Deleted

I was driving home from summer vacation when my cell phone made the distinctive sound indicating a test message had been received:

"Cathy - How R U?"

It was from a NH number I did not recognize. I texted back "Great! Who is this?"

I got no reply so I called and discovered it was one of the many enumerated in this blog. Someone I had dated a few times and then cut it off, much to this gentleman's chagrin.

The phone was answered. "Hi, it's Mike. You've obviously deleted me from your cell phone."

I tried to lie. New phone, failure to port over information in its entirety, I knew it was you, just joshing with you, ha ha. He wasn't buying it.

I asked him why he called and he would not fess up. "Nope - you deleted me. Never mind."

Now keep in mind that I told this guy about a year ago that I wasn't interested. I have run into him several times since but have kept a friendly distance.

So the question is - how long does etiquette dictate you keep someone, anyone, in your speed dial list?

I honestly have names in my cell phone that I cannot recognize. Then there are those I would not call if my hair was on fire. Craig - who the fuck was that? Dan. Dan who? Shit, what if one day I get a text message from Craig OR Dan. Or Craig AND Dan. How would I answer the phone? And once I delete them, am I required to somehow remember every number I ever dialed?

Then I got a call from Frank. He proudly announced that he has now put me on speed dial - #2 on his phone, right behind "911." I did not share with him that he is #85 on my phone, assuming I even KNEW how to USE speed dial (which I do not). He thinks we have reached the stage of our relationship where he can a) put me on speed dial and b) call me after 9pm. This news broke at 8:58pm, apparently a preemptive strike in case I countered that we were NOT at that stage, that he needed to remove me from speed dial and never call beyond 8:59pm.

This reminds me of the Seinfeld episode (what doesn't remind me of a Seinfeld episode) where Jerry discovers he is on his new girlfriend's speed dial list and becomes obsessed with becoming #1.

Of course, I am thinking that if I am, after only a few weeks, already #2, right behind emergency 911, that there must not have been many other contenders. I mean, I would have to delete a LOT of people - friends, family, co-workers and yes, previous boyfriends, to even get him in the top 20.

So is this a sweet thought on his part or pathetic indication that this guy has no friends? You decide. Or maybe he is more decisive about who gets deleted when.

Meanwhile, speaking of pathetic, I seem to have trouble hanging out with someone with manners.

Take our last date. We went out to dinner at a fancy restaurant. The waiter brought us to our table. I promptly plunked my butt down on the one with the best view and looked quizzically at Frank who remained standing at the second chair. After clearing his throat a few times I realized he was holding out the chair, as if he was with, say, a lady. A lady who would wait for someone to offer a seat and pull out the chair!

Blimey, Capt'n! I'm but a simple street urchin, sellin' flowers. Oh! Wouldn't it be loverly?

So what on EARTH has happened to me that this basic courtesy is so foreign, that he might as well have uttered it in Sanskrit.

I am also flummoxed by his insistence on opening doors for me. I pop out of the car like a jack-in-the-box, ready to flee as if the vehicle is on fire. After doing so 3-4 times in one day, Frank gamely trotted around to my side of the vehicle and, quick as a bunny, shut the door before I swung my legs out. "What's the hurry, honey?" he intoned in that sweet Texas accent as he politely opened the door for me.

I'd like to blame my ex-husband for my being conditioned to not expect this type of chivalrous behaviour, but I fear it goes back much further. I remember my parents fighting on a similar topic. "You never open doors for me!" my mother yelled. "How can I ... you're always 10 steps ahead of me!" my father replied. I like to think we make our own destiny, and to blame an ex or our parents is a cop out.

Someday, I hope I can learn to delete the past, as easily as deleting those forgotten names from my cell phone.

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!

ARE U FREE 2NIGHT?

Rumor has it that Brittany and K-Fed broke up by text message. So it is fitting that tonight I was asked out for a date by text message.

I was sitting at my desk when the distinctive tone rang indicating a text message. It was from a guy I met at the infamous Wildcat Tavern a month or two ago. I'd been blowing him off since I'd given him my number but, catching me at a weak moment, he convinced me to meet him for a drink after work. All without a single word exchanged.

A strapping eye-talian firefighter from northern MA, Vinny won't win any MENSA competitions but he skis, golfs and rides a motorcycle. He calls me "Honey" and asked me out for a second date before the first was over. What he lacks in IQ, he makes up in rogue-ish charm. That song popular in my teen years pops into my head: "I like 'em big and STUPID! I like 'em big and REAL DUMB!" Plus, if I accidentally set my house on fire, he can put it out and resuscitate me at the same time. "Fucking heroin addicts," Vinny pines, "All we do is drive around in the firetruck and bring 'em back to life."

A recent survey of young adults show that a sizeable minority have broken up with their significant other by text message. What a surprise to see it also works in reverse.

Meanwhile, the gentleman I barely remember meeting at the Wildcat 2 weeks ago (see earlier drunken melee post) called back. He had lost my phone number but had gone to some lengths to find me online. Fortunately for him, I am what he declared to be "very Google-able" (points for coining a clever phrase).

Apparently he was as sheepish about the evening as I was and delighted in my tale of how drunk and sick my girlfriend and I both were after the evening. Apparently misery loves company.

By an unfortunate happenstance of birth, his name is eponymous with a famous Red Sox Player, so going forward, I will refer to him as "Space Man." Space Man ended the call by programming me into his I-Phone and we agreed to a "do over."

Back at the ranch, Mr. Hawaiian Lai keeps calling from his family vacation in FLA, which had the nerve to burst into flames all along Route 95. Too bad he doesn't know Vinny - he could help.

Finally, PAL made plans with me and then cancelled all within 24 hours - truly a record even by his own low standard.

But I'm ready to let him go - no use hogging all of these North Country gents to myself. My cell phone speed dial list is starting to look like the modern-day gal's version of Sam Malone's Little Black Book.

Cheers!