The Worst Date Ever
Hi friends. Full disclaimer: I am very drunk as I write this.
So, the other night, my friends and I went to a bar in East LA. I had decided that I would transcend my passive-aggressive self and actually approach women in the bar. Of course, this required an unreasonable amount of alcohol, but I got a number and felt pretty good about myself. And then, as I was about to leave, a girl walked in. She was splendid. The type of girl that suspends time and creates unexplainable winds to blow through her hair. The kind of girl that has inspired songs and poems. The girl that you want to wake up next to. She reminded me of Maggie Gyllenhaal, but way hotter. She came in with a short, hot blonde friend and I immediately struck conversation with them. Things were going well, I got her number, and I invited her to a concert the next day at Spaceland, she said yes. Awesome. I went home and even texted "how about dinner beforehand?" to which she responded "yes". Oh, sweet dreams are made of these.
I woke up the next day with a spring in my step, we texted back and forth with a little banter and flirtation, I was excited. I spritzed myself with cologne, and to be frank, I even shaved my balls. I feel like I can be honest with you all.
But half an hour before I was to pick her up, this girl... we'll call her Schmecca... because it reminds with Becca. She calls and asks "Is it okay if my SISTER comes along?"
Now, I understand you bringing along a friend. I'm a stranger, you've watched Hostel, you don't want to get raped, I get it. But your SISTER? I mean, can your parents come along too? Do you want to bring your chastity belt as well?
But I say yes... because I'm a pussy.
I go to pick her and her sister up, and turns out, her sister IS the short blonde friend I had met the night prior, and she was just in town for the weekend. Understandable. Excusable. I breathe a sigh of relief and drive them to the restaurant in which I had planned to charm Schmecca's pants off.
On the way there, Schmecca proceeds to call some people and asks me... "Hey, is it okay that I invited my friend Schmachel, AND that guy we met at the bar last night?" Um.... SERIOUSLY? You mean that guy that was flirting with you all night who looks like Jack White if he spent every afternoon at Krispy Kreme?
But again, I'm a vagina. And I said, "Sure! The more the merrier!"
So, we arrive at this Thai restaurant, which I had called earlier and specifically asked "Hi, can I make a reservation for two?" To which they responded, "For two? You won't need one, we won't be busy 'til 9 pm, and tables for TWO should be fine. Did we mention the number two?" At 7:30 pm, we arrive and I say to the hostess, "Table FOR FIVE please (because my date decided to invite 3 more people along!)" And the hostess replies, "I'm sorry, that won't be possible tonight. A table for five is just too much."
I... am not surprised. Life is good.
Still trying to salvage the night, I try to be jovial and suggest that we go find a restaurant by the concert venue, but clearly, I could not hide my all-around disappointment, as the girl of my affection and her sister seemed concerned. I really was a bit frazzled by all of this, and I had a hard time being entertaining at this point. Thus, from their perspective, I probably didn't seem like the best date ever either. But still, I decided to press onward. I had lived through 8th grade winter formal when Beth Meyers ended up dancing with someone else during "End of the Road"... I felt like I could see this through too.
Eventually, we find a place a block from the concert that is BYOB. I purchase a six-pack from the corner store, so that we can all partake in some alcoholic intake to diffuse a somewhat awkward evening. Things seem to be normalizing, I am starting to engage in some good conversation with Schmecca....
But then, DOUCHEBAG MCGEE arrives. Yes, that is his actual name. Jack White with slight love handles shows up, and he proceeds to polish off two of my beers! But I must admit, he is one charming motherfucker! Like I would actually want to hang out with him under different circumstances. Hell, even under these circumstances, I kind of hope our paths cross again. I mean the dude invented "National High-Five Day". How do I compete with that? He invented high-fives on a national level!! I'm incredibly fucked. High-fives are happening around me at an arousing rate.
So, I literally watch the girl that I had asked out on a date fall in love with this guy. I'm not just talking normal love, but like Notebook love, the kind that you remember even at an old age with Alzheimer's. As in, if they don't have children, I will be deeply offended kind of love. I swallow my pride and try to make the best of the night. Her sister is fun, her friend Schmachel is a little nuts, but in an entertaining way. This could still be good, right?
No. Absolutely not.
The check arrives. And in BIG BOLD RED letters there is a sign that reads "NO CREDIT CARDS ALLOWED. CASH ONLY." There is a bit of confusion as people put down cards for the bill. At this point, I say "fuck it," I'll pay for the dinner since I took out a large amount of cash earlier when I thought I'd be treating ONE lady to a wonderful date out on the town! Thus, I purchase dinner for all the ladies at the table. Surely, they will return the favor with some drinks at the concert... or at the very least, some extended conversation from Schmecca?
Again, no. Absolutely not.
We arrive at the venue, in which the object of my affection enters for free with my +1, and NO ONE even remotely thinks to offer me a drink. Instead, I watch Schmecca fall even more in love with "John Mayer meets Horatio Sanz." At one point, I pretend there is a glimmer of hope, and I end up sitting next to her, conversing and bantering for a little while. God, I'm smitten. She really is a sweet girl, oblivious of the fact that I think she is the best thing since the internet. But I have to go to the bathroom, having drank a lot in the evening thus far to diffuse the nerves. Upon returning from said bladder-relief, I find that Douchebag McGee has taken the seat next to Schmecca! At least your parents had some foresight in naming you, Mr. Douchebag McGee. Even Schmecca's sister seems to feel bad for me now, as she looks at me with eyes of pity and sadness that should only be reserved for people with terminal illnesses. That have no parents. Because they died of terminal illnesses.
So, in summary, I'm sitting here, watching the girl I had asked out gaze longingly into the eyes of a much more charming man, while I sip a Pabst Blue Ribbon a few feet from the group, having basically funded AND chauffered the date between the two.
Finally, after two songs into the main band, and after the urging of many friends via text messages, I decided to use the "emergency excuse" and say that a "friend" needed help and I had to bail. I believe I heard, "Oh, but we're having so much fun." and a "We should do this again." Yes! Clearly, I will be marking this in my calendar for the following Monday, so we can do this exact same scenario again, but maybe with more relatives. Please, I really, really want to re-live this.
I left and met up with friends, got drunk out of my mind and proceeded to tell this story to every table in the bar. At some point in the evening, Schmecca texted with "Hope ur friend's ok. I'm sorry I invited such a random mix of people," which in all honesty, was very sweet of her. I think this fiasco happened not so much because of her, she seems genuinely good, but because of an apparently potent asexual vibe I give off to women, even when I rock out with my cock out.
Normally, being a punani, I'd reply, "Hey! No problem! Friend is totally ok now. Thanks for texting!" But I was very drunk. And very bitter. My pride, which had gone missing for the past 25 years, appeared out of nowhere just to shake its head at me. So, I decided to put my foot down, and I replied, "The friend thing was a lie. It was great going on a date with you, your friend, your sister... and your real date. We should do that again sometime."
OK, that was a little Douchebag McGee of me. But here is the kicker. She replies with one word.
What?!?! That's so deep, I can't even process it at the moment! What about my reaction to any point of this evening is trite??? I didn't expect to sleep with this delightful woman, I didn't even expect a kiss at the end of the night, is it that "trite" of me to be upset after watching this girl flirt with another guy on a date that I had asked her out on... while her sister and her friend also stood by?? After I had paid for dinner... for EVERYONE???
I'm pretty sure I burned a bridge, and I'm sure I could've done a lot of things differently, but what would you have done? I've asked men and women, both friends and strangers, and they all concur that I never should've gone in the first place when she introduced the 'other guy' factor.
So, as I sit here on a Saturday night at 3 am watching A Walk To Remember and clutching a gallon of PCP with one hand and a full body pillow with the other, I wonder... is it me?
Leave a comment with your worst date story!
ADDENDUM: This morning, I woke up very hung-over, grabbed the only clean t-shirt I could find, and met my writing partner for brunch. We discuss the events above, we eat, we laugh, I'm feeling better. As we're walking to our cars, a girl points at me and says, "National High-Five Day!!" Uh... what?!? I know there were a lot of people on this date last night, but I'm fairly certain she wasn't one of them. I look at her confused and then realize... I'm wearing my "Keep The High-Five Alive" t-shirt. Then, the following exchange takes place.
ME: "You know, it's funny... I actually met the guy who invented that holiday last-"
GIRL: "You mean, Schmichard?? From San Diego?"
ME: (in disbelief) "Um... yeah. I think."
GIRL: "He's so awesome, huh?"
I look at my writing partner, who is also surprised by what is unfolding here. I wanted to look up to the skies, fists clenched and yell "MCGEEEEEEEEE!" Instead...
ME: "Yeah, he's great. You know, I was actually on this date last night..."
I start raising my voice to retell the story. The girl begins to look extremely uncomfortable.
GIRL: "Well, it was nice to meet you. I just wanted to comment on your shirt. That's... all. Bye."
Yep, ol' Sonny Lee's still got a way with the ladies.
P.S. For another incredibly hilarious bad-date story, check out my writing partner's past post.
P.P.S. And to thank you all for bearing through my drunken rants above, I want to add a song below. Any other songs you guys associate with bad dates? Let me know in the comments!
"She's A Rejector" - Of Montreal [buy album]
LAST UPDATE: I mentioned above that Douchebag McGee seemed like one charming mofo, who I'd actually want to hang out with. Well, now I know he is one charming mofo, who I'd actually want to hang out with. He recently sent me a very kind email, along with an iTunes gift certificate, thanking me for the beer and the story. He even made me L-O-L by ending the email with "I'm off to go get donuts." So to end this saga, I just want to say, you're a good man, Charlie Brown. Douchebag McGee you will no longer be. Take good care of Mr. Brown, Schmecca. Take good care.
And we all lived happily ever after... the end.