Editor’s Note: This episode of the OK Cupid Files is brought to you by The Drama Magnet.
I like to think of the whole OK Cupid episode as a research method to help my friend with this site. (Yes, I’m a great friend. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) One of the most memorable “encounters” was what later became known as Mister Quinoa.
MQ was a 21-year-old-comedian who didn’t speak a word of English but looked hot in a ‘dirty hipster/starving artists’ kind of way. (Editors Note: he didn’t. He just looked like a dirty hipster and starving artist rolled up in one package, with a tacky fedora thrown on top.)
We met one night for a drink around Canal Saint-Martin, and even though my French sucks (trust me, I’m not being self-deprecating here), and his English was nonexistent, we managed drink enough wine to inspire some decent conversation, followed by a goodnight kiss that was actually sort of spectacular.
Because of this kiss, I decided to ignore all the other alarm bells going off in my head. The lack of a real job, the age difference, the fact that he was a comedian.. I knew it wasn’t going be Mister Right, but maybe it could be a fun Mister Right Now?
The next time he messaged me, I was having some friends over for dinner, so I invited him to join. And so he did. Bless his soul, he was trying very hard, but the fact that he didn’t speak any English made it hard for him. That night my house looked like a UN gathering with two Germans, an American, a Mexican, a Russian, a Colombian, and a Spanish guy – English seemed to be the only language we could all agree on. (Editors note: again, Stockholm Syndrome is kicking in. MQ did absolutely nothing to make us like him, unless you consider giving everyone sullen stares making an effort.)
He started getting on my nerves, but I decided to Carpe Diem and do what every normal person in this predicament would do: get shitfaced. So we did, first at my house, then at a karaoke bar, where MQ even dedicated a song to me (so romantic – barf), and later at a French cabaret, where my friends and I ended up dancing on the stage while he gazed at us with his trademark bitter stare.
He didn’t have enough money for a cab, and I’m no Sugar Mama here, so around 4am we started walking towards my house. At some point, MQ proclaimed that he was hungry. Since there is no place open to eat in Le Marais at this time, we decided to go back to my house so that he could cook something (I don’t do that.) This decision was embraced by the Dbag Addict, so the three of us headed home. (EN: I have to confess here that I wasn’t actually hungry. My only mission that night was to avoid sleeping in my own apartment, which does not have an air conditioner and was feeling like the inside of a sauna that week.)
Back at my place, MQ started exploring my kitchen cabinets, which contained only one thing – a pack of quinoa. (Listen, I don’t claim to be no Martha Stewart here.) As he began preparing it, the Russian who had insisted on the good feast passed out. I don’t even know how she didn’t wake up when he decided to break a plate, which was naturally followed by my yelling. (EN: I heard it and I ignored it – I figured it was just some sort of passionate Latino foreplay.)
This was getting out of control. I was angry, but I still kept playing the “Relax, Just Do It ” song in my head. I obviously didn’t want any quinoa to bring down the alcohol levels I had been working so hard on elevating the whole night.. So I decided to go all Demi on his Ashton while the quinoa was cooking. We started making out, I began thinking that it had all been worth it, UNTIL.. Well, until MQ decides to stop and tell me that he needs to get the quinoa sorted out first.
Talk about priorities here. I know I’m no Cindy Crawford, but I should be dammed if I let a guy choose quinoa over me.
And so he left, hungry and quinoa-less while I was left with a bowl of quinoa and a bad hangover.
