Mar 06 2011
Greetings Picky Ones:
I suppose there are women who really love to date. Considering the number of men I have met and dated, one would presume that I enjoy it as well. While, of course, it can be quite palatable at times, it can also suck up more precious time than any activity known to womankind. It is a means to an end. I love being in a relationship. Dating? Not so much.
The first man to ever make my hormones rage was Tony. Beautiful dark-haired, athletic, sensitive, gorgeous Tony. But when he married the school’s prettiest cheerleader, Victoria, right after high school, I forced myself to move ahead. That’s when I met Mr. Charisma, Jim: the player. I busted him on our third date when he showed up an hour and a half late with “bed hair.” I wasn’t terribly familiar with “bed hair” at nineteen, but when I saw his shirt was buttoned incorrectly and smudged with honey beige foundation, I kind of knew he had been somewhere first. (Yes, I’m wickedly observant. Duh!)
On the flip side, I briefly dated a guy in college named Buddy (the most common dog name in the country, I think), and he was the opposite of Jim. Buddy wanted me to think that women everywhere were clamoring for him. On our second and last date, he purposely made sure I overheard his end of a phone conversation in which he was telling a woman that he just had to let her go, he had found his soul mate in me. He blathered on for a good ten minutes and I would have almost believed it had his phone not rang when he was fake talking on it. He looked mortified and told his mother he’d have to call her back.
Ah, and then there was Chuck. Boyishly charming and the son of a family friend. While going through a desperate-to-be-domestic stage, I invited the Chuckster for a gourmet dinner using my grandmother’s brass candelabrum as the centerpiece on my finely dressed table.
When Chuck “forgot” to bring the wine, I graciously excused myself and ran down to the liquor store, leaving Chuck alone with my precious Jack, who in his feline mastery, was always able to suss out whether or not I had made a good choice.
Upon my return, with two bottles of Columbia Crest Cabernet, I found Chuck sitting on the couch, cringing, as Jack sat in front of him, on the floor, hissing.
“Molly, your cat hates me. I thought ‘bright-eyed and bushy-tailed’ meant alert, not that a cat with bright eyes and a bushy tail wants to kill you.”
“Nothing, Molly. But I don’t like your cat.”
I counted to three and took a deep breath. Nobody insults my Jack. “You can go now, Chuck.”
“Oh, I’ll be glad to leave you and your savage orange beast,” he said. “Just one more thing, Molly. I don’t know who you’re buying your weed from, but it’s being cut with some real crap.”
I picked my jaw up off the ground and closed the door I was freakin’ gobsmacked. My weed dealer? Never smoked the stuff.
And then I saw it. The half-smoked joint lying on the counter. Right next to the plastic container of Jack’s catnip.
That’s all for this week, folks!
Yours in pickiness,