Category Archives: Dating

Breaking up: “How To” & “How Not To”

I was rocking the argyle and in the 1980’s that may have been enough to push me over the top.

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!


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My first date in Canada

Do you have some American in you?

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?”


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Fat chicks in bikinis

What I saw that day made me seriously not want to have sex…

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

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Going downtown with The Disney Chick

On a magical Saturday night, her car truly was the Happiest Place on Earth…

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.


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Hey Soul Sister

Hey, hey, hey…

“Have you heard Hey Soul Sister by Train?”  She asked as she was driving into work this morning.  “I have,” I replied.  “I think it sounds like us,” she continued.  I told her that I liked the song and that I would check it out again.  And I did.  As soon as we hung up.

I listened to the words and got a smile on my face because she was (once again) right!  The song ended and I quickly Googled the lyrics and listened to it again, this time following along.

If you think that you’re too cool to have something you call “our song” or if you think that sort of thing is all high school, then get over yourself.  That stuff is cool.  Love is cool.  To me the coolest people are the ones who have been together forever and are still crazy in love.  That’s what I want—to be 75 and crazy in love with the same woman I fell in love with 31 years ago.  I want to be Adam Sandler singing on the plane to Drew Barrymore as Billy Idol goes all Rambo on the douche Drew’s supposed to marry.  I just want to keep being happy and making her happy.  Does that sound lame?  Maybe.  I don’t care.

Your lipstick stains on the front lobe of my left side brains…

So far there have been no lipstick stains with the Phone Sex Operator (P.S.O.), although there have been several occasions where she has laughed at me because I’m wearing her lip-gloss.  I have no problem with that because I know how it got there in the first place and that means that I get to transfer the lip-gloss back to her and there is only one way that I know to do that!

I knew I wouldn’t forget you, and so I went and let you blow my mind…

She is always on my mind.  Not in an obsessive way or in a way that distracts me from my work.  It’s hard to explain.  She’s just there with me, even when I don’t physically see her for days at a time.   P.S.O. constantly blows my mind.  It blows my mind that there is someone out there that is so right for me.  It blows my mind that we can communicate the way that we do.  I have never met someone that I connect so strongly with as a friend as well as on an emotional level and I have never been in love like I am with her.  That last thought blows my mind.  I fully believe that both of us going through the bad relationships and broken marriages that we did only makes us appreciate what we now have all the more.

I knew when we collided, you’re the one I have decided who’s one of my kind…

No offense to The Kings Fan, The Carpenter or Spicoli—three guys that I have known forever and three guys that know me better than anyone and are my closest friends in the world—but P.S.O. is a best friend, albeit in a totally different way.  I can tell her anything and know that she will listen, not judge me and will support me and be there for me.  She has been so supportive of my writing and of my desire to get back into radio full time.  She refuses to read and “approve” anything in here before I publish it, even though several of her staff read this blog religiously.  That says a lot.  Even when she knew I was writing I’ve Seen Better Days, she told me to say what I wanted to say and that she would deal with any fallout from the troops.  You don’t do that unless you really believe in that person and unless you really love him/her.

You gave my life direction, a game show love connection we can’t deny…

My life was good before I met P.S.O. Now it’s better.  We were already dating when gave me the green light for doing Sex and the Single Dad as a featured blog on their site.  That means that people all over Western New York will see this when they go to the site.  She grew up in Western New York and knows lots of people.

In the past I would have been leery of approaching someone I was dating with a project like this.  The typical reaction from someone I’ve dated would be “I don’t want people reading about me and about us”.  Totally not the case with P.S.O.   She was so excited when I told her about it and she was genuinely (and I emphasize the word “genuinely”) happy for me.  She isn’t looking to be a minor celebrity or a rock star of some kind.  She told me that it sounded like something that could really take off and go somewhere and that she wanted to be there to support me and help me in any way that she could.  She does help me.  P.S.O. gives me ideas and then steps back and lets me take them wherever my creativity takes it.  She is my Selma Hayek from Dogma.  She is my muse.

You’re so gangsta, I’m so thug, you’re the only one I’m dreaming of…

OK, so I’m the one who’s gangsta and thug—not her.  But, she is the only one I’m dreaming of.  My friends have heard me say (too many times) that Snoop Dogg and I are just a couple of gangstas from the LBC (Long Beach, California).  I met Snoop once.  In the press box at a Ducks game.  He was dope.  I digress.

You see, I can be myself now finally, in fact there’s nothing I can’t be.  I want the world to see you be with me…

I believe in myself.  That hasn’t always been the case, but it has been the past few years.  I’ve written for more than 30 magazines and newspapers across North America and Europe.  I’ve had the opportunity to interview some very famous people.  I’ve stood next to Wayne Gretzky and done a radio interview.  Alex Ovechkin too.  I’ve interviewed Penn & Teller, had a beer near the first tee at the Wynn Resort with John O’Hurley and chilled with Jesse James.  The list goes on and on.  I don’t throw out these names to brag.  There are writers with much better credentials that have done way more than I will ever do.  I don’t care.  I like me and that’s good enough.  She likes me too.  That is so cool!

It’s nice to know that I have someone in my corner.  Someone who will support me and someone who will encourage me on the discouraging days.  Someone who is there when it’s rough and makes me think, “Because you believe in me I believe in me”.

Finally, I want the world to see us together.  Not in a “Brangelina” sort of way (I am NOT adopting third world babies just to keep my name in the spotlight), but rather I want the world to see what I see.  I want the world to see that a moderately successful writer / pretty decent radio guy can be with a very successful VP for a major corporation.  (You didn’t really think that she was a phone sex operator, did you?)  I want to be somewhere, have someone hit on her and proudly say, “Excuse me.  She’s with me.”

Hey soul sister, I don’t want to miss a single thing you do…tonight.  Hey, hey.  Tonight.  Hey, hey.  Tonight.


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Filed under Dating, Phone Sex Operator

Tijuana with The Kings Fan

“Dude.  I think this is a gay bar…”

It had been almost a year since Original Crazy B**** (O.C.B.) moved out and I became a full-time single dad of a five-year-old girl.  My daughter wasn’t known as Drama Queen back then; she was just a sweet redheaded five-year-old.  I hadn’t dated at all since O.C.B. moved out—It was pretty much my choice.  I just hadn’t felt like looking and quite honestly, I had been out of the dating world so long that I really had no game.

The Kings Fan called me at work one Monday morning and asked if I could get my mom or brother to watch Drama Queen over the weekend.  “I think so,” I replied.  “Why?  What’s up?”  “I’m taking you out,” he told me.  “We’re going to go out and have fun and we are going to get you laid.  Tell your mom you’ll be back Saturday afternoon”

At 5:30 on Friday Kings Fan pulled into my driveway and I hopped into his black Jeep Wrangler and we headed south on the 405 freeway to Tijuana.  It had been a while since I had been to TJ and I thought a crazy night south of the border sounded like fun.

Kinger announced that we were going to park on the U.S. side and walk over.  It’s OK to drive your car into Mexico if you’re heading south into Rosarito or Ensanada, but if you ever want to see your car in one piece, do not park in Tijuana.

We walked over the border and immediately were bombarded with kids selling Chiclets and women peddling crappy fake gold.  We decided to hit Avenida Revolucion because that’s where most of the safe action was.  We agreed there would be no donkey shows but he kept insisting that I was going to get laid that night.  I had no problem with that but I was a little skeptical.

I asked where we were staying and he said that he had no clue but that we would find someplace.  I said cool and we jumped in a taxi and headed into TJ.  We got out of the cab and scanned our options.  We were both pretty hungry so we grabbed a couple of tacos at a cart about half a block up.

The girl working the cart was pretty cute and Kings Fan asked her in Spanish where a good bar was.  I guess I should point out that Kinger was born in Mexico but was raised in L.A.  He has family in Mexico and in fact his wife, Hot Latin Mama and son, G.I. Joe were both born and raised in central Mexico.  My point being that he speaks and reads Spanish very fluently.  This will be important information to have in a couple of paragraphs.

We headed into the bar and grabbed some Coronas.  The place was OK.  A bit touristy for my tastes, but not too bad.  There were some cute girls in there but it was mainly a sausage-fest.  After we had our next round I told him that I wanted to get out of there.  “We could drink $5 Coronas in Long Beach,” I said.  “Let’s find someplace a little off the beaten path where we can drink cheaper and we can feel like we’re in Mexico.”

He agreed and we headed out the door and around the corner down a side street.  About a block down we saw a window painted with a huge bottle of Tecate.  The size was equivalent to a 40 oz. in America and the sign announced “25 pesos” (about $2.50 U.S.D.).  We decided to go in and headed straight back to the bar to grab our Tecate.  We found an empty table and start sipping the cerveza fria.

About 60 seconds later, at almost exactly the same time, we both set our beers down on the table and looked at each other.  “Dude,” I quietly said.  “I think this is a gay bar.”  “What makes you think that?”  He asked sarcastically.  “Uh, I think it’s the chick with the beard and chest hair wearing a tube top,” I said.  “What about you?”  He pointed out that there were two guys kissing behind me but he implored me not to turn around and look.  As the only gringo in the place I had no problem heeding his advice.

We decided that the best game plan was to quickly chug our beers and get the hell out.  So we did just that.  Neither of us looked at the sign on the way in, but I made a mental not to check out the name of the bar on the way out.  It said “Los Chicos Golpean” which translated means “The Boys Club”.

We headed back out to Ave. Revolucion and I was hungry again so we found the same taco cart and I grabbed a couple al pastor (my favorite).  Kinger said something to the hottie in Spanish and he said that she knew just the place for us to go.  He said that he was sure that I could get laid in this place.  After our last experience I wanted to make sure that he was talking about a woman, so I looked at the taco chick and asked, “Chicas or chicos?”  She looked at King and said something in Spanish.  He replied and she laughed and said, “chicas!”  Esta bien!

W went into the bar and I was impressed.  It was loaded with women wearing tight, low cut clothing, most of whom were pretty damn hot.  We sat at the bar and I looked around as he ordered a couple beers from the bartender.  As the beers were placed in front of us, King looked at me and said, “It’s my treat.  Whoever you want.”

Suddenly it hit me.  The reason there were so many hot chicks was because we were in a hooker bar.  It was attached to a “motel” and the women were in there picking up guys and then servicing them next door.  I politely told him that I appreciated his gesture but that there were not enough condoms in the whole country for me to get it on with a Mexican prostitute.

He said he understood and that we would just sit, drink and blow off some steam.  Not two minutes later an attractive redhead with a decent set of fake cans came up behind me, rubbed my head and said “Hi, papi.”  I politely told her that I wasn’t her daddy and that I had no money.  Right on cue, she smiled at me and headed down the bar, trolling for her next lay.

Around 2 AM we decided to call it a night and found a non-whorehouse motel across the street.  The rooms were $10 each and we grabbed a pair and agreed that we should sleep on top of the blankets.  The next morning we woke up and found our taco hottie back at work.  We grabbed a few more and Kinger related the story of the night before.  She looked at me and told me that I was probably very smart.

After the tacos we hopped another cab, crossed the border again and headed home.  I’ve never been back to Tijuana since that night but I’ve hit Ensanada and Rosarito several times (once with Kings Fan) and every time I drive through TJ I get a smile on my face and tell my passenger that I know a good bar where we can stop at for a cheap beer—just off Avenida Revolucion.


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Skiing with the 36-Year-Old-Virgin

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Skiing with The 36-Year-Old-Virgin

She just smiled and asked, “When are you going to give it to me?”

I loaded the Drama Queen into the Xterra and headed to my mom’s house to get the keys to her cabin in Blue Jay, CA.  It was December 30, 2004 and I was going to the mountains with D.Q., The 36-Year-Old-Virgin, my friend The Kings Fan, and his wife Hot Latin Mama, their son G.I. Joe along with Mama’s younger sister, Hermana.  Hermana was up from Mexico for the holidays.  We were all going skiing/snowboarding in Big Bear on New Years Eve and we stayed at the cabin for a couple of nights.

This place was a cabin in name only.  It was bigger and nicer than my house in Long Beach and sat on a golf course.  My parents bought it in 1976 as it was being built and I spent every summer there as I grew up.  I even worked at a restaurant at Arrowhead Village the summers after my junior and senior year (that would be grades 11 and 12 for my Canadian friends).  The cabin was 90 minutes away from home and 45 from the ski areas.  For those that think there is no snow in Southern California, there is.  Back in the day I would often surf in the morning and go night skiing.  Life was pretty sweet.

After getting the keys I went down to The O.C. and picked up The Virgin.  She had never skied before and in fact had never even been to the snow, which I guess made her a snow virgin as well.  It was kind of funny seeing this Mexican cutie all bundled up in snow pants, a heavy coat, gloves and a beanie when it was 60 degrees out.  I told her that we would be in the car and that we would pull right up to the door, in case she waned to throw on some jeans for the car ride up.  “That’s OK Bolillo,” she said.  “I want to enjoy the experience.”  Whatever.   (BTW…Bolillo is Spanish for “white bread”)

I threw her bag in the back and we headed out through The 909 (So. Cal’s. meth headquarters, named the 909 because the area code is 909).  I pulled into Costco near the base of the mountain and tried not to snicker as the virgin trampled inside in her snow pants and winter boots when many of the other shoppers were in shorts and flip flops.

When the shopping was done we headed up the mountain and arrived shortly before our guests.  There were three bedrooms—two with queen beds and one with twin beds plus a huge couch in the living room.  I don’t remember the sleeping arrangements but I do remember that The Virgin and I had a room with a queen bed.  Sweet.

Dinner that night was good and the girls fixed some authentic Mexican fare.  The Virgin was Mexican and The Kings Fan was born in Mexico but raised in L.A.  He had recently married Mama and she and G.I. Joe were full-blown Mexican and had only lived in the U.S. for a year or so.  I do remember a lot of Corona being consumed that night.  Some Patron too.

We got up early the next morning, made breakfast and some sandwiches for lunch and headed up to Bear Mountain Ski Area.  We stopped to rent our equipment and Kings Fan laughed at me for renting skis.  Everyone else was snowboarding but I reminded him that I was all the way Old School and that I had ripped up both knees and ankles playing ice hockey (with him as my goalie), so I wanted something that I could eject out of if and when I biffed it big.

We arrived and put the kids in a ski school/daycare thing and went off to have fun.  I think that Mama, Hermana and The Virgin took lessons because King and I went off to have some fun.  It had been a few years since I had skied but it came back quickly and soon we were heading down some pretty steep terrain.  It was snowing a very icy snow that day and was really windy and I remember the snow stinging as it hit my face.  Every time I started to get cold I whipped out my flask of Malibu (I guess I was going through a Malibu and Coke phase then).  The more I drank, the better I felt.  Soon enough my big flask was empty and I was pretty buzzed.

We finished skiing/boarding and headed back to the cabin.  (Relax. I don’t drink and drive.  I was sober by then.)  We arrived and started preparing our big New Years Eve fiesta.  I’m pretty rad in the kitchen and I usually cook for my friends, but tonight the chicas were preparing the food and we were all having fun drinking.  The Virgin was drinking pretty steadily and the more she drank, the happier she got.

I remember King pulling me aside at one point and saying that I should “tap it tonight.”   I wasn’t completely opposed to the idea (we had been dating a couple of months) and I went up to her, whispered in her ear and told her that I had a special surprise for her at midnight.  She smiled and said she couldn’t “wait to get it”.  This chick was so freakin naïve!

As midnight approached, King kept looking at me and giving me “the nod”.  You know what I mean.  The one that guys give each other as if to say, “that’s right.  It’s all good.”  At one point Mama came up to me and said that she was so happy for us.  Apparently King had shared the secret.  I had to let her know that it was actually not a done deal and that in fact The Virgin had no clue what I was planning.  I also had to remind her that although I wasn’t completely fluent in Spanish, I knew enough to know if she tried to tip her off!

At about 11:50 PM The Virgin came up and asked what I had for her.  I told her that it was a big surprise and that I was sure that she had never gotten this before.  She just smiled and asked, “When are you going to give it to me?”  I told her that I would give it to her shortly after midnight when we went to bed.

Midnight came and went and we got the cabin mostly cleaned up and everyone went to bed.  She and I went into our room and closed the door.  I started kissing her and she asked what I had for her.  I (like a guy who had been drinking all day) told her that I thought her New Years resolution should be to experience new things in 2005 and she thought that sounded great.  Please keep in mind that she too had been drinking all night.  And that she was really naïve.

We continued kissing and as we did I told her that I thought that she should finally experience sex and she looked at me with puppy dog eyes and asked, “Bolillo.  Don’t you care about my soul?  I mean, what would God say if I had sex outside of marriage?”  I told her that I didn’t know, but reminded her that a lot of Catholic school girls were sluts, so I figured that God would cut her some slack for waiting until she was 36.  I also asked her how many Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers she thought the priest would give her for “doing it”.

I didn’t get laid that night but the next morning she acted as if the whole thing never happened.  She bounced up the steps and into the kitchen with a cheery hello for everyone.  Mama looked up at me and came over to hug me and said, “congratulations.”  I told her that nothing happened and she gave me one of those “What you talking about Willis?” Looks.  Neither Mama nor The Fan could believe that she still wasn’t giving it up.  They were both a little disappointed in me and I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed in myself too.

The Virgin turned 37 a few weeks later and I won’t tell you whether or not she became The 37-Year-Old-Virgin.  That is another story for another day.


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