MY “SEINFELD” MOMENT
Several years ago I met up with one of my friends at our favourite coffee shop on the corner of Hutchison and Fairmont. We had not seen each other in some time, and the two of us were eager to get caught up. She asked me if I were seeing anyone new, and I told her about my last date.
At the time I was working as a bank teller, which I have to say is a great way to meet women. One of my regular customers (whom I’ll call Francesca) worked for a local independent record label. We were both music fans and former record store managers, so we hit it off right away. After a few visits we exchanged phone numbers and occasionally talked outside of work. She also gave me some free CDs. I had a feeling she liked me but I was hesitant. Both Francesca and I at the time were smarting from long term relationships that recently ended, so I guess we were a little gun shy.
One Friday evening my cell phone rang as I was driving home from work, (scared the hell out of me because my cell phone never rings, unless it’s a wrong number). It was Francesca. She had scored two tickets to a concert at the Club Metropolis and she wanted to know if I was interested. Of course I said yes.
At the concert were a number of industry people that she knew and I didn’t. She spent a large amount of time talking with them, and didn’t even introduce me. I was starting to get the feeling that she just asked me there because she couldn’t find anyone else and preferred not to go alone. But after a while she realized what she was doing and apologized to me. Things went smoothly for a while, until I foolishly mentioned my ex, and in turn she mentioned hers, which when put together, cast a gloomy cloud over our date.
After the concert, (for the life of me I can’t remember the act’s name…he was some solo singer who was very hot at the time, but has since vanished), we walked all the way to the Dairy Queen on Park Avenue, and I bought us each a Blizzard. I had the one with Oreo cookies, and she had the Smarties.
We sat close to each other on the bench and talked. After a few minutes, I reached over with my spoon and tried, in a playful manner, to scoop up some of her ice cream. Francesca quickly moved her cup out of my reach, shot me a serious glare, and said coldly: “I don’t share dairy.”
I was stunned for a second, and then I figured she was just kidding.
“Very cute,” I said, “now c’mon, let my try some of your…”
“No!” she said, “I’m not kidding. I don’t share dairy!”
She was dead serious. Needless to say, the date went south after that, and we never went out again.
After I related the story of that catastrophic first date, my friend said: “Sounds to me like you had a ‘Seinfeld’ moment.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well,” said my friend, who had long considered herself an “Elaine” type, “here you are at a coffee shop you frequent, talking to platonic female friend about a comically disastrous date. It’s like something out of ‘Seinfeld’.”
That probably explains the popularity of the show. We have all had moments of doubt or anxiety; bizarre moments and encounters with idiosyncratic, neurotic, quirky people; times when we feel we are cursed; when schemes go awry and we end up looking like total goofballs. “Seinfeld” was the first show to bottle those experiences, and present them in an entertaining manner; so much so that it has become part of our collective culture.
“Yeah, I guess I can see that,” I said laughing.
It is a little know fact that all but two of the one hundred and sixty-nine episodes of “Seinfeld” have the word “The” at the beginning of the title. My “Seinfeld” moment would’ve been called “The I Don’t Share Dairy”.
That same summer I often visited my friend Big Monica and her two young daughters. Big Monica lived near the Lachine Dairy Queen, and we would invariably go there on warm evenings. On one occasion I related to them the story of Francesca and the “I don’t share dairy”, which quickly became our catchphrase.
Each time we would go out for ice cream, I would try to scoop some of Big Monica’s or one of her daughter’s Blizzards with my spoon, and they would yank it away and say “I don’t share dairy!” Then we’d have a huge laugh.
A while later I ran into Francesca while cycling around the east end. She was on her way home from the Laundromat. We had a pleasant conversation, until I stupidly told her about Big Monica and the fun we’d had turning “I don’t share dairy” into a joke.
“Well,” she snapped, “I could’ve shovelled some into your cup! Why didn’t you just ask me to do that, huh? Didn’t think of that, did you, you asshole!?!”
I was flabbergasted. She stormed off angrily. Never did solve the mystery of why she didn’t share dairy.
Francesca stopped coming into the branch, and I eventually transferred out to the bank’s credit card division. Never saw or heard from her again. Not even in reruns.
“SO…HOW’S THE WEATHER IN MONTREAL?”
In my line of work, I get to talk to people from across Canada, as well as the U.S. and sometimes even from the other side of the planet. When I ask where they are, and they say, for example “South Carolina” I’d respond with something stupid or corny like “Nothing could be finah than to be in Carolina in the morning!” If they say they’re in London, Ontario I’d go: “Oh, I love London! I spent a year there one night!” You get the picture.
They often ask where I am, and usually follow my answer by saying “Oh, I love Montreal” or “I’ve always wanted to visit Montreal. I hear it’s just full of bimbos!”, or “I hear its party town!”, or whatever. Every once in a while, for lack of originality, they ask “So...how’s the weather in Montreal? I hear it snows there year round!”
Most people don’t know about the temperature extremes that effect Montreal. Here are two of my favourite anecdotes on the subject:
A few years ago I was employed as a bank teller. My branch was right across the highway from what is now Pierre Elliot Trudeau International Airport. I never had to go on vacation when I was working there, because the whole world would come to see me. People would get off an airplane from Bombay, India, and their first stop would be my bank to exchange their money for our fine Canadian dollars.
One day I was working with M.J., the teller who trained me, during a painfully slow day, due mostly to the frigid, artic temperature. It was a vicious, biting cold with a wind chill that made it around -40 degrees Celsius outside. The wind was blowing frozen crystallized flakes that cut into your face like tiny bits of glass. I’m talking bitter, uninhabitable tundra.
In the afternoon, a middle-aged woman in a snowsuit accompanied by an adolescent boy in similar attire entered the branch. She had come to exchange U.S. dollars, and get a cash advance on her credit card. I, of course, had to I.D. her before the cash advance. She had a California driver’s license, a Russian name and spoke with a thick Eastern European accent.
She told me she was a scientist from Russia, currently living in San Jose, California, and was in town with her son for a conference. I asked her if this was her first trip to Canada.
“Yes, it is,” she answered.
“How do you like it so far?” I asked.
“Too cold.”
“But, aren’t you from Russia? Isn’t it famous for its winters, like the harsh ones that defeated the Nazis and Napoleon?”
Then M.J. piped up, “Andreas, it’s not like she’s from Siberia!”
The Scientist pointed a finger at M.J. and said, “You know, that is exactly where I’m from! And it’s not as cold there as it is here today!”
So, Montreal is colder than the dreaded Gulag, where Soviet dissidents were exiled as punishment.
A few years later, I was a teller at a commercial branch. One of our clients was a garage owner whom I’ll call Mr. E. He came in every couple of days to make the deposits for his business, and pay a few bills. Montreal was at the time in the middle of its usual July Humidity Festival, with adjusted temperatures approaching +40 degrees Celsius. It was so hot that week I drove to work in a tank top and shorts, and changed to a shirt and tie in the air-conditioned comfort of the branch.
Mr. E showed up that day drenched in sweat and looking rather angry. I asked how he was, and he said that he was frustrated because it was “too damn hot!” The kicker is, Mr. E was born and raised in a middle-eastern country that is a scorching desert all year round. When I pointed that out to him, he said “Yes, and it’s not as hot there as it is here today!”
So now, whenever anyone asks what the weather is like in Montreal, I say: “In the winter it is colder than Siberia, and in the summer it is hotter than the Sahara Desert!”
NAKED NINTENDO
I am fond of saying that it is not often I am pleasantly surprised by a phone call or knock on my door. Whenever that does happen it is expected, and if not, usually there is bad news attached.
A rare exception occurred on a Sunday in October when my dear old friend Les called me at about eight in the evening. And although the surprise of hearing her friendly voice on the other end of the line was shattered by my caller i.d., I’ll take it just the same.
Les and I met when we were both students at Dawson College, and became fast friends. My relationship with her was rather unique: She is the only good, close, personal friend whom I have never gone to a movie or on a vacation with. We only went out for dinner, coffee, and/or long walks and engaged in deep, heartfelt talks; the advantage being that we had no acquaintanceships in common, which made us each other’s ideal confidante. Also, in the old days, she was always game for going out to eat, even when I’d call her out of the blue at three in the morning.
Les and I began to drift apart after the birth of her first child, who has Down ’s syndrome. A child takes up a lot of one’s time, but image having a special needs child with serious health issues.
The last time I had seen Les was around Christmas 1998. I went to visit her and her husband Mike at their N.D.G. home. By then she had had a second son. It was an awkward experience for me. I was uncomfortable opening up and being vulnerable with Mike looming over us, but I was having a tough time with my then girlfriend that was causing me such emotional distress that I just had to talk to Les.
Les was always a good friend when I needed her, and on that occasion she listened like she always did. Mike, on the other had, started telling me off, saying that their problems with a Down’s syndrome child were much worse (and I agree with that) and that I was a loser who should be ashamed to bother Les with such trivial things.
I was a loser? When he first started dating Les, it was just after she broke up with an abusive, ex-con Neanderthal named J.T. Les told Mike that if they ran into J.T. in the street, he would probably pick a fight with him, adding that if that scenario were to transpire, she would take J.T.’s side! And Mike continued to see Les knowing that she was still in love with an ex. He even married her. And why not, with their relationship built on such a firm foundation?
But Mike had a legitimate point. Les was burdened with adult dilemmas, and I was still having juvenile relationship problems.
Les now had five children (what has to be a record for a Westmount whitie) and was living on the West Island. She was having one of those trying times: Her marriage was falling apart (quel surprise!) and the aforementioned abuser J.T., whom Les refers to as the love of her life, had recently died of cancer. She needed to see me again.
I had just gone through the worst relationship experience of my life, and I must confess I felt like contacting her as well, but had no idea how. Thank goodness I was trapped in a rut with the same address and phone number for the last thirteen years, making it easy for Les to find me. We got together that evening and talked for hours. It was as if we didn’t have an eight year hiatus.
Soon enough, she found a new Beau, and was starting to put her life back together. Les and I continued to see each other every couple of weeks, getting together for dinner or a coffee, and engaging in sparkling conversation. On one such occasion we discussed old times, and she brought up “naked Nintendo night”, something I hadn’t thought about in a long time.
Les mentioned it as she applied layers of lipstick and gloss in a hopeless attempt to give the illusion that she has actual lips. Like most whities, her mouth is a mere slit cut just above her chin and lined with traces of pink. She had told her new Beau about “naked Nintendo night”, but was at a loss to recall its inspiration.
“Naked Nintendo night” started innocently enough on a hot summer night back in the mid-nineties. We were both single at the time, and I was visiting her at an apartment she had just rented in St. Henri. We were playing Nintendo, and Les was talking about going to a nudist camp & beach she had heard about. Of course she couldn’t go alone, and wanted me to accompany her.
I said that I had no interest in doing so, and she called me oppressed.
While a wonderful person and a good friend, Les has always had one fatal flaw: She fancies herself a rebel. Every one of her actions are governed by an unshakeable desire to piss off her Mother, a very British prude (although I must say I have nothing against her Mom…she was always super-nice to me). This was the basis for her entire relationship with J.T. But all of her “rebelliousness” is paper thin, and when push comes to shove, she knuckles under. While Les had a serious relationship with J.T., she ended up married to Mike, someone who had her parent’s approval.
And she hadn’t changed a bit. She told me about how much she hated Beaconsfield and the people who lived there. She had recently got her first tattoo (mostly to piss off her Mom, husband and in-laws) and considered herself a neighbourhood renegade, but that’s not saying much. The only thing Les would need to be a rogue among the West Island soccer mommy crowd is to have functioning brain cells and not tie a sweater around her shoulders.
Now I took exception to being called oppressed, and told her that I did not have any trouble with my own nudity. It was just something I preferred not to do, and she was the one who would most likely chicken out if we planned to go there. Les continued to tease me until I gave her a chance to put her money where her mouth was: I dared her to disrobe with me and spend the rest of the evening naked as we played Nintendo. If she would do that, I’d go with her.
I took off all my clothes, but she only went so far as to go topless, opting not to remove her knee-length, black spandex shorts. I knew she wouldn’t do it.
“Oh,” she said over dinner, “I remember now! You’re right…hey, we never went to the nudist camp. You still owe me a trip there.”
“No I don’t,” I answered, “You never took off your shorts. I won the bet. It wasn’t to go topless, it was the full Monty, and you wimped out!”
At that point I started to think that while I won the bet, I didn’t get anything for it. If she stripped down nude, I’d go with her chez les nudists, but what was I going to get if she didn’t? We never discussed that. She should’ve put up ten bucks, or a steak dinner, or something. And on top of all that, she got to see me naked, so who’s the real winner here?
After dinner and a nice walk, I drove Les home. As we said good-night, I offered her one last chance to win the bet, but she declined to drop her drawers.
So for the record: I won the bet, and I’m not the one who’s an oppressed, cowardly prude.
Pointe finale.
FIRST DATES
For me the term “Disastrous First Date” has always been redundant. About 80% of the dates I’ve had in my lifetime fall into that category. It has come to the point that I’d rather sit through an entire Michael Bay film than go on a dreaded first date.
I’ve been around long enough to know proper first date etiquette. The rules are fairly simple:
1- Be a gentleman (open doors and pick up checks, etc…)
2- Do not get fresh with her (no decent woman wants to date Dr. Octopus)
3- Let her do most of the talking (show you are interested in her, especially as a person)
4- Try to avoid taking her to a movie or show (to her that would mean that you don’t want to talk. Remember the purpose of a first date for her is to get to see if you are worthy of other dates)
5- Don’t over-do anything or take her anywhere too fancy or too far off the mainstream or artsy (if you try to hard to impress you may come off as a desperate loser or a pretentious douche-bag)
6- If the date goes awry, always see it through to the finish as a gentleman (so at least she won’t have reason to bad-mouth you to others; that could limit the damage to your reputation)
I’ve obeyed all the aforementioned rules, and still failed, but I’ve NEVER broken the rules and succeeded.
Once I picked up a girl from England who was working as a waitress at a coffee shop. She was pretty and seemed intelligent. On our first date I took her to and English style pub, not realizing that if she had liked that sort of thing, she would’ve stayed in England. Disaster.
I was able to convince her to give me a do-over that went slightly better. On our third date I took her to a trendy place that I was able to get into because of a connection, but by then the damage had been done. She suggested we go to a cool party she knew about afterwards, where she promptly ditched me.
I recall another time when the girlfriend of my best friend was working with a woman she thought was perfect for me. Nick & Natalie were quite aware that I disapproved of blind dates, but they talked me into it over dinner at Red Lobster. That alone should’ve been a sign of impending disaster.
Natalie thought we would be a good match because at the time I was in my middle year at Concordia, going for a degree in Communications with a minor in English Literature, and Saskatchewan Girl (as I will refer to her) was going for a Masters in English at McGill. Natalie told her about me and showed her my picture. She said Saskatchewan Girl was very interested.
Now it is important to note that I do not blame Natalie for any of the disaster that ensued…bless her heart she was trying to do something nice for me and to this day I really appreciate that.
On that evening Saskatchewan Girl and her roommate were throwing a party at their place, and Nick & Natalie said I could meet her there. I declined, citing how awkward first dates can be, and having it take place in a room full of strangers with my date serving as co-hostess would make it even worse. They agreed, and told me that they will give her my number, and get me hers (Nat didn’t have it with her at the time).
So days went by, and Saskatchewan Girl didn’t call. After a week I called to ask Nick what happened. He very sheepishly told me that Saskatchewan Girl had met a bi-racial opera singer at the party and decided to date him instead. I was royally pissed! I didn’t want to do that whole ridiculous fix-up thing in the first place, and she dumps me before we even met! (It is important to note that I have nothing against bi-racial people and/or opera singers…it is just that I, a full-blooded Greek university student with no real direction in life, couldn’t possibly compete with a bi-racial opera singer; I was simply not that interesting...I didn’t blame her for going for him, but I was still irate). So I figured that was that.
A few weeks later I get a call from Saskatchewan Girl. She wanted to go on a date.
“What about the opera singer?” I sarcastically asked.
“Oh, you know about that?” she said as if Natalie, my friend for years, would not have told me.
I was no fool. I was certain she had had a spat with Mr. Opera Man and was just curious as to what she was missing out on with me. Now here is where I made my mistake. Instead of doing the classy thing and declining the date, I agreed to see her, still irked at her over the whole matter.
So I went on the date in the wrong state of mind. I was bitter and I felt that no matter what, she would opt again for Mr. Opera Man over me. Totally inappropriate attitude for a first date. I ended up giving her a lousy time. Needless to say there was no second date. I regret it now. She wasn’t a bad person or anything like that; I was just disappointed, especially after Nick & Nat worked so hard to talk me into the whole stupid thing in the first place.
Although that was nothing compared to a girl I’ll call S.G. She was very pretty and sweet looking, perky and energetic, with a warm smile and a great sense of humour. We at a clinic’s emergency room; I was there with an ear problem, and she had a burn on her hand from an accident at work. I approached her and we hit it off. Before she left she gave me her phone number.
I called her the next night, and after a few lengthy phone conversations, we had out first date. I took her to my favourite first date café, a small place on the corner of Hutchison and Fairmont where I’ve had quite a bit of success.
Afterwards we went for a walk through the quiet, beautiful streets of Outremont. We stopped at one of the local parks, where S.G. promptly rolled a fatty and began smoking up. A few minutes later she confessed to being a former heroin addict and part-time prostitute (she emphasized her "part-time" status as though it were okay to be a hooker as long as it was only two days a week). She also said she recently broke up with her ex-con drug-dealer boyfriend because he cheated on her. The doobie totally changed her personality. She was no longer energetic, bouncy and friendly. She became angry, depressed, difficult and a little scary. On the drive home she broke into tears saying I had no right to judge her. I don’t understand why…I didn’t say anything judgemental. Then I realized: She’s fucking nuts!
I took her home. Then I went back to my place and promptly tore up her number and flushed it down the toilet.
Some first dates are what I call a “Sisyphus Dates”. That’s where you work real hard to score points, only to blow it on all the last play.
The best example was a date I had with a girl I’ll call A.M.C. She was a customer of mine when I was employed as a bank teller. I had known her for some time, and we got along quite well, but she already had a fella, so I kept it professional.
Then one day she asked me out. I assumed (correctly) that she had broken up with the asshole she was seeing. I must add that I was also correct in my assumption that her ex-boyfriend was an asshole, but more on that in a moment.
I took her to another of my first date places, a nice, quiet restaurant on St. Denis Street, where I had also had some success, and I followed all the rules. We had a great time.
A.M.C. related to me that a few months earlier she had broken up with her douche-bag boyfriend because he had lied to her. The jerk drove a BMW (quelle surprise!), had a cool apartment and lived a lavish lifestyle that implied he had some money. But unknown to her he was living well above his means and was in debt up to his eyeballs. Now this came as no shock to me. Being in the banking business, as I was at the time, I was privy to certain things. In my experience the richest men have $8 haircuts, drive late model Toyotas and don’t waste their money on trying to impress anyone. Usually the guy who drives up in a BMW wearing an Armani suit and Rolex has an overdrawn bank account and his credit cards are full, but I digress.
The date went exceptionally well. A.M.C. was an amateur photographer and she told me that she emailed me some of her work (we had been communicating via email for several weeks) just before our date.
On our way home (she was driving) I asked for her phone number. She became uncomfortable and defensive as she refused without explanation. I was puzzled. I thought we had a great time. She seemed to enjoy herself. So I kept pushing for a reason as to why I couldn’t have her number.
A.M.C. eventually confessed to me that she was married at eighteen, divorced at twenty-one, and had a twelve year old daughter as a result. I was taken aback. We had communicated often via email. She called me several times. We engaged in a number of long phone conversations, including the five hour date we just had, and she never even gave me a clue. I have a friend, Big Monica, who has two daughters. One can not talk to Big Monica for half an hour without her mentioning her girls at least once, and A.M.C. didn’t so much as hint at it. Didn’t even ask me if I liked children. Nothing!
Now it is important to know that I do like kids, and in the past I have dated women who were mothers, and it never bothered me. I was in my early thirties at the time, and dating a woman who already had children was not uncommon. It wasn’t that A.M.C. had a child; it was that she went out of her way to hide her daughter’s existence from me.
I found it odd, especially after A.M.C. was so upset that her douche-bag ex was so dishonest about his financial status.
She misunderstood my reaction to her bombshell, and never gave me a chance to explain. We never went out again and after that night, whenever A.M.C. came into the bank, she’d avoid even making eye contact with me.
By the way, her photography consisted of pictures of roadkill. I’m not kidding; she liked to take pictures of dead animals she came across on the highway. Maybe I dodged yet another bullet.
And so the dating adventure continues…
