My brush with fame

Dating a celebrity has always seemed like a logical outcome to my romantic adventures. After all, I have this blog that’s read around the world (particularly by lonely guys in India, it seems– thanks for your visit, sexking). And several famous older men have hooked up with women my age (Clooney– if this one doesn’t work out, call me! Cruise– um, nevermind).

So it was hardly a surprise when I was emailed by a guy who claimed to be frequently mistaken for Vin Diesel. I am such a fan that I not only watch XXX every time it comes on TV (or at least the scenes where he takes his shirt off), I’ve even seen parts (the ones in the shower, of course) of that crappy movie where he plays a nanny.  I enthusiastically responded to his message and things seemed to be going well. He even wanted to meet in person!

So we scheduled a date, and even though I should know better based on recent experience, I got dolled up. (A friend once told me that, like carrying an umbrella to ward off rain, shaving your legs before going out guarantees that you won’t get laid. I ‘m now expanding that theory to conclude that blow-drying your hair ensures that you won’t even get to the bar.)

Yeah, so Vin canceled on the morning of our date. Because he had met a girl the night before and wanted to pursue a relationship with her. (How totally celebrity is that? They’ve probably already been married and divorced in the two weeks since.)

I was sad, but only momentarily, because just then I received an email from a guy with the screen name DJJAMMINJEFF. Sweet, a replacement celebrity! I had visions of us rapping and picking out baggy neon clothes together. But then I clicked on the message, and although it’s been a while since the Fresh Prince days, I’m pretty sure the DJ Jeff I was thinking of isn’t a chubby white guy from New Jersey.


Don’t say that #7 1/2

I, like many women, am interested in shoes. But I had never really thought of them as a major part of dating life until a friend of mine went out with a guy we’ll call Señor Shoe.

It all started with a hurricane. My friend and the Señor met online and exchanged some texts before arranging a date. She told him about how she was having some friends over to spend the hurricane at her house, and he wrote back something about how he was picturing her sitting on the couch wearing galoshes.

A little weird, but not rule-him-out crazy, right? Then, when they were scheduling their date, he brought up his preference that she not wear heels, since she’s about his height. A lot of not-so-tall guys probably feel that way, but most of them wait at least until after they’ve met you to bring it up.

So my friend obligingly dressed for their first date in the flattest shoes she owns. Then, just before she left her house, she got a text from Señor…INQUIRING ABOUT HER FOOTWEAR!

She reassured him that she was wearing flipflops instead of heels. And I’ll let her tell you the rest of the story.

“He said he wasn’t a fan of flipflops, and when I met him it came up again and I asked if he didn’t like them on anyone, or just on himself, and basically, yes, he doesn’t like them on anyone except at the beach. In my defense, my flip flips are cute!”

No, I’m willing to go a lot farther in your defense, anonymous friend, and hereby declare a new “Don’t say that” in honor of your willingness to sit through a whole date with this weirdo. Next time a guy asks, “What shoes are you wearing?” put on your sneakers and run!

Dating in Sleepy Hollow, Part 2

So when we left the story last, The Headless Doctor was attempting to use his limited phone-typing ability (hope he doesn’t operate on people with those fingers!) to last-minute cancel lunch with SDG for the second time: “Omg ai sent a txt thisa morning aboautA resachaedulingaab”

Naturally, I didn’t waste my time replying but headed straight to the office fridge, realizing that my lunch would have to be foraged rather than bought by a rich doctor. When I returned (with a tragic “at least I won’t leave a lot of corpse for my cat to eat” haul of baby carrots and a flat Diet Coke), I found that THD was not getting what I was giving– that is, the silent treatment goodbye.

“Do you like my pic?” he texted. Then, “Do you have a nice body? What’s your best feature?”  WHAT? It’s odd enough, THD, that you’re standing me up and wanting to text dirty at 11 am, but have you already forgotten that your excuse was an emergency trauma patient? Some poor soul is spurting blood everywhere (probably including on your phone, which would explain the typing), and you want to read about my boobs?

(Or my legs? Or my eyes? Just because I’m not planning to answer doesn’t mean I won’t waste a lot of time contemplating the best response.)

I knew what I had to do. Despite the increasing likelihood that THD and I were fated to have 2.1 adorable children together (extra .1 is our son’s killer abs), no dedicated medical reporter and lawyer’s daughter could be party to this kind of malpractice. So I admitted my mind was my best feature. And he wrote back, “LOL.”


Too hungover for a thousand words.

I know you were promised Part 2 of The Headless Doctor saga this week. And usually Speed Dating Girl’s word is her bond (unless she’s saying something like, “Um, sure, a second date sounds great. I’ll call you.”). But after an exhausting weekend of celebrating people who have dated more successfully than I (more conventionally known as my best friend’s wedding), even typing takes too much effort. So instead, please enjoy this photo of SDG’s latest conquest. I wanted to maintain my anonymity but I hope you’ll recognize my 305-year-old date (talk about manthers!). We had a great time– even ate breakfast together– but I don’t think it’s going to work out: he’s got a job of course, but no car or phone.