Eleventy Twelve

I should have known the date was ill-fated when I woefully ran out of Moroccan Oil in the preparatory stages. But, geesh, let’s not be overly dramatic.

I met Brent at Spill the Wine last Saturday, which turned out to be a bubbly, brilliant and beautiful day in bright-eyed Minneapolis. Brent was from Moooooooooooooooooose Lake (correct pronunciation; incorrect spelling) and an auditor by day, seemingly boring man by night.

I had just barely made it to the date itself. The parking lot of the restaurant was closed off for a wedding and I found my cashless self digging in the dusty depths of my car for a quarter or two to stave off a parking ticket while I dined. I then proceeded to teeter up to the main door in my overly-pointed heels, praying I wouldn’t biff it in front of the vacillating dudes valeting the wedding shin-dig with nary an interest in helping a poor girl out.

Brent and I spent the majority of our date discussing, no joke, Sarbanes Oxley. SOX is essentially legislation that came to fruition after the scandalous likes of Enron corporate greed and whatnot, and represents the current driving force in financial reporting, so you can only imagine the entertainment level achieved at our dining table.

As much as I enjoy meeting men in a similar field to me, I, by no means, have any interest in dating a number-crunching auditing fellow. I already lovingly satisfy my deep affection for numbers all on my own, thanks — I want someone to challenge my horizons and respectfully push my boundaries. Maybe he is an entrepreneur, artist, teacher, traveler… just not another anal, crazy, type A++, order-craving individual such as myself. Because that would be simply combustible. No offense to me or anything.

(I need a place to champion the men I am meeting. They are successful, driven, quality people with whom I may not have a chemical connection, but who should nonetheless be celebrated as quality men worthy of dinner and a drink, even if I harpoon them in an earlier write-up…)

Before we close: Date #12, aka Jeremy #2, was an animated, bright-purple-shirt-wearing Oregon transplant who… who… mistakenly questioned my pronunciation of “edamame” and. And. … Gosh darn it, I’ve forgotten anything else definitive about the date… except for the scrumptious Salut french fries and my polite jettisoning at the end of the date. #isoundlikeaheartlessperson

It’s all part of the adventure and the experience, right?

date.eight

For my first date #8, I had the pleasure of meeting Jeff Last-Name-Unknown at Cafe Barbette in Uptown this past Saturday. Jeff is 28, an auditor-turned-accountant, divorced, shortish, blondish, nice-ish and sort of vanilla-ish — when I’m looking more for caramel-coffee-chocolate-chip. All in all, though, I didn’t have the Deana-Carter-circa-1996-“Did I Shave My Legs for This?” reaction that I’ve experienced on a few of my earlier dates.

Since the restaurant is a mere 10 blocks from my house, naturally I arrived late. I had no excuse either — now that I’m more comfortable and into the swing of first-dating, my preening time has diminished. No more freshly polished nails, deep-treatment conditioners and unforgiving heels. I was even tempted to slap on a pair of Paper Denim & Cloth jeans instead of my standard summer dress, but I refrained. (Little did I know that Jeff would take it to a whole other level and show up in shorts — that’s illegal for guys on a first date, right?) Luckily, sweater-and-scarf weather is just around the corner, opening up a whole slew of relaxed-yet-refined wardrobe options.

Anywho… At Barbette, we noshed on apps (an exquisite pairing of French fries and scallops), split a decent bottle of Pinot and ventured into conversation topics great and small — current events, the State Fair, family, the best decade of the 1900s, etc. But we really struck gold when the discussion turned to our careers where we geeked out over our mutual love of math, including a lengthy and multifaceted debate on calculators vs. adding machines, imaginary numbers and the pros and cons of MS Excel 2010. We wrapped things up shortly after that as I had to jump over the river to St. Paul and visit a friend who was in town.

Although Jeff and I had a delectable conversation about the wonders of mathematics, I don’t think our bilateral love of numbers would be enough to sustain a relationship that wasn’t producing any chemistry. (For what is a match without a spark?) Besides, it would be terrible if, two years from now, the highlight of our evening at home started with “Honey, I learned this fantastic new spreadsheet formula today — quick, get the laptop!” So, when Jeff — small town guy and lover of country music, John Grisham books and loafers — gave me his number, I politely accepted, but without any plans to ring him up.

Without many It’s Just Lunch dates on the horizon and the cancellation of my first heard-it-through-the-blog-vine set-up — which was going to put to rest my uncle’s theory that any guy reading my site would be scared to go on a date with me — I was enticed by my friend’s suggestion to try out OkCupid, a free online dating service. After answering a series of questions (everything from “Do you think flag burning is illegal?” to “Would you prefer a date who is rich or hot?”), I threw together a quick online profile and began perusing the meat market. If I was somewhat disappointed in It’s Just Lunch’s volume of vetted dudes, I encountered the opposite problem with OkCupid. Deluged with messages from HotMplsGuy325, ChessMastr99 and the like — after also having taken the preliminary freebie questionnaire for eHarmony — I was quickly in email jail.

A sampling of my favorite messages:

  • “So why are you single?…keeping your standards too high??? Well, good, keep them high, cause that’s okay, now that I’m here.”
  • “When I saw you liked math, I was kind of sold.”
  • “So are mustaches and motorcycles a ‘no-go’ item together…? Based on the way your profile is drafted, it appears as though you are saying mustaches by themselves are acceptable, and motorcycles by themselves are acceptable, but together, they are unacceptable. Am I reading this correctly?”
  • “I’m really good at holding in my farts on a first date.”
  • “I’m also training to do some Mixed Martial Arts…love the sport, and thought I’d get into it.”
  • “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that it’s a jungle out there in OkC-ville, so let me be the first to commend you on your impeccable spelling and grammar. It’s sad that these skills make someone a standout on OkCupid, but it’s true.”
  • “I believe I fall into your list of wants. Well except for the tall part… sorry I missed that boat.”

Skipping over the profiles riddled with references to gaming and Second Life (not an easy feat, mind you), I realized online dating is more of a Marshall’s shopping trip vs. an appointment with Macy’s personal shoppers. Since I’m hearing over and over again that dating is a “numbers game,” I may give in and purchase a few months of eHarmory to hook a few fish in the sea. Nothing wrong with a little diversifying — I’ll just chalk it up to research for the blog.