Is that so hard to understand? Apparently so from the look of things.
I met this woman roughly five months ago when I moved to a different part of town. She owns a salon close to where I currently reside and I’d been getting what little hair I have left cut at her place. As these things usually go, we started with some idle banter and went on to get to know each other a bit better. And when I say a “bit” that’s pretty much what I mean – mostly superficial stuff about the state of our private lives, such as number of kids, marital status and so forth. In short, what most of you that I’ve interacted with in my close to a decade here already know about me…and then some.
Anyway, woman’s fallen on hard times what with the economic downturn affecting her business as many others and then, on top of that, she has her wheels stolen and a long-time friend of hers gets robbed and shot in the neck – guy’s barely surviving the ordeal. Now, I know these things without much detail, because, once again, that’s as far as our friendship went, but still, she seems like a nice enough woman, hard-working, easy on the eyes and I think it might be a good idea to get her out of her misery if only for a Saturday night outing – did I mention that she has four kids and three of them still live at home? Well, she does. So Bald Prince Charming here puts thought to action and asks her out, well, to dinner. She says “yes” and I expect nothing more nor nothing less than that. As in two adults getting to know each other better over some pasta and beverages of choice. Doesn’t seem like an overwhelming feat to me, then again, I’ve been wrong before…
So, I pick her up, on time, which seems to bewilder her and I right off the bat – me, because I don’t think it’s natural to have to sit in my car and take calls from the person I am taking to dinner four times over the expanse of 30 fuckin’ minutes to keep me appraised of her minute by minute status. Her, because “being on time” appears to be a nebulous concept not worth pondering. I breathe deep a couple of times to quell my rising anger and remind myself of the old adage: “women are like sausage, delicious in finished form, but you really don’t want to see the process.” Seems to work as she finally emerges and I manage to muster a smile and a peck on the cheek as I open her door. Good thing I hadn’t made a reservation. Better yet, the night was young and this whole thing could/should fade into oblivion soon enough. On the surface, the wait seemed worthwhile…but, as I said, I’ve been wrong before. Not as in The Mother Of All Wrongs, wrong, though. I’d soon learn as much.
Remember the friend that was shot? Yeah well, so did I and I thought only common courtesy to ask about his current status. Bad move, baaad goddamn move, for she says “it’s a miracle he’s still alive.” And I fall right into the trap for curiosity gets the best of me and I blurt out a follow-up query. “Miracle?”, says I, eyebrows slightly askew, “how so?” :smack:
What followed has me shaking my head to this moment for it made The Twilight Zone pale by comparison. See according to her “logic” the miracle was in the fact that the guy survived, never mind that he’s been laying in a hospital bed for over two months, has fluid in his lungs and is likely never to regain full motor skills as the bullet grazed his spinal cord. “Umm…err…wouldn’t it had been much better if the ‘miracle’ had been that the bullet had missed altogether? Or better yet, that the guy wouldn’t had been mugged to begin with?” says I while WTFuckin’ away. “Oh no, you see, he (guy) must have done something wrong and the suffering was his penance to God in order to be saved” she retorts, with a smile that would make a clam envious. Blood pressure beginning to rise, face reddening, I realize I have about 120 lbs of pure, unadulterated, grade AAA, Crazy out to dinner with me. Yaaay…is this ever going to be fun! Still trying to salvage the evening – yeah, I’m a dumbass, I know – I try to steer the conversation into the upper tiers of nutiness, as I believe I can handle that for a couple of hours if need be. Day late and a dollar short for The Good Samaritan has me on her to-do list. For she knows I’d been out of business for over a month due to a back condition and wants me to let God heal it. We’re arriving at destination together yet we’re not even on the same planet – I wonder what they eat on hers, so we proceed. I try to point out that I can’t fool myself into believing in a deity any more than I can fool myself into being left-handed but that’s some weak shit for the little lady. Undeterred and oblivious to my feelings, all systems are God and I must show that I care by taking her to a two hour mass that starts at eight o’clock next morning. Yep, exactly what I want to be doing next methinks, going to The Fount Of Crazy with her – she must be a mind reader on top of all the other stuff. No wonder I think I’m falling. Into what, exactly, I have no idea. Spontaneous combustion can’t be far away and I sort of treasure the thought. Yet I manage not to roll my eyes and just stare into space. Her “what are you thinking?” makes me wince, for if I was going to respond honestly someone was bound to get hurt…and it wasn’t going to be me. So I refrain, whitewash my response and gobble another bite of the once-excellent shrimp linguini. Helps not to talk when you have a mouthful. And I’m done talking anyway. Not that we speak the same language anyway, so what’s the use?
Dinner over, I just want to get the hell back home, but, did I tell you that she has three kids living with her? Fuckers eat too, or so she tells me – as if I know by now what’s right and what’s left. So one last good deed for the Bald Prince: drive-through and it better be snappy, sanity is at stake. My own no less. Garble some orders into the tin can…and just when I thought it couldn’t fuckin’ possibly get any worst…it does! Guy’s gay and I just know she’s going to let it rip all over again. She does and of course, the dude totally screws-up the order. That’s it. Don’t give a shit anymore, I’m blasting in stereo. I’m telling her she’s just willfully ignorant, lecturing about homosexuality in nature, how it has fuck-all to do with perversion nor choice, her contradictory, cruel and insane beliefs, the fallacious Book she got them from and the need to educate herself. And I am telling him, almost simultaneously, that chicken and fish are not, regardless of whatever arguments he’d heard in favor before, related in any way to Kevin Bacon or each other. Perplexed looks on both, yet, finally, sanity fuckin’ rules The Night.
Parting shot: on the drive back to her place, Rod piping softly through the car speakers, she asks, humbly and seriously “were you a teacher before?”
Priceless. 
I didn’t get that at all from the OP. What I got was Needy Single Mother is Inept in Social Situations and a Dead Bore to boot. Here’s what I see wrong with the evening: she’s not ready and does a bizarre phone calls thing (that would have killed it for me right then and there–maybe one phone call, with a laughing apology for the delay, but 4?); too much detail about a man she knows and the OP doesn’t (whatever happened to not discussing in morbid detail people’s illnesses etc? God, I’m old); the emphasis on religion, nay, the diatribe on HER religion; his paying for her kids’ dinner (WTF? When do these kids eat? How old are they? Does she have a sitter or is the 9 year old watching the younger ones? etc); her expression of homophobia to the fast food guy.