Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.....

Since I have begun dating post - divorce, I have found that invariably I label many of the men I go out with, with a nickname so I can describe them to my friends.  The majority of these nicknames are apropos to either their physical appearance, their quirky personality or some aspect of our date.  Most of the men who garner these nicknames don't last very long in my romantic life.  But the nicknames linger.  They are a way to remember those ill fated dates and relationships.

Recently I heard a story about a nickname that got me thinking.  What is it about nicknames?  And how do we get assigned such things?  And should we really give ourselves a nickname or is that just really creepy?

Recently I was told a wonderful bedtime story.  A story involving people I know (those always do make the best stories).  And in this story the man, the hero of the story,  assigned himself a wonderfully awful nickname.  And it prompted me to wonder:


  • Should people assign themselves a nickname?
  • Should people brag about their self-assigned nickname?
  • Should people think twice about how stupid their nickname sounds?



So in this story, the man was on a date with a woman.  And after a lovely evening out, the man invited the woman back to his place for some more fun.  And as two consenting adults, they adjourned to the man's bedroom.  After some foreplay, they both stripped naked and the man went downtown, pleasing the woman with his tongue.  And please he did.  The woman, gasping for breath, told the man he was the best she had ever had at digging for clams.  The man looked up at her and said 'Women call me The Pussy Whisperer'.

At this point if said woman had been me, between belly aching laughter, I would have scrambled up, thrown on my clothes and run.

Do women really call him 'The Pussy Whisperer'?  And when?  As they talk to their friends or do they ring him up on the phone and say 'Hello pussy whisperer...'?   Is there a chat room I can join to discuss this?  Does he sell t-shirts?  Will there be a show on Discovery Channel about how he saved and tamed hundreds of pussies with his whispering?  It is a slightly horrifying story about a man, either so egotistical or delusional to think he is the best at working downtown, that he has given himself a moniker that should really never be spoken out loud unless you are actually training cats.

I will continue to nickname men, mostly for the amusement of my friends, but I hope not to meet a man who has nicknamed himself, although one never knows what the next date brings.  Because after all, I am divorced and single.


Wednesday, October 23, 2013

This isn't Penthouse Forum

There are some times when you are flattered to be hit on.  But more often than not, there are times when you wish you weren't being hit on at all.  It can be awkward, uncomfortable and in my case, downright gross.  So how is one to react when confronted with the unwanted, unsolicited and grammatically horrifying come on that is sent via email?  Well, of course first thing is to gag, second forward to it many friends so they can gag with me and then third, wonder what the hell went through this man's head when he wrote this come on email.

To start this story we have to go back in time.   It's high school (no I am not telling you what year it was) and I was a geek, a weirdo and a pariah when it came to dating.  My best friend on the other hand was a boy magnet.  All the guys loved her.  Me, they didn't love so much.    They somewhat tolerated that I was a third wheel.  I was always there, standing awkwardly as my best friend and her boyfriend whispered in each other's ears, nibbled on each other's necks, stuck their tongues down each other's throats.  Yes that was me, the girl trying to look anywhere but at the couple making out.


One of my best friend's many paramours was the school's hot bad boy.  Let's call him Brad.  Brad joined our small private over privileged school in 10th grade and immediately established himself as a boy to be reckoned with, which meant he didn't look at me twice.  By senior year my bestie had snagged him and kept him to herself all summer.  So he knew who I was but didn't really acknowledge me as any more than that flat chested girl who hung out with them.  I am pretty sure he barely knew my name.  


Fast forward many years.  High school reunion time.  I have boobs now and a wee bit more confidence than I did as a teenager. Brad shows up.  He looks pretty good but he is definitely not my type.  Never married, still living as he did in high school, still didn't get any smarter.  But this is a reunion and everyone is happy to see everyone, although behind their backs we are gossiping about how badly we have all aged.  As the night wears on and the drinks continue to flow, the flirting begins.  I am aware that Brad is making sure to be near me.  I am not shunning his attention but I have no intention on acting on them.  My inner high school is relishing this attention from a boy who at 16 years old would have laughed at the prospect of dating me.  I giggle, I touch, I flirt.  I am having fun.  But not the kind of fun Brad has in mind.  And to his dismay we end the evening with a mediocre hug.


As expected the phone call to ask me out follows the reunion.  We don't go out.


A couple of years pass.


Suddenly Brad pops up on my Facebook Private Message.  He just wanted to say hi and tell me how beautiful my photos on Facebook are and how he has been thinking about me.  Well isn't that sweet.  He goes on to say that he really liked me in high school and has thought about me a lot over the years. And now he finds me so intriguing.  He wants to know if he can write me a letter telling me his thoughts about me from high school to now.  


Well my ego needs to know what he thinks.  Although I suspect he barely remembers me from high school, even though there were only 69 kids in my graduating class.  I am pretty sure it won't be bad, right?  So I tell Brad, go ahead, send me a letter.  And I sit back and wait for him to sing my praises.  


A few days later the letter arrives.  Via email.  It starts out sweet enough.  Brad tells me he enjoys our friendship and loves to talk to me when we see each other (which has only been twice in many, many years).  But then the tone changes.  Abruptly he jumps into describing his fantasy night with me.  Skipping to the end of a meal we have shared, he writes that 'we can't wait any longer' and return home together.  From there the letter takes a turn into horror.  Brad goes on to describe our sex in great and grammatically awful detail.  He manages to make himself into a sex god and me into the perfect playmate, one who is shy yet somehow knows exactly what to do in bed.  


He writes. ' I'm thinking how good it feels to be in you after wondering for so many years what it would feel like.  You are uninhibited yet proper and you do not disappoint.'  Of course I don't disappoint.  But how can I be proper and uninhibited at the same time?  It's a quandary.  Brad regales me with how long he can last and how quickly he can recover.  It's a highly detailed and particularly crude letter.  I don't shock very easily but this letter does shock me.

According to Brad after out first lovemaking session has ended, we chat in bed and then moments later he is ready to go again.  And go he does.  He is a machine.  I should be so lucky.  He ends the letter trying to inspire me into action.  He writes 'It is our desire to explore and explore we do.  You are shyly smiling as I say this and after I'm done you say you can't wait to explore with me and that my desires will be fulfilled and more.  Our journey into our sexual passion and exploration has only just begun and we have no idea the carnal pleasures that await us as we open up and explore everything our minds and hearts desire.'  Really? I am here on earth to fulfill his sexual desires?  Yes, I am in!

As I finish reading this letter I am at a loss.  What do I do?  Should I write back and say, 'Hey, the was an awesome letter, despite the spelling errors and the fact that you called my vagina 'cunt meat', but I am pretty sure there is no way in hell this is ever going to happen between us'.  Or should I just say, ' Well thank you but no thank you', which could invite the rebuttal I am trying to avoid.  So how do I make a decision?  The answer is simple.  I forward said letter to a few of my trusted advisers.  The votes come back unanimous.  I cannot reply at all.  I need to shut the door and leave it shut.  So I do.

But I am perplexed still.  Did Brad think his gruesomely detailed letter would make me come running to him?  Did he think this is the way to woo women?  Did he think I was put on this earth to sexually satisfy him?  Oh Brad, this letter is probably the reason you are still single and have never been married.  These kinds of letters only work in movies and Penthouse Forum.  Yes, women like sex.  Yes, women want sex.  No, women do not want to receive letters describing in graphic detail how you are going to put them on all fours to satisfy you own carnal desires.  And who the hell uses the word 'carnal'?

So no, I did not respond to Brad.  A week later I received another note from him saying he was glad he said what he said.  Well I am too Brad.  Because on my bucket list of things I want before I die, a gross, poorly worded sex letter has now been checked off.  On to the next item on my list.  Because after all I am divorced and single.  





Wednesday, October 9, 2013

While you were sleeping.

Maybe I am too picky.  Or maybe I am unrealistic.  Or maybe I sometimes live in a parallel universe.  I know what I want and I definitely know what I don't want.  And I am pretty sure it is not too much to ask that the man I date at least be somewhat familiar with popular culture and not completely bizarre.  Or either he should be normal and not familiar with popular culture.  Or bizarre and  familiar with popular culture. But being both bizarre and living under a rock is not quite as appealing one may think.

So this was my most recent date.  He suggested a lovely walk in the woods.  It was a beautiful day, so why the hell not.  Although the extremely adorable outfit I had picked out; skirt, strappy heels and a low cut shirt, would obviously not work.  I am adaptable.  Cropped jeans, cute hiking shoes (or Coach sneakers I got on sale at DSW) and of course a low cut shirt, would work just as well.  So walk we did. We started down the path, talking away as two divorced people will; about our divorces, our kids, the horrors of dating.  He on my right side, bumping hands 'accidentally' and enjoying the weather.  But then after a few steps, he moved from the right side of me to the left side.  I thought it odd, but kept walking. Was there evil lurking on my left side that he was attempting to protect me from?  As we moved deeper into the woods, we stopped to admire some plants.  Once again, we resumed walking and he was on my right side.  Suddenly he burst ahead, sprinting,  in order to make it back on my left side.  I slyly sniffed my right armpit to see if perhaps I smelled.  No.  That wasn't it.  When we got to where we were going to turn around, once again he ended up on my right hand side.  Jogging slightly, he maneuvered to get on my left side one more time.  Now I had to know.  Was this accidental or on purpose?  I stopped to point out some fascinating vegetation and made sure when we started walking again that he was on my right hand side.  Seconds later he managed to work his way over to my left hand side....again.  I stopped dead in my tracks.

Looking at him I asked, 'Why?  Why must you be on my left hand side?'  He looked at me blankly and replied 'Because I am right hand dominant.'  Is this a thing?  Is he preparing to strangle me with his right hand?  Karate chop me at a moments notice? I side step a little further away from him.  But now I am also determined  to stand on the other side.  Try as I might, his damn dominant right hand keeps me in place.

We make our way to dinner.  Luckily we sit across from each other so I don't have to worry about being stabbed by a knife in that dominant right hand.  The conversation turns to television and movies.  And that is when he says 'The Princess Bride, never heard of it'.  And of course I laugh because he must be joking.  But horribly, he isn't.  It isn't that he has never seen 'The Princess Bride'.  He has actually never heard of it.  He writes it down to 'check it out'.  So I say, 'Ok, what is your favorite movie?'  He smiles and tells me I will totally agree with him.  He has two favorites.  He chirps, 'Grownups' and then he follows up with 'The even better Grownups 2'.   I am stunned into silence.  Luckily the food comes and I stuff it in my mouth to avoid speaking.  How can that be his favorite movie out of all the movies ever made?  Ever.  In the whole world.

But I can't help myself.   He must be kidding about his favorite movie.  He must be kidding about his lack of awareness of popular culture.  I must know more.  I ask him if he has heard of 'The Bourne Identity'?  Nope.  'Die Hard'?  Nope.   'Breaking Bad'?  He heard mention of it but can't remember where.  So I stop eating, put down my fork, look directly in his eyes and say 'Were you in a coma for a really long time?'  He then says, 'I have two tickets to see Depeche Mode if you are interested'.

And that is when I know it is over.  His answer to my coma question was 'no'.  Maybe his possessed dominant right arm wouldn't allow him to go to the movies or watch television or notice the world around him.  Either way, it would be far too hard for me to fight the arm for control and there is clearly too much lost time to make up for.  So, check paid, I turn to him and say 'Have fun storming the castle'.  Door closed.  Moving on because after all I am divorced and single.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

The One or Another....

When we are younger, looking for our soul mates, ready to run off into wedded bliss, most of us agree that we would not settle until we found 'the one'.  The person we are supposed to be with forever.  The other half of us.  'The One' is a mythical creature who was born to, as the movie says, 'complete us'.  But now that we are divorced perhaps it is time we reassess  what it means to be 'the one' or if there is really a 'one' out there for us.  Because clearly 'the one' we found the first time was not 'the one'.

I know a couple men, men I have gone out with, who are singularly focused on finding 'the one'.  While they go about it differently, both men seem to fall into the same trap each time.  Their persistent search and  crushing dismay made me start to wonder if there is one single person out there for each of us.  Because it seems through my recent dating experiences, that every man I have met has some unique qualities and personality traits that intrigue and excite me.  None of these men have everything I am looking for because if they did, well, I would probably just be dating myself.  Which would be awesome but might get creepy when I took myself to dinner.

Now don't read me wrong.  I am not saying I am so cynical that I don't believe in love.  I am saying there might be many ones out there for each of us.  But the question becomes how to recognize that one when they arrive in your life.  Post-divorce we all have all created a set of criteria we want to find in our next partner.  Most of that criteria, not surprisingly, is exactly the opposite of our former spouse.  But is there one person that encompasses our entire wish list or do we need to bend and be flexible?  These men that inspired me to think about this concept approach this idea very differently.

The first of these men throws out a wide net and whomever he ensnares he falls in love with instantly. He spends an intense few days with the woman, citing all her wonderful attributes, spending 48 hours in a row with her and then is totally flabbergasted when it ends.  These intense mini-relationships are full of lust and desperation.  Each time he tells me how he  has found the woman he is going to spend the rest of his life with and each time I smile and nod, knowing this will not be the case.  Because once he gets to know the woman suddenly he realizes she isn't the one he thought she was and it ends.  But to his credit, he throws that net out again.  Will he find the one?  Not sure.  He will find 'a' one.  Yes.  Again and again.  He is a good man and I really do hope that some woman slows him down and takes her time with him.

The second man is striving for some sort of perfection that probably does not exist.  His list of wants and needs are extensive and overwhelming.  Good enough is not for him.  But again this man suffers from the instant decision.  Right away, upon meeting a woman,  he decides she is the one.  Of course upon getting to know her this initial blush of sureness weakens and he finds faults in her that he couldn't possibly live with and thus must move on. The irony of course is that this man is not without his faults and is by no means perfect and yet he expects perfection.  It is a vicious cycle.  And so he continues to look for his one and continues to push aside wonderful women because they don't hit every check box.

So the question then is,  in this big world, how could there possibly be only one person for each of us.  And how depressing to think that there is only one.  If I go by my check list of what I want in a partner, I may alienate and miss out on some truly wonderful men, who perhaps bring something to my life I didn't even know I needed.  If I toss my list and open my heart could I invite in ones who were not what I thought I wanted  but end up being what I really needed?  If I eat the sushi every day,  how will I know if I like Italian?  Sure I could put sushi on my must have list but damn if that pasta isn't also delicious.  I do thank both these men for opening my eyes to the fact that there is a whole world of men out there and that I don't have to be constrained by what I thought was my list of must haves.  Rather I should  allow myself to explore the options of what I didn't know I needed.  And perhaps with that attitude I will find my 'one'.  Because after all I am divorced and single.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Six Pack to go

So recently I had been seeing someone for a period of time, who I may or may not write about in the future. I am still debating. But that dalliance is over.  I am out in the dating world again.  As you know it is a very scary place.  It is full of damaged goods, serial daters and those who profess one thing but mean another.  But how will I find the man I am searching for if I don't put myself out there?  I won't.  So I accepted a date and set out into the dating world once again.

I have to say I was hesitant to go on this particular date.  Very hesitant.  I suspected this man, whom we will call Mr. Abs, and I had very little in common.  But he was very cute, seemed incredibly interested and professed to wanting to find a real relationship.  But red flags were raised when we exchanged some text messages during which several times he asked if he could send me a photo of his abs.  I said no, but clearly my 'no' meant nothing as the picture made its way on to my phone.  And yes those abs were very impressive but do abs make the man?  I was going to find out.

Mr. Abs suggested we meet at a bar that I was none to comfortable going to, but when I suggested other venues he said it was impossible.  Why?  He was far too popular.  Women from all over know him and he didn't want us to end up on FaceBook.  I tried to explain that really no one knows me but my protests fell on deaf ears.  Red flags.   So I agreed to meet him at the bar of his choice.  Upon arrival I noticed that he is good looking.  I'll give him that.  But I was right, we probably did not have a whole lot in common.  It was hard to know though, based on the conversation which revolved mostly around him.

He spent the majority of the conversation telling me how rich his family was, what kind of car he used to drive and what he drives now.  I even learned that he has two very expensive watches that probably individually cost more than my car.  His life is all very expensive and all very impressive if  only I was years younger and much more shallow.  He insisted on trying to show me his abs in person.  Three times I had to refuse to see those abs, in the bar, in front of other people.  Look, I like nice abs as much as the next woman, but if that is all you are selling, I need to move on.  And the sad part is this.  This man, Mr. Abs, is actually a nice guy.  He can be very charming and funny.  But his insecurity is killing him. And this date.

Post our first date, I received several text messages in which he practically begged me to tell him how wonderful he is, how good looking he is and how much better he is than other men I have dated.  It truly made me sad.  It made me want to wrap my arms around him and say, 'You are fantastic.  Just stop trying to get me to say you are fantastic.'  So when our second date approached, I almost cancelled.  This man is too high maintenance.  How can I possibly continually stroke his ego.  It would be exhausting.

But I went on the second date.  And again, he was charming and funny.  But he spent a lot of time talking about the multitude of divorced women who have called him up out of the blue to ask him if the rumors are true that he is single.  He told me stories of having to turn women away.  Look Mr. Abs, I get it.  You are attractive and you have money and there are many, many women out there who are drawn to that.  But you don't need to sell yourself to me.  It feels cheap and sort of pathetic.  If you just took a deep breath, stopped believing that you are only as good as the cash you can wave around and really trusted that you are a decent human being, this might all go differently.

Mr. Abs knows when to turn on the charm.  He tells me he is looking for a friend and lover (cue music now).  He tells me he is done dating the younger women.  He tells me he doesn't want me to date anyone else.  But I can see through Mr. Abs.  He doesn't want or need any of those things.  He needs someone to adore him.  He needs someone to think he is the best.  He needs someone to worship him.  But for all the wrong reasons.  Sadly Mr. Abs is selling himself short.  And you know, if you have read my blog, that I rarely say kind words about the men who end up on here.  Poor Mr. Abs will never find happiness until he starts to believe that he is a good person and doesn't need to 'buy' women.

So Mr. Abs, who is in his early 40's, has moved on to a 26 year old.  But we all know how this will end.  And Mr. Abs will be out again, trying to show off his abs at bars.  I may not be there to catch the show.  I will surely be on another date because after all I am divorced and single.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The Show must go on


We have all seen the male peacock proudly display his feathers in order to lure the female peacock into his bachelor pad for a quick go around.  Is it much different with men?  Not really.  In their defense they can only work with what they have.  For some it is their brains, for others their wit and for a select few it is that they don't have much to work with, so they have to conjure up a magical act complete with illusion and slight of hand.  I went out on a date with one such man.  He presented himself in such a light that I was intrigued, beguiled and interested, at least momentarily.

My date lied.  This is not shocking in the least.  People lie, especially when it comes to physical appearance or age.  He told the truth about his age but the physical appearance, well that was another story.  Now for those of you who have been following along, my pet peeve has nothing to do with how you look but more how you pretended you looked prior to me meeting you.  When you say you have an athletic body and show up with a beer keg gut, either your definition of athletic and mine are very different, or you just plain lied to get me out on a date.  Either way I am horrified by your grasp of the English language or the fact that you thought I wouldn't notice.  This date was a large man to say the least.  A large man who saw himself very differently.

But I am already on the date and there is no turning back.  As soon as the date started I knew I was seeing a well rehearsed show.  I almost expected to be handed a program so I could follow along.  First stop.  A fancy Philadelphia hotel where my date happened to know everyone and they him.  Here I was supposed to notice how they fawned over him, and how friendly he was with those who work for him.  Take away:  this is a good guy who cares about the little people.  What I really saw:  A guy so insecure that he doesn't go anywhere people don't know him.

From there I was whisked to the fancy hotel bar where they pretty bartender immediately fixed my dates drink without asking what he wanted.  She batted her eyelashes at him just enough to try to make me realize that my date was a desired man.  He chit chatted with her about her recent trip thus solidifying his kindness to the working class.  But as he slurped down his drinks and gnawed at the olives I kept wondering how many girls before me had taken in this show.  Then when he suggested I try a mixed drink that he had heard was delicious I was tempted to ask him which date prior to me had declared it yummy?  I don't drink vodka, which I mentioned, but he told me I would barely taste it.  Again I repeated that I don't drink vodka.  He suggested gin in the drink.  Nope don't drink that either.  He sighed.  I was going to order off the program.  This might ruin the show.  I got a glass of wine.

Two drinks later it was intermission.  During intermission we headed to an apartment in said fancy hotel where my date said he lived.  We were required to make small talk with the doorman thus justifying my date's presence there.  It was a fancy apartment.  But when I asked about the seemingly feminine bedroom, I clearly had looked too far backstage.  My date conceded that perhaps this might not be his apartment.  Perhaps this apartment may belong to his mother.  And perhaps he may just be staying with her.  Hmmmm.  This show has some major story and character flaws.

After intermission it was time for the second act.  Luckily I consumed enough alcohol to make it through.  The second act was dinner.  I was taken to a restaurant where once again my date knew everyone.  At this point I suspect I was supposed to notice his overwhelming popularity but I was on my third drink and really hoping the show would come to close soon.  He ordered without asking me what I wanted, or more importantly what I didn't eat.  And out came some sort of veal dish.  Veal.  I don't eat veal.  Or lamb or lobster.  But clearly my part in the show had not been written in yet.  He tried to scoop some veal onto a fork and feed it to me.  I demurred.  I was ruining this act.  So he consumed the veal adding to his not so athletic figure.  After my fourth glass of wine we were off.  Whisking me home in his car he asked if he could take me out again.  Perhaps to a comedy club.  I told him I didn't love comedy clubs.  He frowned.  I was really, really ruining his show.  Comedy Clubs were the sequel.

The show came to close with me slurring goodnight and climbing out of his car.  My takeaways were supposed to be this:  This man is rich, people like him and he is in charge.  What I took away:  this man's mother may be rich, people who work for him are required to seem like they like him and he doesn't listen to his dates.  All in all I would call this show a success for both of us.  He got to rehearse once again and I got drunk.  His show can go on, but without me.  I will look elsewhere and continue to date because after all I am divorced and single.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Etiquette is not just really hard to spell.

I have said it before and I will say it again; first dates require a certain set of rules in order to be successful.  First dates are first impressions.  This should be obvious. But not everyone seems to understand that first impressions can be either wonderful or lethal.  From what you wear, location of the date and conversation topics, everything on a first date should be in place to make you look your best, or even better than you really are in real life.  But it seems that many men forget this rule and come to the date 'as is' which is barely accepted in the car dealership world and cannot be tolerated in the post divorce dating world.

So clothing.  Yes we are judging.  As women we are looking you over and saying to ourselves, 'Can we fix this?'  We assume you have worn your red corduroys and high school letter jacket to a date because there was no woman in your life to say to you, 'Really?  You are wearing that?'  But then when we realize that you are a 50 year old successful attorney and you high school letter jacket was actually within reach as you walked out the door, we become concerned.  Shouldn't that be in a dusty box stuffed up in your attic or still in the possession of your high school squeeze?  And soon we realize you purposely went out and bought those ill fitting red corduroy pants.  Unless you are part of a teenage boy band, these pants should not ever be worn by any man.  I blame the cashier who allowed you to purchase them.  But putting all those terrible clothing choices aside under the pretense that no one was home with you to edit, it still is hard to look past your choice of carrying a man-clutch to the date.  I say man-clutch because a man bag presumes an Indiana Jones style satchel which again, under the right circumstances, could be cool.  A man clutch is the kind of bag that if said man was on the red carpet, the E! news reporter may ask him, 'Who are you carrying this evening'.  This first impression worries us to no end.  What decade are you living in and can you come back to this one?  Please, please when in doubt, go for jeans and a button down.  We can work with that.  We can imagine you meeting our friends in this outfit.  We can imagine peeling you out of these clothes.  When you wear red corduroys and your high school letter jacket, the terror at the thought of what lays underneath is almost too much to bear.

But say we can look past the poor wardrobe decisions.  Can we move on beyond what comes out of your mouth?  There are topics that are to be avoided on a first date.  Any lengthy conversation about your ex and your break-up and how much you are really truly ok with it, is a no-no.  Yes, can you briefly describe the demise of your marriage?  Of course you can.  But details and in depth analysis should be redirected to your friends, or your shrink.  Your kids?  Is that safe terrain?  Yes of course, but again within reason.  A couple quick anecdotes and then move on.  No one becomes sexier talking about how they had to go to their kids basketball game or clean up their kids vomit.  And then there is religion and politics.  Again skimming the surface here is a good call for a first date.  Of course you want to make sure your date is on the same page as you ideologically, but preaching about your view points, especially when they are extreme, is not a turn on.  So don't tell me that you left the United States and moved to the Netherlands because we elected Ronald Reagan.  It makes you sound crazy.  And don't tell me that you only watch foreign films, because all Americans are fat and stupid and make fat, stupid movies, cause all it is doing is challenging me to tell you that my favorite film is 'Deep Blue Sea'.  And don't tell me that Israel is the only place we should live because I am going to tell you to move there.  But at the end of the date, after preaching your insane uber liberal thoughts, don't, don't, don't walk me to my car, take one look at my giant gas-guzzling American SUV and tell me how 'disappointed' you are in my automobile choice.  Cause, dude, I am going to track you down and run you over with said 'disappointing choice', 

The goal of date one is usually to move onto date two.  But if you drive us away by showing your bad hand of cards up front, and not bluffing, we are probably going to fold right away.  You need to be a little mysterious.  We don't want to know about your most recent bout with food poisoning or the fact that you generally suffer from lower back pain.  We don't want to know that you don't own a television because you see it as the corruption of America.  And we certainly don't want to see you in acid wash jeans.  We want to be wooed and flirted with.  We want you to want us to want you.  We are not asking you to lie.  But like when you are selling a house, you should show us all the good stuff first; the granite counter tops, the heated bathroom floor, the beautiful built-ins.  You should save the bad stuff until after we have fallen in love and desperately want to purchase the house.  Presumedly you are going on this date to turn it into a relationship.  Ensnare us with you wonderful qualities and save the crazy for when it is too late for us to leave.  Put some work into it, because we are.  We want to like you.  We just need you to make it easier for us.  And despite your missteps, I will keep dating because after all I am divorced and single.