In 1979, I got a call one afternoon at my accounting office from a medical clinic thirty miles west of me.

Clerk #1: “We need a payment on your bill. It is ninety days past due and will be turned over to collections soon if you don’t make a payment.”

Me: “Who was treated at your clinic?”

Clerk #1: “Your wife had an appointment with our OBGYN.”

Me: “And when was this appointment?”

Clerk #1: “In February.”

Me: “Well, that is not my responsibility.”

Clerk #1: “Your wife gave us your name as the responsible party.”

Me: “Well, you see, our divorce was final last December, and I don’t believe I am responsible.”

Clerk #1: “You will need to send us a copy of your divorce decree to clear this up.”

And I complied.

In May, I got a call from a clothing store in a town about fifty miles southwest of me.

Clerk #2: “Sir, you must make a payment on your account.”

Me: “Who are you?”

Clerk #2: “We are [Women’s Clothing Store], and you have an account that is gravely past due.”

Me: “Where are you located?”

Clerk #2: “[Town].”

Me: “And when were these clothes put on my account?”

Clerk #2: “Your wife charged over $500 in clothes in March and listed you, her husband, as the responsible person.”

Me: “Well, gee! I don’t think that is the case since we were divorced last December.”

Clerk #2: “You will need to send us a copy of your divorce decree.”

Me: “Not going to happen. This is not the first time she has done this. It is not my fault you did not check with me before you set this up and let her leave with the clothes. If you want a copy of my divorce, then you call the clerk of the district court in my county and pay for your own copy. That is your responsibility, not mine.”

Way back before Internet dating sites and the Internet itself, there were newspapers and, in many, sections in the classified ads for the lovelorn.

Back in the 1970s when I was ten, we had a neighbour who had moved his family from Saskatchewan to “farm” his ten-acre spread. Staying true to his roots, he subscribed to a prairie farmers’ paper and would pass on copies to my parents because he thought they’d be interested.

They were not. But one time, my mum was reading through a copy and came upon this brief gem in the “Relationships Wanted” section of the classified ads. Paraphrased as best as memory serves, it read:

Ad: “Fifty-four-year-old farmer seeking widowed woman with farm of [some number of acres] looking for matrimony. Must have good outbuildings.”

That was it. My mum and I always had the same twisted sense of humour, and we joked about old prairie farm types looking a woman over and saying, “Well, look at the outbuildings on that one!” We figured that after a hard Saskatchewan winter, this was what passed for a romantic overture when planting season was nigh.

The way my mum and dad got together was like something out of a cheesy romance movie. Mum was eighteen and Dad was nineteen when they met at a house for a party. At the time, my mum had a boyfriend, but after talking to her, my dad could not get her out of his head. He then spent a month searching for her, only knowing her first name. He found her boyfriend, who was now her ex, but he told my dad that he had no idea who he was talking about.

At the beginning of the next month, my dad was out on a date at a pizza parlor… where he saw my mum on a date, as well. They all decided to sit together. Halfway through, my mum’s date ditched her, so my dad decided to take both girls home. He dropped off his date first so he could talk to my mum for a little longer.

They came to a stoplight, and the radio was playing a song called “Little Arrows”, which is about Cupid shooting arrows at random people so they’ll fall in love. My dad leaned over the steering wheel and looked up at the sky.

Mum: “Um… what are you doing?”

Dad: “Lookin’ for arrows.”

Mum tells me that she knew right then that this was the man she would marry. Two weeks later, Dad proposed. They were together for almost thirty years before Dad passed away.

I am working in the gym, and I overhear this guy “warning” a girl.

Guy: “Hey, sorry to bother you, but I just overheard that guy in the red shirt.”

He points at my friend who is across the gym.

Guy: “He was saying some extremely crass stuff about you in the locker room. It was really graphic. He was talking about your purple spandex and how much he liked it. I couldn’t just listen and not tell you because you deserve to know what certain people are really like.”

Listening to this, I am furious. I saw this guy watching my friend and the girl talking in the gym — she had approached him — and I could tell he was jealous, mainly because he was complaining to someone else that he “wanted to get with her.”

He is making up this lie to throw my friend under the bus. I also know it’s a lie because I was just in the locker room and nothing of the sort was said; the dude he is lying about has years of showing that he is actually a really nice, respectful guy. There is also a very important third reason.

The guy finishes up his tall tale, and before the girl can respond, I scoff really loudly and say:

Me: “She knows you’re lying just to try to get in her pants. That guy would never say those kinds of things about her because she’s his sister, you moron.”

The look on the guy’s face is priceless. He goes pale and stammers:

Guy: “I… I must have got the guy mixed up.”

Girl: “Uh, you were very clear about pointing my brother out.”

Guy: “Then I must have gotten the girl he was talking about mixed up.”

Me: “She’s the only girl wearing purple spandex.”

The guy actually looked like he was about to cry, and I never saw him in the gym again after that.

When I was in seventh grade, I had my first “boyfriend”, i.e. we left notes in each other’s lockers and almost held hands once. We went on a date to the movies, and my mom was the chaperone. I was excited because she was going to let us sit separately from her in the theater and I might finally get my first kiss — every twelve-year-old girl’s dream, right?

As we were standing in line for snacks, I heard someone call my name and looked up to see my stepdad, my two stepsisters, my younger sister, and two of her friends entering the theater acting like they had no idea we’d be there. They sat a few rows below us and spent almost the entire movie giggling and staring at us. I was mortified, and my poor date, an extremely shy boy under normal circumstances, looked like he wanted to just disappear.

Nevertheless, we managed to enjoy the movie, and I was certain we were going to kiss. About three-quarters through the movie, however, [Date] suddenly jumped out of his seat and ran from the theater, and I didn’t see him again for the rest of the night. 

It wasn’t until years later that I found out what happened. [Date] got up to go to the bathroom, and once there, he saw a loose tooth was about ready to come out. He wiggled it until it fell out, along with a bit of blood. He was afraid of blood, and the very sight of it made him vomit and pass out. My stepdad grew concerned about how long he was taking, so he went to the bathroom and found [Date] dizzy and semi-conscious. He tried to call the kid’s mom (this was before cell phones were ubiquitous, and service was unreliable), and all the poor boy managed to get out was, “Mom, I’m bleeding—” before the call dropped. Thus ensued a panicked few minutes in which [Date]’s mom drove to the theater and my parents met her and everything got sorted out, while the rest of us sat clueless in the theater.

We “dated” for a few more months before fizzling out. [Date]’s mom works at town hall, and I see her once a year when I go to renew my car’s registration. She brings up this story every time.

[Date] is now married with a baby on the way, and I’m happily gay, so the worst date ever did not traumatize us too severely.