Friday, November 12, 2010

Revival of the Dating Experiment? And Yet Another Fun Date Story.

Ahhh yes. The dating experiment. The one that lasted for about three weeks before my pool of eligible bachelors dried up and my "one date a week" goal died before it even got its legs. A very sad story, if I do say so myself.

I've actually been on a couple dates in the last month or so, but I haven't written much about them. Let's discuss The Girly Man. We haven't talked about him yet. Ohhh, TGM.

He was a guy who lives in the area near where I work. That's fine, I'm there every day, so it's not like the distance was too far. We emailed a bit, then exchanged numbers, did the text dating thing, and finally set up a happy hour time to meet. I knew from his pictures that he was pretty cute, and from his profile and our emails, I knew that he had a steady, stable job, his own house, and dogs. So far so good.

We met at a restaurant, where of course I arrived early and got a glass of wine (What up, happy hour! $2.50 for a very generous pour? Yes please!). He arrived, awkwardly hugged me when I stood up (I'm a hugger, not a hand-shaker), and sat down next to me at the bar. The bartender came over and he ordered.............a glass of water. I took a big slug of my wine.

A few minutes later, we decided on a couple of appetizers and he decided to go ahead and order a big boy drink. He ordered.............a Michelob ULTRA. Oh yes, not a less wimpy beer like a Sam Adams, or a Stella, or a Miller Lite. No, a Mich Ultra. Was this red flag #2? No matter for this spinster, I stuck it out.

The evening went along fine, conversation was fine and not all that awkward. He walked me to my car, gave me an awkward hug, and we went on our merry ways. To be fair, his pictures were relatively accurate, so I can't complain about that. Cute, but not hot. And he was a genuinely nice guy, really.

Another series of texting began, during which time he proceeded to call me "sweet" several times. I've been accused of being a lot of things but for the love of GOD, I am not sweet. Not a sweetheart, not a sweetie, not anything that sounds remotely sugary. I'm more of a smartass, a sarcastic little bugger who can occasionally be somewhat thoughtful. I. Am. Not. Sweet. Little girls with curly blonde pigtails and blue eyes are sweet.

No matter, I thought to myself. Why certainly I'll go out with him again! Which I did, the following weekend. I happened to be in his neck of the woods again, so I casually invited him to meet me at a party that evening. The party turned into a night on the town, and if my beer goggles calculated correctly, he consumed a total of.....TWO MICH ULTRAS. I consumed a total of all of the alcohol in Dayton.

But surely it has to get better than this, I thought. I can't quite remember, but I think it was actually the very next day, a Sunday, where I had placed myself firmly at my fave pub with my crew for Sunday football. It took some arm-twisting, but I dragged my hungover ass out in public and proceeded to spend the next 19 hours or so drinking with my buddies. (Fine, maybe 17 hours, whatever.) Which of course seemed like the perfect time to invite TGM to stop by.

In all honesty, I really just wanted to see how the guy would react to the situation. Here I am, in the middle of about five drunk, rowdy, not-very-small dudes. He showed up, someone bought him a real beer, and that was all he had. One beer. One tiny little beer.

We said good night.

I was headed out to Vegas shortly after that, but he did send me a few texts in the meantime. One of them said something like this:

"My tummy still tingles when my text message goes off and I think it might be you."

YOUR TUMMY TINGLES? That little blonde haired girl referenced above called, she wants her dialect back.

Another one went like this:

"I hope you're having a good night! TGM misses you!" Yeah, that's him, speaking in the third person.

CincySingleton thinks that was the last straw.

TGM made a few more attempts to get in touch after I got back from Vegas, but I had to let him go. Real men don't drink Mich Ultra and say "my tummy tingles." Unless they are drinking Mich Ultra at a tea party with tiny plastic mugs and their pinky fingers extended.


Anyway, the dating experiment might be back on track. We'll see. I have a few suitors on deck for next week after I get back from NYC, where I will be visiting for work, but also catching up with my fellow blogger from the open post below. Her shiny new blog can be found by clicking here. One of the suitors is Puerto Rican, and has an accent, and as you may already know, I am a sucker for accents.

As always, do two things for me. Go right, click follow, then share share share. And then email me if you have your own story.


  1. ONE upside to man who doesn't drink much (or hardly at all b/c we all now Mich Ultra has about as much alcohol as lemonade)is that he can always be your DD! No arguing about who's going to drive :)

  2. I'm the blonde-haired blue-eyed girl with pigtails that doesn't drink, but you make this guy sound like even I would turn him down.

  3. You are seriously hilarious! Who Knew?! :)
    I know a guy that I would love to hook you up with just for the humorous feedback I know we would receive.

  4. aah, you're not sweet, but polite; big difference. And, Mich Ultra?! Done, and done.

    He must drink more manly, drive more manly, and act more manly than you to be right for you.

    FYI, still in a vodka drought in LV.

  5. Damn, let's hope there's plenty of vodka, hot men, and hilarity awaiting my arrival in NYC!