Datebook

Bartending Singles Mixer: Minus the Bartending & the Eligible Singles

After a much needed Datebook vacation, I am officially back in business. I needed a breather to recover from Saturday’s much-anticipated singles, bartending function.

Let me first begin by saying, that I had fully prepared myself for the adventure that was Saturday evening. I figured that if I didn’t meet some fun singletons, I would at least learn to bartend. I think it would be fair to say that both goals were an epic fail.

Not only did I not meet anyone (a) Under 35 or (b) Any MEN over 5 foot 8, I also failed to learn to make any drink with more than 2 ingredients. Important to note also, was the lack of bartending. We were actually watching demo’s and then “mingling” with our drinks. I use the term “mingle” loosely as “mingling” suggests mutual conversation and  a vested interest in others…

Instead, the room was a mixed pot of strangers, all of whom seemed thoroughly unimpressed, scrounging to drink all the demo drinks they could get their hands on. I also use “get their hands on” loosely, as this would require hands to be free. I have never seen so many crossed arms and pocket diggers in my entire life. 

But, as with every good awkward situation, born is an opportunity to make an adventure. And that I did. 

Enter “Todd” the event coordinator: The apple of my eye for the evening and the only person off-bounds at the event. I think Todd was probably largely mediocre in both looks and personality, but compared to the rest of the room, he was George Clooney.

Sensing my discomfort, Todd was phenomenal at finding the extra demo drinks and sending them my way. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what love looks like… Unfortunately I will never know any more about Todd, as when the night drew near to an end, I ceased the opportunity to sneak away unseen (with my really tall shadow).

My really tall shadow, in fact, garnered what could be considered my small victory of the evening (at least for a bit). I officially discovered an underground city subculture, The Toronto Tall Club. A tall woman at the event (6ft), obviously not noticing my heels and sensing a common ground, approached me to chat. Literally, all I could think of as she was talking to me was how much of a giant I feel like in Toronto at 5 foot 9. How must she feel? Turns out, not great.

So as our conversation went on, I was officially invited to the Tall Club of TO. The TC is full of tall women and men looking for their tall match. The thing that was most interesting to me, was the fact that tall men would be desperately seeking tall women. Being increasingly buzzed and slowly losing my sensor, I just had to ask. Why, why, why?

Turns out, the answer is equal parts fascinating and hilarious. With an absolute straight face, tall girl looked at me and said, “Their necks… they hurt.” And that was that.

I really tried to keep the Lychee Martini in my mouth and not snort into my nose, but damn, it was tough. I was drowning on the inside.

If things ended here, I would have felt pretty good about being invited (at least symbolically, would never attend) to a secret society. The sad, sad truth however, is that the invite was soon retracted. As I got up from my stool, tall girl looked down at my feet in utter horror. With furrowed brow and bitter disappointment she looked accusingly at me and asked,

“How tall are you?”

“5 foot 9.” I replied enthusiastically.

 ”Oh. (insert dejection here) That’s too bad. Tall club is only for women 5 foot 10 and taller. Men must be 6 foot 2. It’s kind of our thing…”

And so just like that, the surface reason for my Datebook vacation. Rejection has been rampant these last few weeks but this really took the cake. I was officially rejected from a rejection club. Still nursing the wounds… 

A Giant Plate of Eager with a Side of Rejection…

So this week may have been the most fulfilling week professionally in a long time; It also may have been the biggest fail when it comes to personal life.

So to begin, I am on a strike after the “alleged” bootie call. Following the evening of the BC, I have refused to contact The Bachelor and not surprisingly, there has been no sign of him. I can only venture to guess that this is happening for one of two reasons:

1) He’s just not that into you (in this case ME) or,

2) He has contracted some sort of sexually transmitted disease post-bootie call and is waiting for the evidence to disappear.

For my own good, I am going to believe number 2. Some transmitted diseases surface from time to time and just won’t go away. They can also be distinguished by their blonde hair, pouty lips and perfectly manicured nails. I also have a disease tonight and it’s called JUDGMENTAL. 

Moving on. I finally agreed to meet up with the Eager Beaver, and boy was he eager. Such a nice guy with an incredible zest for life (and zest for nachos, which is much appreciated). I met EB at a Queen West pub where we had good conversation, some laughs but most importantly, no spark. We were like a wet campfire log on a rainy day. To light this fire, it would have taken either gasoline or a whole lot of tequila. Since you can’t be lit your entire dating life, this one was DOA.

I will never understand why some people look like such a good fit on paper but then lack that extra component. I want so badly to like the good guy for once, but it’s just not happening. Despite having a great time, I wasn’t about to force. It was a completely cordial sign off until the unthinkable happened: He rejected my rejection.

I really didn’t think I had to address the lack of chemistry on this particular night, but him saying “I really think we’re a good fit,” led me to believe otherwise. Because I believe in not burning bridges and just a general respect for other human beings, I explained I didn’t think we were a good match, in as nice of a way as possible.

Eager Beaver countered. Not only did he believe I was wrong, but believed it was wrong of me to make such a decision after only one date. This is tough because once you go on date two, there is some kind of an investment. If I know there’s no hope, this is senseless. Just like rejecting a rejection. Senseless.

After explaining that he did not agree and that in general people can grow to like one another, I expressed my feelings that this was not the case for me and that this x factor needed to be there. After all of this, he somewhat accepted (still not sure about this) and decided we should be friends instead. He decided this. Strangely, I accepted.

This entire experience has led me to believe that I have not only missed out on the chance to date the world’s most eager man, but that I have also missed out on living my life with a man I believe will make hundreds of thousands in sales one day- the guy is incredibly persuasive. Some other girl is incredibly lucky - I truly believe EB will meet his eager match very soon.

Until next time… 

Sunday Night, Date Night…

This past Saturday went by uneventful and so the blog was also silenced. After Thursday/Friday of last week I was feeling rather “dated” (oh pun, a funny for my friend Kat). Saturday I heard briefly from The Jock but I think overall that connection has mutually died. I wouldn’t be against going out again, but I’m also feeling a bit uninspired (nice as he is).

To even all of this testosterone out, Sunday began as the day of Estrogen. My sister’s baby shower took place with more tits and ass in one room than I’d like to encounter again for a while. Overall it was typical: A drunk aunt, an anti-social aunt, far too much vagina and birth canal talk and to top it all off, an ass-ugly hat made of present bag bows. I haven’t quite figured out this tradition, but I think symbolically it represents the fact that you’ll be with one man for the rest of your life (and crying baby). 

Sunday aft as the party started wrapping up, I heard from The Bachelor. After much back and forth regarding plans, we settled on a Sunday evening flick. TB arrived in his snazzy vehicle, a black, shiny, worth-more-than-my-life SUV type and actually came to the door (note: this is a gentleman’s move).

The evening progressed with many more gentleman moves. First of all, he treated. This is not necessary as I’m not particularly traditional, but at the same time, it’s much appreciated. He held doors, led me with his hand on the small of my back (insert owwww owwww cat-call here) and just overall looked, listened and absorbed our chats (or pretended to, rather efficiently).

The Hangover 2 is horrible (worth noting) but was a nice light-hearted date movie for a Sunday night. Afterwards we had a good chat outside and shared some AMC-friendly PDA. 

Carrying forward his gentlemanly manners, The Bachelor walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight. I would like to say this ended happily, but there is unfortunately more. So remember when I doubted myself and how I would fit with this good-looking, charming man? And remember how I then got over these feelings when he won me over on not one, but two dates? (Sigh)

This morning I awoke to an unfortunate text.

Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m looking too much into this, but I read the following:

10:30pm “What time do you work until tonight?” followed by “Sorry that wasn’t for you ha”

The theory: The Bachelor accidently sent me a bootie call. Texts after 10 on a Tuesday night… Who works late at night? Bartenders work late at night. It’s all coming together. I am willing to look past this and hope that my theory is ridiculous, but based on experience I would be kidding myself.

It’s been only a couple of dates with TB and I’m certainly not his gf so I don’t expect exclusivity. That being said, Monday bootie calls are a sign of character traits that will never change; character traits that just aren’t gentlemanly. (Second, longer sigh)

Part II: Irish Patios, Dock Adventures (& lack of blogging as a result)

So let’s say hypothetically I was keeping up with the blog this week. Enter Friday, during the day:

There’s some back and forth texting with The Bachelor and all signs point to a potential second date. I am also going to meet up with The Jock tonight for our first date. As mentioned previously, TJ takes initiative and I am definitely excited about this one.

We meet at a central meeting point and cab it to the docks. I’m pretty comfortable around him from the get-go and he playfully chirps my voice, a result of a work event after the date with The Bachelor last night. It’s a Joss Stone-Macy Grey (sp?) hybrid and I am not proud of it. It is however, a good ice breaker (which is convenient).

When we get to the docks, some jerk tells us we can’t hit balls as the range closes at 6:30pm. So let me get this straight, a driving range closes at 6:30pm on a Friday evening, the time at which most are just getting home from work? Righttttttt.

TJ takes the news hard and is pretty rattled. I on the other hand, think I might still stand a chance. My golf swing really is as bad as having an oozy zit on my forehead. It’s a repellent, and I have avoided a brush with game-over.

We decide to sit and have some drinks instead. He doesn’t judge me for ordering vodka H20 and expresses that it’s his drink of choice too. Fab. The view is spectacular but the crowd is a bit strange and everyone seems to be eating pre-cut watermelon. We choose to ignore and stick out like sore thumbs until the third round of drinks.

The bartender suddenly asks if we’re “with corporate”. We look at her like she is the online dating mutant and neither of us has anything intelligent to say. She informs us we are crashing a corporate party and we proceed to ask that she give us a last drink anyways. Everyone wins and she gives us the damn drink.

A moral of this story, Toronto really needs to work on utilizing this amazing waterfront. Being rejected twice on a date before it’s even over is a new thing for both of us and doesn’t bode well for future dates down at the docks…

Another point to consider here is that tons of space is geared towards a drive-in theatre. I know I’m getting off-topic here but TJ and I both decided, drive-ins are weird. Are people there to makeout in their cars? I can think of nothing worse than going to watch Bradley Cooper onscreen and seeing some random guy’s hairy ass parked front-row instead. But that my friends, is besides the point.

Back to TJ. We have good conversation and I love that he comes from a family with no sisters. This is convenient for me moving forward with any relationship, as I like sports and already have a sister and sister-in law. At the end of the day it’s far easier to get along with guys than bitchy sisters. I was that sister - who isn’t? Girls are judgmental by nature, it’s what makes us street smart.

We end our date as the sun sets, which may be symbolic of this relationship. Just kidding! We both said we’d like to meet again which could have just been a convenient expression in goodbye conversation. I feel like all dates end the same whether you’re meeting again or not.

I would like to say the story ends here but I ended up meeting up with a girlfriend and proceeding to grab some drinks. At some point in the night I decided texting would be a good idea and may or may not have contacted The Bachelor. Nothing bad was said and in fact, there was discussion surrounding a second date. However, I would never recommend drunk texting before a third date has been carried out… I think it’s dating suicide.

I may have put the nail in the coffin on this one, but I really don’t regret it. If you can’t put up with my drunk texts, you probably can’t put up with me… period. TBC’ed: Should be interesting…

Part I: Irish Patios, Dock Adventures (& lack of blogging as a result)

This week was the week of extraordinary gentlemen. It was also the week of extraordinary busyness.

Having strategically secured a couple of top priorities for dates (The Jock, a 30-something marketing professional & self-proclaimed patio whore, as well as The Bachelor) I was able to sit back and let things fall into place.

Wednesday night The Jock called which scored points on many levels: 1) We haven’t particularly talked that much on the site, so this guy clearly has balls, 2) The phone conversation was actually fluid (sans white noise) and 3) His initiative didn’t stop at the call… he proceeded to offer up plans for Friday. Impressive.

Thursday we talk concrete plans and he suggests driving range at the docks. This is a great date suggestion as golfing is something I’m horrible at. My backswing is about as sexy as my lap-dances, so if he finds me attractive after this, it’s a big step.

In the meantime, The Bachelor also comes up big on Thursday. He calls after work and suggests we meet up for drinks. Up until this point, this guy has been a complete mystery. He seems interested and we talk intermittently, but things have been moving slooooowwwwly. This isn’t a huge problem but at the same time, if we meet and are repulsed, serious time and effort has been wasted.

Most awkward entrance of life: He’s already sitting on the patio and I have to go into the restaurant perplexed and say I’m looking for somebody. This is fun because the girls now know I’m an online dating mutant. I proceed to do the walk of shame outside to him. The Bachelor is strapping and as I get up to hug him I’m overjoyed that even 4 inch heels would be appropriate (walking in these heels would be a different story).

TB is incredibly adventurous: He cooks, he explores and above all, is incredibly intelligent. We go back and forth with questions and all the while I kick myself for previous evaluations and assumptions I had made.  There is something incredibly intriguing about somebody who can teach you and expose you to things you’ve never encountered. Whether The Bachelor is the guy to do this or not, I know this is a direction I’d like to go in.

Perhaps my absolute favourite thing about TB is the fact he grew up surrounded by women. He didn’t jump off a cliff through these experiences and additionally came out with a greater appreciation for the female population. It is quite obvious that he is caring and genuine and I look forward to perhaps meeting again.

As for red flags, he’s a Scorpio. What are the chances?

Poor Grammar & The Vertically Challenged…

This is going to be an incredibly shallow and superficial blog entry. Prepare yourself.

There are some reoccurring issues that it has come time to face. I can’t help that these are deal breakers for me and perhaps in face-to-face interactions they wouldn’t be. Due to the absence of that magical wonder of “physical chemistry” in online dating (OD) first encounters, the following are proving to be large barriers in my consideration of potential dates:

1) Poor Grammar: Your, You’re, There, Their, Two, Too, & To. These all seem to be particularly challenging for a great deal of the OD population. I’m willing to look past the odd slip - we all make mistakes and particularly when it comes to texting and auto-correct, things happen. That being said, poor grammar makes me cringe about as much as a guy chewing with his mouth open (eating mac and cheese with ketchup on it). This is something I need to work on.

2) The Vertically Challenged: I am tall. It took me a long time to come to terms with being taller than the average woman. I’m only 5 foot 9 but in photos with shorter people, I always look like some wooly mammoth from the ice ages. In the average bathroom stall, if I am wearing heels, I can see over the door. This makes me feel like a freak and frankly, bathroom engineering should take this into consideration. I am stubborn and won’t give up my love of shoes, so unfortunately I’ve had to give up my love of men 5 foot 9 and under.

This is shallow, I have accepted this. But in defending myself, I’d like to express my thoughts about being with a man shorter than me: Consider walking down the street with your shorter date. You come across a dangerous individual with a penchant for kicking people’s asses. You look to your man to defend you but realize he is hiding (fully) in your large and in charge shadow. The perp is much larger than your shadow. Perp wins every time.

Consider when you, as two loving individuals, want to hug one another. Maybe it’s just me, but when I hug my man I’d rather his head not be nestled into my chest. The touching moment has now been ruined as the man-in-question is now a motor-boatin’ son of a… you get the point.

And lastly, consider entering any public place and looking like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, minus the Scientology. I heard at one point that Tom made Katie take her shoes off and squat for their wedding photos. This is grounds for divorce.

There are enough things for a woman to deal with when getting dressed every morning. Factoring in your partners height is added bullshit. I want no part of this…

Some Food For Thought…

Perhaps it was the rainy weather and uninspiring work week, but I’ve just realized how shitty and depressing my last post was. Evidently I do have feelings and emotions; it’s an important step on the journey of self-discovery when you realize you’re not a single and emotionally-stunted individual. Just single.

So with The Bachelor situation, I’ve really turned the corner. We’re chatting about meeting up and my self-worth has heightened to the point where I’m thinking of telling him to beat it if he sends me another pic through text.

I’m all for non-traditional communication, but that sexy cyber Bachelor can only be entertaining for so long. I’m also starting to feel like some guys think they can send you three pictures of themselves and it counts as three dates. Next thing you know they’re gonna expect the three date rule to apply (which I’m already fully convinced was masterminded by some condom company).

The non-traditional communication approach also has the potential to escalate fast. Yes, the digital age has taken us by storm, but no, sexting before marriage is still not a good idea: People still run home crying when their boobies show up on their boss’s RSS feed. No sympathy here people.

There are a couple other potential projects on the horizon for the next couple of weeks, none of whom appear to be the Datingsite Killer (read a Toronto newspaper from this week if you’re drawing a blank)…

We’ve got The Novelist (an online marketing specialist whose dating profile is more reading than I’ve done in the last year) as well as WIP (work in progress), who admits his taste in music is pretty much cliche but he’s 6 foot 2 and plays guitar. 

The aforementioned potentials might make for some interesting dates. The Novelist might be more eager and enthusiastic than I am, which is one part hilarious but might also mean he’s a) a manic-depressive individual and currently in his manic state or b) his mom believed in holistic medicine and didn’t ever fill his prescription for Ritalin.

WIP, on the other hand, probably has the most uninspiring profile writeup I’ve encountered thus far. When I read it I want to make the international boring sound effect (Wahhn Wahhhhh Waaahhhhhhhn) but don’t as I really think he might just be shy? Optimism. Word of the week.

Updates soon…

The Underdog…

I have an admission to make, and it’s a disgustingly honest and vulnerable thought. I haven’t even met The Bachelor, and I already feel like the underdog.

It’s not that he’s out of my league, as after age 20 I feel social streamlining looks less like a pyramid of “worth” and more like a pie of subgroups: ie. hipsters date hipsters, suits date suits, and people in insurance, date other liars. All equal in their own way, but unlikely to mix with other pieces of pie…

I honestly just feel that I don’t fit into the construct of what he might deem appropriate. In fact, nothing about me is appropriate. I laugh when I shouldn’t, I say “MMmmmm” when something is delicious and perhaps most embarassing, I am unable to identify which utensil to use for which item of food at an upscale restaurant (actually on an expensive plate of food, I probably can’t establish what IS food).

In comparison, It’s quite clear he has an established career, several groups of friends with apartments that smell of rich mahogany, and a favourite hotspot list that looks like the to-do list of some A-list Toronto celebrity (D-list in Hollywood). He wears fitted v-neck t’s and his jeans might be worth more than my life.

Aside from the monetary differences, there’s also the fact that he’s a seasoned Toronto vet. I am just beginning to find my way in a city where I still think everything is awesome. He listens to the coolest alternative bands, and I’m happy to listen to the acoustic the homeless guy is playing on the street corner.

Do opposites really attract? I feel that’s what Moms tell you when you’re an awkward, ugly teenager… giving you hope that JTT will finally look up from the poster on your wall and tell you you’re his soulmate. 

I’ve done the worst thing possible… giving this guy a story and “vision of grandeur” in my head. I’ve let him - without him doing/saying anything - make me feel inferior. At the end of the day, he’s just a piece of pie.

Most pie is good, though you may have your favourite flavours and toppings. So, while I might not be The Bachelors piece of pie (whatever happens) somebody else will dig my flavour - and inappropriate crust.

You win some, you lose some…

So here’s the truth. I have not heard from TD&H (The Humanitarian) since our date Sunday (He’s busy saving small children, waitresses and models). All kidding aside here, when 3 days pass since your “first/last” date and you have heard nothing, move on. Move on to something even more delicious and less Scorpio… such as “The Bachelor.”

The Bachelor is a strapping, 6 foot 5 piece of witty excellence. His lead in when contacting me was our common profession of advertising. (Sidenote: I will now refer to myself as a professional, as I am officially employed. This does not mean I will cease to date for food anymore, as the salary is still lean)

A couple of days have passed and I still have no real idea of what he does in relation to the industry or where he works. This is partially because the entire advertising industry is on this dating site and, being such a small world, nobody really wants to let their coordinates slip. Why this flock of advertising professionals online? Perhaps it’s the long hours or our shared flaw of being fascinated by the next bright, shiny thing.

The Bachelor is a bright, shiny thing. Unless his profile lies, he’s a smart cookie. He has his masters and is a technically sound 27 years of age. The gap in years between us is legal, sans creepy and people on the street wouldn’t look at us and question. 

Perhaps his biggest upside so far, is his claim to be done with the King St. bimbos: Blonde, ridiculously good-looking, fantastic bods and fabulous purses. Shortcomings of this species are said to include substance, personality and any trace of “intellectual” under that perfectly highlighted hair of theirs. My highlights in comparison include, getting drunk easy (on cheap wine), low expectations and lots of laughs.

A possible date for this week being planned as we speak. To be continued…

TD&H, Date #1…

So let me first say, the day date is the way to go. Both TD&H and myself had solidified a “leaving excuse”, should the date not go well. Enter our restaurant of choice at a mutual meeting point…

Something that will take some time to get used to, is entering a restaurant completely unaware of what awaits.

I arrived at the meeting point early and killed some time so I could be second to enter destination. This is crucial, as arriving second makes you look like you’re the one that cares less. This is important if things are “off”, as you’ve already established that the ball is in your court.

Cue awkward moment #1: There is nothing more uncomfortable then entering a restaurant and saying you’re looking for [insert name here], when it’s obvious you don’t have a fucking clue. The waitress, clearly establishing this is some sort of blind/online date, guides me to where I should be.

 Awkward moment #2: The introduction hug. This is the peak of uncomfortable and involves hugging the person like you’ve known them forever. This is important as otherwise onlookers red-flag the situation as blind and proceed to watch your every bite and word uttered. Note to onlookers: If you ever notice people might be on a blind/online date, refrain from watching them eat. Nothing good is going to come of this.

The Good: TD&H was exactly as advertised. Looked the same, talked the same (perhaps somewhat better than expected) and was above all, a gentleman. Our waitress spilled her tray of waters on the table next to us  and we both proceeded to kill ourselves laughing. On top of this, when said waitress approached our table with teary eyes, TD&H made a remark which not only made her feel better, but cracked both her and I up. Any guy who can treat a waitress with that kind of dignity and warm-heartedness, is a win in my books.

The Bad: TD&H, perhaps not purposely, mentioned he’s dated some models. This is tough when a) We’re out eating a hearty brunch (key word, eating) and b) I don’t resemble a model. This could be a red flag.

The Ugly: Tall, Dark and Handsome spoke openly about his love of volunteering, particularly taking a young kid under his wing and mentoring him weekly. This is ugly because first of all, my advertising job does zero good for the world. In addition, I don’t do any volunteering and am therefore, lesser of a human being. Secondly, it’s pretty well-known among people close to me, I suck with kids. There’s no beating around the bush here, as a youngest child I wasn’t exposed to “little people” and am therefore handicapped in this area. 

I don’t know if anyone was counting strikes, but I think I’m out…

This all being said, I’m 1 for 1 on online dates. This guy was charming, contributed a couple of solid hours of intellectual conversation and wasn’t especially Scorpio-like. To be continued… (or not)