First, the only man involved in this dating disaster story is yours truly, DJ Swarlos.
It was my first attempt into the world of internet dating disaster before dating apps were invented, such as Tinder, OkCupid, and oh-so-more. And more importantly free online dating websites. You get what you pay for, and while I didn’t pay one red cent I certainly “paid” for this experience.
In 2008, I was in the early stages of my divorce. I was still living in the house which, thank Christ for small favors, was a split level. Basically it’s a divided house with a downstairs and upstairs. I claimed downstairs. While I was down there for months, I signed up for Plenty of Fish, a free online dating website (POF). I wanted to hook up, and hook up immediately. So I was cupcaking with anyone and everyone that would pay attention to me. One lady paid attention to me. Her name was Robbi Lynn. She had a couple of photos posted but they were selfies only from her left side. She and I made plans to meet up at a Mexican restaurant on Wednesday.
The Monday before our Wednesday meet up, I was downstairs attempting to overload my senses to avoid the possibility of overhearing any part of my ex-wife’s conversation with her new boyfriend. Yeah, you read that right. Not even divorced yet basically the guy she was having an affair with. Oy vey.
I sat on the couch, with the laptop on, iPod planted firmly in my ears, and the big screen TV on. My phone chimes with a text. A text from Robbi Lynn.
RL: “You there?”
Me: “Yes. Evening.”
RL: “I’m bored.”
Me: “It’s Monday. Do you have any fav shows to watch?”
RL: “I wanna go out.”
Me: “Aiight. So go out.”
RL: “With you. Tonight.”
Me: “Aiight. What do you wanna do? Drinks? Dancing?”
RL: “Drinks.”
Me: “I accept on the condition we forego Wednesday’s dinner.” NOTE: in retrospect, I should’ve double checked with her if she understood the word, forego.
RL: “I accept.”
Me: “Meet me at Baxter’s bar in one hour.”
[later]
I bombed up to the bar with the quickness so I had command of the situation. A couple players were posted up at the bar, two more were playing pool. I instruct the bartender that I wanna a cash tab, starting with this 20 dollar bill. I order a beer and wait.
A yellow taxi shows up soonish. I receive a call from Robbi Lynn. She asks if I’m there. I reply yes, I’m here. In fact, I can see you in the backseat of the taxi speaking to me. Click goes the phone, the dial tone fills my ears.
Then? She enters Baxter’s.
She was sporting black pump shoes, pajamas jeans that revealed several fat rolls, and a white blouse tucked into said pajamas jeans in a vain attempt to hide the other fat rolls.
Holy s–t, the Michelin Man just posted up! Oh no… this is my date!
Then she flashed me a smile. In that instant I knew why she only took pictures from the left side. Her right bicuspid was missing! Another HOLY S**T moment! You would think at this junction I would’ve bounced.
Nope. I’m a masochist.
After exchanging some pleasantries, I ask her what would she like to drink – A pint glass filled with Diet Coke and rum. I ask her to adjourn in the game room where the darts and pool table where those two players were.
We set our drinks down at a table. She’s killed the pint glass by now. And ordered another from the passing server. Here’s how our strained conversation went.
Me: “So I noticed that you have a daughter of four. How is she?”
RL: “Oh.” She pauses. “That’s a typo. She’s actually 14 years old.” I quickly do the math to derive she had this child at 18 years old.
Me: “Ok. How was work today?”
RL: “Pretty good. I only started drinking at 11:30 am in the office.”
Me: thinking, what the #$%^? You drink at work? “Do you work alone? Where do you work that allows drinking during hours of operation?”
RL: “Trendwest. I’m in a two person office, but she called in sick.” The next drink arrives.
Me: “Let’s play darts.” I’m thinking that the cash tab is running low. She excuses herself to the bathroom.
Once she disappeared, those players walked over to me. Player 1: “I’m not gay. Neither is he.” He pointed to his friend.
Player 2: “He’s right. We’re not gay.”
Player 1: “But we were wondering why a 9 like you was with that 2.”
They hear her returning so they scurried over to their pool table. She asked what did they want. I defend them by saying they asked if we wanted to join them, knowing full well they could hear my response. They nodded to me for protecting them.
I offer the three darts to Robbi Lynn first. She throws them. They are all wildly wide off from the board. I step up to the line to throw darts. She jumps in front of me, and dodges left and right to block my view and shot. As I lean to the right, I expose my neck. She steals a kiss right then, my dart flies completely across the room. I excuse myself from the game to the bathroom.
Dating Disaster! I barricade myself into the bar bathroom stall. I, for lack of a better way of explaining it, started to urinate. With the phone in my other hand, I begin a text. The next thing I hear is the clicking of heels on the tile.
RL: “Carlos?” I hear her call out.
Me: “ROBBI LYNN?!” With my junk in my hand I stop urinating.
RL: “What are you doing?”
Me: “I’M DOING WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO! PEE! What are you doing here?”
RL: “You’re taking too long. Want me to hang out here?”
Me: “No. In fact, please leave so I can continue.” I wait. The clicking starts again. It stops. It starts again. Finally, the door squeaks open as she exits. I gnash my teeth together and accept this is a dating disaster, “EFF this, I’m leaving.”
I finish up. I walked back to the table. “Robbi Lynn? Good night. It was nice meeting you.” I turn on my heel, to notice those pool players were gone. As I blazed outta the bar, I found them outside the door smoking cigarettes. I walk over, and literally rip a cigarette out of one of their mouths, and take two puffs. I crush it underneath my shoe.
Without blinking, Playa 1 asks wryly, “Are you done with your date with that two?”
I reply, “HELL YEAH.”
He asks, “Can I have that then?”
“Go for it, player,” I laugh off. I jump into my car, and lay down 20,000 miles of rubber from the parking lot to the highway.
Dating Disaster Epilogue: Two days later on Wednesday at 5p that same week. A text message was received. “It’s 5pm. I’m at the restaurant. Where are you?”
The moral of the story: You get what you pay for.
Until next week, be good like you should, and if you can’t be good … be good at what you do!
Mic drop; *bOoM*
Swarlos