Monday, October 24, 2011

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7 Revisited: The Time I Killed Uncle Marty

I have a horrible habit of going back to my previous posts and reading and re-reading them and obsessing about how I could have written each one better.  I usually decide to leave them alone and remind myself that I'm not actually getting paid for this and perhaps I should put a bit more time into my paying gig... but this time Stacy reminded me that I forgot to mention Freddie's "Uncle Marty."


I've never been a murderer before, so it's possible I blocked this from my memory.

As you may recall, Freddie was either a 14-year old boy, a wheelchair-bound hunchbacked shut-in with 4-inch long fingernails who saved his scabs, or a slightly overweight old-fashioned millionaire with an affinity for gummi snacks.  I wish I could be more specific, but I'm apparently not a good judge of character.  So that's pretty much as far as I can narrow the field. 

So yes, Freddie was freaking me out... and because I lacked the sense of self to say "Hey, this isn't a match for me," I just became very busy.  Most of us have been on the wrong side of the "I'm just not that into you" equation, so it's not surprising that the Fredster recognized the pattern.  And so suddenly and without warning, "Uncle Marty's" health began to fail.

"Who the hell is 'Uncle Marty?'" you may find yourself asking.  I know I did.  But the heretofore unmentioned "Uncle Marty" was apparently one of the guiding forces in young Frederick's life and it was destroying him to watch his loved one die.  Had he ever mentioned this relationship before in the hours and hours we spent talking?  No.  But a man's heart is like the ocean... Oh wait, that's not quite right.  A man's heart is directly tied to his penis and when the catch of the day starts making a run on the end of the line, a man's penis has to stand strong.

Am I mixing metaphors all over the place?  You bet.  I'm in uncharted waters here.

I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Freddie.

Because last Fall I was a complete tool, I of course replied with a series of platitudes that would have made a glittery little coffee cup greeting card proud.  Did I suspect that "Uncle Marty" was no more real than the $32 million, the fishing boat, and the buff physique from twenty years ago?  Absolutely. And hence the unnecessary quotation marks around his name.

But I couldn't risk it.
So each time I faded away, Freddie trotted out the plight of "Uncle Marty" and each time I did the "right" thing by serving up a bunch of banalities which simply continued our conversation... much to the delight of his little stalking, creepy (and quite likely) enlarged heart. 

When I finally stopped replying, it should come as no surprise, "Uncle Marty" died.  In fact, the way Freddie described it in his poorly-spelled and mercilessly punctuated email, "Uncle Marty" joined the angels.

I tried to feel something, other than abject terror that this freakshow had my home address.  I'm a nice person.  You know, deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and judginess and dating sanctimoniousness.  But all I felt was relief that "Uncle Marty's" pain was over and that meant mine was too.

As I write this, The Boy is researching Freddie.  He says it's because he wants to keep me safe...but I suspect he's also curious to know if my Haribo Hero was for real...if there was $32 million, an Uncle Marty, any of it.

Admit it-- you're a little curious too.

The last time Freddie contacted me (which I think was roughly 6 weeks ago, so look for an update in two weeks), he invited me to lunch again.  Stacy BEGGED me to go so we'd have some new material...but as much as I love that girl, I don't want to find myself chained up in a well in someone's basement, putting the lotion on my skin. 

If only had allowed videos then.  On a side note, I had that poodle's haircut in 1985.

Call me selfish.


  1. I would agree to meet for drinks and have Derek in the bar with you to take photos...I would also think about moving if you decide to take that plunge. Seriously? How you gonna give out your address. Not that he couldn't have done a simple Google search to find you.

  2. Proof positive that Uncle Marty was, in fact, real. This is how you killed him. Sick bitch.