I could write a whole blog on the side conversations I hear at The Grove. A third of the people are on dates. Another third are “reading” or looking for dates. And the last third are the Mexican workers concerned with only one date–their green card expiration date.

I’m sitting there, gnawing on a decrepit peanut butter cookie while reading my books. They had just sold their last chocolate chip cookie when I arrived. I should’ve gotten a slice of carrot cake. I threw the cookie away after just a few bites. And believe me, I never waste food.

I’m certain the couple next to me is on a blind date. It’s so unbearable to sit next to them, I wish I’d brought my iPod. The forced conversation. The awkward silences.

While inching his chair back, the guy asks his date, “Want anything else?”

“The chocolate cake is fine,” she responds. I’m thinking, this is my kind of girl.

Then she kisses him smack on the lips before he gets up. Wow, I’m thinking, that is really forward of her on a first date, especially with the dismal conversation. Maybe she’s really horny, planning on getting some action whether or not she really likes him. I read a statistic today that the majority of women spend more time doing laundry than having sex.

I’m intrigued by how this date is playing out.

I pretend to be engrossed in my book. “I’ve been meaning to pick up that book!” she hollers excitedly at the Freakonomics book I’m holding up. She’s in her mid- to late-thirties. Attractive. Outgoing.

“Yeah, it seems like all my friends have read it. It’s a quick read, too. I’ll be done tonight.”

Her date returns with a couple glasses of wine and a slice of chocolate cake.

I continue to read until the woman says something to her “blind date” that shocks me.

“My family really enjoyed meeting you over Thanksgiving.”

Wuh?! I’m astounded. She goes on to later say something about how they’ve been together for almost a year.

Now, I like to think of myself as smart. Even more so, I like to think of myself as street smart. I have a knack for reading people and situations. They did not seem like a couple that had been together for a year, let alone a full 8-hour day!

I’m so shocked, I stop paying attention to them. I’m annoyed at my failure in interpreting what’s really going on.

I’ve lost track of their conversation, but reconnect when she gushes over my books to this supposed long-term boyfriend of hers. “See what she’s reading? I need to pick that book up. And the other one she has there–In Cold Blood–that is one of my favorites. Oh I just love books. I can spend hours and hours in a bookstore. I wonder what I should read next?…You know, I should’ve been a freelance writer.”

Agh!!! My dream girl is sitting next to me and she’s dating a moron. I’m so tempted to give her my business card, suggesting we start a book club, a family…whatever.

“I’m sure if you go to a bookstore you can find something, ” he sighs. “All you have to do is look.” Those are his exact words. Verbatim. No shit, Sherlock!

“Hmph,” she mutters. “Well it’s good I fell for you before I knew how you felt about books.”

Unbelievable. I guess opposites (complete opposites, polar opposites) do attract.

Me and Mr. Penguin. I love penguins!

Sitting in Heathrow Airport, on layover before the last leg of my journey, I can’t help but think of all the things I want to do when I get home. I find it shocking that when I had vacationed in the past I would come home, rev up my car, and dash to Jack-in-the-Box for chicken strips, curly fries, and an oreo cookie shake. The thought of more food disgusts me as the majority of this trip was spent eating and drinking. Always two bottles of red and two bottles of white to start, and stern advice to the waiters: “We don’t ever want to see a glass empty. Got it?”

No food cravings this time. Instead I foresee raw veggies in my diet for the next week–for the pure blandness of it. I have maxxed out on my quota of steak, duck, and chicken mayonnaise sandwiches.

I long to read an American newspaper, to check my stock portfolio with the hope that the gains will offset even a small portion of my pricey vacation. I want to flip through the trashy media: Us Weekly, People, and the celebrity gossip blogs I’m used to reading on a daily basis.

I’m curious to log on to my laptop and see what has progressed or not progressed on the work front given the Thanksgiving holiday. I was pleased with how I left things–nothing critical on my end.

I can’t wait to talk to my friends and family, to sit and read on my couch, to sleep in my own bed.

But most of all, I cannot wait to lace up my well-worn New Balances and hit the Golden Gate Park track with my iPod. After the constant interaction with others, the solitude and serenity of it… After the numbing 22+ hours in an economy seat and sitting in taxis and tour buses, the full-body movement of it… A particular kind of heaven. It’s good to be home.

Adam, Paul, Me, and Joe 

This is for the anonymous person who commented, “He went out of his way to do you a favor. You could at least have the courtesy to call him back and saying “thanks but no thanks”.

The cop didn’t have my number at first. I called him to tell him how thankful I was for everything he did. I also gave him my number. He returned my call. I called him back. Phone tag ensued and that’s when the guy called me eight times in a row.

I’m not that much of a bitch to not even call him and say thanks! If there’s one thing I am, it’s appreciative. When I went to Chicago to visit my business school for the first time, I was hosted by a 2nd-year student. My last night there, she opened up a bottle of wine–her favorite–a cabernet that could only be purchased from the winery. I made a point to write down the name of the wine. When I returned home, I drove to Napa that very next weekend, and had her favorite wine shipped to her direct from the winery.

While I’m at it, I want to give a shout out to my two favorite Chicago boys, Joe Castillo and Paul Capper. I met these two in b-school when I choreographed a dance routine for our annual variety show. Imagine directing a bunch of geeky guys who have no sense of rhythm (I’m talking about the group not Joe or Paul.). It was painful, but an overall enjoyable experience. If you want to hear more about my bad temper, just ask these guys. During a practice session, I had a full-on conniption. But I got my result. They performed and performed well. Aside from the grand performance, I befriended a group of fun, interesting guys.

Anyhow, these two hoodlums roadtripped out here this past summer after they graduated from b-school. We had a jolly time, hanging out. In fact, we spent a whole night engaged in a lively discussion about sex. Very, very interesting. After they left and the ofoto albums were sent out, these guys went out of their way to mail me the above photo in a frame. A nice gesture, indeed. Thanks so much, Joe and Paul! I get to see your lovely faces every single day

Golden Gate Park 

Remember that gentleman of a cop who dismissed my ticket? What a freak. The guy kept calling and calling and calling. At the extreme, he called me eight times in a row, leaving eight of the same message. “Hey, Catherine, call me!” Same message, but different in intensity. “Hey, Catherine, call me!!!” “HEY, CATHERINE, CALL ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Loser, you don’t have to leave the same message eight times. I get the point. The point is that you’re a crazy-psychopath. Don’t you yourself lock up guys who stalk women?

Maybe that’s why I’m into guys who don’t call me all the time. At least I’m not being harassed!

OK, harassed is a strong word. But how would you define calling eight times in a row? He’s not being negligent, that’s for sure.

I’ll admit. I’m kinda crazy. Kinda kooky. I have a very bad temper that can be unleashed if I don’t get my way.

Rewinding the microfiche of Catherine Gacad’s history, I can only think of two times that could even remotely constitute psychotic behavior.

Flashback

One is when I found out someone I was with had cheated on me. He told me himself. I was shocked and started whimpering. Then I ran and locked myself in the bathroom. He thought I was contemplating something really drastic…we won’t even go there. But all I gotta say is…I ain’t gonna do any bodily harm to myself, you worthless, cheating, muthafucka. I was in there looking for some cyanide to spike the tea I was going to bring you when we sat down to have a calm, civil discussion. Honestly, I ran to the bathroom because it was the only other place in the whole flat that could be locked, creating some distance between him and me, without me locking myself out of my own friggin apartment.

Two is when I had broken up with one of my boyfriends. He started sleeping with someone else. (He was always very open and honest with me.) I happened to be at his place one day—the reason why I was there eludes me. But I was in his bathroom, saw ‘her’ toothbrush, and was so angered by the sight of it…I broke it in half, then set flame to it. Let me just tell you, the American Dental Association must put out some kind of safety precaution that mandates toothbrushes be soaked in flame retardant because I swear to God that toothbrush would not burn. After I got tired of lighting match after match after match, it looked more like I’d shoved the toothbrush up my ass than set it on fire. I think my ex even said something to the tune of, “What the hell did you do? Poo on her toothbrush?”

“NNNNOOOO!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I TRIED TO BURN IT, BUT IT WOULDN’T FUCKING BURN, YOU WORTHLESS, CHEATING MUTHAFUCKA.” I collapsed into sobs in his bathroom. (I guess I like to have mental breakdowns in the bathroom, you know, just in case I gotta pee or poo or something.)

But that’s it. I mean, that is seriously it. I don’t go stalking guys and calling them over and over and over. And leaving the same message, “Hey, call me!” eight times in a fucking row.

Add another stalker to the line-up. Artie, you’ve got company.

Cheshire Cat 

I rarely see people out individually. If I think back to the events of this weekend, I can’t recall a time where I saw a single person out at a restaurant or bar. Always in groups. Always in twos. The fact that I always get asked, “Are you waiting for someone?” when I stand by myself in front of the host table is further testament to the group norm.

So from here on out, I’ve decided to start taking myself out on dates. Go against the societal norm. And when people ask, “What are you doing this weekend?”

I’ll respond, “I’m going out on a date!” with a big fat grin on my face, just like the Cheshire cat from “Alice in Wonderland.” I’m being reborn as Cheshire Catherine. Happy, smart-alecky, and well-fed.

And when they ask, “Oooh, with who?”

I’ll just grin even more, “Why, Cheshire Catherine, of course. She deserves it and she’s hungry. I’m going to take her out for a nice meal and a bottle of wine. She is going to die when she finds out where I’m taking her!”

OK, that’s a little extreme. But I’m serious. I’m going to start dating myself. Because there’s no one else out there who deserves me more than me. So I might as well spend my hard-earned money on me instead of subsidizing some guy’s meal because he eats more than me and we split the bill down the middle when he’s the one who asked me out and should be paying the whole damn thing but he doesn’t because he’s a waste of a human being!

So I did just that. I took myself out on a Saturday brunch date. I drove through the rolling hills of the Presidio, through the Marina, to the restaurant that makes the best Bloody Marys in town. (If you want to challenge my Bloody Mary recommendation, please comment. I am infatuated with Bloody Marys.) Eastside West on Fillmore serves Bloody Marys with plump green beans and a prawn hanging off the side of the glass. It’s screaming to be inhaled as soon as the waitress sets the drink down on your table. THE BEST BLOODY MARY IN TOWN, I’M TELLING YOU.

I’m sitting there in the warm 11am sun, catching up on some reading, when some guy yells to me, “Love the sunglasses!”

“Thanks,” I murmur as I roll my eyes behind the shades. He’s sitting with a bunch of his frat boy friends, ogling over the big-boobed blondies doing the catwalk down the major thoroughfares of the Marina district.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” He sits down and I proceed to chide him for drinking beer instead of a Bloody. For the next thirty minutes, we banter about Bloodys, our favorite restaurants in the city, the Marina and how we prefer not to hang out in the Marina, work and work ethic. He was entertaining. Much better than reading my magazines.

After we had talked each others’ ears off, he went for the close. “I want to take you out. I do. Dinner and dancing.” He said it so confidently, I blushed.

And at the end of it all, my ‘dating myself’ process became not a process, but a strategy. Hmmm. Maybe not that. This is what it is: Having fun with or without someone. That’s really what it’s all about. End of story.

Martha’s Vineyard