The Fumigator

So, when grapes from South America come into port, before they are shipped to your grocery store, they must undergo fumigation to ensure that you and I don't end up with the unpleasant experience of biting into a grape only to realize we have just bitten a worm in two. Sometimes the world of the fumigator becomes very stressful because grapes come into two ports at once, San Diego and Los Angeles, for example. Imagine the whirlwind of competition and paper-signing that ensues in the fumigating world during these bountiful times. It's cutthroat, I assure you. The stress overwhelming. The fumigators' brows bead with sweat as they work to defend us all from those terrible little bugs munching on their very natural food source.

I know what you're thinking. You're about to click out of this little blog of mine, thinking: Oh no, not another blog by some hippie, earth-kisser, no-deodorant-wearing, braided-armpit-hair-sporting chick who's trying to make me feel guilty about eating non-organic in a world where I am barely scrimping enough money together to buy a meal at the fast food joint down the street, knowing full-well that I'm not doing my body good and, quite honestly, not really giving a rat's tail about it. Okay, so maybe that's not exactly what you're thinking, but I'd bet I'm pretty close. This, I assure you, is not a blog about vegan cooking or undermining corporate America. It's a blog about dating. Yes, dating--I know, I know, so original.

Here's the thing: I am a 35-year-old woman, attractive by most accounts, giving, successful, blah blah blah blah and I am, like most single women my age, looking for love. Around me, most of my friends have fallen into varying degrees of marital bliss; most have birthed and loved babies; many spend their days play-dating with other moms, sharing their mothering secrets with others in their club. I love these women fiercely. They are glorious and golden. But somehow we are different. You know, the 'haves' and 'have nots'? I digress...

So, I've been dating. A lot. I've been using two of those more well-known, a-hem, online dating sites. Some of these dates have been pleasant, others painful, all entertaining. I thought I would create this little space where you could grab a pillow, hunker-down for a few, and I could share my war wounds with you ladies (and gents, if you should choose) in my club...and those outside my club who just want a bit of a giggle.

"What does all of this have to do with fumigating?", you ask. Not much. I'll be honest. That little tidbit of vital grape-safety information I learned from one of my recent frogs.

Picture this: A photograph of a well-muscled man in his late 30's. Hair dark. Eyes dark (just my type). He holds his little boy, grins sunshining on both of their faces. He and I email, set up a date for a Tuesday night. 7:30. In typical me fashion, I arrive early. I would rather get there before my dates so that I'm not the one walking in and looking stupid as I search for some man I've never met. I think this fear is a remnant of middle-school moments when I would call to my friends across the quad and they wouldn't turn around and I would just look like I was shouting to the wind.

So, I arrive. I sit. I wait. A dark-haired man walks in. He's cute, I think to myself. He looks at me, full eye-contact, I start to stand, heart pitter-pattering. He keeps walking. Wrong guy. Disappointed.

Moments later, the door opens and another dark-haired man enters and walks towards me. Recognition beaming on his face. Whatever muscles he had in the picture had melted like wax to settle just below his belt. A pear shape. Speaking of his belt, it was shiny brown leather and cut him in two like a string wrapped around a pork roast, little tires settling above and below it. He smiles, his glasses rising on his crinkling nose, and walks toward me. Here we go, I think to myself and stand, hand outstretched to shake his. He hugs me, of course. I know, I know, he seems really nice, right? I'm all for a sweet, pudgy man. I often like them, actually, but he was different. You know that moment when you realize the spark will never arrive--you will never want to tussle in a bed with this person.

You must be thinking I'm a judgmental hussy. I guess I am. But I do give it a chance. I always give it a chance.

So, we proceed to our table. We order. He begins to talk. He talks and talks and talks and talks and talks. For forty-five minutes. About fumigating. I could have been a fork on the table for all of the interaction we had. On second thought, I should have used the fork on the table to gouge my heart out and stop the pain. At one point, misery must have plastered itself so plainly on my on my face that the group of ladies sitting at the table across from us gave me a poor-you look of sympathy.

After the fumigating lesson, we start sharing growing-up stories--where? siblings? parents? family pets?--and he reveals that he grew up in the same town as the last guy who broke my heart.

"Oh, really?" I ask. "I know a couple of families who are from there."

"Yeah?" he smiles. We've made a connection--he can feel it. "What are their names?"

"The Smiths (non-Heartbreaker's family) and the Turners (Heartbreaker's family)," I venture.

"I don't know the Smiths, but I know the Turners." He's nodding now, teeth a-blazing.

I don't want to ask, but, being a glutton for punishment, I do. "Really? So you know Daniel (Heartbreaker)?"

"Oh, yeah! He was my best friend in high school. How do you know him?" He leans in. The overhead lights sparkle on his glasses.

Did I mention there was a fork on the table and that I should have used it to put myself out of my misery which I should have done before this topic even entered the conversation?

I put in an hour-and-a-half of time. During which I said maybe, oh, twelve words. Nodded politely. Watched him eat dessert--which I had claimed not to want only in hopes that our date would stumble to its end but he had ordered it anyway. Hugged him at the end. And prayed that he wouldn't call.

He did, of course. It's always The Fumigators who do....