A Trip to the Jersey Frog Pond (Part III)

So, we made it to date three. I dragged myself onto NJ Transit upon his request to not always be the one traveling, which was really a mistake on his part, as the humidity of public transportation melts not only my hair and make-up, but a good portion of my goodwill towards men.

So I arrive in Jersey City (or was it Newark? Paramus? Who the hell cares?) where Jersey Frog declares that he will be taking me to a great little restaurant he's picked out.

"Wow!" I think, "This is turning out really well!"

And as we waltz hand-in-hand down the sidewalk of Main Street Jersey-Newark-Paramus City, visions of wedding bells dancing in my head, we turn in to an adorable little pub, decorated with dark wood and faux gas lanterns.

The hostess leads us up a winding staircase to a spacious, elegantly decorated room with floor-to-ceiling picture windows looking out to the water and the Manhattan skyline. I am extremely impressed, and say as much to Jersey Frog, who I notice is shifting uneasily in his chair.

Just as I begin to glance at the scrumptious looking menu, I hear a whisper from his end of the table.

"Ummm....do you want to stay here?"

"Of course!" I blurt out, "It's beautiful, and the menu looks great!" I tear my eyes away from the menu and towards his face, where I notice beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"What's wrong?"

At this point, I am getting a little annoyed. I understand that he didn't realize how expensive the place was (which it was, but only as compared to the burger joints we had eaten in on our first two dates), but I was also curious as to why he did not research that in the first place, if money was such an issue.

So, we had arrived at a crossroads. The way I saw it, he could either suck up his mistake and treat me to a nice meal, or he could ask if I might mind paying my half. I figured either choice was the acceptable, manly thing to do.

And then he decided to go for option three:

"Well...um...I...uh...I don't like this kind of food..."

I glanced at the menu again. "Really? You don't like steak? Or chicken?..."

"I...uhhh...you know...fancy food. I don't like fancy food."

At which point I had to literally bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying, "Oh! You mean good food! You don't like good food! Got it!" But I refrained and instead tried to lead him towards one of the more acceptable options:

"Well, if you're concerned about the price, I would be happy to pay for myself."

At this point, he turns bright red and glares at me. "It's not the money. It's the food. Let's go." He then abruptly pushes himself away from the table, almost knocking over the startled waitress who was trying to bring us some water.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

"We...uhh....we need to leave. Bye," he stammers as he literally runs down the stairs.

Mortified, I apologize to the waitress and follow him out the door, where I walk in stony silence as he leads me to a dingy sports bar, where he proceeds to order yet another burger and scarf it down without even a morsel of good conversation. I had a better chat with the waiter, who would have made the much better date except that he looked like a pirate (not in the Johnny Depp sense- in the long hair, long beard, haven't-showered-for-days sense).

At the end of the meal, Cheapo Frog walked me to the train station, where he proceeded to grab me and lock me into the most slobbery, disgusting, needlessly long kiss I have ever had the displeasure of being involved in. As he tried to reach for more, I wiggled out of his grip and ran down the stairs as fast as I could.

As I sat in the disgusting humidity of the train, obsessively chewing gum to try to rid my mouth of the taste of frog breath, I tried to at least think of something I had learned from this experience. I came up with the following words of wisdom:

• If you get a weird vibe on the first date, he might be worth a second chance. But if he's still weird on the second date, RUN!
•  If a man has never moved out of his parents' house, RUN!

And, read carefully, gents:

• If you want a taste of that sweet, sweet milk, you would be wise not to trick your cow into thinking you're capable of providing the Prime Rib when all you're really worth is a burger.