I thought Clark was my pony, but all I got was a jackass.
CHAPTER 10
Anna Goldfarb, Nerd Whisperer
Pro tip: If you want to know where all the smart, funny, nerdy dudes are, they’re making the Internet. I wasn’t always into tech dudes, but tech nerds have been going through a noticeable transformation the past few years. I don’t know if they pooled their money together and hired a publicist or what, but tech dudes’ dating stock has gone way up.
Tech guys are the new rock stars, except instead of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, they wield unlimited data plans, robust RSS feeds, and strong opinions about Apple’s business model. Podcasters are the new deejays. Bloggers are the new gonzo journalists. Online self-promoters are the new celebrities. Nerds are hot.
You know what cemented their status? The invention of the iPhone. Like Samson with his famous flowing locks, guys who had an iPhone when it first came out were irresistible. What girl could resist: It was like they had two dicks and one of them had a touchscreen! Honestly, a touchscreen was cooler because it seemed like it was a magical toy sent from the future, something brought back from 2015 by Doc Brown in his flying DeLorean.
On the whole, we’re talking about a pretty nerdy bunch of guys who jumped on the smartphone bandwagon when it first came on the scene in 2006. Frankly, they didn’t seem properly equipped for the influx of female attention they received when they got their hands on those first iPhone models. They’d get nervous when girls approached them and asked to see their gadget. Some of the guys stuttered. Most of them blushed, their faces turning as red as a freshly spanked bottom.
Aside from their skittishness, which I find endearing in a weird way, I also like the way tech nerds dress. Hoodies and sneakers are a great look for any guy, which is great news because it’s practically their uniform. They even make free T-shirts look good.
So, where does a girl who likes nerdy guys in hoodies, T-shirts, and new iPhones go to pick them up? Tech conferences, obviously. Just scanning the room at one of these events makes me want to give lap dances to any guy with a laptop, flash any guy with a flash drive, and install his Norton update into my Zip drive. It’s downright unholy.
I attended one particular conference a few years ago to dip my toe in the local tech pool. It was creatively called the Philadelphia Web Conference, and it was crawling with hot nerds. There was one guy in particular who immediately caught my eye. According to the name tag slapped on his chest, his name was Patrick, and he was basically my dream man. With dark hair, glasses, and dark jeans, he looked like the sensible sidekick to a hip sixties spy. And, at 5′6″, he was the perfect height for me.
Then I saw the hottest thing I’d seen the entire conference: As I studied Patrick typing away on his laptop, I spotted a flash of his pink argyle socks on his feet. Green and purple threads were woven throughout, giving his socks extra kick. Upon seeing him flash that diamond pattern, I had to hold on to the wall to steady myself. His socks knocked my socks off! He was basically wearing foot lingerie.
When he crossed his legs and exposed a good three more inches of pink sock, I wanted to hoot and holler while I tossed a stack of dollar bills at him. I’ve never been to a strip club, but if they had a bunch of chubby, short nerds writhing around in argyle socks, I’d be there every single night making it rain.
There is something about the kind of guy who wears argyle socks that makes me sit up and take notice. He probably has a library card, knows how to drive a stick shift car, and calls his grandmother at least once a week just to say hi. I’d even bet that he could sew a button onto a shirt in an emergency, has created at least one piece of artwork on his bedroom walls, and has a cool older brother. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he owned a shoeshine kit and several seasons of witty British sitcoms on DVD. This is the kind of guy that I saw myself with, my perfect other half in perfect argyle socks.
It was then that I decided that I wanted—nay—had to be the Firefox that turned his floppy disk hard. But I didn’t want to spook him, so I had to move in slow, like an outdated version of Internet Explorer.
“Is this seat free?” I asked, patting the chair next to him.
Startled, he pushed his glasses up his nose with his finger and cleared his throat. His laptop shifted on his legs as he scooted over to make some extra room. “Sure, sure. Go right ahead.”
“Hi! My name is Anna.” I offered a friendly smile.
“Nice to meet you. My name is Patrick.”
I pointed to his chest. “Yeah, your name tag told me that already.” He looked down at the sticker affixed to his brown plaid shirt and let out a nervous laugh. “Yup. It’s all true.”
“Whatcha doing, Patrick? Seems like you’re charging a lot of bullshit over there.” I nodded toward the tower of power he had plugged into the wall.
“Oh, that? I’m just charging my laptop, digital camera, and work phone. Is that a lot? I guess it’s a lot.”
“I’m pretty sure that you’re gonna drain the electrical grid for the entire East Coast. If we have a blackout in the next few minutes, I’m gonna blame it all on you.” I smiled, but I don’t think he saw because he turned his attention to the iPhone cradled in his hand. As this was the first iPhone I had ever seen up close, I was in awe.
“Oh, wow! Is that an iPhone? Can I see it?” I didn’t wait for his answer; I let out a little squeal and immediately reached out for it, like a baby grabbing her favorite teddy bear from across the crib.
“Sure.” He carefully handed it to me, like it was a family heirloom. He showed me how to swipe the screen with my fingers and zoom in and out with a pinching gesture. The phone was intuitive; it didn’t take long for me to get the hang of it. I probably evolved into a higher life form just by touching the thing. I felt like the monkey wielding a femur bone in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I wanted to hurl it in the air while beating my chest and letting out a primal shriek: What is this awesome tool? Arrrrrrrgh!
After watching me tinker with his prized toy for a few minutes, he started to get anxious. I frowned when he asked for it back.
“That was amazing.” My cheeks were flushed. I could now understand the appeal of the device. I wondered if he’d notice if I stole it. I’m pretty sure he would. I tell ya, after holding his phone for 0.04 seconds, I felt like my shitty flip phone was a paper cup with a frayed string. No, wait. It was even worse than that. It made my shitty flip phone look like I was just cupping my hands over my mouth and shouting into the air. The damn thing was like a cat on its eighth life: It had been dropped on the sidewalk, used as a doorstop, and even doubled as a Ping-Pong paddle once during a particularly rowdy barbecue. They looked like they didn’t even belong in the same category of electronics; like an Atari next to a Wii.
“I know. I waited in line for eight hours to get it.” He rested it on his leg.
“I’ve never waited in line for anything. Well, that’s not true. I waited in line for forty-five minutes once in high school to get Weezer tickets.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It was for their Blue Album tour.”
“How was that?”
“Um, amazing. How was waiting for the iPhone?”
“It was a pretty nerdy scene. Like, it was probably better than the crowd waiting for Star Wars tickets; instead of dorks wearing shitty costumes jousting with cardboard tubes that were made into makeshift lightsabers, you had people sipping Starbucks and waiting quietly.”
“So, there weren’t any riots waiting in line for your iPhone?”
“Sadly, no. It was pretty civil. There was a lot of sitting calmly on portable chairs. That’s probably the opposite of a riot, right?”
“Ha-ha. I guess. Was it worth the wait?” I asked.
“What do you think?” His turned the phone so the light reflected off the glass almost as if it was winking at me.
I chatted with Patrick for a bit and something became immediately clear: If NWA were the original gangstas, this guy was the original tech n
erd. He was old school, a total tech trailblazer: He had a Twitter account before Ashton Kutcher typed his first tweet. He was on Facebook while the rest of the planet was busy customizing their glittery MySpace backgrounds. He had strong opinions about hashtag usage. Who had strong opinions on hashtags? That guy did! I was in HTMLove.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a social media specialist,” he said. I’m going to be honest, I had no idea what that meant. Social media? I imagined a roomful of televisions having a tea party gossiping about the local townsfolk; not a viable way for an independent adult to earn a living.
“So, let me guess what you do all day: You check your e-mail, refill your coffee cup constantly, then dick around having meetings about how to integrate brands using Twitter and Facebook, right?” I joked.
“Yeah, pretty much. And, we have cake about once a week, too,” he deadpanned.
“Cake makes everything better,” I quipped.
“I would agree with that.” He patted his belly. “Cake rules.”
“No, seriously. What does a social media specialist do?”
He tried to explain his job responsibilities to me in detail, but he might as well have been explaining quantum physics in Swahili. Words like product integration, assessment, and multiplatform coordination were batted around. My eyes glazed over just typing that. His job seemed vaguely tied to Internet commerce. I nodded a lot as he rattled off a bunch of industry buzzwords. I think I looked like someone who understood what the hell he was talking about.
“I’m here to bone up on the latest social media trends and see what’s blowing people’s hair back these days,” he explained. “Then, I take that information back to my clients and tailor integrated marketing campaigns for them.”
“Well then, what’s blowing people’s hair back these days? I wanna be on the, uh, ground floor while I’m thinking outside the box.”
His eyebrows arched up. “That was some impressive office lingo there.”
“There’s more where that came from. ‘It’s not rocket science that there’s an elephant in the room. At the end of the day, we can’t drop the ball. Let’s run it up the flagpole and hit the ground running, but just don’t screw the pooch.’” He clapped a little bit, which made me laugh.
“Thank you, thank you.” I beamed.
“And why are you here?” he asked. “To lead a seminar on how to talk like a boss?”
“Actually, I’m here because I know the organizer, Rosie.” The part that I didn’t tell him was that she told me that these types of conferences were the best place to meet nice guys. Seeing as I had a lot of free time as a barely employed freelance writer, I figured I’d give it a shot. The fact that they had free lunch at this thing only cemented my decision to go.
“We should hang out sometime. I mean, would you wanna go out sometime?” He barely looked at me as he spoke. I could see beads of sweat forming near his forehead. He was literally sweating me.
My impressive display of cliché office lingo had charmed him.
“Totally. Yes. Let’s do that.”
“Are you around next week? We could grab lunch.”
“Sure. That sounds great. Tuesday is good for me.”
“Tuesday it is,” he confirmed.
Yes, against my better judgment, I accepted his lunch date offer. Here’s the thing: I hate lunch dates. They are the worst. For one thing, he’ll be a stress mess. He’ll show up panting ’cause he hoofed it the three blocks from his office to the restaurant. His shirt will be damp from sweat, so I’ll have no idea what I’m supposed to do to greet him. An awkward hug? A kiss on his sweaty cheek? A fist bump? He needs to be doused with a bucket of ice water and a quick gulp of Gatorade, not embraced.
Second, he’ll be distracted by the time constraint inherent in the lunch date format. Before we even sit down, he’ll usually announce how he has only an hour to hang out. It’s hard to be relaxed when he checks his chunky metal watch every five minutes to make sure he’s not running late. We can’t even enjoy the food because we’ll have to scarf it down in order for him to get back to his office on time.
And, without fail, the first ten minutes of the date will be him just unloading about how awful his morning went. Yes, his boss was a total dick. How could the intern not know how to work a fax machine properly? Why is his secretary never at her desk? I’ll nod, trying to empathize with his petty office dramas when what I’m really thinking is, Where’s the good-timey dude I met before and what have you done with him? A lunch date dude is the exact opposite of the guy I want to share a meal with.
Plus, I’m going to be a terrible date. I’ll strain to make small talk over a bento box lunch special. And, all my pretty clothes are nighttime clothes that show off my cleavage. What am I going to wear during a day date? A blouse? A T-shirt? It’s all too normal for me. It’d be so much hotter with me in a low-cut black dress, tumblers of whiskey in our hands, and Velvet Underground on the jukebox. Trust me on this.
And the worst is that the last five minutes of the date will be him complaining about all the work he has to do once he gets back to the office. Great. I applied mascara for this complain-a-thon?
Then he’ll ask me what I have planned for the rest of the day. As I’m a barely employed freelance writer, he’ll be unimpressed with my answer of “grabbing iced coffee and sitting in the park.”
That’s when it will occur to him that our lifestyles are fundamentally incompatible. Disappointment will wash over his face as he realizes that I’m more of a free spirit than a fellow office drone; I don’t wear business casual clothing or have adequate health insurance.
Lunch dates are a lose/lose proposition for us because I’ll be annoyed at his khakis and he’ll be annoyed at my loosey-goosey schedule. I guarantee that after he finds out about my aimlessness, he’s not going to call his mom up and gush, “I found her, Mom! She’s the one. Her name’s Anna and she’s a freelance writer who eats tacos, wears sweatpants until two P.M. on weekdays, and bats around catchphrases popularized by Jersey Shore. I know, I know; it’s just what I’ve always wanted!”
I’m dreading it.
It’s not worth hanging out with a crummier, stressed-out, slacks-wearing version of the dude I kicked it with just a few days ago. Let’s save the dates for nighttime, where they belong. Honestly, if I ever ran for political office, I’d ban day dates. It’d be the platform I’d run my campaign on. Just say no to lunch dating!
But I made an exception for Patrick because I liked him and I wanted to give him a shot. And, like throwing elaborate dinner parties and keeping your car’s inspection sticker up to date, lunch dates are what responsible adults do. I wanted to act like an adult. So we exchanged business cards and he promised that he’d get in touch soon.
Of course, the first thing I did when I got home was Google him. I read his personal blog, which was mostly just funny YouTube videos and ruminations on marketing strategies. His Twitter didn’t show anything juicy, just a lot of updates about his coffee consumption. I even found a jokey blog that he started with a friend two years prior but abandoned after a few months. It felt like rifling through his desk drawers or something.
Of course, I showed my mom everything that he had ever written. I’d follow her around with my laptop reading passages aloud while she did the dishes. She’d nod along and coo that he sounded like a great guy.
“Mom, he sounds better than great, he sounds amazing.”
Then I showed his entire Internet presence to my two sisters and my best friends. I’d clutter their in-boxes with links to podcasts he’d done. It’s like I was his publicist, talking him up by the water cooler: Did you hear about this Patrick guy? He’s a real mensch, that one.
After everyone in my life read every word he’d ever published on the Internet, I downloaded a picture of him and made it my computer’s screen saver because I’m mature and I don’t jump into relationships headfirst before I really even know the guy. [cough, cough] Patrick was my dream
guy. Now, all I needed to do was get to know him.
He didn’t make me wait too long to plan our date, which I appreciated. He called me exactly two days after we met and we made plans to meet at noon the following Tuesday. I spent all morning getting ready. Seeing as this was a first date, I had to whip out the big guns: I shaved my legs and armpits, curled my hair into loose curls, and swiped on my lucky blush. For my outfit, I laced up my tan Pocahontas boots with the fringe on the sides and wore a loose blue dress. If I had to go through with this stupid lunch date, I was going to knock it out of the park.
I walked to meet him from my apartment in Fairmount down to Rittenhouse Square, a good twenty-minute stroll. As I turned the corner, I spotted him by the entrance of the restaurant nervously fidgeting with his phone. He saw me walking toward him and came over to greet me.
“Hey, there, Patrick!” He looked just as I remembered but a little more buttoned-up, not surprising as he came from work.
“Hey, Anna. You look great.” As he took a second to look me over, his eyes hovered around my feet. “I love the boots.”
“Aw, thanks.” I looked at his dress shirt and khakis. “You look, well, you look ready to make a PowerPoint presentation.” That came out wrong.
“It’s the khakis, isn’t it?” He looked down at his pants like they were an ugly birthmark he wanted surgically removed.
“No! They look good on you. You look fine. I mean, good. You look good.” What is wrong with me? Why the hell did I bring up his khakis? At least they were flat-front. Pleated khakis would have been unforgivable. I pointed toward an open table to quickly change the subject.
“Let’s sit over there, by the window.”
Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 15
