“Do not go blindly…”

After a few weeks of settling into single life (something I hadn’t been used to in years), I finally decided to take Amy’s advice and ‘get out there’…mainly by going on an internet dating site. I had done the internet thing back in college, actually achieving a long-lasting friendship as a result of it. I hoped that I could ride that success again after years of being out of the game.

I sat for what seemed like hours, staring at the computer monitor, trying to formulate an appealing profile. I wrote and re-wrote, trying desperately to find the perfect combination of words, until I realized that most of the responses I would get would be mainly a result of the photo, and not so much what I’d written.

I finally settled on a cute-but-witty little paragraph, uploaded a couple of (what I considered to be) my best pictures, held my breath, and hit the ‘post’ button. This was it. I was internet dating. I called Amy.

“So I did it,” I moaned, after Amy answered the phone.

“Did what? Kill someone? Eat a pigeon?” Amy said.

“Yeah, Ames, I ate a pigeon. Weirdo. Anyway,” I explained, “I posted an online profile on some dating site.”

“You did? Holy crap! That’s awesome!! I’m coming over so we can check out the selections.”

…………………..

“Oh my god,” Amy gasped, “This one’s got a mullet!!” She collapsed in giggles on the floor as I examined the extent of the mullet factor. We were dealing with a full-on, mega mullet – this guy wasn’t fooling around.

“Aw, come on…go easy on him,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I’m sure he’s got the best trailer in the whole park!’

We erupted in laughter for a good five minutes before returning to the dating site’s search results. Things weren’t looking good for Single Abby.

After a few dozen profiles of overweight, role-playing, dateless rejects, we decided to scope out my competition and took a look at the profiles of other women on the site.

“Well, the good news is, you’ve got it in the bag,” Amy laughed, noting how one woman was proudly sporting the garden weasel – bangs frozen in the form of a curling iron and teased to such a degree that would add a good four inches to one’s height.

“Dare I say….”

“Don’t do it, Abs,” Amy warned.

“That I have….”

“Abs, stop it.”

“Some stiff competition?” I erupted in hysterics, more so over Amy’s reaction than to my own humor (which was convenient, considering there really wasn’t any).

“It’s like dealing with a child sometimes. Anyway, you can’t get discouraged,” Amy assured me. “Maybe the good ones just have to come to you. We should be patient.”

“We’ll see…I don’t want to have to resort to Captain Mega Mullet,” I moaned.

…….

After a few days of little activity on the dating site, I finally got an email from a thirty-year-old single father – a Flight Medic, not originally from Boston. We exchanged several emails over the course of the week, finally deciding to meet up at Fins for lunch.

I realized upon pulling into the parking lot that I was dreadfully early, so I strategically parked behind the largest SUV I could find in order to not be seen. I had a storm of butterflies in my stomach – I hadn’t been on a date in years, let alone a blind date. Not that this date was particularly blind; we had both seen pictures of each other, and were both, most likely, praying that neither of us lied about it.

I saw him approaching from the distance, and a wave of relief washed over me. He represented well in person, at least from what I could tell. I got out of my car and headed over to him, smiling, when it finally hit me. I was towering over him.

It wasn’t a deal-breaker for me that I stood a good three inches taller than my date. I was, after all, wearing my stealth-sexy heeled boots (gaining their name from the outsider’s inability to properly see, under cover of denim, just how high the boots came up my thighs). I was a little disappointed in knowing I’d have to wear flats should we have a second date. I hated flats and always felt like a little kid shuffling around in them.

We had a great lunch, much to my surprise. He was handsome, articulate, young at heart, and had a great sense of humor. The service was slow, and we fully amused ourselves by making fun of other restaurant patrons and listening to his more amusing tales of life as a flight medic.

As the hour grew later, he hesitantly looked at his watch and sighed.

“I have to pick up Sophie,” he explained, looking disappointed. It was a good sign. “I wish I didn’t have to leave!”

“Well, that just means we’ll have to pick this up again, and soon,” I said, coyly, as he walked me to my car.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, laying a gentle and polite kiss on my lips. I began to think I could get used to the whole internet-dating-thing. Blind date #1: success.

“And I can’t get him outta this house…” (excerpt)

It is physically impossible to spare someone else’s feelings.

I sat on the balcony of Samantha’s apartment, waiting for her to return from the laundry room, desperately trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this whole Newbie thing with minimal drama.  I tried to create scenarios in which I could fabricate a clever claim about how I was just not as ready for this whole dating thing as I had originally thought, or seem like I was acting in his best interest due to the fact that I would merely destroy him over time anyway, and he was lucky to walk away before it was too late.

But as I sat there in the fading sunlight, with a bipolar Himalayan sleeping in my lap (apparently I was on the VIP list that day as far as Bubba was concerned, as I had not suffered so much as a scratch since arriving), I realized there was truly no way to get out of this without breaking the Newbie’s heart.  That, in and of itself, was an issue, given we’d only been testing out this coupling for a few days.

Why did I have to end up the bad guy? Why is it that one cannot ‘try out’ a date for awhile to see if there’s an atraction without someone getting hurt? I knew I would have to take the high road and be as brutally honest as I could with him, but was bothered by the impending fall out.

Scott would call, wondering why I had been so mean.  Chris would begin to act uncomfortable around me.  Skippy, though, he’d have seen it coming all along.  It reminded me of this hot, younger, puppy-esque guy I had once dated, and Skippy’s prediction, back six years ago: “You’re gonna destroy this kid.”

I was technically doing the Newbie a favor.  I was gonna tell it like it was, so that he could be free to pursue his happy little fairy tale elsewhere, where it would be more appreciated. This was a good thing, right?

Right?

Samantha busted through the door with her arms wrapped around a sky-high pile of clothing.  She walked through the living room (barely pausing to dump the load on the couch) and headed outside to the deck.

“Dude,” I said. “I gotta do it.  Quick, easy and painless.  For me at least.”

“Like a fuckin’ Band Aid,” she said, smiling.  “You gotta let me watch.”

Noticing.

she sees you, ya know

from your safe distance, shooting glances

that fall heavy upon her bruised ego

you thought she overlooked

secret shared stories and inside tales

while you didn’t dance the night

away that time

you don’t think she can tell

how you store away every little word

that falls from glossy lips that always

seem to have the scent of mandarin

or how detailed her image is in your mind

when she’s not around

but she sees you, alright

she sees you.

The Rules of Engagement

You’re just too picky.

The comment resonated in my head as I pondered the criticisms Rob had unleashed upon me.  Perhaps there was something to his remark.  Perhaps, as well, he was just lashing out in his usual donkey-like, know-it-all ways. 

Me? Too picky? Had he not been witness to the haphazard collection of misfit toys which had infamously made up my dating pool for the past few years?  The more his comment replayed in my head, the more self-righteous I became, which was especially fun given my lack of an audience.  I looked over at Taco, knowing I would find a sympathetic, albeit canine, ear. Taco gave me her usual “I am soooooo trying to understand the words coming out of your mouth” expression.

“I think I have a right to be picky,” I muttered, giving Taco a much-appreciated scratch behind the ear.  “I mean, it’s my heart right? Should I sell myself short and live out the rest of my days a miserable, underachieving douchebag?”  Taco yawned.

“Damn right,” I quipped.

I grabbed a pen and the closest thing I could find for paper (noticing the irony in the item on which I chose to plot down my list of demands – a random, untorn picture of the Southern Man) and began to madly scribble away.  If Rob wanted picky, he was certainly about to get it.

Qualifications for Entering into Romantic Partnership Association with Abigail M. Harris:

1. Gainful Employment.  Swooping in to pick up the tab every now and again is only fair.  If you are seeking someone to pay your car insurance or rent, call your mom.
2. Functional Automobile.  Mama always told me a man who wouldn’t pick me up is not really a man at all.  ****Other circumstances are negotiable, given the applicant at least possesses a valid driver’s license.
3. Colored Denim.  Under no circumstances should the applicant venture out into public areas wearing denim of color other than blue.  The category ‘blue’ does not apply to turquoise, navy, or royal blue.  Stone washing is not permitted.  Black denim may be cause for automatic termination of applicant’s contract.
4. Chivalry.  It’s not quite dead yet.  At least, it shouldn’t be.  If I wanted to be all feminist and open my own doors and beat the crap out of would-be muggers, I would have become a lesbian. 
5. Show an Interest. Particularly in something other than my measurements.  It is remarkable how paying attention lends itself to rather easily resolved disputes or the avoidance of confrontation altogether.
6. The Element of Surprise.  Do something random.  Anything.  A tiny little thing that I will appreciate immensely and be so gracious of the surprise that pleasant reprecussions will be showered upon you. 
7. Hygiene.  Should you advance past the first-round of interviews, you will need to maintain that cutting edge you had over other applicants by keeping up with expected personal hygiene.  Tooth-brushing, showering, shaving, and not smelling like the backside of a Mac truckare key metrics of further securing your position.
8. Criminal Background.  Not all of us are perfect. Should you happen to have a criminal background, the following, listed in any order or quanity on said background, will be grounds for termination: financial fraud, manslaughter, more than one DUI (you’re lucky to proceed with one), theft, assault, drug charges, child molestation, kidnapping, or felony charges.  Note that this list is subject to additions at any point at the discretion of the hiring manager.
9. Courtesy.  Do unto others.  Tell me how I look (only if I look good – never point out bad hair days, ‘feeling fat’, or anything else that might lead to personal injury).  Call me just because.  “I saw this and I thought of you,” is a great way to start any conversation.
10. Confidentiality.  Your friends, your brothers, your coworkers do not need to know the intimate goings-on of the bedroom, or any other locale in which intimacy may occur.

I paused for a moment, reviewing my list of demands with a self-assured grin.  I poured myself another glass of pinot noir and walked over to the computer.  Clumsily, I typed up my new list of qualifications and added them to an email draft for Rob.

“How’s that for picky, bitches?”