Reasons for Celibacy, #18-23

My Dears,
   Sorry I've been gone for a bit. Lots going on - mostly good, the rest manageable. The good stuff, I'll report to you when time is right and fairly soon.
   How are you doing?
   Laughter is always needed. I hope to provide. That said, I now present reasons 18-23 for a celibate existence. These are, as usual, lifted directly from on-line ads and embellished by my snark.
   Keep a smile and some good chocolate handy.
   Love ya.
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REASON 18: I like to go to the movies rock concerts. You mean, like the Flintstones? Do you drive with your bare feet on the road too? I like the little things in lif  Is lif the medication you’re taking?  I suggest an increased dosage. It might help you focus enough to find spellcheck.

REASON #19: I like big butts. I cannot lie. The other brothers try and deny but when a pretty female walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in my face, you know what happens. If this made you laugh then I am the guy for you, because that is exactly what I love doing. Making people laugh. You’ve got some work ahead of you, sweetheart.

REASON #20: Me Man You Woman Headline need help, Tarzan.

REASON #21: We love Zeppelin, and great food, and real literature. My wife wants a threesome. That sounds great to me! Can't wait to try. Let's talk about it. She is looking for a very specific sort of girl. We hope you are it. I’m appalled. You mention Zeppelin and “real literature” in the same sentence! What kind of gal do you think I am?

REASON #22: Intelligent, articulate, chivalrous, romantic, very passionate, open minded, dominant but never domineering and sensual. Great kisser (I practice a lot when I am alone!). Hint: I wouldn’t publicize this… I only want to have to carry you part of the time! I don’t want your hands on me any of the time!

REASON #23: Looking For a Friend First I want to meet a women that wants to make a commitment to spend the rest of are life's together. Sounds like (you’re) an oxymoron. 

For fun, I entered a Peep Diorama contest. I didn't win, but I'm quite certain Gumby had a great time. (Hint: See lower left side of photo.)

                                                                Flo's Peep Show

Flat-Faced Dog Lover, Part II.

Fred and I were going to see each other for the second night in a row – a good sign. (Right?) As I drove to the taqueria, I said out loud and to myself: “I like him, and I’m pretty sure he likes me. I'll likely get a kiss. It’ll be good. Or it won’t be good. Either way, I’ll know if I want to see him again.”

We decided to share a taco salad, and we sat side-by-side – a doubly good sign. (Right? Right?) Fred and I chatted about our respective work days, family, dream travel destinations, other significant and trivial matters. Everything seemed to be going really well.

The salad was so humongous, we couldn’t finish. I agreed to take the leftovers in a to-go container. Fred carried the food and escorted me to my car.

The deciding moment arrived. We stood by the passenger side of my car. Fred handed me the to-go box. I opened the car door, placed the leftovers on the passenger’s seat, and then shut the car door. Kissy, kissy now? “I’ve gotta go let Heidi out!” Fred blurted, dashing to his car several yards away.

I briskly followed him like – I don’t know – a puppy in heat. There they were, man and dog. Fred held onto the end of Heidi’s leash, fully focused on her. “She needs fresh air,” he reported. “Go ahead, sweetie,” he told her, as Heidi explored a nearby patch of grass.

What to do? I pet Heidi. “She’s pretty.”

With one hand firmly grasping Heidi’s leash, Fred extended his other arm to impart a flimsy cold-to-lukewarm side-hug. “I’d like to get to know you better.” (Bad sign. Good sign. Weird sign. Right?)

“Sure, be in touch,” I responded.

Driving home, I said this: "I like…no I liked him…What the hell!? I won’t compete with a b*tch for a man’s affections. Not a b*tch with two legs! Not a b*tch with four legs!"

Flat-faced Fred never called. It’s just as well. I felt inclined to bark at him, and that might’ve turned him on. The man gives new meaning to the term “dog lover.” 

Perhaps there WAS a kiss that night, and I was not the recipient. So it goes.

~the end.~

Misadventures in Online Dating

Warning: a crass and somewhat shocking sexual term follows. If you're offended by this...heck, you wouldn't be reading my blog.
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Since I didn't know the area - though I work part-time in his neighborhood - he chose a first date dinner spot: Buffalo Wings. When I arrived, a man strolled out of the eatery's front entrance. He appeared a much older, much more bald version of the man whose on-line photos I'd liked. So it goes...

"Hi, Mr. BJ, good to meet you," I said, with a forced smile.

Mr. BJ gave me a side-hug. "Good to meet you," he grinned. "I just went in for a minute, and that place is really loud and crowded. I'm wondering if you want to go somewhere else?" 

Duh. That place is party-central for drunken college kids. He just realized it's loud? "Sure, I'm not a fan. What else is around here? I'm easy."

"Why don't we go to BJs?" Oops, maybe I shouldn't have said I'm easy. But It can't mean THAT. I agreed.

As we sat in the semi-crowded, semi-loud restaurant waiting for our food, conversation was forced. By this I mean, I was the only one skilled in basic discourse - as he focused on his phone, showed me pictures of himself and his brother, and was generally odd.

"So, what does BJ really stand for?" I couldn't let it go.

With pride and confidence, he blurted out: "blow job!" Mr BJ proceeded to work himself up into a laughing frenzy.

A sweet young waitress approached our table.

Mr BJ readily asked her, "What does BJ stand for?"

"Um, I think it's someone's name, but I'm not sure."

"Oh, 'cuz she asked me, and I told her" - his voice got louder and prouder - "it means blow job!"

The waitress glanced at me sympathetically. "Well that's awkward," she said.

"It really is," I agreed. "And on a first (and last) date too. I don't know what menu he's looking at, but that won't be served tonight."

He kept giggling. Really, dude? You're like old and graying and a grandpa and you think you're like the next Jay Leno.

Needless to say, Mr. BJ did not get a BJ that night. Though a follow-up text from him said something about thunderstorms, I had no response. I have no desire to engage in thunderous BJs or talk thereof with Mr. BJ.

Instead, I'm defaulting to the tried-and-true threesome:
(1) chocolate,
(2) batteries, and
(3) chocolate.

Have a great, safe, week, dear sillies.

Sloths and Misadventures in On-line Dating

It was a wonderful break. I hadn't done on-line dating for several years. After five years in Chico, though, I believe I've met and either dated or ruled-out every eligible bachelor in town. All two of them. So I caved, despite fierce attempts to talk myself out of it. Loneliness wreaks havoc. While I've come to believe that loneliness is simply an aspect of being human, and while I KNOW I'm better off alone than in a toxic relationship (and every romantic relationship I've been in has had its share of toxicity), I need the writing material. Or so I told myself. Thus for your sake, I set up a profile last week on a popular dating site. Oy gevalt! What have I done?  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In attempt to weed out those whose conversational skills would abruptly cure the most stubborn cases of insomnia, I included this statement: "I laugh and smile readily, unless I'm utterly bored because, for example, the date I'm sitting with at a coffee shop describes in excruciating detail a day in the life of a South American sloth in mid-winter. Not that there's anything wrong with being a South American sloth in mid-winter; I'm simply not interested in hearing  about it."    

 

I thought Einstein had died long ago. It seems I was wrong. He's alive and well and responding to dating ads. In fact, he sent me this:
"I am reaching out to you because my sloth breeding business is going really well. I need help with the sloths!! Have you ever milked a sloth it can be dangerous."

After a moment in WTF?-land, I eagerly offered advice: "From my experience, the hardest part about milking a sloth is getting high enough on the tree to grasp their utters.* After that, it flows smoothly. I'm glad your business is booming, though the world doesn't need more sloths."

*After I sent it, I realized I misspelled "udders." Clearly, I'd been focused on the dude's utter weirdness. Plus, I routinely find many typos after-the-fact. Regardless, I'm quite certain the misspell did not add to Einstein's confused state. In fact, he didn't respond. Drats, the fun had just begun.
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Have a great week, and take care of yourselves, dear sillies.
Beware of lactating sloths in South America in mid-winter.
Keep a smile.