It wasn’t anything fancy, mostly just over-the-top thrift store finds in two old suitcases, but I loved it so hard. I probably spent entire months of my life fashioning different outfits from those scarves and boots and dresses.
A pair of red cowboy boots were integral in all of my
dress-up outfits. And really, shouldn’t they be the corner
stone of all of our outfits, all the time?
Old prom dresses = princess. Obviously.
Did you love to dress up as a kid? What did you dress up as?
In an attempt to make socially appropriate small talk, I ask him what his favorite movie is. Between wet-mouthed gasps, he breathily informs me that he loves The Hunt for Red October. And have I seen it? No, but I’ve heard it’s good, I demure. Well, I really need to see it, he insists. He’s seen it, like, 25 times.
Second attempt at small talk: what do you do, I implore. Well, I work in a hospital doing technical stuff, but I don’t scrub in, he tells me. Yes, but what do you actually doooooo? I’m not going to tell you. It’s not that I don’t trust you or anything but there aren’t that many hospitals that offer my service, so if I tell you what I do, you’ll be able to track me down.
I can assure you, sir, I will not be tracking you down. Ever.
We begin with requisite small talk: how was your Tuesday, engineer dude? Well, I’ve been unemployed for five months. I spent today sleeping.
Got that? Not going the gym. or reading. or sending out resumes. or rescuing puppies. After five months of not working, he spent his Tuesday sleeping. You sure know how to impress, mister.
My New Arch-Nemesis
Based on his photos and crazy witty emails, I arrive at this date convinced that I might actually like this guy. I begin to hate him once I’ve been sitting at the bar waiting for ten minutes. He arrives late and doesn’t apologize or mention the fact that he’s kept me waiting. Upon opening his mouth, I discover why all his photos were close-mouthed. There are two discolored, buck-toothed reasons that his photos were close-mouthed. Perhaps these teeth are also the reason for the condescending, nasal timber to his voice.
Over the course of an hour, I discover that he unwinds by writing code and watching . Friends? Most of his have moved away and he hasn’t really made any new ones. I begin to employ guerrilla tactics: after single-handedly maintaining the conversation for 45 minutes, I sit quietly in hopes that this will force him into asking me a question. Nope? Nope.
I nurse my one vodka gimlet while he drinks two beers and eats his way through a burger and fries. When the bill comes, I throw down my credit card to cover my drink. When the waitress comes, he asks her to split the bill 50/50.
And some email highlights:
* a 21 year old dude who points out that our age difference would probably prevent a serious relationship but he’d love to be my Mr. Right Now.
Of course, there were a few perfectly lovely guys in there in the middle that just weren’t quite right for me. But after eight dates in three weeks (!) I think I’m hanging up the gloves for a while.
Please friends! Tell me I’m not alone here! Tell us about your worst date!
Of course, I spent the first 24 years of my life living exclusively on American soil, but there were several years there where I changed addresses and currencies like a gypsy. I , and here in St. Paul, but my feet are starting to itch. And not because I don’t wear flip flops in the gym shower.
I’ve spent the last several months socking away money for another . I plan on staying here through the summer (bonfires and birthdays and weddings, oh my!) but I’ve started to formulate an escape plan come Autumn. Thus far it includes teaching in India, hiking in Nepal and Tibet, crashing with friends and hill tribes in Thailand, a volunteering stint in Cambodia, six weeks in my old home of New Zealand and possibly resettling in Oz.
At least that’s the plan today.
What travel plans are you fantisizing about? Any advice on any of those destinations?
It is really and truly a different country down there, y’all. Gorgeous, spooky swamps that stretch for miles, alligators hanging out on campus, alcohol for sale in every blessed store, zydeco on the radio and tiny, sweet little bungalows. It was the perfect escape from Minnesota’s icy, polite clutches. A bit of photographic evidence?
What’s that? Why, yes. It is, in fact, an alligator.
Where does it live? On campus.
What do they feed it? Dry dog food.
Where was I standing when this photo was taken?
About five feet away. (Behind a fence because I’m a weeny)
Attempting to look calm and collected next to the alligator
enclosure. Lake Martin bayou.
Corn grits, hush puppies and sweet potatoes. To be
washed down with drive-thru daiquiris.
Yes, really.
«Here ya go, buddy! You don’t even need to
show me yer boobs!»
How much alone time do you need? How do you recharge your batteries?
