I'd like to say it was the best of dates and the worst of dates. That would be poetic. But it didn't really happen like that. This is the story of two dates gone wrong, two blind dates actually.
Not everyone can be a matchmaker. And not every match that's offered is one that should be taken up.
My blind date, Scott, likes college hoops, '80s TV and helping others. I like his cute tuchus. I'm thinkin' we'd make a fine pair of Jews. We stray from the first date playbook and follow a Santa Monica dinner with a Main Street stroll. As we walk past yet a third unique boutique on our way to get dessert (that we don't want) and more time together (which we do), Scott says those three little words that can rock a girl's world. "There's my car."
It's a PT Cruiser -- washed and waxed today, valid registration, parked less than 12 inches from the curb. No fuzzy dice, high school tassel or pine-scented Playmate air freshener. The car doesn't scream "show-off" or "shady," Speed Racer or gas guzzler. What it screams is middle-aged dad. More specifically -- my dad.
Let's go live to my blind date at a West Hollywood Restaurant. The merlot is great, the gnocchi is inspired and the waiter taught me to say fork in Italian. The guy? Not for me. Marc is a rare blond Jew, but there was no click between us, no fireworks, no cell phone call from the bathroom stall to tell my girls I'd met my husband. Not that I've ever made that call or am looking for a husband. I don't even know how to spell husband. Or say it in Italian.
He was the kind of guy you would take home to your mother. He was Harvard educated, well-mannered, spent time with the elderly, and held an executive position at a major network. He had traveled the world, written a few books, and was shopping for a home. And naturally, he was Jewish. This was the pitch I got from the mutual friend that was going to set the two of us up on my first blind date ever.