Okay, so being single, I signed up for some kind of phone dating service (in the days before the internet was so inundated with dating Web sites), and lo and behold—I MET SOMEONE!
He sounded safe enough, common interests, yadda, yadda, yadda, and so he invited me to dinner. We’ll call him CJ.
Oh, by the way, I live in Houston, and have never lived north of the Mason Dixon Line (look it up) in my life. The importance of this will become clear later on.
Earlier that day, I had decided to make one of the twenty-three Neiman Marcus Chocolate Chip Cookie recipes on the Web, as a result of the email that was circulating about them. (Imagine how stupid I felt when I later found out—from NM’s Web site—that this story was not true.) I figured it MUST be the real thing, because this recipe has oatmeal in it (oatmeal!), and it makes nine dozen cookies (as only a commercial recipe would). I kid you not—nine dozen. And since I’m not really in the mood to do the math, I made nine dozen Cookies that day—I would figure out what to do with all these cookies later. So I figured it would be a nice gesture to bring some homemade cookies to Mr. He-Might-Be-Wonderful.
But I digress.
One of my rules was never to go to a man’s house on a first date, because really, he is a stranger, and we all remember what our mother told us about strangers.
However, he seemed safe enough so I pack up my cookies and go. He is making the basic guy food—steak, salad, and baked potato. Safe enough, right?
WRONG!
So I come in and say hello and we start chatting, and he very quickly says, “So, do I look like I said I looked? Do I sound like someone you might like?” In other words, “Do you like me?”
Keep in mind I am not the kind of person who likes to repeat themselves, and I am also not real keen on pumping up someone else’s self esteem, as it is sometimes all I can do to keep up my own.
So of course, like most women, I answered his questions in the affirmative—yes—you look like you said you did, yes, you are a nice guy, yes, I think we could get along pretty well.
Anyway, he goes out to the BBQ and brings back some smoked sausages. This would be otherwise great, except for the fact that he sits right beside me on the couch and starts eating his … about 3 inches from my ear. Chomp, smack, chomp, smack, CHOMP CHOMP, SMACK … you get the idea. Something tells me that a wild child raised by a pack of goats would have better table manners than this guy.
I’m grossed out enough already, so I all of a sudden need a glass of tea and immediately jump up off of the couch to get it.
We’re talking some more, more of “do you like me,” he asked me this about a dozen different ways throughout the evening.
So we sit at the table, with the steak and potato on one plate and the salad in its own little bowl.
He picks up his fork and (I kid you not) ate the full bowl of salad in about three chompy bites. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Salad is gone.
“Do you like me?”
Now it’s time for the steak tarmac. No, not steak tartare, steak tarmac, you know, the runways at the airport? I swear, CJ put the fork in his left fist (imagine a kindergartner and you’ve got the picture), and the knife in his right, and begins to attack this poor once-cow who never did a thing to him. The plate is now sliding all over the table with CJ at the wheel of what I can only assume has now become a vendetta.
“Do you think we would make a good couple?”
As he begins to cram the aforementioned cow carcass in his pie hole (smack CHOMP), I decided that I just LOVED the song on the radio, and can we PLEASE turn it up? Thankfully, although I’m sure he’s wondering what I find so entertaining about Skippy Peanut Butter (or whatever commercial was playing next) that I need to hear about it at five decibels; he tells me how to turn it up, thus drowning out the chompiness of his dining.
I must have blocked out the baked potato incident, as baked potatoes are more mushy and SMACKY than steak or salad. But since they’re easier to cut, I’m sure the plate at least stayed still.
Thankfully—and this is the God’s honest truth, I had a family gathering that evening and needed to leave. He called my cell phone while I was with my family, and he also called later that evening, also on my cell, which was turned off or the battery was dead or something, because apparently leaving a message was just not enough for CJ. He realizes that he has my home number, and dials it … at 12:30 a.m. in the morning. I had just finally begun a REM-cycle, and was rudely awakened by the phone, only to hear (you guessed it) “Do you like me?”
Not right now I don’t.
But I reply “Yes, I like you, I Like you, I LIKE you, I like YOU, I like you.”
“Woah, where’s the attitude coming from?”
I told him in no uncertain terms what a stupid jerk he was, and never EVER to call me EVER again. I hung up and fortunately had the foresight to remove the phone from the hook.
Good thing, too.
The next day I checked my voice mail. CJ had called around 3:30 a.m. in the morning to tell me how badly my cookies sucked (which they did NOT), and what a Yankee thing it was to put oatmeal in chocolate chip cookies.
Oh, now I’m pissed, because the worst thing you can call a Southerner is a Yankee. Remember Gone With the Wind? That’s where his number went …
I don’t remember CJ’s name, and couldn’t find his house if my life depended on it, but I do thank him. He taught me about call blocking!
And cookie jerk he will always be …
