Familiar Roads

October 11, 2016Going Home Againmdeldeo

Fighting urban impatience while waiting to order a coffee, I realize that I am surrounded. A chipper group of young women (with impeccably sculpted posteriors shrouded in matching Lululemon) hatch a game plan of splitting entrees and quartering a cookie in the stated interests of fiscal preservation and caloric conservation. Exercising a right to bare arms, three dudes toting lacrosse sticks march in, bypass the queue, and make a beeline to the drink machine to quench their previously parched protein powders. Hydrate, bro!

First-semester sniffles and coughs accentuate the ambiance and as it’s my turn to order, the watery-eyed cashier abruptly prances off to nurse his swollen nose and to hitch up to a sleigh. In the attendant’s absence, an elderly man at a nearby table flashes me a half-smile as he notices that I peeped him pouring brown liquor into his soda. As he gradually drifts back to sleep, his highlighter and marble notebook charade seem to keep management at a safe distance.

If the University of Delaware Panera is any indication, college life looks as familiar as it did a decade ago. My life, on the other hand, certainly looks a bit different.

I am 33-years-old, single, and just moved back in with my parents to my childhood home in the bustling metropolis of Hockessin. And despite a cat allergy, I am just one feline shy of “cat-person” status. Not exactly the roommate situation I imagined. Baseball pennants on the wall and a model airplane spinning slowly overhead, I sat in my childhood bedroom the first night and thought, “Holy shit! If my 23-year-old self could see me now.”

He’d probably laugh. And cry. And feed me a Zyrtec.

In the past decade, I’ve lost a few family and friends and found a few pounds and blemishes. Spent years in school after undergrad and coughed up tens of thousands on tuition, only to finally accept that medical school might not be for me. I’ve perfected traveling on a budget and reconnected with folks I hadn’t seen since high school. I rehabbed an abused dog to a relaxed life of car rides and table scraps, but lost him to cancer at the height of his journey. I fell into a career that I love, and started a business. I’ve become pretty good at slinging drinks behind the bar and decent at sticking landings in a small Cessna. I’ve confirmed many times over that romantic relationships are difficult. And the multi-day “adult” hangover has perhaps convinced me that both Woodford Reserve and Dogfish Head should be consumed in extreme moderation and rarely in conjunction.

To calm the anxieties of my 23-year-old self, it turns out that “different” doesn’t necessarily equate to better or worse. A deviation from the expected can be challenging, rewarding, heartbreaking, and thrilling, often all wrapped up in one big life burrito. No action is ever static, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Entertain uncertainties and insecurities regularly but briefly. Eat an occasional salad and go for a jog, even when you don’t feel like it. Focus on experiences over possessions and value those around you. Realize you don’t know it all. You never will.

And when mom and dad are cooking, don’t be late for dinner.

Sit. Stay. Write.

January 22, 2016WritingWritingmdeldeo

“Ooh, honey, those sunglasses look good with that beard.”

While I was only expecting chicken nuggets and a Diet Coke, the drive-thru attendant was unapologetically smothering me in a side of sweet sauce. As much as I appreciate a compliment, I would have been equally welcoming of a straw.

Side note: I’ve worn a face sweater intermittently for about a decade and for whatever reason, it tests quite well in the older, African American female market. Perhaps waning anesthesia was to blame, but I once had a patient of said demographic repeatedly stroke my facial locks and declare, “You’ve got a bit of soul in you, child.” I’m confident she’d retract that statement if we ever found ourselves sharing the same dance floor.

I thanked my new Wendy’s admirer for her kind words and wished her a pleasant afternoon. As I drove away chuckling to myself, the words of a college friend popped into my head: “The weirdest things happen to you. You’ve gotta write this stuff down, Mike.”

A while back, I answered a very nosey barista that I was creating a blog. She laughed and said, “Any idiot can write a blog and most blogs die. Write often, write well, and you won’t be that idiot.”

I was on a roll for a while, writing a new post every few weeks, receiving some positive feedback, and watching site traffic increase to a few hundred unique visitors each week. But gradually, my efforts trailed off. Every few days I would promise myself that I’d crank out a few words. Instead, I only manufactured excuses. Work is so busy. Maybe I’ll go to the gym instead. Just one more beer. Now a year has gone by and despite the surprisingly sage advice of a far-sighted barista, I am that idiot who owns a dead blog.

I watched an interview with musician Ben Folds recently as he discussed his writing process and moments of writer’s block throughout his career. He noted that the more pressure he felt to write, the more he refused to do so. In the interview, Ben refers to a song titled, “One Down” in which he recounts a publishing deal that ridiculously required him to write 4.6 additional songs to fulfill his contractual obligations by a deadline.

“I was never alright with turning in a bunch of shit, Don’t like wasting time on music that won’t make you proud, But now I’ve found a reason, To sit right down and shit some out.” – Ben Folds

One of the pitfalls I face in my writing, much like the lyric suggests, is being uncomfortable with turning out a less than stellar product. Rather than inspiring more writing, this fear instead paralyzes the craft and pages remain blank. At best, I am a mediocre writer and should not expect to produce gold with every attempt. But I am a keen observer, and lucky enough to have material walk right up and slap me in the face.

So I suppose when I feel uninspired and at a loss for words, I just need to be reminded to sit right down and shit some out.

A Christmas Dinner

December 26, 2014Uncategorizedmdeldeo

Last Christmas Day, as I waited for the delayed Empire Amtrak train to upstate New York, I noticed a man in his twenties, going from trashcan to trashcan, scrounging for bits of discarded dinners to satiate his hunger. The homeless population is not an uncommon sight at Penn Station, or in any major city for that matter, and such a presence often goes unnoticed. A combination of Christmas and sharing the same age demographic, I picked up a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a Coke and caught up to him a few trashcans later. The exchange was simple, he offered a “Merry Christmas” in return, and a few words later, we both headed in our respective directions.

The last time I was in Penn Station was a mere five weeks ago on the Monday before Thanksgiving. My cousin, Shannon, my girlfriend, Liz, and I packed in a cab en route for the New York City Medical Examiner’s office. We returned to identify the body of Becky, Shannon’s mom and my aunt.

Less than 24-hours prior, we had just wrapped up an extended family trip to New York City. My Aunt Becky, three of her sisters, and a few members of the second generation, had traveled from various locations for an impromptu family reunion weekend in the heart of Times Square. The rendezvous included a Broadway show, a number of meals spent together at various restaurants and Irish bars (a family favorite), strolling the streets to take in the magical lights of New York City at Christmas, and culminated with a walk through Central Park. The weather perfect and the company even better.

We departed New York that Sunday afternoon in waves. As the group gradually trickled out, my sister and her boyfriend, Liz, myself, and Aunt Becky remained. The four of us were taking a bus back to Philly and Aunt Becky was boarding a return flight to Ohio in just a few hours. We stood in the lobby of the Westin, said our goodbyes, as everyone repeatedly commented on how great of a weekend was spent together in the city. As I hugged Becky goodbye, she told me she had waited many years to see New York at Christmas and how lucky she felt to have seen it with family.

That was the last time anyone spoke with Becky. Shortly after she returned to her hotel room, she passed away. The details of the following hours and days were chaotic, overwhelming, sad, and surreal.

Becky was the true epitome of selflessness. True to her morals and always grateful for her lot in life, Becky placed the needs of others ahead of her own on all occasions without complaint, recognition, or fanfare. She devoted herself to her husband and children, to her siblings and their families, and to her community, where she volunteered countless hours to her church and local Hospice. And when four grandchildren entered her world, Becky was truly in her glory, knowing every scene of Rio by heart, understanding the complex working relationship of Doc McStuffins and Lambie, and singing every word of “Let It Go” car-trip a capella, all feats that should independently lead to canonization. Becky truly loved every minute of time spent with family and friends.

When a family member dies, those left behind are often subjected to a barrage of cliche phrases of comfort as others try to be supportive in hopes of making sense out of tragedy. This was hardly the case with Becky. Every single family member, friend, coworker, church member, and fellow volunteer that offered condolences had a personal connection to Becky that was truly unique and unparalleled. You don’t find that often.

Shortly after Becky’s funeral, a handful of people asked me if I was going to write any sort of tribute to her. I blew off the suggestions to do so, as I knew there was nothing I could pen in a few hundred or a few hundred thousand words that would do Becky’s life any sort of justice. I thought of the countless childhood beach trips to Cape May, taking us to play putt-putt or to the boardwalk arcade. I remembered trips to their family farm in Ohio, visits to the fair, and trips to Delaware over the holidays. College visits to West Virginia, and countless care packages of puppy-chow, cookies, and groceries that I was too cheap to buy. When any holiday, birthday, or personal milestone rolled around, I could count on a card in the mail from Becky ahead of anyone else. Most recently, I recalled a number of conversations on family trips to Avalon and the Outer Banks, in which Becky told her favorite stories of growing up with her parents and many siblings, and reflected on how proud she was of her own family. She always stressed the importance of paying it forward and remembering your roots. Despite trying, there is really no way to fashion these decades of fond memories and good sentiments into words, as her impact was truly widespread.

Today is Christmas day, and I found myself sitting in Penn Station waiting for the same Empire Amtrak to Albany exactly one year later. I thought of Becky and the previous trip to New York City and thought it might be a small tradition in her memory to buy dinner for another homeless person in Penn Station. Perhaps the unseasonably warm weather is to blame, but as I took a few laps around the station, I was coming up short on homeless people. Weirdly disappointed, I joined a sea of people and waited for my boarding call. As I stood there for less than a minute, a middle-aged man cut his way through the crowd. He confidently walked up to me, explained that he was hungry, and asked if I would buy him dinner.

Merry Christmas, Aunt Becky.

“A Thousand Times Over”

August 29, 2014Dogsmdeldeo

Years ago, while seated in the lobby of the vet’s office with our family dog, Winston, a woman quietly entered through the front door. She walked up to the reception desk and announced that she was there to pick up her cat. After a few minutes, a vet tech returned with a small cedar box containing the remains of her recently cremated cat. Without missing a beat, a young child turned to his mom and loudly asked, “Mom! How did they fit a big cat in such a small box?”

This is Odie’s box. Despite my hopes, wishes, and the best of medicine, he fits inside just fine.

On a Wednesday, Odie decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. By Saturday evening, his front legs dragged his limp back legs across the ground. And on Sunday night, being carried became his primary mode of transport.

Cancer is cruel.

The jingle and sight of his leash mustered up a tired sense of excitement and joy on Monday morning, as I carried Odie into the car for one last ride. He plopped on Liz’s lap, head resting on her arm as he alternated between sleep and watching the scenery go by.

We waited together in the lobby of the vet’s office for an eternity. Once on the exam table, Odie’s mood soured and his eyes became vacant. He knew.

After much discussion and reassurance, the vet administered a sedative to render him unconscious. Odie gradually melted into my arms as we recited our goodbyes. Shortly before he lost consciousness, he regained his signature happy dog smile and was calm. His heart quietly stopped only seconds after the final injection. Liz and I stroked his fur as he took his last breath.

I have never felt so empty in my life as I did in that moment.

Knowing for months that Odie’s time was short, both Liz and I began snapping pictures on a regular basis. I promised myself that when his time drew near, we would document his last adventures with us. Just a few weeks before Odie died, blogger and photographer Robyn Arouty published a post titled, “I Died Today – By Duke Roberts,” which photographically chronicled the last few hours of life from the perspective of Duke, a terminally-ill black Labrador. It instantly went viral on the internet. While my camera-phone skills don’t hold a candle to Robyn’s professional talent, this is how I imagine Odie would have remembered his last few months with us.

“Maybe if I sleep on your face, you’ll forget about the flu and I’ll forget about the cancer.”

“Put down the cookie, fat ass.”

“Let’s have a cookout with Kate and Andrew. New Jersey isn’t so bad!”

“Life doesn’t get better than a Saturday morning on the couch.”

“I love a lazy night on the hammock in Hockessin.”

“While Michael wasn’t looking, I snagged his sub.”

“Fresh sheets…soft pillow. I guess you can have the other side.”

“These vet trips are exhausting for you guys, too?”

“Look, I’ll take as many cancer pills as you want. Just keep the Skippy coming, man.”

“Time for burgers and fries at the US Hotel.”

“Photobomb!”

“I feel better. Let’s drive to the river.”

“Was swimming on my bucket list? You get in first. I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not hungry, but you guys need to eat. Let’s go to Greg’s!”

“So glad we hit the beer garden today.”

“I’m pretty tired, guys.”

“That nap was great. Let’s keep this party rolling.”

“Ok, time to go home. Thanks for the lift.”

“So I guess this is it, guys. Don’t worry about me…worry about yourselves.”

Over the years, I’ve heard plenty of stories of friends and family losing their beloved pets, described as the “worst day” of their lives. While I never doubted their sentiment, I certainly didn’t understand the gravity of their loss. I get it now.

Odie’s time with me was certainly not without its challenges, from health issues to behavioral problems. I sincerely want to thank family and friends who have been patient with him and supportive of me, and particularly want to acknowledge my family, Joe Couvillon, and the care and advice of vets Laura Fontana and Larry Rebbecchi. You each had a hand in improving Odie’s quality of life, all the way until the end. For that, a very humble thank you from Odie, Liz, and me. The cards, messages, and kind words have been much appreciated.

While it has only been a few weeks since the last walk, car ride, or couch snuggle, not a day has gone by where I don’t badly miss that ball of fur. I will walk in the front door, only to be greeted by disappointment, or the jingle of dog tags outside the window will cause my ears to perk up and heart to sink. And the kitchen floor has never been so dirty, as the daily crumb-scavenging service that Odie lived for has come to a close. Perhaps I’ll have to start eating at the table.

When I think back to our first meeting and test drive, Odie stopped in front of my car and laid down, refusing to walk any farther in the direction of his previous home. When I tried to drag him, he wouldn’t budge. But when I opened the car door, he hopped proudly into the front seat, for the first of many drives together.

Even now, I sometimes think I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, smiling as he watched the world pass by.

“A Good Dog Never Dies”

June 20, 2014Dogsmdeldeo

I would make an awful cocaine addict. I’m non-committal, I’m barely scraping by on a student budget, and while the weight-loss would be nice, it would take a lot of coke to entertain the vast mucosa of my beak. Given that a few cups of coffee can launch me into a full-blown panic attack, stimulants are not my jam. As I leaned over my kitchen table this morning cutting a pile of white powder into equal lines with a razor blade, a summer gust of wind blew through the screen door and my beard and mustache were quickly dusted white. Odie gleefully wagged his tail and danced around in excitement, waiting impatiently for his daily hit, as I wiped the Piroxicam from my face.

Piroxicam is a human non-steroidal anti-inflammatory similar to ibuprofen and is given to dogs for a number of conditions. The human dose is too large for Odie’s weight, so I have to divide a capsule into multiple doses. In Odie’s case, his blight is terminal prostate cancer.

A few months ago, Odie presented with blood in his urine. Having a history of urinary tract infections, he was quickly treated with antibiotics and the symptoms resolved. But a few weeks later, he began to strain while watering my newly planted backyard. The vet found an enlarged prostate on manual exam, and much to both Odie’s and my own surprise, the vet handed me a latex glove and some lube and “showed” me his findings, as Odie and I took our relationship to a new level. Ultrasound confirmed calcification of the prostate, highly suggestive of cancer. Fortunately, further imaging showed no evidence of metastases anywhere in his body.

I’ve scoured journal articles on prostate cancer in dogs, consulted with a few vets, and even chatted with a veterinary oncologist. Treatment options are very limited, as radiation is ineffective and chemotherapy is unlikely to work. The end conclusion is the same: Odie’s clock is ticking, as most dogs live an average of three to six months after diagnosis. Given an early diagnosis, he could potentially make it another year.

I haven’t told Odie yet. In fact, I don’t think I have to tell him. Over the past few months, Odie has become much more cuddly and affectionate, less anxious, and better behaved. He goes on a lot more walks, joins us on outings to the park and snags burgers at picnics, and now sits proudly in the front seat on car rides. He lives for attention and spends every waking moment by our sides. He is more excited to see us walk through the door now than ever before. He knows something is up.

From the moment I met Odie, I had a gut feeling that he would be difficult. But I also knew I couldn’t leave him in an abusive home. When he rolled over to let me rub his belly, I knew he trusted me instantly. Along our journey, many people have criticized me for not euthanizing Odie or giving him to a shelter. Why waste my time and money on a problem? After all, “it’s just a dog.”

It is bittersweet that after years of unrest, behavior and aggression issues, abuse, a previous bout of cancer, infections, Lyme disease, and now a terminal illness, Odie has finally become what I’ve always hoped for: happy, less anxious, and content. I truly appreciate the support, both financial and emotional, from friends and family who have been champions for rehabilitating him to a better life.

Whether his time is measured in weeks or years, it is hard to dispute that Odie is enjoying the best moments of his life. My appreciation of him parallels my pride in him and at this point, his happiness is my own. In the meantime, we’ll keep doing lines of Piroxicam for breakfast and hope for the best. Odie may be just a dog. But he’s a damn good dog.

Debunking the Odd

May 9, 2014Oddsmdeldeo

I read an article by a statistician that explained your odds of winning the Powerball jackpot are approximately 1 in 175,000,000. Such numbers are hard to comprehend, so the author gave a quick scenario. Say you laid dollar bills end to end, starting in Washington, DC, going south to Disneyworld, going west to Disneyland, north to Portland, Oregon, back east to Portland, Maine, and finally home to DC. Despite over 8,000 miles of dollar bills, you would still have enough dollar bills left over to do the whole loop again. One of these dollar bills is randomly marked as the “winner.” You have one chance to find it. Ready? Go!

At one point while living in Virginia, I shared a house with three female roommates but had my own separate basement apartment. (There are perks to not fearing spiders.) A tiny, Dixie cup-sized glass of ginger ale sat on the floor next to the bed from the night before. As I undressed for bed, I emptied my pockets, tossing my small flip phone on to the bed. In some magical trick shot that would have caused the Globetrotters to beam with pride, the phone took a bad bounce on my mattress, flew up in the air, and splashed down antenna first into the world’s smallest glass of Canada Dry. Can you hear me now?

In an attempt to liven up a boring summer home from college, a few friends and I went to a Philadelphia Phillies game. Inherent to any sporting event, the camera panned the stands and broadcasted the surprised reactions of fans on the Jumbotron. The focus landed on a group of four college girls, three of whom were quite attractive. The fourth girl – not so much. Just as I made a joke about her outfit to my friends, the camera moved down a row of seats, and suddenly my friends and I were on the big screen, with the four girls in the background. There was an awkward silence as the gears turned. “YOU INSENSITIVE PRICK!” began a tirade of well-deserved scoldings that were no match for my apologies. Out of 43,000 seats, the camera chose our row.

A group of childhood friends came to stay with me for the weekend. I was wading into the waters of online dating, which at the time, was pretty new. Curious, one of my friends made a profile for himself. As he published the profile to view his matches, he slammed my laptop shut and launched it across the couch. Unsure of what had happened, we opened the laptop. Out of tens of thousands of options, the Match.com algorithms had selected a picture of his number one romantic match – his sister!

An Ethiopian restaurant opened in my neighborhood, across the street from one of my favorite bars in Arlington, Virginia. Seated on the outdoor patio, a person in our group referenced the new restaurant and asked, “I wonder what they serve?” In a joking, off-color reply, I simply retorted, “Dirty water?” From the neighboring table, a woman stood up and pointed at me. “HOW DARE YOU!” she yelled. From her lecture that ensued I recall two salient points: First, she couldn’t take a joke, and second, she was visiting DC as part of a clean water initiative. B-e-a-utiful.

My Editing 304 class in undergrad met in a computer lab in which workstations outlined the perimeter of the room. We sat on comfy, swivel office chairs that could recline pretty far back. Chatting with my classmates, my back to the door, I leaned back in my chair to stretch. At the exact same time, our professor walked through the door, I swiveled my chair, and as I completed my stretch in an upward motion, my hand shot right up the inside of her thigh and under her skirt. She squealed. I shrieked. It was a moment of perfectly awkward timing, as it took a solid fifteen minutes for my classmates to regain their composure (and probably twice as long for the blush to fade from our faces). I had goosed my professor.

Most of these situations I couldn’t create again if I tried (or without being featured on To Catch a Predator). They are simply examples of being in the right place at the right time for given events to occur. That said, I’ve amassed a lifetime of stories of apparently random happenings and awkward situations that seem to follow me wherever I go. And they just keep coming. It is tempting to search for meaning in them, but for now, I just appreciate their entertainment value. If you have a good story, feel free to post it in the comments section. Odds are, you’ve got a one-in-a-million story, too.

When Life Hands You Carp

May 2, 2014Floodingmdeldeo

Today, I am sitting at a patio table outside of a Cosi. As I am taunted by the blinking cursor on a blank page, a gust of wind carried a shred of paper across my table. I started to crumple it up and then realized it was a discarded fortune cookie message that read, “Get to the point and keep it clear and simple.” (Also, “gooseberry” in Chinese is “mi hou tao” and my lucky numbers are 10, 53, 51, 54, 15, 36. If you win the Powerball, I expect a cut. Extra points if you find a way to weave “gooseberry” into your winner’s press conference.)

While today is sunny and pleasant, the past few days in Philadelphia have been anything but lovely. A large, slow-moving weather system dumped five to six inches of rain on the area in just two days. Although it should seem obvious, a city built along a river doesn’t fare so well under that much precipitation.

Since moving to Philly, I have worked part-time for a small medical office in the heart of Manayunk. The practice is owned by two of the most genuine, caring, and empathetic people I have ever met and these characteristics visibly carry over to their patients and employees each day. They truly live to help and heal.

On Wednesday night, one of the docs left me a frantic voicemail. The river behind the office was only a foot from the back door. A small team of us rushed into the office, stacked everything we could off of the floor, and boarded, sealed, and sandbagged the doors. While inside the office, the river crested its banks and the water began to seep under the doors. In under three hours, the water on Main Street rose from an inch to waist-deep. Luckily, we had to wade only a few hundred yards through the cold, sewage-smelling water (Yay, Leptospirosis!) to reach higher and dryer ground. Just an hour later, the few remaining cars parked nearby were completely submerged.

Despite the preparation efforts, the river won. The office filled up with over three feet of water, and everything that had been stacked began to float and fall into the water below. As the river receded, the office drained and amongst the outside debris, carp were swimming around in the remaining pools of water. Aside from the fish, which were returned to the river, the building interior and its contents were completely destroyed. Although many of the neighboring businesses and houses suffered a similar fate, fortunately there were no injuries.

While loss of property is a headache, it is admittedly not a big deal, as flood insurance will foot the bill. But the ripples of just one event will certainly travel. Patients relying on the expertise and specialized skills of the practice will be put on hold as the docs search for a temporary space and make necessary house calls. And the employees who depend on the practice for their livelihood will be without income for a month or two. As this is just one example, it is hard to comprehend the gravity of the situation when disasters happen on a much larger scale.

As I initially laughed that the fortune cookie message was just a snide commentary on my writing style, I flashed back to the past few days and realized one clear and simple point: life can change at the drop of a hat (or at many drops of rain). One minute, we were drinking a beer and watching the Flyers. The next minute we were ass-deep in moving water.

The beauty (or tragedy) is in how sudden and drastic change is handled. Do you bitch and whine about your misfortune? Or do you recognize your stuff is replaceable and start rescuing stranded fish from puddles? I guess that is up to you.

A Horse is a Horse…of course, of course?

April 25, 2014DatingDidn't Know It Was A Datemdeldeo

A TV commercial for “The Steve Harvey Show” flashed between the traffic and weather reports while I was getting dressed. The upcoming episode was focused on dating advice for singles, because if anyone is qualified to offer dating advice, it’s a self-proclaimed God-fearing (and admittedly adulterous) comedian on his third marriage in equally as many decades. Step aside, Dr. Phil. There’s a new love doc in Tinseltown. Perhaps if you’re a connoisseur of the written word, you have come to rely on the relationship advice of Cosmopolitan, or one of a dozen other self-hating magazines sandwiched between packs of Cool Mint Trident and great literary works like The National Enquirer. If these peer-revered psychology experts can dole out dating advice at a third-grade level, I figure I am almost as qualified to comment. Almost.

It’s Friday night. Ladies, you’re primped and prepped. Locks are perfect, makeup is flawless. Gentlemen, your hair is combed, your back is waxed. Your makeup is…hopefully nonexistent. (But we won’t judge.) You are officially date ready.

Wait, “date” ready? Is this a date? Did anyone use the word “date?” Is it just dinner? Are we just hanging out??Could I have spent that waxing money on booze instead??? SHIT!

Just breathe. Let’s see how it goes.

Okay, this is going well. Let’s get the check and see who reaches for it. Yeah! That will decide it. The check is patiently perched on the table like an unsuspecting gazelle at the watering hole. Any minute now. Wait for it. Wait…for…it.

Uh oh, no one is reaching. It’s a standoff. Well, this is awkward.

While grabbing drinks and dinner with some friends recently, one referenced a guy with whom she had gone out to dinner a few years ago. She thought their meal was simply dinner. Her dining partner thought it was a date. I laughed and said it must have been a fluke. But it wasn’t. It happened to her again. With a different guy.

Doing some margarita-inspired research, I turned to two women seated at the bar next to us and asked, “Hey, have you ever been on a date that you didn’t know was a date?” Their eyes lit up and they immediately shared their own stories of unaware dating disasters.

I posed the same question to my small Facebook audience. Within a few hours, my inbox was flooded with stories. Here are just a few of the responses:

“There was this guy a few years back – I’ll call him Billy because that’s his name. Billy was a friend of a friend who nourished his southern roots with a giant truck, concealed carry permit, and a reputation for being a gentleman. We went dancing several times, often followed by dinner, and he always insisted on paying. You can see how this would be confusing. After the second time, he offhandedly raised the question about whether it was a date, but not in a way that invited a response from me. Not one to tolerate misunderstandings, I finally laid down the ground rules that if he wants to be dating, we can date, but if we’re not dating he needs to stop picking up the check because it’s just confusing. He laughed at my Yankee ways and continued paying.

A ski-trip turned into an overnight stay at his house, which led to no physical contact whatsoever. I thought it weird but assumed he was just being a gentleman. I was reassured of this when he paid for breakfast the next morning. It all came crashing down during “date” five. As we were traipsing through the woods looking for mushrooms, he asked not-so-casually whether a friend was single. It was like pulling a giant needle across a record. That night, I handed my credit card to the waitress with fire in my eyes and never talked to him again.”

“A kid flew back [to Philly] from Seattle (his home state) during summer break just to take me out to dinner. I thought he had come back to visit his friends but no. That was an awkward evening. I genuinely felt terrible for the misunderstanding.”

“I met with a friend from college who I had not seen for five years. I thought we were catching up, but in the middle of dinner she said, ‘I told my roommate that I was coming here with you and she was jealous of our date.’ I then thought it was a date and paid for dinner. After that, I tried to ask her out again, but she couldn’t because she was going on a date. I wished her good luck and I haven’t talked to her since.”

“The worst was finding out that someone actually thought we had been dating for three or four months. He had told all of our mutual friends – except for me! I found out about it on a work trip. He had actually broken up with his real girlfriend because he thought we were dating. Please note we had gone to dinner MAYBE three times over this period of time and each time I paid for my own meal.”

“I asked this girl out for dinner. Dinner went well, had a few drinks afterwards, and then went back to her place and hooked up. When I talked to her a few days later, I said how much I enjoyed our date. Her response: ‘Oh, yeah, that was not a date. But it was nice meeting you.’”

“Hung out with a mutual friend whom I was convinced was gay. He was effeminate. I didn’t get any pings from my ‘he’s checking me out’ radar. I was looking forward to having a new gay BFF. Someone fun! Male energy that I didn’t have to worry about! Someone who I could be totally friendly with without worrying that they would think I wanted to jump them. Happiness!

He shows up, I’m sitting in the theatre. We make chitchat. He seems nervous. There’s a dawning awareness on my behalf that, ‘OH FUCK THIS IS A DATE!’

It’s AWKWARD. AWWWWWWWWWWKWARD. We go out for sushi. It’s still awkward. We make small talk. I can’t wait for the evening to end. Conversation which had previously been fluid was stilted. I’m bored. It’s just…. ugh. I pay – he’s a broke student, I’m a nominally well-paid contractor. That’s also awkward. I take him home. He suggests another date as I drop him off. I don’t remember if there was an awkward attempt at a kiss or if I just did my usual bright and cheery, ‘Well that was fun! See you soon! Give me a hug!’ and bailed. We never went out again.”

“I was at the beach with a group of friends. While walking back to our hotel, I and a male friend got separated from the group. He suggested we get ice cream. I love ice cream. Seemed like a win-win. He casually said, ‘This would be a fun date.’ As we were eating our vanilla swirls, all of a sudden his ice cream-covered lips were moving fast in my direction. Escape! All I could do was quickly recoil and yelled, “What the hell was that?” in front of a crowded ice cream shop. Embarrassed, he scampered away like a little kid and avoided me the rest of the weekend.”

I have a half dozen more of these encounters, including a second account involving ice cream and a botched attempt at a kiss. Perhaps ice cream is an unsung aphrodisiac. I wouldn’t know – I’m lactose intolerant.

The common thread in every single unsuspecting date story was a total lack of clarity. Every situation was based on an assumption of each involved party, and clearly, those assumptions were wrong. Embarrassingly and awkwardly dead wrong. And while I hate to point fingers, only two of 14 stories were submitted by men. Every guy I informally polled was certain he had only been on “real dates.” No gray area about it.

Based on numerous conversations with many unaware daters, here’s my bit of advice:

If you want to ask someone out, be sure to use the word “date.”

If you have no romantic interest in someone, be clear that it is “not a date.”

And if at any point you are unsure, JUST ASK! It’s that simple.

Otherwise, “The Steve Harvey Show” airs weekdays at 2:00pm on NBC. Bring some ice cream.

Reduce, Reuse, Remember Disney

March 14, 2014Small WorldRecyclemdeldeo

Earlier this week, I ate lunch at a small café on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. I frequently visit Penn to study because, while my campus is cozy, I find the lack of variety in study spots and food offerings a bit stifling. Plus, I secretly hope that if I spend enough time around some Ivy-Leaguers, perhaps some smarts will rub off. (No luck, yet.)

Penn makes a clear effort to promote a green environment. Throughout the campus you’ll find low-energy lighting coupled with large windows for plenty of natural light, automatic doors to maintain temperature, and recycled materials used in all of the dining areas. Additionally, most cafes and eateries have a refuse station that is divided into three compartments: Landfill, Recycle, and Compost. And just in case you are an Ivy-imposter or simply haven’t finished kindergarten, a picture above each receptacle clearly shows examples of what should be tossed in each bin.

After finishing my turkey and cheese (and brownie, let’s be honest), I walked over to the refuse station and started dividing my items appropriately. A baby-faced man-boy hybrid donning an ill-fitting suit and loafers polished with a glimmering sheen of douche, side-stepped me and dumped all of his lunch materials into the Recycle bin. Tempted to stab him with my little plastic fork, I instead glared, pointed at the sign above the bin, and snarked, “I guess even pictures are too difficult for some people, eh?” Through a pimple-faced snicker he eloquently replied, “It doesn’t matter,” and skittered off.

In 2005, I went to Manhattan for a friend’s birthday. After a night at the bars, we were stumbling back to the apartment in the early morning hours. A group of girls approached us and one of them singled me out and handed me a helium balloon on a string. I politely declined, but she kept pushing the issue, so I finally took the balloon and walked on. A few paces away, I heard her call, “Mike? Michael?” Recognition took a moment but we had graduated high school together, and in a city of eight million inhabitants, I was the random balloon recipient.

Two years later, I visited my sister in Greece while she was on a study-abroad program. During a stroll through the Acropolis, a stranger approached me. Turns out, we lived in the same dorm during our freshman year and reconnected for the first time 5,000 miles from West Virginia.

Last month, Liz and I traveled to Carnegie Hall to hear her brother perform as part of a wind ensemble. We ate dinner on 44^th Street near Times Square, and through the magic of social media, a friend from Virginia messaged me and was having dinner half a block away. A current classmate then chimed in via Facebook to say she too was in Times Square.

As I wrapped up a trip to Tampa a few weeks ago, I chatted with some friends at lunch about Robert Irvine, Food Network chef and host of Restaurant: Impossible. Three hours later, I claimed the only empty seat at the UsAir gate. As I turned to my left, shockingly, my seatmate was Robert Irvine! People quickly crowded around him, asking for signatures and selfies. (He is as large as he looks on TV, by the way.)

Unaware of Robert Irvine’s fame, a young woman approached and asked me his name. We struck up a discussion while boarding and again upon landing, sharing a train ride home. Turns out, she is a faculty member at Temple. While attending a happy hour this week, I met a group of students from Temple, and in conversation, who do you think is their favorite professor? The woman I met on the flight.

After a handful of random examples and a head full of a dozen more, hopefully you see where I am going with this post: we truly live in a very small world. (It still surprises me every time I have a bizarre run-in.) And contrary to what many believe, no action is ever without an effect. True, the impact of recycling on a personal level may be negligible in the grand scheme. But personally, I’d rather minimize my impact, even if we are aboard a sinking ship. While recycling is just one example, we are connected more now than ever before on a multitude of levels. So I suppose there’s no harm in mitigating your negative impact and promoting the positive, even if you think it’s insignificant.

As I wrap up this post, I’m back in the café at Penn, right behind the refuse station. With the help of the signs, a woman just talked herself through which items belong in which bin, as a friend looked on and joked, “Solid work! I guess you really are Penn material.” Perhaps there is hope after all.

Cupid Down

February 14, 2014Valentine's DayCupid, Love, Singles Awareness Daymdeldeo

“Life is short. Have an affair,” proclaimed the first email at the top of my inbox this morning. Sent on behalf of the wildly popular dating service Ashley Madison, their mission-statement is spelled out in their slogan: find a relationship while you’re already in one. A few emails past Ashley in the queue was Christian Mingle, offering to find me a mate on God’s behalf. And if God wasn’t up for the challenge, there was a message from BlackPeopleMeet.com, which as the name states, I fail to satisfy a key demographic of the targeted clientele. Apparently, my ill-informed spam folder feels that I am in need of an affair, (perhaps with a black woman of good faith), and welcomed those infidels to cross the e-moat. Then it dawned on me – today is Valentine’s Day.

Solid marketing, guys. Hoping to cash in on the aptly nicknamed “Singles Awareness Day” by those not in picture-perfect, He Went to Jared relationships? In full disclosure, I’ve sampled the online-dating world before and it has produced stellar results. (Right, Liz?) Some of my friends have met online, which has led to happy and long-standing relationships, engagements, and marriages. So I am certainly not knocking online dating. As you might have guessed, the real target here is Valentine’s Day.

The holiday has a number of historical origins, rooted in religion, folk lore, and literature to name a few. It is estimated that nearly one billion Valentine’s Day cards (both purchased and homemade) are delivered each year in the United States. With modern day connotations of love, happiness, and a celebration of each other, it might make sense that the sentiment of Valentine’s Day extend beyond a single day. If Jesus and the Easter Bunny have to share a day, how did Valentine’s Day get its own space on the calendar?

While buying groceries this week, two young (30 is young) women in line ahead of me were discussing their hatred of the amorous holiday, citing that they were both the only uncoupled members of their respective friend groups. As I eavesdropped on their conversation, a quick glance around the check-out aisle suddenly had me choking on candy hearts. There were chocolate roses, cheesy cards, and the self-destructive magazine rack boasting topics such as “4 Great Valentine’s Day Outfit Ideas” and “Gorgeous Valentine’s Day Lingerie.” Suddenly, I felt guilty for being part of a holiday that can so effectively isolate others.

So rather than making Valentine’s Day just about romance (or a lack thereof), it just may be the perfect opportunity to take stock of those around you. Acknowledge those who bring joy and happiness to your life, make your day-to-day more rewarding, and simply thank them for it. While it may be a parent, friend, or significant other, anyone can truly be yours. And as Ashley Madison reminds us, everyone could use one more Valentine.

Perhaps equally rewarding is to use this time to purge dead-weight from your life. The acquaintances who run into you and say repeatedly, “We should get together!” and then never follow through. Guess what? They don’t care enough to make it happen. The guy that’s been jerking you around for months? He’s not going to commit. The dramatic friend who is always in self-proclaimed crisis? He can figure it out on his own. Draw back Cupid’s bow, line up a head shot, and clean house of bad energy. It’ll leave more time for the people that matter.

In perfect conclusion to this entry, Liz just joined me for a drink. Flustered, she opened with, “I went to CVS to get you a Valentine’s Day card, and the card aisle was packed, and I got caught up in the ridiculousness of the holiday and bailed. I feel bad. Hope you don’t mind.”

Nope. Not at all…

The Chubby Cynic

A public display of reflection