D’oh! I forgot to add my own:
I had had the Valentine’s Day from hell. I had recently broken off a phone-fling with a guy from work. I went to go see my dad in the hospital (I hate hospitals) and his girlfriend. It was the first time I had seen her (we had been friends) since my parents had split up. As I left the hospital to drive to work, I got a flat tire and had to wait in the slushy, rainy cold for AAA to arrive and help me change it. I kept the car running so I wouldn’t freeze, only to run out of gas. I was late to work that day.
I worked in a call center in a small division that worked directly with the stores. My co-workers had begun calling me “976-Melody” because the stores often asked for me and they assumed it must be because I’m more of a flirt. The truth is, I was friendly and helpful – they other girls acted rude and annoyed – but I digress. I normally liked my job. So I’m working my phones, ignoring the rude girls, when suddenly the ex-phone fling guy calls in. I try to be professional, but he starts getting nasty and I’m surrounded by co-workers who are looking for reasons to give me crap. So I quietly tell him to go to h*ll in very unladylike terms and then end the call. My supervisor then comes over with a weird look on her face. Seems that she chose that day to do my quarterly review, and had been listening in on the entire call!
I burst in to tears in her office, stressing strongly that I don’t normally talk like that and she agrees to re-do quarterly review another day as long as there’s no repeat. As I leave her office, one of the male supervisors (Joe) comes up and says, “Hey, hey, hey! It’s 976-Melody!”
Horrified, I run to the bathroom; convinced my repair work had just been ruined. Joe finds out the scoop, convinces my boss that I am NOT a pseudo-sex worker, and decides his way of making it up to me is to set me up with his friend.
A blind date? At this point, I figure my week is already gone to heck, so I agree and Joe tells me he’ll have the guy call me. I totally forget about it.
Several days later, my private line at work rings and some guy goes, “Melody? Umm, my friend Joe says I’m supposed to call you for some reason?”
His total cluelessness hit me on a good day, so we chat for a while until he finally asks me out on a date. We agree to meet on a Sunday. He invites me for a meal at his place because he’s broke and can’t afford to take me out. I suggest we meet for lunch. (I conveniently was playing piano for a church back then – so I knew if the date was a bomb, I could excuse myself and say I had to get back for evening services early).
He then lets slip that it’s his birthday on Sunday. Hu-wha? My first date with a guy is on his birthday? Oh bloody hell. I can’t show up without a card, but what kind of a card do you bring to a guy on a first date? So I searched through my pile of cards for the most generic one I can find. (Front) “Happy Birthday” (inside) “To You!” and sign it “Thanks for sharing this special day with me. - - Melody.”
Do I bring a present? Don’t want to go overboard, don’t want to be a jerk and bring nothing. I would have brought a bottle of wine to go with the meal, but I didn’t drink at the time. I thought about flowers, but the guy worked for a frakkin’ floral wholesale distributor. I know! I’ll bring cake! But not a birthday cake – too much effort. So I’ll make my famous coffee cake – simple, a cake, but not a birthday cake so it doesn’t look like I’m too overeager or whatever.
So we agree to meet around 1PM at his place and he gives me directions. I go play the piano for the morning services, change in the vestry, and scoot on down the road and arrive far too early. So I go sit in a parking lot and wait for it to be 1 PM so I can drive to his place and be their a little after 1 PM, as promised.
I get to the address, and the parking lot for the small apartment complex is dirt (now mud from the rain). Someone had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble to put some flattened cardboard boxes down so they wouldn’t have to walk in the mud. I knew better than to take that parking place – so I park several over and get muddy shoes for my troubles.
Deep breath, last minute hair check in the rearview mirror, and I grab the cake and card and approach the door. I stand up straight and knock on the door.
No answer.
I wait several minutes and knock on the door again.
No answer.
So now I’m thinking, “Great! Stood up at the guy’s house!! How bad can it be!” and thinking about cursing out Joe when I see him on Monday when slowly, the door starts to open.
Through the screen door I see my date. . . . in his bathrobe. And all that comes ringing in my ears is “976-Melody!” Oh my og, this guy thinks I am his birthday present.
But before I throw the cake in his face, he sheepishly opens the screen door and I realize he has little dabs of shaving cream on his face. Seems his version of 1PM is more like 1:30, not 1:07. He had been running late geting ready because he’d been putting out a big pile of flattened cardboard boxes for me so I wouldn’t have to walk in the mud . . .
The date ended up fine, the marriage that was the end result was a mistake. But the story still makes me laugh and laugh.