May 31, 2010

Because I’m not going out on dates every night of the week (a girl has gotta get some beauty rest!), not all of these stories will be my own. I have been witness to so many funny/idiotic exchanges my friends have experienced that I plan to steal them and make my own. So there.

It’s Easter Sunday and I’m out at a bar with my friends (shocker). I mean, Jesus rose … blah, blah, blah … let’s drink to celebrate! We’re listening to some country tunes when a young gentleman approached the table and said to my friend: “I like your hair.” As he says this, he playfully mussed her hair up with his hands. “It’s JBF,” he added.

We all quickly glanced at each other, none of us quite sure what he meant. Jiggly But Firm? Joyous Bouncy Fro? Is JBF some new hip term I’m not familiar with? LOL, IDK, TTYL, WTF???

Never one to bite my tongue after a few cocktails I asked him, “What does JBF stand for?” He grinned widely and matter-of-factly goes, “Just been f-cked.”

At this point I’m not sure what bothered me more, that he was clearly turned on by the fact that she looked like she’s just been repeatedly drilled by a large sweaty man, or that it’s a common-enough term to warrant an abbreviation.

Dating Rule #6

If a girl looks like she’s just been f-cked and you use this as a pickup line, she will not be f-cking you.



May 27, 2010

One can only write so many stories about her horrible dating life before visions of razors and nooses start dancing in her head. Therefore, I’ve decided to extend my storytelling adventure to drunken tales. As you can imagine, I have a lot.

Now, I’ve been told I’ve done some pretty crazy things while intoxicated – many of which I don’t recall being a part of. If you don’t remember, it didn’t happen, right? The ones I do recall are pretty tame. At least the ones I will be sharing over the World Wide Web.

One beautiful Sunday afternoon I found myself at a nearby street festival. It was the perfect summer day outside and, more perfect, the beer was flowing. Heavily.

My friends and I met a group of young guys and were having a grand time laughing and making fun of one another. Well, I was making fun of them at least. It seems that is either my version of flirting or ensuring no one will ever love me. You pick.

One of the boys I found myself drawn to … well, I thought he was gay. Not because he had a lisp, limp wrists or was wearing a rainbow T-shirt. I just got it in my head that he was gay gay gay! Thank you, mass beer consumption.

As the festival was coming to a close, I naturally accepted an invitation to go shoot some pool with the Presumed Gay Man. It was late on a school night & it seemed like the responsible thing to do. We walked to a nearby bar to continue our mass beer consumption and attempt to shoot pool.

I suppose now would be a good time to tell you I have a very close friend who is, in fact, gay. He also happens to be 6’4” and African-American. So as we continued to consume mass amounts of alcohol, I decided to ask Presumed Gay Man, “Do you like big black guys?” He looked at me, very much confused, and said, “Excuse me?”

Charming gal that I am, I repeated the statement but much slower and at a MUCH higher decibel. His eyes bugged out as he shouted, “Do you think I’m gay???”

Although I’m quick on my feet in terms of humor, when I’ve screwed up (and know it) I’m not very good at lying or pretending what I said or did was not, in fact, the case. Especially when I just asked a heterosexual man if he likes being boned by big black dudes.

I somehow managed to fumble my way through an explanation. However, Wrongly Presumed Gay Man was clearly miffed and spent the remainder of the evening trying to “convince” me that he was heterosexual, meaning he touched me a lot and tried to stick his tongue down my throat.

The problem? I was not interested and only agreed to shoot pool because I was drunk, having fun and thought he was amusing … and gay. Sigh.

Moral of the Story:

Unless you are POSITIVE someone is gay, do not try to fix him up with your gay friends. This really should be a no brainer. But as you will soon come to realize, I do not actually have a brain. The space between my ears apparently only serves as a receptacle for rum and bad decisions.


May 23, 2010

I met a strapping young lad one evening after viewing a train wreck of a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. He was funny, intelligent, interesting and also, amazingly, seemed quite smitten with me. A few days later we decided to meet up at a local watering hole. We discussed the state of the Iraqi war, argued about politics, and shared our hopes and deepest fears.

Fine, we drank one too many beers, pawed at one other like teenagers and giggled…a lot. Clearly things were going well!

Notice I said “were” going well…

I decided to share with him an interestingly funny story about a party I had recently attended with an engaged couple. At this party, Mr. Bethroved started making out with another man…while sitting next to his fiancée. She seemed perfectly ok with the make out session which I found perplexing.

Was this story inappropriate for a first date? Possibly. Note to self: Drinking four beers on an empty stomach WILL get you drunk. Is this blog about my issues though? No it is not.

After telling the story, Gayson looked at me blankly, not understanding why I thought the party’s awkward grope session was out of Bizarro Land. Jokingly, I asked him if he had ever made out with a guy. He confidently looked me in the eyes and without hesitation stated: “Why yes I have.”

Instantly my head was filled with the image of him gyrating his pelvis to ‘In the Navy’ while wearing shrunken sailor garb. I shook the thought and confirmed he was still sporting his very heterosexual T-shirt, jeans, and hat combo. So Beer #4 decided to ask him if he’s ever slept with another man. He waved dismissively and assuredly exclaimed: “No no, I’ve never SLEPT with a man.”

My inquisitive nature knew there was something more behind this. So Beer #4 inquired further: “Blow job?” Well, to my surprise, not only had he received a BJ, but he had also given one to another man. “But it only happened that one time, and because it was something I was curious about.” He started to defend himself but then stopped, stating he was not “your typical guy” and then changed the subject to inquire if I wanted to order any meatballs or perhaps some sort of phallic-shaped sausage.

I scratched my head and looked down at myself to confirm I had NOT grown a shaft and testes in the past few hours. He must know I’m a woman, right? I was hoping my ample cleavage would offset the Adam’s apple and faint mustache. Apparently not?

Now I do consider myself a woman of the times. I have many close gay friends. I wave my rainbow flag high. But when it comes to men I want to date, I do not want to get tips on the latest hummer techniques.

Dating Rule #5:

If you know what another man’s sperm tastes like, you will not be seeing me naked. But is it ok to call you for help with a vexing home decorating dilemma?


May 17, 2010

A few months ago I decided to try out the world of Internet dating. Everyone else is doing it, so why shouldn’t I? I planned to meet one of my online “matches” for drinks at a bar near my place. He arrived first, and I was pleased he looked exactly like his picture. Mr. Match had already ordered a beer, so we exchanged pleasantries as I quickly ordered sangria. It had been about 12 hours since my last drink and I had to stop the shakes somehow!

As we began to discuss our demographics, families and other typical first date banter, I noticed he was drinking his beer rather quickly. And by rather quickly I mean he shot-gunned it and then smashed the bottle against his forehead. The waitress quickly ran over and asked him if he would like another.

“No,” he confidently said. “Just the check.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am no supermodel. But I’m not a hideous monster either. I have several redeeming qualities that usually buy me, at the very least, a second date. I have dimples and double Ds, for Pete’s sake!

I eyed the sangria angrily as I calculated the amount of time it would take me to finish that bad boy in time for the check to be paid. I began to chug my sangria, even as bits of fruit fell into my eye, almost rendering me blind. The Guzzler then handed me a napkin, paid the bill and off he went.

I, of course, went and met friends at a nearby bar to drown my troll face in a bucket of rum.

Dating Rule #4:

Looks are important. If the little guy can’t lift off, that’s going to be a problem. But at the very least PRETEND someone’s personality matters as well. Cutting a date short without even letting your alcoholic date finish her drink is akin to ripping out her heart. If you don’t like the way I look, I can deal with it. But at least let me get a buzz. You do realize the drunker I get the easier I get, right?


May 10, 2010

One of my good friends recently planned her bachelorette party in St. Louis. It happened to correspond with Mardi Gras, so I was very excited to showcase my talent for binge drinking and motorboating. We were out partaking in said events when an attractive young lad started flirting with me. Although my conscience screamed to me that he looked a bit young, I figured it was nothing a few more Hurricanes and muscle relaxers couldn’t shut up. Things unfortunately take a turn for the worse when he asked me: “Soooo, are you someone here’s Mom?”

I quickly did the math in my head as I looked around at the twenty-something, beer-drinking and booty-shaking people around me. He thought I could be the mother of someone old enough to be at a bar??? “No!” I vehemently shouted while I pulled up my elastic-waist polyester pants and waved my cane at him. He then slowly smiled, hungrily gave me a once over, and busted out: “Oh, I get it … you’re like the hot aunt.”

This putz has clearly been watching way too much porn.

The only way to teach this fellow a lesson, I quickly surmised, was to make out with his 20-year-old friend who did not audibly live out his MILF fantasies.

Dating Rule #3:
No matter how old a girl appears, do not assume she is someone’s mother. No woman wants to feel old enough to have birthed you. Tell her she looks like she just got out of college. Feed her drinks. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.


May 3, 2010

It’s late on a Saturday night and I’m at a hipster bar, so the correct assumption here is that I’m drunk. I happen to stumble on a charming middle-aged fellow who not only shares my love of Indie music but also has a motorcycle. Seeing my dream of being a Hell’s Angel coming true, I am obviously interested in getting to know this chap better.

A few days later he takes me to an unassuming hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. I’m very excited, as he has presented me with the opportunity to awe and inspire him with my discriminating palette for fried treats. My stomach rumbled happily. We decided to start off with the PuPu platter, which included a sampling of delicious appetizers. As I’m lifting the piping hot crab rangoon to my salivating mouth he informs me that I “have a very underrated body type.” As the crab rangoon taunted my gaping mouth, I gently place it back down and sarcastically asked, “And what exact body type is that?”

Chubby Chaser instantly knew he was up a creek without a paddle. I have to give him credit for being of at least average intelligence. “Well,” he stammered, “you look…well…you look…um…healthy.”

I eagerly licked the pool of grease that was congealing on my significantly less hot crab rangoon. “And who exactly is underrating me?” Being the observant hipster that he is, CC responded, “Well…I mean…you’re not rail thin.”

Why thank you, Chubby Chaser. For clearly I do not have two functioning eyes, nor have I ever had access to a mirror. Thank you for pointing out my apparent lack of anorexia. Sensing I am clearly annoyed he quipped, “I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

A compliment. Really.

Oh yes, I suppose telling me YOU find me attractive even though NO OTHER MAN does obviously thrills me.

Naturally, I spent the rest of the date inhaling the platter of fried goodness in between doing shots of sweet and sour.

Dating Rule #2:

Back-handed compliments not only will result in you going home alone, but you will also be going home hungry. I will finish my meal. Then I will finish yours.