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Wednesday, July 16, 2014

A tale of two cities. Actually, one city and one really big jerk.

Last night's date was pretty much awesome, so in his honor, I, the Nugget, present to you last month's prize winning date:

We met online (SHOCKING) and exchanged numbers pretty quickly. Lots of texts were exchanged, and my asshole senses were certainly not tingling (though, as we have learned, my asshole senses may be broken well beyond repair). So, we made a date for a Monday night. I mention to him that I'd be having dinner beforehand (I'm doing a fitness challenge, so I was trying to make most of my meals). He said that was fine, and we'd meet for a drink.

Now, San Francisco is not a big city. In fact, it's 7 miles by 7 miles. I work in one of the super gritty neighborhoods. Mr. Traditionalist (this name will become relevant shortly) works approximately a 20 minute walk away from my office. His work neighborhood is usually filled with insufferable suits loudly bragging about cheating on their trophy wives while spilling their $14 cocktails, so we opt for my work neighborhood. I suggest a whiskey bar, warning, "It's kind of a dive." He says he's into it. I arrive, and he's standing out front, looking visible uncomfortable. We walk inside, and his discomfort increases tenfold. I say, "Hey, I told you it was a dive! We can go somewhere else if you'd like?" He says, "No, I'm good," and takes off his jacket, looking around as if any of the 5 patrons on a barstool were going to take his wallet at any moment. "Are you sure? You look uncomfortable." "What's making me uncomfortable is you asking me if I'm uncomfortable!" he bristles. Well, this is off to a great start. I sit down and start to take off my coat, and finally he says, "Yeah, maybe we should go somewhere else." I suggest an upscale beer bar (even though I'm not a big fan of beer) up the street, and he readily agrees. We walk there, and it's closed on Mondays. There's another dive next door, which I quickly suggest, hoping he won't veto this one, too. He doesn't.

Once inside, he says, "I don't usually drink, so I'll have what you're having." I order a Bulleit Rye and ginger ale, my usual, and his eyes widen. "You're a party girl!" Well, if I'm a party girl, so is most of the population of San Francisco. I force a laugh and go to pull out my wallet. "What do you think you're doing? Put that away when you're around me!" Okay, nice gesture, thanks, but there are more tactful ways to say, "I've got this one!" I sit and wait for him to order, and after he brings back the drinks, we begin a perfectly ordinary conversation...until he brings up our different cultures. "You realize I'm Turkish and you're Jewish, and Turks and Jews don't get along, right?" Well, yes, we've already both read and discussed both of our backgrounds, and you haven't done anything personally to me or mine or vice versa, so what's the problem? He tries to play it off, saying most Jewish girls only like Jewish men. I force a smile and continue with the ordinary small talk.

He then says, "I'm starving. You're not going to let me starve, are you?" I say that we can certainly go to get him something to eat, but that I'd already eaten as I'd advised him I would have done when we were making plans, and I wouldn't be joining him in eating. I joked that I would try not to stare at him creepily while he ate, and thought that was that. It wasn't. "You have to eat an appetizer with me. Promise? Promise?" I think I can commit to a salad or something, and pinky promise him. He then walks us over to the Turkish restaurant directly next door to the original bar we had met at, as if this was part of his plan all along.

He convinces me to order a glass of wine. "Come on! You're not driving! Anyway, girls are supposed to get drunk on dates. And you're a party girl!" Oh, really? I'd missed that memo. He then proceeds to order every item on the menu, guilting me into trying every single item (I'm very susceptible to food guilt!). We start chatting about my last weekend, and I mention a party with my favorite poly family. I joke that I'm always the weird one with most of my San Francisco friends, because I'm more monogamously minded, and they have to be like, "Oh yeah, there's Kat. She's monogamous." (Side note: they aren't actually judge-y and love me just the way I am!). We move on to talking about past relationships, and he assumes that my last long term relationship was with a man. I pause, wondering if it's worth the trouble, and then say, "Fuck it!" and blurt out, "Actually, it was with a woman." His eyes go wide, he pauses, and almost shouts, "You know that's unnatural, right?" I stare at him in stunned silence, and, seeing he done goofed, he tries to back that train wreck right up. "I MEAN you expecting a man to be with just one woman. Men are naturally inclined to be with more than one woman. It's just biology. Have more wine!" You know what, dude? I WILL have more wine, because the check isn't coming anytime soon and I'm trapped at a corner table with you.

He orders dessert, which I politely decline, and I'm feeling a little buzzed. It's now dark out, and we're still in the aforementioned gritty neighborhood with a good 20 minute walk to the train, and I'm in uncomfortable heels. I should have thought this through. He offers me a ride home, and we've had a good 10 minutes without any asshole remarks, so I accept. He's parked right out front. We ride mostly in silence until we're on the bridge, and he says, "You know what I think?" Please tell me, dude, because you've been so coy thus far. "You're desperate for a husband." Huh. Really. That's a new one. I briefly consider hurling myself out onto the highway, but instead grit my teeth for the next 15 minutes until he drops me off at home with a brief hug goodnight.

The next day, I'd gone out (coincidentally, on a date that you'll read about VERY soon), and was waiting for the train at 10:30pm. I check my phone as I wait, as one does. There are six text messages from Mr. Traditional.
6:53pm: "You are more stubborn than I am, aren't you?"
6:54pm: "Ok, I give up..."
6:59pm: "You're not talking to me now?"
8:01pm: "Ok, I'll go eat worms..."
8:42pm: "Can you at least tell me what I did wrong and I'll go away."
8:43pm: "Please..."

I can't imagine why I wouldn't answer.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Aaaaaand scene.

Nugget here. I have lots to fill you in on, but while I'm under a work deadline, I'll leave you with a brief recap of last night's date:

Show up. Dude's in a green V-neck tshirt and grey blazer, looking blitz out of his mind. He's already downed a glass of straight whiskey in the 10 minute's he's been waiting. He orders a glass of wine, and when he's not taking about getting drunk and passing out naked in friends' pools, we're staring at each other in awkward silence. I finish my glass of wine in record time, and exactly 38 minutes from the moment I walked in the door, we're standing out on the sidewalk (not after he smarmily says to the bartender, "Oh. I guess I'll cover her glass, too." It's okay, I have cash, jerk). He says, "So...drinks at your place?" I make a show of yawning and say, "Gee, it's getting late...sorry!"

It was 9:30pm.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

It's here! It's here! It's here!

Okay, I, The Nugget, have been totally slacking off on posting, and I'm really sorry. Like, really, really sorry. But, just in time for Valentine's Day, I have the perfect gift (and like all Valentine's Day gifts, I may be slightly intoxicated while presenting it to you, and you will dutifully hide your disappointment when it wasn't exactly what you wanted. What am I, a mind reader? God, you're such a girl).
So, I put up an ad on that trash heap of internet existence called Craigslist, since I'm still on an OKCupid break. Don't blame me, I was bored, and since everyone on there is trolling or trying to send you pictures of their unmentionables, I figured I'd feel popular for a minute once I started getting a bunch of emails, and then spend the rest of the day getting to make fun of people. Win-win, right?
Imagine my surprise when Friday night, I get an email from a totally attractive, totally normal seeming, FULL CLOTHED man that was completely personable and indicated he read my (incredibly well-written and totally charming) ad. Hold on. Has the world ended? The sky falling down? Please wait while I check. Nope, still here. Good. Okay, so we trade a few emails, and late in the evening, he gives me his number. I waited until the next morning (because I'm a chick, and yes, we absolutely do that in case you were wondering). Silence. On Monday, however, he apologized for the delay, and asked if I wanted to get a drink. Sure. He asked if I was free that night. I'm usually not big on same day plans, but I truly didn't have any plans that night, and I was suffering from cabin fever from all the studying I'd been doing that weekend, so I went for it. Hesitantly.
I show up, and he's well dressed, well spoken, and looks just like his pictures. He pays for our drinks, makes friends with the bartender, and talks to me about progressive politics. He even asked if I'd like to go out again sometime later in the week before we went our separate ways. I was impressed.
Now, I'm a Jew, and we worry, so I sent him a text asking if he got home okay. 20 minutes later, I receive a text from another number stating, "Hi, sorry, this is my personal phone, my other phone that I primarily use for work is charging right now, so now you have both my numbers!" And we chat a little. Things get a little weird when he starts to ask for pictures. And then make little hints. I finally catch on and realize he's asking for nudes. I shut that down REAL quick. We haven't even held hands yet, dude! He definitely crossed a line, and I had no intention of ever speaking to him again, even though he quickly apologized.
The next day, he texts me as I'm getting off work. "Hi." That's it. When I get home from work, I text him back the same, curious about what he has to say for himself. Half an hour later, I'm making dinner and my phone rings. Let me tell you, I hate talking on the phone, especially when I have something important to do, so I let it go to voicemail. I had a feeling I knew who it was, anyway.
As I sit down to eat, I check my phone. Yep, it was him. No voicemail left. Well, if he had something to say, I guess he would have said it, right? I go on with my evening, and a little while later, he texts me this long text explaining that he was calling to apologize for his EX texting me last night, and that it was invasive and inappropriate and I had every right to be upset. Wait. Back the eff up. His EX was texting me from her phone, pretending to be him, trying to get me to send her nude pictures? This is a whole new brand of crazy.
I text back, "How did your ex get my number?" He says, "From my cell phone bill." Okay, listen. I've never worked for a cell phone company, but it doesn't take a rocket scientists to figure out how cell phones work. They charge you for the minutes/texts/data used, and in order to do that, they charge you after you've used it. So, when you get your cell phone bill, it's for the month preceding. SO, your cell phone bill, even if you got it that same day, would not have the number of someone that texted you that very day. I CALL SHENANIGANS! Obviously, she got my number from his phone. And obviously, if she's looking at his phone at 10:30pm on a Monday night, and knew he was not home right after work, she probably lives there. Either way, this is some drama I do NOT want to deal with, and I let him know in no uncertain terms. He, of course, responded saying it's "complicated" and he'd like to explain but he can't do so in text. Am I going to meet this guy to hear his sob story? Absolutely not. But, I am definitely thinking harder on honoring my friend Darcie's suggestion to make 2014 the Year of the Ladies. At least we're up front about our crazy.