AKA: The Nutty Professor.
Yes, I do give monikers to all of my victims. Why? Who the hell knows? Maybe it's because I am truly a scared little 13 year old girl at heart and trying to be funny is my only defense. Or maybe it's because I have a magnet somewhere on my body that attracts the flotsam and jetsam of the single/over-40 male population and giving them names is my own personal coping mechanism. Either way, I do give all of them names. So here's the story of the Professor.
Professor Plum was the first one I talked to on the phone. His emails seemed normal, he could spell and write a sentence. He was a professor at a small college in a bordering state, a professor of plant biology. He had developed a certain fruit (take a guess!!) that was hearty enough for our midwestern climate. His divorce was just about finalized and he was rarin' to go. So we made a date.
Our first date was at a little restaurant about 20 minutes from my house. Big Daddy used to pick the kids up for an overnight every Thursday, around 4:30 p.m. My big date was set for 6:00. This night, it happened to be pouring. Pouring buckets. And this night, Big Daddy also happened to be late. An hour late. So, I was a whack job. My hair was frizzing up, the kids were bouncing off the walls like freaking Flubber and Big Daddy was taking his sweet ass time.
I called my former BFF, who talked me down..."Go brush your hair, lint off your pants, you'll be ok" she told me. So I sat there brushing my hair like a lunatic, and when Big Daddy finally picked up the kids I took off for my first date in over 15 years. Brushing my hair the whole way.
His appearance was actually quite normal, semi-pleasant. He was about 6'1", bald, with the mandatory goatee. We were seated and started chatting, drank some wine, ate dinner and chatted some more. He was, in all honesty, very nice. He laughed at my neurotic ramblings, which I tried desperately to keep to a minimum. He was obviously super-scary-smart, when he was telling me about his plum work I tried really, really hard to get the gist of it but took that time to keep my wine glass filled up.
After dinner he asked if I'd like to go get some coffee at a nearby mall...which I agreed to. He drove us to the mall (still pouring) and we got our coffee. After the coffee, he suggested a "mall-walk". Despite the fact that I was wearing strappy shoes that were hobbling me more and more by the second, I agreed to this as well. It was the most awkward mall-walk ever. He held my hand, and I tried to walk normally. We walked, and walked, and walked. Finally the walk-date was over and he drove me back to my car. We had a slightly uncomfortable good night kiss and went our separate ways. I drove home barefoot and threw out those devil shoes the second I got home.
Our second date was a movie. We met at the theater, I had one of my homies with me, so she could give me her seal of approval. I was so out of the loop as far as men went, I wanted to be sure that I wasn't missing a hump or other obvious defect or flaw. She gave me the thumbs up, and the Movie Date began. I had made an unfortunate wardrobe choice that evening, a little empire waist top that was made out of a thick, stretchy jersey material. I was sure that I had some B.O. starting, and cursed my decision to not wear cotton.
Professor Plum had nice hands. If I haven't mentioned this before, I have a weird hand issue. Small hands on men totally freak me out...it started when I used to notice Dennis Miller's hands on SNL. Let me preface this conversation by saying that I love Dennis. But whilst watching Weekend Update, all I could see were his tiny little hands in front of him, usually clasped together in a little tiny collection of fingers and knuckles, sometimes stroking his chin, but always, always tiny. It skeeved me out. Later, the small hands of Owen Wilson would give me the heebie jeebies, big time. I'd be reading one of my People magazines and there he'd be, in his swim trunks, frolicking in the ocean with someone with his tiny pink gerbil hands dangling at his sides.
Anyhoo, hands are important to me. Professor Plum had nice big hands, I like to call them "farm hands". He did need some lotion on them but they were just fine in the size department.
After the movie, we went to "my place". The kids were with Big Daddy and I had the house allll to myself. It was then that I noticed Professor Plum was wearing black jeans.
If you have black jeans, and you wear them, please know that I mean no offense. But I can't stand black jeans. I see them on ANYONE, no matter what size, shape or gender, and all I can think of is Garth Brooks. Garth Brooks, waddling across a stage strummin' his geetar, chubby turkey drumstick thighs swaddled in black denim. And that's all she wrote.
But I digress. It had been eons since I had a boy over for something other than a playdate with my kids, and I was a little excited at the thought of what might happen. I was worried about having B.O., but what else is new. So we sat on the couch in the family room, chatting about ourselves, our kids, our hopes and dreams for the future.
Professor Plum told me, "Sometimes I have bad breath, just a heads up." I countered that with, "Oh, I'm a compulsive gum chewer, I always have gum." That's pretty much the way our conversation went, the whole way. I heard more about his crazy ex, about his kids, and about his plum work.
Then we made out for a while. It was strange, but fun, black jeans and all. No, I didn't sleep with him. That came a few weeks later, after one of my infamous drunk phone calls/texts.
After that, his mask slipped a little and I met The Nutty Professor.
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