Sunday, March 27, 2011

The etiquette of forks and first dates

Monday, March 28, 2011

What if my date cake comes over for a “nightcap?” Men don’t see dust, right? Dusting was on the “to do” list on the afternoon of the evening of my date cake adventure but I just didn’t get to that chore—mostly because I was too busy re-applying my makeup after my mishap with the eyelash curler.

Besides, I was too much of a basket case to be worried about rebellious household lint.

Looking back on that night, I have trouble believing that all the butterflies in my neck of the woods migrated to Florida for the winter.

I’ve come to this conclusion because I think most of them were flying around in my stomach as I waited at the restaurant for a certain someone to arrive for our dinner date.

Because I have control issues, I had arrived there extra early. That left me with more than enough time to check my eyelashes and lipstick on three different trips to the mirror in the bathroom, where I’d also fussed with my hair so much that the static on my comb could have wiped out the radio station frequency.

On my last exit from the bathroom, I considered taking a seat on a barstool at the bar—my back to the room like a scene from “Pretty Woman”—where I would perch with my legs crossed and then turn around and catch a certain someone’s glance as he walked across the floor.

That scenario would have made for a surefire impression except that all 5ft. 2 in. of me was no match for the tall seat. It was all I could do to climb up the thing, struggling like a small child.

Once atop the pedestal, my feet were so far from the floor, I felt like Lily Tomlin’s character “Edith Ann,” and that’s the truth!

Thankfully, the place was still empty and nobody saw me slither off the barstool, my high heels grappling for the floor like a newborn calf on its first touchdown.

I remain my own worst enemy. All that bother set me to sweating and as I gathered myself at the cozy booth for two in the diningroom, I switched roles from “Edith Ann” to Molly Shannon’s “Superstar,” and with lightening speed cross-checked both armpits and smelled my fingers for any lingering scent of perspiration.

It was all good until I looked at the elegant tableware that included at least two sets of cutlery at each of our place settings, and enough small plates and glassware to suit an army.

At my house when I eat, I stand over the kitchen sink with a paper plate and fork. Period.

I swallowed the goose egg in my throat. I was doomed.

However I am pleased to report that at the moment my date walked through the door of the restaurant, all my trepidations vanished and were replaced with a shot of adrenaline that sent me right out of my high heels as I stood up to greet him.

As I queried in an earlier column, this date cake was an interview process, right? The kind of interview where I hand him a card at the beginning of the evening that states, “Please apply for this job only in the manner specified by the employer. Failure to do so may result in your application not being properly considered for the position.”

Another card would be presented that listed all the Essential Skills necessary to do the job, including critical thinking, problem solving, significant use of memory, and continuous learning.

My fleeting delusions of interviews and essentials skills screening went out the window in about five seconds.

He was handsome, polite, well-dressed, smelled good, employed, loved animals, talked about interesting things, asked questions, and had a great relationship with his children.

Best of all he didn’t know which fork to use!

“Outside fork—salad, inside fork-entre,” I said matter-of-factly with a smile. (Little did he know that I had “googled” the “fork facts” on my cell phone while he was in the restaurant bathroom at the start of the evening.)

I don’t remember what we talked about that evening, but I know for sure it wasn’t about the weather.

I don’t remember who else was in the restaurant or what time it was when we ordered coffee and cheesecake.

And I don’t remember the last time I had such a great evening in the company of a man as I did that night.

My appetite was so big. It was all I could do not to eat his half of the cheesecake we shared for dessert.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Date cake with a shot of reality, please

Monday, March 7, 2010

I was a mess. My mind was a mush ball of rampant thought patterns that wigged out loud at the face staring back at me in the dresser mirror in my bedroom at the very concept of entering the dating game again at 50 years old.

And yet there I was posing, scrunching, pruning, and pouting and having the countless open-ended conversations with myself about meeting him for dinner.

Do I shave my legs, wear extra underarm deodorant, cologne or “au natural,” and what top should I wear?

Should I duct tape the “Buddha?” and what if I forget to pluck the radical chin hair and stragglers on my upper lip?

Do I paint my toenails, get a manicure, and color my hair or just pull out the grey ones?

One thing I knew for sure. It was going to be a date worthy of an eyelash curler and waterproof mascara. I don’t get out much and thus have little practice in the art and polish involved in using such enhancements.

As the matter of fact, I think the last time I used an eyelash curler was an evening in 1972 when my parents were out of the house.

I snuck the little silver tongs out of my mom’s drawer in the bathroom and clamped them to my eyelashes. She would never be the wiser.

Of course, I didn’t factor in that there is a right way and a wrong way to use an eyelash curler.

In an instant my left eyelashes were curled downwards to the floor and I couldn’t see out of that eye, and the right eyelashes were bent like a crooked staircase because I didn’t position the clamp close enough to the roots.

I looked like Quasimodo’s sister.

And as I discovered the other night, some 38 years later I haven’t really improved my outcome much.

I should have read past the #2 tip of the online article “How to Use an Eyelash Curler” by Julyne Derrick.

I turned on my blow dryer and heated up the eyelash curler before applying it to my eyelashes—having no idea that I wasn’t supposed to put the waterproof mascara on until after I’d curled them.

There was a sudden moment of panic that I liken to getting your fingers accidentally stuck together with Krazy Glue.

I realized in wide-eyed terror that I had fused the mascara-laden lashes of my right eye to the curler.

I rushed back to the online article, bent over my laptop with the silver metal tongs handing from my face, and re-read the instructions—hoping all the while that my Skype friends didn’t hail me just then and activate the video camera lens on the computer screen.

“Never curl lashes after you apply mascara -- as the mascara dries, lashes can stick to the curler & be torn from the roots.

I didn’t know what to do other than jump in the shower and hope for the best. I had a full face of makeup and the best hairdo of the week and it was all washed down the drain to save my lashes from the evil eyelash curler.

I came away unscathed and started the process all over again, muttering under my breath all the while that for all the trouble I was going to, the guy had best be worth it.

I had “been there, done that” and for Heaven’s sake you’d think that by this time in my life I would know what I did and didn’t want in a man partner.

After all, times also had changed.

This date cake was an interview process, right? The kind of interview where I hand him a card at the beginning of the evening that states, “Please apply for this job only in the manner specified by the employer. Failure to do so may result in your application not being properly considered for the position.”

Another card would be presented that listed all the Essential Skills necessary to do the job, including critical thinking, problem solving, significant use of memory, and continuous learning.

I walked out of the bedroom head held high, suave and smooth in my “Bodywear by Ganz” and waterproof mascara.

My two-year-old granddaughter was standing in the kitchen with her mother. I said matter-of-factly to the little fry, “Don’t you think I’m cute as a button?”

Julie just looked at me and chirped, “You are silly. You’re not a button, you’re just my Granny.”

Out of the mouths of babes.