Till dessert do us part

About six months ago, I went out with a guy called Andy. He had been interested by my online profile; he was very complimentary, seemed to have a healthy sense of humor, and to my great relief, was able to write in complete sentences (a skill which eludes many of my suitors). Andy lived in Long Beach, and I'm in West Hollywood; we couldn't decide on a place to meet halfway, so Andy decided to drive out to meet me in my neighborhood.

Although we hadn't yet met in person, Andy wanted to take me to dinner. For reasons that I explained in a previous post, I don't like being taken out to dinner by men I've just met. I guess Andy had caught me at a weak moment; he convinced me, saying that he'd be coming out right after work. It was a long drive, and he'd be hungry. That sounded reasonable enough. I insisted on a casual, inexpensive atmosphere, and he agreed. We made plans to meet on a Thursday evening.

I had given Andy directions to North End Pizza, a small, cozy pizza parlor/restaurant a few blocks from my apartment building. I figured we could have a few slices and drinks and get to know each other. He seemed ok with that; the place is very cute, and it's got a surprisingly large menu for such a small joint. When the waitress came over to take our order, Andy asked for a glass of wine, but North End didn't serve it; I can't remember whether they were out, or if they just don't have a liquor license. I'm not much of a drinker, so I didn't care, but Andy wanted to drink. We bailed on North End and walked about three blocks to another small Italian restaurant that serves alcohol.

Andy ordered his wine, and we split a salad to start. The conversation was going well at first - we talked about our careers, where we had traveled, where we were from, his kids (he has two). Normal first date chatter. But as we talked, Andy got four full refills of wine - before our food showed up. As we ate, he drank three more. He didn't seem to be enjoying the wine with the meal; it was more like he was knocking them back - guzzling more than drinking. Yeah, I know some men can hold a lot of liquor, but we're talking about a one hour stretch of time here, and Andy wasn't a very big guy. And, really, doesn't anyone care about first impressions anymore?

I asked him if he'd be ok to drive; I certainly wasn't going to have a complete stranger asking to crash on my couch because he'd gotten sloppy drunk at dinner. Andy insisted that he was fine, that he'd had a long week and just wanted to "relax".

"Why so tense?" I asked. Eight glasses of merlot in forty-five minutes is a lot of relaxation, and Andy still seemed a little jittery (readers, I sure do attract the nervous ones, don't I?). He'd already explained to me that he was going through a career change, but he was happy about that. "What else is going on?"

"Well, my wife and I just separated," he replied. "I left the house this week."

"You...this week??" I was stunned. "Your profile says that you're 'divorced'."

"Yeah, well, we're going to get a divorce." He went on to explain that he was flopping at a cousin's place while pondering his next move.

"Well, Andy, maybe you shouldn't be dating." I was incredulous. Readers, I don't "do" married, for all of the obvious reasons. This guy had been separated for about two seconds. Walking out the door doesn't end your marriage; it takes a little more work than that. Yes, I know that I have no personal experience with this, but I've watched plenty of people go through it; it's a bit of a process. Plus, in this case, there were children involved.

"Yeah...well, I want to move on," said Andy, with a meaningful grin (as he started on his ninth glass of wine). Dude, are you kidding me? Half your stuff is still with your wife, the other half is in boxes at your cousin's, and I'm suppressing an urge to offer you a funnel for that wine. Thankfully, we were just about done with our meal by then. I changed the subject; we talked pleasantly, and I made no further mention of the fact that I was, for all intents and purposes, on a date with a married man. I walked Andy back to his car to say goodbye and then walked home, shaking my head and wondering what, exactly, God wants from me.

The next morning, I wrote Andy an email:
"Hi Andy, thank you for coming out to meet me for dinner. I always enjoy meeting new people, and you were great to talk to. However, I do feel that we're at different places in our lives right now, and just aren't compatible. I do wish you the best. Ginger."

He wrote back, later that day:
"Yeah, Ginger, it was nice to meet you too. I'm kind of disappointed that you don't want to see me again, but I can understand your viewpoint. I guess I should have lied, huh? Ha ha. Well, good luck. Andy."

I'm always amazed at people who jump right back into dating when the dead body of their previous relationship is barely cold. Maybe Andy's marriage had been dead for years. I can't judge that, and I'll never know. But I just couldn't hazard a second date with a Andy. All that baggage would be too damn heavy, and my liquor cabinet is too small!