Tales from the Crypt--The Remix

Dating stories! Yes, dating stories... We all have them. You know...

The blind date.
The awkward date.
The we-don't-have-anything-in-common-so-let's-get-drunk date.
The 'Did that really just happen?' date.
The set-up.
The let-down.
The hit-it-off (but only for one night) date.
(No, Dad. NOT me. Just in general... Geez! Freakin' GROSS!)

(Say that with a specific rhythm and I totally sound like Dr. Seuss!)

Anyway, I'm sure this is going to stir up some conversation so I'll start with a favorite of my own. And I am most definitely leaving names out of this. But if you happen to find yourself in here (because I honestly don't know everyone who's reading these...) please take it lightly, laugh, and more importantly... PUH-LEEZE resist the urge to send a nasty email. With all due respect, you kind of brought it on yourself whether it was a 'foot in the mouth' moment or your trucker language or the fact that you let the door slam in my face on the way out. And because I am the eternal optimist, if I find it funny, entertaining, or otherwise noteworthy enough to post up here... Mazel! You made the cut!

I Wish I Were A Little Bit Taller...

Once upon a time, in a little apartment on the north side of Chicago, little old me at 19 years-old worked three jobs to make ends meet and pay rent. (This also meant many gourmet dinners of PB&J and plain grilled chicken... But not the point...) I also made a living out of going out to bars and clubs whether it was dancing (No, I was NOT a stripper! I did hip-hop. No, I didn't wear lingerie. No, I didn't take the same booty-poppin' class every other current Go-Go dancer took. And no, I do NOT shear animals and wear them as legwarmers! There. Now that we have that clear we can continue my list...)cocktail waitressing, promoting, some bartending, or just being fabulous and maybe a little scantily clad. (That one's true, Dad. Sorry!)

After interacting with the same people over and over again, meeting the same 'club guys' over and over again, and dating the same type of guy over and over again, (and over and over and over and over and over... Sorry. I just had to be a liiiitttle annoying). I decided it was time to branch out. And, what better way to completely give my parents false hope that I'd end up with a Jewish guy than to join JDate, an online Jewish dating site. After a bit of time being on there, seeing some familiar faces and some new faces, I received an email from a gentleman saying, 'Are you so-and-so's friend?' The answer was 'yes'.

An older friend of mine had been telling me about this stand-up guy who has got x, y, and z going for him and she thinks I'd really like him. So, what the hay. We email a couple times, chat a couple times. He seems perfectly nice. We agree to meet for a drink. (A, meaning one, drink...) I am, at the time, underage (Oh get over it, Dad... We're past this already...) so we agree to meet at a restaurant just down the street from my day job at XSport Fitness. I know the manager of the restaurant and I also know that he'll let me have a glass of wine with my three-year-expired-31-year-old-from Lake In the Hills, Illinois wherever that is-plastic-peeling ID so that's really our only option.

Now let me give a little bit of detail before I go into the actual date. (If you can call it that...) There are a few things I am a stickler for. I know they're irrational and not necessarily nice. But I can't help it. It's my version of being snobby. So I take full responsibility for my ridiculousness and I would appreciate if you withheld judgement since I'm sure you're not completely virtuous and moral yourself. (GOD I love run-on sentences!)

1. You must be tall. And by tall I mean still significantly taller than me in my four inch heels. This means you had BETTER be 5'10 or up. (This, again, rules out most of the Jewish male population.)

2. You have to wear nice jeans. If you wear Wranglers, acid washed jeans, tapered jeans, pleated jeans, Carpenter jeans, or something that I might find in my dad's closet circa 1987 (which, may I add, is currently quite stylish for a dad... Thanks to my oh-so-hip stepmother!) we will not get along. Listen, they don't have to be a $300 pair of True Religions. They can be a comfy, classic, dark-wash pair of Seven for all Mankind or even Mavi's for all I care. Just don't look like an uncle. That's all I ask. Is that really all that demanding??

3. Be a gentleman. I know I'm kind of tomboy-ish. And I'm pretty blunt which also makes others feel that they can do the same. And I definitely welcome honesty. But this does not mean you can a)curse like a sailor, b)use inappropriate language for any genitalia, male or female, c)make lewd gestures, or d) adjust yourself while sitting at the table with me. (That just gives you a brief glimpse into other dates I've been on. Seriously. I can't make this shit up.)

Along those same lines... Deal breakers:

If your phone rings... which it shouldn't because it should be on vibrate... But IF there's a fluke and it does, either ignore the call or excuse yourself from the table to step outside. I get it, things happen and people need you. Understandable. "You're kind of a big deal, people know you. You have many leather bound books and your apartment smells of a rich mahogany." (Sorry. What's a blog without at least one Anchorman quote?) But, anyway, don't talk on the phone right in front of me. Especially on a first date.

Also, if you make me pay on the first date, the odds are that there will not be a second date. I am reasonable. And as I said in my last blog, I like an even playing field. But I am still a lady and expect to be treated like one. If the date totally tanks I will offer (read: insist) to split the bill. In fact, I will always offer to split with you. But whether or not you actually let me split it with you determines whether much of whether we go out again. However, this can work for you (meaning, my date) too. If I offer to split the bill, and you want to diffuse the situation and make it less of a 'serious date', then let me split it with you. Then it's less date-y, and more friend-ish. Yes? Yes.

And finally, if you have a gas problem. I am an adult (sort of) and I can handle it (sort of) but either take some Bean-o before you come or PLEASE see a doctor. Oh! And maybe, just maybe, stay away from the lentil soup. (Again, go ahead and run with that. Yep, it's true. And you wonder why I'm single?!)

OK. Back to the date.

So 19 year-old me walks into said restaurant, greets the manager, and says to him, "Hey, Mr. Clean Bald Manager Guy, is there someone here solo to meet me?"

Him: Oh no, you are NOT with him!
Me: *face turns ass white and jaw drops*(mentally) Ohhhh shit. Ok ok, Becky don't freak out. Just have a drink. It's one drink. It's an hour of your time. Just be a lady, sit down, and make the best of this. So-and-so said he was great. Maybe Mr. Clean is grumpy today...

*step, step, step into the bar with bar-height tables to see a relatively cute guy smiling at me and waving*

*step, step, step over to him with a smile on my face and hand out to shake his hand*

Bite-Size (Yes, that's what we're calling him) DISMOUNTS the bar stool to stand and shake my hand and I shit you not, he was boob level. (Again, Dad... Maybe you shouldn't read this...) And, mind you... His profile said he was 5'10. And, mind you, I. Was. In. Sneakers. Because who wears heels to a gym? (Ummm maybe one of the Go-Go dancers I so adoringly mentioned before that thinks it's a-ok to wear Bambi and her mother around her ankles? Perhaps...)

Anyway, I suck it up and sit at the table. And to give credit where credit was due, he was funny, smart, easy to talk to... Ok, ok... Maybe I was being kind of a bitch earlier... and then his phone rang... **EARMUFFS!!**

Him: Hello?
*insert Charlie Brown type wah wah waaahhwaahhh wah language here*
Him: We've already discussed this and I'm busy right now.
*waaaaaaah wah wah waaaaaaaah waaaaaaaaaaaaaah wah wah*
Him: Seriously... seriously, listen. I said I'm busy right now. I'm not arguing with you about this again. The conversation is closed. Why are you being such a fucking psycho about this?
*waaahwah wahwahwah waaaaaaaaaaah wah wah and me turning beet-fucking-red and Mr. Clean over in the corner laughing himself into an asthma attack and the rest of the bar looking over and shaking their heads in disapproval*
Him: Listen... LISTEN... LISTEN TO ME you raging bitch! I said I'm busy and this is not a conversation open for discussion. Leave. Me. Alone. And don't call me again!
*click, slam the phone down, deep breath... Me=hiding under the table, about ready to cry, unsure of what to do but is afraid to run because this guy is clearly missing an enzyme or twelve, Mr. Clean is never going to let me live this down, and what the FUCK was so-and-so thinking?!*

Now let me say that I have never, ever, ever walked out on a date. But I sat there for a good three minutes in shock, unable to speak, or make a plan of action as he ranted and apologized about having to be so 'ungentlemanly in front of me but some people just don't get it'... Then there was more of me sitting there mortified until he finally said,

"...I'm sorry. My mother is just so fucking obnoxious sometimes..."

END. OF. DATE.

This is the point where, shaking, I stand up, excuse myself, and tell him that I have to go.

Me: I'm sorry. I think I should be getting home.
Him: Are you sure? Is everything ok?
Me: Uhhhh no...?
Him: Ok, well at least let me drive you home.
Me: (mentally) Right. So you can go all Napoleon-kinds of apeshit and throw me out of a moving vehicle if I should say something oh-so-displeasing??? I THINK NOT!
But I actually say... I think I'm good on the train. I could use the air anyway after that wine. But thanks for the dri----

Aaaaaaaaaand I'm out the door thanking God and anyone who will listen that I'm in sneakers. Please also note that I have not set foot back in that restaurant again for fear of getting the wrath of Mr. Clean. I order delivery now.



EDITORS NOTE: I would like to acknowledge that no deer were, in fact, hurt in writing (or living) this story. Although I will admit that it hurt my ego a bit to relive this. But I assume it's for the greater good. So, no harm done. However, I cannot speak for the Go-Go dancers with the lingerie and the grizzly boots. So if you're feeling so inclined, make a donation at www.wwf.org to save whatever they're wearing. Peace in the Middle East! -Becky