DIY speed dating

Before leaving on a trip to Canada, I looked into the possibility of speed dating there. I didn’t find any likely options, which I now know is because they don’t need officials to organize their speed dates– Canucks do it on their own.

I was walking down Yonge Street in Toronto when a display in a t-shirt store window caught my eye. The t-shirt said “No, ma’am” and had a circle-slash over the female sign. I had stopped to try to interpret it (“Call me miss” or “I don’t like women”?) when I overheard the strangest conversation start up behind me. I feigned even more interest than I had in the mystery t-shirt so I could eavesdrop.

It started when a young man stopped a punk-looking girl walking in the opposite direction. “Who are you?” he asked, adding “You’re too cute for me not to know you.” She answered a few questions about her education and her job. Then the guy invited her to rob a McDonald’s with him. (It’s not quite as out of context as it sounds; they had been commiserating on how their careers didn’t pay much.) He offered her some gum, and then they went their separate ways.

A failure for the guy, but a narrow escape for Big Mac-eating Canadians.

From the Department of WTF

Strange excuses from guys are nothing new. There’s the one who told me that he was needed on urgent business in the Middle East, and the one whose phone suddenly died right before I was supposed to pick him up for a date. But this text is, officially, the weirdest reason yet for not returning my messages.

“I’ve been on a vision quest. And busy.”

Don’t say that #49

I was recently bragging to an engaged friend about the glamour of my single-girl weekend. On Friday night, an attractive young man had knocked on my door. Unfortunately, I was unable to open the door, as I was exercising the prerogative of those who live alone– not wearing pants. Turned out he was just selling magazine subscriptions anyway. But on Saturday, the guy who I passed while driving to the grocery store was interested in more than my reading habits. “Do you have a boyfriend? I want to be your boyfriend,” he hollered through the window of his car when we stopped at a red light. I politely declined but was terribly impressed with my irresistability and his nerve.

“Oh, I can beat that,” my friend said. Back in her single days, a magazine salesman had showed up at her door. When he realized she wasn’t buying any magazines, he tried selling her on himself instead. He was enumerating his qualifications as a boyfriend when his cell phone started ringing. He ignored it for a while, but the caller was persistent.

Finally, he pulled out the phone and checked the caller ID. “Oh, I guess I gotta get this,” he told my friend in an annoyed tone. “It’s my baby mama.”

A small step for womankind

I’m afraid Speed Dating Girl may have to retract a statement for the first time ever. No, I’m not regretting having publicized my booty text conversations or judging guys based on their shirts. But I may have been premature in complaining about the glass ceiling of professional speed dating last week.

So, I was at my desk, innocently working (on my job even, not the blog) when I got an email promoting a “last-minute speed dating opportunity for women.” I emailed back and asked if there was a discount, the organizer said no, so I declined. Then I got this email: “keep it hush hush, I can give you a $15 discount, it’ll only be $25 I just had a girl call out sick and I definitely need another girl STAT.”

It now occurs to me that I’m probably violating those terms by writing this, but if she read the blog, she probably wouldn’t be inviting me, right? Anyway, I liked how the need for another girl STAT made me sound kind of like a fancy hooker (Can’t you just picture Eliot Spitzer saying that?), so I agreed.

Then, when I arrived at the event, wallet in hand to pay my “hush hush” rate, the assistant checking people in didn’t mention that I wasn’t pre-paid. Score, I thought, free speed date!

But wait, it gets better. Before we started, the organizer said she’d give a free drink to anyone who knew who invented speed dating. Of course, as a veteran speed dater and a single sort-of-Jewish girl, I knew the answer. (No, not my grandma– someone beat her to the punch, and besides, she only believed in dating lawyers and doctors.) “A rabbi!” I yelled.

So in exchange for my one piece of Jewish historical knowledge (don’t ask me the difference between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur), I earned a vodka seltzer and some respect in the speed dating community.

Success at last! I mean, as it turned out, I didn’t like any of the guys I met at the event, but since when has that been the point?