The Courtship of Sweet Babou, Part Two
By Betty Fokker on January 20, 2013
Although the first date with my Sweet Babou was a utter disaster, I was so completely charmed by his attempts to correct those disasters that I fell madly in love with him, kissed him passionately, and got a marriage proposal. I accepted, of course, but told him we had to wait 6 months before we told anyone or got a ring, so that people wouldn’t think we were lunatics. We might as well have gone ahead and gotten hitched that night, since everyone already knew we were both as mad as the March Hare.
Our first date was, as related in the last post, at a wedding. With my parents. Which would have been enough right there to have turned it into a nightmare date for him. Nevertheless the Universe went into overdrive to make the fact Babou had to watch my mother get groped would be one of the high points of the date. Seriously, it became a sort of surreal romantic comedy, which proves even God really enjoys watching those things.
During the wedding itself Sweet Babou was in the congregation as a guest, while I was in the front holding a bunch of flowers and wondering if it was a bad sign the unity candle blew out, so we didn’t actually get to talk until after the ceremony. We were exiting the church, heading for his car to go to the reception, when he decided to ‘compliment’ me. He told me, “You don’t look anywhere near as hideous in that dress as I thought you were going to from the description.”
I looked at him quizzically, wondering how to respond. I thought, “WTF does “not anywhere near as hideous” mean?” However, before I could ask, the light dawned in Sweet Babou’s geeky frontal cortex and he realized what he had just said. He then stopped short, frozen in horror, and smacked himself in the forehead while crying out, “DOH!”, ala Homer Simpson. I was charmed. His chagrin was so damn cute! I laughed and told him it was fine, and we proceeded to his vehicle.
At his car, he walked around to the driver’s side and got in, leaving me standing outside the locked passenger door. Again, I heard a , “DOH!” He reached over and unlocked the door. I just stood there with one eyebrow cocked and my arms folded, waiting for him to get out an open my door. Why, you ask? Am I not a jack-boot wearing feminist? Yes, but when I am dressed up in fluffy pink gown, carrying flowers, in high heels, with full Tammy Faye makeup on, and on a first date, whomever I’m with had better open the damn door as a signal that he appreciates the shit out of my effort or I will padlock the Muffin Shop for perpetuity. I am worth a little courtship, dammit. This isn’t a job interview; he’s trying to see me nekkid at some point in the future. Finally realizing that he was rapidly diminishing his chances at ever getting into the Nookie Zone, Sweet Babou comes around and opens my door.
Sadly, when he closed the door he didn’t notice that a big swathe of my dress was still outside of the car and hanging down to the road. Thus, a big chunk of the dress got dragged off on the way to the reception. I was actually okay with this, since the ragged edges and missing bits of skirt gave me an excuse to tell people, straight faced, that we had barely escaped from a Zombie attack.
Then, at the reception, he met my parents. Worse, in his opinion, was the fact I made him dance. Not only were his retinas seared with the image of my dad copping a feelsie off my mom, I made him put on his boogie shoes and get funky with his bad self. This was, I freely admit, a mistake on my part. It was bad y’all. Three people with medical training tried to put a spoon in his mouth because they assumed he was having a seizure.
We survived the reception, and were having such a nice time talking to each other that we decided that he should take me back to my apartment so I could change clothes and we could go hang out together some more. All was going well, until we got to the restaurant for dinner. He gallantly tried to open the door of the restaurant for me, since he was now cued into the requirements of potential nekkidness, and when he stepped back, he broke my little toe. There was a small but distinct “snap”. Nothing says ‘success’ on a date like breaking a phalange!
He was so distraught. What he didn’t know was that I was already totally crazy about him. He was funny, sweet, smart, and really wanted me to like him. It was the perfect storm of enjoyment, vulnerability, and sincere admiration. Therefore, when he asked me, mournfully, if I just wanted him to take me home, I told him, “No, but my toe hurts, so after dinner lets just go back to my place and make out instead of going to a movie.”
And we lived happily ever after.
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