Worst Dates of All Time: Hit in the Baby Maker

Hit in the Baby Maker

            “Online Dating” - not a very romantic proclamation if someone asks how a couple met, in my opinion…But I am desperate. I am living at home again with my parents in Granada Hills taking prerequisites for nursing school at a community college. This is after giving up a well-paid, but unfulfilling career in Melbourne Australia.

            While my focus is on completing the classes, I can’t help but notice that I am either significantly older or significantly younger than all other students in my classes. My first day of remedial math, a necessity since I failed my entry-level math exam for community colleges, I see a familiar face. A face I used to swim with on the high school swim team.

            “What are YOU doing here?” he asks incredulously when he sees me. “You WERE smart in high school.”

            Thanks for the reminder. Had a career. Had money. Now living at home with my parents. Was smart. Now retaking math 101. How the mighty-ish have fallen…

            So clearly I need some entertainment in my life: something in the form of good looking males would be nice. One summer, my twin sister introduced me to the idea of online dating by signing me up for J- Date in the hopes I would meet some handsome, eligible, financially secure, Jewish man in the Silicon Valley. She even responded to men on my profile to procure me with dates. She may have the crossed the line, however, when she turned up at not-one-but-TWO coffee shops where I was meeting men. In the case of our twinship, we are a package deal.

            I have signed up for a couple sites to increase my chances of meeting someone nice: plenty of fish and okcupid. I am finding that the men on the websites in Northern California seem more legitimate than Southern California. While the photos of men in NorCal are of men outdoors, many in LA are headshots, and photos of men with groups of sexy women.

            After many weeks of filtering through messages, I meet someone who seems nice. We exchange phone numbers, speak a few times, and decide to meet for a dinner date at a Japanese restaurant in Granada Hills. He drives from Toluca Lakes to meet.

            Upon first glance, he seems handsome. Nice body, not surprising since he is of military background. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” I say.

            I am instantly met with a passive, mildly disgusted face, “Wow…Granada Hills, huh? This looks like the ghetto.”

            Excuse me! How dare he! This is MY hometown. Even though I abandoned it after I was 17 for college and world travel, it doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate my hometown. This is where I am from. I cannot tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.

            We go into the restaurant. He criticizes my sushi selection and provides me with his superior recommendations… He interrupts me as I am ordering with the waitress to say, “Oh no, she doesn’t want that.” He looks and me and adds, “Trust me.” He proceeds to order all the food. Perhaps most women would be impressed with this? I am not.

            He continues to insult me. He comments on my attire, “obviously you didn’t try.” He looks at my hair “going for the casual look?” And returns to his criticisms of Granada Hills. “I am from Bridgeport Massachusetts, but am living in Toluca Lakes.” He says “Toluca Lakes” with an inflection to emphasize what an amazing place this is to live. “We should have gone to eat out THERE instead of in this…backwash.” I quickly formulate a rebuttal, “No thanks, I prefer my area.”

            “Listen,” he admonishes, “if you keep that up, I am going to hit you in your babymaker.”

            What does that even mean? I ignore it, and focus on the rest of his insults.

            I am amazed. After his numerous criticisms, I turn to him and say, “Listen, I am confused.  I cannot tell if you are being sarcastic or if you are being serious. Could you clarify?” My question is met with silence.

            After dinner, we decide to walk down the street and take in the scenery. We pass Granada Hills High School, my rival high school. “Oh what’s this?” I ask, “Granada Hills high school in Granada Hills California won the national academic decathlon three years in a row? Wait a minute! Wait a minute? Granada Hills High School in Granada Hills California won the NATIONAL academic decathlon? That means that they beat every high school in the United States..including any from Bridgeport Massachusetts.”

            He uses the back of his arm and hits me firmly in my baby-maker, the abdominal area that houses my uterus. I stare at him stunned into silence. We walk back to where we parked our cars.

            “That was…interesting.” I tell him. I get into my car and quickly depart.

            And that is the end of the worst date I have every had.

            He tries calling numerous times, “I’m not usually like that. Give me a another chance. I was nervous.” Etc. Etc.

 I ignore his calls.