Date #8: The Rambling Man

It's a well known fact that I have a tendency to, well 'ramble', at times. My brother, parents and various friends can all attest to this. Whether it's in the email form, the blog form, or on the phone - sometimes this gal cannot shut up. In the past, people have tried various ways at 'stopping my mouth'. I remember once when I was 21 and at a dance club, I had met this guy and we were cozying up on a couch, talking - rather screaming - at each other over the music. As he sat there, I began to ramble about college and how my summer was going and how the music in this club is always so great and it takes me back to junior high and - BAM - he leaned in and kissed me. I was floored. "I was...I was talking." I sputtered. "I know," he said, with a smirk, "I was trying to shut you up." Since then I've been a bit more sensitive to my talking tendencies - I look for the signs - if my date is yawning, fidgeting, or if his plate is empty, for instance, whilst mine still looks like it just came out of the kitchen - I know I need to shut up for a bit.

Well, my friends, I met my rambling match with Date #8.

We started exchanging emails over Match.com. Now, my 'typical' pattern with these internet dates is to spend as little time as possible emailing. Afterall, the point is not to find a pen-pal, but a playdate, and potentially a partner. While it is somewhat important that a person can express himself, it's more important that we hit it off in person. The same goes for talking on the phone. I try and keep the first phone call to a half hour or less. Chat a bit, make a plan for meeting, and get off the phone.

Easier said than done with this one.

This past week was a bizzee one for me, and for my date as well, and so communicating by email was really the most convenient way. His first email was fluid, a tad humorous at times and well thought out. I appreciated that. I responded in a like manner. Over that week, we exchanged ten emails, and his grew longer and longer with each correspondence. Initially, I was matching him word count for word count but soon I found myself struggling to keep up with his pace. Much like the "Candy Factory" Episode of I Love Lucy, I couldn't keep up with the endless string of words coming along that conveyor belt. I was madly answering each question he had while rapidly commenting on everything he had shared with me and furtively asking him more questions, etc. and by the end of writing an email, an hour had gone by, I was just plain exhausted, more than a bit irritated and in desperate need of chocolate. Toward the end of the week, I gave up trying. I could not compete. I was spent, drained, wiped out. And we hadn't even had a date, yet. In my last email to him I could only muster enough strength to type my phone number.

I knew he would be calling sometime early Friday evening. I also knew that we were planning to have a Sunday afternoon date. When he called I was prepared to spend about 20 minutes chatting, ending with the decision of where to meet and hanging up with a "see you soon!"

He called. The conversation was great at first. He's a saxophone player from Indiana and he works in the music marketing industry. He'd been taking some French lessons and so we were speaking broken french to each other. 25 minutes into the phone call I try to steer it toward Sunday and making a definite plan. He says he may have practice with this jazz band he is starting to play with - but he's not sure, because, "Well...there's a story about this band, and well - let me just start at the beginning..."

100 minutes later I am still on the phone with him, with no end to this story-that-isn't-really-a-story in sight. I'm praying that my cell phone battery will die or that my house will catch fire - anything to get me off the phone with him. In a moment of desperation, I push the mute button on my phone and scream at him to relieve some of my pent-up frustration. When I release the mute button, he is still talking, and for a moment I contemplate screaming again, without pressing mute.

Finally I'm able to get a word in and pull the conversation back to the task at hand. I say, "So, Sunday afternoon. What would you like to do?" And he says, "Oh. Well. What do you want to do?" This irritates me even more because not only has he been rambling for the past 100 minutes, but he doesn't have a plan for the date.

I ask if he does brunch. "No."

What?? Who ever heard of anyone living in Chicago who doesn't do brunch?!

I tell him to meet me at Uncommon Ground at noon for lunch (their brunch menu goes until 2pm, but I'm not telling him that).

I arrive at noon and the place is packed. He calls and says he'll be 15 minutes late due to the trains. I put my name on the list and wait. I spot him as he's waiting to cross the street and I want to hide. He's wearing denim shorts that go to his knees, white socks and black tennis shoes. He has a black rayon short-sleeved shirt and his greasy blonde hair is sticking out from underneath his backward black baseball hat. We're soon seated and he takes off his hat. His head is shaved about an inch and a half above his ears, all the way around. His hair is long everywhere else, giving him a very 'roadie for Motley Crue circa 1989' look. I wonder why I didn't notice this in his pictures, and wish he'd throw manners out the window and put his hat back on. I order French toast, he orders the egg, ham and cheese croissant. (Call me crazy, but that sounds like brunch to me).

And a funny thing happened. For all his earlier verbal and literary stamina...here on our date he seemed to have run out of things to talk about. I took the 'rambling reins' for a bit, but found myself to be much more interested in my fruity french toast than in my date.

The check came and it sat on our table for a bit. I excused myself to use the restroom and when I came back said, "Well, shall we get going?" He pushed the checkbook toward me and said, "You owe $12." Excusez-moi? He opened the book and there were a handful of bills and coins. He had used exact change - and taking note that my french toast cost one dollar more than his croissant - told me exactly what I owed.

And this rambling girl was left speechless, mouth open, and not a chocolate bon-bon in sight.

I have run out of words for this date.