Rando Roundup!

Today begins a segment I like to call the "Rando Roundup" in which I recap my rando encounters of the week. The randos were out in full-force this week, foisting awkward conversations and alcoholic beverages upon me with reckless abandon. My top three, in no particular order.

Spotted: Unnamed pair of Randos at Yard House

My friend, Brie, and I were out having drinks and some really delicious lobster, crab and artichoke dip (Really, how could you go wrong with those three ingredients? I was licking the bowl clean, no lie), and I noticed these two guys a few tables over sneaking glances in our direction. I pointed them out to Brie (subtly, of course, with some vigorous head jerking and a hissed “randos at twelve o’clock”), and said that they were either super into whatever was playing on the TV above our heads, or they were checking us out. We pretty much forgot about them as we dissected a friend’s latest romantic entanglement and continued to gorge ourselves on Yard House’s delicious, half-price appetizers.

After about an hour and a half, we were ready to call it a night. We paid our check and were literally about to get up to walk out the door when our waiter brought over another martini for Brie, and another pint for me.

“Compliments of the gentlemen over there,” he said, with a nod of his head in their general direction.

To say that Brie and I were taken aback is an understatement. We were flabbergasted. Our first thought was, “This actually happens in real life?” Our second was, “Well, crap. What do we do now?”

Unsure of the protocol following complete strangers sending you a round, we phoned a friend, who assured us all that we had to do was sit there and look pretty. I had already made eyes at the randos, which should have been all the invitation they needed to come over and talk to us.

They didn’t, and twenty minutes later (after I’d forced myself to drink half of my Apricot Ale…I was full of crab), they still hadn’t. Brie and I were at a loss. We wanted to leave, but we didn’t want to walk past the guys on our way out, because we would feel the need to stop and chat, but also felt that the window for non-awkward conversation had closed. At the same time, I didn’t want to be totally rude, so we compromised. I scribbled a little note of thanks and left it on our table in good faith that our waiter would get it to them, and then we snuck out the side door.

Spotted: Unnamed Rando at Niko Niko’s

If you live in Houston and haven’t been to Niko Niko’s yet, shame on you. You must remedy this immediately and order, at the very least, one of their Greek salads which comes with a slab of Feta on top (again, how can you go wrong with anything that has a slab of Feta on top?!), and maybe you’ll meet the guy I met there last week, who apparently loiters in front of the drink fountain and blocks you from getting a glass of water.

Me (after waiting a respectable number of seconds): So, are you just going to stand there or what?

Rando (eying me up and down): If you say you’re not married, I’ll stand here for even longer.

Me: Hahahahaha. Ha.

Spotted: Rando Tyler at PubFiction

I don’t know what it is about PubFiction, but it has become a Mecca for randos. My friends and I were dancing on the infinitesimal “dance floor,” when we noticed a pack of randos who were clearly discussing a game plan. Soon thereafter, one of them came to me and asked me to dance, which is when I found out that he was a Longhorn (hisssss) and newly twenty-one (awwww). I told him that I was an Aggie (and twenty-four) and therefore could no longer talk to him; he kept insisting that I had to admit, he was a pretty good dancer for a Longhorn (he wasn’t), and bought me another Bud. Poor Rando Tyler finally got the picture when my friends and I adjourned to the bathroom for an extended period of time and returned to a different part of the bar, but they found us again after last call, when they soothed their bruised egos by cattily asking why we weren’t married yet—after all, we were Aggies, and doesn’t the university require female students to have an engagement ring at the very least before they’re allowed to walk the stage?

Classy, Rando Tyler and posse, real classy.

This concludes this week’s Rando Roundup. Be sure to check back tomorrow for “Story time with Elise!”

How NOT to Lose a Girl in One Date

Since the title of this blog is “How to Lose a Girl in One Date,” I’ve decided that on Fridays, I will give some do’s and don’ts for getting and keeping a lady. Of course, this is my blog, so these may, in fact, be specific only to me, and if attempted with any other female, might fail spectacularly—if that happens, my sincere apologies for leading you astray. 
 

How to Ensure a Second Date: Tip #1

Don’t wait until the last minute to firm up plans.

So, I met this guy at happy hour not too long ago, and we had a great conversation, and seemed to have a lot in common. At the end of the night, he got my phone number, and after waiting the exact, right number of days--three--he called me. We made tentative plans to go out on Wednesday of the following week.

And then I didn’t hear back from him. On Tuesday night, I realized that although we said Wednesday, he never gave me a specific time, or a place. This being 2011, I texted him.

No response. I go to bed, thinking surely he will text back while I’m asleep.

Nope.

Fourteen hours later, he shoots off a casual, “Oh, I was thinking I’d pick you up at 6:30, dinner at seven, movie at eight. Sound good?”

No “Hey, sorry it took me so long, my phone died/my dog died/I was out building houses for the homeless until 3 AM” (Even if it’s a lie, it makes us feel better if you at least pretend to have a legitimate reason for forgetting about us, and not just that you forgot).

I responded that it sounded fine.

Him: Fine? Just fine? *Insert obnoxious emoticon here*

Me (in my head, naturally): Yes, just “fine.” Perhaps if this pronouncement was made more than twelve hours before our date, it might have been more than fine. But, as it stands, fine is all you get.

This may seem like I am being nitpicky, but I think that it’s simply polite to give a girl plenty of heads-up as to when she should expect you. Otherwise, it seems last minute, which makes her think that she’s not really up there on your list of important things to do.

The Perils of "Talking" via Facebook

My junior year of college, I studied abroad in Italy for a semester. It was one of my favorite college experiences, but I knew that I was going to miss my friends back home. About a week before I left, my good friends, Karissa and Angie, threw me a “Come Back to Texas” going away party, where I proceeded to have about three too many cheap tequila shots. At around 1:30 AM, I sat down on the couch next to an acquaintance with whom I had recently reconnected.

Sidebar: I had just taken a course on Russian History: The Beginning of Time to 1917, which concluded with a twelve-page research paper on the following historical event.

I’m not entirely sure how this particular topic of conversation came up, but upon sitting down next to Luke, I decided that it would be a good time to give an impromptu lecture on Boris Godunov and the Time of Troubles. It’s actually too bad that these guys weren’t there to record it, because I’m sure it was hilarious.

Forty-five minutes later, Luke, bless his heart, was still sitting there next to me, listening as I emphatically recounted Boris’ tragic end and playing endless games of Thumb War with me (I do remember that he didn’t really get the concept of the “thumb” part of the game, and kept trying to use his pointer finger).

He was cute. And polite (hello, he suffered through forty-five minutes of Russian history!). And single, which was an improvement on my past crushes. But I was getting on a plane to Rome the next weekend. What to do?

Thank God and Mark Zuckerberg for Facebook. Almost immediately, Luke and I began chatting online, and the more we talked, the more I liked him. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that he liked me too. I sent him amusing tales of my travels, such as the time my friends and I were accosted in the train station in Perugia by a certifiably insane Brit wearing a denim habit who railed against who he believed was the embodiment of all that is evil in this world, George W. Bush; he sent me Dots. After three months of AIM and Facebook messaging and one phone call via Skype, I felt like we were pretty much a done deal as soon as I was back stateside.

He even surprised me at the airport when I got home, which was sweet, though it would have been sweeter if I wasn’t freaking out about the MIP I had almost gotten for the two one-ounce bottles of Limoncello I had in my suitcase, and the fact that I had been traveling for close to twelve hours and had no makeup on and a bad case of plane hair.

Finally, after close to four months of build up, Luke and I were in the same country and could go out on our official first date. What follows is the reason for my reluctance to ever try online dating.

For a couple of people who never ran out of things to talk about over the internet, hanging out in-person and alone for the first time seemed to leave both of us speechless. I attempted to drown out the deafening din of crickets by forgoing eating my dinner in favor of chattering on and on about whatever I could think of: the décor, the douchey customs officer who was clearly out to get me (two one-ounce bottles of Limoncello—clearly, I was trying to start an illegal aperitif-smuggling ring), my failed attempts at getting a publishing internship for the summer.

The self-conscious silence followed us to the park where we took a walk, and back to his house, where we watched a mini-marathon of “The Office” with his roommate. I was getting kind of chilly in my short-sleeved shirt, so I asked Luke if he had a sweatshirt I could borrow. He returned a few minutes later with a long-sleeved thermal and a small orange pill in his palm, which he offered to me.

Him: Here you go.

Me (eying the tablet with suspicion): What is that?

Him: It’s vitamin C. It’s good for you! Take it.

Sidebar: For those of you who are a smidge concerned at this point, I knew Luke to be a bit of a health-nut, in addition to being a truly stand-up guy, so there is no need to fear that the capsule contained anything other than ascorbic acid.

Me (in my head): Vitamin C? What, do I look like I have scurvy?!

Hmm. Maybe that was why he was keeping our physical contact to a minimum…

It wasn’t long after this that Luke’s friend, Mark, called him up.

Mark: Hey, man! What are you up to?

Luke: Not much.

Me (in my head): Ain’t that the truth…

Luke: What are you doing?

Mark: I just got a new car! Want to check it out?

Luke: Sure, man, that sounds awesome! Come on over!

Me (still in my head): Seriously? Does this mean the “date” portion of the evening is over?

And so two became three.

Mark hung out for a bit, and then in an attempt to reclaim Luke’s attention and salvage the evening, I began to yawn hugely and ask if Luke could take me home, thinking that we could at least have some more alone time during the car ride.

Luke: Oh, yeah, sorry. Let’s go. Hey, Mark, do you want to drive?

Me: !!

Mark: Sweet! I’ll go clear-off the backseat.

During the drive home, Mark in the driver’s seat, Luke riding shotgun, I texted my roommates from the backseat to let them know that all three of us would be arriving shortly. I won’t lie, my messages contained a few choice expletives. You know what they say about the best-laid plans…

I don’t remember specifics of the rest of the night, though we probably played Cranium at some point. I can tell you that Luke and I never kissed, though there was some tentative hand-holding. Alas, Luke and I were never meant to be. I spent the rest of the summer in Oklahoma, and our daily conversations dwindled down to a text here and there. By the end of summer, I had heard through the grapevine that Luke was seeing someone else.

So, my dear readers, let this be a lesson to you. Tequila and Russian history make for a quirky and entertaining combination and Facebook has a knack for disguising awkward silences as thoughtful pauses in conversation. Please FB responsibly.

Date Success = Reality/Expectations

A word of advice: never, under any circumstances, take a date to a dance if you have not been actively hanging out with him for at least three months.

My junior year of high school, I attended two formals: the Winter Garden Ball and my Junior-Senior Prom. Until this point, I had never taken a date to a dance before (unless you count Homecoming freshman year, which I don’t, since I found out later I was asked on a dare…thanks, J.C.), but various circumstances beyond my control contributed to my having not one, but TWO dates that year.

I have no idea what purpose Winter Garden Ball served. There was a triad of debutante-esque events in Tulsa at the time: sophomore year was Heart Ball, junior year was Winter Garden, and senior year was Opera Ball. Of the three, Winter Garden was the most pointless, as it required absolutely nothing other than paying for a ticket and showing up. For some ungodly reason (I probably begged), I was in possession of two tickets to Winter Garden, but had no prospective squires.

I mentioned my predicament to my voice teacher at the time, and she immediately concocted this stellar plan: she was friends with a couple who was hosting a Brazilian foreign exchange student who didn’t really know anybody in town and just so happened to love dancing!

I was quite thrilled by this prospect. In my mind, Rogerio was a young Antonio Banderas (albeit a Brazilian one), who would whisper sweet nothings into my ear in Portuguese as we swayed to a sultry samba, the envy of all our fellow Winter Gardeners.

I hope at this point you have come to understand and even expect that I had quite the imagination in high school, but invariably my daydreams would be systematically crushed by that other dish that is best served cold, Reality.

And you would be right to do so. Rogerio showed up to my house the night of the dance, corsage in hand, bowtie clipped firmly in place. I am nearly 5’10 in heels. He was maybe 5’3 in his shiny rented shoes, and a few beads of nervous sweat highlighted his receding hairline.

Since he was not in possession of a driver’s license, I drove. My feeble grasp of Tulsa’s network of highways and a general lack of direction contributed to the thirty-minute detour on 169 N as opposed to 169 S, and we arrived to the ball a bit late. I was flushed with embarrassment over my error (I was seriously almost to Owasso before I realized I was going to the wrong way), and Rogerio, while very sweet, was not at all what I was expecting.

We sat down to dinner and attempted to make small talk with the couples from my school, none of whom I was close friends with (because who doesn’t want to fork over hundreds of dollars to eat baked chicken with uncomfortable acquaintances?), and attempted to explain Rogerio’s and my relationship—or lack thereof.

Me (adamantly): We’re just friends.

Rogerio (in sweetly lisping English): We are friends now, but who knows what we will be…in the future.

I exchanged a horrified glance with no one in particular.

I don’t think I last much longer after that. I had eyed the undulating orgy that had formed on the dance floor and decided that I had no desire to grind up to Rogerio or vice versa.

Sidebar: Why is it that even when everyone is dressed up in sophisticated evening wear, high school dances are still dominated by club music? Would it kill us/them to do a box step, for old time’s sake? 50 Cent and Usher have their place, but I just don’t think anyone looks good droppin’ it like it’s hot in floor-length satin.

So we left. And I never heard from Rogerio again. I do hope that sometime before he left, he met a cute, petite girl who was nicer than me, and like to imagine them doing the tango up and down the halls of Union High, rose in teeth. It’s a nice thought.

Another thing Judy Blume didn't prepare me for...

After three months of self-imposed romantic solitude, I had grown weary of being the only singleton in my group of smug-dater friends. In a fit of desperate boredom, I allowed what the chronically single both love and fear to happen: I let my friend, John, set me up on a blind date. Oh, the blind date. The possibilities are endless, and while inwardly you always hope that it will end spectacularly, outwardly, you treat it with disdain, so that when it does fail you can at least say, “I told you so.” Anyway, the date ended up being only partially blind, since it turned out that Arthur was the son of a family friend, though it had been ages since we’d seen one another, making that point, in the end, moot.


Arthur was a great guy (a statement which we all know foreshadows his inevitable downfall).  We met for coffee at a local shop and talked for hours, mostly about a retreat that we had both recently made. Since this pre-meeting had come off so swimmingly, we set up another, more datey-date (dinner and a movie, natch). Then, things began to fall apart.


Sidebar: The secret to any great anecdote is also one of the hallmarks of great comedy, and that is the Rule of Three. According to that co-op of knowledge, Wikipedia, “things that come in threes are inherently funnier, more satisfying, or more effective than other numbers of things.” So, all of my bad date stories have three main points. I, of course, am using the term “points” loosely, as that would imply that they are quick and dirty, as opposed to long and convoluted.


Artie and I hit our first snag at the Thai restaurant where we had dinner. The poor guy kept mispronouncing things on the menu, and had no idea who Audrey Hepburn was, which immediately turned me off (clearly, I was operating under the delusion that all straight men have seen Sabrina, or Breakfast at Tiffany’s, at least). I must confess this elitist attitude on my part was nothing new; I once turned a little boy down in the fourth grade because he didn’t know who Mozart was. After I had to stop and explain that I was being sarcastic for the fifth time, I was pretty much done.


My snobbish revulsion continued at the movies, where Arthur sat with his left foot on his right knee, a position that resulted in his smelly Adidas practically hitting me in the face. At this point, I was shrinking away from him as much as possible and plotting my escape.


At the end of the night, I fled the car before he had a chance put it in park (now my end-of-date M.O.) and watched him drive away slowly from behind the curtains in my bedroom.


Apparently my erratic behavior did not turn him off completely, bless his heart (that or he was just blissfully thickheaded), because he continued to call me for at least two more weeks, even though I habitually let him roll over to voicemail.


During the interim between our slightly disastrous date and him finally getting the picture, I wandered downstairs to my parents’ room and curled up on the bed for a rare mother-daughter chat.


Me: You know, I don’t think I’m going to see Arthur again.
Mom: Awww, honey, why not? He seemed so nice.
Me: No, he is. I’m just not really interested in him. Like, romantically.
Mom (awkwardly): …Sweetie…you do like boys, don’t you?
Me: God, Mom. Yes. Just not this one. Jeeze.

I have to say that the awkward teenage years are not complete until your mom insinuates that you’re a lesbian.

A Belated Start

*A word of warning: I cannot tell a short story, and am prone to copious tangents and parenthetical asides. Hopefully, you can continue to wade through my neuroses and slightly flamboyant diction J  


I was a bit of a late bloomer in high school. A six-inch growth spurt, combined with the addition of braces, swapping glasses for contacts, a sudden and impressive increase in cup size, and a general lack of coordination made me extremely awkward physically. Inexperience teamed with the naive belief that high school would be like the teeny-bopper movies of the early millennium (She's All That and Princess Diaries come to mind as far as the “geeky girl transforms into a hot princess--sometimes even literally--and inevitably gets the guy despite great odds and majorly mean girls” genre goes) made for a socially lethal combination.


I wasn't allowed to date until I was sixteen, and I preciously believed that on July 7th, 2003, I would wake up to gobs of suitors outside my door, who were just waiting for the day when my parental units would permit them to take me to Braum's for a double dip of Cappuccino Chocolate Chunk. Imagine my surprise when all my birthday brought was an admittedly killer birthday video and a collection of penguin pictures. Don't get me wrong, it was a great birthday. But I wanted my Jake Ryan.    


Fast forward to my senior year. Somehow, my inept AIM flirting (learned from countless afternoons spent in the "green room" backstage in our Performing Arts Cafeteria) had fooled some poor schmuck into thinking I knew what I was doing, and he asked me out. Our plan? Dinner and a movie (I know, I know, craaaazzy kids). I'm fairly certain we were going to go see Phantom of the Opera (I'm also pretty sure it was going to be my third time to see it in theaters).


Sidebar: This brave soul who took me on my first date was a younger guy who I had a huge crush on. He played the piano like you would not believe. In fact, I date my now instant fascination with pianists of the opposite sex to this point.


So my gentleman caller--let's call him Vincente--calls the night before to firm up plans for our date. My best friend, Brit, was there to witness my half of the following conversation:


Me: Hey! I'm really excited about tomorrow night!
V: Yeah, me too. Listen though, I have kind of an...awkward question for you.
Me (in my head): The last time a guy prefaced a query in this way, he followed up with "What size bra do you wear?" This is going to be good.
Me (out loud): Um, okay.
V: How do you feel about facial hair?
Me (in my head): !!
Me (speaking to Brit via eye contact/telepathy): What the HELL?!
Me (out loud): I mean, I'm not going to ask you to shave...


Sidebar: This date was going down over Christmas break, when we were not in school and therefore not subject to our school’s strict dress code that forbade facial hair on the young men. And side burns that exceeded one inch. Hence Vincente's chin scruff and subsequent concern. I also did not put two and two together as to why he was concerned until after the fact...


The actual date is a blur in my memory. I do recall not eating much of my dinner (nerves) and feeling bad that he was paying for food that was going to waste, leaving the movie during "The Point of No Return" to call Brit and inform her that the PoNR had indeed been reached and I had decided that I was no longer interested in Vincente through no fault of his own, and finally, veritably fleeing the car when he dropped me off, lest he try to burn me with his beard.


I then wrote a very empowering entry in my journal about how I wasn’t going to let myself be defined by a guy, and besides, I didn’t have time for a boyfriend anyway…which proves my theory that it’s easier to be alone when you believe that it’s by your choice and not your lack of options or deep-seated fear of commitment.

I later apologized to Vincente for being an insane person. He denied that it was a date in the first place.

Close Encounters of the Rando Kind: Pub Fiction

There is an elusive creature that prowls the bars in and around Houston, attacking when you least expect it and vanishing when you, its prey, turn hunter, and try to catch a glimpse of the beast. This brute, ladies and gentlemen, is known among some circles as the "rando." Going out with the intention of finding said person is known as "rando hunting," which has become a new hobby of mine.


I first encountered the rando at a midtown bar while I was sitting at table near the restrooms. An exceedingly intoxicated young man's gaze locked onto my bare legs and he stumbled over to me and my good friend, Jeni.


"Hey. Heeeeeyyyy. I like-a your dresssss."


"Um, thanks. It's actually a skirt. But thanks."


"I'm Dave, by the way," he mumbled, "You're working that hair flip." (Rando will henceforth be known as "Rando Dave")


"Hey, Dave, nice to meet you.


Rando Dave naturally takes my attempt at politeness as an invitation to pull up a chair between me and Jeni (most randos have cojones to spare--they cannot begin to imagine that their overtures will be met with anything but pleasurable acquiescence).


Rando Dave takes this moment to look deep into my eyes and throw out this gem: "Sooooo....we should totally make out right now." (Oh, Rando Dave! There's your first problem right there--you never verbally give away your end game that early).


I exchange a look with Jen.


"Well, that's a thought," I begin, "but I think my friend might feel a little awkward about that." Understatement of the year (litotes for those of you who are literarily inclined).


Rando Dave looks unconcerned as he inches his hand over to Jeni. "That's okay, I'll hold her hand." He looks at me expectantly; evidently, our little problem is solved!


I'm a bit unsure of how to respond to this so I settle for a simple "Thanks, but I'm good." Rando Dave does not appear to appreciate this turn of events and sulks off back to the bathroom line...


...only to return about five minutes later, with an earnest concern:


"I don't get it!" he pouts. "What did I do wrong?! I complimented you! I told you I liked your dress! Skirt. Whatever."


Poor Rando Dave really just could not comprehend why the equally random girl at the bar did not want to hook up with his drunk-ass self. In his mind, he did everything right.


And, for some girls, that would have been enough. Alas, Rando Dave was never going to be anything more to me than an amusing anecdote to break out at various social events, and the start to America's new favorite pastime: rando hunting.