Recently, a friend and I were talking about some of the more obscure situations I have found myself in when it comes to dating. It seems that men with genetic anomalies find me particularly attractive.
For instance, I recently dated a man with albinism, and a few years ago, I was hit on by a man who appeared to be afflicted with what I assume was pituitary dwarfism. (Genetics aside, I realize little people and albinos are “normal” people, but because of the rarity of these conditions, how many women in the dating world can claim that they were once propositioned by a little person and have dated an albino?)
I did not accept the proposition from the man with dwarfism. It really had nothing to do with his stature. More crucially, he manifested one of my biggest deal breakers when it comes to dating.
He was an asshole.
He was a friend of a friend and we were talking at an impromptu barbecue. I was in the kitchen defrosting frozen Trader Joe’s samosas in a pan. He asked me if I liked to cook. I didn’t really consider defrosting to be cooking, but I said that I did. We talked for a moment about my favorite recipes, at which point, he made an obscene comment about me and a spatula.
This was followed by some lightly-veiled hints about making use of the spatula in a highly unhygienic way. I declined and went to find the rest of my friends.
Some months later, I had heard that this same little person had been walking through a bar and stuck his hand up a girl’s skirt while she was talking to a friend. He was then pummeled by another bar patron for the harassment.
Lesson learned: Being a pervert is not limited by stature.
If you are single and live alone, you are probably aware of the phenomenon that happens within your refrigerator. I am, of course, referring to SPF, otherwise known as Single Person Fridge. SPF happens because, despite my best efforts, I do not know how to grocery shop for just one person. I go to the store with the best intentions and buy fresh, healthy food only to see most of it rot after the first four days. After two weeks, I’m left with shelf full of condiments, two mismatched beers and pickles.
See exhibit A:
Don’t get me wrong, I love to cook. (And I’m actually quite good at it.) I also have an overwhelming need to feed people so I frequently force feed my friends some of my culinary concoctions. But for the day-to-day, with no one else to cook for, I’m left with a lot of random odds and ends.
Let’s look closer at what has survived since the last grocery trip.
Apparently, I like salad dressing. There are five bottles of it in here. I do not remember the last time I actually made a salad. I also have PB&J, mayo, ketchup and not one, but two types of mustard.
Let’s also not forget the door to the refrigerator is filled with six different types of hot sauce, because apparently I feel everything needs a sauce.
I don’t dare look in the crisper because everything I put in that drawer is never seen again.
So because of SPF, the end of the week usually leaves me at a loss for what to eat for dinner. I was too lazy to actually go to the store so last night’s dinner consisted of a spoonful of peanut butter and a pickle. Protein, vegetables–all in all a well rounded meal.
Lesson learned: Dating is a difficult and often frightening endeavor. It is not nearly as frightening as my crisper drawer.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been sick. I’m not talking a pestering cold. This was more along the lines of a Sam Raimi-style evil dead nightmare that left me feverish and weeping on the floor of a Rite Aid.
Despite this plague upon my respiratory tract, I had already made plans to hang out with G on Friday (G being the guy I went out with the weekend before). Apparently having no real regard for my personal well-being, I decided nothing was keeping me at home that night. I would stuff my purse with Kleenex and take enough Sudafed to practically vibrate. I was going out, even if it killed me!
This wasn’t a normal date though. G is in a band that was playing in Ocean Beach so it was an outing/concert. I decided to dress the part in a free Jagermeister tank top. It was a consolation prize for failing to throw some rings over plastic reindeer antlers in a beer garden a few weeks ago.
I took a friend with me to the show and we found a place for me to sit because standing all night was not going to happen. Happily settled in my corner next to the men’s room, G approached me and said: “Do you want to meet my mom and step-dad?”
Hi, I’m Amanda. I’m not usually a semi-narcoleptic, Sudafed tweaker with a billboard for alcoholism across my chest. Nice to meet you mom!
Had I known his mom was going to be there, I would have worn something nicer. And perhaps taken more Sudafed to stop the insane nose running action.
After an awkward introduction I sat back down feeling utterly stupid. I then proceeded to fall asleep on my hand a few times throughout the show (not a commentary on the band at all) and ended the evening by almost coughing in his face and nearly passing out on the walk back to my car. I am so incredibly classy.
Lesson learned: Perhaps I should start postponing outings until after my face has stopped leaking.
This is a follow up to a previous post I wrote about a guy who contacted me on eHarmony who lived in Laguna Nigel. See: Long Distance Flirting
My philosophy with the eHarmony question and answer phase is simple: I softball it. These are base introductions. I don’t need to know the inner-most secrets of any of these guys at this point. And frankly, they don’t need to know mine. Trust has to be earned; it isn’t something that sprouts over two emails. I would never go up to a guy in a bar and say, “Excuse me, we’ve never met, but I find your face aesthetically pleasing, so I think you should tell me about the most traumatic moment in your life. It’ll bring us closer together.”
So I was a little thrown off when Laguna Nigel sends me the first multiple choice questions which included: “What is your biggest fear about marriage?”
I don’t have one. And it’s a rather big assumption that just because I’m over 30 and unmarried means I fear it. My parents have been married for over 35 years. I have a much bigger fear of contracting West Nile virus.
I answered outside the multiple choices provided and proceeded to softball him with “which is your biggest pet peeve when you first start dating someone?”
He too answered outside the pre-sets. He said, “Someone unable to have deep, meaningful conversations about their feelings.”
A) That’s not a pet peeve, that’s a much bigger issue.
B) Oh cry me a river
The next questions he sent me were from the open-ended set. He wrote his own:
“What is your biggest commitment issue and how do you propose to overcome it?”
My answer: I fear being committed to a psychopath. I think I can overcome this by not dating over-analytical, self-indulgent, psychopaths.
I closed the match.
Lesson learned: Psychoanalysis is best left to the professionals, unless said professional is trying to date you.