Cooking for my Ex-Fiancée.

My Ex, (Ms. Lying Whorebag) used to talk at length about her old relationships. Sometimes she'd compare me with them. I hate that.

When she was angry at me, she'd compare me unfavorably... I hate that even more.

And here's the wierd part... whenever she compared me unfavorably: it wasn't about my character, intelligence, job, kindness or morals- no, it was about really important stuff. Like the fact I don't pick fights (she interpreted that as a lack of manliness on my part) or the fact that I like to read (I must be a geek or something.) She also criticized me a lot about my performance in bed- (the fact that one of the side-effects of her medication was that it prevented her from reaching orgasm was not a factor. It was me all the way, apparently.) Yeah, I guess I could never quite measure-up to the lofty, unimpeachable standards set by her cheating, drug-dealing, asshole, psychotic, vehicular manslaughter-attempting ex-boyfriends.

One of her former lovers was a good cook, and that was one area in which I also compared unfavorably. I thought "Ah, I should try to become a good cook for Whorebag. I'll prepare a real romantic dinner for her." Granted, she'd never cooked anything for ME at that point in the relationship, but I was determined to learn to be a good cook. I loved her, and I wanted to be everything to her. Won't she be surprised?

Attempt at Cooking- Strike I:

So, one weekend, I set-aside the afternoon. I hauled-out the nice china my grandmother gave me (never been used at that point) and set the table. I set-up candlesticks, tablecloth and polished my silverware. Then, I went shopping.

I wanted to make fried ravioli, spring greens, Italian sausage. I bought some red Australian wine (Australian wine, in my experience, is fruitier and sweeter.) And as an appetizer- smoked salmon and crisp vegetables. For dessert? I know a great bakery that makes SUPERB éclairs.

Wow, I was really excited at this. Spending a whole evening with my honey and she'll appreciate my attempts at cooking.

So, Whorebag arrives around 6 PM. It's taken me about 4 hours to get everything set-up. Turn-down the lights, turn-up the romantic music and light the candles. I pull-out the chair for her and let her sit down.

First words out of her mouth upon sitting down: "I should tell you-" She said. "I already ate before I got here."

"Huh?" I was a little surprised- someone invites you over for dinner and you stuff yourself before you go? No, I wasn't 'surprised', I was flabbergasted!

"You... already ate?"

Automatically, she flies into her hyper-defensive responsibility-evading mode. This is her knee-jerk response when she's done something wrong.

"Don't blame me! My mom insisted!" (Remember- with Whorebag, nothing is ever her responsibility.)

"Your mom fed you before you came over to my house for dinner?" I sigh. Bullshit! Your mom didn't MAKE you eat! She didn't put a gun to your head and stuff Hamburger Helper down your gullet! Nonetheless, I pretend it doesn't bug me.

"Well.. aren't you at least a little hungry?" I asked, hopefully. She shakes her head.

Well *I* am starving. She can watch me eat. I start on the smoked salmon. I love salmon. Tender, flaky. Full of the goodness of the Pacific Northwest. I offer her a piece.

She replies in her poutiest voice. "I don't like fish." Well, that was my fault. I already knew that she didn't like fish, but I was still hoping I could convince her to try something new. And I had fresh vegetables, besides. She takes a single celery stick and glowers at it contemptfully.

"Honey, you don't seem like you're in the best of moods. Is everything all right?" I asked.

"I'm FINE." Well, maybe she's had a bad day? I'll go easy on her.

Very well. I start on the ravioli. They're crispy and golden brown in a spicy marinara sauce. They're not too greasy and I'm very impressed with how well this food turned-out. I offer her one.

"I said, I'm not hungry."

So... Dinner continues like that. I offer her spring green salad, she doesn't like the dressing. I offer her Italian sausage, and she nibbles only a small piece.

Oh, she has room for wine. And she can cram-in the éclair for dessert after we're done, however. That was the only thing *I* didn't cook myself. I have plenty of leftovers and I put them into the fridge. (More for me, I guess.) I cleaned-up the table- she didn't lift a damn finger.

My feelings are hurt. I put-in a lot of effort for this! I ask her: "Honey, I... did you really not like what I cooked?"

She folder her arms, petulantly. "I would've eaten if I hadn't been fed before I got here. And besides that, well... the food wasn't really... romantic." What would be romantic, then? "You know, something sexy."

Attempt at Cooking- Strike II

Okay, I'll try again. Sexy eh? I have no fucking clue what food is 'sexy'. I'll play it by ear. I spend another afternoon getting-ready. I set-out my best china. I make tortellini with Alfredo sauce, Caesar salad... and for dessert- fresh cherries and whipped cream! I imagined myself with my honey's head on my lap. I'll slowly, sensuously feed her little red cherries with a little dollop of sweet cream on each one. That's sexy, isn't it?

So, again- turn-down the lights, turn on the music, light the candles. She arrives.

She sits-down. "NiceGuy? You're going to kill me..." Hmm, what is it now?

"Why?" I ask.

"I ate before I came over."

Okay, THAT'S it! I calmly reply: "Why? You knew I was going to make you dinner." I was baffled. A second time, she stuffs herself before coming over? What is with this chick??

Again, hyper-defensive responsibility-avoiding mode.

"Hey, it's not my fault! My relatives came-over this afternoon, and my parents made me have dinner with them!"

Oh. Well, still I'm starting to take this a little personally. I spent the whole freaking afternoon cooking. Ugh... well, I'm hungry. I offer her some tortellini with Alfredo sauce.

She refuses. "I don't like Alfredo sauce."

I offer to wash-off and reheat the tortellini for her, and serve it without sauce. "No, plain is no good. Don't you have red sauce?" Sorry, no. "FINE."

She eats a miniscule amount of Caesar salad and little else. I have plenty of leftovers, again. After dinner, I ask her to lie down on my middle-eastern rug so I can feed her some cherries?

"Do they have pits?"

Ummm.... yes?

"That's not very romantic. Spitting-out pits, I mean."

Umm... no. I guess not. *sigh*

Attempt at Cooking- Strike III

Okay, okay, okay. I'll skip dinner. Straight to dessert.

I invite her over for a romantic evening of cuddling. On the phone, she tells me that her ex-boyfriend invited her to watch movies at his apartment that evening. Is it okay if she comes-over at 10? She kind of likes hanging-out with this guy, and she insists that he's just a good friend now. If I say 'no' to her, then I'll be preventing her from seeing her friends and I don't want to do that.

Now, I (stupidly) trusted her with her ex-boyfriends. I think she is allowed to have male friends, and I want to be cool about it. Now, I know for a fact that one of her ex-boyfriends hasn't let-go of her entirely. But she insists that he's not a threat to me. I want to be a NiceGuy, and I reluctantly agree. At 10 PM, she'll come over. Romantic treats coming-up!

I get some champagne and I make chocolate-covered strawberries. You ever make those? It's fun... melt the chocolate, dip the strawberries, chill them in the fridge. I accidentally burn a little bit of the chocolate, but that doesn't prevent me from making about 30 chocolate strawberries. The chocolate constricts the strawberries as it cools... so it starts to look like the berries have little beads of juicy pink sweat. They look so tasty, but I've got to wait for my girl before I'll eat one.

9:30 rolls-around. She calls me. "Hey, NiceGuy, I'll be leaving in a while. Just wanted to let you know."

Cool! I set the plate of strawberries right next to my bed. I put the champagne on ice. I put two glasses next to it. And I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

I can't call her, she doesn't have a cell-phone. I don't know the phone number of the dickwad she's with. I'm starting to feel a little... upset.

And I wait some more.

It's midnight. She still doesn't show-up. I'm starting to feel a little frustrated.

Fine. I can't wait for her any longer; I have to go to work the next day, I can't sit-up all night. I turn-off the light and go to bed.

At 3 AM, I get a phone call. It's her. I'm groggy because I was in a deep sleep.

"Uh.. h-hElLo??"

"NiceGuy! I'm so so SO SORRY! I fell asleep! I'm coming-over right now!"

"OkAy... I'lL LeT yOu In WhEn YoU- *click*"

She arrives and it's a very rare occasion: she's actually apologizing for doing something wrong. It was like viewing a total eclipse or a Bald Eagle. Very, very rare.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I just got so drowsy and I fell asleep. He didn't wake me up! Please don't be mad!"

I'm still sleepy as all get-out. "Hon... it's okay. I'm not mad. You can stay here if you want, but it's late. I have to go to work in about 2 hours."

She notices at the champagne glasses. The strawberries. The bottle. All unconsumed. She starts to get really apologetic.

"I'm so sorry! Oh, I'm such a bad girlfriend!" She cuddles me as I lie there and puts her hand on my chest. "I'm sorry. You're so good to me, and I treat you like shit. I'm so, so sorry." She runs her fingers through my hair and kisses me all over. I love it when she does that. I just have to forgive her for everything if she'll run her fingers through my hair and kiss me.

2 minutes later, I'm dead asleep. No nookie for me that night.

Epilogue:

I never tried to prepare a romantic dinner for her again. Three strikes, and you're out in my book.

Oh, I did cook for her again though. When she moved-in with me, every now and then she'd be too listless to get off her jobless ass and cook for either of us. So, I'd come-home from a 10-hour workday and have to cook for her. Maybe it's me, but it kind of upsets me when I come home after 10, 11, 12 hours of work, and she tells me that she doesn't have enough energy to cook because she's sat-around all day without anything to do.

She complained about everything I made, too. I think that this experience taught me a valuable lesson: never cook for a woman, she will not appreciate it.

In fact, if you reach-up into the sky, grab the moon and give it to your girl, she'll slap it out of your hand and demand to know why you didn't get her the stars and the other planets, too.

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"I haven't spoken to my girlfriend for 18 months- I don't like to interrupt her." -- Unknown humorist.

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