September 13, 2012

MS. BLUE

This week’s edition of Vintage Frog Lore features a story that I recently used to cheer a friend up after she had a really bad (i.e. embarrassing) date). She immediately felt better after I told her this tale. I’m guessing that any of you who have ever ended a date feeling it was an EPIC FAIL based on your lack of grace, style, charisma, or some other intangible quality your date will soon forget about, will feel much better too.

Happy Reading!

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A Guest Post by MISTY

My Shittiest Date Ever.

Mr. D and I met on an online dating site and when we finally had our first phone chat I was immediately charmed by the silky smooth tone of his gentle voice. We quickly made arrangements for our first date a few nights later. That date went off without a hitch and it was clear we enjoyed each other’s company, so I was more than happy to oblige him when he asked me out again – this time for dinner.

For our dinner date I chose to a killer outfit. I put on my best CFM boots and a form fitting little black freak’um dress that hugged each and every one of my lady lumps. Yeah, I was at my sexy and sophisticated best, and I just knew that I would impress the hell out of Mr. D.

At 7:30 sharp (right on time I might add. Don’t you just love a man who is punctual?), Mr. D pulled up in front of my house. I made a point of walking slowly down the driveway to meet him. I could tell that he liked what he saw from the huge grin on his face. Score.

We drove along, chatting about the day’s events, and then after only a few minutes, Mr. D pulled into the parking lot of a very quaint looking Italian restaurant. Once we were inside and seated at a cozy little table at the back of the dimly lit dining room, we fell into a discussion about what we were going to order as we perused the menu. I was famished, so after downing at least half of the bread in the small basket the waiter had brought to our table, I ordered an appetizer and a large entree. I can’t remember what Mr. D ordered to eat, but I do remember that he ordered a pretty good bottle of Chianti.

As we waited for our dinner we talked about our favourite foods, all things Italian and places in Europe we both wanted to visit. When our appetizers arrived we continued our conversation between bites of our delectable meal. Then suddenly, just as I the last forkful of my salad passed my lips, I heard a loud gurgling sound in my stomach. I smiled and put my fork down, praying that Mr. D hadn’t heard the God awful noise. He smiled back at me and continued talking. Clearly he hadn’t heard a thing. Crisis averted. Phew! I picked up my glass, leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my wine. Apparently, my stomach wasn’t happy with the Chiati, because the loud gurgling quickly became rather intense rumbling and I felt as if an alien was about to force its way out of my stomach to join us at the table for dinner.

Ever the lady, I didn’t want Mr. D. to become aware that WWIII had started in my intestines. So, I put down my wine glass, smiled at him and said,

“Could you excuse me for a minute? I just need to powder my nose.”

Mr. D nodded. “Of course.”

As I got up I could feel my stomach muscles convulsing, and the alternating waves cold and hot flashes that rushed through my body made me feel a bit dizzy.

I heard Mr. D. say, “Are you okay?” as I walked away from our table, but I didn’t answer him – I couldn’t. It would have taken too much energy to utter something coherent, and it was all I could do to get myself to the ladies room – in time.

When I plopped my butt down on one of the pristine white thrones in that restroom there was an explosion. The alien in my stomach was taking no prisoners on its mission to escape my bowels. He kept me and my ass planted on that toilet for over an HOUR.

Oh no, don’t bother to go back and read that again. I didn’t say 10 minutes or even 30. I was in that WC for 60+ gut-wrenching, body-wracking, sweat-from-brow-dripping and jaw-clenching minutes. I was beyond embarrassed. Not only was Mr. D was sitting ALONE at our table waiting for me to return (I hoped), but it seemed that every female diner in the restaurant that night came into the restroom while the contents of my stomach rained  down  into the toilet.

Oh God, how am I going to get out of this bathroom without everyone knowing it was me who stank it up? And what will I say to Mr. D? Maybe I could slip out without being noticed through the emergency exit I saw on the way in? That’s it. I’ll leave that…FACK! I left my purse at the table.

Just as I started cursing myself and my maker for the predicament I was in, a sweet voice from the other side of my own private hell stall called out to me.

“Misty?”

Oh God. Will this nightmare never end? “Yes.”

“Uhhhmm…your date asked me to check on you. Are you okay?”

It was clear the owner of the sweet voice was just as mortified as I was. To ease her pain and to get her the hell out of there (she probably would’ve collapsed from the stench if she had to stay any longer), I said in the cheeriest tone I could muster,

“Tell him I’ll be right out.”

I heard her sigh with relief, and then make a mad dash for the door. Thankfully, soon after she left the action in my stomach began to die down. Perhaps the alien was  gone and WWIII was over at last? When I finally rose to my feet I felt weak. I moved my body to the sink on very shaky legs and washed my hands. Then I splashed water on my face and smoothed out my hair. My eyes looked a little glazed and my cheeks were bright red, but all in all I didn’t look half as bad as I felt. I slowly turned towards the bathroom door.

“Time to face the music.” I opened the door and started on the long walk of shame back through the crowded restaurant, to my table and Mr. D.

When I got back into the dining room, to my surprise it was empty, except for Mr. D, who was still sitting at our table waiting for me. I slowly walked toward him, a weak smile plastered on my face.

I felt my cheeks flush as he looked up at me. “I am really sorry about tonight. I don’t know what happened, but I’m not feeling well. Can you just take me home?”

He smiled and stood up slowly, “Sure. Do you need to stop at a drug sto—”

“No, no. Please just take me home,” I blurted, avoiding his eyes.

He nodded as he handed me my purse and then we headed toward the door. The drive back to my house felt like it took hours. The silence between us was deafening. I kept my face turned away from his and looked out the car window. I didn’t want to say anything and poor Mr. D was obviously at a loss for words. When he pulled into my driveway, I shouted, “Goodnight” over my shoulder as I launched myself out of his car and into my house. I didn’t even look back. I had survived what was probably the worst night of my life (and quite possibly one of his) and I was sure he wouldn’t be calling again.

The next morning I awoke feeling well enough to have some breakfast. So, I headed down to the kitchen to get myself some cereal. As I plopped down on my couch with my bowl of Cheerios in hand and reached for the remote on the coffee table, I saw that I had a text message waiting on my cell phone. I picked it up and saw that it was from Mr. D. For a few moments I just sat there too afraid to open the message to read it. What could he possibly have to say after such an awful night? Just delete it. It can’t be good…Oh grow some balls, Misty. Just read it. I took a long deep breath and then read his message, which said…

Misty, please call me when you feel up to going out again. I’m good to go if you are, because the thing about life is …Shit happens!  ;)

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