I am probably breaking the cardinal rule of blogging by reblogging something my twenty three year old aspiring actress in Hollywood posted on her blogsite.  (Yes, we come from a long line of bloggers.)

Anyhoodles. (Love that word.  It’s hers.  A guy actually said that to her in an email.) She shared the following experience with her readers and I would like to share it with you. Men like this deserve exposure and since my daughter and I speak to a completely different demographic, I thought I’d widen the net of a heads up to his bad upbringing.

Her words (annotated here for brevity):

Adventures in Dating got a whole lot spicier earlier tonight. I went on date numero two with a boy named Brett Futtner tonight (that is not his name but it should have been). So far things had been pretty normal. Tonight, Brett suggested that we watch a movie at my place. Let me be clear:  I live in the basement of the apartment above me that was converted before my arrival into a tiny studio apartment. The bed is my room, essentially. When Brett said he would come over to watch a movie, he meant in my bed and I am just not really into that plan ON DATE TWO. So I found a place nearby playing a Wes Anderson double feature. Ding ding ding, said my brain, what an ideal night.  I suggested this plan instead of the one that involved not only my bed but also my lap top given that a TV does not exist in my cubby hole.

I arrived at the meeting place open-minded. He had seemed nice and funny and confident. What a trifecta.  He is a friend of a good friend’s boyfriend, look at that. The long-and-short of what went down occurred during the 10 minutes that transpired from the line outside to the popcorn to the seats. Somehow because I had changed the plan, I was quickly deemed “high maintenance.” Literally. He told me this. I laughed and tried to casually respond to which he said “…it was something a high maintenance girl would say.”

Strike one.

I paid for our tickets, a gesture I found to be normal and did not resent as I am a modern woman. I am debating as to whether strike two took place when he created a small pile of Cheddar Cheese Seasoning Powder atop my beloved popcorn or when he said that conversation with me was “a labor.” Let’s just say that it took place when we sat down and he said that the way I talk is like “being part of a bad sketch show.”

Strike two.

At this point, I no longer wanted to see the movie. The Life Aquatic is one of my favorite movies and I did not want this ass clown ruining it for me. The only way I was going to stay next to him was if I was guaranteed that Indiana Jones would remove himself from the poster outside and punch Brett in the throat. I got up to leave. He insisted on walking me to my car. The torture continues, people.

As we walked I was apparently not keeping a straight line, because Brett said I kept “walking in his way.” Then he made a comment about the aforementioned plan change, and I told him that I simply did not want him in my bed. He responded that “I don’t seem very sexual.”

Brett. Honey. Just because I don’t want to go home with you, doesn’t mean that I am opposed to men altogether. It’s a lovely assumption to make though, kind of like the assumption that everyone loves their popcorn with fake cheese powder thrown upon it in a celebratory manner.

Strike three.

Here it is. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. There is, in fact, a strike four.

1. I said that I have been burned by going home with someone too soon, so now I like to take things slow.

Brett’s insight:  “Word of advice:  you have a cynicism towards men that we can sense. You won’t ever have a relationship with that chip on your shoulder.”

2. I finally arrived at my car, HOME FREE, I thought. Alas, no, Brett needed a ride to his car.

Bretts response to car silence:  “I am just glad you didn’t kick me in the nuts back there.”

3. We got to his car.

Brett suggested that we “got get tacos and wine as pals.”

Fuck no, Brett. I am going to my friends’ house where not only things make sense but people are able to understand me. Where people are able to sense normal social cues. Friends who don’t ruin their junk food with fake cheese or use the word “pals.”

Oh, and to answer your last question that you asked me before you got out of the car, Brett:  Yes, you were the worst date I have ever had. Not in a cute way. Not in a funny way. Just, the worst. I hope you wake up tomorrow with a weird smell in your apartment that you can never find the source of.

My repsonse:  “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”  Nobody.