Okay, I know you've all been waiting, "with breath that is bated" (name the TV show that is the source of the quote, win...my undying admiration), so here's how it went down with Ordinary Guy.
We had agreed to meet at my favorite vegetarian restaurant, after I realized when we talked on the phone the night before that he was going to suggest nothing but chain restaurants. (Ordinary!) This, coincidentally, is the restaurant to which New Guy and I went on our first date, and also where I met Ukrainian Guy on our...well, apparently only date. I was hoping it might be a good luck charm. Plus I knew at least I'd get a good meal.
On the phone with BFF pre-date, I mentioned my fear that he was going to fail my Asian restaurant litmus test. "I know he's going to order the sweet-and-sour pork. They always order the sweet-and-sour pork. It's the club sandwich of Asian food. But it's so boring!" (No offense intended to any of you who truly love sweet-and-sour pork...but have you tried the house specials on the back page of the menu? Give it a shot.) (And in the interest of full disclosure, that's what New Guy ordered, too. But he had previously fully admitted he was set in his ways, culinarily speaking.)
So, I get there...he's already seated...he stands up when I approach the table (points for gentlemanliness)...I sit down. I know instantly that physical chemistry is going to be a problem (hey, when you know, you know), but I'm determined to keep an open mind and try to have a good time.
We have more than the usual amount of time to peruse the menu, as the restaurant is a little understaffed, and the sweet but somewhat English-challenged father of the family is filling in as server, and he's not what you would call speedy. (But sweet, very sweet.) We open the menus, I joke that I don't know why I'm even looking at it, as I pretty much have it memorized, and I glance over and notice that his finger (and oh, we'll get back to the fingers) is pointing at the sweet-and-sour section. I knew it! "I usually just go for the sweet-and-sour pork," he says. I begin to grimace inside. (And by the way, all the meat in this restaurant is of the "mock" variety, should you be wondering why a vegetarian restaurant even serves sweet-and-sour "pork.") "But I think tonight I'll go for...the sweet-and-sour shrimp." Oh yeah, you live it up, dude!
Post-date conversation with BFF: "Were your eyes rolling? You know...in your mind?" "Oh, I think I sprained the backside of my eyes." Hee.
So, we order, we make idle small talk for a while. He says he's glad I chose such an interesting place. I say I love the food, and also, "they're just such nice people." Now, I am talking about this specific Vietnamese immigrant family, who I've gotten to know pretty well through the years. "Oh yes," he says, "they always are." What the hell "they" is HE talking about? Vietnamese immigrants? Restaurant owners? Rash generalization much? Am I overreacting? Probably. But still, it needled a bit.
We chat, eventually the food arrives. To his credit, he does enjoy a fresh spring roll, and when my noodles come, he tries them, and says he'd probably order them himself on a return visit.
Anyway, we chat, we eat, and it's all perfectly pleasant...and nothing more. Not for me, at any rate. He's an okay guy, we have some political/philosophical differences (nothing to come to blows over, certainly), he stubbornly refuses to admit that Andrew Lloyd Webber is an overwrought, overrated hack who hasn't had an original thought since "Jesus Christ, Superstar," though he does (thank god) admit that Stephen Sondheim is far more talented. We talk about all the concert tickets he's recently procured (none of which appeal to me), and the fact that he will attend pretty much any sporting event at any time, regardless of who's playing (okay, I suppose, if that's your thing), I say I really only enjoy sporting events when I actually care about the outcome, etc., etc.
Now, here's the part where I admit to being completely shallow. It's becoming clear that his personality isn't exactly making me weak in the knees, but it doesn't really matter, anyway, because he would have to have the personality and charm of Jon Stewart and Leonard Nimoy (shut up!) combined to get me past the fact that I hate his hands. I don't have many physical deal breakers, but...I really, really don't like ugly hands. You know...stubby fingers. Too-long fingernails. Badly chewed fingernails. Or, in his case, stubby fingers with extraordinarily tiny little fingernails. I KNOW this is not something he can help, obviously...but I can't help it, either.
I don't care what color your eyes are. Or your hair. I prefer short hair, but if you can rock a long 'do, I'll roll with it. Don't care if you have NO hair. Don't care if you're tall or short. Your ears stick out? That's okay. Got a bit of a buddha belly? No problem. A little bit of back hair? Eh, who cares.
But you can't have ugly hands or bad teeth (by which I do not mean that they must be perfectly straight and pearly white...just reasonably healthy-looking.). These are my turn-offs. We all have them--these are mine.
So, anyway...the restaurant is closing, the check has been lying there for a while, I'm stubbornly waiting to see if he's going to reach for it, and finally he does. He walks me to my car (still a gentleman, I'll give him that), I can tell he's hoping for a hug or something, but I just can't do it. I thank him sincerely for dinner, he thanks me for introducing him to a new restaurant, says he'll call me in a few days, I make some completely noncomittal sort of noise, and we're done.
Long story short--decent guy, just not at all my type. Unfortunately, I don't have his email address, or I'd take the coward's way out and send him an email to that effect. As it is, I'm just going to wait and see if he calls. Maybe he clued in from the lack of hug. If not, I'll try to figure out a kind way to discourage his attentions, I suppose.
And with that, I believe I may be done with dating. There are no other guys in the pipeline, so to speak, at this point.
NOW what will I blog about?!