After browsing a few men looking for women ads, I decided to throw my own woman looking for man ad into the ring. I wasn't brave enough to send some stranger a picture of me and risk them rejecting me without even saying, "Hello." So I put myself in the drivers seat and off I went. I drafted and reworked a masterpiece of an ad (if I say so myself). It was witty and funny, and bound to attract men who were articulate, humorous, attractive, manly, within 10 years of my own age, expressive, and kind to people and animals. You know... the perfect guy.
Yeah... that's what I thought anyway. Turns out I was in for a doozy of a time... of course it was very entertaining and it led to the birth of this blog.
I received a variety of responses...
- men who were way too old and way too young,
- people who felt it necessary to critique my writing and point out my flaws before asking, "Do you want to meet?"
- one guy felt it was necessary to challenge my "girl next door" status by pointing out that she was shacked up with her boyfriend.
And then there were the guys who were given serious consideration...
After several emails with one gentleman who lived about an hour away, we agreed to meet for lunch the following weekend. I picked a restaurant/pub that is famous for their burgers and beer and told him the name, address, and general directions, because he said he would look up the directions.
Saturday arrives, I spend time painting my fingernails, doing my hair, checking my outfit for dog hair, scuff marks, coffee stains, etc., and then leave for the pub. I arrive on time and head into the pub. As I walk in, my phone rings. He's lost. He tried to follow my directions. He didn't look the place up online and get his own. I'm still not sure what part of "go straight until you run into the building or the river" means "turn right at intersection." So I get him sorted out and watch as a 1980-something Pontiac Firebird pulls into the lot. Yep, that's him. I thought I heard the strains of a Journey song coming from that general direction, but I could be wrong...
He comes into the restaurant and comes right over to my table. Thankfully, he looks like his picture, is smiling and friendly. He sits down and starts talking... and talking... and talking...
Here comes the waitress, so I order a beer. He orders a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. At this point, a little voice goes off in my head, "psst.. Betty! What kind of guy doesn't order beer or iced tea or root beer in a pub?" I calmly tell the voice to shut up because maybe he's health conscious or something, it's not a big deal, and where's my beer?
At this point, the gentleman is telling me about how irritated he is with insurance companies and the government... he still doesn't know that I work for one of those, because he really hasn't asked me anything about myself yet.
A few minutes later, the waitress arrives with a beer and a glass of OJ. She proceeds to take our orders... he orders a bowl of clam chowder. My brain starts sputtering. I'm thinking, "Well I can't order a big ol' burger and fries now, if all he is getting is a bowl of soup. Crap, come up with something fast!" So I default to a salad. At least the restaurant makes some really great salads, which I love almost as much as the burgers. So I am satisfied with my lunch choice. But there is a voice in the background saying, "Betty... this guy just ordered clam chowder for lunch. He's going to eat it while drinking his OJ. Seriously, Betty, this is not a taste sensation you want to consider. Betty... it's making me nauseous to think of those two liquids combined. Urp..."
But, do I hear that voice? No. It's being drowned out by the gentleman sitting across from me, talking and talking and talking. We're 20 minutes into this date and he hasn't asked me anything yet. He also hasn't paused long enough for me to tell him that I work for... oh now he's changed the subject. Great, we're now on to reading books about serial killers. I'm really glad I met him in a public place. Rape and murder aren't exactly on my list of topics for first date conversation.
Food arrives. Terrific clam chowder, according to my dining partner. My salad is delicious, and so is my beer. Yummy beer. Can I have another beer, please?
We are now almost an hour into the date, lunch is finished, the waitress is starting to hover, and I realize, this guy has still not stopped talking, AND he has not asked me a single question. Obviously, he's not interested in getting to know me. That's fine, I have errands to run, so let's wrap this up, shall we? Another hour later, he finally starts moving toward the door, after splitting the bill (I was just about to buy his damn clam chowder for him if he wasn't going to reach for his own damn wallet.) As we are heading out, he says, "This was fun, we should come here again sometime."
I pull it together long enough to mention that my car is parked on the other side of the restaurant, and I need to visit the ladies room before I go (after two hours of sitting there drinking beer and water). He gives me a hug and heads to his Firebird. I run to the restroom and try not to dry heave thinking of clam chowder and OJ combined.
The moral of the story:
- If he orders a combination of foods that does not sound appetizing, run. Run fast. Do not subject yourself to his gastro-insanity. It is merely a warning sign. Pay heed. I still cannot eat clam chowder.
- If, after 20 minutes, he hasn't asked you a question, be brave enough to interrupt him and call him on it. The next day, the guy called and said he had a good time, and I seemed really nice, and then asked if I wanted to go out again... he was sent to voicemail and I never returned that call. Call me silly, but Betty needs a man who is capable of listening as well as talking. Communication is a two-way street.
It was just a Bad Date, Betty. A really bad date. Maybe the next one won't be so bad.
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