Rushing through judgment.

Overall, I'm an okay friend. But there are times when I'm an AMAZING friend and last night was one of those times.

My friend Cat asked me to sign-up for speed dating with her a couple of weeks ago. "Oh, come on, it'll be fun. It's at a wine bar! You love wine!" While I do love wine, the idea of drinking pinot seated across to the Andy Stitzers of the world wasn't the slightest bit appealing. But after several minutes of pleading, I gave in.

Which is how I found myself seated across a tiny man, in camo-print shirt wearing a nametag that announced him as "El Capitan".

"El Capitan? Seriously?" I asked as he sat down across from me following the chime of the bell. They'd given us a list of "starter questions" to ask our dates, but given he'd taken the time to scribble out his actual name and write "El Capitan" over it, "So what do you do?" didn't seem like the place to start.

"Yes," he answered and leaned in, "I am. El Capitan."

Oh yeah, well, I am "Senorita What-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here-and-did-you-really-wear-camo-for-this-and-is-that-a-full-liter-of-hair-gel-you've-got-there-holding-your-comb-over-in-place-or-could-it-possibly-be-a-gallon?"

I then asked him what he did and (I should have seen this coming) he replied, "I'm a male dancer."

Right.

I eventually learned he's in "hardware sales", though wouldn't share who he worked for. (Translation: He works at Home Depot.) Mercifully, I only had to speak to him for six minutes or I would have bought a buzz saw off him to kill myself with.

*ding*

Next up was Drunk John. Despite having only been there for 45 minutes or so, John had somehow managed to down four drinks prior to getting to my table. "Hi. I'm John. So when was the last time you were drunk? Like, really shitfaced..."

Impressive lead-in, John. I told him a story about being so drunk I threw a bowl of ramen noodles in my purse after my roommate had lovingly prepared them for me, citing, "I'm too drunk to eat ramen," as my excuse for doing so. "Ramen. Cool. So when was the last time you puked from drinking?...Really, you can't remember? Man, that's impressive. I puked just a couple of weeks ago."

*ding*

"Liz. Hi. I'm Brad, and you're tall. I like that." He was the best-looking guy there by a long shot, and I'd had high hopes for him when we first got there. But after he opened his mouth, I imagined that commercial from a couple years back where a guy pulls up in a Corvette and the license plate says "The Brad". He had an inherently icky quality to him. Very used car salesman. "Listen, Liz, I'd like to see you again. I'm at Whole Foods all the time. Maybe we can get coffee there next week."

"Uh...well, yeah, I guess we fill out a little form and then say whether or not we want to see each other again? Or something like that?"

"You know, we don't have to follow the rules here. You could just give me your number right now."

Um, how about instead I give you a bogus e-mail address??? Done and done.

*ding*

"BUT I WANTED TO HEAR ABOUT THAT HAMMOCK!"

That's how my "date" with Bill started. With him talk-shouting (Bill has volume issues) at his last date.

First, a sidebar: I have a freakish memory when it comes to names and faces. If I was standing in line behind you at the grocery store in 1985, chances are good that I remember you, what you were wearing that day, and that you thumbed through the National Enquirer, but didn't buy it. While many are often envious of this gift, many others are freaked out by it...particularly people that have no recollection of meeting me, when I remember multiple details about them. Thus, over the years, I've learned to fake it. For example if I meet a girl at a party, and she says, "Hi, I'm Jennifer. Nice to meet you," I respond with, "Nice to meet you, too," and NOT, "I know. Your last name is Johnson, you have an older sister named Molly, you were in my second grade home room, had a locker four down from mine, ate more boogers than anyone I'd ever seen, and had weekly meetings with the school counselor to discuss your parents divorce."

Which brings me back to Bill. I met Bill at a Christmas party two and a half years ago. I remember him specifically, because he spent the evening hitting on me and by the end of the night I was genuinely concerned I might have ruptured an eardrum. He was also the first black guy I'd ever met that could be classified as "smarmy", and that threw me a bit. Case in point, as he was sitting down, I said, "Hammock?"

"HA...YEAH, THE LAST GIRL I WAS TALKING TO WAS ABOUT TO TELL ME ABOUT A HAMMOCK SHE JUST BOUGHT, BUT THEN THE BELL RANG, SO I DIDN'T GET TO HEAR ABOUT IT. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME, LET'S TALK ABOUT MEEEEEEE."

And so that we didn't have to talk about hiiiim, I decided to be completely creepy just to make sure I never had to risk shattering an eardrum again.

"Actually, I've met you before, Bill. At the Grinch Gala a couple of years ago. The one that was held at the bar that's now the Mohawk? You're an attorney, right? And like cigars. I remember that because there was a guy at that party rolling cigars, and we had a conversation about how my favorite cigars are cognac-dipped, and your favorite cigar is a Macanudo Vingage number 5."

Operation: Creep Out was a smashing success. And the irony of the situation was that Bill ended up hitting it off with this alcoholic that was one of only 100 girls in my high school graduating class. At the end of the night, she stumbled up to me and slurred, "Hi, I'm Cindy, nice tur meet you. A few orf us are gurring to dinner...wanna come?" And as I declined, I pretended I had no idea who she was.