Earlier this week, I got a text message from a friend asking me to come over and help her get dressed for a date.  We’re adults, you say. Why did she need my help, you ask?

This wasn’t just a date. This was THE date. This was the first date since she left her asshole, cheating, going to hell in a hand basket, bastard of a boyfriend.

 (Can you tell how much I hate him.  Full disclosure: I hated him from the moment I laid eyes on him 7+ years ago and I told her so. I am a great judge of character, btw.  ) But I digress. 

Back to the story.

She’s out of practice, a little unsure of herself, and in need of someone to take charge of the preliminaries. Like the super, awesome, best friend that I am (patting self on the back) I went over to her bachelorette pad to oversee the process (I am an MPA). 

It was my job to pick out the outfit, the jewelry, etc.  Most importantly, it was my job to dispense with the wise sage advice, tell her how awesome she is, tell her that there are no f-ing rules for dating; and she should have sex if she wants to, provide general moral support, and be the mother hen.

(That’s my role, its what I do.) And I rock at it!

This proves that I can do anything. (employers, take note).

I am not a dating expert. In fact, I know next to nothing about dating. I have been on exactly one date in my entire life. (or maybe two if I’m feeling generous).

I’m going to tell you about my one and only date.

This is some funny *ish. (At least in my mind, anyway)

While in college I worked at a fine dining restaurant. (Thanks, R, for getting me the job) It was an awesome restaurant, and a really good place to meet all kinds of wealthly and/or business people. (my favorite kind of people).

As a hostess, it was my job to be beautiful, flirt, and make sure that when people sat down to eat, they did it with a smile, even if they had to wait 2 hours for a table. I was an excellent hostess.  Customers loved me, I could make even the most stuck in the mud grin.

Anywho, one night we weren’t very busy and this rather random guy starts up a conversation with me at the hostess stand (where were my fellow hosti to bail me out?!?!?!) Somehow the conversation turns to seafood- and at the time, I had never eaten lobster (give me a break- I was 19, from the country, and the extent of my seafood education was fried fish, shrimp cocktail, and jambalaya).

Anyway, this guy is going on and on about how he wants to introduce me to lobster. And I am totally game. He was pretty cute, could hold a conversation, and seemed just a little dangerous. So I give him my number.   

We plan to go on date.  The day of, I was really nervous. I had never been on a date before. Don’t get me wrong, I had gone out, a lot. But all my previous boyfriends had been guys that I knew from school, and there was always a courting period where dates consisted of the guys coming to my mama’s house and sitting and chatting. (I heart my over-protective mother)

So dating those guys didn’t count. They weren’t new. There was no pressure.

But going out with this guy was different. I didn’t know him. There was tremendous pressure to be pretty, to be a conversationalist, to not appear to be a country bumpkin. So I was, understandably, nervous.

A friend, bless her heart, made sure that I looked appropriately sexy, not slutty, made sure that I looked like an adult- not a teenager, calmed my nerves, and sent me on my way.

Guess where this man, this special man who wanted to introduce me to lobster, took me for our date?

Red F*cking Lobster. I kid you not! I giggled (in my head) when he told me.

This man had the total inability to let a woman (any woman) walk by without trying to make eye contact.  I don’t remember any of the dinner conversation probably because I wasn’t listening. I was having an inner-monologue about how the hell was I going to get out of this date.

But I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

He asked me to pay for half. The f*cker. And because my mother, just before this date told me to be prepared to pay, God, love that woman, I had the cash to contribute.

Then we leave Red Lobster, and go to my restaurant. He also wants to teach me how to smoke a cigar, and my restaurant has a cigar lounge.  So we go, and the night gets better, mainly because my people are all there and I have an audience while I (unsuccessful) smoked a cigar and drank scotch. (Remember that I’m nineteen, right, all my co-workers conveniently forgot this fact.)

Afterwards, we go to Barnes and Noble (the most randomest date ever, I know) for coffee. He, so gentlemanly now, pays for my latte. And we have a discussion about American vs. European cars. Speed, turning radiuses, handling, etc. (more stimulating that one may think, I love cars.)

I want to beg off at this point, but he wants to see my dorm room. (hee, hee) I sneak him in, and let him know up front that my room is a mess. I was getting over a cold, and the tissues that I would use in my bed would find themselves all over the room, where they stayed. I was too busy to clean them up, and I lived alone, so I didn’t care.

He took one look at my room, asked for a broom and a vacuum, and preceded to clean my entire room.  He made the beds, swept under the beds, threw out my dirty tissues and other trash, organized my books and papers, vacuumed and washed my dirty dishes.  

I told him he was awesome, gave him a hug, told him I was sleepy and sent him on his way.

I found out the next day that he didn’t pay for the scotch at my restaurant, and I had to pay for it. The f*cker.

The funniest part? That actually wasn’t the last time I saw this guy. And all the stories are as mind-boggling as this one. Why did I continue to see him?

He was entertainment. And I was bored.

Hope you’re laughing. Happy Friday!