Wrestling, Packers and Doggy Diarrhea

It’s been a while since my last post so I thought it was time for a Mike-n-Lisa-n-Bud update. First, I do have to report that despite my best efforts I am still not a First Mate (not on the boat, anyway).  I did earn bonus points for my effort, though, so at the end of the day I’m happy. Mike is now Bud’s BFF and whenever we walk in the door Bud is on him like a cheap suit. I’ve given him seven years of his favorite dog food and loads of love; Mike gives him 5 days of NFL, lingerie football and Saving Private Ryan. Guess who came out the winner.

Men.

Over the course of the last few months Mike and I have learned a lot about each other. For instance, I’ve learned that Mike is extremely selective (translation: picky) about the foods he will eat. I tease him without mercy because, let’s face it; I’m pretty much a human garbage can when it comes to food while he is a card-carrying member of GPEC – the Grown-up Picky Eaters Club. He, in turn, gives me grief because I still haven’t mastered the art of backing into a parking space and parallel parking is not a skill I possess. More so, I refuse to learn how because as Bobby Brown once said… it’s my prerogative.

Mike has learned that I can, in fact, be bribed with cookies while I’ve discovered that he has a weakness for mashed potatoes and gravy. Unfortunately, both of us have realized that Bud and pepperoni make for a bad situation. Or to be more accurate, a shitty situation.

Last Saturday night Mike and I had gone out for the evening after leaving Bud in the back room with his bed, water and toys. Mike had put down a few pads in case Bud had an accident and boy, did he ever. We had just gotten back and I was standing in the kitchen when Mike opened the door to Bud’s “room.”

M: What the fuck?!? Bud shit all over my room!

L: What??

M: He shit all over my room then he walked in it! Christ! Did you put gravy on his dog food?

L: No. I was going to, but then I was worried it would upset his stomach.

M: Well, something sure as fuck upset his stomach. (grabs roll of paper towels)

L: Oh, I know what it was… I was walking him earlier today and he found several slices of pepperoni on the ground. He ate them before I could stop him. That had to have been it because he’s not eaten anything else other than his dog food.

M: I can’t believe he shit all over my room. (wipes up puddles of crap from floor)

L: Oh, honey, you know it was an accident. (trying not to giggle while watching him clean floor as that would be a HUGE mistake)

M: Yeah, yeah. (turns to Bud) You’re a shitty dog. (Bud wags tail)

L: See, he loves you. (walks into kitchen and claps hands over mouth to hold in laughter)

Needless to say, Bud won’t be eating pepperoni again anytime soon.

Once the shit storm blew over, Mike texted me Monday night asking if I wanted to watch the Vikings/Packers game with him. Actually, he asked if Bud could come over. I was just the driver.

M: Can Bud come over and watch football with me?

L: Bud doesn’t have a driver’s license and he can’t reach the pedals.

M: I thought maybe you could drive him.

L: Are you bringing him home tomorrow?

M: No, I thought you could.

L: I’m not making two trips so the dog can watch TV with you.

M: Oh. Well, I guess you can stay, too.

L: Gee, thanks. I’ll make sure you guys have some alone time.

So we’re settled on the sofa after dinner watching the game and good god, it was just brutal. The Packers weren’t satisfied with spanking the Vikings (end score 45-7); it was a smackdown from one of the field to the other. Mike is yelling at the refs (wisely I didn’t point out it wouldn’t help much because they couldn’t hear him), clutching his head and dying a slow death as the Vikings get reamed out.

Here comes the part where you learn a dirty secret about the person you’re dating. And this time, it’s my dirty little secret.

L: You know, I root for the Vikings when they play the Packers, but I gotta say I like watching the Packers. It’s just good football.

M: What did you say? (turns head very slowly to look at me)

L: Well… uh… they’re a good team. (verbally fumbling around now) And I like Aaron Rodgers. I mean, I’m a Vikings fan, but still… you can’t deny how awesome they look on the field. (wishing I had kept my Packers love to myself)

M: (quiet, serious voice) I don’t even know you.

We suffer through several more minutes before Mike announces he can’t stand it anymore and needs to watch something better. He’s flipping through the guide and I’m making suggestions.

L: Oh, House Hunters! How about the cooking channel? Maybe Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives is on!

Mike makes his selection and with the press of a button, I learn his dirty little secret.

L: Wrestling? You’re kidding me, right? THIS is better than the game?! Oh, hell no. I am NOT watching wrestling!

M: (grinning) This is good stuff, babe. Look, the Rock is on tonight. He’s been away for like, seven years.

L: I don’t care how long he’s been gone or where he went. (I do like the Rock, but I still hate wrestling.) You’re just doing this because of what I said about the Packers and you know it.

M: Nope, I’m not. I like wrestling. (still grinning)

Now it’s my turn to stare at him in horror. He’s not kidding. He really does enjoy watching WWE. I feel myself getting ill at the thought of watching steroided up men in bikini underwear fake pummel each other all night. Ugh. It’s a woman’s nightmare come to life.

L: I can’t watch this. I’m getting up.

M: No, stay here and watch it with me. (openly laughing now)

L: Ask Bud to watch it with you. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.

So the two men in my life watched their manly show together while I soothed myself by surfing celebrity-bashing sites on the computer. I felt better almost immediately.

I have since decided that if Mike is willing to overlook my Packer-love then I can overlook his penchant for WWE. It’s all about compromise (patting self on back for being so adult-like).

Oh, but Mike, honey… one more dirty little secret before I wrap this up. Remember when we were driving back from Wisconsin and you bought me all those cheese curds? Well, I spent Monday night watching the Packers play while eating my cheese curds. Guess I’m a cheesehead, after all.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

Bud’s Bachelor Weekend

Ma, we need to talk. You know I love you and all, but I’ve had some time to think while you were back in Mississippi visiting the family. I gotta admit, I was a little pissed at first when you just up and left me with Mike. I mean, come on… you know how I am about my food and my routine. I like a little bacon or cheese mixed in to give it some flavor. Was I supposed to believe Mike was gonna take that extra step? What if he gives it to me dry? I don’t do dry food. I also prefer to start my night on top of the blankets then nudge you awake so I can get underneath. What if he doesn’t let me under the covers? What then!? Panic was starting to set in just about the time I realized he probably wouldn’t call me his little pumpkin and kiss me on the head when he came home from work. How am I supposed to get through the next five days?

Well, as it turns out I had an amazing time while you were gone and learned a few things about myself. Number one: you have turned me into a girly dog.

EXHIBIT A.

The only comment I have about this photo is that I look ridiculous and all the dogs laughed at me. You thought I looked cute. I thought I looked like a short-bus dog. Thanks a fuckin’ heap, Ma. Mike doesn’t make me wear stupid clothes. He lets me be a guy. Yeah, that’s right. A guy. And you know what? I LIKE it! Check out the pix below from my manly weekend adventures.

EXHIBIT B.

Chillin' in the yard with Mike

Mike's pretty good at the whole scratch my stomach thing.

Yard work is tiring so I had to take a break.

FYI, riding in a truck is way cooler than riding in a car named Veronica.

Every guy has to have his own chair. Mike gave me a blanket, too!

No more Cupcake Wars, Ma. It's Saving Private Ryan or nothing.

Seriously, Ma. Sunday Night Football vs Jerseylicious. You do the math.

I know you were all upset I didn’t sleep with you Monday night when you got home. I had to teach you a lesson for your own good.  Things are going to be different from now on, Ma. I refuse to wear a Halloween costume even though you said I had to be a hot dog or a wizard. Put that shit on me and I swear I’ll tear it to shreds before we get out the door. I know you love me which is why I’ve put up with the clothes, the vanilla shampoo/conditioner treatments and I even let you spray Giorgio perfume on me. No more, Ma. Mike showed me how to be a guy and I am not a girly dog anymore.

Love, Bud

p.s. I’ll sleep with you tonight.

p.p.s. When we’re alone, I’m still your little pumpkin.

Men are from Mars, women are from… hell if I know.

Remember the book titled “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” that was hugely popular a few years back? Basically it explored the differences between men and women primarily in the areas of relationships and communication. I never read it because I tend to turn my nose up at self-help books. I’ve always thought that when it comes to communication between the two sexes, it shouldn’t be that difficult and that two mature adults should be able to speak clearly, openly and effectively. Right?

Wrong.

Mike decided to take his boat out on the water yesterday and asked me to go with him. (Bud, too, of course!) Apparently he decided that while I don’t merit First Mate status due to my lack of knowledge/skills, I do qualify as a First Mate in Training. I thought to myself, “This can’t be too hard. I’m relatively smart and I can probably catch on pretty quick.”

Feel free to snort laughter right about now because by the end of the day I discovered one truth to be self-evident. Mike is from Planet Lake Minnetonka and I am from Planet-I-Have-No-Clue-What-You-Are-Saying-To-Me.

Our day began with the “official” launching of the boat. Bud’s job is to stare at me while my job is to… uh… hold two ropes while keeping the boat from hitting the dock. Or is it a pier? Why are there two words for the same object anyway?

(Note to self: ask Mike to explain the difference in language I can understand).

Back to preventative boat bumping. This is harder than it looks. The wind is not cooperating with me at all. Just when I get the back part of the boat away from the dock, the front part moves far enough away that I’m almost pulled into the water. Bud is no help whatsoever. He just sits there like, well… like a dog on a boat.

The Official Launching of the Boat

I finally see Mike coming towards me after parking the truck and my relief is almost palpable. I remark that it’s harder than I thought it would be trying to keep the boat from bumping into the dock.

(Cue Mike vs Lisa Communication Salvo #1)

M: This is hard? Baby, I know you lift weights and work out. It can’t be that hard!

L:  I lift hand weights! This is a boat. I can’t lift a boat.

We get out into the open water with no more tutelage. Yet. Mike lets me drive and I’m torn between excitement and a bad case of nerves.

M: Rule #1: Don’t hit anything.

L: What’s Rule #2?

M: Rule #2: Don’t fall overboard.

Keep repeating quietly to self: Don’t hit anything. Don’t fall overboard. Congratulate self on doing neither. I got this.

Do I look like I'm having fun? Huzzah!

We spend a couple of hours on the water before Mike decides we need to gas up.

(Salvo #2)

L: Where are you going to get gas?

M: At the marina.

L: They have gas pumps on the water?!

M: Of course. Where else would you get gas? (Looks at me in amazement).

Where indeed. Frankly, I’d never pondered the age-old question of “Where do boats go to gas up?”

(Second note to self: think before asking a question so as not to appear a dumb ass).

(Salvo #3)

Pulling up next to the dock, Mike asked me to grab the stern line and bumpers.

I don’t even have to speak because the look of Whuuut?? on my face says it all. (Dumb ass expression totally not my fault because this man is speaking Greek).

Mike lifts a small hatch at his feet and pulls out a rope and this white, rubbery, bouncy kinda thing.  Ah. Stern line and a bumper. God, I’m amazed at my ability to put two and two together.

M: Tie the bumpers to the side of the boat and attach the stern line to the cleat.

L: Blank look.

M: Here, let me show you. (Suppresses a sigh).

I do feel kinda bad at this point because I feel completely clueless and it’s evident I am zero help.

M: The bumpers should be at this level and you tie the stern line with a figure eight knot.

Oh, great. I’ve read about slip knots and what-have-you.  I never thought I might actually have to knot anything other than my shoelaces.

(Third note to self: Please do not let there be a test at the end of the day. If there is, I’m going down in flames).

Mike pays for the gas and asks me to grab the line from the bow.

L: Blank look.

M: The bow is the front of the boat and the back is the stern.

(Fourth note to self: vow to write letter to National Boating Association and demand to know why words ‘front’ and ‘back’ can’t be used).

We head back out onto the water and amazingly enough, Mike lets me drive some more. It has not escaped my attention that a senior citizen on a walker could easily outpace me, but I’m cool with the speed for the moment. Oh, wait… maybe it’s not speed. I think it has something to do with knots. Didn’t he mention knots at some time or another? I wasn’t paying attention.

(Fifth note to self: look up ‘knots’ on Wikipedia in order to avoid yet another blank look).

I am feeling just a little self-congratulatory.

After staying on the water ‘til well after the sun set, we head back and Mike loads the boat up on the trailer. Silly me. I’m thinking you just go home at that point. Little did I know there is a checklist that must be completed before you can hit the open road and head home.

(Salvo #4)

M: You didn’t think we were done, did you?

L: I have no idea what you want me to do. Tell me.

M: It’s really not that difficult.

L: Well, I need you to explain it to me in detail.

M: I shouldn’t have to… most people that I take out on the water have an intuitive feel for what to do.

Trying hard not to be needled by comment and not succeeding. Crossing arms in front of myself, I respond.

L: Well, I’m sorry I don’t have an intuitive feel for your boat.

M: Baby, don’t get defensive! I’m not criticizing.

L: Well, it certainly feels like criticism.

M: I’m just trying to teach you and I’ve never had to do this before.

L: That’s evident cuz you’re not a good teacher.

Yes, I’m pouting at this point and I do not care that I’ve taken on the mentality of a three-year-old.

Mike walks me through what needs to be done and I learned about lake grime as well as aquatic hitchhikers. After we finish, he hugs me and tells me I’ve done a good job.

Feel free to snort laughter again.

Not that it really matters because I have a sneaky suspicion that all my efforts were in vain and that I have been replaced by another First Mate in Training.

Really?

Sneaky bastard.

Lots of love,

Lisa D 😀

A night of vomit and crazy

My daughter, Ana, had lunch with me today and came over to my place after work. She was going on a blind date (yikes!) and wanted to visit with me for a bit as she was a bit nervous. This would be her first blind date and she needed a little mom support. After getting ready, she asked my thoughts on her attire.

“Your skirt is too short and you’re showing too much cleavage.”

“Moooommm!”

Funny how she can take a single syllable word and make it a mile long. Actually, she looked great, but I was morally obligated as her mother to provide constructive criticism. She is meeting her date at 6:00 pm and it’s time for her to leave. I ask her to text me at some point so I’ll know she’s okay and she agrees before hugging me bye.

6:20 pm

I am on the phone with my friend, Dave, when a text message pops up from Ana:

OMG. Please call me in two minutes with an emergency!

Oh, this is just too classic. For once, I’m not the one enduring the date from hell. After two minutes of pondering my “emergency,” I dial her number.

“Hello?”

In a teary voice (keeping it real here, folks) I say, “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry to call you on your date! Bud is vomiting blood and I’m taking him to the pet hospital! Please come with me! I can’t go by myself!”

“Oh my god, are you serious?”

“Yes! I’m so scared and I need you to be with me! Please?”

“I’m on my way, Mom!”

We disconnect and I am laughing hysterically at this point. I wait ten minutes before calling her back.

“So what was so bad about your date that I had to bail you out?”

“Oh, god, Mom… his teeth… they were… oh, god. He seriously needs to see a dentist STAT! Oh, god… I feel sick. I gotta go.”

So, technically speaking, there was vomiting last night, it just wasn’t Bud.

* * * *

I often volunteer at a shelter in the Twin Cities and a guy named Tom volunteers there, as well. We had spoken before and he seemed nice enough. Well, actually, he did most of the talking about his job (attorney), social status (divorced with an evil ex-wife who took him to the cleaners and kept his Mercedes Benz) and other inconsequential topics. He hinted at asking me out, but I never took the bait.

So about two weeks ago, I’m waiting at the bus stop when Tom pulls up next to me on his bike. Apparently he lives in the area of my office and was out for an afternoon ride when he spotted me. We chatted for a bit before my bus arrived and I headed home. You can imagine my surprise when I got a voice mail a few days later from Tom. I assumed he got my number from the sign-in sheets at the shelter as I had not given it to him.

“Hi, Lisa, it’s Tom. Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing you the other day. You looked great and I would like to take you out sometime. Call me back and let’s get together.”

Oh, that’s so sweet, I thought to myself. I saved the message as I really did plan to call him back and say “Thanks, but no thanks, I’m seeing Mike; hope things go well; blah, blah, blah.”

I forgot to call him back.

During last night’s vomitous series of events, my phone rings and I let it go to voice mail.

“Hi, Lisa, it’s Tom. I called you a couple of weeks ago and you could have had the DECENCY to call back. I don’t know if you got your hair dyed or what… that’s the rest of the story. You know what to do.”

Tom is very loud and I strongly suspect it’s a drunk dial. Either that, or dude is seriously whacked. I listened to his message twice only because I was trying to figure out what he meant by me getting my hair dyed. I don’t dye my hair. Even if I did, what the hell would that have to do with anything?

Tom just got moved from the ‘Oh, that’s so sweet’ column to the ‘Crazy Mo Fo’ column.

You’re right, Tom. I do know what to do and that would be to NOT call you back because, quite frankly, that bitch be crazy.

Hugs and kisses,

Lisa D 😀

I was a sultry cougar. Almost.

There’s so much hype about cougars and cubs these days that I’ve found myself wondering what would it be like to pull a Demi Moore and date someone 10+ years younger. Would it be invigorating? Adventurous? Or would I find myself telling my date to pull his pants up, get a haircut and don’t put your elbows on the table?

As fate would have it, I would never find the answers to my lingering questions thanks to the lovingly dispensed wisdom from my daughter, Ana. Yeah, right.

It’s a Saturday night and Ana is spending part of the weekend with me for some quality mother/daughter time. In reality, it’s more about I cook for her, she eats all my miniature candy bars, catches up on HD TV and steals my gossip magazines. Bonding as its finest.

So there we are – piled up on the sofa with Bud curled up between us. Ana is playing couch commando with the remote and I’m reading emails from prospective beaus. I am reading an email out loud to her when my IM box pops up with a message from Tyler.  I had initially ignored Tyler when he first contacted me two weeks earlier in spite of the fact he seemed really sweet and looked pretty damned good in his photos. Why would I ignore him, you ask?

He’s 26 years old.

Gawd. I am old enough to be his mother, for Christ’s sake. He persisted and I finally accepted his request to IM. We had chatted off and on, mostly about movies, favorite foods, football, the usual stuff. He asked me what I was doing and I responded with hanging out with my daughter, watching TV and relaxing.

We IM for several minutes when Ana asks, “Who are you talking to?”

I hesitated briefly and said, “Tyler.”

“Tyler who?”

“I don’t know his last name! I haven’t asked.”

“How old is he?”

Silence.

“Mom, how old is he?”

“26.”

“What??!! You’re not going out with him, are you?!”

“No!! I’m just chatting with him! He’s really nice and wants to friend me on Facebook.”

She makes a face and asks to see his photos. I turn the laptop towards her. She takes one look and shrieks, “Oh my God!” Bud shoots off the sofa like he had been fired from a gun and runs to the bedroom.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I know him! We went out for a while!”

It was my turn to shriek, “Oh my God!”

“Mom, you cannot talk to him anymore! Oh my God, this is so gross!” She’s stabbing at the keyboard trying to turn off IM before turning to me and saying, “By the way, he’s not 26. He’s 23!”

“Oh my God!” I shriek again.

I get up off the sofa and head towards the bathroom. Ana ask where I’m going and I respond, “I’m going to take a shower and wash the feel of pedophile off my skin.”

Her parting shot before I closed the door behind me… “I’m going to need so much therapy by the time you’re done.”

That makes two of us.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

My Latest Neuroses: Text Message Anxiety

After much poking fun at and generally picking apart all of my bad dates; I decided to change direction and discuss a good date. Yes, I have had a few, it’s just much more fun to eviscerate the bad dates in print and put them on the internet for the world to read. I freely admit to getting a thrill when I hit the Upload button and knowing that people everywhere are laughing at the asshat I had to endure. Sometimes Karma needs a helping hand and I figure that’s where I come in.

That being said, while dating at my age is hugely different than dating in your teens/20s, I’ve discovered some things never change no matter how old you are. Dating in your formative years comes with acne, braces, awkwardness and the underlying fear of a) making a fool of yourself or b) appearing desperate. Dating at my age comes with laugh lines (okay, fine, Mom, wrinkles!), personal baggage, awkwardness and the underlying fear of a) making a fool of yourself or b) appearing desperate.

Back in the day before cell phones, texting, IMing, gchatting and emailing, we relied on Ma Bell for our communication needs. During the course of a traditional conversation, there wasn’t time to formulate your response or worry about the wording of a text message; you just put yourself out there and hoped you didn’t come across as a neo maxi zoom dweebie.

Nowadays I find myself texting more than talking which brings a whole new set of issues I hadn’t considered… The Laws of Texting better known as How Not To Appear Socially Inept.

I’ve had four dates with this really sweet, good-looking guy. (I know he’s reading this so I HAD to add the good-looking part). Kidding! Mike really is easy on the eyes because I’ve already established I’m shallow and don’t date guys who are challenged in the looks department. The best part, by far, is that he likes dogs. Go Team Bud! So we’ve spent time together and I’m pretty relaxed around him. Until we start texting and that, my friends, is where it all begins.

Women are notorious for not being able to take anything at face value. We pick apart conversations word by word, analyze the sentence structure and most importantly, the tone. We call our friends and have them analyze then we compare notes to see if we reached the same conclusion. A 20-minute chat with a guy can easily trigger a 2-hour sit down with your female friends. Admit it, ladies, I’m telling the truth here.

So Mike and I were texting yesterday as he’s on vacation and I’m stuck here in wet, drizzly Minneapolis. It went something like this (creative liberty = just a bit):

M: At the airport in the TSA line, going very slow.

L: Text me when you land so I know you arrived in one piece.

Did that sound just friendly enough or too friendly? Caring or clingy? Crap!

M: The eagle has landed.

L: Staying with friends or hotel?

Oh great, now that’s the way to scare him off, Lisa. Be intrusive and nosy. Crap!

M: Breckenridge and camping out.

L: Have fun and I hope I’m a good reason to come back to MN.

I sound like a Harlequin Romance novel. Barf. Why don’t cell phones come with a Take It Back button?

M: Of course

Huh. No period on the end of that text. What does it mean? Maybe he was in a hurry; maybe he doesn’t like punctuating his sentences. Maybe my text was too much, too soon. I need to call in reinforcements.

Enter stage left: Chief Critic/Daughter Ana

“Here’s the deal, Mom. When a guy texts you, never respond immediately. Yes, I know you think it’s rude, but you’re busy. You’re always busy and in high demand. Wait at least 20 minutes before responding. If he takes 25 minutes to text back, then you wait 35 minutes before sending another message. Think about what you’re going to say and how will it sound to him. Keep it brief and above all, don’t sound too interested. You can be interested, but not too much.”

Gack. Who knew texting could be so damned difficult? I didn’t know there were all of these nuances I had to memorize plus I’m gonna need a calculator to figure out how long before I can respond. Okay, I’m a smart woman. I can do this. It’s just texting, right? It’s not rocket science.

Brrrrrzzzz. Phone vibrates with a new message from Mike.

M: Busy?

What do I say?

Yes.

Okay, that’s good. It’s brief and to the point.

When can I send it? Let’s see, it’s 11:50 a.m. my time, but he’s in a different time zone. So if I respond in 25 minutes (where’s my fucking calculator??) that makes it 12:15 p.m. for me, but its 11:15 a.m. for him and wait, does that matter? Ana didn’t discuss time zones with me so maybe it’s not an issue. But what if it is?

Screw it. I take the bull by the horns, type in Yes then hit Send.

I got your female empowerment right here, baby.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀

Editorial Note: This Mike is NOT the crazy-ass, ill-bred, rude sonofabitch Mike from Dante’s Level 3 post. Not sure why, but he never called me back. Go figure.

Dante’s Dating Inferno/Level 1: The Liar

First of all, I apologize for being remiss in updating my blog. The good news is that I’ve re-entered the world of internet dating after taking a six month break. Even better for me, I’ve had some great dates. Best for you, however; is that I’ve had some truly heinous dates of which I am about to share the top three.

My first tale highlights a guy I like to call “The Liar.” What does he lie about? Everything. When I re-created my profile, I decided to change it up a bit and be more descriptive about what I was looking for in a guy as apparently I wasn’t specific enough the first time. A couple of items I added are below:

Rule #1: Only tall guys need apply with a minimum height requirement of 6’0”. Yeah, I know, it sounds superficial and all that. Before you get all preachy on me, there’s a reason for this rule. I love, love my stiletto heels and they boost my height to 5’11”. No way in hell am I going out with a guy that ends up looking all Tom Cruise to my Katie Holmes nor will I give up my heels for flats. Bleh.

Rule #2: Must be fit, active and in shape. Again, don’t get all torn up over this one and starting thinking a mud puddle in a parking lot has more depth than I do. I am fairly active and work out 4-5 times per week. I have been working on my snowboarding skills and have learned to ice skate as well. On top of that, Ana and I went white water rafting last summer and will definitely be going again. All this being said, whoever I date has to be active and able to keep up with me. If not, find someone else whose idea of a fun weekend is being a couch potato.

Rule #3: Be Honest! I was burned last time after a few of my dates showed up looking way different than their photos and the ever popular guy who says he wants a relationship, but in reality wants a quick lay. I asked that anyone who contacted me be up front about their appearance and their expectations.

After congratulating myself on being proactive, I began communicating with this one guy named Greg. He seemed really nice (and NORMAL) on the phone, plus he fit the requirements. He looked pretty decent in his photos even though none were full body shots, just upper body shots. I didn’t read too much into that and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He told me he was 6’2” and his activities included weight lifting, in-line skating, running and skiing. We had several conversations and decided to meet for dinner. It all sounded good in the ‘hood, but I couldn’t seem to shake this niggling doubt in the back of my mind. I called him and suggested we meet for an appetizer at Granite City the night before our big date.

I arrived early and was sitting at a table when he texted saying he had just parked and would be inside momentarily. So imagine me sitting there, watching the door and anticipating seeing a 6’2” good-looking, active, in-shape guy walk in and make his way to my table.

That is so not what walked in. What came through the door was a short, dumpy, completely out-of-shape guy whose thighs were so big they were rubbing together. I could hear the chh chh chh sound of corduroy in my head. It gets worse. There was no way in hell this guy was 6’2”. He was 5’9” at best and that’s me being generous. Once my eyes moved up past his spare tire (Michelin judging by the size), I could see the beginning of man boobs underneath his pink button down shirt.

I could feel my stomach fall straight to the floor and I was torn between crying, running away or hitting him with my purse for being such a liar. I mean, really, come on. Everybody fudges a bit on their profile; that’s a given. But to lie about everything?! Did he think I wouldn’t notice he was five inches shorter than what he told me? That I wouldn’t notice his girth straining his shirt to the breaking point? That no matter how bad you want Wi activities to count as exercise, they don’t!!

I was seriously pissed.

He sat down, we made small talk and after less than 15 minutes I told him I needed to leave. He was surprised (really?) and said, “You can at least have an appetizer.” I responded that I had to get home and grab a work out before calling it a night (darkly thinking to myself, take a hint, Bub and do the same). I was out of there so fast it’s a wonder I didn’t leave vapor trail in my wake.

He texted me on my way home and asked if this meant we would not be going out. Duh. I texted back and said no, I didn’t feel any connection. He proceeded to send me a three-page text rant about how I didn’t get to know who he was on the inside. Whatever, girlfriend.

Now before you send me blistering messages about how shallow and superficial I am, let me give you this example. There’s a guy on the site who is really hot and he’s very specific about what he wants. He’s white and wants his Full-Figured Ebony Queen (exact wording in his title). That’s totally fine – people like what they like. Wouldn’t it be pretty crappy of me to pretend to be something other than a skinny white woman and show up assuming he would overlook the fact that I completely misrepresented myself?

Exactly my point.

Needless to say, I learned a valuable lesson from this not-quite-a-date: ask for full body shots (RECENT!).

Moving onto Level 2 of Dante’s Dating Inferno…

LisaD 😀

Dante’s Dating Inferno/Level 2: The Creeper

After my disastrous experience with Greg aka The Liar, I decided to be more stringent in filtering through emails, messages and profiles before committing to another date thereby avoiding a repeat performance.

Right.

Allow me to introduce you to “The Creeper.”

I received a message from Dan and after checking his profile, we began emailing before moving up to talking on the phone. It didn’t take long before we decided to meet for lunch at Boston’s on a Saturday afternoon. The plan was to meet at noon, have lunch and get to know each other with no pressure. At least that was the plan on my side of the fence.

I texted Dan while getting ready and said I needed be on my way home by 2:30 as I had some things to do later that day. It was completely true; I did have errands to finish up and wanted to be home at decent hour. He responded back with this message – “Oh, you mean I only get to have you for a couple of hours?”

Have me? Not sure why that didn’t sit well with me other than it just sounded weird and oddly possessive. Oh well, I let it go thinking I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

We arrive at the same time and Dan seems really nice. Very friendly and he looks like his photos (that’s a good thing). We eat and the conversation is flowing well enough that I’m thinking I would probably go out with him again. We part ways, I head home and life is good.

Until the text messages began.

“Do you like me?”

“What did you think of me?”

“Are you going out with me again?”

I’m already feeling suffocated, but knowing how I am I call my daughter to get her read on the situation. I read the messages to Ana and in her own loving, caring way she says, “What is it with you? Why do you always get the Stage 5 Clingers? God, mom! You need to lose this guy.”

Is it me? Am I a nut magnet? Nah. She’s overreacting. I texted Dan back briefly to say again that I had a good time with him and would talk to him soon. A rather generic response, but it seemed appropriate to me.

Next morning which happened to be Memorial Day, I log onto my account and check messages. Within moments a message pops up from Dan.

“Why is it that when you log on you NEVER SAY HI TO ME?! I thought you LIKED ME! I’m sure you’re checking emails, but the LEAST you could do is SAY HI!”

WTF? This guy is all-capping me which means he’s yelling at me less than 48 hours after meeting me! Wow. Worse than that, he’s obviously been creeping around on the site waiting to message me the minute I logged on. What better way to completely creep me out. I’m sorry, Dan, but you’ve left me no choice.

BLOCK USER

Next step, edit profile to read: “If you have creeper or stalker-like traits, DO NOT MESSAGE ME!”

I love ALL CAPS.

Up next… Dante’s Dating Inferno Level 3

LisaD 😀

Dante’s Dating Inferno/Level 3: The Liberal

Of course, you know I saved the best for last. And by best, I mean the absolutely worst date I’ve ever had in my entire life. I’m so not exaggerating, but would love to read your comments about Level 3 aka “The Liberal.”

Mike and I had been emailing quite a bit before he asked me to dinner. I liked his profile as it seemed pretty straightforward and I couldn’t detect any creeper characteristics. He’s a white-collar professional and lives on the lakes in what sounded to be a beautiful home. Ah, it’s all good. Normal, normal, normal. Exactly what I am looking for.

Wrong.

He selected a casual restaurant where we could eat outdoors and look out over the Mississippi river. Nice. I was feeling pretty and confident upon arriving at the restaurant. Mike was already there and had added our name to the list of outdoor tables. We waited for a bit, chatted, people-watched and everything seemed to be going great. Our number is called, we’re seated at this beautiful table and I’m enjoying the view when he says….

“You know, it seems to me that even though unemployment is on the rise, those people should appreciate what President Obama has done for them. They just don’t realize his achievements.”

Are you fucking kidding me? Where did that come from? And why would anyone with half a brain bring up politics on a first date? I’m sure you can guess how quickly the evening degenerated after that lamebrain comment.

I responded, “Well, I would imagine it’s a little difficult to be grateful when you have no job, you’re losing your home and your family is going hungry.”

I assumed he would take a step back and leave this poisonous topic alone. He didn’t. I’ll give you the high points of my evening with The Liberal.

M: I’m a liberal intellectual. I went to the University of Wisconsin and my dad is a scientist with a Ph.D. I deal in facts and I know what I’m talking about. These people who don’t believe in Obama are uneducated and racist.

L: Really? That’s what you think? If someone opposes Obama, it has to be because they’re racist and not because they might actually oppose his policies.

M: No, you don’t understand. These birthers (spit this word out with enormous contempt) are ALL racist. Who do they think they are questioning where he was born? They wouldn’t have these issues if he was white! And we ALL know the Republic party only cares about rich people! They don’t care about poor people! (Note: this stupid ass is a rich, white, Democrat. Can you say irony?)

L: For the record, Mike, I am a Republican. I am sitting across this table from you as a representative of what most Republicans are like. We’re hardworking people who believe that the government shouldn’t turn our nation into a nanny state and believe it or not, most of us are pretty damned decent people. Have you ever been outside of Minnesota and met people in other states? Have you tried to get to know them as individuals and not as group of people you’ve lumped together and labeled?

M: I went to school in Wisconsin and have lived in Minnesota my whole life. But I KNOW how the right wing is and what they think! They’re a bunch of religious, gun nuts who don’t tolerate other people’s point of view.

I am livid by now and it’s taking everything in me to keep from calling him the foulest names I can think of and trust me, they would be bad. I can feel White Trash Gal straining to break through and call this asshole out for what he is. I resist because I really don’t want to go there. Yet.

L: You know what, Mike, it seems to me if you’re going to label entire segments of society with a misinformed opinion it would be best if you included other groups, as well. How about you label all black people as lazy, live off the government, never going to amount to anything kind of people? How about you say all homosexuals are pedophiles? How about you call all Jewish people money grubbers? I’m sure if I dig deep enough I can come up with other crazy ass ideas you probably have about Asians, Mexicans and American Indians!

M: That’s not what I mean, it’s just that you Republicans think you have all the answers!

L: Moving forward in this conversation, or better yet, this argument, you will remove the words Republican, right wing, religious and birther from your vocabulary when you’re speaking to me. Every time you say one of those words you make a face like you just stepped in a steaming pile of dog shit. I find your tone and your use of those words personally and morally offensive.

I am almost snarling at this point and frankly, my dears, I do not give a damn.

M: Well, whatever. I just know how those people really are with their guns, Bibles and military mindset.

Oh, you stupid fuck.

L: The military is not a conversation I will have with you. Ever. My son is a Marine and he is willing to put his life on the line defending people like you who hate him for what he is. Don’t say another g-damned word about the military. I mean it.

Dumb ass actually had enough sense to shut his pie hole after that as I am sure I looked like a crazed woman by this point. Apparently he had decided I wasn’t going to be intimidated by his intellect or by his wild gestures, finger pointing and shaking his head at me.

M: Well, you and I have different ideas on whose best to run this country. Of course, it won’t matter who the Republicans put on the ticket because all the women in the South will vote for him.

L: And exactly, what do you mean by that?

M: You know, those women support their husbands or men and do what they say.

Fuck that. I opened my mouth and yep, you guessed it… White Trash Gal put in her first (and best) appearance.

L: First of all, I have sat here tonight and endured this argument with you. You have insulted my political beliefs, my intelligence, my friends and family, my heritage and everything I believe in. You have ridiculed me and accused me of not having facts to back up my opinions. And now you say that Southern women are so spineless that we do what our “men” tell us to do! I’m here to tell you that you couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t know a single woman, friend or family, that lives her life that way. We’re strong, opinionated and we can take care of ourselves. Furthermore, I can take care of you too! If you don’t believe me, how about I whip your ass in the parking lot here and now to prove my point?

I was shaking with rage and it appeared dickhead finally realized he had crossed several lines that night. He quickly paid for dinner, I grabbed my purse and walked out ahead of him. When he caught up with me, he asked where I parked. I told him the valet was bringing my car around and he simply said his was across the street and he left. What a jackass. For all the intellect he claims to have, manners are not something he possesses. A decent guy would have, at minimum, waited ‘til my car was brought around. Or maybe he wanted to get out of the parking lot before I changed my mind and whipped his ass for the fun of it.

So, here’s my message to you Mike: I hope you remember that I have this blog and you read it because you demanded facts. I got your facts, Jack.

Fact: You’re an asshole as well as a pretentious, judgmental, overbearing, self-inflated, arrogant hypocrite.

Fact: Your pants look stupid. Real men do not wear blinged out pants with fancy pockets.

Fact: You have a flat ass. I suggest lunges. Lots and lots of lunges.

Fact: Your biceps are not muscular, they’re scrawny.

Fact: You call yourself a real man; trust me, you’re not. A two-year old boy has bigger balls than you have, you pacifist, non-violent waste of human skin.

And lastly, lose my number. If a meal with you was the only thing standing between me and starvation, I would Go. Hungry.

And now you know… the rest of the story.

Glad I could bring you this moment of insanity.

LisaD 😀

A Woman of Substance

After my most recent dating disaster, I decided it was time for me to redeem myself. I needed to prove that while a White Trash Gal lurked deep within (actually just beneath the surface, but delusions can be a good thing), I could also be a Woman of Substance. Not only had I read the book by Barbara Taylor Bradford, I could identify with the woman of humble beginnings who made something of herself. That would be me on my next date: a woman with depth and character, who was intelligent, witty and confident. I figured with the right outfit, some duct tape and baling wire – I could rise from the ashes of my last date. Why, I could be an inspiration to women everywhere!

It’s the night of my big transformation and the scene is set. Cole and I will meet at the Azia restaurant downtown at 6:30 pm. I suggested the location and even downloaded directions for both of us from their website. (I’m so clever, I think to myself) This is perfect. I get home at 4:30 so this allows me plenty of time to walk Buddy and leisurely get ready for my date. Once home, Bud and I go for a quick walk before I begin laying out my clothes. Skirt, cute little top, high heels, hose (going bare-legged is against my upbringing)… wait. Oh dear God, there’s a giant run in my hose. Frantically pawing through my dresser I realize a quick trip to the store is in order. I grab the keys and sprint down the hallway of my apartment building only to realize that awful howling noise I hear is Bud screeching because I left without him. I race back, grab him, toss him in the car and it’s hell-bent for leather to the store and back again. By this time, its 5:30 and I’ve got to be on the road by 6:00 pm. Shit! I pull myself together in record time and am on my way. Whispering words of encouragement to myself, I finally make it to the restaurant. I pull into the parking lot and, Oh. No. It’s closed! Moved to a new location and no, this was NOT on the website. I can feel my face getting hot as I call Cole and tell him what’s happened. He laughs, calls 411 and gets the new location. No problem! Except it’s considerably closer from where he is and I’m on the other side of town. He seems to be very understanding, it’s okay, it could happen to anyone, blah, blah, blah. Right.

So I’m on way to dinner in downtown traffic and the Woman of Substance is crumbling fast. I am sweating like a construction worker at high noon as I dig through my purse for Kleenex while trying not to rear-end the car in front of me. Stuffing the tissue under my armpits and into my bra helps stem the river of anxiousness pouring off of me. I look in the rearview mirror and my face is flushed – not in a pretty, dewy way, but in a menopausal, half-crazed way. Christ. Finally getting to the restaurant (20 minutes late!), I remember to pull the wads of sticky tissue from my bra before walking inside. Good Lord, these pantyhose feel like I’m wearing a sweaty vise from waist to ankles. Resisting the urge to tug at my clothes, I sedately walk inside the restaurant.

Cole is waiting for me at our table and I gracefully slide into my seat while apologizing in a low voice for being delayed. (I am going to be a Woman of Substance if it frickin’ kills me, and at this rate, that’s a very real possibility.) We exchange idle chit chat, order our food and sip our drinks. Four club sodas later, my face is still flushed and worse, the crotch of my pantyhose feels like it has melted to my skin. Gross. I’m hot, sticky and now I have to pee. Our food arrives and I excuse myself for a brief trip to the ladies room.  Standing in front of the mirror, I give myself a little pep talk. “It’s okay, you can do this! Just go back out there and continue to make quiet, dignified conversation. Act like a lady and he’ll think you ARE a lady.” At this point, White Trash Gal starts sniggering in a not very nice way. I tell her to shut it and make my way back to the table.

I sit down and it’s all “Oh my, the food is delicious. How’s yours? Would you like to try some of my dish?” See, this is how people with class conduct themselves on a date. I congratulated myself on how well I was doing. A phoenix, I tell you…

We discussed politics (I wisely kept my opinions to myself), recent movies, books we’ve read, concerts – very top shelf conversation if I do say so myself.

It was going well and then the conversation turned to relationships. Cole had never married, just had a few long-term relationships with no children. I told him I had a daughter and he asked if I wanted any more children. Now, a normal response would be, “No, I’m very content with having just one,” or even “I might consider it if the person I were with wanted children.” Good replies, right? You might be thinking to yourself, I bet that’s exactly what Lisa said… well, you would be wrong.

Instead, I blurted out, “Oh, God no! I’ve had a hysterectomy. My uterus and I parted company years ago!”

In case you’ve ever wondered, I can assure you that uttering the word uterus during dinner is a buzz kill. As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I knew by the startled look on his face that any points I had managed to accrue during the evening were shot down with that single statement. Oh. Dear. God. Just let a hole open up so I and my twisted, sweaty pantyhose along with this sticky bra can fall in never to be seen again. Well, I wasn’t that lucky. I endured the remainder of the meal which was wasn’t long in coming. Cole walked me to my car, awkwardly patted me on the back and gave me the “I’ll call you” line. Uh huh. I think we all know that wasn’t gonna happen and for the record, it hasn’t.

That night, I lay in bed torturing myself by replaying the worst parts of the evening over and over in my head. Cheese and crackers, it was like the worst Lifetime movie ever and I couldn’t get away from it. Groaning with mortification, I turned over and buried my face into my pillow.

“Oh well,” I consoled myself, “At least I didn’t say vulva.”

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀