Dating Deja Vu

Have I mentioned how much I hate dating?

I don't do dating.

I do, however, go for randomly meeting, talking all night, only leaving each others side to go to work, school, and the bathroom, falling in love within a couple of weeks, and living happily ever after.

That works for me.

Okay, I guess it's not fair to say I hate dating when I've never really dated.

I hate the process of looking for dates. Ugh!

As I was showing a curious friend my online dating account, showing her the guys on there (i.e. how about only half of them can spell ... not that I'm perfect, but my errors are typos, not blatant, incessant, misspellings), I happened upon this profile that keeps popping up. The website really wants us to get together.

Do y'all know where this is going?

I look at it. I think, "Well, he's kind of cute. He can spell. He seems pretty cool. Oh, and he rescues cats! And loves God. Alright, we'll see what happens." So, I start emailing him. I hate this part, where I have to be the one to initiate whatever. Guys out there: please don't be shy. You're supposed to do the pursuing. I'm just Southern like that.

I get towards the end of my email. Then ... do you know where this is going?

You do if you guess I start having dating flashbacks from a little over nine years ago. I had just turned eighteen. Some guy started chatting with me on AOL. He seemed pretty cool, so I went along with it. He wasn't a perv or anything, and we chatted for a while before he asked for my number. He even knew a classmate of mine, so it wasn't totally creepy. We eventually talked on the phone and he asked me out. This would have been my first date date.

Would have being the operative words.

He canceled on me. I don't know if it was my suggesting if there were still tornadoes in the area by the time for our date, I would rather cancel. I don't know if it was the age difference then (there's a big difference between 18 and 23 or whatever age he was then, not so much between 27 and 30-something). I don't know if he just decided he didn't like me. I never heard from him again.

No big deal. I don't care what his reasons were then. I don't really care if he emails me back, but I would like him to so I can confirm if I have actually experienced dating deja vu. So, yes, I do care if he emails me back. I HAVE to know if it's the same person. (Even though I am 90% convinced it is.)

I took a really close look at his profile. He was about the right age. Some of the things on his profile matched what I knew about him back then. (Gotta love my inner-Bones!) And as I looked through the pictures, in which there were LOTS, I became fairly certain he was the same person.

And, yes, in the email I brought up the possibility he was the same guy from years ago. It was kind of hard not giving away too much information in case he wasn't and still giving enough information to jog his memory if he was.

I'm a very forgiving person. It was also a long time ago. I'm all grown up now. Same nice person, but much more mature. (Not that I wasn't mature then, I just understand the world a little better now. That's the nice way of saying I'm cynical and jaded.) Let me be honest: I was a MESS back then. As in Cold Mountain when Ruby Thewes tells Aida Monroe of her being a catastrophe back in her school days. Yes, I was a near catastrophe. And I didn't get to be near normal until I got this thing called a boyfriend. I don't know how much, or little, it had to do with having a boyfriend, but I recall things settling down a good bit when The ex-Boyfriend came around.

It wasn't so long ago

I've been a good un-housewife today. Laundry, dishes, work, organizing.

It wasn't so long ago I was a housewife-in-training. Girl Tuesday and I would abscond to Hobby Lobby Saturday nights and make a stop at Los Amigos for daiquiris and rice and chips. Just because we are adults, we figured we are allowed to break the rules of balanced meals from time to time.

We would make fun of the stupid things our (now ex) boyfriends would say and do.

Like leaving splashes of vodka in the bottle.

Like loading the dishwasher to beyond full capacity and not start it.

Like, oh, I don't even remember anymore.

I miss those days.

Back when I had six cats (or eleven) and a rabbit and one time a stepson staying in my house.

Back when I did laundry nearly every day, and I could easily have a load of whites once a week so my socks were brand-new white.

Back when I had a built-in drinking buddy.

I could go on.

The feminist in me feels like I let down a whole decade of women's lib-bers. I feel like I'm supposed to go out into this world and lead and reign supreme. Because I am woman, and I can roar better than any of you.

But someone's gotta stay home and keep it from burning down, or at least make sure the utilities don't get disconnected. (That reminds me of a story I can laugh about now. I once had a roomate who caught my kitchen on fire. Twice.)

I can talk about almost anything. And I can do quite a few things. It's just I'm best at being a housewife. I'm good at staying home and looking after things. Well, at least I like to think I am good at that. I'm really not. But at least I keep the bills paid, laundry done, animals vaccinated, and everyone loved. That's gotta count for something, right?

Oh, Boys

I've been having boy problems lately. (Perhaps, lately is an understatement ...)

It seems that my old next door neighbor only thinks of me when I'm in Birmingham. Let me just put this out there: he's in Auburn, not only does he know where I live, he's been to my place in Auburn, and he knows my car. Last week, I was sleeping away, minding my own business, when I hear my phone whistlin' at me. "What's up" he says. "Not much [lie]. You?" I respond. "Same here. Just thinking about you."

The nineteen-year-old me would have thought, "Awww. How sweet."

The jaded me thinks, "Why do you do this when I'm not in Auburn?" and then the Black Eyed Peas start floatin' through my mind. When the phone rings at two in the morning it only means one thing, baby.

So, do I channel the former me or stick to the BEPs?

I say there are only two people who can get away with calling me in the middle of the night. He's one of them. The other, he's sleeping. Why can't my dear former neighbor learn to do that? (Seriously, if you need someone to talk to in the middle of the night. Or take you to the hospital. Or bail you out of jail, but only if it's some trumped up charge or for a good cause - I'll be there for you. 'Cause I'm nice like that.)

In other boy news, The ex-Boyfriend was in true form yesterday. He was over to pick up his cats, as divided per the verbal break-up agreement, after being out of town for a week.

First, I asked if I gave him my old quilt. It's basically a navy blue, was on my bed for a few months, and is not the gray comforter he has. I made that very clear.

He SO brought over the gray comforter.

"I vaguely remember something other than white," was his response when I tried to explain for the ga-zillionth time what I was looking for.

Then, I noticed little Zoe has a crab claw growing out of her front right paw.

He seemed to be under the impression that cats' nails molt. No they don't. So, Zoe-cat stayed with her mommy an extra night so I could drop her off at the vet this morning.

In conclusion, my old neighbor needs to make a point to text me in the middle of the night when I'm in AUBURN and The ex-Boyfriend needs to learn the difference between gray and blue and a comforter and a quilt. (I think he's been schooled on the nature of cat nails.) And even though he has those moments all the time, The ex-Boyfriend is a much more reliable pick to keep company with than the old neighbor. Someone better man-up before I go back to the familiar four-year-long road I had with The ex-Boyfriend.