Hold the Glimmer

Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you?  Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job!  (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)

Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses.  I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets!  No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?!  I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades.  Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes?  My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel.  This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years.  Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong.  I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY! 

Ahhhh fuck. 

This blog is sooo gonna die soon.

Nope, I will not let it.

There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial.  I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.

Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care.  I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore?  Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date?  Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there!  Blog dating is still online dating, right?  Duke, I think I’m on to something here…

Online dating, you are a beast of many colors.  After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading  through the pudding-like consistency of a  bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!

After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox.  Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)

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Ikeepawordforyoualways:

Gorgeus Halo my beautiful.  I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao

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Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution. 

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Justthetip:

Wanna cuddle?

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Right. Let’s cuddle.  Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand?  (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle?  I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to.  Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)

After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man.  After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks.  I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing went wrong.  There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later.  Easy enough, right?

The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972.  It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours.  This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?”  It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up. 

I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke.  As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right?  Kill me.

We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?” 

Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking.  I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.

“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M

A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver.  A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever.  I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE.  Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink.  Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability. 

Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.

We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself.  The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona.  Yes, a Corona.  Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer.  Maybe it’s just me.

After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order.  As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich.  Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date.  One must be aware on a date. 

“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M

“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter

“Well done, of course.” –M

woah.

Excuse me.  I said excuse me.  Are you joking?  Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner?  Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?

The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.

“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah.  Hold on a second.  We need to assess something here.  You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me

“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M

“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.?  But a well done steak?  You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky.  Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak.  That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me

“It’s just how I’ve always had it.  That’s not going to change.” –M

“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me

I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”

“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”

And I did.  I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card.  Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.

Maybe I’m that girl.  Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time.  Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.  

So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.