I have heard
many a pick up line in my day. Some are cute (“How much does a polar bear
weigh? Enough to break the ice. Hi, my name is Joe.”) Some are lame (“Hold up
girl, you got an eyelash in your eye. Let me get it. Now blow and make a wish.
[pause] Yes, I’m coming over tonight.”) Then there are the ridiculous, which
occur most often. I really want to know if anyone has ever met their soul mate
while yelling “Daaaaammmmnnnn girl!”
from the passenger’s side of a moving vehicle. Come on, what are you going to
tell your kids? Mommy met daddy when his friend caught a red light???
Seriously. If
anyone knows someone who met their significant other like that, I would like to
be your plus one to their wedding.[1]
I’ve decided to
break down my most epic misadventures for your reading pleasure.
#5: Ooops…I did it again
This occurred
one Sunday afternoon as I was driving home from work. Some jackass was too busy
watching a video on his phone to notice that I had stopped. He rear-ended me at
a stop sign just outside of my apartment complex.
Begrudgingly, I
got out and inspected the damage. It wasn’t too bad. We exchanged insurance
information and went our separate ways. About two hours later, he called me and
asked how old I was. I figured he needed to know it for insurance purposes, so
I told him.
He replied, “Oh
cool, I wanted to make sure you were 21.”
To which I
replied, “It doesn’t matter how old I am. You were at fault. Insurance is going
to care how old you are.”
“Uh, well, that
wasn’t why I was asking.” He paused. “I wanted to make sure you were 21 because
I thought you were pretty and I want to see if you want to go out with me
sometime.”
(I actually did
go on a date with him, simply because I was amazed at how big of balls that took.
I have no idea if he continued his MO of hitting girls to get dates or if
eventually Progressive just sent him a hooker to reduce the headache.)
#4: What I meant to say was…
I was talking to
a young man whom I had known for quite some time. He was discussing how he
couldn’t find an adequate female companion and bemoaning my lack of single
status.
Guy: I wish you
were single. I’d totally smash that.
Me: What did you
just say?
Guy: I mean, I’d
court you. Yeah... I’d court the fuck
out of you.
There are no
words.
#3: Because chicks love to be reminded
that they were not always hot
I was back home
with a bunch of people I knew from my childhood including a former crush- a
onetime star athlete turned used car salesman. (We’ll call him Trent.) He had
spent a disproportionate amount of the evening alternating between reliving his
glory days and staring at my chest. I really wanted to high-five Garth Brooks
for all that unanswered prayers BS and such. After a few rounds of shots (which
were accompanied by our high school spirit song), we ran into some people I
didn’t know.
“Hi,” said his
friend, extending his hand. “I’m Zach.”
“I’m-“
Before I could
get the words out, Trent piped up.
“This is Zoe.
She used to be ugly. I mean, really just not at all attractive. She had this
unibrow and frizzy hair and looked like the before picture in a diet ad. Then
she grew up, lost weight, and has amazing boobs now and she’s hot!”
I can’t remember
what I said because I was still processing whether or not that was a complement
or an insult. I found out later that another mutual friend asked him, “Dude,
why did you say that?”
“All part of the
plan, bro. All part of the plan.”
(Side note: it
has been at least five months since that event and I still have yet to figure
out what “the plan” is.)
#1 and 2: Because while girls may not
like being called ugly, you should probably call them “big and sturdy.”
However, when I
moved to Colorado, I had to use the apartment complex’s common laundry area. In
the movies, Laundromats look cool, hip, and inviting. Someone is always writing poetry, playing the
guitar, or making flirtatious banner about separating lights from darks.
The only guy I
ever saw in mine looked like the kind of guy who would steal panties, so I put
my laundry in, and sat to wait. I had
brought homework with me, and it was actually quieter than my apartment. I had just switched my stuff to the dryer
when a guy about my age walked in.
He was a nice
looking guy, if unremarkable. He was
about 5’10”, short brown hair, clean cut, in shape. As my dad would say, “He looks like a fucking
carbon copy of every single jackass you’ve dated. I’m sorry, his shirt says Hollister. The last one’s said Lucky.”
Screw you
dad. (OK, maybe my dad was right. I like to remind him that at the time my
sister was dating the white rapper with corn rows.)
“Hey,” the
future-young-Republican or stereotypical-white-male-serial-killer-suspect said.
What the fuck. No
witty banter? No cliché opening
line? This blew.
“Hey,” I said,
in response.
If he wasn’t
going to put in the effort for a screenplay-worthy dialogue, neither was I.
“So, uh, you
live here?”
Wow, someone
nominate this guy for an Emmy.
“No, I just
really like the smell of Tide with Detergent,” I responded.
“Haha, OK. Stupid question. Well, my name is Skip, and I just moved in
building C,” he said, indicating a building that looked remarkably similar to
my humble abode in K.
“I’m Zoe,” I
said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet
you.”
“How long have
you lived here?”
“About a month.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, I’ve
always dreamed about living in an overpriced generic apartment complex with
three other girls. Who needs a penthouse
with hardwood floors? We don’t even have
to clean our floors, our air mattresses, blankets, and various womanly shrouds
cover our carpet. And furniture? Buying an antique dresser from Sotheby’s on
auction? Please,” I scoffed, waving my
hand in the air as I dismissed such a frivolous idea. “I like having my worldly goods in a
Tupperware container.”
Before I could
continue to explain the diet plan that involved eating cereal every night
because our shoes filled the microwave and oven, he cut me off.
“So like, I
don’t know anyone here. Do you want to
go to dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” I
responded. “Where did you have in mind?”
“I’m not from
here, what’s good?”
I rattled off
the names of various local restaurants, until we finally decided on Old
Chicago, a well-known pizza place.
In rom-coms they
always go for sushi or coffee, but I’m allergic to shellfish and hate coffee,
so I guess pizza and beer it was.
“Cool, I’ll come
over at 7:30 to get you.”
“See you then.”
I was kind of
disappointed in his lack of creativity.
In 40 Days and 40 Nights, Josh
Harnett takes his date on a bus ride around the city. Not that I wanted to really spend three hours
seeing various Dollar Trees, Quicken Cash and Loans, and welfare offices, nor
was I accustomed to bringing Lysol wipes on my romantic outings, but still, the
gesture would have been nice.
“What’s he look
like?” my roommate Katie asked.
“A guy, normal.”
“Does he look
like every single other fucking guy you’ve dated?” asked Richelle.
(I’m as
predictable as Lindsey Lohan’s next trip to rehab).
We got to
dinner, and the first ten minutes were unremarkable. Then, it started to steadily go downhill.
The waitress
came to get our beer order and asked for our ID’s.
“How old are
you?” Skip asked.
“I’ll be 22 in a
few months, why?” I responded.
“Uh-oh, only
three years until your expiration date.”
“My what?” I
responded. You see, in our lady-cave,
expiration dates were a foreign concept.
If it had mold on it, you cut off the moldy part. If it still smelled fine, you ate it. Unless there was an organism actively moving
on it, food was pretty much fair game as far as we were concerned.
“You know, the
time past which no one wants to marry you.”
“Um, 25? That’s a little steep, don’t you think?” I
asked, taking my beer from the waitress and sipping it.
“Well, it’s all
downhill after 22, and at 25, those tight triceps become bat wings and you
could start a fire from the friction of rubbing your thighs together.”
I stared. Strikes one and two.
“How old are
you?” I asked.
“Oh I’m 24.”
I almost spit my
beer back through my nose. “You’re going
to expire before I do! You’re going to
have like botulism and I’ll still be within my sell-by date.”
“It doesn’t work
the same for men. I am not getting
married until I am 35.”
“OK,” I said,
trying to follow his logic. “But even if
you marry a 18-year-old, which won’t be creepy at all[2],
in seven years, you’ll be 42 and probably still alive. What are you going to do then? Divorce her?”
“Probably,” he
said, with no sarcasm in his voice at all.
“I’ll just keep them for seven years and then send them on their
way. I mean, if I have kids with them,
I’ll still let them live in my guesthouse so I can take care of the kids, but
they won’t be in the starting line-up, ya know what I’m saying?”
“Well, I
personally, no, don’t know what you’re saying, but I think Warren Jeffs and others
who live in ‘compounds’ might. You do
realize you’ll still have to pay for all these women and kids, right?” I asked,
about to throw down some Kanye West-type logic on him.
“Of course. But I’ll be rich by then.”
Well, that all
makes sense then.
Our food arrived
and we started eating. I ate my first
slice of pizza, then about five minutes later moved on to the second.
“Wow, you like
to eat,” he commented, as he removed his fifth piece from the pan.
“I haven’t eaten
anything since lunch,” I protested.
“Plus, I ran like seven miles today.
People tell me I eat like a bird.”
“Yeah,” he
snorted, “like a pterodactyl.”
Strikes three
and four.
We finally
finished up and went back home. We got
out of his car and he started walking me towards my building. We arrived at my door, and I heard voices
inside.
“Well, looks
like the roommates are here. I’m gonna
go crash out. Thanks for dinner,” I
said, groping in my purse for my keys in an effort to avoid the awkward ass-out
goodbye hug.
“It’s only ten
thirty,” he announced.
Yes, three hours
out of my life had been spent with this ass-hat. That’s three hours I could have spent
learning Spanish, watching a Stephen Hawking documentary, or at the very least,
painting my toenails.
“Well, I mean,
I’d invite you in, but our place is a mess, and my roommates are busy.”
“No we’re not!”
announced Katie, flinging the door open. They let us in and then retreated to
the bedroom. I thought, ‘I’ll just text
them and have them help get him out of here.’
There was one
problem with my grand plan. Skip was
suddenly right next to me, despite me being 1,127 days away from spinster-hood.
“So wanna watch
some TV?” he asked, as seductively as if he had asked me to pour hot oil and
chocolate on his body in a bathtub filled with rose petals.[3]
“Fine,” I
mumbled, sitting on the couch, flipping on the television. I could hear my roommates in the other room
laughing and turning up their laptop, but I knew they could still hear our
conversation. I hoped to at least entertain
them, but I had no idea what I was asking for.
Skip started
scooting closer to me. I started
scooting further away to my right. He
raised his right arm and put it on the back of the couch. Oh great, I knew where this was going.
The awkward
reach-around.[4]
I looked at him
with a flat expression that I thought bespoke of mocking and annoyance, but he
interpreted as seduction.
“So, Zoe, you’re
really pretty.”
“Thanks,” I
responded.
He looked at me,
his face only a foot from mine, gazed in my eyes, and said, “You know I don’t
like skinny girls.”
Um, OK.
He continued, “I
like girls like you- big shoulders, big ribs, big hips. Big, sturdy girls.”
I sat there
shocked.
Even a blind man
should have been able to sense my disbelief.
“What?” I repeated, sure I had misheard him.
Not a
chance. “Yep, big sturdy girls. That’s what I like,” he smiled, moving even
closer to me. I couldn’t even move back.
“Do you want to
know why I like me some big, sturdy,
girls?” he asked.
By this point, the momentum of my self-confidence’s nosedive
acted as a G-force pinning me to the leather seat. Morbid curiosity had taken over and all I could do was slightly nod. I noticed that the peanut gallery in the
bedroom had fallen silent, so I knew they were as riveted in anticipation as I
was.
“Because I’m
real well endowed if you know what I’m
sayin’,” he continued, pointing towards his crotch as if no, I didn’t know
what he was insinuating here. “And like
when I’m doing this-“
Then it
happened.
In one fell
swoop of grace and athleticism, in a time that would rival Edward Cullen; he
was on my right side at the arm of my leather couch, hands grabbing the
innocent, virgin material, as he simulated violating it in the worst way
possible.
“-I could break
a skinny girl,” he grunted, getting more and more into it as he went
along.
OH MY GOD. He was humping my couch. Copy that. He was HUMPING. MY. FUCKING.
COUCH.
“Then I’m like-“
he announced as he slowed his pace to porn star levels of sexual activity, and
rubbed the poor, poor, innocent upholstery.
“But when I’m ya
know-“ Know what? Of course I knew exactly what he meant! Oh fuck.
He was going to town like a prisoner on his last conjugal visit before
the chair. He actually slapped my couch.
This had to
stop, because if it ended the way I thought it might, even with his pants still
on, I didn’t have Lysol wipes[5].
“Stop
humping my couch!” I screamed, probably loud enough for the whole
complex to hear[6]. I get it, OK?
I needed to get
this freak show out of my apartment before he shoved a lamp up his ass or
something, but I needed a plan. My
roommates were of no help. This was the
best entertainment they’d had all month.
This was a shitshow and suddenly I was the star.
I stared
directly at the TV. Douches are like
rashes. If you ignore them, they go away
on their own. (A douche told me that, so
I’m assuming there’s some logic). I
didn’t bling. I didn’t acknowledge him. I turned on C-SPAN and pretended to be very
interested in Bernanke’s speech about inflation.
He was an
undeterred little fucker, I’ll give him that.
“Hey Zoe,” he
said, tapping my arm, in case I had lapsed into a catatonic shock after
witnessing the most horrible of atrocities inflicted upon my furniture.
I turned,
scowling at him, only to find him pointing to the couch, where
before him lay
three Magnum XL condoms.
“You wanna hit
this or what?”
[1]
I’m sure the attire will be formal with sport coats required for the gentlemen.
And by sport coats, I mean NASCAR jackets.
[2]
Not at all. Just ask Hugh Hefner.
[3] Is
that even sanitary?
[4]
Until I had someone read this chapter, I did not know that this means something
WAY, WAY, more awkward in the adult entertainment industry.
[5]
I’d have to re-think my “date night kit” apparently.
[6]
After this, I’m pretty sure the 90-year-old lady passed away that night,
because she could finally die, knowing she had indeed heard it all.
