Tiny Pineapple

Sorry, folks…busy, busy weekend (and Monday): Play practices, outings with the girls, church, multiple after-hours incidents at work, incessant calls from press representatives wanting interviews about my date. (“Wake Up, Bangalore!” wouldn’t take no for an answer.) The comments have been piling up, so I thought I’d take my lunch hour and respond to a few of them here.

Kate: Joy is me when I knowledge each gifts of Jobber’s Odd Lot live in forever with Happy DElight, so the snow is in the gentle flowerss of the cherry tree about the blossom not dead freezing it.

For those of you who are new here, Kate is referring to the origin of the title of these entries.

Kate: Grettir, it is time to admit once and for all that Keira Knightley is NOT in your skill set — SORRY — I meant age set (and that is NOT an insult). Legal or not… Jennifer Aniston? She is SOOO not Kate Beckinsale. Or Claire Forlani.

For those of you who are new here, “Kate” is really Jessica Biel, who can’t quite accept the fact that it’s over between us!

Move on, “Kate.” Move on…

apaperbackwriter: Okay, I am now reading this soap opera. But the characters are unbelievable. I mean, really — an eligible male remaining single in UTAH (hello, people — marriage capital of the world!) for 4 years?! No, no, no. You must give your audience a reason. He’s an ex-convict? He’s missing half his face? Or — dare we suggest such an abberation — he’s a democrat?

Actually, I think being a facially-challenged Democratic ex-convict would make things easier. (And there’s the added benefit of being able to claim the “single male facially-challenged Democratic ex-convict” exemption on my Utah state taxes.)

brent: I will note with some impatience that it is tomorrow now…

Please keep in mind that all references to time on this site are based on SPT (Single Parent Time). In SPT, the day doesn’t begin until the kids are bathed and in bed and the first load of laundry is in the washing machine (roughly 23:00 MDT).

So, as long as I finish it by 06:30 MDT the following morning, it still counts as “today” in SPT.

chronicler: Oh to be a fly on the wall at Chilis! Well, there were probably of few of them, but they don’t or won’t talk.

Who needs flies when you have sisters with bugs? From what I can tell, Kim’s four sisters arrived at Chili’s an hour before we did, wired our booth for sound, and were staked out in a van in the parking lot by the time we arrived. Meanwhile, my two younger sisters, having chloroformed two members of the kitchen staff, embedded wireless microphones in the guacamole before they sent our plates out.

Fortunately for us, the excessive amount of surveillance equipment in the room created so much RF interference that nobody was able to pick up a word we said.

Christine: Chili’s is her favorite? You both need to get out more.

I agree. Chili’s is so bourgeois. I would have preferred Chuck E. Cheese, but I usually save the ball pit for the second date.

Deborah Gamble: Kim is “hysterically funny”? We laugh at her jokes because we are family and it is the polite thing to do. Kimmy? Funny? Who knew?

Well, not funny ha ha. For instance, I thought her retelling of the classic “A Libertarian, a supermodel, and a marmoset walk into a bar…” was pedestrian, at best.

I was referring more to her delightfully droll take on life, which is both straightforward and oblique, modernist and postmodern, prosaic and piquant. Her wry observations on the day-to-day struggles of the single parent household had me in stitches for most of the afternoon. And when she started doing her spot-on impersonation of former German Chancellor Helmut Kohl trying to put his kids to bed, I almost wet myself.

I’m just saying, maybe it’s the audience…

Kim: It is quite evident we have scared this poor man. He must be feeling stalked to have said the things he said.

That’s not true. I would have said the things I said even if Ms. Gamble hadn’t been peering over my shoulder as I typed. As I mentioned to you earlier, I’m sure there were many people who were disappointed with my description of the events, but I think the level of expectation had been set so high that I could have written Pride and Prejudice and people still would have complained that it lacked romantic tension.

Jack: And? Once again, still not saying much.

I was thinking of your “So many words typed and so little said” slogan. I wanted to see if the inverse was also true: “So few words typed and so much said.”

chronicler: You must be the most agreeable guy on the planet and to think someone threw you back is beyond me.

Don’t kid yourself, I’m a crotchety old coot. As for someone “throwing me back,” I’m not sure I like these fish metaphors. People might jump to unflattering conclusions about my kissing.

ames: Thank you, Kim, for making Grettir’s first date in a LOOOOOOONNNNNNNGGGGGGG time a positive experience. We now have ammunition when trying to convince him that “getting out more” might just be a positive thing.

If by “getting out more” you mean “every four years,” then I agree. It’s like the Olympics: The subject of worldwide anticipation, heavily covered in the press, and everyone always feels a little let down by the host country’s performance.

The Details (or Lack Thereof)

As I rule, I do not divulge details of my love life on this site…since, as a rule, you cannot divulge details of something that doesn’t exist. But even if I had a love life, I still would not, as a rule, divulge details of said love life on this site. I am, if nothing else, a man of discretion.

In this case, however, discretion has nothing to do with it. In fact, the young lady in question has specifically requested that I divulge the details of the date. There’s just one problem: I can’t remember the details. Honestly, the whole thing was a blur.

So, for what it’s worth (which ain’t much), here’s the general sequence of events, though I’d never swear to any of it in a court of law.

The Date

So, there I was at Chili’s at 12:55pm.

Chili’s Greeter: How many in your party, sir?

Me: WHAT!?!

Chili’s Greeter: I’m sorry, sir. Did I startle you?

Me: NO! I’M FINE! I’M JUST A LITTLE NERVOUS, THAT’S ALL!

Chili’s Greeter: How many in your party, sir?

Me: TWO! THERE WILL BE TWO IN MY PARTY! ME AND SOMEONE ELSE! THAT MAKES TWO!

Chili’s Greeter: Is the other member of your party already here?

Me: I DON’T THINK SO! IT’S A GIRL! I’M SUPPOSED TO MEET A GIRL HERE AT ONE O’CLOCK!

Chili’s Greeter: Do you know what she looks like?

Me: SHE’S CUTE! AND SHE’S A GIRL! SHE’S A CUTE GIRL!

Chili’s Greeter: Well, would you like to wait for her in the bar?

Me: NO, THANK YOU! I THINK I’LL JUST SIT HERE BY THE DOOR AND LOOK STARTLED EVERY TIME SOMEONE COMES IN!

Chili’s Greeter: Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.

Me: THANK YOU! DID I MENTION SHE WAS A GIRL?

I was as stiff as a board. In fact, when she walked through the door (at one o’clock, on the dot) I could swear I made creaking noises as I stood up and walked over to say, “Hello.”

We took our seats and I stared blankly at the menu while I tried to devise something to say that wouldn’t sound stilted. I think it came out:

I am most pleased that with you I am undertaking this excursion. I have hopes that it will bring you pleasure also?

Since Chili’s is her favorite restaurant, I deferred to her superior knowledge of the menu. So when she raved about the Southwestern Eggrolls, we ordered some as an appetizer.

Here’s the description of the Southwestern Eggrolls:

Soutwestern Eggrolls

Smoked chicken, black beans, corn, jalapeno Jack cheese, red peppers and spinach wrapped inside a crispy flour tortilla. We serve it with our avocado-ranch dipping sauce.

Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? But a more accurate description would be:

Soutwestern Spinach Eggrolls

Spinach, smoked chicken, spinach, black beans, spinach, corn, spinach, jalapeno Jack cheese, spinach, red peppers and spinach wrapped inside a crispy flour tortilla. We serve it with our avocado-ranch dipping sauce.

Warning: May contain spinach.

Allergen Warning: Manufactured in a facility that also processes spinach.

Each eggroll had thousands…thousands, I tell you…of small shards of cooked spinach and on the very first bite I could feel one of the spinach shards adhere to my front teeth. So, for the next ten or fifteen minutes I had to carry on a conversation while simultaneously trying to dislodge the spinach in the least conspicuous way possible.

I think my side went something like this:

Can you tell me additional information? <tongue makes a sweep of the front teeth> That is of great interest to me! <no spinach there, so I must have pushed it into the crevice between them> What an occurrence! <raise napkin to mouth and, while laughing, make a quick sweep between each tooth, working from left to right> I am incredulous! <no spinach on napkin, so take a drink of water and try swishing it around as subtly as possible> Mmm, hmmm. Mmm, hmmm. <smile broadly while holding up spoon to act as mirror> Do continue the tale! I am intent to hear the rest!

For the first half hour she probably felt like she was on a date with someone with Tourette’s who shouts out random entries from German-English phrase books while obsessive-compulsively touching his front teeth every 1.7 seconds.

But after that first miserable (for her) half hour, I was finally able to settle down to the point that I could at least approximate normalcy, and the whole afternoon just sort of opened up.

It was, quite simply, the best first date imaginable, but it was entirely thanks to her. She was absolutely charming, infinitely patient, hysterically funny, amazingly insightful, endearingly self-deprecating, extremely thoughtful…you name the superlative and I’d second it.

As for the claim that she talked “way too much,” nothing could be further from the truth. She talked exactly the right amount, which sometimes meant filling in enormous gaps in the conversation left by her date who couldn’t construct a meaningful sentence to save his life.

Besides, the more she talked, the more I could just sit there and stare at her…which, quite frankly, is something I would like to have done for the rest of the day.

All right! All right, already! Yes, it’s true. I went on a date. Yes, a date. Well, it was really just lunch…and we met at the restaurant…and she was there under duress. But it was lunch…with an unmarried female…in public. That counts, doesn’t it? Is everyone happy now? Can we all move on?

<silence>

No, apparently we cannot. At least not until after the debriefing. But we got home late again tonight, so I’ll warn you right now that I’m not going to have time to finish this tonight. You’ll have to content yourselves with just the events leading up to the date for now.

The Background

Some people may find this hard to believe…OK, people who don’t know me may find this hard to believe, but even though I have been divorced for almost four years now, I have not been on a single date in that time. There are many reasons for this…none of which I’ll go into right now…but suffice it to say that I have been waiting for the right combination of opportunity, motivation, and energy before I made my move.

Now, I know people are going to ask what I mean by “the right combination of opportunity, motivation, and energy,” so let me give you some examples of situations that might have accelerated the dating process:

1. Jennifer Anniston moving into the ward.

2. Finding accommodations in an apartment complex that also serves as temporary housing for stewardesses.

3. Keira Knightley finally returning my calls.

4. Global nuclear annihilation.

I am as shocked as anyone that none of these very plausible scenarios panned out. (I had my money on #3.) But if fate doesn’t intervene, what can you do?

The Setup

Well, for one thing, you can get set up on blind dates by well-meaning friends. But I learned very early on that if you say “no” to one blind date, you have to say “no” to them all. Otherwise, you end up with this…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: I heard that Blind Date Facilitator #2 is trying to line you up with someone.

Me: Yes, she is, but…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: But when I tried to line you up with                   , you said “no.”

Me: Yes, but…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: Well, if you’re going to let Blind Date Facilitator #2 line you up with someone, then you have to let me line you up with                   .

Me: But I’m not letting…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: I can’t believe you’d go out with someone that Blind Date Facilitator #2 wants to line you up with, but you won’t go out with someone I want to line you up with.

Me: But I’m not…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: You know, I heard that Blind Date Facilitator #2 once lined someone up with an ex-convict. Is that who you want to go out with? Ex-convicts?

Me: No, of course not, but…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: Well, if you won’t let me line you up with                   , then you probably deserve to go out with ex-convicts!

Me: Now, wait just one minute here…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: You’re not good enough for                    anyway! I can’t believe I even considered lining you two up. You’re not worthy to kiss the ground                    walks on.

Me: I don’t think I’d want to…

Blind Date Facilitator #1: See if I ever try to line you up with someone again, you…you…EX-CONVICT DATER!

Then, the following day…

Blind Date Facilitator #2: I heard that Blind Date Facilitator #1 is trying to line you up with someone…

So, my answer is always, “No, thank you.” But this time, my friend Debbie (who, unsurprisingly, played a Jewish mother in last year’s production of Fiddler on the Roof) wouldn’t take “No, thank you,” for an answer. I don’t remember the exact course of our conversations last week, but they went something like this.

Monday

Debbie: I want to line you up with my sister-in-law. She’s flying in this week for a family reunion.

Me: No, thank you.

Tuesday

Debbie: She’s really cute.

Me: I’m sure she is. No, thank you.

Wednesday

Debbie: You can at least go out to lunch with her.

Me: No, thank you.

Thursday

Debbie: Why won’t you go out to lunch with my sister-in-law?

Me: Because, trust me, she has better things to do with her time than go on a date with me. No, thank you.

Friday

Debbie: You’re just being dumb. Lunch isn’t going to kill you.

Me: I’m not being dumb and I never said it would kill me. I just said, “No, thank you.”

Saturday

Debbie: Look, she’s only in town until next Wednesday, so if it turns out to be a lousy date, you never have to see her again. Will you at least think about it over the weekend?

Me: OK, OK! I’ll think about it.

Monday

Debbie: She’s really looking forward to your date tomorrow. She likes Chili’s. What time should I tell her you’re going to meet her there?

Me: But I didn’t say “yes!” I said I’d think about it!

Debbie: Well, it’s too late now. How about one o’clock?

Me: But…

Debbie: One o’clock it is!

So, there I was at Chili’s at 12:55pm.

And that’s where we will pick up the story tomorrow…

Today is Pioneer Day, the day on which we celebrate the arrival of the first Mormon pioneers to the Salt Lake Valley. Children throughout the state lay in their beds last night, eyes wide open, trying to stay awake in hopes of seeing Brigham Young flying through the sky in his covered wagon, bearing pioneer gifts for all the good boys and girls of Utah. But eventually their drowsy, uncaffeinated eyes began to droop and they finally drifted off with visions of horehound candy dancing in their heads.

Young Kayden probably awoke to find a pair of suspenders hanging from his bedpost, while little McKelsey found the bonnet of her dreams tucked under her pillow. Then they rushed downstairs to discover the pioneer boots they left on the mantle filled with hardtack biscuits and salt pork.

Later this morning, after a hearty breakfast of cracked-wheat cereal and dried milk, the children will change into their pioneer costumes, grab their bikes, trikes, and red wagons, and head to the church where they will recreate the great migration west by parading around on the sidewalk of the church for two and a half hours until they are almost delirious from heat stroke. Then they will gaze across the blazing hot asphalt of the church parking in much the same way that Brigham Young gazed across the arid, inhospitable Great Basin and they will declare, “It is enough. This is the right place. Drive on.”

The children will then break into four groups. One group will divide the parking lot into a precise grid with “streets” wide enough for four bikes and a wagon to turn around. Another group will build an elaborate irrigation infrastructure capable of moving 100 cubic feet of water to any block of the parking lot within seconds. And, in the middle of the parking lot, the third group will start construction on a huge granite structure that won’t be finished in their lifetimes.

By 2:00pm the parking lot will have blossomed as a rose…at which point the fourth group, attracted by low real estate prices and a high quality of life, will move in, take over the parking lot, and, with all the cultural sensitivity of a door-to-door zipper salesman in Amish country, will open 36 coffee shops throughout the parking lot where they will hang out and complain about the liquor laws.

In the evening, extended families will gather together for the traditional Jello buffet, showcasing all of nature’s bounty in suspended animation. (Aunt Delsa will most likely receive the “Best in Show” award at this year’s Jello “Mold-Off” for her multi-tiered replica of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, constructed with alternating layers of lime Jello and baloney.) Funeral potatoes will flow like a chunky, cheesy river, and there will be a hundred “salads,” none of which will feature lettuce (or any other leafy green, for that matter) in any form.

Kids will bob for tater tots in vats of pink fry sauce while the men stand around the back yard, arms crossed, discussing this year’s vintage (rootage?) of root beers. Some will argue that A&W’s 2007 production has been disappointing, with a cloying vanillin sweetness and a weak finish, but just about everyone will agree that the 2006 Hires, with its heavy sassafras notes, has only gotten better after spending a year in the food storage closet under the stairs.

The day usually ends with the traditional Bonfire of the Zucchini, in which all of the neighborhood’s excess produce is piled into the middle of the street and set ablaze. However, wildfire concerns have prompted a bonfire ban this year, so most families will be spending the evening indoors, baking dozens upon dozens of loaves of zucchini bread that they will leave on each other’s doorsteps in the dark of night.

As the children are tucked into bed, their parents will tell them harrowing stories of the hardships their pioneer ancestors endured so they could grow up to be snotty, ungrateful, over-privileged, upper-middle-class layabouts with no sense of history. And they will explain to their children that they, too, are pioneers, blazing a trail for the generations of snotty, ungrateful, over-privileged, upper-middle-class layabouts with no sense of history that will follow.

Yes, we are all pioneers in our own snotty, ungrateful, over-privileged, upper-middle-class layabout with no sense of history sort of way. And this is our day.

“What has happened to architecture since the Second World War that the only passers-by who can contemplate it without pain are those equipped with a white stick and a dog?”

Bernard Levin
The Times, 1983