Initial Contact

First contact. Source: Google Images

 

There is nothing more precarious than the premier étage of dating. The solid connection forged in person can collapse as quickly as a poorly made soufflé if the ingredients aren’t integrated perfectly. And we ALL know what a bummer it is when your soufflé collapses. (OKAY fine I don’t, but one of these days I will fulfill that dream.) Actually, a fallen soufflé would probably be more disappointing then a missed connection with the lackadaisical way dating is approached nowadays.

Pardon my stream-of-consciousness blogging style, but can we pause and discuss the missed connections section of Craig’s List? Depressing and unlikely. 24-year-old MFW, do you really think the blond girl in jeans you shook hands with at a bar last Tuesday will remember that? How does that description even identify anyone? That could be me, for all I know. OMG how many connections have I missed?! I think that page is supposed to inspire hope, but really it just reminds me how little confidence people have. Man up and talk to her at the bar, MFW! This ‘speechless’, butterflies-in-one’s-stomach excuse is not believable and NOT hot.

That said, the key to initial contact is, crazily enough, establishing contact! (And not in a way that involves throwing a first move out into the ‘cosmos’ in hopes that said person will respond.) But just what is the best way to contact your new flame?

Scenario. Late one Sunday night, a connection is made between two consenting parties. Beer → conversation → karaoke → phone number. (That’s the typical progression, correct?) So now Journey is sitting there with Bonnie Raitt’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket. He has several options.
 

a)      Rip up the number and throw it away. Sure, she was great, but her vocal skills were akin to Cameron Diaz’ in My Best Friend’s Wedding, and he’s not trying to get with that. Also, the dramatic ripping-up gesture was very satisfying.

b)      Abide the three-day rule and text her at a time when it appears nonchalant, e.g., 4:57 p.m. Obviously NOT 5:00 p.m., because it will then seem too carefully orchestrated. Plus, this will deepen Bonnie’s interest as she nervously awaits his call. (Or, more likely, it will give her time to forget him or move on. Obviously I’m not a fan of this rule.) 

c)       Text her back immediately and/or the next day with a witty comment/inside joke. Caution: with this approach, the guy should not expect the girl to follow up since she now has his number, and that had better be one hilarious comment. Otherwise this option can come across as needy. 

d)      Call her (gasp) within the next few days with a pleasantry about the other night and an invitation to dinner, or coffee if the situation seems sketchy. I get it guys; nobody wants to spend that much money on someone who could just up and start planning your wedding on the first date. Or worse, is a vegetarian. 

All of these options are a plausible means of getting the girl (or guy..woo feminism). Well, except the first. I guess the first could work if you immediately regret ripping up the number (because she is a girl, there’s that) (or boy) and post your MFW/WFM on missed connections. Then the cosmos can bring you together just in time for the holidays, a festivus miracle!

OR you can choose one of the latter three, more sane options. Unfortunately there is not really any good standard, because typically if someone likes you they will like your approach. Feel it out, though; if she (…/he?) seems shy, maybe a sooner call-back to inspire confidence is in order. A younger girl will probably expect a text as opposed to a call, as she only uses that aspect of her Smartphone for her parents, and vice versa for an older girl. Although that extra initiative is always appreciated. A confident, independent girl may be turned off by a quick reply, as the chase is a necessary evil.

Most importantly, if you text, DON’T start a boring conversation. And don’t make the person you’re texting start it (i.e., “what’s up girl” is unacceptable). Do yourself a favor and think of something interesting. Because if we resort to talking about Wheel of Fortune immediately, so help me, that’s it. I’m not trying to fast-forward to our conversations 40 years from now. (You know Pat and Vanna will still be alive and running the millionth season.)

Hopefully with some basic steps to follow we can make this process feel easier and slightly less foreign than alien contact. (I’ve never seen E.T., but I think “E.T. phone home” was probably established because he wanted to call up a chick.) Next time you find yourself wearing a foil helmet, surrounded by glasses of water and a baseball bat, staring at the phone…Who am I kidding, if it gets that far, you’re way beyond me. Joaquin Phoenix, I’m looking at you.

Holiday (tequila)

Source: Google Images

As of late a gentleman named Jose has had a significant impact on my life. At least, Jose spurred a chain of events that led up to this moment in time. Things were getting pretty serious between us back in college…but then I met his worldly uncle Patron. Jose had the tall, lean build, but Patron really introduced me to the finer things in life. And of course by the finer things I mean things that are not fine at all, but somehow seem so when a rich, worldly uncle describes them. (You know, sort of how I’m trying to make tequila shots sound elegant in this paragraph.)

Actually, Patron and I had a nasty breakup and I typically avoid him like the plague. But this story begins and ends in Mexico. A place where the waiters frown when you order water and admonish, “No tequila, no vacation.”

Really, the question of the week stems from utter bafflement on my part. Why is this Mexican nectar so toxic for those who are north of the border?

Sidebar: [Meddlesome reader: But wait, isn’t this a dating blog? Knowing blogger (aka radiant sunbeam of light): Not only did I introduce this blog in a datey (yep, invented that) way, but if anyone here would like to say that no relationship has ever begun or ended under the influence of tequila you may throw the first stone. Pertinent. Topic. Lawyered!]

Anyway, according to an article from 1977 whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell, tequila can only be produced in the state of Jalisco and limited regions in a few other Mexican states. Mexico also holds exclusive international rights to the word ‘tequila’. 

Naturally, what I take from this is that tequila appears to be an elitist, segregated alcohol. This makes me think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry eats the black and white cookie, and the two sides don’t get along and break his near 15-year vomit-free streak. (What? Only three of you understand that reference? The rest can stop reading my blog.) First off, all of this pondering made me hungry—stopping mid-thought for a sweet, and yet refreshing Junior Mints break—and second, ARE our bodies being taken over by some sort of fascist dictator every time we drink tequila? Probably.

I mean, if we weren’t being puppeteered by some eccentric middle-aged man by the name of Patron, how could one possibly go from avoiding a certain person by hiding behind a friend or locked door to chatting and carrying on enthusiastically with said party in just a few short minutes? Of course, those minutes were really hours and that carrying on is a euphemism, and your friend did abandon you for her own selfish reasons (ugh, sleep is so bourgeois).

And how could one go from Cuervo (perhaps a tall, lean, good-looking Israeli from Denver) to Patron (a rich, worldly…let’s just not talk about it). The anecdotes could LIT-erally (oh, how I love Rob Lowe on Parks & Rec) carry on for days, but the answer is simple: One. Drank. Too. Much. Tequila. 

According to the mythology behind this ‘nectar of the gods’ (here), reader’s digest version, a goddess stole the light of the earth, and another god got angry and went to kill her. Instead, he fell in love with her daughter and forgot his original intent (sounds like tequila), and when the mother goddess found out and sent people to kill him, he and his lover of course decided to become a tree (?). Unfortunately, the mother still killed her daughter. Harsh. The man god buried her remains and they grew into the agave plant. The rest of the gods took pity on him and struck the plant with lightning, producing tequila to ease the man’s pain of lost love. Soounds like a pretty accurate story of tequila’s influence on the world today.

So what we’re dealing with here are angry gods and elitist puppeteer dictators. NO WONDER Saturday night was so crazy.