How I banned myself from Taco Bell and invented an imaginary co-worker

Recently, there are four very specific types of men who are interested in me. And because of that, I had to banish myself from Taco Bell and invent a fake person to carry out conveniently-timed conversations with in case I'm not strong enough to follow through with the terms of my own banishment. (Spoiler alert-I'm not.)

How many links exist in this terrible, terrible chain that led to my inescapable self-banishment from a less-than-mediocre restaurant that may or may not be serving gerbils disguised as taco meat? Four. Four gigantic links. And here they are.

Link 1-These are the four types of men who are currently interested in me:

1) Homeless and sassy
Fig. 1.1
"Marry me! We'll take my spaceship to the reception!"

2) Creepy and married
Fig. 1.2
"See this hair gel? All of it is for you."

3) Truck drivers who have a significantly reduced number of teeth
Fig. 1.3
It was surprisingly difficult to find a real picture for this. So I drew you a diagram. Also, this diagram features a great white shark.

4) Men who work at drive-throughs (that's right. "Through". Because "thru" isn't a real effing word.)
Fig. 1.4
I'm just assuming he works at a drive through. And also, he wants your wallet.

Link 2-These are the four ways I avoid conflict
1) Pretend like there's not a conflict at all-because what are you even talking about because this is totally not happening.
2) Pretend like there's something very interesting going on behind the person I'm talking to-because really? Are they moving office furniture outside? That is so interesting!
3) Pretend like I have to leave to get gas in my car-because I've just remembered that all of the gas stations close in 15 minutes and I'll run out of gas on the way home. Yes, they close at 6:15 on Thursdays. All of them.
4) Pretend like I have a phone call-I'm sorry, I have to answer this because it's my friend who needs a thing.

Link 3-These are the four ways I say "no" to people
1) Maybe
2) We'll see
3) Hahahahaha. I don't know.
4) Next time!

Link 4-The Situation
So here's The Situation. There's this Taco Bell by where I live. Because I come home very late (and because I have a blatant disregard for my health) sometimes I stop there on my way home. Until a few months ago when the sassy drive through man started asking for my number every time I went through.
Let me pause here and tell you that this isn't one of those fake complaints designed to make me look awesome. I'm 99 percent sure he asks for everyone's number. Because I'm pretty sure that's standard operating procedure for someone that has no concept of his lazy eye, no self-awareness that making kissy faces at customers is disgusting, and an over-inflated ego from being Head Sassy Drive Through Man at Taco Bell.
Take the fact that he asked me four times and divide that by the four ways I say no to people and you can see, if you're as good at math as I am, how this quickly went awry. Here are how those conversations went:

Conversation 1
Sassy Drive Through Man: Hey Beautiful. Why don't you give me your number?
Me: Maybe!
Sassy Drive Through Man: ...
Me: ...
Sassy Drive Through Man: So is that a yes?
Me: Bye!

Conversation 2
Sassy Drive Through Man: Hey girl. You giving me that number now?
Me: We'll see!
Sassy Drive Through Man: We'll see?
Me: Mild sauce, please.

Conversation 3
Sassy Drive Through Man: What's up. You have beautiful eyes. Did you forgot to give me your number last time?
Me: Hahahahaha. I don't know! Can I get a raspberry tea?! Ok!

Conversation 4
Sassy Drive Through Man: Hey, sexy. You're back. It's been awhile (I was clearly trying to avoid this situation.) Are you going to give me that number yet?
Me: Next time!
Sassy Drive Through Man: Next time? Why not now!
Me: Because I'm classy! (he bought this. which is another reason we could never work as a couple.)
Sassy Drive Through Man: Well, good. Then I'm looking forward to next time.

That's when panic set in. I hadn't come up with a Plan E. What would happen next time? I'll tell you what would happen next time. I'd be forced to give him my number. Then we would talk and then we would go out and then he would take me to play bingo and drink warm beer or watch a dog fight. Then we would get married. Then we would have babies. Then I would be stuck at home watching Roseanne reruns while he worked the Taco Bell drive through and cheated on me. That's not an educated guess. That's what would happen.

Does he pressure everyone like this? I'm assuming so. Would it break his heart if I told him no? There's no plausible way. The statistical probability of him caring about actually having my number is about the same as the likelihood that he's not a serial murderer. So tell me why, after banishing myself from this particular Taco Bell and then immediately realizing that I must not actually know what the word "banish" means, did I decide to implement one of my conflict avoidance techniques, making sure that I'm talking to my "co-worker", named "Veronica" about the "reports that are due" every time I go through the drive through to avoid giving him my number? The same reason that, after I have my order, have successfully avoided the conflict and am already past the drive through window, I always tell "Veronica" goodbye and that I'll see her tomorrow.

Because I'm fucking considerate, that's why.

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 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?"

The Jennifer Branch Are-You-a-Serial-Murderer Test (patent pending)

Have you ever been out at a fine local restaurant or comfortable neighborhood tavern talking to someone you, at first, assumed was the pillar of normalcy and then halfway through the conversation and about four drinks in, a tiny flicker in your brain tells you, “there is absolutely no chance that this person is not a serial murderer, you must escape quickly or you’ll be a lampshade in their apartment in about six hours. Your parents will have to look for you and the last person that saw you will have to announce to the world that you were last seen wearing glow-in-the-dark flip flops, a slap bracelet and a side pony tail because you have some weird form of arrested development that won’t let you progress, fashionably, past the fifth grade”? Then you freak out, first because you’re wearing your LEAST favorite slap bracelet and then second because you only have two speeds and neither of them are suitable for quick escapes?

Because that has happened to me. More than once. I’m not talking about being out on a date with a complete stranger you met on the internet either. Because let’s face it. Of course that person is a serial murderer. I hope you enjoy being a lampshade. I don’t even mean the situation involves a date at all, or that the person on the other side of you is even a person of the opposite gender.

Here’s one hypothetical (actual) example. If this were an actual conversation (It is), it would have happened at Cecil’s on West Gray.
Me: Cute shoes!
Girl whose shoes I just complimented: Thanks! They’re great for stabbing people in the head. The stilettos are so spiky. Yours are cute too!
Me: Wow. I got mine at Taxi, Taxi.

Here’s another hypothetical (actual) example. In this instance you (I) were just hanging out at a bar that should not attract serial murderers (but probably it does on Wednesdays because the drinks are really, really cheap and serial murderers have to keep a low profile) and halfway through a normal conversation that started with baseball, a guy you thought was completely banal asks you (me) if you’ve (I’ve) ever been stabbed before.
Me: I actually don’t think we’ve given Ed Wade a fair shake yet.
Him: I agree.
Me: ((pause while I drink))
Him: Have you ever been stabbed before? ((he proceeds to roll up a $20 bill into a funnel and poke me lightly in the arm))
Me: If you don’t leave right now I’ll talk about how cute it is when I dress my dogs up and how much I want kids.

I have more hypothetical (actual. They’re all actual) examples, but I think these two are sufficient to show you why what I’ve developed and am about to share with you (you’re welcome) is acutely necessary.

Below, you’ll find the Jennifer Branch Are-You-a-Serial-Murderer Test (patent pending). It’s imperative that before you even begin a conversation with a complete stranger, you ask them these four questions.

The Jennifer Branch Are-You-a-Serial-Murderer Test (patent pending)
1) Are you now, or have you ever been, a serial murderer? (you should give them the opportunity to be honest up front)
2) Have you, either now or ever in the past, simultaneously possessed a rope, a tarp, night vision goggles, binoculars, duct tape, lime and a shovel? (One of these things at a time is fine. Two is questionable. More than that is ridiculous. Get out of there now.)
3) If you had to choose between watching a documentary on John Wayne Gacey or Shark Week, which would you choose. (If they say ‘John Wayne Gacey’, shoot first and ask questions later. A CLOWN serial murderer over TIGER SHARKS?! That person clearly cuts people up into tiny pieces and puts those pieces into random objects they sell on Ebay.)
4) How do you feel about Captain Crunch? (their choice here isn’t necessarily indicative of being a serial murderer. It just tells you all you need to know about their personality. ‘What? You like crunch berries? Get out of my sight, you monster.’)

If their answers are yes, I have owned three of those things at a time, what’s shark week?, and I love crunch berries, you’re royally effed. You can escape one of two ways:

Escape Plan A: Calmly put your drink down, excuse yourself to make a phone call, sneak around to the other side of the bar, pay your tab and leave.

Escape Plan B) Shout "MURDERER! THIS PERSON IS A MURDERER!" Throw your drink at their face (it would be nice if the drink was on fire, just a thought) and run out the door, knocking barstools over and using human shields as you go. You’ll probably have to come back later, apologize and pay your tab so you don’t get thrown in jail.

These are literally your only two options. At any rate, get out of there as quickly as possible (but if it’s a girl with very tall stilettos, don’t turn your back on her. She’ll stab you in the head).