I had a second date with the man from Massachusetts who shall remain nameless. I respect at least that little bit of his privacy. He doesn’t even know what a “blog” is, though, so I could shout his social security number to the moon and he would never know.
We met up last Fridayat Willie McBride’s, the pub where we met. We met there for a drink. I said when I sat down next to him, “I think you and I are in a rut.” He looked very nice, once again. Was in a suit. No tie. I, however, was wearing a black biker’s jacket, blue jeans, and big black boots. My hair down and wild. I took one look at him and said, “Once again, you look very nice, and I look like I have come off the back of a Harley.” He glanced sideways over at me, and commented flatly, “You’re hot.”
“Hot.” It struck me as a funny word. Juvenile. “Hot.”
The man has never had Thai food in his life (how the hell is that possible?) so we went for Thai food. He’s a math geek. I wish I was a math geek. So it works out well. He explained the relevance of John Nash’s theories (because I asked him to: “Basically, what is the big deal with game theory? Why did he win the Nobel?”) … so we have interesting conversations.
I am intrigued by men with INFORMATION. I like men who KNOW things. Who are not, perhaps, openly emotional, but can answer questions, and who can TELL ME THINGS. I like information better than emotion.
After Thai food, we walked through the light drizzle to a nearby pub, for a drink. It was a beautiful night. Blue, dark, rainy. I was on a date. On a Friday night. I’m never on a date on Friday night. It was 10 pm or so. We took about 3 sips of our beers, and then he said, “You want to go to Atlantic City?” I said, thinking he meant “someday” or “this summer”, and said, “Sure!” There was a long frozen pause, where neither of us said a word, or moved, and then I said, “You mean right now?” He said, “Yeah. Right now.”
This is where my age shows. It was 10 pm. In an hour or so, it would be about time for me to hit the sack. It’s a two and a half hour drive to Atlantic City. So if I said yes, that meant that I had to accept the fact that I would not get to bed until, oh, three, four, five o’clock in the morning. I am a fascist when it comes to my sleep. Do not try to mess up my REM cycles. I hesitated for about a second, and then decided, Oh, what the hell. Life’s short. “Sure. Let’s go to Atlantic City.”
We left our unfinished beers there, and walked to his car through the drizzle which was actually no longer drizzle, but a torrential downpour, with thunder and lightning booming through the sky. We drove to Atlantic City through a literal monsoon.
I called it a “monsoon” and he kindly informed me that “monsoons” only happen in the Pacific. See what I mean? INFORMATION.
We drove for 2 and a half hours. We basically had a road-trip on our second date. We talked about fractals. And schizophrenia. I told him I had briefly dated a schizophrenic, and his response was: “And how were they?” We talked about mathematicians. And music. We listened to music. We were going to Atlantic City. I don’t even KNOW this person.
By the time we arrived at the sinful neon city on the sea, it was 12:30 at night, and I was positively exhausted. I actually got a bit alarmed. How the hell am I going to last through this? I need to go to bed. My eyeballs are drying up. This is an hour past my bed-time. Mr. Nameless Man was on a mission to find me Visine. I was losing it. “I can’t see! My lenses! I have to go to bed!” We went to Caesar’s, which is over-the-top cheese-ball. I was laughing out loud looking at the faux Roman decor. It must be the oxygen they pump into the air of the casinos, because within 20 minutes, I perked up.
Not only did I perk up, but I sat down at a slot machine, and won 50 dollars in 10 minutes. I only put in two bucks … and suddenly, 50 dollars came pouring into my cup. I was exhilarated. Like a little kid. “I’m gonna buy sandals! Maybe a CD or two!”
Mr. Nameless Man is not a slots kind of person. He sat at a blackjack table, and ended up walking away with 400 dollars. I don’t know how much he gambled. To be perfectly honest, I don’t like gambling. It makes me nervous. Money is not something to risk, to toss around, to play with. Money is to be SPENT. Or to hold onto, to save up for. So it’s not really my thing. However, I loved winning 50 dollars. I’ll tell ya that.
By now it was two o’clock in the morning. We cashed out. I wanted to go see the beach, and the boardwalk, but the monsoon continued to rage, so it was not condusive. I love knowing the ocean is close, though.
And then, we hauled ass back to Hoboken. I slept for most of the way home. He dropped me off at 4:45 in the morning.
It’s good, occasionally, to say Yes to things which, at first, may seem anathematic to you … I’m very rigid with my sleep, and with my time. But … being too rigid is no good.
And we HAD a date for tonight. He invited me to the dinner cruise his company was throwing. I was kind of panicking about what to wear. Then last night, he called me twice. I was deeply involved in the VH1 “Greatest Moments in Rock” and didn’t feel like talking, so I didn’t pick up. I also didn’t listen to the messages, assuming he was just seeing what I was up to, if I wanted to get together. But: please don’t call me twice, was (and still is) my attitude. He called me once at about 7:30, and then later at 11:15. I wasn’t too wacky about that. It’s too early for stalking.
But it turns out, his grandmother died and he was calling me to let me know he couldn’t take me to the cruise thing-y.
I felt kind of like a jerk, truth be told. Thank the Lord I didn’t pick up on that second call and say to him, in true Sagittarian-style, “Listen: please don’t call me twice in one night. If you don’t hear from me right away, it means I’m busy. I’ll get back to you when I get back to you.”
Phew. That would have been real bad.
