It happened a few weeks ago.

There I was, chatting on the phone with the new guy. The one with great eyes. And arms. And ...

Anyway, we were chatting away, one of those first getting-to-know-you conversations when the wine is flowing like ... well, in my place, like wine.

And you're not really sure if you're digging him, but you've convinced yourself you are because you're smack in the middle of one of the longest dry spells in the history of Planet Earth and you figure, hey -- it's been all of three minutes and I don't want to kill him yet and so maybe there's something there. Maybe. A girl's got to blow off some steam at some point, right? Yeah, sure, he's great.

And so we're chatting about things I can no longer remember either because it was a few weeks ago and these days I can barely remember my own shoe size, or perhaps because the wine was flowing just a touch more freely than it probably should have been for no good reason on a Tuesday evening.

And we're trying to work out our schedules so that a meeting might soon take place. So that we can have this meaningful conversation face to face. So that the wine or martinis or whatever can flow with purpose.

Trouble is, the boy lives in Toronto. And he and I both have very hectic schedules. Plus, this was right around the Jewish holidays, which is when I annually trek up and down the 401 from here to Montreal 500 times in a two-week period (OK, two trips, but still -- it's a lot) to spend at least 20 minutes of unrushed quality time with my family.

I mentioned this as we tried to find an evening when we could spend 20 minutes of unrushed quality time together. I didn't really think about it at the time, but at that point I could've sworn I picked up on just a hint of awkwardness, a split second of silence before he spoke again.

Now, to be clear, I have no idea what nationality this guy is, much less his religion (other than the fact that he's not Jewish). Nor do I care. The only reason I mentioned mine was because of the scheduling thing -- I said I was going to Montreal, he asked why, I told him.

It didn't mean I was prepping him for conversion. It didn't mean I was thinking of dragging him down the 401 with me to suck back gefilte fish and matzah balls. And it sure as hell didn't mean I wanted to engage in any conversation that began with the words: "The problem in the Middle East is ..."

What I wanted was to have a night of drinks and lotsa flirty, blowing-off-some-steam fun with the cute guy with the great eyes. And arms. And ...

Apparently, he heard something else. Apparently, he freaked out just a little bit. Apparently, things with this guy were just not going to work out. Even for one solitary evening.

Because the very next day, I received an e-mail from him, telling me he'd be able to shlep down to Hamilton that very Friday night.

Shlep. He used that word. Even I hardly ever use that word. It left me staring at the screen, just blinking.

Seriously, I thought. Are we doing this, now?

I guess this means that if I started dating a Jamaican guy, I should wrap my hair up in dreads. Or I should greet Italian guys with a hearty "Ciao bello!" If that's even any kind of greeting in Italian.

So disappointing. Not just because he was now trying to win me over by speaking the language of my people, but because he was doing it in the daytime while I was sober. Do I need this?

As far as I was concerned, this was a done deal. Over. Finis. Stopped before it started. And yeah, I get that my reaction was just a bit rash but I couldn't help it. HUGE turnoff.

And anyway, that Friday I would be shlepping down the 401 to Montreal for the 500th time that month which meant trying to reschedule. Which, frankly, was turning into a huge pain for a guy who just used the word "shlep" in an e-mail. Next thing you know, he'd be seeking out bagel places to take me for a nice piece of lox. And I hate lox.

Jocelyn convinced me to give him another shot. 'Cause when it came right down to it, the conversation wasn't all that important. But I never phoned him again and he never phoned me.

And I pity the poor Asian girl he tries to hook up with next.

snadler@thespec.com