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…

UNDATABLE!

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...

UNDATABLE!

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…

UNDATABLE!

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!



Men In Pink

 

F.A.S.H.I.O.N.=

Fendi

Armani 

Saks Fifth Avenue

Hermès

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…

UNDATABLE!

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…

UNDATABLE!



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…

UNDATABLE!