100 Bad Dates: #86

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.

November 23, 2009; 12:00 PM • by The Checkout Girl

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.

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.

November 23, 2009 12:00 PM 3