Well kids, I had a date last night. I should have cancelled, I even knew it, but my roommate told me that 5:45 was too late to cancel on a 6pm date. Fuck bubbles. So I went. Because I’m a good person? No, who am I kidding, I was hoping for free dinner. And I got it, but I also had to deal with…let’s call him Mellow Yellow. Heh.
I was kind of pissy to begin with; apparently there was some sort of sportsing event that causes people to be on the roads and drive like directionally deficient monkeys. No joke, I had two separate people turn the wrong way onto a one way RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME amidst lots of honking and hand waving on my part. And a 10 minute drive turned into an almost 30 minute drive. But I’m obsessive and like to show up to dates early, so I got there on time. He didn’t, he was 15 minutes late. Which means he would have most likely been late EVEN WITHOUT GAME TRAFFIC. *grumble grumble*
Within the first 10 minutes I knew I was in trouble. Mellow opened with complaining about his ex GF who decided that she wanted to date other people so she dumped him. I dunno, it’s better than her cheating on him, right? I mean, that’s what I would have thought; better to break up than cheat. Whatevs. Then we got on the topic of food, because you know we were at a restaurant. He says something along the lines of, “Show me a woman who knows how to cook, because they sure like to eat! You’d think they’d know their way around a kitchen.” I’m making glarey face at him at this point. Because, what the fuck dude? I tell him that dudes are just as capable of cooking as ladies, but he doesn’t like that, it’s too hard to learn how to cook. Homie, I’m not talking about making duck confit right off the bat, I’m talking about throwing some shit in a crock pot and coming home to a delicious stew. But that’s the woman’s job. Also, it’s her job to be the breadwinner, because according to him, “It’s stressful being the breadwinner.” Dude. Really? *sigh*
- A. I was the breadwinner in my last relationship, and until the relationship went south, I didn’t mind providing for my significant other.
- B. So you want the lady to make the money AND cook the food? Does she also have to rub your feet every day? What the name of the intergalactic space octopus are you going to do?
Oh, nothing? Right, he’s soooooper into video games. Which, look, I play DnD, I’m not going to judge, but I also read, knit, cook, clean, work, bake, go the gym, volunteer, and most importantly HAVE FRIENDS. You just want to sit on your ass and have someone serve you? That’s called having a servant, and even then you have to treat them with respect because THEY CAN LEAVE YOUR EMPLOY. As they should you lazy, misogynistic dill weed.
But wait! There’s more! We got to talking about TV shows and how pretty Mad Men is, mostly because of:
To which he called me a harlot. Readers are you looking about in confusion? Why was I still sitting there with him? What in the hell is wrong with him? Am I making all of this up? Well loves, I was there because I knew after 10 minutes, it was blog worthy. I think he needs to be shown how a real woman reacts to these things, and no I’m not making it up. The day you read the post about me meeting someone will most likely be a work of fiction.
My response to being called a harlot? To give him the cocked eyebrow, pursed lip frowny face and say, “Excuse me? A harlot? For….recognizing when another woman is beautiful? Or maybe being comfortable with my own sexuality? Then yeah, I am, you should look into it.” AND HE LAUGHED. That jack rabbit laughed. Anyway, it wrapped up shortly after because I was really done. There was no getting through to him, at least not without going off and we were in a public enough place it would make a scene. Also, he had already paid (yay for dinner!) and left a horrible tip, so we were keeping the attractive, tattooed, bearded waiter from being able to sit more guests. (Side note, I should have left my number for THAT guy. Why didn’t I do that?!)
I ran for my car, which was conveniently located, with a “Toodles!” but alas, he got a hold of me this morning, saying he had a great time. Apparently I didn’t bust his balls hard enough. I’m going to have to up my game. If you need me, I’ll be communing with my inner feminist.