Tuesday, November 4, 2008
By A.J. Llewellyn
A very dear female friend of mine sobbed to me yesterday about how she never gets past a first date with a guy. She got to two dates with her new guy but said he had been “lukewarm” about a third. She begged him to see her again, apparently using me as bait.
“Me?” I squawked.
“He wants to be a writer and I told him how you’re a published writer and he has questions and…and…AJ,” she insisted, “You have to come with.”
“No, I do not.” I’d just returned from a trip to Hawaii but she begged me to go with her.
“What, are you kidding me?” I asked her. My new episodes of Torchwood had just arrived from Netflix and there was a bag of Halloween candy with my name written on it. All over it, as a matter of fact.
But she got a bit…hysterical and flatly stated that her future was in my hands.
“I must be doing something wrong on those dates,” she sobbed.
“Do you spend hours talking to your friends on your cell phone when you’re on a date?” I asked.
“Do you text? Do you unburden yourself about all your ex boyfriends? Do you order expensive dishes then pick at them? Do you eat your food and his?” I raced through all the things men have told me they hate about women on dates. It was no to everything.
“Do you pick your nose?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
“Do you do any personal grooming whatsoever at the dinner table?”
“No.” She looked a little shifty-eyed when she said this however and I was about to press the point, but she screamed at me.
“AJ, tell me what I’m doing wrong! Come with me and scrutinize me. Don’t spare my feelings. I’m going to be the world’s most frustrated spinster at the rate I’m going.”
Geez, what gay man - scratch that - any man doesn’t want that kind of power? Naturally, I agreed to accompany her because a) I am a glutton for punishment and b) I sensed a possible blog in this misadventure.
It all went to my head in a mad rush and I found myself whisked off to Mirabelles in West Hollywood, ready to blast any anti-social behavior.
Her date was a very nice guy, who actually seemed happy to see me.
Ruh-oh, I’m thinking. What guy is happy to see anybody else along for the ride when they’re supposed to be on a hot date?
Within twenty minutes it became clear exactly why guys ditch my otherwise lovely friend. And let me tell you ladies, you ALL do it. Oh, yes you do, SO DON’T DENY IT!
You know what she did? She went to the rest room.
And she was gone for EVER!!!
I mean hell’s bells! What is going on???
I want to know - and so do millions of other men on this planet – what the heck you women do for so long in public rest rooms?
Now come on, ladies, you know you do it. Go to any type of public even from ball games to movie theaters and there are cobwebs over the women waiting in line for the chicks’ john.
What the hey could be taking so long?
You look at the men’s line and it’s as it should be. A revolving door.
My friend’s date was glad to have me along for the ride because he confessed he hates sitting alone at the table for up to twenty five minutes while my friend did God know’s what in the can.
“My mother thinks it’s drugs,” he mused.
“She doesn’t do drugs,” I assured him.
“You think she’s on her Crackberry? Maybe she’s texting?”
Maybe. She was gone for 23 minutes when I ran out of words of comfort, words of wisdom or anything resembling wit. I noticed several guys staring at the ceiling as their women lined up outside the ladies’ room.
We all started talking and they all agreed, it was a big mystery that nobody ever discusses. I noticed one enterprising chick racing into the empty men’s room and racing out again within a minute.
“See what I mean?” my friend’s date asked. ”It can be done. Think I should say something to our girl?” He was canvassing the tables for opinions and that Greek actor who used to be on that crime series on CBS and is now the valet guy for the restaurant gave him a pitying look.
“She’s got a voodoo doll in there and she’s sticking pins into it,” he cracked.
“Maybe she’s sewing the doll by hand?” somebody else joked.
“She coulda had it delivered from Ebay the amount of time this is taking,” my friend’s date grumbled.
I couldn’t help obsessing over who would want to spend so much time in a public restroom. I mean I’m not a Germ-o-phobe by any stretch of the imagination, but living in a public crapper ain’t my idea of a good time.
My friend’s date and I mowed through a drink each, split her drink between us, finished our hors d’oeuvres, her hors d’oeuvres and were Hoovering through our pasta dishes when she returned. Still wearing the same outfit, same hair, same make up, same…everything.
“What took you so long?” I asked her. I’m thinking: Black Hole??
She gave me a contemptuous look and her date cowered. My friend meanwhile, went ballistic when I brought the subject up when we got home.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” she said. She’d gotten the death kiss from her date and she could not see that absence in this case didn’t make the heart grow fonder. The heart went right to sleep.
He didn’t say, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” or “What are you doing this weekend?” He said, “See you soon.”
So the next time you feel tempted to park your buns in the lav for any extended amount of time, ask yourself this, do I do this…a lot?
And any clues you can give us about what goes on behind that closed door, the entire other half of the human race would be extremely grateful.