Animal Hater

So I had a nice conversation with a woman from a dating site.   She seemed fascinated by my involvement in the Portland food world.   She complimented my writing and was asking all sorts of questions.  After a date with a vegan who told me she became a vegan because she hated food, it was refreshing to me that someone would know about Toro Bravo and ask questions about different good restaurants in Portland.  She even knew some of the chef's names.

We agreed to a date at the place she suggested--the Rhododendron Gardens, where I had never been to before.  She said she would bring some wine if I would bring some cheese and crackers.  Fun enough.

Drove through crappy rush hour traffic.  Arrive at the gardens.  Woops.  Here was another one whose pictures were obviously not current.  She warned me about that.  OK, oh well.  We're walking down a path, and she asks if I want to sit on a bench overlooking one of the ponds.  The 6 oclock heat and sun were basking that area, so I asked if we could find some shade.  Next bench was on another pond, not really in the shade, but at least facing east.  It didn't really appeal to me, but she sat down and starting yapping.  Before you know it, there were people and ducks everywhere. (It was kind of hard to tell her voice from the quacks.)   I felt extremely claustrophobic, and suggested a bench about 100 feet to our left that at least seemed out of the main flow of traffic.  It had some shade, too.  She sort of grudgingly agreed to move.   Warning sign.

We moved all our crap and again, she hit the ground running talking about the gardens, where she liked to travel, her thoughts on a number of topics.  Once in a while she would talk about something and then quickly slam me with a "so how do you feel about that?"   I really had no opinion.  I was told about how fascinating gypsies where... their marital rituals.   "How do you feel about that?"   I really don't give a fuck.  Then I was told that I should have my kids see some movie about those rituals.  When I simply suggested that my kids would never ever agree to sit and watch that movie with me (nor would I care to watch it), I was told I am not exposing my kids (they're 20 and 23 now) to enough of the world.   By the way, she has no kids.

I got a few reading suggestions about gypsies, and was told why I should find this fascinating.    Then, she began to talk about how much she loved animals and proceeded to feed the ducks the crostinis I brought.  "Lucky ducks, getting $5 crostinis from New Seasons," I said.   "I really have no tolerance for animal haters" was her response.   She then proceeded to pet the ducks (I am not a germophobe, but she was using that same hand to hold the salami I brought to cut it).  She was now talking to them... "Oh you cutie... is that big one over there mean to you?  I'll take care of you... " She told me how she used to make out with her late cats, and even while she was on the phone, if one of them came up to her she would talk to the cat and tell the party on the line to hold on a minute.  I told her I had no tolerance for women who couldn't tell their kids they were on the phone and not to interrupt, much less a cat.  I wonder if this further qualified me for animal hater status.   Or even a child abuser.

I told her how much I love my dog.  "Well, at least you have that going for you."

When asked, I told her I'd never been to the Chinese Garden.  I was told that was a "tragedy" and was asked to explain how I could live here for seven years and never have been.  Plus, how could I not expose my kids to that garden?  I told her I wasn't averse.  I just hadn't been.  "Aren't you interested in nature?" she said.  I said I spend a lot of my time going to the coast with my dog.  At least 2 or 3 times a month.   She said she hadn't been out there in three years, but that it was weird that I hadn't been to the Chinese gardens.

Then this.  "What cultures are you most curious about?"   I couldn't really come up with much.  I mentioned I liked Europe but hadn't been thinking about travel lately.. just trying to get my kids through college and trying to survive.  I felt like I was in a fucking women's book club meeting and couldn't get out.

The conversation flowed where I actually got to talk.  I proferred that a lot of fucked up people in the world with these rituals don't think they're fucked up, just like dishonest people don't think they're dishonest.  Then I suggested even the two of us might think our views of the world make perfect sense, but that to others we might be really out there.  It's all a matter of subjectivity.  She assured me that she had enough confirmation from others that she was of sound mind and her views of the world were grounded.   

If I got to talk, she would argue with me about my view and then somehow end up making my point at the end.  I wondered why she couldn't just say, "ha."   Or nothing.  I told her it felt like she was battling me.

"Quick!  Don't think!  Name five things that you're really good at.  That you're an expert at!  Not being a father or anything to do with food, though."   I hemmed and hawed.  I spit out that I was a decent writer.  "Come on!  What else do you have passion for or like to do."    I am great at US and Oregon geography, I guess.   "That's good!"   Baseball?  She rolled her eyes.  I said I really didn't feel like playing this game.   She then reeled off a bunch of shit she was interested in, "fencing," "Kayaking," starving kids somewhere... and went with this:  "May I tell you what I think is wrong with you?  Usually the piece that is missing with men is the sensitivity and the heart.  You have all that in spades.  You are thoughtful and sweet.  You're missing something else."

"I really don't see the point of your evaluation of me.  You don't know me and why do women insist on giving me their evaluations of me on a date?  This is no fun."    

"Oh, what do THEY say?"

"Fuck, I really don't want a date to be a series of hoops and challenges."  I said.

She got up, gave me a hug and said it was nice to meet me and wished me a great night, and walked away up the path.   Damn.  I wished I had done that first.  But no worries.  It was finally over.

I was left there with ducks quacking and pecking at me, looking for more crostini.   I was amused at how much they were like her.  But that was enough.  I slowly walked to my car.  By the time I got to the parking lot, she was long gone.  I smiled.

You can't write this shit.  

The Dating Game 2008 AD. D

When I was married for 18 years I viewed anyone who had gotten divorced as flawed, because his or her marriage didn't make it.   When I got divorced I viewed anyone who had been single for over 10 years as suspect because I thought it must be virtually impossible not to fall into a relationship in that period of time--one that would stick, anyway.

Now that I've passed the 10-year mark, after having employed almost every avenue available in this internet age toward the pursuit of meeting the second woman of my dreams, I view most marriages and relationships with a jaded eye.  Most of the married people my age or older have confided in me that if they suddenly found themselves thrust into the single world, as I was, they wouldn’t marry again.  (Interestingly enough, it’s mostly the women who say that). 

What a great syndrome!  To whom can I look and envy?  And worse, what's the next landmark?  

Now this realization:  When I do meet someone, whether I am interested or not, I try to play it safe and don’t tip my hat to my feelings, in the rare case in which there happens to be any.  If she demonstrates the least bit of standoffishness I immediately do the same thing to protect myself from the drama of getting too interested and subsequently disappointed.  My friend Andrea, whom I met at an 8 Minute Dating thing five years ago, put forth the theory that “it’s OK for me not to like you, but it’s not OK for you not to like me”.  So in essence people who date are often looking to be the first to fold and move to the next table rather than go all in.  It’s a simple matter of ego damage prevention.  So is this the reason so many of us are single far beyond the time we thought we would be, and are we on our way to a lifetime of being single?

Is it not an utter irony that we live in an age where single people are easier to find than ever before but connecting with them on a real level seems less likely than ever?   Is it because it’s too easy to give up on any one person because we know there are other options out there?  If PortlandFullOWit (or so she thinks) doesn’t work out there are 392 other women on Match.com alone in my age group whose faces appear when I set a 50-mile radius from my zip code in the search engine.  Some faces I’ve seen so many times they feel like cousins by now. 

I wonder in this game of dating where the old-fashioned chase comes into play.  If everyone plays defense is it possible to score?

Of course, in order to make the decision to actively pursue someone, heightened interest is required.  Truth is it's very rare that I am so attracted that I really care.  Is this a matter of getting older and the general age pool in which I trawl? 

The older we get the less attractive most of us are and the more complicated anything beyond a coffee meeting and dinner becomes.   As a single full-time father of two sons, meeting someone else who is raising her kids isn’t that appealing.  First, there are the logistics of romance when each house has kids taking up a considerable amount of square footage (and attention).   They’re staying inside doing what they do with their friends electronically rather than outside the way we were when we were kids.  We were in the woods, at someone else's house, or in a Toyota.  Now with them home this often leaves US in the Toyota-- to make-out, or worse--more advanced pursuits.  I thought those days were in my past, but alas I actually find myself making out in cars at the age of 50.  This is especially disconcerting when one realizes that between my date and me our kids are occupying something like a million dollars worth of real estate but we have nowhere to neck. 

Beyond first dates looking at the possibility of a relationship there’s the issue of kids.  The idea of co-mingling kids simply because two parents think they are compatible?  Uh-uh.  Of course, my years of experience have me understanding that it’s beyond an educated guess that women I meet who have kids or have kids who've moved out aren’t any more interested in mine than I am in theirs.  Then the big one: the trust issue the breakup of my marriage left me as a beautiful parting gift—always thinking in the back of my mind that there’s got to be something wrong with this seemingly wonderful woman.  Any hints of unattractive behavior aren't met with much forgiveness.  Like disposable razors, once they’re dull we throw them out.

When I was 20 I would have aggressively tried to persuade any young lass that being with me was the best thing she could do short of scoring Led Zeppelin tickets. In fact, I did a bit of that as a means to marry the future mother of my children. That lasted 18 years.  That’s about 300 times longer than any relationship I’ve had since I’ve been an internet dating junkie.

Just this past weekend I had a date with a woman named Kim whom I met at a speed dating event five days earlier.  On our “second date” she told me she had recently used “The Secret” to send a message to the universe that she wanted to find a fun, smart guy for a relationship.  After all, she'd been single six years. The universe responded to her with the first round of contestants to vie for the title of her fun, smart guy.  Five of them from that event, to be exact, she informed me.  I was her third date in 24 hours.  She was my second.

Our date was one of my favorites ever.  The night included a combination of mussels, beer and laughs at a pub we discovered walking on Nob Hill to sharing a triple chocolate cake at Papa Haydn, culminating with a severely romantic drive to and long parking stop at Crown Point overlooking the city and the Columbia Gorge in the evening air.  We followed all this up with witty and fun Emails and text messages from the moment we said goodbye, continuing over the next 12 hours. She texted me the next morning, "What a nite!"  Surely better than the average date.

And yet two hours after that, out of the blue, I got the “I like to take it slowly, and don’t take it personally” Email.  I know that Email well because I’ve written it so many times before.  And usually mine is sent when my interest needle begins to slowly creep down into the disinterested zone.  Or sometimes the needle just jerks unexpectedly.  It can happen for any number of reasons, known or unknown, and at any time.  Kim went on to explain in the Email that she wanted "time to explore all her options" (Now I was someone’s “option!” How fortunate! Would she introduce me that way if she ran into a friend on one of our dates, I wondered?  "This is Chris, one of my current options.  Whaddya think?”).  She also went on to say that she did “totally look forward to our next adventure”.   Now that I’d now been officially been thrown into the pool as an option in her adventure I felt like a contestant in the dating version of Survivor.  Further, the way we kissed and caressed on Crown Point for a heavenly hour surely should have earned me an immunity idol.  "Wait," I thought to myself.  "How did I suddenly find myself a contestant in HER game?"

Of course my first inclination was to make sure she knew I had my own game show going on on my own network.  “Explore away.  And I shall do the same.  But keep me a breast--or both”, I wrote, throwing in a softening agent to the ego-saving statement that I, too, had options.  Truth is I didn’t feel like pursuing any apparent options I had.  I found myself having a more spirited interest than usual in Kim.  Her laugh and eyes completely melted me into state of defenselessness, and found myself wanting to cup her face and hold her.

  

Yet she fell back into the pattern that will result in both of us missing whatever possibility existed for us.  Most likely she’ll spend a week or two exhausting her current options and be right back where she started—our night just a memory rather than a stepping stone—sending another message into the universe, somewhere up there with mine.  

And for me, now that Kim broke her disclaimer to me first, any possibility of my actively pursuing her quickly went by the wayside.  Just two days later, the giddiness and the excitement I felt driving home from the best date I’d had in ages?  Gone.  The pace of expressive and enticing Emails and text messages?   Gone.  In fact, days after our rather freewheeling and fun barrage of thoughtful electronic and live exchanges, I got the death knell Email when I finally did ask her if she was free this weekend.  Two lines indicating she wasn’t, ending with "Have a good one!"  She had apparently found a better option.  For now.

Where exactly is all this organized dating getting us?  In my parents’ day they had organized dating, too.  It was called the office.  How different that was.  The desk outside my Dad’s Madison Avenue office was as far as he had to look to find a stunning brunette University of Michigan graduate with a degree in Art who had gotten as far as the glass ceilings of the 1950s would allow her to go. They’ve been married now for 54 years.  If either had used the fickle criteria we use now to decide whether to press the DEAL or NO DEAL button at any point in time, their relationship probably would have ended a thousand times.  But they didn’t have the options we have—dating A.D.D.

We apparently do.  And frankly it’s not such a bad thing.  In fact, there’s a fresh Email from Loretta in my Inbox right now.  I just met her on Craigslist last night.  It’s been great… so far.

"What am I doing here?"

I was holed up in a hotel room in the evening during a "conference" for the Metro Portland Auto dealers this past weekend. The evening was quiet, and I was feeling a bit lonely. I made my way to Plentyoffish.com, a website I had read about in the NY Times recently.

I sent a message to a woman I'll call Carol, who said she was "on the sidelines" as far as dating goes. I viewed that as a bit of a challenge, and took it because she appeared quite sexy to me. Great hair, beautiful smile.

A few Emails were exchanged back and forth at a relatively rapid pace. On about the third one, she informed me that she was deaf, and asked if that was a dealbreaker. I explained that since this was just innocuous communication, there was no deal to break, but further that I thought it would pose some interesting possibilities. Aside from mentioning that a my dear friend was once temporarily deaf for six years during her childhood as a result of allergies, and ended up blessing the world with incredible art as a result of her auditory loss, I took it upon myself to humor her, stating that if one were to project, I could see some advantages, such as snoring, farting, etc., and stupid comments becoming non-issues. Plus, I surmised, some of her other senses must be heightened as a result. Kind of intriguing.

I carried on. I had been dating for 12 years, but had never dated anyone with such a disability. We compared her situation a bit to Asperger's Syndrome, and I found our exchanges interesting.

During the week she gave me her Yahoo IM name, because that's basically her "phone". As a seasoned instant messenger from way back, I was very comfortable with the medium. Eventually, the talk got to getting together, and we decided to hit a happy hour while we were chatting on Saturday. Of course, I was curious as to how this would go. I wasn't too concerned. I was looking forward to a different experience, and the opportunity learn new things--about her, about the deaf world, and about me. Of note, I no longer go out on dates thinking about the long-term. I simply look for a good time. So, it was what it was, and we both agreed that this was a no pressure casual get-together. I generally make sure to get an agreement on that. We did. A few times.

So we agreed to meet at Stanford's in Lake Oswego, and go from there. I texted her as I approached the parking lot. She came outside from inside and greeted me. I playfully hid behind a tree, knowing that she saw me, to ease any nervousness. We greeted each other with a smile. While I had wondered about her voice, I immediately learned that she had the nasal delivery that one might expect from a deaf person. I didn't understand her well at all. We both pointed toward the parking lot, and it seemed that there was an understanding to go somewhere else since I'd already written her that I thought Stanford's was a big rip-off and I preferred cheap happy hours for first dates, if eating was going to be the deal (for those not in Portland, our happy hours feature some amazing food at ridiculous prices at many of the great spots in town). We got in the car, and as we were driving, I was thinking about where to go. We acknowledged each other's dimples. I turned the music up loud, and sheput her hand on the dashboard so she could feel it. She could read my lips better than I could understand her. Not what I expected. She told me I was really cute (heehee hoot) and I returned the sentiment. I was told I was doing well.

I pulled up my contact list on the Blackberry and called Nostrana to see how crowded they were. They said they were fine, so I showed Carol and she nodded, expressing she had never been there.

When we arrived, we were offered a table outside. It was a beautiful night, so we took advantage of it. We were one of two parties outside when we sat down. As we took our seats, she waved me off of sitting across from her (which I thought made sense given that she was going to be reading my lips), and motioned for me to sit with her. No problem. Gorgeous night. Pretty woman. I sat next to her. Carol brought a pad and a pen, and wrote me a few things about her family, the area. I pulled out my Blackberry and showed her pictures of my kids, and some places I'd been recently. At one point, she took the phone and started swiping through some of the pictures, but I quickly and tactfully grabbed it back, realizing that there was really no telling what might come up. (Hold that thought.) The conversation was going OK. We agreed on splitting a small pizza and an entree, which worked because I had my Passport card (2 for 1). There was a nice vibe, and she moved her purse and got closer to me. When I dribbled some sauce down my beard, she wiped it off for me, and enjoyed doing so.

Dinner came, and we both enjoyed a lot. She didn't eat too much, and neither did I. That wasn't my focus lately, as I've lost about 8 lbs since I started cutting my portions, and it certainly wasn't my focus now.

I grabbed my phone, and asked Carol if she remembered the artist to whom I referred in one of my early Emails, to which she nodded. I opened up the directory called Donna, and showed her the beautiful paintings that a woman who was once deaf could now create. She nodded and enjoyed, and once again grabbed the phone to swoosh through them. No problem, since this was a directory of Donna's paintings. The sixth or seventh images were pictures of Donna. She got to those, and looked, and handed my phone back to me.

I noticed she turned, and looked upset. I asked what was up? It would be politically incorrect and a bit tacky to write in the voice I was hearing, but imagine the deaf diction that I described earlier. Very nasal and not very clear.

"You obviously have feelings for her"

"No, she is a great friend."

"Were you lovers?"

Now, thinking that other people were around and I had inclination to speak loudly and have to use more body language than usual in order to tell a story, instead of just telling a small white lie and saying "no", or saying, "A bit, but not anymore for a long time", I said "it's a long story".

She slammed her fist on the table. "You love her! You still have feelings for her! Why would you have pictures of her on your phone? Why would it be a LONG STORY. YOU SAID LONG STORY."

Meanwhile I am not understanding all of it, and saying "what? what?". She's now repeating herself, kind of honking, if you will, louder now, and people are watching. I am trying to get her to understand and am actually speaking louder, thinking that will help her to hear me, and then I realize the looks we're getting, and I suddenly get smart and think that all I have to do is lip everything, silently. I am aware that the situation has elevated and we are now the dramatic entertainment for the three other parties sitting outside. Delightful.

I am now utterly taken aback. "Don't you have male friends?".

"I don't have them on my phone! If they were lovers, I take them OFF MY PHONE!", motioning to me with two giant exes, as though Donna should have been executed for becoming my friend.

Now, louder, I say "do you think I am stupid? Would I have show anyone pictures of someone who IS my lover now"?

"I don't care! I don't want to argue!!! Why am I here??? Why am I here?" pointing to the seats we shared.

Then, "Hey Carol, we're meeting as friends. She's not my lover, and it's not your place for you to decide what degree of friends should be on my phone. We barely know one another, and it's really very insecure of you to get so jealous. We just met!"

She turned her head and refused to "listen".

I hesitated, thinking this could surely backfire, and opened up my FaceCall application, carefully putting my thumb over Donna, and showing her the dozen faces that show up on my calling prompt, mostly men, "These are male friends. Their pictures are here. Are they my lovers?"

"I don't want to hear it!! Why am I here? Why am I here?"

OK, so now she's looking away from me, and I am looking out into the beautiful blue sky. I realize that at least I have the music and the ambient sounds to listen to. Tick tick tick tick. The waiter cleans up and brings the dessert menu. We both wave it off, and I ask for the check. When he drops the check, she grabs it and says "I won't let you pay for my half", to which I simply said "OK!". Normally it's very difficult for me to deal with going Dutch. For years I was so damn chivalrous even when I knew I'd never see a person again, but lately I have changed that, and simply can't afford to be paying for first dates. This is the first time I can remember on a first date that anyone has vehemently demanded in my whole life they pay half (Usually it's done in the form of a question, if at all "Can I help with that?"). A nice by-product of this ugly situation.

It takes forever for them to run the check, probably because I used the Passport Card. At least ten minutes of utter silence go by, but it seemed longer. She is twirling her hair and fidgeting. I am sitting there with a smirk on my face, realizing that this shit only seems to happen to me. (I wonder if she was thinking the same thought) She wasn't looking at me, so I could shake my head a bit and just sit there in peace and solitude. I dare say that I'd never been used to silence in my life, but I've had a bit of practice with my son recently. And in this case, I felt no guilt, fault or remorse. As I have had SO MANY times in my dating history, I was very thankful that this happened now rather than later. It's always good to get to the psychotic behavior very early on in the ballgame, so as not to invest more time than necessary in the insanity. As sad as it is, I felt blessed. I thought I would just wallow in the silence on this otherwise beautiful evening. She grabbed the pen and wrote down "I can be socially awkward, too!!!", obviously referencing the conversation we had about Asperger's Syndrome earlier. I nodded.

The credit cards finally came back. She grabbed hers, signed it almost violently, and threw the pen down for me to sign my slip.

After I finished signing it, we both stood, and left for the car. I noticed she was behind me. I slowed, and she slowed. OK, so this was the game. I got to my car, and opened the passenger's door.

"You don't need to do that!!!"

I motioned with my hand to the seat. She got in. As I closed my door on my side, she broke into a very loud cry. Lots of sniffling, and wiping. As we were driving down Morrison Street, I reached over to comfort her, touching her arm. She swiped me away.

We had about 15 minutes to get to her car. So, I simply drove, turned the music up, (Highway to Hell was on! Second time of significance in my life that tune happened to be on at an opportuned moment!!) and she cried and cried, all the way. The drive, as one might imagine, seemed a bit longer than 15 minutes. Five miles from the exit, she took her keys out of her purse and was fidgeting with them, still wiping her eyes. When we got to her car, she opened the door and muttered something, and got out. I nodded, and waited to know her car started, and drove off.

I immediately called Donna to inform her of what a datewrecker she was. We had a fun conversation about that and other things, with some much-needed laughs along the way. Of course I felt sorry for Carol. She must have had some major issues. But still, I was put in a rather bizarre situation. I hate jealousy, and this was pretty bad. I can only imagine if that hadn't happened and somehow we ended experiencing romantic that night, the position I would have been in after that.

After I hung up with Donna, I saw that Carol had texted me right after she got in her car "Thank you. Sorry. I blew it again." There was nothing for me to say. But I thought... "Far from it. No you didn't" (in more ways than one.)

The Lasting Effects of Road Rage

I have experimented with just about every possible means of making connections in my 11 years as a single guy. For years I would consider everything worthwhile, because the worst thing that could happen out of a night was a good story. Last night's seemingly innocuous experience at a dining “Meetup” is no exception, but it will probably cause me to strike one more avenue off of my list. (I say that today, anyway.)

A couple of years ago, my friend Donna and I had attempted to start a “dining out for creative singles” thing, and we ended up finding someone else's similarly named group and attending their dinner at Le Pigeon, before it became nationally a renowned Portland hot-spot. Donna and I were amused by the fact that some people defined themselves as creative individuals who were nurses, insurance administrators, math teachers or even an accountant. Nonetheless, we had a good time – mostly with each other – but still managed to mingle around the table to meet some people, which was nice, because we went out of our way to make sure we weren't stuck next to someone with whom conversation would run its course in a matter of minutes—no, seconds.

A few months ago I found a site called “Meetup.com”. On it, one can find a vast array of interests and pursuits where people can connect at organized (or semi-organized) meetings. I found a few that seemed interesting to me, starting with Backgammon, and then foraying to one entitled “Portland Dine Out Meetup” group. I could see that the past events included a few nice restaurants accompanied by some good reviews by the attendees, who for the most part seemed pleasant enough people on their brief profiles on the site. I signed up for one at Gotham Grill. As would not be unusual for me in this world of online dating I've been doing for way too many years, one of the faces of the featured members of the group seemed familiar to me. I recalled an exchange years ago, but we never managed to actually get together. When I think about how many of those there have been, it multiplies my dating activity by about five. There was an opportunity to Email anyone in the group, so I Emailed her (of course I can't remember her name at this moment—that's part of the charm of this whole social existence! So let's call her “Gladys”, for lack of better term, and because it's probably one of the few names I haven't run into multiple times in my dating life). I Emailed “Gladys” suggesting she sign up and go so this would be an opportunity to meet, and so I knew I would know someone beforehand.

I waited for Gladys at the front door, and never saw her. It turned out that she had walked right by me, neither of us recognizing each other, since she walked up to me at the end and introduced herself. She had been sitting behind me. I would never known it was she, and no one would have, considering her picture must have been ten years old.

I ended up sitting in a fun group though, flanked by an attractive blonde single gal named Janet on my left, and a very nice married couple on my right. I ended sharing a few items with Janet and then extending the night by going out to the White Eagle for a drink afterwards.

The couple invited me to their house to play poker a week or so later, at which I took home about a hundred bucks. So, given the results of my attending this meetup, I would have called it worthwhile. The food wasn’t bad, either.

Later, I got an Email announcing a new Meetup at Sel Gris, which was named Portland Restaurant of the Year by some fairly reputable media recently. For a $20 deposit, I could claim one of the 14 seats. This idea seemed fairly attractive to me. Even though I don’t mind going to places by myself, I have been living a more frugal life recently, and I viewed this as a way to experience a nice restaurant without having to pay for someone else. I quickly signed up, and Emailed Janet, my post-meetup companion from the last event, and suggested she sign up, too. She wrote me back that she was pleased I made the suggestion and she would look forward to seeing me there.

The day of the Sel Gris Meetup, realizing it wasn't starting until 8:45, I Emailed Janet and suggested we meet at ClarkLewis an hour beforehand for a drink. This would serve the purpose of keeping me awake till 8:45 and having someone to walk in with whom I knew I would enjoy conversing at the restaurant, so as to avoid a night of sitting with someone with whom I didn't hit it off. A quasi-date, without the pressure, I suppose.

Janet arrived at ClarkLewis looking strikingly beautiful, prettier than I remembered her. She was dressed for a night out in black, beautifully contrasted with her bright red lipstick. She had on a sexy pair of boots, which always get my attention. Last time we were all pretty casual, but she also sported a cool pair of gray boots. I was in jeans, a nice shirt and a nice pair of shoes, but wasn't dressed for a night out. I had neglected to connect that this was initially scheduled as a holiday dinner, but was postponed to just after New Year's Day as a result of the unusual Portland snow a few weeks prior.

Our conversation was lively, begun with my apology for not being up to her state of attire. In short time, I found myself with a rare bit of dating adrenaline going on because Janet and I seemed to be doing OK, and I was quite attracted to her against the backdrop of ClarkLewis' dim and comforting Northwest ambiance. About a half hour into our cocktails, the conversation led to driving in the snow-- in Portland. What someone from outside of Portland would not know is that the drivers here are of a very different breed from any other place in the United States. They are very slow and don't view the left lane as anything other than a place to do the speed limit, which is mostly a crawl of 50mph. It's the only thing I don't like about Oregon—the drivers have absolutely no awareness or interest in the fact that other people actually want to get somewhere, or that cars are engineered to take a corner at a speed that might cause a modicum of physics to come into play. They don't understand why anyone would want to pass them. Conversely, native Portlanders live in a vacuum, and would never have a clue when driving in any other metropolitan area of the country. So, when people like me come to this area, and pass the typical “tortoise” Oregon driver, the Oregonians don't understand and view us as the closest thing to a threat to society short of an Islamic terrorist. From this day on, I shall have this concept emblazoned into my memory bank.

As I was having a conversation with Janet, a native Oregonian, somehow I thought I would it would be entertaining to her for me to explain just how driving is where I came from by telling the stories of two of the three road rage incidents I experienced 20+ years ago. They would illustrate the reasons for my philosophy now of never engaging or making eye contact with anyone on the road. In one of those incidents, I had found myself participating in a very ugly movie-like chase scene in which I ended up heaving a bottle of orange juice at a guy after he decided to throw beer cans at my car at 75 mph because I wouldn't heed to his flashing bright lights to move out of the left lane in a crowded rush hour highway (Case in point about Oregon: Janet had never heard of the concept of someone flashing lights in the left lane to get people to move over).

As I was finishing telling the story, Janet moved her Manhattan glass six inches away from me, leaned away and uttered... “That's road rage.” (referring to me). I concurred with that assessment (actually thinking about the other guy when I said it) and again pointed out that after that incident over 15 years ago (which actually was about 25 years ago in retrospect), in which I was so upset and incited into doing something that was completely out of character for me, I never make eye contact with anyone on the road since if there is any cause for conflict.

“That's very telling about your character”, Janet said. “I would never get in the car with anyone who ever did that”.

I saw her body language and heard what she said. “Janet, this was a long time ago. Look at you, moving away from me and feeling uncomfortable now because of that story of something that happened years ago”

Janet was now visibly upset. “Hey, don't judge the person who responded. Judge the person who told the story of such awful behavior”. I am now realizing this was one of the most uncomfortable moments I've ever had on a date (oh, and there have been a few!). I found myself defending myself. I thought the story was entertaining, and told it as though it were a chase scene in a Bond movie. In fact, I've told the story before and it always elicited a laugh and amazement – at THE OTHER GUY for his aggressive behavior-- not at me. (Who wouldn't be incited when some guy is throwing full beer cans at your car on the highway?)

Silence. More silence. Then again, more silence.

And then my east coast persona reared its head. “So, who are you, Chairman of the Road Rage commission?” It only went downhill from there.

Needless to say, the conversation led to a point where we were both checking our watches frequently and trying to change the subject. We got through the next 15 minutes of extreme discomfort at which point Janet indicated it was time to get to Sel Gris.

“Would you like me to drive you?” I said, thinking it would lighten the mood.

“No, I am going to drive myself”. I then pointed out it was an attempt at humor, since she had recently stated she would never get into a car with the likes of such maniacs like me. She didn't find that timely comment as funny as I did, apparently.

As I approached my car, an all too familiar realization came over me: I was thankful she displayed her humorless side now, rather than after I’d invested more of my time. Of course, a long endless freight train was blocking all egress to the eastern part of the city, which turned the five minutes of sitting there thinking about the uncomfortable situation in front of me at the restaurant into what seemed like an hour. I gave serious thought to bagging out on the evening at that point, forfeiting my deposit, but my spirit of “adventure” led me to Sel Gris, only about 10 blocks away. Perhaps it’s an unconscious sad-masochistic tendency that I knew there was more golden misery left to be mined from this evening. Ah, how wise I am about SOME things.

Janet and I arrived at the restaurant from opposite sides of the block at exactly the same moment. “Hey, I know you”, I said, as I opened the door for her. No response. As soon as we got inside and surveyed the layout, we saw that there were only three seats left of the 14. Not good. Janet announced to me that she was going to take the seat furthest from the edge of the table on the booth side, next to Maryanne, who she apparently knew from another event. She placed her sweater there and went to the ladies room. “Great”, I said, realizing she was tactfully implying that she wanted to sit as far away from Mr. Road Rage as humanly possible. Who knew what I was capable of with a fork in my hand? And god forbid I could run into the kitchen and find a bottle of orange juice.

So I took the last seat on the end of the long table and introduced myself to those around me, which all happened to be women in the immediate vicinity. Everyone was pleasant, but no “at first sight” experience, that’s for sure. As I picked up the menu, Joanne, the group organizer, appeared at the front door. She walked over to where I was, seeing that there were only two seats on the bank head available, and said to me “would you mind moving over there? I can’t sit in a booth”, pointing to the seat right next to where Janet had put her sweater.

Why do I seem to be living in moments from Curb Your Enthusiasm, I thought? I now had that horrified Larry David look on my face. I said to Joanne, “Actually, normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I just had an uncomfortable moment with the woman who is going to be sitting there, and I don’t think she wants to sit next to me right now”.

As Joanne probed, “where is she?” Janet arrived back from the ladies room. I lowered my voice and quietly explained that we had gone for a drink, and it would be better if she traded with someone else. Without taking my cue for discretion, Joanne, also without any volume control, said, “What happened between the two of you?”… I looked over at Janet, and realized she was occupied by sliding herself into her seat, so I don’t think she heard Joanne’s question. I thought I was out of the woods on that one.

Just then Joanne proceeded to ask the woman next to me, Helen, who had been in that seat long before I arrived, if she would move because “this guy has a problem with one of the other guests”, in full earshot of everyone around.

Now, Helen, to whom I had moments earlier introduced myself, gives me a dirty look for causing this seating problem (which really wasn’t my fault—it was Joanne’s), and grudgingly picked up her stuff and moved directly across from me at the table. So my immediate dining companions were Helen, Joanne to my immediate left, the organizer who was pissed at me for messing with the chemistry of her group, and my dear Janet, caddy-corner to me across the table. Delightful!!!

Janet then doled out twenty-dollar bills to everyone, giving us our deposits back. I targeted about that amount for what I’d like to spend this evening, in order for me to think that it didn’t cost me much out of pocket as a consolation. Again, this was another moment to have taken the money and run, but there were a few items in the menu that had me thinking that as long as I was there, how bad could this be from here on in?

All of a sudden, flashes are abound, as everyone was taking pictures that could be posted on the Meetup.com site. I wondered why we need pictures. To document a dining experience of people who don’t even know one another? I don’t even take pictures at restaurants with people I do know. I was thankful no one pointed a camera my way—yet.

Joanne asked me what I was thinking of having. I pointed to the gnocchi and quail appetizers on the left side of the menu, “I am thinking that these two look just about fine to me”, mindful that it was now after 9pm, I was doing the post New Year weight-watching, and I wanted to keep this night as cheap as possible. “Oh, you must try an entrée. This was restaurant of the Year!” she exclaims. “Unless money is an issue for you.”

Joanne proceeds to spend fifteen minutes with the menu, repeatedly telling all of us that she can’t decide between the “foy groize” and the “ganocky”. She orders two appetizers, and having heard me order the gnocchi , she decided not to bother with attempting to pronounce gnocchi at all, calling it ravioli instead, and orders an entrée on top of both of those. She then found a $90 bottle of Bordeaux that she said she has been dying to try, and solicited interested parties in splitting that with her. Two people responded.

I found myself sitting in relative silence for a while, realizing how tempting an escape to my car--or at the very least, my Blackberry--would be. I did pick it up, and managed to text my friend Donna “I am not doing this anymore”. I tried to start up a conversation with Helen, but she wasn’t biting. We got as far as discussing smoked salmon, at which I told her there was a brand at Whole Foods that was the best around but I couldn’t think of the name. “That’s OK, don’t bother trying to think of it”, she said.

Joanne was announcing to everyone how wonderful the “interplay of flavors” was in her beet salad, offering everyone a taste of everything she had—but me. I was glad for this, because I was happy with my delicious choices, and didn’t want to be in a position to share, otherwise I would have been left with nothing. The servings weren’t family style at this five-star establishment. Joanne seemed to be having a wonderful time, talking away, while the second of her four courses sat there. I realized we were all at the mercy of the pace at which she was going to eat, since the kitchen wouldn’t serve our main course until she was done with all of hers. I also noticed a major problem with her doling out that $90 bottle wine evenly among the others who opted in. But I just watched the others' reactions as she poured about a 2:1 ratio in her glass to the others.

Helen pulled out her camera. She pointed it at me and said, “Let me get you and your quail.” I raised my hand and blocked the view. “No, thanks. Really.”

The night was taking forever, it seemed. Even if I didn’t have to hit the men’s room a couple of times because of my program of drinking 8 glasses a day, I probably would have made the trips anyway for lack of anything else to do. On the way, I stopped and tried to start a conversation with one of the servers. She seemed nice enough. She was busy, though, so I sadly returned to the table, only comforted a bit by the fact that my two appetizers were delicious, and the portions were no smaller than the entrees I saw close to me. I could see that Janet was extremely taken aback by the portion of risotto (pronounced “risotio” by Joanne as she read the menu), the size of an ice cream scoop. Again, a camera comes out of nowhere to snap Janet’s dish. “Smile!” Janet says to her risotto.

It was then that I realized that whatever short conversations Janet had been having with others were over. She was sitting there in deep loneliness, too. The loneliness we experience while in the company of others is far deeper than that which we have when we are alone, I thought. As I listened to Joanne’s conversation with the woman next to her, in which they were vilifying men in their endless musings about dating (we all have our stories, I think), I could see Janet look over to me and make eye contact, seeming to communicate that she realized I wasn’t so damn bad after all.

“So, how about those Blazers?” she asked me, obviously making note of the fact that I hadn’t said a word for a half hour at least (which is really not in character, for those who know me). “Give me something to work with here”, she said. All of a sudden we needed each other. We made small talk until the desert menus came. I just couldn’t prolong this night through dessert and coffee. So, I whispered to the waitress “how about I trade this dessert menu for a check?” As Janet asked how late the restaurant stayed open, clearly wishing it would close at that moment, my check came. I could see Janet squirming, dying to get out of there—trapped by Helen as an obstacle for a quick exit. I excused myself to go to the men’s room one more time, telling the waitress, “the blonde over there would like her check, too.”

Returning to the table, I quietly whisked by with a quiet “nice to meet all of you”, and breezed out. On the way to my car, I texted Janet “Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Sorry for the awkward moment. Oh…. Drive safely.”

Back to My Future

Having had the opportunity to see the converted 8mm films of my childhood recently, along with the video taken of my kids when they were mere dumplings, I used that experience to accomplish a relatively simple exercise today that I have learned is both surreal and perfect.

For mortals who certainly desire and dream to live on into as much of the future as possible, this little thought process enables a parent to not only live extremely deeply in the moment, but also in the future. Really, what more could one want out of a seemingly innocent and typical ten minute period that could happen on any random Saturday in 2004?

It's simple, but I'd bet most have never tried it:

After having much of my energy drained by three matches of badminton with the boys, I sat down in our small specators' area. The underutilized outdoor metal chairs are up on a hill overlooking our badminton court on our front yard. From there, I could easily and comfortably observe the last of the round robin matches between Austin and Parker. I watched, with our usually happy home as a backdrop, as Parker played his power game, and Austin used his finesse, and then I fell into it.

I transported myself into some time and place twenty or so years hence, looking at this moment from those future eyes; eyes that would clamor for the intense love I had for this moment--and the intense love I had for the children. By doing this, I am in the future when my boys aren't living with me anymore, all three of us living very different lives from the one shared one we have now. Not much thought is put into that particular necessity for the vision, but much is into imagining how tear-provoking and heart-pounding it would be twenty years from now to have the ability to go back in time to Labor Day Weekend, 2004, and spend ten minutes watching my boys in our Cleaverlike (yes, even in 2004) existence. Parker, just 5'9", before he quickly shot up to his mid-six-feet gentle giant of a guy physique. Austin, in the throes of becoming a man, shedding some--not all--of his childhood innocence to move forward toward the completely interesting man he'll become.

I loved the movie Peggy Sue Got Married, simply because I am such a damn sentimentalist. (I am pretty sure one can make a chicken and egg argument about how I became one). In that movie, Kathleen Turner goes back and experiences her childhood from her adult eyes. It always made me want to go back to so many of the wonderful memories I have of my childhood, the number of which seems to dwindle just a little bit with each passing year. I surmise my parents would pay a pretty damn steep admission to be able to go back and watch my brother and me in our swim meets, or at little league games--certainly for a one-way ticket--but even a round-tripper would be priceless. They'd probably even enjoy some of the memories they THINK they'd rather forget, viewed from more experienced and understanding eyes. It's not only about the people, but the period. From the eyes of today looking back, the 60s seemed so innocent at our house-at least from the memories that seem to adhere to my soul.

So that's what I did... project into the future, and imagine this moment through an indescribably appreciative set of eyes -- and a loving heart.

I was as content and proud as I ever remember being for those few moments.

There they were. My everythings. And surely, that particular video of the soul will stick with me, in some form for years to come (helped by writing this down!). That's the beauty of a good memory.

I guess it's just one way of accomplishing the proverbial "stopping to smell the roses", but it's one in which I can really put a finger on it. I've done it before, and I should do it more often.

Over time, all the daily ups and downs seem to fade. What's left are some of those indelible memories. I stole a few from the future today.

I've been to 2024 and back, and I can honestly say... "There's no place like home." The place where they sell the tickets to that thought is quite often found in Oz.

Vanilla Bullshit

I've had many "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moments. But this is my first one that actually was caused by the show itself:

Passing the very short period of time urinating in the Starbucks men's room, I looked to my left and saw a poster featuring a Vanilla Latte.

A Vanilla Latte was the subject of a very funny Larry David line from "Curb Your Enthusiasm" that Parker and I had enjoyed a few weeks earlier on a rented DVD. Larry walks up to the counter at Starbucks, not sure what to order, and says to the guy behind the counter... "I'll have... let's see... one of those Vanilla bullshit things... you know... some latte, chino, mocha bullshit thing.. whatever you want." We played that line over at least 25 times and laughed as hard each time we played it.

So, I thought: I'd see if I could get this Vanilla Latte poster for Parker as a little memento of our laugh, especially since he had his own new room with an empty wall or two. Excited with my idea, I darted from the men's room to the front counter, where I asked the cute blonde there if they had any extra posters I might be able to have. She smiled and pointed to the front of the store and suggested "if anyone has one, those guys over there are redoing the display up front". BINGO! So walking a few steps, I was quite pleased to see they had a few boxes, and in one of them there was exactly what I was looking for, and they looked as though they were being discarded!

Doing the job of one person, there were about five guys there with Starbucks aprons or shirts. It seemed like overkill, but still, I proceeded.

"Excuse me. Are you throwing those posters out? I'd like one if I could.", I said, not really looking at any one person, but directing it to the group.

"Sure", said one. "Take what you want'.

I grabbed the light green one, opened it up and said "great, the Vanilla Latte one."

"Oh, wait. You can't have that one." two of the guys seemed to recite in unison.

"How come? You're throwing it out. I just want this for my son." I say.

"Corporate asked us to discard those. You're not allowed to take it. You can have one of the Mocha ones."

"No, that's not the point. Let me explain. Have any of you ever seen Curb Your Enthusiasm", I ask, figuring that the odds were good I'd have a taker. I got a bunch of blank stares. It was at that moment, I knew I was having a "moment". "OK, well, if you knew about it, you guys would get a kick out of this, cause it has to do with Starbucks. You see, Larry David, who created Seinfeld, walks up to the counter at Starbucks..." (and I repeat the line above) "and so, my son and I LOVED that line, and that's why I wanted the Vanilla Latte poster. The other one is useless." Blank stares. As a matter of fact, they looked offended, as though I'd just disparaged what they alll stand for.

"Sorry, but you can't have that one", and the most effeminate of the group begins to tug it out of my hands. I pull back. He tugs further... and now one of his colleagues comes walking toward me as I ask "But why, what's the problem??"

"It's got a problem with the words. It's politically incorrect. We've been told to remove them".

I plead... "Listen, this is just going on a 12-year old's wall!!! It's no big deal. Come on!"

Now, the guy rips it from my hands. "You can have another one, sir. But not that one."

I quickly try to see what the problem is... and I can see something to the effect of "Enjoy our Vanilla Latte. Or try its Racier cousin." (which happened to be a mocha drink). Oh, please.

I retreat, sadly, and head back to the restrooms and wait for my friend Andrea to reappear. When she does, I tell her about what just happened, and that in the time it took her to do what she did in the bathroom, she missed my "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moment. So, finishing the story, I say... "you know, if it's going to be a moment, I may as well finish it like Larry David... ", and so we grabbed our drinks, and walked toward the front door. I see my poster has now been ripped into little pieces, and now firmly state, doing my best Larry David imitation: "You still have that poster up in the bathroom. There's a politically incorrect poster in the bathroom! Starbucks is racist! Better watch out!!" and we leave.

I guess I left more content than if I'd gotten the poster. Or maybe I just had too much caffeine... or their vanilla bullshit.

IKEA

One would have thought they were at an airport, judging by the activity in the parking lot. Some people were maneuvering gigantic carts loaded with vertically positioned cartons, while others struggled with regular sized shopping carts which sported four swiveling wheels. This design, which I would discover later only after pushing my own cart at the new Ikea store, made it ridiculously impossible to veer right or left, off the intended path at this World's Fair of a store. Bucking conventional wisdom of the likelihood of getting a parking space close to the entrance of the store, due to the fact that people were parked literally an eighth of a mile away in this new parking lot, which could have its own zip code, I made two lefts toward the front. In seconds, I was the beneficiary of what is obviously a fast turnover rate, and slid the Touareg into a slot that was so close to the entrance I had to look twice to make sure it wasn't a handicapped spot.

Parker had done such an excellent job lobbying to get his brother his own room, thus himself the same, I decided the timing was perfect to see what the deal was at Ikea, which had just opened in New Haven a week earlier. Newspaper articles indicated people slept out for over 24 hours prior to the grand opening of the new furniture store--hundreds of them--through a deluge of rain, just to get a free chair Ikea was offering to the first xxx customers. I wondered, days later, after I bought a $7.99 chair for Parker's room, whether that was the one. And to think, probably all the lucky sitters had a gigantic smile on their face as they were handed that free chair, sopped clothes and all. Given the relative value, most sane people would have paid the equivalent of 20 chairs NOT to sleep outside in the New Haven air, pouring rain not withstanding. But free is free, and this of course is the land of the free.

I was in the market for a desk and dresser for Austin's room. I just wanted to get a feel for what they had there and how much it cost. Suffice it to say, it was clear very early on in the ballgame why the parking lot was a madhouse, which certainly was reflected inside. Dressers for $125. Sofas for $150. Etc, etc. Parker commented that the stuff seemed pretty flimsy, which I guess was a result of tens of thousands of people touching everything we saw. It wasn't long before I realized why they handed me a little golf pencil and lined piece of paper when I entered. The idea was to pick your stuff up somewhere else (I hadn't figured out where yet) in a bin and aisle that was posted on your chosen piece of furniture, which then would require assembly at home. DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!! DANGER!!! Well, I thought. That was a good idea while it lasted. Let's eat.

Finding the exit was another matter. Simply amazing. It was virtually impossible to get out of the maze, or even find one's way to the end. But we did, and the allure of those prices brought me back again by myself a week later.

I located a dresser in one section of the maze of a store, but had the challenge of matching that up with a nightstand I had seen somewhere else, and a desk in an entirely different section. After my third trip back to the "workplace furniture/desk section", probably 2000 square feet itself (something that never would have been thought possible before computers), I examined exactly which style of desk would be best for my dear budding high school student. It was there, among the sea of streaming people, I saw a familiar face. Manuel, an old boss of mine, sported less hair, more of it gray, but a much crisper shirt--blue striped-- than I had worn in years. I knew he was freshly divorced, having heard what a terrible tyrant he was when I ran into his bitter ex-wife. I am sure as a married, very well-positioned executive, Manuel wouldn't have thought of Ikea (although in retrospect, the bastard was pretty cheap), but here he was, having been through the ringer and probably furnishing his kids' new home away from home. After some short discussion, it became obvious that I had a half hour's more experience because at Ikea than Manuel because at least I had figured out at that point that I could match stains on the veneers from one department to the other by noting the name given to each piece, like "Mikael" or "Anton" or "Gustav" or of course, "Jerker" (a bad day at the Swedish office). Only problem was, as I discovered after playing the ant bouncing back and forth from department to department for a half hour, there were THREE styles of Mikael. It was quite comforting to see the same question marks streaming out of his head that I had, trying to figure out how to get a grip on this whole thing. Manuel and I laughed about the shopping experience, discussed just a bit of business, and said good-bye. Well, so I thought. I passed him three more times, literally mumbling to myself trying to decide which matching pieces I needed to write down on my little pad before launching into the inventory warehouse. All I could do was raise my eyebrows at him as a body language type of "hello again", as my lips were busy saying to myself: "OK, the five drawer dresser was called Mikael, and it had a slight whitewash to it... let's see of the desk had the same stain and also what about the white trim... "

In the process of all this darting back and forth, I noticed something else. If I were 20 years younger, Ikea would be a mecca for finding love--or whatever it is one can generate from the parade of young babes buzzing in every corner of the Ikea store. Who would have thought? But yeah, it made sense. New Haven is a college town, but beyond that, anyone starting out in an apartment would find these styles and prices completely appealing. I, myself, found the non-stop summertime legs (not the ones on the tables) just a pleasure to note. What a great Ikea bonus.

After about an hour, I left not only once with a full cartful o' Ikea, but twice. When I arrived home, and had the boys help me empty the car, weighed down with about 300 pounds of veneer. There was a certain reward to actually using the "U" part of SUV.

Once inside, I opened the first box and took out the 50 or so pieces necessary to put together the dresser. Immediately I began to sweat and began swearing that I'd made a gigantic mistake; there was no way on Earth I could actually assemble all of this myself and not kill one of the children in the process. But, realizing he had to do something to quell the continued eruptions that seemed imminent, my buddy Parker suggested we take it a step at a time, and he would help me along the way (after all, success meant his brother would be repositioned out of his room). I think his plan was really just to give me water and try to keep me calm--quite an optimistic goal--but he ended up being the most amazing little helper and turned the entire experience from a nightmare into a treasure. By the end of the process he was assembling Austin's drawer set for his desk all himself. The four hours it took us to assemble a dresser, desk, and nightstand was simply the most rewarding father-son project I've ever experienced, and I loved it. And Austin's room, with all those pieces (and they're nice), two lamps, two pieces of art for the wall, came to about $350. Priceless.

But I still want to know: Where did all those people go to buy furniture before?