After an intoxicating first date, Bocher #1 texts me the next morning inviting me on another. I try to recount whether my kisses were of my own volition or on account of dear Mr. Absolute.
Yes, the conversation [that I remember] was interesting, maybe the kiss was good, but who knows. I bury my head in my fluffy pillows and ponder over the possibilities of another encounter. Was he drunk? Check, Was I drunk? Check, check, check…Does this deem date number two?
I write back saying, 'A second date, guess that’s a Jdate first for you? That would be nice. Talk to you soon.'
He writes back, “Well, I wasn’t the one making drunk booty calls, all evening.”
I check my outgoing call list, and text messages. Oy, vay! If he’s willing to forgive this, he definitely deserves date number two.
We chat, via text, the rest of week and I ask him if he would like to accompany me to the National Book Festival on the Mall that upcoming Saturday. Prior to our first disaster, hmm I mean date, our emails consisted of much talk regarding our favorite nonfiction writers, his Sedaris, mine Sedaris. With this in mind, I relished the idea of a date outside among other lamden (scholars). He calls Friday evening and we map out the writers we would like to hear. First on my list is Ralph W. Eubanks, a former professor and one of the current readers of my thesis. I was greatly looking forward to catching up and hearing him read from his new memoir. Next up, is the author, Azar Nafisi, whose book, Reading Lolita in Tehran; A Memoir in Books, greatly intrigued me. He agrees to see them and we decide that further decisions should be made that following day.
Saturday morning I awake early and make my way to the gym. My workout is rushed because of our 1:30 pm meeting time. This does not a happy Dorie make, but I brush it off, and afterwards, text him asking for his address. A few minutes pass and my phone suddenly vibrates, not once, not twice, but three times. I open it, and read the many messages he has now text me back. Basically, they read this:
'Oh my gosh, so sorry, but I have a work emergency. I feel horrible, but I messed something up Friday that is on deadline, so I have to fix it today. I don’t think I can do anything until later in the day. I’ll be ready anytime after 5:30, and then we can do whatever you like. Dinner, or, a movie, or both. Whichever. I’m really, really sorry!'
I text back:
'Yeah, no big deal. Just text me when are available.'
I’ve learned from past experiences that men do not like women who constantly K’vetch. (complain) I am Jewish, it’s kind of my M.O., kind of a part of who I am, but I outwardly suppress this part of me, because he could be telling the truth. He could be busy wiht work. He could be a N.J.B. Or, he could simply be a shtik drek (shit-head). Whatever the case, inside, I’m pretty perturbed. I would like to text him back, ‘Kish mir en toches’ (Kiss my ass) But I do not, because I am a southern lady, who finds mindless cursing rude. Yes it’s raining, and we might not have been able to attend the events, but had I know this, I wouldn’t have woken up early on my day to sleep in, nor would I have rushed my work out. Yes, technically, it’s only 1:30 pm and my day is not ruined, but I don’t really care about technicalities. My day is ruined. My plans, squashed and Bocher #2 has a lot to make up for.
As the hours pass, I spend them being productive; writing, reading, mopping. He text me saying he will be showered and ready anytime after 6:30. I write him back, saying I’m having a bad day, and not sure I still want to go out. Yes, it’s lame. Yes, I’m lame, but the dreariness outside my window has made its way inside my psyche and I’ve become depressed Dorie. No fun. He texts back, basically begging, saying he has been looking forward to the date, etc, etc…. lots of rubbish. I decide to give this man who has now cancelled on me twice, a third chance, and so I meet him around 6:30.
By this time, the dreariness has turned to rain drops, and the rain drops have become a down poor. I arrive close to on time, and he announces that he is not staying in his condo at the moment; instead, his temporary residence is at the Washington Marriot, just a few blocks up the street.
He then explains that he recently found out that his mother’s dog, which he had been keeping while she was incognito/ out of town, had been treated for fleas. Therefore, he was having his place fumigated, or the carpets clean, whichever it was, it was still slightly teetering on meshugeh. (crazy)
He asks if I’m okay to walk, and yet again not wanting to k’vetch, I say, ‘sure!’ So, it’s raining, and although he does have an adequately sized umbrella, we are both still getting drenched. My perfectly straightened hair comes under stress and I fear it is frizzing. Finally, we arrive at the luxurious Marriot, where he checks in and we decide to see a movie in Georgetown and then get dinner. After noticing me shivering, he promises no more walking. I thank him profusely and tie back my now crimped hair. We arrive at the AMC Loews Georgetown and decide on The Informant!. After the movie attendant rings up the pricey total of $21, Bocher #1 searches frantically in his wallet for his credit/ debit card. It is nowhere to be found. He has no cash. He looks at me, I at him, and say, ‘It must be back at the hotel. Do you need me to pay?’ To which he replies, ‘I have no idea where I left it. That would be great. I’ll pay you back.’ Since the movie isn’t until 7:45 and it’s only 7, he insists we return to the hotel to find it. He, ‘feels horrible.’
So, we make our way back to the hotel, where he has left it in the restroom of his suite, and then to the ATM in order for him to pay me back. He hands me $25 dollars. Suddenly, I feel like a nafkeh(prostitute).
Eventually, we sit down in the packed theatre, in horrible seats, and chat before the movie begins. He tells met his dog story. I tease him about cancelling on me yet again. Lighthearted fun. During the movie, he sits somewhat slouched, never tries to grab my hand, or make a move. He is a complete gentleman, and as I rest my hand on the thigh closest to him I wonder why. Do I want him to?
The movie, which I would highly recommend, ends and we settle on grabbing a bite to eat back at the restaurant of the Marriot. At dinner, we both order a salad. We both continuously have to get up to pee, We both laugh. We both smile. It’s kind of disgusting. Our discussion delves on our similar taste in writers, our family, our future goals. He pays and we make our way to my car where I kiss him on the cheek, and he leans in for a hug. Awkard, but cute, kind of like him. On the drive home, in a sober state of mind I decide I just might like him, and after texting him that I’ve made it home, he texts me back and asks when he can take me out again. To which I reply, ‘ Date # 3 would be nice. Talk to you soon.’