Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume Six - Mr Soap & Postscript

I’ve saved my worst date ever for last.  Yes, last.  I’m done with this series.  Who am I to complain ?  I’m sure there are a zillion guys writing about their crummy dates with me – okay, not a zillion, but you get my point – I’m not  perfect, obviously, and I am a bit tired. I feel like Charlotte from Sex in The City when she proclaimed “Where Is He?!” Hopefully, not struck by lightening at the age of 18 is all I can say.  He’s out there, I guess.  Maybe we’ll meet in the ER in our 80s:  I’ve been Code Blued and am on a gurney heading to surgery, he’s being fitted for a walker. It’ll be so sweet and romantic because it’ll just click over A535 and we’re both finally ready.  I’m such a dreamer, but I like being this way, and I’ll get back there.  Eventually.  Until then, I leave you with Mr Soap.

Volume Six – Mr Soap

Where to begin but the beginning:  planning this outing was a labour from the get-go and I realize that it’s mostly my fault.  You see, I make decisions all day long and it is beyond great when someone actually makes a decision for me, most especially in the social realm.  This is counter-intuitive to my personality, so I get it’s confusing but really, when I say “I’m good with anything, you decide” I REALLY MEAN IT.  Tell me where to go.  Tell me what time to meet you.  I am a very adept follower.  I will never, ever say “no Italian” after I tell you I’m good with anything and you say “great, how’s Thai”.  That’s just retarded.  More retarded is planning ping – pong where it’s a never-ending game of “where do you want to go, it doesn’t matter where do you want to go”.  I was engaged in a very drawn out battle of planning ping-pong with Mr Soap and I finally white flagged it, suggesting a place near my office for drinks.  He immediately  rebuked it as “too swish” and promptly suggested some other place, a second from his house, near the Market.  Could you not have mentioned this earlier, Mr Soap, and saved me the double play of retardness and ping – pong ?  Anyway, whatever, we’ve got plans.    

Day of and I’m a bit concerned.  There is one may-jah snow storm going on outside.  Like the kind where the newspeople tell you to stay home and GO Trains are cancelled and it’s just a top grade shit show outside.  I really really just want to take the newspeople’s advice and go home but I’m worried I’ll be perceived as same – day cancellation girl (this is rude) so I extend a very wishy-washy “perhaps it would be best to reschedule” offer to Mr Soap.  He was having none of it.  He’s from London (Ontario) and therefore quite used to this kind of weather (okay, now, I’m no meteorologist but is London ON really a super snow storm training ground type of place?  I’ve really only been there once  – at a crazy frat party at Western which I really don’t remember much of – so I really can’t say but, really, is it?  I have no idea) so we would meet at his suggested place at 6pm, dammit. 

Off I go for my little adventure in the snowstorm to end all snowstorms.  It’s cold and snowy rainy and windy.  Snow is getting into my knee high boots.  My hair is frozen.  The usual 10 minute walk takes me close to half an hour.  By the time I get there, I am brittle and my coat is actually soaking wet.  My hair is matted to my head and I have mascara streaking down my face (confirmed after I screamed when I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror).  All this would have been totally fine and rather funny was I not required to make a decent impression!  I mean honestly!  I did the best I could, but it was definitely not best in show material.  Oh well, I figure I’m more a personality person anyway.

Things start off not so bad but it doesn’t take long for me to realize that Mr Soap is one weird dude.  The factoids of information about him are so fascinating and peculiar I’m riveted and not in a good way.

I told him I didn’t particularly care for spicy food (i.e I don’t like it) but he orders the spiciest entrée on the menu for us to share because the portions are very large and he’s not that hungry.  Oh, one of those guys.  Great.  What about me?  I was just on an Outward Bound Adventure!  Can I please have a full plate of Shanghai Noodles?!  And not ones that are going to set my mouth on fire!  He was obviously the smart one there because all those noodles were his.  Well played, Mr Soap, well played.

There is no wine / beer for Mr Soap because alcohol aggravates him (as a concept?).  Thankfully, I do not have this problem in theory or practice, so load me up.

After he pulls out a small vial of hand lotion (I know, I could stop there) and offering me some (how kind) he goes on to advise that he has eczema on much of his body and needs to be very careful about the products he uses.  Okay.  OKAY.  This is a great deal of personal information to be hitting someone with, isn’t it?  In fairness, eczema isn’t really on the same sexy surprise meter as a tattoo, so perhaps best to full disclosure it before discovering it on your own, but should you tell me NOW, like right NOW?  I mean, when I first saw Mr Soap I could totally see myself kissing him – get over yourself, you do this too - he was really attractive.  But now ?  Now I can only think of what else lies beneath his cute button down and warm looking zipped sweater.  Ew.

Why wonder?  Mr Soap is a one man TMI machine.  So, back to the hand lotion.  Due to the eczema and the product issues, Mr Soap actually makes his own hand lotion.  He also makes his own candles.  This is all sorts of weird. What guy makes hand lotion and candles?  Like, when you were on those public school field trips to Black Creek Pioneer Village the women were inside making candles and churning butter while the men were outside tending to the horses and chopping heads off chickens.  That’s just the way it’s supposed to be.  I don’t think we’ve evolved that much as a species where men are now making candles, at least I don’t want my men that evolved and making candles.  Kill me a chicken, I’ll make you a candle (or, light one), okay? 

Anyway, it’s one bizarro- world tale after another and I can’t get enough.   You know I find weirdos fascinating and now that I know there is no chanceLance of a romantic interlude of any kind whatsoever with Mr Soap I’m in for shits & giggles.  This is so amazing I can’t stand it.   I mean, it’s the crummiest date EVER but as a human species investigation it is top notch.  And it’s not over!

We’re onto other ‘interest’ type topics now and, in truth, mine are rather pedestrian.  I do what everyone else does – I go to movies, I take a few classes, I hang with my friends, I read, I take trips, nothing really revolutionary, nothing ultra peculiar.  Mr Soap?  Well, aside from the candle and hand lotion making he also makes – yes – you know it – SOAP.

Wha?  How?  Why?  I need to know.  I need to know more.  My soap making knowledge is limited to memories of my Yiayia (that’s my grandmother non-Greeks) making it in the village and, of course, Fight Club.  I know it’s a dangerous endeavour – I mean, the lye can actually kill you.  Or sear off your skin.  In any event it’s pretty hardcore.  Mr Soap tells me that as long as he has all the windows in his 500 square foot apartment open and cranks all the floor fans to high, he’s not in any danger.  Well, okay then, those seem like normal and logical precautions when engaging in a hobby, right? This daredevil quality, combined with the soap making itself is making Mr Soap somewhat fascinating to me, and I am on “date” after all.  So I hit Mr Soap with the highest of compliments: “you know, when you tell me you make soap you kinda remind me of Brad Pitt in Fight Club”.  I really meant it.  I mean, Mr Soap was good looking, he was weird and he made soap – that’s closer to Tyler Durden that most guys, isn’t it?  But, of course Mr Soap didn’t get it.  He said:

“Oh no, Olga.  It’s not like that at all, when I make soap I don’t use human fat.”

Jesus Fucking Christ.   The tide has officially turned.  This is no longer an amazing human science experiment, is it?  This is fucked up.  I am on a date with a guy who actually thinks he needs to clarify that he doesn’t use human matter to engage in a weird ass hobby because he has an unfortunate skin condition.  So many thoughts are running through my brain.  Where would you get human fat anyway?  A garbage bin of a liposuction clinic?  Was I a potential donor?  Perhaps he should have ordered me ALL the noodles.  Am I in danger? Should I be afraid? Holy Shit – he WAS Tyler Durden.  Help?!

Nevermind all that.  Mr Soap was a class A weirdo, and as Joe Pesci proclaimed in My Cousin Vinny “I’m Done With This Guy”.   I’m done with the lava heat noodles and the eczema and the candle making and the fans on high and the non human fat soap making and everything.  I’m done with everything.  I trudged through a snowstorm and all I want to do is go home and call my best friend and wail into the phone with frustration about where all the normal guys are.  Soon we’d be laughing about it - how can’t you - but dating shouldn’t really be about developing material to entertain your friends with.  At least not all time.  It also shouldn’t be about disappointments and questions and a cavalcade of knuckleheads and weirdos.  At least not all the time. 

You know Mr Soap called me to go out again.  Of course he did.  The weirdos always do.  Yes, girls, you know they always do.  Which makes me wonder if that’s it – is this what life has in store for me?  Is what I’m giving off bringing this back to me?   Is this all my magnet is capable of attracting?  Sometimes I’m certain yes.  But mostly I hope no. 

Mainly, though, and this is really the postscript of this series, I don’t know why it’s so hard.  Am I making it hard?  Probably.  I mean my list of wants must be completely unattainable:  I’d like a nice, somewhat normal fella to hang  and do stuff with. Someone who is thoughtful in a sweet way, who listens and remembers things.  Who calls me for no other reason but to just shoot the breeze. Who is completely okay with the fact that I’m far from perfect but maybe wants to help me along with some of these things.  Someone who is tough enough to call me on my shit and not back down because we all know I’m pretty obstinate when I want to be.  Who eats things I make and bake, even if they may not be his favourites, simply because I made & baked them.  Someone who wants to kiss me just as much as I want to kiss them.  A fella that gets me, and if he doesn’t wants to try and figure me out.   Someone who will let me take care of him, because that’s what I like to do with people I care about.  Maybe I’ll even let him take care of me a little bit too.  Mainly, though, just a nice somewhat normal fella who makes me smile equally wide when I’m with him, or just thinking about him.   That’s about it, really.  Doesn’t seem like much, but it obviously is because, well, it just is.  I guess I could back down on my list of demands, but this isn’t a hostage negotiation, it’s a life situation and I feel I need to stick to my guns, especially about the kissing part.     

I need clarity.  I need to get my good vibes back.  I must stop the wrenching (and, yes, hilarious) trip down memory lane because it’s bringing me down.  I don’t like being down.  I need to start anew.  But first I just want to take a break. Who knows how long this break will last, hopefully not too long, but you never know about these things.  We’ll see how it all pans out.  In the meantime, I’m done with these Mistahs and all types of other Mistahs and will focus on a summer of fun with my Sistahs.  We’re in this together. 

Always.