Archive for January, 2010

The Party with the Penis

January 27, 2010

So it’s Wednesday night and I find myself slippery and in a bathtub full of muddy water reading books on dating.  I hate this with an intense passion.  How the hell did I get here?

The slippery part makes enough sense.  I hit the tanning bed on the way home.  I don’t do this often, just enough to keep my skin from becoming transparent.  The cute, young, orangish girl behind the counter asked if I would like to try this new double bronzing product called Mad Monkey or Funky Banana or something of the sort.  I do not know what a ‘double bronzer’ is.  I know that once I had the stinky stuff smeared all over my expanse of lillywhite flesh I realized that I was supposed to wash my hands immediately afterwards, no small feat when you are oiled up and naked in a stall in a public venue.  I rubbed my hands on the towel and hoped for the best.  When my eight minutes were up, I came out and asked the girl what I could expect from my unwashed hands, and she giggled and said, “Oh, your palms are gonna turn orange.”  Nice.  So I have this to look forward to, anyway.  As soon as I came home I hit the bath, whereupon I realized that this slimy shit does not wash off easily, that my skin has taken on a decidedly chemical odor, and that my bathwater turned brown when I got in.  There is no way this product is not going to make me more attractive, right?

Actually, I should say my bathwater turned brown-er.  It started out pretty brown.  It is amazing to me that I live in a neighborhood, pay a mortgage, drive a decent vehicle, have electricity, but no clean water.  I’m living the American dream until I turn the tap, then it’s the fucking third world with it’s shitty water quality.  My house is like Mexico–don’t drink the water, they say.  Usually I have bubbles to mask the color of the water, but apparently bath foam does not play well with weird stinky slippery bronzing shit that I think the girl gave me as a joke because seriously, I smell terrible and I might turn orange over here.

So now I’m reading dating books.  I got a divorce because I wanted to be on my own, but then two years later, I find myself dating.   I hate dating.  I feel like a moron when I’m on a date.  I don’t feel strange in the slightest hanging out with female friends, so why do I become a flaming idiot when a man is involved?  Why can’t I just be myself?  Enter the dating books.

The first book is about flirting.  I’m a pretty good flirt.  I mean, I doubt anyone I’ve been attracted to has wondered if I was attracted to them.  I’m a natural.  Book One confirms it.  Onto Book Two.

Book Two tells me that I’m dating the wrong guys.  They are all wrong for me, and I need to set higher standards.  Except that my standards are already too high, and I’ve probably already discarded a guy who would have been the Right One but I was too much of a snob to notice it.  Book Two has multiple personality disorder.  Onto Book Three.

Book Three I will tell you the title of.  Book Three is called How to Date in a Post-Dating World.  Post dating world?  What the hell?  People don’t date anymore?  How do you explain all the leg shaving and dinner check wrangling I’ve been doing for the past four months?  This book tells me that I should be planning to hang out or hook up, both of which run the gamut from casual sex to marriage.  The best parts of this book are the horror stories about bad dates.  I could add a couple to the mix, like the guy who kept sniffing me and insisted that a stranger across the room didn’t like him.  This book ends with the ominous advice to “be the bean” which I’m guessing refers back to something I missed when I skipped the entire middle section of the book.

The last book is about single dating as a parent and seems to mostly give you tips on how not to get caught having sex by your kids, what to do if your kids catch you having sex, and how much the therapy is going to cost you when your kids catch you having sex.  I avoid these issues by not having sex at my house when my kids are here.  Geography is key.  I myself prefer to have sex out of state to remove all possibility of being caught by my kids.

I didn’t find what I was looking for in these books, which is an answer to the intense insecurities I have about myself.  After all, I once chose a relationship path that failed.  It didn’t fail all the time, but where it did fail, it has left me shaken.  I left that relationship feeling unloveable. What if I do this again?  What if that guy I like, who seems to like me, who treats me well, who makes my toes curl in bed, what if I choose to make him my only guy, and it fails fifteen years from now?  My soul can’t take it.

I’m going to need some sort of extended warranty, with small-print stipulations like “the Party with the Penis promises to (a) ignore all sagging and stretching of the parts of the Party with the Vagina or (b) finance the repair and/or replacement of said sagging and stretching parts” and “the Party with the Penis agrees to maintain a separate residence to which he can retreat when the Party with the Vagina decides to lay about the house and sigh dramatically while eating chocolate for days on end”.  In return, I, the Party with the Vagina, promise to bake the Party with the Penis cakes on his birthday, and love the way he smells after he’s been working on his car, and let him snorgle my cleavage while we watch bad kung fu movies.  No games.  No one with the upper hand.  No one feeling ignored, or lonely, or ugly, or crazy.  After 33 years I’m beginning to think this is an impossibility, that I’m going to have to fashion together a reasonable facsimile of a relationship by buying a Rabbit, stocking up on loyal dogs, and watching a lot of romantic comedies.

I have to go now, having just remembered that:
1. I have to bake a pie tonight, a payment from a sign stolen off of the PATH train in New Jersey and
2. I left groceries in the car, including all the pie parts, when I rushed in to wash off the Monkey Lotion.