Little Man Tate

 

Meeting someone on a social networking site is not my ideal place for finding the love of my life.  But when Little Man Tate (prior to our actual first date I called him by his real name, whatever that was) contacted me because he knew someone who knew someone etc...whatever he seemed cool, I was single, fine i'll go out with you.

I actually arrived early to our dinner/drinks date.  As I waited in the lobby of our local sports bar, I gazed out the window at the few single men entering the building. Maybe that's him?....Nope....Oh he's fine, please please....Nope. My daydreaming was suddenly interrupted by a loud, very obnoxious car driven by some douchebag who just had to park backwards into the nearest spot. OK first of all- yes there are times when backing in is necessary or convenient but honestly most of the time you are just annoying everyone around you. Second of all- you think I'm impressed with your“oh so cool”car. No. Sorry, but no. Fast car, big muscles, little dick. We get it. Its called overcompensation. Everyone sees it but you.

Well as God would have it (he just loves  to play jokes on me), Mr. Douchebag was, yes you guessed it, my date.  

As he walks in and spots me he says “Hi! Christine?”

“Um no, its Kacie”

We had only been conversing for a few weeks and in his defense my name only popped up on every email we exchanged, but OK he's just nervous.  

Now this is where the name comes into play. This kid was so tiny that I swear to gawd when we sat at the bar, he had to hop up on the stool. Swear. Also, I'm a little perplexed by his appearance. The guy I had seen in the pictures was a tall, dark-haired, sexy soccer player.  Not this red-headed step child with freckles and a height complex!  Maybe I didn't look closely enough at the pictures?  

The date continued. As he nervously chatted with his hands- I got to staring at them.  Wait...hmmmm...yep...they're smaller than mine. Fan-tas-tic. Little Man Tate is starting to strongly resemble a Chuckie doll with seemingly a penis the size of a miniature golf pencil. Chug your fucking beer and be out.

“I told you I have dinner plans with my father at 7:30, right?” Who can argue with that?! “Oh I didn't? I'm so sorry! But I do have to go.”

And I was gone.  Was that the end of LMT? Sadly, no. You see-when people are persistent I start to feel bad and so I get guilted into a second date even though I know it will be the last.  I feel like its only right that these poor guys get a second chance at a first impression.  

So I invited him to a party I was throwing.  He brought a friend, a six-pack of beer, and apparently- his man boobs.  My best friend at the time was a guy who was pretty much always drunk so getting him to stifle his laughter as he shook LMT's hand (and coincidentally his boobs) was a task unto itself. Now in case you're wondering- the moobs hadn't been out on the first date so it must have been the bright yellow shirt he was sporting this evening that really showed them off.

He stayed for about an hour, they got along with everyone, and overall it went pretty well (not going out again well, but well enough).  You're waiting for the kicker right?  Yeah. Well at the beginning of the party when people were coming in with beer and alcohol, my friend had broken up the boxes and thrown them in the trash.  My living room connects to my kitchen, so when LMT creeped into my kitchen- the entire party was able to see what he was doing.  This little freckle-fuck goes into the kitchen, takes his 4 (FOUR!) beers out of my fridge, looks around for his box, sees it was thrown away, resets the box and puts his FOUR beers back in to take them home with him.  We all are watching  him out of the corner of our eyes and exchanging the “Seriously?” look. 

Then the bottom falls out and all the bottles crash to the floor with a loud Clang!

CLASSIC!

Everyone just sat there in silence, nodding and waving goodbye, until the front door was shut securely behind them.  Then the room erupted in the most uproarious laughter that only a group of drunken fools could muster.  

“Who DOES that?!” “Who takes four lousy beers back?!”

Needless to say, we did not go out again.  I did, however, mention this story in passing to some girlfriends- one of which turned out went to high school with him and when I pulled up his profile on the SNS, was shocked to hear that Little Man Tate was in fact, NOT they guy in the pictures.  No, apparently that was his all-star brother. Yep. Believe it.

Next!

-Kacie J

The Momma's Boy

So if you are a fellow single person then you have experienced “The Setup”. Mated people everywhere swear they have “the PERFECT person for you”. Yeah OK. Doesn't everyone? I used to brush them off, but at my age, I can't really run the risk of missing out on Mr. Right so I have started playing along. Big mistake.

A few weeks ago a guy I work with at one of my part-time jobs tells me he has the PERFECT guy for me. Yeah right. But I figured I have been working there on and off for 8 years so he has to know a little something about me, right?  Wrong. Apparently no one ever pays any attention to me and my likes/dislikes because if they did, perhaps they'd know that this “Mr. Right” is definitely not right for me.  But I play along...

"No Kace, I swear, he's a real good lookin' guy! I wouldn’t steer you wrong" he says. 

"OK Pete,  so 3 questions: 1)does he have a job?" 

"yes" 

"2) does he have a car?"

"yes" 

"3) does he live with his mother?" 
"no"

You'll notice as you get older, the number of questions decreases. Your standards lower. And the number of guys who's answers coincide with your ideal-well their practically non-existent.  I once received a fortune cookie that perfectly expressed my sentiments. It hangs on my refrigerator door. It reads “The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get less than you settled for”. Genius right? So OK maybe I might go out with this tool because I’m 30 and I ain't getting any younger, but if he sucks or turns out he is not my ideal man-I’m not wasting my time to stick around. Sorry. But I would rather be alone forever than be stuck in a relationship where I am not completely fulfilled. Some people have it all, so why can't I? I can! But I digress...

One thing I should probably mention-i am great on first dates. I'm not being conceded, but really I try to be my best- friendly, sexy, sweet, and funny-no matter who it is on the receiving end.  The only problem I find with this when I am not interested and the guy totally is. I do feel bad but wouldn't I feel worse if I was unkind to them? On our first date? If I feel bad enough for them to make it to a second date, then all bets are off. 

Since mystery guy seems to be just right, based on my all-telling questionnaire, I give Pete my card for the guy.  After a couple phone conversations (which is unusual enough in this texting era) we set a date. After years of this single b.s. I have stopped the whole he is soooo going to be my dream guy! I just know it! thing and discontinued the this is going to suck so bad, someone better give me an emergency call thing, I have started the whole whatever happens happens, just enjoy it-and if you don't- at least you'll have a story thing. So we go out for the first time last night.  I never set my expectations high, because then you're just setting yourself up for a HUGE disappointment. But Pete has known me for years so I’m sure he has to be somewhat great right?   Think again, my friend. First I should mention that I’m pretty vertically challenged, so when I say a guy is shorter than me-we're talking dwarf stature. I wear heels all the time, so I’m 5'4 on a good day.  Mystery guy barely grazes my eye level. I swear Pete said he was 5'9 (ish?)  I was sure 5'9 was taller than that last time I looked. OK. It's OK. He's dressed nice. Except for that trench coat. Didn't there used to be a trench coat mafia? Maybe he's in that?  OK focus, Kace, he's talking. 

“so you live around here right? How long have you been there? You live alone?”

I tell him what complex I live in.  “Yes, been there 5 years. I live alone, thank God. What about you?”

OK deep breath, please don't say the thing that ends the date when we're only 7 minutes and 23 seconds in...

“actually I live down the street from you. With my mom.”

Oh. My. God. He said it.  Done. 7 minutes and 58 seconds. That was fast. How do I get out of here? No, no don't be rude. At least finish you're beer. Why did I get a 22oz? Who's idea was that!? Damnit. OK so he mentioned his mom already. Just change the subject and continue as if it didn't happen. 

“How old are you again?”

“30” 

Jesus Christ. He's never leaving her. I can't be with someone who is in love with his mother like that. Love her, yes, but by God how will you ever get pussy with your mom in the next room!  Well even if I thought for one second I’d have sex with you (which I won't), that just went out the window. I'm not gonna bang you at your mothers house. Well it turns out its his apartment and he's helping her out right now. We're still talking about her? It's been like 10 minutes now.  Mind you I am not asking any questions, in fact I’m discouraging the talk altogether with nods and smirky smiles. No encouraging at all.  If that’s what we're going to talk about on the first date, then I’d prefer to chug my beer in quiet and be on my way. 

“You see, she recently moved out of her boyfriends house. He couldn't handle her. You see, she's a little bit anal.”

Oh. My. God. Am I drunk? Did he just tell me his mother is an anal bitch that lives with him, and her own boyfriend couldn't bare to be around her?

“But they still talk, date-whatever”
 Still not talking.

“We go into the deli at least once a month for brisket. Pete takes care of us. He loves my mom.”

Oh great-an overbearing Jewish mother that cooks and cleans for him as if he were 12, and treats him to brisket on Sundays. Does she lay out your work clothes too?

“We take the train to work together every morning.”

Holy fucking Christ. If somebody doesn't get me the fuck out of here right now-this bar is gonna experience postal. This is my life folks. I really take a moment to look around the bar. Ashton Kutcher is here somewhere. I know it. I'm on that show “Punked”. I know it. I know it.  Is that him in the baseball cap?

Deep breath. Its been 38 minutes. The DJ just dropped of Quizzo sheets at our table. OK good, I'll be a good little date and laugh at his jokes and play Quizzo with him for the next hour...hour? I don't think so...OK well do the first round, 10 questions and hear the answers, then I’m out.   
I didn't really help on the whole Quizzo thing, I just pretended to not know the answers as I watched him fill it out. Truth was-i can't even hear what the questions are because the voice in my head is so damn loud.   Did he really use the word “anal” or did I just hear that in my head. Who would say that out loud, to a date, on a first date with someone you might want to see again?  Note to men everywhere-no one with EVER marry you if you actually SAY your mother is an anal bitch. We will come to know her as an anal bitch who we can't fucking stand for 5 seconds let alone a lifetime, but you can't market her as such! I allowed this fiasco I call a first date to continue on for 2 hrs and 5 minutes. That’s enough. I was pleasurable, I dressed way too cute,  I giggled at whatever the fuck he was babbling about when he wasn't referring to his mommy.  

One and done. That's the end of momma's boy. Did he get a kiss? Are you insane? If you even asked that question, then you obviously haven't paid attention to this date at all. On to the next...

-Kacie J