RVANews

100 Bad Dates: #1

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 17:00:30 +0000

Date #1 was me. Oh, you didn't think I knew that no one could go on 100 bad dates without being a bad date herself, sometimes? I DO possess at least a modicum of self-awareness. But I also come standard with years of baggage, a tendency toward clumsiness, a low tolerance for alcohol, and a fairly serious case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I'm pretty much a bad date waiting to happen.

For instance, on one date I was convinced to sneak in to the building where that date worked to use the executive gym after hours. Lounging in the uncomfortably hot jacuzzi, I heard footsteps and insisted to my date that we weren't alone in the building, like we had thought. Dripping and panicking, we grabbed our clothes and headed toward the back stairs. As we entered the stairwell, the cold air hit me like a punch in the face, making me lightheaded. So lightheaded that I lost my wet footing on the concrete stairs and tumbled ass-over-teakettle down to the next landing. Clothes went flying, I went flying, and we landed in a heap. Me, scraped and bleeding, with my bathing suit pushed aside to show my goods to god and everybody. My date sighed, apparently NOT charmed by my clumsiness, picked up my clothes and me, and hustled us out the door. When we got outside, his car was the only one in the parking lot. I shrugged and said, "Guess I imagined the noise" as I bled on his tan seats. He dropped my off at my house so I could nurse the wounds to my body and pride. Needless to say, he never called me again.

On another date, he, his brother, his brother's wife, and I headed 20 minutes south of my hometown to Tijuana, Mexico. Crossing the border with the intent to drink as much as possible? Great idea! I succeeded in my quest, but not without taking off my top in some sort of drunken exchange with a street vendor for a hot dog wrapped in bacon. (What, you've never shown your tits for breakfast meat? Well, then you really haven't lived.) In a turn of events surprising to exactly no one, I threw up the pork-wrapped pork soon after. In my date's brother's car. A year later, I would run into this date at a wedding where he would share the story with everyone in the wedding party.

On yet another date, I dropped acid (the only illicit drug I have ever experienced) at a house party, at the insistence of some of my date's friends, and promptly freaked out. Highlights included psychotic screaming for over an hour, smashing a framed Norman Rockwell print with a baseball bat (Because it dared me to. The painting. It dared me.), and vomiting in three rooms of a stranger's house, none of which were the bathroom. After lying down for the next three hours, sobbing and hugging a giant stuffed bear (which turned out to be the host's Husky which was alive and well and, seemingly, sensitive to my situation because I swear to you he never moved), I was asked to leave and never come back. My date also requested I lose his number and, frankly, my embarrassment and my need to never see that horrified expression on his face again would have guaranteed that anyway.

Oh, and I can't forget the date of sushi and sake which, although delicious together, teamed up to try to murder me from the inside. After dinner, my date took me to a movie, during which my tummy was making noises so embarrassing that I had to excuse myself. When I got to the lobby bathroom, the painted on jeans I was wearing suddenly became the worst decision I had ever made and I didn't get them down in time. A total mess, I frantically called a friend to bring me some pants. She did, but they didn't look anything like the pants I had been wearing. Plus, I had to ditch my dirty clothes in the restroom trash can (which was completely disgusting but unavoidable). How my date didn't notice that I went from wearing jeans to black pants, I'll never know. Chalk it up to men being a little less detail-oriented. Also, if he ever noticed I was gone for a third of the movie, he didn't mention it.

Yes, my guess is that every one of my bad dates has a story about me, too, and I hope they are telling it. After all, without bad dates, how would we know the good ones? Besides, we are nothing without our stories.

A note from the author:

Hey, Friends.
This is the last entry in the 100 Bad Dates diary for a while. The column is being retooled, repackaged, and re-awesomed for brand-new opportunities so stay tuned for for news about that. I hope you've enjoyed this sneak peek at it and I'm thankful to have had your input which has helped me, greatly.
As for my future with RVANews, things are a' brewin' and you will be hearing from me again soon.
So Much Love,
TCG

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.

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100 Bad Dates: #35

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 17:00:37 +0000

Date #35 was a DJ. You know, like God. Except he worked at the local college radio station. That could be heard only on the internet. And for no money. So, really, less like God and more like the guy with the biggest vinyl collection and a lot of time on his hands.

We went out on a blindish date after meeting on MySpace. Hey, don't judge. Whether or not you admit it, a good percentage of you have met someone online and prayed like hell while walking into a coffee shop/restaurant/bar that they looked at least enough like their picture that you would be able to recognize them but different enough that you might find them attractive. And they wished the same thing about you. The key is knowing the photographic tricks used in the online dating world so you don't end up at Buffalo Wild Wings with a guy who looked like a cuddly, better looking Kevin James in his picture but more closely resembles a rude, cheese-sweating (and ultimately married) version of Fat Bastard from the Austin Powers movies. Yes, average is the name of the game with online dating, regardless of what Match.com would have you believe. I am the Queen of the 5's and proud of it.

Date #35 looked ok in his pictures, though he wore a hat in every one. I assumed that meant he was thin-to-nonexistent on top, which didn't bother me, but clearly did him. He was also sort of slight. He told me in one of his messages that he had recently lost 100 pounds and I almost called the date off. Hint: people who lose a lot of weight are oftentimes excited to talk about it and fat people are, also oftentimes, really not that comfortable. Their resemblance to your before picture and the fact that they are the person that you are so happy to not be anymore can really be a bone of contention and not conducive to the other bone that we are frequently trying to get to on a date. However, he seemed smart and nice and his brain was a library of obscure music information, so I agreed, knowing we'd at least have things to talk about.

When I got to the designated date location (a local coffee shop) I scanned the crowd nervously. I was 15 minutes late and sure Date #35 would be there. Nope. That was sort of a relief. Everyone knows it's way better to be the first to arrive and have the advantage of scoping out the other person as they walk in. I checked my phone for messages and, finding none, settled in with the most intellectual-looking book I had sitting on my bookshelf. I don't remember what it was but, suffice it to say, it was probably leather-bound.

I waited about half an hour, looking up every 30 seconds or so for Date #35 to come through the door. My nerves were a mess. It's hard to suck in your gut while sitting down, anyway, but try doing it for a whole episode of Gary Unmarried. You'd die! I know, I know, it sounds preferable to having to actually watch that show, but I can assure you it's not. I finally packed up and left, miffed about having been stood up and composing a scathing MySpace message in my head all the way home.

When I signed on to the site, a message was waiting for me from Date #35. It said, "You're pretty." I was weirded out. I ranted for a few lines about him having seen me but not saying anything and how I felt foolish. He wrote back very sweetly that once he had seen me he had chickened out because he didn't think he was in my league. Aww! Even creepy, stalkeresque flattery can win me over. I told him that while I didn't appreciate having wasted my time waiting for him, I understood nerves. I also told him that I studied in the downtown library every Wednesday night; he could come down there some time and join me if it felt like less pressure. He said he wasn't sure but thanked me for the invitation.

I dressed a little nicer the next few times I visited the library, and wore a little more makeup than usual, but Date #35 never showed. Who knows what really happened that night? Maybe he saw me and decided I was too chunky to pet his monkey. Maybe he was intimidated by the leather-bound book I was pretending to read. Maybe I really WAS too pretty. Only he and God know the answer to that, and the DJs aren't talking. I think I'll go with the last one and put another record on.

100 Bad Dates: #89

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 17:00:44 +0000

Date #89 was another football player. What is it about me and jocks? I swear I am way more about brains than brawn, but when life hands you football-shaped lemons you make leathery-tasting lemonade and don't ask questions. And that's what I did when I met her. That's right, I said "her." Women's Professional Football. But I am ahead of myself.

I met Date #89 while tagging along on a first date my friend was on with a girl she had met at work. She wasn't convinced she really liked the coworker, so she asked me to join them and make it a more casual groupish thing. Except it was just the three of us and, while I am a chunk, I am hardly a group. It was a bit uncomfortable.

We went to a local bar up in my part of town which I affectionately called The Gayborhood. After having grown up on the extremely rural and homogeneous outskirts of town, I made a conscious decision to move to someplace a bit more diverse as an adult. I picked the part of the city that my parents refused to drive through, stating it was full of "those people." I wasn't sure who those people were, but I was definitely the outcast in my family and thought I'd probably have more in common with "those people" than the ones I was genetically related to.

As I sat on my stool, observing my fellow bar patrons and trying to ignore my friend (whom I guess had decided in favor of the coworker) and her date totally macking, I heard a voice behind me and felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey. Is anyone sitting here?"

There was an empty stool beside me at our table for four. The residents of Makeout City didn't stop tonguing to answer, so I turned.

"No. Go ahead."

The owner of the voice was tall and sturdy with quite a few traits that would traditionally be considered masculine, including a deep voice. But there were also breasts. If you remember, Y2K date also possessed bodacious tots, so I still wasn't sure exactly which gender I was beholding. A hand was offered.

"Hi. My name is Shannon."

Damn. Shannon could go either way. Like Pat. Shannon went on.

"Are you a lesbian?"

Just like that. Very forward.

"Oh. No? I don't think so. I mean, I've dated girls but I don't consider myself a lesbian."

"Oh. Well, I am."

"Great. That's really great."

There are only so many things you can say to that, most of them awkward sounding.

Date #89 and I talked for a while and she was really nice. Very quiet, sort of private, but nice. She told me she was an accountant from nine to five and football player in the Women's Professional Football League in her spare time. She told me in her very deep voice that the company she worked for was ultra-conservative, and her parents were elderly, so she wasn't out to any of them.

"Really? You REALLY don't think anybody knows?"

I couldn't help it. Obviously, her less than stereotypically feminine voice and physique did not necessarily mean she was a lesbian, and neither did the fact that she played professional football, but anyone with even the most broadly-tuned gaydar could figure out that this girl was not strictly dickly.

"No, I haven't told them. Why?"

B'okay, I am no Judge Reinhold, so I let it go. We talked for a while longer and she was sweetly awkward. Like a pre-teen boy. Finally, my friend and her facemate were ready to take it to the next level, and I really wasn't down for being the third wheel on that dyke trike, so I suggested they drop me off at my house on the way to whichever bed they would be fouling. I turned to Date #89 and told her we were taking off and asked if she wanted to hang out again sometime. She gave me her number and told me that when I called I needed to specifically state I was a coworker of hers and calling about business.

"My roommate doesn't know I'm gay, either."

I called a few days later and asked her to coffee, but she had a hard time deciding where we could go that we wouldn't be seen by anyone she knew. She settled on a place that was 30 minutes away and I told her I'd get back to her. I thought about how much effort I was willing to put into this thing with someone who was nice but definitely didn't give me a girlrection -- it didn't involve hiding in dark gay bars and driving by a hundred Starbucks to get to one where her secret was safe. I called back and told her exactly that. She told me she was disappointed but understood. Too bad, I really would've liked to have seen that football uniform. Plus, I can rock a set of pompoms like nobody's biz. I really hope that by now she's found herself and a nice girl to be her prom queen.

The Checkout Girl, originally from Southern California, is currently bringing sexy back to Richmond. She is enjoying seemingly limitless amounts of sweet tea, middle-aged women in tennis skirts, and humidity. 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.

100 Bad Dates: #9

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 17:00:36 +0000

Date #9 popped my cherry. Not because I was in love with him, but because I was dying to get it over with. It seemed like so much pressure, the whole deciding who to do it with and when. And with so much build up, figuring out how to make it romantic and perfect like it is in the movies, how could it not be a let down?

Anyway, that shit was for silly girls, and I was an independent woman. I decided to go out and find someone who was just inebriated and libidinous enough not to notice what I was sure was going to be a lot of wincing and a red sea (thanks, Judy Blume) and romance him for the amount of time it took to make it happen.

Date #9 was a military man. I convinced my best friend, who had already lost her virginity to a neighbor when we were still in middle school (and many, many times since) and whose dad was a retired officer, to use her dependent ID to get us on base to where the boys were chock full of hormones. It took a bit of swaying because she had a serious boyfriend and had her own plan to get pregnant so he would marry her.

"Ok, but we're not staying long. I think I might be ovulating and I'm going to call Steve to meet me at home so we can do it," she said.

Yep, we still said "do it" which means we were too young to actually do it.

We got to the Enlisted Club and I saw Date #9 right away. How could I not? At 6'8" he was the tallest guy in the place. That dark, smoky room was full of hot boys and slutty girls, but my eyes kept going back to him. Eventually, he looked my way and smiled. It wasn't long before he headed over.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, leaning closer than someone sober would.

"What are YOU drinking?" I countered.

"Ah, the lady takes care of herself, does she?" he said with a wink in his voice.

Date #9 and I spent the next hour getting to know each other a little by shouting over the music. I am slightly hard of hearing and so mostly I nodded while he yelled. In fact, he said his name twice, but I just couldn't get it. I realize now that I should have had him write it down or something. Finally, I decided to just nod at that, too. The bar was closing and my friend was totally bored and hyper-aware that ovulation is a limited time offer (and only once a month at that), so we headed outside.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I'M going home," she snarked, "YOU guys can go wherever."

"Well," he turned to me, "wanna hang out some more?"

Um, yeah, that was the plan.

We went for a drive in Date #9's car and ended up parked, looking out over the bay. He asked if it was ok to kiss me which struck me as sweet. I actually wanted him to, which was NOT part of the plan. He did, and things got real hot real fast. There were hands starting at the top and moving down. First over, then under. I figured out that the actual deflowering couldn't possibly take place in the car, considering his height. I stopped him.

"Do you want to go to a motel?" he asked, the picture of class. I was willing, which made me just as refined.

We ended up at a nearby establishment that, luckily, had left the light on for us. Once we got in the room, I jumped on the bed, totally ready to get this thing over with. He joined me and we kissed again.

It didn't take long before we were at the point where it was fish or cut bait, and I decided to fish. It was over in a flash. Very little wincing, no red sea that I could, well, see. In fact, not much of anything at all. That was it? We snuggled a bit and I felt a bond with him that I hadn't expected. DEFINITELY not the plan. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I should take you home. It's late."

I felt a pang of something.

Date #9 drove me home, and I gave him my number, simultaneously hoping he both would and wouldn't call. I didn't know if I could face him again, being that I slutted it up so hard just hours after meeting him. At the same time, I suddenly felt dirty and thought that if we went out again it might make me less of a whore. He didn't call and I learned a hard lesson: even independent women have feelings and things don't always go according to plan.

100 Bad Dates: #77

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 17:00:59 +0000

Date #77 was a teacher. My teacher. And I am an infamous apple polisher. It's like me sitting at a desk (or, in this case, an elongated table) and them standing is somehow the sexiest. Maybe it's the penis-level view. Maybe it's visions of Sting singing "Don't Stand So Close To Me." Maybe it's all the schoolgirl porn.

Anyway, this wasn't real school, it was a three-month-long computer training class at a company I had recently joined. He had warned us on the first day that it would be rough, spending every week day for months in a small, windowless classroom with 19 other people. He assured us that someone's smallest quirks would be magnified to such a degree that we would feel like beating them to a pulp. Couples would be made and broken, and two babies, thus far, had been conceived. We all laughed, knowing none of that would happen to us. But my laugh was uneasy. He made this training sound like a POW camp and, well, I wasn't down for any kind of emotional torture. Or, you know, effort.

Date #77 was less attractive without the whiteboard marker in his hand. Tall, big, and nerdy, Drew Carey with just enough cockiness to make you wonder where it came from. Of course, I crushed on him approximately five minutes into class. The only reason it took THAT long was because I was busy sizing up the situation. I could tell right away that a) I would need to move away from my desk-mate who looked like a crier and b) I would need to move closer to the front, so Date #77 could see how good I was at paying attention. Plus, you know, I have nice eyes.

During the first break, I hung outside and one of my cooler looking classmates came over.

"Did you see that asshole I'm sitting next to?" he asked between drags on his cigarette. "Jesus, he's wearing a Beach Boys T-shirt under his blazer and socks with sandals. Oh, the irony of not embracing the irony. Wanna sit together when we go back in?"

BESTIE ALERT!

He was in the second row, so I just took Mr. Beach Boys's seat. Mr. BB came back, looked confused, and said he thought I had accidentally taken his seat.

"Oh, I have some female problems and need to be close to the door. You know, just in case," I said, all stage whisper-y.

No one ever argues with "female problems." Not ever. And, before you go getting all feministy on me, know that I DID develop those problems and it's probably all because I lied to this guy so, yes, I got my comeuppance.

Turned out the seat switch was the right move. Now Date #77 could see how funny and charming I was, without me having to pretend not to look at the crier (my former desk-mate) who, by the way, had never used a computer in her life and DID cry that day. And the next. And you get the idea.

Sometime in the fourth week of class, Date #77 stopped me on my way out the door.

"Hey, some of the other instructors and a couple of people from the office are going out tonight, wanna come?" he asked.

The funny, charming, eye-thing was totally working!

"Oh, and invite your desk-mate. He seems cool," he added.

Poo. I talked my desk-mate/bestie into escorting me to the overdecorated family-style restaurant nearby whose name rhymes with Crapplebee's, where everyone was meeting. I was happy to meet some future coworkers, outside of my combative little group of twenty who, by now, were ready to kill each other. I was double-happy when Date #77 leaned into me.

"Wanna get outta here?" he whispered.

My desk-mate/new bestie laughed when I begged him to approve.

"Sure, slut. It's ok to bang our teacher," he said, the model of propriety.

We went out to his car and got in. Some kissing occurred, but I was very aware that I was in a car, in the parking lot of a restaurant that features a 2 for $20 meal. It ain't like I was banging a businessman outside Ruth's Chris.

"Where should we go?" I finally asked, all hot for teacher.

"Well, obviously my house is out, since my wife and kids are there. Do you have a place?" he asked, like nothing.

My heart deflated, and so did my engorged lady-bits. I got out of the car.

"Hey, where are you going?"

I told Date #77 that my sluttiness had limits and one of those was marriage. He seemed annoyed and insisted that he MUST have mentioned his wife in class sometime. I guess he thought I knew he was married and was fine with it. I went back inside and my desk-mate/bestie and I left. He offered to transfer to another class with me, if I was uncomfortable. I told him that felt like an admission of guilt and I had nothing to feel guilty for; Date #77 was the one who should feel guilty. In the end, I guess I learned a lesson: It is more important to listen to your teacher than to picture him naked.

100 Bad Dates: #68

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 11:00:40 +0000

Date #68 was NOT gay, ok? Not even bisexual, so don't mention it. He was a military man that I met on a street designed for getting drunk. You know the kind, most big cities have them: all old-timey looking, possibly with cobblestones and gaslights, and lined with bars and restaurants. Pay one outrageous parking fee and drink at twenty-seven places (but not without a cover charge, thank you very much) before the night is through!

I was carousing with some friends, and somewhere around bar four we ran into Date #68 and his friends. Drunken, sloppy sparks flew. He had that delicious military crew cut that was SO Josh Harnett in Black Hawk Down and a thick-as-molasses southern drawl (courtesy of Valdosta, GA, he repeated several times). He proceeded to buy me a few more drinks and I proceeded to drink them, glad I hadn't driven. For his twenty dollar investment, I'm sure he thought he was going to get lucky, but I sent him on his way with a kiss and my phone number. I was pretty convinced he wouldn't call, considering I didn't put out. Truth is, I wasn't super concerned, either way. He was nice enough, and had that honey-sweet voice, but whatevs.

But Date #68 did call -- before I even got home -- and left a drunken message on my answering machine (Remember those?), saying he wanted to see me again. It was 3am-ish at this point, and my tipsy brain told me it was the perfect time to return his call. We had a barely-intelligible conversation in which he kept repeating that he needed to see me right then, but somehow I put him off and agreed to go out with him the next night for more drinks.

We met at a local cafe that served both coffee and wine. He was smaller than I had remembered (Was I lying on the floor at the bar? Entirely possible.) and kind of soft-spoken, pre-alcohol. Very nice, not terribly worldly. In fact, before joining the military he had never been outside of the Georgia-Alabama-Florida-area. A sort of redneck devil's triangle. He spoke wistfully of his hometown and about the girls he had dated in high school, just before enlisting. Two glasses of wine in he giggled at his own naivete.

"I'd never even had a blow job before meeting my roommate," he said.

"Well," I teased, "how many have you had since then?"

"Oh, I dunno, a hundred, maybe? You'll have to ask him," he answered.

Now there's wingman and there's WINGMAN. While I'm not terribly opposed to kinky, his roommate had observed every blow job he had ever had? What the heck?

"Wow, you guys must be very close," I said, dim as the grease-smeared light fixture in Kirstie Alley's kitchen.

"We're not gay," he quickly interjected.

Odd.

"Oh, no, I didn't say that," I said, wondering what in the world had I said that made him think that.

"It's not gay because we're not in a romantic relationship."

Spit-take!

NOW it made sense. I asked Date #68 if what he was saying is that his roommate was the one who was providing him with fellations (look it up) and he looked confused.

"Well, yeah," he answered. His look said he had come just short of saying "Duh."

Another glass of wine down and I had the nerve to ask him how, exactly, their not-gay relationship had come about. He told me that they were drinking together one night and telling stories, and he had told the roommate the no blow job tale.

"I can show you what it's like," the roommate had offered, and he accepted.

"Now, when we go out and don't get laid, we just hook up."

I thought about how I had sent him away the night before, but didn't ask if, well, you know.

I did ask if he considered himself bisexual and he winced.

"Eww, no. It's totally practical, not enjoyable."

I couldn't picture it not being enjoyable.

We had one more drink and I felt done. Date #68 was nice, and I didn't judge him for the hummer action (in fact, it was hot-ish), but I have a different type when sober and he wasn't it (in case you are wondering, my type when drinking is, well, kind of whoever).

Since moving to Richmond, I have heard that southern drawl many times and sometimes wonder what happened to the perfectly straight boy from Valdosta, Georgia and his roommate. My hope is that they finished their military careers and are sharing a nice flat in some open-minded city with a few dogs that wear fancy sweaters. After all, you can't beat a good beej.

100 Bad Dates: #50

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 17:00:04 +0000

Date #50 was a sexy centerfold just waiting to happen. We met in October of 1999 when he was visiting a friend in my city from his rural hometown in the Midwest. Mutual friends introduced us, thinking we would hit it off. They were right. I liked his Country Mouse ways and he was dazzled by my City Mouse savvy.

Date #50 and I hung out a couple of times while he was around and kept in touch when he went back to driving a mail Jeep in his two-horse town. We emailed, racked up quite a phone bill, and became generally fond of each other.

When he talked of coming back into town, we settled on New Year's Eve for our next date. That was huge because the mood world-over was all Y2K-y and, you know, we could possibly die together when all of the world's computers got confused and thought it was the year 1900 and suddenly hadn't been invented yet, I guess? Anyway, for those of you who don't remember, a NYE 2000 date was a big deal.

Date #50 arrived on New Year's Eve Eve, but I didn't see him until I went to pick him up for our date. My best friend was having a party (she had reserved the right to host the Y2K soiree in, like, 1995) and, even though she lived about an hour away, I kept my young adult promise to attend. He pretty much looked the same, save for one obvious change that had taken place.

He had breasts.

Not like moobs (man boobs, for those not well-versed horrifyingly inappropriate slang), but like big, bodacious tots. We embraced, and it was like hugging a Hooters girl. If you've never had the pleasure, it's not altogether bad.

We headed to the party and had plenty of time to catch up while making the trip. He mentioned he had gained some weight, and I politely said that I hadn't really noticed. He explained that he was on a medication that caused him to put on thirty pounds (They weigh fifteen pounds apiece? Awesome!). Honestly, I was fascinated by his double D's and kind of hoped I would get a chance to see them up close.

We got to the party (which was full of people who had nothing in common except for the fact that they had met my bestie sometime in the past five years) and I sat next to him as we drank and made small talk with boring people. After a few more shots of slut juice (in this case, tequila -- it gets me every time.), I moved from the couch to his lap. After another shot, I reached up to cop a feel. He didn't seem at all uncomfortable, and I was like, "Hey look how my date is the best of both worlds with a penis and an ample bosom and oh my gosh I hope we don't all suffer nuclear annihilation due to computer malfunction before I get my hands on both!"

Midnight came and went without a bang. I wouldn't say we were disappointed to live or anything, but not even ONE stray missile or plane falling from the sky? Gyp! After drinking far too much to drive home, the bestie offered her guest room.

Even though we were too tipsy to celebrate the millennium, carnally, we DID get peeled down to undergarments to sleep it off. That's when I saw them. It was like half of a Playboy centerfold up in that bitch! We snuggled up, and I rested my hand on one and passed out.

I woke up sweaty with my mouth tasting of the bottom of a shoe. Date #50 was sitting next to me on the bed, fully dressed.

"I don't think this is going to work out," he said, "I'm sorry."

I asked him what was going on and if he was ok. He said he just didn't think we were right for each other. I was pretty sad but, let's face it, I hardly knew the guy. We rode back to his friend's house with only the car radio to break the silence. When we got there, he apologized again. I hugged him and told him to take care.

I'll never know what happened that night. Maybe I got all randy with his juicy melons and don't remember. Maybe I farted in my sleep. Maybe it was my terrible snoring problem, which is the stuff of legends. Still, nothing changes the fact that I was dumped by Pam Anderson's breasts on the first day of the new millennium. It didn't give me much hope for the next 1000 years, but does give me plenty of time to plan a kickin' Y3K party. Dibs.

100 Bad Dates: #30

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 17:00:48 +0000

Date #30 was a big-time jock who was living a version of the Springsteen song, "Glory Days." From the moment I met him and signed for his package (What? He was our UPS guy at work), he talked incessantly about what a big shot he had been on the college football field. But that wasn't what won me because I don't know or care crap about sports. In fact, I barely heard any of the blah blah blah record-holding quarterback stuff. No, the thing that convinced me to go out with him (and it took very little convincing at that) was his six-foot-eight-inches of chiseled muscle. He was like a sexy giant.

Date #30 wanted to take me to a double feature at a drive-in movie which, really, could mean only one thing. Fresh off of a 10-year roller coaster of a relationship, I was down for that one thing.

We met at his place where I saw his ride for the first time. Grandmother, what a big truck you have! This thing would have been at home in an arena, crushing small cars. I made a joke about the size of the beast and overcompensating, and he laughed. He helped me up into the cab (not kidding), and we were on our way. When we arrived at the drive-in theater, he parked at the back because, let's face it, weren't nobody gonna see around that monster.

He talked, nonstop about awards he had won and how all of the sorority girls were hot for him. He went on about how he was to go pro, but had hurt his knee. He also admitted to having gotten his degree without really earning it. In fact, he said, he hadn't attended very many classes at all. He was pretty nice, but I wasn't as interested in what he used to be as what he could be: nude.

Date #30 talked through the whole first movie and intermission. A short way into the second movie he stopped, abruptly. He looked at me, expectantly. I realized he had obviously said something that required a response, but at some point I had tuned out.

"Sorry?" I said.

"I said, 'Do you want to make out?'" he repeated.

Heck yes I did. He kissed me hard, and it was hot. We played heavygropeymakeout for far too long, and he finally asked if I wanted to go back to his place.

We got back to the house that Date #30 shared with two roommates, whom I briefly met on our way through to his bedroom. It was obvious we were not really there for a coffee klatch, and they exchanged knowing glances as we hurried away. As if I cared. His room was messy and slightly musty. I had to wait while he pushed some questionable looking clothing off of the bed, then fell on it.

"Get undressed" he whispered.

While I was doing that, Date #30 did, too, and climbed in and got under the covers. We started making out again and, finally, I moved below the now-removed belt. Well, attempted to, anyway. I was confused. What was this I was feeling? Or wasn't feeling? I tried to keep a look of concern off of my face and continued with the amore. I had to get a better look at what I was dealing with and decided to get face to face with, well, you know. I did...and it was like whoa. From up at the head of the bed, he explained.

"I did these shots when I was playing. To build muscle. They had some side effects."

Some side effects?

I really wanted him but wasn't sure I could make it work. It turned out I couldn't. We tried this way and that, attempting a good portion of the 64 acts described in the Kama Sutra and a few I had invented myself. No one could ever accuse us of not employing creativity. Finally, the mood had passed and we gave up, defeated. We lay there for a minute, and I wondered how long I should stay. We were both embarrassed. Finally, I said, "I should go."

Date #30 and I went out one more time but, of course, there was no funny business. He was very nice, but I don't think he was really interested in someone who wasn't impressed with him. I knew it could never get naughty so wasn't all that interested, myself. He was trying to relive his "Glory Days," and I wanted him to "Cover Me," but knew he could never please my "Tunnel of Love." I guess in the end I was "Born To Run."

The Checkout Girl, originally from San Diego, now proudly claims Richmond as her hometown. She can't swim or drive stick; but she twirls baton, tap dances, and does a crazygood Marilyn Monroe impersonation. In the movie of her life, she'd like to be played by Liv Tyler, but realistically knows it would probably be her sister, Mia. 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.

100 Bad Dates: #23

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 16:50:10 +0000

Date #23 was a closet freak which (as far as freaks go) is probably the least appealing kind. I, myself, am a fan of letting the freak flag fly and allowing people to make decisions based on all the info. Ah, well, to each his own.

After Date #23 and I had gone out a few times, his mother (with whom he lived) insisted on meeting me. Having been on my own since I was a teen, I found the whole thing less sweet and more creepy. He told me I had to go to their place, as his mother was agoraphobic and never left the house. It was all very Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho.

We pulled up to the trailer he shared with his mom and older brother. It didn't look like a bad place, but when he opened the door, it was a disaster. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, and there was a significant layer of ash on everything. From somewhere in the smoke, I heard a voice.

"Well! Don't just stand there! Come in!"

It wasn't a friendly voice.

We stepped a little further into the house, and I saw her: a short, chubby woman with Crystal Gayle-length hair worn in a dinner plate-size bun, and a mean face. She told us to sit down. Date #23's brother sat next to her. They were both drinking Pepsis, and there were many empty cans on the coffee table in front of them.

She gave me the third (fourth? fifth?) degree, as she chain smoked like she might die tomorrow and needed to finish the carton of cigs she had started that morning. She asked about my family, my education, and my job with the PGA Tour, wanting to know if I'd met any famous golfers.

"You ever meet Greg Norman? He's handsome. They call him The Shark."

She chewed the words and spit them out, including the added bonus of flying saliva and cigarette smoke.

I told her I hadn't met him, due to injuries he had suffered and his subsequent retirement (which was ended by his subsequent subsequent un-retirement - yeah, I still keep up). Disappointment further clouded her face.

Date #23 noticed my tight, polite smile.

"I'm going to show her my room. We'll be back."

She shrugged, having lost interest in me after the Greg Norman thing.

We walked to the back of the trailer to a small, messy room stuffed with comic books. The bed was a futon that looked like it had been unfolded for years. It was covered with junk.

Date #23 told me to have a seat. He sat down next to me, picked up a stuffed raccoon and set it on his lap. He spoke, sadly.

"Well, this is where I live."

"It's nice," I lied.

"And this is Mrs. HisLastName".

"Oh, uh, she's cute."

He told me the raccoon was his best friend growing up and kept him company after his dad left. He went on to say that when he was 12 years old he had a ceremony to marry the raccoon and started calling her by his last name.

"Heh, that's funny," I said, thinking that 12 was a bit old for that sort of thing.

He turned the raccoon over and showed me where they had consummated their marriage. There was a penis-size hole in the bottom. I reminded myself that he had this crazy scene for a home life and that I had certainly masturbated furiously (and probably distastefully) A LOT at that age.

But he went on.

"And she's satisfied me ever since."

My mind raced with absolute panic. I told Date #23 we should get going. He sighed. I knew he trusted me with the truth about himself and I had let him down, but it was just too much.

We walked through the living room, where his mom and brother were still sitting on the couch. I told them both it was nice to meet them, but got no response. Instead she asked Date #23 when he would be home and told him to bring Pepsi.

He dropped me off at my house and asked if I wanted to go to a movie that weekend. I told him I wasn't sure, but he should call me about it. He never did. I guess we both realized that I could never compete with the raw sexuality of a stuffed woodland creature... I didn't even want to try. Besides, there was definitely No Vacancy at that Bates Motel.

100 Bad Dates: #72

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 17:00:01 +0000

Date #72 was old. Really old. I met him through the same awesome free personals I had used with Date #55 (one Downtown Mr. Brown, if you'll recall), which was always an adventure. Seriously, there are no more lonely nights (thanks, Paul McCartney!) when you have people placing ads for love and it's TOTALLY FREE TO RESPOND! Anyway, Date #72 had advertised for an "open-minded single woman" and billed himself as "distinguished," "older," and "financially stable." Visions of Demi Moore and Robert Redford (and a million dollars) danced in my head.

We exchanged voice mailbox messages and Date #72 suggested we meet for tea one evening. I could tell by his messages that he was quite a bit older than I was, but it was not clear by how many years.

The last message Date #72 left for me was the address of the cafe, along with the information that he would be seated in the back and wearing a blue blazer. He said he was tall and thin with white hair. White. Not salt and pepper. Not even gray. Just white. Ok, Ok, so not Robert Redford. I held out hope for Steve Martin.

I entered the cafe and scanned the tiny dining area. It only took a moment for me to spot Date #72. He stood, smiling, to greet me.

He was positively elderly.

Robert Redford? No way, José. Steve Martin? Perish the thought. This guy was the spitting image of Bob Barker. I suddenly had an urge to spin a big wheel. He gave me the subtle once-over, kissed my cheek, and waited for me to sit before doing the same. Old-timey manners!

Date #72 politely asked me about myself: where I grew up, what kind of work I did, my hobbies. You know, generic first date stuff. As we talked, I couldn't help but think about how he looked to be around my grandfather's age.

"Please let this be about companionship and NOT sex. Oh, please. Anybody listening? Please!" my brain begged a non-specific higher-power.

Then he reached across the small bistro table and took my hands. "I should tell you why I'm here," he said.

Date #72 told me that he was 70 and a great(!)-grandfather. He added that he had married young, and had four children, but his wife died in her forties and, when the kids were grown, he married his current wife. Yes, I said "current" and "wife." He went on to tell me that she was 15 years older and very wealthy. They had spent the first few years of their marriage traveling the world and enjoying life, but his wife had sadly suffered a debilitating stroke. She now required round-the-clock nursing care, and he was back to being lonely.

"I think our relationship, if you agree to one, could be mutually beneficial," he said, looking into my eyes, never letting go of my hands.

Date #72 said he had so much money at his disposal, but no one to share his affection with. He laid out an obviously well-thought-out plan that he was searching for someone to fit: an apartment in return for companionship (whew!) and sex (no!). Monogamy would not be required of me, but it would be essential that I be available when he called.

As Date #72 spoke in detail about his life, his sadness, and the plan, all I could focus on was how small and watery his eyes were. Tiny and damp. He must have felt me slipping away from the conversation because he started to speak more quickly and desperately, grabbing my hands a little harder. I eased them out from between his.

"I'm sorry. I don't think I am the right person for this."

Date #72 looked sad but said he understood. He slipped me his business card, saying that I could call in the next 48 hours if I changed my mind; he was meeting with another girl later and the offer would probably be rescinded if things worked out with her.

All of the "beneficial" and "offer" talk and just generally treating the whole thing like a business transaction let me know I had made the right decision (though not paying my own bills had a sexiness all its own). Turned out that, as for me and Bad Date #72, I would not be coming on down and the price was definitely wrong.

100 Bad Dates: #93

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 18:00:11 +0000

Date #93 was a carny. Ok, not a carny in the literal sense, but we DID meet at an amusement park where he was manning the admission booth so can we just say “carny”? Good.

He flirted with me through bullet-proof glass and a speaker. SEXY! I bent over slightly to confirm what I thought was eye-to-tatertot contact. Bingo. I sassed him a little and walked away, saying, “You know where to find me.” Yeah, there was only an amusement park full of people to wade through.

Finally, my friends and I were tired and hungry from running around the park like children and collapsed at a table near the main food stand. After all, what’s a carnival (see what I did there?) without junk food? Date #93 walked out of a side building and looked not at all surprised to see me.

“Uh, fancy meeting you here?” I said, hiding the fact that I was thrilled he had made the effort to find me.

“The whole park has cameras,” he laughed.

“Creepy!”

But I was flattered. Date #93 sat down with us and was an instant hit. I could tell he was the kind of person who could entertain any crowd. Like a clown (oh, god, I am so good at this!). I was totally charmed, so when he said we should hang out sometime, I nearly tattooed my phone number on his arm.

He said his favorite poet was reading at a local bookstore a few days later, and he asked me to accompany him. The man had a favorite poet! I said yes and suggested we get coffee first.

He picked me up in his VW Van, and we went to get coffee. He said he lived nearby and hung out there all the time (these boots are made for stalking!), which was confirmed by the fact that the staff there seemed to know him. But I couldn’t figure out why I was getting such strange looks from them. I convinced myself that they were jealous of my being on a date with the greatest guy ever.

We finished our coffee and walked down to the bookstore for the reading. We stood at the back as a female poet painted a picture with words and rhythm. I could see why he loved her. And when he grabbed my hand, I tried not to squee.

We stayed to meet the poet and have her sign a CD. Date #93’s excitement was adorable. He was talking a mile a minute while we walked back to his van and he never let go of my hand. We were both on cloud nine.

We climbed into the van and he leaned in for a kiss. He was a good kisser, too! I wanted to sleep with him then and there (it was a VAN!) but decided to wait until I could suss out his long-term dateability. I asked him to take me home.

“Only if you say I can see you again,” he said, and my heart fluttered.

I agreed, and he started the van and began to drive. We had only gotten a few yards when he shouted, “OH SHIT!”

“What? Is everything okay? WHAT?”

“It’s my girlfriend,” he said, looking in the rear view mirror.

I peeked into the side mirror and saw a girl running behind the vehicle. Literally. Running.

“Oh my god, what is she doing?” I asked, as we slowly made our way down the crowded city street. She was gaining on us. In heels.

“We just broke up, and she’s not really okay with it,” he said as we came to the highway onramp. He got on, speeding away from the girl running behind us.

My heart was racing. I couldn’t help but wonder out loud what her plan would have been, had she caught us.

“She would have kicked both of our asses. That’s what she said when I texted her that it was over.”

TEXTED?

“When was this?” I had to ask.

“Today,” he said casually, “But it’s been over for a long time.”

“Not for her,” I said, totally feeling her.

I told Date #93 that I couldn’t date someone who sent a breakup text to a girl who was obviously crazy about him. Or just crazy. Whichever.

He said he hoped I would think about it and possibly change my mind, but I knew that I wouldn’t be winning this carny's giant stuffed prize. To this day I still can’t get the image of the girl desperately barreling down the street full-tilt-boogie. He was really great but something in my head told me I could be that girl one day...and I can’t run for shit in heels.

100 Bad Dates: #86

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 17:00:18 +0000

Date #86 was dirty. Not Ron-Jeremy-dirty (though Mr. Jeremy sort of straddles the line between smutty and slovenly... and it's a super-hairy sort of straddling, too), but Bert-from-Mary-Poppins-fresh-from-the-chim-chimney dirty.

I had just gone through a bad breakup, and my self-esteem gauge was on E. So, when he chatted me up during my lunch break one day, I was game. He was average-looking and just big enough to make me feel petite. Plus, he seemed laid-back, and my ex was Type A to a T.

Our "date" consisted of me meeting Date #86 at his tiny apartment and us sitting on the couch/bed, watching cartoons while he got high. (Oh hey, look at me and how I'm living Adam Sandler's fantasy!) There was a heavy funk in the air, which I attributed to the smoke and the fact that I was in the bacheloriest apartment in the history of the world, littered with dirty dishes and a cat that looked like it had wandered in off the street.

We watched TV for a bit, and I started getting sleepy. I didn't know whether it was from the weed or the smell. As I was leaving, he moved to hug me. As soon as he lifted his arms I realized that he was the stank! Was it possible he was smuggling some kind of cheese under his shirt? Maybe an old diaper? The odor was like whoa.

I held my breath until the hug was over (which seemed like, oh, 100 hours) then made a quick getaway, vowing to never see Date #86 again. But, as luck would have it, he ended up coming back into my work about a week later. I told him that I was working things out with my ex (pants on fire!).

"But I just came to ask if you would drive me to the laundromat after work. I don't have money for gas."

"Ok," I said. "I guess I can drop you there. But I can't leave for, like, two hours though."

"That's cool. I hitched a ride so I'll just go sit outside and chill with my laundry. I left it out there."

I thought, "It won't be that bad. It's on my way and, anyway, everyone deserves clean clothes." My inner Mary Poppins was strong. Like The Force, but with an umbrella. The smell didn't even cross my mind. That is, until he tossed his giant bag of dirty laundry into the back seat and climbed in the car. There aren't enough armpits in the world to work up that kind of stink.

The laundromat was only a few miles away, and you better believe we made it in record time. We didn't say much on the drive over, but I did restate my lie about getting back together with my ex. (You have no idea how hard it was to speak without breathing.) I dropped him off, and he thanked me, mumbling something about hoping he had enough quarters. Oh, no, I was NOT giving him money. Even Mary Poppins knew that if I paid him, I might never get rid of him. I drove away and wondered how I would ever get the stink out out of my car.

Two days later, the car still reeked. Maybe even worse than when he and his laundry were still in it. Luckily, he hadn't stopped by see me again, and I was starting to feel like I might be off the hook. But the essence of him lingered. I finally broke out the Febreze and when I opened the back door to get to sprayin', I saw the malodorous perpetrator. A pair of his underwear had apparently fallen out of the laundry bag and on to the floor of the back seat. I called my best male friend.

"I'll give you twenty dollars to come over and get this guy's boxers out of the back seat of my car IF you promise not to ask questions."

He was there in a flash. I told him to just grab the undies and toss them out. He made a gagging noise when he went in to fetch them.

"I KNOW. NO QUESTIONS!"

I never saw Date #86 again, but told the story to anyone who had the misfortune to ride in my car for the next few days, which was how long it for the stink to completely dissipate. My inner Mary Poppins told me it was wrong to laugh when I told the story, but my inner bitch won out. Chim-Chim-Cheroo.

100 Bad Dates: #21

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 17:00:02 +0000

Date #21 robbed me blind. Not in an emotional way, but a felonious one. This happened during a time in my life when I was doing a little too much drinkin' and a little too much lovin', and it was bound to catch up with me. But I hadn't seen enough Lifetime movies to know that yet.

I met him at a Waffle House (I know!), where I was waiting for a friend who was finishing out her shift there. We were planning to go hang out at our favorite bar and tell outrageous lies to whomever would listen. It was what we did for fun whenever we saw each other: make up completely preposterous life stories and feed them to strangers. Our favorite was "The Heiress."

Date #21 came in to grab a bite and sat a few stools away from me at the counter. I didn't turn, as my friend and I were mid ludicrous story (and she didn't turn, as she was a horrible waitress). When he said, "Excuse me," we glanced at him, turned back to each other, grinned, and exchanged a "What's this?" sort of expression.

He was pretty with olive skin and light eyes (think Adrian Grenier, without the Entourage), and my friend immediately started spinning a yarn.

"I was JUST saying to my friend here that Paris Hilton is a poor excuse for an heiress." She gestured to me. "I mean, SHE'S just inherited millions and still hangs out at Waffle House."

"Congratulations," he shrugged, and ordered his food.

While Date #21 ate, my friend kept trying to draw him into a conversation that got more and more absurd. She told him that I was from Southern California (true), came from a famous family (does infamous count?), and went to school with celebuspawn and trust fund babies (ish, but it was no West Beverly). She said that a relative had just died and left me a fortune. He seemed completely unimpressed, but he turned to me once he finished eating and said, "So, where are we going now, Paris?"

The three of us headed to the bar, Date #21 in his car, us following behind. We had some drinks. Ok, many drinks. My friend and I danced the way that drunk girls do and ran up quite a tab. Good thing I was an heiress!

At one point, Date #21 left for about fifteen minutes to buy cigarettes at a nearby convenience store. When he came back, he stayed for another half hour or so before saying he had to be up early for work. He gave me his number and a hug, suggesting that we should hang out again. My friend and I stayed and danced until closing. She paid our tab, and we stumbled around the corner to her house to sleep it off.

In the morning (by which I mean noonish) we walked over to get my friend's car and rustle up some greasy hangover helper. We stopped at an ATM so I could buy breakfast, but my debit card wouldn't work. I knew I had just been paid, so we headed to another machine, thinking the first one was malfunctioning.

Again, nothing.

I called the bank. They told me all of my funds had been withdrawn in two separate transactions the night before - one just before midnight, one right after. I insisted that I hadn't done it, and they froze the card and started an investigation. For the time being, I was completely broke. If only I'd really had that inheritance! Instead, I had the pleasure of calling my landlord and tearfully pleading my case. Thankfully, he was pretty understanding.

A few days later, my bank called. They had security camera pictures of someone using my debit card. As you've no doubt surmised, it was Date #21. I went to the police with his phone number (which turned out to be fake, duh) and license plate info (which I remembered because it was personalized and we drove behind him. Foolish!). He admitted to taking my purse out of the bar that night but told them that I had been drunk and said that he could have the money. All of the money in my account? Why, then, did he give me a fake phone number?

They interviewed my friend who backed up my story, but pressured her to admit that she hadn't heard every single word that was said between us. We DID have a good laugh about whether or not he believed the heiress story and how disappointed he must have been when he saw my balance. In the end, it was a case of he said/she said, and he wasn't charged. I straightened up after that and decided not to 1) keep my PIN written down in my purse and 2) ever leave my purse alone in a bar. Expensive lessons that were *not* FDIC insured.

100 Bad Dates: #55

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 17:00:22 +0000

Date #55 was tan. Really, really tan. This guy made George Hamilton look like a mall-haunting goth. I met him through a personal ad in the local free paper.

(What? Yeah, it was totally a thing before the Internet. Yep, a desperate, sad thing.)

Once we exchanged numbers through the attached voice mailbox service, we got to know each other a bit.

He seemed nice enough, slightly funny, and fairly intelligent. He told me he was the manager of a chain of tanning salons - California. 1990's, this was huge business, people - and I couldn't help but wonder how someone who spent most of his time around naked women in repose would have trouble finding one to repose with him.

I sat nervously at a downtown bar, waiting for him to show. When he came through the door he was just as he had described himself, but his skin was an odd color. The best way I can characterize it is like a burnt sienna crayon. Yes, that pretty much sums it up. I don't know why, but I kind of thought that tanning in your own salon was like partaking of the drugs you were trying to deal: it made you sloppy and was just bad practice. I tried to cover my complete horror with a too-big smile. "So, you say you manage tanning salons?" I asked, imagining I must look like an evil clown.

After a few drinks, I loosened up and thought, "C'mon, it's not THAT bad," and moved closer to him. He actually wasn't bad looking, once you got past the off-putting extreme caramel-y color of his skin. Besides, the sun had set and the pigment issue was much less noticeable in the dim light. He was tall and thin (thank goodness that my body size, which is in a constant state of flux, was on the downswing) and nicely-dressed. He seemed interested, though I was white as a ghost (Scots rule!), and moved closer to me, too. Before too long, his feet were resting on my bar stool, our legs intertwined. Then he kissed me, and sparks flew. Well, alcohol-induced sparks, anyway. Good enough!

We went back to his place and got a little bit nude. As you've probably guessed, he was tan nearly everywhere. I say "nearly" because there were parts of him you could lift and, well, he was less dark underneath. Don't think I didn't do it, too. Hey, I was tipsy and curious!

Once we got horizontal, he kept trying to go downtown. Like, KEPT trying to. That's really not a first date kind of thing for me, and certainly not while I'm tipsy. Good gosh, pressure much?

"No, it's okay, I LIKE to. Really, I LIKE TO," he kept repeating, like it would be an impossible thing.

"Yes, I believe you, but I don't really want that, thanks," I answered, trying to sound assuring.

He admitted that maybe he should have told me earlier, but he had sort of an obsession with "heading south." In fact, he said that it was the only thing that turned him on. Ooooooh, I thought his TAN was gonna be the thing. Nope, the thing was sexual. That's a dealbreaker, ladies.

He asked again if he could, and, again, I declined. I got dressed and told him I should go. Then I noticed his shoulders shaking.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"It's just that I want to so much," he said, teary. "And girls are always turning me down."

"It's okay," I said.

"It is?" he immediately piped up, making to take off my pants. I grabbed his hands and explained that I meant it was okay because everyone was into different things and I was sure he would find someone who was just as into that thing as he was.

"Are you sure you're not that girl? Maybe if you gave me a chance, I could change your mind." He reached for my pants again. I stood and left while he knelt and cried.

He called the next day and apologized for coming on so strong. He said that he liked me and wanted to see me again. I told him that he was nice but that I didn't think we were right for each other. Again, he cried, and I imagined tears rolling down his russet cheeks.

"But I just wanna your ," he sobbed.

I sighed and told him to take care. I'd LIKE to tell you that I didn't share the story with my best friend and I'd also LIKE to tell you that we didn't nickname him Downtown Mr. Brown, but I think we all know the truth. The harsh, chestnut-colored truth.

100 Bad Dates: #18

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 16:00:58 +0000

Date #18 was a sassy paraplegic. I was on duty as the hostess at a family restaurant when he came wheeling in with some friends and charmed my socks off. I seated them, then proceeded to hang around as my friend was their waitress, and it was a slow night.

He was Backstreet Boys handsome (think Brian Littrell before Jesus and the Swine Flu or Nick Carter before he became vomitrocious) and screamingly funny. He constantly cracked jokes, turning to wink at me from time to time. He asked me if I would ever consider dating a "cripple." I was both taken aback and aroused by his use of the word. I have always been of the mind that we master words, and not the other way around.

I must have turned 20 shades of red because he leaned over and quietly said, "Sorry. Do you wanna go out, sometime?" I nodded. We made plans for all of us to meet later that night at a nearby club.

After work, my friend and I headed to her house to change and pregame. I wasn’t nervous until she started asking questions about how I thought sex would be with Date #18. She pondered out loud, mostly to herself, the state of his penis and settled on the best option being him not able to get down the "normal" way because that would make him more creative in pleasuring a woman. I was more concerned about the fact that I was about to go out to a dance club with someone who couldn't walk. Well, color a young girl enlightened because this boy could dance. He was all over the floor getting down like crazy and flirting with everything in sight. He was also drinking. A lot.

Date #18 was downing shots like Kirstie Alley pounds White Castles and, after each one, grinned a little more menacingly. Forget Lady Gaga's Poker Face; this guy was developing a major Joker Face. Backstreet Boy to evil clown, right before my eyes, and it was scary. He rolled up next to girls and ran his hands all over their legs and up under their skirts. People were moving away from him like he was Michael Richard’s career. I was uncomfortable, but my friend was dancing with one of his friends and seemed to be into him, so I settled on a bar stool.

Date #18 would shout over at me between shots to come and dance. I claimed exhaustion and smiled politely. Finally, he came over and yelled at me that if I had a problem with him being handicapped, I shouldn't have agreed to go out with him; he didn't need my "charity date." I tried to explain that it was his behavior (not his wheelchair) that was the problem, but the music was loud and there were a few hundred people around.

So instead, I burst into tears.

I tried to leave, fighting my way out of the crowd and heard a scuffle behind me. I heard Date #18 say, "You got a problem? Let's take it outside, asshole!"

Suddenly, he and a guy that was six foot two, if he was an inch, came barreling past me and out the door. I ran out after them, still crying.

When I got outside, Date #18 was yelling.

"COME ON! COME ON!"

"I don't want to hit you, man."

Date #18 wouldn't let up.

"WHY? BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT YOUR ASS BEAT BY A FUCKING CRIPPLE?"

Just as the police pulled up (much to my relief), I spotted my friend who was part of the mob that ran outside to see the fight going on. I grabbed and dragged her to the car.

"What did you do?" she slurred, obviously tipsy. I took her purse and keys, dumped her into the car, and hightailed it out of there.

For a while, I was afraid that Date #18 would come into the restaurant and confront me on my immature behavior. Part of me was also hopeful that he’d come in and apologize so we could try again. Neither happened and it was probably for the best. I obviously wasn’t grown up enough to handle the situation, and he came equipped with a metric shton of baggage. I guess you could say he was Larger Than Life, and I wasn’t ready to show him the Shape Of My Heart. You could say that, but you are probably a better person than I am and won’t. It’s ok, I Want It That Way.

100 Bad Dates: #2

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 16:00:45 +0000

Date #2 was my high school heartthrob. He was more The Geek than Jake Ryan (did you know that Anthony Michael Hall didn't technically have a credited name in that movie?), but a boy had never so much looked at me before, and I had a serious case of Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed and wasn't picky (as a woman, I know that The Geeks are much hotter than Jake Ryans, but I was just a girl).

We met on a party bus that a local radio station had rented to shuttle contest winners to a concert. I had been the 69th (I know!) caller one day, he a few days later. We were the only young people there (both with our moms) so we sat near each other and talked. We were surprised to find out we attended the same high school, as we'd never seen each other. He was a grade behind, but I prided myself on quiet observation of everyone who haunted that space. Even then, I was nosey wallpaper. I'm not sure how it happened, but our girlfriend/boyfriend status was established sometime during the concert and we started school the next Monday morning as a couple.

We had a whirlwind, two-week courtship during which I saw Date #2 every day, save for the ones he spent working at Chuck E. Cheese behind the prize counter (I, myself, slung soft serve at the local Dairy Queen). On one date, I was fortunate enough to meet his father, who said right to my face, "You look just like that chick from Facts of Life. Wassername? You know, the fat one." Charmer! Also, it only took a few smooches for me to realize a) he was a bad kisser (and I had no idea what a good kisser was) and b) he had a chronic case of halitosis. Oh, and he had four jokes in his repertoire and repeated them, ad nauseum. Alas, I was but a young girl, trying to figure out how to dump my first (offensive-breathed) boyfriend.

One afternoon, as he was walking me to class, Date #2 pulled me behind the mathematics building and tried to shove his tongue into my mouth, something we hadn't done before. I recoiled.

"What are you doing?" I asked, naively.

"French kissing," he answered, angrily. "It's what boyfriends and girlfriends are SUPPOSED to do."

Apparently, I had been causing my first pair of blue balls by not making out with him and had no idea.

"Oh, yeah, I don't want to do that," I said, simply, and walked away.

The next day, Date #2 wouldn't hold my hand between classes. He said I wasn't really his girlfriend if I wouldn't french kiss him. He told everyone that we broke up. It made me more sad than I had anticipated. I changed my mind, I wanted more than anything to french kiss him if it meant he wouldn't leave me (only sixteen and already developing healthy relationship patterns - neat!). I knew he was working that afternoon over at da Chuck and headed there to beg him to take me back.

He wasn't behind the prize counter, taking tickets and giving out crappy toys, so I went to leave. I figured I would just call him later with my dramatic professions of love. As I walked out, I saw him coming from the side of the building, holding hands with the bottom half of a giant pest. That's right, I was being dumped for a headless Chuck E. Cheese!

"YOU'RE CHEATING ON ME WITH THE GIRL IN THE CHUCK E. SUIT?" I shouted, apparently not yet having developed shame.

"It's not cheating," he replied, slowly, "We broke up."

"Yeah," contributed the fuzzy harlot, begging for a punch in her little rodent mouth.

I turned, with all the dignity I could muster in that particular situation and headed to the car. I cried as I drove home and, when called for dinner, told my mom I was never eating again. Ah, young love.

The next day, a friend who attended a high school miles from my own called and asked what had happened between Date #2 and I. It turned out that whore Chuck E. Cheese went to her school and was telling everyone the story. Oh, good, now my extreme horror could be known across the school district! I vowed to never date again and committed myself to my art which, at the time, was terrible poetry. The poetry and the vow both lasted only until high school graduation, but the image of my Anthony Michael Hall french kissing half of a giant furry, well, that lives on.

100 Bad Dates: #80

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 16:00:35 +0000

Date #80 was a girl I blatantly hit on while walking my dog in the park one day. She was sitting under a tree, reading a book, and the way the light filtered through the leaves and bounced off of her dark hair made her look like an angel. Or a girl in a feminine hygiene commercial.

Now I am not normally bold (I can count the people I have asked out on two hands), but I had just gone through a breakup and, prior to leaving the house, given myself a pep talk.

"Open your heart," I told my reflection in the mirror, "It's statistically impossible that every person in this city is a dick."

(These are the things I say to mirror-self, along with "What's wrong with your hair?" and "Go get 'em, Fergalicious!")

She looked up from her book as we walked by and said, "Oh, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, little doggie!"

I was smitten.

We chatted about the weather (I know, duh, but it was sunny after days and days of funk), and I brought up how nice it was going to be for the music festival coming that weekend (smooth, right?). She slipped the word "ex-girlfriend" in the conversation (also smooth), so I asked if she wanted to get some lunch and go to the festival together.

She showed up looking boho chic, wearing a tank top, skirt, and flippy floppies. We nibbled on salads (girl-on-girl cuisine is weird) and made small talk at lunch. As far as depth is concerned, I'm no Loch Ness, but Date #80 was a puddle two days after the rain. She talked about "American Idol" and "The Bachelor," her non-ironic love of bad music (Coldplay, I swear it's true), and what she thought of A Million Little Pieces, the book I had seen her reading at the park. She was cute...and not terribly interesting.

We finished up and went to the festival. I remarked that one singer reminded me of Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory. She said, offhandedly, that she'd never seen it. How does one get to be a grown-up and not see that movie? I said that she could come over and watch it sometime. She said, "How about now?"

I gave Date #80 directions to my house, and we met up there. I had to use the restroom before starting the DVD and told her to feel free to have a seat on the sofa. I emerged just a few minutes later to a shocking sight.

She was on the couch on her knees, with her skirt pulled up to her waist and her panties pulled down. She was moaning slightly and doing a strange sort of fondling to her backside, which was facing me. I mean "facing" in the biblical sense. She didn't seem to notice I was back in the room and continued to...well, yeah.

I made a slight throat clearing noise and she stood up quickly.

"Hi," she said, obviously embarrassed.

"Hi," I said, trying not to laugh or freak out. "What's up?"

"Nothing," she answered and pulled up her underwear, without a word about it.

I thought maybe she was coming on to me, but it appeared that she was just pleasuring herself on my sofa. I wasn't particularly into the come-on and also not so excited about a stranger giving herself bootytickles in my living room.

We sat on opposite ends of the besmirched furniture during the movie, and the only sound was me quietly singing the Oompa-Loompa song. When she asked, "So, *where's* the bathroom?" I told her and tried not to imagine what she was doing in there. After the movie she said I was right about it being good and she had to go.

Date #80 and I didn't go through the motions of exchanging numbers. I spotted her in a nearby coffee shop about six months later, but I was coming as she was going, and we sort of pretended not to see each other. She was with some people, and I could see slight panic in her eyes when she caught sight of me, so I just kept walking. I guess I'll never know exactly what was going on in my living room that night, but it looked like happy times. I did, however, give the couch cushions the Febreze-and-Flip.

100 Bad Dates: #63

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 15:30:33 +0000

Date #63 was Date #62 turned the party scene from Anchorman. If you'll recall, we had gone on a date and watched one of his friends rock it like a hurricane. It was on that date that I found out he had a policy of being completely honest. About everything. Always. Through a series of emails after that first date, I got the scoop. He said that he had been married previously and was terribly unhappy. After the divorce, he visited a shrink who advised him that he was unhappy because he wasn't honest with himself and the people in his life. According to the emails, he started being honest about everything that very day.

Late to work? Tell the boss you overslept because you got drunk the night before.

"Does this dress make me look fat?"
"Yes."

Want to sexytimes a girl but not date her? Tell her, "I wanna say something. I'm gonna put it out there. If you like it, you can take it. If you don't, send it right back. I want to be on you."

The honesty seemed to be working for him, but I was raised to tell little white lies to save feelings and big fat lies to stay out of trouble. He refused to "go back to that life." His last email of the night wondered if I could handle it. Tone was hard to read, but it felt a bit like a challenge, and I rarely back down from one of those. I replied that I thought I could and told him I'd see him the next weekend for the party he had invited me to.

The party's guest list consisted of me, the hostess, Date #63 and three of his female "friends," along with Juice (the friend whose band I had seen play) and his wife. Now, this guy was no Ron Burgundy, and I was no Veronica Corningstone, but when I arrived at the party, the crowd was fast and loose and there was a whole lotta hottubbing goin' on. At least by the ladies. The two boys were grilling meats and debating the best band ever. When I feigned disappointment about not bringing a bathing suit, one of the girls drunkenly slurred, "That's okay, sweetie. We won't look!" and they all laughed.

My goal was to avoid Juice's wife, having met his pregnant girlfriend (that's right, a wife AND a married, pregnant girlfriend) at the show. I was told by Date #63 that they knew about each other, but it was a subject best not discussed. Like I wanted to broach that!

I saw Juice's wife giving me the side-eye several times as I sat in a deck chair and nervously spoke with the other women who were soaking up the chlorine, bacteria, and good vibes. I spoke quickly to avoid giving her a chance to interrupt. Finally, too many beers meant I had to visit the ladies room, and she was standing by the door when I walked out.

"I heard you met THAT GIRL," she said, "What's she like?"

Was there an appropriate answer?

She told me that Juice was a big believer in Date #63's new religion of honesty and had met the girlfriend after a gig. He told his wife about her, admitting "We'll probably be hanging out." She said that she knew that was how musicians lived and felt she had no choice but to accept that part of him to keep the peace. Fine. Whatever. I'm not so naive not to know we all make deals with the devil, some are just more blatant.

When we returned, the other ladies of the party were sitting around the hot tub, talking. I sat down, having no idea what I was walking into. After a few seconds, I realized the girls were discussing the sexploits they had engaged in with Date #63. A cute, younger one was just finishing a story about a BJ under the pier at a local beach. The hostess, who looked to be maybe five years older than I loudly added, "Well, he came over and crawled into bed with me a couple of nights ago after the symphony."

Wait, what?

Amy, the one who had attended the symphony with him laughed and said, "I wondered why he dropped me off so early!"

I was completely shocked. Call me old-fashioned, but several women casually discussing one penis that they had all ridden, sometimes within hours of each other, was just too much. I feigned receiving an urgent text message and got the hell outta there. No man, whether or not he was kind of a big deal, was worth becoming part of a communal pants party. You stay classy, rock star.

100 Bad Dates: #62

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 16:00:17 +0000

Date #62 was a rock star. Okay, not a “star”, exactly, but he was in a band and you couldn’t tell him he wasn’t the hottest shit to ever hit that town.

We met on Myspace. In his first message, he introduced himself and asked me to the symphony. The show was the next night (tickets had dropped into his lap, you know, because he was a musician), so I barely had time to stalk and analyze his profile before saying yes. The more than 100 (not kidding) pics of him either holding a bass or singing told me all that I needed to know...

Yes, I’m superficial.
Yes, I’m a walking stereotype.
Yes, I agreed to go out with him simply because he was a musician.

The next afternoon, I received another message from Bad Date #62 telling me that I couldn’t attend the symphony with him because the girl he had originally asked could make it, after all. He said that, since he had asked her first, he had to take her. Now, he said this stuff straight up in his message, and I thought, “Well, his honesty is refreshing. I guess.” But it smelled a little like downtown crazytown, and I didn’t really have the time or energy for in-your-face truthiness, so I just let it go with an “I understand. Perhaps another time.”

A few days later I got yet another message, asking me if I wanted to go see his best friend's band play at a local bar. A close friend of mine was a bartender there, and I knew that drinks would be on the house, so I agreed to go (I know, I know, truthiness. But, you guys, MUSICIAN!). Date #62 and I met up at the bar, and I was pleasantly surprised at how good he looked when not sweating and rocking out with his... well, you know. He was extremely tall, built solidly, and had red hair and a full red beard. Online he looked a little like rock n’ roll Satan. In person, more like a well-groomed Viking.

I got my drinko gratis on and was pretty psyched about how good the band was. They were hard, no doubt, but sometimes a girl just wants to get her headbang on, you know? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little hairspray and eyeliner, people. The weird thing was that he had to stand really near the stage when the band was playing and sort of air guitar or whatever. I don’t judge people when they are being bathed in the rock. Still, he was a bit overenthusiastic and it was, how you say, slightly off-putting? Turns out he had previously been in that band and was "playing" his parts. Passion is great, but let’s keep it in check, Leif Ericsson.

After the show, we went to Denny's (West Coast don't do Waffle House) with Juice (yes, really), his from the band, and Juice’s girlfriend, who was about seven months pregnant.

"How was the symphony?" Juice asked me.

"Oh, uh, I didn't go to the symphony," I answered.

"This isn't her," Date #62 said. "That was another girl."

I felt uncomfortable.

"Well, how was it, dude?" Juice asked. I looked to the girlfriend for some girl solidarity, but got nothing. She was busy making love eyes at her man.

"It was good. Real good," he answered, and, thankfully, left it at that.

He walked me out to my car, leaned in close and said, "Hey, do you want to go to a party with some of my friends next weekend?"

"What about Symphony Girl?" I wanted to ask. Instead I just said yes.

"Oh, but don't mention Juice's girlfriend,” he said, “His wife gets pissed."

Come again?

"Oh, okay," I nodded, playing it cool.

"I mean, they know about each other, but aren't happy with the situation," he said.

I had to ask. "Does his wife know about the baby?"

"Oh, that's not his baby. It's her husband's," was his answer, like it was the most normal thing in the world. What the hell? My spidey sense told me that someone was going to get cut before too long.

"Oh, and Amy will be there, too. You know, the girl I took to the symphony," he added.

What was I getting myself into? I found out on Bad Date #63 and brother, was it twisted!

The Checkout Girl, originally from San Diego, now proudly claims Richmond as her hometown. She would like a chance to go back in time and scream "YOU LIE!" at Mr. Newcomb when he tells her that she *will* use high school algebra when she grows up. She writes anonymously so as not to break her poor dad's heart. She shares her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, and pens the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she's found a pretty good guy.

100 Bad Dates: #39

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 16:00:11 +0000

Date #39 was a girl, because I tried that out for a while. The truth is, aside from obvious anatomical variations, it's not all that different. Dating is dating, and the awkwardness of trying people on for size is not gender-specific.

A friend of mine had gone on a date with this girl and said that they didn't really hit it off, but she thought she might be right for me. Never, ever fall for this. If the person were such a catch, your friend would want them. Trust. She described her as a quiet, boyish girl of medium height and build with red hair and a slight underbite.

The reality was the underbite was more than slight, resulting in her resembling a bulldog (and believe me, it's so much cuter on the pup). She also had eyes that were too big for her face. Like, way too big. Imagine, if you will, a fly-bulldog hybrid with a ginger crew cut. Prince Harry without the benefit of lineage and that charming British accent. Anyway, she was 25 and still living at home with her parents. She also had a medical condition that prevented her from driving and said that public transportation was "dirty." So her mom drove her everywhere... even to our date.

From the time she exited the minivan (how regal!), the flags were as red as her hair. But "in for a penny, in for a pound" I thought. Besides, people aren't always what they seem, and it's not like I was a prize pig. So, I decided against screaming "NEVERMIND!" and running the other way when I heard her say "Bye, Mom," and instead politely said, "Oh, was that your mom? She has a nice car."

Date #39 and I went to dinner at one of those awful faux-1950's diners that takes the theme way too far. The Big Bopper was screaming at us from the speakers when we entered, and we had to step around an actual "classic" vehicle they had parked in the dining area, just to get to our table. A car? Indoors? How wacky! A life-sized cardboard cutout of Jailhouse Rock Elvis? I'm nostalgic! A waitress in cat-eye glasses? How authentic! Where were the roller skates? The kids piled in a phone booth? The segregated bathrooms?

As we quietly scanned the menus, it was painfully obvious that we hadn't any chemistry, but that was okay because there aren't many places that will put peanut butter on your hamburger. I ordered my gooey, nutty goodness, and my dining companion ordered off of the children's menu. I laughed out loud, and Date #39 looked sad. After our waitress left, she explained that she'd had a gastric bypass operation the previous year and could only eat small portions. "Okay," I thought, "That's legit, but on a date you order off of the big kid's menu and just don't eat it all." She went on to describe the procedure, in detail, and to go so far as to lift her shirt and show me some folds of skin that used to be filled with fat. She said she thought I might be a good candidate for the surgery, just as the waitress set the peanut butter-covered burger in front of me and kid's burger in front of her.

I told Date #39 that I appreciated her concern for my well-being and went about quietly picking at my dinner while she watched. Not much more was said. When the check came, I set down my money.

"It's my treat," she said.

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, somewhat desperately. "I insist on paying half."

"If you don't let me pay, how am I gonna get laid tonight?" she asked, straight-faced.

Sorry?

"Thanks, really," I said and quickly handed the waitress the cash when she came by. Crap, now what? I had to take her back to my place so that her mom could pick her up, which wouldn't happen for another half hour.

I drove to my house and walked up and sat on the stoop. No way were we going inside. She sat down next to me, and not a word was said. For thirty minutes. I checked my watch obsessively. When her mom arrived, we both stood up.

"Can I have a hug?" she asked. I hugged her with one arm and did the "friendship pat" on her shoulder. She sighed dejectedly, shaking her head as she walked to the royal minivan.

I went inside and called my friend who had set us up. I told her about the mom and the surgery and the fly eyes and the laid and she said, "Oh. Yeah." I didn't speak to her again for weeks. Turns out there are things even I wouldn't do for a crown.

100 Bad Dates: #47

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 10:00:08 +0000

Date #47 was Date #46, given a second chance. If you’ll remember, he was a Val Kilmer-esque Navy SEAL with the creepy intensity of a serial killer (or, at the very least, a serial rapist) who stood me up in the middle of our first date by leaving me sitting alone in a movie theater. However, his good looks nearly completely obscured his weird obsession with my face and shoes, and I silenced the voice in my head that whispered, “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again” long enough to give him another try.

At his suggestion, we planned to have dinner and take a stroll along the pier at a local beach. Heaven knows why I thought this would be safe, given my date's undeniable similarities to one Jame "Buffalo Bill" Gumb. Kids, don’t try this at home.

At dinner, it became obvious that he hadn’t lost his obsession with my looks, going so far as to rave to the waitress, “Doesn’t she have the most PERFECT face you’ve ever seen?” Obviously uncomfortable, she nodded and said something vaguely complimentary. I know you have to be thinking how flattering and romantic this must have been, but it was so far on the opposite end of the spectrum that it almost exceeded creepy to hot again. In the same way you'd say, "Yes, I can agree that Ted Bundy was sort of charismatic and good-looking."

We walked along the pier, talking about life-like things, but in a very vague way. There was no deep connection between us, really, and I wasn’t looking to reveal any intimate details to him as he skated around every personal question that I posed.

I am not too proud to admit, however, that I was willing to get naked with Date #46/47 for a period of time. After a short make-out session, during which he used a lot of tongue and kept his eyes wide open (How does my face look during mid-snog? Ask him), we went back to my place and got horizontal. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, by any stretch of the imagination, and there wasn't a whole lot to work with. But it wasn’t bad.

As we lay there in the afterglow of such things, an uncomfortable silence descended. He got up to use the restroom, and came back and stood at the foot of the bed.

“Can I look in your closet?” he asked.

“Oh, um, okay. Why?” I replied.

“I’m gonna choose your outfit for tomorrow. Whatever I choose, you have to wear. I will know if you don’t. I swear, I will,” he said.

Why such strong conviction? I rolled over on my side, and watched as he rifled through my meager (a few strong key pieces, which can be mixed and matched, thanks to Trinny and Susannah) wardrobe.

He chose an outfit and said menacingly, “Don’t forget, I’ll know.”

“Okay. Whatever,” I shrugged. It was getting late and I just wanted him to get out. He pulled out a pair of my shoes and slipped them on his own feet. They fit.

“How do these look?” he asked. I was tired and pretty far over his kookoonutty behavior.

“Better on me,” I yawned, fully expecting him to don a short silk robe and tuck his penis between his legs.

“Doubt it,” he said, sassily. He tried on another pair. “What about these?” he wondered.

“Look,” I said, “I have a lot of shoes, and I won’t think any of them look good on you. I will think they all look weird, because they will. I am really tired, so can we cut the fashion show short?”

He was taken aback.

“RUDE!” he exclaimed, and I laughed.

“Rude enough to make you leave?” I said, my voice heavy with disdain. He quietly pulled on his clothes and walked out.

He called a few more times and once even suggested we go shopping together. About a year later, out of the blue, Date #46/47 came into the store where I was working. We exchanged pleasantries, and he suggested we get together, as he reached up and touched my face. I told him that I was seeing someone and I should get back to work. I quit that job (which I hated anyway) that very day, not wanting to ever “accidentally” run into him again. I even called a friend to come walk me to my car that night, FINALLY sufficiently creeped out. I never saw or heard from him again. I guess the lambs were finally silenced.

100 Bad Dates: #46

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 16:00:10 +0000

Date #46 was a walking, talking, devastatingly handsome red flag, right from the beginning. He picked me up in the Women’s Shoes section of a mall department store. I’m not really sure why this didn’t seem odd at the time. I guess I couldn’t see past the good looking, a chronic, life-long affliction for me.

He chatted me up right there and won me over with his self-confidence. He told me he was a Navy SEAL, which is supersexy but not all that unusual when you are a San Diego girl. About 1/3 of the single guys in my hometown are in the military. Visions of Tom Cruise in the volleyball scene from Top Gun dancing in your head? False. If anything, most military guys look more Goose (minus the geeky charm) than Maverick. Not this guy, though. He was Iceman, blond hair and all. He told me I was pretty and asked if he could take me to dinner and a movie. I gave him my number, and we made plans to meet that weekend.

I arrived, looking pretty fly for a white girl and wearing my favorite shoes: black Mary Janes with pink cat faces on the toes. He noticed them right away.

“I love those shoes,” he said, “Where did you get them?”

Did he just ask where I bought my shoes?

“Why, do you want a pair?” I said, joking.

“Of course not,” he said, and changed the subject.

All night long he complimented me, but in a strange, non-sexual way. Kind of like a serial killer who wants to wear or eat (rather than fuck) you.

“You have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And I’ve seen some really beautiful women.”

That’s a compliment, right? He stared at my face all through dinner. I was uncomfortable but intrigued by his intensity. Was I really this compelling? All signs pointed to “yes.”

Date #46 and I snuggled in close in the theater and didn’t make much smalltalk, as the feature started right away. He held my hand and, periodically, would lean over and whisper, his lips softly touching my ear. It was hot and not. One of my biggest pet peeves is when someone talks during a movie. Still, I knew that he was trying to get me going and, once I gave up on following the story, I was. Parts of me were screaming, "Take me to bed or lose me forever!"

Then, the oddest thing happened.

With no warning he leaned over and whispered, “Wipe that stupid look off of your face.”

It was close, just like the other whispers, and in the same tone. I thought I had misheard.

“Hmm?” I asked, dreamily.

“You have a stupid look on your face. Stop it,” he answered. He immediately went back to sweet nothings, and I tried to convince myself that he had been joking. He HAD to have been joking, right? That's a negative, Ghost Rider.

Later on during the movie, he leaned over.

“I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he whispered, and walked out. I watched him leave and contemplated what the heck was going on. I’d been on weird dates, but this one was definitely leaning towards creepy-hot, like a teen vampire movie.

I contemplated. And contemplated. And contemplated some more. Then I realized I had been contemplating for a long time. How long had it been? It was hard to tell in the dark theater. It got less hard to tell a few minutes later when the credits rolled. I couldn’t decide if I should leave or stay. I waited until the clean up crew arrived and started cutting their eyes at me while sweeping the floors. I went and stood outside of the Men’s room, attempting to look nonchalant. After ten minutes there, I came to the sad realization that I had been abandoned.

I slowly walked to my car and saw the empty space where he had been parked. I had never been stood up in the middle of a date before. I drove home, confused.

Date #46 called the next day. He cryptically explained that he had forgotten something he was supposed to do and had to leave the movie in a hurry.

“But I called!” he protested, shocked when I told him that I found his behavior unacceptable, “I’m calling right now!”

I wish I could say that was the end of him, or that was as weird as things got, but it wasn’t. Date #46 came back, for Date #47. And turned the crazy up a notch. Great balls of fire.

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.

100 Bad Dates: #27

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 16:00:03 +0000

Date #27 was a writer who hit on me on MySpace. He was about ten years older than I and, according to his profile, we had little in common. In fact, all of his photos were of him with beautiful women, and my photos were pretty true to my actual, chunky self. Still, I was bored and hungry (duh, chunky!) and agreed to meet him for appys and drinks at an upscale Asian restaurant.

As soon as he started talking, a voice in my head told me I might want to casually, but quickly, make for the door. Meanwhile, on the outside, I was smiling and nodding. This guy loved himself so much I was convinced he masturbated in front of a full-length mirror and found his birth parents oddly attractive. Which was funny, because he was not terribly handsome, well-built, or charming.

The one thing he did have was his "book."

He had just finished his own version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and thought it was fucking genius. I know this because he wouldn’t stop telling me. It was such a blatant rip off of the original that he called it Fear and Loathing in Encino. It chronicled one lost, drug-fueled weekend spent in the Los Angeles suburb.

God, I wish I were kidding.

I've been to Encino. It's in the heart of the San Fernando Valley, and the teens there were the inspiration for the 1982 Moon Unit Zappa smash hit Valley Girl. They still talk like that. I need drugs every time I visit for just that reason (and the heat, my god, Jerry, the heat!). But I didn't write a book about it.

Apparently he and a friend wanted to recreate the events of the original book, but only got as far as L.A. before their car broke down. So they decided to just get to the debauchery and drug experimentation right there. There were tales of partying with prostitutes, sleeping in a dumpster, and even a few hours in jail. I tried to picture all of this as he spoke, but kept flashing back to Pauley Shore in Encino Man, and then I remembered how Elisabeth Shue in Karate Kid is from Encino, and her rich parents don't like the less-affluent Daniel-san from Reseda, and I couldn't focus on what he was saying. Perhaps I was the one on hallucinogens. Or should have been.

For some reason, he was stuck on the brilliance of the title (you know, the one someone else wrote) and repeated it every few sentences.

“Fear and Loathing in Encino. Get it?”

What am I, an idiot? Of course I get it! And yet I nodded, enthusiastically, each time, like there was an award for being the Most Agreeable First Date, and I wanted to run away with it.

The date went on for a few hours, with a bottle of wine consumed between us and several dishes of finger foods severely violated by me for lack of being able to get a word in edgewise. With as much as I love to talk about myself, I found this terribly annoying. I'm fascinating, dammit, and, without my stories, I'm nothing but a gorgeous woman with magnificent breasts. I finally feigned exhaustion and claimed an early wake up call the next morning. He was shocked when he checked his watch.

"Wow! Where did the time go?"

"Into a swirling vortex of your own self-adoration and verbal onanism," I wanted to say. Instead I just smiled and shrugged.

I only heard from Date #27 one more time. He emailed three days later to ask if I was sure I wouldn’t change my mind and read the book. He said that he liked me enough to let me do that, but I'm pretty sure he was willing to foist it upon anyone who would agree. I didn’t bother responding, but sort of wish I had. I’m sure that book was a gem.

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.

100 Bad Dates: #11

The Checkout Girl — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 16:00:10 +0000

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.