The Story of How Lindsey and Stevie First Met

I’ve never understood those people who try to come across as elite wine connoisseurs when, in fact, they are nothing but posers. After all, a rare few have the depth of knowledge that a Master Sommelier has, having earned themselves the title of essentially knowing everything there is to know about wine. Theirs is an artform really, one that involves intense years of studying, tasting, and traveling.

Yes, we have all picked up a term or two from that wine tasting tour we took last summer, words that we then casually toss about at gatherings when the wine has just been poured. Then we pray that no one will ask us to elaborate on its body or bouquet or to quiz us on the four Vs of wine and completely expose us for the frauds we are.

I call these people The Wine Pretenders: faking it and talking about how the wine is just so fruit forward . . . or savory or bone dry or light bodied. It's all a façade for trying to look like they know more than they really do. If you don't know people like this, I’ll tell you: They are tiresome, pretentious, and annoying.

This is how I knew my first date with Joel was doomed from the very moment he arrived at the restaurant.

Joel and I had met “through a friend of a friend of a friend.” The degrees of separation were so convoluted, we might just as well have called it an online dating event, without having the perfunctory emails and texts out of the way. Although my friend Sylvia had reminded me that Joel and I had indeed met at her wedding, this meeting was, in essence, a blind date.

Joel had been told to look for someone who had long curly blonde hair, medium build, nice smile. “Stevie Nicks hair” is what I came to find out was the way Joel’s friend Rick had described me to him.

I had been told by Sylvia to look for a tall man with black glasses. Not much to go on but I figured that the black glasses would be a standout. I sat there at the restaurant and I waited and I watched the door, sipping and re-pouring from the milk bottle – the restaurant’s rustic take on a carafe – the Merlot I had ordered. I envisioned some string-bean tall, modern-day version of Groucho Marx to come dashing through the door at any moment.

My imagination wasn’t far off from the truth when I saw Joel rushing toward the table 40 minutes late, clenching some papers in his fist. Not a good first impression for a Virgo who thinks arriving 10 minutes early is running late. Straight out the gate, he started to make excuses for his "you wouldn't believe what happened to me" tardiness.

“I couldn’t find a Kinko’s that was open. And the one that was open, the copier had a major paper jam and the dolt there couldn’t fix it.”

The dolt. Okay. Here I had sat waiting for 40 minutes for him to show up and the guy at Kinko's was the dolt? As he told me his tale of having to endure such incompetence, he was shaking the sheath of papers at me as evidence. As if the inept employee at Kinko’s was to blame for his own bad planning of not leaving the house early enough for our date.

I wondered what document could be so important that it had to be printed directly before our first meeting. I wondered aloud, "Do you have some kind of meeting you have to be at after this?

In response, Joel explained, “I had to print out my résumé. I wanted you to see for yourself some of the things I have accomplished.”

It took a moment for me to digest what he had just said:

1. Just because something is in print, doesn’t make it true. If Joel thought that I was going to believe anything he said at “paper value,” well, he was more than conceited; he was deranged. I could have brought along a résumé as well and told him that I had been a Lipizzan trainer, then a snake milker, before deciding to switch to teaching at the university.

2. Isn’t the content in his résumé the sort of information that one shares with someone over the course of several dates, should both people be in mutual agreement that there will be a second or third date? In dating parlance, I think that they call this “getting to know each other.”

3. Wait, was I supposed to have brought my own résumé? Sylvia had not made any mention of this being a requirement for the date.

“Oh,” was my only response to his verbal crucifixion of the underpaid Kinko’s employee. I mean, what could I say. I poured myself another splash of Merlot, hoping that a light buzz would kick in and soften the edges on his bizarro rant.

Joel reached across me, grabbed the carafe, and started to swirl the wine, bringing it up to eye level and watching the Merlot slosh around in the milk bottle. Joel explained that he was “swirling the wine” to expose the wine to air so that the wine would have “a chance to breathe” before he took his first sip.

Also, he wanted to check out its legs. This he said with a wink of double entendre from behind his coke-bottle lenses. I didn't say anything but I was under the impression that people "swirled" the wine when it was in a wine glass, but who am I to doubt such a self-appointed expert? I guess swirling applies to milk bottles as well.

I suppressed a laugh, as his eyes looked hugely magnified behind his glasses to start with. The effect of this magnification coupled with the way that he was looking at me through the swirling bottle, I felt like I was having a flashback to a night of experimental drugs from when I was in high school. I almost felt dizzy and wanted to ask him to, please, put the milk bottle down.

Joel grunted, seemingly satisfied with how he had performed his swirling ritual and reached for the empty wine glass before him. Of course, being in theme with the vibe of the restaurant, the wine glass was one of those quilted jelly jars with the threaded rims. The disapproval on his face was evident as he poured. Clearly, I had picked the wrong kind of restaurant.

Then came the slurping. Oh my gosh, the slurping. His explanation for using this sommelier technique of drawing air into the mouth and through the wine was next on his list of enlightening me about the finer things in life. He expounded on how we “taste through our nose, not just our tongue” and slurping the wine intensifies the aromas and flavors – a practice that was critical to enjoying any glass of wine. He slurped and outright gurgled and gargled.

Two tables nearby looked over to see if someone at our table was in distress or making the international sign of "I am choking. Help me." Joel waved off their concern, explaining directly to them that what may seem out of place in our American culture was appropriate in an otherwise civilized atmosphere. That you should have heard the slurping on his tour through Italy last year. In fact, if you didn’t slurp, you were considered to be gauche – a Philistine, no less.

The expressions on the nearby diners' faces didn’t change as they listened to Joel prattle. I assume their perfectly blank faces and lack of social cues in response to his Soliloquy on Slurping were meant to discourage him from educating them any further.

Joel turned to me saying, “Slurping is actually more difficult to perform than it sounds. I had to start with water. You know, red wine stains down the front of your shirt and all.”

I wanted to ask one of the nearby tables if I could join them. I wanted to lie and tell them that this stranger had invaded my table because the restaurant was full to capacity. After all, how could I say no to the waitstaff when asked if I minded sharing my table with another single diner. I had to say yes, of course.

Joel continued to slurp and gurgle as he went over the finer points of his résumé: how he had worked as a bike courier and then a video game tester before becoming a Feng Shui consultant. He was in the middle of creating a coffee table book that was, of course, destined to become an international best seller.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and I could see him in the bathroom in the morning, wearing nothing but some dingy colored whitey tighties, throwing back his head and gargling his Listerine like he was slurping his wine. This image is what you could call a Real Deal Sealer.

I surprised myself, and I stood up. Just like that. Joel looked at me and pointed toward the back of the restaurant where a large wooden sign with an arrow fashioned from rebar read Restrooms. “They’re back there,” he said between slurps. "I always check first for where they are before I sit down in any restaurant."

I told Joel that I had forgotten to feed my cat before leaving the house to meet him. That I needed to leave. My cat was hungry. She was waiting for me, probably in distress.

I didn't even apologize, which was so uncharacteristic of me.

“But we didn’t get to the part where I was interviewed on TV by Dr. Oz!” he barked, his mood shifting to a darker place. Maybe Joel was a mean drunk. I don't know. Clearly, this Dr. Oz episode was the zenith of his career, something he had been savoring to share with me – la pièce de resistance – and here I was telling him that my cat was hungry.

I just didn’t have it in me to tell him that I found him to be a boorish snob. I guess that I’ll never be the type of person who just says to someone, “You are rude. Now go apologize to that Kinko's employee you berated.” I so very badly wanted to say this aloud to him . . . and didn't. But as my mother used to say, "It's never too late to do the right thing." I guess I'm saying it now.

I left a $20 bill on the table, thinking that this would be enough of a contribution to cover my share of the Merlot and the tip. A man, from one of the tables who had endured Joel's slurping lecture, lifted his wine glass and toasted me as I walked by.

I smiled back at him. Stopped. Looked for a wedding ring. Didn't see one. Got a Sharpie out of my bag and scribbled my name and number on the back of a wrinkled take-out menu from a Thai restaurant. Walked back to his table and handed him my number.

"Give me a call if you ever just want to talk about life. I promise I won't bring my résumé." He laughed. He had a nice laugh and his hair and body type reminded me of Lindsey Buckingham. I'd always had a mad crush on Lindsey.

He smiled, raised his glass again, and folded the menu to fit it in his wallet. "I'll do that." I turned and left, wondering if I'd hear from him, allowing fate or serendipity or coincidence to take the reins.

I started to sing a childhood song as I walked back to my truck,

"Lindsey and Stevie sipping on some wine . . . K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . . first comes like . . . then comes laughter . . . then comes . . . I don't know, whatever!"

I laughed at myself, not being able to finish the silly rhyme. The Concept of Whatever would be just fine with me. As I was unlocking the truck, my phone pinged. A text:

Hey this is Garrett from the restaurant. Chapeau! to you for walking out on that guy. I promise our first date will be better. This Saturday? Same place, same time? Maybe even same table? I'll be the guy without the résumé. BTW, has anyone ever told you that you look just like Stevie Nicks?

I laughed again and felt a warm and fuzzy glow cozy up and out from my heart at reading his message, one like no glass of Merlot could ever produce. Just then another text, this one from Sylvia:

"How did it go?!?!? I'm dying here. Inquiring minds and all that!!!

I responded:

Magical. Absolutely amazingly perfect!