On the Road . . .
The End of the Road
I've been avoiding putting up this last blog, partially because it means my adventure is really over, and partially because I didn't want to reveal too much. Why would you buy the book if you already know the ending? So here's a smidgen of what happened on date #50 . . .
I’d been looking forward to dating Mr. Iowa since the very beginning of the journey. When I’d sent out a Facebook message to all of my friends, two separate people had recommended this guy. I’d friended him on Facebook and then worried the entire trip that he’d meet someone in the meantime and not be available to be my Mr. Iowa. He was funny. He was attractive. He was Lutheran. What’s not to love?
The day I actually got to Iowa was blustery. It started snowing about an hour from my destination, and I was thankful the journey was almost over. I’d had to tolerate some rain and cold through the South when I’d started back in the spring, but for the most part I’d had good weather for traveling, which is important when you’re driving a Toyota Corolla. It’s not exactly known for being a beast on snow and ice.
I stopped by a gas station, filled the tank, and used what had to be the dirtiest bathroom in Iowa. I started thinking that a website rating bathrooms across the country might have been another service I could have provided while driving around the country, but it was too late now. I shopped around and took my selections up to the counter: orange juice, DayQuil, cough drops, and tissues. I’m pretty sure the cashier went hunting for some hand sanitizer as soon as I walked away.
As I neared the meeting spot with Mr. Iowa, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Seriously? Nervousness? Me? I’d stopped getting nervous about thirty states and dates ago. Maybe this one, my last date of the fifty, was someone special.
“Don’t have such high expectations,” my Chief Safety Officer advised me when I called her to let her know where I’d be. “You’re bound to be disappointed if you go into it expecting too much. Although how perfect would that be, if the man of your dreams grew up just down the road from you but you had to travel all fifty states before you found him? That would be such a perfect ending.”
Yeah, thanks, Alicia. That really helped lower my expectations.
I met Mr. Iowa at a Panera Bread. He was tall and handsome, and he seemed a little nervous, too. We ordered hot chocolates and sat chit-chatting for a few minutes. Then we needed to get going to the Haitian Vodou Drum Circle, a very non-Iowa activity. It was just a mile or so down the road, but we had an issue in the parking lot. Remember my little choking incident at the Husker game? Yeah. Repeat it in Iowa.
I still had half of my hot chocolate left, so when I started coughing, I took a sip, hoping it would help. No such luck. I could sense it was just going to get worse. I flailed at Mr. Iowa, trying to get him to take my cup, but he wasn’t looking at me. I hit him to get his attention, handed it off, and then doubled over. Super attractive. Soon I was crying, my nose was running, but I still wasn’t done coughing. I felt like an idiot. And I really wanted to impress this guy! It started to subside, and I motioned for the hot chocolate back. And then immediately sloshed it on myself. Could this situation get any worse?
Once inside, Mr. Iowa pointed me in the direction of the bathroom where I tried to clean myself up. I was not giving him a good first impression. I just prayed I wouldn’t have another coughing fit in the auditorium. And that we were in aisle seats, just in case. When I came out, he had the tickets.
“I was just faking the coughing,” I said. “That was my little ploy to get you to buy the tickets.”
We found our seats and settled in for the Vodou drums. I loved it. Three men drummed and sang, and one woman alternated between singing back-up vocals and dancing. The lead guy would talk between songs about Haiti. I tried not to giggle, thinking how much my parents would hate it.
“I can’t understand a word he’s saying,” my dad would complain. My mom would be more bothered by the dancer’s skin-tight tank top.
“Can’t they afford bras in Haiti?” she’d ask. She’d probably rally the church ladies to donate their castoffs to ship down there.
My parents aren’t all that interested in culture. My sister said they watched Dora the Explorer for months with the grandkids before one turned to the other and said, “I think she’s Hispanic.” What was it that tipped you off?
The drumming didn’t last nearly long enough. I didn’t want the date to be over yet. Mr. Iowa suggested dinner, though, so off we went. That went too fast, too.
“Megamind?” he suggested. He said he loved animated movies, and that one was playing in the local theater. Me? Not so much.
“Do you like wine?” he tried. Oh yeah. Way more than kiddie movies. Turns out one of Mr. Iowa’s hobbies is winemaking. And since he was a friend of my friends and likely not a murderer, we went to his place.
And that's where I'm going to leave you hanging. :) Thanks for reading all these blogs over the last few months! I'm finishing up the book now and then I'll be shopping around for an agent. Hopefully it will one day come together in book form, but even if it doesn't, I had one heck of an adventure!
The Red Sea
Oh, those crazy Cornhusker fans. I had heard before that the largest population centers of Nebraska are, in order, Omaha, Lincoln, and Memorial Stadium on game days. No other cities can compete with the 81,067 screaming fans who pour into town decked out in red. Seeing it with my own eyes, I had no doubt that this was, indeed, the third largest gathering of people in the state. And honestly, I was a little bit frightened.
It was cold, being November, but not as bad as I thought it might be. I had two layers on my legs, three up top, plus a hat and mittens. I was doing pretty well, body temperature-wise, standing around the tailgate party (which, again, showed the craziness of these Husker fans . . . a giant flatscreen television in the back of your truck to watch the pregame show? for real?), and the people of Nebraska were so darn nice and welcoming. I just love Midwesterners. I know people on the East and West Coasts think Midwesterners are a little slow, but by golly the people are good. You betcha.
Mr. Nebraska and I, along with his friends, joined the crush of people going into the stadium and wound our way up, up, up, to the upper deck. I had been to a couple of college football games before, but they weren’t like this. I didn’t know if it was because Nebraska had no pro teams or if there just wasn’t much else to do in Nebraska, but I swear that there must be some rule that you had to be a Cornhusker fan to live in the state. They held the NCAA record for the most consecutive stadium sellouts, having a to-capacity crowd at every single game since 1962. That’s just crazy. And it wasn’t like the stadium was small. It was huge. And the marching band covered the entire field. It takes a lot of horn tooters to cover that much space. The team came roaring out of the tunnel and the game began. The crowd hooted and hollered, but I started to relax. I was afraid everyone would be able to tell I wasn’t a fan since I wasn’t wearing red, but no one seemed to care. Balloons were released when the Huskers scored their first touchdown. (And why the marketing campaign to call them Huskers instead of Cornhuskers? Is that really an improvement? I mean, at least with “corn” up front you know what exactly it is they’re husking . . . what’s a Husker on it’s own? How is that better?)
“Ooh, he’s so cute,” I said, pointing to the mascot.
“That’s Lil’ Red,” Mr. Nebraska’s friend Paula said.
“Lil’ Red?” I clarified.
“Yeah, like Lil Wayne,” she said.
“Except Lil’ Red hasn’t been to prison lately,” Mr. Nebraska added.
Paula and Matt walked back to the tailgate party area at halftime. Besides the giant flatscreen TV, they also had one of those big heater things you see on restaurant patios. They were going to go warm up and then come back. Mr. Nebraska was happy for the chance to get a word in. (Sorry, but if two women sit together during a football game, they’re going to chat. Paula was like an old friend and we chattered away.) So my actual date and I had an actual conversation during halftime. We talked about life and love and growing experiences and hopes for the future.
“I bet you haven’t had a conversation this deep during your trip,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems like on most first dates you don’t talk about marriage and kids and serious stuff like that.”
“You’d be surprised. Most of my dates on this trip have,” I told him. I thought about it for a moment or two. “I guess I’m probably a safe person to talk to. I mean, there’s no need to impress me, you know? I’m going to be driving away in an hour or two, so guys can tell me anything without worrying about whether or not they’ll get a second date.”
It hadn’t seemed unusual at the time, but maybe it was. Driving around the country, I’d heard guys talk about getting their hearts broken, losing their jobs, hoping for twins, and more. Maybe it was because they didn’t have to impress me, or maybe it was because deep down we all really want to be heard, and I was willing to listen.
Things were going great until the fourth quarter. I choked. Not in a “I didn’t know what to say” sense (come on, I could have a conversation with a tree) but in a very real, I can’t catch my breath, my eyes are watering, my nose is running, I might pass out if I don’t get some air in my lungs soon sense. And not on food. No, no. That might be normal. No, my body just decided to let me know that I didn’t have a cold. I, perhaps, had something a bit more serious. I couldn’t think about it right then, though, because I was coughing up a lung. And I had nowhere to go, really. The Huskers had a big lead, so lots of people were leaving. If I tried to go to the bathroom, it would take me ten minutes just to get down the ramp, and who knows if I’d ever find my group again. All I could do was lean back (the people behind us had already left, thankfully) so I wouldn’t be coughing in Mr. Nebraska and Paula’s faces.
“Are you okay?” my date asked. I kind of nodded. And continued to cough violently.
“Need something to drink?” Matt offered. But we had nothing. And the concession-hawking kids had stopped coming around early in the third quarter. I shook my head. I couldn’t even get enough breath to reassure them I’d be okay in a minute.
“Maybe she’d just like us to stop looking at her,” Paula said. Thank you, thank you, for a woman being present and understanding. I gave a weak thumbs up, then wiped away some tears.
I recovered eventually, but it kind of put a damper on the festivities. The game ended and we were carried along, down, down, down the ramp and out into the street. We headed back over to the tailgating area. The friends with the giant flat screen TV were still there, having watched the game in the parking lot. I personally would have watched the game from my warm living room, but I guess I just don’t understand the superfan concept. They were all so nice that I hated to be the first to leave, but I was honestly pretty much feeling like crap by that point. I needed some Nyquil and a pillow, stat. Mr. Nebraska took me back to my car. I thanked him for a fun date and apologized for nearly dying.
“Would’ve made a great story,” he suggested.
But not the kind of ending I’m hoping for.
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Here was a new problem: two Mr.’s in one state. I guess it was better than no date at all.
The day before, I had no one lined up. A farmer seemed to be a maybe, but I’d learned back in Illinois that a maybe wasn’t a yes. One of my friends texted her sister who sent out an all-points bulletin to all of her old friends from her days at KU. They came up with a man for me, and we made a date for dinner the next night. An hour later the farmer called and said he was available for lunch. Crap. I hated to say no. And I couldn’t exactly break the date with the guy I’d just made plans for dinner with since I’d been begging everyone I knew to find me someone. And so . . . I decided to have two dates, one for lunch and one for dinner.
I’d spent the night in a cheap hotel. I was exhausted and coming down with something. I had a cough and those all-over aches and I really just wanted to go to bed early instead of having to talk to someone that night. Plus, couchsurfing seemed to be much more popular on the east coast than it was in rural Kansas. My options were slim. The good news was I was well-rested but the bad news was I still wasn’t feeling great.
I don't want to give away everything, but I'll tell you this much: while my two dates were both Kansas natives, Mr. Kansas #2 had had a very different life experience than Mr. Kansas #1. Mr. Kansas #1 had wanted nothing more than to stay close to home and farm with his dad; Mr. Kansas #2 had toured the country playing in the minor leagues, then finished out his athletic career playing in Europe and Australia. Despite their differences, both guys had the same complaint about dating in Kansas: there were no women around!
Both were short dates but I drove away from both thinking again that a dating service should really be my next career move. Well, it wouldn’t be a job really; I just wanted to find good women for all of these good guys I was meeting. There really were good ones left out there; they were just in places most women weren’t looking.
Rocky Mountain High
Speeding along a mountain pass, Mr. Colorado pulled off the road and parked at a secluded spot, far from any streetlights. He lowered the convertible top, giving us unfiltered access to a sky full of stars. It was amazing. Romantic. The perfect make-out spot. And then . . . we played Scrabble.
I’d planned to have my Colorado date before I left for Hawaii, but the guy who I’d initially selected, a rancher, had gone from “I can’t wait to meet you” to “MIA” when I tried to actually pin down a time and place for us to meet. He left a message on my voicemail the morning I’d boarded the plane for Honolulu. Too late, buddy. I no longer had the time or the interest in making it happen at that point. It kind of left me in a lurch, though, and I wasn’t happy that I had to spend time I could have been on a beach emailing, texting, and calling friends for leads. Luckily one of my old friends agreed to be my Mr. Colorado. Okay, maybe that was cheating a little, but I did have a crush on him at one point in my life. Using the book as an excuse, I asked him out, something I was never brave enough to do years ago when I wanted to, and he said yes. Game on.
My jaw dropped when I saw him drive up in a convertible. Wow. I’m not normally impressed by cars, but it was a sweet ride. I obviously hadn’t seen him in a while -- the last time I saw him, he was driving a Jeep. The leather seats in this car had stitching like a baseball glove. Awesome! I’d never seen anything like it. We zipped down the highway.
“I was thinking we could go up to a ski town for dinner,” Mr. Colorado said. The last time I’d seen him, we’d been at Copper Mountain with another friend. I missed skiing. I’d only gone two days last season before leaving Colorado. He said he was going to miss snowboarding this season since he was under doctor’s orders not to take any risks. I’d heard about his car accident from another friend, but he told me about it firsthand.
“I shouldn’t be alive. Everyone who saw the car said I should be dead,” he admitted. “And it sounds awful, but God smashing my head into my windshield was exactly what I needed. My priorities are straightened out now. Lots of time in the hospital gives you clarity like that.”
I hoped I’d never have to find out for myself.
I found myself alternately laughing uproariously and entrenched in deep conversation. Why hadn’t we hung out more when I lived here? Calling Mr. Colorado “my old friend” is probably a stretch. We were kind of friends of friends. We saw each other occasionally within a group of similar acquaintances. We’d never actually hung out, just the two of us. I’d dated one of his friends; he’d dated one of mine. I never really knew if there was substance behind the pretty face. I figured there probably was, but I’d never taken the time to find out. I was regretting that. A lot.
We drove up to South Park (yeah, it’s a real place . . . not a town, more like an area) and ended up eating at The Only Bar in Alma. Alma is the highest town in the U.S., and I can’t say I’d ever stopped in for a visit. It’s on the way to Breckenridge or Keystone if you’re coming up the back way from Colorado Springs, so I’d been through a time or two on my way to ski. It seemed to me they made most of their money off of skiers speeding through at the end of their day. I guess everybody’s gotta make money somehow. Every small town has a bar, and Alma, Colorado, is one small town -- less than 200 people. I worried a little bit, leaving Mr. Colorado’s flashy little convertible out there on the street, but he didn’t seem too nervous about it. The bar had a fairly extensive menu, I thought, well, being a bar and all, and we ate and watched Monday Night Football with the locals. You’d think the Broncos would be the only team people in Colorado cared about, but one man must have been imported. He proudly wore a Steelers jersey and screamed obscenities at the Bengals. The locals were friendly, although we did get some funny looks when we started playing Scrabble after dinner. And really, Scrabble in a bar? I can’t blame them.
I love Scrabble. And I’m insanely competitive. The last time I’d seen Mr. Colorado, he and I and our other friend had gone out to eat after skiing and then played Scrabble. I keep one of my Scrabble games in my car at all times. I have four versions of the game altogether: super mini Travel Scrabble (which entertained me when I spent three months in Africa), regular Travel Scrabble in a soft, padded case (the one I keep in my car), the original Scrabble (inherited from some family member, circa 1973), and Deluxe Scrabble (with a turntable! yeah, I said a turntable!). When the three of us had played in Breckenridge, the game ended in controversy. I won, but just barely, and the guys challenged my winning word. We had to drive around town, trying to pick up an internet signal on one of their phones so we could look it up in an online dictionary. (Oh, and P.S., I was right. Do NOT challenge me, suckas!)
I trounced him. He was a good sport about it. I’d had one drink and I teased that he should have encouraged me to have another before we started. Between my low tolerance and the altitude (Alma is over 10,000 high!), me being loopy could have benefited his game. We wrapped it up and started the hour and a half drive back.
Climbing Wilkerson Pass, Mr. Colorado drove off the road and onto a little overlook. He pressed the button to put the top down on the convertible, turned on the heated seats, and cranked the heater. The sky was unbelievable. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just sat and looked up at the stars. This is the perfect make-out spot, I thought. Did he bring me here to make out? I doubt it. But maybe I could talk him into it. I couldn’t help it. It was just so perfect. As I sat there wondering, he pulled out the Travel Scrabble for a rematch. Soon I was kicking his ass again.
“One of my friends told me once that I should let guys win so they wouldn’t be intimidated by me,” I admitted.
“Actually I think it’s really attractive, how smart you are,” he said. Hmmm. Maybe I really could talk him into making out. But he was my friend. You’re not supposed to make out with friends, right? But did I mention he’s really good looking? And not the cocky, “I know I’m good looking” good looking, but the sweet and kind-of-shy-when-it-comes-to-girls good looking. I kept looking at his hands, since they were right in front of me on the Scrabble board. They looked strong. I don’t know what my thing is with strong arms and hands. I like it when I can see veins and muscles. Maybe it makes me feel like they would be good protectors. Maybe I just hadn’t touched a guy in a long time.
A shooting star shot through the sky as we ended the game, and I wondered if I was stupid to not stay in Colorado. It was so beautiful. I’d been sad to leave Hawaii, but the mountains were incredible, too. I’d have a harder time finding the beauty in the next state, Kansas. But I figured the stars are everywhere, if you take the time to go out and see them.
When he dropped me off at my friends‘ house, my face hurt from smiling. It had been a great date. I kicked myself for never having been brave enough to ask him out when I was living in Colorado, but I hadn’t thought a guy as good looking as he is would be interested in a Plain Jane like me, and I wasn’t sure our personalities would mesh long term. I still wasn’t sure they would, but he definitely would have been fun to hang out with. And make out with. Just sayin’.
Aloha!!
Mr. Hawaii wouldn’t tell me what we were doing on our date. He told me he’d pick me up at 8AM and I should bring a swimsuit. On a Hawaiian island, that could mean pretty much anything.
“I’m hoping for parasailing,” I told my friend Eli over breakfast. I was staying with him and his wife Carolyn. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” You wore a swimsuit for parasailing, right? It looked fun. I thought maybe stand-up paddling was an option. That seemed to be the latest craze, and easier to do that surfing. I feared we might be taking surfing lessons. I mean, that would be a very Hawaiian thing to do, so that would be cool, but the truth is I’m not the strongest swimmer in the world. And I fear being eaten by sharks.
He was right on time and still as elusive. My friend Kevin, who had set us up, described Mr. Hawaii was “a crazy-ass Asian kid,” so I figured we’d have a good time, whatever it was he had planned. It turned out that phase one of the date wasn’t going to work out since it was raining. We stopped at the place where he had reserved a mini coupe (like a scooter but with two wheels up front and one in the back and side-by-side seats) to cancel the reservation. It looked like a fun way to get around the island, but probably not in the rain. He pointed out the Waikiki highlights as we drove, but then we headed out of the city. Hmmm.
We stopped at various places along the road to take in the scenery: Hanauma Bay (“great for snorkeling” according to Mr. Hawaii), the Halona Blow Hole, and the beach where they filmed that famous scene in From Here to Eternity where they’re rolling around in the surf kissing. It was still raining a little, but what did I care? I was in Hawaii!!!
Speaking of movies, that was one of Mr. Hawaii’s hobbies: being an extra. He’d recently scored a line in the movie Battleship (who cares that he’s Korean and the role was a Japanese captain -- all Asians look the same, right?), and he’d been in the background of scenes on Hawaii Five-O and LOST. My favorite story was how he’d sent messages to all of his friends and family telling them to watch the episode of LOST where Sun & Jin got married. He was one of the Korean guests, and he was pretty sure he’d be seen in one particular scene. All day long he got messages back from friends who said they had seen him. Even his mom sent him a message saying she was so proud to see her son on national television. He didn’t have a TV at the time, so he went to the library and watched the episode online. One problem, though: he wasn’t in it. He’d been cut out of the shot. None of his friends or family could tell; all Asians look the same, right?
After driving for a while, we pulled into Sea Life Park. Mr. Hawaii said some scenes from Fifty First Dates had been filmed here, which seemed kind of fitting, since I was kind of doing fifty first dates, but with fifty different guys instead of just Adam Sandler (and while he’s funny in a juvenile way, I think my fifty different guys were probably more entertaining). I still didn’t know for sure what we were doing. Mr. Hawaii told me to stay put and went to pay. I could see a sign with varying prices, but I wasn’t sure if he was paying for normal entrance, the stingray encounter (Isn’t that how the Crocodile Hunter died? No, thank you!), playing with sea lions, or swimming with dolphins.
We wandered around for awhile, watching the sea lion show and petting turtles. We passed by some people swimming with dolphins, and Mr. Hawaii said we were going to be doing that soon. WE WERE GOING SWIMMING WITH DOLPHINS!!! AWESOME!!! We sat and watched the dolphin show and I was so excited. I was going to be in the water with those beautiful creatures soon!
We got our life jackets on and went to the pool. It was a weekday and it was still a little drizzly, so the crowd was thin. We were two of three people in the Royal Dolphin Swim, which meant we got a lot of time with the animals. We started out by petting them and they took pictures of us kissing them. So cute! Then the real fun began. First, we went out into the deep water and held our arms out. I went first. Two dolphins came up behind me, one on each side, and I grabbed hold of their dorsal fins. They dragged me back to the shallow area. Awesome! I watched Mr. Hawaii go next. So cool! (He didn’t seem to get a mouth full of water like I did. Secret skill?) We swam back out to the deep end for the grand finale. Mr. Hawaii went first this time and I went second. We were instructed to float on our bellies with our feet flat. The two dolphins came up from behind again but this time they put their little noses on my feet and pushed me out of the water. I think I may have attracted the attention of pretty much everyone in the park with my screaming. Good screaming. Well, maybe slightly freaked out screaming, but mostly just amazed/this is awesome screaming. When in my life was I ever going to get to do this again?
It was over far too quickly. Mr. Hawaii said not to bother changing out of my suit, though, because we were going to a beach. We headed for Bellows, a private beach just for military folks. (I didn’t realize that people in the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines all call Oahu home. What a great place to get stationed!) We rented boogie boards and hit the beach.
I’d tried boogie boarding once before on a mission trip to El Salvador. We worked side by side with the locals by day, building a house. Then we’d rush back to our rental house on the beach, throw on suits, and hit the ocean. Well, maybe it would be more fitting to say the ocean hit us. The waves down there were incredibly strong. My worst moment was when I couldn’t get up off the beach. The waves had flattened me, and when I tried to stand up, my feet got sucked out from under me. The waves smacked me down into the sand again, and when I tried to get up this time, the waves literally rolled me down the beach. The teenagers who were with me laughed and laughed. I'm glad I can provide cheap entertainment. When I finally managed to get up, I was covered head to toe in sand. Needless to say, boogie boarding wasn’t exactly my sport. (And btw, the swimsuit I was wearing that day still has fine gray sand embedded in its seams four years later. I swear. It was bad.)
The Hawaiian waves, though, weren’t quite as punishing. We had a great time on the nearly deserted beach. Just like Sea Life Park, we were nearly alone on this drizzly day. And even without a life jacket to hide certain parts of my physique, I wasn’t self-conscious. Mr. Hawaii was just one of those guys you know isn’t judging you, so you can relax.
We ate dinner along another beach and made plans to get together again over the weekend. My friend Kevin was right; Mr. Hawaii was definitely the right guy to hang out with on Oahu!!
AZ, NV, UT, & WY
In an effort to be "caught up" when I leave for Hawaii (tomorrow!), here are quick glimpses of the most recent dates!
ARIZONA
I don't know why anyone would choose to live in a place where it's 102 degrees in the shade in October. Seriously? I started sweating just pumping gas. I was a little worried about how drenched in sweat I'd be, hiking with Mr. Arizona, but I luckily got out of it because he had to work later than expected. We drove to the top of the mountain to see the sunset instead of hiking up there. Hooray! (Yes, I've definitely gotten lazier and lazier as this trip has gone on.) We grabbed some dinner afterward and had a great conversation. I found it interesting that when I asked what he was looking for in a woman, he said he wanted someone who had her own dreams and life and goals, not someone who was ready to drop everything and cling to him. Take note, ladies!
NEVADA
I know I've said this before about other dates, but this was possibly the most fun I've had on a date on this trip! I met Mr. Nevada at Mystery Adventures in Las Vegas, and together with eight other junior detectives, we went out and tore apart offices and labs, hunting for clues. I ended up finding a dead body in a refrigerator and seeing a ghost (both fake, but both freaky enough to make me scream . . . making this the first date where I screamed bloody murder). I was really impressed with how elaborate the whole thing was -- clues hidden in emails on computers, hidden doors to secret passageways -- and the bang for the buck factor. I mean, I lost the same amount of money in slot machines in five minutes that I paid for four hours of mystery solving! Awesome date!
UTAH
When Mr. Utah sent me an email telling me about himself, he included a picture of himself dirt biking. Hmmm, I thought. I haven't ever been dirt biking before . . . and the Utah date activity was decided. It took me a while to get the hang of the clutch thing (yeah, I'm 35 and I've never driven anything with a clutch before), but if I could get it into first gear, I could drive it just fine. We started off on a nice, flat, wide road, but I got a little worried when we got to a water crossing. He went through first and when I saw it wasn't too deep, I went for it. No problem. I did three more water crossings and was feeling pretty badass. But what's that proverb? Pride goes before a fall? Yeah. Literally. Going uphill on a rocky patch, I tipped over. And I fell on a rock, too. Then the only badass thing was my giant bruise. Nothing was broken except my pride. Fun activity, good guy . . . and only a day or two of pain.
WYOMING
I was a little panicked about Wyoming. I think we all remember that little episode in Illinois where I had to try to pick up a man, and I really wasn't looking forward to repeating that. Luckily my friend Krystal called her brother and he found me a date. We made plans for Friday night on Friday morning. Nothing like waiting 'til the last minute. Mr. Wyoming did an impressive job on short notice. We went up on a nearby mountain and checked out the city, then enjoyed some wine and cheese. Oh, and he brought his dog. She was cute, and the first dog that came along on one of the fifty dates! We went out for dinner afterwards, and on the way home, I asked if he'd ever get married. He said he'd marry someone if she could support the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed. I couldn't tell if he was joking or serious, but with the savings account running lower and lower, I am definitely not a sugar mama candidate!
The Price is Wrong, Bob.
I had planned what I wanted to do on my date in California long before I found a guy to be my date. I wanted to hear those three little words everyone dreams of hearing: Come on down!
I’m a bit of a game show fanatic. Before meeting Mr. California there, I’d already been to the Price is Right twice. I didn’t get called to come on down either time. I’ve taken the online Jeopardy test twice and haven’t made the cut either time (If only I could get on kids week! I’m really good with those questions! Or celebrity week! Those questions are even easier!). I even auditioned for Wheel of Fortune when the Wheelmobile came to town. I made the cut for a second audition, but got sent home before the third. And that’s too bad, because, not to brag or anything, but I kick ass at Wheel of Fortune. I honestly do solve the puzzles faster than the contestants 99% of the time. The chances of a humiliating defeat are much less on that one than on Jeopardy. Anyway, I love game shows. And I didn’t know how I was going to afford Hawaii, so I was kind of hoping to win a trip, too.
I found Mr. California on a dating website. I liked him for a lot of reasons. A) He listed The Goonies as one of his favorite movies. B) His pictures showed him hiking, playing guitar, and sitting under prayer flags in Nepal. C) He wore those nerdy-cute glasses. and D) He was in the biz there in L.A., which I thought might mean some flexibility in his work schedule, i.e. available on a Tuesday to go to the Price is Right with me. I shot him an email, and he said he couldn’t say no to such a crazy idea.
Long story short, L.A. traffic sucks. My GPS said it would be a two hour drive, but it took me over three hours. I ran the last four blocks. It was now 8:43AM. The information I’d gotten had very clearly stated that all reserved tickets would be given away if not claimed by 8:30AM. I dialed Mr. California, not sure how else to find him in the swarm of people. Dang. Looked like everyone wanted to win a trip to Hawaii.
“I’m on your left,” he said instead of hello. After a few awkward moments of scanning the massive crush of humanity on my left, I spotted him. Cute! And he’d worn the glasses. Yay!
“I’m so sorry,” I started. We were supposed to meet at 8AM.
“No problem,” he said. “I talked the woman into giving me the tickets. I said it was our first date and she seemed willing to help.”
“Oh good.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but seriously? I’d just run for nothing?
“Relax,” he said. “Breathe!” I must have been looking pretty awful.
Have I mentioned I don’t run?
“I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Now, if you hate them, we don’t have to wear them . . .” He held up two matchy-matchy green t-shirts. The first said, I’m writing a book: Fifty Dates in Fifty States. The second said, I’m Date #41: California. Cute! I liked him already!
We were in line forever, but it’s amazing how time passes quickly when you have someone interesting to talk to. Mr. California was an assistant director.
“Have you worked on anything I would have heard of?” I asked. He rattled off a bunch of movie titles. Wow.
“I’m currently working on the Hangover 2.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s awesome!” I guess I’d just assumed that everyone in Hollywood was the struggling actor type. You know, waiting tables while waiting for their big break? But this guy was actually making a living in the business.
“We’re going to Thailand to shoot from Thanksgiving to Christmas,” he said.
“What kind of plot line takes them to Thailand?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is it the same group of guys as the first one?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said again, but nodded his head up and down. He shrugged. “That’s nothing you couldn’t find on the internet, so it’s not like I'm spilling a huge secret or something.”
We had to fill out some forms with our legal names and social security numbers, just in case we won and had to pay taxes on prizes. A red-coated intern came around to write our names on the big yellow nametags. She read our shirts and started gushing about how awesome it was.
“Have you dated any women?” she asked.
“Um, no.”
“You should.” Mr. California started laughing.
“I like guys,” I explained.
“Yeah, but like, if they make your book into a movie, it would be more interesting if you had at least one girl date in there. I mean, look at it from the Hollywood aspect.”
I think I’ll stick with men.
We were moved from one area to another, still staying in the order we were in before. I’d say it was like being a cow in the herd, but cattle don’t stay in single file lines. And cattle can graze as they go. Man, I was hungry. We’d been in line for about two hours already, and that granola bar I’d eaten at 7AM as I sat on the traffic-jammed freeway was long gone.
“So have you learned anything about dating from doing this?” Mr. California asked.
I thought about it for a minute. “I think I’m less picky. No, that’s not a good way of putting it. It’s like, I’m more open to giving guys a chance than I used to be, I guess.” I was not making sense.
“Okay, let me give you some examples. There were guys I passed up in the past because there was something about them I didn’t like. Someone wanted to set me up with a guy who they said had a good job, his own house, a couple of cats . . . and I just cut them off right there. I’m not a big fan of cats. Or this one time, a guy on Match.com seemed great, but then I found out he was a math teacher and I wasn’t interested anymore.”
“So, hypothetically speaking,” Mr. California began, “if one of your fifty dates happened to have been the president of his high school math club, and even came up with the name ‘Divide and Conquer’ for said club, would that automatically disqualify him?”
I laughed. “No, that’s what I’m saying. The clever name shows you’re good with words, too, and not just numbers. And now that I’ve spent a few hours with you, I know there’s much more to you than math. In the past I would have said, ‘I hate math. I don’t want to be with someone who loves math.’ But now I realize that just because someone has one quality that I don’t like, it doesn’t mean he’s not someone I could be with.”
“It’s not like that’s the only thing I did in high school,” he said. “I played tennis. And I was on the Homecoming Court.”
“Me, too!” I said. “I probably had less competition than you, though. I only had twenty-five people in my senior class.”
He laughed. “So I’m not a nerd.”
“It’s not even that,” I tried to explain. “I like smart guys. I was just really bad at math in high school. I think it’s an issue of my own insecurity more than thinking the guy might be nerdy. Like, what if he thinks I’m not smart because I’m not good at math and he is?”
“Hmmm . . . deep.”
“Whatever. So has online dating worked well for you out here, or is this the only offer you’ve gotten lately?”
“It’s alright. My brother met his wife online, so I figure there’s always a chance.”
“This might sound bad, but I picture all women out here to be wannabe actresses and models. Are those the only women you meet?”
He laughed. “You know, I drive by schools and hospitals and think, there must be teachers and nurses in this city, but for the life of me I can’t find them. But honestly I don’t have a lot of time for dating anyway. I mean, we generally put in fifteen hour days on the set.”
I wrinkled up my forehead. Yikes. Who wants to date someone who works fifteen hour days? I mean, it’s bad enough that he’s never there, but when he does come around, he’s probably exhausted and cranky and not really interested in doing much more than popping in a DVD and falling asleep halfway through.
The line moved again. It was our turn to wow the producer. Being selected to come on down is not about luck. In small groups, you stand in front of a producer who quickly moves down the line, asking who you are and what you do. You’ve got all of twenty to thirty seconds to make a better impression than the other 300 people you’re in line with. “Church youth worker” had not impressed anyone the two previous times I tried to get on, so I was hoping “dating my way around the country” might be more impressive. And we had the cute t-shirts Mr. California had made.
“What do you do?” he asked a woman.
“I’m a cupcake maker,” she said. My stomach growled. We’d been in line for over three hours. I wanted a cupcake. Or a cake of any kind. I could seriously have eaten an entire cake right then.
“How about you?” he asked the guy next to me.
“I’m a professional biker,” he responded. I’d seen him writing his info on his little card. He said BMX had thousands of fans. I considered re-writing my info. I mean, if we were going for numbers, millions of people READ. I could consider them all fans, right?
The producer stepped in front of me. “What do you do?”
“I’m driving around the country, dating,” I said. I may have stuttered a little bit. Or stammered. Or both. I was nervous, okay?
“This is Mr. California,” I said, gesturing to my handsome date.
“So, how long have you known each other?” he asked.
“We just met here this morning,” Mr. California said.
“Weird,” the producer said, then called my date a gigolo. Dang it! Why did everyone else think it was a cute idea, but the one guy I needed to impress to win a fabulous Hawaiian vacation thought it was strange?
We were moved to yet another area to sit and wait for yet another length of time. All told, we finally moved into the studio about four hours after we got there. They were playing music, and Mr. California and I danced while everyone else just sat there, taking in the bright lights and the smaller-than-you-think-it-would-be stage. When “You’re The One That I Want” from Grease came blaring over the sound system, Mr. California tugged me out into the aisle and started swing dancing. Cute, smart, and a good dancer? Ding ding ding!!!
Sadly, a great date was my only prize that day. Was I bummed? A little bit. I mean, sitting there watching other people get called up to play Plinko and win cars and hug Drew Carey was like being given a little toy horse to play with while the person next to you gets a real pony. It was slightly torturous.
When the taping ended, we headed out. Mr. California was anxious to make some phone calls. He’d written a movie about warring college acapella groups and had just gotten the news that someone was interested in producing it. I was anxious to get some food. We all have our priorities.
P.S. The show airs November 22 if you want to set your DVR. Look for us in our matchy-matchy green shirts!!
Alaska, Washington, & Oregon
Ugh. I'm behind! I know, I know . . . and I'm really sorry to those of you who love the long date stories, but here's the thing: my time is running out really fast. I've only got about a month on the road left, and as I run out of time, I want to cram everything in, which means I don't want to spend lots of time in front of my computer! So . . . . here's a brief rundown of my last three dates.
WASHINGTON
My friend Janis set me up with Mr. Washington. They went to high school together and she assured me he wasn't dangerous and I could definitely accept his invitation to make me dinner. We went down to the famous Pike Place Market and bought everything fresh, and then he cooked a fabulous dinner -- grilled salmon, green rice, grilled beets (yes, I ate them, thank you very much), and corn on the cob. Yummmmy. He admitted that he's used his skills in the kitchen to woo women before. Well played.
ALASKA
Mr. Alaska wins the "above and beyond" award for picking me up at the ferry terminal at 3AM. He was a friend of a friend of my friend Matt (yeah, it's complicated) so I was also assured of his lack of a criminal history. We went on quite possibly the coolest date of this little adventure, and I mean that in both the temperature and the slang meanings. Mr. Alaska and I paddled kayaks around icebergs (AMAZING!!), then strapped on some crampons and hiked on the Mendenhall Glacier. The entire time I kept thinking, I will never have the chance to do these things again . . . when did my life take this incredible turn??
OREGON
On the Alaskan ferry, I met two fellow travelers who had a friend in Portland they thought would be a great date for me. I was relieved because the guy I thought I was going to date turned out to be on the opposite side of the state and I was a bit panicked about finding someone. The new Mr. Oregon was a fabulous last minute replacement. We had great conversations, first walking around the Japanese Garden and then sitting eating frozen yogurt in Pioneer Square. He felt like an old friend.
So, there you have it friends. Consider yourselves updated. You'll have to wait for the book for the juicy details. :)
I was going to title this one Ida-whoa, but that would be lame . . .
I met Mr. Idaho in a parking lot between Coeur d’Alene’s big resort hotel and the trailhead of a path that meanders beside the lake. I normally wouldn’t meet a stranger for a hike, but this guy had been referred to me by Sarah, the sweet girl I couchsurfed with back in Salem, Mass. Plus I’d seen a ton of people hiking this trail the day before when I’d walked the boardwalk with my parents. I didn’t figure he could drag me kicking and screaming into the woods to kill me without attracting some attention from fellow hikers.
It was a cloudy day but the views were still amazing. We stopped and stood on big rocks looking out over the lake, and he pointed out which ones you can jump off of. It was easy to picture him as a teenager, spending lazy days here with his buddies. It was hard to picture him laying in a hospital bed, immobile, but that’s right where he’d been a few years before.
After a rappelling accident that dropped him the equivalent of two and a half stories, his mom got a phone call saying that if he ever woke up from the coma, he’d never walk again. The fact that he’s back to normal today is nothing short of a miracle. And here he was, helping me scramble over boulders and fallen trees.
We talked about everything. He guessed I was an only child. He’s the oldest of five. We talked about family dynamics and our roles in our own families. We talked about our childhoods and our churches and our hopes for the future. We had a lot in common. And a pretty good amount of chemistry. He took my water bottle and put it in his pocket so I wouldn’t have to carry it. I thought that was gentlemanly. But then he took my now empty hand. Smooth.
I thought it was a little weird, since I’d just met him, but then I thought about how just that morning as I drove to the date, I’d been thinking about how no one does that nowadays. Guys jump straight to the making out without the preliminary hand holding or hugging. I dated a guy several years ago who’d made me melt the first time he held my hand; his thumb traced small circles around my palm as his fingers lay entwined with mine. I wondered if guys knew how sensual hand holding could be, or if they even cared. Call me old fashioned, but I like the baby steps.
We got back to the trailhead and headed for downtown Coeur d’Alene. We bypassed the shops and galleries and headed straight for Hudson’s, home of the best burgers in town. The place was packed and we were lucky to get two barstools right behind the guy flipping burgers. Mr. Idaho said he was a germaphobe and had to go wash his hands, which made my heart skip a beat. A kindred spirit! I wanted to go wash my hands, too, but people just kept pouring in to this little hole in the wall, and I was afraid if I wasn’t there to guard our barstools, we’d lose our seats. I opted for the hand sanitizer in my purse.
The waitress came by after we'd finished our burgers and asked if we wanted any pie. We declined. Mr. Idaho said his senior yearbook quote had been, “I like two kinds of pies, apple pies and cutie pies.” Groan. But still kind of cute. Oh who am I kidding? He was really cute. I was smitten.
We headed back out onto the street and stopped in at an art gallery. I got the Idahoan themes of horses and mountains, but I wondered who on earth would pay $1200 for a six-foot tall canvas of some guy’s face, and where exactly in your house you’d want to display that. I liked the landscape photography better and said I should blow up some of the pictures I’d taken when I got done with the trip. We talked about where in the world we’d been and where we wanted to go. He wanted to go to Buenos Aires, and I didn’t tell him, but I wanted to go with him. I didn’t want to creep him out.
He had to go to work, so the date had to come to an end. We stood on the sidewalk hugging for a long time. He smelled so good and his vest was so cushiony . . . I’m sure anyone who saw us thought we were a bit odd, but I wasn’t going to be the first to pull away. He kissed my cheek and I melted a little more.
“I really hope I see you again,” I said as he walked away. “You’re dreamy.”
Dreamy? Who tells someone they’re dreamy? Marcia Brady? Ugh. Nice impression to leave him with . . .
Midwest Highlights!
In an effort to catch you up (and to not have to put up several long blog posts in one day!), here’s a brief rundown on my dates in the upper Midwest!
Wisconsin -- This is the first time I felt an actual jolt when I saw one of my dates. So attractive! We’d planned to wander around a garden outside an art museum, but the weather wasn’t cooperating. We just went to dinner instead. I was shocked when I looked at the time and found we’d been talking for two and a half hours. He’s kind, he’s active, he’s Lutheran . . . what a catch!
Minnesota -- Mr. Minnesota had just gotten his pilot license. Like, literally a few hours before I met him. I was a little bit scared but figured that the last time I went up in a small plane, I jumped out of it, and this couldn’t be any scarier than that. We had a smooth takeoff, a turbulence-free flight, and an easy landing. Nobody dying = a good date in my book.
North Dakota -- Froggy 99.9 in Fargo found me my Mr. North Dakota. Amanda, one of their morning show dj’s, has a history of great matchmaking. She found me a cute guy who was a great conversationalist and he even brought gifts! (An NDSU t-shirt and a beautiful peach rose -- what a sweetie!) We had a great time shooting clay pigeons (my first time shooting a shotgun!) and had a delicious dinner -- see my “thank you” page for more details!
South Dakota -- My first double date of the trip! My old friend Trisha hooked me up with a friend of hers. She, her hubby, Mr. SD, and I went to Vermillion’s Ribs, Rods, and Rock & Roll festival downtown. Any date that involves ribs has to be good, right? We had a good time wandering, eating, and listening to the cover band. I have two bruised shins from a small rib-grilling accident (you’ll have to wait for the book for details!), but it was a fun night.
Montana -- This one was a little odd, because I was only available during the day and the Mr. Montana my friend Matt helped me find had to work during the day. So . . . we had a phone date. We talked about all kinds of stuff, like work (he's a cowboy -- cool!), hobbies (he owns a boat! I came in the wrong season!), and Montana. It was actually a good way to get to know someone without the "should I or should I not kiss him at the end of the date" debate, since it wasn't an option.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love Midwestern guys? Sigh. They restore my hope that there are still good ones left out there!