Casting Couch

Alright people, we have a CHD first. Something I've never done, but thought about doing. And now I am extremely nervous. Because Julia Roberts has suggested we have ourselves a little video chat.

Which in a way is genius, because we'll know in a few minutes whether or not we want to even bother meeting over a drink or whatever. However, that first meeting is always so weird because you're immediately judging him. Of course I'll look over what he's wearing, if he's shaven in the last 2 weeks and whether his apartment has seen a mop, ever. It's like an animated profile picture.

In that first 5-second scan, you've decided whether or not you want to have this person in your life any further. If you do, suddenly you're consumed with wonder and worry as to whether he shares the interest, and if you don't, well, you're busy trying to hatch an escape plan.

It is nice to know I can always just x-out of the chat window and block him from my life forever if he's a total weirdo. You'd think that after exchanging a few emails, I'd know if he was a complete maniac, but you'd be surprised. Sometimes the craziest people are the best corresponders.

Of course he could be thinking the same thing. Perhaps he'll find me hideous and would rather get a perm than talk to me for one more second. Then suddenly we're like Billy the Kid and Annie Oakley, twirling our shotguns, kicking some brush, waiting to see who x's the other out first. Hopefully it doesn't come to that, and we can end our convo with plans for the future or a polite sayonara.

What do you even wear to these things? It's not like you put on some scandalous black number and when he hops online you're all giggly and "Oh hey Brad, I wasn't expecting you!" as you lay on your bed and flip through Ladies Home Journal. It needs to be casual. Like a sweater and a beverage of choice, sitting on the couch with the appropriate amount of lamps turned on so I'm not Casper but I'm also not lurking in some creepy love cave.

If he rings in at 8, I'll know by 8:01 whether we're going to pursue this past a web chat. I wonder if he's nervous. Maybe he'll be over in his apartment pacing around a bit staring at the laptop sitting on his bed, then do a few quick push-ups, stretch his neck side to side, look in the mirror and say, "Let's do this thing!"

Here goes nothing.

Drive Me Crazy

I'm as happy as a lark. By the way, who came up with that phrase? Who decided the lark was happy? Did anyone ask the lark? Is the lark never allowed to have a case of the Mondays?

Anyway, I've been rolling through a field of PMA lately and it's quite fun. And it's delightful. First there's Julia Roberts. We've been exchanging emails for a few days and I like what I've seen thus far. He's nice and I'm thinking he's a funny guy because he mentioned his friends want him to try out for Second City. So he has to be at least a little bit funny. Telling someone to join an improv troupe is a lot different than a pity laugh at your lame joke.

So I just replied to his latest email about plans for St. Patrick's Day and told him I'm not sure what I'm doing yet. But I refuse to meet up with him on the one Saturday of the year where to entire city is at the bar. That's a recipe for disaster so I'll just stay out of that kitchen.

Then we have a slew of new faces, including a 34-year-old surgeon who's very tall and very cute, and a salesman with dark brown hair and olive skin who is training for a triathlon in his spare time.

And that's just on the internet. Last night, I was walking home carrying a few grocery bags, when I stopped at my building's front door to try and find my keys while holding said bags. Before I could open my purse, a deep voice from behind me said, "I got it."

I turned around and looked up to find a very cute blonde man in a grey wool dress coat pulling out his keys to open the door. He held it open for me, and, wanting to get another look at this gentleman, I looked into his eyes and smiled and said, "Thanks." So smooth.

Then we both walked to the mailboxes, and in silence opened our boxes. I felt like we should be having a conversation since we'd sort of interacted already, but instead I just reached in to find zero mail. But he was still going through his pile and blocking the doorway so instead of saying excuse me, I bent down and looked into my mailbox like there was something in the very back. There wasn't and I had nothing to pull out and feign interest in opening, so I just slowly stood up and took way too long to close and lock the box.

I stood there awkwardly for 5 seconds, and then he closed his mailbox and started to walk toward the elevators. We got on the same one and he asked what floor I was on. I told him and thanked him again. Then we stood in silence, waiting for the elevator to move. Finally he muttered, "I hate how slow this elevator is."

I laughed and said, "I know." Say something else! Keep the conversation going!

So I came back with, "I thought they were supposed to replace this one." That's half true. I did hear rumblings.

"Oh really? That would be fantastic."

"Yeah I know. It's the worst on the weekends when people are moving in."

"Yeah, last Sunday was terrible. I think half the building was moving."

I laughed even though it wasn't funny, but I needed to fill the silence with some sort of sound. All the while trying to play it cool and not let on that I thought he was adorable. But our convo was so vanilla, I wasn't going to read into anything. Except the fact that he was quite the gentleman.

We reached his floor, and he walked out and turned and said, "Well, have a good night."

I smiled and told him to do the same. With that the door closed on our love. And I would've smiled and sunk to the floor like Kate Hudson does in her movies after she meets the cute neighbor who volunteers at an animal shelter and loves his mother, but the doorman doesn't need to watch a chick flick on the security camera.

So we'll see what happens next. I'm like a bus driver swerving through the streets of Singleville. I don't know who's getting on next, who's getting off (hey now) or where my route will take me.

But I am certainly enjoying the ride.

Pretty Man

I hopped online this morning and checked my dating inbox for the first time in a few days. I had the flu on Monday and Tuesday, and the last thing you're thinking about while you lay in bed with a two-liter of ginger ale at your side and a roll of toilet paper in your hand, is going on a hot date. Anyway, I found a handful of messages. Delete, delete, delete, ooh he's cute.

So I open an email from a tall blonde who apparently is in sales, has a cute smile, and apparently isn't afraid to wear pink. Nice. Below one of his photos he has the quote, "Don't forget I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her," from Notting Hill. So he's funny. Me likey.

I reply to his message and look forward to hearing back from Julia Roberts.

Once back in my inbox, I see I have two messages from a 26-year-old architect. I'd responded to an email from him over the weekend, but didn't really think much of it. Apparently he did, because instead of just replying once, he was on repeat mode. So email one asks how my weekend was. Fine. Email two, sent 5 hours later than email one, asks how I'm doing and if I'd like to meet him at the driving range on Thursday to hit some balls in the snow. I like the idea but not the aggressive approach.

I don't reply, delete both messages and decide that I'd like to get back into golfing.

Last but not least, there's an email from a bearded man who is tilting his head in his photo and making bug eyes and looks like a total maniac. But I click on his profile anyway and his photo caption says something about how his beard is always crazy but always clean. Gross. That's just so gross!

I delete a few other emails and sign off. A job well done.

Hopefully it pays off. In an email. From Julia Roberts.

Someone's going to read this and be so confused.