Guest post: The Morrigan's nightmare date, Part II

Part I is here.

His face goes beet red and he turns to one side to respond. 'Uh, I'm at the restaurant now' which elicits an almost instantaneous response of 'We'll be right over.'

'WE'LL BE RIGHT OVER'???

Has this become a party? I'm just here for a platonic lunch and ONLY out of politeness because really, all I want to do is just go home, Avoid the Drama and sleep. I feel so dreadful by now that instead of selecting something from the menu, I'm considering asking for a priest. We order our food and talk.

He's still not at all inappropriate, at least not to my face. But I'm not liking that 'We'll be right over' thing and I'm having dark suspicions about the fact that (a) it's less than 12 hours since I've seen this man and a number of his friends already know about me (b) they think he picked me up (c) they know that we were meeting at this place for lunch (d) they will apparently be arriving to join us. I notice with alarm that although the sun is barely over the yardarm, this guy's already drinking.

Strike one.

Not ten minutes later, his best friend shows up and inspects me as if I were about to go up for auction. He likes what he sees to such an extent that he attempts (take a deep breath now girl) to give Adam a high five at the table with me sitting right there.

And although I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt and he's not directly responsible for his friend's appalling conduct, I'm not inclined to be all that generous, so this definitely counts as strike two.

WTF did this man say happened between us? He walked beside me for 4 blocks. That was IT. I have yet to shake his hand. Lunch was agreed to on the basis of the 'Friends only' caveat and I was EXCEPTIONALLY explicit about that.

His friend retreats, but not far. He sits at the bar some 10 feet from our table to watch us have lunch. This swiftly becomes not only irritating but unnerving as his friend (Brad) is constantly (a) drinking (b) on the cellphone juggling women and giving us 'progress reports' on how well he's doing with each of them.

By this time, I cannot imagine what the look on my face is like but I don't think I'm smiling. Adam leaves the table, walks over to Brad and says something. Brad goes outside for a while. Adam returns to the table and orders more alcohol.

I'm losing track of how many strikes we're at by now, but at the very least we're coming up to the seventh inning stretch and it's not going well for him at all.

Lunch (which was very good) is over and he asks if I would like to see the patio for a minute. I would rather just kill myself and be done with it, but polite to the core, I agree. I bring my diet coke to the patio and he orders *another* beer. With a shot to go along with it.

Then the rest of his friends start arriving, all saying some variation of 'Wow – is this the one? Score, dude!' right out loud in front of me. They attempt to impress me with tales of their recent trips to Hooters. Adam is not saying much and I'm saying NOTHING. He's shrinking visibly into his seat as his buddies continue to arrive and congregate at the table. Soon, there are 8 of us there: me and Adam, Brad, Brad's DAD and 4 of Adam's other friends.

They are saying things to me like 'Yeah, he said you were smoking hot, but man, you're so hot he must be paying you.' Clearly, this guy (a) is convinced that I'm out of his league (an opinion his friends share) and (b) has spent the night working the phones.

This leads me to believe that he has described me as so scorchingly hot that not only his friends BUT ALSO THEIR FATHERS have called bullshit on him to such a degree that honour requires that he produce me so they can see for themselves.

What follows is 20 minutes of relentless sexual harassment at the hands of his friends, which Adam does not even attempt to intervene in or stop. Uh, buddy, one of your friends just suggested that I was a prostitute and you don't have an opinion on that? He sits there mute and keeps trying to make himself smaller and smaller but doesn't ask anyone to shut up or leave and continues to drink. In fact, the drinking accelerates.

While it was an interesting anthropological exercise, I've been completely silent throughout it and after the said 20 minutes, I cannot take anymore for fear that this is the thing that will finally trigger the start of my killing spree, so I get up. 'Well, sounds like you guys have your afternoon planned. Have fun.' – a booze filled day of boating to take in the delights of a strip club there and a return trip with a hold full of smuggled alcohol – and I take my leave. There is a chorus of 'give her a kiss Adam' as I stand and prepare to depart, but by this time, Adam seems to understand that he will never lay eyes on me again if I have any say in the matter and has values his life sufficiently not to make the attempt. He knows he's blown it big time but I'm not sure he's clued into the fact that it's because he's invited the entire town out to gawk at me, insult me and stare at my breasts. I leave. He does not even try to make eye contact, but stares sheepishly into his beer as I depart and does not follow me (and I was half afraid he would).

This man does not have my number (thank God) and only the sketchiest idea of where I live. Given this horrific turn of events, I can no longer write at the same restaurant I did. That's no great loss but now I'm on the fence about going to the pyromaniac festival on Saturday night because I told him I would be there and I GUARANTEE he - and all of his friends - will be there looking for me.

Clearly, he could not believe his luck and although he did seem nice one-on-one, I'm going to give this guy a wide berth. The nonstop drinking, the incredibly boorish friends and the big mouth in this very small town add up to strikes one to three inclusive and I don't need to go there. Lunch was enough to persuade me that I've seen all I want to of Adam.

Unbelievable. I have *got* to get out of this town.

Guest post: The Morrigan's nightmare date, Part I

Hello all,

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been corresponding regularly with The Morrigan, the columnist of "I'm Not Bitter..." over at Heartless Bitches International. The Morrigan and I have been admiring each other's work from a distance for a while now, but I was prompted to email her directly when I found out that she was very ill and had been hospitalized. She emailed me to let me know that my blog had been keeping her company during her convalescence, and I was happy to hear that I'd made her laugh a little during a difficult time.

Writing has been keeping her sane while she's cooped up and healing, so I invited her to be a guest poster on my blog. She's got a couple of unpublished stories in her archives, and this one was too good to pass up. See, The Morrigan and I have similar difficulties with men, in that something about us inspires seriously bizarre male behavior. She thinks it must be our fate as redheads. You be the judge. Here's the first installment of her nightmare date.

I met up with HRH last evening ~ 5:30 and we chatted until about 7 or so. We met at the same place where I first encountered Dr. Love, who in fact wandered in and eyed us curiously from the bar. I pointed him out to HRH and told him the tale, which he found vastly amusing.

In any case, it was a lovely chat between two friends. It was nice to see him again.

After he left the premises, I stuck around to write and somehow wound up at the bar, being hit on by Dr. Love's protege, a rather belligerent fellow of about 30 whose romantic style reminded me very much of those old Wild Kingdom reruns where the elks are running around showing off their antlers and headbutting each other pointlessly in an attempt to catch the attention of some cow who was either in the vicinity because the grass looked tasty or she because was a spy and would lampoon them all later in a column.

With Dr. Love Jr. ('DLJ') was an acquaintance who was not much older (about 35) but MUCH older if you get my drift. He was covered in tattoos (including one on his neck, which made me wince: it must've hurt getting it done) but this one didn't say much. This second fellow (whose name was Adam) and I rolled our eyes at DLJ's views on women, which are somewhere between neolithic and single cell organism. Hard to imagine why Dr. Love Jr is single. Ay carumba.

In any event, after regaling me for about an hour with his plans to purchase a wife, some vestigial synaptic connection was finally made – i.e. DLJ realized that there was no way I was going to do him even for practice, no matter how many bags of Doritos he dangled in front of me – and he left.

This left me with Adam, who began talking. And turned out to be rather interesting. He looks exactly like a big scary biker – OMG, that's another thing! On no less than 4 separate occasions, I was offered a variety of illicit substances – weed, mushrooms, hash. This MUST just be Lasalle. Surely to God I don't have the furtive look of a dope fiend to the extent that complete strangers are approaching me of their own accord to freely suggest that I partake of controlled drugs/substances. I'm telling you, if this place were within the WPS purview, one undercover guy on one night could net at least a handful of arrests. It was unreal. And all very friendly too. This appears to be Lasalle's version of the Welcome Wagon. 'Hi! New in town? Have a blunt.' And this wasn't just being proffered as a romantic gesture either, like a civilized man might bring me flowers. This was being suggested by old timers, knitting grannies, the waitress. Maybe living with my mother has taken more of an obvious toll on me than I'd realized.

But back to my evening.

At some point around 9, a woman named Bern came in with her friend Jeanne. Bern was not quite 50 and Jeanne was well into her late 60s.

*BTW: Adam is surreptitiously buying me beer all night long and I'm drinking it.*

There are three things with Bern: One – she just lost one of her three children at the age of 21 and is obviously quite deeply mired in the grieving process; two – her husband is a cheating shitbag and three – she hasn't figured out she's a lesbian yet.

She and Jeanne and I talked for about 90 minutes and by this time, it must be said, I'm accumulating quite a snootful. I'm not drunk by any means, but I don't do this often and one is generally my limit. I'd say by this time, I'd had about 3.

Bern and I discussed the nature of loss and grieving for a while and once that got too obviously upsetting for her, we moved on to women's golf. (And I rest my case.) She kept insisting, puzzlingly and right out of the blue, that she was straight though you could see from space that this woman was as gay as they come. Which is fine. But admit it to yourself at the very least, woman, for the love and honour of God. It cannot be fun living a lie like that.

I heard all about her cheating husband, who was a shop steward in one of the car factories and how he was carrying on and what THAT whole experience was like. Specifically, she expounded at great length about her suspicions and how he was 'pulling away from her' physically and emotionally for the year and a half before they split, which I found absolutely fascinating.

Don't ask me why people tell me these things: they just do.

By this time, it was getting on to midnight and I knew I was in Big Trouble with my mother. All of a sudden, I'm 17 again, but really: what am I doing wrong? I'm sitting in a bar, talking to a closeted lesbian, a pot smoking grandmother and a lavishly tattooed guy who keeps buying me drinks. Apparently this is how people pass the time in Lasalle when Dancing with the Stars isn't on.

Bern and Jeanne leave and it's me and Adam again.

Even though this guy looks as scary as hell, he strikes me as a gentle giant. A mechanic by trade, he is newly divorced with 3 small children. I get him to stop buying me drinks. We talk about Bern's son, whom he knew. Some old timer staggers by and offers us a joint, which we decline. (I'm telling you: I don't want to harsh anyone's buzz but I don't think Times Square sees this much action.)

OK, so it's past 1 now and the thought of facing my mother has instantly sobered me up. Adam asks me out to lunch (today at noon) and after warning him that I stay single deliberately as a public service to men everywhere and extracting from him an undertaking that he is to have no romantic illusions about the nature of 'lunch', I accept. He offers to walk me home. I accept. I'm pretty tuned in to danger when it comes to the male of the species and this guy is not ringing any of my bells. Besides, it's a few blocks along a well-lit route.

You can tell he doesn't quite know what to make of me. He laughs a lot over the course of the entire evening, but says nothing either stupid or inappropriate. This makes him nearly unique in the world of men. Apart from asking me out to lunch, he does not hit on me. Eye contact is maintained at all times. He never tries to lay a finger on me. He speaks well of his ex wife, which is heroic considering that they've been broken up for less than a year and his youngest isn't quite 2 yet.

So he walks me home, but he questions me at least twice about whether or not I'm actually going to show up at lunch. I remind him of the friends only terms, he agrees to them again and I assure him I'll be there. I leave him at the corner a block from the house in case my mother is peering out the curtains (a distinct possibility, even though it's now at least half past one in the morning and she usually goes to bed at 10).

I am not intoxicated.

I've had 5 beers over the course of as many hours but the fragrance of the tavern is thick upon me. I slip the key into the lock and BANG! my mother's on me like a tigress, flicking the light on and standing there in her outrage and loud cotton nightgown asking me the following questions: Do I know what time it is? Have I been drinking? How did I get home?

I breeze past her, somewhat surprised that she doesn't have a breath tech cooling his heels in the kitchen, but she follows me. She scrutinizes me with the intensity of a commandant at a POW camp, so of course I blame the whole thing on HRH and blithely claim we've been out this whole time having deep discussions about Reasonable and Probable Grounds and s.8 of the Charter. I go to the bathroom just to check the status of things and discover that my eyes have turned Eraserhead red, which no doubt has piqued her suspicions.

Again: I've done nothing wrong. But she's making me feel like I've spent the evening trolling for customers along Wyandotte. She's not sure she's buying the whole chatting with a judge angle, but by this time it's the middle of the night and she's tired. She makes a strategic retreat and I go to bed.

It's nearly 7 now and I haven't slept yet. As mentioned, I don't do this often.

A word about hangovers.

Normally, one sleeps first and wakes up to the awful pounding head and the parched mouth. I've stayed awake and felt mine grow, kind of like being cast in one of those horrible fast motion Chia pet commercials.

I knew I was going to be subjected to the third degree the next day if I didn't beat her out of the house. I already knew that if I tried to sleep this off, she would only barge into the room with the vacuum and busily begin 'cleaning'. The woman's a fiend who knows no pity.

But because she's so suspicious and is an expert interrogator and has devoted her life to torturing me, I've developed a few tricks of my own. For instance: I didn't allow her to get much information out of me last night. While I maintain that I wasn't intoxicated, I wanted to make sure to Keep It Simple so as not to contradict myself when she put me to the rack today.

Soon I will flee. This is not by choice.

What I really want to do is take a flamethrower to my head and make a vow before some congregation or other that I Will Never Drink Again then sleep for a day, but I appear to have a lunch date.

My lunch date...OMG.

I got to the restaurant early because I wanted to read the Globe coverage on the rough ride that Congress is giving Bush over the proposed buyout. Although it's ridiculously crowded, I find a table. I sit down and start reading though I'm so hideously hung over that focusing is difficult.

Adam shows up and joins me. We begin to talk.

Almost immedately, the walkie talkie he's carrying crackles to life with 'Hey Dude, did that hot chick you picked up last night show up?' This inquiry is broadcast at concert volume throughout the entire restaurant.

Tune in for Part II, this week!

Friday funny (and true)

I just love Pajiba, the movie review and pop culture website. It features a very funny series called Pajiba's Guide to Getting You Laid, which is frankly hysterical. The latest installment, I Am The Clit Commander!, is written by the Pajibettes and geared towards bepenised readers who would like new tips on how to approach women. The entry begins thusly:

We know better than anyone that all women are different, so we are going to introduce to you different species of the most intriguing creatures of humanity and guide you through what works for us - when aunt Flo isn’t in town.

A very good start, no question. This particular section had me in stitches:

Species: The Mid-to-Late 30s Career Woman
Where you can find her: The Grocery Store, Sur Le Table, Your Office
How to approach her: Side note, guys — before doing anything, check for a ring. I repeatedly hear men my age and younger say they don’t even think to look for a ring. Baffling. Unless you’re just practicing hitting on a woman, scope out the left hand first.

She’s probably heard all the lines before, so you’re going to have to get creative. Humor usually works and depending on the woman, the helpless act can get you some attention. What doesn’t work? Obvious flattery or overt innuendo. Originality and Subtly are your friends.

Ask for her opinion on wine, spices, cheese, or baking items. Don’t ask opinions on vegetables (yes, we’ve all heard how big your cucumber/zucchini/jalapeno is. Please see above for originality) and avoid making small talk about stomach remedies or feminine products you’re buying for your mom. Offering to carry a heavy box for us will get you bonus points. Yes, equal opportunity is great, but we still like having a man carry heavy stuff for us.

This chick’s unlikely to hook up with you after your first encounter, but you’re probably a shoe-in to get digits and arrange a date. We’re liable to think you’re just a nice guy and aren’t really hitting on us unless you make the first overture toward a date. Don’t be fooled by the “unwed by choice” older woman. We’re not all in a race to sink our claws in to get us a husband and Baby-On-Board sign for our mini-vans. We’ve been around the block and are quite comfortable being on our own, but sometimes we want a little sump’n, sump’n, too. Know what I’m sayin’?

If you’re lucky enough to get the call to the Majors - hang on tight. Women in their 30s and 40s tend to be more comfortable with their bodies and their sexuality. We don’t mind telling you what we want and making sure that you’re getting what you need. When everyone’s done and satisfied, you don’t need to spend the night, but don’t trip over your pants running out the door. We enjoy basking in the afterglow, light cuddling and talking a bit. If you’re good at this part too, you can bet you’ll be added to the speed dial in her cell phone.

My name is Ginger, and I approve this message. Read the whole thing if you'd also like to learn how to hit on other female species, such as the 22-year old intellectual disguised with sparkly makeup, the emotional ugly duckling, and the punk chick. It's all very entertaining and well written.

Getting advice

Dating is hard everywhere, for everybody. I know very few people who found their partner early, and even fewer who managed to stay happy. I've always been a quirkyalone, so why do I even date? It's because I know from experience that being in love, and having that love requited, can be pretty fab. It makes food taste better, makes colors seem brighter, rattatat-boom and all that goodness. That is why, even though I think that dating feels like diving into an Olympic swimming pool full of razors, swimming twenty laps, then showering in a bucket of lemon juice, I keep at it.

I had a rather amusing email conversation on this topic with Steve, a friend and former coworker who is gay and in a committed, healthy, happy relationship. Steve keeps it real, his husband Jay is a blast, and their kids - two little weiner dogs - are adorable. I tend to be the person in my social circle who plays armchair psychologist, so it's nice for me to have somebody that I can go to for advice and reassurance every once in a while.

Steve: Sorry I missed your call last night - we were both a little frazzled and just sitting down to eat.

Me: No worries. Want to do lunch this week?

Steve: Next week would be better, assuming I'm still here. I think I'm booked, but you never know.

Me: Awesome. I'm glad they extended you! I'm down for next week. Did you vote yesterday?

Steve: Yes I did.... with the dogs. They both got stickers.

Me: I knew your dogs were patriots. So, please help me out with this...what is up with guys out here? They can't close. They're all "heeeeeyyyyy", but don't actually ask you out. If they do, they don't call to confirm. They don't come up with any ideas for the date. They expect the chick to do everything. Where are the hunters? The ones who say "I dig you and I want to take you to [whatever] restaurant on Friday." I'm a New Yorker, I don't have time for bullshit. It's like passive aggressive Peter Pan syndrome out here. HELP.

Ed note: Yes, I am aware that women can ask men out. I myself have done that several times. Here's the problem that I've experienced - if I do the asking, the guy either freaks out because he thinks I'm already in love with him, or he assumes that he's automatically getting laid. I thought the whole purpose of a date was to get to know somebody, or see if there's any chemistry? Have drinks, maybe an appetizer, keep it short, no pressure? Sounds good on paper, but it doesn't seem to work. Not for me, anyhow.

Steve: I can't help you out because it's just as bad on the gay side. Maybe worse, because guys are naturally sleazier. I had pretty much given up before I met Jay.

Me: Goddammit. I can't even become a cat lady because I'm allergic to cats!

Steve: There's always birds. You could be a Bird Lady.

Me: Tuppence a bag!

Steve: More like a pound sterling with inflation.

Me: Well, at least I'll be a rich crazy bird lady.

Steve: True. Maybe I should look into it because I'm never going to get rich in this business anymore.

Me: Lawd, yes. Whenever a young whippersnapper asks me, "do you have any advice for me in this business?", I say "Invest well," 'cause you never know. Can I print our crazy bird lady convo in my blog? Because I just reread it and laughed. I know my readers would enjoy it.

Steve: Judging by the stock market lately I'm not even sure that's good advice. And by all means blog me.

Me: You rock. I will make ya famous! So, I got a rather depressing email from my friend Patrick, which basically said, "Lower your standards." SAD FACE. Lower than the guy who asked me for a bj over drinks? Lower than the guy who pushed his vegetables around on his plate and barely spoke to me on our second date? Lower than the guy who had three kids by the time he was 27 (never married) and "didn't know why?". DO NOT WANT.

Steve: Honey I can top that - I met the man of my dreams many years ago only to discover he was an "Adult Baby".... he wanted me to diaper him!

Me: Yeah, you win.

Steve: Could have been worse.... could have been a "plushie."

Me: Hahahaha....I'm going to wind up sharing my bed with stuffed animals. Andy Dick makes my dates look well adjusted.

Steve: I think it's just LA. I think that's why I want to leave. I'm over this town.

Me: I may stow away in your suitcase.

Dammit, California, you have a gorgeous coastline, ethnic diversity, great food, beautiful mountains and terrific weather. Please do not make me pay for it all with a Crazy Man Tax!

Gay man seeks straight woman to share closet

Hello!
Cheers to all of you new readers who've found my site via Linnaeus' post on Feministe. Welcome!

All has been quiet on the dating front lately, since I haven't been able to find a suitable candidate to go out with. I recently corresponded with a gentleman named Matt, a 41 year old TV editor who wants to be "inspired" by a partner. His profile says, "I'm not broke, and I've got a big smile." Aaah, the bar, it is set so low after a few bad dates. I can confirm from his picture that he is, in fact, quite toothsome. He seemed keen, so after a few emails back and forth, I gave him a call. He didn't pick up, so I left a message.

He called back a few minutes later, half asleep. Strike one! Wake up before you call me, dude! He also had hay fever, so our entire conversation was punctuated by the sound of him blowing his nose. Strike two! Listen, I have allergies, so I can sympathize, but I try to clear out my sinuses before calling a potential date. "So where are you frub? PPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!" Is not appealing. Blow your nose first!

Another thing - I think he might be gay.

By which I mean, in denial of his gay essence, trying to be Teh Straight. He was certainly enthusiastic and chatty. He is very proud that he his vocabulary is full of "SAT words", and this is a good thing. Smart works for me. Here's the problem: He ended? All his sentences? On a high pitch? As if everything he said? Was a question? He asked me if I'd seen "Wicked"; I told him I hadn't but had heard it was good. He then told me that he'd seen it three times, and it was "the best thing ever."

UM. Insert "Friend of Dorothy" joke here! Strike threeeeeeee!!!

Listen, my dad took the family down to Broadway almost every year to see a show, and he's straight as an arrow. Great Thespian And Irish Hottie Kenneth Branagh is one of my fantasy boyfriends. God bless the cultured straight men! But to say? That you're obsessed? With a particular MUSICAL? Pings my gaydar big time.

He also collects puppets. UMMM...

YERRRRR OUT!!!!

How do these guys find me? I am lucky enough to have loads of fabulous gay friends. Maybe he could smell my haggerati status right through the internets? Or perhaps he saw my picture, with my fierce red hair all done up and curled, and thought, "Debra Messing!".

Bitch, I AM NOT GRACE. Two snaps down!

UPDATE: After reading this post, one of my very fabulous gay friends wrote me to say, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAHAH! That thing is THE GAY." Glad my gaydar is still in working order.

Not on the menu‏

Dear readers, pray for me. I am back on the dating scene.

I realize that I've taken a lengthy, unplanned hiatus from this blog, and I've missed the stress relief that comes from writing (as well as the many laughs that I get from reading your comments). Life is finally quieting down. I've been busy with family and work issues, and the holidays are an additional headache to deal with. I'm looking forward to flying to New York (for what feels like the millionth time this year!) to see the fam for Christmas. I hope you are all enjoying your holidays.

This year, I also took an extended hiatus from dating. I wasn't interested, frankly; I also had a very overscheduled life between February and November of this year. Regarding my romantic life, I figured that if something happened, it happened, and if it felt right, I would welcome it.

Well, nothing happened, and by the time I noticed, the year was almost over. One of my single sisters suggested the matchmaking site that she was using. I was hesitant, considering the spotty results that I've had with online dating in the past. However, this was a different site than the one I had used before, and my friend was enjoying some positive results, so I thought I'd give it a try. I put up a profile near the end of October.

To my absolute shock, I have gotten over 150 emails, which is a lot to sift through. But you know what they say; quality trumps quantity. Attention is only flattering when it's coming from somebody that you have a jones for. Truth be told, I have gotten a few emails from rather cute, normal-sounding guys. I went into my first few dates with high hopes.

It didn't take long for my freak attracting pheromones to work their magic.

I went on a date with John, a 44 year old, African American man who is divorced and has a 20 year old son. He works in aerospace engineering quality control. He had beautiful hazel eyes and a great smile; his profile said that he was a 'true gentleman'. He drove almost an hour to meet me for drinks, because he didn't want me to have to drive. I thought that was a lovely gesture. I was looking forward to this date.

We met at a bar/restaurant near my home; we hugged hello and got a table. He wanted to have dinner, which threw me off because I'd made it clear that I just wanted to have drinks. When I'm meeting a man for the first time, I like to keep it short - around an hour. That way, if there's no chemistry, you just part ways. No flag, no foul. I figured that I could get an appetizer. What could go wrong?

Readers, I am way too optimistic.

For one thing, the conversation was really awkward. John would stare at me for extended periods of time without speaking, and I would try to fill the weird silences with questions. When he did speak, he seemed to open his mouth for the sole purpose of putting his foot in it. I now give you a snippet of our dinner conversation, verbatim:

Me: "So, what are you up to in the next few weeks?"
John: "I'm headed to Vegas for work next month."
Me: "Oh! I was there in August. A friend of mine had her bachelorette party there. We stayed at the Paris Hotel and had a blast. Everywhere we went, there was a different group of guys having a bachelor party buying us drinks. The bride's mom came along and danced up a storm with the boys. We actually met some really nice people."
John: "Did you act out?"
Me: "Um. Act out?"
John: "You know. Did you misbehave?"
Me: "Are you asking whether I had sex with a random stranger?"
John: *smiles creepily*
Me: "UM. Not my style."
John: "So, you're not the kind of woman who fucks a guy on the first date?"
Me: (incredulous) "Uh, no."
John: "So, you're conservative."
Me: "If you call being unwilling to risk my health and physical safety with a relative stranger being conservative, I'm on the religious right."
John: "So, I'm a stranger?"
Me: "AND you're strange."

I played it off with humor, but about ten minutes later, he asked, "So I guess a blowjob is out of the question?"

OH MY GOD.


Uh, dude? YOU'RE out of the question. I must have looked horrified, because he tried to backpedal like he had been joking. I didn't buy it. We all know that guys use humor with women to test boundaries. He had crossed mine.

That's an early foray back into the dating scene, kids.

SHUDDER.

UPDATE:Perhaps this incident is part of a phenomenon? All signs point to yes.

Till dessert do us part

About six months ago, I went out with a guy called Andy. He had been interested by my online profile; he was very complimentary, seemed to have a healthy sense of humor, and to my great relief, was able to write in complete sentences (a skill which eludes many of my suitors). Andy lived in Long Beach, and I'm in West Hollywood; we couldn't decide on a place to meet halfway, so Andy decided to drive out to meet me in my neighborhood.

Although we hadn't yet met in person, Andy wanted to take me to dinner. For reasons that I explained in a previous post, I don't like being taken out to dinner by men I've just met. I guess Andy had caught me at a weak moment; he convinced me, saying that he'd be coming out right after work. It was a long drive, and he'd be hungry. That sounded reasonable enough. I insisted on a casual, inexpensive atmosphere, and he agreed. We made plans to meet on a Thursday evening.

I had given Andy directions to North End Pizza, a small, cozy pizza parlor/restaurant a few blocks from my apartment building. I figured we could have a few slices and drinks and get to know each other. He seemed ok with that; the place is very cute, and it's got a surprisingly large menu for such a small joint. When the waitress came over to take our order, Andy asked for a glass of wine, but North End didn't serve it; I can't remember whether they were out, or if they just don't have a liquor license. I'm not much of a drinker, so I didn't care, but Andy wanted to drink. We bailed on North End and walked about three blocks to another small Italian restaurant that serves alcohol.

Andy ordered his wine, and we split a salad to start. The conversation was going well at first - we talked about our careers, where we had traveled, where we were from, his kids (he has two). Normal first date chatter. But as we talked, Andy got four full refills of wine - before our food showed up. As we ate, he drank three more. He didn't seem to be enjoying the wine with the meal; it was more like he was knocking them back - guzzling more than drinking. Yeah, I know some men can hold a lot of liquor, but we're talking about a one hour stretch of time here, and Andy wasn't a very big guy. And, really, doesn't anyone care about first impressions anymore?

I asked him if he'd be ok to drive; I certainly wasn't going to have a complete stranger asking to crash on my couch because he'd gotten sloppy drunk at dinner. Andy insisted that he was fine, that he'd had a long week and just wanted to "relax".

"Why so tense?" I asked. Eight glasses of merlot in forty-five minutes is a lot of relaxation, and Andy still seemed a little jittery (readers, I sure do attract the nervous ones, don't I?). He'd already explained to me that he was going through a career change, but he was happy about that. "What else is going on?"

"Well, my wife and I just separated," he replied. "I left the house this week."

"You...this week??" I was stunned. "Your profile says that you're 'divorced'."

"Yeah, well, we're going to get a divorce." He went on to explain that he was flopping at a cousin's place while pondering his next move.

"Well, Andy, maybe you shouldn't be dating." I was incredulous. Readers, I don't "do" married, for all of the obvious reasons. This guy had been separated for about two seconds. Walking out the door doesn't end your marriage; it takes a little more work than that. Yes, I know that I have no personal experience with this, but I've watched plenty of people go through it; it's a bit of a process. Plus, in this case, there were children involved.

"Yeah...well, I want to move on," said Andy, with a meaningful grin (as he started on his ninth glass of wine). Dude, are you kidding me? Half your stuff is still with your wife, the other half is in boxes at your cousin's, and I'm suppressing an urge to offer you a funnel for that wine. Thankfully, we were just about done with our meal by then. I changed the subject; we talked pleasantly, and I made no further mention of the fact that I was, for all intents and purposes, on a date with a married man. I walked Andy back to his car to say goodbye and then walked home, shaking my head and wondering what, exactly, God wants from me.

The next morning, I wrote Andy an email:
"Hi Andy, thank you for coming out to meet me for dinner. I always enjoy meeting new people, and you were great to talk to. However, I do feel that we're at different places in our lives right now, and just aren't compatible. I do wish you the best. Ginger."

He wrote back, later that day:
"Yeah, Ginger, it was nice to meet you too. I'm kind of disappointed that you don't want to see me again, but I can understand your viewpoint. I guess I should have lied, huh? Ha ha. Well, good luck. Andy."

I'm always amazed at people who jump right back into dating when the dead body of their previous relationship is barely cold. Maybe Andy's marriage had been dead for years. I can't judge that, and I'll never know. But I just couldn't hazard a second date with a Andy. All that baggage would be too damn heavy, and my liquor cabinet is too small!

Love and Marriage

I've never been married. Two of the guys I've been involved with were very into the idea, but I said no both times. I'm certainly not anti-marriage, but I've seen good, bad and ugly ones, and the whole concept of intertwining my life so completely with another person scares me. My parents, who had a good marriage, provided a terrific example for my sister and I to follow - particularly because they were open and honest about the tremendous amount of effort, compromise and love that it takes to stay married. Those of you who have already jumped into the deep waters of matrimony, I salute you.

Despite the fact that "marriage is a boat with a 50% chance of sinking" (my dad's words), getting married is expected, considered "normal" in our culture (unless you're gay, God forbid! ~sarcasm~). No question, marriage comes with its joys as well as its difficulties. But the institution itself is status quo, accepted as something that you "just do" when you're grown, one of the final rites of passage into adulthood (until the kids come, which is also expected). My saying "no" to marriage thus far has caused considerable head-shaking among many of my elders, and some of my peers. But it has really been a no-brainer for me. First of all, I've got ants in my pants, as my mother used to say. Up until this point in my life, I've been tremendously restless, needing to be constantly on the move and meeting new people, discovering new places. I also feel deeply that there's a light that has to dawn, a new awareness within me, a feeling of "eureka!", if you will - that will tell me that my life will be better with this particular man in it. That just hasn't happened to me yet.

I'm not afraid of such an intense feeling taking me by surprise, and I'm not afraid of it never coming at all. I'm always amazed when people suggest that I'd be "happier" or "complete" if I were married. I always reply, "Compared to whom?". My family taught me that if you want a marriage to work, you have to enter it already whole. I'm plenty happy, and although I really mean that, just saying it makes me feel like I'm defending myself, which is silly! I've got a great job, wonderful friends and a terrific family. I travel, volunteer, write, and dance. I laugh loudly. I'm grateful for every day. Marriage is, to me, a different lifestyle, not a superior (or inferior) one. It's not for everybody. I still don't know whether or not it's for me. When I go on a date, I'm not auditioning a husband. I'm looking for somebody that I can really connect with, that I can be a better person with. When I find that, maybe marriage will follow. Maybe not. I'll take it one day at a time. So many things in our lives are beyond our control - we can never truly know how we'll feel about today's choices later in life. The fact that nothing in our lives will stay the same, and that we only have today, are our only guarantees.

Whew! I just wanted to post this little marriage quiz for your enjoyment. But after taking it myself, I started to think, and this post turned out to be a little longer than I had expected! Check it out: many of the answers may surprise you! I'd also love to hear from the married and single people out there. What are your thoughts? Please comment!

Online freaks

I make no bones about the fact that I'm an online dater. By no means is that my only method of finding men to go out with - I've met guys at work, at clubs, through friends, on the street, at the supermarket, while volunteering. I've been set up; I've gone on blind dates, group dates, and double dates. By the time you're in your 30s, you've experienced almost every dating situation ever devised by humanity.

Some people think that online dating is impersonal and weird, but it's a godsend for those of us with busy lives. It's beautiful in its simplicity - you put your profile and pictures up, and voila! People with similar interests email you.

That's the theory, anyway. Truth be told, I've met plenty of nice guys since putting my profile up on a certain popular nationwide dating site. But the freaks, they always find me. Which brings me to the number one reason that I appreciate online dating: screening. If a potential date seems nuts, I simply delete him. No muss, no fuss; no excuses and no explanations. No worrying about feeeeeeeeelings, since I've never even met him. That may sound cold, but readers, I swear that I am not a callous woman, and have only used my powers for good. Here are just a few specimens whom I've deleted:

From a guy called "Ben":
hi please give me one chance!!!
"Hi how u doing, look im really good guy, and Ive been here in usa, for the last 10 years, but right now, I need a litle help, what happen is that I dont have a legal papers to work here, Im looking for some one to marrie me to help me to get my legal status, please consider this offer, I can give a new car for payment, Im desperate to fix my legal status, well if u want to talk more about it, send me a massage at xxxxxxxxx@yahoo.com thanx for your time, hope u do good."

Isn't that romantic? He's already proposing and we haven't even met! What do you call that - "love at first non-sight"? Is a new car supposed to cover the cost of a lifetime of fidelity and commitment? Am I, like the car, a product to be exchanged? He didn't even post a picture so that I could take a look at the kind of nutjob who would email such an insane request to a complete stranger. Sorry Ben, you will not get that one chance. Hope u do good. DELETE!

From a dude with the very suave screen name "Qualitybrides":
Just a quick Hello
"Hey Girlfriend, What'z Up? Quality here close to U! LOL Yah Just around the corner! (maybe) So, East Coast Huh? Well, I'z born & raised here in Cali & finally get a chance to travel all over! Thanks to my JOB! LOL I love the East Coast, Maybe cuz not enough time over there. Hey, Said just a Quick Hello, So give U a chance to respond! Que No? LOL Quality here at; xxxxxx@yahoo.com waiting! LOL"

Que no? Oh, I'll tell you que no. First of all, you call yourself "Qualitybrides". I can imagine how this date would go. Ginger and Quality agree to meet; Ginger shows up to have drinks with Quality; Quality slips a roofie into Ginger's martini; Ginger is forced into Quality's car and is subsequently kidnapped by an international sex trafficking ring. Sex traffickers get to travel all over, thanks to their JOB! LOL! Well, Quality, thanks for the offer, but I choose to DELETE! LOL

From a kid in Egypt called "Wafa":
hi angel for u
"hi Ginger my name is Wafa from egypt iam 23y old ilove to meet u some day and i love to spek sent your email my mail wafa@yahoo.com i love art & musc & sport & spek to matura woman iam here for search sweet angel haert it can be u see u soon ;- )"

My poor Wafa. You seem like a sweet, romantic young thing, and gentle souls like yours are increasingly hard to come by in this hardened and cynical world. But as my profile clearly states, I don't do long distance, and YOU LIVE IN EGYPT. Besides which, even though I could barely understand a word you wrote, I have a feeling that "matura woman" translates into "mommy issues". I love art & music & sport too, but I'm going to have to DELETE. Please don't be sad. ;- )

From someone who calls himself "Fry":
NO MORE SERVICE
"HOWS IT GOING.MY PROFILE WILL PROBALLY STILL BE THERE TO LOOK AT.IM CANCELLING THIS SERVICE TOMMOROW.IF YOU MIGHT WANT TO TALK OR THINK IM INTERESTING YOU CAN MAIL ME DIRECT AT xxxxx@PRODIGY.NET.HAVE A GOOD ONE."

Um, Fry? I'm getting the feeling that you've *maybe* had a few bad online dating experiences. It's happened to me too; I sympathize, I really do. SO STOP YELLING AT ME! DELEEEEEEEEEETE! HAVE A GOOD ONE!

From "Willy":
hi
"Wow, Are you for real? You will have to talk me into doing the things I don't like to do that you do. Man I hope I said that right. I am the 5th generation carpenter in my family and I want to do something else. The Illegal immigrants have ruined the construction industry here in America. I play guitar and sing in a country band. And I hope to do some acting. And finish my education. And I hope to be a cook. And I am a writer I have 3 film Ideas. And I am a poet. I assure you I am a gentleman my Mom taught me."

Well Willy, you may think you're gentleman, but you are also a racist with an identity crisis. Your mom should have taught you to relax. Yes, I'm for real. DELETE.

And finally, from "Reggie":
hi
"just wanted 2 say hi...u said u were creative...i need help. go 2 my website and tell me what u think!!"
Soul Food

Ok Reg, here's what I think; a man who would introduce himself to a strange woman in this way does need help - the kind that comes in pill form. But if I ever want to learn how to cook oxtails, I will definitely look you up.

Till then, DELETE!

"Check, please."

I lived in Boston for eight years. It's a compact and energetic city that features a tremendous amount of American history and culture. Bostonians are used to visitors and transplants; Quincy Market/Faneuil Hall is the second most popular tourist destination in the continental United States, after Disney World. One of the great things about moving there as a young'un was that most of the people I met were in my age group. Thanks to the 140 colleges scattered throughout the greater Boston area, roughly half of the city's population is under the age of 35. That type of environment made it tremendously easy to make new friends, and even strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, whether I was waiting for the "T" (the Boston subway system), shopping at the Prudential Center, or watching street performers in Harvard Square. It's very easy to adjust to a small city with so many historic spots and cultural events, especially one that's inhabited by an athletic, youthful population intent on going out and having fun after a long work or school day.

Boston is also freezing cold for at least five months out of the year. Nor'easters (that's pronounced "Naw-EEE-stahs" by the natives) bring shitloads of snow and brutal Arctic winds down to New England by way of Canada. With temperatures that can get down to -30 degrees with the wind chill, New Englanders spend a lot of time indoors between October and April. It's a weather pattern that encourages the general population to pair up for the winter. A good number of Bostonians like to ski, ice skate and snowboard, but they enjoy their 'indoor sports' as well, and as you've read, the indoor sports season lasts quite a while in New England. The prospect of spending five months' worth of evenings watching snow fall and listening to gale force winds rattling your window panes is a lot more palatable if you're sharing the experience with another warm body - preferably under a thick blanket, hot chocolate in hand.

While I was living there, the boston.com personals was one of the more popular ways for overworked young professionals to acquire a cuddle partner before the first frost. Until the early aughts, I had never gotten into online dating; it just didn't seem necessary in a city where I was always meeting new people so easily. Then again, I didn't want to date most of the guys I was meeting, so why not try something new? My singles scene partner in crime, a gorgeous and hotheaded Latina named Tabitha, got on my case to try it. She set up a starter profile for me, which had a screen name - Missgingerlime - that she had created for me, and the appalling tagline "Is it hot enough for you?" under my picture. It made me laugh, but I had to sign into my profile and edit it. I wound up filling out the entire thing and posting it, curious to see what would happen.

In March of 2003, well into a brutally stormy winter, I started corresponding with Joe. I had been getting lots of emails from stoned and bloated frat boys just looking for a quick fuck, so Joe stood out; he was a former corporate lawyer who had left that profession to do social work. At the time, he was counseling teenagers at a halfway house downtown. I've got a serious humanitarian streak - I work with the homeless here in LA, and have done plenty of volunteer work in the past - so I was impressed. It didn't hurt that he was also cute, with thick, curly dark hair and a square jaw. Dear readers, I love me a square jaw on a man, oh yes I do. Joe and I had grown up in the same area of New York, and had gone to the same college, but we had never met. After a few "wow, we have so much in common!" - themed emails, we decided we'd like to meet face to face.

Joe wanted to take me to dinner. Having not met him in person yet, I wasn't really into that idea. The thing about online dating is, no matter how great your phone or email conversations have been, you're still essentially going on a blind date. You can't get a read on the chemistry between you until you've spent a little time together. I was more partial to just meeting at Au Bon Pain for an hour. I would rather pay for my own cup of tea and muffin, chat for a bit, and then if it's not working out, I can just say so. No flag, no foul. I don't feel guilty and he doesn't feel used. On the other hand, if we're both feeling it and he'd like to take me out to dinner on our second date, then fine. Dear bepenised readers, I do not view you all as free dinners with legs. I've been a feminist pretty much since I was conceived, and have always practiced what I preach. I bought my crush a box of chocolates for Valentine's Day in the fifth grade, and when I invited a college guy to be my date to my senior prom, I paid for the tickets, because he was the invitee. See, I started young. Sure, I have had guys insist on paying when I'm the one who asked them out, and no, I do not stomp my feet and sing "I Am Woman" at the top of my lungs when that happens. I smile and say "Thank you, you didn't have to do that," and I mean it. My basic guideline is, when you're the one doing the inviting, regardless of gender, paying is the right thing to do.

I digress. Anyway, Joe was the one doing the asking this time. I told him that I would prefer a more casual first meeting, but he said that really wanted to take me out to dinner. I offered lunch as a compromise, and he seemed ok with that idea. We were both working close to Boston's Theater District, so we decided to meet at the Bennigan's across from the Shubert Theater. There was nowhere to eat in the Theater District at that time except Bennigan's, PF Chang's and Dunkin' Donuts. So, we set a date.

I took the T down to the Boylston Street station on a blustery but sunny Wednesday afternoon. As I walked down Tremont Street, the frigid wind whipped my hair into a tangled mess and made my eyes tear. Getting gussied up to go out in Boston is an exercise in futility; either you're getting rained on, snowed upon, blown about, or melted by humidity. I got to Bennigan's early and made a quick dash to the ladies' room to fix the damage.

When I came out, Joe was waiting in the foyer. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie. Freshly shaven and clean cut, the stereotypical lawyer look. We exchanged hellos and got a table. The conversation was fine at first; a basic re-hashing of everything we had emailed each other. Joe seemed kind of jittery, though. He tapped his fingers on the table and on the menu nonstop, and didn't make a lot of eye contact. He's just nervous, I thought, trying to figure out what I was going to eat and talk about for the next hour. Dear readers, you will notice in this and future posts that I've made the "nervous" excuse for a lot of my dates, and it has gotten me into an awful lot of trouble.

I ordered a grilled chicken salad and Joe settled on the fettucine alfredo. That done, we made the usual first date small talk about our families, where we had traveled, and what we liked and didn't like about Boston. I wanted to know all about the shelter he worked at, what the kids were like, how the counseling sessions were. His answers were vague, along the lines of "yeah, I like working with kids". He was more interested in my jewelry.

"These are cool, can I see these?" he pulled the bracelet and rings right off of my hands. "These are so cool." He held them up to the light, turning them over and over to look from every angle. Yeah, weird. I tried to laugh it off. "Wow, it's every woman's dream to land a guy who knows his jewelry," I joked.

"Yeah, these are cool, these are cool." Joe spoke slightly too quickly - the sentence came out as one word, "Yeahthesearecoolthesearecool." I put my jewelry back on, thinking, is he on something? "So, what do you like to do in your spare time? Got any hobbies?" I asked.

"You have such a good vibe about you," Joe replied, as if he hadn't heard the question. "I feel good being near you. You have, like, a good aura around you or something."

"Uh, thanks," I said. This was awkward. Luckily our food came right then, and we were silent for a minute or two. Joe ate as rapidly as he talked; a quarter of his fettucine was gone before he spoke again.

"I like your hair." Oh my god, this guy is random. Be natural, roll with it. You can't just walk out. Be openminded! He's probably nervous! "Thanks," I said as brightly as I could. "Actually, I'm thinking of going brunette."

"No, stick with the red, the red is hot. It is hot." He was speeding up again; Stickwiththeredtheredishotitishot. I changed the subject, and started talking about the play that I was helping to prop and costume. As I talked, Joe started to mumble under his breath. Dear readers, when people pull fucked up shit like that, Yours Truly pretends it isn't happening. I kept talking; he mumbled a little louder. I couldn't even process such bizarre behavior.

"You didn't hear what I said, did you?" Joe asked me. "Did you hear me?"

"Oh, did you say something?" I was really starting to grit my teeth. Has this guy never been on a date in his life? Who acts this way? "I didn't hear you, I was talking."

"I said, you're so beautiful, I'm having trouble even looking at you." Oh Jesus Christ, I've got a live one here. Sure am glad I brought my Mace. Readers, it's normally very flattering to me when somebody tells me that I'm attractive. I'm certainly no Charlize Theron. I have my bad days and my days when I look pretty cute. But even on my best days, I'm not going to burn a hole in a guy's retinas if he looks directly at me. Even Charlize can't do that (I could be wrong, she's pretty hot).

Our waitress, a petite college girl maybe 20 years old, came over to ask us if everything was ok. Well, the food is fine, but I'd like to send this guy back - he's way overdone.

"So, how many dates have you gone on from this site thing?" asked Joe.

"Oh, a few," I said. "I don't use it much, really."

"Well, is 'a few' 4 or 5? 6 or 8? 8 or 10?" Joe demanded.

"Um, 8 or 10, probably." My annoyance was starting to show. "Why is that important?"

"So, you live in an apartment? Is it a studio? A one bed? What do you pay for it?"

Holy shit, this guy must be having a psychotic episode. Buddy, you're never going to see my apartment. You're never going to see me naked; in fact, you're never going to see me again. "I live in a one bed," I said, speaking slowly, as if Joe were just starting to learn English. "I don't think what I pay for it is your business."

"Does that make you uncomfortable?" My date clearly had a freeway between his brain and his mouth; he was born without the filter that most adults develop as a result of normal interaction with other humans. "I think everybody should be able to talk about that stuff."

"Sure, maybe after you get to know each other." I was praying that Joe would get up to go to the bathroom; I'd be able to grab my bag and bail. "But when you barely know somebody, it's inappropriate, like asking how much they make or what they weigh."

"Oh," he said, nodding. Then: "OH! What do you weigh??"

I put down my fork and sighed as the waitress finally delivered the check. "How was everything?"

"Terrible," Joe replied. He was serious. I looked at his plate; all of his food was gone, except for maybe two bites. The waitress looked to me for help. I shrugged and shook my head. You don't know the half of it, sister. "Um, sir?" she said meekly, "why didn't you say something before? I could have brought you something else..."

"The sauce is wrong," he insisted. "I've eaten this here before. It's oily this time. It's wrong."

I couldn't speak, I was so embarrassed. The waitress got the manager; Joe argued with him, basically angling for a free meal. The manager gave him a coupon book, but still charged him for the fettucine. I sat silently as Joe put some cash into the check folder and handed it to our mortified waitress. "So," he said, turning to me, "I see you didn't even reach for it."

"Reach for what?" If I stare at him and really concentrate, maybe I can make his head explode.

"Well," he said huffily, "you didn't even offer to pay."

Now I was laughing, imagining the looks that would be on my friends' faces as I told them about this maniac over drinks that evening. "You asked to take me out, you insisted on it." I dropped any pretense of politeness. "I'm not a Rules girl, but, hello - that's Dating 101." You should be paying me for wasting my time, you whacko.

The waitress put Joe's change on the table. He pulled out a few dollars for the tip, then threw the rest of the money on the table in front of me. "I guess you think I should give you that, then!"

"Okay, THAT'S IT. I'm done." I threw the money back onto his side of the table as I rose. "Thanks for lunch, Joe. I have to go. I've got costumes and props to pick up."

"I'll walk with you."

"Um, NO, that's not necessary." I couldn't even look at him. "I'm sure you have to get back to work."

Joe followed me for the whole ten block walk to Boston Costume, chattering about God knows what. I walked so quickly that I was almost jogging. I didn't reply to him; I didn't listen; I completely tuned him out and kept my hand on my Mace, which I was sure I'd have to use at any second.

I finally made it through the door to Boston Costume. By that time I was absolutely sure that I'd just been on a date with a serial killer, and was trying to avoid confrontation. "Thanks for walking me, Joe, I can take it from here."

"So, where is this going?" He put his hands on his hips. "When am I seeing you again?"

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

"Oh, I'm busy for the next two weeks," I said as sweetly as I could. "Maybe after that." That satisfied him, and he finally - finally! - left me alone. He emailed me about fifty times over the next couple of months. I deleted each one without reading it.

Well, at least I got a good story out of the experience - all that the poor waitress got was a shitty tip.

Sir Ass-A-Lot

Reasons that I love living in Los Angeles? It never snows here. It never gets deathly cold. That's so great for me; I've been an avid walker for about 16 years now. It is my favorite form of exercise, because it clears the mind as well as burning some calories. I prefer to walk outside instead of on a treadmill, to breathe the air and feel the breeze and the sun on my face. I'm in the habit of taking walks in the morning on weekends; it gets me out of bed and gets my day going. With the weather in LA as it is, I get to take my walks all year round!

So, on a very warm and sunny Saturday morning in August 2004, I rolled out of bed at around 9:30, washed my face, put on a pair of black shorts and a grey zip-up hoodie, gathered my bed hair in a ponytail and slicked on some lipgloss (as my mother used to say, "You never know who you'll run into"). I laced up my sneakers, and my iPod and I were out the door.

I'd been walking for about 20 minutes, and was halfway down a particularly pretty, tree-lined street when I noticed a tall African-American man walking towards me. He was about 6'2", built, dressed in a fitted t-shirt, jeans and a worn baseball cap. He was gorgeous.

He smiled as he approached me, and I thought, is he smiling at someone behind me? Because I don't exactly stop traffic right after I've rolled out of bed. I tried to sort of casually look over my shoulder, like I was fixing my hood. Nope, nobody behind me. So now he's smiling at me and stopping to talk, and I look like I've got some kind of neck twitch. Fantastic.

So Gorgeous asks me, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the Smiths' house, do you know where that is?"

"Oh, no," I replied, "I don't live around here. Just on a walk. Sorry," while thinking wow, you are even hotter up close.

"Have a nice day," I said, and started to walk away, when Gorgeous stopped me. "Um, actually," he said, "I was just driving by, and I saw you, and you were so cute that I pulled over and tried to find some way to say hello."

"Oh, really?" I said, and couldn't help breaking into a big smile. "Well, that's pretty gutsy of you. I'm flattered."

"I'm Kareem," he said, extending his hand.

"Ginger," I responded, shaking it.

We chatted for a few minutes. Kareem was also from my hometown, New York; in fact, he had grown up in an area where my dad's parents had lived. He was funny; despite the fact that we were total strangers, we talked easily. The whole situation felt pretty natural. He asked if he could see me again. We walked to his car, and I gave him my cell phone number.

As I walked away, I couldn't believe my luck. I'm generally pretty guarded about my personal safety (for reasons that you will soon discover, dear readers). I wouldn't normally stop to talk to a man I didn't know while on one of my walks, but this felt different. We were in broad daylight on a busy street, and his whole vibe was just...comfortable. He was cute and funny! He actually seemed down-to-earth! I have to admit to entertaining a vision of the two of us telling our curly-haired, green-eyed, cafe-au-lait-skinned children about the day that Daddy spotted Mommy while he was driving one morning, and was so smitten that he just had to introduce himself. I am generally not one to put the cart before the proverbial horse, but I've observed, in my short life, that Great Couples always have a Great Meeting Story. This one could potentially rank up there with the best of them! Hey, you never know.

Later that afternoon, I was having lunch at an outdoor cafe with my friend Donnetta. We had just been served our drinks, and she needed to use the ladies' room. Just as she left the table, my phone rang. It was Kareem. I was surprised that he'd called me so soon, but I can't say I wasn't pleased. "Hey," he said, "I couldn't wait to talk to you again, Ginger. I'm so glad you stopped to talk to me this morning."

"So am I," I replied, and I meant it. "So what's up?"

"Well," he said, "I just had to let you know, that as you walked away, you made my day, because of that ass. It is just a beautiful thing."

"Um. Uh, my ass??" I laughed. I figured he must be joking, so I played along. "Yeah, it has special powers, it can do that."

"Girl," he continued, "you've got an onion."

"An "onion"? What exactly is an onion?" I knew I would regret asking.

Kareem filled me in: "An onion is a butt so fine it makes a grown man wanna CRY, girl."

Okay, I was at a loss on this one. For those of you who have never laid eyes on me, I am Irish. Caucasian. Translation: I am white. I do not have a trunk, and if I did, I would not have any junk to fill it with. Now, I have never put much stock in racial stereotypes, and I'm well aware that there are lots of bootylicious white women out there. But no one, of any race, will ever mistake me for J.Lo. I was also more than a bit thrown off that Kareem, whom I had met barely 8 hours previously, was extolling the virtues of my posterior before we'd even been on a proper date. Don't get me wrong, I like a nice ass. If I see an attractive dude, and I am able to sneak a subtle peek at his cakes, I will. The thing is, I won't be gushing to any guy about his butt unless we're already dating. I didn't mind that Kareem had enjoyed the view; you've got to be attracted to someone if you're going to date them! That's important. But, guys – talking to a woman about her ass before you've gotten to know her at all just might make her feel like a piece of meat.

I wanted to give him the chance to back it up a bit. "Well, Kareem, thanks," I said in a more serious tone, "but there is a little bit more to me than that." Maybe he was nervous, or just trying to make me laugh. He assured me that he wanted to get to know the rest of me, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. We agreed to meet at Il Gelato, one of my favorite spots on Melrose, on the following Thursday night.

At the time, I was taking a Thursday night bellydancing class at a small Melrose Ave. studio. It had become my routine to go to Il Gelato afterwards for a cup of the most delicious chocolate gelato I had ever tasted. So, that Thursday after class, I changed back into my street clothes, packed my dance bag and walked the three blocks over.

Kareem was waiting outside, dressed like he had just come from the gym; he was wearing a Gold's Gym tank top, poofy zebra-striped bodybuilder pants, and a do-rag. We hugged.

"I was really looking forward to seeing you, Ginger," he said. A good start! I was relieved. "Well, thanks for joining me, Mr. Fitness America," I joked as we headed into the cafe.

"Yeah, I just came from working out," he said. "It was my day to do my abs. My stomach feels really tight right now. Just really tight, you know? My abs are totally worked out."

"Uh huh." I have to say, dear readers, that I don't really care whether the guy I'm dating looks like Mr. Universe or not, so long as he can keep up with me. "I don't really go to the gym. I'd rather be outside, or take dance classes, but some people really love weights; that's cool." I ordered my usual chocolate gelato. "Are you going to get anything?"

"Naw." Kareem waved his hand in a "no thanks" gesture. "I just worked out so much, my abs are so tight, you know? Just so tight. I don't think I could fit any food down, my stomach is SO tight." He kept rubbing his flat belly in a circular motion.

"Yeah, you said." I was starting to realize that Kareem's obsession with body parts might be all-encompassing. "Well, let's sit down outside! It's nice out tonight." I paid for my gelato, and we grabbed a small table on the sidewalk - with Kareem, all the while, going on and on about his SUPER. TIGHT. ABS.

"So," I asked him, "what do you like to do, besides work out?"

"Well, enough about me," he said, "let's talk about that ass of yours."

"Um. Let's not," I tried to joke, desperately trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Everybody's got a butt, I sit on mine all day at work – it's really not that exciting."

Kareem would not be deterred. "You know, your ass is super tight. Most black men like something that I call a 'slab-ass' – it's wide and flat, and jiggly." He made hand motions to illustrate - use your imagination. "A slab ass is just gross. I like your high, firm ass."

"Uh huh. What do you do for work?" I refused to give up. There must be more to this guy! We had a Great Meeting Story! Where did Kareem go, and who was ths ass-obsessed musclehead sitting opposite me? What happened to the slightly shy, funny guy who hit on me last Saturday??

So, Kareem started talking about himself - and didn't stop, or take a breath, or let me speak for about 20 minutes. During that agonizing diatribe, I learned the following:

• It's very tough to "muscle up" from 195lbs to 205lbs. (It takes a lot of lifting and steak, in case anyone cares.)
• He trains in 3 different kinds of martial arts, just in case he winds up in "a September 11 situation". (Okay, Bruce Willis.)
• He can "take out 3 to 4 guys at a time, easy". (Well, thanks for letting me know you're a steroid abuser early on in the relationship, dude.)
• Jews are bad tippers, because the wives control their husband's money, and won't let the husbands leave good tips. Also, Jews hate black people. (Since my friends list looks like the UN roster, this is news to me.)
• He was a bouncer at a bar/restaurant in Beverly Hills, but took offense to being called a bouncer – he preferred "Head of Security". (Yeah, because when the rich, old people who eat there get rowdy, it takes a big man to throw them into the alley out back.)
• Besides my ass, he also liked my eyes, calves and smile (AGAIN with the body parts! I wouldn't have minded the eyes and smile compliments, but I was already too weirded out.)

It was a painful 20 minutes, during which I said almost nothing, ate my gelato and basically wished I were someplace, anyplace, else. To top it all off, when Kareem finally put a cork in it, he said, "So, you're shy, huh?"

!!!!

Dear readers, you may have surmised by now that I am rarely at a loss for words. I had nothing to say to Sir Ass-A-Lot because I COULDN'T GET A WORD IN EDGEWISE, and finally gave up. Finished with my gelato, I jumped ship as gracefully as I could. "Hey, Kareem, this has been really fun," I lied, "but I have a Really Important Meeting with a Really Important Client early tomorrow morning. I have to go." Kareem had not shown one shred of interest in any aspect of my life besides my ass; I just wanted to get out of there.

I told Kareem he didn't have to walk me to my car, but he insisted on it. "I'm gonna hook up with you on Saturday," he informed me. "We're gonna have a movie marathon and I'll bring over all kinds of stuff that I've cooked and we'll curl up." I couldn't believe it – he thought we'd had a great date! I was mortified.

We got to my car. He was leaning in for a kiss. Open mouth. Way open – he looked like a goldfish gasping for air. "Well, goodnight, Kareem," I said, and dodged his mouth. I was backed up against my car, so his wet lips wound up in my hairline, near my right temple. Blech! My onion and I quickly ducked into my car and drove off.

So much for my Great Meeting Story!