How to Survive Weddings and Even Enjoy them as a Singleton – Part I

In all the furious fervor of the royal wedding it has occurred to me that for the first time in at least 10 years, I will have an entire year where I don’t attend any weddings.  At one point I think I was averaging 5 or more weddings a year.  And as someone who has only had a romantic-type date to one of those weddings in the entire decade, I feel extremely qualified to offer sage advice on How to Survive Weddings and Even Enjoy them as a Singleton (for a few of those weddings, I did have a spectacular ‘date’ in the form a fabulous female friend but only once in ten years did I have a non-platonic plus one).  I’ll also try to offer Helpful Hints to blushing brides and grooms on how to improve the fun quotient for their single pals.  So in no particular order of importance…

1.  If you’re going to attend, decide that you’re going to have a good time and be a fun guest. 

This kind of should go without saying, like don’t wear white to a wedding and if you’re a bride don’t try to make your bridesmaids look so disgusting that people will turn into stone just by looking at them, but sadly, this advice needs verbalizing.  If you’re going to répondez s'il vous plaît, and take up a dinner plate and spot on the dance floor, get your booty out there and have a good time.  Yes, you’re single and yes, the older you get, there will be fewer single friends at the table with you.   So the hell what?  Are you happy for your friend that’s about to be hitched?  Are you a fun person who likes to have fun?  That is a legitimate question as there are plenty of people out there who like to be miserable.  But if you answered yes to both of those questions, then go the wedding and be happy. 

If you can’t be happy, regretfully decline.  Don’t go and be a mope.  You may think that everyone is thinking about how you’re still single (yes, I’ve had these thoughts countless times) and how awful it will be if year after year you go to everyone else’s wedding and never have one of your own, but actually neither of those things is true.  People aren’t thinking of your seemingly perpetual single state – most of the time, they’re thinking about their own problems.  And even if you never have a wedding, it won’t be awful.  Just my opinion, but it is far, far worse to marry the wrong person than to live your life on your own.  If only I could figure out how to successfully register for gifts and have people throw me a big party even if I don’t become lawfully wed.  Hmmmm…. but that’s another thought for another day.

I have learned from my younger days when I took things a bit too seriously, that you can either be fun and have fun or be lame and have a lame time.  Sometimes I take it a bit too extreme (will cover that topic when discussing open bars), but on the whole I have to shake off any attempts at modesty and admit that I am a totally awesome wedding guest.  In fact, at a destination wedding a few years ago, I was voted “most fun guest” by the DJ, photographer, bartender, and some of the waitstaff.  Granted, I was in rare form that night on the dance floor and inspired some of my fellow guests to get off their butts and strut their stuff.  But they seriously did name me the funnest guest ever and even fetched me stuff like better drinks, a birthday smoke, and played every song that I requested.  That was a pretty awesome wedding as my friends that got hitched actually got me my own birthday cake and had them play “Baby Got Back” instead of “Happy Birthday.”  But I digress.

2. Speaking of that dance floor, get out there and shake your groove thang!

There are fewer things I adore more than a solid d.j. (no, not of the DJ 3-way variety) and a chance to bust a move (provided there’s an open bar but we’ll discuss that later).  It is proven fact that you will have a better time if you get up there, grab your friends, and hit the dance floor.  Even for the cheesy songs – the cheesier the better.  And I’m a BIG fan of interpretative dancing and lip syncing.  I’m not suggesting that you grab the microphone and try to take the stage, but when the music starts get up and dance.  For most of the songs, you don’t need a partner.  And don’t get all maudlin that if you were married, you’d have a spouse to dance with blah, blah, blah.  Most of the time, this is total crap. A lot of the married guys I know refuse to dance with their spouses.  Were I married to any of them, I would put an end to that kind of behavior post haste but we’ve learned over the course of my blog that I might be a bit too particular.  Regardless, dancing is almost always a fabulous idea.  To quote the ineffable Lady Gaga, just dance.  That is of course with the exception of slow songs.

3.  Unless it’s a slow song, and if it is, get the hell out of there.  STAT!

Slow songs are poison to the singleton who actually likes to dance and is all by her or his lonesome at a wedding.  I can pull up my big girl panties and have a good time at almost any wedding, but the slow songs will bring me to knees and have me curling up in the fetal position, convinced that I will be all alone for the rest of my life and will learn to crochet sweaters for all 13,000 of my dogs and cats that I will hoard in my house.  I have been to weddings where I was literally the ONLY dateless sap in attendance other than the bride’s infant niece and 90-something year old grandma.  This became completely obvious during the first slow song as EVERY OTHER PERSON IN THE ROOM HAD SOMEONE TO SLOW DANCE WITH EXCEPT ME.  Two of the couples even included the niece and grandma.  It felt like it was all in caps and they were all staring at me and pitying me and worse than that I was pitying myself, and that I just won’t stand for.

So what to do in this situation?  If your friends are kind, some of them may lend you their dates for a slow dance or two but sometimes that can feel even sadder than sad.  If your friends are kinder, they will invite some damn other single people and make them hot too (will discuss later).  But if those things aren’t happening, take matters into your own hands.  No, don’t get up there by yourself and sway.  It looks creepy and pathetic and you’ll feel horrible.  The only thing that kind of works is to haul ass out of there the second a slow song comes on and don’t come back for at least 6 minutes.  DJ’s almost always follow up a slow song with other dumbass slow song, so you have to find a way out of that joint for at least the duration of two songs, three if the DJ is extra cruel.  Don’t break into a sprint to get out of there, but don’t dawdle.  And don’t worry if people give you funny looks, most of the time those perceived funny looks are all in your head.  Take a restroom break, get some air, something.  Just get out of dodge.

4. Enjoy the open bar, but don’t lose your damn mind.

Ah, the lure of an open bar!  Its siren call has caused me to commit egregious acts in years past…okay, it wasn’t all that far in the past.  One of my least proud open bar incident (or at least the only one tame enough for me to share on the Internet) was during my “two drink strategy period.”  Open bar lines seemed exceedingly long and so for a period of time, I would always get two drinks each time I made it to the front of the line and my standards at the time were gin and tonics.  So at what still remains after 8 years the most fun wedding I have ever attended (largely but not exclusively due to my friend’s husband inviting hot single guys), I might have gone to the bar for a two-for a few too many times.  On one trip, I overheard a wedding guest who happened to be the fiancée of a guy that I had dated a year or two earlier comment cattily to her friend “I can’t believe she’s getting another drink!”   So on my return trip, I stopped in front of the fiancée, clinked both of my drinks together in her face and said I drink both of those to her health and good luck in her marriage. 

At that wedding I also caught the bouquet (disproving that myth) and as I’d had a few or several too many, I spiked the bouquet to the ground and ran out of the reception laughing.  Those were really my only ridiculous moments other than the very queasy car ride; all in all that wedding still goes down as the most fun wedding of all time.  How could it not when there were hot and interested single guys, a crazy d.j., and a plethora of good friends.  One very good friend crashed a wedding next door and came back with a long blond wig and a 3^rd place bronze medal, declaring herself to now be named “Svetlana.” I did shots with the groom who I had never really talked with before, danced with all my pals, and had two guys hitting on me.  It was a HILARIOUS good time and I even got a semi-boyfriend out of that who I dated for a few months before he fell into the single guy black hole.  I really should have chosen the guy with the spiky hair and tongue ring rather than the dud I picked.  Another tale for another time.

But used judiciously, an open bar will loosen you up and get you on that dance floor. 

This is a pretty long post so I’m going to have to wrap it up for now and work on Part Deux later.  If you’re heading to a wedding in the meantime, bring a nice gift on the registry (or money), comfortable shoes or be willing to dance shoeless, and have fun!  If you’re the one getting married, I wish you health, wealth, happiness, and love.  It is of course Your Special Day, but please remember your friends who were there for you before you met The One and will more than likely be there when you want to strangle The One or if The One should turn out to be Not The One.  These are the friends who spend a large portion of their adult lives being happy for friends around them celebrating engagements, showers, weddings, baby showers, births, kids’ birthday parties, etc.  At a minimum, if there’s only one or two of your single gal friends attending your wedding, don’t throw a bouquet.  I find the whole process basically a mortifying cattle call and generally attempt to be elsewhere while it is ongoing, but it is even more pronounced if it’s just you and one other chic up there.  Having caught the bouquet twice in my life and not having been wed once, I think the power of it is at best suspect. 

Alright, now that’s really it.  Good night to all my readers, be ye single or hitched.  If you’re so inclined I think the royal wedding coverage starts at the butt crack of dawn on Friday.  Myself, I will be snoozing away and looking forward to the day when news coverage doesn’t focus on the horrors of Kate driving by herself just 48 hours prior to the wedding with no security OR what type of jelly bowls will be served.  But if you have a spare invitation and a plane ticket to Heathrow, I’ve been practicing my princess wave would be more than happy to show British wedding guests how to do the lawnmower, shopping cart, or any of my other patented dance moves.

The Waiting Game

This has been the longest period in which I haven’t blogged since I started this adventure.  It feels pretty weird, to not be sharing my ridiculous stories and vast insecurities with whoever is still actually reading this.  Sadly I haven’t had that much to relay with regards to dating, extreme or otherwise.  It feels like a century since my last date although I believe it is really only less than a month.  There is still vast uncertainty with regards to DW and I have joined no other dating sites.  I feel like I’m in this weird pause while I wait to see if anything develops “in the real world” before giving up and trying yet another dating site.

Recent news stories probably should give me pause in the pursuit of online dating.  It is scary out there, and while I’ve never assumed that any of the services I’ve tried have done anything close to a background check (or if they did, man do they suck at it considering some of the dates I’ve had!), I usually assume that the guys aren’t truly evil.  But since I’m never certain what their deal is and how much rage or whatever they’ve got going on, I have a Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) when it comes to meeting a new guy for the first time in real life.

First of all, it’s always a public place and usually one that I’ve been to before so I can have exit strategies in place.  Secondly, I like to only agree to a drink or coffee at first to see if the guy is even too scary to join for a full meal.  Thirdly, and this is probably the smartest move in the SOP, I always inform my sister of the date, including what I know about the guy, what time we’re meeting, and where.  I also give her a specific time that I will call or text by to inform her of my safety.  If the date is going well, I try to discreetly text my sister that I’m ok and give her a new deadline that she should hear from me by.  If she doesn’t hear from me, she is to inform the authorities or at least some of my brothers. 

This is definite SOP for the first date and usually for the 2^nd and 3^rd if it comes to that.  I don’t like the dates to know where I live until 3^rd or 4^th date at the earliest and even then I still give my sister the details prior to my date.  She remains, as she has been since my earliest memories, my strongest protection, my security blanket, and my bestest pal. 

But I’m still in the midst of the Waiting Game.  Do I join another service or continue to wait?  If I join another service, which one?  Do I try one I’ve already tried before or try to find something completely different? GAH!!!! These are way too many questions for someone who hates making decisions.  I’m even waiting when it comes to my new trainer and deciding if I should sign up for more sessions. 

So my new trainer is pretty legit.  He has yet to stand me up and he is never late.  More than that, he doesn’t spend the whole time yapping about how I need to eat 5 times a day and mainly have protein shakes, showing me complicated stretches, or yammering about various exercises while I stand there and feel my butt growing bigger.  He actually spends the whole time making me work out intensely.  I like it but it makes me mad too.  He also has said I am his most entertaining client, but sadly not because of my athletic prowess or my big guns.  Nope, I’m the most entertaining in terms of the crazy faces I make while lifting, the fact that I almost passed out once, and how often I dissolve into fits of snorting laughter when he tries to make me do impossible things. 

I’ve finished all my free sessions with him – I think he even threw in an extra one because he thinks I’m funny or at least I look and sound funny when I work out – and am actually considering signing up for more as next to my dog, my relationship with him may be the most consistent and healthy one I’ve had with a male in forever.

Mr. Twilight has been Eclipsed

The final nail in the coffin so to speak was when he forwarded me a list of upcoming entertainment events in the area and it included an ad for a Twilight convention in D.C.  

I met Mr. Twilight (aka Franklin*) back before New Year’s Eve on our very first date.  To recap briefly, he was charming and funny and had about a billion hobbies, including a disconcerting love of vampires and the Twilight saga (see Curse of the Toxic Wine Bar for more info).  What he didn’t have was that certain j’ne sais quois or chemistry-ish spark.  I liked hanging out with him but I wasn’t excited to see him again.  That being said, I recognized that first impressions can be tinged with nervousness and he was pretty fun so I decided in favor of a second date.

Unfortunately, he became the second guy to stand me up that weekend in mid-January.  We hadn’t set a specific time or location to meet but had generally agreed on a Sunday evening which I dutifully set aside and then heard nothing from him as the date approached.  A week or two later he emailed to say that he was sorry that his flights back from snowboarding out west that weekend had been delayed and he should have texted or called but he forgot. 

Since he did seem pretty swell and my expectations had been tempered by my recent encounter with the potential satanic worshiping poop-lover (see Deal with the Devil for more info), I decided to give Franklin* another go but unfortunately due to the insanity in both of our schedules we couldn’t meet up again until a few weeks ago.  At that point all I could really remember about him was that he liked very odd board games, volleyball, and vampires.  That third point was reinforced when he asked to make our second date a little later in the evening so he could go home and watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  To the uninformed, I must relay that Buffy (a truly exceptional program) has been off the air for oh, about 10 years.  And that if he was a real fan, as I suspected he was, he probably had the whole series on DVD anyway.  So it is highly odd that he would need to delay our date that had been delayed for two months to watch an episode of a t.v. show that has been in syndication for 10 years.  But I digress.

As work had continued to suck the very life from my veins and rendered me incapable of making decisions, I left the event planning up to him.  He chose sushi for the event and a local restaurant near the both of us as the location.  This makes it even stranger to me that he then spent a significant portion of the evening commenting on the expensiveness of the menu items.  I mean if the costs is that much of a concern, why not choose a less expensive type of food?  Not even the jumbo pitcher of sake mitigated his unhappiness with the prices.  A little aghast I offered repeatedly to contribute to the bill, particularly as I had begun to see our ‘relationship’ as heading solidly in the friend direction, but he would have none of that.  The conversation, other than mentions of the price of the meal, was fairly pleasant but not as enchanting as I remembered from our first date.  Rather than seeming as a renaissance man with many different interests, he came across as someone who had no time for anyone or anything that didn’t conform to his schedule and interests. 

This could, of course, have something to do with my rapidly increasing and hopeless-feeling crush on the Dog Whisperer.  There’s not a lot of potential matches on my horizon right now, but the best any of them can hope for at this point is a distant second to DW (see “Stalking the Dog Whisperer” and “Dorks Anonymous” for more info).  And yes, I am still too superstitious about it to say anything so there will be no further updates on that situation for the time being.

I will, however, provide an update to the melodramatic relationships I have with a string of personal trainers (see “It’s Not Me, It's You” for more info).  That’s right folks, I was stood up by yet another personal trainer.  I was supposed to meet the tatted up trainer number two this past Friday but he “got mixed up” and then was surprised that I didn’t want to hang out the gym waiting for him for an additional 90 minutes as he attempted to come from Germantown across the always-daunting Capitol Beltway to my gym.  During rush hour.  On a Friday.  I have now been given yet another new trainer and yet another free session.  We’re scheduled to meet tomorrow for our first of three sessions.  At this point I’ll be more surprised if he actually shows at all, let alone shows up remotely on time.  

*Name has been changed.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

I’ve been trying to break up with my trainer for almost a week.  Actually to be honest, I’ve been trying to break up with him for a couple of months.  We just don’t have the same spark that we used to.  I see the way he looks at his other clients, with hope that they will obey his insane eating regimen and that sadistic smile that he used to have just for me.  The end started when he double-booked during my appointment and then tried to speed my session up to get to the next one too quickly.  That was annoying enough but then came the time for our last session in December when he stood me up.  No call, no explanation.  Nothing. 

I swore I wouldn’t take him back but then he came crawling back with apologies and promises of a free session to make it up to me.  And God help me, but I believed him.  We had one session and it was ok I guess.  The thrill was definitely gone.  Then I got the flu and canceled our last session (although I will note that I called him the day before to cancel even though I had to make time between my feverish viewing of bizarre History channel specials and intense vomiting schedule to call him).   As my health improved nominally, my work life spiraled rapidly out of control and I was lucky to have time to sleep and walk my faithful canine let alone to have a personal fitness session (this also has had a toll on my ability to date potential matches and probable psychotics). 

Anyway, I saw the trainer at the gym the week before last and he was singing my praises again, saying how much he missed me and how anxious he was to start working with me again.  I fell for it again and booked the seemingly never-ending last session for this past Tuesday.  Guess what happened next?  That’s right, he didn’t show.  Again.

I was beyond fed up and told the gym I just wanted to cancel that last session and call it a day.  Instead, the gym who has become like a persistent and incompetent matchmaker decided to give me a new trainer and two free sessions.  They introduced me to my new trainer.  While I highly enjoyed his tats, I have to admit the workout was kind of meh.  It was more him talking about his fitness and diet philosophies (he saw lots of protein shakes in my future but since I don’t think they are supposed to include vodka or real chocolate, I don’t think that’s going to happen) and then showing me random stretches.  Then he gave me his digits and told me to text him with the days I wanted to meet next. 

But even then he was into making things difficult.  He lives like 40 miles away and said he only wanted to come train me if he was already training someone else.  Not the most seductive of proposals, I have to tell you. 

The following evening, I get a message from Old Trainer saying that we were supposed to have an appointment that evening and that he guessed I couldn’t make it and wanted to reschedule.  Highly confused, I left him another message saying that our appointment had been for the day before, and then awkwardly hemmed and hawed about how the gym gave me New Trainer and that I hadn’t asked for him and was really sorry, but I guessed I was working with New Trainer and that I wished him the best and would see him around.

I thought that would kinda be the end of it because although this has become like a very awkward relationship it is a financial one with clearly defined roles and responsibilities.  I pay him to make me work out and he does so and I complain but try not to complain too loudly as it tends to make him become more sadistic.  All of that is contingent on him showing up and making me work out. 

But I apparently am irresistible to trainers sensing my overwhelming guilt at my physical appearance and lack of general tone-y-ness and my inability to break off a relationship that has passed its prime long ago.  I say this because last night, Old Trainer left a seven minute message on my voicemail apologizing for the mix-up, saying that he was pretty sure our appointment was for Wednesday but that if he was in any way responsible for the confusion he felt horrible, yadda, yadda, and to make up for it would like to give me another free session.

So now I have to decide between two trainers, neither of who I am interested in, both of whom are vying for my attention and throwing free sessions at me.  And much like I feel when posed with similar dating situations, I really just want to run away from both of them and quit the gym so I don’t have to see them and deal with any more awkwardness.

Anyway, that’s all I got for now.  I will have to tell you later about my most recent date with Mr. Twilight (see Curse of the Toxic Wine Bar for more info).

Dorks Anonymous

If you haven’t met me in real life you’ll have to take my word for this, but I am truly a dork.  My dorkiness has been confirmed of late by my completely pre-teen like behavior with regards to the Dog Whisperer (see Stalking the Dog Whisperer post and comments for back story).  I don’t want to even talk about it too much as I don’t want to jinx it.  GAH! I’m one step away from leaving a note on his door saying “Do You Like ME? Circle Yes or No.” 

We’ve now progressed to having talked together for over 10 minutes at a time, he’s crossed the street to come talk to me (a MAJOR improvement from previously when he would cross the street to avoid me and my dog who was violently opposed to his dog), and now actually walking together.  Yes, that’s right, after months of me intermittently mooning over him, we’ve now walked around the block together.  And I was so excited that I did a happy booty dance in my kitchen following said walk and am afraid that several passers-by might have observed the happy booty dance.  Right on cue, my friend and co-conspirator who has been trying for months to get more info on DW and throw me into his path, called to discuss the walk as she and her husband both had observed said walk.  But that’s all I’m going to say for now as again, I’m a dork, and I don’t want to jinx this.  And still have not confirmed that he is in fact single.  Or remotely interested in me.

In other news, Mr. Twilight may be making a return appearance as he sufficiently explained semi-standing me up on our last date (see Curse of the Toxic Wine Bar for more info).  He continues to be delightfully witty in his emails and we are trying to meet up again soon.

And finally, I’m about ready to kick my one remaining dating site to the curb.  Barrel of Monkeys* has been sketchy at best since I joined it a few months ago (see Weird Science for info on my dual dating site debacle).  This definitely may have been a case of getting what you pay for since that joint was free.  Recent matches who have wanted to meet include a guy who had a picture of himself dressed as a pirate (and it seemed to be more of an everyday wardrobe choice rather than costume) and Dick.*  Dick* approached me last week but it was almost too much for me to comprehend.  First, the profile pics included one of him posed in front of a waterfall whilst looking pensive and another picture of him pretending to sleep.  The email he sent me simply said “Can you handle a guy like me?”  When I checked out his profile, it prompted me to answer “No.”   His profile looked something like the following:

I am just an ambitious outdoorsy professional athlete trying to change the world the best way I know.  Ask whatever you wish of me and it shall be granted.  The real problem is, I am also a die hard romantic! Alas! it seems women have lost a taste for that. Why is that? Granted I see lots of lovely ladies on here, and I am a sucker for your beautiful eyes. But if you really want all the stuff you claim you do, look no further for..Here I am!  You are the only thing stopping you here.  Not me.  You. Turn up the speakers from your heart and decrease the ones from your brain. I will see you somewhere in the middle!?!  Women have no idea how to seduce and be seduced.  You are more girls than women.  Why?

Not-so-Great Expectations

To refresh your memories, I have been communicating for what I now realize has been over seven weeks with someone who I feared may have been a satanic worshipper and who really seemed to have some sort of obsession with poop (see Deal with the Devil for the full back story).  That was the worst case scenario as far as I could tell.  The best case scenario was just that he was an extremely nervous individual who made a really poor decision in choosing his email address and who wasn’t too good at communicating on email.  Or the phone.   And was prone to using the word ‘poop’ a lot when he was nervous.  Which was most of the time.

Fast forward to this past weekend: I’m incredibly stressed at work and have no time to sleep or think or take reasonable care of myself so this of course made it the most perfect time ever to meet my match, Erik*, in real life.  Yep, there is virtually no situation that I can’t take and make it more difficult or prone to disaster.  But I had decided enough was enough, I had to meet him and see once and for all what the deal was; plus his requests to meet to meet in real life had reached a fevered pitch and this seemed the best way to end that.

We decided to meet on Sunday for lunch.  At high noon.  (cue the Western high noon shootout music).  He chose a slightly upscale-ish fast food joint.  Yep, fast food.  As in wicked cheap.  And no booze.  Wincing silently, I agree to meet him there. 

When I arrive, there were no visible signs of satanic worship on his person.  I don’t know what I was expecting but there were no pentagrams or triple 6’s.  He was wearing a black sweatshirt but that was as dark as he got.  He also was beyond highly nervous, the kind with the clammy handshake and faint sheen on his forehead.  In what was a further indicator that this was not going to be the best date ever, he didn’t pay for my lunch or even offer to in spite of the fact that the total came to about $5.00. 

What followed was a fairly reasonable conversation, in terms of not talking about the devil or poop, but all in all was kind of …well, bland and slightly depressing.  He was really nervous and a pretty negative person, but not evil.  He didn’t really have any interests or hobbies other than work and working out.  He said all his friends had abandoned him by getting married and having kids and not having any time to spend with him.  I tried to pick up the conversation by appearing interested and asking him questions that I thought would engender more positive conversation, but it fell flat.  Even when I tried to commend him for being such a good guy and helping his mom the day before, he sighed and said he didn’t want to help her but she made him. 

But I just kept thinking “well, at least he doesn’t seem satanic.  And he hasn’t mentioned poop either, so that’s gotta count for something….right?”  That’s the problem with going on these dates.  They make me question what I had thought were reasonable expectations to the point where it feels like I need to just lower my standards to: single, not evil, can carry on a conversation that doesn’t make me wince/vomit/cry.  When my goal is just to rate my dates above “licking my hair upon first meeting me” OR “doesn’t hate food and people” OR “doesn’t make me afraid for my personal safety” OR “doesn’t pee in plain sight of the customers of the nice restaurant where we just dined,” maybe that’s when its time to call it a day and give up the whole dating scene (see “The Eternal Truth of Seinfeld and Parisian Greetings” OR “Eating Before Dinner and Worst Date EVER” OR “At Least I Got To Hit Some Balls” OR “What Eventually Drove Me to the Internet” for more on those respective dates).

*Name has been changed.

Stalking the Dog Whisperer

I’m not the most observant woman when it comes to noticing a cute, available guy when I see one in real life.  Therefore, it should not come as a surprise that it took me a while to notice the cutie with the golden retriever living just a few hundred feet away from me.  Even so I did not realize that he had been living in the neighborhood almost three years before I met him.  I am also quite possibly the world’s worst flirt –not as in, wow that woman is outrageously flirtatious! More like, when I don’t think I’m being flirty I’m apparently all “come hither” and when I actually attempt to flirt, it’s hideous and grotesque.  These things have conspired to ruin my relationship with the dog whisperer before it even got started.

“Dog Whisperer” is the code name my friend and neighbor gave the cutie.  I think she actually noticed him first and staked him out for me months and months ago.  This is the kind of friend she is: when she saw the hot runner in our neighborhood, she attempted to chase him down for me despite the fact that she was approximately 8 months pregnant and walking her fairly sizable Labrador.  When I asked her what she was going to do if she actually caught him, she replied matter-of-factly that she was going to “bring him to me.”  These are the actions of a true, and at the time hormonally charged, friend.  The image of him turning around all wide-eyed to see a pregnant stranger and her big black dog charging after him still makes me smile.

So at some point, I think in the late summer, we both noticed “DW” walking his beautiful golden retriever.  They looked like an L.L. Bean ad come to life.  My friend and I started plotting ways I could throw myself into his path.  This became hugely complicated by the fact that when they first met, my dog HATED his dog.  Ok, so maybe Charlie (my dog) didn’t hate the golden, but he really didn’t like him.  He’d bark and pull at his leash and even growled once.  It was really a hindrance to my not-so-burgeoning romance. 

My friend was undeterred though and took it as her mission to introduce herself and her dog to DW and find ways to “naturally” bring me up in their conversations.  She was a force to be reckoned with and would insert my name and presence into conversation even if it seemed to be a stretch.  When he was talking to her about his commute, she said “Oh you know who has a bad commute too?  Adrienne! You know Adrienne, right?” and then would sing my praises.  When he talked about his dog, she would bring up me and Charlie.  I really think at one point he said he had to go to the store and she might have said something like “Oh, you know who just went to the store, Adrienne! You know Adrienne, right?”  In fact, once when she was walking toward him determined to bring me up again, a bug flew into her eye and she kept talking about me even though tears were streaming out her eye as she attempted to dislodge the insect. 

That time she invited him to a cookout at her house in the early fall which thankfully he did not attend.  I say thankfully as it ended up being me and like 4 married couples and several toddlers and infants.  Not exactly the best scene to casually strike up a conversation and win him over with my feminine wiles.  Hi! I’m the only single woman in the room!  Come! Talk to me!  Why are you running away?!?!

In the meantime, I was working my butt off at trying to get Charlie to be friendlier to DW’s dog.  I worked with Charlie on every walk, giving him treats when we saw other dogs, praising him when he didn’t bark or growl, and trying to reinforce positive thoughts about golden retrievers by comparing DW’s dog to one of Charlie’s favorite girl dogs, the golden retriever of one of my best friends.  It was more than a little insane, but it actually worked.  Charlie started to like DW’s dog and DW and I had several conversations when we met up walking in the neighborhood. 

I’m not that great at stalking though.  This is probably not a bad thing, but it has made it tougher to find casual ways to throw myself into DW’s path.  I still haven’t even established if he has a girlfriend.  I’m pretty sure he was dating this total skank in the fall.  Ok, I don’t know she was a total skank.  But she was all flippy with her blond hair and had this annoying “I’m so fun-loving” loud laugh that she would laugh when she flipped her hair.  Or at least she did the one day I saw her hanging all over him. 

I hadn’t seen her since that one time and haven’t seen any other women hanging around so I hadn’t given up hope.  I just couldn’t figure out how to get him to think of me in a way other than neighbor woman whose dog used to despise his dog. 

Our last series of interactions was at first highly positive and then deeply disappointing.  When it snowed like an absurd amount a few weeks ago, I was trying to dig out in the morning and head off to work.  DW came over and offered to help me finish my car.  Since it was like half a foot of snow, it took quite a while and we had a pretty great conversation.  I found out some more about him, he asked questions about me, and it turns out we had a lot in common and a lot to talk about.  He even helped me when I wanted to dig out one of my neighbor’s cars as her husband had the flu and she was at her wit’s ends as the kids were sick too. 

Here was my in!  I finally figured out how to woo him in a way where I wouldn’t end up freaking him out by my horrible attempts at flirting.  I don’t like to brag, but I am a pretty mean baker.  I can definitely hold my own when it comes to delicious baked goodness, much to the detriment of my own hips.  Anyway, I decided I would bake DW something to thank him for helping me dig. 

I seriously contemplated what I should bake him.  It had to be homemade but not too fussy –plus what if he had bizarre allergies or food aversions?  I decided to go with a classic: chocolate chip cookies.   This way, I could give some to him and some to a couple friends.  They turned out pretty good, although I burned quite a few.  I kept the burnt ones for myself and then took the rest out to deliver.   I went to my friends’ first and then made my way to DW’s casa. 

I was more than a little nervous as I knocked on his door a few Sunday nights ago.  His dog was definitely excited to see me, but DW seemed a little nonplussed.  I’m pretty sure my face was the color of a fire engine and I stammered something about wanting to thank him for helping me dig out the cars and that I had made some chocolate chip cookies and I hoped that he liked them.  And then….he invited me in, told me I was the woman he’d been searching his entire life for, and swept me up in his arms, and we laughed about how we’d tell the drawn out story of how we met to our future grandkids.

Well, that’s what would have happened had my life been one of the numerous Hallmark or Lifetime Valentine’s Day movies that have been advertised for the past week or so.  The camera would pan to DW and I walking off into the sunset with our dogs.  What actually happened was that he thanked me for the cookies, I stood there with what I fear was a ridiculously hopeful expression on my face, there was a slightly awkward pause, and then he closed the door.

And that’s been that.  I haven’t really seen him since then.  Then again, I’ve been working pretty much nonstop and have been struck with yet another cold, but I still haven’t talked to or even really seen DW or his overly perfect golden.  And to be truthful, I have to admit that what really ticked me off was that I wasted all my good cookies on him and was left with only the burnt ones.  I’m sure there’s a metaphor or life lesson in there somewhere.

In the meantime, I did manage to have at least one phone conversation with Erik* (see Deal with the Devil) where he did not mention poop or satan, so that’s good news I guess.  We still haven’t met in real life, but hopefully if works calms down and I stop sounding like Elmer Fudd with this head cold, we’ll be able to meet up for a drink or coffee or something innocuous like that.  But I’ll probably continue to pathetically sigh whenever I see DW’s house or catch a glimpse of him walking along with his dog.  

*Name has been changed.