Biloxxxi's Woodshed

Let’s visit once more the gift that keeps on giving, my dating life. There is a point to all of this, I swear. It’s leading up to one of the greatest events of all time. Chronologically, this tale should have been posted before the Kiss of Death, but I’d kinda blocked it from memory. Recanting these tales of dating woe have brought back a lot of repressed memories for your reading enjoyment… (Someone remind me why I’m doing this again?)

When I was a freshman in college, I met this girl Samantha (not her real name). I don’t exactly remember how, but we hit it off pretty good. We went on a couple of little faux-dates and in my naievety I assumed we were dating. One day while I was driving back down to school from my parents’ house in Atlanta, I got a speeding ticket in Conyers. That’s where Samantha was from. When it came to go pay the ticket, we set up a little date thing to go have dinner with her parents in Conyers so I could meet them and pay my ticket at the same time. This dating thing was working out swimmingly.

We should rewind here for a moment and recall how I came to believe that we were dating. On one of our first adventures together, Samantha and I wound up at Wal-Mart looking at fish in the pet section. Since we lived in the dorms, fish were about the only pets we were allowed to have and she mentioned that she would like to have one.  I filed this away in my head. Please keep in mind that at this point in my life, I still thought you could pick up chicks by being thoughtful and considerate and treating them well. <—– Doesn’t Work

Samantha’s birthday was a week or two later, so I pulled a page out of my Damn Fine Ideas book and bought her a beta fish. I purchased it the day before her birthday and I’d read somewhere that you can put beta fish in a vase with flowers and it will survive. That sounded like a mildly romantic idea, so I picked up a little vase from Kroger with a flower in it. I went back to my dorm room and put the fish into the vase with the flower and it looked pretty good to me. I set it up on the shelf above my desk and went on about my business.

The next day was her birthday and when I came back from class to get ready to go out, I took a look at the fish and for no other reason than this story is about me, the fish was dead. Evidently, they put some fertilizer or something in the water in those flower vases and I neglected to change that water before I put the Catata Fish in. End result: Muerta

So I ran ran ran back to Wal-Mart to find another fish really quick. This time I bought some of those little rocks that go in the bottom of the fish tank and I bought a big glass milk pitcher. I filled the pitcher with fresh water and put the rocks in the bottom. I put the flower vase inside the pitcher and used the rocks to kinda hold it in there. Then I threw in the fish and it turned out really nice. That’s why I get paid the big bucks.

I walked over to her dorm and gave her the fish. She loved it. We went out to dinner and then to the bar for karaoke. Then we ended the night with a little make out session. All in all, I thought I was pretty safe in my assumption that we were dating.

So, back to the story at hand. We’d gone to Conyers, paid my ticket, and met her family. A pretty successful evening if I might say so myself. As we were making the hour long trip back to Milledgeville, I felt that rumble in my belly reminiscent of the 2nd most embarrassing story ever. “No big deal.” I thought. “I can make it back to Milledgeville.” I sped up the El Camino a little and tried to tough it out.

Now in most situations, you’d just find the nearest gas station and take care of your business. But this wasn’t a normal situation. We were on Hwy 212 and back then, once you got outside Conyers, there wasn’t anything on 212 till you got to Milledgeville. No stores, no restaurants, no gas stations, no nothing. Except Nuwabians, there were those. Times were getting desperate and I flat out told her that something bad wrong was happening in my stomach. I guess I was just covering the bases in case the situation went to shit (which it most likely would).

I was probably doing about 90 mph down this back highway trying to make it to somewhere where I could exorcise this demon bursting forth within me. Finally, with beads of sweat pouring down my face, we came across a gas station on the outskirts of the ‘Ville. It was one of those old style gas stations with the bathrooms on the exterior, so I ran inside and grabbed the key (which was attached to a hubcap) from the attendant. I have no idea why I needed the key because the bathroom door had no door knob on it anymore and wouldn’t close all the way anyway. I told Samantha to run blocker for me and I ventured in.

Who doesn't play guitar with a capo? This guy...

I was ill-prepared for the sight that met my eyes. To say that there was a toilet in there, while technically correct, would be a loose interpretation of the word. The bowl portion of the porcelain abomination was missing a pretty large chunk and there was shit-water running out into the floor through a crack in the front. It didn’t matter, I had no other alternative. The best I could do was to stand on the edges of the toilet bowl (there was no seat, and even if there was, I’m pretty sure that’s how you get crabs.) and squat. It was horrid, but I survived. I collected my dignity and we finished the trip to Milledgeville with nary a word spoken about the situation.

The next time Samantha and I hung out, I decided to try to make this little relationship a bit more official. As we were returning from a movie, I brought up “our relationship.” She seemed shocked that I thought we were dating and quickly shot down that idea. I learned an important lesson about the women folk that night. Evidently they have two ladders. A friend ladder and a dating ladder. The top of that friends ladder is eerily similar to the dating ladder, with one major exception. You’re just friends. All I had done was make a fancy climb up to the top of a ladder I never wanted to be on in the first place.

This kinda pissed me off/hurt my feelings and at that time, I had a tendency to say things that I’d regret later. And I said a lot of things. Plus I sorta made fun of her boyfriend a few months later for playing a guitar with a capo. Long story short, her last words to me were “I hope you die in a fiery D.U.I. wreck.” Damn I’ve come a long way…

This entry was posted on Friday, September 18th, 2009 at 4:44 pm and is filed under The Adventures. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.