This is the 11th installment of my Adventures in Dating series, and yet somehow only episode 9. It's as perplexing as Herman Cain's candidacy only my approval ratings are higher. (We do share a similar grasp of foreign policy.) You can dig on episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 , 7 revisited and 8 here.
First of all, I take umbrage with a comment I received regarding the Oompa Loompa. Umbrage, I say.
A friend, who shall remain nameless but who I call "Chad" because that's his name, mentioned to Derek that the Oompa Loompa sounded as though he would've been fun to date.
Umbrage alert!
Um...no. The very fact that you think this makes me wonder if I took it too easy on the OL in my post. When I mentioned that his eHarmony profile made a big show of his wealth, what I meant was that it was a big show. As in make-believe, like my enthusiasm for skiing or how I never make my pets wear costumes.
Look, maybe this makes me seem shallow, but your girl here, desperate or not, had no intention of hitching her wagon to someone needing financial assistance. Been there, done that. Twice. And have the collection of last names to prove it. Trust me, this ain't no soup kitchen.
So maybe this is a good time to lay out what my requirements were...just so we're all on the same judgey page here.
Originally, I described my perfect man thusly: A childless billionaire quadraplegic octogenarian in failing health. I'd be unable to seal the deal, you see...and therefore exempt from it. And there'd be no meddling kids to take me to court once he joined Uncle Marty and the angels. The world would never find out that I was once an "exotic" dancer in a crappy bar in Mexia, Texas before rising to international fame as a Playmate and Guess model.
Oh wait, there I go channeling Anna Nicole Smith again. Hey, we all have our role models.
When my match.com suitors revealed themselves to be a largely shiftless lot with ridiculously large trucks, even larger mustaches and fake British accents-- but no billions-- I realized I might have to redefine my requirements. And so, in no particular order, here they are. Or were. I'm having trouble with tense.
- You must be at least 5'8" to ride this ride. I once carried on an email conversation with a super-cute guy named Darius for about a week. We made it all the way to the planning-the-date stage before I noticed his profile listed his height as 5'4". I'm 5'2"...but consistently wear 4" heels. And if I can't climb you like a tree, what's the point?
- You must be gainfully employed. In this instance, "gainfully" is code for a six-figure income. Otherwise there is no gain for me. Dabblers need not apply.
- You must own real estate. When you tell me that you rent an apartment "by choice" because ownership is such a hassle, it makes my nostrils flare. It makes me want to stand, point at you and yell "LIAR!" If you meet the requirement immediately above, there's no freaking way you are "choosing" to rent. You're over 40. Own it. And some real estate.
- You must not overuse "LOL" while texting. If you feel the need to say things like "I had ribs for lunch...lol" then all I have to say is "TTFN." Lol.
- You must have a firm command of the English language. If you are unsure of when to use "your" versus "you're" or are fond of the dangling modifier, I cannot hold a conversation with you, written or otherwise. Husband #1 used to use the term "that's a mute point." 'Nuff said.
- You must be masculine. It's fine if you like pina coladas, just don't order one unless we're alone (aside from staff) on your yacht. Getting caught in the rain is a bonus.
- You must not have tattoos. I get the whole attraction of tats. It's just that, should we ever need to go on the lam, you will become a liability with such an identifiable mark.
- Your credit card must not be declined on our third date. Sadly, this happened. With a man who represented himself as owning a company that charters flights and sells aircraft. Um...yeah. Me too. I'm selling a helicopter as I write this.
- You must be funny. And not a little funny-- a LOT funny. I once dated a very tall guy (6'5"-- he met the tree-climbing requirement, seriously, I had to stand on my running board to kiss him goodnight) who I mistook as funny because we laughed alot during our first 4 dates. What I finally realized, at approximately 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve when there was no escape from the evening until midnight, was that he wasn't funny. I was funny-- and I was laughing at my own jokes. Should old acquaintance be forgot indeed.
But my mama didn't raise no quitters...and so onward I slogged. And now onward I blog.
