Recipe For Disaster: A Bad Date Story Involving Wine, Meds And Nuts

It was one of those Internet dates you keep putting off because of the vague premonition of doom surrounding it. Deep in your gut you know it will be a waste of time. But like a gambler throwing down his jack of hearts in the hopes of winning a big hand, you force yourself to do it. Because as anyone who’s done it knows, Internet dating plays upon our weaknesses and taunts us with the carrot of a big reward for small risk. So I threw on some designer jeans, doused myself with nauseating cologne I stole from my 12 year old nephew and stepped out into the crisp New York autumn, rolling the dice once again.

I staked my claim at the bar and ordered a Chilean Carmenere; she arrived five minutes later. Cute by most standards, and definitely cute enough for me, she ordered a Merlot. Our glasses clink, signaling the starting bell for an hour’s worth of chit-chat and measured mirth.

Second glasses of wine are imbibed merrily, seemingly faster than the first – a sign of good times. Another glass of wine and some snacks kick the flirting into third gear, and this date doesn’t sound half bad, does it? Join me en route to the next venue, where the Gods turn against me.

As we walked the three blocks to the next venue for a nightcap, it became imminently clear: this girl was LOADED. She was slurring, swerving, stumbling, and generally acting like someone who just threw back three bottles of wine, not three glasses. With her footing getting worse and speech sounding more like Klingon than English, we made a joint decision to skip the nightcap and call it a night.

I walked her back to her place, and this is where my memory gets foggy. Either she invited me up or I felt that she was in such bad shape that I needed to see her to her actual apartment. Either way, this is where I found myself. She turned on the light and the television, and proceeded to puke for the next ten minutes.

I was in the strangest state of limbo. Do I watch TV? Make a sandwich? Help her? I opted to bring her a glass of water and see how she was faring. Not so good from the looks of it – most of the Merlot-colored vomit managed to miss the porcelain, which seems to be the rule rather than the exception in these situations. Hands clenching the bowl, her head turned around, Exorcist style, and with glaring bloodshot eyes she scream-asked, “what are YOU still doing here?!” Exit, stage left.

Next day, this text exchange took place (I’m in green):

3 months later. Another time, another date, another place – the trendy Ace hotel in Manhattan. Enjoying drinks at the bar when, out the corner of my eye, I see a woman ordering who looks like Miss-barf-a-lot. Knowing that everyone has at least three people who look like him or her in New York, I dismiss it quickly. Shortly thereafter my date excuses herself to go to the restroom, giving me time to reflect upon how well this is going, and how much I might like this person.

Taking a self-satisfied sip of my Cuban Breeze, I glanced over my right shoulder and see my date returning. But something was different. She looked harried, disturbed, frightened. “You have some enemies in this place,” she said, eyes averting mine. Here’s what happened. When my date went to the bathroom, the Love in the Dumps hater cornered her and gave the scoop on me. I’m a creep. I have a ‘disgusting’ website. I am vile and depraved. What’s worse, it looked like my date bought it.

I was ambushed, guard down and now on my heels. All I could do was sputter out a few b-b-b-but’s and empty-sounding excuses (as usual, I thought of 100 great things to say on the way home). Finally she looked me in the eyes. “I have a good job, lots of friends, a nice life. I don’t need this kind of bullshit in it.” Then she got up and left.

I was awestruck, paralyzed, then realized there was but one thing to do. I pounded the rest of my Cuban Breeze and went into To Catch a Predator mode, finding her under a fake palm tree with a friend. Loaded, naturally. She pretended not to notice me but I confronted her with the confused anger of a man who just lost the person he was supposed to have sex with that night.

“What was that all about?” I asked, “I was nothing but courteous to you.”

“It’s kert-eous, first of all,” she slyly corrected my pronunciation of the word. Ouch. Got me again. “Second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The rest of this brief encounter is foggy, but I think my final words were something like, “I didn’t deserve this” or something stupid like that.

Seething at home at about 3 in the morning, I logged into Facebook. Revenge would be mine, as I posted something nasty on her wall (not that nasty, but not exactly wishing her a happy belated birthday either.) New text, from you-know-who:

And that was that. I think I saw her in another bar not long ago, and we both avoided each other. I’m not sure what the lesson is here, except maybe the more you date, the more trouble you can get yourself into. Perhaps I had it coming, got what I deserved for something I did to someone (though not her.) To me, the moral is pretty clear: take your dating lumps with a smile and keep on truckin’ towards that nameless place.