Set-up, Punch!

I’m being set up tomorrow night. No, not to take a fall, I’m being set up on a date. My personal philosophy on dating is not dissimilar to my personal philosophy on eating…(insert lesbian joke here)…I’ll try anything once. The problem seems to be that most people put more thought into what restaurants they’ll suggest than the people they’ll send you there with.

My parents were set up on a blind date. As her daughter neared the ripe old age of 24, my grandmother found herself embarrassed of my mom’s independence. After graduating college in just two short years (I come from a family of genui…geniuses? Fuck. I clearly didn’t get those genes.), my mother immediately entered the work-force, becoming one of the first females in her division of public accounting in 1970’s Philadelphia—I’m picturing a lot of neck-bows and plaid lady-suits. Anywho, she broke up with her boyfriend when she entered the rat-race at twenty-two and consequently left her social life in exchange for an ambitious career. This worried my grandmother immensely—her oldest daughter was headed full-speed towards a lonely life of facts & figures, working lunches, and tweed! I’ll spare you the psychology of Grandmom’s jealousy and simply give you the facts: she set my mother up. Did she have the hot-line to hot-man central? No. Was she running a dating service from her smoky, canoli-filled kitchen? Not that I’m aware. So how did she approach this task? Brace yourself kids, this might be the most horrifying, embarrassing, mom-story ever. My grandmother got on the phone and called every one of her friends. Any who knew of single men of a suitable age, were to contact them, and any friends they might have, and then have them contact my grandmother. Thankfully, my mother was unaware this was going on—I’m pretty sure she would have beaten herself to death with her brown leather power-pumps and given up any hope of women’s liberation. Long-story-short, after a series of unsuccessful set-ups, my grandmother’s brother, Uncle Lee, introduced my mom to his neighbor’s son, my dad, a groovy dude who dug her career aspirations and thought she was totally far out. Over thirty years later, they’re still arguing over Italian food, pretending not to hear each other from across the kitchen, and dancing like Muppets in the front seat of their car—simply put: they’re a match made in South-Philly.

The last time I was set up, the circumstances could not have been worse. Selfishly, my roommate at the time thought it would be convenient for her if I could date her girlfriend’s roommate. Brilliant. Generally, I date mean girls—well, not mean so much as sarcastic, and ballsy, and demanding. Sexy. I also gravitate towards women with a dark sense of humor. This “woman” could not have been further from my type. (I put that pronoun in quotes because today, “she” has transitioned into a man. I have no qualms whatsoever with the trans-community. That said, I’ve never been attracted to a transsexual; and if I were, I don’t think I’d be attracted to a transman…because I’m a lesbian…Right? This is a topic for a whole separate blog.) Even more to the point, she was shy. Quiet and moody, this brooding, sensitive type spent most of the date listening to me drone on about anything I could come up with to fill the silence. So, there we sat in the sexy restaurant with a great wine list, me monologuing about Godknowswhat and her trying not to appear uncomfortable at our obvious lack of chemistry. My genius roommate clearly put thought into the location of the date, but failed to take into account that I like women—snarky ones with lots of opinions and dark eyeliner. The same could be said for “his” roommate, he now dates other pierced, tattooed bike messenger types—clearly I was not his dream boat.

Tomorrow night I’m doing a comedy show—not the ideal place to meet someone, but I’m being set up by another comedian. I guess it’s fitting, most of my dates turn into punch-lines anyway. But who knows, perhaps my grandmother’s ghost is acting in my best interest, saving another 24 year-old overachiever from marrying her work. Here’s hoping she’s a: knock-out…or at least a lover of bad-puns.