Sunday, July 29, 2007

Oh Schitt

I could not go out with a man named Barry Schitt. I just couldn’t do it. What if I ended up liking him? What if we ended up getting married and I’d forever be known as Mrs. Schitt? Hyphenating would have only made it worse and if I chose to keep my maiden name everyone at the Basura Bat Yam synagogue would call me a dirty, feminist whore and curse me with the evil eye (not that I really cared, but my grandfather would). I couldn’t have a boyfriend, forget a husband, whose name sounded like something cats do. Barry Schitt.

You know what, I couldn’t even go out on one single date with this guy because I knew the entire time we were out all I’d be able to think about was his unfortunate name. The hostess at the restaurant would ask what name our reservation was under.

“Schitt.” My blind date would reply.

“Excuse me?” the hostess would ask.

“Schitt.”

Then there would be a terrible mix-up because she’d think he was cursing at her or making some immature, frat boy type of joke and she’d threaten to have us kicked out until he’d be forced to show her his license. It would be awful and terribly embarrassing.

Nope. I couldn’t go out with Barry Schitt.

“You have to.” Said my mother.

“Why?”

“You can’t insult Hyman Lebenklutz. How would it look for the Cantor’s grand daughter to turn down a date with the nephew of one of the biggest contributors in the congregation?”

“He donated the door frames.” I knew this because in the synagogue there was a brass plaque on every single doorframe that said "Door frames generously donated by Hyman Lebenklutz.

“It’s a big deal to those people. Just go out with him. Don’t embarrass your grandfather. This is important to him.”

“Fine.”

I had to go out with Barry Schitt. I was making a sacrifice so that my grandfather could remain in the good graces of 200 and some 95 year olds, most of whom could barely see, hear or speak but still managed to terrorize and police every minute going on in one another’s lives. How did I ever get myself into this?

It happened at Passover. My grandfather forced us to endure the first night of the Seder at the temple with the 200 and some geriatrics, all rolling around in their Little Rascals, pulling oxygen tanks and wondering what everyone else was doing. I couldn’t even walk through the door (frames donated by Hyman Lebenklutz, of course) without being assaulted by a mob of angry old people all demanding to know why I wasn’t married and then speculating on the reasons before I had a chance to answer. Before the sawdust dry, sugar free, matzoh meal cake was served Hyman Lebenklutz took me aside.

“You must meet my great nephew. He’s a chiropractor.” He insisted, as if the fact that his great nephew was a chiropractor would cause me to suddenly swoon at the prospect of having my back cracked for free for the rest of my life if things worked out between us.

A few days after Pesach ended, I received a phone call.

“Hi, this is Dr. Schitt. Barry Schitt.”

Naturally I had long since dismissed Hyman Lebenklutz’s matchmaking attempts, so when I heard the name Dr. Schitt I thought one of my friends was screwing around with me.

“Come on. Dr. Schitt? What are you a proctologist?” I laughed.

“Umm. Excuse me?” said Dr. Schitt. “I think you met my uncle the other night – Hyman Lebenklutz. Basura Bat-Yam?”

“Ohhhhhh. Yeah. Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“My uncle got your number from your grandfather.”

“Yes, right. Of course. Mmm Hmm.”

“So yeah, I know this is kind of awkward. I don’t normally let my uncle fix me up with girls from his temple, but, would you like to meet up?”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Barry.”

“Barry?”

“Schitt. S-C-H-I-T-T.”

As if spelling it made it ok. The addition of a C and an extra T made all the difference, right?

I should have spotted red flag #1 right here. He didn’t try to make a joke about his name. If your name is Schitt, first of all you should really consider changing it to something that isn’t a cuss word. Second, if you decide to keep your name then for God’s sakes break the tension by making a joke out of it when you meet new people. You know your name is Shit. They know your name is Shit, and chances are, the new people are feeling very awkward about your name and are wanting to laugh about it, but feeling like that’s not really OK. Barry Schitt should have made a joke. Perhaps he was tired of explaining it, but who cares. Worse yet, I think Barry Schitt took himself too seriously and that is one of the worst character traits that anyone can have. People need to get over themselves and learn to laugh at all the stupid things that make them uniquely funny. We’re all funny, but 99% of us can’t see our own ridiculousness. I think Barry Schitt had no clue that he was ridiculous. When he called, I had no clue exactly how ridiculous Dr. Schitt truly was either. I only knew that he had an awful name, which I pitied, and that he couldn’t make fun of it.

“Why wouldn’t he change his name?” my mother asked.

“Who knows?” I said. “I would.”

Barry Schitt called the day of our date to say he was taking me to a very good, upscale restaurant that I had been to on numerous other occasions. I was glad, because the guy I went out with just before Passover had taken me to a salad buffet because he had a coupon. Now, I’m all about a good salad buffet. I am truly not above the lure of a good salad buffet, especially if they have an additional baked potato bar and a frozen yogurt machine. I do love the salad buffet, but I don’t particularly want to be taken to one on a first date just because the guy taking me on the first date has a coupon and clearly deems me unworthy of a larger investment. Nevertheless, I did enjoy my salad and frozen yogurt, but the real kicker came when the guy who took me there had the nerve to ask me for a blowjob in the car, while still in the parking lot of the salad buffet place. Plus he was five two, ugly and boring. I took a cab home.

You know, Mommom Jewel impressed upon me at a young age that you always have to find something nice to say about everyone. You can always find something. The one nice thing that I could find to say about Barry Schitt is that he had a really nice car. As girly as I am, I confess that I really like to drive. By that I don’t mean that I like to chug along in Miami traffic for six hours with a migraine from breathing exhaust. I like to drive a good car. I can appreciate a well made automobile, and Barry Schitt owned (probably leased actually) a current, navy blue with tan interior, 5 series BMW. I really wanted to drive it. That just happens to be my dream car. When I become rich and famous I will really want to want a Prius, I swear. I will actually want a navy blue, 5 series BMW with tan interior. No amount of Live Earth concerts have seemed to sway me closer to genuinely desiring the Prius.

Barry Schitt came to the front door and I admit, he wasn’t ugly. He was 35 (a little old for me who was 27), very tall, in good shape and had thinning blondish hair. He looked a bit Michael Bolton-ish for my taste, but still, he wasn’t ugly. He also felt the need to carry a 2 liter bottle of Evian from the car to the house, because in the 30 seconds it took to get from the driveway to the front door, a person could really work up a wicked thirst. My mom jumped all over this one.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

This goes back to red flag #1, but Barry Schitt had no clue that she was making fun of him, and looked at her as if to say “Look you dumb woman, can’t you see that I have a 2 liter bottle of Evian in my hand???”

The Chiro-practuh made himself comfortable in my parents’ living room. My dad was gone, so he made small talk with my mom who told him all about how she hates the government and how big corporations are taking over the world and how AIDS was manufactured in a lab to kill undesirables. Somehow that got into a discussion about pollution or chemicals or some such and Barry Schitt explained his water bottle.

“I take it everywhere I go. You never know when people are going to ask you if you want a drink and I can’t take the risk that they might not have the proper filtration device. I also own a water filter company, by the way. I have some literature in the car if you’re interested.”

He came back with not only the literature about the water filtration device but also a big jar of vitamins and literature about those as well.

“I can tell you have some health issues. If you’d let me adjust you I can figure out which supplements are right for you.”

And my damn mom let him start cracking on her neck and twisting her back until he concluded that she needed to stop eating foods in the deadly nightshade family and take 25 different kinds of supplements from his own personal line of all natural, Chinese inspired, powdered-spider-derived vitamins. Plus, she really needed to get one of his water filters and he promised to give her a deal.

“So, if you have these great water filters why are you drinking Evian?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m just re-using the bottle. This is MY water inside.”

Because how would we ever know the difference?

What seemed like hours later, Barry Schitt and I finally went to the restaurant and in his car, I am not kidding you, he was listening to a John Tesh cd. DEAL BREAKER.

Once seated (after the whole incident at the hostess stand played out exactly as I had imagined) he would not let me have any bread. I really wanted some bread. This was one of my favorite restaurants and I knew that they baked it in house and that it was especially delicious.

“Bread is toxic.” Said Barry Schitt. “It’s causing your dry skin.”

Later he asked me about my job.

“I work at the Bubblegum Kittikat. I’m a hostess. I keep my clothes on.”

Barry Schitt perked up. I bet it was because he thought this made me an easy lay.

“I love that place!! I go there all the time!” he said. “It’s really classy!”

OK, no it wasn’t. The Kittikat liked to call itself classy, but that is only in comparison to some of the other strip clubs located off lonely highway exits, staffed by scabby crack whores and frequented by truck drivers who were probably also serial killers. The Bubblegum Kittikat thought it was classy because it had real glasses instead of plastic, an army of juiced out bouncers, and webs of velvet ropes, but no amount of cigars and martinis can make a place where women get paid to stick their twats in the faces of strange men, classy. I’m sorry.

When our entrees arrived, the Chiro-practuh made the server stay at the table while he took both his and my plates and divided the food precisely in half with his knife. He cut my snapper in two, dragged a channel through my mashed potatoes and scraped away all the sauce. Then he counted the asparagus spears, divided by two and placed one half of the food on the unused bread plates. He then sent the original plates away and asked the server to box them up, while I sat in stunned silence.

“I only eat half of my food.” He said.

“Sometimes I eat half of my food too. Other times I eat 3/4s of it. Sometimes I actually dare to eat ALL of it.”

“Well, there you go. And those potatoes are nightshade. You shouldn’t eat them at all.” He said with a little wrist flick.

What exactly was that supposed to mean? Oh, and I totally neglected to mention that Barry brought in his Evian bottle and refused any beverage offered by the restaurant.

In some ways Barry Schitt had a point. Most restaurants do give you monstrous portions that no one person should ever eat and yes, this has contributed to the obesity epidemic. Mostly though, this rule doesn’t apply to fine dining where the portions are much smaller and the food prepared from healthier ingredients. The portions at this place were modest. I was starving. Dessert was totally out of the question.

When we left, I explained my love of Barry Schitt’s car and asked if I could just drive it a little ways.

“No, no I’m sorry. No one drives my car.”

So I had to ride in it listening to John Tesh until we got back home.

I thanked him politely. Obviously we both knew that I would never have to worry about becoming Mrs. Schitt because you couldn’t pay me enough to ever be with a control freak like that with his damned filtered water and only eating half of his food. I couldn’t possibly live with that Schitt for the rest of my life. And when I went inside, I ate the other half of my food.

28 comments:

Manuel said...

Bwahahahahahahaha that's the funniest thing I've read in ages. Tremendous. I worked with a woman once who's surname was Pratt, she got married to a gut called Goon. Nightmare....

I like this place I'll be back...

SJ said...

Don't you think it's funny that we all match our first names with the guy's last names almost right away? We try it on for size even before meeting them sometimes. I dodged a bullet...not as bad as Schitt, but close.

Duckworth. I kid you not that was almost my last name. The guy proposed and I loved enough to become Mrs. SJ Duckworth. I was however not able to overlook the cheating.

If that wasn't bad enough my mother almost named me Ayesha. She loved the move "She" from 1965 with the evil queen and thought she was gorgeous and had it not been for my father's intervention I would've been Ayesha. But for the flip of a coin I would be Ayesha Duckworth. :::shudder:::

Leonesse said...

NO SCHITT? Splitting your food for you? WTH?

I wonder what kind of anal/low iq'd woman he had to end up with?

Kristen said...

Wow, If a guy had split my food for me without asking me first, I might have left right then and there. No bread? Wtf?? Well, that might be one of the weirdest dates I've ever heard of.....

Anonymous said...

I was almost a "Thing", and in the 70's I briefly dated a "Hand". But nothing tops a Schitt.

Love ya,
Shari Ann

AFC 30K said...

AS we may say over 'the pond'

"what a wanker!"

Sod the water, give me wine. Anyone who said I couldn't eat bread would have to be shot on sight. And as for the 5 series, they're nice but they're not all that. An E class mercedes has far more class.

I think we all agree you were better off out of there!

Government Peon said...

What a freak. I think I would have been beyond annoyed if some guy I just met was messing with my food without my permission. Definitely a control freak who'd be better off with a dog instead of a wife.

ADW said...

I am like Joey from Friends - no one, but no one is allowed to touch my food. Talk about nasty. If some litle Schitt put his mitts across the table and touched my plate, he would be promptly stabbed with a salad fork.

I think I liked the salad car blow-job guy better. At least he was honest and forthright about what he wanted. Blech.

Kara said...

I commend you for not stabbing this guy in the hand with your fork when he started messing with your food, which would have been my reaction.

(Seriously, it would have been. I grew up in a big family with a lot of very hungry brothers, and had to learn to aggressively defend my food if I wanted it to stay on my plate long enough for me to eat it... )

nandy said...

Last names are everything!

A friend tried to set me up with a guy whose last name was Lanci. Since my first name is Nancy, it was a "no go" from the start.

Travis Erwin said...

Great story. I just found your blog today, but I'll have to coem back and read some more of your Schitt.

BaxtersMum said...

WhatI want to know is if he was bringing the Evian bottle into the BubblegunKittyKat.

And if he's so health conscious, I would think a strip club has got to be the biggest den of not necessarily sterile in the history of the world.

OH - you should have asked him what he ate and drank at the KittyKat.

Touching food is akin to ordering food for me. Not. Gonna. Happen. Jackass.

6th Floor blog said...

Don't those water bottles say "Do not refill"? I thought it was bad to reuse soft plastic..hehe.

Miss Kitty said...

Dear GOD!

Even worse than his name is was a twit he was. But at least you did the fam a favor. Sometimes you gotta "take one for the team." And at least he didn't ask for a blowjob in the parking lot. :-P

jeff said...

It frightens me that there are actually people like this out there in the world.

Sparkling Cipher said...

I could have overlooked the water bottle, but I'd have faked a sudden illness as soon as he tried to sell products and services to my mother. There's a time and place for a sales pitch, and a date is not it.

amy said...

Ugh. Health Nazis are the worst. You should have casually brought up all the germs that strippers have and all the unhealthy things that go on in places like the Bubblegum Kittikat. By the way, when people say that those places are classy, I always think, "yeah, they're Klassy. With a K."

I would like to say that as soon as he took my food away to cut it in half, I would have slapped his silly hand away. But, in reality I probably would have been too shocked to do anything other than sit there and gape.

Man alive, you have some great bad date stories. You're like, the Queen of Bad Date Stories. :D

MP said...

Do the stories get better?? Hmm, no they just are more..each one becomes my favorite. Your writing leaves the image of that idiot in my head...OMG...I would have been tempted to sleep with him to find out how bad he was..cause you know he...Oh, I have to stop there, the image is blinding me...

Dave said...

Excellent story! and I think I know this guy. You can't grow up in an orthodox jewish neighborhood as the shabbas goy without having run into the Barry Shits of this world.

Anonymous said...

Y'all laugh but one of the girls I work with went out on a date with a guy who made pig noises at her because she ordered 4 tacos instead of just three.

Anonymous said...

Not to mention I have been know to stab people in the hand with my fork for messing with my plate. Not lying. On my father's side of the family the men have a bad habit of reaching over and grabbing whatever looks good even if it is on someone else's plate already.

Anonymous said...

well, i would have called him a: schitthead! lol!

Anonymous said...

you deserve the biggest virtual hug on this planet for having had to put up with a schmuck like him. oy!!!!! thank goodness you have a wonderful husband now. happy monday, sunny

Charlotte said...

Hahahaha...I love your dating stories. Being one of few single girls in my group of friends, your stories kind of make up for my lack of a boyfriend.

Maya said...

This story makes me: a) scared for my single sisters b) sad I don't have more 'bad date' stories.

Thanks again for such an entertaining read!

Mile High Pixie said...

Baaahahahaaaa!! OMG! That is so wrong! Dr. Schitt sounds like a pain...in the ass! Wow! So if all the Schitts are together at one time, is that called a reunion or diarrhea?

And if he'd asked for a blowjob after dinner, you could have told him since he brought his own Evian bottle, he should've brought his own mouth, too.

Anya said...

Dude is a control freak and a half, with bad taste in music. You're well rid of him.

3carnations said...

That was funny. I love bad date stories.

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