The worst date of my 30's

Names, faces, locations and details may be changed to protect the innocent, sensitive and awkwardly unaware.

San Francisco is only 7 miles by 7 miles. 49 square miles of absurdity. However, I do not own a car. I find the bus to take too long. Cabs are over priced. Simply put, I tend to date women who live in my neighborhood, have a car, aren't cheap and don't mind traveling 45 minutes to have a date with me. First dates get minimal effort on my part (if you live outside of the Mission), but on the other hand...I always pay for the first date. It's like paying a premium to do less work. I will cover the food and wine, you just come to me. I can feel the collective eye roll of every woman out there.... believe me, it's a good deal.

"Roberta" comes from the world of online dating. I have found women to date both virtually and in real life in San Francisco. The online dating world is easier, but it is also strange, awkward and at times ugly. You see pictures, you read words and you get yourself worked up into a frenzy over potential. Most people are deceptive with their photos or information and by the time you finally sit down with them in person, you find yourself sighing outloud at how different the reality is from the day dream.

Roberta made it clear that she wanted to meet me, while I sat on the fence. The more pictures I saw of her, the less convinced I was that we would be a match. However, they say if you want to sell a boat to someone...pick someone who lives an hour away from the Marina and show it to them 3 times... by the time they have invested that hour long drive and 3 times to visit, they will find it difficult to say no. This is how most of the women I don't want to go out with convince me that I should.

Roberta did not grow up where I grew up. She grew up in a white trash part of this country. When we finally met in person, Roberta opened up with, "Dude, nice to fucking finally meet you... I can't believe what a fucking scam artist you are making me come all the way to your neighborhood." to which I silently said, "oh boy" and let out a deep sigh wondering how long this would last. I tried to interject something, but she just kept going....and going....and going.

and so F bombs flew and I drank wine to cope. I only had 2 glasses --and explained to Roberta that I had an early morning and it didnt make sense to get drunk so late in the evening. Roberta disagreed and announced that she would be having more. I empathized. This was a first date for her too. Maybe she was just nervous. If she wanted a 3rd glass of wine to get through this night, I would gladly pay for that. After all, she did cab it over here for $10.00 -- the least I could do was buy her another over priced $12.00 glass of wine. but Roberta was thirsty... and so, while I had 2 glasses of wine, Roberta had 6.

As we left the restaurant (Roberta hated her food and I had to explain what a pescatarian was) -- Roberta asked if we could stop at a corner store to pick up some more wine for her to drink. I told her that I was done drinking for the night, but she insisted, "Dude, I'm not asking you to drink with me. I just want to buy some wine for me for later when I get home." and so, I indulged her -- and we went to a party store outside my place. She then asked if she could come inside to pee, and then call a cab from my place rather than wait outside for one. I said I would be happy to let her pee and call from my house. This was a foolish mistake. I had been tricked.

Roberta didn't come out with wine... instead she had Champagne. As we were walking through my door, I heard that unforgettable POP -and watched the cork sail over my shoulder and hit the ceiling. Roberta did not intend to drink later. She insisted on drinking now.

She promised to call a cab after one drink.
this was a lie.

She was two drinks in and belligerent.

She looked at me and called me "Steve....." as she would start a tirade against me.

"Steve... listen to me you fucking asshole. You remind me of someone very dear to me, my uncle, who was a total loser in our family... he was pathetic. So deep. So analytical. Well, Steve...that's not me! Ok? That's not me and it's never going to be. I do what I want! and I look at you... and you stop drinking at 2 drinks and you just think you have your whole life figured out. You think that you are better than me, because you don't get wasted on a work night!"

Any rebuttal at this point is pointless. I am being drowned out.

She begins to fiddle with her phone. I ask her what she is doing.
"Setting my alarm for 7 am" ---

I offer to call her a cab, since she is clearly thinking about going to bed and waking up in time for work.

"Steve, You're not putting me in a fucking cab! I am not going to drive back across town and risk getting sea sick! I will literally puke if you put me in a cab."

Calmly, I explain to Roberta that I don't let strangers stay at my house.

"OMG dude, get over yourself -- I'm not going to fuck you. I don't want to fuck you. Your jeans are way too tight...I don't fuck people with jeans that are tight like yours" (note: my jeans were not tight)

I explain to Roberta that this is not about sex, it's about having a stranger in my house while I try to sleep.

This prompts shrieks of "NO!!!!!!!" (i am not touching her or trying to move her...only suggest that I am not comfortable with her spending the night.)

and so we have a stand off.

Every time I try to explain...she begins to scream.
She keeps repeating over and over, "You think I am such a drunk.... well, I am not!" and rushes to the sink to put her head under it as she laps up water of the faucet. Her face is covered in water and her hair is wet and he shirt covered in water as she proudly announces, "See, I drinks the water too, so i am not even drunk!"

but Roberta was awfully drunk
and annoying
and firmly cemented in my living room

and so I say.... "I don't even know what to say"....
and there is silence
deafening silence....
angry, I want to go to bed silence....

and the Roberta let's out a loud fart.... (I will dedicate a post to my irrational fear of passing gas in front of someone you like)
and looks at me
and simply says, "I just farted"

and cringing... I reply, "I know.... good night." because --there is nothing more to say. I can't spend another second in that room and I am confused as to how this all happened...

Roberta... "Wait, don't you want to have sex!?"

Roberta passed out on the couch sooner than later.
I wept in my room until I fell asleep....

The next morning was just as miserable... but too much misery in one blog post is dangerous.