Aristocrat Asshole Hell Date
I never pictured myself with an Aristocrat. But, when I was at a party where my ex-boyfriend and his new wife happened to be; and when my ex-boyfriends ‘snobby-wealthy-educated-blue-blooded’ College Friend (also at the same party) started hitting on me, I couldn’t help but delight in his attention. I remember ex-boyfriend talking about him – mostly out of jealousy for his success. So when Aristocrat’s attention was targeted my way, I knew straight away that Aristocrat was a catch. Plus, watching my ex-boyfriend squirm was giving me a greater pleasure than money literally could buy. As such, at the end of the night, I agreed to go out on a date with the Aristocrat.
The Aristocrat was a gentleman, and insisted on picking me up. As he was not a stranger to me, I felt it was likely okay – even though I prefer my address to remain anonymous until I know for sure that a guy doesn’t have any ‘stalker-killer-weirdo-wacko’ tendencies of any kind.
It was a chilly February night, and as he had told me we were doing casual Italian, I had on my black leather pants, black boots, v-cut soft black cashmere sweater – a sexy, yet tasteful, ensemble. Likely, not the traditional date outfit when going on a date with an Aristocrat; but I am still me, and I wanted this guy to know from the get go – that conservative was not a word that rolled off my tongue, or out of my closet.
As his 911 Porsche pulled up, the Aristocrat – being the gentleman he was – jumped out and opened the door for me. Chivalry always gives my date a bonus point on my ‘invisible-check-list’ that I mentally carry around when getting to know a guy; but aside from his chivalrous behavior, I noticed that ‘casual’ dress meant a suit and a tie to the Aristocrat. It seemed an odd choice, and contrasted sharply with my leather pants – and it made me silently wonder how he would dress if the restaurant had been formal.
On the ride to the restaurant, Aristocrat regaled me with stories of his wine cellar – his massive collection of over 3000 wines – and how he was a self-proclaimed Foodie. He was excited to try what he had read was ‘excellent-authentic Northern Italian-fare’ and as such had brought a bottle of 1987 Barolo from his collection – that he had carefully entrusted me to hold on the ride over – to accompany our dinner.
When we finally arrived, the restaurant was charming inside; it had a feel of old school Italy when you walked in. As we were escorted to our seats, before the waiter could pull back my chair, Aristocrat noticed that the wine glasses set out on the table were stemless – and in fact, on the small side. Aristocrat promptly pointed out to the waiter that the bottle of wine he had brought – one that needed to be carefully decanted as well – was too fine of a wine to be drunk from the glasses set out, and he requested that they please bring some ‘finer stemware’ for his very fine wine.
The waiter scurried back with a very small – what looked to be a white wine glass – only to have the Aristocrat reject the waiter’s second attempt, again requesting for ‘finer stemware.’ When the third attempt did not meet the Aristocrats needs, I slunk down in my chair, embarrassed to be with such a snobby ass, and gave compassionate looks to the waiter in the hopes that he only hurled – what were sure to be giant spit balls – into only the Aristocrat’s dinner.
About 15 minutes later, the waiter re-emerged with massive wine glasses, that I am sure he must have sent someone out to purchase in order to appease his annoying customer. As the wine was finally poured, I decided that all of the ridiculous fuss that went into finding the ‘appropriate stemware’ should obviously result in an extensive analysis of the wine. As such, I spent the next few minutes sniffing and swishing the wine, checking out the legs of the wine, remarking on its color, swishing it to the side of the glass to see if the legs were longer, smelling it to see if the extra swishing changed its smell – well you get the picture – it was an unsubtle-over-exaggerated-wine-analysis if there ever was one.
When the waiter came to ask us what we wanted for our appetizers, I remarked that I had been too preoccupied with checking out the ‘fine, fine wine’ to have had a chance to look at the menu. Aristocrat, annoyed with my over-analysis, said “Well, I guess she isn’t having anything then. But I will have the salad.” Brat like behavior aside, as delightful as it was at moment, resulted in me left to watch Aristocrat devour his salad, with not so much of an offer to share any with me. (The Chivalry point he earned early was simultaneously crossed out in my mind.)
So lesson learned, and by the time the waiter came back to take our entrée orders, I knew what I was having, and requested the Salmon with a side of Mashed Potatoes. Aristocrat piped up and said ‘No she will have the Sea Bass, not the Salmon, and give her the Angel Hair Pasta on the side.” Was he FUCKING kidding me: first he starves me and now he was going to tell me what to eat? I said, “No, I want the Salmon and the Mashed Potatoes, I am Celiac, I can’t eat the Pasta here unless its gluten free – but I don’t feel like Pasta anyway.” The Aristocrat kept telling me that the Sea Bass was their specialty, and if I was having fish then I should really try the Sea Bass, and the Sea Bass-Salmon argument continued until Aristocrat caved and said, “Fine, give her the Salmon.” By this point in the evening – I hated him.
A frustrated Aristocrat went on to say that, had he known I wanted ‘California Kisseen’ he would have taken me somewhere different; and admitted that the Foodie in him was annoyed that his cherished bottle of Barolo was going to be improperly paired with my entrée choice. His snobby remarks almost left me speechless, but as I obviously was not in his culinary league, I decided to further humiliate myself by telling him that I would have been happy with the $10 house wine, and that I didn’t even know what ‘California Kisseen’ was.
A wry smile cracked his face as he started to try to explain what ‘California Kisseen’ was to me: “Its fresh vegetables, and fish, very California inspired fare”, and when I still was looking at him with a puzzled look on my face, he started to name a few restaurants that specialized in ‘California Kisseen.’ And then it dawned on me – he was talking about California CUISINE! I went on to now proudly tell him that I spoke fluent French and as he had mispronounced Cuisine, that I had been merely confused as to what he was referring to. You know, of course, that my remark ended any further discussion of food and wine from the Aristocrat. (Check 1 for Team Janell)
Now, struggling for conversation as we ate our dinner, the Aristocrat brought up the current election asking who I was voting for – seriously, politics on the first date? As I already knew, at least on my part, that this first date was going to my last date with Aristocrat, and guessing somehow that the Aristocrat was definitely a Republican – and even though I was completely undecided on how I would eventually vote, said… “Hilary is my bitch, no question.”
This of course led him into a debate-argument which culminated in his saying “Well, I guess you still haven’t made any money since you moved here from Canada, because if you had, you would be voting Republican.” And thinking he had won, sat back in his chair with that wry half smile look on his face, smirking at his own self-professed victory. Until I said, “How do you know that I am not a pocketbook Democrat?” (Check 2 for Team Janell!)
As I tried to weasel my way out of dessert, the Aristocrat – who you would think would want to extricate himself from my mouthy clutches – still wanted dessert. By this time, I wanted to eat my mango sorbet in silence; but that expression that silence is deafening is so, so true. So in an effort to make friendly conversation, and to end this date on an upward swing, I decided to ask him about his dog. As someone who loves dogs, and also as someone who is still in pain from losing her best friend, this was not an easy subject to bring up. But I was desperate for a conversation that would not lead to an argument, plus HOW COULD A CONVERSATION ABOUT AN ADORABLE DOGGIE EVER GO WRONG?
So I asked him, what was his dogs favorite thing to do? And he responded that his dog Sam liked to play in the snow. Now, I am looking at Aristocrat, and for some reason I just didn’t see him as a winter person, I just couldn’t imagine him on skis or a snowboard. He was born in LA , educated in LA, hell – he will likely die in LA. So I asked, “When did you take him to the snow?” And Aristocrat answered – “Never”.
“Well,” I ventured to ask, “If you have never taken him to the snow, then how do you know that playing in the snow is his favorite things to do?” (Seemed like a reasonable questions after all!) And Aristocrat went on to tell me that, he took Sam to a dog psychic once and the dog psychic had told him that playing in the snow was Sam’s favorite thing to do. (So, me still trying to figure this out asked what I thought was another reasonable question): “And what did the dog psychic say when you told him that he had never been to the snow?” The Aristocrat went on to explain to me that the dog psychic told him that “the other dogs told him how much fun it is.”
I was officially on a date with a crazy person – a crazy, self-obsessed, ignorant, WANNA BE Aristocrat who was more of an asshole who thinks-he-is-royalty-cuz-he’s-RICH kind of an asshole. UGH!
The ride home seemed to take forever, and when we got to my building I jumped out of the car and turned to look back in the window to say thanks, but by the time I turned around the ‘chivalrous’ Aristocrat had leapt out of his side of the car and was making his way towards me. I extended out my hand as a formal thank you, and he anticipating the handshake grabbed me, pulled me in, and plucked a big kiss on my lips. I wanted to hurl, but I thanked him for a nice evening, and turned to walk up the stairs to my building.
And what do you think the Aristocrat did? As I turned around and headed up the stairs, the Aristocrat did the unimaginable – he smacked my ass! I jumped from the shock, but kept motoring up the stairs, never looking back.
The next day, I was completely ‘gobsmacked’ when the Aristocrat called, and left a message telling me what a great night he had had, and how he loved that I was a girl who liked to argue, and…when could we do it again?
And the moral of this story is:
- Wealth does not mean well-bred.
- You TRULY can’t buy class.
- If you are planning to be a snob, learn to pronounce the word CUISINE correctly.
- Dating someone to get back at someone else makes Karma a bitch. If I thought I was torturing my ex by letting him think I might fall for the Aristocrat, the only one who ended up getting tortured was – me. My bad! Lesson learned! Ass still sore from the smacking!
- And lastly, Uber…Uber..Uber..Uber …to avoid the wacko-crazies knowing where they can come back to stalk you!
Below is the audio link of the story, sorry had a cold so hopefully the odd hacking sound would distract from the story
Below is one of the 30 or so blooper takes, shit, I kept screwing up. LOL
Be safe, be happy, share if you like this story!