Don't Mince Words

Three months ago I had a date, one date, with a nice guy. The evening turned ugly, thanks to margaritas. Three months to that day, I had a date with a new guy which turned ugly thanks to halibut.

Michael was my first date since the little boy breakup. I decided to chronologically date up and met the 48 year old for happy hour at El Cholo. We had immediate chemistry and we had a great time until I realized he’d finished 90 percent of the margarita pitcher. Binge drinker or nervous dater?

Letting him drive was a rush hour death sentence, so I took him home to sober him up. I felt like I was in college again, helping a toga party roommate. In between puking trips to the bathroom, I fed Michael saltines and aspirin. He went home after six hours of nursing. I vowed never to have a first date in a bar.

For my first date with Roger, he drove us to watch the sun set before dinner in the Palisades. He had the veal, I had the halibut. Afterwards, we drove around, talked more and then went back to his place. Things were going great until I started belching fish. Then I got the butterflies, not because I was nervously excited about this great date, but because I knew I had about 10 seconds to get to the bathroom.

I ran the sink water so he couldn’t hear me refunding my dinner. I then hijacked his toothpaste and gave myself a Marine gargle. I did feel much better, but the mood was ruined. I apologized and went home shortly thereafter.

They say timing is everything. I want off this 90-day reciprocal barf cycle.

My medical crush is over. Hot Dr. T stood me up for some supposed “emergency” in the ER. I went to the trouble of shaving my legs, pushing up the boobs and applying mascara only to get his substitute for my appointment/date. The eastern European accented, crooked-tooth intern didn’t provide me much comfort in Dr. T’s absence. The good news is my stitches have healed. The bad news is, I know I’m not going back. Dr. T, rest in peace.