Date #4 - Not-so-blind
P. came over last night for dinner and movie. I got home at 6pm and managed to make dinner, straighten up the living room from the aftermath of Zac's new favorite game: reaching in and retrieving all of the VHS tapes from the television cabinet, dumping them onto the floor, ripping open each box, closing each box, opening each box in a mind-numbing series of repetition, then throwing the VHS tape the other side of the room and scooting across the floor to retrieve it, bathe Zac, get dinner from the oven, and look presentable (read: I still had a bra on. Jeez, it's a second date, not a honeymoon. What kind of floozy do you think I am?) by 7:30pm.
The low-fat chicken parmesan left something to be desired, but P. was kind enough to tell me that it was delicious. Besides his penchant for white lies, I found out some other interesting information about him:
1) His ears are softer than DJ's (I checked)
2) He almost exclusively listens to Enya or alternative/techno music.
3) He's a good kisser
4) He doesn't think that Jennifer Aniston is too skinny. (Hello! Has anyone else seen, "Rumor Has It?" She looks like an underfed beanpole next to Kevin Costner, who is getting up there in years and weight).
5) Zac likes him - at least until he saw me again.
6) He doesn't drink alcohol, go to bars, or smoke - anything, ever. All three are non-negotiable.
7) His actual first name is Edric ben Patrick. I know this because I asked him if he ever went by "Pat" and he looked at me like I had just bad-mouthed Enya in front of his Mom. He said: "No. I hate the name Pat. My middle name is B.P." To which I replied, quizzically: "Your name is P. b. P.? What kind of crappy name is that?" If he had been less of a gentleman, he might have sighed at this point and told me that his name means Son of Patricia, in Gaelic (I think), which is his Mom's name.
Now, it's possible that he is different from the FOB in every, conceivable way (although I never checked the FOB's ears. Note to self - ask him about his ears). It's almost like he is too clean-cut, too good of person for me to fall head over heels for. I mean, can you imagine what lengths I would go to to get out of a car that played exclusively Enya during a road trip? Or better yet, what kind of violence I might be capable of after eight hours of overlapping, syncopated beats that speed up and slow down at random?
I was driving to work today, jamming to, "I Ain't Sayin' She's a Gold Digga'" and realized that I might not be able to do that again with him in the car. That's a serious issue for me to overcome. I'm going to proceed slowly, with caution.