I know it’s been a while since I’ve updated you with my dating tales but I was avoiding computers like the plague as I had convinced myself that I was still FB friends with at least one of my more colorful dates that I’d described in detail. My wise, wise sister had cautioned me ages ago when I began posting less than awesome reviews of some of these guys to be certain that I hadn’t accidentally friended any of them or be prepared to deal with them seeing my reviews. After I verified that none of my victims/victimizers were privy to my telling of their tales, I really was going to log back on but I suffered from a lack of texting sense and I accidentally (read: with the aid of some champagne) texted Professor Hickey to advise him that women over the age of 15 do not appreciate getting hickeys.
If you want to hear the tale of the good professor and the phase where I only dated professors, you’ll have to suffer for a while longer as I still have to wrap up with the end of my lunch date service tales. Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yes. I had fallen short of the fashion sensibilities and grooming standards of Metrosexual Matt* and was back at the drawing board.
Next up was Clint.* What is there to say about the 2nd skinniest man I’ve ever seen, who bathed in some type of impostor cologne spray? Clint* was very enthusiastic. Of course maybe I would be enthusiastic too if I had four children under the age of six years old and believed I had just found the perfect new baby momma for them. Unfortunately for him I had not been forewarned that he had such a brood – in fact the service had assured me that although he was divorced he had no children. So I really wasn’t prepared for all of his offspring, the fact that they were so young, etc. I think I sat there for several minutes with my mouth agape, eventually stammering something unintelligible and repeating the number four over and over. Clint* had been divorced for over a year and his kids lived with his ex-wife in Texas. He was having some sort of identity crisis; he really couldn’t decide who he wanted to be. Did he want to be the loving father who spent all his free time flying back to Texas or did he want to be the single man who had plenty of time to spend on his lady? He tried to play both roles at such a manic pace my head was spinning.
My next date was the date that almost wasn’t. I was supposed to meet Franco* at a bar in downtown Baltimore. I arrived pretty much on-time and sat in the bar for a while with no Franco*. Little did I realize that the hostess had placed him in the restaurant to wait for me while another of the wait staff had seated me in the bar. And we waited. And waited. Sad to say that he gave up before me. When I eventually spoke to the seating hostess she told me of the mix-up and apologized. Franco* was an exceedingly pleasant guy and we agreed to give it another shot, this time meeting in the waiting area of a popular restaurant downtown. Honestly I can’t remember anything else about him so he couldn’t have been too freaky. Then again, he couldn’t have been that wonderful or at least neither of us recognized the wonderfulness of the other at the time and we subsequently went on our merry yet unmarried way.
And now we come to the one guy that I actually really really liked. Bobby* was a veterinary surgeon. He was tall with dark hair. I don’t think he would be considered hot by most ladies, but I thought he was pretty swell. We had a fantastic conversation, the kind where you talk about everything and nothing. He was slightly sarcastic, entirely witty and really charming. I was a smitten kitten. But all for naught as he was not whatever the guy version of a smitten kitten for me. Our date lasted over two hours which I thought was a good sign; I also thought it was a good sign that he said he had fun and would like to go out again. And then he went into some sort of awesome guy black hole. I’ve had a few like that before him and a few after. It’s like how you lose a sock in the dryer and never really know where it ends up. You miss it for a while but you never really had enough time to get too attached to it so you move on after a while. After too many of these incidents though you start to wonder what is wrong with your dryer that it keeps eating all of your socks. Why do your socks think they’re too good for your dryer? And then you realize that you’re going way too far with this metaphor and its time to move on to the runner-up in the best date category.
The runner-up for title of my favorite guy from this particular dating service owned an Ethan Allen store. That’s really all I can remember about him. I was filled with fantasies of living in lovely furnished homes or better yet, living in the Ethan Allen store after everyone had gone home for the evening. We’d have decorative magazines on our cherry coffee tables and wine racks and conversation pieces and maybe even some rocking chairs. His family owned a couple of the stores and he seemed a pleasant enough guy. We had an ok time, but no sparks and I think he may have seen the crazed look in my eye or heard me muttering about living in one of his stores because sadly he never booked a second date.
After Ethan*, there were four more dates with the lunch dating service. Three of them ended up being only first dates. The fourth would become forever known as the parking lot pisser. He’ll get his own post as sadly my bedtime is nearing. One of the dates I literally remember nothing about him. The only thing that worries me is considering how some of my dates have gone, perhaps he was too unspeakably terrible and my subconscious has blocked him out of my mind. But more than likely he was just ok and he thought I was just ok so we parted ways none the better nor worse for having spent part of an hour together.
One of the other guys was Rodney* the Redhead who enjoyed competitive ballroom dancing and talking about himself. A lot. Like seriously a lot. By this time I didn’t put up with nearly as much crap as when I had started the dating service so I was out of that joint in under 20 minutes.
The last guy of this particular post was a doozy. I tend to be fairly prompt on dates as I hate it when I’m kept waiting, so when I was 10 minutes late for my date with Bill* I was highly apologetic. He assured me it was ok and went on to say that he had purposely arrived 45 minutes early to sit in his truck and listen to KISS to psych himself up for our date. I waited to see if he cracked a smile to show that he was joking but he was extremely serious. He then went on to tell me that his only friends were his mother and Jesus Christ. He told me not to worry though that he was positive that his mother would adore me and in fact she would be love to meet me the next evening. I stared at him for a while trying to figure out the best escape route. I finally actually said, in a fairly kind way, what I had meant to say with some of the other crazies. That while it was definitely interesting meeting with him, I did not feel that we connected and I wished him luck on his future dates. I gathered my purse and belongings as I was saying this as I find that any attempts at conversation from him just make things even more heinously awkward. Then I made like a bread truck and hauled buns. (*Name has been changed)
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