This afternoon I confessed to the Mother of Cap that I am not her most sensitive child. She laughed and pretended to be shocked by that admission. I am not her most patient child, either. Sometimes, though, I surprise myself.

I’ve been thinking about getting back into the dating scene but a part of me is very hesitant. It’s one thing to say I’m just meant to be alone – it sounds so tragic and dramatic. It’s very Cap-like. But it’s another thing to be in my sexual prime and not have a date on Saturday night. The libido has won that battle – but now I have to find a date and I haven’t been very successful with finding intelligent, independent, successful women in the past.

A few summers ago, I thought I found someone who was reasonably bright and attractive. Let’s call her the Shrink. I ignored a few major red flags, because I’m stubborn like that. The first red flag was that her ex-girlfriend and the ex-girlfriend’s new lover had just moved out of her house a month before – and still had keys to her house. In fact, the Shrink wouldn’t talk to me when the ex was there – which led me to suspect that maybe the ex wasn’t really such an ex after all, because she was there a lot. But hey, the woman was a shrink. Surely she was smarter than that. Right? Right? Surely I’m smarter than that. Right? The second strike against the Shrink is that she lived about an hour away, which would not have been a problem if she had ever been willing the split the distance difference. But I had to meet her somewhere on her turf every time we went out and that got old quick.

Strike 2.25 was that I not only had to drive an hour, but we could never go to her house. She said it was because she didn’t know me well enough, but that doesn’t work after the fourth or fifth date. If I was going to kill her, I’d have already done it – because like I said, I’m not that patient. So because we couldn’t go to her house and I wasn’t driving an hour back to my apartment (and then another hour to take her back to her car and another hour home again), we ended up in public parks. A lot. In the middle of the night. And she was worried about her safety?

Strike 2.50 was that she. would. not. stop. analyzing. me. I don’t like to be analyzed and I especially don’t want to be analyzed while I’m on a date. And I really hate to be analyzed by people who think they know me better than I know myself. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, but this Shrink got nothing right. Nothing. Shrink liked to toss around jargon and she loved to flex her vocabulary. The only problem was that she misused words more often than not. It amused me.

About a month into the ‘relationship,’ I had had enough. I don’t know why I kept seeing her. Maybe I thought I’d meet her friends and one of them would be hot. I lied. I thought I’d get laid sooner or later.

Strike 2.75 was her cell phone. I don’t do well with cell phones, but she had a very good relationship with hers. She was on it constantly. She never once let a call go to voice mail while I was around. Not once. Back then, I was trying to turn over a new leaf and be more understanding (I’ve since given that up). Besides, she was a shrink and so I thought it would be possible that she would occasionally need to take a call. On one of our last dates, she talked on her phone all the way through our dinner.

Strike 3. You thought I’d never get to it, didn’t you? It was worth the wait, believe me. We went to a restaurant in BFE (that’s Bum Fuck Egypt for those of you who might actually live in Egypt). Then we drove around. At about midnight, she told me that she had something to tell me. Great. I was ready to go home. She wanted to tell me something, but she was afraid I would laugh. Now, I’ve already mentioned that I’m not the most sensitive soul on the planet, but when someone asks me not to laugh at them I will make every effort not to even crack a smile. Because that’s the kind of friend I am.

I said okay and asked her what she wanted to tell me.
“I can’t tell you. You’re going to laugh at me. I know you will.”

“I won’t laugh. I said I wouldn’t laugh. You can tell me.”

“No. I don’t trust you and this is important to me.”

Well for fuck’s sake! If you don’t trust me, then why bother telling me you want to tell me something? This went on for over two hours. By that time I was tired, I had lost whatever patience I had, I was stoned (sorry Mom, just pretend you didn’t see that part) and I just wanted to go home.
Finally, she gathered up her courage.

“Istuffmybra.”

“What?”

“Istuffmybra.”

“Did you just say you stuff your bra?” I was choking, but I was NOT laughing.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

“Ohhh. I’m not laughing.” I’m DYING.

At that moment, I had a picture in my head that would not go away. It was an image of me, pulling toilet paper from her bra endlessly … more and more and more …. stringing it, flinging it around the room going, “Where are the boobies? Show me the boobies!” I couldn’t take her seriously after that. I just couldn’t.

We had one more almost-date after that. I was to meet her at a bar – a gay bar that was actually closer to me than it was to her. Maybe she was coming around. I’ll never know. Anyway, I was there at the appointed time and she was 30 minutes late. She pulled into the parking lot and parked next to me and I noticed she was on her cell phone. She didn’t get off her phone. It was summer and my windows were down, and I heard part of her conversation. She was talking to her ex. Not a client. Nothing important. Just chitchat. For another 30 minutes. I started my car. She looked over at me and waved. I waved back, but I never looked back. She’s probably still on that damn phone – and I never did get to ask her if she used plain toilet paper to stuff her bra … or the lotion-treated Kleenex.

Lyric du jour:


I’ve been cheated
been mistreated
When will I be loved?
I’ve been put down
I’ve been pushed ’round
When will I be loved?
-Linda Ronstadt
“When Will I Be Loved?”

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