Adventures in Bad Dating: My Agony Becomes Your Christmas Gift

Remember Stare Hard? If that post doesn't ring a bell, perhaps this one will. I don't know what came over me, but the staring continued (or so I thought) and nothing happened. And finally I decided to pull on my big girl pants and do something about it. Something that would fix all of this: either be done or see if there is anything there.

Stare Hard loves hockey. So, I "came into" some tickets to the game last Saturday, invited him. He bit. And it all went downhill from there. My chicken-like ways prompted me to utilize the facebook emailing system to instigate this invitation. And while he promptly responded to the initial invitation, getting him to respond back regarding an actual plan, any plan, took nearly an entire week. And apparently asking if he wanted to do dinner beforehand was requesting too much because, "I can't do dinner beforehand. I am making cookies or something for my Home Teaching families." Hello, the game starts at 7:05. On a Saturday. You can't make cookies (or something) a little earlier in the day?

So there I sat in my pajamas reading this message on a Saturday morning dreaming up a bad case of stomach flu. Because if cookies (or something) for Home Teaching is more important, then clearly I was being used for hockey. And I'm pretty sure I was.

*No, I did not do this to my date at any point in the evening. Wanted to, but didn't.*

It was a bad date. Probably one of the worst in my oh-so-stellar dating career.

It isn't so much the fact that he was late picking me up, or that he talked about himself and himself only on the way to the game. And that he admitted he once tried his hand at improv comedy and proceeded to tell me about The Rules of Improv (because that topic is so very scintillating): is forgivable, in a way of speaking. It isn't even that he stopped me at the top of our portal into the arena with a, "Wait, it is bad hockey etiquette to enter while the puck's in play." Because, while he doesn't get dating etiquette--clearly--he at least understands the intricate workings of sports arena politeness. Frankly, I was even okay that the conversation during the game was minimal. After all, we were there for the game. And the conversation would have dwelt primarily on his absolutely uninteresting lameness. (And this is coming from a girl who revels in her own nerdery.)

No, all these dating faux pas are not what made this date worse than the hobbit who judged the size of my salad. What made this date hit a 10.0 on the richter scale of dating disasters was the following scenario which took place after the game...

We enter his car. 2 Points for him, he opened my door. I start up more conversation, assuming this will be the plan for our ride home, or to a restaurant where he maybe won't be quite so awkward (since the first part of the date is over, any way--and it is only a little after nine and he was making cookies (or something) beforehand so maybe he's hungry too).

"That's right, you grew up in Seattle, didn't you?" I say. Because, while I may not be perfect, I am a good date who still tries to make the conversation interesting.

"Yup," he grunts and reaches for the dash.

Suddenly the radio shifts into a much louder position. And on this radio is nothing other than the post-game commentary for a game we just attended. I listened to the post-game commentary on a date. He actually wouldn't talk to me as he drove me home unless it was to interject with, "What they're saying here is that the little refs gave (enter some hockey player's name here) a penalty because he hurt their little EGOS. They couldn't handle it."

It was bad my friends. Very bad. And as he dropped me off, car still running (and possibly not even in park), something about his Star Wars toy collection came out. And I laughed. In his face. Because he is 38 and collects Star Wars toys and doesn't realize that, when on a date, 99% of his normal, albeit clueless, behavior needs to be hidden if he ever wants to find someone non-klingon to mother his children. It all paralleled The 40-year-old Virgin a little too closely. And as I walked to my door I wondered if I should start a consulting business. I could charge men for lessons on what to do and, more importantly, what not to do. Because, if dating has taught me anything (beyond the fact that I usually do not like it), it is that men (or at least the men I date) are no good at this and clearly stand in need of help.

Instead of this business venture, however, the roommate and I laughed at the disaster over a Super Bird at Denny's, because I'm no Hitch, A. And B., she realizes that cookies (or something) can wait.