True Story Time: the one (and only) time I went on a blind date

Once upon a time my downstairs neighbor visited me. This wasn’t a regular occurrence, as she and I are very, very different. Such as: I don’t have a police record ( which not in and of itself  necessary a bad thing… I can think of a few things worth going to jail over) and having sex on a pool table in the middle of a crowded bar (mixing meds with alcohol is something I have a personal issue with)… Suffice it to say that when Gail made her way to knock on my front door, I was taken aback that she’d extend her offer because she never before exhibited an interest in me or my “love life”.

The offer was coming to invite me downstairs to visit with her new boyfriend’s friend. He was looking for ‘a good woman’ and she volunteered my name. She wanted me to dress up a bit, and come downstairs to hang out a while. I didn’t want to go, being that I broke up with a boyfriend a few weeks before and I wasn’t ready to date quite yet. I prefer books to people which was deemed unacceptable by Gail’s definition of “normal”. I told her I would hangout for 1 hour. No more, no less.

That was one of the longest hours of my life, period.

A little makeup,  nothing too fancy clothes-wise, and I was ready to face the night.

I made my way downstairs and Gail’s little chihuahua, Riblet, started barking. She opened the door and swept me inside.

On the couch two men, both dressed in black. One had tattoos on half his face and bald head, and a smile missing teeth. The other wore fedora and Nine Inch Nails concert shirt. I was not sure who was who, having never met Gail’s boyfriend before, and my quandary began in earnest.

Mr Hat began asking me questions, which I answered. Divorced with kids and all that jazz. It was when Mr Tattoo face began talking in a deep rumble about how he was fresh out of prison and now looking for ‘a good Christian woman to help raise future soldiers for the Aryan Nation’  that I discovered who was who.

And the urge to kick rocks became intense.

A- I’m not Christian
B- I do not agree with white power, being that all humans bleed red.
C- I love tats, but not facial ones of Jesus wrestling the devil.

So there I was, chomping at the bit and watching the secondhand tick away the minutes. Maybe Mr Tattoo face was a nice guy, and had the best of intentions. Perhaps he had a PHD. I didn’t give a fuck. The whole Aryan Nation thing was a deal breaker for me, considering a great grandmother of mine was Cherokee, thus I wasn’t all white by his definition of pure European lineage despite my dayglo white complexion.

Once my hour was up, I excused myself and went home, firm in my belief that no one knows my preferences better than I.

The next day Gail cornered me to ask if I liked him enough to see him again.

I smiled, pulled up my shirt sleeve and showed her my pentacle tattoo. “I’m into raising heathens,” and that was the last time she suggested a man for me.

And I am way okay with that.

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