Reason #26 Why Dating is Rough: "I've come all this way....."

Parking in my neighborhood is a tricky thing, because like most cities there are more cars than spots to hold them. As such I try to avoid using my car after 8PM like nobody’s business. If I can’t scam a ride off someone, my attendance is questionable. Seriously, it’s just kind of the way it is. I think most people I know have grown to accept this, and if there are those out there who at all troubled by the fact that I am essentially choosing an eight foot section of gravel over their company, they hide it fabulously.

Sometimes, though, circumstances of life demand that I fire up the ole Mariner after the sun has set and take her for a spin. The other night was one of those nights, and I must say it was well worth it.

A friend needed a ride home from the airport after arriving from what was supposed to have been one big out of town booty call of a weekend. A few days prior I had left him at the terminal in full supply of optimism and prophylactics, and now I was picking him up ready to hear all the sordid details. Unfortunately, though, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan, and what got into my car that evening was one unopened box of family planning aids and one frustrated hot mess of a grouch.

Oooo, snap.

What happened?? It had seemed like a slam dunk!

Turns out the weekend had been ripe with weather delays, hangovers, a car accident, you name it, it happened. However, these were not the things that stopped our hero. No, no, these were mere details that certainly poured salt in the wound, but fender benders alone would not have proven a strong enough deterrent. What did? Well, as my weary traveler explained, it had been several years since he’d last seen this girl in person, and, well, the Facebook photos in retrospect had clearly been strategically chosen. In short, she was not nearly as asthetically pleasing as he recalled her being. Not even close. As a matter of fact, kind of the opposite. To make matters worse apparently there was quite a bit of baby talking to the four, count 'em, four cats going on. And all that with a three-pack-a-day voice.

Verdict? No bueno. No bueno, indeed. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a finger on her.

When I asked our protagonist if he couldn’t have pressed forward, if he couldn’t have just closed his eyes, strapped on some beer goggles, made a wish and gone for it, he responded, with deep regret, no. No, he could not. He’d thought about it quite a bit, and the conclusion he’d come to was that if circumstances were different, if he’d been able to do the 3AM dash, he could have powered through. But being that he was a two night houseguest with hockey games, museum visits and all kinds of other activities planned for the cold, harsh light of day, there was just no way.

To hear him relay the tale with all the details was hilarious, but I must admit, I was a little depressed for him. After all, the whole thing seemed like such a waste - of time, of energy, of money and anticipation. He’d traveled all that way for nothing. It must have really been, how shall I put this, a nightmare of a bad scene. (Ok, programming note: You know what? I’ve tried desperately hard to not use the word ugly or any synonym thereof for fear of karmic retribution. But, quite frankly I just cannot muster the energy to word-smith this anymore. You get the jist – according to my friend, our girl was ugly. There. I’ve said it.) But it begged a question – much like Barney Stinson’s famed “Hot/Crazy Scale”, wherein a girl must be at least as hot as she is crazy in order to be a viable prospect, is there an Ugly/Distance Scale? As in, “I’ve traveled X far, I don’t care that she’s Y ugly, I’m gonna hit this”? There’s a term for this in psychology called Escalation of Commitment, which is defined as “increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.” It’s sometimes what’s going on when a long term couple persists in staying together, despite obvious incompatibilities. They aren’t ready to admit that the time invested may have been a mistake, and as more time passes, they become more determined to prove themselves correct. Clearly in this case, the distance traveled was not far enough warrant, ah-hem, increased investment, but suppose my friend had hopped on a plane and flown to Chicago? Denver? L.A.? At what point might he have said, “Aw hell. I might as well get my airfare’s worth….”

I posed this question to a neighbor who without even thinking debunked my theory by denying such a scale would exist. “Under no set of circumstances,” he firmly stated, “would I allow that to happen. I’d leave, find some other girl, then get on the plane to come home.”

Fair enough.

Desperately hoping I’m on the right side of both scales,

khop

Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta - Subtitle, “Hey buddy, I’m lofting a softball right over home plate.”

Note: Since I've been slacking a bit on the writing and am a bit desperate for content, I'm going to be selfish and post this here, instead of guesting over here.

We all have a repertoire of “go to” moves. Moves we whip out when we’re aiming to woo, impress, or make the sexy time. They might be smooth lines, a specific pair of booty-enhancing jeans, or just the raise of one eyebrow. Whatever they are, they’re there in our pockets, ready at a moment’s notice to stop the object of our affection in his or her tracks.

I am, I’m afraid, one of very few moves. In fact, historically speaking, the more I consciously try to impress the opposite sex, the less successful I am. My smooth lines will be awkward and mildly offensive. I can’t rock the jeans-in-boots trend, so I’m horribly out of fashion. And if I try to raise just one eyebrow at you, you’ll probably think I have some sort of neurological tic. I am bitter about this. I wish slow, embarrassing deaths on the women who can purposefully spin webs that men actually compete to dive into, because I just cannot do it. It is only when I’m not really trying at all that I have any luck with the menfolk. For someone who has spent a lifetime seeing her efforts in academic and professional arenas translate directly into positive results, this is frustrating, to put it mildly. But it is what it is.

One move I do feel I have is in the culinary arts. Simply put, I know my way round a stove. This comes into play when I’m trying to woo a man with my womanly vibes, swaggering around my kitchen with my gingham apron and my skull ‘n crossbones spatula. (kidding about the apron, not about the spatula). I send out evolutionary pheromones that make him go all cave man and subconsciously link me with warm, delicious food, my hope being that he will keep coming back for more.

Of the food. Of course.

The very fact that I need to keep pulling this move out as relationships end and new ones begin, indicates that there may be some flaw in my logic. But that’s really neither here nor there. Back to the kitchen!

Over time Booty Call Shrimp has become one of my signature dishes. To be clear, it is not reserved exclusively for romantic evenings (I have made this dish for my parents), but certainly it is one of the dishes I think of first when there is a man on my radar screen. It has come out as early as Date 2 (shockingly slutty, I know), and it has been held back until later in the game. But it almost always makes an appearance. In fact, I wonder how many Men I’ve Tried To Impress are reading this now, feeling slightly cheap and thinking, “Really? That was a move? I thought I was special.....” Of course you were are. But for all women everywhere who they themselves have fallen victim to a move (perhaps one of your own), consider this as one small drop in the bucket towards evening that shit out.

Booty Call Shrimp is terrific because it’s seafood, thereby slightly fancy, and almost fool proof. The original recipe came from an issue of Cooking Light, but I’ve long-since lost it, and now I just cook to taste.

One last programing note before forking over the recipe. I must give a shout out to my swoop, who had never seen this move show up on his plate until an impromptu dinner party for six last weekend and who also was not phased by the angle I planned to take with this post. I had bounced this idea around with Wise Cassie quite awhile ago, but I have not had a taste for Booty Call Shrimp until this past weekend. Way to roll with it.

And now, I give to you Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta

Subtitle, “I shaved my legs today.”

1/2 lbs uncooked shrimp per person. I’m persnickety about springing for larger, fresh water shrimp, but do whatever your budget will accommodate.

1/4 cup kosher salt

lots of tomatoes, I like a mixture of plum, vine ripened and cherry

green onions

lots of basil

a few cloves of garlic

salt

pepper

olive oil

a hunk of butter

white wine (cooking or drinking)

pasta

parma cheese

optional additions: spinach, lump crab meat (although i find this to be a low ROI addition)

• Peel and devein the shrimp. Make an ice bath with kosher salt and brine the shrimp for 30 minutes.

• Meanwhile, quarter and seed the big tomatoes. Discard the seeds and juice. Dice the flesh

• Chop the green onions, garlic and basil.

• In large saute pan, heat olive oil and butter to medium high. Saute garlic for a minute or so. Don’t let it burn! Add shrimp and green onions. Saute for 4 - 5 minutes, until you can see that the shrimp are fully cooked. If you don’t know what fully cooked shrimp look like, google it. Turn the heat down to medium. Add spinach here, if you’re doing it. Saute until it’s wilted and reduced. Add the diced tomatoes, basil and the white wine, about a quarter of a cup if you’re cooking for two, then splashes as needed. Not too runny! Add salt and pepper to taste. Add cherry tomatoes and cook until they are still intact but the skins look like they’re gonna break. At the last minute gently fold in lump crab meat (if doing), just enough to warm it, but not enough that it breaks up and is lost in the slush.

• Serve over cooked pasta. Top with parmesan cheese and crushed up roofies. Fluff your hair, touch up your make up, and enjoy!

Workin' it,

khop

What's in a Nickname?

If you’ve dated me, it's very possible you have a nickname.

In fact, if there has ever been the slightest hint of a romantic connection between you and I (and this includes just me thinking you’re hot from afar), the Vegas bookies would put the odds on the truth being that myself or one of my friends has granted you an alternate title, and you are referred to as such when you are not around. Perhaps there was a time when you and I were hanging out, and I came out of the kitchen into the living room where you sat, opened my mouth to address you, stopped short and restarted. Remember? This confused you at the time, and allow me to clear up the mystery now. See, I was about to slip and call you Church Boy instead of Dave. Jim Gimme Summy instead of Jim. Coke Can instead of, well, we’ll leave that one alone.

The first memory I have of this dates back to the eleventh grade, but I can’t imagine there weren’t instances before that. I won’t relay this earliest of examples, because quite frankly it does not reflect the kinder, gentler person into whom I have since evolved. Or should I say devolove? (BTW, there is only one person on the entire planet who just might get that last sentence, and if she did she may have just fallen out of her chair laughing.) At that time code names were essential, for we were back in the dark ages, the other significant B.C. (Before Cell phone), where instead of firing off a quick text or email, communications were written on actual paper and extreme care was required to ensure that the integrity of the chain of custody was maintained at all times. In the event that these written communications (notes folded into paper footballs) were intercepted by the opposition (teachers) or rival rebel factions (competing girl cliques), their origins must be indiscernible and the message unintelligible. Plus, who are we kidding, nicknaming was just so damn fun. Wrong, mean, and bad karma-inducing, yes. But giggle-till-we-drop, let’s-go-make-another-mix-tape fun.

In college the nicknaming continued, even though the need or care for unshakable anonymity evaporated. The primary goal here seemed to be simple identification, a necessity at a school of 15,000+ students where Matts and Mikes and Ryans and Robs ran rampant. Where names such as Swimmer Hottie 1, Swimmer Hottie 2, and Frat Boy George scored low with the French judges for creativity or humor, the German judges gave them high marks for utility, and as such we all knew exactly about whom someone was referring at any given time. This is not to say there were no exceptions, as admittedly titles such as Trench Coat Mafia and Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle were thrown around. But seriously. If you knew a guy named Kyle, and he incessantly wore a t-shirt that listed the top ten reasons to become a chemical engineer, wouldn’t you slap a nickname on that shit too?

I also think it’s worth pointing out here that the nicknaming in college was not reserved exclusively for romantic affiliations, real or desired. No, no, I would like it to go on the record that I did not have a thing for or with Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle. No, no aaaaaand no.

If I had a prayer of growing out of the nicknaming habit after college, it soon went to hell in a pie basket, for after graduation I joined PADA, an organization with a long, rich love affair with nicknames, though most names are the out in the open variety as opposed to behind the back (exception, I hope: Porn ‘Stache). Actually, a more accurate statement is that PADA serves as an example of the nicknaming trend that is very common in the sport of ultimate frisbee, a phenomenon that I *think* I recall being documented in Ultimate: The Greatest Sport Ever Invented By Man (a quick, amusing read that is one big inside joke for ultimate players). Anywho, Edgely, the Philadelphia ultimate mecca, is a place where you will get blank stares if you mention that Andrew, Chris and Kevin are on your Spring League team this season, but you’ll see a nod of full understanding by referring to Smart Guy, Goose and Bulb. Yours truly is caught up in this nicknaming mess as well, as just last night I overheard Wise Cassie referring to me by my parental-given name and then having to clarify by calling me Khop. After all, who the hell is this Kathleen person? A small part of all this nicknaming comes, I think, from a need for easy identification, as this sport flashes a middle finger to conventional sporting norms, reserving things like numbered jerseys for only the more serious players. But mostly it is indicative of a solid truth of ultimate: we're odd, and we enjoy that fact very much, thank you.

I will say that while this trend makes for good banter and an amusing social scene, it can be horridly problematic. If you get to know someone by a nickname and then begin to date said person, at some point a transition is necessary, whereby you continue to use the appropriate nickname in public, but privately his or her real name is used, for, you know, the facilitation of intimacy ‘n stuff. I’m not gonna lie, there are many things I don’t mind being called, but the Very Last Thing I want to hear in the throws of passion is, “Oh Khop....”

Menfolk out there, take note.

So why all the male nicknaming? Damned if I know. It definitely has nothing to do with how much or how little I like the guy, as in thinking through the men who have and have not received nicknames along the way, there’s no direct correlation. Men I have been crazy about have had names bestowed upon them, and men I’ve been “not so much” about have gone without. The vice versa of both is also true. I could go all Psych 101 and theorize that I’m objectifying them, avoiding intimacy, yada, yada, yada, and who knows. Maybe there’s some truth to that. Mostly I think I’m just quirky and bizarre. But we knew this already, right? In any case, it's not meant to be derogatory. Well, most of the time anyway, heh heh....

Someday, I will stand at the pearly gates and Jesus Christ himself won’t let me into heaven until I tell Him what His Khop-given nickname is.

I swear, Jesus, the only thing I’ve ever called you is my homeboy.

Say my name!

khop

Pants 1, Khop 1. Final Score: Push.....

I am not going to lie to you.

Internet dating is rough. There are bad dates followed by worse dates followed by dates that leave you wondering just what kind puppy holocaust you spearheaded in your last life. Dates with the guys you hope never call (they do) followed by the rare dates with the ones you hope do call (they don't).

Serenity now!

Most of the time I find it pretty easy to stay upbeat about the hilarity of it all. After all, in what other venue would I have wound up dining with LifeIsShort443, who shared with me a detailed account of his self-diagnosed "abandonment issues" before the first round of drinks hit the table? And I ask you, how else would I have ever crossed paths with HeyItsMe, who's foolproof wooing techniques include referring to the city I openly love as "Filth-adelphia" a record three times in less than five minutes? And dear, blessed reader. Please, oh please, don't get me started about what happens when a good friend in the same metropolitan area who happens to share a pretty good physical resemblance with me also hops on match.com during the same time period. Truly, truly, that topic alone breeds enough material for a series of posts and perhaps an episode or two of "Facts of Life". Of course I would be remiss in not mentioning the fact that I have also met some very cool people, people whom fate chose to bring into my life via a good old fashioned "wink".

However, my heart is not made from tin, and when I am cut, I do actually bleed. Therefore, it is impossible to be immune from the lows that come with online dating. And those lows, boy are they low. On the walk home from dinner with LifeIsShort, my mind was assaulted with visions of married ex-boyfriends, a future with fifty cats and holiday after holiday after holiday of being A-L-O-N-E. Not surprisingly, I wound up working myself into quite a state. It's a good thing the path home didn't include walking across a bridge, because I can see the headline now: "Online Dating Drives Local Girl to Jump: One Meal with "LifeIsShort" Caused Life to be Long Enough".

If this does, in fact, happen, will somebody please take in my fifty cats?

Anywho, aside from the mental trauma, the other morning I discovered another side effect of my online search for love. On Thanksgiving morning I was preparing to head over to my parents' house for a day of American-style gluttony when it happened. Simply put, my pants betrayed me.

And it’s all the internet’s fault.

I don’t know about you, but I hate it when that happens.

Guys, you’re undoubtedly confused right now, but ladies, you know how this rolls. Life is good, not a care in the world, perhaps you’re even singing a little Debbie Gibson throwback number in your head. One leg goes in, followed by the other, pull ‘em up, go to button - wait. Uh oh. What’s going on here? What should be lose is obscenely tight. Lemme see if some squats will help stretch ‘em out. Crap. It’s wearable, but it’s certainly not comfortable, OH DEAR GOD WHY? [Cut to several moments of uncontrollable weeping.]

Such was the scene in my bedroom Thanksgiving morning, of all mornings, and when I finally peeled myself off the floor, I confirmed via measuring tape my worst suspicions: my ass had undergone a secret expansion of epic proportions, coming in at a full quarter inch above what I term acceptable for ass circumference. (Yes, yes, I do have a predetermined measurement of what’s an acceptable ass circumference. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Hel-LO???) This news would send me into a tailspin on any day of the year, but that day was so much worse. Goodbye, pumpkin pie. Adios, stuffing and sweet potato casserole. Farewell, second meal two hours later. Perhaps next year we will be on better terms.

How did this happen? At first I was stumped. I've been swimming just as much as always and have even been throwing some running in. What was going on here? Pardon my language, mom, but what the fuck?!?!

Then it dawned on me. My week used to go like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Stay in, cook healthy meal.

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Stay in, eat healthy left overs. Rejoice in health.

Friday: Perhaps some happy hour, followed by dinner out

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Whatever. Hey Steve, care to go running?

Lately, though, my week has gone like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Date

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Date (sigh.)

Friday: Crap. Another date.

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Really? Another *&%$ing date?

What, perchance, would you think the caloric difference would be between those two schedules? I can’t even begin to guess, but you know the result: a quarter inch above acceptable.

At this realization, I stomped into my office and shook an angry fist at my computer.

GOD DAMN YOU, INTERNET, GOD DAMN YOU!

Knowing that Thanksgiving Day serves as the starter’s pistol on the beginning of a month-long marathon of holiday over-indulging, I decided damage control needed to begin that very moment. I’m a firm believer in putting into place conditions that prevent bad behavior and setting up consequences for if it happens anyway. So what did I do? I took out my tightest, most constrictive pair of jeans, defied a few laws of physics and jammed my rear into them before heading off to a day of No Carb Left Behind at my parents‘ house. I wore those horrific things all day as a reminder of that quarter inch and as a pledge to not allow that quarter become a half. I’m proud to say that I made it until 8PM in those jeans, until I couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed a pair of my mom’s sweatpants and collapsed on the sofa. Moreover, I became the first person in the history of my family to actually have some salad with my Thanksgiving dinner, every bite of which was eyed with suspicion and contempt by my loving clan.

This month is going to be a constant two steps forward, one step back situation, a balancing act between enjoying the holidays and getting rid of that quarter inch. You know what the real kick in the crotch irony of it all is? What do you think is the Number One, Never Fail, Reliable as the Sun Rising Each Day method for Khop dropping a few pounds?

Going through a bad break up. Yep, yep, the pounds slide off my rear like water off a duck’s back.

Seriously????

Off to fat camp,

khop

Reason 785 Why Dating is Rough: Sushi Dan

I’ve always been a hater of meeting for “just a drink”.

I mean, come on. Even if shit goes wrong, it’s not as if we can’t put our nose to the grindstone and power through a meal together, right?

As someone who has had her fair share of less than stellar first dates, I know the feeling of knowing ten minutes in that the evening is shot. Pit in stomach, thinking of all the things I could be doing with my evening instead of sitting here, making small talk with you.

But really, how bad could things get? If we’ve agreed to go out at all, can’t we at least invest the time it takes to order and eat a plate of food? After all, let’s face it, we’re not that busy. Besides, deigning only to a drink seems so, well, pessimistic.

I’ve now revised my policy on all this. Why, you might ask? Two words:

Sushi Dan.

Lemme set the scene. Last week, I was meeting a colleague for a sushi lunch when I met this hotter than hot guy. I’m talking hot. We chatted, there was rapport, business cards were exchanged. We seemed to have a boatload in common. I couldn’t believe my luck. So when he called for a date, I was stoked.

The date he suggested was right up my ally, a little too good to be true, actually: tossing in the park followed by cooking risotto together at his house. (Now if you’re reading this and find it a little odd that I agreed to go to a total stranger’s house for dinner on a first date, I’ll give you that one. I wasn’t entirely comfortable at the thought, but I went for it.)

When we met, he was as hot as I recalled. Hotter, actually. Things were off to a great start when about 10 minutes in, he casually mentioned he was flying home to Michigan this weekend to visit his? You guessed it, girlfriend.

Crap. I immediately took a mental inventory of the possible reasons as to how I had wound up on a date with an unavailable guy. Had I misread the signals, and this date was a “friends” thing? Are hot guys really so desperate for platonic friends that they call up girls they meet in sushi restaurants and offer to cook risotto for them? Didn’t gel. Perhaps I had somehow blown it already, and he was aborting the mission by making up a fictitious girlfriend? After all, the very first thing I do to get an unwanted guy off my trail is to start name-dropping a made up ball ‘n chain. But no, it was too early in the date. We’d barely gotten past the basic get-to-know-you stuff, and at no point thus far had my foot even come close to being in my mouth. Maybe they’re on the verge of breaking up, and he’s too stupid to not mention her? After all, they are long distance. Honestly, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was the best I could come up with. In any case, I made the call to stick around and get to the bottom of it.

I mean, I did mention he was hot, right?

A bit later, about five minutes into the 60+ minute risotto recipe, he mentioned her again. This time I took the bait and was told that they are allowed to see other people.

Sigh. Experience has taught me that these things rarely turn out well for the new person, and quite frankly I’m just not interested in the drama and complication. I had a feeling that at the end of the evening I would likely request that he be in touch if his GF ever became an ex-GF, but until then, best of luck. So, mystery solved, but now definitely a wasted evening.

Correction. It would’ve been a wasted evening if he’d left it at that. But no, he continued. Seems as though they’ve moved to their current status somewhat recently, and surprise, surprise, she’s having a hard time adjusting. And he let me know that he feels it’s really important that his girlfriend know that she can reach out to other people since he’s not around. So this weekend, when he goes home, they are going to get together with another couple they know. And they’re going to, you know, all be together.

At this, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, and food shot out of my mouth. I’m talking, hummus hit the wall. Between gulps of laughter, I clarified, “So basically, you’re going home to have an orgy?”

Without a hint of humor, he replied, “well, yeah.”

Woah.

It soon became evident that he was quite eager to talk about this, and seeing as how I was no longer eager to impress, the date turned into a mini-inquisition on the subject of polygamy. I indulged myself not only in asking the blunt questions but also in being a bit “unplugged”, shall we say, in my commentary.

So without further ado, I give you Poly-Amour 101, According To Sushi Dan. Subtitle, At Least The Risotto Was Good.

Khop: In my limited experience with open relationships, it seems that more often than not there is one person who is into it, and then there is another person who pretends to be into it for fear that objecting will result in losing the person altogether. Tell me about that in general and specifically with you and your girlfriend.

Sushi Dan: In general that is often the case. Specifically, though, well…. that is also the case. If I agreed to be monogamous, I’m sure that’s what she would prefer. But, I think she’s slowly coming around. At least I think she is.

Khop: Huh. Would never have put money on that being your answer. And by “would never” I mean “would definitely”.

Khop: You’ve mentioned your relationship to your girlfriend as being “committed”. Tell me, where is the “commitment”?

Sushi Dan: Oh, well I’m very committed to her. I’m committed to being there for her emotionally and to calling her and visiting her and doing all the other stuff that goes along with being a boyfriend. It’s just that I’m free to see other people, too.

Khop: Oh, so what you mean by “committed” is that you commit to keeping her on the roster, most likely in the starting line up. But you're definitely looking to expand the team and evenly distribute the playing time. You commit to continue sleeping with her - that is, when you're not sleeping with somebody else.

Sushi Dan: Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way.

Khop: Ok, just checking.

Khop: So we’ve established that the physical aspect of your relationship has no exclusivity clause. What about the emotional side? Who does the emotional commitment go to? Especially since sex for women quickly leads to emotional bonding. What happens when either of you bond with someone else? And are the women you sleep with just being used as warm bodies?

Here Sushi Dan took the time to explain to uneducated me the difference between swinging, open relationships and poly amorous relationships. Turns out we’re apparently talking about different things here, in an attempt, it seems, to take one Very Bad Idea and give it several layers. The first two are intended to be only physical. Swinging typically occurs with both parties initially present, while open means that the creeping around town is done on one’s own time but with full permission. In both, theoretically the emotional attachment remains exclusive. In poly amorous relationships each partner gets to have their cake and eat it too, as “multiple committed, intimate relationships are acceptable and encouraged.”

Guess which camp Sushi Dan and his lucky GF were in? Yep, not only was the position of girlfriend already filled, but Sushi Dan claimed to have funding for additional girlfriend headcount.

Pun entirely intended.

Khop: Do you mind if I ask how old you are?

Sushi Dan: 26.

Khop: ahhh….

Khop: Have you considered a move to Utah?

Sushi Dan: Now you’re just mocking me.

Khop: You're just realizing this now?

As he walked me home, Sushi Dan asked me how I felt about this, if I would consider going out with him again or if all this poly-amour talk had me “running scared”, subtly implying that if I objected, my old fashioned thinking indicated a character flaw in me. I politely told him that while I generally subscribe to a “whatever floats your boat” kind of philosophy in life, none of this did, in fact, float my particular boat. I thanked him for his transparency, but told him that he’d have to keep looking for the next addition to his harem. In a display of social and self awareness that had been glaringly lacking from the rest of the evening, he said, “well, at least you’ll have a good story to tell, right?”

True dat, Sushi Dan, true dat.

Call me old fashioned, but poly-amours need not apply,

khop

PS: Thoughts?