And today's Vomit Day. Yay. Can you feel the enthusiasm? Anyway, here's part two of my Valentine's date from hell.
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Driveway Roadkill, Part Two:
Aside from the occasional raspberry when I would forget to lift before moving, dinner went quite smoothly. No food drops, food flings, or gags...that is until Mr. Leaver made me try to eat something, knowing I thought they looked like little bits of mushy cow's brain.
Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."
Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."
Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."
So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.
It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.
To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.
Yeah.
Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?
You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.
His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.
I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair, and tried to assure him that his meal was delicious.
Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.
Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.
After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?
I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**
NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.
As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."
Uh-oh.
He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.
I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.
He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand. He hasn't kissed me. Yet, he wants to go have sex??
Seriously?
I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.
I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.
So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.
Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight. I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.
It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.
After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.
We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).
Whatever. It didn't take.
Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss?? Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either.
He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.
Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.
Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.
I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:
What happened to "taking it slow?"
Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?
Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?
Am I totally wrong, here?
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.
After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.
So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.
To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}
To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}