Two Minute Warning

His face was as white and expressionless as if I had just said, "I've murdered my parents and their bodies are in Hefty Cinch Sacks in the trunk of my car. Wanna see?"

OK, so you don't like cats. I guess the wedding is off, eh? Because really, there was soooo much potential here to begin with.

Moments later, (and the last few nachos and blobs of artichoke dip later, natch) he excuses himself for the men's room. I text Charlotte.

I am fine. He's fine. Not fine. Just OK but not putting chloroform over my face and dragging me to the trunk of his car."

He comes back. I watch him walk toward me as long as I can without visibly gagging. He's one of those short men who buffs up to compensate for the fact that their God-given physique was more 70 pound weakling, not 007. He even puffs up his chest and holds his arms out as if his triceps prevent them from dangling at his sides along the seam of his Toughskins.

My turn. I hop off of my bar stool and head for the ladies room. I run into the 2 couples leaving as I meander through the maze that leads to the Ladies Room. I am sure the drunk and disorderly frequently puke on the way. Between the distance and the inadequate signage, it would be easy to understand how a girl might stagger into the kitchen with her bladder near bursting.

"Heyhowzitgoing?" says one of the guys.

"No need to do THAT again," I say.

Both guys laugh. "Oh, man. Harsh. But he did look like a dweeb, just sayin'" says the other one. I am sure they've found this fascinating. Especially when positioned side by side with their dates.

I return to the bar stool but do not intend to take a seat. It really should be time to close the books on this account. I have made the effort though to run a comb through my (still fabulous) hair and freshen my lipstick. God only knows why. It's not like I want to attract him. I should have taken a Sharpee and blackened out a tooth instead.

As I arrive I see that he's obtained the check, paid it and is folding the receipt to put in the wallet he has to jam in the pocket of his too tight jeans.
From the Boys 8-16 department.

It is a weird gesture to assume that the "date" is over. I feel a little like I am getting the bum's rush, even though I think he has so few redeeming qualities I could easily write them down on a gum wrapper.

Never missing a beat, or a step, I don't even stop at the bar stool and instead simply smile and say, "Ready to scram?" and without waiting for a reply, walk toward the door assuming he'll follow and not caring if he does or doesn't.

He walks to my car and makes some kind of comment about it. It is a big behemoth off-roading cruiser with huge wheels, suicide doors, all kinds of navigational gadgets and a 6 speed stick shift. I think he was expecting something dainty and girly like a convertible Audi. Further proof that he's just an ass.

"I'm parked down there'" he says, gesturing to some spot I don't even bother glancing toward. What? Did he need a ride???

I don't comment and after an awkward moment or two he says, "So how do we end this thing?"

"Not soon enough" I think as I extend my hand to shake his and tell him to have a nice weekend. He makes some stupid comment about my pending weekend with the girls, as if to indicate that I'd made weekend plans that didn't include him before I'd even met him. Like I was supposed to reserve the entire calendar on the off chance that he was something I would not typically find writhing under a rock.

"A girl's gotta have SOMETHING fun to look forward to," I say, hoping he is just ever so slightly insulted but knowing he's too pompous to be.

I get into the car and squeal my big manly wheels doing a questionably legal u-turn and shifting to speed off noticeably. I immediately dial Charlotte who is at home with Griffin.

"Well THAT was a complete waste of perfume!"

"Where are you? Are you OK?"

"I am fine! I just left. It's over. Nevaaahh gonna happen!"

"Tell me everything! Was it awful?"

"Open a bottle of wine. I am on my way!"