It's [not] a Date!

Hello, friends, family, stumblers, and strangers I've drunkenly handed my card to at a bar ("I write my own blog!").  It's been awhile.  I've been experiencing some blockage of the writing constitution, but 3 economy-sized tubs of Metamucil later, I'm back.  Oh, I'm back.

While picking out a job-interview-friendly outfit this morning (you know, one that says, I may have gotten fired for blogging about the evils of office smalltalk, but HIRE ME, for the love of God), I noticed that the "date clothes" section of my closet was quagmired in dust and cobwebs, and carefully cordoned off with yellow CRIME SCENE! DO NOT CROSS! tape.  Utilizing the forensic skills gleaned from 5 months of CSI reruns (and the interrogation tactics I picked up from 5 months of The Closer reruns - I'd consider crossing over to lesbianism for Kyra Sedgwick), I delved deep into the seedy, torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago(when you're me).  Here's what my investigation turned up:

1.  There is no seedy-torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago.  Dating, in the conventional sense of the word, is alive, well, thriving even.  Our country may be on the verge of a debt crisis the likes of which we've never seen, but the market for "intimate, small-plates restaurants that encourage sharing (and alcohol-induced easy conversation - but only with small-batch, artisanally-sourced craft cocktails, duh)" is in excellent health - not so much as a benign, microscopic breast lump to be had. 

2.  I set the bar low for what it takes to get me to like you. Like one of my friends said, "You're too easy going and easy to talk to".  I'm sure it's refreshing for some of you to hang out with a girl who doesn't demand the 14-courser (with wine pairings) at Alinea in order to get in some face time.  But just because I suggested a public pool for our first date doesn't mean you can suggest Blue-Box and a Netflixed 30-Rock marathon for our second.  I didn't comment on your shrinkage.  Reward me with a pat on the head and a nice meal.

3.  I'm so fucking cool it's easy to forget that I am [in some ways] just like every other girl. As in, there's supposed to be some anticipation when it comes to picking out an outfit for a date.  I LIKE standing in front of my mirror with different shoes on each foot deciding which one makes my calves look thinner.  I don't mind letting you see me without my makeup on (and not in the "we've just had a drunken one-night stand and I accidentally drooled on your now-mascara-smeared pillow" way) or in flip-flops and cut-offs, but I would also like to at least attempt to earn one of those wide-eyed, totally mesmerized ogles a la the movies when I descend my stairs fully decked out.

4.  This is the part of my investigation where I discovered that number of dates spent sexually withholding have a fairly direct correlation to the number of stars Zagat gave the restaurant you go to.  Moving on ...

4.5  Not ready to move on yet.  This is heinously unfair.  I shouldn't be penalized for having a libido (and being attracted to you) by having to shove down the $15 3-course seafood feast at Red fucking Lobster on our 3rd date (unless you are taking me there ironically in which case I actually do really like the cheddar bay biscuits).

5.  Please stop trying to be chivalrous by asking me where I want to go.  I am sympathetic to the state of our nation's finances, and yours, too; and painfully self-aware of my own.  When I say, "oh, I don't care, you pick," it means, "I really want to check out the place I read about on Grubstreet a week ago but I feel guilty speaking up because I am broke and therefore would only insincerely be offering to pay when the check came so I'm just going to hope that you read my mind and pick somewhere interesting".  I overdrew my checking account springing for a round on $1 domestic night at Kendall's, ok?  Call me old fashioned, but you're the guy here.  Hold the fucking door open and TELL ME where we are going for dinner.  I'll usually make it worth your while.

In closing, I discovered that the real culprit is me.  I guess I will just become an aloof, prude bitch like all those girls I see smugly enjoying their pan roasted halibut at Girl & the Goat while I'm lugging homemade [serrano & manchego] sandwiches and a bottle of Cava I purchased to watch a *free* movie in the park.  I hope my never-worn black halo dress makes someone at the Salvation Army very happy.