The Date from Hell Chronicles, Volume 3: Standing Up for Yourself or Needing to Grow Balls?

Some of you may remember that 2 of my sporadic posts on this blog involved evenings out with a woman known as the crazy waitress.  Well, thankfully this woman is safely out of my life, and I’m once again welcome to frequent the bar at which I met her (to be fair, I was never banished).  That doesn’t mean that my entertaining stories of dates with women have ended.

Since the crazy waitress period ended I’ve actually seen a couple of women for extended periods, but none of them were destined to work.  I keep trying, although stories like you’re about to read leave me wondering if perhaps skipping the whole dating thing and embracing hookers may be the way to go.  I don’t think it is, but it does leave me curious.

Months back, I found myself conversing with a cute woman on Match we’ll call Messi (obviously not her real name, but she’s a big soccer fan, so we’ll go with it).  After a couple of messages back and forth, she disappeared.  This is always frustrating, but not incredibly unusual.  I was disappointed, but I moved on.  About a month ago, however, she reappeared, sending me a message indicating that she’d been traveling and working and asking if I was still interested in chatting.  Sure, I said, but I decided to speed things along and sent her my phone number.  A few days later she texted me (informing me that she was nursing a hangover, which should’ve been a sign) and the following Sunday we were meeting for afternoon drinks.

Date 1: Day Drinking, an Indignant Bartender and a Stolen Watch

Date one was a Sunday afternoon that extended into Sunday evening that extended into Monday morning.  Sadly, this is not as exciting as one would assume from that lead in.  We met Sunday afternoon at a spot in Royal Oak.  She showed up about 45 minutes late because she was Skyping with her family in Finland.  The conversation was good, a lot of common ground, she had a job that she was interested in and she loved to talk about, which is great, because my job is a freaking bore.

As it turned out, she loved talking about that job because she was a narcissist who loved to tell people how important she was saving lives as a doctor.  Oh cool, a doctor I thought.  Not so much.

After a minor slip up where I accidentally spilled beer on her dress and she looked at me like I’d just kicked her dog, I paid the $72 tab (the money will become relevant later in this tale, so my continuing efforts to tell you how much I was spending is not just an attempt to show people how cheap I am not), and we proceeded to another location on Main Street for dinner.  It was at this dinner (approximate cost: $50 including tip) where she looked at her calendar, saw that she didn’t have to work at 7 am and instead had to work at 3 pm and exclaimed, “Cool, let’s get drunk!”  Um, ok.  Get drunk we did.

We walked into our third bar where the bartender took one look at Messi and said, “Let’s not puke all over the place like you did before, ok?”  Messi got indignant that this had never happened, so we finished a drink, picked up a guy drinking at the bar named Terrell and proceeded to go spend our evening doing shots at another bar.  Approximate cost: $15.

We walked into the fourth and mercifully final bar at around midnight.  It was empty.  For whatever reason they were staying in, so we hunkered down for shots.  I’m not sure how many we had, and I’m not sure how much we paid, but at some point Messi looks at me and says, “I’ve got Terrell’s watch.”  Uh, why do you have Terrell’s watch?  “I like it, I’m going to take it.”  No, you’re not, give it back to the guy.  Needless to say, Terrell, who was a pretty cool guy, was now pissed, and I had to pay for his shots to cover Messi’s “indiscretion”.  I’m not sure how much I spent, but let’s estimate $75.

We get back to our cars and Messi’s, well, a mess.  She can’t drive.  She doesn’t want to call a cab.  So I, being the chivalrous idiot I am, say, “I’ll drive you back to your house and figure out a way to get back to my car.”  Which I did.  I got back to her house, and she breaks into a crying fit.  It turns out the father of a close friend of hers was dying and she was choosing now to have a breakdown.  Because I’m an idiot, I stuck around trying to console her, walked to a local 7-11 to charge my phone (don’t even ask about that), called a cab ($20), got back to my car and got home.

When I got home and got my phone plugged in, Messi was calling me.  She couldn’t find her keys.  And because I was driving her car, clearly I had her keys.  I didn’t, she found them the next morning, and all was right with the world.

So at this point, I’m $232 poorer, but I should at least have the common sense to cut my losses, right?  Well if you think that’s the case then you’ve never read this blog or met me at all.

Date 2: Jay Z is a Gorilla

The following Tuesday, Jay Z was in town to play Ford Field with Justin Timberlake.  Unfortunately, all of my friends are either coupled up and didn’t want to go without their significant others, didn’t like concerts, or weren’t the target audience for a Timberlake/Jay Z show.  So at some point during our Sunday date, I suggested she come to the concert with me.  She was in.

It was during this date that I came to find out some of her eccentricities.  She wasn’t particularly a fan of either Justin Timberlake or Jay Z, and in fact had no respect for Timberlake as an artist because he’d been in ‘NSync and therefore didn’t write his own songs.  I’m not a confrontationalist, so I let it go.  My buddy Jeff, who we were meeting for dinner, had no such reservations.

It should’ve been a sign when we met for dinner and the women went to the restroom and I told Jeff, “She’s kind of a douchebag.”  He chalked it up to her being a doctor and let it go.  During the $110 dinner prior to the $120 concert (and let’s not forget $30 for parking), Jeff and Messi had a few back and forths about her thoughts on Timberlake’s talent, but generally speaking it was a decent dinner.

We get to the concert, buy beer, and get to our seats.  It’s a phenomenal show, Messi’s showing me some affection, things are going well.  Well, except for an exchange early on during the show.  When Jay Z was on the huge screen, she looks at me and says, “He’s so cute, he looks like a big gorilla!”

I look around and lose count of the black people around me and thank God that a concert is not a place to hold a conversation, and scream, “Um, what?”

“Yeah, he looks like a big gorilla!”

Did I point out that she grew up in Georgia?  You can take the girl out of the South but you can’t take the South out of the girl.  I should’ve known this considering how much time she spent extolling the virtues of the SEC, but as we’ve said before, I’m an idiot.

Later in the show, Messi noticed my friends weren’t dancing.  To me this didn’t look unusual, although I could see how it would to others.  So Messi reached across the four of us and tried to get everyone in a group hug and dance.  My friends gave me a weird look, I shrugged it off and gave them the universal symbol for, “She’s drunk.”  Of course, my luck being what it is, she loses her shit, tells me I was rude (this would become a running theme) and her affection wore off.

On the way back to the car, she got into a “conversation” with my friend about the virtues of soccer (she had been born in Finland and traveled the world before settling in Georgia).  It wasn’t the tamest of conversations.  Again, I should’ve cut my losses and realized that her personality was probably a bit abrasive, but, well, see my above musings about being an idiot.  Instead we went to the bar and closed it out with a $50 tab.  It was a Tuesday night, but thankfully I was quitting my job that Friday.  What’re they gonna do, fire me?

On the way home from this date, she starts asking me if I would relocate, if I wanted to get married, if I wanted kids (remember, this was our second date), I told her my position on kids (specifically, that I had no idea if I wanted them but I would know when I met the girl I wind up with), and she responded disdainfully with, “It doesn’t sound like you want kids.”  I have no idea, but considering it’s our second date, I haven’t got a clue.  The lesson, as always: lie.

Final tally of the Justin Timberlake/Jay Z show: $482.50 (although to be fair, $120 of that was my own ticket).  Let’s call it $360.

(By the way, Justin Timberlake is fucking awesome.  Go see him if you have the opportunity.)

Date 3: The Head Slapper

I call this date the head slapper for two reasons.  One: because by now I should’ve had the common sense not to go out with this girl anymore, and two, we went to a Lions preseason game, and anyone who goes to an NFL preseason game deserves to get smacked in the head.

During dinner prior to the concert, Messi had mentioned that she was looking to go to the Lions preseason game that Friday.  Jeff mentioned that he had tickets that he wasn’t going to use and offered them to Messi.  It’s worth pointing out that Messi was looking to go with friends, not necessarily to go with me.  Friday comes along, my going away party ends early, she can’t find anyone to go to the game with, so she’s going with me.

To be fair, this was a rather uneventful date.  She was cranky, we were both coming from work, and after the game she left.  I wasn’t about to deal with Friday night Lions game traffic, so I went and drank alone at my favorite spot in Detroit.  Between the drinks before and at the game, I think it wound up being about a $70 night.

Date 4: Seriously, You’re Still Going Out with This Girl?!?

This night was actually a fun little date.  I picked her up for a Friday Tigers game, we went down to grab some drinks and food, then we met a friend of hers at the game.  She declares she wants a beer inside the park, I say, “Sure, you can buy me a beer,” and she proclaims that would mean she’d have to get cash.   This is not a problem for me, but apparently it is with her.  We went for a drink after the game, she complained about the U.S. running the world and when I tried to agree with her she lectured me for interrupting her.  I took her home because she was tired, I tried to get a kiss out of her, she responded with a little peck.  Not good times.

Approximate cost of date: $100

Date 5: Nope, I Really Hate This Girl

On the following Wednesday Messi texted me to see if I wanted to meet her for food/drinks.  I picked her up, we went to a bar in downtown Ferndale.  We did some people watching, she talked about the greatness of Georgia football and the South in general and complained about Detroit.  I love people like that, don’t you?  But the kicker came late in the evening when she looked at a TV showing a scoreless Tigers game and said, “What’s exciting about this?  No one has scored.”  I explained to her that we were watching a pitcher’s duel and you didn’t need scoring for a game to be exciting.  She explained to me that it was boring and that if she was watching a soccer game she’d see all sorts of action taking place.  I don’t know why, but this was the final straw.  I literally wanted to leave her there.  The $47 bill was paid, she hadn’t made an effort to reach for the tab, and now she was insulting the sport I love and trying to explain that soccer was superior.  I was done.  We left, I didn’t say a word on the short ride back to her house, I dropped her off, and then went to get hammered at another bar.  At that bar I sent my brother a message saying, “Halfway through this date I realize I hated this girl.”  I wasn’t lying, I was pissed.

Interlude

People who know me know I’m cheap.  They also know that I grasp onto things with women far longer than I ever should, just on the hopes that I can get laid.  This is exhibit A on why you should never do this.

After Date 5, I deleted Messi’s number from my phone and got rid of the text chain.  I had no way to get a hold of her.  I had no desire to see her again.  But as was the case with the crazy waitress, if a woman I’m interested in reaches out to me, my self- esteem doesn’t allow me to just let it go.  So when Messi texted me asking me to hang out again the following Thursday, like an idiot, I went.

It is worth pointing out that at this point in our “relationship” I had spent over $800 on 5 dates.  We hadn’t made out, we hadn’t slept together, she cried numerous times because of her friend’s father (somewhat understandable, he passed away before our final “date”), and she loved telling me that the South was awesome, Detroit was a hole, and America didn’t know what they were doing in world politics.

I’ve long said that I didn’t understand why “hate” was such a strong word, and I use it quite freely.  But I truly believe that if I used the word “hate” only in the context in which it was intended, I would still say I hated Messi.

Date 6: The End

Messi asked if I wanted to meet up in Ferndale for drinks.  I agreed, because I hate myself.  As I parked and walked toward the bar, I seriously contemplated turning back.  I really didn’t want to be there.  I probably should’ve done that.  But I didn’t, because I’m an idiot.

We had some interesting conversation, but in reality there was nothing there.  After we had eaten, I made a joke that she found offensive.  The comment I made was in response to her being able to withhold the need to go to the bathroom when she’s working in the emergency room because the adrenaline takes over.

“Yeah,” I said.  “Or you could just go and blame it on the junkie you’re working on.”  She doesn’t work in the nicest area of Detroit.

This was apparently very offensive to her.  The girl swears more than me and constantly rips on my town but my saying she could pee herself and blame it on one of her OD patients was offensive.  So when she got up to go to the bathroom, I did a pretty classless thing.

I left.

Walked out of the bar, went to another bar, had another drink and went home.  She texted me asking where I’d gone, I told her I was tired of being told I was rude and offensive and that my town sucked and that I just didn’t care enough to tell her to her face.  And her response is the reason I’ve been telling you how much I’d spent on our various dates.

First, she informed me that she’d figured it wasn’t going to work out for a while now.  So either this was a line intended for her to save face, or she had known things weren’t going to work out and she was asking me to hang out because she wanted someone to pay.  Judging from my interactions with her, I suspect it’s the latter.

Second and more tellingly, she told me that she knew the bartenders at the bar we were hanging out at and that she hadn’t bothered to pay my part of the tab.  I’d paid $800 on our dates, and for spite she couldn’t be bothered to pick up the $30 I had stuck her with.  The next time I go into that bar to settle up, my explanation of what happened will include the word “cunt” used quite freely.

The Lesson

I’d like to believe that every time I go out with someone and it doesn’t work out there’s some grand lesson to learn, something that will lead me toward the woman I’ll spend the rest of my life with.  Or maybe I watch too much How I Met Your Mother.  In reality, dating’s a job, it’s not fun, and it’s more akin to owning a sports team and the only way to find happiness is to win the championship.

So Lesson #1 is I watch too much sports.  Probably too much TV too.

Lesson #2: Just because someone’s a doctor doesn’t mean they’re smart.

Lesson #3: I don’t mind paying for dates, but after a certain point if they haven’t even bothered reaching for a check, you should probably move on.

Lesson #4: I am endlessly confused by absolutely everything about dating.

Lesson #5: As always, I’m an idiot.

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