Bring on the Crazy!

You know what I hate? Fruit cream filled chocolates hiding in a box that I thought was all caramels, shaving my knees and having to climb out my bedroom window and down the fire escape to take out the trash. But more than all of that I hate dating. I find the whole act painfully tiring ("oh you mean I have to be cute *again*?!?! Wasn't I cute just yesterday?") and trying to attract men and get them into a tizzy over buying me drinks seems like a poor investment of my time (especially in light of my track record). But this doesn't mean that I don't want to make googly eyes at a brooding stranger while drinking glass after glass of wine. I just don't want to put energy into getting to the boy and the bar and the glass.

On Thursday night I did the best thing ever. I went on a Crazy Blind Date. Every single person on in major urban areas should be doing this constantly. Especially if you are too lazy to bother with finding and scheduling your own dates.

Crazy Blind Date is an off shoot of the Okcupid online dating site and it is the best idea to hit the internet since Urban Fetch (RIP). The web site matches up singles and schedules blind mystery dates. I was super excited to receive the announcement about the launch not just because it seemed like someone was finally automating a severely broken system but because it felt like mid NaBloPoMo someone was handing me a blog post on a silver platter. A random date with a potentially crazy dude set up by a web site? How could this not be hilarious and/or tragic? Thank you God.

Like all examples of good design in 2007 the date started not with me having to interact with a human (that's so 1993) but with filling out a form online – I was a fan from the get go. I specified time and age range and choose not to specify a height requirement because I am not a crazy bitch. My god women are freaky about height! This is a “date” with a random guy that you do not know, you can’t possibly expect this to result in a crazy love match and you’re *still* concerned about inches (dirty.)? “Yo girl, I’m fine going out with some stupid potentially crazy stranger but he damn well better be tall!” I hate when my gender embarrasses me.

I was also asked the following questions

What is your ideal scenario for this date?

You’re funny. You’re cute. We suffer a minor tragedy and overcome it together thus providing the ideal story arc for the blog post that I’ll be writing about this date.

What do you look like?

I’m really cute. On the off chance that there is more than one cute girl at the bar I’ll be the blond carrying a laptop bag with a big red poppy on it.

What are you good at talking about?

video games, food, pop culture, indie pop bands

The web site also has a cool little widget that allows you to specify neighborhoods that you’re willing to go on dates in. Because I am incredibly lazy when it comes to dating, blogging AND walking I limited my selections to neighborhoods that I already had to pass through on my way home from work.

Oh and they let you choose a coffee date or a bar date. But would it really be a Crazy Blind Date without booze?

I have not been this excited about an event since the rodeo came to Madison Square Garden. I spent all of Wednesday and Thursday telling everyone I talked to about my crazy blind date plans. “Guys! I either go on a hilariously bad date OR I end up locked in some psychopath’s basement! Either way the blog is getting super famous!” By Thursday evening all of my friends and coworkers were wishing they were single and I had mapped out at least 3 new best case date scenarios

1. Guy is super into Dianetics. Tries to convert me to Scientology. Calls Tom Cruise who offers to set me up with any one of line up of gay Hollywood actors if I agree to having Xenu’s second baby. I duck into the bathroom to prep for my auditing and sneak out the window
2. Guy has uncontrollable fear of the color red, runs screaming from the room when I order a glass of pinot noir.
3. Guy brings his wife and girlfriend with him on date. We hit it off and spend the end of the date trying on matching dresses at Anthropologie.
   

This was going to be AWESOME.

The fun began Thursday morning when I received an email notification that the web site had found a match for my date! I logged on was able to review Dan’s profile and his heavily pixilated picture – I hardly bothered to review his basics before agreeing to an 8:30pm date at the west village's Bar 6. Thirty minutes before the date was set to begin I received a code to text message Dan – all text messages were forwarded through an intermediary to prevent me from stalking my date just in case I happen to be crazier than he bargained for.

What are the chances that the guy I get set up with is compos mentis? The only proof I need that God is fucking with me is that when I’m hoping for a tragic failing of the entire dating system I get handed a big scoop of normal. My date, Dan, was not crazy NOR blind! The dude was good enough, smart enough and probably liked by people all over the place. His only failing was that he totally cheated on the mystery date by reading half of my blog before our date started (Dan, if you're out there say hi in the comments!), the fact that he choose to show up anyway might actually be the one sign that he was in fact a little crazy. Thankfully he was at least as excited as myself about the ridiculous prospects that crazy blind dating seemed to promise and we had plenty to talk about (the shared joy of hippy parents, toy design, video games, the pleasures of being a huge nerd, exactly how awesome technology was). He didn't seem at all upset that our date was disappointingly sane which probably means that the loony member of the date was me…

Despite the normalcy of my date I highly recommend CrazyBlindDate.com. Next time (hopefully Wednesday) I’m shooting for a double date on the hopes that 3 strangers equals 3 times the crazy.

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Third Party Resources

Going out on a blind date might not end up with an engagement ring, but it's worth a try. You'll never know if you'll be one day exchanging gold wedding bands with someone you took out on a blind date! If you hit it off, diamond rings may be in your future.

What I Did on my Summer Vacation

I am not good at being bad at things. I whine and cry and quickly deem myself a failure at life in general simply because I cannot sew a straight seam or ace a tennis opponent or convince some nice boy to fall in love with me. Awful though these failures may feel I am sometimes able to turn one or two into enjoyable blog fodder, which on a good day serve as a comforting salve for my many emotional bruises. This tragedy to tall tale factory I've built is occasionally so successful as to inspire friends to wish disaster upon me "for the good of the blog." And so, I am sad to report that learning to surf in Costa Rica was not a tragedy (many scrapes and physical bruises notwithstanding). I stood on day one (nay HOUR 1) and got up twice on day two. Don’t get be wrong – I sucked (and days 3 and 4 brought nothing but pain as each wave picked me up and slammed me into the sand as if to say, “silly, pale, unathletic girl go back to your crafts and bloging and leave the xgames to the professionals.” ) but I didn’t end up beaten against the jagged rocks until I passed out and drown. It turns out that with surfing, as with so many other things, the key to success is setting a low bar. I did, however, make very good friends with one very special (and sharp) rock who will be featured in an upcoming winner parade post – he loved me so much that he chased me all over the ocean begging me to never leave him again, it was sweet for a while but eventually I felt smothered and had to end things and surfing was the unfortunate casualty of this doomed relationship – it’s so sad when the kids have to suffer.

But this is all drivel. You don’t come here for stories about surfing do you? So, while we’re on the topic of things that I am not good at let’s talk about boys. During week one in Costa Rica due to the pleasantly impermanent state of all decisions made while on vacation I was able to fully regress back to the teenagerhood I never had (it was not pretty, but was, of course, totally rad). There were many tequila shots and a bilingual game of “I Never” (“I never thought I’d be getting drunk with college boys at 29.”) and there was a hot Colombian boy named David (and here I must pause to mention that Colombia also brings us the awesome yumminess of arapeas, that plus hot boys makes it my new favorite country). The boy was very concerned with getting out the word that not all Colombians are drug mules. So here it is, The Word: Not all Colombians are coke pushers or warlords. Not even all of the 25 year old boys. Especially not the hot ones. Of course, cocaine isn’t my drug of choice anyway. I choose kissing to be hopelessly addicted to and the hot 25 year old Colombian boys seem to be pushing that commodity all over Latin America. The mere suggestion of kissing transforms me into a pathetic junkie willing to sink to the basest acts in pursuit of some sweet lip locking action. My friends, these are my sins:

• I did willingly pretend to enjoy cheap watery Costa Rica beer.

• Of my own volition I let slide more than one comment about how women need to be taken care of.

• Without coercion I went to reggae bars TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW.

I am very sorry, but in my defense, have I mentioned the hotness? What about the K-I-S-S-I-N-G ? In the end, though I am embarrassed, it was all so very very worth it.

By the end of our first evening together (or early the next morning) David was charmed enough by my bad Spanish (and perhaps a little bit by the tequila) to be all “Hi, I’m a former Olympic level swimming with an insanely hot body and a very cute smile, shall we make out?” Of course I responded, “Yes! Please! Preferably for the next 3 days straight!” Sadly, this is where we differed. For despite a blissful morning of relatively innocent drunken kissing when I saw Mr. David the next night I was forced to endure FOUR games of Rummikub with his boring stoner friends rather than get on with the awesome making out. Desperate, I even stooped so low as to suggest “going on a walk” which, EVERYONE knows is international code for “Let’s go make out!” Having this obvious bait summarily rejected (“Nah, let’s hang out and play some more Rummyikub, it’s like 5 million times better than kissing.”) I tried not to sulk – a difficult task when stoner boys are kicking your ass at a children’s game. Thankfully, even half drunk boys with poor prioritization skills eventually get bored making runs and sets of plastic tiles so off to the bar we went (“What? Oh Yeah, Reggae is great. CAN’T GET ENOUGH!!!”). Perhaps I should be kinder to Reggae, since once ensconced in its loud garbled embrace David ditched his friend and devoted all of his attention to the hot blonde girl (hi, me, overHERE) but for some reason rather than kissing we were discussing Colombian politics. At length. Ok, I like politics, and I like learning new things and David had tons of interesting things to say about the war and how much it sucks that he pretty much can’t travel to any other country since everyone from Colombia is obviously a drug lord but umm… don’t we have kissing to do?!?! It took at least another 30mins of Reggae soundtracked chit chat for the boy to work up to revealing the reason why we were still free of the lip lock: A crisis of conscious in the form of a girlfriend. Ok, I know I should care about his poor girlfriend and be suitably impressed with his (albeit slightly late) guilt but… REALLY? I’m only around for 3 days, we can’t just IGNORE the girlfriend? Come on, this is vacation, have a heart! Actually, as it turns out, we could ignore her; my offer to “not kiss you or anything” was quickly met with a big smooch – boys are weird, the world over.

Sadly, the weirdness didn’t go away on day 3. We spent the entire day together (with stoner friends in tow) on a mini tour of Toruga Island where there was hand holding and flirting and a lot of secret hidden touching (which sounds much more exciting then it actually was) but for reasons I have no ability to discern there was NO KISSING. That evening I endured yet another Reggae bar at the demands of my addiction but it was all to no avail. I don’t know what was wrong with the boy – this was no strings kissing I was offering, one night only, free, complication free – YOU ARE MISSING OUT ON THE DEAL OF A LIFETIME! Alas. I figured the story was over but when 3am rolled around and I drove the boy and his posse home God revealed his latest great joke at Brianna’s expense. As I got half way to their home the term “rainy season” was fully defined for me as a deluge poured from the sky onto the few miles of dirt road separating me from my mountain home. I waited and waited for the rain to end and in the meantime David passed out in his bed, eventually his cousin said that he didn’t think I should drive home in the downpour. The hilarity began anew when I asked where I should sleep, “With David.” Oh, right, with the guy who hasn’t kissed me all day because he’s having girlfriend guilt, I bet he’d LOVE it if I crawled into his bed. “Well, you can sleep with me I guess but you really should sleep with David.” And so I was forced to sleep (sleep only, who ever said chivalry was dead (or a good thing…))? with the hot swimmer – nice work if you can trick a boy into it.

Despite the boy weirdness week one in Costa Rica was not a tragedy. In my opinion there is no better way to spend a vacation than kissing a cute boy even if the boy in question refuses to get with the “all kissing all the time” program, even the promise of no strings kissing is enough for me to declare success (at one point on vacation I mused that fancy resorts should offer guests the chance to hook up with cute locals… then I realized we have that already, and it’s illegal.). And really, who can complain about a vacation in this house (which my travel companion’s friend at playacarmen.net hooked us up with for a song)? My regression to teenagerhood was all the things that my actual past was not (fun, not at all angsty, completely devoid of homework) and I can’t imagine that 10 years from now I’ll be on a therapist’s couch obsessing over any of any of it. However, it is comical to note that even while on vacation (even when in the throws of an ugly addiction) I am laughably predictable. I pick the boy who wants to talk politics and help with dinner. The boy who seems slightly lost among his stoner friends. The boy who can spend a whole night in bed with my hot ass and not once touch me (the boy who might be gay?). And, despite my bravado here regarding no strings vacation hook ups a little piece of my teenage heart (perhaps the last piece left in this wizened old 29 year old) crumpled when I said goodbye to David and he grinned and said, “It was a pleasure to sleep with you… in the other way.”