Looking back, there were so many red flags, but because of her profile photos I ignored them all. She was beautiful and she was in to me, even after I told her I had just lost my job. So how could I turn down a date?
For anonymity reasons, and because I think it’s funny, I will call her “Her.” Her and I had been corresponding via Match.com emails for about a week and a half. For those of you who don’t know my online dating email strategy (everyone), I usually allow at least a full day, sometimes two, to pass before I respond to a message. Not Her. No, Her’s tactic was to respond no more than 10 minutes after reading one of my incredibly witty and sexified messages. I can’t blame her, but Her’s behavior was weirding me out a bit.
But alas, I pushed through the flag in my quest for love. After a hint from her end, I sent Her my number on a Thursday night. Ten minutes later my phone started ringing.
“Who the fuck is this?” I asked aloud while examining the foreign, out-of-state number. For those of you (everyone) who don’t know my policy on answering phone numbers I don’t recognize, I answer every call that comes my way for a couple of reasons. 1) Some of the most meaningful conversations I’ve ever had are with strangers who’ve dialed the wrong number. Here’s one that came to me not once, but twice in the span of five months:
“S Bill thur,” asks a completely intoxicated man.
“No, this is not Bill’s number anymore. This is ----.”
“Huly shit, my name is ----. Anywah, if ya need anything, and I mean ANYTHING, gi mea call.”
“Thanks ----. Have a good night.”
And the second reason I answer every call is because I’m so, so lonely. Sometimes it’s nice to have an unsuspecting caller’s shoulder to cry on. Trust me, they’ll never call again after hearing me blubber on for two hours about the cancellation of Arrested Development.
So when I saw a number starting with 315 on my Blackberry, I answered it. It was Her and Her was calling me because Her doesn’t do txt messaging. She was driving home from a friend’s place, read my message, giggled at my witty prose and gave me a call. I was taken completely off guard and needed time to mentally prepare myself so I sifted through a few options to stall. I’m masturbating? No. I’m watching the Twins game? No. I’m masturbating to the Twins game? Maybe. Instead I asked her if she wanted to give me a call once she wasn’t driving anymore. Her seemed offended because Her is from New York so Her can drive and talk at the same time. Anyway, we scheduled our date for the following Tuesday night. I said I’d call her on Sunday to finalize the plans.
Friday night: got drunk and high in LoDo (Lower Downtown Denver). Slept in my Car.
Saturday night: got drunk and high in LoDo at a Reggae concert. Left my car and got a ride back with a friend.
Sunday: Got my car and some advice from a good friend on where to take Her and then called Her completely hungover.
“Well I definitely want to take you dancing. There’s this amazing jazz club in LoDo called El Chapultepec. Have you ever been?” She hasn’t, but has heard of it.
“And for dinner how about we go to Biker Jim’s? It’s a gourmet hot dog place that is supposed to be awesome.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” she says coldly, as if I’m supposed to know that. I rack my fragile memory for that specific detail in her profile but come up empty.
Floundering, I hear my friend in the background say “Watercourse,” a great vegetarian place in Denver. I suggest it.
“Well, Watercourse is really nowhere near El Chapultepec, so why don’t I pick a place to eat since you picked what we’re going to do afterward?”
I think this is a brilliant idea mostly because I don’t want to anxiety vomit all over my phone.
Seven minutes after hanging up she txts that she’s made reservations at Rioja for 8:00pm. “Let’s meet for a drink at 7:30,” she includes. “Sound good?” My initial reaction is a small panic tremor set off by the word “reservations.” It’s probably one of those places that’s so inexpensive and hip there’s a wait unless you make reservations, I tell myself. Yeah, that’s it.
That’s not it.
I show up at 7:30 and walk into the place. Dollar signs are all over the walls, the floors, the faces of the wait staff, the bartender, even the fucking napkins are screaming expensive.
Fuck.
I don’t see anyone wearing tennis shoes with tube socks and khaki shorts with a striped, short sleeve polo circa 1977, but I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and remember that's what I’m wearing. I guess what I should be wearing is a pair of black shoes, slacks, and a light sport coat, or something else that would prompt a swift, self ass kicking.
She strolls in wearing a loose red blouse, some jeans that sparkle, and heels. She has one of those huge silver bracelets around her wrists, you know, the ones that make a proper handjob awkward. But seriously, I remind myself, HJs are already awkward and completely pointless. She’s a beautiful woman with brown eyes, brown hair and a body that instantly makes me a sinner. We grab a drink, me a beer and her a champagne + edible flower concoction. The drink’s name escapes me because I’m reeling from the price. Two drinks = $17 + $2 tip = $19.
But she’s gorgeous. She has a great smile and a better laugh and I really want to bang her in the back of my Buick (once I remove the unrolled yoga mat I used for a pillow on both Friday and Sunday nights).
We sit down at our table. The waiter comes over and describes the special with such passion that it makes you want to order 10 of them. I open the menu and find exactly what I’m expecting, barely an entrée under $25.
Oh, that salad is only $9.50, maybe I’ll get one of those.
“Do you want to share a salad,” Her asks.
Maybe Her’s not a money pit after all, I think before realizing she means in addition to her main course.
“Sure,” I say a little too enthusiastically.
We place our order. As the waiter walks away she says I could’ve ordered something with meat in it. “That’s actually what I wanted,” I lie. Believe me, I would’ve ordered meat if I could have afforded it.
We resume our conversation. It’s good conversation and I’m enjoying myself through the fog that always envelops someone who’s going bankrupt.
The salad arrives and it’s literally two bites worth of carefully sliced vegetables delicately draped over one another with Jackson Pollock splashes of dressing. I now realize why it’s only $9.50. We have a glass of wine before the main course comes and when it does I’m not surprised to see only a handful of Tortelloni on my plate.
As we eat I tell Her that she’s a beautiful woman. “Well you’re a beautiful man.”’ I laugh because I’ve never heard anyone say that to me and because it sounds like an insincere, tennis-volley compliment. “I mean it,” Her says. “You have a great smile.” I smile and say, “Well I practice a lot.” She seems disappointed that I don’t hit a compliment back about her smile. We talk about our history with online dating. I tell her that she’s my 6th date, that I wasn’t really feeling it with three, and then two told me to call them to set up a 2nd date but never returned my call. I say that irritates me. “So you’d rather a woman be honest,” Her asks. “Definitely,” I say. “It would save me the time and disappointment.” She agrees.
We request the check from our passion-bleeding waiter and he waddles over to retrieve it. “We’re gonna split the bill because I’m not sure if you got the memo, but I’m unemployed,” I say knowing full well that she did get that memo yet decided a four-and-a-half-star restaurant was a good, first-date idea (but hey, at least their “free” bread was rated the best in Denver).
“O.K.” she says neither disappointed nor delighted.
Half of the bill, including tip = $52.43.
Fuck me.
SPOILER ALERT: She didn’t.
We scoot over to a vodka bar called “Red Square” for a quick shot of strawberry vodka. She buys while implying a second date, something she’s been implying all night.
At one of the corners we say goodbye. I tell Her I had a good time, which is mostly true, and that we should hang out again. Her agrees and tells me to call her. I give Her a hug and go in for a kiss on the lips. She turns her head and I peck her cheek, thinking she turned because of the real cough she’s been sporting all night, which is why we’re not going dancing. I walk to my car with a mixed taste in my mouth. Vodka? Maybe. Mediocre pasta? Possibly. Hope? Relief? I’m not sure.
For those of you who still have a boner for math, the grand total for the entire date looks like this: parking + alcohol and tips + Her’s dinner bill and tip (assuming she gave 15%) + my dinner bill and tip + sales tax = $132.87. What I paid (and I didn’t even get a useless HJ out of it): $73.18.
Blinded by her beauty and by my naïve “maybe she’ll be better on the 2nd date” attitude, I call her a couple of days later and leave a message.
It’s been exactly two weeks since that date and she hasn’t called back.
And thank fucking God.
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