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…

UNDATABLE!

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…

UNDATABLE!

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.---

UNDATABLE!

"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...

UNDATABLE!

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!

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!

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!