In true Crigger-get-back-up-on-that-horse fashion I went on my first Match.com date last night. It is unlikely that this cowgirl will be riding off into the sunset with the Macaulay Culkin look alike. Especially since he was not even cute Kevin McCallister Macaulay... He was more weird, married at 17, suing my parents Macaulay.
I arrive early to the restaurant where we are meeting for drinks, being that I prefer to be fashionably late, especially on a semi-blind date, I use this time to make sure that my escape plan is in order. My friend from work has agreed to call at 7:45 with an "emergency" should Sonny* be more than I can take. I roll into the restaurant a little after 7:00 and Sonny*, who you might remember from the last post, has yet to arrive despite his text asking "R U here yet?"
Strike One. You initiated this buddy, not me, the least you can do is be on time.
Shortly there after, he walks in. And I do mean shortly. His profile claims he is 5'8" and in my 1.5 inch heels we were seeing eye to eye. I'm 5'2, you do the math. Outside of his less than average height, (which is fine, I'm not one to throw stones at the vertically challenged... But I never claimed to be Heidi Klum's height! He could have at least had the good sense to wear some Man-heels!) his hair was styled ala Kevin McCallister singing Christmas carols in his parent's bathroom. Except it isn't slicked back. I never knew hair could be so aerodynamic, yet fluffy with no product. I half expect him to start singing into a comb he pulls from his back pocket. Oh, and he is dressed in all black, which makes him appear to glow. Now, I am pale, but I have actually been in the sun beforeand I slap on some rouge when I'm headed out so I don't blend in with walls! Maybe the all black wardrobe is a nod to Twilight? Maybe he wants to seem slimmer? Perhaps he just came from mime class?
So the Good Son puts his arms out to hug me, which if he knew me at all, he would know I don't like to be touched by strangers. But having no other option that to reciprocate, we had a very awkward hug. Things are clearly off to a stellar start.
We grab seats in the bar area, not actually at the bar, which was my preference (the bartender was cuuuute so at least I would have had some eye candy), but at a table in the bar area.
Strike Two. I'm your date, if I want to sit at the bar, then sit at the bar.
A waiter arrives and after discovering that they have Woodford Reserve I regain some hope that all isn't lost. Sonny* orders a beer. Our drinks arrive. As the waiter is walking away Sonny* realizes he has been brought the wrong beer. Or so he thinks. He calls the waiter back over and the waiter very politely tells him this is, in fact, the beer he ordered, but if he doesn't want it he can bring him something else. Sonny* tries it, proceeds to go on this speal about how he is a "beer guy" and that he CAN NOT drink bad beer. Give me a break dude, you're drinking a really nice microbrew IPA, it isn't a Natty Light. By now the waiter is gone and so is a third of the sub-par beer. I guess it took him a third of the glass to realize he didn't like it, as he then flags down the waiter and has him bring him a different beer.
Strike Three. You ordered the beer, you then drank a third of it, and now you want a different one? Come on.
Now that everyone has a beverage with which they are pleased as punch, the conversation starts flowing. And by flowing, I mean he is asking me tons of questions and interrupting the answers with "Right on. Right on."
"So do your parents live in California?"
"No, they live in Kentu--"
"Right on."
"--cky."
"Oh so you just moved out here alone? Isn't living so far away from your family hard?"
"Yes, but I've made big moves before. And of cour--"
"Right on. Right on..."
"--se I miss them."
GAHHHH!!!! And it just got worse.
FYI; We had actually had this conversation the night before on the phone. Pay attention! Forgetting what I say isn't winning you any points. And why oh why would my parents move here with me? Furthermore, if your 31 and can't move more than 15 minutes from where you grew up, you probably aren't the guy for me.
But I put on my happy face and learn all about his parents, the business he started at 21 (which I will admit shows gumption and a good work ethic) his friend's crazy dog that bites, his ten year high school reunion, his job, and his $400K ONE-BEDROOM apartment that is nowhere near the beach.
**Seriously. You are going to drop $400K, IN CASH, on a one-bedroom in Irvine? You can buy a house in Huntington Beach for that!
As I am nearing the end of my drink and thinking "Oh yeah! I can go home and watch the Gossip Girl wedding and the Bachelor!" He drops this question...
"Do you want to come over and hang out for awhile?"
In my head I am thinking "NO WAY! You could be a serial killer. A rapist. Maybe Sonny* isn't even your real name. Or someone really strange who has every available surface in your apartment covered with action figures. Also, I'm not a lady of the evening who meets a guy for 60 minutes and then goes home with him. Oh, and the really big reason being that I don't actually want to spend anymore time in your presence."
However, aloud I say, "I have to be to work at 7:00am tomorrow and I like to go to the gym before work so I really should just go home. After all, 5:00a.m. will come early!"
To which he responds, "You can miss the gym for me!"
"No, I really, really can't."
So we ask for the check, and out of politeness, not actually because think he will let me pay for the drink I ask "What is the damage?"
"Well your bourbon was $11.00, so if you want to pay for that I'll put in the tax and tip."
Inner monologue: "WHAT! Dude you invited me out. And yes $11.00 for bourbon is pricey. But it was a healthy pour of Woodford! I would have been more than happy to pay for it had I not been on a date that I didn't initiate. And I could really do without your snarky attitude, Mr. Beer Guy!"
Actual dialogue: "Well why don't we just split it if you're putting in tax and tip? The total will be the same and less work for the waiter."
"Split it! Uhhhh..." It was as if I had asked to hit his car with a baseball bat (not that it would matter because he buys a new one every year, or so he says). "Oh, well I guess."
By the grace of God I am Southern, so I can say "I've had a nice time too" knowing full well that nice is the kiss of death.
I arrive early to the restaurant where we are meeting for drinks, being that I prefer to be fashionably late, especially on a semi-blind date, I use this time to make sure that my escape plan is in order. My friend from work has agreed to call at 7:45 with an "emergency" should Sonny* be more than I can take. I roll into the restaurant a little after 7:00 and Sonny*, who you might remember from the last post, has yet to arrive despite his text asking "R U here yet?"
Strike One. You initiated this buddy, not me, the least you can do is be on time.
Shortly there after, he walks in. And I do mean shortly. His profile claims he is 5'8" and in my 1.5 inch heels we were seeing eye to eye. I'm 5'2, you do the math. Outside of his less than average height, (which is fine, I'm not one to throw stones at the vertically challenged... But I never claimed to be Heidi Klum's height! He could have at least had the good sense to wear some Man-heels!) his hair was styled ala Kevin McCallister singing Christmas carols in his parent's bathroom. Except it isn't slicked back. I never knew hair could be so aerodynamic, yet fluffy with no product. I half expect him to start singing into a comb he pulls from his back pocket. Oh, and he is dressed in all black, which makes him appear to glow. Now, I am pale, but I have actually been in the sun beforeand I slap on some rouge when I'm headed out so I don't blend in with walls! Maybe the all black wardrobe is a nod to Twilight? Maybe he wants to seem slimmer? Perhaps he just came from mime class?
So the Good Son puts his arms out to hug me, which if he knew me at all, he would know I don't like to be touched by strangers. But having no other option that to reciprocate, we had a very awkward hug. Things are clearly off to a stellar start.
We grab seats in the bar area, not actually at the bar, which was my preference (the bartender was cuuuute so at least I would have had some eye candy), but at a table in the bar area.
Strike Two. I'm your date, if I want to sit at the bar, then sit at the bar.
A waiter arrives and after discovering that they have Woodford Reserve I regain some hope that all isn't lost. Sonny* orders a beer. Our drinks arrive. As the waiter is walking away Sonny* realizes he has been brought the wrong beer. Or so he thinks. He calls the waiter back over and the waiter very politely tells him this is, in fact, the beer he ordered, but if he doesn't want it he can bring him something else. Sonny* tries it, proceeds to go on this speal about how he is a "beer guy" and that he CAN NOT drink bad beer. Give me a break dude, you're drinking a really nice microbrew IPA, it isn't a Natty Light. By now the waiter is gone and so is a third of the sub-par beer. I guess it took him a third of the glass to realize he didn't like it, as he then flags down the waiter and has him bring him a different beer.
Strike Three. You ordered the beer, you then drank a third of it, and now you want a different one? Come on.
Now that everyone has a beverage with which they are pleased as punch, the conversation starts flowing. And by flowing, I mean he is asking me tons of questions and interrupting the answers with "Right on. Right on."
"So do your parents live in California?"
"No, they live in Kentu--"
"Right on."
"--cky."
"Oh so you just moved out here alone? Isn't living so far away from your family hard?"
"Yes, but I've made big moves before. And of cour--"
"Right on. Right on..."
"--se I miss them."
GAHHHH!!!! And it just got worse.
FYI; We had actually had this conversation the night before on the phone. Pay attention! Forgetting what I say isn't winning you any points. And why oh why would my parents move here with me? Furthermore, if your 31 and can't move more than 15 minutes from where you grew up, you probably aren't the guy for me.
But I put on my happy face and learn all about his parents, the business he started at 21 (which I will admit shows gumption and a good work ethic) his friend's crazy dog that bites, his ten year high school reunion, his job, and his $400K ONE-BEDROOM apartment that is nowhere near the beach.
**Seriously. You are going to drop $400K, IN CASH, on a one-bedroom in Irvine? You can buy a house in Huntington Beach for that!
As I am nearing the end of my drink and thinking "Oh yeah! I can go home and watch the Gossip Girl wedding and the Bachelor!" He drops this question...
"Do you want to come over and hang out for awhile?"
In my head I am thinking "NO WAY! You could be a serial killer. A rapist. Maybe Sonny* isn't even your real name. Or someone really strange who has every available surface in your apartment covered with action figures. Also, I'm not a lady of the evening who meets a guy for 60 minutes and then goes home with him. Oh, and the really big reason being that I don't actually want to spend anymore time in your presence."
However, aloud I say, "I have to be to work at 7:00am tomorrow and I like to go to the gym before work so I really should just go home. After all, 5:00a.m. will come early!"
To which he responds, "You can miss the gym for me!"
"No, I really, really can't."
So we ask for the check, and out of politeness, not actually because think he will let me pay for the drink I ask "What is the damage?"
"Well your bourbon was $11.00, so if you want to pay for that I'll put in the tax and tip."
Inner monologue: "WHAT! Dude you invited me out. And yes $11.00 for bourbon is pricey. But it was a healthy pour of Woodford! I would have been more than happy to pay for it had I not been on a date that I didn't initiate. And I could really do without your snarky attitude, Mr. Beer Guy!"
Actual dialogue: "Well why don't we just split it if you're putting in tax and tip? The total will be the same and less work for the waiter."
"Split it! Uhhhh..." It was as if I had asked to hit his car with a baseball bat (not that it would matter because he buys a new one every year, or so he says). "Oh, well I guess."
By the grace of God I am Southern, so I can say "I've had a nice time too" knowing full well that nice is the kiss of death.
So I shouldn't buy a hat for the wedding just yet?
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