Actually, he lost me long before then. A good friend dragged me to her larger circle’s Happy Hour with the not-quite ulterior motive of matching me up with a single guy she knew. He’s smart! He’s funny! He’s 6’ 5"! He holds down a good job that he enjoys!
Okay, this is all good.
I get to meet him, Joe. He is all of these things. My ovaries begin to sing. I tell them to shut the hell up. All I want is a nice evening out, some funny conversation, and maybe the possibility of a date. The trouble with Joe? Even though he has an adorably big nose, muscles, and a fun-fun, laidback demeanor?
He’s about as deep the layer of skin cells lost when wiping one’s nose.
First topic: his best friend recently recommended (no, ordered) him to buy a new car, as his truck is ten years old. What car should he buy that will really interest the girls? (Note: girls. Girls, chicks, and pussy were the descriptive nouns. Women were never mentioned.) He’s willing to spend $50K and up.
I pointed out that $50K will get you a most awesome trip-around-the-world, a third of a decent starter house in our area, five or more years of extra retirement if invested now, ten arks of livestock through heifer.org, a bachelor’s degree worth of tuition at a state university, and any number of other things with more value than a rolling pussy magnet.
Second topic: drinking and how much fun it is. Why, just the previous weekend, when his best friend was visiting, they went to the local Taste of Town celebration (a big street fair with great food, live music, and other good stuff). And since he could walk home, he didn’t have to be at work the next day, and his buddy was there, well, he was practically required to get drunk, wasn’t he? So drunk, in fact, that when he tried to shoot hoops at one of the booths, he kept falling over. So drunk, that he thought nothing of tossing bottles of beer to the passersby under his third floor balcony, whether they were good at catching them or not. So drunk, that he saw nothing wrong with putting his amp and 18" subwoofer on his balcony and cranking it at 10:30 p.m. Even he was surprised the police didn’t pay him a visit. Also, there were comparisons between him and others at the table as to the last time they’d thrown up, blacked out, or woken up some place strange thanks to drinking.
But the topper was the drunk driving. You see, he didn’t feel really bad about driving home drunk when it was just two blocks. But half the time, he’d get behind the wheel, decide he really wanted a pizza, and drive four or five miles to the pizzeria he really liked. He felt guilty about that.
At this point, I suppose I should be glad that he had no interest in me other than passing conversation. The only “chicks” he found attractive were the barely legal waitresses, who I’ll admit, were darn cute. In that “feed her a sammich and get her a high school diploma” sort of way. Instead, I was irate. Irate enough that I apparently summoned and channeled the spirit of my sixty-two year old mother (wonder if anyone found her staring, glazed-eyed and slack-jawed, while her spirit inhabited my mouth), and started to say things like “Have you considered possibly dating a better class of women?” and “You do know that alcohol kills brain cells, right? You have that many to spare?”
I begged off, citing an upset stomach, checked my watch to make sure enough time had passed that my own alcoholic drink had been metabolized, went home, and looked at online porn. Well, not that much porn, but I did have to exorcize my mother’s spirit.
So, dear friend who invited me to Happy Hour, let’s get a couple things straight. Sure, I’d love to meet eligible single men somewhere near my age. It would be great if they’re intelligent, humorous, attractive (to me), and gainfully employed, but I’m going to have to add to that list THAT THEY NOT BE UTTER PILLOCKS!
Thank you.
