2009-05-30 - 8:34 p.m.

Reluctantly, I decided to break my dating boycott by agreeing to meet some dude from Match.com. And while he was physically NOT my type--bald with full facial hair (the cliche look of the 50+ man!)�he did have a Ph.D in History and a Masters in Theology, which is the kind of intellectual combination I usually find intriguing. PLUS�his profile featured photos from exotic destinations, so I figured he had some dough.

Let�s call him Rodney.

We exchanged a few e-mails in which I told him I wasn�t interested in going out. He persisted. I said I was sick of the dating scene because it was exhausting having to re-hash your decades-long story over and over again and because most American men I�ve met have been angry losers who can�t stop bitching about their ex-wives, don�t love their children enough and start each date with a litany of their career highlights instead of flirtatious first-date banter.

Rodney insisted I give him a chance before I �threw in the towel.� I e-mailed OKAY, and he suggested we meet at Vol de Nuit on West 4th Street, between Sixth and MacDougal, which I had never heard of, but, you know, French and all.

So the day of the �date� we spoke on the phone, and within two minutes I could tell this was a mistake. He had a flaaat Indiana accent and zero sense of humor. I mentioned the �Indiana thing� to my friend Kevin who reminded me that both James Dean and Steve McQueen hailed from Indy. Letterman, too. Well, okay, if this guy had a national talk-show I might be more enthusiastic!

Rodney mentioned that he had lived all over the world, working at various international NGOs (non-governmental organizations). I had never heard that term before and, for some reason, found it extremely annoying. Wouldn�t a "non-governmental organization" be, well, just a regular company like GM or Colgate, for instance? Anyway, "Mr. International" now works as a sales associate at a Barnes & Noble in Brooklyn Heights. Um, yeah...so much for my fantasy of him whisking me away to one of the aforementioned exotic destinations!

All day long I thought about canceling, but I figured it�s in the neighborhood, it�s just a drink, how bad could it be?

Running late, I was hustling along West 4th Street, when I ran into Charlie C., a totally cute guy �from the old days� who married an Englishwoman and now lives in London most of the time but was in New York for a few weeks of writing and producing. He was looking all buff and Hugo Boss-ish in a navy suit with open shirt. YUM. We did the stop-and-chat, and I told him I was about to become a grandma any day now. He said, �You look too HOT to be a grandmother, Manfredi� (his nickname for me), and that was so cool and flattering and distracting that I almost forgot I was on my way to meet Rodney.

�Shit, I have to go! I�m meeting this guy...and I�m late.�

So, I left Charlie and headed to Vol de Nuit. Turns out it�s this crappy frat-boy Belgian beer hall, which I should have expected, given its adjacency to NYU. What I WASN�T expecting was that Rodney would be wearing shorts with a tucked-in SHORT-sleeved button down shirt complete with pen-filled pocket. (I kid you not!) The ensemble was topped off by a Yankees baseball hat and (gag!) sandals! Big, ugly, Birkenstock-ish/climb Machu Pichu-type sandals..!! For me�a man wearing sandals (MAN-dals!) is a total deal-breaker. And, since this guy was definitely not a pedicure type, you can imagine the hideous heel crust, hairy toes and thick, janky yellowed toenails I encountered. I almost HURLED.

I wanted to end this mightmare right here, right now, but we found a table in the courtyard and sat down. Even though we were OUTDOORS I could smell his rancid breath across the table. It smelled like a combination of garlic and raw meat. Predictably, he immediately started complaining about his ex-wife who is a Mennonite minister! He, too, is a Mennonite, and he remarked that because of his impending divorce, he can no longer worship at his wife�s church. WTF? Since when are Mennonites running around town? I never actually met a Mennonite before and just figured they were half-a-step removed from the Amish, right?...and living in Pennsylvania or Ohio or wherever-the-fuck...not roaming free in NYC.

The guy had absolutely NOTHING else to talk about�and even with all my public relations expertise in talking to ANYONE, I couldn�t think of one thing to say to this loser. He was SO boring and such a schlemiel that my brain was screaming, �As God is my witness, I will never, ever, EVER go on another date again.� (And, by the way, if there IS a God�why did he make guys like this?)

Rodney mentioned that his daughter was having a baby in July�with as much enthusiasm as if he had told me she was having a ham sandwich for lunch. He hasn�t seen his son in Chicago since before Christmas because he �can�t afford to fly there.� (ARrrggh!) His other son was barely mentioned except to say he was 19. Men who are not enthusiastic about their children are banned from all future communication with me.

Finally, the waitress brought my Diet Coke (not wasting calories or brain cells on this nebbish). He had a Chimay and an order of frites, which I usually LOVE, but which will now forever remind me of this date and of Rodney shoving them four-at-time into his hairy pie-hole with his nasty, greasy fingers.

He went on and on about the ex-wife and how she didn�t treat him with respect.

�I�m the man of the house, the provider, the protector,� says Rodney, the pathetic, sartorially-challenged book shop nerd. �I don�t understand why she left.� (Um, I DO!). �She said that now that the kids are grown, she wanted to start her life over again�without me.� (No shit!).

I finished my coke, put on my jacket, stood up and said, �I�m sorry�I can�t sit here one more minute. Guys like you are exactly the reason why I went on a dating hiatus.� I never looked back�just left him sitting there in a halo of halitosis.

I walked out onto Sixth Avenue at sunset, headed up to Citarella�s for some arugula and tomatoes�then went home to watch a DVD of �NYPD Blue� featuring my beloved "Det. Andy Sipowicz," the only man officially allowed to wear short-sleeved button-downs.


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