Can't We All Just Get Along?

We met at a party and he was extraordinarily good looking. So when he asked for my phone number I obviously had no reservations giving it to him. Date #1 was followed by date #2 which inadvertently led to date #3. By date #4 I knew I liked him. A lot. He picked me up and as per usual was quick to compliment the way I looked. He then followed up his initial flattering words with something that unquestionably baffled the hell outta me. "I guess I half expected you to be dressed in basketball shorts...I mean, due to the fact that you're Polynesian. Call it 'Racial Profiling' I'm just used to seeing Tongan girls in basketball shorts." Apparently he missed the memo where I'm only half Poly. Sheesh. I gave him what I can only imagine was a look of sheer bewilderment, but due to my being totally and utterly perplexed, didn't say anything else to him as we headed to his car. 

The dialogue on the way to the restaurant was strained, though I tried to keep an optimistic attitude. The conversation then switched to the whole 'where do you see yourself in five years?' mode, and my date chimed in..."I really think we'd make beautiful babies together. But of course I'd want them to have my skin color." Immediately I inquired why he would say that, to which he replied, "Well I guess because I can visualize it now. I can picture them driving down State Street and having an officer pull them over due to the fact that their skin is brown and just automatically assuming that they're in a gang. Not to mention, statistically speaking of course, that if they ended up being brown, odds are that they'd either end up on welfare or in prison. I'm just saying that it would be easier for them if they were white."

If your date is a racist...UNDATABLE!



Just BEAT It!

Crime scene: Popular Mexican Restaurant; Historic Downtown Provo
Time: 13:00 hours
Weather condition: Eerily chilly
Witnesses: Yours truly
Usual suspect: Disaster # 48


Report: The suspect was described as a white male, 5'9, medium brown hair, blue eyes, approx. 180 lbs. Wearing a tank top and sandals with socks. (Clearly guilty!)


Dinner and conversation turned deadly when he confessed that he had been divorced, or rather "left" by his wife because he abused her.


Judgement: Time served will NOT be with me!

If your date wears a wife beater, or IS a wife beater...UNDATABLE!

The Cat's Meow

He asked me to pick him up, which was okay by me because his car had recently been totaled. Naturally it tugged at my heart strings a little so I had no qualms taking one for the team. Because after all, there is no ‘I’ in TEAM.  However, there is an ‘ME.’ Just something to contemplate…

As I pulled up to his house I remember having the distinct impression how commendable it was that he lived in such an affluent neighborhood…and that his home was remarkably nice. What’s more, he even owned it. I sauntered up his front walkway and instantly collided with an odor so foul, it would be enough to make a grown man cry. (And a Polynesian one at that!) Immediately I started searching for the source of the atrocious stench, starting with my own underarms. But as I was doing so I abruptly remembered it couldn’t possibly be me. Because I don’t sweat, I glisten.

I rang the doorbell and as I waited for my date to answer I was literally compelled to hold my nose due to the aroma that had affixed itself to me much like the Stage 5 Clinger I had just broken up with. Five minutes later there I still stood, extremely light headed and notably dizzy from trying to hold my breath like I was some Olympic Synchronized Gold Medalist or something. At this point I realized I was going to have to let myself in to see what was taking my date so long, or face the embarrassment of having him find me sprawled out on his doorstep, having passed out from the insurmountable stink that hovered over his residence. As I warily opened the door I was met with a scene that due to the graphic nature, could only be described through pictures rather than words:

If your date is scheduled to appear on the next episode of Animal Planet's popular series: Cat Hoarding---Buried Alive...UNDATABLE!

What's In A Name?

I would consider myself a fairly bright girl. I mean, this cranium is definitely more than just a hat rack. So I am well aware of the fact that my name isn't exactly what you'd call 'ordinary.' It's unusual. Different. Atypical. Uncommon. Distinctive. Unique. But to my parents' credit it isn't as though it's your average Polynesian name either. It's not as if my name were: Fa'amamafakainoia...not that there's anything wrong with that.

Fast forward X amount of years and there I sat having dinner with a guy at a fairly posh restaurant, on our third date. As our waitress descended upon our table he glanced up from his menu and inquired, "Do you know what you're gonna order Gina?" My initial reaction was to quip back "DAAAAAANNNNGGGG Gina!" in the most paramount Martin voice I could muster, but quickly retracted that thought because I opted to give him the benefit of the doubt, chalking it up to what was possibly a large amount of wax build up in my ears and reckoning that I had simply heard him wrong.

A little while later our waitress came back to check on us and asked us the conventional questions regarding our meal. And once again I heard my date ask, "Galina, do you need another Diet Coke?" Now, believe me when I tell you that due to the fact that I was in mid bite of my mediocre-at-best-fillet-of-fish, I literally began choking on my own 'lil piece of Nemo. I knew at this point that Mr.Alzheimer VonForgetful was thoroughly unaware of what my name really was. But being as long-suffering as I am, I again made the conscious decision not to say anything to him for a 3-fold reason really...1) He hadn't felt the need to begin our date with a prayer. 2) He was going to pay. 3) He drove.

So there we sat, in what could best be described as an abnormally long, awkward, uncomfortable silence waiting for our dessert to arrive. As it was being delivered my date casually gazed across the heaping mound of gooey, caloric-filled pastry goodness that sat in front of us and said, "Why don't you go ahead and take the first bite, Ghana." I half expected him to categorically believe that if my first name were in fact 'Ghana' then surely he must believe my last name was indeed "Rhea"...

I had reached my breaking point. I began rummaging through my purse, dug out my magnetic name tag that I sport daily at work, and clipped it on my jacket. That way for the rest of the evening, he had it in plain sight for direct reference.

If your date can't remember your name...UNDATABLE!

Speaking Of 'Multiplying & Replenishing'...

12 dates…that’s right, that isn’t an error, or a misprint, we were on our twelfth date...and we had even had the D.T.R. discussion.  And though we had decided not to be exclusive, (due to my inability to be emotionally available) I visualized it heading in that direction.

So there he stood, patiently waiting while I finished getting ready with a look of total, unreserved adoration. *sigh*

As we headed out the door and proceeded to his truck hand-in-hand, I found myself perma-grinning all the way down the walkway. Without warning my date came to a sudden and complete halt. His face held a look of sheer epiphany. Instantaneously I noticed tiny beads of sweat appear on his forehead. His palms became cold and clammy. I could literally see his underarm perspiration start to seep through his ultra fitted, one-size-does-NOT-fit-all Affliction shirt. “Can we take your car?” I heard him stammer. I informed him that I hadn’t had time to get gas after I had left work and proceeded to walk to his truck. He very hesitantly opened my door for me all while continuing to have the look of absolute distress plastered all over his face.  As I crawled into the cab of his truck I glanced over my shoulder and there in the back seat sat not one, not two, but three apparatuses that were manufactured to hold ones offspring. As he sheepishly entered the vehicle I asked him who the car seats belonged to…at which point he awkwardly revealed that he did indeed have three kids.

If your date doesn’t bother mentioning (before date #12!) that he has children…UNDATABLE!

Isn't It About...Time?

In the majority of the “relationships” I’ve been in, I’ve been the giver. While the D.B.'s I've dated have solidified their place as the takers. That’s definitely not me bragging…or being narcissistic…or tooting my own horn; I’m merely stating facts.

I recently found myself dating a guy who appeared to be the total package. College grad, great job, athletic, charming, funny, good looking, six pack, yada, yada, yada.  As his birthday approached I started to contemplate the ever important gift giving ideas, and began mulling them over in my head. I even started making lists on scratch paper so I could be sure to emphasize the pros, abolish the cons, and somehow try to procure the perfect gift. 

I didn’t want to give him your typical “U.C.-girl run-of-the-mill-come-to-my-house-while-I-make-you-dinner-and-allow-you-to-do-the-‘Provo Push’-with-me” kind of gift. I wanted it to have significance. After days of contemplating I settled on the newest limited edition Nixon watch, which despite costing almost a whole months salary, was so ideal, I knew that he had to have it.

His birthday had finally arrived and after surprising him with dinner at his favorite restaurant (complete with The Sweet Tooth Fairy’s red velvet cupcakes...his absolute FAV!) I pulled out the flawlessly wrapped package that represented hours of pondering/lack of sleep/pressure. As he ripped apart the blue and silver wrapping paper I couldn’t help but beam…I was sure I’d found the epitome of what could quite possibly go down in history as the World’s Most Superlative Gift Ever! I was watching him intently, bracing myself for the massive bear hug I was sure to receive, but as he stared at my masterpiece, turning it over and over again in his hands, his affect remained flat. There was about as much emotion on his face as Rain Man. He then looked up at me and said in the most imperturbable voice “I don’t like it, the face of the watch just isn’t big enough. Why don’t you go ahead and return it and when you’re at the store picking out a different one just text me pictures of the ones you’re looking at and I’ll let you know if it’ll work for me.”

If your date asks you to return the watch you purchased for him for his birthday because the “Face isn't big enough!”…UNDATABLE!

Forever-ish

He approached me while I was grocery shopping and was bold enough to ask me for my phone number. "Why not?" I asked myself, after all my B.F.F. and I had decided that at this point in our dating career, it was strictly a number's game...so I decided to bide my time, and agreed to go out with him.

A few weeks later I found myself out with Mr. Grocery Store McCompliment, and he had taken me out 4-wheeling and was even insightful enough to pack us a picnic lunch. All-in-all a really well planned, thought out date. I did however, find it bizarre that anytime I took out my camera to take pictures, he was really quick to ask..."You're not gonna tag me on Facebook, right?"

The day ended and as he was taking me home mentioned what a great time he had had and that although he was headed out of the country for work, he'd love to see me again when he returned. A little while later I finally got around to posting the pictures on Facebook, but as requested did not tag him in any of the photos.  Fast forward a few more days when I again found myself at the grocery store but this time around I ran into a friend from college whom I hadn't seen in years.  Apparently, unbenounced to me, he and I were also in fact 'Facebook Friends.' (How is a girl expected to keep track after she reaches 2,000 + friends?!) After chewing the fat and spending some time catching up on life he mentioned that he had seen the pictures I had posted of my latest outing. He then proceeded to ask me the mother of all questions..."Why wasn't Mr. Married McR.M.'s  E.C. (a.k.a. Eternal Companion/Wife) in any of the pictures?!"

If your date is married...UNDATABLE!