Anna went reluctantly on what her suitor intended to be a romantic, candlelit dinner date. Not paying attention, she held her menu a little too close to the flame, and when it started to singe and crackle, she arched an eyebrow and observed dryly, “I think my menu’s on fire.” Her date jumped up in a panic, his ardor doused with the fire. “All that was left was the dessert section,” Anna sighs. “The appetizers were immolated.”
***
When AT HOME editor Christy Marshall was single and living in New York, she went to visit a boyfriend in Boston. “I woke up, and he was downstairs making a bouillabaisse at 2 a.m.” she says. “Not a good sign.” She went back to New York knowing it was over—then realized she’d left her sunglasses behind. “I really liked those sunglasses,” she says, “so I called and asked if he’d send them back.” It took several calls; finally he said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I just sent them,” and gave a list of random excuses—they got buried at the bottom of a closet, there was a fire…
“Anyway, the box arrives, with a letter saying how much he cared for me, but unfortunately all our stars crossed at the wrong places, but he will always love me…and I start thinking, ‘Oh, I have been too rash!’ Then I open the package.
“It’s another woman’s sunglasses.”
***
J. Elinor’s all-time favorite was the guy in his late fifties who picked her up wearing a faded, wrinkled shirt with flying dolphins all over it, then ceremoniously opened the door to his grubby van, splattered with an astonishing collection of dead bugs squished all over the windshield. “We had to stop at his house on the way to the restaurant so he could ‘drop off his ukulele,’” she says. “Would love to tell you that was a euphemism, but no.” They went to dinner at Duff’s, and she was pleasantly surprised by how extensive and moderately priced the wine list was, with the most expensive bottle costing about $12. “Hearing my ‘Hmmm!’ Dolphin Guy gives me a patronizing, oh-so-worldly smile and asks, ‘Sticker shock?’”
Next, Match.com brought her “Mr. Old Money, who relieved himself against the side of the pool house at a very lovely home in the ‘right’ zip code. Yes, also a first date. I was sitting on the edge, feet in the water, having a nice conversation with the guy that owned the house. My date? He’s over by the pool house, peeing for all he’s worth. Considering his bulk, I’m guessing that was enough ammonia to scrub down the Arch. Upon returning to us at the pool, he seemed quite pleased with himself, chuckling while admitting details of his little alfresco elimination.”
***
Andrea (not even her real first name) emails her worst story: “There was this guy friend who paid me a lot of attention. But I just couldn't fathom that he was attracted to me. He was very ambitious, crisp yuppie, and I was so not. I chalked up his attention to maybe he was gay and found in me an alternative spirit? Or something?
“So he asks me to be his date at this formal business dinner. It was in a hotel conference room out in West County somewhere. So then I was sure he was gay, and asking me to be his beard for this obligatory dinner. I mean, he didn’t ask me out to a restaurant just the two of us, did he?
“We go to this dinner—I’d even bought a navy blue sedate/sexy dress from ScholarShop. And I hang on his elbow and use terms of endearment when we’re with other people, trying to act like I think a West County upwardly mobile girlfriend would act. I actually had a fabulous time all night pretending...
“But then we get in the car for the ride home, and he is, like... OMG, ready to go to a hotel. And I realize that he is not gay. And I have to somehow completely back out of everything I said and did all night, without saying I thought he was gay.
“Those were the days...”
***
Lawyer Mike Curry scoffs at the offer of a pseudonym. (“Anonymity is for the weak!”) He describes a tender moment when he and his wife, Esther, drove past the White Oaks Mall in Springfield, Ill., on a road trip.
Mike: “Remember when my car broke down, and Sears had to repair it overnight, so we slept over in that cheap sleazy motel on South Fifth Street?”
Esther: “No...”
Mike: “Oh... It wasn’t you...”
Says Curry, “Fortunately, my wife and I have an agreement that we never go to bed angry. Unfortunately, Esther hasn’t slept in six years.”
***
Most people are eager to put their best foot forward on a first date—except Rosalind Early, our assistant editor.
“I mentioned that my dad once told me I could never be a ballerina (thanks for killing my dreams, Dad!). My date said that he thought I could be, because I had great feet. I was wearing my Saucony tennis shoes, so I wasn't sure how he knew that, but I thanked him anyway.
“‘Why don’t you take off your shoes so I can see them?’ he asked. The movie still hadn’t started, and the house lights were up. Hmmm, weird...but I gamely flicked off a shoe and pointed my toe for him. ‘Yeah, nice arch!’ he said. Then, a little bit more suggestively: ‘I love giving girls foot massages.’
“‘That’s interesting,’ I said, as I hurriedly put my shoe back on and tried to change the subject.
“We didn’t go out again, but a few weeks later, he showed up at my house unannounced wondering if I wanted a massage. I didn’t.”
