Joys of Dating: Sunday Brunch

Despite the fact that age steals the illusion of happily ever after (as does watching all those fairytales end with lawyers and custody spats...)dating too, gets worse with age...or maybe men have just been steadily devolving as I've aged...
Regardless, here's a date for the record books.
Background...an eharmony date...my first one, because...well...I don't tend to want to spend time with anyone I don't know. Now I remember why...its a gamble. And I am NOT lady luck.
So we spoke on the phone about 5 times and decided to go out...I suggested Sunday brunch. Safe. Lots of people around. No walking to a car in a dark parking lot...and I LOVE brunch food. So, Ralph Machio, we'll call him...agrees on Thursday to a date on Sunday...but calls Friday to see what I'm doing. Not THAT weird, but he pushed..."you're not going to be at dinner all night right?" Ok, we have plans, I like plans. Leave me alone. Same thing Saturday...Arrrgghhh! Guess the guy really wanted to see me...
OR NOT...he showed up 30 minutes late, and even though I had called to ask where he was, he never mentioned being late, an apology, an aknowledgement, a lame brained excuse that I'm growing so (not) fond of in men recently. He saunters right up...to my BOOBS. Lets just say that I think he was using the metric system when he measured himself...not in and of itself a problem, but when you've lied...come on. Did you think I wouldn't notice?!
So we sit (Ahhh, even ground). Its outside, its a beautiful day...neither of those being an excuse to never at any moment remove your polarized sunglasses, so at any point that I look directly at you I'm forced to view my own horrification at the mornings events. Luckily, listening and rarely getting a word in edgewise doesn't require attempted eye contact..
He spoke at length about Karate (get the reference now?) and how he taught it, and how he was going to teach me, and how he could break every bone is someone's body. Sweet...the hobit can hit. My saving grace...the waitress. Poor, poor waitress. I proceed to tell her what I want, guided by this clever piece of paper they had given each of us, otherwise known as a menu. Ralphy though, wants something with just some eggs, pancakes, sausage...I know we've all heard of it - its called a Grand Slam Breakfast, and maybe he thought the waitress at the swanky french place would run over to Denny's and pick one up for him? Not even a thank you...again, horrification (I love this word, I feel like I could make it onto a Bush-ism flip calendar with it.)
Food comes, and now we're deep into every job he's had since age 11...fascinating, really. The fact that I'm sticking a fork in my eye just thinking about it is in NO way indication that I was not enthralled with the life of this little dungeon master. But soon he stops and looks at me (welcome reminder to me that I'm actually present and not just having an out of body experience). He then asks, "Is your hair thin?" I'm sorry...but that immediately brings up images of rogaine and not only being the president, but also a member. Thing is, my hair is NOT thin...I mean relative to some very dark skinned ethnicities, yes, its thinNER, but not thin. I have trouble even voicing a response, so he changes it to "soft." I touch my own hair, look at it, because I believe even my hair is bored to tears...and say I guess so. So he asked to touch it. It was creepy...not sure if it was because I figured if he got ahold of any, a doll in my likeness would be forthcoming. Regardless, creepy. Way creepy.
So we get to the point of leaving (finally - a hundred lifetimes later) and we walk the ugliest stretch Santana Row has...very fitting. I herd us toward the parking lot and walk past my car on purpose. Then turn around when I "suddenly" realize I missed my car. WISH that worked...he took my momentarily turned head to set up for making out. Like I wanna lean DOWN to play tonsil hockey in the middle of the day with farmer's market goers walking by. Not a chance. Ok a chance if the rest of the date didn't suck balls.
And the banger of a conclusion...he walks me to my car (because this most certainly has not gone on NEARLY long enough) and because I am avoiding his advances he decides to make one last attempt at getting closer. And starts tying Boy Scout knots in the rope that went around the waist of my dress...there's nothing funny or ironic enough to say about that. Only that this should indicate to you how fast I jumped in my car, peeled out of Santana Row, and was on my way to terminal single-dom.