I understand after you’ve been together for a while and you want to go somewhere special, but there are many other things to do in the country to make it special. These people who do these grand gestures are making it more tedious for your average Joe (Sorry Joe).
I get that some people just want to show their love, but how exhausting does that have to be to think of a date better than swooning your significant other in the Caribbean? What’s next, dinner on Mars? However, people are allowed to make their own decisions and I’m not judging those who are willing to do the absolute most for their partner. But this is my book, therefore my opinion, so I will introduce my opinion.
I think that, not only are the best gestures the simple ones, they mean more.
I think that I would take some fresh flowers and a note any day over something shiny and new. Not because I’m not superficial, because I definitely am. Or at least, I can be at times.
But it seems that more thought is put into the little things. The best gifts are the ones given nervously, because then you knew that gift took a lot of thought or it meant a lot.
Seeing the face of a person light up after doing something sweet for you means the world. Not that I would know—read the title of this book. But that’s how I feel on that.
On another note, the making out in public has got to stop. It’s not saccharine in the slightest. Those who engage in this physical game look like two hot and sweaty baboons in the wild, fighting over who gets to scratch the other’s butt first.
And the sounds. My gosh, the sounds, it’s enough to make you consider some things. I’ll tell you where the real gold is. A nice, long hug. That’s it. There’s no complication to it. And it’s more appealing to the eye than a slobber fest. Even holding hands is precious.
Those who save the rest for private are the ones we can rest easy with. Those who feel the need to go all out are the ones you have to steer clear of. They might be a little off. No offense, of course. In the grand scheme of things, the best partners are the ones that consider privacy a virtue. The whole world doesn’t need to know they are in love, as long as the two people involved do and are happy with each other and communicate openly. Forget appearances and trying to seem romantically perfect, in a couple of years, it would have been a waste of time anyway, because the general public you are trying impress, whether it be the literal public, friends, family, or the chihuahua down the street, may have been shortly captured, but they have short attention spans and will move on to what’s next.
If you haven’t noticed, those relationships are the ones that tend to end in tatters.
Incriminated. By a BABY.
Age 28
Another year single and another odd story. In a mysterious chain of events, I actually—gasp—met someone.
His name was Trevor and he was a mix between Cary and Jensen, how marvelous. Did I notice though? Nope. I will reinstate what I said before: I was getting desperate. How was I supposed follow my “married at forty with four” plans if I couldn’t even find a guy that mutually liked me back?
When Trevor walked into my life, I was ready. At this time, I had graduated from law school and was applying for positions as an associate in local law firms, but I had to wait a while before being contacted. And during that time, I was working from home. I also had a part-time job at the local bar and grill where I tended to practice flirting with the businessmen that came in for the two o’clock, five-dollar burgers. They were all a good twenty years older, thus lacking any appeal and already married, with bratty children they often complained about—making it a lot easier to practice flirting with them before the real deal.
Who am I kidding, there is no real deal. But, on a fateful Tuesday in March—actually, I don’t remember if it was a Tuesday or not. Or if it was in March— Trevor walked in.
He was odd looking and had a limp. I was tempted to ask what happened. Too soon for personal details, I got to learn all that on our second date. How marvelous!
He was by himself, and my first impression of him was that he looked constipated. His eyebrows were knit together, and his brown hair flopped over his green eyes. He was wearing socks and sandals with jeans and a purple button-down. He had freckles and a dimple on his chin. His ears were pierced, and he had tiny hoops dangling from his ear lobes.
Those aspects of his physical appearance were not what made me pursue him. I don’t consider myself having a type, but if I did, he definitely wasn’t it.
However, I noticed his smile when he looked up at me for the first time. So many guys are afraid to show their real smiles, and when they do, it’s really special because it’s genuine. At least, that’s what I’ve noticed.
So, when Trevor smiled and it reached his eyes, and that smile was given to me, a complete stranger, I knew he was a good guy. Breaking news, I was right. I didn’t end things with him because he wasn’t a good guy. He was just weird. Maybe worse, he was completely zany.
The first thing he said when I walked up was, “Hey, you remind me of a rambunctious galago, and you have the eyes of a slow loris.” I was unaware of what those things were, but I took it as a compliment. He, however, seemed very proud of his assessment, and I decided to let it slide when I later looked up his depiction of me.
If you want to offend someone, call them an exotic animal. This technique works every time. He was quite the charmer, if that’s the kind of thing you’re into.
As I served him, he would continually tell me things that made me smile, and the characteristics I exhibited similar to the animals he observed. Trevor was a zoologist, or rather, a zoologist in training. He was fascinated with animals, so I deemed that natural. After our quick quips of conversation, he had reached the end of his meal. Then, Trevor paid and left, but not before asking for my number and leaving a really big tip. Not only did he call me that night, but he made sure to sing his hello greeting, which was a new kind of intriguing.
He sounded like a Broadway star, and he kept singing. He first sang where he wanted to take me on our first date. Then he sang what time he would pick me up. He then sang goodbye. So, this was good news for me because I didn’t have to go to New York anymore. I got to enjoy a show right then and there.
Any normal, non-desperate person would have turned the poor lad down. Alas, I have the curse of a simpleton. I got so much trash-talk from my friends, I’ll tell you that. Tina laughed when I told her that he said I reminded him of an animal.
Carol spit out her soda when I reenacted the Broadway phone call. The worst part of all of this was that it was the most normal thing Trevor had ever done.
Later that evening, after I had finished getting ready for our date, I heard a honk outside my door. I live in an apartment building on the tenth floor. I passed it off as possible hysteria and continued to contemplate life. But then I heard it again and went to the door. If I know anything about horror movies, you never just open the door when things seem odd or uncertain.
So, I made sure to ask who it was, and then I opened the door after I received no response.
Yes, it’s true, I value my safety.
Low and behold, it was Trevor standing at my front door. He was clad in a plaid suit with a floral top hat, and he was holding a horn. I should have shut the door, shook it off, and started a movie marathon. However, I find it more fun to do stupid stuff like going to dinner with a clown. He took me to a place called Cal’s diner and Spirits. It was a clown show. Hence, Trevor’s outfit. I was there for the free food. All things considered, the menu was extensive, ranging from tacos to pizookies.
Trevor pulled up in front of the restaurant and stopped abruptly.
“Okay, Waverly, you can get out here and grab a table while I park. There are no spots up front, so I’ll have to park in the back.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt, got out, and said, “Okay.” As I walked through the doors of the restaurant, I got squirted by a water gun. Anyone else would have laughed or been caught off guard. But ever the overdramatic kind, I gasped an
d said, “I’ve been shot!” The waiter who was the water gun culprit looked at me with amusement.
“Table for two.”
He smiled and guided me to a booth right in front of a stage.
Let me paint a picture for you so you can envision that night. The outside of the restaurant was a dark cherry wood with cobblestone steps leading up to the entrance. There was no official parking, just grass. And the sign for the restaurant was a clown head with a bowtie that detailed the restaurant’s name.
The place was jam-packed, so I knew the food had to be good, and I prayed I wasn’t entering some cult.
The inside of the building was something else entirely, and it had a marble floor and blue velvet walls. There was a gigantic chandelier in the entrance that reflected off the floor to ceiling mirrors. I felt more like I was in Buckingham Palace as opposed to a bar and grill.
Despite the classical look, there were sprinkles of circus decorations in flamboyant colors, making the whole thing come together as a royal circus. The waiter guided me to the table, which was covered with a pink velvet cloth. The centerpiece was a large vase full of tulips.
A moment later, Trevor found me and sat down. He seemed flustered and out of breath. His cheeks were colored red and his hat was dirty.
“Trevor, oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?”
He met my eyes and shrugged. “I ran into an old work friend. He was fired for disturbing the animals in their habitat. And I’m the one who exposed him.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Trevor had just been assaulted outside a clown restaurant.
I wanted to explode with anger. I was about to get up when he grabbed my hand. “No, no it’s not what you think. I wasn’t hurt or anything, he just snatched my hat off my head and stomped on it. Repeatedly. He is known for his childlike temper tantrums.”
“Then why do you look like you were running from a rabid dog?”
Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Can we just change the subject, that moron doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.” I honored his wishes and zoomed in on what I wanted from the menu. There were so many options.
I looked up and said, “Hey, you’ve been here before, what do you suggest?”
Trevor dawned a large grin and told me to flip to the back of the menu. There, on the last page, was a whole selection dedicated to roadkill. I kid you not, this fancy restaurant served roadkill. I almost barfed considering the notion.
“Why would I order something that probably has remnants of rubber in it?”
But it was too late. Our waitress walked up and ordered our drinks. Trevor held his hand up, “I got this.” We would like two glasses of orange juice, and the mystery roadkill special.”
I was so mentally confused at the vitamin C and (possible) dead rat combo that I had to excuse myself for the bathroom. I also probably should have told him I was a vegetarian before trusting him with my order. Hey, don’t judge, I was nervous.
The bathroom was even more baffling than the restaurant itself. The entrance to the bathroom was an illusion.
It was covered in stripes, and the doorknob was camouflaged. I kept trying to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. I was about to give up when it suddenly flung open and a woman walked out. She looked at me like I was a public disturbance and scoffed as she walked by. Apparently, the door was just one of those swing doors. The inside was even worse. The sink mirrors were funhouse inspired: one made you look like a straw, the other made you look like a beach ball.
The sink faucets were in the shape of clown shoes.
And there were balloon animals littered all around. The whole bathroom was painted lime green. Each bathroom stall door had a different type of clown painted on it.
I’ve never peed so fast in my life.
When I arrived back to the table, the food was already out. And Trevor, ever the gentleman, had already dug in. He was eating like it was his first meal. Ever. Somehow, there was barbeque sauce on the side of his mouth. Yet, there was no sauce in sight.
I sat down cautiously.
I heard its bad to disturb a pig during feeding time.
It took a minute for Trevor to notice me and he finally put down what looked like a squirrel leg to explain to me what was on the crystal glass plate in front of me. Who puts rotting flesh on crystal?
“Okay, Waverly, what you have in front of you is brazed squirrel, fried possum liver, and charred armadillo snout. Just dig in with your hand, it’s easier to get at the tough meat with your teeth.”
I decided to pay the funky bathroom another visit.
This time releasing from the other end of my body. When I returned for the second time, Trevor’s plate was empty and my plate gone. In its place, a to-go box.
“I figured you weren’t that hungry, so you can just bring your food home and eat it later. And anyway, you don’t want to be distracted when the show starts,” Trevor said through a full mouth.
Right as I was trying to configure a lie that would excuse me from this nightmare of a date, the lights in the whole restaurant dimed. A spotlight turned on, aiming straight for the stage. There, front and center, were two clowns. One was an Auguste with a red yarn wig, and big red ball as a nose. He had the classic rainbow suspenders and purple polka dot bowtie, as well as big yellow suitcase. The other was levitating above an invisible chair and making hand movements to illustrate that he was in a box. They both had these creepy grins painted on their face and started doing a variety of tricks, starting with the first clown pulling a German Shepherd out of the suitcase.
A freaking German Shepherd.
After taking it backstage, the Auguste clown returned and started making balloon animals rapid fire while the other had graduated from a chair to a car.
There was so much going on at once that I didn’t even notice the third clown that came up behind me, swooped me up, and pressed an invisible button on my nose that started salsa music.
At first, I kept stepping on his big clown feet, but then I got the hang of it, and the clown handed me over to Trevor, who was surprisingly good at salsa dancing. Soon, the entire restaurant was on their feet gliding to the music. It was the most fun I’d ever had on a date and the only reason I agreed to go back with Trevor to his apartment and watch a documentary on killer whales.
Definitely dug my own grave.
After paying the check and leaving a twenty-dollar tip, Trevor had me wait at the entrance of the restaurant and went to get the car.
He pulled up and I hopped inside, off we went. I was so taken aback when he pulled up to my apartment. I looked at Trevor expectantly. “Wait, Trevor, did you change your mind? I thought we were going to your apartment.”
Trevor looked at me with amusement, “This is where my apartment is, I live on the sixth floor.”
“Why am I just hearing of this? Why didn’t you say that when you picked me up?”
He turned red. “No offense, but when you told me your address, I didn’t want you to know that I lived in the same complex just in case the date ended badly, and we decided to never see one another again.”
I’ll admit that was fair, so I gave him a pat to know it was okay and we walked into the building.
When we arrived at apartment 6B, the first thing I noticed was the wreath outside the door. It was designed with colorful fall leaves, and a banner that said Welcome to Trev’s res.
It was kind of quirky, which I admired. But I’m pretty sure I’m only allowed to enjoy a date for a certain amount of time before it turns to complete crud.
This next part happened in slow-motion.
Trevor put his keys into the door and turned it. As he swung the door open, I got a face full of taxidermy.
Every corner, every crevice, on tables, hanging from the ceiling, as far as the eye could see, there were preserved exotic animals. There were lizards, large cats, nocturnes, and a bat that hung right in front of the entrance. It looked like it was screaming, and the big eyes bore into my soul.
&
nbsp; Not only was I disturbed, I also wanted to laugh.
I should’ve known it would be just my luck to enter the house of a literal freak.
I didn’t want to hurt Trevor’s feelings just because I found his passion disturbing. So, I sat on his plastic-wrapped brown couch and waited patiently for him to start the movie. He took his sweet time, which meant I got to look at all the animals a second time and grow even more unsettled.
After what felt like twenty minutes of searching, Trevor found the documentary he wanted to show me and turned off the lights. I braced myself for the two hours of pure discomfort.
We watched in silence, except for Trevor bringing up facts about whale mating habits, and how they caught their food in pods. By the end, I was ready to go. As the end credits rolled and I was about to leave, Trevor begged me to have dessert with him. I complied. He said there would be ice cream and I’m a sucker for that sweet treat, as you know.
He went into the kitchen and I heard the rustle of dishes clinking. He came out a moment later and handed me my bowl. The bowl was filled to the top with vanilla ice cream that had what looked like bits of some type of candy in it.
“Now this is very special ice cream, I got it from the backwoods of Australia, it took two weeks to ship and a month to make, the chewy bits are—”
Before Trevor could finish that sentence, I had already taken a bite.
The ice cream was very sweet, and the candy mixed in was squishy, as I continued to suck on the candy the outer layer dissolved away to reveal what felt long and hairy. I was concerned for my health and spit out the bit back into the bowl, and what I saw almost made me pass out.
There, sitting on the top of my mound of ice cream, was a mangled tarantula leg. Not only did I scream at the top of my lungs, but I also chucked the bowl across the room, hitting a Coati and ran out the door of the apartment, hearing the calls of Trevor fade as I went straight to my apartment and into my bathroom to brush my teeth. One hundred times.
Warning Page 9
