Why I’m Single: #374

I bet I could actually validate that number.

My friends might even argue that the following belongs in the top 10, who knows?

So, I was at breakfast this morning.  It was 8:15 on a Sunday morning, because: grumpy, old man.  It was also the Sunday after Halloween.  I was particularly grumpy this morning because I was deprived of witnessing any costumed walk of shame action from last night’s drunkfest.  Yes, I stayed in, how did you guess?

Oh, right…I don’t drink with amateurs.  Probably another reason I’m single: I don’t socialize when it’s too much “fun”.  Reason #217?

Plus, the guy I’ve been on a few dates with recently got sick and decided *not* to go to his roommate’s Halloween party, which effectively uninvited me and restored my inner peace since I would no longer have to spend the evening explaining why I wasn’t dressed up.

So, I was wide awake at 7:30…having slept straight through the night, but I still awoke bemoaning the fact that I had only gotten seven hours of sleep after turning in just after midnight.  Then I remembered Daylight Savings Time happened last night, I got a full eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep!  I shower quickly, grab my book and head down to Fuller’s.

The Fox is out at his beach house this weekend with his foster dog, so I’m flying stag for breakfast and on no one’s schedule but my own.

I’ve been reading the latest from Patricia Cornwell.  I’ve started calling her Patsy OK, because her books just aren’t as good to me as they were when they came out.  Since she came out, perhaps.  It’s hard to say, but it doesn’t matter – literally, few enough people read my blog that what I think of this book is of no consequence.  She ended her last book in an open-ended way that strongly suggested that she had killed off her main character, Kay Scarpetta.  I was sad, so my feelings about this particular book are strangely complicated…more so than they should be, I’m sure.  It’s just a book.  She’s just a character.  But I cry at movies, so give my sense of nostalgia a break.

Having just moved back into the Pearl District of Portland from way out in Northwest – literally 16 blocks – I chose Fuller’s because it’s one of my favorites and also two blocks from my new place.  I love it because it’s just a breakfast and lunch place, closes at 2-ish o’clock and consists of two U-shaped counters that the wait staff work from inside while you sit on a low stool on the outside.

Not perfect for groups.  How could I not love it?

I let the waitress know I didn’t need a menu and gave her my order before my butt actually hit the stool.  She was feeling sassy, so she asked if I wanted coffee.

“Only if you want a tip.”

I’m recognized here, so I have a little latitude.  Recognized, not known.  Probably, I also get my food sneezed on a lot.  Smart move?  Don’t go to Fuller’s with me.

Anyway…I’m sitting there, reading my book and sipping crappy, diner coffee – which I love on occasion, it’s such an emotionally comforting taste-memory association.  I’m conscious of the fact that the stools are starting to fill up.  My food is delivered, I’m trying to take up as small a space as possible, since the stools are spaced for 1970’s sized Americans, not the behemoth bodied Americans of present day.

Eventually, someone sits next to me.  Had to.  Not the last seat in the place, but the other one that I could easily see was between two of the aforementioned American normal types and you’d have to be a size 0 to be comfortable sitting there.

He was just a normal looking guy; judging by his hairstyle, one who hadn’t thought to shower before getting breakfast.  I hoped he had thought to brush his teeth as I pulled in a little further so he had plenty of room.  The waitress was pouring him coffee and promising to bring him creamer as soon as one became available.  I scooted my bowl of creamer closer to him and told him to help himself as the waitress refilled my cup.

He thanked me and I told him we may as well be neighborly.

I’m not even foreshadowing, bro.

After he orders, I amuse myself with a little mental checklist:

  • Takes his crappy, diner coffee the same way I do
  • Can comfortably chat with strangers
  • Ordered the same omelette I did
  • Likes hot sauce on his eggs

I’m finishing my last bite of breakfast, coming to the end of my chapter and thinking the whole bed-head thing would be pretty easy to overlook when he takes his first bite.

<Record Skip>

I can overlook a lot of things:

  • Bed hair
  • Smoking
  • Unemployment
  • One’s past mistakes

Not scraping your teeth across your fork, though.  I close my book.  Stand up.  Grab my check.  Gulp half my coffee.  Leave.

That’s it.


Bad Table Manners.

You could be pro-life with me and have good table manners and be fine for quite a while since abortion doesn’t really come up in conversation with me and the guys I date too often.  But we’re gonna eat together about a dozen times a week if we’re dating…putting up with bad table manners in that context is asking a lot of me and my misophonia.

I didn’t finish my cup of coffee, so I treated myself to a nice Americano at Palmetto, which is only a few blocks away from Fuller’s.  Heading back to Fuller’s to grab my hastily left behind jacket, I’m sipping my cup of the good stuff and enjoying the quiet morning.

Since the universe loves to give me a good spoonful of my own medicine at every opportunity, I passed by Bed Head as I was heading home.

Told you I wasn’t foreshadowing, right?

He was walking into The Henry as I passed by Powell’s on the far side of the street.


The Henry is one of the early condos built in the Pearl.  Great location.  Priced at about $500 a SF, and not on the low side of $500.  k.d. lang purportedly lives there.  You had to buy early or have some deep pockets to comfortably get into this building.  And it’s 3 blocks-ish from my place.  I can see it from my window.  And my eyesight isn’t anywhere near as sharp as Sarah Palin’s.

Bed Head lives there.  FML.  Just goes to show that you can’t buy class.

I shook my head.  Walked away.  Ironically opened Scruff, just to see what else I wasn’t missing.  Got hit on by a guy who’s dating a friend of mine.  FML, again.

I didn’t say I was actually unhappy about being single, did I?

Jury is definitely out on that.  No hung jury jokes, people.  Please.

If there really is a list of reasons I am single, maybe #1 should be that guys aren’t worth it.

And, since I didn’t think to sign out of Scruff, The Pornstar (unpublished blog) sent me a message a few minutes later.

Cheese and Rice.

And still no costumed walk of shame action.  Sheesh.

Why I’m Single: #374