In honor of my first Valentine's Day as a married woman, I thought I'd write about some of my Worst Dates Ever. Actually, that's not true - I'm writing on this topic because K'vitsh asked, and I am such her bitch. Therefore, here is the true story of my Blind Date From Hell.

Explanatory note: I usually don't bother too much about anonymity here at The Hellhole; my real name is right over there and if I refer to a friend it's usually by their actual name. However, in this case I'm going to use fake names because, while I have no problem being snarky and catty and hyper-critical (I'm a Virgo: it's what we do), I have no idea who reads this and I'm not downright cruel. So everyone in this story, except me, is being given a totally fake name.

For years beyond number I have been very good friends with this fun, creative, talented and handsome guy named Charles. Charles was, at the time my story takes place, a major player in the Atlanta music scene. I was less so, but could be seen now and then sporting a Les Paul at various dive bars around town, usually with Charles handy by. We were great friends, loved hanging out together, but strictly friends. In fact, when I met him and for a long time after, he had a serious girlfriend whom I also knew. So Charles is my dearest bud and one night we have plans to hang out, hear a few bands, probably drink a few beers. When I arrived at his apartment, he wasn't ready yet - he took more care with his appearance than most chicks I know, but then he had a certain (rather high) coolness level to live up to.

He was back in his bathroom putting the finishing touches on his ensemble and I was sitting on his couch listening to some music when the phone rang. He yelled for me to "get that, willya?" so I answered the phone and started talking to his pal Paul on the other end. I wound up talking to him for 15 - 20 minutes until Charles was finally ready to depart. As it turned out, he was interested in talking to me further and a couple days later asked Charles for my number. Charles wouldn't give it to him without my permission (told you he was a great friend!) but since I wasn't dating anyone at the moment, I was cautiously interested. I okayed the number disclosure and had several conversations with Paul which went pretty well. He was polite, he got my movie/pop culture references, though I was beginning to suspect that he didn't spend a lot of time reading and probably wasn't class valedictorian, if you take my meaning. Still, why write him off without giving him a proper chance? If nothing else, he might become a good friend - or so I thought in my early twenties - so when Paul eventually suggested a date, I agreed.

At some point while we were still conversing by phone, I quizzed Charles about Paul. I wanted to make sure there were no prison records in his past and no crazy exes in his present. I also asked how they knew one another. Now, I am not a particularly "looks conscious" kind of person. I'll be the first to describe a guy as "completely adorable" if he's personable, intelligent and can make me laugh, even if objectively he's quite average and ordinary. Certainly I, like everyone else on the planet, have to feel that 'spark' about someone or there's no romantic potential there, but I'm not particularly shallow when it comes to physical appearance. I have my physical deal-breakers (back hair, bad teeth, fat midgets) - but all of that notwithstanding, when Charles told me that he'd met Paul when they were both Chippendales dancers, this brought a certain picture, if not an expectation to mind. (And yes, Charles looked that good.)

I made a classic blunder. Because Charles had known Paul for years and vouched for him, when making date arrangements I gave Paul directions to my house. NEVER do this, ladies - meet him at a restaurant or bar or somewhere so if things go badly, you can run! Run for the hills! But I was not fortunate enough to have me to warn me, so when the doorbell rang, I innocently skipped to the front door and swung wide the portal. Remember how, although I would have been fine with Average Joe, I was led to expect Chippendales dancer fineness? This leads me to...

My second blunder, which was not asking about which DECADE this Chippendale dancing supposedly took place, because evidently it refers to THOMAS Chippendale and not these guys. The dude on my front porch is at least forty (quite possibly looking back at 40 from the other side) which isn't that old but, c'mon, I'm like 24! My dad is barely forty at this point. Paul has also let himself quite go to seed. There is a beer gut bigger than a nine-month pregnancy hanging down over his stonewashed jeans and ginormous silver belt buckle, straining the faux-button mother-of-pearl snaps on his plaid cowboy shirt - I am SOOOO not kidding! - and to top off his ensemble, he has on HIGH-HEELED shit-kicker cowboy boots. Not real cowboy boots with the black heels, high stacked wooden heels. But wait there's more.

Paul is going bald. Let me clue all you fellows in on something: men who are bald are not ridiculous. Men who are going bald are not ridiculous. Men who are going bald, refuse to admit it, style their remaining hair weirdly and think no one will notice are VERY ridiculous. You may perhaps think I am referring to the comb-over, but Paul has gone way beyond a mere comb-over to artistic heights, having perfected the swirl-around. He has grown the remaining two dozen hairs on his head about six feet long and wrapped his entire cranium with a thinning-hair turban. It is exactly like a soft-serve ice cream cone, terminating in a little curl atop and toward the back of his head.

But wait there's more.

Remember my short list of deal-killers up there? And one of them was 'bad teeth'? Paul has, although not particularly crooked, ROTTING, BROWN and in places BLACKENED teeth. What the hell, doesn't Chippendales have dental?!? In the dulcet words of Metallica, nothing else matters. Yes, I am that shallow. Paul could be a Nobel- and Pulitzer-prize winning genius philanthropist who loves animals, and I wouldn't care because I could never kiss him or find him attractive because OMIGOD, who lets their teeth rot out in this day and age?!? Methuselah had better teeth than Paul, I shit you not. I mean, not that I dated Methuselah, but I read a lot.

Still, though, what could I do? I was raised to be polite, I've agreed to go out with him and Paul is standing there beaming on my porch, happy to meet me in person and eager for our date - I have no way to escape, I can't pretend to be my roommate, I am not clever enough to think of another option, so I smiled, got my purse and walked out to his car.

Car?!? Did I say car?!? No, Paul doesn't have a CAR! He has an RNAV [pronounced arrr-nahv - redneck assault vehicle]. He has a pickup truck with roll bars, four-wheel-drive, fog lights and, most importantly, those huge tyres that are taller than I am. Fashion details, the significance of which will soon become apparent: for the date, I chose a white off-the-shoulder peasant blouse with 3/4 sleeves and a denim miniskirt. The skirt ends about 1.5" above my knee and it's a fitted skirt - not lots of gathers or excess material, instead it gets slimmer as it tapers from thigh to knee, with a little kick-pleat so I can walk. I looked at that truck with the giant tyres, I bent each knee perpendicular in succession, and saw no possible way that I was ever going to ascend to the cab. Paul had opened the door for me (points for politeness) and saw my difficulty. He chose to solve the problem by putting one hand on each of my buttcheeks, lifting me bodily by my ass and hoisting me by the ass into the cab of his pickup truck.

I'll give you a moment to digest that. Paul, who has not yet been elevated to hand-holding status in our acquaintanceship, put his hands on my ass, elevated me bodily by the buttocks and shoved me up into the cab of his R-NAV. And I am not a touchy-feely person, even with persons for whom I feel genuine affection, and dude has

grabbed.
my.
ass.
and.
lifted.
me.
by.
it.

The sad thing is, it gets worse.

This post is pretty long, though, so it gets worse...to be continued.