You Do What?
The first thing I have to admit is that I have totally forgotten his real name. That's pretty bad. We'll call him Troy. Don't ask me why I picked that, it just sounded good.
So, this guy sets himself up as a rugby player in his profile. He's tall and blonde and very Viking-like. All that testosterone and rugby vigor. He seemed hardy and rugged. I like that. I'm thinking "blond isn't really my type, but our babies would be unstoppable." What? Stuff like that really does cross my mind. I am an animal after all and you can't deny biology. I didn't actually want to have his babies in the same way that I totally want to have Chris Hemsworth's babies, but I wouldn't be worried about giving birth to total freaks if the situation were ever to arise. You're welcome for that picture, by the way. I don't care who you are, you should be able to appreciate that beauty. If you can't, check your pulse, you may be dead.
Anyway, he seemed kind of nerdy and geeky (like I like them to be) and we had some interesting things in common. We started talking and discovered a mutual love for beer and one particular beer bar downtown that has something like 400 varieties of beer. What's not to love about that? So, we agreed that we would meet there on a Thursday, I think.
So, I hired a sitter. Those people are serious about their jobs. She made as much as I did with a college diploma. He's not high-maintenance, this kid. He's eight. He's almost pretty self-sufficient, but I paid this woman a mint to come sit for me for a couple of hours so I could go out. All of you guys who are looking to date single moms, know that this is how it is. If she's paying someone to go out with you, then she's got to be pretty into you. Do not misrepresent yourself. She will not be happy.
So, I showed up at the appointed time to our little hole in the wall and found a pretty good parking spot where I fed the meter and parallelled my little Corolla in a spot the size of a postage stamp and held my pepper spray quite tightly on my way to the door. Rapists and muggers beware!
And when I get to the door, he's standing there and the only thing rugby about this guy is his shirt. He's standing outside, presumable waiting for me, I think, smoking a cigarette. I'm a runner and the mother of a child with asthma and allergies to everything. I am immediately thinking this guy will not get a second date. He's also chubby. He was not chubby in his pictures. He looked like a rugby player. This guy looked like he didn't know what sports were. Here I am, svelter than I have been since high school and this guy hasn't been to the gym in a coon's age. And despite the fact that none of his pictures revealed the fact, that white blonde hair was getting on toward getting gone. I mean, I'm no fox, but let's be honest, I'm way out of this guy's league.
Alright, I think. Perhaps he will redeem himself with his razor-sharp wit and professional success. I'm not intolerant, after all. So, I find out that he's a journalist. Okay, I can dig that. I do have that wee Associate's in the field, so we have that part in common. Then he says the dreaded word: freelance. If you don't know what that means, it means the same thing as unemployed. I am not actively rolling my eyes at this point, but I'm close.
So, he tells me that his mother is a tech writer (which is what I do professionally) and that she manages herself, so she's essentially self-employed. Well, that's really cool. She started out teaching English to the ignorant masses of young idiots and (also like myself) realized that she would 1.) Starve to death and 2.) Kill someone else's offspring, so she got out of that field and into tech writing. Okay, I'm following along. Your mom is awesome. Can I meet her?
So, while all of this is happening, we have each selected a beverage. I chose Hard Time Barleywine from my favorite brewery Jailhouse Brewery in Hampton, Georgia. I offered to share because it's the nice thing to do and since it comes in a large vessel, there was enough to share. Until I hadn't finished my first glass and he had worked down his second of my drink, thus finishing off the bottle and his was still sitting on the bar. I didn't even breathe fire at this point.
Now we're going to put the cherry on top and talk about the serious issue. He's 27, that's a good age-appropriate man for me. Then he tells me that he didn't get his driver's license until last year. Wait, back the fuck up for a second. You were 26 before you drove? Oh, there are extenuating circumstances? Please, do tell. So Troy goes into this rather understated story about how he's had epilepsy since birth and had brain surgery the year before to correct the issue. It worked! Yay him. Isn't that something you should mention? I don't know, it was like he was either intentionally down playing the fact that he had his head cut open or intentionally not saying anything about it at all. It just felt kind of deceptive. So, with all the other information that had surfaced, I felt like I should pay for my drink and go home.
That's exactly what I did. I paid for the drink he drank most of, then allowed him to walk me to my car, where I promptly found a parking ticket. This night ended up costing me a total of $80. Things that are not worth it. I didn't let him kiss me good night and I never called him back. That's what happens when you don't tell the truth about yourself. You get rejected after the fact. It hurts, but it's the way the world works.
Tune in next week for the poor little rich boy who had never been told no.
So, this guy sets himself up as a rugby player in his profile. He's tall and blonde and very Viking-like. All that testosterone and rugby vigor. He seemed hardy and rugged. I like that. I'm thinking "blond isn't really my type, but our babies would be unstoppable." What? Stuff like that really does cross my mind. I am an animal after all and you can't deny biology. I didn't actually want to have his babies in the same way that I totally want to have Chris Hemsworth's babies, but I wouldn't be worried about giving birth to total freaks if the situation were ever to arise. You're welcome for that picture, by the way. I don't care who you are, you should be able to appreciate that beauty. If you can't, check your pulse, you may be dead.
Anyway, he seemed kind of nerdy and geeky (like I like them to be) and we had some interesting things in common. We started talking and discovered a mutual love for beer and one particular beer bar downtown that has something like 400 varieties of beer. What's not to love about that? So, we agreed that we would meet there on a Thursday, I think.
So, I hired a sitter. Those people are serious about their jobs. She made as much as I did with a college diploma. He's not high-maintenance, this kid. He's eight. He's almost pretty self-sufficient, but I paid this woman a mint to come sit for me for a couple of hours so I could go out. All of you guys who are looking to date single moms, know that this is how it is. If she's paying someone to go out with you, then she's got to be pretty into you. Do not misrepresent yourself. She will not be happy.
So, I showed up at the appointed time to our little hole in the wall and found a pretty good parking spot where I fed the meter and parallelled my little Corolla in a spot the size of a postage stamp and held my pepper spray quite tightly on my way to the door. Rapists and muggers beware!
And when I get to the door, he's standing there and the only thing rugby about this guy is his shirt. He's standing outside, presumable waiting for me, I think, smoking a cigarette. I'm a runner and the mother of a child with asthma and allergies to everything. I am immediately thinking this guy will not get a second date. He's also chubby. He was not chubby in his pictures. He looked like a rugby player. This guy looked like he didn't know what sports were. Here I am, svelter than I have been since high school and this guy hasn't been to the gym in a coon's age. And despite the fact that none of his pictures revealed the fact, that white blonde hair was getting on toward getting gone. I mean, I'm no fox, but let's be honest, I'm way out of this guy's league.
Alright, I think. Perhaps he will redeem himself with his razor-sharp wit and professional success. I'm not intolerant, after all. So, I find out that he's a journalist. Okay, I can dig that. I do have that wee Associate's in the field, so we have that part in common. Then he says the dreaded word: freelance. If you don't know what that means, it means the same thing as unemployed. I am not actively rolling my eyes at this point, but I'm close.
So, he tells me that his mother is a tech writer (which is what I do professionally) and that she manages herself, so she's essentially self-employed. Well, that's really cool. She started out teaching English to the ignorant masses of young idiots and (also like myself) realized that she would 1.) Starve to death and 2.) Kill someone else's offspring, so she got out of that field and into tech writing. Okay, I'm following along. Your mom is awesome. Can I meet her?
So, while all of this is happening, we have each selected a beverage. I chose Hard Time Barleywine from my favorite brewery Jailhouse Brewery in Hampton, Georgia. I offered to share because it's the nice thing to do and since it comes in a large vessel, there was enough to share. Until I hadn't finished my first glass and he had worked down his second of my drink, thus finishing off the bottle and his was still sitting on the bar. I didn't even breathe fire at this point.
Now we're going to put the cherry on top and talk about the serious issue. He's 27, that's a good age-appropriate man for me. Then he tells me that he didn't get his driver's license until last year. Wait, back the fuck up for a second. You were 26 before you drove? Oh, there are extenuating circumstances? Please, do tell. So Troy goes into this rather understated story about how he's had epilepsy since birth and had brain surgery the year before to correct the issue. It worked! Yay him. Isn't that something you should mention? I don't know, it was like he was either intentionally down playing the fact that he had his head cut open or intentionally not saying anything about it at all. It just felt kind of deceptive. So, with all the other information that had surfaced, I felt like I should pay for my drink and go home.
That's exactly what I did. I paid for the drink he drank most of, then allowed him to walk me to my car, where I promptly found a parking ticket. This night ended up costing me a total of $80. Things that are not worth it. I didn't let him kiss me good night and I never called him back. That's what happens when you don't tell the truth about yourself. You get rejected after the fact. It hurts, but it's the way the world works.
Tune in next week for the poor little rich boy who had never been told no.
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