I Go on a Blind Date

On Friday night (or maybe Thursday), I went on the worst blind date in the history of man, after which I fell into a virtual coma for the remainder of the weekend. I woke up this morning with two interesting things going on:

1) Beat the Geeks was on the telly, and I developed an instant crush on the weedy, bad-haired little host. (Note to self: stop using TV in place of sleeping pills--it causes weird dreams and bizarre attractions.)

2) Stella was standing on my feet again. A Western-style standoff ensued. Tumbleweeds blew through the living room, borne by a whistling desert wind. The TV audience chanted "Geek! Geek! Geek!" Stella lowered her head and met my gaze, paw twitching above my left big toe. I glared, hovering my own fingers above a glass of ice water. She prepared for the ol' grab-and-bite; I for the dip-and-flick. We watched each other suspiciously, hardly daring to blink. Her ears stuck up like satellite dishes--huge, gigantic satellite dishes, picking up signals from Pluto. My hair stuck up even further, getting in the way and scrambling her signals. Somewhere, a seagull squawked, and it sounded a little like the theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Squa-aa-aa-aa-aaaawk...squawk, squawk, squawk.

Then, Stella pinched my toe and ran back to her nest triumphant. The ice-water spilled on the floor. Giant rat - 1; tired rat - 0.

So, anyway, this weekend, I went on a horrible date. I can't imagine why I bother--all the good ones are either gay, married, or bloody ancient. Take Clint Eastwood, for instance. He's the granddaddy of all good ones: hot, smart, and loaded. And just look at the state of him: some time between A Fistful of Dollars and Blood Work, he turned seventy-three, got married, and had a whole houseful of kids. Kids! Ew! How could he?

At any rate, my date was supposed to look like Joaquin Phoenix (whoever that might be), and pick me up at eight. Instead, he looked like Adam Sandler and showed up at six-thirty. I was just coming out of the shower when the telephone rang. Monumental buzzer ineptitude ensued. I'd initially meant to write up the whole buzzing fiasco, but it'd fill an entry in and of itself, and be tedious besides. Let's leave it at this: it took three tries to buzz him up. When I told him (on the second try) that he had a minute to press nineteen after the buzzer went, he thought I was telling him to stand outside for a minute, then press nineteen on the keypad. Under ordinary circumstances, I might've found his bewilderment charming--after all, it does sound rather like something I'd do, myself--but it was six-thirty, my hair was wet, and I hadn't a stitch on my back. I spent the next minute or so haring about with my head stuck in my turtleneck, trying to put on my trousers and locate my hairbrush simultaneously. I scarcely had my hairpins in when he knocked on the door.

"Hello," I said, standing aside to let him in. He stayed out in the hall, looking at me critically.

"Your hair's wet," he said.

"Why, yes, it is. I just came out of the shower. Michelle* said you were coming at eight."

There was a brief (yet surprisingly awkward) pause, during which my date failed to apologise for his timing.

"I'm Socar," I said, breaking the silence. I stuck out my hand for a handshake, and he oiled straight past me, heading into my living room without taking off his shoes. "Come right in," I groaned, trailing behind him. He gave himself the grand tour of my living room, leaving a trail of grass and broken twigs in his wake. I fought the urge to chase him with a bottle of carpet soap. He poked one of my couch cushions, turned my monitor off and on again, and read the titles of my most recent e-mails. Then, he turned his attentions to Stella, who was standing on her shelf looking agitated.

"Does he bite?" he asked, sticking his fingers through the bars of the cage without waiting for an answer. Stella lunged for it, and he jumped back so far he fell on the couch.

"Yes, she does," I replied, somewhat redundantly. "Anyhow, can I get you something to drink while I, you know, get dried off and so forth?"

"Sure--I'll have a beer."

"I'm sorry. I haven't got any beer."

"Wine?"

"Just milk or apple juice, I'm afraid."

"I'll pass. How old are you, anyway?"

I laughed, pretending not to be offended. "A gentleman never asks."

"I'm not a gentleman." (Oh, really?)

"Ah. Well, a lady never tells." Before he could call my own virtue into question, I swept out of the room under the pretext of freshening up. I left the bathroom door halfway open while I repinned my hair and put on lip gloss. I didn't want to leave that man unsupervised, in case he tried to unzip my beanbag chair or get revenge on Stella while he thought I wasn't looking.

My supervision proved ineffectual. By the time I was through with my hair, Mr. Rude was sat sitting at my computer, checking out the folders on my desktop. I can't imagine what he was looking for. Porn, maybe. At any rate, I could hardly believe my eyes--but the worst was yet to come.

"Mind if I use your bathroom before we go?" he asked.

"Feel free," I smiled, pretending not to notice him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Five minutes later, I found myself pretending not to smell the foul stench he'd left in my loo, or to see the--er...visual evidence of his passage. Unfortunately, all my good manners were for naught. In an unbelievable display of low breeding, the man called attention to the disaster and tried to woo me in the same breath:

"We should probably go to my place after dinner," he grinned.

"Oh?"

"Yours won't be habitable till tomorrow, at the earliest."

I turned nine shades of pink. I'm not one to embarrass easily, me, but I could've positively died in that moment. One simply doesn't discuss the ponging monster shite one has just deposited in someone else's toilet. It's bad enough said shite is hard at work advertising itself. That shite has, indeed, already established itself in the role of first impression. Calling attention to it can only make matters worse.

"I hope it hasn't spoiled your appetite," I squeaked. (It was the best I could do at short notice.) "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," he said.

"No reservations?"

"Well, they wouldn't do us much good, since apparently you thought I was coming at eight."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "We can probably get into Le Crocodile at short notice. I've been able to before."

"Is that French?"

"Yes."

"Hm. I don't really like French."

"How about Italian?"

"No."

"What do you like?"

"I don't know."

We ended up driving aimlessly round the downtown area for almost an hour, looking for a restaurant which was both acceptable and reasonably quiet. (It seemed it also had to be reasonably cheap--when we passed Milestone's, which is hardly haute cuisine, I suggested we stop. He turned down my suggestion on the basis that Milestone's is "snotty". I was gravely disappointed. They make a particular kind of corn and potato soup which I can't get enough of. Eating that soup would almost have made the evening worthwhile.) In the end, I agreed to a hole-in-the-wall sushi place near Davie Street. I could hardly eat a thing, of course--I've had a marked aversion to Asian food since I caught food poisoning from some bad ginger beef. I can hardly bear the smell of soy sauce, and anything with seaweed on it curls my lip. In the end, I found myself choking down dry kappa maki and thin slices of ginger while my horrible date chowed down on hamachi and maguro. My attempts to make conversation were met with gluttonous mumblings--wanker couldn't even empty his mouth long enough to form a sentence.

Just as I thought things couldn't possibly get worse, his credit card was declined. I'd brought mine with me, but when I got it out, he practically screamed at me to put it away, demanding that the waitress run his again.

"It's all right," I ventured. "These things happen. One time, mine got declined at the vet's, and I couldn't understand why, since--"

"Mine couldn't be declined. I have a twenty thousand dollar limit." (And I'm a tax attorney. No, really.) "Stupid-ass waitress doesn't know how to work the machine. I hope I don't have to go in back and do it myself. Fucking great. [Fucking this. Fucking that. Fucking the next thing.]" He went on like that for a while. I interrupted at the first available opportunity.

"Don't worry about it. It's probably just a mistake. Maybe the waitress screwed up; maybe the bank did. As I was saying, mine once got declined, and it turned out to be a computer error."

"Whatever."

I resisted the urge to shove a salmon up his arse. I hate it when people say "whatever". It's like a red rag to a bull--once that "whatever"'s out there, so's my temper. We sat in stony silence till the poor waitress came back.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. I hid my eyes with a napkin. A brief skirmish ensued, culminating in my date's demanding that the manager be sent out. (And all this over a declined credit card! Imagine how he'd behave if something really went wrong, like a stolen car or a cooking fire!)

"Excuse me," I mumbled, mortified. I got up and followed the waitress, pressing my Visa into her hand. "Just do this and pretend you got his to work. I'm so sorry. I'm so damn sorry. I don't know that guy. I'm on a blind date. Give yourself a big tip."

"What the fuck?" came from over my shoulder--the twat had followed me!

"Sit down," I snapped, taking off the kid gloves. "You're embarrassing everyone."

"No girlfriend of mine has to pay for dinner!"

Girlfriend?

"You can pay me back," I soothed. "Just sit down. Please. Then, we'll go home." He sat down. (Observe my genius in action, here: by insinuating we'd be going home together, I got him to do what I wanted.)

The waitress ran my Visa in record time--poor girl must've wanted us gone something awful--and we got back in his car. I struck up a conversation about bitchy waitresses as he drove, figuring it'd get him in a better mood. People love exchanging mean stories about each other, especially when they've just been humiliated. My ploy worked, and Mr. Rude was soon smiling and laughing. He almost seemed pleasant for a while, if one ignored the fact that he was systematically plowing his gossipy way through the entire population of the Lower Mainland. I smiled and laughed at the appropriate junctures, and said things like "Well, I never!" and "Yikes!" Then, I said "No, turn left here."

"Turn left?"

"Yeh. You missed my street."

"What? But we're meeting Michelle at Metrotown in--" here, he glanced at his watch "--half an hour ago, in fact. Fucking waitress made us late." Here, he ran a yellow light. I cringed. I didn't want to go to Metrotown. The kappa maki had given me heartburn, in spite of all the ginger I'd eaten.

"I can't," I protested. "I have--" Heartburn didn't sound serious enough. "I have a headache. A migraine. I forgot--I'm allergic to soy sauce."

"It gives you migraines?"

"It does."

"Bullshit."

"No, really. Look how pale I am."

He glanced my way. "You look fine to me." That, now, was bullshit. I could see my reflection in the window--I looked every bit as stressed as I felt.

"I'm seeing spots," I said, referring to his complexion. (No, just kidding.)

"Come on. You'll feel better once you get out of the car. We're almost there."

"No, we're not! Metrotown is in Burnaby! Please!"

"Well, we can't go back to your place, anyway."

"What? Why not?" I'd completely forgotten about the shite by this time. Well, I hadn't forgotten, per se, but I hadn't thought he was serious about my spending the night round his. Normal people just don't do that sort of thing.

"The smell wouldn't help your migraine," he chuckled.

"I've had it! Turn around! Turn around!"

"Just crack your window. Let in some fresh air."

"No!" I contemplated grabbing the wheel, but that didn't seem like a good idea. There were other cars all around, and I wasn't in the mood to die. "Listen--you don't even have to drive me home. Just pull over, and I'll get out and flag a taxi. You won't be that late."

"What's your problem?"

"I told you. I have a migraine. I have to take a raincheck on Metrotown."

"A raincheck?"

"Yeh. As in, you know, we'll do it some other time."

"Bull."

"I swear. Just let me out."

"We're almost there!"

"We're not almost there. And I'm not joking. Turn this car around now."

"Hey, I took you out to dinner. Do this for me."

"I won't. Turn around."

"I can't."

"I'll hurt you. I'll stab you with my pen."

"Go ahead."

"No, really."

"Turns me on, baby."

At this point, I was almost as worried as I was irritated, and not only because of his strange behaviour. See, I'd just realized we weren't headed for Metrotown at all. I used to go there all the time. I could get there blindfolded. I did the only thing I could think of--I started making gagging noises. That turned the trick. He pulled over, and I ran off like a bat out of hell. Fortune smiled upon me, and a taxi was waiting at the next intersection. I dove in.

"Drive! Drive!" I panted. The driver drove. I rolled my eyes back and pretended to faint.

At home, I fired off a "What the hell?" e-mail to Michelle. Turned out she didn't know this cunt either. He was her blind date's friend, whom she'd agreed to set up so we could go on a double date at Metrotown (which I hadn't been informed of, for some reason). Where he was going instead of Metrotown is anyone's guess. Could be he was just lost. Then again, maybe he was taking me to some run-down warehouse to star in a snuff film. Fortunately, I'll never know.

The only redeeming quality of the whole fiasco was that her date was even worse than mine. He got falling-down drunk during dinner, and then forgot where he'd parked. They wandered around for ages looking for his car, and after all that, it turned out to be a standard. She can't drive standard, so they had to take the bus! Ha! At least I was spared that indignity.

Sushi dinner for two: $70
Cab fare from the middle of nowhere: $20
Air freshener and Toilet Duck from the 7-11: $17.95
Escaping psychotic date unscathed: Priceless.

* Our mutual friend, whose name a) has been changed, and b) shall be cursed forevermore.

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