The Best Laid Plans

File that under "Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time."

Along with the Dorothy Hamill haircut, camping out for concert tickets to The Who, the Vegas wedding, and the tattoo in a spot where gravity and middle age are eventually going to distort it into something unrecognizable.

Still skeeving just a little but glad I'd had a good laugh with Mom, I drove to work thinking just how I was going to explain to "the Gals" just exactly how my date went. I wouldn't be able to dodge the questions. Even if I stacked meeting upon meeting, eventually I'd have to face the music.

And as I drove, I heard the familiar little tone my phone makes when I've gotten a text message. True to my friends in the Trauma department, I will not look at the phone while I am driving. Especially not on the bridge, high above a raging river, with a high speed train running along side the rails of the bridge and the driver in front of me applying her mascara in the rear view mirror of her minivan. A disaster just waiting to happen.

I get to work and as I ride the elevator from the roof of the parking garage to the lobby of my building I flip open the phone praying that the message is from my sister. Or my colleague that I'd texted from the loo the night before. Or one of my kids.

Or a collector or a bounty hunter or a stalker or the Devil himself. Anyone but Casey. Please.

A girl can dream.

Of course it was from Casey.

"Good morning, beautiful."

My stomach turned. I close my eyes and hope to vanish.

He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He knows where I worship. He knows my phone number. There is no escaping him and there is evidently nothing that can offend him into leaving me alone.

Or maybe there is.

I put my thinking cap on. It is more a warrior helmet. This is a project I can sink my jagged little teeth into.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Date

Two and half innings and 2 pints later, the game is over, our team won, Casey is jubilant, I am despondent. I give serious consideration to picking my nose in front of him.

It's late. It's a weeknight. I have to get home. Time to face the music.

Casey and I walk the few blocks to my house. We ascend the front steps and I am plotting what I am going to do to get rid of him, tactfully, gracefully, but in no uncertain terms. No need to repeat this mistake. He needs to begin his long drive home immediately.

He asks to use my bathroom.

And just like that, my opportunity to send him packing has passed in an instant. He's inside my house.

He returns from the bathroom, but he's taken so long that I have to go. Now.

I head upstairs trying to figure out what I am going to say that will make the point without beating him over the head. He has to go. No need to call me again. Thanks for an inferior evening.

I come down the steps expecting to find him standing in my center hall. He's not.

Incredulously, he's taken a seat in my livingroom and has turned on the TV! Like he's staying a while!

I go into the room and position myself between him and the TV on the bench in front of the sofa. "Casey, it's late. I need to get to sleep and you have a long drive. You should get going."

He changes the subject and begins to talk about something else entirely.

I repeat that he has to go. As in now. And I stand up and walk toward the door. Had he worn a coat I would have handed it to him to emphasize the gesture so he would get it.

I turn around and I thank him for dinner. He goes to hug me. Benign enough.

But then he tries to kiss me and I am completely wigging. I manage to dodge that horror show, but in the mean time, OMG, he reaches in for a sneak swipe at a boob!

Are we at PROM??????

I say "Enough of that!" and I literally push him away and in the direction of the door. He's still talking. Like everything is just grand. Has the whole world gone mad?

Once he is safely outside of my house, I push the door closed with a heavy thud and loudly click all the locks for emphasis.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I need a friend. I want to call J. I call my mother instead. I decide to laugh and begin to regale her with the story.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game!

Take me out to the crowd!

Literally.

Casey and I leave the restaurant and walk up the street in the general direction of several local pubs. I am hoping to be surrounded by lots of people to avoid the alone part of the date.

We get to the first one. We can see through the window that there is a nice crowd and all the TVs are set to the game. It looks pretty inviting to be honest.

But this pub is one I never go to. I don't know anyone who goes there. It is not my haunt.

I make an excuse. "Let's not go in there. It smells." I had smelling on the brain.

Casey says, "It shouldn't. You can't smoke in any of these places anymore."

"Oh it's not the smoke, it's the food. You never leave there not smelling like mozzarella sticks."

I stear him up the street and across the road to MY haunt. On a game night, I will surely know the bartender and at least half the crowd. This will tip the date in a new direction.

We walk in and I know absolutely no one. Not a bartender. Not a patron. Not even the owner is there tonight. He's AT the game. I am doomed.

I tell Casey what I'll be drinking and head to the ladies room. I need moral support.

Once inside the stall, I consider my options. I could call Charlotte, but she would probably put on her superhero cape and come swooping in to send Casey packing. And whimpering. I really should handle this myself. It is good practice for getting rid of future bad dates.

I text my friend from work. She'll know what to do. "You will NOT BE-LIEVE how awful my date is." No reply.

I am utterly on my own.

I exit the ladies room without even putting on more lipstick. Maybe if I look a little more like a washed out hag I'll have better luck chasing Casey away.

The 7th Inning Stretch

A good date is a really wonderful thing. Whether you are in high school, or college or somewhere out in the world, a good date is magical.

There is a time in a good first date when you know. When the conversation has become easy and you start to feel all warm and gooey inside and you want to be alone with the other person. Want to hold his or her hand. Want to feel that arm around your shoulder. And you want to leave wherever you are so you can be free to do that.

I had no such experience with Casey. And in fact was a little panic stricken that dinner was coming to an end and there were hours left in the evening.

His son texted him. He flipped open his phone. I secretly crossed my fingers hoping that someone was experiencing some kind of heinous life threatening (or at least disfiguring)emergency and he had to rush home to head off a tragedy in the making.

No such luck. It was just a baseball game update. Our team was in the heat of playoff battle.

There is nothing more unsexy than a sporting event, and Casey and I are both fans, so I used the double edged sword to try to direct the rest of the date in a way I could stand.

"Do you want to watch the rest of the game somewhere? If we hurry we can catch the last 2 or 3 innings."

Casey makes some inane comment about how many oversized TVs he has...his daughter always gets "stuck watching Hannah Montana on the little one" which is 72 inches. Like I care. My TV as I've said, is little more than something else to dust.

Concerned that he thought I was suggesting that we watch it in my living room, which I was not, I suggest a local pub.

And then to throw a little more water on the idea, I suggest that his brother might want to meet us there.

"Geez, I haven't seen Jeff in a dog's life! I can't believe he's lived right here all this time and
I haven't bumped into him. Give him a call! See if he can join us!"

I could not read Casey's genuine reaction to that suggestion, but he agreed to it on the surface. Excused himself to use the men's room, call his kids and call Jeff. He emerged from the men's room, popping a few more mini Altoids, and telling me that Jeff is on a date miles away and would not be joining us. Maybe next time.

Next time? Sorry, Jeff. We'll just have to go one being strangers.

All I Have Is A Photograph

It was odd that we could not find anything interesting to talk about. Not that I wanted to discuss politics or other landmine topics. But it was just boring.

We talked about sports. This quarterback's stats, or that baseball team's wild card chances.

We talked about our families. His mother being the size of a mobile home. His sister being an Earth Mother. His brother's odd OCD habits about what things go in which pockets of his pants.

We talked about our kids. What activities they are involved in and how they have handled our respective divorces.

Casey kept trying to hold my hand. I kept finding things I needed the hand to do and kept moving it. Pour the wine. Gesture to the waiter for something. Adjust my silverware.

I kept all of my chat completely impersonal. Not much detail, nothing I wouldn't discuss with a stranger on the subway. I did not want to give the illusion of actually connecting with Casey on any level, which is strange for me because connecting is something I do effortlessly.

Casey of course held up his end of the conversation in his usual overly emphatic syllables. "THIS IS A NICE PLACE! DO YOU BRING ALL THE GUYS HERE? Heh, heh." (No asswipe, just the ones I think I might ditch by sneaking through the kitchen and out the back door just to avoid spending one more minute with!)

And then he creeped me out. He is not on Facebook but he used his 12 year old daughter's account to look at my profile, which thankfully is set to the most private security settings. But he wanted to look at my picture. He admitted having done this.

And he commented that he showed my profile picture to his 2 sons and daughter (yuck) and his daughter had remarked "Daddy, are you going on a date with Sandra Bullock?"

Come on! I am not under any illusion that I even remotely resemble Sandra B on the best of days. Not even a little bit. OK, we both have dark hair. And that is where the similarities begin and end.

And so perhaps from a more appealing man this may have been a cute way to compliment me, but coming from the guy whose breath smelled oddly like a rotting carcass, I was completely wigged out.

Maybe someday I will understand why. For now, I just need to understand how I am going to survive the rest of the date.

Oh Waiter! A Little Hemlock, Please!

It is a beautiful night. I desperately wished I did not have plans. It had rained just hard enough to make the night cool, but early enough that the late afternoon sun dried the air and it was crisp. It smelled like fresh grass, which was a nice change since Casey had Napalmed my house.

We walked along the sidewalk making conversation about this and that, and came to a point where we had to walk along side a tall hedge that encroached the sidewalk and was still wet with rain. At this point, we had to walk single file.

And since that arrangement made actual conversation less than optimal, Casey decided to simply make comments.

Remarkably, comments that went something like "Geez, the view is great from back here!" And "We can walk like this the whole way, I don't mind, heh heh."

Now, I did not get to be 40 some odd years old without figuring out my best features. I know I have a nice butt. But what kind of guy makes that kind of teenage dipshit comment on a first date? He couldn't just privately think "Lucky me!" ?????? He had to say it? As if that were going to be flattering to me? Really?

Without breaking stride, I spun around to give him a look that he obviously misunderstood to be less threatening than I'd intended. I could not believe I wasted this great outfit on this clown.

We got to the restaurant without me shoving him into traffic. I ascended the stairs first as would be customary, and he made another crack about my fanny, no pun intended. Thank God it would soon be concealed on the surface of a chair.

And to be honest, friends, the rest of this may not be fair to write. Because being who I am, once I found one thing to pick apart, I could easily find a thousand others. Casey had no shot. There was nothing he could have done to redeem himself. I was glad I paid for the wine. It made me feel less bad for accepting dinner.

Dinner which seemed to last decades. Thank God for the wine.

The waiter came and lit the candles on our table. Casey smiled. I cringed.

The wine was opened and poured. The waiter thankfully placed the ice bucket between us. A little gift from God that it was within reach.

It was time to order. I ordered salmon. Casey ordered filet mignon. And when the waiter asked how he'd like it done, he replied "Medium well."

I know I visibly winced. Even the waiter thought he was hearing things. He asked for clarification.

Casey said, "Medium well. Very little pink." I closed my eyes and grimaced in anticipation that he'd follow that description with a request for ketchup.

He didn't, but I still had to concentrate on suppressing a fight or flight impulse to go running from the building as though it were on fire.

Holy Halitosis, Batman!

I think it might have actually been better if he had shown up with a boogey in his nose.

I would have been equally skeeved out, but at least there would have been hope. I could have told him he needed a tissue, handed him a box of them and left the room while he chased the bats from the cave. Not a great first date image, for sure, but it certainly beats the hell right out of pervasive permeating caustic fumes.

When my counter attack glass of wine was finished I suggested we leave (and enjoy the added benefit that a walk in the fresh air would be!). I took the glasses into the kitchen and Casey made some stupid joke.

He had opened a tin of Altoids. Little mini ones. Whatever the flavor (hard to tell with all the competing odors…) they are blue. He made some crack about little blue pills.

Not in the mood for jokes as I gasped for breathable air, I looked at him quizzically (probably menacingly, but it was intended to be a quizzical look). He said, “Little blue pills? Viagra?”

Yeah, Casey is a laugh riot. What would I know about Viagra, dumb ass?

So I replied, flatly, that I don’t know the first thing about Viagra. He laughed and repeated my statement as though it were the most hilarious thing he’d heard all day.

Casey really needs to start keeping more interesting company.

Then he took a couple little blue Altoids and put them in his mouth. He offered me some, which I declined, and refrained from suggesting that he gargle with Agent Orange. And hey, Death Breath! Try the full sized Altoids! Hell, buy the Jumbos! I am ready to affix a gas mask to my face.

I got my purse, checked to see that my phone and some getaway money were in a convenient location and we stepped outside to go to the restaurant.

I was not at all happy to be going, but felt like a drowning person who had just broken the surface.