I'm a proud member of the International Fainting Goat Asssociation

Young love. Isn’t it so exciting to do things together for the first time? The first time you touch, the first kiss, the first time you make love and let’s not forget the first holiday where you meet all the family and friends.

“Tyrone” and I had been dating for a few years and he decided that he was going to invite me to his mom’s house for Thanksgiving. Tyrone’s family was wonderfully accepting of me which you don’t always find when two people in love are from different cultures and they always treated me with love and respect so it helped a little with the nerves I had about going over.

We walked in the door and it was a whole house filled with people. None of which I really knew so it felt like I had just walked onto a different planet. Apparently everyone else felt like that too because everyone stared at me as I walked in. I stuck out like a sore thumb since I was the only white face in the crowd. I was ready to dash for the door.
Tyrone assured me that everything would be fine just to give it time. So we found a spot on a couch and attempted to join in on a conversation that was already in progress. The problem? The person talking had a really thick Jamaican accent and I had no earthly idea what she was talking about. So I just sat there quiet and just kind of stared. I might as well have had a giant mole on my face and drooled, because I’m sure that’s how stupid I looked. All I could do is pray that we would eat soon. At least that is something everybody does the same and I wouldn’t feel so awkward.

Finally the time for dinner rolled around. I had never been so relieved in my life! It was a beautifully typical Thanksgiving Feast. Turkey, ham, green beans, stuffing, cranberry sauce and then I came across a dish I had never seen before. It had a yellowish hue, looked kinda mushy and not very appetizing. I leaned over to Tyrone and said “what is that?” When he replied “curried goat” I almost fainted.

I mean look at me. I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of food. I’m not even afraid to try new or exotic foods. I’ve tried eel, octopus and yes even gator tail but I am not eating a fucking goat.

Well needless to say that ruined the meal for me. I was afraid to eat a single bite of anything. Afraid of what other innocent farm creatures might be lurking in the recipe. I patiently waited for Tyrone to finish his feast with his family and friends and then I did finally dash for the door.

When we got outside his brothers were already outside. They were evidently done with their barnyard buffet when Tyrone turned to me and said “are you OK? You don’t look so good.” When I told him that the goat freaked me out his brothers burst out laughing, practically rolling on the ground. I’m sure they were thinking that’s what you get for bringing over a white girl. So, on that note I decided it was time for me to leave. I thanked Tyrone for the invite and happily drove home to a normal Thanksgiving meal.

Now that Tyrone is out of the picture I’m much more relaxed to have a traditional Thanksgiving feast with my friends and family. Bring on the fried turkey, homemade mashed potatoes oh and let’s not forget the strawberry margaritas! I think I’ll raise my glass for a toast. I wish wealth, health, love and laughter to all I love and leave the goats alone.

Lowering the Bar

Everybody has done the bar scene. It’s what you do with the bar scene that decides if you love it or hate it. Me? Never thought you’d ask. I love it and hate it. You didn’t think it would be any different did you?

One of my dear friends has a son. We’ll call him “Wayne.” Wayne’s mom didn’t particularly like his girlfriend at the time but absolutely adored me and was trying to set us up. So Wayne invites me to the bar to hang out with him. I, in normal circumstances would not think this is a good idea, but since his girlfriend happens to be the bartender I assume everything is on the up and up and I accept the offer.

I pull up to the address and immediately get onto the phone with my best friend because I know she knows every bar this side of the Mississippi and maybe more. I say "Wendy, I’m not in the right place. This is not a bar, it’s a bait shack.” She asks me if this particular car is in the parking lot and when I tell her yes. She tells me I’m in the right place.

Now I’m scared.

So I get my nerves up and walk in. The place is tiny. And it’s definitely a hole in the wall. There are only 5 or 6 barstools and 3 of them already got butts parked on em. I notice also as I enter that the 3 men are talking about shaving legs because one of them calls over to me and asks me if I shave my legs. When I tell him “often” he’s intrigued enough to ask if he can see. I politely show him I’m wearing pants and go sit next to Wayne.

Turns out Wayne is a pretty good conversationalist AND a pretty good listener. We sit and talk for awhile sharing jokes and stories until the girlfriend tells him she’s leaving and that she’ll swing by his place later and kisses him good bye. I assume that at this point he’s leaving since the girlfriend is taking off and go to pay my tab. He tells me he’s staying and asks if I will too. Well the girlfriend saw me there, so again, I agree. We continue to talk, laugh and shoot the shit when all of a sudden I feel my leg being lifted from the barstool. WTH? The guy from earlier, the one who asked me about shaving my legs. He’s hiking up my pants leg to check it out himself. OMG. Thankfully Wayne shoos him away and we go on about our evening.

Midnight comes rolling around and I decide it’s time for me to go. Wayne asks me if I would come home with him. Ummmmmm, what? I kindly remind him that he HAS a girlfriend. To which he replies, “don’t worry, she won’t be there.” I once again nicely remind him that when she left she said she WOULD swing by later and when she did then what? He tells me that if she shows up then she’ll just have to find somewhere else to park. Ahhhh yes. The drunken reasoning of a horned up man at a bar. I explain to him that I don’t really think that the issue is parking and quickly walk myself to the car.

The best thing about the evening though? I had a fantastic time and I learned not to judge a crappy hole in the wall bar by its bait shack cover. You just never know the fun you can get into when you step inside. My advice though before you go? Make sure you shave your legs.

As for whatever happened to Wayne? That’s a LONG LONG LONG, story better to be left for another day and another blog.

Broke Fake Illegals and Other Men I'd Like to Avoid

So I am certainly not once to dispense any meaningful dating advise. Especially since I can barely get a man to poke me with a ten foot pole much less want to lie next to me every night while I fall asleep. But I will tell you a few don’ts that I have personally learned and a few more tidbits of good advice that I have been given by friends. So on that note here is what I know. You can’t date me if…….

You call before the first date and ask if we can go Dutch.

You talk like Elvis, look like Hitler & call yourself “Batman”.

You tell me that you think my best friend’s daughter is “stunning”.

You send me random pictures of your penis without my asking.

You want to go out with me because I am a legal U.S. citizen and you need a green card.

You tell me that you love me by the second time we IM on Yahoo.

You call, text and leave me voicemails 37 times in one day.

You ask me if I would consider a threesome. With one of your family members.

You stand me up on our first date and get pissed off when I won’t give you a second one.

You tell me you want to have the “anal” discussion.

You can’t or won’t give me your phone number or home address.

You ask me when you get to my house if you can borrow some gas money.

You ask me if I would mind if your mom came along on our date because she doesn’t get out of the house nearly enough.

You aren’t of legal age to buy me a drink.

You have a great looking facebook photo but when we video chat you look completely different. My facebook photo is really me and current. Yours should be too.

Your armpits smell like rotten onions and your hair color can be found in a rainbow.

You ask me inappropriate questions about my children and their clothing.

You have been convicted of more felonies than years you have been alive.

I’m sure the list could go on and on. And I’m sure, as I’m forcibly continued to date because that special someone has not decided to show himself yet, the list will continue. On and on and on and on….. well you get the point. So here’s one last tidbit of advice. Ladies if the man you are dating has done any/all of the above, RUN. Men if you think any one or combination of these are acceptable. Don’t call me. I’ve got enough problems.

I Guess There is a Super Sized Slave for Every Tiny Tyrant

If you haven’t dated in awhile, don’t. I highly recommend against it. There are a lot of wackos out there. I’m talking about the whack jobs that make you wonder when the rest of the world went crazy. Let me explain.

One of my irritatingly lonely Saturday nights I decided to have a glass of wine and cruise Plenty of Freaks. I don’t know why I decided to tempt fate and surf into the belly of man hell again, but I did. “Guy” popped up and started a conversation. He sounded vaguely intelligent and could complete a sentence so I checked out his profile. Not my type. Too short, he had a mustache like a walrus and his picture made him look gay. (No, I do not have a problem with gay people I just don’t want to date them) So of course we set up a date.

We met at Downtown Disney so we could walk around, get to know each other and would have tons of stuff to do if things went well. First impression, he was tiny. Teeny teeny tiny. Like I could put him in my pocket. Or if I accidentally sat on him no one would ever find him. He was 5’3” maybe and probably 80 lbs. He immediately grabbed my hand and we started walking. At least he was sweet and not afraid to be seen with me which is more than I can say for a lot of men, bonus points for him. We found an outside bar to grab a few drinks which he paid for no questions asked. Double bonus. We sat and talked where he told me tons of stories about his adventures growing up tiny. I sensed a little bit of a Napoleon complex from the stories, but none of them included women so I thought I was good.

I asked about what he does for a living and he told me that he’s a professional hairdresser. Jackpot! I had visions of fabulously blow dried straight hair, fancy shampoos, sweet smelling conditioners and soothing hair masks and not having to spend a dime for it running through my head when he told me that he also worked full time as a maintenance man for an apartment complex. Ummmmm, what? This seemed a little strange and I guess he could tell from the look on my face that I thought it was when he explained that his daddy was a good ole boy and if he ever found out that he was a hairdresser that he’d whoop his ass, so he took the maintenance job as a cover. Weird, but with double income I was happy to know I wouldn’t have to shell out any dough.

He called me the next day to tell me he enjoyed our date and that he would like to see me again but there were a few things that needed to be taken care of first. “Like what?” I said. Bad idea. He tells me that he needs to find me a necklace that will serve as my daytime collar, that I will need to come to his shop and get my nails and toes done to his specifications, that I needed to call him sir at the end of every sentence, that he had a submissive manual that I would need to read and that he would be cutting my hair and there were to be no questions about it.

What fucking dimension did I just step into?

Don’t get me wrong. Once I’m in a committed relationship I don’t have any problems experimenting in the bedroom. Some might even call it “getting freaky” but I’m not calling you sir in public and don’t even get me started on the whole hair thing. You can’t cut my hair short. I would look like a Chia Pet on crack. So I ever so politely told him I would have to get back to him. I immediately deleted his number and my Plenty of Freaks account. That was the last straw. You will no longer find me there. Or on Harmony, or Chemistry, or Match, or on PatheticSingleFatChicks .

I’ve got a new crazy idea. If you want to meet me, walk up to me, compliment me and maybe ask for my number. How much worse can that be?

Do me a favor. Don’t answer that.