Betrayed by Red Lipstick

"There's something magnetic about you," he told me while holding a drink, his wedding band glinting in the light. "You're very charismatic and attractive. And that smile of yours..."

I continued sipping my tequila and merely said thank you when he finished this very pleasant assessment. And tried very hard to keep my lips from betraying me.

I receive a lot of compliments on my crooked smile. It's my best feature (better than my boobs--and yes I did just admit that). This "magnetic" thing comes mostly from people with whom I don't want to be involved. Like the married man up above.

L'sigh. At least I've learned not to let people set me up with men who are completely wrong for me:

About 5 years ago, a woman told me that since I was a photographer, I would get along perfectly with her brother. He was a materials engineer by trade, but a sculptural artist by passion. Two artists, obviously we'd hit it off, right? Well, she wasn't completely ugly, so I figured her brother couldn't be that bad looking. She didn't inform me that he was pushing 40 and had probably never had sex.

Or talked to a woman.

Or been to planet Earth.

I arrived at the Indian restaurant in Hollywood nicely dressed since I had just come from work. He was sitting in a back booth. All I saw after the white socks/berkinstocks/palm tree-patterened shirt tucked into his too-high khakis was The Moustache. It dominated his face. Like Magnum PI, but without the 80s irony.

I knew I was in for a long night. The staff snickered. I tried pleading for a rescue with my eyes. They continued to snicker but would occasionally throw pitying looks my way.

The Moustache ordered so much food, I thought I was never going to be able to leave. In fact, he ordered FOR me. And then proceeded to talk with his mouth full for the next 2 hours. Never once did he ask me a single thing about myself, he just kept talking about materials. And engineering. And his cement "art."

I wanted to stab myself in the head.

Finally, he'd stuffed himself full enough to quit and I made up a story about wanting to get over the hill to see my niece before she fell asleep. I tried running to my car. He didn't let me get away without first giving me an awkward hug and then a present: a glass rose. Red. It had been wrapped in his jacket the whole evening. Which is how I wish he'd kept it. Clearly he didn't get that the date was unsuccessful.

Why the hell would you wait till the end of the date to give a girl a glass rose, especially if it turned into the DATE FROM HELL? Because you're a social retard. A moustachioed Social Retard.

The problem was that I'd been unfailingly polite the entire time. Smiling even. And that's what got me in trouble. Having manners. And the damn smile.

It's a blessing AND a curse!

He actually called me again a few days later, right smack in the middle of the baby G-brat having a violent tantrum. She was so obnoxiously loud, I'm sure he could hear it all the way over on Planet Retard, but he ignored it and tried making conversation. And a second date. I stared at the phone, dumbfounded that someone could be that dense. I told him it was a bad time (hello, screaming child in my arms!) and that we'd have to talk later. He gave me the most dejected "oh, okay" and hung up.

Mercifully, that was the last I heard of him.

The smile though, still gets me in trouble. Apparently.