So. Mr. Gotcha and I went out on our first date. We went to Vietnam on 11th street. Of course, there are like 13 restaurants called Vietnam on 11th street and they all happen to be either next to each other or right across the street. Of course, I walked into the wrong one. He saw me walking into the wrong one, which was corrected with a simple phone call. We exchanged hugs and our date was officially begun.
Allow me to first say that, there are quite a few male people who need a refresher course on chivalry and manners. Mr. Gotcha has got that on lock. He opened every single door, hung on just about my every word, is actually interested in the things I do and even waited for my car to come down—in fact, insisted– at the parking garage—despite my insisting I’m a big girl and can handle the task of getting my car.
I appreciate a man who knows his uh…place. What I mean by that is a man who knows that there are certain standards of courtship that should not waver. Bump that. There are certain standards of manhood that should not waver. Taking care of the woman you’re with at the time—no matter how independent she’s screaming—is a really big deal. It did not go unnoticed.
Anyway, on the phone (prior to our date), Mr. Gotcha warned me about this drink Vietnam serves. He called it a sweet, Asian version of a Long Island iced tea. I told him heeeeeeeelllll naw. I ain’t ending up in nobody’s trunk on the first date.
But then, I’m reading the ingredients on the menu: Rum, sour mix, fruit pulp, orange spritz, and a whole bunch of other very unassuming ingredients. I actually laughed out loud at him. I told him, I may be from Bucks County, but I ain’t no punk. (I also needed a sip of something to take the edge off so I was just about down for anything) . I’m thinking, how is this punk ass drink gonna get me got? I used to drink Grand Marnier (while smoking cigars). Please.
So then the drink comes. It has the nerve to be in this tall, green, tourist looking glass that is better seen than explained. And yes. There was an umbrella. Now I’m really laughing. I actually said out loud—you have me vexing over this punk ass drink? HA HA HA! The words : punk, ass, and drink actually came out of my mouth as I’m laughing.
Three sips in, I get really quiet.
Mr. Gotcha: You alright?
Me: yeah…I’m cool.
Mr. Gotcha: You sure?
Me: Uh huh.
Meanwhile, my head is spinning, and I will say whatever it is they put in that drink is not even the slightest bit of a joke. I’m a horny little 119 pounds without any help of drink or smoke, but that stuff is on a whole other level. The actual name of the drink was “Suffering Bastard” or something like that. I’ve renamed it: “Unassuming Dumbass Who Laughs Out Loud at Punk Ass Drinks”. I was having a tough time keeping my composure.
I think also, the drink “fiasco” is also a kind of parable for the rest of the date and possibly the rest of my life. Work with me on this one. For years and years, I have dated a certain type of guy. Always with so much mouth and game and “swag”. These dudes, from my experience, have always been duds in the end. Great opening ceremonies, horrible end game. Couldn’t win the championship if the other team was tied up on the sidelines and all they had to do was shoot lay ups all night– Forgive my sports talk ladies—that was kind of for the fellas.
Admittedly, while I enjoyed Mr. Gotcha’s conversation and our e-mail chats and what not. I wasn’t really expecting much. He got nervous the first time we spoke on the phone and of course, my initial reaction was: “how is this punk ass dude gonna handle Bucks County gangsta ass me?”
Huh. If just like art—drinks imitate life. Gotcha!
So dinner was good. Conversation was good. It was apparent he enjoyed looking at me, which was an ego booster. We hung out at the restaurant until I finished at least ¾ of my –by this time watered down (because I added water and let the ice melt) very potent fruit micky in drink form ( I was determined at that point that the drink would NOT win) and then we went to walk around China town.
We passed this store that looked kind of cheesy and were compelled to go in. We walked around and looked at Asian trinkets, plates, fans, umbrellas, and swords. Somewhere between the plates and fans, he pulled me close to him in a “Prince Charming Romance Novel” way and kissed me. *Swoon*
The kiss was a perfect blend of passion and causality, like it was on the fly and on purpose. Just the right amount of everything. I was impressed.
We kept flirting and walking until it made sense to end the date before something happened that we’d both regret in the morning (after that “punk ass” drink left our systems). A night well spent on all accounts. (Total not a waste of the 19 hours of hair, make up and wardrobe styling it took for me to ready myself for a casual night on the town—thanks team!)
It turns out, Mr. Gotcha holds his own in the “swag” department as well.
I have been known to compare dating me to watching a train wreck. In which case, the train is me and the wreck is the guy courting me. They see the train coming and want to walk away, but they just can’t. They just stand there and let the train hit them. Funny. He sent me an e-mail later that night that read: “The Envy train has officially smacked into me…”
Yeah. Me too.
The moral of this story? Not one to be found here. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. I’ll keep you posted on our progress (within reason). Peace and Abundant FIRST DATE blessings! –e-