Dont Mince Words

… vas Indeferens

I’m neutral about the whole idea of spawning. I hate the fact my married-with friends live vicariously through me and start their sentences with, “I love my kids but…” I’ve seen friends and family age exponentially after creation of their nuclear family. I really like sex and love beer and those are two things I don’t see parents having a lot of. In addition, the thought of a kid hitting me up for keg money when I’m trying to retire scares the shit out of me. After all, that’s my hard-earned beer money.

We were on our third or fourth date when RC asked me about kids. I responded in a politically correct manner. “I suppose, with the right guy, I could have kids, but it’s also not my life’s goal to have them.” He smiled and responded with, “Well, if you want any, you better start dating someone else. I’ve got two and I’m done.”

I smiled with relief. But I smiled even harder when he said he’d get a vasectomy for me. You know they love you when they’ll let a sharp knife in the vicinity of their ball sack.

When asked if he liked kids, W.C. Fields responded, “I love children – medium rare.” I like mine every other weekend.

… this won’t hurt

I was in a discussion recently with some of my fellow independent contactor friends. We all love working for ourselves, but the universal item that drives us to look for traditional, full-time permanent work is the cost of health care.

Last night I was explaining this dilemma to RC. I went from a decent $589/month policy to a crap $92/month just-in-case-I-get-the-cancer policy with a $4,000 deductible. I don’t get sick, but routine things like peeing in a cup and getting my boob squished are going to have to be reviewed against my monthly budget. Nobody should live in fear of getting ill.

His solution was simple. “I can add you as a domestic partner on my policy,” he said.

Some people marry for a green card and insurance. Some people cross the border for health care. You know they love you when they are willing to add you to their insurance and you don’t have to clean their house or blow them for the privilege.

In LA, there’s a category of women I call “the meal hunters.” They date to eat. While a girl’s gotta eat, I’d rather stay home with unshaved legs and pop open a can of tunafish. I date to meet.

Last night I had a first date with a man who suggested we go to dinner. We ordered a beer, then I ordered an appetizer as my meal. The conversation flowed and in the middle of it all he said, “Wow, you really aren’t a hooker. You hardly eat.”

Most women would of been offended to be thought of as a meal-hunting hooker. I’m in touch with my inner whore and that comment didn’t bother me. I was flattered that he noticed my outstanding portion control talent. To celebrate, I ordered a second double barrel ale. Does that make me a beer whore?

When real guy started behaving like typical guy, I knew it was time to evaluate what I wanted against what we could accomplish together. When he said, “I’m not really a relationship guy,” I knew it was time to utter my favorite four-lettered word.

NEXT.

I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day until one of our programmers stated he couldn’t work in the evening because of love commitments. He asked me what I was going to do and I said, without hesitating, “I’m going to the gym to hang out with the fat, single people.”

The road to good intentions was almost paved with bruises when I got into a fight with some bimbolina over the last treadmill. It wasn’t the last treadmill, but the only one available overlooking the rock climbing wall which is the best eye candy location in the gym. I got it and she went to the other side of the floor.

For 60 minutes, I watched yummy men chalk their hands and scale the walls. This was much better than staring at couples waiting for their reservations at a restaurant.

I think I’ll come here next year. My long-term relationship with the gym seems to be working for me.