Don’t be THAT Girl…Who Dates THAT Guy

Have you seen Cheaters?  1 of a couple thinks the other is cheating so has spies follow them to gather proof and then confronts them when they’re with their “other.”  I think I was the “other.”  I didn’t see cameras, but I swear they were there. 

But first, let’s back up.  A couple of years ago I fell hard…for Country.  Yes, it’s a made-for-TV-movie in the making: “big city girl loves country bumpkin,” but I fell for the romance of it all; the music, the tight jeans, the dancing and the cowboy hats, dear god, the cowboy hats… 

So I go to a country dance club with dreams of Tim McGraw dancing in my head (Faith Hill gets fat and he leaves her for me – I still think about it sometimes).  And when a cowboy hat sweeps me (and my 2 left feet) up to dance, my heart gets caught up in the whirlwind.  He holds me tight and my hopeful heart skips a beat (along with my feet) and fantasies of us and our future ranch gallop in my head.  As he says goodnight, it strikes me; I don’t know what he looks like under that hat.  Too late, I have a date with him the next night. 

What a difference a hat makes.  His head glistens in the glow of my porch light, his tight lips are tense and pursed like a hawk and his colorful vertical-striped button down shirt is out of a dressy 80’s catalogue.  What happened to Tim?  Faith sucked the life out of him! 

In my tiny outfit and heels he places me in his bright yellow 80’s sports car, all shiny and bright like his head, and with a roar of the motor and blast of cold air, we were off! – to RIVERSIDE .  Shivering, I feel the blast of cold air on my bare legs.  As I reach my hand to divert the flow, it is SLAPPED away by my Cowboy!  “Don’t touch my car” he snaps; “Don’t slap my hand!” I counter.  Silence.  For 10 minutes.  Oh god, I’m in a fast car with a near stranger driving out to RIVERSIDE , it’s the 909!!!  Help!!

Tentatively Mr. Tight Lips attempts a half apology.  20 minutes later we arrive at the restaurant, which happens to have valet parking only, which he grumbles about and which he drives all around the surrounding streets – 4 blocks away – to find non-existent free parking.  I remain silent.  I’m not the type to care about valet or not, but when I’m in a nearly naked outfit paired with heels and an angry date, I’m not walking 4 blocks to eat.  Yet, I did not say a word.  After 10 minutes of futile searching, he gruffly concedes “You win.”  “What do I win?”  I wonder aloud.  “We’ll park valet.”  “Oh, that’s me winning?” 

Once seated in the festive Mexican Restaurant, we get some drinks, some food, listen to the band, and his company is not unpleasant.  Until…he spots something.  A young girl is quietly roving around the dining floor with a basket of roses.  I barely notice her across the room.  Mr. Pleasant leans in and tenderly shares with me; “You absolutely deserve a rose…”  Wow, I think, that’s sweet, I don’t need one.  He continues; “But I hate that they parade it in front of your face, so I refuse to buy one.”  Wow, I think, that’s sweet, I don’t need him.
 

Unfortunately, plans include the country dance club, that’s why we are in RIVERSIDE .  We arrive and an odd looking blonde approaches Mr. Tightwad, and as I’m not the jealous type and as I’m definitely not jealous for him, I give them space. 

The blonde storms up to me and demands, “Are you his date?”  “Um, we’re friends…but I guess we came together,” I stumble.  “I’m his GIRLFRIEND.”  To which Mr. Slappy exclaims; “No you’re not!”  “Then what were you doing at my house this afternoon?  ARE YOU HIS DATE?”  “Um…um…”  “I’m his girlfriend and we’ve been together for 6 months.  Are you one of the girls he’s been dating online?  I know he’s been dating online!”  This is too much for me, especially since they start physically pushing each other.  “I’m gonna go to the car and let you guys sort out who’s dating who.  When you’ve figured it out, I’ll be at the car.” 

I leave the club in a daze, get to the car, turn around and see Blondie and Mr. Boyfriend racing towards me.  They’ve been thrown out of the club and she still needs to know who I am.  “We met last night, you can have him, he just needs to take me home.”  But their fighting only escalades.  Then the thought: “Am I on Cheaters?  Am I on Hidden Camera?”  Unfortunately I speak my thought.  And the love birds do not find it funny.  Fortunately their hate for each other trumps their hate for me and more fortunately for me – BOUNCERS!  Hallelujah!!  They come running towards the loving couple and BREAK IT UP!  Kicking and screaming all the way, they throw her to her car and we get tossed in ours (sorry, HIS). 

The long, quiet ride home.  So I think.  No.  He can’t shut up about her and insists they broke up months ago and she’s been stalking him.  I don’t debate.  I’ve had my fill of country bumpkin and found out, I don’t like the taste. 

The story does not end here, oh no, it continues for 2 YEARS.  I tell him to take my number off his phone, never call again.  He calls for a few weeks then seems to give up.  Months later, Blondie calls! in a lawsuit with Mr. Bumpkin and she wants my statement.  “How did you get my number?!”  “It was on his phone.”  “PLEASE erase my number.  I can’t help you, I barely knew him - and you didn’t leave a great impression either.”  Then HE calls a few months down the line, wanting a statement for his countersuit.  “No!”  A year goes by and he shows up at my work – he TRACKED ME DOWN!!!  And wants a statement for a restraining order against Blondie, who, he claims, is crazy.  “You’re no prize yourself – you probably made her crazy.  You are stalking ME now.  If I see you again, I’ll see you in court.” 

The moral of this story is: Faith Hill is NOT fat, Tim won’t leave her for me or you, so don’t try to live a movie, just go to one…it won’t follow you home.

And to the producers of Cheaters: seriously, did you get any of this on tape?

“Too Many Teeth Guy” DID listen some, but when he spoke, the words that tumbled out filled suitcase after suitcase of baggage baggage baggage; “I’m broke, money’s tight, I have child support, I have 1 child, plus 1 step child, I have 1 ex-wife, and she’s not the mother of my child, the mother of my child is the devil, we’re waiting on a record deal and times are tough, instead of taking you out, why don’t I come over and “hang out?””  So now my ears ached along with my chipped tooth – oh yeah, he was a tooth-banger-kisser who pretended to blame his teeth-banging ways on me! 

All the while, “Mr. Loves the Pursuit” was calling, but first the dentist had to fix my chip (no joke), so “Mr. Pursuit” called and called and called.  I was busy, he was out of town, I was sick, he was working, I was tired, he was tired – we were a perfect pair!  After 2 months of this, we had our first date.  He was tall and strong and cute.  He came over, picked me up, opened my car door, took me to a nice place, bought me lunch, flirted a little, and then talked and talked and talked…into the air.  He never looked at me.  The air was fascinated with his story.  So I played a staring game, I never took my eyes off him and waited to see how many times he’d look back.  Well, he looked at me as much as I talked, and for once, I had nothing to say!

But strangely I still had hope, he was sweet and don’t forget - tall and strong and cute.  So I let him take me home and he tickled me on my couch, played the “am I going to kiss you? game” (which ended in a flirtatious “no”) walked me to my door, and said goodbye.  An hour later he called to tell me he wanted to see me again very soon, but I guess “soon” meant “never” for he never called again. 

So the lesson today: Listen to him talk, but if he doesn’t listen back, listen to your heart, and give him the number to “the air out there.”  And if he does have things to say, but the things would sink you to the bottom of the ocean, tell him there’s no room in your boat for extra baggage. 

And my new resolution is to stick with my old resolution: NO DATING ARTISTS!

I used to think my lucky number was 11: my birthday’s on the 11^th, I was born 7 lbs 11 oz, and it’s like winning first place, twice.  But apparently my lucky number’s 3.  My latest adventures have come in groups of threes: 3 girls on a cruise, losing 3 lbs, and meeting 3 new guys in a week.  Lucky?  Well, maybe 3’s my cursed number.  The cruise was a bust with 1 “friend” ending up being “dead to me,” my favorite 3 lbs came back, and all 3 of my Princes failed to Charm. 

Prince Number 1 was originally not under consideration – he was just a starter for my wounded self-esteem - but his persistent (and dare I say charming) emails finally won him my attention. 

But I met Prince Number 2 before my interest peaked on Number 1.  And ladies, Number 2 was a Charmer…and he knew it, and he acknowledged it, which made him ever so much more charming…  I quickly fell under his spell and under his bed sheets.  Yet clung to my panties, for I knew if those came off, so would my head.  In a liquor-induced daze I swatted him off despite his persistent whining.  I’m not a quickie girl, and he’s a quickie guy, so we quickly made a mess of things but parted ways.  I left him to his daily pot and he left me with Prince Number 3. 

My sexy Spaniard.  Relationship material all the way: calls me, takes me out, kind to my friends, patient with my schedule, compliments me!  What could be wrong with Mr. 3?  Number 3 is very very cute, actually hot…and there’s chemistry…our second date at the beach dancing in the Venice drum circle is romantic…so I’m excited when he brushes my hair back, gazes into my eyes (with his sexy Spanish lashes), and brings his soft mouth to mine…and quickly juts his tiny tongue in and out of my mouth like a lizard.  Oh god, this couldn’t be worse.  But I end the date, thinking, “maybe next time will be better?” or “at least he’s not high and whining at me.”  So again we go out and come back to my place.  And again, he’s sweet, romantic, hot.  And as he leans in to kiss me, I think, oh no, he’s missed my mouth – but he missed it on purpose and is lapping up my eyeball like a dog!  A feeling of horror screams across my body as his saliva streams down my cheek, but the horror somehow turns to humor and as I laugh, he thankfully readjusts…and moves south.  With my top completely on, he begins burrowing in my chest hunting for my nipples like a warthog hunts for truffles, grunting and sweating all the way.  I can’t take it anymore by the time he’s dry grinding like a teenager who’s just discovered his hormones, so I say goodnight and send him on his excited way. 

Thankful for Number 1, I drop him an email, to which he promptly responds.  Weird, I think, how aggressively he writes and flirts with me, but never quite asks me out.  We finally set something up since I have to be in his part of town one day, and I’m excited to see him.  Imagine my surprise when he never returns my call.  3 weeks go by, and I get the strangest email from him, breaking up with me, even though we never went out.  3 to 2 to 1 to none. 

So the lessons in this: don’t get your hopes up just because a guy pursues you, he still has to officially ask you out; stay away from hot pot heads; and if the kissing is bad the first time, don’t get your panties in a bunch – keep ‘em on and move on.  

And as for the Number 3, I’ll leave it to the witches, for it is a cursed number.   

With my eyes rolled back in exasperation and bored out of my mind, the only thing I could think of as he was kissing me was; this would make a good blog.  That’s been the sad pattern of late.  On a date, rather than being fascinated with his tales of money woes, ex-girlfriends, hard-core vegan-ways or political disenchantments, I became fascinated with how great a story this would be to tell my friends the next day.  So my pain will be your pleasure.  Let’s hope I don’t meet “the one” soon, for my stories will go the way of stretch pants…wait, those came back.  And I guess my stories will be ever present with or without “the one.”  Until then, join me on my search…and Don’t be THAT Girl who Dates THAT Guy!