Okay so, this is not a funny ha-ha story, but a funny – oops, why did this happen dating story. It all started when I was going to school, that I met this guy, a classmate.

He never asked me out for a ‘date’ literally, but used to ask if we could ‘hang out’. I took that as a shy guy’s invitation for a date. (what was I thinking?).

We started out as friends, before we went to ‘hang out’. He told me he had a girlfriend, and for some reason, his parents won’t agree if he marries her, because it’s cross-racial. So he hinted that they broke up, but are still good friends with each other, since they’ve known each other for 7 years.

This rang a red flag in me. I was very young then, so I dismissed it off. He’d never say I looked beautiful. He’d say ‘I looked sexy’. It used to make me a bit uncomfortable and good, both at the same time.

Okay, so it was that day when we were supposed to ‘hang out’. He picked me up in his car, and we reached the destination.

There was an Italian restaurant and Chinese restaurant side-by-side, he asked me which one I’d prefer, I said “Italian”. He said … oops, I’d love Chinese. Let’s go to Chinese this time.

I felt a little weird. Why ask me, if he wanted his way out?

Once I was in, I discovered by the prices that it was the cheapest Chinese restaurant in town. Anyway, the food was great and so was his company. We talked like forever. He flirted a lot with me. He had the most beautiful smile, and the most charming eyes I knew. He always kept looking into my eyes, and added to his smile, it was such a deadly combo to resist.

The check arrived. He wouldn’t take it, and he kept talking. So I took the check and paid for both of us.

We finished our lunch and came out. A first date is too soon for me for a kiss. He got my body language that I’m shy, so we hugged like friends do.

We almost talked for 5-6 hours! We were again hungry. I didn’t mention it, and wanted to take off. But he said he’s hungry, and said he’d love it if I had a bite with him. And so he took me to a Drive-Thru Burger King. He turns his engine off, while we wait for our order. I wanted to order chicken burger with Fries and a Drink, he asked, “are you sure you’re that hungry?”  This made me embarrassed, so I said I’d be fine with the burger. It was a $2 order, so he paid this time. (I paid $25 for him in the Chinese restaurant, he eats a lot, it’s very hard to make a $25 bill in that restaurant, ‘coz everything is so cheap).

I noticed he’s very cheap and miserly.The biggest surprise is that, he earns huge! But then, I gave reasons for it, I was too taken away by the attention he gave me, that I almost overlooked this issue, and went out with him a lot of times, only to find out that he is more than friends with his ex! Phew !

I’d never date such a cheapo again, cheap in spending, cheap in character. In a way, I thank him because he taught me a very good lesson in life, in my young years.

So thank you cheap-guy !

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.”

I had the worst date in my life this year, and it only lasted 15 minutes.

Now before I delve into the crap pile that is what I will from now on refer to as the “Boiler Room Incident,” I should maybe explain just how bad this date was in comparison

My previous worst date ever occurred last spring, right when the sun was finally peeking out from the clouds. I had met the guy at the library (Rebecca’s Personal Rules of Dating #1: Never date a customer). He was charming and very good-looking. After several phone conversations, we agreed to go out for dinner later that week.

It was 15 minutes until he was to pick me up and I was looking goooooood. Anyone who knows me knows that the fact that I was ready with time to spare might just qualify me for sainthood (1st miracle. The other two miracles are attached to the front of me). As I impatiently waited for him to arrive, my phone beckoned me with the dulcet and uncomfortably intoxicating sounds of Caleb Followill’s voice as he tells me he could use somebody, and I pick up to listen to a pathetic excuse why my date will be 45 minutes late. He’d been “hanging out with the guys” and lost track of time. Also, his friend was having a bad day and my date decided to bring him along to make sure he didn’t do himself any harm. In light of this, I agreed. I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of being responsible for some guy’s life just because I didn’t want to share the booth at T.G.I. Friday’s.

It turns out that this friend’s ‘bad day’ consisted of losing $5 to Video Poker and getting into a fight with his girlfriend, something that occurred at least once a day. What exactly my date thought might happen to his friend is a mystery to this day. Also, I don’t care.

ANYWAY, they show up in front of my house an hour late, and my date is wearing old, torn jeans (also acidwashed, which almost offends me more than anything else that night) and a dirty white t-shirt. Again, I think I need to remind you, dear reader, exactly how good I was looking. Very.

We get in the car and about a block into our drive, the guys start discussing the merits of The Acropolis. The hopeful and delusional little girl in me still wishes that they meant the timeless piece of classical Greek architecture, instead of the skeevy nudey bar in Milwaukee, famous for its breakfasts. After about 5 minutes of  listening to this and plastering an immensely fake smile on my face when they tried to bring me into the conversation, I felt a sinking fear settle in the pit of my bowels. People lie when they use the phrase “pit of my stomach,” that pit is elsewhere, friend. I looked my date straight in the eye and firmly asked, “We’re not going to the Acropolis, are we?”

He calmly looked me back in the eye with a look of slight shock, “Well, yeah…”

Then he laughed. Douche.

On the way to the restaurant, not strip club, we took the back roads. Along the way, my date’s friend pointed out key landmarks from his life growing up in the area. My favorite was when he jutted his pointed finger in my face and showed us the spot where an old girlfriend crashed her car and died.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “she was wasted.”

…

…

Yeah.

The rest of the evening went downhill from there, both in mood and in interesting moments. But what really made that evening the worst date of my life is that I continued to date the guy off and on for 3 months after.

(If you think this is bad, come back tomorrow for Part 2 – Rebecca’s NEW Worst Date of her Life. It’s good. – S.A.G.)

So I thought that I would share a GREAT story with you all:

So this younger guy/boy that I’ve been dating has been fun and a whole learning experience. But recently we had a AWKWARD encounter to say the least… here goes nothing:

So one night he waited for me to get off work and I picked him up and we went back to my house. No one was home, so when we get home I tell him that I have to shower. He says that he wants to join… fine, great, dandy! We get in the shower and immediately he says, “Ohhhh gosh…I have a boner, that’s awkward.” With a confused look on my face I reply, “no its not” and start kissing him and go for the rub and tug. HA! Its time to make our way to the bedroom and we get out, I say, “let’s go” and he says, “wait… I’m not dry yet.” At this point I’m just confused as to why he’s being so awkward.

We get to the bedroom and start making out and rolling around… (I have my iPod playing in the background) it’s time to get after it and he says, “wait… I need to get a condom” and here I am thinking, FUCK! just grab it, put it on and let’s do it, but NOOOOOOOO he needs to give me a play by play as to wtf he’s doing. So he tells me that he wants me to tell him what to do/how to do it… I say no.. and just grab his hips and try to guide him. Now at this point it wasn’t that bad of sex, but I’m annoyed that I have to hold his “hand” while doing this. NOW’s where it gets good: He starts SINGING to John Mayer playing in the background!!!!!!!!! Not just mouthing the words, but SINGING OUTLOUD! At this point I’m thinking to myself, What the FUCK did I get myself into? Is he really doing this? Moving on…

He can’t cum because of the condom and asks if he can come on my floor??? WTF? I said, “wait… what did you just say?” (I thought he asked to come on my forehead)… he corrects me and says he wants to come on my floor, I say NO. So he wants to rinse off in the shower… whatever, do it. Then BOOM I hear what sounds like thunder coming from the bathroom… He gets back to the room and I ask him what happened if he fell or what? He FELL in the shower, ripped the curtains and busted some of the curtain hooks! Oh geez! He’s embarrassed and I’m annoyed!

The next morning he leaves and I get in the shower to find what looks like a freak’n splooge spot on the back wall of the shower. I instantly think that he came in the shower to finish his business and BOOM PLEASURE SEIZURE!!! Slips and falls! I clean it off and its def the consistency of the boy’s junk.

SO now I have a stage 5 clinger b/c I don’t know how to get rid of him… HUMPH!

Confused and annoyed!

So, I am the notorious single friend in my group (in fact in all of the groups I hang out in) and it is never more apparent then when you get invited to brunch and are the 9th wheel. I’m used to being the 3rd, sometimes I am even okay with the 5th wheel but 9th – well that’s just embarrassing.

In any case, I’m sitting at brunch yesterday, enjoying a nice mimosa (or two – fine probably more like 4) and as I sit there listening to couple’s wedding stories, how we met stories, so on and so forth I start to get excited for this blind date that my friend has set me up on. My somewhat mimosa induced haze gets me to think, well maybe I could date this person. It’s true, I know nothing about him other than we went to the same law school and he is now a practicing lawyer (unlike myself), but I try to keep a sunny disposition.

So as we make our way out of brunch and towards the beer gardens…my thoughts are that it definitely can’t hurt to have a couple more cocktails before I have dinner with someone I barely know…so a couple beers later I meet my blind date at the beer gardens, have a drink and then head to dinner.

It’s so funny to see the kinds of people your friends set you up with, I definitely think there is a correlation between the person your friends set you up with and who they think you are. This guy was VERY VERY nice, but super quiet and not a very fun sense of humor – though I have to admit sitting across the dinner table with a half schnockered girl probably wasn’t the best situation for him.

In any case, I have not lost my faith in my friends and their choice of men for me, but I do have to say that drunk blind dates are pretty fun and I definitely recommend it for any of you who are in my single shoes.

(though thinking about it, this could be why I am still single…oops)