Seriously. I just posted a blog about the worst date I’d ever been on. It’s barely been two weeks since I wrote the blog.
Oh, but internet, just last night the worst date I’ve ever been on was gloriously and theatrically upstaged. It was the Emperor of worst dates. If worst dates were Disney villains, this was Scar. If worst dates were Doctor Who baddies, this was Dalek Caan. If worst dates were unfortunate situations, this date was freshly buttered toast dropped upside-down onto a fraternity floor and you’re out of bread.
You get the picture.
I have a part-time job as a caterer for a local catering company. I get to do a lot of things for this job, but I’m generally put on the bar because I’m both over 21 and a fairly decent multi-tasker. Last night, I was working the bar for a reception at the local university. It was some big-shot symposium on sustainable architecture or something, and most of the attendees were students and grad students enrolled at the school. I get put on architecture gigs a lot for some reason, so I knew the building and a lot of the students and the professors and it was a pretty relaxed event. I got to chitchat a fair amount with the people coming in.
So this guy kept coming over and I had to open his beer bottles and whatnot, and we had a choppy conversation, but the conversations I had with people were sort of running together because I had to interact with so many people. He was kind of cute, but not really my type, and at the rate at which I had to keep opening bottles of cabernet, I really was not paying attention to what he looked like anyways.
At the end of the night, I was breaking everything down with my coworker as the remaining 5 or so people were straggling out, and he came over (let’s call him James Franco) and said to me that there was a party at a bar downtown that he was going to and his friends egged him on to ask me out to it. Usually I go out with my friends to our usual bar where we sit in the same corner and drink the same drinks on Saturdays, but heck, why not. So I said yes.
After the van was unloaded and the catering business was put to bed, I got home and called my girl Varenka and convinced her that she really needed to put pants on and be my wing-girl, so she convinced her man-toy (let’s call him Rory) to come out with us for an hour. I texted James Franco and he said he was going to the club with his friends at 10 and he’d see me there. Cool beans.
V-renks and Rory and I rolled in around 10:30. No James Franco. It was pretty dead for a Saturday in there and it was NOT our scene. It was like walking into one of those crazy posh theme bars they make fun of in sitcoms. Everything was artfully grunged and buffed and destroyed and polished and painfully hip, and there were two 40 year old virgins playing techno in the corner surrounded with so many strobe lights they both had to wear sunglasses. Yet we persevered and ordered a very overpriced round of weak cocktails with lots of fancy garnishes on them.
This dude didn’t even show up until 11:15, which you may note was over an hour late. He came solo and mistook another Asian girl as me, which was as painfully awkward as you could imagine. He shook Varenka’s and Rory’s hands and sat next to me on a very hip vegan leather couch and balanced his tiny cocktail on the very hip patina’d metal chest that was there instead of a table.
James Franco did everything wrong. Everything. Even forgetting that he was an hour late and his friends never showed up. To sum:
– Tactless Asian jokes he tried to justify by indicating amount of time spent with Asians- check.
– Lying about his age (27) – check.
– Conveniently forgetting to mention he wasn’t a student here- check.
– Telling me he was only in town for four days and that he was “looking for a good time”- check.
– Asking me where I lived and how I was getting home (!!!) – check check.
– Being boring and awkward- the most checks.
Varenka and Rory left around 11:30, and I tried – really I did try – to not hate the entire experience, but between the awful music and the awful atmosphere and the fact that he bought me a Jack and Ginger instead of a Jameo Ginger and kept inching closer to me on the awful couch, I just couldn’t do it. So I pulled the Midnight Cinderella routine, refused the company back to my car (!!!), and lit outta there like the prizewinner at the Kentucky Derby.
The clincher, I think, was the follow up text I got this morning asking if I was around to “hang out” tonight. No, James Franco. I moved to Siberia. Find some other floozy to unimpress.
That’s the last time I go out to a hipster bar with a lying, pervy architect. Ugh. Never again, internet.