Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 16

  He swept his arm in front of him, put his head down, and said, “After you.”

  We made our way over to the table and sat down. I watched him look over the menu. He was still a little too shy to make eye contact, which I thought was cute. The direct sunlight illuminated a few wiry gray hairs on his head. There were more than I remembered, but I didn’t mind them. Gray hairs equal maturity, so I was happy they showed up. I wiggled in my seat, pleased that I was on an adult date with an adult man for once.

  Speaking of our date, things were going well. Yes, he did complain about his morning. And, yes, he did complain about the work he had to do when he got back, but he was good-natured about it. He wasn’t too sweaty, which was great news, too. It was almost going too well, until he said the one phrase that had the potential to ruin the whole thing: “So, I Googled you.”

  I nearly spit out the sip of water I had just taken.

  “Oh, really? What’d you find out? Anything scandalous? Did you find out about my love child with Richard Simmons? Or that I was a leader in an organization that hates J. Crew called the Crew Clux Clan? Did you see my spread in Penthouse? In my defense, I was young and I needed the money. Don’t judge me,” I joked. I was like a crazy person doing a verbal tap dance routine, trying to distract him from where the conversation was going.

  What if he found out something super-embarrassing about me, like that I was the Wicked Witch in my eighth grade production of The Wiz or that I still have a Friendster account? (Confession: I haven’t checked Friendster in more than four years and I totally forgot to delete it, but still, I have one.) Then, all the excitement about our first date would be replaced with concerns about my mental health because I still have an active Friendster account. (I swear, I’m going to delete it soon!)

  I can’t believe he Googled me! (Yeah, okay, so I Googled him, too, but I would never tell him about it.) If he must Google me, then please, for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, don’t announce it as soon as there is a lull in our conversation. It’s like admitting that he rifled through my trash. It’s definitely not hot to watch him fly his stalker flag like that.

  Thankfully, our food soon arrived, cutting him off before he could divulge what he’d learned about me by poking around on the Internet. I was thankful for that. But as soon as I placed the crisp white cloth napkin across my lap to dig in to lunch, I saw him take out his iPhone, point it at the food, and click a button. Hmmm. I rested my fork on the edge of my plate.

  “Did you just take a picture of your roasted chicken?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He was looking down, tapping his phone with his finger a few times. “In fact, I just tweeted it.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  He shrugged. “It looks delicious. I figured my followers would get a kick out of seeing it.” The phone buzzed, so he tapped it a few times, read the words that popped onto the screen, and laughed. “My friend George said that he loves the food here and that we should try the crème brûlée for dessert.”

  Okay. My boner for him was losing steam. It’s bad enough that he’s taking pictures of his food, but he’s sharing them with all his Internet friends, which is lame! And rude. And just plain weird.

  I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I expect when a guy is out on a date with me, it’s just me and him—not his whole freakin’ social network! C’mon, tuck the gadgets away, act like a big boy, and put the camera down. Disconnect from the Matrix for a sec and just enjoy the dish. I thought that he’d be more mature than this. Were his gray hairs a ruse? What’s next? Is he going to write a Yelp review about this place before we get the bill?

  For the rest of the meal, his eyes darted over to his phone to see if he had any new messages. I cleared my throat. I couldn’t believe that I was competing for his attention with his gadgets. Sorry, touchscreen, I have breasts! Human breasts. Is that not good enough? He noticed me noticing his behavior.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s okay.” I tried to sound like I was unaffected.

  “I should put this thing away, shouldn’t I? Here.” He popped the phone into his back pocket. “Is that better?”

  I smiled. “Yes, that is better.”

  “Wait, what time is it?” he asked.

  I glanced at my black plastic Swatch. “According to my watch, it’s twelve forty-nine.”

  He picked up his napkin and wiped both sides of his mouth. “I should really get going. This has been fun. What are your plans for the weekend? Want to come over for dinner? I make a killer veal scaloppine.”

  “You do?”

  “Not really. But I make pretty decent spaghetti. What do you say?”

  I felt a little put on the spot, but I wanted to give him another chance. Gray hairs. Real job. His own place. I had to at least try a nighttime date with him. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

  “Terrific! Come over to my place Saturday night at, say, seven thirty. Cool? I’ll e-mail you my address later.” He was really sealing the deal here.

  “All right, yeah. I’ll bring over a bottle of wine. It’ll be fun,” I said, cheerfully.

  He paid the bill and we walked out into the afternoon air. After giving me a quick hug, he left. As soon as he was out of sight, I whipped out my shitty non-iPhone and called Kat. I had told her about my date that morning, and she told me to call her as soon as it was over.

  “So, how’d it go?” she asked, munching loudly in the receiver.

  “Um, it was okay. What are you eating? That’s like, the loudest thing ever.” I held the phone a few inches from my ear.

  “It’s a carrot. I’m trying to be good and eat healthy this week. So, do you like him?” Crunch crunch crunch.

  “He’s fine. I think.”

  “What’d he do?” She sensed my hesitation.

  “He tweeted a picture of his meal, like, in front of me.”

  “Yikes. Why’d he do that?”

  “I don’t know! It was pretty nerdy.”

  “But you like nerdy guys. You always do this, Anna: You say you love nerdy guys, but then you get one and you lose your boner for him because he’ll do something textbook nerdy. You’re racist against nerds. You’re nerdist.”

  “I’m not nerdist.”

  “You are.”

  “I love nerds. No one loves nerds more than me.” I was starting to get defensive. “But here’s the thing: I thought he was a nerd, but I think he might actually be a geek.”

  “Oh, here we go. There’s no difference between a geek and a nerd.”

  “There’s a huge difference!” I protested. “Nerds are guys who are super-passionate about something. There’s music nerds, art nerds, skateboard nerds; you name it. They have a level of expertise about a chosen subject. I’m a nerd.”

  “What kind of nerd are you?” she asked.

  “I’m a nerd nerd! I’m nerdy for nerds.”

  “You’re, like, the Nerd Whisperer.”

  “Yes! Exactly. I’m a Nerd Whisperer. But geeks? They have an element of social ineptitude to their personality. I thought Patrick was a tech nerd, but tweeting a picture of his lunch makes me think that he’s a geek.”

  “Maybe he’s a dork.”

  “Well, a dork is the kind of guy who’s not just socially inept, but completely socially clueless. Like, Screech from Saved by the Bell was a dork. Urkel was a dork. I couldn’t hang with a dork. Fuck no.”

  Kat munched on her carrots, absorbing my lesson. “So, how’d the date end?”

  “He invited me over for dinner Saturday night.”

  “Huh. That’s usually a third-date kind of thing.”

  “I know! I don’t think he dates many girls, which is another check in the geek column. Honestly, he has no idea what he’s doing.”

  “He’s jumping through the date order all willy-nilly!”

  “Totally willy-nilly,” I agreed.

  “Well, are you gonna go?”

  “I already said yes.”

  “Well, you better not sleep o
ver,” she warned.

  “I’m not going to. Don’t worry.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise you? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m totally serious! You’re gonna get overly nervous so you’ll drink too much, then get too drunk and agree to stay over because you won’t feel like going home. Don’t do it! This is your chance to date how adults date. Don’t blow it.”

  “That’s not gonna happen. Patrick is husband material, not a bangmate. I don’t think he’s touched a woman this year, much less this decade. He’s not that kind of guy. I’m not going to stay over on our second date. Besides, I’m treating this like an adult relationship, not a drunken hookup.”

  “Promise me!”

  “He has gray hairs! I’m pretty sure he has an IRA! He wears loafers! This is the exact opposite of a drunken hookup!”

  “Promise me!”

  “Okay, okay. I promise you.” Thankfully, she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. Who is she, Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life? What’s with the rules?

  “Good.” Crunch crunch crunch.

  “Oh my God, those carrots! It’s like having a chain saw in my ear. What are you up to right now?”

  “I’m watching TV shows online, but my Internet keeps cutting out. So now I’m eating carrots and wishing it were a slice of Lorenzo’s pizza instead.”

  “Good luck with that. I’m walking home.”

  “Okay. Have a good day.”

  “You, too.”

  “Don’t stay over on your date.”

  “Good-bye, Kat!”

  As I walked home, I thought about Patrick and our date. Fuck, maybe Kat had a point. I thought I was a Nerd Whisperer, but maybe I was nerdist deep down. The word rattled around my head.

  The next few days, Patrick and I chatted online and gave each other little updates about our day. I learned that he is amazing at e-mailing me funny YouTube videos. Seriously, there are few things better than finding a guy who can tickle your funny bone via his keyboard. It is one hundred percent delightful. It’s like having your own personal court jester showing up online to amuse you. I was warming up to him.

  When his name popped up in the Gchat window blinking and pulsing, I’d eagerly click on the window to see what he had to say. People at the coffee shop would toss me dirty looks, as I’d almost pop a button laughing at his constant stream of entertainment. They were just jealous that I had a steady online comedy supplier.

  When I had a frustrating day, after spending 1.2 minutes complaining about how my editor chopped up a story I turned in, this champ popped in a link to a website that played the sad trombone sound. Look at that: I’m smiling again! God, this guy rules. Kat was wrong. I wasn’t a nerdist at all! I enjoyed his nerdiness; I was pro-nerd.

  Saturday rolled around and I found myself standing outside Patrick’s apartment with a bottle of cheap red wine. I splurged the extra five bucks and got the jumbo size—1.75 liters of liquid red gold. Not only were we about to have our second date, but it was also combined with seeing his apartment, which was a one-two punch of dating importance. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  He came to the door and gave me a quick hug. “Why, hello there!”

  “I brought wine.” I held up the huge bottle as proof. He smiled.

  “Here, I’ll take that. Come in!” He took the bottle of wine and I followed him into his apartment. Immediately, I was punched in the face with a smell that could only be described as a locker room filled with rotten apples. I spotted a red candle in a jar set on his coffee table. Oh, that’s his candle? He’s trying to make his house smell like this on purpose? Oy vey. Who wants to smell spiced apples when it’s practically summer? At least try to make your candle seasonally appropriate. Throw me a clean linen or sea breeze, dude!

  Where did he get it? Maybe it was a present from a co-worker at last year’s Christmas party. Who knows? I can’t imagine him picking this thing out himself. Wait, let me picture it; there he is in Bed Bath & Beyond sniffing the lot of them, trying to find the perfect house candle. Oh hell, that’s kind of cute.

  And it’s kind of cute to picture him fishing around for a match to light the thing before I came over. And it’s kind of cute to picture him tilting the candle to light the wick, thinking, “Man, I am turning the romance in here up to eleven! This is really gonna set the mood.”

  Besides the noxious smell of the scented candle, I liked his place. It was warm and inviting. Belle and Sebastian softly played from his living room speakers. Atlantic Monthly, Wired, and MacWorld were fanned out on his glass coffee table. He had a real couch, not a shitty futon. I liked being there.

  “Did you have any trouble finding my place?” he semi-shouted from the kitchen. I heard the pop of the wine cork as I looked at the book spines lined up on his bookshelf.

  “Nope. The directions you gave me were spot-on.” I was semi-shouting, too, but there was no need. I turned around and he was beside me with two glasses of wine.

  “Here you go. What should we drink to?”

  “Second dates?” I suggested.

  “To second dates! Cheers!” We clinked glasses and took a sip. “Wanna see the rest of the place?”

  “Yeah, give me the full tour.”

  “Okey-doke. Here’s the living room.” I nodded. “And this is the bathroom.” He flicked on the bathroom light, shrugged, and then flicked it off. “That’s not too exciting. And back there is my bedroom. It also doubles as my office.”

  “Do you mind if I check my e-mail real quickly? I’m waiting to hear back from my editor about a story I’m working on. Is that weird?”

  “No, not at all! Go ahead. Knock yourself out. I’m gonna go check on the pasta. Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”

  His room was very tidy. The bed was made. The table next to his bed was neat. Then I panned over to his desk. It was a straight-up shitshow. It was like he fed one computer after midnight and it reproduced smaller, more unruly computers. Let’s back up a bit.

  This is what I have, computerwise:

  • one Mac laptop

  • one power cord

  This is what he had on his desk:

  • two monitors

  • two keyboards

  • a desktop computer that he built himself

  • a laptop that worked

  • a laptop that didn’t

  • two sets of speakers

  • a mouse

  • external hard drives up the wazoo

  Why does he need so many electronics? Is he trying to stop the Da Vinci virus like in Hackers? Is he trying to create the perfect woman like in Weird Science? Is he trying to fortify the compound during a hurricane like in Jurassic Park?

  There wasn’t even one square inch of free space on his desk to put my wineglass down, so I just held on to my glass and jostled his mouse to get his computer out of sleep mode. Beep! Beep! Beep! Oh, God, something started beeping. I was just trying to check my e-mail, and I accidentally set off a warhead! What kind of WarGames shit is this? Yikes!

  The only good thing about his computer setup was that it had the most comfortable chair in his apartment. It had cushions on it. And wheels. And it spun. Besides that, everything about his computer area was dusty and complicated. The Borg had less wiring than his computer console. In fact, I was afraid to cross my legs because I thought I might dislodge some wires under there and inadvertently blow the entire thing up. I abandoned the effort of checking my e-mail and went to go find him on the other side of the apartment.

  The table was set for two. He had a few lit candles in the middle of the table, which was kinda sweet. They helped set the mood. His spaghetti was fantastic and the music was good and sure enough, I got too drunk. The night was winding down and I realized that I could either collect myself and call a cab or just stay put and enjoy my buzz with him.

  “It’s getting late. I should head out.”

  “You don’t have to go. Stay over!” he offered.

  “Nah.
It’s only our second date. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

  “You’re not going to mess anything up, I swear. Listen, you’re drunk, it’s late, just stay over. I want you to.”

  Shit, it did sound nice to just roll into his bed.

  “Staaaaaay over,” he pleaded.

  “Okay. Sure. Why not?” I relented.

  “Great!”

  “In that case, I’ll have more wine.” I pushed my empty glass closer to him with two fingers.

  “Now we’re talkin’!”

  As he topped off my wineglass, he said, “What time do you usually wake up? You’re not gonna sleep in till two P.M., are you?”

  “No, I’m not gonna sleep till two P.M.; I’m not a depressed teenager. Don’t worry about it. I’ll wake up whenever you wake up.”

  “’Cause I usually wake up early. Very early,” he cautioned. “Usually, I wake up around seven A.M.”

  “On the weekend?”

  “Well, yeah. My body is used to it. Is that gonna be a problem?”

  I gulped. “No. That’s fine.”

  Shit, seven A.M. was super-early for me. Hell, I didn’t usually roll out of bed until The View started. I didn’t realize that by agreeing to a sleepover I’d have to scoot out of his apartment at the ass-crack of dawn. Sheesh. What, does he have to wake up to tend to farm animals? Can’t we just sleep in and get our snuggle on? Is lying around and giggling that unappealing to him? What’s the rush?

  But that wasn’t my problem just yet. We drank the last of the wine and climbed into his bed. That was when he reached for the remote.

  “Oh, hey. As a heads-up, I gotta sleep with the TV on.”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. I mean, what am I going to do? Argue with the guy? Technically, I was a guest in his house. In the interest of being a good sport, I agreed to give this TV thing a whirl.

  However, I quickly came to regret that decision. As he was in deep sleep, I woke up in the middle of the night with the drone of infomercials zipping between my ears. No, I don’t want to hear about the benefits of OxiClean right now. What the fuck time is it? Ugh. I hovered in and out of consciousness until the TV was just too much for me to take.

  It became my mission in life to turn that TV off. I fumbled around in the dark, trying to find the appropriate remote controls. Oh, here’s one. Wait, is it for the cable box or the television? I think I just turned the DVD player on. Fuuuuuuuck. I was basically in my own personal version of The Hurt Locker.