Midnight in the Olive Garden of Good and Evil

I was having a late lunch today with my daughter. As I was watching the ball game on the overhead TVs, I noticed a couple out of the corner of my eye.  Their conversation; forced and uncomfortable, never had any down time.  I immediately knew what I was watching.  AN INTERNET DATE.   

            

Those poor bastards.  The first internet date:  some people say it’s like a job interview.  It’s not.  It’s more akin to the Spanish Inquisition.  If you can get through it without permanent mental of physical scars, you’re one of the lucky ones.

I tried internet dating a couple years after my divorce.  I hadn’t dated in almost two decades.  I wasn’t very good at it back then.  I was worse now.  I needed help.  So, why not use this new technology to give my love life a little boost.

I signed up for Desperate-and-dateless.com.  I answered all the profile questions and uploaded a couple recent photos.  I was ready.  Within a day or two, the possible matches started rolling in.

“I love long walks at evening, wine tastings, art galleries, theater and operas.  Looking for a sensitive man who loves cats and shares my interests….”  And so it went.  Where were all these cultured and sophisticated women coming from?  Crap!  Women surely got sophisticated during the last few years.

Of I’d get “Techno-pagan goddess seeks equal weirdo to suffer through my severe mood swings and mental instabilities….”  Hmmm… Could I end up tied up and beaten in some basement?  That sounded good in my 20s, but scares the hell out of me now.  DELETE

So, after going through dozens of profiles, I started communicating with some prospective dates What was it with “The Notebook”?  almost every woman I talked to thought it was the greatest movie ever made.  Hadn’t they seen  “Caddy Shack”, or “The Guns of Navarone”?  I just didn’t get it.  I came to the conclusion that Oprah was behind this conspiracy. 

I worked my way through it all and began dating. 

Off to the Olive Garden.  They always wanted to go to an Italian Restaurant for a little carbo loading.  If things don’t work out, I can always load up on bread sticks.

I’m sitting across from this stranger.  They never seem the same as on E mail and the phone.  But, I trudge on.  The conversations were always the same.  I hate my job.  My kids are monsters.  I just love the “Notebook”.  I check to see if my butter knife is sharp enough to cut my wrists. 

Before the salad arrives, I realize my date doesn’t have a heart in there.  Instead, there’s a little troll living on a vinegar drip and rattling a tin cup across her rib cage screaming, “Attica! Attica!”  I hope the ravioli’s good.

By the time the entre arrives, we’re looking at one another like someone farted.  But the conversation continues.  Relentlessly, it continues, never pausing, never having any depth.  On and on, down that long dusty road of banality.  “Oh, please, don’t order dessert.”

The date finally ends. After an uncomfortable hug, I race home to send the “It was nice, but I’m not interested” form letter out. 

The more interesting women I dated were:

Miss No Sense of Personal Space= Goodness she was fun.  But, I didn’t get that close during my honeymoon.

Madam Bathroom Break= I swear she was doing coke.  Each time she returned, she was talking a little faster.  By the end, it was an evening with Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Lady Curse A Lot=  Wow.  I was carpet bombed with colorful language all night long. 

Jacqueline Daniels= What a drunk.  I think she was trying to drink me handsome.  Not enough booze in the world, babe.

And so it went on and on.  It was a death march.  Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.  I decided instead of paying fifty bucks a month to be rejected, I could do it just as well on my own.  It's cheaper, I got off the dating go round and am proud to say, I have been just as unsuccessful on my own.