The 72 hour recovery

Over the past few weeks, as I've gotten to know Theradate better, I started to have more and more moments when the thought crossed my mind that he did not seem like my future husband. Sometimes he felt more like an attractive gay best friend, like the day he posted shirtless photos of himself on Facebook. One day at his house, a friend of his said something critical about him, and rather than feeling indignant and defensive I thought, hmmm, it's a valid a point, and a bit worrisome. Some of his weird eating habits (frequent snacks of popcorn coated with olive oil, cinnamon and sugar substitute; plain yogurt with peanut butter) were starting to seem less cutely quirky and more just plain old bizarre, and he often used words that I thought anyone over 22 really has no business using, such as "ping" (meaning "text" for those who, like me, are unfamiliar with the word). So when Theradate asked me last week how I felt things were going, I was honest and told him that I felt pretty unsure, which led to a discussion in which we decided to call it quits.

Had I known three weeks earlier that that would happen, I would have predicted that I'd be devastated. And I was sad -- for 72 hours, or maybe a little less. By Monday evening, I mostly felt relieved. Theradate has many lovely qualities, but my excitement level had taken a nosedive, and the moments of feeling happy with him were rapidly becoming eclipsed by the moments of feeling doubtful and a little bit turned off.

So, while I harbor no ill will toward Theradate and had a great time with him in many ways, I'm officially taking him off the list of men I've been very excited about. In the meantime, I'd like to pay tribute to a few of the men in my life who give me hope that there are great men out there, and one day I might meet one of them:

My mechanic, who helped me through the difficult decision to buy a new car this week: "It's a big decision. No rush. Talk to your sister, take your time. You want to keep your car, I'm happy! I see you often, I work on your car, you pay me. But, you get another car, like maybe a Toyota or a Honda, you gonna be coming here a lot less often." When I brought my new car to have him check it over, he had a very fatherly moment in which he pulled me out of earshot of the seller to make sure I had checked the blue book value, then told me he'd miss seeing me so often once I'd purchased it.

My pottery teacher, who went through his recently deceased 98-year-old aunt's wardrobe recently and gave me a few vintage '60s and '70s pieces, carefully selecting those that would look good on a blonde (he has an unusually good eye for a straight man). They fit me like a glove.

My pottery crush, who my French cousin met this week and who she has aptly taken to referring to as my LLBean Boyfriend -- so, he may be getting a new blog name soon! When I told him about a disastrous craft fair a couple of weeks ago, he gave me mini clothes pins to use to hang my wares: "They'll flock to your table in droves," he promised. "Droves" might be slightly too strong a word, but I did make more than 12 times the amount of money the following week. And any man who likes miniature clothes pins is adorable in my book.

Goin' steady

A few weeks ago, I laid out the three phases of dating for Theradate. I felt like he needed some ground rules to help him understand my expectations for how he should behave, as well as how I was interpreting his behavior. Specifically, I told him that I thought he wanted some of the emotional benefits of Phase 2 without taking on the responsibilities that go along with those benefits. Or, as Slinky has succinctly put it more than once, "I'm just amazed by how clueless he is sometimes." Indeed.

Phase 1: The "casual dating" phase. You are probably both going out with other people, and you're not sleeping together (at least, that's MY rule -- obviously, different people have very different rules about this). You're figuring out whether you like each other, and probably seeing each other once or twice a week. This phase usually lasts a month or two.

Phase 2: Once you've decided that you like each other and are ready to move to the next level, you progress to phase 2, the "trying the relationship on for size and seeing how well it fits" phase. You have a conversation about being exclusive. You meet each others' friends. Your dates start to occasionally last more than 24 hours and involve weekends away together. A lot of relationships meet their demise a month or two into Phase 2 when it become apparent that it's just not a match.  If all goes well, after four or five months you slide naturally into Phase 3, no conversation necessary.

Phase 3: Phase 3 is exactly like Phase 2 but more permanent. Eventually, it leads to marriage, babies, a mortgage, and of course eternal happiness.

My sister has always said that she loves Phase 1. She thinks it's fun to kiss without it leading to anything more, and go on fun dates, and get to know the person. I, personally, find Phase 1 to be torturous. There's just so much uncertainty involved. You have no idea if the person you're seeing is dating other people they like; you really don't have any clue whatsoever where you stand with them. During Phase 1 with Theradate there were stretches when we had to schedule a new Diff Con every single week. It was exhausting. (In fairness, before it sounds like I was horribly miserable during this entire time I should add that while I did feel a lot of anxiety during Phase 1, I also had many, many moments of feeling happy and excited.)

Granted, there's still plenty of uncertainty involved in Phase 2. And granted, Theradate and I have only been in Phase 2 for about 24 hours, so it's a little bit hard to know yet what it'll be like, or how many Diff Cons it will involve. But I have high hopes :)

Missed connections

Slinky reminded me last night of a small incident that I had almost forgotten about that occurred a couple of weeks ago at Theradate's chocolate party. Actually, it was before the chocolate party; he had asked me to come down early and spend some time with him before the guests arrived.

We were nibbling on snacks in the kitchen, double checking to make sure that everything was ready. After a while I suggested we move to the couch and relax for the last half hour or so before the guests arrived; Theradate agreed.

I headed off toward the couch and Theradate went in the opposite direction, to go to the bathroom or do some last-minute preparation, I assumed. I sat down in the sun, looking out at the amazing view of his city, feeling relaxed and happy, and waited for him to come join me. And waited. And waited. I started to feel less relaxed and happy. After ten minutes, I thought, this is really weird. Why did he even invite me here if it was to sit on the couch by myself? What is WITH this guy?

"Heathen?!" came Theradate's voice from the other room, then his head popped in. "You're in HERE? I was on the other couch! I thought you were going to the bathroom." He had been sitting on the couch in the living room for the past ten minutes, patiently waiting for me to come join him. Thoughtfully, we had both headed to each others' favorite couch -- he went to the cozy one in the living room that I like better; I went to his preferred couch, the one with the huge windows and incredible view.

*Sigh*. Maybe relationships are just like that sometimes. You both have good intentions and are thinking of the other person. And yet somehow, you just end up in different rooms, on different couches, by yourselves -- until you figure things out and remedy the matter. Which we promptly did.

Projecting

My friends are the best. They are the most supportive, fun, wise group of people one could possibly ask for.

Everyone has been asking me lots about Theradate, and everyone has advice. I realized this weekend, though, why the advice sometimes feels contradictory and less than helpful: Everyone perceives relationships through the lens of their own experiences. And I do that, too: when I have a bad experience, I vow never to repeat it -- like, when I swore to myself I would never date another European after La Moustache and I broke up.

But the thing is, there are lots of great Europeans out there. The fact that he is European wasn't the problem. And, while it can be helpful to think of people as types, the reality is that people AREN'T types. All men are complicated in their own unique ways -- and so am I.

Here's a sampling of the comments I've gotten:

"I worry that he is unclear in his communication. He reminds me of my ex, who is a few years older, like Theradate. It was so confusing to date him."

"I find it really concerning that he is moving so slow physically. I mean, is he attracted to you?? That's just like my ex who turned out to have major intimacy issues."

"I think he might be a drama queen. The type to get carried away by his emotions and love the initial excitement of a relationship, but not have the ability to stick it out through a REAL relationship. Like that guy in New York I had a fling with a few years ago."

"When I'm dating someone who I am worried may hurt me, I take it REALLY slow. That's what I would do if I were you. Remember that guy who broke my heart last year? I tried to do that with him because I liked him so much."

I talked to Theradate yesterday about my fears. My biggest fear is that he says and does lots of sweet things but they don't have much substance behind them. I also told him that I realize that there's no way he will respond to that by saying, "You're right, I'm a huge flirt and it's only superficial," so therefore the only way for me to figure out whether my fears are justified or not is for us to spend time together and figure out whether we are compatible. He told me that he really likes me, but that he recognizes that sometimes people get hurt even when both people are trying their best to be careful and considerate of each other. Rightly or wrongly, I trust him -- to at least try his hardest not to let that happen. I'll try my hardest, too, and that's really all we can do.

So, I'm going down south today to see him. He's making me dinner -- the first time he's cooked since 2005. I'm excited.

Emotional insurance

Theradate does not have renter's insurance, which shocks me. I don't have renter's insurance, either, but it's different because a) I'm going to get it soon (July 15 is the deadline my financial planner gave me), b) I don't have anywhere near as much nice stuff as Theradate, and c) the few valuable possessions I do have were mostly cleaned out by the thieves that broke into my place in February. Also, about a thousand people in the New England area know where Theradate keeps his spare keys. I don't even HAVE spare keys.

I gave Theradate many, many reasons why he absolutely has to get renter's insurance. He sighed.

"If only I could get emotional renter's insurance," he said. "That's the only part I care about."

TOTALLY. The check for $250 I got last week from my roommate's insurance company is a pittance compared to the emotional damage wreaked by the thieves. It feels like such a violation to have someone come into your home and comb through your possessions.

I wish I could get emotional insurance, too. And not just for my apartment -- I can think of tons of things I need emotional insurance for.

Not the least of which, at this particular moment in time, is Theradate. He confused me yesterday. Since I don't have emotional insurance, I did the next best thing and put him in texting purgatory. He's not allowed to text me for 48 hours so I can clear my head.

But really, someone should figure out a way to sell emotional insurance. I would be your first client.

Curbing my enthusiasm

I am working hard to follow my wise mother's advice not to act too eager with Theradate. When he begged, cajoled and pleaded with me to accompany him to a friend's barbecue and party last Friday night, I steadfastly said no. He asked if I'd consider playing hooky at work and going with him to Northampton; I refused. When he suggested we sign up to take a cheese class in July, or maybe just go to France and eat cheese in July, I said we should concentrate on making plans for the next week, not two months into the future. He asked if I wanted to take a drive up to the nudist lake in Vermont I went to as a child, and I told him I was not going to any nudist places with him for a LONG time. And last weekend, as we were kissing in his car, one minute I was thinking, "Damn, Theradate is the cutest thing EVER. I could kiss him all night. And think how adorable our babies would be! They'd have unkempt Tom Waits hair, beautiful dark eyes, and incredible hats." The next minute, my inner monologue said, "Heathen, BACK THE FUCK OFF. Remember what your mother said." And I did. I think I deserve some kind of medal for that.

Inside my head, unfortunately, it's not so easy to contain my excitement. Theradate makes my heart beat fast and my tummy feel a little bit fluttery and kinda nauseous. It's like being on drugs, and it's awesome and stressful at the same time. As scary as it is to like someone and not know what will happen, I do know that Theradate is a solid guy and a first-class communicator. So, I am officially giving myself permission to get a *little* bit excited.

Still, sometimes I think about how much easier it is to date guys I feel ambivalent about. Hmm, I wonder if 95% is still single?

Chocolate Extravaganza

It's T-minus 5 days until Theradate's chocolate party, which I have been looking forward to for weeks because a) it's a chocolate party, DUH b) I'm smitten with Theradate and c) two of my best girlfriends, Slinky and La Chimiste, have agreed to make the trek down to check it out with me. 

The invitation: 

It's been way too long since we gathered together to pop some corks, tell some tales and make some trouble. Plus, three times in the last week alone I've run into folks at Whole Foods who've asked when the hell we're going to have another shin-dig at my place. 

So--mark your calendars for the evening of May 31st, and we'll gather together over here for some good old-fashioned frolicking as we usher in the summer.

Our agenda for the evening is full: we'll hang around, watch the sun go down, and while away the evening as we sip, gab, gossip, strum, sing, tempt, talk, hint, laugh, play, dance, tickle, incite, incant, expound, inspire, dissuade, deter, concur, demur, infer, imply, amuse, guffaw, refrain, condone, support, provoke, suggest, submit, present, applaud, uphold, prevail, proffer, further, foster, mingle, make, meddle, and more. 

Bring a friend. Bring three. Doors are open to all. (Scoundrels, scofflaws, strumpets, and scalawags strongly preferred, and will find much company.)

As usual, grab a few of your favorite musical instruments, racy poems, embarrassing stories, small animals, party games, improbably ideas, out-of-circulation drachmas, or whatever else tickles your fancy.

The Council of Culinary Consiglieri have decided on a food-theme for the gathering: CHOCOLATE-FEST, 2013. 

For those of you who haven't been to one of these gatherings before: no one needs to bring ANYTHING apart from their own good selves. However, anyone who feels like trying out new recipes on an unsuspecting but appreciative crew of slightly tipsy heathens--feel free to bring whatever you like related to the current food theme, e.g. "chocolate". Willing mouths await.  

WHO: You and whomever else you feel like bringing

WHAT: Party

WHERE: My house

WHEN: Friday, May 31st. Sunset is at 7:21 PM, if you want to be here for that. Otherwise, come on by when it gets dark. We'll play into the night, until everyone's done playing. 

WHY: I dislike that question

HOW: We'll figure it out

xox

-Theradate

P.S. Even though my past attempts to solicit RSVPs have failed continually and miserably, hope does indeed spring eternal, so I'll give it another go: "A quick RSVP would be molto apprezzato. Grazie!" That way I'll know how many bags of chips to get. 

Best. Invitation. Ever. 

Reality check

Theradate is personable and charming and likable, and it's hard to remember sometimes not to get too excited about him. He's been sending a steady stream of sweet texts and long emails, not to mention a tantalizing invitation to a chocolate party. Plus, I like him. But he's far from a sure bet, so I need to work to contain my enthusiasm.

I texted Slinky to that effect, asking her to please slap me as a reminder.

Little did I know that I had no need to ask Slinky for such a favor, as the person sitting right next to me could provide exactly what I needed. I was on a Greyhound bus (or "hell on wheels" as I fondly call it) with my mom coming back from New York -- a far cry from the comfortable Acela ride we were expecting that was canceled after a train wreck on Friday. As the bus inched along, it became increasingly clear that I was not going to make it back to Boston in time for Theradate to pick me up at South Station and take me to dinner as we had planned.

He suggested we meet later in the week instead. I told him I couldn't; I had plans with Slinky. But then Slinky graciously offered to rearrange our plans.

"Slinky doesn't mind postponing drinks, so I'll let Theradate know I can get dinner after all," I informed Mom.

"Well, who knows if he's still free," Mom replied.

"But that was only 20 minutes ago that he suggested Tuesday," I reminded Mom.

"My point exactly. Who knows how many women he's texted in the last 20 minutes to ask out to dinner," replied Mom in her most pragmatic tone.

I couldn't really argue with her. The woman had a point.

Later, Slinky checked in to make sure that dinner plans had been confirmed. "I guess all the other women Theradate asked to replace me turned him down," I reported, "so he's stuck with me."

Thanks, but no thanks

Theradate has not been making it easy for me to stick to my resolution to ignore him. He's been "liking" lots of photos of me on Facebook (prompting me to wonder if he really likes me or only "likes" me). He also invited me to the premiere of a movie he's starring in. The only communication I'm not getting from him is an invitation to spend time with him without his 500 closest friends. Until said invitation arrives, I will continue to studiously ignore his advances. (And by "ignore," I mean thank him for the invite to the premiere but lie and say I have plans that night, but I look forward to seeing it when it's available on the Internet.)

I gotta admit, though: I am DYING of curiosity. Should I take my roommate up on her offer to go with a video camera and make me a bootleg of it??

The Slow Decider

I'm a slow decider. It takes me a few months to decide if I really love a new item of clothing, or new jewelry. It's not just a process of looking and deciding whether or not I objectively like it; I need to wear it for a while and see how it feels on me and whether or not it feels like a match for me. 

And boyfriends are no different. My feelings about exes tend to gradually morph and change shape over time. Sometimes they mellow and improve, like old wine or fine cheese; other times they behave more like rotten vegetables. Nearly four years after La Moustache broke my heart, I am finally ready to think about him as a nuanced person with faults as well as good qualities, and I even wrote him a couple of friendly emails this winter.  It took me a few years after our breakup, but I now consider l'Artista to be a good friend and one of the best exes one could possibly ask for. Dreamy, on the other hand, is like one of those vegetables that dry up and shrivel in your vegetable drawer. He's not really ever on my mind, not because it's painful to think about him but just simply because I don't feel any connection to him.

Monkeyboy, though a brief affair, is someone who I avoid thinking about because it's painful. In just a few short weeks he managed to win my trust, then break my heart in a way that seemed like it should be impossible in such a short time frame. His last communication with me was a note in which he refused to see me to talk about the breakup, and I don't foresee ever contacting him or hearing from him again. Leif Ericson is another one who I don't think about much, though in his case it's more because he just wasn't so memorable. By now I think more often of the delicious concoctions his friend cooked up than I do about Leif himself, whose personality always seemed a bit amorphous, probably because he was an alcoholic. And, although I only went on just four short dates with him, I continue to have a big soft spot for Theradate, to whom I managed to recount my entire life story on our first date and STILL have plenty to talk to him about on our subsequent dates. I ran into him at the movies a couple of months ago, and giggled when he told me that he managed to cry four times during 56 Up (I'm still not sure how that is humanly possible). He checked in with me after the bombings a couple of weeks ago, making sure that not only was I ok but asking about my sister and brother-in-law, too. He can be a bit over-the-top, but he's sweet.  

These days I'm dating 95%, and am beginning to wonder how I'll think about him in a year's time or two. He's kind and thoughtful and would do anything to make me happy, but after three months of dating I still don't feel that I really know him. He's smart, interesting and a great match for me in many ways, but I'm just not as excited after three months as I probably should be. 

Meanwhile, Theradate contacted me a week and a half ago to ask me to get together. He had told me when we broke up that he wanted to stay in touch, so I was happy but unsurprised to hear from him. I didn't really have time to see him, but I said yes anyway. It turns out he didn't really have time to see me, either, and he ended up canceling, saying he'd rather get together when we both have the time to hang out, maybe spend a weekend afternoon together. I didn't feel disappointed when he canceled. 

Still, it got me to thinking about Theradate, and a few days later I found myself doing some Internet research about him. I found out that he seems to be recently single, which made me wonder if his contacting me was in fact just the friendly gesture I had initially interpreted it as. I decided to check in about when we'd be hanging out. This led to an increasingly frustrating series of texts that went along the following lines: 

TD: Heeeeey!! Love to see you. I'll be in Boston twice this week: on Tuesday for a business dinner and then again on Friday. 

Me: Cool! Maybe we can get a drink before your business dinner or after?

TD: Not sure. There's a slim chance my dinner could be over by 9 so maybe we could see each other then. If not, I miiiiiight be able to squeeze you in on Friday before my plans. I'll check in with my colleague about Friday. 

Me: Let's aim for one or the other. Which one seems more likely?

Then, feeling that this was becoming ridiculous:  Theradate, much as I'd love to see you, all these "maybes" are making it difficult to plan my week. Let's postpone until you have a time when you're sure you're able to hang out. 

TD: Totally understand, Heathen. We'll do that. Sorry for all the craziness -- my schedule should be more open in a couple of weeks. 

Me: Okay, it would be fun to hang out the weekend after next if you're around!

Then,, in a last-ditch attempt: Any chance you are free for a beer tomorrow?

TD: Would LOVE to see you but I'm heading to Boston in rush hour traffic and I have to be there right after I'm done with work!!! 

At that point, I growled at my phone and gave up. Maybe it'll happen someday; maybe it won't. In the meantime, I'm finding myself thinking about Theradate and feeling annoyed at myself for doing so and annoyed at him for reappearing and making me think about him all over again after MONTHS of not thinking about him, but seeming incapable of making plans that don't include a "maybe."

Whiskey and friends, or the breakup cure

Theradate wrote me a very sweet email last week to tell me that, while he likes me a lot, he met someone else before he met me and feels that he needs to stop dating other people in order to give things a shot with her.

After just four dates, this news was hardly heartbreaking. It required a 12-hour recovery period, not even requiring a full day of recuperation. Theradate is a lovely person, and I hope we remain friends, as he said he wants to. I had fun with him, but was also frequently taken aback by his eccentricity, and I'm not sure that I'm meant to be with someone who is *quite* such an extrovert (an extrovert, yes, but this was really extreme). But one does get tired of having things not work out, whether it's because the suitor in question turns out to be issue-y and alcoholic-y à la Leif Ericson or is dating someone else à la Theradate or just doesn't feel like the right match à la a million other guys I've gone out with.

(In some ways, the "I met someone just before I met you" reason is particulary frustrating. It's not that you're incompatible or he's not that into you; it's just the timing. There's an implication that, if the timing of the first meetings had been reversed, you could be the one getting top priority.)

So I was happy after receiving this news to run into my friend L'il JC at the gym, fresh from her own disappointment of meeting a guy who really liked her who, try as she might, she just couldn't force herself to like back. And then M. came and joined us, and we went and baked ourselves in the sauna and I told her my newest poop story from work (the number of poop stories I've amassed this year should probably be a blog post unto itself, and this latest one managed to outdo all prior ones). Then the three of us headed to M's house for burritos and whiskey, and when I thought about it it seemed amazing how many evenings we've spent at M's house drinking whiskey after things don't work out with someone -- whether it be a big breakup or a little disappointment, like this one. It's not planned, but it seems that that's where we wind up every time. And somehow it makes me feel better every single time.

Life > Fiction

Most of the time in my dating life, things are pretty ho-hum. Nothing much to write home about, or to even think about the next day. But every so often something happens that reminds me of how crazy and silly life is, and how I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Such an event happened last night. I headed down to Rhode Island after work, feeling woozy from a nasty cough and lack of sleep. Theradate was kind enough to tell me where to find his spare keys, so I let myself in and plunked myself down on the couch. I was too wiped to follow his directive to raid his fridge and snoop around; instead, I curled up with my New Yorker and read/dozed.

Even though I barely made it past the front door, I could see that Theradate's house is very nice. Very grown-up and light-filled and beautiful. But I wanted to wait for him to come home to see all the details. So, it wasn't until half an hour later or so that I got the full tour, including the second floor bedroom/balcony with spectacular windows. Near the bedroom is a funky little twisty passage shaped like a snail shell that you walk through to access the bathroom.

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then: "Sooooo... you don't have a bathroom door??!"

Theradate: "Nope! You just walk through there to get to the bathroom."

Those of you who have been reading my blog since my Leif Ericson fling last summer remember the trials and tribulations and many trips to Starbucks I had to take while dating him due to his lack of a bathroom door. Seriously, what are the chances that I date two men within six months that don't have bathroom doors?? Is this phenomenon more widespread than I realized? Or do I have an unhealthy penchant for men with boundary issues?

Thankfully, Theradate's downstairs bathroom has a nice, solid door with a lock on it. Such refreshingly normal, healthy boundaries.

Action in the bullpen

My friend complained to me this weekend that, while she learned a lot about my feelings toward the food at Oleana from my last blog post, she learned nothing about my feelings for Theradate. I'm a bit mystified by his eccentricity -- he's the most gregarious person I've ever dated, he threatened to wear a pink tutu to Oleana, and he told me that a day when he eats only three pints of ice cream is a light day for him -- but I also like him. So much so that I invited him to my 1/3 of a century birthday party last night (he couldn't come).

But I'm busy, and then he's busy, and then I'm busy, and then he's going away for five days, so I'm not going to see him again for two weeks. I'm notoriously bad at keeping action in my bullpen, but this lull between dates is a reminder that, even though Theradate texts me every day and sent me an essay he wrote (then asked for some of my writing in return even though I told him I don't write -- he sure called that bluff!) and added me as a friend on Facebook and it kinda feels like we know each other, we don't. So there's really no earthly reason why I should sit and twiddle my thumbs and send goofy texts to Theradate for the next two weeks when I've got eligible men waiting around for me to contact them on OkCupid.

So I'll be keeping busy, going on dates and volunteering for political candidates and obsessively checking the 538 blog, and before I know it Theradate will be back. And then maybe we'll go see a documentary about climate change, if he can handle it. (He gets very upset about climate change. But he thinks he might be able to handle it if I hold his hand and lie to him that everything will be okay.)

Eating well

When I told my sister that my Theradate was taking me to Oleana, she rapidly fired a series of questions at me:

"How did you get him to agree to take you there?!"

"Does he know how expensive it is?"

and lastly,

"Is he paying?"

Despite my sister's assumptions about my conniving personality, it was actually entirely his idea. And he turned down my repeated offers to help out with the bill.

I came away with a *very* full belly (the waitress actually warned us we had ordered too much food), as well as a number of mini take-away containers filled with deliciousness. It will be a strange moment tomorrow when I invite my two young friends who I have a lunch date with every Wednesday into my room with their school lunches consisting of hot dogs and baked beans, then whip out my leftovers. "I have mussels with deep-fried hot peppers," I'll say, and give them a small bite to taste, if they're adventurous enough. "Oh, and this? It's a small bird with crunchy bones, called a quail. It's accompanied by toasted pistachios and dried barberries."

Theradating

Though my friend Li'l JC has quite extensive experience in this arena, I had somehow never gone on a date with a therapist -- until last night. Despite hearing her stories, I was not totally prepared for the experience, and was surprised to find myself fielding questions like, "What's your mother's maiden name?" and "It sounds like you had a real connection with your first boyfriend. Would you ever think about trying to make things work with him again?" And in case it isn't obvious from the latter question, I spilled my whole. entire. life. story. on Date 1. What are we going to talk about on Date 2??

It's a little bit like going on a date with my mom, but with Tom Waits hair. (My mom's a therapist, too. And she likes to ask questions. Lots of questions.)