June 28, 2010

If you haven’t already figured it out, in edible form I LOVE cheese. In audio form, I do not. It makes me want to punch said cheese monger in the face. Although not a violent person by nature, unless you are putting cheese directly in my mouth (in which case I will instantly fall in love with you), if you bring it near my ears, there will be blood. Most likely from me knocking your teeth out.


A few years ago I met a strapping lad at a friend’s wedding. Quite the dramatic start to this meeting, as he had recently gotten in trouble with the law. Oh, and I also first made out with his brother. Whoops. As fun as all those things sound, however, that is not the main point of my story.

We started a very brief cell phone love affair, meaning we called one another and text messaged often. Due to his ankle monitor, he unfortunately was not able to go out in the evenings, which complicated our dating situation (as you can imagine).

One evening I got this text: Do you like big hugs and long passionate kisses?! Because it’s on my resume.

As I stifled the bile that was beginning to rise up in my throat, I re-read the text to make sure I was seeing it correctly. Was this for real? Although I do find the whole “dating resume” idea to be interesting, I’d prefer to find out about your STDs and mommy issues as the relationship progresses … like normal people. Being the non-confrontational person I am, I chose not to respond to the message and any subsequent text thereafter. Once I’m annoyed, I’m very annoyed. And outside of challenging him to a duel to the death, there is really nothing useful I could find to say.

About a week goes by. It’s your typical Saturday night where I go out with friends and once again tie one off. I wake up hungover (and of course naked) to a new message on my phone, which I eagerly pick up. To my surprise (and horror) it was the Cheese Puff SINGING to me on my voicemail. He sang the ENTIRE “I want to grow old with you” song from the movie Wedding Singer. As his voice droned on, flatly hitting the high C notes, I look around my bedroom for the nearest sharp object to puncture my ear drum.

I should note that at this time we had yet to go out on an actual date. Although I’m sure he was drunk, I wish he would have eaten three burritos and passed out with nothing but his shoes on like most normal drunks. Don’t judge, people.

Again, some girls might swoon at a serenade. Singing to me, however, will result in either a fit of giggles or tirade of rage. That is, unless your choice of songs involve hair metal bands and/or naughty words. In which case I will applaud and coo like a happy baby.

Dating Rule:

Unless you are a therapist, giant hugs should not be on your resume. Unless you are a soap actor, passionate kissing should not be on your resume. If you sing to me in a voicemail message about how you would like to grow old with me (without first even going on a date), you should expect a call from my lawyer. Even if it was self-inflicted with a dull spoon, you are the ultimate cause of my deafness and I will forever hold you responsible.



June 24, 2010

This may surprise you, but I am capable of commitment. Quiet your gasps and close up your gaping mouths. A few years ago I was actually in a rather serious relationship. We lived together and did the whole “planning for the future” together. We were a good match in many ways, one of which was our ability to have fun in every situation. Our date nights usually consisted of finding the local dive bar and taking control of the juke box, playing darts and then having a dance party together in our kitchen. Although some may have said we had an alcohol “problem,” we did have great fun!

On one particular Friday I had plans to go out for a friend’s birthday. Live-In Boyfriend was tired and decided to stay in. The details of the night are a tad bit blurry but from what I do recall I had a conversation with a non-English speaking man (I am not fluent in Spanish), cried to my friend’s parents (who I had just met) about how much I loved my own parents, and had a long conversation with an 85-year-old alcoholic with questionable hygiene who thought I looked like a young Marlo Thomas.

Then, later in the evening, I purchased some pasta.

Next thing I know, I wake up to the sound of my Live-In Boyfriend giggling. My head is pounding, my body feels like I’ve been beaten and I’m trying to piece together the previous evening. “What’s so funny?” I groggily asked.

“You remember coming home last night?” he asked in between giggles. “Um, kinda,” I replied, beginning to worry about what I may have said or did. “You’re probably not hungry at all this morning, are you?” he asked. At this point I’m really confused, as I do have some rather serious heartburn but also remember making my pasta purchase to go.

To make a long story short, apparently I noisily arrived back home and, of course, woke him up with my stomping. He said after a few minutes he heard nothing but quiet and worried that I may have passed out on the couch. There were no lights on, but thankfully (for him) it was a full moon that evening. As he crept to the living room to check on me he saw me very much awake. And apparently very hungry. I was eating my pasta. Naked. With my hands. We are talking mad grabbing of pasta with my bare hands and shoving it into my mouth!

At first, I refused to believe him. I could believe the naked part, yes, and could even believe the eating with my hands part … but combined? No way.

He said the proof would be in the marinara fingerprints I likely left around the apartment. And what do you know? My clothes were in a heap in our dining room, and there was pasta sauce covering a large area of the living room table, bathroom, sink, etc. There was basically a marinara trail down the hallway!

Apparently I was afraid I would get lost and pulled a Hansel & Gretel to find my way back from the bedroom.

“Why didn’t you stop me?!” I exclaimed in embarrassment. His response? “You were in a zone. And I was afraid of what would happen if I disturbed you.” So he slowly backed away trying to stifle the laughter.


We actually were together for some time after that. I never could quite live that down, though. I’m not sure you ever really look at someone the same way after you see her eating pasta animal style while naked.

Moral of the Story:

If you’re eating something that involves sauce, it’s probably a good idea to use silverware. If you’re planning on not using silverware, it’s probably a good idea to keep your clothes on. Or, at the very least, ensure you are home alone so no one accidentally witnesses the feeding.

And I wonder why I’m single.


June 20, 2010

One of my good friends also has a problem with attracting freaks. Unlike me, though, she attracts mass quantities of them. She also is very open minded and will go on a date with just about anyone, save men who have human skull collections and/or body odor. I have to give her credit, as she will continue to date someone to get to know him before she decides to cut him loose. Me, I will get annoyed and write someone off within a few minutes of a conversation. Then again, I’m perfectly content drinking myself into oblivion and dancing by my lonesome in a dark corner of a bar for hours on end. I’m also into facial hair and people who are “different.” I think I’ve made it clear that I have very obvious issues.

So my friend started dating this guy who was a bit older, but was attractive, a gentleman and they had fun together. In the beginning, she of course did the requisite name Googling and did not come up with a single hit. As things became more serious, she realized she had been spelling his last name incorrectly.

On a random Wednesday while bored at work she again Googled his name. And surprise surprise did she get some hits! Many hits. Of him. Naked. Pictures of him naked. On the Internet.

Naked. Pictures. Of. Boyfriend. On. The. Internet.

She flipped out and began sending me the links. I unsuspectingly opened them up at work and got some sweet shots of her boyfriend’s bare ass clad only in a tool belt. (Other shots included him climbing ladders
and hammering – isn’t it dangerous to perform carpentry naked???) I tried to quell the excitement, as I didn’t even know these types of naked construction worker pictures existed! I quickly saved the website as a favorite and called my frantic friend.

She eventually discussed the pictures with him and came to find out that, yes, many years ago he had posed nude for pictures and was even featured in Playgirl.

She continued to date him until things fell apart on their own accord. But now she can forever say she used to date a porn star. OK, so maybe he wasn’t a porn star. But pictures of his junk are on the Internet.

How cool is that?

Dating Rule:

If you’re going to Google someone’s name, make sure you spell it right. If you are on the fence about someone, knowing such a sweet ass exists under those jeans definitely makes your decision for you. Yes, please!

And thank you, friend, for sending me that link – it has really helped me out on some pretty lonely nights.


June 16, 2010

As much as I make fun of myself for being phat, I really am quite active. I consistently work out about five times a week, usually running and some sort of toning. I have a bit of exercise ADD, though, and often try new workout crazes, be it boxing, CrossFit, Bar Method, Binge & Purge … you name it, I’ve tried it. There is one class I always go back to, though – cardio dancing. My favorite is cardio strip tease.

Now, don’t get your feathers all ruffled. It does not involve poles, and the clothes remain on. I always carry a small desire to try a pole dancing class, but I think the ramifications could be disastrous. I have drunkenly humped my fair share of street sign poles, meter poles, bike lock poles … I mean … if I actually knew what I was doing? That would be trouble. More marketable? Yes. More likely to bruise and/or fracture something? Also yes.

This cardio strip tease class includes a warm-up, learning a routine, and then “performing” the routine over and over again as the songs get progressively faster. I should inform you that I actually do have rhythm and have no problem shaking my thang on the dance floor. A lot of these moves are supposed to be sexy. Key words: “supposed to be.”

Personally, I try NOT to glance at myself in the mirror during class. The sight of me sweating and panting in an oversized shirt I’ve had since my senior prom and yoga pants is NOT sexy. The only good part of catching glimpses of myself is that I usually lose my appetite for the remainder of the evening. Is that what I actually look like when I’m doing a body roll??? It looks like two pigs are fighting under a blanket!

Long story short, a lot of the moves in the routine are not meant for public consumption. At least when I am performing them.

Cue my good friend’s bachelorette party last fall. This is the friend I attend dance class with. We are out partaking in party time events, having a grand time. I am progressively getting drunker and more carefree with my movements. I then have the bright idea to re-enact some of our recent dance class routine. I proceed to shout her name and point at her from across the bar. At this, I gracefully fall to the floor as I seductively grind my pelvis up and down. For those of you who have listened to “Dangerous on the Dance Floor,” the song was basically talking about me at this moment. I was a porno flick on the dance floor! All eyes turn to my gyrations as men start throwing me their numbers and clamoring to buy me drinks.


I basically belly flopped to the floor and proceeded to look like an epileptic having a seizure. I should mention that during my convulsions my dress flew up, flashing my bare ass to the bar. A nice woman rushed over saying “I’m a nurse, I’m a nurse!” as she attempted to stop the spasms with a tranquilizer gun and a straight jacket she had quickly fashioned out of drink napkins.


Moral of the Story:

First of all, if you’re planning to writhe around on the floor, it’s probably a good idea to wear full-brief underwear. Second of all, if you don’t want to be rushed to the hospital, do NOT attempt the worm or some sort of floor-humping variation. People may point and shout in hysterics, but you will not be getting any suitors’ numbers. At least from people who are NOT in the medical field.


June 14, 2010

Anyone who knows me knows I have a massive hatred of feet. I do not want you touching me with your feet, nor will I ever give you a foot massage. I find feet to be soldiers of repulsion and wish to be nowhere near your wiggling nubs of disgusting.

Cue my next date, who says to me virtually out of nowhere: “I bet you have nice feet.”

Mind you, it is cold out, I am wearing jeans and boots, and unless this guy has X-ray vision, there is absolutely no way he could predict this.

“Actually, I don’t,” was my response, hoping it would wipe the fetish-loving grin off of his face.

“Tell me about them,” he said, while licking his lips as he pantomimed doing some sort of ji jitsu on my awaiting hooves.

I take that opportunity to talk about my nightmarish paws, sparing no detail on the bunion size and freakishly long second toes. The smile quickly faded into a scowl of disgust, resulting in the date coming to its conclusion.

Thank God.

Dating Rule:

I am a freak. I know this. I, at the very least, TRY to fly my freak flag at half mast for at least one date or two. Do you see me on a first date whipping out pictures of my lover Rick Astley as I rub my inner thighs gently?


Airing your sexual fetishes on a first date is creepy. You are 36, balding and you don’t exactly have a six pack. Do you really have room to dismiss me based on my jacked up feet alone? At least wait for me to get caught stealing the half drank dusty bottle of rum (blasphemy!) from your grandmother’s house before dismissing me.


June 9, 2010

My friend and I had just taken in a Friday afternoon Cubs game. As any Cubs fan knows, sometimes the only way to get through a game (the past couple of seasons anyway) is through mass beer consumption. Twist my arm!

After the game ended, we decided to continue our binge drinking at a bar in the area. We snag a table to ourselves and promptly order. Because we were only two people occupying a very large table, a group of people asked if they could join us. We, of course, obliged. It would have been a wonderful addition to the day had these blokes been fun or interesting, or perhaps just NOT shady strip club owners. But alas, the we-realized-too-late shady strip club owners sat with us, and one of their friends had clearly been drinking way more than the others. I am both awed and inspired by his beer-chugging ability and teeter-tottering…and slightly jealous.

Our food arrived, and as we are eating “Drunker Than The Rest” busted out (out of nowhere, mind you) matter-of-factly: “I have huge balls.”

Never usually at a loss for words, I’m not quite sure how to respond to that so I simply stated, “How nice for you.” I could see the enthusiasm begin to pump through his veins as he got closer to our faces and said, “Really! No, they’re huge!”

Once again. How. Nice. For. You.

At this point I am very clearly focused on my sandwich and am a bit annoyed at the ball distraction. I want to make him go away, so we decided to ignore him, but that only seemed to fuel the fire more. He then asked us, “Do you want to see them?” My friend and I looked at each other, both a bit unsure. I mean, what if these are some crazy big balls that I may never have the opportunity to see again? Was it worth the risk of losing our appetites? I had about half my sandwich left and did NOT want the delicious food to go to waste.

Not being much of a gambler I informed him that we were trying to eat and to please take his balls elsewhere. “No, no, seriously you have to see them!” At this, he deftly unzipped his pants with one hand, nimbly reached in and pulled out what I can only assume is his ball. One ball. One enormous ball of the likes I have never seen before, nor do I care to ever see again.

Seriously. Elephantitis. Crazy huge.

I wasn’t sure whether to point and scream or applaud. The rest of the day we spent in a sort of daze. My friend and I couldn’t quite get over that some dude had showed us ONE ball in a crowded bar at 4:00 PM on a Friday. That stuff just doesn’t happen to normal people.

Moral of the Story:

If you have big balls, yay for you. Keep ‘em in your pants, though! Especially when someone is eating!

There are so many follow-up questions I have for this fellow, I wish I had been more coherent. How does he jog? Why are his balls like that? And how did he so gracefully remove the ONE ball from his pants? Magic hands!

The icing on the cake was that when I told another friend about this incident she knew who this guy was! He had apparently gone to college with us and was often seen taking his balls (or ball) out at inappropriate times.

My question: Why not the shaft? What are you hiding, Magic Hands???


June 6, 2010

Another bar, another guy, and another date a couple of days later. Are we sensing a trend yet?

Well, this guy was really persistent and went out of his way to plan a fun date. However, the thought of spending an ENTIRE day hiking in God Knows Where Indiana with some dude I barely knew left me feeling a little uneasy. Cue the “Dueling Banjos” song. For anyone who has seen the movie Deliverance, “I bet you can squeal like a pig” is not exactly a line I care to hear anytime soon. My mouth sure is pretty but not in the way you are suggesting!

As an alternative, I suggested drinks instead. I wanted to do something more novel and unique. He picked me up and as we drove away I asked him how his weekend had been. He then begins to tell me IN DETAIL about his date from the day before. How he met her, what they did, how he felt about the girl and was sure to include the fact he went back to her house for drinks late into the evening after their day trip to Lake Geneva.

Hmmm…is this information that was supposed to entice me in some way?

Sensing I was confused as to why he was sharing this information, he said with a wink and a smile, “All I could think about was you though.”

“Really,” I asked him, “what EXACTLY about me were you thinking about? Because, um, you don’t know me.”

And now, schmuck, you never will.

Dating Rule #7:

It’s our first date – we obviously are not committed and most likely both dating other people. But there is no need to share information regarding your “successful” date from the night before. It’s uncomfortable and unnecessary.

The only thing that makes the situation worse is to sprout out a cheesy line. Cheese should be worshipped and cherished preferably with crackers, chips or any kind of meat. Cheese is meant for the mouth, not the ears.

I am not a woman who swoons at cheesy lines. I am a woman who will bitch slap your cheesy ass though. Consider yourself warned.