Another Recollection: The Pee'er

Memories of bad dates, my active time spent in the War of Dating from 2004-present. Funny how I've blocked so many of them.

While I was in the coffee house today, I recalled a few "first dates" that took place there over the past seven years of hell. And I recalled The Pee'er.

Oh yes, if memory serves this winner was from Yahoo Personals which has since morphed into Match.com. Anyway. It sounded good at first. In his description he said he loved to work out, and that he was Italian (don't cha just love big, Italian boys?). His picture SEEMED OK. He looked sort of cute. So I agreed to meet him at the coffee house.

Well, there was a grocery list of things that were yucky. I like big boys, and he was all of 5'6", easily weighed 30 lbs. less than me, and, sigh, greased his hair back. Not in a good way (not that there really is a good way), but sort of in a mullet-way. He also had a high-pitched, horse-riding jockey voice, which I hate. I mean, I have a tenor's voice. Soprano? No way. We conversed, and he had none of the "Italian Guy" qualities I like. In fact, it was like talking to Ferris Bueller's teacher in Ferris Bueller's day off. Remember him?

Anyway, here was the clencher. After a super boring, one-way monotone monologue about himself, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. I sighed, looked at my watch, started to invent excuses to leave when he came back. Here's how it went.

Pee'er: Sorry I took so long.
Me: You weren't gone but five minutes. It's OK, really.
Pee'er: Well, there I was standing at the urninal and I just had to pee. I can't believe how bad I had to pee.
Me: Uh . . . OK.
Pee'er: Then I started to pee. I peed and peed and peed. I can't believe how much I had to pee. I mean, I peed so much I thought I couldn't pee anymore. At least a quart.
Me: I, uh . . . OK.
Pee'er: Then I started to shake it to stop. (I thought "it" then I figured it out. His freakin' weenie, gross!) I shook it and shook it, and it wouldn't stop peeing.
Me: That's, uh, too bad. Wow, look at the time. I gotta go.

What does one say to that? The story didn't quite stop there. I didn't give him my number, and he belonged to my gym, and for months, whenever we were both there together, he glared at me, as if I broke his heart. Whatever, pal.

Ahhh, the coffee house memories. I DO have more. They're coming back to me slowly, sort of a dating PTSD.