Living In Argentina: Customer Service Is An Oxymoron
Dating With Deby: Three Strikes And You Are Out, Strike 2

Dating With Deby: Three Strikes And You Are Out, Strike 1

I don't want you to think that I spend my days working, going to the gym, and trying to make some order in my apartment.  In addition to all that, I am still finding time to swipe. Swipe means Tinder. It is easier than all the others. Left, left, left, and then once in awhile, right.  (Left means reject and right means OK)

I mostly swipe left.  Sometimes it is truly amazing what men have on their profiles.  Pictures of their dogs, pictures of a car, pictures of a sunset.  Those are usually married guys. Left. Blank pictures. Left.  Pictures of children. Left. Fake profiles with pictures of obscure politicians or movie stars. Left.  Pictures that are obviously 10, 15, 20, years old. Left.  Then are the no way for me guys, super overweight, and just plain ugh. Left.

Every once in awhile a profile pops up that is actually interesting. Someone that doesn't look like an axe murderer or an alien from another planet, and they can actually write better in Spanish than I can. Seriously.  Swipe right.  Then, by the grace of God, they are a match.  That means they saw my picture and swiped right.

Here is the crazy thing, 80% of the men who match with me, never respond.  I send them a message or sometimes I wait a bit to see if they send me one. Nothing.  Next.  Then there is the 20%.  Some are just too weird.  I can tell from a short chat. Unmatched.  Bye.  

Every once in awhile, there is someone who is attractive, employed, and seems normal. Really.  When I saw R's profile, he was very nice looking for late 50s. An architect.   He didn't look like he would be my grandfather.  He had nice pictures and a short but nice profile, which ended with "These are my real pictures, I hope yours are too." (Famous last words)

After a couple of back and forth messages, he sent me his phone number.  "I don't like extended chats," he wrote.  "I would rather just talk."  So I sent him a Whats App and he called me.  He sounded nice.  We made a date for Sunday close to where I live.

Sunday came.  As I was walking out my door towards the cafe, he sent me a text.  He was running late.  45 minutes late. Great.  I didn't want to go back home, so I decided to continue walking, and window shop. 45 minutes later I went to the cafe to wait.

He wasn't 45 minutes late, he was an hour late.  Nice looking.  Dressed more modern than most men his age. (I hate those pants that go up to the chin, what's with that?) However, the actual photos were maybe 10 pounds or about 4 kilos ago.  He wasn't fat, he just was heavier than his pictures.  I tell myself to not be so hypocritical.

I know, most men, do not think my age and my pictures go together.  I have to tell them 80 times they are all recent pictures with no Photoshop.  The more suspicious the worst they look when we finally meet. The architect made a point several times to tell me that "age doesn't matter" and that "I look really great for my age."  I want to tell him, "at least my pictures were actual pictures, so shut up." I don't.  I am trying really hard to be nice.  Snarky does not work in Argentina.

During the coffee, I asked him if he likes spicy foods.  Yes, he likes Korean. 5 points.  Does he like to travel? Yes, and he has. 5 points.  Does he like movies? Yes, 5 points.  So far, so good, until I ask if he has kids.  He looks sad. He tells me yes, but he doesn't get to see them.  He continues with the sad look.  He says that his ex-wife came between him and his kids.  At this point, I am assuming that his kids were young when they divorced.  I tell him that is sad.  I change the subject.  I don't want to talk about sad stuff on a first date.

I tell him how I am remodeling my apartment...without an architect.  He looks concerned.  "You poor thing." he says.  I am anything but a poor thing.    "I can help you, don't worry.  Whatever you need."  he says.  Men here love the damsel in distress.  "I don't need any help,"  I tell him, "but thanks."  He keeps pushing.  I guess he thinks I am embarrassed to admit my place is a mess, which it isn't.  I really hate this.  There are two things I do not like, when people think I am stupid or when they think I am helpless.  I am  neither.

I whip out my phone.  I show him the before pictures of my place, and then the after pictures.  He is shocked.  "You designed this?"  he asked.  "Yes, all of it." I tell him and then add, "without an architect."  I show him the kitchen, the bathroom, how I changed the circulation of the upstairs.  I know, in the dating world here, I am supposed to be more meek, but it is not my nature.  I am proud of my skills.  He looks at me, "Congratulations,"  he says, "Most people have nightmares with an architect, you are amazing."  I don't want to tell him that the biggest problems are the architects.  They do whatever they want and they don't care what the client wants.  Plus they charge a fortune to make a mess of your project.  

I decide this guy is not so bad.  I am going to make history and have accept a second meeting with him.  That almost never happens with me.  But you have to live dangerously once in awhile.  

 

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