I decided on “Mr. Tall” rather than “Butthole Surfers Guy” because, well, it just sounds a hell of a lot nicer.

I thought he was picking me up at eight-thirty, so when he called at eight to tell me he was running fifteen minutes late, I figured he’d be arriving at eight forty-five.

Not so! I guess he had said EIGHT, and I was still sitting around watching Pulp Fiction with no lipstick on and my teeth un-brushed when he arrived at eight fifteen.

Whoops.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that he was very tall. 6′4. I didn’t wear heels because I didn’t want to stand all night in them and because I wasn’t sure whether he’d be around my height and I’d be towering, but there was definitely no need to worry about that. Points for tall-ness.

He was handsome, too, which brought on the nerves, but I managed to hold polite conversation on the way to the first place we went, which was a little bar and grill type of joint.

I shouldn’t have worried. He was cool and laid back and the conversation flowed pretty well. He kept me laughing a lot of the time, which was nice, and I found that he, too, liked to snark about fellow bar patrons. That was a Good Thing.

He was married for ten years and has been divorced for two, has two kids (four and six), and seems relatively non-bitter about the whole thing, which is GOOD.

The next place we went was a local dive near me that promised a Rolling Stones cover band called… The Rolling Jones.

I know.

Unfortunately, The Rolling Jones did not show for whatever reason, so we stayed briefly to listen to another band featuring a tiny little white girl singing Sublime and bob Marley covers (weird), and then headed out in search of less ghetto-fied pastures.

We wound up at a BW3, which was… BW3. What can you really say? More talking, more snarking, more drinking. I was starting to really like this dude. He was funny and smart and very quick.

We left BW3 at around 12:30, and I assumed that the date was over, and then he began driving in the opposite direction from my house.

“Um… where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know, do you want to go somewhere else?”

“Do you? Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go somewhere else.”

Well alrighty, I thought. I suggested a local bar that a buddy of mine owned that was relatively non-ghetto, so we went there. They had a very decent jukebox and Maury Povich was on the TV helping a series of teenagers find their babydaddies, so it seemed promising.

We had a great time making fun of Maury and his guests as well as the bar patrons, one of whom resembled a cranky Harrison Ford, and wound up closing the place down.

It was a seven-hour date.

I am always worried that I’m going to bomb first dates, or that I’m not going to look as attractive in real life as I do in pictures and am therefore going to be knocked out of consideration, but I think that this went really well. It must have, for him to want to keep the date going for so long.

He walked me to my door and hugged me goodnight. I wondered why he didn’t go for the kiss, which could have meant that he wasn’t interested in me “that way”, but it could also have meant that he was just being respectful or that he didn’t know whether he should kiss me or not, too. I’m not sure.

He did say that we should definitely go out again. So hopefully that wasn’t just lip service.

All in all, I had a great time.

In other news, yesterday I moved some furniture with my dad, who regaled me with tales of being the karaoke king of the Midwest.

My dad has developed such a following that people are now requesting his presence at certain bars on certain nights, and requesting that he learn certain songs so that he can perform them for certain people.

He does mainly rap songs, but sometimes he busts out a little Maroon 5 or Elton John for good measure.

It’s really something to see (and hear). I never would have imagined that my 64-year-old father would become semi-famous for his stellar rendition of TI’s Dead and Gone (YouTube it, if you’re not familiar), but he has, and he’s quite pleased with himself.

I guess everyone likes a little taste of the unexpected.

Happy Sunday.

Edited to ask: How long do you wait for someone to call? Three day rule? Or longer? Just wondering. And wondering.

Edited to say: Never mind. He called. Got another date this weekend.

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