Speed Dating

I first signed up for a speed dating thing about 18 months ago. Why did I? I thought that it would be a good way to meet girls.

I first canceled a speed dating thing about 17.75 months ago. Why did I? I was sort of busy already and I got cold feet about it.

When a couple of friends mentioned that they were going to sign up for it a month or two back, I decided to join them. Unlike the first time I signed up, I wasn't expecting or even hoping to meet a girl or girls. And also unlike the first time I signed up, I did not cancel.

As far as I'm concerned, there are three main good things that might come from a speed dating event. Well... four, but I'm going to bullet the three and address the fourth on its own.

1. Hot chicks.
2. Crazy chicks.
3. Post-mortem.

Hot Chicks

Even though I wasn't going to speed dating to meet a girl or girls, there was still a curious part of me that wondered what the females were going to look like. If there was one beautiful woman there, it would make for a good/better time. If there were a nice solid batch of attractive ladies, that would be good, too.

Unfortunately, there was neither the quality nor quantity effect that would have made the experience more entertaining.

There were 13 girls in our group (there was a second group upstairs... our group was 25-35, with upstairs being 35-45) and two of those (we'll call them "LOL" and "...") were females that I came with and who are unavailable to me.

Of those 13, there were three women that I would consider to be attractive... and two of them were ... and LOL. So that left one woman who, if I saw her in a bar, I might talk to in the hopes of getting her number. That woman lives an hour outside of Seattle. Awesome.

So, yeah. Attractive women? No offense to the remaining 10, but... I didn't see that.

Crazy Chicks

Since I've been dating, the most memorable experiences I've had have been with very attractive women and slightly (or greatly) unhinged women. Maybe it makes sense, then, that I see speed dating as a microcosm of dating and "Crazy Chicks" is my second possibility for a good time.

Fortunately for them, but unfortunately for me, there were no patently insane women in the group. Maybe it was the six minute conversation limit, but I am usually pretty good at sniffing out madness, and I saw none of it.

Well, other than ... . But I won't go there. (Oh, snap!)

A potential substitute to "crazy" is "naughty". For SOME reason, no women were at all naughty in the mini-dates. What was their problem?

I actually thought that I'd stumbled across some inappropriate attitude, but upon reflection I think I was giving her too much (or too little) credit. To wit:

Me: You having a good time tonight?
Her: Yes, although I think I'm going to be getting the same questions all night.
Me: Really?
Her: Yep.
Me: Well...
Her: What?
Me: Before I came here I was joking around with my friends about questions that I could ask, but won't because they're inappropriate...
Her: Like what?
Me: Are you sure you want to hear one?
Her: Uh... sure.
Me: OK. When was the last time you had sex?
Her: ...
Me: (waiting it out)
Her: I'll tell you at the end of the night.

Now, if you read that the way I heard it, that's pretty naughty. Talking with her at the end of the event, though, she didn't mean what I thought she meant... she meant that she was going to tell me before the event was over. Boooo!

(The answer: three months. I also told her the rest of my question was that I would interrupt the woman within five seconds and say, "It's been almost six hours for me!" Understandably, she didn't quite get the "humor" in that...)

Post-mortem

No matter what the girls are like, and no matter how the conversation goes, there's always the post-mort, right? Looking at how things went, comparing notes, etc.

The speed dating setup was actually well suited for this, in that we literally had notecards where we could enter the person's name and notes about them, along with a yes/no indication of whether we were interested (to put into the Web site later).

My post-mort fun was spoiled on two fronts.

First of all, both of the people I went with were female. They could tell me, potentially, about the guys, but there were no male buddies to share notes with about the different girls and their impressions of them.

Secondly, both of my companions were some combination of disorganized/disinterested/drunk... I had my first "date" with ... (and yes, she put out) and as I moved to the next table, I was writing down notes and working my way to the next table, and I looked over at her. She hadn't TOUCHED the notecard nor the pen, both of which were sitting right in front of her. I hollered something about it to her, but she is a professional at tuning me out and evidently I wasn't clear and/or convincing.

Of course, I didn't know this until I met with LOL, who was my last date of the night. She had been writing down names, but she didn't understand how the columns worked, so she had put things in a different order and she was hopelessly confused. When we looked over at ... , she had still left her note card in a pristine mint form.

So not only could I not discuss chicks, because my friends didn't meet any, but I couldn't even discuss the guys because neither of them could really remember the guys very well.

Overall/finally/fourthly, the experience was good. It wasn't that expensive and I got some "free" food (LOL commandeered an entire container of french fries, and I was able to take advantage of that). I learned that women tend to attend in pairs (there were four pairs of women among the 13 total). And I learned that I'm not terribly eager to do another round of speed dating any time soon...

Daydream Believer

Ah, yes. I am about to, once again, venture into the most controversial of blog genres...

Not racial commentary. Not talking about girls. Not telling tales of white jeans nor typing stuff up whilst drunk nor reminiscing about one's marriage.

The genre is, naturally, explaining a dream. In a sleeping sense, not in a racial commentary way. And in a general way, not a dreaming about girls kind of way.

Personally, I like to hear about peoples dreams (but not aspirations... those make me jealous by reminding me how dreadfully adrift I remain). I have a friend that blogs about her dreams and I try to read them and figure out what's going on in her noggin. I have another friend that rarely even bothers to tell us about his dreams because they are so frequent (or at least frequently remembered).

I am sure I dream quite a bit, but I almost never remember them.

Today, though, as part of the "Ed O. Napping His Life Away '08 Experience", I had a dream that I actually recall. I have decided to actually articulate it now, rather than ending this blog as a sort of Meta Dream Explanation blog.

The setting was the kitchen of the house I grew up in. I was talking to a friend--we'll call him OJ (because that's his name)--and I was filling up a cup with something to drink.

(Analysis: I just was discussing on the phone last night that I've lived in my current apartment for about nine months... I think that subconsciously that impacted me (I could have, with a bit of luck and good timing, seen an entire new wave of my babies gestate to fruition in the time I've been living here) and I don't really have some place I call home. I guess it's here. Maybe I'll never have a place I call home the way I did my childhood house.

I was talking to OJ because I saw him for the first time in months on Wednesday night.

I was filling up a cup with something to drink because I was (and am, interestingly--why am I typing rather than drinking chocolate milk or water or orange juice, in keeping with the OJ theme?) thirsty. And I almost never use glasses made of actual glass.)

OJ and I were talking about how great it was being roommates. I commented that I was worried we all weren't going to get along, but that it was going well so far. I finished the cup of beverage but still was thirsty, so I grabbed a glass and filled it to the rim with what I think was creme soda.

(Analysis: I've never had roommates. I know both of OJ's roommates, though, and I saw both of them last evening. His male roommate, actually, I saw for the first time in months, but I was on the phone as I walked by him on the street so I waved but didn't stop to talk to him... maybe that was sort of "communication interruptus" that stuck in my brain. Also, interestingly, I was mistaken for that roommate Wednesday night when I introduced myself to some guy with our group of people and he said, "I know. We've met like 10 times. You're Roller Girl's [codenames only! This line isn't safe (hmm... except for OJ, I guess)] roommate." Which I am not. Except, it seems, in this dream.

The glass of creme soda actually sounds quite delicious right now. The glass in the dream was one of the only glasses I own: part of a six piece set that I won as a Scaryokie finalist at Ozzie's last year. The glass's presence was obviously representative of the insane amount of time I spend at that bar. The glass's glass-ness emblematic, perhaps, of how sometimes I do things differently than I normally do (given I almost always drink from plastic cups.)

I am not sure if we started walking or if I left OJ or if I was just magically transported to the living room, but I was about 15 feet away from where I was originally, and I was drinking the creme soda. I noticed what I thought was ice in the drink, but as I mouthed the chunk it didn't melt and I thought that it was glass.

I spat up the little bit of glass and there was more than I'd thought. One chunk became 10, and 10 became hundreds. The spitting became a deep-throated hacking cough, and glass bits came out in some sort of mini-blizzard of shardage.

There was no pain--which struck me as odd--but I was having discomfort breathing, and I was coughing out more air than I was able to take in. I was confused and I was suffocating and I called for my mom.

She didn't answer, and although I was dimly aware of people around me, I felt alone and that my exclamations weren't be taken seriously. Things started to darken and I woke up.

(Analysis: the "mom" thing was, I believe, rooted in the "My New Haircut" video that is on YouTube. Also I literally called my mom Friday evening after work and she didn't answer. I left a voicemail (one of those voicemails where I explain that I don't have anything to say... the exciting ones).

The chipped glass might have originated in Mexico. Flowers and FBomb broke a couple of Corona bottles and I was just reviewing pictures of the trip on Tuesday night with a friend.

The rest is kind of fucked up.)

Bits and pieces from a Friday night

There was no grand adventure last night. There was no single event or quote or person that made the Friday night at Ozzies different from all the others... but it had a series of odd conversations and occurrences. Here are a few.

Approximately 10:15 PM

Me: Wow, you look like you're in a hurry to get away from that guy.
Promo Girl Amiga: Yeah...
Me: Why? You are like fucking bulletproof from douchebags, aren't you? PGA: Well, he...
Me: Yeah?
PGA: He came up to me and said, "When I saw you enter the room, I thought you were the most beautiful asian women I've ever seen..."
Me: HAH!

Approximately 10:56 PM

Me (using left urinal): Are you going to sing again tonight?
Old Dude (using right urinal): I dunno... should I?
Me: Yes... it's not that busy, and you should get some more songs in.
OD: Good idea. (Finishing up.) You're a good guy. (Extends hand to me.)
Me: Uh... I'd shake your hand, but I currently am holding my penis.
OD: So if I held it for you, would you shake my hand then?
Me: Hehe? Uh. ...

Approximately 11:39 PM

Business School Chum (introducing me to his buddy): This is Ed. He's sort of a funny guy... a clown.
Me: Thanks. I think.
BSC: He'd tell jokes and some people would kinda laugh and I'd go home and look it up on Google and then laugh.

Approximately 12:06 AM

Me: Dude. What are you doing?
Buddy of a Female Friend: What?
Me: Why are you stroking my bangs?
BFF: (Mockingly) Oh, pretty, pretty hair!
Me: You're from Spokane, aren't you?
BFF: Yes.
Me: Yeah, I thought so.

Approximately 12:22 AM

Me: So... will you be my MySpace friend?
Female Friend of a Female Friend: Sure... if you can find me.
Female Friend: *snicker*
Me: (trying to make an innocent face) I'll see what I can do.

2:07 AM

Me (twittering): Ed is drinking beer. Wow.

2:24 AM

Me (twittering): Ed is drinking a beer... wow.

(Yes, it was the same beer. No, I did not remember that I'd just sent the other twitter. Yes, I am the slowest drinker of beer, evidently, in the history of the world. Oh, well...)

10 context-less topics from tonight

1. Blue blinking light in my pocket.
2. Swedish flag.
3. GMAT scores.
4. Advice about a salad tosser.
5. Advice about white pants.
6. Gay marriage with a guy named "Shannon".
7. Goals for the night.
8. Doubling down on akvavit.
9. Standard deviations from the norm vis-à-vis looks.
10. The allure of Neighbors and its cages.

Coincidence or bad day cosmically?

Chat Transcript between woman and man 1:

Woman: fuck.it's only 1:16

Chat Transcript between woman and man 2:

Man 2: fuck me
Man 2: it's only 1:19?

Three minutes apart. Man 2 chatting without knowledge of the chat three minutes earlier.

Weird.

Uh. Stuff.

Yesterday was Monday. Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. Yesterday was my wonderful, lovely mother's (as opposed to all my other mothers', which tend to be in early Autumn) birthday.

I took the bus home from work last night and was treated/subjected to one of those conversations that only occur on the public transportation. Or perhaps they happen all the time as soon as I leave the room, but I only see and hear them on the bus.

The bus driver was in his early 50s. I entered the bus and sat in the first rown past the semi-reserved seating and noticed that there was a three-way conversation going between the driver, an older woman, and another guy. Conversations on the bus are actually not very common in my experience; people tend to sit in their seat, listening to their headphones or reading their book or trying to check out other people without actually getting caught and roped into some sort of eye contact.

Perhaps it's this culture of silence that only allows the most boisterous conversants to stand out. In this context, I don't intend "boisterous" to be merely the loudest... I mean most willing to talk, irrespective of relevance or whether topics are appropriate or not.

I wasn't really paying attention to the three-way conversation, but the woman departed and the passenger (mid-to-late 40's, long gray hair in a ponytail, a malformed beret perched atop his head as some sort of progressive maraschino cherry) took it up a notch. Somehow the conversation turned to the armed forces (maybe it was the Stephen King comment yesterday? Doubt it. But maybe.)

The conversation was a bit rambling (shocker, huh) and one-sided (with the driver being sort of an unwilling, or at least reluctant, participant). Highlights of the conversation included:

Driver: I spent time in Korea during the Vietnam war.
Rider: Woah. Were you drafted?
Driver: I served during the draft.

(Translation: "No, I was not drafted. I signed up so I could have some control over how and where I served.")

Rider: Man... I tell ya. The draft. I was just young enough to avoid it, but I tell ya, I would have taken the next train to Canada.
Driver: A lot of people did.
Rider: Or gotten some kind of deferment or something.

(Translation: "I served my country and you're acting like I was too stupid to avoid it.")

Rider: The thing is that there's a whole generation of people, man, that my generation--and your generation--have to deal with.
Driver: ... ?
Rider: The people begging for change. The people doing the drugs.
Driver: Well, you can look at every war--the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WW II--and soldiers have it rough coming back.
Rider: I was talking to someone a while back and he was saying that the rate of alcoholism is higher than after other wars... and the rate of bi-sexuality is, too.
Driver: What? I don't see...
Rider: It's like too much time in the jungle, or something.
Driver: I'm not sure that...
Rider (holding his hands up): I'm not saying I believe it. Just telling you what I was told.

Seriously. Does the jungle drive otherwise straight dudes to bisexuality? I was so adrift listening to it I couldn't figure out of he was being racist or was hitting on the driver or what. It was weird. I had a newfound respect for bus drivers everywhere who have to put up with the gibbering of riders all day, every day.

I got home and noticed that my phone was blinking blue... it normally blinks green, but when I have a message (txt or voicemail) it blinks blue. I checked my txt messages and there were no new ones. Which meant one thing: I had at least one new voicemail.

Any time someone calls me for a non-work related item, I'm flattered. I know they don't have to take the time to do it, and 9 times out of 10 I'd like to talk to them. What I don't like? I don't like voicemail. I am impatient with voicemail and I don't like listening to it, and as a result it builds up. Days of voicemails become weeks of voicemails. And I feel overwhelmed and I just don't check them.

With my old phone I could easily tell who had recently called, but in spite of my clearly superior intellect (rooted in my near-superhuman humility) I can't consistently figure out who called me when. Someday I'll figure it out, but not now.

So a word to the wise: send me a txt? I'll respond very, very quickly. Send me an email or a MySpace message? I'll be back quickly, as well. Leave me a voicemail message? It's probably not going to get responded to or ever heard in time to do anyone any good.

After I looked at the blue blinking light I decided to take a nap. I love naps. They allow me to function on fewer than six hours of sleep a night, and I almost invariably am getting fewer than six hours of sleep a night nowadays.

I napped and returned a txt message or two. Cooked a frozen pizza. Watched some NBA playoffs. Cleaned about 35% of my bedroom. Started reading at about 9:00, thinking I'd be asleep by 11.

Of course, because I'm me, it was nearly 1:00 by the time I turned off the light and I was half-aslep until at least 1:45... my attempts to sleep were not aided by the nap I'd taken six hours earlier nor by my sinuses deciding to perform "operation shutdown" and turn me into a mouthbreather for the duration of the night.

I woke up with an incredibly dry mouth, covers scattered everywhere, and feeling exhausted. I'm going to endeavor to not nap this evening and see if it helps.

Saturday AM

It's funny how things slip into our consciousness... a meme is "any unit of cultural information, such as a practice or idea, that gets transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another".

Examples of memes might be music that gets stuck in your head. Or having "that's what she said" pop out of your mouth every 25 seconds because your friends have it pop out of THEIR mouths every 19 seconds (that's what she said).

It can also be referring to oneself in the third person. Ed O. became aware of this at about 8:18 AM this morning.

I was up sorta kinda late last night. Reading,volunteering at the homeless shelter and reducing my carbon footprint--basic Friday night stuff. I also am not a morning person, and each and every day I wake up for work I want to sleep again. On the weekends, when I actually have the opportunity to sleep in, I'm usually, inexplicably, up by 9.

This morning was slightly different. Oh, I was up by 9... but there's an explanation.

My apartment building has like 300 units. They're almost all studios, but I roll VIP-style with a one bedroom in a corner spot. While (interestingly) I knew my neighbor two doors down to the west (and speak to her significantly less than I did before she moved so close), I have never met and rarely seen any of the other people that live in my building... let alone my floor. I have no idea who any of my neighbors are.

Evidently one likes to play the piano. And evidently one likes to play the piano at 8:18 in the AM on a Saturday morning. At 8:18 in the AM on a Saturday morning much like this one, in fact.

(For the record: that's the same "one". There aren't two neighbors that like to play that piano. At least not that I can detect. Maybe they play from the same apartment. Or maybe one (or more) uses headphones to play silently. Anyway...)

So I was hearing the piano. It pulled me out of my febrile slumber and I found myself in a supine position, thinking, "... is wondering if his neighbor really (REALLY) has to play the piano at 8:18 in the AM on a Saturday morning... really."

A couple interesting notes about that last paragraph:

• I threw in a couple of nice vocab words for you. It pays to enrich your word power, and I know a lot of you need to work on the verbal section of the SAT or some other standardized test. So there you go.
• I ACTUALLY thought in that sentence structure: third person, starting without my name, having parenthetical with all caps, using the magic rule of three.

Why the rule of three? Something might be awesome if you do it once... might be better if you do it twice... might be great if you do it three times. But after that (except in ironic or otherwise exceptional circumstances) it's less effective. That's what she said.

Why third person without my name? Simple: Twitter. Since I've always got my new phone (with unlimited txts) on my person, and since I have some need to run on about randon stuff in my life ("What? You? Huh?"... I know... big shocker) I have taken to the site. I'm not updating it every 10 or 15 minutes, as I did on that Thursday so long ago (actually, 9 days ago) but I do it more than anyone with a better sense of his or her own importance would otherwise do it.

I'm up. I think a trip to Target for kitty food and kitty litter is in order. I love my life.