But I’ve dated some pretty immature forty-year-olds, I reminded myself. Let’s not forget good ol’ “Who Farted?”
I texted Ross and asked him what the deal was with this guy.
“I was at the game and he came up to me and said to put in a good word with you! So I told him to tweet to us. He’s so cute!” Ross wrote back.
“Okay, so should I tweet him back?”
“YES! Season seats forever!”
Now, I’m sure you guys are all thinking, Really? Another fucking guy on Twitter? But at this point I don’t see how it’s different from Match.com or any other website. And since the last guy Tilley set me up with turned out to be some kind of weird voyeur, I figured what the hell. Plus, I knew Ross wouldn’t steer me wrong, even for season tickets to the Seahawks. But just to be sure, I texted Tara and Stephanie, who I knew would (a) give me good advice, and (b) be super excited a football player tweeted me. They are both huge football fans—I mean, they’re still baseball fans, too, just not quite as much since the whole chain-to-the-chin incident had occurred.
“I know who he is! He used to play for the Packers!” Steph wrote back, delirious with excitement that a guy who played for her favorite team of all time was flirting with me. “They cut him and all the fans were upset because he’s one of the best punters in the league. I don’t know why they cut him but it would be great if you could find out.”
“What’s a punter do?” I wrote back.
“He punts, dumbass,” she replied. Then she went on to explain when a punter punts, why he punts, etc. I didn’t understand a word of it.
“This is amazing,” Tara chimed in (yes, we also three-way text—don’t judge). “I just went to his Twitter page. Go to it and scroll down to a tweet that’s dated November twenty-third of last year.”
“When did you learn to use Twitter?” Steph replied.
“Just go look, assholes.”
I followed instructions and went through Jon’s timeline, which thankfully didn’t take too long because he’s not an overactive Twitter user.
“So bummed I missed @sarahcolonna in Seattle tonight, but she’s an Angels fan, so hopefully I’ll catch her in Tempe for Spring Training?”
I had performed just outside of Seattle the very night that he sent this tweet—in November. So here we were in January . . .
“He’s obviously been trying to get your attention for a while!” Tara wrote back.
“And he played for the Packers,” Steph reminded us.
“Okay, girls. I’m going to write him back. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m listening,” I tweeted to Jon, trying to reply in a flirty manner about a “good word” being put in.
That tweet led to a few flirty tweets involving Ross officiating our wedding in a leotard while a Beyoncé song played (I pray that really happens one day). It was entertaining, but obviously silly, so after a couple of days of those exchanges, I wrote it off as a quick fun flirt.
But then a direct message from him popped up. “Here’s my number so we can plan our wedding,” he wrote. Which, again, was cute, but thus far there wasn’t anything but flirty jokes. I couldn’t tell if he was seriously interested in me.
“And yes, this is my super-awkward attempt at picking you up on Twitter. I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you,” said another message that followed.
Okay, that seemed like a real flirt—like he was actually interested and acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. I alerted Steph and Tara of the progress and asked them how I should respond.
“Okay, so far it’s all been jokes about your wedding and whatnot. So, I think in order for this to move forward, he needs to know you aren’t just joking. So when you respond, don’t mention anything about the wedding,” Steph ordered.
“I agree,” Tara chimed in. “Just say that his flirting worked. That way he has your number and if he’s serious about wanting to meet you, he’ll take it from there.”
So later that night, I texted the number he had given me.
“Your attempt worked,” I wrote, following orders from team Steph and Tara. “So now you have my number, too.”
I didn’t hear back from him that night, but the next morning I did.
“I’m really glad that worked. Sorry I didn’t write you back last night, I’m in New York so I was in bed when you wrote me.”
Oh my God, that’s right! I remembered. He was in New York for the Super Bowl. I assumed that was a pretty big deal to him, and I thought it was kind of great that he was still thinking about me.
Our texts continued throughout that week. We were just kind of talking. It was weird, because we didn’t know each other at all, but the texts flowed easily, as if we had been friends for years. At one point, he acknowledged that we hadn’t spoken on the phone.
“Should I call you?” he asked. “I don’t want to be rude, if I should call you I can . . .”
“I sort of hate talking on the phone,” I replied. “Is that weird?”
“Oh thank God. I hate talking on the phone, too. I wish everything could be done via text.”
“Me too!”
Okay, so we’d established that even though we had never met, we were both perfectly comfortable with communicating via text for now. I thought about the guy from Match.com whom I had that long, painful, nowhere conversation with and breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t going to have one of those with Jon. If he was that boring or hard to talk to, I didn’t want to know yet. I was having too much fun with what we had going on and I wasn’t in the mood for it to be ruined already.
“So I know we’ve just been texting, but I really would like to take you on an actual date,” he wrote to me one day.
“I’d love that,” I replied.
“Well, I’m a little tied up until Sunday, but after that I’m wide open.”
“Are you nervous?” I asked him. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be preparing all week for what I assume is the biggest game of a football player’s life.
“Yeah, a little. But I’m also just really excited. Are you going to watch the game?”
“Well, I’m going to a Super Bowl party at my friend Tara’s house. I usually don’t pay attention to the game much, but I have a feeling this time I will,” I replied, followed by a “wink face” emoticon. I needed to get the emoticon usage out there. I can’t control my love for them.
He replied with the “happy face blushing” emoticon.
“Sorry if I made you use an emoticon,” I wrote back. “I’m sort of obsessed with them. I think they’re hilarious.”
“I’m glad you did. I love using them, but I usually hold off until the other person uses them first because I’m a grown man and all.”
He just keeps getting better, I thought.
“I live in Phoenix in the off-season, but I am coming to California in a couple of weeks. I’m taking my nieces and nephews to Disneyland. Maybe I can take you out then? I’ll be there for a few days.”
“Ouch. Disneyland. That sounds awful,” I replied. “But I’d love for you to take me out.”
“I know! I have so many nieces and nephews. They all live in Canada and they are dying to go to Disneyland. It sounds like a nightmare but they’ll be happy. I’m just grateful my brother and sisters had so many kids because that keeps my mom from bugging me about having them.”
“You don’t want kids?” I asked.
“No, I just never have. I like them and all, but I don’t want any of my own.”
Was this guy created in a lab for me?
The day of the Super Bowl, I went to the party Tara was having at her house. I arrived straight from the airport after doing shows in Philadelphia, so I was exhausted but very excited to watch the game. I’d never been excited to watch the game at a Super Bowl party before—usually I just show up for the cheese di
p.
Right when I arrived, Steph and Tara took me aside to get the latest news on my text relationship with Jon.
“Well, this morning we were texting and basically I just told him good luck. He said thanks and then he said he was heading over to the field.”
“He texted you today? The day of the Super Bowl?” Steph exclaimed.
“He loves you,” Tara said.
“I think he was just being nice because I had said—”
“Football players aren’t ever just being nice,” Steph explained. “I agree with Tara, he loves you.”
“Okay, well we haven’t even met yet so let’s all calm down.We’ve been hurt by this kind of situation before.”
“When are you meeting?” Tara asked, interrogating me.
“He’s taking his nieces and nephews to Disneyland in a couple of weeks, so I think he’s going to come up to L.A. and take me out.”
“That’s so cute that he’s taking his family to Disneyland! Plus, that’s what you’re supposed to do after the Super Bowl, so that means he knows they’re going to win!” Steph exclaimed.
“Huh? Who goes to Disneyland after they win the Super Bowl?” I asked, clueless.
“Hello? You’ve never seen the commercials?” Tara asked.
“What commercials?”
“The ‘I’m going to Disneyland’ commercials. What, do you live under a rock?” Steph asked.
“Oh, I’ve totally seen those,” I lied.
“Wait, so does he want kids?” Tara asked.
“No, he told me he doesn’t.”
“Oh thank God,” she said, looking at Steph with a relieved glance.
“What was that glance about?”
“Tara was worried that since he’s thirty-two he might want kids and since you don’t, it might end up being a deal-breaker for you guys.”
“You two talked about whether or not he wants to have kids? We haven’t even met yet. I think you guys need to take it down a notch. You’re getting too invested in this; I don’t want you two to end up heartbroken.”
“We just have a good feeling about it,” Tara explained.
“Plus, he used to play for the Packers!” Steph yelled.
That day, I watched more of a football game than I ever had in my life.
When it was time for Jon to finally punt, the girls told me to get ready to watch.
“Great, I’ll go make us fresh drinks so we can toast after he punts!” I said excitedly as I headed to the kitchen to get some ice.
“Stop, dumbass. This isn’t baseball, he’s up right now,” Steph told me as she pointed toward the screen.
“Oh,” I said as I focused my attention back toward the television.
He only punted once, but when he did apparently it was very, very good. (I had to ask because just watching it told me nothing.)
“Why isn’t he playing more?” I asked after his one and only punt. “Does the team not like him or something?”
“What? It’s because it’s a blowout. They don’t need him to,” Steph explained.
“I don’t understand this game,” I sighed.
“Well, you better start understanding. You can’t be an NFL wife and not know what the fuck is going on,” she said, scolding me.
“So now I’m marrying him? We haven’t even met.”
“Don’t ruin my day,” she said as she handed me a Jell-O shot that I awkwardly tried to get in my mouth. It’s not easy.
An hour or so after the game, I received a text from Jon, shirtless, in the locker room, holding the team’s trophy in his hand. “Champions!” it said.
“Oh my God! Look!” I yelled as I motioned for Steph and Tara to come over.
“Oh my God!” Steph repeated. “He texted you right after he won the Super Bowl!”
“He loves you,” Tara said insistently.
I was actually just thinking about how good he looked shirtless. But then I realized they had a point. I received several random texts from Jon throughout the night, updating me on what sort of shenanigans ensued post–Super Bowl win. I have to admit, I was really taken by surprise that he thought to text me. I mean, I had realized over the past couple of weeks that he seemed genuinely interested, but I assumed after winning a championship like that, single (and unfortunately, probably also married) guys walked around the city with their dicks out.
Over the next couple of weeks, Jon and I continued our constant texting. We would text about our day, our night, whatever. We would text that we missed each other, acknowledging that it was odd since we hadn’t even met. It felt very normal—like we had known each other forever and texting every day was a part of our usual activity.
Finally, the week of Jon’s trip to Disneyland arrived. We’d decided that he’d come up to L.A. and take me out to dinner on Monday night. He told me he wanted to plan the date, but that he might need a little help, as he wasn’t very familiar with the area. I loved that he wanted to plan it but also knew I better throw out a few restaurant suggestions because I certainly didn’t want our first date to be at a shitty restaurant in the Valley.
“Do you have a favorite Italian restaurant?” he texted one night.
“I do! Italian is my favorite!”
“I figured it must be, with your last name and all . . .”
I suggested a couple of places and let him pick one.
“Okay, I made a reservation for eight o’clock at Ago,” he informed me.
I was really hoping he’d pick Ago, I thought, smiling.
He had driven his family up from Phoenix in a large rented Escalade.
“I can’t pick you up in this car, it’s huge. It’s too embarrassing,” he wrote me the morning of our date.
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” I assured him.
“No, really. It’s ridiculous. I can’t pick you up in this.”
“Well, I guess you could take an Uber up here? I don’t know what it would cost . . .”
“Oh, I’m definitely doing that. If you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind, silly. Plus that way you can have a couple of drinks without worrying about driving,” I wrote.
“I like the way you think.”
I don’t think it’s ever taken me as long to get ready for a date as it did that night. I mean, I’m no makeup wizard and my hair basically does itself, so I didn’t really spend any extra time on that—I put on the same two coats of eye shadow I’ve been putting on for twenty years, still consulting the back of the makeup case to figure out exactly how to apply to my eyelid “crease.” But it took me a really long time to get dressed.
I decided to text Sarah Tilley, who technically was still in charge of my love life, to ask her what I should wear. She wasn’t thrilled about the fact that I had met someone on my own and she was really not thrilled about the fact that it was a guy with a six-pack. So I wanted to give her something.
“Cute top, good butt-jeans, heels,” she responded immediately. “And underwear, please wear underwear.”
“I always wear underwear.”
“Oh, that’s right, that was me that used to not wear underwear. But I do now.”
“Well, that’s great news,” I responded.
“Are you going to have sex with him?” she asked.
“What? No! I mean . . . am I allowed to?”
“You can do whatever you want. If it’s the right guy, having sex on the first date doesn’t matter either way.”
“I agree! But I think I’m going to not have sex with him. Mostly because I know he has to go back to Anaheim and I’d rather have sex when he can sleep over. It feels dirty when they leave after.”
“True,” she agreed.
“But if I leave after it’s okay because that means I don’t like the guy that much.”
“Also true.”
/> “I’m glad we agree.”
“Have fun, whore,” she said, signing off with her usual charm.
“Thanks. And, Tilley? I’m really sorry he has a six-pack.”
“No you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
I took Tilley’s advice and put on a cute top, my best ass-jeans, and a pair of wedge heels—they’re easier to walk in than regular heels, especially after a couple of drinks, and I certainly didn’t want to take any humiliating tumbles on our first date. If we dated for long, he’d get to witness plenty of those, as balance in general is not my strong suit. I changed my top about sixteen times, finally settling on a black top that showed a little cleavage but not too much cleavage. Having my tits totally out for a professional athlete seemed a little too typical. I really thought this shit through, you guys.
When he knocked on my door, my heart started pounding and I immediately began to sweat.
Fuck. Why do I always sweat when I’m nervous? I thought as I grabbed a towel and dabbed my face and armpits (I know, classy).
“Coming!” I yelled as I opened the door.
Why did I just yell “coming” when I’m clearly already here?
My heart skipped a beat. He was even more handsome in person than all of the images I had Googled—and I had Googled a lot of images of him.
“Hi.” He smiled.
“Hi.” I smiled back.
We stood there for a few seconds, or maybe it was ten minutes. Then he moved closer and kissed me. We kissed for a few seconds, or maybe it was ten minutes.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said as we pulled apart.
“I can’t either.” He grinned.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, come in,” I said as I moved out of the doorway. “Or do you just want to go? I can grab my purse.”
“Well, I told the Uber driver we would be a few minutes because I brought you something,” he said as he acknowledged a rather large bag in his hand.
We walked upstairs to my living room and I opened the gift he brought me, starting with the card.
Has Anyone Seen My Pants? Page 19
