Princess MoMo

In search of a first date idea? Try a clam bake.

In our initial messages on a dating site, Mr. Clambake mentioned his plans to attend a clam bake in the upcoming weeks.  His excitement was uncontainable.  I can’t honestly say that I was intrigued by the idea of this glutton-fest.  As is typically the case, Mr. Clambake and I became periodic text buddies for several weeks.  (Text-centric relationships are shallow – more on that in a separate, future post.)  About three weeks later, it was the night before said clam bake.  He texted me asking if I’d like to join him because his dad had to bail last minute.  Enticed by the unique nature of this meeting, I called him to learn more about the outing and ultimately opted in.

The next morning, I had to search back in the correspondence for this specimen’s name because I don’t store numbers in my phone unless I have a last name and I don’t store names in my brain unless I’ve spoken to a person in the flesh or there’s another pressing reason to do so.

I arrived at the clam bake at around 1 p.m.  It was a bit red-neckish by New Jersey standards.  Mr. Clambake struck me as the creative type – rightfully so, because he’s a graphic designer/artist.  After a quick meet and greet, the beer drinking and clam eating ensued.  I had brought a very little guest with me – the most recent member of the huahua pack, a four-pound dog.  Obviously, my little munchkin was the shining star at this shindig.  Mr. Clambake didn’t react adversely to my fur baby being the center of attention.  As inconceivable as it may sound, prior specimens have resented my creatures for stealing the show.

What I learned at this clam bake is that any conversation related to shucking clams sounds dirty.  I do not like touching food because I do not like operating with dirty hands.  As a result, I refused to shuck my own clams.  Now, if that meant not eating raw clams, that was a consequence I was fully willing to live with despite my love of uncooked food.  Mr. Clambake offered to shuck for me.  I asked, “How do I eat it?”  He replied, “Just suck it out.”  I complied.  He then asked, “How was it?” I replied, “Salty, but good.”  Shortly thereafter, a pro shucker standing next to us shared his shucking secrets with us.  He said, “Most people go in from the front; the trick is to get in from behind.”

Though the weather predictions had called for rain all day, the rain held off until the end of the clam bake.  With the rain upon us, we had to make a quick plan to relocate to dryer pastures.  He suggested a movie.  I reminded him that I had a little dog with me.  Naturally, he suggested we go to his parents house, which just so happened to be two blocks away.  I had just met this guy a few hours ago after having spoken to him only once; why not meet his parents?

We rolled up to his parents’ house with my canine in hand.  Not only were his mom and dad there, but so were his uncle from DC, his sister, his baby nephew, his sister’s two dogs, and his aunt from Virginia.  Cool.  Hi, guys, I’m Princess MoMo and we just met four hours ago…we then drank a bunch of beers, ate a bunch of clams, and showed up here probably smelling like beer and clams.  Soon thereafter, his other uncle and brother-in-law showed up.  We sat down for a lovely, intimate, delicious family dinner followed by dessert.

I really liked his family and they seemed to really like me.  Frankly, I was more interested in dating his family than dating him.  Eventually, though, it was time to call it a night.  I bid the fam farewell and headed home.  The next morning, I texted Mr. Clambake, “What time should I be there for breakfast?”  He asked what I had planned for that day and suggested hanging out again.  Momentum is important, especially in our fast-paced, short-attention-span environment.  I asked what he had in mind.  He suggested the High Line in NYC.

I drove to his place (in NJ) so that we could make our way to the city.  I felt comfortable entering his abode because I had met his immediate and extended family the day before and they all seemed legit.  He met me outside and escorted me to his door.  The door opened to his bedroom.  My assumption at that point was that he lived in a studio.  My attention was immediately drawn to the box of tissues on his bed.  I commented.  Mid-comment, I noticed an open container of Vaseline on his night stand.   Bro, you know you invited a girl over; clean up that mess.  He offered me a tour of the apartment.  Next was the kitchen.  On the kitchen table was a stack of his drawings topped with a depiction of a naked woman.  The next room was the living room, which hosted his computer.  Next to the computer? Another jar of Vaseline.  I know what you’re thinking: “He must have some seriously chapped lips.”  Yeah…

At the conclusion of the tour, I was reluctant to sit anywhere for fear of fluids that may have landed in my potential seating areas.  We sat at the kitchen table and chatted for a bit.  There was a knife conveniently located right by his hand on the table.  Flash backs to Silence of Lambs “it puts the lotion in the basket” scene started running through my twisted mind.

Fortunately, he didn’t have a basement and he didn’t kill or skin me.  Instead, we departed for our city journey.  Our mode of transportation displeased me.  It involved not one, but two buses.  I’m not about that bus life.  Anyway, we arrived at the City.  I had worn hot pink heels, but being the reasonable human being that I am, I had packed flip flops in my purse to speed up my walking pace if necessary.  Once I realized his planned activity involved a lot of walking, I switched foot gear.  At one point, unbeknownst to me, one of my heels escaped from my purse.  A random Mr. chased after us and handed me back my shoe.  That would have been a perfect Cinderella-type moment, but as luck wouldn’t have it, the shoe-saver was not a prince charming.  At least I had my shoe back.

We walked the garden for a bit and then headed to the Standard Biergarten.  Nothing noteworthy happened there other than that his land-lady called and asked if I could move my car.  Shortly thereafter, we headed back the Garden State.

My car was parked in a driveway enclosed by a gate and filled with other cars.  Moving my car out was no easy task.  Somehow, I had parked my car with ease, but backing out presented quite an obstacle.  Typical of penis-ed creatures, Mr. Clambake offered to back it out for me.  I relinquished my seat in my shiny red Benz and allowed him to take the driver’s seat.  Bad decision.  He scraped the MoMo-mobile up on the gate.  Eventually, the car was situated and we went back up to his apartment.  He was very apologetic and offered to cover the repairs.  I was irritated but contained my irritation because he hadn’t intended harm.  Based on the tension, the night was cut short (by me saying it was time for me to go).

THE END.