100 Bad Dates: #80

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.

October 19, 2009; 12:00 PM • by The Checkout Girl

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.

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.

October 19, 2009 12:00 PM 17