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The "Chef"


Wine no More

After the Iranian God and before I dated my 4th (!!!) guy who didn't have a car because of multiple DUIs, I went on a date with a "chef". I had been exchanging emails and texts with him for a few weeks. I didn't find him incredibly good looking, as he was a balding, plain white guy, but he did have a semi-cute face. And he was a CHEF. A CHEF!! That is my instant panty dropper. Don't even get me started on Top Chef...woooo buddy.

I came home from a long day at work and he texted me to meet him for a drink in Rockville Town Center. Annie told me to accept his offer, so of course I did. Damn that bitch and my immense love for her. I changed my clothes and told him I would meet him at La Tasca in 20 minutes. As Annie sat on our perfectly cushioned couch and watched Pretty Little Liars, I sank my head in regret and shame and walked out the door. 

I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar, creepily staring at the weirdos surrounding me. I could not believe how many people were out drinking on a Tuesday. He stumbled in about 5 minutes later completely HAMMERED. He told me that he had just come from day drinking with his roommate, as if that was an acceptable reason to be sloushed out of your skull. I could not believe I had gotten re-dressed for this. Considering most days I never get dressed once, this was a huge deal for me. 

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. As I sat on my good friend, the toilet, I contemplated making a break for it. Not only was he drunker than a hobo in the winter, but he looked nothing like his pictures. His cute redeeming face was nowhere to be found. Since there were no windows to escape through, I hesitantly decided to rejoin the colossal waste of time. I jumped back onto the barstool (not out of excitement, I'm just very short) and stared blankly at the wine menu. 

The bartender came over and the chef ordered for both of us, since he clearly loved himself some wine. I asked him about his restaurant hoping to push the conversation into an area I enjoy. He explained that it was a pizza place and asked me to come and try it. 

This was it. The time I either uttered that I can't eat pizza and then have to explain why. Or just lie and say maybe. Since, I hate lying and knew that this was never going to happen again, I told him I lost my colon and could not eat pizza. He did not take it very well. He got more creepy weird and chugged the rest of his merlot. He then started to ask me strange questions about my diet and surgery. So instead I used my sparkling personality and complete lack of caring about other people's awkwardness to change the topic and laugh off my debilitating disease to ease the tension. 

After another half hour of him drinking more wine than an 18 year old sorority girl trying to look sophisticated, I texted Sionne. She lives in the square and I needed to tell her about about this catastrophic cluster of a date. Which she in turn took to meaning that she should come immediately. I explained that she was not invited to the actual event, so she instead decided to "sneakily" take her dog on a walk past the restaurant and spy. I had never been so happy to see anyone in my life. I excused myself and leaped into her arms like a soldier returning home from combat. I stayed outside for five minutes, the acceptable length of time to talk shit about a stranger you were still technically with, and walked back to my death. 

Five minutes later I could no longer take the torture and ended the date. We exited the restaurant and I walked to my car. He followed because the world finds my terror amusing. As I opened the door into my safe, warm vehicle with automatic locks and pepper spray, he stupidly asked me for a ride. He claimed it was cold and the metro was still a few blocks away. I nicely said that no one who looks like he got shot in the mouth with a wine-colored paint dart was entering my car and drove away. 

I ran (slowly walked) home, up four flights of stairs, went to the bathroom again, then crawled into my bed and cheered that it was over...so I thought. I awoke the next morning to upward of 20 text messages from Capt. Wine Face. They started out nice, then transitioned into bizarre, then went straight bat shit crazy. Because I had not texted back during my slumber he called me a bitch and a c--t. I never responded, but if I had here is what I would have said: 

"Listen, you tiny stupid imp. I am 80 million times hotter and cooler than you. I am missing vital organs and have scars all over my stomach and am still a better catch than you. I may throw up after long or short walks and use the bathroom 10 times a day, but everything that comes out of my body is better to look at than you. Call me a bitch, call me a whore, call me anything your idiotic heart wants. But call me a c**t again and I will find you in your empty, awful pizza shop and punch you square in the adam's apple."





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