The "Inadvertent" Knight

So one of my blog dates cancels on me and it’s a Saturday night. I am kind of pissed because that was  my plan for a Saturday night off but, well, what can you do. People are unreliable and I think perhaps he did me a favor. (Future blog date: The Catfish Knight)

I decide that I am going to still have dinner out and watch a hockey game to make the most of this debacle.  I head over to Bonefish Grill with the desire to have a great piece of fish and a martini while I watch the Devils play.

I arrive just as the game is starting and surprisingly there are very few people at the bar. I make my way over to a seat and settle in. I ask the bartender for a Stoli dirty martini and I begin perusing the menu while I am trying to keep an eye on the game.

“This isn’t so bad,” I think to myself. I will have a peaceful, healthy dinner and get to watch my boys in red kick the Sabres asses.  Win win!

As I am perusing the menu a man sits down next to me.  He has dark hair, a mustache, olive colored skin and is probably in his late 40s.  He kind of reminds me of Eugene Levy.  I gotta let you know, I am not hot for Eugene Levy.

He asks if anyone is sitting next to me and I let him know that no one is.  He then sits down and begins chatting with the bartender. They know him at this bar, and he seems to be a regular. I am hoping he doesn’t want to talk to me. It’s a full moon out and I just have this theory that all the looney tunes come out on these nights (er go why I am out).  I just want to have my dinner, have my drink, watch the game and go home. Period.  The end.

And here it comes . . . Just when I think that I am going to get my wish, the full moon unleashes its fury.

 “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have someone keeping them waiting, ” Eugene Levy look-alike tells me.

I nod and smile in his general direction, as if to say, “Please, I beg of you, leave me alone.”

He doesn’t get this.

He continues on.  “So is he running late?”

Fuck. I am really gonna have to talk to this man.

At this point I feel the chair on the other side of me get pulled out and someone sits down.  Please let this be Alexander Skarsgard sitting on the other side so I can just run off into the night with him.

So if anyone knows him, and can let him know I'm single, we can stop all this crazy blog. 

 It’s not.

It’s a single dude, also probably in his late 40s, wearing a leather jacket, a black shirt, black pants and has about as much hair as Nero. He looks like a Russian arms dealer (whatever your individual mental image of this may be; yes). He smiles and cocks an eyebrow at me as he sits down.

I am now stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

I turn to Eugene Levy and tell him that I am just dining solo because my boyfriend couldn’t make it out tonight. This should buy me some silence from both parties, I think.

He orders something off menu and it sounds amazing. I try to inquire with the bartender what it is.  Instead he tells me it’s on the website but not on the menu. I am intrigued with this and begin feverishly combing the Internet for this offer. He’s now looking on his phone. Dammit.   

This has opened up the conversation floodgates.

Mr. Levy now wants to know why my boyfriend is not here, and how he could let me out alone on a Saturday night. I make the mistake of telling him my fictitious boyfriend is young and unaccountable. 

“How young,” he asks. 

I now need to pick an arbitrary number, but one that will deter him from thinking he has a shot.

“28,” I lie. Hey, he’s my fictitious boyfriend.

“So if he’s 28, how old are you?” he asks.

Jesus, is this man writing a book? What happened to not asking a woman her age??

“35,” I respond because well, I am, and proud of it.

“Oh you’re a cougar? Huh?”

We discuss cougars in the last blog post. 

WTF. This makes me mad. I am kind of getting sick of hearing this. I feel that it’s pretty rude. I wouldn’t think of telling him he’s having some sort of mid-life crisis if roles were reversed. I am dating down. Men have done this for centuries. What am I, some sort of trailblazer for those dating with a few years spread? So they are born in the 90s. Who cares?? My mother is older than my father. I have always dated younger men. It’s not like I’m hanging out at a high school football game taking home the quarterback. This incenses me. I feel liberated to now retaliate . . .

“Why am I a cougar? I’m not dating a child, and the age spread isn’t that great. You men do this all the time and there is no negative connotation, so why is it when I do it, I have a negative stigma attached to it.”  I’m nearly out of breath I am so wound up. 

If you don’t know why, read the previous blog.

I look over to the black leather jacket Nero guy and he’s snickering. He realizes that his competition is tanking and it seems like being a fly on the wall for this.   

Eugene then responded,  “Well you are a Cougar.”

“Dude,” I think to myself, “this is why you are alone at a bar on Saturday night.”

I am exasperated. I guess this dude gets that I am done with him probably because I have now nearly turned my back entirely to this man. I am now intently staring at the TV where the game is on, and I am trying to appear totally engaged and fixated on the Geico commercial. 

Keep in mind now, I have not even received my main at this point. I am still working my way through my salad, and because it’s a busy Saturday night, I know my entrée isn’t showing up anytime soon. F.

I try to throw myself into viewing the game. I am going to ignore more awkwardness if it kills me. 

I look to my left. The man in the leather jacket is there.   He is still awakrdly sitting there half watching the game, half watching his food. Not a good candidate for a chat. I am already neck deep in weirdness.

I fixate on the hockey game. The man next to me hasn’t responded since my Hiroshima Cougar attack.  My main arrives and I delve into my lobster and scallops.  I want to want my meal but I have been so God damned hot today I can hardly eat. 

The man next to me takes the butter warmer candle that comes with my meal and puts it between the two of us. I think that this is either a peace offering, or an attempt to make this more like a date. Either way, this is still neck deep in weirdness. 

You too can have a date with a complete stranger at a bar. Just add a candle. 

“Here you go,” he smiles at me. “It’s like we’re on a date.”

WHAT THE CHRIST. CAN’T I JUST EAT MY MEAL IN PEACE?

I immediately put the butter back on the open flame and fain interest in dipping my scallops in the butter. I throw back a butter-covered scallop.  This is now not even turning out to be the healthy meal I so craved!

I’m now not even interested in the food. I just want to leave now. But there is only 8 minutes left in the 3^rd period. If I leave now, I will miss the end of this nail biting game.  If I stay, Eugene Levy may try to start feeding me my dinner.

I decide that I am willing to risk a few more minutes of this awkward dining experience to not miss the rest of the game. I still have a few sips of my martini left and I imagine that this is as bad as it’s going to get.

Oh no. It can always get worse. And it did.

At about this 8-minute mark other trouble was a brewing.

I had watched them come in and debate over where to sit. They were an older couple, probably retired. He was kinda of Irish drunk red, and she was beaming so they must have been coming from somewhere where alcohol had been served.

They sit down one seat over from Eugene. I can see them surveying the landscape. The look intentely at Eugene, then me and then Eugene again. They then look over at the Russian arms dealer. They seem to be huddled in conversation. I don’t really know or care what they are talking about, because I am trying to focus on the game.

The couple now emerges from their secret conversation and seems to be focusing their attention in my direction.  I quickly look back to the TV. 

“Look engrossed in the game.  Look engrossed in the game,” is all I can think to myself. 

No sooner to I turn my attention to this action packed game but I hear from a few chairs over; “How long have the two of you been dating.”

I feel like she is speaking to me, but why would she ask if we were dating. I make like haven’t heard the question.

Eugene however turns to her and responds that we are not dating.

“Why?” she asks.

Really lady?? This can’t be happening to me.

Roughly 5 minutes left in the game and I just wanna watch the end of the game.

“You make such a lovely couple,” she coos.

“You think so?” Eugene asks her. 

He then turns to me. “She thinks we make a good couple,” he tells me with pride.

Oh great Scott.

I make a weak smile at him and am now staring at the game like my life depends on it.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” says this woman in her lovely English accent.

"She has a boyfriend,” Eugene replies.

“And he’s 28 and she’s a cougar so she won’t want to go out with me.”

The Queen Mum then replies, “well she doesn’t know what she wants.”

Hello?? WTF. I am still sitting here.

“And you over there,” the English woman shouts to the Russian arms dealer. “You don’t want him to ask her out because you want a shot at her.”

He looks as confused as I do.  When did this turn into a soap opera. There is now 2 minutes in the game. I just want out of here.

I grab the bartender’s attention.

“I need a to-go box and the bill please,” I tell her. I have already slogged back the remainder of my martini. 

I get the bill and I notice it’s way more than I expected. Did they put an embargo on my Stoli? I read the itemized menu and notice that they have Eugene and I on the same tab.  Oh Jesus. Even the bartender thinks that we are together.

“Um, miss,” I call to her. “I think that his food was put on my bill by accident.”

“Oh, I thought  you two were together.”

HUH??????

I shake my head vehemently NO and quietly pay my bill while Eugene is deep in conversation with the Brit and the red dude. 

I gather my to-go and my purse and catch the last glimpse of the last seconds of the game.  I think I am getting away Scott-free.

Eugene immediately turns from talking to the couple who have alerted him that I am leaving. “Go get her,” I hear the crazy English lady cry out.

“Would you like to go get a drink?” he asks me as I am gathering my things.

I tell him I have plans and thank you for offering. I just want to get home, lock my door and wait for this crazy full moon to go away. 

I walk out and I can still hear the English woman carrying on about how “she’s young and she’ll learn soon enough.”

Yes lady. I have learned to stay home when there’s a full moon. 

The "Serial Killer" Knight

Let's preface this blog entry by stating: I love people who let their freak flag fly.  If I did not feel this way,  I would have allowed what was a great experience to pass me by.  . .

I was checking my inbox on my dating site of choice and I came across an email that caught my eye.  I can't recall what the title was, but "hey" or "sup" wasn't the subject, so I decided to read on.

In this man's intro he wrote he had been on the site for some time, but had not really contacted anyone. For whatever reason, when he came across my profile he decided that he HAD to reach out to me. I wish I still had the email because it was so witty and well thought out, for the first time on this crumby dating site, I was impressed. He had a great dead pan humor way of writing and if you took offense easily, well, he wasn't your "cup of tea," he wrote. He was complimentary, witty,  and already had a plan for a first date according to his email.  This was a lot more than I can say about most of the men I have dated so far! Come to think of it, his intro email was probably one of the most sincere emails I have gotten while on this dating site.

While still basking in the glow of this awesome hello letter I went to check out his profile. His handle was something like SerialKiller. The glow is now beginning to fade. . .

As I began to read the profile, I realized that a lot of his profile stats were BS. If you didn't, you were an idiot.

I'm just sayin. . .

He spoke Tagalog.  He was a dictator of a small African nation, and had a summer home on the moon. I liked the irreverence. It was refreshing.

His profile was LONG. Longer than mine and probably one of the longest I have read from the varying suitors. He had a scpheal on his profile about "if you were attracted to the dictatorial, baby seal killing, 6'7 type" he was your ideal mate.  He then went on a whole diatribe about how if you had pistachio shells for brains or wanted a man "who's wallet in his back pocket weighed him down more than his manhood in the front," you weren't going to be his cup of tea either.

At this point most women would probably be horrified, but me, nope. I was enthralled. This guy goes on a dating site to meet chicks and writes psychobabble. I thought it was revolutionary.

I looked at his pictures to see what this radical dictator/astronaut did in his spare time. I was pleasantly surprised to see  pictures of him from all over the world. The funny part was that I KNEW where he was in most of the pictures. . .and I'm not talking he was standing next to Mickey with a giant castle in the background. He had pictures of him on tropical islands, on the streets of Europe and poolside at Mexican resorts. He likes to travel.  He's in.

I decided that despite the craziness in his profile writeup I loved the email, loved the pictures and if two out of three gets you somewhere on American Idol, who am I to argue with this logic.

To further see if I had totally lost my mind about this specific specimen I invited my friend Denise to listen to me read a few excerpts of his profile entry and his intro email to me. As I sat there, reading to her, her face sliding into a state of shock, I knew I was nuts.

"Chris, his handle is SerialKiller or whatever. Don't you think that that is a reason to NOT go out with him?" She looked exasperated.

"Nah. I think it's a front. I think he's detached or something. Maybe we're supposed to meet so I reattach him,"as I laughed wildly.

This dating death march has definitely affected me.

I email him back at 4pm that day to tell him that I think that we should speak sooner rather than later. He calls me at 5pm. I am still with Denise. It's friend time. No boys horning in on friend time. It's like, you don't talk about Fight Club. It's not debatable.  I text him that he should try back later around 9pm.

Well by 9pm we have been sipping margaritas for the better part of happy hour and I am blush with Don Julio. Denise has departed and I am arranging and re-arranging clothes and dishes. SerialKiller gives me a call and I can't help but pick up. I am more than relaxed enough to talk to a complete stranger.  After the last Eminem event, even if this goes south, it may be good fodder for the all girls lunch this week. I mean, we still talk about the random dick pic.

SerialKiller and I proceed to talk for over 2 hours. We talk politics, religion and favorite places traveled around the world. We periodically speak Spanish to each other, because we can. He has me giggling like a school girl and I feel like, finally, I can connect with someone.

I am not a phone person, and the fact that this man has kept me on the phone for the better part of 3 hours is no small feat. We agree that we will meet later on this week somewhere in between he and I. He asks if I like the Bonefish Grill, and I tell him it's a great place and I love their bang bang shrimp. He agrees that we need to go drink good wine and eat good food and that is where we are going to go.

The night of the date I arrive at the Bonefish Grill before him and take my seat at the bar. It's been a rough day, and I am excited to have what seems like it will be a great evening ahead. After waiting for a few minutes I notice someone out of the corner of my eye.

When he sat down next to me he was strikingly more handsome than his pictures portrayed. He had pale alabaster skin and eyes that reminded me of the water of Bermuda. He seemed as if he was about 6'4 and pretty slim.  His head was shaved with a slight hint of brown stubble under the smooth surface.

As he was getting comfortable in his chair, he seemed to be studying me as he sat there. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed, beguiled or just stunned. He sat there looking at me like he wasn’t sure he was there. I in turn began to wonder if I was the person this man was looking for, or if I was part of some traveling staring contest.  As soon as I was going to say something to break the ice, he did.

“Why hello,” he cooed. I said “hi” and introduced myself. He sat back in his chair and the bartender stopped by. He ordered a Bud and then apologized for ordering crappy beer.

Well at least he  knew he was ordering crappy beer. I sat there with my three olive Chopin martini that I had paid for in full prior to his arrival. I had been eyeing it up for the minutes before he arrived, hoping that it was going to be worth sitting through.

I know, I am sorry.

I know I sound jaded but at this point I had been on nearly 20 dates and was really questioning the world and my place in it.

Was I looking for too much? I didn’t think so. . .

Other women out there had gainfully employed, fully functioning male counterparts who didn’t make you feel like they were going to either drive you crazy with their idiosyncratic quirks or smother you in your sleep at night.  So far everyone I had gone out with made me think that perhaps being married to my career had been the RIGHT choice and this dating thing, well it was, bush league at best. 

I came-to out of my "what am I doing with my life" mental montage to see the man sitting next to me still sitting there so this must be my reality.  We spoke of how he had decided on Bonefish Grill and I expressed how pleased I was to not to have to pick the restaurant. He began to ask questions about my day and trip over and truly seemed engaged. We chatted about my time with roller derby since he knew someone who had done it, his job in sales and why we couldn't get non GMO labeling in the US. We then spoke of the parameters there were for dinner, since I am allergic to nearly everything, and he had hard limits with the kind of fish he would eat.

We segued over to a table after I insisted in paying the bar tab.  I felt a level of, “I can walk away from this date if it goes South" because I paid the bar tab. I don't know why I always feel that way. . .

When we arrived at the table the great conversation continued. We seemed to have very similar values and beliefs. There were even some similarities that we had  that were not common or popular. He was eloquent, kind and really listened. We were now closing the restaurant. We had been at dinner for over 4.5 hours. Since I believe in restaurant karma, I felt badly sitting this late and suggested we make our way outside. As we were beginning to gather our things to get up and go outside,  he stopped speaking abruptly and just looked at me. I thought I had sprouted a lobster out my ear. 

He looked at me and said "I don't want to do this once again."

I sat across from him wide eyed and mouth agape. I have been turned down before, but this was like a harpooning. I thought it had gone well!!

"I want to do this as often as we can," he replied with a smile.

I nodded in agreement and a sigh of relief escaped me. I felt like a high school girl who just got told a boy liked her.

We departed the table, since the restaurant was now closing, and he offered to walk me to my car. I think I had the spot literally right next to the door, so I pointed, smiled and he nodded and laughed.

"Should we do this again soon?" he asked.

I nodded in agreement. He kissed me on the cheek and wished me a good night and promised to text when he got home so I knew he got home safe. He asked me to do the same and I agreed.

As I walked to my car I was really excited. I felt like he and I had a ton in common and really connected.  I was excited to see where things were going to go.

As I put my key in the ignition to begin my journey home, I noticed that the car he had gotten into was not heading towards the parking lot exit, but rather racing towards me. The car was coming at my drivers side door at such a clip that I thought that his car was going to ram into mine!

"What the hell is he doing?!?!?!"

Just as I thought that I had been duped by some crack pot, demolition derby fan, the front end of his car stopped just short of my drivers door. As I was going to roll down the window to scream "what the hell are you doing?!?!" he threw the car in park and got out.

I am now totally baffled. Am I getting carjacked?

I had the window rolled down to call out to him and as I leaned out it, he kissed me. He then stood back and said "I needed to do that. I guess we can go home now."

I was a bit taken a back. It was sweet and scary all at the same time. I couldn't tell if my heart was a flutter for the fact that he had done this outrageous thing to kiss me, or if I was just scared for my life.

In any case, I was definitely going out with this guy again.