Feasting in Brooklyn on a Friday

I went on a dinner date on Friday.  I have nothing bad to report!  It was a great dinner with great company!  Seriously, the food was excellent.  It was so good, that if the guy wasn’t there, I would have crawled underneath the table and licked the plate clean, which is weird because I never eat on a date.  I can’t let these men see how I get down!!! I’m a lady and I have morals.

Allow me to give you a little glimpse into my dinner dates:  We meet up and order some drinks.  Friendly banter and routine date questions. Appetizer.  More drinks.  More friendly banter and now some laughing.  Drinks.  Enter waitress with dinner.  I stare at dinner.  More routine date questions.  I take a bite of chicken and slowly chew on a piece of lettuce because, “I’m just not that hungry”.  I’m fucking starving.  Drown out hunger pangs with more drinks … and 5 glasses of water.  Speed walk to restroom.  Come back and take another bite of chicken.  One more drink. More conversation and laughs.  End date.  Nine times out of ten, this is what usually happens and more often than not, after these dates, I find myself in the Jetta on a high level of tipsy, starving and stationed in the dimly lit corner of the parking lot at Taco Bell inhaling 3 mexi-melts and a burrito supreme …

… But not on Friday; I threw my morals out the window that day.  Maybe it was because I had been dieting for the past month; maybe because Mexican food is my favorite or maybe because I simply gave up on life after ‘Fight Night with JB’ (seriously, how long does it take to recover from the trauma?).  And let me just ask you this: um, where is the bouncer, because he STILL hasn’t texted me! 

Anywho … my first embarrassing moment of ‘Feasting in Brooklyn on a Friday’ was during the appetizer.  Who knew that guacamole and chips could be so heavenly?  I just let the guy talk and talk as I chomped away, devouring every nacho in sight.  Thank God for our waitress and that extra basket of nachos, because if his fingers would have so much as pointed in my direction …

Eventually, it was my turn to speak.  I gently dabbed the sides of my mouth and wiped the crumbs off my lips to speak my first words ... And then it happened.  A piece of nacho and guacamole shot right out of my mouth, like a rocket.  I’m still trying to remember where it landed.  Without skipping a beat I said, “OH my GOD, I just spit” and like a true gentlemen, he smirked, grabbed his napkin and tried to wipe up the piece of my dignity that maybe landed on our table? The floor? Back in the GUACAMOLE BOWL!?! And so, dinner continued with great conversation, good laughs and some funny stories.  I got so comfortable talking to this guy that in the middle of my story-telling, I began flailing my arms about and knocked over my frozen margarita.  Not only did embarrassment and, I don’t know – nausea set in, but so did the liquid of what once was my alcoholic beverage, which was now starting to feel like it was eating through my clothes and sticking onto my skin.  I did what anybody in my situation would do – I avoided eye contact and kept speaking like nothing happened. Like a champ.

Dinner ended not too long after that, but not because of my mishaps, I had to actually call it a night because of an exam I was taking early the next morning.  All this got me thinking … Here I am, starting a blog about my bad dates and I guess the joke was on me all along while I was Feasting in Brooklyn on a Friday.

The struggle continues until the next date …