Food poisoning

Water.

In the past few hours, I'd lost a lot of fluids. My throat ached like it was cracking along a fault line and my tongue resembled a worm drying out in the sun. I should've known better than to grab the vegetarian special from Copernicus' Bagels when the sign said they were going out of business in a week.

Water.

Unfortunately, getting water involved getting up. The 10 feet from the couch to the kitchenette sink might as well have spanned the Sahara Desert. It felt as though someone had wrapped a fifty-pound weight around my forehead and stuck a blender in my stomach. At least I wasn't whimpering from the nausea anymore. Hopefully that meant I was done praying to the porcelain god.

Water.

Food poisoning is exhausting. As much as I needed a nap, falling asleep without replenishing my fluids would put me at risk for severe dehydration. If I became seriously ill, it could be days before someone thought to stop by my one bedroom apartment and check on me. Maybe I was exaggerating the danger (especially since my cell phone was in my pocket), but I tried to avoid taking chances with my existence whenever possible.

"Ooh!"

Mazel leapt onto my stomach and I writhed in agony. My stupid cat gracefully bounded onto the floor and then mewed at me for attention. As soon as he sensed my displeasure, he rolled onto his back and stretched out his front paws. It was his way of saying, whatever I did, I'm too damn cute for you to stay mad at me, right?

Well, at least Mazel had gotten my blood flowing. I sat up and the world swam around me. As soon as the room stopped spinning, I braced myself against the armrest and rolled off the couch. Hunching over like a Neanderthal, I staggered into the kitchenette.

After filling up a red plastic Solo cup to the brim, I made my way back to the couch, not caring that small drops of water were trickling out of the cup with each step. Placing the cup on the shallow carpet next to the sofa, I lay back down. Mission accomplished!

Strider crawled over. He had a bizarre obsession with water that wasn't in his food bowl. If left to his own devices, he'd lap up a couple drops, lean in closer and spill the rest.

"Go away," I said, flicking my hand at Strider like he was a pesky bee. He paused, looked at me and took another step towards the water.

I produced a deep rumbling growl.

Strider whirled around, knocked the cup over with his tail and dashed into the bedroom.

"No!"

My salvation was a puddle on the carpet floor.

I forced myself off the couch again and repeated my trek with the Solo cup.

This time, I carried the water with me onto the couch. I wished I had a straw so I didn't have to lift my head up to drink. Propping up my neck up with a pillow, I brought the cup to my lips. I must've tilted the back up a little too high, because water shot into my nostrils.

I sneezed, released the cup and soaked my undershirt.

Ugh. This was a wonderful way to spend the second day of 2006. If I was going to get this sick, why couldn't it at least be on a workday? Food poisoning wasn't what I'd had in mind for the bonus Monday of the holiday weekend.

Take three. I made a side trip to the bedroom and put on a fresh University of Great Lakes t-shirt. This time, I braced myself on the kitchen counter and guzzled down a cup of water. Our refreshed hero stumbled back to the couch, finally ready for that nap.

It was a little cold, but I wasn't up for another expedition to the bedroom in search of a blanket. Too bad cats can't fetch blankets, procure straws, or rent DVDs. A back rub and comforting kiss on the forehead would've been nice too.

A couple hours later, I woke up with my arms wrapped tightly around a sofa cushion.

The trek to the kitchen no longer felt like a crawl across a massive desert, but I was still a little too dizzy to stand comfortably. After throwing back some more water, I made my way back to the couch, grabbed my laptop and checked out profiles on Tribe Date.

The Death Star Strikes Back

On Friday, I left the office a little early in order to get a run in. A
quick three-miler was a guaranteed cure for my anxiety about services.
As a bonus, I hit the blissful Zen-like state of a runner's high just
before I got home. That'd probably be all I'd need to get me through the
night.

Optimus called me at the last minute. He was stuck at work and couldn't
make it. Despite my Zen-like state, I considered bailing. It wasn't like
I had any other good friends who would be in attendance. If The Death
Star pulled---

Our hero was being paranoid.

Arriving at services a little late, I took a seat by myself towards the
back. At six foot tall, with super long hair held back in a ponytail,
Aldy2323 was hard to miss.

I needed to stop identifying Aldy2323 by her Tribe Date username. How
embarrassing would it be if I went up to her and said, How do you do,
Aldy2323?

Alderaan. Her name was Alderaan.

My intuition had been spot on -- The Death Star had a boy with her. I
didn't recognize him, but the name Grand Moff Tarken seemed
appropriate. As soon as I saw them, I kicked off a rousing mental
rendition of the final movement of Mr. Beethoven's ninth symphony and
relaxed into the service.

After services as everyone exited the sanctuary, I walked past Alderaan
and said, "Hello."

She nodded and her cheeks flushed. "Hi."

Excellent, that was all I was looking for.

As I milled around, chatting with some of the other regulars, The Death
Star greeted me with a warm smile. Why had I been so paranoid? We were
adults going about our business on the most peaceful night of the week.

The synagogue was hosting a free dinner with a speaker. I took my time
kibitzing and was one of the last people to get into the food line. By
the time I got my plate together, almost all of the tables were full. My
one-time ping-pong nemesis, Harry Osborne, was sitting next to three
vacant seats. It wasn't until I put my coat over the chair next to him
that I realized that I was directly across from Alderaan. **

"Hey, Debacle. Any idea what's in the rolls?" asked Harry as I sat down.

I took a bite. "Pork rinds topped with shrimp and... hmm... Munster cheese."

Alderaan chuckled. She smiled at me and looked like she was about to say
something.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up.

"Would you be comfortable if I sat next to you?" asked The Death Star,
loud enough for everyone to hear.

All conversation at our table ceased.

What the hell was she doing? So much for the extra endorphins from that
runner's high.

If I kept my cool, I could probably avoid making a scene. Laughing, I
said, "Sure, go for it."

"You're sure you're comfortable with this?" asked The Death Star.

Harry raised an eyebrow at me. I didn't acknowledge him.

Was The Death Star trying to embarrass me out of the synagogue?

"You're golden," I said.

After her bizarre line of questioning about my comfort level, it had to
be obvious to everyone at our table that we used to go out. If I failed
to get this situation under control in a hurry, there was no way I'd
ever get to take Alderaan out on the town.

The Death Star waved her boy over and then whispered in my ear, "You're
sure you're okay with this?" While it was nice that she hadn't asked
loud enough for everyone to hear, by appearing to tell me a secret,
she'd made this situation even weirder.

I gave her a thumbs up. What else could I do? It's not like I could
respond, Not anymore! Go sit somewhere else. This is a Death Star free
zone!

I braved a look over at Alderaan. She was staring at me, mouth wide open.

Tarken took the final seat.

It was possible that I could still salvage the night by injecting normal
conversation into the table. Turning towards Harry, I desperately tried
to think of something to say. Before I could get a word in, The Death
Star asked, "So how are your cats?"

The Death Star is clear to fire. The Death Star is clear to fire.

"You have cats?" asked Harry.**

People were always taken aback when they found out that I owned cats. It
was probably because the only persona weirder than the crazy cat lady is
the crazy cat dude. As a result, it wasn't something that I
broadcasted. The Death Star knew this. She was out for blood tonight --
in a synagogue, no less.

I gave my usual song and dance about how I grew up with cats, but I
liked dogs too. Given I lived alone, worked full time and occasionally
went away on weekends, cats were ideal pets because they could fend for
themselves. All the while, I was too nervous to brave a look over to the
28-year-old Alderaan to see how she was holding up.

The Zen-state was long gone, but I was still maintaining my poise. At
least I thought I was. For all I knew, my neck had broken out into the
splotches that'd earned me the nickname, Hickey Boy.

"So, how do you two know each other?" asked Tarken.

A small sigh escaped before I could regain my composure. This was
Michael Scott from The Office awkward.

The Death Star looked over at me like she expected me to answer. Why had
she brought her new boy over here without explaining that I was her
ex-boyfriend? I met her gaze and waited...

Could This Ever Work Out?

I considered writing a book during my sabbatical from dating about a love triangle between two male friends (one of them strikingly similar to our hero and the other a composite of Marty and Indiana Jones) and a girl they grew up with. Through a series of dramatic situations that would hopefully be amusing – “Marty Indiana Jones” would get the girl. “Debacle” would be able to get over his jealousy and remain friends with both of them. The book would close with the three of them walking off into the sunset together, “Debacle” feeling fulfilled because he’s lucky enough to have such good friends.

When I sat down to get started on it, I realized that I had accidentally plagiarized the love triangle from Keeping the Faith. Romantic comedies were my least favorite genre because they usually had unrealistic story lines and predictable characters. Why would I waste my time writing one?

I kicked-off my post-sabbatical search for potential ladies in The City of Wind by attending events in the Tribal community. At these functions, I began the painstaking process of meeting new people. While it’s exciting to be in a room full of unfamiliar friendly faces, making conversation is brutal. Everyone asks the same boring questions. Where are you from? What brought you to The City of Wind? Where do you live? I can’t blame them. What else is the new guy going to talk about?

At one such Friday night dinner, I met a girl named Gozer. With a skinny face, dark hair and sharp green eyes, this girl had little in common with the original Gozerian, except her first name.

I sat next to Gozer at dinner and she cracked me up, telling me about the time she’d locked herself out of her apartment. Unable to get in touch with her roommate, Gozer was somehow able to Spiderman her way up the side of the building. From her balcony, she entered her apartment by moving the air conditioner. The girls in her living room greeted her with a series of screams. That’s when Gozer figured out that she had accidently broken into her downstairs neighbors’ place.

Given how much we talked that night, I was concerned that Gozer was looking for more than just friendship. Even though I enjoyed her company, dating a Gozerian again would be a little weird. Besides, I got a bitter vibe from her. It could’ve been that I was reading too much into her casual cursing, but she was as crass as a middle school boy during a game of touch football. Needless to say, she didn’t seem like the sort of girl I’d want to bring home to show my parents.

Speed Dating - Five minutes can be an eternity

Speed dating was this new craze that was supposed to help you pre-screen dating candidates.  After a bunch of five minute conversations, you could decide if anyone you’d spoken to was “date worthy.”  If nothing else, the Valentine’s Day Tribal speed dating program seemed like a fun way to meet people.
The campus synagogue had been filled with over 200 singles.  Circular groupings of chairs had been spread out across the room.  Which section you sat in was based on some pre-screening form.  Despite all the time I’d put into my answers, my form had been lost and I was randomly assigned.  The women were seated on the inside of the circle and every five minutes, the men would rotate clockwise.
As the logistics of the program were explained, I faced my first speed date – Uhura, the cancer survivor whose heart I’d broken.  No random pairing in that room could’ve been less likely to work out.
Sometimes I mused that the choo-choo-choose you disaster was somehow related to my breakup with The Axis of Evil.  Perhaps when Uhura roomed with The Axis of Evil, she had passed on the karma from the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and that’s what caused The Axis to run out on flowers. 
This was the first time I’d seen Uhura since high school.  Unfortunately, she’d only made it through one semester with The Axis because her cancer had come out of remission.  Did being back on campus mean she’d fought it off again?  Given how open she was about her experience in high school, I was sure she’d be willing to discuss her health.  Besides, this speed date was my chance to apologize for my lack of tact in high school and forever put that incident to rest.  
As soon as speed dating commenced, Uhura sighed.  Fighting back a sneer, she’d asked, “So, how are you, Debacle?”
I couldn’t blame Uhura for not wanting to be on a speed date with me.  Back in driver’s ed, I should’ve followed up Uhura’s note with an in person explanation instead of sending her that crappy reply explaining that the joke was on me.  Still, why was she this angry?  It’s not like that flower incident was my fault… but Uhura didn’t know that.  She probably thought I was a party to the prank!  It made sense.  When Ms. Hoover had questioned me about it the following day, I’d claimed not to know the identities of the perpetrators.  At the time, I’d thought naming names would drag out that stressful ordeal.  However, I could see how Uhura might’ve thought that I was protecting my co-conspirators.  She must hate me – and deservedly so.
“Not bad, how about you?” I’d replied, tapping my foot on the carpet.  How could I break through this awkwardness and give her a substantive apology?  
“Good.”
“Uh … That’s good.”  We had looked at each other in silence for a few seconds before I’d continued with, “So, what are you majoring in?”  
Five minutes can be an eternity.
As I’d rotated about the circle, Storm was by far my favorite speed date.  It was embarrassing how quickly I’d recognized her.  While we’d never met, I had looked at her Tribe Date profile last fall.  It was shocking how much I remembered – she was from the State of Peaches, liked country music and had just transferred to The University of Great Lakes.  With answers to all the basic getting to know you questions under my belt, I avoided going through the standard rigmarole.  Instead we spent our time discussing southern colloquialisms.
“So, can you just always drop in a y’all in place of you all?” I’d asked.  “Or are there specific situations that call for a y’all?”
She’d laughed.  “You can always use it.”
“So instead of you all right, can you say y’all right?”
While it would have been difficult to stretch the y’all material more than five minutes, I liked the way Storm smiled and maintained eye contact with me the whole time.  To top it off, I walked her home that night.  It’s a shame that our coffee date hadn’t worked out.  So it goes…
My second best speed date was with Blossom.  She was only a sophomore – but from what little I could tell she seemed like a nice Tribal girl.  I remembered little from our conversation, except that she seemed to get excited when I mentioned that I liked to run.  While it never crossed my mind to pursue her afterwards, she seemed sushi worthy.
The worst five minutes of the night were spent with a 35 year old woman who’d driven over an hour to go to a college Tribal speed dating event.  The first thing she’d said to me was, “Well, we’re all here for the same reason.”
She had 13 years on me.  Easy there Mrs. Robinson!  
One nice side effect of speed dating was that I’d been temporarily relieved from my usual inhibitions around women.  During a break, without even thinking about it, I’d walked up to an attractive blonde who was standing by herself.  “How’s speed dating treating you?” I’d asked.
Before I knew it, we were joking around, comparing notes on some of our worst speed dates of the evening.  Her least favorite had been with a dude in his forties who had followed up his hello with a dinner invitation for the following night.
While I still hadn’t discovered this girl’s name, based on the vibe, I knew I’d be seeing her again.
“Speed dating needs color commentary,” I’d said to her.  “Someone ought to be watching over the conversations and let people know how they’re doing.  ‘You over there, that’s nice.  Way to incorporate your family.’  ‘Hey, you, she doesn’t want to hear about your bowling technique.  You’re the worst speed dater I’ve ever seen!’”
The mystery girl had laughed.  
Before my intriguing lady friend had a chance to put in her two cents, Uhura had snapped, “That’s awful!  Debacle, you’re just a sweet as you were in high school.”  
How long had Uhura been standing beside us?
The anonymous girl had taken one look at Uhura’s glare, shook her head and disappeared into the crowd.  
Uhura had given me a nod, and walked off.  
Awesome!  
No incident in high school had troubled me like Uhura’s tears after driver’s ed.  Seven years later, Uhura had avenged the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.  While I’d lost my chance with the intriguing blonde, I no longer had to carry the burden of guilt.  
While I’d wanted to catch up to Uhura and give her a high five, it was best to let her have her moment.
      

Buttercup to Bubbles in one date

After putting it off for almost a week, I finally picked up the phone to call Buttercup. It was weird not being overwhelmed with anxiety. Maybe this was to my advantage. Since I'd never met Buttercup, it was impossible to come to the conclusion that she was a goddess who belonged on a pedestal. All I knew about Buttercup was that her roommate went to high school with Indiana Jones.

I read over my pre-written answering machine statement one last time and punched in her number. Our hero had entered the game again.

"Hello," sang an angel. With a calming phone voice like that, I could talk to her all day!

"Hi," I said. "Is Buttercup there?" Please be Buttercup! Please be Buttercup!

"One sec, I'll get her. Who is this?"

"It's Debacle." Damn, there's no way Buttercup could compete with that voice. I preferred her roommate already!

"Buttercup, Debacle's on the phone!" announced the voice of sweet Rapunzel.

"I'll be right there," replied a troll. I imagined an eight foot tall Buttercup wielding a club in one hand and yanking the phone away with the other. "Hi Debacle, how's it going," grunted Buttercup.

Buttercup's voice really wasn't so bad that it sounded like she belonged under a bridge. However, compared to her roommate, it was deep and coarse. Why was I making such a fuss about what she sounded like? I guess there wasn't anything else to be over-analytical about... yet. "Not bad. How about yourself?"

"I'm good," said Buttercup.

What was I supposed to talk about? Should I have been making idle chit chat? Is this a getting to know you call or should I just set up a date and bail? "So, how's the Ace Deuce treating you?"

"Getting used it."

"That's good," I said. This was brutal. What are you supposed to say to someone you've never met? Maybe I was jumping the gun, but it was time to wrap this up. "Ummm... so do you want to grab lunch on Sunday?"

"Sure. Can we get it near south campus? I have a study group in the afternoon."

"No problem," I said. "Let's see... over there you've got China House, Pizza Gate and Great Lakes Deli."

"Those all sound good."

"Where do you want to grab it at?" I realized the double-entendre as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

Buttercup laughed uncomfortably. Our hero was back in familiar territory.

* * *

I was glad that Buttercup selected China House. Its quaint but crowded atmosphere gave it an informal feel, making it an ideal location for a blind lunch date. The only complaint I ever had about that restaurant was that after you finished eating, the wait staff would sometimes give you dirty looks until you gave up your table. I supposed that wasn't so terrible - if Buttercup displayed any troll-like tendencies, I'd have an excuse to head out.

As I approached China House, I spotted a short girl with frizzy dark hark standing outside the door.
"Are you Debacle?" she asked, voice sounding far more normal than I'd expected.

"Buttercup?" " I asked.

She nodded.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand. Maybe you weren't supposed to start a blind date with a handshake, because she hesitated for a moment before clasping my hand. Ugh, Here we go again...

Thankfully, at barely over five feet, Buttercup bore no resemblance to a troll. I like to pretend I'm not overly superficial, but I doubt it would work with an eight foot tall woman who looked like an evil fairy tale creature - especially if she ate General Tso's chicken off her club.

Once we'd ordered, I asked Buttercup all about the school of Public Health. She went over all kinds of horrible scenarios in which super viruses and bacteria could mutate and destroy us all. Eventually, Buttercup wanted to get a job with the CDC where she could help to prevent the destruction of civilization.

I wasn't particularly attracted to her, but that could change as we spent more time together. Did I want to? Apocalyptic diseases made for interesting conversation. Around the time the waitress dropped off the check, I decided that Buttercup had made it to round two.

She looked at her watch. "I've got to meet my group soon."

"Okay," I said as I inspected the bill. Paying for a first date could be awkward. Some girls' egalitarian sensibilities would be insulted by a guy who insisted upon picking up the check. Others would accept nothing less than a chivalrous treat. It was up to the dude to figure out the least offensive way to handle the bill.

I pulled my wallet out.

"How much do I owe?" Buttercup asked. Her polite opening was as standard as leading with the king's pawn. The payment dance was on.

"I've got it," I countered. Her next move would show her hand.

She shook her head. "No, that's okay. How much do I owe?"

Egalitarian it was. "It's 16 total," I said. "So, eight each plus tip. Tip is ummm... about three bucks"

"But mine cost more - yours was vegetarian."

"By less than a dollar," I said. "We can call it even."

She yanked the bill out of my hand and poured over it. Geez, she could've just asked me for it.

At least I could still take care of tip. I threw down two singles on the table.

"Now you're paying more than me for tip!" she exclaimed. Buttercup got up and darted to the register, dodging waitresses and patrons along the way. I wasn't sure what to do, so I followed. "We want to pay separately," she said, startling a waitress as she ran a customer's credit card.

If it was this difficult to figure out a check, I hated to think how Buttercup would react if I burnt some popcorn or left the toilet seat up. So much for round two. Oh well - I was planning on going out with Bubbles soon anyway.

I was a bit embarrassed about how I met Bubbles. After returning from The City of Wind, I put up a profile on this online dating website called Tribe Date. When I first heard about Tribe Date, it seemed like a place for desperate losers to advertise how lonely they were. Still, I felt that the best way to get past The Axis of Evil was to put myself out there - even if it meant joining the ranks of the desperate losers.

The opening of my two paragraph long profile had turned into an all Saturday afternoon activity. I tried to think up clever ways to make myself sound like an easygoing, nice Tribal dude. After numerous attempts, I gave up on trying to be subtle and settled on:

I've been described as the quintessential nice Tribal boy. I work really hard, but make a point of enjoying the hilarious moments that make up each day.

From there - I went into how I'm looking for someone who can challenge me, put up with my college football obsession and tolerate how I relate every waking moment to a Seinfeld episode.

Giving money to a service in order to get a date was a little too close to prostitution for my taste. I went the free route which allowed me to get emails from paying members, but didn't allow me to contact anyone. Even though there was no way to get in touch with anyone on the site, I spent a while looking at profiles. How was I supposed to determine if I wanted to date someone from a picture and a few paragraphs? Low maintenance could in reality be absurdly high maintenance. What if their face had been touched up or the picture had been taken before they began eating half a dozen doughnuts for breakfast every morning. Would someone who claimed to be down to earth realize it if they weren't? How did I know I was actually looking at a girl's profile? Some dude could be playing a practical joke. For that matter, who's to say the MCP from Tron wasn't having a little fun?