Clearing the queue

This just in: It is cold. And snowing. I realize I live in Minnesota, but I've always sort of thought it was fair to get only one of those at a time. Also, the next time someone who claims to know how weather works says, on a sub-zero day, "It's too cold to snow," I will have to direct them, all Cliff Clavin-like, to this week, because this week, it has been sub-zero for three days in a row and I'm pretty sure it snowed at least a little bit on all three days. Take that, weather know-it-alls.

I promise I will stop talking about the weather now. How about I talk about something even more original? That's right: I had a date last night. Shocking, I know.

This particular date was with a man I'll call the Tiny Lawyer, for the probably obvious reason that he was both tiny and a lawyer. (I know, I know; I'm impossibly clever.) I suspected from his photos that he was the sort of 5'11" that actually means 5'9", but I chose not to worry about that, as he seemed smart and possibly endearing in a charmingly awkward way. Also, for the record, I am not implying that 5'9" automatically equates to "tiny." I am implying that 5'9" and small-framed enough to possibly be wearing a boy's sized suit equates to tiny. Is that fair? I am 5'9" myself, and my frame is decidedly not boy's sized, and while I would like to think I can be modern and open minded and not discriminate against date candidates based on body size, the fact is that if my jeans would be too big for you, there's a pretty good chance I'm just not going to feel comfortable dating you. Not that I want my boyfriend to wear my jeans. Or even try them on, for that matter. I'm really just digging myself farther and farther into this hole, aren't I? Did I mention I am tired? I am TIRED. So tired that I am suddenly trying to decide whether to rework this last paragraph to incorporate some reference implying that the the tiny, squeaky voiced lawyer may have come straight from a dress rehearsal of Oliver. Look at that. I did it anyway. Seriously, sooo tired. Really must get myself to bed here very soon.

Anyway, boy-sized or not, tinyness is not the reason our date was lackluster. He was perfectly nice; I was perfectly nice (mostly... more on that later); but it felt like we were both firing blanks. Nothing was really sticking for either of us. Conversation just never took off. It happens; it's nothing new, and I think we both went through the motions thinking we'd just complete the dinner transaction, say our goodbyes, and be off. Considering I had nothing particularly invested in the evening at that point, you might even think I could get through the whole date without saying anything particularly inappropriate or unintentionally offensive. Keyword: might think. But surely you know me better than that by now.

Apparently in some strict, truth-in-advertising-seeking space in my ever logical brain, I decided this height discrepency needed to be addressed. As we were both getting up to leave, I looked at him and I blurted out, "You are totally not 5'11", by the way."

The dude looked at me like I had just told him I had run over his cat or erased everything on his Tivo. "What? That's what my doctor says I am!" he cried defensively. At that point, of course, I should have apologized and let it go. I shouldn't have said something so unnecessary and foolish in the first place, so at this point, I should have said, "OK; you're right. You probably are 5'11". Sorry." Did I do that? Of course not. Instead, I directed his attention to the window above our table, a window that naturally becomes sort of a mirror in the darkness of night. I pointed to the window, where I could see both of us standing, our heads at such an equal height that I'm convinced you could have placed a carpenter's level from the crown of my head to the crown of his and the bubble would have floated squarely to the center spot between the two black lines. I looked at us in the window, and I pointed and said, "Look! I'm 5'9". There's no way you are two inches taller than me!"

I know, right? What was that I said just yesterday about me not needing a dating advice book? Wait. Scratch that. I still don't need a dating advice book. I just need to keep that mental goalie from falling asleep on the ice. This is nothing new.

So let's review. Tiny Lawyer asks me on a date. I accept; we meet for a casual dinner. He pays without any hesitation whatsoever, whipping his credit card out and handing it over before I can even reach for my wallet. I thank him by calling him short and a liar. To top things off, we walk into the sub-zero, snowy evening to find that he's received a $35 parking ticket while we were inside. This evening was obviously a win-win-win all around for Tiny Lawyer.

On the up side, at least *I* took some useful tidbits from the evening. For example, I learned how to remove a too-small ring from someone's finger using dental floss, and I learned the [Tiny Lawyer's name]'s Patent Pending Formula for DUI Charge Avoidance. Did I mention Tiny Lawyer is a criminal defense attorney? It's almost a shame this one isn't going anywhere, because I bet he has lots of interesting stories.

So. A week ago, I had three potential matches in "the funnel" (See? I did pick up something from that book. I've got some new terminology to use!) Last night was strike two. I have no interest in looking for any additional prospects during the next two rather busy holiday weeks, so Bachelor #3 is officially my last chance to declare that psychic Not a Crackpot and make good on this Year of Stef, "Finding my soul mate in '08" nonsense. Do I have high hopes? Not so much, particularly since Bachelor #3 has yet to send me the requisite message confirming and finalizing our plans, meaning I may actually strike out on the third try without ever even meeting the man. Naturally, of the three, this is the one I've felt most optimistic about, which makes it all the more maddening. Wish me luck.

And with that, it is officially entirely past my bed time. It is also entirely past the time when my programmable thermostat decides it's time to go into money-saving night mode, and as cold as it is this evening, I'll need to cut the fingertips off of a pair of gloves if I want to keep typing much longer. I hear my down comforter calling. I do hate to keep it waiting. I'm out.