Bad turn
Dating at Perkins is a one-way route to poor conversation
I went on my first date when I was
a senior in high school. My first real
date, that is.
Before that night, I had met boys at
Burger King and gone on group-date
like dates. But I had never been on a
date-date.
Technically, that first date was a
disaster.
His first name was Brian. (His last
name was really silly and would prob
ably make you laugh, but I won’t tell
you, nonetheless.)
Brian was ambidextrous and he
could juggle. He liked the Beatles and
could just barely play the guitar. I
thought he was dreamy.
But he scared me to death.
I forced a mutual friend to accom
pany us on our first date (you may
argue that even this wasn’t a real date,
but it was close). Brian offered to pick
me up, but I didn’t want my mom to
think we were dating. My mother was
recently divorced and it just wasn’t
much fun talking to her about love and
boys and stomach butterflies.
Brian and I went to a Beatles-themed
pizzeria, and sat under a “Yellow Sub
marine” poster. It could have been a
nice date. But I refused to order any
thing. I had this phobia about eating in
public. It made me so nervous I felt
sick.
I was afraid that I would spill or
drip, or — gasp — that people would
be able to hear me chew. During this
same period, I had a similar phobia
that something gross was constantly
smeared on my face.
So Brian and I suffered through
dinner talking to our friend and sneak
ing significant eye contact. After that
we went to a somewhat obscure French
film.
There began a 16-month relation
ship that — while pleasant and educa
tional — could inspire a book titled
“What Not to Do on Dates.”
Brian and I had two primary date
destinations, the movie theater and
Rainbow Rowell
“I once found a
pamphlet by the cash
register that featured a
map of all the Perkins in
America. I imagined
taking a cross-country
trip with Brian and
having lousy
conversations in each
one. ”
Perkins. We went to movies because
we couldn’t think of anyplace better,
and we went to Perkins because it was
the only place open to high schoolers
after the movies.
Movie theaters are OK for an occa
sional date, but if you only see some
one at movie theaters, you never really
talk.
Perkins is bad for the opposite rea
son; all you can do is talk (especially if
you are scared to eat). But you can’t
talk about anything interesting at
Perkins because Perkins — though a
perfectly acceptable family ristorante
— is the black hole of interesting
conversation.
Maybe it’s the lighting or maybe
it’s the pasty-faced wait staff. Maybe
it’s the Mambo Muffins.
All I know is that I spent hour after
hour playing with my cutlery and star
ing at the people in the smoking sec
tion while Brian ate a wedge of French
silk pie.
To add to the disaster, Brian and I
usually saw bizarre foreign flicks that
left us nothing to discuss over dinner.
“Boy that was weird,” Brian would
mumble, staring at his chocolatey de
licious pie.
“What was up with that mime?” I
would ask, fiddling with my salad
fork.
I once found a pamphlet by the cash
register that featured a map of all the
Perkins in America. I imagined taking
a cross-country trip with Brian and
having lousy conversations in each
one.
But we had to go to Perkins. We
couldn’t go to Brian’s house because
his parents scared me (bizarre phobia
No. 3), and we never went to my house
because my mom still didn’t know he
existed.
Brian did his best to spark up our
dates. He had a charming habit of
turning the wrong way onto one-way
streets. Then he would scream curse
words and jump a median at 50 mph.
One day — after watching an espe
cially strange movie called “The Black
Robe,” Brian and I broke up.
We had never really fought. To be
honest, I blame our demise on Perkins.
If I watched that boy eat one more
piece of dreamy chocolate goodness, I
was going to lose my mind.
To be even more honest, I think he
was sick of me.
But I learned my lesson.
When the next poor sap fell into my
snare, I set some ground rules:
No movies without dialogue.
No 24-hour breakfast dives.
And I do all the driving.
Rowell is a senior news-editorial, adver
tising and English major and the Daily Ne
braskan managing editor.
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Dinner
Continued from Page 3
“The House of Blue Leaves,” which
was written about the pope’s last visit,
opened the day the pope returned to
the United States last week.
“The House of Blue Leaves,” is a
“roller-coaster ride” of mistresses,
loony bins and plans to bomb the
pope, Rook said.
“Its zany elements of drama are
great,” he said.
Downtown Dinner Theatre draws
its actors from local talent, Rook said,
and works with Koor Entertainment
production company.
“The House of Blue Leaves” will
make its last run Oct. 11 through Oct.
13. Dinner is at 6 p.m. with the show
following at 7:30 p.m.
“The dinner theater must be where
it’s at,” Rook said. “You’ve got a
good buffet too, because the chow is
wonderful.”
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