Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Blogger. Aspiring writer. Smartass. Sometimes I say funny things.

Archive for the category “My Dating Stories – Wheat Thins, Pinky, and CATS – Oh My.”

Catman Don’t

Another online dating tragedy of mine has literally become a party favorite. I’m asked to tell this story repeatedly. It’s also probably the only dating story of mine that comes with a “P.S.”

I started chatting with Catman through an online dating pond from which I am proudly no longer fishing. He. Was. A. Charmer. He was a musician and “small business owner”. And an animal lover. And a vegetarian. Each of those things are perfectly fine. All of them together…should’ve been a red flag.

We did the typical cycle of online chats, then texts, then phone calls. There was always plenty to talk about, and we flirted a bit. This went on for the better part of two to three weeks. We decided to meet in person.

Call me foolish (I was), but I had developed a sense of trust with Catman after talking regularly for a few weeks. I’m a pretty good vibe-catcher, and he hadn’t thrown any psycho ones, so we decided that I would drive to his place, leave my car there, and we would go to dinner. Unless I know him (ie. an old classmate, etc.), I never have a man come to my house, or even know approximately where it is. And I called my sister to tell her his name, where he lived and what he drove, in the event he chopped me into kitty kibbles.

I arrived to his house, which seemed nice enough from the curb, parked and walked up to the door. A bit nervous, I knocked, and was rather pleasantly surprised by the face (and body) that greeted me.

Until I stepped into the foyer.

In hindsight, I should’ve just gone with my immediate desire to puke, and just ended the evening there. But, no. I was invested in this, dammit. That, plus I tend to be overly cautious not to hurt someone’s feelings, and I thought ‘oh, what the hell. He’s a nice guy, and it’s just dinner, right?’ Yeah. Right.

Now…I’ll do my best to paint a multi-sensory picture for you of what I encountered when I stepped inside:

*Sight: (aside from an attractive man) layers of dust and cat hair. And boxes upon boxes upon more boxes of his “small business owner” stuff, which loosely translates into “I sell crap on the internet.” …up the creepiness factor here by him handing me a tiny little blue box with a white bow on it (picture a Tiffany-esque attempt) that had pierced, dangle-y “emerald” earrings in it (one of the hodge-podge assortment of items he sold online). I tried to refuse, but he insisted. Yes, I still have them. No, I have not/will not wear them. Ever.

*Smell: While HE smelled very nice (which is shocking, considering it all), I was slapped in the face by the smell of cat. Cat everything. Cat pee. Cat poop. Cat…i don’t know…saliva? Just…cat-ness. And lots of it. (Ever the optimist, I thought ‘welllll… maybe the cat, like, JUST took a dump and a whiz, like two seconds ago. It’s possible, right?’) No. If he had a jungle cat and it took a dump on my upper lip and I dabbed feline urine behind my ears – it wouldn’t smell much worse.

*Sound: Nothing. No meows. No purring. No kitty-sounds whatsoever.

(Side note: I seriously wanna know how his house stunk so bad and yet HE smelled so good. Because I can’t fry a piece of freaking bacon without me and everything in my house smelling like it for 3 days)

But anyway…

Catman: “Where would you like to go for dinner?”

Me: “I don’t care…whatever you’d like.” (standard chick answer)

Well…that was like, mistake #87 on my part. I should’ve suggested a place. I should’ve definitely CARED. Because where we ended up for Friday night, first-date DINNER…was IHOP. Yep. The International House of Freaking Pancakes. (IHOFP…it’s a midwest thing) Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a breakfast-all-day kind of girl. It’s my favorite meal, favorite food. But it’s not a first-date Friday night dinner. I ordered a breakfast with two types of sausage (sausage gravy and sausage links) and had to listen to him make a little squealing sound representative of my obvious murdering of an innocent pig for the sake of my appetite, while he enjoyed these freaking tater tot things with cheese on them. Wussy.

The conversation was flowing as much as it could on a first date at IHOP on a Friday night between two people. Topics drifted to his animal-loving…specifically, CATS and how he liked to rescue them.

 What’s this? A redeeming quality?

Then, the more I listened, the more it became clear that he wasn’t a “rescue, rehab, release” kind of guy, but rather…a collector. So I asked. “So how many cats do you have?” I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had said “five”. That’s a reasonable degree of kooky for a guy like him. I was, however, surprised when he replied “thirteen” – very proudly, I might add.

I know ME. And I know that I should NEVER play poker because of my inability to hide facial expression in the face of, well…anything. So I can only imagine what my facial expression must’ve looked like if it matched my inner thoughts.

Me: “wow…that’s a lot of cats. Are they outside cats, or…?”

Catman: (boastfully) “Nope! All inside…they’re like my kids”

Me: “hmmm”

I survived our breakfast-dinner, and we made our way back to his house where I intended to run like a scaredy-cat (pun intended). When we got there, he asked if I wanted to come infor a drink and keep him company while he “fed all the cats”.

Well now… here’s a little conundrum for a girl like me. I’m beyond convinced that there is no love connection here. But this night has been such a damn train wreck, I’m in it for the long haul, because this is one of those things that only happens to yours truly. There is some comedic gold here. I’m sure of it.

Me: “sure, I’ll come in for one drink” (and to see exactly how one goes about feeding thirteen cats)

I sat, with hesitation, on his couch – only because it was leather and I felt the disease risk was minimal. Still not a kitty in sight.

He was making all kinds of racket in the kitchen, while I just sat on the edge of the couch taking about 16GB worth of mental pictures and notes.

He came out with four styrofoam plates with cat food on them. Still no cats. Then he went to door #1, and out trotted four little kitties. Awww…. Wait, what the hell is he doing…?

He proceeded to talk…literally CHAT…with each and every feline on a more personal level than some humans will ever experience. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. And yes, I’ve talked to my pets….but not like this. It was as if he was getting responses that only he could hear. Trust me, I tried to hear them. Nothing.

This group of kitties finished their dinner and conversation, and were escorted back to their room. Repeat this process three more times until all thirteen of them had been satiated. (One cat had to dine at a table for one, as it seems he was a bit of a troublemaker.) Yes, I got a personal introduction and bio on each of them. I fully believe that I was the topic of conversation at their next meal. (“so what did you guys think of her?”)

The timeline for this whole process? One hour, thirty-seven minutes. You might think I would’ve downed a 6-pack while viewing this, but I didn’t even finish my one beer. I was literally stunned most of the time, unable to drink, speak, or take my eyes off this fantastic display of a freakshow.

I quickly hopped up after the last feline foursome had gone back to their living quarters, and thanked him and got the hell out of dodge. I went home and thought about just deleting his number from my phone. But then I thought “no…this guy isn’t going away…and I want to know if it’s him on the other end”, so I kept his number, but changed his name…to CATMAN DON’T.

As good as I am at picking up vibes, I’m even better at throwing them out there. So imagine my surprise when he called me the next day wanting to meet up, which I declined. I didn’t contact him anymore, and didn’t hear from him either. About a month later, I got a Saturday night text from him asking how I’d been. I contemplated whether or not to reply. I wanted to reply with “who is this?” I mean, it was totally feasible that I would’ve deleted his number. But I pegged him as a “give him an inch, he’ll take a mile” kind of fellow, so I just ignored it…something I personally despise, but felt the situation called for it. His profile disappeared from the dating site.

The P.S. to this story:
Fast forward about a year and a half. I reopened my dating profile in attempt #382 to find someone. I was getting several messages a day and would read each of them. And there in my inbox was a message from Catman Don’t…same profile picture, different profile name. Mind you, MY profile name was the same, although I did change my picture, but it was still ME. I was almost afraid to open it, for fear of a verbal assault for my disappearance and lack of response.

But what I got was even better. It was something like this: “wow, that’s some profile you have there! I think we would have a lot in common, what do you like to do, wanna chat?, etc.” Whaaaatttt??? He had NO CLUE who I was, or the fact that we went on one of MY most memorable dates that has been talked about more times than he’s had fleas. My inner comedian toyed with the idea of replying also as if I had no clue who he was, but I chickened out in fears that my inability to be anything other than myself would throw a memory back to him and my cover would be blown. I fancy myself a fairly memorable chick, so my ego has blamed his lack of memory on some sort of amnesia associated with feline fecal poisoning. Yep. That’s definitely it.

Pinky (it’s just unnatural)

For those of you who voted on my next blog topic, THIS was your pick.  And I cannot thank you enough, because I want this story told so I can work on removing everything about it from my mental imagery.  I actually wanted this to be my second blog, but “Trek” (from my very first blog – The Wheat Thins Incident) advised me over a beer one night that perhaps I was still a little too fired up about this one and might oughtta let it mellow a bit.


Well, Trek – the people have spoken. And I am glad they did. Trek (and a few others) got to hear this story through my vivid personal account, which I am told cannot be done justice in writing, but I’m going to try.


I need to give a little back story for those reading who don’t know me.  I’m what some might call… a little spit-fire; personality and sass bursting at my seams.  When it comes to sarcasm and insults, it comes as natural to me as breathing.  I also grew up with three older brothers and a dad with a crude sense of humor.  I developed boobs when I was about five, so male crudeness and comments are no strangers to me.  I always (try to) act like a lady, but about 90% of the time, I think more like a man. I’m not even close to being a prude, and am nearly impossible to offend.  In fact, if you can offend me, I will likely offer my congratulations (first) for the feat you’ve just accomplished, followed immediately by my condolences for the shit-storm about to blow your way. 


 Until recently, I had a profile on a dating website.  This is where some (ok, fine…nearly all) of my dating stories (good and bad) come from.  I joined it about 6 months after my divorce was final, mostly because of peer pressure from some friends.  I hadn’t been in the dating world for about 12 years, and had no clue how to meet people, so this “online dating” thing intrigued me at first.  It is literally window-shopping for your next boyfriend/girlfriend.


If you’re out of the loop on this – first of all, congratulations – but let me give you a brief crash course on how it works, in a nutshell:


  • Boy/Girl sets up profile on dating site – includes a picture and a little bio about themselves.
  • Other Boys/Girls search for their perfect soul mate. The picture is the bait*, and the profile portion (if done correctly) is the hook*, line*, and sinker*. (*This lingo is in no way a subliminal reference to which particular dating site I may or may not have been on.)
  • Boy/Girl finds someone who strikes their fancy, strike up a conversation on the site, and if all goes well there, exchange phone numbers, etc. and then blow each others’ phones up with text messages until they decide to meet face-to-face.
  • There are other things, too, like rating pictures, selecting favorites, and my personal fave – the “daily match”.   THERE’S the guy I want to meet.  The guy responsible for the “matching” – because HE’S an idiot. And yes, I do imagine a GUY being in control of all this, sitting in his college dorm room, drinking with his buddies, like the Mark Zuckerberg of the online dating world, with a lot of “dude, DUDE – check this shit out…” being said.



Another feature of this site is that you can recommend someone for a friend (who is also on the site).  I find this to be a really dumb option: “Oh, hey girl – I don’t wanna date this ass-hat, but – YOU want him?!” That’s TOTALLY a man feature if I ever saw one.  


This particular “match” was orchestrated by my 21-year-old niece, who also has a profile on the site. She and “Pinky” struck up conversation, but she realized that he was about 15 years older than her, so she said “hey – you should talk to my aunt; she’s closer to your age.”  Enter Pinky into the situation.


My intention here is not to brag but rather to emphasize a point.  I was getting about 30 messages per week on this site. I did read all of them, but there was no way I could reply to all of them.  You’ve got to catch my attention if you want a reply.  The “your niece told me to contact you” portion of his message is what got me to reply to Pinky.


We did the usual, chatting/e-mailing, then went to texting each other. It was the usual chit-chat: jobs/family/what do you like to do for fun, etc.  – basically just an exchange of witty banter-y crap. I have a long-standing love for large, loud trucks (always have), so he did send me a picture of some of the huge trucks he owns, and the properties he owned – like that was supposed to just melt my pants off or something? Please.  It was actually becoming a bit of a turn-off for me.  But I get it – he was puffing his chest out trying to make me like him. Whatever. This communication exchange went on for about a week or so.  




Then, on a perfectly good Monday afternoon (thank GOD I was off work that day), it happened.  He sent me a picture ….of his penis.


Now… it had been awhile, but not THAT long ago. I know what they look like.  I also know that in my 35 years of life, I’ve never seen a cute one.  Aesthetically speaking, they are just not really attractive.  Sorry guys, but they’re not. But when I opened the text and saw that, my first reaction was “what the HELL is that?”  This particular one was especially disturbing.


Other than the fact that this image was now permanently embedded in my mind’s eye and it was COMPLETELY trashy and disrespectful, the things that immediately set me off about it were: 1) It was unnaturally pink. BRIGHT pink. Like bubblegum. (Hence, his new moniker). 2) His hand – with disgusting, dirty fingernails – was wrapped around it, apparently choking the color out of it (or into it?) 3) His thigh was showing in the picture as well – with five huge pimples on it. Yes, yes I did count them.


I came un-glued.  Not because I’m a prude, but because I found it insanely offensive. Who in their right mind does that? Who/what do you think I am? WHAT in our brief time of conversing gave you the impression that I might be remotely ok with that?  


Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.


Naturally, I immediately texted my sister and my niece to tell them what he did. My niece had a similar reaction to mine. My sister found it infinitely hilarious how pissed and offended I was.  So I did what any good sister would do, and forwarded the picture to her so she could understand why I was pissed. I wanted her to commiserate.  It worked. Both she and the other handful of women who saw the picture understood why I reacted the way I did.


I was honestly at a loss for words – PROPER words.  This almost never happens. 


I waited almost an hour, and then this is VERBATIM the text exchange that followed (note the time lapses in there – that’s when I was just seething, trying to choose my words):



3:05 p.m.             Pinky to Me:  Pinky sends me the disgusting picture.

3:56 p.m.             Me to Pinky:  “Big F*#king mistake on your part. I’m done.”

4:23 p.m.             Pinky to Me:  “Jeesh. It was a joke, K?”

6:42 p.m.             Me to Pinky:  “No…’jokes’ are funny. And I can take one just as  good as the next guy. This *might* be funny if we were in a long-term relationship. When we haven’t even MET yet, it’s rude and offensive to send something like that to a lady. Yes, I am a LADY. And if this is how you act, makes no difference how big your f*#king truck or bank account is, you are going to attract nothing but trash, which I am not. Just be glad you sent this to me and not my niece, because my brother would FIND YOU and make you apologize.”

6:56 p.m.             Pinky to Me:  “I’m sorry, I was def not trying to offend. I am truly sorry. I can’t say that enough. I suppose I found that sort of thing commonplace since I have been single. I should not have assumed you were anything like anyone else. U are truly going to be a regret and have taught me a valuable lesson and for that I’m appreciative. I have been sick about this since I did it. What seemed funny was hurtful. Again, I am sorry. And thank you in advance for reading this, with no expectation you will. Regards, Pinky”

7:37 p.m.             Me to Pinky:  “Read it. Deleting it.”

7:37 p.m.             Pinky to Me:  “K”


My sister thought I was a bit harsh, as did my sister-in-law.  Whaaaaat??  Did you SEE that thing? That’s in my head, like, FOREVER.  And I will never know why it was so. damn. pink. -which further pisses me off.


So I got to wondering….would I have been quite as offended if it had been a better-looking (albeit still ugly) penis?  Nope. Still would’ve pissed me off.  Call me a prude if you want to.  Call me old fashioned.  I just feel like there should be some dinner/conversation/hand-holding/kiss/ACTUALLY MEETING IN PERSON, etc. before any genitals are exposed in any form.


Guys, if a woman is asking for a picture of your junk while the rest of you remains sight unseen, she’s a trash bag, and yours isn’t the only one she’s asking for.   


Ladies, if stories like this from the dating world don’t make your ovaries want to shrivel up and start collecting cats, then I don’t know what will.  Oh, speaking of cat-collecting… wait til you hear THAT dating tragedy.













The Wheat Thins Incident

Have you ever been so damn tired that you really cannot and should not be held responsible for anything that comes out of your mouth? I am soooo very guilty of this when I get to my delirious and ridiculously exhausted stage.  I’m pretty sure I possess the ability to carry on (albeit incoherent) conversation in the “awake” world while having a dream in the “sleep” world. I imagine it must be like watching an outgoing, attention-deficient, narcoleptic, multi-tasker fight with herself. (I SO want to keep talking and stuff but I also need to sleep – look, I can do both!)

 Even though he has re-told this story himself, for the sake of anonymity, I will call the guy in this story “Trek”.  Trek has been very encouraging and supportive of me starting a blog, so I told him last week that I thought the only obvious starter story for this would be the infamous “Wheat Thins” incident. He may hesitate admitting so, but he’s pretty pumped to be the first feature story, even if it is under the cloak of anonymity.

 Trek and I had been dating for a couple months, and because of our schedules at the time, much of our quality time was later in the evening, usually just watching a movie with a glass of wine or something. Sounds boring, but it was very “us”. We never required constant going places and doing things to enjoy each other’s company. But I digress.  Back to the story.

 This particular evening, I was exhausted.  We were watching a movie or TV or whatever, and I think I had probably had a glass of wine, which undoubtedly added to my sleepiness. So…Trek and I were on the couch, kissing.  Eyes closed, of course.

 Super tired + glass of wine + late at night + relaxed on the couch + kissing with my eyes closed = in the middle of kissing, I mumbled “wheat thins” – then went back to kissing as if that didn’t just happen.

 In my defense, I wasn’t yet aware that it had actually happened. I was aware that I suddenly had a freaking SNACK CRACKER in my head, but was resting all comfy in the thought that it was just that – a thought. An inside-my-head THOUGHT.

 Here’s where Trek gained infinity bonus points for going back to kissing me (for a second) after that, and not sending my crazy ass packing right then and there. I’m pretty sure the delay was the time it took for him to process what just happened. And process, he did. 

 Trek pulled back slightly and said (very kindly, I might add) “what did you just say?” – and then it hit me. NOT an inside-my-head thought. I just said that out loud.

 My inner dialogue at that moment went a little something like this: “OH. MY. GOD. You are an idiot. Freaking WHEAT THINS?!? When was the last time you even BOUGHT or ATE a Wheat Thin?!? Nice knowing you, Trek. Remember the good times. I’ll show myself to the door, thanks.”

 And with this realization, I instantly felt like an under-age juvenile who was stoned, had been consuming gallons of alcohol, and had just been approached by the police, the DEA, the FBI, my grandparents, my pastor, and a camera crew and was trying desperately to sober up at warp speed.

 So naturally, I did the only thing I could at that moment.  I buried my head in Trek’s chest and burst into cackling laughter.  Tears streaming down my face, I tried several times to explain myself best I could. I tried to explain that earlier that day at work someone in the office was trying to remember the name of this snack cracker: “you know, not Triscuits, but the other…” and I offered up my wisdom “Oh, you mean Wheat Thins?” – By the way, that part NEVER happened. That was the little micro-dream I was having at the time of my now infamous utterance. But I only realized it was just a dream after questioning one of my friends at work. 

 I have to add (mostly as a self-esteem booster) that this incident was not the end of me and Trek.  He kept me around a little while longer, and we are still great friends to this day. And we still share a laugh over this incident, and always will.

 As timing would have it, there is now a Wheat Thins commercial on TV with Brian and Stewie from ‘Family Guy’.  Brian is eating Wheat Thins and Stewie asks for some but Brian doesn’t like the way Stewie says “Wheat Thins”.  If you haven’t seen it, go watch it on YouTube.  And if you can ever watch that commercial, eat, or even look at Wheat Thins the same way after reading this story, you’re better than me.  At the end of the commercial, it says “DO WHAT YOU DO.”  

Yep. Works for me.

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