At 12:59 A.M. last night, I wrote him this:
Holy fack! I was just on the most terrifying Tinder date of al time. I don't know if I'm cut out for this! Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!
You can tell I was drunk, because of the typo. This is what I love about Tinder: if one date doesn't work out, there's more where he came from. You can dig right back in. And even though last night's date is probably in jail right now, I'm still eager to meet more dudes.
He's wearing a "Team Fun" t-shirt in his profile picture. I send him this message:
What do you do? Are you the CEO of Team Fun?
His response:
Haha. I'm actually the CFO of Team Fun.
Little does this guy know, I've never had a real job in my life. I have no idea what the difference between CEO and CFO is. I could Google it, but I'm also trying to watch Storage Wars right now. I'm busy. He tells me he develops software for a living. Cool. I wonder if he has Final Draft... He asks what I do for a living.
It's confidential. Can't tell you until I've known you for two hours. (That's my new rule, as per creepy date last night. I'm still figuring out Tinder:)
He lives at Bathurst and Lakeshore. (I...smell...condo owner...) I live in the Annex. We decide to meet at Victory Café, a cool spot in Mirvish Village, easy for both of us to access. I message him this:
I'll be the girl at the bar, reading "How to be a Woman."
(It's by Caitlin Moran. A great read.)
I arrive in my usual punctual style. He's late, but I know it's not his fault. I know the TTC* is facked this weekend. In this city, the TTC is the most reliable excuse we all have. Since I arrive first, I have the responsibility of choosing where to sit. Inside or patio? Table, or bar? I don't want to perpetuate any stereotypes that Canadians live in igloos, but we've endured some brisk days in August. It's not normal. My leg hair has been growing at a steady pace this summer, and I blame the goose bumps. So I choose to sit inside, at the bar. (I'm a barfly.)
The place is pretty quiet, since it's Sunday night. Maybe people are at church, or at home, coping with a shaky come down. I usually never make plans on Sundays. That's my day to stay home, do nothing, and finish all the bottles of red wine I opened during the week before they go bad. But I really want to meet the CEO/CFO of Team Fun, so I make an exception.
He walks in, smiling. I like people that smile. I smile A LOT. Sometimes people ask me, "Why do you smile so much?" I don't really know why. I just do. I don't think I should be picked on for that. He has an earring in his eyebrow. Is he a punk? A hoodlum? Am I channeling my dad right now? You can't judge a book by its cover, particularly my diary. It looks girly on the outside, but the inside is mostly fart confessionals.
Within minutes of the date, he shows me pictures of his cat.
Don't be foiled by an eyebrow ring, ladies. Sometimes the edgy looking ones are big softies. He LOVES cats! He shows me many pictures of his kitty, including painted portraits.
I'm actually not into cats. I know I'm a single girl in my 30s, and it's supposed to be par for the course, but a cat is still extra responsibility I don't want. I can barely keep up with filling the Brita. Sometimes I wonder if liking cats is something guys do to impress girls, like how some girls pretend to like football. Either way, I know this guy is totally going to get along with Dave Martin.
I'm hungry. Or I want to avoid getting drunk fast, so I ask to see a menu. I ask if he wants to split an appetizer. Now, I need to tell you this: I am not a controlling person EXCEPT when I share nachos. Then I dominate the decisions. I'm really not a picky eater. I don't like mushrooms, but I'm perfectly capable of picking them off things. But with nachos, I like to personally craft the plate to my liking: NO olives, extra jalapenos, sour cream on the side -- I don't like sour cream, but I don't want to starve my nacho partner of the condiment. You can have it all. I'm generous like that. And I always add guacamole. I'm a nacho baller. Luckily, he's very lax to my anal nacho tendencies.
As it turns out, he's an Aries. Thank God! Last night's Tinder was an Aries too, but I didn't want to believe it. Nothing worse than believing in astrology, and discovering all your best matches are total freaks. What does that make me? I'm finally comfortable enough to tell him what I do for a living.
"But it's only 45 minutes into the date! You said two hours!"
"I know, I know. But you don't seem creepy!"
I finally tell him I'm a comedian. I also take a bathroom break, and even leave my purse with him. A true sign of trust. (And a sign I don't have Bloody Kitty.) Obviously I take my phone with me, though. While I'm sitting on the toilet, I take a picture of the bathroom graffiti, and send it to him. (You never know how a girl like me will choose to flirt with you.)
When I get back to my bar stool, I ask him what kind of music he likes. He says,
"I like emo-screamo."
I don't really know what that is, but I'm sure somebody in Parkdale does. I tell him I like Taylor Swift and Maroon 5.
"You like Woody Allen AND Maroon 5? DEAL BREAKER!"
He jokes. Well, hopefully that was a joke...
He decides to share some of his creative side with me.
"I like to do something kind of weird..."
Uh-Oh. I'm scared...
"I like to impersonate people's Facebook profile pictures. I dress up, recreate the whole shot, then post my pic on their wall."
He shows me some of his work, and I laugh my head off. It's really funny! He literally looks EXACTLY like his friends in these pictures. I can already picture him impersonating me, in my pink fedora on Freemont Street. Then he asks me if I have any weird creative notions, other than stand up.
"Well... I do have one. I'm writing a country song. I can't sing, and I can't read music, so all I have is lyrics."
(Haha -- why am I even confessing this? I'm drinking light beer. I swear.)
"It's called, I'm Not Good Enough For Most Guys, But I'm Good Enough For You."
He laughs. He's probably picturing how hairy my legs are right now. Or maybe another body part.
Our night is full of random bonding. He even texts me a picture of the graffiti from the men's bathroom when he's up there. I can already picture our first fight:
"You BLOGGED about me?"
"Ya, but you like CATS!"
I start to get tired. I'm yawning, and I'm pretty sure I'm not covering my mouth for some of them. We get the bill. I feel like going dutch isn't quite fair, since I had full control of the nachos. (I'm not even sure he wanted nachos.) I should pay a little more. We do a 60/40 split.
We walk out of the bar, towards our respective TTC stops. When we reach the corner of Bathurst and Bloor, I stop him in front of Honest Ed's.
"K, so here's where we say good bye. You can kiss me if you want to, but you don't have to if you don't want to." #BlahBlahBlah
He kisses me. See that reverse psychology I used here? I'm goooooood! And how romantic! It's not everyday a guy makes out with you under a sign that says,
"Honest Ed's a nut. And look at the CASHEW save."
Bahahahahaha! That sign still gets me, every time...
I'm well on my way to 50 first dates -- 12 down, 38 to go...
(Don't tell my dad.)
Keep Calm, and Tinder on,
Walkinsauce
*TTC is short for Toronto Transit Commission. Yes, public transportation. That's how I travel. (Cars are for sober people.)
