The Ones That Got Away (Thankfully)

via http://thebreakupdiet.wordpress.com

Valentine's Day is over, but that's no reason to stop hatin' on love. MyVeryWorstDate.com got me thinking about all the bad dates I've encountered over the years, so I decided to start sharing, hoping you'll be inspired to do the same. Here are my top three worst dates of all time (OF ALL TIME). I abbreviated or changed names to protect the people who have given me these stories and made my life that much more interesting. Thank you, good sirs, and best of luck to you in the future.


Worst Tea Party Ever

P and I lived on the same floor. We were merely acquaintances when he comes over and asks "if I wanted to go have tea sometime." What a fresh date idea, I think, and he's cute, so I accept.

He comes by my room to pick me up on the planned day and time. I just finished making up my face and arranging my hair when he says, "We're taking the mo-ped."

We are taking the what?! And I have to wear the only helmet you own?

Blindsided and terrified, I cling to P's torso on the back of a Vespa, the wind making my hair and makeup jobs irrelevant. As we are having tea, he starts reading to me from a binder full of love poetry he wrote for one of his professors, who is beautiful, smart, older, cultured, and European; I obviously cannot compete. And after an hour of listening to this drivel, he's obsessing over Ireland (there is a whole subset of humans who have this illogical, irrational love for Ireland, and I've met many of them) and soccer (or "real football"). We have nothing in common, P is being rude, and he makes me ride on a mo-ped without any advanced notice.

Finally I convince P that I have to be up early (crafty, you might think, but I actually do for marching band practice), we drive back on the mo-ped with my heart fluttering in the most unromantic context, and he follows me to my place. He spies my roommate's first-season DVDs from The O.C. and says, "We. Have. To. Watch. This." I manage to avoid standing up for myself and kicking him out, and we watch three mind-numbing episodes. After each one, P asks, "So, have I converted you yet?"

I was a convert neither to The O.C. nor to P's creepy, projected romantic stylings and dubious methods of transportation, so I decline his request for a second date a week later, instead recommending that he check his sexy professor's availability.


Vampires Will Never Hurt You (But Will Totally Creep You Out)

I met B through a job I had at a large retail chain. He's one of the security people, so he wears a uniform, and he's cute, older, and has a car and his own apartment, which are major improvements over some past relationships. We seem to have some things in common, and he really digs my joke that vampires are sexy (this was years before Twilight, so IN YOUR FACE). So when he asks me to hang out, I accept.

He picks me up one night after work dressed in head-to-toe black with zipper and fishnet accoutrements. Not that out-of-the-ordinary, I think. Plans are loose at best, so he suggests we go to Starbucks, where a bunch of his friends work.

He is driving with sunglasses on. It is blackest night out there, but "it's the only way I can see the road," he says. We get to Starbucks after hours, and his friends are creepy, delinquent, rude, and really, really loud. So loud, in fact, that a neighbor knocks on the window and threatens to call the police for noise violations. I am able to convince B that we should leave and NOT bring anyone with us, so we go to his apartment.

The apartment walls are covered with red and black abstract paintings, pentagrams, and vaguely sociopathic poetry. He tries to corner me into his "recording studio," where he apparently records and mixes local music, but I evade. He pours red wine into an enormous goblet fit for royalty (just any ol' glass won't do) and asks me to select a movie from his collection. It's getting really late, and I'm getting a little scared, so I look at the backs of all the movies and pick the shortest one. It was probably a documentary.

We're all of five minutes into the movie when B starts rubbing my neck and asks if he can have some of my energy. In response to my "confused" (read: horrified) expression, he explains that he is a vampire -- an energy vampire, "so don't be scared." Apparently that's why he wears sunglasses at night. He says that it's not so bad because he doesn't usually take energy from anyone without asking or unless they really deserve it. He never needs to eat anything because he can just get energy from people and animals. And he dresses in all black because it is the most absorbent color, so he gets energy that way. "Luckily you told me vampires are sexy," he reminds me.

I hightail it out of there and catch a cab home. B never shows up to work again. I wonder if someone staked him.


The Contestant from Ukraine Wins Mr. Douche-iality

I was swimming one summer and met Mr. Ukraine at the pool. We race and otherwise play around in the water a little bit. When I get out of the pool, he asks for my number. His Eastern European accent is charming, and he is drop-dead sexy, so I give it.

He calls me some days later and asks me to meet him next to the fireplace in a certain cafe in a few hours. I get ready and go, and I'm waiting by the fireplace for 15 minutes before he calls me and asks me why I'm not where he is (a hidden room in the cafe).

The entire evening from that point forward is full of miscommunications because dude does not stop talking. He's talking about his muscles, how he started programs at his high school and college and his business and whatever, and how he knows Enrique Iglesias. He talks about the Holocaust. He does somewhat racist impressions and says all Irish girls like the color pink. He says he is such a health nut that all he eats is chicken and rice. Every so often, he stops for a breath and says, "Why are we talking about this?" as though it were my fault. Then he asks me periodically to "tell me something about yourself." I'm like, "Like what? Ask me a question." He says, "I don't ask questions." Okay. He goes on to tell me that my glasses look bad and that American girls are terrible kissers.

I give some leeway for nerves and for someone whose first language isn't English, but this is ridiculous. Luckily I am drinking wine (he is not because he is too health-conscious), so I suggest we go eat something.

At dinner, I commit a mortal transgression: I look at my phone for one second to see what time it is. Mr. Ukraine rips me a new one for it. "If I was looking at my messages and clicking around on my phone while you were talking, you would think you were boring," he says. I wasn't looking at my messages or clicking around on my phone, and I wasn't talking because he is not giving me a chance, but yes, I do think he is boring.

Mr. Ukraine insists on walking me home and pesters me the whole way for a kiss to see, I guess, how bad I am. I give in on my doorstep. And he tells me I am a bad kisser! "Odd, I've never had anyone complain," I want to say. "Quite the opposite, in fact." But I don't have time to say it because I am shutting my door in his face. As though he has no inkling of how abysmally the date has gone, he says "I'll be in touch." Yeah, I bet you will.


So tell me, dear readers, about your worst dates ever. And then be glad that either things got better or you escaped.


  1. I don't have any date stories, but my sister went to Ireland, and came back with that same irrational, illogical love of it, and now I have to hear about it all the time. Great stories though. Sounds like fun times!

  2. just so you remember me and B were freinds of a sort and just so you know he claimed to be dating you for a good six months(flimsy grasp on reality I suppose)oh and he tried to put the moves on me as well.
    so the worst date story. Lets call her L well me and L had a first date and it went very well so she asked me to come over for dinner. I figured "why not the first date went well" I go over and her whole family is there including her father (her parents had been separated for many years) L failed to mention her father preferred to eat dinner in his boxers, L failed to mention that her little brother was bipolar and frequently didn't take his meds, L failed to mention that her mother loved to make fun of her for the most horrible things. So over the course of the evening her little brother threatened to murder me, dad picked the food he spilt on himself out of his chest hair and ate it, and to top it all off L's mother made fun of L for the two years of molestation at the hands of her step father.(she had told me about the abuse before)

  3. LOL Dave! He must have been delusional.
    But wow, that is an awful date, man.

  4. Oh dear. Nothing makes me feel better about past romantic mistakes than schadenfreude. Remember that guy I met at Whole Foods last summer? Well, he wasn't the worst, but he's in the top 5.

  5. I dont know if it was the worst first date or the weirdest, but here goes...
    I was in Belgium and my friend and I decided to go to a 'hip jazz club' (as described in a poor man's Belgian version of Zagat). So, we went to L'archduke to see the handsome and sophisticated men. Ben comes up to me and tells me I look like his favorite painting. I gave him props for originality. I agree to go on a date alone with Ben (this is huge considering I had just recently seen Hostel). We go to dinner and Ben and I are really trying to communicate, but his English is bad and he wanted to speak in French. Wonderful. So, I'm piecing together my French, while he's responding 1800 words a minute. He tells me he likes my 'regarde',
    oook. He asks me if I would stay in Belgium if we fell in love. I said, "Probably not".
    I mean, it's a first date man. He then told me he was a carpenter/actor/model, which was quite the combo. After feeling more like a wall hanging rather than a person, I decided I needed to go home. He insisted that he walk with me. I am not kidding when I tell you that he kept staring at me. Not in the flattering sort of way, but in the creepster way. All of the sudden as we're crossing the street, he grabs and dips me in one fluid motion and begins making out with my face. I screamed as the Volvo narrowly missed us and asked him if all Belgian boys though it appropriate to kiss in oncoming traffic. He said (and I quote) "Where do you Aimmmmmericans kiss? In ze backseat of cars?" scoff scoff

    Cue tangent from Belgian guy on how unromantic American guys are.
    Date over.


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