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Bud’s Bachelor Weekend

19 Oct

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.


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.


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.


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 😀

Dante’s Dating Inferno/Level 3: The Liberal

5 Jun

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.


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 😀

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 😀

Date Breakers 101

31 Oct

After my last date resulted in me humiliating myself, I felt the best solution next time would be to go on a date that was less stress-inducing. Apparently, I am not yet ready to go out on a date that involves dinner AND conversation. I had spoken with this guy, Mike, and he suggested we go see a movie together. Now that seemed to be more along my speed. I mean, how hard could it be? Uh huh. Famous last words because I was soon to discover I am my own worst enemy.

I’m getting ready for movie night and oh, this is so much easier. Jeans, cute top, boots, I gotta say it again… “Girl, you are looking fiiiiiinnnnne!” My ego sufficiently boosted, I head out the door. Arriving at the theater, I park and wait for Mike as we had agreed to meet a few minutes before the movie started. I’m doing a last-minute check in the mirror – lipstick: on lips and not on teeth; hair: I’m having a good hair day thank God; eyes: nothing goopy in the corners. Houston, we are good.

Mike texts me that he has parked and I hop out of my car. I see him a short distance away – so far, so good, he doesn’t have a Quasimodo-like appearance which is a start. I’m happily thinking this may work out better than I had hoped. I was wrong.

Before I go any further, I will admit that I have a list of weird things in my head that will put a guy in the minus column should he commit one of the infractions on said list. I know, I know, I’m a shallow bitch, but it’s not like the rest of you don’t have a similar list in your head, too. While you would like to think you have more depth than me, you don’t. You are just as shallow as I am. I’m just honest enough to put it out there on behalf of ALL of us. As I’ve said before, I’m a giver.

Stepping back into movie night, Mike walks up and the first thing I notice is that he got way too happy with the hair gel. Not only is his hair spiked, it’s little hard spikes poking out all over his head. Irrationally, the image of Pinhead popped into my mind and there it remained the rest of the night. I checked out his attire and the shirt was decent, jeans looked good, moving down… ooooh noooo. Pointy shoes. I hate pointy shoes on men. Actually, I have a sub-list in my head that is dedicated to men’s shoes and the dos/don’ts involved. Don’ts include: pointy shoes (great for killing roaches in corners, but that’s the only redeeming quality), loafers with tassles (too girlie), anything with Velcro (not quite ready to jump into the geriatric pool), flip flops (attractive feet are a must, so if you have hooves, forget it), and the mother of all shoe wear mistakes: crocs (no explanation needed).  Dos include: tennis shoes (not the bright white, ghetto-fab shoes, either), some boots (not cowboy), a small selection of casual shoes which must be pre-approved by another woman with taste. Yeah, I know it’s a small selection to choose from, but I don’t make the rules. Okay, in this case, I do make the rules.

Deciding to be the bigger person (feel free to laugh out loud), I choose to ignore Pinhead’s pointy hair and matching pointy shoes. We head inside and he steps in front of me to pay for our tickets. I glance down at his back pockets and, Dun Dun Dun!! He’s wearing girlie pants. His pockets are embroidered and bedazzled within an inch of their life. Good Lord, his jeans are prettier than mine! I cannot handle guys who wear girlie jeans. It’s just wrong on so many levels. I trudge inside, we watch the movie and yes, he was nice. Not my type, but nice. Afterwards, we were walking to my car, talking about current events (of which he knew nothing) and he admitted that he never reads. Anything. Not even the paper. Well, thank you Jesus! I feel so much better ending this relationship before it starts due to a  lack of intellectual compatibility rather than “I hate your hair, your shoes and your pants.” I feel less shallow already.

All this being said, I decided to bare my soul and share a few of my mental list Don’ts. Now, you can laugh with derision at my insensitive attitude, but I would prefer it if you commented on this post and shared a freaky thing or two about yourself. You can always post anonymously. LOL

I’ll start with the top five things that make me cringe:

Grody teeth: You know exactly what I’m talking about – admit it. Teeth that are dirty, yellowy or worse, have not met up with Mr. Floss in several years resulting in a most unattractive level of crud. Gak.

Ear wax: It makes me sick. Go to the freakin’ pharmacy and buy some freakin’ Qtips.

Hooves: If your feet are dirty (especially the toenails) and your heels are cracked with calluses, I never, ever want to see them. Ever. I mean, seriously! Your feet are at the bottom of your legs! Do you never notice them? Clean them, exfoliate or sandblast them, I don’t care, but for God’s sake do something!

Girlie Attire: Step away from anything that is embroidered, hand-painted or God forbid, bedazzled. You will not look sexy, you will look stupid. And women will laugh at you.

Bodily Functions: Do not, under any circumstances, belch, blow your nose (mucous-y noises make me queasy), dig in your ears, pick food from your teeth with ANYTHING, adjust your crotch, chew on your fingernails, or the coup de gras – pass gas in front of me. I have no desire to see you dig anything out of your ear(s) or mouth, emit any type of odor/sound/bodily fluid or see you adjust the trouser snake.

This is just my top five, folks. I know what you’re thinking and yes, I can be shallow. But hey, you’re right here with me. Come on, share a little with the rest of us and carry your “I’m A Shallow Bitch” card with pride! And by all means, men, don’t hold back. I would love to know what it is about women that make you pull the plug on a date before it even begins.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

LisaD aka Shallow Bitch 😀

A Woman of Substance

11 Oct

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 😀

On the Prowl (again)

1 Sep

At least that’s how I like to view myself: a strong woman, confident, self-assured, unafraid of wearing a leopard print bra to showcase my animal magnetism. I’ve still got game, baby! Only problem is somewhere between my 20s and my 40s someone hijacked the playbook and I’m having to relearn plays that used to come natural to me.

I’m 43 years old, divorced with a 20-year-old daughter who knows more about the “real” world than I do. At least that’s what she tells me and I have a sinking feeling she may be right. Presently she is serving as my dating coach, personal shopping consultant, therapist on speed dial and chief critic.

As much as I love being single and doing whatever strikes my fancy, lately I’ve been stricken with the desire to spend time with another adult. Preferably a man. A tall, smart, good-looking, witty man. And if his abs are ripped to hell and back, well, that’s just a cross I’ll have to bear. So, I began pondering the age-old question: Where can I meet a good man? I asked the one person whose judgement I trust – my mom. She was zero help in this area. Her suggestions were:

Home Depot: I have no idea what I’m supposed to do once I get there other than wander the aisles in my best outfit waiting for a hunky construction worker to ask me out. It didn’t happen. I spent two hours alternating between looking sexy and/or vaguely confused (that part came easy since I can only identify a hammer or a screwdriver) while ostensibly showing my ringless left hand to any man under 60. I left without a date, but I did get followed by a cute staff member which perked me up. Until I realized he thought I may be a shoplifter.

Local grocery store: Okay, the only men at the grocery store are those whose wives sent them or gay men. Oh, and the stock boys.

Daycare: Outside the fact Ana is in college and I don’t have a child in daycare, my mom still thought this would be ideal for meeting single dads. Okay, not to bash on parents still dealing with younger children, but I’ve had enough PTA meetings, choir concerts (I swear somewhere in the world kittens exploded when the kids cranked up their recorders) and parent/teacher conferences to choke a horse. No thanks! Besides, my biggest concern was if I spent too much time hanging around the daycare parking lot, someone would call the cops to report a strange woman harrassing the dads.

Church: It sounds good at first, until you realize that the vast majority of men at church are married. And their wives have perfected the death glare which they use any time you venture too close to their menfolk. Ladies, rest assured, you can keep him. No really, I insist. If I have to date again at this age, my fantasies are going to be about meeting the Gerard Butler I was meant to have – not your Bob Newhart.

So, I came to the conclusion that I needed help. I requested the help of friends and agreed to a few blind dates. Aptly named because I was wishing I WAS blind after one in particular and deafness would have been a blessing on another. I was beginning to despair when a single friend suggested we both create profiles on a well-known dating site. Oh, great, I thought. Now I’m trolling the internet seeking a man. Oh well, it wasn’t like I really needed self-esteem anyway.

Trust, you will laugh at my adventures (I use that term loosely) while simultaneously thanking God it’s happening to someone else, not you.  I’ll share my finer moments along with my most embarrassing ones, faux pas committed ad nauseum, clothing crises and the real reason I forward text messages to my daughter for editing and psychoanalyzing.

There will be future posts soon so keep coming back. If my trainwrecked social life makes you feel better, meh, I’m a giver. 😀