(Neon Tommy)

“It’s she who holds her tongue who gets the man.” -Ursula, "The Little Mermaid"

I have this disorder that Lindsay Lohan properly referred to as “verbal vomit” in her hit movie "Mean Girls." I literally cannot bring myself to stop talking when I am in the midst of even a hint of awkward silence. It is like I have little men in my head saying, “No, no we’ve got to keep filling…don’t stop.” They feed me some of the strangest topics of conversation and as if it has no choice my mouth complies. Some people might say, “Aw it’s endearing.” I assure you it is not. By the time my verbal vomit is done and I have heaved out my deepest darkest stories I tend to leave people wide-eyed, silent and looking for an escape. In fact I have gotten into the habit of warning people when it is about to start so that if they want to salvage their good times/buzz they can put a stop to it before it gets out of control.

This happened on my most recent attempt at a romantic connection, except I did not warn him. This one hit pretty unexpectedly. It was probably the two glasses of wine I had before meeting him (they were small but powerful). I even lost my voice on this adventure. It was NEVER ENDING. I was actually shouting at myself internally to shut my mouth and ask a goddamn question so the poor guy could get a word out. By the time he asked me to grab another drink at the second location all I could think was why. Why do you want to submit yourself to any more torture??

Whatever. Even if he was not adamant about having a good time, I was, and the only thing that would supply that was more wine. Don’t get me wrong, this guy was extremely nice. He was easy and fun to talk to. I was expecting much worse (which is why I wound up ingesting two rather than a single glass of wine before meeting him). The downward spiral of this experience was solely my fault. It was one of those moments where you are screaming, “Pump the breaks,” but your foot just does not quite catch up.

Aside from the fact that I lack a filter, there is also another major problem that I have when on dates. I have a wondering eye and I blame everyone but myself. I have been single for 25 years. I am used to checking out attractive men.

It just so happened that this bar we met at was FLOODED with attractive men, and I am almost 98% sure they were heterosexual—at least when compared to my date who scored a barely passing 66% on the hetero scale (which is pretty good for LA).

While he took his opportunity to actually share a bit of information about himself I could not help admiring the scruff on the blond guy behind him wearing the sexy blue, plaid shirt; Or the brunette beside that one who was slightly shorter and just as attractive. But when it came to the attentive man in front of me, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw, I couldn’t help but wonder: “is your name Blake or Blain?”

The snags in this date obviously had nothing to do with my situational partner, this encounter was my own fault. But regardless of the fact that I might need some duct tape or blinders on my next outing, I guess it is never a good sign when I find myself checking out every person with a penis besides the one in front of me.