Some time ago, I went out on a date with a romance novel writer. At 29, she still lived in her parents' basement.
Yeah. I know. Clearly, she was cute.
Most famously, it was her driveway in which I parked my car and, my eyes on her as I exited, proceeded to clobber her car's door with my own. It is certainly one of my all-time date lowlights. Another would follow two hours later.
A Portland resident, she wanted to dine at Jake's Famous Crawfish, a choice akin to going to the Space Needle restaurant. Lousy tourist traps, these restaurants. But dine there we did, and during dinner, I asked a fairly standard date question.
"What would your last boyfriend tell me about you?"
Chewing on some—let's face it—bait, she regarded this question seriously. Wow, I thought. I can actually see the critical thought happening in there. That's encouraging. I bet she even—
"He'd say that I have a perfect cervix," she replied proudly, the bait now tumbling in her open mouth like socks in a dryer.
"Excuse me?"
"Paul always said that I have the most perfect cervix he'd ever seen."
Seen? Like with stirrups and a miner's helmet?
"How on earth does one cervix differ from another?"
"I don't know. They just do."
There was no second date.