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January 1, 1800
stepping in it
Originally published November 10, 2004
A friend and I recently swapped Exceptionally Dumb Moments in Dating, and it occurs to me that that's ripe fodder for this space. Without further adieu (or pride), here are some of my not-so-finest hours:
- Pulling into a date's driveway as she watches, I park next to her car and proceed to crush her door with my own.
- Ordering any pasta dish. Ever. I end up wearing it.
- A drunk woman across a bar decides she hates my date and loudly berates her worth and appearance. My date wants to go, but on our way out I chivalrously tell the woman off. I reduced her to a cowering, crying blob with my diatribe that unfortunately ended with "And I've got news for you, lady. You're ten times uglier than she is."
- I tour Northern Idaho with a date of color. About as comfortable as jogging in Fallujah while wearing an American flag toga. Or through a kennel wearing nothing but meat boxers. Your choice.
- Finding out over dinner that my immediate predecessor was Dean Cain, then being a hysterical, babbling, walking heart attack incapable of conjugating verbs for the rest of what would be, of course, a last date. I also ordered pasta.
- Picking up a date at her parents' house, which adjoins a golf course, I'm early. I kill time by exploring a nearby fairway, then knock on the door. Introductions are made, a tour of the house is given. Five minutes later, I hear her mother shriek: "Who tracked dog crap into every goddamn room of the house?!?"
- On a whim during a first date, I answer questions about my father honestly. She. Did. Not. Even. Stay. Until. The. Check. Came.
- My date and I are awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call, and I let the answering machine pick it up, then lie there stupefied as it blares my ex's profession of undying love for me.
- I date a former student (my own age and five years after the fact, thank you very much). We're making out at her place when out of the corner of my eye, on the bookshelf, I spot the textbook from my class. Really, other than Ed joining in, I can't think of a more efficient mood killer. A veritable control rod.
- In a fit of romance, I fly my date to the east coast for a Valentine's Day concert. Thanks to a little, um, mishap, the trip concludes with an oh-so-romantic sojourn to a Daytona Beach abortion clinic, where we procured a morning-after pill that made her puke for the remainder of the trip. It was just like something from a Jane Austen novel.
posted by john at 12:00 AM • permalink