100 Bad Dates: #11

Let’s give a warm, hearty, RVANews welcome to our newest weekly column from the sassiest of the sassy: The Checkout Girl. Don’t say we never gave you anything.

August 31, 2009; 12:00 PM • by The Checkout Girl

Date #11 approached me when I was with a friend at one of my favorite dive bars, a place within walking distance from my house and roughly the size of two walk-in closets, side-by-side. The sign on the wall stated that the “maximum capacity” of the place was 20 persons, but I couldn’t see where 18 more people would fit, and there wasn’t room to do much of anything but get chummy with your fellow bar-goers.

Date #11 was a party of one, and I wrote him off as either an alcoholic (“Do you drink alone?” asks a pamphlet which helps you determine whether or not you might have a drinking problem) or way cooler than I. Either way, he pulled it off, beautifully. He was only slightly-less handsome than, say, George Clooney, and I was surprised when he approached my friend and I, sitting at one of only three booths in the place. He seemed particularly interested in me, which annoyed my girlfriend who was prettier than I and used to getting most of the attention. What? Funny friends have their place, too! Niche dating is my life.

Anyway, it wasn’t long before Mr. LessThanClooney had scored my digits. I was sort of (read: totally) hoping for a drunken makeout and that didn’t happen, but he said he’d call, and I was about 9% sure that he would. He did and, lacking a polite way to say, “What in the world would you want with ME?” I agreed to meet him at a local Mexican Cantina for margaritas.

After only one drink, and with all the reverence of someone bestowing the secret of life, Date #11 decided to share his theory on successful dating: He surrounds himself with a certain type of women in order to attract like-women. For instance, he told me he only had beautiful female friends and, when they went out together, beautiful females were attracted to him. I swear there is a Seinfeld episode exactly like this where George gets a hold of a pretty girl’s Glamour Shot and passes it off as his dead fiancé, and this attracts gorgeous women because he’s already dated “one of them.” Well, this guy was dragging pretty ladies around as his “wingwomen” to achieve the same. And it worked! I nearly barfed in my mouth, thinking about the ladies dumb enough to be fooled by such a simple scheme. I asked him what the wingwomen got out of it, and he said that he always paid for the dinner and drinks and that, “truthfully,” he thought those girls probably wanted to date him, too, but he never mixed “business with pleasure.”

All of this lead me to ask him why he had chosen to meet with me. I wasn’t beautiful enough to be his wingwoman or dumb enough to fall for such a thing.

“Well,” he explained, “I’m looking for a different kind of woman now, and I want you to help me get them.” I laughed, not even masking my derision at this point.

“Oh? What type of woman is that?”

“Someone smart, with a little more substance.”

At first I was kind of flattered. “I guess brains, substance, and a deadpan sense of humor last longer than beauty,” I told myself. But, he went on, “If you and I go out together, women who care about such things will know that I am not just interested in looks and feel free to approach me.”

Wait, isn’t that part of the plot of Shallow Hal? Didn’t this guy have any original ideas? Was I being Punk’d? Yes, no, and no. Great, so now I am Gwyneth Paltrow in a fat suit? No, stanks. I politely declined to help him with his scheme, at which point he suggested we split the check. I wryly told him I hadn’t brought any money (I had) and, unless he wanted to visit the kitchen and wash the same dishes we had just eaten off of, he might want to pick up the tab. Neither one of us could get out of there fast enough after that.

I never heard from Date #11 again, and was okay with that, as he had bruised my ego. Fortunately, I look good in both black and blue. As far as I was concerned, Mr. LessThanClooney could go throw himself in Oceans Eleven, Twelve, AND Thirteen.

The Checkout Girl is a recent transplant to Richmond, from San Diego. She is obsessed with celebrity gossip, good yarn, garish lipstick, and memoirs. She’d like to learn to play the ukulele, cook more than microwave meals, and master the French language. She writes her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, as well as the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she’s found a pretty good guy.

August 31, 2009 12:00 PM 34