Talk is Cheap... as was my date.

I filled out the template for this blog a long time ago with the intention of chronicling the ups and downs of the terrifying and quite frankly, exhausting process that is dating.  Of course with me, lazy often wins out over ambition, but not this round.  I sort of knew some idiot would eventually push me over the edge and get me moving.  That time has come.  

I was willing to overlook the fact that he seemed really into camping; Jennifer does not camp.   On paper, this one had potential.  For example, we have a shared love of The League and skiing, he knows of the Willy Wall and he suggested we go drink wine.   Also, he owns a vacation home and has 600+ sq. ft. of outdoor space in his 2-bedroom apartment.  Oh whatever, like that wouldn’t peak an interest for everyone.  Child, please! (Andre, no! Just stop.)  Anyhow, I was previously unaware that you could be a fan of The League and also be awful.  I thought the two were mutually exclusive.  They are not.  

The first eyebrow was raised upon meeting up with him when he did not get up, extend a hand or lean in for a kiss on the cheek when I walked in and sat down.  The second eyebrow went up about three seconds later when the first thing he says to me – in a shockingly soft and high pitched voice, mind you - after hello is, “We just missed happy hour.  We could have gotten this Malbec bottle for $18.  They have it listed for $31.”  I replied with, “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” and an eye roll I only halfway hoped I kept in my mind.  

Somewhere around the second glass of wine, this conversation happened.  I am not embellishing.

Squeak: You know Dana Carvey used to have a sketch comedy show on ABC?

Me: I did not.

Squeak: Is Dana Carvey dead? 

Me:  Umm, not to my knowledge.

Squeak:  Don’t you feel like he should be?

Me: (internally) What the hell do you have against Garth/The Church Lady?

Me: (out loud) I’m not sure I follow.

Squeak: Don’t you feel like he’s just one of those people who should have died already? Like Bob Dylan.

Me: The man is a legend.  I definitely do not wish Bob Dylan was dead.  Are you maybe trying to say you put him in the same category as a Janice Joplin or Kurt Cobain, like tremendously talented people who lived hard passed before their time? 

Squeak:  Yeah, you know, there’s just all these people who you’re surprised are still alive…

Me:  Sure.  Interesting you loop Dana Carvey in with that group. 

Then, after glass number three (like why was I even still there – maybe it was like a live action train wreck I just couldn’t stop watching) he looks at me and has the audacity to tell me he’s not sure if I can handle another glass of wine.  Now you’ve crossed a line.  Look, mister, I am 30 and single with a cat; wine is what I DO.  And even if that weren’t the case, I went to the University of Florida, you pansy; I’ve been training hard for the drinking Olympics since I was 19.  Let me know when you want to graduate to the big kids table and we’ll go head to head with bourbon, bitch.  This date was over, but the snowballing horror of it all wasn’t. 

The check comes, and he grabs it.  I think, well at least he’s going to be a gentleman about this.  Nope, slow your roll, sister; he’s just examining what we owe.  He immediately slaps it down between us and says, “Do you want to split it?”  Umm no, not any more than I want to pull off one of my finger nails.  However if it relieves me of your company any quicker, I’ll buy this bar.  Then, as I’m going to sign it, he looks up at me and says, “What are we tipping?  I don’t like to leave a full 20% if all she did was pour us drinks.”  Open eye roll.  You own a vacation home, a 2-bedroom apartment in the city, two rental properties and two cars, but BY ALL MEANS, let’s not give the bartender an extra $2 each.  Good night and good luck.  And with that, I went to meet someone else, who will probably be mentioned in a future post, for a quick glass of champagne.

vennifer