Date 31 - Cooking with Kevin

After my first date with Swamp Rat (aka Kevin), we decided to play a small trick on our mutual friends who set us up. They host a monthly dinner party where they get together and cook a tremendously decadent meal as a team and then feast the night away. Kevin and I concocted a plan to tell our friends that the date had gone spectacularly poorly, but then I would crash their dinner and surprise them.

When our friend Herman asked how the meet-up went, Kevin told them that all I talked about was volleyball (a very believable exaggeration) and that I’d mocked his obsession with CrossFit (which I had, but it was apparently not a total deal-breaker). We didn't tell them that we had been on a second date, for obvious reasons. When they were planning their dinner, Kevin mentioned that he would be bringing a guest – someone he’d met at the gym – but did not give them any particulars. That way there was enough food for everyone, and the supplies were divvied up appropriately.

My cheese shelf

It was my job to bring cream cheese and tomato sauce. This was fortunate because I happened to have a ridiculously massive block of cream cheese in my fridge that I needed to use up. I wasn’t really sure if I should bring anything else like wine or a host gift, or what the attire would be, or, well, anything. But I didn’t really have time to worry about it anyway. One unexpected virtue of this hectic dating schedule and being wholly and totally out of my depth is that I don’t have as much time to perseverate and overthink everything. But it also does not let me prepare as fully as I normally would. In retrospect, I should have brought at least a bottle of wine. Sigh.

I arrived at my friends’ house; traffic had slowed me down, but I was maybe a minute late. I walked in with a devious grin on my face and my friend Herman announced “Surprise!” They hadn't suspected a thing. Kevin gave me a hug, and congratulated me on a well-executed scheme. We laughed along with everyone and caught up on stories while also discussing how to prepare our fabulous three course meal.

As a team sport, cooking is quite fun. Although I don’t think I contributed all that much. I was not very familiar with Herman and Rhoda’s kitchen, so I helped out with whatever I could find and tried not to get in anyone’s way.

Some say too many cooks spoil the broth.
We say, "Aw, fiddlesticks!" to them.

The theme for the night was boats. We made little appetizer boats by filling dates with cream cheese and bacon bits, and garnishing them with a jalapeño (I didn’t count, but I’m pretty sure that there were at least 40 dates, which is fitting). The entrée was zucchini boats filled with chopped and fried zucchini flesh, ground beef, a hefty amount of garlic, and tomato sauce, smothered with cheese and baked. For dessert, we had tortilla boats with a cream cheese mix, peaches and whipped cream, and – wait for it – port. Because of boats! Ha!

I actually ate everything, thereby staving off scurvy for yet another fortnight. We must have talked too much or taken too long, or something because by the time we were done dessert, it was late and there was (Gasp!) still food leftover. Thus far in the history of their dinner adventures, there had never been leftovers. I think I must have let the team down somehow.

It was a bit odd, dating with an audience. At one point Herman whispered, “I think it’s going well!” Theatrically and audibly. I laughed, and we talked about dating. It occurred to me that Kevin might not appreciate me telling our friends about our dates, or he might not be particularly interested in hearing about my other dates, so I tried not to get too carried away with stories.

My poppycock cheesecake:
Worth it.

Henry was the first to leave; he’d overdone it with the dates (Preach!) and was lamenting the fullness of his belly. I packed up my leftover cream cheese (not sure if it was rude to take the extras home, but I had begun to concoct plans of the cheesecake variety, and it might be just as rude to leave 5lbs of cream cheese at somebody’s house, though I would totally love it) and said goodnight and thanks. Probably should have stayed to help do the dishes, but I could feel the crash of a food coma approaching and needed to get home. So, basically I am the worst dinner guest ever.

Kevin and I left together and we walked to our cars, which were parked parallel on opposite sides of the street. This time when he went in for a kiss, I was a little more prepared. It was only slightly less uncomfortable than last time, even though anticipation was on my side, because we were standing in the middle of the street, in front of our friends’ house. After a moment, I didn’t mind. Then I did my usual panic and disappear thing.

“Ok, bye!”



Don't worry, nobody's watching

When I was in Junior High and struggled to come to grips with how to interact with the brave new world of other people and all of their myriad oddities, my well-meaning parents told me I would eventually grow out of my awkward phase. I suspect they overestimated me. Foolish mortals! Never underestimate the depthless well of gracelessness and discomfort that I have to draw upon. I could overthink two ships passing in the night, and somehow find it embarrassing.

Date 30 - Podcasts with Constantine

It had been about a week since I’d seen Constantine. On our last date, we had made tentative plans to get together and listen to podcasts. The exact logistics were left to be determined later. Simple enough concept, but we may as well have buried me up to my neck in a less-than-friendly anthill and walked away for a week. In less metaphorical terms: I prefer concrete plans. Even if they change, I still like to be able to overthink in detail as opposed to hazy ambiguity.

So I started to plan, without really talking to Constantine about it. He seems perfectly happy without plans, and I didn’t want to force him to adopt my weirdness. I picked a time, a location, and proceeded to make other plans around it. If he didn’t like the plans once he learned about them, he did not complain.

This (façade) is pretty much the
exact opposite of my home

I decided to host a date. At my house. Where I live. And have him be there and see my haphazard world (the term my indulgently kind friends use is ‘eclectic’) and my invariably messy life and he would experience the real me, and judge. Some people’s homes aren’t just their soul peeled gently back exposing all the tender bits for the world to see. Some people manage to present a lovely façade (or maybe they have lovely, impeccably clean souls, but I doubt it); those people are not me. Generally speaking, I am an open book. Following that, my home is an all-encompassing encyclopedic reference book. Just not alphabetized.

More like this, but without
the fantastic wallpaper

Constantine’s home had been small and neat, with things placed thoughtfully in nooks and on shelves. It was bright and funky. It told me rather a lot about him. The millisecond after I decided to invite him to my house, I began to worry about what my home says about me (apart from “This girl loathes housework and has a shit-ton of movies”). I combated the worrying by keeping myself busy.

I invited an assortment of friends over for brunch in the morning before my date with Constantine. It is a fun tradition that I am trying to start, as well as a fantastic distraction and a good way to make sure I remember to eat.

The first of my guests arrived shortly before nine. Dee and I had breakfast and visited until my roommate joined us. She was followed by Dick McStuffinsnatch and Bertie, who both brought bacon and orange juice, in one of those bizarre cases of multiple discovery. Like when Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibnitz both invented calculus in the late 17^th century, but with bacon. We had breakfast and visited awhile before they wandered off to run their Sunday errands. Kirk and Bryan followed, and visited about life and taxes. They were headed off to go bowling and met Constantine at the door when he came in. My roommate disappeared upstairs in a tactful puff of smoke, and there I was suddenly hosting a date.

Hairstyles weren't all
they had in common

We joked about my hobbit-like lifestyle of having breakfast, second breakfast, brunch and now afternoon tea. But since all we had were glasses of water, it was fine. We started off by chatting around my kitchen table, with my music on ‘shuffle’ in the background. A helpful hint: Never leave your music on ‘shuffle’ when you are trying to impress someone. A rare gem by a certain Kevin ‘Bloody’ Wilson is bound to crop up and embarrass the hell out of you.

Constantine picked out a couple of his favourite podcasts for us to listen to. They were both Radiolab and of course quite brilliant. I learned about stochasticity (and added an amazing new word to my vocabulary) and dopamine addiction and even some bits about language that I didn’t know before. Basically, we geeked out in my living room for at least a couple of hours.

 

I mentioned that I had been worried about what he would think of my home. He said it was a lot like his. I took that as a compliment.

I think we’ve established that I don’t keep track of time well when I’m hanging out with Constantine. We did a bit better on this date, and we said our farewells, hugged and I waved him out the door with enough time to get changed and get to volleyball on time.

Date 29 - Lacrosse with a Gentleman

Adam was another one of my first choices when I decided to take on the 40 Date Challenge. We have been in the periphery of one another’s lives for years. He is a (relatively) recently divorced friend of a friend. He is easygoing, a sports fan, and he works with cars. I had seen Adam at parties and major events, but I don’t think we’d ever really spoken. Then, in January we spent an afternoon watching football followed by a random metal concert in the evening with a small group of friends. That day I realized that Adam was genuinely hilarious and fun to talk to. He is shorter than I am, bald, with a ready smile, a lovely drunk singing voice, and good pun instincts.

So when I was thinking about who I should go on dates with (as I explained to Adam after asking him out), it might as well be with people who are lovely and fun.

He said no.

Well, he didn’t say “no” exactly. But that’s what it felt like - gut punch, stair not there in the dark, doubt everything you ever thought was good about yourself, capitalized and emphatic and humiliating NO. Have I mentioned that I struggle with rejection? Or is that patently obvious and probably why I’m single? *shot*

What he actually said was “I absolutely would have a month and a half ago, but my situation has changed.”

Nothing hurtful, no actual reason to feel like pond scum.



Suck it, universe!

So when he texted me out of the blue and asked me how my 40 dates were going, then offered to help me out by taking me out, I was torn between feeling bad that his “situation” was back to single, meanwhile I had already texted “Yay! Let’s go to lacrosse on Saturday!”

 

Adam was totally psyched to see lacrosse. So, suck it universe! There are men who want to go to lacrosse games with me! Also a relief, since Lana was out of town and would not have been able to step in this time.

 

I bought tickets at a crazy good price, and then felt absurdly, uncharacteristically calm about it.

Adam and I exchanged a few messages, logistics and nonsense, which I’m hoping qualifies as flirting because otherwise I have zero idea of how to flirt.

We met at a pub near the stadium for a drink before the game. He ordered beer and I ordered cider. And milk and cookies (the milk is pretty much just for dipping). He scoffed, and then was properly impressed when they arrived. He even helped me eat them.

 

As we sat visiting, I noticed that the sun was glaring in through the window and bothering Adam. He leaned awkwardly so that the glare was out of his eyes for a while, but then decided to just get up and do something about it. He went over to the window and pulled the curtain down. All of the people who had been roasting uncomfortably in the sun but somehow unable to operate a curtain were relieved. The table of four next to the window thanked him, and a couple in a booth applauded. Adam is now a folk hero. Bards are preparing ballads to sing of his commonsense and simple bravery.

We paid our tabs and walked to the stadium. It wasn’t a long walk, and it was a lovely day. We chatted happily, he bought beer and a slice of pizza (I did not partake, those cookies were oddly filling) and we found our assigned seats. They were only a few rows back, which was fantastic. There was a tediously long pre-game ceremony where they inducted someone into the local lacrosse hall of fame. I knew the player (not personally, just as a fan of the game back when he played) and was moved to tears when they showed his former teammate (and my all-time favourite lacrosse player) crying stoically. Still, it went on too long and we were starting to get bored before the game got started.

Once the whistle blew for the first faceoff, we were back into the swing of things – cheering, jeering, and shouting silly things. The crowd was packed, and the game was nonstop music and action. Some drunken 20-year-olds in the rows in front of us provided additional entertainment by spilling beer on one another and throwing 20-year-old tantrums. We laughed at them.

There were plenty of opportunities to cheer and sing and throw our hands in the air, which was great. It was one of those high scoring games that keeps you on your toes, and my team won. What more could a girl ask for?

We said “goodbye” to our neighbours, who we had bonded with by making fun of the young’un drama and shouting silly answers to the announcer’s refrain of: “WHAT’S HE GOT?” Normally the crowd shouts “NOTHING!” as the reply, but we took turns coming up with silliness like “HALITOSIS!” or “AN OEDIPAL COMPLEX!” Which is fun for the whole family.

After the game, we walked back to the pub where we’d parked. We talked and laughed, but there were a couple of pauses that were full of tiredness on both sides. I asked Adam where he was parked, and it was the opposite direction from where I had left Errol.

Pierre from speed dating was standing on the street corner in front of the pub, and I took immediate evasive action.

“Well, I’m this way.” I turned as I pointed so Pierre wouldn’t see my face. Adam smiled and just said, “Ok, goodnight,” And walked away.

Oops.

“Ok, bye! Thanks for fun!” I called to his back. Not sure if I should feel like pond scum now, but I was too tired to really think about it.  

Dates 20 to 28 - Adventures in Speed Dating

I was too nervous to eat anything substantial. The most I could reconcile myself to was a bowl of frosted Mini Wheats. As I paced my apartment, I looked down and realized I was wearing all black. Great speed dating conversation starter.

Random speed dating guy asks, “So why are you wearing all black?”

I reply, “Obviously because my husband just died!” And then I laugh maniacally.

I changed shirts.

I was the first person to arrive. Total keener. In my defense, the email had stressed punctuality. “Be there at 7!! Sharp!!!”

Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of an insane mind. (Terry Pratchett)

Not that my mind was any better. I was stupidly anxious. I kept forgetting to breathe. I got my nametag and speed dating sheet and sat at the bar. World Baseball Classic highlights provided an engrossing distraction.

A couple of guys came in and got their nametags. I didn’t turn to look. With only a peripheral glimpse, I quickly judged and dismissed them based entirely on appearance. They both appeared to be on the upper end of the age spectrum, almost to the point where I would want to check ID. I wondered how old I looked in the dim light of the bar. Maybe I’d already been written off too.

A woman arrived and I smiled at her, not sure if I was supposed to feel like we were in competition with one another, or if we were cohorts on this ridiculous adventure together. Given the sidelong look she gave me, I’m guessing the former. Oh well.

Beatrice wasn't much of a wrestler,
but you should have seen her box!

A pair of young women showed up together and they were full of nervous energy. They joined me at the bar, and though I’d been there for a solid five minutes (my cloak of invisibility had probably kept the bartender (Hester) from asking me if I wanted anything) the bartender appeared and offered them a drink. They got beers, and she walked away before I could ask for a whiskey. I chatted with the new arrivals and we laughed together until my two girl friends appeared.

Andy, Jo and I visited animatedly for a while. Hester got them drinks, but staunchly ignored my presence. I decided to find it funny. We laughed about it and other things, we talked about volleyball and dating and work. A brave soul approached us and tried to join our conversation. He was rather out of his depth, but through a stilted series of segues he clumsily told us he works downtown, had just bought a swanky new apartment on the top floor of a five storey building, and wants to buy a mansion up on the hill one day (no, we hadn’t asked). He was a confident speaker of English as a foreign language; he was not impossible to understand, but quite difficult to hear over the dull, low music and the busy hum of conversations all around us. I tried to politely return to chatting with my friends, whose conversation I found far more interesting (exactly why I am single). *shot* He eventually moved over to the appetizers, which were plated precariously at Jo’s elbow.

I was still too wired to relax. The organizer got everyone’s attention by tapping on the side of her plastic cup. The sound was not loud, I barely heard it, yet it was somehow effective. I guess we were all waiting for it. Conversation died immediately and the host spoke out into a nervously charged silence. She explained that because women outnumbered men, there would be times when you didn’t have a date. Guys get 11, girls get 9. Rotate after 7 minutes. This information got repeated a few times in different terms, but that was the gist and entirety of it.

9 men.

• According to an Adverse Events Study, one in nine adults will potentially be given the wrong medication or medication dosage.

• A helpful STD poster at my doctor’s office told me that one in nine men have genital HSV-2 herpes.

• One in nine men have experienced domestic violence.

• One in nine Canadians drop out of high school.

• 1.3 in nine (yup, I have decimals and I sorta know how to use them) adults live with ischemic heart disease.

• According to Tumblr, 10 out of 9 men have reported being in the “friendzone” because, priorities.

Not sure how I feel about my odds.

We began.

I poured myself a glass of water and found a table beside Jo. She was cut off from me by a large pillar, and so really the only person nearby was the glaring girl who’d arrived just after me. She was propped up in the corner, like a monarch holding court. I smiled at her.

“First time?” She asked me, in a bored tone.

“Yup, and I’m freaking out a bit.”

“You’ll be fine.” Easy for her to say, she was the disdainful valium to my caffeine overdose.

 

And away we go!

Date 20 - Junius

I totally blanked on what to say. What do people say to other people? On a scale of 1 to 10, how rude is it to ask someone where they are from? 9? Instead I asked him if he’d ever been to an event like this before. He had. I asked how it went. Stupidly. If it had gone really well, he wouldn’t still be single and speed dating, would he? Idiot. Instead of getting offended, or understanding the question, he explained the same process to me that the host had just outlined. Ok. Well, that knocked off a couple of minutes.

He asked me what I did for a living. I answered. There were no follow-up questions, so I asked him the same question. Junius is an engineer. He worked in oil and gas, but is now working for the government doing something with taxes. The office building where they used to be didn’t have enough space, so they built a new one six years ago, and that is why he is does not work downtown (I hadn’t asked).

He volunteered that he is from Sri Lanka. I asked him what it was like there, because I couldn’t come up with anything better, and he was on such a roll. Apparently it’s tropical.

Next!

 

Date 21 - Rajendra

From the moment that “Lucky Number 17” sat down, Rajendra peppered me with questions in a thickly-accented monotone. It was as though he was reading from a list that was pasted to the wall above my left ear.

Is it your first time here?

What do you do?

What sort of music do you like?

What do you do for fun?

Where are you from?

He mentioned that he liked my glasses. He had a pair hanging from the collar of his shirt, they reminded me of Milton from Office Space. I couldn’t decide which of his eyes to look at.

Why did you come here?

I told him about the 40 Date Challenge. He did not react. Time’s up.

 

Ok. Breathe.

I got a break and I took copious notes while trying not to eavesdrop on Rajendra’s conversation with the girl in the corner beside me. Or on the guy currently talking to Jo, who I would meet in a few minutes.

 

Next!

 

Date 22 - Pierre

I’d overheard him talking about teaching to Jo, so I didn’t bother to ask Pierre what he did for a living. I asked what he did for fun instead. This backfired, because it turns out that what he does for a living is what he does for fun. Theatre. He used to teach, but now everything is theatre. I asked him about the venues he works at, and found that we have an acquaintance in common: Kirk (see Whiskey with Kirk). Small world.

He asked me about my glasses and about what I like to write, so I think I did way more talking with Pierre than any of the others so far. But there was no real interest, and less than no attraction. Better than nothing, I suppose.

Next!

 

Date 23 - Kim

Kim was the guy who had tried to jump in on the conversation that Jo, Andy and I were having. He talked non-stop for about seven minutes. He talked about his passion for dance, and the dance community, about his ideal vacation, about why he doesn’t go for the standard tourist spots and all-inclusive resorts. He also mentioned that he liked my glasses before returning to his stream of consciousness rambling.  I was starting to feel self-conscious about my glasses. This was the third guy to talk about them. They were green, and I guess the only remarkable thing about me.

Thank god.

Another break, and then intermission. I laughed and joked with Jo and Andy, which was a nice change. We lamented that both of our no-date breaks had been used up, and it was only the halftime show. There were jokes about sabotaging each other’s dates and hoarding the appetizers. I think our intermission was about 20 minutes, but it seemed to go by faster than any one of the dates so far. Maybe it was that I was comfortable with the girls (though I honestly don’t know Andy very well), but it was a stark contrast to stilted conversations with strangers (probably why I'm single) *shot*. At least laughing felt good.
 

 

Oh buggar, back to it.
Next!

 

Date 24 - Kelsey

Kelsey had a cosmopolitan air. He was lean, with a shaved head and a nice smile. He asked me how the break had gone; I told him I’d enjoyed chatting with my girls. We talked about what I enjoy (volleyball) and what he enjoys (surfing in the river), we talked about beach volleyball and how great summer will be. Conversation flowed a little more smoothly, and I wondered if I was finally getting the hang of this.

Next!

 

Date 25 - Geoffrey

And then along came Geoffrey. Something about him gave me a vague sense of menace and set off little subconscious warning signals across the back of my neck. He commented on the fact that I have a notebook, and I explained (defensively) that I’m a writer.

Text just reads:
"Ok, so the suit is all Cameron"

He asked if I would be doodling pictures of all of my dates. I imagined drawing him, with his slightly protruding eyes, curly hair and inherent creepiness. I also thought of how I would draw him, where I would start with a sketch of David Cameron, then give him curly hair and slightly more protuberant eyes. I thought this was a funny mental picture and smiled. In reply, I said something evasively positive and he made fun of how enthusiastic I seemed about doodling. I nervously played with my beaded bracelets.

In a strange impression of a cold-reading fake psychic at the fair, he told me that I had lots of friends, and that one of them gave me those bracelets (I bought one, one came free in a swag bag at a beach volleyball tournament, and was given the other by my sister-in-law). He told me it was my first time at speed dating, and that I was nervous. I asked him if he was just guessing things at random.

Then he started asking/telling me about my friends (who doesn’t like their friends?), my family (mine is big, and yet small, so he was right no matter what he said), my glasses (again with the damn glasses) were not given to me by anybody (Who buys somebody glasses?). His focus was on me, but not in such a way that he seemed interested in me as a person, rather it felt wholly impertinent. Just a way for him to show off. And when I returned every question to him, “And what about you?” he refused to tell me anything about himself.

“No, I want to learn about you.”

“There is no parity in that.” Not sure why I used the word parity. It wasn’t even the exactly right word for how I felt (fairness); I think I just wanted to throw him a curve ball.

“I know what that means.”

Ok. This was more than subtly aggressive. I took a sip of water.

He sat up and I thought he was going to walk away. He reached over to Jo’s table, and retrieved a water glass. I made a joke that he had just stolen the water, though it was pretty obvious it was his and that he’d forgotten it.

Maybe in exchange for the joke, he decided (out loud) that he would tell me one thing about his family. He told me about his grandmother, who is very flirtatious with the male residents and staff at her nursing home.

I told him about working with the elderly back when I assisted the director of recreation and wound up playing a lot of cards. He asked if I knew the card game Wizard. I did. He declared that my life was complete. I joked that I had met the Buddha in Taiwan and had been told that I would achieve a state of completeness, but I hadn’t realized it would involve a card game. Unwilling to laugh, he asked me to describe my parents in five words. I did: young, wry, vivacious, sarcastic and learned.

“You’re clever, aren’t you?” He asked me, with his lip curled and his eyes narrowed. I’d always thought clever was a compliment.

Then he demanded that I draw him something, but thank all of the gods on Olympus, our time was up.

Saved by the bell

Next!

 

Date 26 - David

David was an accountant. He was also a journalist. He was another speaker of English as a foreign language, and he also looked slightly to my left as we spoke.

The most surprising person he has ever interviewed was a photographer who went diving with sharks. David was amazed that when he asked the photographer about whether or not he’d been afraid, the photographer told him that he had simply known that the sharks did not care about him and that it was perfectly safe.

He told me about how skilled he was at conducting interviews, but asked me precisely zero questions about myself. Then he complimented my glasses.

Ri-goddamned-diculous

Next!

Date 27 – Fernando

Fernando was from Cuba, apologized profusely about his English skills and smiled a lot. He would lose confidence in himself mid-sentence or whenever I tried to supply a word that he was searching for. His constant refrain when he was flustered was to apologize and then tell me that I have to ask him things. I wanted to explain that he could avoid running out of things to say by asking simple questions and just listening to the other person, but it was not my lesson to teach.

Still, Fernando was perfectly nice, enjoys samba dancing, oldies rock music, and singing in his shower.

Next!

 

Date 28 - Fidel

By far the best, and last. I am pretty certain that Fidel was there in a show of support for his friend Fernando. He was far too easygoing to be there in a serious capacity. He was also Cuban, very good-looking and spoke English with confidence. Due to a weird glitch, we got two dates combined into one, so an extra seven minutes to chat. Fidel does something involving logistics and drives for Uber in his spare time. He recently bought a house, so we talked about that for a while. Then he asked a number of questions about me (not in a Robotic Rajendra or Predatory Geoffrey way, but like one person just involving the other in the conversation). It was refreshing.

Done!

I thanked the host and submitted my match sheet where I’d indicated that Kelsey and Fidel could be potential matches for me. Mostly because an entire sheet of “No” just seemed mean. (Update: they did not reciprocate, so I received zero matches at my first (and probably last) speed dating experience.) Jo, Andy and I left together, with Kim attempting to tag along and convince us to go dancing on a Wednesday night. Still intrepid. I was exhausted. I definitely wanted to de-brief with the girls and find out whether they too suspected that Geoffrey’s mother’s taxidermied corpse is wearing a paisley nightgown in a rocking chair in his parlour, but I was too tired. I just wanted to go home and try not to have nightmares about it.

 

I ran into Kelsey on the corner as I walked to my car. He told me it had been nice meeting me. I replied politely and honestly and then ran to my car.

Date 19 - Sharing Korma

Not sure what to say about Kevin aka Swamp Rat. 

I got his number from a friend, but knew practically nothing about him. We'd been on one date so far, but I really only established that he loves food and CrossFit. I also had a (bizarrely long) series of texts to go on, but didn't have much of a sense of his personality. He seems rather keen, which I suppose is a good thing. For example, when I asked him what we should do for our date on Sunday night, he had a few suggestions.



How to choose?

Get dinner? Go bowling? Stay in and cook together? Get drinks? Play pool? Boardgame cafe? Go for a walk?

He also asks a lot of questions and uses games to keep our conversation going. If it is a stratagem, it’s a brilliant one. I can never resist a question. Instead of simply telling one another what we do for a living, we gave vague clues to make each other guess. It was challenging and fun. He told me to ask him something random, which was foolish, and his answer to “Ever make out with your cousin?” was laughter (I assume, since texting “I can’t stop laughing,” isn’t a 100% reliable indicator of true laughter) followed by a “No.”

Some standard questions and some inventive ones followed, which was fun. But Sunday came along and I would soon see my pen pal in person again.

When the time came for decision-making, I was feeling totally overwhelmed by the number and variety of date options, and totally unwilling to go over to a random dude’s house to cook, and also a little exhausted from weeks of non-stop dating and volleyball (seriously, 19 dates, 20 volleyball games and two tournaments in 19 days = insanity). I asked Kevin if he had a favourite East Indian restaurant, and somehow we ended up going to mine.

I wasted a good five minutes figuring out where to park before I remembered that it was Sunday, and thus, rules do not matter. Suck it, parking minions! I had only ever ordered takeout from this restaurant, (Because it is across the street from my best friend’s apartment building, we tend to pick up our orders and eat at his place where the wine is cheaper and nobody has to wear pants.) but I love it. The woman who runs it, Samaira, is super friendly, and the tandoori chicken is heavenly and wildly spicy.

The place was empty and I had my choice of table. I glanced over the menu, which was just for show, since I knew I wanted vindaloo. Maybe I’d get beef instead of chicken, but really it was a no-brainer. I was just taking out a notebook to occupy myself by writing blog drafts, when Kevin walked in. He was taller than I remembered, or maybe he just looked taller next to Samaira, who was welcoming him. He had a widow’s peak, shaved hair, a nice jawline and a conceivably fit body under his sweater. He grinned at me and came over to my table. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I had a notebook in my hand, and I somehow neglected to put it down when I stood up to meet him. It was a weird hug (Though, to be fair, practically all of my hugs are weird.) and he said “Hi,” softly in my ear as though we’d known each other for ages.

He sat down and we started talking. He guessed from my clues (which must have been terrible and misleading) that I was a chef. I suspect this may have been why he’d invited me to cook with him. Nope, not a chef. I had a pretty solid idea of his job description from the outset, but never did manage to come up with the exact title. He thought my clues were clever, but maybe a little too difficult.

At last! Water!

I forgot to give him time to look at the menu. When Samaira came by to take our order, Kevin asked for some tea and I told her I was happy with water. I was ecstatic with water, actually. My lips were chapped to hell and I was still a bit dehydrated from my weekend of drinking whiskey and running around. She explained that Kevin’s tea would arrive after the meal and left us to talk about food.

“What should we have?” He asked, assuming that we would be sharing food. Oh buggar. I had not anticipated that. I suppose that’s how it works. Sharing. Right. People do that.

We talked about levels of spice (which took vindaloo off the table) and our favourite dishes. I’d had (and loved) the korma before, so that was my suggestion. We also settled on medium-spiced curry, malai kofta, and saffron rice. Compromise and sharing. Ok.

We talked about farms and families, both of us had grown up in rural communities and there was a lot of common ground there. Kevin went to the same college where my dad had studied agriculture back in the day.

When there was a sufficiently long pause in the conversation, I broke out the question cards that my pal (Captain Horatio Longbottom) had made for me. The first one was a self-serving and leading series of questions meant to settle an old (and very bizarre) argument that my friend and I had been (amicably) bickering about for years. The question was: Have you ever seen Rita MacNeil and Meat Loaf in the same room? (No, Kevin hadn't.) Followed by: Have you seen or heard from Meat Loaf since Rita MacNeil died? (No, Kevin hadn't.) But that doesn't mean they're the same person! We laughed at that one, and pulled another card. It asked about camping.

"Sure, camping can be fun. But sometimes it's just two tents."
Say it out loud; it's funnier that way.

We talked about where we love to go camping, and then about movies and addictive tv shows. When it arrived, our shared selection of food was exquisite. When we were finished eating, Samaira brought Kevin his tea and chatted with us about how she developed a passion for math. We split the tab but stayed chatting comfortably until closing time when I had to go to volleyball.

It wasn’t too chilly outside; the sky was clear and dark. Kevin looked around and asked where I was parked. I gestured in the direction of Errol, I could just see his bumper peeking out from the side of my friend’s apartment building. He asked what the number of that street was. When I told him, he looked behind us, presumably to where he was parked on the next street up.

“Ok, well, goodnight!” I said and smiled.

He lingered a moment.

I assumed he was going for a hug. These things happen, or so I’ve learned.

Sally thought it was a hug;
Charles had other plans

Except he wasn’t going for a hug. I didn’t even realize this until after he’d kissed me. What the shit?! That is not a hug.

If I looked as half as stunned as I felt, he probably thinks there is something seriously wrong with me. I hugged him in self-defense, mostly because I thought that was what was going to happen in the first place and I felt like it should. After the hug, he kissed me again, with one hand on my waist and the other along my cheek. Even though it had now happened twice in quick succession, it was still shocking, somehow. I might have kissed him back a little, I honestly can't remember. I do remember that I felt uncomfortable at the thought of making out in the front doorway of the restaurant, probably grossing out poor Samaira. I stepped back, said “good night” and practically sprinted away. Smooth, Emily. Really smooth.

Still not quite sure what to say about Kevin. 

Date 18 - Brunch with Bertie

Only his mother calls him Albert.

Bertie and I became friends rather gradually. We met at a volleyball tournament on the day after Halloween. He was incredibly hungover and told the story of his insane night out in a subdued tone of voice. I couldn’t decide if he was in his late teens or early thirties. I referred to him as Ambiguously Aged Bertie for at least the first six months I knew him. Maybe longer (obviously, I’m not really reliable when it comes to time). It turns out he’s 24 days younger than I am.



Hee hee

I think I’ve gotten to know Bertie fairly well, we bonded through a shared love of puns and quick quips on road trips and over drunken card games and pizza nights and concerts. But he is always full of surprises.

For example, lately Bertie has been going on lots of dates – probably as many as I have. It’s one thing for a gung-ho oddball on a Lent mission to be dating every damn day, but for a (relatively) normal guy with a full-time job and no sudden windfall of disposable income, it’s worth remarking on. Turns out he’s looking for someone to settle down with, which is nice. When he found out what I was up to, Bertie decided we should go on a date. At some point early in our friendship, he had pointedly mentioned that he would never date me (the kid is refreshingly blunt), so I concluded he just wanted to help pad my numbers in case I start striking out.

A couple of weeks went by, and I didn’t see much of Bertie at all. Both of us were busy dating. He’d asked Lana and Liz how the 40 Date Challenge was going, and they told him that I was surviving so far. They told him to get in touch with me to set something up. I texted him a few times, never heard back.

The day after I gave up, deciding that a date with Bertie was a lost cause, he asked me to brunch. I agreed with my usual enthusiasm.

I was getting ready to leave for our brunch date, when I got a text from Liz, wondering where I was. Uh.

“Where am I supposed to be?”

“At the bridal shop. In the foyer.”

“Oh buggar.”

Not Lana's dress, hers
will hopefully
show more cleavage

I had completely forgotten about Lana’s wedding dress shopping appointment. I was the one who booked it. Foolish mortal. The strain of my constant busy-ness was starting to show. I felt like a total jerk. I texted Bertie, told him I’d forgotten Lana’s dress shopping thing, grabbed a bottle of champagne out of my fridge, and sprinted out the door.

Bertie replied while I was driving, but I left my phone in the car during the dress fitting thing. He offered to take me and Lana (my permanent chaperone) to lunch afterward. We happily took him up on it.

Another girl on his mind

Still giggly from the champagne and girliness, we walked across the street to a pub to meet Bertie. Lana and I talked about wedding stuff and dating stuff and planned future silly adventures. Bertie joined us and waded into the conversation fearlessly and comfortably. We talked sports (curling excitement is not an oxymoron) and summer plans. Bertie told us about a girl who he’d been seeing, but who did not think he wanted what she did. He seemed confused, but not heartbroken. We laughed a lot.

Our server was incredibly quiet, almost as though she was mouthing the words, but not saying anything. Nonetheless, we were able to settle our tab based on guesswork.

Lana and I said “goodbye” to Bertie and laughed our way back across the street to our cars.

Date 17 - Constantine at the Museum

I was in some sort of
shape, anyway.

On the day after St Patrick’s Day, I woke in my own bed with a semi-blistering headache and my tongue firmly pasted to the roof of my mouth. Considering the staggering amount of whiskey I had the night before, I was in pretty good shape. I should have been ready to die. I chalked my good fortune up to quality whiskey, and lots of bread and water. Still, I wasn’t 100% when I rolled out of bed on the morning of my museum date with Constantine. I brushed my teeth a few times, took a crazy hot shower and made my meandering way downtown.

I meandered because I forgot that parking downtown is not free on Saturdays. For whatever reason, I took exception to this in my hungover state. So I drove to the museum and then away from it in ever-widening circles until I found a free spot. I call it Fibonacci’s approach to parking, or utter idiocy, depending on my mood. I then had to walk 10 blocks to the train, wait around for 10 minutes, and walk another block to the museum. All in the name of free parking. Yes, I am a twit.

Constantine was waiting for me in a coffee shop. I smiled apologetically at him and he asked if I wanted to order a drink. He then asked about St Patrick’s Day, and I got distracted and didn’t bother getting a drink. We discussed museum strategy. Apparently he had seen something recently where a professional tour guide explained the best approach to exploring a museum. You’re supposed to zoom through everything, not stopping to read any placards or wasting time absorbing details, then you take a break for lunch. At lunch, you’re supposed to think about what sparked your interest. After lunch, you go back and thoroughly explore the exhibits and pieces that you were truly interested in, with enough energy to sustain you.

We totally ignored all aspects of this strategy.

 

Constantine had a membership pass that got him in for free. He has lived in this city for 6 months and has a membership at the museum. I’ve lived here for more than six years (this time, and a grand total of 10 years) and I have never been. At all. I suspect I am culturally out of my league.

Without discussing it, we opted to systematically wandered through exhibits counter-clockwise, starting to the right of the staircase. We pointed some things out to one another, chatted a little, and I tried to learn as much as possible. The Asian exhibit was interesting, as we’d both been to Asia, but different places.

My rookie mistake: I neglected to put food in my hungover belly. I had made muddled plans to grab fast food breakfast on the way to the museum, but I’d been distracted by parking. So after a couple of hours of wandering, my energy began to wane.

Only one more floor to go!

There was a studio apartment-sized room with West African art that made me happy and reminded me of Senegal and my godmother. The vast majority of the pieces were hand carved wooden sculptures with exaggerated features and long lines. That was probably my favourite part.

 

Constantine was pretty much constantly in his element, with tidbits of information and an impressive amount and variety of background knowledge. That is, until we came to the military exhibit. I found it funny that two pacifists would be walking through a massive display of armour and weapons and uniforms. I mostly looked at the leatherwork, the stitching and the footwear. Some of the swords looked insanely unwieldy, and the guns seemed like a fantastic lot of work and engineering and art distilled into something to kill people with. It was a definite downer.

 

Ravenously hungry and now a little depressed, I slogged on through the final exhibits. When Constantine announced, “Yay, rocks!” at the geologic exhibit entrance, I bit back any comment, for fear it would sound (or worse, be) sarcastic. To be fair, it was one of the best. Rocks are weirdly awesome. Strange shapes like delicate silicate feathers or bubbles in chocolate milk, and wild colours like an acid trip made manifest. We got to the section of valuable gems, and agreed that they were the least impressive.

Geodes rock

We left the museum and started walking. We were sort of looking for a place to eat, sort of wandering in the direction of my car, sort of just not paying attention. We did this for about 20 blocks until I took charge and led us to a diner for sustenance.
 

I suspect that Constantine does not dine out as much as I do. He didn’t seem to know what to expect from a diner. My hungover instincts knew exactly what to expect. Greasy deliciousness. I got breakfast (at 3:45 in the afternoon) and he got a blue cheese burger. I inhaled my eggs and hashbrowns and then took some time to breathe and think and look around while putting raspberry jam on my toast. I noticed that the cooks were clearing everything up, and our server turned away some people at the door. It was 4:00. They wanted to close. Constantine was still eating, we were talking and going on our usual tangents. I realized they’d ask us to leave at any minute. For some reason, this made me anxious. As though being asked to leave would be a problem. Not sure what my worst-case scenario looked like, being tossed out and forbidden to ever come back because we delayed closing. I paid the tab.



And never come back!

We talked about a famous scientist I’d never heard of (How do they decide someone is famous, anyway? Shouldn’t that mean that the average person (i.e. me) would have heard of him?) and we discussed the idea of a mind’s ear, and disagreed on whether or not we have free will.

When Constantine was finished drinking his grapefruit juice, we left the diner and wandered toward my car (A mere three blocks away, so convenient!). I offered him a ride home, but he hugged me goodbye and said it was a nice day for a walk. I agreed, but drove home and had a nap instead.