A Prig in a Poke

"And so, dear reader, I married him."

Jane Eyre’s immortal words, spoken directly to the reader in a manner sure to shock and thrill the Victorian mentality, would be just as shocking on this weblog, for entirely different reasons.

Tad wants a second date. Apparently he hasn’t read my blog (yet another reason NOT to go out with him). Apparently he thinks talking about serial killers on a first date is something a normal human would do. Apparently he thinks fussy Brooks Brothers sweater sets and Dad jeans turn a girl on. Apparently he thinks showing me (on his ever-on-the-tabletop Blackberry) a website revealing how few Americans have $500 in their savings accounts is an appropriate form of wooing. Apparently he thinks I didn’t realize he’d lied about his height (believe me, in matters of size, an inch or two here and there MATTER). Apparently he thinks I didn’t realize he has a mild form of autism which has escaped treatment his entire life and rendered him, sadly, a walking insult.

The man had never heard of Hunter S. Thompson. He vacations at his parents’ house in the suburbs. He was discussing marriage and children by the end of the first date (which, I remind you, was not supposed to be a real date, more a job interview for the position of Escort To The Reunion).

Why does every member of the Cheapskate Association fall for me like a tree for a saw? If I’m going to accidentally attract people, why can’t I attract a generous wealthy guy instead of a guy who’d rather be buried with his money like a Pharoah? Damn it! This guy went far beyond cheap, though. He was cheap, boring, and insulting: a triple-play. When he walked me to my car (me praying the whole way he wouldn’t try to kiss me with his thin, slobbery, wholly un-sensual lips), he said, “It’s a good thing I’m not a serial killer, because this quiet, deserted street would be the perfect place to murder you.”

Who the hell says that on a date? Who the hell says that, period?

He mentioned that for our second date, he wanted to prepare a bunch of stories to tell me and have me guess whether they were true or made up. Seriously. SERIOUSLY. What the hell kind of entertainment is that?

Speaking of stories to tell, El-Zizabeth emailed me Tuesday with gossip about a guy (similarly cheap) who was once quite obsessed with me in the town where I used to live. I called her as soon as I got the email, which said only “B.C. is a good friend of V.D. He told her all about you.”

A sentence like that will put the fear of God in you. To find out a guy whose initials alone are disgusting is telling one of the town’s biggest gossips “all about you” when you know he doesn’t know “all about you…”

On the phone, El-Zizabeth told me the story. V.D.’s been telling a woman with whom he hangs out (whom I happened to have gone to school with, and who happens to be one of the biggest loudmouths in the history of small towns everywhere) that he was in love with me but now I won’t talk to him any more. “She asked him why you don’t talk to him any more, and he said he didn’t know.” Christ. Men are such clueless creatures. I’d feel sorry for them if they weren’t always causing such massive harm through their cluelessness. At least he’s been honest and admitted nothing ever happened between us, that it was all one-sided.

He’s married, he’s disgusting, and he’s a complete freak. Yet he can’t understand why I stopped talking to him about the time I realized he was going way, way past the bounds of friendship. Now he’s going around spreading his tale of woe all over town and damaging my good name in the process. I may be a lot of things, but homewrecker I ain’t.

Why is it when I want a friend all I find are would-be lovers and when I want a lover all I find are scary, cheap, insulting prigs? Sheesh. Nunnery, here I come.