Me and Pepe le Pew
Up until today, the worst date I've had using the online mediated method of meeting people to maybe date was 30 Minute Man. For those of you who are new to the forum or don't recall my writing about this specimen, this is the man who sprang up from the lunch table about 30 minutes into our date, just about cutting me off in mid-sentence, saying, "No, this isn't going to work. Bye." I knew it wasn't going to work 30 seconds into having met him, but I think putting effort into being polite under such circumstances pays off in the long run.
He was pretty bad, but at least the rendezvous was blessedly short. In an odd moment of foreshadowing as I was walking to my rendezvous with today's special at the Portland Art Museum's exhibit "Rembrandt and the Golden Age of Dutch Art," a homeless man started chatting me up as I approached and walked by, saying the usually incoherent things and calling out, "Hey. lady, I'm not trying to hit on you or anything," when I responded with the usual polite but moving-on-along-now smile.
I walked into the lobby of the museum, and there he was, dressed to kill in shorts and flipflops. OK, fine. This is Oregon, and I can look a little out of place, even in Portland, when dressed in a skirt and heels with my toes painted red and my hair just so, but still, a little finesse is good. "You're great!" he exclaimed loudly after shaking hands, and I'm pretty certain he seriously contemplated, and only at the last minute decided against going in for a pucker up. Let me just note that I do not have a particular thing against receiving compliments, as a general rule, but this man was loud well to the point of obnoxiousness. He then proceeded to ramble on -- loudly -- about profiles and pictures and other points that may be of interest to bystanders who may be curious about what these online mediated dating services produce.
I knew in an instant I was in for a difficult experience. He talked continually -- and loudly -- the whole time, from start to finish, making dumb jokes, embarrassingly stupid sounding observations and launching into long, rambling, totally irrelevant and disconnected stories about stuff. Just stuff. The exhibit was fairly crowded, too, and it was clear that we, not Rembrandt, were providing the afternoon's entertainment. At first I did the polite nodding and supplied quiet redirecting questions, but that seemed to only make him worse.
Then came the touchy-feely stuff, the staring at me instead of looking at the art, the loud inquiry as to whether or not I would let him flirt with me, the bragging about his car and all the money he has, the suggestive -- loud -- remarks. At one point, his cell phone went off, and I found myself throwing politeness to the winds and saying in a decidedly Angry Mother tone, "Yeah, you need to turn that thing off there, buddy."
One thing I can say for his cell phone talking; it meant that I could actually look at quite a few of the paintings in relative peace by myself. During one of these moments when he was conducting business -- and loudly telling his business partner what a hot chick off of Match he was with -- I came upon the only picture in the exhibit that contained any amount of nudity. It was a portrait of a "Pretty Milkmaid," or some such, with just a slight bit of nipple showing. I thought to myself, "Mary, move away from this before he gets off the phone and catches up." Heeding my wise inner voice, I moved on along.
Yet, even so, when The Cretin did catch up with me, he asked me to guess what his favorite painting was. "We've already seen it," he hints. "Come on, guess."
"I have no idea," I coolly reply.
"Well, let me show you," and off he trots, making a beeline for Pretty Milkmaid Nipple Girl. I turned and walked resolutely back in the other direction.
A few paintings down, he started to pester me some more about flirting: "You know you like it.. it's what we're here for... we like each other."
"No we don't," I whispered back with as much hostility as I can muster, at which point he started playing grab ass with about eight arms around me. I literally crawled out of his octopus grasp, hissing at him treatheningly, all in full view of a roomful of the serious-minded trying to take in a little edifying history and culture. At that moment I was as close as I've ever come to getting out of being a part of an embarrassing public spectacle by making a pointed and spectacular departure, but damned politeness kept me in place. He did seem to simmer down a bit at that point, however, and we were almost through with the exhibit, so I suggested grabbing a quick lunch at the farmer's market across the street in order to hurry things on.
That turned into a sitdown on a park bench, me zoning out his long-winded, loud ramblings (which included more suggestions to kiss, as well as suggesting that I have babies with him if I "lose" a bet I didn't recall making about Al Gore being our next president) while pointedly checking my cell phone for the time and messages. Nothing could phase this man. He was clueless in the way that only the worst social idiots can be. But having that lunch with him was worth it for one thing; at one point, one of those crazy homeless guys who comes up to you and rambles incoherently about disconnected subjects, came up to us and started rambling incoherently about disconnected subjects just as The Cretin was doing at that moment. I acknowledged the homeless guy by looking at him, but my date just kept on rambling incoherently about disconnected subjects right along with him. The two sounded identical. It was like a skit out of one of the nuttier British sitcoms of the Monty Python school. I was laughing out loud, and neither the homeless guy or the date seemed to notice me or each other. The three of us as a trio must have been really something to see. I would give a lot to have that moment captured on film.
At a key moment, I laid out my get-away by saying I was meeting a friend in half and hour and needed to get going. Twenty minutes later, I found a slight opening allowing for me to stand and say I needed to start heading back to my car. He walked me back to the garage, telling me all about various women he's dated who just can't seem to live in the moment because they get caught up in whether or not there is "chemistry." His lack of success in dating seems to be brought down to all these women having "issues." Amazingly enough, the guy was actually married at one point and has three children. Will wonders never cease.
Finally, after ten minutes of standing in front of the garage where I was parked with me repeatedly looking at the time, I finally just held my cell phone with the time display up to his face and said, "That's it. I have to go."
"I know, I know... but I'm never going to see you again." I'm almost stunned that he had managed to suss that out.
I shrugged and walked off telling him, "Just say I have issues."
On my way back out of town, I stopped by Young Theodore's and contemplated his strong qualities.
He was pretty bad, but at least the rendezvous was blessedly short. In an odd moment of foreshadowing as I was walking to my rendezvous with today's special at the Portland Art Museum's exhibit "Rembrandt and the Golden Age of Dutch Art," a homeless man started chatting me up as I approached and walked by, saying the usually incoherent things and calling out, "Hey. lady, I'm not trying to hit on you or anything," when I responded with the usual polite but moving-on-along-now smile.
I walked into the lobby of the museum, and there he was, dressed to kill in shorts and flipflops. OK, fine. This is Oregon, and I can look a little out of place, even in Portland, when dressed in a skirt and heels with my toes painted red and my hair just so, but still, a little finesse is good. "You're great!" he exclaimed loudly after shaking hands, and I'm pretty certain he seriously contemplated, and only at the last minute decided against going in for a pucker up. Let me just note that I do not have a particular thing against receiving compliments, as a general rule, but this man was loud well to the point of obnoxiousness. He then proceeded to ramble on -- loudly -- about profiles and pictures and other points that may be of interest to bystanders who may be curious about what these online mediated dating services produce.
I knew in an instant I was in for a difficult experience. He talked continually -- and loudly -- the whole time, from start to finish, making dumb jokes, embarrassingly stupid sounding observations and launching into long, rambling, totally irrelevant and disconnected stories about stuff. Just stuff. The exhibit was fairly crowded, too, and it was clear that we, not Rembrandt, were providing the afternoon's entertainment. At first I did the polite nodding and supplied quiet redirecting questions, but that seemed to only make him worse.
Then came the touchy-feely stuff, the staring at me instead of looking at the art, the loud inquiry as to whether or not I would let him flirt with me, the bragging about his car and all the money he has, the suggestive -- loud -- remarks. At one point, his cell phone went off, and I found myself throwing politeness to the winds and saying in a decidedly Angry Mother tone, "Yeah, you need to turn that thing off there, buddy."
One thing I can say for his cell phone talking; it meant that I could actually look at quite a few of the paintings in relative peace by myself. During one of these moments when he was conducting business -- and loudly telling his business partner what a hot chick off of Match he was with -- I came upon the only picture in the exhibit that contained any amount of nudity. It was a portrait of a "Pretty Milkmaid," or some such, with just a slight bit of nipple showing. I thought to myself, "Mary, move away from this before he gets off the phone and catches up." Heeding my wise inner voice, I moved on along.
Yet, even so, when The Cretin did catch up with me, he asked me to guess what his favorite painting was. "We've already seen it," he hints. "Come on, guess."
"I have no idea," I coolly reply.
"Well, let me show you," and off he trots, making a beeline for Pretty Milkmaid Nipple Girl. I turned and walked resolutely back in the other direction.
A few paintings down, he started to pester me some more about flirting: "You know you like it.. it's what we're here for... we like each other."
"No we don't," I whispered back with as much hostility as I can muster, at which point he started playing grab ass with about eight arms around me. I literally crawled out of his octopus grasp, hissing at him treatheningly, all in full view of a roomful of the serious-minded trying to take in a little edifying history and culture. At that moment I was as close as I've ever come to getting out of being a part of an embarrassing public spectacle by making a pointed and spectacular departure, but damned politeness kept me in place. He did seem to simmer down a bit at that point, however, and we were almost through with the exhibit, so I suggested grabbing a quick lunch at the farmer's market across the street in order to hurry things on.
That turned into a sitdown on a park bench, me zoning out his long-winded, loud ramblings (which included more suggestions to kiss, as well as suggesting that I have babies with him if I "lose" a bet I didn't recall making about Al Gore being our next president) while pointedly checking my cell phone for the time and messages. Nothing could phase this man. He was clueless in the way that only the worst social idiots can be. But having that lunch with him was worth it for one thing; at one point, one of those crazy homeless guys who comes up to you and rambles incoherently about disconnected subjects, came up to us and started rambling incoherently about disconnected subjects just as The Cretin was doing at that moment. I acknowledged the homeless guy by looking at him, but my date just kept on rambling incoherently about disconnected subjects right along with him. The two sounded identical. It was like a skit out of one of the nuttier British sitcoms of the Monty Python school. I was laughing out loud, and neither the homeless guy or the date seemed to notice me or each other. The three of us as a trio must have been really something to see. I would give a lot to have that moment captured on film.
At a key moment, I laid out my get-away by saying I was meeting a friend in half and hour and needed to get going. Twenty minutes later, I found a slight opening allowing for me to stand and say I needed to start heading back to my car. He walked me back to the garage, telling me all about various women he's dated who just can't seem to live in the moment because they get caught up in whether or not there is "chemistry." His lack of success in dating seems to be brought down to all these women having "issues." Amazingly enough, the guy was actually married at one point and has three children. Will wonders never cease.
Finally, after ten minutes of standing in front of the garage where I was parked with me repeatedly looking at the time, I finally just held my cell phone with the time display up to his face and said, "That's it. I have to go."
"I know, I know... but I'm never going to see you again." I'm almost stunned that he had managed to suss that out.
I shrugged and walked off telling him, "Just say I have issues."
On my way back out of town, I stopped by Young Theodore's and contemplated his strong qualities.