Zanzibar the Lightly Racist Cat a Chart

*melanin is a chemical that makes skin darker or lighter. By being able to detect this chemical, Zanz knows with precision the appropriate amount of racism required of him.

Disaster from a Distance Part IV The Discovery Teaser

As my great aunt Selma used to say, "never put it in writing."  Aunt Selma could never have anticipated the advent of facebook or the careless use of  blogs to reveal even the dirty of laundry. . .

       That Tuesday, Matt was home taking care of his two boys who had caught the stomach flu. He was doing double duty since his wife Jen was gone staying with friends near school as she worked on her finals for her nurse anesthetist degree.  Theresa was left to her own devices on coffee break. for once, she looked almost vulnerable sipping her diet cola alone, when  Mrs. Johnson leaned across the table and tried to set Theresa up with a single nephew. When Theresa  declined, Mrs. Johnson asked her, "So why is a nice girl like you single?"  

        Like many single women, Theresa had answered the question and its variations with the stock answer of, "I choose to be," her tone changing in time from irritation, to suppressed hope, and finally, to grim certainty. And, after a saying it enough times and like many women, she convinced herself that it was true. To choose a life without romance is just as desirable as any grand  passion could ever be..                                                                       

Th  Theresa peered at little old Mrs. Johnson in her black polyester slacks and giggled, "It has its perks."  Theresa left for her lunch hour and didn't come back until Friday. The same woman who politely sneered when anyone missed a day as a moral failing, advising them to take a cold shower to invigorate the immune system, left for her lunch hour and didn't come back until Thursday. . . . . . . . . 

         STAY TUNED FOR THE REST OF THIS CHAPTER OF DISASTER FROM "A DISTANCE PART IV THE DISCOVERY"!            

" "Had a great time  kayaking with  super-hottie Jason," the post read. As I looked down to find comments, I noticed that Matt's ever-present "like" to all of her postings was absent. In fact Matt's profile was absent, gone forever.

Disaster from a Distance Part III

http://lovillscreek.com/things-that-kill-a-loving-relationship/

In the last chapter, the narrator suspected something odd was going on between her two co-workers Matt and Theresa. Was she right? Read Disaster From a Distance Part III to find out . . .

            That winter, the flu made its hacking viscous way through the office and entire departments were decimated for a few weeks. Theresa never missed a work day and the day after their department came back, she and Matt were conspicuously absent. When they returned to work the next day, they both looked rosy and giddy.
After Christmas break, I noticed a change in the way Theresa addressed him. Instead of just being friendly, (if a bit flirty,) she looked at him as if she could devour every muscle. It wasn't just her, when they spoke to each other during the ten minute coffee break, they would both glance around the room, conspirators in some scheme .  During lunch, she leaned over him, her ample bosom nearly in his face as she giggled. How she was able to lean, twirl her hair, bite her lip, giggle and keep her balance was a mystery.. As he got up to empty his tray, he picked up a napkin and looked at it for a few seconds before turning around to grin at her. I noticed that her gaze followed him, (well, his behind really.) Not a woman to succumb to flighty emotions, I had never seen her blush. That changed.

               In January, departments volunteered to make presentations. The prep work for the presentations was tedious and time consuming. Most of us just wanted the whole thing to be over with. Even if a work partner was a friend, there was an unspoken rule that work was not to be taken home and neither was a work partner. As I filled in my name, I noticed that the sign-up sheet was still fairly blank. As I signed my name and hoped that I would be paired with someone of reasonable intelligence and character, I noticed one slot already filled. There, in her  bubbly rounded script were both of their names.  She had not left the pairing to chance then.They would have to spend time together now.As they walked in together, Theresa talked to Matt about his lawn care problems and exchanged recipes.
"that chicken curry was good. I bet your boys liked it too."
He responded, "Good thing I didn't tell Patty that you made it right? " and then laughed.

 Working late one evening that week, I walked out to my car, relieved to breathe fresh air instead of the stale and microwave popcorn-scented atmosphere of the office.  Except for the security van and one station wagon, my car was the only one in the lot. I pushed the unlock button and my car made a brief beep. Across the lot, I saw the station wagon’s lights suddenly flicker on and two figures bolted upright. One was sturdy, dark haired and tall, the other slender and blond, with his hair sticking out at crazy angles. I willed myself to become invisible out of embarrassment, and I still don’t know if they saw me.

Later that week, the presentations commenced and the office staff sat back and watched as others gave their endless Power Points.Everyone tried to avoid being dull, but it was unavoidable.  Matt walked in the conference room polished with a perfectly pressed white shirt, gold watchband suit. This was a departure from his usual khaki pants and joke ties. Theresa followed suit and wore pink lip-gloss, and a low cut sheath dress and fitted jacket. Her high heels clicked as she walked in and her usually lank hair bounced with hot roller curls.Gone were  her trademark glasses, cross jewelry, and disdainful expression. She looked pretty.  As she walked in, Matt’s face changed visibly. It was as though he suddenly noticed that she was a woman rather than just a co-worker. Still, I had never seen any two people as engrossed in the perplexities of data filing as Matt and Theresa seemed to be. The enthusiasm was rare for her, and as she spoke, she seemed almost giddy. She beamed at him and  twiredl her hair around her forefinger.

Theresa started the presentation by saying, “This project is our baby. We’ve put so much work into this I hope you all like it.” This attitude presented a real departure from her usual presentations which were professional if a bit dry and she usually didn’t care what anyone except the boss thought about her work.

     What followed can only be described as PG foreplay. As Theresa clicked the Power Point slides, Matt, usually a quiet man, gave the lecture. Occasionally, they would interrupt each other followed by,

“You go,” she said brushing his shoulder with her finger.

“No you go,” as he looked at her bust.

“No you,” followed by a playful tap on the arm and giggle.

When they finally finished, they looked about ready to jump each other  Instead, they asked for questions. Jenn, a petite blond, mother of three from accounting raised her hand,

“Matt, what do you think the projected risk will be for this idea?”

Before Matt could respond, Theresa shot Jenn a look of pure vitriol,

“There is no risk here. It is a perfectly safe and well-thought out plan. What do you mean by risk?” She hissed, her usual wall of control broken down  like a thin cardboard box.

“Umm,” Jenn replied, utterly perplexed.

“What Theresa is saying is that it is not any more risky than anything else,” Matt replied as he walked over to Theresa and lightly set his hand on your shoulder.     
Theresa melted under his touch. The room was warm and stuffy the  sleepy crowd was simultaneously alert and confused. The air was warm and filled with unfulfilled longing and people began to squirm like kindergartners before recess.

I glanced at Denise, the only other person with whom I had aired my suspicions. She raised her eyebrows subtly. It was not just my imagination then; something illicit was happening. Whether or not Matt and Theresa admitted it to themselves at that point was up for debate.                                                                   

         Later that week, the perennial ice and snow storm hit the Seattle area. The snow came down heavily and people left work early to avoid getting stuck or stranded in the office. I could see people hurrying out the door, each in a mild state of panic.They talked about getting their kids home safely and snow tires. Theresa and Matt, however were both at their respective desks. As I had no kids and lived fairly close to the office, I volunteered to stay for an extra hour. As I filed, I heard someone walk up behind me; it was Theresa and a few feet behind her, I saw Matt looking nervously around.
"Why don't you head on home Maryanne," she saidi with an oddly friendly tone. She had spoken to me exactly two times in four years and honestly, I didn't think she even knew my name.
"That's ok, " I answered, "I can walk home if I need to."
Her mouth tensed for a second into a grimace and went back to work.I heard the two of them whispering and a few minutes later Matt approached me."Hey, it's getting pretty late and I wouldn't feel right keeping you here."
I decided to test a theory I was contemplating and responded,"Matt, why don't you head home, I'm sure your  boys and wife want to see you."
He sighed and I noticed a palpable tension building in the room. I wondered just how far they were willing to stretch the limits of propriety in order to be alone together. The radio announced power outages and I finally pulled on my snow boots and wrapped a scarf around my neck.
I heard them both sigh in relief as they responded in a forced casualness.
"Ok then, thanks, seeyou later, be safe."
When I got to the parking lot, I looked up at the office window.  All I could see were a tangle of legs and arms.The next day, I am pretty sure they both were still wearing the same clothes from the day before and a guilty look of satisfaction. Theresa traipsed around the office, humming  to herself, pausing only to smile. Matt left during lunch and came back wearing another shirt.

After that, I noticed Theresa returned to her usual gray trousers and white button up shirt. Her hair was still lank and her glasses were back They ate lunch apart and I never saw them talk at work. It seemed that the whole thing was either my imagination or that it had come to an abrupt halt. 

 I was wrong, on both counts.

The Rich Guy

Computerland is like a modern day feudal society and within its walls society is just as closed. I often wonder if they have secret handshakes and exactly how low those who make less than 100 K a year must bow to the others. They even have separate and unequal cafeterias for the plebes and the real employees. Tom contacted me and we talked back and forth for about a week before the inevitable coffee date .Despite the fact that he posed next to his car in one photo, I decided to at least give it a try. I met him after class late one fall afternoon at yet another Starbucks.
He looked like a shorter version of a high school athlete and wore a button up shirt with a weird black design on one side that looked like paint splatter. His neck was so big that the collar looked like it was choking him and his face was a bit red. . Though mostly bald, he had a friendly face. We talked about single life after age 30, pets, and growing up in the Seattle suburbs. For once, I met a person more talkative than myself, but he was interesting enough. He talked about his high powered job at Computerland and his love of cooking. His favorite dish to cook? Well it was a tie between salmon with peppermint and cloves or a duck meat omelet with tequila and figs. Maybe my palette isn't evolved as it should be, but that sounded terrible to me. But, at least he was trying. As the sun started to go down and it got cold at our outdoor table, he asked if I would like to go out again sometime. "Sure," I answered.
He asked me out for dinner at a nice restaurant in Edmonds which is near the water but also has some tricky geography. Using mapquest, I set out, wearing a cute sweaterdress with boots. At one point the mapquest directed me to go straight for 11 miles which would have put me in the middle of the Puget Sound and I wasn't dressed for swimming. Tom had picked one of those trendy bar/restaurants that refuse to put a sign above their door. I phoned him to ask if he could give any better identifying details and he said, "Look for the one with the black door." I apologized profusely and started my hunt again. Beginning to get frantic, I went all the way back to the freeway and started over. Half an hour had passed by this point and I phoned to give him permission to bail out if he wanted to.
"No problem," he answered and I was relieved. Maybe he was a good guy.
"Do me a favor," I'm on the right street, could you stand outside the place and I'll look for you?"
"Sure," he answered.
After a few minutes I spotted him and parked the car. I was so relieved to have found the place that I gave him a hug and we laughed. I thought I could smell alcohol on him, but thought maybe it was some kind of cologne. We went inside and sat down.
Either because he had been there so long waiting or because he was a regular, the waiter knew his name.
"Refill of your martini Tom?" he asked.
"Sure, I'll have another, " Tom replied.
We ordered an entree to split and some pasta.
"You look great!" he said, those boots are perfect."
"Thanks," I answered. I'd heard the compliment a few other times and have since found that many men like women who wear boots.
We talked about food,music, friends and the usual genres of a second date.
At the time, I was driving an older Toyota Tercell I had nicknamed the Ladybugmobile.
"For me a car is great as long as it isn't too ugly and works well," I told him.
"I agree, " he commented, "but I really did love my beamer."
"What happened to it?"
"Oh, I  t-boned some guy a few months ago, but I still had my Mercedes."
"Well, thank goodness for that," I said sarcastically and laughed. "A Mercedes will do in a pinch I guess."
The waiter came by to see how we were doing and Tom asked for another martini. By my count, he was up to three since I had been there. As usual, I was stone cold sober with gingerale.
'Geez, you've got bad luck," I said.
"Well, I got a little drunk and bumped into this SUV but everyone was fine. The Mercedes just had a little scratch. My insurance rates went up, but the car looks good."
As desert came, he ordered a glass of wine and asked me if I would like some.
Since I almost never drink and because I was driving, I said no thanks. Tom
settled the bill like a gentleman but he looked a bit buzzed as he walked me back to the car. The street had some cobblestones and my heel got caught and I started to totter so he took my arm and walked me back to the car.
"Thanks," I said, "This was fun, " and I meant it. I wasn't attracted to him, but he seemed like a nice guy.
He gave me a friendly short hug and then, out of the blue,
dove in to try and kiss me with about 100 proof breath. Somehow, I was able to turn my neck into rubber and got out of the way but not before I got a bit of martini tongue on my cheek.
"Ok," I laughed lightly. Take care.
I turned to get in the car and felt something on the back of my coat. It was his hand, going for my backside. Now I knew what all the drinks were for. Liquid courage maybe, or maybe I only looked good after four or more drinks, I didn't know for sure, but I didn't stick around.
I got in the car, locked the door and drove towards home.
Few things are as fascinating to me as watching someone else from the safety of a moving car. He lurched and kind of whistled to himself as he neared the crosswalk. As I started uphill to the freeway, I heard the screech of tires.
"Well, that's it for the Mercedes," I thought.

Cat Wrangler Part II

After a while, Snowball occasionally became a bit calmer and befriended my own cat Sheba. Sheba is small, has only hissed once in all the years I've had her and has a cream colored coat. They would often sit together on the perch I had attached to my windowsill to watch squirrels and catch some rays. Because of Snowball's girth, my cat would get pushed off and end up on the floor. Snowball would look at the situation genuinely confused as to how it had happened; she had the opposite of body issues and imagined herself to be a tiny kitten though she weighed in at almost twenty-five pounds. Hoping to preserve the feline friendship,  I decided to make a cat walk of sorts.It consisted of two metal brackets in the middle supporting a board. I put a small blanket on either side and Sheba took to it right away, choosing to sprawl on the far end with  the best view of the window.  Snowball took a bit more time, but she eventually warmed up to the idea. One night sitting at my computer writing a paper, I heard  Sheba on the shelf as the bell on her collar jangled. A few minutes later, Snowball walked in tepidly and glanced  at the shelf. She contemplated it for a while and then decided to jump up. The world went into slow motion and I realized too late, the mechanics of cause and effect.

Sheba looked calmly at  Snowball  as the larger cat sprung towards the shelf As she landed, Sheba went flying through the air all claws and confusion. Under Snowball's substantial weight, the board would-be perch became a combination springboard and see-saw. Snowball  thoroughly befuddled, calmly and slowly slid down the shelf and plopped on the floor. Sheba ran down the hall way at full speed and hid in the linen closet. After that Sheba looked at any potential home improvements I made with real suspicion.

The Only Dog I Never Liked Much

My grandparents were nice people and when my uncle gave them a scruffy puppy named Tony, they not only accepted, but loved and spoiled the beast. Now all animals have a particular kind of beauty, even the platypus I suppose. Those household pets who are not so cute in appearance often make up for it with wonderful personalities. That was not the case with Tony.

Tony's breed can best be described as part small curly sheepdog, part terrier, and, part hellhound. His coat was dirty gray and though my grandparents kept him spotless, he always looked like he had just bathed in a mixture of mud and fireplace ashes. As a child, my sister and I would stay overnight with our grandparents once every few years. Though Tony had known both of us since birth, he looked at both my sister and I with extreme suspicion and would bark wildly until my grandfather calmed him down. Tony was a misanthropic dog to the core, but he loved my grandparents. I always wondered if it was because my grandfather carried dog treats with him in his pocket.

For some reason known only to my them my grandparents did not have Tony neutered. Walking around my grandparent's neighborhood, you could see future generations of little Tonys snarling and skulking about.  Tony was an expert skulker and would suddenly appear out of nowhere, growl, and disappear again. I don't know what the mouth- to -teeth ratio was on that dog, but I can never remember seeing him with his teeth bared to some degree.

Tony had problems, he had caught some strange skin disease that left patches of skin raw and very smelly and his digestion was never very good. Despite his ability to appear suddenly, his presence was given away by that horrible combination of gas and open sore. My grandparents took him to the vet regularly and fussed over him, but Tony's problems were a mystery.

During the summer, my uncle and aunt would invite the whole family to visit their cabin on one of the San Juan islands about two hours north of Seattle. In my family, dogs were always a part of that invitation.  Driving  up there with my grandparents for the Fourth of July, my sister and I sat in the backseat in their huge station wagon. Tony sat in the huge flat back next to coolers of food and bundles of sweaters alternately howling, snarling, and passing gas. Even when my grandfather handed us treats to settle him down, Tony would not relent. When we got to the beach, Tony spent most of his time hiding under the house when he was not looking for a dead bird or seaweed to roll in. I can remember as a child that for a while I didn't know his real name, but thought it was, "Darn it Tony!" When he came back from his adventures, Tony was subjected to the humiliation of being sprayed down with the hose to remove whatever offal he had picked up.

I wondered later in life what Tony's offspring were like? Had North Seattle been invaded by generations of howling. skulking, stinky dogs or had they overcome their genetics somehow.

I like animals, dogs, cats, pretty much anything except spiders and snakes. But I can honestly say, that Tony was the only dog I never liked much.

Cat Wrangler Part I

Though most cats weigh less than twenty pounds, they can turn into a deadly cyclone of fur, fangs, and claws when scared or upset. While taking care of a cat for a friend for a few months, I ran into a few complications.

Snowball was a huge black cat with a white front and paws. She was really a lovely cat to look at and was a friendly and sweet animal if or when she got used to you. Until then, her black fur looked not unlike a puma pouncing with full force. Her lemon-yellow eyes took on a special tinge of violence when she was scared. She went from cute to crazy in an instant.I decided to keep her in one room at a time so she wouldn't become overwhelmed and occasionally she came out and socialized or rampaged; we could never predict which.

Living in the convergence zone, I get the worst of the weather the Puget sound area has to offer and if the power ever goes out in Western Washington, it will go out here first. Such a storm happened one cold winter while I had a nasty cold. Bundled up in layers and a hoodie under my down comforter, my own cat sitting at my feet with a blanket over her, I suddenly heard a thump. Snowball was lonely and had decided to visit. Used to sleeping under the covers with her owner, Snowball jumped up on my bed and tucked her head under the blankets. She soon bored of this though and upon seeing my own cat, decided that she needed to take higher ground. So she sat on my chest. Among Snowball's many issues was gas and extreme jumpiness. As a cloud of noxious gas came towards my nose, she kneaded her claws into the collar of my sweatshirt, about two inches away from my jugular. I couldn't help it and I coughed. Fur up, back hunched and ears perked,and  she looked at me for a second her yellow eyes contemplating  whether or not to put an end to me then and there. Luckily, I earned a temporary reprieve but she kept kneading my hoodie endlessly with her claws. Luckily for me, my nose was still plugged from the cold. Still, she was pungent.

I do not know what she could have eaten, but that cat continued to have awful wind for quite some time and any sudden noise or movement meant  a sudden shift from kneading my skin with her paws and making my face and throat into julienne strips. I heard a family member come in the front door downstairs from my room and considered yelling. Instead, I tried a sort of stage whisper in a calm voice, "Help. I'm stuck!"

About an hour later, Snowball grew bored and jumped  off of the bed. It was not the first or last time Snowball and I would have an issue.

The Wine Guy

Learning new skills and hobbies is wonderful. I'm all for it. But when a hobby or interest becomes a pretense for strange behavior, not so much. After a few funny conversations where we found we had several professors and friends in common in college, we met for dinner one Saturday night. Conversation flowed easily and he seemed intelligent and funny.When the waitress came to take our drinks order, I stuck with my usual water with lemon. He chose something a bit more difficult.  The young and attractive waitress asked him if he'd like to see the wine list. After answering yes, he poured over it for several minutes. As we waited, he started in on an odd line of conversation.

"So are you the type who shaves her legs or waxes?"

Thinking to myself, "With this line of questioning, you'll never see whether or not I'm a sasquatch buddy." I said instead, "Umm, he he, the relevance here is what?"

Before he could answer, the waitress came back to take our orders.

"Hi," he said flashing what must have been his version of debonair, but turned out to be more lounge lizard than anything. Looking at her cleavage he said, "Tell me about number twenty three."

"Well, I like it with fish," she said.

"You smell great," he answered.

Because she probably had heard this or similar lines before, she smiled politely and continued, "Would you like to try a bit first?"

"Yes... Jordan," he said looking at her name tag.                                                                                                                                She returned seconds later with the wine and two glasses and poured a bit into his first glass. He shook it a bit, took a sip, swished it around and then promptly swallowed it. "No, I don't think this one is quite right, too

. How about number twelve here."

"Well sir, that's our best red, but I suppose it could go with the salmon. Would you like to order that?"

"I'd like to test it first," he said and winked at her.

Maybe it was just me, but  I've always people who wink reek of insincerity or, they confuse me into wondering what subtext exactly they're referring to.

Jordan returned, her white shirt buttoned up all the way and poured the red. He repeated the ceremony and swallowed it again. I'm pretty sure I heard her sigh a bit peeved. And after negotiations, she returned with a sample of the most expensive wine on the list.

"This has a fruity base that many people like, " she said and poured. I looked at her and tried to tell her with my expression that I sympathized and was not this guy's girlfriend. She seemed to understand.

He repeated the same thing, this time rejecting it because it was, "too astringent."

As a person who has had about one glass of wine in my life, I don't claim to know the subtleties of the grape. I do know, however, that when tasting you are supposed to swish and spit into the second glass not gulp it down like Gatorade after a marathon.

"Sir I'm almost done with my shift, would you like to order?" she asked with a strained smile.

"Yes," he replied ever the sophisticate, "I'll have a Red-Bull and Vodka."

the end

Nefarius Raccoons and Other Suburban Fauna

Lock up your small animals, the Eastside has a gang problem. Gangs of raccoons. Now whether or not they sport matching tattoos or satin jackets with their names on them, I'm not sure. But, apparently these creatures, these masked bandits are working together to take over and terrorize their fellow suburban animals.

There is a family of raccoons in my yard that have become bolder as time has gone by. The patriarch, known as Stumpy for his grizzled tail. He's the brains of the operation and He appears to be a seasoned veteran of many run-ins with neighborhood coyotes and dogs. He supervises by sitingt in the crotch of a tree in the backyard and watching. Then he sends the wife and kids to do his dirty work. Mama raccoon is the plump chief scavenger and every once a while in the dead of night, alert me to her present with glowing yellow eyes  and look at me boldly as if to say, "hey lady, make me a sandwich! Or else!"

Late one night, I took a break and went out to the kitchen when I heard a thump above me. As I turned around, Stumpy was hanging by his paws from the rain gutter and growling at me. Startled, I froze for a second before grabbing a pan and a spoon and  yelling, "shoo, get out!" Considering what this household has done for the raccoon family, one would think they would be a bit more grateful.

Last summer while waddling on the roof near the chimney with its mother(they are well fed), baby raccoon fell down and got stuck somewhere in the flue. We had just nseen the baby emerge a few weeks ago scampering next to its mother.  A heartbreaking series of cries started. It was clearly scared and possibly hurt. Every few seconds, a terrifying growl would roll down the chiminey and for a minute, we wondered if a larger and more dangerous animal was in there. I put a mirror under near the flue and could see the tiny baby raccoonThere was no way itcould not have climbed up on its own. It was stuck and no amount of noise making or careful and gentle prodding with a broom handle would work. Not knowing what to do, I called Animal Control first. The budget cuts for government systems seem to only affect the systems you need at the time. Their phone system was fascinating.

"If you are calling to report a vicious dog, please press one and leave a message, if you are reporting escaped livestock on the freeway press two and leave a message, for all other problems, press three." I pressed three.

"You have reached us after hours. We are open Monday through Friday from nine to four." I guess if there is a bull loose on the highway after four, you just have to avoid him or explain to the vicious dog that it'll just have to calm down until authorities can be reached. I'm sure that works all the time.

The Humane Society was more helpful and suggested that we put a rope or sheet down the chimney so the baby raccoon could climb out. As darkness fell, my 64 year old father climbed up on to the second roof of the two-story house to snake a thick rope down the chimney. Luckily he was sure footed and had no real fear of heights. For a good part of the night, we could hear the crying pitifully  and the mother at the top growling and the chimney acted like an amplifier, so it was impossible to ignore because the family dog kept barking too. The baby's cries went on through the night as did the terrifying growls from above.  Mama raccoon had somehow climbed down the chimney and brought her baby to safety. Sometime during the early hours of the morning the dog stopped and a few days later, baby and mama raccoon were seen in their usual perch in the backyard lurking and waiting for the day when the sliding glass door would finally open to a world of dog and cat food where they could live comfortably forever.

Long Walk

Among the many unspoken problems of first date etiquette is the delicate issue of the walk back to the car. Fraught with peril and terror, some men will  not even stand up or open the door as you walk out.  Nerves and expectations combine to make a tsunami which washes away all good sense or manners. Maybe the problem is rooted in the expectation of how to leave the date without looking desperate or rude. What exactly is appropriate? Are you supposed to shake hands, try for a kiss, run the other way.  And as a woman, are you supposed to wait for a signal, or wonder if he's a serial killer and keep a worried hold on your pepper spray? What if the person likes you but you don't like them or visa versa?  Possibly to avoid these potentially sticky situations, a small fraction of men abandon chivalry all together and plant themselves at a table, movie theater chair, or doorway unmoving as a stone lion.
A few examples

1. I broke my ankle and a week later went on a second date with a computer guy. Seattle's University district is not all that dangerous, but at the time a mad mugger was on the lose and stabbing  people. As I had nothing of worth on my person, I figured he'd probably be angry and go for Mr. Stabby. Though I had a cane, I doubt it would have made much of a difference in that instance.  After our movie let out, I hobbled down the stairs and this conversation followed,

Him: So where are you parked?

Me: About eight blocks away.

exit stage left quickly)

Him: I'm just up the block. Goodnight. (man exists stage left post haste.)

Of course no harm befell me, but I didn't talk to that guy again.

Safety  is always an issue when you meet someone for the first time, so I carry pepper spray on my key chain. I've had no occasion to use it to prevent assaults yet, as I have found that the vast majority of people are decent and law-abiding. But, I was tempted to douse that guy and limp away laughing.
#2 We had a perfectly nice time and though there was no chemistry, the nice guy walked me back to my car. 

#3

We met at a wine bar in the suburbs in November on a street with no streetlights. The road had no sidewalk except for a small strip of gravel and was icy, and,I had on boots with a loose heel.

Me: Nice to meet you

Him: Ok, bye

Me: (waiting for him to get up and walk me to my car,) Ok then.

Uncomfortable silence.(exit confused stage right)

The solution:

If the date was at all civil, men offer to walk the woman to her car. If she doesn't accept, at least you were polite. Women, for safety always meet in a  public area. If the guy seems sane and relatively normal, let him walk you to the car unless you feel uncomfortable.  Civility is no substitute for safety. Hmm, sounds like a bumper sticker for the NRA.

Off Ramps

Some people only like beginnings because they are new and exciting. Others like endings because they are dramatic. And since he couldn’t stand the boredom of the middle, he did beginnings marvelously and endings with a real flair for the awful. About a week after the startling breakup, they arranged to briefly meet so he could fix a problem on his old laptop he’d given her a few months earlier as a welcome and generous gift for grad school. It was not easy for her to ask the favor as she was inherently  proud. The last time she saw him, her parting quip was  a very dramatic  combination of,”bullshit,” and “I never want to see you again.”  That is until the computer froze and only he knew the passwords to unfreeze it. The rains had just set in after a long Indian summer.  She pulled on a cashmere cardigan and a silk shell and left her hair down, putting a tiny dab of perfume on her neck. It occurred to her as she dressed to meet him, that he had never seen her wear a coat or a sweater. It had been strictly a warm weather love affair and as soon as the days became shorter and temperatures dropped, he too became colder and crumpled like a dry leaf.

    She dressed carefully to appear attractive and yet unaffected by the whole ordeal, but not so perfect that she seemed to be trying. Looking alluring and touchable but still casual is a difficult balance. At this point, she doubted he would have noticed either way short of her sporting a flour sack or a sequined evening gown. 
They met at a Starbucks in-between their respective homes at noon The place was packed and the rain had changed from mist into shower. As she got out of the car, it beaded on her hair and stayed there in droplet before soaking in.  Standing outside the door, his hair wet either from the rain or a recent shower,s he spotted him.  A piece of paper fluttered from her purse and he motioned to alert her.  Momentarily flustered, she picked it up deciding that no matter what she would remain unflappable. That she felt a  fist squeezing her heart to pulp like a ripe tomato and that her hands were shaky for some reason would be completely invisible. Instead, she would be agonizingly polite, brief, and neutral; the three deadliest weapons of the Northwest WASP.    

“It’s packed in there, we can sit out here,” he motioned to a metal table with wood benches and a summertime umbrella partially covering it.

They sat next to each other on the damp wood bench. Only two weeks earlier, they would have been holding hands and chatting. He wore clothes she had seen before but, somehow he seemed like  a stranger. After asking him why he chose that particular Starbucks, he mentioned that his car had some problems and his garage was nearby.

“Nothing too serious I hope?” she asked coolly.

“No, not too serious,” he answered and continued to tap a few keys and  taking an edge of his jacket polishing the screen.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said

“It would be on my conscience as a computer tech to leave someone with a problem,” he replied.

She took a quiet quick breath and bit her tongue. After what he had done with such casual cruelty, the idea of him possessing a conscience seemed ludicrous to her. However,  pointing that out to him would not only solve nothing, she decided, it would make  it look as if she  cared either way. Whatever else happened,  it was paramount to her that she would remain composed and entirely unmoved. As he popped a disc in, she fumbled through her purse for her checkbook and  pen.

Engrossed in the repair, he paid no attention as she wrote a check for $100. That was fortunate because her fingers weren't working properly and the note on the check, "time, repair, purchase," was nearly illegible.   As he clicked the last key, she handed him the check her fingers delicately pinching the edge so she could avoid the awkwardness and  of accidentally touching him. It was nothing like the thrill you get when  you first brush by a hand  or kiss; but rather like  the anticipation of  the sting  when  pouring rubbing alcohol on a deep cut.

   “You said the laptop was worth $50 and the other fifty is for your time, travel, and the repairs. Thanks.”  she said, quickly.  The check flapped for a brief second in the wind and he looked at her as shocked as if she'd hit him upside the head with a hammer. 
"It was a gift," he said and either a small tear welled up or the  a stray raindrop landed on his face. She couldn’t tell anymore. She thought she should have gained some satisfaction out of seeing him in pain, but she didn’t.  Putting her put my checkbook in her purse and fishing out her keys, she left him this time with slightly softer words even if they were in a cold tone.

"I don't take gifts from people I don't like," she said and put the check on the table with a pen to hold it down.

As she walked away, she  swore she heard him mumble, “I’m sorry," and she could feel him watching her walk away. Not wanting to end up like Lot's wife, she resisted swiveling back. That would have been a sign of weakness. Instead, she walked casually shoulders back to her car wishing she had eyes in the back of her head.

   She locked the door  and adjusted the seat to put the computer safely in the back. Her birthday was in a few days and she remembered he had said he bought her something. Maybe he'd get it in the mail and it would just sit there because he didn't like to waste things. She smiled at that vengeful thought.As she put the keys in the ignition, she saw him walking in front of her car only a yard away. He looped back towards Starbucks through the walkway in the center of the parking lot.Why was he walking through there when his car was at the other end, she wondered.  Had he followed her and if so why? She didn’t try to figure it out for long.
Turning on the radio and maintaining a neutral expression, she drove over a speed bump jarring her on towards the exit. He’d parked on the opposite side of the lot, so his car was now in front of her as she headed towards the main road.   Pretending  he was invisible among the other cars, she mimed played drums on the steering wheel. The radio was playing a talk show. The road  was constructed so she had to follow him for about two miles to get to the freeway. She swore he looked in his rear-view mirror directly back at her a few times, but she remained frozen swearing not to get caught looking at him or even worse, to make eye contact. Time went by like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and when if finally snaps, it still comes as a surprise. For a microsecond she forgot all of her rules and turned her head, catching his profile in her peripheral vision.

  The light changed and their cars were parallel to each other for a second. The arrow turned green, she turned right, he turned left and they each blended into the thousands of other non-descript cars on the ever-looping ribbons of freeways. She wondered  as she drove home watching the pewter skies and dust rising from the pavement as rain hit,what would happen if those loops were every straightened out? Would the distance between people be shorter somehow, could we see each other coming straight on, or would it be just another busy and anonymous road?

Cafe Purple

On the north east side Lake Washington opposite  of Seattle is a land that is partially populated with employees of a famous software and programming mecca that shall heretofore be called Computerland. Surely, there must be many decent and friendly single men who work there. Many others are married and still others get gorgeous blond mail order brides from Russia.

Early on in this experiment. I met Michael on the same dating site. A second generation Greek divorcee with similar taste in music and movies to my own, we had some good conversations and  he asked me to meet him for drinks at Cafe Purple, an excellent restaurant and wine bar near the Computerland campus.

I wore a skirt, suede boots, and a ballet neck sweater, not too sexy, and not too casual for the place and time. The hostess directed me to a table and Michael and I said our hellos. We talked about the kinds of people we'd met on the dating site and how they were mostly nice enough. Since I was driving, I ordered a seltzer with lime and he ordered water.  He then went on to tell me how he had several patents that Computerland was trying to take from him.  As my eyes glazed over, I heard him change tone. "You know, " he said, "I should have known my third wife was a con artist. I moved to New Zealand for her and she took my money."

"Your third wife?" I said.

"Oh don't worry I can still get married in the church."

"Well,"  I said, "I guess we all have our share of bad luck but as long as we learn from it right?"

The waitress came by and asked if we wanted anything else.As with all "drinks," dates that occur at a restaurant at six or seven PM, dinner is somewhat implied, but never a sure thing. I waited for him to reply. or to ask me.

"Nope, just more water for me," he said and continued with his theory of southern European history while simultaneously texting.
I tried to seif he would notice if I made  weird face or cleared my throat. He didn't

A few minutes later the bill came and I waited for him to take out his wallet. Finally he did. And as he paid the  four dollar bill he said,

"You know, usually I date women much more accomplished and better looking than you."

I didn't know if he had read some book about how to pick up women or if he was just rude, and frankly I didn't care.

"That seems to have worked out well for you so far," I said politely, "good luck." and walked out.

As I write this, I wonder if that line has worked on anyone else. Either way, he can always remarry in the church .

Pete

His profile portrayed Pete as an outdoorsy, well -educated man who, "wants to meet Miss right and have a relationship of equals." After chatting back and forth for a few weeks, Pete asked me out for a casual dinner. In person he was nice looking and our conversation was fun even if he was a bit too flirtatious. He was divorced, he said, and an elementary school teacher taking a short sabbatical. He claimed to have always wanted to date a redhead  and asked if I'd like to take a walk around Greenlake which was across the street.   It was a beautiful evening and the starts sparkled like cold diamonds            
off of the lake. We talked about growing up in the Northwest, joked as we people watched  and then the topic turned to bad habits.

"So," I said, ,"any deep dark secrets?" I smiled,  "My worst one is swearing to myself when I'm stuck in traffic, no accomanying  hand gestures though. You?"

"Well my wife Jenny left me over my internet porn addiction. That's why I don't teach anymore, I caught caught at school, umm pleasuring myself while the video played on one of those pull down screens. Man, principals can be so judgmental. You know what though? I think it was the devil that made me do it."

I paused and laughed lamely,"Whoo, that's a good one, you almost got me there."

With complete sincerity, he continued, "No joke, it got so bad that I went to inpatient treatment for six months. My palms have just now started to really heal up. Thank God for that ointment. I can't even have an internet connection. I've been out of the facility for a week."

My jaw dropped, but before I could respond he started again

"Hey, I've got to take a leak in the bushes over there." He pointed about two feet away from the main trail where people were walking their dogs and taking babies for bedtime stroller rides. "Can you stand guard?"

Flummoxed, I looked around me to find the quietest and quickest route to the parking lot.

As I started to jog, I mumbled, "Thanks for dinner,It's late I've got to go." I don't know if he heard me but I fulfilled my obligation to be polite.

My purse was small and my keys with pepper spray attached were in hand in a matter of seconds as I walked very quickly to the lot. As I walked away I heard him still talking his voice getting fainter as I neared my car,

"Hey, you look tense, would you like to come back to my place for a massage and ... dessert, you know what I mean?....  Hey wait up!"

I locked the door, slammed the car into reverse and pulled away. In the rear-view mirror, I could see him standing there confused, his fly still half undone.

As I crouched down in my seat and stepped on the gas I had to commend him on his honesty but kept wondering what one woman could possibly keep him interested unless the circus was in town and he had eight kinky sister wives.