I think I've finally learned that "he is not different; I am not special."

*"HOW did you not know what that was?!?!" Annie asked incredulously.

"I don't know!!!" I whined in response.

"Heather's husband Mark has hearing loss!"

"Well I didn't know what that was!!!"

"YOUR FRIEND JEN has hearing loss! Are you completely stupid?"

"... I guess so!"

I seriously still feel like an asshole.

Introducing "Doing the District"

2011-09-01T17:09:00.000+01:00

Hey, all! I'm joining forces for a group blog: Doing the District. This was our intro post -- check it out!

-Katie

One balmy summer night not long ago, five girlfriends met for drinks after work at the W Hotel in Washington, D.C. One had just gone through a breakup two days earlier. One had a dismally bad date the week before. One was dealing with the realities of a long-distance relationship. One was slowly realizing that the man she was getting to know was not who he claimed to be. And the fifth one? She just came along for moral support… and to scope out any single − or attached − men she could find to flirt with and buy her expensive drinks.

From the W’s sophisticated rooftop bar, the women sipped $15 strawberry lemonades and berry caipirinhas while rebuffing the advances of would-be suitors. They negotiated a spot near the railing – prime real estate in a place that boasts sweeping views of the Potomac, the monuments and the White House… as well as hot secret service men strategically perched on the first family’s roof.

Despite the internal struggles they faced, the women – each from a different city across the country – were all just happy in the moment as their eyes scanned the city they’d grown to call home. Slowly, as they watched the sun dip below the skyline, mixing itself into its own cocktail of those haunting pink and purple hues, one of them spoke up.

“You know what we all know how to do?” Samantha asked. “Aside from surviving the crappy stuff that happens to us, that is.”

The four other girls looked at her curiously.

“We all know how to DO THIS CITY.”

"You mean, we know how to do the District," Katie remarked.

You see, all five girls are experts on the D.C.-area. They know about a host of things – dating, going out, exploring, fashion, restaurants, dancing.

But what if there was one place where all those ideas could come together?

The girlfriends were onto something, but by that point they were also teetering on the brink of sobriety after spending far too much money on fruity cocktails. So, they clamored down the street for sustenance at another D.C. staple: Old Ebbitt Grill.

In the comfort of its dark mahogany wood and the fading whispers of backroom political deals, the women slid into a booth, ordered dinner and got down to business.

They thought about themselves, and what they had in common. Fierce independence. Unwavering resilience. Humor. Spontaneity. Zest for life.

But above all, the women are Gamma Girls: Kind, loyal women. Women who listen to one another. Women who share information, ideas, opinions, contacts and recommendations. Women who look out for one another.

Together, the Gamma Girls envisioned a blog that would serve as a how-to guide for women – and men – in the nation’s capital.

Where are the best places to go on dates? To dinner? To dance? And, keeping the city’s steamy, seamy underbelly in mind, what’s going on between the sheets?

The Gamma Girls know.

So now, they invite you to come with them while they eat, drink, dance, date…

And live.

- The Gamma Girls

Back online: The "why," the "who" and the "...WOW"

2011-08-29T05:07:00.002+01:00

So after much soul searching, I made a big decision this week: I am not going to date any more men I meet through the blog.

Why the change? Because dating men I meet through the blog is BULLSHIT. One of two things happen:

1. I'm into them.

Then I gush, and things get weird.

And what's worse, even among the ones I don't blog about, the guys I meet through the blog seem to consider me highly expendable. I'm a character, a novelty at best, and they don't hesitate for a second to blow me off and treat me with less respect than they normally would bring to a date. Fuck that!

Then there is the second option, which is much more likely:

2. I'm not into them AT ALL, and I am forced to "be an adult" and write blog posts I don't want to write in the name of not hurting their feelings.

What I mean by "be an adult" is that when I go out on one date and I'm not feeling it, I can't just not respond to emails and text messages. These guys see me online; they know I have a BlackBerry. I'm connected, and I have no excuse to not send the "thanks but no thanks" email.

Now, I believe in closure just as much as the next girl, but after one date? We don't need to have a formal breakup conversation. We're all adults here.

And then there's the latter part of Reason No. 2: I know they're reading it, so when I blog I'm nicer to them than I would be otherwise.

WHAT I MAY WRITE: "I just didn't think we had long-term potential."

WHAT I ACTUALLY WANT TO WRITE: "His breath was so bad that when he kissed me, my ovaries curdled."

Bottom line, it's an extremely uneven playing field. I've been sticking it out in the hopes of finding someone who is able to reignite the Orgasm Tour 2011 that was the entrepreneur, but everyone who's come along in his wake has been a big disappointment. There are a few guys whom I already have plans with whom I will grandfather in, but other than that, back online I go.*

The first stop? Craigslist personals.

Don't judge me! They're free and you don't have to create a profile.

But of course, that leaves room for a whole lotta weirdos to take a dump on their keyboards and call it a dating ad.

Like this one:

Apparently, he's never heard of the Internet (which is strange because the last time I checked, Craigslist was part of the Internet). They have lots of boobs there, and you don't even have to pay to see them.

Or "PAAY," for that matter.

Check out this one:

Well, when you sell it like that... my panties. are. already. off.

This one's intriguing:

Y'know, given my turn to cynicism of late, this one is actually moderately enticing to me. I just might cash in this sadist gift certificate.

And finally, the piece de resistance:

"Let me take you where no one can hear you scream... haha just kidding, seriously, let's fly to an island together!"

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

This guy is barely maintaining the "I am just looking for a discreet affair" facade! I feel like he has every intention of chopping his woman up into little pieces and having casual sex with her corpse. I almost didn't black out his eyes when posting this because A) he'd posted it to the World Wide Web of his own volition and B) we should probably alert the Alexandria police that this psycho is on the loose, but then I chickened out.

So, that's what Craigslist had to offer. Given those options, I made the only choice I could.

I rejoined OkCupid.

And the first message in my inbox?

"Your very beautiful."

Y-O-U-R.

.................. Sigh.

I'm totally going to die alone.

*I'm still probably going to "be an adult" about it and send the "thanks but no thanks" email/text afterward. I feel too guilty not to at this point.

The intelligence guy

2011-08-25T11:18:00.001+01:00

I got a cutesy email the other day from a gentleman who said he was frustrated with the dating scene in D.C. -- every girl he attempts to chat up ultimately reveals she has a boyfriend, apparently. In taking those frustrations out on the Internet and googling something along the lines of "where are the single women in D.C.," he stumbled across my blog and felt compelled to ask me out.

He sent his OkCupid profile so I could more readily determine if I would like to meet him and quipped that "for every favorite movie I share in common with a date, the probability of me faking my own death midway through drops by 4.7%."

OK, that was funny. I like funny. I eagerly went to peruse his profile.

....and from what I could gather, we had NOTHING in common. While I didn't necessarily mind the movies that were his favorites, they certainly wouldn't be anywhere near the top of my personal lists. He also seemed very into dance, which I feel like as a woman should be a turn on for me, but for whatever reason just doesn't really do it.

The final nail in the coffin was that he listed Taylor Swift among his favorite musical acts. Taylor Swift is one of several performers whom I actually want to murder in their sleep every time I hear their bullshit treacly excuses for pop songs blaring on the radio (Miley Cyrus is another on that list).

Sigh. In any case, he seemed to have a good sense of humor, so I wrote back to him to say that I didn't think we were that compatible but that I'd still meet him for a drink if he'd be up for it.

The intelligence guy -- who gets that moniker because he works in something globally/strategically/intelligence-y that doesn't lend itself to a good nickname -- assured me he was more than his dating profile. He booked me for Thursday and said he'd get back to me with official plans later.

And get back to me he did: The intelligence guy followed up with an email that clearly showed he did his homework. With respect to the fact that I love barbecue almost more than I do my parents, he suggested we hit up L.A. Bar & Grill for their Thursday BBQ special. He told me to make sure I took public transportation because the evening would include surprises.

That was a tad annoying -- the "L.A." in L.A. Bar & Grill in fact stands for "Lower Arlington," and it's on the decidedly not Metro-accessible Columbia Pike, so public transportation meant I'd either have to Metro to the Pentagon and catch a bus or shell out for a cab ride. Nevertheless, I appreciated that the intelligence guy was clearly putting a lot of thought into the evening.

I started tweeting at the bar to say I was planning on going there for a date, and the bar's manager responded. We bantered back and forth a bit, and that guy seemed AWESOME, even showing me an article about him being named one of the most outspoken bars on Twitter for his bad-assness. I decided right then and there that if it didn't work out with the intelligence guy that I was going to try for the manager instead.

Finally, it was Thursday and time for the date. It was rainy, so I decided to bag the inexpensive transportation option and hail a taxi. That meant I was due to get to the bar about 10 minutes early -- fantastic, since I wanted to chat with the bad-ass bar manager first.

I walked in, made my way to the bar and ... oh, he's already here.

The intelligence guy was camped out near the corner of the bar, talking to the manager. Well, there goes that plan, I thought to myself.

And oh God, he's SO skinny.

I had seen pictures of the intelligence guy through his profile, but they didn't do him justice -- he's just a very, very slight man. So much so that it made me extremely self-conscious: The two of us standing next to each other looked like the number 10 (if I flatter myself, 18).
At that point, the bar manager made eye contact with me and introduced himself, then told us we could sit wherever we wanted and we'd be served.

I opted to take a bar stool and get a drink with the intelligence guy first before sitting down to dinner. We started getting to know each other, discussing a bunch of random things. He's from Los Angeles originally, and went to a high school called the "Highly Gifted Magnet" before going on to attend a small college in Massachusetts and grad school in the District.

And really, that's another reason why I decided to go with "the intelligence guy" as his blog name -- he struck me as a studious gent who really excelled academically. In fact, I got the feeling like he studied for the date with the same aplomb that he took to final exams.

For example: The intelligence guy shied away from discussing any politics or what he does for a living because he'd read that I don't enjoy talking about those things. In truth, it's the attitude a lot of people take to discussing their jobs that I don't like -- those who act as if the world revolves around them because they kiss a senator's ass on the regular. And I don't like people to only talk about their jobs -- I would like to know that you have a life outside work, friends, family, etc. As far as politics go, I don't like getting into the weeds of it all, treating the subject the same way you'd treat the sports pages. And more importantly, I don't like fighting with people and I'm not always quick with a comeback so I get very easily frustrated when those topics come up.

There were other things I could tell he studied... but then at the same time, he asked some questions that I wasn't sure how to answer because I knew he'd read that far back in my blog. I felt weird talking about the worst first date I'd ever been on when I could figure that was something he'd already known.

The intelligence guy and I eventually moved from the bar to a table to order dinner, where again I felt like Gigantor because he couldn't finish his dinner even though I very easily could have (and only didn't because he didn't).

HOWEVER AT THIS POINT IN THE EVENING, SOMETHING VERY COOL HAPPENED:

Apologies for the poor quality. This is what happens when you own a BlackBerry instead of a functional smartphone.

The bar manager gave me a FREE T-SHIRT. That stroked my ego and made me feel cool (and also made me want to go back to L.A. Bar & Grill regardless of the hassle it takes me to get there -- it's a fun little dive bar!).

The intelligence guy and I finished with dinner and kept talking as we sat at the table. The bar also had open mic night happening, and by this point performers had begun to take the stage. The intelligence guy mentioned that his roommate had threatened to show up at the bar to watch our date from a few rows over, but fortunately, he said, she decided not to actually do that.

Meanwhile, the intelligence guy appeared to be stifling yawns. We'd started the night around 7:30 or so, and by then it was about 9, so I was kind of ready to throw in the towel, too. I figured he was trying to be polite, so I decided to say something and end the standoff.

"You look exhausted," I said sympathetically. "We can get going if you'd like."

"In a little while. I actually have a friend who is performing," he said, gesturing to the stage and the open mic. "I think he's on next."

"Oh, is he in the crowd here somewhere?" I asked, scanning the bar. The intelligence guy had made the crack about the roommate's potential crashing of the date, so the revelation didn't strike me as out of the ordinary.

Just then, the open-mic emcee made an announcement: "OK, we have [the intelligence guy] coming up to the stage next, where are you?"

"It's actually me," he said sheepishly.

The intelligence guy made his way to the stage and grabbed his guitar, which apparently had been stashed up there the whole time (and explained why he'd gotten to the bar so early).

And then he embarrassed me.

"We have a local celebrity in the house," the intelligence guy began.

FUCK. MY. LIFE. My cheeks turned scarlet.

"She's a local dating blogger -- Date Me, D.C. -- and she said she wanted someone to serenade her with this song."

I knew exactly where it was going: About a week earlier, I'd discovered a song called "Hey Katie" through my awesome Pandora station.

Here, take a minute and enjoy this song. I'll wait.

Anyway, I loved it, and subsequently tweeted that I wanted someone to serenade me with it. In doing his homework about me, the intelligence guy had looked at my Twitter feed, found the song and learned it on the guitar.

The intelligence guy then made everyone sing along to the "Hey Katie" part of the chorus. And I have to admit, that was pretty cool. Between the whole bar singing my name and getting a free T-shirt, I felt like a million bucks after it was all said and done.

When the intelligence guy was finished, he came over to our table and revealed a little cheat sheet of paper he'd stashed in his pocket with the chord progressions of several songs.

"I learned a couple just in case they made me play more than one," he said. "Sometimes they do that. And you might recognize something on this list."

In fact, yes I did: The intelligence guy had learned "Son of a Preacher Man," my go-to karaoke song, which he'd learned about because, he revealed, he'd emailed Sassy Marmalade and A Single Girl about it beforehand.

See what I mean about doing his homework???

The intelligence guy also admitted that he hadn't been stifling yawns earlier; he'd been so nervous that it was a physical tic.

Finally, the bar manager called us a cab, which we took to the Crystal City Metro, where we said goodbye.

So in summation, he was a nice guy, but not my type. He emailed me again for Round 2, but I politely declined.

Of cocktails and cock shots

2011-08-22T13:00:00.006+01:00

Our exclamations alternated between awe and pity, and were punctuated by peals of laughter.

Some of them were straight. Some were hooked. Some were hairy. Some were clean.

It was Friday night, and The Chaser, Diary of Why and I were going through the Penis Files on our cell phones.

Yes, the Penis Files -- which are only slightly less alien than the X-Files.

...this probably deserves more of an explanation.

The tale of Friday night begins as such: Friend and fellow blogger the Chaser did me a HUGE solid recently, and I have been on a never-ending quest to pay her back ever since. Frankly, had she requested "unlimited oral sex in perpetuity" as compensation for the favor, I would have been happy to oblige; it turned out she just wanted to go to dinner. However, while at dinner we made plans for her to come down to D.C. so we could hit the town together and afterward she could crash at my apartment.

Done and done. I was determined take her out and do it up right.

We began the night innocuously, getting a drink at Marvin at 14th and U while we waited for Diary of Why to join us (she had to navigate the treachery that is the city's bus system). Once we had our third musketeer in tow, our group walked to Jack Rose Dining Saloon, where I'd recently become acquainted with a whiskey expert.

We walked in, found my friend and settled into a table to enjoy some whiskey-infused cocktails. And inevitably, as it usually does in groups of girls (at least, in groups of girls that include me), the conversation turned to sex.

Now, I don't write about my sexual encounters in this blog, but it's not really a secret that I'm not a virgin. Neither is the Chaser, for that matter.

And neither is Diary of Why, but apparently she has never experienced a phenomenon that the Chaser and I have in common: We ladies are constantly inundated with unsolicited cock shots on our cell phones. So many, in fact, that we have an actual separate file to store them all.

I can tell you that I personally started saving all the dick photos I got sometime last summer. My original thought was that if necessary, I could use them for blackmail, but then I realized I'm too chickenshit to actually follow through with a scheme like that so now I just whip them out as a digital-age parlor trick.

And on that note, let me reiterate that we have enough dick pictures for a whole goddamn file on our phones.

A WHOLE FUCKING FILE!!!

What the FUCK, guys??? Is this seriously where modern-day courtship has gone? I believe there was a time when men were gentlemen, when they opened doors, and jars, and were the essence of decorum. I have never had a guy put his coat over a puddle in front of me to guarantee my unfettered crossing of a street, but I have gotten enough pixelated penises to create my own webpage. Did the Dick-in-a-Box video really convince you that your junk is the gift that keeps on giving?

The three of us set about comparing and contrasting the photos. As I hinted at earlier, there was quite the variety, in both appearance and setting. Some photos were bathroom shots; some were in the boudoir. Some dicks were shown in full sunlight; some appeared to be lit by cell phone flash alone.

And of course, there were extreme variations in size... that's where that "pity" I mentioned earlier comes in.

But bathroom or bedroom, big or small, one thing became abundantly clear:

ALL MEN THINK THEIR PENISES ARE TEH AWESOMEZ.

Your dick.

You'd think as crinkled and weird-looking as some of these things were that their owners would want to shield them from scrutiny, but nay -- you guys are all just so damn proud. Ask the last 10 Nobel Prize winners what their biggest accomplishment in life was, and I guarantee you "my wang" would top their lists. Every man believes his dick to be a special snowflake, unique in its splendor -- which will then precipitate all over our inboxes.

I don't think girls think this way! I have never considered my Special No-No Place to be that spectacular or original -- I just try to keep things in order down there and go about my business.

But the fact remains that dudes fucking LOVE their penises with the same unconditional regard that mothers have for their children. And much like mothers with their children, they want to show them off.

So back to Friday and our table at Jack Rose: Diary of Why was the lone woman at the table who did not have a Penis File on her phone, and she felt a little left out because of it.

"It's really not that hard to get them," I offered sympathetically. "Guys love sending dick pics."

And somehow, at the utterance of that sentence, a challenge was borne: The three of us decided to see who could get a cock shot sent to her phone first.

Truth be told, I'm in between men who want to grace my BlackBerry with their twig-n'-berries, so I did the only thing I knew how:

I tweeted my request.

"Hey, will somebody send me a penis picture? I will DM you my number."

The response?

"Hey, I think somebody hacked your account."

I have never failed so hard at anything in my LIFE.

Diary of Why was moderately more successful. She sent a text message to a paramour requesting pictures, and the gentleman in question responded, "Maybe... but why?"

But it was the Chaser who put us both to shame: Within minutes, that woman had multiple dicks at her fingertips. She then had to fend off advances from the horny dudes for the rest of the night.

I was a bit saddened that I had such piss poor luck in negotiating a cock shot, but my wicked hangover the next day made me forget my woes -- and the fact that I'd requested the pictures in the first place.

Until Monday, when I got a text from a male friend who shall remain nameless:

"Just saw your tweet -- do you still need a dick picture?"

I immediately replied in the affirmative -- if I couldn't win Friday's competition, I wanted to at least come in second place!

"What you are about to see is the main reason humans invented $2,000 cameras. If not to capture a man's junk, why?" he texted back.

He then sent me a picture titled "The Ruiner." I'll let you fill in the blanks on that one, but the Reader's Digest version is that his parents have yet another reason to be proud of him.

"Why are you collecting dick pics?" he asked. "Not that the nobility of your endeavor is not self-evident."

I told him about the Friday night challenge, and explained that if he'd just texted me sooner, I could have won.

"Sorry. The best wangs come on those who wait."

"Don't you mean 'to'?" I asked.

"Nope."

Special snowflake, indeed.

Second date with the fundraiser: Wherein he takes me to brunch

2011-08-16T14:30:00.005+01:00

Immediately following our first date, the fundraiser asked if I'd like to get together again, suggesting Sunday brunch for an activity. In all my time dating, I'd never been on a brunch date, so that sounded like new and exciting territory.

And besides, who doesn't fucking LOVE Sunday brunch? It has all the elements of awesome -- salty proteins, breakfast sweets and free-flowing alcohol. I went to brunch at Masa 14 with A Single Girl and Sassy Marmalade last week and passed out on my couch afterward as if it were 3 a.m. on a Saturday. It was the best day I had all month.

So the fundraiser said he would make a reservation, but the restaurant we would go to would be a surprise. Perfection -- that is exactly the kind of controlled chaos I prefer. We agreed to meet at the Metro stop closest to my house and go from there.

I woke up at 8 on Sunday morning with the intention of going for a bike ride and getting back in just enough time to shower and head out the door, but one look out the window showed the greater D.C.-area to be unrepentantly soggy, so I was all, "Eff that." I decided to drape myself in a Snuggie and kick back with some YouTube videos for an hour or two before getting ready.

When you're sitting in your apartment alone watching TV just waiting to eat, you become very aware of the situation brewing in your digestive system. By the point at which I was to get in the shower, my stomach felt like it was flipping itself inside out.

I texted the fundraiser and told him I'd meet him on the Metro platform, just so there wouldn't be any confusion. At that point, I didn't want ANYTHING standing in the way of me getting a sunny-side-up egg slathered in Hollandaise sauce in my system. I made sure I got there several minutes before his train was due to arrive.

"Are you closer to the front of the train or the back?" I texted.

I told you: I didn't want ANYTHING standing in the way.

"I'd say the front," he replied.

I picked a spot that seemed correct and impatiently watched the clock tick down for the Blue Line's arrival.

Finally, the train roared through, and I spotted the fundraiser through the window of the closest car. He hopped off when the doors opened, and once he saw me we quickly hopped back on again, where he gave me a kiss hello. We grabbed onto poles and began chatting while we rode into the city.

"So where are we going?" I asked.

"Acadiana," the fundraiser revealed. "My friend gave me the recommendation."

Fantastic, I thought. I'd eaten there before to great success, so I knew I'd be satiated. My stomach growled in approval.

And then the fucking train stopped for like EIGHT MILLION YEARS.

"Why are we not moving?!" I wailed, probably a little too crazily for a second date.

"It's another schedule readjustment," the fundraiser informed me. "They did one when I was at the airport, too."

Fuck this piece of shit mass transportation!!! My hangry brain throbbed. More like ASS transportation!*

I have never tried harder in my LIFE to make conversation than I did for the rest of that slow-ass Metro ride to Metro Center, where we eventually disembarked. I couldn't help it; my stomach was just growling so much that I had a hard time concentrating!

Oh, and when we finally disembarked? More effin' rain. So much for having pretty, straight hair -- it was a ball of frizz by the time we got to the restaurant.

Luckily, the fundraiser didn't seem to care. I can tell he thinks I'm funny -- my off-color jokes seem to jive with his sense of humor/do not offend him. And I held it together enough that I don't think he could tell my mind was kind of all over the place.

We got inside and were quickly seated. Our server, who looked like a cocaine dealer from Bratislava (seriously, just take a minute, close your eyes and imagine what that might look like, and you've got our server), took our drink order in a flash -- two blood orange mimosas.

Side note: Acadiana has a three-course prix-fixe brunch with $1 mimosas or Bloody Marys. You can probably tell now where this is going.

I sucked down that mimosa and ordered another. I was still trying to maintain conversation, but I was so uncomfortably hungry that all I could do was listlessly gaze in the direction our Soviet gangster waiter had gone and hope he'd amble back our way with a quickness.

By the time our first course came, I was two mimosas deep. I ordered a third to go with our main course.

And oh man, did I shovel in the food. Acadiana is a fancy place, and I shoveled in that brunch like a hog in heat. It was the opposite of ladylike.

Additionally, I was VERY AWARE of how much the fundraiser was eating. Either that dude had breakfast beforehand, or I am just a gluttonous asshole because I swear to Christ he ate like half of what I ate.

Whatever. Halfway through the main course and the raging hunger had been conquered, so I could finally listen to what the fundraiser had to say.

Apparently... the fundraiser struggles with an anxiety disorder. A pretty big one. He mentioned having to go to the hospital for it from time to time. Obviously, I've struggled with certain issues before, so I understand, but it felt pretty heavy to be hearing all of that on a second date. I took a few deep breaths and tried to be cool about it.

Our Eastern-bloc knife-smuggling server came back over and asked if I wanted another mimosa.

The tipsy had begun to set in. "I'm gonna need like... 30 seconds," I said.

"...why wait?" Ivan the Tippable asked.

I certainly couldn't argue with that logic. "OK, let's do it."

The fundraiser and I had our dessert, then finished up and cabbed back to my apartment. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodbye, and I went upstairs and passed out.

The fundraiser, however, went to Crystal City Sports Pub. Before I fell asleep on my couch for a few hours, I watched him check in on Foursquare. Someone needed to keep the party going, apparently.

All in all, still a fun afternoon. I was a little shaken by all the health stuff, but I'm willing to give it another shot.

*No, you grow up.

RETURN OF THE HAPPY HOUR: THE HAPPY-ENING

2011-08-16T02:24:00.001+01:00

In the beginning, D.C. created the Happy Hour.

And the Happy Hour was without sponsoring, and the taps ran dry. And then the spirit moved Date Me, D.C.

And Date Me, D.C. said, "Let there be a Happy Hour at Co Co. Sala." And there was a Happy Hour at Co Co. Sala.

And Date Me, D.C. said, "Let there be a Happy Hour at Local 16." And there was a Happy Hour at Local 16.

And Date Me, D.C. said, "Let there be a Happy Hour at Mad Hatter." And there was a Happy Hour at Mad Hatter.

And Date Me, D.C. said, "Let there be a Happy Hour at Pour House." And there was a Happy Hour at Pour House.

And Date Me, D.C. said, "Let there be a Happy Hour at Policy." And there was a Happy Hour at Policy.

And then Date Me, D.C. had her heart broken by the entrepreneur so on the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth months there was not a Happy Hour. (Only many, many sad hours.)

But ON THIS DAY, A REBIRTH! Date Me, D.C. and fellow single lady bloggers A Single Girl and Sassy Marmalade are UNITING AS ONE to bring you A New Happy Hour -- one where drink specials flow like Manna from Heaven and single people flirt and make eyes at each other from across the bar.

I hereby invite you all to join us on TUESDAY, AUGUST 23RD at Blue Banana, 3632 Georgia Ave. NW (just down the street from the Petworth Metro stop).

See map:

But Petworth is off the beaten path, you might be saying, why there?

The answer to that question is because I spent a large portion of my night on Friday drunkenly flirting with this guy, only to find out later he's not, in fact, just a random bartender but a partial owner of the place. And so, to sums of untold awesomeness in Petworth we go!

Also, the other bartender, Adam, is pretty hot, y'all. Somebody better get to gettin' next Tuesday and snag him -- for serious.

A Single Girl made the Facebook invite, so click here to sign up and join the festivities!

HAPPY HOUR!!!

* This may be the most sacrilegious thing I've ever written. Oh well -- even Jesus at least drank wine.

The fundraiser

2011-08-15T14:00:00.000+01:00

You know, I thought blogging about my hemorrhoids would prove Man Repellent from there on out. But it turns out you can have an irritated back door and guys still want to take you out for drinks.

Who knew?

Anyway, the point: I received an email from a man who said he was 36 and works in fundraising for a direct marketing company. He told me he's starting to date again after a divorce, and he's been reading my blog for a while so he wanted to meet me for a drink. The way he saw it, he said, was that if there were sparks between us, great; if not, then that was OK too and he wanted to pick my brain for advice on getting back out there.

I have a finely tuned Florence Nightingale Complex -- that is, if I detect even a hint of someone being emotionally wounded or damaged in some manner, I immediately want to swoop in and take care of them -- so of course I responded to his request for nursing him back to dating health in the positive. We agreed to meet on Tuesday night at 6:30 at Crystal City Sports Pub.

And now, the plot thickens.

Katie, you may be asking, why did it take you a full week to get your act together and write this blog? Are you about to rip this poor unsuspecting divorce survivor to shreds and you feel bad about it so you avoided updating for as long as you could?

The answer to that question, dear readers, is no. I actually really liked the fundraiser, and we had a great evening together. And in fact, it is because I liked him that I put off updating. You see, by the time you're reading this, I will have already had my second date with the fundraiser, which I didn't want to mess up by posting this blog.

Because I was 45 minutes late to this date. And there was a reason for it. And it's not the one I told the fundraiser when I finally got to the bar and apologized profusely for being so unacceptably tardy.

The truth is, I met John for a drink after work.

Yep, that John. One of the major players in the Kickball-with-Katie's-Heart game. He stopped by my cubicle at the end of the day to congratulate me on a work-related milestone and asked if I wanted to get a drink.

Oh, did I mention that I work with him now, again? Because I do.

OK, OK, I'll stop with the theatrics. Before you start thinking, oh no, not THAT guy again, here's the deal: Somehow, he and I are managing a friendship. I'm an exceedingly forgiving person, and I don't hold grudges after I get an apology. John coughed up one a while back, so now we're cool. It's a bit awkward sometimes -- like when we run into each other in the hallway and this other woman he dated passes by and I think oh my God we've both slept with you -- but we're cool. I recognize at this point that we have great "life" chemistry and terrible "relationship" chemistry. But I think the fact that the universe keeps thrusting us together over and over again is a sign that he needs to be in my life for some higher purpose or reason, so I'm rolling with that.

So John asked if I wanted to get a drink, and I thought to myself, a quick one won't hurt. But then somehow we ended up at a Moose lodge, and then all of a sudden we were becoming members of said lodge, and then one drink turned into two and I realized that even if I left right then I'd never navigate the D.C. traffic fast enough to make it to the date on time. And when I realized that, I also realized I didn't have the fundraiser's phone number in the email account that comes to my BlackBerry. Then when I tried to tweet at him instead to let him know I'd be late, I realized I wasn't following him so my phone wasn't able to locate his Twitter handle.

Whatever it was, it was a big goddamn mess, and all I could do was crawl back to Arlington and hope the fundraiser would still be there when I got there. I ended up parking my car right outside the bar even though I live down the street so I could run inside faster.

Was all of that super shitty of me? Yeah, I'll admit that it was. But in my defense, I've met a lot of people through this blog -- some of them good, some of them bad -- and I decided a while back I wasn't going to jeopardize pre-existing relationships for people I don't know yet, so there you have it.

Now, will I blow off the fundraiser like this again? Provided he still wants to date me after reading this admission, hell no. I know him now, so it's a different situation.

Anyway, I ran to the bar's third floor and stood semi-helplessly in the middle of the room to see if I could locate the fundraiser, who I only had a vague notion of what he looked like. I made eye contact with various men while silently mouthing the fundraiser's name, which was totally awkward until I finally keyed in on the right man.

Sure enough, he'd stuck it out at the bar -- I guess I've blogged enough about my terrible time-management skills for him to know what to expect from me. (Oh, and just to make me feel even shittier about it -- he said he'd driven from Tyson's that evening and there was surprisingly little traffic, so he got to the bar AN HOUR EARLY. That means he waited for my dumb ass for an hour and 45 minutes. I am SUCH AN ASSHOLE.)

In any case, the fundraiser seemed in good spirits. I apologized and blamed the traffic, then ordered a beer and took the bar stool next to his.

We started with work chatter due to the fact that I had come directly from there -- normally, I change out of my monkey suits and into cute cotton dresses and I redo my makeup, but clearly that didn't happen this time. As I mentioned, the fundraiser works out in Tyson's, and he's one of those few-and-far-between people you meet who are originally from the greater D.C.-area.

He told me more about his divorce. It probably was a faux pas of me to ask probing questions about it, but I couldn't help it -- I was curious. I guess his marriage was a quickie Vegas-type spur-of-the-moment thing, except replace "Vegas" with "post-Katrina New Orleans" and there you have it. He actually doesn't seem that damaged by it at all, which I suppose is a good thing.

The fundraiser and I kept chatting amicably. At one point, he said to me, "You're cuter than I thought you'd be," which I took as a compliment. (I'll take what I can get.) And we kept each other laughing pretty solidly throughout.

As we started to close in on the 10 o'clock hour, I realized I hadn't had anything to eat since lunch and was starving. I asked the fundraiser if he was hungry, and he said no, and of course I couldn't order anything after that (I know some people are probably like, "WTF, if you're hungry, eat," but I'm sorry, it's just awkward to sit there chowing down when your date isn't eating).

In any case, all signs pointed to me needing to wrap up this evening and go home to nuke something quickly then get to bed. The fundraiser settled our tab, then stood up to accompany me out the door.

That was the first time I'd seen him standing. He's about my height in heels; I might be a little bit taller. It's not ideal, but hey, they can't all be 6-foot-6 (and that guy was socially retarded anyway, so maybe this is better).

The fundraiser walked me to my car and kissed me goodnight. He texted me immediately afterward to say he'd had a good time, which was unexpected (not that he'd had a good time, just that he'd text to say so). I appreciated that, and texted back the same.

The very next day, he asked if I'd like to go to Sunday brunch, and I responded, "Yes. Take me somewhere with bottomless mimosas!"

Tune in tomorrow to see how that went (and to see if this blog post's confession has resulted in the end of our courtship).

Sassy and succinct

2011-08-09T15:40:00.000+01:00

Just a quick post to say I really like what bloggy BFF Sassy Marmalade has to say in this entry.

Second and third dates with the writer: Wherein we were flying high, then it all came crashing down

2011-08-07T02:59:00.002+01:00

This is kind of a sad story.

I'll start by telling you I've been severely remiss in updating this blog about the subsequent dates I had with the writer. Date Two happened two Saturdays ago; Date Three was the following Wednesday. I haven't seen him since, and while I'm fairly convinced that we ultimately wouldn't have had long-term compatibility, I'm still a little disappointed and not entirely sure what happened.

The writer and I had had a good first date, at the end of which he'd asked if I'd go to a Nats game with him the following Saturday. I'd said yes, but then it turned out he'd read the schedule wrong and the team was not actually in town that night. We agreed to get together anyway, and when he asked me what I wanted to do instead, I said I'd do some research and get back to him.

It was then I realized the Capital Fringe Festival was going on, so I asked the writer if he'd be down to check out a play. He seemed enthused by that idea, and when I emailed him with links to various plays I was interested in seeing, making a note of one show in particular, he said, "Sounds good!" and told me he'd meet me there.

The show I picked was called "Incurable," which a girlfriend of mine had raved about when we were out to dinner the week before. In my experience, the Fringe Festival tends to be the very epitome of hit-or-miss -- I have seen some shows that were awesome, and some that made me want to claw my eyes out -- so I was happy to have a recommendation on my hands so I didn't blindly pick a show.

I bought the tickets, then had the writer print them out and meet me at the Warehouse Theater. It was hotter than hell outside, and in the time it took me to walk down the street from where I parked my car to where the writer was waiting, both of us were drenched in sweat. We hurried inside the theater to get a seat and some respite from the blazing July temperatures -- and to chat a little bit before the show, naturally.

The writer spoke first.

"Since you posted that entry," he began, "TWO people called me out as being 'the writer,' including my ex-girlfriend."

All I could do was awkwardly say "Uhhhhh" while pursing my lips and fidgeting in my seat a little. (I guess it just goes to show that I'm pretty spot on with my descriptions in here?) I felt bad, but the writer seemed to think it was kind of funny and took it all in stride.

Shortly thereafter the show began.

... so, remember how I was all proud of myself for getting recommendations for a Fringe show instead of taking a risk on one? Yeah -- turns out, "Incurable" probably wasn't the best choice for a date, seeing as it was about a man who contracts a new, incurable STD that ends up being a utopian society living on the head of his penis.

Katie: Making things more awkward than necessary since 1983.

The show featured a doctor who ripped off her lab coat to reveal leather-strapped bondage-looking lingerie in addition to talking about blow jobs, hand jobs, fetishes of all ilk and the diseases that can ensue. All of which, of course, is EXACTLY what you want to intersperse in between such second date questions as "Where did you say your brother lived again?" and "What are you doing the rest of the weekend?"

Also, looking at the show from a theater critic's perspective, as I've seen A LOT of theater in my days (probably more than most people my age), it just didn't deserve the tremendous accolades my friend had showered upon it. The wacky premise -- utopian society STD -- worked to a point, then the show went off the rails. It needed a seasoned playwright to tighten it up.

The writer was totally cool about it being an awkward show to see and was similarly able to set aside the sex stuff and look at it with a critical eye. We discussed it as we walked down 7th Street into Chinatown for Jaleo's delicious sangria.

I enjoyed being around someone who likes theater. It can be hard to find anyone, let alone men, who want to experience that sort of thing. And the writer apparently has dabbled in being a playwright, among other things, so that was cool.

So we drank sangria, and the writer continued to make me laugh as he had on our first date.

My favorite exchange:

The writer: (Responding to a question from me about where he wanted to travel in his life) Prague...

Me: That's where my people are from!

The writer: Ah, you're Czech!

(I fumbled a bit when he said this -- technically, I'm Slovak. My grandpa was born outside Prague in Czechoslovakia in 1925, moving to a small mostly Slovak town in Ohio when he was about 5. Fast-forward nearly 70 years. Czechoslovakia peacefully splits into two countries: The Czech Republic and Slovakia. Prague is in the Czech Republic, and people there are now Czechs. However, the history of the Soviet Union is too difficult to explain on a second date, so I didn't correct him.)

Me: Well, among other things. We're also Irish, German and a little bit English.

The writer: So you're a Czech Mix?

And the way he said that was this deliberate, slow delivery with this impish grin on his face. I don't care who you are -- that's funny as shit, people.

We continued talking at the bar over a plate of patatas bravas, and the writer did something he'd actually done during our first date, but which I only sort of hinted at at the time:

"Ask me questions. What do you want to know?"

The writer asked that, over and over again. He said it was because he knows he has a tendency to "interrogate" people, and he wanted to give me a chance to speak and ask him questions.

And, well... it's not that I don't appreciate him recognizing a flaw and taking steps to correct it -- I really do find self-awareness to be a very attractive quality (the entrepreneur was NOT AT ALL self-aware... long story my girlfriends know but which I will not divulge to the greater populace here, for his sake). But at the same time, him asking me to ask him questions kind of felt like an interrogation anyway!

The writer also asked me questions that I thought were HIGHLY difficult, such as, "What song lyrics describe your life RIGHT NOW, in this moment?"

There are billions of songs in the world, with billions of lyrics. I need time to be introspective in order to answer a question like that. A question like that takes me hours to pour over lyrics to find the perfect ones.

What it all added up to was me feeling slightly overwhelmed. The writer, though 24, is an extremely dominant personality. So much so, that I began to feel dominated by him.

Regardless, that really wasn't a setback that night. He still made me laugh until tears ran from my eyes.

We finished up at Jaleo and walked to my car, with the intention being that I'd drive the writer back to his apartment. But as we drove to his place, we just kept talking, to the point where we were sitting out in front of his apartment complex blocking the driveway.

He asked if I'd like to park and go upstairs so we could keep talking, and I immediately bristled a bit. This is another thing I liked about the writer: He was very in tune with me. Any time I gave off even the slightest hint that something was wrong, he picked up on it. And so, when I hesitated upon his offer to go upstairs, he sensed it and backed off ("I figured the 'No' post came from somewhere," he astutely observed) and suggested instead that we drive over to H Street to Dangerously Delicious Pies.

So we did that, talked for another hour or so, then I drove him back to his place. We kissed goodnight, and I went home.

Again, a great date! I was still enjoying getting to know the writer.

And again, we kept in touch on a fairly regular basis thereafter. Then on that Wednesday morning, four days after our second date, he texted to see if I'd like to meet up that night. I had plans to be in the city anyway -- I was getting my hair cut at Urban Style Lab by my fabulous stylist, Annie -- so it was easy enough to modify my plans and swing by Kramerbooks & Afterwords Cafe & Grill afterward to meet the writer for a drink.

Here's the thing -- I'm not actually that spontaneous of a person. I know it can seem that way, given the reckless gallivanting all over this town that I am wont to do. The truth of the matter is that I like what I refer to as controlled chaos, meaning I make plans with people DAYS in advance, and I don't cancel at the last minute because I FUCKING HATE THAT. But while I book my time with people, the activity therein doesn't matter that much to me, and I'm willing to see where the night generally leads (within reason -- if we're in Dupont, I'm cool with trekking up and down Connecticut Avenue to various bars, but I'm probably not going to be keen on cabbing over to H Street, ya dig?).

That preference is rather perfectly illustrated by the relationship I had with the entrepreneur, wherein he'd tell me a time to be ready and an outfit to wear, but wouldn't tell me where we were going. I knew for days prior that my Saturday night was "plans with the entrepreneur," and therefore that evening was settled, booked, finito, and what we did didn't actually matter, as long as I was with him.

But I started getting a sense that the writer is more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy, and last-minute plans are not a problem for him. That made my stomach churn a little bit -- this girl doesn't just roll out of bed looking fabulous, people. My hair/makeup/shower routine is like alchemy over here. I HAVE TO PRE-PLAN THESE THINGS!!!

ANYWAY, we took seats at the bar at Kramer's and started chatting up a storm again. Our conversation veered more serious this time -- we talked about his parents' divorce, my dad's health issues, etc.

And again... some turns in our conversation led me to feel a little dominated by him. The writer really has a very, very strong personality. And that is what made me start to feel like we wouldn't work in the long-term: As it played out in my head, I could see myself buckling in arguments, saying "fine" to things that really weren't fine, and generally feeling like I was losing my voice.

But at the same time, he was so funny, and so interesting, and so open! I still wanted to be around him, and give him a chance to prove me wrong.

We finished up at the bar and meandered around the bookstore, perusing all the titles. The writer is obviously very well-read; he pointed to book after book after book to give mini-reviews ("That one is so good." "I was disappointed by this one." Etc.).

By then it had passed 10 p.m., and I was starting to fade. The writer walked me to my car, kissed me goodnight, and said he'd be in touch.

I really liked him! And we did stay in touch, texting every so often for the rest of the week.

But again... like I just mentioned, I book my time with people in advance. If someone asks me to do something, and I know I'm free, 99 percent of the time I say yes. Then that day is blocked off, and I say no to subsequent offers. By the time the weekend rolled around, I had already made plans for Sunday brunch, Sunday dinner, Monday dinner, Tuesday early dinner and late drinks, and Wednesday drinks.

So the writer texted me either Saturday evening or Sunday morning -- at this point, I can't remember which -- and asked if I had plans for Sunday brunch. "Yes, and I have plans Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, too," I wrote back. "If you want to hang out, the earliest we can do so is Thursday."

"Popular girl! I'm sure we'll see each other soon," he wrote.

My stomach churned a little at that, and I thought, Instead of just asking me out for Thursday now, he's going to wait until Thursday, and invite me out then, and that's going to be annoying because I won't have had time to plan my day and I'll be scrambling at the last minute.

That's not even what happened, unfortunately. What happened is that I didn't hear from him again all week. It was a busy week for me -- I had two major presentations to give, in addition to all of the plans I'd made -- so I'll admit that I wasn't exactly on the ball on communicating with him either. But the weird thing is, the writer seemed to want me to do all of the pursuing -- it was this weird role reversal that caught me totally off-guard. Like, when we were together, he'd lean in real close and then expect me to go the rest of the way to kiss him -- I'm used to that being the other way around. It felt like he was so adamantly against "playing the game" of dating that it became this whole other level of reverse psychology game that I don't even understand.

So Thursday came, and I hadn't heard from him, so I decided to send him a text, asking if he'd fallen off the face of the planet. He texted back and pointed out that I hadn't texted him, either.

"Because I'm the girl!!!" I texted back.

"Yeah, well this boy doesn't like double standards. Hadn't you noticed?"

Whoa. I was kind of taken aback by that. To me, that was rather venomous. And frankly, too early in our getting-to-know-you process to pull the "Hadn't you noticed" card -- that's a passive-aggressive remark best reserved for Year 4 Fighting (Ex-BF v. 1.0 and I were WELL-VERSED in that).

I wrote back: "I don't know you well enough yet to notice," to which he didn't respond. Ten minutes later, I texted that I didn't understand what had happened, but that I wished him well.

At that point, the writer did respond with an apology, that he was still at work and didn't mean to make it sound callous. He asked when I was free next, and what I would like to do. I told him Saturday, and that I'd figure something out.

He never wrote back to that. I kept waiting for something -- ANYTHING -- but nay, no response. I didn't make any other plans for Saturday, just in case.

A day passes. Friday night, I go out on Barracks Row with Sassy Marmalade and A Single Girl to hit on Marines. Let's be real: We were all pretty hammered by the end of the night. I decided to text the writer at approximately 1:30 a.m.:

"I offered you my Saturday and you didn't answer! Wtf! I feel so so so so so lame!"

A series of text messages I don't even understand ensued, ending with him wishing me well. And that brings us to right now: It's Saturday night, and I'm not doing anything. Wah wah.

Like I said, I get the sense that had the writer and I dated for any longer than we did, he would have completely dominated me and I wouldn't have been happy. But I'm still kind of at a loss for why things went the way they went.

But don't cry for me, Argentina -- someone else is always just around the corner.

I'm OK, really.

Diagnosis: Humiliation, or "How I made an ass out of myself in front of my new doctor"

2011-08-01T03:37:00.001+01:00

There are many things about myself that writing this blog makes me more self-aware of and, in turn, forces me to come to terms with.

Like, my tendency to speak first, think later, for instance. That usually gets me in trouble. Or, my piss-poor time-management skills. I really am working to get better in that department.

But perhaps the most pathetic thing is that even after everything, after date upon date and nights socializing out on the town, when I see a man I am attracted to, I act like a total asshole. I still do not know how to behave appropriately around guys.

Particularly, I'm sad to say, when I haven't planned on meeting them. I can usually formulate coherent sentences when on a date, or when I've dolled up to roam the streets for Y chromosomes.

But meeting guys on the fly, like when at the grocery store or the local park?

TOTAL FAILURE. Every. Single. Time.

This complete inadequacy came to a head in possibly the most spectacularly tragic fashion this past Monday, when I went to see the doctor. I have high blood pressure -- my mom has it, as does my grandma -- and it went untreated while I was without regular employment. I realized I needed to get my diastolic and systolic down to a more reasonable level, so I did a Google search for GPs near my office and picked the first one listed.

I had to wait about a week to get an appointment, which was fine... ish. You see, the blood pressure is a pre-existing issue -- it runs in my family, as I mentioned -- so I knew one more week of that likely wasn't going to kill me. But in the week between making the appointment and actually going into the doctor's office, I developed a rather embarrassing health issue.

My mom told me that the embarrassing health issue is one that you don't need to go to a specialist for -- your GP can diagnose and treat the embarrassing health issue. And it's an embarrassing health issue they see all the time, so there's really no need to be embarrassed about the health issue. The embarrassing health issue is really quite common, my mom assured me.

I know you're probably wondering, "So what is the embarrassing health issue?"

And I can't tell you. I couldn't possibly tell you. It's just too embarrassing of an embarrassing health issue.

OK, fine: It's hemorrhoids.*

But like my mom said, it's totally common! Lots of people get hemorrhoids! I have hemorrhoids, but they don't have me!

So that was happening, and I figured I already had this appointment with the doctor for the blood pressure, so my plan was to just swoop in there, have him put the pressure cuff on me, then say, "Oh, by the way, could you help me out with this other thing?"

Problem solved, right?

Not quite.

My appointment day arrived, and I went to the office as scheduled. I had to spend a solid 30 minutes filling out paperwork since I was a new patient -- insurance forms, privacy guidelines, medical history, the works. Eventually, I was led to an examining room to wait for my new doctor.

A knock on the door. In he walks.

Jaw hits floor.

Turns out, that doctor I picked out of a phone book? He was 6-foot-5, hard-bodied, ruggedly handsome. He had the kind of facial scruff that says, "I didn't shave today because I was too busy lifting these heavy things." He looked like the kind of man who wears moisture-wicking gear under his white coat and has a kayak on top of his car.

I immediately sat up straighter in my chair and smoothed out my hair, crossing my legs and placing my hands on my top knee. My eyes bolted to his left hand -- no wedding ring. I smiled widely.

"Hiiiiiii."

Dr. Feelgood introduced himself as any professional would and set to work discussing my blood pressure and going over my medical history.

"So, looks like this runs in your family, huh?"

"Yeaaaaahhhhh," I breathed, still smiling.

I had completely forgotten where I was. Dr. Feelgood was just too pretty! And I was responding to his questions about my blood pressure, my dad's diabetes, and the myriad other health issues that have befallen my people in the flirtatious voice I usually reserve for after dark.

"You're on a really low dose of this -- normally people start with 10 milligrams. I'm going to recommend that you go up to that level," Dr. Feelgood said, astutely examining my paperwork.

"Okaaaaayyyyyy."

And with that, I did my patented "Flirty Katie" move -- bending my left shoulder in, cocking my head toward my shoulder and peering over it while batting my eyes. It's a move that's somewhat instinctual for me when I'm trying to impress a man -- if you've been on a date with me, you've probably seen it. And it TOTALLY WORKS.

Just listen to these rave reviews:

"I saw that. You're adorable." ~ John

"You're so cute, with your red hair." ~ The entrepreneur

"You're really cute, you know that?" ~ The pastry chef

Anyway, I did the shoulder/head-cock thing, and as soon as my chin touched my shoulder, I snapped back to reality:

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU ASSHOLE?!?!?!?" the rational part of my brain screamed. "You are in a DOCTOR'S OFFICE. He is more interested in your HEALTH INSURANCE than he ever will be in YOU. CUT THIS SHIT OUT!!!!!"

I sat up straight in my chair again, but this time it wasn't due to sexual attraction. The endorphin-induced haze had lifted, and now all I felt was utter mortification.

Oh God, I just tried to flirt with my doctor while he has my family medical history in his hands! If my high blood pressure didn't make me unattractive enough, the Alzheimer's AND brain cancer in my family certainly will!!! I bet he thinks I am unsuitable to combine genetics with!!!

I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment, and I kept my eyes to the floor while he finished calling in a new prescription for me.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today?" Dr. Feelgood asked me when he finished typing in the script.

And like a lightning bolt, it hit me: Oh. My. God. I have to admit to this beautiful, beautiful man that I have hemorrhoids.

How on earth could I possibly admit that!?!? Especially after all that ridiculousness that was my pathetic attempt at flirting.

I steeled myself for the grand reveal... and promptly chickened out.

"Nope! Thanks for the prescription!" I smiled as if nothing were wrong.

As soon as he left the room, I sighed and kicked myself for the sheer idiocy of my display.

Jesus H. Christ, I thought. You can take the girl out of the asshole, but you can't take the asshole out of the girl. Especially when it's inflamed.**

The worst part of all of this is that I didn't even get the help I needed, AND I have to go back in a month to make sure the blood pressure meds are working. I have already decided that I'm just going to ask to see some old lady. That's the only way this is ever going to work.

Sigh. I'm embarrassed I exist sometimes.

* "If you write this blog," my friend Brian said while snorting with laughter when we were out on Tuesday night, "you will never get another date from it. NEVER." I thought about it for a minute, and then said, "I think I'm actually OK with that." And so, consider this entry the match to the gasoline-covered straw pile that is this blog.

** That didn't even make sense. I just thought it sounded funny.

The e-marketer

2011-07-24T18:06:00.000+01:00

I'm having the hardest time ever writing about this date.

Not because it was bad -- it wasn't.

Not because it was good, either -- I'd categorize it as a perfectly adequate and acceptable evening. (Though, come to think of it, it *should* have been a phenomenal evening, given the night's events.)

It's just that the Tuesday evening I spent with the e-marketer was the epitome, the apex, the prime example of an evening completely devoid of romantic chemistry.

I mean... let's put it this way: When I meet guys for the first time, my physiological response to them always varies. Usually, a date falls somewhere in the middle of the standard bell curve -- I like the guy well enough as a person, and I may or may not foresee a romantic future, but I'm generally willing to give them a second chance to see if that sways my opinion.

Then, there are other times: It's KISMET! FATE! FIREWORKS!!!!!!!!!! A switch in my brain is flipped, my heart takes on the rhythm of a hummingbird's wings, and the only thing that will satiate my haunted soul is the moment we set eyes on each other again.

And then, there are dates like the one with the e-marketer.

To back up a bit, the e-marketer emailed me immediately following my date with Maverick to criticize him.

"Curious to read the follow up post – my rule of thumb would be 'if a first date demands final cut on an anonymous blog post, they may be too narcissistic to handle.'"*

He went on to compliment my blog and give a little more information about himself -- he's responsible for the online marketing of a portable storage container company -- before asking if I'd like to meet up for drinks some time.

Of course, I always say, "Of course!" The guys I've met through the blog have tended to be way more awesome than the ones I've met otherwise. And as I've said before, if you're brave enough to ask me out knowing about this thing, then you're someone I want to get to know.

The e-marketer and I agreed to meet Tuesday evening at Liberty Tavern in Clarendon. I had trouble crossing the street -- the crosswalks do NOT make sense where Wilson, Washington and Clarendon boulevards all intersect -- so I texted him as I helplessly played chicken with the traffic to let him know that I would walk inside as soon as I could get there. He texted back to say he'd meet me near the door.

I saw him almost immediately as I entered the tavern -- I recognized him from the small photo I'd seen on Facebook previously. He recognized me, too, and waved as he made his way over to introduce himself to me.

And almost as immediately, a small voice at the base of my spine said, "Hmm. No."

I can't explain it any better than that! The e-marketer hadn't done anything wrong -- he wasn't unattractive (he's cute actually), he didn't smell bad, he didn't insult me, throw out racial epithets, punch me in the face or burn down the bar. My body for some reason just instantly checked out. It was a visceral reaction, my instinctual response.

That said, I didn't want my id to run the show -- my super-ego jumped in to say: "Now, now -- you don't even know him yet. See where it goes."

I had figured we'd start with drinks at the bar, but it turned out the e-marketer had made reservations for the restaurant part on the second floor of Liberty Tavern. I really appreciated his forethought on that, particularly for the fact that we had decided to meet at 7 p.m., but his reservations were for 7:15, thus allowing for my trademark poor time-management skills.

We were led to a table, and we settled in to chat about our days and life in general. I learned the e-marketer is from upstate New York but has lived in the D.C.-area about 10 years. He's 37, which is another thing I should have liked.

Our conversation was normal first-date conversation, and it was interesting enough. We had a couple of good laughs. No awkward pauses. The e-marketer was being a perfect gentleman. I got the sense that he's very well-read in terms of newspapers/journals/media in general and is very aware of the world around him, which is good.

But I still couldn't quite bridge the initial instinctual divide. Something just wasn't clicking.

(Side note: It did not help our chemistry issues that our waiter was TOTALLY DISTRACTING ME because he had a full-on handlebar mustache. Curly tips and everything!!! And in writing this blog post, I discovered that I didn't actually know what a handlebar mustache was because I googled "mustache styles," and according to the American Mustache Institute (yes, this is a real thing), what I previously have been referring to as a handlebar mustache is actually a varietal of the fu manchu, and what I have been referring to as a "pirate mustache" is actually a handlebar mustache. Indeed, you learn something new every day.)

Anyway, we ordered dinner and continued ambling through our conversation. As the meal drew to a close, I was ready to head home, tie my hair up with a scrunchie, wash the makeup off my face and plop down on my couch with my pink cotton pajama pants.

But then, the e-marketer breathed the magic word: Karaoke.

Harikaraoke, specifically -- karaoke in which you sing with live-band accompaniment instead of a recording. Apparently, they have it at Whitlow's on Wilson every other Tuesday, and it's been something I've been dying to try. I simply couldn't resist its siren call, so down the street we walked.

For the record: Harikaraoke is EXHILARATING. The band totally adds this whole other level of awesome to everything. And luckily, we got to Whitlow's right before the show started, so I didn't have to wait that long to take my turn.

At that point, it was getting late, and I needed to make my way home. The e-marketer walked me to my car, gave me a hug, and we said we'd be in touch.

And so it goes -- no fireworks. Chemistry is such a funny thing. Much like with the Canadian last summer, my body decided for me that I will not be riding into the sunset with the e-marketer.

He emailed me the next day about meeting up again, but I emailed him back to say I didn't quite feel a spark. He responded to that email to say he'd felt similarly, so I just chalk the whole night up to meeting a great guy, a new friend, but not a love match.

On to the next one!

*The e-marketer hit the nail on the head there.

The writer

2011-07-19T01:14:00.001+01:00

There is one thing -- and one thing only -- that is responsible for the evening I spent with the gentleman who heretofore shall be known as "the writer":

Alcohol.

Yes, alcohol.

It was July 6, and I'd met up with my girl Allison at Crystal City Sports Pub to celebrate her turning the Big 3-0. We'd had a few beers, a few laughs, and before I knew it, it was very nearly past my bedtime and I was tipsy. By then, her husband had shown up, so I paid my tab, bid them adieu and stumbled home to face-plant in my pillow-top mattress and sateen sheets.

... but not quite. As with any time I tip back a few, I get all... dexterous, or something, and I feel the need to push buttons on every piece of electronic equipment I own. This drunken idiocy ranges from the relatively benign (e.g. buying Lady Gaga's latest on iTunes) to the completely irreparably tragic (e.g. sending embarrassingly maudlin text messages to people I definitely shouldn't).

On that night, the electro-philia was on the higher end of the scale, as I had decided it would be a good idea to Facebook stalk the people who follow me on Twitter whose full names appear in their profiles.

In doing this, I came across one such stalkee whose profile was moderately unlocked. In his photo banner section, there appeared picture after picture of the gentleman in various stages of cuddling with a charming brunette. The pair appeared at baseball stadiums, at bars, in New York City, at the Georgetown waterfront...

Basically, they looked like energetic, social people -- people who would be cool to hang out with.

This revelation, I decided, was far too important to keep to myself. I promptly clicked the "Message" button.

"I want to be friends with you and your girlfriend," I wrote with a sense of urgency. "You guys look happy!!!"

I got his response when I woke up the next morning: "Well... I hate to deny you that, but [she] and I broke up about two months ago. I, however, am tons of fun. I'm even more amusing if I have more than 140 characters to express myself. Want to grab drinks sometime soon?"

Well, that was unexpected, I thought to myself. I genuinely hadn't intended that message to throw down the dating gantlet, but hey, I'm adventuresome gal who's always down to meet someone new.

We had a few scheduling conflicts -- including me postponing our date one day due to Truckeroo-induced sickness -- which ultimately led us to decide to meet up at Smith Commons on H Street Sunday night.

The writer arrived before me and had already staked out a spot at the bar by the time I got there. He was playing with his cell phone and sipping an IPA.

"So what's good here?" I said as I sidled up next to him.

We introduced ourselves, and he asked me if I'd prefer to sit at the bar for a while or "get a table, like big kids?"

"Why don't we order beer here first, like college kids?" I replied, playing off his quip.

He didn't get my joke at first, and asked me to explain it to him. My cheeks flushed with humiliation as I retraced the steps of my failed attempt at humor.

However, once he understood what I'd been trying to say, he continued the bit: "And then we can order cocktails like adults, and then get an early-bird dinner like old people!"

"We've already missed the early-bird dinner -- we'd have to stay here until tomorrow afternoon!"

"Well, old people always overstay their welcome, so that still works," he finished the joke.

And that exchange kind of set the tone for the whole evening. The writer -- whose technical title is something vaguely social media-y, but I didn't want to use it as his pseudonym because it makes him sound like a total tool box -- is really sharp and witty, and can quickly think of the kind of quips and comebacks it takes me WEEKS to think of (and then weeks later, when the eureka moment hits, I flagellate myself and moan, "Agghh, I should have said THAT!").

We started off talking a bit about our upbringings -- we'd discovered when exchanging phone numbers that we're both Midwestern kids, with the writer hailing from Kansas City and me from Cincinnati. Though I've dated men from all across this great nation, I always find myself more "at home" with the Midwestern ones -- it's just something in the water there, I guess.

We addressed our families, too, with me telling him about my older sister and significantly younger brother, and him telling me about his older brother.

And then, the date threatened to come to a screeching halt.

"How old are you?" he asked. "I don't even know."

"I'm 28," I replied. "You?"

"24."

I must have looked like I'd just gotten kicked in the stomach (I sure felt like it) because the writer immediately sensed something was off.

"Are you OK with that? Is that going to be a problem?" the writer asked.

I said I'd try to let it go.

And you know what? I did.

Here's why: The writer is HILARIOUS. Seriously, one of the funniest guys I've gone out with! He had me laughing the WHOLE TIME.

My favorite thing he said all night: (In reference to his red hair) "My parents lost a bet with God for this to happen."

Hehehe, I'm giggling right now as I type that.

But more than the writer being hysterically funny, he just didn't give off a "young" vibe. With the Blink-And-You'll-Miss-Him-BF, him being merely 25 was a problem because he just oozed young. He just had this incredibly naive air about him that made me think, I am going to have to teach you EVERYTHING, aren't I?

Though he's even a year younger, it's not like that with the writer. He seems to have more of a sense of the world around him. I liked that.

And... dare I say it? The writer is a bit... hipstery. He was wearing square-framed glasses, a black and white plaid shirt and dark jeans. I have written in here before about my love that dare not speak its name for those borne of irony and indie band music. My only regret is that I didn't know the writer on May 28, when a band called Cloud Cult was playing at the Black Cat and I couldn't even pay someone to go with me (and trust me, I tried).

So we finished our beers at the bar and moved over to grab a seat at a table, order dinner and continue our conversation.

The writer kept asking me what I wanted to know about him, insisting that I must have "a checklist of questions" after all the dates I've been on. The truth is I'm happy to just let the conversation go where it may. I don't think he believed me when I said that, but I swear I don't have a list.

We laughed through dinner and decided to head down the street for Dangerously Delicious Pies afterward. However, horror of horrors, they were ALL SOLD OUT OF PIE (WTF, how does that happen?!), so the writer suggested we hop in my car and shoot over to Dupont Circle, where we could get dessert at Kramerbooks & Afterwords Cafe & Grill.

... I wanted the night to continue, I really did. But at that point, we were nearing the 10 p.m. hour, and I was fading fast. We ordered a piece of chocolate cake and continued to laugh and talk, but the writer could tell I was getting sleepy.

He called me out on it, and told me he'd walk me to my car so I could get home and go to bed. But before we left Kramer's, he asked if I'd like to go to a Nats game with him on Saturday, to which I quickly agreed.

The writer walked me to my car, and when we got there, he asked if he could kiss me goodnight. Of course, I said yes :)

So... honestly, 24 years on this earth, red hair and all -- he kind of won me over! I woke up Monday morning smiling and excited to see him again.

...until I did a little more Facebook stalking. His birthday? June 25.

"FUCK ME RUNNING!" I spluttered. "He literally JUST turned 24!!!"

What's worse, that girlfriend he just broke up with? Time stamps on Facebook pictures would indicate they dated for at least three years, and I am so not in the mood to be told, "I'm just not at a point in my life where I'm ready for an exclusive relationship," which experience would tell me is a phrase that will surely come tumbling from his lips in the very, very near future.

That said... he's funny, which is all I've ever wanted. And I've thrown caution to the wind many, many times before.

So -- fuck it. Let's go see the Nats!

"No" follow-up

2011-07-14T23:17:00.000+01:00

First of all, a reader wrote to me after my post on the word "no" to suggest that I provide links to places where women who've been date-raped can get help. I thought that was a capital idea:

For D.C. locals, there's the D.C. Rape Crisis Center, from which you can get either individual or group counseling and help navigating medical or legal services.
For the nation at large, there's RAINN (the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network), which does similar work.
And of course, there's Planned Parenthood, which provides STD testing and other health services.

Additionally, I feel it would be remiss not to comment on just HOW MANY women emailed me after that post to say they'd been there and to thank me for writing it. My friend The Chaser even commented on my Facebook wall to say that she'd been to a victims' advocate class and the type of sexual pressure from men I described actually has a name: "negotiating past the no."

So let me hammer this point home: It's despicable, and there's probably a lot of guys out there reading this right now who are guilty of assault. You should ask yourself if you're one of them. And if you are, maybe next time you should consider limiting your exploits to an audience of one.

I'm saying: Go fuck yourself.

On that note -- it's time to get back to your regularly scheduled blog programming, wherein I go on awkward dates with awkward people.

Just as Jesus intended.

I should only have to say "no" once

2011-07-13T00:42:00.001+01:00

When I started dating people in November 2009, I remember explaining some of the awful first dates I was having to my friend Kelly. I'd initially agreed to second dates with the guys, even though I'd had a terrible time.

"I just don't know how to tell people 'no,'" I said, grimacing.

Kelly, who's been single for a while, simply shrugged. "You'll get really good at it."

Kelly wasn't quite right -- I've never gotten good at it, mostly because I hate feeling guilty or like I'm disappointing people. But her words were a bit prophetic in that I didn't realize how much I'd be faced with the prospect of having to say "no."

... and "no."

... and "NO."

Because the truly sinister thing I'm learning from the dating world is this: In far too many cases, guys just don't take "no" for an answer.

Take Saturday night, for instance. We were celebrating the 30th birthdays of both Allison and Megan K., and our group of girls dolled up to hit the town. We started with cocktails at the Washington Ritz-Carlton before bouncing over to the bars in Dupont Circle. Megan wanted to go dancing, so we found ourselves upstairs at Fiesta, a new-ish Latin-themed lounge with strong frozen margaritas and a DJ who apparently can't help himself from shouting over the music.

A guy came over to me and asked me to dance.

OK, sure -- that's fine. I'm in a bar where dancing is happening, and I enjoy dancing with men. We made our way to the middle of the floor and twirled until the song ended.

Then he asked me to leave with him. I said no -- I wasn't going to leave my friends.

That should have been where it ended. But he kept pestering me.

"No, I'm not leaving my friends. No, I'm not going to leave the bar. Sorry, I'm just not going."

Thankfully, he gave up eventually and went on to pester someone else.

But the situation I just described, sadly, is on the extreme light end of the spectrum. It gets way, way worse.

A few weeks ago, I was out to dinner with some blogger friends (who I would normally link to, but for the purposes of this post, I am keeping their identities secret).

One by one, we started telling of our encounters with certain men who pushed their ways past our persistent "no's." Men who were bound and determined to get into our apartments after we said we weren't comfortable letting them in. Men who, upon gaining access to our apartments by pleading to use the bathroom or putting forth some other such excuse, attempted to undress us even after we said we weren't comfortable going there.

We kept saying "no," but they kept saying, "Come on. Please?"

In some cases, they pushed us past the point of saying no. To the point of saying, "Fine. Just get it over with."

I hope men reading this can see just how wrong that was.

A blog post I read recently on Fem 2.0 asserts that there's a thin line between forcing a woman to have sex and pressuring her to have sex. Everybody has an idea in their heads of, for lack of a better term, "the perfect rape." It's one where a helpless woman gets dragged into an alley by a shadowy stranger who beats her into submission and penetrates her while she's kicking, scratching and screaming her head off.

But it's just so much more of a gray area than that. A woman who says "no" 30 times and eventually acquiesces to sex because it's apparent "no" is just not being heard by this guy has been no less violated than the woman in the alley.

I am at the point where I'm so angry that I'm ready to explode over this. If I say "no" to WHATEVER it is you've proposed, that should be IT. I should not have to tell you "no" more than ONE TIME. And if I get tired of telling you "no" because I've already said it until I'm blue in the face and you're still going after it, guess what? That's assault, asshole.

Moreover, I've heard some arguments from men about biological imperatives, about instincts to "spread your seed," which some apparently feel gives them a green light to push for sex beyond an initial "no" (or two, or 12).

To that I say, there is a reason this picture makes us laugh.

The last time I checked, animals function on a considerably lower level of brain power than humans. We are not animals. To assert that you're powerless against your instincts is to also say that you're no better than the unneutered dog humping the side of the sofa.

Hell, even my dog stops what he's doing when I say "no" one time.

I should only have to say "no" ONCE.

Furthermore, why would you want to have sex with someone who is not 100 percent psyched about having sex with you?

I'm not a girl with many hangups about sex, religious or otherwise. I'm not shy about saying I love it. And if you're having sex with me, it should be OBVIOUS how much I love it. I should be squirming and moaning so loudly the walls shake. One night I spent with the entrepreneur resulted in my downstairs neighbor sending me a single-sentence text message: "Shut the fuck up." And that's how it should be. I should be so enthusiastic about being there, with you, in that moment, that you have to peel me off the ceiling afterward. There should be no shadow of a doubt in your mind that that's where I want to be.

If I'm not giving you that level of feedback, you've pushed me into territory I don't want to be in. It's likely I've already told you no -- at least one time.

AND I SHOULD ONLY HAVE TO SAY "NO" ONCE.

The only word that allows you to keep doing what you're doing is "yes." More specifically:

If you buy me a drink, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.
If I've had a few too many drinks, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.
If I let you into my apartment, or agree to go into yours, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.
If I've had sex with other men on whatever number date we're currently on, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.
If I let you touch a different part of my body, or even perform oral sex on me, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.
If I already said no, but you're still badgering me in an attempt to wear me down, that doesn't mean you get to have sex with me.

The only word that means "yes" is YES.

And believe it or not, even if we're ALREADY HAVING SEX -- if I tell you to stop at ANY point, going even ONE stroke further is unacceptable.

AND I SHOULD ONLY HAVE TO SAY "NO" ONCE!

Maverick

2011-07-10T20:55:00.000+01:00

Way back at the end of April, as has been known to happen more and more frequently the longer I write this thing, I got an email from a random guy telling me my blog was hilarious and asking if I'd like to meet up sometime. He attached a picture that had me guessing he was about 40 (dark hair, dark eyes, crossed arms, leaning up against a tree senior-portrait-style). Additionally, he listed some of the more notable accomplishments of his life, including but not limited to racing sailing yachts and flying high-performance aircraft for the Navy. He seemed intriguing, so I wrote him back and told him I'd love to go out sometime.

Then I subsequently blew him off for the last guy.

Like I said, I got tired, and the prospect of going on yet ANOTHER first date was, at the time, downright enfeebling.

Fast-forward a few months. Upon my posting that I was no longer sipping from my oh-so-tall drink of water (seriously, he was so tall... sigh), the gentleman emailed me again to see if maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't blow him off this time. I said OK, and we set to work drawing up plans for a date. After a few emails back and forth, we agreed to meet Thursday evening at Mad Rose Tavern in Clarendon, which I'd never been to before.

And as soon as I hit "send" on the email confirming the plans, my entire being collapsed into a pulsating pile of anxiety. For starters, his picture made me nervous -- it was just so "stage-y" that I figured one of two things was going to happen: 1. Maverick would show up looking better than the photograph and be completely normal, or 2. He'd show up looking way worse and be a total weirdo. Given my lackluster luck in the dating arena, I was very nearly banking on the latter option.

Moreover... sigh. Agghh. In the blinding haze of heartrending pain that was the aftermath of the entrepreneur, I apparently decided that salvation lay at the bottom of a pint glass and that I could fill the hole in my soul with boneless chicken kabobs from Kabob Palace, barbecued pulled pork from Old Glory, chili dogs at Hard Times Cafe and chocolate concretes at D.C.'s new Shake Shack.

I'm saying, I ate my feelings. And when I awoke like a fat Rip Van Winkle from the seemingly eternal food coma, I found myself heavier than I've been in a long while. I'm still thinner than I was when I graduated from high school, but I don't feel good about myself. It really hit me when I started looking at pictures tagged of me on Facebook; I'd click through them and go, "That's a bad picture of me. That's a bad picture of me. FML, these are ALL bad pictures of me!!!"

So I wasn't exactly feeling sexy as I got dressed in my blue summer dress and brown belt (my newest acquisitions from Gossip on 23rd) and applied my makeup for the evening. I wallowed in my insecurities for a while and fished for compliments from my friend Alex, who is temporarily squatting on my couch, then headed out the door.

I texted Maverick from the entrance of Mad Rose to let him know I'd arrived and was waiting outside. Even though I was right on time, he'd apparently beaten me there -- he came strolling up to me from around the corner, where the tavern has a little outdoor seating area.

Remember the two options I cited earlier? Turns out, it was Option 1. In a MAJOR way.

Oh, God, he's hot. Oh, God, he's SO hot. Oh he's really really really hot!!!

Maverick was way younger-looking in person than he was in his photograph. And though he was fully dressed in a blue-striped button-down and gray pressed pants, it was evident he spent a significant amount of his time pumping iron at the gym.

If I was anxious before, I was a complete basket case now. I sheepishly followed Maverick to his table on the patio.

I took a seat and ordered a glass of wine while settling in to chat with him. I discovered that he's, in fact, 38 years old, and grew up outside San Francisco before enrolling in the Naval Academy in Annapolis, after which he became a naval aviator a la Maverick from "Top Gun" (hence his pseudonym). He eventually left the Navy as a lieutenant commander.

All of that just made him hotter. And frankly, based on that, I should have been able to seamlessly roll with the conversation -- I know a lot about the military and I lived in San Francisco for a while after graduating from college. But it's the big cosmic joke of my life: Gorgeous men read my blog, deem me funny and articulate, and want to take me out. But once confronted with these modern-day Adonises, I lose my power over speech. I feel like my tongue swells in my mouth and flops about like a fish out of water. I can't form intelligent sentences, and I certainly can't crack my typical witty jokes. The singular thing that attracted them to me is the one thing I can't ever seem to produce. And the even sadder flip side of this is that when I'm on a date with a man that my brain scans and categorizes as "never in a million years," I'm a silver-tongued orator comparable to Abraham Lincoln.

Sigh.

So I plodded over my words and thought, There is exactly a zero percent chance this man could ever be attracted to me. And when he switched to a non-alcoholic drink for his second round, it seemed that my suspicions were all but confirmed.

But then... we got on the topic of places we generally hang out, and he mentioned Galaxy Hut, just down the street from Mad Rose. The Hut has a delicious selection of craft beer, so I asked if he were a beer drinker. Maverick seemed to indicate that he was not a BIG beer guy, but had an appreciation for good ones now and then. Then he asked if I'd like to continue the evening by going over there.

Maybe I'm not doing so bad after all, I thought to myself, genuinely surprised. We continued chatting on the way to the bar.

Maverick asked a lot of questions about the blog, and he seemed impressed with my technological savvy (which, honestly, I would categorize as "limited," but hey, he's 38 and didn't have Facebook in college). He wanted to know about my worst date, what makes a good date, and myriad other things about the process.

We got to Galaxy Hut and snagged a table in the middle of the room that had two empty cans of PBR on it.

Or at least, what we thought were two empty cans. Some guys promptly came over and poured on the attitude as they dramatically grabbed their shitty beer while saying, "We WERE sitting here, but whatever, that's fine." As soon as they left, a bunch of other patrons came over and high-fived us for kicking them out -- apparently, they'd left their beers on the table, but were hanging out outside, and then getting pissy at people for sitting there. WTF? In any case, it was cool to be beloved by the entire bar.

Instead of sitting directly across from me, Maverick pulled his chair to the side of the table so he could be closer. We got a round of beers and continued talking.

Maverick put his hand on mine and held it there. He remarked that we were over an hour into the date, so it must be going well. I said something to the effect of how worried I'd been earlier, and he hushed me down by telling me how pretty my hair and eyes were. I started blushing uncontrollably.

We continued chatting through a second round of drinks, until finally I realized how late it was getting. We finished up and went outside.

At some point, we made out, and, um, his kisses were... aggressive? Let's put it this way -- I looked at myself in the mirror the next day and my bottom lip was all swollen and various shades of purple. I was half expecting somebody at work to pull me aside and ask me if everything was all right at home.

Anyway, it was a perfectly lovely evening, but sadly, a caveat: I kind of get the sense that Maverick is more interested in seeing himself be blogged about than he is in ever going on a date with me again. He just asked A LOT of questions about it -- more than anyone else I've gone out with has ever asked. He even called me the next day to ask more questions about what I was going to write, when I was going to write it... he was a little high-maintenance about it. I'm not really expecting to hear from him again after I post this.

But hey, if he's gonna call, he's gonna call. Whatever. We'll see.

Well, that was fast.

2011-07-06T02:50:00.001+01:00

So... I'm single again.

Meh.

Shitter.

Simply 'twas not meant to be. Me and the Blink-And-You'll-Miss-Him-BF had a good run -- March-June 2011, R.I.P. -- but at the end of the day, we just didn't have enough in common to make it work. It's an unfortunate hurdle I've illustrated in the following helpful chart:

Seriously, we had nothing in common. Every time we hung out, after we'd exhausted the initial what-happened-to-you-today portion of the conversation, we'd hit a point where we'd sit, staring at each other, unblinking, until finally one or the other would make the Hail Mary reach for the laptop to fire up YouTube while asking, "So... have you ever seen this video?"

Even more problematic than that, we didn't share the same energy level. He LOVED to veg out and lounge, and I just... do not. There once was a balmy, cerulean-skyed late-spring Saturday we spent together totally and completely indoors, snuggling on his couch and watching a movie. Not that I'm criticizing him for being affectionate -- I fucking love to cuddle. I'm not ashamed to say that I've previously been a part of one of those awful couples in line for a roller-coaster at the local amusement park, draping myself around my manfriend until the amalgam of the blistering summer sun and our mutual body heats resulted in enough sweat cascading down our ostensibly fused form to create Person Soup. But the point is, when it's the epitome of "nice" outside, for God's sake, turn off the Boob Tube! A little part of me died on the couch that day. And then, a few weeks ago, I'd actually started writing a blog post about how much he and I had been sleeping together -- literally, sleeping, as in counting sheep, sawing logs, ass-over-elbows in Dreamland -- when I stopped myself typing mid-sentence and cried "WTF HAS BECOME OF MY LIFE!?!?!?"

With the preceding paragraph, you're probably wondering, "If you guys were so different -- if he was a Quaalude and you were a line of cocaine -- then why were you even together in the first place?" And the thing is... that difference is actually kind of the answer. I hate to say it, but... I just got tired. I was heartbroken and unemployed, and he was there -- being all nice to me and standing 6-foot-6.

I don't mean to denigrate him. He's actually a really good person. He's going to make some doe-eyed Sleeping Beauty very happy some day -- just not me.

Lesson learned: You can't build a relationship on "tall."

So, what now?

Honestly, I'm not really sure. I got a new job (YAY!!!), and as such I'm going in early, staying there late and taking work home with me because after being unemployed for three months if someone wants to take this job away from me they're going to have to pry it from MY COLD DEAD FINGERS.

Bearing that in mind, it's safe to say my focus hasn't really been on dating. And that's the way it should be, at least for a while (though I might have a date Thursday... nothing's been firmed up yet, so stay tuned).

In any case, when something happens, you'll be the first to know.

Close encounters of the absurd kind

2011-06-08T20:06:00.000+01:00

It was innocuous at first.

I was cabbing it home through Chinatown in March 2010 after an extremely late-night rendezvous with a... **ahem**... special friend when I saw him: The lobbyist, standing on the street corner outside Rosa Mexicano, scene of our enjoyable first date. He was giving directions to a wayward tourist while presumably also attempting to flag down a taxi.

It was the first time I'd seen him since he kissed me goodbye in his car after an afternoon of hiking at Great Falls.

Huh, I thought to myself. Go figure. Wonder what he's been up to. Hmm.

I crouched down in the cab so he wouldn't see me.

But then, it happened again in November. I blogged about it that time: A holy-mother-of-awkward run-in with the non-profit guy, who, again, I hadn't seen since drunkenly making out at Summers Restaurant in Courthouse. He approached me during karaoke at Recessions, and, ever a beacon of maturity, I took the high road and pretended that I didn't remember him.

Then this March, at Sassy Marmalade's birthday dinner at Cafe Saint-Ex, yet another horrifying encounter.

It had been forever and a half since we'd hung out, so I'd forgotten he lived in the neighborhood and was a frequent Saint-Ex patron. Thus, I let my guard down. And it is just when we let ourselves be unprepared that our worst fears materialize: The real-estate company owner, dashing as always in a sport coat and leather shoes, waltzed into the restaurant's downstairs section, mere feet from the table where our gaggle of gals was perched.

Naturally, I greeted the chance meeting with the grace and poise befitting a woman of my stature.

"Holy fucking shit!" I exclaimed in a panic. "Fucking RECO just walked in the bar!"

As is my rotten luck lately, just as that verbiage was tumbling from my lips, we made eye contact.

Again, mustering all 28-year-old maturity possible, I lickety-split averted my gaze, stared down at the table and implored my girlfriends: "Is he looking over here? Is he looking over here? Tell me if he's looking over here."

RECO was, in fact, looking over here. Craning his neck so hard a darting movement from me would have caused it to snap off. He ordered a burger of sorts and positioned himself on a tall stool with a sniper's view of our table. He was accompanied by friends, and apparently he said something to them about it because they all started to stare at our table, too.

When it came time to leave, I sneaked into the bathroom for an inordinately long amount of time, then sprinted past him while he took a bite of his burger. By the time he'd swallowed his food enough to say anything to me, I was already two blocks down 14th Street.

Yet, weird and awkward as that situation was, a run-in a week ago Wednesday managed to top it.

Bloggers Sassy Marmalade, Dating C, A Single Girl and I were excited: We'd all had our ups and downs lately, and we were going throw off the shackles of stress and exhaustion through the famed pomegranate margaritas at Rosa Mexicano. We'd tweeted at each other about it all day long.

The night began awesomely enough -- every time the bartender brought us a new round of the delectable frozen pink concoctions, we simultaneously held up our hands and cheered "Woooooo!!!"

"You are like the girls in Cancun," our server told us.

"Oh my God! He just compared us to drunk girls on Spring Break!" Sassy Marmalade lamented.

Unfavorable depictions notwithstanding, we laughed and had a good time.

Until I saw him.

Directly in my line of sight, two tables away, accompanied by -- again, said with unparalleled maturity levels -- some dumb whore: None other than the entrepreneur, the most recent man to utterly shatter my heart.*

And that, my friends, is when it hit me: This city is not big enough to hold all my ex-boyfriends.

* Can I just say this: God bless the women I was with. God bless them. They knew how shaken I was at seeing him, even though I'm currently dating someone else. Dating C accompanied me to the bathroom to let me bawl my eyes out for a solid 10 minutes while Sassy Marmalade and A Single Girl gave the entrepreneur the "death stare" until he left. The joyous tenor of the evening returned a few moments later.

Storytelling, Part 3

2011-06-02T17:06:00.000+01:00

* This is the third of a three-part series.

Epilogue

So, yes -- it's true. The seemingly impossible happened: This maven of mating, this guru of going out, this devotee of dating is trading her red Jessica Simpson heels and happy hour bar tab for evenings at home performing completely unnatural acts in my kitchen (I made him chicken marsala, and it was surprisingly delicious -- wait, what were you thinking I meant!?).

After 56 first dates, 214 blog posts, and countless awkward moments, drunken nights, humiliations and heartbreaks, I have a boyfriend.

It may seem strange that I consider that announcement the "denouement" and not the "climax" of the story, but the goal of this blog legitimately was never "to find a boyfriend." I noted in my very first post that it was all about the journey, not the destination.

However, winding and bumpy road that it was, I did arrive eventually. And now that begs the question: What's going to become of this blog?

My manz has clearly articulated that he does not want to be blogged about, which, as a writer/journalist, pains me a little, but given his day job I completely understand his reservations. Additionally, the piles and piles of messages I get on a daily basis from people intent on telling me what a "miserable cunt" I am (yes, I'm quoting; I'd never write the C-word in here otherwise), make me so despondent I'm not sure how it is that I'm even conscious right now.

This used to be the place I could let it all hang out. Lately, it feels more like my noose. I've barely even wanted to write in weeks.

That said, I've spent so much of the last 18 months of my life seeking out dates, going on dates, thinking about dates, writing about dates, that I'm kind of at a loss for what other topic I could even cover.

I'm the modern-day, foul-mouthed equivalent of Beaumarchais' Cherubin. I'm forever falling in love with love, and I enjoy writing about it.

I've got a few ideas for other blogs, but nothing that feels quite right yet.

Also, who knows if me and the New BF will even go the distance? This fledgling coupledom feels fantastic for the time being, but I of all people know that you can date for the better part of a decade before you figure out you're not right for each other.

Given all of those things, it seems foolish and premature to abandon Date Me, D.C.! altogether.

So if I'm not going on dates and I'm not blogging about my relationship, what do I write? Some have suggested I try my hand at setting people up and writing about the results, like my own version of Date Lab, or follow other people on their dates and write about what I see. I'm not quite sure about either of those options (if you have other suggestions, by all means email me with them).

But the thing is, at the end of the day, I just love telling stories. I will always be writing something.

So if you've enjoyed this blog in any way, this may not be "goodbye" -- just "see you later."

Now I'm going to go text my adorable New BF -- who, in the District of Columbia, the land of Napoleon complexes and every man shorter than the last, is SIX-FOOT-MOTHERFUCKING-SIX.

HOORAY FOR ME!