Oh dammit, he lied on his profile.

I hate when people do that. Despite the fact that I do date a lot -mostly out of the fact that I’m now the official ‘friend to set up with that other single friend in your closet’- I’m trying to find ways to stay interested in dating itself. (Earlier this week, I had a date with a Trekkie and I decided to wear clothes inspired by Spock: blue silk blouse, Star Trek boots, iPhone app that turns your phone into a Star Trek communicator, etc.)

To say the least, I’m a bit burnt out by dating. I do it because I still have hope that I’ll meet someone that might make my stomach feel all filled with butterfly nervous happy energy; but mostly I just feel queasy.

I especially don’t like online dating, and the last time I went on an online date was with a guy who wore a douche-bag leather bomber jacket from 1993 and insisted on removing the arm rest between us while watching Avatar. (Which, by circumstance of this particular date, was one of the LONGEST films I’ve ever had to sit through.)

But ‘Scott’ had promise. He had messaged me 2 1/2 months earlier to go running with him. ‘A runner?!’ That had peaked my interest. Unfortunately, I had broken my foot at the time and was waiting for my foot to heal so I told him to contact me later down the line. So two days ago, he messages ‘What about today?’ Okay, I’m game. It was a day off and sure, I’d have to reschedule my indoor rock-climbing session with my awesome friends, but I might as well. You just never know.

He wanted to meet at BJ’s Brewery, an unfortunate name for a chain restaurant that finds itself either in suburban malls or off freeway exits. Okay. That means I have to haul my butt out of San Francisco and hurtle my way into Foster City during Friday rush hour. Fine, all in the pursuit of love, right? I get to BJs and find that the bar is full of Giants fans ogling the flat screen tvs. Mr. Scott is nowhere to be found. I put my name down for a table. “Maybe he’ll show up late… I should get a table. There’s nowhere else to go.”

10 minutes. 15 minutes. I get a text, “On my way!” My table opens up. I go to sit at it. I order a mojito. And then a shadow darkens my heavily-laminated tabletop. I look up. A ‘Scott’ is smiling down at me. Only this Scott looks about…. 50 years old, maybe more… when I could have sworn his picture made him look about 35…. Sigh.

“Hi!” he cheerily extends his hand. “Hi!” I retort back as I stand up to shake his hand. Well, what do you know. I’m wearing flats and he’s 2 inches shorter than me. I believe he needs a new ruler if he thinks he’s 5’10. Or else I must be 6’0 tall. My bewildered face must have fallen off, because he hastily suggests we sit down. (Being short is not a problem; lying about it is.) Double sigh.

He orders a vodka martini. He turns to me and brightly says, “So, when was the last time you were in love!” he guffaws.

Wow. I just really wanted to know if he liked The Lakers. Or if he liked to eat red meat. Or what do you think about that Osama Bin Laden being dead?

2 minutes, and I’m already in an interview with Grandpa Munster of the Munchkin clan.

“So when were you last in love?” he pushes.

“Um… February.” I answer. “Really?” he follows, eyebrows lifted in sympathy. “Yeah.” I answer. I don’t want to get into this.

“Come on, is that all you’re going to tell me?!” he laughs loudly and nudges my foot with his foot. Triple sigh. A foot nudger. (He did that foot nudge at least 3 times over the course of 45 minutes. If I was more engaged in the conversation, I would’ve kicked him back.)

“I had a fiance,” he picks up the thread of thought, “but she was tied to her mama… she was Southern you see, they’re all tied to their family down there…” and he continues to prattle on.. about last relationships (dude, let’s just talk about The Lakers or something), about wanting children (why the hell are you telling me this?!), about how he’s traveled to 30+ countries (cool, tell me something about them besides giving them a number)….

… and I’m putting on my best “I’m interested in what you have to say” face (I’ve honed it well after years of working with elementary children) because I’m trying to hide that I was disappointed at first glance, and that I know I’m a uppity bitch because I don’t care, and that the only thought running through my head is, “I could’ve been rock-climbing with my friends. I should’ve been rock-climbing with my friends, I wish I was with my friends right now…”

And ya know, It didn’t help that he copped a feel on my butt when he led me to the door as we were leaving the restaurant.