Sunday, October 13, 2013

Tazi's Corner #61 - Dates From Hell (Part I)

Dear Readers:

Having recently been discarded by my lady friend for her latest flavor of the month (sigh…I am a bit bitter about it) I unexpectedly find myself on the dating scene. While perusing the lady cats on Twitter I saw a gorgeous female that I would have loved to pursue if not for the distance between us. Since I hate to travel any place further than my Mommie’s voice will carry, I immediately realized that a relationship between me and this lovely Queen could never be… [Big moping sigh]. I found myself wondering if this is what you humans go through in your search for love from someone other than your loyal pet (as if ANYONE could love you more than us!) and put on the call on Twitter for bad date stories and tales of unworkable love. My mailbag was filled with your tales of humor about your romantic woes that I am sure were not humorous at the time. I actually received enough material to write several columns, so I chose my favorite ten tales to share. I will present the first five this week, with my remaining five faves to follow sometime next month.

Our first tale of woe (or should I say “whoa!”) comes from a woman who discovered that her blind date had a completely different definition of “horseback riding” than the rest of us!

Dear Tazi:

You asked for “bad date” stories and have I got one for you! I placed a personal ad on [a popular dating site] and centered my ad around the theme of horses and riding, since I rode competitively as a teenager and still enjoy riding for fun and exercise. I mentioned that I stable my own horse and was looking for someone with the same interests.

I got several responses, most from men who don’t ride or have not ridden in years, judging by their physical condition or ability on the back of a mare. One guy seemed great on paper, and after emailing back and forth about how much we both liked horses I agreed to meet him. He really seemed to know his stuff, and sounded like an active rider. It turns out he was part of some sexual underground movement where men wear harnesses and bits and women are their “grooms”. He showed up at the stable naked under a trenchcoat, except for some kind of leather, S&M -looking outfit and a harness and bit worn over his head. 

Did he look something like this?
He looked at me, confused by the look of shock and horror on my face, and asked me why I didn’t have my crop with me! He told me he was a “mustang” in need of breaking and pretended to rear up and even whinnied! I stammered that there must be some confusion and high-tailed it out of there!

While I am not here to judge, dear readers, let this be a lesson to you all in clear communication! Our next “date from Hell” story is from a man who learned – the hard way – the difference between being a “non-smoker” and “tobacco free”.

Dear Tazi:

After my divorce last year I decided to ask my friends to set me up with any desirable women they knew and thought I would like. My one stipulation was that she be a non-smoker, because I have asthma and cigarette smoke can set it off so bad I end up in the emergency room.

A friend of a friend, who I know through my weekly poker game but not beyond that, told me he knew a woman who was looking for a good man and that he’d see if she was interested in meeting me. He showed me her picture from her Facebook page, and she looked terrific! Long legs that go on forever, stylishly cut chestnut hair that flowed from a cowgirl hat, and a sweet smile; the fact that she didn’t show her teeth in any of her pictures should have been my first hint that something was wrong with this picture!

“Sandy” and I had our first date at a Saturday night Rock ‘n’ Bowl, which I figured would be a nice way to spend the evening – it wasn’t too intimate, bowling was fun, and we could have a few beers while enjoying the music. It turned out that Sandy didn’t like beer all that much, but she loooooved dip! [Ed. Note: “Dip” is chewing tobacco]. It was only after I had ordered us a pitcher of beer that I realized that Sandy hadn’t wanted a beer but the cup I was planning on pouring it in; the pitcher was halfway gone when I saw that I was the only one drinking and that Sandy’s beer cup was still full while a second, empty cup was slowly filling – with a brew that was much darker than the draft I had ordered for us. Sandy caught me staring just as she spit into her cup, and asked if I minded “a girl who dug dip”. It was then that I caught sight of her teeth – a mouthful of tobacco stained enamel and gums. I didn’t even want to think about her breath, and started dreading the thought of her asking me for a kiss goodnight. I just smiled nonchalantly and asked if this could be our last game, that the loud music was giving me a headache and I was feeling a little nauseous (it was true; the sight of her teeth made me want to throw up).

And people say cats have bad breath! Harrumph! Here’s a date from Hell that would leave a bad taste in anybody’s mouth!

Dear Tazi:

My date from Hell was not a first date but actually a last date. I had been with “Marcia” for a few months, and the chemistry wasn’t there – for me, at least; had I known how Marcia felt about me I would have broken up with her before I allowed things to go too far. Yes, I was sleeping with her, but I didn’t realize it meant so much to Marcia; it certainly didn’t to me (at the time. I am older and wiser now, so no paw slaps of disgust, please. My wife already gave me one when I told her this story).

Sex was the deal-breaker for me. Marcia was awful in bed, but I didn’t want to break up with her after sleeping with her only once – I didn’t want to be “that guy” that women trashed on the ladies’ room walls. I did mention to a buddy of mine, who was dating an acquaintance of Marcia that I was going to break up with her; that I didn’t feel a spark with her and the sex was bad. I am guessing that is how word got back to Marcia.

I was biding my time, avoiding Marcia so a break-up would not be too painful for her, and hoping that we could just casually drift apart when Marcia called me and insisted that I come over her house so she could make me dinner. She said she had a special evening planned, and she was making a special dish just for me. Being a bachelor who could not cook (still can’t) I am a sucker for a home-cooked meal, so I made the date, figuring I could always break up with Marcia the following week.

Dinner was fabulous – Marcia made a complicated veal dish that she had pulled from a gourmet cookbook. The side dishes looked like something that you would see on a cooking show, and the bread was homemade. I was starting to have second thoughts about breaking up with Marcia, when she served the dessert.

Marcia had baked a beautiful cake, complete with butter-cream frosting and what appeared to be a thick layer of lemon pie filling between the cake layers. Marcia told me that it was “lemon flavored jelly” and she wasn’t lying, she just wasn’t being entirely truthful. It turns out that the lemon jelly she used to fill the cake was made with petroleum jelly, dyed yellow and flavored with lemon Jell-O mix. As I choked on it and tried to get the sticky stuff out of my mouth Marcia freaked out on me, calling me every name imaginable as she grabbed me by the shirt collar and threw me out the door, yelling after me about how evil I was for telling her friends that she was bad in bed. Like I said, it was the last date we had. I never did call her to apologize (this admission just earned me another “paw slap” from the woman the woman I married). If Marcia is reading this, I hope she knows that she got the last laugh and that it was on me.

Am I an evil kitty for laughing at your misfortune? I understand that bad sex can be a deal-breaker, but under the circumstances I think you got what you deserved! Speaking of deal-breakers, this next story is full of them.

Dear Tazi:

My friends always tell me that I am too picky when it comes to guys and that I need to lighten up a bit. I don’t like the idea of wasting my time with someone who I know will not be a good fit for my life, so I have always kept high standards for myself: non-smoker, light drinker; never married, no kids; college educated or at the very least professionally employed. When my college roommate told me she had the “perfect guy” for me I was a little leery, but agreed to meet him because Valentine’s Day was coming up and I didn’t want to spend the day alone – again.

My first date with “Chad” was a coffee date at a coffee lounge near campus – comfortable couches, low lighting, and folk music playing in the background. I was in between classes and only had an hour to spare, which made for the perfect “out” if things did not go well. My first impressions of Chad had me silently thanking my roommate for setting us up, and I was reluctant to leave after the hour was up; Chad was equally interested, so we agreed to meet for dinner that weekend.

That Saturday, I spent the day getting ready for my big date with Chad – I got a manicure and a pedicure, bought a new dress, had my hair professionally styled, and made certain that I looked perfect; when Chad told me how great I looked, I thought that all my efforts had been worth it. Boy was I wrong!

Over dinner, Chad opened the conversation by saying, “Now that we have gotten to know each other I don’t feel uncomfortable asking you a few personal questions. Shall we have a drink? I don’t want to waste my money on dinner if you don’t measure up to what I am looking for in a woman.” I was floored! I had just spent a few hundred dollars and an entire afternoon getting ready for our date and he didn’t want to plunk down for dinner unless I met his qualifications? Not knowing what else to say, I agreed.

Chad started asking me several deeply personal questions – from the intimate to the downright embarrassing, like if I wanted children, and if so how many, to how many men I have slept with and if I have (or ever have had) a sexually transmitted disease. When I told him I wasn’t comfortable answering these types of questions on a second date Chad told me he “needed to know” because he didn’t want to sleep with me if it would result in an STD or an unwanted child. I frostily told Chad that it was too soon for him to even be thinking such things about me when he interrupted me and told me that we may as well end our evening here; that he wasn’t going to spend “upwards of $50 on dinner if sex wasn’t on the table”. He then threw a $5.00 bill on the bar and wished me a good night and good luck finding “the one”. The $5.00 didn’t even cover the cost of our bar tab, and since he had driven us to the restaurant I had to call a cab to get home!

I wish I could say my night ended there, but the story continues. After I got back to my apartment my roommate told me that Chad had called and given her an earful about my “high standards” and how I wouldn’t even give him a chance, about how I shut him down every time he tried to start a conversation with me. Just as she started to lecture me I walked to my room and shut the door. I’d had enough for one evening!

I guess there are worse things than spending Valentine’s Day alone, huh? Here is one woman who may have preferred to do just that – if things hadn’t had a happy ending after all!

Dear Tazi:

My date from Hell happened one Valentine’s Day, before I met my husband and was desperately single. I used to hang out at the bar of a local restaurant, and it was there that I’d met a guy who seemed a little off around women, but I figured he was just shy. I was amazed at his fine taste in clothes, is perfectly manicured fingernails, his knowledge of fine wine, and just about everything else you would see on a TV show like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which was popular at the time.

“Harold” asked me out the weekend before Valentine’s Day, apologizing for the late invite but explaining that he had been shy about asking me out. I thought that was cute, so I said yes. It was Valentine’s night, and Harold took me to a very expensive, very exclusive restaurant. I assumed that he must have made the reservation months in advance and was flattered by the advance planning he did in hopes that he could overcome his shyness and that I would say yes. I guess I was so desperate I would have believed anything.

Dinner was sensational, and our waiter was very handsome and attentive but the maître d’ kept giving us dirty looks, like we were something the cat had dragged in (sorry Tazi. I am sure you only drag in the finest of dead creatures!). The evening was pleasant but uneventful until our waiter presented us with a dessert menu. At that moment, the maître d’ stormed over to our table and said, “Go ahead and stuff your face with it, you fat cow!”

I was horrified and was about to say something when Harold burst into tears and yelled back at the maître d’, “You know I am an emotional eater! If you weren’t so verbally abusive I wouldn’t be so fat!” It was then that I realized that Harold was gay, and that the maître d’ had been, until recently, his boyfriend, which explained why he was able to get such a great table; whoever made the reservation knew he had connections.

As the fracas continued, I wanted to melt into the floor. Harold’s boyfriend had broken up with him because Harold was still closeted from his family; his boyfriend had accused him of being ashamed of being gay and secretly liking women; I was Harold’s “revenge date”. Seeing how I was caught in the middle, the waiter gracefully offered me his arm and escorted me from the table, joking that he would be applying for the “newly opened maître d’ position”. Lucky for me, my story has a happy ending!

Before walking me out, my waiter offered me a free piece of strawberry shortcake to make up for my trouble – all he needed was my contact information, to give to the General Manager. As it turned out that waiter paid for the dessert out of his tips and kept my phone number for himself – and am I ever glad that he did! We have been happily married for seven years now!

P.S. My husband never did get the maître d’ job, but he never expected to, either; the maître d’ was the restaurant owner’s nephew!

What a great love story! I do hope that Harold and “the maître d’ ” were able to work out their differences, but I am glad that their differences worked out for you!

Snuggles to all who shared, and you my dear readers,

P.S. Got a "Date From Hell" to share? Contact me via the form on this site or send me a tweet @TaziKat!

Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with Bachelors degrees in Communications and in Gender and Women's Studies. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

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