My friend, Leah, made this list of bad dates on Marie Claire’s Web site. She’s slide No. 22, about the unfortunate mustache.
http://www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/relationship-issues/articles/bad-date-stories?src=nl&mag=mar&list=mhb&kw=ist
Here is my own tale of a horrid date — also involving Leah — not that this was actually a date of any kind.
My friends and I are out in Denver at an adult prom party. I am wearing a banana clip, one pink fingerless leather glove, a tri-layer tutu, mismatched earrings and several stars glued to my temple. So it is no surprise when some dude at the bar hits on me; obviously, I look Cindy Lauper hott. Maybe hottt with three t’s.
At first, the dude — who has a doolittle haircut and couldn’t be older than 18 (maybe 15) — pushes my shoulder as he walks past. Meh? I keep dancing, because “Footloose” is on, and it is time to kick off my Sunday shoes.
That I do, and they land in the middle of the dance floor. Now I am barefoot and doing awesome ’80s moves, such as the Roger Rabbit, and Dude walks past again, obviously hunting me. But this time, instead of the aggressive poke, he grabs my arm and literally jerks me out the front door. I am so shocked that for a moment I stare at him, like “How do I know this person? I must know him.” Because no guy would ever rough up a girl he doesn’t know as an attempt to… hit on her?
He blurts out: “Tell me what you have going for you other than your good looks.”
I am not sure if I should be flattered or frightened, so I opt for silly (always the safe answer) and I start dancing.
“Well, I am kicking off my Sunday shoes. I have that going for me.”
He is not amused, and squints and glares some more at me, his hand still locked around my wrist tightly.
At this time, Leah notices my banana clip is missing from the dance floor and sees me outside in what appears to be a domestic violence/kidnapping incident. Like any girl, her “Save Me, Friend” radar is blaring on high volume, and she knows I need an immediate escape route. She races to my side, wedging her tiny self in between me and Dude, forcing him to lose grasp of my now purple-with-lack-o-circulation arm.
“I am Leah. I am her sister,” Leah announces. (We have similar exaggerated facial expressions and the same crude sense of humor that most people think we are sisters anyway.)
I chime in, “Yes, she is the nice sister.”
Dude looks back and forth between us, not sure what to do. Until:
“Yeah, if by nice sister you mean I would kill you with my hairbrush.”
Leah doesn’t flinch. She looks Dude right in the eyes and doesn’t smile or blink or breathe.
It’s perfect. Dude slowly backs away, speechless.
I think I saw him running down the street, crying for his mommy.
C- section cake
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