Dating Fail #11

Oh, wow. Josephine thought. He’s a looker.

Josephine's date was, sure enough, gorgeous. His online picture didn't do him an ounce of justice. He was like an Adonis.

Josephine was cool with that.

They sat down for dinner and began making small talk whilst perusing the appetizers.

"So you said in your profile that you like sailing," Josephine said.

"Yeah, I do," he replied as he leaned back and seemed to take on an air of importance. (This turned out to be self-importance. Lots and lots of self-importance.) "In fact, I'm in the middle of hand-crafting a boat from an antique ship model I found while traveling overseas. I plan to sail it in a race when I'm done."

"Really," Josephine said while wondering how on earth to respond. He rebuilds antique boats? By hand? From old European models? In his spare time? What's a girl supposed to say to that? Do you lie and say you de-worm orphans in Ethiopia just for shits and giggles, or just call it like it is and say, "I like to go to karaoke and bar trivia with my friends"?

Thankfully, though, her date's ego precluded any reason--or opportunity--for Josephine to have to formulate a response. Because he proceeded to talk about himself. Ad nauseam.

As soon as their wine arrived, he had something to say about that, too. And of course he related it to himself.

"My, this is a delightful Chianti," he said in a voice that was starting to sound remarkably like the dude from the Grey Poupon commercial. "This reminds me of my wine cellar. I hand-crafted that, too, out of an old Italian model. It takes up most of my basement. I have hundreds of bottles of rare and expensive wines that I've collected from around the world."

Josephine nearly spit out her mid-priced Merlot all over the table.

"Yeah," she replied, immediately seeing him for what he was: a pompous idiot. "I went to college."

The rest of the date carried on this way, and Josephine got a kick out of messing with him. When confronted with some of the most narcissistic, pretentious drivel she'd ever heard, she'd counter it with something totally normal and not the least bit noteworthy.

"I did the dishes this morning," she'd say. "I own many pairs of socks."

The best part was that the more she did this, the more he upped the ante with his self-importance. By the end of the date, the conceit-o-meter was off the charts.

"Let me drive you home," he said as they walked to his car. "I know it's only a BMW, but my Benz is in the shop."

You may be shocked to hear that she walked home instead.

Gah!

Apologies for the lack of posts this week -- work has been crazy, and working under the oppressive heel of The Man has a certain blogger basically face planting when she arrives home.

That said, though, I will be posting more later this week. People have given me some fabulous stories to write about...and by fabulous, I mean they're so ridiculous they made me laugh until my stomach hurt. I actually pulled abdominal muscles. And I do Pilates. That's really saying something.

The posting shall resume tomorrow. In the meantime, though, send me your stories--and may our bad dates live in infamy! (Well, ok, maybe not infamy. But they'll live in the blogosphere. And that's pretty cool, too.)

Dating Fail #10

This is a small digression from the usual: it's a tale of the date that wasn't. True, it doesn't quite fit the mold of bad date stories--but it's a zinger nonetheless.

Charlotte loves men in uniform. As far as she's concerned, there's something irresistible about a guy in full military garb. (Case in point: at her former place of employment she worked with many members of the military, and one day she came back from lunch to find a bus parked outside her building. The side of the bus read--and she gasped audibly with delight when she saw this--United States Marine Corps. An entire busload of Marines! In the office! Happy day!)

But I digress. As you can tell by now, Charlotte loves the military types. So, it was no surprise when she found herself staring at a reeeeeaaaaalllly hot Army Ranger in a meeting one day. To her satisfaction, he was looking back. They started chatting as soon as the meeting let out, and Charlotte decided to work her game. (Never mind the whole "company ink" business, she thought. That doesn't apply when a Ranger is flirting with you.)

As they chatted, he mentioned that he was single.

Win!

And then he mentioned that he'd just gotten dumped two days prior.

Fail!

Charlotte decided to back off, stat. She totally understands the seventh ring of hell that is post-breakup misery--but she also has a policy of not being anyone's rebound fling, so she politely accepted his business card, gave him her card per standard business protocol, and said goodbye.

Lo and behold, there was an email from him the next day. She responded, trying to sound cordial. He wrote back in, like, .2 seconds. He responded so fast that it made her question if he was a phenomenal typist--imagine someone's fingers flying in a frenzied blur all over the keyboard, Looney Toons-style--or just didn't have any work to do. The email chain continued all day, and he said he'd call her when he got off work.

Now, at this point, Charlotte was just confused. She couldn't help but be excited, but he seemed...way. Too. Into her. And way. Too. Rebounding.

Charlotte's phone rang later that evening. Holy Army Ranger calling like he said he would, Batman!

They wound up chatting for a while, during which time he explicitly stated that he was interested in her. Now, Charlotte may have run around her office building looking for that busload of Marines, but she knew better than to make herself a convenient rebound for this guy. She told him she'd rather wait until he'd had a few months to recover from his breakup, and that she was unwilling to date anyone who was on the rebound. He agreed, and said he liked her that much more for being all principled and whatnot. And by the way, he added, he thought she was really attractive.

He sent her a text message the next morning to that same effect.

Not more than thirty minutes later, she booted up her computer at work. His name popped up in her Outlook.

From: ArmyRanger@WorkingForTheMan.com
To: Charlotte@WorkingForTheMan.com
Subject: Hey

Hey, so I just wanted to get your opinion on something. I woke up this morning and saw the news about a plane crash, and thought about how fragile life is. And then I thought about how Valentine's Day is coming up and how it's so important to tell the people you love that you love them.

(Editor's Note: Just wait! It gets worse!)

So then I sent my ex-girlfriend a big bouquet of flowers and a note telling her how much I still love her. Do you think I just ruined my chances of getting back together with her? Please, as a woman, be honest and tell me what you think.

Have a good day!!!

-- Ranger

Charlotte sat at her computer and sputtered. Like, the only noises she could make were little "paaaah" and "whhhha" sounds. However, this is simply because it wouldn't have been acceptable for her to scream "WHAT THE FUCK?!" in the office.

She pondered what to write back to him.

For about twenty minutes, the only responses she could come up with were profanity-laced tirades. However, profanity and work email don't mix. It's like texting while flying the Space Shuttle. Or wearing tapered leg, acid washed jeans. The point is, it's an exquisitely bad idea.

Adding to that, that tirades only make a girl look crazy. As a result, she kept pondering what to write for quite some time.

But seriously, she thought, what's wrong with him?! Does he have multiple personalities? How does one send a "you're hot" text message and a "please advise me on getting back together with my ex" email to the same person? Let alone within a thirty minute time span?!"

She took a few deep breaths and began to type.

To: ArmyRanger@WorkingForTheMan.com
From: Charlotte@WorkingForTheMan.com
Subject: RE: Hey

Listen, all women react differently. I don't know your ex. I can't and won't speak for her.

(.2 seconds later...Does he even have a job to do? She wondered.)

From: ArmyRanger@WorkingForTheMan.com
To: Charlotte@WorkingForTheMan.com
Subject: RE: RE: Hey

Good point. Thanks so much for such good advice, I thought you were going to tell me I was a headcase or something!


(Charlotte nearly smashed her head into her desk)

(She resisted the overwhelming urge to write back and say "Aah, but you are. You, sir, are utterly crazy.")

(Her head nearly smashed into her desk again)

(She resolved to skip the gym that evening and go to happy hour instead)

She didn't write back after that, but he continued writing to her for weeks. She told him she was busy.

Dating Fail #9

Claire likes tall guys. She's no Amazon woman, but she ain't short either. Ergo, she likes the guys to be less on the short side, more on the Jolly Green Giant side.

So why, exactly, she wound up being sent on a blind date with a guy half her size was totally beyond her comprehension. Maybe it was the fact that they were both really into science? Both people who have four limbs and two feet? Both...human?

He showed up with a big bouquet of flowers, which was incredibly sweet. The flowers weren't the problem. The fact that he was so diminutive he was totally lost amongst them--we're talking completely obscured--now that was a problem.

He handed her the bouquet, and Claire realized the size inequity was even worse than she thought: she was pretty sure her shoulders were twice as broad as his. And Claire gets comments from random strangers about how delicate her shoulders look. It really was that bad.

They went to dinner, and Claire grew increasingly aware of the fact that people in the restaurant were staring at them. Like, slack-jawed, saucer-eyed staring.

Oh no, she thought. I probably look like I'm on some sort of surprise reality TV show. They think I'm being punk'd. Or on candid camera. Or something.

The guy she was on a date with was, in fact, a perfectly nice and decent person. And he was clearly reaaaaallly diggin' her. And while some may think it superficial, let's call it like it is: you have to actually be attracted to your date. For some, a deal breaker is stinky breath. For others, it's mouth-breathing. For Claire, it's short dudes.

She felt like she was kicking a puppy. He was such a nice guy. But he was so. Very. Teeny.

The restaurant's patrons continued staring at Claire, who was starting to feel like a cross between an NFL linebacker and a wildebeest. She picked at her food.

Later that evening, he drove her home. As he walked her to her door, he tried to hold her hand. ("Sorry! Hands are cold! Gotta keep 'em in my pockets!") She put her key in the door to her building, and just as she turned to him to say thank you, he leapt up and tried to kiss her. Oh, noes! She dodged. He tried again. He was on his tippy-toes, jumping up in an attempt to land a smooch. She started to duck and weave, all the while trying to open the door to her apartment building. Which was sudenly stuck. Which was when she realized she was really screwed.

She felt like she was in that scene in Top Gun when Maverick and Goose are busting out every evasive maneuver in the book to get away from the MiG assault. Pull up! Barrel roll! Break turn!

*Click!*

The door to her building popped open. She jumped inside, and all her words ran together in her attempt to flee: "Thankyoufordinnerhaveagreatnightkthxbai!"

A Shout-Out, and a Shameless Request for Submissions

So, first and foremost, a big shout-out to Elise. Elise was--insert applause here--the first person to whom I'm not related and/or who I haven't known for years who submitted a story. Yay! Mad props, and a big thank you.

Here's where the shameless plea comes in. General public, I want your stories. If you're out there and reading this, I'm willing to bet you have a good story or two to share. No need to put a lot of effort into it--as long as I have the general premise of what happened (and, ok, maybe a gory detail or two), we're golden. I know that I, for one, have some serious doozies...but I figure I should sprinkle them amongst other peoples' experiences as well. :) So, open up an email and let the hilarity ensue!

Dating Fail #8

Evan loves early Woody Allen movies, so it was almost uncanny how closely his bad date resembled a scene from one of Mr. Allen’s earlier films.

There Evan was, the guy with the ‘fro so legendary that it once swallowed a golf tee (no lie—it emerged three days later on the other side of his head), going on a date with a thoroughbred New England WASP. Despite his date’s WASPy upbringing, Evan figured she ought to know her way around ethnic food. Seriously, growing up in proximity to both Boston and New York and not being able to navigate anything beyond vanilla and white bread is sort of like defying physics. It simply can’t be done.

Evan thought so too.

Evan was wrong.

He took her to a Jewish deli, and as they walked in his stomach growled in anticipation of pastrami on rye (and possibly a nice Hebrew National hot dog if he wound up feeling ambitious). As he eyed the menu—growing hungrier by the moment—she looked at her menu skeptically. She turned it over. Turned it back to the front page. Turned it over again. Fidgeted with the edge.

The waitress came to take their orders, and Evan eagerly listed off his requests—replete with extra pastrami.

His date, with all the enthusiasm of a hibernating eel, ordered a hamburger.

It was like they fell out of the scene from Annie Hall when Woody Allen takes Diane Keaton to a Jewish deli, where she WASP-ifies a classic Jewish dish by ordering pastrami—not on rye, but on white—with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato. In fact, if this hadn’t happened after Annie Hall had been filmed, I’d be convinced that it was the inspiration for that scene. Failing that, though, had Woody Allen actually been there he would have practically wet himself laughing.

“That scene was supposed to be a joke,” he’d holler. “Not real life! A hamburger? At a Jewish deli? What’s she going to ask for next, bacon?”

Evan wolfed down his food, and his date picked listlessly at her burger. She didn’t say a word, despite Evan’s best attempts at starting conversation. And so, with each passing bite of pastrami on rye, Evan grew increasingly convinced that, in this case at least, her bland palate was indicative of a similar personality.

They parted ways after this fateful meal—she to the land of white bread and vanilla, he to the land of Jewish delis.

Dating Fail #7

It was a blind date, and, thinking that she wouldn't be set up on a blind date with a total schmuck, Evelyn was pretty excited to meet the guy. They planned to get lunch one Saturday, so that morning she was rather surprised when the guy called to see if they could push their date back by a few hours.

"I'm really hungover," he moaned into the phone. "I won't be able to get out of bed for a couple more hours. I'm really sorry. I do want to meet you though. Can you give me a little longer to recover before lunch?"

"Sure," she said, figuring that, hey, we all have a rough night every once in a while.

And so, a few hours later than originally planned, she met him for a late lunch. He'd requested they go for Ethiopian food--which, for anyone unfamiliar with it, entails massive platters of delicious food served on a disc of spongy bread--and Evelyn was looking forward to the meal as much as she was looking forward to meeting this dude.

They sat down and totally hit it off. They talked about comedy, the Daily Show, politics, work, life. Evelyn was diggin' this guy. He was a looker. He was funny. He was...totally stoned.

"So I'm not gonna lie," he said while scooping up a big bite of food, "I definitely had to hit the bong to clear my head before leaving the house."

Um? What the hell does one say to that? "Yeah, I went running to clear my head" just sounds pompous, "what's wrong with you" would be unnecessarily rude, and "you had to get blazed to clear your head?" sounds naive.

Evelyn's only discernible thought, though, was IS THIS FOR REAL?! Who gets stoned for a date? And then admits it?

(Also, a side note about life and work in DC: if you're going to work for the feds, as most people in DC do--and as Evelyn did--you need to get a security clearance. And in order to have a security clearance, you have to make like Nancy Reagan and just say no.)

He smiled goofily at her from across the table while she sat in stunned silence, trying desperately to formulate an appropriate response.

Now I know why he wanted to get Ethiopian, she thought as he practically dove headfirst into the huge platter of food.

"You know, you're really awesome. I like you. I'm glad I smoked a bowl before coming out here. I wouldn't have made it otherwise," he said.

Of course you think I'm awesome, she thought. Everybody thinks everybody else is awesome when they're completely fucking blazed.

She didn't say that, though. "Thanks," she muttered while stuffing sponge bread in her mouth.

The rest of their date was lovely. Had he never 'fessed up to having smoked a blunt the size of a Chipotle burrito, she would've gone out with him again. But, to say the least, when that offer rolled in, she declined.