Is the Joke on Me?

I get home one night after a great day at work to check my winks on a dating service.  I’m feeling really good, happy and want to see if the day can bring more smiles.

I see that I have a few winks.  I realize that I have winks from men with pictures of themselves on vacation in their swim suits, sucking in their 9-month pregnant bellies with a cocktail in hand.  Who are they fooling?  I can see that they are holding their breath so much they are turning blue.  They want to seem worldly and traveled, but all I see is that they need to do a couple extra or a couple extra thousand sit-ups!

All pictures have lovely sunsets or oceans in the background – but I can’t help but notice that the women they are with have been, not discreetly, taken out of the photo.   The men have ripped the photos in half with such vigor you can see the pain they have endured with the jagged edges or they took to the eraser tool in PhotoShop as if it were a knife and were continually stabbing the poor soul trying with all their might to make them disappear.

But within all this turmoil, I see one poor puppy honestly looking for his new found love.  I peruse his page and find out he’s a single guy of a couple years.  He owns his own construction company, no children, works hard and just wants to find a friend with the possibility of more.  He loves to travel; he’s Christian and somewhat good looking.   I wink back and soon we are exchanging emails and phone numbers.

The next night, I get ready for bed in comfortable flannel pajamas (Oh yeah, sexy flannel pajamas!  You haven’t heard of them?  Hmm . . . neither have I.), phone by the bed and remote in hand and Beverly Hills Housewives on the TV.  Once I’m settled, my phone rings.  I pick it up and take a gander.  Oh God, here we go.  I’ve got to get myself prepared to talk to another stranger.   

“Hello?”

“Cheetahort?  Hi this is Pot Head.” I find out later this is a good name for him.

We get along well and decide to meet.  Because he lives a considerable distance away we decide on a Chammps halfway between our two homes. 

“Now, Cheetahtort, I need to tell you something.  I don’t drink.”

Now, why doesn’t this guy drink?  Is he another alcoholic?  Is he another drug user?  Don’t be so pessimistic, Cheetahtort.

“Well, that’s fine, Pot Head, that doesn’t bother me.” 

“Don’t judge me that I don’t drink and I won’t judge you that you do, ” he says almost defensively.

Now, why would he say that?  Didn’t I just say it doesn’t bother me?  Is he already upset with me?  Are we having our first fight?

I stop to think, did I use my outside voice when I was wondering if he was an alcoholic?  Is he Edward Cullen and can read my thoughts?  Well, we all know there’s only one Edward.  I’ll give that last sentence some pause because it deserves it.  Back to the story . . . and I really don’t think I spoke those words out loud.  I’m pretty good at keeping my thoughts to myself at least in the beginning.

“OK . . . “  I say in return not really knowing how to reply and even wondering if I want to meet him after he said that.  The red flags have returned and my gut is saying let this one go.  But what fun would that be if I had stayed home?  If I had stayed home I wouldn’t be writing about it for your enjoyment. J

“It’s just whenever I say that I don’t drink; the women decide not to see me.  It makes me angry that a guy just can’t go out and not drink on a date.”

“Well, like I said before, that doesn’t bother me,”  I say knowing it obviously does, only because it usually means they have a horrible story to tell me.  If a guy just doesn’t like to drink and doesn’t have a horrible story to explain why, I don’t care.  But 99% of the time it comes with the baggage.

“Good, I will meet you there at 7 SHARP!”  He says with authority. 

Normally, I like a guy that takes control, but for some reason the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise.  Another red flag?

I make it to Chammps at 6:55 because I don’t want Mr. Pot Head upset.  I sit in the lobby waiting and waiting and waiting.

I make a call to Maddie. . .

“Why are all my dates late?”  I say when she answers the phone.

“He’s late?   Didn’t he say ‘SHARP’?”  She laughs knowing this one is going to make the blog.

“It’s now 7:15 and not even a phone call to say he’s late,”  I say all disgusted.  “I’m leaving at 7:30.”

“I don’t blame you.  I’ll stay on the phone with you until he shows.”

We laugh and imagine all the stories he will have for why he’s late or we imagine what this one looks like.  For instance, he’s busy trying to make himself look younger and it took longer than he though to trim his nose and ear hair.  He had to beg his parents to let him out because he was recently grounded for not taking out the trash.  His parole officer was calling at 7:05 to make sure he was staying in.  Or his wife was following him and he had to stop her and tell her to go back home where she belongs and that this is none of her business.

As we are laughing, a man walks in that looks just like the picture.  He stops in front of me, stares for a moment, points to the men’s room and runs in that direction without saying a word.

“Umm, Maddie.  He just walked in, took a look at me and walked into the men’s room without saying anything!”

“What?”

“Yeah – he looked right at me.  He knows it’s me!  But didn’t say anything!  What’s that all about?”

“Ooooo, this is going to be a good one!  Can’t wait to hear the story.  Call me when you are out of there!”

“Will do,” I say hanging up.

Pot Head walks out of the bathroom blowing his nose. 

“Hey.  Hi,” he says while still wiping his nose.

“Hi,” I say getting up but not wanting to shake his hand after seeing what he was doing, because that’s just gross.

I take a close look at this one.  He does look like his pictures – but he must be photogenic because he looks a lot better on-line. 

He’s tall and skinny like he hasn’t eaten in months.  He has Wrangler jeans with white tennis shoes on and a button down Izod shirt.

“Let’s go to the bar,” he says turning and not looking back to see if I’m following.

No - ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Pot Head.’  -or- No, ‘I’m so very sorry for being late.’

I follow him into the bar, with shoulders hung low, wondering why oh why am I not just walking to my car? 

We belly up.

“I had to use the bathroom before I met you,” he says sitting down.

Still, no apologies.  This isn’t going to go well.

“I saw that.  I hope you are OK.  I thought we were meeting at 7 SHARP,”  I say in my most sarcastic voice. 

The bartender comes over.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.” He says dismissing or ignoring my question.

I look over to him in shock.  Didn’t he tell me on the phone that he doesn’t drink?  Didn’t he say ‘Don’t judge me that I don’t drink and I won’t judge you if you do?’ 

“Pot  Head?  Right?”  I say questioning if this is the right guy.  He looks like the right guy.  I remember another date where I was waiting for the guy show up.  As I was waiting I see a guy that resembles the pictures and think oh yeah that’s him and give him a big smile, start to stand and give him my hand to shake, only to find out I wasn’t right at all.  That guy gave me an awkward smile, walked past me to hug his girlfriend.  Yep, I felt stupid.

“Yeah, it’s nice to finally meet you,” he finally says.

The bartender is still looking at me for my drink order.

“Michelob Golden Draft Light, please.”  I say smiling at the bartender.  I need a drink to get through this. 

The look on the bartender’s face is priceless.  I’m sure he sees first dates all the time and I’m imagining him wanting to listen to our conversation more after seeing this awkward introduction.

I look back to Pot Head with my questioning face.

“What?” he says defensively.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I say but that wasn’t the only question running through my head.  What man orders a Mike’s Hard Lemonade?  Seriously, isn’t that a girly drink?

“I don’t.”

“Ummmm – the last time I checked there was alcohol in a Mike’s Hard Lemonade,” I reply not caring how my tone sounded.

“Oh, there isn’t enough in one of those!  Come on!” he says rolling his eyes.

Oh good God, here we go.  But I’m not judging!

We get our drinks, get settled and start our awkward conversation.

I find out that he doesn’t actually own the construction company but his Dad does and his Dad hired him as the office manager.

“I have a secretary and my own office,” he says trying to impress me.

“She’s absolutely horrible, I need to fire her but my Dad won’t let me. “  That sentence has me spitting out my beer.  Ahh, poor little Pot Head, control freak doesn’t have control.

“What?” he says after seeing my reaction.  “I ask her to do things for me and she can never get them right!  I’m not a control freak or anything; I just like things done MY WAY.”

I have my game-face showing just wanting to get out of here.  I’ve stopped listening to him because I’m planning my getaway.

“I have to go to the men’s room.  Don’t leave!”  He says not in his authoritative voice, but more in a begging/submissive way.

“I’ll be here,” I say quietly, but thinking this might be my chance.

“Seriously – don’t leave!”

“Why do you think I’m going to leave?”  I say with my face all crinkled with question.

“I’ve been on dates where I go to use the restroom and I come back and they are gone.  Don’t do that!”

I’m laughing inside but say “I won’t, I promise.”  I wished I had the guts the other women had.

He leaves. 

The bartender gives me a look that screams, “Run!”  I really should, but I don’t.  I sit there and wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.  I wait so long that I think he’s actually left me and I’m sitting there like a fool.  After 15 minutes, I stand up to leave when he returns.  Damn!

What?  Did he have a bout with Montezuma’s Revenge?  What on earth could keep a guy that long?

I find out later.

“So, Cheetahtort, tell me a little bit about yourself.  What do you like to do?  What are your interests?

I start to answer him when he interrupts me. 

“I should tell you that I got into a bit of trouble recently.”

I stop mid-sentence.  O.K.  Here we go – the spilling of the guts and the horrific stories.  This is my favorite part with these kinds of dates.  Usually, by this time I know I don’t ever want to see the guy again, so I might as well enjoy the stories.  But I wonder . . . do these guys make up these stories to get out of bad dates?  If that’s the case – you don’t need to be so creative and so self-deprecating.  Just say goodbye.  But this guy delivers his story. 

“A year ago, I got into a car accident.  I had been drinking and wrapped my truck around a pole.  It was pretty bad.  I was in a coma for 12 days.  I’m still going through physical therapy.  This was my fourth drinking and driving offense.  That’s why I don’t drink anymore.  So I now live with my parents because of all the bills.  It’s not all that bad.  I have the entire basement to myself.” 

“So, you don’t drink anymore?”  I ask looking at his drink.

“Nope, now when I want to loosen up I just smoke pot.  I love smoking pot.  I’ve tried other drugs but pot is my drug of choice.  Love it.  Just love it!  Do you smoke? We could go back to my place and do a bit,” he asks like this is the question I’ve been waiting for all evening.

“Ummm . . . no.   I don’t smoke pot or do any drugs,” I answer in my disgusted voice.

He must not have heard the disgusted tone as he said, “No?  Really?  I think you’d like it!  We could have some fun!”

Was that what he was doing when he went to the men’s room?  Did he actually go out to his car to smoke a bowl or a one-hitter or whatever these pot heads call it?  Timing would be right. 

“As exciting as that all sounds . . . going back to your parent’s basement and getting high with you, I think I’ll pass.”

He looks at me disappointed and I’m not quite sure he heard or understood my insults. 

“I’ve got to be getting home.  Thank you for tonight.  It’s been real.”

“Already?  The night has just started.  I don’t want to say goodbye yet.  Please stay.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m tired and need to be at work in the morning,” I say trying my best to get out.

“Here, I’ll walk you out,” He says looking defeated.

Wonderful.

We walk out and he starts turning right and I turn left. 

“No, this way.  My truck is this way,” He says trying to take my hand.  

“Oh – well, then have a good night.”  I put my hands in my pockets and turn the other way.

“No, I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s OK – I’m fine,” I say exasperated.

“Oh look at those two.” He points to a couple standing next to their cars making out.

“Looks like they had a good date,” he says looking at me like that’s how our night should end.

“Yeah – it does.  We didn’t.”  With that I said, “Goodnight,” and walked away.

The next day I’m at Bethany’s pool laying in the sun and reliving my horrible date story.  My phone rings.

I grab the phone to see Pot Head calling. 

Really? 

I wait to listen to his voicemail message and play it for the people lying in the sun with me. 

“Cheetahtort, Pot Head here.  Had a great time with you last night.  Can’t wait to see you again.”

We all have a great laugh at him.  I honestly thought it was all a horrible joke on my part to get out of a bad date.    

But, later that day, he called again. 

“Hey Cheetahtort – Pot Head here – I haven’t heard from you.  It would be nice if you would call back – we need to get together soon.”

I’m still not 100% sure this wasn’t all a joke or if someone can be that clueless.  Most likely he’s just in a pot smoke haze.