Dating is hard no matter where you attempt it, and New Orleans is no different. I don’t think there is anything significantly more unappealing about me than there is with anyone else, and yet my luck meeting men in this city has been atrocious. I’ve tried the online thing, and have had very little success, several dead-end dates and even some heartbreak. But there is always a silver lining. Fortunately I have also managed to garner a little humor from my dating experiences, which always makes great material for a blog.
The other day I had a date which was one of the classically worst dates I’ve had in quite some time. It was pretty much everything not to do in the How-To Book of Dating. This one was an off-line, real world meeting, not an internet connection. I had met him through mutual friends, which means there were at least two real people out there actually vouching for this guy. Telling me what a great person he was. Clearly, they have never dated him.
Things started out well enough... once he finally showed up (approximately an hour late). We had a little dinner, some nice conversation, a few drinks, and seemed to be getting along just fine. The meal was lovely and interesting, and we ate fun things like pecan pie topped with chocolate-covered pork cracklin’. But then when we left the restaurant and went in search of a bar for another drink, things seemed to take a turn for the worse. Naturally, the number of inappropriate comments and sexual innuendos he uttered were directly proportionate to the amount of Jameson shots he downed. And they started coming more and more frequently (“That’s what she said!” I’m quite sure my date would have interjected there.)
Whiskey is apparently his kryptonite. But he should be smart enough to know his weaknesses.
Don’t get me wrong. I am a huge fan of a good That’s What She Said joke, and I am not a total prude. But I should also add, I feel very strongly that this guy discussing his affinity for eating the P-word (not pecan pie or pork this time around) is far from appropriate first-date conversation. But yes, he did go there.
During the course of the night, he called me a terrible person for some inexplicable reason, yet complimented my ass. He picked up a maraschino cherry off the floor with his mouth… then spit it out again, partially chewed, on the table. He also offered to sell me his car for a bargain price. “It’s got a big back seat!” he felt obligated to point out. When we were discussing where we might want to go next, he told me, “I don’t really care where we go… Basically, I just want to walk behind you so I can look at your thighs in those boots!” Real smooth.
We made one more stop at a bar of my choosing. There was a friendly young man seated at the bar, and he and I somehow struck up a conversation about Boones’ Farm and Mad Dog 20/20. He introduced himself to us as Randy. “I wish she was!” my date responded. (You can’t make this stuff up). My date did one more shot, went out to smoke a cigarette, and upon his return, very suddenly and abruptly announced his departure. “Well, I’m gonna take off!” Just like that. And he was out the door.
He left me at the bar talking to Randy, who got a full rundown of the events of the night.
I have no doubt that this guy is actually a very nice person, and just a lousy drunk. Whiskey is apparently his kryptonite. But he should be smart enough to know his weaknesses. Just as you wouldn’t go into battle unarmed, if you’re trying to impress a girl, don’t shoot Jameson.
