Disasters In Dating - Part 2

OK, so after that disastrous blind date (I wish I’d been blind) on the day my divorce was final, I decided to take things into my own hands.

No, not like that ya twisted, fuck! Get your mind outta my pants.

No, I mean that rather than rely on other well intentioned people to send potentially compatible candidates my way, I'd just go out and pick 'em up in bars, the way God intended.

But I found that bar hopping and buying random women drinks was expensive and time consuming with a low flirt-to-sex ratio. So I wound up turning to on-line dating. I joined Match, Yahoo and a semi-local outfit called KC Singles. I really liked the on-line thing. You get to exchange so much information before you actually meet that it removes a lot of the nervousness and awkwardness of those first dates. You feel like you know them already.

One of the first women I started chatting it up with and emailing was on a couple of those sites. I was 47 at the time and she listed her age as 50. No big deal, my ex was 3 years older than me. I've never been one to chase after the 20 year olds anyway. What the hell could we possibly have in common? If she can't name The Beatles, I got no use for her. Plus, any 20 year old that was chasing an old fart like me would make me suspicious and sort of creep me out. Of course, that probably wouldn't sink in until after I tapped it a couple of times, but I digress.

So anyway she was reasonably cute, petite. Had short dark hair. Nice smile. Seemed like she was full of energy and looking for fun. For the sake of this narrative, I'll call her "Pixie". After chatting back and forth a few times, Pixie invites me to join her for Happy Hour. Seems she worked at a place that was close to The Quaff. Her and a bunch of people from her office were getting together that night. "You should come down!" she says. "It will be fun!"

I decide that it would indeed be fun so I go. When I get there, everyone is crowded around the bar having a great time. I hook up with Pixie and we start drinking and talking and generally getting to know one another.

One of the things I found out about her was that her ex's dream for retirement was to move down to their cabin on the lake and spend the rest of their lives in secluded, wooded, natural bliss. Fishing, boating, camping. Well, Pixie said fuck that! She was a city girl and she needed lots of vibrant, urban excitement so she dumped his ass. He moved down to the lake, she stayed here and partied.

The evening wears on and one by one her co-workers peel off and go home leaving us increasingly alone. I'm taking this as a good sign. However, Pixie was REALLY getting her drink on. She was slamming them back like a sailor on shore leave.

At one point she reached that stage of drunkenness where she felt compelled to share something with me. "OK. What would you like to share?", says I.

Thought maybe she was going to show me a sensually placed tattoo, or some personal piercing or something. I'm starting to get some wood.

"I'm not really 50" says she.

DING DING DING DING DING!!!! Calm down. Calm down.

Ahem. "SO, how old are you?"

"I'm 60."

OK. I have to admit this set me back on my heels just a bit. I mean, she looked good! She took care of herself. But damn! 60! She was 13 years older than me. She was a whole pubescent teenager older than me! Now, when you are 20 and the woman is 33, that’s sexy and exciting as all shit! But when you are 47, there is something about that looming 60 milestone that just screams Senior Citizen. Now that I'm 52, 60 don't look all THAT old. But this was 5 years ago. I've matured since then.

I take a breath, smile, reach into my charm and debonair box and just say "Well, I wish you'd told me about that earlier, we probably could have gotten an AARP Discount on all of these drinks!" We laughed. She was relieved that I didn't just totally freak out. Even though I was totally freaking out.

We stayed a little bit longer, but it is becoming really obvious that she is just dangerously hammered. We agree that it is time to get her home. She lived out in the Waldo area. The plan is for me to follow her home. Just to make sure she makes it OK! Nothing more. This was my Sir Galahad Complex kicking in. I had a Damsel in Distress here and she needed caring for.

Now, in reality, neither one of us should have been driving. I'm older and wiser these days and you will never, EVER catch me taking a drink and getting behind the wheel of a car. But following her home seemed like a noble and gallant thing to do at the time.

I walk her to her car. I get to my jeep. She pulls out and I follow, watching in helpless horror as she runs the first stop light we come to.

Greeaaatt. This is going to be fun!

Luckily we were at the end of the red cycle, the light turns green and I'm able to keep her in sight. She isn't driving fast or anything (not like she was trying to "lose" me), but she is dodging the main streets and taking side streets. Probably in an effort to avoid getting pulled over. Methinks she's done this before! I wasn't that familiar with that part of downtown at the time, so I wasn't sure where the hell we were. I was just following her and hoping she knew how to get home.

She turns one corner a little wide, a little fast and bounces up off the curb. Next thing I know, she is slowing down and stopping in the middle of the fucking street! Not cool!

She gets out and walks around her car. I open the window and ask "What's wrong?"

She has a flat tire. Can this night get any fucking better? Nah, I don't think so!

I'm thinking "I am going to have to get out and change this bitch's tire for her, in the dark and completely trash these clothes!" I was dressed nice because, you know, I was going out! I don't wear my Carhartt Overalls on dates! Not since I moved out of Ray County anyway. Fuck!

So I park my vehicle and walk up to hers (which is still sitting in the middle of the goddamn street). She's in the car talking on her cell phone. It seems that just the week before, she had joined AAA.

HALLELUJAH!! Thank you Sweet Baby Jesus! I ask her if she knows where we are so that she can tell them. She's not sure. I tell her "Keep talking, I'll run up to the corner and see where we are." We were on 19th street between Central and Wyandotte amidst a bunch of spooky old warehouses.

I go back to her car and she's still talking to AAA. I tell her where we are but she can't seem to pass that information along. I wind up having to get on the phone and tell the guy myself. He says he'll be there in about 30 minutes.

I suggest to Pixie that she should pull her car off of the street into a nearby parking lot. After this was accomplished, I said "Pop your trunk and let's get the spare tire out and ready for the guy when he gets here." (Because I want to speed things along and end this evening as quickly as fucking possible).

She pops her trunk and JESUS H. CHRIST ON A CRUTCH!! It is filled with all manner of crap! Suitcases, carpet and tile samples, a bowling ball, old McDonald's sacks, a high chair, miscellaneous sacks and boxes full of God knows what. We literally had to excavate the spare tire form the trunk and then re-stuff all that shit into her trunk.

When all that was done, we still had 15 minutes or so to wait and I suggested we go back to my jeep, relax, calm down, listen to some music and wait for AAA. She is totally embarrassed and humiliated at this point. She is crying and blubbering and telling me "Thanks for all the help, but the AAA guy is on his way and you don't have to stay, I've already ruined your evening. You've probably had enough of me tonight" she says.

In fact, yes, I have. Quite enough, actually. But that's not what I say. What I say is "Look, it's only another 15 minutes and there is no way in Hell I'm leaving you stranded, alone, at 19th and Central at 11:00 at night! So just relax. Everything will be fine."

True to his word, Bubba Onetooth shows up with the truck to fix the flat right on time. He walks around the car and discovers another delightful little surprise.

Apparently, when she hit the curb, it instantly flattened one tire, but it also bent another one into slow leak mode. While we were waiting on AAA, it went flat too.

Two flat tires. One spare.

Remember earlier when I asked that mostly rhetorical question about whether things could get any better and I said, "Nah! I don't think so!" Well I was FUCKING wrong!!

No choice now but to decide where she wants it towed. Turns out there is a Goodyear close to her house. Bubba set's off with her car in tow while I am now stuck driving Pixie home.

She is mostly lucid enough to be able to give me reasonably good directions and we finally get her home. Once inside, she totally breaks down and is all crying and apologetic, yada, yada, yada. While she is having a meltdown, I go into her kitchen, find her grocery list and write her a note reminding her what happened and where her car is so she can deal with it in the morning.

I tell her I need to go home. It's late.

She staggers me to the door where I give her a polite kiss goodnight.

"We should do this again sometime!" I tell her.

This time I think I actually may have left a little rubber as I floored it and made my escape.

There was no 2nd date.

Sorry this post was so long.

But the actual evening seemed a LOT FUCKING longer!!