The Kitchen Sink

Hi Spoonbill,

Today I was having coffee on Whyte Ave with my old roommate and Mama Ibis, when a familiar face came strolling past the window. It was Alex. (Recall, the German who wasn’t Hunter). Nothing happened except that I quickly looked away and hoped he hadn’t seen me. But it reminded me that I never told you what happened to him. So I thought I would tie up that loose end.

The last thing I told you about re: Alex was the dinner date where he said something offensive but my coworker convinced me to give him another chance. Before I tell you about the next date, I’ll tell you the offensive thing he said. He had been to see the movie Skyfall recently and was telling me how much he liked Bond movies. But Daniel Craig was his least favourite James Bond because apparently Craig can’t drive a manual car and therefore he must be gay. Wow. I froze mid-laugh when he said that. I asked him, “Do you seriously believe that driving an automatic car means that Daniel Craig is gay?” His answer was, “Well in Germany, driving is a very masculine thing and all the men drive manual. So if you don’t drive manual, you’re probably gay.” I know there is a good way to respond where I would point out how ignorant his comment was, and perhaps he doesn’t understand the problem with using the word “gay” to describe something when what you actually are trying to express is that it’s lame/not impressive. People have blind spots. I believe people can be enlightened about their blind spots so they can appropriately modify their behaviour. But I was so disgusted by his remark, I couldn’t think of what to say. I hate it when I’m caught speechless like that. I want to be one of those incredible people who have just the right response to anything shocking that’s thrown at them. Or the ability to freeze time while I come up with my clever retort.

Anyways, we finished our meal and he drove me home and I turned down his offer to go back to his place “for a glass of wine” (obviously). I was thinking I definitely would not be going out with him again, but I talked to my coworker and she assured me that he was not a homophobe and he probably just wasn’t aware of the ignorance of his remark. I decided to see him again so I could ask about it and maybe educate him a little about non-inclusive language. I mean, prior to his donning an asshat, the date had been going rather well. He texted me the next day and we made plans for brunch the following weekend. But in the end I didn’t educate him about sweet fuck all. The night before I was at the AGA Refinery party and I had a next-level hangover in the morning. You know you partied hard when you have to sit on the floor to get ready in the morning. I mean in the shower, when blow-drying my hair and when getting dressed. No, it was not easy to put on underwear while sitting on the floor. But I’m a trooper like that. So I don’t think I said much of anything during brunch. It’s hard to lecture people about their flaws when you’ve shown up to a date possibly still drunk from the night before. And I was pretty occupied just trying to keep my breakfast in my stomach. Classy to death.

And now you’re probably thinking that must have been the last I saw of Alex right? Because who calls THAT girl again for a date? Turns out his standards are pretty low because I actually did hear from him again. Conveniently enough, it was on another boozy evening. (I went on a bit of a bender in November). I had people at my place and we were playing cards and drinking a lot of vodka. Alex texted me and said he had been out of town for work but could he see me again soon? At this point someone had helpfully poured my vodka water into a sippy cup. That should paint a picture for you. Naturally I thought it would be an excellent idea to invite Alex over to join us. I *think* my reasoning was, “ah well if I don’t want to date the guy I can at least help him make friends.” Just call me a good samaritan.  He showed up at my door right about the time everyone was getting ready to cab home. Timing like a Swiss clock. We chatted for a bit and then he excused himself to the washroom. I sat there trying to quickly sober up and hatch a plan to get rid of him so I could just pass out. And then the plan came to me in the form of the need to throw up.

I hit a new low that evening. Nothing says “Get your life together” like the moment you have to throw up in your kitchen sink because a homophobic German is using your only washroom. I had a wicked shameover the next morning. I would be even more humiliated but within 24 hours I had received another text from him. “I had a great time last night. Are you feeling ok today? When can I see you again?”

The fact that he was still interested in me after that little episode is reason all on its own to never date him ever again. And thus ends the story of Alex.

Lining ’em up and knocking ’em down,
Ibis

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