Tag Archives: Dating

Water Boy

Dear Steve,

It is going to be really difficult to call you by your given name so you should start responding to the name “Fred” from here on out.  It’s just that you look exactly like Fred Savage.  You probably haven’t a clue who he is, but he played the role of 13-year-old Kevin Arnold in The Wonder Years back in 1980 B.C., way before your time.  He is cute, just like you – and young, just like you.  All of 23 you say but soon to be 24?  That October birthday is going to bridge our age gap tremendously!  Hit me up after you blow out the candles.

Anyway, it’s been days since the St. Patty’s party and I’m expecting you’ve sobered up by now.  I do hope you made it home and you’re not sitting in the Lost and Found.  My confidence in your designated driver was diminished somewhat when I heard him screaming, “why the fuck do my windshield wipers keep coming on when I try to shift into first!”  I don’t think he ought to be operating any sort of heavy machinery, including a blender.  In fact, I’m not all together sure he even passed his drivers test.  I strongly recommend he be downgraded to the Little Tikes Cozy Coupe and everyone else start driving tanks.  At least until the government issues smart cars to those “special needs” drivers.

Speaking of tanked, you’re a very composed drunk, Fred.  Even after your self-proclaimed and likely exaggerated 6-hours of drinking, you were still quite user-friendly.  I’ll bet that comes from years of practicing a pitch on the ol’ parents as to why you missed curfew.  It’s not easy to come home completely stewed and pull off an entirely fabricated 30-minute lucid-sounding conversation about how the fire department was slow to the rescue after you got stuck in the tree saving George and Helen – the lemur escapees from the Pittsburgh zoo.  And not to worry, the doctor said the slurred speech caused by the leaf-cutter-ant attack, would be improved by morning.  The High School drama club totally paid off.  If you don’t make it to the silver screen, you will make an excellent functioning alcoholic.  You’ve too much talent be homeless, brown bag in hand and begging for change.

St. Patrick’s Day was a bit o’luck wasn’t it?  I’ve been frequenting that watering hole in the hopes of finding just the right man to cultivate a long and lasting relationship with.  I have spent hours in laborious research and field experiments watching groups of langered boys heckling one another until one of them gets up the nerve to make a move.  My spirit, grit, courage and endless fight for the pie-in-the-sky keeps me pulling up a stool and throwing back one more oh-be-joyful as I search for my next 10 carat diamond ring.  But on St. Patrick’s Day, I found my pot of gold, my end of the rainbow, my four-leaf clover.  It just happened to be poured from a very, very young flask of cubic zirconia.

You were such gentleman, Fred. A very nice young man, as my Grandma would say.  I’ve sat at that bar all on me tod, many of nights.  Men, boys and women have sent over drinks of vodka, gin, tequila, whisky.  Imagine my surprise when the bartender brought over a glass of good old-fashioned tap water – straight from the spigot – on the rocks – no twist.  She slapped it down in front of me, spilling some of it with the delivery, as she yelled over her shoulder, “The gem at the end of the bar bought you a free water, honey.”  Now, I can smell bullshit from a mile away but what a refreshing change to see a boy too young, drunk and simple to bother hiding it behind a pile.  You probably don’t remember any of this but you’ve got to be wondering how your wallet got so light that night.  Free water is outrageously expensive.  It’s down right criminal.  The government should put a cap on it or cut back on the tax.

But Fred, you should have sprung for 2 glasses of water.  That was a critical mistake as you know.  It had to be a tad bit embarrassing when Kim stood up and scorched you for being a stupid, cheap, half-witted imbecile.  Really Fred, you always buy for the best friend.  Her approval is required to get in.  You had to peddle extra hard to make up for the lost ground, but I gotta hand it to you, you’re not a quitter.

Attached is a photographic diary of the events as they unfolded as a little keepsake.  You had a really good time that night.  We all did.  I hope you found your way home.

Le grá agus póga


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Join A Band, Get A Hot Date

If I had more musical talent I would get hotter dates.  This is scientific fact. Take a look at Billy Joel. Phil Collins. Seven Tyler. All fall into the NOT hot category.  If they weren’t in the band,  all 3 would be spinning around the Match.com. wheel of unfortunate.  More proof:  Shakira.  She had herself a lawyer until she tiptoed up to the mic and sang a little ditty called Waka Waka and BAM!  She landed herself a fine Spanish football player.  ¡caray!

Now, not all musical talent is created equal.  Case-in-point: I can play the triangle.  Well, I played one in preschool, but I think it would come back to me after a practice “ding” or two.  Hell, if I applied myself I could go pro in a weeks time.  Even as a pro, using this particular talent as date bait is sure to backfire.  I’ve a tendency to believe that the only thing a triangle will catch me is another moron.  After all, its name is a shape.

I could use the spoons to showcase my musical talent.  I’m familiar with spoons.  When I was in the 5th grade I won a lunch-time contest for spooning up the most words from a bowl of alphabet soup.  They even put my picture in the school paper.  I thought Campbell’s would ask me to be in their next commercial or put my face on a soup can, but the school had a tight privacy policy.  Campbells had no way to get a hold of me.

At any rate, I know I have the dexterity and fine motor skills for it,  plus I’ve had some professional training.  I studied under Curly Howard via a televised education course.  He played them brilliantly in Disorder in the Court.  If you haven’t seen his performance in that piece, carve out the time!

Still, I don’t think spoons is the best bait to lure out the finer of the species.  I love Larry, Moe and Curly but I’ve had my fill of American vaudeville, slapstick and physical farce.  I’m putting the comedic short film to rest and aiming to turn my life into a romantic movie marathon that streams only classic love stories, steamy erotica, romantic comedies and sexy foreign flicks.  Auditioning by slapping flatware against my knee, as sassy as that sounds, isn’t going to cast me in a roll opposite Chris Hemsworth.

My ability to recognize my lack of talent is one of my strengths.  I know if I decide to rock the mic, I will get NO dates, EVER.  My self-awareness in this department gives me a leg up on my competition.  If I squeak out a single note, I go home alone. Again. This is a useful bit of information.

I wish I could give self-awareness away as a gift because if you lack it, you’re not gonna figure it out on your own.  I’ve witnessed those completely blind to their own limitations and abilities.  I’ve seen microphones and ukulele assaulted with unadulterated passion. They are the triers. The seekers of love and acceptance, like the rest of us. God bless their unaware, tone-deaf souls.

Typically, we witness this public display of a crushing lack of self-awareness, in stunned silence as they yodel through song after song.  Even the ukulele covers it’s ears.  We looked around, our eyes wide in awe.  We smile and politely offer the “star for participation.” We might display outward signs of physical discomfort and scurry to the back of the lounge to stand near the emergency exit, but no one actually leaves.

No one gets out the gong. There is no stage hook. No insertion of earplugs. We certainly don’t boo anyone off the stage (unless we’re at the Apollo).  Simon Cowell, doesn’t stand up and say, “I don’t mean to be rude, but…” Instead, we give subtle signs that a grave mistake is being made.  We make every effort to encourage this “artist” to make the best decision for themselves, and for us. We lie by omission when we fail to say, “Oh, Hell NO!  Honey, you put that thing down and hush.” We stay, but in all honesty we are thinking, “Someone please pull the damn fire alarm!”

If this same artist was also a not-so-skilled driver and cut us off, suddenly love, acceptance and polite goes out the window.  Go ahead, howl like an ally cat all night long and we will keep putting out the cans of tuna, but change lanes without a blinker, horns will blast.

Online Daring Profile: Self-aware gifted spoon and triangle player seeking hot Spanish football player.

Disorder in the Court Three Stooges Episode

Just gotta say:

If you are a compassionate soul, you might fear I fail to take into consideration the love and acceptance we all seek. That I might fail to recognize the true person behind the song and singing (as bad as it may be – sorry, just can’t help myself).  This article is meant to amuse and  if I had to interject all of those beautiful a necessary things, I would write myself into circles. However, I do not fail to recognize them.  Everything we do is for attention, love, and acceptance.  It is our responsibility  to do our best to provide that to others, unconditionally. I hope, whether you suck at singing, or math… whether your manners are outrageous… whether you have 4 eyes of different colors… whether you have made many mistakes in life or have been perfect… whether you have lost it all or have it all… I hope, you are accepted, loved, and cherished for exactly who your are today and who you were yesterday.  Our fears, our pain, our joy, our sadness, our losses, our gains are our reality and only ignorance of others diminishes them. May you find a world willing to accept and see past preconceived notions judgments, ideas, or prejudices.  May we all be beautiful in our ugly dresses, unkempt hair and worst moments.

In the end, I hope you have that hand to hold. (& it’s attached to an arm)


How To Catch A Man

The mouse that has taken up residence in my house is quite the crafty little creature.  This morning I woke to find he set a trap of his own.  He knows me!  It won’t be long until this entire endeavor turns into a Rube Golberg contest, “MOUSE AGAINST MAN.”

Speaking of men, I wonder if I could catch a man with that trap?  I’ll need to secure a loan for the bait.  Yet, in order to obtain a loan, I’m going to need to catch a banker.  No bank is going to give this girl a loan.  How does one catch a banker?

On second thought, I think I’ll just go back and lay my head in that trap.

Mouse Series: Letter From Mouse


How To Catch A Man

Girl, You in Heap O’Trouble

Throughout my online dating career I maintained hope in finding a beautiful, funny, kind and compassionate guy with a zest for life that, at the very, least rivaled mine.   However, a far more logical and rational use of reading profile after profile, has surfaced. I’m switching careers from professional dater to writer. Keep an eye out for my first book:

“Girl, You In A Heap O’Trouble  Looking For A Man At Your Age.”

Can’t Catch A Man Or A Mouse

I had to watch 2 youTube videos to learn how to set one of those “snapper your necker” traps without amputating a finger. It took – NO lie – an hour.  There it sits. Beautifully set like a pro, might I add? The only thing missing is the tiny red carpet. It is not surprising that this mouse wrote me the following note:
Good try sweetheart, but I saw an old friend I lying around in this thing. I hadn’t seen him in a few winters.  I thought he might have moved south but, nope, it looks like he didn’t quite make it.  It was a sad surprise to find him when I moved back in here on that cold, wet day last week.  I found the poor bastard dead, and by the looks of him I’d guess 1-2 years dry. Now, I ain’t all that smart but this here sure looks like the same contraption and it smells, oddly reminiscent of him and of… peanut butter.  I’ve gone off the peanut butter. I hear it can kill you. 

The mouse was right.  An Ex-BF set that trap for me long ago.  We broke up and I didn’t have the foresight to think ahead and have him set some alimony traps for the future. Lesson learned.  Anyway, I forgot it was sitting under the couch until the scratching began.  I went to fetch it, as it was the only trap I had left over. Quite unfortunate that it was “occupied.” The sight of him was a bit distressing. He was dried stiff-and-tight between the little silver snapping bar and the wooden dock.

A pair of surgical gloves, pliers and eyes closed tight … voila! Dead mouse removed. It took some elbow grease but an hour later a freshly set, albeit, heavy used trap was placed into employment. Three days later….no mouse, just the note.


On-Line Dating: A Buffet of Choices

Like the buffet, we look at all the options tempting our taste buds and put several on our plate. After all, we have the liberty to toss out anything we don’t like without penalty or concern .  It’s as simple as going back through the line and making a few new selections.   There are so many other things that look absolutely dee-lish. The buffet – so convenient and yet in the end it’s just reheated food that is terrible.

Frankly,  I’m sick of the process.  I want to bump into a guy like I did in the “old days.”  You know, where he would catch my eye or I, his. We both did the “snapback,” checking out how it all looked from behind.  I took small carefully calculated steps to prevent scaring him off.  It was like luring a deer out of the field,  hoping  to get it to ear an apple out of my hand.  Patience and endurance were critical skills.

I didn’t mind taking this time. In fact, I thought the entire process was thrilling.  I felt like a super sleuth carrying out an important covert operation. My best observational skills were employed before I’d go in for the kill.  A small bit of harmless stalking was required.  After all, I needed to find out if there were active brain cells under that gorgeous mop of hair.

A plan was created.  I began finding ways to bump into this hot, new interest of mine.  A simple rerouting of my path around the building increased my likelihood of running into him.  My mind created unnecessary or invalid excuses to pass by his office, classroom, or work area.  I began to track his comings, goings and routines.  It wasn’t  by chance that I stopped to get coffee at the same time he did.  Of course, this had to appear as if my run-in was purely a coincidence.  The last thing I wanted was to appear forward, aggressive or down right crazy.  Which, by the way, was most likely the case because all my mind could do was plot my next stalking event.

Whoever created the water cooler, “thank you!”  Water cooler talk was my first brilliant tactic.  A simple exchange of, “Hi” or some other small greeting.  A smile flashed and my first step toward marriage was made. I stifled my enthusiasm so not to come across too desperate.

The next day, I might add a comment about the weather or sports; A man’s 2 favorite topics.   After a few run-in’s, the simple greetings turned into brief conversations. Great information would be gathered during these moments, such as what he did the past weekend. BINGO, I now knew where he hung out.  Suddenly, I started hanging out there, too.  It was exciting and anticipation was built piece by tiny piece.  A perfectly implemented plan to catch a promising dare.

This natural stalking process didn’t require me to sit at a dinner table while being drilled with a thousand personal questions ensuring I would never measure up.  Now-a-days the assessment is  an interrogation.   During first dates, both parties are assessed for injury that now makes them damaged goods.  More often than not, both leave with some level of disappointment.  The selection doesn’t taste so good after all.

Oh well, back to the buffet line.

Gone Fishin’

Why is it, more often than not, a man’s dating profile includes images of him proudly holding up a fish? Is it because he wants us to believe we will never go hungry if we chose him? Are we to be impressed by his primal hunting instincts and deft bate and hook skills? Should we to be lured by his cleverness in tricking an animal with the IQ of Dory?  News Flash: You guys are marketing to the wrong audience; You’re using the wrong bait.   We don’t want to see your fish.  A fish doesn’t make you “hot” it makes you “smelly.”  You’re not Brad Pitt in  A River Runs Through It; You are  Joe Pesci in Gone Fishin’.  My response to the guy with the catfish:

Hey, nice fish but I saw a dating profile photo of this guy holding up a gift certificate to Mama’s Fish House in Maui and I’m hoping to hook him.  If he gets away, I’m considering this other guy I ran into at the check-out line in the grocery store.  Can you believe this man single handedly found the crab legs, asparagus and cheetos? He’s a keeper. I’m going to marry his ass!

The Diss From A Not-So-Shiny Knight

A Letter from a Knight.

Dear Princess,

I fear I fall short of the knight in shining armor you seek.  I think life has put a dullness on my shine and I no longer want to be the hero everyday. I think I need a hero of my own sometimes.

So yes. I have little doubt you are amazing and I am totally infatuated but I end more days feeling like I can’t keep you smiling than ending them knowing you are happy. That is the death of me.

So I content to wonder what the princess would be like to hold while I lament letting you down. It’s a conundrum I tell you.   Maybe Sunshine has the answer

A Response from a Princess

Dear Not-so-Shiny

A knight in dull armor is still a knight.  His silver plated suit may be scratched, dented or even missing entire pieces. The injury to the shield may be so deep it cuts clear down to the flesh. Under this metal layer however, is where the hero resides.

Isn’t everyone a hero?  Haven’t we all stepped up, survived, placed ourselves in some sort of physical or emotional “harms way” to protect another?   Isn’t saying all of that stuff about “falling short,” a cop-out and a dismissal?  For sure, at times it can be too hard to get up and move forward. We get tired walking the gangplank that requires careful placement of one foot ahead of the other.  It is terrifying, not to mention exhausting.  We’ve all experienced moments of inadequacy and often “fallen short” of our own expectations.

This  princess’s dress is not covered in fine lace nor accessorized with glass slippers or diamond crown.  Hell, it is more akin to cinderella’s scrubbing rags.  The dress is plaid and 5 years old. My feet are covered with flip flops. My crown is a rubber banded ponytail.  Furthermore, my undies and bra don’t match.  I could lament upon it, wishing it were different.  Today, I’ve decided it makes me more interesting. More of a surprise.  It is my own little secret that no one can see. I have piles upon piles of these little secrets under my plain armor of plaid cotton.  This mismatch doesn’t have to drag me down. However, that is not to say that I don’t occasionally  feel like burning the whole damn lot.

There have been times – many times – I’ve taken off these flip flops and donned galoshes because I needed them to trudge through my own puddle of tears or the tears of others. No one carried me across. I didn’t know if walking through the pond was right or wrong;  I just did it based upon what strength I could summon, what amount of fear I could suppress and because I needed or wanted what was on the opposite edge.

Sometimes, I had to be drug across shark infested waters because panic paralyzed me. I didn’t  believe in the form, safety or potential of what was the shore. Other times, I couldn’t walk through or around that seemingly endless body of water.

Am I still a hero? Ask anyone who knows me or of me.  I’ve stopped trains but the true measure of my heroine-ness happened after I got run over by one.  I peeled myself of the tracks to reach out to someone else who needed a bit of saving.  Mind you, I don’t look or feel the same as I did prior to the wreck.  In some ways I’m worse and in other ways, I’m better.

I often wonder when I’ll be a heroine again; The sort that saves another.  It is that very hope which has literally carried me through the past several years.  Sometimes it feels lonely and heavy not having a person to carry me across.  I tread, swim, sink and hold my breath. Swimming across will be empowering.  We all need that  feeling being something “more” to someone else, a purpose to drive us forward.

There is no doubt I have failed at being a super heroine more often than not. In most cases I’ve failed to be my own hero. Does it make me weak or strong that I went to bed and still got up but in the course of the day that is ALL I did? I’ve wondered at times if I’m a fool or a one tuff chick. Yes Michigan, my smile falters. I’m not so damn amazing. I’m not sure how I “feel to hold,” but I expect at times it might feel pretty prickly. Gotta wear garden gloves at times.

Regarding your dullness of your armor, try TARN-X and a micro-cloth.  I hear it works wonders. I hope sunshine is your answer.


Princess in Pa