Is it inane comments Friday? Are there still inane comments Fridays? Well, if there are and if this is one, I thought this would be the perfect subject: Bad dates. Like so bad, they’re awesome for those of us who blog because well, then we’s got something to blog about! I was reading Sistertoldja’s account of one such date:
It turned out that these were Steve’s high school friends. Everyone was very friendly, but the girl who lived there had two dogs. One was kinda medium, the other was really big. Of, course these mutts run up on me as soon as I walked in the door. And, as a stranger, I couldn’t just kick the shit out of the big one and dare the smaller one to test me. I couldn’t yell out “who the FUCK has these two dogs in a one bedroom apartment?” I could only be calm and quiet, and listen to the stories about how the dogs have gotten high before. Weed-smoking dogs. That’s hot. Can I leave now?
It was obvious that I didn’t like dogs, so the owner felt bad. Then I felt bad for making her feel bad in her own house, so I reached out and petted the little one’s head like “oh, he’s pretty”. But, I did it with the fakest smile ever and used about three fingertips. Imagine when Strom Thurmond met his Black daughter. It was like that.
I highly recommend the whole piece because it made me laugh and made me want to share my own hilarious bad date story from back in the day when I had a relationship blog. Shut up. I blog. It’s what I do.
And one more word outta you and I will so blog you right in the head!
Hmph.
Okay, then. Here’s the story in all it’s awesomely bad date glory:
I met Mark online. It was all ordinary enough. We chatted via email for a few weeks, he met all of my superficial criteria: college degree, never married, no kids, good sense of humor, employed. So, when he suggested we meet up, I agreed. I thought Mark lived in Brooklyn and by thought, I mean Mark had said on numerous occasions that he lived *in Brooklyn,* so, I suggested two of my favorite places *in Brooklyn.* Because um…we BOTH LIVE IN BROOKLYN.
However, Mark countered that he’d be coming in from Long Island, so he couldn’t do anywhere deep in Brooklyn and suggested we meet downtown, near the LIRR.
Hmm.
Now, I wasn’t particularly excited about this locale shift because I like driving and downtown Brooklyn is a parking graveyard. Or a blackhole. But, there are enough busses and subways to the area that it wouldn’t kill me to public transportation it. Probably.
So, we agree to meet up at 6 pm at the corner of Downtown and Brooklyn. I arrived early, around five thirty because I decided to take the bus the whole way and had grossly overestimated how long it would take to get there.
I decided to walk around a bit and was struck by an alarming reality.
The corner of Downtown and Brooklyn — and all surrounding blocks actually — predominately consisted of retail stores. There was no a bar or restaurant as far as my eye could see.
Hmm.
I killed some time chatting with my friend as she was in the process of wrecking a tricky dinner recipe at home before walking to the agreed upon corner at about ten to.
It was chilly for June, and I regretted not bringing a jacket. A few more minutes loitering on the corner, and I came to regret my lack of a jacket even more.
Directly behind me was a Lane Bryant store, with a mannequin in the window wearing PRETTY MUCH EXACTLY what I had on! And I’ll be damned if that bitch didn’t look better in it!
(A few years ago, my friend Lola and I went into an Ann Klein and we discovered that the stores basically paste clothes to the mannequins and then pin them shut in ways no human being would ever do, except in movies about the future where everyone is wearing form fitting jumpsuits.)
It was six o’ clock now and I didn’t have very many options. Though I did contemplate running inside Lane Bryant and knocking the mannequin over. Or, you know, buying a sweater. One of those things.
By 6:15 I no longer cared about competing with the mannequin in the store for fatty fat fatsos. Where was this dude?
My feet hurt and I knew we’d have to walk someplace because there was no place to sit down in the vicinity.
I missed my car! I could so be sitting down listening to my ipod right about now.
At 6:30, I headed for the nearest busstop and took my public limosine home.
About 30 minutes later, I get a text from Mark asking if I’m “still there.” I laughed, out loud, and hit delete.
I got home to a flood of apologetic emails about work and the trains and hoping that I’m not mad.
I ignored these emails.
A couple of days later, I got in a huge fight with a friend of mine, at the end of which he said that I never forgive anyone for anything and I would die alone and ugly. I sort of laughed it off, blocked all the exits in his house and set it on fire. So it was that Mark happens to text me again on my way back from that funeral, where I convincingly wailed “OH! How could anyone could do such a thing”?! (I’m totally kidding. No one was convinced. My trial’s next week.)
Fine! I’ll show you who’s unforgiving and will die alone!
I agree to meet up with Mark the following week, at the same corner. This time I drove and wore non Lane Bryant clothes.
However, I left no kinds of early.
We were slated to meet at 6. At 5:45 I get a text from Mark saying “I’m here.”
Awesome.
At 5:47 he texts again “where are you”?
And again at 5:48.
Dude.
At a red light, I text that I’m close, but can’t text because I’m driving. I end with “I will be there by six.”
You know, SIX, the time we’re supposed to meet.
He texts “ok.”
As I’m pulling into a parking garage, six minutes later, I get another text
“Where are you.”
Oh. My. God.
I get to the appointed corner, we exchange greetings, he makes some crack about “girls always have to be fashionably late, huh?”
I smile, but do not respond.
I very cheerily say “So where are we going? The last time I was here, there wasn’t anyplace to eat open.”
“Oh, I figured we could get coffee.”
“Okay, where?”
We start walking up the block and he stops suddenly and peeks into a store window. There was scaffolding on the front, but I recognized the pastel coloring right away.
“Oh good! It’s open,” he says holding open the door to the Dunkin’ Donuts.
Now, I should mention that I don’t mind fast food restaurants AT ALL. In fact, I once used to tell the story about how I’ve had Burger King in every country I’ve visited, until I realized that might make Americans look bad. (But it’s true. I have. Even in China.) So, that Mark half-planned a date at Dunkin Donuts (what was his plan if it was closed?) wasn’t really an issue per se…though I would not have worn heels.
So we’re in there chatting, when I discover that his “consultant job” is much more “consultant” than “job” AND “his” Long Island place is much more “his dad’s Long Island place.”
The store is pretty empty. We’re sitting at a table in the corner, but we haven’t *purchased* anything. I feel the eyes of the clerks on us and I say, with a smile, “we should probably get something.”
“Naw. We alright.”
“Ok, well, I’ll probably get a bottle of water or something.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I get up and ask “Do you want anything?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll get a hot chocolate. No whip cream though.”
Uh huh.
I walk to the register. I grab a bottle of water and order the chocolate when he shouts out at me:
“What kind of donuts they got?”
I ignore this question. It’s a donut shop. My guess? Lots of kinds.
I pay for the drinks and wait for the clerk to hand me the hot chocolate.
I walk back to the table, silently planning my escape strategy.
“Hey, I was asking about the donuts. But I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Oh, you were? Yeah, no. I didn’t hear that.”
Oh, I *totally* heard that.
We then somehow get into a conversation about the Democratic primary. I’m African-American, but I’m supporting HIllary Clinton in the race. Mark got real quiet when I said this and remarks:
“Professional black women never want to help out a brother. Here you are with a law school degree and you’ve got a black man who’s a lawyer too and you can’t support him?”
Hmm.
I did NOT take this opportunity to point out my support of a certain “brother” who was slurping on the ghezest beverage known to man and has, as yet, not reached into his pocket to give me any money.
“I want the Democrats to win. I think Hillary is our best chance for that,” I say. “And she’s a lawyer too,” I add.
He starts giving me statistics about something or another, but I had stopped paying attention. I was done with my water and I was ready to execute my plan.
I looked at my watch. High school acting skills ACTIVATE!
“Oh no! I didn’t realize it was so late!”
(It was 6:45)
“My friend’s band is playing tonight. I’ve got to run. It was so nice meeting you.”
He seemed startled. Like he thought this date was going well.
“Oh, really? Um…you gotta go now?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
I’ve stood up, collected my empty bottle and my book.
“Hey, you drove right? Can you give me a lift to the station?”
Without missing a beat — and really, THIS is my FAVORITE part of the story, I say:
“No, sorry, I’m going in the other direction!”
HAHAHAHA The best thing about heading off to an imaginary event, it can be in whatever imaginary direction I needed it to be. And THIS one was going to be in the opposite direction of WHEREVER his station was.
“Okay, no problem. Nice meeting you, Dawn,” he leans in to kiss me and I’m just like DUDE.
I make my way back to the garage and there’s ALREADY a text from Mark on my phone.
“Hope you have a good time at the concert! Talk to you later.”
Uh huh.
I changed his name in my contacts from “Mark” to “GOT to be kidding me.”
For about a month, I got to chuckle and nod knowingly whenever my Treo would utter the sentiment:
Got to be kidding me.
I KNOW, right?!
Word.
