Monchichi, monchichi, oh so soft and cuddly....

I didn't attend my senior prom. My first high school closed after my sophomore year and my parents moved me out to BFE to complete my education. I participated as little as possible in events taking place at the new school, preferring (as some sort of private protest) to keep in touch with friends from my "real" school. This included my on again, off again (mostly off again) boyfriend Monchichi, so named by me because of his resemblance to the toy.

After a long "off" spell, Monchichi called me and asked me to go to his prom. Having vetoed my own, but not wanting to totally miss out on the quintessential senior experience, I agreed for 2 reasons, the first being that he asked me. Not much of a criteria, I realize, but I was young and stupid, ok? The second reason was he lived in a neighboring town and therefore I could attend his prom and not be supporting my new school in any way.

But why did Monchichi ask me to prom just 2 weeks before the event? He had broken up with his girlfriend and had already bought the tickets. Against his mother's advice to take the ex girl anyway, he called me who his mother reportedly hated even though we'd never met.

We didn't have much time to plan. I had hair and nails to see to, a dress and shoes to buy and a boutonniere to order. He had to make dinner reservations, arrange for the car, rent a tux and order my flowers. But he had neither a job nor money. Knowing that Monchichi sometimes dabbled in illegal activities, I told him, "Do what you have to do. But don't tell me about it." My pep talk worked because the evening did find funding.

When he showed up at my house on the big night, he was a few minutes late. He'd stopped at a grocery store and gotten my (orchid?) wrist corsage that was wilted and whose fragrance gave me a headache. I pinned the boutonniere on his lapel and tied mine to my wrist and we were off, in his friend's father's new white cadillac. All 8 of us. How to arrange 8 teenagers in all their formal finery in one car? Sit on your date's lap. That's right, all the girls piled on the boys laps, much to the detriment of our skirts, for the 40 minute ride to the restaurant.

What a sight we were, us four ladies walking on the arms of our gentlemen who were sporting top hats, tails and canes. The other diners' conversations lulled as they watched us promenade to our table. (A kodak moment, for sure, but alas, this was before the days of disposable cameras).

The restaurant served Spanish food in a hacienda atmosphere, complete with a classical guitarist. The food was divine! I don't remember what we ordered. But Monchichi and I fed each other the dessert. Dinner was over way to soon and then it was off to the Houston Club for the actual prom, another 45 minutes away.

When we arrived, we paired up and readied for the grand entrance. We took the elevator to the third floor. One of Monchichi's friends gallantly stood with his back holding the elevator doors open for the ladies, and then the other guys, and in a scene from an old movie gone wrong, he gave a little bow, tipped his hat, and gave his cane a little toss which he intended to catch as he exited the elevator. But he miscalculated and his rental cane fell into the elevator shaft. The 8 of us stood in the lobby listening to the rat-tat-tat of the falling cane, and laughing ourselves to tears.

We went in to the prom, had our pictures made in the arbor and got a table on the balcony. We sat talking for a while and then hit the dance floor. There was a live band "Pressure Under Glass", who was doing all the current 80's hits, covering them quite well, actually.

Much later in the evening, the senior class was assembled in the lobby to get their remembrance gifts, wine glasses for the girls and on-the-rocks glasses for the boys, both inscribed "Forever Young" 1987. I wasn't a part of the senior class, so I wasn't supposed to get a glass. But I told Monchichi that I wanted one. The guys (not sure who actually pilfered it) made sure I had wine glass in hand before the end of the dance, reasoning that not everyone attended the prom and surely there was an extra.

As we were returning to the ballroom I came face to face with every girl's nightmare. Someone else was wearing my dress! And it wasn't one of the other students, oh no. One of the teacher chaperones and I were dressed the same! I was mortified and so embarassed I wanted to leave right away. But Monchichi looked at me and looked at the teacher and told me, "It looks much better on you," and persuaded me to stay for the duration.

After the prom was over and we girls raided the tables for decorations, we headed home, and were dropped at Monchichi's house. The plan was for the group of us to change clothes and head to Galveston. Monchichi's dad had stocked an ice chest with beer and wine coolers and a different friend was driving. But I was confused. The new friend hadn't been to the prom and was in fact older than us, in his 20's.

And he'd been smoking. And I don't mean tobacco.

I pitched the fit to end all fits. I wasn't going with him. Monchichi could take me home right away. We were gonna get thrown in jail. We couldn't go all the way to the beach with all that alcohol in the car. We couldn't entrust Mr. High with getting us there and back safely. Uh uh. No way. Count me out.

Monchichi and Mr. High drove me home and the argument continued. I'm not going. How dare you put me at risk? I'm not going anywhere with that man. Etc. At about 2 a.m. Monchichi finally worn me down and I agreed to go, but I was worried the whole time, waiting for something to go wrong.

And it did.

Mr. High stayed with the car and smoked the whole time. He'd apparently brought enough marijuana for all of us and finding no takers, smoked it all on his own.

The friends went to another beach, leaving Monchichi alone to drink his way through the cooler full of booze .

The boys took me to McDonald's so I could use the sink and buy a little breakfast. But it was no good. I had fake nails on and couldn't get my contacts out. I had to have Mr. High remove my lenses. I didn't have my glasses. Neither did Monchichi.

I didn't have anymore money. Neither did Monchichi.

I didn't have a driver's license. Neither did Monchichi.

I spent the day hungry, blind, mad and terrified we'd get caught with all sorts of illegal bootie.

Mr. High got so high he passed out in the back seat and couldn't drive us home. I'd never driven before so I turned to Monchichi to get us home. He didn't know the way, he couldn't see and he was sick from the heat. Luckily for us all, I was an athletic trainer and knew what to do about the impending heat stroke.

I had Monchichi drive us to the nearest diner. I ordered one glass of iced tea and 2 glasses of water and asked the waitress for glasses of extra ice, explaining that my boyfriend was sick. And there in the diner, I massaged him with ice cubes on his wrists, his temples and the back of his neck. I held cool damp napkins on his forehead and neck, and sent him to the bathroom to sponge bathe. The ice, cool water, tea and air conditioning did the trick and we headed home.

As Monchichi drove, I put my contacts in and navigated. It took us 2 hours, but we made it home.

We didn't see each other for over a year after prom. I asked him for some of the prom pictures when we finally did hook back up. "Well...." he began.

"Well what?"

"There's only one." What? We paid $49 for an entire packet! Who had he given them to? "You know my mom doesn't really like you," he started again.

Yes?

"She cut you out of the pictures."

I was pissed. How could someone hate me so much without knowing me?

"She really liked my ex," he explained.

I had him smuggle me the remaining picture and we continued to be on again off again throughout my time in college. We had dated for 8 years before I found the inner strength to stand up to him, his lies and his cheating.

"In all these years, Monchichi, you've never even told me why you like me."

"I like your fiery little attitude," he answered.

"Fiery little attitude?! Bullshit! You know why you like me? Why you still chase me? It's because I haven't fucked you yet. Now if I haven't fucked you in 8 years, what makes you think I'm gonna start fucking you now?"

He had no response. What could he say? For Monchichi the conquest was everything. And I wasn't about to be conquered.

Houston, we have a problem...

I have submitted this blog to H-town blogs 4 times now, without success. I meet the posted criteria:

1. My blog has had activity within the last 45 days
2. I posted the link back to H-town blogs

Yet and still, I have not been accepted and listed on their site. Why could that be?

Is it my lack of conformity to what is considered "proper" subject material?
Is it that I cuss like a sailor and tend to call a spade a spade?
Did I date someone one from H-town blogs and he's recognized himself within my posts?

I don't know, because H-town blogs won't even send me a notice of denial. There's no place I can email and say, Hey, do you have a problem with me?

When I started this blog and realized there was a place for Houston bloggers to unite, I thought, what a fabulous idea! I'll sign up! But I keep getting snubbed by my fellow Houstonians.

And even more irrtating, I can't sign up for the Texas Blog ring because of my subject matter and language usage. Houston and Texas don't seem to want me. I'm beginning to develop a complex and think I have taken on a new identity as the bastard step-child of fate.

I have been embraced by women, however, and truthfully, women seem to be the majority of my audience. So, please help me support other women bloggers and visit Blogs by Women.

I was served by Flava Flav

Well...not really...but the kid was really trying to be Flav. He had the gold teeth, the braids, and he was totally pimpin with his attire, a light blue ensemble from head to toe. Yes, even the shoes were light blue! You just don't see men in pastel, easter egg colored shoes every day.

The run in with "Flav" got me looking around at others in the restaurant. It's good to try to stay stylish in your later years. But the grey haired granny that was sporting the capris and matching hoodie was taking things a bit too far!

At the booth in back of me, two women were dining, and had obviously been to the beauty shop in the last day or so. They didn't leave their homes this morning without every hair being in place. Was it too much to expect them to comb the hair of the 2 year old child whose crowning glory had reached afro proportions?

And what was up with the dude who sat with a group of coworkers and ate his entire meal while his sunglasses were perched on the back of his neck, as if they were protecting the rear and would alert him at the first sign of attack?

After lunch my sister and I went to get our hair cut and sat waiting while one stylist gave the other stylist a shampoo. What the fuck? She couldn't wash her hair at home?

You just never know what you're gonna see in this city.

Small, small world

Back in 1991, after Metro dumped me for the "sure thing" that only lasted 6 months, I enlisted the help of an internet friend to meet men of a higher standard. He helped me write an ad that I posted with Yahoo singles and he read all the responses, sending on to me the ones he deemed worthy. My friend was of the opinion that I, as a female, was unable to distinguish the nature of my respondants' motives, and generously offered his services, as a male, to cut through all the bullshit and let me know what these potential suitors were really up to.

Only a few were sent my way, and one of them I kept pushing to the bottom of the pile, but come February, I had eliminated the others and was left with the Ex. We emailed and spoke on the phone and decided to meet at a restaurant near my home.

"But first I have to tell you something. And it might be a deal breaker," he said.

Oh shit, he's married, I thought. "Ok. What is it?"

"I'm native American," he stated rather anticlimatically.

"Ok...."I wasn't sure why this was supposed to upset me, but seeking to relate to his plight, I added, "I have 3 tribes coursing in my veins; it's no big deal."

Ok, ok, ok. For any and all native Americans that may be reading, I apologize. This was before I graduated from the Ex's program of re-education.

So we met and shortly after we were seated he tells me, "I really am native American and I can prove it."

Honest to God, if he hadn't told me I never would have known because he looks just as white as me. "Ok," I answered, wondering why he thought I required proof and why it would matter anyway.

He dug in his wallet and pulled out his ID card from the Nation. Sure enough, in black and white, was proof that the Ex was a card carrying native American. "What tribes did you say you are?" he asked me.

Again, I apologize. I really was stupid enough to be proud when I answered, "Cherokee, Blackfoot and Crow."

This lead into a Q & A session on his nation, native American rights, matrilineal succession, stereotypes, etc. The Ex, to his credit, explained everything thoroughly and didn't laugh at my stupidity. He acknowledged that it wasn't my fault I was ill informed; I was, after all, a product of the white majority education system. And thus my learning of native American affairs was begun.

He then turned the conversation over to me and several times I mentioned "my ex-boyfriend". He asked what had ended our relationship, and I gave him a brief synopsis, slipping his name Metro at one point after having mentioned where Metro worked.

"What did you say his name was?" the Ex asked me.

I felt myself blush and the tips of my ears were burning. Sometimes intuition smacks me upside the head, and this was one of those times. "I think maybe I better not say anymore."

"It's Metro Politan, isn't it?"

The air in the room got really heavy and things started to go black around the edges, and I realized I had made a huge error. "Please tell me you're not like his best friend in the world or something," I heard my mouth say, as my brain was telling me to climb under the table and hide until it was all over.

"No. I don't really know him. I graduated with his sister. Rest assured, Trisa, that what he did to you, he's done to many before you."

Now, just how is that supposed to make me feel better? But the Ex wasn't done yet, he had details.

"Metro was known in high school for not doing anything athletic. He might mess up his hair or get smelly. And he had an affair with the drill team coach after graduation. She was young...."and he went on and on. And on. Pretty much the Ex ruined Metro in my eyes. And I got much more than I bargained for.

Beware, ladies, when you're out with someone new. Don't divulge too much information, cuz you never know how small the world really is until it's too late.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you

My friend Susie has a problem that she's reluctant to discuss in her blog for fear of making the situation worse should the thorn in her side happen across Ups and Downs on the A1A. I however do not have any problem letting psycho chick know what I think of her and have decided that I would be remiss not to address this issue on Susie's behalf.

E,

You know who you are, so I don't have to post your full name. You are the most arrogant, ungrateful, self-serving person I have met in all my dealings doing promotions for the ex-Menudos. Yes, I have done promotions before, for RA, for RG, and for Reencuentro. I too have contacts in the industry, and not just because I've been a groupie, chasing the boys hither and yon. I have contacts that I actually know and to whom I am able to share infomation, news tickles and press releases.

You used your past as a pen-pal to ingratiate yourself with Susie and then took advantage of her friendship when she offered you the opportunity to help out with the website. Yes, I know you are a professional, but damn, girl, that site's been up and running since 1999, with Ray's personal endorsement and as his "official" site; and it was done without you.

You've barged into this project with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. Not that you haven't done wonderful things with the site. Because it looks fabulous. But you neither own the domains, the site, or the label. You are the most recently acquired "staff" member, and you need to cool your jets.

It is not your place to personally contact the talent's family members. It is not your place to be in constant contact with the management either.

You were given the specific responsibility of being the web designer. I bow to your professional experience with web sites; it's stuff I don't currently know how to do. (Did you notice the word currently?) Layout is all yours, baby, so be creative and yes, professional. And for God's sakes, realize your limitations. You are less than fluent in Spanish, so accept the help that's been graciously offered and post correct translations. The entire site is cheapened when the spanish readers can't decipher your postings. But the layout is the extent of your involvement. And if you pitch in here or there with a great idea, or if you're available to do some of the leg work, then it's all for the good of sharing the word and the music, it doesn't mean you've suddenly become RA's right hand man, and it doesn't mean you get to drop by to visit on weekends, or have His personal numbers.

The way you are going, don't be surprised if you receive a swift kick in the butt. Susie takes crap from noone, especially not whiney, snivelling, tattletales who see this as their chance for 15 minutes of fame.

Back off, bitch and don't bite the hand that feeds you!

By popular demand

I've been asked how to make rum brownies. It really couldn't be easier, but here goes.

1 brownie mix
oil
egg
rum (regular, dark, spiced, coconut, whatever you prefer)

Mix according to the package directions, substituting the rum for the water. Bake according to the package directions and then enjoy the rummy goodness of rum brownies.

After you try them, drop me a line and let me know what you think!

All things in moderation

I enjoy the occasional cold, frosty, adult alcoholic beverage as much as any one else. But I've learned to stop at 2. "Why?" you might ask. Read the following scenarios and judge that one for yourself.

Reason #1 is pink fog. My uncle declared that everyone over the age of 12 was old enough to have wine with dinner and champagne when the new year rolled in. Woo Hoo! Instead of my allotted 2 drinks, I snuck 5. I was sleepy and happy. And seeing pink fog.

Reason #2 is hallucinations. Celebrating my birthday with the Ex, I ordered a bahama mama with my dinner at the seafood restaurant. As he was talking I watched as a picture of a fisherman spun around and did a 360. Mind you, I had 1 drink.

Reason #3 is loss of inhibitions. I had been angry with the Ex, and he bought me 2 margaritas trying to calm me down. We went to Walgreens to get necessary supplies for some adult fun, and as he later told me, I was screaming through the store, "I know where the KY is!! It's over by the condoms!!" I was evidently excited and proud to be getting some and didn't care who knew it. He didn't follow me to the section, and I went looking for him. "Ssssshhhhh," he said steering me as far away from the adult area as possible. He stopped, and turned me to face the display (it was an endcap full of peanut butter), "Stay right here," he instructed. After making our purchase and leaving the store, I remember falling off the sidewalk.

Reason #5 is lack of coordination. Okay, so I'm not that coordinated to start with but let me suck down a couple of Metro's patented orange and sangria margaritas, and I will literally fall out of my shoes, run into the walls and slide off the furniture, none of which are the traits I intentionally display while on a date.

Reason #6 is babbling. Get me drinking and I just can't shut up. After sliding onto Metro's floor, and trying to haul myself up by climbing his legs, I kept up an incessant, pleading monologue,"Please don't make me drive home I'll wrap my car around a telephone pole I really can't drive like this Please don't make me drive home..."

Reason #7 is the tequila headache. I'm fortunate in that I don't really have a hangover the next day and I've never puked my guts up after drinking a few, but give me tequila and I'll get a headache everytime. This annoying poking sensation in my forehead as if someone is trying to punch a hole in my brain so they can peek out. A headache that will last for 24 hours no matter if I've had 1 margarita or 10.

Now I've learned to enjoy alcohol in different ways. I love the rummy goodness in the Red Onion's chocolate tres leches cake. Or rum brownies (especially tasty with Capt. Morgan's coconut rum). Marsala wine sauce with pasta. You get the idea.

And so did the Ex, who quickly learned that where alcohol is concerned, "Just a little for you" is a good rule to follow.

Be careful what you wish for

My matchmaking contact list was updated today. The service who once said I was "unmatchable" now sends me a dozen or so potential soulmates each week. This service is majorly overachieving because I was told upon signing up that the goal was 1 match per month.
So far I've gotten adventure freaks, nature lovers, avid hunters, nascar enthusiasts, and computer geeks. But today the matches went in an unexpected direction.

Who did I find myself introduced to today? The best-friend and former roommate of the Ex.

I had fantasized about unknowingly meeting and dating someone in the Ex's inner circle. An evil thought, perhaps. But totally vengeful in nature. I wanted to be in his face; I wanted him to be totally unable to avoid me.

Could I have just been handed my fantasy on a silver platter?

Let's just pretend for a minute that Match is taller than me and that I weigh 89 lbs. ( thanks to my fake boobs) and that I don't mind sharing my main squeeze with up to 7 other people at a time. (The things you can learn dating someone's best childhood friend and surrogate brother.) When would be the appropriate time to tell him, "Yeah, I fucked your best friend"? Should I comment on the changes he may have made to the house since I was last there? "Really, Match, I love the way you moved the couch." Or should I just act stupid and wait for our paths to cross with the Ex in a social capacity, sit back and enjoy the show?

It takes some twist of karma/kismet/fate (whichever you subscribe to) and a healthy dose of Murphy's Law to thrust me back onto the fringes of the Ex's social circle just when I was taking steps to leave the past behind.

Where are you from?

Hello readers...I just found out that Nasty Little Thoughts has gone international! Hello, Matt in Korea! So I thought it'd be interesting to ask where you are all from. E-mail me and let me know where you are and what keeps you coming back.

God don't like ugly

Cuz was confused from the get go and harbored major insecurities. He couldn't decide on which name to go by, first introducing himself as Cuz, then his family nickname Bubba, and then his childhood name Junior. Now it's not all his fault. He was saddled with a family name that was 3 or 4 generations in the making, and all the available nicknames were already in use. But usually, sometime in adolescence, a person will develop a sense of identity and will choose one name to go by.

Cuz/Bubba/Junior had other problems, however. He shared a house with his dad and grandpa, a house that was in total disarray. Why was the tupperware stored in the den? Why were there boxes stacked to the ceiling? It was such a mess I was tempted to clean everytime I was there, and those of you who know me, can appreciate how nasty it must have been to drive me into the arms of domesticity. Let's not even discuss the bed he called his "banana boat", a twin sized bed that sagged so much in the middle it resembled a hammock swaying in the breeze. A bed whose structural integrity was so dubious I refused to sit on it. I watched "The Sixth Sense" standing up the entire time rather than take a ride on the "banana boat".

And through a sick twist of fate, it was discovered that one of my roommates, a founding member of the Kook Aid gang, whom I will explain at length another time, was related to Cuz! The 2 of them actually sat down and discussed who was at the most recent family reunion and traded info so that the family historian could be in touch!

But I digress.

One Friday, about 3 weeks into our relationship, Cuz, who was a hot shot delivery driver, was to pick me up after work so we could go out. After I'd gotten home and ready for our date, he called and said he wasn't coming.

I sat there seething into the telephone. I have to stages of anger; mildly pissed where I can cuss you out and throw shit and full blown bitch mode. Cuz met the latter that night. In full blown bitch mode I will of course deny that anything is wrong. But then I will refuse to speak at all, deferring to the awesome weight of silence.

Not the brightest bulb on the tree, Cuz chose FBBM as the time to tell me of our plans for the next night. "I'm gonna pick you up tomorrow and we're gonna go to my friends' house for dinner."

"WHAT?! You accepted an invitation for me and didn't tell me about it?"

"Well my friends want to get to know you."

"I'm still trying to get to know you," I told him. "I don't want to meet your friends."

And here, folks is where Cuz made his fatal error, "You can either meet my friends or I just don't see the point in coming out there."

An ultimatum?! Who the holy fucking hell does he think he is to give me an ultimatum? I seethed into the phone for another long while.

"You think about it tonight and let me know in the morning," he told me.

With my mind already made up that nobody nowhere nohow is gonna give me an ultimatum, and that I'd show his ass an ultimatum I hung up counting down the minutes til morning when I could call him.

As soon as my eyes popped open that Saturday morning, before I even got out of bed to pee, I called Cuz to give him my reply. The phone rang several times and was answered by Cuz's pleading voice, "Baby I already know what you're gonna say and you gotta believe me I learned my lesson cuz God don't like ugly."

"Mmmm hmmmm," was the best I could offer up.

"Well after we talked last night I was pretty mad," he began. He was pretty mad? I was down right livid. "I rode my motorcycle (not a Harley, people, a damned crotch rocket) over to my buddy's shop and we drank some beers."

"How many beers?" I asked, sensing something ugly on the horizon.

"I had an 18 pack." ????? Did I mention he was not the brightest crayon in the box? "But I was okay to drive home. And I pulled out of the driveway and this drunk guy hit me."

What ,pray tell, qualifies you as drunk to a guy who just polished off 18 damn beers?

"He ran you over?"

"No. He swerved and hit the side of my motorcycle."

"You spilled on the bike?" My brother briefly owned a donorcycle and I had seen some of his injuries.

"No. I held it up."

Apparently, Cuz, in all his manly strength, put his feet on the pavement to steady the bike, and at that precise moment, the drunk guy's bumper hit Cuz's leg, breaking it in 3 places and leaving him with a permanent limp. A friendly little constant reminder that God don't like ugly.

Mr. 1956

I have stooped to a new dating low. I now pay a service to introduce me to even worse men than I was choosing for myself. Witness Mr. 1956.

His profile said he was 43, in the computer field, and showed a picture of a tall, dark haired young man. The pic was black and white though, and my friends and I weren't able to figure out why. Is it from a newspaper article or business journal perhaps? Year book? We didn't know, but dubbed him Mr. 1956 because of his Ward Cleaver hair do.

I knew I was in trouble when he showed up 20 minutes early and I was still drying my hair. My sister ran into the bathroom shaking like an epileptic, "Trisa.....he's ooooooooooolllllllllldddddd."

I went to the living room to find a balding, grey haired, stooped, hairy eared and hairy handed facsimile of Ward Cleaver. Mr. 1956 appeared to not be 43 but at least 53. Hell, maybe even 63.
Turns out the picture quite possibly was taken in 1956.

What was I to do? The man was in my living room, the site of the weekly family reunion/home improvement project. My cousin was chopping up a tree, my uncle was babecuing, and my sister and a group of her friends were painting the living room. There stood Mr. 1956 amid the chaos, wearing his black slacks, long sleeved, wide blue striped shirt, and his tweed sports coat. "He's Dad old," my sister had said. And she was right. He was even dressed like my dad.

I gave him a quick hug, apologized for not being ready, and ran to the bathroom to finish the preparations, some of which were abandoned once I'd seen Mr. 1956. I didn't feel it necessary to do mascara and lipstick when he hadn't bothered to shave the tufts of hair sticking out of his ears. In less than 10 minutes, I was ready and we were on our way to a play and eventually dinner.

Conversation on the way to the show was bizarre. Lots of bad jokes such as, "I dreamed of mufflers last night. I woke up exhaust-ed." "Did you hear OJ's getting married again? He wants to take another stab at it." "You know the difference between the government and the mafia? One of them's orgaized." We discussed his forays into cults; he's belonged to 2. And at some point he even said, "I don't like what you're wearing. The next time we go on a date, I think you should wear a dress." Oh, yeah baby, it's gonna be a long night.

We arrived at the community theater an hour earlier than the play started. But instead of suggesting we grab a quick bite to eat, or going out for a drink or two, we sat in the car in the parking lot until the theater staff showed up and finally let us in. Of course, we had to stand around the lobby for 20 minutes, but at least we were in the air conditioning.

After a while the "crowd" arrived....a busload of elderly inhabitants of a retirement village. They pushed and crowded until I was up against the wall and nearly hyperventilating (I don't like crowds) . Mr. 1956 had staked out his place right near the door and got us seats front row center. Of course, there were only 5 rows, and about 36 people all together.

The play was good, but went on for 2 1/2 hours. I'm not quite sure why a play with one set needed 2 intermissions, but this one did. The whole time I sat stick straight in my chair, on the edge of my seat because Mr. 1956 had put his arm around me and I was creeped out by his rubbing my back. ( Remember he looked 53-63. Imagine being groped by your dad...or even your grandpa....icky poo!)

Once the play wrapped up, and we made small talk with his friend who was in the production, it was nearly 11 and I was starving. My stomach had, in fact, been growling since about 10. But where can you catch dinner so late? We opted for a diner on 1960.

As we were seated, Ward Cleaver himself announced to our waiter that we'd been to the theater. Our waiter looked confused. "To see a play," I clarified.

"I've never seen a play," he replied. Never fear, Mr. 1956 was prepared. He gave the waiter the program to the play and wrote down the url for the theater's website, urging him to go check it out.

All throughout the evening, Mr. 1956 had been overly agreeable to anything I said about myself. I said, "I used to drive a civic." He said, "I used to have a Honda." I said, "You'll probably marry the next girl you meet after me. I've trained 5 of my exes." He said, "That's happened to me too". Etc. "What are you going to order?" I asked.

"The enchiladas," he answered with no hesitation.

The waiter came and I told him, "I'll have the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes."

"The same," chimed in Mr. 1956. Be a man, dammit. Make up your own damned mind! If you'd wanted me to order for you, you could have just asked me to pick something. Geez!

At the conclusion of our lovely diner meal (too salty, too greasy and much too prolonged), Ward whipped out his credit card to pay. "Wanna buy a computer?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"We've talked about computers, right?"

Puzzled, I nonetheless agreed that he had in fact discussed computers ad nauseum, with me, my family, people at the play and even the poor waiter didn't escape the business cards that were dispensed like beads at the Mardi Gras parade.

He handed the credit card to our waiter as he said, "Put this on my business card." It's a whole new kind of tacky I have found when a night out with me is a freaking business expense.

Finally he took me home. I jumped out of the car quickly, hoping he wouldn't follow, but no such luck. As we neared the door, we could see through the glass. "There's somebody in there," he observed.

I looked closer, thinking God had sent someone to save me from this hellacious experience, "That's my mom." I opened the door and walked in, expecting him not to follow, since someone was sleeping on the couch. But he followed me uninvited into my home, played on my computer, and got comfortable in my rocking chair.

Mom tired quickly of his inane conversation, she had after all divorced my father, whose behavior was eerily similar, and went to bed. Mr. 1956 took this as him cue to make a move. He stood up and I did too, thinking I would walk him to the door. But no.

He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close. Instinctively I turned my head, and the kiss landed on my neck. I jerked out of his arms and went to the front door.

"Thank you. The play was really good." I said as he went outside.

He stopped, turned around and tried again.

Prepared and quicker to respond the second time I leapt back screaming, "Back off!"

He smirked and said a lame ass "sorry" and left.

Next morning I got an email from him. "I had a really good time. Looking forward to our next date."

Shudder. Wretch. Gag. Ummmm....I don't think so. Thanks but no thanks. As I told him on the drive to the theater, "I'd rather be alone than in a bad relationship."

Single White Female

I never thought I'd be 36 and still single, but here I am. Since Prince Charming has been hopelessly delayed and/or eaten by a dragon, I've taken the bull by the horns and have been internet dating. I've not made the best choices in who to date, obviously, I am still single, but I have met a treasure trove of material for this blog.

After a dating hiatus of almost 2 years, courtesy of the Ex, I have put myself back on the dating scene. I currently have profiles with 3 separate dating/match making services, and I've read at least a hundred profiles, responding to some and not to others. Most of these services allow you to browse through all member profiles to choose who you'd like to meet. But one service gives you detailed tests and then introduces you to certain people. It's all scientific and it's supposed to increase your chances of success. After a question and answer period, you are allowed to email each other and actually converse. Sounds good, right?

But guys, generally if you're trawling the singles' sites, you need to be single. And I don't mean, not married. I mean not attached/committed to someone else.

I've gotten several requests to chat; I respond with the typical hi-my name is-it's nice to meet you-tell me more about yourself, and what do I get in return? Messages that say "I am pursuing another relationship." Excuse me? Even better, the guy who said, "I've been dating this woman and it's starting to get serious." One guys skipped the Q&A, asking me to jump into conversation. My first email was answered with "I've met a woman. Good luck in your search".

If you are dating some woman, what the hell are you doing trying to pick up new women on a dating site?? If you are in a relationship with someone, take down your profile and cancel your membership so you, a committed/attached/unavailable person, aren't matched with single people.

I've run into this so many times. When I met Willis, he told me he was divorced and we started seeing each other. I was at his house at 2 a.m. when he said, "My wife...."

"You mean your EX-wife," I pounced.

"No. My wife. We're not divorced."

Excuse me??!!

So, let me clarify things for you guys out there:

Single white female (that's me) in search of (not stopping til I find it) single/unattached/unmarried male (that could be you) who lives in Houston (it's a big city and I'm only willing to drive so far). Sense of humor a plus (cuz you most likely will be blogged), 5'6"-6"4" ( I like 'em taller than me), slightly heavy square body type (if you've seen any of my ex's you'll understand), preferrably with dark hair, eyes and a goatee. Nice hands and good hair get extra credit, as does possessing intelligence and the ability to participate in conversation. Respondants who can show proof of gainful employment will receive priority status.

If you are married, seeing someone, casually dating, have a fuck buddy, suspect you've met the love of your life, if you live in some other state or not in the greater Houston metropolitan area, if I can break you in half just looking at you, if your career ambition is to be supported by me, or to receive a lifetime achievement award for most jobs held by a single person, do NOT reply. Don't email me, don't IM me, don't request my phone number.

It's really just that simple.

Birthday Blues

When my birthday came in September 2001, I was newly with the Ex, and he was still trying to impress me every so often. He picked me up after work and wisked me off to his apartment where he picked up a blanket, a cooler, champagne and glasses.

Thinking he was going to surprise me with a picnic dinner, I was a little confused when he took me to Logan's Roadhouse. But dinner was great, and thinking ahead to the picnic, I wanted to save room, so I only ate half my food and had the rest packed in a to go box.

I was anxious to get to the surprise part of the evening, but the Ex wasn't ready yet. He asked me, "What movie do you want to see?"

I love scary movies. They don't usually scare me, but I love to dare the movie industry to scare me. "Well, I'd like to see 'Jeepers Creepers', but I know you won't like it," I answered.

He whipped a movie printout from his back pocket (you can't say my one-time-honey wasn't a prepared little boyscout). He seemed troubled by what he read, but agreed to see the movie since it was my birthday. To this day I haven't lived it down.

'Jeepers Creepers' is quite possibly the worst movie released in 2001. The Ex was excited at the beginning and thought it had a good suspenseful start. But at some point in every monster movie the actual monster has to appear. And from that moment on, the movie tanked. I lost movie choosing privileges for quite a while after the 'Jeepers Creepers' fiasco.

Once we left the theater, the Ex pulled a card out of his glove box. It was a comical birthday card featuring an orange cat (No, it wasn't Garfield). And he'd signed it "Love, the Ex". I was on cloud 9, 10, and 11; he'd written the L-word!

"Where are we going?" I asked, wondering if we were ever gonna get to the champagne and blanket.

"To the park by Transco Tower, where the water wall is."

We drove into town, but couldn't get within 3 blocks of the Transco Tower, Houston's tallest building. It was late September 2001, and fear of terrorism had the city locked up tight. "Shit!" was the Ex's response, as he turned around and headed back to the apartment. (He had no back up plan, and no other park was going to do.)

When we got to his place, I felt bad for him, and really disappointed that his first (and only) really romantic gesture was a flop. He locked himself in the bathroom and I went to work. I teach preschool and know a thing or two about setting up a dramatic play area and am an expert in the finer arts of Let's Pretend.

I got the forest green comforter off his bed and spread it on the living room floor. I placed the cooler containing the champagne and glasses in one corner kind of at an angle so it wouldn't get in the way. I turned out all the lights except the halogen floor lamp, which I had barely glowing.

When He came out of the bathroom, I was kneeling in my homemade park. "Look, honey..." I tried to explain, but he stared at me like I was a loon. "See, it's green like the grass and we've got mooonlight over there. We can picnic right here."

"It isn't the same," he grumbled.

I'm not sure if it was fear of failure, or what, but every year after that the Ex had to work on my birthday, and we'd celebrate it late. September 21 gives him the birthday blues.

Shortest relationship in history? (edited)

I met Jr. on AOL. He IM'd me out of the blue, we started chatting, then spoke on the phone, and ended up with him proclaiming, "We are sooo getting married!" by the end of our first phone call. With thing progressing fabulously, we made plans to meet and have dinner at the Cheesecake Factory.

After much discussion, rummaging through my wardrobe and finding my suede mini-skirt was ruined, Jr. invited to take me shopping for something suitable to wear, after all, we would be meeting up with his friends after dinner, and I needed to dress to impress. Bear in mind that Jr. runs in the society circle, attends the galas and such.

My geographically challenged self got him lost on the beltway on his way over, but he finally arrived and we headed to the mall and went straight to Palais Royal. I tried on clothes and modeled them for him and he finally chose a grey school girl style mini-skirt. But finding the top was more difficult. He couldn't understand why my DD sized chest wouldn't fit into medium sized items. I found a black suede top and explained I was trying on the large to accommodate my chest. "I never really liked large breasts," he tells me.

"Really? Well, I've never gotten any complaints." I responded. I never in my life expected to have someone complain that my boobs were too large. But bigger problems lay ahead as we headed to the shoe department.

Jr. wanted me to wear sandals. I don't like sandals and explained my belief that I shouldn't have to look at people's toes and they shouldn't have to look at mine. "Why? What's wrong with your feet?" he asked.

"Nothing is wrong with my feet. I just don't like sandals. But this skirt would look really nice with a pair of black boots."

He handed me a pair of sandals, "Try these on."

I put them on and they felt weird and looked even wierder. "But I've always wanted a pair of black boots," I told him as I looked longingly at the boots on display.

"But I'm buying," was his final word and we left Palais with a pair of sandals I didn't like and knew I wouldn't wear.

The next night was our dinner date. We window shopped at the Galleria while waiting for our table. I mentioned that I wanted to my spiral perm my hair and dye it blonde as a testament to the new life I was making for myself after losing massive weight thanks to becoming a Metabolife junkie. Jr. looked at me and said, "Lose 20 more pounds and I'll pay to have your hair done."

His generosity didn't include much dinner though, as he stated we could share a plate since the servings were so large. I hadn't been to the Cheesecake Factory before, so I took his word for it. Turns out he lied. Were we saving room for the famous cheesecake? No. Jr. was either just a cheap bastard or he'd decided to help me lose the 20 lbs. by depriving me of food. We left the restaurant and I was still hungry. A few thai noodles and 3 shrimp don't take you very far.

We met his friends at a Mexican restaurant for drinks. I had 2 margaritas, but was eyeing the food of all those around us. I sat there like a fifth wheel, listening to everyone else talk about their shared interests and tell stories. It would be like finding yourself at Central Perk trying to converse with the Friends. Nice enough people, but the group wasn't exactly welcoming me into the fray.

When we left, we stood outside as the friendly banter continued for 20 more minutes or so when one of his friends looked at me and said, "She looks cold." I don't know why they would think so , I was wearing a mini-skirt and sandals in November! And I was shivering. Thankfully, Jr. took the hint and took me home.

That weekend he invited to spend the night at his house, the house he shared with his parents. He picked me up and didn't speak for the entire 45 minute trip. When we got there, his mom had made caldo ( a Mexican soup) for the family and noodles for Jr. I ate the caldo and was met with disapproving glares by Jr. He hadn't told his parents I was coming, so she wasn't prepared for company.

After dinner, we watched boxing on HBO. Quite the fight enthusiasts, his family gathered to watch Lennox Lewis beat the crap out of David Tua. Turns out the earlier matches were more exciting. The only thing remotely entertaining about the main event was watching Jr.'s family root for Tua.

I was bored beyond belief. I love sports and can get excited about most of them, but not boxing. When I told Jr. that I was so cold my feet were cramping (the family was wearing sweats and the heat was turned off) he said, "Well why didn't you wear something warm?"

After the fight, we went to bed where Jr. promptly started reciting the litany of all the women he's been with and why those relationships didn't work out. "I don't want to jump into something like I've sort of done with you."

"Are you saying you don't want to see me anymore?" I asked.

"No, I want us to see each other. With my friends." He turned away from me and went to sleep.

Next morning, instead of us going to the Renaissance Festival as per our original plans, he pulled out his school work from college. I watched TV for a while and then asked him, "Would you rather just take me home?"

He wasted no time getting me home and didn't even offer to feed me breakfast.

My name isn't Sam.

I met Sam a while ago. We emailed and chatted for several weeks and decided to finally meet for dinner and a movie. I chose a restaurant near my home. I've been going there for years, know the owner personally, and figured she'd let me duck out the back door if things got to scary. I figured we would discuss the movie over dinner.

Armed with my description of Sam, I sat in the car in the parking lot, despite the fact that I had caught the flu from the children at school. But not having a phone number to reach Sam at, and not wanting to stand anyone up, I went anyway. I was looking for a guy with dark hair and a beard. Only one gentlemen met that criteria, so I introduced myself. We were seated and he tells me, "My name isn't Sam."

I blinked in bewilderment, his email and chat id's had him as Sam. "What is your name?"

"My name is Hajit."

My mind started racing, and I decided maybe he'd run into a lot of prejudice due to his being from the middle east. Maybe he'd gotten lots of hate mail and felt the need to adopt an internet pseudonym.

"Ok." Things kind of went down hill from there. How else can they go when you discover you're not on a date with the person you intended.

Forging ahead, I focused on the menu and chose my favorite dish General Tsao's chicken and iced tea. Hajit ordered some bland lo mein dish and hot tea. As we sat there, nibbling on crispy noodles, he started telling me all about his ex-wife and how she took his daughter from him and now he's looking for a wife who will enable him and his lawyer to strip custody from his ex.

Not having any children or an ex of my own, there wasn't much I could add to the conversation. But I decided it was time to let him know of my illness. "I know we planned on dinner and a movie, but I'm sick and think it best if we just do dinner this time."

"There is nothing wrong with you." Mind you the guy had known me all of 15 minutes.

"Yes, there is. I'm sick. My throat hurts. I've been running fever. I would have cancelled with you but I didn't have your number."

As dinner was placed in front of us, he announced, "I will buy you medicine."

"No. I can buy my own medicine." I started eating my chicken.

"Why are you eating that?" he said, pointing at my spicy chicken. "You should eat what I am eating."

"But I don't like that." I pointed at his dish.

Ever the witty conversationalist, Hajit countered with, "Why are you drinking iced tea. If you are sick, you should drink hot tea, like me."

Starting to get annoyed, I answer, "The cold tea feels good on my sore throat."

This clever banter went on throughout dinner, and after he finally paid the bill, I got up and started walking to my car.

"Come get in my car. I will get you medicine."

Is this guy out of his fucking mind? He's obviously a control freak from hell with some barbaric idea of my role as a woman, there is absolutely no way I would get in his vehicle and relinquish my independence. This is the kind of guy who takes his American wife overseas to meet the family and she's never seen again. Hell fucking no!

"I told you I can buy my own medicine."

"Let's get it," he said, pointing to the Randall's next door.

I agreed because I needed more time to figure out my escape. I didn't want this crazed lunatic following me home.

After purchasing my thera-flu, which Hajit had never heard of, he wanted us to go to the movies.

"I told you I don't feel like it."

"But you have medicine."

"But I don't know if it's gonna work or if I'll feel like staying out."

"It will work," he stated authoritatively.

Knowing I need to stay in a crowd with this one, I told him we could go to Starbuck's and I'd take my medicine, and if I felt better in 30 minutes, we'd be just across the street from the theater.

Sensing victory, Hajit didn't even put up too much of a fight when I refused to ride with him and insisted on taking my own car because I didn't want to leave it unsupervised in the parking lot at the restaurant.

We got to starbucks and, in keeping with doing what felt good for my sore throat, I ordered an iced mocha. Hajit cringed when I ordered. He, of course, ordered some piping hot something or other that he drank black.

He got us a table outside in the brisk October wind. (The weather in Houston often drops into the low 40's at night). Armed with my leather jacket, my iced mocha, and my thera-flu, I sat at the cafe table, trying to make polite conversation as the wind whipped around us. When I complained of being cold, Hajit suggested a walk.

"I don't know. I still don't feel good. The medicine's not working. I think it's time for me to go."

"But what about the movie?" My God how dense can one man be? Like I'm gonna agree to be in a darkened room with this person???

"I told you, I'd see the movie if I felt better. But I don't."

"You need to walk." For a man who'd met me just 2 hours ago, Hajit was sure the expert on what I needed.

"Ok, one walk. And then I'm going home."

"Then you will see the movie."

We started off in the direction of the theater, because Hajit was bound and determined to see something. I was keeping an eye on my vehicle, wondering if I could break free and get inside it before he caught me, when I heard a sickening crunching sound.

I looked down, and my date had stepped on the skull of a bird and crushed it. Granted, the bird was probably already dead, but somehow that's even worse, because he stepped on a carcass.

I was stunned. Noone I know has ever accidentally stepped on a dead animal and crushed its skull. In fact, people tend to instinctively step over or around dead animals. That's why I know he did it on purpose.

"I have to go NOW!" I told him and started walking to the car. Hajit followed, with crushed feathers and brain matter sticking to the bottom of his shoe.

As I unlocked the door, he asked me, "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I plan on being sick tomorrow," I answered and slammed the door. I had the engine started and had pulled out of the driveway before Hajit could even make it to his car.

Do I know you?

"Trisa, do I know you?" said the email, not from an ex, just from someone I'd been interested in. Someone who blew me off at the time, saying a long distance thing wouldn't work out. "We haven't done anything together that friends don't do," he told me. Do friends forget each other so easily?

Maybe I can help him remember. Maybe he's such a studly man-ho that meets so many women he'll never be able to keep us straight. I don't know, but Mafioso, this is for you:

We've sent each other a hundred emails. We've called each other's houses and cell phones. You called me twice from a friend's wedding to tell me you wish I were there. You would call during your commute home and we'd talk til 1 or 2 in the morning. I flew across the country, spending $500 to meet you. We went to the wedding reception together. You have a picture of me, for God's sake! Do you know me?

One thing's for sure, I sure as hell don't know you.

Door, Door

When I first started dating, and hadn't yet established standards for myself, I met Door, Door, a truck driver with a penchant for obscene t-shirts and denim shorts, told me on our first date, "This is probably the only time you'll see me in long pants."

We went out for about 5 weeks, and I realized we always went and did whatever I suggested. I thought, maybe it'd be nice to let Door, Door choose. Herein lies the problem.

Door, Door is incapable and unwilling to make a decision.

"Where do you want to go eat?" he asked.

"I was thinking seafood."

"Ok. Where do you want to go?"

"Well, there's Red Lobster and there's Pappadeaux," I suggested.

He pulled his low-rider truck over to the side of the road, "I told you I won't make a decision."

"You can't even tell me which of 2 places you prefer?!"

"I. Won't. Make. A. Decision."

Well, hell, if he can't make a choice, I can. "Pappadeaux," I answered, knowing it cost a hell of a lot more to eat there.

Conversation waned at dinner time. When we left the restaurant, we went to fill up his truck with gas. As he climbed in the truck I heard him mumble, "Great, we've already run out of things to say."

We went back to my house and to watch a movie. My family was supposed to leave for an overnight trip to the country and we expected to have the place to ourselves. Plans changed however, and we walked into a house full of not only my family, but their friends as well.

Door, Door and I went to my room to see the movie. Half-way through my friend Susie called. She was driving through town and needed a place to spend the night. I told her to come on, thinking the family would eventually leave and she could stay in another room.

When Susie arrived, it was too much for Door, Door. He'd been considering leaving by my bedroom window, but decided the front door had a more direct route to his truck. He stood inside my bedroom door gathering the nerve to make a break for freedom.

He charged up the hallway, one hand gesturing to the door, a quick bye to the assembled masses, and he was gone.

Door, Door had finally made a decision.

Real Life Road Kill

I asked Metro how to pick out a wine for a friend who had been accepted into the Fire Academy, and he graciously agreed to take me out and show me how to pick a good wine. When I got to his apartment, we loaded into his car and headed out to HEB, purveyor of all the finer vintages.

En route to the store, Metro pointed out a PT Cruiser, at the time thought to be a rare, limited edition vehicle. I looked away from the road to see the car and Metro must have also, because next I looked at the road, he swerved the car with one hand, reached across the car to keep me in my seat with the other, and slammed his foot on the break.

In the middle of the road, transfixed by the headlights, stood a white dog. The dog never tried to run out of the way, and Metro's reflexes were too slow to avoid the inevitable. I yelled in horror as Metro's company car ran the dog over. And over. For there are two sets of wheels on any car.

I turned around to stare out the window, hoping we'd only grazed the dog, but he lay in the middle of the road. "We have to go back. He'll get hit again," I told him, knowing full well my friend Dana would have pulled over and moved the animal, and would be most disapproving of this hit-and-run venture.

"He's injured. It'd be too dangerous to move him," he answered as he continued on in search of wine.

When we arrived at HEB, I was still shaking, but Metro sauntered off to the entrance as if he hadn't a care in the world. I hung back inspecting the car for damage. Metro had an executive position with his company and was provided a vehicle. This company car was his only transportation and I knew he'd be in trouble for the accident.

He looked back when he realized I wasn't with him, and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Checking out the car; looking for damage, blood and stuff." I found no visible evidence of our canine encounter.

"Don't worry about it. It's not my car. If it's dirty, I'll have it cleaned at work. If it's damaged, I can always just get another car from the lot."

I also found no evidence of Metro's soul.

Survey says?

My friend from www.buggybran.blogspot.com sent me contest info. I need to write a 150 word essay on my worst date ever and I need to do it by March 11. The prize is dinner out, tickets to the show, a new pair of shoes and the chance to hobnob with the star of the show.

"Gee, Tris, how can I help?"

I'm glad you asked. I need to know what your favorite dating story is from what I've posted here. For my friends who are reading, you can choose someone not yet on the site. I'm sure they'll all be guest starring eventually. For those of you wondering, yes, this stuff is true and I really did date Hank Hill.

Now for the homework assignment, read through the articles and then comment letting me know which story you think I should submit.

Thanks for reading and for your input!

In honor of my 200th hit...

I should have known the ex was off kilter when I offered him a taste of my dish at Carraba's and he said, "The peas scare me."

Time for some spring cleaning

I got an invitation via email from a friend to join the networking site Hi5. Never having heard of the site, I clicked the link to check it out. Everything appeared on the up and up and I registered. To my surprise, I found I had some other friends in the system.

That's when it got ugly.

Hi5 read my address book and sent an email to everyone in it. Even my ex and his new psycho wife. Why do I think she's psycho? Gee, I dunno....perhaps because she dated him for 3 years, all the while knowing he was dating me? Maybe because she took it upon herself to contact me and inform me of their upcoming nuptials?

Why was he still in my address book? That's a valid question for which I don't have a good answer.

Maybe I hung onto it in the hopes he'd come back? Not likely; he's now got psycho wife

Maybe I kept it in case of an emergency? It's been almost 2 years since the breakup, so any threat of disease or pregnancy has passed.

Could it have been a sentimental souvenir? We had met online when he answered my ad in Yahoo. I think it was some kind of revenge against his first psycho wife who had left him for internet buddies she made in Utah.

Was it a power trip to know I had his info at my disposal? And it was one tiny piece of him they couldn't make me relinquish? Now we're getting somewhere.

But it's pathetic really.

And now, thanks to Hi5, I'm getting emails from all these people from my past who are asking "Trisa, do I know you?" Funny thing is, they're accepting the networking invitation and signing up themselves.

Beware, people, beware. All of you who got an email from me, ignore it. Sign up at your own risk. Unless you feel the need to reach out and touch everybody you've ever known. Then, by all means, slap 'em a Hi5.

I guess like my closet, which I purge of items periodically, it's time to clean things out and get rid of all contacts I haven't used in the last year. I'll make a ritual of it, kind of like on "Survivor" when the castaways reminisce while taking a walk down a torch strewn beach. As I examine each entry, I can silently acknowledge the good I've gleaned from this person, the ways my life has been enriched...or not.

And then I'll hit delete.

My second felon (almost)

My friend Paul never gives up on me. He's always willing to make an introduction in the interest of ending my solo career. Last year he called me and told me to come over for dinner he had somebody for me to meet. So after work, I came home, fixed myself up kinda cute, and headed on over to meet Chuck.

Paul and I played some video game pool and watched tv, wondering where Chuck was since he was in charge of bringing dinner. He was manager at a pizza/games restaurant and was bringing us free pizza.

But he was late. Paul called him several times and just as I was giving up and ready to go next door to Taco Hell, Chuck showed up. There'd been a problem at the restaurant and he'd got stuck handling it.

Chuck got some pizza, sat down and didn't look at me twice.

After a while, the boys put in a new game. The object was to sneak around this boat and kill all the bad guys without getting killed first. As Paul played, Chuck was the backseat driver, showing off his military prowess with "Go to Delta. Foxtrot. No, get down. Sneak. Back to Alpha." Of course, when it was Chuck's turn, he not only died and died fast, but he kept trying the same route. And he kept dying. Funny how the sniper was programmed to be in the same place each time.

When Chuck left a couple hours later, I pumped Paul for info. Has Chuck ever been married? (My gut said no and he'd never be married.) If so, what happened?

Chuck had a wife. He and Mrs. Chuck used to sponsor foreign exchange students. Until, that is, Mrs. Chuck caught him having an inappropriate relationship with the live-in exchange student. She sent the student and Chuck packing. The former back to her native land, the latter to a mostly unfurnished apartment. She did let him take the twin bed, however.

Shortly after I met Chuck, he lost his job. (Awwwww.) Remember he was the manager of the pizza place. The mother of one of his 17 year old staff members caught wind of some inappropriate e-mails he'd sent her daughter. Stuff that he had no business writing to a subordinate on the job, especially one who is a minor. Mom made a complaint to the corporate level of the pizza place and Chuck lost his job.

Last I heard he'd left town, actually the state, and was begging the ex to take him back. Gee, sounds an awful lot like my first felon, doesn't it?