Calculus & Commas

I met the man with the hat on Tinder, because of course I did. The following wouldn’t make sense otherwise. He wasn’t a man of many words, but the little we exchanged over text told me he was well educated and a somewhat well adjustment member of society. He is, in fact, a father of a 3 year old and an 11 year old.

After some meaningless banter, he told me that he prefers one on one conversations to text messages. I somewhat agree and decided to give him a chance in a very public location, because after all, Tinder date.

We went to Yard House on a Friday night, so the premise of this date was rather innocent. I got there first and had to wait a bit, preparing myself for what would end up being one of the weirdest and worst dates ever in the history of all dates. Once I saw the stupid hat, I knew it was him. He wore the same hat in every picture, clearly the result of a super glue incident, and therefore HAD to wear it on our date. Obviously he couldn’t take it off. I  never did expect to see his hair or lack thereof. I also didn’t get to uncover the mystery behind his scalp.

He was right. He was much more talkative in person than over text. What a relief! He had no problem starting conversation, but strangely, (or not so strangely actually), they were all about him. He told me about his job (which I still don’t get – he’s some sort of IT Super Lord with access to everything on the planet), his kids, his ex wife the stripper (who happened to be with the 3 year old that night), the list went on. He had little interest in learning anything about me, a trait all too common in the men I’ve met.

Then came the mansion. THE mansion. The man with the hat insisted on telling me all about his house, which is a weird thing to do, but I went with it. This mansion he spoke of had only the best sound system, surround sound of course, the best appliances (who even brags about that?), and the very elegant hot tub. From his narrative, I gathered that the surround sound was through out the house, controlled by his mind and his mind only, and obviously progressed to provide music outdoors to the hot tub area. Not only did this beautiful palace feature a hot tub, but it also had a jacuzzi. This moron either had no idea that a jacuzzi is a brand of hot tub or thought I would be too stupid to catch on. He continued talking about the hot tub and jacuzzi, separately, of course, seemingly trying to convince me to visit the palace in which they rested. Although this was a strange date, I was starting to get really curious about the Mansion on Flagler. Surround sound throughout the house, a jacuzzi AND a hot tub, and a man with a hat to go with it! Did I just meet Mr. Right? Hardly. The answer to that is hardly.

Against my better judgement, I decided to go see this grandiose specimen of real estate heaven. On Flagler. For those of you unfamiliar with the Miami real estate landscape, Flagler is a modest area which certainly does not house mansions to the luxury and grandiosity he described.

Sure enough, it was a small house, nothing out of the ordinary and very much not a mansion, judging only by its size. (Yes, size does matter.) We went in the house through the back door, presumably so I could confirm the existence of the hot tub and drop my panties at its sight. I didn’t. (The jacuzzi was obviously no where to be found. Probably because there was never a jacuzzi, and it was always just one hot tub the whole time.) The supposed luxurious hot tub was nothing more than an above ground box with water jets he either got at a garage sale or one of those discount warehouses. It was covered in blue tarp because it was unstrategically placed under a tree in the tiny unkempt back yard. What in the fuck is luxurious about this? I’m not one to demand luxury, but if you speak so highly of your alleged mansion, I expect to see something worthy of the description. This was most certainly not.

We went inside and I immediately spotted the “surround sound,” which was nothing more than portable speakers on a TV dinner tray table. This guy obviously had his concepts of things all sorts of wrong. Again, I’m not one to demand luxury, so I settled for the speakers on the tray table. Whatevs. He hooked up his phone and played, you guessed it, weird ass music. Oh well. I was already there. My complacency began to set in.

He was really proud of his house, which was actually a really nice little house. Everything was very modern and sleek, but kind of looked like he hadn’t quite moved in yet. There wasn’t much on the walls, no table to eat on, the TV wasn’t hooked up yet, etc. He opened the fridge and pantry and pointed out that he leaves his daughter’s food on the bottom because “she’s very independent and feeds herself.” She’s 3. That’s not called independence. It’s called neglect. This was really the turning point of my opinion of him. It went from apathy to amusement, to utter concern.

The master bedroom featured a bed and a closet with no doors. Nothing else. No dresser, no night stands, no desk. On the wall there were two little pictures – one of the Eiffel Tower and one of a random little street. He points to them and tells me how much he loves New York. I mean at this point, nothing shocked me. This guy was obviously a fucking quack.

We continued the grand tour, and the next stop was his kids’ bedroom. He has full custody of the independent (and neglected) toddler and sees his 11 year old tween once every other weekend. The room had bunk beds with a full sized bed with princess sheets on the bottom and a twin size on top with a piece of cardboard for a mattress. No sheets. No pillows. Just the cardboard. Obviously he doesn’t care for the tween and neglects her as well. He never mentioned anything else about her and judging by his parenting skills otherwise, I guess these biweekly visits are court supervised. Hopefully.

This ended the grand tour, and we went to the unwelcoming living room. At this point, I was more than a little weirded out and eager to leave. We made small talk on the couch, when his phone began to ring through the speakers. It was well past midnight, so I suggested he answer it. As a father, I would assume he would be immediately urged answer. Nope. He let it ring. Eight times the phone rang, and eight times he ignored it. Not my problem, but at the very least, please answer to make the calls stop. About 5 minutes after the last call, I heard what sounded like someone coming in through the back door. Since the music was strange anyway, I thought it might just have been a sound effects track. I know the toddler is independent, but she couldn’t have just gotten home in an Uber from a play date. He nervously got up, and walked towards the back door, but somehow didn’t seem too concerned about an intruder in his home. Confirming my fear, there was a full grown adult who had just entered the home. That’s when I knew I needed to get the FUCK out of there. My purse and keys were in the kitchen, closer to him and the guest, so I needed to be stealth. If it wasn’t because I needed them, he would have kept them as a souvenir. Not knowing who this mystery woman (I heard her voice) was and whether or not she was dangerous (any person who shows up unexpectedly at someone’s house through a back door past midnight is suspect), I made my best attempt to get my things and bolt to the front door, which was locked, and had a locked gate right outside it. I frantically unlocked both and continued on the covered porch, which was locked with a gate as well. Fuck. Can he hear me escaping passed the dungeon locks? Did this place have a fucking moat too? What the fuck, guy. I made it past the porch to be met with the last of the gates, which would free me into the street where my car was. I nervously opened it, not even looking back in case the Flagler Millionaire or the uninvited houseguest were coming for me. Right as I got passed the gate, I see by my feet a pair of pink fuzzy slippers, connected to a pair of legs, connected to a full grown woman, wearing the hat. This perpetrator had also scurried out the back and met me in the front yard. She too was escaping, and greeted me with an embarrassed “hello.” I awkwardly looked up just quickly enough to catch a glimpse, but I was in too much horror to remember anything other than the slippers and of course, the hat. I had no time to make anything of the exchange, got in my car, and got the FUCK out of there. I shook myself off while driving away, as if I could literally just shake the memory off and pretend it never happened. Just as I was coming down from my shock and about half way home, I got a text from the Flagler Millionaire, explaining the evening’s abrupt end. “Sorry that was my ex. She’s crazy.” Yup. SHE’S the crazy one here. Not you. Not. At. All.

Did they have matching hats?

I had high hopes for this one. I really did.

Well spoken, witty, and smart, he seemed very promising. Conversations flowed so easily and effortlessly, and it seemed our dark, off beat senses of humor were made for one another. It was too good to be true.

During one of our dates, I went to his tiny and adorable apartment for wine and cheese. Could this be any cuter? Looking around, I could tell that he took pride in the way his home looks – a rare find in most men (screw it, people) I’ve met. There was a place for everything and everything in its place. I found out that the kitchen table was the place for the post-it bouquet.

Allow me to explain. In the pristine apartment, there, sitting on the kitchen table, was an empty glass vase. Within the inside rim of the vase there was a yellow post-it with the stick figure equivalent of a bouquet of daisies. I inquired, and immediately regretted it. He had apparently forgotten to purchase fresh flowers, but he “arranged a bouquet anyway.” He was serious. Dead serious. Drawing two and a half flowers a 4 year old can draw does not a flower arrangement make. You will see no bride walking down the aisle to meet her groom holding a post-it with a scribble of a lovely combination of roses and hydrangeas. Maybe because it’s weird, but really because they’re not actually flowers. Moving on.

His refrigerator was petite and sized for people of the 11th century. It was covered in pictures, magnets, notes, postcards, but interestingly, no post-its. As he was preparing our intricate meal of 3 delectable cheeses (1 smelly, 2 not smelly), toasted French baguette, cornichons, and red wine, I took my time in examining the artful canvas that was the tiny fridge. He noticed and wanted to provide some insight as to some of the items I was looking at. There was a picture of Patrick. He’s in Hawaii with his boyfriend studying marine biology. Then there was Gloria. Gloria’s the BEST! Her dad is a crazy drunk, but you know, he’s a Frenchie, so, it’s ok. Then there was Anthony and Michael. And Sophia, Raul, Charlie, and Dan. Sophia and Raul have been together for the longest – it’s adorable that they won’t just get married already! The list went on and on, and I’m pretty sure that at one point he was convinced, that I, too, knew these people, and he was just trying to jog my memory to help me recognize these people. I have no idea, and still don’t, who any of those people are.

We went outside for dinner and sat in the quaint little patio. Maybe it was the humidity, but he all of a sudden had zero interest in anything I had to say. That little patio became his stage for all things weird. And oh boy, did he put on quite the performance. The conversation was centered around him, and his life, and his likes and dislikes. My opinions were just fillers in the conversation, and he seemed annoyed to have to endure them before he could introduce his next self-centered comment. One of his likes, I learned, was plants. After a short description of each plant as if they were beauty pageant contestants, he insisted that I guess how long he’s had each one. I felt like I was on the price is right, except with no exciting audience, no new car to win, and with absolutely zero interest whatever horseshit was going on. He wouldn’t take “I don’t know” for an answer. I couldn’t care less how long that damn bromeliad had been in his possession, or how much the fern has grown since he first acquired it 6 years ago from his elderly neighbor who passed. Was this guy serious? Is this exercise seriously more engaging and entertaining than anything else I could possibly have to say? Wow.

During some portion of the conversation, I was rudely and quite abruptly interrupted by him exclaiming, almost in surprise, “I wonder what Anthony’s making for family dinner!” It was as if the thought came to him, and it was his civic duty to spit it out immediately. First of all, who is Anthony? What is “family dinner,” (since your family doesn’t even live here)? And more importantly, at least to me, I was talking. This guy had absolute no notion of well established norms of social interaction. Or maybe he did, and he just big fat didn’t care. Anyway, if you remember, Anthony was featured on the tiny fridge, so that comment should certainly not have come as a surprise to me. I really should have known better. Was this the plant game revamped, and I had to guess what Anthony would cook? Is this his way of inviting me to “family dinner”? Nope. Neither. I think he really did just wonder what Anthony would be making, and that moment, that very moment when I was speaking, was the moment he needed to ponder that – out loud. Again, wow.

We went inside, and after I politely offered to help with dishes, he insisted I take a seat on the couch. Next to the cat. I’m painfully allergic to cats. He joined me on the couch, and no matter how many times he shooed the damn cat away, it always returned to sit right next to me. Maybe it was trying to tell me something. “Leave before he makes you guess my name. Leave now. No one ever wins this game.” I was growing more and more uncomfortable because cat dander allergies are never a sexy sight. Thanks to his quick wit, though, he had a plan! He brought out a hypoallergenic pillow. I was as confused as you might be reading this, so I will give you the same lesson in pet dander I received that night. This is mind blowing, so prepare yourself. If you place a pillow of hypoallergenic properties between yourself and the allergen (in this case – cat), you will no longer experience the allergic reaction. I’m not sure that he realized that I was allergic to CAT, and if you put CAT on pillow, albeit hypoallergenic, I’m still allergic to CAT. What is happening?

At this point, I was just so amused, that nothing could deter me – or so I thought. We talked on the couch for a while listening to what I can only imagine is the Western cultures’ equivalent to elevator music. He implied we should have sex, and his selling point to get me to concede was that he had a “Cambodian condom made from wheat husk.” Prevention of pregnancy and STIs is not exactly the time when you want to be all about foreign economies and saving the earth with “green” practices. Maybe it’s just me, but I prefer good ol’ condoms from ‘Merica. He proceeded to get said condom, and looked as a proud as a 5 year old at his first show and tell in kindergarten. Standing in front of some obscure drawer, he then told me everything that was in it until he reached the condom. “This here is my passport. Here are my nail clippers. This is a receipt from CVS.” I stopped him right there and told him that I really had no interest in the condom, or sex for that matter. He was almost offended that I would be so simpleminded in my selection of birth control and even more so a sexual partner. And with that, I politely excused myself. As soon as the door closed behind me, I made a bee line for my car like never before.

The cat’s name is Flea. I won.

Oh where to begin. To call #thatman a “man” is an illusion, at best, as he has been possibly the most deranged person I’ve met yet.

After an ordinary interaction via dating website and text messages, I met #thatman at the mall for a date. It was still happy hour time on a Friday night, so we went to the Cheesecake Factory to pretend to share an Oreo cheesecake. Conversation went rather smoothly, but against my better judgement, I failed to pick up on the red flags waving in my face. The first of these came as a total surprise, when he shared that he had pooped in a sink. I will repeat that in case it wasn’t clear. He defecated in a sink. He wasn’t drunk, on drugs, or on any other mind altering substance. It wasn’t a dare. There wasn’t someone using the toilet AND shower. It was really just done with full malicious intent. Apparently, he wasn’t pleased with his apartment building, so when he was informed he wouldn’t be receiving his security deposit since he was breaking a lease, he decided to exact his revenge. He took a knife to the carpets and curtains, and proceeded to poop in the bathroom sink. I actually don’t know if it was the bathroom sink he pooped in, but I will assume he has a line and that line was drawn at “pooping in a kitchen sink.”

I will assume that whoever is reading this will put all (or most) judgement aside, since I am in fact providing wildly entertaining recounts of dates with men who no one else should ever go out with. That being said, I will confess to traveling to #thatman’s apartment (obviously not the one with the turd in the sink) shortly after our first meeting. Conversation got somewhat personal and sexual in nature, and he proceeded to share his wildest sexual fantasies. It’s not my style to share so so much, but I was just a listener in this case, so I took no issue. Amidst several odd wishes, he asked if I would ever want to pee on his face. Pee. PEE. On his face. PEE. ON. HIS. FACE. Let that sink in. (See what I did there?)

I’m an engineer. I question. I plan. I prepare. My initial shock was immediately overtaken by a sense of bewilderment. How would this even happen? Obviously it’s a sexual fantasy, so mid-intercourse? Maybe foreplay? Do people do this? Has he done it before? How? HOW does this happen? Is it in the shower for easy cleaning? Is there a peepee pad involved? Newspapers? Is lifting my leg like a dog part of the fantasy? Who cleans up? How can I ensure that my urine will actually make it to his face? I was ever so confused by this vision. I coyly shrugged my shoulders and let him believe that I might just be that dream girl he was looking for who would enjoy this semi public display of urination for sexual enjoyment.

After several weeks of entertaining the idea of #thatman, I think he realized that I wouldn’t actually pee on his face. Aside from his delusion that it was ok to be so forthcoming upon initial encounters, this man was truly, truly sick. I never knew with him what would set him off – he was like a Jack in the Box where every single little “ding!” scared the bejesus out of you, because that just might be the one where crazy comes out to play! Elaborate and inconsistent lies, mixed messages, and the archangels. Oh boy, the archangels!

I’m all for embracing religious beliefs, but this weirdo took it to the next level when he told me I couldn’t partake in his “archangel ritual” because I’m a “nonbeliever.” Except we were both of the same religion. Apparently he had some superior and exclusive knowledge of the Roman Catholic faith of which he was convinced I was to take no part in. You know what? I didn’t want to light candles and blow smoke in the faces of your strategically placed angel statues anyway! So there! (For the record, I’m not poking fun at any religion or religious belief. He was rude about it, and that’s what I had a problem with.)

His frustrations with me grew and grew, and eventually he dumped me on account of my “bad attitude.” He might have interpreted my questioning him after he showed me an entire drawer stocked with contraband medications as “bad attitude.” Or maybe it was when I said I didn’t appreciate his prolific use of the word p*ssy. Either way, it seems I was interfering with his free spirit, and he wanted to be set free from my reigns.

Deep down I know it was because I just wasn’t his “Princess and the Pee.”

This is my humble attempt to share all things funny and amusing that go on in my not-so-mundane life.

Enjoy!