Lane Frost and Pow Pow Power Wheels

Lane Frost and POW, POW, Power Wheels:

The final installment of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

Sadly I can only keep going in this series of horrible dates for so long before people stop reading them. So I will conclude this series with a really heavy heart that British chick must have felt when she wrote the final Harry Potter. The slight difference is that she made billions of dollars and so far not even my two readers have sent me a dollar; so my dear two readers I love you dearly… but a bitch has gotta eat. Capiche? Seriously I could use a care package of more Guinness and some Reese’s Peanut Butter cups… the little ones. Do NOT send the big ones. Those big ones are like seeing those big areolas on boobs in porno; they just are a big disappointment. 

Especially after a life full of Barbie dolls, I guess I always assumed the dark spots on my chest would fall off when they became boobs. Let us not even talk about my knowledge of schlong. Don’t act all shocked that I have seen a porno or anything. It isn’t my fault I am not a prude; my mom made me say shit and it sort of snowballed out of her control at that point. 
 
Bet she didn’t see that coming! You can’t un-ring a bell. At age 14 was when it really got interesting. You know ten years ago; back in the extremely awesome 1990s. I am getting off-topic here.
 
I had this friend who we shall call Trucker. Trucker is a special case; he is kind of lonely and socially inept. Reminds you a lot of Forrest Gump; lovable but not the sharpest crayon in the box if you catch my drift. He called one night and asked if I wanted to go do something. I had recently broken up with whatever tool bag I happened to be filling my Day Timer with at the moment, for my two readers… I know one of you is kind of old, Kelso, so let me refresh your memory Day Timers were what we used after Calendars and Filofax’s and before Palm Pilots and now Smart Phones and tablets. Basically back when life was a whole lot easier and the government could not monitor EVERYTHING you do. Again, off-topic.
 
Tucker calls, I am free and just happen to be bored enough to go wherever it is that Tucker mumbled he wanted to go. He comes by the house because he knew where I lived; he does that. Like food in your teeth, Tucker just shows up wherever you happen to be. It is actually kind of a talent he has. Now yesterday I told you about Busted Up Truck Guy. 

Trucker’s uh… truck was one of those “vintage” trucks that had never even heard the word restoration mentioned blowing in wind around it. This particular truck which he has driven as long as I have known him… since my senior year of high school. We all called it Ol’ Red.
Red’s value went up and down with the prices of scrap metal. It was a simple rust bucket held together by the grace of God and duct tape. Sweet tea and baby Jesus, duct tape… I could never manage to open the door so Trucker always had to come over and perform some kind of special beating to get the door open. Once inside you had to arrange yourself carefully so as to avoid the rusty spring sticking out of the bench seat and the six-inch hole in the floorboard. You could see freaking pavement through the thing. The spring at least kept him from trying some amorous move thing he saw on television.
 
We end up at a bull ride. I love bull rides; for the usual reason.. I like to see some arrogant, jackass, cowboy who thinks he is the next Lane Frost get thrown off the bull straight out of the chute. Then see the bull run his ass over. In case I have not mentioned it I have dated a few bull riders. I know their breed. This bull ride, however, was what we call here “Mexican Rodeo”. White people do not generally go to these events.
My Spanish is still pretty hopeless so I did not know what was going on. I did recognize the surprise on the Hispanic faces as we entered. My ass was wrapped in my tightest Wranglers (Laugh all you want I made those jeans look good) and I suddenly felt like the only woman in the “arena”. 

I was the only woman in the damn arena. The place, Trucker told me, was called the “The Chicken Coop”. Two of Trucker’s friends would be meeting us and he was talking one in particular up pretty good. I could smell a set up like road kill skunk on a hot day.

Trucker’s friends arrived and we will call them collectively Slim Jim. The reason is that I think they may have been conjoined twins. I did not ask to see their people/skin bridge, so it is one of those things that now keep me awake at night. Damn it.
 
Trucker’s friend Jim of the Slim Jim combo sat next to me. Sweat Hog does not begin to cover it. Here I am stuck between Trucker and Slim Jim and maybe 500 Hispanic people, in an old industrial chicken coop that some genius decided to empty fill with dirt and a fence and put a chute at one end. The fans in the coop apparently did not function and the organizer of this event had not paid for more than electric lights. To say it was a bit warm inside the coop would be an understatement … not really helping Jim out… Slim either if they were conjoined as I suspected they were.  

Jim had on a black felt cowboy hat, which is fine, but I don’t recommend those to anyone who sweats a lot. It leaves a salt ring. Sweat was pouring out from underneath his hat; Trucker had just put in the largest scoop of dip (chewing tobacco) I had ever seen. He literally looked like Bubba from Forrest Gump.



I can deal with smokers as I used to smoke myself. Dip is not something I understand and Trucker he did not manage the dip well at all, so it just ended up in his teeth all over his mouth like he’d been chewing on coffee grounds. I overlooked this because Trucker is sweet like a puppy or that stray cat that has fur missing, you just feel sorry for him. The bull riding starts… and Slim Jim asks if I would care for a beverage. I had seen a little cart outside that smelled delicious and usually, they have at least a grape soda. Or as we say in the south “coke” “what kind?”, “Grape”. 

That’s not what Slim Jim meant. He produced a liter bottle of coke that had been emptied and refilled with beer… or pee, I did not partake. It was warm and had been tucked somewhere between Slim Jim. They just stuck a straw in it and the two of them sipped on it throughout the event.
 
When we finally left I am pretty sure I smelled like sweaty, chicken shit. I also had to walk through the spit pile from Trucker’s dip habit. I was dragging my feet in the gravel and grass all the back to Ol’ Red. Slim Jim tried to give me his number; I told him I would see him around and that Southern Ladies do not accept numbers from gentlemen. Thank God for not counting that lie against me… or perhaps He has?
Trucker starts home and stops by a piece of property and says that it had been stolen from his family. It was close enough to my house that he said if it had not been stolen we could be neighbors. For about the 37^th time that night, I prayed, “Dear Baby Jesus, thank you. THANK YOU. “ 



Trucker pulled up in front of my house it was still pretty early. The weather was nice; it was late April or something. So we just sat in my driveway and I let Trucker talk. Then he started crying; to be more accurate sobbing. Not sure what to do I reached across the safety barrier spring of possible tetanus infection and patted him on the shoulder. What do you do when a guy starts sobbing and snot is running down their face and you happen to notice that it is actually cleaning his face? 

The thought of giving him my handkerchief made me feel ill. I suggested we step out of the truck and let Trucker get some air. For four and a half hours I listened to my friend Trucker tell me all about his life and sob all the way through it.
I found an old bandana in the trunk of my car and I gave it to him for keeps, hopefully, he started carrying it on outings with females. He was still wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. To his credit though he never once, “farmer hankied” in my driveway; maybe he knew I would find that way too nasty and leave. It is a real thing Google that shit… I am not going to explain it. 
 
I was not sure how long it would take, or how long it was appropriate to sit with a sobbing man in your driveway. What were my neighbors going to say? Damn it this guy was going to keep me from making Cotillion. Shit.
What do you do? I patted his shoulder… weren’t guys not supposed to cry for hours? I thought that was something girls did after a bad breakup with a tub of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream and a DVD of The Notebook. His story and life did actually suck so I listened to his sob talk as best I could. In the end, once he had calmed enough I brought him some damp cold paper towels and let him pat his face… um cleaner. 

Trucker is a great human being I should tell you that. He has bailed me out a couple times. I just do not like to try and talk to him. Normal social graces do not apply here. IF you were to ask him how he was doing, he is one of those people that actually think you want to know. Not just making a passing comment. So the normal “hi how are you” type stuff turns into a 45-minute explanation of how his latest dog ran off. Either way great soul, just not all there; I avoid eye contact if I see him first. 
 
This next bit is an edited version of a blog I wrote several years ago… it was on my MySpace blog page… yeah a while ago. So this is the grand finale of this four-part series… Anything underlined is commentary I am inserting now. 

I went on the worst date ever last night. I am not looking for anything serious, right away, but dinner and a movie is nice; talking with someone other than my parents and a poop-breathed dog is really enticing. Besides, who knows I may find something I want to be serious about? Life is weird like that.


So I have recently been on a couple dates with a couple of guys, but nothing to write home about. (And yet I am sitting here wrapping up a series of Hell Date tales, this one was one of my first attempts at online dating.) This guy, we will call him... Tomas... seemed really great! He lived in a great neighborhood and drove a nice car. Has had a steady job for years. (at least that is what he was saying.) We could talk really easily, nothing was off limits; politics, sex, drugs, music, whatever. I enjoyed his "phone company". So I agreed to meet him at something I had never tried before.... an Arena Race. If you really care to know about half-scale mini NASCAR's running on a 1/10th of a mile banked aluminum track here:

These people are serious.

The only thing that I  could think when I saw them was "Pow, Pow Power Wheels!"
Tomas was an official for this company that runs the races on the weekends, that is it isn't his day job.(so he said) When we discussed my coming out to the race he made it sound like we would be able to talk and have some moments together. Little did I know… Wait… Let me backtrack a moment if I can. Warning if you are a guy and want no knowledge of what all a girl goes through to get ready to look fabulous... stop reading here...
I wanted to look and feel good for this date. So I went all out. I painted my toes red. I trimmed and groomed and waxed and shaved and painted and powdered and all kinds of stuff that women shouldn't have to do. But I did. I wanted to feel good and pampered. Not that he was going to see any of that stuff, but it is nice to feel good about yourself.

Okay, so I look good. I get there he meets me out front, takes me down the side of the arena into the back door, and gets me a seat up "behind the box" where he sits. That actually meant behind the yellow caution tape strung around some seats. He then leaves, disappears is more accurate. I am starving... I have no idea where I am in the arena. I can figure this out of course... I am not a moron. But I don't know if I need a ticket to get back up here without him or what the hell is going on. I text him... 

"Is there food here? I am starving" 

He says something like yeah down on the main level. Go get yourself some. I was thinking no asshole that was a hint. I had to pay to park, remember? The least he could do with his stupid “official” shirt is go get me some damn fries and a coke. I tell him via text because of course, I have no clue where the hell he is, that I don't know where I am, where the main level is, or if I need a ticket to get back up to these seats. I will just wait. All I get in response is LOL. WTF? You are laughing at my feeling lost, (really cold), hungry, and ALONE. So I start texting my best friend S.

I tell her I don't know about this one. I tell her he is shorter than me. He didn't mention he was shorter than the posted height on his profile of 5'8". He could not have been more than 5'6" if that. He came up to my boobs; which works out just fine for him; but not so much for me. He never mentioned he was balding. When he said "stocky" it was a euphemism for "I have a huge beer gut". I decided I would overlook all of that. I liked this guy over the phone, and that none of those physical things really matter, I am no Angelina Jolie... But damn be upfront with me, I am upfront with you. After 30 minutes of me sitting alone.... he comes back. I think oh good; now we can talk. Wrong. Just WRONG.

I sit a row behind him. 7:00pm he stands up in front of me.... with headphones on running around talking to people and more standing in front of me. This made it difficult to see or figure out what might be going on. I did not mind him blocking the view that I had enjoyed all night, of the large handlebar mustachioed gentleman's ass crack, so bonus there.

Occasionally he would look back at me and raise his eyebrows and smile or something stupid. I sent him a couple of text messages; he would just look back at me. The race went on forever. They had an "intermission" I thought well we can go out for a smoke or something. (This was a time before I had yet to break my habit) 


This was not to be, he disappeared again, like some sort of wizard. So I am left to sit by myself… Still hungry…. I am starting to think of leaving. I decide to wander down to find food, thinking if they don't let me back up it was his fault and I would leave. They let me back up. Fate I guess. Hell, no one even stopped me. This had to be Karma for not being more comforting to sobbing Trucker.
At the end of the race about 9:15pm, he looks at me and says I have to go turn in my headphones I will meet you out front in five minutes. I say okay... I am parked at... blah, blah, blah. I walk outside. Smoke a cigarette. Stand by my car. It is getting really freaking cold, I get in my car. I call another guy I had started talking to just to touch base. We talked for maybe five minutes. I get another text saying something else came up give him five more minutes. 

Okay. Here I am in my car, low on gas, freezing, at (what was) Cricket arena in the worst neighborhood possible for a white girl ALONE after dark. 

At 9:50pm I am on the phone with my best friend S. I figure someone should fucking witness my murder. He still hasn't come around or called or sent up smoke signals or anything. I tell her I want to leave. She says uh... duh LEAVE. I try calling him, no answer. I leave a message saying I had to run and get gas, not sure what happened to him. I called after I was done pumping gas... no answer. I called when I got home... no answer. I would like to have given him a piece of my damn mind. I have no idea what happened or how I ended up getting blown off by a man who owns a stupid Chihuahua, named Princess. Deal Breaker.

WTF Is Going On Out There: Pt. 3 of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

WTF Is Going on Out There:

Part Three of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

“If you own a home with wheels on it and several cars without, you just might be a redneck.”~Jeff Foxworthy

As we further delve into the pathetic depths of my dating life it has become apparent to me through the responses I have gotten that I am certainly not alone in my great talent to attract those with their freak flags all the way up on the pole. In fact, my good friend, who for the purposes of privacy and the keeping of authority at work we will call him “Kelso”; he has had a few amazing dates himself. In today’s post, he has submitted his version of events to the best of his memory. 
 
This is my blog though so… ladies first.


My decision-making skills while at clubs should be monitored like a freaking drunk that has had too much. They should just put me in a cab to go home as soon as I start handing out my number. Or taze me... This theory has been proven time and time again.
 


While living in my first apartment so many…. Uh… months ago; I met a young man who shared my same taste in music at the time. Only one song but you know you can really build on that… So whilst bumping the infamous Staind and Fred Durst “Outside” acoustic version duet from the “Family Values Tour” we drove around in his busted-up truck.

Still an awesome song. But I left my CD in BUTG’s truck…

Whatever happened to Fred Durst? 

Well anyway, it is not important. "Busted Up Truck Guy" drives me to South Carolina, which is not that far from my home… but I figured if he kidnapped me it was technically crossing state lines and then would be a federal case. Not sure that’s better, but it sounded good and completely logical at the time.
The idea was to go to this really cool bar/club, when I say really cool I do not mean that… it is a big damn lie that I told myself to justify going to this place. The place was/is called “The Money”. 

We never actually made it there. Instead, he wanted to drive me by his “homestead” which meant an empty pasture he planned to put a modular home on one day, or as he put it “if I can’t afford that I will get a trailer, but a nice one”. He looked at me all moon-eyed and said “WE could have us a yard full of kids! Look at all that space!”
 
I am sure I looked terrified and said “Easy there, cowboy… you ain’t even out of the fucking chute yet.” 
 
I have actually been taken to two homesteads, counting this one. The second was with one of those good guys. Still, I find it kind of freaky for the first time spending any amount of time together. The good guy at least waited until we had known each other a long time. I ramble…
 
He announces we had to go by the house of a friend of his and that it shouldn’t take long. Well alrighty then… When he said house I thought he meant one that had maybe a functioning door and not wax paper windows. The pit bull in the yard might have been a killer once, but I am fairly positive he was drunk. Or that unsteady walk of his was rabies, but he was on a chain at least. Inside the um, house. I am immediately informed to watch the “hole”. When they said hole… I had no idea that directly inside the front entrance would be a hole that dropped to the large crawlspace under the house… you had to kind of shimmy around it up against a wall. That shed paint chips on my nice, brand-new blouse I had purchased for an evening at a bar. 
 
Neither of the two individuals inside spoke English. They were from Mexico and were here to work. It kind of broke my heart that this living space was considered acceptable. I am not gonna judge though because they work hard and do work most of the rest of us would not want. This shit hole they lived in literally had a shit hole. Not the one at the front door, but when I asked to use the restroom I was shown to what might have once been a broom closet with a hole cut in the floor and a plastic bucket, the bottom cut out, and an obviously previously loved toilet seat affixed to the top. Being Southern, I have had the pleasure of an outhouse before. (Please allow me to fulfill all your freaking, stupid stereotypes.) This was not out… but in the house… and I found it wrong on so many levels. Yeah, just freaking wrong. 
 
I found my way back to the one room of the house that had a heater and took my seat on the available “chair” a cooler. I smiled at the two gentlemen sitting there looking at me. Language barriers have never been more uncomfortable for me. Busted up truck guy, was nowhere to be seen. I could see out the “entrance” that his truck was still there so he had to be close by… right? 
 
Turns out the friend he had come to see took him to his pot dealer’s house to make a purchase and pay off some gambling debt. As I sat there as I guess either the entertainment or collateral; I try not to dwell on that at night in the dark. When Busted up Truck guy, came back and I could see his purchase and that he had clearly been partaking on the way back. I told him I was sleepy and needed to go home. I had only sat on that cooler staring at two men, staring at me for four damn hours. I was beginning to worry and think about jetting for the door. Busted up truck guy, who did keep paging me telling me he was on his way. I guess his dealer lived in damn Georgia or something. 

The drive home which should have only taken about 45 minutes, took more like two and a half hours because I was not gonna let Busted up loser truck guy, drive. I have never been able to drive a stick shift and do not function well without power steering and as tall as I am I still had a lot of trouble reaching the pedals. So it did take a while to get myself home. Especially after Busted up loser truck guy passed out over his Cheerwine and bag of Fun Yuns. (Why do you only see people eat Fun Yuns when they are high?) I left him in his truck and went inside and slept for about 45 minutes before I had to get up and go to work at the coffee shop I worked at. On my way past his beat-up truck, I hit it with my baseball bat a few times… His dumbass was still passed out.
And now the part I am sure you have ALL been waiting for… Kelso’s contribution, so without further ado:

Under World:

Rise of the Taylor Lautners

“Crazy people don't sit around wondering if they're nuts.” ~Jake Gyllenhaal

I do LOVE me some Kate Beckinsale in leather….

 
I met this girl at work, many moons ago.  For the sake of not calling her by her real name, I will just refer to her as "Taylor". Taylor was into the Goth scene...replete with the long black hair, excessive eyeliner, and of course the usual aversion to anything that resembled sunlight.  We had been talking for a while before she asked me out.  Our first date was at a local watering hole, in downtown Fairfax, Va.  
 
We drove separately, a precaution on my part just in case she turned out to be too interesting for my taste.  I arrived at this place at about 10 pm, because apparently fake vampires and D&D players like to begin their evening activities at this hour.  This place was a converted auto repair garage.  It was old and well...creepy inside.  If you had to imagine where freaky people would hang out, then this was the place.  When I walked in, I immediately realized that I was in the minority here.  I was the only one there not dressed from head to toe in black, nor was I wearing a horned Viking helmet...yes, I said Viking helmet with horns. I must have missed the memo on that one.  I mean, I love to wear black too and I was that night, but it was relegated to my boots, an old biker jacket, and a five o'clock shadow, a month old. 
 
I found Taylor, but not without some difficulty, as she blended in with the crowd.  What caught my eye looking for her, however; was the rather large amount of cleavage she was sporting, impossibly wrapped in a black leather corset and a long black hippy dress.  She looked like a diminutive Elvira impersonator.   Taylor was with a few friends whose names escape me now.  I sat down, willing to give anything a try, however.  We all exchanged the usual greetings...you know, "Nice to meet you..." and "What's your opinion on drinking blood..." Everyone except “Red” a flaming red goateed guy; he just stared at me from across the table with this, "I am so going to eat your fucking face" look. 

I found it mildly annoying, so I ordered a beer to soothe myself and got the strangest looks from everyone. 
Taylor looked at me, aghast, and said, "We don't drink spirits here." 
 
"I'm not drinking spirits kid, I am drinking a beer."
 
Thinking she was pulling my leg, I took a huge swallow to demonstrate my lack of concern.  Taylor then proceeds to explain, with some additional commentary from her friends, that as vampires, they no longer imbibe on beverages that "Normals" do.... uh, Normals?... Really? At this point, I'm thinking that I don't care how nice of a rack Taylor has, it's time to go, but I was committed to finishing my beer first. 
 
It was at this point that the red goatee guy opens his mouth and says,
"I'm going to take this mortal trash outside and beat his ass."
This got my attention and I locked eyes with his.  "I wouldn't recommend that," I replied.
I didn't yell, nor did I cuss, rather I said what I wanted to and went back to drinking my "normal" beer.  It was at this point that he got up from his chair, walks within two arm’s length of me, and flaps his long leather coat open with a flourish...like he was Batman and growls that it is time for this mortal to leave.  I stay in my seat and without skipping a beat; I took another swallow of my beer and calmly told him to go fuck himself or whatever it is vampires do.  
 
Red makes a dive for me, making this crazy howling noise. Is there a vampire war cry? Is this guy for real? As he was flying through the air towards me, I slid my chair back just far enough to let him hit the floor...rather unceremoniously.  Not surprisingly, this pissed him off even more.  

I had stood up at this point, telling Taylor it was nice, but I was leaving now.  Just as she was about to say something to me, Red had collected his bat-ness and decided he was going to grab onto me.  Now, let me explain what happens to me when someone pushes my “piss me off button”  I don't like to be touched unless I know you and you have it like that.  I apparently bared my teeth and met his attack with what Taylor would describe as animal ferociousness. I picked him up, throwing him through the nearest window.  Not out...but through. 
 


I was more than angry at this point as I leapt out of the window after him.  There he lay, on the pavement, face cut up and his hands peppered with little shards of glass; now begging me to leave him alone.  What happened to "I'm going to take this mortal trash outside and beat his ass."? I think if I hadn't realized the severity of the situation I was in, I probably would have continued to pummel him into oblivion.  The owner of the joint comes up, looks at both of us, and tells us both to leave. Apparently, the smoke-in he was having in the stockroom warranted him NOT calling the police on us.  I left a murmuring, disbelieving crowd behind and went home to drink more beer, without "vampire" supervision. 
 
The next day went as usual, work sucked, couldn't wait to clock out, etc.  Taylor comes in at mid-day and takes me aside and with the most deadpan look I have ever seen, says to me, 
 
"How long have you been a werewolf?"
 
I laughed...surely she jests; right? Am I wrong? Isn't that crap supposed to happen in the movies or something? She keeps that same serious look on her face, as I finished laughing myself to tears. Then it dawns on me...Taylor was serious and she actually believed what she was saying. 
 


Taylor then proceeds to list off all the werewolf-esque qualities I had.  Never clean shaven, surly and sarcastic attitude, and more importantly, my rather long and natural canine teeth, (which I have since had shortened).  A werewolf, huh… okay, she said it made her hot, so I let her run with it. I am only a man.  Never once did I ever say that I was a werewolf, but never did I deny it either.  I'm not proud of it, but we did have a great run though. Seriously though, a werewolf…really?
 

Engelbert Humperdink: Pt. 2 of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

Engelbert Humperdinck:

Part Two of Draco to Tiny Race Cars
“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” ~Albert Einstein
 
For the second installment of this tragic saga of horrible dates of which I am truly only skimming the surface of things, I have abided in hopes of finding that one true love. As shocking as it may seem to you I am a hapless, hopeless, closet romantic. In that quest, I have been willing to overlook some habits, teeth, significant height differences, and horrendous breath in order to give a poor gentleman a chance. That is not to say he won’t become the subject of my writings one day but at least to be fair I do change their names. Mostly to protect the “innocent” and selfishly to protect myself from asshole creepers; they are out there.
 
I am having some difficulty pinpointing one particular date for this chapter of the tale. Today my mind seems to wander to the good ones. The one I still long for, the one I never could figure out what happened, the best friend I had to let go, and the one that got away. They are the ones that I use as standard bearers for all the men I have dated. That is not to say that I have rejected gentlemen who did not meet all their unique qualities; more often I tend to ignore reason and attempt to save the pitiable “strays” I find or that follow me home; thus my tales of hilarity and sometimes heartbreak.
 
Twice I have had my name come back to bite me in the ass. 




First in high school from a guy I occasionally caught a ride to school with. I suppose I knew he had a little crush on me; I ignored it because I knew he had someone he called a girlfriend though he was a scoundrel and I was never sure he knew what the term girlfriend meant. Being a true Southern girl, I love big trucks. I am a sucker for all the stereotypical “Southern Male” traits. This guy had a nice truck, but every time he picked me up the Waylon Jennings song “Amanda” played ALL the way to school. He had some super extended long version of the song I have never found to be in existence. It is not a bad song but after hearing it for 20 minutes you really start to want to rip the tape deck or CD (I cannot remember which he had) out of the dash.

I do love this song…. but on repeat?

Several years later, I met up with a guy for a first date. He had one of the nicest cars of any guy I have ever gone on a date with. This time… the Boston song “Amanda” was blaring. When I say blaring I do not mean just really loud; I mean really fucking LOUD. Ear-splitting, eardrum bleeding, brain hemorrhage loud; to the point I could feel the vibrations through the car as it drove up. It is a great song but at 120 decibels, or whatever it was, it was not even music anymore.
 
Take note kiddies that loud music you “bump” WILL cause hearing loss.

Again… a good song… but not at deafening levels.

In this guy’s case brain damage; once he had managed to work out that I was not getting in the car he turned it down and rolled down the window. I am thinking to myself Sweet Jesus does he only date girls that have names he can match with a freaking song? Either way, he leans across the seat and asks if I want in. I look at him dead in the eye and tell him I was hoping he was going to turn the music down and come open the door for me. He laughed. Throughout the date, the song would reappear in the playlist. Each time he would mouth the words to me at any stop or pause or chance he got. I do not think I have to explain that impressing me with your knowledge of the lyrics to Boston songs is not really a panty dropper.

Is this really what romance has become; cheesy songs and the forgetting of basic gentleman behaviors? Has chivalry really died? Did the feminist movement really kill it? What happened to guys that bring you flowers on the first date or just anytime for no reason? Where is the guy that opens your door, not because he doesn’t think you can but because it is the nice thing to do? I want a guy that will not wear dirty boots/sneakers and ripped-up jeans the first time I introduce him to my parents. It is my parents, not fucking Tommy Lee. What happened to guys that know better than to curse in front of small children (no, not the pot calling the kettle black, I do know when to mind my language) and do not swerve to hit the cuddly animal crossing the road and then scream out the points they just scored as I hold back my vomit?
 
Are there still men out there who know that real women eat food and do not look like Gisele Bundchen? Sorry to inform you suckers, but Giseles happen to Tom Bradys and Leo DiCaprios, not you. Angelina Jolie gets Brad Pitt… average guys do not typically score that type of woman. The reason, you may ask; is because only other celebrities know that part of the business is hiding the bulimia.
 
That being said I am not looking for a superstar-looking man. I do firmly believe though that all women deserve to be treated like they are superstars. Ladies, sorry that does not mean you get to act like a diva. You should treat your respective man like he is your superstar. Unless either of you commit a “Deal Breaker” why wouldn’t you treat each other that way? My grandparents and parents do/did and they have never been divorced. There is no shame in thinking the girl you are out with is the most beautiful goddess you have ever freaking seen. Stop acting like fuckwits.

 
Enough of that tangent of a soap box…


In high school when I was still pretty new to the dating scene (obviously) I turned down a guy because he had long hair; I was attempting to let him down easy, you know give him something totally bitchy and picky so he would leave me alone thinking I was superficial. By the way that does not work, even now as an adult. This guy we will call him Hogan because he loved to lift weights and he needs a name because he is actually likely to come up again in another blog, another day. Hogan shows up at school the next day with a shaved head. Now what? Clearly, as an adult, I can see the flipping weirdo flag there. As a hormonal, idiot, teenager… yes I said idiot because something happens when hormones start pumping, guys can do nothing but stare at your boobs and girls become bitchy and total vapid morons at least when it comes to the opposite sex. Anyway, as a hormonal idiot, bitchy, vapid moron teenager I thought this Samson-esque offering was romantic and kind of sweet. Hogan did have nice deep brown eyes… and he was a good kisser once I let him kiss me. He did turn out to have a violent temper and be a heavy smoker. My parents hated him and my friends thought he was an asshole. All I could see was he was a bad boy and I was gonna fix him; save him from the tragic life ahead of him… see… Vapid. Freaking. Moron. 
 
Bad first dates are something of a collector’s item of mine. Like teddy bears and snowmen… I have a remarkable collection of horrible first-date tales. I met a guy at a club once and needed a date for a formal event. I asked him if he would be interested in accompanying me. As anyone can tell you judgment about first dates in clubs should be made once the house lights come up and you have had several large glasses of water. I was absolutely convinced that this witty, dance machine was the one for this event. So we exchanged numbers and I went on my merry way. Planning ensued and I gave him the address to my building and he picked me up.
 
In the biggest car, I have ever seen! I do not know what it was, but I can tell you it was baby shit brown and made the parent’s old sweat hog look like a Mini Cooper. He insisted on valet as it was a “vintage” car and fully stock inside. Usually when I hear that it means that the guy tracked down original parts to replace pieces in the car; not this one… it still had a condom stuck to the floor in the back that I am fairly certain was the one that broke when he was conceived. The splits in the vinyl seats were truly period pieces and the eight-track player… well that WAS special. It had one eight-track cassette stuck in it, Engelbert Humperdinck. No lie.

This song too…. S E X Y

So I arrived at the formal event in uh, err, an interesting hoop ride style. Unfortunately, I did not notice in the burnt-out light of the car that his suit did not match and he wore white athletic socks. He assured me though that his mother told him it would be fine when she loaned him the car. He was 25. I nodded and said they were really nice socks and of course, blue tuxedo jackets go with black tuxedo pants. The Airwalk sneakers he was wearing were actually black, mostly. Fashion and hoop ride aside, I was willing to deal with it. Guys usually take their jackets off and who was going to really notice except everyone I was friends with? It was when he smiled, that was the real crux of the issue.

Something in his smile made you flinch. Maybe it was the serious lack of orthodontic work, the cheddar shade of white on his teeth, or just the creepy Joker-style smile he had. (Jack Nicholson Joker, not Heath Ledger Joker… might have been able to work with Heath Ledger's…) Riding home listening to the soothing vocals of Humperdinck I realized I was probably in the car of a serial killer. He asked if I wanted to be escorted to my door and I could feel his Jeffery Dahmer smile boring into the side of my face. I think that is literally the fastest I have exited a car and ran around my building so that he couldn’t see the entrance or door I might be going to. Manson-style smiles equal deal breakers.