Whoa There Cowboy, Let's Not Get Carried Away

Work has been going well, and I have mountains of interior elevations to annotate and hatch (or, for you non-architecty people, I have to put patterns on them that represent materials). I am, truly, the forgotten architect, as Radio, Pacman, and Oldsmobile neglected to inform me that they were meeting to discuss the project on which I'm working. I was called in for the last 15 minutes, just before Oldsmobile left and Radio abandoned the conference room to call a client.

In other news, Emilio sent me flowers today, and not just any flowers, but Bird of Paradise, calla lilies, and something pink and waxy looking. I'm not sure what it's called, apart from many-petaled waxy pink flower.

I have to say, I was freaked out. Yeah, yeah, maybe I should have been all, "Oh, how sweet! He sent me flowers!" but the fact is, I was a little weirded out. Heck, I'm still a little weirded out. I knew he was a bit gung-ho about me, but... The card was kind of gushy, too. Granted, maybe what he intended to say was lost in translation and came out more enthusiastic than he intended.

At least, that's what I'm hoping.

If his over-exuberance continues, I'm going to have to talk to him about it, to let him know that, yes, he's a great guy, and I'm enjoying his company, but he needs to slow it down a bit.

A fellow I once went on a date with told me that I was "hard to read." I guess his idea of flirting would have been if I licked his face. Regardless, I flirted more with Mr. You're-a-Borderline-Ice-Queen than I have with Emilio, with whom I've been very reserved, and he's still this excited about me.

The upshot of all this is that I simultaneously have the feeling that of course he's smitten with me, I'm an amazing person and should be revered by all with a religious fervor while at the same time something is screaming get out while you still can! He will stalk you and kill you and wear your skin as a dress. Except he didn't seem creepy until he sent flowers.

And now, I feel nothing but pity for males: send flowers too late (if at all) and you're a boor; send flowers too early, and with too much enthusiasm, and you're a latter day Jack the Ripper.

I am so glad I'm not a guy.