Mr. Cheshire Cat

When I was little, I used to have nightmares about being eaten by the Cheshire Cat from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.  I had blocked out this traumatic memory… until my date with Mr. Cheshire Cat.

At first, I thought that the guy was quite attractive, so I was hoping that this could be my first non-catastrophic date since I began this dating experiment.

But then he started talking.

Without further ado, he immediately set himself to the task of charming my pants off… literally.  Here I will recount the final few minutes that forced me to flee the scene.

“So you haven’t found the love of your life yet?”  (I hate it when people ask questions to which they clearly know the answer.)

I decided to humor him, so I answered, “No.” (duh.)  The smile that spread across his face made him a spitting image of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland…  CREEPY, I tell you.  It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking about the Disney version or the first edition illustrations.  That creature’s diabolical grin and distorted features are straight out of an Hieronymus Bosch painting.

“Oh really?  That’s good news for me then.”

And then he wiggled his eyebrows.  I thought those eyebrows were going to wiggle their way off his creepy Cheshire Cat face.

“I will keep my fingers crossed until I win you, chérie.  Even my toes are crossed right now.  Would you like to see?”  (Uhhh… WHAT?!)  And those eyebrows went a-wiggling again.

I probably shuddered violently enough to register on the Richter scale.

“You are so beautiful.  You must have heaps of suitors.”

I had this sinking feeling in my stomach that I was waltzing into a lion’s den, but I responded anyway.

“Not really, I try to keep a low profile.”

“Well, this is great for me.  Less competition.  These odds are in my favor then!”

The Cheshire grin widened even more.  At this point, I moved my chair back as far as it could go.  Just in case those eyebrows decided to wiggle their way into my lap…  Ew.

He then flagged down a guy who sold roses in the street, clearly thinking that buying me a rose would earn him a ticket into my pants.

And with his signature eyebrow-wiggle, he leaned over to purr into my ear, “So how’s about a kiss now?  Your lips would be the first American mouth that I have caressed with my lips.  Don’t you know that the lips of a French man taste the best?”

This was where my skin actually crawled off my body and shot out the door.  The rest of me stood up and followed it as quickly as humanly possible.

Such a shame.  Three-quarters of a pint gone to waste.

NEXT!