I am all for parenting. Having children, being a parent, spawning small Merediths, who go on Fifty First Toddler Playdates, etcetera. However, you gotta know where to draw the line. The myth of the overbearing Jewish mother - not a myth. I'm not entirely sure why this is. Boy #18 had a big case of the Mommies.
Newsflash: not sexy.
What I wore: Joe's Jeans ripped denim jeggings (are jeggings over? Can I wear them a little bit longer? My mom says they resemble maternity wear. They are so comfy, and there is no fly, and they're semi-hard to get on, it requires a little wiggle/jump, but they also suck you in!) A vintage cream button-down top that resembles an Equipment shirt. It was my Mom's from the '80s, in keeping with the theme of this date. My mom wore it when her shoulders had pads and her hair was 86% poofier, (which is saying something).
I think everyone's mom had 1988 hair that was a mix between a lion's mane and what happens when you put your pinkie in an electrical socket. Stuart Weitzman black clogs accompanied this faboosh ensemble. Clogs are onomatopoeic. Cloggity clog clog clog.
Where we went: His mom's house. Just kidding! Bourbon, Adams Morgan.
I liked this place, save for the several obnoxiously loud frat party entourages wearing matching polo shirts and screaming about football or women or something. Have the peanut butter pie.
There was some good conversation to be had - the importance of eel sauce, growing up in DC (I mean, I grew up in DC. He grew up in Potomac. SO NOT THE SAME), our pets. He talked about his mom a lot. And it was weird. And it was annoying, and I feel like he should have just brought Darlene on our date, shoulder-pads and all, so that she could fix the shmutz on his face.
Don't get me wrong - this guy was really nice, pretty cute, and amusing. But talking about your parents on a date has the same amount of sexual zest as discussing Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. None.
It was sort of like when I dated a dental graduate student for a hot second freshman year of college. I went to a dental pregame (sugar-free chasers!) and began a sentence absentmindedly with "My mom." I blame it on the word vomit, as I do most things. After realizing my faux pas, I sucked down my molar-friendly beverage and wandered off to look at some nerve endings, wanting to melt into the linoleum.
There's nothing wrong with talking about your parents - they did feed you Cheerios in your high chair. It's just important that you climb out of that high-chair and put on your big boy pants, or slip on your jeggings.
After our date we walked along the scenic crack-den that is Adams Morgan. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then licked my hand and patted down a stray hair that was fluttering in the wind. "Darlene would have wanted me to do that," I said.
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