Plain Turkey

The other night I went out with Michael, a guy that I know Granny would consider to be a great candidate for grandson-in-law.  I almost don’t want to tell her about him because I know she’ll berate me for not opting for a second date. He’s the kind of guy that she’d enjoy if I brought home for Thanksgiving. I can picture her force-feeding him shrimp cocktail and piles of dry turkey while he smiles and politely asks for more.

Michael, 28, is a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn. I’ve dated Jews before, typically out of coincidence rather than preference. It makes no difference to me, but I know that any man who knows what gefilte fish is or has ever asked the four questions would score some serious points in Granny’s book.

Michael has a good job as a consultant, he’s close with his family, works hard, he’s not unattractive, and he is moderately funny. He was straight edge until college, no drinking or smoking until age 20, a parent’s dream. I, on the other hand, spent my high school years living out a PG-13 version of Girls Gone Wild in South Florida.

He was a total gentleman, the guy lives deep in Brooklyn but he chose a bar in my neighborhood to meet up. I once asked my sister, an OKCupid success story, what stuck out about her boyfriend on their first date and she mentioned his considerate gesture of picking a place that was convenient for her.

I guess it takes more than a chivalrous deed to get me hot. Unfortunately I just didn’t feel any connection with him. You can’t deny or create chemistry that doesn’t naturally exist. He was like plain turkey on white bread. No condiments.

On paper (or a computer screen) he’s a solid catch but I wasn’t feeling it. There was zero spark. After a few drinks and some light conversation about First Class versus Coach and whether or not Starbuck’s coffee was overrated, I told him I had an early morning and had to get home.

Being the nice guy that he is, he offered to walk me to my apartment. Being the cynic that I am, the first thoughts that ran through my head were: a) he’s going to try and come upstairs to get down b) he wants my address to stalk me c) he is going to murder me. None of that happened (at least not yet).

When we got to my door he hugged me (perhaps lingering for a little too long), said good night, then we parted ways. For the record, I am not opposed to a nice guy, it’s just that I won’t settle for plain turkey. I want pickles, tomatoes, olives, banana peppers, pepperjack cheese, and some spicy mustard on my sandwich.

Nurse or Purse

After all of Granny’s kvetching about older men I encouraged/bullied her into messaging with a younger man. A man in his early sixties who stated in his profile, “I do not have a strict age preference. I am interested in a woman who is attractive and interesting regardless of her age.” I thought he sounded suitable; he was open-minded, maybe he could be the spry guy she was looking for.

Things progressed into a phone call, after which she told me, “This guy is looking for a purse, kid.” I didn’t get it at first. I thought that might be one of Granny’s innuendos.

“He’s gay?” I asked slightly confused.

“No, there are two types of older gentleman: The guys who want a nurse and the guys who want a purse. The older farts need someone to physically take care of them and the younger gold diggers want a sugar mama to financially look after them. They’re shit out of luck because I’m not doing either.”

And the search continues…

Five Minutes

When I told Granny about Adam’s “strength” her protective instincts kicked in. “Sounds like a creep,” she huffed.

The date only lasted 30 minutes. “Ya stayed 25 minutes too long,” she said. “Ya gotta treat these encounters like one of those speed dating whatchamacallits. Ya give him five minutes to prove himself, if he’s a schlub or a freak ya say bye-bye, nice knowin’ ya, then flee.”

Party Tricks

“You’re really beautiful,” Adam, my OKCupid date, seductively uttered to me as I went to take a sip from my Rioja. I was caught off guard, instead of putting the glass to my mouth I tilted it and it spilled all over my lap.

I was stained, wet, and slightly embarrassed, yet this was only a marginally awkward moment of our date.

About five minutes in to our get-to-know-you chat Adam asked me to state my strengths and weaknesses. That’s pretty serious territory to tread when one hasn’t even finished her first half-spilled glass of wine. I thought I’d lighten it up by translating strengths to party tricks.

I began reciting pi, I have the first 50 digits to memory. I know not everyone would consider that a strength, few would even call it a party trick but it was the best I could come up with. He didn’t look impressed. “Anything else?” he asked.

I also have the ability to blow my lips together to make a raspberry sound for a crazy long amount of time. I demonstrated. Again, I’m not sure if that qualifies as a talent but I had just met Adam and didn’t feel like rattling off a list of my best qualities.

He crinkled his nose. “Do you have aspergers?” he asked. I shook my head.

Adam leaned in and smirked, “I’m really good at sex.” I then realized he only asked me my strengths so he could brag about his.

“Really?” I asked sarcastically, “Would you say it’s the technique you have down or size?”

He blushed. “Both, I guess.”

“Okay, show me with your hands,” I gestured, “Is it this big or this big or this big?” I asked while moving my hands closer and further apart.

He blushed harder and looked away, “Forget it, I don’t need to tell you that,” he said.

I totally agreed. He didn’t need to tell me any of that. It was inappropriate and although I’m sure it was meant to turn me on, it absolutely did not. “Okay well now that I know bragging is one of your weaknesses what else do you have?” I asked.

“I can be super judgmental,” he admitted. I nodded for him to elaborate, “Like fat people, I hate fat people. I have no tolerance for them.

I cringed at his rude reveal. I looked down at myself, for a moment self conscience that this critical guy may have passed judgment on me. “Don’t worry babe, I already checked you out when you came in. You’re doin’ good in my book.”

He continued down his list of deal breakers: unmanicured fingernails, untamed eyebrows, hipsters, unmade beds, tardiness, and clogs. I was definitely guilty of more than one of those crimes.

I checked the time. Luckily I had arranged to meet friends for dinner. I politely told him I’d have to go, “What? You don’t want to go and make babies?” he asked while making a gesture with his palm and fist that I can only assume was supposed to allude to intercourse.

He walked me out of the bar and tried to lay a wet one on me. My cat-like reflexes kicked in and he got my ear. As I crossed the street he yelled, “Nice ass!” I wasn’t wearing my Booty Pop. For a brief moment I slipped up and felt flattered… then quickly resumed my grossed out stance.

Masseur

Despite his seductive tone, Jake didn’t manage to get Granny fired up.  He sounded pretty sexy to me, a retired businessman that’s going back to school to be a massage therapist? Yes, please.

Granny didn’t agree. “An old man handing out massages, what does that say to you?” she asked. “He’ll take a cup and grab however he can get it.”

They’re cut from different cloths. She couldn’t get over the fact that he’d only visited New York, her stomping ground and life source, once. When he asked if she’d ever been to the theater she said, “Have I ever gone to the theater? Whaddaya crazy? I’m 75. If you’re from New York and 75 and have never been to the theater ya got some screws loose.”

Unfortunately there weren’t any romantic vibes but he intrigued her.  “He’s spiritual and very smart, a brain, an intellectual,” she said, “but he’s book smart. I’m not book smart, I’m street smart. We’re reversed, ya catch my drift?”

At every age, but it seems especially as you get older, it’s hard to date out of your comfort zone. She said she’d like to talk to him again, purely on a platonic level, because he wasn’t like anyone she had ever met before.

I asked if there were any chance she’d let him massage her. She said, “Yeah sure, I’ll let him give me a good rub down, then I’ll be all warmed up to perform my Cirque du Soleil-ish contortion tricks,” then broke out into another fit of giggles.

Velvet Voice

Below is a voicemail from Granny using her “sexy” vocal chords before a phone chat with Jake, a new Match.com prospect. Such a sex kitten.

Velvet Voice

Crazies

Granny had a good giggle when I recounted my date with Eric Hound Dog. She offered some encouraging words, “He thinks you’re nuts. I’ve got no doubt. Between ya weird ass pads, ya zodiac jabber, then ya call him the wrong name?” she burst out in more laughter, “Oy, I’m embarrassed just thinking about it. He probably thought ya were drugged. I’m your blood and I think ya may have lost it.”

I wasn’t drugged, I haven’t lost it, but it’s undeniable that I was weird. I guess Eric has a taste for the crazies because he’s already called to ask me out again…

Booty Pop

I went on a date last night and packed something extra along for the ride. As I was getting dressed I saw a pair of padded underwear in my drawer. That’s weird to have, I totally agree.

Last winter I was in Puerto Rico with some friends and kept seeing commercials for Booty Pop, a pair of underwear that operate like a padded bra on your butt. “Go from flat to fab in a pop”, they advertised. Wanna look like J Lo? No problem, Booty Pop. We got a real kick out of the commercials, me especially because although I like my body I’ve always wanted a little extra junk in the trunk. Don’t judge me.

Yearning to give me everything I want, my loving friends ordered me a pair for my birthday as a joke. Or at least I think it was a joke…

Flash forward, I’m getting ready for my date last night and spot the Booty Pop that’s been hidden away for six months. I slid them on underneath a pair of black stretchy jeans and examined in the mirror. “Oh, yes,” I thought nodding and doing some ga-dunk-a-dunk moves. Then, “Oh no,” it was inappropriate and weird and I couldn’t possibly leave the house in them…. Or could I?

I arrived at the charming West Village bar of my date, Eric’s, choice propping myself up on the barstool, I was an extra inch or two higher than normal. Eric was cute; although he lives in Jersey City he had a very Brooklyn look to him. Beard, glasses, flannel. I was digging it.

Eric’s messages interested me because he managed to be thoughtful, intellectual, and funny all at once. That’s a tough feat for an OKCupid message, but he did it. In person, he started out with the common nerves that most of us carry on an OKCupid date… most of us, except those of us with Booty Pop who have a boost of ego and ass.

When I sensed his shyness I went into overdrive, asking him questions, asking myself questions, answering for both of us. I realized I was coming off a little crazy but I couldn’t stop the train. I started telling him about my Chinese animal sign. I don’t know anything about the Chinese zodiac except that I’m a rabbit and it happens to be year of the rabbit. We googled and found out Eric is a dog. I asked which dog Eric felt he could most relate to, he settled on a hound dog.

According to the Chinese zodiac rabbits and dogs are not compatible, but I had hope for the hound dog and me. When we got up to leave, I started to feel self-conscience about my butt. Could he tell I was wearing Booty Pop? Had they shifted when I was sitting? Does it look like I’m wearing a diaper? As we walked down the block I did a bit of a sideways sashay to avoid my butt being in his view.

Despite my weirdness, Eric asked for my number and said he wanted to see me again. When we exchanged digits I started putting him in my phone as “Eric OKCupid”. Everyone I meet gets a label next to their name, I’m horrible at names, it’s a memory thing. Jessica Summer Camp, Lisa Work, Brad Don’t Pick Up, etc… Eric saw his label and requested I change it to “Eric Hound Dog”. Fair enough.

We did a goodbye hug on the corner, then I crossed the street. I thought he was taking a turn and I think he must have thought I was jumping into a cab but instead we both continued walking down the block on opposite sides of the street. I did a stiff wave and we both laughed at how awkward it was. He turned on the next corner and yelled, “Bye — OKCupid”.

I yelled back, “Bye Robert OKCupid,” then we both froze. This was not Robert this was Eric. Oy vey. I got mixed up, I’m horrible at names! I was preoccupied with concealing my tush and the whole name saving game got me mixed up.

He smiled from down the block and yelled back, “It’s Eric, Eric Hound Dog”, then he kept walking.

“I’m sorry,” I screamed, “That was embarrassing, I know your name, I swear!” I was on a busy corner of Bleecker Street, an old man looked at me and gave a disapproving head shake. I’m not sure if it was from eavesdropping on my flub or noticing the uneven pads in my pants. Either way I walked the rest of the way home cringing at my blunder and cursing my goddamn Booty Pop.

Fantastic

When I vented to Granny about Christophe she tuned out my exhaustive complaints. She didn’t hear anything about his annoying film school commentary and over-talkative nature. When I finished ranting she said, “Let me get this straight; he went to boarding school, a prestigious university, been all over the world, worked in finance in London, and now has the means to fool around with a camera? He’s clearly very wealthy. He sounds fantastic, but okay, fantastic isn’t what you’re after? That’s fine, you’re 24, you’re probably not ready for fantastic.”

That sounds like a dare to me. Fantastic? I’m ready for fantastic. Show me fantastic.

Film Buff

Lately I’ve been toying around on the How About We dating website. In theory it’s a cool idea where singles suggest fun dates, then you choose to go out with them based on the itinerary. In practice though, I haven’t seen any guys post a date that wasn’t cheesy (i.e. “How about we… walk in the rain in Battery Park then kiss on the street”) or lacking creativity (i.e. “How about we…share a bottle of wine in Little Italy”). Call me crazy, but I’d like someone to suggest: How about we break into the museum of Natural History and steal some dinosaur bones or attempt to kidnap a child on the highline. I want danger. I want adventure.

I received a message on OKCupid from Christophe, a self-proclaimed movie buff, inviting me to see Drive, the new Ryan Gosling movie. I liked that he got straight to the point, and suggested something that although wasn’t dangerous, I actually wanted to do.

We met up for coffee before the movie, Christophe chose not to drink any because he already had two cups and said he was wired. He wasn’t lying, in thirty minutes Christophe rattled off his entire life story of growing up in France, attending private boarding schools, working in finance in London, his sister and her three children, his fear of bicycles, a solo trip to Latvia, and quitting it all to pursue his love of filmmaking in New York.

He just completed a film summer intensive at NYU. I studied film there as well, which I thought could be a nice common ground for us to relate on. As we walked to the theater I asked him about his work, inspirations, plans, etc. At first hearing Christophe talk about film was refreshing; he got so fired up and animated on the subject he was literally stumbling on his words trying to get them out of his mouth.

We settled into the theater as the lights came down and the trailers started rolling. He nudged me at the first one, “I love this director, great work,” he said loud enough for the people in front of us to turn and look. “He’s my favorite,” he exclaimed at the next trailer. When the film began I shifted towards the elderly stranger on my left, trying to pretend I was with him instead.

“Oooo great lighting!” he practically shouted. The girl next to Christophe scowled in his direction but he didn’t notice. “Amazing score, I love this soundtrack”, “Great effects, that blood looks real. What do you think they used?”, “What else is she in?”, “Nice editing, are you familiar with this editor?” It was like sitting in a film class except we weren’t in school and he wasn’t teaching me anything I wanted to learn. I liked the film a lot; he liked it more.

After the credits rolled I politely thanked him for the movie and went on my way. I had enough film school for the night. I think I’m ready to give How About We another shot…

Old Boots

This is the question Granny proposed to me after her new date with Jake this weekend, “What’s wrong with this picture? When I have to say to the gentleman who took me out, ‘Please call me when you get home so I know ya got there safely.’ What would ya say the problem is?”

I considered, concluding she was referring to his age. I’m beginning to think Granny has what it takes to be a cougar. She has style, sass, energy, and a slight aversion to older gentleman that could easily work it’s way into a healthy appetite for a youthful boy toy.

“He’s an older man, you’re an older woman. This I know. Give me some real juice,” I said.

“Listen, all I’m saying is, I don’t like goin’ out with a man that I gotta worry if he’s dead or alive,” she defended herself. “But okay, so I get there and he’s not 5’6, he lied, he’s probably 5’2 but he was wearing cowboy boots which propped him up an inch or two. He dressed well for an older gentleman, some nice trousers, with a crease. I love a crease—”

I was stuck on the cowboy boots. September in Florida is way too hot for that much foot/ankle coverage. I needed more information on the boots, “Oh yeah,” she huffed, “He sure loves them boots. He spent a good hour enlightening me on his boot maintenance. He’s got six pairs, once a month he lines them all up and spit polishes them—whatever the hell that means. He leaves the black for last because they take the most work. Jesus.”

I knew regardless of the boots and age she must have enjoyed Jake’s company because after drinks they went to another restaurant for dinner, their date clocking in at over four hours. She said he was a very nice man, attentive, gentlemanly, and kind, but he didn’t have a sense of humor to keep her captivated, “I wanna laugh, if I can’t laugh it’s not worth it.” I can’t really argue with that, she knows what she likes.

He did however share her passion for travel, just not the same methods. He loves to go RVing, especially at Yellow Stone Park, “He was really doin’ a hard sell to get me on board, ‘I said whaddaya crazy? You drive there. Fly me out, I’ll stop in to say hello. Or let’s take your RV to Paris and park it in front a nice hotel in the Champs-Élysées. Can you imagine eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner in an RV? No way, the best part of traveling is enjoying the local flavors and cuisines.” Picturing Granny gallivanting  through America in an RV is a hilarious and hugely improbable idea. I picture her making it twenty miles or so then asking to be dropped off at the nearest Outlet Mall.

Even though she wasn’t wildly impressed with Jake, it doesn’t seem to be slowing him down. He called the next day to invite her out for a rib dinner at some veteran’s club that he’s a member of. “You should go!” I encouraged.

“Ribs? At a veterans’s club? Please, there is a time and a place for ribs. This is not it. Besides I’m sure there’s going to be square-dancing, it’s all the rage for the old people down here to square dance. No ribs and no square dancing for me,” she said.

Granny can be so set in her ways sometimes. It’s somewhat frustrating but also refreshing that she’s so adamantly confident in what she likes and what she doesn’t. Ribs or no ribs I hope she gives him another shot. If not, I think it’s time we start perusing Match.com for a younger generation of men for Granny.

Busted

I was having lunch with some friends when I looked down at my phone and saw that the pesky Dating Junkie, Robert, was texting me. I exhaled, shook my head, and made some vain remark about how he wouldn’t leave me alone. Then I read the message, “Even though we didn’t go on a second date, I’m glad I made it on the blog. Mostly though, I’m glad that Granny knows about me!” My heart dropped, my smug smile fell from my face, I released an uncomfortable squeal. I was busted.

I racked my brain trying to remember what harsh words I wrote. There was his height, his affinity for cats, and his overly skillful use of OKCupid. My beautifully stubborn friends insisted that the best thing to do was to ignore him and remain in defense mode. I tried, but the Jewish guilt that Granny instilled in me washed over and I began apologizing for any remarks he might find unjust in the post. He was more understanding than I expected, way more understanding than I would have been.

I offered to buy him a drink as a peace offering; my friends sat wide-eyed shaking their heads and wagging fingers in my face. I knew it could be a bad idea, but it took some serious balls for him to confront me. Based on the sense of humor that he was bringing to the situation I wanted to give the Dating Junkie another hit. He accepted but added, “Bring a ruler, cause I have some height to prove.”

As I walked up to the bar of his choice I saw him standing outside in a fluorescent orange raincoat. There was no rain in the forecast but I thought it was a strong fashion choice. I stood a safe five feet distance away from him on the sidewalk as he lowered his glasses and gave me a playful stern look. I raised my hands in surrender, “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me,” I pleaded.

“I thought about beating you up, but clearly I’m too small to do any damage,” he joked as he led me in. The waitress took us at a table with two large chairs facing each other in an odd interrogation style. We sat down, accepting the challenge. Across the table he slid two lottery tickets, the same foreboding gift from our first date. “You sure?” I asked, “It was bad enough losing once.”

He nodded, I scratched, we lost. It was time to get down to business. I apologized about the height cracks, upon further examination it seems Robert might actually be closer to the above-average height of 5’10. I explained that the last three men I dated were 6’4. He said, “It looks like you’re the one with a weird problem, not me.” True.

“How did you find the blog?” I asked, “Did you do an extensive google search of my name because you’re obsessed with me?” He laughed, shaking his head. He then told me a story that I still haven’t decided is fictional or not.

He says that he was helping a friend build her OKCupid profile (not surprising, since he is an expert) when she inquired about what kind of messages to send to prospective matches. He went into his messages to cut-and-paste his generic introductory greeting (ahem.. I’ve rated you 4 stars.. added you to my favorites… and winked… i’ve run out of passive-aggressive ways of getting your attention.. i live in williamsburg, i make videos all day, my mom thinks im cute) when he “accidentally” put it in to a google search which led him to stumbling on to this site.

Oy. I thanked him for being a good sport and with the cat out of the bag we began talking like old friends. We shared stories about relationships, OKCupid, summer escapades, work plans, etc. After laughing for an hour straight I realized I was seriously enjoying spending time with Robert, I even briefly forgot about all his cats until he showed me some more pictures of them.

He called me out on my shit, made me blush, laugh, and kept me interested and wanting more. As we walked out I asked if we could be friends. He said we could try but it would be hard since he’s a sexual predator.

The next morning I expected to get a witty emoticon message from Ryan but he didn’t send any. Granny was right, he knew how to get me just where he wanted me. I decided to text him. I think it’s safe to say, I have a crush on Robert.

Stood Up

I was stood up. No big deal. No problem at all. I’m not feeling bad about it because I’m assuming my date was violently mugged and kidnapped in the subway by a clown posse who brought him to Nicaragua then forced him to wear a sequined onesie and coral lipstick while performing Jennifer Grey’s moves from the final scene in Dirty Dancing on repeat until the end of time.

I should have known he was lame after her referred to me as “kiddo” in all of his messages. It’s a patronizing way to refer to anyone that is not an actual child.

Granny offered up a gem in condolence, “Better he stands ya up now, than at the alter.” So true, so true.

Mr. Chatty Pants

Granny broke her seal on the online dating scene. Tim, her cheeky date, said he was proud to take her virginity. Although she did plenty of post-date kvetching, I think she enjoyed herself.

I called to get the scoop two hours after her date began. Based on her earlier nerves and schemes, I imagined she would suck down a quick glass of wine then make some wild excuse to bail. To my surprise, when she answered the phone she politely told me she’d have to call back. Her tone of voice was so sweet and foreign I almost thought someone stole her phone.

Her date lasted four hours! I know my Granny, if she doesn’t want to be in a situation she’ll find her way out of it. Although he sounded smart and interesting, Granny can be a tough judge. She picked him apart from his ruddy fingernails to his slight case of tremors. I think it comes from a defensive place of managing future expectations and protecting feelings by finding their faults before they find yours.

She said he was very confident but perhaps too confident. In her recap she complained incessantly about his self-indulgent manner of talking about himself. She said, “He never shuts up, he talked the entire time. I wanted to say, ‘Have a glass of water, my God.’” I think this mainly bothered her because she has a freakishly similar habit.

Eric is a smooth operator. When she pecked him on the cheek in greeting, he said, “That kiss is gonna have to get a little more serious, sweetheart.” Then he asked how she would like it if her hair were blowing around in a convertible. She asked, “Why, am I buying a convertible?” He said, “No, but I have a red BMW that you’ll be riding in.” Bow chicka-wow-wow.

Even though he laid on his best moves, Granny kept a tight guard. When I asked her why she was so hesitant to commit she said, “I had one man in my life where I ate when he was hungry, slept when he was tired, and went where he wanted to go.” It’s going to take some work getting my fiercely independent Granny adjusted to the idea of a companion.

From the sounds of it, Eric is clearly swooning over Granny. When I asked if she would go out with him again, this is what she said: response

Cold Feet

I’ve had two phone calls and four frantic voicemails from Granny today. Her first date is tonight and she has a severe case of cold feet. The little prima donna is pulling every excuse in the book to try and weasel her way out of it.

First it was work stuff, then it was the restaurant he chose, now she’s moved on to inflicting/making up injuries. “I smashed my foot into my bedroom door, I’m gushing blood between my toes. I should go to the emergency room. This is a gash, kid. I need stitches!” I’m pretty sure she just stubbed her toe.

Her devious behavior reminds me of the desperate excuses I would make to stay home from school on the day of a big test that I wasn’t prepared for. I listened to her whine for a bit then told her to suck it up and pick out an outfit.

She called back, “You won’t believe this,” I already didn’t, “I opened the kitchen cabinet and smashed my nose. Blood. Everywhere. More stitches. I’m going to have a black eye, I know it!”

I wish I could be there with her to calm her down or at least watch the Marx brothers-esque physical comedy that’s occurring in her apartment. I suggested that she was being dramatic which only set her off further. “I need a pep talk! I need support! I don’t want any of your snarky judgments,” she hollered.

She was right. As a granddaughter, friend, and wingman I needed to get on her level, sooth her down then pep her up. I reminded her of all the qualities she liked on his profile; he had a great job, a family man, well read, traveled the world, and he has a boat. Who doesn’t love a boat ride?

The tension in her voice began to soften. “Alright, I’m thinking I’m gonna go casual chic, ya know some cute flat sandals, a pair of capris, and a little top I got from Banana Republic two years ago for 50% off.”  Granny loves a deal, if she got it on sale it’s more valuable than if she paid full price.

I oohed and aahed in support then suggested we choose a mantra for her to chant for confidence. “How about, ‘I’m gonna marry him, I’m gonna marry him,’” she suggested, then burst out laughing.

I’m all about positive thinking but at the same time I think it’s important to manage expectations. I didn’t want to rain on her wedding but I thought it better to stick with a more realistic motto, “How about, ‘The best thing that happens you fall in love, the worst thing that happens we laugh about it after,’” I said.

She thought for a second, I could feel her coming around. “Yeah, yeah, love or laughs, it’s all good stuff,” she repeated it a few times, gaining more confidence with each go. “Alright kid, ya did good.”

I’m fairly confident that as long as she doesn’t slip on banana peel or have an accident with a curling iron, she’ll make it to the restaurant. I’m not sure who I’m more worried about, her or her date.