The other 70% of why it took so long to blog is because I couldn't find the password to renew my URL for this website and just, you know, never really got around to do anything about it. Regardless, everything is up and running again. You can finally breath a sigh of relief.
What've I been doing besides blogging, you ask? Netflix, mostly (if you haven't seen all of season 3 of House of Cards, then I don't think I want to know you). Mixed in a with a bit of dating. And I can tell you, dating in San Francisco at 29 is good for one thing only: the stories you get to tell your friends after.
Brace yourselves, because I'm about to tell you one story I've already told to everyone I know, so you've definitely already heard it. I even called up my grandma to explain every last detail, realizing 30 minutes in she thought she was on the phone with her eye doctor. But I'm going to tell it again anyway, because I want my grandkids to dig up this post and say to themselves, "Damn, Grandma was a slut!" And then I'll rest easy in my grave, feeling vindicated that I was at least well known in the family for something worthwhile.
So: Once upon a time a few months ago, a friend of mine, whom we'll call Big G., told me he had found the perfect man for me. The only problem was the man happened to exist in TV form. And when you're on TV, you're not real people.
This worthy contender for my heart--who for the purposes of this story we'll refer to as Future TV Husband--turned out to work for a late-night comedy show. Every now and then he has bits on said comedy show as a curmudgeonly, highly neurotic Europhile and pretentious coffee slut who has a dark, New Yorker look about him with soulless eyes and a hair swoosh that won't quit. My friend really knows my type: it was love at first YouTube clip
The problem with falling in love with someone on TV is the romance is bound to be one-sided, considering they have no idea you exist. Plus, I was pretty convinced the guy batted for the other team.
But when Big G. and I have an inside joke, we tend to go in way too deep and take things way too far, so on a dare I added Future TV Husband on Instagram. He followed me back, and I never really thought anything more of it, except for the day I saw the skit announcing he was engaged. To a girl. And my entire world shattered before my eyes.
Anyway, flash forward about six months to last Saturday. I go for a run and then post a picture of it on Instagram, because for some reason I feel like the world cares about my half-assed attempts at working out. After the run, I drink wine, binge watch House of Cards season 3, and pass out (the reality of this whole scene is even less exotic than it sounds.)
I wake up the next morning to 11 (11! A new record!) likes on the picture from my run, one of them being from Future TV Husband himself. And not only has he liked my photo, but he's sent me a private message on Instagram informing me that he's in SF for the weekend, and did I have any good restaurant tips?
My first thought to all of this was utter confusion. Future TV Husband isn't supposed to be a real person, and he's not supposed to actually contact me in any way. The sacred laws of celebrity crushdom had been completely violated. My next thought was, "Is this what this guy does? Just goes from city to city, hitting on girls on Instagram? What a sleaze."
But I couldn't NOT respond. I mean, I have some really great restaurant recommendations. I write him back an abridged Zagat guide, and he writes back asking me if I'll join him for dinner.
I ask Big G. if I should be worried about Future TV Husband being the future Bill Cosby, and was I putting my life at risk by saying yes? Big G. assured me that even if I was putting my life at risk, it would be worth it for the story I'd have after. You can't argue with logic like that.
Future TV Husband and I meet at a trendy Italian restaurant in a part of the Financial District I never knew existed. He's wearing Converse and a Dickie's jacket with a broken zipper. He can't get it off and goes to the bathroom to remove it. He comes back and asks me if I'm going to write about "the jacket incident" in my blog. I tell him I will.
Future TV Husband is perfectly nice, keeps the conversation going, and is very generous with the wine refills. He wants to know where I grew up, where I've traveled, how many siblings I have.
I learn Future TV Husband is originally Polish, doesn't like cilantro, and doesn't know what a podcast is. To be honest, it feels like the best Tinder date I've ever been on. Just two strangers who happened to meet because I awkwardly stalked him on Instagram.
In fact, at one point during the evening, he asked me, "So, who tracked down whom on Instagram?"
"Oh, I tracked you down," I said with an air of nonchalant-ness I hoped would stop him from asking for details.
"Oh really? And why did you do that?" he asked.
"Oh, because you seemed as neurotic as I am," I lied. I felt it would be distasteful to mention this whole scenario was based on an inside joke between me and a friend, though why else would you meet up with someone from LA if it weren't based on a joke?
"Neurotic?" he flinched. "I'm not neurotic, I don't think."
"Trust me," I said, "you're neurotic."
"You know, if it weren't for you posting that run of yours on Instagram, you and I wouldn't be here right now, having dinner."
"I know," I nodded intelligently, "It's destiny."
Lesson to you all: the more you post about every minute detail of your boring lives on Instagram, the more likely you are to meet someone who works in Hollywood.
Future TV Husband goes on to spout some cliched bullshit lines during the night that I try to roll my eyes at and get over because tired cliched lines is standard for his line of work. Lines such as: "Leith Tem Sabi Mahoney-Maver? I'll remember that. I never remember names of people I don't find interesting, but when I find them interesting, I remember everything they say," and, "I feel like I've just told you more about my life than I've ever told anyone else."
I mean, I wouldn't fault him for finding me highly interesting, but anyone who knows me knows you aren't going to woo me with bullshit lines any hack with a Pickup Artist guide can string together. I'm pretty sure I ended the night by telling him that if I were his fiancee, I would leave him.
Regardless, I decided to overlook the sleaze factor and appreciate the whole experience for what it was: a completely bizarre, great story. Seeing him materialize in real life demotes him from some TV oddity to a real person with flaws, so no longer husband-worthy (if only I could meet Larry David now, he's the dream man) but a great night none the less.
The next day, I add his number to my phone under the name "Some Polish Guy." When I tell him this, he tells me it should be the title of the blog post I write about him. As you can see, I took his advice.
So that's the story of how an inside joke went way too far and turned into a three-course Italian dinner on Pacific Avenue. Follow your dreams, kids. Anything is possible with access to YouTube and an Instagram account.