Sex, drugs and free egg roll

By Gina Angostura
NH Mirror Staff

One day last week, I was cleaning out the fridge at work, as I was sick of sitting there deleting the hundreds of spam e-mail for male enhancement products I’d had to deal with that day.

We’ve been in the building for three years, and I don’t think the fridge has ever been emptied and washed out, which is gross when you think about it. And grosser still when you actually have to put your hands in there and touch stuff. Petrified pizza, salad past the wilting point and well into liquification and somebody’s old ice packs that probably were used on their feet were just some of the delights I found.

The worst thing, though, is Chinese food excrement. You know, the wrinkly bags of extra soy and duck sauce containers, hot mustard packets and the errant fortune cookie that someone just couldn’t bear to throw away in case of a Chinese condiment crisis.

While cleaning, I had an epiphany: Dating is like Chinese food. It’s not really good for me, I always feel sick after, but I want to do it again an hour later. I never learn. I’ve written more columns about dating than I’ve had actual dates, that’s how bad it is.

But at least I never had an experience like the guy I recently met. When you meet for the first time, after the usual exchange of information, the conversation goes in one of two directions – you complain about your ex or you list the horrifying dating experiences you’ve had thus far.

His were doozies. And by doozies I mean the same level of horror as finding out your dentist is really Zombie Satan.

One date was going well, great food, conversation and laughter. He thought he might like to see her again.

Unfortunately, a second date would have to wait, as she was headed to court the next week to be sentenced on a drug charge. She asked him if he could maybe manage to visit her from time to time during the six-to-10 years she’d be away. Being an ex-cop, he knew better than to agree to that.

But wait, there’s more! Another woman met him for dinner. She seemed perfectly normal, until the subject of her son came up. He was in his 20s and lived at home, which is OK. But she really blew it when she talked about how much she hated her son’s girlfriend and the way said GF complained when mom and son watched adult movies together.

Yes, that’s what I said. Mom, son, adult movies.

That revelation was enough to make my new friend excuse himself to use the men’s room, taking his jacket along so he could run for his life out the side door.

I told him those were the worst stories I had ever heard. What I meant was that they were the best stories, because they made me feel so much better about Sweaty Resin guy (aka the wife stalker), the narcoleptic and the guy who didn’t offer me a bite of his chocolate cake, the worst offense of all.

At least I’ve never gone out with a convicted felon. Maybe I should have checked out that fortune cookie before I threw it away to see what kind of issue my next date will have.

Does your misery love company? Send Gina an e-mail at singlecynic@thenhmirror.com.