This mortifying experience happened a while back, I’ve been asked to write it down for the books, so… here goes….
A few months back I met a guy on Eharmony. He was so cute and nice and we really seemed to have a lot in common, so we decided to meet. We went on date number one and that went fairly smoothly (except he locked his keys in his car) but all in all, it went well… not too many awkward silences, etc, etc. I mean I haven’t really been on too many “adult” dates (since I’m only a couple years into “adulthood” and have only spent a few months accepting it…) so I don’t know what to expect. I mean I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a mini-panic attack before walking into Longhorn, but l apparently locked myself up enough to get a second date.
The proposed second date consisted of, him coming over to my hizzle and me cooking him chicken parmesean and putting on country music to win his heart and lock down a damn husband once and for all. Well, with my luck, I should have known that wouldn’t work…..
I went to the grocery to stock up on the ingredients (and beer of course) and came home to start preparing my specialty. (I shit you not, I make the best chicken parm in the southeast, if I do say so myself) I’m carefully breading the chicken and heating the oil in the skillet, when Mr. Date calls to tell me he’s off the interstate and needs directions to my place…. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I decide to cook, drink my 2nd beer, and give him directions all at once. The Convo went something like this:
“Callie: ok, so you’ll turn left off the exit (swirls hot oil around to coat skillet, oil pours out onto my hand and foot) and then SON OF A BITCHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”
Date: Um, are you ok?
Callie: (tears streaming down face, bent over kitchen sink about to vomit) Oh yeah! I’m fine, I just burnt myself, no biggie….. So you’ll turn left blah, blah blah. (I have NO idea what I said to him cause I was in so much pain, but somehow I got him to the apartment.) “
My sweet roommate rushes into the kitchen to see if I’m ok and meanwhile I have a blister the size of fucking Texas on my thumb. My left thumb. Yep. Isn’t that rich? Like if I ever managed to get a wedding ring after this whole ordeal, It would have to go on a scarred hand? I mean, I should have known…..
Anyway, two hours and six beers later, I had managed to finish dinner one-handed (it was flawless I might add), bring him beers, be the perfect hostess, watch part of a football game and look the absolute sexiest I possibly could with a burnt hand and foot. I figured, this effort was at LEASTTTTTTTT worth date six and a facebook relationship status…. I mean I endured a 3rd degree burn and still cooked a phenom dinner? If that’s not marriage material, folks, I don’t know what is. I don’t have any better to offer than that, I just don’t.
He left my apartment, I left for the ER. I never clenched date 3 and he never called back. If this date is any indicator of how the rest of my love life is going to go, I might as well join the convent now. (Although I’m pretty sure you can’t say “fuck” there…. So clearly, I wouldn’t fit in ….)
A few months back I met a guy on Eharmony. He was so cute and nice and we really seemed to have a lot in common, so we decided to meet. We went on date number one and that went fairly smoothly (except he locked his keys in his car) but all in all, it went well… not too many awkward silences, etc, etc. I mean I haven’t really been on too many “adult” dates (since I’m only a couple years into “adulthood” and have only spent a few months accepting it…) so I don’t know what to expect. I mean I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a mini-panic attack before walking into Longhorn, but l apparently locked myself up enough to get a second date.
The proposed second date consisted of, him coming over to my hizzle and me cooking him chicken parmesean and putting on country music to win his heart and lock down a damn husband once and for all. Well, with my luck, I should have known that wouldn’t work…..
I went to the grocery to stock up on the ingredients (and beer of course) and came home to start preparing my specialty. (I shit you not, I make the best chicken parm in the southeast, if I do say so myself) I’m carefully breading the chicken and heating the oil in the skillet, when Mr. Date calls to tell me he’s off the interstate and needs directions to my place…. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I decide to cook, drink my 2nd beer, and give him directions all at once. The Convo went something like this:
“Callie: ok, so you’ll turn left off the exit (swirls hot oil around to coat skillet, oil pours out onto my hand and foot) and then SON OF A BITCHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”
Date: Um, are you ok?
Callie: (tears streaming down face, bent over kitchen sink about to vomit) Oh yeah! I’m fine, I just burnt myself, no biggie….. So you’ll turn left blah, blah blah. (I have NO idea what I said to him cause I was in so much pain, but somehow I got him to the apartment.) “
My sweet roommate rushes into the kitchen to see if I’m ok and meanwhile I have a blister the size of fucking Texas on my thumb. My left thumb. Yep. Isn’t that rich? Like if I ever managed to get a wedding ring after this whole ordeal, It would have to go on a scarred hand? I mean, I should have known…..
Anyway, two hours and six beers later, I had managed to finish dinner one-handed (it was flawless I might add), bring him beers, be the perfect hostess, watch part of a football game and look the absolute sexiest I possibly could with a burnt hand and foot. I figured, this effort was at LEASTTTTTTTT worth date six and a facebook relationship status…. I mean I endured a 3rd degree burn and still cooked a phenom dinner? If that’s not marriage material, folks, I don’t know what is. I don’t have any better to offer than that, I just don’t.
He left my apartment, I left for the ER. I never clenched date 3 and he never called back. If this date is any indicator of how the rest of my love life is going to go, I might as well join the convent now. (Although I’m pretty sure you can’t say “fuck” there…. So clearly, I wouldn’t fit in ….)
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