Dates 6/22/22

Memories with Richard Bleil

So how does one find dates in this day and age?  I’m old enough to remember when you found dates as friends of friends, like the date I had in high school.  My friend and his girlfriend set me up, but there were strikes against us from day one.  They told me to just be myself.  Well, but don’t wear the cowboy hat.  But be yourself.  And no boots.  But just be yourself.  But don’t tell any of my jokes.  But to just be myself.  Okay, so, show up naked and say nothing, then?  Yeah, that didn’t go over so well.

I’ve belonged to dating clubs, back before the internet was all the rage.  Very expensive clubs, vastly overpopulated with women.  They were getting five names to my one.  This means that the women I was meeting weren’t interested in actual relationships.  If you were lucky enough to find one early in her membership who did want a relationship you could get lucky, but for the most part, those interested in a real relationship would find one early on and leave the service.  I had one date who was honest enough to admit that she only wanted to have first dates, of which there were many, for the free food.  Considering the price of food today, it’s a pretty lucrative scam.

A newspaper ad brought a very interesting date.  She worked in a factory.  I knew pretty early that it wasn’t going to work out when she started, almost immediately, telling me that she needed my broom to sweep out her cobwebs.  That’s a beautiful image.  She told me that she’s very loyal to the men she dates, like her last boyfriend.  When she found out that he was having an affair, she tracked the woman down, beat her, stripped her naked, and tied her to the median of a highway.  Oh goody.  A stable woman.  Gimme some of those cobwebs.

Had a date with a woman who had seven and a half teeth.   To this day I wonder if her dental situation was the result of meth, including the crescent moon piece that was missing from her front tooth.  I gave her a chance, although I knew it probably wouldn’t work out.  She was a waitress, and it seemed pretty obvious to me that she was interested in me.  I ate there periodically, and when she asked me out, I said yes.  The dinner was interesting.  She was a sports fanatic, and my regular readers know that I’m something of a sports idiot.  All I know is that you have nine innings to make ten yards to put the puck through the hoop while wearing spandex.  I have to say that I don’t expect anybody I’m with to know science (although I hope she will at least listen to me as it’s clearly a passion for me), but I do hope she’s at least familiar with current events.  That was around the time that the terrorist group du jour was ISIS, kind of the predecessor to Al Qaeda.  When I asked her what she thought about ISIS, she looked at me with a blank stare.  She had no idea what I was talking about.  That made it clear that it wouldn’t go any further, as we had absolutely nothing in common, and no interest in each other’s passions. 

Had a date with an undertaker.  I asked what her perfume was.  She said formaldehyde.  And, yes, as a chemist I do know what formaldehyde is.  She had a great sense of humor.  Just ask her, she’ll tell you.  Sitting at a tall table in a bar, I saw her throw something on the floor.  Then she said, “you dropped a dollar.”  I looked down and sure enough, a crumpled-up dollar bill.  “It’s not mine,” I said, no doubt disappointing her as I didn’t fall for it.  But seriously?  I’m kind of an adult (kind of), so no, I don’t walk around with crumpled dollar bills in my pants pocket.  “But I saw it fall out of your pants,” she pushed.  “Nope, not mine,” I said, and yes, I noticed the string on it and the suspicious way she was holding her hands on her lap.  Luckily for her, some other patron named “Schmuck” bent over to try to pick it up, at which point she yanked, and proceeded to laugh hysterically.  Yeah, that didn’t win her a second date.

Had a date with a woman who had a seven-year-old daughter.  I tried bonding with her daughter and said, “I have to fart.”  “We don’t use the ‘f’ word in this house,” she said.  “We say ‘fluff’.”  Seriously?  Offended by the word “fart”?  I looked at her and said, “bitch, what the fuck!”  Obviously, that was the end of that. 

Believe it or not, I’ve only scratched the surface.

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