"Pampered" With "Luv"

My laptop had contracted a virus...seemingly different from the chlamydia virus that the last guy I dated had contracted from his ex-girlfriend while we were together, I suppose...but a virus nonetheless. I found myself extremely aggravated with the situation but was choosing to remain calm, cool and collected while I went into problem-solving mode. As I scrolled through the 2,439 contacts in my phone I came across the number of a guy who I had worked with earlier in the month because he had come in to fix some computer issues that we were having at my office...I resolved to giving him a call.

After introducing myself and explaining to him who I was and how we had met, he stopped me mid-sentence and between his awkward stumbling-over-of-words and all of the hemming and hawing, I deciphered that he was trying to tell me that he did remember me and that he'd be happy to help, but that there was a catch to his offer; I had to agree to go on a date with him.

Now as I was faced with this vast, moral dilemma I couldn't help but feel a little like a member of Lindsay Lohan's entourage. All of whom were well aware of the fact that the person they viewed as a plausible red-headed, 4th member of the Godhead had just stolen a $25,000 necklace and what were they to do about it? Turn her in and watch their cocaine habits "blow" away with her as she headed to the slammer? Or provide her an alibi so that she'd get away scot-free and continue to enable her crazy, inept, narcissistic ways?

So it was with me. Quid pro quo. Do I agree to go on a date with this guy who was so forgettable I wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a police line-up...even if he had gone all O.J. on my a$&? And in addition be forced to suffer through another evening of agony, distress, impalement and torture in the off chance that he'd be able to get my computer up and running? Or should I head down to the local Best Buy, drop another $1,200 for a top of the line laptop that might only end up lasting me a year, and before heading out the door having an employee stop me and tell me that I first needed to bend over, grab my ankles and spell R-U-N? I decided to go with Plan A.

Plan A had stipulations all its own. I agreed to his terms but in return I informed him of the criteria that had to be met:

1)  It was to be a lunch date.
2)  I would meet him at a restaurant of my choosing.
3)  It had to be on a week day. (Ultimately so that I could use the excuse that I had to get back to work, just in case this date was like every other date I'd been on that week: Tragic.)

Surprisingly enough, Mr. ComputerGeek McAntiSocial agreed to my contracted regime and the date was set. I arrived a little late but to my credit, at least I arrived. And there he sat, so nervous and panicky I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. I tried my best to eliminate his uneasiness, mostly because the sweat stains under his arms were penetrating through his sweater vest and little, diminutive beads of perspiration had congregated along his forehead and were now trickling down his cheeks. Bless his sweet heart! I spent the greater part of lunch asking him questions about himself only to find out that he had 16 brothers and sisters. (Not surprising.) He was home schooled. (No duh!) And he was not into physical sports. Of any kind. (You don’t say.) The conversation then veered toward his career and life goals. He talked passionately about computer software and the joy he found being able to work from home, remotely, because modern day technology had become so advanced…yada, yada, yada…I’d be lying if I said I knew what the remainder of the conversation entailed. But my focus quickly shifted when I found myself listening to him start talking about his latest obsession. Something he kept referring to as W.O.W.---I was instantly intrigued but utterly perplexed by this topic of conversation that seemed to consume every inch of Mr. Nerdy VonBowTie’s sub par existence. As he further expounded on the fixation otherwise know as W.O.W. I began sneakily Google-ing under the table so that I would appear to be somewhat knowledgeable about the only thing that was saving me from this lunch date.
World Of Warcraft. Really?

I couldn’t help but notice the colossal sized grin that appeared on his face as he began telling me about the upcoming 48-hour W.O.W. tournament that he had just entered. He then ensued that due to the intensity of this imminent competition, the most paramount idea possible would be for him to purchase a package of adult diapers and wear them for the entire 48 hour duration, so that he could remain as intently focused as feasibly possible, so that he wouldn’t have to “let the game down” due to his intrinsic, minuscule, innate need to use the restroom.

 If your date thinks that wearing an adult diaper while he plays W.O.W. for 48 consecutive hours, is socially acceptable...

UNDATABLE!

It's A Hard Knock Life

It was a blind date, which ultimately meant that I knew going into it that it could better be defined as a disaster waiting to happen. Much like Britney’s shaved head. Or Anna Nicole’s marriage to J. Howard Marshall. Or even Charlie Sheen’s Vegas rendezvous with a high class stripper. Or especially the entire cast of The Real Housewives Of Atlanta...I was already priming myself.

In the days leading up to my latest dating escapade, all of the conversations that took place between Mr. McSetUp and I were through text. And even though some of the things he said came across as exceedingly ghetto, (i.e. "Yo wassup my nigga?" or "B @ uz crib @ 11 on da fly." Or my personal favorite "Homz, I needz a pad to crash @ tonitz. Can it b wif uz?") I figured it was due to him being such a big deal that he lacked the time to spell out everything he really wanted to say and consequently needed to abbreviate all of his texts. (And by "abbreviate" I of course mean "because he was indubitably on his way to Compton!")

Dooms Day arrived and I had somehow been finagled into spending an entire day with him. The doorbell rang at 11 am and I unhurriedly sauntered to answer it. There in front of me stood Marshall “Eminem” Mathers himself...literally the whitest white guy I've ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. Yet he was dressed in a pair of South Pole black jeans that he was riding so low he gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "cracking down on crime." His neck was layered with so many gold chains you would've thought that he had recently robbed the local Mr. T jewelry store. His head was covered with a red bandanna topped off by a do-rag and over his punch stained wife beater he wore a studded black leather jacket. While Sir Homeboy VonIdentityCrisis was introducing himself I realized that he was wearing a loose fitting gold grill over his top teeth. As I continued to survey the hot mess that stood in front of me I noticed that in addition to all of the ghetto fabulous-ness in the aforementioned paragraph, that he also wore a set of brass knuckles on his left hand---and all of this from a guy who was born and raised in historic downtown Provo Utah.

Now, I've been fortunate enough to be raised by parents who have taught me the importance of being polite in any situation you find yourself in, so I couldn't help but think how disappointed my mom would be in this very moment when, after completing the head-to-toe scan of the caucasian version of Flava Flav, without uttering a single solitary word I slowly closed my front door, locked the dead bolt and walked back up to my room.

If your date is unaware of what race he is...UNDATABLE!

There Is No "I" In Threesome...

We had been dating pretty seriously for a few months and despite some obvious red flags (i.e. being a blue collar worker) I was holding out that this guy could indeed be my very own Prince Charming. The Jack to my Jill. The Diet to my Coke. The Chocolate to my Cake. The Las to my Vegas. I was choosing to remain optimistic, going with the whole “glass-half-full” outlook. (Life lesson learned…CHECK!)

One evening we were lounging around having some comical conversations about our past dating experiences and the crazy, funny things that had taken place in our dating careers. At which point Mr. Shady McSexual disclosed that he had recently participated in a threesome…with another guy and a girl. And that he had found it to be "cool!" Without skipping a beat, I was quick to inform him that what he had experienced wasn’t a threesome at all---that it was, by all intents and purposes, a homosexual experience.

If your date regards having a threesome as “Cool!”… UNDATABLE!

High. My Name Is...

He was my dad, the one guy in my life that had never let me down…so there’s no way he'd do anything to lead me astray…which is the only reason I agreed to the blind date/set up that he was absolutely giddy about.  I was reluctant to say the least but decided to put my hesitation aside, do as my therapist instructed and simply “go with it."
I asked my dad to give me the credentials of Mr. Perfect and he was happy to oblige. He had already assembled his...

Top 5 Reasons To Date Brother E.C.

1) Spiritual. Current E.Q.P. in his family ward. (Yawn)

2) Educated. Applying to Medical School. (Impressive)

3) Funny. Laughed at all my dad’s jokes. (Kiss-ass)

4) Handsome. Stake’s most eligible bachelor. (Boring)

5) Good Family. His mom wasn’t bi-polar. (Vital)

Mr. Future-Favorite-Son-In-Law showed up --with flowers no less-- so far so good. I invited him in where we sat down and started the getting-to-know-you process. He was all the things my dad had ranted and raved about…yet so much more. There was no awkwardness or uncomfortable silence, though he kept saying over and over and over again how nervous he was. Despite his eyes being a little crimson colored and appearing a little fidgety, the entire evening felt seamless. He was quick to laugh at just about everything I said, which I didn’t find to be abnormal…I may or may not be the funniest person I know. As we headed out the door he mentioned that he was a little hungry. So in spite of the fact that we were going to dinner, I offered him something to eat and the next thing I knew he was sitting at my kitchen table looking nothing short of famished. I went to my cupboards and pulled out a box of granola bars. He downed them all in 9.5 seconds flat. I got him some chips and salsa. He diminished them. Gallon of ice-cream. Depleted. Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Devoured. At this point I was fairly astounded that I had finally met a guy who could go head-to-head with my brother’s in an eating contest.

At long last his appetite appeared to be satisfied which meant that hopefully, mine was about to be.  He opened my car door and as I climbed in there was an odor that filled my nostrils; one that I knew was familiar but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. A mixture between the stench of a skunk and a pungent, burning herb garden. And then I saw it, a spectacle that made my eyes almost bug out of my head. There on the floor mat next to my feet sat a Ziploc baggie filled with a brilliant hue of emerald green leaves. Something that I believe Snoop Dogg, Willie Nelson or Paris Hilton would refer to as: Pot. Weed. Marijuana. Dope. Grass. Mary Jane. Ganja. T.H.C. Cannabis. Skunk. Hash.

If your date shows up high…UNDATABLE!

There's No Place Like Home...

I was on an errand for work when I walked into this particular pharmacy and instantaneously noticed an ultra cute guy out of my peripheral vision. I grabbed the items I needed and decided to pick up a Diet Coke while I was there…mostly because I consider D.C. to be the Nectar of the God’s and I felt like I needed a sense of rejuvenation. I walked over to the cooler section and noticed that Mr. Hottie Pants McGee was there too. He appeared to be a little dirty but I figured that was because he was a blue-collar worker...not that I was judging him for it, I leave the judgemental part to Jesus. And the Mormon's.


Before I had a chance to whip out my charming, charismatic,
Ge-isim's he walked over to me and started what ended up being a pretty amusing conversation that concluded with him asking for my phone number. I was reluctant to give it to him for a couple of reasons…1) I had just gotten out of a serious relationship and the thought of dating again made me wanna vomit. Literally. 2) Three words: My. Dating. History. (Please see previous posts.) But alas, I handed over my business card and with the look of sheer elation, said he’d be in touch.

Later that evening my phone rang (and when I say 'rang' I of course mean vibrated) the caller ID showed that it was a local number so I answered figuring it was something to do with work. False…it was Mr. Walgreen’s himself asking me on a date. I once again fought my inner instinct and reluctantly agreed. We settled on a day and time but after hanging up I suddenly remembered that I already had plans for the night in question. I quickly called him back but the dial tone merely rang. And rang. And rang some more. Just as I was about to hang up I heard a female’s voice say “Hello?” I was taken aback but proceeded to ask for Mr. D.B. when I was met with “I’m not sure who you’re looking for, but you are aware that this is a payphone, right?” Without any ado there were a few things that started running through my head. A) The 80’s called and they’d like their form of communication back. B) Payphones still exist?! C) Let me reiterate, payphones still exist?!

Due to the fact that I was unable to reach Sir Sketchy VonPayPhone I went ahead and changed my previous plans with the guy that happened to be from the twenty-first century and did have a cell phone, so that way I didn’t have to stand up Date #2. He arrived promptly at 6:45, as planned. When I answered the door he quickly asked if he could use the restroom. Twenty-five minutes later he exited and announced he was ready to go. I found this strangely uncomfortable and as we headed out the door I glanced into the bathroom and saw several of my crisp, white washcloths on the ground and they were covered with what I could only assume was dirt. I decided at that point that ignorance was bliss and opted not to confront the situation.

He had arranged a picnic at the park which I thought was adorable. When we finished eating the PB&J’s he had packed he asked if I’d like to take a sunset stroll. I consented and we started the whole ‘get-to-know-you’ questions that are pertinent for any first date. I asked him where he lived and he diffidently pointed to the parking lot where his truck sat. I was perplexed by this vague motion so I inquired further of him. He then enlightened me that he was "currently in-between homes"and that he did indeed reside in the bed of his truck, under his pristine camper shell.

Fast forward 23.7 minutes...he had finally dropped me off and I found myself breathing a sigh of relief as I shut the front door behind me. I then remembered the whole '25-minutes-in-the-bathroom scenerio'. I discovered, much to my chagrin, that Homeboy McLivesInATruck had felt the urgency to be somewhat presentable for our date...which led him to take a sponge bath, with my hand towels!

If your date is homeless…UNDATABLE!

You're Late! You're Late! For A Very Important Date!

If your date is 2.5 hours late picking you up...
UNDATABLE!

 

If that same date shows up to your office the next day with these in hand...

TOTALLY DATEABLE!

Thanks B! You're forgiven! :)

Of Sushi & Men...

I may not know how to pick men…but food, now that I know. So when he invited me out to dinner and insisted that I pick the location, you better believe that I singled out a local all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant that could best be described with the adjective “orgasmic’. I could hear the hesitation in his voice as I made the suggestion but didn’t think much else about it after he was quick to reassure me that he did indeed like sushi…although had only recently been introduced to this delectable, borderline-still-living, delicious, mouth-watering, array of tasty goodness!

He picked me up at a quarter past seven, so despite the fact that he was 15 minutes late and apparently running on P.S.T. (Polynesian Standard Time) I opted to remain optimistic about the date’s outcome. Mostly because he was H-O-T! I’m talking Brad Pitt circa 'Legends of the Fall', APEX Alarm Summer Salesman…hot.

Dinner went well. Ordinarily I would’ve allowed him to do all of the ordering, just so that he could feel like “The Man!” in the relationship, but in this case because Mr. Picky McEatsBlandFood didn’t have a lot of experience in ordering sushi I went ahead and took the lead by instructing our waiter which rolls I thought would be most apt to getting him hooked…no pun intended. Despite being virtually a ‘sushi virgin’ he was a fairly good sport about sampling everything our waiter brought out and the playful banter between us was fun and flirty, which was clearly an added bonus. The check came and he paid which made it palpable that this date far exceeded any other date I had been on in a long while. As we headed for the exit my date suddenly excused himself muttering something about having to use the restroom. I patiently awaited his return, schmoozing with the manager to bide my time.

He looked a little pale as we walked to his truck, but I just chalked it up to him not being from Polynesian descent.

We were almost to the movie theater when my date turned to me with an expression that I couldn’t quite articulate. Was it one of fear? Anxiety? Panic? Horror? “This isn’t going to be good!” he exclaimed. And then he let out what was best described by Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character in the movie ‘Along Came Polly’ when he used the epic word…

Sharted; (shärt) Vulgar Slang

intr.v. shart·ed, shart·ing, sharts

To try and expel intestinal gas, although sh!+ comes out instead.

If your date craps his pants…UNDATABLE