So, had me some hott dates these past few weeks.
That’s right – after waking up one too many times from that very intense reoccurring dream where I am a frail old lady putzing around my Victorian home in my shawl opening the cat food whereby I accidentally cut myself on the tin and I pass out from the site of all the blood, only to lay unconscious for hours bleeding to death and no one finds my cold dead body for a month and by that time the cats have taken to nibbling my ears and toes for nourishment – I decided maybe it was okay to let my friends set me up with those fellas they have been mentioning for years – the single ones they just KNEW would be perfect for me.
So, you know – hott dates.
That is if you consider
a. Jokes about communism
b. Retirement plans and
c. Comprehensive scolding on why backing up your computer’s hard-drive is crucial
You know, hott date conversation.
And don’t get me wrong – all of these things rank Very Important. And I shouldn’t be so harsh, because after all – he is a really nice guy and everything. Excellent education. Good job. Homeowner. No criminal record (of which he speaks – though I am sure should I pursue this I could probably get him to admit some crafty tax-evasion or something).
You know, all really solid, excellent things.
So, you know, we went out a handful of times without incident. I pattered along and smiled and talked 401 (k), the economy, Dubya, all that. It was err, nice.
I mean, I am not a super-genius, but I can hold my own. But only for so long people. How many jokes about logarithms can one girl stand in a matter of time?
And so as a last ditch effort at - I dunno – loosening up - last night I suggested we go see Old School then maybe have a drink. Or seven.
You know, Old School – it’s got all the makings of extremely lowbrow post-movie viewing conversation. T&A! Will Farrell Naked jokes! A WILSON brother for crying out loud!
And yeah, it went well. The movie was hysterical. Surely, there would be lots to talk about! So afterwards, I started off with something simple like, “Yeah, I love the Wilson brothers – they are hysterical.” Then I went into some dull yadda yadda about Wes Anderson.
Which led to this response from said suitor: “yes! I love trivia. How many digits of Pi can you recite from memory? I used to have it down to 34 places.”
No. I am not kidding.
Again, not so much a joke as a final concrete epiphany: time to let this fish swim along.
But it is okay. He is a very nice guy – and I know in the grand scale of things my little trivial pursuits of Wes Anderson and the likes are not exactly important, the fact that I smoke and like loud rock shows is not exactly endearing to a lot of people, I am not a hottie McHotPants who can be all picky and choosy and stuff, but you know, if I am one thing – I am a realist.
The boy doesn’t like beer, y’all.
It was doomed from the start.
That and well, like I said, we’d been out a handful of times and the way things were going, well, the next millennium would roll around before he’d put-out.
So clearly, I need to end things.
But don’t cry for me diaryland! I’ve got another fella lined up for later this week. He likes beer. He knows all about The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. He likes the rock and roll. He reads other things than New Scientist.
Unlike the very-nice-but totally incompatible Pi Guy – we have some superficial things in common.
And also, you know, he’s a musician.
And everyone knows musicians are totally easy.
So yeah, things are shaping up, here.
Have yourselves a lovely week.