When I woke up the next day, I planned to assume my usual pre-wedding practice of house hunters until Nancy approached me.
“Get up! We’re making party favors!” Nancy exclaimed.
Shit.
She began to make party favors. I began to eat them.
This continued throughout the day until it was almost time for my next date with the bumble girl.
She claimed that she had a good vegan restaurant to try.
“Greattt can’t wait to eat what bunnies eat for dinner,” I thought. But I agreed to the location and we set the time.
I had a dinner with almost all of Nancy’s side of the family at my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s restaurant before my bunny dinner with the bumbler, so I could hedge my stomach’s wants in the event homegirl’s restaurant was.. bleh.
I wasn’t sure what to wear, though.
“Should I wear the Lulu lemon shirt and keep it casual orrr class it up a bit with a button down?” I thought.
True first world problems.
It was time for the family dinner.
I decided to keep it casual with the lulu lemon shirt, but bring the button down with me just in case.
Family dinners — they areee a mixed bag. Of course I love my family, but for any family, there are always a few family members that you just want to avoid.
When I got to the family dinner, I had the prime position of sitting next to the one that you want to avoid.
For the sake of family harmony, I won’t name any names. But this particular aunt was.. different.
She once claimed Michael Jackson recorded his Thriller album in her basement. This, of course, was after her long stent as an investigator with the FBI and after she invented the recycle symbol. She was also a notorious one-upper.
I was ecstatic to hear about the most recent developments in her life.
She was writing a book.
“Good God,” I thought. The inner workings of this woman’s mind on paper… Maybe some astrophysicists will get a hold of one of the copies and discover that in the midst of her ramblings she has invented time travel.
I’m sure it will be in Barnes & Noble nationwide and taught at the Albert Einstein Center for Fundamental Physics soon.
I gabbed with the whole fam, while trying to distance myself from the FBI-music-producing author, and fielded opinions and suggestions on what shirt I should wear for the dinner date with homegirl.
I told my family I was meeting a “friend in town,” because telling them I was meeting up with someone I swiped right on through Bumble would be too weird and too hard to explain.
I loaded up on candied bacon and sour beer during the dinner to qwell any need for food I might ultimately have for the night.
It was time to go. I asked Jer-bear if I could borrow the keys to his whip — a top of the line ’03 Chevrolet Tahoe and real chick magnet — for the date. Jer-bear agreed and I was off.
On the way to pick her up, I jammed to some classic 90s tunes and felt comfortable with the decision to wear my lulu lemon shirt.
“I’m here,” I messaged her still wearing the lulu lemon shirt.
“Alright, I’ll be down in a minute!” she replied.
I looked at the outfit on my person one more time.
Shit.
Too casual.
I whipped the car around the corner and behind her apartment building, jumped out of the car, ripped off the lulu lemon shirt, opened the trunk, and put on the button down.
It was quite the sight for anyone watching.
I jumped back in the car and whipped back in front of her place. Just as I put it in park, she came walking out.
The timing was —
And she would neverrr know. Muwahaha
She was wearing a black dress with heels. Her hair had definitely been done. And she had makeup on. Maybe a little too much.
“Thank the good lord I changed shirts,” I thought.
She got in and we began our trek to my first vegan restaurant.
We talked about the family dinner I just had on the drive — I excluded the FBI aunt.
When we got to the restaurant, we sat outside.
It was summer and I was wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt.
“This is gonna be a warm one,” I thought.
I looked the menu over, which had some interesting options and ingredients I was not familiar with.
“Tf is this?” was my internal response to many of the items.
“Now this is what I meant by what do you eat,” I thought. But I guess French fries was the more obvious answer for homegirl when I asked her what she ate as a vegan.
Our waitress approached. She looked strikingly like Leslie Jones.
I asked Leslie what her favorite thing on the menu was. I had to contain the Ghostbusters theme song ringing through my head when she answered.
Leslie suggested the ravioli.
I asked the bumbler what her favorite thing was.
Bumbler liked the tamale.
Another first world problem — to listen to the bumbler or Leslie Jones.
I ended up ordering the tamale and the bumbler ordered the ravioli.
When I took my first bite I was pleasantly surprised with my rabbit dinner entree. It was actually really good. Bumbler offered me some of her ravioli.
The ravioli was better.
Dammit.
Should have listened to Leslie.
We talked about more topics and bumbler continued her manufactured speech on world events and news.
It was the conversation you have with your grandparents when you spout the marginal amount of information you know about the world to show them that despite being a millennial, you are informed.
We were both ready to leave.
“Do you want to go get a drink or something?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t drink,” she responded.
Wow. How interestingggg.
I hadn’t drank in about five months to get in shape for my sister’s wedding, so going out with someone who also didn’t drink would be a new thing for me.
We agreed on a place and were on our way.
“How do people break the ice further without alcohol,” I thought. “Do they actually get to know each other on a sober level??”
We went to a couple of bars and the conversation started to flow more naturally. We sat down outside at a whiskey bar, and our waitress approached us with a purpose —
“What are you drinking?” she said directly.
“I’m not having anything,” said the bumbler.
The waitress turned to me.
It was gametime — to drink and further the conversation with liquid courage or not to drink and do it on my own.
“Can you give me just a second,” I said.
She left.
I thought for about thirty seconds and then the abrasive waitress approached us again.
I missed Leslie.
“What are you having?” she said.
“I’ll just have a water,” I replied.
The waitress looked at me as if I had just punted her dog.
“How dare you order water a whiskey bar,” she must have thought. Or I looked remarkably like someone who had recently punted her dog.
The bumbler and I continued our conversation and eventually left the whiskey bar.
I never drank my water.
We walked to the coffee shop where we first met since it was only about a block away.
There was a homeless man on the corner.
He looked at us and mumbled “want some pizza?”
He opened a pizza box with about a quarter of a pizza left in it.
A few things went through my mind — where tf did this man find pizza, how long had this pizza been in this box, who told this man this was a good idea, and what kind of pizza was it?
We walked past him. None of my questions were answered.
We sat down outside again. I was really loving the heat — sarcasm. The conversation was flowing naturally now.
“Let’s take a picture,” she said.
I thought this was weird because I had known her for a little more than 24 hours. Most girls I go on dates with don’t want a picture until much later when more emotional attachments had been made.
— I would later learn that she did this with many different men she fancied. We will get to that. —
I liked taking pictures, so I agreed. We took two or three selfies then she decided we needed help from an outside party.
“Oh lord,” I thought. “I have opened Pandora’s box of selfies.”
We looked around and asked the youngest looking couple available. Because we all know the older generations don’t take the greatest mobile phone pictures.
And hey, I don’t blame them. They didn’t have picture phones for most of their life. So to all the individuals hating on the older people picture taking skills — lay off gosh darn it.
#LetTheSeniorsTakeTheirPictures
It turns out the person we approached was a photography student, so he gladly accepted.
She handed him the camera, he got in a squatting photographer stance and took our picture. The bumbler did not look pleased.
“The angle must not have suited her” I thought.
We thanked him for his effort.
We set off to find another person to take our picture.
“Why couldn’t I have just left Pandora’s selfie box closed?” I asked myself. “Maybe if I go back and buy the mystery pizza from the homeless man, this situation can be averted.”
Homeless pizza man was gone. So the search for the perfect angle continued.
We walked back toward the bars. And I began to analyze who this girl was again —
She likes pictures taken of herself. And she is vegan.
“Need more info,” I thought.
We approached a loud bar that was emanating a blue glow from inside. The music sounded like the usual “BOOM BOOM BOOM” dance music, which I did not especially like. But the most interesting things about the place were the sign, which was written in some kind of Eastern European language and the people out front — all of whom sported a gold chain.
This is where she stopped for picture time.
A clearer picture of the type of girl she was began to come into focus.
“Greattttt.” I thought
Should have know then this would be a different relationship.
She approached a plumper man, who fit the profile of the individuals in the bar, and asked him to take our picture.
He began to take our picture when homegirl told him “higher!” He wasn’t an especially tall individual, so his hands were above his head.
“She’s really wants that angle,” I thought.
After about two or three more pictures, he handed the camera back, she approved and then we decided it was time to leave.
“Alright, one thing is definitelyyy clear. She likes pictures.” I thought. “And not just pictures. But pictures with the correct angle.”
God help the soul who takes a picture of the lower angle. This was also a forecast for what was to come in our relationship. But, again, we will get to that.
When we got back to her apartment, I parked at a meter in front of the building.
“Can I walk you up,” I asked.
“Yeah, sure” she replied.
We walked up a flight of stairs to her apartment. We approached the door. The butterflies had returned.
“Do I ask her to kiss me again? Do I just go for it? Not sure if I really want another hug.” I thought.
She opened the door and turned around.
“I had fun tonight,” I said — my usual opener for a closing situation.
“Yeah, me too,” she replied.
She was slowly moving inside her apartment. And I was slowly moving with her.
I eventually made it inside the apartment. And I looked around at the picture loving bumbler’s apartment.
— Her apartment was very organized and clean. Maybe too clean.
“My apartment usually looks this clean when I’m expecting company,” I thought. “Maybe she cleaned, because she knew me coming to her place tonight was a possibilty?”
There were many sticky notes with a schedule of future academic goals and books to read on her fridge. I was impressed.
“Maybe those opinions she was spouting were hers, and I judged too early” I thought. “I’m a terrible person for judging.”
More information needed to be collected, though. Much much more.
I was brought back to the situation at hand —
She was playing coy.
I knew what to do.
I made my move and gave her a big ol kiss.
For the sake of preserving “the moves” and the privacy of the situation I will leave the next 7 hours of the story out.
I woke up the next day in the bumbler’s bed.
My phone read 8:30 a.m.
I absorbed the information somewhat.
Then I processed it.
“OH SHIT! TODAY IS THE WEDDING!”
“OH SHIT! THE CAR IS STILL PARKED IN FRONT OF THE METER!”
“OH SHIT! I STILL HAVE JER’S CAR!”
TO BE CONTINUED —