The Smell of Smart

Another gem from Philomena, who I think should really start a blog of her own...

She writes:

Dear Disastress,

Since you are happily (and incredibly luckily) off the market, I feel like it might be my destiny to continue the awkward dating experiences. I've already sent you my mathematician. Here is the accidental dating adventure I would like to title "The Smell of Smart."

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Since today is going to be quite taxing and I need to look my best for work, I decided to skip the gym last night, go home, do a small load of dark woollite laundry so I could wash my go-to black dress, and then get some sushi from my little local hole-in-the-wall place. So I went home, sorted out some dark clothes to wash together in the gentle cycle, put on my long-sleeved waffle-knit shirt with a sports bra, my slightly too big, but too comfortable to get rid of just yet knee-length jean bermuda shorts, and just braided my hair in pigtails. I threw my brown crocs on and slung my laundry bag over my shoulder and headed off to the laundromat that is a block more away, but is $0.50 cheaper a load. (We're in a recession, folks. I'll walk a little further if, on a big load laundry day, I can save $3.)

I got my laundry started, took a walk to peer in the window of the new wine bar that opened up just a few blocks west, went back and added my fabric softener. By this point, I just waited until my washer rinse and spin cycles were done so I put the clothes in the dryer on low and decided to go and grab some dinner. I had my book with me and about 30 minutes to kill.

NOTE: Please note that NOWHERE in the story so far am I looking for a date or even trying to talk to other people around me. Dating in New York City can kind of suck and I'm starting to give up on the idea of meeting a mysterious stranger when I'm out. And, there is a chance I have a date on Friday. Seriously, I just needed to clean my black dress and get some nourishment.

I went into Tokyo Sushi and my favorite little guy was working and he said "Order to go?" because normally I just pick-up dinner and head home. I said no, I'll stay this evening and he put me at a little table by myself.

As you probably know, I can be a bit of a creature of habit. When I order from Tokyo, I always order the Vegetable Tempura Roll, either a salmon or tuna roll, and occasionally if I'm especially hungry the Avocado Mint Maki with Plum Sauce. For some reason last night, my little guy brought over the menu and I was really trying to decide what I wanted and was TRYING to branch out. There was a man sitting at the sushi counter who was just paying so he walks by and sees that I am trying very hard to decide and he says "It's all delicious!" I looked up and said "pardon" and he repeated "It's all delicious!" I laughed nervously and hoped he would continue on his way. NO SUCH LUCK. He proceeds to say "Hi, I'm Mario. Can I sit down?"

I am so stunned that I just say sure and Mario sits down and orders himself a beer, eats my complimentary edamame, and proceeds to talk to me. Mario was born in the US, but grew up in Croatia. I am so confused that all of this is going on I am just sitting there in disbelief. Mario asks why I am making this face and I said "It isn't everyday a stranger asks to join my table." He then says "So, where is your boyfriend tonight?" (Ugh. Really?) I say I don't have a boyfriend (true) because I work long hours and it is hard to meet people in the city (true). He says:

"I can't believe it! I mean you're cute and you're confident and I was walking by and you just, you just smelled smart."

(WHAT?)

Mario the Croatian continues to make small talk and I continue to try and deflect questions about where I live or where exactly I work by making gross generalizations. I finish my sushi and Mario requests the check. My little sushi guy says "one check or two?" to which I say two and Mario says "ONE!" He insists on paying for my dinner (all in all, about $12) and says "So you're coming to the Beer Garden now, right?" I said, "No. Actually, I have to go and get my laundry. I just stopped in to have a quick bite while my clothes are drying and I was going to read." (Motion to the book.)
"Well, can I walk you to the Laundromat?"
"Um, no. But I will walk you to the Beer Garden."

So I walk Mario the Croatian to the Beer Garden. He gives me his number and says I should call him. (He does not get my number, real or fake. YES!) I walked to the laundromat, got my laundry out of the dryer, and walked a mile around my neighborhood with my laundry bag on my shoulder before going home, just in case I was being followed.

I smell smart and get free sushi.

The End.

The Musician and the Mathematician [new guest post!]

An NYC-dwelling friend of mine -- let's call her Philomena -- recently filled me in on the ups and downs of the singles scene in the big city. Here's a story worthy of a DD post, to be sure.

I am smart. I am funny. But I am not the girl that normally grabs every man's attention in a bar. I kind of like it that way because I can sit there, enjoy my beverage with friends, and blend in just enough as to not get bothered by every meat head in a pub. I also can strike up pleasant conversations. These conversations go along nicely and then it comes up that I work (and enjoy working in and listening to) classical music and that can be a conversation killer. Either the guy assumes that that makes me boring and works himself out of the conversation or he thinks it is great and then says that he "used to play the trombone in middle school and wishes he stuck with it" or that he "loves listening to classical music when he relaxes/reads/studies" and when asked what he listens to it is something that I (admittedly on my high horse) judges as a cop-out way of impressing me with fake classical music knowledge. (Who really listens to "The Nutcracker" or the "Moonlight Sonata" all the time? Give me something off beat like "Jenufa." Or, if you're going to say Tchaikovsky, give me Pathétique. If you are going to say Beethoven, give me Fidelio or Waldstein.) I fully admit I'm a judger.

By now in my life, I have been in enough pubs that I can kind of assess situations like when I or one of my friends is being checked out by a sketchy person, when to intervene... etc. You know, the usual. So one evening, a group of girl friends of mine went out to one of our favorite little no-frills bars to catch up since we hadn't seen each other in a month or so. At some point, I realized that I was being shadowed by a kind of nerdy, sketchy guy and I just was not in the mood to mingle. I was out with friends and enjoying their company, so I went into avoidance mode. Somewhere along the way, I lost track of where my shadow was and turned around only to come face to face with him.

Now, in this split second, I thought, "I need to shut this down." I came up with a plan, thinking that I could just lay out what is usually one of the deal breakers (boring classical music) and point blank said "Listen, I'm really boring. I work in classical music." I was so proud of my quick thinking for a hot second until my plan backfired.

Without hesitation he said, "I'm a mathematician."

(Touché. Far more boring than I will ever be.)

And I was stuck talking about fractals for the rest of the evening.

Disaster.

The Chinese Dumplings Episode, illuminated.

Recent comments on the four Disastrous Dates that occurred prior to this blog's existence have necessitated a more thorough explanation of the escape strategy from my awful date with Chinese Dumplings Guy. My vague allusions to my friends on a camping trip were apparently not entertaining enough -- but then again, I have to save these juicy details for additional posts, as my life, romantic and otherwise, is often not as exciting as this blog would suggest. At any rate, this story is a perfect example of how chastity isn't the only moral quandary of a Jesus-Freak-on-a-date.

After I had decided that Mr. Dumplings had copped his last feel for the evening, I took advantage of his trip to the bathroom (the purpose of which I certainly don't want to imagine) to call my best friend who was also my roommate at the time. I needed an immediate escape plan -- one that I had forfeited hours earlier when she made the planned "just in case" phone call, and I quickly assured her that all was fine, since no Funny Business had yet started at that point in the evening. I kept her on the phone when Dumplings emerged from the bathroom, in a perfect "Oh no, emergency!" pose, from which I informed him that she had broken her leg after falling over a log in the woods in a drunken revelry, and I needed to leave right away.

Understandably, he seemed to think I was pulling his leg [pun intended]. But instead of gracefully accepting defeat, he proceeded to argue against the merits of accompanying my best friend and roommate to the hospital after a major limb fracture. "She has people there with her; why do you need to go?" He even attempted to direct me suggestively to his bedroom. His obtuseness erased the shame I felt in lying to him. Of course I'm making all of this up, I thought, but who is he to assume that? He doesn't know me at all. How dare he suggest that I leave my friend to the assistance of others (who are, of course, most likely drunk themselves) while I'm not-enjoying myself elsewhere? And even if he knows this is all a scam, can't he just take a HINT?

The next day, when I was home safe and sound, Dumplings called me to inquire after my friend's leg. I unwisely said that she was fine, at home and resting; he immediately spotted my gaffe and asked why she was not in a hospital in traction. Sighing with exhaustion at the tale I was still spinning, I said that she had only suffered a stress fracture, as she was an avid runner. (In all respect and love to her, none of that could be further from the truth.)

Yet Dumplings would not be discouraged. He simply asked whether my friend had a boyfriend to take care of her.