Harry and his magical, vanishing social skills.

Over Match.com messaging, I will cut prospective suitors some slack. Not everyone writes with as much furor and gusto as your One Single blogger friend. And maybe it's not that the communications are awkward necessarily, but rather that the writing is just not that great. Which I'm learning to forgive a bit. After all, a writing snob does not a happily coupled woman make. And bad grammar doesn't always mean a bad date.

So, when Harry was a bit, okay, awkward over email, I was able to rummage up enough redeemable qualities within his messages to ignore the glaring social suckiness and arrange a date. Redeeming quality number one? He had been the first person to write to me over Match and I held a grateful little place for him in my heart. Lesson learned. Gratefulness is not synonymous with real desire. It's actually a sort of pathetic reason to accept a date.


Harry's Downfalls (in no particular order--they all sucked).

* During our initial phone call and in our subsequent first and only meeting, Harry would allow the most terribly pregnant pauses--the kind that one could drive a semi through. Was I interrupting? Was there a better time for me to call? Was he just a weird mute? Ah, yes, the latter.

* Once on the phone and once again in person (this guy learns no lessons), Harry answered my attempt at small talk questions with don't worry about it. Don't worry about it? Yeah, I'll show you not worrying about you all the way to never speaking with your sorry ass again.

* Harry chose a spot for lunch. I arrived on time. The kitchen was closed. Harry was 15 minutes late. Negative point. Negative point. Negative point.

* Harry had circles under his eyes. Like crack addict circles under his eyes.

* Harry scratched his stomach. Under his shirt. Skin bared. More than once during lunch.

* Harry looked at my almost finished salad and commented wow, you ate a lot. To which I replied--a tip, Harry? Never again tell a girl on a first date that she eats a lot. Negative point (x15).

* I earned a $158 ticket during our date. If this was a not a sign from God (or the LA City Parking Department) that I shouldn't be on a date with Harry, I don't know...

* Harry suggested that perhaps I might be interested in joining him and his friends a couple of days later for the Super Bowl. Because I was sort of dying to see what a group of people who identified themselves as friends with this man would be like, I said I'd think about it. A day after (and the following day too), I received voicemails from Harry's friend via his phone in which said friend put on fake accents, made up fake characters and left me nearly incomprehensible prank messages.

Oh, Harry. Oh, Harry Harry Harry. Bad. Move. All of them really--bad, bad moves.

Tip to Chicks: When a man fumbles over email, proceed with caution. When he fumbles over the phone, really reconsider a date. When he fumbles within the first five minutes of your first date, do yourself a favor and spare yourself a parking ticket and just--walk--away.

Tip to Dudes: Don't be weird. It's so, so easy not to be weird. Just don't be.