(This one’s for you, Eeyore63.)

I was on a blind date last year sometime (can’t remember exactly when). This was a fix-up, my least favorite kind of blind date because the person fixing you up a) doesn’t think enough of this person to date them herself) and b) is usually unduly anxious for the date to be a success. And I’ve always hated to let people down.

Anyway, I don’t even remember much about the guy. We were awkwardly discussing our music preferences over the salads, and I mentioned that I was a Clay fan. He said something derogatory about him that I won’t repeat here (just think of it as typical Conan material). It’s odd -- one minute I was sitting demurely sipping a tall glass of ice water, and the next thing I knew, the guy was wearing it (and the glass, too). It just...somehow...flew out of my hand, rather violently. And the next thing after that, I was slipping the waiter a five to clean up the mess as I left. Did I feel badly about it? Well, no. Some people’s behavior and attitudes are just unacceptable. Never heard from the guy again -- I wonder why.

Did you know that I hold the record for the shortest blind date on record? (Really. Look it up in the Guinness Book.) Another fix-up: I arrived and here’s what happened (take out your watch here and time this and you’ll see that I’m right): Me: Hi...Kathryn’s told me a lot about you. He: I thought you’d be better-looking. Me: And I thought you’d have some class. (EXIT. What’d I tell you?)

Another friend set me up with (recoils in horror) a Republican. No offense to any Republicans out there; I’m sure you’re all very nice. This guy, though...I knew the whole thing was probably doomed when he showed up at my apartment, took a look around my 1920’s vintage hardwood floor walkup, and said, “This is okay, but I don’t see why you don’t live in a highrise on Lake Shore Drive (the most expensive street in the city). It’s a lot nicer.” Gosh, ya think? After a long drive to the restaurant, during which he said he hoped Reagan would stay in office forever (grrrr), it turned out that he was one of those guys who insists on ordering for you, which he did, much to my displeasure. I ended up being allergic to some undeclared ingredient in the polenta. A few days after I got home from the emergency room, he called and offered to escort me, as a consolation, to a friend’s New Year’s Eve party. Since I didn’t yet have a date, I agreed, warily. Then he stood me up. I dressed my Ken doll up in his best tux, fastened him to my shoulder, went to the party, and introduced him to one and all as “my date.” Actually, he was better company.

I also dated my share of actors -- aside from Mr. Toxic from a previous entry, I do recall dating a perfectly charming guy whose gums started bleeding spontaneously right there in the restaurant. Ewwwww. Also a guy who had a glass eye, neglected to mention it ahead of time, and decided it would be fun to float it in his water glass as a joke.

Probably my favorite dating disaster story was a guy named Marty, whom I met in the coed jacuzzi at the YMCA one January day. One advantage of meeting someone for the first time when he is wearing a swimsuit is that there are few remaining secrets. Of course, that works both ways -- and any guy who hits on you having actually seen the expanse of mottled dead-of-winter white flesh in your chlorine-faded tank suit is probably not very discriminating. Just sayin.’

I always tell people this, and they never believe me: He showed up for our first date with...an overnight bag. Confident much? Moreover, he managed to leave it at my apartment when we left for dinner, giving him the perfect excuse to come back afterwards and...get it (get it? g). During a way-too-salty dinner at a bad Mexican restaurant, he rattled on and on about himself, recounting in excruciating detail his recent oral surgery, even going so far to floss at the table. I had no idea what to do or where to look. We ran into some friends of his at the restaurant, and he introduced me to them as “his lady.” Oh.My.God.

It’s a damned good thing that restaurants have back doors, isn’t it? I hope nobody stole his overnight bag after I left it out on the front steps.

Now, I’m not suggesting that all men are worthless louts, selfish egomaniacs or classless idiots. Just the ones I’ve dated. g