February 28, 2008 by
I’ve ramped up my Internet dating again. After last week’s happy hour fiasco, I’ve gone back to the horrid 20-minute coffee date. Tonight I added a twist. I brought a dog, or as I will now call him, my “get out of jail free card.”
Tex is an 80-pound American Bulldog I’m fostering and he is probably my new surrogate boyfriend. I brought him with me because I just had a sense I would need distraction to get through the date. By god, my instincts were right. My date was probably around for Eisenhower’s inauguration, not that there’s anything wrong with lying about your age or looking like a craggily dirty hippie wannabe.
As you would expect, it gets better. When I was making shitty 20-minute coffee date small talk, I decided to ask him what he did in his free time.
“Fuck,” he said.
Honest response, but creepy coming from an old man. That’s about the time Tex came to the rescue and began flirting with the passers by. I ended up meeting a lot of nice young men (probably WeHo gay, but I did say YOUNG), who wanted to pet Tex. Gramps was still on a mission to know what my tattoo said. I told him twice it wasn’t funny unless seen in context.
“I’m never going to see it, am I?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.
We got up and said our goodbyes. His final words were, “So call me if you are interested in going out again. I’d like to see you all dolled up and get you drunk.”
I smiled and crossed the street. Tex took a massive shit on the other side. I laughed and told him he was a good boy, “Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get out of there either.”
February 22, 2008 by
Tonight I realized there’s a magical male age when they can play Jedi mind tricks with their dick and hold a conversation during a date without the fear that blood will be drawn from their brain.
The 31 year-old I was with was obviously the team captain of the cock Special Olympics. He was obsessed with my hair and had to touch it. Then he moved on to my body. I was curvy. I was perfect. I had a great ass. The compliments were nice, but not in the first 15 minutes of meeting me. I did my best to redirect the conversation. Reverse mortgages. Margaret Thatcher. Roger Clemmons. I said anything to distract him and to get some blood going to his brain.
The evening became hopeless when he wanted to guess my cup size. My Olympian guessed correctly. That’s about the time I should have declared game over and gone home, but it was raining harder and I knew he’d just continue to give me material. Two bourbons and four beers later he had a nickname for me and knew what our kids would look like. I think it was pretty safe for me to assume he was an alcoholic looking for the older woman score.
This experience has taught me that I need to raise my minimum entrance requirements. A smart cock in the hand is worth one in the bush another day.
February 15, 2008 by
I was in the office checking my email early this morning when the guy I report to walked by then backed up and did a double-take.
“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.
“I washed and straightened it last night. Washing my hair seems to be a Valentine’s Day tradition.” I replied.
His jawed dropped open and he said, “What about what’s-his-name? That guy you picked up the night of our movie debut in October? Aren’t you still seeing him?”
“I’m not sure. He sent an e-card yesterday and said he had to work last night,” I explained.
“He lives near you and can’t swing by for two seconds? Oh Marna, he’s got commitment issues. Move on,” he advised.
So, it appears I don’t have a boyfriend after all, but I do have a kicky new hairdo.
February 14, 2008 by
I’m not a fan of this holiday, but if you are going to recognize it, do it balls-out-swinging, otherwise, mutually agree it’s a stupid holiday, let it pass in silence, and find a different way to profess your love.
Beans, who still lives eight blocks from me, sent an e-card. Seriously, an e-card, but it gets better. The message had five consonants and two vowels. Yes, he’s a writer, but obviously he had romantic writers block. He had an opportunity to redeem himself that evening when he called. Instead, he insisted he could not stop by and teased me about being alone on Valentine’s Day.
The card and envelope I selected to give to him in person is back in my desk drawer. I’ll use it for someone else next year.
February 08, 2008 by
Hot doctor is trying get rid of me. After nearly two months of twice weekly dates, he’s got me on a bi-weekly schedule now.
While he tells me I’m still his favorite redhead, I can tell he’s just not that into me. He’s fixed me and he’s got more needy patients now. I figured this out at my two-month appointment when I sported the paper g-string panties and he took 360 degree photos of me.
“Look at the difference. You are a good healer. A couple more appointments and you are finished,” he told me.
Breakup foreshadowing, unless of course, I can find an excuse to go back. Boobs?