I went out with a phlebotomist a couple of times. On the third date I invited her to go with me to dinner at a good restaurant about 90 minutes from where we lived in L.A. I said we’d be back by 10. The unstated purpose was to see if we could have a pleasant sustained conversation, both ways and a nice dinner. Not a very high bar.
On the way there, she asked me if I did drugs. No, I replied. I said I was the squarest person she was likely to meet. She then proceeded to praise the prescription drugs she could get *for free* from the hospital where she drew blood. I have no idea if she was pulling my leg of if that’s for real with medical people (maybe someone can enlighten me). So that was strike 1.
Strike 2 came about 20 minutes later when she told me that she had connections to the Mafia. I looked at her like she was from Mars and she said, “What?” She then proceeded to tell me that her brother was a dentist and it was well known that dentists were heavily in with the Mafia and it was a profitable way to launder money. Again – no idea if it’s true. But that was strike 2.
The final strike happened in the last 15 minutes of the 90 minute trip to get to the restaurant. She proceeded to tell me that she had anger problems. I said, everyone gets angry. She replied with an example. She’d pulled into a gas station to get gas. Just as she was pulling up to a pump, a trucker came in to unload fuel to the gas station, blocking her way. She said that she got out of her car, walked up to the poor schlub and started shouting and telling him to move his effing truck.
Well that started me to thinking: She and I are out on another date and she starts yelling at a guy in a motorcycle gang. He looks at her and tells her she’s a scrawny little chicken and to buzz off. She starts yelling even more. Now – there are two likely scenarios. #1: She comes at me and starts asking if I’m going to let this oaf get away with insulting her. #2: The guy gets off his bike and walks over – not to her – but to me and says, “Buddy, get your b*tch to shut up or we’re going to have real problems.” That’s strike 3.
We had a pleasant dinner, a fairly silent drive back home. I gave her a peck on the cheek, said I was busy for the next few weeks but we could get together sometime after that. I never called nor saw her again. Hopefully, any contract her Mafia friends might have had on me has long expired. 🙂
Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.