Bad Date Stories

Beware the Breakup ULTIMATUM

I am SO not an expert in dating, it's not funny. I have not been on a date in many years, and I don't plan to ever date again.

I'd rather set my hair on fire and then try to douse it with gasoline.

So you can take everything I say with a big grain of salt.

HOWEVER....

I know this much. Giving someone an ultimatum is usually not a good idea when you are dating. I have heard this countless times from my female friends:

"So I told HIM, we've been dating for over a YEAR and I need some kind of proof that he is committed. I want to get married before my uterus dries up and falls OUT!"

"You tell him you want a RING, girlfriend! He needs to know he is NOT the only fish in the SEA!"

and on and on and on - let's all drink margaritas and dance around singing Beyonce's "Put A Ring On It."

Then the Complainer decides she will just lay it on the line with the Guy.

Now in Hollyweird, it plays out like this. Complainer lets him know she needs him to commit to co-habitation or marriage. He balks. They break up. He dates other people and then realizes she is THE ONE. He goes back to the Complainer.  They go off into the sunset.

Does that happen in real life? Probably not so much.

My parents got together because Mom gave Dad an ultimatum when they were dating. She had advanced to the scary age of 22 and was without a husband. In 1957 that was getting into Old Maid territory. Mom's aunt Miriam had her whole prayer circle trying to get her hooked up with a husband.

Mom said to Dad, "Look here, I'm not getting any younger and I want to get married and start a family. If you're not going to marry me, we're through."

above, the engagement

However, most of the time ultimatums don't work. Nobody likes them. They are not conducive to happy feelings.

If you are seriously pondering whipping out a nasty old ultimatum, re-think. Sometimes you can finagle the result you want if you choose your words carefully. For instance - "I understand your feelings and I respect them, but I have to be by myself for a while, to reflect on how I need to move forward" - is less harsh than "put up or shut up."

Once you've said those diplomatic words and walked away, you are depriving the other person of your company - and you may choose to even [gasp] stop texting, emailing and/or calling. That does the same thing as a Breakup Ultimatum. However, you are saying I have to figure out how to take care of ME. You are not indicating the other person HAS to follow YOUR program.

If the other person is deprived of your company for a while, one of two things will occur. They will decide they desperately need you back and comply with your wishes, OR they will decide they actually DON'T need you back in order to be happy.

Either way, you've not made an enemy.

Ultimatums, however, make enemies. They set you at odds with the other person.

If you really want the relationship to thrive, you have to let it be a natural occurrence, not a forced thing.  Creatures forced into traps will almost always try to get OUT. That's not conducive to a long and happy situation.

So beware the Breakup Ultimatum. Understand the risks, and ponder better ways to accomplish your goal.

A Romantic Spot

This is a contribution from a lady named Debbie Jarrell, who found my blog and wanted to add this tale. It's a great story. Thanks Debbie!

When I was in my early 20's I was fixed up with a guy I'll call Drew. He was an average looking guy, was employed, and fairly intelligent, although there was something about him that was just not right. Something I couldn't define, but it was there.

So we had gone out a few times, and one day he called me to see if I wanted to go for a motorcycle ride. Well, I secretly imagine myself as a biker babe, so I agreed. He picked me up on his bike, and off we went. We rode for quite a while, then he pulled off the highway, down roads that became progressively smaller. Finally we came to a dead end, at a trash dump. He shut off the bike, we got off, then he pulled a pistol out of a storage compartment on the back of the bike. My heart leaped into my throat. I'm thinking this is where I'm going to die. Did I tell anyone where I was going? Who I would be with?? Noooo...

Then, Drew informed me that he had brought me to this dump to shoot at rats. Huh? Say that again? My relief at finding out I was not going to be murdered was quickly replaced by revulsion. Did he REALLY think I would participate in rat-shooting? What a sweet guy!! How did he know that nothing turns me on more than the sight of bloodied rat bodies?

Well, I'm a good sport, but I refuse to shoot at anything alive. So to compromise, we set up a line of beer bottles, and I'm happy to report that I kicked his butt that day.

And as a side note, we broke up soon after, due to a sexual experience that proved to be less than satisfying for both of us. Not long after that, one of my best friends met him, and they've been married for over 27 years. He's still a jerk, which she freely admits.

The Swede and the Tiny Lawyer

I was thinking today about two different bad dates I had, years ago when I thought internet dating was a great idea. I was in my mid thirties and in reasonably decent shape. I didn't look a great deal different than I did when I was 18:

SWEDISH DISH

One bad date was a guy I'll call Lars. I don't remember his name. He was a Swedish scientist, working temporarily for the CDC. I don't know what possessed me to meet him at one of the local malls for coffee. Oh, wait a minute, he was hunky. Yep, that was it. Now I remember.

We ended up walking all over this very upscale mall in search of a fondue pot. Lars missed authentic Swedish fondue. I remember he looked at about 20 different fondue pots, finding fault with each one.I thought to myself, for God's sake just pick one....

He found fault with me, too, informing me at the end of that weird evening that he wouldn't be calling me again.It felt like I'd failed a job interview.

And, he happened to mention, he was married. "We are separated, you see," he said, smiling.

"I don't date married men," I said, smiling back, trying to disguise my total disgust. I walked away without looking back.

What a jerk.

TINY ACTOR

Another internet date I had was with a lawyer. I don't know what I was thinking about. It was one of my first internet dates, and I was unprepared.

This guy, who I'll call Alex, was very good-looking and sexy. We had spoken on the phone. He knew a former boss of mine and was amazed I had put up with her for so many years, and we had a pleasant phone conversation.

I agreed to meet him at a family-type Mexican restaurant in Roswell, which is just outside Atlanta. Alex walked in, saw me standing alone in the foyer [is that what you call it in a restaurant? I don't know...] and quickly looked away, like oh no, not her. I walked up and introduced myself. The look of complete disappointment was unmistakeable.

I am no beauty, I'll admit, but I wasn't horribly fat. I also looked like the photo I'd posted on the dating site. I wasn't dishonest.

He was a tiny man. I would say he was 5'6, no more. I think he wore a hairpiece, too. He had no room to be so picky.

He told me he was taking acting classes. A lawyer who really wanted to act. Most trial lawyers have unrequited acting ambitions, I can tell you from long experience.

We ate dinner and chatted, but he was clearly not ever going to ask me out again.

What ticks me off about both these incidents of meeting these guys is that I knew from the first moment they saw me I didn't measure up to their requirements of what they wanted in a date. I am not tall, not strikingly beautiful, my teeth aren't perfect.  Whatever.

I should have just said "OK, well, clearly you aren't interested. I am going home." I should have aborted both missions.

I just always have this blind, misguided hope that dates will find out that I am intelligent and funny and have a great personality, and I can win them over.

It never happens, however. I asked a number of guy friends and they all told me pretty much the same thing, in regards to attraction, namely: if a guy sees you and doesn't instantly want to jump into bed, he will not ask you out. He will often not even want to talk to you.There is only about a 5% chance he will change his mind of that.

Of course, alcohol changes the perceptions somewhat, as we all know.

I always liked to date guys that were completely sober and thinking clearly. I never wanted to wake up next to some guy who looked at me and screamed in horror.

Of course, in thinking back on Mr. Fondue and the Tiny Actor, I hope they are in relationships with tall, gorgeous women, and suffering severe erectile dysfunction...

Parental Advice

I was reading an excert from a hilarious book by Elna Baker called The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance and I thought wow, that brings back memories.(Wow, that's a long title, huh?!)

I got some fairly non-useful advice when I was a teenager too. It was the early 1980's. My mother said these two brilliant things: Never ask a boy out on a date. [too aggressive] AND Never have sex with anyone you're not married to - EVER.

Yep, Mom was a time traveler from 1956.

But I digress. I really wanted to publish an excerpt from Elna's book. She also has a cute website. I hope I am not going to tick her off. I am trying to help her sell books here. I admire her moxie in publishing it. So here goes, if you need a good laugh for today:

"I remember when I got my acceptance letter from BYU via the British
Royal Mail. I opened the thick envelope, looked at the emblem of the
busy honeybees all working together, and then read the word
"Congratulations." It felt good. Any letter of acceptance makes you
feel good. But when I got my letter of acceptance to NYU, something
was different. I opened the package on my way up to my room, read
the word "Congratulations," and started to sob, right there on
the stairs. I sat down and I cried. I didn't realize how much
getting into NYU meant to me until I had those huge tears pouring
down my cheeks. And that's when I knew I had to go to New York City.

My mother was terrified. She's the more conservative of my parents,
and when she's not busy being a mom, she spends her time forwarding
cheesy e-mails about Christian miracles, or signing petitions
against Abercrombie & Fitch's pornographic ads. To her, New York was
the city from the movies made in the seventies, where you heard
gunshots out your window and pimps screaming at hos. Not that there
were many scenes like that in the PG-rated movies my mother was
inclined to watch. But still, New York was a scary, dangerous place.
A month before I went off to college, she sat me down for a
mother-daughter talk.

"Elna," she said nervously. "The first thing that will happen when
you move to New York is, you might start to swear."

I wanted to say, "Oh 's hit,' really?" But I knew that only my dad
would think that was funny. Instead I nodded my head and said, "Mmm
hmm."

"And Elna," she continued, "swearing will lead to drinking."

I had somehow missed the connection.

"And drinking will lead to doing drugs."

The conversation was starting to get more amusing than even I had
anticipated. "And Elna," she said, pursing her lips and looking
directly into my eyes, "what would you do if a lesbian tried to make
out with you?"

I didn't think double takes existed outside of "Three's Company"
until that moment. I was used to her saying words like "church
calling, relief society," and "bishopric meeting." Not the word
"lesbian," let alone "lesbian" and "make out" in the same sentence.
It was awesome. But I was also slightly offended. If you followed my
mother's logic, each step was a progression toward becoming more of
a sinner. First I'd swear, then I'd drink, then I'd do drugs. By
that point I was getting used to the narrative, so I assumed sex
with men would be next. But no--my mother skipped that altogether
and jumped to my becoming a lesbian. Did my mother honestly think
that I had a better chance of getting action from a woman than a
man?

These are all questions I didn't ask her directly. But at this point
I'd almost forgotten she'd asked me anything: What would I do if a
lesbian tried to make out with me?

She was sitting there, arms folded, waiting for an answer.

"I'd say, 'No, thank you...lesbian.'"

My mother rolled her eyes. "There's one more thing," she said,
resuming our heart-to-heart.

"Sex with men, sex with men, sex with men."

"There are these clubs in New York where men pay larger women to
dance with very little clothing on; don't do that."

Our mother-daughter talk ended with that golden nugget of wisdom. I
left thinking, "Great, my mom thinks I'm moving to the big city to
become a lesbian stripper. Apparently, when she told me I was
"special," this is what she meant.

"My father sat me down a few days later for another leaving-the-nest
talk. His advice was a little different.

"Elna," he began, "never forget these three things." He paused for
dramatic effect. "Number One: Never wear a dead man's socks. Number
Two: Never let 'em see you sweat. And Number Three: Never touch a
fat man's stomach."

I waited for him to clarify, to add a line that would somehow make
all the other words he'd said make sense. But he just patted me on
the shoulder and left me in the living room to contemplate his
wisdom.

That was all the advice I was given before moving to New York City.

I wanted more, or at the very least a tender good-bye. Only this
was interrupted when the check-in clerk announced that my bag was
too heavy. My father opened it in the middle of the terminal. I
watched as he pulled out items of sentimental value, told me I
didn't need them, and threw them away.

That's when my mother saw it, among my tightly folded clothes: a
rainbow scarf. I wasn't keeping it from her. I'd owned it for
several years, and had purchased it because it reminded me of Punky
Brewster in a retro eighties sort of way. She snatched it out of my
suitcase."

If you want to leave a comment and let me know the extent of the parental or dating advice you got as a teenager, feel free.

The Makeout King

This is a story I have kept to myself for a while, but it's one of those funny dating stories that everyone seems to have experienced at some time or another.

I was in my late 20's and had been working out and gotten fairly skinny. I was cautiously dipping a toes back into the dating pool, testing the waters after being absent for a while.

I went to a wedding and met a guy at the reception who instantly, well, captured my interest and my libido. The chemistry was scary. I like to flirt and yet, so many flirting partners have no gift for witty repartee. This guy did. He probably had a Ph.D. in Flirting.

He was well known to my friend John, and John's brother, but not to me.

His nickname was pretty distinctive but I won't mention it here. Here I'll call him Baz. It's easy to type.

So Baz and I did a lot of flirting at the reception.

I was totally excited. I felt like he might be THE ONE. He was good-looking, smart, funny - wow.

A few days later, Baz invited me to come over to his apartment, and watch fireworks. A bunch of friends and his roommate were all drinking and planning to go up to the roof and watch the fireworks display nearby at the old Knoxville World's Fair Site.

It was July 4th, my birthday. What a present.

Getting on the roof was a bit of a challenge, since I had on a skirt, but once up there, we stretched out on a picninc blanket. The fireworks display was awesome. We were on a hill, on a roof, and so the display felt like it was immediately overhead. I felt like the fireworks were just for us. They were huge and magnificent. I've never seen anything like it before or since.

I remember thinking, I'd rather be here, with an attractive, funny guy, watching fireworks, than anywhere else on earth. This is bliss.

After it was over we went back inside, and retired to his room to make out. He had a small room but a king-sized bed.

He had my favorite CD on the stereo.

I don't want to get too graphic, but he was quite the lothario when it came to making out. Just his kissing technique was amazing. Wow.

They say the tongue is the strongest muscle in the body.

There was a lot of electricity in that room.

Things were advancing and clothes were getting loosened.

All of a sudden, I froze IN HORROR. I was wearing the oldest, most ripped, mended, elastic-shot granny-panties in the universe. White cotton.

I hadn't done laundry in a while.

I pictured him getting a look at those tattered granny panties and screaming in horror.

I brought the making out to an abrupt halt.

"I gotta get up REALLY early tomorrow! Need to run!" I called, as I jumped off the bed.

Baz was not a happy camper.He looked like he was in shock.

I only saw him once after that. It was not a happy date. That's another story.

I told some of my girlfriends about the embarrassing underwear faux pas sometime later and they all stared at me like I had totally lost my mind. There was dead silence in the room.

I then learned that my knowledge of male behavior was totally inadequate. Baz didn't care about the appearance of my undies.

Drat.

I also learned, from John, that Baz was a huge trouser snake. He'd make out with any woman in the world. "Wow, information I could have USED, John," I huffed.

However, to be fair, I felt a little better about our disastrous non-relationship. John was saying to me in a brotherly way the guy plowed through women like a bulldozer and I would've just been another in a long line.

Interesting sidenote. I found Baz on Facebook not long ago.

A couple of years after our granny-panty session, he married a woman who looks JUST LIKE ME.

Hmmm......

Sam the Scary

I frequented a couple of different dating websites about 10 years ago.I thought internet dating was the way to go. I just knew Mr. Right was out there, and we were just one JPEG away from finding each other.

On one website, I met a man who sounded interesting. He said he was in the security field, owned his own home, enjoyed movies, reading, etc. The photo showed a nice looking man with sandy hair and pretty eyes. After exchanging a few emails, I agreed to meet him for lunch near my office.

I'll refer to him here as "Sam" - for reasons that will become apparent in a moment.

I dressed for my lunch date with Sam very carefully, putting on makeup and fixing my hair in what I thought was an attractive way. [I always tried to look more Town & Country than Lady Gaga, if you know what I mean.]

I walked into the restaurant and took a seat in the waiting area. The door opened and a large cowboy hat with a tiny man underneath came charging through the door.

Yep, that was the guy.

I am 5'4, and I have always laughingly said I wanted a guy at least as tall as me. For most guys, that's not unreasonable. This little guy couldn't have been much over 5 feet tall. He had on elaborately decorated cowboy boots with a heel at least an inch high.

When he walked over to me, I was in a mild state of shock. Then he spoke, with a deep southern twang.

He was like something out of a cartoon. I almost giggled when he spoke.

As soon as we exchanged greetings, as we were walking to our table, I had the fleeting thought, "this will make a funny story one day. Not today, but hopefully one day..."

Except for the moustache, Yosemite Sam and my date were strikingly similar in looks...

I could probably have gotten over the height challenge and the twang, and even the silly outfit, but the personal history portion of our date scared the bejeezus out of me.

I can't remember what he said he did for a living. That detail is lost in my memory, but he probably worked from home. It didn't seem remarkable. Nope, it was his lifestyle that bothered me.

You see Sam owned his own home on top of a mountain.

He built his home completely by himself, teaching himself carpentry, electronics, and plumbing, etc. I admired that. But then, I heard a tale that sounded like the Unibomber...

There is only one road that leads to his home.

He described security measures that would've impressed the CIA.

He had designed and installed a series of cameras to survey every inch of his home and the outside areas.

He had automatic weapons, trained dogs, etc.

He only had to leave once a month or so to get supplies.

I remember asking him why he felt he had to take such elaborate precautions but I don't recall what he said. It was evasive, whatever it was. He didn't say something logical, like "I pissed off a Colombian drug cartel" or "I have photos of Michael Jackson without makeup."

He mentioned that he really didn't like his neighbors.He started telling me why, with a satanic gleam in his eye.

OK, well, that was enough for me. Hand me the check and a bottle of Maalox, thanks.

Before I left, I diplomatically mentioned that I was completely unwilling to entertain the idea of moving out of town, and a 90 minute commute just wouldn't work for me.

Sam hid his disappointment poorly.

Did I leave quickly? Let's just say I was glad I bought a car with a 6 cylinder engine instead of a 4 cylinder.

A Mad Date

One of the worst dates of my life, but also one of the funniest, was a fixup. My parents' next door neighbor was something of a busybody and she kept telling me about a man she knew who was new in town and how perfect he was for me.

Wary of blind dates, I allowed that she could give him my phone number and we could talk on the phone but I wouldn't make any promises about going out with him. So he called a few days later and we chatted. He sounded nice enough.

I prepared for the date carefully, in case Kathy was right and he was hunky. I put on a little black dress, high heels, makeup, jewelry, the works. I was dressed to kill - or as close to it as I could get, being a poor grad student.

He came to the door of my tiny apartment and when I opened the door, I hoped, for a split second, the guy standing there was lost, and certainly not my date. My hopes were dashed when he spoke. I don't remember his name, but for purposes of the story I will call him Jeff.

He was not much taller than me [I'm 5'4] and he had carrot red hair and a lot of freckles. He was wearing suit pants, a dress shirt and tie, dress shoes, and a bright orange parka that sorta matched his hair.

He looked like the guy on the MAD Magazine cover, on his way to a business meeting at the South Pole.

I invited him in.

"Wow, it's really cold out there!" he exclaimed.

"Yep, I think I better put on something warmer. Hold on a minute," I said, heading back to my room.

Yikes, I have to go through with this, I was thinking, I don't want to be rude. I also don't want this guy making a move at the end of the evening. So I took off the little black dress and put on a large corduroy jumper over a turtleneck, and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. I also put on thick socks and sturdy boots. I looked like an extra on Little House on the Prairie.

We went to dinner at an Italian restaurant I liked a lot. I ordered something expensive, but I can't remember what. The guy had plenty of money. I knew that from Cathy's description of him.

I also thought, even if I'm not attracted to him, he's a nice guy and maybe there's a basis for friendship there.

I was trying to chitchat pleasantly, when the interrogation started. He didn't try to be subtle or work things casually into a conversation, he just fired off questions.

"So, what do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a paralegal."

"Do you want to go to law school one day?" he continued.

"Um, no, actually, as I mentioned, I'm in graduate school getting a master's in English."

"What do you plan to do with that?" he asked incredulously. "Teach?"

"I am a writer," I said, starting to get annoyed.

"What do you write?"

"Mostly poetry," I said. He looked at me like I was an escaped lunatic.

"Do you work out?"

"Yes. "

"How often?" he asked.

Now I was getting annoyed.

"Oh, sometimes as often as twice a week!"

"What sort of workout do you do? Cardio? Weight Training?"

"Oh, I walk to campus. Sometimes even I take the stairs to my apartment!" [I lived on the third floor]

"Do you eat healthy?"

"Well, yeah, most of the time. I don't eat Top Ramen, just Campbell's soup. I try to eat a salad at least once a week, and every day I eat a Granola bar."

He looked skeptical of my answers but I was actually being pretty truthful. I was a poor grad student, I couldn't afford a gym membership.

The food came, but the interrogation continued. He stopped just short of asking me about the deductions on my last tax return or the number of fillings in my teeth. He must have trained at the KGB school of dating.

Even if he had looked like Rob Lowe it wouldn't have mattered at that point.

Finally, after I had finished my cannoli and was wondering whether I should even bother to disguise a healthy burp, I decided to go for the kill shot and shut the guy down.

"You know what, Jeff?" I said, leaning forward, trying to look alluring and sincere at the same time. "I really, really want to get married. I am SO ready to be a mom. I am thinking this is going SO well, maybe you're Mr. Right! Are you feeling it too?"

He paid the check quickly, after first getting out a huge calculator and figuring the tip.

Ladies, if you want to end a date quickly, you don't have to be rude. Just tell the guy you want to get married and have kids RIGHT NOW. About 99% of the time, this works beautifully. The guy is gone in a heartbeat, and you will NEVER hear from him again.

Try and get him to pay the check first, though.

Sip and See

One of the strangest dates I ever had was not really a date, but it was more like a "sip and see." That's a southern term for a baby shower held when the baby is a month or two old. Friends and relatives come over with gifts and to see the baby. I understand those things are getting very popular now.

The whole point is folks get to see the baby, on display, and I bet there's minimal manhandling of the child.

I could be utterly wrong, of course. I was raised by a dedicated germophobe. I well remember being 10 years old and begging to be allowed to hold my cousin's baby, Lana. Mother made me put on a clean shirt, then push my sleeves up to my armpits, then wash my hands and arms with scalding hot water, scrubbing furiously like a surgeon. Then I had to sit down, and the baby was placed in my lap. I was terrified to touch her. So I always think touching a baby too much without sterilizing yourself first is courting disaster.

But I digress. Which happens a lot.

My "sip and see" experience involved sips of beer and I was the baby.

Anyway, a friend of mine at work, Karen, who was in her 30's kept blathering on and on to me about this adorable cute guy that was a friend of her husband's. She would go on and on about how we were perfect for each other.

"He's in school and you're in school. He's REAL smart," she said, in her very twangy East Tennessee accent. [I was living in Knoxville then.]

Finally, since I couldn't get her to hush, I agreed to go over to her apartment on a Sunday afternoon and meet said dreamboat, whose name was Kyle, I think.

It was a hot summer day, so I wore a little cotten sundress, and put on my makeup carefully. I took some care, just in case I was wrong and the guy was actually a catch. I was in a thin phase, so I was fairly cute myself.

I got over to the apartment and Karen let me in very quietly.

"Eddie and him is in the den watchin' the races. We cain't go in there until the commercial," she whispered.

I peeked in the den and saw her husband Eddie, and just the profile of the dreamboat, both men in Lazy Boy loungers, beers in hand.

Karen and I were reduced to whispering in her spotlessly clean kitchen. I've known people who were cleaning fanatics but not many. Karen was smoking, tipping the askes in a Tab can and blowing the smoke out the window. Otherwise that kitchen was like an operating room, except for the almond colored appliances.

Finally, the commercial came on. I went in the den. Neither man got up or offered to let me sit down, and there were only the two chairs. They said Hi and went back to watching the fascinating TV commercials.

Dreamboat was sorta cute, but he had a little beer belly. His manners was awful. He basically ignored me.  Karen said "Hey Kyle, Dee here's in school, just like you."

Kyle finally looked at me. I decided to jump in and test the water. "I'm in grad school at UT. What are you studying?"

"I'm in school to become a certified technician for heat and air," he said laconically.

OK. Well, those guys probably make a decent living, I thought. We could have us a nice doublewide, eventually.

"You like racing?" Kyle asked.

I allowed as how I'd never watched auto racing. Some remark was made about a driver named "Elliott" and I said the only familiarity I had with that name was TS Eliot, the poet. I just wanted to see his reaction.

He grunted.Then he grinned.  "Never heard of him." Then he turned his attention back to the TV.

The commercials ended and we womenfolk had to retreat to the kitchen. I figured out some way to tell Karen I just didn't think Kyle was interested in me, and I didn't think it was meant to be.

She was terribly disappointed.

I was not.

I left there thinking, someday this will be quite a story.

The Never-Ending Date

When I was in my 20's, my brother was stationed at Ft. MacPherson in Atlanta, and I was living in Knoxville.

One weekend, I came down to Atlanta to stay with my brother and his wife for the weekend. I got in on Friday afternoon. That night, Brother's friend "Dan" [not his real name] came over, to go out to eat with us. He was tall, mostly bald, and wore glasses. My sister in law had told me what a great guy he was.

He wore pants so tight you could tell his religion.

He went out to eat with us. I don't remember the meal, just the Corvette he drove. He drove like a maniac, zooming down I-285, which is a busy 8 lane highway that encircles Atlanta. His Journey Greatest Hits tape was blaring the entire time. I don't like Corvettes. I felt like my butt was dragging the ground. I learned that Dan was heavily into his car - he belonged to a Corvette club. He also was into Civil War re-enactment.

He explained how people who came to re-enactments and used Zippo lighters, or anything else modern, were useless diletteants and deserved to be court-martialed. I thought to myself that being dragged around Atlanta and forced to listen to Journey songs would be enough of a punishment, but I didn't voice that.

After dinner, we went back to my brother's house, and Dan announced it was too far for him to drive home and he was too sleepy. My brother told him firmly he'd have to sleep downstairs on the couch, since I was in the guest room. He stayed.

The next morning, he would not leave. We announced we were going to the zoo. He said he would love it. Off we went to the zoo.

This guy was an officer in the Army, a captain or major, I think. He was college educated. He was articulate. I couldn't stand him.

It was very hot and crowded at the zoo. Dan never left my side., even when I told him the animal poo smells and heat were making me nauseated.

It occurred to me at some point that he looked like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Heroes.

Finally, on Sunday, he left. I had to leave, too. He tried to kiss me. That didn't happen.

I think he wanted to see me again, until he noticed the look of utter revulsion on my face when he tried to kiss me.

My brother said after that weekend, he never liked the guy again, and they had been pretty good friends.

When I got home I wrote my brother and sister in law a note and said, don't ever fix me up with a Colonel Klink lookalike- Corvette-driving-Civil War-re-enacting dork AGAIN.

They said they laughed about that letter for years.

It was very sarcastic.

Weatherman

Here's a funny anecdote form my friend Judy:

My mother once I insisted that I go out with the son of a friend of hers.  When I asked what he looked like, she said, "He has very nice teeth."

He picked me up and my first question to him was"what are you studying?" When he said "meteorology" I said, "Really? How many meteors can there be that you could make a career out of that?" Unfortunately, I was serious. He obviously found my stupidity charming because he pursued me relentlessly until I moved out of the city.