My sad three dollars.

Welcome Future Minions!

Let me share with you a tale or two from my adventures in on-line dating. I met this seemingly normal guy (and yes, they all start out as "seemingly normal") on a website--let's call it...Catch.com. We emailed, we chatted, we laughed, we made a date.

I broke my usual rule of meeting him somewhere for a first date and gave him directions to my apartment. The person who showed up at my door a half-hour early was NOT the person I saw on line.

(Of course we ALL use pictures that are flattering to us. I choose not to post the picture of me in seventh grade when I cut my own bangs and ended up with a two-inch square patch of crewcut in the very middle front of my hairline--oh, it was sexy--but I do post a full-body picture of me so there is no mistaking me for an Uma Thurman lookalike, either, and I don't lie about my age.)

The person who showed up at my door was at least ten years older and five inches shorter than he had stated. At this point in time, I again deviated from my usual pattern of calling him on the obviously misleading description and breaking the date because I absolutely cannot stand lying about something as stupid as one's age or one's height. Instead, I began to plan how to get myself out of this date without hurting his feelings.

He wanted to go to Outback--a two and a half hour wait for seating. I suggested that we go to one of my favorite restaurants, a local italian place that was run by some friends of a friend and only about five minutes from my place. I had been there a few times and was flattered that the staff always remembered me, and the food was good. He agreed.

Then I broke another of my rules. I let him drive. Thinking back to the long hours my therapist and I put in to crafting and setting these rules, I am a little bemused by the ease of which I tossed them aside. I blame my parents for raising me to be considerate and wanting to avoid making scenes.

The restaurant was lovely. We were seated in a great area with one of the best servers who zipped over right away with a basket of fresh baked rolls (six of them--this is important later) to take our drink order. The drinks came quickly and our orders were taken promptly.

And then our salads came.

The croutons weren't right. They weren't garlicky enough. They were Not Like The Croutons at Outback. The cheese was all wrong.

Our server came right away when beckoned. She listened attentively to his diatribe of hatred for their homemade croutons and graciously brought him a different salad. Without croutons.

At this point in time I mentioned that I had felt a migraine coming on all day and I took two Tylenols I had in my purse.

They cleared the salad plates before bringing the entrees. The plates were too hot. The sauce was too tomato-y. He emptied his glass and had to wait two minutes before our server appeared and had the nerve to ask if he WANTED another refill. Of course he did. Why ask? They took too long to clear his empty plate. They brought the leftovers packaged up neatly without him asking for them. They didn't bring fresh rolls at the end of dinner. (I ate one, he ate the rest.)

While waiting for the check, I mentioned that my migraine was getting worse.

I offered to leave the tip, but he said he would take care of it. To my horror, when we left the table, he stiffed the server.

HE STIFFED THE SERVER. THE BEST SERVER AT MY FAVORITE RESTAURANT RUN BY PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME.

Thinking fast, I said I had to use the ladies' room and he should go pull the car up. I figured when I came out I could zip over to the table and put some money down. I shut myself in a stall and sat down to count my money.

I had three dollars.

Only three dollars.

It would have to do. I washed my hands and slipped out of the ladies' room. And there he stood, talking to the manager.

I sidled over to the hostess and in my most hushed and best spy voice, I said to her, "PleaselistencarefullythisguyisatotaljerkandhestiffedthewaitressandshewasreallygoodallIhaveisthreedollarspleasegiveittoherI'mreallyreallysorrythankyou." And I pressed my sad three dollars into her palm as she nodded up at me with eyes full of merciful understanding.

And we left.

While walking to the car, he told me that he had complained to the manager about the poor service and bad food. Then he suggested we go for a drink. I asked him to please take me home, as my headache was much worse.

I wasn't making this up anymore. I really did have a rather severe headache, probably caused by my not telling this jerk what a sonovabith pompous girlie pantywaist complaining jackass he was. That's the sort of thing that causes massive strokes if you don't let it out.

We got into the car. He asked if I didn't want to go for drinks because he complained to the manager. I said no, it was because of my headache. My mother would be proud.

He drove about a half-mile and started to argue with me, saying that he had just bought dinner and the least I could do is go for a drink with him. (Please--my catholic mother can't guilt me into things. I am practically immune. And his amateurish attempts to do so were making me mad.) I again said that I had a headache, I wanted to go home, and that if he didn't want to drive me home, he could drop me off at the nearby mall and I would get a ride with a friend.

About two minutes later, we pulled up to a stoplight. The light turned green, the traffic started again, and so did he.

I got out of the car.

Oh yes I did. I got out of the car, I walked across the parking lot to the food court, and I called my sister for a ride (another in a long list of the strange events of my life into which my sister has been drawn). While I was waiting, he left me a couple voice mails, telling me I was crazy, I was psycho, I was an ungrateful cunt.

Yeah, and?

And you think that your opinion matters to me, you rude insensitive anal retentive lying prepubescent looking impotent sweaty ballsack? Oh, shall I forever be wounded by your insults? Shall I take them to heart and change my wicked, accomodating, be-nice-to-the-waitstaff ways? Shall I, as you suggested, go see a fucking therapist for serious meds?

Oh ho ho. You, my slimy slug ass who was lucky enough to be granted a brief glide through the glory of my sun, you are but a pigeon fart in the jet engine of my life.

Thanks for dinner!