Welcome back to the off season where it is incumbent upon me to fill these pages with something entertaining enough to keep my most loyal readers from attending to whatever task awaits in the infamous metal in-box on the corner of the desk. On the eve of the announcement of the next guy to jog shirtless down the beach in search of love, I will regale you with the story of my worst date ever. Thank you to all of the readers who suggested topics. This one caught my attention. But first, a little background.
Far be it from me to hold back any of the details of the upcoming story. I won’t. However, I do like to remain somewhat mysterious to the readers out there and will not share all of the details of my personal life. Actually, the details are not that exciting and I’d like to avoid having some of the people mentioned in this story lie in wait outside various South Austin bars waiting for me to stumble out in order to exact revenge upon me. I’m a creature of habit and, as such, would be easily tracked. I’m not as elusive as Bigfoot, for instance.
As all of you are aware, I like to tell stories. In telling some stories, it is essential to use various literary devices and a certain level of exaggeration in order to make the story jump from the page and French kiss the reader’s sensibility. The story becomes a living, breathing thing tangled in a dance with the reader’s emotions, thoughts, and ideas. You get the picture. This, my friends, is not necessary in the following story. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved (see the second paragraph) and I’ve consolidated the time line and some small details a bit in the interest of brevity. However, all of the details of the following story are true. With that, let’s get to it.
Fresh off the end of a long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, like Bambi on ice, I ventured cautiously back into the dating world. It had been some time (years actually) since I’d casually dated anyone with the intention of finding love or a connection or going on a journey or whatever. When my last relationship started, text messaging was in its fetal stages, the term “friends with benefits” had not yet become part of everyday vernacular, and the dirtiest thing on my cell phone was the earpiece. In short, the landscape had changed significantly and I didn’t know I needed a compass in order navigate it successfully. This story is an example of that realization.
Because of my self-imposed relationship tunnel vision, I had grown ignorant of the current mores of the singles dating scene. I was naïve with respect to the rules of engagement. What I failed to realize is that, although charming and confident, I was utterly inept concerning the current and proper way to woo a potential paramour. Hell, my approach was as old and outdated as the phrase “to woo a potential paramour.”
Cut to a night out at a trendy hotspot that, but for my best friend’s birthday, I wouldn’t be seen in if the pope invited me for lunch. Incidentally, I wonder what the pope eats for lunch. The current pope is German but has lived in Rome for an extended period of time. I wonder if they fly in some schnitzel or borscht or if he prefers the zesty sauces of the Italian cuisine. Regardless, I was in a trendy hotspot. How trendy? Let’s put it this way. There were ferns and they didn’t serve Lone Star. It was that bad.
After a few rounds of my second choice beverage, the birthday boy mercifully granted us permission to leave and after bounding through the exit door I took my first breath in hours that didn’t have the subtle smell of spray on tan and vodka martinis. Hark! I heard my friend’s name being called out in Siren-like fashion from behind me. We turned around and behold, an angel sent down from above sat there smiling from ear to ear before taking her angelic hands from her angelic hips and angelically putting them around my friend’s neck and squealing with excitement . . . angelically, of course. On second thought, I’m not certain that angels squeal. I believe they rejoice or something, but if they did, in fact, squeal, I’m confident it would sound like her squeal.
My friend, a doctor, informed me that (let’s call her Angel for purposes of this story) Angel had worked with him as a nurse in the Emergency Room during his residency in another state. “Solid,” I thought, “I have an in with her.” “This is the person who will be the first person I ask on a date after my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up.” I smiled. She looked at me and wondered why I was smiling. She told the Doctor that she’d recently moved to Austin and had no idea that he was living in town. “How exciting,” I thought. Exciting indeed.
Angel and the Doctor exchanged phone numbers as I fought back the urge—and searched for a good excuse—to ask for her number as well. We went our separate ways that evening and I floated home, drunk with the possibility of once again finding true love. Actually, I was just drunk. Here’s where fate intervened.
The very next morning—perhaps still drunk on the aforementioned possibility—I woke up unusually early with an unusually light hangover. It’s the little things that make life great, isn’t it? Annnyyyyhooo . . . Virtually hangover free and feeling motivated, I made the choice to head to the gym. More specifically, I made the choice to go to Spin class. Please, save me the “are you gay” and “that’s jazzercise on a bike” remarks. Spin class is cool. I donned my gym gear and headed South. My gym is “an indoor gym for outdoor people” for crying out loud and I was about to go work out, indoors.
When I arrived at Spin class, I chose a bike and began to adjust it. I was surrounded by the usual Saturday morning workout crowd. The class was filled with attractive, spandex wearing, taut women with ponytails and sports bras in various stages of warm up. There were a few regular guys in t-shirts and ball caps like me and there was the token “overdoing it guy” decked out in full bike gear and a heart monitor wearing a yellow Lance Armstrong U.S. Postal Tour de France jersey. I wondered if he realized that he was on a stationary bike instead of trudging through the Pyrenees in a peloton in search of a stage victory. Delusions of grandeur are a bitch. Douchebag.
Unintimidated, I mounted my bike and began to pedal. I looked up and—remember that part about fate?—there she was. It was none other than Angel pedaling angelically on her winged stationary bike. She was the Spin instructor. I’ll cut out the details of the class —and the thoughts in my head that accompanied them—but suffice to say it was the best, most energizing work out I’d gotten hammered one night and drunk ordered Tae Bo after seeing the infomercial for the ten thousandth time. Try putting on those wrist things after a dozen Lone Stars.
Realizing that I now had an excuse to ask Doctor for her number, I called him and obtained the digits. “I’m in the know,” I thought. “I’ll send her a witty but appropriate text message and point out the coincidence. She’ll love it.” I briefly entertained the possibility of a text haiku but ruled that out. I decided to save that for later. You know, AFTER she fell in love with me. I was like Louden Swain dropping down to 168 in order to wrestle Schute. Angel was my Vision Quest.
After composing a short, friendly message and including my name, I held my breath and hit the send button. Text messaging, after all, is the passenger pigeon of the 21st Century and I was proud of myself for attempting this new method of courting. However, I was still not sophisticated enough to quit using the word “courting.”
Much to my surprise, Angel responded almost immediately and we texted playfully (and angelically) for most of the day. I learned her favorite movies and we exchanged quotes. I learned that she lived, not in Heaven, but in an up and coming part of town. I shared my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up story and she empathized. I reveled in my texting ability and basked in the truths revealed via poorly punctuated, 120 or fewer character messages. “I haven’t lost a thing since my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up,” I thought. “It’s on.”
Cut to the end of the following Monday work day and me sitting dutifully in my lake view office staring out at Town Lake and pretending to work. My phone rang. It was Angel. I answered and she asked me where I was. After telling her that I was working on something really important, I mentioned that I was getting ready to leave for the day. After all, a person can only do so many important things in one day, right? Shockingly, she invited me to a local Mexican restaurant—get this—to have drinks with her and her best friend’s husband who happened to be in town on business. “Bingo,” I smiled. I had just procured a “meet the best friend’s husband” invitation and I assumed that was a good thing. Clearly, she wanted to get a trusted opinion before letting me jump on and defile her angelic bones. Break up, Schmake Up. I’m Money.
Excited that I was already wearing a cool shirt and having a good hair day, I headed out. I arrived and proceeded to be charming. We drank, we laughed, I gawked, she smiled. I talked to the best friend’s husband and was happy when we seemed to be hitting it off. “This is fantastic,” I thought. I began plotting how to ask her out and prayed that her best friend’s husband’s bladder would soon become pregnant with pressure and he would excuse himself, leaving us alone to bask in the glow of her halo so I could ask her out prior to defiling her angelic bones. Fate apparently enjoys margaritas and chips too because it was again about to intervene.
Just then Angel’s phone rang and she answered. Unfortunately, the best friend’s husband used that as his cue to excuse himself and I was left there, Lone Star in hand, waiting for her conversation with who I assumed was St. Peter to end so I could ask her out before the husband returned. She hung up and, as if it was planned, the husband returned simultaneously. Undeterred, I took a pull from the bottle and trudged on like soldier of love in search of his prize. Actually, I resorted to some dick jokes in order to get the party going again.
About 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” Confused, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I wanted to say, but I thought better of it. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself confident that her purpose was also to provide a second opinion before Angel would open her Heavenly gates to my subtle advances. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.
Bree was, in a word, interesting. Attractive but not hot she demanded a lot of attention and took joy in making bitchy observations that she apparently considered witty. I was annoyed and unimpressed. She was like a strange hair in my soup and I wanted nothing more than to pick her up between my thumb and forefinger and wipe her on the table cloth. However, I’m not an idiot—at least that’s what I thought—and I reasoned that Angel had invited her knowing that she was a bit difficult to deal with in order to see how I would react. Her thoroughness was hot. I pressed on.
I began to ask Bree my usual series of getting to know you questions. I asked not because I was interested, but because I wanted to know what jokes to steer clear of in order to avoid offending her. Whether I like it or not, she had a say in the potential bone jumping and I needed to hit a home run. Bree was a hairdresser, had a full body tattoo running from the side of her left knee all the way up her side and curving around her back, and she loved dogs. I have to admit that I have a thing for tattooed chicks and my interest in that probably distracted me from the red flags being thrown in front of my face with every sentence she uttered. The fact that she made a living with a sharp object in her hand very close to someone’s jugular vein should have been a clue for me to steer clear. I also listened to her because she had strategically taken the seat between Angel and me in an effort to temporarily disrupt my plans so that she could size me up. Clever. Predictable, but clever.
Again supplying much needed mercy, the Doctor called to see what I was doing. Apparently, he and his wife were headed to a local bar to see an 80’s cover band and suggested I invite everyone. “Great,” I thought, “an 80’s cover band.” Unless I’m at a wedding or plan on getting a sex change and meeting up with a few of my best girlfriends after a day long shopping trip and a nap in order to form a circle and dance the night away, I have no real use for 80’s bands. Hell, 80’s cover bands don’t even like 80’s cover bands.
However, I floated the idea across the table and Angel loved it. I instantly became a fan of 80’s cover bands and we decided to rendezvous with the Doctor and his wife. I was encouraged at leveling the playing field by adding two members to my side in Operation Angel Boom and left with a big fat smile on my silly little face. I secretly wished that Bree would develop a stomach issue on the drive between the Mexican place and the 80’s place. Fate didn’t agree.
We all arrived at the 80’s bar and found the Doctor and his wife. A small group of about 4 of Angel and Bree’s friends joined the party as well. “Hi, I’m Angel’s next boyfriend,” I thought to myself as I put on my best smile and shook their hands. We proceeded to rock the house. About 30 minutes into rocking the house, Bree grabbed my hand and suggested we take a break from getting down with our bad selves in order to head to the bar to get a round of drinks for everyone. I agreed. After all, that’s a classy move and I knew getting Angel a refill on her angel juice would earn me points—small points, but points nonetheless. Here’s where it began to get weird.
Upon arriving at the bar I proceeded to reach for my wallet and as I looked over at Bree in order to ask what she wanted to drink, she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me. “Uh, oh,” I thought. Shocked, I pulled away and Bree looked at me with the exact same look that Glen Close gave Michael Douglass when he tried to tell her the affair was over. Thoughts raced through my mind. She’d gone rogue. I was certain of it. I couldn’t believe that she was ruining Angel’s plan to size me up before letting me jump her angelic bones. Uncool.
I politely told her that “it wasn’t like that” between us and suggested we return to the group. Awkwardly, we made our way back across the bar. “I have a problem,” I told the Doctor. “I know,” he said. “I saw that.” Well aware of Operation Angel Boom, the Doctor spent the rest of the evening strategically placing himself between Bree and me in order to provide the cushion necessary for me to re-strategize. The evening ended uneventfully and I returned home still encouraged that I could make things work with Angel. I saw Bree as a speed bump. Little did I know that she was a freaking sink hole.
Sidenote: At this point in the story, you’re probably wondering many things. I promise to tie all of those up by the end of this post. The “date” I refer to in the title has not occurred yet. Second, the current DP would have handled this situation much differently and I’ll elaborate on that later too. Keep in mind that I was fresh off my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up and I had a few lessons to learn.
The weekend went along without incident and my tentative, water-testing texts to Angel were returned without any hint of a problem. “Thank God,” I thought. Bree had the courtesy to keep quiet about her little breach of etiquette and I was relieved to think that I still had a shot with Angel. I tooled around throughout the day and made tentative plans to meet my best friend whose name is not important for dinner and a beer in the evening. I went on a mountain bike ride, went to my favorite book store, and did some laundry. I showered, threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, flip flops, and a ball cap and headed out to meet my friend.
By the way, does anyone remember when flip flops were called “thongs”? I believe it’s evident why we don’t use that term anymore, but I actually preferred it. I suppose it would be weird if I said that I put on a t-shirt, thongs, and a ball cap. After all, why would I need two thongs? Annnyyyyhoooo . . . .
I got in the car and my phone rang. It was my friend. He’d been drinking all day at his house and didn’t want to drive to dinner. Since I lived about 10 miles from him, I accepted his inebriation and chose to go it alone for dinner. Just as I hung up with him, my phone rang again. “Bree” the Caller ID flashed? It was then that I remembered that we had exchanged phone numbers at the Mexican place prior to going to the other bar so that we could coordinate our arrivals. “Damnit,” I thought. To this day, I don’t know why but I picked up the phone. It was Bree who let me know that she was “chillaxin” at home. I don’t know who invented that stupid word and I get annoyed every time I hear it. Combining two words like “Chilling” and “Relaxing” is neither clever nor necessary. I suppose “Brunch” and “Rebar” might disagree, however.
At any rate, I told Bree that my friend canceled on me and she asked where I was going to dinner. To this day, I don’t know why but I answered her. Of course, she told me that her house was not too far from where I was going and offered to meet me there. To this day, I don’t know why but I agreed. I parked, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at the bar and, more importantly, began to drink.
After two beers and about 25 minutes I looked up and standing there in the doorway to the restaurant waiting for my attention to drift her way, was Bree. Bree was more dressed up than a sore finger in a revealing, short summer dress looking thing with strappy dress shoes and matching accessories. I wondered if she had a pair of sharp scissors in her clutch purse. Then it hit me.
Holy Sh*t. I’m on a date.
Bree sauntered over, took a seat, and proceeded to order me to finish my beer because she did not like the restaurant. For some reason, I agreed. I finished and we proceeded down the block to an Italian place. We sat, made small talk, and eventually ordered dinner. She ordered appetizers, a salad, an entrée, and downed several glasses of wine. I continued to drink, slowly realizing that Bree was no longer on a scouting mission for Angel. I still held out hope, however, and I was sober enough to realize that any shot I had left was contingent upon successfully navigating the waters immediately ahead of me. “What we do in life echoes in eternity,” said Russell Crowe in Gladiator. The evening quickly turned into eternity.
After her third glass of wine, Bree felt the need to delve deeply into my personal life. I played along praying that her favorite shears wouldn’t be delving deeply into my temple for a failure to answer. She pried, and pried, and pried. She was particularly fascinated with my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, and instead of responding to her with a “it’s none of your f*cking business,” I continued to play along. I answered honestly and openly and even volunteered some details even though I felt uncomfortable doing so. Dinner sucked and I footed the bill to the tune of about eighty bucks. It was like a bad massage without the Enya music and aromatherapy candles. I sat there and took it.
She asked me how many people I’d been with in my life and before I answered she actually said, “because you’re not going to sleep with me until you get an AIDS test.” Amused, I told her that it was presumptuous to think that I actually wanted to sleep with her. I sensed that the Crazy was beginning to ooze from her pores like tiny water leaks in the metal hull of a sinking ship. It was a matter of time before it came gushing out in an uncontrollable high pressured stream.
At this point, I was a bit loaded. Drunk, no, but my judgment was impaired and I agreed to go to another bar with her for a final beer. After that beer she suggested we go back to her place for a glass of wine. I hesitated, but she insisted. Not wanting to offend her, I agreed.
Sidenote: I know that most of you are thinking that I’m not being forthcoming here. You’re all thinking that I intended to make a move on Bree and that’s why I went back to her house. I promise that’s not the case. For some reason, I was afraid to disappoint her. I was not attracted to her in the least. In fact, her blunt nature and the fact that she barreled over any discernable social boundary like an avalanche was a huge turn off. I really didn’t like her, but for some reason, I hung in there. I do remember wondering what her house would look like inside. I remember thinking about Angel and wondering if I could still salvage my chances. Perhaps that’s why I agreed. I had an opportunity to bail out. Instead, I chose to ride the U.S.S. Bad Date to the bottom of the ocean.
I followed Bree back to her house, which was very close by. At least she told the truth about that. Upon entering her house, which was an upstairs garage apartment, I greeted her dog and took a seat on the couch. Bree excused herself saying that she was going to change and open the bottle of wine. Buzzing and mildly annoyed, I sat there on the couch scanning the room. Various pictures of her and what I assumed was family and friends were strategically scattered about the place. The furniture was a mish mash of non-matching items and the color scheme was drab and neutral. Like Bree, it wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t interesting either. I wondered if I attempted to talk to it if it would order me around like she did.
I began to wonder about other men who had sat in my exact place scanning her apartment. I wondered if they were buried under the floor or wrapped in plastic in the deep freeze in the garage waiting to be discovered after I narrowly avoided a scissor stabbing and escaped screaming through the streets only to be rescued by a Good Samaritan who would take me to the local police substation where I could enjoy a hot cup of coffee and tell my abduction story while wrapped in one of those foil blankets. I took comfort in the fact that she lived on an upper story above a garage. There was no possibility of her having a well in a basement where she would feed me water and baloney slices after ordering me to take the lotion from the basket and rub it all over myself.
Just as I was about to snap back to reality, she appeared. As I scanned the room studying its contents I looked around toward the doorway and standing there was Bree. Now at first, this might not sound unusual. She excused herself to change into something more comfortable and open a bottle of wine. That’s pretty standard practice for a woman who’s been wearing heels and a fancy dress all evening and it didn’t ruffle my naïve, newly single feathers. However . . .
Bree stood there with one hand stretched up the door jamb with the other hand on her hip. She was wearing a yellow tank top undershirt cut off just below her ta ta’s and—I promise you I’m not lying—gray cotton thong underwear with a flaming skull with a dagger through it covering her lady business. The only thing she was wearing besides that was a smile. Paralyzed and well aware that crazy girls can smell fear, my mind began to invent excuses in order to leave. However, an area deep inside my brain knew that I was about to experience something similar to a rear end car collision. You see it coming through your front windshield and as much as you don’t want it to happen, you realize that an impact is imminent. I braced for impact.
“I’m not going to get any wine, am I?” I said trying to keep the conversation going in an effort to delay her advance. “No, I’ve got something better,” she said as she began to walk toward me. Moments later, she was on top of me on the couch with her arms around my neck. I took this opportunity to place my hands on her hips---not in an attempt to draw her closer, but in an effort to inspect the waistband of the aforementioned flaming skull thong for shivs, ice picks, or any other sharp object that could be used to incapacitate me. She began kissing me and, just as I thought things were about to move forward, she stopped, sat back, removed her shirt, and looked me right in the face and said, “Are you interested in Angel?”
Far be it from me to hold back any of the details of the upcoming story. I won’t. However, I do like to remain somewhat mysterious to the readers out there and will not share all of the details of my personal life. Actually, the details are not that exciting and I’d like to avoid having some of the people mentioned in this story lie in wait outside various South Austin bars waiting for me to stumble out in order to exact revenge upon me. I’m a creature of habit and, as such, would be easily tracked. I’m not as elusive as Bigfoot, for instance.
As all of you are aware, I like to tell stories. In telling some stories, it is essential to use various literary devices and a certain level of exaggeration in order to make the story jump from the page and French kiss the reader’s sensibility. The story becomes a living, breathing thing tangled in a dance with the reader’s emotions, thoughts, and ideas. You get the picture. This, my friends, is not necessary in the following story. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved (see the second paragraph) and I’ve consolidated the time line and some small details a bit in the interest of brevity. However, all of the details of the following story are true. With that, let’s get to it.
Fresh off the end of a long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, like Bambi on ice, I ventured cautiously back into the dating world. It had been some time (years actually) since I’d casually dated anyone with the intention of finding love or a connection or going on a journey or whatever. When my last relationship started, text messaging was in its fetal stages, the term “friends with benefits” had not yet become part of everyday vernacular, and the dirtiest thing on my cell phone was the earpiece. In short, the landscape had changed significantly and I didn’t know I needed a compass in order navigate it successfully. This story is an example of that realization.
Because of my self-imposed relationship tunnel vision, I had grown ignorant of the current mores of the singles dating scene. I was naïve with respect to the rules of engagement. What I failed to realize is that, although charming and confident, I was utterly inept concerning the current and proper way to woo a potential paramour. Hell, my approach was as old and outdated as the phrase “to woo a potential paramour.”
Cut to a night out at a trendy hotspot that, but for my best friend’s birthday, I wouldn’t be seen in if the pope invited me for lunch. Incidentally, I wonder what the pope eats for lunch. The current pope is German but has lived in Rome for an extended period of time. I wonder if they fly in some schnitzel or borscht or if he prefers the zesty sauces of the Italian cuisine. Regardless, I was in a trendy hotspot. How trendy? Let’s put it this way. There were ferns and they didn’t serve Lone Star. It was that bad.
After a few rounds of my second choice beverage, the birthday boy mercifully granted us permission to leave and after bounding through the exit door I took my first breath in hours that didn’t have the subtle smell of spray on tan and vodka martinis. Hark! I heard my friend’s name being called out in Siren-like fashion from behind me. We turned around and behold, an angel sent down from above sat there smiling from ear to ear before taking her angelic hands from her angelic hips and angelically putting them around my friend’s neck and squealing with excitement . . . angelically, of course. On second thought, I’m not certain that angels squeal. I believe they rejoice or something, but if they did, in fact, squeal, I’m confident it would sound like her squeal.
My friend, a doctor, informed me that (let’s call her Angel for purposes of this story) Angel had worked with him as a nurse in the Emergency Room during his residency in another state. “Solid,” I thought, “I have an in with her.” “This is the person who will be the first person I ask on a date after my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up.” I smiled. She looked at me and wondered why I was smiling. She told the Doctor that she’d recently moved to Austin and had no idea that he was living in town. “How exciting,” I thought. Exciting indeed.
Angel and the Doctor exchanged phone numbers as I fought back the urge—and searched for a good excuse—to ask for her number as well. We went our separate ways that evening and I floated home, drunk with the possibility of once again finding true love. Actually, I was just drunk. Here’s where fate intervened.
The very next morning—perhaps still drunk on the aforementioned possibility—I woke up unusually early with an unusually light hangover. It’s the little things that make life great, isn’t it? Annnyyyyhooo . . . Virtually hangover free and feeling motivated, I made the choice to head to the gym. More specifically, I made the choice to go to Spin class. Please, save me the “are you gay” and “that’s jazzercise on a bike” remarks. Spin class is cool. I donned my gym gear and headed South. My gym is “an indoor gym for outdoor people” for crying out loud and I was about to go work out, indoors.
When I arrived at Spin class, I chose a bike and began to adjust it. I was surrounded by the usual Saturday morning workout crowd. The class was filled with attractive, spandex wearing, taut women with ponytails and sports bras in various stages of warm up. There were a few regular guys in t-shirts and ball caps like me and there was the token “overdoing it guy” decked out in full bike gear and a heart monitor wearing a yellow Lance Armstrong U.S. Postal Tour de France jersey. I wondered if he realized that he was on a stationary bike instead of trudging through the Pyrenees in a peloton in search of a stage victory. Delusions of grandeur are a bitch. Douchebag.
Unintimidated, I mounted my bike and began to pedal. I looked up and—remember that part about fate?—there she was. It was none other than Angel pedaling angelically on her winged stationary bike. She was the Spin instructor. I’ll cut out the details of the class —and the thoughts in my head that accompanied them—but suffice to say it was the best, most energizing work out I’d gotten hammered one night and drunk ordered Tae Bo after seeing the infomercial for the ten thousandth time. Try putting on those wrist things after a dozen Lone Stars.
Realizing that I now had an excuse to ask Doctor for her number, I called him and obtained the digits. “I’m in the know,” I thought. “I’ll send her a witty but appropriate text message and point out the coincidence. She’ll love it.” I briefly entertained the possibility of a text haiku but ruled that out. I decided to save that for later. You know, AFTER she fell in love with me. I was like Louden Swain dropping down to 168 in order to wrestle Schute. Angel was my Vision Quest.
After composing a short, friendly message and including my name, I held my breath and hit the send button. Text messaging, after all, is the passenger pigeon of the 21st Century and I was proud of myself for attempting this new method of courting. However, I was still not sophisticated enough to quit using the word “courting.”
Much to my surprise, Angel responded almost immediately and we texted playfully (and angelically) for most of the day. I learned her favorite movies and we exchanged quotes. I learned that she lived, not in Heaven, but in an up and coming part of town. I shared my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up story and she empathized. I reveled in my texting ability and basked in the truths revealed via poorly punctuated, 120 or fewer character messages. “I haven’t lost a thing since my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up,” I thought. “It’s on.”
Cut to the end of the following Monday work day and me sitting dutifully in my lake view office staring out at Town Lake and pretending to work. My phone rang. It was Angel. I answered and she asked me where I was. After telling her that I was working on something really important, I mentioned that I was getting ready to leave for the day. After all, a person can only do so many important things in one day, right? Shockingly, she invited me to a local Mexican restaurant—get this—to have drinks with her and her best friend’s husband who happened to be in town on business. “Bingo,” I smiled. I had just procured a “meet the best friend’s husband” invitation and I assumed that was a good thing. Clearly, she wanted to get a trusted opinion before letting me jump on and defile her angelic bones. Break up, Schmake Up. I’m Money.
Excited that I was already wearing a cool shirt and having a good hair day, I headed out. I arrived and proceeded to be charming. We drank, we laughed, I gawked, she smiled. I talked to the best friend’s husband and was happy when we seemed to be hitting it off. “This is fantastic,” I thought. I began plotting how to ask her out and prayed that her best friend’s husband’s bladder would soon become pregnant with pressure and he would excuse himself, leaving us alone to bask in the glow of her halo so I could ask her out prior to defiling her angelic bones. Fate apparently enjoys margaritas and chips too because it was again about to intervene.
Just then Angel’s phone rang and she answered. Unfortunately, the best friend’s husband used that as his cue to excuse himself and I was left there, Lone Star in hand, waiting for her conversation with who I assumed was St. Peter to end so I could ask her out before the husband returned. She hung up and, as if it was planned, the husband returned simultaneously. Undeterred, I took a pull from the bottle and trudged on like soldier of love in search of his prize. Actually, I resorted to some dick jokes in order to get the party going again.
About 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” Confused, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I wanted to say, but I thought better of it. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself confident that her purpose was also to provide a second opinion before Angel would open her Heavenly gates to my subtle advances. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.
Bree was, in a word, interesting. Attractive but not hot she demanded a lot of attention and took joy in making bitchy observations that she apparently considered witty. I was annoyed and unimpressed. She was like a strange hair in my soup and I wanted nothing more than to pick her up between my thumb and forefinger and wipe her on the table cloth. However, I’m not an idiot—at least that’s what I thought—and I reasoned that Angel had invited her knowing that she was a bit difficult to deal with in order to see how I would react. Her thoroughness was hot. I pressed on.
I began to ask Bree my usual series of getting to know you questions. I asked not because I was interested, but because I wanted to know what jokes to steer clear of in order to avoid offending her. Whether I like it or not, she had a say in the potential bone jumping and I needed to hit a home run. Bree was a hairdresser, had a full body tattoo running from the side of her left knee all the way up her side and curving around her back, and she loved dogs. I have to admit that I have a thing for tattooed chicks and my interest in that probably distracted me from the red flags being thrown in front of my face with every sentence she uttered. The fact that she made a living with a sharp object in her hand very close to someone’s jugular vein should have been a clue for me to steer clear. I also listened to her because she had strategically taken the seat between Angel and me in an effort to temporarily disrupt my plans so that she could size me up. Clever. Predictable, but clever.
Again supplying much needed mercy, the Doctor called to see what I was doing. Apparently, he and his wife were headed to a local bar to see an 80’s cover band and suggested I invite everyone. “Great,” I thought, “an 80’s cover band.” Unless I’m at a wedding or plan on getting a sex change and meeting up with a few of my best girlfriends after a day long shopping trip and a nap in order to form a circle and dance the night away, I have no real use for 80’s bands. Hell, 80’s cover bands don’t even like 80’s cover bands.
However, I floated the idea across the table and Angel loved it. I instantly became a fan of 80’s cover bands and we decided to rendezvous with the Doctor and his wife. I was encouraged at leveling the playing field by adding two members to my side in Operation Angel Boom and left with a big fat smile on my silly little face. I secretly wished that Bree would develop a stomach issue on the drive between the Mexican place and the 80’s place. Fate didn’t agree.
We all arrived at the 80’s bar and found the Doctor and his wife. A small group of about 4 of Angel and Bree’s friends joined the party as well. “Hi, I’m Angel’s next boyfriend,” I thought to myself as I put on my best smile and shook their hands. We proceeded to rock the house. About 30 minutes into rocking the house, Bree grabbed my hand and suggested we take a break from getting down with our bad selves in order to head to the bar to get a round of drinks for everyone. I agreed. After all, that’s a classy move and I knew getting Angel a refill on her angel juice would earn me points—small points, but points nonetheless. Here’s where it began to get weird.
Upon arriving at the bar I proceeded to reach for my wallet and as I looked over at Bree in order to ask what she wanted to drink, she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me. “Uh, oh,” I thought. Shocked, I pulled away and Bree looked at me with the exact same look that Glen Close gave Michael Douglass when he tried to tell her the affair was over. Thoughts raced through my mind. She’d gone rogue. I was certain of it. I couldn’t believe that she was ruining Angel’s plan to size me up before letting me jump her angelic bones. Uncool.
I politely told her that “it wasn’t like that” between us and suggested we return to the group. Awkwardly, we made our way back across the bar. “I have a problem,” I told the Doctor. “I know,” he said. “I saw that.” Well aware of Operation Angel Boom, the Doctor spent the rest of the evening strategically placing himself between Bree and me in order to provide the cushion necessary for me to re-strategize. The evening ended uneventfully and I returned home still encouraged that I could make things work with Angel. I saw Bree as a speed bump. Little did I know that she was a freaking sink hole.
Sidenote: At this point in the story, you’re probably wondering many things. I promise to tie all of those up by the end of this post. The “date” I refer to in the title has not occurred yet. Second, the current DP would have handled this situation much differently and I’ll elaborate on that later too. Keep in mind that I was fresh off my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up and I had a few lessons to learn.
The weekend went along without incident and my tentative, water-testing texts to Angel were returned without any hint of a problem. “Thank God,” I thought. Bree had the courtesy to keep quiet about her little breach of etiquette and I was relieved to think that I still had a shot with Angel. I tooled around throughout the day and made tentative plans to meet my best friend whose name is not important for dinner and a beer in the evening. I went on a mountain bike ride, went to my favorite book store, and did some laundry. I showered, threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, flip flops, and a ball cap and headed out to meet my friend.
By the way, does anyone remember when flip flops were called “thongs”? I believe it’s evident why we don’t use that term anymore, but I actually preferred it. I suppose it would be weird if I said that I put on a t-shirt, thongs, and a ball cap. After all, why would I need two thongs? Annnyyyyhoooo . . . .
I got in the car and my phone rang. It was my friend. He’d been drinking all day at his house and didn’t want to drive to dinner. Since I lived about 10 miles from him, I accepted his inebriation and chose to go it alone for dinner. Just as I hung up with him, my phone rang again. “Bree” the Caller ID flashed? It was then that I remembered that we had exchanged phone numbers at the Mexican place prior to going to the other bar so that we could coordinate our arrivals. “Damnit,” I thought. To this day, I don’t know why but I picked up the phone. It was Bree who let me know that she was “chillaxin” at home. I don’t know who invented that stupid word and I get annoyed every time I hear it. Combining two words like “Chilling” and “Relaxing” is neither clever nor necessary. I suppose “Brunch” and “Rebar” might disagree, however.
At any rate, I told Bree that my friend canceled on me and she asked where I was going to dinner. To this day, I don’t know why but I answered her. Of course, she told me that her house was not too far from where I was going and offered to meet me there. To this day, I don’t know why but I agreed. I parked, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at the bar and, more importantly, began to drink.
After two beers and about 25 minutes I looked up and standing there in the doorway to the restaurant waiting for my attention to drift her way, was Bree. Bree was more dressed up than a sore finger in a revealing, short summer dress looking thing with strappy dress shoes and matching accessories. I wondered if she had a pair of sharp scissors in her clutch purse. Then it hit me.
Holy Sh*t. I’m on a date.
Bree sauntered over, took a seat, and proceeded to order me to finish my beer because she did not like the restaurant. For some reason, I agreed. I finished and we proceeded down the block to an Italian place. We sat, made small talk, and eventually ordered dinner. She ordered appetizers, a salad, an entrée, and downed several glasses of wine. I continued to drink, slowly realizing that Bree was no longer on a scouting mission for Angel. I still held out hope, however, and I was sober enough to realize that any shot I had left was contingent upon successfully navigating the waters immediately ahead of me. “What we do in life echoes in eternity,” said Russell Crowe in Gladiator. The evening quickly turned into eternity.
After her third glass of wine, Bree felt the need to delve deeply into my personal life. I played along praying that her favorite shears wouldn’t be delving deeply into my temple for a failure to answer. She pried, and pried, and pried. She was particularly fascinated with my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, and instead of responding to her with a “it’s none of your f*cking business,” I continued to play along. I answered honestly and openly and even volunteered some details even though I felt uncomfortable doing so. Dinner sucked and I footed the bill to the tune of about eighty bucks. It was like a bad massage without the Enya music and aromatherapy candles. I sat there and took it.
She asked me how many people I’d been with in my life and before I answered she actually said, “because you’re not going to sleep with me until you get an AIDS test.” Amused, I told her that it was presumptuous to think that I actually wanted to sleep with her. I sensed that the Crazy was beginning to ooze from her pores like tiny water leaks in the metal hull of a sinking ship. It was a matter of time before it came gushing out in an uncontrollable high pressured stream.
At this point, I was a bit loaded. Drunk, no, but my judgment was impaired and I agreed to go to another bar with her for a final beer. After that beer she suggested we go back to her place for a glass of wine. I hesitated, but she insisted. Not wanting to offend her, I agreed.
Sidenote: I know that most of you are thinking that I’m not being forthcoming here. You’re all thinking that I intended to make a move on Bree and that’s why I went back to her house. I promise that’s not the case. For some reason, I was afraid to disappoint her. I was not attracted to her in the least. In fact, her blunt nature and the fact that she barreled over any discernable social boundary like an avalanche was a huge turn off. I really didn’t like her, but for some reason, I hung in there. I do remember wondering what her house would look like inside. I remember thinking about Angel and wondering if I could still salvage my chances. Perhaps that’s why I agreed. I had an opportunity to bail out. Instead, I chose to ride the U.S.S. Bad Date to the bottom of the ocean.
I followed Bree back to her house, which was very close by. At least she told the truth about that. Upon entering her house, which was an upstairs garage apartment, I greeted her dog and took a seat on the couch. Bree excused herself saying that she was going to change and open the bottle of wine. Buzzing and mildly annoyed, I sat there on the couch scanning the room. Various pictures of her and what I assumed was family and friends were strategically scattered about the place. The furniture was a mish mash of non-matching items and the color scheme was drab and neutral. Like Bree, it wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t interesting either. I wondered if I attempted to talk to it if it would order me around like she did.
I began to wonder about other men who had sat in my exact place scanning her apartment. I wondered if they were buried under the floor or wrapped in plastic in the deep freeze in the garage waiting to be discovered after I narrowly avoided a scissor stabbing and escaped screaming through the streets only to be rescued by a Good Samaritan who would take me to the local police substation where I could enjoy a hot cup of coffee and tell my abduction story while wrapped in one of those foil blankets. I took comfort in the fact that she lived on an upper story above a garage. There was no possibility of her having a well in a basement where she would feed me water and baloney slices after ordering me to take the lotion from the basket and rub it all over myself.
Just as I was about to snap back to reality, she appeared. As I scanned the room studying its contents I looked around toward the doorway and standing there was Bree. Now at first, this might not sound unusual. She excused herself to change into something more comfortable and open a bottle of wine. That’s pretty standard practice for a woman who’s been wearing heels and a fancy dress all evening and it didn’t ruffle my naïve, newly single feathers. However . . .
Bree stood there with one hand stretched up the door jamb with the other hand on her hip. She was wearing a yellow tank top undershirt cut off just below her ta ta’s and—I promise you I’m not lying—gray cotton thong underwear with a flaming skull with a dagger through it covering her lady business. The only thing she was wearing besides that was a smile. Paralyzed and well aware that crazy girls can smell fear, my mind began to invent excuses in order to leave. However, an area deep inside my brain knew that I was about to experience something similar to a rear end car collision. You see it coming through your front windshield and as much as you don’t want it to happen, you realize that an impact is imminent. I braced for impact.
“I’m not going to get any wine, am I?” I said trying to keep the conversation going in an effort to delay her advance. “No, I’ve got something better,” she said as she began to walk toward me. Moments later, she was on top of me on the couch with her arms around my neck. I took this opportunity to place my hands on her hips---not in an attempt to draw her closer, but in an effort to inspect the waistband of the aforementioned flaming skull thong for shivs, ice picks, or any other sharp object that could be used to incapacitate me. She began kissing me and, just as I thought things were about to move forward, she stopped, sat back, removed her shirt, and looked me right in the face and said, “Are you interested in Angel?”
My initial thought was, “why, is she here?” Thankful for the opportunity to speak, I put my hands on her outer thighs and said plainly and clearly, “Look, this whole night has been way too weird for me. I’m going to leave.” With that, she frowned, stood up, collected her shirt, walked over to the door, and opened it. I stood, gathered myself, and suddenly felt a need to explain. Luckily, she ushered me out the door and I walked swiftly but carefully to my car and drove home.
Here’s where it gets weird.
I walked into my office building on Monday morning, poured my usual cup of coffee, and entered my office to begin my daily routine. I was there no more than five minutes when my office phone rang. It was Bree. Keep in mind that I had never given her my office number and I couldn’t recall if I’d told her the name of the firm where I worked at the time. “Hello, it’s Bree. Can you talk?” she said. It struck me that her statement could mean two things. First, it could mean “are you in a place in your day when you are sufficiently caught up with your work that you can take the time to discuss something of a sensitive nature with me?” Or, it could mean, “since I put something in your drink last night before I attempted to sexually assault you, I was calling to check to see if you still have the power of speech.”
“What are your intentions with me?” She asked.
Intentions? Good Lord. Politely, I attempted to explain to her that going all the way back to the original kiss at the bar that she had misread me, I was sorry if I’d mislead her, things got weird, you bilked me out of dinner and drinks, you threw yourself at me in flaming skull and dagger underwear, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line, I’m interested in Angel and we should just be friends. Bree did not take rejection well. In fact, she didn’t take it at all.
“I think you’re misunderstanding your feelings for me,” she said.
Read that line again. Yes, that’s what she said. Realizing that I was dealing with a less than rational woman, I reiterated my desire to remain friends and quickly ended the conversation. STILL under the delusion that I had a shot at Angel, I texted her telling her that I wanted to discuss the Bree situation because things had become slightly odd. Angel responded that I should call her that evening. Relieved I’d be given the opportunity to set things straight, I went about my day.
When I arrived home that evening, I changed clothes, poured a glass of Gatorade, and picked up the phone to dial Angel. When she answered, she proceeded to tell me that she couldn’t believe that I got Bree drunk and attempted to take advantage of her. She was flabbergasted that I had asked Bree on a date and then behaved so badly. She couldn’t believe that I would ask Bree on a date and then proceed to tell her the deepest details of my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up. After all, no girl wants to hear about that and I should just take comfort in being alone rather than jumping back into a relationship.
Angel told me that she had a boyfriend and couldn’t believe that I was trying to sleep with her and Bree. I was “shady” and dishonest and I was a jerk for trying to take advantage of the kindness she’d showed me by trying to help me get back on my feet after my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up.
I quickly formed the opinion that Angel had spoken with Bree. I also learned that the four friends I’d met on the first night had also heard the story from Bree. They now all hated me. Great.
After a feeble attempt at an explanatory email, I left the entire situation at this. “Look, I won’t hang out with you and your friends anymore because I don’t want to get in the way. The only thing I will say in my defense is that I’d be willing to bet that the story that I would tell you about the evening’s events is a lot different than the one you heard from Bree.” I apologized and that was it. To this day, there are a half dozen women running around Austin, Texas who periodically see me and pause to whisper about me. The old DP would have worried profusely about that. Not anymore. I’m far from a victim in this entire scenario but I will say that there are witches in Salem who got more of a say than I did that day. I don’t blame the girls for sticking by their friends, but I often wonder if any of them suspect that they didn’t get the entire story from Bree.
Set the identical story in the present day and scroll back to the initial meeting with Bree. This is how I would have responded today. For your benefit, the changes are in capital letters.
. . . about 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” ANNOYED, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I SAID. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself, TOLD HER I’D BE HAPPY TO BUY HER A BEER IF SHE’D ASK NICELY, AND UPON HANDING HER THE BEER I PURCHASED SAID, “NOW PLEASE GET OUT OF MY SEAT BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO GET TO KNOW ANGEL SO THAT I CAN ASK HER OUT. DON’T F*CK THAT UP FOR ME, PLEASE. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.
I’ve learned a lot since then. To this day, I still see Angel in Spin class and at various functions around town. We don’t hang out at the same places. Apparently, she’s not into dilapidated honky tonks with marginal structural support and substandard plumbing. We’re friendly to one another, but the weirdness has not been broken. By all accounts, she’s a decent, kind person and I wish nothing but good for her. I saw Bree shortly after that fiasco at a concert venue. She had her meat hooks all over another unsuspecting fellow and I wondered if he too would get a chance to see the flaming skull thong. I don’t wish her any ill will either. She’s a little nuts, but hey, we’ve all been there once or twice if we’re being honest, right? The friends still give me tsk tsk looks and now that makes me smile a bit. Such is life. I suppose I've grown up a bit since then and I suppose that's what a person is supposed to do when he makes a mistake.
Well, that’s it. My worst date story. I hope you enjoyed reading. Please tune in next time and feel free to suggest more topics, as I have not yet committed to one for the next post. If any of you have a line on where a person can buy the skull thong, send me a link, I’d be curious to see if you can find the exact one. Trust me, I would have no trouble identifying it as that image is seared indelibly upon my brain. Until next week, if you need me, I’ll be wearing my thong in Spin class. DP
After a feeble attempt at an explanatory email, I left the entire situation at this. “Look, I won’t hang out with you and your friends anymore because I don’t want to get in the way. The only thing I will say in my defense is that I’d be willing to bet that the story that I would tell you about the evening’s events is a lot different than the one you heard from Bree.” I apologized and that was it. To this day, there are a half dozen women running around Austin, Texas who periodically see me and pause to whisper about me. The old DP would have worried profusely about that. Not anymore. I’m far from a victim in this entire scenario but I will say that there are witches in Salem who got more of a say than I did that day. I don’t blame the girls for sticking by their friends, but I often wonder if any of them suspect that they didn’t get the entire story from Bree.
Set the identical story in the present day and scroll back to the initial meeting with Bree. This is how I would have responded today. For your benefit, the changes are in capital letters.
. . . about 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” ANNOYED, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I SAID. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself, TOLD HER I’D BE HAPPY TO BUY HER A BEER IF SHE’D ASK NICELY, AND UPON HANDING HER THE BEER I PURCHASED SAID, “NOW PLEASE GET OUT OF MY SEAT BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO GET TO KNOW ANGEL SO THAT I CAN ASK HER OUT. DON’T F*CK THAT UP FOR ME, PLEASE. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.
I’ve learned a lot since then. To this day, I still see Angel in Spin class and at various functions around town. We don’t hang out at the same places. Apparently, she’s not into dilapidated honky tonks with marginal structural support and substandard plumbing. We’re friendly to one another, but the weirdness has not been broken. By all accounts, she’s a decent, kind person and I wish nothing but good for her. I saw Bree shortly after that fiasco at a concert venue. She had her meat hooks all over another unsuspecting fellow and I wondered if he too would get a chance to see the flaming skull thong. I don’t wish her any ill will either. She’s a little nuts, but hey, we’ve all been there once or twice if we’re being honest, right? The friends still give me tsk tsk looks and now that makes me smile a bit. Such is life. I suppose I've grown up a bit since then and I suppose that's what a person is supposed to do when he makes a mistake.
Well, that’s it. My worst date story. I hope you enjoyed reading. Please tune in next time and feel free to suggest more topics, as I have not yet committed to one for the next post. If any of you have a line on where a person can buy the skull thong, send me a link, I’d be curious to see if you can find the exact one. Trust me, I would have no trouble identifying it as that image is seared indelibly upon my brain. Until next week, if you need me, I’ll be wearing my thong in Spin class. DP
