The Second to the Worst Date Ever

About a year ago, I met this guy. He was a friend of a friend, reasonably attractive like a blond Paul Rud, and showing me a lot of attention. He wasn't particularly funny or engaging in conversation, but he was a really good listener. I believe I gave him my email address, and we talked a bit via email and via phone for a few days until we made a date. And then I find out he was 13 years older than me, which was surprising, but not a deal breaker.

I like to do this thing when I'm going on a first date and I know there's going to be trouble deciding on a location.  - I suggest three places, and the guy chooses from those three. It's a perfect, diplomatic way to compromise without hemming and hawing. Paul Rudd and I choose Rosie's, one of my favorite first-date places. And if this guy isn't paying for my meal, I know I can afford it. (Etiquette question: my friend Sarah, who lived in Memphis for ten years, says that she doesn't care if she gets taken out for McDonald's on a first date- that guy should be paying. But WTF am I supposed to do if I actually can't afford to pay my half because it's like, the day before payday and rent was due or something? It's embarassing to both not be able to afford my half, to make that known, and to rely on my date to foot the bill. I'm not a feminist, but I'm not old fashioned, either.)

I show up at Rosie's ten minutes late, and he's patiently waiting. But has also patiently decided that we need to go somewhere else because it's too loud. (I like burgers. This was my favorite neighborhood bar. Can't hang at my bar, can't hang with me First date mistake number one.) So we head over to Sapporo, my favorite place for sushi in town except for Miyake, which isn't on the same playing field as the rest. Sapporo is good. It's not great, but it's consistent. Good food, good service, good ambiance, not too pricey if you pick the right things. He's never been, and almost immediately starts complaining that the waitress seems too fake. (First date mistake number two.) It's her job to be nice. Who cares if she sounds fake, maybe she was having a bad date. I'd prefer fake nice to outright rude, any day. First dates are about putting your best foot forward, for charming the other person and not acting crazy.

Much to my relief, he picks up the tab and we decide to give Rosie's another shot. On our walk, he tells me he wants to talk about our age difference. I actually say, "Let's not go down that road." I wasn't trying to be rude, I just honestly felt there was nothing to talk about regarding our age difference, so what was the point? Paul Rudd and I were both aware of the situation,  what was I going to say, "Hey, how were the 70s?" I changed the subject. (First date mistake number three.)

We arrive at Rosie's, sit down, and it comes out that in a few weeks I was going to be moving to his street, my very first solo apartment. He offers to loan me this couch that he has in storage, saying that he thinks it'd be perfect for my place, he wasn't using it, but that he'd need it back at some point. Whoa. Really? This was date one. Agreeing to take the couch of Paul Rudd was pretty much license for him to stay in my life for however long the couch was in the apartment, and it was nice of him to offer, but highly inappropriate. I politely declined, multiple times- he kept pressing the issue. (First date mistake number four.)  The conversation died down pretty quick after this, and sometimes I get distracted by... fashion. So it's like I'm a dude, checking out a bunch of girls, but instead of their asses I'm checking out their boots. Boots not boobs. Really, it's a bad habit, but I can't help myself. Paul Rudd takes this as an indication that I'm having a terrible time, and asks me if I'm having a terrible time. Best way to ensure that I'll start having a terrible time: ask me if I'm having a terrible time. (First date mistake number five.)

He drives me home, we're in the car, which is always the worst, most awkward way to say goodbye to someone on a date. I've got to remember to ask to be walked to the door. I decide that maybe some of the awkwardness over the course of the night was just due to jitters- sometimes getting to know someone's personality quirks takes time. There was only one way for me to figure out if Paul Rudd and I had a second date: I went in for the kiss. If it was an awesome kiss, I'd know. This was a really bold move, and I almost never do it. I get thisclose and he says, "Are you trying to kiss me?" Sheepishly, I say yes. He tells me he'd rather have a hug and talk about our age difference. I'm stunned. He proceeds to not really say anything, and I don't really have anything to say, so even though we're having "a talk" about our age difference, we're not talking.

I get out of the car, stunned, deflated, rejected. It seems like the best decision to take a few days and figure out if we can come back from this major blow. How do I know he won't pull that every single time I try to touch him, or worse, in bed? Consequently, this involves me being a little bit distant and non-responsive for two, three days. I didn't cut him out completely, just didn't make any plans. On the evening of the third day after our date, it was Gossip Girl at Keith and Maggie's. I looked forward to this Monday night with Serena and Blair every week. My phone was off while we enjoyed chips and dip, exchanging OMGs and WTFs. He had written me a really nice email earlier that day about how I was mistaken and if only I could understand how much he really did want to give him a second chance. This email swayed me to give him another chance when...

On my way out, I check my phone. Missed call from Paul Rudd and two really angry texts. "Amanda, how could you do this to me. At least show some respect and tell me that you don't feel the same. We have the same friend circle, it's a small town and this is really shitty." Whoa. I called him immediately and holy shit, was he angry. For the next half hour, we're on the phone as I head back up the Hill, having the worst break-up talk. There were sighs. Long, awkward silent pauses. All this, and we hadn't even kissed. It was awful.

His deal was that he was 37, and desperately wanted to be in a serious relationship. When he started realizing I was not going to be the one, he over compensated and pushed me away. I see him from time to time, and I never know what to say, because it was the second to the worst date I'd ever been on.

The Doppelganger

Occasionally, I get mistaken for this blonde girl who waits tables in town. She's about twenty lbs smaller and dresses better, so, I take it as a huge compliment. She's actually waited on me before, and I wonder if she knows that people tell me I look like her all the time, and what she thinks of this. And just the other day, I was at Pizza Villa, and I saw a Bradley Cooper doppelganger. If you knew anything about the clientele at Pizza Villa, you'd understand that this is really weird. Between this encounter at the Villa, celebrity doppelganger week, and the recurring doppelganger references on How I Met Your Mother, I decided to write about it.

A couple of years ago, I had a doppelganger in Portland. It started out with a mistaken identy at Shay's, in Monument Square. I was going there occasionally that summer- they had $5 bourbon lemonades served in mason jars, but the people watching was priceless. The bartender asked me if I wanted a Jim and Coke, which was weird, because although not opposed to the idea, I'd never ordered that before. I don't really name drop alcohol. Weeks later at Rosie's, where I'd consider myself something of a regular, once, the waitress asked me if I wanted a Sam Adams, which I'd also never ordered there. I kind of looked at her funny and said no, but thank you, and ordered a Hooker Brown. (Not until recently did I occur to me that the beer is called HOOKER and that's weird.) Then, when she came back for my food order, she asked if I wanted the buffalo wings with blue cheese sauce. Hold on. No way. Blue Cheese sauce is WICKED GROSS. Sam Adams, honest mistake, but there's no way I'd EVER eat blue cheese sauce. And it's not the sort of thing that someone just suggests off the menu, this was obviously a case of mistaken identity. Confirmed one morning about a week later at the office when Michelle came into work and said, "I saw Amanda's doppelganger on Wharf Street last night. She had the same purple tights and everything. I had to look long and hard before I realized it wasn't her." I looked at her really confused, and remembering NO! I wasn't in the Old Port that night. Holy shit, I have a Portland doppelganger. Really, hopefully, we never meet. What if we have to fight to the death?

This was not the case with my friend Betsy, especially because in a fight to the death, she'd probably win. She worked at a bank in Westbrook for a while, and I went in frequently for my job. Much later, we become friends, and she told me this story.

I poke fun, but Westbrook isn't that bad. I imagine that regulars at the coffeeshop there are the same regulars as at the bakery and the grocery store and the bank. I worked in Westbrook for three years, and despite the commute, the occasional encounters with crazy Westbrook people (remember that guy who showed me his colostomy bag?), and limited lunch options, I liked it. Betsy was a teller, and every so often someone would come through her line and say that they saw her at Hannaford, and that she didn't say hello back. She's really friendly, this sounds like a very uncharacteristic thing for her to do. And she realizes that no, she wasn't at Hannaford at the time you specified. Occasionally, someone calls her Megan, with absolute confidence. She's thinking, no, you're not even close, and I have a nametag. These numbers weren't adding up. One guy finally says, "You know, there's a girl named Megan who works at Hannaford who looks just like you." Betsy's like, whoa, well, I have to see this girl. Personally, I'd be terrified. So, she boldly walks into Hannaford for a bottle of seltzer, or whatever, on her way home that night, and asks the cashier if there is a girl named Megan working there who looks like her. Again, I'd be terrified. The cashier pages Megan, she comes to the front, and she asks Megan if she ever gets called Betsy. Megan says, yeah! with a 'how did you know' sort of tone in her voice. Betsy responds, well, I'm Betsy. As if this wasn't weird enough, there is one extremely distinguishing difference between the two: Megan is unmistakably cross-eyed.

Oh, and Darcy made this for me:

Lewiston High School, Class of '02

This is a re-post of a story I wrote back in `08, which I retold to Tess Van Horn and a friend earlier tonight. I think it's still funny. 


The girls and I decided to eat massive Rosie's cheeseburgers this weekend before going out to karaoke. I'm sitting there, burger juice dripping down my arm, and I see a man who I'd met a few weeks before. Since he was new in town, I prayed there was no cheeseburger on my face, turned around and said hello to the Carhart overall-wearing man on my left, Matt. We exchanged pleasantries, but it was brief, since it's not exactly polite to carry on a conversation while holding a giant cheeseburger.


A few minutes goes by, and a man comes over to our table, and crouches next to me and introduces himself.

"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"

"Matt??" I did not see the people Matt with the Carharts came in with.

"You know, my friend Matt," he gestures.

"Ohhh. That Matt." I explain that he's a friend of a friend, who I'd met only once before, meanwhile I'm thinking, what the hell is this guy doing over here, where could this possibly be going. You see, this man, who for the purpose of this story shall remain nameless, taught at my high school. It escapes me what exactly he taught, Jobs for Maine Graduates or something along those lines in the vocational wing. His classroom might have even been attached to the school store. Anyhow, I knew of this man for two reasons- the first was that my locker was right outside his class, and he was a young, handsome new teacher; the second was that he had to leave his job because he slept with student. That's right. He's Mrs. Robinson. From what I understand, the chick was 18, not that it makes it okay.

So he's going on and on. "You look so familiar, where have I seen you before, do you work downtown, etc." I'm thinking, "Holy effing shit I can't believe this is happening." Two of the three other people at my table had no idea what was going on, the other watched in horror.

It was at this time that I decided to go big or go home. I looked him directly in the face and said, "I went to Lewiston High School." He shut right up. 'Caught with his pants down' as my mother would say. It looked like I had sucker punched him in the stomach, and I wish I was quicker at the draw with the camera on the iPhone. He proceeds to make some even more awkward conversation about the high school, finally asking me if I was proud of my Lewiston heritage. I blinked twice for emphasis (did he really just ask me that?) I said I didn't know how to answer his question, because really, nine o'clock at Rosie's was neither the time nor the place for me to explain my complex feelings of being born and raised in Lewiston, let alone in front of two Bates graduates (humble, but proud and very defensive.) Finally acknowledging his defeat, he stood up and left with a meek, "Go Blue Devils."