Um … yeah. So about the date. How shall I put this? It was f—ing hilarious. I think I actually lost weight from all the calories I burned laughing. If there were Oscars for Good Sports in Dating, Tom’s last name would be Hanks. “Bring it on!” he seemed to say. “I can take it!”

All I can say is — “It’s been broughten!”

As a pathological dater, I’ve found it useful to stick to certain rules of conduct. Like the etiquette my mother instilled in me when I was young, these rules, once ingrained, are practically inviolable. More sacred than habits, more unyielding than conventions — they are a force to be reckoned with (much like my mother herself).

But reckon with them I did, although I wasn’t always successful, and it did require a bit of alcohol. Anyone who knows me will agree I embarrass myself sober and of my own volition on a regular basis. However, even I have limits. This experiment … er, date … tested those limits.

Every law of successful dating went out the window. I was crazy, I was rude, I was everyone’s worst ex-girlfriend. Like a vegetarian eating meat for the first time, I felt so bad about it, I almost got physically ill.

My live exhibition of Dating No-No’s drew its inspiration from Kate Hudson’s masquerade as a psycho-girlfriend in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, combined with a long list of “oh-god-was-she-a-horrible-date” memories from my shuddering guy friends. And … okay, fine, I also used a few painful-to-remember relationship gaffes from my own past. Very past!!

Manufacturing mistakes is harder than it may sound — but luckily, THE HOYA put their trust in the hands of a pro. The final list of “Things NOT to Do on a Date Which I Will Do to Tom” was a stroke of pure Bad Dating genius, if I do say so myself.

Let’s start at the very beginning.

After agreeing to the date several weeks ago, I left young Tom to fend for himself. I was determined he would get no help from me — we were in the proverbial State of Nature! If all else failed, THE HOYA would be our ultima ratio. Until then, it was dating anarchy.

Bright kid that he is, Tom figured he should make like a boy scout and “be prepared.” Fortunately for him, I made it easy. All he had to do was check out my archives: “Dating with a Lowercase ‘d,’” “Dating Rules for Guys” and “What Tom Should Do on His Date with Me.” Okay, I didn’t actually write the last one. State of Nature, remember??

He’s no Joe Millionaire (i.e., he can read), and read he did. In fact, he probably practiced in front of a mirror, or maybe with a pillow. “Hi Pillow, could I take your coat? My, you look nice this evening!” Whatever he did, it worked. By the time our date rolled around last Monday evening, he was adept, able, proficient — he would not be intimidated by some dating columnist four years his senior! Tom would prevail!!

Riiight. About that …

The first “mistakes” were child’s play — I didn’t return his phone call for three days, I cancelled on the first date, after we rescheduled, I called 10 minutes before he was supposed to pick me up to change the time from 6 to 7 p.m. When he arrived, promptly, of course, I made him wait in the living room for half an hour, taking my sweet time getting ready while my roommates grilled him about his “intentions.”

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. “I could get used to these sorts of dating don’ts!” As friends, family and previous boyfriends will irritably attest, this kind of flakiness comes naturally to me. I was in my element! I could finally run late without feeling guilty; it was for a column!!

It did get more challenging. I wanted to give him a sappy, horribly corny Valentine out of those conversation hearts — you know, the kind that say “Dream Girl” and “UR a Star.” Normally, it was something I would never do, a pastel nightmare, if you ask me. And as I tried to glue down the damn things, I felt queasy. My roommate had to do it for me, piecing together nauseating phrases into platitudes like “I’m a ‘Dream Girl’ You’re a ‘Cool Dude,’ so ‘Hug Me’ ‘Hug Me’ ‘Let’s Kiss!’” I almost barfed, but it would do the trick.

I gave it to him along with a “Love Primrose,” which, I patiently explained, was “like our new relationship; if you tend to it, it will grow. If you ignore it, it will die!! Don’t let our Love Primrose die, Tom!!” I’m surprised he didn’t start running right then.

Returning to my room for a coat, I let my roommates at him. With a “Sopranos”-esque Jersey accent, one told him that I was a “tough date” and she had a “shovel and a gun” if anything happened to me, while the other barraged him with innocuous questions interspersed with bombs like “So you think you’re going to get a— tonight?? You better think again, son!!” Interrupting Tom’s panicked “No, no!” negations, she fired back inflammatory accusations, “Oh so you don’t like her then?!?! What, she’s not good enough for you?!”

I decided at that point that we’d both had enough of this sober thing, and announced that “before every date, I always take shots!” Tom, although underage (cough, cough), rolled with it, as if of course one takes shots before dates. Well, maybe one does, but certainly not in front of one’s date.

By that point I had already started in on the nicknames. “Tommy-Wommy widdle-bitty! Tom-Pom! Tommmmmy-poo!” If skeptical readers doubt that my young date would fall for such ridiculousness, I would point out that I actually have a friend who, in all seriousness, calls her boyfriend “Pooper.” I cannot for the life of me understand why he allows this practice to continue, although, yes, I realize that for sex guys will tolerate just about anything. As for Tom, I think he sort of liked it. ;)

After Tom acceded to my roommates’ demands that I be home by 9 p.m. (I wasn’t), we finally left. I preemptively demanded a cab, and Tom insisted that he would never be so cheap as to have me walk in heels all the way down to M Street. More points for Tom! He was doing well so far. He hailed one and opened the door for me (as I would expect), clearly on his best behavior. I almost felt like I should be rewarding him with biscuits.

As we arrived at Nathan’s, Tom’s restaurant of choice, I started walking in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?” he asked, confused. “Oh,” I said nonchalantly. “I don’t wish to eat there. I wish to eat at Benihana’s.” With the attitude of a champ, he did a 180 and steered me toward the mall, imploring me not to “write badly about him” because he didn’t make reservations there. Ohhh, Tom-Pom. Would that all my dates were as accommodating!

Once there, I immediately chose the most expensive item on the menu — the $31 lobster (Don’t worry, I think The Hoya is reimbursing him. Right? Right, guys??) and then ordered him to tell the wait staff it was my birthday so I could get a free desert. As for conversation, I had a specific plan — I was to ask him questions about his life, then interrupt him before he could begin, then accuse him of being shy and not talking enough about himself. But this wasn’t a movie; he was a real person, as much as freshman boys are. (Kidding. I’m kidding!!) Honestly, I couldn’t go through with that part, he was just too sweet. And while I’m sure my two shots of Bacardi and a margarita didn’t hurt, I found myself enjoying our conversation immensely. Tom definitely has a great personality, and he sure as hell wasn’t reacting badly to my stunts.

In the meantime, I did manage to achieve other psycho objectives. Every 10 minutes I got up to take calls on my cell phone. I made conversation only about politics, religion, and our exes. I told him in a dreamy voice that his wrists reminded me of a former boyfriend. I informed him I wanted twelve children, and I hoped he felt the same.

I couldn’t believe it: Tom was unfazed. He had kept his cool flawlessly, rolling with more punches in three hours than I’ve ever pulled on any male in my life. I had to go for the jugular. As we ended the meal, I began to pat my stomach and complain I had eaten too much. “Oh my god, I ate soo much. Am I fat??” I asked frantically. “Oh-my-god, you think I’m fat!! I knew it!!”

A mystified Tom tried reassuring me, “no, no I don’t think you’re fat at all!! I …” Interrupting him I yelled back, “You do! I know you do! You didn’t even say I was pretty! Not once! And you were looking at other women!!” By this time the only way to contain my hysterical laughter was to act like I was hysterically crying. Tom was beside himself as I continued my diatribe the entire way back, accusing him of not liking me enough, not complimenting me enough, not putting enough into “our relationship.”

Meanwhile I had my roommates call me on my cell pretending to be various psycho ex-boyfriends. I answered and screamed into the phone while explaining to Tom that I was really a completely sane person, and furthermore, I was totally over these losers. They just liked to call to hear me yell.

I thought it would be appropriate to finish off the date in THE HOYA office, and by this point, I was more than a little tipsy and feeling daring.

As a parting gift, I gave Tom a giant red bear I called “Princess Sophia the Love Bear,” and instructed him to hug and kiss Princess Sophia in front of his friends. As if that weren’t enough, I asked him to open the box of chocolates he had given me, and then eat half of each — so I could see the inside flavor, and decide whether it was “worth the calories.” Without so much as peep of protest, he ate half of every chocolate in the whole damn box, politely informing me of especially tasty ones, and discarding any he thought wouldn’t suit me. Finally, I whimpered, “Tommy-Poo, could you pleaseeeee get me a bottle of water?? I’m soooo thirsty.” Down to Vittles he went. The boy was whipped!!

As for me, I was tired. Dating badly is a strenuous endeavor! Oh, well. I suppose it’s all in a day’s work for a sex columnist, er, investigative reporter.

Before I sign off, one quick word of advice for the ladies of Georgetown: If you see Mr. Wigg around campus, give him your number. This one’s a keeper.

Although I did notice he left the “Love Primrose” in the newsroom by itself, in the dark, un-watered and un-cared for ... the little thing is pretty much a goner. Oh, Tom, how could you let the tender buds of our new love die?!