April Fool II

     I got dressed for the big date at the Studio, where I could talk to C.  I decided to wear my sexy backless purple dress and black pumps with kitten heels.  I chose the shoes because I needed to hightail it out of the restaurant in expeditious fashion, and the last thing I needed was to sabotage myself by tripping in skyscraper sandals.  Yes, a nice face plant by the hostess station, that would be inauspicious.  

      C wanted me to wear one of those tiny spy-cams or a recording device, but I thought that was just too fucking much.

      “You want me to wear a wire with him? Like in a cop tv show? Are you serious?”

      “Yeah!  That would be awesome!” 

      “Is that even legal?”

       She rolled her eyes.  “God, you’re such a nerd!  Who cares? Three!  Three pieces of domme gear!”

      “C, you are starting to sound crazy.”

      No wire or camera.  Too much.  Also, as a woman, I have strong feelings about recording or photographing people without their consent, as I’ve talked about on this blog. 

      I went to the date in a pretty good mood.  You may see it differently, but I thought the entire scenario was funny.  I felt like I was in on an epic practical joke.  

      My biggest concern was that Alec would prove to be a very likable person, and then I would feel guilty about what I was going to do to him.  

      I needn’t have worried.

      Alec did, in fact, look like a slightly chunky Alec Baldwin.  I saw him in the bar right away because he was so big and tall.  C likes em big, and she puts a much higher premium on a good-looking face than I do–sure, I’ve dated a few human Ken dolls, but I’ve been with plenty of plain-looking guys, and I often say that I’d have sex with Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired (and incidentally, this is something I tell my girlfriends: if you go out with a man who is less physically attractive than you, you will always have the upper hand.  And he’ll treat you like gold.).  

      He commented on my strong handshake.  It always irks me when men do this, because you know that they only say that to women.  No man in the world shakes another man’s hand and says, “Wow, you’ve got quite a grip, there!”  Bleh.

      He had a surprisingly strong Southern accent.  I even wondered if he was laying it on a little thick, in the hopes that I would find it charming.  I am not partial to most Southern accents (Texan twang is a bit amusing), but it sounded positively musical compared to the way New Yorkers speak.  Oh God, New York/New Jersey accents, don’t get me started…but I digress.

      There was a moment of panic when the hostess tried to seat us close to the restrooms.  That would have ruined my scheme!

      Alec unwittingly saved my plan (and his misfortune) by requesting a different table by the windows.  Whew!

     I mentioned in my previous blog post that I’d chosen this restaurant for our date in part because of its absurd furniture.  As anticipated, Alec did not fit easily into the hard plastic chair.  The arm rests bit into his love handles.  It was a little comical watching him figit around, trying to get comfortable.  He clearly felt that he could not comment on the problem.  Hmmmm, interesting. 

      He asked me where I was from.  I told him.

      “Well!  I bet you are awfully glad to be out of there!” he said, smiling broadly.  

      I have come to expect that condescending horseshit from New Yorkers, many of whom mysteriously believe that the rest of the United States is unlivable, and also that everyone who is not a New Yorker envies them.  

      This attitude coming from a fellow hick, though, was a bit much.  

      This example brings us to Alec’s main personality flaw, as I understand it: he’s a snob.

       I don’t mean that he comes from a privileged background or that he has expensive tastes or even that he has that “sheltered rich person” affect.  Those things can be a bit irritating, but none of them are an indictment of character or morals.  Nobody can help the circumstances of their birth, and everyone is entitled to their choice in taste. 

        I mean that he’s a snob.  He’s a snob in general, not like “I’m crazy about microbrews and have strong opinions about boutique beer.” 

        How big of a snob was he?  Check out this humdinger: over the course of the conversation I was talking about where I studied for my Master’s degree, and he said, in all earnestness, “You’re very sharp and it’s obvious you liked school.  I’m surprised you didn’t consider Stanford or Claremont.”  

       Can you believe it?  This town is full of Ivy-league pricks, okay, but I have never heard anyone say something that obnoxious.  Does he think that people go to public schools because they have inferior taste, or what? 

       I wanted to give him a reality check and say “Poor white trash doesn’t go to Stanford,” but I couldn’t.  That would have been hostile.  I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable before I bolted. 

        He also interrogated the waiter about the ingredients in the food as if it were the Inquisition.  And not because he had food allergies, either.

       He was drinking a frou-frou girlie drink.  A cosmo, complete with a twist of lime.  If he was a good guy, I never would have judged, but since he wasn’t, I seized the opportunity:

      “Most men I know would be too insecure to drink that in public,” I said.

       His brow furrowed a little and he stared at his drink, both confused and alarmed.  I could tell that he was trying to figure out whether I’d paid him an insult or a compliment.  Haaahahahaha.

       Twice, he tried to compliment me by comparing me and my clothes favorably to other women in the vicinity.  I hate that. You think it is attractive to disparage other women in front of me?  For no reason?  Ugh!

        I got something in my contact lens and had to rinse it out in the bathroom.  When I came back to the table, I saw that our food had arrived, but he sent part of mine back because it didn’t look good enough, he said. 
      
        To cheer myself up, I started thinking about the stories C told me about Alec’s struggles with erectile dysfunction.  That made me smile.

         He complimented me on my smile.  HA! HA!  If he only knew!

         I remembered one time C came in very upset because he’d said something critical about her clothes.  She likes that hipster shit from American Apparel, but there was nothing wrong with her dress.  

        Now that I was sitting there with Alec, I suddenly understood how hurtful a snide remark like that could be if I really cared about him and wanted his approval. 

        Yup–this is exactly the kind of smug, clueless asshole who, instead of thanking his lucky stars to be on a date with a beautiful, funny young woman like C, would rather pick on her clothes.  He probably made her feel like she embarrassed him.

       WHAT A TURD!   No wonder she hates his guts!  

       “You know, you look like Alec Baldwin.  He’s one of my favorite actors!  Can I take a photo to show my girlfriends?” I asked.

        That made him puff up.  “Sure!”

        I took a photo of him with my iPhone.  Then I texted it to C.  HAAHAHAHA

         After dinner, I went to use the bathroom…and ran out.  I was worried that he’d see me, but he was messing with his phone.

         I watched from across the street.  There was a Starbucks with dark windows. I couldn’t see his face, unfortunately, because his back was to me.  

         He started to text me.  Are you okay?

        Everything all right?

        Margo?  What happened?

       Where did you go?
      
       He left after about twenty, twenty-five minutes.  

       A man without a gigantic ego might ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

       All I got was a flouncing text informing me that he was wrong about me and I clearly was not a lady.  

        Maybe not.  But you, sir, are no gentleman.  

        I’ll ask C if she minds if I post the picture of this douche canoe on this blog.  It should be fair, if I blur his face, right?  You guys could see big bad Mr. Citadel with his cosmo in his big soft hand.  Lol


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