The Worst date of All Time, Part 3: the Final Chapter

Part 3: Excuse me ma’am, but you have a marine creature on your face.

If you’ve missed the first or second part of the worst date of all time, you can read the first part here and the second part here.

If you want the short, short version, I was out on the worst date of all time with a man named Bodie (do not let his awesome name fool you into thinking he is actually awesome. that’s where I went horribly, horribly wrong) who lied about being blind, hated Digital Underground, didn’t know what the word ‘collection’ meant, forced me to see Harry Potter, texted his mother for four hours during our date, thinks Freemasons are a race of people, and still had time to judge me because I’m Catholic. Did I mention that he talked about samurai swords for an hour? Or that his favorite books were "elven novels"? Or that I was pretty sure that his mother was dead in his basement and he just talked to her anyway? By this point in the date, I was looking for a serial murderer who only serial murdered 34-year-old guys that lied about legally blind and collected samurai swords.

Fig. 1.1
"...and also, my mom's dead in the basement!"



















That actually catches you up pretty accurately.

After Bodie told me that we would probably not be able to date very long because I was Catholic and “he was Freemason” (which is not a race) and Catholics hated Freemasons (they don’t), he asked me if I could drive him to Freebirds for dinner because he didn’t want to have to ask his mother when he got home. Which, I’m sure, is very thoughtful of him if you were his mother. But I wasn’t. And I was trying to make his head explode with mind waves like those things from the movie Scanners.

Mind explosions: Not as easy as they look

So I tell him that I’m not hungry, but I’ll drive him to get a burrito (which, by the way, is where he wanted to go even if I was hungry. If you are a dude and you are reading this right now, please listen to me when I say, unless under mutual consent, DO NOT TAKE YOUR FIRST DATE TO A BURRITO PLACE. UNLESS THAT BURRITO PLACE IS CONSIDERABLY MORE AWESOME THAN FREEBIRDS).

So we’re in the car, driving to Freebirds; I clearly have nothing else to say to him because he functions on a totally separate plane of existence than me. Like the plane of existence that George Clooney was operating on when he read the Batman and Robin script and said “it’s PERFECT!”

Fig. 1.2
"No really. It's PERFECT."

What I DO know, however, is that he is attempting to use the armrest in my car as a leveraging point to assault my hand.

So I’m driving with my left arm and my right arm crossed over my chest like I’m hand-delivering a leprosy patient to a leper colony when he thinks that now is as good a time as any to ask why I’m thwarting his romantic advances. (I assume that taking me to see a movie I didn’t want to see, talking about things I didn’t want to talk about, explaining that I hate a made up race of people because I’m Catholic and attempting to force me against my will on numerous occasions to hold his hand was Bodie’s attempt at a romantic advance.)

Bodie: Man, I’ve never had this much trouble getting someone to hold my hand.
Me: …
Bodie: ...
Radio: (faintly) …Alright stop what you’re doin’ ‘cause I’m about to ruin the image and the style that you’re used to…
Bodie: …
Me: …
Bodie: I mean you haven’t held my hand all night!
Me: Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh heh heh. Yeah.

Yes. I sounded like a sickly lawnmower turning over. That’s what I sound like when I get nervous. Sue me. At least I don’t talk about fairies and elves and swords. And also, the best thing I could come up with was “yeah”. And regarding his claim that would lead a rational person to believe that he has been rewarded with much hand-holding on previous dates, my belief is that he either he tricked me on the serial murderer test and just cut hands off to hold them after he serial murdered short blond girls, or dated people that must have looked and acted something a little like Margaret McPoyle from It’s Always Sunny.

Fig. 1.3
People Bodie must normally date if he is not, in fact, a serial murderer.

Thankfully, we got to Freebirds in time for me to avoid another horrible question.

Bodie: Hey, mind if we eat here? I know you said you weren’t hungry, but maybe you can get a soda or something.
Me: Sounds awesome. (Note-this did not sound awesome. And my voice conveyed this sentiment)

So we’re standing in line. I decided to go ahead and get something while we were out, and that I would just pay for my own (because the very, very last thing I want is for him to have any false pretenses of possible future dates). He’s in front of me (of course he is. Because he’s a gentleman). He orders his food while I’m trying to decide what I want. When I get to the cashier to pay for mine, the sum seems too much. Like double.

I’ll break here to explain that I’m not a chemist or geophysicist or mathematician. When someone starts talking in numbers, I either just agree or fall into a narcoleptic coma because of the stress it requires to add and subtract. My math is actually pretty shaky, but one burrito bowl and one water does not equal almost $19.

Are you guessing what happened here? Have you been following the chain of events on his horrible, horrible date that, without fail, would have, of course, inevitably led me to pay for not only my meal, but the meal of my legally blind, unemployed, 34-year-old date who likes samurai swords, elven novels and Harry Potter and hates Digital Underground and Catholics?

When I realized what had just happened, I felt like someone had set me on imaginary fire. I wanted to run around violently, just punching and kicking and screaming and rolling.

Yes. Just like this.

I’m going to skip over the disgusting way he ate (it was like he just opened his mouth, threw burrito in that general direction and hoped he landed a good shot). I’m going to skip over the part where he begged me to meet his mother (and I had to say “I don’t meet moms on the first date, Bodie, sorry”). I’m going to skip the part where he was blatantly racist (and here I thought I was a bad person for being a Catholic that didn’t hate anyone at all). I’m just going to skip straight to the part where he assaulted my face with his face.

Somehow, after a very awkward 15 minute car ride (awkward on my part, not his. He was apparently completely comfortable), we made it to his mother’s. My purse was in the trunk of my car and, because I get pulled over with a fair amount of regularity, I like to have everything handy. So I got out of the car to retrieve said purse.

Bodie: Can I get a kiss?
Me: Nope.
Bodie: Really?
Me: Yep.
Bodie: Well can I at least have a hug?
Me: …If I give you a hug will you stop asking for physical contact?
Bodie: Promise.

Ok. Remember how in Part 2, I said that Bodie taught me two things, and that the first was to never worry about hurting the feelings of someone who lied to you about being legally blind?

The second thing I learned was never to trust that the person you’ve avoided contact with all night understands that you do not want their mouth anywhere near your face.

Bodie is tall, maybe 6’2” or so, and I’m about a foot shorter than that, so I was going in for a face-down-my-arms-under-his-quick-and-painless hug. I was even going to throw in a vigorous pat on the back like you do with people you don’t actually want to hug. This, to me, seemed to be an incognito way of throwing in some disguised violence.

Wrong.

I’m not a mean person. I don’t try to hurt people’s feelings. Actually, I tend to put myself out and have even been known to put myself in very uncomfortable situations (for me) to avoid hurting someone’s feelings. I once thought about marrying someone because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings with a break up. See? That level of crazy. So when I tell you this next part, I want you to keep all of that in mind.

I go in for the quick I-never-want-to-see-you-again hug, and that’s when my life flashed before my eyes and everything began to happen in slow motion.

His face was coming toward me. I was trying to duck out of the way. He has very long arms and I was definitely stuck in a weird wrestling (maybe samurai?) paralysis move that did not allow me to escape. In a brief flash, every atrocious moment of the previous four hours played in a terrible sepia-toned, horror movie strobe light in front of my eyes. Also in this movie, the walls are covered with blood and tears and spiders and clown faces.

We’ve all kissed someone that wasn’t necessarily a good kisser. This was beyond that. This was like someone threw a hot, wet octopus at my face. And then that octopus got stuck with all his little octopus suckers and refused to let go.

Fig. 1.4
Nightmarish creature of epic proportions attached to my face.

I summoned all of my strength (I had been working out. No big deal.) and pried his face off of my face, pushed him away and threatened to pepper spray him if he came within five feet of me ever again.

The next day I got a text that said “Hey hun. Sry about lst nite—ur just 2 cute! Maybe we can try agn sat?”

I did not try again Saturday.

The Great Cell Phone Disaster of 2011

Before I even start on this story about the most horrible, epic fail of all time, I have to explain a handful of things.

First, I am the tiniest bit crazy. Not cut-you-up-and-make-you-into-a-lamp-shade crazy. Not refuse-to-trust-you-when-you-go-out-without-me crazy. Not even check-your-phone-or-email crazy. I’m crazy in a way that is probably endearing when we first meet and then is not so endearing later. Like I fall down a lot. I’m afraid to sit in recliners because I’m 99 percent positive they’re going to fall backwards. I count the wheels on 18-wheelers (to myself. I don’t force other people to participate in this particular slice of crazy). I have a sense of direction that’s so horrible, I was once an hour late coming back from lunch because I got lost getting back from the restaurant that was two blocks down the street. (I ended up on a scary freeway near downtown. I worked off Monroe. How does this happen?) I line up my French fries in size order and then eat them large to small. Are any of these things certifiable? No! So stop judging me. I’m not Gary-Busy crazy!

Fig. 1.1
Gary Busey: Bat-shit crazy.

Second, I live alone and I have two dogs, so I talk to my dogs like they’re people. Stop it right there. I don’t dress them up. I don’t carry them around in ridiculous dog-holders. I do not treat them like accessories. I don’t discuss important topics with them, like Darfur or the recession or Tyra. But when I speak to them, it’s in complete sentences. Also, because I am the slightest bit narcissistic, I believe that when they misbehave, it is with the express purpose of ruining my life and has little to do with the fact that they’re just dogs. I believe that this is a side effect of watching the film Homeward Bound when I was little. Those dogs had purpose. I guess the cat did, too. But he was a cat so I don’t care.

Fig. 1.2
Reasons I hate cats almost as much as dolphins

Third, I would hate for someone I thought was attractive, funny and interesting to know these things about me all at once. I feel like it’s best to dole out the crazy a little bit at a time so that by the time it’s all out there, the escalating dose of crazy has been so gradual that the attractive, funny and interesting person doesn’t really notice that I’m a full-fledged maniac.

That being said, last Friday, the Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting got a 100 percent concentrated dose of full-fledged crazy. And it was because my cell phone betrayed me.

Like so many people who are totally normal, I have made regrettable mistakes involving my cell phone in the past. I’ve dropped it in a glass of Malibu because it was dirty (I was also very drunk on Malibu). I’ve texted one particular friend every time I drunkenly hear the song Cupid Shuffle. I use it to update my Facebook status to “Drizzunk at Tizzaco Bell” when I’m drunk at Taco Bell. I’ve even used it to attempt to drunkenly extort Emeril Lagasse for $5 million.

Fig. 1.3
We still have business, you and I, Emeril

And here’s my next point: If you do something stupid with your cell phone because you are drunk, the person on the other end of that call writes it off as a drunk dial. (Let’s hope that Mr. Lagasse realizes that, “Dear Emrl, U still owe me $5 million for stealing ‘BAM’ from me or ELS!” was a drunk email. I also sent it to emrl@emeril.com, so it’s possible that he never received it). If you’re not drunk and your ass dials someone because it’s in your pocket, whatever you say has to be taken at face value. So I decided a long time ago to not keep my cell phone near any part of my body that can dial people at random. Because I sit on my ass and I do not sit anywhere near my exquisite, near-perfect breasts (didn’t I tell you I was a crazy narcissist? Get off my case already!) I keep my phone in my bra, because I am also very, very classy. I will also tell you that the only time my boobs accidentally called one of my friends, I was about to make a poor dating decision. My friend called me back and the poor dating decision was averted. That’s right. My boobs recognized the situation, problem solved and then phoned for help.

I told you all of that so that I could get to the actual story.

Friday morning, I was getting ready for work. Did I say morning? It was 10 a.m., which, in all fairness, is morning to me. The night before my basset hound was crying for roughly 100 hours straight because she wanted to sleep on my bed. When she sleeps on my bed, she sleeps on top of me. Literally on top of me. I wake up and she’s curled up in a heavy, spiteful ball on my back. This is not a good night’s sleep. So despite her cries, I leave her in her kennel so I can sleep. This obviously doesn’t work, because when she cries, it sounds like a cross between a bird that got hit with a car, a woman falling off of a cliff and a werewolf.

This is pretty much what it sounds and looks like:

Needless to say, we were not on speaking terms when I woke up. I let her out of her kennel, groggy and irritated, and let her run around the apartment like a dog who has never before tasted the sweet flavor of freedom. She’s extremely dramatic. At this point I was half dressed. Skirt on, bra on, phone in its correct position, when the basset sneaks into my closet and runs out with my one of my favorite shoes. Have you ever had a pair of shoes that were not only the cutest shoes in the whole wide world, but also actually fit? That was this pair of shoes. So I screamed. She dropped the shoe and jumped on my bed. She jumped up, put her paws on my chest and pushed off of me like a gymnast trying to use a pommel horse. About that time, my neighbor came over to ask me a question. I threw a shirt on, went to the door, answered her question, and came back just in time to see the Dog Sent From Hell to Ruin My Life devouring my shoe.

Me: LOVIE! (her name is Lovie)
Lovie: chompchompchompchomp

I got closer to her and she did that thing dogs do where she stuck her ass in the air and started to wiggle like this was a hilarious game. (note: this was not a hilarious game). I screamed at her like some sort of banshee that was just run through the heart with a joust. She ran, chewing and slobbering as she went.

Remember how I said I talk to my dogs like they’re people? This was no exception. The only difference was that this time, I was screaming like a maniac.

Me: YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE! YOU ARE THE WORST DOG IN AMERICA! I AM LITERALLY GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS! WHEN I CATCH YOU I WILL RIP OUT ALL OF YOUR TEETH AND MAKE THEM INTO A NECKLACE AND YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO DESTROY ANYTHING AGAIN! I’M GOING TO FEED YOU TO GIL! I WILL NEVER LET YOU OUT OF YOUR KENNEL FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! IF YOU WERE IN A DIFFERENT COUNTRY YOU’D BE A COAT BY NOW! YOU'RE CRAZY! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
Lovie: chompchompchompchomp

She clearly didn’t understand any of this because in response, she just ran around the apartment with my shoe in her mouth.

Fig. 1.4
What my dog looks like when she thinks she's playing a hilarious game.

In my hurry to remove the shoe, my phone fell out of my bra. Classy. The screen looked weird, so I picked it up to investigate. I had apparently been leaving a very long message for The Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting.

Has a realization so awful hit you that you lose time and then find yourself alone, rocking in a corner under your desk crying, eating yogurt with the wrong end of a spoon and listening to More Than Words by Extreme? Because I was half a panic attack away from that. I scrambled to remember what I had said, what I had done, what had happened (because so, so many times I’m alone in my apartment singing Kanye West or Paula Abdul. Badly.) and realized that I had threatened the life of a 30-pound basset hound while screaming maniacally. I had also accused her of being the worst dog in America, and suggested that she was purposefully trying to ruin my life. I assume the visual of what I looked like was a little like this:

Fig. 1.5
I did NOT look like this, if you're reading, Guy Who I Think is Attractive and Interesting

I sent a quick text, attempting to not sound crazy, apologizing for the call and telling him that he could just disregard the message.

Then I panicked again. He lives in California. It’s 10 here, but it’s 8 there. And he’s probably sleeping. So not only did I call and leave a four hour message of myself screaming, I machine gun texted directly after that. Nope. I’m not crazy.

When I heard from him later that night (after hours of thinking “I am the biggest idiot alive and he will never want to talk to me again because I am full-on-Gary-Busey crazy and why do I even OWN a cell phone) he laughed and promised it was ok (whenever The Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting tells me something is ok, I just assume that it’s not).

I’m pretty sure he’ll never talk to me again.

The Worst Date of All Time: Part 2

Part 2: So I have this samurai sword.

First off, in case you haven’t seen the first part, you can catch it here.

So when we left off, Bodie, my 34-year-old, unemployed, legally blind, Harry-Potter-fan date that lived with his parents, was very excited that his mother wanted to meet me after having spent three hours trying to very obviously hold my hand, my hand that I very obviously had in my pocket. Was I mad because he was blind? No. I was mad because first, he took me to see Harry Potter and I didn’t want to see that, and second, because I believe he was lying to me about being legally blind. The fact that he texted his mother for three hours and then beamed when she wanted to meet me (after our first date) left me to believe that only three possibilities existed:

1. He was just a very sweet guy that loved his mother (not that I want to date this guy, but still)
2. He has secret resentment built up for his mother who probably still dressed him and he would later take it out on whomever he married (not it. I called not it.)
3. She was dead in the basement and he just talked to her anyway.

Fig. 1.1

Bodie's Mom: Dead in a basement

I’ve got to tell you. I was leaning towards the Norman Bates scenario. So the movie was over. I only read two of the books and apparently this movie dealt with material I was in no way familiar with. There was a lot of flying around on brooms and air soccer or something.

Fig. 1.2

Harry Potter and the Movie I Wasn't Interested in Seeing

So the movie ended. He thoroughly enjoyed it, my guess is that the fact that he could SEE IT had a lot to do with that, which is well outside the arena of what I thought a blind person could do, but I’m not a scientist. We walked out to my car and he asked if I wanted to go to Barnes and Nobles. I did not, however, he was nice enough and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Which was stupid. So, so stupid. Bodie taught me two things. The first is to never try to avoid hurting someone’s feelings when they’ve lied to you about being blind. As it turns out, this type of person has no feelings. The second lesson comes up later, so we’ll just address that little gem in part three.

So I’m driving my legally blind date to Barnes and Nobles (Where he will find a book. That is not in Braille or audio format. That he will be able to read. Because he is not blind.) when he hears my iPod playing in the background.

Bodie: Oh. Rap music. I guess that’s fine.

Me: I guess because I’m driving it has to be. (Translation: I am two seconds away from throwing you out of a moving vehicle, which would be a much greater threat if you WERE ACTUALLY BLIND!)

Also, it was Digital Underground. I’m sorry. But first, Digital Underground is more alternative rap than rap. Second, how is anyone opposed to Digital Underground. Shock G?! Tupac?! Get the eff out of my car.

Fig. 1.3

That's right. Sex Packets.

So to avoid vehicular manslaughter, (is it still vehicular manslaughter if you forcefully throw the person from the vehicle?) I changed the subject.

Me: So what are you looking for at the book store? I need one more Christopher Moore book to round out my collection.

Bodie: I don’t really collect books. I collect samurai swords.

Me: …

Bodie: …

Me: Like, a collection of samurai swords?

Bodie: I have two, and they’re incredible.

First, stop it. That is the most irritating collection I’ve ever heard of. Second, two isn’t a collection. It’s two. Get a hold of yourself, Kill Bill. Let’s review the list of what I knew about Bodie before the date:

1. He was a history teacher
2. He lived in a house in Cypress
3. He made good grades in school
4. He loved to read
5. He was 34
6. His name was Bodie and I thought that was awesome

Let’s review what I know at this point in the date:

1. He has no job
2. He lives with his mother 
3. He tells people he’s legally blind
4. He’s probably a habitual liar
5. He forced me to see Harry Potter
6. He texts his mother for hours at a time
7. He hates rap music, even Digital Underground
8. He “collects” samurai swords
9. He doesn’t know what the word “collection” means

Please remember that at this point, we’ve only been together a little over three hours and Harry Potter (Remember? That movie I didn’t want to see?) is about three hours long. I think, at this point, the samurai sword conversation is dead, because I do not respond to the “they’re incredible” comment. Mostly because I have a hard time believing that they are, indeed, incredible. But also because I do not want to perpetuate the horrible line this conversation has taken.

Bodie: Have you ever seen a samurai sword?
Me: That’s what she said?
Bodie: What?

10) He does not watch The Office. And probably has no sense of humor.

You can imagine what happened after that. From the time we were in the car, to the time I was walking through the aisles at Barnes and Nobles, to the time he decided to change the subject and talk about my religion (more about that in a second), he discussed this samurai sword. I know the origins of the samurai sword. I know how they’re cut. I know about their luster. I know what’s special about their handles. I know what Hattori Hanzo made for breakfast the day he died.

I am not interested in samurai swords. I have never been interested in samurai swords. Listening to anyone talk for an hour about something I didn’t care about to begin with did not build affinity for samurai swords. All I can tell you is that by the time we were finished with that conversation, I felt a little like beheading him with a samurai sword.

How to dispose of a head with a samurai sword:

 

I’m going to skip the part where he tells me that his favorite books are “elven novels” (yes. that means novels about elves) and suggested I purchase a book about fairies and just jump straight to the part where he suggested that as a couple, we might not work out because I’m Catholic.

Bodie: By the way, what religion are you? (translation: I’m probably about to judge you)

Me: I’m Catholic. (translation: you are definitely about to judge me)

Bodie: …

Me: …

Bodie: Oh, your people hate my people. We may not be able to date.

Me: Wow. Really? No one told me we had gone back to hating people again. Maybe it’s the new pope. Also, you look German. (Also, I'd rather chew my own arm out of a bear trap then go on a second date with you.)

Bodie: No. I’m a Mason.

Me: Like a Freemason?

Bodie: Yeah. It’s pretty important to me.

Me: Aside from the fact that I don’t hate anyone, you know that the Freemasons aren’t a race of people, right? Like, Chinese, Ukrainian, Canadian, American, Freemason?

Bodie: It’s just that Catholics hate us so much.

I just stared at him in amazement. First, I think that he actually believes the Freemasons are a race. He was supposed to be a history teacher (which is probably why he was jobless, now that I think of it). Second, there are several Freemasons in my church. Guess what. No one hates them. They don’t catch on fire when they walk through the door. When the priest touches them with holy water, there is no smoke. Old Catholic ladies with babushkas and cataracts don’t shake and cry when they are in the vicinity of a Freemason. Also, I think I may be confusing Freemasons with vampires.

Fig. 1.4

Vampires: Not Freemasons 

Bodie: Did I upset you?
Me: No. You should be upset for you. That was pretty stupid. You ready to go yet?
Bodie: You want to go get dinner?
Me: No, thanks. I’m not really that hungry.
Bodie: Would you mind driving me to Free Birds? I hate to ask my mom when I get home.
Me: Oh yeah. Because you’re blind. Funny how I forgot. Sure.

You know how you leave your apartment and it’s raining and you get all the way out to your car, unlock it, put your seatbelt on, fix your iPod, turn the engine on and then wonder if you turned off some horrible electrical appliance, like a flat iron or a coffee maker? And you’re pretty sure that you did because you’re a creature of habit and you don’t want to walk all the way back in the rain, so you drive away? But you get about two miles down the road and now you really can’t remember turning off said electrical appliance whose only job is to create massive amounts of heat? And now you’re worrying because there’s no way, if a fire were to break out, your two dogs would escape alive and also your favorite pink heels that the dog hasn’t eaten are still in there and you’ll NEVER be able to find them again? But by the time all of this has transpired you’re even further away so you don’t go back and now all day you have to worry about the fate of your dogs, apartment and heels? Imagine that nagging feeling, multiply it by three thousand, and that's how I felt after I said I would take him to grab something to eat.

This except from Sponge Bob is very similar to, one, how I felt listening to Bodie’s stories and, two, what I expected to happen at any second.

When bad things happen to good people:

 

Choosing to take Bodie to Free Birds felt very, very similar to this. Except worse. Because it felt like that explosion could easily be Bodie and me in my car.

I heard that sometimes Freemasons spontaneously combust.

Why a police officer thought someone was beating me senseless today

Have you ever been part of a seemingly banal chain of events, and at the end of that chain, is the link where a police officer thinks someone’s beating you up and holding you at knifepoint? Because I hadn’t until today.

There are a number of things wrong in my apartment, and one of those things is the heater. It went out. Because of this, my two dogs and I spent all of last night snuggled in two blankets on my bed watching horrible reruns of Ghost Adventures and drinking wine. Did I say horrible? I meant amazing. And did I say wine? I meant wine. So this morning, I made a list of all the stuff I needed to do today. My plan was to call maintenance, put on my makeup in time for maintenance to come over and fix the heater, and then go to the grocery store.

I called the office to report the heater, a number of other things, and bring me an air filter because one of my dogs has the exact same amount of fur as a full grown wooly mammoth and I need to change the air filter every two weeks or my apartment looks like a shack in the middle of the dust bowl.

My apartment complex has three million units. Well maybe not, but I’m pretty sure that’s what the staff thinks. That’s how they make it sound when you need something done. So my apartment has a number of units that is somewhere between 100 and three million. Generally when I call for something, it takes them a while to show up. So after I called and put in my work order, I put my dogs up and started putting my make up on, assuming that I would have plenty of time before the maintenance guy got there to prevent him from thinking that he was servicing the apartment of some homeless bag lady that murdered one of their tenants and was sleeping in the apartment.

Why did I put the dogs up? Because the fluffy one turns into a blood thirsty vampire dog that hungers only for the flesh of strangers when someone knocks on my door. The basset hound is living here illegally, like some migrant worker that just pees on the floor and eats all of my pillows. I keep hiding her from the apartment management because they think I only have one dog, and I’d hate to see her deported. You try hiding a basset hound. It’s harder than you’d think. Anyway. The point is, it’s very frustrating to have both of them barking and howling at the door every time someone knocks.

So because it was me, and because I assumed I had enough time to put my makeup on, I was wrong. The guy came when I had just enough stuff on to look like a ghost with no eyes. So he comes in, totally avoids eye contact, fixes the heat and leaves. He forgot to bring the air filter, and promised he’d bring it by later on.

I let the dogs out of my room and into the apartment while I tried to finish my makeup. About two minutes later, both dogs start barking. Like angry barking. Like folks-were-getting-murdered-and-they-wanted-to-help-the-murderer barking. So I walked to the door to check on what it was when I hear why they’re barking.

There are two people screaming at each other outside. This was not a lover’s quarrel. This was a lover’s UFC match. And the chick was winning. Also, I think she was drunk.

Drunk Girl: “GET THE EFF OFF OF ME I HATE YOU AND I WANT YOU GONE AND LEAVE OR I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS AND JUST SHUT THE EFF UP YOU EFFING EFF.” (That was the girl)

(Probably) Sober Guy: “YOU’RE DRUNK WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?” ” (This is why I thought she might have been drunk. Screaming guys are usually very reliable)

Then she laughed maniacally. So instead of going outside, I locked the door and tried to spy on them through the peephole. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything. There was a lot more screaming, most of it was unintelligible, like a tea kettle or Bobcat Goldthwait from Hot to Trot.

Fig. 1.1
That's right. I couldn't find the head in a box from Seven, but I could find the marketing poster from Hot to Trot.

There was also a lot of slamming.
I thought, ‘Jeez. Somebody should call the police. I’m not doing it’.

So because I procrastinate and get bored easily (my therapist says it’s because I have a high IQ. So you stop judging me right now), I almost never get a list of things accomplished. But I was determined to get makeup on and go to the grocery store.

Let me interrupt with a fact that will be very important later. The eye makeup I was trying to put on was very, very black. Like, junior hooker black. Why was I putting on junior hooker makeup to go to Kroger’s? Mind your own business and quit acting like you know my life! Here’s a picture of what it was supposed to look like:

Fig. 1.2
This is a rough estimation.

So I finished one eye and was about to start on the other one when I accidentally STABBED MY OWN EYE WITH A MAKEUP BRUSH. Maybe some of you haven’t done this before, but this is what it feels like. Imagine someone tapes your eyelid open and pours sand in it. Then they take a loofah and scrub it around. Then they laugh at you for stabbing your own eye with a makeup brush.

This is where things start to careen out of control for me.

So my eye starts watering profusely. All of the black on my eye is running down my cheeks and I look like that girl at parties that gets wasted and then tries to dance on a table and then breaks everything and gets a concussion and throws up in a plant. Because one eye starts watering, the other eye starts watering. Because my eyes are watering, my makeup gets in them, because my makeup gets in them, they’re red and stinging. Because it’s cold, I’m wearing a hoodie on top of a short sleeved shirt. Because my eyes are stinging, I’m going to rinse them, so I rip my hoodie off so my sleeves don't get wet, without regards to how it’s tangled my hair up like a crazy person's.

Then someone knocks at the door.

Pandemonium breaks loose. The dogs start barking. The fluffy one is snarling like Zool from Ghostbusters.

Fig. 1.3
I looked it up. They spell it "Zool".

The basset hound is howling like an effing basset hound. I’m running around trying to see what’s going on but I’m blind. I look out the peephole and think it’s the maintenance guy with my air filter, so I decide to ignore it. The dogs are still growling and snarling and barking and howling. Then the guy knocks again. Then the dogs go even more crazy. My eyes are still stinging and watering, and now both of my cheeks are black. I’m terrified that if I open the door, the fluffy dog is going to kill the maintenance guy, but not before he sees the basset. His last words will be, “she has an illegal immigrant dog in her apartment”. So I pick the basset up, stepping on the fluffy one’s tail. He yowels. I trip. I yelp out of fear. I take the basset to the bedroom and try to hide her through teary eyes and panic. I throw a collar on the fluffy one and drag him to the porch. I can’t see. I’m out of breath. My hair is crazy. My cheeks are black. My eyes are red. I’ve been crying so they’re swollen. I’m panicked and flustered and frustrated. I open the door a crack and peer out like, I assume, a frightened spider monkey.

It’s a police officer.

He freezes. His face falls. He puts his hand on his night stick and asks me if I’m ok.

Me: “I’m fine.”
Skeptical police officer: “Ma’am are you sure?”

Then I realize someone must have called him about the fight.

Me: “Oh! You’re here about the fight!” (Not a good thing to say to a police officer, by the way)
Skeptical police officer: “Ma’am, really, are you ok?”

He’s not taking his eyes off my face. That’s when I realize what I look like.

Me: “Oh! I wasn’t in the fight!”
Skeptical police officer: “There’s no one in here with you?”
Me: “No? I live alone.”

And that’s when everything hits me. It took a very long time to answer the door. He heard the dog yelp. He heard me yelp. I look like someone’s just hit me in the face. My hair is crazy. I’m acting frantic. I’m not opening the door.

This man thinks someone is behind me with a knife threatening to beat the shit out of me if I rat them out.

I opened the door and invited him in so he could see. He looks at me skeptically, says thank you and walks away.

And that is how a police officer thought I was the victim of a domestic violence attack today.

I never even got my air filter.

The Worst Date of All Time: Part 1

(Note-This Worst Date of All Time was such an epic Worst Date of All Time, I’m dividing it up into three entries)

Part 1: So I forgot to tell you. I’m blind.

I was talking to a friend the other day about how I'd rather lick a homeless guy's shoe that date strangers and I think it’s time for me to tell you about the Worst Date of All Time. Do you think your worst date is worse than mine? You’re incorrect. Unless you were murdered. If you were murdered on your Worst Date of All Time, speak now. Unless you're Candace Cameron. Date rape-murder movies don't count.

So last summer I started dating. It was really weird because I had been with the same person for eight years and being around people that weren’t The Person You Have Been With For Eight Years was a lot like putting yourself in a box, shipping that box to northern Azerbaijan in the winter, jumping out of that box, and then being forced to kill a polar bear for food using a spoon while riding a unicorn. It wasn’t easy and it made no sense.

Fig. 1.1
Me, after being shipped to Azerbaijan, fighting a polar bear with a spoon on a unicorn.

I went on a couple of ok dates and a couple of bad dates and then I met this guy named Bodie. I didn’t know a whole lot about him. Which is good. Because I didn’t know him. If I had known a lot about him, it would have meant I was stalking him like some Creepy McCreeperson. I imagine Crispin Glover is a Creepy McCreeperson. ( I do not know Crispin Glover. I have never spoken to Crispin Glover. I do not know anyone who knows Crispin Glover, but he looks pretty sketchy to me.)

Fig. 1.2
Crispin Glover: Creepy McCreeperson. He's probably under your bed right now.

Let me preface this by saying that My best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with the girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night set him up with me. So no one knew him that well. Still, I hope that person has to live in agony with this horrible mistake for the rest of their lives. Like Brad Pitt has to live with finding Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box in Seven.

Fig. 1.3
I couldn't find a picture from Seven. Just pretend like He-Man is Gwyneth Paltrow and Brad Pitt is really upset off camera somewhere.

Anyway, his name was Bodie and I thought his name was amazing and that we would obviously get married because he had an awesome name. I later found out that, contrary to my original belief, you should not marry someone just because they are named Bodie.

Bodie and I talked for a while on the phone and he passed the serial murderer test, so I agreed to go out with him. The following are things he told me before we went out:

1) He was a history teacher
2) He lived in a house in Cypress
3) He made good grades in school
4) He loved to read
5) He was 34
6) His name was Bodie and I thought that was awesome

The following are things he neglected to mention before we went out:
1) He was legally blind.

I found other things out, but this was the first, and most shocking, in a series of shocking revelations throughout the evening. Here’s how I found out:
Me: So what time are you picking me up tonight?
Bodie: Oh, you’ll have to drive.
Me: Um. Ok. Is your car in the shop?
Bodie: Oh, no. I don’t drive
Me: …
Bodie: …
Me: Any particular reason? (At this point, I believed that he must have drank six bottles of Everclear and run down a bus full of Catholic school children on their way to a field trip to the zoo where they were caring for abandoned baby seals.)
Bodie: I’m legally blind.
Me: Oh. (translation: this should have come up before. not that it matters, but this should have come up before.)

So I got directions and left my office to pick him up at his house, which is where I found out another shocking revelation: He lives with his parents. At 34. On a teacher’s salary. I know you’re mad at me because he’s blind. As it turned out, though, he wasn’t that blind. trust me.

So I went to pick up my date at his parent’s house. Which is where I found this out: he hadn’t “worked in a while” because “he wasn’t sure if he liked kids”. I guess he thought, “ok. I’ll be a teacher, or I’ll throw in the towel and never work again.” Convictions.

Back to the “he’s blind” thing. I expected a full-on Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman.

Fig. 1.4
I did not expect Chris O'Donnell to be there. It would have been a bonus.

He had glasses. That was it. He didn’t touch my face. He wasn’t counting steps. He didn't have a cane. He didn't have a dog with a vest that tells me not to pet it. He said, “you look great! I love your zebra-print shirt! How do you walk in those heels?” (translation: I can see you! Look at me and my working eyes go!)

So I thought, “ok. Maybe his problem is in depth perception, so he can’t drive and it would make sense that I just picked up an unemployed 34-year-old man from his mom’s house to go out on a date”. Remember that blog I wrote where I said I suffered from either incurable optimism or you-are-the-biggest-idiot-alive disease?

I am the biggest idiot alive. Bigger than Glenn Beck.

Fig. 1.5
Look at this idiot. Get a hold of yourself, idiot.

Then came the time for us to solidify what we were doing.

Me: What do you want to do? (translation: where do blind dudes go to have fun? I can’t read Braille and I only saw Ray twice.)
Bodie: Let’s go to the movies. Then we can go to Barnes and Nobles, if you want.
Me: Ok. (translation: there’s no effing way you’re blind.)

So I started driving us to the movies, convincing myself that he has no depth perception, until he says, “you’re going to turn left in about 20 feet”. Which means that not only does he have depth perception, he doubles as an irritating GPS. I ignored it, because, like Julia Roberts, if you don’t believe in something, it just goes away. Until Robin Williams claps you back to life.

Fig. 1.6
"I played a fairy to clean up my act after playing a hooker!"

So we went to the movies. And like a good date, he asked me what I wanted to see. Then, like someone you’ve been dating for a while, he completely ignored my suggestion and took me to see Harry Potter and The Movie I Wasn’t Interested In Seeing, or something like that, where he proceeded to receive texts all night and kept trying to nonchalantly (translation: extremely obviously) hold my hand like I was in the seventh grade. ("What? Oh no. I sit with my hand upturned on the arm rest all the time. It's comfortable.)

You may have noticed that I said he was receiving texts all through the movie. I didn’t ask him about the texts for two reasons. One, I didn’t care. Two, I’m not crazy. Your texts are none of my business, no matter how rude you're being. As it turns out, I didn’t have to ask. He told me. It would have been better if he didn’t.

The texts (that he could READ oh his PHONE) he was receiving for a solid three hours, were from his mother.

He beamed. “She wants to meet you!”

Have you ever felt your entire body go cold and start shaking, then you feel your stomach twist, then your mouth tastes like pennies and you feel light headed and all you want to do is get blackout drunk and listen to House of Pain? Like probably the way Michael Caine felt when he saw, and then realized he was in, Jaws 4? That moment felt a lot like that.

Fig. 1.7
"Holy Christ. I was in that movie?"