Charming, but single

I’ve obviously updated the banner, but I’m also wanting to work on the sidebar. Really. Promise.

I’ve been seeing lots o’ new commenters lately, and I haven’t been able to keep up with the Technorati links. So comment with your blog name and link and I’ll link to ya. Really. Promise. (Also if you’re “new” tell me how ya found me. ‘Cause I want to know.)

Also, does anyone have a suggestion for blogrolling-managing free site/program/sytem, etc. Been using Blogrolling. The ‘rolls gotten out of hand.

Date details forthcoming.

After tons of e-mails, creepy IMs, winks, flirts, icebreakers, profile scanning, forward questions, obnoxious phone conversations and other generally uncomfortable happenings, I have done it.

I am actually going on a date with on of the Online Dating Guys. The Academic.

I’d been annoyed that we hadn’t been able to get together sooner. Our schedules seem to be pretty opposite. He had suggested lunch last week, and I’d canned that idea as politely as possible, since on most days my lunch break consists of me trying not to get crumbs on the keyboard or Diet Coke on the reports.

So, we’re meeting for lunch at an Indian restaurant on Saturday.

I’m excited and cautiously optimistic. He suggested Indian because we did days of e-mailing back and forth while he was out of town and the topic of food came up. He’s a fan of Indian and I like what I’ve had, so it seemed like a fun idea.

I’m thinking a flippy blow out. I’m thinking casual flowy skirt. I’m thinking tightish T-shirt or tank. I’m thinking sexy little sandals.

Nerves.

There is this moment, before we meet, before the date, before the curry. When all I can do is give myself a wink and smile, take a deep breath and hope for the best.

In an e-mail to my anonymous free e-mail address used exclusively for junk mail and Online Suitors who make it past the initial wink/flirt stage:

"Shouldn’t you be on hot mail? ;)"

Gag.

What do you do when someone you KNOW messages you through a dating site? Send back a chatty, “Hey, remember that night at [The Cigar Bar] when we all listened to that little band?” Or, should I ignore the fact that we have mutual acquaintances and act “surprised” if I end up setting up a coffee date with him. This guy isn’t a close friend, but we’ve met through friends at least once. He definitely was checking out one of my buddies the night we met. He even asked if she had a boyfriend.

The girlfriend I was with that night, we’re kind of opposite types. I’m tall with brown hair and she’s short with blonde. The other differences are harder to pin down, but they are there.

We approach things differently.

She’s a lawyer. I’m a PR girl.

She was drinking Miller. I was sipping white wine.

I mean, he was definitely a nice guy, even if he did check his Blackberry at the bar.

But, sloppy seconds? Knowing that at first glance he went in the opposite direction?

Or, do I assume that it was dark and maybe he didn’t get a good look the first time?

“I had a picture of the baby, and everyone thought he was my grandson,” Mom announced as we gossiped in Southern style, around the cleared table, munching on angel food cake and pistachio pudding, a cool Sunday dessert.

“And I said, ‘No no!’ He’s my NEPHEW,” she said emphatically. “My friends are just amazed that I’m not more upset about not having grandchildren.”

My mom took a sip of iced tea and looked on as the baby in question, my cousin, slept soundly in my arms. I’d been holding him and cooing at him and he’d slipped into sleep before I could put him down.

“Oh really?” I asked, almost accusatorily.

My grandmother interrupted to give me pointers on holding the baby. My aunt interrupted to point out that as the oldest of all of the grandchildren, I was quite skilled in baby handling. I could feel a satisfied smile coming across my face in appreciation that someone recognized the number of diapers I’d changed and bottles I’d made over the years.

“Yes,” Mom said. “Well, I always tell my friends that if y’all had kids, it would be a case of kids raising kids.”

“Is that so?” I brushed my fingertips across the child’s cheek and listened to his gentle breathing. I didn’t disagree. But I wanted to make a point.

“Then why are you trying to set me up with every divorcee who crosses your path?”

I angled my iced tea glass so I wouldn’t drop condensation on the baby’s head and pointed my eyes to Mom.

“Well, I want you to be with SOMEONE,” she said, emphasizing the last word as if I am all alone, free of human interaction.

“Yes, honey,” my grandmother interrupted, again.

“A woman needs a companion.”