Dreadful dating disasters

by Chris Blakemore, Graphics Specialist

Failure runs prominently throughout the annals of my dating history. Now a grown man, at least in the sense of complaining about today’s music and experiencing mysterious joint pain, I can look back on my courting woes with a nostalgic smile. Although there were many embarrassing situations in which I choked worse than Tony Romo, there are three occurrences that really stand out. (To protect the identities of the innocent, I will be referring to the ladies as Spice Girls.)


Engaging in a promising profession as a line cook at a local pizza restaurant, I had the pleasure of working with a number of attractive girls. One such girl was Sporty Spice. After numerous failed attempts of wooing her through promises of being placed at the top of my America Online buddy list, I finally seized an opportunity to take her to a party. The plan was for us to drive to the party, have more fun than a Taylor Swift video, and drive back. Apparently, this plan went to the love gods’ voicemail.

In the midst of our partying, I somehow agreed to also give a ride home to an inebriated friend of ours, as it just so happened his house was in close proximity to Sporty’s. An experienced Casanova would have dropped off the intoxicated guy first, creating a quiet moment alone with the female subject. Well, this Romeo didn’t think that far ahead — I dropped her off first.

As I backed out of her driveway, I could feel the cold stare of disbelief and death emanating from my drunken friend’s eyes. The profanity-laced lecture I received from him on the ensuing ride back to his house was reminiscent of R. Lee Ermey from Full Metal Jacket. Rest assured, that error was never repeated. The Ill-Timed Drop Off of ’98 went down as an unforgiveable blunder. Naivety: thy name is Blakemore.


Going on advice from my friends who, looking back, were probably just screwing with me, I summoned up the courage to go into my local bank and finally ask out the attractive teller who I’d had my eye on for so long: Scary Spice. The plan was to time the line just right so I’d get called to her window, make a withdrawal, and casually ask for her phone number. Apparently, this plan was not faxed to the love gods.

When I got to the front of the line, another teller, who looked like the forbidden love child of Jack Black and a dilapidated pumpkin, called me over to his window. Panic set in. What to do? I pulled out my Zack Morris-sized cell phone and pretended like I got a text message. Smooth, right? This would buy me some time. I looked up and Scary was staring at me from her window with a look of utter bewilderment. I ignored the other teller, who at this point was more confused than a monkey trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube, and walked over to her.

Scary processed my contrived banking transaction and asked if there was anything else. Unfortunately, the sensation of warm urine trickling down my right pant leg prevented me from telling her as such. I froze up like a deer in the headlights. I walked out with my tail tucked between my wet legs and never went back. The fear of rejection overtook my hopes of penetration. Between the awkward fake text message and choking in front of my supposed dream girl, the Great Bank Freeze of ’02 was probably the most uncomfortable moment of my life.


After being securely in the friend zone for too long, my libido finally said enough is enough. I decided to make my move and ask out my longtime crush: Baby Spice.

Valentine’s Day was coming up, so I bought Baby a cuddly teddy bear, complete with a card that professed my undying adoration and hopefulness for a relationship, and had it sent to her house. The plan was for her to get the bear, read the card, and fall in love. I guess the plan went to the love gods’ spam folder.

For days, I stared at my cell phone, waiting for that generic Nokia ringtone to deliver the good news that Baby received the bear and would come running into my arms. Sadly, FedEx must have had their GPS in sleep mode, because the bear was delivered to her neighbor’s house. Although the 63-year old Megan’s Law Member of the Month was flattered, he was not my intended target.

Once the bear was eventually delivered to the proper residence, Baby called, but was uninterested. Eighty dollars and one nearsighted delivery driver later, I was still single. The Lost Bear Experience of ’05 was just one more notch in my leather belt of failure.

Today, I’ve lost all contact with the girls mentioned above, and I wonder if they even remember the humiliating situations that I still recall so clearly. Whatever the case, these incidents have led me to who I am today: a happily married man and father to a beautiful son. My only hope is that he doesn’t have to go through the same heartache I did. With me there to teach him what not to do, I think he’ll be just fine.

Just don’t expect me to buy him any teddy bears.