It’s All In The Hands
I never date bartenders. Not because I think of it as a lowly existence, but because no one is actually just a bartender. They are actors, novelists, paying their way through ITT Tech, and the list goes on and down from there. I must have been feeling lonely because one night, after a friend of mine insisted, I accepted a date from Ben the bartender.
Ben bartended right next to my work, and God obviously wasn’t watching out for me that night – because two drinks in I told him this fact. Numbers exchanged, I called it a night.
The next day while I was outside the storefront of my workplace and on the phone with a friend, some turd on a motorcycle driving past started looking at me. I reciprocated by mouthing “ew.” The guy rolled up onto the pavement and removed his helmet. Damn it, it was Ben. He pulled a large box out of his backpack, presented it to me and sped off. I was already repulsed. I walked inside and opened the box; inside I found two cans of an energy drink, a mini bottle of champagne and a PRESS KIT. I would later discover that this was what he believed was going to make him a ‘millionaire.’
He texted me and called twice; I finally accepted because I felt bad for him and I know somewhere he has a mother that loves him; that thought always kills me because I have a little brother. I tried to get out of the date by saying “My mom would kill me if I rode a motorcycle.” His reply? “Good thing I have a car.” I was stuck.
On the night of the date I was downing wine like it was the contents of a juice box, and begging my roommate to keep her head poked out the window to see what he drives and when it arrives. She didn’t need to keep a look out- we were alerted to his arrival by the loud grunt of a muffer-less car. Oh God. He called and I walked downstairs to his 1991 red soft-top convertible Mustang. The same car my lunatic alcoholic aunt drives. Now, I am not so concerned with how nice a guy’s car is, but when you drive a lady car and ‘soup’ it up – Houston, we have a problem.
I got in and asked where we were going. He told me it was a surprise and I buckled my seatbelt. He then began to drive up Laurel canyon, which is this really steep, scary way to get from LA to ‘over the hill.’ He started whipping and speeding around corners; I was terrified and asked him to slow down, because I was once in a terrible car accident and get nervous about taking corners too fast (true). His response went something like this: “I’ve been in tons of accidents, don’t worry. I know how to handle this.” Nice.
We survived and arrived at some obscure Tapas place where Ben was overly familiar with everyone working. I finally figured it out: he was a bartender here back in the day. Ok, so I don’t care if you have $4.00 for a meal, or have to go dutch because you’re poor, but don’t take me somewhere you get a discount and then let all the waiters linger and chat so we can’t even talk to one another. Actually, now I wish they would have lingered longer since what he had to say made me think he was raised under a floorboard in the South.
Besides promoting his energy drink company (which is now nonexistent) he proceeded to entertain me with a story about how he took his young cousin bunny hunting. I told him I love animals, especially the small furry kind, and don’t eat meat, but he kept going. Apparently, his young cousin shot himself a rabbit and went to go retrieve it, but upon inspecting his victim, noticed that there was a gaping hole in its neck, not in the place it was shot. Something was also coming out of the bunny’s neck hole. Just so I had a good idea about what this scenario looked like, Ben curled his pointer finger and his thumb together to make a tight ring and told me it looked like the formation he had just created: “Just, like this, just like a butthole.” I should have run but was so shocked that my body refused movement. He continued, “There was a botfly coming out of its neck, apparently once the rabbit dies the fly senses it and leaves the neck. This happens to all rabbits in the wild.” I swear to God I have thought about the poor bunnies out there with botflies in their necks ever since this tale was told. As if that weren’t enough, he pulled up his sleeves and revealed a whole slew of redneck tattoos aimed at confessing undying love for his motherland: Texas. How pretty.
Then he held up his hands (I am not kidding) and asked if they look familiar. I say no, not really, should they? Apparently they should. The Academy Awards had just recently aired and he continued to tell me that his hands were featured in this repeated video clip that appeared on screen; it showed him opening an envelope right before they announced the winner of the award. They never showed his face, just his hands. A hand model! In my presence?! Swoon! Ugh, gross.
He was also a muffin man; he told me all about a muffin company he ran with his ex-girlfriend. They still worked together making muffins, then he showed me his jankey website online. Just in case I knew anyone who needed muffins (or energy drinks) for their wedding (I worked in wedding planning). To finalize this dream scenario, he grabbed a bottle of wine himself from behind the bar, gave his waiter friend a wink and took me into this weird side room decorated in cheap velvet and twinkle lights. As a grand finale, he took out a $5 bill, and turned it into $100. More magic tricks followed, but the rest I have blurred them from my memory.
He dropped me off, kissless obviously, and I ignored his three phone messages. I live happily ever after without him.
| 39 Comments
Going Dutch
MVWD occurred when I was 17 and visiting my relatives in a suburb of Amsterdam. I will admit, I wasn’t traumatized but in hindsight it was amusing as my first international dating experience.
I had just graduated from high school and went to spend a month in the Netherlands before starting college in the fall. One day, about a week into my visit, a young man (about 17 or 18), P, started hanging around outside. Turns out he was doing house painting at the next house, had spotted me, and wanted to ask me out. However, rather than ask me directly, P asked my older cousin to ask me. I was about to decline, thinking that he didn’t ask me because he didn’t speak English (I could understand quite a bit of Dutch but at that point in my trip, didn’t speak it very well).
But P did speak English so I agreed to the date. We went to a local sports club to go swimming. As we walked there, we made the usual small talk. I told him I was entering college in the fall. He told me about his job painting and other plans he had. We arrived and swam but for me the connection wasn’t there.
We ran into his friends and he introduced me, speaking Dutch the entire time. P must not have realized that I understood Dutch (mostly because he never asked me) and was telling his friends about the “rich American babe that he just bagged.” Even if I was having a fabulous time, this was a major turnoff. It was not that I minded being called a babe – but I did mind being referred to as if I were something to be bagged, tagged, and displayed like a trophy. And I was far from rich so I also felt a little uneasy and on edge with that reference.
As we were walking home, P asked if I would be his girlfriend. I declined, using the excuse that I was only there for three more weeks and didn’t feel that it was appropriate. He then invited himself over for the next night, Saturday. I told him no, my family and I had plans. So he invited himself over for Sunday evening and again, I told him we had plans. Maybe it was my American sensibility but I found inviting oneself over after one date to be really rude.
Two nights later, on Sunday, my family and I came home from dinner out. I spotted P on a bridge near the house as if he were waiting for me and it felt rather like stalking. P expected to come in and watch TV with us. I politely told him that we had been out all day and this was not a good time. I also did not commit to any future get-togethers. The next day, he came to the house asking for water (he was working a few doors down). Bless my aunt’s heart – although I didn’t tell her that he made me uncomfortable, she sensed it and told the guy to get lost.
The rest of my visit was P-free and it was great to see such a beautiful country.
| 9 Comments
The Tycoon
My manager at work is on the board of a local civic organization, and attends their meetings once a week. One day he wasn’t available to go, so he asked me to attend in his place and take some notes. At the meeting, I immediately noticed a guy sitting a few seats away from me, as it seemed like he kept staring at me and trying to catch my eye. He was really cute and looked great in his professional suit, and I crossed my fingers hoping he wasn’t actually making eyes at the decent-looking woman sitting next to me (who, by the way, kept clearing her throat and shifting uncomfortably in her chair, bumping me each time she moved.)
Sure enough, as we were all walking out of the meeting, he caught up with me and struck up a conversation (we’ll call him Craig.) Since we both had to get back to our respective jobs, he suggested we meet up for a drink sometime, and we exchanged numbers. He called me the next day and we agreed to meet after work at a trendy little pub that was halfway between our offices. I had butterflies for the rest of the day- it had been AGES since I’d been asked out on a date, and by a handsome, successful stranger in a suit, no less!
When I arrived, he was already seated with a half-empty drink in front of him. As I sat down and we started chatting, it was clear he was already pretty tipsy and starting to slur. I was surprised to find out he’d been drinking at the pub for 2 hours already, and when I apologized (unnecessarily) and asked why he hadn’t set our plans for earlier, he scoffed and said “I make my own hours, I’m not chained to my desk until 5pm like you assistants.” I was shocked into silence. First of all, I’m not an assistant, and second of all, what’s with the snotty attitude?!
For the rest of the date, he drank heavily, talked incessantly about himself and how successful he is, and flirted with our waitress. The few times he asked me anything about myself, he’d flip out his cell phone and start texting away, glancing up at me every once in awhile to say “uh huh…” The only way I knew he had heard a single word is that he’d then make some thinly-veiled insult about whatever I’d said. Also, every five minutes or so, he would make an urgent grab for his phone (which sat on the table the entire time) give me a fake-apologetic look, and get up to wander a few feet away from our table. When he would return, he’d roll his eyes and brag about how his company “just fell apart” when he wasn’t there, and I would politely ask what he was working on at the moment, he replied that he couldn’t talk about it because “it’s pretty top secret and only a few people in the United States know about it.” Ummm, okay, but you can talk about it on your cell phone, in a crowded pub, a few feet away from our table? And because he did this at least 15 times, our date ended up lasting an excruciating 2 hours because he kept scuttling away every time I was about to make my escape. By the way, his phone didn’t ring or vibrate once the entire time. Maybe he had it on silent, but I think it’s far more likely he was just a huge faker.
I finally got fed up and told him I had to go, not even bothering to make up an excuse. He tried to make plans with me again, but I gave him my best bitchy look and said “good luck with everything.” He did text and call me a few times after that, and every time I shuddered with the terrible memory of those 2 hours.
Sidenote: Nearly two years later, I was at a networking event and was re-introduced to the woman who was sitting next to me at the meeting where I’d first met Craig. You know, the one who kept shifting and bumping me? She took one look at me and said, “You were the girl who dated Craig, right?” Turns out, he had dated her for two months before meeting me, and had a girlfriend the entire time. We ended up exchanging our horror stories of dating him and laughing our heads off.
| 16 Comments
Seeing Red
My Very Worst Date was our FIRST date on Valentines Day.
‘Mr. Jones’ took me to this FABULOUS and very expensive restaurant. HOWEVER, he neglected one not so small detail…to make RESERVATIONS! DUH! Who doesn’t make reservations for Valentines Day?
So we decided to wait for a table and sat in the bar for several hours, at which time I consumed mass amount of red wine on an empty stomach.
Finally we were seated for dinner. I ordered filet mignon, he ordered steak and lobster. The food arrived just in time for me to go running to the bathroom – where I spent the next hour hugging not my date, but the commode on the floor, in my sexy little red dress that I bought just for Valentines day (nice).
When I finally could stand up, I walked out to find Mr. Jones getting ready to come into the ladies room to check on me. So, we ran out to the car trying to get me home before I hurled AGAIN…
No such luck! (You guessed it, red – and it does not go well with gray floor mats!)
In the rush to get me home, not only did he drive like a maniac but ran a red light – and THEN, in a moment of clarity, remembered that we ran out without paying the bill. Now not only was I sicker than a dog, but a possible criminal as well!
So what else could go wrong? …well helloooo, Officer! You got it – red flashing lights, pulling us over. I didn’t know if it was running the red light or running out on the bill. It was the red light. So while Mr. Jones waited for his citation, I leaned out the car door and puked AGAIN in front of the officer.
Finally Mr. Jones got me home, tucked me in, and RAN! (kidding)
But I think it was after 4:00 PM that I got up the next day and threw out my sexy little red dress. Mr. Jones went back to the restaurant to apologize and pay our bill.
Needless to say, that was our LAST Valentines “date.” We continued to date, but NEVER went out on Valentines Day. We got married and will celebrate our 28th Anniversary this June. But I still am not a fan of Valentines day or the color RED!
| 26 Comments
A Bad Reaction
MVWD was in July of this past year; the way that my University works is that we have very intense six-week terms, then long holidays with a lot of reading/independent work: so I tended to have a few jobs a year. I met a foreign exchange student from Poland at one of those jobs (whom I shall call Mat), we clicked, he asked me out, and I said yes (thinking that even if it went tits up I was only there a few months). Mat took me to this play at the Arts theatre near where both of us worked.
I’m going to preface this by saying none of this was his fault…it was just an unfortunate mix of allergy and soap opera.
So we went to the play. The play was terrible. It stank. There was a latex plant-suit involved; it still hurts to remember. But it was fine, we joked a bit after we saw it (out of earshot of the theatre) and continued to a nice outdoor restaurant to have dinner. The dinner was fine; we got through our starter and main course – but I kept getting this feeling that someone was watching me. I brushed it aside throughout the whole meal, because why the hell would someone be watching me? We decided what to have for dessert.
“I know this sounds weird, but I’ve never had raspberry before.” said Mat. So he decided to try a dish with raspberry.
I wish there was a guy in my head who would alert me to foreshadowing.
He started choking, went red all over his face, neck and shoulders, and collapsed – so we called for an ambulance and got rushed off to hospital. Two hours later I’m waiting in Accident & Emergency when a random woman walked in and started yelling at me in a language I later found out was Polish. She brandished PRINTED PICTURES OF ME EATING DINNER THAT NIGHT. PRINTED. And yelled more. She eventually switched to English to say “whore” (ironically, one of the few words I actually know in Polish now), threw the pictures on the ground, and stomped away dramatically.
Another guy (I assume also Polish?), sitting a metre away, gave me a disgusted look, said only “kurwa” (that would be the translation of the above) and shuffled away like I have Adultery written on me. I stayed at A&E mostly out of indecision and shock until they told me they were keeping Mat for the night and he should be fine. I left.
I later found out this was his EX-girlfriend (which Mat, to his credit since it wasn’t really his fault, apologised about). To this day I have no idea how she got those pictures printed so fast.
Mat was fine in the end (and avoids raspberries). The relationship didn’t work out, but we remain friends.
| 15 Comments