I met PickleBack in May of 2010. It was a Saturday and my dear, dear friends got engaged that morning. To celebrate, we sailed and drank champagne all afternoon. Appropriately, all the other girls were wearing sweetheart sundresses, so I’m not really sure why I was dressed like the blonde lady in Jurassic Park, but I was. Once we got back to solid land, the party carried on at a local bar. As soon as news spread that we were celebrating an engagement, felicitations in the form of champagne toasts and shots arrived in our direction. One rather handsy gentlemen, let’s call him PickleBack, said I had nice legs and proffered pickle-backs. (This is a shot of whiskey followed directly by a shot of pickle juice.) I was glowing with Jameson and compliments, so I gave him my number.
THE FIRST DATE
PickleBack invited me to his apartment to sample four Pinot Noirs from different regions and different vintages. It sounds fancy, which is why I really have to give this guy credit – he is a master craftsman and his trade is ONS (one night stands). If I had to bet, I imagine he’s had this same date with this same conversation with a hundred girls and I’m sure he’s probably W:99, L:1. Unfortunately for him, I’m the Ann Coulter to his Jack Donaghey – and you can’t joke a joker.
PickleBack: So, why don’t you come over to my place on Friday. I have four excellent Pinots that I think we should sample and compare.
What girls hear: I’m really sophisticated. I probably went to prep school.
What I heard: Booty call. My place. Not a school night. Two bottles each.
PickleBack: When’s your birthday? Not until October? Good. I won’t have to worry about it for another five months.
What girls hear: I can really see us lasting long term.
What I heard: I’d like you to think this will last beyond tonight.
PickleBack: My parents are dying for grandchildren.
What girls hear: I’m ready to have kids and I think you should be their mother.
What I heard: This is the point in the evening when I pretend I want kids.
PickleBack: My parents? Well my dad is 92 and my mom is 56 [PickleBack is 31, so just take a minute to do some quick calculations, don’t rush, it’s totally worth it].
What girls hear: My dad is loaded. Filthy, filthy rich. And I’m about to inherit it.
What I heard: Cha-ching! Whoa, sorry, but seriously the girls heard right.
PickleBack: [Stretches back] Ooh – I strained my back in squash this week, should we move to the couch?
What girls hear: Ooh – I strained my back in squash this week, should we move to the couch?
What I heard: Let’s make out. Right now. Right over there.
PickleBack: God, you are beautiful
What girls hear: Will you be my girlfriend?
What I heard: God, you are beautiful [Yeah, I know]
So, I’m more cynical than Thomas in the New Testament, but when you’re right, you’re right. I departed early that evening and never heard from him again. The End.