The Horrors of Dating or Why I Shouldn't Give My Number Out...Ever.
Ok, so before I begin, a few qualifiers:
1. I was an absolute mess when I met and gave this man my phone number. I can only say, I've learned my lesson.
2. From this point forward I will go Dutch. As, given the fact that he paid for the evening, I really shouldn't bitch. Or, at least I feel a modicum of guilt for doing so.
3. A person's past is their past. Material posessions are immaterial. These things are true. At least they should be. However, I recognize my own hypocracy in the following.
Also, he served in the Navy. I have a soft spot for military guys.
That said, I give you:
The Date That Never Should Have Been or
I'm Too Big a Pussy to Say No.
I had been dreading this evening for 2 weeks. Even though I had ample time to cancel, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Any excuses I gave I knew he'd counter with a request to reschedule, and I just couldn't say "I just don't want to go out with you." I didn't have a really valid reason not to, except for a few minor red flags. Red flags that heretofore will never be referred to as "minor" again. They included a propensity to refer to the two of us as "We". As in, "my mom can totally get US comps at (insert name of a major suburban theater here). He called A LOT. I know, I know. We bitch when they don't call and bitch when they do. But he'd call me at odd times, often, and be annoyed when I didn't return his calls right away.
Ok, so, he picks me up. (I was careful to keep him on the street and not tell him where my actual apartment was. Score one for not being a complete fucking moron.) Continuing in bullet point fashion:
-I greet him at his car...he's standing outside. He presents me with a large bunch of flowers. A little much, but at least they weren't roses. I've had that happen before on a first date.
Guys, pro-tip: Flowers are really sweet. Save them for date 2. Ok?
-He picked me up in a 1981 Caprice Classic whose muffler had removed itself from the exhaust system...producing the LOUDEST CAR EVER.
-The fabric on the ceiling of said car was held up by thumb tacks.
-When we couldn't find parking, I suggested valet and he goes "No one drives my car but me", in a really possesive irrational way... like it was a Goddamned Ferrari.
-When we approached the car after dinner he goes "hey baby!" Again, like we were getting in to a Ferrari and not something whose back bumper was held on by wire and duct tape, and whose window cranks were missing the black thingys that make rolling up the windows take less than 10 minutes.
We sit down to dinner. Things start off fine enough. We're making small talk, and the waiter comes by to take our drink order. OH, I should point out by the way that he asked me about, or mentioned wine about 9 times before sitting down. I.E:
"What kind of wine do you like?"
"I'm sure there'll be a nice wine list there" (in this affected, authoritatvie way)
"I like a nice Cabernet or Merlot..."
It was as if he wanted to make sure that I knew that he knew that wine existed, he drank it, ergo, he was "sophisticated."
I order a Pinot Grigio. He orders a Merlot. As the waiter leaves, my date stops him and says the completely unbelievable:
"Um, I know this is going to sound really weird, but I like my red wine cold. Could you put some ice cubes in it?"
I just about had a stroke. I was so stricken with the ridiculousness of that request that I turned to him and the waiter and said:
"NO! You should do it up like a martini. Chill the glass with ice, pour it back out and then fill it with wine."
When the waiter is out of earshot I look at my date like he has two goddamned heads and I say:
"You NEVER add ice to red wine. Are you nuts???" I was laughing, and he was too, as I was trying to come off silly, but inside, inside I was dying. Literally. A part of me just died. Right there.
Alright, so dinner is fine, the food is good. I excuse myself to the ladies' room and as I come back he's dealing with the check. He looks up from a mess of a wallet and a bunch of 20's and says:
"80 bucks on 64 is ok right?"
Dumbfounded, I just say:
"Well, what's the tax?"
He gets all surly.
"What do you mean, what's the tax? Why does that matter?"
sigh
"Take the tax, double it and then add like 5 bucks."
WHY AM I EVEN TELLING HIM THIS?????
I'd had a few glasses of wine (3...the third of which he gave me a hard time for because apparently his mother told him to "make sure I wasn't ordering 10 dollar martinis at the restaurant and if we wanted to drink we should go to a bar where it's cheaper" ) and he convinced me to go to a place in Evanston. Whereupon I discovered that I'd be taking the EL home. (Thank Christ.)
On the way to the bar he says "Yeah, I used to bounce at this place."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I go here a lot...although, I hope they'll let me in still."
"....."
"Nah, it should be fine."
We get to the bar and he walks right up to a guy and says:
"Hey, I'm really sorry about what happened last time..."
The other guy doesn't even let him finish.
"Why should even let you in here, man?"
I, thinking this was a kind of playful banter...HOPING TO GOD it was a playful banter quip:
"Because I'm pretty?"
This guy isn't amused.
"Listen, man, I'm tired of your bullshit. Every month it's the same goddamned thing with you. I've had it. I'll let you stay, but one thing, and you're out."
I am, understandably, mortified.
"What the hell did you do, dude???"
"Nothing. He's over-reacting."
We go to order drinks.
If looks could kill, the bartended unleashed Chernobyl all over us.
"Seriously, what the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing... I got into a fight...it's no big deal, there was a knife involved. Don't worry about it."
Why haven't I left yet?
We go play a couple games of pool. A couple of his songs come on the juke box, he gets me to dance with him. To his credit he's not a bad dancer. Not bad, that is until he started trying to stick his tongue in my mouth. I'm still trying to be nice, and I laugh it off and extract myself from his yuck and go to the ladies'.
Shortly after this, I decide it's time to go home.
He walks me to the El, sits on the platform with me, the train comes and he hugs me and says:
"Can I call you tomorrow?" in this breathy tone as if we've had this amazing evening and it's so magical bla bla vomit bla...
"I have to work tomorrow."
"Alright, well, the ball's in your court."
And then he again, tries to put his tongue in my mouth.
What is UP with that??? This is a first date! I don't even want you holding my HAND unless you ask me. I know this may come as a shock to some of you, given MY past, but man, when it's a bona fide date... there are some points of etiquette I like to go by.
Fucking ew.
Ball's in my court...yeah, well, it's gonna end up in Boo Radley's yard...possibly through his window where it will never be goddamned heard from again.
I will never hand my number out again. Unless I get clearance from at least 3 other people in attendance at an event.
1. I was an absolute mess when I met and gave this man my phone number. I can only say, I've learned my lesson.
2. From this point forward I will go Dutch. As, given the fact that he paid for the evening, I really shouldn't bitch. Or, at least I feel a modicum of guilt for doing so.
3. A person's past is their past. Material posessions are immaterial. These things are true. At least they should be. However, I recognize my own hypocracy in the following.
Also, he served in the Navy. I have a soft spot for military guys.
That said, I give you:
The Date That Never Should Have Been or
I'm Too Big a Pussy to Say No.
I had been dreading this evening for 2 weeks. Even though I had ample time to cancel, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Any excuses I gave I knew he'd counter with a request to reschedule, and I just couldn't say "I just don't want to go out with you." I didn't have a really valid reason not to, except for a few minor red flags. Red flags that heretofore will never be referred to as "minor" again. They included a propensity to refer to the two of us as "We". As in, "my mom can totally get US comps at (insert name of a major suburban theater here). He called A LOT. I know, I know. We bitch when they don't call and bitch when they do. But he'd call me at odd times, often, and be annoyed when I didn't return his calls right away.
Ok, so, he picks me up. (I was careful to keep him on the street and not tell him where my actual apartment was. Score one for not being a complete fucking moron.) Continuing in bullet point fashion:
-I greet him at his car...he's standing outside. He presents me with a large bunch of flowers. A little much, but at least they weren't roses. I've had that happen before on a first date.
Guys, pro-tip: Flowers are really sweet. Save them for date 2. Ok?
-He picked me up in a 1981 Caprice Classic whose muffler had removed itself from the exhaust system...producing the LOUDEST CAR EVER.
-The fabric on the ceiling of said car was held up by thumb tacks.
-When we couldn't find parking, I suggested valet and he goes "No one drives my car but me", in a really possesive irrational way... like it was a Goddamned Ferrari.
-When we approached the car after dinner he goes "hey baby!" Again, like we were getting in to a Ferrari and not something whose back bumper was held on by wire and duct tape, and whose window cranks were missing the black thingys that make rolling up the windows take less than 10 minutes.
We sit down to dinner. Things start off fine enough. We're making small talk, and the waiter comes by to take our drink order. OH, I should point out by the way that he asked me about, or mentioned wine about 9 times before sitting down. I.E:
"What kind of wine do you like?"
"I'm sure there'll be a nice wine list there" (in this affected, authoritatvie way)
"I like a nice Cabernet or Merlot..."
It was as if he wanted to make sure that I knew that he knew that wine existed, he drank it, ergo, he was "sophisticated."
I order a Pinot Grigio. He orders a Merlot. As the waiter leaves, my date stops him and says the completely unbelievable:
"Um, I know this is going to sound really weird, but I like my red wine cold. Could you put some ice cubes in it?"
I just about had a stroke. I was so stricken with the ridiculousness of that request that I turned to him and the waiter and said:
"NO! You should do it up like a martini. Chill the glass with ice, pour it back out and then fill it with wine."
When the waiter is out of earshot I look at my date like he has two goddamned heads and I say:
"You NEVER add ice to red wine. Are you nuts???" I was laughing, and he was too, as I was trying to come off silly, but inside, inside I was dying. Literally. A part of me just died. Right there.
Alright, so dinner is fine, the food is good. I excuse myself to the ladies' room and as I come back he's dealing with the check. He looks up from a mess of a wallet and a bunch of 20's and says:
"80 bucks on 64 is ok right?"
Dumbfounded, I just say:
"Well, what's the tax?"
He gets all surly.
"What do you mean, what's the tax? Why does that matter?"
sigh
"Take the tax, double it and then add like 5 bucks."
WHY AM I EVEN TELLING HIM THIS?????
I'd had a few glasses of wine (3...the third of which he gave me a hard time for because apparently his mother told him to "make sure I wasn't ordering 10 dollar martinis at the restaurant and if we wanted to drink we should go to a bar where it's cheaper" ) and he convinced me to go to a place in Evanston. Whereupon I discovered that I'd be taking the EL home. (Thank Christ.)
On the way to the bar he says "Yeah, I used to bounce at this place."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I go here a lot...although, I hope they'll let me in still."
"....."
"Nah, it should be fine."
We get to the bar and he walks right up to a guy and says:
"Hey, I'm really sorry about what happened last time..."
The other guy doesn't even let him finish.
"Why should even let you in here, man?"
I, thinking this was a kind of playful banter...HOPING TO GOD it was a playful banter quip:
"Because I'm pretty?"
This guy isn't amused.
"Listen, man, I'm tired of your bullshit. Every month it's the same goddamned thing with you. I've had it. I'll let you stay, but one thing, and you're out."
I am, understandably, mortified.
"What the hell did you do, dude???"
"Nothing. He's over-reacting."
We go to order drinks.
If looks could kill, the bartended unleashed Chernobyl all over us.
"Seriously, what the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing... I got into a fight...it's no big deal, there was a knife involved. Don't worry about it."
Why haven't I left yet?
We go play a couple games of pool. A couple of his songs come on the juke box, he gets me to dance with him. To his credit he's not a bad dancer. Not bad, that is until he started trying to stick his tongue in my mouth. I'm still trying to be nice, and I laugh it off and extract myself from his yuck and go to the ladies'.
Shortly after this, I decide it's time to go home.
He walks me to the El, sits on the platform with me, the train comes and he hugs me and says:
"Can I call you tomorrow?" in this breathy tone as if we've had this amazing evening and it's so magical bla bla vomit bla...
"I have to work tomorrow."
"Alright, well, the ball's in your court."
And then he again, tries to put his tongue in my mouth.
What is UP with that??? This is a first date! I don't even want you holding my HAND unless you ask me. I know this may come as a shock to some of you, given MY past, but man, when it's a bona fide date... there are some points of etiquette I like to go by.
Fucking ew.
Ball's in my court...yeah, well, it's gonna end up in Boo Radley's yard...possibly through his window where it will never be goddamned heard from again.
I will never hand my number out again. Unless I get clearance from at least 3 other people in attendance at an event.
posted by LC Greenwood at 10:24 AM
2 Comments:
Please, there were so many "I can't believes" about that evening, I can't even get into them. FUN FACT UPDATE:
Dude called me last night (the day after our 'date') at 10:45 to ask me if he could see me again. I told him no. Also, he was drunk.
WINNAR!!!
P.S. I still say ice in Red Wine is tacky. And chances are, the bar kept the wine relatively cold.
And if one is paying for dinner, one doesn't consult one's date on the tip. It was his hackneyed way of letting me know how much he was spending on me.
LC,
What's your number? Molly J can vouch for me.
Um, seriously, when are you turning this date into a short film? Seriously. Christ, if you need to go out on a good date just call me. I'm fun and I don't put out. (That was %50 true.)
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