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.
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