Tag Archives: patriotism

Your Father Isn’t… Ed

3 Oct

I’m not sure what to think about Ed as I walk to my favorite bar near my office for our date; we barely talked online before he asked me out. I’m not even entirely sure what he looks like, but as I scan the bar, I see the back of someone talking on the phone that I figure must be him. How do I approach a blind date who is sitting at the bar with his back to the room, talking on the phone though? I’m in a bit of a pickle, but I go for a side approach, hoping he’ll see me.

He doesn’t.

I hesitantly tap him on the shoulder, prepared to not speak English if it’s not him, but thankfully it is. He ends his call as I slip into the bar stool next to him, expecting him to turn and face me to begin our date.

He doesn’t.

He continues to sit facing the bar, elbows next to his beer, only turning his head slightly towards me. We make pleasant small talk and find we have a lot in common, but I’m still so thrown off by his body language that I can barely concentrate. I briefly got into that show Lie to Me, so I consider myself an amateur body language expert. I’m now convinced he’s hiding something, perhaps a dark secret, or perhaps his shirt is caught on something below the bar.
I try to lean back and peek below the bar to see what he could be stuck on, of course without him knowing of my rescue efforts. I’m positive he’s just stuck and once we get him unhooked from whatever is restricting his movement, he’ll finally turn and face me like a normal date.

He doesn’t.

After three beers and nearly four hours, I decide, ok, he’s not stuck and if he is, he can just stay here overnight because I’m going home. Regardless of the literally crooked conversation, we had a good time and Ed invites me to a baseball game next weekend. I’m thrilled by this idea and spend all week looking forward to this date. When we arrive we grab beers and head to seats that are better than any I’ve ever sat in at Nationals Park. Ed really went all out and I’m touched. Within an inning, he hops up to use the restroom. I think nothing of it, until two short innings later, he leaves again. Huh, I think. That’s a little odd. But by the fourth inning, I need to use the bathroom, so I stand for him to let me out, thinking he would stay at the seats.

He doesn’t.

He needs to go again. Honestly, I hadn’t really thought much about it, but his next comment changed everything,
“When I drink, I have the bladder of a chipmunk.”

Now, just like Ed, I’m blessed with a round face and full cheeks, so I’m not one to make fun of people for that reason alone.  Of course he’s also a couple inches shorter than he had promised online, but again, nothing wrong with being short. But Ed also has a gray stripe running along the side of his head. These features COMBINED with his comment, well, I’ll be honest, somewhere in my mind I hear: “Ch…ch…ch…chip and dale… rescue rangers…. ch…ch…ch…chip and dale, rescue rangers…” I hope that good chuckle in the bathroom will get this silliness out of my system, so that when I come out he won’t immediately strike me as one of my childhood favorite animated chipmunks and will again look like my date.

He doesn’t.

Back at my seat with Dale, as I’ve now renamed him in my head, we chat until the announcer welcomes the service men and women behind home plate and invites everyone to show their appreciation. I admit I take this a little more seriously now that my best friend is a Marine, but I’ve always cheered and applauded enthusiastically for our troops. It’s quite literally the least I can do. As the entire stadium stands in a warm ovation, I  jump up and look over at Ed/Dale, expecting him to stand up next to me.

He doesn’t.

The man who had gotten up once an inning to relieve himself the whole game couldn’t stand up to clap for the troops for ten seconds? He could have combined it with a bathroom trip, but he didn’t. He stayed seated, unwilling to expend even that much effort. Suddenly the imaginary Dale in my head has a French accent a la Pepe LePew; I feel duped and ready to get the hell out of dodge.


I’m going to guess that I don’t end up marrying an unpatriotic cartoon chipmunk, so kids, Ed is not your father.