Toast

I am toast.

I like Valdosta. I like Valdosta a lot. He always says and does the perfect things at the perfect time.

Text message received 5:28 p.m.:

I am getting sick :-(

Outgoing call placed 5:39 p.m.

"Hey, baby," Valdosta answered.

"Hey, sicky. You not feeling well?"

"I have a head cold. I've been fighting it all day."

"Do you want me to--"

"Yes, I still want you to come over."

"I was just sick a couple of weeks ago," I said, thinking I may have given him the cold.

"Good. Your immune system is probably built up because of that." I could hear him grinning. No fault placed on me.

"And I have been drinking green tea all afternoon, so I am feeling extra antioxidant-y," I added.

He laughed.

"Okay, well I'm still at work and will be leaving in a half hour to 45 minutes. Then I have to let the dog out."

"That's okay. Take your time. Go home. Freshen up. I'll see you whenever you're ready."

WTF? WHO SAYS THIS? Fictional characters created by women, that's who. Not men who hit you up on a free Internet dating website.

I had Val over to my place earlier in the week. I made him watch my newest favorite movie, (500) Days of Summer.

"Is this a chick flick?" he asked warily.

"No. It tells you at the very beginning that it is not a love story."

I knew he would like it. People who have had broken hearts like this movie. I love it.

Summer: We've been like Sid and Nancy for months now.

Tom: Summer, Sid stabbed Nancy seven times with a kitchen knife. I mean we have some disagreements but I hardly think I'm Sid Vicious.

Summer: No I'm Sid.

Tom: Oh, so I'm Nancy...

[Pancakes arrive]

Summer: Let's just eat and we'll talk about it later. Mmm, that is good, I'm really glad we did this. I love these pancakes... what?

[Tom gets up and walks away from the table]

Summer: Tom, don't go! You're still my best friend!

Valdosta cringed at the best friend line. I looked at him quizzically, "Aren't we friends?"

He put his arm around me and said abruptly, "No, we are not friends." I knew what he meant.

"Oh that's right. You won't let me get away with that," I said, referring to his first e-mail to me: Friends first never works.

During the movie, the Tom has a monologue where he talks about wanting to break down Summer's emotional wall. I squirmed a little. That was a chick flick moment.

"Okay. That's a girlie thing to say. 'I want to someone to tear down the wall that previous boys have built,'" I mimicked.

Valdosta then squirmed. He opened and closed his mouth like he had something to say. Then he leaned his head towards me, "Guys want that too," he eventually spoke.

I waved my hand. "No way. Everyone knows boys don't have feelings," I joked.

Valdosta stiffened. All of a sudden I was Memphis. I had made an inappropriate joke at an inappropriate time. He had given me an in and I threw it away.

The movie had ended. "That was good," he said. "But it's still a chick flick."

We both hemmed and hawed. It was getting late and he was starting a new position at his company in the morning. Neither of us moved.

"Could you set your alarm?" he asked.

He climbed in my bed and groaned. "These are the most comfortable sheets ever."

"Thanks. They're bamboo." I climbed in my side and before my head even hit the pillow, he slipped an arm under my neck. That's what Valdosta does. Everything he does is exactly the way I like it. There is no learning curve with him; the way he kisses me, talks to me and touches me, it's like he's known me for years. Like this isn't our first sleepover.

Normally I gain some sense of night vision in my bedroom, but it was pitch black that night. To kiss him, I had to reach my hand up to find his furry face. It was hot.

So as you can see, with this guy I am toast. I can't remember the last time I met someone and immediately liked him with without reservations or talking myself into it. Without first and foremost tallying a list of all of his faults before I even considered his good points. The last time I just went with it.

I am toast.

I am also sleeping in sex sheets.

The "Nice" Guy

When I first wrote about Memphis (Date #6), several people remarked that maybe it wasn't the age difference that bothered me about Memphis. Maybe it was something else. I thought it was the fact that he was so optimistic and eager that he couldn't be able to relate to me at all.

So I spent time with him. I took him to meet my friends. We met for pizza. We met for sushi. And as much as I tried trying on the younger and earnest date, I could not stop myself from getting annoyed by him.

The first time was when we were going out for pizza. It was a rainy, cold Monday night. The weather was such that I contemplated canceling just so stay warm and cozy in my apartment. I decided what I needed to jump start my night was a hot shower.

Memphis sent me a text saying he would be at my apartment in a half hour. I had only just walked in the door. I sent back could he please give me just 10 more minutes.

What if I said no? he wrote back.

The shower was running and I was trying to strip off my work clothes. Instead of hurrying up and getting ready, I was now stuck texting.

Then you'll be waiting. I typed back decisively. I was not leaving this apartment without a shower.

Or the train might leave the station.

I groaned and hopped in the shower without responding. If he wanted to play chicken, we could play chicken.

***

While we were out that night, he asked if I was free that weekend. I ran though my mental calendar. Friday was my heavy metal date with Valdosta, Sunday was my company Christmas party at the metropolitan museum of art. I had the option of bringing a date to the Christmas party, but in the spirit of friendship, I decided to take Katie as my date. She had just bought a red cocktail dress and was antsy for an occasion to wear it. I thought cocktails at the art museum was a perfect occasion.

"I'm booked all weekend, but I think I am free Saturday," I offered.

"Saturday? Saturday is prime dating real estate. I'm not sure if you're a big enough deal for a Saturday," he joked.

Even though he was joking, I was taken aback. "Hmm, good point. I'm not sure you're worth a Saturday night date either."

He started kissing me. He leaned in romantically and whispered in my ear, "You're replaceable."

It made me laugh. I accepted the Saturday night date. Only when I got home and logged on Facebook, I got a reminder that Harvey's big, annual Thanksgiving party was that Saturday night. It's one of the best parties of the year where all the friends get together and bring Thanksgiving dishes and celebrate our friendship. This party is a big deal to me. (On a side note, that was the morning my grandmother died and I still went to the Thanksgiving party and company Christmas party before heading back up the East Coast. That's how much I was looking forward to it.)

Knowing he was already asleep, I still typed out a text when I knew I had double-booked myself. The next morning I received this response:

No worries. I'll have to line something else up for Saturday night. Maybe if I'm free we can do something next week.

Er, that seemed awfully passive aggressive to me. I'm the busy one, not him. I knew he was trying to turn the tables on me.

***

When I got back in town after the funeral, Memphis asked me out for later in the week. I accepted.

"Okay on two conditions," he added.

I'm sorry, but did he just ask me out, and then apply conditions after I said I would go out with him?

Nothing is easy with him. Everything has to be turned into a bit. Would any of this annoy you, or am I really just not that into him?

Comparisons

On Laughing:

In the early days of The Hungarian, when he had me pinned against his black leather couch with his roaming octopus hands, I would giggle at his advances.

He sat back against the couch and huffed, "You laugh too much."

I thought about this for a minute. "Laughing is a mechanism," I quietly answered.

"For what?"

"Nervousness."

***

Memphis (Date#6) stood beside me as I tried to fit my key in the lock of my front door.

"Live well, love much, laugh often." He read off of my front door mat.

"Yeah," I bought that back in 2003 before I knew it was this huge cliche. And now I'm too cheap to replace it."

"Sure, Whatever," he teased.

I rolled my eyes.

***

Valdosta stood beside me as I tried to fit my key my front door lock.

"Live well, love much, laugh often." He read. He put his toe under the laugh often part. "That you definitely do," he grinned.

And this time it didn't feel like an insult.

On My Lack of Dodgeball Prowess:

"I'm sorry, but I jacked up my hip playing dodgeball this week. I was a half hour late this morning because I couldn't put my pants on and I'm currently sitting on a heating pad. Can we reschedule walking through the art gallery and do something else instead?" I asked Memphis.

"Sure. Pick you up at 7 at your place. Wear some running shoes. We will get a practice 5k in too. Sound like fun?"

The guy can't be serious about anything. So I tried to give him a taste of his own medicine. "Cool. And if I'm not there, it's not because I'm standing you up, so you just wait there as long as you need to."

"Serious? Because I don't play that waiting business."

***

"Are you limping again?" asked Valdosta.

"New week. New game. Now it's my hip instead of my ankle. There was a loud pop followed by stabbing pain. I don't know what that's all about."

"Here, use me as your crutch." He grabbed my side as I hobbled in the Chinese restaurant. "It sounds like you aren't stretching properly before these games."

"No, I don't think I stretched my hip, I remember doing my shoulders and legs though. Wait! Curb! This is the worst part." I gasped as I took a step upwards.

"Does it hurt when you move up and down or side to side?"

"Side to side. Definitely."

"It sounds like you hurt your [whatever he said] tendon. I'll show you some good stretches for that."

On Grandma's Death:

"Hello, [The Hungarian] calling."

"Hey."

"I was checking up on you to make sure you are okay. When are you leaving?"

"About a half hour ago."

"And how long will the trip take?"

"Almost 7 hours because I had to drop my dog off at my father's house. I'm set to get there at 2:30 a.m."

"I checked the weather and it's snowing up there, so take care, okay? Safe travels."

I got an identical phone call after I returned home from my trip.

***

Valdosta and I were standing on a curb while the Femme Fatale relieved herself in a bush.

"How was your day today?" he asked.

"Miserable," I answered. "I was tired from the trip, hurt from dodgeball and then got some shitty news at work. I almost canceled on you because I had such a bad day."

"No, never cancel," he said. "Just tell me what I can do to help."

***

I winced from climbing in Memphis' enormous truck. My hip was still bugging me. At my request, we were now going to eat sushi instead of walking around marble flooring.

"You don't seem like you're in a good mood," he asked.

"It's been a long, tough week," I sighed.

"Well you should be happy now because you are here with me."

Yes, because you totally trump dead Grandma, I thought.

After a few minutes of silence. "You know, I can just turn around and drop you back home and I can have a good time eating sushi by myself," he teased.

I cringed. "I'm sorry. I'll try and do better. I just have a lot of things of my mind."

"Well I was only halfway joking."

Death Knell

Going out again with Valdosta (Date #7) was nice. We ate Mexican, had one margarita apiece and then headed to heavy metal karaoke. We each sang a song and I was tucked away in bed by midnight.

If only.

I'll always choose a frozen margarita (no salt) over on the rocks. And usually frozen drinks are pretty light on the tequila, so I didn't think twice when ordering a second one. Halfway into it, I realized I was more than a little buzzed. I said as much.

Our plates arrived. I continued with the standard, getting-to-know-you roster of questions. "What are you looking for?" Val dropped his silverware on the floor. "You know, other than your fork." I added.

He shrugged. "I used to be into the whole marriage and kids thing, but I don't know anymore. After you go through so many relationships..." he trailed off.

I asked my new favorite question, "Have you ever had your heart broken?"

He looked up at me. And then he said the most perfect response I have ever heard. "You don't get to be 29 and single without having your heart broken." I briefly thought back to Date #6 and his 25-year-old eager self. It encapsulated everything that was wrong with him: You don't get to be 29 and single without having your heart broken.

I switched topics. "What's your signature drink?"

"Gin and Tonic."

"NO WAY!" I burst. "You can't have that one. That's my signature drink. G&T's or gin and tonnies, depending on how many I have. When do you turn 30? "

"This summer."

"Well I'm turning 30 in the spring, so I'm older. It's my drink."

"But I've been drinking them longer, so it's my drink," he teased

We left the restaurant. I bundled my jacket; it was cold out. As we crossed the street into a little neighborhood where we found free parking, my ankle gave out and I nearly fell to the ground. He caught me. Dodgeball season has begun and I've taken quite a beating. I had rolled that ankle during the game and it was still weak. He took the opportunity to tuck my arm inside his. He chuckled. "I was worried for you when we were crossing the broken stones. I didn't know I had to watch you while we were crossing the flat street."

As we drove to the second location, he played the Mumford & Sons album. I broke Cardinal Dating Rule #2 and I touched his stereo while he drove and switched the song to track 2. "I love this song," I breathed.

We pulled into another little neighborhood for the free parking. "No, let's not get out of the car until the song is over," I pleaded. We nestled in the bucket seats. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the warmth of his heater and maybe it was Mumford & Sons, but as the song swelled into the last chorus, I tipped my index finger against his bearded cheek and kissed him indulgently. I'm normally a traditional girl who anticipates the great firsts: the great first phone calls and the great first kiss, the asking of the great first dates. But I had been running around town lately kissing a whole lot of boys. So really, what was one more?

I wasn't shy in my kissing and did exactly what I felt like doing. Lips teased, tongues mingled, noses rubbed. We did that thing where you just breathe hot air onto each other because you're too busy smiling to kiss. The song ended and I pulled away. I giggled in a fit of awkwardness.

There are two types of singers: those that use the mic stand and those that don't. I am of the latter philosophy. He used the stand.

He's like me: he can hold his own, but he's not a great singer. He's comfortable on stage. About two-thirds the way into his song, he pulled the microphone off the stand. I smiled.

I sang No Doubt's "I'm Just a Girl." Obviously heavy metal karaoke only has a handful of songs sung by female artists. But singing with a live band really is different than singing standard karaoke. For instance, there are no scrolling words. You have to know the song forwards and backwards and know when to jump in and out. And when you're on stage, you can't hear yourself and all of a sudden the band part all sounds the same. This is a long way to say I got lost in the second stanza and had to find some creepy guy wearing a trench coat in the audience who was singing along to get back on track.

Heavy metal karaoke was accompanied with gin and tonics, beer, and then Jaeger shots for the death knell. We both got sloppy. But the good news is that we were both equally drunk, so if one of us was acting like an idiot, the other didn't notice. We danced and grinded and made out to Toadies' "Possum Kingdom" and Guns N Roses' "Sweet Child O Mine."

He ran into some girls he knew. They exchanged hugs. Afterwards he leaned into me, "Don't worry, I've never slept with her."

"How did you know I was thinking that?"

"Because you said you are an overthinker. I know how those are."

"Well, fine." I started pointing to other girls he knew. "Did you sleep with her?"

"No."

"What about her?"

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"No." He reached out and ran his hand through my hair and kissed me.

We shut the bar down. I thought it was midnight and it was after 2:30 am. We go back to my place because I was insistent that the Femme Fatale had to be walked at that moment. Only I was so drunk that I dropped my building access card and we were locked out in the freezing cold. In the middle of the night. All of a sudden that security I loved wasn't so sexy.

Valdosta got impatient and said we should just go back to his place. I reminded him that I had the Femme Fatale. He said to just bring her along. My coat was inside. And I knew if I left, I'd never see my building access card again and it would cost me $35. I ignored him and started drunk dialing random apartments. That didn't work. And then, thank jesus for living in the city and a block from the region's largest gay club, a gay guy was escorting out his hookup for the evening. He made sure to escort that guy all the way out of the building. In the middle of the night.

I excitedly ran up to him. "Hi! I'm drunk and I live in the building. You can tell I live here because I'm not wearing a coat and I have my dog with me. I mean, what kind of person would steal something without coat pockets?" I rambled.

He let me in the building and then in the elevator. I found my building access card on my front door mat. I dumped off the Femme Fatale, still forgot my coat, and went out for pancakes and sausage because it seemed like a good idea at the time. By the time we made it back to Valdosta's apartment, it was 5 o'clock in the morning.

He's a cuddler. He cradled me like he's known my body for years. He knew the right spot on my thigh to rest his hand. He stroked my hair. Kissed my forehead--

"Um, do you sleep with your closet doors open?" I asked.

"Yes. Does that bother you?"

"Yes."

"You want me to get up and close the doors?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

"What are you, afraid of the Boogey Man?"

Some things are just scary in the dark.

The next morning, the room was spinning. Clearly I drank too much. Clearly I broke the rule of mixing liquor colors. I had a coughing fit from shouting and singing the night before. Valdosta got a text message. He laughed and read it to me.

"'Want me to get your girl a cough drop?' It's from my roommate."

After laying in bed for a few more hours, I felt ready enough to get up and go home. However, I did not account for the fact his car is a stick shift. The first time the car lurched into first gear, I groaned and rolled the window down for some cool air on my face.

"I thought you were going to get sick there for a minute," he admitted.

"Yeah, me too," I admitted.

It was the most awful car ride I've ever had in which I did not get sick. After he pulled away, I hovered over the one bush in front of my apartment building in case I was still going to. I crawled into my own bed, wishing for sweet death.

My mom called. "Your grandmother just passed away," she sniffed.

Date #7

What I liked about Date #7 is that he immediately called me out on my bullshit. I met Date #7 through Plenty of Fish and not eHarmony. Plenty of Fish had gone by the wayside and I had screwed around with my profile and let guys know up front that I loved both bad music and had nerd-like tendencies. And then to prove it, I quoted the great Michael Bolton: "How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?"

Friends first never works, he wrote me. And I can't believe you quoted Michael Bolton in your profile.

I checked his out. It was a good profile. So good in fact, I wouldn't have contacted him because I was so sure he hears from swarms of girls.

This coming from the man who uses animated emoticons in his, I quipped.

I was hoping you'd respond, he sent back.

After some good e-mail banter, we agreed to meet. He greeted me with a hug; I realized I was taller in heels. He graduated from a smaller, non-SEC college, and is a UT fan. He has a roommate. He plays hockey; I'd already been there and done that.

I pointed to my front tooth. "That right there was lasered on by my very excellent dentist. I was fighting for the puck and took a stick to the mouth. Just so you know, it's really embarrassing to stop a game so you can look for your tooth on the ice."

He was impressed. "When did all this happen?"

"Um, 10 years ago. My boyfriend at the time played in the minor leagues in Vegas for the ECHL."

"So I saw that you sing karaoke," he said, referencing one of my pictures on my profile. "Have you ever been to heavy metal karaoke?"

Heavy metal karaoke is a live band dressed in skinny jeans and long hair and only plays classic rock songs that have been deemed awesome by the band. The song choice is limited and there are a lot of rules to sing with them.

"I have. I went a couple of months ago with my roommate from college who was only in town for one night. Singing karaoke was our thing, so we checked it out."

"Did you sing?" he asked.

"Hell yeah, I sang. I always sing. I'm not good at it, but I enjoy it."

"What did you sing?"

"Bon Jovi."

"Oh, 'Living on a Prayer?'" he smirked.

"No. 'Dead or Alive.'"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Bold choice."

"Awesome song."

"I go to heavy metal karaoke pretty regularly. I know all the guys. I use a stage name when I sing."

"Oh yeah? What's your stage name?" I asked.

"Debaser."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "You were there that night! I remember that name. It was like real name, real name, Debaser. You sang twice."

He laughed. I spun my pint glass. "I was the girl in the corner. You should have flirted with me. I looked hot that night."

"You're looking pretty good right now," he smiled.

And so we set up a date to return to heavy metal karaoke.

Winter's Here

I stepped onto The Hungarian's porch and shivered. Although it was in the final days of November, it was the very first time it was cold out. I pulled on the coat that I brought just in case and zipped it up. The Hungarian, who usually watches to make sure I get to my car okay, had long shut the door and moved on.

It was also cold inside the house after the Great Dishwasher Incident of 2010.

I exhaled, but I didn't see my breath like I expected I would. The very last thing The Hungarian said to me was "It looks like Winter's here." I'm glad the outside matches my inside.

***

The next morning I had my appointment with my endocrinologist. He flipped through the results of my CBC and serum chemistry. It was good news. For the first time in three years, I was healthy.

"Now it looks like your body is never going to process calcium naturally," he admitted. He put the chart down and looked at me. "How far away are you from getting pregnant?"

I looked down at my feet and gurgled. Really? We have to have this discussion hours after I decide I don't want to see someone anymore? "Um, pretty far," I mumbled.

"Well you're still in your childbearing years."

What? I'm 29. I'm in the infancy of my childbearing years.

He expressed concern for my calcium levels if I ever do become pregnant. "The second you become pregnant, we'll want to see you immediately. Your calcium will need to be monitored carefully." He kept talking about pregnancy and pregnancy and pregnancy. I wanted to roll off the table with the paper sheet and die.

***

I've been dating in punctuation marks. Periods. Question marks. I want to date in commas, colons and ellipses. I want to date in prose, not statements. Let there be more to the story.

There has to be more to this story.

And... scene!

My relationship with The Hungarian has run its course. I think my mistake was taking too long to realize he wasn't playing games. His mistake is that he's completely self-absorbed. Once again, here's a man who says he wants a wife and kids, but doesn't have room in his life (or house) for them.

His house. That's the reason it's over. When he cooked me dinner, I tried to be hospitable and clean up. He told me to just put my plate in the sink. I did and then I cleaned the plate and stuck it in the dishwasher.

He turned around and saw what I was doing.

"What are you doing?" he yelled.

I looked up, confused.

"I told you to put it in the sink. Why are you touching the dishwasher?" He had always barked when he spoke, but now his voice was raised.

Completely aghast, I took the dish out of the dishwasher and put it back in the sink.

"Why did you close the dishwasher door!?" he yelled. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" He stomps in the kitchen and unlatches the dishwasher door.

By this time I had completely evacuated the kitchen and put two pieces of furniture between us: the kitchen island and kitchen table. I was acutely aware that the front door was directly behind me and my purse and car keys were within my reach. I had no idea what was happening or why he was yelling.

"You Americans with your hospitality," he sneered. "I told you to put the dish in the sink. Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I, uh, don't know," I whispered. "My intentions were good." I stood very still and didn't make any sudden movements.

The Hungarian fixes himself another plate and sits back down at the table as if none of this just happened. He gestured for me to sit. I did as I was told.

"If you're going to pout for more than 5 minutes," he began. I halfway stood back up, waiting for him to tell me to leave. "Then we are going to have to talk about this," he finished.

"I grew up very poor," he said. "There was no car, there was no dishwasher..." He had certainly come a long way since then. He drove a brand new Audi and had a BMW motorcycle for the weekends. He lived in a 5-bedroom house in the nice area of town. His house is completely paid off. He had achieved the American dream by anyone's standards. "...I have lived alone my entire life—even my mother would agree—and I am very proud of my things..."

I looked around his kitchen as he spoke. Inside a glass cupboard were six shot glasses perfectly lined up. Everything had an exact place.

"And I don't use my dishwasher," he continued. "They are a waste of time, water and energy."

He got up from the table and walked back to the scene of the crime. He explained to me his life as he hand washed all the dishes. It was not the life I have had. I grew up in this same neighborhood where he worked so hard to live. I have always lived in the upper-middle class bubble. Every label in his house I take for granted because it's always been accessible to me.

"See? All done." He put the last dish in the dish rack adjacent to the sink. I had never even noticed it. He approached me, still sitting silently at the table.

He stood in front me and clutched his heart. "Oh, I am so upset," he joked in a falsetto voice. "I need to go home, have a Valium, a glass of wine, and an appointment with my therapist." Well he had certainly nailed upper-middle class life. "No one has ever spoken to me that way!"

I didn't say anything. That wasn't the problem. The problem is that too many people have.