That time of the month, girl? No? It’s cool. I’ll say it is anyway.

On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

Anita was new in town when her path crossed with someone from her past. So why not take him up on a date? The Pittsburgh Penguins had just won the Stanley Cup, so there was much to celebrate. What’s better than a parade on a first date? No. Seriously — what is?

I moved to Pittsburgh June 13, 2009 — the day after the Penguins won the Stanley Cup. The Penguins held a victory parade a few days after their win and a “date” in the Pittsburgh area invited me to go to said parade. The guy and I had known each other since middle school, and somehow our paths crossed again (OMG fate!).

By the time we made it downtown (‘dahntahn’ as they say), I really had to pee. My “date” claimed he could weasel a business into letting me use their restroom. He was pretty adamant he could convince someone. We went to the information desk at the US Steel Tower lobby, and he whispered something to the receptionist. The receptionist paused, looked at me, then looked back at him and said “no.” As we walked away I asked what he said to her; apparently, he had told her “it was my time of the month.”

Perhaps, I was being Little Miss Modesty, but I was quite embarrassed. To me, periods are just not something that needs to be discussed with dates/bfs/guy friends. I think it’s perfectly acceptable for guys who aren’t in the medical field to be grossed out by them. Yes, it’s something that happens once a month (or less if you’re lucky); most grown men understand that, but I think they would all agree that they could live without the gory details.

I managed to keep my cool throughout the afternoon. We even went out a few times after that and he met a few of my friends. Whenever my friends give me the: “Oh he’s so nice, you should date him,” I always share this story.

I’ve faked being preggers to use a public loo that was for “customers only,” but that was me telling the fib and not a date pretending I was currently, in that moment, bleeding from my vagina. Maybe I should date Anita’s “date.”

Again, we have another dating tale from our friend Breezy. However, this time, instead of dealing with a guy in a Maroon 5 cover band, she’s got Mr. Pleasure (YES. THIS. IS. HIS. REAL. LAST. NAME.) and some good old-fashioned slut-shaming thanks to her compulsive-lying brother.

I hesitate to mention anyone’s real last name, but his was Pleasure. If you’re imagining someone smooth, experienced, and enticing, please stop. He was the epitome of awkward, stiff, and strangely old-seeming for his age, but nice enough and he knew my brother. So I thought I’d give him a chance. We met a year prior to him asking me out, and I was somewhat surprised it had taken him so long to actually ask. Over Chinese food and red wine, I found out why.

Let me preface this story by saying that my brother is at best a prolific exaggerator and at worst a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. Anyone who has been around him for more than five minutes can attest to this. Apparently Mr. Pleasure had not noticed.

As we sat there making forced small talk over crab rangoon, Mr. Pleasure made a comment about being surprised I had agreed to go out with him. I thought he might have been being self-deprecating, so I followed up with, “Why is that? You seem like a nice guy.” Then he dropped the bomb… Well he alluded to the bomb and I had to spend about ten minutes coaxing it out of him.

Apparently after we had first met, Mr. Pleasure asked my brother about me and my brother had told him some “stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?!”

“You know, like… that you only date black guys.”

I laughed to keep from punching things.

“And that you, kind of… got around… or like, that you like to have sex with a lot of different people.”

Thank you, Mr. Pleasure; I know what it means when people who remind me of my grandpa say, “get around.” I was speechless. At first I couldn’t believe that my brother had said those things, but then I remembered who my brother was. Then I couldn’t believe someone who believed me to be promiscuous with strict black man-only dating preferences hesitated for an entire year and then asked me out anyway. How. Bizarre. There was no second date.

(Side note: I was still a virgin at this point in my life. Maybe a make-out slut, but I don’t know if many would classify me as promiscuous then. And I had dated literally every race of man who had asked. Pacific Islander is the only census racial category that has evaded me thus far…)

I think we might need some of the ladies who have dated Breezy’s brother to submit some stories. You know, since he clearly has a penchant for the “decorated” truth.

Lastly this week, we have Kelly from Arkansas’ most recent dating nightmare. It’s never a good sign if the guy you’re on the date with isn’t quite sure how many kids he might have.

Him: “Do you have any kids?” Me: “No, do you?” Him: “Weeeellllllll, maybe one, possibly two. I haven’t talked to her in awhile.” He described how he cheated on his live-in girlfriend with a married co-worker. Completely appropriate first date conversation topic. He berated the poor hostess and waiter. I wanted to crawl under the table. He was in a boy band. And bragged about it. He showed me prom pictures. From 1993. Check please. Oh, and next time I saw him, he proceeded to tell me that I was one “fresh and clean” girl. Holy cats.

Why are you complaining, Kelly? Most of us would love such an awesome compliment! It proves we shower regularly and have a decent grasp on hygiene and deodorant and… stuff.

One woman’s horror story is another woman’s walk in the park. If you think you can top this, email me. Do it:


Photo: DeviantArt