November 3, 2011

Worst Date Chronicles: A Martini Always Helps' Story

And so, after soliciting the interwebs for Worst Date Stories, I've been hit with some pretty good shiners.  I am darn thankful these little episodic nightmares didn't come knocking at my door.   I'm obviously not the only suffering from bad dates alone.  Read: operative word in this case could be suffering.  Glad to know there is a population of us who can come together and start our own support group. With wine. And vodka. 

This story brought to you by A Martini Always Helps.

Picture a combination of AAA, Abercrombie & Fitch, a wine bar and wait for it....small hands.

Left you lurking for more?  I bet.

And a good story is bound to encompass the disasters of online love connections...or not.

Read on my friends, read on. 

And then of course, go drop Martini a note and let her know how awesome she is for actually making it through the entire date.


I had joined the Match and had been on a few dates that weren't awful, but the date I had on the Thursday before I met my current BF was a true zinger. I knew I shouldn't have gone out with this  dude from the start, but I ignored my instincts. I knew I was only going because he was of a decently hot level and therefore I blocked out the few idiodic things he'd said when we were writing each other. (For starters, he typed in all lowercase.....and only 15-year-old girls and e.e. cummings can get away with that.)

He showed up late to the wine bar I'd chosen and, without so much as an introduction, started complaining how I'd chosen a place that was "hard to find." It took all my strength to silence a "that's what she said" retort.

Luckily, his assholeness could no longer be hidden by what I had assumed would be a sort of Bradley-Cooper-ish hotness. He was barely eye-level with me (and in heels I'm 5'8" on a good day) and he had tiny baby hands. Also, his tan color wasn't normal. It looked like he went to Paris Hilton's spray tanner and they'd added a tinge too much "summer citrus" to the color mix. I wanted to hold a carrot up to his face and see if it disappeared.

After one uncomfortably long drink filled with enlightening conversation topics such as "the chicks I work with" and "why chicks can't sell things" and whether or not my boobs were real, I actually faked a yawn and said that I had to get up at 6 a.m. for a gynecological exam the next day. "Don't you hate when they don't warm up the spectulum?" I asked him with a laugh.

(OK, I really said "work meeting.")

Since he had parked a few blocks away, I don't know why I felt like being the gentleman of our date (maybe because I had bigger hands?), but I offered to walk with him back to his car. And because God loves pulling a fast one on me now and then, when we got to his ginormous SUV thing that could of trucked an entire soccer team comfortably across country, one of the tires was flat. Stellar.

Me: "Do you have AAA?"

Him: "No. But I can do this. It'll just take a minute."

Flash forward to an hour and a half later. Not kidding. Apparently, his truck o' manliness was designed to keep the spare tire attached underneath it in a fashion only bomb diffusers with the FBI could figure out how to free. My patience for him circling the car like a caged hyena ran out after about five minutes, so I went across the street to some hippie art gallery and found a wild-haired shirtless man smoking weed and creating an oil painting (again, not kidding) to help us. The two of them then squared off in a testosterone contest, each seeing who could figure out this trapped spare tire situation first, one using the power of Google (the hippie) and the other using a rock and a stick that he banged together to try to make fire.

The kicker of it was when my "date" decided this task was the perfect opportunity for him to remove a piece of his clothing so I could stop judging him by his hand size and instead judge him on his nipple size. When he took off his shirt in a manner I can only describe as "anti-sexy," I saw he was wearing a silver chain with a dog tag on it. It was clearly not an actual dog tag, a la the armed services, based on its shininess and A&F logo.

So I had to ask. "Did you fight in the Abercrombie & Fitch war?"

He looked at me, desperately searching my face to see if this was an actual question or a jab. I could almost hear the hamsters turning furiously on their wheels inside his head. "Could there be something called the Abercrombie & Fitch war? Was that how the store got its name? DID I fight in a war? Should I lie and say I did? Would that be hot? Should I take off my pants?"

I sat down on the ground. Not the curb, like the actual street where cars shat their oil and stuff every day. I gave up on on this date. On men. On life. I considered joining the hippie compound and painting away my pain, but then I remembered I could only draw stick figures and cartoon trees.

The $#&@%#* tire eventually was freed from the bottom of the SUV and my shirtless catch could drive me the few blocks back to my car. He asked if he could give me a call the next day and I said sure because I knew that would be quite difficult to actually come to fruition considering I never gave him my number.

P.S.  Martini is correct in her mention that only 15 year-old girls and e.e. cummings are allowed to use all lower case letters in written communication.  So.  Right.  On. 


  1. On one hand, I want to say this is hilarious, but on the other hand . . . AWFUL! I'm going to go check out her blog. :)

  2. I'm thinking we should write a book.

  3. Ha, awesome. :) Not that I'm awesome -- highlighting bad dates is awesome. I'm glad I could contribute. There's more where that came from!

  4. Not that I'm happy for the misery that this date was, but I have to say I'm happy for the misery that this date was b/c reading it back was crazy fun for me. :)