Great first date. Profoundly bad third date.

I have a pretty awful cold right now, which resulted in me spending most of yesterday in bed.  I did get up for breakfast and lunch (both prepared by Tom - wow!) but other than that, I hibernated and spent the day caught in that weird place where you are too tired to keep your eyes open, but you can't quite fall asleep.  I hate that place.

Since I couldn't sleep and I couldn't read, I occassionally would entertain myself by shouting out something to Tom, who was working in the office next door.  My favorite exchange of the day went something like this:

Me: "Tom?"
Tom: "Yes, sweetie."
Me: "Do you remember our first date?"
Tom: "I sure do!  Best first date ever!"

And then Tom went on to describe exactly what I was wearing on our first date, right down to the shoes.  Although the Chinese say (well, maybe not all of them, but surely some) that the faintest ink is better than the best memory, I'd say Tom's memory of our first date is pretty good.  I mean, come on - the shoes?  That's pretty cool.

Tom and I had a series of email exchanges leading up to our first date, and it was clear to me that I was going to meet someone pretty special.  He was smart, funny, and had a naughty streak similar to mine.  He also was a little bit older, but I figured that's OK, because with the way I am living my life I am probably not going to make it past 70 anyway.  And who would want to?

We met at the Veriatable Quandry for drinks and then headed over to the Blues Festival.  One of my all-time favorite bands was playing that night - Little Feat.  Suddenly, during a rocking rendition of "Dixie Chicken," there was a dry electrical storm and lightning about every 30 seconds.  The crowd went crazy, the band played even better, and Tom and I looked at each other and knew.  That's when we had our first kiss, and it will go down in my book as the best first kiss ever.

Later that night, as we were walking from the park to a nearby restaurant for dinner, I truly fell for him.  And by that I mean, I fell.  Those snazzy sandals I had chosen for my first date with Tom came with a four inch heel and no discernable form of ankle support.  I tripped, and launched myself about 20 feet in the air before landing on my hands and knees.

 The most embarassing aspect of the fall was that the contents of my purse spilled out and were strewn about the walkway.  If you are anything like me, the contents of your purse may not be something you want anyone to see, especially if it's a first date.  I tend to carry a pretty big bag, which means all sorts of things are in there.  Specifically: feminine products, lotion,snack food, my shitlist, and small barnyard animals.  It wasn't that bad that Tom saw a tampon roll out of my purse and down the hill, but I think the fervor with which I chased it may have given him pause.  In my defense, those little buggers are expensive and it's a really bad day when you need one and it isn't there.

He picked me up, dusted me off, and we continued on about our evening.  Like I said, an amazing first date, which led to an even better second date the very next evening.  And a third, and a fourth, and the rest is, as they say history.

I tell this story to contrast it with one of my favorite Bad Match.com Date Stories (and I have a lot of them - look for this as a regular feature on my blog).  I don't want to identify this gentleman (**ahem**) by name, but here are some clues:

1. He considers himself to be a real big shot in our town;
2. He is so pompous that he wouldn't tell me his name until we met in person, and only identified himself until then as a "local celebrity" (who, by the way, I had never heard of, and I've lived here my entire life); and
3. He was once nominated for a Grammy.  It's an honor just being nominated, you know.

When I first met this fellow, I was intrigued.  He wasn't all that handsome but he carried himself like he was looking at George Clooney's reflection in the mirror.  Within ten minutes on our first date (and after he finally told me his name, looking crestfallen when I didn't recognize it and instantly throw my panties at him), he explained to me how different he and I are from the general population.

"You see Robin, it's like a bell curve," he said, and traced a bell curve on the wall of the little Italian restaurant.  "You and me, we're over here," and he gestured to the far right of the curve.  "The rest of the world, they're over there," and he waved his hand dismissively to the left.

While I certainly appreciated his quick recognition of my brilliance and overall superiority to, well, everyone, it did feel a little strange.  He didn't know me well enough to know how fabulous I am, as that takes at least four dinner dates, three happy hours and a trip to a karaoke bar.  Was he trying to flatter me?  What was his angle?  I was puzzled.

Despite the fact I found this man a little strange and I didn't like his shirt (if you know me at all you know that can be a real deal-breaker), I accepted a second date with him, during which he told me he loved me.

Uh oh.

I then accepted a third date, planning it at a restaurant owned by a friend so I could break up with him there and watch him leave, then sit at the bar and commiserate with the owner about the lack of decent single men in Portland.  I had the whole "it's not you, it's me" speech written on 3 by 5 notecards in my purse (see, you don't want people looking inside your purse) and I was pretty optimistic that I could get 'er done by the salad course.  The conversation did not go as I planned, however, because of what happened when he picked me up for our date.

Mr. X showed up at my door that evening with four things, each disturbing in their own way, one especially so. 

1. A dozen red roses with baby's breath.  Can you say "trite?"  I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but for Christ's sake, it's all about the tropical flowers these days;

2. A teddy bear for my son Jake, who was 5 at the time.  He had never met Jake, and Jake eyed him suspiciously when handed the stuffed bribe bear.  "You do know I'm five, right?" he said, tossing the offending item on the couch and returning to his game of Grand Theft Auto;

3. His scrapbooks (plural!) put together by his mother, detailing every major event in his life including significant bowel movements, and last but not least;

4. A wrinkled brown paper bag that looked like it had seen better days.

"What's in here?" I asked him, and started to open the bag.  He remained silent as I pulled out not one, not two, but three different brands of personal lubricant.

"Um, what's with the lube?" I asked, trying to shield my son from seeing the bag's contents and simultaneously conjuring up a really good excuse to get this guy out of my house immediately.

"That's for you, sweetheart, 'cause I'm really big, and you're gonna need it."

To say that I was flummoxed is the understatement of the century.  I was so shocked that I actually got in his car and went to dinner with him.  I think I knew that ending this "relationship" should take place in a very public arena and away from my innocent child.  I also sensed that my prepared remarks would no longer be adequate, and that I needed something more concrete to ensure he would lose my number, and fast.  We sat down, ordered drinks, and I told him the following:

"You are such a great guy, I really think you are wonderful, but I can't date you anymore.  The truth is, and I'm so sorry for not bringing this up sooner, I'm actually dating someone else, and we are in love, and we just decided to get married.  So technically, you see, I'm actually engaged, and really shouldn't be here at all."

"I don't see a ring on your finger," he astutely pointed out.

"Oh, well, we don't really buy into those social conformities," I laughed, and illustrated this point by wriggling my fingers and raising my eyebrows.  "He actually proposed to me with a salmon.  A really fresh salmon.  We are getting married next month.  At a salmon cannery.  It's going to be very special."

"Aren't you still married to your first husband?" he querried, clearly not buying into my story.

"Oh, um, yes, but it turns out we weren't really legally married after all, because I was very drunk at the time and he was still married to his first wife, so I've got my lawyer working on an annulment."

He was starting to turn purple and his breathing became rapid.  His silk shirt (ugh) started to show sweat stains in the armpits.

"Why on earth would you need an annulment if you were never legally married in the first place?"  This was a good question - a very good question indeed.
 
"You know," I said, in my very best lawyer voice, "Since you aren't a lawyer you really can't understand.  It's very technical and has to do with res judicata and habeas corpus.  I'd explain it to you but I'm really not sure, despite your position on the bell curve, that you would get it."

For weeks afterward, this man called and emailed me incessantly, telling me I would never meet someone like him again (well damn, I hope not).  I did not answer any of his emails until the last one, which was so threatening in tone and content that I felt I had to address it.

"Dear _____, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for pursuing a relationship with me, I am busy planning my wedding to the salmon guy, so please do not contact me anymore.  I know you will find someone soon who can appreciate all your interesting qualities.  Fondly, Robin."  I pressed send.

Immediately, yahoo mail shot me back the following message:
"You have been blocked by this yahoo customer.  You are not authorized to send mail to this account."

He got me.  Damn it, he got the last word.  I hate that.