As we know, because I am some kind of sadomasochist with a thing for uncomfortable social situations, I occasionally dabble in Internet dating.
It hasn't been all bad. I've made some new friends, had some fun, and only had to provide one of them with a written declaration that I wouldn't write about him on my blog. (Yes, really. In writing. I resisted the urge to tell him that only really interesting people end up here.)
But, you know, it's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye. Or somebody (me) makes their escape to the ladies room, calls a SOS-texts a mate to make an 'emergency' phone call in ten minutes time, and then Tweets about it.
All that within the first half hour. Online dating is a terrifying place, remember?
I normally make a point of speaking with potential dates on the phone before I meet them– at least that way you know if they're capable of holding a conversation. I hate nothing more than sitting in an uncomfortable silence.
I neglected to make that phone call before this date. More fool me. By text message and email, this guy was so well spoken, and he seemed to fit all the criteria– a few years older than me, two kids the same ages as mine, understands the dynamic of the basic question-answer-response-question dynamic.
I won't guide you through the whole thing. It was painful to live through as it is. I think I can sum it up in a few sentences...
Not two children, but three. One almost the same age as me.
Lots of tattoos. Which is fine by me, I love tats. But not those faded, patchy blue jail tattoos. Especially when one of them is your ex–wife's name on your ring finger.
He stunk of bourbon from the moment he got there, and was utterly disgusted that the TinyTrainTown, where I live, doesn't have a pub. The nearest one is seven whole kilometers away, and "How the f*ck are you supposed to walk back from there, love?"
I heart tools. Obviously.
Now, please, don't get wrong... all that I could have taken with salt (and possibly tequila), and still had a good night. If only he hadn't been one of those men I've discussed before, who just cannot hold a conversation. This bloke was happier to sit in silence, or mock the fellow patrons of the sleazy, dark bar he'd bought me to ("Oh, did you want dinner, love? I've already eaten. And the food here looks sh*t") rather than actually try to find out anything at all about the person he was not-dining. One syllable answers. No questions, stories, opinions, and refused to take conversation-bait when it was offered....
Get me the f*ck out of here.
I've had a system working with a friend of mine for a while now. If she knows I'm on a date and I text her saying 'SOS', she waits ten minutes and then calls me, pretending to be the babysitter, and oh no, my little one’s sick, gotta go, see you later.
Anyone who's brave enough to date-especially online- needs a safeguard like this one. Trust me. And a huge thank you to all my Tweeps who offered to bail me out and rescue me by shifty phone call– legends.
And, why, yes, before anyone points it out... I do feel like a total bitch. Or I did. Until Mr Bad Date rang me the next four nights in a row at somewhere between the hours of midnight and two am, and left me some lovely drunken voicemails... which I've kept on the odd chance I may need a restraining order at some point in the not too distant future.
I'm determined not to get too jaded. Or something. Hey, if nothing else... bad dates make for excellent blog fodder.