Bad answers to good questions

First dates often take on the form of job interviews, obviously with the differentiating feature that at the end of a good date there is always the remote possibility that you could ‘get lucky’ with your ‘interviewer’. And just like any decent job interview, the questions tend to be as important as the answers.  As such, seasoned blind daters should have a few good questions tucked up their sleeve for emergency lulls in conversation.

There are few things worst than a first date with stilted – or no - conversation.  Silence only becomes comfortable after years of intimacy or numerous glasses of alcohol, and the awkward silence on a first date is both palpable and highly visible to those in the surrounding area.  In this particular incident, I was enduring a date with someone who appeared to have taken on a vow of silence; at a stretch he was prepared to give a yes/no answer to even my most creative and challenging questions.  Ironically, he seemed to have had a fairly interesting life, had worked in a range of careers and companies, had travelled widely, and had lived abroad for several years.  But this I knew from his profile on a dating site, and not from his short-winded communicative style.  So at a complete loss for topics of discussion, and with half a cup of coffee to go before I could safely make a run for it, I asked what I thought was the ultimate in creative questions – and one that demanded a qualitative response, rather than a one-word retort. 

My innocent question went something like this: “So, it looks like you’ve managed to do so much in your life already.  I have to wonder if there’s anything left that you’ve always dreamed of doing, but haven’t managed to yet?” (I anticipated a response that would go something like “I really want to study for my MBA” or “I dream of dancing salsa in Cuba”).

Who could have anticipated that I would get a response that led me to regret asking this question until this very day. His x-rated, highly-inappropriate response, and I quote word for word, was: “I’ve never had oral sex”. 

I was so shocked my jaw literally dropped (though I closed it immediately lest he misinterpret my pose as some form of invitation…).  This statement was so offensive on so many levels that I felt that the insult of leaving the date halfway through my cup of coffee would pale in significance, and I made for the woods before he could elaborate on any more of his unfulfilled aspirations.

In retrospect, however, I must admit that this may not actually be the worst answer I ever got to a good question. 

Forever etched in my brain is my first and only meeting with Julio, a South American I was introduced to at an intimate gathering of friends.  A couple who knew me and a couple who knew Julio wanted to introduce us, so I suggested that we all meet together to counter the embarrassment inherent in first dates with people with whom one has nothing at all in common (other than being single, that is). 

So the evening started off with my friends and I arriving first, and Julio arriving 15 minutes later. My friend Caryn, who had also never met the potential date, got the honors of the first glance at Julio as he entered (a nice way of describing how he waddled in).  She turned around slowly, faced me with her back to the rest of the group, and mouthed silently: “I’m so, soooo sorry”.  Then in he came, sporting a heavy gold chain that rested nicely on his big hairy chest, which one could not really ignore since his button-down shirt was open all the way through to his belly button.  Still trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, we struggled through some small talk, I asked a few polite questions, as did the others at the dinner party, and I think we all let out a sigh of relief when we were called to the table for dinner. 

And just between the starters and the main course, as a few of us were nibbling on some bread and trying to pretend this was comfortable and fun, I asked what I thought was a classic question.  Of the six of us at the table, five were immigrants who had come to live in Israel from various parts of the world over the previous decade.  So I asked everyone at the table what they missed most about their home countries. 

Our hosts unanimously declared that they missed the food.  Caryn said she missed her friends.  I said I missed my family.  And Julio, bless him, took the opportunity to tell us all that he missed, of all things, the bidet.  THE BIDET.  I looked at Caryn and asked, under my breath, “Did he say SUNDAY?” (wishing desperately that I was right or at least that she’d lie to pacify me.  But no such luck…). Nope, she said out of the side of her mouth.  It was bidet. No doubt about it.  The men at the table laughed out loud, the women chuckled nervously, and I can’t help but wonder whether I was the only one left with a mental image permanently etched in my memory of this hairy creature sitting naked on his marble throne. 

In future, I vow to stick to “So where do you work?” and “Who is your favorite singer?” when trying to break the ice.

The accidental second date

My rule of thumb with my blog is that I never write about anyone who got as much as a second date. Without that kind of restriction, it's probable that potential boyfriends would be nervous to go out with me in fear of appearing as a weekly entry when things went belly up.

The rule does pose a dilemma, however, when the second date is accidental.

A friend of mine had one of those recently, when she showed for a blind date only to realize she'd been fixed up with him before. She was so embarrassed by the situation that she didn't raise the topic of this being their second date. And while it was obvious he recognized her too, he was also apparently too embarrassed to acknowledge the uncomfortable reality of their situation. So they battled their way through their unintentional second date, both pretending it was the first time they'd met, even holding some of the same conversation they'd conducted years before on their first date. She claimed that the funniest part of the entire experience was that for the second time running, at the end of the date he promised to call her even though they both knew that the probability of achieving peace in the Middle East was higher than a third date.

While I've never actually had to go through with an accidental second date, I've certainly had a few close shaves. The example that leaps to mind is my follow-up run-in with Stuart. We met about five years ago, through a dating site. At first, we just corresponded. On paper, we looked like a perfect fit, both ardent Zionists with Anglo-Saxon backgrounds, both writers in hi-tech, voracious readers and a fairly cynical outlook on life. Our email exchange was hilarious, to the extent that we were both rather reluctant to meet in person, just in case the face-to-face meeting didn't live up to the expectations set by our unparalleled written communication.

When we could no longer postpone the inevitable, we went out for a short, awkward dinner of good food and bad chemistry, concluded with a mutual agreement that we would part ways amicably. It was one of those dates that closely resembles a job interview rather than a romantic interlude, and I think we were both grateful when it came to a premature end. The biggest disappointment in this episode was that I lost the best pen-pal I'd ever had, and I remember his sharp written wit to this day.

It seems, however, that I did not warrant the same solid impression. A number of years after our first (and only) date, I met friends for a drink one night and they introduced me to the very same guy - Stuart. My initial reaction was to blush, then to stutter, and I was impressed at how cool he was in the face of what could have been a most awkward situation. I was amazed at the way he managed to pretend we'd never met, and wondered how long it would take before he'd call me aside to comment on how potentially embarrassing the situation was.

It took about half an hour for the penny to drop. I realized that it was not pure class facilitating Stuart's smooth reaction to me – it was the fact that he truly believed this was the first time we'd ever met. I played along for a while, but when he starting going through his repertoire of interview questions from the first date all those years ago, I couldn't take it any more. I was forced to ask whether he was experiencing any kind of déjà vu at all. He was blown away when I reminded him that we had not only met before, but that we'd gone on a date that was preceded by weeks of correspondence. And even then there was no glimmer of recognition, just a blank look followed by a stammer of apology and the quickest getaway I've witnessed in all my years of dating. To some extent I envy Stuart's sieve-like memory - some dates really are best left forgotten.

Dating as an Olympic sport

Bad dating is so competitive it should be declared an Olympic sport. Sure, everyone is happy when single friends meet great partners and embark on new relationships. But there is just as much – if not more - excitement when a blind date goes wrong and a funny story follows. And for every bad date story out there, someone has one just that much worse to regale.

The most challenging category in the bad dating genre has to be that of shortest date (otherwise known as quickest rejection). There are many horror stories to be told about bad first impressions, and since this is a competitive sport the stories I am writing about today are not mine alone.

I was shocked to hear a friend's story – years ago – of a date that lasted just 10 minutes. It was a fix-up through common acquaintances, and the two potential partners met at the top of a popular walkway in Jerusalem. They agreed to go for a cup of coffee at the bottom of the street, requiring a 5-minute walk. By the time they reached the coffee house, he had decided that he was just not that keen, and told her that he'd prefer not to waste any more of either of their time by following through with coffee. My friend was left standing on her own next to a coffee shop she had no interest in entering, having shared nothing more than a handshake with the man who had just rejected her. At the time, that was by far the shortest date I'd heard of, and I was horrified by the lack of tact he had displayed by calling such an abrupt end to the pre-date.

Imagine my surprise, then, when another friend met someone through a dating site, arrived at the designated meeting spot, said hello to her date, and got the following response: "I don't think so", before he got up and left the bar. While we've all heard of foreplay, this rejection was nothing more than a four-word foreword of a date, and its sting lasted a lot longer than the meeting itself.

And just when I thought this friend had won the gold medal for shortest, most humiliating date ever, I almost met Eli. Eli and I lived an hour apart, and we had come across one another on a dating site a week before. After a couple of emails and a quick phone call, we decided to meet up and see whether there was any point investigating a 'long distance' connection (since Israel is so tiny, an hour's distance between partners sometimes seems like an insurmountable obstacle to overcome). So we decided to meet in Caesaria – a good location because it was a central point between where we both lived at the time, but even better for a first date because there's a lot to see and do there, just in case there's not much to talk about (not unusual when the only thing you have in common is that you've both resorted to cyberspace dating to find your one and only….).

I arrived first, found a shady spot and waited for Eli to arrive. He arrived 10 minutes later, and I directed him to a parking place next to mine. While we had swapped photographs before the meeting, I couldn't help but feel an all-too-familiar pang of disappointment as he parked his car and I realized his photo was not exactly recent. It had been taken about 15 years before, when he was in his prime, and like a good car, his physical condition had very obviously rapidly depreciated since then. I worked hard at not letting my disappointment show on my face as I got out my car and walked over to greet him. After all, looks are not everything and it was quite possible that his personality would make up for his deteriorated exterior. It's not as if I walked off the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine.

But as fate would have it, from the very briefest of encounters, I have to declare that his personality is a perfect fit with his physical appearance. He got out his car, looked at me, and gave me the one-word verbal version of the finger-flip. "No", he said, before getting into his car and shooting out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, never to be seen or heard of again. I was left in the dust, gob smacked, looking in vain for the candid camera crew to pop out and yell that it had all been a hoax. But no such luck.

And with that, I officially became world champion in the category of shortest date in history. Let me know if you can beat my score.

On dating dogs

There was a time when I insisted on two criteria being met before I'd allow friends to give my number out. First, the matchmakers had to actually KNOW both me and my potential date (or at least they should have met the guy at least once); and second, I wanted to know we had something in common other than that we were both single.

However, following a particularly dry patch, I was considering lowering my criteria to the point of if he trimmed his nose hair before the first date, I would meet him. So when my friend Michal suggested I meet someone she'd heard was nice, but had never met, I decided to give it a go. Ran was the brother of a friend of a friend, and all I knew before the date was that he was my age and lived in Tel Aviv.

A quick pointer about dating people who live in Tel Aviv: If you don't live there yourself, be prepared to travel. A lot. Because people who live in Tel Aviv don't leave the city after dark under any circumstances. The reason is simple - while love may be unconditional, parking is not, and no self-respecting Tel Aviv resident would consider giving up a parking place just to go on a date.

This in mind, Ran and I arranged to meet in Tel Aviv late one Sunday night. The late hour suited me because I was going to a cooking course earlier in the evening and was grateful for the time to go home and shower before the date. The cooking course entailed preparing different types of meat in different types of conditions, and lasted three hours. By the time I walked out of there I smelled like I'd taken a long bath in marinade and dried myself off with a beef pattie.

On my way home, I got a call from Ran that if I didn't mind, he'd like me to come to Tel Aviv earlier for our 'meeting'. I explained that I'd just come out of a cooking course and it would be worth his while to give me time to shower before meeting. But he was insistent that it would make no difference and all-but-pleaded with me to join him at his favourite bar, as soon as possible.

In fact, he said, he and Basel were walking there at that very moment, so the sooner I got there, the better.

"Basel?" I asked.

"My best friend", he responded. "We go everywhere together. I hope you don't mind".

Now I must admit that this was a first for me. It's all very well going on a blind date, smelling like a well-done entrecote, to meet someone I know literally nothing about. But now this was becoming a threesome, and my date was clearly wandering into 'not my thing' territory.

Against all my better instincts, I agreed to meet Ran and Basel at a bar in Tel Aviv. To cover myself, I clarified from the word go that we'd have a quick drink and I would be on my way.
To my relief, I discovered a lovely little bar, with a very non-offensive Ran waiting in it for me. And with Ran was Basel, his 'best friend' - a silver-haired, slim Weimaraner. The Weimaraner in adult form is the closest canine you will find to the equine family. Not clear enough? It's a dog disguised as a horse. Beautiful and almost my height, Basel turned out to be a lot more interested, and a LOT more demonstrative, than his owner.

While Ran and I tried to make small talk, Basel tried to make little puppies. With my leg. It seemed that while the smell of the basted beef may not have had an effect on my date, it was particularly provocative for his best friend, who alternated from rubbing my thighs with his long nose, to grabbing my back with his front legs while being vigorously attentive to my calves with his back legs. And they say males can't multitask…

After half a glass of beer and some subtle attempts to extract the hound's snout from my privates, both Ran and I realized it was a losing battle. Trying to stop Basel from embracing my meaty aroma was nothing less than animal abuse. And there was no way I could continue permitting being petted by a pooch in a public place, so we packed it in early and called it a night.

Needless to say, as happens with the male species when they get their way on the first date - I never heard from the dog again.

What are THEY writing about ME?

After much deliberation about how appropriate my blog would be for a parental audience, I showed my mom my blog. While she was amused to read the stories she's already heard me tell ad nauseum, she did wonder out loud whether I thought there were any 'ex-dates' out there who would be tempted to write similar stories about their experiences with me. While I have obviously dated plenty of men who were not inclined to go for a second date, there are only three experiences that I can think of which would warrant re-telling for amusement purposes.

Coming in at number 3 is my cousin's wife's brother (mentioned briefly in "The Recurring Bad Date"). From my perspective, the date was great fun: in fact, I remember claiming I had never met anyone who could be that funny and still maintain a deadpan face all night long. He literally cracked me up. But from his perspective? It must have felt like a never-ending episode with a giggle machine. How was I to know that he was being dead serious about his childhood traumas, when his stories were so hilarious they made me cry with laughter? There he was, baring his soul about some of his life's deepest disturbances, and I treated his tale of woe as a night of stand-up never to be forgotten. Not too surprising that I never heard from him again…

With incident number 2, I was introduced to a friend of a friend of a friend. The blindest kind of date possible – where two mutual friends decided to fix up two of their friends, having never met one of the two people being introduced. And since the meeting is through 'friends', there's no swapping of pictures beforehand and no idea what to expect when waiting for your date to arrive. All I knew was that we would meet on a corner in Herzliyya on a warm spring night. I arrived a little early, and was chatting to a friend on the phone – laughing actually, with my mouth wide open – when a fly chose to make a swift entrance into my mouth and was promptly swallowed. The person I was talking to bore aural witness to the episode, as he listened to me trying desperately to regurgitate the fly before it took up permanent residence in my body. The noises emerging from the back of my throat sounded a lot like the Chinese man in Monty Python who had a pubic hair caught in the back of his throat (as my friend generously pointed out). My friend, however, only got to hear my attempts to free the fly. What he did not get to witness were the contortions that accompanied the GGGHHHHHHHHHHHAAAHHHH sounds, including back-slapping, torso swaying (resembles head banging but with the entire upper body region moving backward and forward violently), and vigorous head shaking, in a desperate effort to dislodge the creature making its way down my throat. Got the picture? So did the blind date, innocently walking up the street to meet someone who seemed to be having a very loud epileptic fit on the street corner. Perhaps due to his European sensibilities, he did not see fit to ask why I was doing the kazatzka on the street – and due to my personal South African inhibitions, I couldn't bring myself to actually tell this man I'd never met that I'd swallowed a fly. One glass of wine later, he made a break for it, understandably never to be heard from again.

And the number one story, which I've dined out on for years, is only a 'dating' story in my own imagination. It happened many years ago, when I carried a few kilos less in body weight and a few layers more in self confidence. I was a student at Hebrew University and a friend who was studying in the States asked me to get a Hebrew translation of a philosophy book for him from the university bookstore. I approached the man at the counter to ask whether they had the book in stock, and saw his face light up like he'd just won the jackpot. He went into a diatribe on the book, the quality of the translation, the author…at which point I came to the realization that this guy who looked like he'd walked straight off the set of 'Revenge of the Nerds' had fallen for me: hook, line and sinker. And while he continued to rant on, I could literally picture him calling his mother later to tell her he'd met 'the one'. It was several seconds later that I realized he'd asked a question and I hadn't heard what he asked. When I asked him to repeat his question, he asked me for my phone number. At this point I was faced with the age-old dilemma – do I give him my real number and kick myself afterwards? Do I give him a false number and feel guilty afterwards? Or do I tell a little white lie and let him down gently? I went for the latter, explaining that while he seemed to be a great guy, I had a boyfriend and was not available. At which point he looked directly at me and said, "Ok. I have a wife and a baby at home. Now that we've cleared up our personal situations, how would you like me to reach you when the book you're looking for arrives?". I can only imagine how many times HE's eaten out on that story…