Last blog, I questioned whether or not romance is dead. Well, dead or alive, from what I know - women need it as much as they need air. Well, men might too; but little things mean a lot to most of the women I know and they love thoughtful gestures, or, barring all else, at least some semblance of chivalry. One of my friends based a whole relationship on the fact that her boyfriend not only made crème brulee for her – but that he went to Williams Sonoma to buy the ramekins. Another married someone she hardly knew and with whom she had little to nothing in common because he wrote her name in crayon on a paper table cloth on their second date – and spelled it correctly. (Oops – that was me – nevermind).
Anyway - someone who I had been seeing but in whom I completely lost interest quickly, based, among other things, on his lack of social finesse, has been trying to get into my good graces. Simply put, it’s just not gonna happen, for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to his complete lack of social graces, finesse and the fact that when I told him I was a blogger he said “I used to run too…but it’s bad for my knees.” And he brought me a bottle of wine without a cork, in a box. I was so offended.
“Oh, Ingelnook,” I said, “how thoughtful…I didn’t know they still made it.”
“Yeah,” he said, “My daughter had some friends over and I know you like wine. What’s the one you like that starts with a ‘b’ again?,” he asked.
He was referring to Beaujolais; I celebrate Beajolais day every November, and start getting chills when I see signs saying "Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrive!"
“Boone’s farm,” I said, “nothing like that Apple Wine…so hard to get it anymore.”
“I know what you mean,” he said, “but did you ever have the Melon flavor?”
The glaringly obvious question is “why did you go out with the clart in the first place,” and the answer is unclear to me. He seemed harmless and at times could be mildly amusing, and he picked up a piece of plywood for me from Home Depot – plus he was really into me – and having recently gone through a few traumatic experiences, I wanted companionship and he was kind of cute and very attentive – albeit a little rough around the edges; it just wasn’t apparent early on just exactly how rough.
Now, I’m certainly not trying to misrepresent myself as someone who should be teaching seminars on etiquette. For one thing, just before I started writing this, I shoveled cold leftover pad Thai into my mouth and drank diet soda out of a can, while barefoot on the couch watching “Entourage” with my son, who is dressed in a wife beater and boxers. (Sounds like we’re in the Green Room for Jerry Springer, doesn’t it?) The difference is, that for me it’s definitely the exception and not the rule; I clean up “real good” and would never do that in public (and I never even eat at networking events because if I have a choice between having one hand free for a drink and the other for my business card – as much as I love congealed meatballs and soggy dim sum – the food loses out). But I do like to set a table with aplomb, and keep fresh flowers in the house at all times...plus there's the high maintenance thing...nails, hair, etc. etc. etc.
Back to the issue at hand – aside from being rough-hewn, he’s clueless about romance. That I knew from day 1, when he told me about the demise of his marriage.
“She was a snob,” he said, “nothing I did was good enough…she said I wasn’t romantic…so I said ‘hey – I was in the delivery room – I saw everything – I don’t have to sweet talk you now.”
Of course, again, I couldn’t begin to tell him what was wrong with that statement. He continued, “She said I was cheap but I’m frugal and I like getting good deals…
“One year I went to Costco and got a cashmere sweater for $39,” he continued. “It was just like anything you get in a good store like Target.”
Of course, there were so many things wrong with that story that I didn’t know where to begin, but just trying to explain that Target was not a “good store” would have taken me an hour. (Although he did pronounce it as “Tar-Jay” to add to the perceived cachet (pronounced “cach-IT”).
Since I had to say SOMETHING – the knee-jerk sarcastic response leaked out.
“Gee,” I said, “I can’t imagine why…there’s nothing a woman likes more than marked-down, picked through, stretched out sweaters that you picked up on sale with absolutely no thought a day late – and at COSTCO. You could have been completely thoughtless and gotten her paper towels or a 6-pack of Ragu sauce…at least that was a personal gift”
But, as I’ve said before, it’s not about the cost – it’s about the thought.
To make a long story even longer, I thought I had paid back the plywood delivery, so as far as I was concerned it was over, but before he told me about Costco – I had invited him to a party at my home, so he contacted me to see if he was still invited.
“Sure,” I said, “you can come…but you need to refrain from making homophobic, sexist, racist or phallic jokes (he proudly told me he recently finished a compendium of penis jokes– how proud his daughter must be – maybe they broke out the Carlo Rossi to celebrate?).
He was affronted – and sent me an email saying I “insultid” him. (Note the misspelling).
So – I thought (prayed) that would be it – but he emailed me again.
“I really like you,” he said, “we could be an aces couple…I was going to get you some flowers from Costco and leave them at your house but I didn’t know if I should.”
My blood sugar was low - so I decided to be direct.
“The fact that you think we could be ‘aces’ is ridiculous,” I wrote, “you know nothing about me – and we have nothing in common. I’m a snob – just like your ex-wife. By the way – façade is not pronounced “Fah-Kade”
“And,” I wrote, “I can’t believe you think flowers from COSTCO would be appropriate…I’m not even worth of a plastic plant from Target?”
(By the way, I need more plywood, but I’m braving Home Depot myself; maybe if I’m lucky I can get one of the clerks to help me carry it to my car without calling me “M’am” or flashing his wedding ring if he thinks I’m being “seductive” because I’m not dressed in overalls).
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