catching up (audience participation required)

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a bit. I’ve been so busy going out with all these amazing guys, that I haven’t really had the time to write about them. One of those sentences is a lie. Okay, okay, they’re both lies.

Today’s entry won’t have a cohesive theme. Just a couple teensy tales to get you caught up to speed.

First of all, I went out a couple times with Polo Shirt. Polo Shirt is a really, really, really super sweet guy who I simply had nothing in common with. Our first date was at a bar near my house. I had been day drinking at various locations before we met up, so I was ON. I thought we hit it off pretty well. When he got up to go to the bathroom, these hot guys at the table next to ours asked me “what date is this?” (to which I [still proud of this] responded, “first. how about you guys?”) They told me I was doing well (which I knew), but kinda shook their heads like I should end it right then and there. I agreed to go out with Polo Shirt again. He was definitely dorky and a little socially awkward, but I’m trying to stop being so critical. For our next date, we went and saw Horrible Bosses, which was sort of an issue to begin with. There were a lot of movies out that I wanted to see, and his choices were Bridesmaids (which I’d already seen twice) and Horrible Bosses which i didn’t really care to see. His problem is that he doesn’t watch TV or go to the movies (like ever) so we have just about zero in common. Anyway, that date was kinda bad. Mostly because apparently we talked too much the first date and had nothing left to say to each other.

I must preface what happened next with my own dorky story. On our first date, I told him that growing up, I had an obsession with Sweet Valley High. This is honestly something I typically try not to bring up, but whatever. So he texted me, “Have you read this one?” and attached this photo. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to go out on a third date with this guy, but this was so unbelievably thoughtful and cute (I mean, I honestly hadn’t even remembered that I told him about my SVH obsession until the moment I received that text). I told him I was busy through next Tuesday night, to which he immediately responds with a new cover replacing ‘this weekend’ with ‘on Wednesday.’ I realized that what was happening is what always happens – he was falling instantly in love with me. 🙂 So I told him I didn’t think we were right for each other. I’ve caught so much flack for this by my friends and co-workers, but really I know it was the right decision. Also, he wore a polo shirt tucked in to his highwaters both times we went out. There’s Dork That Can Be Reined In and Dork That Cannot. Polo Shirt was the latter. Rewarding a thoughtful gesture, despite a certainty that it would never go anywhere, is just prolonging the cruelty.

After breaking that heart, I moved on to the next schmoe [who flows, he nose dove and sold nada, so the soap opera is told it unfolds, I suppose it’s old partner but the beat goes on da da dum da dum.] But you know, this is no movie, there’s no Mekhi Phifer. This is my life. The Redundant Rejector is the #2 in this story.

The Redundant Rejector is also from Match. He messaged me a couple weeks ago with some generic message that bored me. His profile bored me. He was also outside of my (very liberal) age criteria. So I didn’t respond. Over the weekend this douchebag messages me again, in an email so dickish, I have to just post it so you can read it verbatim.

Seriously? I’m being rejected by someone I already rejected. Not only that, but it kinda sounds like he’s still trying to impress me in his rejection. And really, that’s just an asshole move to intentionally tell someone you’re not interested when you already know that they’re not interested. DICK! I’m debating writing him a nastygram back telling him that (but I have already reached my minimum email quota for the month so I’m not sure). What do you guys think?

I also got rejected very politely by another young man who seemed decent enough. It was because I was two inches taller than his maximum preferred height of a partner (even though I’m still shorter than him). This made me kinda sad because we were otherwise a pretty solid match. I just keep telling myself that I’ve rejected plenty of guys based on two inches before. But height? I mean, that really shouldn’t matter. Ba dum bum.

My six months on Match.com is over in two weeks. And unless I meet my soulmate in the next two weeks, I’m in for another six-months for free.

 

The Robot and Elephant Dick

Guys, I’m really trying here but Match.com, as it turns out, was a giant waste of money. I hate it. But I did have a little real-life trouble recently, so I thought I’d share that with you instead.

I have been friends with The Robot for a few years now, but about ten months ago, our mutual friend Elephant Dick (I should really stop letting my friends choose their own pseudonyms) tells me with like 99% certainty that The Robot has a thing for me. Now allow me to save you from getting emotionally invested in this romantic story arc – he was wrong. Of course at the time I didn’t know this, and after some careful observations of The Robot’s behavior around me, I was convinced that Elephant Dick was right. I mean, duh, I’m awesome.

Now at first, I didn’t know how to respond to this new “information”. I’d known The Robot for years and never felt anything even slightly romantic for him. But I have always really, really liked him, and I started to think, Why not? He’s one of the few dwindling good guys out there, and someone was gonna snatch him up. So after some soul-searching, I decided that I should do what I do best…. errr…. second best: throw myself at him. For those of you that don’t know me, Cheyenne D’Quanda is like wasabi – best in small doses. So throwing myself at anyone is always the wrong answer. Unfortunately, I have a voracious need for immediate and intense love and affection, so that is always my number one game plan.

Needless to say it didn’t work. After being continuously rejected by The Robot, my delicate ego began to entertain the possibility that maybe Elephant Dick was wrong. No, that can’t be it. He must be shy and just need more encouragement. Which I continued to give. Months went by. My friends begged me to stop, telling me The Robot was an asshole (which is girl code for he’s just not that into you). Elephant Dick insisted he was just “scared and immature.” I really started to become ashamed of myself, because it was obvious that even if he did like me, he didn’t like me enough to do anything about it. And the worst part of it all was that I was pursuing with aggression someone that I was only into because I thought he was into me. Lame.

So most of my IRL friends already know the story up until this point, and if they are reading this now, they will be happy to know that we finally have a conclusion. I confronted The Robot this week and demanded to know why he refused to act on his feelings. Turns out, The Robot has a secret girlfriend. So, yeah. No feelings. Whoopsies.

But the real question now is, heyyyyy Elephant Dick. Whatchu doin’?

 

the dry spell

Well Thirsty Ivy and I are definitely in the same boat. While I am still employed (for the next four weeks) I am desperately job hunting for the first time in four years, which is much less awesome than I remember. Also — Match.com isn’t really working out for me. In fact, it’s starting to give me a pretty severe complex.

The site gives you what they call a Daily 5. Five matches that you should love. You can’t skip around to view them, you have to view them in the order that they’re given to you, and you can’t move on to the next one until you click “YES” “NO” or “MAYBE” on them. I check my Daily 5 everyday. Sometimes they even give me six (what’s up with that?). Sometimes they don’t give me any (no SERIOUSLY, what’s up with THAT?). I click “YES” when I’m even remotely interested.

Right now, my current stats read:

YOU’RE INTERESTED: 38
YOUR MAYBES:  28
THEY’RE INTERESTED: 2

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I’ve convinced myself (and my delicate ego) that the Daily 5 must be a girl thing. It’s a feature guys just must not use. Yeah, Cheyenne, or maybe you just suck.

I’m getting a moderately steady stream of emails and winks. And I’m sending out a slightly less steady stream of emails or winks myself. Just not to the same class of people. I think the problem with online dating is that everyone over estimates their league. I get all these emails from guys and think, “Who does he think he is, winking at a girl like me?” Every single one of them is either a midget, an over tatted biker, or someone who intends for English to be their second language, if they ever learn a second language.  Maybe those are the kinds of guys I should be with….?

Because following that theory, these guys I’m winking at must be thinking, “Who does this chick think she is, winking at a guy like me?” To them I’m just a horny, neurotic, slightly psychotic, overweight giant. How anyone meets anyone on this site baffles me.

 

Date me. Hire me. I’m a catch.

Now that I’ve finished telling The Bagpiper’s story, I thought I’d take a moment to fill you in on Thirsty Ivy’s more recent prospects.  As you learned in my first post, I left my doctoral program after things ended with The Hooch-Slinger in the early fall and started to apply for jobs.*  In February, I reactivated my Match and OkCupid profiles, thinking that I might be able to settle my personal life while waiting on the professional to fall into place.

I should mention that the first suggestions offered by both Match and OkCupid when I reactivated my accounts were The Bagpiper and The Hooch-Slinger. Welcome back!  Ouch.  [Last night, I created a profile on IvyDate, too – elitism at its best.]

Here is what I’ve learned: applying for jobs and online dating are exactly the same.  They require the same skill-set: dedication, prioritizing, perseverance, patience, confidence, self-selling, and the ability to take rejection well.  Both can also be extremely time consuming (thankfully, I’ve got nothing but time on my hands), and the success of either is largely dependent on luck and good-timing.

In DC, being a woman in the online-dating scene is exactly like being a potential employee in the job-market.  I have no power!  The ratio of well-educated, single, attractive women to men here is heavily skewed in their favor.  Few men seem to actively pursue women, because they don’t have to!  While there actually are jobs to be had in DC, I am, likewise, not the only over-educated, under-experienced 20-something looking for work.

I have responded to no less than 50 open job postings in the last six months (my resume is all over this city!).  In the last two months, I’ve sent at least half-a-dozen unanswered emails and as many as 25 “winks” to men that appeared worthy.  What do I have to show for my efforts?  Nothing … yet.  I haven’t had a job interview since February (when I had 3 and turned down the one job offer that I did get) and haven’t been on a date since September.  Can you say DRY SPELL?!

Just in time for the spring holidays of rebirth, I seem to have caught a second wind on both fronts.

I was emailing with a guy on Match for 3 weeks – that’s at least 7 emails from each side.  He gave me his number, “in case I wanted to talk.”  I don’t need a pen-pal or a phone buddy and still don’t know why I lasted so long.  Ask me to have a drink or quit wasting my time, right?!

Well, with Cheyenne’s advice and permission, I responded to The Pen Pal with this: “I’m going to be honest: I won’t be calling you.  We don’t know each other yet, I don’t want the onus on me, and I don’t give my number to people I haven’t met.  Having said that, if you know you’ll be passing through the city [he lives in Baltimore but works in NoVa (Northern Virginia)] and want to grab a drink or a coffee, I’d definitely be up for that.”   I never heard from him again.  For a pen-pal, he had horrible writing skills anyway…

Another guy on Match emailed and, in the first sentence, said he wasn’t interested in extensive emailing and would be interested in a get-to-know-me date.  Complete opposite!  I’m shipping up to Boston this week to see my brother and sister-in-law for a long Easter weekend, so we’re planning on getting together when I return.  I don’t know a whole lot about this guy, thus no nickname yet, but he is one big dude.  He’s not as tall as The Canadian, but he’s got the widest shoulders I’ve ever seen.  I’m going to feel so dainty.  Yippee!

On the job front, it looks like I’ll also have an interview when I return from Boston (hopefully, I won’t have to cut the trip short – but I’m desperate enough to do it).  I interviewed with this company for a job in February, and the hiring team recommended that they hire me for a slightly more senior position.  I was supposed to re-interview for the new position (which is the one I originally applied for) the next week (Valentine’s Day week), but the recruiter doesn’t own a calendar (if she does, she has no clue how to read it) and dilly-dallied.  I maintained regular contact with her – I refused to be forgotten! – and was genuinely surprised/relieved/delighted to hear from her on Monday.

It was one dark and dreary winter in my world, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a bright spring.  You should too.  Fingers, toes, legs, arms, eyes … cross ‘em all!

* I’m still debating whether or not I will write about my time with The Hooch-Slinger.  Despite its brevity, it was my most significant relationship, and I still have trouble accepting that it is over forever.  Of course, if I hadn’t been left bored and alone with my own musings for these last 6 months, I might’ve built a bridge and gotten over it sooner.

 

The End … again

From what you’ve learned of Thirsty Ivy thus far, it should not surprise you one bit to know that I was over-prepared for my conversation with The Bagpiper.  To be efficient, I’d drafted some talking points to make sure that I got all of my questions answered (don’t worry, I left the hard copy at home).

Because The Bagpiper was acting a fool, however, I had to think on my feet and rework my strategy.  I was really unprepared to hold court on one of the busiest pedestrian streets in DC, and one can only cover so much in 2 city blocks, so I briefly explained that the reason I wanted to see him was to clear-up the confusion.

Thirsty Ivy: “Well, let me first just say that I did enjoy our time together, and I apologize if that wasn’t always obvious. Because you’ve handled the breakup so poorly, I am still confused as to what happened and can’t keep talking to you, online or otherwise, without some clarification.

“One week, I hear ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ and the next you go away.  Rather than clearly cutting things off, you say that you miss my friendship and nothing else; then you ‘flirt’ with me several times.  Wouldn’t that fit into the ‘nothing else’ category?  You said your friends thought I was using you until something better came along, but now I wonder if that was actually your m.o.”

Silence.

Thirsty Ivy: “Why would you want to be my friend?”

The Bagpiper: “Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?”

Thirsty Ivy: “Not an answer.”

The Bagpiper: “Well, I believe that every good relationship starts with friendship, and I miss our friendship.”

Thirsty Ivy: “First, we were not friends before we started a relationship, and I’m not sure we ever built a friendship.”

The Bagpiper: “Yeah, I guess.”

Thirsty Ivy: “Look, I’m not here to argue and had planned for this to be a smoother exchange, but I didn’t expect to talk to a brick wall.  Why did you even agree to meet with me?”

The Bagpiper: “You said we couldn’t being friends if I didn’t talk to you.”

Thirsty Ivy: “You do realize that showing up and shrugging your shoulders is not ‘talking’ to me, right?  Either you will talk to me or you won’t; I’m not here for my health.”

Silence.

I start to walk away … but both pedestrian lights were red.  So, I slowly and deliberately walked off in the opposite direction.  I did not run away, and I did not expect to be chased.

I simply wasn’t willing to fight for answers with someone who was so clearly not going to give any.  I am still completely dumbfounded that he seemed so surprised by my questions.  What did he expect?  He agreed to meet with me but probably never intended to actually say what he meant.

If I had to stand on that street corner one more second, there would’ve been yelling, crying, maybe even hitting.  Walking away was the most responsible thing I could’ve done in that moment, and I’m still pretty proud that I held my composure and didn’t let the bastard see me sweat (one of Dad’s brilliant pearls of wisdom, remember).

Within days, The Bagpiper unfriended me on Facebook.  It still bugs me that I didn’t think of that first.

About a month later, after my atrocious dates with The Pouncer and The Sailor (see “You’re welcome” from April 4), I may or may not have emailed The Bagpiper.  I may or may not have been intoxicated.

To his credit, he did respond to say that he still thought I was amazing and wished good things for me … but that my walking away from him confirmed that he had made the right decision.  Yep.  It still makes me laugh.

I have seen The Bagpiper in his work vehicle twice on the way to emergencies, and I will admit to getting anxious and being completely weirded out.  I saw his personal car parked near my favorite bar one night and nervously entered with sweaty palms (ahead of my friends – I’m always early).  He was nowhere to be found – thank the Lord!

DC really is a small town, so we’re bound to run into each other at some point.  I just hope I look hot (and skinny!) and have an intimidatingly handsome man on my arm.

 

No, Sir

After returning to DC on June 1, I was finally ready and able to focus on the phone call from The Bagpiper a full nine days earlier.  I had allowed the entire second half of my vacation to be tainted, because I couldn’t/wouldn’t give myself permission to obsess over what had happened.  I needed to grieve and hold a funeral for our dead relationship, but it had to happen on my terms, in my safety zone. Once there, it wasn’t so difficult.  When I was finally and truly alone, I broke down … but only briefly.

I knew, without a doubt, that I was never 100% satisfied with the relationship that we had, but I wasn’t yet convinced that I didn’t want to be with him.  My heart-head combo often betrayed me and hid The Bagpiper’s annoying qualities, highlighting only the way I smiled when we were together.  Eventually, however, my head won out and I was able to accept that it was over forever (because that’s always the hardest part, right?).  My head decided that I was fine.  And soon after, I really was.

The Bagpiper emailed when I returned to the city, emphasizing his desire to be friends.  I had no idea what that meant, so I left it alone for a while.  Then … one day he made an egregious spelling error on Facebook.  I politely messaged him with the correct word, and nothing else.  He had a feeling he was wrong but was going to leave it so everyone else would feel smart.  Huh?  I told him that just made him look stupid.  Somehow that turned into a quick chat about nothing.

When it came time to send out my birthday happy hour e-vites the next week, I included him.  Why?  1. Because I wanted to prove that I was more mature and be the “bigger person.”  2. Because I wanted, just a little bit, to watch him squirm when I, in my pretty dress, talked to other men (yes, I still think the more mature one).  3. Because I knew he wouldn’t come.  He’s not much of a drinker and clearly isn’t great in social situations.  (Thankfully, for both of us, he was working.)

He texted me on the morning of my birthday, and I responded only with, “Happy Eagle Scout Anniversary.”  (I often wish my memory weren’t as good as it is.)

We continued to Gchat every once in a while, usually about whatever was on tv or something equally pointless.  I wasn’t as unnerved as I probably should’ve been.  Honestly, I was impressed with myself that I didn’t want more from him anymore and was proud that we might actually pull off a post-breakup friendship.

…and then the flirting started.  Every once in a while, he would throw in an inappropriate comment – usually about my body.  I ignored it for a few days, usually signing off when it happened, and then stepped-up and called him on it.  No surprise, The Bagpiper tried to backtrack and actually tried to explain to me that he’s “just a big flirt, and can’t help it.”

Thirsty Ivy, taking no BS, responded: “No, sir; you are not.  You are the same shy guy that took forever to look me in the eye and even longer to flirt with me.  Moreover, what you are doing is not ‘flirting.’  You owe me an apology.”  I got one but still cooled our communications for a few days.

I remember one specific Gchat after this when he was talking about going to the movies, and – get this – he invited me to go with him.  I didn’t respond.  A few minutes later, he spit out something about being tired and just going to bed.  My response, of course, was much less cowardly: “If we are ever going to be friends and hang out together, you owe me a short conversation about what happened.  I refuse to be in your company until we resolve some things, and that is not negotiable.”  (Yes, I really do talk like this, especially when I need to be understood.)

I process things by learning, and, since I clearly hadn’t learned anything from The Bagpiper during the 30 second breakup phone call, I needed more knowledge in order to find closure.  He agreed, and we decided on a low-key meeting to grab some Rita’s Italian Ice (his favorite).  Keep in mind that this is now more than a month after our breakup and even longer since we’d last seen each other, but it was to be our first real conversation.

We met me at the metro stop and walked the 6 blocks to the shop together … in silence.  I was surprised by the anger that rose up in me the second I saw him, so I chose to keep my mouth shut for a while … plus, I enjoyed that it was making him uncomfortable now.

After we picked up our treats (I insisted on paying for mine and mine alone. Yes, it’s only $2, but it was important to me.), I asked if he wanted to find a bench or a spot in the park to sit for a minute.  “No,” was the only response he gave.  So, we retraced our steps.

Of course, there had to be a fire station along the route, and a buddy of his was sitting by the truck when we walked by the second time.  The Bagpiper walked up to say hello, and I stayed back on the sidewalk (a good 20ft. away).  His buddy shouted for me to come, and I just waved and said I was fine.  I was NOT in the mood to meet anyone.  They wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I didn’t want to make the situation more awkward, so I went and shook his hand and pretended to be interested.  Finally, luck was on my side, and a call came in for a fire somewhere nearby.  Those guys were in the truck and out of the firehouse in 2 seconds flat.  I was impressed and terribly relieved.

I have a great sense of direction and know how to count, so I knew that we had less than 2 blocks to go.  It was now or never…

Was this the end (again) of The Bagpiper?  Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion.

 

Two Weddings and a Funeral

As I’m sure you were able to correctly guess on your own, Thirsty Ivy boarded the plane to Tampa as planned … and alone.  The parents picked me up at the airport, took me directly to my favorite deli (priorities, people!), and then drove me to their quaint, gated, golf-course community in the suburbs.

If I didn’t feel a world away from DC and The Bagpiper, all I had to do was look out the window.  Instead of buses, trains, and screaming pedestrians waking me before the alarm, I now had psycho sandhill cranes, barking dogs, and the distinctive ping of the golf ball flying off the tee.  After reminiscing with the parents for a day or two, it was time to prepare for the first wedding of the trip.

Cheyenne, Mrs. Mathers (another friend of ours from high school), and I drove to Sarasota together and checked into the Ritz Carlton.  Yes, the Ritz!  To prepare for a night of awesomeness and debauchery, we relaxed by the pool with deliciously potent drinks.  My parents picked us up and drove us to the wedding and reception (let’s face it, we all planned on breaking Florida’s “legal limit” in the first half-hour).  The open bar (thank you, dear friend) was outside of the main party room in an atrium, near the hand-rolled cigar bar.  Where do you think we parked ourselves for most of the night?

I didn’t spend much of the night near my mother, but I definitely felt the rock of her wave.  Apparently she’d told all of her friends about The Bagpiper, so the first thing any of them said to me was, “Oooh, Thirsty Ivy, we hear you have a boyfriend” (in that sing-songy voice that should be reserved for children shorter than my knee).

Palm, meet face.  I was 26 years old at the time but felt like a pathetic, pitiable tweenager.  Plus, I knew things weren’t super solid with The Bagpiper, and I really didn’t think it was my mother’s place to announce our still-sort-of-new-maybe-almost-over relationship.

Whatever…  As usual, gin was my wedding date, and we had a great night.  [If you are ever lucky enough to see pictures of me in attendance at one of the 156 weddings in the last several years, you will always see a glass of gin in my hand.  Always.]

The previous month, I was at a wedding in Cleveland, OH and texted with The Bagpiper most of the night.  We chatted about the music (there were bagpipes at the wedding!) and how sweet it would be to dance together.

This night, however, there was nothing but radio silence on his part.  I sent him a picture of the Ritz pool (don’t you wish you were here?).  Nothing.  I texted him during the reception, just as I had before.  Nothing.  I’d chatted with him several times since I left DC (on the phone and texting) and knew that he wasn’t working, so I definitely started to worry (and not the “oh, I hope he isn’t hurt” kind of worry).

The next morning (my brother’s birthday), I was the first in our hotel room to crawl out of bed and went to brunch with my parents.  When we got home, I showered, told my parents I’d call my brother later, and crawled into bed for a disco nap.  Almost immediately, the phone rang… and it was not my brother.

The Bagpiper (verbatim): “I’ve had some time to think.  I miss your friendship, but I don’t miss anything else.”

Me: “Ummm. … Wow. … … I want to be clear here: you are breaking up with me?”

B: “Uh, yeah.”

Me: “If I were to ask why, would you have a reason?”

B: “I just don’t see a future for us.”

Me: “Well,…. …. I guess I’m glad that you’re finally being honest with me.  I want you to know that I’m really surprised and upset, … but … I can respect that you’ve made a decision that’s right for you.  Um… … I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, so I’ll just say goodbye.”

B: “Uh-huh, bye.”

Yep.  In less than 30 seconds, it was over.  Whatever we had was dead, and there was no room in my itinerary for a funeral.

Since I haven’t been telling this story in real-time, I’m not sure I’ve shown how emotionally invested I was.  I had somewhat-but-not-really expected this phone call two weeks earlier, not now.  “I’m not going anywhere” was one of the last things he said to me before I flew home, and it was echoing in my head alongside, “I don’t miss anything else.”

Ugh…

Now what?  I was almost 1,000 miles from my home, my bed, my safety-zone.  (My parents had only been in their place for a year, so it definitely isn’t home to me.)  I needed to break down and cry, and I wanted nothing more than to be alone in my apartment with all of the lights turned off and the covers over my head.  If I pull an ostrich and stick my head in the sand, no one can see me; if no one can see me, I’m not weak.  I did call my then-friend, someone who knew our relationship and understood my need to be brave, for comfort.

It took me hours to walk into the family room to tell my parents.  I was embarrassed (especially because Mom was so proudly bragging that I finally had a boyfriend – thankfully, she didn’t say it like that … I don’t think).

I never did call my brother that day.  I couldn’t.  I did email and apologize for not properly wishing him a happy birthday, saying that I wasn’t feeling well and would talk to him soon.  Mom filled him in on the rest, of course.

Wedding #2 was less than a week away, and I really wasn’t up for much when I arrived in Cincinnati (a place I used to consider home).  I changed my plans from staying with friends to staying alone in a hotel (a friend hooked me up with a ridiculously cheap room).

The second wedding was also a reunion of sorts – mostly college friends – but was far from the carefree revelry of wedding #1.  I only told one person there that I’d gotten dumped earlier in the week; Debbie Downer I am not.  I didn’t have much to drink and was back in Cincinnati (a 3 hour drive from the wedding) before anyone else even stumbled out of bed the next morning.

As relieved as I was to finally be heading home to DC, I was also really nervous about going back to the scene of the crime.  The pilot announced that we’d be landing in 15 minutes, and I started to breathe normally for the first time in over a week – I was almost back in my safety zone.

….and then we land at the wrong airport.  FML.  The real DC airport (that is actually in VA) has notoriously short runways, and something went awry with the landing gear, so they diverted us to Dulles (about 25 miles west, which can be as much as 4 hours away in rush hour).  Of course … just when Thirsty Ivy was starting to feel safe and relaxed.  I took this as a personal affront from God, or Delta, or whoever runs the show.

It took less than 2 hours to get home, and I couldn’t wait to wash the entire trip off of me.  I climbed into bed soaking wet and slept for an entire day.  When I woke up, I immediately felt a real shift in the air; I’d survived the worst and was ready to face the sunshine again.

Was this it for The Bagpiper and Thirsty Ivy?  Would she ever hear from him again?  Did she want to?  Check back on Monday to find out.

 

Consolation Prize?

I had no reason (except my mounting paranoia) to cancel my trips and refused to miss the opportunity to celebrate my friends’ happy occasions, so I continued to play eeny-meeny-miny-moe with my dresses and packed for the trip.  The Bagpiper had been acting strangely for a while, and we hadn’t seen as much of one another in the few days before I was due to leave.  You know as well as I do that this wasn’t normal for us, and, since there wasn’t a great explanation for it, I knew something was wrong.

My flight to the Sunshine State was scheduled for Thursday morning, and I was completely packed and mostly ready at the beginning of the week.  On Tuesday, The Bagpiper and I were Gchatting, and he asked if he should grab an extra shift on Wednesday or if I wanted to “hang out.”

I was totally thrown off and didn’t handle my response well, because I was a little hurt that he didn’t automatically want to spend time with me before we were to be apart for 20 days (I had even been brainstorming about how to invite him to join me for part of the journey).  This also just seemed to confirm that the strange vibe I’d been feeling was real.

My response was something like this: “I refuse to be the one in charge of your livelihood.  If you need or want to work, that has little to do with me.”  I was afraid that he’d resent me for telling him not to go to work, and I was hoping for a more romantic invitation to be together.  Yes, I am aware that I was not sticking to my normal say-what-you-mean behavior, but I was honestly afraid that the strangeness between us meant that the end was near.

The Bagpiper finally picked up the phone and called me, something he rarely did (which probably doesn’t surprise you), and asked with a jerky tone what was wrong with me.  I tried to calmly explain that I was upset about leaving and expected more from him.  I also reiterated that I was not willing to make the decision for him.  I felt like I had been making a strong effort for several days to spend quality time together and, for the most part, that mission failed.  I also wasn’t willing to fight for time together since I wasn’t convinced he wanted to be with me.

He didn’t tell me then, but he did end up agreeing to work on Wednesday night.  It took me an hour or so to collect my thoughts and figure out how best to handle the situation.  I knew that I needed to apologize to The Bagpiper for not being myself and for not being as direct as I usually am.  I was disappointed in myself, but I was also really dissatisfied with his behavior.

I called to apologize, but he didn’t answer.  I assumed he was ignoring me, but he later said he was on the phone with his mother (which is possibly true).  I didn’t want to let it go, so I composed a quick email with my mea culpas and invited him to come over.  The Bagpiper took his time replying, and – when he did – he said that he was about to send the exact same message my way (again, possibly true).

Despite both extending invitations, we didn’t see each other Tuesday night.  We did, however, make plans for an early lunch on Wednesday.  I felt really awkward and embarrassed but, at the same time, I was also excited to see The Bagpiper.  I waited for him at a local sandwich shop and gave him a hug and a kiss when he arrived; we got in line but didn’t say much.  He complimented my new haircut (that was my first stop of the morning) and kissed me a few more times while we waited.

The place was crowded, so we grabbed the last two chairs next to the musician and started to chow down.  Out of nowhere, he began to talk about all things serious. The Bagpiper seemed annoyed that I hadn’t confirmed for him that we were monogamous (though I had) and wouldn’t stop referring to himself as my consolation prize.

At this point, I was more mad than anything else; we had never had a serious conversation before, so it was unfair of him to place total blame on me for his insecurities.  I wasn’t willing to apologize again for “breaking up” with him so early on, but I did explain that he seemed to have the wrong idea.  I did not come crawling back to him after things went sour with The Canadian.  I never even spoke to The Canadian in the days between my breaking-up with The Bagpiper and my taking-it-back on St. Patrick’s Day.  He was not allowed to hold that over my head forever!

I couldn’t blame him for being curious, but this conversation was 2 months too late.  Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t over.  He then busts out with this comment, “My friends think you are using me until something better comes along.”

I immediately closed my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, blinked 9000 times in one minute, and reminded myself to keep breathing normally – I was trying as hard as I could not to cry.  It didn’t work.  I was crying … in public.  It wasn’t a waterfall, but I was still really embarrassed and uncomfortable.

The Bagpiper was absolutely shocked to see this display of emotion.  Relatively few people have seen me cry, and not because I don’t do it.  My father (the former power-attorney turned priest) has several mottos that I live by; one is: “Don’t let the bastards see you sweat.”  I have an inexplicable need to be perceived as incredibly strong and independent and am usually able to hold my composure until I’m alone; in private, however, I cry like the baby that I am.

The Bagpiper’s statement hurt me so much, because his friends have never met me!  If they’ve never met me, then they can only form an opinion based on what he has told them!  Therefore, he must’ve given them that impression by whatever it is he shared with them about me.

Yes, I had met grandfather-aged bagpiping pals and a couple of old work buddies, but these are not the friends who apparently hated me.  The only other time he’d mentioned his friends was early on in our dating (before the break-up) when a woman-friend told him we were spending too much time together.  I suspect that she, whoever she is, played a big role this time too.

The Bagpiper, still shocked, asked me not to cry.  Me: “I’d rather not be crying either, but I can’t help it at the moment.  People I’ve never met and have never heard of think very little of me, and I’m hurt and confused and offended.  What on earth did you tell them to make them reach that conclusion?  Do you agree with them?”

The Bagpiper: “No. Of course I don’t agree.  I’m just trying to explain why I’ve been acting strangely lately.  I’m sorry; I really didn’t think it would be a big deal.  I didn’t want you to cry.  I love being with you [notice the strategic addition of 2 words here], and I believe that you feel the same way.  I really saw you fall for me the night of the play [if he’d been paying attention, he would’ve seen it more than a month earlier at the bagpiping competition and wine-tasting].  I’m not going anywhere.”

Hearing “I’m not going anywhere” genuinely did make me feel better.  I was still upset and was nervous about leaving without fully resolving everything, but I was also glad that he was being honest with me (finally).  I made him give me an extra-long hug before we parted ways.

What happened next?  Did Thirsty Ivy get on the plane?  What would you have done?  Did The Bagpiper meet her in Florida?  Or, was this it for them?

 

L’Chaim … To Life!

The Bagpiper and I had survived our first minor tantrum and resumed our normal routine of dating without many dates.  I think we both learned a lot about one another – namely, he shuts down without notice, and I need notice – and I liked the way things were progressing.  We still didn’t talk much about anything important, like the future or children or whether he was my manfriend.  Even today, I am extremely impressed with my take-it-as-it-comes attitude.

We had even started to make more of an effort to have real dates.  I impressed him one night by picking a spot in Mt. Pleasant for dinner where he/we could watch the Capitals game.  Another afternoon, I was grading papers on the law school’s lawn and couldn’t get him out my head and texted to tell him so; he drove to campus, picked me up, and took me home.

One night, I was writing a paper and mentioned on G-chat that I wanted a hug and might have to ask the doorman since The Bagpiper was working.  He is city-wide, though, so he was able to come over, enjoy an Icee from the 7-Eleven downstairs, and sit on my front steps with me for a few minutes.  Before he left, I got my hug!

Another night, he impressed me by making us dinner (remember: that was his dating headline, and I’d yet to experience it first-hand) – tilapia, veggies, and potatoes – and we dined on his balcony to enjoy the crisp, spring night; I brought the wine and picked up coconut macaroons at Whole Foods.

And what did I hear when I presented my humble but delicious offerings?

“I told you I don’t like coconut.”  Me: “I’m sorry; really?  When did this alleged conversation happen?  Why would I know that about you?”  The Bagpiper: “I don’t know, but I know I told you.”  Me: “How can you possibly remember that you did tell me if you can’t remember when, where, or why?  I can guarantee we’ve never had a conversation where that would be relevant information.  Do you want to walk to get ice-cream or something else that you’d rather have for dessert?”  The Bagpiper: “No, I’m on a diet anyway.”

Wow.  Yes, that really happened.  I was starting to feel as if we were always having separate conversations, and I think I know why: he had this weird habit of full-on chatting with himself in his head (this is not the kind of deep introspection that people like me constantly engage in).  The only reason I know this is because he would frequently laugh for no reason (which I, of course, had to investigate to make sure he wasn’t laughing at bird poop on my head); sometimes, he would even say – out loud – a response … to himself.  Clearly someone missed that day in kindergarten when they taught us about real and make-believe.  Ugh…

Despite our frequent communication missteps, we had a lot of fun, happy, silly, and sweet times.  He even proposed, unprompted, another date idea: Fiddler on the Roof with Harvey Fierstein was coming to town, and he wanted to go.  (This explains today’s post title if you were confused; that musical has way too many great title options: Matchmaker, Do You Love Me?, Sunrise, Sunset. Thirsty Ivy, of course, picked the one that doubles as a toast!)  We agreed on a Friday night showing, he bought the tickets, and then said that he was done; it was my job to plan dinner.  I let out a big “ugh…” and made a reservation; thankfully, I had a Groupon for a great place – decision made!

The Bagpiper came walking up to the restaurant wearing a suit and looked very handsome (even if the suit was a tad too small).  I wore my favorite casual-ish black Calvin-Klein dress, a springy black-and-white polka-dot overcoat, and coral kitten heels (he’s not tall enough for the real shoes).  He initially said I looked nice, but, in the cab on the way to the theatre, he amended that and said I looked “preppy.”  This was not the first time he had said this to me.  I do not automatically hear it as an affront, but I now know that is how he meant it.  I would describe my style as “American-classic,” but I could see how a Jersey boy might see me as “preppy” (please know that I have never popped my collar!).  I’m from Southwest Florida where that is the family norm, and my style hasn’t changed much in 27 (almost 28) years.

My response was simply that I thought I looked nice and was sorry that he didn’t think so too.  Immediately, he tries to backtrack, and I let it go; I think he was finally starting to learn that I would never just ignore his passive-aggressive behavior.

The play itself was amazing, and I really enjoyed my night.  We grabbed another cab to head home, and, when we got to his place, he asked if I was coming in.  I guess I’m glad that he didn’t make an assumption, but taking a cab to his place is not on my way home!  I said that I had planned on it unless he wanted to be alone.  “No, of course I want you here!”  This was the first night that I fell asleep first; we were watching a movie in bed and I fell asleep with my head on his chest.  Aww…

The Bagpiper took this as a good sign of our comfort level (and I agree).  The next morning, he took me to my place so I could change into shorts, and we went to Eastern Market to walk around and grab brunch.  We walked by the firehouse (not where he is stationed), and he introduced me to some of his old work buddies.  I took this as a great sign; I’d never met anyone in his life other than the old-fogey bagpipers.

That week, we celebrated our 10 week anniversary – meaning I did a little happy dance … alone in my apartment.  The next week was finals for me, so it worked out well that he was in Savannah, GA for the weekend at a bagpiping competition.

In the “things that make you go awww” category: The Bagpiper forgot to pack his i-phone charger and his hotel didn’t have a business center.  So, he went to another hotel that he’d stayed at the previous year and sent me an email to let me know that he’d made it, was ready to win, and wouldn’t have access to his phone.  I doubt that I would’ve been mad without any communication that weekend (though it would’ve been rare; we texted constantly), but I would have checked in to see how (not if) he placed.  I was impressed with the heads-up.

The first week of May, The Bagpiper returned to DC with more trophies (duh!) and I rapped up my second semester of PhD work.  He went home to Jersey for Mother’s Day, and I started to pack and prepare for a 2-week trip – one stop at my parents’ place for a wedding in Sarasota, FL (where I was sooooo lucky to reunite with Cheyenne D’Quanda after missing her for nine long years*) , and another layover in Cincinnati (where I lived for 6 years in college and after grad school) for a wedding in Kentucky.  I was starting to regret planning such a long trip and was far from excited about leaving someone behind.

Did Thirsty Ivy stay or go?  Find out tomorrow.

*may or may not have been written by Thirsty Ivy.

 

Man up

Is it possible?  Did Thirsty Ivy have a manfriend?  Maybe.  After all of the time we spent together and even after un-breaking-up, you’d think I would know if we were official or exclusive or whatever.  Nope.  The Bagpiper had really improved his conversation skills and was no longer the shy man I’d originally met, but we never talked about anything that mattered.  At the time, I really didn’t mind that we were keeping it light and undefined, and I didn’t think it would be kosher to push the issue after dumping him less than a month before.

Every once in a while, he would make little jokes under his breath about being one suitor among my many (really?  ME?!?).  Instead of matching his immature, passive style, I would answer very matter-of-factly that he was it because that’s the way I wanted it.

I had not, however, disabled my match.com account – mostly because I was new to the whole concept of online dating and didn’t know that removing it was standard protocol, but also because I wanted access to everything that I had paid for, all 6 months of it!  He knew that I still logged in about once-a-week or so and mentioned it on more than one occasion (again, under his breath).

How did The Bagpiper divine such top-secret intelligence?  Well, HE had not yet disabled his account either; he was still checking in just as frequently.  If he were doing it just to keep tabs on me, that would be ridiculous and obnoxious and wrong, but I bet he was doing exactly what I was – checking out the Daily 5, answering emails, etc.  Put on your big-boy pants and ask a straight-forward question, Bagpiper!  Man up!

FYI: I received more emails while dating The Bagpiper than ever before/after; my response was always that I had met someone (proof that match.com might actually work) and appreciated their email (sometimes I really didn’t, but I was glad that I had another response to offer besides “you’re too dumb for me”).

My brother and sister-in-law were coming to DC for the Easter weekend, and I asked if The Bagpiper wanted to join us for any part of it (cherry blossom viewing, Easter lunch, pizza at our family’s favorite haunt of 25 years, etc).  I knew that he had to work a 24hr shift on Saturday, but, since he hadn’t decided whether or not to go home to Jersey (I know…), I didn’t want him to feel left out.  Surprise, surprise … he never gave a straight answer.

Acceptable answers would have been: “That’s so thoughtful of you; why don’t I let you know when I know if I’ll be in town or not.” OR “I don’t think I’m comfortable meeting your family just yet.”  OR “I’m a little intimidated by the idea of spending too much time with your brother, but I think I could handle a pizza outing.”  The only truly unacceptable answer was the one he gave: none at all.

I know you’re starting to see red flags at this point, but Thirsty Ivy was trying to stay positive and ride the waves as they came – thereby either ignoring the signs or choosing to see them as something other than bad omens.

Despite being together a lot, we had been on relatively few dates, and I told him that I wanted that to change.  He agreed, so we compared schedules (something he was obsessed with doing anyway) and picked a Friday night to go to a late dinner (eh, it was something!).  A friend of my then-friend had a fundraiser happy hour that evening, so I told The Bagpiper that he could meet me there and we could walk to dinner together.  He showed up in a foul mood, barely shook hands with the friends I was introducing to him, and wanted to leave asap.

So we left and walked to dinner, but I knew something was terribly off.  I asked if everything was okay; he grumbled.  I asked if he really wanted to be with me that night, otherwise I could turn around and go back to hang out with folks who wanted to see me.  He said he wanted to have dinner with me alone, and I knew that was all I was going to get.  At dinner, you can imagine how well the conversation flowed – or trickled, rather.  I had had just enough beer at the happy hour to ignore his sourpuss and entertain myself with playful conversations with the waiters.   I didn’t even pretend to reach for my wallet when the check came – take that!

The Bagpiper and I walked to the Metro station and hopped on the green line.  Some guy by the door made a funny joke, I commented, and another lady added her two-cents worth of funny.  What did my date do?  He shushed me.  HE shushed ME.  Wrong move, buddy.  Rather than crushing his manhood, as was my first instinct, I shrugged my shoulders and sat in silence until we arrived at his stop.  He stood; I remained seated.  “You’re not coming?,” he asked.  “No, I am not,” I replied.

I rode the train 2 more stops to my place, walked across the street to my apartment, put on a big t-shirt, and went to bed.  About 5 minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text message: “You didn’t get your goodnight kiss.”  It was The Bagpiper and he was downstairs.  (His car was waiting for him at his Metro stop – God forbid he walk a few blocks – and he then drove to my place.)

I deliberately took several minutes to find a pair of shorts and a hoodie, so as not to flash the neighbors, and rode the elevator down to retrieve him.  I chose to remain silent, mostly to make him uncomfortable.  When we got back to my apartment, I just got back in bed.  He took off his shoes and crawled in too.  He put his arm around me and asked if he could kiss me.  I rolled over and let him.  He then started to apologize for being an idiot and explained that he’d lost a baby boy on the job earlier in the morning – as in, the baby was alive when he arrived and dead when he left (when people are DOA, he processed it much better).

Punch.to.the.gut.  How can I stay annoyed when even I wanted to cry?  Ugh…  I thought for a minute and then laid it out for him: “Next time, either tell me so that I’ll understand or take a rain-check to be together another day.”  He admitted that I was right (an important lesson for any man to learn!) and sincerely apologized.  I accepted.

Was this our first fight?  “Fight” might be a strong description for whatever this was, but one thing seems certain: Thirsty Ivy was in a relationship – whether it was official or not.