Dont Mince Words

In Los Angeles, we don’t make a move in our car without checking SigAlert. This useful website helps us plan around idiot drivers. What it doesn’t help with is the trouble we may find when we reach our destination.

I agreed to drive to Long Beach for a first date tonight. Going 34 miles in 80 minutes is good during rush hour. But I knew as soon as I got to the bar, the only thing this trip was good for would be the beer I would need to get through the date.

When he answered his cell phone, it was over. But traffic wasn’t. So I sat there another 40 minutes listening to a me-monologue while I mentally mapquested my way back home.

Without SigAlert as a gauge, I got out after my second beer and made it home in record time. I have good instincts for traffic and bad dates.

I retraced my steps trying to remember the exact moment I last touched my zipper.

7:30 p.m.

I went to the bathroom after dinner. Prior to flush, I became mesmerized by one of the mirror-mirrors on the wall in the women’s room of Father’s Office. I guess I forgot to zip up, but I did remember to button my jeans and flush.

It appears I spent the remaining three hours of my date with TGG (that gym guy) with my fly open. I had a black blouse on and black panties, so maybe everything blended. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t look there or pretended not to notice.

I see London, I see France

I see Marna’s underpants

On my mother’s first date with Mr. Harris, he locked his keys in the car with the engine running and she projectile vomited. Are my date limiting gestures going to continue to get worse as I get older?

What do I have to look forward to after a downed zipper? Gapping buttons? Marinara on the boob ledge? Hanging booger?

It appears I’m genetically inclined to make my dates more interesting the older I get.

Yippee.

You know, I’m so thankful that Al Gore invented the internet and that I have this blog to publicly air my successes and grievances. You know what else this blog has done for me? It’s put the fear of Goddess in every man that comes in contact with me.

What’s so different about a blog? It’s around for longer than a day. For instance, in high school, if a boy did something totally ridiculous, he was the laughing stock at lunch for, what, maybe a day or two and then it was forgotten. Stupidity has a little more permanence in the digital age.

I still remember my first date in California. It was August. We went bike riding and watched the sun set while drinking cheap Charles Shaw and eating cheese and crackers. As a newcomer, the date totally met my expectations of what a low-key, California date would be, until he whipped out his throbbing cock when he dropped me off at my apartment. I haven’t heard much from him since until he called the other day to make sure I was OK because I appeared to be angry in my EX Marks the Spot blog entry. “I’ve been keeping up with you through your blog. I hope you don’t mind.” The internet is a public space; read my blog. Just take care of that erection, will you? Men behaving badly. Down, boy, down.

A guy I went out with in December asked me, at the conclusion of our first date, “So, are you going to write about me in your blog?” He went back to the web site a few times to actually check. During our third date he asked if we were going to “get naked.” We didn’t and I haven’t heard much from him since. I wonder if he’s reading this now. More men behaving badly.

I realized the other day that I’ve been dating for 20 years. Twenty fucking years, but that’s really only three dog years. I have a treasure chest full of stories pre-internet. I have dated premature ejaculators, bi-polars, Type A’s, submissives, dominants, naughty/nice, thick/thin, hot/cold, and every personality type. I still don’t tire from dating because I have hope that, one day, these stories will end when I meet a guy that appreciates The Marn and can wait a few dates before he presents me with his special purpose.

A blog is no different than a water cooler or a telephone. Women talk. We always have, and we always will. Men are amazing creatures and they are worth writing about. Sometimes it seems we co-exist in tolerance. Don’t fault me if I see humor in it all.

Just wait until I show you mine.