Thursday 8 September 2011


I recently read that an actress went on a blind date with a media mogul when she was eight months pregnant. I’m not sure if I admire her for having the nerve to wrap her large bump in a curtain and try to put her 'sexy' on, or if I think she’s nuts for thinking a man is going to be attracted to her current condition - as if blind dates aren’t hard enough.

To be blunt – one of my specialties as you know – I hate blind dates. For me they rank right up there with having a root canal or shaving one’s legs (despise it; actually, resent it. seriously don’t we women have enough to do?) The only good thing about blind dates as far as I can tell is the story you have to tell afterwards that can often provide hours of amusement – this is years later mind you. At the time blind dates can often be scarring to one’s psyche, sending the person back into the hermit cave with a pint of Hagen Daz. Before you all start writing in telling me you met your husband on a blind date, I’m sure that happens. But let’s be honest, it’s an exception to the rule.

I think the two worst blind dates I ever went on was thanks to my dear sweet Mother. In her defense, friends of hers referred them to her and she had never met these gentlemen in question; clearly friends that either drink too much, or at the time thought I was so desperate I would take just about anything. Bachelor behind door number one was certainly not bad looking, tall, dark, built like a linebacker in the off-season. The problem became quickly apparent however when he ordered veal, a whisky and started telling me about his summer home next to George Bush. To be frank, veal and George Bush are not the way to my heart. That evening, he actually used the phrase ‘when we summer at our summer house,’ so many times I was pushed to begin describing my autumn, winter, and spring homes in detail (I do NOT have seasonal homes, but boredom often drives me to mockery). By the time he lit up his cigar, I knew he and I would not be sitting in a porch swing when we were eighty.

Behind door number two was an entirely different matter all together. In short, he was a tool. There is just no way to sugar coat it. I showed up at the door and he was heavily tattooed – I have two, so I don’t care really – his hair was slicked back like a bad version of Buster Poindexter and he was dressed like Dylan McKay from 90210 with a little mechanic thrown in for good measure. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a surface kind of girl – I’ve dated my fair share of well, let’s just call them ‘acquired taste’ men – but the unctuous L.A vibe this guy was throwing off damn near knocked me off the sidewalk (sorry Brits; pavement). He also had his own special lingo with annoying catchphrases that peppered his conversation, and spent most of our car ride over to the restaurant telling me how he was an amazingly successful screenwriter that was often hired to make scripts sound more black. Yes, cause he was SO down like that. (Um, btw, he was white. Need I say more).

The worst part was that when we got to the restaurant he claimed that he had already eaten – seriously WHO does that??? – but handed me the menu and implored me to ‘Mangia, mangia!’ We were at sushi. I wasn't aware one mangia-ed at sushi, but anyway. It got worse when he spent the entire night going back and forth to the bathroom, spending an egregious amount of time in there; let me put it this way, he was NOT making paper mâché out of the toilet paper. The one positive is that at least I got to dine alone and wasn't forced to make inane conversation.

Needless to say, I looked for lobster on the menu and contemplated ordering twelve orders. The kicker of course was when we got back to his house, he pretended he wanted an early night, waited for me to drive away (I of course furtively hid, knowing what this dirt bag was up to) and then sped away in his car; probably to go have dinner.

These of course are the times when I gaze at my lover-man playing with our son and thank the mighty cosmos abound that I do not have to go another blind date. Oh, and my partner’s dead hot, so that’s an added bonus of course. Okay fine, maybe I’m a little superficial.

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