The Best Use of Our Time

The last on-line date I went to was a coffee. The man was a bit petite, not particularly cute but okay, bearded and mildly interesting. He works in advertising and is having some personal issues with a co-worker. I had a good time during our hour together, though my socks did not fly off (as in knock your socks off), but good enough. Good enough for a second date. During the date (Cafe Grumpy, Park Slope, so at least I had a tasty latte with foam shaped into a leaf) he mentioned that if I'd like to go out again I should let him know because he would like to. Do you know where I'm headed with this? Because I think you do.

I emailed him in couple of days later, said I had a nice time and would be up for going out again. The response? First he wrote that he wasn't going to respond to my email but then thought maybe he should and that he did not think it would be the best use of our time to go on a second date. I couldn't help but write back that, look buddy, I hadn't registered at Pottery Barn just yet, but I thought we had a semi-pleasant conversation.

That goes in the whatever column.

In the WTF column, a guy I showed my apartment to, for a sublet, began asking me out via texts. When I met with him to show the apartment, he seemed hyper, manic, or on drugs like coke or in need of drugs, like for ADHD. He bounced on the balls of his feet exclaiming that I charged too little for the sublet and he paid $500 more for a box in Nolita. He used the bathroom (suspect, right?). Then he left and a week later he invited me to a party, then drinks, then dinner, then drinks again. Each time I said no thanks.

Finally, finally, in a moment of pure shoulder shrugging who cares, I agreed to one beverage on a Sunday night at Temple Bar. After we made the plans a friend asked me to go climbing in Brooklyn I said I couldn't because I had other plans. Do you know where this story is going? I bet you do.

I show up, he doesn't. I send a text: the place is closed, meet next door? He responds suggesting the Boom Boom Room. I question if this is code for something gross. I don't understand. I try to assume it is an actual place and text back I don't know it. No response. I say to myself I was 10 minutes late and he gets 10 minutes more then I'm gone. I hop on the subway, waiting for my chariot at Penn Station and the texts begin to flow. Sorry, sweetie. Where are you, girl? Then the drunken voicemail, slurring, the works. Dozens of texts continue for a couple weeks until I text him that I'm moving back to the West Coast to be closer to my fiance. He wrote back immediately, oh come on.

I met this man for five minutes to show him a sublet.

This is all to say I'm depressed. Men, if this is the level of quality you have to offer, count me out.

I'm participating in Operation Cheer the Fuck Up. I have to give B. credit for the idea and title. It goes like this.

1) Take self off dating site.
2) No dating allowed.
3) Move back to Portland.
4) That's all I got.