Up in the Air

So the date was supposed to consist of the old cliché: dinner and a movie. In that order. However, when I showed up at the chic Thai restaurant, I got a message from J. informing me of a little switcheroo: movie, then dinner. OK, except, I was starving marvin, and was in dire need of a *little* snack. So, on my way into the cinema, I purchased a combo-deal all inclusive of: a gallon of diet coke, a tub of popcorn large enough to feed a family of ten, and a ginormous pack of Twizzlers. J does not eat popcorn, nor does he drink diet soda. Apparently, he eats only healthy things, like vegetables, meat, and protein shakes. He did agree to taste a twizzler, and we had a cute old couple moment when he held the twizzlers and I shouted "that man has my candy!" and he handed them back to me, shouting "this woman is holding my twizzler!" The couples around us chuckled in approval. The date started off well after all. Contrary to multiple warnings, the movie Up in the Air, was perfect: it shamelessly denounced a life of loneliness and social detachment and advocated marriage, children, and San Francisco. I appreciated that J. did not make any moves that may have distracted me, and let me watch the movie while scattering popcorn matter about my person like a pig in hay.

Equally as refreshing was his choice not to order me a drink at dinner. Because I almost walked into the door he was holding open for me at the restaurant, and then proceeded to knock half the silverwear off the table, he probably figured it was safer not to throw any alcohol in the mix. I am a super cheap date.

Even sans alcohol, dinner was merry. J. has a great sense of humor, which totally jives with mine. He told me of his days in Connecticut where he drove the *apparently* seriously bad-ass Dodge Charger (oooooo!). When he moved back to New York, he sold this cherished piece of machinery to a man in Queens whose claim to fame was, as it turns out, falafel pizza. This man, apprently owned a falafel pizza store. Only in New York, I say. I ordered a coconut broth soup, and apologized for biting into the scallion bits. J. said he would bite into a large clove of garlic to get even. He ordered a brown soup, which ignited a delightful conversation about the potty, and revealed my penchant for potty humor. I noted some dirty looks from the proper couple sitting near-by. Success! Though, I quickly found I was no match for J. He really got on a roll (pun not intended) and spewed a string of dirty and politically incorrect jokes, some of which I am convinced came off a laughy-taffy wrapper. "Why do Jews have big noses?" "Because air is free." Other topics of conversation included a horror film we planned on producing about Zombies looking for their eyeballs at the Eye Bank, how to hook up an HD TV without getting electrocuted, and dialectical pronounciation of the word "vitreous." J. insisted that he could see my vitreous. I was embarassed.

He walked me, like a perfect gentelman, to the Subway stop, saying he will then find his underpass. I told him to stop talking about his underpass, and he accused me of trying to get into his underpass. Cute guy. He earned that hot subway kiss. And, even better, a weekend-night date!