Mr. Unavailable #113: Visions of Sundance

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect and More Nouveau, Please for the background on this one. 

Around 7 a.m., with plans to meet Eva for her birthday breakfast and then pack and head to my cousin’s in Boston for Christmas, I told him I had to go.

“Maybe I should stay an extra day,” he said as I started to get up.

“You should stay,” I said.

“When are you getting back?” he asked.

“The afternoon of the 26^th. When are you leaving?”

“My flight is at 6 p.m. on Christmas….Maybe I can stay another day.”

“You should.”

We went back and forth like that a few more times. Ultimately, he didn’t stay, but he did keep in touch while he was still in New York. For example, later on Christmas Eve, he texted me while I was on my bus to Boston from his bus to Jersey to see his parents. And then later that night in Boston, my cousin and I were in the kitchen giggling about the whole thing (“He came to New York to buy a grand piano?”…”How much is one of those things anyway?”…“He goes to Sundance every year? Every year?”) when he called.

I took my phone upstairs to talk. After complimenting me some more, he went on a neurotic Woody-Allen-like ramble (he is a Jewish doctor from New Jersey): “I should have called you earlier. We could have spent more time together…I don’t like the bus. It isn’t safe. I don’t think you should take the bus anymore. Take the Acela. I’ll chip in….You’re very passionate. You’re very affectionate…So am I? Well, why wouldn’t I be? I like you, you like me. Of course I’m going to be affectionate…”

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I like it when people talk a lot. I find it soothing and entertaining. On some level, it doesn’t even matter what they’re saying.

He continued. “I don’t understand why so much is based on merit. It doesn’t mean anything. My family kept all these old awards and certificates of mine and I don’t know why. They’ve got them all up in my old room. That’s why I didn’t stay there. It’s just yucky. It really bothers me that these awards and things mean so much. I was teenager of the year when I was in high school. What does that mean to me now? Nothing. When I was a resident, none of it meant anything. We were all the same… I wish you were here. I have your necklace. That would have been the perfect way to get you back here tonight: ‘Oh, you left your necklace, now you have to come back.’ We could have gone somewhere and sat by a fire and had a glass of wine. But you’re in Boston.”

“I am,” I said, simultaneously soothed and entertained. “Are you leaving tomorrow? Don’t go,” I added, sounding uncharacteristically interested.

“Should I stay?”

“You should stay. I want you to stay.” There it was again.

“I’m working on Tuesday.”

“When do you think we’ll get to see each other again? Do you think you’ll come to New York soon?”

“I was thinking maybe we could meet somewhere,” he said.

 “That would be fun,” I said as visions of Sundance danced through my head.


On Christmas day, he sent one last text from New York: Merry christmas. On way to airport, happy I got to see you.

Signs of Hope: He texted and called and complimented me.

Red Flags: Things that start fast also die fast. Especially if they’re long distance.

Turning Point: After I left him that morning. I was happy when I left him, but my feelings only grew more sappy as the day wore on, as if my imagination were injecting reality with a hefty dose of fantasy, i.e., Sundance.

Diagnosis: For him: I know his dating record is pretty spotty. I know this because it looks a lot like mine.
For me: Never mind dating records. This is suddenly so exciting. 

Mr. Unavailable #113: More Nouveau, Please

See The Phoenix Rises... and Paper Perfect for the background on this one. 


With his arm still around me, #113 said, “I have something for you.” He let me go and reached into his pocket, pulling out a CD. It was his latest album. Confident.

“You talked about this when I saw you in Arizona,” I said.

“I did? When was that again?”

“Over a year ago,” I said.

“It’s been more than a year? I thought it was just a few months ago,” he said.

Confident and absentminded.

Now that #113 had seen that Kevin was not a girl, he let Kevin pay for our drinks and then #113 sprung for a cab. He sat close—to me, not Kevin. At the party, there were kids, which made me remember  #113’s earlier text. We looked at each other: “Everyone has kids.” 


The three of us mostly kept to ourselves in a conversation dominated by #113. He talked. And talked. And talked. About how he went to Sundance every year. About how he got his niece the same toys the kids at the party had. It didn’t seem like self-aggrandizement. Maybe he was nervous. I couldn’t remember how he was when I originally met him. Surely, he didn’t talk this much.

I’m a tiny bit ashamed to report that I succumbed to the urge to shush him—more than once. Things like, “Oh, we’re about to start the game, look…” and, even, “We should pay attention now.” He was mostly glued to me, which was 90% flattering and 10% annoying. And when he did talk to other people, I was glad to see that they were not attractive young women. (This sentence brought to you by…Jealousy: How you know you like someone.)

When we left the party, Kevin headed for the subway and #113 and I grabbed a cab and headed back to Manhattan. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Go home? Stay out? I was kind of up for whatever.

“Do you want to go home? Do you want to get a drink at the hotel bar? Are you hungry? Do you want to go to Blue Ribbon Sushi?” he asked.

“I’m up for anything,” I said.

“Let’s go to Blue Ribbon Sushi,” he said.

When we walked into Blue Ribbon Sushi, the staff greeted him like he’d been there the night before—because he’d been there the night before. When our order arrived, he pointed to the two rolls he ordered and said, “I got this for you and I got this because I want you to try it.”

Confident, absentminded and thoughtful.

We talked about various things--our mutual friend, how I really don't like sushi, how one day I plan to live in the Domino Sugar factory, “I'll have one of the smokestacks.”

“You don’t want to live there. With all that sugar, it’s full of rats and mice and bugs. OK, if you really want to live there, you can live on one side of it and I’ll run a cracker factory on the other.”

He was silly. I liked that.

The next thing we knew, it was 3 a.m. The restaurant had closed at 2 a.m., but the staff, hanging out folding napkins in nearby booths, hadn’t kicked us out.

We went outside and hailed a cab.

“Who should get dropped off first?” I asked.

“Let’s go to my hotel first, it’s closer,” he said.

Still apparently up for whatever, I got into the cab before him. He closed the door and the cab turned onto Houston and then Varick. I don’t remember what was said because whatever was said was really just a transitional bridge that took us from friends who hang out at Blue Ribbon Sushi to more-than-friends who kiss in the back of cabs. Ergo, we started kissing in the back of the cab.

After about two long blocks of making out, I said, "It’s been a while since I made out in a cab."

“I never did.”

“But you had a girlfriend for in New York for three years,” I said. He looked at me. And then I remembered he’d told me about their passion deficiency. “Oh, right.”

We pulled up in front of the Mondrian. “I don’t want to be presumptuous…” I muttered.

“Just come up,” he said.

Confident, absentminded, thoughtful and decisive.

To walk into the Mondrian hotel at 3 a.m…. with #113’s arm around me…the door held open by one of these nouveau doormen….to the plush elevator bank…up to his suite (an upgrade, naturally)...felt decadent. Something I could get used to.

Fully clothed, we rolled around on the bed. I got to hear flattering things like, “I can’t believe you’re here.” and  “You’re cute. And hot. Cute and hot.”

Eventually, we fell asleep in that way you never really fall asleep the first time you try to fall asleep with someone.

Signs of Hope: I guess I like him more than I thought I did.

Red Flags: Do I like him, or do I like the attention and all the nouveau stuff around him?

Turning Point: When we kissed in the cab. I guess I really was up for anything.

Diagnosis: For him. He got me into bed with him. He must be smoother than I give him credit for.

For me: Um, apparently I’ve forgotten, but I’m currently working my way through a book called “Calling in the One.” I’m supposed to be taking a break from men—including having trysts in hotel rooms with them—so I can find that long-term, commitment relationship for which I long. Well done.

Mr. Unavailable #113: Paper Perfect

See The Phoenix Rises... for the background on this one.

Every few months, #113, the neurologist-pianist I’d been introduced to in Arizona in October 2010, would send me messages on Facebook with compliments (“You look stunning in that dress…”) and allusions to future visits (“I might be coming to New York to see my family in New Jersey… Do you like Tom Stoppard? Arcadia is playing in New York...”) This went on for more than a year. Every time I’d hear from him, I’d get excited and then hear…nothing.

In mid-December, he wrote again, “I’m coming to New York from the 23rd to the 26th. Are you around?” I already had things scheduled—parties, a trip to Boston, meeting Eva for a birthday breakfast. I wasn’t reworking my plans to accommodate a potential no-show, so I wrote back to say he was more than welcome to come to the party I was going to on Christmas Eve-Eve.

And then I forgot all about it.

Christmas Eve-Eve morning, I was readying myself to dive into the aforementioned plans when the phone rang. It was an Arizona number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. And then I listened to the message. It was #113 saying he was at his hotel in Soho, that he was going to get some culture and see the DeKooning exhibit and did I want to come with him?

Culture? I had no time for last-minute, unscheduled culture. Let me reiterate: I had plans. I called him back. He was friendly, engaging, talkative—someone who would do well in a party setting. I told him I had plans all day, but he was welcome to come to the party in Williamsburg that night.

“Oh, I’d love to go—if you want me to go. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh. No, I want you to come. It will be fun. Another friend of mine is coming. We can all go.”

“I just want to spend some time with you... I haven’t seen you in a while, so I’ll go anywhere” he said. “And I haven’t been to Williamsburg in a long time.” I asked him when he’d arrived. Wednesday night, he said.

He’d waited until Friday morning to call me. “What have you done so far?” I asked.

“I went to the Steinway piano factory yesterday to get a piano. That’s actually why I came here.”

OK, that’s kind of sexy.

“I even found one I liked. I wasn’t sure that I would, but I did.”

He explained that they only make 150 grand pianos a year and each one takes a year and a half to make. Owning one had been his lifelong dream. He’d even bought the right-sized house the previous spring to have something to put it in. As someone who composes and plays his own music, it was necessity wrapped in luxury. A pianist and a neurologist. Paper perfect.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Yeah, I told my family I was getting a piano and they said, ‘Be sure to get a good bench. You have to get a decent bench.’ Never mind the piano, it’s all about the bench to them.”

I laughed. He told me he was staying at the Mondrian on Crosby, so we made plans to meet around 8 p.m. at the bar before heading to Williamsburg.

Around 6 p.m., he texted: At friends uptown to see their kids…815?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.
#113: Everyone have kids.
Me: Not everyone.
#113: True
Me: You just have to hang in the right circles.

And by "right circles," I meant my circles—my childless, single circles.

Kevin and I reached the hotel around 8 p.m. The lofty bar area was nouveau Alice in Wonderland—an English garden decorated with oversized glasses, vases and pitchers. Mismatched chairs sat with wrought-iron-and-glass tables.

“You told him you were bringing me, right?” Kevin asked as we settled into stools by the bar.

“I said a friend was coming."

“He probably thinks I’m a girl,” he said.

“Maybe…Maybe not,” I said.

#113 texted that he was stuck in a cab coming down 5th Avenue. Then he called. “Hey. I’m really sorry I’m late. You guys can go ahead to the party if you don’t want to wait and I can meet you there. You’re at the bar? Charge the drinks to my room. I want to get your drinks. So sorry I’m late.”

I told him we weren’t in any hurry and would be at the bar when he got there. I hung up and turned to Kevin.

“Yup, he thinks you’re a girl,” I said. “He offered to buy our drinks.”

“I thought he might. No one ever thinks ‘opposite sex’ when a ‘friend’ is coming along,” he said.

“When he walks up, to give him some warning, I’ll yell, ‘It’s a boy!’” I said.

Over Kevin’s shoulder, I watched the door for #113. It wasn't just the bar, the entire Mondrian was nouveau—nouveau money. There wasn’t a suit in sight, but there was attitude everywhere. And then #113 walked through the door—in gray cords, a cream sweater and a scarf around his neck. Neurologist chic.

I walked up to him as he came down the steps, smiling. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek, holding me. Even when I rolled my body away to introduce him to Kevin, he held me to him, almost claiming me as he reached out with his other arm to shake Kevin’s hand. (It’s a boy!)

Signs of Hope: When he held me to him.

Red Flags: The fact that it took him more than a year to get to New York and, in that time, he’d resurfaced and then disappeared several times.

Turning Point: When he walked into the bar.

Diagnosis: For him: He liked-me–liked-me a year ago and he still likes-me–likes-me today.
For me: I didn’t like-him–like-him a year ago, but I like-him–like-him today.

Me and Mister Unavailable: The Wedding Dress

See Me and Mister Unavailable Meets CITO for the background on this.

It was mid-December and the word on the street was that Filene’s Basement was going out of business. Actually, word had been on the street for a few weeks, I was just slow to pick it up. I’d only been to Filene’s Basement for the first time a couple of months before and kicked myself for not having gone before, mostly because the lingerie deals were amazing. Calvin Klein underwear, 3 for $12. It doesn’t get much better than that—unless The Basement is going out of business.

I made my way there on a fateful Saturday afternoon and went straight for the floor with the lingerie, diving into the racks of bras and panties. I emerged 45 minutes later with more than a dozen pairs of underwear, four slips, three camisoles and eight bras. Just for kicks, I decided to survey the rest of the floor, the whole of which was situated around an area of wedding dresses on sale for $99.

“It’s too bad I’m not getting married,” I thought.

I skirted its perimeter, picking up a piggy bank, a pink throw and a few more random items I probably didn't need. As I made my way toward the registers, I was passing the western edge of the wedding area when one dress caught my eye. It was hanging at the end of a rack, a plume of what I would guess was crepe on the bottom with a carefully beaded strapless bodice on top. I stopped and zipped it out of its clear plastic cover. It glowed. Originally $1,899, the Filene’s basement price was $899—and the going-out-of-business price? $99.

Thinking that maybe there was an even nicer one, I took a quick tour of the other dresses. Nope, that one was the one.

Standing in front of it so no one else could claim it, I called Eva. “OK, I have a weird question for you. I’m at Filene’s Basement and they have wedding dresses on sale for $99. I know this might sound crazy but I found one I like. It's maybe a tiny bit too big [nope, I wasn't even going to try it on], but it’s really pretty. I know I don’t even have a boyfriend or anything, but...should I get it?”

“Hey, that’s what CITO says to do. Act like what you want is already happening. So if you act like you’re getting married by buying a wedding dress, you’ll get married.”

We were maybe one-third of the way through “Calling in the One,” or CITO (chee-toh) as we liked to call it. One of the things it said to do was act as if what you wanted to happen were already happening…imagine what it would be like to be sitting next to your “one”…and create your life in such a way so that it was as if he was on his way but maybe just got stuck in traffic.

“I guess so. It seems so nuts, though. But it is only $99.”

“You could wear it on Halloween if it really came down to it.”

“Or made it into drapes.”

“Or drapes…buy it.”

I picked it off the rack and carried it to the checkout. I stood there feeling a tad crazy and considered putting it back. Maybe my wedding wouldn’t be so soon and then I’d have an out-of-style wedding dress. Maybe my next boyfriend would find out I had a wedding dress, freak out and bolt. I was looking for a sign. And then it arrived in the form of a frumpy Filene’s Basement worker who was, well, carrying signs. She slowly went around the wedding dress section taking out the $99 signs and replacing them with $79 ones.

Now I had to get it.

Three women from New Jersey in their mid 50s were in front of me. They turned.

“Oh, that’s a beautiful dress,” one of them said.

“Are you getting married?” another one said, sounding as if she knew she were asking a rhetorical question but wanted to ask anyway.

The three of them looked at me, smiling, imaging, I'm sure, that I was in the midst of planning my wedding—hiring a caterer, finding a venue, taste-testing cakes, auditioning bands—and this was just one exciting part of it that the three of them were lucky enough to witness..

I smiled back. “One day,” I said.

They laughed, not sounding disappointed at all. The third one leaned in. “Enjoy the ‘one day,’” she said. “I’m on my third and I’m happy, but it took a while to get there.”

She was right. Even though I didn’t seem to realize it half the time, I was doing a good job enjoying the ‘one day.’ I had good friends, a job I liked, a fluffy cat/alarm clock that I adored, an apartment in the East Village, all my limbs, no recent tragedies. Things were good. Great, really. My life was in Technicolor. It was as I worked on Calling in the One, though, where I realized the one last piece that would move the Technicolor movie of my life from a stadium screen to IMAX would be the ability to share the greatness with someone. Getting married might be the tangible end result, but what was really at the core of what I wanted was someone—just one man—to truly, deeply, madly love.

Me and Mister Unavailable Meets CITO

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island..., Coffee=The End?, Well Done and "Recriminations Flared"... for the background on this one.

The day after the phone call from #133, I had an appointment with my new shrink—thankfully, the med-prescribing kind. I told her what happened and then put my head in my hand. “He just seemed so normal,” I said. But, clearly he was not. "This just keeps happening. I can’t do this again.”

All these guys looked different—some were cockier than others, some were more talkative than others, some were smarter than others, some were hairier than others—but, ultimately, they were the all the same. Unavailable.

“You seem like you’ve had enough,” she said. “Maybe this is your ‘I’ve had it.'”

And then, just like a bad infomercial, she recommended a book to solve my problems. Now, you may not like the sound of where this is going and I agree with you that developing what could be an ending based around a self-help-book solution is really weak, but, in my defense, I clearly needed help. I hadn’t had a relationship last longer than nine months in 15 years. There was no denying anymore that I was part of the problem.

“Have you heard of the book ‘Calling in the One?’” she asked. I had. “The woman who wrote it found herself in her early 40s, single and attracted to unavailable men. She was a psychotherapist, so she looked at what was keeping her back and wound up developing this kind of process that got her out of her relationship cycle. The book helps you get clear about what you’re looking for.”

I was clear about what I was looking for, wasn’t I? I was looking for marriage, wasn’t I? Then again, looking back, every single Mr. Unavailable from 2011—#118 through #133—had not been looking for anything resembling commitment, not from me, anyway. Somehow, deep inside, I was conflicted. I said I wanted one thing but kept finding myself attracted to men who wanted something else.

“The book takes seven weeks and I’ve known women who met someone right after they finished doing it.”

“Really?” I asked. I liked instant results.

It was time to do a little soul-searching. After my appointment, I went straight across Union Square Park to Barnes & Noble and bought the book. My shrink had also said that the book recommended going through it with one or a few other people, so I called Eva a few days later.

“I have kind of a weird question for you,” I said. “There’s this book that my shrink recommended and it’s meant to help you attract available men.

“You mean ‘Calling in the One?’” she asked. “I have it. I started reading it but never finished it.”

Eva herself had gotten out of a going-nowhere relationship a couple of months before, being the dumper, and then gone back only to experience a reverse-dump. Now she was obsessed—not with him but with her alternate-reality version of him.

“Do you want to work on the book together?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

That was easy.

The other thing I knew the book recommended was to make room in your home for another person. Coincidentally, after the apartment debacle with #126, it became clear that I was going to be in my apartment for at least a little while longer, so I’d already started on a home-improvement project that was now going to double as a making-room-in-my-apartment project.

Eva and I were only three weeks into "Calling in the One," which we nicknamed CITO (pronounced CHEE-toh) and I was in the midst of home improvements when I experienced the sudden return of Mr. Unavailable #113.

"Sometimes the right guy comes in before you even finish the book," said my shrink.

Like I said, I like instant results...

Mr. Unavailable #133: "Recriminations Flared" and Other Melodramatic Phrases

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island..., Coffee=The End? and Well Done for the background on this one.

Little did I know that telling #133 I never wanted to hear from him again wouldn't mean I would never hear from him again. “He’ll be back,” Eva predicted. “He likes the drama too much.”

A little part of me was excited at the prospect of drama. Being pursued. Triangulation. Maybe he’d choose me over his ex. Maybe I’d win. But, really, what was there to win? The idea of competition excited me more than the prospect of actually having him. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

Five days later it arrived. A letter. In the mail. He had my email address and my phone number, but, for someone like #133, the drama of a letter just makes sense. I opened the envelope to find yet another envelope. On the inner envelope, #133 had scratched a note:

“Tara – I tried to deliver this to your apt but never managed to get in. So I decided to mail it. –[#133]”

I feel another numbered list coming on…but, for now, drum roll please, the contents of the letter (imagine the words in scratchy cursive, if you will):

Dear Tara,

I want to apologize for the phone call I gave you last night. It was not the way I wanted to discuss the situation with you. Foremost, I want you to know that my ex was not in earshot of our conversation. I think it seemed as if she were. I did call you because of her, to prove that I was telling the truth: that I was dating a woman named Tara, and that we had not been intimate yet.

Just because you deserve to know the situation which led to that unfair phone call: My ex and I had a tumultuous break-up, and then recently we re-connected, talked, and agreed to talk some more—on Wednesday, in fact.

My first thought was that I should tell all to you. My next thought was, I’m seeing the ex in one more day and we’re going to work things out, or not work them out. So I decided to hold off on making any rash decisions. At the same time, I knew that I shouldn’t move my relationship with you to the next level with all this hanging over our heads.

Then last night, recriminations flared and I acted rashly. I’m sorry for that, but please know that I was not in front of her at the time.

Lastly, I want to express the truth that you are the sweetest, most fun, and prettiest date I’ve been on since my break-up—actually, you were the only person I found a connection with and went on a 2nd date.

The fact that you are so great, and I wound up being an ass at the end when I distinctly had had your feelings, and respect for you, in mind before I fucked it up, vexes me.

Thank you for all the fun we had, and for being so sweet, interesting and beautiful. Please know that I’m very sorry for acting like an ass at the end, when you deserved so much better.

Sincerely,
[#133]

P.S. Apologies for the hand-writing. I can’t do any better.

For five days, I'd done a good job of getting through the post-phone-call hurt, but, after reading the letter, everything stirred back up.
We need another numbered list:
1. I said I never wanted to hear from him again. This was hearing from him again.
2. An email would have been sufficient.
3. Similarly, a simple apology would have sufficed. I didn’t need to know the details of why he did what he did. Part of me thinks he wrote it just so he could use passive but dramatic phrases like, “Recriminations flared.”
4. I also didn’t need to know he tried to hand-deliver it. Was it so that I would think he was such a great guy? Too late.
5. “First,” he said, “she wasn’t in earshot”? Does he even hear what he’s saying? It doesn’t matter where the hell she was, he made the phone call.
6. How would calling me prove anything? I could lie, he could lie to her about what I was saying. It made no sense.
7. Because it made no sense, here’s what the phone call was really about: They got drunk, started fighting and then the real meaning behind the ex saying “Call her to prove it” was this: “If you call her and hurt her, you’re getting rid of my competition for good and proving your love for me.” But, like Eva said, that’s not love.
8. With four years of breaking up and getting back together, the amount of drama they will need to fuel their “relationship” will only get higher—bringing in third parties is just one way to do it.
9. Let’s just hope they never get married.
10. Or have kids.

And, most importantly:
11. All the nice things he said about me are 100% true.

Postscript: Even that was not the last of him. The day before Thanksgiving, he sent me a text: “Im sry 4 contacting u but im watching u on Casg Cab rt now. u look great.”

OK, so, I was on Cash Cab a few years ago and sometimes they rerun my episode, so he must have caught one. But here’s the thing: It’s a cable show and he doesn’t have cable, so he was probably watching it at his ex’s. That's just creepy.

Mr. Unavailable #134: The Band Guy

Vital Stats: 40ish. 5’10”ish. Dark floopy hair. Blue eyes. Well put together in a black leather jacket and jeans.

First impression: Self-important nobody band guy.

Two days after the phone call from #133, I was feeling feisty. After being out to dinner with my friend Fred and his girlfriend, we headed to Arlene’s Grocery to see a band. Fred was especially excited because he was also meeting up with an old friend from California who he hadn’t seen in over a year.

We were late to hear the band, but Fred must have quickly found his friend because a minute after we got there he was talking to someone I didn't recognize. The man, clad in a black leather jacket and jeans, had an overly staged look of cool. There was nothing baggy or flimsy or cheap about him. As soon as the band ended, we headed outside, congregating again on the sidewalk.

Fred introduced me to his friend properly.

“Oh, Tara, this is my friend, [Mr. Unavailable #134].”

I got a better look at him. It was worse than I thought. Other than the snazzy clothes, it was his hair. Jet black and shiny, it was longer than short but not exactly long and, parted on the side, swooped along his forehead above his blue-blue eyes and curved back nearish his ear, as if to suggest it had spent some time there. There were no obvious traces of product or spray, but it was all perfectly done. He’d had to have spent some time on it. And that bothered me.

It was cold outside Arlene’s and Fred and #134 started catching up, with #134 using a lot of band-related phraseology, as in, “Yeah, I heard he was on tour” and “He’s on the road.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Which road?” I said, blinking coyly. They laughed.

“Did you say you played here once?” I asked #134.

“I played here dozens of times,” he said, as if the mere thought of it exhausted him.

I internally rolled my eyes. “With any bands I’ve heard of?” I challenged.

“With a lot of different bands,” he said. “I was kind of the guy who’d fill in for whoever.”

“What do you play?” I asked.

“I’m a drummer,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re the guy in the band whose name nobody knows,” I said.

He laughed. “Yup, I’m that guy.”

Fueled by the laughter, I’d become extra plucky. I was also becoming slowly frozen. A down coat I’d ordered had arrived in the mail that day at work. I’d had it in my backpack all along, so I pulled it out and, silently handing the coat I’d been wearing to Fred, began to put on the new one. They stopped mid-conversation and giggled as if I’d pulled a rabbit from my hat.

“Where did that come from? Ya got another one in there? ’Oh, let me pull another outfit out of my bag,’” Fred mocked.

A puffy plastic heart was attached to the zipper of my new coat and it rode up as I zipped up.

“Hmm, what do you think? Am I supposed to leave it on?” I asked no one in particular as I held the heart and looked from #134 to Fred to his girlfriend.

#134 took a step toward me and touched the heart. “I like it. I think you should keep it,” he said as he zipped it up the extra inch or two I’d missed.

Was it me or did me and the band guy just have a moment?

We all headed toward Pianos, a bar down the street from Arlene’s, and #134 and I walked together, discussing things that were not band-related like the great lie of California weather (it’s not that hot) and his friendship with Fred (going on 30 years). When we got to Pianos, there was a huge line outside and me, Fred and his girlfriend decided we weren’t up for it. #134 said he wanted to check it out. We hugged good-bye.

“It was really nice meeting you,” #134 said.

“It was nice to meet you, too,” I said.

The three of us turned go.

“He was really nice, actually” I said to Fred as we crossed Allen Street, feeling a tiny bit wistful.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend. I’ve known him forever. You should watch Saturday Night Live tomorrow night, he’s gonna be on it.”

“Doing what?” I asked, imagining him as an extra in a skit.

“Playing drums,” he said.

I imagined him playing drums with the house band during commercials. “Really?” I asked, trying to picture where he’d fit on the cramped stage.

“Yeah, he’s the drummer in Maroon 5. They’re the musical guest tomorrow night.”

“He is? They are?” I stopped in my tracks as my mind raced backward trying to recount all the cheeky things I’d said. I regained my senses long enough to ask, “Is he single?”

It turned out he’d been with the same girlfriend for years and they even had kids together. “She’s awesome,” Fred said. Of course she was.

Signs of Hope: I thought we had a moment, anyway.

Red Flags: The long-term girlfriend.

Turning Point: There were two: 1. My possibly imagined moment. 2. Finding out about the girlfriend.

Diagnosis: For him: An extremely successful and annoyingly well put-together nice guy with a girlfriend—and kids, i.e., unavailable.

For me: Apparently, I judge first, ask questions later.

Mr. Unavailable #133: Well Done

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island... and Coffee=The End? for the background on this one.

The day after our coffee date, I was feeling pretty good about things with #133. He'd done a good job of showing up, making plans and, for the most part, paying, so I figured I’d do something for him. I emailed him and asked him if I could take him to dinner on Saturday.

“That’s so sweet,” he wrote back. “That sounds great.”

Later that night, I was volunteering at a Moth storytelling event and ran into my old friend Heather, who was the host’s assistant. She told me about her own lukewarm relationship—how he canceled all the time and never took her out. The same familiar story. She wondered if he was seeing someone else. She showed me a picture. "I doubt it," I said.

After the show, I was waiting for Heather to come back from behind the stage to find out if I could tag along to the after-party when my phone rang. It was #133—it was the first time he was calling me. Ever. It was exciting. And I was excited to tell him where I was—volunteering at The Moth and maybe about to go to The Moth after-party. I picked up.

“Hi [#133 nickname],” I said cheerily.

“Hey, Tara. Oh, hey, yeah, you call me that.”

He sounded drunk.

“So, I feel really bad. I’m calling because…can you talk now…ok…so…you know how we haven’t had a sexual relationship, well, the reason is because I’m still in love with my ex-girlfriend and I want her back. You’re really great and everything, but I’m still in love with her."

“Were you going to tell me this last night? Is that why you asked me out for coffee?”

“Yeah…"

Great. My gut feeling about the coffee date had been right on.

He continued, "...so that’s why we haven’t had a sexual relationship.”

Heather returned, saw my stunned state and mouthed “What?” I gripped her arm and, looking at her, shook my head slowly.

#133 continued rambling on the other end of the phone.

“We’ve been on and off for four years and now I’m trying to get her back and I think she hates me but I’m in love with her….And the reason I’m calling is that I took my ex-girlfriend out for dinner tonight and, yeah, I’m pretty sure she hates me, but I’m still in love with her. And she knows about you and she doesn’t believe me that we didn’t have a sexual relationship. She thinks that because I stayed over, we must have had sex. So, she’s here and I’m trying to tell her that we never had sex.”

“Wait, she’s there?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

I heard a voice in the background.

“She’s there right now?” I asked, enunciating every word.

“Yes, she’s here now and she said that the only way for me to prove to her that we didn’t have sex was to call you and ask you.”

I started shaking and now had a death grip on Heather’s arm.

There was only one thing left to say, so I said it. “I wish you the best of luck…and I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”

He made some sounds of confusion, as if wondering, "Why would she never want to hear from me again?"

“Good-bye,” I said and hung up. And then Heather and I went to the after-party.

Signs of Hope: I have to really reach on this one. How’s this: He said yes to my proposed dinner date?

Red Flags:
The interaction was fucked up on so many different levels, let’s create a numbered list:
1. They were broken up…it’s none of his ex-girlfriend’s business if we slept together…or if we didn’t sleep together…or if we had cuddle parties or even full-scale orgies.
2. He took her out for dinner…but, the night before that, he was reluctant to even buy me coffee.
3. They’ve been breaking up and getting back together for four years.
4. His ex-girlfriend said he should call me to prove we didn’t sleep together.
5. He actually called me.
6. When he called me, his ex-girlfriend was there.
7. He was surprised when I said I never wanted to hear from him again.
8. Looks like our Saturday-night date is off. Thank God—because I was buying.

Turning Point: When I hung up. I was done. Well done.

Diagnosis: For him: As Eva said after I told her the story: “He’s not in love with his ex, he’s in love with the drama. He doesn’t know what love is, because that’s not love.” He’s officially unavailable.
For me: I feel sick. As my new shrink said, “There’s a pattern with all these guys. It may not be obvious, but somehow, they all have something in common. You’ll find it if you really look for it.” The thought of finding it makes me feel even sicker.

Mr. Unavailable #133: Coffee=The End?

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies and Little Island... for the background on this one.

On our Roosevelt Island date, when we were at the pub, after I came up with a new nickname for him [eg., Bill-Billy], as we talked over ten chicken wings, #133 had talked about Halloween and seemed excited at the idea of us spending it together.

Instead, after our trip to the island, he fell off the map, and a few days later, as Halloween was approaching, he resurfaced to say he was skipping Halloween to go to his parents’ in Jersey. He seemed to go to Jersey a lot.

From Jersey, presumably, he emailed to ask if I wanted to get together the day after Halloween. A Tuesday. He wrote in his email: “Maybe we could hit a coffee shop or some such in your nabe—got a suggestion?”

A coffee date. The death knell of any budding relationship. There was that as well as the forced casualness of “nabe,” a word he’d never used before. Things were supposed to be progressing not digressing.

Forgetting that I was lukewarm about him anyway, I went into auto-panic. “I’m convinced he wants to go to a coffeeshop so he can dump me,” I said to Eva.

“It doesn’t sound like he’s going to break up. It sounds like he’s very laid back,” she said.

“We’ll see.”

On the night of the date, he emailed me before he left his place, sending me his favorite They Might Be Giants song with the note, “See you soon.”

Hmmm. That seemed not breakup-like.

When he got to my place, he sat on my sofa as I finished getting ready. Also not breakup-like. I sat on the sofa next to him and we made out for a while. That wasn’t very breakup-like either. We walked to get—yes, just coffee—at Ost on Ave. B and found a spot in a corner nook. I ordered coffee. He ordered wine. “I might as well,” he said, noting that it was happy hour (pre-breakup nerves?).

He paid for his wine and then the cashier rang up my coffee. “That’ll be $5.50,” she said.

I paused and looked at #133. “Oh, do you need some cash?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

I would like to say that at that moment a light bulb went off, that I saw clearly that he could never measure up to what I was looking for and that I took matters into my own hands and dumped him myself. But I didn’t.

He paid. “Thank you very much,” I said. We sat down and he leaned into me and put his hand on my leg. I rested my head on his shoulder.

“It’s so funny that you had nothing in your profile and here we are. All you had were those photos, which you looked really pretty in….” he said, and then, as if he’d always thought it but it only just occurred to him to actually share it, he said, “…but you’re even prettier in person.”

He wasn’t trying to charm me; he was just being honest. Maybe I needed to give him a break. Maybe he just didn’t have a whole lot of money to splash out. Maybe he was just a little bit socially awkward and didn’t always know what to do—or say.

He asked what we should do next. “How about hors d’oevres and a movie at my place,” I said, giving him a break.

“That sounds great,” he said. We walked back to my place hand in hand and watched a movie. It was nice, comfortable. He didn’t try anything and I didn’t mind. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Tempered, moderate, calm. Maybe passion is supposed to build. It never seemed to work out when I was crazy about them anyway, so maybe this was just right. I asked him if he wanted to stay over, but he said he had an early deadline the next day. Seemed reasonable enough. We kissed good-bye. “Bye [Bill-Billy],” I said.

Signs of Hope: He had an earnestness that was endearing. And neither one of us broke up with the other.

Red Flags: Coffee?.…“Do you need some cash?”?….Passion?....He didn’t want to stay over?

Diagnosis: For him: Yes, it was just coffee. But maybe he just really wanted to see me.
For me: I’m not sure if he’s what I want, but do I even really know what I want?

Mr. Unavailable #133: Little Island, Little Lighthouse, Little...

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup and The Lukewarm Fuzzies for the background on this one.

#133 must have been feeling some degree of the fuzzies, too, because a few days after our 24-hour date, he emailed to ask if I wanted to take the tram to Roosevelt Island to “see what that place is all about.”

That probably doesn’t sound like a very good date. I, however, am someone who took the Staten Island Ferry once for fun and then got off to actually see Staten Island. All it had to offer was a bus ride and lunch at Burritoville, but at least I know.

#133 had the same mindset. On our motorcycle trip the weekend before, at the first tollbooth after we passed Roosevelt Island, we lifted our visors to talk and discovered that neither of us had been there and we both found it mysterious.

On Sunday he came to pick me up. He was early. I answered the door, makeup-less. “You’re seeing behind the curtain,” I said. “You got here before the magic happened.”

“Nah,” he said, “You don't need magic.”

That made me like him. He looked cute. Taller, somehow. And his hair was disheveled from his motorcycle helmet. I could tell he’d put product in it. He’d made an effort. He sat on my sofa as I went between rooms getting ready.

“Every time you walk back into the room, you get prettier and prettier,” he said. That made me like him, too.

When I was ready to go, I couldn’t find my Metrocard. “I don’t understand why women always lose things. Why don’t you just put it in the same place all the time? I just keep mine in my wallet. Why don’t you just keep it in your wallet,” he said.

That made me not like him. “Obviously, that’s just not how women are,” I said. “Especially if, like you said, we all do it.”

“It’s not that hard to just keep everything in the same place.”

“We have a lot of different places to put things and what we carry with us changes all the time—different purses, different coats with different pockets.”

“But you always have your wallet.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

I found my Metrocard and we went to the pizza place around the corner so he could get a slice before going uptown, but I was still annoyed.

“I like this place,” he said, taking a bite of his pizza.

“Why? Because it’s cheap?” I asked, and, in so doing, failed to agree to disagree. I smiled at him to veil my bitchiness, putting the finishing touch on the passive-agressive nature of my question. He recoiled.

On the bus uptown, I knew I had to make it up to him. Talking about his Facebook photos—he’d friended me a week or so before—he asked if I’d seen the one he was in with his dad.

“He looks pretty heavy, right?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was only looking at you.”

He un-recoiled and, once on the tram, we got cozy as I held onto him for stability. The sun was shining. He held me. He was warm. When we got off the tram, we headed in the direction of the Roosevelt Island lighthouse. Strolling along as if we were some kind of happy couple in the early phases of dating, I figured it was a good time to break the news about my age.

“Oh, I have a confession to make,” I said as if I’d just thought of some trifle I’d not yet mentioned. “I’m not actually the age I said I was on my profile.”

“What age were you on your profile? I don’t remember.”

“I don’t remember either, maybe 35,” I said. A lie. “But I’m 39.”

“Oh, well, I’m almost 39,” he said, “and I always assume whatever age women put in their profiles isn’t their real age. My ex said she was 35 in her profile.”

Ah, his oft-mentioned ex. “How old was she really?” I asked.

“44,” he said. I was relieved, and annoyed because she came up again, but mostly relieved.

We got to the lighthouse and sat on the wall by the water, looking at its stubby phallic-ness. “It’s not as impressive as I thought it would be,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a letdown,” I agreed.

Sitting on the wall, with the water behind us and the Manhattan skyline at sunset laid out to our right, it was a prime opportunity to be close—like on the tram—but there was only distance. He nudged my foot with his. They touched, but there was no connection. Was it because I told him my real age? Was it his ex? Did the lighthouse remind him of one of his own shortcomings (one which I had yet to see or feel)?

“Why don’t we get some food,” he said. Other than the lighthouse, there wasn’t much of a scene on Roosevelt Island. It was quiet and concrete, almost communist. “Where are all the people?” I whispered to #133. It was part of Manhattan and desolate. It was only a matter of time before developers got their hands on it.

We ordered some food at a pub. He wanted to order a bunch of chicken wings, which he said he loved, but then he began to cheap-out. “They’re $1.25 each,” he said. “Maybe we’ll just get five.”

Then the waitress told us they were 25 cents each that day. “OK, how about seven,” he asked.

“Let’s make it 10,” I said.

Over two burgers and 10 wings, #133 opened up a little.

"I actually have two nicknames," he said, putting away a couple of wings.

The one I knew him by was his adult nickname but his childhood nickname was something else. Without naming names, let's just say, for example, that if his adult nickname was Bill, his childhood nickname was Billy. He said his family and close friends called him that, so I could call him that, too. I thought it was sweet.

"My ex never used to call me that, she always insisted on calling me [Bill]," he said. There she was again.

"OK, [Bill...Billy]," I said, messing it up. A thought struck. "Actually, that's what I'm going to call you. My nickname for you is now [Bill-Billy]." 

He smiled. "Yeah, I like that," he said.

The rest of the date was uneventful. We took the tram back to the big island and then the bus downtown, on which he read over the shoulder of some kid who was reading a self-help book and made fun of him; we watched a movie and then he stayed over. It was nice, cozy, all that, but, he didn’t try anything and, still just glad for a warm body, I didn’t mind that he didn't.

Signs of Hope: He planned this date soon after the last and followed-through—and there was some closeness.

Red Flags: He was cheap and sometimes distant. I was curious about a further shortcoming he might reveal, but, for now, it remained all, er, boxered up.

Turning Point: None. Or too many. Things were entirely up and down although not dramatically so--definitely not enough to register on a Richter scale.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s being quite the gentleman. I think.
For me: In a relationship, I’m supposed to embrace shortcomings…right?

Mr. Unavailable #133: The Lukewarm Fuzzies

See The Telltale Garb and The Sit-Com Setup for the background on this one.

#133 texted me the day after our dessert and overdose-trivia date.

#133: Thx 4 the good times & trivia. B4 it gets too cold lets go 4 a ride.

Six days later, he texted with an apology for not getting back to me but still offered up no plans.

On the seventh day, I took matters into my own hands and texted him.

Me: Not to be pushy or anything, Mr. [#133], but please feel free to ask me on another date anytime. My dance card is starting to fill up. Maybe since we aren’t going riding, I can dress up again. Xo. I have this red dress I’ve been meaning to wear…

He texted back a few minutes later.

#133: Would you say it’s a Friday Night Dress?

Me: Actually, I would!

#133: Great, then I can see it tomoro! Care to see some music?

The next night, I met up with him at La Lanterna in the Village. When I walked up to him, I stumbled and he caught me. “I’ve got you,” he said. It wasn’t so much that I liked that HE caught me but that I was being caught, if that makes any sense.

I saw him admiring my red dress and then I tried to admire him back. He was dressed nicely—in a blazer, jeans and a button-down. But through the button-down, I could see a furry bib-shaped animal living just below his neckline.

“He really needs an undershirt,” I thought, hoping the thought wasn’t registering on my face.

The maître d. walked up. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. “Oh, for such a lovely woman, only the best table.” He led us to the table in the back garden by the fountain, we ordered, we talked, I made a conscious “I’m interested” adjustment of my unconscious “I’m not all that interested” body language.

Despite my initial reservations, I started having a nice time. Other than being hirsute, the only other thing that bothered me about him was that he used the word “cheap” a lot, as in, “I really like [blank]. It’s cheap!” Every time he said it, I felt like I was being jabbed by a butter knife. It wasn’t exactly painful but it was annoying.

We wound up pretty caught up in conversation, so we missed the jazz band’s first set in the basement bar.

“Should we go for the second set?” he said. It’s too bad we missed the first set.”

He seemed legitimately bummed. He picked up the check—making no mention of me buying the drinks this time—and we went to the basement. “Are you here for the band?” the waitress asked. “Maybe,” he said. “We might only stay for a drink.”

They gave us the romantic booth in the corner by the fire and, as we ordered drinks, he said, “Do you want to stay? If we get drinks, I’m going to have to pay the cover anyway. Well, we might as well stay if I’m going to have to pay the cover anyway.”

The question left me with mixed feelings. On one hand, he clearly understood he was supposed to be paying the cover. That was good. On the other hand, he wanted to avoid paying the cover if at all possible. That was not so good. My like for him remained just out of reach.

In our romantic nook, he awkwardly put his arm around me.

I mechanically leaned into him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

I thought for a moment.

“I really don’t care what you’re doing tomorrow, I just want to know if you’re free,” he said. That made me like him.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

After he walked me to my place—and paid for the whole evening—he deserved a trip upstairs. We rolled around on my sofa for a while and—again—all I really wanted was to hug him. I think the nicest thing I said to him all night was, “You’re so warm.”

It got too late to send him home and he agreed to be a perfect gentleman—“I like taking things slow,” he said—so he stayed over. In the morning, things were cozy and chaste. He started talking about how he wanted to have kids one day.

“As intelligent people, it’s our duty to have kids,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“Either you can be rich or you can have kids,” he said.

“Why can’t you have both?” I asked.

“There’s no time to argue,” he said. “Let’s make babies.”

He squeezed me and I giggled. It made me like him.

We took the train way out to his place in Ridgewood. It was far. I was amazed at how unconcerned I was with whether or not he liked me. With #111, it was constantly on my mind: Does he like me now? How about now? Why is he not acting like he likes me at this moment? Is something wrong? I wonder what’s wrong.

At #133’s place, I made myself at home. Lying on his bed as he got changed, I checked my email on my phone, texted a couple of people, snacked on some doughnuts I’d bought us.

On his motorcycle, we headed to nowhere in particular and ended up mostly on unattractive highways. When I tried to talk to him through my helmet, forgetting he couldn’t hear me, he said, “I can’t hear you.” Was he getting snippy with me? I’d been eating exhaust fumes most of the way and was all too aware of how easy it would be for us to tip over and die, so I was feeling a little snippy toward him, too. Eventually, we ended up in Connecticut at a pub ordering a sandwich. He was telling a story and using lots of hand motions. And then he stopped.

“You’re the only person I know who…you watch my hands when I talk,” he said. His tone walked the line between being critical and making an observation.

I seized the opportunity. “You know what I noticed that you do?” I said, circling my finger at him. “You use the word ‘cheap’ a lot.” I was walking the line, too.

His head lowered. “I just like deals,” he said.

“I know you do,” I said smiling, being nice, and wondering if we were having our first fight. “Are we having our first fight?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said.

For the most part, we seemed to get along. On the ride up, we already determined that we shared a sense of humor and had even come up with a word for it: sarcatious, a cross between sarcastic and facetious.

He drove me home—all the way back into Manhattan—which I was grateful for, so grateful I gave him a big, public good-bye kiss, which he seemed to like, and I walked away feeling warm—and fuzzy.

Signs of Hope: I’m giving myself permission to like him AND not like him and keep dating him.

Red Flags: WERE we getting snippy with each other?

Turning Point: When he drove me all the way back into Manhattan. That just made me like him.

Diagnosis: For him: Available for a 24-hour date, the first part of which was, unfortunately, at my request.
For me: He has a body. And it’s warm.

Mr. Unavailable #133: The Sit-Com Setup

See The Telltale Garb for the background on this one.

It was a week after my date with #133 and I was confused. I thought it had gone well. He seemed interested. I seemed interested. But I hadn’t heard from him. I went over to Williamsburg to help Zoe prep for a possible makeup job, but we mostly ended up watching movies and ordering delivery. After 24 hours in her apartment, we needed to get out. At a bar on Bedford, we began discussing boys.

“You don’t make it obvious enough that you’re interested,” she said. “When I’m on a first date, I take their hand and stroke it and look deeply into their eyes.”

“If I was a guy on a first date with you, I’d be pretty sure I was about to get laid,” I said.

Usually, when we begin discussing boys, we begin texting boys.

“Why don’t you text him and say, ‘Hey, stranger. So when’s our next date and snog?’”

I was up for an experiment. Channeling Zoe, I texted him exactly what she had said. Five hours later came the reply: “Hey Tara! U left the okc fold I noticed. im glad u wrote me. Next week let’s meet. Weds?”

It was Thursday. Next Wednesday would mark the two-week point from our first date.

“Ask him why so far away,” Zoe said as if he’d just put her off, not me.

I really didn’t care enough to ask, so the next day I wrote back, “Superfantastic.” But immediately after I sent it, I felt stupid. Was I chasing him? Was he playing hard to get?

Two hours later, I harnessed a little of the crazy in me and rescinded my acceptance. “Actually, I can’t make it after all. Sorry about that. Best of luck to you!”

“Just like that! Ok be well Tara.”

Normally, I’d just leave it at that. But I wanted to do things differently. I may not stroke his hand on our next date, but I could communicate better and explain why I was being fickle. I texted him.

Me: I kind of sensed you weren’t so interested cuz I didn’t hear from you. I was impulsive and texted you yesterday. And then I felt silly for texting you. Usually don’t go into long explanations but I think there’s been some confusion.

#133: I meant to call u but was busy & in jerz a lot. My only concern was thinking up a non drinking date, the lush that I am

Me: Wow, it’s like a situation comedy setup. OK, you can ask me out again. And I like getting my dates liquored up so I’m always up for drinking dates.

I didn’t hear back from him, so I assumed we were still on for Wednesday. And then Wednesday rolled around. There was no word from him. Once more, in the name of doing things differently, I communicated, texting him.

Me: Did I mess up again? Or maybe I had something on my face? Mustard?

#133: Lets go out & ill check 4 mustard.

Me: Phew! That was close. You might also want to check for falafel.

#133: ill run the full battery of tests (falafel, mustard, ranch dressing…). so where does a teetotler go on a date? a motorcycle ride? to a falafel stand?

Me: Cake and music somewhere?

#133: Better than tea & sympathy. 2nite work, 2moro friends bday. Saturday work 4 u? maybe we can take that ride

He was working tonight? But we had a date.

Me: You’re working tonight?

#133: I cud get away 2nite. theres always procrastination. wen r u free? soon enuf 4 a ride maybe? or just let us eat cake?

Me: We need a dimly lit bakery. 8ish? Procrastination is a very useful tool.

#133: Clinton st bakery 8pm.

At about 7:30, he got to the Lower East Side.

#133: Better b dimly lit. Helmet hair.

Me: Don’t worry. Everyone will be looking at me anyway.

#133: Look @ that girl w the helmet head guy!

When I walked up to him outside the restaurant, he was holding his motorcycle helmet. He looked so harmless, dorky and helmet-heady. He was so not cool. I was relieved all over again.

“It’s Tara the mysterious disappearing girl,” he said, giving me a kiss on the lips (still good!).

“Me? You disappeared,” I said.

“I was glad to hear from you. I wasn’t sure if I would.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Huh? Well, I don’t know.”

We sat down inside and ordered.

He got serious. “You know, I would have gotten in touch with you again even though I didn’t hear from you.”

“When?” I asked. Last week?

“No, sometime this week.”

“Did you get my text about the sit-com setup?”

“What text?”

“After you said you were trying to come up with a non-drinking date.”

“You didn’t text me after that, did you?”

“Yes, I did.” I said. I picked up my phone. “It was a funny one, too. I’ll read it to you.”

I read it to him. We shared an a-ha moment as we realized the true depth of the sit-com setup. He thought I'd disappeared...I thought he'd disappeared.

Dinner wound down decently except for the fact that he was a little rude to the waitstaff (“No, I’m not done yet.”) made dinner conditional (“I’ll get this if you buy me a drink at the next place) and used the word "cheap" quite  a bit ("I like it because it's cheap."). Every time he said "cheap," it felt like he was stabbing me with his fork because I flinched every time. He also mentioned his "crazy" ex-girlfriend more than once.

We headed to Parkside Lounge on Houston and he partially redeemed himself by telling me entertaining backstories about different sayings (“Three sheets to the wind.”…”The hair of the dog that bit me.”), drawing pictures to illustrate them. It was cute, but I still felt intermittently annoyed. Things like this: I’d already gotten the first round of drinks, but when the second round arrived, #133 pretended not to notice they'd arrived, so I paid. I thought there would be some salvation when it turned out to be bar trivia night (I love trivia. Trivial Pursuit. Trivia night. Bring it.), but then he turned out to be excessively competitive. If I suggested an answer and he had one, too, he’d put down his.

During the height of my annoyance, I realized that my body language was terrible. I was facing the bar, not him. To seem a little more interested, I turned toward him. I was wearing my glasses when I turned and he looked at me and said, “Your eyes look really pretty through your glasses.” As far as compliments go, it was weak, but it counted.

Possibly the best part of the date was when we made it to the trivia finals. He was generous enough to let me represent our team and I joined the other reps at the front. It was a speed round where the head trivia guy said names of dead celebrities and the first one to call out the correct cause of death won. And if it was an overdose, you had to name the substance. Except for Gilda Radner, it was all overdoses, so for a solid five minutes, I got to jump up and down yelling, “Heroine! Cocaine! A speedball!”

#133 walked me home (bonus points) and, in front of my apartment, even though we kissed, I had the overwhelming desire to just hug him. It was the warm body syndrome. I simply wanted a warm body to hold; it didn’t really matter whose.

Signs of Hope: At least he paid for dinner. And he did compliment me.

Red Flags: He just annoyed me so much.

Turning Point: The hug at the end. Ah, a warm body.

Diagnosis: For him: His maturity level might be below my hopes and dreams, but, except for the two-week lag between dates, he seems like he might be available.
For me: I’m available for a couple of hugging sessions for sure.