Bad Date

Bad dates are the proverbial gold mine of anecdotal value. I had one of the worst last Thursday. It was a second date, even though I'd dined out (meaning amused my friends) with the particulars of the first date. Short version of that one: fix up, nice restaurant, he was there first, excellent manners, good looking, well spoken, blah blah, and then somewhere close to dessert it came out that a) he believed in astrology (not as a lark, but seriously) and b) that he smoked pot daily. Ah. Two strikes is enough. I figured I'd let it die on the vine and I took the "delay in responding to emails" route.

But after a few weeks (and at the end of a bad week for me) he emailed me and asked out again. Maybe I'd been hasty, I thought. A couple of days before the date he said he wanted to have the first dinner in his new house with me, would I like that. Uh oh, I thought. There Will Be Pot. Ok fine, I thought. As long as he doesn't require that I partake. I don't really care, but I covet my own cognitive abilities AND memory AND custody arrangement with my son and I'd rather not self-impair if it's all the same with you. But he was high as a kite when I got there and proudly displayed a half-eaten pan of hash brownies that he kept nibbling at (semi-surreptitiously) while he prepared dinner. It was the sneaking that really began to annoy me. If you're embarrassed about it, why not just forsake? If you want to do it, do it. Oy.

I left as soon I got the skinny on what was up: why he was so high and yet didn't seem to enjoy my being there. Turns out he's in love with a married woman in NY he can't have and his friends are telling him to move on and date. Ah, I said. Makes sense. Next time pick a stupid woman. It was obvious that he was not enjoying himself yet still hoped for sex. Then I walked out. Unfortunately I couldn't see my car and I had to go back and make him turn on the porch light which ruined the drama but whatevah.