Let's Call Him Bozo

In the sad days before I met Mr. Awesome, I went out on quite a few bad dates. In fact, I endured some relationships which were essentially strings of bad dates stretched over a period of several months. These days, I can usually just forget that the person who participated in those relationships was actually me, instead of some total idiot in a movie I once saw on an airplane or something. But a recent conversation with PCL brought the memories flooding back. And also the questions. Such as: Why did I force myself to hang out with such tedious people? Why did I not tell these chuckleheads that I was waiting for Mr. Awesome, and that they could just pack up their Foucault essays/soul patches/trucker hats and go home?

Well, I still can't really answer that. Instead, I offer you the story of the date that finally broke me. After this single date, I gave up on heterosexuality and reconciled myself to a long, happy, solitary life. Well, not solitary. Cat-filled. Until the eventual arrival of Mr. Awesome.


So I was dating this guy, let's call him Bozo. Bozo lived in a basement apartment, didn't have a job, and there was no evidence to suggest that he had ever washed his hair. So you can see the attraction! I was smitten!

On maybe our third date, Bozo took me to a party. The host came out to greet us holding a Nasty Little Dog* on a leash. The NLD was straining and snarling and all but foaming at the mouth. Suddenly the NLD broke free--or maybe the host let him go, I could never be sure--and sank his teeth into my leg. I was wearing jeans but NLD easily bit right through them, and for a few moments he was suspended in the air, supported only by his teeth in my thigh. When the hideous creature finally lost his grip, the owner picked up the leash again, pulled him away, and said something really sensitive and concerned, like, "Oops! Sorry 'bout that."


Needless to say, at that point I was 100% done with the party. But Bozo ushered me into the house and suggested that I slip into the bathroom to clean myself up, so as not to offend the other guests with my oozing leg. It was all bloody and bruisy and stuff. Nobody offered me so much as a cotton swab.

When I rejoined the party, the hostess said, "I hear Nasty Little Dog decided he didn't like you. That NLD, he's soooooooo funny! He always decides right away who he likes and who he doesn't! Tee hee!!"

We stayed at the party for about two hours, which I whiled away by fuming silently. Now, I guess I should say, in all fairness to Bozo, that it wasn't completely his fault that he was friends with some jerkwads who owned a feral dog. True, he could have chosen his friends more carefully. He could have suggested at some point during the evening that having their dog bite his date was not the best of all possible outcomes. He could have, say, suggested we leave. But still, in my mind, up to this point he had not crossed the line into The Land of the Unforgivable.

When we were finally back in the car on the way home, I said, "Maybe I should go into a clinic or something? Or at least call the nurse hotline. I haven't had a tetanus shot, and my leg is turning all purple and yellow and stuff."

And what did Bozo say? Did he say, "Indeed, we must rush you to the emergency room immediately! No one has ever suffered more than what you suffer now! Your courage in this terrifying situation is unparalled, and we will now undertake any means necessary to nurse you back to full health!"?

I think we can all agree that this would have been the only appropriate response.

But no. That's not what he said. What he said was, "Don't be crazy. You really like to make a big deal out of things, don't you? I guess we could stop at Bartells for a band-aid or something."

And that was the end of my dating career.

*It was one of those mini Dobermans. Please never own one of those. Okay? Thank you.