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.

Dating Fail #6

He jumped out of his chair. His limbs flailed haphazardly. He looked like he’d just been electrocuted.

Oh no, Gloria thought. This is going to be a problem.

Gloria had just walked into a preternaturally quiet Borders café in downtown DC. She was on a first date. With a guy she’d met online.

Of course, it wound up being a spectacularly bad first date – as foreshadowed by the flailing limbs – but he’d seemed so nice when they’d emailed. So normal. So not the type of guy who would react to her entrance by looking like he’d had a close encounter with an electric socket. But there he was, flopping about like a fish on the deck of a boat, and making a ruckus in the uber-quiet café.

Once the requisite introductions were out of the way, they sat down for coffee. And that’s when things started getting really bad.

To put some context to the rest of the date: you know that scene in Austin Powers when they’re first thawing him out after he’d been cryogenically frozen for 30 years? And, in addition to denying his possession of a certain Swedish accessory, he suddenly says “I’m having trouble controlling THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE!!” Think of that scene. And then imagine it as an actual person.

That was this guy.

He could only communicate through screams. It was the loudest date Gloria had ever been on, and she had no idea what to do. People were glaring at them. (Editor’s note: you have to understand that this particular Borders café is the quietest coffee shop since the dawn of man. If you clink your spoon against your mug too loudly, you’ll get the stink eye from everyone there.) So now imagine the unnaturally quiet café and the really loud guy, and a 20 something brunette wondering what the hell to do. He continued his stream-of-consciousness shouting.

“WOW, THIS PLACE IS REALLY QUIET!” (She nodded.)

“THIS PLACE FEELS LIKE A LIBRARY BUT IT’S A BOOKSTORE NOT A LIBRARY! SO I GUESS WE DON’T HAVE TO WHISPER!” (She smiled uncomfortably and wondered if he some rare neuro-auditory disorder that rendered him unable to distinguish between his indoor voice from his outdoor voice.)

“SO I FOUND THIS BOOK ON 15TH CENTURY NAVAL BATTLES!” (She realized they had to leave there immediately or risk death by angry mob.)

“Hey, it’s a gorgeous day out. Let’s go for a walk up to Dupont,” she suggested, trying to come up with any plausible reason to get out of the café. Really, had the weather been total crap she would’ve settled for a completely implausible reason, like “Genghis Khan is about to sack and pillage this bookstore, so we have to leave right now.” But thankfully, the weather was lovely and she didn’t have to go there.

And so they walked. Gloria was just glad to be outside. Outside, where her date could, y’know, use his outside voice and not cause problems. However, this relative lack of social landmines was short-lived. As they walked by a hole-in-the-wall Afghan restaurant, he got sidetracked:

“I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO TRY AFGHAN FOOD! LET’S GO THERE! ARE YOU HUNGRY? I’M HUNGRY! COME ON!”

Now, Gloria isn’t one to turn down food. Thus, she soon found herself standing with him in line while he tried to get out of ordering the #3 combo as-is; he instead wanted the #3 combo with the side vegetable from the #4 combo. Loudly.

“I DON’T WANT THE CREAMED SPINACH I WANT THE MIXED VEGETABLE! I KNOW THE #3 DOESN’T COME WITH MIXED VEGETABLE! BUT I WANT THE MIXED VEGETABLE, NOT THE CREAMED SPINACH!”

Oh noes.

This is awful, she thought. He’s a trainwreck. Not only is he loud, he’s genuinely obnoxious. To hell with the neuro-auditory disorder theory; even if he can’t control the volume of what he says, he can control the content. Gloria knew that it was time to intervene.

“I’ll get the #4 combo with the mixed vegetable. You can have my vegetables. I’ll have your spinach. Does that solve the problem?”

“OKAY, FINE!

They sat down to eat, and she tried to steer the conversation towards more normal topics than his gym routine. (“I REALLY HATE DOING SIT-UPS! I HAVE TO DO THEM BUT I DON’T LIKE DOING THEM! THEY’RE BORING!”) Shortly after they started eating, an Afghan family came in and ordered food. You know a restaurant is good when people from that country will eat there, so when a family of observant Afghan Muslims sat down with platters of food, Gloria was thrilled.

Her date, having already established himself as the champion of discretion, immediately started saying things that made her choke on the creamed spinach. “WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE WITH RELIGION, ANYWAYS? ANIMISM? ISLAM? SATANISM? IT’S ALL THE SAME!”

Have I mentioned that there was a family of observant Muslims sitting not more than two feet from Gloria and her date? She tried to answer his question in an indoor voice – you know, lead by example! – while steering the conversation away from anything about which he could make wildly inappropriate comments. Which, as it turned out, left nothing.

“So this food is awesome,” she said. “I’ve never had Afghan food before, but it’s great. I’m glad you suggested coming here.”

“YEAH, IT’S REALLY GOOD! I WONDER IF IT’S DIFFERENT FROM PERSIAN FOOD! WE HAD A LOT OF PERSIANS IN MY TOWN! THEY WERE ALL REALLY RICH! I BET THEY ALL EMBEZZLED FROM THE SHAH AND THEN FLED TO AMERICA!”

Gloria could do nothing but blink. She was astonished. She had nothing to say. So she blinked.

Practically inhaling the last of her rice, it was time to make the great escape. “So, I’m done with my food. And I have to get back to work,” she said. (It was a Sunday.) “I should get going.”

“OKAY, I’LL WALK YOU TO YOUR OFFICE AND THEN I’LL GO TO THE GYM! I’M REALLY NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO DOING SIT-UPS!”

Oh, for the love of God, she thought. Why won’t he stop?

As they walked to the corner where she’d convinced him it’d be ok to part ways, he regaled her with more sit-up woes.

“I HATE SIT-UPS, BUT I HATE CRUNCHES MORE! DO YOU EVER DO CRUNCHES? THEY’RE AWFUL! I HATE THEM MORE THAN SIT-UPS!”

Later that afternoon, Gloria did her usual set of crunches at the gym. Plus a few extra. And she loved them, purely out of spite.

Dating Fail #5

Elise had been on a couple of dates with this guy before, and they’d gone decently. They were ok and there were no fireworks, but there was nothing to make her run screaming for the exit, either.

So, when the guy (we’ll call him the linebacker, as he had apparently played football in his college days) asked her out for a third date, she agreed. He said he’d like to cook her dinner—and he planned to wow her with his signature dish: Super Special Mac and Cheese. She was intrigued. Now, Elise loves macaroni and cheese as much as the next person, so she was looking forward to the awesome dish he said he was making.

While he cooked, he offered her some wine. He uncorked a bottle and poured her a glass. But this wasn’t your usual stemware—it was a massive, thick-glass goblet. It weighed enough to double as a lethal weapon. She was worried that, between the sheer weight of the glass and the thick rims, she’d wind up spilling red wine all over the floor.

Wondering why he had stemware of steel, she asked what had informed the decision to buy these particular goblets. “I don’t know my own strength,” he said.

As in, “I regularly shatter wine glasses with my bare hands.”

Good Lord, she thought. What is this? The Incredible Hulk: Food Network Edition?

As she let this sink in, she saw what he was cooking. It turned out that, in fact, the Super Special Mac and Cheese was a box of Kraft with ground beef and mushrooms. He slopped some onto a plate and set it in front of her.

This would be an appropriate time to mention what Elise does for a living: she’s a professional chef.

Opting to tough it out instead of reminding him that, while some people cook for fun, she cooks for her career, she started to eat. He asked her if she’d like some ketchup. She politely declined. He, however, Heinzed it up. After covering his mountain of food with ketchup, he proceeded to shovel it into his mouth, Cro-Magnon style. It was straight out of the caveman days. Food flew all over the place, and his face was inches from the plate as he gripped a fork in his fist and operated the culinary equivalent of a backhoe. To hearken back to the Neanderthal metaphor, you’d think that with motor skills like he clearly demonstrated, he’d have been able to hunt woolly mammoths back in the day—but only woolly mammoths. Any other target would’ve been too small.

Elise was, more than anything, relieved they hadn’t gone to dinner in public. After her evening with the linebacker, she promptly added “ability to properly hold utensils” to her list of must-haves in a date.

Dating Fail #4

Marianne was in her junior year at a women's college in New England, and she was thrilled when—after many mixers and parties with guys from nearby schools who breathed with their mouths open and spilled beer in her hair—she met a guy who seemed nice, smart, and not the least bit slack-jawed. He said he was 22 and in his senior year at a well-known institution in Boston. He said—note this part and remember it for later—that he was getting his bachelor’s in math and economics. Obviously, homeslice was no slouch. Marianne thought she’d hit the jackpot.

He asked her out, and they agreed to go to the Museum of Fine Art (MFA) in Boston. Now, Marianne has a deep and abiding love of art. She had, in fact, just returned from a summer in Italy studying—wait for it—art. She informed him of this, so off to the MFA they went. While she gazed adoringly at Monet’s water lilies, the guy turned to her and said, his voice practically brimming with annoyance while he fidgeted with his sleeves, “Whoever this artist is, he must’ve been really lazy. All these paintings are of the same thing.”

She had to sit down for a moment.

After she collected herself, they continued walking through the museum. They walked past a tour, and upon hearing the docent talking about a piece by Raphael, her date started to mumble. “Rafael…Rafael…where do I know that name from? It sounds so familiar…Rafael…oh! I know! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” He turned to her triumphantly, eager to discuss Rafael, Michelangelo, and whoever the hell the other Ninja Turtles were.

Marianne nearly fainted.

When she got home that evening, she decided to do a quick Google search on this dude. And lo…his resume was the first hit. She opened it.

Remember how I told you to mentally file away his age and educational status? Think of it now.

Upon reading his resume, she saw that he had graduated college ten years before they met. He was 32, not 22. He was getting his graduate degree, not his Bachelor’s.

Shortly thereafter, he emailed her to see when they’d be going out again. She said never. He wanted to know why, so she explained that she’d found his resume and had thus uncovered the fact that he was a flaming liar—so flaming a liar, in fact, that his pants were probably on fire as he read her email. A week later, he emailed again to ask if she’d forgiven him yet. She replied in the negative, and for added measure noted that she had too much self-respect to date someone who’d proven himself a liar from the start.

He was silent for about a week, after which he emailed again. The message was simply, “Hello? Are we going to go out again?”

I’m not sure what Rafael (the artist or the turtle) would’ve done, but she certainly didn’t respond.

Dating Fail #3

He was hot. He was wicked smart. He knew his way around an argument. He was, giggle giggle, a senior at the Model UN conference.

Ok, so this one is a throwback—circa 1998, which means we’re talking high school. Admittedly, it can be hard to judge bad dates that happen in high school, but this one is too funny to pass up.

Diana arrived at the hotel where the Model UN conference would be held. The place was teeming with people just like us (she’s one of my dearest friends, so I can totally say this): nerds. Fabulously dorky, international affairs-obsessed nerds. For girls like us, it’s enough to make our little hearts be all aflutter. Especially when one of those guys is hot. Doubly so when he can debate like a champ.

Anyways, the guy Diana had her eye on was representing Egypt. Diana was representing the Kurds. She was their voice, their champion, their advocate for human rights and sovereignty. After a day of deliberations and discussion, Mr. Egypt asked Diana on a date. She was thrilled. She was even giggly—and believe me, Diana is not the sort of girl who gets giggly over anything.

Mr. Egypt picked her up that evening and they went to Popeye’s. Ok, she thought. It’s cool. After all, this is high school. It’s not like anybody is rolling in cash and going to Wolfgang Puck at age 18. They placed their orders, and when they walked up the cashier, Mr. Egypt suddenly left to go find a table. Ok, she thought again. I’m ok with this. I’m a modern woman, I can pay for our food and be chill with it. She paid, took their food to the table, and the typically awkward high school date ensued.

They walked back to the hotel, during which time she tried to talk about the Kurds’ human rights situation and he made jokes about tampons. Now, ok, we all know high school jokes are largely lame. (Even though I, for one, will still use “Your mom!” as a retort to things I don’t like…what?!) But tampons? Really?

Upon dropping her off at her room, he tried to kiss her. She dodged and made some sort of excuse, and that was that.

The next morning, Model UN opened with much fanfare and hoopla. First on the agenda was an announcement by the delegation from Egypt. Lo and behold, Mr. Egypt got up to speak. He then proclaimed that the Egyptians had bombed the Model UN convention on behalf of the Kurds. Let me repeat that: the delegation from Egypt had bombed the entirety of the Model UN on behalf of the Kurds.

Now if you know anything about international relations generally and Middle Eastern politics specifically, you know how utterly ridiculous that idea is. Even if you don’t, you can get a sense of its absurdity. Either way, Mr. Egypt had a full-on insurgent-style reaction to Diana’s rejection. Some may call it puppy love, but I call it guerrilla heartbreak.

Dating Fail #2

Rob had a bit of a crush on her. She was cute, smart, and nice—so after a few conversations, Rob asked her out. He was pretty excited about this, because the girl in question actually had some potential. And, let’s face it, regardless of gender, it’s not often we meet someone who really has potential.

They’re both people of discerning taste, so they made plans to see an indie movie. This particular film had gotten great reviews, and Rob was looking forward to seeing it. Things were looking good.

When they got to the theater, though, the movie they’d planned to see was sold out. Opting for plan B, they decided to see a different indie flick playing at the same theater. Sight unseen, they didn’t know what it was about. But hey, most of those movies are good, so the odds were in their favor.

The movie turned out to be a graphic morality drama about a back-alley abortionist in post-war Britain. The protagonist, a devoted housewife, is unveiled as the aforementioned back-alley, shall we say, "service provider" by a gory botched abortion that then gets her in uber-serious trouble with the law. Tragedy ensues, and apparently in a big way. In fact, if you IMDB this particular film, its plot keywords include but are not limited to: tragedy, unwanted pregnancy, police interrogation, miscarriage of justice, sexual assault, injustice, rape, double standard, and sexism.

All of which set the mood…miserably.

To make matters worse, the girl sitting next to Rob was religious. She was progressively religious enough for Rob to have been comfortable asking her out, but as he noted, Botched Abortion and Misery: The Movie didn’t really help his case.

Needless to say, he didn’t invite her back to his apartment.

Dating Fail 1

Liz didn’t want to go on this date in the first place. The guy seemed weird and patronizing; although she mentioned in her JDate profile that she loves the movie Zoolander, he’d approached her with an obscure Zoolander reference that even she didn’t catch. And then he got all condescending and snide when she didn’t get it.

She really didn’t want to go out with him.

She felt obliged to go on this ill-advised date, though. First, she was only 24 at the time. She’d just recovered from breaking up with her college boyfriend, and she felt like she should go on as many dates as possible. She’d also paid for her JDate profile and had decided that, dammit, if she was going to get a return on her investment, she was going to go on as many dates as humanly possible. Even if it meant going out with guys who she’d already deemed to be unacceptable, she was still going to suck it up and go. She was going to give people the benefit of the doubt and get her money’s worth if it killed her. (Pardon the historic irony here, but it was like the blitzkrieg of dating. She half expected someone to roll up in a Panzer tank, just to make the motif complete. But I digress.)

In any case, everything about this guy seemed slimy. Nonetheless, they went about planning where and when to meet.

“You’ll come to the Starbucks by my office on Tuesday at 6,” he informed her. (How polite of him!)

“Hmmmm. Since your office is really out of the way for me, let’s meet somewhere in between.”

“No dice.”

“Um, there are lots of good options between Chinatown and Farragut West.”

“No can do.”

(Silence)

(Liz thinks of the JDate membership fee that was recently deducted from her bank account)

(She tries reaaaaaaaallly hard to give this guy the benefit of the doubt)

“Ok, fine. Tuesday. Six. Chinatown.”

Tuesday at 6 rolled around, and she got off the Metro in Chinatown. She schlepped to the Starbucks, suspecting that she was going to meet Prince Not At All Charming. They met, he ordered coffee and Liz ordered a cup of tea. He noticed that she didn’t take out her wallet.

“What,” he sneered, “you expect me to pay?”

“Yes," she replied. "I made the effort to come down here to meet you, so I’ll ask you to pay the $1.20 for my tea.”

(Meanwhile, Liz was trying to keep her jaw off the floor while thinking, For real? All this back and forth over a cup of tea? It’s hot water! With chamomile! I’m clearly going to need this lovely dose of Tazo Calm to get my blood pressure back to its happy place.)

“Fine,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at the mercifully unsympathetic barista. The barista glared at him. Liz knew she was in for a long evening.

“So,” he said as they found a place to sit, “you’re one of those stuffed-shirt DC types.”

“Dude, everyone in DC is a stuffed-shirt DC type. We’re a pretty self-selecting group of people.”

“Whatever.”

She looked at her tea and decided she might want to re-think her policy of giving benefits of the doubt and getting her money’s worth. This guy was even worse than she’d expected. She began running through the list of already-apparent qualities in her mind: He’s rude. He's oily. He works in DC, and yet he assails people for working in DC. I’d rather get blood drawn than go on a second date with him. Hell, I’d take an evening with Saddam Hussein over this. And Saddam Hussein was a fucking despot who is now dead.

As she was thinking of the various ways that this guy was beyond redemption, he busted out with yet another brilliant question.

“So,” he said, narrowing his eyes either in a lame attempt at romance or because his contacts were getting dry, “how many black-tie benefit events have you been to since you moved here?”

“Actually, none. I work at a think tank doing policy analysis, and we’re in the non-profit sector. I can’t afford black-tie benefits.” (Such events run $70-150 per person – so when you’re working an entry-level job in one of the nation’s most expensive cities, you can’t drop that sort of cash. Not even on food. It’s dire.)

“Well, I go to them all the time. They’re amazing. It’s really lame that you’ve never been.”

Who is this guy?! A bewildered series of questions marched through her mind. As she's pretty transparent and whatever she thinks usually winds up clearly displayed on her face, he could probably tell that she wasn't impressed. Does he actually think he’s being charming?! WTF?

But hey, he was a fighter – if he saw it on her face, he didn’t let it get to him. No more than 15 minutes later, she knew she’d reached critical mass. As she opened her mouth to say that she was getting a migraine and needed to go home, he dropped in her lap the ultimate nugget of dating wisdom:

“So my friend has a villa in Tuscany, and apparently the view off the balcony is a guaranteed lay.”

Whatever verbal response she would’ve come up with was obscured by the tea that shot out her nose.

Oh, no he didn’t! He did not just say that! Did they put something in my tea? Did I just hallucinate this whole thing?

(.2 seconds later)

Oh no, that was all real. He really said that. I have to leave here now before I lose my shit.

“Listen,” she said once she’d recovered enough to compose herself, “I’m not feeling well. I need to go home. Thank you for the tea.”

“Let me walk you to the Metro,” he said, suddenly morphing into the model of chivalry.

“That’s ok. I need to get to the Orange Line, so I’ll be walking a few extra blocks.”

“I don’t mind. Besides, if you’re not feeling well, I want to make sure you get there ok.”

Well hello, Dr. Jekyll, she thought. Enchanté.

He walked with her to the Metro stop, and even stayed with her on the platform. He also helped pass the 5 minutes until her train’s arrival by insulting her a few more times. (In case you were wondering, he determined that she hadn’t traveled extensively enough and that her hair was too straight. Who knew?!) By this point, the light of the train hurtling down the tunnel was like a beacon of hope. A ray of freedom! The light of redemption!

“So, gorgeous,” he said while doing that weird squinty thing again, “I had a great time tonight. When can I see you again?”

Her train was arriving.

“Um,” she said, stalling for time.

The train came to a stop. He squinted expectantly.

“Well,” she said slowly. She wanted to time this just right.

The doors opened. Liz stepped in.

“Never,” she replied.

The doors closed behind her, and the train sped away.