Dating Views from Where I'm Tied to the Windshield

Oh, dating. The joys of dating. The smooth, creamy, tasty, buttery, “I Can’t Believe You

Look Nothing Like Your On-Line PICTURE!” world of dating. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an “I,” isn’t it? Oh, I know, Reader, of what I write. I’ve been playing the primary part in my own dating dramadies for years.

When we last left our heroine (that’s me, you realize, Reader, not the drug; ladies, get your mind out of the streets), I was temporarily dating the Neverland nightmare known as Peter. Unbeknownst to me when I began dating this boy cleverly disguised as a large man, Peter the Pan was unemployed and still lived at home with his parents. It turns out he had always lived at home with Mommy and Daddy. He was 39 years old. He did not see my problem with this. I thought, perhaps, it could only have been a bigger problem if he were living with “The Lost Boys” while flying around looking for Tinkerbell and Captain Hook. I am pretty sure he was still breastfeeding.

I then moved on to a lovely dating spree where I first met confident, arrogant Richard. I thought he rather resembled every cartoon-evil-boyfriend I’d ever seen in a Disney animation. Rich picked me up while I was shopping at K-Mart, smoothly cornering my empty cart into a back aisle filled with home goods from The Martha Stewart collection. Never one to penalize a guy for using discounted house ware and Christmas clearance items as a means to make a connection, I agreed to meet him later that week.

Unfortunately, the aptly-named Richard tried to put his hands down my lovely new dress pants on our very first date, and while he was tall and handsome, and he himself thought he was gorgeous, I thought he was an idiot. I told him so. He told me “I’d be sorry....” That was five years ago. I am not sorry.

I met Arthur next, a big, bulging-muscles NYC cop. Arthur, in the on-line dating profile where I first encountered him, said he was 5’9.” As it turned out, in person Arthur’s actual height could have mathematically, scientifically, and accurately been no more than an imposing 5’4.” Apparently, the CAR that ol’ honest Art was standing in front of in his on-line picture was some sort of distorted photography deception, or perhaps simply a Hot Wheels or Matchbox toy. I am unclear as to which.

I towered over this muscular but diminutive man when we met for the first time at a trendy Manhattan outdoor cafe. The vertically-tiny officer sneered up at me as though I were an Amazon Woman meeting him at a coffee bar for the sole purpose of crushing the city under the heels of my ½” strappy summer sandals.

Arthur—“Art” to his friends, “Smurf Art” to me— told me I must really be taller than 5’6” as I had indicated in my profile. The wee cop accused me of lying about my height. “Why, yes, Arthur, one of us IS lying about our height, now aren’t they? Leapin’ Leprechauns, I wonder which one? Hmmmm….Hey, how is that, ‘I can’t grow UP so I will grow OUT Napoleon-complex thing going? Your biceps are larger than your head, but by all means, have another dumbbell.” Right. Take care, Arthur, and please be careful not to trip up the curb on your way out.

Aaah, Robert Baaas sashayed into my life next. I know, I know,

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Claudine Varriale
Lektorat: Claudine Varriale
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.03.2010
ISBN: 978-3-7438-2176-7

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
To all single women everywhere-- Chin up! It can't be as bad as THIS.