Playing With Matches

Raining Men

June 11, 2009 · Leave a Comment

The universe and JDate are sending me signs. Call me! my friend L. e-mailed me.

She hasn’t logged onto JDate since October. But out of nowhere six new guys have e-mailed her.

Is one the cute doctor? I asked.

(We had cyber-stalked this guy after she decided he was her soul mate. But she e-mailed him, he viewed it (I hate that JDate lets you know that) and never responded.)

No, she said. But she went to a luncheon and THE CUTE DOCTOR was seated at her table.

Yay.

And she liked him as much as thought she would.

Yay.

She said she was totally curious to see who the guys who e-mailed her are — but she has one fear: What if she logs on and finds out that her boyfriend is still on JDate?

Personally, I’m shocked that she’s dated this guy for a year and she has no idea if he’s still JDate-ing other people. I think that’s a fair question.

Lately, her boyfriend has been pissing her off. He’s been disappearing, canceling plans, not making plans for the days she doesn’t have her kids, or making plans, and not showing up. She wants to know what else is out there.

But she’s dreading another JDate-a-thon.

If a man fell out of the sky and wanted to take me to dinner, I would go, she said.

That’s what those six guys on JDate are, I told her. Men who have fallen out of the sky and want to take you to dinner.

She reminds me of that guy who was drowning, a boat came by and offered to help him. No, he said. God will save me. Another boat came by, and offered to throw him a line. No, he said, God will save me. A third boat came by and oferred a life preserver. No, he said. God will save me. When he drowned he asked God in person: Why didn’t you save me? God replied: I sent you three boats.

God sent you six boats, I told her.

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A Fistful of Grandma

June 8, 2009 · Leave a Comment

 My uncle Fed Ex’d my Dad grandpa’s ashes. But he didn’t tell Dad first — he didn’t call, or e-mail, or send a text.
 So, Dad just opened the mail one day and found his dead dad in a box.
 We debated scattering the cremains at grandpa’s favorite fishing spots.
But we decided to wait until grandma died, so they could be together. 
This weekend, we gathered at my aunt’s house to say good-bye to them both. 
My cousin brought his answering machine from 1999, and played three-minute messages left by my grandparents. Menorah Manor had reduced  Grandma’s possessions to two boxes filled with photos, a mis-matched pair of shoes, a Bible, a Jews-for-Jesus Bible (which confused us), an archaic pencil sharpener and Salt: A World History.
 My aunt had already sprinkled a little bit of Grandpa into one of her rose bushes. Every time it blooms, she says, “Hello, Dad.”
 She thought it would be nice to spread my grandparents around her rose garden. 
Are there teeth and bone chips, I asked.
Yes, there are, my aunt said.
 Scattering ashes with my family was a nightmare, because we’ve never done it before, we usually just bury people whole in a pine box. The ashes come in a black box, which took five people to open. Inside the box, are big plastic baggies of ashes.
 My aunt’s roses are planted in wine barrels. At first, my relatives were taking turns, pouring a little of grandma in one, then a little of grandpa, like they were shaking out fertilizer.
“You’re together now, Mom,” my aunt said.
 One of my cousins hung back. I stayed with him.
“Are you uncomfortable,” my aunt asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “A little.”
Me too. 
Especially when people just started reaching into the bags with their bare hands and grabbing handfuls of grandma and grandpa and throwing them into the flowers. 
  The wind kicked up. I felt my grandparents in my eyes.
One of my relatives walked over and said that when her dog died, she had him cremated. When she tried to scatter him, the puppy’s cremains got all over her.
“He was giving me one last hug,” she said.

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Meeting the Parents

June 5, 2009 · Leave a Comment

I haven’t introduced my parents to a guy since high school.

So, I was nervous as hell last night.

The thing that makes my mom scary is that she’s unpredictable. I never know what she will say or do. For example, when I brought a friend home for Thanksgiving freshman year of college, my mom locked her in the downstairs restroom and cried about how I don’t love her. (Then was surprised that I stopped bringing friends home.) And when mom came to visit me in Texas, she kept going up to people I barely know, giving them big hugs and crying, “I just wish she would meet someone.”

And my dad, well, he just starts talking Klingon to people.

My boyfriend  called me 30 minutes before we were supposed to meet my family.

I’m in a panic, he said. The florist I went to is closed.

Don’t worry about it, I said. 

What about wine? I can get wine.

My parents don’t drink.

A six-pack? he suggested.

My father is a nutjob. He will sit me down and talk about his serious concerns about my boyfriend’s alcoholism.

How about Jack Daniels?

Are you not listening to me? I asked.

Isn’t Jack apple juice in the South?

My father is a member of adult children of alcoholics because grandpa occasionally had a scotch after work. He will try to make you go to rehab.

I’ll say, ‘No, no, no.’

Seriously. He will. 

(I told this story this morning to one of my brothers. He cackled. I explained that when the boy’s brother met his girlfriend’s parents, he brought roses for her and her mom and a six pack for her dad. “Yeah, but her dad’s a normal guy,” my brother said. “That’s not what we’re dealing with.”)

When we got to the restaurant my mom was inside the front door. 

“Another tall one,” she said to my boyfriend. “I notice that.”

(She’s short.)

She insisted on sitting beside him. “She’s sweet,” he whispered to me.

Sweet?

One of the things I like best about my boyfriend is that he makes everything more fun. He even made dinner with my parents not incredibly irritating. And I didn’t think that was possible.

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An Old-Fashioned Girl

June 4, 2009 · 2 Comments

Your friends are sluts, my boyfriend said when he called me.

I had been sending him texts about our girls’ weekend at Dewey Beach. My friends felt a lot of guys were dew-able. 

Your friends are fun, he said.

The first night there, one of my friends went home with a guy. She returned to our room livid, screaming, “Small thingy, hairy balls, and no condom.” (I’ve never seen someone so mad that they didn’t get laid.)

The next afternoon, she met a boy at Jam Session, then took him back to our hotel. (Since she had been so upset the night before, she was given special permission to break our no-boys-in-the-room policy.)

The sex was great.

Did you get his number? I asked.

I didn’t even get his name, she said.

Later that night, she ran into the guy she went home with the first night. She thought he was really cute. She didn’t recognize him, he had to tell her that he was the guy she hooked up with the night before.

The next day, after a round or two of Dewey Devils, she met another boy. This one, she actually saw after we got back to D.C.

I hadn’t talked to her all week, but I heard they went on two dates.

I told you I slept with him, right? she asked me.

Uhm, no, I just heard you guys went to dinner.

Yes. We did. We had dinner, and then I was dessert, she said. He asked if I had any whipped cream.

(They met on a dance floor when he covered her in whipped cream, and licked it off her.)

She said the sex was pretty good. But she was a little disappointed that he didn’t go downtown.
So, she didn’t either.
I know it’s old-fashioned, she said. But I’m not going down on a guy if he doesn’t go down on me first.
Old fashioned?
I laughed and laughed and laughed — and almost wrecked my car.
(I know it’s old fashioned, but I’m not living together before we’re married.
 I know it’s old fashioned, but I never ask a guy out.
I know it’s old fashioned, but I like baking pies.
I know it’s old fashioned, but I don’t give head first… is not one I’ve heard.)
You show me yours, I’ll show you mine, she said. Maybe.

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Depend-able

June 1, 2009 · 2 Comments

Did I tell you about Memorial Day weekend, a friend asked last night.

Nope.

She went to visit her mother, and they shared an apple pie a la mode.

Then, they both got violently upset stomachs.

My friend wanted to go home. Since she was sick, her mother wanted her to stay.

Her drive home is four hours through the country. There’s long stretches without rest stops.

I opened the hall closet and mother had a package of Depends, she said. I thought, ‘Crazy astronaut.’

(I was thinking crazy, diapered Lisa Nowack might not have been so crazy myself when I was driving home from Pennsylvania Friday. I was stuck in bumper to bumper no-moving traffic for hours, feeling incredibly jealous of guys who just pulled over and walked into the grass. When I finally did stop — I went to five freaking places and no one had a public restroom.)

So, I put one on, my friend continued.

You did not.

I did.

Liar, liar, I said. I call bullshit.

They are quite comfortable, my friend said. They breathe.

(!)

Her mom told her to take an extra one — just in case.

She did.

You can not even tell you’re wearing them. There’s no line. They don’t bunch up, she continued. My 72-year-old mother refuses to wear them. But I love them. I’m telling everyone.

Are you going to go to Costco and get a case? I asked. You can keep them in the glove compartment.

I just might, she said.

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Bad Kitty

May 1, 2009 · 3 Comments

He has a tattoo of his dead cat, a friend texted me from a match.com first date.

She called me on her way home. The guy has four cats. And four tats of his cats.

Did you know he had cats before the date? I asked.

Yes, she said. His profile says he likes and owns cats.

Then I blame you. You were forewarned. 

I hate cats. 

She says he talked about how he hates his sister-in-law for making his mom cry (which seemed like odd first-date conversation). She spent two hours with him, they just had drinks.

Dinner with him would have been awful! she said.

I don’t understand why she stayed two hours. Or why she agreed to see his band play tonight. (Even though she hated talking to him and ranked him one of the all-time-worst-dates ever.)

I’m too nice, she said. She said she’d probably just tell him she’s busy.

My brother told me in fourth grade that if I don’t want to go out with a guy, I should tell them — and not say I’m busy. Because if you tell a guy you’re busy, then they think you want to go out with them, and they’ll keep asking you out, and holding out hope that you will see them when you’re free. If you don’t want to see a guy again, it seems nicer to tell them, so they don’t waste time and can find someone who does want to be with them.

Just tell him you’re not a match, I told her. Tell him you’re a dog person.

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She’s A Better Daughter Than I Am

April 30, 2009 · 2 Comments

For mother’s day, a friend told her mom she could pick out whatever she wanted to do.

She chose a spa day.

Yay!

It’s a new spa, (I thought) my friend said. She’s having trouble getting people to go with her.

Why?

It’s Korean. And they don’t have, like, bathrobes or private rooms or anything, she said.

Wait, did you say, new spa or nude?

Nude, she said. It’s a cultural thing.

She told me that one room has baths, and another room just has a bunch of tables where people get treatments.

So you’re going to spend all day Saturday sitting around naked with your mom?

Yes, she said. 

Wow. My mom was mad that when she was trying on bathing suits, I wanted to stand outside the dressing room, and tell her what I thought of each one.

You’d go in the dressing room, wouldn’t you? I asked.

Yeah, she said. I would.

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Taking a Hit

April 21, 2009 · 2 Comments

If I give u money, will u pay a hitman to kill me. Please. — my boyfriend texted me.

He was hanging out with family.

No, I texted back. Because then I’d have to go on JDate again.

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Tickle My Balls

April 20, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Last Saturday I rallied my friends to see a band.

Tickle my balls is coming with us, my friend C. texted me.

This is the guy who drove me home from a bar once this summer, kept stopping to pee on the side of the road, then just took off his pants and started masturbating.

At the bar, he was hitting pretty hard on one of my friends.

He’s not a good kisser, I told her. He isn’t good at anything.

Really? she said.

She didn’t believe me.

So she took him home.

She called and told me I was right, he’s not a good kisser. But she’s going out to dinner with him  Friday. In the morning, he took her dogs out. And he didn’t pee in her driveway.

He was on his best behavior,  she said. Can we not call him, Tickle My Balls? 

No, I said. He’s been named.

She was looking forward to dinner Friday, but he cancelled.

Then called at midnight. Saturday night he called her a couple times after 1 a.m. She didn’t answer.

He’s off the list, she said.

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Pretty on the Inside

April 15, 2009 · Leave a Comment

“It was the worst date ever!” Q. screamed when I answered the phone.

You have GOT to put your picture up, I told her.

She had just re-joined eHarmony. And the night before, she had been excited that this guy had liked her profile enough to go out with her without seeing her picture. She’s hot. But she didn’t want guys to like her just because she’s pretty on the outside — she wanted guys who would see her profile and think, “Cool girl.” Another smoking-hot friend of mine tried that on match.com and it didn’t work. If someone doesn’t have a picture, I assume they look like the trash heap on Fraggle Rock. 

Guys who are willing to go out with a girl with no picture, are willing to take the dregs, I told Q.

When she got to the bar, her date kinda looked like his pictures. He had sent her a dozen e-mails with dozens of exclamation marks talking about how he couldn’t wait to meet her. Yet, in person, he didn’t seem happy to see her.

(Another problem with not posting a picture: He should have been thrilled that she’s just as hot in person. But, clearly he imagined her differently.)

Her date said he had been doing his taxes. Then started a 30 minute rant about how much he hates the government, Obama, Pelosi,  and pretty much everyone from California. He went on and on about how he can’t stand L.A.

Where are you from? he asked.

L.A., she said. (And she loves it.)

Well, it’s not that bad, he backtracked. They actually have good schools there, like UCLA. Schools where you have to work — you can’t just buy your education — like at Rice.

She went to Rice.

And he KNEW I went to Rice, she said.

Was he trying to be funny? I asked.

No, she said. Dead serious.

When she sat down, she toasted him. Cheers, she said. They clinked glasses, he sat his beer down without drinking. It bothered her that when she toasted him, he wouldn’t look her in the eye. But, he wouldn’t look her in the eye the entire evening.

I felt like when I wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at me, but when I looked at him, he looked away, she said.  When he tried to touch me, he hit away my arm.

She stayed for over two hours. (?!)

What time is it? he asked at 10:20.

Bedtime! she said.

He walked her to her car, said he had a wonderful time, and couldn’t wait to do it again.

Uh-yeah, why don’t you call me, she told him. She isn’t going to answer the phone.

I would never ever have met him, or hung out with him, under any circumstances if I hadn’t met him online, she said. Damn Dr. Neil Clark Warren and his inaccurate personality test.

She had rejoined the world of online dating, because I had inspired her: I met a great guy online. (Hence the lack of recent  blog entries. I have nothing to complain about. And “everything is awesome” doesn’t make for a good read.)

That’s true. But I doubt I would’ve met the guy I’m dating if it wasn’t online, I pointed out. The bar my friends go to all the time, he hates. I don’t play hockey, or poker, or softball, or golf …..

Post your picture, I told her.  Try again.

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