Phone Sex

I've thought long and hard about posting this story, largely because its pretty embarrassing but mostly because it involves my parents.

While I don't discuss my love life with my parents these days, there was a time when I did.  One time, to be exact and without me knowing about it. Let me explain. 

Every week, I make it a point to call my parents. They've never lived more than 50 miles from me, but I still call them once a week at least. Back in the 1980's, they were traveling a lot and so invariably, I'd get their answering machine.  

One Sunday night, as I was preparing for a date, I realized I hadn't called my parents that week. I got side tracked with  my lady as we had a nice evening of wine, jacuzzi and dinner at my place. This was back in the days before cell phones and cordless phones were just coming into their own. 

As my lady showered, I took a moment to call my folks from the comfort of my black lacquer waterbed.  Just as my lady emerged from the shower...without a towel...I hurriedly mumbled a few words into the phone and hung up.

The next 30 minutes or so was a passion filled encounter, enhanced by the things couples say in the heat of the moment.

Basically, my partner and I were exchanging explicit instructions in graphic detail and with nicknames for body parts. Words like "coochy," "Mr Peabody" were normal in our routines, as were phrases like "smack it up, flip it up, rub it down," which was actually a line from a popular Bel Biv Devoe song of the time. Yes, she was a bit of a talker.  

As we finished our frolicking, the room grew silent...except for one long, loud beep...which came from my cordless phone.  I picked up the phone, which was now emitting a fast busy signal, so I thought nothing of it.

A few weeks later, when I brought my girlfriend to meet my parents for brunch, we decided to grab a bite at a popular place known for killer crepes and exquisite Espresso. I was expecting a lecture, as I hadn't called my parents in a few weeks as I had been busy with my lady. 

On the walk into the restaurant, my dad was asking weird questions like 'do you have a speaker phone at your place?' "Of course I do, why?" I asked. 'No reason. We have one too, you know.' "Glad to see you're embracing technology, dad."  'We have an answering machine, too.'  "I know dad." 'Its digital which means you can record almost endlessly.'  "Good for you dad." At the time, I dismissed this all as the mindless ramblings of an aging father who was pissed that I wasn't calling my parents often enough. 

By this time, we were inside the restaurant and were seated. My parental units made small talk with my lady and before long, our food came. 

We had all ordered crepes and my father asserted that he knew the best way toale crepes even more delicious. He proceeded to demonstrate with some slices of butter and as I recall, his description went something like this: 'You see, the art of making a perfect crepe is what you do before you put it in your mouth.' With powdered sugar in hand, he added "first, you've got to spread it wide, slather in some butter, then take the powdered sugar, then smack it up, flip it up and rub it down.'  

I stopped eating, frozen in terror. Surely there's no way a 60 year old man could use that grouping of words by coincidence. My girl looked at me as if I had been sharing my sex stories with my dad. She could tell that I was as horrified as I was simply by the look on my face. 

Thoughts raced through my head. Who was he hearing this from?  Could he possibly know what goes on in my place behind closed doors?  Was he a fan of R&B artists like Bel Biv Devoe?  Perhaps secretly rocking it on his 8 track player in the family station wagon? 

Choking back my surprise, I regained my composure and asked, "where did you hear that phrase?"  My dad casually glanced to my mom with an evil smirk and said, 'where did I hear that?'  My mom was clearly in on the joke and retorted, 'I can't recall, but it was recently and I remember hearing it over and over and over again.'  

The jig was up. I figured it out. In my last call to them, when their answering machine picked up, the recording captured my entire interlude. 

Of course, I couldn't divulge this to my lady. 

The rest of the meal was in awkward silence except for the gestures and chuckles between my parents.  My girl never looked up for the rest of the meal. 

On the way how to the car, with my parents still chuckling, my dad says 'hey, you should call is more often. We always enjoy what you have to say.  You remember the number, right?'  My mom zings in with 'oh yes, he does. And don't forget to leave a message if we're out. We'll listen to it when we get home.'  Adding insult to injury, my dad adds 'over and over and over' as he closes his car door and drives off he mutters, 'say hello to Mr Peabody for us!'

My parents are smart asses, I surmised. I'm thinking I'm genetically predisposed. 

The Clutz in Me

Get a little sake in me and something's sure to happen. Get a lot of sake in me, and something wild is sure to happen. Such was the case on a recent date.

For this date, I took out a gal with whom I've had a few dates and we ended up at a Japanese barbecue place. If you've never been to one, its basically a restaurant where in you're seated at a table with a mini barbecue sunken in to the center of the table.

Of course, Japanese barbecue can't be enjoyed without a little sake. On this particular night, I really wanted to enjoy the meal, so I over indulged a bit.

The restaurant wasn't very packed, but I know it's a hot spot for Hamsters, so it's one of my favorites and tonight's scenery was a mix of patrons.  At the table in front of me was a herd of heffers gladly grazing on beef. Damn cannibals. To the right of them was a tatted guy, his young wife and three small kids ranging from 15-10 years old, all boys. Mullets and rattails be damned, these kids were grubbing good.

To my right was a table of three hotties, probably coffee shop girls. The most notable was a gal with a white tank top with spaghetti straps and a rack that was suitable only for porn movies. We'll call her "Melanie." This hoochy had super long hair that was adorned with extensions and with tight short-shorts, high heels and fake eye lashes, she was quite an eye catcher. She had no bra underneath and it looked like she was smuggling two puppies....you could tell because of their cute pink noses peaking out ever so slightly from her thin shirt. She certainly caught my eye and the eye of my date, who couldn't help but get catty with her comments.

After a couple of bottles, the Japanese voice impressions started. At one point, my date asked me "do you find that attractive?" This is a trap, guys, in case you didn't already know.  Nevertheless, my tactic is to always diffuse serious questions with humor and to dodge the question. It's worked for me for decades, as if my single status wasn't proof enough (sarcasm).  I retorted in my best Japanese voice impersonation "I rike dat gurl. She beddy, beddy pletty. But I don't rike big merrons. I rike a natulal gurl because big merron cannot fit in my mouf."  Her catty comments subdued after a few slaps, so the sake and barbecue meal continued.

At the end of the meal, we were provided with the restaurant's signature dessert: make-it-yourself S'Mores. I hadn't made a S'More since puberty, which was ironic because at that time, I had just discovered that "happy feeling" in my pants for the first time. Now, decades later, I was experiencing Deja Vu.  Maybe it's the Marshmallows that provide this form of arousal. I'll have to keep some by my bed, I noted, but I digress.

Nevertheless, with liquid courage, I decided to wing it. I skewered the Marshmallow and begin baking it over the open flame. My date, who was struggling to keep my eyes on her was bragging about her own ample shirt stuffers and admittedly, I was a bit distracted. Once I began to smell smoke, I realized my Marshmallow was on fire. Naturally, I shook the skewer violently attempting to blow it out. Instead, it catapulted over to the hoochy's table where it landed right on the torso of Melanie. In an instant, the ends of her Aquanet-coated extensions began to burn and everyone jumped up.

I tried to blow out the smoking hair before I realized how it looked to my date, who was watching with great disdain. Melanie's girlfriends were frantic and one repeatedly proclaimed "what should I do? What should I do?" Without thinking, I muttered "get some water." The hoochy, being the rocket scientist she surely was, threw a whole glass of water at Melanie's chest.

Now, perhaps subconsciously I knew what would happen when you apply water to a t-shirt of a large chested woman, but in my head, water seemed logical.  By this time, the wait staff was gathered around and one of them handed me a towel, with which I proceeded to pat down Melanie. At this point, I don't know who was hotter, Melanie of me, but I suddenly became aware of my surroundings.

The little boys across for this show were stunned, as if this was the first set of boobies they had ever seen. The heffers were hysterical with laughter as if they enjoyed this poor young lady's misfortunate. My date, on the other hand, gave me a look I could only interpret to mean "you planned this."

I apologized to Melanie profusely and handed her my card, offering to pay for all damages.  I hope she calls, cause I'd certainly like to hand her the check personally, perhaps over dinner (so long as there's no open flame at the table.)

Somehow, I doubt I'll be hearing from Melanie...or my date...ever again. 

ManScaping

Manscaping is an accepted practice these days. If we men expect a woman to be "neatly groomed," surely we must return the favor. Most of us start with scissors, get a little deeper with an electric razor, then move on to a regular razor.  Every so often, we get lazy and look for hair removal supplements. 

Whatever your method, shaving your man bits is a common...and appreciated...courtesy. 

Does anyone else see the irony in growing older and getting hair where you don't want it, but losing it where you do want it?  I sure do. 

I decided to take the plunge and buy some Veet, as previous shaving attempts had only been mildly successful and I nearly put my back out trying to reach the more difficult bits. Being a bit of a romantic, I thought I would do the deed on my lady's birthday as a bit of a treat. 

I waited until the other half was tucked up in bed and after giving some vague hints about a special surprise, I went to the bathroom. Initially, all went well and I applied the gel and stood waiting for something to happen. I didn’t have long to wait. 

 

At first, there was a gentle warmth which, in a matter of seconds, was replaced by an intense burning and a feeling I can only describe as if I were  being given a barbed wire wedgie by two people intent on sawing me in half.  Religion hadn't featured much in my life until that night, but I suddenly became willing to convert to any religion to stop the violent burning around my colonic canal and what seemed like the the destruction of my frank and beans.  

Struggling not to bite through my bottom lip I tried to wash the gel off in the sink and only succeeded in blocking the plughole with a mat of hair. 

Through the haze of tears I struggled out of the bathroom across the hall into the kitchen, by this time walking was not really possible and I crawled the final yard to the fridge in the hope of some form of cold relief. I yanked the freezer drawer out and found a tub of vanilla ice cream, tore the lid off and positioned it under me. For those who know me, all sorts of sick jokes about making my own fudge sundae were running through my head, but the pain was replaced by genuine fear that I might live out a slightly darker version of a Seinfeld episode (the one with the guy who "fell" onto Fusili Jerry). 

But my attention soon turned back to the task at hand. 

 The relief was fantastic but only temporary, as it melted fairly quickly and the fiery stabbing returned. 

Due to the shape of the ice cream tub, I hadn’t managed to give my starfish any treatment and I groped around in the drawer for something else, as I was sure my vision was going to fail fairly soon. I grabbed a bag of what I later found out was frozen sprouts and tore it open trying to be quiet as I did so. I took a handful of them and an tried in vain to clench some between the cheeks of my arse. This was not doing the trick, as some of the gel had found its way up the chutney channel and it felt like I had a rocket booster in my butt.

This was probably and hopefully the only time in my life I was going to wish there was a gay snowman in the kitchen, which should give you some idea of the depths to which  I was willing to sink in order to ease the pain. The only solution my pain-crazed mind could come up with was to gently ease one of the sprouts where no veg had gone before.

Unfortunately, alerted by the strange grunts coming from the kitchen,  my lady chose that exact moment to come and investigate.  She was greeted by the sight of me, butt cheeks in the air, vanilla ice cream dripping from my bell end, pushing a sprout between my cheeks, while muttering “ooooohhh, that's the spot.”

Understandably, this was a surprise to her, but more surprising was her blurting out "you started without me?"  

Since I hadn’t heard her come in, it caused an involuntary spasm of shock to me, which resulted in the sprout being ejected at quite some speed in her direction. She quickly realized I wasn't being kinky. 

I can understand that having a sprout fired against your leg at high velocity at 3am  wasn’t the special surprise she was expecting.  Having to explain to her the next day what the strange hollow in the ice cream was, didn’t improve my status. 

Fortunately, she was in the medical field and promptly rendered treatment. In between her laughs, she politely said to me, "you know, you didn't have much to trim in the first place. Why did you bother?" 

To sum it up, VEET removes hair effectively, but your sex life...and dignity...will suffer a blow.  And not in a good way. 

Why Men Stare

We've seen you out and about. We all have. Your Facebook shows you checking into all the local Hamster Hideouts with great regularity. On Facebook, your life is that of an urban Princess, where your body is perfect, your drinks are free and you're living the highlife. You're at a pool party doing the EDC thing in Vegas on Saturday, on Sunday you're at Avec (it's pronounced "uh veck," not Aaay-vec" by the way, Hamsters. It's French.  Look it up.) and on Monday, you're posting about your day job, trying to show us how you balance your "professional life" with your personal life.

Tell me, urban Princess, if you're life is so grand, how the heck do you have time for Facebook at all?

I had this friend who was a Hamster by almost every definition of the word. She was 37, but looked maybe 35, had a menial job, lived at home. Although she did contribute to the rent, she spent her money on a BMW 3 series, some nice accessories and all the normal Hamster wear. i.e. the skin tight dress, an augmentation surgery, Loubotin shoes, etc. Whenever we went out, her bra looked like it was stuffed with water balloons, leaving almost nothing to one's imagination except perhaps, the name of her plastic surgeon.

She was on a mission to find "the one." What was her criteria? He had to be a doctor, lawyer or similar, had to dress a certain way, have the physique of a Greek God and had to be under 40. Mind you, this gal was average looking at best...and I'm being generous. Politely, I asked her what she "brought to the party."  Her assertion was simple: "I'm a good catch."

She tended to date bad boys, then wondered why they broke her heart. She had an episode where she had to sneak out of the boyfriend's house because his live-in girlfriend showed up, had another issue where she was dating a doctor who never made time for her...because he was married...and another instance where she was dating a military guy, yet chose to "keep her options open" while he was overseas.

Her Facebook was a wild adventure of parties, panties and a parade of bars, clubs and lounges in multiple area codes.

We all know someone like that. She's the girl who goes to the fanciest places in town for "GNO" (Girls Night Out.) She pretends that she doesn't want to be hit on because this is "girl time." Guys get annoyed by this, largely because of the way she's dressed and accessorized. We think that such a woman doesn't get dressed to the nines to impress her girlfriends. We think she gets dressed up to attract the men, pure and simple. In fact, some men still think that girls who are single and dress provocatively absolutely want to be hit on no matter what, so long as the guy is smoking hot.

Perhaps she's genuinely wrapped up intriguing conversation about the new Louis Vuitton line or whatever it is Hamsters talk about, but when Mr. Super Stud enters her line of sight, you can bet she's hoping he'll come introduce himself. Or so it seems.

In reality, maybe that's not the case, but we men are simply not that smart.

You see, we can't tell the difference between a Hamster and a well-dressed normal woman when she's adorned in Hamster wear. We men ask ourselves why she's wearing that low cut dress with enough cleavage exposed to make nursing infants salivate. We're all well aware of her augmentation surgery and we're all very happy for her. But she gets mad at us when men's eyes stray downward. If she didn't want us staring, why is she putting "the girls" on display?

Most men think that if she dresses trashy, she's asking to be hit on. Neanderthal as that line of thinking is, men are conditioned to think this way.

Most men can appreciate a woman who dresses well. There just seems to be a bit of hypocrisy in some women who dress provocatively, yet they condemn others for doing the same and more importantly, the mixed signals they send tend to confuse us.

Before some women take offense to my assertions, be advised that I'm in no way condemning such a woman's actions. In fact, I salute her zeal for life, her attention to fashion and her support of the blossoming plastic surgery industry in Orange County, California.

But there's a dark secret that we men aren't telling women: to some men, these women may be viewed as accessories themselves because they've been judged solely on the way they dress in public.

That's a shame, too, because men sometimes judge too quickly. In my circle of male friends, there seems to be a consensus about Asian women in South Orange County. As a friend put it (and I'm translating into more politically correct terms here), some men believe that all Asian women "have the same look." He didn't mean to imply that they all look the same, just that they are difficult to spot the "different" ones when he goes out.

He asserted that his perception is that many women from SE Asia were born predisposed to lean body mass, and while this might be an attribute in the eyes of some men, by no means did these women do anything to achieve it.  Furthermore, an augmentation surgery, while certainly helpful in providing a woman more reasonable proportions, in no way acts as a testament to a woman's workout regimen.  Put bluntly, he felt that most Asian women "can be replicated."

His point was that when women dress a certain way, the men that hit on them are not marriage minded....or perhaps not even relationship minded. Putting out the vibe that a woman wants to be evaluated purely on her physical appearance attracts the wrong type of man and his assertion that women who dress that way are indeed putting out such a vibe.

Taking it a step further, he believes that such men who find these women attractive are judging on the wrong criteria themselves.

I don't think I agree unilaterally, but I can understand that line of thinking. Just as I was digesting that, it occurred to me that maybe when he said "some men," he meant me.

Cue a long weekend of self reflection.

I told myself I prefer younger women, largely because I find their energy, their daily life, their active lifestyle and their youthful exuberance invigorating. A bigger part of the story might just be that I need to have some strong physical attraction for a woman, or I can't make a go of it.

But I've dated all sorts of sizes and shapes of women, and while I generally prefer lean, I have no real preference for augmented women...nor do I discriminate. For me, it's about hair, eyes and the smile....most other physical attributes are what they are. So long as they as smart, have character, integrity, treat others with love, have a little religion in their life and are good people.

The women I admire and desire the most may or may not have had plastic surgery, but she dresses and acts in accordance with more honorable values and traits. Those are the women I want to talk to and meet....but I'll never approach them on their "girls' night out."

Being in the online dating world is a special challenge, as "Hamster-ness," is all too prevalent on most dating sites. If you've never logged on to a dating site, do so if for no other reason than morbid curiosity. There are grown women posting pictures of themselves in their underwear.  Still others go to great lengths to ensure the camera angle captures their store-bought cleavage. I wouldn't contact any of them...but they often contact me.

Of greater concern is the message that dressing provocatively sends to other women. I have several friends who are not a slender, tiny 100 lbs wearing size zero clothes with C or D cups, yet I still think they're very attractive, not just because of how they look, but because of their attitude. Some of these non-size zero women seem to be a little down on themselves, largely because everyone and everything around them tells them that being a tiny, Asian Barbie doll is the only way to live.

While many of the ladies who dress provocatively actually have something more going for them: an education, a real career and a good handle on their finances, their choices have a profound affect on the men and women around them.

For starters, in South Orange County, there are literally thousands of pretty women who have the same plastic surgeon, the same designer labels and wear the same makeup these women do. Is it not more about what's on the inside than what you display outside? Obviously, I'm not suggesting women start wearing hoodies and sweats to Anqi, I'm merely suggesting that wrapping a pretty or even average woman up in super sexy attire makes it very difficult to showcase the woman inside.

I'm not smart enough to figure it out, so I simply don't approach women at bars or lounges. Still, I remain focused on finding someone who is a balance of beauty, class and sophistication on the inside as well as on the outside.

A female friend of mine once said "it doesn't matter how great I am inside. If I can't attract a man with what's on the outside, he'll never get to see my inside."  Some men might assert that when a woman dresses a certain way, the man is dying to get inside you....but not in an honorable way.

So my ladies, if you see a man staring at you the next time you're out with the girls, please remember that not all of us are trying to visualize you naked: some of us are just trying to figure you out.

What is a Hamster?

Urban Dictionary uses "Hamster" as an acronym used to describe a young female who has one or more meaningless jobs. These jobs typically start with the letters H,A,M,S,T,E and R, but on some occasions may also fall outside of specified range. Said job(s) may also be the woman's elected long term vocation. Most popular HAMSTER jobs include but are not limited to the following:

H = hairstylist, hostess

A = actress, assistant

M = model, musician, mixologist

S = stripper, secretary

T = technician (nail, skin, etc.), teller

E = entertainer, exotic dancer

R = receptionist, runaway

In short, a Hamster is a woman who has little to offer other than her looks, yet seeks men based solely on their physique or financial status. 

False Advertising or Unrealistic Expectations?

I've been meaning to pen this post for awhile, but I'm always reluctant to appear jaded. As much as I joke around, I'm concerned that my posts might appear misogynistic. As long as we can all agree that everything I write about women can probably apply to men too, then I'll continue on. This is the spirit in which I author these posts and if you're thinking that I've become cynical, jaded or intolerant, you'd be only partially correct. In reality, I'm fed up.

In any case, one of my pet peeves is women (or men) who blatantly misrepresent themselves online. Anyone who's dated online knows that men lie about their height, weight, age or other things, but so too do women.

To combat this, I wrote my profile in such a way that I was very clear what I was looking for: someone professional, classy, a college graduate, Asian and height/weight proportionate.

I'm getting tons of replies and I've screened the ones that are too young, too old (older than I am), or don't match any of my other criteria. I've had plenty of insane experiences (as documented here) but I haven't written about the ones that are just disappointments, largely because none of these women made it past the first date.  In fact, some of them don't make it past the first phone call. 

Every once in awhile, I take a chance on one that seems a bit outside my comfort zone. Despite my experiences, I still believe in giving the benefit of the doubt, despite some early red flags. I got roped into a date with a woman who was too young, was clearly a Hamster and the only thing in common we shared was our fascination with her, um, blouse size. I knew going in that this one wasn't a match and in reality, there are tons of clues that what you're getting is not what's being represented, if you simply pay attention.

For example: I'm always suspect when a woman asks to meet me at a dark restaurant and shows up wearing black.  Black attire on a first date to me screams "pastry smuggler"....she's hiding her rolls. Asking for a meetup at a dark restaurant is a pretty good sign that she knows she looks best in muted light. Take her outside into the light of day and be prepared for an encounter with a Sea Donkey.

I'm not saying that I'm Brad Pitt, nor am I expecting Megan Fox to pick me online. Still, if a woman's pictures portray her as slender, of silky smooth complexion and showoff some stellar cleavage, that's what I expect to see when we meet up.  I'm not saying that any of those things are my requirements. Candidly, I'm drawn to long hair, pretty eyes and a sexy smile. I've dated women who were slender, had a few extra pounds, some with cleavage, some without. My core requirements are more about her inner beauty than her outward appearance...within reason.

By the same token, I've dated some women who were fairly attractive on the outside, but were dysfunctional, sociopathic, materialistic, narcissists on the inside.

I know most people assume that men my age want to date 25 year old hot co-eds and perhaps deep down, I'm trying to stay close to that. That is not the case at all. I just want the woman in the pictures to match what her online profile says.

Just once, I'd like to read a profile like this: "Self absorbed narcissist who is mildly good looking, surgically enhanced and commitment-phobic, seeking a deaf, mute, billionaire with a bodyguard physique and a terminal illness. Must be willing to sign a one-way prenup benefitting me and be willing to support me in the lifestyle I think I deserve."  It sure would be a more accurate description, at least of one of my ex's.

Being in Marketing, I can appreciate the notion of highlighting your best attributes. Hell, I'm the King of Spin when it comes to certain things so I can appreciate the irony here. My point is that the dating process is time consuming...and expensive.  The ladies don't care because I never see them reaching for the check...they get a free meal out of it and I'm totally ok with that. Money isn't the issue, it's time, and my time is far more valuable to me than it apparently is to some of these ladies.

Telling somebody you're something you're not becomes readily apparent sooner than you think. A woman who tells me she's a Christian yet treats her parents like peasants is not a good Christian. The behaviorial tells take longer to discover than misrepresented photos, though.

I can highlight many examples of dating experiences where the woman in the photos simply didn't look anything like the woman who showed up on the date.  Fine. Maybe it was photoshopped or maybe some people look better on camera than in real life. It's kind of like the hamburgers you see in commercials: I know darn well that when I peel back the buns and look at the meat, it's not going to look anything like the picture and the lettuce will be old and wilted...I get it...I'm in marketing.

For the record, I'm ok with push up bras, false eyelashes, high heels, support panty hose, whatever. If my patent for inflatable men's underwear gets approved, we men can play that game too. That's not the issue.

The issue is simply this: if you're trying to find a good match online, it is in everyone's best interests to be as accurate as possible in your description of who you are.  You may not need to disclose every personal detail about your life in cyberspace, but you should at least be a fair representation of what your present.  Telling someone you're "college educated" when really you mean "cosmetology school" educated is not being accurate. Surely such a woman knows that any intelligent man will grow tired of you in a short period of time, unless of course, he's just dating you based on your looks.

That brings up another topic: appearances.  I've had women show up on both end of extremes on a first date. A woman that shows up looking shabby, unprepared or late simply isn't getting a second date. A woman wouldn't tolerate this of a man, so I think I'm being reasonable.

The issue of physical appearance is a hot button for both sexes. Everyone agrees that there must be mutual chemistry, but this is on a sliding scale. I'm pretty sure that the Elephant Man wouldn't be holding out for Angelina Jolie, so you get the picture. 

Still, some of my more delusional hamsters seem to be holding out for Brad Pitt. I find this amusing given what they have to offer. A 42 year old woman who works at the makeup counter at Nordstrom's, divorced, with two young kids at home can hardly expect a Brad Pitt type to choose her, no matter how pure she is inside.

Conversely, men in this age category tend to date for sport...and they're looking for young, hot, dumb girls. If you're a young, hot, dumb girl, expect to be used and don't hold out for the guy to marry you.  It just isn't going to happen.  By the same token, if you're an older, well to do gentleman living in a big house in Corona Del Mar and you truly believe that you're 30 year old hairdresser girlfriend loves you for you, you're dumber than she is.

This all brings me back to my original point: that both parties should state what they're looking for and what they offer (or don't offer) as early as possible. Screening through phone conversations ahead of a first date is one practice I'm going to enforce diligently, for sure.  Clear, open communication better be present from the get-go and if it isn't, I've lost my taste for reading between the lines, deciphering pre-menstrual banter or post hormonal assertions. 

I'm trying to remain calm, but I'm seriously considering lobbying the Obama administration for warning labels to be attached to all single men and women outlining their defects (my warning label would have to be printed on the back of a coat tie). 

Alternatively, can't someone make a mobile app using facial recognition software that will allow us single people to review each other?  Imagine if you can snap a pic of a Hamster at a club and pull her dating history, testimonials from ex's, credit score, criminal history, recent blood test, likes, dislikes, religion and job history.

A mobile app like that could've saved me hundrends of thousands of dollars...possibly millions.

I'm seriously considering bringing a long-form written test to my first dates. It'd be a quick meet up at Starbucks and while I'm sipping a Chai Tea Latte, my Hamster can put that #2 pencil to good use on a quick, 100 question personal profile quiz. If she matches my answers, we can move on to the polygraph test.  Or maybe there's already a mobile app for this, too.

Define "Stupid"

There are many ways to define "stupid." Actions, words, lack of education, but whatever method you use to define stupidity is your choice.  For our purposes, let's just use the word "stupid" to describe someone who just hasn't learned how to say or do a certain thing intelligently.

We've all said or done something stupid. Some of us have even dated someone stupid. Of course, we didn't know they were stupid going in, we just made excuses for them. "Oh, he's more book smart than street smart." Or, "oh, English is a second language for her, so she just misspoke."

All of those may have been true in certain circumstances but sometimes, you just have to realize that you're dating a stupid person.

Since I started dating back in the 80's, I've had more than my share of stupid women in my life. Some of their words are indellibly etched in my brain. As much as I love to use quotes from my idol Winston Churchill, I prefer instead to regurgitate the priceless gems uttered by some of my less cerebral suitors.

I suppose you're all expecting me to share some of these ramblings....but seeing how I'm a gentleman and all, that wouldn't be appropriate. 

Screw that...you know me better, so here they are in no particular order:

1) VIRGINITY
I dated this blonde little hottie when I was about 24.  She was 19. We were on a long drive somewhere and had time to kill.  We discussed really only two topics on the drive: Zodiac signs and sexual preferences.  She couldn't speak intelligently on either topic as she seemed to be utterly clueless about the subject matter.  After a disagreement about the importance of Astrology, it grew silent.  Finally, I broke the silence by asking her if she was a virgin. Her reply? 'No, I'm a Sagitarian.'  WTF?  Of course, I made sure she was neither by the end of the weekend.

2) DIRECTIONS
Every man and woman has had this argument: men suck at asking for directions. Some women insist that GPS was invented BY women FOR men. I disagree. I can count on one hand the number of women I know that can tell you which direction they're headed, even at sunset. Which brings me to next dingbat. This one was street smart...in fact, she seemed pretty sharp overall. Still, sometimes, people have that ONE thing they're NOT good at.

Case in point: On a drive through Malibu while headed to a party, I asked my GF to look at the map to help me see if we had missed our turn. This was pre-navigation system days, so we had a Thomas Brother's Guide in the car. It was sunset and we were about to be late to a party. She angrily proclaimed 'I don't even know which way we're pointing, so I don't think I can help. Why don't you pull over and ask for directions?' 

Mind you, the sun was setting on our left.  We're on PCH....in California.  Passing Malibu. And you don't know which way we're pointed?  I politely pointed all of this out. Her response was to roll down the window.  Did she fart or was she trying to get a whiff of the jet stream to determine our relative position?  Perhaps she had a sextant up her skirt.

By this time, I'm laughing my ass off. She was laughing too, eventually calming down to the point that she was going to try to help. Finally, she utters this gem "Let's see...we're going up hill, so we're going North."  WTF?!?  I had to pull over for that one.  "So you mean that because we're going up hill, we can ONLY be going north? By that logic, there are no down hill sections of road anywhere between us and the north pole?"  I promptly explained to her some basic navigation skills.

When we broke up, her next car came with navigation. She had replaced me with a GPS.  Talk about a blow to my ego.

3) HISTORY FAIL
At one point in my life, I settled in to a wonderful relationship with an amazing young woman. We did everything together, even got ready for work together. Part of our morning routine was to switch on CNN in the morming while we dressed for work. On this particular morning (circa 1991), CNN was announcing changes to the Russian currency.  Since communism had recently ended in Russia, seems they were going on about taking 'Lenin's picture off the Russian Ruble.'  My lady was astonished, 'what? they're taking his picture off the Ruble? Why is John Lennon's picture on Russian money anyway?'  Holy shit. "Honey, are you kidding? Did you have history in school? Were you sick that day?  It's Vladimir Lenin, leader of the Bolsheviks, the dude who started the communist movement in Russia. Ring a bell?" 'Oh I just that it was a tribute to him because they did that "Back in the USSR" song."

4) PHYSICS FAIL
Living with a girl at my beautiful house in Ladera Ranch meant some great backyard pool parties. On one occassion, my GF decided to handle the barbecue duties. Every woman knows that the barbecue is man country. We don't mess with your tampons, you don't mess with our grill. It should be a constitutional amendment, in fact.

In any case, my GF decided that since the grill didn't light properly by using the built in igniter, she'd let the barbecue "warm up" by letting the gas run for about a minute before she actually lit the barbecue. All of this was unbeknownst to me because I was in the shower at the time.

As I'm walking out the screen door to the backyard, I'm overcome by the smell of gas...a signal that SHE interpreted to mean that the barbecue was "ready."  She promptly inserted the ligher between the grates and FWOOOOOSH!  All of this happened in a second...I had no time to react. Fortunately, no one was hurt but her hair was singed badly.  She ran into the bathroom, genuinely scared. When she emerged to our waiting guests, all she could worry about was whether or not her missing bangs were noticeable. 'Can you tell me hair is shorter in the front?'  Everyone was too busy laughing under their breath.  Finally, I replied, "honey...no one really notices your missing bangs.  Mostly because we can't stop looking for your eyebrows."  She ran into our bedroom and cried for an hour. I was there, by her side, explaining the principles of combustion, gases and flame propagation. I thought she was listening intently when finally, after a long pause, she said 'I've got it down now. From now on, YOU handle the barbecue.' 

5) PHYSICS FAIL II
One of the same ladies above gave me this story:

One day, while washing my car next to my garage, my GF noted that my garden hose was leaking profusely at the spigot. In another words, where the hose fastened to the fixture coming out of the wall, it leaked around the collar (for those who don't know what a spigot is).

She says 'Oh, why is your hose leaking so much?' I replied "I ran over the end of it with the car."

She spent the next five minutes looking at my bumper/fender and the hose end, trying to figure out how I got my car UP on the wall of the house to run over the wall-mounted spigot.

I finally figured out what she was doing when I said to her, "dear, the hose was on the floor when I ran over the end of it. I THEN mounted it to the spigot."  I could hear the Hamster wheel in her head spinning but eventually, the light went on.

6) CAR KNOWLEDGE
I don't expect any woman to know much about cars. It's not their thing and it's readily accepted that the cars in a family are the man's responsibility. Yes, I know some chicks are great with cars, but other than a couple of cute Asian rally/drift drivers I know, I wouldn't date any of them.

Nevertheless, it's always hysterical to me when a woman tries to debate with me about her car issue. Invariably, the discussion of my past with cars ALWAYS comes up and you'd THINK that most women would just accept my advice.

I would happily accept advice from a woman on cleaning internal orifices given that they have experience, so when I offer up advice on diagnosing or handling a car situation, damn it, I expect any woman I date to take it.

Not this Hamster.

This Hamster calls me one day telling me she'll be late for our meetup. When I ask why, she says 'I  think I have a flat tire.'  Hmmm.... flat tires are pretty cut and dry, so either it's flat or way low on air pressure and about to be flat. I promptly ask her to text me a picture.  Her reply? 'I'm on the freeway, I'll text you when I get off the freeway.'  Trying to remain calm, I promptly explain to her that it's in her best interest to get off and stop someplace safe within the next 60 seconds.  She does so, then texts me a picture.  The tire completely flat. She calls me back and says 'Is it serious?'  I of course explained to her that she would need her spare installed and that I'd head over to take care of it for her. Her reply had me laughing for the next two days: 'Can't I keep driving? It's only flat on the bottom!' 

In fairness, NONE of these women were stupid...they just didn't have knowledge on particular topics. All these women are today, high functioning, gainfully employed and happy. All of them made me happy in one way or another, so I tell these stories to remind me that not everyone can know everything about everything.

I have to further remind myself that as silly as these comments seemed to me at the time, I'd look equally silly trying to discuss the semblance of Star Trek's predictions to today's reality to an Astrophysicist. 

We're all smart in our own ways. And we're all not so smart to others. I accept this about myself....and I need to learn to accept it of others.

My Friends' Advice

How often have we all listened to a friend's advice in one point of our lives? Sometimes, it takes decades of life experiences to get enough clarity to see that they're more screwed up than you are. 

Many of my friends have been close to me for decades. Some give better advice than others, but all are funny and they all likewise care about my happiness. 

Still, I have to wonder if they're really more messed up than I am, more lacking social graces or are just generally having fun at my expense. 

I have two friends that obsessed with breasts, another believes that sexual performance means the most and several others who are more reasonable. 

My female friends are now my primary sounding board, but I still marvel at some of my other friends' pearls of wisdom. 

Allow me to cite a few examples:

When I complained to friend once about the wild food my Chinese girlfriend enjoyed, he suggested that I try out the sex with her ASAP. His reasoning was that if she ate gross food, shed put anything in her mouth and the sex would be wild. Amazing reasoning. 

I once told my friend I was having trouble choosing between two ladies. He simply asked which had a better rack. I refused to answer, noting that both were ample. His advice? Be wary of a skinny girl with a big rack...she'll always grow into them. 

On another occasion, I was pontificating that one gal I was dating was a bit too freaky for my tastes. My friend's suggestion was that I only stay over on nights when her daughter was home, that way there would be limits to how wild she got. 

The worst advice I got was from another friend that suggested I was spending too much on lavish dinner dates. He simply sent me a link to a website...for hookers. 

In all seriousness, much of this advice is offered tongue in cheek, but it shows how some men think. This is probably why I don't share details with my male friends, nor do I seek their advice much. 

Still, one could argue that I could hardly do much worse as of late.  My dating calendar had largely settled into a mundane but pleasant routine of dating fairly stable, interesting women who were mostly normal. 

I had come close to finding a good one a couple of times, but the more time that passed, the more I saw we weren't compatible. 

The simple fact is that every woman is different and the older we get, the more we should be in tune with what our true measures of compatibility are for us as individuals. 

The failure for a dating relationship to progress is not necessarily an indication that there's anything wrong with a person, just that they're not a good fit for each other. 

There's a saying in the car business: "There's a butt for every seat." 

I guess my question is, I've seen plenty of butts, when am I going to bring home a keeper."

If you think about it, finding a mate is like buying a car. You cruise the places where the new models are on display. You become interested and learn a little more. You go online and try to find reviews by others. Then, you take it for a test drive. Is it a high maintenance model?  What's the monthly maintenance cost? How many miles on it? Does it carry a lot of baggage? Is the trunk the right size? Is she built for speed or she good for long distance? Have there been a lot of previous owners? And most of all, what are you going to have to trade to land the deal you want?

It shouldn't be that way. I still believe you should like what you like and there are no warranties, expressed or implied. While you might consider all of the above, just remember that people are like cars: they may not be perfect, but with a strong attachment on an emotional level, nearly all flaws can be handled with a little work.  Or a good lube job, as my friends might suggest. 

Happy motoring. 

Faith Restored

Every once in awhile, someone comes along to restore your faith in humanity, or at least in the opposite sex. 

I'm fortunate enough that I have the friendship of many such people. Several of them read my blog, just happen to be female and all of them have had a profound effect on my life. 

Among people I call friends are ladies with whom I have decades of history. Some are ex girlfriends, some are old classmates and some just people that impacted my life along the way. 

Many of them have shared with me their own tales of relationship challenges and I've learned a great deal from them. We all have one thing in common, if nothing else: we're all human and as such, we're not above making a mistake despite seeing the warning signs. 

They say you should live life without regrets but I don't think that's realistic. I've stayed too long in a bad relationship or two, I've let a good one go (just recently) and somehow, I've managed to take the lessons I've learned to try to better myself. 

Everyone needs good friends, especially during rough times. Sometimes, a friend just needs to vent and sometimes, they genuinely want your advice. Universally, they don't want judgments and speaking for myself, I certainly don't want to them to tell me what they think I want to hear. 

I've had the opportunity to view the damage done by friends telling you what you want to hear. Supporting one blindly only feeds the narcissistic tendencies in some so for me, I'd much rather hear things like 'what did you learn from this?'

Self reflection is a good thing, but only if its honest and deeply introspective. Fake friends are no friends at all and taking relationship advice from anyone not introspective enough to openly share where they went wrong is probably not advisable. 

Fortunately, I don't have people in my life like that. 

I can appreciate the notion of a friend being supportive, but there has to be a balance. Each person must take responsibility for their own actions and carefully examine what they did, right or wrong, to influence the outcome of their relationship. 

They say that every romantic relationship fails except the last one you're in. But is it really a failure if you take the lessons learned to heart?  

And I've learned something from every relationship.  More importantly, I learn from my friends. 

While we all make mistakes, it's what we learn from them that fosters true personal growth. 

One lesson I've learned the hard way is that you can't change a person that thinks they are without flaws. Another is that birds of a feather flock together. But the most enduring lesson has been to recognize my own flaws and how I must suppress them better when faced with adversity.  

By no means will we ever be perfect. But we're all human and what separates us from other life forms is the ability for self improvement.  In short, if you identify something you don't like about yourself, change it. If you find something you don't like about someone else, decide whether or not you can accept it. If not, don't even try.  In the end, you're the one who will come off looking bad. 

An Angry Woman is a Celibate Woman

One of the fundamental differences between men and women is how we are hardwired. This was the topic of discussion between me and a woman friend of mine. 

The discussion started with the topic of sex drive differences between men and women. Generally, most will agree that men are known for having a higher sex drive than a woman. In fact, it’s almost an accepted norm of society. 

Statistics back this up, too, as study after study bolsters this analysis. A women’s libido is powerfully connected to her emotions….in other words, her mood. Piss her off and the man will find himself high and dry more often than not. A man, on the other hand, is a much more simplistic creature: if she’s up for it, we’re up for it, nine times out of ten.

However, the woman with whom I was discussing this noted that she was not hardwired that way. In fact, she asserted that even when her man upset her, she could envision almost no scenario in which she’d turn down intimacy.

Her thought process was that this was one of life’s simple pleasures and that if one is having a bad day, a little physical intimacy was sure to make it better.

I couldn’t agree more.

But surely she must recognize that she is the exception to the rule. In fact, I can cite example after example how an angry woman is a celibate woman.

Take my ex wife, for example. Her libido factored in all the occurrences on all the days since our last encounter prior to “being in the mood” for a fresh encounter. Disqualifying infractions included everything from leaving the toilet seat up to leaving the pull tab from a milk jug on the counter.

Of course, it wasn’t that way when we were dating. Short of cheating on her, there was virtually nothing I could do to dissuade her from enjoying intimacy.

That lead me to some reflection and statistical analysis of my past relationships to see if I could spot a trend. Not so much a trend as to whether or not making a woman angry reduced her sex drive…it does and science backs it up…but just exactly how far could a man go in upsetting his mate before she turns off all access.

I’ve compiled a list of the top five things I’VE done to get shut out from various women:

#5 Hiding all of her granny panties in the same closet in which we keep the vacuum cleaner (in my defense, I thought she’d neverfind them there.)

#4 Asking for extra large condoms at the Pharmacy counter while she was picking up medicine for a sore throat.

#3 Walking around a pile of dog poo in the family room for three days (I plead entrapment. She knew it was there before I did.)

#2 Telling a woman that her sister had a nicer rack than she did. (in my defense, they were real…and they were spectacular)

#1 And, after my son was born, when the doctor was giving her an episiotomy, I asked him to add a couple of extra stitches. In front of her mother. (for the record, I knew I was shut out for six weeks anyway, so I figured “what the hell?”)

For the life of me, I can't figure out what went wrong in any of those relationships. 

Effer-Ware

Many years ago, Amway was one of the multi level marketing schemes touring suburban circles. I always viewed Amway as sort of a cult, similar to the way some view Scientology:things just didn't add up for me. After all, if something is that great, you shouldn't have to chase recruits.

My neighbors Phil and Dana were into Amway in a big way. Although he had mentioned to me, he never tried to force it on me. I respected him for that, so when he introduced me and my GF to another couple, I felt at ease about joining them for a presentation on another money making venture. 

Sam and Tracy were also neighbors and we shared many things in common, including gorgeous female mates and the referral to the new business opportunity came from them. We agreed at their insistence, partly because we just thought they were cool people. 

The big night came and we were taken to a nice house in the suburbs. There were about 8 other cars there and all were upscale European models.  I was feeling reasonably confident that this was worth investigating further. 

In we walked to a large living room with muted lighting, black lights in several fixtures and the smell of incense.  

Ok, a little weird. 

We were escorted to a large family room by a hostess wearing a skin tight short dress. She was a stunning blonde and went by the name of "Montana." As a side note, any woman named after a state or a city is destined for a life of porn, based on my years of experience. 

But I digress. 

Once in the family room, the other guests came into view. They were all seated facing a long, narrow table upon which there were lotions, lubricants and sex toys large enough to satisfy equestrian mammals. There were versions ranging from mild to wild, some took two batteries, some took four and the granddaddy of them all probably needed a small nuclear reactor. 

I suddenly realized that this was no TupperWare party. In fact, it was an "effer-ware" party. Guests were invited to get into the growing business of "adult toy sales and distribution."   

Stunned, I tried to think of graceful ways to flee the building. Since my GF and I arrived late, we were seated near the front of the room. 

Our hostess "Montana" took the last chair, a white folding one, at the front of the room. Placing her feet on the coffee table as if it was a set of stirrups, she promptly began demonstrating one of the toys as she gave her reasons why this was a great business venture. 

The other women all approached her as if it get a better look, or perhaps to give her a "hand."

As I looked to my left to tell my GF that we could leave whenever she wanted, I noticed she was missing. 

Apparently, while I had covered my eyes, she had slipped in with the crowd and made her way to the front of the room. 

There she was, bent over, watching this escapade, keenly focused on the techniques displayed. I could no longer hear what was being said, partly due to the "oohs" and "ahhs" emanating from our hostess, but perhaps more so from the loud buzz of the device itself. 

Behind me, the men sat totalky entranced, making jokes and changing angles for a better view. 

I found myself wandering around the table reading the inventory and price list as if I were actually interested. 

Joined by two other fellows, I was told that most of the couples here were all swingers. 

In social situations to which I had been accustomed, I'm usually talking car stats with new friends.  On this night, we were sharing girlfriend stats as if we trading baseball cards. As the guys chatted about their gf's stats, I was eventually asked about my gf's "assets."  

Strangely, I found myself talking her up as if I were actually interested in a swap and what she could "bring to the party."

Next came the pictures. You guessed it, these men had Polaroids of their home "apparatus."  The "guy" in me marveled at their technology and improvisation. The real me found the whole thing amusing and disturbing. 

I pondered what trait I had displayed to make Sam and Tracy think that I'd be even remotely up for this type of activity or these types of devices. I came up short, no pun intended. 

Somehow, I got through the evening. As the event was winding down...or perhaps the batteries were dead...it was time to say goodbye. 

The ride home was in total silence. I was mortified and embarrassed. I thought for sure my GF would be highly upset with me. 

Upon arriving home, my GF and I retreated to separate rooms. About 30 minutes later, I was summoned to the bedroom. I was sure the argument would ensue. 

In I walked into the bedroom with the scent of incense. There was muted lighting and black lights in most of the light fixtures. At the front of the room was a white folding chair. you can imagine the rest. 

After that, there was never a full package of batteries in our house again. 

Married to a Hamster, Part I

Back in the late 1990’s, I was pursuing my car hobby with great zeal and enthusiasm. One of the activities that brought me pleasure besides racing these cars was taking them to car shows. The car show community in Southern California was a tight knit bunch back then and even though the internet was just getting going, already cliques were forming.

The way it worked back then is that you typically joined a “crew,” which was little more than a group of people that had similar interests. They were comprised mostly of men and women in their 20’s and 30’s. The crew with which I affiliated myself was called “ArtNMotion” and like all other crews, we had rivals.

 

My Hamster was an affiliate of one of the rival crews and I had seen her a few times at the shows. A few years later, we reconnected at an event series. I was a Pro Driving Instructor and she was a “booth bunny,” which was really more like a Product Specialist who spoke from a prepared script about a vehicle on display. She was an American Born Chinese lady in her early 30’s.

When I became single again, we reconnected as friends and hung out in the same group. Somehow, this segued into dating adventures where she was sweet, romantic and attentive. A few things concerned me, such as the fact that she had no driver’s license, had never owned a car and still lived at home at 34 years of age. She had a son while attending an all-girls’ Catholic school (who was, by that time, nearly ready for college) and this son had never lived with her. In retrospect, it was probably a sign of something, but she did have a close relationship with him. Of further concern was that she worked for a retail franchise that sold basically nothing more than trinkets and trash revolving around a famous cartoon character. She had been in the same job for 17 years.

 

As a pretty young lady, she had done some modeling herself which, come to find out, included “implied nude” modeling. Today, I’d immediately classify that as a bonafide Hamster, but in 2005, I wasn’t that savvy. She had her own website, her own MySpace and “fans” to whom she sent pictures…and worn undergarments (as I found out much later on.)  Our early dating life included several trips to Hawaii, which we both enjoyed. On probably the fourth trip, she suggested we get married on a beach on Hawaii. I thought that was a great idea….I didn’t realize that she meant on THIS trip. Her reasoning was that we had already been together almost two years, had known each for six years before and we needn’t bother with a big fancy, wedding, as she had few friends and only a couple of living relatives. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say, but I was swept up in it and I relented. After all, the pre marital sex was beyond stellar and we genuinely had fun together. I didn’t see much in the way of red flags, other that there was a past of which she was not proud.

 

At first, things were just fine, as very little changed.  Over time, she grew more distant and more focused on trying new things, from Yoga to gardening. This gal also fancied herself as a photographer and liked to photograph other women. Encouraging her to get behind the camera rather in front of it, we set her up with a studio in my house and all the gear necessary to run a photography business. Unfortunately, she never really fully immersed herself, but it did impress my neighbors to see so many beautiful young ladies parading in and out of my house….and made for some great stories.

 

One day, I came home a little early. As I entered the foyer, I immediately noticed the photography lighting and strewn about. To my surprise, as I looked toward the staircase, I was greeted by a fully nude young lady, upside down, sprawled out on the stairs. I of course knew what was going on, so I said aloud “honey, it’s not even my birthday!” which of course was not well received by my Hamster.

 

I retired to the living room until the session was over. After a few hours of me pondering what my life had become, I got some clarity. After a scant year together, this woman and I were virtually roommates. There was no intimacy, even less discussion and she was wholly consumed with activities like gardening, cooking fresh organic food for her two little rat dogs. The trips had stopped, the romance had stopped and furthermore, she was disappearing on weekends for “modeling” shows, yet could never produce photos from the sessions.

 

After another 8 or 9 months, things had deteriorated further and I sensed that she was miserable being away from her family, who were living in San Francisco. Despite driving there six times a year, it wasn’t enough. On the last trip, I dropped her off and she stayed another six months up there before we agreed to the split up.

 

She had left most of her personal belongings behind, so we eventually had to arrange to get them moved up to her. She asked me to pack everything and so I did so in earnest, wanting to close this chapter of my life. As I started to pack up her desk, I noticed a day planner full of sticky notes protruding from the binder. Curious, I looked inside to discover a long roster of men’s names with monthly tallies on dollar figures next to them. Chronicled further was a list of their fetishes and rough outlines of dialog trails they had had. This was before the iPhone days, so keeping a text trail on a Motorola flip phone was far different than it is today. From what I could read, she was “sexting” these men to “completion” after which they’d PayPal her a donation. The practice is called being a “Money Slave.” The things she texted far exceeded any talk we had during intimacy session, so I was taken aback. 

 

I’m not sure which part disturbed me more: the fact that she was capable of doing this, but not for me, or the fact that thousands of dollars were coming in that I knew nothing about. Suffice to say, it certainly strengthened my resolve to terminate the relationship.

 

In the end, I learned a very valuable lesson: just because she believes in wild pre marital sex doesn’t mean she believes in any form of post marital sex.