Dating tip from P.G. Wodehouse

SOME men fail to understand the importance of not being too earnest.

“Are you going to go out with him again?” my ex-boyfriend asked me about my latest date. We have a Jerry and Elaine kind of relationship.

“Gawd, no. He was too sincere,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“He was talking about the miracle of new babies,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “Too ‘God’s daisy chains.’ ”

“Exactly,” I said.

“God’s daisy chains” is a phrase used in a P.G. Wodehouse novel to describe the type of women that protagonist Bertie Wooster and his chums try to avoid at all costs. One character dated a woman who asked him, “Aren’t the stars like God’s daisy chains?” He was sickened. From then on, “God’s daisy chains” became shorthand for women one should ditch immediately.

I didn’t expect that there were “God’s daisy chains” kind of men, but I was proved wrong. From the beginning of my lunch date with “Earnest,” he spouted one G.D.C. comment after another. To a sarcastic girl like myself, this was pure torture.

When I saw how the land lay, and that I was in for a good hour free of irony, my first impulse was to order a drink. I did not care what impression my imbibing at noon would have. I ordered a Chardonnay with my Cobb salad.

The wine loosened my inhibitions a bit, and as Tom droned on about the miracle of creation and his neighbor’s precious newborn baby (newborns have always reminded me of naked mole rats), I decided to kill two pretty little songbirds with one stone by purposely sabotaging my date. One, I would entertain myself. Two, I would not have to worry about turning him down for another outing.

“It’s just beautiful to see my students open up and become emotionally vulnerable as they connect with a character. To see that transformation touches me deeply,” he was saying earnestly. He is an opera singer and teacher. I gave him the stink eye, but he didn’t notice. Still, he woke from his reverie of young souls expanding and changed the subject.

“Laura said you are just the sweetest woman,” he said, beaming.

I dropped my fork dramatically.

“Sweet? That’s not a word that’s often applied to me,” I replied.

He blanched.

“Uh, what do you mean?” he asked.

“Ah, well, I say never trust a sweet woman or a nice guy,” I said.

“Why not?” he said.

“They’re not what they appear,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, if you’re not sweet, what are you?” he asked politely.

“I’m a jaded journalist,” I said. “Jaded. I’ve seen it all.”

“You seem sweet,” he said, tentative now.

“I’m not. Ha. Believe me. Ask any of my friends,” I said.

“Oh,” he said.

The conversation stalled. He looked uneasy.

I finished my drink, looked around the restaurant, hummed a little.

The check came. Earnest paid. He mumbled something about talking to me soon. I shook his hand quickly and bolted like a fluffy little kitten after a fuzzy ball of yarn.

It was cruel. But God’s daisy chains must be hacked down ruthlessly. No mercy must be shown the precious little blossoms.

Diabetes runs in my family. I can’t risk being around all that sugar.

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Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha.bonar@latimes.com.