Date #3 What’s French for Bad Teeth?

Date #3 What’s French for Bad Teeth?

Les dents mal?

We met at the Tate Modern. The first thing I noticed was the horrible stench of cigarette smoke wafting from his mouth. He was shorter than his profile pictured indicated. He was older than his profile pictured looked. And when he smiled at me and said, “Hello Anjelika,” his teeth were an absolute train wreck. As yellow as a NYC taxi cab, and more crooked than the leaning tower of Pisa.

Right then and there I knew I would never kiss this frog!

We spent two of the longest hours of my life together. First we went up to the members lounge. He used someone else’s card to get us in. The concierge handed me back the card and said, “Welcome back Mrs. Wallace.” Classy!

After I sipped on an overpriced apple juice (which he kindly paid for) he disclosed that he earned his living as a poker dealer. He only works 2 days per week – not because he’s independently wealthy, but because that’s just the French attitude towards work, I suppose. He works enough just so that he can buy tea and his daily newspaper.

After the apple juice he HAD TO have a cigarette. Then we spent another 45 minutes looking at the works of Picabo, Duchampe and Man Ray.

This French dude was a nice guy but his hygiene standards didn’t meet my minimum requirements – fresh breath being the main one. This date also made me realize that I want a guy who’s ambitious – not a 2-day a week poker player… puh-lease!