This post is for my friend Diane over at Martinis For Two She’s having a Worst Date Challenge. At first, I couldn’t think of anything that would compare to her Worst Date (and hers is a doozy!) But then, as I was about to have three minutes to myself to get dressed it came to me. The Infamous Date (at least in my mind anyway.) So Diane, here’s to you!
The Date (about three months before I met my Hubby)
Location ‘burbs of Philadelphia
*His name was changed (and frankly I don’t remember what it was anyway)
I found myself on a second date one night at the tender age of almost 22. Now I’d been on a few blind dates in my day, some good some bad but they always tended to be interesting. This particular guy with whom I had agreed to go out with again after a blind date gone good, who we’ll call Bob (since I’ve never dated a Bob, it’s a safe name to use), was the owner of his own home, gainfully employed in his family’s design business (masonry and granite and what not); two bonuses as far as I was concerned. I’d dated some men who still lived at home…at 30.
Anyway he came to my single girl apartment in N and was taking me for a lovely Italian meal at a true Italian restaurant. Since he was Italian, grandparents off the boat Italian, I knew it had to be a good meal.
We had a lovely time chatting and eating and at the end of the meal we both decided it’d be nice to go into Philadelphia, South Street to be exact. There was this fun little place called Fat Tuesday (I think that was it, I can’t remember) and we could get a drink. It was a lovely night in April so why not stroll the fun street and have a drink? We left the restaurant and at the stop light Bob failed to come to a complete stop and turned right on a red light (perfectly sorta legal), just as the opposite traffic got the green light. Who hasn’t done that before?
Unlucky for us, there was a police officer right there so… we got pulled over. Talk about an embarrassing event. Well, it turns out to have been hardly a routine stop. Seems my date, Bob, didn’t have a valid drivers license, something about not paying a ticket last year in NC when he was on vacation.
Okaayyy. That wasn’t such a huge deal I suppose. What Bob said to the officer next, however, was. He politely informed the officer (as he was required to) that he had a concealed weapon in the glove compartment of his vehicle. You know the one I was in and which said glove compartment was just inches from me knee. A Gun. So, I’m with an Italian guy (from a fairly rich family who I was beginning to question at this point), with a suspended license, and a gun in the car. Lovely.
The officer informed us that Bob was no longer allowed to drive his vehicle and if I had a valid license and the ability to do so, I would be encouraged to drive Bob home.
I switched places with Bob and drove his truck (which I don’t do trucks for anyone who knows me) back to my place.
And you’re thinking whew, she got outta that one in time! Right?
Um, no. I’m kinda dumb I guess because we then got in my car and I drove us to South Street for that drink which I was in need of at that point. And I even dated him a few more times. The kicker for me was when he invited me to his house and made me dinner (Italian wedding soup no less) and as we sat on the couch watching tv I looked over the arm of the couch. And saw The Gun. On the floor. Just laying there.
I did thankfully find my brain, claimed a throbbing migraine and high tailed it out of there.
So dear reader, I did come to my senses finally. For me, if you have a gun you had better have a job that requires you to have one. Cause this lady is no fan of the gun toting group.
This is also going to be my entry for the Don’t You Hate It When Contest over at Shelle’s BlokThoughts Blog. Go check it out and enter – you could win an iPod!