Now What?

Okay. First date down. Now I just have to…

I have to…


Crap! What I really want to do is talk to her. Get to know her better. Go on another date.

But how do I do that without looking sad and desperate?

I know, maybe I should send her a stupid-funny text message!

While drunk!

And I should send it really, really late!

From Pendelton!

Wait, I did that already.


Hmm… This calls for contemplation!

Still single and (Stop thinking about her boobs!) contemplating,


Date Night Jitters

It’s 1:20 pm on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, the apartment is clean, soft jazz is playing in the background while the cats lounge in front of the balcony door chattering at the birds eating at the feeder. There’s not a cloud in the late summer sky, the thermometer reads 81 degrees, and the forecast is for a high of 90.

It’s 1:20 pm, I haven’t showered yet, I’m smoking like a chimney, and watching the clock. I tried watching football, briefly worked on some writing I have to do, and have even done some last minute strengthening exercises. Nothing works. I still hear it, the “Click! Click! Click!” of the clock. No matter what I do, I hear it. “Click! Click! Click!”

This is a problem, you see, because my clock is digital, doesn’t display the seconds, and doesn’t actually make a sound. I hear it though, none the less. “Click! Click! Click!” in my head it goes.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I’m keeping time…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…going nuts…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…second after relentless second.

“Click! Click! Click!”

The plans are set. The place and time agreed upon. It’s actually going to happen…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…if I don’t go nuts first.

“Click! Click! Click!”

We’re meeting at 5:00 o’clock for drinks at the Island Cafe. It should be perfect. A floating, outdoor-patio bar with fancy tropical concoctions, fish and chips, and beer. The faint breeze off the harbor and the shade of the umbrella should keep the temperature pleasant while the sun sets in the West. We can watch the ducks in the harbor scrabble for each fry we toss them. We can watch as the power boats, yachts, and occasional kayaker go putting by. We can talk.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But it’s only 2:00 and I still haven’t decided what I’m wearing.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I’m leaning towards the clever and funny “Zombie Love” t-shirt and shorts.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But will she appreciate the zombie homage to our first conversation, or will she think me weird for wearing something with bloody zombie heads on it for our first date?

“Click! Click! Click!”

Maybe I should wear something black and slimming?

“Click! Click! Click!”

At least I got my hair cut last night and don’t have to worry about that.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But I still have to put product in my hair.

“Click! Click! Click!”

Spiky or flat?

“Click! Click! Click!”

Combed or stylishly mussed?

“Click! Click! Click!”

It’s still too early to shower.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I need a smoke…

“Click! Click! Click!”

Single and suffering… still,


“Click! Click! Ring!”

It’s 2:15 pm, my phone just rang, and clicking of the clock has stopped. It’s my date. An emergency with a friend. Babysitting. Sorry. We just have to laugh at this point. Monday or Tuesday after work? I promise it will happen. A text tomorrow to figure out the day. Sorry again.

The soft jazz is still playing. The cats are sleeping. In my head…


a little sad…

a little relieved…

a lot funny.

I wonder if Travis still has that tee-time reserved?

Don’t Sweat It

WARNING: What I’m about to tell you, including all descriptions, statements, and characters, is sadly, depressingly, real and true. I’m not making this up.

I have one huge, glaringly obvious, attribute that I, and every one else, am terribly conscious of. It’s the bane of my existence and probably a key reason I’m single. I sweat.

Now, before those that don’t know me go making the conclusion that I’m being silly or overdramatic, you have to understand what I’m talking about. If you’ve never had the displeasure of watching me drip sweat because it’s above 65 degrees or there are more then 3 people in a room, you just have no idea how bad this is. I’m not talking about a few beads of perspiration on my forehead or even moist pits. No, I’m talking about soaked hair, drip off the nose, freshly showered wetness. I am Niagara to your dripping faucet. And no matter how you look at it, an overly-sweaty man is not attractive.

If you’re wondering why I sweat so much, I have to blame my parents. I have always been a sweater. In baseball I had to have my own helmets and gear because no one else wanted to wear something you could wring sweat out of. I got the sweating from my father, who is also a sweater. If he goes dancing, he has to take a towel and 3 shirts to change into throughout the night. When he ski’s he has to take an extra set of clothes to change into afterwards because his clothes are soaked by the time he’s done.

But the fun doesn’t stop there! Not only do I sweat profusely, I also inherited a tendency towards dehydration (which is only heightened because of the sweating) from my mother. I intake well over 100 ounces of fluid a day. I am always drinking something (mostly water, if you’re wondering). I have to. Otherwise I would shrivel up and die!

So why am I baring my sweaty-soul in a blog post? Because I know I can’t be the only one with this issue. There must be others that suffer from perpetual wetness, and I just want them to know that I’m here for them. I feel their pain. And I also want you lucky, dry, people out there to know that we would change this if we could. We would love to be sweat-free and to stop wiping our brows or wiping our palms on our jeans for every handshake. The problem is, we can’t. So, next time you see a sweaty guy sitting in the corner at a party, trying to discretely swipe the sweat from his face, take a towel over and talk to him. You never know, he could be “The One”! Sure, he maybe a sweaty “One”, but what’s a little moisture between soul mates?

Also, I could use some cool, sweat free, dating suggestions. At this point I have come to the conclusion that I can only date during late Fall and Winter months, when the weather is conducive to my overly sweaty nature. It’s that or in a cold-locker at a local restaurant. Any other ideas?

Still single and sweating like a freakin’ pig,