Actually, here's a dating story for you.
Saturday night I went to a birthday party with a guy I've been seeing. He had told me that it would be a straight edge party, so I wasn't looking super forward to it or anything. Room full of strangers + no beer = unhappy rdg.
Straight edge-ism has never made any sense to me. I knew a couple of punk rock guys in high school who were straight edge, but I always figured it was just because they had trouble getting liquor and weren't really dating much anyway. It's like being a priest, but without all the fun alcoholism and pedophilia (not to mention religion).
So anyway. We go to the party. The party started at 5 pm (straight-edgers go to bed early AND sober, it seems), and there was lots of food, but for some reason it was all dessert food, despite the extreme earliness of the hour. Maybe straight edgers eat dinner at 3 in the afternoon?
The guests all talked about how great they felt all the time because their temples o' bodies were completely chemical-free. As you might imagine, I had little to contribute to such conversations. It wasn't fun.
But that isn't the point of the story. The point of the story is that on our way into the party, the host's dog--a mini Doberman pincher*--lunged at me from a distance of three or four feet and bit the shit out of my right leg.
Luckily, I was wearing jeans, because if I'd been wearing a skirt, as I usually am, I would now be missing a 3" by 4" piece of leg. Instead, the dog's teeth just pierced the skin, which upon inspection in the host's bathroom had already begun to turn an interesting shade of blackish-purple and was swelling up nicely.
There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I would have just put on a brave face and assured my date that I was perfectly fine, and that I was sure that charming little dog didn't mean any harm. However, those days are behind me now and while I kept a fairly stiff upper lip at the party itself, once we were safely back in the car I let go.
"That little piece of shit! It should be put down! I'm sneaking back over here later and laying out rat poison. Little fucker."
Date Guy took this all fairly calmly and was reasonably apologetic, but he seemed surprised that I wanted to stop for some kind of antiseptic ointment on the way home. When we got to my apartment, I changed into shorts and came out to show him my wound, which by this time was a swollen black egg on my right leg.
My date said, "I don't know. I guess I expected more."
Now, call me old-fashioned, call me a wussy chicken-shit, call me what you will--I believe firmly that if you take someone out on a date and they get bitten, for whatever reason, it is your moral duty to act like it is the end of the world and to be very, very impressed by the bite wound.
Because otherwise, the amount of action you get that night might be considerably less.
*Don't even get me started on the uselessness that is this breed of dog.
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