I’ve been somewhat uncharacteristically serious as of late, so I thought now would be a good time to interject some humor.
Last year, in the midst of moving, I thought it would be a good time to try online dating yet again. Amongst the responders was a gentleman I’ll refer to as Olive Garden, henceforth and forever now referred to as OG.
OG was older than me, by 13 years in fact. He was widowed with two children, a son in his early 20s and a daughter in her mid teens. His profile pic was blurry, but from what I could make out, he looked a bit like Jeffrey Dean Morgan, only with grey-er hair.
Not bad, right?
OG got the ball rolling by asking about my cats. I was a bit surprised that out of all the things in my profile he could reference in an opening message, he chose my cats but hey! It meant the guy had actually read my profile. This was a good sign. His profile on the other hand didn’t leave much for me to talk about as it was about as basic as you could get. He liked to watch tv, play cards, and work in the yard.
I hate yard work (I know, I know; kind of ironic I’d buy a house but I can’t afford both a mortgage AND association fees), and cards really aren’t my thing unless it’s Euchre. And I’ve been drinking. And it’s 2:30 in the morning at one of my Favorite Things parties. And Jen won’t shut up about playing Euchre. 😉
Anyways… I figured the more I talked to OG, the more I’d discover what we had in common. In our emails he mentioned he liked museums, and I grew hopeful. I asked if he liked hockey and baseball, but alas, he liked football and basketball. Despite the fact that his messages, both email and text, were laden with grammatical problems, I persisted and kept telling myself I was being too critical (this coming from a woman who has a sign on her desk reading “I’m silently correcting your grammar” courtesy of her friend Sassie Booties).
So when he asked if I’d like to meet, I said yes.
I thought maybe we’d meet for a drink or coffee, but he only drinks pop or water. Then I suggested maybe we could walk around the DIA Friday night, but he wanted to meet sooner.
So against my better judgment, I agreed that he could come to my house.
I JUST SAID IT WAS AGAINST MY BETTER JUDGMENT! I also took safety measures by telling my friend Jessica he was coming over. She made me promise that I’d text her every 15 minutes to let her know I was alive.
And let me just mention here and now that I had only been in my house for a week. So boxes were everywhere and the only room being even close to unpacked was my kitchen.
In all honesty, no one had anything to worry about.
OG arrived right on time wearing a hoodie sweatshirt, a black t-shirt, and Levis. While this may have been a good outfit for Jeffrey Dean Morgan…
… OG was no Jeffrey Dean Morgan. It was obvious from the moment I opened the door that OG’s profile pic was a year or ten out of date.
First, he wasn’t salt-and-pepper gray as I had believed, but rather completely grey. Second, he had really bad teeth. Third, OG had doused himself in his son’s Axe body spray. And finally…
… OG was boring as hell.
That statement could, in fact, offend Hell. In truth, if I were Hell, comparing me to OG would be downright insulting.
Before OG arrived, I had dug out a box of playing cards from one of the boxes labeled “den.” Upon his arrival, OG decided we should play Rummy.
I’ve never played Rummy before, I explained.
“I’ll teach you,” was Og’s response.
Five minutes later, I was playing Rummy.
And OG was proving what a stunning conversationalist he wasn’t.
The man was silent, except for the occasional Rummy pointer.
“So, um, do you have any brothers and sisters?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’re not close.”
Five minutes go by. “So how many of each do you have?”
“Each of what?”
“Brothers and sisters,” I clarified.
“Oh. Four sisters and four brothers.”
“Where do you fall in the birth order?” I queried.
“Fifth. I’m right in the middle.”
He never asked if I had any siblings.
My internal monologue was variations on the “What in the hell do I talk to this guy about?” theme.
“So, what’s your favorite restaurant?” I asked.
“I don’t eat out much,” he replied. “It’s expensive.”
“Okay, but let’s say it’s your birthday or something. Where do you go?” Anything to get this guy talking.
“Oh.” Pause. “I guess Olive Garden, but they’re getting up there in price.”
Now just for a moment, imagine my dismay. There I was, at the time working as the marketing director for three of the pricier restaurants in town. Places where $25 is the average price for an entree. And this guy is telling me that the Olive Garden was pricey.
I kept making stabs at conversation. Somehow we got to talking about utility bills of all things.
“Yeah, I had the day off the other day and stopped in at the water department to pay my bill. My water bill went up $18! I mean, I paid it and all, but I had to have a serious conversation with my kids about not wasting water.”
I’d spent $200 on a kate spade purse and wallet three weeks beforehand, and OG was concerned that his water bill had increased $18 from one quarter to the next.
I asked about his deceased wife.
“She was a user.”
“I’m sorry, what? She was using drugs?” I asked, slightly alarmed yet also vaguely excited. It was the most interesting thing OG had said all night.
“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that,” OG assured me.
“Oh,” I replied, somewhat deflated and disappointed.
“No, she was seven years older than me. I think she just wanted to marry anyone who came along and I was it. She got pregnant right after we got married. And she never worked. So she was using me for my money and insurance.”
“How’d she die?” I asked.
“Breast cancer. Yeah. She had it twice. The second time is when she died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must’ve been rough on you and the kids.”
“Yeah, I guess. Probably worse for my kids. I just wanted a divorce, but she died. Didn’t even leave us with a life insurance policy.”
To be continued….