We’re finishing dinner the other night when Mr. Rugby starts to giggle. Mr. Happy and I look at him like what’s so funny? And he says, “Mom, what’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”
Immediately I know he’s dying to tell us about some date he was on that’s just popped into his head and the memory is cracking him up. But ok. I’ll play.
“You really want to know?” They both nod.
“Well, probably the one a friend fixed me up on, right after college graduation,” I reply. “She was all, ‘you’ll like this guy, he’s super successful, and nice,’ and all this stuff. So, I met him for dinner in the city and it was awful.”
I figure that’s enough. The date was absolutely horrific, but both boys look at me, like, go on, so I do, getting a little animated to make it more palatable for myself if not for them.
“He was like, ‘I have apartMINT. Beauuuuutiful apartment. You leeeeve there. I pay for everything. You leeeeve like princess!’ My skin was crawling. All I wanted was to get into a taxi and get home. But he insists on taking the taxi with me to the Port Authority.
“‘The Port Auth–” Mr. Rugby interjects. Then, “Ah. You were going to grandma’s!”
“Yep. And the second the taxi turns onto forty-second street, he pins me to the seat and starts kissing me. And touching me. It was disgusting. I was completely repulsed and panicked. I remember that I was yelling ‘Stop! Please stop!’ at this animal, and the driver’s just like whistling dixie, totally pretending he doesn’t hear me in the back seat pleading with this asshole to get his hands off me and finally I just started screaming ‘Stop the cab! Stop driving!’ and that got his attention and he stopped the cab. In the middle of forty-second street. Cars whizzing by on both sides. And I jumped out, stuntman style. In my heels. And ran down to the Port Authority. Worst date ever.”
They’re both kind of captivated by my “mauling” experience, but something’s missing. I can tell by the look on Mr. Rugby’s face that my worst date is, how shall I put this? Not quite funny enough.
If I’d known funny was a requirement, I’d have told them about the dates, yes, plural, Sandra had to rescue me from. Another time, perhaps.
“Ok, funny boy,” I say, slightly annoyed at the lack of reaction. I mean that man was pawing me, me! Their mom! “What’s your worst date ever?”
And he gets absolutely, shoulders shaking, hysterical laughing.
“I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this,” he says, turning his face away and laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes.
Mr. Happy and I look at each other and we can’t help it, we start laughing too.
(Don’t you love that? How when someone starts laughing you start laughing? It’s so much better than when you start crying because someone else is crying, or you start throwing up because you have to clean up the dog’s vomit.)
“So, it was when we were in the apartment,” Mr. Rugby continues, “after we left He Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken. You’re asleep, and this girl I’d been talking to texts me and I tell her to come pick me up–”
“While I’m sleeping? You went out while I was asleep?”
He pauses and rolls his eyes. “All the time.”
Oh my God.
“So she picks me up and we drive around talking and we’re having a great time and we decide to go park at Lake Brittle.”
Lake Brittle. In the dead of night. I’m losing my mind listening to my kid and he’s still laughing. I look at Mr. Happy for a little support but no. He’s engrossed and perfectly fine that his brother was in a car with a girl in the dark at a lake with murderers possibly lurking behind every corner.
Clearly I have no idea who my kids are.
“We start making out and, her, her breath. Oh God. Her breath. I thought I was going to vomit.”
Forget fear for my kid. Now I’m really laughing and Mr. Happy is, too.
“She gets in the backseat,” he pauses to look at me, “cause that’s where we were headed, and I can’t. I just can’t. I have to go home BUT I’M IN HER CAR!”
I can just picture my son. I know him. Certain smells and tastes send him gagging straight to the toilet bowl. A good mom would be angry with him right now. But no, his mom can’t stop laughing. I hope they have chocolate in Hell.
“I’m dying,” he continues. “I’m patting my pockets and saying, um, well, I don’t have any protection. I’m patting my front pockets, my back pockets, the pocket of my sweatshirt. And I take out my wallet, you know, to prove I don’t have any, and a condom falls out!”
Mr. Happy has his head in his hands, shaking with laughter. Tears are rolling down my face and the stitch in my side is screaming.
“And she says, ‘Why can’t you use that one?’” and he turns bright red. Like a strawberry. A bright red, hysterically laughing strawberry.
“What did you say?” I ask. I can’t take it any more. Did he hop back there and barf on her? Inquiring minds need to know!
“I said, it’s not mine. And she says, ‘Who cares?’ and I go, it won’t fit. And she just looks at me like, ooooh, won’t fit huh? And I’m like, no, no, that’s not, no! And I’m completely desperate. I can taste her breath in my mouth and on my tongue and it’s so disgusting and I just have to get out of that car and I blurt, IT’LL BE TOO BIG!”
And Mr. Happy blurts, “You went with pencil dick?”
The three of us doubled over with laughter, Mr. Rugby nodding and crimson at the memory and maybe (hopefully?) at the shame of sharing it with his mother.
“Needless to say,” he starts.
“You never saw her again!” Mr. Happy and I finish.
And then, not to be outdone or left out, Mr. Happy pipes up.
“I’ve got one,” he says.
“Oh no,” Mr. Rugby breaks in. “No one is sitting here, trapped, while you go on for two hours.”
“I’ll be quick. I promise,” Mr. Happy pleads.
Mr. Rugby gives him the eye, and Mr. Happy takes the floor.
“I’m at Fat Tuesdays, in Warrenton. We took you there, mom, remem–”
“Stop!” shouts Mr. Rugby. “We all know where it is and that mom was there and all that shit. Just. The. Details!”
“Ok, ok. So I’m there and I’m having a beer and watching TV. Messi is playing. And this woman is looking at me from across the room. And then she walks over to me and says “Whatcha doing?” So I say, watching Messi. And then she puts her hand on my thigh and says, “I can make you nice and messy!”
I thought my eyes would pop right out of their sockets and roll down my face.
Mr. Rugby laughs. “She was like what, 40?”
“At least.” Mr. Happy nods.
“40? A 40-year old woman said that to you?” I’m stunned. How dare she accost my baby like that!
They both turn and look at me.
“They love him, mom,” says Mr. Rugby. “40, 50, 60. Whenever Happy over here is out in public, if there’s a beaten down hag within 25-miles, she’s on him like white on rice.”
I’m stunned. Mr. Happy gets hit on by classless crones. Mr. Rugby parks by lakes in the pitch black with girls with bad breath.
I should do something. Reprimand someone! Behave like a mom, at least a little. But that ship has sailed. They’re adults. And who am I kidding? I love that they share this stuff with me.
You know, it might be time to tell them about those dates Sandra had to save me from.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-37, you can do so here. And if you would, please, encourage your friends to read and subscribe. Thank you!
Hysterical! And they might have chocolate in hell but it’s going to be a tad melty!
This is a great way to connect! I am going to share a ‘worst date’ story with Luke! Thanks for sharing!