Bad dates (the other kind, but I only have a photo of the fruit kind)

My good friend Joe is finally divorced, after a lengthy and insane marriage. And I can say that with complete objectivity. His former wife? Certifiable.

And now he is working on re-entering the dating pool. Tough, after so many years. He emails me stories of his adventures and foibles (mostly foibles, so far). They are reminding me of the pain and humiliation of dating, which I have worked so hard to forget.

I was 41 when Doug and I got married, and except for a very brief starter marriage in my mid-20s to a completely unsuitable young man who looked eerily like Scott Baio, I spent most of my 20s and all of my 30s single.

I had lots of bad dates.

I can match Joe story for story.

I figure you probably had a lot of bad dates, too, which means you have a lot of good stories. I'll share one, and then I want to hear some of yours.

I had two dates with a guy who was known as "Tall Paul." I met him in a bar; he was a good friend of the woman I was hanging out with, and he came over to say hello. We ended up talking most of the night. He was from Boston, he had dark hair, he had traveled the world, he had a good job. In a town like Duluth, in the 1980s, finding someone with a good job was not a particularly easy task; you just couldn't afford to turn your nose up at any of the employed.

The three of us sat in the Pickwick and he regaled us with stories about his European travels in 1978. I was charmed.

I can't remember where we went on our first real date--I think we went to see a comedy show. But I do remember that afterwards, for reasons he never explained, he drove us to his former apartment, the one he lived in in the late 1970s. We sat outside in the chilly autumn evening, shivering, and he regaled me with stories about his European travels in 1978.

Ah. Maybe he forgot he'd already told me those stories. We had been drinking that night at the Pickwick, after all.

I have absolutely no recollection of where we went on our second date. I do remember that he spent the whole evening regaling me with stories of his European travels in 1978.

By the time we were headed home, I was practically clawing at the sides of the car. We pulled up in front of my apartment. I got out. He got out. No way was I inviting him upstairs. No way. I stood on the sidewalk in the chilly dark and faced him. I could tell he was preparing to come in for the clinch. I took a deep breath and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. I can't go out with you again. I already have a boyfriend.

It was the lamest excuse anyone has ever given in the history of dating. It was so clearly a lie. I mean, if I had a boyfriend, what was I doing on my second date with Tall Paul? My words hung there in the October evening. I was deeply embarrassed, but resolute.

Tall Paul said something kind, I can't remember what. And then he leaned over and kissed me. Ooooowwwwwww! Snaggle tooth! He nearly split my cheek open.

I turned and dashed up the stairs. So much for employed boyfriends. I had to go back, for a while, to dating part-time waiters and college students.

OK....come on...your turn.