How I unintentionally brought SEXY back to Tuesday.

I went out with Ed last Tuesday night. Tuesday nights are guaranteed to spell out unsexy. U – N – Nothing sexy happens on a Tuesday – Ever. Unsexy. We had a nice time, sure. A really fun, great conversation kind of evening. Over a glass of wine and spaghetti, we talked about home and family and college with ease and some humor.

I actually wanted to transfer to another school after freshman year, I said, hoping to be vague about my first year indiscretions which had led me nearly to leave my small university.

Freshman slutties? he asked in reply, assuming me to be one of those girls who’d spent freshman year disrobing half the lacrosse team.

I had been.

No, I wouldn’t say quite that, I said. Because there is no time to reveal to a man that you’re dating that you ever had the ‘slutties’—the first date being the worst of all times to make such a disclosure. We all just make mistakes freshman year. This wasn’t a lie. This was just an omission of truth. Plus. ‘Freshman slutties?’ It doesn’t even have a ring to it. Not like ‘freshman fifteen,' a typical first year weight-gaining phenomenon I had also understood well. I’ll think on it.

The next day it came to me. Frosh floozies! It was perfect. It had alliteration. It had pizzazz. I texted my inventive catchphrase to Ed. He’d surely appreciate my ingenuity a day later.

That’s great, he wrote back. Glad to hear you’re still thinking about it. But I think we could get a little dirtier.

WHAT?!

At what point had I indicated that I was ‘that kind of girl?!’ Had my mere allusion to sex the evening before made him think that I was a promiscuous, loose, sexting type of lady?? I was insulted. I was offended by his presumption about my character. I mean, I am a sexter when the mood strikes and the situation warrants it. But for godsake, at least a kiss usually precedes that kind of raunchy writing.

I asked a male friend about my predicament this weekend. A lovely, respectful, married man whose opinion I trust. Well, you brought up sex, he said. The conversation which followed was inconsequential. What it came down to, it seemed, is that a girl’s not safe mentioning even the word sex around a virile man. He will mistake this for an advance. He will mistake you for the kind of girl who slinks around in lingerie and puts her number up on bathroom walls. Ugh. Men, the lesson was learned, are all likeminded and that mind spells S-E-X. Even with a nice girl. Even on a Tuesday.

Tales of the motorcycling Buddhist Beau.

29 years ago I was born to Jewish parents and have since taken every opportunity to prove that I am not, myself, Jewish. I dropped out of Hebrew School. I’ve claimed atheism. I’ve dated outside my faith. So, so many people outside my faith. Commonly known in some circle as Goys, non-Jews have always shone a little brighter for me. I’ve dated every kind of Goy and then some. I’ve dated black Christians. I’ve dated Irish Catholics. I’ve dated half Asian Episcopalians. I’ve dated WASPs from the suburbs of Northern California.

And so when I recently began studying Buddhism, it seemed natural that I should add Christian turned Buddhist to my list of non-Jewish romantic partners. I spotted Joe from across the circle of chairs on Day 1 and decided that he was probably the cutest little practicing American Buddhist I could ever hope to meet. Smart, calm, the kind of person who doesn’t waste words or get excited very easily. He also had some nice ink on his biceps and the sweetest blue eyes. Done.

Before our weekend of classes was complete I’d orchestrated a means to get my email to him if he wasn’t going to ask for it. Cut to the success of my manipulation and a dozen or so emails later and Joe and I were on our way to a first date—class extra credit if you will. Joe planned the kind of picture perfect date that most people only dream of. He picked me up on his beautiful Harley motorcycle at 9 am. He had with him an entire outfit for me that screamed safety and zero sex appeal (but what a sweet gesture). And he had a whole itinerary planned that involved crossing county lines, riding along the California coast and a perfectly timed sunset at the park. Score. Score, score and a million times score.

Something about Joe’s authentic nature brought out the same in me. I want to see you again, I told Joe as he was dropping me off 12 hours later. When your midterms are over. (Joe’s back in school to study social work. Be still my easily swooned heart.) I’d like to see you before then, he replied. Oh, my achy breaky Buddhist love organ.

Date No. 2 with Joe is planned for tomorrow. While some other gentlemen have entered the picture in the last week (oh, I have so very much to catch you up on friends!), stay tuned for tales of my motorcycling Buddhist beau…

Hear this, Gals: Ballsy is better. Guys don’t always have metaphorical balls that mirror their real ones. Sometimes you need to make the first move. Or at least gently guide them toward making one themselves.

Listen up, Guys: Sometimes the nice guy does win. Gentle is good. Authentic is awesome. Sweet can be sexy.

[Image via LIFE]

Harry and his magical, vanishing social skills.

Over Match.com messaging, I will cut prospective suitors some slack. Not everyone writes with as much furor and gusto as your One Single blogger friend. And maybe it's not that the communications are awkward necessarily, but rather that the writing is just not that great. Which I'm learning to forgive a bit. After all, a writing snob does not a happily coupled woman make. And bad grammar doesn't always mean a bad date.

So, when Harry was a bit, okay, awkward over email, I was able to rummage up enough redeemable qualities within his messages to ignore the glaring social suckiness and arrange a date. Redeeming quality number one? He had been the first person to write to me over Match and I held a grateful little place for him in my heart. Lesson learned. Gratefulness is not synonymous with real desire. It's actually a sort of pathetic reason to accept a date.


Harry's Downfalls (in no particular order--they all sucked).

* During our initial phone call and in our subsequent first and only meeting, Harry would allow the most terribly pregnant pauses--the kind that one could drive a semi through. Was I interrupting? Was there a better time for me to call? Was he just a weird mute? Ah, yes, the latter.

* Once on the phone and once again in person (this guy learns no lessons), Harry answered my attempt at small talk questions with don't worry about it. Don't worry about it? Yeah, I'll show you not worrying about you all the way to never speaking with your sorry ass again.

* Harry chose a spot for lunch. I arrived on time. The kitchen was closed. Harry was 15 minutes late. Negative point. Negative point. Negative point.

* Harry had circles under his eyes. Like crack addict circles under his eyes.

* Harry scratched his stomach. Under his shirt. Skin bared. More than once during lunch.

* Harry looked at my almost finished salad and commented wow, you ate a lot. To which I replied--a tip, Harry? Never again tell a girl on a first date that she eats a lot. Negative point (x15).

* I earned a $158 ticket during our date. If this was a not a sign from God (or the LA City Parking Department) that I shouldn't be on a date with Harry, I don't know...

* Harry suggested that perhaps I might be interested in joining him and his friends a couple of days later for the Super Bowl. Because I was sort of dying to see what a group of people who identified themselves as friends with this man would be like, I said I'd think about it. A day after (and the following day too), I received voicemails from Harry's friend via his phone in which said friend put on fake accents, made up fake characters and left me nearly incomprehensible prank messages.

Oh, Harry. Oh, Harry Harry Harry. Bad. Move. All of them really--bad, bad moves.

Tip to Chicks: When a man fumbles over email, proceed with caution. When he fumbles over the phone, really reconsider a date. When he fumbles within the first five minutes of your first date, do yourself a favor and spare yourself a parking ticket and just--walk--away.

Tip to Dudes: Don't be weird. It's so, so easy not to be weird. Just don't be.

The morning after [the first online date].

As those of you who've been reading the blog or eagerly following me on Twitter know (wait, what? you don't follow me on Twitter? Oh, you must fix that before we go on. Go here. Now.), I went on a date last night. The first fruit of my online dating labors. And a good looking fruit. Sort of like a ripe apple. But I digress.

I met this fellow on a small, new dating site--the kind that seems appealing because it's cool and it's quirky and the ratio of cute, normal looking dudes is slightly higher than on other sites, but is in reality so new and small still that the guy you recognize from work has now appeared 3 times in your matches.

So, I could tell you all about the date. But all I need to tell you for the purposes of the conundrum in which I now find myself is the following:

* We had a pretty good thing going over email before meeting. He'd write. I'd write longer. He'd write again. I'd write a novel. And so on and so forth.
* We have similar humor. Both on paper and in person. And that's saying a lot. How many times have we all met hysterical people [or so we thought] only to meet them in person and find out they've got Dead Face Syndrome (a very serious condition in which one's face is in a constant state of appearing constipated) or is, worse yet, just totally and utterly awkward. If the 'we' is 'me' in this query, than this has happened often.
* We had a good f-cking time on our date. Conversation flowed. Laughs were shared. Eye contact was made (I made sure of this with deep, long stares into his eyes that may have rightfully freaked him out). There were less than 5 stand-out awkward pauses (this is record breaking, really). And we discovered more things in common than 2 strangers generally discover in each other.
* The end of the date began just as it started--with a hug.

The conundrum is then of course--was there chemistry? Can a date be good without the romance being great? I'm going to go out on a limb and say yes. But even so, part deux of the conundrum--shouldn't we at least give it a second date to be absolutely, 100%, let's never say never, fair chance? Which leads right into part 3--why hasn't he called?!

I've always been a forward-thinking, independent woman of the 21st century. But, if for centuries before this one, the man courted the woman with some degree of success, maybe the 21st hasn't gotten everything quite right. And maybe I shouldn't have to be the first one to write post-date. And that's why I've given my texting thumbs a break today and steered clear of my date's initial in my phone's contact list. Cause no second date is bad. But being the loser in the game of post-first date chicken is worse. Much, much worser.