The Internet Dating Files, Vol. I

Okay, I'll admit it... I tried the internet dating thing when I lived in Florida. Don't judge me. I wasn't having a whole lot of luck meeting people during my first summer in Heaven's Waiting Room, despite there being a decent amount of people my age living in my apartment complex. Being in Florida was the farthest I'd ever been from my friends, and to be honest, I was feeling a bit lonely. To be even more honest, I hadn't had sexy time in quite a while, either, and well... I was feeling a bit lonely. So I figured, 'What the hell?' and signed up. What followed was a series of awkward, pressure-filled clusterfucks that yielded marginal results; one semi-serious relationship, a little bit of random sex, and a lot of alcohol consumption. All told, I'd say I went on maybe twenty dates with nine or ten girls over a three year stretch (off and on, in monthly spurts.) The majority of the dates were so forgettable that, well, I've forgotten them. However, there were a handful that resulted in mildly amusing stories that I've decided to share with the entire blog-reading world. I haven't told these stories to very many people, because I never wanted to admit to anyone that I was a member of a dating website. Now... well, I don't really give a fuck, and like I said, some of these stories are kind of funny. You can look at them as cautionary tales against online dating, or as comfort that you aren't the only one who's been on an awkward, miserable date. But at their core, all they are is a collection of things that happened to me that I like look back on and giggle at. So, now that I have you waiting with bated breath, I present to you... The Internet Dating Files.

Internet Dating File #5
Name: Heather
Date: June, 2009 (I think)
Location: Some bar out toward Winter Park that I can't remember the name of.

Admittedly, I was kind of excited to go on this date. Why? Because Heather was a redhead. I find redheaded women incredibly hot. There are only a handful of people in the world who watched Married with Children and found Peggy Bundy more attractive than Kelly Bundy. I am of that ilk.

So here I am, driving out to meet Heather the redhead at some bar in Winter Park. We had spoken via email for a couple of weeks before graduating to phone calls, and after maybe three phone conversations, we set up this date. Her friend's band was playing, and she invited me to come and watch. Now, there are two things worth noting about the setup that will be relevant to the actual story: first, she had a kid. I knew that going in, and it didn't really bother me. Second, this took place during one of those rare stretches where I was going to the gym every day, and so I was in pretty decent shape (think Seth Rogan in Funny People as opposed to Seth Rogen in 40 Year Old Virgin.)

I pull up to the bar around 8:30. I'm wearing jeans, and an Affliction t-shirt that's probably a bit too tight, but it's okay because my man boobs aren't as noticeable at this point as they are now. My hair looks pretty good, too. I go inside and start scanning the room. I'm already nervous, because up to this point, I don't think a single girl has looked the same in person as she has in her photos. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot some red hair. It looks to be attached to a woman who is significantly larger than the girl I'm expecting to meet. I panic, and I seriously entertain the idea of turning around, exiting the bar, driving back to Kissimmee, buying a fifth of Jack, taking a long hard swig right out of the bottle, pouring the rest of it over my head and then lighting myself on fire. But Big Red moves on without acknowledging me, and on the far side of the bar, I see more red hair - this time attached to a much more reasonably-sized female - waving at me, and I make my way over. I'm relieved when she introduces herself as Heather, and I'm even a little excited because A) she's actually prettier than her picture, and B) when she turns back toward the table, I see that her thong is exposed. (I know, I know... it's trashy. I think that's why I liked it. I don't know what that says about me, but whatever.) However, I also notice something else; she is not alone at the table. There are three other people sitting with her - a guy and two girls. She proceeds to introduce me to her friends - whose names I can't remember because I wasn't paying attention - and I shake hands with each one semi-awkwardly. The first two are a couple - I'll call them Jack and Jackie. Jackie is on the heavy side, but fairly pretty in the face. Jack looks like he's on his way to a Slipknot concert - huge black jeans with more zippers than The Gimp from Pulp Fiction's leather suit, black Korn t-shirt, backwards baseball cap (non-fitted) over a head of long black hair braided into a ponytail, and a bad adolescent mustache (he's 30.) More on this guy in a bit.

The third friend, who I'm going to call Bertha, looks like Roberta Trett from Gone Baby Gone. She shakes my hand as she downs the remnants of some type of alcoholic beverage, and then semi-belches a "nice to meet you." I am thrilled to be spending my evening with such a classy, demure lady.

The date starts off with normal getting-to-know-you chit-chat as the first band of the night sets up. Heather seems very nice and we're having a pleasant conversation. However, this doesn't last long; two things interrupt it. First, we have Bertha - the lovely Bertha - sitting to my right. She is dancing in her seat. She's swaying back and forth and doing something that slightly resembles the cabbage patch with her hands, and chanting "I'm gon-na' get fucked-up to-night!" I'm a bit baffled, but hey, to each their own, right? The waiter brings me a beer and Bertha some mixed drink that she ordered. She is elated, and exclaims, "Yeah! Bottoms up, motherfucker!" before taking a monster swig. Immediately she contorts her face so that she no longer looks like the cokehead from Gone Baby Gone, but more resembles the fat zombie from Dawn of the Dead. "Goddamn! I don't know what the fuck is in that muthafuckin shit, but that shit is fuckin' gross! I ain't drinkin that nasty ass shit!" (By the way ladies, eloquence is an antiquated notion, seriously...) Bertha calls the waiter back over and politely exchanges her current drink for a Long Island iced tea. It comes promptly, she takes another bovine-sized swig, makes the fat zombie face, but this time is pleased with the outcome. "Whoo! That's what I'm talkin about! Yeah, muthafuckin Long Island iced tea! C'mon, lets get the music goin, cause I'm ready to shake my fuckin boo-tay!" No, seriously. She said that. Loudly. And it didn't stop there. This continued throughout the night. A drink order, big swig, zombie face, excited profanity, seat dancing. At one point I took video of it on my phone and sent it to my friend Dani. (Sadly, I smashed that phone against my bedroom wall less than two months later, so all video evidence of this mind-blowing phenomenon is completely erased... did I say sadly? I meant thankfully.)

So Bertha grinding on her stool and doing a Sam Kinison impression; meanwhile, Heather has left the table to take a phone call. Rather than sit there silently and imagine all of the things that I could be doing that would be less painful than my current situation (dental work, swimming with box jellyfish, anything from the movie Hostel), I take this opportunity to strike up a conversation with Jack. He seems like a good enough guy, albeit a bit dorky, but that's fine. We talk about what he does, what I do, music, movies... normal guy stuff. Normal, that is, until the song being played over the PA ends (the band is still setting up), a new one begins, and then this happens:

ME: Yeah, I've been living down here for about a year and a half now, and I'm starting to...

JACK (interrupting me): Wait....wait... (he looks up at the ceiling pensively, silently mouthing the words to the song that just started playing).... Shinedown! Okay, sorry. Go ahead...

ME: Um... (unsure of what exactly just happened)... what was I saying?

He interrupted me to name the band that came on the radio. I couldn't believe it. What was really funny about it, though, was how proud of himself he was for getting it right. And this, much like the white trash cuss-and-dance-a-thon happening to my immediate right, went on ALL FUCKING NIGHT. He kept on doing it. Every time they would play the radio between sets, this fuckin guy would call out the name of whatever shitty, generic radio rock band was playing, and then mentally high-five himself. CROSSFADE! GODSMACK! DEFAULT! NICKLEBACK! Honestly, should anyone be proud of themselves for correctly identifying a Nickleback song?

Somehow, during the one-man-Name-That-shitty-Tune game on my left and the one-woman-Kinison-act on my right, I manage to get on with my actual date with Heather (who has been a tertiary character in this story so far, but don't worry, her crazy is coming.) We talk through the first band, and we have a few drinks. She tells me about her kids. Kids. Plural. "Oh," she says, as if she neglected to mention that she's Irish, or that she speaks Lithuanian, "yeah I have two kids... a boy and a girl." Now, if her having one kid doesn't bother me, why should the fact that she has two be any different? The answer is, it shouldn't. But why tell me you have only one? It's like telling me, "Yeah, I have asthma," and then after we make out, saying, "oh, and by the way, I also have herpes. But don't worry, it's not inflamed." It's a little bit like that, right? Maybe it isn't like that at all. But I thought it was weird, anyway.

So we establish the fact that she has two kids - fine. We talk some more. Now at this point, the first band is in mid-set, and it's insanely loud in the bar, so we've moved closer together in order to hear each other without shouting. She has also had a few drinks, and is starting to get a bit handsy. She's running her hands over my shoulder, my arm, my back... and saying things like, "I had no idea you were this well-built." I swear to God I'm not making this up. She said this shit without a hint of irony, but I promise that I'm relaying it here with all the irony in the world. Anyway, she leans in and asks me if I'll follow her outside for a cigarette (another nugget she neglected to mention.) I oblige, and we head outside. On the patio, she lights up a Newport and tells me about her ex-husband. He's a drug-addict who has spent some time in jail. Of course he is. She has a restraining order against him. Of course she does. But, he's actually a very good father. Of course he is. We talk more about her kids, and she delivers what have to be the all-time greatest first date lines in (internet) dating history: 1) "Don't worry, I don't want another child for at least another year." 2) "Oh yeah, I'm a baby machine."

Back inside the bar, she's gone from subtly and sexily rubbing my arms and shoulders to groping me like she was Big Ben and I was a chubby college co-ed. "I just can't keep my hands off of you." (Her = no irony. Me = TONS of irony, I promise.) Before you know it, we're making out in the bar, right in front of Jack, Jackie, Bertha-the-Coked-Out-Zombie and dozens of horrified patrons. I mean, it's not like she snuck in an innocent peck on the lips, or we shared a brief moment of indiscreet passion and then composed ourselves. No, this was sloppy, 7th-grade-go-for-broke-or-we're-gonna-miss-the-bus making out. Have you ever seen the movie Cry-Baby, with Johnny Depp? If you have, then you know the french-kiss scene I'm referencing. If you haven't, click here and scroll to :55 seconds in. It was embarrassing...and awesome.

We keep up the K-I-S-S-I-N-G (chikka-chikka dee) act (see: RHCP, "Suck My Kiss") for the duration of her friend's band's set (awful local band called Big Mother Trucker, or something equally inane.) Mercifully, the house lights come up around a quarter to twelve, and Jack is ready to leave (presumably so he can identify Breaking Benjamin songs in the car.) But of course, before my night is officially over, I get to suffer one more horrible, wonderful indignation. Heather and Jackie have engaged one another in an ice fight - where they take ice cubes from their drinks and try to put them down one another's shirts. Heather gets a piece down Jackie's back, which prompts Jackie to chase Heather around the table with a dripping handful of rapidly melting ice. Heather giggles and evades her, running directly to me, whirling around so that her back is to me, grabbing my hands and placing them firmly on her breasts. Again, this is in full view of dozens of bar customers, and now the lights are up, so people can see this sickening display more clearly. I swear I couldn't have gotten more disgusted, disdainful, for-shame looks if I had been walking around in assless chaps, carrying a riding crop and wearing a ball-gag. (You're welcome for that visual, ladies.)

We say goodnight in the parking lot as all civilized couples do - by using our tongues to probe each other's duodenum's - and move toward our respective cars. Heather pleads with me to accompany them to the diner for pancakes, and for a moment I actually consider it. I consider it because I am fairly certain that if I go, this night will end with me wearing the aforementioned exposed thong on my head as Heather and I perform sexual feats that are illegal in several states. I reconsider, however, when I come to the realization that watching Bertha the Coked Out Zombie inhale a short stack and bleat out, "These are some good-ass muthafuckin pancakes!" while Jack air-drums to Seether would be enough to prevent me from ever achieving a decent erection, probably for the rest of my life, let alone that night. I respectfully decline, and bid her a fine evening.

Heather texted me relentlessly over the next day or so, and my initial plan was just to ignore her until she went away (I'm very mature.) However, I finally decided to reply, telling her that she seemed very nice, but that I didn't think it was going to work out between us. She was pleasant and understanding, and I never heard from her again. However, one night - several weeks later - I fell asleep with the radio on, and around 4am, woke up in a cold sweat, screaming out, "NICKLEBACK!!"