The Alter Boy and the Cynic

Brian was cute. Blonde, clean cut. And nice. Insanely nice. It was no surprise that he was an elementary school teacher.

He was genuinely sweet; that you could tell from a mile away. But he quickly showed his real identity: Bible Thumper.

Now, I am not biased against anyone's beliefs. I truly accept everyone's choice in faith, whether it be devout or agnostic. I'm no faith elitist.

I, personally am not religious though. I was raised in the Church of Don't Put Your Elbows on the Table. We always said please and thank you and never wore our shoes in the house.

That being said, I knew Brian for approximately 2.5 days before he laid it on me: "I want you to go to Church with me."

Church? We hadn't even gone on a date! We'd had a brief meeting, a few 5 minute phone calls...I didn't even know his last name. He wants to pray with me? Talk about kinky foreplay...

"Umm, maybe...sometime," I tried desperately to come up with a good excuse. But even after pondering over night, racking my brain for the ideal get-me-out-of-church-free-card...I had nothing. What can I say?

I'm allergic to God.

I tolerate religion, but from afar.

The Big Man and I are old pals, but we like to keep things between us.

Really, is there a nice way to say 'no thanks' without offending him?

To be honest, none of these lame fibs even genuinely describe why I don't want to go. I've gone to numerous churches with friends and family. I look at it this way:

A. I would like to get to know you, before your God. If you happen to be lame, I don't want Jesus guilting me into spending a full-fledged hour with you. Besides, if we're going out and not talking, let's go to a movie...it's less awkward than being lectured about sin.

B. I don't even know what religion you are. You never asked what religion I am. Way to assume, dude.

C. What the hell is your last name?!

I struggled with finding a polite let down to the pray date for a couple of days. The next time I talked to Brian I was beating around the bush until he put the last nail in the coffin...

"I'm a virgin." Holy Mother of Awkward Situations...

"Brian, I think we should see other people."

"The couple that prays together, stays together."

How to Scare Away Pseudo-Celebrity in Less than Ten Words

Recently I went into my neighborhood coffee shop, the daily bestower of the Holy Drink Grail. Little did I know, it's also the bestower of the Holy Man Grail. While waiting there, I looked up to see a nice looking gentleman. He smiled. I smiled. I smiled wider [where do I know him from?] He smiled wider,"Hi. How are you?"

It clicked.

"You're Jon Favreau!" Hellooooooooo, Lover!

He stared for a second, caught completely off guard. Then he started laughing,

"It's so weird when that happens..."

I tried to monitor the drooling, but the blatant staring was inevitable. While I am not one to think of any celebrity (famous, infamous, or anything in between) as anything other than human, there's something to be said about being surprised. I once saw George Stephanopoulos at the Knight Studio, but he broadcasted from there. Seeing Jon Favreau at the White House is one thing, but out on the street? People say that Washington's a small town, but I never really took it too seriously.

To be honest, if it were Jon Favreau, the actor, I'd not have thought twice about it. But the President's Director of Speech Writing is young, talented...and beautiful.

For that matter, it was unfortunate how little the fantasy of meeting him aligned with the reality. In my mind, I would be wearing my nicest dress, looking not unlike Audrey Hepburn; refreshed regardless of DC's relentless heat and humidity. I'd be rereading a classic piece of literature and when Jon notices the well worn book in my hand, he'd exclaim that it is his favorite, too. We would casually describe our favorite parts, which, of course would lead into us discovering that we have numerous quirky traits and interests in common. Perhaps we both love sailing, Wheat Thins, and Modest Mouse. We'd fall in love before our lattes were complete. Plausible, right?

In a fantasy of running into someone you admire, everything is magical. You are witty, charming, and clever. I, I was none of these.

I ogled. A lot. I may have even touched him to make sure he wasn't a mirage. No "I'm well, how are you?" No "I really like your work." No "Did you catch the Red Sox game?" Just good ol' fashioned staring...

If my first encounter wasn't smooth, my following encounters have crash landed me in the creepy Stage Five Clinger category. It's actually quite impressive how, in the few verbal exchanges we have had, I've been able to appear increasingly crazier and crazier. My relatively normal ability to carry on social pleasantries goes haywire when he's around. He might say, "Hello," and I'll respond, "I love you, too."

Stealth, no?

If he got a call that someone was in custody for breaking into his home he'd likely ask, "Was it that short brunette?"

If he ever asked my name, it would would likely be followed with, "How do you spell that?" as he's filling out a restraining order.

Perhaps the worst part of my pathetic attempts at socializing is his on-going politeness. No matter how awkward I act, he still kindly says hello [granted, at a safe distance]. I guess that is why "Favs" is still my fav.

Yes! We! Can!

Face It

The Journalist and I met on a blind date. We emailed and text messaged back and forth ahead of time. He seemed fun enough. If only I had known that electronic conversations can be worlds apart from real ones...

The Journalist was hard to read and awkward. Should we have been on the phone, I could have been folding laundry or flipping through channels to keep me interested. Instead, it was a painful. PAINFUL, like having a staring contest with someone with Tourette's (I should mention here that the Journalist does not, indeed have Tourette's).

When the awkward conversation had nowhere to go, he began to tell me that he was a swimmer. "Those were the days when, you know, when I shaved my legs and wore pantyhose..."

Wait. A. Minute.

"I'm sorry. I thought you just said that you wore pantyhose." He looked at me funny.

"I did just say that." His expression told me I was stupid...or that he's farsighted.

Now I have heard of male swimmers shaving their legs (which to be honest, weirds me out enough). But never, never have I heard of male swimmers cross-dressing!

I tried to locate the charming banter we had via electronic communication,

"Well, to not wear pantyhose is just unladylike!" Again, he gives me an awkward expression. I'd say it was deadpan, but there was this creepy twitchy look. He squinted his eyes and gave me a forced, rather creepy psycho killer smile. Perhaps he was leering. What makes a leer a leer? Is a leer favorable? I couldn't tell if he thought I was funny. Or bitchy. Or anything.

"You're giving me a weird look," I said.

"I hear that a lot. I'm not, though." Huh...so WTF is with your face?!

Pucker up.

The Not-So-Pick-Me-Up

I was walking to the grocery store last week and was the recipient to a chorus of "Ay, Mami!!" The fact that it's inappropriate and the speakers were creepy is not what bothered me. I can't help but get offended at the recognition word's English oronym.

"Excuse me? Did you just call me MOMMY?"
Now if you want to effectively drive-by hit on me, at least use the word "sexy" because then you're not saying that I look as though I bore children. You'd might as well have said that I have nice thunder thighs.
More over, don't call me sexy when I'm in old sweatpants on my way home from the gym. I look gross and I know it. I just wish you did too. Call me "Mommy" again, and I'm tossing the groceries and heading back to the gym.
I guess I am making these statements as though I have never been hit on before. I have, as in DC it's pretty common. I guess regardless of how often it occurs, I still find myself asking why social norms aren't the norm? When did yelling at strangers become acceptable?
My mother came to visit me recently. We were walking to my neighborhood coffee shop when a man stopped us on the street,
"I just want to let you know that you are absolutely gorgeous." My mother smiled,
"Oh, we know..."
As we walked away she pointed out, "It's got to be hard to have low self esteem here." Yeah, yeah...he didn't call you "Mommy" (and you are one)!

The best man I have found yet...quiet, stable, and tall.

Intoxicated Infatuation

The other night I was waiting at the Metro station when approached by two rather cute, (albeit drunk), guys. They asked me for directions and continued to quiz me on my life story. "What's your name?" turned into "Do you have a large family?" which turned into "What do you write about?"
Wendell and Josh were funny enough (at least when they were coherent). They had a genuine interest in me (and so what if the only other woman around used a walker and smelled like Bengay?).

It didn't even bother me that Josh would sit down, turn I'm-going-to-yak-pale, and then say, "No, I really need to stand up." Between Josh's dry heaves, he told me that he is in medical school. This can only be verified by his drunken use of medical jargon (so he may be a future brain surgeon, or he may just know his way around WebMD).
Amidst the flirtation/interrogation I found out little about Wendell other than he loses his words when he's tipsy/drunk/on the verge of passing out. He tried carrying on a conversation, but it became challenging.
I, of course gave them a fake name and offered up few details. At one point, Wendell told me that he liked me, "because there is something real about you." Right. Just not my name.
I'm sure these two are lovely gentlemen and if they would have remembered my name the next day, I might have even given them the real one.

It was only earlier that day I received a text message that read "Hey there! It's me, Jim from the Metro on Friday. I'm not sure if you'll remember me, but I'd like to hang out with you sometime."
This is scary in the sense that I DO NOT REMEMBER meeting a Jim at the Metro. At all. And I have an out of state phone number, so it's kind of hard to have gotten this text on accident.

Friday night...hmmm...
Bar. Beer. Shot! Food? Beer. New bar. Pink mixed drink. Uncontrollable laughter. Cold Outside. Sleepy. New Bar. BEER. Talking to strangers. BEER. Talking to strangers. Metro. Need to pee. Need to pee. Need to pee. Got caught staring at someone and tried to pass it off with a smile. Ah-ha!

That would be Jim. Yes, there was a Jim.

See? I could not judge Wendell and Josh...as I too have flirted under the influence.

Friends don't let friends flirt drunk...

Dating in the District

I am new to the district and all of it's dating intricacies...

To begin with, I have quite the colorful dating history. I have dated the entire range of the Loser Spectrum, from Criminals to Sexual Deviants. Now, mind you, I don't seek out the relationship-challenged. I think they hone in on me, like I have a douche bag beacon.
It's not as though I "go out to meet men." I go out, yes, every time I leave my apartment as a matter of fact. Men just happen to graze out in the open. In DC you can't turn around without bumping into a few trying to look down your shirt. I encounter everything from the homely to the horny just walking to the drugstore.

It's not like I sit alone scantily clad in seedy bars, seeking someone. I meet them in the grocery stores, at friends' parties, and through work.

They hide in sheep's clothing, appearing like normal, stable, educated, decent individuals. But once the dating commences, they let the crazy out of the bag. Suddenly the world evolves around them, and being an ambitious, independent woman, myself...I don't mind. I overlook that they have bizzare excuses and selfish tendencies, as I am not "needy." Of course they have "work dinners" and "guy time." More often than not this translates to "cheating" and "parole hearings."
Upon moving to the city, I met a great guy. And by great, I mean an honest, funny guy who shared a lot of my interests. I actually thought I had found someone special.

Of course, upon further inspection I found out that he lives with his parents and his jobless. Over the past several months I can conclude that his ambition is a bit lacking because he hasn't even found a position at Taco Bell. He's someone "special" alright. Don't get me wrong, I was OK with dinner dates off of the dollar menu and walking to save on Metro fare. But things went downhill when a romantic evening was watching movies on the couch with his Mom and Dad (his Dad totally hogged the popcorn).
The Underachiever was bad, but what ended the relationship was that he quickly turned into the Egomaniac. I really should have known better, I mean after all, he grew a goatee. You can't ever trust a guy with a goatee. Face pubes are non-negotiable. I only went to his bedroom after things were getting hot and heavy (no, Mom and Dad were not home!), so I was a little too preoccupied to notice that the only framed photo in his bedroom was of...himself.

Moreover, upon the removal of his shirt, I found out that he had tattoos all over...of his NAME. Seriously, Buddy? Seriously?!

So many degenerates, so little time...

"For every 100 single women in Washington, there are only 93.4 men. That's just over nine-tenths of a man for every woman." -WashPost