Now that you have a sense of my litmus test for bad dates, I can explain the depth of the suckitude of this most recent disaster in four words:


He brought his wife.



I had met F***stick Magee** at a breakfast cafe in my small town on New Year’s Eve. I am a little superstitious about that day, it’s the day to make things happen, to go for what you want, devil-may-care, and to hell with the consequences. My waiter was cute and incredibly flirty, so I left my phone number on the receipt. He called later that day, and after several conversations and marathon texting, he asked me out for drinks later that week.


I was sitting on a barstool at The Boiler Room, a bar located in the heart of Portland’s Chinatown, in between drag caberets and porn shops. I was sipping on my Glenlivet on the rocks and listening to someone attempt to immortalize Journey at their finest. Just when I thought I might be stood up (which would have been an improvement on the night, at least the bartender was cute), in walks the guy…with another girl.


Trust me, every scenario that is running through your head went through mine in about the 4 minutes it took him to first sing Warren G’s “Regulators” before he came to say hello. I actually can’t fault him on that one, I too like to make an entrance, although mine usually involve less hip-hop and more cleavage. After he finished a good rendition of one of my favorite junior high jams, he made his way over to me with a “Hey Hotness!” and a hug that lasted too long for a public establishment.


“Come over and sit with us!” he says and I am dragged to a table without a chance to ask a few questions.


Questions like:
“Um, us?”
“Did you just bring another girl?”

“You performed that song a little too well. Exactly how often do you karaoke?”


I am introduced to a gorgeous, thin woman as “So-and-so” and she pulls out a chair for me to sit by her. She and I suffer through small talk for a few minutes before my “date” gets up to get drinks for the table.*


After he leaves, I politely ask, “So how do you know F***stick Magee?”


She looks at me as if I have sprouted a Snuggie. “Um, we’re married! He knocked me up!” she laughed. “Yeah, we have two kids. Finally got them to bed too!”


She finishes with a snort and tossing back of the drink her husband had just handed to her. The next few minutes are a blur as I try to process the fact that I have been gloriously lied to and I didn’t see it coming. At some point, So-and-So gets up and suddenly, F***stick Magee is sitting right next to me. He looks at me with faux sheepishness and bleats, “I told you I was trouble.”


“Hmmm, you didn’t tell me you were MARRIED”


He says something stupid and ridiculous, so much so that I don’t even hear it. I am focusing on my drink and looking for the exits. I look straight ahead at the ’stage’, I can’t even look in his general direction.


As some chubby guy with hair reminiscent of a young Kenny G starts up “Band on the Run,” I turn to F***stick and say, “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to finish my drink,” (this may have been a get-out-of-here moment but I still have my priorities), “and then I’m going to leave.”  Without waiting to see his expression, I toss back my scotch, grab my purse and head out the door to Chinatown.


I will admit that I cried a little. Or a lot. I had to take a scorching shower to wash the BLECH off of me and then I downed a bottle of wine. Grabbing the nearest romance novel (Julia Quinn’s “The Viscount Who Loved Me”), I drowned myself in a torrent of anger, disappointment and a general what-the-fuckery. I thought I was jaded and worldly, but stuff like this floors me every time. WHO DOES THIS? Why get married if you don’t even want to be faithful? And what wife is completely okay with her husband picking strange, yet alluringly attractive, women for what I can only assume was going to be a threesome? I have many terrible qualities. I correct people’s grammar, I leave cupboard doors open, I rarely show up on time. But I do not cheat. Fortunately, the romance novel worked. It redeemed the existence of real love in my mind and I fell asleep not hating the world or men in general.


The next morning, my head is pounding, my natural Diana Ross fro is….fro-ing, and I am awoken to the sound of a text. Although I have already purged my phone of any trace of F***stick’s existence, somehow, I know that the text is from him. This is what it says:


“Hay. Srry bout last night, I was a jrk. But at least ima honest jrk. I really want u 2 give me anthr chance if u could just keep a open mind. I promise it would be the best decision u evuh made”


Punctuation, grammar and spelling are all as appeared on my phone. I think it speaks for itself. I did not respond.



Rebecca’s Personal Rules of Dating #15: Always ask if he is married.



*This is an honest-to-God fact: I am really glad I already had my own drink. I wouldn’t trust a drink from this couple.
**Names have been changed to protect the asshats.”

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