Anyone who spends 3.5 seconds on this blog knows that I’ve made poor choices in men. I admit it. I wish someone else was making my decisions for me. But whatever, I like to make fun of the situations I’ve been in.
What I hate though, is when retelling my dating horror stories to men, and while pondering why on earth I would date someone so mentally fucked up, they ask “Was he well hung?”…Like this is the only reason I would be someone so idiotic.
Gentlemen, this is your sex. By asking such a question, you are putting yourself in the same category as them. Never, has a women stayed with sub-par man because of the size of his manhood. Good sex is whole other story.
My theory? The men who ask this have small penises.
I just got into Mad Men. I know it’s been on for a few years, but I never watch the first season of anything. I can’t commit to the same night every week for 6 months (except for Weeds, which is on Sundays at 10. Nothing can tear me away from that). The show takes place in the 50’s, and the women had it so easy back then. Here are the pros:
1) I’d already be married. When I was 19, I was smoking hot. I actually recall my boyfriend from that time of my life telling me I’d make a great wife right after I made him Kraft dinner. That was the age people got married back then. The problem would be that I would have married that guy. He was going nowhere. We’d probably be in some small shack somewhere living with our 5 kids. But that’s ok, because back then everyone hated their husbands.
2) I wouldn’t have to work. My job would be that of a housewife. I’d go to bed after the hubby left in the morning, wake up around 2, watch some Judge Judy 50’s style while drinking a martini, then make some Shake n Bake for when the man returned. I wouldn’t even need to shower or put on makeup until right before he came home.
3) It wouldn’t be socially acceptable for us to get a divorce. I could do pretty much anything I wanted, and he couldn’t leave me. I could sleep with the milkman AND the mailman. Sure, the hubby would probably toss me around a bit, but then my mailman would feel so bad for me, he’d buy me something.
Did I miss anything?
And after that, I find myself at the local pool hall with The Construction Worker.
He shows up, 5 minutes late. I forgive. I was expecting a more tardy entrance, so I brought a book. We chat a bit, mostly about his home country, which, I wont deny, sounds fabulous.
Then he asks if I want to play pool. Yes, I do. I find pool a great way to continue conversation, but with an excuse to hide the awkward pauses. Kinda like going to a baseball game. Anyway, so I tell him that I’m really horrible; that I used to play a lot in high school, but not so much since then. This, somehow, gives him the idea that he can tell me how to play. Wrong. I know the g.d. rules, and I never plan on playing pro, so just let me hit the fucking balls. I ignore this completely. I don’t count it as a strike at all.
The honeymoon didn’t last long:
Strike 1: He tells me what it means to “scratch”
grrrr.
But then, he smiles, and he has fantastically white teeth. I forgive.
Strike #2: He tells me what ball to go for. I don’t care.
But then, as he’s pointing it out, I realize how great his butt is. I forgive.
Strike #3: He tries to tell me where to hit the cue ball.
But then, as he’s pointing it out, I realize how fantastic his triceps are.
Strike #4: he corrects my posture
But as he’s doing so, he grabs me by the waist, and shoulder.
Strike #5: He tosses me the chalk and tells me I’ll play better if I “chalk up”
But then he shows me his tattoos, and I forget about strikes altogether.
Then…the bill…
And…
He…
PAYS!
Yay! This is a big deal, because this is the same bar I went to once with a guy who stuck me with the $100 tab.
PS: I’m pretty sure I scare the crap out of him.
I was out with some friends the other night, lamenting the woes of the single girl in Toronto. Someone (me) brought up the Allied Network. It’s a dating service. Please don’t confuse it with Ashley Madison (which, by the way, is a Toronto company). I know a few people who have tried it out. I checked out their website, and FitDarcie is WAY nicer. It looks like they haven’t updated it since 1996. I usually get junk mail from them, but I refuse to open anything addressed to Lonely Occupant of Apartment G.
Anyway, apparently, it’s one of the old school dating services, where you go in and physically meet a dating expert who then introduces you to people they think are compatible with you. From what I hear, their prices start around 9k, but no one I’ve ever talked to has paid more than $1500. Apparently, they guarantee you 3 dates for $1500.
I just happen to be sitting at a table with a few of my single lady friends. We’ve decided this is a brilliant idea. We’re officially launching the FitDarcie Dating Service. For $1500, we guarantee 3 dates, with exceptional women who are smart, talented and good looking. There happen to be 3 single smart, talented and good looking women running it. We figure, we’re the guaranteed 3 dates, we pocket $500 each date (I’d throw in that we’d also get dinner/drinks, but we all know men stopped paying for their dates at the same time the Allied Network updated their website).
Any takers?
A new guy approached me at the gym last night. The Pharmacist. Well, he didn’t exactly say he was a pharmacist, he said he worked in or around a pharmacy. I’ve met a lot of pharmacists in my life, and they’re always very eager to point out their career choice…Anyway, it was the same old “I’ve seen you before…You work really hard…You look really awesome…blah blah blah”. That was about a week ago.
Now I run into him every day. Like most men who talk to me at the gym, he waits until he’s about to leave to come up to me to make conversation. I play along. I know he’s gearing up to ask me out. I can sense these things, and I’m never wrong.
None of the above is unusual. There are 2 other guys who are going to ask me out within the next 2 times of seeing me.
What’s unusual about The Pharmacist, is that he’s friends with The Construction Worker. Right after he was done talking to me, The Construction Worker went up to him. They high-fived, nodded my way, then the pharmacist left.
The Construction Worker was at my side within 2 minutes. Small talk. He left. 2 minutes after that, a text requesting a date was on my phone.
Men are so predictable.
Last night, as I was leaving my apartment to head to the gym, I witnessed a lovers quarrel. The woman was standing at the car, and the man was walking slowly to it, looking at his phone. The woman immediately accused him of trying to erase all the other girl’s phone numbers before he got to the car.
It’s damn near impossible to cheat in this day and age. With Facebook, Twitter, FitDarcie, etc, everything is so open. The woman accusing her boyfriend of having other girl’s phone numbers in his phone probably found an illicit text message in there once and that was it. If someone got ahold of my Blackberry? Forget it. It’d be over. BBM is unretreivable after you erase the history. I use that to send the most incriminating details of my life…except I rarely delete the history (I just did in fear that it gets stolen).
Yet, like a murderer aware of the death penalty, will this deter the assholes from society to bang younger, blonder chicks behind our trusting backs?
Probably not.
I didn’t hear the next few sentences of the lover’s quarrel, but by the time I pulled out of the parking lot, they were hugging and he was grabbing her ass.
Tags: cheating, technology is changing datingThe scene happens often. I meet a guy, spend a good 10-20 minutes talking to him, walk away, slightly confused about him not asking for my number despite the fact that he’s bought me a few drinks, then my girl friend will ask what the hell I was doing talking to a married guy for so long.
I never check for a ring. At my age, there are more and more men that are married, you’d think I would have learned to check the left hand by now, but I haven’t.
Perhaps it’s my subconscious reminding me that I abhor commitment?
Last night, my friend tried to convince an Irish guy that he should show up to her office to be her item for show and tell.
Some nights are just like that.
This is a good story. A while ago, I was out getting my drink on with some friends. It was one of those nights that ended up at my place where there is always ample supply of the ingredients for a chocolate-raspberry martini.
I woke up the next morning with a guest in my bed. For the record, I nothing happened. I wouldn’t lie about that. Anyway, my sleeping attire was a conservative length t-shirt and too-tiny-to-wear-in-public shorts. When I first woke up, I was sort of hoping to fall back asleep and continue sleeping off the hangover. But my guest was texting on his phone. Quite irritating, but I kept on trying to fall back to sleep.
After a few minutes, I felt the blankets lift up and heard the familiar sound of a camera phone snapping a shot. He took a picture of me in bed.
My reaction? I did nothing. I pretended to sleep for a few more minutes, then got up and drove him home. I have to admit, I was a bit flattered. I can see the texts now:
The Photographer: Dude. Guess who I slept with last night?!
Loser Friend: Some ugly chick?
The Photographer: No, FitDarcie
Loser Friend: I don’t believe it
The Photographer: Here is a pic of her!!
Loser Friend: You are my idol.
We’re still friends.
So, at the gym last night, I ran into the Construction Worker. He asked me if I wanted to lick see his tattoos. I shamefully nodded my head. He has a tattoo over his upper arm, of a cross and rosary and all that religious stuff to honor his mother because of her passing 4 years ago.
He loves his mom. There’s nothing hotter than that in a man.
I bet he can fix cars and hair-dryers too.
Tags: construction worker, tattoo