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“You are one funny dude.” - S. Milton, some guy I know
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That pretty much sums up the thought patterns of a typical American man. Oh sure, there are males who think differently, but this is what American MEN think about 90%…
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It was many years ago on a Christmas Eve that my Aunt Pat did something none of us have ever let her forget. On a dare, she ate a cat…
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Nascar is the biggest sport in America, believe it or not, and its roots originated here in the South. Illegal moonshiners in the mountains would spend their time and money…
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In days long gone, the dinner table served as a gathering place for families. It was the social gathering site where the day was recounted over a hot cooked meal,…
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I'm as tech-savvy as they come. I've been a computer programmer for a major corporation, I've been a head CIS guy, I've run my own businesses, including one where I…
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Second grade. Mrs. Mim's class. It was a time of innocence and playfulness. We were kids who knew nothing of the gas shortage or the real world. The nation had…
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I don't look this gay.First, The Great Cereal Blog (part 1) Remember when you were a kid and it was a big deal to go to the grocery store? …
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People can be divied into two types and it seems as if most women belong to that one group I don't. You know what I'm talking about, I'm talking about…
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My Dad Wears Mandals I remember when the Mandals craze began. At least I remember when it crept upon my family and took my dad hostage in its thorny little…
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I did it. Despite the advice of a trusted movie friend, I watched the musical, Across The Universe. This was a leap for me, you see, because other than Grease,…
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Written by Ross Cavins
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Sunday, 05 October 2008 19:00 |
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 I pulled up to Becky's place in my Mustang and lightly tapped the horn, as she'd asked me to do. I waited. And waited. The house wasn't in the best part of town which should have tipped me off right there but I'm an eternal optimist.
I tapped the horn again and waited, beginning to wonder if I had the right place.
But then she emerged from her house.
All 98 pounds of her. I wasn't a teenage heartthrob by any means but I think if you asked ten girls if I was cute, I could bribe a majority into my corner.
Becky, however ... poor little stringy-haired knobby-kneed Becky ... Becky with the scabbed-up discolored stick legs ... Becky of the buck-tooth crooked-mouth clan ... Becky of the "before" Clearasil commercials ... Becky ... Becky was not what you call a looker. A small percentage of me wanted to stomp on the gas at that moment and get the hell out of there.
But the Southern Gentleman in me smiled and offered a "hello" as she opened the passenger's door and plopped in. Clutching a brown paper bag of undisclosed liquid (later discovered to be Strawberry Boone's Farm), she hunched in the passenger's seat and stared out the windshield as if I were a cop taking her in for solicitation.
Becky belted down a swig, sneered in my general direction, and mumbled a weak "hey" while still somehow keeping her eyes forward.
The plan was to have no pressure on either of us since she was unsure about meeting in the first place. We were to go back to my place and sit and talk for about an hour or so. Not even a real date, mind you, just sort of a meet-and-greet. It was to be like two friends casually hanging out for a bit.
(Well, except for all the dirty phone talk that went on for the three weeks prior.)
So I shifted into park and drove back to my place on auto-pilot. Becky--who claimed she looked like Madonna but couldn't come close to Sandra Bernhard on her worst day--hunkered next to me, looking forward, steadily drinking her Boone's Farm.
We returned to my apartment, listened to music and chatted. It was a nice date.
No. Actually, what happened was this: We returned to my place and as we entered the living room, Becky slunk toward the chair closest to the TV and flopped into it. I asked if she wanted anything eat or drink and she held up her bagged bottle and mumbled something incoherent.
I sat on the couch and flicked on the TV to something innocuous, MTV. During the next hour or so, Becky and I watched music videos while I tried to at least engage her in conversation.
Becky was clearly feeling awkward, never looking at me when she spoke. I tried my best to ease her discomfiture but I guess she felt guilty about that whole "I look like Madonna" thing. Later, when I drove Becky back home, I returned to my normal life. I was scarred but the blind date from hell was officially over.
I never heard from "Becky Ciccone" ever again.
Now, with this nightmare comfortably in my past, I can laugh about it. It was an experience that spawned a story and that's what life is: a string of inter-connected experiences meshed together to create our own individual epic sagas.
I can handle that Becky was actually a redneck to the nth degree instead of a cute little country girl like she'd sworn. I can handle that she had a face that could have garnered federal disaster funding. I can even handle that she lied about 90% of the time we were phone-flirting. But what really bothers me the most is that Becky never once offered me a sip of her Boone's Farm.
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