Ok. I'm back. I really need to get crack-a-lacking on this blog - and in my non-work writing as well. I entered a contest to win $1000 on a site called My Very Worst Date. The site was looking for the story of the worst date ever. I've had a lot of terrible dates (if you'd like to read something I wrote a while back about my misadventures in the wacky world of Internet dating, you can do so right here), but the only one I could seem to wax poetic about in time for the contest deadline was one unfortunate night was the one you're about to read about. So, please enjoy...
My very worst date was pretty awful, but at least my tale has a happy ending. Through a former employer, I had access to VIP tickets for a New Year’s Eve concert by one of my favorite groups - a quirky Canadian band whose name promises something that’s never delivered on stage – much to the dismay of the uninitiated. The tickets included unlimited food and an open bar.
My date’s musical interests ran the gamut from Brooks and Dunn to GWAR, but he had no love whatsoever for eccentric alterna-pop from the Great White North. He did, however, have love for me, free food and free-flowing booze; and since we had no other options for ringing in the New Year, he agreed to accompany me to the show. Since the venue was over an hour from our house (and also because it was New Year’s Eve, the holiday when no one should be driving after…oh…6pm or so), we opted to get a hotel room. My date decided the only way he was going to endure the evening’s musical entertainment was to drink copious amounts of alcohol prior to the show – which he did. Within about an hour’s time, he proceeded to down an entire fifth of Ketel One vodka.
As soon as we got to the show, my date immediately hit the bar, just to ensure that his rapidly increasing buzz wouldn’t wane. He managed to choke down some meatballs and other such hors d’oeuvres in between further lubricating himself with more spirits. We were talking (well…more like slurring) and I jokingly (completely and utterly without a trace of malice in my heart) remarked to my date that his super-nice family members (who I knew quite well) were all a-holes. This didn’t sit well with him, and he proceeded to throw his drink in my face and call me a bitch – just as my favorite band took to the stage. Obviously, I couldn’t enjoy the show – not only was I probably quite flammable at this point (as, by this time, the vodka and sodas my date had been drinking were all now 100% vodka), my date was also nowhere to be found. I found him somehow (I think I could feel the chill coming off of him across the venue) and we attempted to head back to the hotel. The city was deserted – not a cab to be found – so we started walking, completely unaware of the location of our hotel. In the process of stumbling through the streets, I learned the hard lesson that high heels and poorly paved roads didn’t mix, and I took a tumble not once, but twice. Someone was looking out for us, because we eventually made it back to the hotel. The next morning, I woke up hung-over and bruised. My date was contrite and, after a greasy, nasty breakfast at a local all-you-can-eat buffet, we kissed and made up – and got married three months later!
Sorry, Paul. It's one of those "we can look back on this and laugh" kinda tales now, but I was really hoping it would have been one of those "I just won $1000" kinda tales (but, hey, I wrote something!) Oh well, c'est la vie!