"Froggy went a courtin' and he did ride, uh-huh" --traditional folk song

In between the long-term relationships in my life, I've, um, kissed a few frogs. I've already mentioned Baby Oil Guy, so why not elaborate on a few more... you know, the ones I haven't blocked out altogether. I go out with some of these guys. Others, um, no. Just, No.

Assorted Reasons I Have Rejected Guys (in loosely chronological order, with one bullet per fella)

Age 7:

• He thinks armpit farts are the height of hilarity.
  

Okay, at 7, I didn't so much reject him, as stop crushing on him. In my mind, he was appropriately devastated.*

Age 14:

• He doesn't know how to play pinball.

Mind you, this was in the era of pinball machines in every pizza place. It wasn't that he was bad. He. Didn't. Know. How. It was like he'd never encountered one. He stood there and read the instructions on the pinball machine. If you want to get a feel for how odd this was, substitute "use a microwave" for "play pinball".

Age 16:

• He brings a boombox on our double date, so he can express himself by playing one Foreigner song, over and over.
  

You can imagine how thrilled the other couple was. This pre-dates the movie Say Anything, which, by the way, featured a Peter Gabriel song.**

Age 17:

• He is wrong. Insistently so.
  

Now, I have been known to argue a point that is clearly bogus just to see how far I can take it but get this: He takes me to a Tom Petty concert and every time Tom sings "Don't have to live like a refugee", he sings over Tom, "Don't have to live JUST like a refugee", as if Tom needs correcting. People turn and stare.

• He looks like Howdy Doody. With acne.
  

You're looking for elaboration?

• He waits too long.
  

He is adorable, but friends with Howdy Doody (see above). He waits until a week after Howdy to ask me to the dance, leaving me in the awkward position of not being able to go with him because I've already told Howdy I'm not really into "the dance thing".

Age 18:

• He abandons me.
  

He makes me take the bus back from our first date. Alone. In an area I don't know. I wind up back at a skeevy bus terminal late at night, scared and unclear which stranger I must trust for help.***

Age 23:

• He kisses like a two-year-old.

Copious slobber.

Age 25:

• He wears a light brown, corduroy, three-piece suit to a black tie affair.
  

And not in an ironic way, either.

• His dog bites him. Often.

I see the dog's point.



* But, then, in my mind, they always are.

** I sensed your longing for a useless bit of data. No thanks necessary. I'm here for you. And about as accurate as Wiki. Wiki don't lose that number, you don't wanna call nobody else... What? Maybe you'd prefer Oh, Wiki, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, Hey, Wiki! Hey, Wiki!...

*** That's right. I was an after school special. Luckily, like all after school special heroines, I had pluck.****

**** But mostly luck.