The five faces of dating life in the last three weeks…
Face #1: Personal trainer, D. Let’s say D stands for “Douchebag.” Evidently Lord Douchebag is looking for a Lady Douchebag to help him rule the roost. Lord D made fun of my football team all evening, said I reminded him of his sister, was trying to stick his finger in my ass-crack at a restaurant (yeah, you read that right), and then later got drunk and pinned me to the floor of his apartment after I helped his drunk-ass inside. During my escape he repeated how lucky I was to be with the top personal trainer in the state, and I should be thankful.
RESULT: Father’s advice—currently looking for a small handgun for me to bring on dates, Mother’s advice—“What a douche. Thank God he doesn’t know where you live.” Note to self—the only personal training I want a guy to have is the practice and ability to hold his liquor. What a pu$$y.
Face #2: Older than me, T. T is older than me. Fine. T teaches high school math and coaches baseball. T showed up wearing a skin-tight longsleeve t-shirt with dragon decals on the arms, and tight nearly too short jeans. T looked like a tall Popeye, and said the words “Golly” and “Gee-whiz” instead of “Oh shit” and “Are you fucking kidding me.” T also texted me at least 16 times a day, and left me a singing voicemail after our one (and only) date.
RESULT: Father’s advice—“If he had big muscles, he should be wearing tight shirts. You are too hard on them,” Mother’s advice—laughter. Note to self—Instant dating elimination if a guy bears ANY resemblance (fashion or personality) to John Gosselein, and singing voicemails result in my undergarments stapling themselves to my body.
Face #3: Surprising chemistry with the WAY-too-old-for-me guy. Let’s call him S. S looks young. Definitely doesn’t look 40. Attorney, surfs, climbs, rides cyclocross, hottie. My friend listened to my date summary afterward and told me that old sperm makes dumb kids. Now all I can think about are the dumb kids that have yet to make their way out of my womb. Would like to think that my eggs would produce enough intelligence to make up for the near-retardation of the sperm in his old balls.
RESULT: Father’s advice—“I think that if he treats you nice, age doesn’t matter.” Mother’s advice—“He is definitely TOO old for you. And of course he would never recognize that because he is a man.” Note to self—The kissing was BAD. Not monumentally bad, but bad enough. Maybe because his training for making out can be blamed on the Reagan administration? Since he was in high school around that time…
Face #4: The Zookeeper, S. Was he a real zookeeper? No, a commercial realtor. Another man rocking the bald man empowerment, but apparently also buffing his own dome for shininess. This one has a house with a split driveway, and an exotic pet. A large, West African cat that he has to keep in a separate room, feed purchased at the zoo, can never go outside, and hisses at anyone who comes into “the lair.” This lynx-like animal can also never be near humans when they sleep because it will attack their face. Zookeeper wore a black trenchcoat on our date. Need I say more?
RESULT: Father’s advice—“Why would he waste his money on that? Because he likes to live close to death?” Mother’s advice—“People who keep wild animals are weird. Did you hear about that woman who was mauled by the chimpanzee?” Note to Self—the only wild animal that would interest me in a man better be in his pants. Otherwise, game over.
Face#5: The New York City guy. NYC Dave. NYC Dave was dressed like a dirty longshoreman on our date. NYC Dave bragged about riding his bike to work every day over the Brooklyn Bridge, “I used to work on Wall Street, you know,” he said with a smirk, “I didn’t know if you knew where that is.” My reply, “Well, you’re in Portland now, bitch. If Manhattan was so great, then you can probably go back.” He laughed and called me sassy & cute. The fucker. He then tried to make out with me, despite my head turning, pulling away, and saying “Yeah, you need to stop.”
RESULT: Father’s advice—“Why would he wear dirty jeans and a bomber jacket?” Mother’s advice—“Did this one mention anything about a Bobcat in his garage?” Note to Self—With my luck, the range of bad dates isn’t localized to the Portland scene, but seems to transcend coastlines. Maybe my dating life would improve if I searched out towards Wyoming? Nebraska? Do I know where Wall Street is…f-ing longshoreman poser. AND!!! I bought the beer!!! I hope he gets douchebag scurvy.
