Adventures in Dating, Episode Three: Fly-Fishing

This is the third installment in my "Adventures in Dating" series.  Read episodes One and Two here.


We called him "Trout."

Not because he was a fisherman, although certainly many of my match.com suitors were.  The obligatory photograph of man presenting fish to camera always made me smile... single men apparently don't have an over-abundance of photos of themselves and so ones taken on fishing trips or mountain bike rides, or where the previous girlfriend is clearly cropped out of the photo were to be expected.

Honestly, I don't remember what his real name was. But he definitely wasn't holding a fish.

Surely our choice of "Trout" was influenced by the abundance of fish photos we had viewed that morning. But really it was the mustache that did us in. Trout's was huge and full, his upper lip crouching somewhere beneath it's brushy glory.  A girl could get lost in that mustache, and not in a good way-- more like maybe a bread crumb or a random droplet of soup. I don't remember if I said it first or if it was Stacy, but the phrase "Is that a Trout on your lip, or are you just happy to see me?" lives on to this day.

Wouldn't we make beautiful, pensive babies together?

It was Labor Day weekend, 2010. I was visiting my sister Priscilla in Texas and my friend Stacy came up from Houston for the weekend. We were each going through our second divorces (strangely, we went through Round One together as well), and so she was uniquely positioned to understand the shit storm through which I was slogging.

Priscilla had an upstairs guest room that held 5 twin beds and Stacy and I were lying in two of them, reading my most recent batch of match.com emails and crying, we were laughing so hard. And there it was, the email from Trout.

He was a good writer, I'll give him that much.  That alone would've caused him to stand out from the crowd of mouth-breathing troglodytes that were vying for my clearly acerbic attention. And then there was that glorious achievement in facial hair. But what really hit me where I live was the sentiment expressed in his initial email.

He said he was a novelist. We later decided it was probably of the bodice-busting, breast-heaving Harlequin kind.  He said he was looking for love. He said he was 57 (so we assumed 62).

But mostly he said he was concerned about finding a woman who could keep up with his love-making.

Yes, his love-making.

Really, Pops? I think I got it. You know, if I could get past the startling bristle of strawberry blonde hair on your upper lip and the fact that you use the term "love-making" in a completely non-ironic way. And the collarless shirt you're wearing in what looks like a book jacket photo.  And the ponytail.

(Hahahaha, I said "jacket.")

He went on to say that while he had found women who were passionate, they weren't monogamous. And conversely, the monogamous women he met had no desire. So he and his hirsute little friend remained alone, together.  Like a furry little caterpillar clinging to a great oak.

By this point, Stacy and I were screaming with the kind of raucous laughter that causes family members to come upstairs to see what's so funny.  So Priscilla flopped down on the third bed and I read the email to her and soon she was in tears as well. They both wanted me to reply just to see where this thing would go. But cruel sense of humor aside, I didn't want to toy with the poor man. I mean, someone so virile in the twilight of his life...he deserved better. He needed a faithful blind bookworm nymphomaniac...and I simply didn't fit the profile (my corrected vision is 20/20).

I spent the rest of the weekend closely guarding my Blackberry so that Stacy and Priscilla wouldn't send Trout a breathlessly horny email on my behalf.

We must have accessed his profile 52 times that weekend, and each time Stacy and I belly-laughed and felt better about our miserable lives...and wondered who might be skulking through my online profile and taking pot shots at me ("Oh riiiight, she skis!"). And for three glorious days that September, the shit storm abated.

I left Texas with a smile on my face and laughter in my heart...the love of good friends and family can do that to a person.  And when I landed in Colorado, alone and lonely once again, I occasionally looked back at Trout's unanswered email and silently wished him well in his search for a passionate, yet monogamous woman with a taste for Nehru jackets and Yanni tunes. And a completely non-ticklish upper lip.

And sometimes when I was feeling sad, out of the blue Stacy would send me Trout's photo and it would crack me up.

It still does.

Separated at birth?

It's Wednesday, So It Must Be Luxembourg

It’s the witching hour. 

Which is to say, I’ve officially completed all the work I can possibly complete today.  Had I taken a lunch hour, I think I’d make it all the way to 5:00…but if I eat lunch at my desk while I’m working, I just can’t do it.  There are only so many hours a day that my company can possess my brain.

The rest of the time, my brain is too busy thinking of really important stuff like how I’ve never seen a baby pigeon, if my hair will EVER grow past my shoulders (stubborn curls), and if the characters played by Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson stayed in touch after the end of "Lost in Translation."  Plus I can’t stop singing the Soup Dragons’ “I’m Free” over and over in my head.

I’m free to do what I want… any old time.

Love me, hold me.  Love me, hold me.  Cuz I’m FREE!

Do you ever forget where the exclamation point is on your computer keyboard because you spend too much time on your Blackberry?  Cuz wow, that just happened to me.  I sat here staring at my keyboard like I’d never seen one before, wondering if my nostrils are more asymmetrical than most people's.

How much caffeine do you think I’ve had today?

Okay, Andrea: FOCUS.

So… The Boy and I are almost 5 months into our relationship and I gotta tell you… I think we’ve got a pretty good shot at something remarkable here.  Seriously, if I can keep from messing this up, it might be a happily ever after kinda joint.  Which is fantastic, because in retrospect, I really hated both of my previous wedding gowns and I’d like a third shot at wedding dress bliss.

Wedding #1:  White satin Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade float-sized monstrosity paired with pom-pom bangs & caterpillar-like eyebrows.  Stunning!

Wedding #2:  Let's take the hippiest woman in the world and stretch some off-white beaded lace across her broad ass. Yeah, that won't haunt her for life!

My best friend Vicki and I were talking about whether or not I’d ever get married again.  I weighed in that, if I ever do say “I do” again, I’m eloping.  I’m not putting my family, friends, or Pottery Barn through another one of these shindigs.  She opined “Whatever, crazy bitch.  Not only will you have another wedding, you’ll probably wear WHITE again.”

Sigh.  She knows me well.  I mean, if Kim Kardashian can wear white after dating every professional athlete in the U.S. and releasing an amateur sex tape, I think I got this.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  Is she crazy?  Why is she writing about this?  The poor man is going to hyperventilate!  (You're also wondering if your nostrils are asymmetrical, but that's beside the point.)

And the thing is, it's really all Derek's fault. 

He has this great house out in the middle of nowhere with tons of privacy and lots of space for Jackson (the World's Worst/Best Dog) to run and play and almost get eaten by predators.  And all of that is great, but it's an hour away from my house...so I basically go out there on Thursday evenings and don't return to my home until Monday morning.  Which is also great, unless you're one of my cats, in which case you hate me.  But it necessitates alot of packing and planning.  Hey, I'm from the planning tribe, so it's kind of what I do.  Give me approximately 37 minutes and I think I could put together a plan and the materials necessary for invading a small country.  Let's go with Luxembourg, cuz quite frankly, they're kind of asking for it.  But the packing and the unpacking grows tiresome... so D offered me a drawer.

Suffice it to say I now occupy the entire dresser and half of the bathroom cabinet.  It's my version of eminent domain.

And he gave me a key.  In my world, this represents a "keymittment."  (And when I made up this word, he threatened to break up with me, which was super-cute and made me laugh.)

And recently, I placed a photo of us on my desktop, replacing the one of my cat wearing a beret.  Only single women have desktop photos of their cats wearing berets.  And let's face it, I was one bad match.com date and one trip to the animal shelter away from becoming Crazy Cat Lady.

And I almost answered his home phone the other day when I was there alone.

And sometimes I do his laundry and clean when he's not there.  I haven't cleaned my own home since May.

The signs are all there.

And about a month ago, he and I came across an article about how you can rent this entire tiny country for your wedding. 

Think Luxembourg is available? 

And that sound you hear?  That's Derek, hyperventilating.

I love a beret! But hate my Mommy.

Adventures in Dating, Episode Two: Enter Dutch

This is part two of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  The fun starts here: Adventures in Dating, Episode One

I feel I'm emotionally ready to tell you about it now.

His name was Rich, but he will forever be "Dutch" to me.  His photos showed a passably cute, if perhaps a bit eccentric, late-40-ish man with sweet eyes and a mischievous smile.  After several witty email exchanges, we spoke by phone on Sunday afternoon and made plans for a Tuesday night dinner. 

On the plus side, he informed me he spent half the year in the U.K. and the the other half managing his real estate investments in Boulder, Colorado (ka-ching!).  On the minus side, when he spoke he had that sort of fake part-time British accent that Madonna had while married to Guy Ritchie.  Much like my current approach to Madonna, I simply chose to ignore his use of the term "MO-biyle" when referring to his cell phone and I made myself stop cringing when he said something about going "across the pond."

Why yes, I'm wealthy & well-adjusted and somehow inexplicably single!

Did I mention I was horribly lonely? 

So we agreed to meet for dinner at a little Mediterranean restaurant in Golden.  I was running late due to a business obligation, so he beat me to the restaurant and when I arrived he was seated on the patio.  Okay, I thought to myself, he at least looks like his photos.  I sat opposite of him with hope in my heart and perused the wine list.  Just as I was selecting a $9 glass, he mentioned that while he was waiting for me he saw a bar down the street where we could each get a hamburger, fries and a beer for $5-- and maybe we should go do that after this drink.

Exactly what part of me says to you that I want to go to a bar where you can get a hamburger, fries and a beer for $5?  Are we in college?  Are you retarded?  And how can you afford to live in two separate countries if you can't afford this restaurant?

Instead of confronting this head on, I smiled sweetly and made some sort of noncommittal noise in my throat.  And so we commenced with the "getting-to-know-you" stuff.  I learned that he owns several rental properties in Boulder and enjoys tormenting the liberal hippies of that particular community (did he not read my profile in which I specifically stated my political leaning as liberal?).  I learned that he has a girlfriend in England who totally understands that he dates when he's in the U.S. (oh, I bet).  And finally I learned of his strong stance against drinking and driving.  It came out like this:  "If I have another drink, I'm going to have to spend the night with you.  I'm not going to get a DUI on my way back to Boulder."

Oh, reeeeeeeally?  Well then I'd suggest you not order another drink, Mr. Powers.  We won't be shagging tonight.

And yes, he had already used the term "shag."

Suffice it to say that I had heard enough and was ready to go.  The waitress brought our check and I sat stone still, waiting for him to reach for it. Seriously, Lot's Wife has nothing on me-- it's like I became an inanimate object while that check rested between us.  I kept glancing at my cell phone (or perhaps, my "MO-biyle") and exclaiming to him that my boss wouldn't leave me alone about a project.  That horrible bitch!  (Incidentally, she was a horrible bitch, but my phone was completely silent.)

45 minutes later, as I remained glacially still waiting for him to pay the check and my anxiety began to surpass Xanax-treatable levels, he finally picked it up and said "Well, let's see...your wine was $9 and I had a pint.  So here, I'll just give you a five." 

And yes, he said "pint."

I can almost guarantee that my nostrils flared.

As we were walking out of the restaurant, he again suggested the $5 deal down the street.  I told him that I had to get back to work and so I thought probably not.  Remembering my experience several days earlier with "The Tongue" (see Adventures in Dating, Episode One), I then mentioned that he didn't need to walk me to my car, and so we hugged it out.

Tormenting liberals, indeed.

Did I mention I was horribly lonely?

Farewell, Dutch.  Pip pip and cheerio, Guv-nah!  Modern-day Madonna had a better shot than you... and she makes my ass twitch.