Punctuality and Peep Toes

"You're late."

He was smiling, but this was the first time I'd seen him in person, so I did that whole is-he-kidding-or-is-he-serious internal thought process in my head. He looked like he was kidding. But somewhere, years ago, I heard that 80% of all jokes are half-truths. Or something like that. This could be one of those times.

I walked up to the bar of the restaurant to officially meet him. He got up out of his chair, like a gentleman would, and hugged me as he greeted me. Wow, I thought. He wasn't lying about his height. He really was pretty short. I was wearing heels, and I stood at least a good 2 inches (if not more) above him.

"See, I knew you'd be late. I have three sisters." He laughed.

"But I really wasn't late. Parking is terrible here! I had to walk all the way from the parking garage," I countered.

He smiled again. "But see, I planned for that."

Already this whole punctual thing was getting on my nerves. Am I always on time? No. Do I tend to take time to get ready? What girl doesn't? But seriously, harping on the fact that I was eight minutes late isn't a good introductory card to play. And I was hungry. You don't mess with me when those two are combined.

I didn't instantly sit down next to him because I expected we'd be moving to a table.

"So did you put our name on the list?" I asked.

"No, not yet. I was waiting for you."

I'm a very patient person, but when it's crowded on a Saturday night and there's a line already beginning to form out the door... wouldn't you go ahead and at least put a name down on the list? I realize some places won't seat you until your complete party is present, but you can at least have a name down. Right?

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm here now," I replied easily. I'm not one to make a big deal out of things, and I was damned if tonight was going to crash before it even began.

We were eventually seated near the center of the room. The restaurant was really nice... dimly lit, but full of character. I had never been to a tapas restaurant before, so I was out of my element, but he was pretty familiar with most of the items on the menu.

He suggested a couple of things for me to try, so I did, and even though it wasn't my favorite genre of food, it wasn't bad.

We made the usual small talk and laughed about our long phone conversations, and that's when the waiter brought the check.

"So on to the second date, eh?" He grinned as he reached for the check before I could.

"You're already planning that?" I asked skeptically.

"No, I mean, it's gonna happen right now. Let's move this... let's take a walk."

Clever. He was trying to two-birds-with-one-stone me. See, I had told him previously on the phone that my longest first date lasted 6 hours. But to be fair -- and I had made this clear -- 2 of those 6 hours was a movie. So really, it was 4 hours tops.

We walked to a local cafe to get my parking ticket validated, and talked until closing time. The conversation was easy, not forced, but I was still evaluating everything in my head.

I decided a good test was to see what his reaction might be once I said this:

"So... I told you I had something to tell you. It's not bad, but I... well..."

"Please don't tell me you're married. Or you have a kid," he nervously laughed.

"What? No! Nothing like that. I just... well, you know I'm a writer by profession...." I continued.

"Yeah?" He looked at me but didn't see where I was going with this.

"I keep a blog."

I maintained eye contact to clearly see his reaction. It seemed like he was waiting for more, so I continued.

"I write. I keep a blog about all my dating experiences. Some people could take offense to it, so I just wanted to be upfront."

"Oh, okay, I thought you were going to tell me you had 3 kids and a maniac husband or something!" He laughed, clearly relieved.

"Ha, no nothing like that," I said, glad he seemed to handle it okay.

But then he got suddenly silent.

"Well... it is a little weird," he said as he looked at me skeptically.

"What? Having a blog?"

"Well, just writing about the dates you're going on. I mean... now that I know that, the pressure's on. It's a little weird."

"Yeah, I can understand that," I said. "But I promise, your name and identity will never be revealed. Top secret, I swear. And I do write with all honesty, but also the fact in mind that one day, someone might end up reading it."

He seemed okay with that and suggested we go for a walk.

"Okay," I said, as we both got up from the table. "But only if I can run to my car and change into flats."

Is that what I think it is?

He grabbed a black gift box from the kitchen counter and handed it to me. It was square -- about the size of a paperweight.

"I wanted to see you so I could give you your gift," he said, clearly ready for me to open it.

I had barely unleashed the dogs and hugged him hello. I couldn't believe he didn't have jetlag and wasn't exhausted. His plane had landed in the states only a few hours earlier, but he seemed wide awake.

It was a weeknight, so I had just spent the last hour fighting traffic to make it to his place. He looked exactly the same (after all, it had only been a week), but I was very happy to see him. And find out what was in the black box.

The top of the box said something about "crystal" gifts, so I carefully lifted the lid.
Inside was a solid glass clock that had "London" etched in it, along with various landmarks.

Funny thing is, you can't change the time. The back of the clock is encased within the glass, so there's no way of getting to it. And the cool thing is, it's set on London time. Why would you want to change it in the first place?

Thoughtful and yet not overly thoughtful. I liked it.

It looks good on my shelf at work.

"Really, you didn't have to do that," I told him, smiling. "I was only kidding when I said you should bring something back!"

"No, I wanted to." He opened the pizza box that was sitting on the counter. He fixed me a plate and we moved to the couch to eat, trying to keep the dogs' noses out of our pepperoni.

He flipped the channel to Justified, and I begged him to show me his London photos. But his camera was still charging and he had taken more than 200. He told me about his trip and how he liked Manchester so much better than London. (Not having been to either, I just nodded because I didn't have an opinion about one over the other).

And he said he really did try to make it to Ben's Cookies -- I recommended he try it based on @WhitforBrit's blog and celebrity endorsement. (Ha, well, celebrity in my mind, anyway. I'm addicted to her blog. But that's another post for another day.)

"I asked around about them and everyone kept telling me how amazing they were," he said, referring to Ben's Cookies. "But no one could tell me where to go or how to get there! So I never did find them."

So he didn't get to experience what is apparently the best cookie on the face of this planet, but he wasn't short on the sweets.

{Note: I'm not one to kiss and tell all -- only pieces here and there -- but if you'd like, feel free to stop reading now. Consider yourself warned.}


Did I mention he's a good kisser? So yes, naturally, we started making out and moved to his bedroom. Now, now, don't go making any assumptions. I said making out.

As we were kissing, my hand hit something under the pillow. The lights were off and I couldn't see anything in the dark. But it was cold. Hard. Metal.

"Wait... wait, what is... what is that?" I stopped kissing him and formed the words slowly, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

"What?" He asked, confused.

And then, 0.25 nanoseconds later...

"Oh shit!" 

He leapt over me to grab it, blocking me from getting any closer. He sounded surprised, but not worried. There was almost a chuckle in his voice, and even though it was dark, I could have sworn he was almost laughing. He picked it up and moved it to his dresser.

"It's my gun," he said casually. "Don't worry, it was locked down."

I assumed by "locked down" he meant the safety was on. After I had a moment to process what had just happened, I nervously laughed. (You know how you laugh when you're not sure what else to do?) I mentally reminded myself that no, my hand/arm/face hadn't been blown off and yes, everything was all right and under control. And after replaying the event in my head and laughing at the absurdity of it all, I did have to admit...

...it was kinda hot.

Cops and Tattoos

Imagine my surprise when he told me, "No, I'm allergic to the ink."

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself when I assumed that surely, just surely, he would have a tattoo. At least one. Or perhaps I'd been watching too much TV which led me to believe that all cops have some sort of permanent ink, no matter how small.

I rolled over on my side on the couch we were both sharing and peeled my eyes from Pawn Stars just long enough to give him an inquisitive look.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really. My mom is allergic to whatever they put in the ink. So I figured I would be too."

I rolled back over with my back toward him and secretly smiled. Little did he know that I actually joke to my friends about being allergic to the ink as well. My fair skin never took well to things like wool... I wasn't going to chance a limb with permanent ink.

Besides, I've never really been that girl who's attracted to the guy covered from head to foot in tribal patterns, latin phrases and initials of his ex-girlfriend that have been replaced with a nice little collage of skulls, X's and daggers.

Nope, can't do it. It just doesn't get my blood boiling.

And here's my reason why:

I dread having that inevitable conversation with my mom. You know.
This one:

Mom: "He has tattoos."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Those are permanent."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Well, that laser technology gets better and better everyday, but I still don't understand how someone can do that to themselves."

Me: "Yes, Mom. I know."

Add this to the fact that my last boyfriend swore up and down the first tattoo he'd ever get would be in honor of his friend who died in a motorcycle crash, but as soon as we broke up, he got a skull and cross bones of a redheaded girl with "poison" written in the middle. Nice touch. Definitely not subtle, but nice way to memorialize me forever on his right calf.

So to say I was relieved that the cop didn't have any tattoos was putting it lightly. Something that permanent should have much thought go into it, I felt. Not that I'm against all tattoos -- I'm just against the ones that aren't well thought out.

A good friend of mine once told me that if you wanted a tattoo, wait a year. If you still want the same thing that same time next year, then go ahead. But if you changed your mind in the last year, you'll thank yourself you never went through with it.

"What about you?" he asked, as he flipped the channel back to How I Met Your Mother.


"Tattoos? Oh, no. No, none for me." I smiled, but he couldn't see it since my back was toward him.

He was earning points very quickly with me, and he didn't even know it.

-- Miss Matched

Double the fun? Don't. Ever. Do. It.

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UPDATE

to my double-booked Sunday

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Online dating tip:

NEVER, EVER -- under any circumstances -- tell a date that you double-booked them with another guy on the same day. Ever.

They'll laugh. They'll tease. And thank heavens in my case, they'll still agree to meet. But regardless, it's not a good rule of thumb, and it makes for what I can only assume will be an extra awkward goodbye.

[The following imagined scenario playing out in my head]

              Me: "So... I better get going."

              Him: "Yeah... for your second date."

              Me: "Yeah... um... that."

Just play coy, make an excuse when he asks you why you had to rearrange your schedule, and let that be the end of it.

It's not like I meant to tell him. He prodded me about why I had to shuffle things around and teased about my having "many" dates (he doesn't know about any others, he was absolutely just joking in good fun). It all just came out... like verbal vomit, spewing from my mouth. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

But... On the other hand, it does let them know they're in for a little healthy competition.... hmm. 

No. Don't do it. Just don't do it. Or, at the very least, hope to the high heavens that you have an understanding person on the other end of that phone that says, "Sweetie, here's a piece of advice. In the future, never tell another guy that you have to bump them because of a later date."

I'm mortified. I'm honest and blunt, but I'm absolutely mortified.

-- Miss Matched