Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part III

A few of you got a bit frothy about about GNTEP because you claim that Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase isn't very direct.* And possibly there are a few people out there who may think GNTEP borders on Playing Games. I hope that it goes without saying that Playing Games is NOT COOL. But I don't think the GNTEP qualifies as Playing Games. And this leads me to...

GUIDELINE NUMBER THREE
For the average intelligent Canadian dater, a little subtlety is perfectly acceptable.

We live in Canada. Or at least I live in Canada. (If you live in NYC, then I guess you can go ahead and ignore this next bit.) We are a polite people. We find overly direct conversations to be a bit like drinking Pepsi straight from the 2L plastic jug: uncouth, messy and bad for one's health.

Accordingly, I assert that it IS possible to let someone know that you're not into dating them without emotionally smacking them in the face with the details. But let me be clear: there is a small window in which Guideline Number Three is appropriate. Once you've been seeing someone for more than a few weeks, or you've had dinner and breakfast together consecutively (if you know what I mean), then the window CLOSES.

For example:

SCENARIO ONE: Are you breaking up with your live-in girlfriend of three years? Has her ongoing baby-talk and insistence that you refer to each other as 'My Wittle Wove Muffin' finally driven you to the brink of insanity? Yes? Well, you're going to have to have a few conversations with her about it before you can start looking for your own pleather-lined bachelor pad in Parkdale.

SCENARIO TWO: Are you just wrapping up a second date at Dufflet, wherein the zip of the luscious lemon tart was the only thing holding your attention as Heraysheeo spoke non-stop about his vintage album collection while asking NOT ONE QUESTION about you? Hit that boy with GNTEP and head on home, no conversation required.

Scenarios One and Two are NOT interchangeable, people. If you think you're ditching your Wittle Wove Muffin without having a couple of lengthy chats about the State of Things, then you're pretty-much a giant douchebag, and you deserve it when you find out all of your clothes have dyed baby pink and run through the office shredder before she packed them up.

By the same token, if your second date paramour rings you at 4:30 am to further discuss his fave albums from the late 80s (Spin Doctors' Pocket full of Kryptonite totally rocked my world in 1989!) on the same evening that he's been dealt Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase, you're entirely justified in glancing at your call-display and then rolling over to go back to sleep, return phone call not required.

* Those of you who know me In The Real World and would like to debate these issues are also welcome to do so in the comments section. But if you use My Real Name, your comments will be DELETED. Because... y'know... the anonymity of the Hurratios must be protected.

Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part II

I have this horrible end-of-date compulsion. (No, not that kind of compulsion, you sicko.) My compulsion is such that even when I plan to never see the person again, I continue to chirp out phrases like "yeah, we should DEFINITELY do this again!" and "okay, yeah, so give me a call and we'll hang out again soon!"

WHY DO I DO THIS?

I am not inherently the lying type. But I do like me some good manners. And I hate (HATE) hurting people's feelings. Which is goes a long way in explaining why I blurt out reassuring-but-completely-false maxims as the date is wrapping up. Of course, then I'm unjustifiably annoyed when Hyrastio rings me to see if I'd like to go to Canada's Wonderland with him next weekend (ugh... Canada's Wonderland. I would rather get myself soaking wet and shove my finger in a light socket).

Therefore, no more!

GUIDELINE NUMBER TWO
No lying to unsuitable matches:

But wait! This is not to say we need to be brutally honest. Or lengthy. If I've been on one or two dates with someone, is it really necessary to get into how he very much reminds me of my ex who, as it turns out, is gayer than Christmas? Should we be launching into hour-long soliloquies about how we could never kiss someone whose teeth jut out of their mouth like yellow weapons? Indeed, not.

So then, Internet, you may wonder what I say to these not-The-Dudes. Admittedly, it's been strikes and gutters on this issue. Sometimes I do the blurting before I can remember my allegiance to Guideline Number Two. But lately, I've been trying out the following Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase (GNTEP):

It was so nice to meet you. Have a great night/morning/afternoon. Take care!

And then... I WALK AWAY. Do you see how this phrase is both polite and final? Do you see how there's no glaring lie or encouragement to keep in touch?

I've noticed that this phrase works a lot better if I pay for my own drink/brunch/coffee - I try to insist if I'm pretty sure I'm going to use the GNTEP. Also, no fair using the GNTEP after having made out with the guy in the back of a cab for the entire length of Bloor Street. Mixed messages = unjustifiable annoyance on your part when he thinks he'll be invited into your apartment at the end of the cab ride/eating Ethiopian food with you next Saturday night/moving into your apartment in the Fall.

I know what you're thinking, Internet. You're thinking: That ProngTwo is a dating genius! The Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase could easily replace the Sermon on the Mount as the 21st Century's Creed for Dating. The Sermon on the Mount was about dating etiquette, right? Something about how fish, while a healthy choice, isn't always the best date food, and bread is all right as long as you don't eat the whole loaf? At any rate, HOORAY for the GNTEP!

Let's not get carried away, people. First of all, that's not what the Sermon on the Mount was about at all. Time to brush up on our Bible trivia, isn't it? Second, starting my own organized religion is Prong Five or maybe even Prong Six. I have a lot of prongs to get to before we get mired up in THAT business. Though I wouldn't refuse those of you who wanted to start tithing right away.

Stood Up

Internet, I've been stood up.

It's hard to tell why. The official explanation, offered 30 minutes before the date was slated to begin, was: "something came up". But because of the Dubai Man debacle, I don't give out my phone number any more. AND, since I still don't have an iPhone or Blackberry or Triage (Treo? Tree-o?), I didn't get the cancellation email until after I'd waited for over an hour at the cafe and finally headed home. LAME.

Luckily, I'm quite skilled at hanging out at cafes on my own. I'd brought a book my friend The Lawyer had loaned me - Gang Leader for a Day, by Sudhir Venkatesh - which was so fascinating that it took me 20 minutes to even realize that Hearratio P. Stand-Up was late. Also, we're in the midst of those glorious three days of Toronto Spring when it's no longer the shit-end of winter (wherein the heavens spit down angry sleet like a disgusted Polish Babcia presented with substandard pierogi) AND not yet the (oh-god-kill-me-now steam-bath sweat-drenched) scorching Toronto summer. A breezy sun-soaked hour on the patio at La Crema with arguably the world's greatest latte in hand and something good to read is not an hour misspent.

But back to the stand up. Even though I didn't have a horrible time waiting around for the no-show, 30 minutes does strike me as awfully late notice. Possibly even rude? I suppose I expected an explanation more involved than "something came up". Something more along the lines of "family emergency" or "car trouble" or "I'm terrified of meeting a total stranger for a cup of coffee." Am I being too anal? I realize that if I hadn't been so paranoid about the providing-my-phone number-to-potential-psychos issue, this guy could've just called me. But even then - EVEN THEN - I think I'd still be a little bit annoyed.

On the other hand, my Office Drone milk-bag complexion now has a tannish hue. Plus, I've made some excellent progress on my ongoing internal Crips vs. Bloods debate. I really do think I look better in the blue.

Getting the music thing

In addition to the Interwebs portion of Prong Two, I've also recruited my friends to do a little matchmaking. If they know an awesome single guy, they are duty-bound to introduce me to this guy. Of course, this prompts several questions about what kind of Dude I'm looking for.

Having been around the love circuit a few times, I've got some ideas about what works and what doesn't work for me in the romance arena. I do not subscribe to the "opposites attract" philosophy. I intend to spend lots of time doing awesome things and building a kick-ass life with The Dude. If he is, for example, deeply immersed in the world of ExTreme Mountain-Bike Paint-Ball Battles and plans to spend most of his free time charting battle plans and putting new shocks on his ride while I'm spending every spare moment feeding my music addiction ... well, that's not really in step with the whole Doing Awesome Things Together plan, is it?

Therefore, I usually tell my match-making friends that The Dude needs to be someone who Gets the Music Thing. But what the fuck does that mean, right? At first, even I didn't know. But I've been thinking about it recently, and I'm starting to figure it out:

Getting the music thing means that The Dude probably (probably) plays an instrument of some kind - not that he's making his own albums or gigging every Friday night, but the idea of spending an afternoon learning a few new chords on his guitar or digging out his old grade six book and bashing away at his piano isn't unheard of. Jam sessions or campfire singalongs or Friday nights in the basement with some guitars and some beer all sound like AWESOME ways to spend his free time. And if he doesn't play, that's okay too. As long as he 'gets it'.

Getting the music thing means that sometimes the music is on as background noise, but not always. Often I'm not just hearing the music, I'm LISTENING to the music. I know what tunes to turn on when I've just kicked ass at work; I know what'll make me feel better when I've had my heart broken; road trips are all about the playlists for me; there's a soundtrack to my life and it's something I've spent time thinking about. The Dude gets this.

As Ian McEwan said:

There are these rare moments when musicians together touch something sweeter than they've ever found before in rehearsals or performance, beyond the merely collaborative or technically proficient, when their expression becomes as easy and graceful as friendship or love. This is when they give us a glimpse of what we might be, of our best selves, and of an impossible world in which you give everything you have to others, but lose nothing of yourself. Out in the real world there exists detailed plans, visionary projects for peaceable realms, all conflicts resolved , happiness for everyone, for ever - mirages for which people are prepared to die and kill. Christ's kingdom on earth, the workers' paradise, the ideal Islamic state. But only in music, and only on rare occasions, does the curtain actually lift on this dream of community, and it's tantalizing conjured, before fading away with the last notes.

The Dude is the kind of person who will totally dig that quote.

So... easy peasy, right? There are bound to be several thousand guys kicking around who are awesome and single and 'get it', They're probably hiding out in some underground bachelor jam session wondering where the hell girls like me are hanging out. If you see them, tell them I say "hey".

Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part I

You may think, Internet, that the world of online dating is the new Wild West. Lawlessness! Mavericks! PISTOLS AT DAWN. Or is that a British thing? Maybe I'm thinking of high-noon, which does seem more fair in terms of sun in people's eyes. ANYWAY. Screw this whole Wild West idiocy. There may not be an edition of Emily Post 2.0 (oh god, that's bad. I know, I know) but perhaps there should be? As I sally forth into the dark, nefarious world of the eDate, I'll see if I can dole out a few observations and maybe even some guidelines.

GUIDELINE NUMBER ONE
Would you say that to a person you'd just met in person? No? Then maybe don't say it on the internet:

One of the great things about online dating is that you've got free reign to contact anyone on the site. Presumably, you sign up for online dating so that you can meet new people; that's the point of being there. That reduces the Risk of Ego-Shattering Rejection by about a thousand. Before you even say 'hello', you know that this person isn't going to hit you with the I'm Married/I'm Gay/I'm actually from the planet Zoltan and don't date outside of my Zoltaniarwan Faith shtick.

However, it appears that without Risk of Ego-Shattering Rejection, a number of enthusiastic online daters feel free to blurt out anything that pops into their minds. Here are a few topics that may not be successful conversation starters:

1. The size of your... *ahem*... "endowment."
   
2. Starting the sentence with "my therapist says that..."
   
3. Discussions involving preferences in the bedroom.
   
4. Starting the sentence with "hey bitch."
   
5. A lengthy description of how intuitive your pet lemur is.
6. Compliments involving sexual organs.
7. Starting the sentence with "so... how many kids do you want to have? I like Hurratiaetta for a girl and Hurratio Jr. for a boy!"
8. ANYTHING about your ex.
   
9. etc.

Of course, these could be perfectly fine topics of conversation with someone you're already dating. At some point, one may be very keen to discuss the intuitive powers of a love interest's pet lemur for hours on end, for example. But do we want to come off as a Crazy Lemur Wingnut right off the bat? Probably not.

Gym Guy

A lot of people who hear about Prong Two have suggestions as to where I can meet prospective dates. One of the more popular suggestions has been the gym. "There are LOADS of single guys at my gym," they boast! "You're way more likely to find someone who takes care of themselves and who's in great shape," they claim. I sort of don't care about The Dude being in great shape. But that other stuff is probably true.

And yet, I am not keen on the gym as the dating Mecca. Unless! Are we thinking of the gym as a litmus test? Because then maybe we're onto something. Any guy who sees me flailing around on the elliptical machine, purple-faced and sweaty in my ratty Canada! t-shirt and the boy's gym shorts I purchased at Zellers seven years ago and still thinks I'm eligible may be okay with me.

I did give the gym a go a few years ago. The results were not good. No wait. That's not entirely true. When asking myself if my ass looked good in various skirts, the answer was mostly a resounding "Daaaaaamn. YES." But as way of generating dating prospects: not successful. As it turns out, I'm not the sort of person who can pick up guys at the gym.

First of all, the only way I could convince myself to go to the gym was to go as soon as I woke up, before my brain could form enough compelling arguments to not go. And since my daily routine included a long journey on the Bus of Hellfire and Damnation to my office in scenic Industrial Mississauga, this meant that I was at the gym at dark o'clock each morning. This may be shocking news to you, internet, but there were not a lot of likely dating candidates at the gym at 6 am. In fact, most of the other patrons were of the geriatric variety. I'm not being unkind; without me in the mix to skew the results, we're looking at an average age of 72.

But then! Then Gym Guy started showing up. And soon, me, a dozen seniors and Gym Guy were there every morning at 6 am. It was miraculous! Frankly, Gym Guy was waaaaaay out of my league. Each morning he performed countless fancy maneuvers on the weight machines, muscles rippling and flexing effortlessly as he smiled dazzlingly at the other patrons. He helped the seniors adjust the machines and made pleasant conversation! He turned the t.v. channel to Newsworld, but first checked with other gym-goers to make sure it was okay! So polite; so blindingly handsome! I looked on, gasping and flailing from my post on the elliptical machine, smitten and mute. I thought about doing something drastic, like buying yoga pants at Lululemon. But who are we kidding? Are a pair of $90 yoga pants going to magically transform me into a glowing and fresh and graceful exercise ninja instead of sweaty and raspberry-hued klutz? No. No they are not.

I felt sure my relationship with Gym Guy would be limited permanently to the maniacal grins and muttered greetings I flung compulsively his way as he passed by on the way to the water fountain. But then something truly amazing happened: one morning Gym Guy made a sharp detour from the weight machines and climbed onto the elliptical machine NEXT TO MINE.

I decided to play things cool. I continued my flailing. I kept my eyes glued to Newsworld. And then, for reasons unknown even to me, I deviated from the 'playing it cool' plan. Or maybe I took the plan too far? Regardless, saying 'hi' to Gym Guy while casually taking a swig from my water bottle proved to be an insurmountable physical challenge:

Me: [picking up water bottle] Hi!

Gym Guy: Good morni..

Me: [sputtering the entire contents of water bottle down my shirt] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: Oh hey! Are you okay...?

Me: [trying desperately maintain footing on the elliptical machine] *cough* *cough* Sure! *cough* *cough* I'm o.. *cough* okay!

GG: Are you sure?

Me: [catching my toe on the pedal thingy] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: Woah there!

Me: [spectacular wipeout and subsequent face-plant on gym floor] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: [turning off his machine] Are you SURE you're okay?

Me: [leaping to my feet] I'm okay! I'm okay! Yeah, that bleeding should stop any time now. No big deal! Woah, is that the time? I should head out. Work! Gotta keep that ear to the grindstone! Or is it 'nose to the grindstone'? I can never remember. Ha ha ha! Anyway. Don't worry about me, I've got a trick knee, I always limp like this. Time to hit the salt mines! Have a great day!!!

GG: ....

Gym Guy steered clear of the elliptical machines after that. Shocker. And now, anyone who suggests I try meeting guys at the gym hears that story. There's always a brief pause followed by ..."The grocery store! That's supposed to be a great place to meet people!"

Instant Messaging: the down side of online dating

Hurrazzio [aged 48, from Tallahasse, FL]: Ur ass is hawt.*

*There are no photos of my ass or the vicinity of my ass in my profile.

Me : Really? That's the opening line you're going with? Ur ass is hawt?

H: Ya babe.

Me: Excellent. You're hitting it out of the park so far.

H: lol u like being spanked?

Me: We're already at the spanking portion of the chat? You're quick.

H: Thx. So do u?

Me: [logout]

Starving Artists

You know those girls who are total goners for the painter in the garret who uses packets of stolen mustard and ketchup instead of those fancy oil-based paints he can't afford; the novelist so destitute he's using paper towel lifted from the Harvey's bathroom in lieu of real paper; the song-writer who lives in his guitar case under a bridge? It appears that I'm no longer one of those girls.

Am I a jerk for because the Starving Artist now makes me weak with hunger instead of weak in the knees? Probably. But my Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Hold has recently been usurped by my HEY-let's-be-practical brain, who insists that The Dude is someone who will be able to pay his half of the mortgage in the foreseeable future. Either that, or the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has finally grown weary of having the shit kicked out of it via the parade of inappropriate pairings it's been subjected to and has finally put its foot down. Okay, hearts don't have feet. Whatever. It's a metaphor, just go with it.

So okay, before everyone gets up on their high horses about economic elitism and Women Who Want a Free Ride, let me be clear about something: I'm not on the lookout for some über-rich guy who will fling me across the globe in his private jet, inside which we'll have money fights using pillow-sacks filled with one hundred dollar bills and snack on diamond encrusted crackers smeared with gold-plated caviar. For one thing, that scenario can hardly be good for one's digestion. For another thing, I like taking care of myself. You know that feeling you get when you pay your all your bills and still have some cash leftover to go hog-wild at the iTunes store, or you use your bonus to book a week on the beach with a perpetual margarita melting in your hand, or you slap down a down-payment for a condo - and you know that YOU are the hard-working bad-ass who made that all happen? I LOVE that feeling. I'm not looking for a fancier life or someone to shower me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. If I want more money, I'm pretty sure I can make it myself.

So then, what's the big problem with the Starving Artist, you ask? Excellent question, internet. Let's use Screenwriter Guy, a recent OKCupid match, as an example. This guy is great - funny, articulate, intelligent, ambitious, cute. We met for drinks at The Yellow Griffin, and I was completely charmed by Screenwriter Guy's sparkling personality. But as the evening progressed, he revealed that although he thinks of himself as a screenwriter, his prolific efforts have yet to produce any actual film footage. At 33 years old, screenwriting is his only game plan - he supports himself by working part-time at a video store and part-time at a coffee shop. Screenwriter Guy has been so intent on this goal that he has eschewed post-secondary education and steady employment; all of his energy and focus has been devoted to his creative outpourings. And you have to respect that kind of tenacity.

On the other hand, aren't there some pretty major compromises involved in teaming up with someone whose dream career, 15 years in the making, is still in its infancy? Isn't it okay to think about my own hopes for the future - the ones that involve kids and family and building a life with someone - and understand that unless Screenwriter Guy changes his goals, mine will probably be shelved until he gets "his big break"? Isn't it a good idea to choose someone whose plans for the future sort of line up with your own?

We went on a second date last night (I really do like this guy), and over our cashew chicken and meekrob at Young Thailand he told me that he's dated women who've wanted him to give up on his writing aspirations in exchange for a degree and a steady paycheque. Those relationships never lasted long. And who can blame him? While I'm still a complete idiot when it comes to relationships, I'm pretty sure you don't go in hoping the other person is going to change - and especially when the thing you want to change is a defining element in who that person is.

As great as he is, Screenwriter Guy and I both headed for home last night with the tacit understanding that a third date wasn't going to happen. Still, it was nice to hang out with a guy who wasn't addicted/terrified/dead inside/trying to lure me into a one-night-stand with promises of hotel-room tea. And when I see a shot of Screenwriter Guy accepting his Academy Award ten years from now, I'm totally bragging to my kids about how I went on a date with him once.

Hi, I'm Colin

My good friend Colin is also single. Sometimes we trade advice. For instance, Colin has advised me that no guy wants me to wear a turtleneck sweater on a first date. Also, maybe I shouldn't mention the cat until the third or fourth date. Or possibly, avoid mentioning the cat at all until I'm sure the guy is really, really into me. And then introduce the cat in small doses so that the guy doesn't flee in terror when confronted with Satan in Feline Form. Duly noted, Colin.

In exchange, I've been advising Colin that a little confidence goes a long way. Take Dubai Man for instance: sure, he was CRAZEE. But he still ended up with my number because he had the cojones to ask for it. Colin is awesome and non-crazy. And don't we all want more awesome non-crazy guys asking us out? YES. Yes, we do.

Colin: So, I just walk up to the girl and ask her for her number?

Me: Sure. Or ask her if you can buy her a coffee.

C: I can't do that!

Me: You can't? Why not?

C: What if she says 'no'?

Me: Um... then you go on with your day?

C: Oh. Huh. I see what you mean. Yeah, I like this idea! So what do I say?

Me: You say 'Hi, I'm Colin. I'd love to buy you a coffee sometime. Can I get your number?'

C: Yeah. Actually, that sounds GOOD.

Me: Okay, great! You wanna practice it? I'll be the girl.

C: Yeah! Okay.... Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, Miss. I was just wondering if...

Me: What? STOP. "'I'm sorry to bother you, Miss'? What are you, a butler? You sound like a weenie. 'Hi, I'm Colin. I'd love to buy you a coffee sometime. Can I get your number?' That's all you have to say.

C: Okay. Let me try again. "Hi, excuse me, how's it going? I'm wondering if I could get your number?"

Me: No, Dude. Don't water things down with the 'excuse me' stuff. 'Hi, I'm Colin' That's your opening. 'Hi, I'm Colin'.

C: Okay, okay. Let's see... Hi, can I interrupt you for a sec...

Me: DUDE! 'Hi, I'm Colin.'

C: Right! Okay! I can get this! Hi, I'm Colin and I'm sorry to... oh CRAP.

Me: ...

C: ...

Me: It's okay. I'll write it out for you and we'll practice again later.

Dubai Man

I've always thought of the Driver's Office as the great equalizer: rich or poor, young or old, you are forced to take a number and shuffle into the holding area for between two and thirty-seven hours before being informed that you've filled out the wrong form by a disgruntled government employee who will hit the 'next' button under his desk like it will activate a trap door, plummeting you to your death via an alligator-filled moat.

I met Dubai Man at the Driver's Office. It's hard to say what prompted me to think he was a normal human being. It could have been that my brain was over-cluttered by the sound of shrieking children, whose parents were too busy comparing tattoos to prevent them from clinging to the underneath of my chair like grubby howler monkeys. It could also have been that the sound of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns blasting from Horse-Laugh-Man's iPhone scrambled my senses.

At any rate, I now suspect that the Driver's Office holding area is populated entirely by miscreants and lunatics. The sane people have discovered some other way to renew their driver's licenses. I am (relatively) sane. Why hasn't anyone let me in on the secret way to avoid the crazies of the Driver's Office? You people suck.

Anyway.

Dubai man smiled winningly at me several times. I smiled back. We both shook our heads in disbelief at the howler-monkey/Horse-Laugh-Man situation. His clothes appeared to be clean. He was reading a novel. Comparatively normal.

My number was called, and after I'd presented the correct documents, a stone from the top of Everest and a vial of Christ's tears from the crucifixion, my picture was taken and I was given my new license. Time to get back to the office. Impressively, Dubai Man got up out of his seat, approached me, and ASKED IF HE COULD BUY ME A COFFEE.

Let me just say that it's not easy to approach a stranger and ask them out. It takes courage and confidence. I was immediately impressed. And also very late for work. As a result, Dubai Man asked for and received my cell number.*

Things started going a little south when he called me later that night and arranged to meet me for a drink the following evening:

Dubai Man: I'm staying at a hotel on College street. Why don't you meet me there?

Me: oh... you don't live in Toronto?

DM: No. I live in Dubai. I'm from Toronto, but haven't live here in some time.

M: You live in Dubai? Wow, um... are you planning to move back to Toronto, or...

DM: It's a very complicated situation. But I'll explain it to you when I see you tomorrow at my hotel.

M: Right... I was thinking we should meet at Kalendar - it's also on College and closer to my place. Would that work?

DM: Sure, see you there.

This is the point at which several small alarm bells began ringing in my tiny paranoid brain. I've found that the phrase "it's complicated" rarely signifies a positive situation. It's never "complicated" in the sense that someone's planning to give me a unicorn that craps money but is having trouble transporting the unicorn to my house, for instance. It's usually "complicated" in the sense that someone would like me to invest my life's savings in their scheme to genetically modify ponies into unicorns that crap money. "It's complicated": not my fave.

At Kalendar, Dubai Man was not keen to get into the complicated nature of his residence in Dubai. "Toronto people are WAY too interested in what they do for a living!" he claimed. "We live in a time of global integration - where we live is insignificant!" he cried. Well, sure. That's often true. But what's the big mystery, Dubai Man? Evidently, that was none of my business.

I was already pretty fed up with this guy when the conversation took a sharp turn:

DM: Enough about all of that. I am very much looking forward to spending the night with you.

Me: Uh... Ha Ha.... well. Not the WHOLE night. Ha Ha.

DM: Oh yes. I think it will be very beautiful.

Me: Uh... no. I don't think so.

DM: [reaching across to take my hand] Oh yes. I think we will have a very beautiful time together.

Me: [pulling my hand away] What? NO! Dude, that's totally not going to happen.

DM: But why? But you are so beautiful and you're not like other women in Toronto. I can see that you are spontaneous and open. You're not cold like the other women in Toronto. I know I'm right. I can tell from your smile.

Me: Actually, in this case I think you can assume I'm just like every other woman you've met in Toronto. So anyway... where did you grow up?

DM: You're afraid to spend the night with me because I'm black. Ha ha ha! You little white girls are always so scared. Tell me: have you been in a room alone with a black man before?

Me: Are you kidding me? Because you're black? Look, I'm not going to sleep with you tonight, and that has nothing to do with your race. This is totally insulting.

DM: Who? Who is this black man you have been with? YOU TELL ME.

Me: [placing some cash on the table and getting up] All right. That's enough of that. Time for me to go.

What transpired next was an amusing little scene amid the Friday night College Street throngs wherein I hailed a cab while Dubai Man trailed after me shouting:

"Don't do this to me! You can't do this to me!! Just come to my hotel and I will make you tea. TEA. Please. PLEASE. I will explain everything to you when we go to my hotel. We will have tea. You cannot do this!"

There was a brief struggle as the cab pulled up, when Dubai Man desperately latched onto my wrist and tried to prevent me from leaving. But within moments, the cab was speeding away and I was parting with about $25 more than my budgeted transit fare to get home.

I had three calls from Dubai Man on the way home. The cab driver, in addition to offering to call the police, advised me to ignore the calls. Eventually the guy would get the message and leave me alone. This advice proved to be true, though it took Dubai Man twenty-six calls in five days before he finally gave up.

So in conclusion, the Driver's Office is probably not the best place to meet prospective dates. TAKE HEED.

* A serious aside about dating safety: I have made it a policy to keep the info exchange to a minimum when I first meet somebody. Mostly, I've found that withholding my last name or giving out an anonymous email address is overkill. There are a LOT of trustworthy people out there. But as the Dubai Man story proves, sometimes being cautious can save you a lot of trouble later on. Safety, Single Girls: it's not rude, it's just smart.