(My last few dates have gone pretty well - sorry to disappoint - so I'll post one of my classic Flypaper for Freaks dates)
I was still doing Internet dating. I hadn’t been frightened away . . . yet. I was in a phase where I really took my time qualifying men before I
would go out with them. I drifted between this tactic and the “Screw it! Let’s
just meet him immediately” tactic, much like ripping off a BandAid to end the
pain quickly. But, being that I was in the “slow and steady” phase, I e-mailed
Mr. Potential. I IM’d him. I talked to him on the phone. He was a funny, funny
man. When his e-mails came across as funny, I thought, well, it’s easier to be
funny in e-mail because you have time to sit and think about what you want to
say. It’s much easier to be clever with a time delay. But he was funny in IMs,
too, and those were real time. Then, there are the type who are quite clever
online but clam up as soon as they hear a human voice. So, I called him on the
phone. Still quite funny. And, he was attractive in his picture, too. Are you
hearing what I’m hearing? “Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!”
I agree to
meet him at a bar for a drink. I’m trepidatious. He can’t be smart, funny, cute
and single, can he? The door opens and in walks a man that looks exactly like
his picture. Bonus! He is seriously cute in the “I-could-be-John-Cusack’s-first-cousin”
sort of way.
We try to
talk at the bar and realize that we can’t hear a damn thing because there’s a
band playing. Needless to say, so far, he’s a brilliant conversationalist and
I’m charming and witty!
It seems
like a good idea at this juncture to head down the street to a burger joint and
get fries and cokes. This will make conversation much easier. If only he
talked. We get there and no matter what I do, I can’t get him to talk. He’s
like the shy child hiding behind his mother’s petticoats. OK. People have shy
moments. I have shy moments, not that most people I know would believe that. In
fact, any time an extraordinarily good-looking man walks up to me and starts
talking to me, I lose the ability to speak. Maybe that’s it. He’s intimidated
by my good looks. (Hey! It could happen ... ) OK. I can work with this.
It’s time
for innocuous conversation. Where do you work? Oh. No job. Okay . . . . Me? I
tell him the name of the restaurant at which I’m bartending to supplement my
freelance sheckles. Hmmm. Isn’t that interesting? He likes to take his mother
there. And, he’s had a run-in with Keith, our nicest manager. How do you have a
run in with a man as nice as Keith? I could call in late because my pedicure
wasn’t dry yet and Keith would just laugh and say, “OK. Get here as soon as you
can.”
Okay.
Right. Family. He has a mother. Ask him about his family. Maybe that will get
him talking. Oh, really? You like to take your mother out once per week to get
her out of the home? How nice! That really is thoughtful. But, I just HAD to
ask. “Is your mother in a nursing home?”
“No. A
mental institution.”
”Pardon?” I must have heard that wrong.
“She’s been
committed to an insane asylum for her own good, but they let her out once a
week to go out to dinner with me.”
“Oh.” What
is the polite response to this? IS there a polite response to this? I settled
for Oh.
“So, you
don’t live with her.” Yes, I know that is a stupid and obvious statement, but
I’ve got nothing here! How do you respond to, “my mother’s in a mental
institution”?
“Well, I do
go stay with her sometimes.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes. If
I’m feeling ‘not quite myself,’ I like to go stay there, too.”
“Pardon?”
I’m
beginning to sound like an S&L executive before the Senate Judiciary
Committee I’m saying “pardon” so much. So maybe Crisis PR is not in my future.
We move on
to other topics and mercifully end the date before too much longer. He kindly
allows me to pay the check and then tells me that he’s decided to allow me to
take him out and treat him for his birthday. He told me to call him and let him
know what night was good for me.
I didn’t
call. Quelle surprise. I seem to have lost his number ….in a shredder ….
I go in to
work the following Monday and I just HAVE to ask Keith about him. Surely Keith
must remember the man he had a run-in with since Keith fights with NO ONE.
Oh, Keith
remembered him all right.
When he
stopped LAUGHING about who I went on a date with, he told me the story.
Only I
could manage to secure a date with this man.
Let’s take
a trip in the WayBack Machine to a week before my date. Oedipus and his mother
come in, order their food and get it promptly. The mother calls Keith over to
complain about her food. It seems she doesn’t like her fish and chips. Keith,
of course, offers to replace her food with something else off of the menu. She
tells Keith what else she would like, but then tells him that she would like a
box for the fish and chips to take home to her cat, because its only fit for an
animal. Keith, of course, tells her that if she wants to keep both entrees, she
has to pay for both.
She
disagrees. Loudly.
While she
and Keith are “disagreeing”, her son covers his ears and starts singing –loudly
– TRA LA LA LA TRA LA LA LA TRA LA LA LA.
Now I
understand why Keith laughed until he snorted when I told him that I went on a
DATE with this man. I begged him not to share my pain with my co-workers, but
that’s like asking Liz Smith not to report on the latest starlet entering rehab
again. Several of my co-workers offered to improve my love life by fixing me up
with recent parolees.
I’m in
Hell.
