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Wrestling, Packers and Doggy Diarrhea

17 Nov

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.


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 😀


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

10 Oct

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?


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.


Sneaky bastard.

Lots of love,

Lisa D 😀

A night of vomit and crazy

13 Sep

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.”


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.


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 😀

Dante’s Dating Inferno/Level 1: The Liar

5 Jun

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

5 Jun

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.


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.


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 😀

Destroying Your Self-Esteem One Click at a Time

31 Jan

This blog courtesy of guest writer, Paul. Read it and weep. Or laugh. Or both cuz that’s what I did. – LisaD

I have decided to characterize my explorations into the field of “Dating over 40 from a Man’s Perspective.” It seems that after much prodding, pushing and cajoling by friends and family; I decided to attempt to re-enter the world of dating aka shoving your self-esteem off a cliff.

So, it’s a new day and age, how hard could it be to starting dating again? According to TV commercials I should be able to order up a suitable female companion by just asking my car while driving to “GPS-a-Date” right? Now, I first must again stress, how reluctantly I entered this project, my second wife (wow, how painful to even say that) was, and is, a hard act to follow.  I am sure that post-divorce statements as such those  have significant bearing on my ability to prosecute this campaign of “dating” and probably worth a few house payments to a psychiatrist, but I digress. I don’t have internet access in my car, BUT I do have internet access and according to Zoosk, Eharmony, Match, Plenty of fish, etc. finding the “love of my life” is only mouse click away, for a price, of course. After watching all those commercials, I wondered why all dating isn’t vetted and scrubbed by 39 areas of compatibility, personality tests, and visual preference checklists. That thought begets another observation, why do these sites offer monthly, quarterly, and annual memberships? According to the commercials, it’s a match made in heaven! Well, since it’s so scientific I’ll just sign up for a month as this gives me PLENTY of time to find a date!

So, I decided to give internet “matching/dating” a try. Step 1: sign up, easy peasy; step 2: answer all the questions – easy again, well things are looking up! Step 3: answer what “I” am looking for in a match. Hmmm, now that’s interesting and thought provoking… maybe I’ve got a shot here of defining the perfect Logan’s Run sort of 21st Century mail order date. At that point I had a flash of a Eagles song “I am looking for the daughter of the devil himself, I’ve been searching for an angel in white, I’ve been waiting for a woman that’s a little of both…” Back to my “what my date will be like… boxes checked- check!  I am really feeling pretty sporty about now; this internet thing is going make this very painless. Step 4: in 1000 characters or less describe yourself to prospective dates. WTF! Describe myself! Wait, what about the boxes and tests and all the other stuff? Oh great, I have no possible idea where to begin. I am a resourceful fellow and thought I might go look at my target audience, read their profiles and see what I am up against.

Originally I had very specific ideas as to how this would work. I would take the tests, answer the questions, etc. and at the other end (per TV ads) out pops a compatible match. So, I access the search function button and voila up it appears. Wait, that can’t be right. It has two criteria – age and distance from me. Where are all the 39 areas of compatibility? The personality profile matches? Chemistry quotients? Age and distance? Really? Coupled with that Step 4 thing I am feeling a little bait and switch is going on here. I reined in my cynicism and decided I will just work with what I have. So, I am 49 and I usually have a five-year rule so that means 44 – 54. Geebus, 54! God, I am middle-aged! I’m in the middle of being friggin’ OLD! I have to carry on with this or keep hearing about it from my concerned “circle of friends and family,” which I might add, don’t have to deal with “dating at my age.” I still think this is at least a better idea that a “blind date” set up by people I haven’t seen for 20 years. At least my dating abilities (or lack of) will be without critique and gossip by the community. So, I estimated how far I was willing to drive for a date, entered the number, took a deep breath and clicked “Search.”

MY GOD!  There are literally thousands of results, 20+ pages! There are that many single women in my area between 44 and 54?  Well, maybe there is a ray of sunshine in my dreary post-divorce life. Okay, just start at the top and read through a few.

Oh, look they are trying to have a catchy tag line. (Note to self: come up with a catchy line. Maybe Renaissance Redneck Seeking Cultured Country Girl). Oh, there are pictures, cool.  Wait that means I need pictures. Oh God! My pictures look like a US postal service wanted posters! Who am I going to ask to take my picture (with a straight face)? What will I wear?  Okay focus, Paul, back to the profiles.

First up is “Christian woman seeking God fearing man for LTR”;  wait a sec, all her pictures are in the bedroom wearing pseudo lingerie and must have had Madonna’s Vogue playing in the background because she is “striking a pose” rather suggestively, I might add. Maybe she is playing to the Jimmy Swaggart kind of man. So I read on to see what she desires in a man. Oh look, her income threshold for a man is 150K. WHAT! Wait a min. honey; your little burlesque show wasn’t that good. For that kind of money you better have had the plastic surgery done already; at best you may be a fixer upper.  Nah, I’ll pass.

Next up is “No drama mamma, giving, fun woman with zest for life”; huh, sounds “fun” I guess. Let’s see, she has 20 pictures! First picture, looks like she is at a pub having a beer with friends (how fun is that?) she is social that’s good. Second picture she is at a different pub drinking something blue and she looks hammered. More “fun” apparently. Pictures 3-20 ALL have her in some state of inebriation and a few with cigarette in hand. WAIT, I specifically checked the “no smoking” in my preference list and she has “doesn’t smoke” on her profile. Well, pictures to the contrary and she listed “drinks occasionally.” I guess being awake is the occasion and I am sure she has no drama as she is blasted most of the time and is pseudo catatonic. At this point, I do not want to know what she meant by “giving.”

 “Curvy and vivacious” you guessed it – no pix, but has ample food references throughout the profile. Gee, I wonder why there isn’t a picture? Guess she is going to find a man to love her “for the beautiful person she is on the inside without clouding it up with all that physical beauty issues.” Note to ladies: men are visual, we need a picture. There is nothing wrong with being a full-figured woman. Men have different tastes, but we all like to see our prospective date.  Why would you bother to create a profile without a pix?

OH Crap! I need pictures. I don’t think the pictures with me in camouflage will work, then again it might scare off only a certain kind of woman or it could simply scare off women completely. Who will I possibly get to take a pix of me?  I have to trust they aren’t just blowing smoke up my ass telling me “Oh it’s a great pix”… yeah right! I am about as photogenic as a set of PR head shots for a carnival sideshow agent. Screw it. I’ll just do it myself… where is that camera?

Hmm, well I have this laptop camera thingy right in front of me, why not just use it? So I go comb my hair – that took 2 seconds as I keep it very short. I better gussy up so I washed my face, shaved, put on a little cologne (don’t ask me why, it was confidence thing I guess), sit down,  now how do I make this thing take a click wait, I wasn’t rea click dy. WT click F! Oh it’s a timer thing, fixed that – hey, wonder what I looked like in those pix? Maybe one is a keeper.

As I peruse recent documents in the picture folder on the laptop, I am also accessing my cerebral cortex where I keep self-image stored. Oh, there is one.. let’s see…. Jesus H. Christ who is the friggin’ old bastard on the screen!… Holy shit that’s me… I …ah ugh..ah ah I… that isn’t.. OH God I’m screwed! Those camo pix are starting to look pretty good right now.  Now I understand why you create a profile without a picture. You know women at least get to use makeup. Well, who would  know if…wait a minute I am NOT going the route of metrosexual…. it was totally just me not being ready I need to relax, smile and try this again… okay I close my eyes and think of Austin Powers photo shoots, set the timer thing again… okay deep breath and click click (turn head a bit to the left) click (other side) click (give them that mischievous devil may care smile)  click (serious look) click (chin down) click (chin up) click. Okay let’s see. Good God! These are worse! Mischievous smile? I look like a friggin’ mug shot of a serial killer. Serious look? Well, I look serious alright as in deadly serious without the “ly” just dead. DAMN! I know, I know, its the lighting. Yep it’s the lighting alright. Who am I kidding? The fact there is light is the issue – if I take these in the dark they would be an improvement! I’m going with the camo pix for sure. I’ll just crop them and find a way to make them work.   I’ll just focus on “wooing” my perfect match with my rapier wit and sales ability. Oh  NO!!  This brings me back to describing myself in 1000 words or less! WTF! And I am paying a monthly fee for this destruction of self-esteem?

This is all I can handle today. I will re-group, start writing my witty, humorous and intelligent description of me. First, I will start pondering a tag line. Hey, that Renaissance redneck thing might be an option…

Perilous Paul

I Know What Men Want. Really.

20 Jan

I have a secret, guilty pleasure.

No, it’s not what you think! (God, some people are so perverted.)

I read the personal ads on Craigslist.

What? You can’t honestly tell me you never read them and had a WTF? moment. This is voyeurism at its finest. And I am a guilty participant.

My interest began innocently enough. It all started with the Showtime series Dexter. During the first season, the lead character Dexter was communicating with a serial killer via the Missed Connections section on Craigslist. Up ‘til then I thought this site was a place you went to buy a used sofa that smelled like cat pee. I was mistaken.

Here was a place where people with unique needs could seek out the company of those who would be understanding and supportive of said needs. In layman terms, the whack jobs could troll the crazy waters looking for that one special lunatic. It was love at first read.

Only problem was I was somewhat virginal (quit laughing) when it came to deciphering personal ad lingo. Then I discovered Nice. I found out that BBW = Big Beautiful Woman and apparently every man out there wants one. It’s also considered to be a win-win if she has BANGERS = Boobs aka Sausages (I’m thinking patty, not link). Scoring a HWB = Hottie with a Body would be a major coup especially if she agreed to be a CSP = Casual Sex Partner. Unfortunately, it’s usually men who are AAB = Average At Best that post these ads in the hopes of snagging an LTR = Long Term Relationship. But as much as I love trying to crack the code of what men really want in a woman, I have a perverse appreciation for those who just put it out there with no sense of shame or embarrassment. A few of my favorites are:

The guy in Bloomington who wants a girl who stutters. I don’t get it. Does he stutter, too? Wouldn’t finishing a conversation take freakin’ forever if BOTH of you have a speech impediment?

The man who doesn’t want to have sex with you, but he does want to smother your feet. I don’t even want to know… okay, I do want to know, but I couldn’t find anything on Google under “foot smothering fetish.”

The woman seeking a eunuch. For realz. She’s worked behind the camera in the porn industry for so long she can no longer look at a man’s privates. Hehe I totally get that.

But by far, the poor man in Minneapolis who wants to meet a woman who isn’t repulsed by the fact that he is an ABDL = Adult Baby Diaper Lover. He’s been posting forever so I’m assuming no hits. Ya think?

So I’m laughing with my friends from work about personal ads which segues into men and what they really want in a woman. Jennifer mentions this guy she kinda likes and how he seems to be interested in another gal that is, shall we say, lacking in the looks department. Actually she smells like patchouli and could miss a meal (or 20). Jennifer asked us what could it be that Sasquatch had that she herself was missing?

“Beer-flavored nipples,” I replied.

My other friend Sandy looked startled for about two seconds before she burst out laughing.

Men don’t really want a BBW or a CSP or even an ACG = Asian Cowgirl. They want BFN. Preferably Heineken.

Hugs and kisses!

LisaD 😀