I think I mentioned once that I would settle for a Duke or an Earl in lieu of a Prince, but having met this Earl, perhaps I shouldn’t settle, and instead hold back for the real thing.  Earl had reservations about meeting up, which he voiced in a long-winded message on my answering machine the night before we had plans.  You see, he had only ever talked to my answering machine, and I to his.  I’m a very busy person, and an unfortunate side effect of that is that you had better love me, love my answering machine.  I always return phone calls, but not always at the best time.  Earl thought this was weird, but I figured that there was nothing that we could talk about on the phone that we couldn’t talk about in person.  His reservations, in fact, were making me wary.  Jump in with both feet, and don’t be afraid to get wet.

Earl had picked a couple of possible locations, all in my general neighbourhood, that he was willing to make the lengthy commute in from the suburbs to come and meet me at.  We decided on a neighbourhood jazz club to catch a band after some supper there.  I had never been there, despite having walked past it for years, and my brother and his wife had happily dined there in the past, so I decided that this would make a fine date spot.  So on a rainy weekday night I meet my earl in the foyer.  He’s tall, gangly and geeky, normally attributes I find charming in a guy, but somehow, it’s just not working for him.  He’s wearing a terrible shirt, a grey short sleeved button-down covered in a strange static linewave pattern that looked like he bought it in the Dixie Value Mall.  Not that I judge guys based on their wardrobe, but there are some things that say volumes about a person, and his choice in clothes on a first date is one of them.  If he cares about his appearance, it is important, but if he has no clue, it’s tragic.  Anyways, we sit down, order some wine, and peruse the menu.  It’s apparent that he has no clue about wither, but I think it’s charming that he is putting in the effort.  He orders a run of the mill Seafood Linguine and a glass of Chardonnay.

And then the terrible happens.  Bread arrives.  He tears into it, butters it and takes a bite.  And had butter all over his face and crumbs all over his shirt.  He doesn’t really notice it, but then again, butter and crumbs are light, right?  You might not notice them.  But pasta sauce, linguine remnants, shrimp tail segments… the list continues.  His entire meal at one point or another ended up somewhere on his face.  This was rather unattractive.  I found it impressive that he didn’t even notice, or alternately, didn’t seem to care.

About a half hour after dinner, and an hour into a thoroughly uninspired conversation that prove to me that not only did we have nothing in common, but that he really had no interests, no motivation and no sparkle, the band started.  And what a so-called treat that was.  A mediocre cover-band, we were treated with funkified renditions of George Michael’s Faith and several Stevie Wonder classics.  He loved the band, and moved around the table to sit next to me, he said in order not to have to crane his neck to watch the show.  Not that I thought they were worth watching.  And not that there was any chemistry between us to justify this little move (the food and the shirt had taken care of that).  If you have seen more than, say, 5 live bands, I don’t know how you could think that this was a good show.  But alas, what do I know!

After one set of painful tunes, accompanied by absolutely zero conversation, I was tired enough to go home.  We left the mid-thirties meat market (I swear, everyone looking to hook up in the Yonge and Eglinton neighbourhood was there checking each other out) and went our separate ways.  I tried to duck the hug, but was unsuccessful, so got instead the awkward rainy half-hug.  I just didn’t want to press up against that shirt, for both the fashion, and the food.

You may be what you eat, but don’t wear it on your sleeve for the world to see.

It took a lot of analysis to figure out if my date with Todd was a bad date, or just an indifferent date.  I mean, I considered going out with him a second time, not because I was wildly attracted to him, which I was not, but because there was nothing overtly wrong with him.  We met up during the hockey playoffs, in one of my local neighbourhood haunts.  He’s from Mississauga, which he had just recently moved to in order to be closer to his job as an Air Traffic Controller.  How cool is that?  I mean, I think dating an Air Traffic Controller would be wicked cool.  Type A personality, for sure.  Just my type, I think.  We had nothing else in common, other than the fact that I thought his job was cool, and so did he.  He was from a small town and was intrigued by my big city ways, artsy tendencies and devil-may care attitude.  I like dating pilots (his former job) since there’s usually travel opportunities.  Shhhh… that’s not shallow, it’s practical.

So needless to say, being unfamiliar to the big city, he was late.  And in the intervening wait time, I had a sudden urge to flee.  Being in one of my local pubs meant that there was a good chance that I would run into someone I knew, and I did.  My entire family.  Both my brothers and their wives (ok, one wife, one girlfriend).  I begged then to keep their distance as this was a date, and already a socially awkward situation.  I mean, can you image?  “Nice to meet you Todd, this is my entire family who will be judging your every action.”  They were well behaved, and only came to bug me as they were leaving, at which point they were introduced.  What bugged me more is that Todd was annoyed that I didn’t introduce them earlier, nor have any inclination for us to join them.  Sorry, but not my style—see comment above.  Little things kept gnawing at me, but they were petty.  He looked awful when he laughed, something that should happen to no one.  Laughing traditionally makes everyone beautiful, or should, anyways.  He had an awful earring, which he explained as his only shot at rebellion.  Rebel on, white boy.  But nothing was genuinely that bad.  Neutral, but not bad.

Until the post date made the date bad.

He called me the next morning, explaining that if he was up after a late night out with me, I should be up too.  Ok, if not a little too familiar for me.  He asked if I wanted to go bowling with him and his sister, who was coming into town to visit.  Now, just because you happen to meet my family in a bar does not mean that I want to meet yours the next day.  He called again in the afternoon, and again in the evening.  He called the following day, and the day after that.  And then he lost his job and left sad messages on my machine like “You’re probably working right now, but of course, I’m not any more.”  Yikes!  One night out and I’m suddenly your only support system.  Slow it down, farm boy.  It took me over a week of not returning his messages to finally stop hearing from him.  I like eager, but not desperate.  One date does not a relationship make.  He had shown no stalker tendencies while we were out, but making me wish my number was unlisted is just wrong.  Next time, I’m looking for aloof.  And an only child.

My oh my, what a hellish mistake this was.  A text message in the middle of the date hell, pleading for some kind of family emergency.  I suppose I shouldn’t be that hard on Tom, since, after all, it is mostly my fault that I found myself in this miserable predicament, but, let’s be honest—it’s never truly my fault.

I made the mistake of going out with Tom without ever having talked to him on the phone.  I have done this before, but from hereon in, I will never do it again.  We had several interesting conversations on Messenger, exchanging anecdotes and photos, lamenting the profusion of cars in the city and death of good cycling routes.  He was an illustrator, who wanted to move into doing children’s books, but found that encyclopedias and illustrated bibles did a better job of paying his rent.  He typed in complete sentences, and generally avoided common grammar errors, something I appreciated.  Overall, entirely capable of carrying on a lucid conversation.  We made plans for an impromptu meeting, as we were both at home without plans on a Thursday night, really, the new Friday.  We met at a pub, about midway between our neighbourhoods.  It was immediately when I walked in that I wanted to turn around and walk right back out, but he spotted me.  There, bouncing back and forth at the bar, was my unwashed date.  I mean, really greasy, and disheveled.  Needed a hairbrush, cut and shave, and some clothes that hadn’t made their third time through a local vintage store.  He laughed nervously and waved, and as soon as he spoke my first thought was “Oh my god, he’s retarded.”  I know, I know… not nice.  But I can’t help these things some times.

We sat down and I ordered a drink.  He seemed to be half in the bag already, although it could have just been the way he was.  He couldn’t focus on any one thing, nor complete a sentence.  He was constantly at a loss for words, simple words that most people have ready access to he thought for belaboured minutes trying to construct.  My guess is that he was autistic, and highly socially stunted.  He kept making monkey faces, which he thought was funny, but I thought was creepy.  He would blow out his lips and widen his eyes, and then laugh hysterically.  He embraced his monkey nature, something I did not.  To make matters worse, he was incredibly boring.  He had never traveled, had no firm opinions about anything, and, since he couldn’t finish his sentences, decided that point form was often an acceptable was of order spoken thoughts.  It was painful.  His Rain Man-esque demeanour got worse as he drank, and I, thankfully, could manufacture an early class the following day to get out of it.  I craved a conversation, not a long series of awkward giggles on his part while he patted down his hair.  Evolution, indeed.

One of the shortest dates of my life—45 minutes.  We met in one of those usually interminable lunch lines for Greek food in First Canadian Place.  I had a slew of meetings that afternoon, and was visibly impatient.  He was tall, well-suited and charming, and struck up a conversation about our current lunch line situation.  I agreed to meet him for after work cocktails the following day.  He suggested Canoe, and being one of my favorite places in the city, I quickly agreed.

Alas, from the moment I walked in to the fateful event 45 minutes later, I knew that this would be something of a bad date memory.  I ordered myself a glass of red wine at the bar.  He flagged the bartender, and said “Actually, get her a Sour Apple Martini.”  He turns to me and tells me “This is my secretary’s favourite drink, you’ll like it.”  But I don’t like Sour Apple Martinis, I do like red wine.  I don’t like chauvinistic assholes who order my drinks for me, despite the fact that I had already done so.

So our conversation progresses from there.  As it turns out he’s a broker.  Quel shocque.  I should have guessed from the perfectly tailored Zegna suits.  Actually, let’s be honest.  I like brokers, or any kind of type-A financial type.  I like the high-strung, pushy bordering on obnoxious personality type that a broker make.  I like the glam, the sense of entitlement and privilege, but sometimes it just goes a little too far, and John was one that really took it too far.  Although the date was headed squarely downhill from the start, we gained momentum when we started talking about restaurants.  One of my faves in the city is Crush.  His wife’s as well, I find out, although it’s often too difficult for them to get a sitter and dine out as often as they would like.  Wham!  Square across the face with that one.  There were no signs—no ring, no cell phone on the table, no previous comments.  “Oh, you have a wife,” I say.  He then describes her to me—the typical power wife with the perfect power kids.  Kind of like Annette Benning’s character in American Beauty.  And he loves her, in his strange way, he admits.  I become silent, trying desperately to figure out how my presence in this situation fits in.  I have been involved with married men before, but this seems different.  He doesn’t seem to be your typical wandering eye.

Turns out John has a proposition for me.  He’s not looking for any baggage, not looking for any involvement or commitment.  He’s looking for a little lunchtime something something.  A liquid lunch, and a quick spin in a nearby room.  I’m cute, I’m sexy, I’m outgoing, he says, so what do I think?  I’m floored is what I am.  Although hindsight being 20-20 and the proposition now may not be so absurd, in the heat of the moment I was livid.  I had my first (and so far only) drink slinging episode.  The last of my hated sour apple martini in the middle of his chest.  Without witty point, I left immediately in silence.  I had always thought I would say something really cutting, but I was just offended.

In retrospect, I wish I had said something.  Heck, maybe it wasn’t such a bad proposition, but then again, I only have an hour for lunch.  The less I can do to promote premature ejaculation, the better.

I really liked Dan. I mean, he was probably the funniest guy that I have dated in the past year. I also would never go out with him again, let alone talk to him again. The problem is, he wasn’t really funny in an outright humorous way, more so a ha-ha strange than a ha-ha funny. You see, Dan was the most bitter, hostile and angry man I have ever met. There is a serious chip on his shoulder. Maybe a boulder. At first I thought it was an act, sort of in the way that Janene Garofolo has that angry cynical thing going on. But it wasn’t an act. From the moment I walked through the door to the Green Room, to the moment he left me at the subway, our conversation was just one long rant about exactly how much he hates this messed up world and the moronic denizens of our society.

We met online, through a mutual extreme dislike for bad grammar. One Sunday night, a random and sudden MSN chat about how terrible Sunday nights are at home alone led to an impromptu meeting. He seemed like a pretty interesting guy. He had just returned from establishing some kind of IT infrastructure in Mongolia. I never knew they needed IT in Mongolia. Apparently, neither did the Mongolians, making our bitter protagonist just a little more bitter. Apparently, this also means that there is little else to do in Mongolia than drink overproofed vodka. This does not shock me.

So we meet on an early Sunday evening in a café in a back alley. If I didn’t know any better, I would think this has all the makings of some kind of strange and twisted Black Comedy. And lo and behold, it was not far off. Close to the door he sits, chain smoking and pint half empty. He has been there 10 minutes. He mutters an apology as he cannot be within 10 feet of beer or within 30 seconds of negativity without a drink in hand. I find this honesty somewhat charming. After all, he’s very cute in a Black Comedy kind of way— Dark hair, dark eyes, black framed glasses, the ubiquitous black trenchcoat. I grab a beer and sit down. I get few words in between rants. And I keep snickering, which he just scowls at. I am to feel his pain, not mock it, which I am not, but he is so bitter and negative it’s truly comical. The highlight story is while we talk about relationship baggage. The last blind date he had, he admits, he had reduced to tears within the first hour. It started with the baggage talk. He then pushed her off a park bench (the reason behind which is still unclear to me), causing a seizure. He left her there crying because she proceeded to berate him not only for being insensitive to her issues with her ex (why do people discuss exes on the first date anyways?) but also for pushing her off a park bench and causing a seizure (understandably, I would think). Charming.

After three hours of hearing about why people suck, bars suck, non-smokers suck, non-drinkers suck, the café we were in sucked and pretty much everything else sucked (in a nutshell—I mean, you get the picture), we parted ways. In the rain. The weather sucked.

I saw his online profile again a few weeks later. His original list of 10 random things about him had turned into the following, the most brilliant and truly witty thing uttered by him:

10 reasons why this doesn’t work for me:

1. I’ve started judging people by the horrible interior decorating displayed in the backgrounds of their pictures. You might think pastels look nice, but deep down you know they suck.

2. Too many people here clearly cannot spell, or have invented their own form of grammar. Word to the wise – if the comma confuses you, avoid the semicolon completely. Please.

3. I’ve become strangely fixated on people who write about their love of both laughter and fun. Bingo. Who the hell doesn’t like laughter or fun?

4. Endless correspondence. If you could have a pen pal from anywhere in the world, would you honestly choose your home town? Get out, meet people. If you’re somewhat worried about your personal safety, have your parents drive you.

5. Shopping lists. Originally designed for fruits and vegetables, but now apparently relevant to finding a “soul mate”. Ugh.

6. People referring to themselves as “intelligent” or “easygoing”. I’m now completely clear on how subjective and interpretive these two terms really are.

7. Yes, it’s almost a god-given right to be boring. Much love to those who’ve been practicing.

8. Baggage. Apparently there was a big sale somewhere and I missed it.

9. I used to think that a bar wasn’t the optimal place to meet that special someone. I take it back.

10. Answering the same questions over and over. Welcome to the online version of Groundhog Day.

Bingo.

Friend of a friend. Blind dinner date. One sentence sums it all up. One little sentence.

“Enough about me, let’s talk about Auto Racing”.

Let’s not. Can I gouge my eyes out with a spoon now?

He used to be affectionately referred to as The Most Boring Date in the World. Little did I know there would be many more even more dreadful than he.

So cute, so cute… oh so cute.  My god, when he emailed me on SSN, I was sure I was in an alternate universe.  The photos I saw were great.  I never date guys that good looking.  After one email, and one phone call, we were meeting for cocktails after work in the financial district.  He was a financial writer for an international news agency.  I find myself highly attracted to financial types.  Type-A personalities really get me pumping.  I was psyched.

When he walked in, he looked little like his pictures.  It obviously was the same guy, but instead of the sexy, sultry casual guy in the photos walked in a shy, held back guy in a sport coat and thick glasses.  He was still very cute, just not the sex god that I thought he would be.  He kept laughing nervously, and seemed to have very few social skills at all.  He was obsessed with all the Steel Towns I have lived in—Buffalo, Detroit, etc.  He asked question after question, as though living in gritty burned out towns was the epitome of cool.  It’s not.  Buffalo is depressing.  Believe me.  Every time I tried to change the topic, asking him about himself, he promptly changed it back to Steel Towns.  A true one track mind.  I mean, I want a varied conversation, not one I think is repeating itself ad nauseum.  Get over it and move on.

One dimensional is tedious and boring.  Even if you’re a former sex god.

Jonah was the first and only guy that I have ever dated who is younger than me.  I’ve typically always dated men on average 10 to 20 years older than me, but figured that maybe younger guys have something to offer.  After all, there closer to their sexual prime than guys in their forties, have less emotional baggage and still have a somewhat naïve prospect for the future.  They can’t yet be so bitter and jaded as those who have had a few more spins around the dating block.  Nice idea in theory, but the practice was a little bit different.

Jonah was (or is, I guess, unless something happened since) a programmer for a funky national television station.  A pop culture prince that could be a lot of fun to hang out with.  We decide to go to the new Bambu on the Lake, both having truly enjoyed the now sadly missed Bamboo on Queen.  He had strange facial hair, but I decided to let that slide.  Creative expression and all, I guess.

Conversation was stilted, to say the least, and always elicited one of two responses.  1.  Wow, you seem so mature.  2.  Wow, you’re so interesting that you seem so much older than me. I was one whole year older than him.  I don’t want to feel “so much older” or “so much more mature” than him.  I want to be young and have fun.  I am not growing old gracefully, I am fighting it every step of the way.  Thanks for reminding me.  And reminding me.  And reminding me.

Feeling about 60, I went home and soaked my feet.  After all, what else is an old broad to do?

I met Chris in a bar downtown. It was a busy night in a notorious College Street Pickup joint that I was honestly only at because it was a friend’s birthday. And it was a bad pickup, or at least I assume it was a pickup. He was convinced that I was an old friend named Deborah, which, obviously, I was not. As it turned out, however, we hit it off, and went out the following week. Chris was Irish, and believe me, I am a true sucker for an accent (except for Southern US, you can keep them). He was also a professional skateboarder (and unless you are Tony Hawk, I’m not sure how you can do that, especially here in Canada where, unlike California, Extreme Sports are not considered to be an economically viable profession). Tall and lanky, and everything you would expect from a professional skateboarder (c’mon—you were wondering if he was marginally literate, weren’t you), he was unlike anyone I had ever dated before in my life. We were complete and polar opposites.

Conversation was strained. No talk of politics, religion or any deep matters here. And what of his Irish childhood? Whatever. His rather perplexing choice of pursuing his profession in Canada? Whatever. His favourite pastimes? Whatever. Until the conversation touched onto music, a subject he was very passionate about. Actually, he was really only passionate about the perplexing fact of whether the White Stripes are prefabricated pop culture punk fluff, or legitimate self-created artistes.

In Sum:

The White Stripes are not prefab as they had a concept and a sound of their own creation before a major label signed them.

The White Stripes are prefab because we cannot legitimately say that they had that sound before they were signed.

The White Stripes are not prefab as they had a cool, even though gimicky , image of their own creation.

The White Stripes are prefab as the record industry took this image and grew it exponentially until it was nothing more than a gimmick.

The White Stripes are not prefab pop culture fluff as their ambiguous social relationship and rockstar lifestyles are of their own devise.

The White Stripes are prefab pop culture fluff as the label perpetuated this ambiguous social relationship and rockstar lifestyle in order to create media hype and sell albums.

Ad Nauseum.

The Episode of the White Stripes versus Pop Culture took almost an hour. I couldn’t follow it anymore. Every argument for was also an argument against. I was amazed that he had put this much thought and effort into the consideration of this band, who he wouldn’t commit to fully liking anyways (“I think they’re too mainstream”). It was the only topic of conversation that did not elicit a “Whatever”. And I was not interested in it in any way shape or form.

Whatever.

So it’s about 7pm, and you know those nights when someone’s number comes up on the call display and you’re not really sure if you should answer it. Well, it was one of those nights and I should never have answered my phone. A buddy of mine who I have had some somewhat platonic sleepovers with (and later some not so platonic casual boredom sex) – we’ll call him Andy because that’s his name (and y’all should know better than to think if you do something like this that I’ll keep the story quiet – Hah!), calls me up from Scarborough and wants to go for a drink. He’s in Scarborough – I would want a drink too if I was there. I had already seen this week’s Buffy on Tuesday night, so, what the hell, my liver didn’t really need a recovery day anyways. We make plans to meet downtown at the Duke, against my better judgment mostly because my last time there I got food poisoning (in retrospect, I’m sensing a trend). I’m not really sure if this is supposed to be a date or not, but I primp a little bit because there certainly had been trends towards something more in the past, and this was the first time he had ever called me to ask me out, rather than simply running into each other at the pub.

So I’m late, but Andy is later. I even made the effort of changing my shirt, because the previous one had fish pie on it. The things I do for my so-called dates. He finally arrives and seems in a great mood. He’s making jokes, asking me about my previous night’s adventures, and if I had been to Karaoke at Kramer’s (I had) and what songs I had sung (I hadn’t). I mean, I end up at karaoke almost every weekend, against my better judgment (wait, it’s apparent now that I have no judgment), but no one has ever heard me sing. People seem quite charmed simply by my surly presence and disparaging and catty remarks about Bradford’s spectacular mullet of death and everyone’s lack of listenable singing voices. We then proceed to have this same conversation three times in a row. I don’t know the staff at the Duke too well, but he’s in fine form, calling them over one by one to tell them he loves them. This seems a little bit odd, especially after the first five times or so. It dawns on me. He’s drunk. He had been out with one of his other fellow ex-pats that afternoon (hence Scarborough) and wanted to continue his night. What’s worse, he’s hit the third stage of the four stages of drunkenness:

1. I’m tipsy and giggly.
2. I am interesting and deep, and I have a lot to say.
3. I love you.
4. I’m passed out in the bathtub.

I’m halfway through my second pint and he grabs the bill. He’s also asking me about my psycho-stalker ex-boyfriend and if he’s gone away yet (he hasn’t). He wants to ensure that I know that he’ll always be there to protect me etc., etc., etc. So then comes the question of the evening: Are you going somewhere else or should we get a cab back up to your place? It’s suddenly all clear. I’m the drunken booty call. Having given me an out, I mention that I had promised a friend who works around the corner from there that I would drop by to see him. Exiting swiftly, I try to usher my large, lilting and obviously lost buddy into a cab. He’s belligerent. Why am I not taking him home with me? I start walking and the cab zooms away.

My cell phone rings. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.
My cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.
My cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.

I get on the subway and go home. When once again above ground, my cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail and turn off the phone. For someone so concerned about my psycho-stalker ex he’s certainly not concerned about the whole psycho-stalker self thing. A sweeping generalization, but men often seem to be missing a few connections sometimes.

I get home, double lock the door and watch The Real Sex in the City. At least my dating life makes theirs look routine, pedestrian and positively dull. I have as many pairs of shoes as Carrie Bradshaw, and a devoted posse of overweight and socially awkward Glaswegians. What more could a woman want?