Today, while avoiding writing my bosses annual review of himself (!) for him and trying to get my steroid-riddled (long story but the upshot is that if you're not careful, I might get really huge muscles and kick your ass if you bug me so watch out!) brain to settle down a bit, I went over to read one of my favorite snarky blogs. It's about all kinds of things but the part you absolutely can't miss is where she talks about her worst date ever. It's really, truly priceless and for the record, I would have chosen Diehard too.
Soooo... Now I just can't help but tell you the story of my worst, no, actually weirdest date ever. Mind you, I met my husband when I was 17 so I have limited experience to draw upon but I still think this one is pretty good. First of all, I didn't actually think I was being asked out on a date because I was absolutely positively positive that the guy was gay. Let me line up the evidence - (1) He never missed appearing in a school musical (2... as if we needed another one) He had perfect hair that I'm pretty sure was dyed red and (3) He was into fashion. This was 1989. Hello Miami Vice Chic.
But you know... free lunch and all and I figured he wanted to give me some fashion advice and god knows I needed it so I was all in.
Here's how it started: I met him and his mom at the ear, nose, and throat doctor downtown (because going to the sinus doctor = SEXY). Then, mom went to run some errands and we walked around the nice and only slightly crack addict ridden downtown of my lovely hometown. We had loads of riveting girl talk about accessorizing, what we planned to name our (separate) kids, drank lemonade, had ice cream, and generally enjoyed ourselves. Then, just before his mom was supposed to pick us up, he "asked me out" and I tried really hard not to make a weird face but I'm sure I did because I thought I had finally found my gay best friend and I would never again have to burn myself trying to get that perfect big hair because in my gay BFF fantasy he would have time to come over and primp me every morning. Anyway, the point is that we were clearly not on the same page. Awkward. I hemmed and hawed and probably said something utterly retarded and he hardly ever spoke to me again (or before that day either really now that I think about it).
I kind of forgot about him until my senior year when he came back from college to visit our high school (lame) dressed head-to-toe in a yellow leather suit with pointy shoes. I said hi and he gave me the "look what you missed out on" nod.
Fast forward several years - I hear he made it big in the recording industry or something (ala Heather Moody, inventor of the Post It Note, played by Janeane Garofalo, in Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion) and arrived at his class reunion in a helicopter. I wasn't there but that's what I heard. Weird.
I'm not on Facebook but I searched his name just now and on his profile he's got a picture of himself with his (wife and) children. Turns out he was only gay-ish, not gay and if I would have played my cards right I might be riding in helicopters and snuggling up to some hot yellow leather right now.
Take that, me!
OK, so it's not that bad of a date story after all. It was fun and funny and we both turned out OK. I only have like 1 or 2 other bad date (or let's be honest, any kind of date) stories so I'll have to save them for another time. No point in blowing all my material at once.
Luckily, my husband doesn't have a blog so he can't recount his worst date experience... Let's just say it involved a picnic, an epic fart (known to this day as "the benchrattler"), a delicious spice cake, and me (who may or may not be responsible for the benchrattler). All I know is that cake must have been really, really good because he asked me out again. Phew!
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