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Clatter-Day Saint

Story Sent in by Jason:

At dinner, my date Betty chewed on her fork. A lot. Even (and especially) if nothing was on it. Between bites, between words, between breaths, Betty chomped down on her fork. Chomp chomp chomp.

I found it so irritating that I asked her if she would mind stopping. She put her fork down without a word.

Less than 30 seconds later, she picked up her spoon and clanked her teeth on that. Again I asked her to stop, and I followed it up with, "Are you nervous?"

She said, "No. Just a habit."

Then she picked up her butter knife and clattered her teeth upon it.

"Can you stop?" I asked.

"No!" she said in a raised voice, "No, I can't! I've already given you my fork and my spoon. You will not take my knife away from me!"

I hastily requested the check from the waiter. Betty offered to pay her share and I took her up on it. It's not like I was ever going to see her again.


Heat 'n Greet

Story Sent in by Susan:

David was a blind date. One of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend situations that had high potential to go either way. When he first saw me, he said, "Damn! The heat it on!" and he unbuttoned his button-down shirt by a couple of buttons. Um, very attractive.

We sat down to dinner in a really loud family restaurant. We talked for a while and he asked me what my favorite grade in school was. I told him 12th, because college was only a year away.

He replied, "The heat is on!" again and unbuttoned another couple of buttons from his shirt, making his shirt about halfway unbuttoned. I could clearly see his chest and more, and I didn't really like what I saw.

When the check came, he took it and insisted on paying for everything. I thanked him and he said, "And so polite! The heat is on!" and he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. His full chest and gut were hanging out, and any appetite I had left were quite taken away.

"Why do you do that?" I asked him, hoping to make him just a little self-conscious.

"Because you're hot," he explained, "The heat is on!" He then pulled back his shirt a bit more so I could see more of his shoulders. There were kids around! What was he doing?

Once we were outside, I was ready to leave. He gave me a hug (with his shirt still open! Oy!) and asked me if he could kiss me.

I said, "Not on a first date. I'm sorry."

He gave me a sad look and stepped away, then buttoned up his shirt and said, "Later."

Guess I really turned the heat down.


The Height of Oddity

Story Sent in by Jason:

In her profile, Desiree had written that she liked taller guys. I'm six-foot-four, so I think I might qualify. She didn't ask me my height while we were first sending messages to each other, and I didn't volunteer it. After all, I thought it was pretty obvious from my photos that I was a taller guy.

When we met in person, she remarked about my height, but not in the way I was expecting. "Wow," she said, "you're... short."

I informed her, "I'm six-four. You dating a lot of seven-footers?"

She said, "You'd be surprised. Compared to most of the guys I date, you're definitely in the shorter camp."

"Well, I'm six-four. I thought that made me taller than average. Sorry."

She laughed. "You're definitely not taller than average. Unless you're six-eight or above, You're too short for me."

For reference, Desiree was about five-foot-nothing. I said, "Do you still want to do dinner?"

She laughed, "With a pipsqueak like you? No offense, but you're not my type. I figure you'd prefer honesty. But you really should've told me your height beforehand."

"I thought it would be obvious from my photos."

"Oh. I didn't really remember. I focus more on the words someone writes in their messages, not the superficiality of photos."

Whatever. We actually wound up grabbing a quick drink, but we went Dutch on it and we never went out again.


Nail on the Head

Story Sent in by Darlene:

Mark seemed like a nice, clean-cut guy. We met online and spoke enough to meet in person. When we did, I couldn't help but notice that his nails were long and he was wearing shiny silver nail polish.

"Nice nails," I said, and I meant it. I was hoping he'd take it as a compliment.

Instead, he scowled at me and said, "Want to come to my house?"

I replied, "Let's do dinner, like we originally planned."

We spoke during dinner, but he spent a lot of time looking at his nails. At one point during a pause in conversation, he actually kissed each one. When he caught me staring, he said, "You love your nails, too. I feel it most when I read at the bedtime. They do not let you down. Like people."

While my nails have never let me down like some people have, they're also just nails. Since we were on the topic, I asked him, "Why do you paint them?"

He said, "I will never cut them or keep them unpainted. Mostly for a memory."

"What memory?" I asked.

"All the nails I've cut before," he said with a sad face.

Well then. I pretended to find him normal for the rest of the date, and when he hugged me goodnight, I pretended to not feel his nails lightly digging into my back. I haven't seen him since, but by this point, his nails are likely a quarter of a foot long, if not half.


Is marriage an abduction?


Carbonational Security

Story Sent in by Robert:

Before we went out together, April and I had the now-standard conversation about vegetarianism, food allergies, and whatnot. She was a vegetarian who never drank soda. I'm a vegetarian who likes soda now and again. I'm glad we established that.

On our date, we went to a funky cafe. She ordered a lemonade. I ordered a blueberry soda. After the waitress left, April said, "Why would you order a soda? I told you I don't like soda."

I said, "I remember. You don't have to drink it. I ordered it for myself."

"But why would you order it? After everything we've been through?"

All that she and I had been through was about 10 minutes of small talk. She then said, "If I knew this place even served soda, I would've insisted on somewhere else. In fact," she stood up and gathered her things, "I'm going to find a place that doesn't have soda. You're welcome to join me."

I remained sitting where I was. She asked, "Will you not join me? Us? Together?"

I said, "I really like the soda here. It's organic."

She sat down and leaned in. She said, "We have to make plans to leave here, you and I. But before the soda gets here. Once it comes, it'll be too late. Are we together on this?"

"Uh... no."

She looked disappointed. She stood up, said, "Pity. You were my last hope," and left the place.

A few moments later, our drinks arrived. I told the waitress I could use another minute to decide on a meal. Soon after, April returned. She approached the table, then stopped short. I assume she saw the soda on the table. She gave me a hurt look, then left forever.

On the bright side, I drank down some of my soda, added some of her untouched lemonade, and made lemonade blueberry soda. And it was good. So at least I had that.


Ho ho ho. Who's that in my chimney?