SEA > PDX: The Best Date Ever - KITTY

I suppose I owe you all an update.

Update: It was the best date of my life.

Downdate: I don't know if it's going anywhere.

Let me explain…

BFF and I packed up the car for an early-afternoon road trip to Portland. In attendance: Myself, BFF, rations, several overstuffed bags (read: Multiple clothing options for date), freshrolls from Moonlight Café, a roadtrip mix and my Nani, tightly bundled up in the back bucket seat of BFFs 3-series BMW. She had a cute scarf around her neck, and Cheez-Its nestled into her arm. Just in case.

I was nervous. I don't get nervous. But the anticipation was killing me. Our conversations were always uncomfortably perfect. Impenetrable. Worst of all was that I knew that everything hinged on the one most terrifying thing that can swing a date: Attraction.

I mean, by now we’d had it mostly sorted out. Mental connection: Check. Matching sense of humor: Check; identical, though not too, interests: Check. I even liked his voice: Raspy enough to admit a past love affair with nicotine – ooh, danger! --; but clear and crisp enough to indicate he’s not half-bad sounding in the shower. More on that later.

To boot, the inordinate amount of phone dates and emails and texts that we’d had over the past three weeks had, admittedly, shot us both off to wherever cloud nine lives - somewhere up in outer space.

We made record time, beating traffic, accidents and an apparent apocalyptic rainstorm just to the West of the interstate. The sunset was incredible. I sent him a picture. We talked a little more via text. It was cute. My tummy was housing all of these little butterflies.

We arrived in Portland and decided it’d be a fun night to explore. *John (we'll call him) had kindly sent an email and several texts with recommendations on where we should go. Curiously, the bulk of them were smack in the middle of his neighborhood. Portland is a great city but, you guys. It’s kind of dead. Everything was a quiet, cold, deserted little rainy reminder that in a mere 24 hours, I’d be meeting him.

BFF and I spent the morning with Nani crosswording and organizing and making little waffles. We shopped, tax free, at Washington Square and lunched through the Pearl District, where our hotel was for that night. BFF insisted on getting me back to the hotel by 4PM (and no later) to prepare nails (I went with an Essie red, not too blue, not to brick, just right), shower, hair, painting the barn, and general prettification. She’s a good friend. I had a hot shower, a good long pep-talk with myself in the mirror and 5 stiff drinks before I even left. Why was I so nervous?

Here’s why: It all hinged on attraction. Oh, the pressure.

*John sent me a text around 5 telling me to meet him at the Doug Fir, a very hip little joint off of Burnside of which I was familiar. He sent me the URL (via text) and directions. Cute. I know this spot. It’s comfortable and I’m a little relieved. A little.

BFF and I arrive promptly at 7:30, and I wait 5 minutes to walk in, just for good measure, but also because I thought I was going to poop my pants. She plays me a song in the car to pump me up before heading in. Because it’s what we do. This temporarily fixes my anxiety. I text him and tell him I’m close, which is a lie, since I’m already there. He responds immediately that he’s at a table in the back of the bar. Perfect.

I suppose now is a good time for sartorial analysis. I wore: Dark denim; a sheer (but not too sheer) black and white chevron oversized, low-back printed top; dark green Andrew Marc leather bomber jacket; same studded heels as last two dates (about 4”) and some fun accessories (unicorn necklace, engage!). He knows how much black I wear, so I figured I’d throw him off. Since there was so much discussion in prior emails about style – mostly due to his own concern that his apparent lack of it wouldn’t suit my taste – I’ll add what he was sporting: Fitted dark denim (he solicited my help two weeks ago in picking some new duds – these, no doubt, were among the casualties to his wallet); a plaid RCVA shirt, tucked in (cute) that looked something like this; a really cool, fitted micro-something-or-other biker jacket (it was very hip); and black Cole Haan shoes. He looked awesome. I was impressed.

As I walked in the door and approached the table, he immediately stands, with a huge dorky grin on his face. He’s taller than I thought. The bar is packed and someone smells like ham + cheese quiche. He has a great smile. I want to not run - not jump - but LEAP into his arms and kiss his face. I resist, but squeezed him extra tight and snuck a little kiss in on the cheek. I had prepared him for this earlier on the phone.

The first 5 minutes were terrifying. The buildup! The anticipation! Then…it’s here! Is he let down? Am I let down? Do I smell like pomegranate vodka? Or maybe just the right amount of perfume? Do I have lipgloss on my teeth? Am I missing teeth? I don’t know my ass from my face at this point.

On more than one occasion he reaches out and touches my hand as he’s telling a story, leaving it there just long enough so it’s clear that it’s on purpose. It’s cute. Our knees are touching, and his arm is around me. We both order Bulleit rocks, and both have two. We agree that we’re over the moon to be sitting next to one another.

I observe a few things about him. First, he used his hands to punctuate almost every sentence. Commas, semi-colons, periods -- the lot. Words were all formed into some sort of swooping gesture. It made watching him talk a show all its own. Everything about him was exaggerated, and his hands were no exception. His walk, while never hurried, was a bit of a saunter. He rode his heels hard, always leaning far back. He jogged up stairs. He ran around the front of the car to open my door.

I sneak off to the WC to send the “I’m ok! He’s not a serial killer!” text, which a few of you dear readers (and fellow writers) received. Sorry. It was a mass-text. I come back to the table and he suggests that instead of fighting the crowds for a table somewhere, we go back to his place where he’d bought a bottle of wine and some little snacks for us and we’ll throw on some records. Cute. My God, PERFECT. I agree. He pays the tab and we leave.

We hop into his car, a cute little dark green 4-door American made car that should not have an oversized spoiler on it, but does. Now this, friends, this is but one of the reasons I like this guy. There’s a great story for everything and such was the story behind the cute little sedan with insane spoiler (he lived in Alaska, it was the only trade-in besides the Expedition with good snow tires when he needed them).

It was spotless. There was a yoga mat in the backseat. Cute, considering he plays basketball 4 days a week. He was playing this song, which is an all-time favorite of mine and probably a surefire contender for the killer personalized mix he made me two weeks prior. We drove a couple of miles (the back way, which happens to be much longer than the front way – I guess he likes long drives? Cool.)

A small confession, that will take you, dear readers, back one night prior, to Friday: I had done what any right-minded woman would have done on a Friday night in a new city with a BFF. I explored. I also did some due-diligence. I couldn’t resist. He suggested some bars right in his neighborhood! Let’s just say I knew where his house was, and also what kind of car he drove. He did not have to tell me. I realize this is creepy, but it was 1AM and he would never know. Thank God for tinted windows.

Fast forward to present. We’re sitting in his (immaculate, clean, tasteful, artsy, art/music/architecture magazine-ridden) living room/kitchen listening to records.

He pulls out a great bottle of wine (apologies, 7 drinks in I’m obviously not observing varietals. It was red.), and asks if I might grab a couple of glasses from his impeccably organized and full-setted cabinent. I oblige as he slices a red anjou pear and a baguette and pulls some (spicy) hummus out of the fridge. Tasteful. Tasty. All organic.

He asks what I feel like, in terms of tempo: 80-120. Those of you who know records know this is like D’Angelo > Outkast. I give him an 85 – feeling mellow - and he puts on some Erikah Badu. Lovely. We discuss everything from A>Z. Work, faith, travel, his garden (!), cigarettes (he asks if he may have an American Spirit because he likes to unwind sometimes) – I affirm and ask if I may share it with him, the stars, music, art, Seattle, my friends, his friends.

I feel at home. I feel comfortable. He takes me on a tour. Upstairs is no different from downstairs except that it might have been even more stylish and composed. His own room is perfection, just enough masculinity, with small doses of style. Platform bed, Navajo printed wool blanket neatly folded at the base. Great art. Lots of literature. Great heavy curtains. A nice flatpanel TV mounted on the far wall. For, you know, watching basketball in HD.

I play some music that I’d intended to share with him. He likes it. We talk about Seattle’s music culture. He admits a longtime desire to relocate just a couple of hundred miles north and throws me a wink. Melt. I regretfully didn’t ask him to show me a thing or two on his decks, mostly because it would have been a fun opportunity to be close to him, but also because now I realize I’ll have to pay for lessons.

After a couple of hours he decides we should head downtown to this little spot for a show. After over 20 minutes of circling for parking we decide to bag it and grab a few beers while watching the ships come in. I like that he’s as spontaneous as I am. My nerves have finally started to subside. On our way to get beers, he decides instead that he wants to take me back uptown to a spot that he occasionally spins at – this Clockwork Orange-themed spot called Moloko Plus on Mississippi Ave, just a mile or so from his house. We stay to listen to a bit of his friend’s DJ set and for another drink (more bourbon), though I can’t finish mine so he does.

Unbeknownst to me, Portland has these amazing little parking lot after-hours eateries. Am I the last person on the planet to know about these little 2AM miracles? We find a great one by his house and mow down on some food (Poutine for him, onion and gruyere pizza for me. No wonder I didn’t get kissed? I sent him along with the leftovers.)

He gets a little sparkle in his baby blues as we’re eating and suggests we go take an adventure. I’m game. It is, after all, only 2:15AM. He says he’s having a fantastic time. And so am I. So we get back into his car, drive to his place, grab a half-bottle of bourbon he’d been “saving for a special occasion”, two to-go cups with ice (his idea – Klassy Kitty was fine with the bottle), a blanket and his yoga mat and bomb up into the West hills, right outside the city.

Winding and winding and more music and fog and laughing and joke telling and finally we arrive at “the bench” he said he’d wanted to take me to. The gate is open. We take it as a sign and trespass. Those of you who know me know I’ve been cited for this behavior in the past, though it doesn’t stop me. I like a little danger. And apparently, a lot of mud. At this point we’re happily, sloppily, gropingly, giddily slipping up the muddy incline.

The following clip was recorded by two very rebellious trespassers at 3:30AM on a foggy mountaintop parkbench in Portland after a lot of bourbon, music and hummus dip. Enjoy.

It all ended with a short tour through the Pearl: A homeless teen shelter he used to work at, a warehouse he sold illegal merchandise out of when working for Portland’s minor league baseball team. Stories of that one “best Summer ever” when he was a wee 23 and blew everything he had on a Blazers dancer. We arrive at my hotel around 4:30AM. He runs around to my side of the car and opens the door. I get out, shorter than last time, with my muddy flats on. He leans in…and gives me a hug. Our cheeks brush. We exchange sweet niceties. And hug a couple more times. Cheek kisses.

Now, I must remind you that the mind is a wicked, vile, tormentor when it's not getting what it wants. Every great and positive interaction can just as easily turn into an offense of the ego. But all of this talk about flirting, and spending most of the night touching has me wondering when it’s going to actually start.

I walk into the hotel, fluttering euphoria battling this creeping feeling of disappointment. Why didn’t he kiss me? Why didn’t he hold my hand? We have chemistry! That spark! It was there, you guys. I felt it. I’m pretty sure he did, too. He hovered long enough at the goodnight to make it only obvious.

So now. Now I’m beating myself up for letting the fact that he didn’t kiss me cloud what was, undoubtedly, the best date I’ve ever had with someone who is, unequivocally, one of the best people I’ve ever met.

Am I wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time.