The Scarlett Letters - Dating

Six Months of Short Sentences

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 13:36:45 -0500

I was dumped.

He said he was sorry.

I gave him another chance.

He disappeared.

He apologized. Explained. Pursued. Attempted to make amends.

I kissed him. And said goodbye.

I went on dates.

I met a guy. He’s disarmingly mature, attractive and intelligent.

We go away for long weekends.

We spend time with friends.

I keep a toothbrush at his house.

He talks to me and not at me.

He likes my cats.

He tells me what he’s thinking.

He asks about my day.

He asks me to dance.

He sees me.

I turn 31 next week. And I’m happy.

Frankly,

Landscape Architecture

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 17:00:36 -0500

I’ve never been one for jigsaw puzzles. My mother can’t get enough of them and will stare at microscopic pieces for hours, days, in fact, until she manages inexplicably to find the order amidst chaos.

I’m not a visual person. I don’t work well within the confines of compartmentalized thought. Edge pieces, blue pieces, round, square, etc. I'd much prefer to admire a finished work of art and drill down into its individual, interesting elements of texture, style, medium rather than working from the ground up.

My very right brained style of thinking is rather limiting in that sense - needing to be sure of the forest before taking notice of the role of the individual trees, leaves and branches. I like the big picture.

So it is with life. I like to make the pieces fit neatly together to form a seamless mosaic of complementary tiles, structured form and interesting texture.

However, I'm finding it to be increasingly true that there are moments painted within the overarching canvas of life which don't quite fit in with the whole creating a jarring effect akin perhaps to embroidering Van Gogh's "Starry Night" upon the narrative of the Bayeux Tapestry* in place of Haley's Comet. Such an insertion would, if not alter the overall narrative, certainly change the setting so abrupt would be the effect.

So it is with the impact one might experience upon and unexpected and intentioned meeting. An unexpected connection felt for someone with whom you might never pictured yourself and were completely prepared to dismiss as nothing more than a passing flirtation. And even thought you don't quite yet know what to make of this ill fitting piece of the puzzle, you find it makes you feel alive intellectually and physically in a ways you'd forgotten.

And when that happens, suddenly none of the pieces fit because you find the landscape to be fundamentally altered.

Frankly,

*For those of you who snoozed your way through medieval history class, the Bayeux Tapestry is an embroidered cloth (dating roughly around 1077) depicting the events prior to and concurrent with the Norman conquest of England.

Break Up Letter

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 13:27:00 -0500

Dear eHarmony:

We need to talk.

I’m not ready for a commitment of this magnitude.

Six months ago, not entirely certain of the degree to which I was ready to submerge myself once again into the DC dating pool, I timidly dipped my toes back into the pond to test the waters. The time and consideration with which you professed to offer a “deep and more meaningful” online dating experience, seemed the best way to better ease myself back into the life of a single Washingtonian. Unsure of my readiness for significant emotional involvement, I thought it best to, at the very least, stretch my dating legs lest all romantic muscles become atrophied with disuse.

I want to see other people.

You have set me up with not one, but THREE ex boyfriends. Well done, swifty. Well done. While this detour down “Poor Decision Lane” followed by jaunt along “Regret Blvd” was diverting, I could have had a V8.

Add to this your consistent and seemingly unrelenting parade of men who reach an average and unimpressive vertical limit at 5’9. This stature, or lack thereof, leaves them at an inconvenient eye level with my rather substantial bust line. Standing at 5’10 in my shortest pair of heels, any way you solve this equation is sure to equal distracted disaster.

I need some space.

You attract immature ~~men~~ boys who throw hissy fits and pouting tantrums worthy of a 2 year old deprived of his [insert popular toddler toy] on my front doorstep when I fail to invite them in at the end of an evening. My neighbors thank you for the entertaining spectacle, but I am not amused.

I’m not saying its you…but its DEFINITELY not me.

You’ve served as a beacon to boys apparently still residing if not physically, then definitely mentally, in the frat house. In what universe did you think that the way to win this Irish girl’s heart is to pound back Guinness after Guiness until you're about as articulate as Obama without his teleprompter. In fact I can concoct no rational scenario in which I should worry about the means by which my date will get home safely.

Please note, if a man is drinking in an attempt to get to girl drunk and trying to take advantage of her, he better make damned sure that he'll be able to drink her under the table without breaking a sweat. A drunk man is physically useless and frankly, nothing sobers me up faster or turns me off more than I man who is more intoxicated than I. Call me crazy but I like my men IN control as opposed to slurring and staggering.

In addition, spare me the “I’m too drunk to drive, can I stay at your place until I sober up”, sob story. I'm not unsympathetic, I promise. In fact, I have two very helpful suggestions for you. Option #1: “grab a cab." Connecticut Avenue is one block that-a-way. Make like an urbanite, stick out your arm and hope for the best. Option #2: I’ll be happy to point you in the direction of the Starbucks around the corner where you can caffeinate your way back to sober.

I need to concentrate on ME.

Let’s face it, doll, I don’t think we’re compatible. I'm sure am partly to blame. After all, It takes two to tango. I have been described as too sassy, too outspoken, too sarcastic, too cynical – many qualities which might turn off a romantic suitor.

However, I just feel that at this point in my life, I’d rather take the $29.95 I’m throwing at you every month to be fixed up with the aforementioned, sulky, vertically challenged, future AA leaders of the greater DC metropolitan area and shove it at a new pair of suede, Kelsi Dagger over-the-knee boots.

Perhaps I’ll turn to your bastard fraternity brother, Match.com for other options? Perhaps we’ll meet again someday? Perhaps fate will intervene and drop Russell Crowe on the pub stool opposite me? Who knows?

I think we’re better off being friends.

Frankly,

Objects in the Rear View Mirror (Part One)

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 09:05:00 -0500

I thought I loved him. I was excited. To meet his parents, to go shopping with his mom, to be immersed in the family activities. More acutely enjoyed, I expect, since my own family was so far away. It was nice, it felt real.

But there were problems, just like any relationship. There was the criticism for one. The constant comments about my diet, the nagging to eat better, the reminders to not order that second glass of wine, the disapproving looks if I were to partake in any form of carbohydrate. After all, HE was the professional athlete. He knew best.

Then came the fights. The temper. They were my fault, of course. Everything was always my fault. It was exhausting, living on the edge, not knowing what would set him off, doing my best not to make him mad. But these problems were, in my mind, no different from any other relationship. He told me he loved me, so he must. And when it ended after nine months, I was sad. And I was hurt when he told me the reason: because I wasn’t “motivated”. Because I wasn’t 12% body fat. Because I wasn't working hard enough to get there. Because I spent too much time with my friends.

I cried. I cried for not being enough. I cried for not trying harder. I cried for loneliness, for yet another failed relationship. For being 25 and still single! But alas, after the tears had stopped falling I did what so many women who have found themselves tossed and tumbled on the side of the relationship highway have done and will continue to do. I dusted myself off, touched up my makeup and moved on with life.

He wasn’t one of those ex’s with whom we stay in contact. A casual text, a brief phone call, a drunken hook up. No – this relationship was deader than a morgue resident with a toe tag accessory. Never to be heard from again. Fast forward 5 years to last month when eHarmony and their 27 degrees of ~~crazy~~…er, compatibility – posted none other than Footballer up on my “New Matches” list! What’s more, he “requested communication”. I was confuse. Slightly amused. Contemplating only two possible scenarios for this sudden outreach from a man I now considered to be of little more significance than a well learned lesson in controlling relationship behavior.

Douchebag Scenario #1: He had no idea who I was. Didn’t remember us dating. Just saw the red hair (a weakness) and put no more thought into the communications request. This would just make him an idiot.

Douchebag Scenario #2: He knew exactly who I was. In which case he was playing a game. Instead of just sending me an email to say, “Hi, Scarlett, it’s been a long time, how are you? Etc. etc.” he’s playing a warped, immature game of “getting to know you”.

It turned out we had encountered Douchebag Scenario #2. I don’t know why I decided to meet him for lunch. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He looked the same. Still cute. Still built. But he was flattering. He was amorous. Complimentary even. It was absolution, pure and simple.

If any bit of my psyche still remained scarred, if any shred of my self-esteem was still bruised, if there was any hint of uncertainty left over from the misfortune of dating a man who dumped me because of my weight…it was now vindicated and then some. Because, unlike the woman who dusted herself off, moved on and continued to excel at life, this man had definitely stalled along life’s highway and was forever staring into the rear view mirror.

Forced into the ranks of the NFL-injured, he had early retirement thrust upon him and had little to no desire to move forward. And after the waitress screwed up his lunch order, I realized, he was still the poster boy for anger management, entitlement issues. Still annoyingly particular about everything. Still the ever suffering hypochondriac. Still the “my way or the highway”, “take me or leave me”, “its obviously your problem and not mine”, “my mother thinks I’m perfect so everyone else should fall in line”, “by the way, let me tell you how to live YOUR life” touting prima donna has been that he was circa 2005!

The only thing different at that lunch table was me. Not a change in weight that tipped the scales, but a massive shift in both self confidence, self worth and self awareness that I found so dramatic.

Frankly, it was so incredibly satisfying.

Dupont Dating Tour of 2010

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 09:10:00 -0500

Round and round the dating pond I went last week and ended up splashing about in my own bit of the city - Dupont. Literally splashing as I got caught in the rain at least once.

The following is a brief recap of last weeks romantic (or not-so-much) episodes.

Tuesday: BossMan

BossMan was as funny, fabulous and utterly frustrating as ever. A little table at Dupont’s own Pizzeria Paridiso was casually perfect as always. I impressed him with my knowledge of foreign beer, we caught up, laughed, exchanged work information, he paid me a compliment. We were talking about the girl he broke up with in March or April and he said something to the effect of “most beautiful girl I ever dated. But now I understand why she’s not married. Not to say that beautiful girls have to be married - yourself being a prime example of that.” Upon reflection - not sure whether or not it was a compliment or just an avoidance of insult. Most likely the later I suppose.

With this guy I’ll take what I can get!

By all standards of what makes a date, in fact, a date (i.e., sexual tension, guy picks up the check, rebutting of sexual advances in an attempt to play hard to get and look like a lady) this one fell incredibly short of the typical criteria. But if it WERE, in fact a date - Pizzeria Paridiso is, of course, a great venue. The only problem being that they do not take reservations, leaving the possibility of waiting for quite some time at the over crowded bar. Additionally, if your entire party is not present and accounted for at the host’s stand - good luck charming your way to a table all by yourself. But other than that, I recommend the Fraoch Heather Ale, my favorite beer. Pizzeria Paridiso is one of the three bars in town, to my knowledge, that serve it. Brickskeller and RFDs being the other two.

He promised that we’d hang out again soon and emailed me the next day with some funny links, etc. relevant to our topics of conversation the night before. I really have to get over this as it is leading to nothing but sexual frustration.

Wednesday: Brew Master (BM)

BM and I have been dating off and on since April - with a brief hiatus in June - owing to the fact that I was basically out of pocket for the 6 week during and post Memorial Day weekend. But we had a lovely reunion over Miller Lites and 8-Balls at Buffalo Billiards.

Physically speaking, he is pretty much spot on as my type - 6’4, all smiles, redhead, large-ish teddy bear type. Yummy. He manages a local Brewery and is a nice guy. I am attracted/interested…but not uber excited about this one - maybe if I see him with more frequency than every other month.

I’m afraid I may have taken a bit of my residual frustration from the night before out of BM - I don’t think he minded though.

Thursday: Navy

What are our thoughts on a date getting HAMMERED and barely able to remember his own name let alone yours? I, for one, am NOT a fan. At some point during our post dinner jaunt over to James Hobans, he decided that he needed to prove the existence of his Irish roots by downing no less than 6 Guinesses in perhaps a little over an hour. Excessive? Indeed. Unattractive? You betcha. OH! And let us not forget the little fit of jealous rage I had the pleasure of experiencing when I happen to give one of my favorite bar tenders a hug and a kiss on the cheek upon arrival at said bar.

Thankfully the one redeeming feature of this bizarre little encounter was his choice of meeting place. The Iron Gate. A Dupont venue located @ 17th & N St., NW to which I had never gone (gasp!) but will continue to frequent for years to come.

It is a truly, aesthetically unique, reminiscent of a tiny bistro one might find tucked away in a long forgotten Parisian alleyway. I highly recommend the citrus hummus and the goat cheese torte - but be sure this is your first stop of the evening as it closes at 10 p.m.! I found this to be a very dark, romantic and overall amazing date venue.

Frankly, I just hope that next time, I‘ll be there with someone less…objectionable.

Playing Office

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 09:04:00 -0500

He was beautiful.

My second week of my new job he took over the publicity department. I didn’t fall immediately. It was slow. Gradual. At first glance he was a snappy dresser wearing wide, colorful ties and sporting a huge smile. After a week, he was an organized, no nonsense PR guy who had been in the trenches and whom I admired professionally.

After two weeks he was the charming Italian, New Yorker with a slight Queens accent who accompanied me to the coffee shop every morning. After three weeks, he was my reason for looking pressed and perfect in full makeup and heels in every morning staff meeting.

After a month, he was making nightly appearances in rated-X, multi-orgasmic sex dreams rendering me incapable of meeting his gaze without blushing a shade of red that put my own hair to shame.

Eventually it was taking every ounce of will power I possessed not to walk into his office, shut the door and crawl across his desk as if channeling some big haired, cat-like, temptress dancing on a mustang in a hair band music video.

It was agonizing. He wasn’t the sort of beautiful-and-knows-it, arrogant political asshole that frequents the political dives of Capital Hill and the networking dens of downtown. In fact, he wasn’t the sort of good looking man that makes you look up from your Cosmo or take notice from across the bar. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you. He’s the kind of man that may not truly knock a girl off her bar stool until you talk to him. And then BAM! Five minutes of snarkey, intelligent banter while he flashes those dimples, waxes philosophical on the Yakees, all things New York, Opera and politics and you’re done for.

I have to admit. I was obvious. I smiled too much. Asked too many questions - lingered a bit too long in his office perhaps. During the Christmas party, I even put myself in charge of desserts, baking 8 dozen cookies of various shapes, sizes, colors, textures, themes and flavors in my itty bitty kitchen. I then bought myself a new suit of beautiful black and red, had my hair blown out and visited the MAC counter at Macy’s for a 40s Marilyn, cat eye/red pout look that was truly, irresistible.

I then skillfully strutted into his office, both red pout and Christmas cookies perfectly presented and beautifully arranged as if to say “not only will I bake cookies for our children, but I will look AMAZING doing it.

While he did do a double take…it wasn’t quite the “throw the cookies in the air and take me now” response I had imagined.

Never have I ever put so much time, effort, MAC, Calvin Klein, Victoria Secret shaping or Jimmy Choo discomfort into unsuccessfully seducing a man! 9 months I spent on this man - and to no avail. Sigh.

Utterly disheartening. My one hope was that after the change of Administration, he would no longer be my boss. He would no longer have a position of authority over me (professionally speaking anyway) and he would be free to express his desire with wile abandon befitting a Fabio bedecked romance novel.

No such luck - this Republican politico is as utterly unseduceable as a Pope after Mardi Gras. I’ve learned to live with disappointment. Win some loose some.

And tonight, we’re having dinner. We’re just two old friends having dinner. He still makes me nervous, but I will do my own hair and make up and hopefully keep my rather vivid imagination in check.

Back in the Pond

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 18 May 2010 12:47:00 -0500

Ribbitt. Ribbitt. Ribbitt.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Plop.

These are the sounds one might hear standing by the water’s edge.

Alone, under the sleepy watch of fireflies and singing crickets - a soft melodic hum reminiscent of ‘can you feel the love tonight’ and ‘kiss the girl’ seem to dance on the warm breeze. Looking out over the small pond seeming to reflect an aura of possibilities and magic just as brightly as the slightly undulating reflection of the moon against the dark water. You close your eyes, melting away the cares of the world and open your heart up to belief and hope, as though love, never ending love were the only thing standing in front of you. Believing in everything but the possibility of disappointment and pain. And you take a step forward into what you believe to be the waiting arms of someone wonderful and then……

SPLASH.

The unscuffed red soles of your designer peep-toes are now submerged in muck, your beautifully tousled hair gone damp and frizzed beyond recognition. What's more, you’re covered in eager, hopeful frogs who, like some other naïve singleton of recent memory, are crowding around in the hopes of being kissed.

It seems to be the ones who aren’t hopping into the fray, those submerged and harder to catch which seem to be the most attractive. Even though there may be many an amphibian vying for the opportunity to show off his legendary croaking skills or perhaps to prove that his lily pad is the best in the swamp, I seem to end up face down in the mud trying to kiss some slippery, web-toed, wart infested croaker because I’m convinced the more elusive the frog…the handsomer the prince. A scenario which is seldom, if ever, the case.

While the prospect of batting one's eyes and puckering up for frog after frog is, admittedly, a daunting one; (after all, you may only have frizzy hair a cold sore and a pair of worn down stilettos to show for your trouble) the possibility still remains that happiness could be waiting for you around the next lily pad. And hope springs eternal, after all.

Welcome back to the pond, my friend.

Ribbitt.

Pulling the Plug

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 08:55:00 -0600

I’ve been dumped.

After a certain age…say…14...I’m guessing we all have.

Via email, phone call, Post-It or just the failure to respond to communication. These methods are easy, distant, avoidant and thus preferred. Let’s face it, the last time you probably broke up with someone in person was in the 2^nd grade cafeteria because they wouldn’t trade their Little Debbie snack cake for your carrots.

But in the end, its all the same thing - Rejection.

The statement either declared or implied is “I just doesn’t want to be with you.“ For whatever reason, in whatever context - it is always a bit of an ego blow. Because, let’s face it: more often than not, it is, in fact, you and ultimately, you’re not what they want.

And it’s fine - or at least it will be 3 glasses in.

After all, it’s the boring ones, the safe ones who never put themselves out there that never get hurt or know how to deal with the rejection, which is, admittedly, a useful life skill.

It’s a life skill and an art form that I, perhaps not so proudly, have mastered. I am the queen of the ’move on’. Being possession of such a cultivated talent you’d think I’d be able apply it more readily. Utilize my experience in a constructive manner. You would be wrong.

Sadly, and with much frustration, I seem unable to initiate a drama free break up. Then again, does such a thing even exist?

Case and point, my break up with Army in July - disaster. In fact, so disastrous that he recently de-friended me on Facebook along with an email containing the explanation that I’m a commitment phobic, heartless bitch and he never wants to hear from me again. Lovely.

On the receiving end, I was seeing LAX, off and on for a little bit…at least he had the decency to write me an email explaining why he hadn’t been in touch. That he’d met someone else and it had “progressed quickly” - my translation, she slept with him on the second date, whereas I had not so much as permitted him to steal second base after date 6ish??

So why am I so bad at the break up? Men seem to have it down to a science. I have no hesitations about not returning a phone call or even escaping out the back door if a blind date makes me wish I were back in that 2^nd grade cafeteria purely for the sophisticated conversation.

Rejection after the first or even second date leaves no scars, only minor bruises. But it’s the not calling or not picking up the phone after the third date…or the fifth. When you’ve gotten to know someone just enough to care whether or not you hurt them, even if you can’t see a future with them in it.

Because at that point, the rejection isn’t ‘we have no chemistry’ or ‘I don’t like the wine you ordered’ or whatever other petty reasons we find to dismiss someone within the first 5 minutes. By this point, its more personal, it goes deeper.

So how do you do it? What is the most humane? The adult approach - be straightforward? Leave no doubt? Or are you a fan of the disappearing act? Stop picking up the phone, change your phone number, possibly your address? Hide in your apartment and pretend no one’s home until the big, bad, scary relationship seeking man goes away?

Personally I’m a fan of the fizzle, which lets the relationship die a kind, slow death. The fizzle takes the dying relationship off life support and basically lets it go peacefully, quietly without any drama, fuss or ceremony.

The problem is that this approach doesn’t work so well on the persistent types of men. And frankly sometimes, even when the relationship is diagnosed as terminal, I’m not always ready to pull the plug.

Frankly, I'm Loosing My Mind!

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 08:43:00 -0500

(disclosure: this post was written after consuming a bottle of ‘Royal Bitch’ Merlot)

6 months.

6 MONTHS – people. Since I’ve had sex. I thought I’d just throw that out there as the frustration has reached new heights. I haven’t gone six months without sex since 1998 – and at that time….I was a virgin!!!!

Sure it was all fun and games after 3 months and I was all caught up in holiday craziness. Thinking about the Virgin Mary and the birth of the baby Jesus were the only things keeping my mind off the lack of sex. Then the whirlwind of January, my London via Texas three week excursion also definitely a diversion.

Then February – definitely diversions in Feburary – nothing too distracting though leaving more time to think about what I wasn’t getting.

Now March. I have begun my dating fiesta. I’m currently ‘dating’ (as in gone past a first date) several adorable men. Tex – unfortunately, apparently the fact that I wore down his battery didn’t sit too well. However, we have Rugby, the Pastor (whole new story), LAX and Boss Man (we had drinks. He was all eager to do it again – who knows if he’s feeling the ‘Scarlett Spark’ yet, but I’m hopeful. This one is a marathon, people – not a sprint).

At any rate, I’ve had a fair number of ‘first kisses’, good first kisses (because, well, the others just get kicked to the curb), and so reminding me what I’m missing. Reminding me how intoxicating a good kiss can be. Making me long for more drawn out kissing sessions…which lead to other sessions. Making me remember how much I’ve missed being physically close to someone.

I’m not talking about one night stands – the flame burning within me right now is far hotter than even the best anonymous encounter could produce.

So to recap – I’m frustrated. Oh – and on Top on that – I’ve totally given up sugar for lent. Which means…no chocolate!!! My last hope for any semblance of solace.

Oh well – on a lighter note – Happy St. Patty’s day!! For those of you Non, Micks - please see one of my all time favorite posts for a guide on surviving the day.

This redheaded Irish Girl will be giving homage at the Dubliner starting at noon. See you there!!

Frankly,

Dating Sagas

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 10:42:43 -0500

Soooo date updates. I’ll give you the quick ones first then move on to more detailed craziness that only your Scarlett could produce.

Coffee Date. I haven’t written about Mr. Coffee yet. A friend set us up and we decided to meet on Friday afternoon. He’s very nice, really great smile. I don’t know if I’m all THAT attracted to him, but if he asks me out again, I wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea.

Irish Guy. We all remember the fabulous date/marathon make-out session I had with this guy. He emailed me last Sunday and said:

Sorry I've been a little flaky. Things have been rather crazy. I unfortunately had to work today, just me and anal retentive boss which is just tons of fun. Are you still up for doing something soon? Things should hopefully calm down for me this weekend. Do you have any plans? Let me know what you think. Hope you had a good weekend.

So after that I said I was free on Saturday and he suggested we touch base closer to the end of the week to decide what to do.

Friday I emailed a friendly, “hi” to see what the plan was for Saturday and heard…NOTHING back. I’m NOT a fan. We’re kicking this one to ethe curb.

And then we have Tex.

So Friday evening, after sharing a drink with PQ, I met him in Gtown and had a lovely dinner at Pizzeria Paridiso. Tres Yummy! We had a great conversation, I had to stop myself from literally staring at length into his piercing blue eyes. He looked like someone…but I couldn’t quite place it.

After dinner, we walked over to Clyde’s and proceeded to talk, drink and flirt until around 3 a.m. when the bar was closing. He offered to give me a ride home and a I certainly didn’t object.

So we pull up in front of chez moi and he kisses me ‘goodnight’. Many, many kisses goodnight. 15 minutes of kisses goodnight – and the cars whizzing by on my busy Dupont street got a little distracting. So I very cleverly suggested, as I didn’t feel comfortable inviting him upstairs, that he pull into my building’s parking lot around back.

Incidentally, my discomfort in inviting him up stemmed from the following three rationale:

#1. My apartment was/is STILL in disarray as the ceiling has not been repaired and all of the displaced furniture/wall decorations have not been replaced. Not exactly the way to make a stellar first impression.

#2. The way this make out session was going, it would be very hard to put the proverbial sex brakes on outside of the confines of the car.

#3. If said sex brakes were to come off, along with my clothes…my undergarment ensemble didn’t exactly match. (I couldn’t find my mega fabulous black bra…and I didn’t feel comfortable getting naked-ish for the first time in anything else).

So….we made out like a couple of teenagers in a car with nowhere to go. That is, of course, until we fell asleep around 4:30 a.m.! We woke up around 5 a.m. when I said, “OK, the sun will be coming up soon…you have GOT to go home and I have GOT to go to bed”. He agreed.

So we resituated and he started the car.

Correction – he TRIED to start the car. Einstein had left the battery on. Yep! Car – completely dead.

As ya’ll know, I don’t drive. So I didn’t have a anything to help him jump his car. The rest of my date went thusly:

5:00 a.m. – We decide its time to call it a night.

5:15 a.m. - We realize the battery is dead.

5:30 a.m. – Tex calls a tow truck.

5:50 a.m.– Tow truck shows up.

6:00 a.m.– Sun starts coming up.

6:15 a.m.– The tow truck guy tries to jump the car. It’s not working.

6:30 a.m.– Tex asks him if he can tow him to the BMW dealership in Pentagon City. The driver informed us that he gets off at 7:00 a.m. and so he’ll have to call ANOTHER truck to tow him to VA.

7:00 a.m.– The second tow truck comes. He gives me a hug, a kiss and says "we'll talk" and he and his lifeless vehicle get hauled away.

7:15 a.m. - I fall into bed, exhausted. But have lovely dreams.

Oy! So either I’ll never see him again or it’ll be a great story about our first date!!

So THIS week:

Tomorrow…I’m having drinks with…..(drum roll please)….BOSS MAN! Yep – it’s finally happening and so little time to plan! Short skirt or low cut top? Hmmmm.

Wednesday is lunch with Rugby. A new guy, friend set up. We’ve been emailing/txting/talking on a daily basis.

I’ll keep you posted!

Frankly,