All right, it’s time for some girl talk! I love hearing my friends’ dating stories – from the sordid to the spectacular. My own personal worst date ever is kind of a classic in my circle, so here we go!
Back in my 20s when I was on 90210, I was at a club one night and bumped into a guy that I hadn’t seen since high school. Back in the day, he went to school with some of my best friends and was the hottest jock around. Now, he was an up and coming actor and was even more uber-hot. We chatted a bit, and he asked if he could take me on a date. At the time, Donna Martin was making crappy boy choices, but I was determined to find The One! So I agreed and wrote down my number on a cocktail napkin praying he would call. We all know the three-day rule, and he played the game well. Exactly three days later, he called and asked if I was free to go to dinner Friday at 8PM. I said yes, and he told me he had already made reservations at…wait for it…the chicest, most expensive, and trendiest new restaurant / lounge in Beverly Hills. I was impressed all around. At his choice in restaurants (the food was said to be impeccable), the fact that he was taking me to a see-and-be-seen spot (he must really like me!), and that he apparently had clout (resos sometimes had to be made a month in advance!).
On Friday evening, I sat in my apartment on my overstuffed floral shabby chic couch in a new, black, stretchy Guess mini dress, velvet and black rhinestone choker, and hair curled on a double wide barrel. I was anxiously waiting for him to pick me up, and I was starving! I had been way too nervous about the date to eat all day, and besides, the food at this tres chic restaurant was going to be unbelievable. Ding-dong went my doorbell and my prince charming had arrived! He whisked me to the restaurant, and we arrived promptly for our 8PM dinner reservation.
A matre d’ in a black bow tie and vest escorted us to our two top table in the middle of the restaurant. Mr. Right held my hand as we crossed the restaurant and he pulled my chair out for me at the table. This date so far was perfection! We each were handed a giant, thick velvet and gold embossed menu. It was the type of restaurant that’s so schmancy, they don’t even list prices next to the apps and entrees. My eyes glazed over in a foodie trance as I saw bone marrow and duck salad, oysters Rockefeller, pan seared foie gras on toast points, and braised lamb shank pappardelle pasta. I was hoping he didn’t see the slight trail of drool coming out of the right corner of my MAC red lips.
But before I could ask, “What are you going to order?”, he announced, slamming down his menu, “I’m not very hungry. What do you say we just get drinks?” What? Was this really happening? Was braised lamb shank not in my future? I weighed the heavenly bone marrow against his perfectly chiseled jaw and adorably prominent dimples and replied, “Sure.” I then selfishly prayed for breadsticks that would never come. He ordered us both Rum and Cokes. Oh no! I was a wine girl. I didn’t usually drink hard alcohol. But, I had to act cool, so I went with it.
Well, four rum and cokes and two hours of a one-way conversation later, I was way too drunk and bored. Did he want to know anything about me? I was feeling sick. Actually, the room started spinning at this point, as he went on and on about how David Charvet robbed him blind from what would have been his breakout role on “Baywatch.” When suddenly his dimples started floating up on his forehead I knew I had to find a bathroom and quick. I excused myself from the riveting conversation and bolted for the bathroom. I just kept telling myself, “Don’t make eye contact with the restaurant patrons, or their amazingly delicious meals, and walk straight.” Then, I saw it, the door. The bathroom door! Five more steps, and I’d be safely in a bathroom stall where I could puke my guts out in privacy. Classy, I know. I pushed open the door, smiled with victory, and walked right into…the kitchen. Oh no!
The whole kitchen staff looked up at me. It was bustling and I was busting. I put my hands up to cover my mouth, but I knew it was too late. A waiter rushed over with a massive copper saucepan where I proceeded to vomit the four rum and cokes and the cliff bar I had had at 11am into it. It was Donna Martin prom night all over again. I was mortified! I then apologized and mumbled “I’ll be back for the shank” as I stumbled back out of the kitchen. I told my date I was tired and not feeling well and needed to go home – aka you starved me all night, liquored me up, and talked my ear off, you cocky bastard. As we left the restaurant I hit an all time low and grabbed a handful of unwrapped butter mints out of the bowl on the matre d‘s stand and slammed them back. You know, the ones they say never to eat because studies have shown they are filled with fecal matter from unwashed hands. And now Donna Martin’s puke soaked paws. Nasty!
When we got to my apartment, my date escorted me to my door. He even went in for an end of the night kiss – apparently unaware that I had blown chunks in the trendiest kitchen in Hollywood, and thinking this date had gone well. I coyly turned and gave him my cheek as I proceeded to suck on my fecal laden candy. He promised to call and left. I then went straight to my refrigerator where I ravaged half its contents while muttering slurred comments of hating douches with dimples to my pug.
The kicker is he actually did call. But not for two weeks, and when he did, he asked if I could get him an audition for a new series my dad was producing. I hung up defeated, wondering, if I put on a dark wig and glasses, could I slink back into that restaurant and order the lamb? Or at the very least, drop off a new copper saucepan for them.
Worst date. Ever!
What’s yours? Tell, tell, tell in the comments below!! I’ll compile the best stories and post them in a future blog!
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