You know how you go to buy a used car and before you buy it, you run one of those good old Carfax reports? The report that basically tells you the car's past before it came onto the lot, before it could possibly wind up in your driveway. A warning of sorts. "If you buy me, you should know that I've been in two near totaling accidents" or "Buy me and you'll have to replace the engine in a month." Sometimes you get the Carfax report and it all smiles. A few fender benders, some extra mileage, normal wear and tear. This carfax report was onto something.
I'd like to propose a Carfax...for men.
Before we get involved in any way, I'd like to run your vin number and find out how many knock down, drag out relationships you've been in. How many girls you've walked out on. When was the last time you were in love and more importantly, do you fall in love every month? I'd like to use those little numbers to prepare myself for what I'm getting into or subsequently, what I'm not getting into.
I once went on thee worst date ever. It was a few years ago, I was newly single and excited to date for the first time it what seemed like forever. I was dragging my suitcase up my brownstone's front steps when I heard a deep male voice say, "You shouldn't be carrying that yourself." I started to ignore him-I don't talk to men on the street-but then I turned around. I don't talk to men on the street, true, but when they look look like this adonis in front of me? Well, I gave a little smile and acquiesced. The bag was heavy, I told myself as an excuse. After handling my suitcase, he asked for my number, which I gave. I think I was in some sort of a trance by his smooth, caramel colored skin, juicy lips, and golden eyes. Sigh. I gave him my number and we agreed to go out some time.
A few days later, he called. We made plans to go out. The night was a disaster. First, he offered to come to my house and cook dinner for me. Doesn't sound horrible, but it was a first date. You are not coming in my house. You're lucky enough to know where I live! But then he pressed by saying he wanted to watch the fight and didn't have HBO, didn't I? Um, no, I don't and if I did, I would still tell you I didn't, which I don't.
So I'm waiting in my apartment, dressed and ready to go when I get a phone call. It's him. He says, "What are you sippin' on?" I didn't quite understand the question and I said so. "Like, what are you drinking? I'm stopping at the liquor store."
Uh, well...I literally had no answer. I said something about being fine and hung up. Was I really about to go on this date? First of all, he was driving! So stopping at the liquor store seemed silly. Are you planning on getting a DUI tonight because I'd like to object. Sometimes B does things just for effect and I knew this date would be one of those stories I could tell for a long time (I was right), so I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs where a black sedan of some sort was waiting. I opened the door and as I assumed, he was sitting there drinking a small bottle of Hennessey. It was encased in a brown bag. I sort of stopped, didn't close the door behind me. He smiled at me, made a comment about me being so pretty, and then saw my gaze fall on the offending liquor. He put it down, then thought better of it and offered me some. No, no thank you.
We pulled off and into the night and as his car coasted uptown, he told me about himself. His, um, family, consisted of two children by two different women, one of which still lived in their Bronx apartment. I asked where he lived? He said, "I'm back with my mom. It's only temporary. Until me and my baby's mom get this mess figured out. I'll probably get a spot in a little bit, but my mom's spot is cool." Joy! The car continued uptown and I started wondering where exactly we were going. I asked. He told me he wanted to take me somewhere real nice, that he could tell I was one of those girls. Olive Garden. He said Olive Garden. Call me whatever you want, but the unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks restaurant is not my bag. At all. There's actually few restaurants I hate more. Not only that, but Olive Garden is what he considered nice in a city filled to the brim with amazing little trattorias, sushi spots, bratisseries, and more. Olive Garden. No, no thank you. Stunned, he offered Fridays. Fine. Whatever. Fine.
We headed over a bridge and I won't lie, I texted a friend and told them to keep a tight leash on me that evening. If they didn't hear from me repeatedly, send dogs to...um...I had no clue where we were. A highway of sorts? Grass on either side. Definitely not Kansas, anymore, Toto. As promised, though, a Friday's came up on the left hand side. I asked why we didn't just go to one of the zillion Friday's in Manhattan. He stated it was too expensive.
Right. Ok. And out the car we go.
I made sure I ordered everything I could. Drinks, appetizers, soups, salads, entrees, and dessert. And I finished none. I kept the conversation going, but when I wondered why, I couldn't come up with a good answer, so I stopped. We sat in gaping silences, which I was okay with. I was facing the television screens. When we eventually left, I texted my friends, told them I'm meet them at the club they were VIPing at, and headed back to the city.
When we got to my apartment, he started in on this long diatribe about how great I was, how he liked me a lot, could tell I was smart and would teach him sooo much. I started to feel bad. Maybe I was his ticket out of his own particular hellish existence. Maybe, I should do a bit of charity and help him out. That might be the bitchiest statement I've ever made, and besides,I couldn't do it. He leaned in to kiss me and I dodged it with a complete lack of finesse. I didn't have time to teach him anything nor did I care to.
See, when you meet someone out of nowhere, someone with no connections to anyone in your life, you can't run that good old Carfax report. Even though I'd love an actual print out with your past-good and bad-the next closest thing would be having friends who can say, "no, girl, don't do it" or "ooooh, we love him, been waiting on him to get hitched up." You can find out all you need to know before hand. At least, then you know why you can't stand him after a few months and why he's either still not ready for commitment or clinging to you like saran wrap. I had no carfax for this cutie, so I had no idea what I was getting. Looked like a Benz, turned out to be a lemon.
That bitch stole my line,