Monsieur Moneybags

Let’s just stay in the international field – because I did. He was tall, handsome, had a booming deep voice (that he kept on the soft side) and an intoxicating accent. A businessman from Belgium who made it known immediately that he was building a home in one of the swankiest neighborhoods in Southern California and looking into residency in Monaco.

I was able to see past all of this (cough, cough) to his kinder, gentler, intellectual self. We actually spent more time flirting than anything else. Although we did manage to go on one date – a brunch date at a lovely resort restaurant – we simply couldn’t see ourselves together. Not even for a second date. He thought my language was too coarse and I thought he talked about his money too much. It fizzled before it even got started.

We did remain friendly enough for me to set him up with a girlfriend of mine whom I thought would be a better match. But before he went on the first date with her I gave him a piece of advice:

“Don’t talk about the fact that you have more fucking money than God, okay?!”

They didn’t really hit it off. I only heard her side of the story, though, because I never heard from him again.

Next.

Herr Cranky Pants

And now my first foray into the international playing field: a German gentleman we’ll just call Herr Cranky Pants. A notably creative fellow with lots of style. Dripping with style. The kind of style that you simply don’t see in American men very often – it’s just not in their genes. It’s that certain je ne sais quoi that European men who drip with style seem to have. What’s more, he looked like Eric Clapton. No, really! Trust me on this one. (I’m quite certain that there were numerous random calls made by hyperventilating women to various southern Californian radio stations to report sightings. I witnessed just such a call. It was quite amusing.)

He was well known for being an incorrigible curmudgeon. The artsy-cranky-just-on-the-edge-of-depression type. That is to say, just my type. Perfect.

He flirted. (I’m not so good at this but…) In my own way, I flirted back.

He flirted. (See above. Then see introvert…paying particular attention to the fifth paragraph.) I did my best to flirt back.

We did this for some time. The Dance. It was as fun as flirting can be for me.

Then one night he called to invite me to meet him at a local swanky wine bar. He was already there when I arrived. I walked up to his table. We exchanged kisses on the cheeks. (Very European.) I sat down.

We made small talk. (You already know how much I love that.) A few paragraphs about nothing later and I was thinking, “Hmmm…a glass of wine would be nice.”

Then as if he was reading my mind, just seconds later he addressed that very yen. Yup, he informed me that this evening, exceptionally, the staff was not serving at the outdoor tables. “Go up to the bar and get yourself a drink,” he spat, waving a stylish hand in the direction of the bar.

I was so shocked that I followed instructions. (I know. I know. I should have walked out instead of up to the bar to order. But I didn’t.)

We chatted and laughed. I was my charming self. He softened enough to offer to walk me to my car as the arc of the evening approached its end point.

There was a moment’s hesitation as we stood at my car. Silence in the dark of a summer night…then he leaned in to kiss me. And honestly, it was a great kiss.

He thought so, too, and said as much…right before he said, “You’re really too nice a woman for me. You don’t want to get involved with someone like me. Really. Believe me.”

I didn’t argue. In fact, I didn’t say anything.

Sometimes the universe looks out for me when I don’t have the sense to do it for myself.

We actually remained friends. (Well, that is to say, as much as an incorrigible curmudgeon will allow.) And after that night, I watched his choices in women…and how he treated them.

He was quite right.

Next.

Does That Make Me Craa-zay?

He was a high school teacher. I used to see him at the local coffee house among a murder of men. (See “crows, collective”.)

I wasn’t interested. He began a pursuit, which I found interesting. We started going out.

In the getting-to-know-you phase, he said his last girlfriend was “crazy”. (A totally unacceptable claim these days, but I was still young.)

I didn’t give it another thought.

Then one night, during a candlelit dinner in some cozy eatery, inching toward you-know-what, a woman storms into the restaurant, all tears and screams, and makes a scene in the middle of the place. And I’m thinking, “What’s up with this?! And why is she looking over here?”

This was the former girlfriend.

Crazy? I’m thinking something that rhymes with <<Sew Knit.>>

He got all sad-eyed on me as if to say, “See what I mean? Ooh, poor me. Can you still love me?” And though, no, I couldn’t, I went to bed with him anyway.

Yada, yada, yada…sex was great…blah, blah, blah.

It became clear that this was not exactly a former girlfriend but a woman whom he had been seeing when he decided that I looked interesting.

We agreed to be exclusive but he still struggled. And I had just enough of a complex to allow myself to become caught in the dynamic for a few months.

Until one weekend we went camping.

Sitting around the campfire one night, he decided to tell me about a recent dream. (I’m thinking: “Oh god. This can’t be good.”) He described being stuck in a tub of – rhymes with <<spit>> – and couldn’t get out.

“I’m covered in the stuff and I can’t get it off,” he says, voice on the edge of a whine as he relives his dream state of frustration. But he brightened and added, “Then I wake up!”

As he turned his dreamy (unconscious) gaze into the gasping flames, I woke up, too.

A little incident with an over-extended bungee cord as we were packing up to break camp tipped the scales. Fortunately for me, it just missed my eye (Was he aiming?) but left a nasty knot on my forehead and had me seeing stars. He seemed unconcerned about it and me.

At this point, I was planning my exit and his next move made it exceptionally easy.

He called me one afternoon “Just to say hello,” and apparently to add, “Just put it over there, honey.”

H.O.N.E.Y?

Then I heard a woman’s voice in the background.

Moments later I was at his door to confirm my suspicions.

Yep – you guessed it: The crazy former girlfriend.

“This is rich! And now this is over.” I snapped, spinning around and storming back to my car.

He followed me whining, “I just can’t decide, Baby.” (Yes, that’s a quote, people.) Adding, “See, when you’re like this, I like you more.”

Like this? And what would this be? My eyes bulging from the pressure of swallowing the expletives I’m preventing myself from spewing forth, little bubbles of saliva forming at the corners of my mouth? That’s called “frothing mad”.

Hah! Yeah, right.

I didn’t even turn around.

Next.

Sex From The City

He was a film editor from New York City.

I met him while I was skiing during my second winter as a single. He was a good skier. He was also interesting, intelligent and humorous – in that Woody Allen-esque neurotic New Yorker kind of way.

Sex was great. Among his signature moves: He could pull a pair of lacy panties (mine) off with his teeth. It took several minutes. I guess you could call it being sleight of teeth. Really quite impressive.

But alas, aside from the built-in complications of living on opposite coasts, we ran into a few other speed bumps early on: His attachment to his analyst in Manhattan, his fear of flying and that troubling recurring dream of snakes crawling out of the fly of his pants all got in the way of anything serious actually developing between us. (A shudder still runs up my spine any time a potential suitor wants to share a dream he’s had.)

Next.