Dont Mince Words

Today I had two what-the-fuck moments within a two-hour period. Of course, ex’s were involved.

I woke up to an email announcing that one of them was going to be in LA in November and he’d like to extend his visit to see me. While 9/11 sped up our inevitable breakup, what is more interesting about this guy is he married the girl right after me. I can’t tell you HOW many times in my life this has happened. His visit will be interesting. I imagine he’ll have fewer hairs and I’ll have fewer pounds.

When I got to work, I received a call from Circus Boy. His calls are random and infrequent and rarely annoying because how can you hate an ex- that left you to join the circus? I’ll milk that story until the day I die. Anyway, he called to talk about the iPhone and then said, “my girlfriend read your blog and told me you sold your TV. Is that the big one you had in New York?”

How interesting can my life be to a girlfriend? Doesn’t it seem like a truly dysfunctional activity to read the blog of your boyfriend’s ex? I don’t get it. My life certainly isn’t that interesting. OK, maybe it is a tad more exciting than most married people’s lives. But god, you are in the CIRCUS and you get to see elephants crap and you catch the clowns ordering gay porn on the internet. That’s a rewarding day.

Driving home I figured it all out…. It’s a full moon. The strangeness in my life will never be eclipsed as long as I have ex’s around.

I met a 27 year-old boy last night for a date. They call me cougarlicious in the office and I was living up to it, until I did some basic math.

Junior was cute, sweet and said the right things. Like, “Wow, you totally look like you are 31 at the most.”

Nice.

We continued to talk and he leaned in to kiss me. It was a nice one until I realized there was a 14-year age gap between us. That means, if I were a whore in high school, Junior would actually be old enough to be my son.

Insert the Macaulay Culkin, Home Alone face-slapping scream here.

I’m back to the 10-years younger rule. Leave the multi-generational dating gaps to Hugh Heffner. I can’t handle it.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in more than three years. Yes, I’m a Hater. Women who have joined my no-mother cult have experienced similar exhilaration and relief after radio silence. However, we all have our sound bites to dodge the mainstream how’s-your-family questions.

Several days ago, I connected with a match.com guy who seemed delightful; tall, geeky, and from New York. During our first date, I decided I really, really liked him when he told me his dad was dead and he no longer talked to his mother.

I squealed with delight. I didn’t have to give my blanket “I don’t get home much” response. Instead, I smiled and said. “My dad is dead too and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years.”

“I’m at seven years. I’m an only child, so I call/hang up every once in a while to see if she answers the phone to know she’s dead or not,” he said.

“Oh, I just call my brother and ask ‘Is mom dead yet?'” I said. (My brother doesn’t have the Krazy Barbara Kryptonite like I do.)

We laughed and decided we’d have to meet again soon. And I imagine, if things go well, we’ll be crank calling our mothers. That’s when I’ll know we’re serious.