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This is not going to happen again. I am not going to log on to any dating site as long as I live.

After months of research, I finally met a seemingly nice person on line. I made sure to get to know all about her and her family. After over six months of day and night chatting, I knew what she liked and what she disliked. Which primary and secondary schools she attended and from which college she graduated. I knew what books she read and what movies she watched. I was sure I knew her like the back of my hand. So ten days ago I asked her if she would have dinner with me. Last night was our first date.

I arranged to take Zoe to one of those fancy French restaurants that has ten stars after its name. That was my second mistake. My first one was to invite her out in the first place.

I decided to take a taxi to and from the restaurant. I picked her up at eight and we got to the restaurant right on time for our reservation.

After passing the doorman, we were escorted by a uniformed employee to the dining room where we were formally introduced to the maitre' d. He gave us a disgusted look that only a French person could give and in a nanosecond swoop he measured us up by noting exactly what we were wearing, from our shoes to Zoe's pretty pink hat that partially covered her short blonde hair. "I hope he is not going to start sniffing us too," I thought to myself. It was already two hours since I had had my last shower and I thought I may fail the smell test.

Soon we were sitting at our table with white tablecloth, some yellow and blue flowers in a small white vase, and real silver cutlery of different shapes and sizes. My dinner date was looking at her menu which did not have the price of the meals and I was looking at mine, which did, and quietly calculating which of my investments I needed to sell to pay for tonight's dinner. Khodat kardi ke la'nat bar khodat baad. I decided to ask for the freshest wine on the menu.

"So Zoe, have you been to this restaurant before?"

"No, I have never been to a restaurant before. This is the very first time I am visiting one."

Visiting one? What is she talking about? Which planet is this chick from? I am already getting a headache.

"I can't believe you have not been to a restaurant before."

"My parents never took me to one. We grow our own food and cook at home. They believe it is a sin to eat out"

Oh yeh? Gee, I am spending a fortune and she has nothing to compare it to? And she is living with her parents! You fool. You deserve what you are getting. Next time do your homework. zan ghahti bood?

The voice of the waiter suddenly dragged me back to my miserable situation.

"I am Jean-Paul Sartre and I am your waiter."

"Jean- Paul Sartre? You must be kidding me! Are you related to...?

"Ee was my grandfazer."

He then turned to Zoe and asked, "has Madam made her decision yet?"

"No, of course not. This is our first date. I take marriage very seriously."

"I mean food, Madam."

I was ready to go under the table and cry.

The food came in many courses and I lost count after the tenth one.

The appetizer and the main course were great and the dessert was divine. The wine was still fermenting as it washed down all the delicious food, and the coffee was black and thick, exactly the way I like it. I am glad to say that I can not remember any of the conversation Zoe and I had during our dinner. I think my subconscious is blocking that part of the evening out. It is trying to save my soul, my sanity, and my ego.

Jean-paul Sartre was standing beside our table and as he eyed the leftover food, I clearly heard him ask Zoe if she wanted a doggy bag. But Zoe must have misheard him, because she turned to both of us and informed us that she did not like to have sex doggy style. She had fallen off her horse when she was 18 and had damaged the T12, 13, and 14 of her spine. She would have excruciating back pain if she went on her all fours. Both Jean-Paul Sartre and I had to quickly stop her and explain to her what a doggy bag was.

"Oh silly me! No I don't need a doggy bag, " she said as she pulled out a tiny six inch long dog from her carrying bag and placed it on her lap and began feeding it with the leftover food.

"She can't do zat in eer." Jean-Paul Sartre protested, trying not to completely lose his temper.

I quickly shoved a fifty dollar bill in his hand to keep him quiet. It worked.

The little dog, whose name was Big Fella, managed to eat every bit of food on the table. When he had finished, his eyes were wandering to the other tables, looking for more food. I could have killed that little fart.

After dinner, Jean-Paul Sartre came to our table to clear the dishes. For some unknown reason Zoe seemed very anxious and agitated. She turned to Jean-paul Sartr and asked:

"What are you doing?"

"I am clearing the dishes, Madam."

"And are you going to wash them?"

"Not me Madam, Ze dishwasher will do zat."

"No he won't." she replied and got up. She grabbed the dishes from Jean-Paul Sartre and disappeard into the kitchen. Our waiter and I watched helplessly, our bodies numbed, unable to move.

"She can't do zat," Protested Jean-paul Sartre under his breath.

I quickly shoved another fifty dollar bill into his hand in an attempt to stop the escalation of his protestation. It worked.

I sat at the table while Zoe washed all our dishes, dried them, and piled the plates and put away the cutlery and all the glasses. When she joined me at the table, beads of sweat were running down her face and her pretty pink hat had moved to the back of her head.

Minutes later, we were standing outside the restaurant waiting for the taxi they had called for us. I was so happy that at last my date was coming to an end.
By the time I had paid the bill I had no money left for the taxi fare. Jean-Paul Sartre was nice enough to lend me twenty dollars on the condition that I never take Zoe to his restaurant again.

That was one the easiest promises I have ever made.