Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Caution, Bad Taste Ahead

Heh. Yeah. But it's funny bad taste, or perhaps you really just needed to be there. OK. As you may or may not know, yours truly loathes bars about 75% of the time. I don't have the cash flow to take classes, and everyone G. Monkey knows is married or in a penal colony. So, in times of trouble, I've turned to the internet to meet dudes. Guys. Shining speciments of the opposite sex, if you will. It's not embarassing, and actually, it's kind of nice to meet people before you see them. Levels the playing field, so to speak. I've met 4 people so far. 2 never emailed me again, 1 seems to be a very decent fellow (and I'll say nothing more so I don't jinx the thing) and one... well... how shall I begin.

I just want to start this off by saying, as a short, wide girl, I'm not as concerned about the looks end of things. Generally speaking, I dig thick guys with short hair and sweet eyes, (Ben Roethlisberger- call me!)but I'm not one of those diva girls who gives the rest of us a bad rap. I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea (wait, I'm not?), so I'm a bit more flexible than some. Height especially isn't a big issue for me. Generally speaking (as a girl with height issues and a very tall shoe collection) most people are taller than me, but if not, no biggie. I had to take my shoes off to dance with my homecoming date, and he was the sweetest guy on the planet. (Oh, how I miss him.)

Anyway. To sum up that big ol' preface, if a guy's shorter than me, I don't really care, lest I get emails from the Little People of America, I am NOT sizeist.

That said.

Our correspondence started amiably enough, he noticed my profile at a singles board for liberal folk and dropped me a line. I thought he seemed rather swell, and told him so. He (we'll call him Bob)had a zany sense of humor and was a pop-culture hound. Bob and I spent more than a few telephone calls debating the relative merits of Saturday Night Live seasons, classic Mustangs, and eventually made plans for our first meeting.

(Alarm bells should have rung at this point, because 1. Bob shared the same first name as a particularly odious person from my past, and that's bound to be no good. 2. Our conversations were perennially shallow, although without actually meeting someone, I can let that slide.)

Toward the end of one of our last emails, he asked if I had read his profile. Sure I had. No photo, but everything else seemed normal enough. The height read 4'11", but I figured he just never filled in anything and that was the default. Big whoop. Even if he was shorter than me, well... see above.

Fast forward to the night of our date. I am, of course, wearing a pair of my really tall shoes, because they make my calves look swell, and I was wearing a shorter skirt. Now, when I say "Tall Shoes" I mean they probably made me maaaaaaybe 5'5" instead of 5'2". Instantly I spot Bob, as he presently has a fabulous view of my (also fabulous) breasts, as they are practically poking him in the eyes. Boy, would I have given anything for stumpy, tree-trunk-looking calves at this point. I feel like a total ass, and I am towering over this guy. This guy who is about to lose an eye if I get jostled in the lobby of the restaurant, and who is trying to give me a white rose.

(Side note. Guys. About the flowers... Because, honestly, we won't die without'em, and generally speaking, on a first date they won't increase your chances of getting laid, but if you DO bring them, remember:
Roses say "I have no imagination", Carnations say "I'm cheap", Lillies and Mums arranged in a horseshoe or wreath say "I just stole these from a funeral" and a single rose still in its gas station cellophane says "I have no imagination AND no forethought.")

Finally we get seated, and my rose and I finally feel a little more comfortable in our booth. Bob and I begin chatting again, still superficially, and every time I attempt to steer the conversation toward something a bit deeper I am thwarted. (If a girl asks you "Oh, you visited Pittsburgh often when you were in school? Where did you go to college?" she's trying to draw you out. Answering "Ohio" does none of us any good.) Also, a disturbing trend has started. Bob likes to clink glasses. A lot. As in "Cheers" without the "cheers" before it. And bump fists. With me. A lot.

This is the point where I notice Bob has really scary teeth. Not Renaissance Faire bad, but a hybrid of English and candy corn. I can't. Stop. Staring. Even after fist bumps numbers 90 and 91, the teeth, they mesmerize.

By now we've finished our dinners, and our waitress is looking to get rid of us. Understandable. I worked at that restaurant, and weekends are packed. Wanting to evaluate further, we decide to go for coffee. I drive, because I know where I'm going, and I'm fairly certain that Bob doesn't have an axe in his pants by this point. We kick back with our beverages, and talk some more, bump fists and tap cups a few more times, and eventually it's 11:00. By this point, I know that I need to go home, and Bob needs to get back to his place (he lives rather far away). So we hop in my car, and I drive through the city back to his car.

The fact that we drove through the city is kind of important. The area that surrounds us is mostly agricultural, and it's not uncommon to whiff some organic fertilizer out in the 'burbs, but downtown, one never smells anything so funky. Well, never, except in my car that night. Yes. Bob (to his credit, silently)ripped one in my car. Didn't apologize. Didn't blame a dog, didn't try to pass it off on me, didn't. Crack. A. Window.

Now, I would rather have my head explode in a shower of brain and bone than fart in someone's car on a first date. If it was absolutely unavoidable, I'd sure as hell apologize too, but not my snaggletoothed little friend. Boy didn't even turn RED!
That was the last straw. Vapid conversation? Fine. Shorter than me? Fine. Snaggly "Tim Curry as 'It'" teeth? Fine. Farting in my car? Not fine. Not fine at all.

Now. Once we finally got back to his car (a very tiny, bright colored clown-car looking car, I might add- because at this point, it's just icing on the comedy cake) he decides it's hand-holding time. I valiantly try to telepath "get out of my car, get out of my car, getoutofmycargetoutofmycargetout!" to no avail. I know what he wants. He wants... the goodnight kiss. He is not getting the goodnight kiss. Frankly, if the fart was rank, imagine what the breath is like in a mouth with those snaggly teeth? He had to settle for the goodnight hug, where he stole a goodnight peck on the cheek.

I went home, endured many "wee" jokes, and cashed in some dating karma by never seeing him again...

The Moral of the Story:

If you're short, you can't be shallow, and for god's sake, brush your teeth!

Maybe this is a horrible story, and makes me sound like a totally vapid bitch. I swear I'm not. C'mon, I dated Rooooooooooob, the speedo wearing, cokehead, egomaniac, self-esteem destroyer. I earned some "wow, I so don't need THAT" points.


In other news-

Ben Roethlisberger. Love.
McHenry beer. Love.
Driving to Baltimore. Love.
Decent guys. LOVE.
Shopping. Hate.
Cold. Hate.
Only running into people you know when you look like ass. Hate.

My office was so cold this morning, I thought my sinuses would claw their way out of my skull. It took until 1:00 till my feet were no longer painfully cold, and were merely "chilly". My legs were blocks of ice until nearly 11:45. This is what I get when I forget to wear long underwear to work on Monday. (I leave the heat on during weeknights, but the cheap in me cannot in good conscience leave it on over the weekend when there's nobody else in the cabana. I pay dearly with hypothermia on Monday, unless my boss remembers to turn the heat on sometime Sunday night.)

On that note.


Blogger Memphis Word Nerd said...

Girl, you owe me a new keyboard. I just spewed Diet Coke aaaaaaaall over mine. That was comic gold. I hope you don't mind (somehow I doubt that you will) - I've been sending a few friends your way. I figure that everyone needs a helping of special sauce from time to time, right? I'm officially starting my "Make Special Sauce Famous" campaign.

On a side note, I *reeeeeeally* needed a good laugh right about now. You know that "crappy day" post that I put up on my blog recently? Yeah, it hasn't gotten much better. Job interviews really suck. Even when they're promotions. Even when the potential new boss approaches you to ask you to interview. Sound good? Normally, yes. When your parents are being completely unsupportive, not so much. Something about me making life decisions seems to turn my parents into giant wads of panic and me into a blubbering five year old. Fun? Yeah, ummmm...no.

6:10 PM  
Blogger Special Sauce said...

Whee! The more the merrier! For anyone who's out there, the archives are pretty funny, especially June/July/August. The past few weeks haven't been funny, but I'm tryin'!

MWN- Hee! Trust me, this story is even better in person, beer in hand, with the mime-job too. I made Stoltzfus (official photographer of G. Monkey and Special Sauce) hemmorage, he was laughing so hard. Hee.

7:56 AM  

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