I’ve found my blog posts that mention Mexican hookers seem to have great stats. This story is not about Mexican hookers, but I promise that if you indulge me and read on that I will find a way to include Mexican hookers in this story somewhere, somehow. Seriously…
I haven’t written a lot lately. Maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you haven’t. Either way, I haven’t written a lot lately. I just haven’t felt like it. For me that’s weird. Oh well.
I guess you could say I’ve been in a funk the past couple weeks. I like being funky, but I hate being in a funk. The words are different by only one letter, but elicit two totally different feelings in me. One feeling I love. The other? Not so much.
I guess you could say that my funk is mutli-faceted. There’s a reason for that. I don’t easily get in a funk. I’m generally a pretty happy person, so it takes a lot to get me off my game. I guess I’m just going through that “funk phase” right now. I’m sure that it’s just a phase. I hope it’s just a phase. Please be a phase!!!
Why I’m in a funk: Part one
My job sucks. I get up every morning and go to work with a positive outlook. I really do. Once I get there, however, my outlook becomes less and less sunny. Sometimes the sunny disposition goes away quickly, while other times it takes hours for the fun to go away. I try to make my job not suck, but it does. I work for a guy who changed my pay plan, but never really made it clear that he changed it. I happened to notice it one Thursday when I opened my check. Nice.
The owner and I were supposed to sit down and have a serious talk about things before Christmas. He kept pushing it off and pushing it off and the couple times we did sit down, all he did was recap the last time we sat down, then say, “I need to get going. Let’s finish this tomorrow.” But tomorrow becomes next week, which becomes next month. The bottom line? The full extent of our conversation has yet to happen.
The owner of my company is very old school in the way he does business. He brought me on because I know automotive Internet sales very well. I set up and ran a very successful Internet Sales department at the dealership I worked at in California. He acknowledges this fact to other people. When we have conversations they typically start like this, “I brought you in because you know what to do and you’re the guy who can get this going the right way. We’re way further ahead now that we were in October when you got here. So…here’s how we’re going to do this…” WTF, yo?
I need a better job for Drama Queen (D.Q.) and myself and I’m looking for one. My problem is two-fold. Part one is that there are not a ton of decent jobs available in the Buffalo area right now. The second part is that I’ve done the car thing so long, that it’s hard to get potential employers to see past that.
I’ve got management, sales, customer service and communication skills. Why is it so hard to get those skills across to employers? I sure as hell don’t know. I also hate having to work every Saturday. It sucks for Drama Queen to be alone on Saturdays and I wish I could find something where I could be around more.
I’ve found one potential job, although it will require weekends, which I’m not thrilled about. It will pay substantially more money, which I am thrilled about. I guess we’ll see what happens. If I do get it, I will have to be gone Mon.-Fri. for two weeks to do some training. That could pose a problem, as I have no clue what I would do with Drama Queen those two weeks. I’m not going to worry about that until I actually get the job offer, which is supposed to come next Friday. Please keep your fingers crossed.
My funk: Part two
O.C.B. (Drama Queen’s mom) dropped me a line a couple weeks ago. It’s been a year without any contact and to say that it surprised me would be an understatement. She asked about talking with Drama Queen and said that she has seen the blog and that she’s happy that I’m happy in my relationship with The Phone Sex Operator (P.S.O.). I believe O.C.B. when she says this but I’m a bit concerned about her tracking me down and she’s been pretty much MIA since right after we talked. I’m obviously concerned about D.Q. and how she will react. When I told her about her mom, she said, “I guess I could talk with her.” She didn’t seem too enthusiastic, but I think she kind of wants to.
My funk—The Final Piece:
Part three of my funk has to do with P.S.O. She’s had a lot going on in her life. I’m not going to go into any of it because frankly, it’s no one’s business but hers. I will say that she’s got a ton on her mind and she’s not feeling well. It’s not something as simple as a cold or the flu, but it’s not anything that seems like it will be serious.
Combine her stress with the not feeling well and she too has been in a bit of a funk lately. She needs some space right now to get to where she needs to be and where “we” need to be. I get that. I really do. I’ve been trying to give her the space she needs, but I guess it hasn’t been the easiest thing for me to do. Why?
I’m living in an area where I don’t know a lot of people. I knew two people when I moved here in September, but they were only acquaintances and they have their own lives already in full swing. I don’t do much with either of them and I really haven’t met many other people to socialize with. These two are now my friends, but not what I would call “good friends”.
I know the parents of one of D.Q.’s friends, but the dad is going to school full time and working, so between school, homework and work, they really don’t have much time to do anything. That pretty much leaves P.S.O.
As you may recall, I just mentioned that she has been going through things in her own life and needs a bit of space, which makes it kind of difficult for me to talk my stuff out with a local good friend/best friend type of person.
The two good friends I have back in California are great guys, but not the kind of people that are into a lot of “sharing”. The few times we’ve had deep conversations, booze has been involved and it’s been face to face.
Please don’t take any of this as bitching or complaining because it’s not. This is just a statement of fact and some cheap therapy for me. Getting this out on virtual paper helps me see things as they are and will hopefully help lift me out of my funk. Plus it has the possible added bonus of reminding P.S.O. that I really do get it and that I’m not just an insensitive douche bag. I may be a douche bag, but I’m not insensitive. I love her a lot and I’m sure that she still feels the same way.
As far as I can tell, the relationship with P.S.O. is good. We both still have “in a relationship” on our Facebook pages and we’ve recently made mention of things that we want to do together in the coming months. We’re going out tonight and I’m looking forward to that. We’ve only seen each other once in the last couple weeks and I know that I’m looking forward to a big hug and a couple nice kisses.
At the beginning I promised you Mexican hookers, so here goes. Once P.S.O. and I get out of our funks and back to us both being crazy happy in love, I would really like to take her to Mexico for a few days (with the money I make from a new job). She’s never been to the Pacific side and I’m thinking that a few days in Cabo would really do us some good.
If and when we do that I think that we should definitely hit a couple of the hooker bars and keep tabs on a ho or two so that we can come back with some fresh new stories of Mexican hookers for you, the loyal reader. I have no need for the services of a prostitute, but in the name of research and entertainment I will observe them from a barstool.
P.S. What does my opening bit have to do with my funk? Absolutely nothing. The words are the opening lyrics from Give Up The Funk by George Clinton and give up the funk is exactly what I want to do right now!!!
For more Mexican hooker stories check these out:
The Actress was my first girlfriend and my first breakup. And my second breakup. And possibly my third breakup. I don’t remember for sure if we broke up two times or three times. I was kind of a douche bag back then and I’ve tried to push some of those douche-y memories aside. What I do know is that I was stupid for ending the relationships with her. I was young and stupid. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
I said that I was a douche bag back then, but the reality is that I can still be a douche bag now. If you don’t believe me, when you’re done with this, go read I’ve Seen Better Days. But back to my story about The Actress…
The details are fuzzy but I remember that she was very cool and she was totally into me. I was into her, but not in the literal sense of the word. We never had sex. I’m just saying…
I’m not totally sure why she was into me, because I wasn’t overly smooth and I was a bit of a dork. I did dress nice, so I had that going for me. I was rocking the argyle and in the 1980’s that may have been enough to push me over the top.
I don’t remember why I broke up with her the first time. I know that it wasn’t for someone else because between The Actress and the Actress again I didn’t date anyone. Maybe it was a fear of getting close or maybe it was my lack of self-esteem. Maybe I though that I wasn’t going to give her the chance to dump me. All I know is that I was stupid for doing it and that I basically just disappeared with no explanation. Then magically I reappeared a few months later and wanted to start dating again.
We dated again for a while and just like the shampoo bottle says, it was just lather, rinse, repeat. The Actress is a smart chick, so I’m not sure that she would have stood for a third time after I broke it off the second time for no good reason. All in all, it was young love at its finest. And it its worst.
The Actress was my first breakup but she certainly wasn’t my last. My latest (and hopefully the last breakup I ever have) was a woman I dated in Canada for about five months. I haven’t written about her yet, but in the near future you will start hearing about Teacher. Her breakup story is interesting to say the least.
Teacher teaches violin and runs a music school. She also plays violin and viola professionally. She is a very talented woman and I thought that we had a pretty good time together. Obviously not. After dating for five months I received an e-mail at 11 PM basically saying that she was no good at long term relationships and that we could go on and date for another year, but because she was no good at long term relationships that she would probably just end it anyway, so she was just going to end it now. Good luck. Have a good life.
I had just crawled into bed that fateful night when my iPhone buzzed with a new e-mail. Suffice it to say that when I grabbed the phone and put on my glasses, that is NOT what I expected to see. It all worked out for the best because I moved back to the United States and I ended up meeting and falling in love with The Phone Sex Operator.
In between The Actress and Teacher there were many breakups—some where I was the breaker-upper and others where I was the one getting the shaft. One girl comes quickly to mind, but I don’t think you can really call it a “breakup” since we had only gone out twice.
The two dates we had were pretty good and we decided to go out on New Years Eve. This was sometime in the late 1980’s—1988 or ’89 probably. I had tickets to go see Barry Manilow at the Universal Amphitheater and I invited this girl to go. (I’ll pause momentarily while you snicker at the fact that I had Barry Manilow tickets…)
So, I invited this chick to go see Barry Manilow and she accepted. She was going to school at a small local college and she was living in the dorms. We spoke on the phone December 30 and she was looking forward to going out the next night—or so she said.
I don’t remember what I was wearing that night, but I’m sure it was pretty stylish—after all we were going to see Barry and he was hot at the time. Plus it was New years Eve and looking good is just how I like to roll.
I drove to her dorm to pick her up, went into the lobby and hit the intercom button for her room. Her roommate answered the intercom and was quite surprised to hear me on the other end. She was even more surprised to hear that I was there to pick up her roommate.
Why was she surprised? Her roommate had moved home that morning. Apparently she had known about it for quite a while. She was transferring schools and when we were talking on the phone the night before, she was in the midst of packing her stuff in boxes and waiting for her dad to come get her. What a bitch. I even brought the chick flowers. Did I mention that she was a bitch?
Mine aren’t the only decent breakup stories. I hit up my fans and readers via Twitter and Facebook and a few of you were nice enough to send yours along. Thanks to those who did. Here are a couple of good ones that I received. My friend The South African (who actually lives in South Africa) sent me this one:
I used to be a soldier for the previous government. In later years I met a girl and we started going out and at some stage I showed her some confidential military material, which, may I add, was not confidential anymore.
After a couple of months I had enough of this nympho. I wanted a normal girlfriend but she wouldn’t let go, even though I said it is not going to work out. Eventually I had to do something drastic in order to get rid of her. When somebody accidentally broke my car window, I told her she must sit down and listen to what I had to say. I told her the broken window was a warning sign. I explained that I’ve done some ‘special work’ in the forces and there is a price on my head.
By that stage the new government was in full swing, which was perfect timing for me! I told her she might be in danger if she keeps hanging out with me and I needed to go away quickly and that she could have no contact with me! After a lot of crying she finally let go. Oh I felt like a dog!!
I must add that she eventually met Mr. Right, but she still tells me on Facebook that she loves me til this day. Maybe she was my Mrs. Right. I will never know. Young guys will be young guys.
So that’s how they roll in South Africa. Blame the government and call yourself a secret military operative. Nice work bro! He’s not the only one with a good story. My high school buddy, Sir Lancelot, threw me this gem:
A buddy and I used to practice what we called the “Witness Protection Program”, which was to just completely disappear. The girl(s) would eventually figure it out. Although it was tense, it had a 100% success rate.
One example: I called my buddy to go out drinking on a Saturday night – his answering machine came on, but it wasn’t his voice. It was the recording “I’m sorry, but the number you reached has been disconnected..” He put it on his answering machine as a “Witness Protection Program” dump. I saw through it, but the girl didn’t.
Other acceptable ways to use it: Unplug your answering machine and don’t answer the phone. (This was waaaaay before caller ID) It worked within a few days and you could go back to your old ways quickly.
Oddly enough, the only woman I got a story from was The Phone Sex Operator. Hers was good. So good in fact, that it deserves a blog post of its own. I’m going to save that for another day.
If you have a good breakup story that you want to share, please feel free to do so. One of these days I may just get a case of writers block and can use them!
Rewind to 2005 when I was living in California. I was the Internet Sales Manager for a small, successful Chrysler-Jeep dealership, was writing part time and had just started doing some radio. My Internet sales team was crushing the retail guys month after month. My group of 5 was putting out as many or more cars every month as the retail crew of 10 was. I was making money. Life was good.
On April 1 the owner announced a sales contest for the retail department: whichever team of five sold more cars during the month of April got to go to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for three nights during May—all expenses paid. Nice!
I informed the owner that I wanted my crew in on the contest and was told absolutely not. The idea of the contest was to get the retail guys motivated and he already knew that my crew would easily beat each team. I told the owner that I wanted to go on the trip as a reward for all the money my staff made him each month. He thought about it a second and said no. This was a retail contest and he didn’t know that he could afford to send me along with them.
I was not taking no for an answer and I countered back with this question, “If my team can sell more than the retail department AND if we can out-gross them, can I go?” He finally relented and said ok, but we had to have more cars and higher gross. Fall short by one car or by a dime and I wasn’t going on the trip. Suffice it so say that my team had a record month and in mid May I was packing for three nights in Cabo San Lucas!
There were seven of us going on the trip—five sales guys, the General Sales Manager and myself. We met at the dealership on a Tuesday morning and were driven to the airport for the short flight to Cabo San Lucas—the southern-most city on the Baja Peninsula. We landed, grabbed our bags and headed to customs.
Mexico has a very scientific way of figuring out which bags get checked and which ones don’t. As you go through the line at customs you push a button on the bottom of something that looks like a stoplight. If it lights up green, you get to go on through. If it’s red, they search your bags. I consider it to be technology as its finest.
Everyone got the green light, except for The Comedian. I call him The Comedian not because he was funny (he really wasn’t) but because he did stand-up a couple times a week at open-mic nights and occasionally he pulled a gig at a bar where they paid him $20 and threw a couple drinks his way.
His bag was searched and we grabbed the van we had waiting to take us to our hotel. I was set to room with The Comedian. This was going to be an interesting trip. The Comedian was a total horn-dog. He spent the entire 25 minute van ride from the airport telling us all how we was gonna be getting laid every night and how the senoritas weren’t going to be able to resist him. We all begged to differ. I had no plans to get laid in Mexico and I wasn’t dating anyone back home. I was an American Free Agent and I figured I would lay low and just take things as they happened.
We got to our room and no sooner was my bag on the bed then The Comedian was asking if I had an empty Red Bull can. I turned and looked at him with a bit of surprise and asked if he was serious. He apparently was totally serious and I told him that as a matter of fact I did have an empty can in my pocket. “Really?” He asked. “No,” I replied. “Why the hell would I have an empty Red Bull can in my pocket?”
I asked why he needed the can and immediately The Comedian whipped out a bag of weed from his suitcase. Dude brought marijuana from California into Mexico on a plane and was gonna make a homemade bong! “How the F did you get that through customs?” I asked him. Apparently he had the weed in a Ziploc bag and the bag was wrapped in tinfoil, which was in another Ziploc bag, which was stuffed inside a jar of Vicks. He said the menthol smell would mask the weed odor and he was pretty proud of himself for getting it through customs.
The leader of the pack was our GSM, El Jefe. El Jefe was a nice guy and a bit of a party animal. He was a little on the hefty side and very goofy. He enjoyed regaling us all with his stories of what he and his wife had done the night before along with the details of how and where. On a normal day it wasn’t fun to listen to, but it was even worse when he spent three solid days drinking. I tried to put as much of it out of my mind as I could, but suffice it to say that when we returned, I probably could have given her gynecologist a complete run down on her inner workings and been pretty accurate.
The last full day in Mexico we took a four-hour booze and snorkeling cruise. For the low price of $15 each we went on a boat for four hours and saw the tip of Baja (which was kind of cool) and they took us snorkeling. As an added bonus, we had all the Dos Equis that we could drink. Let me just say that seven car guys can put away a lot of beer in four hours.
After the cruise we made it back to the hotel, got cleaned up and went out for a nice dinner. We were grubbing away when El Jefe announced that after dinner he had a special bar to take us to celebrate our last night in Paradise. I drank just as much as everyone else that day and I found it odd that I was the only one who thought the scenario sounded a little iffy.
Of the seven of us, four were married and three (including myself) were single. When we arrived at the bar we each got a beer and El Jefe gathered us in a group and announced that this was the best bar for getting laid in all Cabo and that whatever we wanted that night was on him. I looked around the place and my first reaction was that it was not nearly as classy as the place in Tijuana and that the women in here seemed to be of a below average look. WAY below average!
The only two that decided to take El Jefe up on his offer were The Comedian and El Jefe himself. Each picked out a woman and they were off to some unknown place. The rest of us laughed at how stupid they both were and kept drinking (on El Jefe of course). 15 minutes later El Jefe came strolling in through a door and had a big smile on his face. I asked him how it went, considering that he was married and all. He got a serious look on his face and informed me that he would never cheat on his wife, so he just got oral sex. Freakin brilliant!
It was another 15 minutes before The Comedian came back from his rendezvous and he too had a huge smile on his face. He started telling everyone how he “nailed her hard”. I looked at him for a second, and then went over to one of our group who was Mexican. I told him to go ask the hooker what happened and he came back and informed me that nothing happened because The Comedian couldn’t even get it up!
That of course was information I was unwilling to keep to myself and I informed him that I knew what happened, or rather didn’t happen, in the room. He was pissed and asked, “Who are you gonna believe, a Mexican prostitute or me?” It was a unanimous six-of six. Each of us believed the ho.
There was much more drinking that night and when it was time to leave for the airport The Comedian was still in the room, trying his hardest to smoke every last bit of what he brought with him. Once back at the dealership everyone wanted to know how the trip went and of course the first story was how The Comedian couldn’t get it up with a prostitute. The weed story remained our little secret. Until today…
When I moved to the Toronto suburbs in January of 2009 I had some very high hopes for myself as far as dating goes. I figured that I was gonna roll into town and every woman was going to want a piece of the bald American. I was the suave guy doing the morning show on a brand new rock/alternative radio station and I figured that the chicks would be all over me. I was to be “J.R. in the Morning” and when the ladies said that they wanted their J.R in the morning, I would reply with, “you can have J.R. in the morning, in the afternoon AND in the evening!”
I thought a lot of things. It doesn’t mean it all happened. Or any of it for that matter.
As I mention in a previous post (Oh Canada), the station never even went on the air, but for the first six months we thought we were only getting delayed, so I still had my hope of one day owning the province of Ontario—at least my little part of it.
Before I left California I already had my lines planned out. I remember hanging out at a New Years Eve party with Bone and his wife Mama. Mama’s dad, The Carpenter, was there too, as was her sister, The Artist. I was laying out my game plan to them and telling them how it was going to be. In all fairness, I was drinking a bit that night. But I still believed most of what I said.
My new favorite pick-up line was to be, “do you have some American in you? No? Would you like some?” I was also going to go with, “Hi. I’m J.R. in the Morning, but you can have me anytime you want…”
I was boning up on my Canadian. I made sure to say “touque” instead of beanie. I threw the word “eh” into as many sentences as I could. I remembered that when I went to the Beer Store I should order a two-four. You have to say “a two-four”, because as I learned, if you order a case (24 beers), they look at you like you just spoke Russian.
BTW…The Beer Store is the name of the province owned outlet where you have to buy your beer. You can’t go into a regular store and purchase beer (or wine or liquor). It’s a very communistic society and alcohol is expensive as hell. A 12-pack of Molson Canadian is around $20. I can buy a 30-pack of the same stuff in New York for $20! To get your beer you walk up to a counter, order what you want and they shoot it out to you on a conveyor belt. That part is kind of cool, but the rest of it sucks. Back to the dating…
I was looking forward to being the local rock star. I was hip. I was single. And I was more than ready to mingle! “Look out Canada,” I exclaimed. “J.R. is coming!” I landed at Pearson in Toronto, cleared customs and soon enough got smacked in the face with a huge dose of reality.
First off, the Canadian chicks that I met were for the most part, NOT the hot puck bunnies that I imagined them to be. A diet consisting mainly of poutine (French fries with gravy and cheese curd), pizza, wings and beer kept a large percentage of Canadian ladies warm for the winter, if you know what I mean!
Second, they were not as enamored with Americans as I thought they would be. I guess it’s because I was just outside a major cosmopolitan city like Toronto. That and the fact that they can drive into the U.S. in 90 minutes, probably makes it less of a novelty than I hoped it would be.
Finally, I know that it’s hard to believe, but maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t as “all that” as I thought I was. “What the hell, eh?” I asked my friend Sam the Canadian. I figured that I would be pulling chicks left and right and that my iPhone would be filled with phone numbers and e-mails from hot chicks. Not so much the case.
I did have a few sporadic dates before I met Teacher, a woman that I went out with for a few months and one that you will begin hearing about soon enough. The first woman I met online was a preschool teacher and she lived about 40 minutes from me. She didn’t have a car or a license and said that she never had one since she lived and worked in the same neighborhood and that the subway ran right past where she was. I thought it was a bit odd, but whatever…
I picked her up for the first date and we went to a local pub for some food and a couple of drinks. There were two things about me that she said really impressed her. Three actually. First was that it was a Saturday night, the Leafs were on TV and I paid attention to her and not to the game.
The second was that I was paying attention to her and not to the other women in the bar. I told her that I was out on a date with her and I wanted to get to know her so why would I not pay attention? She pointed out that there were women in the bar way hotter than her and I told her that there was nothing wrong with the way she looked. She was right though, there were way hotter women in the place. But I was on a date with her, not with them and the reality was that my best chance at any physical contact that night was with my date and not with the hotter ones.
The third thing that impressed her were my eyes. She said I had really nice, really blue eyes. Sweet.
The night was more or less physically uneventful and we decided to go out again the next weekend. During the week she and I spoke on the phone a few times and as Friday approached, her conversations became more and more, uh, colorful. I asked her what she wanted to do and she said that she would like to come see my house and that we could hang out and watch a movie. I assumed that “hang out and watch a movie” was code for something else and I was getting excited.
I picked her up and the first thing she said upon entering my car was that I should not be expecting anything to happen tonight because she was not that kind of girl and that she was not going to give it up on the second date. I looked at her for a second and asked, “what about the third date?” She looked at me and playfully said, “Maybe. Why?”
I told her that if it was just a matter of playing by the rules that I thought we should go to Tim Horton’s for coffee and after coffee that I could take her home, circle the block and come back and pick her up. Since I dropped her off and was picking her up, technically that would be the third date. She was less than impressed with my logic and said just to drive to my house and we would watch the movie.
We got to my place, opened a bottle of wine and hit the couch. We started talking about our family heritages and she mentioned that she was mainly Portuguese. I paused for a second, took a deep breath and asked the question I had been waiting to ask. “Do you have some American in you?”
I am so glad that I don’t have to online date anymore. Life with The Phone Sex Operator (P.S.O., AKA my girlfriend) is awesome. We have a great relationship and I seriously believe that she is “The One”. My love life wasn’t always awesome. It used to suck, and not in a good way.
Once upon a time I was looking for love online and if you’ve ever done it you know that it’s a crapshoot at best. I’m not going to mention which site I met P.S.O. on, but I will say that if things keep going well, one day you may just see us on TV as one of their success stories.
Let me start by saying that I’m absolutely not a shallow person. I’m not George Clooney or Brad Pitt and I wasn’t looking for Barbie. What I ended up with was a beautiful, funny, charming, intelligent, loving woman. I wouldn’t trade her and who she is for anyone in the world. Seriously. The people I saw online before I met her were a mix of good and bad. More bad than good. W A Y more bad than good!
This is not a diatribe on weight and size. I don’t need to hear from the BBW chicks saying I’m slamming on them. I’m not. What I am ranting about today are people who view themselves in a way that’s not realistic. If you’re big, you’re big. That’s cool. I could lose a few pounds, so I’m not judging.
Before we met in person, P.S.O. told me on several occasions that she had “a little junk in the trunk”. I think she looks amazing. Did I mention how lucky I am to be with her?
What is it about people and their inability to be honest about who they are? I think these dating sites should have guidelines as to what “athletic” means and what “average” really is. The dictionary lists average as “being intermediate between extremes”. To me that means that you’re not fat and you’re not skinny. You’re not the Olson Twins, but neither are you Mama Cass.
I’m not saying I have anything against fat chicks. I’ve dated a couple of women who could lose more than a few pounds. I’d like to say that they were both nice people and that their personality made them fun to be around. I’d be lying if I said that because one of them was a straight up bitch. The other was moderately snotty. I used to not have good judgment. Now I do.
Back in the day, I knew that when I was filling out my dating profile I shouldn’t call myself athletic. Just because I play ice hockey does not mean I have an athletic physique. Likewise with some of these women, just because you do some sort of physical activity you are not automatically “athletic”.
Here’s a message to the women whose profiles list bowling as a sport they play: Bowling is NOT a sport. It’s a recreational activity. Anything you can do with an alcoholic beverage in one hand isn’t a sport. There’s nothing wrong with bowling, but you can’t seriously think that bowlers are athletes, can you? I mean, when was the last time a bowler was nominated for Athlete of the Year?
People need a dose of reality and if they can’t admit who they really are, they need to watch the beginning of the movie Back to School. Rodney Dangerfield’s character, Thornton Mellon, has a great line:
“Hi there. Are you a large person? Pleasantly plump? A little on the hefty side, perhaps? Well, let’s face it: Are you FAT? When you go jogging, do you leave pot-holes? When you make love, do you have to give directions? At the zoo, do the elephants throw YOU peanuts? Do you look at a menu and say ‘OK…’”
After deciding to write this today I bumped around one of the bigger dating sites (PlentyOfFish) to do a bit of research. I did an advanced search and put in women between 35 and 45 within 25 miles of my zip code. I left every criteria open except for body type. I put “average” in as the body type I wanted. I didn’t care how much money they made, what sign they were, what they were looking for (dating, long-term, etc…) all I wanted to see were pictures of women who considered themselves to be average. I got more than 700 results and here is what I found:
The first one to pop up in my list had only one picture, and it was from the shoulders up. The face was pretty plump, but since I couldn’t see the body I’ll call this one a draw. On to the next profile.
This one had a head shot with a very round face and a full body shot, but the full shot was taken from a distance. It showed no facial features and it appeared as if she was a bit on the hefty side, but still not sure. Time for number three.
Three is “looking for a blk male”. Obviously she needs a spelling tutor. Her lone picture is from the waist up and suffice it to say that she is far from the dictionary definition of average. She is carrying a lot of weight and it appears that it’s not all in the chest area. Let’s call her #1 on the “Wrong Category” list.
As I went through page after page of these women I came to two conclusions. The first is that try though they may, animal prints do NOT hide the fact that you’re a big woman. My second conclusion is that I am a very, very lucky man to have found P.S.O.
Today wasn’t as bad as some days that I’ve viewed women’s profiles online (I haven’t searched since we started dating. I believe in something called monogamy). Maybe it’s because today was just for pure research. In the past there have been many days/nights when I have gone online, clicked on a profile and quickly shut my eyes and yelled “holy crap!” at what I saw looking back at me.
I vividly remember (too vividly in fact) going online a year ago, opening up one profile in particular and seeing a really fat chick in a bikini. She was trying to look cute, but the reality is that there was no way in hell that this one should have ever been within 150 pounds of a bikini. When I go to the beach I don’t take my shirt off. You know why I don’t? It’s because I shouldn’t. No one wants to see me with my shirt off (The Phone Sex Operator says she does, but that’s a different story).
What I saw that day made me seriously not want to have sex—not that I was in any danger of getting laid that night. Before I went online I remember thinking that I would spend a little quality time alone later on (if you know what I mean), but the picture of the chick in the bikini killed it for me.
This was not the first picture that made me shudder and I thank God that I no longer have to subject myself to filtering through profile after profile of women who can’t get a handle on who they really are. Guys are into all kinds of women but women have to be in the right place to find the right guy. If you’re still doing the online dating thing, take a long look in the mirror and put yourself in the right category. If you don’t like what you see, put yourself in the right category anyway and start working towards getting yourself where you want to be.
If you’ve got any good online dating stories of people not being who they say, please let me know. I would love to hear them…
Related Post: Truth in Advertising
I don’t remember which dating website I met her on. I don’t remember her name and I remember very few things about her. I do remember what I was doing when we arranged our date and I remember what she was, or rather wasn’t, wearing when we met for our one and only date. I do remember when I was talking with my friends I referred to her as The Disney Chick. That much I’m sure of.
We traded a few e-mails and talked on the phone once and were going to try and go out on a Saturday night. I don’t remember when it was, but I spent the day in the backyard cutting down a medium sized tree by myself and doing some other yard work, so I’m guessing it was probably spring.
She called one morning and asked what I was doing that night. “Nothing,” I told her. Just chillin. She said that she wanted to go out with me and that she would try and get a sitter. “No promises,” she told me. “But I will try.” Drama Queen was spending the night at grandma’s place, so I was totally free until early Sunday afternoon.
Around 3 PM she called back to say that she found someone to watch her kids and if I was still up for it, she wanted to meet for a couple of drinks. I said that I was available and we decided on 7. She asked about meeting at Downtown Disney since it was halfway between her place and mine and because it was a Saturday night it would probably be pretty happening.
I agreed and finished with the tree, then went inside to take a long, hot shower to relax my tired muscles. Once done in the shower I found a pair of jeans that made my butt look its best (years of soccer and hockey got it looking good and I figure that you should accentuate your best feature), grabbed a shirt, threw on some shoes and headed towards Disneyland.
I found a decent parking spot and headed towards House of Blues and Tortilla Joes Cantina. Ironically, that was the same Tortilla Joe’s Cantina where two years later The 36-Year-Old Virgin and I would have our first date.
The Disney Chick was already waiting and she looked pretty good. We hugged hello and decided to walk around a bit before we got a drink. We chatted about this and that and looked at who was coming to the House of Blues in the next couple months and shared our musical interests. We popped in and out of shops and spent a lot of time in the World of Disney store, laughing at the tourists buying their overpriced, lame souvenirs and we tried on crappy hats that we had no intention of purchasing. We finally decided it was time for some alcohol, so we exited the store and made our way back towards the booze.
We decided on Uva Bar because it was outside and we could enjoy the nice weather, talk and continue laughing at tourists. I’m not sure why it’s so much fun to laugh at the Disney tourists, but it is. I don’t remember what she ordered but I do remember it was hard liquor. This chick was definitely not a wine sipper. I liked that.
The drinks arrived, we clinked glasses and continued to talk about the usual first date stuff—job, kids, etc. She worked for a large food company doing marketing. I think it was a poultry company but I’m not sure. She had two kids who were slightly older than Drama Queen. She also seemed to have a bit of drama in her life, which I wasn’t overly thrilled about, but it was too early to judge.
About 30 or 45 minutes into the conversation we ordered another round–probably our third. Maybe the fourth. We were having fun. She and I were sitting at the bar and it was a bit crowded, so we were pretty close to each other. I know that our legs were touching and that on a couple of occasions she had leaned over to grab something off the bar and her rack brushed up against me—on purpose I’m pretty sure. As I recall, she had a nice set. Not overly impressive, but nice nonetheless. For the record, I wasn’t complaining about them brushing up against me.
When the bartender delivered the aforementioned drinks she took a sip, looked at me and asked me what kind of underwear I was wearing. I gazed at her, took a long, slow drink of my Jack and Coke and said, “Boxer briefs. Why? What are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any,” she replied. I looked at her for a moment and said “bullshit.” She then proceeded to stand up, push herself against me, unbutton the button on her jeans and grab my hand and move it down the side of her leg. “Holy crap,” I thought. She isn’t wearing any.
She slowly moved my hand back up (she still had her chest pressed against me) and quietly asked if I was sure that I was wearing boxer briefs. “Pretty sure,” I told her, with a gleam in my eye. She stared at me with a mischievous look and whispered, “Let me check.” And with that she stuck her hand down the back of my jeans and grabbed my ass.
I think it’s safe to say that the flirting was on! We kissed a few times, had a couple more drinks and she asked me where I was parked. I told her that I had a pretty good spot and she said, “I guess we can go to my car. I purposely parked way in the back.” I got the bartenders attention and paid the check. She grabbed my hand as we left the bar, passing all the families with screaming kids as we headed towards the parking lot.
This night was nothing like I had pictured when I was at home. I’m not saying that I was totally opposed to the direction it was heading, I’m just saying that when I was walking towards the House of Blues, this is NOT how I figured the night would end.
We got about halfway through the lot and she started fumbling through her purse. After a couple moments I asked her if she was having a hard time finding her keys. “Nope,” she replied. “The keys are right here. I’m looking for a condom.”
Let’s just say that I learned a few things that night: First is that the back seat in a Dodge Grand Caravan folds pretty flat and that it’s actually kind of comfortable. I wouldn’t want to sleep on it, but I wasn’t sleeping. Second is that the tinted windows work pretty well—especially at night. Third is that I was actually a bit more flexible than I thought I would be after cutting down a tree all day.
We talked on the phone once or twice after that but never did go out again. My early suspicions were confirmed; The Disney Chick had a lot of drama in her life and no matter how much fun that first date was, dating her was not going to be worth the headache.
Not going out again was no big deal, because on a magical Saturday night, her car truly was The Happiest Place on Earth.