When First Lines Become Your Last

In the dating game minefield, few tasks can be as odor-inducing as the opening line. Imagine yourself as a stand-up comedian. Looking out over a sea of stone-cold sober tourists, you know there's an excellent chance a deafening silence may follow your first joke, echoing like a lonely pebble tumbling down a deep chasm. You're in public, and your proverbial pants may at any moment drop to the floor. It's make or break time and we all know it.

How you handle the rocky bumps this moment holds may determine whether your family line lives on or you're doomed to channel-surfing cable re-runs every Saturday night. And while you may think the key is in the delivery, the real deal-breaker is in your response.

The following are actual lines I've witnessed my actual self in the first person. Surprisingly, many of the men actually survived their encounters:

Him(nervous): So.....what are you doing Friday night?
Me: Nothing. Why?

Him: Would you like to go to the prom with me?

Me: Ok. But why don't we go Saturday night like everyone else?

Him(in a club): Pardon me, do you have any contact lens solution?
Me: That is the stupidest opening line I've ever heard.
Him: Thanks! Come here often?

Him (tipsy):Wanna dance?

Me: Sorry, I can't dance. I have two left feet.
Him: I don't know about yer feet but yer legs look darn good.

Me:(at a bar, on a bet, in a sultry voice to a guy standing in a narrow hallway): You know, standing there like that, you're quite the fire hazard.

Him: Hu-uhhh....heh, heh....wh-what?

Him: (upon seeing a rather sparse wall): Wow, I could totally fill up these walls!

Me: With what?

Him: Dead animals.

Him: (to my friend wearing duct tape on her bottom because her jeans tore):What's that on yer butt?

Her: Duct tape.

Him: ....wanna dance?

Because of the terror involving opening lines, men especially feel compelled to bolster their bile with alcohol. As a result, many of their opening lines fail-

Him: Wouagasagboooooty?

Her: What?

Him:Wwwooougaaaasaag(hic!)boooooooty?!

Her(slap!)

Some guys realize that alcohol is not enough. They need something stronger, something to make them absolutely, irrefutably irresistable. So they reach for....lies. Big, fat lies:

Him: I own forty acres of prime Texas land.

Her: Really?

Him: Yes, ma'am. I raise prime Texas Longhorn Angus dairy cows.
Her(slap!)

Him:Wwwooougaaaasaag(hic!)boooooooty?!
Her(slap!)

In an effort to understand what the guy is saying, women feel compelled to reach for a translating device, often referred to as a margarita -

Him: Wouagasagboooooty?
Her: Whaaaaaat?
Him:Wwwooougaaaasaag(hic!)boooooooty?!
Her:(clunk!)

For the safety of innocent people and in an attempt to limit such behavior to a controlled environment (as well as make ungodly piles of money), bars were invented. Age limits were established to prevent children from seeing such embarrassing behavior. Lights are dimmed to keep from frightening the patrons. Patrons are dimmed by alcohol.

Fortunately alcohol prevents both parties from remembering anything, so they have no issues attempting the same approach the next weekend, or as soon as they sober up, whichever comes first.

For comedy's sake, let's suppose you've gotten past the opening night jitters and have a date set up, or even gotten past that and have three kids and a joint checking account. This is probably a good time to inform you that there is more than one form of opening line. There are many, many, many first lines. In fact, there are tons of levels of them, more than Warcraft has gnomes, and you will probably not survive all of them. Don't worry, though, it's a merciful killing. Let's look at a few examples. Notice that the male's response, or second attempt at survival, is usually the fatal blow:

Her: Honey, what do you think of my new dress?

Him: You went shopping again?

Her: What?!
Him:Wwwooougaaaasaag(hic!)boooooooty?!
Her (slap!)

Her: Honey, did you mow the lawn?
Him: What?
Her: Did you mow the lawn?!

Him:Wwwooougaaaasaag(hic!)boooooooty?!
Her (slap!)

Yes, guys learn to buy time by saying 'what?' or swigging a drink. But think about - is that quality time they're buying?

After a while they realize that life is just a series of potential verbal pitfalls, and they devolve into communicating in vocal and intestinal grunts. Women are free to translate as they wish, using the aforementioned margarita-based translation device and an air freshener for survival.

As the stakes rise, quite often women resort to a high-octane squeal known as nagging. While nagging is powerful enough to make neighborhood dogs keel over in their tracks, men eventually build up a resistance to it using a device known as football season.

And so it goes, until the men are deaf and drunk, the women are shopped-out, and we all end up on the couch together, channel-surfing cable re-runs every Saturday night.

Misery Date

Remember Mystery Date, the board game where you’d pick an outfit, spin a spinner, and hope you were dressed properly to match your ‘date,’ the cardboard, two-dimensional guy behind the ‘magic door?' Perhaps my imagination was a bit over-active, but that game used to scare the living daylights out of me. After spending years reading Shakespeare, Voltaire, and Oscar Wilde, this game came along and insinuated that my time would have been better spent tweezing my eyebrows, applying nail polish, and perusing Tiger Beat.

Besides, since I secretly liked the way the ‘messy' guy dressed there was obviously something terribly wrong with me so I should just as well stay down on the farm with the livestock who understood where I was coming from and would never ever expect me to yank my eyebrows off one hair at a time and pour acrylic chemicals on my fingernails because that was just so… so… wrong.

Back then the mere thought of dating petrified me. Now it only terrifies me. Now, whenever I’m asked out, my imagination runs a flashback montage of past dates, complete with laugh track. Instead of a lightbulb lighting up over my head, there’s a big question mark – why? Why try? What crackpot idea makes me think this time will be any better than the last 37 times?

I'm sure this question mark shows on my face. It probably looks something like the stunned, cold silence usually reserved for a horribly embarrassing faux pas, like giggling at a funeral. You're asking me out? Are you out of your ever-loving mind? As you can imagine, they rarely hang around waiting for a verbal response.

Created in 1965, Mystery Date is now (gasp!) over 40. When we first played the dating game there was nothing past forty except fiber and reading glasses. Now we're squinting to read the small print on our box of bran flakes, and the thought of touching that stupid, white, plastic door handle still makes my palms sweat.

We've all heard that over half of marriages end in divorce. With so many couples staying together 'for the children,' then splitting, dating at forty and beyond is way more common than you'd expect. An added, bizarre bonus is that now your children can help you set up your profile for an online dating service. They can probably also advise you as to whether you'd be considered a hottie. Oh, joy.

You're nearly halfway to the century mark and you're free for dinner Friday night. Did you see that coming in third grade when you were deciding how many kids you and Robby Bonderman were going to have? Me, either.

We're no longer playing with Monopoly money. We’ve made a few mistakes and hopefully learned a bit. Now we're humbled to the point of just wanting to spend the rest of our lives with someone who won't irritate us to the point of needing expensive, non-generic medication. Choose wisely,baby boomer - your sanity, as well as the quality of your retirement home, depend on it.

I’ve paid my dues. Hell, I’ve probably paid your dues. I've earned the right to say, “Bite me, Milton Bradley, I’m not playing anymore. Let the doorknob hit you where the good Lord split you.”

If you need me, I'll be out back with the horses. And my 'messy' guy.

Bust a Mooooove - Duct Tape

The other night I was esconced in an elite social club/corner bar when tragedy struck. A friend's jeans, perhaps stretched beyond suggested torque limits, split wide open across the back pocket. They were her favorite pair, but years of stress and strain had taken a toll, and now a fair slab of skin was peeking out. A weaker woman would have run for the door in tears, but not my friend.

She held her ground, and her pants, for she had... duct tape.

I was so proud. Whipping out her Hello Kitty Leatherman, she deftly sliced a piece of tape off and bridged the gap. "No, no!" cried another friend. "You must put the strips vertically. It's much more slimming." She was right, of course, and we quickly corrected the fashion faux pas. Bursting with pride, but not enough to burst my britches, I offered to add a few pieces to my own Wranglers as a fashion statement of solidarity.

Functional yet attractive, the shiny stuff worked in a country/grunge sort of way. It gave guys an easy opening line with my friend, i.e. "What the heck is that on yer pants?" After which they'd spend entire songs discussing some of the more unique uses of the miracle adhesive. Instead of going home early and alone, she got to stay out and twirl her reflective keester about the dance floor a while longer.

There are certain sounds that, when heard, automatically create a mood- cats love can openers, my dog loves the music of the passing ice cream truck, for some - the croonings of Barry White....I was wondering if, in the right setting, the sound of ripping duct tape could be inspiring.

Next week I expect to walk in and see a whole bunch of copycat, duct-taped girlies eagerly following our lead. Hipper than a mullet and with more staying power, this duct tape thing has legs. I'm working on a line of jewelry, starting with bangle bracelets and a matching studded choker. My friend attempted a mini skirt which, although a painful failure, led her to discover that the stuff is a very effective body wax.

This has been your most-recent Dating Data Update. Thanks for reading this far.

You See a Dear, I See 'Bimbo'

You know how perfectly decent guys will pretend to fall for bimbos just to make you jealous? It's a cruel but common game. Usually the anger of the moment precludes a woman from taking selective action, but I'm going to give you a few tips on how to effectively counteract this snide move and still minimize your parole time.

Since guys are single-celled orgasms (sick), they can't keep up with our plethora of multi-tasking activities. They know that and try to downplay this fact. Hell, they downplay every disadvantage they have. They just have to do it one disadvantage at a time.

Let's say, for example, you're at a club, and you know he's interested in you because he keeps peeking over at you and drooling. This goes on for several beers minutes. Finally, he walks toward you and instead of doing something sane, like saying 'hi,' he asks a bimbo to dance, right in front of you.

You have several options, most of which will end with you incarcerated or at least with a broken nail. Let's look at some of the kinder ones. You can:

• stare daggers at him
  
• find a loser to dance with like he did
  
• carve your name in his leather seat (not necessarily the one in his car)


• test her fake bimbtits as flotation devices in the men's room toilet
  

These are all moves he expects of you. As Queens of the Multitask, we must be better than bitter.

First of all - disappear. Move. Go hide a weapon in the bathroom again, whatever. Just get scarce and don't be where he expects you to be. He'll be looking for your reaction. By the time he can't find you, you'll have your scope focused and a bullet in the chamber.

Part of the key to the 'disappear' move is the amount of time involved. Between alcohol and bimbos, guys don't remember much, so you can't stay away too long.

Keep in mind that when the song ends, he won't have another move lined up. Guys can't think that far ahead. You can. Let him hang like a limp booger on the dance floor a while. It's a humbling experience that will help him appreciate you more later.

If you've got a prop-daddy handy, use him. Walk back to your spot with a fresh drink, giggling with your prop-daddy. By this time your target will have forgotten what he was up to and will just see you with alcohol and another guy.

At this point, give your target the long, slow, sloe-eye. Yes, the Bambi what-were-you-thinking-by-wasting-time-with-a-flotation-device-trollop look. Then, back to prop-daddy. By now you have his attention and his family jewels in your side pocket.

You can take it from here - whatever your style is - pouty, cute/angry, etc. Now, go git 'im, girls!

This has been your most recent Dating Data Update. Thanks for reading this far.

Dating a Single Mom - Avast Ye, Potential Mateys!

In an effort to release some of the sugarized energy buzzing from my two sons as they thinned their herd of chocolate Easter bunnies, we went to Legoland, a pleasant theme park consisting of tiny blocks, tiny European humor, and the requisite tiny screechy children. I honestly do like going there. Unfortunately I couldn't find anyone to watch my kids so I had to take them with me.

After hiking 87.3 miles and consuming approximately 23 odd snacks and beverages in even odder containers, we eventually found ourselves manning a water cannon in the Pirate Shores area. We were a mutinous bunch of landlubbers for Splash Battle, lying in wait for the evil pirate tourists cruising by in fierce, plastic pirate ships. In our crew, one person pumped the water, another aimed the cannon at passing pirate ships (also armed with water cannon), while the 3rd person (me) discovered that if you cover the mouth of the water cannon and let go at just the right time, you could pressurize it enough to really hammer the poor slobs in the pirate ships. If you must attend a theme park, the aggression that builds up waiting 45 minutes for a two-minute ride has to vent somewhere, so I highly recommend the opportunity to splatter complete strangers with icy cold water. Har, mateys.

It was incredibly loud and chaotic, so of course my phone rang and, distracted Captain/Mom that I am, I answered it. Ever answer your cell phone during a siege? Of course not - you know better.

Me: Hello?

Steve: Hi, it's Steve.

Me: Which Steve?

Steve: Um, how many Steves do you know?

Me(now knowing that this is the Steve who's sensitive about how many Steves I know): Can I call you back? We're marauding at the moment.

Steve: What?

Me(to my son): Hold your fire, hold your fire! Wait 'til they're closer!

Steve: Is this a bad time?

Me: Actually, it's quite fun. (to my other son) Watch your back - aaagh!!!

Steve: Are you ok?

Me: Never been better. (to my crew) INCOMING AT SIX O'CLOCK! FIRE! FIRE!

Steve: Would you like to go to dinner Saturday night?

Me: Friday's better for me. (to crew) FIRE, DANGIT! Sheesh, that little blonde girl is kicking our butts!

Steve: Fridays are tough for me...

Me: I'M HIT!!!! GET HER MOM, BOYS - FIRE AT HER MOM!! Ooops, sorry for yelling Steve. I gotta call you back.

Dinner date is for Friday. Whether he shivers my timbers is yet to be decided. He'd just better try to keep up or he'll be walkin' the plank.

Mother's Day Out

Just a quick whine before the main course. This will only take a minute, and believe me, it hurts you more than it hurts me.Trust me on this - I'm a mother.
We just finished celebrating Teacher Appreciation Week. Now here comes Mothers' Day. Teachers get a week, mothers get a day. What gives? They must have a better union. Maybe their lobbyists are better connected. Objection! To be a teacher, you have to be certified. But to be a mother, you have to be certifiable. And if you weren't certifiable before becoming a mother, you certainly are afterward. Here's proof-

Last night I went to a unique celebration. If you remember from my last post, I had been invited to a night celebrating single moms. One guy, a single guy, was sponsoring the event. Quite the guy, actually, and quite the night. We all sat around in big comfy white couches, sipping drinks and dipping strawberries in chocolate fondue. Our host had bought us roses, teddy bears, and chocolate. "How adorable," I murmured. "Where the hell is my drink?"

Did I mention there was a huge white bed next to the couches? Tee, hee, hee. Apparently the place was remodelling and the bed just happened to be there. Oopsie. "How silly!," I giggled as I set my purse taser to 'stun.'

We were also sitting right next to the bar stockroom. Every once in a while the bartender would swoop in, and we'd glimpse walls of Jack Daniels, Skye Vodka, and heavenly bottles of primo tequila. We teased the bartender about leaving his stash unlocked with dangerous minions lurking about. "Don't be silly," he said, "I trust you!"

I sensed we were being written off as harmless. Oopsie. We were too old, too 'motherly', too quaint to be dangerous? I sensed the rest of my group was feeling the same. (Except for the single guy who sponsored this shindig. By this time, he was cowering in the corner, rocking and babbling.)

Since we were all mothers, and all restless, we immediately recognized a young, cute man who needed to be taught a lesson. When his back was turned, my friend swiped the lock off the door. She went over to lecture him about leaving such a lovely collection of beverages unlocked. As she distracted him, I slipped into the storeroom and closed the door.

Soon I heard voices - the young bartender was approaching my storeroom (yes, mine!). He was casually scolding my friend for taking the lock. He slid the door open. I grabbed him about the neck and dragged him into the storeroom. He shrieked. Yes, shrieked. Visions of Mrs. Robinson danced in his head.

As for the nice guy who set up this whole evening, we were too much for him. Hopefully he'll be out of therapy in time to pay for next year's fete. Amazons? Yes. Amazing? That, too. Happy Mothers' Day.