Dating Horror Story: Dinner Plate Dentures, or "Are You Going to Eat That?"

I must admit that in 1999, after the sudden death of my then-fiancee a mere 43 days before our Caribbean wedding, I was quite a wreck. We had been together for 5 years, planned a wedding in St. Croix for August 22nd, and he died suddenly on July 10th. I was devastated, and I cried 24 hours a day. Me--the pink clown, the always-up, effervescent princess of perky, the mayor of fun and frivolity--I literally cried 24 hours a day. Friends tried a hundred ways to cheer me. Hell, I tried hundreds of way to fight my own way out of the dismal grief in which I was sinking. It seemed hopeless, as nothing really worked.

Eventually one of my friends gave me a phone number to the local "Dateline." He said, "At least call here. It'll be good for a laugh, if nothing else. I just hate to see you crying all the time."

And so... after a few days, I decided I had nothing to lose and placed the call. After all, I really NEEDED a good laugh.

The Dateline turned out to be one of those call-in lines that are free to women, and men have to purchase time so they can leave messages for the ladies. At first, I merely listened, and was quite surprised at how men and dating had changed in the years since I had been out of the dating market. Once upon a time, people asked questions like, "What do you like to do?" or volunteered information like, "I'm 5'10, brown hair and eyes, average build." That was the sort of thing I was accustomed to hearing from "potential dates." As I listened on the Dateline, however, many of the men's messages began with something like, "My balls are shaved...." or "I have 8 inches cut." (Note here: "8 inches cut" does not mean what you might first think. See, the average intelligent, single woman would deduce that that statement meant the claimant had an 8-inch penis which was circumsized. However, what it TRULY meant--up-close-and-personal--was that he had measured his stuff after 8 inches (was) cut off the RULER! And for those mathematically challenged individuals, it meant he was left with the same (meaning, ultimately, 4 inches) as a ruler with 8" removed.) Anyhow, getting back to the subject at hand (pun intended), dating had CHANGED DRASTICALLY from the time I was in the market.

After listening to dozens of messages, there was one gentlemanly voice that simply stated he was 52, divorced, loved horseback riding, was employed by the State (of Tennessee), and wanted to meet a nice lady for companionship and good conversation. Now that sounded more like what I had in mind hearing from a potential date, so I left him a message. Eventually, after exchanging messages a few times, he left his phone number and we talked over the phone. All sounded perfectly normal. He'd been on his job for years (employed and stable), had grown children (no small kids at home), didn't threaten to ax his ex wife or spew hatred at the mention of an ex. So we decided to meet for lunch. I lived near a large mall in Nashville, so I suggested that we meet at one of the many restaurants there. But I should've known when he suggested "Cracker Barrel" that it would not turn out to be what I expected. Not that I mind Cracker Barrel, mind you, it's a great place to eat with your parents, your kids or your siblings. But a date? Maybe an O'Charley's or Applebee's. But, okay, Cracker Barrel it was. We arranged a time, exchanged descriptions. He said he was 52, tall and slender, sexy and active, with brown hair and eyes and a great smile. And he described what he'd be wearing: jeans and cowboy boots. All of that sounded great. I mean, my fiancee had been a FINE looking man--tan and athletic, with gorgeous sparkling blue eyes and a smile that could stop traffic. So I could look forward to meeting someone who was sexy, active and had a great smile.

I arrived at the Cracker Barrel a little bit early, so I took a rocker on the front porch and began to rock and people-watch. Eventually, I was approached by a gentleman who was, indeed, tall and slender. And he was, indeed, in jeans and cowboy boots. That's where the fantasy description ended and reality began.

Now, folks, I was at the time 45 years old. I knew what 45 looked like in the mirror. Heck, I knew what 50 looked like ON people. And this man--who claimed to be 52--hadn't seen 52 in at least 15 years. Brown hair? Once, maybe. Maybe when he HAD more than a strand or two. But what I saw was several strands of definitely gray hair, combed over in quite a creative and unbecoming way. So I looked for the great smile. Hmmm.... let's see, watery, rheumy looking eyes... and when the smile broke out, it was all I could do not to howl. His jaws clinched tightly together and lips pressed against the tops of his dentures were all that held them in his face. At that moment, I knew it would be quite a long lunch.

Once we were seated and the waitress approached the table, I felt a great sense of relief because I knew that it appeared I was dining with my father (or perhaps my grandfather). We each placed an order and waited for what seemed like hours for the meal to arrive. I swear, I have absolutely no idea how I managed to get through that time, as he "entertained" me with tales of his "Dateline dates." He laughed and laughed at the audacity of a woman who was 70 years old who thought he might be interested in her. Yeah, imagine that. Eventually our food arrived, and the pressure to talk/listen was off, at least momentarily. I had taken about two bites of my meal and had lifted my tea glass to my mouth when suddenly his teeth snapped out of his head! I mean, there I was, attempting to take a swig of iced tea, when his entire set of teeth jumped out of his face, extended some two to three inches, and then, in what can only be described as extreme retrieval, he slurped and snapped, so much that nearby diners heard a distinct "snap" (one would expect this to be followed by a canine-like snarl), and the teeth once again sat behind his lips. Did I really see that? I wondered. I looked at diners at tables in the vincity, and everyone was head-down into their plates. Perhaps I was the only one to have seen this... perhaps I even imagined it. Hmm... was I dreaming or did granddaddy almost lose his teeth in my plate? Lunch continued, with grandadddy giving away not a single hint that he had failed to apply the poligrip.

Another bite or two of salad, another sip or two of tea. And then it happened. Now, I want you to get the full picture here. Granddaddy has a speared a big, red slice of pickled beet, and was waving it around the table a bit, telling me some horse-riding story. His rheumy eyes were tearing, his waddle (yes, you know that flap of what was once a double-chin/fat neck and now has become just turkey waddle) was swinging and swaying, he was into the heart of the story, when all of a sudden---clatter, clack, clatter. Here they came, an entire mouthful of dentures, beet and all, clattering across the table and clicking and clacking their way into the middle of my chicken strip salad. Beets and teeth, right into the blue cheese. (Isn't that a country song? "Whose beets and teeth did I find in my blue cheese last night?")

Now, I have had a hundred people die laughing at this story, and most have asked me what on earth I did. Well, I didn't know what to do. I sat there for a moment, looking at half-chewed beets and now pink teeth in my salad. I remember placing my fork back on the table and saying that I was no longer hungry. I remember the waitress asking if she could take my plate. I remember telling her that she might want to get a small plate for his teeth. And I remember looking up at him, as he sat there with a big, toothless, gummy grin. He had had the NERVE to tell me he was active and sexy, 52 and fit. And as I sat there thinking that he was anything BUT sexy and 52, granddaddy reached across the table, retrieved his dentures, popped them back into his mouth with a loud snap!, and continued eating, as if nothing at all had happened. As if my salad had not entertained his beets and teeth for lunch. I smiled. I held onto my laughter, because I knew that once I got started, I would literally pee in my pants before I could quit laughing. I thanked him for lunch, and quickly left the table. As I stood to leave, his fork snaked across the table, skewered a strip of now-beet-pink chicken, and his last words to me were, "Are you going to eat that?"