As my mother likes to tell me, you have to kiss a few frogs to find your Prince. Although the conceptual Knight in Shining Armor fallacy is ludicrously antiquated, I understand that statement is meant to encourage me to keep on keepin’-on in the face of the continual stream of rejects I seem to attract. And I appreciate the sentiment, but her message just doesn’t take hold like it could since she found herself a husband by the time she was my age while I’m still immersed in the solitude of my single station; good intentions, lack of fully comprehensive empathy. What I mean to say is, after running a mental retrospective of my previous dating experiences in my head, I’ve come to the cynical conclusion that Princes don’t exist (which is alright, I suppose, seeing as I’m no Princess), so what is the point of the whole process?

Learning. It’s all a learning experience, and I’m a better version of myself after the dating-disaster dust has settled and the 20/20 nature of hindsight allows me to see the humor in my exploits. Since misery loves company, and my miseries have multiplied after plying my trade on the dating battlefield, it seems fitting to share them with you fine folks so you can learn from my mistakes and maybe keep yourself out of trouble as a result; which is a long winded way of saying…here is a retelling of the tale titled “The Worst Date Ever.” That said, here goes…

College Co-Eds

One of the things I loved about college classes was how easy it was to meet people; all that down time in between classes and seeing the same people three days a week during that down-time encourages interaction in a non-threatening way that is hard to find in other environments. You don’t have to worry about divulging secrets that will get your new found friend a promotion in your place, as can sometimes be the case in ambitious office environments, and the latent eroticism that fuels many a barroom conversation simply isn’t present. So what you’re left with is the safe space for authentic connections, and within this space I met Noel. After the initial superficialities (what’s your major, did you do the homework, yada yada yada), we both bonded over a mutual love of baseball which eventually led to a friendly outing at Pac-Bell Park in San Francisco to see the Giants. Although he was a little quirky and a tinsy-bit bland, he seemed to be a nice guy and we had a good time arguing about baseball stats.

Now, at the time I had just gotten out of a six year relationship that I had entered into at the age of 16, so I didn’t know (still don’t, I guess) how to maneuver the dating terrain very well, and through a combination of naivete (the “oh gee, somebody thinks I’m cute enough to date?” mentality) and a desire to get some experience under my belt I stupidly accepted any offered date invite. So, when Noel extended an invite, I internally shrugged and said to myself, “Why not?” Words I would later regret. A lot.

To kick the date off, Noel took me to dinner at Fresca: decent food, lively surroundings, and overall a fairly innocuous beginning to the evening. And it was all downhill from there. As we were finishing up, he asked if I wanted to check out a few of his favorite bars, which sounded fun; I’m always up for introductions to neighborhood joints. Well, little did I know what I was in for because, apparently, these weren’t just some local juke-box joints in which he occasionally found himself. No, the bar he took me to was one in which he habitually resided: the bartender treated him like family and he knew EVERYONE in the place, which is always a little awkward when you’re the odd man out. Already being a bit reserved and uncomfortable given that dynamic, things only devolved when he began introducing me around as his lady. HIS lady! Let me remind you fine folks, this was our first date. Yeah…I know, strange.

But since I was new to this whole dating thing I decided to let it roll, and took a couple shots of my man Jose Quervo to shake off the dread that was quickly cloaking my entire person. As Jose warmed me up from stem to stern, Noel took a phone call, said “Oh great!” and turned to me with a wildly excited look on his face as he said, “Jimmy’s here!”

Jimmy, Noel is Over Compensating

“Who the fuck is Jimmy?!” was what my inner monologue said, but my face contorted into mock enthusiasm and I said “Mmmmhhmmm. Okay. Uhm, yay!” Jimmy was a limo driver friend of Noel’s whom he had conned into chauffeuring us around all night: us and Noel’s sister. Yes, you read that correctly. Not only was I introduced to his cronies at the bar as his girlfriend, but I was now about to meet the man’s sister and two of her best friends from high school because they’d all gotten babysitters to watch the kids and were in the city to have a bitchin’ Saturday night watching their other high school comrade play drums in an AC/DC, all female cover-band that goes by the name of AC/DSHE. Fuck me, was the basic gist of my sentiments at that moment.

However, when life hands you lemons you make lemonade, right? Well, as we picked up his sister and her friends at a club called Majool in the Mission I was wringing my clutch so tightly you’d have thought I was trying to juice it. As the giddy girls (actually, women: these were grown ass women with kids!) piled into the car like gangly teenagers, his sister grabs both of my hands and says, “Are you Nicole? Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you!!! And you’re even prettier than Noeley described you. Do you want a beer?” she asked as she pulled one out from behind her dress.

Yes. Yes I really wanted that beer, so I took it despite the fact that I was pretty sure she’d hidden the beverage near her genitals; something needed to quiet the screaming voice in my head that was saying Red Flag, Red Flag Red Flag Red Flag. These women seemed pretty cool, though, and that beer was soothing as well, so I suppose you could say I was lulled into a moderately trusting frame of mind when one of the ladies offered me some peanut butter cookies she had baked before they came into the city. Homemade cookies? Hells yes I want one, try four! And it wasn’t until I was just finishing up the fourth one that Noel asked me, “So…how are the cookies feeling?”

“Feeling? You mean tasting, you silly goose?” I responded.

“Nohohoho,” he said, slightly chuckling, “I mean are the cookies starting to hit you?”

Yep, you guessed it: Peanut Butter Pot Cookies

Hit me. Hit me? How can a baked good hit me? What does he mean by…oh my sweet shit, no. Fuck me. “These are pot cookies, aren’t they?” I whispered in his ear, to which he incredulously responded, “Yeah, you didn’t know that?”

Which, incidentally, is how everyone I told this story to responded, but let me clarify something here: these women (all three of them) were mothers. So, I wrongly assumed that they were being motherly by offering me some deliciously maternal confectionary delights. I mean, what do moms do? They bake and make other kinds of wholesome foods to put in their kids’ school lunches so, I don’t know, that’s the only connection I made when this Girls-Gone-Wild mother pulled out a container in the back seat of a limo after getting out of a fairly infamous club in the hippest area of San Francisco in preparation to see her friend rock out on stage. Huh. Actually, seeing that in print makes me realize how incredibly naive I really was; you learn something new everyday, I suppose.

Regardless, by the time we arrived at the Red Devil Lounge I was tripping balls; I had never ingested weed before, and I was absolutely out of my mind stoned so I was following wherever the worst date ever was leading me. As we went into the venue, it was clear that we had gotten there right before AC/DSHE was about to perform, and since we were kind of with the band (note that I’m using that term loosely), Noel and his people started pushing their way to the front of the jam-packed club, which (if you’re familiar with concert etiquette) is an incredibly douchey thing to do: concert goers with prime viewing real estate have generally invested some serious time for their slice of floor space. Needless to say, our hasty drive to the stage angered more than a few people, and finally we encountered a couple who flat out refused to let us pass. I had barely noticed we weren’t walking forward any longer (I was still “moving” but we were no longer walking) when all of a sudden I was confronted by a tenaciously blond SoCal broad (otherwise known as Stephanie) who was yelling at me for invading her space. Slightly stunned and not knowing exactly how to react, I turned to my left and noticed Noel was in a shouting/shoving match with this broad’s fella, which went something like “Back off my lady, bro!!!” “No YOU back off MY lady, dude!!!” and on and on, back and forth. While those two morons were engaged in their neandertholic pissing match, I smoothed things out with Steph and we instantaneously became best friends, as women are prone to do when incredibly intoxicated, and as we forged our bond she said, “Hey, you wanna blow these dickheads off and grab a drink at the bar upstairs?”

Yes. Yes I did. And that’s where we chillaxed, cocktails in hand and date free for the remainder of the concert, of which I remember practically nothing. At some point we wandered outside so Steph could grab a smoke, and here our drunken Ya-Ya Sisterhood circle expanded to include an adorable gay couple, a very haggard older woman who looked like Leonard Cohen if he had applied far too much rouge and fake tanner and squeezed himself into a miniskirt that was at least two sizes too small, and Steph’s boyfriend: a circle I regaled with the events of my horrible date while waving around the lit cigarette I was holding and pretending to smoke. And I was killing. In fact, I was just about at the end of my hilariously cringe-inducing story, the whole shebang, when I heard, “You wouldn’t be talking shit about my little brother, now, would you?” bellow from behind me.

I whirled around and, looking horribly guilty (I assume), shook my head no as the Ya-Ya Sisterhood erupted into muffled snickers behind me, which caused ME to laugh like a petulant child. Noel’s sister squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow in disapproval as I stared at my feet, which had become positively fascinating to me, and said, “Well, he’s been looking for you all night, and I think he wants to go so…” But she didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence because we both saw Noel emerge from the venue and she let it go, for his sake.

As they started to cart me off to the limo, Steph grabbed my wrist and asked me if I was going to be alright or if I needed assistance? I mention this fairly insignificant and fleeting moment to make the following point, despite the fact that it’s a bit of a tangent. Throughout the night I had been texting and calling my best friend at the time, Bess, and my pleas for help were continually dismissed. I told her I needed help, that I was very, very high and didn’t think I was in any condition to look after myself, and seeing as I was near her apartment could she possibly come get me? To which she responded that she was in her pajamas and didn’t feel like venturing out, but she wished me good luck and asked me to call her in the morning to tell her everything. Yeah, my very good friend of four years left me to fend for myself, while my new found friend of four minutes was more than willing to either a) drive my wasted ass around until we found my apartment or b) take me to her house where she offered up her futon. Proof that some women are bitches.

Anyways, at this point I thought my date from hell was finally coming to a close, but I was wrong. Obliterated as I was, I found myself seated in yet another bar with a vodka cranberry in my hand, and I thought to myself, “Gaaaaawwwwdddd, make it stop. Just make it stop!!!” This sentiment manifested itself verbally as, “Dude, I gawdda…home…home happens now. Make home happen, clown.”

And in his favor, he did. Shortly after that drunken rubbish came out of my mouth I was miraculously on my doorstep, fumbling for my keys. I somehow managed to open my front door, and I turned around to wish Noel the best. Even in my altered state, I saw that look: he was setting himself up for the end of the night kiss (which was soooooooooooooo not going to happen), so I planted my feet, extended my arm out, palm open and flush in front of his face, and said, “Awwright: high-five, my man.” He reluctantly gave me a limp-wristed return high five, and I immediately shut the door and puked up partially digested ceviche in my sink (my sink: not my toilet, god damn it, so I had the pleasure of reliving my shame for a solid 20 minutes as I cleaned chunks out of my drain the next morning).

High Five Substitution

So, you’re probably wondering what I learned from this fiasco? Well, I learned that it’s pointless to accept dates from less than desirable men merely because you don’t know how to refuse without seeming rude. I learned that the people you THINK are your close friends sometimes turn out to be less dependable than the kindness of total strangers. I learned that Mommies party harder than your average individual because they do it less frequently, and that you should always ask for a full disclosure of all the ingredients in any baked goods you’re offered after 10 p.m.

Most importantly, I learned to trust my instincts and cut-and-run when I see my date’s freak-flag start to fly, which is quite possibly the most important lesson a single gal in the city can learn.

So, all in all, a productive evening, no? Eh…maybe, maybe not, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right ladies? So, please, feel free to share your stories with me and show how much weight y’all can lift.