Nice To Meet You, Dude - KITTY

I have, admittedly, wanted to blog on this site for quite some time now. Getting the courage up to do it? A whole different issue. And the opportunity? Sweet.

Hello, dear readers. I’m Kitty. Nice to meet you.

I suppose I should begin with a bit of background. After all, background is something I’m quite familiar with these days, what with all of the “about me” talk and … background checks. I cannot tell a lie. I even have an app for it on my phone. I’m not messing around, kiddos. I’m past the wasting-time-and-air-by-dating-ex-felons phase of my life.

Which is a nice transition into why I’m on Match.com. To say the least, 2009 was a whirlwind year for me. It began with me, newly single after a 3+ year relationship in which I overstayed my welcome, having a new lease on life and a jaded feeling about love. Really living the single life, if you know what I mean. I broke his heart. Was dealing with a great deal of guilt. And then I met him. That one – we’ve all had them – who swept me off my feet, surprised me because of everything he was that I didn’t realize I wanted or needed, charmed me and, after a couple of short months, caused me to claim lights out. I fell in love. It was the first time.

Fall is when we fell apart. I’ll spare you the extremely gorey details of how it ended, but to summarize: Almost a year after meeting, behavior that I can, still to this day, only describe as some sort of bipolar disorder that I was unaware of caused this man – my LIFE – to leave me crying and alone on a streetcorner on a cold and rainy Friday night. I know, I know. Spare me the drama. But you guys. It was dramatic. My world ended. All the memories of times together, and times apart, descended at once; filling my head beyond its brim. I was crushed. The scene replayed in my head over and over again, like a record that wouldn’t stop skipping. The eyes were still his, but the light behind them had gone out. I didn't know if I could replace the bulb, or how. He was alone and fighting a battle that only he could fight and I was alone with what felt like death gripping my chest as I watched him walk away.

Thank God for my friends (no fewer of whom are fellow contributors to this blog, and several of whom are also readers) who didn’t leave me by myself for more than a few minutes at a time for the entire period that I was rendered incapable of..well, existing. They even brought cookie dough and juice and magazines and nail polish and chocolate-chip-mint ice cream. I didn’t leave the house or my room for a good two months. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I had Aimee Mann’s “It’s over” and “Wise Up” and L.G’s “Speechless” on repeat. And so it goes, when you have your heart broken.

Fast forward to January 2010. I’d love to say that NYE felt like a new start for me. That the night itself brought a sense of renewed hope, a new start. It didn’t. As the ball dropped, Montel sang (long story - Andy, Abby, Georgina and Tucker all in attendance) I stood with two wonderful girlfriends, trying to hold back tears. It’s stupid, I know. He and I had talked about getting engaged on New Years Eve, so it wasn’t just me with the carry-on baggage -- even the stupid night itself carried emotional luggage. It always does.

I digress. And I promise, I’m not always this depressing.

I began playing around on Match with a fake login and profile, because, well, why not? It’s more fun that way. You can look but not touch. Window shop, and no one knows. You can even check the competition out without them knowing. It’s fun. My profile photo was a picture of Kim Jong Il with his shirt off. After some browsing, I was sold. There appeared to be some cool looking, quality, successful guys who, gasp, all love to go out but also have a quiet night in. Huh. They’re also all apparently looking for a hot, down to earth girl-next-door who can just as easily get dressed up as they can go for a hike on a misty Sunday morning. WOW! Whatever. I wrote a profile, deleted it, and wrote another one. No sooner than I hit the “publish” button, did I get a wink and an email from a 56-year-old “oil tycoon” (read: Works at Texaco) from Alaska. Where in my profile, pray tell, did you think that we’d be a good match for one another? I feverishly look for the “not interested” button, click it, then immediately feel guilty for shutting this poor, sweet, unassuming guy down. I mean, isn’t he on Match in the first place because he can’t get a date in real life? Couldn’t I just have ignored his email? He did, after all, reach out to me. I’m always complaining about how men in this city don’t even try, and here’s this nice guy who I have absolutely less than zero interest in, reaching out. Trying. And I shut him down. I haven’t used that feature since. The guilt was too much.

After a few days I have a handful of quality conversations going, and a few conversations going that I know won’t go anywhere. It’s fun. I’m a winking machine. It’s sucking up all of my free time. I’m meeting interesting people who (at least on paper) seem to have their lives together. I get asked out on my first date by someone who we’ll call Blowfish. More on that later.

Blowfish and I exchange phone numbers. This is awkward for me. Sometimes I don’t even give my number out to people I know. He texts, but not too much. He calls, and sounds cute on the phone. He also sounds really high. Curious? I give him a chance anyway, despite his suggestion that we get dinner at this “great little sushi restaurant in Beltown”. Cool. Which one, you may be asking? Ohana.

Yes.The same Ohana that has Jägermeister on tap. UGH.

I go anyway, on principle. This is my year to try new things. To date, not just jump into relationships like I always do. Dating requires at least trying. After some deliberation I decide to wear skinny black riding pants, studded cutout open-toe heels, a black ballerina top (fitted, deep back and scoopneck) and a lightweight black trench. I know, all black. It’s how I roll. I looked classy, but still sexy. But not trying-too-hard.

It’s my first in-person Match date. I’m proud of myself for even getting dressed, driving there, and not finding an excuse to cancel. The conversation is good. Not great. He has really excellent eye contact, but borders on stareorrist. This begins to get creepy after about 8 minutes. We order sushi. It’s excellent, but he keeps watching me eat.

Food to mouth, chew, chew, stare. It’s creepy.

I suggest we go to List, across the street, for late-night happy hour (and no more chewing). I really wanted a glass of wine, and the conversation wasn’t awful. He was really good looking – looked just like his photos. Maybe even better. I could roll with that, I decided.

And here’s where it starts to go downhill. He texts me from the bathroom (?) saying, “This place is tha sh*t!” Um. I finish my wine and suggest that yawn, boy, it’s getting late and it’s a school night. He offers to walk me to my car. Sweet, but unnecessary as at this point I’ve given no solid indications that I want a second date. We get to my car, about a block and a half away and he asks if I can drop him at his car. Thinking it’s several blocks away (parking can be tough in this particular neighborhood, as many of you know), I agree and we get in. As it turns out, his car is right around the corner.

Just wanting him to get out of my car at this point, I don’t even make small talk. I shuffle through my mental iTunes library for a song that reflects either “I actually really like women” and / or “I hate men and am angsty right now”. Indigo girls? Fiona Apple? Tori Amos? No, no, no. I land on Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good”, in hopes that he’ll get the point. He doesn’t. In fact…he goes in for a hug, but instead sneak-attacks from the right (smart!), and approaches me with what can only be described as a gaping, bottom feeding, rotating-tongue, open mouth kiss.

I’m paralyzed.

I pull back, put my hand on his chest, push him away with eyes wide and say, “Dude, too much tongue.”

Now, I have to press pause and preface for a brief second about how funny this situation really is. First, I’ve never experienced an approach quite like this. It’s a rare technique, only captured in the wild by National Geographic photographers. Second, I don’t use the word “Dude”. Third - and this is the clincher - he says, “Did you just call me Dude?”

Is that all you got out of that conversation? That I called you Dude?

I stall by staring at my feet with the I-feel-awkward-that-you-feel-awkward thing (I’m too nice) hoping he’ll just get out. He doesn’t. We engage in a wee bit more small talk, and after no less than 3 more prompts about how late it is, what an early morning I have and how tired I am, he finally gets the hint.

And just when I think it’s finally over, he tries it again!

Men. I beg of you. Kiss us. We love it. But please control your tongues, and please – PLEASE – if we pull away and give you a slight shove with our hand, don’t try to kiss us again. These are clear signals. Pay attention. I don’t want to have to use my rape whistle (I did bring one on the date – I like to think I’m prepared).

Just when I think there’s no possible way I’ll hear from him again…buzz. “I had such a fun time with you tonight. Can I see you next week?” No. Really? You think that went well? I don’t respond. Buzz. “By the way, those shoes were sexy.” Thanks?

I’ll keep this brief, as I realize this post has been long, but let it be said that he’s texted me at least every other day for the last week and a half, culminating with what appeared to be a drunk dial around 1:45AM this past Friday night. I haven’t heard from him since and am hoping that his embarrassment will prevent him from ever calling me again. God save the day I run into him somewhere…

So, I’m intrigued. And I’m about to drop a bomb on you. Three weeks in to Match, I’m going on my third date from the site. The third one will be a charm, I think. In about three hours I’m headed on a weekend trip with a girlfriend to Portland to meet for the first time a man who may or may not be one of the most fascinating, articulate and wonderful people I’ve ever met. Big statement, I know. But those of you who know the intimate details of my life are already aware of how special he really is. He spins soul hip hop (a surefire gateway to my heart). He knows Bonheoffer. Popcorn is his favorite food. His job is his cause. He has a huge heart and beautiful blue eyes. He is articulate. And funny. He plays basketball. And…he. Is. So. Into. Me.

I’m battling things: Expectations, fears that I won’t be who he thinks I really am. Do I wear heels? Do I order scotch or wine? Am I too blonde? He likes brunettes. We’ve burned through almost seven hours of phone time in the last week and a half, have exchanged no less than 15 lengthy emails and oh thank God for unlimited texting.

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have a crush. Stay tuned.