The journey that I’m on right now actually started a year or so ago but my laptop was smashed by nefarious thieves and I haven’t been able to write about it until today. So the first of my posts will be from older events and will eventually catch up to today.
What started this particular trip was my date with Jabba the Hutt. I was in Seattle and doing a story on internet dating. I was up in the middle of the night one night, writing, when I realized that the DJ on my favorite radio station had finally come back from vacation. His replacement had been terrible and I was sick of listening to him. So I called the station around 4 a.m. to tell him how glad I was that he was back. And that, contrary to what some people think, not all DJ’s are created equal and it actually DOES require some skill.
At 4 a.m. he wasn’t terribly busy so we were chatting about his vacation and that sort of malarkey when he asked if I would like to meet him for coffee the following Saturday. Not having been on a date in months and not actually having seen the light of day in weeks due to writing deadlines, I said yes. I gave him my phone number.
Two days before our date, he called and asked if I would be interested in dinner on Friday night instead. Always in need of a good meal that doesn’t come from a drive-thru window, I again said yes. We agreed to meet at the Dahlia Lounge at 7pm.
He said that it was a restaurant he went to a lot, so they knew him. I wouldn’t need a description of him. I would just need to tell the maitre d’ who I was meeting and they would take care of me.
I arrived on time in a dress and heels (I don’t usually wear dresses, I’m a jeans kinda girl). I parked down the street and walked to the restaurant. It was raining as it always does in Seattle, so I was wearing a trenchcoat. As I came in, I smiled at the maitre d’, who was drop dead gorgeous. I couldn’t help thinking that I hoped my date looked like him. He helped me off with my coat.
I then said who I was there to meet. His beautiful smile was replaced with a silent “You’ve got to be kidding” expression then a deeply puzzled look. Then he regained his composure, smiled again and said “Of course, this way.” We started down the aisle between the tables and I spotted a man sitting alone. “Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him.” I was whispering. But since the heavens are fond of playing tricks on me on a regular basis, the maitre d’ seated me at his table.
I found myself face to face with a human version of Jabba the Hutt. The sweaty, balding mountain of flesh had been there awhile and had been drinking because, he said, he was nervous. He’d kept the empty wine glasses on the table. Nine. This was not a good sign. Before the maitre d’ left the table, he gave me a sympathetic look and shifted his glance to the back of the restaurant. I saw a small exit sign. I filed that for use in a a minute or two.
But, not to be deterred by initial impressions or my own shallowness, I settled myself and ordered a beer. For dinner, I ordered a salad and he ordered crab cakes. While we were waiting for things to arrive, we talked about his recent trip again and music and he became more and more sweaty. And Drunk. He kept flirting with our waitress.
By the time the food arrived, his fringe of long hair was stuck to his head and he had already used many napkins to mop up the sweat dripping into his eyes. I was already getting sick. But nothing prepared me for the way he ate.
Shunning the silver, he ate with his hands. Not picking it up neatly in fingertips either. He grabbed fistfuls and shoved it into his mouth. I was horrified. I hate to leave anyone sitting alone, and I know I should have, but instead I finished the meal and allowed him to walk me to my car.
It had gotten windy and I was holding the collar of my coat closed with both hands in a vain attempt to keep the wind from freezing me solid. So imagine my surprise when we arrived at the car and he grabbed my elbow, threw me against his massive sweaty chest and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. My arms were trapped against him and he was trying to work his hand down to my ass. When I realized that, through the neck pain, overwhelming stench of sweatand wine and the freezing wind threatening to dry out my eyeballs, my mind screamed NO!!!
I stomped on his foot then kneed him in the groin a la Rebecca DeMournay in Feds.
It took 4 showers to get the smell off. I had to burn my clothes. Well my neighbor burned them for me.
While I was out the next day, he called and left a message. Either he didn’t remember my reaction or that was how all his dates ended. He asked me to join him for a movie. I said no.
The Upside: The food was excellent.
Moral of the Story: Your blind date will never be as cute as the maitre d’ so give him your number before you’re seated.
What I learned: When Someone gives you an out, take it. Although I have developed a new rule for dating. If, after the first 15 minutes, I’m not having a good time, I tell my date that I am no longer having a good time and that I am leaving. I pay for anything that I have ordered and I leave. Life’s too short for horrendous dates.
A good book to read after this (or instead of this): Sex and the City or anything else by Candace Bushnell.
Diary of a Nomadic Traveler 