Days 6 & 7: Definitely Not.

Okay, internet dating is officially THE WORST.  I have gotten e-mails from people who look like they're in the Taliban, people who are definitely on Social Security, and one guy who said, "Oh, I see you work with people with autism?  I actually have autism."  Is this real life?!  Nobody knows how to spell or capitalize, and anyone who stands in front of a mirror and takes a self-portrait of themselves with a cell phone automatically gets deleted.  This narrows the selection pool down to single digits.

Real-life "mingling" (let's go, I need another word) gets an F, too.  I was talking with one of my good friends about this project yesterday, and she said to me, "Alexandra, do you really think you're going to meet someone at a happy hour?"  I stopped and thought about my prior bar experiences, and promptly deduced that the answer is no.  Let's see: there was the night of the Pediatric Institute Heartthrob Ball charity fundraiser, when I went to the after party at Chinato.  I was waiting at the bar to order a drink (and naturally I looked rather glamorous, it being a ball and all), when a handsome man, probably in his late 30s, started talking to me.  Great, I thought, and just went with it.  He was head of an I.T. department of something or other at the hospital, and he asked what I did.  When I told him that I'm a behavior therapist at the Center for Autism and explained that one of our students was being honored with the Courage Award that evening, he seemed genuinely impressed and offered to buy me a drink and bill it to his corporate tab.  Um, yes!  We chatted some more, he said he'd look me up at work and e-mail me, etc.  "Stop by our table in the corner later," he smiled.  Perfect.  After letting an obligatory period of time lapse by, where I chatted important-looking-ly with our business director and other legit-looking people, I glanced over at Bar Guy.  And there he was, his arm around a woman, a wedding ring on his finger.  DEFINITELY NOT.  Fail.

Several weeks ago, my sister was in town on a Friday night, and I'd taken her over to the Tremont Art Walk.  We stopped at South Side for dinner and had to squeeze two seats together at the crowded bar since tables were an hour wait.  It being a Tremont bar, there was some sophisticated European white-people sport being televised that I believe is referred to in America as soccer.  (It was definitely on ESPN 9, or some channel that I didn't even know existed.)  Two handsome gentlemen next to us were immersed in the game, but since I was entertaining my sister and thoroughly enjoying my melty, cheesy goodness of a sandwich, I was minding my own business.  Sisters before misters.  Thankfully, my athletically-minded sibling was able to contribute appropriate comments such as "Penalty!" or "Goal!" or other such astute game-related observances which are clearly outside of my realm of comprehension.  This struck up conversation with both Handsome Gentlemen, and over the course of the evening, I proceeded to discover that Handsomer Gentleman and I were reading the same book, regularly peppering our banter with Arrested Development quotes, and -- ready for it? -- he was a newspaper editor.  Come on.  Does it get any better than this.  When we'd all cashed out, he left the game at halftime to walk us to the bakery and then also to our car, and then he hugged me goodbye.  Several days later, I get a text from him.  He'd tracked me down through a mutual acquaintance, gotten my phone number, and contacted me.  I seriously thought I'd died and this was somehow heaven, even though I'd always been pretty solidly certain there's a permanent space with my name on it in hell.  I was essentially ready to create a wedding board on Pinterest.  After a few days of flirty texts, he says, "This is so crazy that we have such chemistry, especially since we're both with other people."  Umm, that'd just be YOU, because I am absolutely single.  And you're apparently cheating on someone.  DEFINITELY NOT.  Fail.

Fast-forward a few weekends.  I was at Lolita with one of my lovely single lady friends, and we were having drinks at the bar.  (I am not an alcoholic.)  A beautiful man is sitting next to us, and we're talking, and he's extremely nice and friendly, and he tells us he's a furniture designer.  (Hello, hot!)  And more talking, and he gives us his card, and tells us to check out the website, la la la.  And then he gets up and leaves.  What the hell!  DEFINITELY NOT.  Fail.  

The man-watching -- not even "talking," just "watching" -- was pretty rough at the east side Melt this weekend, where all the patrons looked homeless, unemployed, and not clear on the fact that they do not nearly fit into size Small t-shirts.  As Christian Lander would observe, you are trying too hard to appear hipster, and you are the wrong kind of white person.  I would just like to state that I am frequenting respectable Cleveland establishments!  What am I doing wrong?  I don't like sports bars, and everyone knows that girly-looking girls in sports bars are trying too hard, so that definitely won't be happening.  I guess I'll try again this week, perhaps downtown, which maybe attracts normal guys with normal jobs who wear something other than plaid and who don't faintly resemble tattooed bears. 

So, let's bring it on back to present.  Do I really think I'll find a guy in a bar?  DEFINITELY NOT.  But where else am I going to find him?  In the Taliban on this waste-of-time dating website?  (This guy actually had a turban on.)  Sitting on my couch with my bunny??  (Scoops McGee doesn't like cuddling; she tries to bite me.)  In the extracurricular activities that I don't have time or energy for (thank you CCCA)???  FAIL!  One week down, people.  Three to go.  Let's pick up this pace.

Days 3, 4, & 5: The First Weekend

So.  The first weekend.  Out of a severely limited number of...4.  Gotta maximize.

Friday night, tutored after work, then drove late into Pittsburgh.  My sister was moving early Saturday morning to Erie for medical school, and being the indispensibly buff family member I am, she was clearly in need of my services.  As we were carrying all her boxes of shit on Saturday, we ran into one of her new neighbors, a handsome lad wearing a med school t-shirt, who waved and said hi.  This reminded me in a not subtle way about how she'll be drowning in ambitious, capable men in all her classes, and I'll be trying to learn the names of all the brand new CBTs this summer who will all be cute engaged women in their twenties.

Came back to Cleveland Saturday afternoon to attend a lovely engagement party / shower for two good friends in Beachwood.  They are happy and are in love and have that enviously perfect balance of playful pandering and a seriously solid chemistry.  It was really nice to see some college friends and play adult for awhile.  Naturally, there has to be some sort of line now that goes something like: "And of course, I ran into my ex," so, of course, I ran into my ex, and we had interactions where we both pretended like it was totally fine, even though it was definitely anything but fine.  Somehow, everyone who's ever ended things with a great love has gotten the elusive memo that it's imperative to always pretend like your life without them is impossibly perfect.  I do not know who is perpetuating such a memo, but I would wish to inform them that this sort of shit is NOT FEASIBLE unless you are a professionally trained thespian, and even then, you need no fewer than four drinks and a pre-event wardrobe consultant.  Afterwards, I was restless and my head was spinning from what I wished was enough alcohol.  So I made the consistently ideal decision to drive downtown and go out!  Alone!  At least I looked really good, and my mascara hadn't run TOO much.

I headed down to West 6th to meet up with my good friend Katie from work.  (Name changed to protect the sort-of innocent.)  "Come out!" she texted, "We have a VIP room and free drinks and you can work on the project!"  After driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking spot and realizing literally no one on West 6th is over the age of 18, I just told her I'd meet her on West 25th, where they were heading next, and where I felt slightly more confident I might meet someone who knew how to spell his own name.  Turns out, one should never assume.  This kid (I say "kid" because he looked like a zygote) comes up to her, and says, "Hey girls, can I buy you a shot?"  I roll my eyes.  She gives me a look that says, "Shut up.  He'll be amusing content for the blog."  He still hasn't even looked at me, probably because I could be his mother and he knows it.  He keeps making douchy comments like, "Come on, give me a hug" and "Trust me -- I AM really good."  My friend is doing an impressive job at entertaining this idiot, and we walk up to the bar.  "So I'm a junior...what year are you?" he asks her.  I actually choke on my gin and tonic while this child continues to dig himself into the ground.  Next he asks what kind of shot we want.  He obviously has no idea what to order or how to talk to women, and I kind of want to take pity on him and help him, but then Katie takes his credit card and tells the bartender to leave it open while Zygote isn't looking, and she whispers to me she's committed his first and last name to memory so we can add to the tab throughout the night.  I quickly make a mental note that she's schooled him so much better than my prospective lecture could have, and I tell myself she is not only impressively stealthy, but a grand ally in this project.

At this point, it's like 1:30 a.m., and out of the corner of my eye I see Zygote flexing his bicep for some preschool girl, and I realize this night doesn't hold my soulmate.  I hand Katie the remaining half of my G&T and tell her to find someone to give it to.  Hopefully she handed it to Zygote as part of his lessons on how to be a respectable human being, which shockingly doesn't include consuming Natty Light.  I drove home exhausted, irritated, and kind of despondent.  Even the drive-thru was closed, which made me mad and relieved at the same time.  When I woke up at 1:30 p.m. this afternoon to the sound of the heavy rain, I knew I wouldn't continue with my Sunday agenda of the Cain Park Art Festival and the Taste of Tremont.  And not because of the rain.  I didn't have any more energy to chance running into the ex or flirt or babysit.  Pull your shit together, Alexandra!  You only have one life and you are worth believing in.  And this wedding MIGHT be no-children, so Zygote wouldn't have even qualified to sit at the chicken fingers table and pretend to be a blow-up doll.  Ladies: we're gonna need to pull together a week's lineup of happy hours.  Like, we're talking 5 out of 5 days.  Message me with what days you are free.  Especially if you are particularly strong in thespianism or wardrobe consulting.

Day 2: "Are You For Real?"

Yes.  I am for real.  This is happening.  Besides, I put it on Facebook, so it's definitely real.

I tested the waters today, Re: coworker reactions, and overall, received overwhelmingly positive feedback.  Most people found it amusing, while a few kind of squinted at me and wished me luck, which we're going to file away in the not-negative category.  But fishing for responses did generate a few follow-up queries:

-- How long will I wait to inform Wedding Date Prospect ("WDP") of this mission?  Will it be very "How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days," or should I come clean from Square One?

-- Do I permit myself to make the first move on anyone, or do I need to wait for someone to initiate something with me?  There's sometimes a fine line between intentionally flirting and making the first move.

-- Will I consent to informed setting-up, provided I still have the final say regarding who I ask, and provided said party is unaware of the ultimate finale?  Because let's be honest: it's probably not TOO hard to convince someone to be part of a ridiculous spectacle of social inquiry, especially if he knows he's signing up to costar in a no holds barred research project of flirtation and inebriation, to be played out on the internet.
 
-- I will need wing-women to accompany me on adventures!  Nobody wants to talk to Girl Who Goes to the Bar By Herself, and, sorry gay guys, but you'll definitely squelch my A-Game.  Ladies: now is your time to shine.  Especially if you're already married, which by default makes me look considerably more available.

Also, I did run this entire operation by the groom-to-be, afraid he might have some choice words for me and my shenanigans, and to my relief, he was humored and, dare I say, supportive (code for "enabling")?  Phew.  Hopefully he'll remember that verbal permission in 50 years when he's showing his grandkids the the lunatics in his wedding video.

Day 1: The Starting Line

The mission, my friends, is simple: to find a single, heterosexual, sentient man to accompany me to a co-worker's wedding exactly one month from today.  That's right.  I am in the market to drum up a date in 30 days or less.  He doesn't need to be long-term material but simply must be free the night of Saturday, August 11.  I've gone to six (6) weddings so far this year, dateless, and in principle I am fine with it.  Really.  Fellow wedding-goers at tables of 7 are generally nice and friendly and receptive to adding a third wheel to their romantic evening.  But this particular guest list is all couples, and in my sub-par attempts at some surface soul-searching (and in light of the apparent fact that even all the gay guys are taken), I've decided, simply, that I want a date to this one.  Not because I need one, but because I want one, and doggone it, life is short and I should go out and get what I want.  Right?

Initial disclaimers for said gentleman (brace yourself) include: not in the seminary, not sort-of-single-until-you-ask-his-girlfriend-if-he's-single, not under 25 or over 40, not on life support, not "probably straight," not geographically unavailable.  Not the most stringent baseline criteria, Alexandra, you find yourself musing, What the hell is wrong with you that you can't scrape someone up.  Wait.  It gets narrower.  My preference is to meet said person on my own accord (without some well-meaning reader determining to set me up with their previous neighbor's stepson), either in person, or on the decently reputable dating website I may have succumbed to joining.  And, odds are, it will need to be someone not presently visible in my life, because otherwise, if we are such a good match, we'd already be dating.  Right? . . . Right?  (Read: if we hooked up in college, do not consider this a repeat invitation.)

The dating website has produced few desirable results, which is inherently sad, because it's a DATING WEBSITE.  In other news, the next four weekends are wide open in my planner, which means I intend to go out and mingle as much as possible.  Mingle is such a shitty word.  It just screams over-the-hill chain-smoking divorced man with a mustache, wandering between bar stools, resting his hairy arm around the shoulders of girls his daughter's age.  "Socialize" comes across as much less skeezy, but it sounds like what you do at a baptism party around a bowl of Wheat Thins while everyone competes to hold the baby.  What's a comparable but superior word to "mingle"?  Think about it and get back to me in < 30 days.

Anyway, ideally, said individual would share my general viewpoints on my partner non-negotiables, but we'll be making considerable accommodations in this project for anyone who may seem marginally suitable.  And while many of my inflexible relationship points might seem unreasonable to others, I swear on my life that in the presence of a borderline-possible Wedding Date Prospect, I will be on my best social behavior, defined by me and the Center for Autism as polite, funny, non-combative, and engaging.  I'll try to not to broach politics, religion, prevalence of preventable diseases in economically disadvantaged countries, or my obsession with book sale days at the library.  I might even throw in a few stereotypical feminine moves, like batting the eyelashes, affably giggling in response to even unsuccessful attempts at humor, and not leaning on bars like a union trucker.

To Matt and Brittany, whose guest list will contain my name and an anonymous plus-one: I'll definitely get you a really nice card, maybe one of those Papyrus ones that are over $6.00 and come individually cellophaned with the little gold bird seal, to make up for the fact that you two lovebirds have to pay for (probably in more ways than one) literally a total stranger to come party with you.

To future Wedding Date Prospect: I'm going out on a limb and assuming Matt and Brittany, in anticipation of shitshow guests like us having to be in their presence, are providing a well-stocked bar to help everyone cope, so it'll at least be an evening of courtesy libations.  I took the liberty of pre-ordering us one chicken and one steak, so whatever your little carnivorous heart might prefer, you may call dibs on.  Additionally, at marital events, I do usually dance like a moron, for stretches of hours at a time, so you may either join me in my guaranteed idiocy, or enjoy large, welcomed chunks of peace and quiet to yourself babysitting my heels and handbag at the abandoned table.  I'll wear something summery and cute; you can break out a tie, which God-willing you own, and some cologne.  Fellow guests will definitely know you're a rent-a-date, though, both because it's a quietly yet universally acknowledged fact that I am single, and also because I just posted this blog on Facebook.

So, action plan: I hid all the 'N Sync CDs.  I relocated Teddy from my bed to a shelf.  I'll not skip any more days shaving my legs.  I'll change out of my CCCA polo every day immediately upon school departure.  I'll be telling no one that I have a bunny.  Game on.  Let's do this.  Send me tips.  Wish me luck.  Here we go.