I have not blogged in a bit, because I have been busy, well, dating. “Dating” is actually a very loose term. I went on two dates. It is a tie on which one was worse. Let us recap, shall we.
I “met” both of these kind gentlemen online (obvi). On paper, they seemed pretty darn great and I mean, when it was all said and done, they both had photos up that were only like, ehhh, 5-7 years old. Sidebar, do you bet that right now they are bitching to their buddies, like “Yea, on paper she looked fucking normal. Not. So. Much.”
Date #1 background (on paper): Him. Doctor. Lives in Boston. Likes dogs. Divorced. No kids. OK, can I please wake up to the fucking red flags? I can never, ever go on a date with someone who has not had kids… Why? Because people who have never had kids don’t understand that they LITERALLY suck the life out of you. Literally. they are the most important thing in your life. Moving on. We decide to meet for a drink at a local(ish) bar. Telling you, fucking ish gets me again. I notice him right away from his gigantic bald shiny head profile picture. We do the standard “Oh, you find this place ok, yea, parking sure is great, huh?” greetings as I sit down. The lovely bartender asks me my favorite question in the world “Can I get you a drink?” and says to date #1 “Would you like another Dewar’s on the rocks?” Oh, ok, so I am on a date with my grandmother. We chit chat a bit and it is fine, except that it is not, that is a total fucking lie….. I get along with him, well, I guess, I get along with him the same way I get along with my girlfriends, or my best gay friend (who, the clock is fucking ticking on a ridiculous bet we made that if we were both single at 40 we had to get married. Who’s laughing now. Right, neither of us). When he all of the sudden yells, (legit, yells): “Giiiiiirrrrrrlllll, I am ob-sessy with those shoes. What size?”
Oh my god. I mean, yes, I am rocking some awesome shoes. But yes, he is also gay. Totally gay. I am out, on a date, with a bald gay man who is now THREE Dewar’s on the rocks in. I am trying to hide the shock on my face, but I imagine it looked something like this. Only less orange and hopefully at least a teenie bit more feminine.
Once I get over my initial shock, I decide to just have a nice date, while, he, decides to have two more Dewar’s. We chat, and by “chat” I mean “he slurs about his dog for three straight hours.” Overall, I think that one went pretty well! And that there could be a real strong future for us!
So, at this point, I pick my sorry ass up, brush it off, and agree to meet date #2. Because, I am an idiot.
Date #2 background (on paper): Him. Sales. Lives one town over. Likes dogs. Divorced. Two kids. OK, ok, this could be good, right??? No. No. At the FIRST second he suggested the date location, I should have been like “Yea, peace out.” He suggests that we go to this nice bar in Salem, MA. Ok, before you get all “Jesus Princess Nara, what are you looking for?” I remind you that Salem is the literal mecca for adults to dress up like whatever the fuck it is they want for an ENTIRE month and roam the streets of said, Salem, Ma. Oh, AND, take into account, there was a big “food truck” festival too. So, when D#2 makes the suggestion, I text something back like “You don’t think it will be crowded?” Him “Nahhh.” Fast forward to a text I sent him on date day: “I have been driving around looking for a parking spot for 53 minutes. This was really a bad idea.” So you can imagine how fucking cheery I am at this stage of the game….. He texts back “Yea, I DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE CROWDED AT ALL” and I was like “because you clearly have never left the house before. Ever. You GD troll.” “Yea, I did.” He asks if I want to go to the “Tiki bar” in Swampscott. I am racking my brain trying to figure out what he is talking about, when I drive by this, and realize “this” is “Tiki.” Which, coincidentally enough, is also the place you go to when you are 16 years old and craving a scorpion bowl.
OK, be positive Nara. I text him that I will head into the “Tiki bar” and he can meet me there. I grab a seat at a booth, because the bar was full with 90 year old women drinking Dewar’s and playing Keno, and this one guy who kept telling me he thought I smelled good. Next up, I need a drink. Clearly, I text him to ask what he wants “Ask if they have Harpoon.” I ask. I get this.
I say “Just give me one of those.” Pointing to some bottle of beer. Then, I ask what they have for white wine. She doesn’t know, but kindly just hands me this. Honest to fucking god, worst best date ever so far.
D#2 shows up, and it is weird. I have no idea why, but it is…. We sit and joke about our drinks for about 11 seconds when he says “Well, want to know why I am here, haha ha?” Me: “Um, sure.” Him: “My ex-wife plays for the other team now, I didn’t want a divorce, she is totally butch, but the good news is she gained 50 pounds.” I raise my hand and give the universal “Imma need a six pack of those plastic bottles of cheap wine, because, right.” For the next SEVENTY minutes, he went on to tell me all about how she changed teams, she wears cargo shorts, she emptied out their bank account, she racked up over $100,000 in debt. He asked me if I had “Cash for the drinks.” (it was $12 for those of you wondering). This, this isn’t on the first date, IT IS IN THE FIRST FUCKING SEVENTY MINUTES OF MEETING SOMEONE. He says things like “Yea, I see a counselor and we are working through things.” To which I am like “Might want to see them more, bro.” He tells me all about how he does nothing at work, just gets through every day (Oh, Sales = Chairs. As in, he sells chairs). This goes on for the full seventy minutes, until I am like “Whoa, lookie there, I just shit my pants” and left. OK, until I was like “Wow, is it already 4:00pm, I need to get home and go to bed soon.” No, really, I did say that.
He texts me WHILE WE ARE STILL IN THE PARKING LOT and tells me that he had the most amazing first date. I, sit in the parking lot and delete all dating apps from my phone.