Claire Conger

It started off well, my last date with Pseudo Boyfriend #2. I was in a good and receptive mood. It started with the potential for him getting lucky, lucky in bed with me.

But in the course of two hours, he went from potentially lucky to never going to see me again!

How did he do that?

He did it through a series of blunders that screamed “I won’t take care of you.”

If you want to get lucky with a girl, say things that will make her feel like she can trust you and that you respect her, do things that make her feel you’ll take care of her.

Wanna get lucky? It’s simple. Provide real conversation and creature comforts.

The date, the last date, just a week ago today, was just a low key dinner at his house. I didn’t go empty handed—I brought artisan bread and salad from my garden.

Here’s what went wrong.

I arrive and he’s drinking a beer. (Notice I say “a” beer. At his house, only one per person is chilled.)

He’s put my beer in the freezer. (Works for me!) Does he get it for me? No! He motions to the freezer. No problem, I get the beer myself.

I can’t open the bottle. I surmise (out loud) it wouldn’t be a twist-off because I know he’s collecting bottles for home-brew. Yes it twists, he tells me. He flips up the corner of the dish towel in front of me (the one I just used to try to open the bottle), says “Use this,” and turns away. (This gesture was rude in every way, and I notice, but I don’t mind.) I have to ask him straight out to open the bottle for me.

He’s lost an opportunity to charm me with his masculinity. But I’m still happy. I hear the clothes dryer running and I know he’s washed the sheets in preparation for a clean and comfy bed.

Next he makes a conversational blunder—he makes up a “fact” and I call him on it. He makes things up on a regular basis and yet he speaks with such authority! He doesn’t have a problem with this (either the error itself—so gratuitous it is to make up facts!—or my correcting him), but I do. I have a problem. How can I allow a guy to have his way with me when I must constantly protect my innocent little brain from his? How can I be receptive to his physical advances when I have to ward off his intellectual advances?

Then our dinner is ready. It includes corn-on-the-cob cooked in the husk. He makes a great show of de-husking a hot hot ear—Oo Oo Aa Aa, reminding me of Woody Allen handling the lobsters in Annie Hall.

Then he cuts the kernels off the cob and onto his plate. Is he going to give me some? Apparently not. The other ear is too hot to touch, clearly, so I leave it on the platter for now. When I’m finished eating my salmon and salad, he gestures to the corn, Don’t you want it? Sure, no problem. Another opportunity lost, maybe not for masculinity, but at least for charm.

I ask if he has real ice cream for dessert. I don’t want the non-fat soy stuff he gave me last time I was there, when I finished off his (very dated) whipped cream trying to make something of it. He tells me that he bought soy ice-cream only that one time and he usually buys real ice cream. I know him, Mr No Fat Will Pass My Lips. I don’t believe him.

So now I get to hear to hear him tease me about the whipped cream—“Sorry,” he says, “I used it all on my excellent and tasty (home grown) blueberries.” I know this isn’t true—I threw away the can myself. I ignore the remark, but I pull a thin protective curtain around my innocent brain!

He calls from the kitchen, “Chocolate or vanilla?” I say, “Chocolate, of course!” He brings me my bowl and a half-gallon of 1 per cent milk. This is good, I like to make chocolate soup. He’s either bought this milk for me or he’s listened to what I’ve said about trying to get a fat-soluble hormone (vitamin D) from a non-fat source. I don’t know. But wait, I probably do know. If he were buying something for me, he would have bought half and half. In any case, I’m happy about the milk.

He joins me at the table. I look up to see that he’s got raspberries and blueberries on his ice cream. “Hey,” I say, “Why don’t I get raspberries and blueberries?”

“You asked for chocolate,” he says. “Fruit doesn’t go with chocolate.”

“What? Raspberries and chocolate are a standard combination,” I respond. “You didn’t give me the vanilla-and-fruit option,” I add.

He flourishes his spoon. Clearly he’s relishing those blueberries. Clearly he’s relishing besting me.

I say “I can’t take anymore.”

He repeats his “You asked for chocolate” defense, and I tell him it’s disingenuous.

It does no good. He looks so smug. I don’t even consider raiding the kitchen for raspberries.

I tell him it was a most gracious dinner, say “Thank you very much,” and with a little bow, I leave.

This time, I’m taking a line from Annie Hall. I am not going back.