What NOT to wear, truly

“I want everyone to wear what they want and mix it in their own way. That, to

me, is what is modern.” ― Karl Lagerfeld

With all due respect to Mr. Lagerfeld, I beg to differ. Clothing is often designed with a purpose in mind. Don’t believe me? You don’t wear a swimsuit to go grocery shopping, now do you? (And, in making this statement, I am discounting anyone that is now or ever could appear on the People of WalMart website.) And when’s the last time you wore a tuxedo to cut the grass? You don’t wear a low-cut cocktail dress and 4” FMPs to the PTA meeting, either. You don’t wear your Sexy Mother F’er t-shirt to work. And you do not, or should I say SHOULD NOT, wear ripped jeans to the theater.

The Engineer, the Landscaper and I recently attended a production of “The Ghost Brothers of Darkland County,” written by Stephen King with music by John Mellencamp at the Akron Civic Theater. It's a gorgeous old theater lovingly restored to baroque resplendence. In the lobby, brightly colored walls and ceilings adorned with medallions drip with gilt work. You enter the theater itself and you're transported to what I imagine an amphitheater in Verona, Italy would look like. You sit under a starry night sky, thanks for clever lighting and paint. Intricate columns, arches and statues surround the stage.

In short, you’re sitting in show-stopping opulence. Don’t you owe it to every hand-painted medallion, every lovingly restored statue, every twinkling (fake) star, every velvet-covered seat, every snappily dressed usher to wear a pair of pants without the seat ripped out??? Don’t you at least owe it to your mama who raised you better, for the love of all that’s holy?

Let me just give you a smattering of who attended the theater that night. There was the simply delightful gal in front of us who truly believed that skinny, low-cut ripped jeans were designed for any body type … even an apple-shaped girl who had to jump high into the air every time she stood to get the denim over her ass crack. Yes, I saw nearly her entire ass crack 4 times that night. Yes, I was counting.

Then there was the man who wore dirty, rumpled clothing that had that “just-slept-in” look. I mean, if you can afford a ticket to see Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, surely you can afford laundry soap, too, right? 

Next, there was a man wearing an outfit that my 20-something employee assures me is “hipster chic.” I’ve almost recovered 100% of my vision after being struck fashion blind by the horror of his ensemble. He dressed his tall husky frame in gray skinny ankle pants, a checkered flannel lumberjack shirt, white socks, black Converse shoes and a gray bandana to match his butt-flattening pants. And, let’s not forget the neon-green tape on his glasses.

First, FIRST of many atrocities – the skinny ankle pants. GENTLEMEN, skinny ankle pants are NOT for men. I repeat, they are NOT for men. They do NOTHING for your physique. Less than nothing. They flatten you butt and make it look like you grew 3” last night and didn’t realize it. Just because a company manufactures a garment, doesn’t mean someone has to wear it. Let’s recall that someone created culottes, stirrup pants and strapless terry rompers. If no one wore them, they’d go away, now wouldn’t they? And I don’t care if they have an Ab-bore-crumbie & Bitch label on them. It just means you paid too much to look that stupid.

I would say less than 1/3 of the audience had on what I’d consider “theater clothes.” I don’t understand why everyone can’t dress up a little for fine musical theater. The Landscaper said, “Maybe they don’t own nicer clothes.” I called bullshit on that one. Everyone owns a pair of “funeral pants,” no? You can’t tell me there are people who go to funerals in ripped jeans and Sexy Mother F’er t-shirts.

The Engineer was having fun “poking the bear” by pointing out every rumpled T-shirt, exposed thong and pair of ripped jeans. She really had me worked into a froth in the lobby during intermission. I was opining, “Part of the joy of going to the theater for me is seeing men in suits and ladies in evening attire dripping with jewels.” And, wouldn’t you know, a lady wearing jeans happened to be walking by during my diatribe? She came right up to me and said, “I know! I know I shouldn’t wear jeans to the theater. It was just so cold out and I wanted to be comfortable.” I was almost mortified. Almost. And, I told her, in all truth, that she looked quite nice. She was at least wearing dark-wash trouser jeans with a nice sweater. Nothing on her was ripped, rumpled, dirty or adorned with a curse word. She was not ruining my “theater experience.” The woman with the thong hanging out of her trashy pants was.

I don’t care what anyone says. Your clothing does speak for you, so think about what you’re saying with it. If you want to say, “I don’t use soap when I bathe,” that’s your choice. Or, if you want to say, “I’ll follow any fashion trend whether it looks good on me or not,” that’s all you.

But, please, the next time you go to the theater, consider putting on your “funeral pants” to soothe my genteel sensibilities. Pretty please? 

Time to make the Hatenuts

Internet dating has not been my friend. I have had some classic Flypaper for Freaks moments from my Internet interludes and ZERO good dates. Yet, a good friend of mine met her husband online. So, it’s clearly not all bad. Maybe the difference is she was using The Onion personals – which just about guarantees a sense of humor – and I used traditional dating sites.

So, I meet the Doughnut Man online. He owns three doughnut shops in the area. Great! Employed. Gainfully employed. Must have some business (and common) sense. And, he can bring me free éclairs. Bonus! Sounds promising so far. The only drawback I see is he’s blonde. I’m blonde, too and I really don’t think blondes should date each other. Someone has to be the smart one in the relationship. (Jeez! I’m kidding. I do not want the National Organization of Blondes to start hate-mailing me.)

We’ve talked on the phone a number of times, mainly about innocuous things. He seems nice enough. We agree to meet for dinner. The conversation is light and breezy, like a warm summer afternoon.

“What kind of movies do you like?”

“Comedies. I love things that make me laugh.”

“Me, too. If I want to see reality, I’ll look out the window.” (Hey! Something we agree on.)

“Do you read much?” he asks me.

“I read voraciously. Every night before I go to bed.”

“Me, too! I just adore a good book.”

Dare I hope that my Freak Magnet is losing its polar powers?

“In fact, I just finished reading Rush Limbaugh’s new book.”

Oh, Lordy Lord. I now know that he’s a Republican. I have not had good luck dating Republicans – which may be because I’m a flaming, hair-on-fire kind of liberal. OK. Not the end of the world, even if my family will shun him at all holiday events for voting for a Bush.

[Author’s Aside: I shouldn’t make generalizations about Republicans. Have I met every Republican in the U.S. of A? No. Have I even met the majority of them? No. It’s just been my (dating) experience that any Republican I’ve gone out with has been a hater and has expressed his homophobia or racism to me within the first 30 minutes of meeting him. So far, I have not had this experience with any Democrat that I’ve gone out with, but this may just be a coincidence. And, I just cannot tolerate intolerance. How funny is THAT for a quote?]

“Really? Because I just finished reading The Way Things Aren’t by FAIR” which is a book that refutes most of the nonsensical things that Rush Limbaugh says. Yeah, this is going well.

I steer the conversation toward our jobs so we don’t start fighting about what a giant goober I think Rush Limbaugh is. I tell him what it’s like to run a magazine and touch on the struggles I’ve had as a first-time manager. He starts to tell me about the doughnut shops he runs.

“It’s hard to find good help,” he says.

“I’ve heard that it’s hard to find good part-time help,” I reply. How many managers actually love their part-time employees?

“I mean, I try to find good employees, but only blacks apply.”

“Pardon me?”

“It’s because of where my stores are located. You know, in the Hood I just can’t get good help.”

Oh, this is taking a very bad turn. This table is kind of small, but maybe I can still fit under it so no one will know that I’m with this racist freak.

“Well, you know, it’s those people’s fault that I’m overweight.”

WHAT???

He had expressed over the phone his concern that I would reject him because he was somewhat overweight. (Who says that to someone before they’ve even gone on a date with them and WHY didn’t I see that giant red flag flapping in my face? Was I that desperate?)

In truth, I didn't really think he was overweight. He had what I'd call a “husky” build and short cropped blond hair. With his short crew cut and thick frame, he reminded me of a former marine who'd just started to go to pot. He could probably stand to lose 20 pounds, but let she who doesn't need to lose a spare 20 or so cast the first doughnut. I thought he was a rather nice-looking man in an Average Joe sort of way. And, I'm no raving beauty, so we probably looked like we belonged together.

“Those people? Who are those people?” (I tried to make my tone as frosty as possible in hopes of discouraging him. In fact, I think a few snowflakes flew out of my mouth while I was speaking.)

“You know, the blacks.”

“No, I don’t know. Perhaps you need to explain it to me.” (Can he really not hear the antagonistic tone in my voice? Does he think what he’s saying is OK? He must, or he wouldn’t still be flapping his giant cakehole¹.)

“See, doughnuts cost the least to make and have the highest profit margin. Bagels and cream cheese are my most expensive item and have the lowest profit margin. So, I only allow employees to eat the doughnuts.”

I understand this concept. That’s a business decision. Many restaurants have a similar policy – we’ll give you free food, but you need to choose one of these four or five low-cost entrees. I’m still waiting to see how Captain Crazy Train is going to bring this back to black people making him fat.

“I would really prefer to eat a bagel with cream cheese every morning since it’s much lower in calories (yeah, not so much, Sherlock), but I can’t because of those people.”

Still not getting it.

“If those people see me eating a bagel, then they think it’s OK for them to eat a bagel, too, and my profits go down.”

If an employee doesn’t listen to your rules in your store, you give them a warning and explain what they did wrong and what the correct course of action is. If the behavior continues, you fire that specific person. You do NOT attribute an inability to follow the rules to an entire race of people.

“So, because of those people, I have to eat doughnuts for breakfast every morning, which is making me fat.”

“Do you have a refrigerator at the shop?” I ask him, knowing damn well that the answer is yes.

“Of course we have a refrigerator,” he replies.

“Then why don’t you bring low-fat yogurt and granola to the shop and eat that for breakfast?”

“Don’t you think that I’ve thought of that? I’m sure that those people would just eat that, too, so what would be the point?”

Right. You’re one of those people. You know, the ones who blame their shortcomings on everyone EXCEPT themselves? I’m sure in your world, it’s also the fault of Native Americans that your hair is thinning on top since one of your relatives was scalped during the French-Indian War.

At this point, I excuse myself to go to the restroom. While I’m in there, I actually find myself gazing at the window wondering if I can fit OUT the window and escape from Mr. Fantastic. I then remember that my coat is back at the table. He probably would have been suspicious had I taken my coat with me to the restroom. And, who am I kidding? I would only climb out that window if the restaurant was on fire and the bathroom door was locked from the outside. My mother raised me properly. I am going to have to go back out there, thank him for dinner and bid him a good eve . . . even IF I have to choke the words out. Stupid manners. You know that he asked me out again. I told him that I just didn’t see it working out.

¹cakehole (kāk·hōl) n. 1. This is a technical term, synonymous with piehole, that refers to someone whose mouth should only be opened to shove cake (or pie) into it. Any other opening or closing that occurs is simply the flapping about of hot air. Please note: This is similar to the term, “claptrap” that refers to a mouth from which only clap and drivel spill forth. 

Circus Freaqué

I’ve decided to join the circus. I’ve come to this decision after long (5-minute) contemplative thought on my job prospects at this time. This decision has nothing to do with the painful, eye-gouging job interview that I went on today. The temp freelance job I got may go full-time in January – let’s all keep our fingers crossed - but I need a back-up plan just in case so HELLO Barnum & Bailey. I checked out Career Opportunities for the Circus, but I’m really not seeing a fit at this time.

Job Listing: Bearded Woman – I can’t grow one hair on my chin much less enough to qualify as a beard. Though I clicked through, there was no listing for “Hairless Freak.”

Job Listing: Ticket Taker – This one sounded promising ‘til I realized that I may have to touch the unwashed masses and talk to people who haven’t accepted Dental Hygiene into their lives.

Job Listing: Tightrope Walker – My balance is atrocious and I’m afraid of heights. Does it count as tightrope walking if the tightrope is only 6 inches off the ground? And, how many times can you fall off before people start booing?

Job Listing: Unicycle Rider – The last time I rode a unicycle in a parade, the clowns kept trying to stab me with their sharp sticks. Oh wait. That was a dream . . . .

Job Listing: Dancing Bear – Pink Tutu with these pasty white legs? Oh, I don’t think so.

I’m going to write the Circus and suggest a new position be added to the list of performers – Human Freak Magnet. “Come one, come all. Watch as this seemingly normal girl attracts the dregs of society. See complete strangers attempt to braid her hair or rest their head on her shoulder. Observe unfamiliar people who sit at her table and try to explain the aliens to her in their own special language.”

OK. Maybe the Circus shouldn’t be Plan B. How does one go about becoming a Dominatrix? I hear that they pay and benefits are simply excellent. Plus, people often refer to me as a pushy b**ch. 

Hello, Kitty Cat!

Sometimes, something looks good on paper but once you see it face-to-face, well, it's not so good. Working in radio, for example, can really kill your celebrity illusions. I spent a summer interning at a radio station and learned that most celebrities look better in their photos (thank you, Photoshop) and quite a few of them can really be self-centered jerks.

I met a man online that sounded good in print. College professor that was just a few years older than me, never married and living reasonably close. Not bad looking. Nice friendly smile. Needed a haircut (comb-over ponytails were NEVER in style, were they?). But that's like looking at a house for sale that needs a new coat of paint. Great bones, just needs a little superficial spruce-up. And, this is my year of personality over pretty.

I just wanted to do coffee. Less intimate, easier to escape from. But, he insisted on dinner. Fine. Maybe he'll be witty and brilliant and leave me wanting more. Yeah, and maybe I'll wake up 25 lbs. thinner because I was swimming in my dream last night. But hope, like unexpected bills and cellulite, springs eternal.

He looked just like his picture. Bonus! A surprising number of men post pictures from when they were 10 years younger or 20 pounds thinner. And, don't even get me started about the guy with the seriously broken teeth.

He was not witty and brilliant. At least, the first 20 minutes of nonstop nattering from him were not. He talked, without pause, from the time we sat down until our food arrived. I'm not even sure he paused for breath.

It's possible that after his first soliliquy, he may have hit his groove and turned into a brilliant orator. Hell, he could have recited Martin Luther King's rousing “I have a dream” speech. I wouldn't know. I started mentally reviewing my packing list after he passed minute 20 of non-stop talking. (I was leaving for a two-week vacation in mere days).

I initially tuned out during his description of how Second Life works and why it's a good teaching aid. Before I nodded off, however, I did catch his talk on why being a Dungeon Master in Dungeons & Dragons – which he still played at age 40 – made him a better teacher. I was fascinated to see what the correlation was. Regrettably, it wasn't fascinating.

I started listening again after our food came. The sustenance revived me just enough to be tepidly interested in what he was saying. And, may I say, thank you Jesus. I would have hated to miss this little golden nugget of celibacy.

“So, in order to learn how to use web design software, I designed a web page for my cats.”

“Oh, that sounds like a fun way to learn how to use the software,” I said. I mean, if I had to design a web page for a class, I could see doing a humorous one for my ferret entitled Frenchie, the Flying Circus Freaqué and using a picture of him mid-air leaping for a houseplant.

“Would you like the web address? You can sign their guest book.”

Pregnant pause. Was he joking? He's joking, right? He cannot seriously have a web page that he maintains dedicated to his cats, can he? So, I asked him about it. Lo' and behold. He does indeed maintain a web page dedicated to his feline friends. AND he updates it regularly. Oooh, would you look at the time? I'm quite sure I have to get up early tomorrow to dust my books. Needless to say, I didn't call him after I returned from my vacation. Seems I lost his number in the swimming hole.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should go back to treading water in the shallow end of the dating pool. At least it had better sight-seeing possibilities.

[Author's aside – WHY, oh WHY didn't I get the web address for his kitty cat website? There could have been comedy GOLD in them thar web pages.]

An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Don’t I wish!

I admit it. I was excited to go out with a doctor. He was obviously intelligent. He had a good job. Hell, he had A job. (Don’t even get me started about the unemployed garbage collector a friend set me up with. OK, fine. I’ll tell you later.)

He appeared attractive from his picture, albeit stoic, because he wasn’t smiling. It struck me as odd that you would use a picture of yourself where you looked so serious. Oh dear. Maybe he has no sense of humor. I hate people with no sense of humor. How do they survive in this mad, mad world without humor? But, I digress.

He wasn’t too much older than me (a few years). From talking to him, I knew that he liked to cook, had children from a previous relationship who didn’t live with him and had some of the same interests that I did.

I was sticking with my rules this time. Meet in a (crowded) public place and don’t exchange anything more than first names until you feel comfortable.

We agreed to meet at a coffee shop. I didn’t recognize him when he first walked up because his hair was almost entirely gray. It was black in the picture that he sent me. Reminded me of the C&C Music Factory song, “Things that make you go hmmmmm.” I was almost positive at this point that he had lied about his age (40), but it would be rude to ask.

In these situations, I always try to get to a meeting location first so that I can scope out the location and choose the best place to sit. This also allows me to get my beverage of choice and get settled. I have no problem with a man buying me a cup of coffee, but until I am reasonably sure there will be a second date, I think that I should pay my own way.

When he greets me, he smiles. Now I understand why his picture is stoic. His two front teeth are broken. Badly broken. Surely he must have dental insurance as a doctor. Why wouldn’t he get his teeth fixed? I choose to ignore this for the moment.

The first thing he tells me is that he appreciates my honesty in my profile. “You look just like your picture.” Well, I should hope so. It was only taken a few months ago. “So many women put up pictures of themselves that are like 10-years old or 50 pounds ago.” Hello? Pot? It’s the kettle calling to tell you... Still, cursed good manners prevents me from saying, “And your actual age is ...?”

He also told me that he appreciated my “honesty about my figure.” I put curvy. This is a hard question for me. I’m not slender. I am average in that I wear a size 12 and the average American woman wears a size 12-14. However, I’m 5’10 and the average American woman is 5’5. “A few extra pounds,” my male friends tell me, translates to HUGE and I’m not huge. So, I went with curvy.

In this phase of my Dating Farce, I still told people that I performed with a professional belly dance troupe as a hobby. I learned through painful experience that this is often the wrong thing to do. Though belly dance, in my mind, is no different from any other form of performance dance in that it involves a costume and certain movements, it is perceived in a very different way. Many men that found out I was a belly dancer seemed to think that I was either A) a stripper, B) easy or C) both.

He was “kind” enough to mention how “hot” he found belly dancing and how I had the perfect body for it. He was so into belly dancers, in fact, that his buddies hired one for his 50^th birthday a few years ago. Hello? Did you or did you not put 40 on your online profile? It would be ill-mannered to point out this little fallacy, but WOW it was tempting to tell Pinocchio’s that his nose was growing.

Ok. So he lied about his age. I wonder what else he lied about? I started fishing for more details. “How many children do you have?” Two, he tells me. One that just graduated from college and another who’s 29 and has children (!!!?). No WONDER his children don’t live with him. They’re too old to live with him. And a grandfather? You want me to go out with a grandfather? I’m still hoping to have children of my own some day and I’m not that much older than his elder child.

In the middle of our conversation, he interrupts me and says, “Did I tell you that big boobs make me horny? And, you’ve got a great set.”

Oh! Would you look at the time? I have GOT to go floss the cat.

“So, where do you see this going?” he asks me. Seriously? Seriously? Did you even READ my profile or did you get stuck on my “assets”? In my description, I specifically said that I really like children and I’m hoping to settle down and have some of my own one day. Hey! Truth in advertising. If you’re looking for a fling, I’m not your gal . . . I mean, unless you look like John Cusack or Oded Fehr. Then, all bets are off and I’ll have to introduce you to my “throw-down” list.

My Guardian Etiquette Maven won’t allow me to utter the words screaming through my brain (which start something like, “Listen you repulsive little troll. Though you only seem to have a nodding acquaintance with the truth ....”). Instead, I say, “I’m sorry. I just don’t see this going anywhere. We’re just at different stages in our lives. You’ve had your children and are just looking for a companion to have fun with and I’m looking for a serious relationship that will eventually lead to marriage and children.” 

“So,” he says, “we can’t just have some fun together?”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, “I’m not into flings.”

“Oh, I’m not into flings either,” he tells me with a straight face. “I just thought that we could, you know, hang out, have some dinner, release our mutual sexual tensions.” RIGHT. OK. Apparently he’s a bit slow on the uptake AND illiterate. I would tell him where to look UP the definition of fling, but I fear he wouldn’t be able to read it. Neanderthal! Is he really a doctor? I’m beginning to wonder.

Mercifully, I had told him up front that I was meeting my family at a certain time. This left me the perfect excuse to leave. I feared the Dreadful Cop-A-Feel Goodbye, but at least this horrible date was almost over. A patient of his gave me the ideal out, however. Bless Betty and Little Johnny. (Maybe he really was a doctor?) As I was standing up to leave, she came over to him. “Dr. ___________, I just had to tell you the Johnny is doing so much better . . . “ And away I ran.

He e-mailed me after the date and told me that he was disappointed that I ran off and he didn’t get to “tell me goodbye properly” but maybe we could get together and . . . . Yeah, OK. That’s not going to happen. I just e-mailed him back and told him that it was a pleasure meeting him and wished him luck in his search. (And I referred to him as a liar? I actually told him that it was “a pleasure” meeting him. Now whose nose is growing? I'd better watch my fibbing. Because, trust me, my nose does NOT need to be any bigger.)

Epilogue: He contacted me a few months later via e-mail and asked me if I had changed my position on casual relationships. Not so much. I again wished him luck on his continued search. 

Why I'm not a Chemist

I would just like you to know that I often write about the stupid things I do just for the amusement of my friends. So, please to enjoy.

Those of you who dye your hair understand the chemistry involved, I'm sure. This is why you don't end up with pink hair or Light Golden Brown speckled walls.

I have been fortunate that I do not have to dye my hair. My hair's stayed a relatively nice shade of blonde as I've gotten older and hasn't started graying yet. (But, trust me, the first gray hair I get will be yanked out of my head. And, any signs of going gray will be covered with dye.)

I've had my hair highlighted before when (I thought) it was getting too dark and lowlighted after one Pennsic when it was particularly light blond from too much sun. I've put color washes in my hair for fun. However, I really don't use much in the way of hair dye.

I guess I just don't get the chemistry involved. Either that, or I'm just an idiot. You decide.

While I don't dye my hair, I DO dye my eyebrows. Until I met my dance troupe member, I didn't even know of the joy that was eyebrow dyeing. I just went around with my pathetic platinum-blonde eyebrows looking like the victim of a barbecue flare-up accident. You couldn't even tell I had eyebrows unless you were about 6 inches away from me. And, really, people look pretty stupid without eyebrows. I tried to draw them in. But, as near as I can tell, makeup companies hate natural blondes. They make this hideous color of eyebrow pencil I'll call “strawberry taupe,” which is just not pretty.

I now go to Angela to have my eyebrows tinted. Angela is a genius. But wait! Where is the hideous dyeing story that I promised you?

I just paid for a very expensive car repair (and still had another one looming). In an effort to be fiscally responsible, I decided to dye my own eyebrows. Another troupe member did a fabulous job of dyeing her own eyebrows. So, I could to it too, right?

Yeah, we all know where this is going, don't we?

I buy a bottle of Light Golden Brown crème dye for the bargain price of $3.67. I mix up the color and gentle daub it on my eyebrows and lie down to let it set. Twenty minutes later, it's time to remove the dye. I'm disappointed to see that the color barely took. I carefully daub it back on and lay back down for another 10 minutes. It's slightly darker now, but still not the desired color. And, it's late, too. Why did I decide to START this process after 10 on Sunday night?

I guess I'll just keep the dye until tomorrow and try again. (Do you hear what I hear? “Danger Will Robinson. Danger!”)

I go into my bathroom Monday night to set into motion The Great Dye Fiasco. The bottle of dye is now lying on its side even though I left it upright. It seems that it can no longer stand because it's bulging and rounded. Hmmm. Perhaps I shouldn't have left it tightly capped? If only I had paid attention in chemistry class.

Well, clearly I should open it to relieve the pressure in the bottle.

Why, oh, WHY didn't I pay attention in chemistry class? Oh, that's right, because it started at 7:15 in the morning and my coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I usually napped through it. Well, my morning naps were now biting me in the ass.

Did you know that a tiny little 4” high bottle can shoot Light Golden Brown dye 6 feet across the room and hit every wall in the room plus the bathtub, toilet, counter, sink, mirror and light switch? Only the ceiling was left unscathed.

If only someone was around to enjoy my shenanigans and point and laugh at me. I cleaned it up, but my walls are now dyed, too. Thankfully, the bathroom is prepped for painting but hasn't been repainted yet due to my old friend sloth visiting.

Freakville, Population 1

What makes these people talk to me? I was really putting out "Eau de Gah!" this past week at a 4th of July party. Some intrepid party-goers were departing on their Harleys and two friends and I were admiring their bikes. The one man, in particular, had a beautiful classic Hog redux.

As we were talking about the Hogs, I commented to my friends that I used to date a guy who owned a Low Rider. This complete stranger steps right in front of me and says, "So, was he a good fuck? The guy who owned the Low Rider? I imagine that guys who own motorcycles are good fucks. How did yours rate? I've always wanted to own a Harley. You know, you have amazing eyes."

I turn to give my friends the, "Can-you-believe-this-freak?" look and they DESERT ME! Holy Crap. No they did not just leave me wallowing in Freakville, population 1. They are  now and forever more crossed off the “wingman” list!

This man just keeps talking to me as I stare at him like an alien with two heads. Told me how he wants to start traveling once he dumps his inconvenient wife and then tells me how hot he thinks it is that I'm a belly dancer. OK. Who the Hell told him that? Someone I know needs a-killin'.

I’d seen this man earlier around the fire, but he seemed relatively innocuous. My friends and I had been playing some Middle Eastern drums and he’d come over to join us with his little egg-shaped shaker. He was running around us shaking the thing like the person that you give the maraca to because they have no rhythm. He seemed a little hippy, dippy, trippy but otherwise harmless.

“Maybe we could go out sometime once I get rid of that bitch I’m married to,” he says to me. What? Is he STILL speaking to me? I zoned out for a minute there.

“You know, it’s kismet that I got to jam with you tonight. My egg has been missing for several years now but today, I just open the drawer and find it in like five minutes. It was obviously meant to be,” he says and winks at me. I hope that he is not making a pathetic allusion to the imaginary future “us” there, because I may have to join a cloistered nunnery if this is what my dating options have come to.

“You’re drumming was pretty good, by the way. I mean, I’ve played with better, but it wasn’t a complete abortion. You guys weren’t half bad,” he said.

Yeah, right. I’m playing a Turkish 10 and you’re running around me shaking an egg and we’re not “half bad”? Flattery like that will get you ... nowhere .... This exchange seems to be going on forever, yet I am still standing there basically mute. I don’t even know how to respond to the freak show going on in front of me. I feel like an observer at the zoo. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, watch as the hyena moves in on his prey.”

I was just beginning to think that he was the person that needed a-killin’ when my friend's daughter walked over to tell me about her birthday cake that they'd be cutting soon. With very little encouragement from me, we went to look at the cake and changed the cutting time to "now".

“Well, it was nice talking to you*, but I need to go see about a cake. If you’ll please excuse me.” With that said, I left my Find-A-Freak behind at the fire. So much for that "future ex-husband" material.

(*No. It was not a pleasure talking to him. But I just can’t seem to drop the social pleasantries even in these situations. Maybe I need Dr. Phil to help me. Perhaps he’ll tell me that I need attention from men positive or negative and that’s why I keep talking to these people, even when the conversation has turned inappropriate. Personally, I think it’s because I love a good story. When I am having these horrid conversations with the Freak du Jour, I keep thinking, “Man, this is going to make a great story for my friends!” And, truly, they do appreciate my stories. I call it free marriage counseling. After I tell them about my latest dating fiasco, they look at the partner they were just irritated with five minutes ago for not putting a dish in the dishwasher and say, “I love you, honey. I’m so glad that I don’t have to date anymore.”)