The Worst Thing You Can Find in a Chick’s Apartment 7

So, you’ve been dating this girl, hanging out – whatever, and finally she invites you over to her house.  This is a rite of passage.  You get to see her natural habitat and make some serious judgements about her worth as a human being.  A quick glance will reveal quite a few things about her.

I’ve seen a few red flags in my day – squalid cat conditions, a whirlpool of discarded clothing, Totino’s pizza boxes and Top Ramen, a year’s supply of birth control, some guy’s 80’s hairband guitar.  Probably the weirdest possession I’ve technically ever encountered was creme de menthe, which is a mint liqueur.  I wouldn’t have even known she owned this, as I’m not one to go through cupboards or drawers, but the girl asked me if I wanted a drink, and proceeded to bring me a mint julep.  Number deleted.

Up until recently though, I had never seen anything that required me to make a hard judgement.

A little back story:  I’ve dated this girl in the past, we’ve had ups and downs, but never really settled down together.  And I had never been to her house, invited.  Also I happen to have known that she dated an A&R guy from Capitol Records at one point and that he is a worthless prick who grew up in Beverly Hills.

So, I pick her up at her house to go have some drinks.  She invites me in.  Place looks clean, well decorated, good sign.  She shows me her bedroom.  Among candles and paintings of cats and scarves draped over lamps I see something blatantly out of place sitting directly next to the bed.  My tractor beam zones in:

“Why do you have golf clubs?”  I ask.

She shrugs it off.

“I like golf” she says.

Hmm, I have in fact heard her mention that she is a fan of golf in the past.  This is weird, certainly, but quirky and not really a turn-off.

We go out, have a few drinks and some pizza, and she invites me back to her place.  Upon return, both a little red-faced from three Makers Marks, she immediately shows me into her room.  After making out a little bit I freeze up, and switch on the lights.  Something isn’t adding up.  I’ve stumbled onto a drunken epiphany.  I hit her with a barrage of questions:

“Who bought you those golf clubs?” I demand.

“I bought them.”

“How much did they cost then?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“You bought them for a hundred dollars?”  I ask, fully not believing the story.  You see, golf is a yuppy activity that preys on the insecurities of corporate criminals, and, even though I’ve done no further research, its obvious that a set of clubs costs more than a hundred dollars.  A basketball costs 25 dollars.

“I mean, maybe they were 200 dollars, I don’t really know.”  She says, trying to dismiss the situation.

Now, I have no idea what chicks spend their money on.  They are able to make a solid 200 dollars a night in cash at any given cocktail establishment, yet never have much to show for it.  They measure their cash in different ways than men, because they know that at some point they won’t need any savings.  But regardless, nobody buys something over a hundred dollars and doesn’t remember how much the item costs.  Our memories automatically catalog the information.  I know how much my last printer cartridge cost.

“Alright, my ex-boyfriend bought them for me.”  She finally admits.

There is no more arrogant, status symbol oriented item to purchase for someone than a set of golf clubs.  Particularly for someone who is by no means an avid golfer.  He didn’t buy the clubs for her, he bought them for himself to be seen on the ‘links’ with a girl with golf clubs.

The fact she accepted them means that her number is deleted.

If you see golf clubs, run the other way, there’s more where that came from.