You Were Right

I have terrible news to share.

Those of you who thought my new friend from Craigslist was really a deviant sex criminal, I'm afraid you were right.

I am writing you this from beyond the grave. You will find my battered corpse on the side of the road north of Pinkham Notch. I wish I had listened to my friends who warned me of the dangers of online dating ...

... NOT!

And here it is ... the FACE OF PURE EVIL!
After picking me up Friday night, we ended up tooling over to his condo at a resort in western Maine and had a great time.

The weekend consisted of evil pagan rituals including drinking cream soda, eating barbecue, kayaking and swimming.

He treats me like a princess, spends lavishly on me and opens every door. Who IS this guy?

About the worst I can say about him is that he is afraid to wear open toed shoes and will need to seriously upgrade his "play" clothes if he wants to hang out with an outdoor chick like me. Too much time inside in front of computers, I'm afraid. You can't tell in this photo but he is wearing Dockers and leather shoes in that kayak. It was about 80 degrees and sunny. Just give me time.

While hanging out in the hot tub I queried him about his original ad. It was sooo fucked up and, other than the machine gun, he has been pretty normal, albeit adventurous in many, many respects.

He replied, "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can't. Not without your help. But you're not helping. What do you do?"

"Huh?"

"It's from the movie Blade Runner. It was how they could tell the difference between humans and replicants." he continued.

"Are you telling me you wanted to be sure no computers responded to your Craigslist ad?"

"No, but it was a way to get rid of losers who just respond to every ad they find in there. It was a way for me to find the right person because no one else would have responded."

Is that fucking brilliant or what?

Now excuse me. I'm heading out to LL Bean. I'm going to buy him some Tevas and a pair of shorts. Other than that, things are off to a great start.

Rule #1: Don't Drop the Machine Gun

So far, my loyal blog readers are split 50/50, that my "bad boy" encounter is either a wild good time or a BAD, BAD idea.

Three have asked for some ID for this guy, so when I go missing they know who to send the police after. Two more said, "go for it!" One asked when SHE could fire the machine gun.

Of course, the real answer is usually the simplest one, and rather than this being fodder for a True Crime novel, my hunch is that I've found a well-written IT guy with a penchant for daring women. And no, he doesn't live in his parent's basement, even though he does quote Star Trek.

I woke up the morning after the Best Date Ever to find this email waiting for me:

"If I had to guess, based on the condition you're in this morning, I'd say you had a hell of a date. Walking through the front door at 3am smelling like gunfire, cologne, massage oil and tequila, with sand in your shoes and stripper glitter in your hair - seriously, how the fuck did you manage that?"

And just for the record, even at the strip joint, he did manage to pay me the tremendous compliment of saying I was the only woman in the joint who had his complete and undivided attention. Which of course now, in retrospect, makes the whole Gentleman's Club experiment make sense.

That email continued:

"Get your coffee, look through the pictures so you know yesterday wasn't just a good dream, and come up with a plan for the next date. When you've got it figured out and you're ready for round two, pick up the phone and call me."

So yes, date two took place the day after date one.

We went driving up Mount Wash and zipping down Wild Cat mountain. My driving scared him as much as firing a machine gun frightened me. (Those of who you have driven with me will attest to this). "Look, there's still snow on Mount Adams!" I'd smile and point at the scenery while driving up the Auto Road, one hand on the wheel. "Please keep your eyes on the road," Frank whimpered. He also would NOT let us drink the bottle of champagne I brought to share at the top of the tallest peak in the East. Pussy!

In an interesting exercise in contrasts, Tuesday night I was at a business-related event where I had the pleasure of running into not only PAL but also the Space Man. They both (separately) greeted me warmly and chit chat ensued. What liberation it was to not give a shit about either of them.

So wish me luck this weekend, when we take off in Frank's bright yellow sports car for parts unknown. Barry White will be playing on the CD player. But don't worry about guns; I've been told it's illegal to bring them across state lines.

Best First Date Ever

As you read this, you may be tempted to think that I am messing with your head and the events I am about to describe are fictional. But you need to believe me when I tell you that what I describe below is absolutely, positively true.

Loyal readers may recall my previous blog on the "best Craigslist ad ever." The link is no longer operational so I am going back to post the original text of the ad - go back and read it after you finish this as it puts it all in context. The ad was so truly unusual that yes, I did write back and we went out last night.

Frank is an IT guy at a big company. It would be unfair to compare him to Rick Moranis because he is better looking than that - so do me the favor of imagining an older, slightly taller more attractive version of him in his "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" era. But you get the picture.

I had to promise to just go along with whatever plans he had in store for us for the evening and he would not tell me what those plans were until we pulled into the parking lot of each activity for the evening. "Or we can just go to Starbucks and talk, and it will suck," he offered an alternative. But what fun is that?

"Bring your passport, closed-toe shoes and a full tank of gas," was all the information I received.

We drove an hour to Manchester and got off at the airport exit. "Can you fly a plane?" Frank asked. Um, no. "Neither can I so I guess we won't be doing that."

So instead we visited a firing range. There I was handed a semi-automatic machine gun. At first I protested, "I'm not comfortable with this," I whimpered as the clerk had me sign a form swearing that I was not a felon, had consumed no alcohol and was not mentally ill.

We shot rounds for about an hour. We were not the only couple there, which says a lot about Manchester, NH on a Friday night. Now, anyone who knows me knows I am a card-carrying DNC member bleeding heart liberal, so it causes me some consternation to discover that it is darn fun to fire a weapon, let alone a $15,000 machine gun. I have pictures and video coming soon and I promise to post them.




As we were leaving the firing range he looked me up and down and told me I was not dressed appropriately for our next stop and needed something dressier than the jeans and tee shirt I was wearing. Fortunately I was returning from a business trip and had a suitcase in the back. Surely I was the only woman at the firing range rest room changing into a fancy dress that evening, if not ever.

Then we went out for dinner at a high end restaurant where he ordered everything for us both, including the tequila, which was the only type of alcohol we consumed for the evening. Now all you modern ladies reading this, you may bristle at the thought of someone presuming to order your food, but after years of boorish ungentlemanly behavior (refer to my last 3 years worth of blog postings), it was pretty heady to meet someone with this sort of old-fashioned charm coupled with his slight Texan drawl (yes, from Texas, as if the machine gun wasn't a giveaway).

Back in the car for an hour's drive to Hampton Beach. A moon-lit walk in the sand along the water followed with the bright lights and noise of the honky-tonk strip in the background. "Time for the ballet," he said as we headed back to the car. Since it was 10pm I was wondering if we were boarding a flight for Russia for a show but that was not the case.

Over the state border into Mass. we pulled up to what is commonly referred to as a "gentlemen's club" or as I prefer to call it "strip joint." In for a dime, in for a dollar, I thought to myself. Why not. So in we went. Think of a high-end version of the "Bada Bing" from the Sopranos. The many attractive young ladies really weren't doing what I would call "dancing" but the guys around their stage didn't seem to mind. Other gals circled the stage selling jello shots. I'm glad I didn't buy one because apparently it includes a rather lascivious exposure of the server's breasts as she hands you the shot.

Frank asked one of the passing vixens for Tracy. Tracy is a licensed massage therapist who also takes part in the circus scene around the stage, giving back massages. So yes, I got a chair massage a strip joint. There was nothing improper about it - other than the naked women rolling around on the stage 25 feet away from our table.

Frank gamely offered to call over one of the dancers for a "table dance." But at this point it was 1 am and I had a 100 mile drive home to contend with. Plus, our table seemed a little rickety. "They don't really dance on the table," Frank advised. "That would be awkward."

I never did get to find out exactly how the table dance worked, thankfully. Instead we took off in the Subaru, dropped him off at his car, and I drove back home by 2:30am.

"Start planning our second date," Frank asked me before I drove away. I am not to tell him what I have in store for us, but I'm pretty sure it won't include guns and naked women.

"Do one thing every day that scares you," warned Eleanor Roosevelt. Thanks to Frank, I have banked about a week's worth of doing so after last night.

Bad Boy Redux

OK, this HAS to be THE most outrageous Craigslist ad I've ever seen, and I've seen a LOT.

In other news, Mission Control DID regain contact with the Space Man and a reconnoiter is scheduled for 16:00 tomorrow.

Wish me luck! And if not, I think a trip to Portsmouth is in order. ;)

Update to posting - ad link removed so I have posted an excerpt below:

Bad boy doesn't begin to cover it, and the sad thing is you won't realize it until you look in the mirror one day and see a crazed junkie you don't even recognize. If you value your sanity and your grasp on reality, click back now. Still reading? You're in big trouble. The first one is always free - which is why you need to resist the dangerous temptation lest you start a downward spiral that will leave you wondering what happened to your life, your job, your friends, even your ability to tell right from wrong, day from night, up from down. If you're looking for a serious 'bad boy' you aren't interested in a Harley, a few tattoos or dirty clothes, not even a specific attitude. You're looking for a guy that unlocks something within you - a dark side that you know is in there that no man has been able to tap. You want to ride the edge between who you are today and the wicked alter-you that is deep inside, hidden to the world.

I'm not looking to start at the bottom. If you're reading this wondering if you are attractive enough, appealing enough, high class enough to attract me - don't write. I'm looking for someone at the top of her game - professional career, well educated, well read and traveled, high self esteem and pride in all that you've accomplished in life. If you've responded to more than a handful of CL ads in the past few years - you aren't holding out for the best. If you have been reading these for years and laughing at all of them, using this section as an entertaining distraction from real life, and are thinking to yourself 'now THAT is the one I've been waiting for' - and if you have what it takes to gamble at the high stakes tables - then let's talk.

And then there were none

How I went from three to two to one to none in about ten days is beyond me. I guess it is either Darwin's law, common sense, sobering up or some combination of the three.

First one had it coming was Mr. Hawaiin Lai. Just nothing there, as nice as he was. He'd make a hell of a girlfriend but I don't think that's what he had in mind.

And Vinny the Firefighter - I deleted his number from my cell phone as I drove home from our last date. What was I thinking - this guy doesn't even have an email address. A veritable caveman! "I liked you better when you were drunk," was the last I heard from him. If only I could drink 24 hours a day like you, Vinny. God help the citizens of Revere!

And the Space Man ... hello? Space Man? Are you there? We seem to have lost contact with the probe. Houston, we have a problem. We could possibly regain contact but Mission Control is losing patience.

But it's summer in the mountains - what better aphrodisiac than warm starry nights, long days and lots of beer on the golf course. Surely, the numbers will be back in my favor soon!