29 November, 2010

Six of the best

So as the behaviour of my dates hasn't improved a whit since my last post of dating tips (see Eight Easy Steps to Dating Bliss), it's time to post some more. 
  • Turn off your mobile phone. Or at the very least, don’t answer it. Sitting in a bar nursing a drink and watching you talk to your ex-girlfriend is boring, and makes you look like a wanker.
  • Don’t pick your face. Yes, I can see you. No, you’re not being discreet. Don’t do it. It’s disgusting. Oh god, now you’re bleeding.
  • Wash your clothes. This doesn’t mean spray them with Lynx. It means putting them in the washing machine with detergent and turning it on. The smell of stale sweat and body grease makes me more nauseous than two bottles of gin and a guilty conscience.
  • Be aware of my personal space. Look, unless I’m giving you the vibe, and believe me, I’m not a girl whose vibe you can miss, do not crowd me. There’s plenty of room on your side of the table. There’s no need for you to move over to mine (don’t believe this happens? Take a look at Mike Yanagita). And don’t touch my legs under the table either, you cretin.
  • If such a thing is possible, could you not adjust your testicles while you're talking to me?
  • Finally, it’s probably best not to talk about how you’re recovering from gastro when we’re having dinner. If you’re sick, stay home. Don’t spray your filthy bacteria all over me. And you’d better not come near me with that pox-ridden mouth either. Jesus Christ.

22 November, 2010

The Movie Buff

God, when will I ever learn.

So this bloke is crazy about movies.  And I mean crazy.  The more obscure the better.  I'd say it was pretentious, but seriously, it's more like insane.  Obsessed.  We'd had a bit of parlay back and forth by email.  I kept postponing him because I had better offers (yes my darlings, not every date I have ends up here - some of them are quite nice), until eventually I couldn't in conscience say no one more time, and he, frankly wouldn't give up.  And still hasn't I might add.

First things first.  He turned up a half hour late.  I really fucking hate this.  If you can't make it by six thirty, then don't say you'll be there at six thirty.  It is the very height of rudeness to keep someone waiting, even if you call to say you'll be late.  Black mark.

Then when he did arrive he was, well, so beige, so utterly bland and devoid of anything resembling cool that I knew, with sinking heart, that this was going nowhere, and I had at least two hours of chit chat before I could escape.  And he was kinda fat.

I bought the first round. 

We talked about film.  He was excited.  And when I say excited, think Tom Cruise on the couch excited. 

As the restaurant was full, we decided to get some food delivered to the table in the bar.  He goes up to the counter and orders dinner and another round of drinks.  When he sat down, he quite deliberately placed the receipt on the table between us.

Now I'm the sort of girl who always pays half on dates.  There are two reasons:

  1. I don't think it's fair to expect anyone to pay for my dinner when they don't know me at all, and
  2. I don't want them to think I'm obliged to put out at the end of the night.  Because I'm not.  Even if they do pay for dinner. 
So I said "Oh, did you pay for dinner?"  by which I meant, did you pay now, as opposed to them giving us a bill at the end of the night.  And he answered, rather snakily I thought:

"Well, it doesn't pay for itself, does it."

Black Mark 2.

I didn't have the right change at the time, so after a half hour or so, I bought the third round of drinks.  Afterward I realised that he'd ripped me off.  I bought the first round, half the second round and the third round.  Not that it matters really, but I find tight-arsery very unattractive in a fellow.

In spite of snarky cheapness, he was all enthusiasm.  Talking about the movies he hoped we'd watch together, how he looked forward to meeting my dog, how amazing it was that he'd found someone so very on his wavelength.  Schmuck.

Anyway, he's still emailing me.  I've told him politely no.  He's now angling to "be friends".  I have enough friends, I told him.  I've stopped replying.

19 November, 2010

The Quantum Physicist

You think I'm kidding don't you.  And look, I know it's been a while, and there will be more updates forthcoming.  Possibly on the weekend, but here's a little tidbit to tide you over.

So I was contacted on this site by a quantum physicist.  Now quantum physics really isn't my speciality, in fact, I'm not ashamed to admit that I got as far as chapter 2 of A Brief History of Time before my brain imploded.  I did read chapter 3 anyway, because black holes and spaghettification are cool.  But the point is that while I love science, I really do, I don't get physics.

This didn't deter my new friend, with whom I exchanged a few messages.  He gave me his personal email. Which is when I asked a question too difficult for even a man of his intellectual stature to answer.  It was "can I see your photo?"

Einstein has disappeared.  On reflection, scientists aren't known for their beauty (with the exception of a few of my fine pals who are scientists - yes Jesse and Ian, I'm talking about you).  Obviously he's got a head like a foot and realised that while a bit of witty banter might get him a foot in the door, if that foot's connected to a body and or head that looks like a half-eaten sausage roll, it's not going to get him laid.

I've got ten bucks says he has a beard.  If he should send me a pic, you know I'll share it.  Fingers crossed!