My date with Mr. Entomologist

Or as I called him, “the bug guy.” I used to work for a natural history museum, one of those with a large collection of dead mammals, dead birds, and of course, dead bugs. The entomologists who researched these bugs would display their drawerfuls of colorful beetles, many legged centipedes, and rare stick insects with pride and excitement as they talked about what makes the study of insects just so fascinating.

So one Friday evening, as people from around the museum came together and drank their way into the weekend, I started chatting up one of the guys who worked in the insect collections. I had noticed him before, knew he was a bit older, but thought he had some sort of Clooney-esque charm to him. He was not terribly interesting to begin with, but I hadn’t been on a date in awhile—since I had gotten out of my last long-term relationship—and I thought I could use the practice. He asked for my number and we planned to have dinner the following week.

The evening of the date, I got ready, feeling happy about the simple fact that I was going out on a date. I wasn’t desperate, it had just been a few months, and it felt good to be, well, normal. We met for dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant, talked about our lives, and it seemed to be going okay.

Until he pulled out his favorite bug. Seriously.

I think he felt like things were going well enough that I could be trusted to appreciate the things that made him tick (no pun intended). He told me that this small beetle, encased in its little resin cube, was the reason that he got into his field, the thing that really inspired him about entomology. Blah, blah, blah.

Now, picture me on the other side of the table, mouth somewhat agape and a million things running through my mind: What do I say? Why didn’t I foresee this? I guess it’s nice that he feels inspired, but by that? I don’t even like bugs. How do I get out of this?

After (what felt like) a few minutes I pulled myself together and tried to change the subject. By the end of dinner I was feigning tiredness and trying to play up the whole “I have to be at work early tomorrow” thing. He tried pushing for another drink, but I managed to cut it short.

So you’d think I could put the date behind me, right? Not quite.

By 9am the next morning I had an email waiting for me from Mr. Bug Guy. “I really enjoyed our time last night. You’re smart and sexy and I’d like to go out again. What are you doing this weekend?”

Bad form, dude. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s not cool to contact the girl within the first 12 hours after the date, especially when it was clear that she wasn’t that into you? Wanting to nip the situation in the bud, I quickly wrote him back and said maybe we could be friends, but I didn’t really think we were “relationship material.” Then came a flurry of emails over the next few days, all saying about the same thing: “Maybe I came on too strong. Give me another chance. Won’t you just have one more drink with me?”

After awhile I stopped trying to spare his feelings and just didn’t write back. The next week he began apologizing for the previous emails, saying that he felt like he was digging himself into a hole and he didn’t know what to do. Unfortunately I didn’t know what to tell him. There was certainly a hole, and I wasn’t going to help him out of it.

By then it was comical—I started sharing Bug Guy’s ridiculous messages with my friends, who looked at me with that I-told-you-so look. As in, they told me not to date someone from work. Especially someone from bugs. What was I thinking? In the following months I avoided him as best I could, and tried to seem friendly, but his complete and utter inability to act in a normal social manner made it difficult to overcome what was, possibly, the worst date I’ve ever been on. Since then I’ve made sure that future dates have passed a serious screening and reference process, including a “pocket check” to ensure that there aren’t any unwanted creatures joining us for dinner.

Check out other people’s bad dates at Dating Tales.

Warning: Cattiness in Courtroom 12

A few days ago I did some volunteer work for my company, sitting as a member of a “fake jury” and critiquing lawyers on their “fake delivery” of opening and closing statements. The attorneys use a “fake case” to practice their courtroom skills, and in some instances, they will actually practice these skills in front of folks who get paid to pretend like they actually care.

For years my company has relied on groups of retirees for this service, paying them a small fee and feeding them breakfast for their time. I got recruited because they were short a few senior citizens (don’t ask my why), and they needed another person to sit in. Eager to get out of sitting at my desk, I agreed.

When I walked into the gathering room at 8 o’clock that morning, I could already see that these seniors were settled into their social cliques. They had separated to different tables, munching their bagels and holding their private conversations.

When we moved into our individual “fake courtrooms,” I got placed with three white-haired ladies, of varying ages and states of hearing loss, and sat and listened as they chatted about their upcoming social activities.

Apparently they were going to the dinner theater. And apparently, one of their fellow retirement-village residents had waited too long to purchase her tickets. Suddenly, everyone was talking about this woman and rattling off the times that she had “forgotten” something or had screwed something up. I was shocked by the downright maliciousness in these women’s comments, talking about a friend of theirs who was getting on in age, and in their words, “really failing fast.”

I tried to suppress a chuckle as I sat and thought about the irony of this—these women, breaking down someone else’s “failings,” which were not such a distant prospect in their own lives. And really? Their behavior was not so different than what we experienced on the playground. When we’re threatened by what the world is about to offer us, we find the weakest link and start picking, just to assure ourselves that we are not so bad off.

For me it was a reality check. I thought I had left that cattiness behind in high school. Now I know it’s just a few short years before I’m right back in the middle of it.

You and me and the parking spot we fight over

When I lived in Chicago parking was a big deal. My apartment near Wrigley Field had such limited parking that I literally planned my life around not going out with the car past 7pm on weeknights, 5pm on the weekends. Later, when I lived in a more normal neighborhood, I relaxed my parking policies, but was still thrilled when I could find a spot on my block.

Now I live in an apartment/townhouse complex in uber-relaxed Colorado, and there’s almost always a whole blockful of parking right in front of my house. You’d think this would make me happy to no end. And it does. But in addition to the plentiful street parking, there’s also a parking lot, right next to my house. We have one reserved parking spot in said lot, and there’s a great unreserved spot right next to it. Now, to be honest, this spot is actually an extra few steps to my front door than the almost-always available street spot in front of the house. The difference is that the street spot’s much harder to get out of, as the u-turn required to leave the complex necessitates a several point turn.

Small details, right? It would be, except that now it’s a matter of honor.

A few months ago, a blond-bearded hippie in a rusty grey Jetta started parking in my lot spot. Being the hippie that he is, he only uses his car once in awhile. This means that when his car’s parked somewhere, it’s parked somewhere.

Last weekend was a perfect example of my annoyance with this situation. I left my house for a few hours, clearly noting that the Jetta was parked in a lot across the street (where Hippie’s house actually is).

When I came home his spot across the street was empty. But my beloved spot was not. Convinced that he had seen me leave the house and stealthily slipped out to move his car into my spot, just to piss me off, I nearly shook my fists into the air (in the general direction of his house). The Jetta then sat there for days.

But today, the game changed. Coming home from work, I rounded the corner to my house, and saw it: the beloved parking spot was free. Ha ha! I had beaten him at his own game! I had chosen the perfect moment to arrive at home, during Hippie’s one miniscule outing of the week, and could reclaim the glorious slot.

But wait, what was that in my rearview mirror? It looks like a Jetta. A grey, rusting Jetta. Could it be? Had I actually cut it this close? I glance back and see him glaring at me, knowing he knows that I am his foe and I have won.

Instinctively I speed up, wanting to eliminate any possibility that he could sneak by me in the next 300 yards and take the spot out from under me. I slow towards the lot, making sure my turn signal is on and Hippie knows where I’m going. That’s right buddy! It’s mine!

He pulls into the lot across the street, and I work hard at looking casual as I exit the car, covertly glancing over as he makes his own way home. As I enter the house, I breathe a sigh of relief. For the moment, I am the parking lot queen. And boy, does it feel good.

ingredients: marine lipids

My boyfriend smells like fish today. Why, you ask? Did he munch on some tuna for lunch? Spend an afternoon at the seaside? Nope.

Last night, when he was rubbing yet another goop-ful of Neosporin on his kickball wounds, I suggested that some Vitamin E oil might help it heal quicker. Not wanting to go all the way upstairs to get said oil, he says he'll do it later.

Fast forward to us going to bed two hours later, wherein I have placed his two nightly vitamins on his side of the bed (I'm sorry, when did we turn into our grandparents?). The supplements are Vitamin C and Fish Oil, to be exact. Now, even though the vitamin bottles reside on my side of the bed, RL knows what he's taking every night. He knows that this little capsule is fish oil, not Vitamin E. Yes, they LOOK an awful lot alike, but they are not, in fact, the same thing. But before my very eyes he bites off the tip of the fish oil and proceeds to spread the marine lipidy goodness all over.

The funniest part of this story is that I didn't think a thing of it. I am the one that emptied the little capsule into my hand, directly from the fish oil jar. I watched him as he spread. And then I quietly went to sleep beside him.

After this morning's shower he went back to his half-empty capsule, and continued spreading. Something clicks on in my mind--I see the jar flash before my eyes, replay last night's conversation about Vitamin E, and it dawns on me even as I catch the first scent of fishiness emanating from his person. "What you're using there? That's fish oil. Why are you doing that?"

A few hours later I get the following email:

"Computer is locking me out and i smell like fish. f%*k."

It's okay, the absent-mindedness is endearing and reminds me of my mother. OMG.