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.

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.