Not-so-sweet 16: What the Frick? And Other Intellectual Witticisms

Let’s be honest. I may be outspoken, impatient, left-handed, random, opinionated, hard of hearing and quite simply a whole lot to handle, but at least I am FUN — you know, I smile and stuff. I’d like to think I am friendly, engaging and open-minded on a first date to put the other person at ease, show interest and avoid the toe-crinkling awkward moments…

Enter Keith. Keith was decidedly a dud of a dude. I made a bet with myself to guess when he would first smile during the date. It took 10 minutes — 10 minutes! — before he cracked a toothless grin and I’m pretty sure it was more of a smirk than a smile. Keith, 33, with a shock of gelled, spiky blond hair and otherwise average features, worked in medical device sales and lived alone in downtown Minneapolis. He seemed so uninterested in anything I had to say — even my numerous peace-offering inquiries about his job, family, hobbies, etc. — it was as if I were repeatedly throwing a deflated ball against the wall. There was no rhythm, no cadence. Each time I threw the ball, it produced a small, pathetic bounce and I had to walk over, stoop down to gather it up and step back to throw all over again. Repeat until insane. I expended so much energy trying to prop up both sides of the conversation that I was spent after only an hour.

Conversation highlights: He called my no-longer-living grandpa a “man-whore” (a typical response when someone shares that her dad has five sisters and no brothers), told me to stop listening to MPR, scoffed when I suggested — with a smile! — that perhaps he was over-generalizing by calling all Occupy participants “idiots,” and glared at me when I realized I didn’t have $2 in cash to tip for the free valet. Remind me to never again go on a date with a libertarian (“maximum freedom, minimum government” is apparently the only way to live).

I drove home from Urban Eatery (sorry, valet man, I’ll get you next time!) perplexed, but undaunted and happy to be a not-angry person. Back in my perky, colorful apartment, I wiped off my weekday-casual smokey-eye makeup, unzipped my cowboy-inspired boots, swept up my hair and poured myself into pajamas. Not quite satisfied with the sriracha edamame we ordered (even though it’s exquisite), I pulled out crackers and Dubliner cheese, bebopped to Foster the People and cracked open A Short History of Nearly Everything, a favorite book I’m rereading once again. No complaints here!

Even though my waistband is expanding and my pocketbook is shrinking — both at alarming rates, I might add — every new date is still a learning experience. And if one or two make me fully appreciate my Singledom, I can still smile.

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Thirteen: The Case of the Serious Mismatch

I am flummoxed, cantankerous and somewhat disillusioned about my matchmaker’s most recent pick of the crop. Having met me in person and listened to a singular diatribe of feedback on my previous 12 or so dates, my ladies who (it’s just) lunch exasperated me with their choice in Jeff…

…Who HUNTS MOUNTAIN LIONS, lives in ALBERTVILLE, which is approximately 45.76 miles from anything remotely awesomesauce, LOVES the win-less Vikings, has NO urge for worldly travel and speaks in an energy-less mOnOtone about his landscaping business. Not to mention that Jeff was slightly to moderately zaftig and glabrous. (That’s a nice clever sneaky way of saying he was overweight and on the verge of a severe balding attack. Don’t hate me.)

The date had so much potential, too, despite the fact that it took place at P.F. Chang’s in Maple Grove, which is approximately and scientifically (I’ve measured) the most furtherest location possible from where I work. Dressed to the nines in the perfect fall dress from Banana Republic’s Mad Men collection, ultra-fresh-for-autumn Essie pewter nail polish and a new Coach clutch, I had a mind brimming with NPR stories and the latest in new music — and was pumped for a night out.

Determined to rid myself of the horrible habit of assuming exactly everything in the metro area is ten minutes away, I slid onto the highway a good fifteen minutes from T-time. (I still arrived ten minutes late after a wrong turn, but don’t worry about it.)

Jeff and I split greasy, faux Asian apps and jumped from conversation topic to conversation topic in hopes of landing on safe, neutral ground. He was ambivalent to my cries for environmentally-friendly permeable driveways and rain gardens, and shrugged off my accusations regarding his murderous hunting habits. Don’t get me wrong — it went both ways. He had no response to my comments on Steve Jobs (legend), Occupy Wall Street (inspiring), Obama’s jobs plan (needed), the latest version of National Geographic on orphan baby elephants (heartbreaking) or the new Jayhawks album (dreamy).

Erudite and bow-tied-bedecked philosophers will often remind us that life ’tis the journey, not the destination. But, I daresay, sirs, that this is wholly inapplicable to the subject of love. In the dear, sweet, verdant land of 10,000 lakes, I’m slowly sharpening my belief that the smart, handsome, passionate, cultured, hilarious, single thirtysomething Twin Citian gentleman is near dinosaur-like extinction. (Side note: Please feel free to go ahead and prove me wrong.) But, on the hopeful, sunshiny days, I stay true to my belief that if I am patient, open and kind, I will one day tap my toes and Mr. Wonderful will be there at my beckoning — equipped for my idiosyncratic personality and complicated, bleeding heart.

But, hey, that’s just about enough curmudgeonry for one sitting. I shan’t lose sight of the greater things in life — family, peace, equality and superbeautiful fresh flower arrangements — and will tuck myself into my pillow-top, heavenly bed with The Shipping News, the Cults and the ever-hopeful promise of tomorrow.

XOXO