Total Pageviews

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.