Dating Chronicle 1: Hozienoggin

Let me start by saying that although it is April Fool’s Day, this post is not a joke. Driving to work this morning I was thinking about all the great awful date stories I have—and I felt compelled to start sharing them. So this is the first in my series of Dating Chronicles. To me, bad dates are some of the best dates.

It was 2004 when my sister-in-law told me she had finally found me a medical resident at the hospital where she works. I was ecstatic. She said he was attractive, outdoorsy, über intelligent…but there was just one catch. His name. Yes, he had a normal first name. But his last name was Hozienoggin. (Note: For embarrassment protection reasons, I have changed the name slightly. But it was just as funny as Hozienoggin.)

He was new to the area and didn’t own a car, so I told him I was more than happy to be his tour guide/designated driver for date #1. Adding moniker insult to injury, when he gave me directions to his apartment, he led me to Hurlbut Street. Dr. Hozienoggin on Hurlbut Street. Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

I arrived at his place right on time, however he had just arrived home from a bike ride and was still wearing sweaty spandex shorts and a jersey. Kinda bad form for a first date. He escorted me to the couch, telling me he’d take a quick shower and be out in a flash. I grabbed a coffee table book and started thumbing through it, feeling quite awkward sitting in a stranger’s living room while he bathed himself. He disappeared down the hallway but returned to say, “I promise I’ll be fast.” I looked up to tell him it was okay and was met by a hairy chest and a short strip of terry cloth. Paralyzed by the fear of coming face to face with an unfamiliar pee-pee, I was rendered mute with only my world photography book to cling to. Who parades around in a bath towel within the first 5 minutes of a first date?!

When my adrenalin finally descended from Fight or Flight, Hozienoggin reappeared wearing real clothes. Needing a dose of alcohol, I asked him if he’d like to try my favorite wine bar. “Fine,” he said, “sounds great.”

We sat down on the outdoor patio and I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. STAT. He ordered water. He didn’t drink. Why did he agree to go to the wine bar? No idea.

Trying to be gracious, I offered to relocate us to a nearby Mexican restaurant. That was much more his style—as soon as we were seated, he began talking up a storm. He was smart and interesting, my sister-in-law was right. We talked about travel and I told him how I love New York. He said the city was too overwhelming to his senses. The sounds, the smells. Then he said, “I can smell pheromones, you know. I once smelled that my friend was pregnant.”

What is the proper reaction to that statement? I don’t remember now how I responded. But I do remember trying to shut down all pheromonal production in my body so he couldn’t smell whatever I had goin’ on.

There was nothing that could top that declaration. There was no way he could possibly say anything weirder than “I have the ability to distinguish undetectable animal scents.” Wrong.

We continued to talk about sense perception and how body hair must have helped with this—because when you’re in danger, your hair stands on end. I asked him about people with less body hair—were they less able to use this type of physical awareness? Asians don’t have much body hair, are they evolutionarily stunted?

I was putting a bite of burrito into my mouth when he replied with this random fact: “Did you know Asians have different ear wax than all the other races?” WHAT. “Theirs is much more dry and crumbly while other races are usually greasy.” My bite of burrito almost tumbled off my tongue back onto my plate.

He had beaten the pheromone remark and I had the mother of all stories to take home to my family. Who’d have guessed the name Hozienoggin wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about him?

The best part: I agreed to go out with him again. Simply because I couldn’t resist finding out what he might say on date #2.