3 Dates Worse Than The Worst Dates Ever

A couple of days ago I ran across an article titled something like, “The 10 Worst First Dates Ever,” since I am always up for giggling at the social awkwardness created by the mating ritual I rubbed my hands together and settled in for a good read. Sadly I did not get my giggle, rather I came away feeling quite depressed. You see a number of years ago I was encouraged/cajoled/threatened/harassed into joining Match.com, and all three of the dates that I had from Match were worse than any of the 10 Worst Dates Ever. Apparently you all can crown me Queen of Social Awkwardness.

After big promotion with Government job I moved to a completely unfamiliar area of the state, and to make things a little more entertaining, I was now located in an office where I was the only woman. Yep, me and the 18 firefighters and lumberjacks. I quickly fell into the role of mother hen/psychiatrist. One of my younger, single guys wanted to make an online dating profile, and asked for my help. I had quite a bit of fun helping him set it up, and then helping him pick some of his dates. Eventually he proposed and married one of the women that I picked out. After that success, a couple more guys asked for my matchmaking help. Then, the tables were turned, and these same guys thought I needed to be matched up, too. They were wrong. I would have rather they just bought me a nice bottle of whiskey to say thank you. After much harassment I finally agreed to join Match.

I debated here about whether or not I should discuss some of the feeding-frenzy like attention that I got upon first signing, up, and how I picked who I would go out with, but I think I'll just let the three dates speak for themselves. It's too embarrassing to have to admit to you that I actually chose these men out of a pool of potentials.

Date Number One. Hereafter referred to as Blow Me Guy.

We met at a semi-nice restaurant (think Applebees, but not a chain) and had drinks and shared an appetizer. He was ok, but there were no sparks. We couldn't find any common interests, and his politics and his views on women had me wanting to stab him with a fork. As the date ended I offered to pay my half of the bill, and he refused. I thanked him for the conversation and the nice evening. As we were walking out to our respective cars he had this to say, “Ya know, since I bought you those drinks, you could, at least, blow me in the car.” I replied, “Oh honey, there is just not enough Jack Daniels in Tennessee to make that sound like a good deal.”

Date Number Two. Hereafter referred to as Cross-dresser Guy.

We met at the same restaurant, but this time I stuck to pop, in case he was keeping a mentally tally as to what my sexual services could be bartered for. We were getting along very well, finding quite a bit in common, and laughing a lot. I'm thinking to myself, “this is going pretty well.” And then he asked me if I liked men who wore woman's clothing. I laughed thinking he was still making some kind of joke that I didn't quite understand. He continued, “I love to wear lacy underthings and silk stockings. They feel so nice against my skin.” HOLY... WHAT THE... At this point I was unable to string words together to form a coherent sentence, so I just sat there with my mouth opening and closing like some kind of demented guppy. He took this to mean I was interested, and asked if I was getting turned on thinking about it. Um.... HELL NO!

Now, I want to state here that I have no problem with what anyone does in their own bedroom. As long as it's between two consenting adults, I don't care if you wrap yourself in saran wrap, make yourself a peanut butter bikini, and swing from the chandelier with a vacuum cleaner attached to your genitals, I don't want to hear about it, and I especially don't want to participate. Remember, I was raised pretty conservative, and those Lutheran sensibilities tend to still be pretty strong.

I tried to explain this, but I'm not sure I did a very good job, seeing as I was still in shock, and all, but I did say, that while I appreciated his openness, I was uncomfortable with this particular fetish, but I hoped that he found someone who was a better match for him. He said, “You don't really mean that.” And he unbuttoned his shirt to show me his pretty silk camisole. I really meant it. I put a $20 on the table and left. The next day he sent me an email, saying that he hoped I would reconsider because he had such a nice time with me the night before. And, he sent pictures of himself in lingerie to show what I was missing out on. It was then I realized that even if I could get over the cross-dresser thing, I could still never date a guy who looked better in a garter and stockings than I did.

Date Number Three. Hereafter referred to as Disaster Guy.

Date number three took a while to make happen, and not just because I was a little apprehensive after dates one and two. We were crazy busy at work. It was mid-December, and it was one of those years where the temperature goes below zero with alarming regularity, but there was no snow on the ground yet. We met at the same restaurant, got to talking and about 10 minutes into the date, before our appetizer was even brought out, I got paged to work. Date number 2 was attempted. Same thing, only this time I had taken a bite out of the stuffed mushrooms before my pager started squawking at me. After that we talked several times on the phone, usually as I was driving to and from work, and I started to think, “Hey, it looks like number 3 is going to be the charm!” We really seemed to click. I made sure that I had someone to cover for me, and we made plans to attempt the date again. We got to the restaurant at the same time, only to find that it was closed for a private party. Since we had talked a good bit by this time, and I decided that even if he was a creepy perv, I could probably take him, I asked if he would like to come to my house and watch a movie. I gave him directions to my house, and he said he would stop and pick up a movie, and be a few minutes behind me.

Since it was Christmas, when I got home, I turned on the tree lights, lit a couple of candles and got out a nice bottle of red wine. He got there a few minutes later, and after letting him in, he took off his coat, and tossed it on the end of the couch. At least I think that's what he meant to do. What he actually did was toss it onto the end table at the end of the couch and onto the candle that I had lit a few minutes earlier. He grabs the coat and starts waving it around, thinking that he's going to put out the now smoldering coat. What he succeeded in doing was to spread burning feathers all over the living room. After stomping out the last hot spot on my rug, and turning on the ceiling fan to try to dissipate the singed feather odor that permeated everything, I poured the wine and we settled down to watch the movie. He took a couple sips, and somehow dumped the rest of it on my couch. Well, at least all of the feathers had been put out, so that the alcohol didn't make them flare-up! He was mortified! I was trying to be a good sport, saying things like accidents happen, and now we have a funny first date story. Lets just relax and watch the movie.

At some point he put his arm around my shoulders and started massaging my neck. Then all of a sudden he's tugging on my necklace and pulling my hair. What the hell? “I've got my sweater caught on the clasp of your necklace,” he explained continuing to tug on it, and strangling me in the process. I should mention here, that the necklace I was wearing was one of my mothers, that she had been wearing when she died, the year previous. The necklace meant a lot to me. I was trying to tell him to just wait, and I would undue it, but he continued to pull on it, and finally broke it. To my credit, I did not hit him. I didn't even burst into tears (that comes in a few minutes). He was so upset and embarrassed, that he wanted to leave, and at this point I didn't do much to stop him.

My entryway had a half wall, about a foot wide, and on it, I had a small wrought iron ornament tree, on which I had displayed all of my antique Christmas ornaments. These were the ornaments that my great-grandparents had on their tree, and ones my mother got as a baby. Very old and very sentimental. When he went to put on the still lightly smoking coat, he somehow managed to snag the arm of the coat on the ornament tree, flinging it to the floor, shattering 18 of the 20 ornaments that were on the tree. That's when I burst into tears. You can tell, he's torn. Obviously good manners dictate that he needs to offer to help clean up the mess, but all he wants to do is make his escape at this point. I make it easy for him, as he is starring at the tiny shards of glass in abject horror, I say, “It's ok, you should probably just go now. I'll take care of it.”

I had a brick townhouse, with the driveway tight against the side of the house, and butted up to the neighbors driveway. I heard him get into his truck and start it up, as I was picking pieces of glass out of the carpet. The next sound I heard was a horrible screeching, wrenching sound. Think nails on a blackboard times a million. Think truck scraping down the side of my house. Think truck ripping the gas meter off the side of the house. In his haste to get away from me, and end the night of horrors, he got too close to the side of the house, mangled the side of his truck, and somehow hooked the gas meter with the wheel well of his truck. Instead of stopping when he first hit the house, he gunned it and ripped the gas meter off the side of the house!

Called the emergency number for the gas company who responded right away, but because of how completely he ripped it off, they weren't able to fix it immediately, so they had to call the police and evacuate a six square-block area around my house. Then because the turn-off valve was laying in the middle of the driveway, instead of being attached to the gas line, they had to shut off gas to the entire neighborhood for 12 hours to get it fixed. In December, at 11:00 PM, in Northern Wisconsin, where the temperature was -15°F, without the windchill factored in.

So to the author of, “10 Worst First Dates Ever,” I say, I am sorry that your date texted his mom during your date. I am sorry that your date smelled like moldy cheese. I am very sorry that your date fed you something that you were allergic to, and you had to go to the ER and get a shot. BUT, until your date is wearing your underwear, asking you to prostitute yourself for a $10 bar tab, and tries to blow up your house, SHUT THE FUCK UP!