To know where I'm going, you have to know where I've been. So here’s a dating story from the archives of my life.
It was a gorgeous sunny day in NYC as I walked down the sidewalk on 2nd Ave, ponytail bouncing, lip singing to girls rock/boys suck pop music when some jerk starts honking his horn at me. Obviously I ignored him. This is New York, if I stopped every time a horn honked I wouldn't get out of Astoria. I continue to walk, and the car continues to follow me onto 49th street finally pulling over to double park, blocking a city bus and angry drivers from traveling across town and got out of his car.
Seriously? What did I do? Cross in front of him jaywalking? What in the world could this ass want?
Apparently, to hit on me.
After a few minutes of, “You're so beautiful I just had to stop” yada yada yada “I would love to take you to dinner sometime,” I gave this guy my number. I mean, he stopped traffic to talk to me, I had to give him a chance.
I ignored the fact that his name was DJ Scrillz. Yes, I know.
DJ and I talked everyday for 3 weeks, and he seemed like a nice, romantic, considerate man. I got past his occupation and tried to have an open mind because clearly I was meant go out with him. If I hadn't been walking down the street at that exact moment, if I had stopped at the bodega, or missed the train, if, if, if.... I guess I’m a sucker for thinking everything is fate.
DJ and I made plans to go out on a Saturday night for drinks in Astoria. What started off as a 9pm meet-up quickly turned to 11pm after a string of excuses for being late. He finally shows up and as I walk to meet him on the corner I see that he was cleaning out his car. And by cleaning out his car, I actually mean taking the dozen or so Gatorade bottles out of his backseat and throwing them on the sidewalk. Onto MY sidewalk. Not in the trashcan that is a mere 50 ft away, but right there next to the steps of someone’s front door. I couldn't believe what I was seeing so I tried to pretend it didn't actually happen. We walked around the bar lined streets checking out pub after pub, none of which met up to DJ’s standards. He was hungry and even though I didn't want to get food, he insisted.
The next thing I know we are in his car driving to Chinatown, because, according to DJ, there are no good restaurants in Queens. Oh boy.
DJ orders a smorgasbord of food, and not wanting to be that girl who doesn't eat I order rice. Rice cost approximately $4, please note.
DJ spends the next 30 minutes shoveling food into his mouth like he is never going to eat again. Chewing with his mouth open, slurping his soda, no utensils necessary. He clearly has manners worse than an ogre. I was horrified. I really thought I was being punked, but Aston Kutcher was no where to be found.
Finally the check comes, total is around $50 and DJ reaches for his wallet only to pull out a 20. My rice was $4 and somehow I owe $30 on a first date with world’s biggest asshole. At this point it was only money and I just wanted to go home. I pay the check telling the waiter to keep the change. The waiter brings the changes anyways, lays it on the table, I grab my bag and start to leave when DJ turns around and takes the waiters tip off of the table slipping my money into his jeans.
“Excuse me,” I said, “that is his tip.”
“Oh, I left the change.” And by this he means the coins, a whole fifty-five cents worth.
Appalled.
“Take me home. Now.”
As DJ drives us over the BQE he is suddenly dehydrated and must stop for a water. We pull over at the bodega and as he gets out, I say that I am really thirsty too. DJ comes out of the bodega with a water and a Gatorade, surly one is for me.
Then, he stands outside of the car, chugs the water, tosses the empty bottle onto the sidewalk and gets in the car where he opens the Gatorade and starts drinking that too. Guess I was wrong, again.
As we drive towards my apartment, I tell DJ he can drop me off on the corner.
DJ: “No, I”ll find a parking spot so I can come in.”
Me: “I’m sorry but no, you cant come home with me.”
DJ: “Well, how long are you gonna make me wait? Are ya really gonna be a bitch and not put out.... tomorrow’s my birthday?”
Me: “Yep, guess I’m a bitch then. Bye.”
I got out of the car, shut the door and never looked back. The sun was coming up but it was time for me to curl up in bed and sleep this one off. DJ started calling a few hours later, but after a few days of being sent to voicemail and texts left unanswered, I guess he got the hint. This was by far my worst date ever. Fortunately, it can only get better from here!
Lesson learned form Matt... Initials before their name (i.e DJ) bad. Initials after their name (i.e M.D.) good.
It was a gorgeous sunny day in NYC as I walked down the sidewalk on 2nd Ave, ponytail bouncing, lip singing to girls rock/boys suck pop music when some jerk starts honking his horn at me. Obviously I ignored him. This is New York, if I stopped every time a horn honked I wouldn't get out of Astoria. I continue to walk, and the car continues to follow me onto 49th street finally pulling over to double park, blocking a city bus and angry drivers from traveling across town and got out of his car.
Seriously? What did I do? Cross in front of him jaywalking? What in the world could this ass want?
Apparently, to hit on me.
After a few minutes of, “You're so beautiful I just had to stop” yada yada yada “I would love to take you to dinner sometime,” I gave this guy my number. I mean, he stopped traffic to talk to me, I had to give him a chance.
I ignored the fact that his name was DJ Scrillz. Yes, I know.
DJ and I talked everyday for 3 weeks, and he seemed like a nice, romantic, considerate man. I got past his occupation and tried to have an open mind because clearly I was meant go out with him. If I hadn't been walking down the street at that exact moment, if I had stopped at the bodega, or missed the train, if, if, if.... I guess I’m a sucker for thinking everything is fate.
DJ and I made plans to go out on a Saturday night for drinks in Astoria. What started off as a 9pm meet-up quickly turned to 11pm after a string of excuses for being late. He finally shows up and as I walk to meet him on the corner I see that he was cleaning out his car. And by cleaning out his car, I actually mean taking the dozen or so Gatorade bottles out of his backseat and throwing them on the sidewalk. Onto MY sidewalk. Not in the trashcan that is a mere 50 ft away, but right there next to the steps of someone’s front door. I couldn't believe what I was seeing so I tried to pretend it didn't actually happen. We walked around the bar lined streets checking out pub after pub, none of which met up to DJ’s standards. He was hungry and even though I didn't want to get food, he insisted.
The next thing I know we are in his car driving to Chinatown, because, according to DJ, there are no good restaurants in Queens. Oh boy.
DJ orders a smorgasbord of food, and not wanting to be that girl who doesn't eat I order rice. Rice cost approximately $4, please note.
DJ spends the next 30 minutes shoveling food into his mouth like he is never going to eat again. Chewing with his mouth open, slurping his soda, no utensils necessary. He clearly has manners worse than an ogre. I was horrified. I really thought I was being punked, but Aston Kutcher was no where to be found.
Finally the check comes, total is around $50 and DJ reaches for his wallet only to pull out a 20. My rice was $4 and somehow I owe $30 on a first date with world’s biggest asshole. At this point it was only money and I just wanted to go home. I pay the check telling the waiter to keep the change. The waiter brings the changes anyways, lays it on the table, I grab my bag and start to leave when DJ turns around and takes the waiters tip off of the table slipping my money into his jeans.
“Excuse me,” I said, “that is his tip.”
“Oh, I left the change.” And by this he means the coins, a whole fifty-five cents worth.
Appalled.
“Take me home. Now.”
As DJ drives us over the BQE he is suddenly dehydrated and must stop for a water. We pull over at the bodega and as he gets out, I say that I am really thirsty too. DJ comes out of the bodega with a water and a Gatorade, surly one is for me.
Then, he stands outside of the car, chugs the water, tosses the empty bottle onto the sidewalk and gets in the car where he opens the Gatorade and starts drinking that too. Guess I was wrong, again.
As we drive towards my apartment, I tell DJ he can drop me off on the corner.
DJ: “No, I”ll find a parking spot so I can come in.”
Me: “I’m sorry but no, you cant come home with me.”
DJ: “Well, how long are you gonna make me wait? Are ya really gonna be a bitch and not put out.... tomorrow’s my birthday?”
Me: “Yep, guess I’m a bitch then. Bye.”
I got out of the car, shut the door and never looked back. The sun was coming up but it was time for me to curl up in bed and sleep this one off. DJ started calling a few hours later, but after a few days of being sent to voicemail and texts left unanswered, I guess he got the hint. This was by far my worst date ever. Fortunately, it can only get better from here!
Lesson learned form Matt... Initials before their name (i.e DJ) bad. Initials after their name (i.e M.D.) good.
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