Mr. Wrong

You know what the problem with a blog is? People get all involved up in your business, because, you know, you put your business up on your blog, and then some people (initials TB and BK come to mind) are all, "What's up with your blog? When are you going to update your blog? It's been two weeks since you've written anything new on your blog! How can you expect me to come back and read your blog if you never post anything new?" If I wanted more people demanding things of me, I would have had more children.

I kid, I kid! Seriously, because so many of you out there depend on me to brighten up your horribly dull and miserable lives, I will procede to give you an update of the incredibly astounding happenings in mine...

As soon as there are any.

I have been MIA because of 1) a four day business trip to San Diego (which I will write about later--later being later in the vaguest sense of the word--but suffice it to say that Dude! Never have I seen so many homeless people in one square mile as I did in SD. While I felt really bad for whatever situation brought the homeless people to that point in their lives, they still kinda creeped me out and seriously curtailed my normal walking-around-whatever-new-city-I-find-myself-in scenario. But if I were homeless, I have to say that San Diego is probably where I would want to be homeless because again, Dude. It was October and dang close to eighty degrees. So there is that) and 2) a family vacation to the Oregon Coast which was lots and lots of fun except for the driving clear across the whole entire freaking state of Oregon twice in a small car with two kids. Other than that, it was super peaceful and stuff.

Because my mind is still on vacation, and frankly, I do not want to talk about the election or anything else of a serious nature, I decided to do what any self-respecting blogger would do in my situation. And that is copy an idea for a post from another blogger. (Why are you looking at me that way? You got a problem, buddy?) Heather from Riding on the Short Bus posted about her worst online dates--if you need a good laugh, head on over there. Too funny. (did you seriously think I would be posting a link? If so, you must be new here. I am linkally-challenged. Google her.)

If I took the time to post all my dating horror stories, we could be here awhile. Not that I was some Dating Dynamo, because I have probably only went out with about seven different men in my whole life. That includes first-and-only dates, and boyfriends, so it's not like I am Queen Hoochymama or something.

Totally unrelated but yet cute story: Last night, Alison dressed up as Snow White for Halloween. When she tried on the SW dress, the front sagged down a bit--well, more than a bit--actually halfway down her stomach. My husband and I started laughing and I said, "Well, she could always go as a Hoochymama!" and then we laughed some more because we are dorks. Ali looked at us strangely and said, "I a hoochymommy?" We assured her that no, she was a pretty princess Snow White, fixed her costume to cover all it was supposed to, and that was that. Or so I thought. I was talking to my mom today while driving and I related to her that story from last night. Alison hollers from the backseat, "Mom! I needa talk ta Gran Gran!" After getting the cell from me, she proceeds to tell my mom, "Guess what, Gran Gran? Ina hoochymommy!" My mom is cracking up, which just spurs Ali to keep up the refrain of "Ina hoochymommy! Ina hoochymommy!" For.Five.Minutes. Eventually she gave herself the hiccups laughing so much. When I finally got the phone back at a stoplight, my mom was in tears from all the laughter. Moral of the story is maybe I should be more careful about what words I use in front of our little curly-headed tape recorder.

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled post about dating..I went out on a date with a very nice guy whom I will call Fred. He does not remotely resemble a Fred but I will call him that because I don't actually know anyone named Fred except for Freddie Mercury whom I think we can all agree that I never went out with and Fred Flintstone whom I never went out with either because a) he is a cartoon and that would be just creepy and 2) he is married and that is just not how I roll.

So anyway...I knew Fred from church where he was very involved in helping teach our youth group. He was polite, gainfully employed in an actual career that required education, could form complete sentences, was not hygenically-challenged, and nice-looking in a rather bland, kinda white bread way. He was well-liked by everyone, and not the type to make moves on every single girl in the right age range. Most of all, he was a Christian, an honest to goodness, real practicing Christian, that like actually read the Bible and tried to live by what it said and stuff! So, you know, cool.

I had liked Fred in the kind of "I would go out with him if he asked me but will not die if he doesn't" way, so when he finally did ask, I accepted. I was very nervous and spent muchly-huge amounts of time pondering the bigger issues surrounding our date, like what was I to wear? How would I do my makeup? How far up should I tease my bangs? that kind of thing. When he picked me up and asked if I liked Chinese food, me and my seen-from-space big hair replied in the affirmative. We went to a very nice restaurant...the kind with NO buffet, NO paper placemats, and fresh flowers on each table. The atmosphere was subdued, quiet and romantic. Certainly the kind of place a young man would take a big-haired nineteen year old girl he was trying to impress. (Why are you focusing on my hair? It was 1990 and I lived in the South. Shut up.) Everything was going swimmingly until our entrees arrived.

I cannot for the life of me remember what I ordered that night, probably sweet and sour something because I can be a creature of habit. But I will never ever forget what Fred ordered. Why, you ask? Why would such an insignificant detail about a man I dated eighteen years ago stick out in my mind like an annoying song that once you hear it in the grocery store, you can't get it out of your head for days? Because Fred ordered Kung Pao Chicken. And apparently, Fred sweats when he eats hot food. Not a slight beading of perspiration on the forehead. Full On Sweat. To quote Larry the Cable Guy, "A bunch of fat women on the way to see the Ricky Martin" kind of sweat.

Strike One.

But sweating was not the only thing that hot food made Fred do. No, no, my friends. It also made his head turn red. Not just his face. His.Entire.Head.

Including.Scalp.Which.I.Had.Not.Previously.Noticed.All.That.Much.

But.Sure.Did.Now.That.It.Was.Signalling.Aircraft.

Stee-rike Two!

As I am sitting there debating whether my date is just having an allergic reaction or is in fact, going to turn into The Kindler, Gentler Version of The Hulk, his eyes begin to water. Then the tears start pouring. Yes, folks, you read that right. Tears. TEEE-HEEEE-HERES. Running down his face, onto his chin, as he is fanning his face with one hand and wiping madly with the other. He looked at me sheepishly and said, "Geez, I forgot what spicy food does to me."

You forgot? You forgot? You forgot that spicy food makes your head resemble a Hot Tamale and reduces you to weeping like a little girl? Huh.

Steee-rike Three! You are Outta There!

It was in that moment I decided that while I am very compassionate and deep and stuff, there are just some things I was not willing to deal with for the rest of my life. Aaaaaand this was one of them.

Fred ended up okay in the end, though. He somehow survived not being chosen as Mr. Missie and went on to date and marry a very nice girl who also attended our church. God bless him and his cute little wife. (Although I bet she never cooks him Kung Pao).

What are some of your dating horror stories?

So totally not a hoochy-mommy.