i only wear white when it rains

because blogging is cheaper than therapy

chances are, i’d rather date your mom

with one comment

Not sure what it is about me that screams: “Please pimp me out to your son’s hairdresser who makes 75 cents a week or your husband’s fraternity brother you only initially thought was gay but probably isn’t.” But I’m pretty sure if I ever dated any of these degenerates, I could sell the pilot to E!.

Maybe it’s that my crow’s feet are 10 minutes from pushing me past my sell-by date or that people pity me because they recently were subjected to 441 pictures of me at an 80s party skating around in a tequila-stained Ramones T-shirt and New Kids on the Block necklace. But my friend Biddy and I barely made it through a macaroon at Cassis last week before an elegantly dressed woman clad in Cartier and St. John’s was selling me on her never-been-married son’s credentials Chuck Woolery style.

I just nodded, smiled and fought the urge to tell her: “Your son is most likely gay, and to be honest – that might be his only redeeming quality. But even if he weren’t, I think at this point in my life I’d rather date you. You’re intelligent, interesting and I’m sure you’d not only be able to correct my posture and show me how to rock a pantsuit, but you’d also tell me where you got that brow lift.”

Dates you regret did not involve roofies so you could forget them

Recently, a good friend of mine met a guy for drinks at the Vomit (iPhone’s autocorrection for the Vinoy). Deciding where to have their date was fairly simple since his requirements were:

1. It had to be in St. Pete even though he lives in Tampa (I told her this was surely because he did not want to bump into his girlfriend at the Kennedy).

2. He needed “an overhang to pull up under.”

“So you actually are telling me we have to limit our options to places with a porte cochere?” she asked him.

“A port-0-what?”

Gonna be a long night.

Their 3-hour date consisted of him regaling her with an uncanny lack of intellect, sharing a childhood story involving anti-nausea suppositories and his sphincter, humming Sinatra tunes like an 83-year-old retiree and smoking a cigar on the porch despite her obvious disdain and no less than 12 no-smoking signs. It wasn’t until he spotted a $2 million Bugatti out front that the neurons even began to synapse.

“Do you realize this car goes from 0 to 60 in 2.5 seconds? It can get up to 250 mph. If you ran it at its top speed, it would run out of gas in 15 minutes. I would lose exactly 2 milliliters of semen if someone let me sit in it! ”

I’m no dating expert, but if a guy dry humping a sports car on your date isn’t a cue to text yourself out of there, I don’t know what is.

Maybe someday the pressure of remembering to take out the garbage or trying to wrestle a duvet cover alone will become too great for me, and I’ll dissolve into a lonely pile of tears and desperation, eager to sleep with my personal trainer like every other divorced woman I know. But for now? I’m just content with eating popcorn for dinner every night without judgment.

Does anyone know a plastic surgeon who can make women look like this?

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

April 7, 2011 at 10:49 pm

One Response

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  1. If you ever come across a surgeon that can do so, please, do the women of St. Pete a solid and publish said information on the biggest billboard possible. In the meantime, would it be completely SWF of us to ask what make-up you use? For someone claiming that “my crow’s feet are 10 minutes from pushing me past my sell-by date” you look so good it’s bananas, we’re officially jealous.

    Ms. Smith

    November 7, 2011 at 3:46 pm


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