Sprung At Last

The next day, there’s an email from Mr. ex-Mormon. Subject: Thanks and dinner.

Ugh.

I quite enjoyed getting to know you a little yesterday. I only lament that we didn’t get to talk about your work or movies.

I know you’re busy, but I would like to buy you dinner. If you haven’t yet been to the best Italian on the entire East side, I could take you to xyz. Or if you want to be fancy wined and dined, the absolute best steak in the world is on the menu at abc.

My week is already all scheduled up except for Sunday. Would that work for you?

I feel ill. He wants to take me out for a fancy dinner that I am quite sure he can’t afford. I do not dislike him in any way. I have no wish to be unkind, or rude.

I ask my father. Tell him, he says.

I do.

Upon further reflection, I prefer not to pursue this. I enjoyed meeting you and wish you all the best.

He replies.

OK, thanks for the reply. Good luck to you too!

If you’re interested in staying connected professionally, send me a linkedin connect invite.

Below this is a link to his Linked In profile.

I cannot imagine any scenario in which I might find this connection useful professionally. I do actually spend some time thinking about this.

I had thought, given how many people on match say they want to “go slow,” “take time getting to know someone,” or any of the other permutations of this language, that I might meet someone who was interesting and, if there was no attraction, would be fun to do things with as a friend.

No, I won’t.  Nobody signs up for any of these online services looking for anything other than a relationship.

There are easier ways to make friends, and it’s becoming clear I must find them.

I meet Mr. Ex-Mormon, and instantly realize: It’s not happening. This Guy.

Not me.

And now I’m going to sit for an hour and have coffee and feign interest while introspecting about how shallow I don’t think I am, but apparently, really must be.

He starts off by anxiously asking if he can pay for my coffee, and is overly thrilled when I agree to this.

I take charge of the conversation. I inquire about his genealogy software project, because if it’s interesting, then I might learn something new – heck, maybe I’ll even like the guy.

I’m open-minded and flexible, I tell myself. It could happen.

He starts describing this database type thing he built with a friend. It’s not a research tool; rather, it’s a data validation tool: It helps the genealogist determine, when they have a data conflict, which sources should be accorded more weight – to decide what is correct. It sounds interesting, but since I’ve done a lot of work with records, I know there is a hierarchy of information: source documents that state relationships; cited histories; family tradition; unsourced family trees on the internets.

Genealogy on the Internets 101: There are a lot more unsourced, unverifiable family trees than there are solid, primary proofs.

The gist of his project was, as the user collects their data, they enter each fact in to the software along with the source.

Is there a source catalog? Or a ranking system – like you choose a source type, such as a will or probate record, and it automatically assigns a validity weighting? This is a great idea, I think.

No, he says. How it works is, the user enters a source, and the more times a fact is entered with any source, the more validity it is assumed to have.

Right, I think. I inquire further, and come at it from a couple of different directions.

And no matter which angle I look, all I can see is how fundamentally flawed the premise is: “The more people say it, the more true it must be.”

We pitched it to Ancestry, he says. Met the higher ups and did a big presentation.

How’d that go? I ask.

They weren’t impressed, he said.

Huh, I reply. So, tell me about your family. You have three kids.

Yes, he says. The kids seem to be older, and mostly forgettable. Except the youngest one: the one that got kicked out of school, and, with nothing to do except be home-schooled by the ex, got his fifteen year old girlfriend pregnant.

So, tell me about your work, I say. You’re on a consulting basis?

Yes, he says. Last year was kind of rough, I was kind of underemployed. But now I’m in a contract position, I’m pretty happy with it.

Will it become permanent? I ask. Would you want it to?

Oh no, he says. I don’t like to be a regular employee. It makes me very uneasy, with the direct deposit, taking money out of your paycheck for taxes and retirement plans and health care you might not even want.

I gotta go, I say. Time to pick up The Child.

He jumps up. Will you have dinner with me one evening?

Oh crap. I can’t do this. He’s really a very nice person but … there are too many buts.

Okay, I say. I just don’t have the heart to disappoint.

He lights up.