Benched (A Vortex Tale)

Day five of Tales of the Vortex week. You thought I had run out of stories?

Ha.

Let's face it: I have CLEARLY had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale is, sadly, also coming at you from Chicago.

It wasn't long after things with Tim had come to a close. Summer had come and gone in 2006, and the Fall meant one thing.

College Football.

Now, as many of you know, I'm a huge fan. And, a willing fan for my friends who went to other schools. Namely, my girls and their love of Ohio State football. This particular late-October day, we'd decided to buy tickets to the McGee's party/bus the OSU alumni club used for close road games—it was headed to Champaign-Urbana to the University of Illinois. We met at the bar, decked out in red and winter coats, and had a few starter drinks. Then boarded the luxury bus and claimed our seats somewhere near the middle.

There were four of us girls, and we were hip to mingle. By mid-way down the highway, we had made friends, and engaged in silly conversations, with all the people near us. Namely, for me, a guy that was seated directly behind me. Since this one's a tad more recent, I'll call him Brian.

Brian was not my typical type, physically, but he was cute, tall (enough) and funny. We laughed and shared stories and generally got to know each other, in the strange context of a 3-hour bus ride downstate Illinois. He worked in sports marketing, and I'd done that in my pre-Chicago life, so we bonded quickly.

Brian was with a buddy, too, and the lot of us bounded off the bus to tailgate with others. Things were perfect, save for the ridiculously chilly Fall air. Puffy coats abound. And no one really looks all that cute and glamorous in a puffy coat, let's be honest.

The day was fantastic, and we all boarded the bus home in a crazy delirium, right as the rain/ice/snow started to fall. The bus left us at the bar, after the return 3-hour trip, and we all parted ways. The next day, Brian called. We had dinner, then another date, and quickly we were seeing each other quite a bit.

He was sweet—almost too nice. But, having been burned (you've been reading this week, right?!?) a few times, I was game to be treated kindly. And, I was a tiny bit more wary to meet "the parents" too soon. That was not a good move last time, so we kept things light.

After about three weeks of pretty constant dating, talking, phone calls and long conversations, he asked me if I was his "girlfriend." Putting it in writing makes it sound cheesy—but at the time it was pretty cute and rather reassuring. I am pretty sure I made some wise-crack about wearing his letter jacket. He laughed, and nodded. He felt it too! We had a great connection (now I feel like I'm on "The Bachelor") and it was going well.

My friends liked him, and of course extended the invitation for him to attend my surprise party that was being held for my 30th birthday the first weekend in December (a good 4 weeks before my actual birthday, to throw me off the scent).

He, unfortunately, was traveling with his job (sports team) and couldn't attend the party Friday night, but promised me he'd be there for part two on Saturday night. He came, and my friends (from Atlanta and Chicago) loved him. I was beaming. That may have been the fresh tequila shot and the glow of singing "Every Rose Has its Thorn" in front of 1,000 people with a live band, but who knows.

Yes. I did. No. You can't see the video.

Moving on.

All was good. Easy, even. I was happy. Christmas was coming up, and we were all feeling festive. My friends Jill and Josh were hosting a dinner party on Tuesday night, to get rid of all of the excess food from the party (due to the enormous snowstorm that kept 13 people trapped in various airports nationwide and NOT at our party eating it).

Brian lived on the way, so I picked him up. He'd met Jill and Josh, so I thought this night would be a snap. We walked in, and settled into the cozy living room and poured some wine. The chatter was friendly and light, and then a few more folks came in. A couple. Then another couple. Then a married couple. Then a married couple with a new baby in tow.

I didn't realize it, because frankly, we're getting older and that's what people do (couple off). But, quickly (and again, unnoticed by me) the party was all couples. One guy, being funny, started joking about marriage. He and his wife have a great relationship, but they've been married a long time (like 15 years?) so he had lots of material. We laughed.

Then the baby started to wake up (she was only 2 weeks old) so we passed her around and oohed and aahed and cuddled her.

Dinner was served, and it was delicious (Josh is a great cook!) and the night was delightful. Until, unbeknownst to me, things went badly for Brian. In his head.

We said our goodbyes, and left to face the bitter cold and walk back to my car. He was uncharacteristically quiet. I figured he was tired, as it was only Tuesday.

He traveled the following day, and for a few days in a row, including some of the weekend (sports doesn't work M-F, 9-5), and we talked occasionally. Lighter than normal, though.

When he returned, he didn't make moves to see me again. I didn't want to push him since I knew that his work schedule at that time of year was a killer. He let another full week go by, with only an occasional IM or text message. No calls.

Certainly, I'd grown aware of it, and now realized something must've happened. I didn't trace it back to the party, not at first.

It had been about 10 days since then, and we still hadn't gotten together. And this was after seeing one another 4-5 days a week since for the past two months.

I asked him what was up. He denied anything was up.

Later, I asked if he was ok. He said he was ok.

Finally, I put it out there. We were on Instant Messenger for crying out loud.

I said, "Did I miss something?"

He paused. Long pause. On IM it is more like you sit waiting, staring at an empty box, while the taunting little cursor is waiting. It didn't even say, "So-and-so is typing" like it does if there's a long response coming your way.

Nada.

He said he'd call later. Well, ok. That's more like it. Let's be adult about it.

He didn't call that night, or the next. Or the next three. Finally, about a week later, I heard from him. It was almost Christmas, and I had pretty much given up on the fact that I'd be hearing from him at all.

Still, I was baffled. Another VORTEX in the same calendar year?

He finally called, and all he could say was, "I just don't think we want the same things." I know now, in all my infinite wisdom, that that is a cop-out. It means, I don't like you enough to see myself WITH those things with you.

I stuttered out something, and then realized I wanted more of an explanation than that. Give me something to hold on to, buddy.

He reluctantly told me that the party was too much for him.

What? That little 10-person gathering on a TUESDAY NIGHT was too much for you?

Well then. You'd never survive O'Brien Christmas. That's settled.

Apparently it was "too obvious to him" that because "all of my friends are married with kids" that he wasn't ready for that. While I SWEAR to you, Internet readers, I had not ever mentioned marriage, kids, joint checking accounts or even meeting his mother, that was his reason.

Because six people on a Tuesday night happened to be happily in relationships and they happened to be in my large circle of friends and they happened to be happy, I was dumped.

He said he'd think about it, and that he'd miss me, and that he'd call me in the New Year.

Yeah. Right. Let's all say it together, now, shall we?

VORTEX.

I wish I could say that I've never seen him again. It would be easier that way. But, I did run into him at a bar that I never frequent on a part of town that neither he nor I live in, but I was protected by my girls and only barely noticed him.

As he was ducking out the door with his head down.

Seriously.

And then another time, last January, when I was on a date at said sporting event, and there he was. But I was on a date, and he was at work. I had that going for me.

We talked, briefly and it was only sortof awkward.

But, seriously.

I was pulled from the game and benched because I had a few friends who wore rings on their left hands.

NOT a slam dunk.

Easter Funny (A Vortex Tale)

Day four of the Tales of the Vortex.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale, as you've come to expect, is live from Chicago, the playing field for so many of my dating stories.

And, this one started on St. Patrick's Day.

How fitting, for an Irish girl living in this town.

At an annual St. Patrick's Day party, hosted by my friend Patrick (no relation), I was gently "nudged" in Tim's direction. I was open to meeting new people, as it had been a dry spell. It was March 2006, and the green beer was aplenty.

Tim and I hit it off. We had similar personalities, a like sense-of-humor, and enjoyed many of the same things. He was a fantastic cook, and I was a mean dishwasher. He worked in a related field, and was a creative and curious mind—leading to many interesting debates about all things creative. And curious.

We talked for hours on the phone, as I was traveling a ton to Montana back then—and was relieved to have a familiar voice on the end of the phone while I wiled the hours away in the Billings Sheraton.

After a three weeks filled with great dates, including dinners, game night out with my friends, and a concert or two, he invited me to accompany him to a wedding, and I was happy to attend. Where else can you see a guy get dressed up, on his 'best behavior' and be forced to dance? Fan-tastic. We looked good, and had a great time.

At the wedding, I met his close guy friend and his wife. I instantly bonded with her, and her input and approval seemed very important to Tim. I enjoyed them immensely.

The wedding reception was being held in a funky cool art gallery on the west side. While we were touring the paintings, tucked away in a private back gallery, he stopped on a dime. Turned around. And asked me what I was doing the following weekend.

It took me a minute. (The wine was lovely, give me a break).

I paused, coyly of course, and said, "Oh, next weekend?" And he replied, "Yes. Easter."

Now, I hate to admit this in the public forum called the Internet, but I don't typically go home to Atlanta to spend Easter with my family. Even though I'm Catholic, and apparently Easter is one of the TWO times most lapsed go to mass, I just don't see fit to spend $300 to go home to attend church in Georgia. Even though my mom's ham is pretty outstanding.

I said, knowing where this was going, "Nothing...why?"

He invited me home to his parents' house for the holiday. In Milwaukee. Where, he promised, his brothers (2) and their wives (2) and kids (2) would be hanging out, drinking beer, eating too much and playing yard sports.

I was in.

When Saturday came, we piled into his car, and headed north. Crossing the border into Wisconsin, I was looking forward to meeting his family. And spending this amount of time with him. His family, truth be told, was charming. His hometown was cute. His brothers were hilarious. Even when they pushed me up against the kitchen wall and whipped out the tape measure to "prove" I was 6' tall.

Seriously. It happened.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon, replete with beers (it was Milwaukee, mind you), cornhole, chasing toddlers, horseshoes, and a sunny (snow-free) April day. We laughed, and his mother was just charmed. I know it. She told me so.

Tim was at home in this environment, and I was honored to have been asked to see it. I liked it. We seemed to fit.

After Saturday dinner, and the drinks that ensued, it was time to adjourn to the sleeping quarters. When getting the "tour," his mother had gestured at the single beds in the basement, with a stack of folded fresh towels on each, and said, "You guys can sleep down here."

Waaaaait a second.

I knew a "Mom test" when I saw one.

Leaving Tim downstairs, and following Mom back up, I said, quietly, "I think I'd prefer to sleep upstairs in the guest room."

She literally smiled so hard I thought she was going to pull a facial muscle.

I laughed, and said, "My Mom raised me right."

That was settled.

Tim wasn't all that thrilled, but he'd survive.

The next morning, I awoke to clanging, showered and dressed and entered the kitchen. Mom was making a "bunny cake." You know, the kind that is complete with tall pointy ears and covered in coconut shavings (fur), jelly beans (eyes, buttons), licorice strings (whiskers) and a variety of colors of icing (bowtie).

AAH! I've made this cake before! I immediately dove in and helped out. Pretty soon I had icing on my elbows, coconut on my shirt and a smile on my face. Needless to say, Mom was happy. We talked (she has three sons, for crying out loud!) and laughed and were like Easter Eggs in a basket by the time Tim woke up.

After Mass, and brunch, we settled in to play their family's annual trivia game, where the questions/answers were divided into Jeopardy-like categories that included Music, Current Events, History and Family. Not long into the game, where Tim and I were partnered as a team, did it occur to me that he'd called for research. He knew too much—my family was included in these! I couldn't believe it.

I revealed where my parents had met (a mixer), what my Mom's favorite car was (Fiat), where they'd gotten engaged (KFC) before it finally hit me.

He'd called my Mom.

I couldn't believe it. She didn't tell on him! He called my Mom!!!

The day ended with a family flag football game in the yard, and a few loving tackles of our own.

On the drive back to the city, I wanted nothing more than to bask in the weekend. To ask him what he thought. To find out what his Mom had told him about me. To see how he was feeling. What he thought of the Easter Lily I'd brought his Mom. To discuss the Easter basket his mother had given me.

I didn't barrage him with questions, but it was clear very soon that he wanted nothing to do with that line of questioning. Or conversation at all for that matter.

It was the quietest 1.5 hour drive ever.

A few days went by, and it became clearer and clearer that something was amok.

We talked once or twice, and then I had to travel and the chats grew more sporadic.

Ultimately, we'd made plans for dinner about 10 days later, and I raced home from work excited to see him.

Our plans were for 6:30 pm.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

VORTEX?

It was now about 8 pm. With visions of ditches and accidents and police officers and ambulances, I finally called him.

Voicemail.

By 8:30, it was clear I'd been stood up. Brenna called and offered for me to join the girls at a bar, and I couldn't help it. I had to get out, or I'd sit on the sofa and cry. Wasting the makeup I'd just re-applied.

In a last ditch effort, I looked at my Blackberry once more.

And there it was.

The breakup email.

Huh? It was as bad as a post-it note, Carrie Bradshaw.

It explained that he couldn't do it anymore, that he knew I was the type of woman he should be with, that he thought I was smart, funny, interesting, great, charming, lovely and beautiful, and that it was clear how much my family liked him, and that may be what scared him the most, and that he knew he shouldn't end it, but he just had to.

And he was sorry.

And, that was it.

I never saw him again. Still haven't, actually.

VORTEX.

To this day, I can't look at an Easter Bunny cake the same way.

Don't feel the need to make me feel better about this one. It hurt, it sucked, I was mad, I got drunk that night, I think he's a small-minded chicken-shit, but I moved on. I'm better off. Just wanted to let you off the hook.

Napkin Notes (A Vortex Tale)

Day three of Tales of the Vortex week. I'll just roll right on, okay?

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale is also a Chicago one. I'm telling you, ladies of the Midway, there are many men out there in our fine city. The ones that haven't gotten sucked into the Vortex, that is.

Shall we begin?

It was a typical Saturday night in late September, about four years ago. Laura and I decided to make the evening not-so-typical, and agreed to go out and actually TALK to other people besides ourselves.

We were (and still are, frankly) notorious for going out with our girls, sitting in a booth and talking only to one another all evening. That's great for girls' night out, and we all need that, don't get me wrong. But if you're two single ladies in the city, you can't expect that the guys are going to be willing to come over, bust into that and make their move.

It's just not fair.

So, we agreed to be more open. Chatty. Approachable.

We sat at the bar at Mystic Celt, a nice Irish bar on Southport where the service is good, the crowd is fun and the music is loud.

After a drink or two, the bartender handed me a cocktail napkin, gestured over her shoulder, and said, "It's from the guy at the end of the bar."

Hmmmm....interesting.

I looked up from the napkin to see a fair-haired, nice-looking, conservatively dressed guy sitting where she motioned. He smiled my way, and then looked down in a hint of embarrassment.

Glancing back at the napkin, I realized he'd written a message on it. Now, I'd love to recall it word-by-word, or even better yet, to still have it saved in my desk drawer for precisely this occasion, but let's be honest. When the story went where the story is bound to go, those napkins went out with yesterday's garbage.

But, for the time being, I'll give you a general sense of the course of the dialogue.

He'd said something cute, charming and witty. Penned it right there on the napkin. I laughed, probably out loud, showed it to Laura, and together we penned something back. Equally witty, of course.

The communication went back and forth like that for a few rounds, with him eventually asking my name, commenting on it being of Irish descent, told me he was a Notre Dame grad and that he'd been raised Catholic (as was I) and to that we made a few joking references. Oh, and his name was Andrew. Why spare him that, right?

At one point, I wrote back, and then passed through the very patient bartender, something about going to checking yes or no. He checked yes. He referenced the awkwardness of grade school dances. He even made the "leave room for the Holy Spirit" joke. I knew of it, but since I'd escaped parochial school, I couldn't exactly relate beyond the movies.

Ultimately, he stopped the paperwork and just came over. Made some charming introduction, was kind enough to include my friend, and kept up the witty banter. We were both pretty charmed at this point.

He asked me for my number, and I obliged. Anyone that went to that much trouble, and through that many cheap bar napkins, was worth a shot.

When the evening ended, and the lights came on, Laura and I said our goodbyes, and he offered to share a cab home (he lived within two blocks of me) and I allowed that. Arriving at my house, he paid the cab driver and got out of the car. I wasn't about to invite him up, so we took a seat on the edge of the fountain that is in my condo's driveway. In full view of the two doorman, in case anything shady was going to go down.

I remember talking about our love of travel, U2, the city, our work (he was an investment banker), our family and our college days long past. I was fairly sure a kiss was coming, and that was fine by me. Right when he leaned in to make his move, he laughingly, deftly, put an arm behind my back and lowered me (quickly, all at once) into the fountain. I was dripping wet, and cracking up. Way to go, buddy. I liked that he felt comfortable enough to joke with me that way. It was good chemistry, all around.

We went out to dinner a few nights later, and all I can recall is that the conversation was perfect. It was as if we'd known one another for years, but at the same time, had so much to learn. Andrew seemed hungry to know more, and I let him in just enough to keep him interested, but not enough to feel like he knew it all.

Can't let a man open ALL the Christmas presents right away, you know.

Three, four, five dates went by, and things were just getting good. We talked occasionally on the phone, but mostly it was sporadic emails, primarily to set up the next date. I was fine with that—we were both busy professionals that didn't have much free time. A few weeks passed, and I realized that he worked insane hours. Not just long days.

Brutal days.

He worked, to close a deal, until 3 and 4 in the morning quite regularly. I wouldn't believe him, except he was good about calling to "say hi" and emailing me at odd hours—always from his work account when I was fast asleep. He didn't break plans, necessarily, but he was definitely working more than we were dating.

I wasn't quite sure when he poor guy was sleeping or eating, frankly.

Then it was this weekend—the Chicago marathon. We watched it together, huddled on my sidewalk in fleece and blue jeans, drinking the hot coffee he'd brought over with bagels, and I felt like we were a couple. It was just easy. He laughed at my stories, and I at his. He told tales of his life, and I of mine. He mentioned future plans and hopes and travels and things he "wanted to show me/experience with me."

Isn't that what any girl longs to hear?

He left that day to go into the office for a bit to wrap up a few things before the week started, saying he'd call later when he was free from work's obligations. We made plans for dinner that coming Wednesday, after work, to try out a new restaurant downtown we'd both read about. I smiled all the way through the laundry to which I likely devoted my time that day.

I never got to try that restaurant. Needless to say, I still haven't been there.

He was never to be heard from again.

VORTEX.

I don't have an explanation for this one. He may be married by now, with kids of his own. I have no idea, and that's okay. He wasn't going to be my future, but for those few great weeks in the Fall of 2005, I was having fun. It was Fall, and I was headed in the right direction.

But really? The hot coffee and bagels and future plans?

I could have done without.

Goodbye Baby Blues (A Vortex Tale)

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale comes to you from Chicago, the home of many, many Vortex victims.

I met Frank about 6 years ago through a couple friend of mine. My friend said that Frank was known for being smart, kind, funny and extremely conservative. In fact, within 10 minutes, he and I had already compared political notes and had a lively chat. He was charming and flirtatious. He was handsome and older. Just what I needed.

I was smitten.

He asked for my number. I gave it to him with a smile. He called after the required three days. We went to dinner, and had a lovely time. The line of questioning was typical, and he was open, candid and interesting. The conversation was fresh and rewarding. His blue eyes sparkled when he talked.

Dessert came and we felt like it was too soon to call it a night. He had already locked in the second date, so the pressure was off. We laughed, toasted and shared stories of our lives that brought us to Chicago. At one point, he said with a smile, "how are you single?" I laughed off that question, and continued to bask in his company.

On our second date, the pleasant chatter continued. We each opened up more and more, and he interrupted my story with, "where exactly did you come from?" I laughed, knowing he meant more than geography, and said, "Georgia." He smiled, and we both looked away to avoid the clear chemistry that was building. At the end of the evening, the kiss was more than nice.

We went out a few more times, and his 'admiration' seemed to build, as did mine of him. I reveled in the fact that I knew he thought I was classy, interesting and fun. I felt the same about him. Things were looking up!

He traveled a little bit for work, and at the time, I did not, so I didn't realize how hard that really made your social life. He went out of town for a week, and then stayed through the weekend. We emailed a bit while he was gone, and I looked forward to his return to Chicago. He'd asked me for another dinner that week, and I'd happily agreed.

I'm glad I didn't starve myself for that one.

Because I'd still be hungry.

I never heard from him again.

VORTEX.

Until I saw him last year, while entering Soldier Field with my friend Tim on a November Sunday.

We were in a huge crowd, shivering in the snowy cold, and I was pushed gently up against the throng of people in front of me. Tim said something loud and funny, and the guy in front of me, wearing a Bears ski cap, turned around to comment, and Frank and I were face to face, inches apart in a crowd of thousands.

He was holding hands with a little boy whose eyes were the exact same color blue of Frank's.

We both blinked, smiled, and looked away.

That was it. No words were exchanged, but we both knew what was behind that look. Tim inquired who it was, and I shrugged and said, "I don't know him."

It was true.

I linked arms with Tim and walked into the stadium.

A Burp on the Radar (A Vortex Tale)

I've been promising a week of Tales from the Vortex, and folks, it is time for me to deliver.

I kicked this off last week and I shared this naked story awhile back, and this week, will attempt to fill all five days with posts that describe my best various and sundry dating tales.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

This story is an oldie but goodie. It happened when I was a junior in college. I didn't even realize the extent of the horrors of dating. I didn't yet know of the Vortex, and I certainly hadn't experienced it. I'd dated a few guys in college, including my high school boyfriend, and hadn't yet realized that guys would say all kinds of things and then fall into a hole never to be heard from again.

I had a lot to learn.

His name was Matt. I'd been introduced to him by a sorority sister, and I had heard the stories. I knew he was older and had a reputation for dating a lot. I was flattered he chose me—and had fun being the center of attention at Sunday breakfast in the sorority house. Girls wanted to hear stories about him, how much fun were we having? and who did we hang out with the night before?

Our "relationship" was brief, but we had fun. I knew he wasn't the man of my dreams, but he taught me how to enjoy the attentions of someone besides my high school boyfriend. He was loud, funny, silly and smart. When we went out, people wanted to be near him. He was known.

Things were going well, and we had had a fun few months hanging out. I was asked to go with him to his fraternity weekend in the mountains of North Carolina, and we doubled with my friend and her boyfriend. After a great weekend, we were pulling back into Athens, and had just turned on to Milledge Avenue, right by my house. Matt was driving, and I was in the front seat, gleaming with the glow of attention, attraction and excitement.

He burped loudly, and didn't excuse himself. All of us laughed—in that Will Ferrell stupid humor kind of way—and then I jokingly said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be trying to impress me at this stage?"

The car's atmosphere changed. The air grew cold. Not a sound was made.

I'd clearly made some sort of dating faux pas, but for the life of me, I wasn't sure what it was.

We pulled into the sorority parking lot, and my friend and I got out. Matt gave me a brief, yet chilly hug, and we said goodbye.

I didn't hear from him for about 10 days, which in college time, was the equivalent of 10 years. When your social life didn't just revolve around weekends, you saw people more often.

I asked my friend, the girl who'd witnessed the freeze-out in the car, and she shrugged it off claiming he was just busy.

This guy was something like a 6th year senior. How busy was he, exactly? It was doubtful.

The following Thursday, I saw him at the local hangout, the one where you got to take the previously purchased 22-ounce plastic mug with you and for $3 you could fill the thing up with ice cold draft beer. I approached him gingerly, with a smile.

His reaction was clear. His face didn't break into the smile he'd normally given me.

It was over. I knew it, and so did he. Inquisitively, and frankly, naively, I asked him what was wrong? He shrugged, and said casually, "I just am not feeling it."

Uh, ok. I thought we were joking about a burp, but maybe that was just me.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I never saw him again.

VORTEX.

Not two weeks later, though, I heard that he was dating someone and it was "serious." He eventually married her and had kids with her. I haven't really thought of him much since, and I do realize that he wasn't really in the Vortex.

He just wasn't interested. And, considering his likable qualities were most often enhanced by him drinking 48 PBRs out of a can, I don't really mind.

But it taught me one thing.

Men will close up, walk away and fall off the planet if they so choose. And you will be left wondering.

It was a tough lesson for a rookie dater, but it paved the road of many, many Vortex tales to come.

Oh, and I'm still not a fan of wild burpers who don't excuse themselves. I can't help it.

He's at the Gym (A Vortex Tale)

Tonight I was watching CBS' How I Met Your Mother, and the storyline was about Ted going on a blind date, and only halfway through the date did he realize that he'd gone on a blind date with the same girl 7 years before. They both realize it, over their food, and laugh about how much they'd changed and what was different now.

At the end of the date, they shared a nice kiss, and he promised to call. And she froze.

She'd heard that line before. He had promised, as his 2002 self, to call her, and never did. He realized what had happened, and why they'd not continued seeing each other back then.

And she was mad.

He, awkwardly, eeked out, "I have been reaaaaally busy since then."

I laughed, not because the line was that funny, or the scene that well-written, but that it was just so damn familiar.

No, I haven't yet dated the entire circle of single men under 40 in Chicago, and therefore have not yet re-dated the same guy just yet. Not without consciously deciding to, at least.

More precisely, I recalled the story of the birth of the "Vortex." If you're unfamiliar with my Vortex theory, the quick story is that it is a place where guys "go" when they just up and fall off the planet. It involves all kinds of male treats, ranging from video games to 24/7 sports, to free beer and buffalo wings to sex all the time and no real jobs. You get the idea.

Anyway, my friends and I use the term to describe, or just to explain quickly, where a guy "went" when they stop calling randomly, out of the blue. My friend Meredith says that he "fell in the black hole." Same thing, different name.

So the year was 2001. It was late Fall, and I'd only lived here a year. I was in the throes of enjoying single life the way a 24-year old in the city does. Meaning, dating, going out a lot, having tons of fun and eating way too many meals from the rotating incubator grill at the 7-Eleven below my apartment.

I met a guy named Chris through a guy friend of mine. Chris was tall, ridiculously good looking (in fact, he "modeled" and turned out to be far more vain than I), funny and fun to be around. I'm pretty sure he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but we had a good time together.

We "dated" the way that 24-year olds do—in groups, in bars, at keg parties and with lots of other people for distractions. Only on a few occasions did I ever truly go on a "date" with Chris, but we did make it to Sunday mass a few times with dinner afterwards.

One Saturday, we went to lunch and then he dropped me off at my apartment. He said, as I got out of the car, "I'm going to go to the gym for a bit and then I'll call you. Wanna go see a movie tonight?" I replied that I'd love to, and that I'd see him in a few hours.

Saturday evening came and went. As did Sunday. And the next four years.

Needless to say, the poor fellow got sucked into the Vortex and I never heard from him.

Until one day, when I was on my lunch break downtown, and I saw him across the way. I sped up and walked over to him. Smiling, I approached him slowly.

"Uh, Chris?" I said, kindly. He said, "Colleen! How are you?" with a look that was a hybrid of embarrassment, surprise and, frankly, appraisal. I was definitely being 'assessed.'

I said, "I"m great - and so pleased you made it out of the gym! After all this time!" and walked on.

He didn't get my joke, or my insult, or whatever it was. I knew he wouldn't, but it felt so good to say. So, now, when I ever think about the Vortex, he's the first thing that comes to mind.

If I hadn't seen him that day, I'd just have had to assume he was still at the gym. In fact, most men that don't ever call, or stop calling all of a sudden, or just vanish into thin air, I assume have gone to the gym. Maybe it's the front door to the Vortex?

He didn't look as tired as I'd be if I'd spent nearly four years at the gym.

Maybe I'll make this Vortex Week 2009 and will dust off all the old Vortex stories for your reading pleasure. Whatcha think? Shall I put out a call for entries? Anyone?

Amended: maybe this week will have to be "how TV sitcoms and dramas remind Colleen of things in her real life." Also known as, someone get that girl off the couch during the week. Changed my mind. Stay tuned for the next TV-inspired post.

The Naked Truth

When I first moved to Chicago, I ran with a pretty great, and huge, crowd of people who had all gone to the same college. Yes, I just said "I ran with..." like I was 87 years old. Moving on.

What this meant for my social life was that I had friends always crowding the corner of the bar at the local pub, our house parties were legendary, and we even had a rousing men vs. women Cranium tournament. Life was good.

The only drawback to this deep and tightly knit circle was that they all knew each other. And the others that lived in town.

Meaning, as a newly transplanted southern girl looking to meet new people (read: hot guys), I was cautious about my actions. Not that I would have been a raging fool if it weren't for their guidance, but you know, it just cause me to think harder about on whom I turned my attention.

Case in point. At a bar one night, I'm approached by a very nice looking, well-dressed guy. We make casual small talk. We laugh. And flirt. And then, while he leaned down to tie his shoe, I notice my three guy friends standing behind him giving me the "we'll slit your neck if you do something stupid" gesture combined with hearty head shakes.

I'm not an idiot - I could read that message loud and clear. When nice looking, well-dressed guy went to the bar, I slid over to the guys and asked what was the reason for their red flag signal. They imparted some insider information about Said Guy's antics, and ahem, reputation, in college.

I was turned off, and promptly finished up my chat with Said Guy and went back to my friends.

I escaped that time.

Over the next few years, as I became more and more comfortable with my Chicago surroundings, I realized that I saw Said Guy all over town. For a good long summer, it seemed that I ran into him every Saturday night. Not always in the same place, either. I even thought at one point that he may be following me.

He always approached, flirted and chatted me up. I flirted back (as I said before, I'm not a total idiot) because I enjoyed the attention, and then left him wondering why I hadn't fallen prey to his wily charm. He clearly wasn't used to getting turned down.

Not that he was asking every time, but it was clear that if I'd given him even the slightest hint of a green light, he'd ask me out.

It became my own little version of the cat and mouse game, and it was awfully good for the ego. Especially when my girlfriends (new to me, and to him) would nod and smile excitedly as he approached, and look at me with huge silver-dollar-sized-eyes as I inevitably turned down his advances.

Explaining that his reputation preceded him, they allowed me to cut him off.

And so it went. For years.

Finally, it became funny. Said Guy would show up at the same place as I; we would laugh, talk, hug and then flirt. And joke about which one of us was stalking whom. I'm still convinced I was the stalkee, but that's just my take.

In the fourth or fifth year I'd lived here, I saw Said Guy yet again. He seemed especially charming that night. Or I'd had especially too many vodka lemonades. When my friends were itching to leave early, and he asked if I'd go with him to a party nearby, I obliged. I know, I know. Slow learner.

Anyway, we got in a cab and went towards the building where the party was being held. As we entered the lobby of the building, I noticed that the doorman gave him a nod of what I could only deem was recognition. There was no hesitant fumbling and "uhm, which way is the elevator" or anything that indicated he hadn't been there before.

I chalked it up to his having been to this buddy's house before. It happens.

As we exited the elevator on the third floor, I heard the distinct sound of keys tinkling in his hand. I looked up at him, and said with a great deal of sarcasm in my voice, "you have keys to this party?" In his full-on cocky manner, he said, "uh, no. I want to drop my coat off first."

Hell-o? Where are we doing said drop-off? Oh, right. In your condo. Which, conveniently is right here.

I fall for it a bit, mostly out of curiosity to see his place. Not many guys I knew at the time (or now, for that matter) live alone, in a condo, and live well. I was curious if the well-dressed man equaled a well-appointed condo.

Uh, yeah.

It did. As he held the door open for me, I entered the hallway onto dark cherry hardwood flooring. Then noticed what had to be 20-foot ceilings. And a perfect kitchen complete with Viking appliances and granite counter tops from here to there. With an island the size of my living room. And gorgeous cabinets.

My eyes drifted past that to the walls with the enormous artwork. Real stuff - not posters of sports figures or neon beer signs. Nope. This guy had hired a decorator. There were two bedrooms, and a hall bathroom resplendent with marble and dark wood and a mirror without even a trace of toothpaste on it.

Just past the perfectly dressed living room, with just the right blend of modern and transitional furniture, I see the wrap around semi-circle balcony with a grill, tables, chairs, lounges and potted plants. And, just beyond, the skyline view that encapsulated every key building in Chicago from the Hancock Building to the Sears Tower. Bookend to bookend, this view had it all.

Said Guy drank in the look on my face, and continued the tour.

Then, I saw the master closet. He proudly opened the door, and I sucked in my breath. It looked like Brooks Brothers. The store on Michigan Avenue...NOT the outlet mall. Every shelf was dark wood, and the hangers were matching and evenly spaced to allow his beautiful clothing to hang just so. His shoes all faced the same direction, and his ties hung neatly in a row. Even his t-shirts had a neatly organized home.

I could not decide if this guy was a dream man or was undoubtedly gay, pretending to be straight. Come on. It could happen.

Either way, he fixed me a drink as I remember that we're supposed to be going to a party upstairs. When I mentioned it, he laughed and said with an evil grin, "there is no party." I have blond hair, but I'm hardly stupid. I still thought this was a fancy pit-stop on the way to his buddy's place.

Maybe it was the closet, or maybe it was the drink he fixed me, but I was a little more than curious. And, felt a little amorous. After all, Said Guy talked the talk, clearly walked the walk, and made me feel just the right combination of powerful and powerless.

I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up and I heard him follow me into his bedroom (he wanted me to see his master bathroom - showoff - so I went in there) and listened while he took off his shoes. No biggie, I desperately wanted to ditch my heels, so I could understand.

Not more than three minutes later, as I dried my hands off on his Egyptian cotton towels, I turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

It was dark in his bedroom, but in the light of the city glow, I could see that he was laying on the bed.

Asleep.

Completely naked.

Uhm, hell-o?

What exactly did he think was going to happen here?

Needless to say, I walked into the kitchen, half laughing and half mortified, and got my coat.

Thinking quickly, I decided I wanted to leave him a note to remind him, when he woke up (in case he had a propensity to forget things while imbibing) that I'd been here, but was not here anymore.

I scrambled in the kitchen to locate a pen. I found one, and then tore off a paper towel (who doesn't keep a notepad with the pens?) and scribbled, "SAID GUY, I left. -Colleen."

I used his name. But not here. I changed his name to protect the not-so-innocent.

And naked.

I exited the building, gave the doorman a sardonic smirk, and hailed a cab home.

I never heard from the guy again.

Several years passed, and I started seeing him occasionally, mostly from a distance, on Michigan Avenue. Near my office. In the lobby of a building. Walking in front of Nordstrom. Leaving Starbucks.

And, each time, I got embarrassed and looked away, turned around, or otherwise diverted the situation.

Not sure why I was the embarrassed one, but I was. Time was kind, and I hadn't seen him in years.

Until last Wednesday.

In the lobby of my office building.

Again, I repeated the "dodge his eye and go the other way" move and managed to avoid a run-in. Because really? What would I have said?

Good to see you again, this time with your eyes open and clothes on?

Yeah, I don't think so.

So, I'm having lunch with my co-worker today, and something reminds me to tell her that story. She'd been traveling last week or she would have heard it immediately. I told her the entire story, (long story is never really short, come on) and we get quite a good belly laugh about the whole thing.

We even played the name game to see if her friend who works in Said Guy's industry may know him. We plotted a call to her as soon as we get back upstairs to our office. We conceded that maybe he was here in our building for a meeting - he was in a suit at the time - and she laughed again about the sheer nakedness of it all.

Leaving lunch, I dropped my tray off at the garbage can, gathered my purse and fountain drink, and walked with her to the lobby.

I looked up, and not 25 feet away, is Said Guy. In a suit. Walking through the turnstiles that indicate that his office is in THIS building.

He glanced in our direction right as I noticed him. I squealed quietly, grabbed my friend's arm and whisper-yelled to her, "that's him! Oh my God, that's him!"

She can hardly believe it, and I can hardly believe it when she starts to speed up. She wanted a closer look, naturally.

We zoomed through the turnstile about 10 feet behind him. I didn't see him turn left into our elevator bank, so as we careened around the corner, I finally am face-to-face him, with two other suit-clad guys, right as the elevator door opened.

Now, if I'd had MY way, there's no chance in hell I would have voluntarily boarded the elevator with them. But my friend wanted to. She needed "a good view."

Mortified, and unsure why I continue to be the embarrassed one, I followed her. I dodged his eye, and positioned myself right in front of the elevator door with my back to him and his buddies.

We stood there, staring ahead, while the guys talked amongst themselves behind us. I couldn't even think I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I may not have breathed the entire way up to the 39th floor.

We exited at our floor, about six floors below his, and waited until the door closes behind us before we burst.

Laughing out loud, folded over, barely breathing, neither of us could speak.

What are the odds?

I am pretty sure God has a sense of humor.

Let's just be glad this guy fell into the Vortex.

Empty Promises

While celebrating the holidays with extended family, the innocent question "So, Colleen, are you seeing anyone?" keeps coming up. It is practically the first question I'm asked. I'm sometimes not even fully in the door. The coat has definitely not even been yet hung in the closet.

This casual, yet loaded, inquiry inevitably leads to a laughing, joking, somewhat cynical conversation of The Vortex that has sucked in (and sometimes spit back out) the guys in my life, and the lives of my other single cousins.

The stories are piling up (I made notes on the plane and realize I currently have no less than 11 stories to tell) of the myriad vortex tales. The airplane napkin is chock full of my love disasters.

I promise the publishing of these stories is coming soon. For now, begin to collect yours, and send them my way.

Just be sure that you change the guys' names, to protect the guilty.

I'm Such a Tease

Yes. You are seeing that correctly.

I have embarked, though slowly, on a new blog. Not to replace this one, but in addition to it (because I have the time!?!?).

This one is big. Huge. Legendary. I feel obligated, like I owe it to girls everywhere, to do this.

And, yes, I will provide an ample, and well-crafted definition of this theory of mine about the vortex.

Tales of the Vortex will be about, and comprised of, the world-class, hilarious, painful, ridiculous, nail-biting, boot-stomping, mind-numbing, frustrating, stupid situations that have happened to me or to one of my fabulous friends as we traverse the dating universe.

These tales make great "let's have a glass of wine and talk about men" kind of stories, but they make truly finding happiness in dating virtually impossible. Laughable even.

Maybe, just maybe, with me displaying this kind of "flirty, easy, teasing attitude," you'll actually drop in and visit when I'm ready. You'll settle in, share a laugh, and find some kindred-spiritness to it all.

You know, like you said you would.

As you said goodnight.

After introducing me to your parents.

And never did.