You know how when you were younger, your parents told you if you don’t have anything nice to say not to say anything at all? Or treat others how you wanna be treated? And all that other yadda yadda bullshit?
As a semi-adult in the beginnings of trading my training bras for La Perla (that’s a lie. I never worn training bras. I got boobs at the same time I was getting my ass kicked by long division), I think I’d like to amend those. While I certainly understand the necessity of instilling in children that they should share and be kind to their friends and not judge little Cameron, the girl in their class with two mommys, the concept that being a nice, well mannered girl will get you further in life seems almost as antiquated as shoulder pads and no sex before marriage (sorry Jonas Brothers). I certainly am not advocating being a screaming banshee of a shrew, but it seems sometimes that those well put together, quietly dignified Mrs. Manners type become…well, librarians. The rest of us recognize that you can order books on Amazon and that librarians rarely make six figures, and we pack up the cardigans and khakis, dye our hair black (or in my case, Hot Chocolate) and learn to relish the way saying “bullshit” tastes in our mouths. Besides, rude girls are an aphrodisiac.
You don’t believe me? Let’s examine exhibit A…
I decide I absolutely must have sushi and so I trek to one of my favoritest places in town to treat myself to a little dinner. It’s one of those supertrendy you-can-wear-jeans-here-but-only-if-they-cost-$150-and-you-pair-them-with-sky-high-heels kind of places. But I can excuse the pretentious nature of the clientele during this happy hour situation because the food is honeymoon orgasms on plates. As the waiter shows me to my table, I immediately notice the two top next to me occupied by one of those super fly $150 jeans wearing model chicks and her impossibly fumbling date. He is pretty damn attractive but he has the swag of a pineapple and the game of Jordan in a baseball uniform (that is to say, notsomuch). His date is one of those super pretty chicks who gets by because she’s pretty and doesn’t have to know Obama’s tax cut plans because she can push her tits up to her ears and wear them like earrings. God help us all.
I order my very dirty martini, and break out the book I brought. But I couldn’t stay engrossed in it. Because the date to my right had to be, quite possibly, the WORST DATE KNOWN TO MAN. (Except for the one I went on where the guy cried into his entree. Oh and the one where his girlfriend showed up.) I gather from their interaction that this is a first date. It’s awful. The girl is aloof and distant and they guy is a sweaty, stuttering mess. Both of them are quite attractive so I can understand what the initial attraction to each other was, but this thing was going nowhere, fast. And from the way the model chick was eyeing the dude at the bar in the Ralph Lauren suit, I am guessing she knows it too.
At some point, she gets up to go to the bathroom. The guy breathes an audible sigh like he’s been holding his breath for the last hour. I don’t mean to do it but I blurt, “You SUCK at this.”
He turns and looks at me, all blinking rapidly and sputtering and I try my best to backtrack.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that. It’s just… you SUCK at this.”
“You do realize you said it the exact same way?”
“Yeah I do but sweetie that’s how much you suck.”
He chuckles at me and at least I know that he isn’t gonna throw a hissy fit and demand I be kicked out before my unagi hits the table. I figure if I am gonna insult him, I can at least try to help.
“How long has it been since you’ve done this?” I ask him.
“What? Go on a date? Wow. Like 5 years. I just got divorced. This is my first date since then.”
“Ohhh. Ok. So THAT’S why you look all green like Maury just told you that you ARE the father.”
“Yeah that could be it.” He pauses thoughtfully for a moment. “Do I really suck at this?”
“Oh, honey. Like Bristol Palin on prom night after a couple shots of Maker’s Mark.”
This gets an even heartier laugh out of him and I am wondering at this point if he is drunk and completely missing the point of what I am saying.
“Ok if I am so bad,” he says, “you have to help me.”
“I’m sorry… what?”
“You have to help me. You can’t just insult me then wash your hands of me.”
“Are you sure? Because that was exactly my intention.”
“No. You can’t. Consider it your community service. You look like the type of girl that is probably about due for some.”
“Well fuck you very much.”
He eyes my cleavage spilling out of my top, the 5 inch heels on my feet, and the Stoli martini in my hand.
He might have a point.
“Alright,” I say, lighting a clove and carefully blowing smoke away from his face, “if I am gonna help you, I need some background info first.” He launches into his bio. “About her you narcissist. Not you.”
“Well I don’t know if I have time for that. She’s just using the bathroom.”
“Oh you have plenty of time. She’s in the bathroom right now hovering over a toilet with her cell phone clutched to her ear asking her best friend how to quickly and painlessly get out of this date. When she does get that answer, she is then going to scroll through her phone and find a suitable backup plan for the rest of this evening because she doesn’t want to go home and watch Grey’s Anatomy and wallow in feeling like she got all dressed up with nowhere to go.”
“How do you-“
“I have a vagina.”
He stares at me in awe and I raise my eyebrow like he’s a moron. Cuz he probably is.
“Alright,” I tell him, throwing back the last of martini number two, “here’s what you do…”
Fast forward 30 minutes later, homegirl is all but crawling on the table making takemehome eyes at Dr. Donothing. I pay my check and walk out figuring that this gives me at least another 6 months reprieve on going to church. By the time I make it to the valet stand I hear fast footsteps behind me. I figure I shouldn’t be too panicked since I am in the white part of town.
“Hey!” the loser shouts at me, running up to my side. “You left really quick.”
“That’s generally what one does when they are leaving.”
“Can I call you some time?”
“Are you fucking kidding me sir?”
The look on his face tells me he is absolutely dead serious. I chuckle to myself, utterly amused at his gall.
“What on earth makes you think that I would go out with you when you are asking me out while you’re on a date with another woman?”
“I just thought you were cool and that maybe-“
“No,” I say cutting him off, “you didn’t think I was cool. You thought I was rude. And a challenge. Little Miss Model in there may have the cool and detached game on lock but you know you’re smarter than her so therefore you still feel somewhat in control of the situation. But with me, you can’t say that. You’re attractive. Judging from your appearance I would say you’re well off. You’re a black man in a city where you are outnumbered 10 to 1. Very few women talk to you like I did. You’re intrigued. And also, see through.”
I grab my keys from the valet and tip him, making my way to the drivers side. He follows.
“What? You think I am gonna say yes so that you can ask another chick out on a date when you’re with me?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Why on earth would I buy that?”
“Because I believe that you would kick me in the balls if I did.”
“Correction. I would nail your balls to the floor between your feet. Please step away from my door.”
“I am going out on a limb here. Cut me some slack.”
“Well let this be a lesson to you. This is what happens when you try to trade up. Get the fuck away from my door please,” I say, sweet as can be, while simultaneously pushing him backwards with my heel and closing my door. As I drove away I could see him standing in the valet line, staring at my Howard plates all confused.
Jesus. I threaten to castrate the man and tell him he’s a shitty date and he still asks me for my number? Nice girls are screwed.
Consider this the memo.
Oh, btw. I’m back 🙂