Thursday, July 16, 2009

TMI Thursday: Worst Date Ever. Beat This.

I met Tucker* sometime in elementary school & then not again until college. We had a few friends in common & hit it off pretty quickly, though none of my close friends were among his biggest fans. He is, how you sayyy, brusque, which is actually just a kind synonym for “often douchey.” Somehow, though, his abrasive personality rarely affected me, & I even found/find it endearing. (Insert "Sucker!" here.)

My senior year of college, Tucker & I made plans to go on a date of sorts. I say “of sort
s” because it was relatively unclear whether we were going on an actual date, for whatever reason. I drove because I lived furthest from the Lovedrug show we were headed to.

When I pulled up, Tucker was already bordering on wildly intoxicated. He’d done a few shots prior to my arrival to “calm [his] nerves,” as though the kid gets nervous to begin with. Because I already knew
him, I laughed it off. But when we arrived at the bar, Tucker bought me a drink (let’s assume it was a Miller Lite, because that’s all I really consume) & he bought himself two– a beer & an Irish car bomb. As he slammed the latter & started in on the former, I began to question my decision to participate in the date but soldiered on nonetheless.

Cut to an hour later, when Tucker & I kiss in the bar. And then when he turns away to puke on the bar floor. And then when he tells me he’s already thrown up in the bathroom. And then when he leaves to throw up some more. And then when he returns from the restroom & tries to kiss me again. Um, no, thanks. Also, did I mention that my ex-boyfriend showed up at the concert, too? The best way to feel that you’re above your ex is, I’d imagine, to watch her publicly struggle with a drunken, vomitous date.

Beyond frustrated, I play the role of good babysitter date & load Tucker into my car & head toward Eat ‘n’ Park, every Northeast Ohioan’s (least) favorite 24-hour joint. On the ride there, Tucker refuses to speak in anything other than a very authentic Borat accent, at one point exclaiming that he’s so embarrassed by his behavior that “I’m nevvvver going to talk to you evvvver again.” Trust me, Borat is not endearing post-upchuck. Or ever, really.

Inside the restaurant, I get up from our booth to check out the midnight buffet, trying to identify the best food to feed to a drunken Kazakhstani wannabe. When I return to the table, Tucker is passed out. Cold. Apologizing profusely to our understandably bewildered but bewilderingly understanding waitress, I drag Tucker back to my car & make my way home. As he stumbles out of my vehicle & into his parents’ house, he stops only once – to vomit all over the front porch. My tires squeal so loudly on the way out that I can’t believe I didn’t scare him sober. But actually, considering his level of intoxication, I guess I can.

Did I forget to mention that I’m attending a wedding in Ohio this weekend? I’m pretty jazzed to go as a friend’s date to his brother’s boss’ nuptials on Put-In-Bay Island.

Did I forget to mention that the friend who’s taking me is Tucker?

Bad dates somehow make for good, lasting friendships. Or else I’m just reeeeeally forgiving…

*Bonus points if you can catch the implied reference on his pseudonym.
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