I Googled You

Year: 2014
Scene of the Crime: Topo Gigio in Old Town
Time of Day: 8:00 pm (work night)
Moral of the Story: If he looks like Desi Collings from Gone Girl, he probably is
Rating: 4 out of 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

Just last month, I celebrated my 30th birthday. I couldn't wait to graduate from my 20's and ring in a new decade with all of my favorite people in one place. The party started at noon and went on all day. Towards the end of the night, I began to chat with a guy I will call "Dustin" who had friends who knew friends of my friends or something along those lines. Things start to get a little fuzzy because it had been a long day that extended to a late night club with a guy friend of mine, who I don't get to see that often. This Dustin character wanted to meet up at this later establishment, which was a bad idea because I just wanted to have a fun birthday and wasn't in the mood to entertain or "get to know someone" on the night of my big day. In true Desi Collings style, he showed up and tried to talk to me all night despite me bopping all over the place in my margarita and confetti glory.

Around 11:00 pm, I decide that I need to call it a night, exchanged numbers with him so that we can chat more under normal circumstances later on in the week. I should mention that this bar or club has a little person dancing with blown up safari animals on the bar and dry ice that blasts confetti from the ceiling every 15 minutes...ON A SUNDAY NIGHT. It’s gross. C’mon people, does no one work on Mondays? I digress...

After a week of small talk via texting and a few calls, we meet for dinner (1st mistake) at my favorite Italian restaurant (2nd mistake). As soon as I sit down, I realize that Dustin is in it to win it with a list of questions Barbara Walters would salivate over. There was no small talk-he cut right to the chase and asked me what my top three deal breakers were. Without holding back I riddled off 1) suburbs 2) smoking/drugs and 3) bad manners. As I spit these out, I remember him telling me he lived in a western suburb approximately 45 minutes away--whoops! I tried to counter-inquire, but every time he would deflect the question or change the subject all together.

During a mere moment of awkward silence (while I was chewing) he tells me that he Googled me and not only watched all of my work media segments, but also listened to my radio clips and would finger quote “ “ lines from them throughout the evening. After delivering one of my lines he'd laugh and pause before I had to ask "What? Oh-was that something I said on-air or something?" I understand how this could be flattering, but that is not something anyone wants to hear on a first date. It's too much pressure and screams: STALKER

Next, he asks me how many kids I want to have. When I tell him, I don't know (that’s a lie) and don't really want to discuss offspring over my eggplant, he tells me that he can see me having three to four because I am very nurturing and have a strong maternal instinct. I don't know if he gathered that from how gingerly I buttered my baguette or used the butter knife to cut my eggplant (because I dropped my steak knife on the ground when he wasn't looking.)

I gradually steer the conversation to a more neutral topic of hobbies where he tells me that his would be to make me happy and convert to a suburbanite. He goes on to tell me that he has four bedrooms waiting to be filled (winks) and that his master bathroom has 'his' and 'hers' sinks all ready to go if I'd like to see them or stay for a weekend to test it out. As a negotiating tool, he asks me how much I make (I don't tell) and he tells me that whatever it is, he’s sure he makes twice as much and that I can live in luxury with him in the burbs…if I wanted to. Gee, where do I sign-NOT!

His next "area of concern" with me is my friendship with my male friends. He doesn't believe that men and women can have platonic relationships and tells me that if we were to marry, that I wouldn't be allowed to spend one-on-one time with them. "Not that he didn't trust me, or anything." [I’m 99.9 % sure his house has 99 cameras set up]

His finally nail in the coffin, as if he needed another one, was when he asked me to rate the date on a 1-10 scale. I opted out of a number rating an instead used my words and told him that it was "the most intense and expedited first date I've ever been on" and "that it was a first for so many sensitive topics." He said that he was so happy we became exclusive and was worried we would break up if he came on too strong and scared me off.  I had to quickly put out that fire and let him know that we were absolutely not exclusive as that is rarely the outcome of any first date unless you're a Duggar.

I flagged a cab and told him it was nice to see him again (I lied again-I couldn't help it.) He said he’d call me in a few days which gave me 72 hours to create an exit strategy. I, thankfully, had my suburban detest going for me that was my #1 leading point. Three days later he called to invite me to his house for the weekend and I (immaturely) responded via text that I didn't think it was a good idea to see each other given our vastly different life stages and priorities. He didn't go down without a fight. He left several 5 minute voice mails saying that “this always happens” and that he knows I am “the girl for him” and I need to listen to my heart. Luckily my head and heart were in full agreement on this one, which is not a common occurrence and I stood my ground on nixing any further dates or communication.

Bloody Fists and Divvy Bikes will Kill Ya

Year: 2014
Scene of the Crime: Tripoli Tap
Time of Day: After Work
Moral of the Story: The logo for tinder is a flame because that's how their dates go... (down in flames)
Rating: 4 out of 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

Earlier this fall, I went out with a guy "Byron" who I swiped right on Tinder. SMH  Go ahead-judge on. Just like the saying "You get what you pay for." You get what you, swipe." He was 40 years old, had red hair and freckles* and seemed like a really fun guy. His 120 characters stated that he loved to make people laugh, so I assumed that he was funny or at the very least, sarcastic-a trait I often marvel over. Well, you know what they say when you ASS-U-ME...

From the minute he walked in, I knew this was going to be bad. I just had a gut feeling based on how we walked. Not just because of his disheveled appearance, but by his odd facial expression and posture. He was wearing tattered jeans, dirty sneakers and a stained thermal button up t-shirt. He claimed he had just come from volunteering at a soup kitchen with his female bestie. The bar was at the end of his street, so it didn’t make sense why he couldn’t swing home for 5 minutes and freshens up for a first date. Boys! I mention his female BFF, Krissy, because her name is brought up in just.about.every.single sentence.of.every.story. Why he didn't invite Krissy to have drinks-I will never understand.

After we say hello, he ushers me out to the back "patio" of this hellacious dive bar, where there are no heaters, lights or service and it's about 30 degrees and pitch black. It was here where I was sure I would be killed and never seen again. Murdered I was not, but ransacked by a rat the size of Texas-I was. I squealed, but Byron screamed like girl and threw his grown, husky man-legs onto my dress covered-lap for fear that rat would scurry across his feet and comprise his precious tennies.

I suggested we head back inside at which point he leaped to his feet and marched on ahead of me (very chivalrous, I know). Not even three steps inside the bar, his left arm sweeps upwards and his bottle of Bud Light goes thrashing 10 feet forward, towards the wall and shatters, spewing stale beer all across the already sticky floor. What happens next is appalling...

He keeps walking and does NOTHING! NOTHING! He proceeds to pull out a bar stool for himself and acts like nothing happened. Mind you-I was walking behind him, so I unfortunately witnessed the entire accident. I asked the bartender for towels to help clean up while he perused the beer taps. This bar is a one woman show, so the bartender is also the server, custodian and security. Her cleaning up his broken beer meant he had to wait for her to finish cleaning before he could order another one.

When she returned to the bar, he ordered another drink and started ranting about how he wants to breed feral cats to eradicate the rat problem on his street and is using his hands for emphasis.[Sidebar-forget the fact that I work for an animal shelter where breeding of anything is strongly discouraged, let alone stray cats.] During this display, I notice that his left, beer slinging hand has a tiny cut and he has a little (I stress little) bit of blood on it. He RUNS to the men's room and runs back out yelling at the "barkeep" to fetch him a first aid kit. She only has hydrogen peroxide, gauze and some tampons. He reaches for the tampons to "clot his deep wound" and request the hydrogen peroxide be poured on his index finger. I've had hang nails and paper cuts bleed more than this "wound." The barkeep looked at me, rolled her eyes and did as he asks. As I choked back my own vomit, I witnessed the world's most atrocious thing done on a wooden bar...blood dabbing. The "wound" doesn’t' even fizz, but he proceeded to dab his finger on a cocktail napkin until it was a red polka dot mess of his blood and bad memories of the slippery Bud Light. Instead of concealing the cut and downplaying it like any real man would do, he made it a focus of the night as if he just survived a death defying act of danger.

After about two hours of painfully cynical conversation, I made it clear that I do not want another drink and needed to get going. I didn't really, but I couldn't bare one more minute of his blood dabbing on the bar and negativity. I reached for a $5 to cover my drink and tip, and he reached over (with his right hand-thank god it wasn't his bloody left hand) and told that "I wanted to buy you A drink and there (pointed at my empty glass) it is. I'll pay for that." I never took that saying so literal, but was glad to save the $5 to put towards my Uber ride home, which brought us to our last topic of conversation for the evening-transportation. Every girl's hot button to romance.

He told me that Uber is a conspiracy set up by the government to alienate all of the illegal taxi drivers and drive (pardon the pun) them back to their country of origin. I told him that I had met the owners of Uber and they are young hip guys who turned a far-fetched idea into a bazillion bucks and assured him they weren't feds. Then I joked and said-"Ok, I'll take a Divvy bike**." I might as well have said that I hate rainbows and sunshine, because he was speechless and fuming mad. He went on to tell me that Divvy bikes are going to be the #1 cause of deaths in Chicago within the next and that riding one would be irresponsible as a pedestrian and citizen. He actually referred to it as bicycular homicide (which might be a thing, but I doubt it), meaning that these sturdy-framed bikes will be rode by thugs and vandals who will speed up and run pedestrians over, killing them at cross walks with their blunt force. I swear-I can't make this up. Apparently, his father was struck by an amateur assassin Divvy bike rider and hurt his toe, but it could have been much worse.

As you could have probably imagined, we never went out again and I never swiped right again.

*Disclaimer: I really like red hair and freckles, but not Byron's red hair or freckles.

**I don't ride bikes in the city. I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was in the 2nd or 3rd grade and even then, I had my fair shares of spills. I remember wiping out trying to turn a corner riding no handed and laying there for what felt like an hour for someone to save me. When no one came, I walked my sad bike home the 17 houses and cried the entire way. Partial tears of pain, but mostly my hurt pride. I bought a bike 2 years ago to ride on the lake path and took it out for exactly one spin, before never riding it again. I, as you can imagine, made a huge geek out of myself by riding as crooked as possible. One would have thought I was being chased by an alligator with my path and my knees managed to point directly out, making it appear as though my bike had wings.

Scotty High-Five

Year: 2009
Scene of the Crime: Cocoran's in Old Town
Time of Day: 11:00 pm
Moral of the Story: Borat lied. 'High-fives' aren't 'very nice.'
Rating: 2 out of 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

Back in 2009, I was pretty into online dating and meeting as many different personality types so I could figure out "what I was looking for." During this open-minded, exploration phase, I met Scott, who I will refer to as Scotty High-Five from hereon-out.

I was messaging with a young "entrepreneur" who was very "spontaneous" and "always up for fun" for a few days and was excited to finally meet him to see if anything was there or not. If nothing else, I was sure that we would be friends because he seemed to energetic and interesting.

He called me on a Thursday night at 10:00 pm and suggested we meet for a drink in Old Town that same night because it would be fun and "spontaneous."  At the time, I was working from home and figured a little spontaneity would be a good thing, so I got dressed and set out to meet him.

I arrived just fashionably late at 10 minutes past our meeting time only to find a deserted bar. I thought that I blew it and was left for being so tardy. As I was about to call to apologize, I got a text that read "I'm sorry senorita, I was talking to Ma Madre on the tele."  This struck a nerve with me becomes now he was 20 minutes late, was texting with Spanish and British lingo, of which we was neither. Let me remind you the date and location were HIS idea.

Ok, relax, I told myself as I calmed myself down and decided to stay five more minutes to see if he would show up. He showed up and was nearly double in size from his profile and clearly hopped up on something that I can only imagine was illegal or taken in access of the prescription.

While I tried to chug my Blue Moon and call it a wash, his exuberance grew as did his indoor voice. He was so excited to identify all of the many things we had in common like pizza, summer, vacations, reading, puppies, Christmas, etc-you know-the really deep connecting fibers of capability. With every match, he offered up an over-the-top, must stand-out-of-your-seat-to-reach, high-five. Instead of just nodding in agreement, this bro would leap from his seat and yell "Place it!" "Up top" while using his free hand to point to his high-five posed hand. I played along with it, reluctantly at first, but then had to tell him that I needed to turn my high-fives into low-fives because it was drawing a lot of attention from the bartender and a few patrons who trickled in.

Now let me just say this-there's nothing wrong with high-fiving someone. Like say, after a winning goal is scored, you win a round of Sherades with your team or are teaching a toddler or dog new tricks. On a first date is not one of them.

If I had to tally the number of high-gives, I would have to say we had excess of 50. So many that I developed tendinitis in my elbow and had developed itchy raw palms. We were a foam finger and chest bump away from being on the Jumbotron of the United Center-or so it felt.

When Scotty High-Five excuses himself to go to the restroom, a couple at a table across the bar, paid for my drink and invited me to their table and told me to pretend we were old friends so that I had an easy exit. It worked like a charm. When he came back, my drink was covered and I was coated up, ready to leave. He slammed his drink and wanted to walk me to a taxi, but then immediately told me that he needed to go to Walgreens to buy a DiGiornono pizza for a midnight snack. I have a feeling a large frozen pizza might have contributed to his extra padding, but I'm not a doctor. Just a guess.

Not a Podiatrist

Year: 2009
Scene of the Crime:
Time of Day:
Moral of the Story: Always wear slippers, socks or shoes at all times
Rating: 5 out 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

Quite a few years ago, I was hosting at an upscale Irish Pub, trying to supplement by entry level salary and support my four night a week going out habits. It was a blast working and getting to meet all sorts of personalities in Boystown/1st date kind of establishment.

One Friday night a very handsome, McSteamy-looking guy was dining with a large group. I assumed one of the females at his table was his partner, but when he came up to say hi and winked, I quickly learned he was flying solo. My shift was ending and with little more than some intense, across-the-room eye contact, nothing transpired and I set out to meet up with friends and start my night. When I went in for my next shift, I was shocked to find out that he came in a few days later and left his number for me. Odd, I thought that he didn't ask for mine, but that was probably against some sort of privacy clause.

As any ballsy and scrappy 24 year old would do, I called him right up and not long after had a date for that Friday. We met at a dive bar close to both of our apartments and while I was thrilled there was a dog roaming the bar, I was a little disappointed to have a first date WITH A DOG ROAMING THE BAR. We had a few drinks, went back to his place for one last drink since it was on the walk home and then called it a night. While at his place of residence, I noticed a few red flags that the 30 year old me would have grabbed my heels, darted for the door and never looked back.

1) He had an orchid flower. This was odd because it didn't match his decor and seemed to be an odd touch. Orchids also require very little attention and sunlight, so that was a pretty good sign that he wasn't quire mature to nurture anything living, be it plant or relationship.

2) He didn't own any kitchen supplies like glasses, plates or silverware that weren't plastic. His place was clean, modern and nice, but no real plates or glasses. I mean-what do you drink wine from? (I will get to that in a minute)

3) He had his professional baseball card framed from his glory days of playing professional ball as a left handed pitcher for a west coast team. It was his only 'decoration' to be found. Upon peeling back his onion layers, I learned that he was 35, nearly 12 years older than me. His card-was from when he was 19...yeah, 19.

4) He had smoking pipes on his mantle and not the ones you might find in Hugh Hefner's mouth. He said that he liked to run all of his marathons with a little extra something. At the time, I was so impressed that he ran so many marathons. It wasn't until I began competing in endurance races that I realized how odd, offensive and irresponsible this was to the racing community. The 30 year old me would have "Ran" in the other direction.

After a so-so date, I agreed to a second date with what I kept considering this old man. I remained open minded and complied to his suggestion of hosting a night in of cooking. Keep in mind that at the time I am living in a studio apartment and making less than $40K a year, but went out and spent over $200 on wine, ingredients and cookware to make an impressive meal for this established gent.

The menu read: Mixed Green Salad  | Lasagna | Strawberry Shortcake. Really fancy, I know, but again, I was 24 and broke.

When he arrives, he shows up wearing hiking shoes, tan corduroys, a painter boy hat, stupid smirk and hands me an open and half drank bottle of red wine. I had mentioned to only drinking white, but was sure to buy red for him as we covered our drinking preferences on date #1 and I was sure to take careful note. To offer up such a bottle was shocking to me. I couldn't tell if he drank half of the bottle on his 5 minute walk to my place or if it was left over from our one drink at his place the week before. At any rate, I tried to put on a brave face and start cooking.

While preparing the meal, we get to talking about our families and when on the topic of my Grandmother, he asks if he can suck on my toes. I nearly chocked on my Yellow Tail Riesling. I politely declined his affectionate offer, fetched a pair of VS slippers and sprinkled the last of the mozzarella on the lasagna. Phew, I thought; dodged that bullet.

The first course would go by and conversation was flowing like the stale wine to his lips, but as luck would have it, with dessert came another unsolicited advice to have a go with my toes and this time it was accompanied with a call out to his recently built corduroy tent, if you know what I'm saying. As the walls began to close in on me, I decided that this was a good time to wrap things up for the evening and made up alternative plans that I was going to be late to if he didn't leave right away. He asked if he could see me later in the weekend and I said that I didn't know if that was a good idea and he backed off, but not before asking if he could TAKE HOME THE LEFTOVERS. To my complete and utter shock, my jaw dropped and I grabbed the piping hot pyrex casserole dish and placed it in his bare hands. He didn't reply with a "Thank You" but with a "Geeze, that hot, I should have brought gloves since I don't own pot holders. Call you later."

Call me later-he didn't, but text me later-he did. In fact he texted me every single day that he ate left overs with the same message that read "These leftovers taste almost as good as your feed did, but I guess I'll never know. Text me and we can hook up sometime." End quote. Now, if there is one thing a 24 year old, just embarking on her city dating adventures wants is a middle-aged man to act more immature that the collegiate bros she graduated from two years previously.

To this day, 6 years later, I still run into this guy from time to time, and he always makes a comment about my feet, sandals, toe nail polish or new tattoo. Washed up baseball player who blew through his $2MM signing bonus being dropped-I can sympathize with that. Unable to decorate an apartment-No problem, I love design. Poor dinner etiquette-I can work with that. Foot fetish with a lack of reading social cues-I just cant. #dealbreaker

Knock Knock

Year: 2009
Scene of the Crime: My studio apartment building

Time of Day: Any time of day

Moral of the Story: Get thicker walls and cover up the peephole

Rating: 3 out of 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

Against my better judgement I agreed to go on a date with my next door neighbor, but was more interested in being friends with him from the beginning since he wasn't necessarily my type. This particular guy was very nice and easy to small talk, never made any noise past 10 pm or cooked anything stinky. After what I thought was naturally reoccurring encounters in the laundry room, elevator and requests to borrow quarters and food items I thought-why not.

When we went out for lunch on a Saturday afternoon; he showed up at my door, because it was right next door to his own (we shared a wall).  We shared our elevator down to the lobby and walked to the restaurant together.  Meal went off with no major complaints and had the making to be great friends. Conversation was for lack of a better word-boring because we had very little in common. Obviously, we walked back to our apartment together, took the same elevator back to our floor, walked down the same hallway where we made our way into our own apartments with a wave of the hand and a "See ya around." 

This is the good part. After we walk into our own apartments, he texts me 10 minutes later to say "I forgot to tell you that you looked pretty at lunch. You did. You looked nice." Ok, I get it-it was better late than never. 

Over the course of several days I continue to get texts that say “I saw your light on and know you’re home….” or “Heard your TV on, want to hang out?” Finally, I had a ferocious knock at my door as I was getting out of the shower.  The banging wouldn't stop so I opened with bathrobe/turbie towel and all on only to find my neighbor standing there, red in the face with his hands on his hips. I was horrified to  have been seen in such a raw state and immediately thought our apartment building was on fire and he was so selflessly coming to my rescue.  But no, it wasn't…he was knocking because he had been texting me and could hear my phone's text notifications going off  and I wasn't responding.  He wanted to know if I was ignoring him.  In actuality I was not ignoring him, but just three minutes in of my 20 minute hot oil treatment. In case my sudsy appearance didn't clarify my communication delay, I politely explained the situation and my intent to be 'just friends' and that if I wanted to hang out, I knew where he lived. I did make it a point to ignore all future texts and calls from him. Luckily, he moved out of the building just a few months later and my new older, lady neighbor had no interest in texting me.

He Wrote a Dating Resume

Year: 2010

Scene of the Crime: West Loop/Bull's Game

Time of Day: Evening (work night)

Moral of the Story: Spends more than 30 seconds reading someone's resume
Rating: Neutral-no goose bumps, multiplying chills or butterflies

If you’ve got skills where better to showcase them but a resume, right? If you are looking to put yourself out there and upgrade yourself to a better position in the workplace this would be the most appropriate actionable step to take.  These job sites like Monster/Hotjobs are really just the job hunter’s version of Match.com.  They are looking for their dream job or candidate just like so many are scouting for their dream mate. You do your best not to brag, but still tote your best qualities in a humble yet impressive, neatly worded fashion. You showcase all of your best experiences, awards, accolades and ability to perform all required duties beyond expectations, as you are quite the catch and any employer should be lucky to have you.  You might be wondering where I am going with all this and I will tell you.  Four years ago, a good friend of mine wanted to set me up with a friend of hers from school.  I was open to it because she has great taste and would only have my best interest at heart-right?

I wasn't completely sold on the idea of a blind date, so she sent me an attachment in an email that was sure to seal the deal for me.  Upon opening this word document I see what is titled a "First Name_DATING RESUME".  This was too good to be true and from the beginning had the makings to be a great story. You know that feeling when someone is talking and sets you up for the perfect pun or ‘that’s what she said’ line.

Such competencies included the ability to grow a cromagnum-like beard, grilling styles only big ten tailgaters could appreciate, preference of being called a nickname over their birth name, skilled at fixing things with tools and being ‘really good with his hands’. The resume went on to include many other impressive manly accomplishments sure to dazzle any single lady with high standards (cough cough, eye roll-pff!)

Even more alarming is that I ended up going out with this fella and had a decent time.  He looked a lot like Jesus at a first and even a little like my older brother, which ruined any chance of this date turning romantic.  He was very funny which I had prayed he would be, otherwise the whole dating resume would have been the most pathetic and creepiest thing I had ever read. We decided to meet for dinner and drinks, then went to a semi-finals Bulls game. This was my first Bull’s game and they won, so that probably was 90% of the reason I had a great time. I am mildly obsessed jumbo-trons and dancing mascots. I found it odd that he took 16 pictures of us at the game, but whatever-stranger behaviors exist and this was no deal breaker.

To end this story with a note of advice, I would like to encourage you to trust your friends with set ups. It was reported that the most common way to meet a significant other is through friends (or friends of friends) or work. While it might be not be love right away, it could develop over time, turn into friendship and who knows, maybe his roommate or boss could be your match.  At the very least, it’s a new friend, couple of free drinks and probably a great story to share with your married friends to make them thankful they never have to brave the dating world any longer.  

Oops, I missed. Can it try that again?

Year: 2008

Scene of the Crime: Corner Bakery

Time of Day: Lunch Break

Moral of the Story: You only get once chance
Rating: 2 out of 5 goose bumps (the bad kind)

I went out with this guy- let’s call him “Tom,” for what I thought was a friendly meeting with a new friend over an ill-made cobb salad at the same Corner Bakery where my friend was pick-pursed (should have been a warning). Tom was a lawyer from the south, but might as well have been a socially awkward martian (we’ll get to that later).

Leading up to this lunch date I thought it was just a friendly invitation with no hope of romance and zero attraction. Well…Tom had a different idea. He was over the top with manners, insisted on buying my cobb salad and a cookie for dessert because “every good date should end in with a dessert (wink)” according to him. 

We got along fine, our conversation flowed enough to get through the lunch rush, but his lean in, elbows on the table, cheek-in-hand, closed-lips and shut eyes body language was beyond cringe-worthy and quite distracting.  He was leaning in so close that I had to actually scoot my seat back because we were almost Eskimo kissing, just sitting across from each other at the table and my personal space was far beyond compromised.  He kept nodding in agreement with everything I was saying (close-lipped smile and closed eyes included.) He was devouring every word (similar to his ruben panini) which in turn came across not only creepy, but insincere.

He also kept saying things like “This is the best date I've ever been on!” and repeatedly asked if I agreed.  Other exclamations included “Dating each other is so great!” “This is amazing- I’m such a great date!” “I’m so glad we found each other!”  If you can’t tell already, it was at this point I feel as though I am on a sinking ship and there’s only one life jacket. Yes, this date was about to come capsize and only one of us was going to make it safely to shore…AND.IT. WAS. GOING. TO. BE.ME.GODDAMNIT.

To be clear, at no point during this 90 minute lunch ‘date’  at this quick service chain did I attempt to charm Tom with my wit and ridiculously attentive question and recall display or even dazzle him with my Midwestern manners, no-not one bit. I simply showed up wearing black work slacks, a turtle neck (probably a mock-neck) and had the world’s worst accidental Kate Goslin haircut at the time.  If asked a question, I answered. If he opened his mostly closed eyes, I made contact and when he reached for my hand from across the table, I grabbed for extra napkins. Additionally, the Millionaire Matchmaker and dating expert, Patty Sanger, once tweeted "Coffee is cheap. Drinks are an audition. Lunch is an interview. Dinner means business...the business of romance." Yes, I quoted a tweet and Patty Sanger. I’m aware; She makes a very valid point, though.

As our lunch came to an end, he insisted on walking me back to my office. I resisted because:

1) It was completely unnecessary  

2) I didn't want anyone to see us 

3) I didn't want him to know where I worked 

4) Ir give the idea that it was a date 

5) He worked in the west loop, approximately a 20 minute walk back...

...but he insisted on making sure “I got back to work safely.” Some will argue this offer was chivalrous, although I will defend my positioning because the only threat to my safety on my walk back to work was the over-tourist population and their snail’s walking pace, due to its close proximity to Michigan Ave.

As I reach for my id badge, he extends his arms into a hug so I go for it. Why not, right? Everyone loves hugs!  As I lean in to hug I feel something on my ear.  Yep, it was his lips.  He tried to kiss my cheek I guess, but he missed in a big way.  He then says “Oops, I missed.  Can I try that again?” He closes his eyes and inches closer to my face before I can even respond to his request for permission. You can imagine my reaction.  I say “Oh, that’s ok, I better get back to work. Thanks for lunch!” and walk as fast as I can without sprinting to my elevator bank without looking back.  

Tom continued to text me accolades as follow ups to the world’s most awkward out of the office lunch.  I told him that I was too busy to see him that weekend.  He got the hint pretty fast and I didn’t hear from him for several months…until he sent me this text:  “Hey Rhette, I am sorry I let things slip through the cracks with us. I never meant to leave you hanging and wondering.”  Excuse me….you left me hanging??? I don’t think so, bucko.  This just goes to show you how delusional guys can be.  It was mind boggling to understand how this guy could possibly think that I had been interested, left “hanging and wondering” let alone still care six months later after I avoided his date requests and texts. 

A note to the fellas-if you're going to text back to a date gone dark-don't do it. Trust me-just don't. If you feel the uncontrollable urge to do so, for the love of Pete, don't wait six months to follow up.. It won't pad your ego and will make you feel like an idiot when said girl responds with "Who is this?" to your out of the blue text. #ouch.