You Had Me at "White Shoes"

Last week I watched the Felicity where her art teacher sets her up on a blind date with her son. The date is terrible, he's still bitter about an ex, she never wants to see him again, blah-blah, blah-blah. Of course two episodes later she is sleeping with him. Because that is the way things turn out in TV land. Bad dates turn into great boyfriends.

Not so in real life.

The episode got me thinking about the one honest to goodness set-up blind date I'd ever been on, also set up by the gentleman's mother.

It was, hands down, the worst date I have ever been on. I feel bad that the story has made its way into the folklore of my life and sometimes I think the fact that I still tell it continually increases my bad dating karma. But, whatever.

It was a few months after I graduated from North Carolina and I was waitressing at Blue Water Grill in Union Square. The restaurant is relatively pricey, which was good, but they run the place like corporate Nazis and I did not fit in to the environment. In other words, I was a sucky waitress.

One day I served an older woman there for some sort of client business lunch. We started chatting and it turned out she was a literary agent and producer of some sort. She thought I was sweet and she invited me for coffee to talk about her experiences in "the business" as a woman. We planned to meet later that week.

Fast forward, she doesn't actually want to advise or mentor me at all rather she wants to set me up with her son. She was all coy about it of course, "I don't usually do this, but..."

Sure lady.

Again, non-jaded me agrees, no questions asked. So "Eric" is supposed to call me. And he does. And we talk and he seems relatively normal. So we agree to meet. He asks me (remember this for later HE ASKS ME) to a concert in central park (free) and dinner (presumably not free).

Then he tells me how I will recognize him. He says he looks like Noah Wylie and he will be wearing white shoes.

Can you see where this is going?

I adore Noah Wylie. He is one of very few celebrity crushes I have allowed myself over the years (also and in no particular order: Mark Ruffalo, Ed Norton and Ben Schenkman). But I should have known. No one who actually looks like Noah Wylie would have the gumption to say they look like Noah Wylie.

And, um, white shoes? Sure, it was summer and I don't care about the white after labor day shit anyway, but quick - picture a cool pair of white shoes (not sneakers, he didn't say sneakers or tennis shoes). Can't do it, right?

Exactly.

So there we are at one of the upper west side corners of the park and across the street is a short man with a pony tail, jeans, a dress shirt tucked into the jeans, and shiny white dress shoes.

So. Not. Noah. Wylie.

Anyway the date unfolded in several choice moments including but not limited to: him telling me that he hated to identify as Jewish because he didn't really like most Jews and he thought it pigeon holed him, him explaining - loudly on the subway - how much he hated Oprah Winfrey and thought she was a fake, and finally him arguing that he was more of a feminist than any of his female friends because they chose to oppress themselves in ways that they didn't even recognize because the oppression was so deeply ingrained in their psyche.

Which is why, of course, he absolutely could not treat me to dinner.

So, right - check comes, we'd ended up at a bistro in the East Village - his choice - cash only, I have none on me. He does. He has plenty of cash. But he won't pay for me because that would be oppressing me and he doesn't want to do that (I am not making this up). I look at him, puzzled, "Do you want me to go to an ATM?"

"I am sure there is one in the deli on the corner. I noticed it on the way here."

Needless to say, I thought about not returning when I went to get the cash. But at the time I still thought I didn't want to be rude, more because I felt some sense of obligation to his mother (who HAD paid for my coffee). I return, I pay my half of the bill (which he'd kindly figured out for me) and I say goodbye. He says something about "Do this again" and I mumble a "Sure" or "Of course" or something vaguely non-committal but not a no, because I am young and not jaded and A TOTAL PUSSY, and I just want him to go away but I don't want to actually say that.

Over the next week he calls several times. This is pre cell phones, so he leaves messages on my voicemail service (ahhh, voicemail services) or on my phone at home. Then one day he catches me. I answer my home phone, I don't look at caller ID, and sure enough...

"Ummm, CityMouse? I've been trying to call you. Didn't you get my messages? Why didn't you call me back?"

"ahhhhh, yeah, llkjsdh mmmgmmfmmtthlk...? (meek excuse about being really busy)"

He then launches into a twenty minute tirade about how indirect and inconsiderate I was (in a way he was right, but hello pot meet kettle) and finishes it off with:

"And my mom never wants to talk to you again! She thinks you are flakey now too."

I never did hear from him again, which was good. I did however think I'd handled the situation poorly, which was bad. And after that I vowed that I would never again let a mother set me up with her son.

Unless she's Mark Ruffalo's mom, in which case I would make an exception.