Didn't they use this guy in a GEICO commercial?

HIM: Women are things.

ME: Thanks for stopping by, caveman. Tell me, after the anthropologists thawed you out, how long did it take them to teach you to speak?

The thrill of online dating continues unabated, yay me.

fred8666: can I be your slave? I will do any thing that you order me. I will kiss and massage your feet if you let me.

Ginger: I won't. As it says in my profile, nobody touches my feet.

fred8666: can I lick your ass?

Ginger: No, thank you.

Haven't forgotten you, let me make up for it!

Hello all. Hope you've been well, and busy and happy as I am.

Freak magnetism continues apace, with this latest, um, entry in my box:

A older women offered me money to see what the different between boys and girls were.....She was bigger than I and I was intimidated buy her insistance.. so I laid naked on the ground for all of glory and her to see! Then without warning, she straddle my torso and pinned my arms with her knees.......then she took out a roll of nickels, held my nose until my mouth opened , and then one by one she made me swallow as many coins as possible by forcing them down my throat. Don't remember how many coins I swallowed just, recall being taken to emergency. The coins were given back to me by the doctors as a token of the experience.

No idea whether he made that up, whether it's a fantasy, or it really happened. Not sure I want to know. Not at all surprised, however, that he wanted me to know.

Puke. In. My Mouth.

Hysterical.

Single women = lepers!

Well, I guess that's one way to score some extra cash in this troubled economy.

There's a man named George in Louisville who wants to eat my pussy. He'll eat yours too, if you're willing to pay, and are cute.

I kid you not, he's for real. Instead of doing my own post on this, I'll direct you to this amazing takedown, courtesy of my guest poster of the week, The Morrigan. Bon Apétit!

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.

Presumptuous

Got an email today from a 25 year old with a special offer:

I know we have a pretty big gap between our ages but i wanted to let you know how attractive you are. Want to get to know you and be that young athletic man to come take care of you on your lonely days where you just need a release. What do you think?

UM.

I think he watches "Real Housewives of Orange County" too much! Not all women in their 30s are lonely and desperately looking to reclaim their 20s. Besides man-hos, I have also eschewed Botox, perma-tans and implants...so far. I'll keep you posted.

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!

Ho ho OH NO!

Hello all of you!

Thanks for your patience while I took a minor blogging sabbatical. I did miss it, but have been too tired to sit down and bang something out. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Festivus/Saturnalia. I traveled to New York, as usual, to stay with my aunt M and uncle M. My uncle starts cooking Christmas dinner a full week in advance, and it is maddening to live in that house and smell the food and be constantly hungry. Compound that with my uncle's compunction to feed me constantly, and it's a recipe for intestinal failure. Constant sweets, meat, and booze wreak havoc with my GI now that I live in Cali and eat so much salad. Fiber, it is my friend. Ham, not so much! My aunt and I baked for five hours on the 23rd: magic cookie bars, chocolate raspberry bars, russian tea balls and English toffee cheesecake bars. Awesome waist enhancers! Tasty, too. I think I've mentioned before how much I love to bake. For my department Thanksgiving party, I made a devil's food cake with cream cheese frosting, which went over very well. For our Christmas party I made Ghirardelli double chocolate brownie muffins. I want my next little project to be a Kentucky butter cake; I just need an excuse to make one.

After I bugged him all week, my cousin P, a former Marine, took me to the Long Island Shooting Range in Brookhaven at the tail end of my trip and taught me to fire an M-1 carbine .30 assault rifle. It was...well, awesome, and I'm proud to say that I hit the target (100 yards away) more often than not. P (who used to train FBI agents) told me I was much better than most first timers. He was impressed by my lack of nerves. I guess I have my cop blood to thank for that. It was a rush, and if there were a perfume that smelled like gunpowder, I would probably buy it. If you've ever even been even slightly curious about going to the shooting range, find someone experienced and go with them. You will love it. Watch out freaks! Now I'm packing.

I hope you all have something enjoyable on tap for tonight. I'm going to take it easy and accompany one of my former roommates to a low-key house party. Tomorrow I'm going to the spa for a much needed massage.

Before I take off and say "see you next year," I thought I'd leave you with an amusing Christmas story from a few years back, when I was just a little puppette living in Boston.

In the late '90s, my girl Tabitha and I used to volunteer for the Snow Ball, a black tie charity event that benefits Santa Claus Anonymous (SCA), a formal non-profit fundraising organization. Santa Claus Anonymous donates over 80% of all proceeds raised from the Snow Ball to approximately 12 beneficiary organizations. As volunteers, we got in free by working the casino; we were "Money Wheel" girls and roulette girls. I don't understand blackjack well enough to deal, so I avoided that game for fear of getting it wrong and pissing off the players. It was a hoot to get prettied up, host for a few hours, drink for free, sample the hors d'oeuvres and dance it all off at the end of the night. We had the occasional wealthy financier who offered to take us on weekend trips to the Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun casinos (which we politely declined), but nothing ever happened that was vulgar or even creepy. The event was always a good time.

The last time I worked the Snow Ball, which was probably 1999 or 2000, the event was held (as it will be this year) at the Boston Park Plaza Hotel in the tony Back Bay area. In previous years, the event had been held at the World Trade Center; wherever it was, there was always a Santa volunteer on a throne in the main foyer. For a few bucks, you could get a Polaroid of yourself in Santa's lap. Tab and I had neglected to do this the year before, opting for more formal pictures in event's makeshift portrait studio, so we figured we'd pose with Santa this time.

The Santa job wasn't taken too seriously; it was usually a younger guy in a fake beard and a stuffed tissue belly. Tab, another volunteer and I crowded around Santa, with Tab in his lap, for the first picture. No problem. Then the other volunteer perched on Santa. No problem. Then it was my turn, and readers, you know there was a problem.

I gently settled myself on the inside of Santa's right thigh, closer to the knee, figuring that one must get a bit sore from having inebriated guests hopping on and off one's lap all evening. It did not occur to me at first that Santa hadn't spread his legs when he took Tabitha or the other girl onto his lap. I remember purposely planting my feet on the floor to take any extra weight off him, although I weighed maybe a buck ten at the time.

As the photographer got into position, Santa, who was maybe 30 and around 6', wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me right into his lap, lifting my feet off the floor. It was pretty quick and felt claustrophobic, so I reacted by trying to wiggle forward. It was around that time that I noticed Santa's quickly expanding yule log.

"Smile!"

Good lord. The flash went off and I jumped up like my ass was on fire. Nobody had warned me that I was going to get a Secret Santa gift!

Halloweenies

Halloween is almost upon us, kids. What will you be this year? I'm still planning to be Joan Holloway, continuing my 'famous redheads' costume theme of the last few years. Assuming that I have a party to go to, I've got a 1960s style 'wiggle dress' on call. I'll make any excuse to wear the clothing from back then!

A lot of people refer to All Hallows' Eve as "Slut-O-Ween," but I prefer to call it "Freak-O-Ween." What time of year could be more appropriate to proudly fly your freak flag? When I lived back in Boston, I used to go to Salem to celebrate. Weirdos crawl out of the woodwork; everybody is off their meds and nothing is too bizarre. If you're into the darker parts of New England history, the Witch Museum is open that night, along with the Dungeon Museum, where actors recreate witch trials based on surviving transcripts. Spells, stones and potions can be purchased on famous Essex Street, where you can have your fortune told, or your aura read, by one of the many practicing witches in the area. My favorite shop was Angelica of the Angels; my girl JoAnne and I went there for readings with Rev. Barbara or one of the other mediums a couple of times a year. Silly, I know; but really fun. We'd make a day of it - have our readings, purchase a bauble or two, then have lunch at some cute spot in town.

On our most memorable trip to Angelica's, we made a quick stop at a Mailboxes, etc. so that I could send a birthday package to my sister. There was a man in his forties in line ahead of us, who overheard JoAnne and I chatting about our upcoming readings. He turned around.

"You know," he said, very gravely, "they do the work of the devil."

"Oh, sure," I smiled. "That's why we go." He glared and walked out. JoAnne and I waited for the door to shut, then erupted in laughter.

Wicked activities aside, the one tourist attraction that I would absolutely recommend is the House of Seven Gables, otherwise known as the "Hawthorne house." On Halloween night, the house stays open into the early morning, offering candelit tours. For a sentimental literature buff like myself, touring the house that the author of The Scarlet Letter lived in was heaven, but it's a cool place to check out even if you couldn't care less about Hester Prynne.

I'm sure it goes without saying that the Witches' New Year (that's Samhain for you history nerds) is far more imaginative in Salem than it is in Los Angeles. Out here, the Slut-O-Ween label is very apropos. Go anywhere in Hollywood that night and you'll be surrounded by angels and devils - both in nothing more substantial than underwear, horns and wings. They look very good in their non-costumes, mind you; most of them are actresses and models. My personal objection comes from a lack of originality. Then there's the fact that, when you go shopping for adult costumes, there isn't much choice besides "Slutty Fillintheblank." Slutty firefighter, slutty schoolgirl, slutty French maid...the slutty astronaut costume exists too - Jesus wept! I have seen it with my own eyes. I have to 'fess up that I myself was a slutty cop a few years back. I hadn't planned to go out for Halloween at all, but got a last minute plea from a good friend, who took me to Trashy Lingerie to shop. I know. I was open to something new - a little too open. Officer Naughty was by far the most demure costume I could find - a shirtdress that buttoned up the front, had full sleeves, and came down to mid-thigh. Still, she was less than shy; I'm pretty sure that stilettos and fishnets aren't standard issue for the LAPD. Even so, I felt like a Mormon compared to most of the women I passed on the street. Strangely, I feel safest on Halloween, the one night when even I think anything goes. I can drop my conservative wardrobe with no fear. In a sea of exposed flesh, no way do I stand out the most, no matter what I have or haven't got on. The year that I was a cop, one of my tiny, very fit friends decided to be Pocahontas, who must have been incredibly cold back in the day, wearing not much more than a suede bathing suit with beaded fringe on the Virginia coast in wintertime. No wonder John Smith fell for her so hard! We jokingly called her "Poke-a-hot-ass" all night that year.

I much prefer making use of my own clothes to create my costumes. The year before I was Officer Naughty, I decided to be Jessica Rabbit - she of the icon that I use in my profile.



Yes, dear readers, c'est moi, in character. I took a previously worn Ann Taylor gown and dressed it up with a pair of $15 purple opera gloves from Hollywood Costume. It's easily the cheapest and most elegant costume I've ever worn - I was a poor imitation of the real thing, I know, but it was fun to be Jessica for one night. Unfortunately, I had to explain who I was to some members of the under-25 set. Apparently, I've gotten to the age when recent college graduates haven't seen any of the movies from my childhood! These kids today. I spent a good part of my evening advising my fellow partygoers to add to their Netflix qeue.

Jessica is the least revealing costume I've ever worn, but she backfired on me, big time. Earlier I mentioned the freedom of going unnoticed in a sea of uncovered limbs, but Jessica got a reaction, whether the guys knew who she was or not. Was it because I was covered up? You know, the lure of the unseen? I can never get this right. To wit:

Catwoman (unitard, mask) - no problem
Wonder Woman (sparkly bathing suit, boots) - no problem
Officer Naughty (shirtdress, stilettos) - no problem
Ginger of Gilligan's Island (long gown) - harrassed incessantly
Jessica Rabbit (black tie ready) - randomly groped, booty call

You know what? It's not me at all. It's a tossup whose outcome depends on the quality of men I'm surrounded by.

As Jessica, I had such a lovely conversation with a man dressed as the Phantom of the Opera that I gave him my number. He called. Not a few days later, to ask me on a date, but at 3:30 that morning, to booty call me. Jessica might not have hung up on him, but Ginger did.

He called back at 4am. "You're just scared," he slurred drunkenly.

"No," I countered. "I'm smart."

Even Officer Naughty didn't get that kind of treatment, and she had handcuffs! Wonder Woman didn't have to deal with that, either. Then again, she had the Lasso of Truth. Maybe that's what kept them at bay. Would Joan Holloway carry handcuffs and rope in her purse? Probably not. Hopefully, there's some magic in the special gold pen she wears around her neck. I'll let you know.

Goods and services

My friend Stephanie was in Romania on business recently. Her descriptions of that country are beyond depressing; apparently, the population at large lives in near squalor while very few enjoy the country's limited wealth. Bucharest, the nation's capital and the city where she does business, has no spaying and neutering programs, resulting in a huge population of stray dogs that are often shot to death in the streets by police.

Stephanie was at my birthday party this past Saturday, and we took some time to catch up. "Every time I leave Romania, I come home with fleas," she said.

"If you lie down with dogs..." I joked.

She nodded. "I hug and kiss the dogs. I've seen a few killed in front of me, just after I hugged them. The police do roundups every month and shoot them right in the street. I give myself fleas on every business trip. I can't help it. I figure I'm giving them their last hug. I'm usually right."

Prostitutes are all over the hotels in Bucharest. "They're supermodels," Stephanie told me. "Gorgeous women. Tall, blonde, dripping with expensive jewelry. They dress like businesswomen, in suits that cost thousands of dollars."

"I guess they are businesswomen," I said, "in a way."

When she's in Bucharest, Stephanie usually dresses in jeans and t-shirts. She wears a baseball cap. She's in her early 30s, but because she's so petite and has very delicate features, she looks like a teenager when she dresses that way.

On her last trip, she had a meeting to go to and found herself in the hotel elevator with a white American man who looked to be in his 70s. She had her usual casual duds on. I'm sure it sounds strange to some of you that a corporate vice president can wear jeans to business meetings, but people who work in entertainment can get away with it. Steph described her look that day as "grubby." Now, she's so pretty that I don't think she could ever actually look grubby, but I understood that she had thrown on whatever was clean that day, and put a cap over her damp, almost waist-length hair.

Meanwhile, in the elevator...

She and the man were alone. As the elevator descended, he leaned over and asked, "Are you for sale?"

Steph was aghast. Remember, Bucharest prostitutes have a certain 'look.' "Why in the hell would he assume I was a prostitute, in my jeans and old t-shirt?" she asked, exasperated.

"Maybe he's tried all the others, and wanted a new flavor," I mused.

Anyhow, she kept her composure and turned to the man. "No," she replied. "Are you?"

He laughed. "If I was, you couldn't afford me."

"Actually," she retorted, "I could buy and sell you ten times over."

Then, just like a scene in a movie, the elevator doors opened. She walked out, leaving him stunned.

And...scene.

Mmmmm, I love the smell of paternal condescension in the morning

So I open my email box this morning, and what do I find but a note from a 55 year old gentleman called SamPedro:

You're by far the best woman I've seen on this site, in every respect. Too bad you're too young for me.

First of all, what is the deal with guys getting in touch with me just to tell me that we're incompatible? Are they trying to pull a neg? Do they think I'll shoot them an email right back, begging them to give me a chance? They're just annoying me, and they are incompatible with me.

It got better; Sam suggested a few (completely unnecessary) punctuation and grammar edits to my profile. What?!

Thanks, teach, but if you think that's going to charm a lady, you're the one who has lots to learn.

Educating the future of America

Dear 25-and-under dudes:

What is your deal with women my age? Some of you aren't even out of school yet, and you want to date me. You IM me, you email me, you ask to buy me drinks in bars, and you are never dissuaded when I tell you I'm 35! You tell me I look 26, you tell me you 'love the hair', you tell me 'there's just something about an older woman'. What is that thing, exactly? My grandmother thinks it's a sex thing. "They want you to teach them a few things," she once told me.

Eek. I am not Demi, nor are you Ashton. I am definitely not Dr. Ruth. My online profile specifically states that I'm looking for guys in the mid 30s to mid 40s range.

You are all way smoother than I was at your age, which I find both comical and endearing.

What am I supposed to do with you? I can't bring you home to Dad. My girlfriends, the youngest of whom is 26, would think I had lost my shit. My 31 year old sister would probably have me committed. Even if I braved all of that, what the hell are you and I going to talk about? I'm not saying that you're inarticulate or ignorant of world events just because of your age. It's just that so many of your online profiles overflow with your love of Xbox and Howard Stern. On my last outing with my thirtysomething friends, we talked about Darfur, economic growth in China and Super Tuesday. We also talked about squashing, because we'd had a few drinks and are fascinated by weird fetishes, but you get my point.

Another thing: some of y'all are irredeemably cocky.

Take TimTom, for example (not his real screen name). TimTom, 25, emailed me a few months ago to say:

I always say I want someone who can be spontaneous but slow down and enjoy the finer things in life. Damn you had to be 35 huh??? anyways, cool personality! Enjoy it! It's unique.

That's a nice thing to say, isn't it? I was flattered. I also figured that was the end of it. I was swamped at work that week, so I didn't respond right away, although I intended to send back a 'thanks for that, take care' email. I've done that before, and readers, not many women do it, because guys often don't act right when they feel protected by the anonymity of the internet. I actually believed that TimTom was just being friendly and flirty with no further intentions.

I was mistaken. Two days later, I received this angry email:

A thank you would be nice, you dont have to be rude to me. We dont owe each other much, but for a random compliment, being polite goes a long way. I would like to talk to you, and I am very upfront with people. I am not here to get into your pants you are out of my age range, but I like your personality non the less.

Did I miss something? How was I supposed to know that this dude was trying to strike up a correspondence? Was I supposed to know that I had a deadline to respond? Why would anything I did matter to Tim, who had already made it clear that I was too old for him?

Well, readers, I do aim to please. TimTom wanted a response, and he got one:

Um, what? Why am I getting scolded by somebody I've never met or even spoken to? I don't owe you a reply within a certain amount of time, dude. I've been busy at work and haven't been emailing anybody. Maybe I would have written you back once I read your first email, but there's no chance of that now.

Okay, well, I did write him back, but I had to call him out on his sense of entitlement. I have a tendency to attack the entitled. I simply do not understand people who feel that complete strangers owe them something, and I feel this overwhelming need to knock them down a peg. "We don't owe each other much"? You're a complete stranger, homes. I don't owe you anything.

I thought there was no way TimTom would email me back after that rant, but he did. Ladies and Gents, I present a classic example of The Dudely Backpedal:

Not scolding, Just expressing what I feel. Dont take email personal, it's only words your mind forms the expression and mood. Too many people misunderstand this, and that leads to miscommunication which leads to hurt feelings. I admire your confidence.

Oh, it was all a misunderstanding! Thanks for clearing that up so eloquently, Tim. I'm just a silly little girl who no understand da Engliss. I appreciate you taking the time to soothe my hurt widdle fee-fees. My hero!

Not:

Telling someone how they should have reacted to an email is presumptuous, Tim. You didn't hurt my feelings, you pissed me off by being rude. Try to use your "words your mind forms" to be a little nicer to the next woman that you email. I am out of your age range, as you said, so why don't we just leave it there?

Predictably, Tim couldn't leave it there.

Are you normally agressive like that? I am curious before I get off here to know because you seem like you want a friendship but your throwing my words back at me. If I truly pissed you off it wasnt intentional, I talk my mind. Isnt that better than someone who continuously kisses your ass until they get what they want and leave?

Oh, lord. In one email, Yours Truly was transformed from a confused shrinking violet into Boudica. Might as well have fun with it, right?

No, Tim, I fire back when someone is rude to me. Live and learn - you can speak your mind without being a jerk. I don't put up with rudness, ass kissing, or any kind of nonsense. That's one reason I don't date young - you're way out of my "age range", too. Take this as a lesson to act right if you like confident, mature women. Good luck to you.

I chucked a great deal of TimTom's attitude up to his age and inexperience with women. I showed my friend Liz our correspondence; after she shook her head and laughed, "Only you," she clicked on his full profile, which I will paraphrase:

I am very busy and have plenty of friends. I don't need a girlfriend, don't have time for one at this point. My friends keep me busy and women come second and they need to know that.

Translation: how do I talk to a girl? They have vaginas and I'm scared. I try to sound smart by insulting them. Someone help!

TimTom had fully deserved the email takedown that I had unleashed on him, but I started to soften up after reading his profile. Like the little boy on the playground who gets nervous around the girls in his class, Tim was just pulling my pigtails. I understand that boy very well, because I used to punch the crap out of him when he pulled my ponytail in grade school.

As if he'd read my mind, Tim emailed me again.

I don't totally agree with what you're saying but I am going to thank you for your opinion. As you say live and learn. If we can be friends I can use the use the extra knowledge. Maybe you can tell me more about what a woman wants and how to find a more confident mature woman? I am really tired of dealing with all the 23-28 year old drama.

I feel you, TimTom. Truce!

Fair enough, Tim. I am not a dating coach, but I would recommend that you keep it real. That's the best advice I can give anyone, and I follow that rule myself. Good luck.

Last week, Tim sent me another email:

Hey, I hope you are well and wanted to see how you've been.

That was sweet. I took another look at his profile, to see if he'd changed it. He had, and in it, he described himself as a good and loyal friend, someone who wants to meet nice, no-drama women for friendship or something more serious.

He did well! That attitude will most definitely help him with the ladies. I felt like a proud mama. I thought it best not to respond to his email, though. After all, he's out of my age range.

Um, 'A' for effort?

The online dating thing is tough, but it has its entertaining moments. Here's one of the latest email gems I've received:

"Oh My God! What a Princess!! You are really one sweet girl, even more! You are proof that paradise beings live among us mortals!! Gosh those who live arround you are truly blessed!...You are gorgeous!...

Du är strålande vackert! vilken underbar paradiset varelse!!!...That´s Swedish for: You are illuminating Beautiful! What a wonderful paradise being!

La vostra Bellezza lucida como il sole, ed il vostro sorriso lucida come il cielo di tramonto!!...Parla lei l´Italiano?

Bacio a voi!...a Kiss to you, sweet angel!"

Wowee. That's what I call a diamond turd.

He's enthusiastic, I'll give him that! Direct, no beating around the bush. I do like that. Good use of foreign languages, too...I love a worldly man.

On the other hand, my experiences with men have taught me that any guy who refers to a woman as a 'paradise being' is probably just a few drinks away from skinning and wearing her. Stalkerrific!

Panty raid

SnarkScribe recently put up this hilarious post about some idiot who keeps a 'girlfriend closet' - that is, a collection of clothes that he would dress his girlfriends in. The man should just get a Real Doll, but then, they don't talk back (although for a certain type of man, I'm sure that's part of the appeal).

Right after college, I got a retail job at the local mall with Jones New York. One of my coworkers, Michael, fancied himself a real ladies' man. He thought he was smooth, always telling me about his various conquests or talking up his 'legendary' backrubs. He was the stock sitcom character at the office who's always on the make.

One day, during a slow period, Michael and I were folding shirts to pass the time. I think I mentioned that I still had one of my ex boyfriend's shirts. I had found it in a pile of stuff, and was agonizing over whether or not to throw it out. I was still getting over the breakup, and my ex's shirt smelled like him, which triggered all kinds of emotions and flashbacks to when things were good between us. Ah, young love; it bears such a very close resemblance to complete insanity. Michael, in what was quite possibly the most horribly misguided attempt at coworker bonding in history, told me that he could relate to my conundrum. He had a panty collection, which he felt guilty about, but couldn't get rid of.

You heard that right.

Michael had stolen a pair of previously worn panties from every girl he'd ever fucked; he kept them in a large photo album, each one carefully sealed inside a Ziploc sandwich bag.

Those of you who are twisted enough to read this blog on a regular basis have probably figured out where this is going...

...and you're right. The Panty Filcher would periodically take the aforementioned unmentionables out of the plastic and take a big whiff. It goes without saying that he got off on it.

BARF.

Okay. I do not, do not get this about guys! Granted, not all guys do this, but the ones that do...what is wrong with you? I don't want to sniff my own panties. I certainly don't want to take a whiff of my guy's BVDs. Loyal bepenised readers, help me out here. Yo no comprendo.

Anyhow, back to my story. When I got up off the floor - I was seriously busting a gut from laughing so hard - I told Mr. Smoothie that he might just have a mental problem. I also advised that he move to Japan. To his credit, he freely admitted his own douchery and laughed about it. Perhaps I was being a bit harsh, because he had, in fact, helped me out.

I went home that night and threw out my ex's shirt. I would have burned it in the fireplace if it wasn't summertime.

We are not amused.

A recent IM exchange:
Random 23yrold: Hey, cougar.
Ginger: Uh, what? Did you call me a cougar?!
Random 23yrold: HEHE ROWR what's up
Ginger: Kid, I am 35 years old. A cougar is old enough to be your mom.
Random 23yrold: Sorry dude
Ginger: Go hit on women your own age KTHXBAI.

Bepenised readers, if you want to hit on a woman, do not call her 'dude', and do not talk to her as if she is Stiffler's Mom - especially if she is under 50. That is all.

Whoa, I can't believe that line didn't work!

I've seen Adrian Grenier in person, performing with his band at Hotel Stoli in Hollywood. He is a hottie bobottie, straight up, but...

Just 'cause he's hot, doesn't mean he's smooth. Had I known that he employs this approach, I wouldn't have wasted my drool.

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.

Silent but deadly

A while ago, I went out on a date with a guy I really liked. On our first "official" date, he picked me up in his truck to take me to a local bar/club. The drive over was going well; the conversation was good, the vibe was great.

Then he farted.

I didn't hear it; it was an SBD (silent but deadly) emission. I don't know what he ate before picking me up, but the resulting gas was nas-tay. The worst part is, he pretended that it hadn't happened.

Listen, I understand that some gas can escape when you're nervous. I'm certainly not saying that my own farts smell like cotton candy. My problem is that he didn't put the window down. Guys, if you have an escapee, don't pretend you didn't fart! Women have a slightly more acute sense of smell than you. If you absolutely need to save face, at least open a window and claim that you "need some fresh air." Eau De Colon tends to kill any attraction we might be feeling, especially if we don't know you very well yet.

At least the ride was short: