There were just too many to list in the last post. So I saved some of the best (worst) for round 2. If you can’t decide whether or not you want to laugh or cry for me, I can relate.

5) Mr. Alcoholic

I met this one through work. My boss and I had a meeting with him and several members of his team. By the time we got back to our office, he had contacted my boss to find out about my “situation.” Pretty presumptuous about my relationship with my boss. But fortunately, he was excited for the gossip and encouraged me to consider the guy.

I wasn’t terribly attracted to him. But he was really smart, an enthusiastic mentor to a young boy, vegetarian, down for the cause, traveled a bunch, and had a good sense of humor. He checked off a number of things on the list. We hit it off pretty well right away. And as I added him to my phone, I commented that I knew someone else with his exact name, so I would have to enter his full name when saving his number.

On the second date, I noticed he threw back 3 or 4 drinks without a flinch, and without seeming drunk. Strange. But not a deal-breaker.

Following that date we played a bit of phone tag. But we were definitely going to hang out again. Before that could happen, he sent me a series of text messages one night from a work event he was attending. It was a fancy sounding event, with an auction and (apparently) lots of alcohol. His texts became less and less coherent through the course of the evening. But the gist was that he had won an auction for me: a reflexology foot massage.

How nice! This guy was a keeper. With various typos, he continued, commenting that he was told reflexology would be painful. I responded with something like, “I’ve had it done before and it wasn’t painful. In fact, I really enjoyed it.” Two completely incomprehensible texts followed.

About 10 minutes later, he was calling my phone. I need you to do me a favor and imagine the most exaggerated and comical drunk person speak – slurred and draggy speech and all: “I caaaannnn’t eevvuun beleeevve whuut yuuurr sssssayun ta me right nuh.” He went on and on. But I’ll spare you the exact quotes. The sum of it was that he really liked me. But he was furious that I was sending dirty text messages to him that must have been intended for the other guy who has the same name. How dare I?  He all but called me a skanky whore.  The last thing I said to him that night: “I know you think you know what you’re saying right now. But you’re really going to regret this conversation in the morning.”

Dude was so drunk that he had forgotten that we were talking about reflexology, and remembered nothing about the content of his earlier messages.  Since he had no clue what I was talking about, he assumed the other guy must have known what I was referring to when I said “it didn’t hurt” and “I really enjoyed it.”  Drunk. Angry. Freak.

He apologized the next day. But I just didn’t have the energy to help him work out those issues.

6) Mr. Porn

Okay. I’ll admit that I didn’t think this one and I had a future. We met when I was buying screens for my pipe from his friend (that context sets the stage). He was cute and I had nothing to lose. So I gave him my number. When we went out, he was a level nine on the flirt scale. And again, I had nothing to lose. So I went out with him again. But this time we didn’t so much go out – we went to my apartment.

I was getting plenty of signs that this guy was nuts. And broke. And inconsiderate. But I didn’t have enough information to really judge him on. A few “dates” (and a face hickey) later, I decided to try him out in public again. He picked a thai place. Conversation was decent at best. Topics like his search for an apartment without rats and his frequent appreciation of porn were covered.  And as expected, we split the bill. I paid with my card. He handed me a wad of bills.

Walking out of the restaurant, as if he had x-ray vision, he went straight for the trash can on the street. Diving his arm into a brown bag in the trash can, he pulled out a dvd case.  “Look! A porn!” He was so pleased, smiling and seeing such a bright future for himself. A small part of me was happy for him. The rest of me was horrified. “Are you seriously keeping that?”  To which he replied, “hell yeah!”  We got on separate trains and I never saw him again.

When I got home, I counted the wad of six $1 bills he handed me to pay for his $15 dinner.

7) Mr. Foole

Alright. This one is my favorite. I’ll be 75 and still telling this story. It’s a long one. So I’ll summarize.

I met him on the subway. He was carrying a cd he made a month or so earlier (it was dated), including a poem about me that was set to music. Apparently he had seen me before and hoped to see me again. I know what you’re thinking – but the poem really was about me.

I emailed him only to say “thank you,” telling him I had a boyfriend (lie). But after he lightly persisted for a month or two, I went out with him. And I had a good time. Oh, but wait, I should mention that the morning of our date, I ran into him on the train. But it was an unusual train for me and an unusual time.  Although it was around the same time of day, we were both far from the train where he saw me at least twice.  Something was strange about that. Anyway, on our date we talked about where we were from, our families, our jobs, lots of stuff. We had lots in common. I was definitely going to see him again.

A little while later, before we went out again, I received an email from my co-worker/friend saying, “I have gossip.” She forwarded a chain of emails she exchanged with a guy over the course of a day. She met him 9 months or so earlier at an event for my job. He had just returned from London and was excited to reconnect with her. His name was Xavier Poole. She didn’t remember Xavier. But he seemed cool, so she was letting it unfold. As I scrolled through the emails, I noticed he worked for the same organization as my guy. And he was also from Atlantic City. And he also lived in Brooklyn. And he also had a twin sister. Hm. That’s unusual. In one of his later emails, he signed “Michael,” as in Michael Poole. Did I mention my guy’s name was Michael Poole (please note I don’t give a damn about his anonymity)?

Okay, so she calls him on it. But Xavier is his middle name. He knows the other Michael Poole, but describes himself very differently. Different hair, different phone numbers, different heights, different neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Totally different guys!

My friend and I rode emotional roller coasters for a couple of days, hearing various stories told by our respective Pooles. Not knowing what to believe, with our whole office now involved, we called the main number for their organization, testing the phone directory.  Sure enough, there were two separate Michael Pooles. Now we were the fools. We laughed and laughed. And then we planned our double wedding to the Michael Pooles.

A few days later, we relayed the story to another friend, who is also a co-worker. She uncovered a hole in the story: there’s no way Xavier could have been at that work event where he claims to have met my friend – she knew the guest list. And doesn’t our job have photos and explanations of all of our events online?  Any person crazy enough to invent two identities to cheat on a woman he barely knows with a woman he likely never met (women who work for the same organization) is capable of going online to find photos of strangers and place himself at events he’s never attended.  It’s unlikely, but possible.

We called the phone chain again to ease our minds. But this time we went further.  Turns out one of the extensions was dead. There was only one working Michael Poole extension.  Now we could only go by the voice on the voicemail, which sounded exactly like my Michael Poole.  We compared it to the voice on Xavier’s personal voicemail.  It was pretty clear. There was only one Michael Poole.  Freaked the frig out, we watched our backs on our ways home that night.

Xavier was pissed and Michael was sad. But both of them were dumped.

People ask me why I’m still single?  I ask them why I’m still sane.