_________________
         
                Preparing For
                  "The Date"

             A Guy's Perspective
                                                               
                       Diana Grove

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Saturday

10:15 a.m.

The alarm goes off, I hit the snooze.

10:23

The alarm goes off again, I hit the snooze.  (This time I throw the clock into an immense pile of socks next to an old pizza and a pair of dusty wingtips.)

11:18

Rolling out of bed, I rub sleep and what appears to be contractor-grade spackle out of my eyes.  I then stumble into the kitchen and search the cabinets for coffee and a box of Fruit Loops. 

11:24

Unable to locate the Fruit Loops, I settle for some Raisin Bran topped with maple syrup and coffee creamer.

11:26

Discovering the coffee creamer has transformed into a jiggling, brick-like mass that smells alarmingly like baby ick, I check the expiration date.  Seeing that it should have been thrown away sometime last month, I put it back in the fridge and revert to my old stand by – tap water.

12:02

Strolling into the living room, I flop down on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and proceed to watch the 49ers slaughter the Giants 24-7.  I scream, throw things at the TV, and yell at the ref…a lot.

3:48

Looking for the remote, I find 6 Beer Nuts in between the couch cushions.  Realizing how hungry I am, I proceed to eat them.  (One even has some chocolate on it…this greatly elevates my mood.)

4:00

After stretching 3 or 4 times, I scratch my backside then re-align my sweat pants to face north.  I then watch the highlights of the 49ers slaughtering the Giants where I continue to yell at the ref, because clearly the man is either drunk, brain damaged or worse.

4:46  

I stop and wonder what that smell is.

4:48

While aimlessly searching the living room for either a dead rat or some old cabbage, I get an overwhelming feeling that I’ve forgotten something.

4:51

I check my pockets.  There I find a movie stub, a pack of warm, mangled gum, some pant fuzz, and a phone number.  Finally, remembering I have a date, I run to the shower and strip off my clothes faster than a Catholic cheerleader on prom night.

5:16

After a thorough hose down (taking extra time to wash the ears,
the underarms and the nether regions) I shave. Twice.  First down, then up.

5:18

Deciding to take one last pass with the razor, I nick my chin and bleed like I’ve never bled before.  So naturally, I do the only rational thing – I panic.  I throw down the razor and spin around a few times trying to remain calm, but at this point there’s blood everywhere: in the sink, on the floor, all over the towels, even on my forehead. Finally, I manage to control it with tremendous amounts of toilet paper and some Scotch tape.  When it’s all over, I step back and assess the scene. I can’t decide if my bathroom looks more like the St. Valentine’s Day massacre or a Mexican operating room after a botched heart transplant. 

5:20          

I go with the Mexican operating room.

5:39 

With bloody toilet paper hanging from my head like a dying piñata, I go to my dresser for a clean shirt.  Remembering my dresser drawers have been missing ever since Buck helped out with my last move, I make a beeline for my new and improved dresser- the clothes dryer.

5:40          

I pick out a blue t-shirt that is only mildly wrinkled and put it on.  Feeling a bit too casual, I whip it off and replace it with a collared number that makes me look less like a serial killer and more like a good lay.

5:43

Hopping in the car, I check the rear view to see if my chin is still bleeding.  It is.  Unable to locate any Kleenex-like substances, I tear off a piece of the New York Post that I find lodged under the seat.  Hoping it’s as absorbent as the Times, I proceed to dab.

5:53

After driving for 10 minutes with yesterdays headlines stuck to my chin, I pull up to a building that will either become a future love den, or a place of interminable and unrelenting horror.  For a moment, I am actually gripped with fear.

6:03

Laughing it off, I stop for a second and wonder if my underwear is clean. 

6: 04         

Realizing it’s the same pair I wore last night, I figure what does it matter, I probably won’t get laid anyway.

6:06

Sighing, I straighten my collar and walk up to her door.   With the headlines “Grizzly Devours Church Group” ink-transferred to my chin, I confidently take a deep breath, check my fly, and ring the bell.   

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                               And...Preparing For “The Date”
                                 A Girl's Perspective 

Saturday

6 a.m. 
                 
I awaken in a pool of sweat because not only did I show up for “dream school” without pants again, but my “dream date” turned into an flounder that had bad breath and an overbite.

6:30-8:30 

After a lot of tossing and turning, I finally overcome my nightmares with a fantasy of Speed Racer on a bed of orange marmalade.  Alarmed that I’m actually fantasizing about a Japanese cartoon character, I hurl myself out of bed and locate my bunny slippers. 

8:45  

Making my way into the kitchen, I fix myself a pot of decaf, because I read somewhere that caffeine gives you cellulite.  Groggy and swollen, I search around for the coffee cake.

9:00

Remembering I stopped eating coffee cake in 1986, I instead fix myself some cottage cheese, soymilk and something called Power-Aid, which I’m sure is actually reconstituted dry wall mixed with dog pee. I choke it down.  After all, anything that tastes that bad has got to be good for you.

9:16

My stomach rumbles.  I choose to ignore it and  instead pause to reflect on the cuteness of kittens.

9:18

Yawning, I leaf through an old Cosmo and laugh at an article entitled “What His Eye Color Says About His Penis Size.”  I then read it with an intensity that should be reserved only for Tolstoy.

10:06

Remembering the horror of my last blind date, I briefly consider finding his number to call it off.  But realizing that anything’s better than spending another Saturday night vacuuming and eating gravy mix, I think better of it and call to see if my hair appointment is still on.

10:08

Hearing that my hairstylist just called in sick due to a horrible bleaching mishap, I panic and try to trim my hair myself.   Unfortunately, the only scissors I can find are a pair of rusty poultry shears.

10:45
 
After several attempts at fixing my horribly mangled hairstyle, I decide people are way too obsessed with appearance.  So I settle for a look I like to call “Manhattan Madness.” 

11:06
 
Realizing my breakfast was healthy but pathetically inadequate, I slip back into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich.  I put salami, Swiss cheese and mayonnaise on two slices of bread, then I take a bite.  Stopping for a moment, I wonder what Marilyn Monroe would have looked like if she had gained an extra 10 pounds.  I then toss the bread aside (because I heard somewhere that wheat makes your ankles swell), I scrape off the mayonnaise (that’s going right to the thighs), I fling the salami into the sink (I suddenly remember that nitrates give you eye bags), and all that’s left is the Swiss cheese.  I quickly snarf this down because I figure anything with that many holes can’t possibly be fattening.

12:35

Screw it, I eat a whole can of cashews.

1:12

After licking all of the remaining salt from my fingers, hands, arms, legs and chin, I then wipe what’s left on the curtains and casually stroll back into the bedroom to see what’s going on in there.  Annoyed that it’s still the same mess it was earlier, I sigh and head for the closet.

1:13

Upon realizing my lucky first date outfit has a gigantic amoeba-shaped stain on it that looks suspiciously like lighter fluid, I panic, tear clothes from their hangers and jump around a lot.

1:42  

I’m still jumping around a lot.

2:15  

At this point, I make many valiant attempts at putting together the perfect low-cut top and slinky skirt that I’m sure will completely knock him out.  Unfortunately, I find my only low-cut top is being held together with a safety pin and some electrical tape. This, I decide to overlook.  After majestically laying it all out on the bed like the queen’s coronation gown, I then crack open a L’eggs egg and search everywhere, including the freezer, for some lace panties.

2:45
  
Feeling weak and exhausted, I step back into the closet and fall asleep in a small pile of plaid skirts.

4:26
  
Again I’m startled awake by the flounder, who this time has transformed back into my dream date.  I sit up, stretch, scratch my head, and realize I have zipper marks all over my cheeks.

4:30

Wondering where the day went, I race into the bathroom to shower, shave, powder, perfume, polish, and in any other way perfect my zipper-riddled body. Somehow, I manage to pull a hamstring while drying off.

5:45

Hobbling over to the mirror, I try in vain to fix my bangs so I don’t look like a 6-year-old on the short bus.  I finally pin them back with a purple barrette I found loitering behind the toilette. 

6:06
  
After hearing the doorbell ring, I realize I’m horribly overdressed.  I rip my low-cut top and clingy skirt off and throw them behind the couch.  As the doorbell rings again, I frantically jump into a pair of ripped jeans, grab a t-shirt that says 
“I brake for wood fowl.”  I bang my barrette-encrusted head on the wall and careen toward the door.  I figure at this point, I’ll either completely horrify him or knock him dead.  And maybe if I’m lucky – both.