Category: Dating Stories

September 25, 2012

Let’s Go, Yankeeeeeeeesssssss!

Mark contacted me with a charming message—well written, interesting and it was obvious he’d read my entire profile. He was also very handsome.

His profile was great—except for two things. He was separated, not divorced and he lived in Connecticut. Two of my deal breakers when I first started this quest, but a situation I’m now willing (albeit, grudgingly) to set aside.

After a couple of email exchanges and several phone calls he asked if I would like to go to dinner or see a Yankees game. Easy choice.

Have I told you I’m a Yankees fan?

Now, this isn’t the sort of blind love of sports that many people have. Oh, no. I’d rather poke a fork in my eye than watch a football game—either live or on TV. My first marriage can be summed up like this:

We had one day off a week together and he spent it in front of the television watching one game after another, football, basketball, baseball, even golf. The requisite bucket of KFC was the pièce de résistance.

No, my love of the Yankees comes from a very different place. My oldest daughter adores the team–all the players but one in particular, Derek Jeter. She decided that simply being in New York City would be all that was necessary to meet and then marry the perennial bachelor. She’s quite serious and has been since middle school. I’m a believer. She even ran into him one day while walking her dog. Here’s our text conversation of that encounter:

Don’t judge. She’s twenty-seven and I’d never text the F-word if she were, like, twenty-six.

photo-165 — Never use my daughters’ names or current photos but she’s unrecognizable in this one. Seriously, would you want to be my kid?

Listen, I think number two would be lucky to be with my firstborn. Not even sure he’s worthy, but I’m her mom and may be a teensy biased.

OK, back to my date.

Mark and I met on the corner of my street and Broadway and took the subway to Yankee Stadium. He did not disappoint. He was tall, well-built, boyishly good looking AND a sharp dresser. He had on great shoes. I love a man with stylish feet.

“Put that away,” he said, when I pulled out my MetroCard to pay for the train.

photo-166 — Do you think I have a future as a hand model?

When we got to the stadium he suggested we locate our seats first and then get drinks and food. Well, that’s when it got very interesting. We found our aisle but were sent to a VIP booth for an ID check and wristbands.

Hmm, that’s never happened before, I thought as we went down, down, down the steps to our seats.

No way, Jose Canseco! We were seven rows back from the field, first base line, with the dugout twenty yards away, max. Then it got even better. Mark told me our seats came with food and beverages that we could get in a private area, the Legends Suites. Ours was the Ketel One Lounge. This grub wasn’t just your basic hot dogs and burgers—nope. The offerings were upscale and unlimited.

I’m kind of a foodie.

So is Mark, but he was very careful not to eat any carbs and I noticed.

He was also a bit of a feeder, encouraging me to load up.

I asked him if he had a weight problem at any point in his life. He’d stressed that his daily workouts were a requirement. He confirmed that he’d recently lost weight and was working hard to maintain his svelte build.

I’m an eater, or I used to be until this fucked up aging process cramped my style. Now I eat half of what I did and workout twice as hard to maintain a size that is greater than I’ve ever been. The last thing I need is a person vicariously eating all the forbidden foods with MY middle-age metabolism.

With very little encouragement I could eat myself onto The Biggest Loser.

The game was great; Mark was hilarious, smart, and a staunch Democrat with clever political stories. He even got me to do the YMCA. He was also a gentleman and the moment my drink was finished he ordered another. Did I mention we also had concierge service?

I sent my daughter a text and told her about my experience. I also said I would do this with her. Just call me “Ms. Big Time.”

Kevin Costner attended the game and was on the Jumbotron. As the game ended we went back to the lounge for one last drink and there he was. He’s tall and I don’t know why I thought he was short? Later I did a Google search and learned he’s 6’1”. I could’ve walked right up to him; he was with friends but no entourage. If there had been music I might’ve asked him to dance. One of my fantasies since watching him boogie in Bull Durham with Susan Sarandon.

OK, the bathtub scene, too.

Yeah, the toenail polish one, as well.

After the game we headed back to my neighborhood and stopped for a nightcap at Café Luxembourg.

That’s where the conversation took a more serious turn. I did that and it was probably inappropriate for a first date.

Mark said it was like having a drink with Oprah.

Here’s the truth. Mark is the whole package, with one issue. He’s only been separated a few months and he’s at that place. If you’ve gone through a divorce you will recognize this locale. He’s completely screwed up but thinks he’s fine. He doesn’t know what’s ahead. He’s in shock; his life has been turned upside down. He’s just starting and it’s going to be a battle (from the information I was able to glean). His wife is angry, his almost adult children are devastated, and yet he still thinks it will all be OK.

It will all work out eventually, but he’s got a rough and complicated ride ahead. The last thing he needs right now is a new person to add to the mess and frankly, I wouldn’t consider it.

In about a year, Mark is going to be at a very different place. He’ll be beat up by the battle, but ready to move on and create a new life. He’ll be a great partner to some lucky woman. In my humble opinion, of course.

After our date we exchanged a few text messages but they tapered off. I’m not sure if it was my lack of enthusiasm or maybe I just asked too much stuff that was none of my business. Perhaps he’s in the midst of divorce drama—his new normal for the time. Maybe when the dust lands he’ll contact me again and I will gladly go out with him. Mark is amazing.

Oh, and those seats that I told my girl we would experience? Yeah, that won’t be happening. I sat at my computer one morning soon after the date, ready to buy. I choked on my coffee when I saw the price–$500.00 each.

“Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.” Crash Davis (Kevin Costner, Bull Durham)

September 17, 2012

Easy Rider-ish

When I was a teenager my father pointedly told me, “You will not date a boy with a motorcycle. Ever.” He was also the guy who made me ride my ten-speed on the sidewalk (I was officially a dork) and instructed me to always RUN when I crossed the street even if I had the Walk sign.

My safety was paramount.

On a side note: there was an add-on to the Guys You Can’t Date list which happened when my dad was driving and we pulled up to a red light. The bumper sticker on the vehicle in front of us said:

A boyfriend with a van was out of the question.

I actually feared motorcycles well into my adult life. I wouldn’t dream of riding on the back of a bike until something happened. I wrote about it in my post, The Bad Boy Experience, and once I felt the freedom of riding in the wind, I was hooked.

Many years after my first bike experience, I briefly dated a cop. He was a high-ranking guy in Metro, but started as a motorcycle officer.

He was kind. I was a single parent and just about as stressed as anyone could be with an intense job, raising my girls alone, and the dreaded monthly bills that always left me with less than I needed. I didn’t have much time for dating so we talked on the phone many evenings when my teenage daughters had gone to sleep.

On a few occasions (late at night) when I was at the breaking point he’d show up at my house on his Harley and take me for a ride. We’d go from Las Vegas to Boulder City and then he’d bring me home. My brain was finally quieted and I slept soundly on those nights.

Two months ago, my doorman, Frank, took me for a ride on his Harley after he’d finished his shift.

I was struggling with something I was writing; my brain on overload and I asked if he wouldn’t mind helping me out. We rode along West Side Highway, the Hudson River in our sights, and when he brought me back to the building I was able to finish the piece I was working on. He told me his beautiful wife loved to ride on the bike with him and he was one lucky guy.

I don’t want my own motorcycle. They still seem a little scary.

BUT, I’m now considering another option.

MN has a Vespa. Yep, told ya he was fun.

Click here if you don’t know about MN (Mr. Normal).

We’ve been on two more dates and at my request, he’s picked me up. We’ve ridden around the city, scooting in and out of traffic with ease. One evening he took me for a ride on his side of the Hudson and the view of the city was spectacular.

I’d also like to mention something I learned:

A Vespa is cool.

When stopped at traffic lights in Hoboken we were told, “Great Vespa!” and “I want one of those,” by two different carloads of hipsters.

Given the average hipster’s lack of enthusiasm for almost everything it was impressive. Although, now that I’m thinking, it could’ve been sarcasm (dreadful human beings).

Nonetheless, I’m considering getting rid of my car and Vespa-ing up.

I’m still having massive fun with MN, that hasn’t changed. We’ve gotten to know each other better–shared lots of stuff. I’ve talked about what I plan to do once my year of blogging about online dating is over. I’ve been brainstorming about ways to use these experiences to do something bigger.

On our last date he told me, “You’re moving at the speed of light and I’m at the speed of sound. We’re at two different places in our lives and I don’t know if this can work.”

It was disappointing. I didn’t see our different paths as an issue. Sure, he’s twelve years older and retired. But I’m not exactly dewy. I know, I’m just getting started with this encore career and there’s no doubt I’m crazy-driven. With the profession he had, he was once equally focused, except he’s not in the midst of that anymore.

I’m not sure what the outcome will be. Maybe we’ll keep seeing each other and it will play out, as it should or we’ll just be friends. Maybe if I get my own Vespa we can go for rides together once in a while. Who knows? I don’t feel the need to make any big decisions.

Instead I’ll roll with it.

PS-Dad, I know you’re reading this post. Don’t worry.

“You see, I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, actually.” Henry Winkler

September 11, 2012

Date Night at the DNC

As I told you in the previous post, I went to Charlotte to roll around in the festivities at the Democratic National Convention. I was not a delegate so I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who made it into the arena.

Security was tight. No sneaking in for me.

BUT, the feeling on the streets was palpable. This was a gathering of like-minded people from all across the country. It was the place to get the party started.

MSNBC set up a broadcast stage in the courtyard of an outdoor mall near the convention. I saw all my favorites, but my number one guy, Chris Matthews, was the most frequent face.

photo-157 — Think I might’ve eaten one too many Bojangles’ biscuits on the trip.

The political contributors to the shows were there as well. I managed to get a photo with two of my favs—former Governor Ed Rendell and Rep Elijah Cummings.

photo-153 — My eloquent daughter calls this my Face Boner Smile.

photo-154 — Pardon the hair. The humidity was ungodly.

I was amazed at the vast number of men in attendance. The streets were full. Too many handsome faces to count. Lots of ill fitting suits, though. I thought, they’re Democrats—not much extra cash for Ermenegildo Zegna for the 99%.

I met lots of new friends and I was happy to see an old face from my past. I thought he might attend. A guy I was kind of mad at long ago. My reasons are irrelevant, but it was great to see him and I looked forward to catching up. We made a date for Wednesday night.

When I showed up at the Westin Lobby Lounge it was extremely crowded with convention attendees. I guess the fire marshall had turned away many from the evening activities inside the convention when it became a safety issue. They didn’t seem angry, as I might’ve been, just excited to watch what was going on inside the arena on the multiple flat screen televisions throughout the lounge. Since I arrived before my date I immediately searched for an open table, luckily found one, settled in and waited for him.

I saw him immediately when he arrived. He was a formidable figure in his impeccably tailored black suit and burgundy and black striped tie and all eyes were on him as he walked my way. He always had a great smile and I found myself smiling, too, as I saw that familiar boyish grin.

He knew how to tell a story and started in immediately. I was glad I’d ordered a cocktail and salad because he could do some serious talking so I ate while he caught me up on his life.

He’d been the ultimate Mr. Big Time in his career–the CEO of a major corporation. He was successful at his job and since retirement he had the luxury of being able to focus on philanthropic endeavors. I think he missed many parts of his former career, but was also feeling proud of his do-gooder stuff.

He mentioned how hard his former company had been hit by the brutal economic disaster our country had faced. He said he didn’t think he could’ve done a better job of navigating his corporation through those rough waters than the new CEO. Given his personality and, well, ego, I think there was a small part of him that would’ve liked to try.

I was curious about his take on what companies like his were doing to survive. It all seemed so complicated. He broke it all down for me, step by step. Business has never been an area of strength for me but when he was finished I finally understood clearly the true impact of what had happened.

I remembered he had nice hands and noticed them frequently as he talked and gestured. I also forgot just how funny he was. He had me laughing too many times to count.

I could tell he liked making me laugh.

My anger dissipated. I’d missed him. That’s how life is I guess. We hold on to stupid stuff like anger or disappointment longer than we need to. He’s human, flawed in ways that my younger self just couldn’t accept.

I’m not so judgmental these days.

When our date ended he thanked me for listening and walked away with that same smile he came in with. I hoped to see him again soon. He taught me much that night and I was grateful for the experience. He said one thing that I’ll never forget. It’s not heard very often these days and even if someone else says it I’ll now always think of him. Such a simple thing, basic really, but it summed up everything he had shared.

One word.

Arithmetic.

“It was a highly inconvenient thing for them in our debates that I was just a country boy from Arkansas and I came from a place where people still thought two and two is four.” Bill Clinton, DNC Speech 2012

August 27, 2012

I’m An Asshole

I believe in calling it as I see it and there’s no doubt I deserve this one.

After several conversations, I agreed to meet William for our first date. I have recently been exploring the option of dating men outside of Manhattan. I’ve not changed my online profile so the “Manhattan only, please” is still in place but if a guy reaches out from distant lands like Hoboken, Long Island or even Poughkeepsie, I’m willing to consider a passport stamp.

William is from Long Island.

I noticed the longer we talked the more frequently he referred to himself as “Billy,” he also began signing his email messages with the nickname.

I struggle to grasp why any person past the age of seventeen would continue to use the child’s version of their given name. That applies to either gender: Susan or Sue, fifty years old and still going by Suzy or the godawful Suzy-Q?

Grow up, already.

William let me know he had a successful business—many times. I shared that although I thought success was a nice thing, I wanted to know more about him from a personal perspective. When he asked me out he said, “Oh, and I’ll come your way.” Now, I know that seems like a simple statement but it didn’t sit well with me. It implied that he was doing me a favor. I wanted to say, “No shit, you’ll come my way. I don’t want to commute to date.” I held my tongue and chastised myself for being bitchy. During our conversation we talked about why certain people were online. William shared that he had been on several dates since joining the site three weeks ago. He said the common theme he’d heard from his dates was that the guys were idiots. I agreed and told him I’d had my share of those. I then told him of something my friend Chloe told me. She said a male friend of hers felt that the majority of men online “have no game.” If they did they’d be able to get a date. His theory was that with the amount of available women outnumbering men (in the tri-state area), if a guy is online he couldn’t cut it in the real world. I’ve often thought the same thing. William said with the information he’d gotten from other women, he agreed.

So when Billy suggested we go on a city bus tour—you know, those double-decker, bright red machines, I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. But with my new outlook I decided to roll with it.

Then he suggested we meet at 10 am so we could make it a daylong date since he was coming all that way into the city and he also said the it would be “his treat.”

Another No Shit Moment.

I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do is be stuck anywhere with someone I’m not enjoying–a first date is always a crapshoot. The 10 am start time only made it worse.

Have I told you I’m not a morning person? I’m always up early but try to avoid talking until noon.

On the day before our date I got the following message from Billy:

I got game and I’m bringing it!

See attached.

Billy

Here’s the attachment:

Now here’s where I go to Assholeville. I sent the following message to my older daughter:

Here’s my date for tomorrow. First, the name, Billy. He started out as William. Second, he’s taking me on a NYC bus tour that starts at 10 am. Next, he told me, “It’s my treat” like I didn’t know he’d be paying. AND then lastly, the latest message below. Can I cancel now?

I hit send, felt a little better after my mini-rant and knew my girl would feel my pain.

Thirty minutes later I’d heard nothing from my daughter but I did have another message from Billy.

God, please don’t let it be another cyber flower, I thought, as I opened it.

Nope, here’s what it said:

My date, we shall call her Melanie or more recently Pompous.

Firstly, the name either Billy or William. My dear friends call me Billy and that’s what I thought we were becoming – was I so very wrong:

Second, I floated several ideas and she was supposed to proffer several as well, but never did. Something about “packing hell”.

In this day of equality and clarity a mention of “my treat” is erroneously considered to be some type of social fau paux.

Third, she mentioned time and again how men on the web have no GAME. Seems she forgot to mention that she has no sense of humor.

And then LASTLY, a romantic gesture of a digital rose between online professionals is ridiculed.

She is of course free to exercise her lady’s prerogative and coldly cancel via Email.

Melanie, I do so love the banter and my compliments on your having played “the game” and naive me so very well.

Billy

SHIT!!

Guess who mistakenly replied instead of forwarding?

Just call me Ms. Tech-Savvy.

He was right. He did ask for my ideas and I was in packing hell with my youngest daughter. She just moved to Vermont with her girlfriend. I certainly could’ve suggested something else, but I didn’t.

I considered deleting the message but instead I had to own it. I sent Billy a message apologizing in as many ways possible in one paragraph. I explained that wasn’t my way of canceling the date, rather I had accidentally sent him the message intended for my daughter (I’m certain that revelation made it so much better), I wrote that I had no justification for my awful behavior and I told him that I’m an asshole.

He called immediately.

NO!!!

I didn’t want to answer, but then I would have to add coward to my list of despicable personality traits.

I answered with another apology and explained that although I did feel those things, I would’ve told him much more delicately if we continued to see each other.

He asked if I still wanted to go on the date.

Who was this guy, Ghandi?

I would’ve given him the boot. He actually stated that he was impressed with my ballsy message.

I was duly shamed.

So, the next morning, bright and early I met Billy at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum on 42^nd Street where the tour began. We climbed aboard the bus and headed out. Strange as it may sound, I actually enjoyed the tour. Here’s what I learned:

The Paris, a tavern in the Downtown district is said to be the place Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid planned their Bolivian escape.

The Fraunces Tavern, the place where General George Washington said goodbye to his officers at the end of the American Revolution and returned to his Mount Vernon home.

SoHo has the most cast-iron buildings in the world. If I’m completely honest, I never knew it had any.

When the tour ended we backtracked to the best pizza in NYC (according to our guide), John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street in the West Village.

We chatted over our food and Billy told me he doesn’t think he’ll be on the site much longer since he’s narrowed it down to two women.

I wasn’t one of them.

“Why am I here?” I asked, trying not to sound snotty since I’d already demonstrated proficiency in that area.

“Because I wanted to fulfill my obligation.”

The minute I hit “Send” and that doozy of a message went to Billy’s Inbox, his virtuous card should’ve expired. Depak Chopra would’ve called me a bitch.

“Out of all the women I’ve dated you look the most like your photos,” Billy said, so at least it wasn’t false advertising.

I offered to pay my share of the bill. He declined, I paid the tip then thanked Billy and wished him well.

During the cab ride home I decided my atonement would be two things: I would watch The Real Housewives episodes with a critical eye. With every catty, nasty, rotten thing they said or did I would tell myself, “See, that’s you.”

I also knew I must share my shame on the blog. Perhaps I should reconsider my lack of religion. Confessing to a priest would be far less humiliating.

“He took you on a bus tour? What’d he come in from Ohio?” My friend “Chloe”

August 13, 2012

Please Sit Down

Please sit down.

Just do it. I have news.

Find a chair or if you’re reading this on your phone, at least lean against a wall.

Quit thinking:

She’s SO dramatic!

Are you sitting down?

You’ll thank me.

Here it comes.

I had a normal date with a normal guy!

Read it again.

It’s true. I met a normal guy online. Nothing weird or off or creepy. We had a great time on Sunday afternoon. He was funny, charming, and self effacing.

He had impeccable manners.

AND just the right amount of swagger.

This blog didn’t freak him out.

I might’ve felt butterflies.

After eight months without even a moth it was quite nice.

We’re going out again.

Go ahead, give me a Woooo hooooooooo!!!

“Odds on meeting a single man 1 in 23; a cute, single man: 1 in 429; a cute, single, smart man: 1 in 3,245,873; when you look your best: 1 in a billion.” Lorna Adler

July 23, 2012

The BEST Pick Up Line Ever

While on vacation, my friend Lisa and I decided to dip our toes into the Virginia singles scene (when in Rome, and all that). We were both struggling to meet a dateable guy in the cities we resided–Lisa, in Las Vegas, and me in NYC.

I’m all about the possibilities from random bar meetings in strange cities.

We got gussied up and headed out—beachy was our dress code.

After a detailed Internet search we decided on Catch 31 at the Virginia Beach Hilton.

We know how to have fun.

We’ve been practicing for years.

Lisa and I have known each other since high school. She’s a year younger. We went to the same university. We were around for marriages, the birth of our children, divorces, remarriages and all the other stuff that comes in between those milestones.

Lisa was the person who gave me the most support while I grieved Neal’s death. We became travel buddies over the last five years. I found if I could leave the familiar it gave me a temporary reprieve from the pain. I also found that laughter came easier when Lisa and I got together.

We went to New Orleans for Mardi gras—and collected our beads (don’t you dare ask).

We traveled to Miami to see The Police reunion—sang and danced our way through the concert (and then got lost in the stadium parking lot, but that’s another story).

We met up in France and I drove through the French countryside as her co-pilot—her kids in the backseat.

“Bonjour, blanc boeuf!” we yelled out the window, as we cruised past the herds of white cows that dotted green pastures. It was a guaranteed eye roll from her offspring, which only made us say it more often and laugh harder each time.

We’ve both decided our kids don’t know how to have fun. Let’s just say that Lisa and I know how to get a party started.

“Let the screaming begin,” says my oldest when I tell her Lisa is coming to visit.

So we headed to Catch 31 knowing that even if the men were scarce a party would be had.

Things move a little slower in Virginia so once we found a seat at the bar it took us a while to get our drink from the bartender. We had an opportunity to study the room and the universal things one will find in just about any bar. Our personal favorite is always—the young, hot, very blonde and scantily dressed Eastern European woman. I’m always surprised the middle-aged men don’t throw out their neck with the speed they whip it to follow her around the room.

After our first drink, we wanted to move outside to the patio area but seating was limited. Lisa stayed inside and I waited on a bench just beyond the patio area to grab the next available table.

“Are you waiting for me?”

I jumped as a man sat down way too close and asked.

“Um, no,” I said, and scooted a little further away. “Who are you looking for?”

“Veronica. It’s a blind date. I was hoping it was you.”

“Not me. Is this an online date?”

“Yeah, and she’s a brunette but I hoped she’d changed her hair color. I’m Ted, by the way. Can I buy you a drink?”

Quite smooth, and yes he could.

Ted was a nice looking man, mid to late fifties. I attributed his proximity to a Southern Thing–lots of close talking going on in the South. I explained that I was there with a friend and she was waiting inside. I quickly scanned the patio for available tables (none) and then invited Ted to join us inside. Lisa wasn’t a bit surprised when I brought him along and Ted immediately got the bartender’s attention and bought us a drink.

There was something quite charming about the confidence he had and the three of us chatted comfortably. Ted finally confessed that it wasn’t an Internet date—he knew I wasn’t Veronica—but it seemed like a good opening line.

It wasn’t good—it was GREAT. Probably the best pick up line I’ve ever heard. Lisa agreed.

Finally a table opened up on the patio and we moved outside. Ted told us about his dating life.

Online sites were cruel in VA, too.

Ted waxed poetic when I told him that I didn’t want to date a seventy-year-old.

“I don’t think there are any rules about dating. You might meet a seventy-year-old you’re attracted to, maybe a twenty-year-old. Number one thing is the initial physical attraction.”

I highly doubt I’d be attracted to a guy that age, but Ted had me thinking.

Then Ted began to talk about his failed marriage. The usual stuff—married too young, the passion was gone, yadda, yadda…until…he went to a place where no man who’d like to keep his testicles goes.

He said something that made me suck in my breath.

Probably a fairly innocuous statement to most, but I knew differently.

“I sat my wife down one night and just told her that I’m fifty-four years old and I deserve to be happy.”

I quickly looked at my friend. Her fists were clenched. You see, that sentence was exactly what Lisa’s former husband said to her. Word-for-word.

And actually, her ex was never big on happiness—woebegone was more like it and the last time I was around him it still seemed to be true. Wonder what he’s waiting for? I didn’t know what Lisa was going to do with those fists so I quickly changed the subject.

I asked Ted what he did for a living.

A timeshare salesman, he told us—and a good one because within five minutes of describing the benefits of vacation ownership, Lisa was seriously considering it. I was happy to wrap up the evening on a positive note and was actually beginning to look forward to tagging along to Cancun or Greece when she bought her place.

We thanked Ted; I gave him my card and told him I’d be blogging about the evening.

On the way back to the house we passed a 7-11. You don’t see many of those in the Big Apple, but there’s nothing like a Slurpee on a hot Las Vegas day. It was like our cities collided. Cops on horses in front of a 7-11. Who knew there were mounted police in Virginia? I had to pull over and take their photo.

A couple of days later, Ted sent an email message. He asked if could take us to dinner or simply buy us another drink but Lisa was only staying a day or two more and lots of other houseguests were arriving.

Ted also said he’d love to be the one to introduce us to vacation ownership. Now that one hurt. I think if we’d had more time, Ted could’ve sold Lisa on two weeks a year at thousands of locations worldwide. Damn it, I would’ve probably been invited, but I’ll just have to be satisfied with Ted’s gift of the all-time best pick up line—and one I’m going to use the next time I see a handsome man sitting alone.

“Are you waiting for me?”

Big, Big, Big, thanks to everyone who added their email address for Special Delivery of the blog to their Inbox. It was such a nice feeling to return from vacation and see all of you signed up. I have to think of something special to do. Perhaps all the outtakes of photos from blog posts. Some are quite fetching!

“You don’t need a pickup line. Just glance at a woman from across the room. Glance– don’t stare.” Jenny McCarthy

June 14, 2012

Urban Legend: Married After Meeting Online

“My sister works with a woman whose cousin’s best friend’s uncle’s son’s former college roommate was online dating for two years and had so many awful experiences he was just about to give up. The day before his subscription expired he contacted a woman who was new to the site. They went on one date and just knew. They were married six months later and are in a perpetual state of bliss.”

How many times have you heard some version of that statement?

I know, everyone “knows” someone but do they really know them, know them? Have they met, witnessed the match firsthand? I’ve asked the storytellers and it’s always some form of, “Well, not exactly.”

I had begun to think this was folklore. Urban legend. A story that kind-hearted people created to give their seriously desperate single friends the wherewithal to push through the pain and continue on another day in the wilds of online dating.

I knew no one who met and married after meeting online. Seemed to me it was about as likely as stumbling upon Bigfoot while hiking through the Redwoods. Not that I’d ever consider hiking—a ludicrous undertaking. “Let’s just roam around, get eaten alive by mosquitos, sweat profusely and then turn around and go back.” I ask you, what is the purpose?

Alright, I’ll get back to the story.

I’m currently visiting my hometown.

It’s sometimes hard–memories are everywhere. I do enjoy seeing old pals and family and had an opportunity to meet up with my dear friend from college.

Jeanne had some big news to share.

A little history.

Jeanne and I met during our freshman year. She was a friend of two girls who were my suitemates. I couldn’t stand her on sight. Blonde, beautiful and drove a Camero Z28 with the vanity plate, ClassZ (yep, that’s what it said).

She roared up to the dorms and started unloading her stuff. It was packed in Gucci luggage. She even had a trunk. No lie.

Well, well, what have we here? It seems Princess has arrived.

My ride was a little different.

My luggage, as well.

We both liked the same guy, a pre-med student named Bill. Back off, Blondie (um, I was a brunette in those days). After despising her for a month we ended up alone in the suite after drinking too much at a football game. We finally got to know each other. By the end of a couple hours of nonstop laughter I told her, “I’d rather be your friend than Bill’s girlfriend.” She agreed and we both quit pining for him.

Score one for girlpower!

We were best friends–pledged the same ridiculous sorority, broke all kinds of rules, sang The Cars, “My Best Friend’s Girl” at the top of our lungs while spying on our future husbands during practice. We both married football players.

I am her sons’ godmother and she is my daughters’. We both divorced the jocks and when I met Neal she was one of his biggest fans. I wanted her to find love as I had and she tried for years with no luck, but intrepidly kept looking. I admired her determination.

photo-47 — (Photo: her son’s baptism. Three questions: Am I pissed? Why am I holding the baby like a sack of potatoes? What was I thinking with that dress? Maybe that’s why I’m mad.)

So, we met the other night to catch up and guess what?

She met Him.

We had some sangria and tapas at Firefly and then her perfect man, Tom, joined us.

Here are some highlights from our conversation:

I was on three different sites for more than two years and dated lots of women. None of them felt right—like I was home. There was always a missing ingredient and then I met Jeanne.

I searched and searched to find the one that had all the characteristics I was looking for. When I found Tom, he said, “Everything you’re looking for is standing right in front of you so what are you going to do now?”

She walked in the door on our first date and I knew. This was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I was just so sure.

After we introduced ourselves he left to let the hostess know we were ready to be seated and as I watched him walk away, I said aloud, “This is a keeper.”

After several dates I told her, “I don’t want to waste any more time looking for other women. I wanted her to know that my words matched my actions. I said I wanted a committed relationship and I did. I know most guys say that but I don’t think they’re serious. I was.

He tells me I’m beautiful and sexy every day. Whether I’m dressed up or meeting him after spending two hours riding my horse. I spent a lot of time kissing frogs to find him but it was worth it.

I’m glad those other guys couldn’t see what they had because I wouldn’t have her now if they did.

I loved listening.

They are in the process of planning a wedding because, well, at our age it’s time to get on with it.

They are considering renting a villa on a working winery in Tuscany–perhaps by fall. I hope to be there.

All weddings are lovely but there’s something tender–a bit magical–about the union of two people of a certain age who’ve been battered around by love. Who kept plugging away when the odds were not in their favor. Perhaps that’s the lesson one might take away from their story. Some may call it a silly romantic notion, but maybe when you don’t quit looking for that elusive epic love, it eventually finds you. They’ve certainly given me hope.

So, this urban legend is true. I know someone who met and will marry because of online dating.

I guess I’ll have to rethink my position on Sasquatch.

And the Loch Ness Monster.

Even the Chupacabra.

Just don’t get me started on rats in the toilets. Some urban legends are too freakish to entertain.

Congratulations, Jeanne and Tom. You’ve earned the love you never gave up hoping for.

“Here she comes again when she’s dancing ‘neath the starry skies.” The Cars, “My Best Friend’s Girl”

May 28, 2012

Update: Cheap or Evolved?

I spend a large amount of time writing both the blog and other articles. I think most people assume bloggers sit down for thirty minutes and bang out the latest post. I guess it’s possible, but not for me. For example, “A Love Story,” one of the more detailed entries, took me eight hours to write, two additional hours of editing, another hour of tweaking, and then an hour to get it on the blog and insert the links and photos.

AND I still found typos or things that could’ve been better worded. I’m always editing—even after it’s published.

Twelve hours of work for one entry and that’s not unusual—especially for the stories that have tons of necessary details. Daniel (“Cheap or Evolved?“) understood this. We had another discussion on our date last Thursday–a free event. I told him for the umpteenth time that when I am writing I do not break for texting or phone calls.

The reason we were on a date at all was that I still wasn’t absolutely convinced that he was cheap–that is until we took a taxi home. Daniel suggested we share. He said he wanted to visit a friend who lived in my neighborhood. One block before my apartment, Daniel hopped out at a red light and didn’t offer any of the fare.

It was a strategic miserly move.

I don’t believe for one minute that he planned to visit a friend. What I think he did was catch the crosstown bus that he told me he used frequently. The cab fare from where we were (Gramercy) to his apartment on the Upper East Side would have been at least $20 plus tip. He figured he’d tag along on my dime and use his Metro card for a $2.25 bus ride.

A day after our date Daniel called and left a message asking that I call him back. I was writing but planned to return his call once I was finished. I wanted to let him know that we would not be seeing each other again. When Daniel called a second time within a few hours I was very aggravated but took his call. I was curt and told him that I was in the midst of writing, planned to call him back and that he shouldn’t have called a second time. I ended the call abruptly.

Honestly, how many times did he have to be told the same thing?

The next day I sent an email message apologizing for my phone behavior. I also let Daniel know that although I thought he was a nice man, we were not a good match. I explained that he wanted more than I was willing or able to give—that my writing was a priority especially after spending five years focused on writing the memoir and ways to get it published. I said that I thought it was less about me, more about his ego (he’d mentioned ad nauseam the strong Leo influence on his male pride). I wished him the best and thanked him for some nice times.

Daniel responded immediately and I could tell he was roaring.

Here are the parts that I found exceptionally annoying:

Most of my friends are writers, editors, directors, agents and dramaturgy. I’ve been here 30 years. I majored in theater and I use to teach the creative process for the [redacted] theater. You’re not teaching me anything new about writing or writers. You’re the one who’s new. Writer’s write but they must also live.”

By the way, when he taught “the creative process” he was a volunteer.

Here’s another:

Most of the women on [redacted dating site] are published writers. Books, magazines, etc. i’ve dated plenty. Carrying it to the extreme does not make you better or get you a sell. I tried to help and point you in the right direction. You seem unwilling to understand that.”

Most of the women on the dating site are published writers? Who knew the only chicks in NYC that don’t have a man are writers?

He’s going to help get me get a “sell” yet Daniel never sold anything that he’d written. His advice was that I have some fun and quit taking it so seriously. Of course, he wanted the fun to be with him.

And more:

As a Leo I know the deal. So cut the attitude. Careful, you’re on the verge of pretense. This is New York baby. We’ve seen it all before. Please take that in spirit offered. All I wanted from you was fun. Can you be fun? Just fun. I wonder. Maybe I’m not the man for you. Someone with talent and background. Maybe your ego needs to be top dog. Younger guys are good for that. No competition. My ego is in check. Been here too long. Watch for my solo shows.”

What do you think the odds are that Daniel will ever have those solo shows?

Here’s my response:

You’re the one who should be careful about pretense. Writers don’t live when they’re in the midst of writing. Come on, Daniel, even someone who is much less New York-ified than you knows that. Hell, I think maybe even a guy from Iowa could share that info. New doesn’t make me ignorant. It made me smile that you felt the need to share your credentials–there’s your ego again. New also doesn’t make me incapable of telling good writing from, well, average at best–remember that the next time you send your work to someone you’re trying to impress. Now there’s MY ego that I’d hoped to keep in check.

Daniel had sent me some things he’d written and I was glad to know that when he retired he had a full pension.

He sent two more messages that I ignored but here was his final zinger:

How many of my friends and girlfriends have written books, articles and essays on sex? If only I had a nickle for each one.

Note to the disgruntled: When you’re delivering the coup de grâce, use spellcheck.

Instead of hurling myself out of my apartment window, all I could think about was the irony of the misspelled coin. Especially since I’m sure he has the first one of those he ever made.

Daniel spent a good portion of our time together attempting to prove how important and connected he was. He loved to drop the names of famous actors and call them his friends. The free event we went to on our last date was a book party for another of Daniel’s “friends.” It was very clear that although the author knew him by name he was only an acquaintance. They were in an acting class together.

He also told me that he was a friend of many literary agents and he figured some of them would be at the event. He said he’d be happy to introduce me if they were there.

Surprise, surprise, they weren’t but I didn’t expect them to be.

He talked constantly about his solo shows and how he’d missed this deadline or that opportunity to enter a competition. “Next year I’ll be ready,” he loved to say.

He never bothered to read the blog or anything else I’d written, yet he told me regularly through text and voicemail messages, “I can’t quit thinking about you.” When I told him about losing Kate he couldn’t even feign interest and I gave him the two-minute version of the story. After he sent me things that he’d written he asked repeatedly if I’d read them. I always said that I had and thanked him for sending me his work. I could tell that he wanted me to praise his writing. I just couldn’t do that.

He often said, “I admired your drive and work ethic,” but would complain when I told him I was working and couldn’t go out or take his calls. He said I needed to balance work and fun. I explained that I loved to write so it was fun and that I was sure the next man in my life would understand my commitment. He didn’t like that.

The facts are clear. I questioned his motives on the first date. I had a bad feeling when he got up and went to the bathroom after asking for the check. I questioned his character when he put up no protest when I paid for our second date. I thought it was inconsiderate that he did not stand in line for my drink at the movies. I found it distasteful that he would mention the cost of the movie ticket especially after we had the talk about money. I had all the signs I needed from that first date and yet I continued to see him. What was I thinking?

I screwed up by second guessing my gut. I will never make that sort of mistake again.

“People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.”  Harlan Ellison

May 21, 2012

Heeeere’s Lucy

This is not about a date with someone I met online. I know. I said I wouldn’t write about the “men in the real world” but I think you’ll understand why this one had to be shared.

I met Terrence while wandering around Barnes and Noble on 82^nd and Broadway. If I have any free time I do that sort of thing. The Strand near Union Square is my favorite NYC bookstore, but on that day time was limited so I stayed in my ‘hood.

Terrence approached the New Nonfiction table where I stood. Tall (over 6’), handsome, and an ageless face. He could’ve been forty or sixty for all I knew. We began talking about the recent works of nonfiction that we’d read. I told him I had just finished the Steve Jobs biography. He had read it too. He was an interesting guy—talked quite a bit—and we chatted for about fifteen minutes. By the end of the conversation, Terrence asked if I’d join him for lunch the following day. I told him I would and we exchanged phone numbers.

Terrence chose Landmarc, a restaurant in Time Warner Center. I’d heard good things and was looking forward to the experience.

I got dressed in my cropped Gap “Sexy Boyfriend” jeans (cause that’s what I want), a Yummie Tummie shape wear tank and a BCBG MaxAzria jacket that I saw in the store window during my wine bar trek with Chloe and had to have. All I needed were shoes.

Hmmm, practical flats or sexy heels?

Short and stubby versus long and lean?

Vanity thy name is Heels.

Occasionally I’m, um, clumsy.

During my final date with Bernhard I twice dropped a fork and broke a champagne glass that I discreetly pushed under the table with my foot. The server was already annoyed with the replacement utensils she’d delivered.

Jeez, do you think that’s why he never asked me out again?

During my first date with Scott I set the menu on fire (yeah, you read that right). I was attempting to use a candle to read the very small print. Where’s the handy waiter flashlight when you need it? I also dropped a fork, but who’s counting.

I met Terrence outside the restaurant and we walked inside. The place was packed—it was lunchtime after all and I was happy to know we had a reservation and could immediately be seated.

Here’s what it looked like:

Terrence followed the hostess as she briskly walked to our table and I struggled to keep up.

I’ve been told that I glide into a room—my head high, shoulders back like I own the place and that statement is sometimes followed with, “then you eat shit better than anyone.”

Eat shit.

OK, it has happened a time or two.

All it takes is a little water or an errant lime wedge on the floor and it’s Show Time!

Like a perfectly choreographed three-step dance number, I became the lunchtime entertainment.

Cue the music.

Fosse couldn’t have done better.

Step 1—The Rockette (please note the requisite Jazz Hands) and imagine the loud “WHOA!!!”

Step 2–a backward slam to The Dead Cockroach (not for the neophyte hoofer) with the always appropriate, “SHIT!!!”

And, because I breakdance, I flipped into the Pièce de résistance, the big finish: The Cousin It.

I paused for a moment, took a deep breath and tossed my hair back. The once noisy place was silent and here’s what I saw:

Also this:

photo-24 — Laughing at me courtesy of Mark and Karen

Now, I know what you’re thinking. I got up, walked to the table, laughed it off and had a great meal, right?

NOT A CHANCE IN HELL.

I did my best to stand with as much grace possible, turned and used the same stride I entered with to propel myself out of there. Once outside I limped towards the escalator (my fucking hip was throbbing) and knew I was headed home where an icepack was waiting. Terrence, be damned!

Actually I’d forgotten about him until I heard my name being called behind me.

“Melani, are you OK?” He said while trying not to laugh. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine. I’ve gotta get out of here. I’m humiliated, I can’t go back in that place.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Jesus Christ, Terrence, did you just see that? Of course I’m fucking serious.”

“OK, OK, no problem, come with me, I have another place we can go.”

We walked outside the Time Warner building and down the street to another restaurant (no clue of the name) and were seated immediately. Terrence laughed about the incident and I joined in. What else was there to do? It was quickly forgotten and he began what I thought was going to be a shared “getting to know each other” conversation.

It was a monologue.

He talked about his childhood in Baltimore and I nodded.

He went into his first marriage and the birth of his now grown son. I nodded some more.

He described his second marriage and why it broke up. I wondered if he realized his food was getting cold but my head bobbed up and down and I made the noises one does to show interest.

Terrence talked and talked and I kept pretending to care while my mind drifted to how much my ass was hurting and that I was going to spring for a taxi back to my apartment. The subway or walking was OUT.

Finally, the date ended. Terrence went in for a kiss and I shoved my hand towards him and said thank you for lunch. He said he’d call and the next day he did.

Here’s how the conversation went:

“I had a great time at lunch, really enjoyed your company,” Terrence said.

“What did you enjoy most about it?”

He better not mention that flippin’ pratfall.

“Just getting to know you. You’re a special woman.”

“What do you think makes me special?”

“Oh, lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Too many to name.”

“Name one.”

He laughed nervously.

“Terrence, what’s my last name?”

“Um…”

“How about where I grew up?”

“Or how many children I have?”

“The color of my eyes? Do you know that?”

“Um, you want me to tell you the color of your eyes?”

Well played, Terrence. The trick of repeating the question when trying to come up with the answer. I do it all the time.

“Yeah, the color of my eyes and if that’s too hard then just tell me if they’re light or dark.”

“Weeeell, hmmm, I think they’re dark, but I could be wrong.”

“You are wrong. Green. My eyes are green. You talked for ninety minutes without asking one thing about me. You didn’t seem to care and yet I know everything about you. Where you grew up, your marriages, your son, your job, where you’ve lived. Everything.”

“Weeellll, I know you have a much younger body than most fifty year olds. How about we get together again and you do all the talking?” He said with a chuckle.

“No thanks, but I wish you the best.”

And I do wish him the best. In spite of the fact that he had absolutely no interest in truly getting to know me, I am grateful that he wanted to see me again after witnessing my Lucy impersonation.

“Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.” Lucille Ball

May 9, 2012

The Benefit of Friends With Benefits

I met Scott a month prior to starting the blog. He had a great profile, was handsome and fit. I knew he was fit because he had body shots of himself at the beach. I was a little surprised at his age. He said he was 50 but appeared to be older—55ish but did have the body of a much younger man.

We met the first time for dinner at The Lion (very cool place in The Village).

He was an extremely fashionable guy—his clothes were sophisticated, yet hip. I loved his style. It was a great date. Scott was funny, interesting, well traveled and had an exciting job in the entertainment industry. After dinner he took me to a bar in his neighborhood. He was greeted like the mayor. After a round of drinks or two he showed me his apartment and rooftop deck. We had a steamy session of kissing and clothed touching. I knew if I didn’t leave I’d be doing the Walk of Shame the next morning. Scott was rather pouty when I told him we wouldn’t be having sex.

We had three additional dates and things, well, progressed. I liked Scott and although it wasn’t the epic love I was seeking (that indefinable chemistry wasn’t there for either of us), it was a good arrangement.

I sleep with one man at a time and (in the past) only in a committed relationship. Patty Stanger used to be proud. I didn’t want to be in an exclusive relationship with Scott. He wasn’t The One, but I did make it clear that I wasn’t sleeping with any other men. Scott understood that I was dating others and I assumed he was as well. He agreed that sex with one person at a time was the way he rolled.

Then the blog was born.

At least the concept was and I knew that I wanted to launch on January 5, 2012. If you don’t know why I chose that specific date then click here.

My daughters and I always were (and in lots of ways still are) a team. Our life was never about waiting for someone to help or hiring it done.

Christmas lights on our house? Sure, grab the ladder.

We’re moving by ourselves? Yep, I borrowed a truck. We can lift that armoire.

You want to be a pitcher? OK, let me put on the catcher’s gear and become a really good target.

Mom, you want me to hang the chandelier? Read the directions. What’s a little electrical work for a smart chick like you? (My youngest is an evil genius with power tools).

You want a wilderness vacation? Shit, but OK. I know how to camp.

So, it seemed logical that the three of us could design a website in two weeks.

How hard could it be?

“Fidel, this is more than we can handle.” My oldest calls me that often with the deepest affection. What mother’s heart wouldn’t swell when being compared to a brutal and ruthless Stalinist dictator?

“Oh bullshit, [snotty daughter’s name]. We can do it.”

During the website creation I was stressed and distracted and saw Scott infrequently but when we got together it was a lovely reprieve from the pressure I was feeling. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the blog concept. It was an “in your face” confirmation that our relationship would not progress beyond what it was. I even showed him the rough drafts of a few posts I’d written in advance of the launch. He said it was way too much information to be sharing with the world.

Scott asked me out for New Year’s Eve. He had tickets to a very swanky event and I was looking forward to it. By December 30^th the blog was still under construction and I was freaked out—the launch date was only symbolic, but critical to me.

I finally agreed with my daughters. We needed help and through some frantic online research I found Jami Howard. It was a miracle that she was able to get it all together, but within a few hours Jami had taken the reins and could meet my January 5^th deadline.

Then a second miracle–the girls called me Mom. The eye rolling and their statements that included words like: psycho, lunatic, and insane had ended.

I realized it had been several days since I’d heard from Scott. With the holidays it seemed like no big deal and I figured he’d contact me with the details of our fancy date. I began to put an outfit together.

By the morning of New Year’s Eve I had still not heard from him. I knew we weren’t going out and I didn’t need to call for confirmation. I spent the evening with Dick Clark, Ryan Seacrest,

and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rose.

I got a text from Scott at 11:45 pm:

Happy New Year!

By then I’d finished the bottle and was doing a brilliant impersonation of Dan Aykroyd’s character (the Santa scene) in Trading Places.

“Ssswwuck you,” I slurred as I stumbled into bed.

It was January 5^th and the blog was up. I got an email message from Scott apologizing for his lack of communication and congratulating me on my new endeavor. I was caught up in the excitement, but told him that his disappearance and lack of communication was rude. He apologized profusely and said it wouldn’t happen again.

We resumed our, um, relationship. I thought it was perfect.

And then it wasn’t.

Scott went into hiding again. He didn’t respond to my text or phone call. This time I was done.

Then a funny thing happened.

I got an email message through the blog from a woman who thought I might’ve dated Scott. I responded to her first and then had the following exchange with my Dance Away Lover:

Hi Scott,

I have no idea why you’ve disappeared again, but the reason isn’t important. If seeing me isn’t something you want to do anymore then a quick email or text would’ve been respectful.

I got an email yesterday from a woman named [redacted]. She wanted to let me know she’s enjoying the blog and heard about it from a guy she met online and is dating. I emailed her back and asked who the man was. Well, you know the rest. I told her you were a great guy and an excellent father–gave you a glowing recommendation. I hope if you decide you don’t want to see her anymore you’ll at least show her a little respect and tell her without just disappearing.

I do think you’re a great guy and it is puzzling as to why you continue to behave this way. No matter how busy your schedule has been with work a simple text is the least you should’ve done.

I hope you find happiness and love.

Best,

Melani

Scott’s response:

You are right and I apologize. Seemed to me the connection wasn’t there and figured you felt it as well. That coupled with a lot going on surrounding work made it a little crazy – but that is no excuse and you are right.

I find it strange [redacted woman’s name] reached out to you. I tell EVERYONE about the blog because i think it is great. I met her 1 time last week in NYC for drinks, that is it so dating might be a little strong but whatever.

Anyway, I do apologize and will consider this in the future.

My response:

I did feel the lack of a connection. I enjoyed your company–the sex was great–and I thought it would naturally transition into friendship when one of us met the right person. You’re a grown up guy, Scott, and ignoring my text this week as well as the phone call was a frat boy move and beneath you.

I’m annoyed now, but in a few weeks I’d like to be friends.

Done. No big deal and I hoped we could be friends.

Three months into the blog I got another email message, this time from Chloe, a woman who’d dated Scott briefly and he disappeared. She’d begun following the blog on Scott’s recommendation and was enjoying it immensely. We exchanged a few messages and found we had lots in common. We decided to meet for brunch to commiserate over our online dating experiences and I liked her immediately–I don’t like easily.

She went on one date with Scott and thought they had a great connection. He talked about all the things he wanted to share with her such as barbeques on his rooftop deck this summer. The following week she invited him to a black tie event she was attending. I told her that I knew he must’ve looked great in a tuxedo. She said he did that night as well as a few days later when she saw that he’d posted a new photo on his dating profile that she’d taken of him.

We admired his gall.

I was tickled when she told me he’d listed his age as 48 on the dating site.

She said that he followed up with a lovely email message after the event thanking her for a great night. She replied that she looked forward to seeing him again.

Then it was crickets.

Chloe and I went out for wine a week later. We started at Eataly, progressed to Vin Sur Vingt 20 and then finished with Terroir. Neither of us are big drinkers but we were having far too much fun. The blisters on my feet are still healing from our wine bar crawl.

We thought it was only fair to let Scott know of our new friendship. After all, he brought us together. I sent the photo below to him and our text exchange follows:

Hi from your ladies. Don’t ya wish you were out with us? xx

Would’ve loved to see his expression.

Here’s his response:

Clearly my promotion of your blog knows no bounds

Me:

Yep. You could say that. Does this story qualify as blog-worthy?

Scott:

No comment. Lol

I decided it qualified. Thanks, Scott. Keep up the good work. I’m hoping for lots of new girlfriends. You have excellent taste in women.

“Nobody ever said it was simple to be a man. If it were, more guys would try it.” Hugh O’Neill

I’ve added something new to the sidebar called, “Things I’m CRAZY About.” These are not paid advertising, but things I love. I will add more when I have time–blog, blog, blog.