This morning, while jogging, I had a revelation.
I haven’t been on a date in years.
Instead I’ve been…ugh…”hooking up”. First of all, I hate that fucking phrase. I used to say “hook up” instead of meet up. For example: “Hey Stacey let’s hook up later at the Valley party.” Ok first of all I don’t know anyone named Stacey and I don’t go to parties in the Valley. Which isn’t to say that I wouldn’t; I just never know of anyone who has Valley parties.
BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.
Lately my “dating” has been going to some dudes house and making out with him. That’s not a date. It’s kind of slutty. It’s backwards, too. I find that after I’ve gotten fairly intimate with a guy I realized that I’m nervous about asking him on a date and that he could actually turn me down. That’s messed up on all accounts. That’s not how it should go.
Here’s how it should go. You don’t have to pick me up, because I live in the Valley and you probably don’t, but we should on a first date meet at a restaurant or whatnot and NOT your house. I should not be in your house on the first date unless your first date is a house party. And it better be a good house party. There not better be any fucking red plastic cups. We’re not 19 anymore. Buy some fucking glasses. BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.
We will meet at a restaurant and it will be a fucking classy joint. And we will maybe have a drink at the bar first so I can get all flirty and touch your shoulder and laugh and maybe even do my Blanche impression. Yes, Blanche from the Golden Girls, and yes, it is a great
Let me tell you this right now: you will pay for dinner. Yes, I said it. You are a man. I am a
woman. I am a hot woman. I am a sexy funny awesome hot woman. I am not paying for dinner. I am not going to split it. I am not going to do any of that shit. Because earlier that night I blow
dried my hair, put on make up, squeezed my Italian ass into a stretchy American Apparel dress, and shaved everything. And you’re a man. I don’t care if this is 2009 and I don’t care that Beyonce is running around in a leotard shouting at us to be proud single ladies: You. Are. Buying. Dinner.
You are required to treat me like Audrey fucking Hepburn on this first date.
By which I mean do not be a douchebag. Be a gentleman. Pretend that the entire date
has Camera Obscura as the soundtrack. Is that fuck music? No, it is not fuck music. It is clean and beautiful and adorable. Like our first date.
Do not invite me your place afterwards for “tea” because that’s bullshit.
You may suggest going to a bar afterwards or a cafe for dessert. That is totally acceptable and totally adorable.
You are going to kiss me at the end of this date, motherfucker. It is going to be so fucking pure and awesome that I should be able to hear Sixpence None The Richer playing in my head while it’s happening.
You will then make plans for
the second date, right there and then. You will not say, “I’ll call you.” You will not say, “I’ll text you.” And under any circumstances will you NOT say, “I’ll facebook you.” If you say that I will facebook your FACE.
Because then I will not be able to stop thinking about you. I will be reminded of you every time I see a green M&M or an advertisement for 1-800-CLOSETWORLD. Why? Because we will have private jokes about these things. I will facebook stalk you and look at all of your photos and imagine me in them. I will never, ever tell you this. And then on the next date I will kiss you so fucking hard your face will FUCKING SHATTER. CAN YOU DEAL WITH THAT SHIT?
That is how you date in ’08. Crap it’s ’09 now. Fuck
that. Here is what you do NOT do on a FIRST date:
— “Hey, wanna watch a movie at my place?” Everyone and their Grandpa Fergeson knows that that is code for making out. Not only is that a skeezy first date but it’s lame too.
— “Hey, let’s drink champagne in my jacuzzi, what what.” This is not a first date either. I actually once had a guy ask me if we could do that in MY jacuzzi. I said, “You better be bringing the fucking champagne.” He didn’t. JACUZZI DATE OVER.
— The worst date I have ever been on was with some poor soul college kid who didn’t have anything planned and
had me meet him at Border’s. Yeah, that was it. So from there we wandered around Westwood and I had to convince him to get our palms read because I’m quirky like that. AND HE HAD NO MONEY SO I HAD TO PAY. Then he wanted to take me to his frat house so we could play guitar hero (GH had just come out so I guess this was kind of a big deal to him.) I would have gotten out of there but he was my ride so I had no choice. I watched him and his friends play Guitar Hero. Then he took me for a walk around campus. Yes. Then we made out on the grass. That part was OK.
HE PEED ON A TREE. IN FRONT OF ME. WITH NO APOLOGIES.
We were walking and he said, “Hold on a second”, walked over to a tree, and peed on it. My mouth was hanging open and he said, “What’s wrong?” And I said, “Uh…you’re peeing. That’s what’s wrong.” And he said, “There aren’t any nearby restrooms that are open.” And I said, “You’re peeing in front of me.” DATE OVER.