Happy Valentine's Day! In honor of this special occasion, I am reposting the story of my worst date ever. And no, it was not with Mitch. Mitch is downright debonair compared to this guy.
One time just after high school a boy I liked asked me out and I said yes. He thought it would be fun to go "bird" hunting. Okay, whatever. I wasn't picky. As long as they bought me food I was game for anything.
I wouldn't exactly call myself an "outdoorsy" person. I like to go outside when it's between 70 and 85 degrees, with little or no wind, and lots of sun. That is, of course, unless I'm sunburned from the last time it was 70 to 85, not windy and sunny. Then I'd rather just sit in the shade and read a book. I knew this was going to be an outdoor date and in my mind I pictured us walking hand in hand lazily along a nice path in a sun-dappled forest. I really really hoped no birds would actually get hunted because I like birds and I hate the smell of gun powder.
There was no sun-dappled forest, and no lazy hand-holding walk. He picked me up in a filthy SUV and he had a gigantic golden retriever with him. I was a little disappointed to also see a gun. I was kind of hoping "bird-hunting" was date-code for "going in the woods and making out," but apparently, he really did want to take me to kill animals. Fun.
I guess I never knew what bird hunting involved. I always thought it was just walking through the woods looking for partridge and then shooting them. I never gave much thought to what happens after that. As far as I knew, they just magically appeared on a platter, cooked to a perfect golden brown, and tasted delicious. Oh, how wrong I was.
First of all, there was no walking in the woods. We drove along a rutted dirt road going about 25 miles an hour, and if I knew I was going to have to withstand so much jostling, I would have worn a sports bra, but my date spent all his time with his head out the window and his eyes peeled for birds, oblivious to any jostling-of-boobs or discomfort for his date. He couldn't hear anything I said with his head out the window either and whenever he saw me talking he would interrupt and say, "Are you looking for birds?!" No, no I wasn't. I was mostly holding my boobs and fighting with his dog who was a little put out that I was sitting in his regular spot. Neither one of us wanted to sit on the garbage on the floor, or on the garbage in the back seat.
Suddenly Mr. Wonderful slammed on the brakes and he and the dog jumped out of the truck and I heard a shot. I got out to see the dog jump into a ditch flooded with pondy, scummy water, swim across and then race into the woods, coming back with a partridge. I was proudly shown the dead bird (ew) and then to my horror, my date bent over, stepped on the little birdy's feet, pulled on his wings, and the feet and guts all came out at once. Oh my god, that was about the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. Five minutes before that little bird was just minding his own business, sitting in a tree, probably thinking about how cool it is to lay eggs, and then boom: he was shot. Then a dog got him. Then his little feet were stepped on and he no longer had guts. I must have looked as horrified as I felt because Mr. W. said, "Are you okay? That's how it's done. I thought everyone knew that." (I did NOT know that...Did you know that?) Then he asked me if I wanted to try to shoot one and handed me the stinky gun. Um... No thanks.
We got back in the truck, and the dog, who was now dripping wet with ditch water sat in my seat before I could get there. The seat was soaked. Mr. W. shooed him out of the seat and offered it to me (ah chivalry), and I sat in it for about five seconds and then my pants were soaked, so I kneeled on the garbage with my arms up on the dash instead. The dog saw that I was not going to be using my seat, so he jumped up from the back seat to reclaim his spot. Like all dogs, he had to turn around a few times before he could sit, and on one of the passes he stopped with his wet ass by my face and let out a total wind fart. It just went "hooooooooooooooooooo" with no resistance at all, right on my cheek. I could actually feel the wind of it. Mr. W. saw this and laughed so hard I thought he would crash the garbage-mobile. I told him I wanted to go home, and to his credit, he turned right around and headed home, still laughing.
But wait, we still haven't come to the worst part of the date yet.
He kept his head out the window on the way back, still hunting for birds. I was watching him and I saw him not-so-secretly pick a huge booger out of his nose and then leave it on his finger in the wind. He happened to glance at me and saw what I'm sure was a look of absolute disgust and said, "What? I'm letting it dry."
I'm not even kidding.
What was your worst date?
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One time just after high school a boy I liked asked me out and I said yes. He thought it would be fun to go "bird" hunting. Okay, whatever. I wasn't picky. As long as they bought me food I was game for anything.
I wouldn't exactly call myself an "outdoorsy" person. I like to go outside when it's between 70 and 85 degrees, with little or no wind, and lots of sun. That is, of course, unless I'm sunburned from the last time it was 70 to 85, not windy and sunny. Then I'd rather just sit in the shade and read a book. I knew this was going to be an outdoor date and in my mind I pictured us walking hand in hand lazily along a nice path in a sun-dappled forest. I really really hoped no birds would actually get hunted because I like birds and I hate the smell of gun powder.
There was no sun-dappled forest, and no lazy hand-holding walk. He picked me up in a filthy SUV and he had a gigantic golden retriever with him. I was a little disappointed to also see a gun. I was kind of hoping "bird-hunting" was date-code for "going in the woods and making out," but apparently, he really did want to take me to kill animals. Fun.
I guess I never knew what bird hunting involved. I always thought it was just walking through the woods looking for partridge and then shooting them. I never gave much thought to what happens after that. As far as I knew, they just magically appeared on a platter, cooked to a perfect golden brown, and tasted delicious. Oh, how wrong I was.
First of all, there was no walking in the woods. We drove along a rutted dirt road going about 25 miles an hour, and if I knew I was going to have to withstand so much jostling, I would have worn a sports bra, but my date spent all his time with his head out the window and his eyes peeled for birds, oblivious to any jostling-of-boobs or discomfort for his date. He couldn't hear anything I said with his head out the window either and whenever he saw me talking he would interrupt and say, "Are you looking for birds?!" No, no I wasn't. I was mostly holding my boobs and fighting with his dog who was a little put out that I was sitting in his regular spot. Neither one of us wanted to sit on the garbage on the floor, or on the garbage in the back seat.
Suddenly Mr. Wonderful slammed on the brakes and he and the dog jumped out of the truck and I heard a shot. I got out to see the dog jump into a ditch flooded with pondy, scummy water, swim across and then race into the woods, coming back with a partridge. I was proudly shown the dead bird (ew) and then to my horror, my date bent over, stepped on the little birdy's feet, pulled on his wings, and the feet and guts all came out at once. Oh my god, that was about the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. Five minutes before that little bird was just minding his own business, sitting in a tree, probably thinking about how cool it is to lay eggs, and then boom: he was shot. Then a dog got him. Then his little feet were stepped on and he no longer had guts. I must have looked as horrified as I felt because Mr. W. said, "Are you okay? That's how it's done. I thought everyone knew that." (I did NOT know that...Did you know that?) Then he asked me if I wanted to try to shoot one and handed me the stinky gun. Um... No thanks.
We got back in the truck, and the dog, who was now dripping wet with ditch water sat in my seat before I could get there. The seat was soaked. Mr. W. shooed him out of the seat and offered it to me (ah chivalry), and I sat in it for about five seconds and then my pants were soaked, so I kneeled on the garbage with my arms up on the dash instead. The dog saw that I was not going to be using my seat, so he jumped up from the back seat to reclaim his spot. Like all dogs, he had to turn around a few times before he could sit, and on one of the passes he stopped with his wet ass by my face and let out a total wind fart. It just went "hooooooooooooooooooo" with no resistance at all, right on my cheek. I could actually feel the wind of it. Mr. W. saw this and laughed so hard I thought he would crash the garbage-mobile. I told him I wanted to go home, and to his credit, he turned right around and headed home, still laughing.
But wait, we still haven't come to the worst part of the date yet.
He kept his head out the window on the way back, still hunting for birds. I was watching him and I saw him not-so-secretly pick a huge booger out of his nose and then leave it on his finger in the wind. He happened to glance at me and saw what I'm sure was a look of absolute disgust and said, "What? I'm letting it dry."
I'm not even kidding.
What was your worst date?
Oh that is bad! I had anxiety for you just reading this!
ReplyDeleteMy worst "date" was someone I was acquaintances with in high school and I wanted to see the same movie, so we made plans to do so. His mom drops us off at a small gaming store where he played Magic the Gathering for no less than the 3 hours I wondered why we were there and when the eff the movie was going to start. I was not offered the chance to participate, and was not included in conversation. I had to call my mom to pick me up after the third hour and just take me home because I was so bored and hungry. The next day at school I had a bunch of people ask why I bailed on our "date" ...wait, what?
It took me 10 years to bother to watch that damn movie.