Dont Mince Words

In LA, there’s a category of women I call “the meal hunters.” They date to eat. While a girl’s gotta eat, I’d rather stay home with unshaved legs and pop open a can of tunafish. I date to meet.

Last night I had a first date with a man who suggested we go to dinner. We ordered a beer, then I ordered an appetizer as my meal. The conversation flowed and in the middle of it all he said, “Wow, you really aren’t a hooker. You hardly eat.”

Most women would of been offended to be thought of as a meal-hunting hooker. I’m in touch with my inner whore and that comment didn’t bother me. I was flattered that he noticed my outstanding portion control talent. To celebrate, I ordered a second double barrel ale. Does that make me a beer whore?

I’ve applied the three-strike-you-are-out rule to my dating. It really comes in handy. Annoying but overlooked first date habits can be re-evaluated prior to firing the potential boyfriend. That way, I am not in month three of the season realizing I recruited the wrong player.

Spicoli admitted on our first date that he was unemployed. That would concern most women, but since I’ve been there, I was sympathetic. In addition to applying for jobs, he tries to surf five times a week. I knew he really was a surfer when he used the word “gnarly” several times. Who still uses that word? I looked behind me to see if Mr. Hand was going to tell us to do our homework.

On the third date, more gnarlies passed between his lips in addition to admitting he had two kids, ages 13 and 3, from two separate women. He’s never been married, and I’ve never met a white baby’s daddy.

Dood, game over. You are out.

Three months ago I had a date, one date, with a nice guy. The evening turned ugly, thanks to margaritas. Three months to that day, I had a date with a new guy which turned ugly thanks to halibut.

Michael was my first date since the little boy breakup. I decided to chronologically date up and met the 48 year old for happy hour at El Cholo. We had immediate chemistry and we had a great time until I realized he’d finished 90 percent of the margarita pitcher. Binge drinker or nervous dater?

Letting him drive was a rush hour death sentence, so I took him home to sober him up. I felt like I was in college again, helping a toga party roommate. In between puking trips to the bathroom, I fed Michael saltines and aspirin. He went home after six hours of nursing. I vowed never to have a first date in a bar.

For my first date with Roger, he drove us to watch the sun set before dinner in the Palisades. He had the veal, I had the halibut. Afterwards, we drove around, talked more and then went back to his place. Things were going great until I started belching fish. Then I got the butterflies, not because I was nervously excited about this great date, but because I knew I had about 10 seconds to get to the bathroom.

I ran the sink water so he couldn’t hear me refunding my dinner. I then hijacked his toothpaste and gave myself a Marine gargle. I did feel much better, but the mood was ruined. I apologized and went home shortly thereafter.

They say timing is everything. I want off this 90-day reciprocal barf cycle.