LATINA IN NEW JERSEY GIRL ~ OR ~ THE 14 MINUTE DATE

LATINA…IN NEW JERSEY GIRL

 

OR

 

THE 14 MINUTE DATE

 

 

 

 

The date lasted 14 minutes. 

 

I had told her of my aversion to capris pants, sandals with exposed human toes, and sleeveless blouses that make the female upper arm look flabby. 

 

I betcha can just guess what she was wearing.

 

Capris.

 

Sandals.

 

Sleeveless blouse.

 

Wait, it's worse.  The blouse looked like it was made of a floral material stolen from Aunt Maude's curtains.

 

Oh, get this -- she didn't wear makeup and was white as a ghost.  What happened to being a Latina?

 

So I tell her of my displeasure.  Then I say, look, you're all in the fetal position over there.  If you like the guy, you stroke your fingernails through your hair like that girl over there, you turn toward the guy and you act like you actually like him.

 

She makes this puss.

 

Let's review, she says.  You're 45 minutes late.  You hate what I'm wearing.  You don't like how I'm sitting.  Maybe I should just leave.

 

I look at her.

 

I'm sure that line works on the other guys.  The other guys probably say, Okay, honey, I'm so sorry, please don't be like that, I'll be nice and kiss your ass.

 

Not me.

 

I said, maybe you should.  Maybe you should get the fuck out of my bar.

 

Then I realize my big mistake.  She has a glass of red wine the size of a dog food bowl on a stem.  Shit.  I'm gonna be wearing that, I think.  I shut my eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but when I open them, she's gone.

 

Strangely, no one at the bar applauded.

 

At least I was relaxing in my underwear under the covers at 10 pm.

 

Then I remembered I left my credit card with the bartender.

 

I had to go all the way back to New Brunswick, and it cost me an hour and a half.