Showing posts with label Sam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sam. Show all posts
July 17, 2013
June 14, 2013
Well, That Sucked: Dating An Overly Fussy Orderer
Witnessing someone order food can be an enlightening experience. I have encountered many types of orderers while on a date. There's the nervous orderer, who points to what she wants on the menu, terrified of mispronouncing “prosciutto”. There's the confident orderer, who's done it a million times and knows all the answers before the server can ask any questions. There's even the up-for-anything orderer who asks no questions and is happy to give any old item a whirl. I can respect all of these ordering styles. All except for one.
When she asked the server whether or not the fish was farmed or wild, I saw the first red flag. When she inquired as to whether the meat came from grass-fed cows, I saw another. When she sent back the steak because it was “closer to red than pink,” I knew for sure: I was on a date with an overly fussy orderer.
Hands down, this is the least fun orderer to dine with. I'll try to telepathically transmit my apologies to the server while she nit-picks about the fricassee and makes several honey mustard-related inquiries. For a moment, both the server and I struggle to contain our irritation and wait for the ingredient inquisition to end. The tight smiles plastered on our faces started to fade around her fifth consecutive question.
I get that she hates mayo so asking a burger joint to hold a condiment is no big deal. But when she asks the proprietor of the local cheap chinese joint if she can get her $5 General Tso’s Chicken “grilled instead of fried, because it's healthier,” I feel like throwing my spring rolls in the air out of frustration.
The most common argument I hear when confronting a picky orderer goes along the lines of, “I’m paying for someone to prepare my food, I should get it how I want!” That logic flies, but at a certain point, you just have to throw caution to the wind and leave the olives in the puttanesca, so to speak. Or just order a garden salad and pick the cucumbers out your damn self.
When she asked the server whether or not the fish was farmed or wild, I saw the first red flag. When she inquired as to whether the meat came from grass-fed cows, I saw another. When she sent back the steak because it was “closer to red than pink,” I knew for sure: I was on a date with an overly fussy orderer.
Hands down, this is the least fun orderer to dine with. I'll try to telepathically transmit my apologies to the server while she nit-picks about the fricassee and makes several honey mustard-related inquiries. For a moment, both the server and I struggle to contain our irritation and wait for the ingredient inquisition to end. The tight smiles plastered on our faces started to fade around her fifth consecutive question.
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| Holy hell, how many questions can one person ask about nachos??? |
The most common argument I hear when confronting a picky orderer goes along the lines of, “I’m paying for someone to prepare my food, I should get it how I want!” That logic flies, but at a certain point, you just have to throw caution to the wind and leave the olives in the puttanesca, so to speak. Or just order a garden salad and pick the cucumbers out your damn self.
May 20, 2013
Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Take Bar Trivia Too Seriously
Bar trivia is an awesome idea. What better way to spend an evening than drinking beer and answering ridiculous questions about obscure topics no one should really know about? Personally, nothing makes me feel more manly than proving I know that the fifth stage of the modern pentathlon is pistol shooting.
There is one key problem with bar trivia, however. Just like the guy on every slow pitch softball team that spends $800 on a bat and keeps track of slugging percentage, there is always one person who takes bar trivia too seriously.
That person is me.
It’s not like I mean to get so overly involved. I’d love to sit back and act like I don’t care that our team thinks Lionel Richie wrote “Maneater” when I know that Hall and Oates are responsible for that musical gem.
But inevitably I find myself dissecting every question and taking it hard when my CLEARLY superior knowledge of mid-'80s basketball trivia is called into question. Perhaps the competitive family "Jeopardy!" nights created some bad habits I never quite overcame?
My issues aren’t limited to what happens on my team, either. I’ve been known to take a casual trip to the “bathroom” just to make sure no one is cheating on their smartphones. Not to mention the rage that builds up in my system when someone gets a tiebreaker question correct that no one would know without cheating. Chances are if someone is able to say exactly how many centimeters tall Mount Washington is, they are probably consulting their pocket version of Wikipedia.
I’ll have to work on my bar trivia approach and crank the intensity down a notch or three. It might take time. Until then, my tendency to ruin bar trivia may make me a bad boyfriend.
There is one key problem with bar trivia, however. Just like the guy on every slow pitch softball team that spends $800 on a bat and keeps track of slugging percentage, there is always one person who takes bar trivia too seriously.
That person is me.
It’s not like I mean to get so overly involved. I’d love to sit back and act like I don’t care that our team thinks Lionel Richie wrote “Maneater” when I know that Hall and Oates are responsible for that musical gem.
My issues aren’t limited to what happens on my team, either. I’ve been known to take a casual trip to the “bathroom” just to make sure no one is cheating on their smartphones. Not to mention the rage that builds up in my system when someone gets a tiebreaker question correct that no one would know without cheating. Chances are if someone is able to say exactly how many centimeters tall Mount Washington is, they are probably consulting their pocket version of Wikipedia.
I’ll have to work on my bar trivia approach and crank the intensity down a notch or three. It might take time. Until then, my tendency to ruin bar trivia may make me a bad boyfriend.
May 8, 2013
Story Time: The Dumbest Reason You’ve Ever Dumped Someone In Six Words
There are plenty of great reasons to dump someone. Maybe you want kids and she doesn’t. Maybe he is a compulsive liar. Maybe he collects DUIs like Pokemon cards. Those are all legit reasons to peace out.Today, we aren’t concerned with the great reasons. We’re thinking about the stupid ones. The challenge is to describe the dumbest reason you have ever broken it off with someone in six words. I’ll get the ball rolling:
- Feet smelled like old tater tots.
- Awkwardly stared straight up while kissing.
- Always ordered pizza or chicken fingers.
- Perfume smelled like freshly cut grass.
- Preferred "Voyager" to "The Next Generation."
- Voice sounded like a teenage boy.
[Previously: Worst Dates in Six Words Part 1, Part II, and Part III]
May 2, 2013
Bonerkiller: Violent Kissers
There was a time I thought there were only two kinds of kissers: good ones and bad ones. The experience is either pleasurable or it isn’t and even a bad kiss with someone you're attracted to must be better than nothing, right?
WRONG.
I learned this lesson the hard way.
My date and I had spent the evening at a minor league baseball game. It was the third time we had gone out and I was walking her to her car. I was confident that it was time to kiss her, and made my move only to realize I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
She latched onto my mouth and began to maul my face. Her tongue flailed about like a coin-operated mechanical bull. I attempted to guide the kiss back into neutral territory but my efforts were for naught as she latched onto my lower lip with leech-like suction. It was jerky, frantic, and forceful: no words that should ever be used describe a kiss. There was a lot of oral gesticulating going on. Her tongue was like a panicked octopus playing Pictionary trying to act out the words to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with 15 seconds left on the clock.
It was not hot.
After about 10 seconds of uncomfortable, sloppy face mashing, we said our goodbyes. She drove away and I staggered back into my house. As I stared in the mirror at my swollen lip, I began to contemplate the gravity of the situation. Had her previous boyfriends never pointed out that her technique was so violent? Could I possibly endure another episode? Do I treat my swollen lip with ice or heat?
I received a text from her later in the evening. “Sorry for eating your face.” I assured her it was okay, despite knowing full well that the damage had been done. Needless to say, she and I are no longer together. I cringe to think that another man out there may be experiencing what I did. I can only hope that my story will help raise awareness of a clear and present danger in the dating world: beware the violent kisser.
WRONG.
I learned this lesson the hard way.
My date and I had spent the evening at a minor league baseball game. It was the third time we had gone out and I was walking her to her car. I was confident that it was time to kiss her, and made my move only to realize I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
She latched onto my mouth and began to maul my face. Her tongue flailed about like a coin-operated mechanical bull. I attempted to guide the kiss back into neutral territory but my efforts were for naught as she latched onto my lower lip with leech-like suction. It was jerky, frantic, and forceful: no words that should ever be used describe a kiss. There was a lot of oral gesticulating going on. Her tongue was like a panicked octopus playing Pictionary trying to act out the words to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with 15 seconds left on the clock.
It was not hot.
 |
| It was a wipeout |
I received a text from her later in the evening. “Sorry for eating your face.” I assured her it was okay, despite knowing full well that the damage had been done. Needless to say, she and I are no longer together. I cringe to think that another man out there may be experiencing what I did. I can only hope that my story will help raise awareness of a clear and present danger in the dating world: beware the violent kisser.
