If Your Date Shows Up Wearing A Shirt Covered In One Of These...

If Your Date Shows Up Wearing A Shirt Covered In One Of These...

Friday, November 11, 2011

Walkin' on Water

I believe, due to my Polynesian Ancestry, that I was genetically engineered to love the water. I learned the art of swimming when I was approximately 3 months old when my Dad threw me into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and despite being a newborn, I was smart enough to know that I was being left with two choices: Sink or Swim. Evidently, I chose the latter. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve being around the ocean or in the water…one of the perks of being raised in the islands, I suppose. From deep sea diving to snorkeling, frolicking in the water has always been one of my greatest past times.

This brings us to one of my latest dating happenings…I knew from the beginning that Mr. Jealous McInsecure was the text book definition of “lacking self-confidence.” For several reasons:
1) He was adamant about being able to have full access to my phone at any given time.
2) He was unwavering regarding his desire for me to delete my Facebook account.
3) In addition, he was obdurate that I have zero contact with members of the opposite sex…despite the fact that 90% of my business transactions involve having to deal with the male species.

Regardless of all of these (major) red flags, I did my best to give Sir Envious VonUnconfident the reassurance and support that he obviously was in desperate need of. From cooking him homemade meals every night, to packing his lunches, doing all of his laundry to taking care of his weekly grocery shopping I made sure that he was well taken care of---even if it meant sacrificing my own personal wants/needs/desires…all to make sure he knew that he remained A #1, King-of-the-Castle, Numero Uno, Master of his Domain, Top of the Heap, etc. etc. etc. And despite being a rigorous, uphill battle, I felt good about my contributions to this unhealthy, dysfunctional, co-dependant, insalubrious relationship.

He decided one evening that he wanted to take me out to a pretty nice, fairly reputable restaurant that was considered to be moderately high-class…amongst Utah County standards anyway. Immediately after walking through the door we were greeted by the on-shift manager, who I recognized as a someone that I had known from years prior…so many years in fact, that I didn't even remember his name, although I was fairly certain we had gone to high school together. He walked us to our table and quickly introduced himself to DouchBag McSensitive by shaking his hand and then turned to give me a brief sideways hug. All while shootin’ the bull with both of us and then notifying us that our drinks, appetizers and desserts would all be on the house. It was duly noted by me that there was nothing that he did and/or said that could have been perceived as inappropriate or misconstrued as classless. He was just genuinely friendly to both of us and remained adamant about how great it was to see me.

After Mr. HighSchool McForgettable walked away I could immediately tell from my peripheral vision that my date had almost instantly turned approximately six shades of crimson. Before I had a chance to ask him if everything was okay, Mr. ScarletFaced VonViolent stood up with so much force that his chair went toppling over behind him. I then heard the commencement of his yelling tirade begin by screaming at the top of his lungs…”Can we go anywhere in Utah County where you haven’t ***effed*** the entire staff?” And with that, proceeded to throw his entire glass of ice water in my face.

(***Due to the graphic nature of this word, and the fact that this remains a family-friendly blog, the author has chosen to edit the actual vulgar word that was used by the UNDATABLE Douche Bag with whom she was
on this particular date with.***)

If your date finds it customary to throw a glass of water on you, mid-date…

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Sleeping Beauty

Being in the health care field I fully understand the logistical and lawful points of following HPAA guidelines and regulations. I grasp the imperative requirements as well as the essential need for the legality’s that coincide with the HPAA Privacy Rule that our Government instated in January of 1996. It makes perfect sense to me…which is partially why I seldom, if ever make my dates fill out the ‘Health Questionnaire’ that is attached to my dating application. Although there are some notable malady’s that I believe one should inevitably disclose…without having to be asked. For example, if you have contracted any sort of STD, odds are, you should enlighten the person that you’re dating of this viable piece of information. I firmly believe that this sort of thing should be the rule, not the exception.

This brings us to my latest dating escapade…I had met the latest Joe Schmo through work. He was a marketer trying to "retain some of my business"…which he obviously did. (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.) On our first date I did find it slightly anomalous that he requested that I drive his car to the restaurant of his choosing, and I heard him mumble something about his drivers license having certain restrictions that limited his access while operating a moving vehicle, but I didn’t say anything as I took the keys and hoped into the drivers seat of his brand new Audi R8 GT. He was so uber-prepared that he had already inputed the directions into his car navigational system which led us promptly to a pretty elite restaurant in the foothills of Deer Valley, that far exceeded any expectation I could have fathomed.

It was one of those particularly swanky places where they feel the need to serve the meal in courses. I detected that halfway through the salad course my date started to yawn incessantly. I knew there wasn’t a chance in the world that I could be the basis of these yawns because I may or may not be the most entertaining person I know. These yawns started becoming so frequent that I almost felt the need to tell our waiter that in no way, shape, or form did I slip anything into his drink to try to drug Mr. Sleepy VonYawnsALot, despite the fact that my skin is brown and I’m used to the whole ‘Racial Profiling Scenario.’

Our soup arrived and I decided to excuse myself to go to the Ladies Room to freshen up a tad. I returned approximately 6.4 minutes later to find Sir Lethargic McNarcolepsy fast asleep, head down, in his soup.

If your date has been diagnosed with Narcolepsy and doesn't bother to disclose this pertinent information...

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

If The Shoe Fits...

I’m fairly certain that Carrie Bradshaw summed it best when she made the remarkable observation…

“The fact is, sometimes it’s really hard to walk in a single woman’s shoes. That’s why we need really special ones now and then to make the walk a little more fun.”

Years ago I had the unique opportunity to spend a significant amount of time with an award-winning, world-wide renowned actress. Upon her departure she offered me up a new nickname that I instantly became quite proud of…Imelda Marcos. Not only for my love of shoes, but also for the magnitude in which I had accumulated them.

For anyone who truly knows me, they know how much I adore my shoe collection. I love the way they feel on my feet the very first time I slip them on. I love that they have the ability to not only complete an outfit, but to transform it into a living piece of art. I have come to more fully appreciate that they have the capability of making your legs look elongated, all while toning your calves, hamstrings and buttocks. I especially love that they won't ever reject you or make you feel unwanted, neglected or abandoned. And even if you gain 30 pounds due to your post break-up blues, they always seem to offer the perfect fit! They have a way of making me feel a sense of completion that no other relationship has ever offered me. Ultimately, I view my shoe collection as family. From Christian Louboutins to Manolo Blahniks, they have become a true emotional investment of sorts.

This brings us to my latest dating jaunt…from the get-go Mr. GQ Himself was continually, overly exaggeratedly excited about the shoes I would wear when we’d go out. Now, to be clear, I’m not talking about your sweet, standard compliment that one first gives when they have observed something they find impressive regarding the person they’ve been dating. I’m referring more to someone who becomes infatuated, borderline obsessed, with what type of shoes you’ll be wearing out that evening…so much so, that once D-Day (Date Day) arrives, he begins texting you 4 hours prior to picking you up, simply to ask a two-fold question: 1) What shoes you will be wearing when he arrives. And 2) If you could please send him a picture text of said shoes.

I found it even more peculiar that after one of our epic dating adventures I had taken my shoes off on the car ride home and by the time he dropped me off, it had grown exceedingly late. Due to my being overly exhausted I didn’t remember to grab them before heading inside. After a few days of total and complete "M.I.A. Status" of Sir ShoeThief VonHoudini, despite all of the texting, calling and emailing I had done to ask if I could swing by to pick up my latest prized possessions, I opted to do the ever dreaded U.D.B. (Unannounced Drive By) to see if he was home. As I pulled up, I observed his car in the driveway so I headed up the walkway that led to his front door. I instantly regretted my decision when much to my mortification I could see Mr. Creepy McRuPaul through the glass window, prancing around his living room to the latest Justin Bieber hit, in my brand new Chanel Espadrilles Wedges.

If your date is a cross-dresser…


Friday, August 19, 2011

10 Will Get You 20

In one of my recent therapy sessions, my therapist made a rather brash, forthright statement when she said, and I quote…”Ge, there is one common denominator in all of your failed relationships. And that’s you.” She then proceeded to ask me a significantly poignant question…”What exactly is it that you’re doing to attract the same type of guy over and over and over again?” The more I ruminated over these sudden epiphany’s the more I deduced that maybe Rihanna had summed it up best with her hit song ‘Love the Way You Lie Part II’ when she belts out the line…”So maybe I’m a masochist.” An emotional cutter of sorts. I left her office feeling a new-found sense of hope. Now that I had been made brutally aware of the things that had ultimately been leading to my slow demise, I could make it a point to be substantially more aware of the men that I obviously needed to steer clear of.

I found myself at the mall one Saturday afternoon, about to hit up the semi-annual sale at Nordstrom. I rationalized my ‘Day-‘O-Spending’ by promising myself that I’d dedicate an extra day volunteering and mentoring at the local Big Brother/Big Sister program the following week. I reckoned it was more than a fair trade off. After I had made my purchases I figured I’d done enough damage to my bank account so I began strolling off through the mall, headed towards the exit. As I maneuvered around one of the center kiosks’s I made eye contact with the guy who was manning this particular booth. He smiled at me, so naturally I smiled back. I couldn’t help but notice that he was strikingly good looking. The very epitome of ‘tall, dark and handsome.’ He approached me with an air of confidence that I hadn’t seen exhibited in a long time. There was no beating around the bush, no pretenses, just a sense of poise and self assurance that immediately attracted me to him. “Listen, I know you don’t know me but I have to have your phone number. I’d really like to take you on a date sometime!” Instinctively I thought back to all of the hours of therapy I had sat through, and all of the life lessons that I had hopefully learned in the process and I figured this guy was bound to be “different” than the last DB I dated…the one who put the ‘I’ in narcIssIst. Insecure. And InsensItIve. I consented.

He picked me up on a moped which I thought was a little sophomoric, but I figured I’d remain buoyant and just pretend that I was Audrey Hepburn in the classic movie ‘Roman Holiday’ and that on this night, we would morph Orem Utah into our very own little Italian getaway. Even when we pulled into the Arby's parking lot, I chose to remain sanguine. Dinner (and we use that word loosely) started out with the mainstream questions that one usually asks when out for the first time. I found out he played Rugby for the local college, which would explain his incredibly toned physique. After we got the typical run-of-the-mill stuff out of the way I all of a sudden realized that it was extremely difficult to carry on a conversation with him. It was almost as though instantaneously we had absolutely nothing in common. I decided that he ranked high enough on the “Hotness Scale” that I couldn’t give up on him just yet, so I kept on plugging away. I discovered rather quickly that every time I asked him a question his response usually had a one-worded reply. And then when he did have something to say I couldn’t quite make out what he was trying to convey because it came out as one big gibberish, unclear mess…almost as if he were speaking in Cajun tongue. That is until I heard him mutter something about the number 18. When I asked him to recant what he had just said he looked up at me with a seemingly innocent expression and re-announced that he had just turned the big ‘ol 1-8!

If your date is underage…UNDATABLE!

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Men In Pink

Saks Fifth Avenue
Issey Miyake
Oscar de la Renta
Nina Ricci

Ever since I had the opportunity to sit front row, wide-eyed and star-struck, at the Marc Jacobs Fashion Show during the ever elite Mercedes Benz Fashion Week in New York City when I was 18 years old, I’ve been hooked. My therapist prefers to refer to it as a ‘closet addiction.’ (She’s SO funny with her play on words!) Ta-mate-o. Toe-mot-o.

Now that I have that all cleared up, I’d like to go on record as saying that I have zero expectations when it comes to the way my dates dress. That’s not to say that I don’t desire him to take some sort of pride in his appearance, but I’m definitely not shallow or overly picky by any means…which leads us up to my latest dating encounter. Mr. Richy McMillionaire unquestionably lived up to his nickname. This guy was L-O-A-D-E-D! He had made his millions in the stock-market industry, and was educated enough to pull his investments when the economy was taking a turn for the worse…which left him with a rather substantial fortune. (What in the world did we gals do before Google?!) He had a huge home in the foothills of Park City, located in an exceedingly prestigious gated community. He owned 4 very nice, very expensive vehicles/sports cars…two words; Bugatti Veyron. Lots and lots of boyz toyz…a boat, wave runners, 4-wheelers etc. etc. etc. But I believed the very best part was that we were being set up by mutual friends which I figured was a fairly safe bet because apparently we both had good taste in people, which hopefully meant that we were bound to have other things in common. 

He picked me up almost 30 minutes early, but I suppose when you’re driving the world’s fastest car, it’s to be expected. As I opened the door I hurriedly did a head-to-toe scan of Sir Richard 'Virgin' Branson and was in awe over his well planned, understated, subtle, look that he had put together. (And when I say "he" I of course mean "his assistant.") He was wearing a fairly fitted, pink Affliction shirt that did have some slight embellishments on it, but wasn’t overly done or excessively disdainful. It was fitted to the point that you could see he had a pretty ripped, comparatively cut body. I guess that idiosyncrasy that they say is true...real men really can pull off pink. He was sporting some True Religion jeans that he happened to fill out quite nicely, (wink wink) and almost instantly I caught a whiff of what I knew immediately to be Clive Christian cologne. (I only knew this because I had recently traveled to NYC where I attended an exhibit for ‘The World’s Most Expensive…’ and this latest Clive Christian cologne had been show-cased there, retailing at almost $2,500 a bottle! Sheesh.) I was in love. Well, almost.

The date went remarkably well so when he asked me if I’d be interested in racing Go-Karts the next evening I was excited for the possibilities. I spent the day mulling over and contemplating what I would wear that night…his sense of fashion seemed so effortless and I didn’t want him to think that I was over thinking it so I played the casual-but-cute card to make sure it didn’t seem like I was over doing it. The doorbell rang and as I raced to answer it, my heart skipped several beats due to my excitement. I opened the door and there he stood…in the exact same outfit as the night before. I’m sure the perplexed look caught him off guard but I was quick to greet him with a hug to cover up my state of confusion. Again, the date was borderline majestic and as he walked me to the door he once again proceeded to ask me out for the following night. I once again acquiesced. He mentioned he held season tickets to the Opera and asked if I’d be interested in attending with him, I readily agreed and figured that this would be a prime time to show him the eccentric classy/lady-like side of me…formal gown and all. I flung the door open in an anticipated moment of sheer elation, when much to my bewilderment, there he stood in the exact same fitted pink Affliction shirt. Those unchanged True Religion jeans. That identical friggin’ cologne. For a moment I literally thought I was in that classic, cheesy, Bill Murray movie ‘Groundhog’s Day.’ How could this be? How was it possible that a guy thought it totally fitting to wear this invariable outfit to a movie, and then to race Go-Karts, and finally to attend a formal Opera?! I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it but thought it best not to utter a single solitary word on the subject and just go with it.

Mr.Wierd-o McNeverChangesHisClothes was out of town for the next couple of weeks on business but made sure to contact me methodically through phone calls, email, texts and Facebook. Late one night I received a notification that he had written on my wall. As I clicked on his profile and started going through some of the pictures of all of his recent incredible world-wide traveling adventures, I became painfully aware of the fact that in every one of his pictures he was wearing the subsequent outfit mentioned previously. Including to his own Grandmother’s funeral.

If your date wears the same clothes every day of the year…

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Stressed Spelled Backwards Is Desserts. Coincidence?

Although my nickname in high school was “Becky Home Ec-y” and I did love a good HOMNO (HOme Making Night Out) as much as the next girl, I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was a food connoisseur, by any stretch of the imagination. I did however thoroughly enjoy baking and had learned that for me, spending time in the kitchen was tremendously therapeutic and salutary.

I found myself in the kitchen one particular morning dressed in my bedazzled apron, armed and ready with my KitchenAid, measuring cups, spoons and bowls…all to concoct a scrumptious, enchanting, summer-y dessert to take with me to a family picnic that my current “Flavor-Of-The-Month” had invited me to. His overly protective, incredibly fake, syrupy sweet Mom had asked if I would bring a dessert and because I consider myself an extreme overachiever, I of course was happy to oblige. I spent the next few hours stirring, mixing, taste-tasting, and measuring my way to what I deemed…”Ge’s-Explosion-In-The-Mouth-Achievement!” TWSS It was delicious! I had created a light, dulcet and fluffy trifle that was interspersed with mounds of fresh fruit. I then came up with a perfect combination of a whipped cream & cream cheese mixture that I layered with a homemade moist lemon cake that when amalgamated together was like a fusion of epic proportion.

It was a hit! Naturally. Which instantly gave me a celebrity-esque status at his family gathering…so much so that as we were gathering up our things to leave for the night his Mom pulled me aside and after ranting and raving over the dessert I had brought, kindly asked if I would be willing to make it again for a work party that she was hosting at the end of the following week. Now, all of you girls out there I’m sure are well aware of how thoroughly erratic the majority of the Mother’s of the boys that we date can be…which customarily means that we’ll go to great lengths to try and impress them when given the opportunity. I counted myself lucky that such an occasion had presented itself so early on and I knew immediately my time had come to try and make a superbly deep impact on Mr. Bi-Polar McLunaticMom’s Mother. I enthusiastically agreed and she notified me of the date and time she needed to have it delivered to her home by which I of course acquiesced to.

A few weeks later my assistant came into my office and cautiously inquired if I was currently still dating Mr. Passive VonMamma’sBoy, to which I hesitantly acknowledged in the affirmative. She then proceeded to pull out a newspaper clipping with a heading that read…

“Mother & Son Team Win Dessert Of The Year Award!”

Just below the caption was a picture of Sir Jerky VonThievery standing next to his crazy, deranged Mother…he was holding my much slaved over dessert, while she had her hands full with a 3 foot trophy in one hand and a $5,000 check in the other.

If your date (& his Mom) enter your dessert into an award winning contest and then take credit for it…

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Just Say No!

It was unavoidable, I suppose, that I would eventually meet a guy at a gas station…I mean, at this point I’m fairly certain I’d met a guy just about everywhere---grocery stores, a national pharmacy chain, a parking lot, the mall, driving down State Street, IHOP…why not add a gas station to the mix to really up the ante?!

I had just left a conference for work that was being held about 45 minutes away from my home, when much to my vexation I realized that my gas light had come on. To avoid being stranded on the side of the freeway, awaiting my knight-in-shining-armor…(who is obviously nothing more than a figment of my imagination)… to show up, gas can in hand, galloping up on his noble white steed to rescue me in one fell swoop, I thought it best to stop and fill my canteen…of sorts.

Now, despite being of Polynesian decent, I’m not the kind of girl who likes to stand idly by. So as my car was filling up I began cleaning my windshield, throwing out trash that had accumulated in the backseat and wiping down the leather interior, when I felt an unanticipated tap on my shoulder. As I gradually turned around there in front of me stood a guy who slightly resembled a mixture of Jesse James, a.k.a. “The ex Mr. Sandra Bullock” and a slightly chubbier version of Travis Barker from the now disbanded punk rock group “Blink 182”.

Mr. Tattoo McArmSleeve seemed nice enough, despite having a tattoo of an entire marijuana branch leafing all the way up his arm. He and I chatted for a little bit before he expressed interest in getting my phone number at which point I opted to change the subject by letting him know that I was in dire need of a Diet Coke to quench this irrefutable thirst I was currently experiencing. He offered to purchase my drink for me which I found to be charming and polite…but as I went to follow him into the gas station I was stunned to see a tattoo that I definitely wasn’t prepared for. There in front of me, inked across his neck was a symbol that took me totally off guard…the ‘Narcotics Anonymous’ logo informing the whole world exactly what personal demons Home Boy McDrugLord was battling on a daily basis.  

If your date has a Narcotics Anonymous sign tattooed on himself…

Saturday, June 11, 2011

L.I.V.E. (Lying Is Very Evil) STRONG!

After celebrating our ‘3 Months of Dating Bliss’ anniversary, I had reached the conclusion that this particular dating ship had sailed its course. Despite the fact that both of us had been fully invested I realized that this fastidious liaison definitely wasn’t going to be heading down the road leading to marital bliss...you know the road I'm talking about...the one with the princess colored pink and silver fireworks exploding overhead, spelling out the falsehood that we read about as little girls and essentially begin to believe that states we’re all gonna live…”HAPPILY EVER AFTER!” I figured it was time to have the ever brutal, but ambiguously necessary, it’s-not-you-it’s-me, break up colloquy.

I began my schpill by tooting his horn, rambling on about how great our relationship had been, stroking his ego, yada, yada, yada. Just as I was about to utter the inevitable, I noticed that his lower lip had started to quiver. He stopped me mid-sentence and without so much as skipping a beat, he blurted out the 4 most dreaded words I’d ever heard materialized…”Ge, I have cancer.”

Instantly I jumped into what my therapist refers to as “FIX IT MODE!” The approach that most women take, the one that says: “I-have-the-ability-to-fix-any-situation-I’m-placed-in-and-despite-not-really-having-any-control-I-feel-this-overwhelming-sick-innate-need-to-fix-the-guy-I’m-with” mode!

6.75 hours later I finally dragged myself to my car and started to head home. To say that I was legitimately and officially emotionally spent would be the understatement of the century. I had just sat through 360.45 minutes of explanation regarding the Stage Three Testicular Cancer that Mr. CancerRidden McSobsALot had randomly discovered a week earlier. He told me he was slated to start chemotherapy the following day and asked if I’d be available to take him to his appointment. The Mrs. Fix-It in me wholeheartedly agreed and as I called my boss with the heartbreaking news, she promptly told me that I needn’t fret about a thing, of course I could take all the time off that I needed too, to help him through this devastating time. The next morning I arrived at his apartment with his favorite breakfast sandwich from Einstein’s Bagel complete with juice and a side of fruit. Naturally I wanted him to have enough strength to survive these next torturous, rigorous, physically draining 6 weeks that lay ahead of him.

When we arrived at the hospital I stopped at the front entrance to let him out, I mean, I wanted him to conserve as much energy as humanly possible. I ran around my SUV to open his car door for him and as I helped him out he looked at me and asked in a very soft, almost pitiful voice, “Is it alright if you just drop me off here and I’ll call you when I’m finished? I think I’d be too embarrassed to have you sit there watching me.” I was quick to reassure him that I’d be here just as soon as he was finished and that he didn’t need to worry about a thing.  This precise scenario took place every single time I took him for any of his chemo and/or doctor's appointments. Which ultimately just made me feel all the more guilty that he wasn’t "comfortable enough to have me there."

About 3 weeks later I arrived to once again take him to the hospital and when he answered the door I noticed that he had shaved his head. Tears started streaming down my face as I wrapped my arms around him I could hear him say through his own muffled tears, “I don’t want you to cry! I decided to get a jump start on my hair because I don’t want the cancer to think it’s won!” I couldn’t help but think what a brave, optimistic approach he was taking which I found to be courageous and heroic.

A few weeks later, after speaking to several friends of mine who ranged anywhere from RN’s, to PA’s to MD’s I had slowly started to gather a plethora amount of information regarding this horrible, appalling disease. The more time that went on and the more questions I asked, the more I started to realize that Sir VonLanceArmstrong McBraveFace’s story wasn’t adding up. For several reasons:

1) He told me that due to a new homeopathic remedy he had concocted at home, his doctor's said that he didn’t need to have the inexorable surgery that automatically goes along with having stage 3 testicular cancer. 

2) Despite having an abnormally close relationship with his Mom, he had opted not to tell her about his latest cancer scare.

And last but certainly not least---

3) Anytime we discussed his on-going battle with this disease, it was overly apparent that I knew a lot more about it from the few hours of research I had spent doing, than he did…regardless of the countless hours that he had spent with some of the country’s “greatest medical minds alive” all of whom were reinforcing to him, as well as everyone else, that he was some type of “medical marvel!”

I once again opted to take the high road by choosing neither to doubt, nor second guess the things I was being told. Mostly because if word got out that I was questioning the cancer-ridden guy whom I had just devoted the last 110 days to, I would officially become the #1 unofficial member of my own undatable blog! That is, until late one evening whilst I was in the midst of hosting a ‘Testicular Cancer Awareness Support Group’ at my home, my cell phone began ringing. Concerned that it was a medical emergency vis-à-vis of my significant other, I rushed to answer it. On the other line was the Mother of Lord McLiarLiar informing me that her son didn’t in actuality have cancer at all. In fact, the only thing he was currently suffering from was the: “I-Didn’t-Want-Her-To-Break-Up-With-Me-So-I-Invented-This-Out-Of-Control-Narcissistic-Lie” postpartum blues.

If your date pretends to have cancer so that you won’t break up with him…

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Burn Baby, Burn!

I would be lying if I said that this upcoming group date was something I was excited about. Or even looking forward to…but the truth of the matter was…I SO was not! In fact, I was in absolute trepidation about having to face another pointless dinner. Another futile conversation that would ultimately lead to me having to ‘entertain the masses’ while my date sat there, trying to wrap his head around the Ge-isim’s that were bound to be in great abundance because, well, that’s just what I do. But, as per-usual, I decided to suck it up, take one for the team, and appease the crowds by consenting to grace them with my presence.

He chose a local restaurant that was known for serving a massive assortment of diverse kinds of meat. As he arrived to pick me up he asked if that’s something I was okay with, to which I felt the need to kindly remind him that my eating meat was not only part of my culture, but that if we wanted to, for our second date we could go to the local ‘Genealogy Library’ and trace back to the days-of-yore, where I’m sure at some point my ancestors’ had eaten his.

Upon arrival we met up with 2 other couples who seemed nice enough, by Utah County standards anyway. Definitely a tad bit Zoobie-ish, with the girls in dresses that reminded me a little of the latest episode of ‘Sister Wives’ and the guys clothed in outfits that looked as though they had been transported unequivocally from Brigham Young’s era. My date was quick to introduce me and as the night lingered on, the humdrum conversation was run-of-the-mill, but I was determined to apply the wealth of knowledge that had come from all of the self-help books I had recently begun reading, and try to continue to stay in jovial high spirit’s.

As the evening wore on, one of the waiters stopped by our table so that we could take a look at the meat he was offering…(not like I hadn’t already had that same offer several times that week, but whatev! T.W.S.S.) And after all of the oohh-ing, ahh-ing and salivating over it, I unexpectedly felt my self gasp for breath as I felt something exceedingly scorching begin running down my leg. To my total bewilderment I realized that our waiter had dropped some of the meat juice and there it was…an instantly formed, second degree burn blister, marking my battle wounds. I knew immediately that I was in a state of shock because for the first time in my life I was incapable of forming words. There I sat, not quite sure what to do next, while Mr. Apathetic McCould-Care-Less sat with a look of ultra unmitigated and complete indifference. As I opened my mouth to verbalize the amount of sheer agony I was feeling, my date quickly turned to me and while putting his index finger to his over sized lips said, “Ssshhhhhhhh! Don’t make this into a big deal.” And after pausing a brief moment resumed his undatable comment with, “Well, unless of course you think you can get your meal comp’ed…in which case, do what you have to do.”

If your date is more concerned about saving money, then he is about your personal safety and welfare…

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Putting The 'ASS' In Classy...

Usually our society is able to sum up the aristocratic, wealthy, intellectual, good-looking people of the world with one word...CLASSY! That being said I had been asked out by a guy who was in fact all of those things. He was subsequently affluent, strikingly attractive and intellectually sharp. In essence, the quintessential ideal of modern-day male perfection.

He called me the evening before we were scheduled to go out to confirm our plans, which I found to be old-school and charming. He proceeded to enlighten me about the activities that he had planned, which would consist of, but not be limited to, an entire day-'o-fun on Utah Lake. He had organized for us to do some wake-boarding, wave-running, picnicking and frolicking on the water...and because I truly am such an island girl at heart and love anything to do with being around water, I was ecstatic!

He showed up precisely 4 minutes early, complete with all the essentials for the day in tow (i.e. sun block, an extra beach towel, Diet Coke, all of my go-to-snack-selections and even an extra pair of new pink flip-flops in the off-chance that I had forgotten mine)…all of which consequentially put him on the mental check list as “Dateable!”

We arrived at the dock and ever the gentleman, he helped me climb aboard his totally pimped out boat---the entire time asking if I was okay and checking to see if there was anything I needed. I spent the next little while schmoozing with his buddies, trying to get to know them and being extra affable in the hopes of fitting in with these new-found friends. It worked…we ended up talking and laughing the afternoon away.

Mr. Richy McOwnsHisOwnBoat was attentive, assiduous, and doting…so much so that I found it charmingly accommodating when he handed me a bright red Dixie cup and told me he had taken the liberty of getting me a cup of water, in fear that I might possibly become dehydrated. After this sweet gesture I suddenly found him all the more appealing. Somewhere in the hustle and flow of the comings and goings, my red Dixie cup became misplaced, though I remained so utterly preoccupied with the Sun God in front of me I didn’t give it a second thought.  That is until Sir McFrantic VonHysterical noticed that my red cup was no longer in sight.

Our conversation went something like this:

DB: “Where is the drink I gave you?” He inquisitively asked me.

ME: “I’m not sure.” I swiftly replied.

DB: “No! No! No! No! NO!!!” He shouted, so loudly that you could immediately hear the crickets chirping from the shoreline. “THINK! Think about where you last had it and where you would have put it down at. NOW! I need to know where your drink is RIGHT NOW!

Ummm---sheesh! Tough-friggin'-crowd! I couldn’t help but think that this guy needed to take a chillaxitive. STAT! But I chose to remain calm, cool and collected as I processed what was happening.

ME: “I believe I sat my cup down at the bow of the boat.” Came my unruffled response.

Abruptly, all heads on board simultaneously turned to the front of the boat where one of his 6’4, 325 pound meat-head, gym-rat counter-parts laid totally and completely incapacitated, salivating at the mouth, incapable of moving (minus the occasional convulsions that he'd sporadically lapse into---in between him almost asphyxiating on his own vomit) and all due to him imbibing an entire red Dixie cup full to the brim of water, that also happened to be laced with G.H.B.---or in layman’s term: The-Apparent-UC-Date-Rape-Drug-Of-Choice.  

If your date attempts to give you G.H.B.---

Thursday, February 17, 2011

"Pampered" With "Luv"

My laptop had contracted a virus...seemingly different from the chlamydia virus that the last guy I dated had contracted from his ex-girlfriend while we were together, I suppose...but a virus nonetheless. I found myself extremely aggravated with the situation but was choosing to remain calm, cool and collected while I went into problem-solving mode. As I scrolled through the 2,439 contacts in my phone I came across the number of a guy who I had worked with earlier in the month because he had come in to fix some computer issues that we were having at my office...I resolved to giving him a call.

After introducing myself and explaining to him who I was and how we had met, he stopped me mid-sentence and between his awkward stumbling-over-of-words and all of the hemming and hawing, I deciphered that he was trying to tell me that he did remember me and that he'd be happy to help, but that there was a catch to his offer; I had to agree to go on a date with him.

Now as I was faced with this vast, moral dilemma I couldn't help but feel a little like a member of Lindsay Lohan's entourage. All of whom were well aware of the fact that the person they viewed as a plausible red-headed, 4th member of the Godhead had just stolen a $25,000 necklace and what were they to do about it? Turn her in and watch their cocaine habits "blow" away with her as she headed to the slammer? Or provide her an alibi so that she'd get away scot-free and continue to enable her crazy, inept, narcissistic ways?

So it was with me. Quid pro quo. Do I agree to go on a date with this guy who was so forgettable I wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a police line-up...even if he had gone all O.J. on my a$&? And in addition be forced to suffer through another evening of agony, distress, impalement and torture in the off chance that he'd be able to get my computer up and running? Or should I head down to the local Best Buy, drop another $1,200 for a top of the line laptop that might only end up lasting me a year, and before heading out the door having an employee stop me and tell me that I first needed to bend over, grab my ankles and spell R-U-N? I decided to go with Plan A.

Plan A had stipulations all its own. I agreed to his terms but in return I informed him of the criteria that had to be met:

1)  It was to be a lunch date.
2)  I would meet him at a restaurant of my choosing.
3)  It had to be on a week day. (Ultimately so that I could use the excuse that I had to get back to work, just in case this date was like every other date I'd been on that week: Tragic.)

Surprisingly enough, Mr. ComputerGeek McAntiSocial agreed to my contracted regime and the date was set. I arrived a little late but to my credit, at least I arrived. And there he sat, so nervous and panicky I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. I tried my best to eliminate his uneasiness, mostly because the sweat stains under his arms were penetrating through his sweater vest and little, diminutive beads of perspiration had congregated along his forehead and were now trickling down his cheeks. Bless his sweet heart! I spent the greater part of lunch asking him questions about himself only to find out that he had 16 brothers and sisters. (Not surprising.) He was home schooled. (No duh!) And he was not into physical sports. Of any kind. (You don’t say.) The conversation then veered toward his career and life goals. He talked passionately about computer software and the joy he found being able to work from home, remotely, because modern day technology had become so advanced…yada, yada, yada…I’d be lying if I said I knew what the remainder of the conversation entailed. But my focus quickly shifted when I found myself listening to him start talking about his latest obsession. Something he kept referring to as W.O.W.---I was instantly intrigued but utterly perplexed by this topic of conversation that seemed to consume every inch of Mr. Nerdy VonBowTie’s sub par existence. As he further expounded on the fixation otherwise know as W.O.W. I began sneakily Google-ing under the table so that I would appear to be somewhat knowledgeable about the only thing that was saving me from this lunch date.
World Of Warcraft. Really?

I couldn’t help but notice the colossal sized grin that appeared on his face as he began telling me about the upcoming 48-hour W.O.W. tournament that he had just entered. He then ensued that due to the intensity of this imminent competition, the most paramount idea possible would be for him to purchase a package of adult diapers and wear them for the entire 48 hour duration, so that he could remain as intently focused as feasibly possible, so that he wouldn’t have to “let the game down” due to his intrinsic, minuscule, innate need to use the restroom.

 If your date thinks that wearing an adult diaper while he plays W.O.W. for 48 consecutive hours, is socially acceptable...


Sunday, February 13, 2011

It's A Hard Knock Life

It was a blind date, which ultimately meant that I knew going into it that it could better be defined as a disaster waiting to happen. Much like Britney’s shaved head. Or Anna Nicole’s marriage to J. Howard Marshall. Or even Charlie Sheen’s Vegas rendezvous with a high class stripper. Or especially the entire cast of The Real Housewives Of Atlanta...I was already priming myself.

In the days leading up to my latest dating escapade, all of the conversations that took place between Mr. McSetUp and I were through text. And even though some of the things he said came across as exceedingly ghetto, (i.e. "Yo wassup my nigga?" or "B @ uz crib @ 11 on da fly." Or my personal favorite "Homz, I needz a pad to crash @ tonitz. Can it b wif uz?") I figured it was due to him being such a big deal that he lacked the time to spell out everything he really wanted to say and consequently needed to abbreviate all of his texts. (And by "abbreviate" I of course mean "because he was indubitably on his way to Compton!")

Dooms Day arrived and I had somehow been finagled into spending an entire day with him. The doorbell rang at 11 am and I unhurriedly sauntered to answer it. There in front of me stood Marshall “Eminem” Mathers himself...literally the whitest white guy I've ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. Yet he was dressed in a pair of South Pole black jeans that he was riding so low he gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "cracking down on crime." His neck was layered with so many gold chains you would've thought that he had recently robbed the local Mr. T jewelry store. His head was covered with a red bandanna topped off by a do-rag and over his punch stained wife beater he wore a studded black leather jacket. While Sir Homeboy VonIdentityCrisis was introducing himself I realized that he was wearing a loose fitting gold grill over his top teeth. As I continued to survey the hot mess that stood in front of me I noticed that in addition to all of the ghetto fabulous-ness in the aforementioned paragraph, that he also wore a set of brass knuckles on his left hand---and all of this from a guy who was born and raised in historic downtown Provo Utah.

Now, I've been fortunate enough to be raised by parents who have taught me the importance of being polite in any situation you find yourself in, so I couldn't help but think how disappointed my mom would be in this very moment when, after completing the head-to-toe scan of the caucasian version of Flava Flav, without uttering a single solitary word I slowly closed my front door, locked the dead bolt and walked back up to my room.

If your date is unaware of what race he is...UNDATABLE!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

There Is No "I" In Threesome...

We had been dating pretty seriously for a few months and despite some obvious red flags (i.e. being a blue collar worker) I was holding out that this guy could indeed be my very own Prince Charming. The Jack to my Jill. The Diet to my Coke. The Chocolate to my Cake. The Las to my Vegas. I was choosing to remain optimistic, going with the whole “glass-half-full” outlook. (Life lesson learned…CHECK!)

One evening we were lounging around having some comical conversations about our past dating experiences and the crazy, funny things that had taken place in our dating careers. At which point Mr. Shady McSexual disclosed that he had recently participated in a threesome…with another guy and a girl. And that he had found it to be "cool!" Without skipping a beat, I was quick to inform him that what he had experienced wasn’t a threesome at all---that it was, by all intents and purposes, a homosexual experience.

If your date regards having a threesome as “Cool!”… UNDATABLE!

Saturday, January 29, 2011

High. My Name Is...

He was my dad, the one guy in my life that had never let me down…so there’s no way he'd do anything to lead me astray…which is the only reason I agreed to the blind date/set up that he was absolutely giddy about.  I was reluctant to say the least but decided to put my hesitation aside, do as my therapist instructed and simply “go with it."
I asked my dad to give me the credentials of Mr. Perfect and he was happy to oblige. He had already assembled his...

Top 5 Reasons To Date Brother E.C.

1) Spiritual. Current E.Q.P. in his family ward. (Yawn)
2) Educated. Applying to Medical School. (Impressive)
3) Funny. Laughed at all my dad’s jokes. (Kiss-ass)
4) Handsome. Stake’s most eligible bachelor. (Boring)
5) Good Family. His mom wasn’t bi-polar. (Vital)

Mr. Future-Favorite-Son-In-Law showed up --with flowers no less-- so far so good. I invited him in where we sat down and started the getting-to-know-you process. He was all the things my dad had ranted and raved about…yet so much more. There was no awkwardness or uncomfortable silence, though he kept saying over and over and over again how nervous he was. Despite his eyes being a little crimson colored and appearing a little fidgety, the entire evening felt seamless. He was quick to laugh at just about everything I said, which I didn’t find to be abnormal…I may or may not be the funniest person I know. As we headed out the door he mentioned that he was a little hungry. So in spite of the fact that we were going to dinner, I offered him something to eat and the next thing I knew he was sitting at my kitchen table looking nothing short of famished. I went to my cupboards and pulled out a box of granola bars. He downed them all in 9.5 seconds flat. I got him some chips and salsa. He diminished them. Gallon of ice-cream. Depleted. Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Devoured. At this point I was fairly astounded that I had finally met a guy who could go head-to-head with my brother’s in an eating contest.

At long last his appetite appeared to be satisfied which meant that hopefully, mine was about to be.  He opened my car door and as I climbed in there was an odor that filled my nostrils; one that I knew was familiar but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. A mixture between the stench of a skunk and a pungent, burning herb garden. And then I saw it, a spectacle that made my eyes almost bug out of my head. There on the floor mat next to my feet sat a Ziploc baggie filled with a brilliant hue of emerald green leaves. Something that I believe Snoop Dogg, Willie Nelson or Paris Hilton would refer to as: Pot. Weed. Marijuana. Dope. Grass. Mary Jane. Ganja. T.H.C. Cannabis. Skunk. Hash.

If your date shows up high…UNDATABLE!

Thursday, January 20, 2011

There's No Place Like Home...

I was on an errand for work when I walked into this particular pharmacy and instantaneously noticed an ultra cute guy out of my peripheral vision. I grabbed the items I needed and decided to pick up a Diet Coke while I was there…mostly because I consider D.C. to be the Nectar of the God’s and I felt like I needed a sense of rejuvenation. I walked over to the cooler section and noticed that Mr. Hottie Pants McGee was there too. He appeared to be a little dirty but I figured that was because he was a blue-collar worker...not that I was judging him for it, I leave the judgemental part to Jesus. And the Mormon's.

Before I had a chance to whip out my charming, charismatic,
Ge-isim's he walked over to me and started what ended up being a pretty amusing conversation that concluded with him asking for my phone number. I was reluctant to give it to him for a couple of reasons…1) I had just gotten out of a serious relationship and the thought of dating again made me wanna vomit. Literally. 2) Three words: My. Dating. History. (Please see previous posts.) But alas, I handed over my business card and with the look of sheer elation, said he’d be in touch.

Later that evening my phone rang (and when I say 'rang' I of course mean vibrated) the caller ID showed that it was a local number so I answered figuring it was something to do with work. False…it was Mr. Walgreen’s himself asking me on a date. I once again fought my inner instinct and reluctantly agreed. We settled on a day and time but after hanging up I suddenly remembered that I already had plans for the night in question. I quickly called him back but the dial tone merely rang. And rang. And rang some more. Just as I was about to hang up I heard a female’s voice say “Hello?” I was taken aback but proceeded to ask for Mr. D.B. when I was met with “I’m not sure who you’re looking for, but you are aware that this is a payphone, right?” Without any ado there were a few things that started running through my head. A) The 80’s called and they’d like their form of communication back. B) Payphones still exist?! C) Let me reiterate, payphones still exist?!

Due to the fact that I was unable to reach Sir Sketchy VonPayPhone I went ahead and changed my previous plans with the guy that happened to be from the twenty-first century and did have a cell phone, so that way I didn’t have to stand up Date #2. He arrived promptly at 6:45, as planned. When I answered the door he quickly asked if he could use the restroom. Twenty-five minutes later he exited and announced he was ready to go. I found this strangely uncomfortable and as we headed out the door I glanced into the bathroom and saw several of my crisp, white washcloths on the ground and they were covered with what I could only assume was dirt. I decided at that point that ignorance was bliss and opted not to confront the situation.

He had arranged a picnic at the park which I thought was adorable. When we finished eating the PB&J’s he had packed he asked if I’d like to take a sunset stroll. I consented and we started the whole ‘get-to-know-you’ questions that are pertinent for any first date. I asked him where he lived and he diffidently pointed to the parking lot where his truck sat. I was perplexed by this vague motion so I inquired further of him. He then enlightened me that he was "currently in-between homes"and that he did indeed reside in the bed of his truck, under his pristine camper shell.

Fast forward 23.7 minutes...he had finally dropped me off and I found myself breathing a sigh of relief as I shut the front door behind me. I then remembered the whole '25-minutes-in-the-bathroom scenerio'. I discovered, much to my chagrin, that Homeboy McLivesInATruck had felt the urgency to be somewhat presentable for our date...which led him to take a sponge bath, with my hand towels!

If your date is homeless…UNDATABLE!

Saturday, January 15, 2011

You're Late! You're Late! For A Very Important Date!

If your date is 2.5 hours late picking you up...


If that same date shows up to your office the next day with these in hand...

Thanks B! You're forgiven! :)

Friday, January 14, 2011

Of Sushi & Men...

I may not know how to pick men…but food, now that I know. So when he invited me out to dinner and insisted that I pick the location, you better believe that I singled out a local all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant that could best be described with the adjective “orgasmic’. I could hear the hesitation in his voice as I made the suggestion but didn’t think much else about it after he was quick to reassure me that he did indeed like sushi…although had only recently been introduced to this delectable, borderline-still-living, delicious, mouth-watering, array of tasty goodness!

He picked me up at a quarter past seven, so despite the fact that he was 15 minutes late and apparently running on P.S.T. (Polynesian Standard Time) I opted to remain optimistic about the date’s outcome. Mostly because he was H-O-T! I’m talking Brad Pitt circa 'Legends of the Fall', APEX Alarm Summer Salesman…hot.

Dinner went well. Ordinarily I would’ve allowed him to do all of the ordering, just so that he could feel like “The Man!” in the relationship, but in this case because Mr. Picky McEatsBlandFood didn’t have a lot of experience in ordering sushi I went ahead and took the lead by instructing our waiter which rolls I thought would be most apt to getting him hooked…no pun intended. Despite being virtually a ‘sushi virgin’ he was a fairly good sport about sampling everything our waiter brought out and the playful banter between us was fun and flirty, which was clearly an added bonus. The check came and he paid which made it palpable that this date far exceeded any other date I had been on in a long while. As we headed for the exit my date suddenly excused himself muttering something about having to use the restroom. I patiently awaited his return, schmoozing with the manager to bide my time.

He looked a little pale as we walked to his truck, but I just chalked it up to him not being from Polynesian descent.

We were almost to the movie theater when my date turned to me with an expression that I couldn’t quite articulate. Was it one of fear? Anxiety? Panic? Horror? “This isn’t going to be good!” he exclaimed. And then he let out what was best described by Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character in the movie ‘Along Came Polly’ when he used the epic word…

Sharted; (shärt) Vulgar Slang
intr.v. shart·ed, shart·ing, sharts
To try and expel intestinal gas, although sh!+ comes out instead.

If your date craps his pants…UNDATABLE