Friday, July 17, 2009

Date Number One: The Big Fat Liar

"The Big Fat Liar" and I met through a mutual acquaintance who thought we would be perfect for each other. We started e-mailing and he was able to put two words together in a cohesive sentence without hinting at the thickness of his billfold or alluding to the size of his 'package', plus his photo wasn't bad. He wasn't my type but he was pleasant enough via e-mail and I figured, what the heck?

We were going to meet at South Street Seaport but he asked me to meet him at his apartment in the village instead, so we could drive down there. Oh, you have a car you say? Cha-ching: He instantly got a point. I walked to his apartment from the train and waited downstairs but when he came to the door, I was not pleasantly surprised. Quite the contrary, he was at least five years older than the photo he sent and he had gained a bit of weight. Actually, a lot of weight. Um, hello? Whatever happened to properly representing yourself? He was a liar! A liar! Everyone who knows me, knows I can't stand liars. Minus one point for misrepresentation.

So he was playing with his iPhone for a few minutes while I stood there, when he said "Oh yeah, my friend is coming with us? Is that ok?" I was shocked but I couldn't say no since he had already invited a friend, so I just went along with it. Then he told me, "Yeah, she's my ex. We're over with, don't worry. We're just good friends. She's high, so she's running late."

Stop right here. This should have been a red flag to get out, go home, and read a good book. But I'm dumb and easy-going (not easy, thank you very much) and I set the rules stating that I wouldn't end a date too early. So I just chalked it up to him not wanting to be alone with a girl he barely knew (um, me). Once his stoned-ass friend arrived, we got into his jalopy (minus one point for the jalopy) and start driving down to the seaport when out of the blue, a cop pulled us over. Guess what? My unusual date wasn’t wearing his seat belt. He argued with the cop and managed to earn two tickets instead of one. One ticket for not wearing his seat belt and the other for not carrying his insurance on him. Minus two points for arguing with the cop. My parents are correction officers. My Jersey friends are cops. Don't argue, be polite, acknowledge that you messed up and get on with your life.

We hit the seaport and listened to some indie music bands and I've mellowed enough to enjoy myself and ignore my date's obvious faux pas. We chill, we listen, we chat. I've talked to my date's friend more than I've talked to him and suddenly she and I are best buds. I tell her about my imminent move to Astoria and we're getting along so well, she asks if I want to be roommates. She's nice, but stoned, so I politely decline.

After the music at Seaport ends, all of his friends split, and my date and I head to a bar for some beer. We drive back to the East Village and he knows the bartender (plus one point) and he pays for the beers (sadly enough, plus one point). We sit down at a table to talk, and talk we do. He's an interesting, successful guy, an assistant producer on some blockbuster films, despite his lack of other qualities. We're chilling for a while, but it's not long before he starts texting. Constantly. I don't know whom and I don't care, but this is a HUGE pet peeve of mine. You don't text everyone on your phone list when you're out on a date or with friends. A few texts, ok, maybe even a brief phone call, but this was just rude. So I start texting MY friends. I was ready to ask my friend Jillian to call me and claim she was throwing-up-drunk/lost/dead-in-a-ditch-somewhere, anything just to get me out of this awful, awful date, but I don't. Minus one point to myself. I stick around and we're sort of having an interesting conversation again, when BAM! I notice him checking out a girl. Then we're talking for a while and BAM! He does it again. And again. Um, hello Mr. Wandering-eye? I'm in front of you, not down the front of Asian Barbie's dress.

I'm done at this point. I say I'm ready to leave and he gets up too. I wonder if he thinks he's going to get some, because he's never, not ever, going to get any from me. He offers to drive me home and I am firm in the face of his persistence. I tell him that I'm starving and I need to get dinner. He offers to come have dinner with me and I tell him that I'm fine, just going to grab a quick bite and go home. I'm icked out when he tries to lean in for a kiss so I feign an evil sore throat (which I actually do have) but I play it up more than usual, saying it might be strep. I don't want to be mean, although he might deserve it, so I give him a brief hug goodbye and head off to devour sushi alone. The sushi was deliciously fishy after all that beer and when I got the bill, I was grateful that I didn't have to thank some scummy guy for buying my dinner.