Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Guest Blogger: Dating, it's a Shitstorm!

Today I'm taking the Bar Exam so I have a guest blogger.  Ann Marie, from A Little Bit Stronger, is a ridiculously hot single mom who kicks ass at raising an adorable son while working in corporate America and dating.  Enjoy her story and then check out her blog.  Ann Marie lives in a place filled with cowboys and country music, of which I am insanely jealous.

So, this is a sad tale of sorts.  It's a tale of my last sexual experience, coming up on almost a year ago.  That's sad enough in itself, however, that's really not even the worst part at all.  Not by a long shot.  I'll get right to the point, which is, of course, the matter at hand: my worst ever sexual encounter, without a shadow of a doubt.  And perhaps the reason that I haven't been with anyone since is because of the sheer awfulness of this particular incident.  Yup, it was that bad.

So I had been dating C for about three to four weeks. It was one of those situations where I just couldn't make up my mind about him.  I was on the fence about my feelings.  He was a really, really nice guy.  He had a great job.  He was funny.  He was reasonably attractive but had a bit more of a receding hairline than I was comfortable with.  He had a great job.  He seemed outgoing and ambitious.  He was into me but not too into me.  All of the right components were there.  I enjoyed his company but I had never really gotten to the point where I looked forward to seeing him.  I could kind of just take it or leave it.  Some people might have parted company but I was determined that I would like him.  Because I had told myself I should like him.  There was no reason not to.  I couldn't find one flaw, fault, or glaring red flag about him.  I couldn't see any justification for breaking things off and yet, there was just *something* that was missing that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

After going three and a half weeks with little more than a few mediocre and somewhat passion(less) kisses, I decided it was time.  This was a make or break situation.  Time to fish or cut bait.  I determined that I need to take the plunge.  Bite the bullet.  Just do "it".  And by "it" I mean IT.  I was going to hop in bed with him and see if the elusive spark I had been searching for was there.

Problem was that I couldn't get in the right mindset without a little (ok a lot) of liquid courage.  As luck would have it we went to a local beer festival, and then to a bar afterwards.  And I proceed to drink.  And drink.  And drink.  And then we went back to my friends house and, it was time.  Time for the big event to take place.  He knew it.  I knew it.  There was no turning back at that point.

And so we proceeded to get down to business.  It started off fairly well and I thought "I can do this, I'm kind of enjoying myself".  And then, it began.  The talking.  Lots and lots of talking.  And not whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  Quite the contrary.  His ramblings were something that would make a porn star blush and turn a (somewhat) good girl such as myself completely off.  I tried to ignore him and focus on the task at hand.  I really did.  But I couldn't tune him out for the mere fact that he simply would not shut up.  I'm not sure where he conjured up the idea that it was necessary to give a verbal play-by-play of what he was doing in explicit form, or to inquire about every.single.move he was making along the way.  Maybe a former lover had turned him on to this sort of thing.  I would actually really like to think that was the case because I'd hate to believe that he dreamt up the crazy idea on his own.  

Guys, if you're reading this take note: women generally do not like to be made to feel like a $2 hooker.  Especially not the very first time they sleep with you.  If you're into the kink that's ok, hey, that's your prerogative, but ease into it.  Feel the situation out first a few times.  Give it a few test runs before jumping headlong into it.  Don't just let that crazy cat out of the bag right away.

As if the dirrrty talk was not enough (and it was) he also had a penchant for jackhammer type thrusting.  I swear I know what Carrie Bradshaw felt like on the "Sex and the City" episode where she actually sprained her next because of her lover's over exuberance.  Again, guys, if you're reading this please pay attention.  Slower is better when it comes to this area.  As much as you'd probably beg to differ, you're not actually running a power tool in the bedroom so please keep that in mind and act accordingly. 

Even despite all of this, I really feel like I gave it my best effort.  I swear I did.  I tried tuning him out.  I tried being positive and chalking some of the experience up to sheer nervousness on his part.  I even closed my eyes and tried to make myself believe it was Brad Pitt I was twisting sheets with.  I really have to give myself an "A" for effort.  But, alas, nothing seemed to be working.  There was no way this was going to end well and I knew it.  So I finally used my drunken state as an excuse to hit the "stop" button, rolled over as far onto my side of the bed as possible, and attempted to go to sleep, all the while wishing, hoping and praying that I would wake up and it would have all just been a bad dream.

Unfortunately for me, not only did C have a mouth on him like a sailor, he also was a big fan of cuddling.  Or at least trying to cuddle.  I recoiled like a wounded animal when he tried to spoon in what he probably thought was post-coital bliss.  I barely slept a wink that night and was up and ready to leave at an ungodly early hour.  I sat on my friend's couch not knowing what to do, waiting for him to wake up.  And wake up he finally did.  This is where the story goes from really bad to far, far worse.  

Apparently the previous night's activities hadn't set well with C's stomach, for whatever reason.  Maybe it was all of the booze.  Maybe it was the late night snack we had of pizza and bread sticks.  I'll probably never know.  But whatever the case may have been, if the nail hadn't already been in the proverbial coffin at that point, he really drove it home with his next move.  C, unfortunately could not wait until he got home to use the bathroom.  And use it he did.  I was sitting on the couch, trying desperately not to run for the door, when I heard the bathroom door click.  Then I heard not one but five explosions.  Yes, I counted.  I am not exaggerating when I say that it sounded like there were small bombs going off in there.  My friend M and her husband, B, also heard it, loud and clear.  In fact, it was so alarmingly loud that B covered his head with his pillow. 

I determined, in that very moment, that the only thing worse than having an extremely awkward sexual encounter with someone, was becoming keenly aware of their intimate bodily functions the next morning.  If there had been one shred of doubt in my mind that things were done and over for us before then, all reservations went out the window at that point in time.  I broke things off with him not an hour later and, thankfully, have never seen or heard from him again. 

Monday, February 27, 2012

High Five

I spent the weekend finishing up studying for the New Jersey Bar Exam.  It's been a rough and lonely few months and I desperately missed my friends so I decided to get out of the house yesterday afternoon and met up with my friend, Katie.  Katie is the type of friend who I can always count on to go out and have a good time.  Whether it's taking pictures with vertically challenged diner bus boys or scaring away creepsters at a bar by telling them I'm pregnant, nights with Katie never disappoint.  Not to mention, she shares junky bar food with me.

So, when Katie told me to get my butt invited me to the Brick House yesterday to watch the Daytona 500 with her and a friend, I was happy to take a study break.  Beer and soft pretzels are enticing, but add in an excuse to dress up like white trash and I'm there!   Katie also promised there would be cowboys at the bar--liar!

Disclaimer: I do not actually own a camouflage thong.

While there were no cowboys as promised, there a group of Jersey trash boys to keep us entertained.  Katie knew one of the guys in the group through a former roommate and I can safely say she either does not hang out with these guys or is lying to me so that I don't judge her.  Yes, it was that bad.  I could describe the night as a sequel to Why I Don't Date Men in Their 20's but I'd hate to give the rest of the cohort a bad name because of three specific individuals.  So, who did I meet last night?  Let's call them High Five, Chinstrap and ThugLife.

High Five was the mutual friend of Katie's former roommate and the seemingly most normal out of the bunch.  He was dressed in a non-matching sweatsuit (as opposed to the guy wearing the matching Nautica sweatsuit who bragged that he had spent $150 on the look), had pretty blue eyes that could just be made out through his heavy drunk eyelids and a penchant for high fives.  He and his friends had come from a bachelor party in Atlantic City where the groom-to-be (or someone else, I really have no idea) got arrested the night before.  High Five spent half of his time at the bar telling Katie's friend how he used to be in love with her (she's married now) and how he wishes he could have slept with her before she was betrothed.  Apparently, Katie's friend's breasts are just "too big to be married off".  Charming.  The other half of his time was spent trying to kiss me.  In his defense, at least he asked first.  

High Five: "Can I kiss you?"
Me: "No, thank you."

High Five: "Why?"
Me: "Because you're drunk."
High Five:  ::sips water:: "Can I kiss you now?  I drank some water.  I'm not drunk."
Me: "No, now you just taste like water."
High Five: "That seems fair.  High Five!"

Chinstrap was an um, strapping (?) 26 year old fellow with full arm sleeve tattoos, a fancy shmancy hoodie and of course, a chin strap of facial hair.  He sidled up to our trio of ladies and started talking about something boring or stupid enough for me to have mentally checked out of the conversation from the get go.  After a while he asked what I did and I said I was a non-practicing attorney working in legal recruiting.  This opened a Pandora's box for Chinstrap who proceeded to tell me that he was a teacher who works with "retards" (his words, not mine) but that he is planning on taking the LSATs, going to law school and getting a job as a School Board attorney making $400k a year out of law school.  Awesome, I told him and wished him luck, mentioning that the legal market is pretty tough right now...and that I have a better chance of being a size 0 than him making $400k.  Some people are under the impression that an attorney's billing rate is directly proportionate to their salary.  This is not the case. For the record, billing $400/hour does not mean you will be making $400k a year.

Of course this didn't sit well with Chinstrap who proceeded to berate me loudly in a diatribe of "You don't know me...I'm the most motivated person you'll ever meet...I've got two Masters degrees from University of Phoenix at 26!....I'm gonna get a job as a School Board attorney and make $400k a year because my Dad's friend owns a firm and is holding a spot for me and I will be making that money straight out of the taxpayers ha!"  Right.  I smiled, sipped my water and watched as his friends dragged him outside for a breather as I discussed with Katie how "You don't know me" is code for "I'm ignorant and don't listen to what other people have to say."

I gave Chinstrap a few minutes to cool off before going outside to talk to him and clear the air.  Wanting to be the bigger person (and not wanting to get my ass kicked on the way to my car) I told him that it's great that he has delusions of grandeur dreams, wished him luck with his legal career and suggested that some anger control might serve him well with adversaries in the future.  One thing I pride myself on is being able to insult people without them realizing it and so I told Chinstrap, with a smile, that his early success as a teacher (um, he has two Masters degrees from University of Phoenix, yo) has made him very confident but that he is too arrogant and obnoxious and good lawyers don't pick fights with sober women in bars.   He apologized, offered to buy me a shot (I declined) and gave me a high five.

At the conclusion of my makeup session with Chinstrap, ThugLife joined the conversation excitedly, "You're a lawyer?!  I really could have used a lawyer when I was arrested!" Then he told us that he was arrested for beating up the police officers who came to arrest him with a warrant.  He failed to mention what the warrant was for, but justified his actions with the question, "What else was I supposed to do?"  Um, anything but run and beat up the cops would probably suffice.  So I explained that I wasn't a practicing attorney, lest someone give him my name and he asks me to represent him.

During the conversation the group was waiting on the bartender for drinks and ThugLife declared, "If you were a real lawyer you would have been able to get us drinks by now with your sneaky ways."  While I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, I had run out of patience with the crowd of degenerates and snapped, "My chosen profession has little effect on my ability to get a beer for a drunk thug at a crowded bar.  If you want a drink, get it yourself.  I'm drinking water and have little desire to wait on you."  Cue another round of, "You don't know me....I'm more successful than you'll ever be...I even own my own company!"

I smiled, of course, and said, "Good for you for making the best of a situation where you were unemployable." At this point I was getting frustrated and Katie was giving me the don't-poke-the-big-stupid-bear-just-because-you're-smarter-than-him look.  Thankfully, ThugLife had taken anger management courses and took my low blow as a compliment to his resourceful nature....then he looked at my boobs, smiled and offered to buy me a shot, as the bartender had stopped by to see what the ruckus was about.   I respectfully declined, smiled and gave him a high five.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Driving While Blonde

I got into a car accident a couple of weeks ago that left me with whiplash, a smashed in car and a ticket that I am determined to fight.  Armed with knowledge of the law (I knew that J.D. would come in handy sooner or later) and some tricks about municipal court civil procedure (it's good to have friends who actually practice law), I put on my fancy pants and headed to court this morning to attempt to exempt myself from the laws of society. 

I was dreading going to court, but not because of the points I was trying to fight or the hefty fine I was planning to incur.  I wasn't even concerned about waiting 3 hours with other operationally-challenged members of society.  It was the embarrassment of facing the responding police officer that had my stomach in knots.  The officer who had the um, pleasure (?) of finding some morally questionable things in my trunk after the accident.  Yeah...

So, during the accident, my car was t-boned by another car and my head played a nasty game of pinball against the frame of my vehicle.  Not messing around with a head and neck injury, I was stabilized with a cervical collar, placed on a back board and sent by ambulance to the nearest ER to ensure that I wasn't going to die, become paralyzed or experience any other parade of horribles.  I looked a little like this....ok, I looked exactly like this:

Since I was strapped down to a hard board (which sounds a lot hotter than it actually is), I was unable to retrieve any personal items from my car.  I had to instruct the police officers on what to take from my car because it was being impounded for the weekend (also, something that sounds a lot sexier in theory). Keeping in mind that I'm a single divorced woman living with my parents, I knew that there were certain "personal items" in my trunk that I would rather keep, um, personal.  As such, my conversation with the officers went a little something like this:
Me: "Please look only for Bar Review books and put them in the ambulance. You have consent only to search for books.  Do not look in any boxes!" (way to give the cops reasonable suspicion there, Blondie)
Cops: "Um, ma'am is there anything illegal in the trunk?" 
Me: "No, but please just look for books!!"
Cops: "Um, ma'am...?" ::rummaging through trunk for books and godknowswhatelse::
Me: "Nothing illegal, just embarrassing, I swear. I'm recently divorced, I live with my parents, give a girl a break and please just check for books!"
Cops: ::snicker, snicker::  (presumably finding condoms and a sex toy)

Strapped to the board, I was thankful that I couldn't see their faces as they undoubtedly laughed at their findings.  As I arrived at the hospital, I thought perhaps they saw nothing and were just laughing at me freaking out over a sports bra and some dirty socks in my gym bag.  Yeah, that must have been it. 

However my fears were realized when, on Monday morning I went to the impound lot and met the man who towed my car from the accident scene.  He made sure to tell me he was at the accident scene with the police and asked, with a knowing smile, if I needed any help getting my "personal items" out of the car.  I asked him what he was smiling about and he said he was standing next to the police when they went rummaging through my trunk for books.  Apparently everyone saw or heard about my "personal items" because he informed me that the paramedics got a good laugh out of it too.  At that point, another man working at the impound lot sauntered up, looked at the car and said, "Oh is this the girl you were talking about?  Why do you always get the good tows?!" If my car wasn't all smashed in, I might have hid underneath of it for a while!

$6,000 worth of damages and unquantifiable embarrassment later

So this morning, it was off to court I went to face this officer and fight my ticket, citing that I'm somehow a reasonable enough member of society to escape points on my license despite the presence of embarrassing personal items in my car.  Wearing my fancy pants, I walked up to the clerk with my dignity in hand...and was given a later court date.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Deal Breakers

I had a great second date with BR last night (the man I went out with on Friday who looks like a Banana Republic ad).  Following up to my post over the weekend, it turns out that I didn't scare my him off with everything included on my "What Not to Say on a First Date" list--yay!  We went out for dinner last night, which appears to be a step up, as we had met for drinks on Friday.  BR got major bonus points for being respectful (i.e. keeping my clothes on) and not looking like a douche in a lavender shirt.  I like a man who isn't afraid to rock girly colors.

With the first date out of the way and some hour long phone conversations under our belt, we talked a bit about some "meatier" things last night.  Naturally, this had me on high alert for potential deal breakers.  I've spent the past several months honing my "douche radar" and prefer to determine the presence of a deal breaker as soon as possible.  Obviously some things can't be determined right away, but I'll be damned if I don't try to find them out!

  1. Addictions: This is a no brainer for me.  Alcohol, drug, porn, sex and gambling addicts need not apply...unless you make a shit ton of money gambling...or are really good at sex ;) 
  2. Bad Family Relationships: I will never date anyone who has been "disowned" by their mother, again.  Good family relationships are indicative that you're not a huge asshole in general...unless you have a family of assholes, that is.  Treating your family with respect is important.  It's a glaring red flag to scream to a parent, "I wish you had died instead of Dad!" (true story, folks!)
  3. Cheaters: Because it's not cool to share STDs. Note: I do not have any STDs.
  4. Not wanting children: This is tricky one.  At a certain age this question turns from being construed from a curious inquisitive nature to a frantic, "Will-you-have-my-babies-so-that-this-stupid-biological-clock-in-my-head-will-stop-ticking?!  These ovaries aren't getting any younger, damnit!"  I'm not looking to pop out a litter anytime soon, but if I'm ever going to justify a boob job, I'm going to need some ankle biters to suck these tots dry first.  Not to mention, I love kids.
  5. Good Morning Texts: No good morning texts until we're in a relationship.  Seriously, you have nothing better to do but text message me before I've even gone to the bathroom?!
  6. Dick Pics: You might enjoy exchanging longing glances at your one-eyed monster, but it's just freaking me out. 
  7. Bad Mouthing your Ex:  An occasional gripe is okay, but calling her "that pig-faced pirate hooker" ain't gonna fly with me.
  8. Wives:  Call me when your divorce is final and you've been to therapy.  A little role play where you're the married boss and I'm a dictating secretary is a different story altogether ;)
  9. Lack of Education: I'm a lawyer, not a free lunch. There's nothing sexier than a man who doesn't have to ask for an allowance...and knows how to spell. 
  10. Super Freaky Sex Stuff: I'm open minded but draw the line at bodily functions, animals, group sex and pain (aardvark! aardvaaaarrrrrk!)
What are your deal breakers?

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Mr. Big and the Foot Slut

Recently my life has mirrored way too many Sexy and the City episodes than I care to admit.  I met a man several months ago who I will call Mr. Big.  He is a handsome millionaire in his 40's.  He drives a mortgage-worthy car, drinks 18 year old scotch, winks at me and calls me kid.  No joke, aside from having a driver (he values his privacy too much, yes I asked), he is Mr. Big in the flesh.  This man also happens to have a foot fetish.

Mr. Big and I chatted online before meeting and exchanged pictures, where he commented on my beautiful feet.  Why I sent a man a picture that included my feet is beyond me but something to keep in mind for determining foot fetishes in the future.  Now, if only I can find one with me peeing to rule out the golden shower fanatics. 

When we finally met in person, he was very sweet.  I was keenly aware of him eyeing my feet in my black pumps but let down my guard after a glass of wine and good conversation.  I made the mistake of putting my feet up on his side of the booth and bam!  I spent the rest of lunch attempting to put my shoe back on while he stared hungrily at me and massaged my feet.  I have to admit, the man gives a killer foot rub!

As our friendship progressed, I gathered more information about his fetish and occasionally threw him a bone by sending him some post-pedicure pics.  He liked my feet, but not all feet.  He found them sexy even though I refer to my mangled phalanges as "retartoes".  He prefers dark polish and my signature color, Wicked, is right on the mark.  Threats to come over with stinky feet after working out only fueled his desire and made him admit that he thinks dirty thoughts about my feet.

Mr. Big and I quickly realized that we were better suited for friendship than anything else and our conversations have dwindled to an occasional check in.  He's been going through a tough time personally and so I sent him a nice birthday gift last month.  Happy Birthday, Mr. Big.  I'm a foot slut.

Monday, February 20, 2012


I woke up this morning with a bruise on my stomach. I'm not sure where it came from considering all I did this weekend was go on a first date, attend a country concert and babysit my nephew. Come to think of it, drinking beer at a concert and playing with a 3 year old cutiepie are ripe activities for a torso bruise.

But this is about my adorable nephew and not the rootin' tootin' good time I blogged about yesterday so I will blame my bruise on the fun I had with my nephew because 1) it's more socially acceptable to bruise oneself while playing with small children than being a drunken woo-girl at a country concert and 2) because I was not drunk at the concert (I was totally a woo-girl though) and therefore the bruise must have been a result of the fun I had playing with my awesome nephew. 

I will call my nephew Chewie because although I'm posting the details of my personal life on the interwebz, my nephew deserves his privacy.  There's nothing that irks me more than people who bomb the internet with embarassing stories and pictures of children who are too young to consent to their lives being documented in cyberspace.  Ok, I lied, there's one thing that bothers me more and that's parents who post potty training play-by-plays on their Facebook status messages.  This results in immediate unfriending from me.  Still, I'd like to mention that I obtained permission from Chewie's parents before posting and promise to only post embarassing stories about me in which Chewie is an ancillary party and not vice versa.

So, my parents and I were babysitting my Chewie over the weekend while my brother and sister in law were away on a romantic post-Valentine's weekend in NYC (bow chica bow wow!).  I lived in Boston and Israel for the first year and half of Chewie's life so I try to be the best aunt possible in order to make up for lost time.  Also, just in case the whole dating and happily ever after thing doesn't work out, I'm trying to make a good impression now, before I turn into some crazy dog lady.

Chewie and I spent the weekend doing super fun things, like putting his new Star Wars underwear on our heads (hence the nickname Chewie). 

A big advocate of playing dress-up, I also showed him how to put pants on his head and pretend he's a bunny rabbit--the pant legs make for excellent "ears".  I love playing some sort of dress up with Chewie and have started a theme of giving him hats to wear.  In December I made him a "Birthday Boy" hat for his 3rd birthday.  Later that month I bequeathed to him a Rudolph hat that I had bought for a children's holiday party I attended.  I fully intended to wear the Rudolph hat to the party but chickened out at the last minute in favor of a blinking Christmas light necklace.  Fact: There's nothing cool about a 27 year old woman wearing a Rudolph hat...unless you're fun Aunt Emmy. 

Physical activity is important to me and is something that I wish to instill upon Chewie during our fun times together.  Not to mention, running around makes for an epic naptime and a chance for Aunt Emmy to get some blog writing (err, I mean Bar studying) in.  My parents and I took Chewie to the playground at an elementary school across the road from their house.  I'd share pictures of Chewie and I racing down the slides but my mother isn't fast enough with a camera phone to capture such priceless moments.  Kidding mom, you were too busy catching us at the bottom of the slides to take pictures anyway--Chewie flies down those slides!  My mom did manage to get a pic of me swinging around a pole though.  Chewie was on a parallel pole but he wouldn't face the camera for an inappropriate shot of him and his Aunt Emmy pole dancing.  Shame, but at least I got a good Facebook profile pic out of it.

I also value education and like to read, play puzzles and counting games with Chewie.  He happened to come into the room when I was on the computer looking at creepsters profiles on Plenty of Fish and asked what I was doing.  Realizing that 3 years old is too young to appreciate the hilarity of online dating, I told him it was a computer game.  The object of the game is to count the number of shirtless pictures on each man's profile.  Chewie is a great counter, which is good because we counted 6 shirtless pictures in one profile alone--I instantly declared us winners both in the game and in life.  Thanks for a great weekend Chewie!

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Rascal Flatts

Those of you who know me in real life can attest to the fact that I have become a bit of a "cowboy chaser" over the past year or so (I blame the Western themed Harlequin romance novels that got me through my divorce--Texas Hold Him anyone?).  While this has proved to be difficult in New Jersey, it hasn't stopped me from listening to country music, getting a cowboy hat and purchasing tickets to every country concert that comes into town.

Thankfully I'm not alone in my love of country music and desire to look cute in a cowboy hat.  Last night I popped my country cherry and went to see my first show, Rascal Flatts, with my good friend Amanda Abajian.  For some reason, Amanda and I tend to have crazy experiences together and I'm pleased to say that last night did not disappoint.

Before we even got to the concert, Amanda's GPS decided that we looked good enough to be "asking for it" led us to a remote location off the beaten path from the Izod Center in East Rutherford.  I have a sneaking suspicion that her navigational system is in cahoots with a local rape and pillage cartel and was setting us up for a good gang bang.  For the record, the Izod Center is NOT located at 50 Rt. 120 in East Rutherford--thanks Google.

Thankfully, Amanda had the wherewithal to do what all shrieking girls in cowboy hats do when they're lost on a dark and rainy night and we asked a truck driver for directions.  Since we were in "that part" of New Jersey, the first truck we found was a trash truck, no doubt owned by the likes of Tony Soprano, but we took our chances and pulled up about 20 feet away from him (just in case).  The driver was surprisingly cute and friendly and undoubtedly laughing at us as we shouted to him through the 3 inches of open window that we considered an acceptable risk to take in that part of town.  He offered to escort us through the maze of industrial roads to our destination, which turned out to be about 400 feet down the road that we had just turned off of.  But an escort is an escort and we were arriving in Jersey Trash style, fully appreciating the irony of driving Amanda's cute Infiniti into a wake of styrofoam debris flying off of the truck.

That's rain, not trash on the window
Hunter Hayes and Sara Evans opened the show.  I was going to strongly suggest (to who, I don't know) that 17 year olds not be made to look so cute onstage until I read Hunter's bio this morning and discovered he's 20--score!  Now I don't feel a total creep for commenting on his butt in the tight jeans he was wearing.  Sara Evans was great but super skinny, which made me hate her a little bit.   She redeemed herself with a stellar performance of "A Little Bit Stronger," my unofficial divorce theme song, which I joined her in singing from my seat.  No worries, Sara, we're cool now.

The concert goers seated near us kept us entertained in between acts and taking pictures of ourselves (above).  Two rows away there were a couple of guys, one of whom was recently signed to be a catcher for the Baltimore Orioles.  The cougar next to him was starstruck and spent the better part of the opening acts switching between cozying up to him and encouraging us get frisky with the pro ball player.  She grabbed my hand and attempted to introduce me to him.  Not taking no for an answer, I finally told her that I had a rich boyfriend with a big penis, which was more readily accepted than my original sentiment that I simply was not interested.  She must have shared this information with catcher boy because he caught my eye, winked at me and gave me a thumbs up. 

Rascal Flatts put on an amazing show.  I don't know about the performers but after 2 hours of dancing in our seats, singing and sprinting up and down the stadium stairs for beer and nachos, we were exhausted.  Right before the show ended I got a text message from an obnoxious name-dropping, up-and-coming country singer who I had been talking to on Plenty of Fish.   Although conversations with him were limited to things that rhyme with "truck" and his stories of people I've never heard of singing at the Bluebird in Nashville, I kept in contact with him hoping that my dreams of catching a country singer might come true.  

All week he had been texting me about how jealous he was that I was going to the show.  Around 8pm last night I got a text asking me if I was at the concert.  It wasn't until 11:30 that I got this a picture message from him with the caption: "VIP front row.  It's how I roll lol :)" Gee, thanks for bringing us down with you buddy...or at least telling me you were there so that we could meet in person finally.  Just for that, I'm stealing your pic and posting it to my blog for my awesome review of the Rascal Flatts show.   I also sent him the above pic, asking him if there were any girls who looked like us down in his pit seats.   He replied in the negative then asked to hang out with us...yeah, no thanks.

View of the show from the pit, courtesy of no-name country boy with a Sony record deal...hmm, I really should find out his name.
As expected, it was an awesome night with funny stories that will keep Amanda and I asking each other rhetorical questions for a long time: "Remember when we followed a trash truck to the Rascal Flatts concert and then I told a cougar that I had a rich boyfriend with a big penis?"  Yeah, that was a great night!

Saturday, February 18, 2012

What Not to Say on a First Date

I had a great first date last night.  I went out for drinks with a cute guy in his early 40's.  We met online and had been emailing back and forth for about a month.  It was the kind of witty banter emails that make you wonder if you're going to have the same connection in person.  Still, even if you do have a personal connection, what happens if the person looks nothing like their pictures.  It's all fun and games until someone is 100 pounds or 5 inches off on their body description.

Getting ready for the date, I tried not to psych myself out but couldn't help getting ridiculously nervous while driving to the restaurant.  However I was in luck when I arrived and found my 5'10" date to actually be standing taller than me (in heels, no less), really cute and decked out like a Banana Republic model.

You'd think I'd be golden once the stars had aligned and delivered the exact replica of what I had envisioned from our emails.  It was a really fun date filled with laughter, a couple drinks, a good night kiss and positive follow up text from him...but looking back at it this morning I wonder if I will ever hear from him again.  Why?  Because for some reason I have become "first date stupid" and manage to blow them all (no, not literally blow them you perv!).  

To keep my dumb mouth shut and my head on straight, I have complied a list of things not to talk about on first dates, EVER.  This reminds me of the sorority rush rule where the 3 B's were off limits for conversation: Booze, Boys and Bank Accounts (yes, it was a Jewish sorority).  I may or may not have talked about some of all of these things last night.  ::hands head in shame::  But I still got a goodnight kiss without him trying to undress me--so ha!

  1. You're holding to Patti Stenger's two drink maximum: This implies not only that you're a drunk slut but that you have a plenty of stupid things to say if you do, in fact, get drunk.  Crazy points if you mention the Millionaire Matchmaker herself.
  2. You're any sort of "masochist": Even if you're using it to describe something good, "I'm an academic masochist" it comes off sounding like you're a freak.  There are a bajillion other words in the English language to describe yourself as "hard working". 
  3. Communication with your exes: Whether you're best friends or he "wants to spit on your grave" this is information that does not need to be disclosed.
  4. Therapy: Self-explanatory.  
  5. Interwebz Friends: This is especially true if you're dating men over 35, unless they're part of some hobby forum of their own that somehow makes The Nest seem normal.  
  6. Write a dating blog: This is all kinds of badness.  Just don't tell them.  
  7. Have encountered a lot of sexual freaks: Way to make the freak across from you feel bad about themselves.  Hey, you never know what you might be in to (wink, wink!)
  8. Made a book of nudie pics for your ex-husband: Actually this one has been well received but talk of nudie pics is probably better left until future dates.
  9. You want to get a dog that can fit into your purse: Regardless of whether you will actually put said pooch in your purse, if you mention you want a tiny canine companion, you will be pigeon-holed into a crazy dog-in-purse lady.  Better than a crazy cat lady, but still bad.
  10. You want to open a dog bakery one day: Men do not understand this.  They either think you're nuts or that you want to chop up puppies and bake them into pies.
Anything else I should add to the list?

Friday, February 17, 2012

Why I Don't Date Men in Their 20's

I'm in my 20's so it would make sense for me to date people relatively in my same age group rather than men who were shaving while I was still in diapers.  However, I have always preferred older men.  Keeping an open mind, I started talking to a man in his late 20's online who I met on Plenty of Fish.  I will call him ManChild.

The first strike against him was when he sent me pictures from his college football days...7 years some podunk college in New Jersey I had never heard of.  This Badger is a big (read: huge) collegiate football snob and was not impressed, regardless of the number of football stories he threw my way.  Oh wow, look how cool you were...over half a decade ago...wearing body pads...and a helmet...on a football field...with no bleachers in sight.  You might have been a football god in college ManChild, but I live in the present. 

Regardless, I continued the conversation because he lives in a town that I'm planning on moving to, which I will call "Town".  I like Town because it has a cute downtown area with great restaurants, shopping and nightlife while maintaining small town safety and charm.  Plus it's close to work and family.  Obviously ManChild has different ideas of why Town is so great...and is a perfect example of why I choose not to date men in their 20s.

Me: I'm planning on moving to Town soon and want to be within walking distance of the Green.
ManChild: that is where i am at now... it is amazing...i liked it so much here there was no way i was going to move and i wanted to remain close to town and 287
::insert some conversation about a St. Patty's Day celebration in Town::
ManChild: I am going to keep my eyes open for you in town...
Me: Sounds good
ManChild: I will also be drinking... my apartment complex is like a college dormatory... everyone here partys and partys hard
Me: I wouldn't like to live in a place like that.  I'm not interested in living in an apartment building where it's  a big party.
ManChild: i love it... i always have a door that i can knock to find someone to spend time with.  well we are all in out late 20's early 30's.
Me:  How old are you again?
ManChild: 29
Me: Oh ok, yeah that whole big party apartment style living or living with roommates is something I'd never deal with again.
ManChild:  Town is a very social community, why do you want to live in town, if you are not interested in that?   i'm confused
Me: I'm not interested in living in a college dorm, I didn't say I wasnt interested in being social.  There's a difference. Obviously you dont get it.
ManChild: clearly.

I think I'll stick to men who are graying at the temples, thanks.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Cease and Desist

I recently went out with a lawyer who I met on Plenty of Fish. I will call him JD.  I had vowed never to date another lawyer after my divorce, as I learned first hand that two lawyers often do not make good partners.  However this man was cute, lived nearby and looked good on paper.  Funny, I think I've said that about someone before...

JD took me to a nice restaurant in town where we got a table on the bar side of the restaurant.  People watching is always a good fallback on awkward first date conversation so I was all for it.  He was cuter  in person than his pictures suggested...shorter too, but come on, that was a given.  We had a lovely conversation over wine, more wine, calamari and then some 11% Mad Elf Ale that I decided was a good wasn't.

Halfway through our calamari (and our strong beer) the bar area clears out and JD hops over to my side of the booth to talk.  I realize he is drunk and is starting to look a little like the Mad Elf on our beer bottle.  He starts telling me that me that he's a very sexual person.  Fine, sure, so am I.  He explained that it led to the demise of his marriage (I can appreciate that), he and his wife had different sexual appetites (okay), she cheated on him (yeah, that sucks), yadda yadda yadda, and that he was interested in "swinging." Um, what?!

Around that time he started kissing me and playing with my belt.  I gently repositioned his hand and carried on with the conversation.  Although he had skeeved me out, part of me was curious...and no, not the part you think.  I asked him a few questions: Had he ever been to a swingers club? How did he know about this? Have I been living under a rock and is this what single people do now?  The answer was no, he'd never been--it was just a fantasy he had.

This was apparently the green light to put his full effort into undressing me.  I quickly shot him down and he got offended.  This was the point when drunk JD attempted to rationalize with me, "Don't you just want to touch it?  Just touch the base."  Yes, I'm serious.  To this day I have no idea if he meant the metaphorical baseball bases of high school hanky panky or the base of his penis.  Either way, I booked it out of there.  I realized that no matter how curious you are, there are certain topics and certain beverages that are just not appropriate for a first date.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Tiger Man

I met a man online who I will call CJ. He was 41, wore tight jeans and cowboy boots (yummy) and had a sexy smoky voice that made me want to do bad things to him. Divorced for almost a year, CJ seemed like the perfect no drama type of relationship that I could use at the moment. It didn't hurt that on our first date we met for drinks and then continued the night at a country western bar (yeehaw!). It really didn't hurt that the night ended with a kiss and a date for the next night.

In the beginning it was all fun and games--literally. We went to a shooting range, watched the Giants in the playoffs, drank beer and ate greasy bar food. We had amazing chemistry that was the icing hiding the red flag cake. He was a witty intellectual who got my sense of humor and but then things got a little weird.

CJ had some friends of the stuffed variety. The first time he picked me up he apologized for being late. He blamed Bob, the teddy bear belted into the middle back seat, for giving him wrong directions. I introduced myself to Bob (what else was I supposed to do?) and asked why he had a seat belt on. Note: Teddy bears are people too and must wear seat belts in cars. I didn't want him flying around back there, did I?!

Albeit slightly strange, I brushed the Bob episode off as endearing and something that the overall sexiness of CJ could overshadow. Then I met Rajah, the stuffed tiger who guards his twin-sized bed, and two other furry friends whose authentic ethnic names (an African name for the lion and another Indian name for Tiger #2) now escape me. He made them each growl for me. A libido killer that even tight jeans and cowboy boots could not overcome.


There were other red flags that popped up while dating CJ. Breaking his back as a result of a drunken fall down stairs at 2pm and having a house so sparsely furnished that the only place to sit was either on a toilet or on his twin sized bed are notable examples. The morning before I ended the short courtship, things were tense. I was pissed at his overall douchebaggery. Men: For the record, no matter how self depreciating a woman's humor is, it's not funny to say to her, "No wonder your XH ::insert some deplorable action here::"

In an effort to lighten the mood he sent me a picture message of his stuffed friends. They were lined up on his bed with a caption that read: "Hey there, from us!" It was so priceless that I texted him today, solely as a means of recovering that picture from our message history. I doubt I'll ever see that picture again though--Grrr!