What The Schmuck?

Internet dating is quite interesting, to say the least. I’ve been doing it since back when there weren’t any pictures. So, you know, you’d go and meet the people blind. But now, with photos, you still don’t know what’s going to show up. I had a date with one 47 year old with a cute picture. He looked 47 in the pictures. But when we met, he looked 67. That’s really annoying. I was glad I didn’t agree to dinner beforehand, so that all I had to do was have a drink, and talk about his 47 year old children.

The last Internet date I had said, in his profile, that he was separated. I usually stay away from those, but he looked cute in his pictures, so I decided to try. He was lovely on the phone, making plans to meet. He had given me his full name, so I googled him prior to meeting. Seemed legit. He pretty much looked like his pics in person; tall, dark, and handsome. Just like I stated who I was looking for in my ad. He brought me flowers. Hmmm. But I didn’t hold it against him... right away.

So, I asked him about his separation/marriage. He began to provide me with so much information! Including that when his wife admitted to an affair so he smacked her in the face. It was a backhand slap. He must have been wearing a ring, because she ended up with a big gash on her face. She pressed charges. And now, she may be reducing the charges! Oh, thank goodness! This date is going better than I thought!

So much for him. I stopped dating wife beaters a while ago. Now just let me finish my swordfish so I can get the fuck out of here!!

Well, dinner wasn’t finished yet, so we kept talking. He started telling me about his business. He develops and sells martial arts equipment. He was telling me about some martial arts shoes he was developing. Shoes. Ok. I can relate. I can have a conversation about this.

The shoes were called something that sounded like ‘schmucks’. I was like, “schmucks”? I think originally, he said they were a cross between shoes and mucks. So, I said, “What are they called, ‘schmucks’”?

He then says, “Do you know what a schmuck is?”

“Yes”.

He goes, “Yea, I had mine removed about a year ago.”

I go, “Huh??”

He goes, “Yea, it doesn’t really hurt that much.”

I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He said, “Foreskin.” “A schmuck is foreskin.”

I said, “I think that’s a little too much information for a first date.”

WHAT THE FUCK???

WHERE AM I, IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE???

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE????!!!!

I don’t really remember what we said after that. I tried to play it cool, and ask why he did the procedure at this age. He just gave some asshole response, like it looks better or something.

I called my sister the next day. Asked her if any of this sounded weird to her, and should I see him again. Of course she said, “NO”!!

Why would I even need to ask that?!?

What a schmuck.

I hate Internet dating.

KICK THE CAB

Similar to the OBT, in dating, eventually, every date kicks-the-cab, or has a kick-the-cab moment, as one girlfriend of mine calls it. This means that eventually they all do something, which ends up being a deal breaker. Something, which is inexcusable. Something undeniably wrong. Something that you feel in your gut. And once he does it, you know, you have to break up with him. Let me explain by telling the story of the original kick-the-cab incident.

I work with the hearing impaired. I never dated a patient before, nor did I ever want to. I mean, I’m working all day. I’m not sitting there, scoping out the patients for potential dates for God sakes! But then Patrick walked into my office. He was tall, dark, handsome, and deaf...not that there’s anything wrong with that. I worked with him as a patient that day, all the while being totally attracted to him. Is that wrong? It seemed so. The session went really well. Chemistry seemed to be happening. Although he seemed to have some emotional issues, I set them aside.

Next day, he sent me an email asking me to accompany him to the San Genaro feast. I agreed. He picked me up from work on the scheduled day. It was a beautiful September evening. He drove us down town. The feast was fun. Although I’ve been a New Yorker all my life, I’d never been.

I really wanted a blue ice. So he bought me one. We were just walking and talking. After a while, he told me my tongue was blue. I took out my compact out check things out, and not only was my tongue was blue, but so were my teeth and my lips. Now, I love the color blue obsessively, but that was nasty. Especially for a first date.

Then we went into a sweet Italian restaurant in Little Italy and had dinner and a little wine. Afterwards, went on the ferris wheel, where he kissed me. Then he won me a stuffed animal at the fair. I mean, what could be wrong with this guy? Nothing! Everything went really really well that night. He followed up the next day with a sweet email. Perfect.

So, needless to say, we started dating.

I thought things were going well. We got along great. Went on fun dates. He was respectful and kind. But I must say, I started noticing a few things that made my ears go up. For example, one afternoon, he showed up at my job complaining that he couldn’t hear the same through his hearing device. I checked him and spent a little time with him, even though I was quite busy. He was upset due to the situation and was mostly quiet. I had turned around to pick something up as I was working with him, and he said, “I guess you don’t wear a thong.” I turned around, “Excuse me?” (But I heard what he said.)

He said, “Oh nothing.”

He apologized the next day.

Another time, he had taken me to an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. The food there is amazing, but it’s a bit crowded with families. Tables were very close together and the patrons were getting very loud. Some people bumped his chair several times during the dinner. He looked like he was going to snap and have a fist fight at any moment.

Note to self.

We continued to date casually. It wasn’t getting serious. And even though those incidents did occur, I still liked him.

We texted and emailed a lot, since he couldn’t use the phone. While texting one night, we were really just bullshitting back and forth. All of a sudden, he texts, ‘I love you’. I wrote, “did you just tell me you love me on text?”

He responded, “Yes.”

Well, I had a real problem with that. You don’t tell someone you love him or her, for the first time, on text! What the heck do you do with that? You know, at that time, we didn’t have querty keyboards. We had tiny phones, and you had to press the tiny keys a million times in order to get a word out. But even if not, I just think it’s poor dating etiquette. And although I was upset with that, I continued to date him.

Don’t worry. I’m not going tell you about each and every date we had. Just this next one. I don’t remember the details about this next date with Patrick. I do remember it was December. It was going to be the last time I saw Patrick before I went on a business trip to Europe. We’d gone out on the Upper East Side, for dinner and drinks, and Patrick was walking me home. We began to cross the street when a screeching cab suddenly quickly turned the corner in front of us while we were crossing. We stopped. The cab stopped. Didn’t hit us. But Patrick then proceeded to punch and kick the cab while it passed, while cursing and screaming. Once the cab passed, I remember he turned and said something to me in a sweet tone. Like nothing had happened.

That was it. He kicked the cab! I didn’t say anything. But I felt it in my gut. And this time, I wasn’t going to ignore it. I was afraid of him. But I didn’t say it. I didn’t tell him how I felt. But I knew then and there, that I was never going to see him again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And I wasn’t going to hang around to see the flames.

He kicked the cab! A deal breaker for me. I know myself. I can’t be with a violent man. Some people can. Some men are violent towards others but never towards their significant others, so they stay. Me. I can’t be around that.

Someone else’s kick-the-cab may be something else completely. Now, they don’t have to actually kick a cab to have a kick-the-cab moment. Kick-the-cab can be any action or comment, which is so horrible that it’s a deal-breaker. Or which is the last straw. The moment in which you know that you cannot take anymore. The moment, which you know, you are going to break up with him. At which you know you are never going to see him again. We all have them. We’ve all been there.

What’s yours?

OBT (One Big Thing)

A funny thing my Mom discovered is guys always have one big thing (OBT) wrong with them. Sounds crazy, but it’s true. Like, they could be handsome, rich, and sweet, but be...what?... gay. He could be attractive and caring, but... oops!... married. Be funny and brilliant, but...ugh!...a horrible kisser. Damn! He could be wonderf-...you guessed it...a stalker. Get the idea? Well, it’s always true. Think back. See? Told ya.

There’s always OBT wrong, either with them or with the relationship. And if you don’t find it out right away, you will in time. With some guys it can take longer than others to find it out. Consider yourself lucky if you find it out early on. Saves a lot of time and trouble.

Well, it’s very distressing. I don’t say it to be pessimistic or cynical or anything. It just turns out to happen.

Take ‘Schmooly’ for example. Schmooly was a great guy. Until I found out the OBT. Actually, he had two big things. You’ll see. Hey, not those big things! Keep your mind out of the gutter! So, I met Schmooly in 1988, before the husband thing. Oh, yeah. Well, I’ll get into that later. Actually, I had met the future husband already, but wasn’t interested at the time. If only I could have stayed uninterested.

Shit.

Okay, okay, back to the story.

Here’s how I met him. So, my friends and I had plans to attend the local church’s annual boat ride around Manhattan. Once the day came, I called up “the girls” to firm up plans. They decided they weren’t going to go because it was too expensive, $30. Great, I’ll just call Vicky. She blew me off for a date with this gorgeous guy because he was sooooo nice. Yeah, the same guy that ended up dumping her for a stripper. Perfect, so much for Vicky.

Well, with no one to go with, I wasn’t going on the boat ride now. That really sucked. I was really bummed. Suddenly, my Mom yells from the kitchen, “Why don’t you go anyway?”

“What do you mean? Go alone?”

“Yeah, why not? You know Joyce is going and you’ll probably see people there you know. Why don’t you take your camera and go?”

“But I look horrible! It’s too late to get dressed up. If I’m going to go, I have to go now or I’ll miss the boat all together!”

“So, just go like that. You look great.”

I was wearing black long shorts, a white T-shirt and white wrestling sneakers. It wasn’t my fault, it was the 80’s!! I went up to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror. Hmm, didn’t look bad. Put some blush and lip gloss on. And a black jacket, grabbed my Minolta, and was out the door. Drove from Long Island to Manhattan in good time and made it for the boat.

Sure enough, I did know some people on the boat and it wasn’t so bad. All of a sudden a man starts talking to my friends and me. I didn’t know him. Turns out they didn’t either. He was green-eyed, fair skinned, and curly-haired but very clean-cut.

So, when the cruise was over, Schmooly (the curly haired guy) walked me to my car. He asked me for my number and I told him I was in the book. Some people I’ve told this story to freak at this point. They can’t believe I just told him that!

Yeah, he called. I agreed to go out. So, he comes and picks me up at my home (my parents’) from New Jersey to Long Island. He’s an IBM exec. He’s very sweet to the folks. Shakes Pop’s hand, you know the whole deal. Then we get into his BMW and go to a nearby restaurant. We park, and then he reaches over me to help open my door and...JAMS HIS TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT!! What the fuck was that?! I was SO GROSSED OUT! Where did that come from? HOW INAPPROPRIATE!! We didn’t even get to the restaurant yet.

So, things were not looking good for Schmooly, but I tried to make the best of it. We have dinner and he drops me home. I never jumped out of a car so fast! I did NOT want a repeat performance. You know, I thought he was a nice person. But the tongue raping was his OBT.

Damn!

You never know when the OBT is going to jump up and bite you in the ass.

Love means never having to say, I’m returning.

I procrastinated. The bag was placed neatly near the door. It sat there for weeks before I could actually do it. But I knew it had to be done. It was like taking your ailing pet to the vet, knowing you’d come home alone. Or breaking up with a boyfriend.

Yes. The quilted turquoise metallic Chanel 2.55 Re-Issue classic flap bag was going to be…

RETURNED!

I’d made a deal with the devil (my sister) and now I had to pay. I mustered up the courage to do it. So, I picked up the bag containing my quilted turquoise metallic Chanel 2.55 Re-Issue classic flap bag and went down to the bus. Got off at Bergdorf. Did not look left. Did not look right. Did not want to see anything beautiful, that I ‘needed’. Passed the designer bags and the designer sunglasses. B-lined it to the elevator. Got off at the 6^th floor; the credit department. Handed the bag to the salesperson. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m returning.” (Waaaaah!)

She took the bag containing my beautiful quilted turquoise metallic Chanel 2.55 Re-Issue classic flap bag, and disappeared into the back room. I waited patiently. Hands sweating, heart pounding.

She came back. Handed me a white slip of paper, smiled and said, “Your credit has gone onto your Bergdorf card.”

“Thank you.” (sniff, sniff)

And she walked away.

My beautiful quilted turquoise metallic Chanel 2.55 Re-Issue classic flap bag was gone. I missed it already and I’ll never be the same. I glanced down at the credit slip.

“$3524.78”

Sweet! Maybe I’ll buy a knock-off.

Looking for shoes in all the wrong places.

I came down from the high of my Bergdorf run. It was then that I realized I purchased too many. My habit was getting me into a little bit of credit card debt. I was shopping impulsively. But I was in denial of the ‘problem’.

Here’s my shopping thought process. I see something fabulous. Full price. Not on sale. I don’t care. I have to have it. If I don’t have it, it’s going to negatively affect my life. Orphans, calling out to me for a home. My home. And I have to oblige.

While making the purchase I feel very important. Handing my credit card over to the very helpful salesperson is empowering. Walking out of the store, with a crisp, new Bergdorf bag. Or Chanel. Or YSL. Or Gucci. Or Christian Louboutin. Mmmm. What an excellent sensation. Walking down Fifth Avenue with a brand new purchase. I had arrived.

At home, I immediately try on my new purchase. I model them for myself in every mirror in my apartment. With different outfits. In different lighting. I feel fabulous for the rest of the day.

But at night, when I go to bed, I start to feel a bit uneasy. Start to visualize the bill in my head. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking of it. But it would be forgotten by morning.

I was in love with my quilted turquoise metallic Chanel classic flap bag. Uhhh! To die for. It was so lovely, I didn’t even wear it yet. I was waiting for the right event. It was too good to even wear it. It was $3200 without the tax. Oh, but it was gorgeous. And sooo worth it. Notice the past tense?

But as I mentioned, the bills were piling up. Once I came out about it to my sister and Mom about my little ‘problem’, I was forced to take action. I knew what I had to do. But… Noooooooooo. I couldn’t possibly… RETURN!? Gulp!

I bargained with my sister. “If I return the Chanel dress, can I keep the quilted turquoise metallic Chanel classic flap bag?”

“No.”

“How about return six pairs of shoes, but keep the turquoise suede Christian Louboutin prive peep-toe pumps and the quilted turquoise metallic Chanel classic flap bag?”

“No!”

“Shit!” I hate her.

I Hate Valentines Day

Ring, ring on the Blackberry. Hold on, I have a text.

“Happy Valentines Day. Are you in love yet? Lol”

It’s from “Yakov”.

Ewww. Pffffffffftttttttt! Hand gesture.

I look at my sister. She looks at me. “What the heck just happened?

“Ugh! I hate Valentines Day!”

There have been years when I liked Valentines Day. Those were my childhood years, when I’d receive loving cards and chocolates from my Pop. Classmates would hand out sweet little notes.

And then there were the Valentines Days when I was with someone special. It was wonderful to get the right thing from the right person on the right day!

I say this because there’d be Valentines Days when I’d hoped my love interest would recognize it appropriately and they didn’t; V-days when I’d receive a card from someone I wasn’t interested in; days when I was dating someone I really liked and he got me something stupid for Valentines. I once dated someone once who gave me jewelry, a card, flowers, and cooked me dinner one year and the next year, gave me a half eaten box of chocolates and a monkey card.

I suppose the reason I am now anti-V is because of the year I was dumped on Valentines Day. That really sucked. And I’m still not over it. It was several years ago, when I was seeing a man I was crazy about. We’ll refer to him as 'Moishe'. (The names have been changed to protect the innocent … and the guilty. Not that they deserve protection.)

I’d been seeing Moishe for a couple of years. We had broken up once before, but were back together for several months. I was crazy for him, but he had not really acted himself since the reconciliation. I tried to ignore it for a while, but it was becoming more and more apparent that he was losing interest. I knew I should talk to him about it, but just couldn’t find the words or the right time to bring it up, you know? I almost really didn’t wanna hear it, but at the same time knew I had to if I was going to keep my sanity.

So, it’s Valentines Day and we were spending it together. I think he’d cooked dinner. We’d eaten, talked, watched TV and it was getting late. He seemed very distant and acted as if we were just friends the whole night. He never uttered sweet, loving words, which he had done in the past. So, I mustered up the courage to say, “You know, on Valentines Day, people usually say, ‘I love you’.”

There. I said it.

Waiting for his response...

He says, “Well, they say it if they mean it.”

“AHHHHHHH!” It was like he stabbed me with a butcher knife! I immediately felt ill. No, he is NOT doing this to me on Valentines Day!

By the time we were through discussing the fact that Moishe didn’t like me on Valentines Day, it was really late at night.

I drove myself home. Crying all the way in the dark.

Happy Valentines Day… to me.

What’s shoes got to do with it 2?

… That definitely was NOT my last visit to Bergdorf’s shoe department. I dropped by again, alone. After the sale was over. The main designer shoe salon was lovely. I almost had the same Wizard of Oz moment the second time. That time, as the escalator slowly approached the second floor, in the horizon, I could gradually view the show salon, inch by inch. Breathtaking.

This time no sale racks. No shoe frenzy. No volchers, with 60% off Manolo Blanhiks as their prey. Just beautifully displayed shoes, grouped by designer. I spent hours just ogling the various styles. The same rush of excitement. I was hooked. This is where I belonged. This is what I deserved.

I made periodic visits. Some visits, I would just look. Others, I would try on. And others. .. Well, on other occasions, I’d BUY.

I usually make the Bergdorf runs alone. I don’t even tell my friends about it. I don’t think they know. But I did mention it to my sister and niece. In fact, we recently planned an excursion to the sale.

Even though I was finding it extremely dangerous for my wallet to go there at all, I found a rationale; I’d purchase several pair on sale, then re-sell them online for profit. I figured if I get shoes not in my size, I can’t wear them, only could sell them. So I entered the sale with a plan. Well, to be completely honest, I visited the sale the day before I was to attend with the family. Well, I needed to be sure the sale was still on, right? Didn’t want to drag them both there for nothing. Was just going to scope it out. Just take one quick skim around the sale for… research. Yea, research. But then I saw something. Something, well,,,um…blue. They were turquoise suede Manolo pumps. They were fabulous and they fit like butter. Only one pair in my size. On sale. 40% off. I could just leave them there until tomorrow. Someone would definitely buy them. It was absolutely impossible. AND I had a gift card. P. S. I bought them.

So the next day, I met my niece and sis there. At first, I really didn’t see anything I was interested in. I had already bought a pair the day before, so I really didn’t need more. You know, so I was just casually browsing the racks. It was a really big sale this time. I had seen a pair of light turquoise suede Christian Louboutin peep toe prive pumps in a size 39. Not my size. Whew. That was lucky. But maybe I should buy them to sell? Yea. I’ll grab ‘em.

Then I started to see some other wonderful styles. Some that fit me and some not so much. But I can always sell them online, right? All of a sudden I spotted the light turquoise suede Christian Louboutin peep toe prive pumps in a 40. Oh! They fit! Perfectly! But no. The color’s too light. The suede will get dirty too easy. I put them down. First rule of sale shopping; NEVER PUT ANYTHING DOWN YOU REMOTELY COULD BE INTERESTED IN AT ALL!

Because later on, I began to rethink those light turquoise suede Christian Louboutin peep toe prive pumps in a 40, and I went back to find them. They were gone! OMG!! NOOO! Someone discovered them and now they’re gone! I can’t live without them!! I started to panic.

I asked Charlie, the salesperson, if he could find them for me. He came back to inform me that they didn’t exist. I knew they did. What did he know? I knew the merchandise better than him at that point. I kept looking, but came to the realization that they were gone…bought… and I would never see them again. I guess I’ll just buy the 39’s just because they were so beautiful, even if they squished my feet so bad I’d never be able to wear them.

The group had split up, into our subsequent shoe size areas. I left my niece on one side of the sale (in the size 37’s) to look for my sister (in the 40’s). When, wait…. What? Is that?... is that light turquoise suede? Pick them up. Look on the bottom. 40?!?! YESSSSS! “I found them! I found them! This is them!” I held the shoe in my hand and fist-pumped it into the air. “I found them!” I screamed. My sister just blank stared me. Ran over to my niece, screaming. I saw Charlie. “Don’t even start with me Charlie! I found them!!” “Please get me the mate!!” Charlie blank-stared me, and ran off to find the mate.

My niece, on the other hand, who is a niece through marriage was flipping out at the scene. “Do it again! Do it again, so I can video it!!” she yelled, through her laughter. She wasn’t prepared for the drama of the Bergdorf Sale. She didn’t know me very well yet, but by the end of the excursion she was calling me Shoe Nazi!

I realize this may have been an overreaction. But that’s what shoe shopping does to me. Talk about a rush. A drug. Crack. There’s nothing like it. Powerful. An amazing feeling to walk out with two bags full of gorgeous Christian Louboutins!

Until I got the credit card bill.

What’s shoes got to do with it?

Shoes. Shoes are my passion. They have nothing to do with dating,,, directly. But indirectly, they do. Shoes can be your best friends. Shoes can be your boyfriend. They are very forgiving. You can gain ten pounds and while your jeans may become tight, your shoes will still fit feel like butter. They will still love you. They can make you feel pretty. They can get you through a break-up, a death, and stock market crash. They can make jeans and a t-shirt look like high fashion. They can smoothly transition you from the office to dinner, to the club.

Purchasing new shoes can compare to having a cigarette or a glass of wine after a difficult day. Shoe shopping can elicit an adrenaline rush, a high. My heart starts racing and I start to sweat on the way up the escalator or elevator at the Bergdorf’s shoe sale. All my favorite styles all in one place, all on sale!

I’ll never forget the first time I discovered the sale. It was a few days after Christmas and my sister was visiting from long island for a few days. We decided to go see the tree in Rockefeller Center. What a nightmare! Fifth Avenue was packed with tourists all doing the same thing, going to see the tree. On the way back from the tree we walked over the 57^th street to catch the M31 bus back to the Upper East Side. But then I saw Bergdorf’s on the corner. I’ve been many times since then, but at that time, I hadn’t been there yet. Also, at that time, I had (and still do have) an obsession with Christian Louboutins, but didn’t know where to purchase them. Well, Barney’s had them, but they had a small selection at the time, and they were very pricey.

Back to Bergdorf. We decided to run across the street to take a look, because I knew they had them. We took the elevator up to the 2^nd floor – the shoe department. When the elevator doors opened up, it was like Dorothy opening the door to Munchkin Land for the first time in the Wizard of Oz. You know, when the movie went from black-and-white to color. (In my opinion, that moment was always one of the most exciting scenes in American cinema.) There were racks and racks of designer shoes ON SALE! 40% -60% off! How could this be? Not only were they on sale, I saw all the designers I’d been reading about. There were my favorite Christian Louboutins, Gucci, Manolo, Versace, Prada to name only a few. They were beautiful! Lined up in size order. Some were just thrown on the floor and on surfaces near the racks, like we were at Kmart or something.

I was grabbing pairs like a kid in a candy store. I’d see one and hold it close to me as if someone was going to take it away from me. I would try one on, standing up with my coat on, then show my sister. “Do you like these?” Then I’d try another one on, “Do you like these?”. I must have had a crazy look in my eyes, because she was looking at me like I was possessed or something. Limping through the racks, one shoe off and one shoe on, trying on all I could. I wanted everything, and she knew it. She was just like, “Step away from shoes!” I mean they were 40 off, but they were still $600 or more, not including tax. She was no fun. What a buzz kill.

I left that day without any Louboutins, but I knew I’d be back.

Blue Shoes Manhattan

New York City. A city with a population of about 20 million. It can be a very lonely place. I’ve been single and dating in New York for most of my life, with the exception of some boyfriends and husbands along the way. And I’ve got a lot of stories about it. Wanna hear some?

Well, ever since my divorce, I’ve been dating excessively. Even before then, I went through guys like water. But it’s primarily after the husband and boyfriend-after- the-husband that have been most amusing. The husband thing is a book in itself. It was pretty traumatic and not so amusing. I may get into the amusing aspects of it though. Guess you can find a little humor in even the worst situations. You can even find depressing parts of humorous situations. Which is why I’m writing this, I guess. So, yeah, I guess you’ll be reading about both.

I’d read a book that recommended treating finding a man to marry after 35 like a job. So I tried it and went online, got referrals from friends and co-workers…. Left no stone unturned. I ended up with so many dating stories. So much that co-workers would gather around my desk on Monday mornings wanting to hear the scoop of the weekend. What happened on the date THIS time? They would sit riveted by my stories. My married sister and close friends would do the same and sit and laugh hysterically and the turn of events. They couldn’t believe this stuff was really happening. But had to believe it because who could make this shit up! People would compare it to Seinfeld episodes or Sex and the City characters. Some of the same business, but way funnier.

On Saturday mornings, I my sister and I would always go to my Mom’s house in Long Island. My sister, Mom, my nephews and I would sit around the kitchen table for hours, laughing and talking about the dates, phone calls, encounters had during the week. We’d dissect every line, every body movement to analyze the minds of these creatures. Mom would cut out “Cathy” strips and Dear Abby letters that were apropos to the most recent situation. But I would never post on a corkboard, because that would be… well… pathetic.

This turned out to be great fun. So, when I’d get an offer for a blind date or invitation to a singles event, I’d go. Why? Because even if I didn’t have a good time on the date, I’d have a good story to tell on Monday. And that became my rationale for dating. I became aware that the more people I met, the more interesting my life became. The more I learned about people, and dating. Actually, the worse the date, the better the story. I never really considered myself a great conversationalist, but now, I always have an amusing anecdote for parties.

Since people thought these stories were so funny, my sister kept telling me to write them down for a blog, a book or a sit com or something. So, this blog doesn’t mean anything. This is not a self-help blog. I am not an expert. I suppose I should say, “do not attempt this at home.” It’s just for fun. I’m not married and do not have a boyfriend. I don’t even have a date lined up for Saturday night. Mind you, it’s only Monday, and a lot could happen by the weekend (they say positive thinking is good).

So, that’s all it is. An anecdotal compellation of dating mishaps. For me, looking at it this way makes it not so pathetic and is empowering in a way. Sex and the City did a similar thing on this topic. The ladies were at a party and Miranda was joking about the fact that she was single. They decided it was to cover up her insecurities about being single. That may be what this is. Who the fuck cares. If it cracks you up it’s all good. Because, really, things are going to happen the way they’re going to happen anyway and you can’t do anything about it. You can put yourself out there, but after that, it’s all fate. So, don’t fight it. Go with it. Enjoy it. Next thing you know you could “click” and then all the fun‘ll be over.