You are such a putz. I am seriously so embarrassed for you. As for your date, I wish I could send her some flowers and chocolates for her trouble. It would probably be the first sweet gesture that has been extended to her in quite a while if her date with you is any indication of the kind of luck she's been having lately.
My husband and I sat right behind you at the California Pizza Kitchen on Saturday night. We spent the majority of our date night staring at your table in admiration of your rudeness. Your very tolerant date noticed, but- not surprisingly- you did not. As a matter of fact, the only thing you did seem to notice were the many women who happened to not be your date.
I got the impression, from the getting-to-know-you conversation vibe, that this was the first time you had taken this girl out. It might have even been a blind date. Maybe you had decided that she wasn't the one for you in the first five minutes, which was the total time that you spent in conversation with her, but that's still no excuse. After those first few minutes, and right in the middle of her polite attempts at conversation with an obvious moron, you spot someone you know and get up to get her attention. This third party, who happens to be gorgeous, comes screaming and giggling over to your table, and- obviously relishing the attention- throws her arms around you. A gaggle of girls come to join her, and they all express intense interest in you, throwing the occasional fake smile to your date, after performing what I like to call *The Utah Stare. These girls, I'm sure to your dismay, all have husbands who eventually come trailing behind them to see what the fuss is about. Your friend, we'll call her Bambi, introduces the husbands to you, and you shake their hands while telling them how "incredibly hot your wives are. Seriously, Bros, you've got some hot wives. Heh-heh."
Giggle-Giggle, "Oh, you're so nice!" proclaim the flock.
The husbands furrow their brows.
The date stares blankly into space.
Mark and I gag on our food.
After receiving enough validation, I suppose, to relinquish all insecurities, one of Bambi's flock decides to show some charity to the date:
"Hi, I'm Amber. What's your name?"
And Amber and the date talk pleasantries for the next 30 minutes, while you are completely absorbed in conversation.
Finally, the husbands usher the flock out the door. Dramatic waves and giggles are thrown your way all the way to the parking lot.
It's just you and your date again. However, before the awkwardness of the moment might have had the opportunity to reveal to your psyche what a blunder you just made, another girl walks up to your table:
"OMG! Is that you, AE Polo Shirt Guy? How are you?!"
And the hugging pursues.
And so does the inconsiderate behavior.
Congratulations. You are officially initiated into the Douche Chronicles.
*A slow vertical pan starting at the shoes and working it's way shamelessly to meet the questioning eye of the victim. This stare lasts so long due to its frequent stops along the way to calculate, in full detail, the worth of the individual based on the following criteria:
1.Shoes (price, brand, cuteness)
2. Clothes (price, brand, cuteness, modesty level)
3. Purse (price, brand, faux or real?)
4. Body style (do I hate her for being skinny/busty/tan or am I better than her because she's chubby/too tall/too short/too thin/pasty?)
5. Face (pretty or ugly?)
6. Hair (do her back-combing skills outweigh mine?)