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.