Ghosts of Bad Dates Past, part I: The Complete Idiot

In college, I spent the first two and a half years in a fairly serious relationship, and following a breakup at a Seahawks game (ahhh, Century Link Field will never be the same), was ready to hit the dating scene again early spring of my junior year.  This also correlated nicely with my turning 21.  Hey-o!  Nothing says I’m ready to date again like Patron to the dome. 

I didn’t realize until now, but I suppose my first dissent into the online dating world came at this time – when my college bestie and roomie – referred to in this blog as X-Rated - helped me create my MySpace profile.  X-Rated because that was our favorite “juice” back jr year, so pink and delic, and “in all them rap guys’ videos.”  (Can I get a T-Pain?) During Christmas break, we had some vodka left over from New Years, and like X-Rated said, as she always made so much sense, “Well… somebody’s gotta drink it.  It might go bad.”  She is so wise.  I hate when potatoes spoil. 

I had sworn off MySpace – I was strictly a Facebook girl after all.  You know, back in the day when Facebook was sooo much more underground, and you had to have a college email in order to even have an account.  Back when your 53-year-old male coworker wasn’t asking to be your friend, and your wall was just a little racier.  Back where your friends wrote about the spotty night before when you all went dancing because a) your employer wasn’t on Facebook and b) if they were, who cares? –You could find another Bed Bath & Beyond gig in about 5 minutes.  I miss those days.  But I digress.

When X-Rated agreed to make me her top friend in her Top 8, I agreed to make a MySpace.  I have my terms after all.  This sounded so intriguing – listing your besties in order of friendship value.  YES.  “Ok,” I said.  “But first, let’s put on hats and take profile pictures with this half gallon!”  Ahh… so that’s where my classiness started.  It’s so clear now – hindsight really is 20/20.

The Complete Idiot was actually the third person I’d decided to go on a date with from MySpace – the first two were actually pretty cool.  So, young, impressionable and ready to live my 21 yr old dreams to the fullest, I thought nothing of this new forum for men and top friends.  Except – Awesome.  Plus, the stalking was amazeballs.  MySpace told me that my ex was dating a horse, the little hippie with stoner eyes in all my classes was unattached and I was quickly climbing the ranks in various Top 8s.  Could life get any better?  No.  It actually cannot.

The Complete Idiot had sent me a message on MySpace, and he seemed pretty cute.  He had already graduated college, and was working for the state.  Great.  He had a job – Classy.  He was also a huge Seahawks fan, which I found intriguing.  As my other roommate, Pink Champagne said, “that means he’s a man.”  I was soon to find out what a man he was.

Pink Champagne and I had a little routine on Tuesday nights that spring.  We would spend 25 minutes on the elliptical at the rec center, then go to Boston’s to drink beer.  The elliptical really does burn up quite a thirst, a thirst that can only be quenched with Kokanee and Bud Light. 

This tradition started the day I got fired from a shitty hair salon in the mall – for refusing to sign a write up for a foul I did not commit.  After one too many Supermugs at Boston’s the night of my termination, Pink Champagne and I begin spilling secrets.  Ahhh yes, two sweaty 21 yr olds, fresh from a good twenty minutes on the elliptical swigging brews and spilling hearts. 

Again, classy girls know how to captivate an audience.  We just didn’t realize that we were captivating the bartender, Burt, as well.  When we got our tab after 3 mugs a piece, (And a shot he sent over, saying “you sound like you need it after today”) it was $8.  Oh Burt the Bartender, how little did you realize the Pandora’s box you opened with us that night.  And I thank you for the wonderful year and a half of $8 tabs.  Again, I digress.

It was on one of those Tuesday nights that The Complete Idiot texted and was in the area.  Come on down, I said – what better chance to meet for the first time than with Pink Champagne slurring her words right by my side?   Of course, meet us at the Red Robin across the parking lot – we don’t want to ruin what we have going with Burt the Bartender by introducing a man into the mix.  He met us for a brew, and we both agreed he seemed pretty cool.  Of course, what did we know?  We had just paid our $8 tab…

We made plans to go on an official date the next night, at a sports pub by my place.  It was spring quarter of my jr year, and spring in Bellingham meant you took all your easy classes because it’s the 2 months out of the year the ‘ham is sans rain, and the bars open up their grass for hula hoop parties and bluegrass bands.  And you don’t want to miss out on this because you’re doing something silly... like learning. 

He lived out in a town I liked to call Jamestown.  Jamestown was about a 25-minute drive outside of the ‘ham, and was the closest thing to Puritan as the original Jamestown.  The city didn’t even sell alcohol on Sundays.  They would chain up the coolers at Safeway starting at 12:01am Sunday morning.  Silly Puritans.  Luckily, there was never a reason to ever go to Jamestown, unless I was visiting X-Rated, as she managed the Blockbuster there. 

He texts me around four that afternoon, and I had just gotten home from my last class:

“Hey, if you want, I know a really cool bar in Jamestown I think you’d like, if you don’t mind coming out here.”

Seeing how I was still under the foggy impression this guy was cool, and a man, and I had Pink Champagne’s slurred approval from the night before, I figured what the hell – besides, when we inevitably started dating (based solely on the premise I had formed after a night following Burt the Bartender’s infamous $8 tab), I was going to end up in Jamestown more often anyway.  Better solidify the route now.

“Sure, sounds fun.  I can come out there – just give me directions.”

What I didn’t realize then was how fateful those words would be.

It took a solid 30 minutes to get out to his house, which he shared with a roommate and his girlfriend.  I parked on the street outside – if you learn one thing in college is never to a) take someone’s parking spot and b) park anyone in.  His house was normal enough – clean – although the impression was clear his roommate and the girlfriend lived there; the Complete Idiot just helped them pay the rent.  The first warning sign came in the quick tour.  The man loved the Seahawks, and that was appealing on MySpace; however, this man took it one manly step further – Seahawks bedding on his twin bed.  Great.

The plan was to grab a pitcher at this apparently amazeballs pub that required me to drive 30 miles for, then watch a movie back at his place. 

As we headed out, he had the audacity to ask me to drive, because he “didn’t want his roommate to take his parking spot.”  Yes, I can understand why… I mean, who wants to park a 1988 Honda Accord on the street in Jamestown?   It might get hit by a horse and buggy. 

“Fine,” I said, clearly irritated. 

(Would you like me to take you to do your grocery shopping too?  Pick up your dry cleaning?  Maybe a quick road trip to Seattle?  Let’s just get it in prior to midnight, before this carriage turns back into a pumpkin.)

The super fantastic bar was a trucker dive about another 20 minutes away from his house.  It actually would have been my cup of tea, if I weren’t jet lagged from the extreme travel of the day and with a total moron.  At least they had beer, an elixir that can turn around any day. 

“We’ll take a pitcher of Bud Light,” the Complete Idiot ordered.

(Ew, I thought.  We can’t even get real beer?  <sigh>)

“That’s $7,” said the bartender.

“$7 – really?!” The Complete Idiot may have a job and a degree, (and a twin bed with bitching bedding) but apparently also an incredibly stringent budget.  Attractive.

The bartender just looked at him, “Yes.  $7.”

I just threw down a $10 bill, grabbed the picture and glasses, and sat down.  Idiot. 

During the half an hour we were there, which was already too long, he managed to tell me how many women he had slept with.  (What a treat).

Four women, in case you’re wondering.  But maybe three.  He wasn’t quite sure if one counted, because he “was really drunk, and it was in a hot tub.” 

(You are such an idiot)

As riveting as this conversation had been, and as impressed as I was with his smooth bedside manner (or should I say, hot tub side manner?), I had been toying with the idea of leaving early the whole night – the thought of spending another two hours with this little moron to watch a movie literally made my stomach turn.  Well, two and half factoring in the drive back to his place I’d have to make.  I figured I’d cut my losses, and dip out; I would break the news to him when I pulled up to his house, just shy of shoving him out the door.

We left the bar, and on the road back, he asked me to pull into the McDonalds Drive-Thru.  Really?  God, you’re an idiot.

“Do you want anything?” He asked. 

(Well aren’t you chivalrous.)

“No, I’m good.” I said.

As I pulled up, he looked to me and said, “I’ll get two chicken sandwiches.”

“So order them,” I responded, annoyed.  The last think I was going to do was place this moron’s chicken sandwich order for him. 

As we waited for his sandwich quota to be filled, I told him I was just going to drop him off and go home. 

“I forgot that I had to wake up early tomorrow.”

“What do you have to wake up early for,” He asked.

(Really?!  I hate you.)

“I have to get up early to… donate blood.”

“You... have to donate blood?” he asked.

(No, I’m lying because you are totally stupid, this night is lasting forever, and if I’m going to make it home before falling asleep at the wheel on the trek back, I need to start now.)

“Yes, and it’s really important to me.” I said.

I dropped him and his chicken sandwiches back at home.  Maybe he could spend the rest of the night figuring out if lucky girl #4 actually counted. 

I sped home, talking the X-Rated the whole time who just giggled at everything I said – it was clear I was not getting sympathy from her.  Of course, she was also the one who told me he was probably an idiot the day before.  Again, her wisdom - always so impeccable.

“Do you want tacos?” I asked her.  “Or eggrolls?  Jalapeno poppers?  I’m going to be in your bed with tons of food in about 15 minutes.”  Obviously I was making a pit stop at Jack in the Box. (JITB!!)

As I edged into the hippie ambiance of Bellingham and rolled through my second drive-thru of the night, I felt miles away from the date from hell, and safely out of reach of the Complete Idiot.  At least his parking spot was safe for one more night.

“I want… the entire menu” I spoke into the intercom.  I suppose that was an odd request, because the answer back was:

“Um… I don’t think we serve that anymore.  Number 4?”

I met X-Rated back at home, and we ate tacos and jumbo jacks, and giggled about this loser.  I had the greatest roomie ever, and my night started to turn around in a sea of $.99 taco wrappers.  I immediately logged into MySpace and de-friended the Complete Idiot – Duh. 

In physics lab the next morning, as I was measuring the arc of the ray from a Mag Light, I got a text:

“Did you defriend me?”

(No moron.  I had a great time, and want to see you again.  Maybe this time you will spring for the fish fillet, so I can get my protein up before my morning blood donation.)

I never talked to him again, but he has made countless friends of mine laugh.  Worth it.  What a man. 

My Classy Self

I’m often incredibly classy.  I would say my mannerisms parallel the Queen.  When I shot gun beers, I always ensure I’m outside to avoid spillage. 

When I eat lobster, I always wear a bib and hold my mallet the proper way, clutched in my right hand of course. 

When I sneak booze into a concert, it’s always the classiest of drinks (red wine), with the bladder from the box duct taped around my stomach, under my clothes.

 When I fancy crab legs, I clearly hit up the classiest Chinese buffet with $10.99 in my pocket.

And when I go on first dates, sometimes I get completely shitfaced... in very classy ways.

I decided to pregame this date in one said classy way, with red wine.  After all, the date was at 8pm, and if it was anything like The Leather Jacket, I needed a classy head start.  And what better way than with wine?

Wine after all comes from very classy places.  I often envision myself in such places when I’m drinking wine – Napa, France, Italy, my college dorm room, under a bridge.  And wine has very classy nomenclature - Montrachet, Chateau Lafite, Royal DeMaria, Franzia, Carlo Rossi. 

Wine is also served in very classy containers – decanters, carafes, stemless glassware, crystal, boxes, jugs, coffee mugs.  So you see, this classy evening with my classy self was entirely dependent on a good old-fashioned classy pregame.

I went out with The Crucifix (reason for the name to follow) on Valentine’s Day.  I didn’t realize when I suggested the day.  In fact, he even brought it up, and I forgot again when I suggested that day… again.  Which is so weird, as I always pay so much attention to such holidays chasing after my classy little heart.  Especially when I’m date planning via text during my classiest of activities – drinking red wine.

We met a bar with a live band… I was a little buzzed when I walked in, and decided the classiest thing I could do was order an IPA – because what else says “let’s keep this party of 1 going” like a 9% alcohol content beer.   At least when I knocked over the second IPA at that bar, the glass was empty – a true testament to my sheer classiness – never a wounded soldier.

I don’t know if it was the sheer alcohol consumption, but I was slightly digging The Crucifix that night.  We surprisingly had a lot in common:

1.     We were both raised Catholic

2.     I suspected he had also pregamed this date – CLASSY!

3.     He chose the most classiest of clothing choices: A jewel-toned argyle sweater.  That can only be beat by a knee length leather jacket, and been there/done that.

4.     And we had both been arrested in college.  Now you might say, “Whoa, Vamosa – Arrested? Déclassé!”  But, au contraire, mon amie.  While my 18-yr old self was being bear tackled in the bushes outside my dorm and handcuffed, I could only think one thing: My extreme classiness chose specifically to risk my personal freedom by walking home following a night of keg stands and not driving, where I would endanger other people.  What’s classier than that kind of philanthropy and sacrifice? Rien, I say.  Rien.

We went to a handful of other bars, and at this point in a night of extreme drinking, the classiest thing one can do is switch to vodka, of course.  Before I knew it, my classy self was sucking his face off in that bar.  Just two little Catholics, exchanging spit.  Now that’s classy.

Around midnight, after about 6 vodka sodas (again, claaasssy), I realized I was just a little too shitfaced to stay awake much longer, and god damn it, I wanted pizza.  I stumbled to the corner, and The Crucifix and I said goodbye with plans for another date, and he hailed me a cab.  I fell into it, and like any classy lady would do, began to regale the cab driver about how delicious pizza is, and how I was going to eat pizza all night.  He seemed enchanted, but again, who wouldn’t be?  Classy girls know how to captivate an audience.  

I woke up the next morning with my head at the foot of my bed, my shoes still on, and a frozen pizza out of the box and laying on the floor.  Another testament to my classiness.  Now I know myself, and I didn’t make that pizza because I couldn’t be sure I’d remember to turn the oven off.  My apartment building should thank me.

I went out with The Crucifix a few more times, and it just fizzled.  I’ll admit, I was genuinely weirded out when I saw the Crucifix he had hanging up in his room.  I mean, I’m not that Catholic.  But the real kicker was The Crucifix was looking for a mate to take to church, and I am simply afraid I’ll burst into flames stepping back into St. Whatever some day.  Now that would be déclassé.  This realization hit the last time we saw each other, on Fat Tuesday, and he was a little too excited for Ash Wednesday mass and Lent.  It was time to say goodbye to The Crucifix. 

And after all, I had given up my own Catholicism for Lent, and I really didn’t want to break that commitment.  If Jesus can spend 40 days and 40 nights in a desert without food OR water, the least I could do to mimic this great sacrifice is keep my commitment to eating meat on Fridays and avoiding church.  It’s not very classy to break your commitments.  But that’s just what makes me so utterly… classy. 

The Leather Jacket

Tuesday I went out with... The Leather Jacket.  That is how he will be referred to throughout this blog, and it really was the most interesting and identifiable feature to him.  Now to be fair, I went into this date knowing he had a leather jacket (thank you profile pictures), and not just any leather jacket, but a terrible leather jacket - one that is somehow integral to the structural integrity of of his person.  It was knee length, and complemented his acid washed denim jeans and Converse tennis shoes quite nicely.  I spent the night wondering when the rest of the cast of Saved by the Bell would walk in. 

We met at a wine bar close to my place.  I checked it out online with one of my besties, to be referred to in this blog as Layer Cake (her favorite red wine), over Yahoo IM a few days in advance.  "It's like... a wine bar for old people," she wrote.  "Maybe you can play bridge in the clubhouse after your second flight."  


He told me to wear red - I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that text, and barely refrained from responding, "Fuck off, I'll wear what I want."  I mean really?  Wear red?  How big of a cliche is this guy?    What are we without phones that can send a text and identify a person?  Are we meeting in a large crowd, where I would be otherwise unidentifiable unless I was wearing a specific generically colored top?  And really, red?  What kind of stupid communist adventure does he think he's going on?  I told him I'd be in purple, and would meet him outside.  I figured I'd be safe unless a large number of blond girls would be waiting outside this retirement home for wine drinkers at 7pm, looking for their own Leather Jacket - none of whom would be wearing red (that's our color, after all).  Thank god I checked my knee-length leather jacket and faded denim at home.

I walked into the bar - well, stumbled really.  The lights were dimmed so low I thought I was going to get kidnapped.  There were leather couches and those terrible parlor chairs with big brass buttons around the edges.  It was almost like we were recreating a scene from Clue - the night was bludgeoned, in the old person bar, with the leather jacket.  The heat was turned on so high, it was like going on a date in a cigar humidor.  I could only imagine how Leather Jacket felt, particularly since I knew that jacket - and his affliction toward it - was staying on his person the entire night.  I mean, how do you strip off something that cool, even when you are trapped in a torridly tropical... wine bar hospice?  He led me to a couch in the corner in the back, as the bartender met us.  I had resolved to order whatever he ordered - partially because I couldn't quite see the menu in the heart of such illumination, but mostly I had resolved to give it an hour and jet. 


I quickly noticed that he shaved his chest, as his button-up shirt opened when he sat and he was sans undershirt.  It seemed odd his shirt strained to remain closed against his body, since he described himself "athletic."  Muscle definition must be impervious to a solid leather jacket.  


He ordered a flight of Malbec, and I followed in suit.  I figured I had 3 tiny glasses of wine to choke down before I could leave, and decided to make the best of it.  He started sweating, which honestly surprised me it took that long.  I wanted to start stripping the minute I walked in the place, and I was not in a fantastic jacket direct from the closet of Morpheus. 

We talked a little about what we did for a living, what brought both of us to San Francisco and when - and honestly, it was nice enough conversation that wasn't awkward that would have led to an amicable night.  But then he had to "play a game."  Sigh.  Why, Leather Jacket - why?  When he proposed that question to me, "Do you want to play a game?", I had to bite my tongue from yelling to the bar, "Shot, please." 


He proceeded to to tell me one of his friends told him of this great game to play, and then proposed a scenario: 


Leather Jacket: "You are walking and you find a box - describe the box."
Me: "Okay, it's a cube I guess - see through, with the edges kind of glowing."
(Although, I wanted to say: "it's an impossibly hot coffin in a terrible wine bar, adorned with a faboosh leather jacket.")


Leather Jacket: "Okay, that's interesting." (Um, not really). 
"Now you see a ladder, describe the ladder."
(Oh jesus). 


Me: "Okay, it's bunk bed ladder, kind of short."
Leather Jacket: "Is it leading up to something?"
Me: "Yes.  A bunk bed." (Oh god, please don't think I want to sleep with you because I said "bed.")


Leather Jacket: "Now you see a horse, what's the horse like?"
(A stallion like you, Big Leather.)
Me: "It's a unicorn."  (why not.)


He then proceeded to tell me what my answers indicated about my personality.  Great.  I was living a game of MASH - only I got the apartment, not the Mansion.  Honestly, I wasn't really listening, I was just glad I didn't have to describe a meadow or something.  Then he asked if I agreed with the analysis - "Sure, why not?" I said.  He seemed pleased this game was such a date hit, telling me that his good friend told him about it, and played it on him and he was just... blown away. 

All I could think was, "who is this terrible friend of yours, telling you that women like this?"  In my 25 years on this planet, I never knew my being could be described by a glowing box, a bunk bed ladder and.. a unicorn.  How did I ever come this far without this knowledge??  Where was Big Leather when I was choosing my major, my location, my career??


At this point, the waitress came back to check on another round, and he asked for water.  I guess it would have been inappropriate to order an IV of Pinot.. plus it gave me wiggle room to start my descent from the hellfire room of mediocre wine and terrible games that should never be played past the 6th grade.  I glanced at my watch (hey, I gave it an hour), yawned and told him I had to wake up for an early 6am call the next day.  Then probably embellished the lie a little too far when I described why I scheduled a call for 6am.. It's just one of those things that are universally said on dates when one person clearly wants to leave.  Almost like the, "it's not you, it's me" break up line.  You know you want to bang someone else, but it's just easier (and arguably nicer) to let the other person down, where they can think, "Maybe it really isn't me," or "Maybe it really is all her issues," or "Maybe she really does have a 6am meeting."


He walked me a couple blocks to where our paths diverged, and as he said goodbye, he. went. for. it.  Puckered lips and all, chasing after my glowing unicorn.  He went in for a smoochie boochie, and I pulled a Heisman.  Maybe we were on a communist date, I did have to exercise the duck and cover.  I basically shouted goodbye over my shoulder as I made my way up the hill to my place, practically running in booties and jeggings.  I made it half a block before I called Sangiovese (another bestie, with a penchant for Italy and wine) to lament the details of the hour from hell.  Popped into a corner store, picked up a bottle of Pinot (Noir of course - white wines are so... summer) and a box of mac n cheese, and settled into my bed to laugh it off and schedule the next one.