Today's topic: Unforgettable First Dates or Memories from Hell.
Pull out the scrapbook, physical or mental. We're going to take a walk down "bad memory lane," and resurrect those awful mental snapshots, tucked deep in the recesses of our brain, behind a door marked "DO NOT ENTER."
First dates. They're miserable, uncomfortable, and embarrassing. You don't know what to say to fill the awkward silences, your hair looks the dorkiest it ever has in your life, and acne strikes (regardless of age), leaving an glowing blister either in the middle of your forehead, or on the end of your nose or chin. There is no concealer on the market strong enough to cover the "first date zit."
The pharmaceutical industry also has not created an effective product to cure the following ailment that also appears out of nowhere, just for the first date: Gas; the stomach that constantly grumbles or the fart you hold onto so hard your butt cheeks turn inside out. Also, no matter how many days you fast, your stomach will bloat on the first date, creating more of an innertube effect instead of a muffin top around the waistband of those cute designer jeans you sacrificed a paycheck on. You can suck it in for all your worth, forcing your ribcage to protrude unnaturally, but the "bump" will still be there, only your boobs will be elevated under your chin, blocking the view. Also, that fart you've been secretly hiding, will slither out (possibly in a high pitched squeak) when you suck in your gut. Avoid broccoli for at least a month prior to a first date.
If you're smart, opt for a movie if the choice is given, allowing two hours of avoiding small talk. Just be careful to not pick up your drink by the top, folding the empty top part of the paper cup under the pressure of your fingers, which causes you to lose your grip and consequently, baptize either you or your date in soda. This of course causes the victim to scream during the intimate love scene, silently playing out on the big screen. He or she jumps upward, tossing the large bucket of popcorn into the next row with a pelvic thrust, and sending ice chips flying at unsuspecting victims close by. This creates a "domino effect." Popcorn bucket lands on someone who jumps up, sending their drink into their neighbor's lap, who screams....etc. etc.
In an attempt to impress you, your date will take you someplace nice to eat (depending on whether you survived the movie or left the theatre with a conspicuous "wet spot"). Eating in front of people is something I hate, whether its my boss, or a complete stranger. I always manage to order something I can't maneuver from "plate to mouth" without humiliating myself. Pasta is the worse. I wrap my spaghetti inside a spoon like I know what the hell I'm doing, but while easing it to my mouth, the noodles unravel, usually at a high rate of speed, spraying marinara sauce across my chest. (Note: Never wear white on a first date - more on that below). My next forkful is less pasta, and when it starts to fall apart, I meet the fork halfway and slurp the dangling noodles through my lips. Hopefully, my date sees this as a possible seductive talent.
Most embarrassing first date was in my senior year of high school. I accepted an invitation to a homecoming dance with the captain of the football team at a rival school - my high school team won said homecoming game. First sign bad karma was coming my way. To be honest, I don't remember the actual dance, but the dinner afterward at the coach's house, will live on forever in my nightmares. I wore a blue velvet dress and a white velvet coat. Velvet against velvet, does not slide.
Picture an elegant entry with plush ivory carpet and walls covered in ivory flocked wall paper. In walks the team captain with a girl from the school who pulverized the team in a humiliating homecoming game the day before, as his date. All eyes are on me. Did I mention how nervous I get around strangers? Refer back to pharmaceutical "ass faults." My date, who really was a sweet guy, but will never acknowledge he knew me, no matter how rich and famous I may become, attempts to take my coat off, in the entryway. As I mentioned, velvet against velvet is as strong as industrial strength velcro. My coat fails to surrender the final sleeve, and in an attempt to rush things, I forcefully yank my arm out of the sleeve.
Here's where I'll mention the "menu." Sloppy joes, baked beans, corn on the cob, and potato salad. Oh, and fruit punch. Important detail. This is also a good place to describe the layout of the house, and my proximity to the apocalypse about to happen. At the end of the entry is the living room, where the other team members and their dates are seated (we were late for some reason. I've mentally blocked everything up to this moment, so who knows, maybe I murdered someone at the dance). Off to the right, just inside the entry where I'm struggling with my coat, is the kitchen, where we are to pick up our plates of food and carry them down the ivory carpeted path, to the living room.
When I yank my arm free from its velvet trap, it comes down, and basically "karate chops" some blonde's plate full of all the above mentioned food items. She was also carefully balancing a full glass of fruit punch. Baked beans fell, one by one, from the flocked wall paper, onto the pile of barbecue beef resting against the white painted baseboards. A rapidly growing orange grease ring forms , soaking into the ivory carpet and bleeding into the berry colored puddle, seeping into the carpet pad. The cob of butter soaked corn? An indelible mark, showing each kernel, plastered the gold filigree framed mirror. I didn't hear the cob actually splat into the pile of meat, but the hamburger spatters on my shins and shoes, were proof it was probably a direct hard hit. The potato salad? A side dish complimenting the front of the satin formal the blonde was wearing. I never received a call for a second date. Go figure?
Luckily, my husband married me despite our first date. I wore white jeans. He took me mountain climbing in his 4-wheel drive truck and we traversed many a deep mud puddle. Brown muck covered the windshield. When we got to the bottom of the mountain, my soul mate jumped out to evaluate (some macho man thing). Wanting to impress him by not being a prissy girl, I slid out of the truck (we have had steps on every 4-wheel drive truck since), wiping a good portion of mud from the truck with my backside. Without realizing my butt was covered in mud, I jumped back in truck and eased across the seat, leaving a brown streak from one end of the seat to the other. That's right. Another impressive first date that's lasted a very long time.
Any other horror stories involving first dates, or am I the only unlucky one? Thanks for letting me share! See you on the weekend.
Here's to "mud in your eye"....Joelene