I've learned...

….that declarations of love and adoration are only good when you WANT to hear them.

In matters of dating I’m a cynic. I’ll openly admit that. What I won’t openly admit is that I’m also a closet romantic. My favorite movie of all time is “When Harry Met Sally”. I love the witty banter. I love that the two main characters start their relationship completely annoyed with each other. I love that Sally’s friends are constantly pining for love…and that secretly she is too. I love the cinematography of NYC in the fall. But most of all, I love that they actually get together in the end. I doubt that movie would have been nearly as good if they had both gone their separate ways but still been “friendly”.  If she had gone back to President Ford’s son or if Harry had continued to sleep his way through all the single women on the Upper East Side it would not have made it on my “Best” list.

Secretly pining for love is clearly NOT the subject of Disney/Pixar’s new movie “Brave”. I saw it recently because I’d been told it was the best one yet. I loved the premise of the story…”young princess is faced with finding her true self when her parents try to marry her off for the good of the kingdom.”

I like stories about self-reflection. I also like stories about princesses. But I really like movies with British/Scottish/Irish accents. So I was excited about seeing this movie. I’m not gonna lie. I left the movie feeling a little gypped. Why? The story was good. The animation was state of the art. The music was catchy. I left that movie unsatisfied because there wasn’t a “prince”. She didn’t wind up in the end with anyone. Sadly, the closet romantic in me craves the girl-gets-boy happy ending and this film just didn’t deliver.

***Snip**Snip**Snip** - that my friends is the sound of Susan B. Anthony, Margaret Sanger, and Gloria Steinem furiously cutting up my Feminist Club Card.

Where I’m going with this long movie intro is here:  I’ve had raunchy luck with men and yet I still hold on to that faint (and somewhat tarnished) hope that true love is out there and all good people are entitled to finding it at least once.

Don’t get me wrong…I love men. I have two younger brothers that crack me up, drive me crazy, and inspire me all at the same time. They “get” me. I also have a wonderful father who I’m sure keeps thinking…”someday Sissy-pie will find a nice guy who will spray her house for bugs and trim all her trees so I can stop doing it.” I appreciate men.

So why it is so challenging for me to find a sane one to date is beyond me, but I keep trying. The hopeless romantic in me keeps plugging away at it. I go on blind dates. I go on double dates. I try online dating. I’ve even let my mother set me up for crying out loud. But to no avail.

The latest debacle was promising at first. We were mutually paired on an online dating service. We exchanged emails and texts then a few phone calls. We moved on to meeting for drinks. I feel like meeting for drinks is pretty non-committal and nearly fool proof. I mean, if things aren’t going well at least you didn’t waste much time and you got a drink or two out of the deal.

We decided to meet in Stillwater because I was there on a Saturday for sorority business and he was going to be there for a friend’s engagement party. My first red flag should have been when he told me who the friend was and I immediately thought to myself…”Ew! That guy’s a douchebag!”  The second, and more glaring, red flag should have been when he unjokingly asked me to come with him to the party because he didn’t want to go by himself without a date.

We met for drinks at this cute little wine bar. By the time I got there at 8pm he was already (clearly) several Jack & Cokes into his evening. The guy, who we’ll refer to from this point forward as Short Stop because he played HS baseball, was not unattractive. He was a nice size for a man his age (43) and seemed to keep in good shape without looking like one of those gym-rat-idiots who compulsively flex their biceps. I sat down and ordered a glass of wine. He ordered another J&C (I’m guessing #4). We do the preliminary chit chat. I asked about his family, school, etc. He nervously played with his swizzle sticks. I continued to ask questions. He never once asked about me. His collection of swizzle sticks continued to amass so I ordered another glass of wine.

We are now a little over an hour into drinks. And let me clarify that I don’t consider that a “date” because there was no food and he didn’t officially “ask” me out. I have literally only known of this man for a couple of weeks. I’ve actually known him less than it takes my dishwasher to do a load of dishes. So you can imagine my surprise when he clumsily grabbed my hand and said enthusiastically…”I have a really good feeling about you. I really hope you’re my last first date.”

Now the sound he would have heard, had he been remotely sober and not 4 sheets to the wind, would have been the same sound anyone in earshot of our conversation heard….that of screaming tires plus the rancid smell of burnt rubber as I metaphorically sped away.

About that time I started plotting my exit strategy. I hit the ladies room for a breather and an emergency gal-to-gal talk with myself in the mirror. I needed to work out whether Short Stop was just being very sweet and open and I was being a cynical bitch OR (and this was far more likely) he was sugarplum-fairy-CRAZY and I was simply reacting like any sane woman would. I deduced that I was indeed NOT the crazy one and strolled out to announce that it was time for me to leave.

As I approached the bar I noticed that he was building something, Lincoln Log style, out of his swizzle sticks. The fact that he had enough swizzle sticks (and thus enough J&C in him) to actually construct a structure was beyond unattractive.

“Wha-cha building there?” I asked like an idiot.

“Oh…just our house,” he awkwardly laughed. “So where do you see yourself living in 5 years?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said I. “Probably in the same house I’m in now." My subtle attempt at informing him that we would most certainly NOT be setting up house together in the next five years seemed to fall on deaf/drunken ears so I plodded on.  "So! Are you ready to go? I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to teach Sunday School,” I lied. Side note – I vow to start teaching Sunday school soon so the Lord doesn’t strike me down for using that as my get-out-of-a-date-early card.

Short Stop stumbled me to my car. I asked him if he was okay to drive home. He assured me he was as I leaned in for the sideways “nice-to-meet-you” hug. He clearly misinterpreted my side hug as a sign of affection and decided to plant a big kiss on me. And here’s where this became a debacle.

Short Stop wasn’t a half bad kisser. In fact, he was pretty good. Good enough to elicit a skeptical 2^nd date.

More on the 2^nd date later, but for now I’ll leave you with the wisdom gained from this encounter: Had we been dating for several weeks and I’d had the opportunity to get to know him when he wasn’t drunkenly building houses with his swizzle sticks his “I hope you’re my last first date” declaration might have seemed sweet and maybe even endearing. However, on a first meeting it just seemed creepy and not just a little desperate.

I've learned....

…that you should never take credit for someone else’s victory.

I love the History Channel. Not the crap they have on there though with rednecks fishing for alligators or “noodling” for turtles. I have no interest in that business. However, give me a weekend of Revolutionary War documentaries or anything involving WWII strategies and I’m in nerd heaven.

Last week was the 4^th of July. While most people spent Wednesday morning icing down their beer or getting the homemade ice cream started, I spent the morning curled up on my couch with my coffee watching the first of 12 hours of Revolutionary War documentaries. I didn’t get to see all 12 hours…but to my nerdy relief…found that you can download it from Netflix.

Most of the episodes focused on General George Washington and many of his ill-fated early battles. They went into gory detail about how under-funded our rebel army was and how completely over our heads we were when it came to duking it out with the greatest military presence of the time. Much of what they highlighted was either stuff I never learned about in school or had just simply forgotten.

However, out of the many generals they talked about that I didn’t remember at all…one name came up that EVERYONE knows…Benedict Arnold. This man’s name has been vilified and added to the list of those found in very specific realms of hell along with Judas, Hitler, Nero, etc. Does the guy deserve to be a part of that infamous list? By the history books he was one of the most notorious traitors in our country’s history. What many of the history books leave out is that he was also a highly decorated general in the continental army. He was instrumental in securing the fort at Ticonderoga, he went into debt by donating so much of his own money to “the cause”, and had it not been for his daring leadership the battle of Saratoga would have gone a different direction.

Sadly, throughout his military career Benedict Arnold had been consistently “passed over” for promotions by congress in favor of more politically essential war heroes. At the battle of Saratoga, General Gates not only wussed out and nearly cost us the battle, but later went on to take credit for Arnold’s wise move and ultimate success on the battlefield.

Watching that made me ponder…”Would I have reacted in the same way if my loyalty had been brought into question and the credit for my success been taken by someone else?” In my professional career I have always made an effort to acknowledge the successes of others. I pride myself on being a team player and putting the success of the team above my own personal success. Has it hurt me? Of course! I’ve been stabbed repeatedly in the back by people I thought were friends or at least team-mates. I think as a woman it’s difficult to feel entitled to “toot out own horns”. We’re raised to be demure and unassuming. Boys, on the other hand are raised to relish in their success and tout it…without being a braggart of course.

My point here is this; I’ve learned to never take credit for something I didn’t do or for someone else’s success. By taking someone else’s well deserved, and hard earned, credit you cannot know just how quickly you’ll turn a great patriot into a hated traitor…just ask Benedict Arnold.