Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1

22 08 2012

Anyone who has been a parent, and especially the parent of a pre-schooler, knows that at a young age humans start to explore the various orifices of the body.

I, for example, at the young age of 3, decided to put a penny up my nose.

Then, I went to my mom.

“I have a penny in my nose,” I said.

“A what? Where? You put a penny in your nose?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

She tipped my head back, peering into my nostrils. “No you didn’t,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “You put a penny in your nose?”

“I know I have a penny in my nose cuz I put it there,” I said.

“Did you REALLY put a penny in your nose?”

“Nope,” I said definitively.

See that? Changed my story. I figured I would get in trouble, so instead of coming clean and telling my mother I had stuffed a penny up my nose, I lied and let it stay there.

It stayed there for a couple of weeks during which time I had a…”cold.” My mother was concerned because I had the sniffles. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe until one day I let out a big sneeze and the penny flew out of my nose and across the room. Honest to God.

My mother looked at me in shock and disbelief and said, “You DID put a penny up your nose!”

To which I responded, “I told you I did!”

My mother loves telling that story, especially when she’s trying to embarass me. It’s one of her favorites.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and I heard my eldest son, about 5 years old at the time, crying in his room. It wasn’t an “I’m dying. Come save me” cry. It was more like a “I’m so fucked. I’m going to get in trouble” kind of wimper. I opened the door to his bedroom and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I have a rock in my no-o-o-se,” he said in this pathetic, crying sound.

“How did you get a rock in your nose?”

“It was on my be-e-e-e-eddddd,” he said, sobbing.

This is the kind of fucked up shit kids will say when they realize they have done something really stupid, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it. It was the rock’s fault.

“A rock can’t jump from your bed to your nose. Did YOU put a rock in your nose?”

“Uh huuuuuh.”

Let me just say that any park designer who specifies pea gravel as a playground surfacing material needs to be strung up and pelted with said surfacing material until bloodied. You get pea gravel in shoes and then in the house. Kids are constantly throwing pea gravel at each other, and then they go and stick the shit up their noses.

I started muttering obscenities under my breath. Let’s be honest. I’ve never been good at the nurturing mom role. My boys love me; I know they do. Thank God I had boys. They know I love them, but they also know I’m better launching into action in a crisis than I am in minor kissing boo boo scenarios. We have all just come to terms that someday they will need therapy, and it will be all my fault.

“Ok, come on. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I said.

My son got up and followed me, wimpering, into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, I tried to assess the situation. By feeling the outside of his nose, I could tell he had pushed the rock all the way up to the nasal bone. There was no way for me to apply downward pressure to get the thing out. I was silently freaking out, and the last thing I wanted to do was take him to the emergency room. It wasn’t that I was worried about the expense. It was because he did this about a week after his little brother was born. This was one of those regressive kinds of things older siblings do to get attention when the younger, new baby sibling comes home. The last thing I wanted to do was bundle the baby up and haul all of us over to the emergency room.

Luckily, I have a creative mind, I’ve always been a tinkerer, and I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I also grew up in Eastern Montana, out where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. I remembered how the men on the ranch would blow their noses without a handkerchief.

For any of you squeamish folks, I apologize for what is about to follow.

You see, out on the prairie, you just hold one side of your nose, bend over a little at the waist, and blow. The big glob of snot that results is easily flicked off into the wind. So, you see, I brought this prairie wisdom to my situation in the bathroom with my son that day.

“Ok, hold still. I’m going to plug this side of your nose, and I want you to blow as hard as you can. Understand?”

My son nodded at me, still crying, but more calm because Mom had a plan.

“Ok, here we go. BLOW!”


The snotty rock shot out of his nose and pinged around the bathroom. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Success! Fucking amazing!

Now, believe it or not, ALL of my boys have put things in their noses, every single one of them. I don’t know if we all have a gene that predisposes us to stuffing shit up our noses, but every single one of us has done it and ever since this first incident, I have handled the situation the same every time. I have become an expert in the projectile blowing of things from the nose.

I think it’s fair to say that we have established that I’m good in a foreign object in an orifice situation, right?

OK. Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

My date with Man #33 started with the usual email volley on OkCupid, and after a few emails we decided we would meet for coffee. I was again putting my Starbuck’s gold card to good use, and while I know some of my male readers are offended by the fact that I think a coffee date is cheap, I have my reasons for despising the coffee date.

I met my date at one of the many Starbuck’s locations at the University Village Mall. We placed our separate orders, and found a comfortable place to sit outside. We made light conversation. He asked me about my job. I asked him about his. We were in the middle of this conversation, everything was going along normally when suddenly my date said, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

No. I shit you not. That’s what he said. Seriously. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat the subject like The “Masseur” by telling me that he liked massages…

…massages of his lower intestine that is.

And, for all you squeamish people, I apologize for not warning you like I did above about the snot rocket, but I wanted you to receive the information just like I did, suddenly, caught totally off-guard, kind of like a drive by shooting, an assault on the brain.

It’s called a shocker for a reason, people.

He was just out with it with, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

And, I…well, I coughed and tried to hold it together as chai started to shoot from my nose…

To be continued…

Photo from here.


My 30 Minutes of Fame

16 07 2012

Flora M. Brown, PhD.

It has come to pass. I am a dating expert. I go to parties, people find out that I write a dating blog, and I spend the rest of the night talking about dating.

I am also a Wizpert.  You can find the Wizpert button in the sidebar of this blog.

Now, I’m doing Blog Talk Radio interviews.  Dr. Flora M. Brown of Color Your Life Happy interviewed me this morning.  Check out “A Dating Prescription May be Just What the Doctor Ordered.”  I’d love to get your comments and questions, and as usual, feel free to tell me that you think I’m full of shit if the mood strikes you.

Alternatively, this will make a great drinking game.  Get a group of friends together; listen to my radio interview; and drink every time I say the word, “um.”  You should be plastered in no time.


Flora’s photo is here.

Listen to internet radio with Flora M Brown PhD on Blog Talk Radio

Man #26, The “Masseur”

1 07 2012

Once I had my profile started on OkCupid, it was time to cruise around and see what the site had to offer. It wasn’t long before someone messaged me, so I diverted from my searching and had to go check him out.

He was an Asian man, and before I could even finish reading his profile, he was sending me another message.  It read:

“I like your profile.  Are you available to meet for coffee this afternoon?”

Well, now, that’s direct.  None of this passive-aggressive, send a million emails back and forth without ever asking for a date kind of bullshit for this guy.  What did I have to lose?  The worst thing that would happen was that I would have my first OkCupid date and I’d get another date checked off my list of 100.

Now, before you question my methods and my sanity, I’d like to state for the record that I’m no dummy.  I recognize the fact that:

  1. A man who asks to meet without finding anything out about me is probably not really interested in ME.
  2. A man who asks for a coffee date is not particularly worried about impressing me.

I could momentarily give him the benefit of the doubt and consider that my online profile was so amazing he just had to meet me without asking any more questions, but you’ll have to excuse my skepticism, especially since only about a third of my profile was actually completed at that point.  Also, given the number of women who have told me they were propositioned after a coffee date, I figured I knew what this guy was actually interested in.

Code words:  “Let’s meet for coffee.”

Translation:  “Let me see if I can hit it and quit it.”

Good luck Man #26.  I wasn’t born yesterday.

Anyway, after several coffee dates, I am now a bona-fide, card-carrying Starbuck’s gold card member, so I asked him to meet me at a Starbucks in my neighborhood.  I might as well be earning points and free drinks while I’m going on all of these dates.

I arrived, and he looked nice enough, and, by that, I mean he was a nice enough looking man in the face.  However, people always talk about mom jeans, but you never hear anyone say anything about dad jeans.  This guy was wearing dad jeans.  If that term doesn’t exist, I’m making it up.  The jeans were a heavy, light-colored denim, a little too high-waisted, and did not fit him well.  I’ve been noticing men over 45 seem to be sporting these, and if I may turn this dating blog into a fashion blog for just a second, I just have to say; lose the fucking old man jeans!  They are not doing you any favors.  They make you look like you have a load in your pants.  Please, please, please, do yourself a favor, guys, and invest in a straight-leg, dark-wash pair of jeans.  If they have a slight fade on the thighs, that’s good, but don’t make it too drastic or light in color.  I just saw a man walking down the street in some dark-wash jeans like I’ve described last night, and he looked hot.  You want to look hot.  You don’t want to look like you can pack a pair of Depends in your pants.

But I digress.  Thank you for allowing me that mini rant.

Ok, back to dating blog.

Anyway, Man #26 was standing there in his dad jeans, waiting for his drink when I arrived, so I walked up, introduced myself, and then went to order a coffee with my gold card.  One date closer to 100 and one drink closer to a free grande skinny mocha.

We got our drinks, sat down at a table outside, and started talking.  Within a few minutes he told me about his occupation and then quickly added that he also did massage.  I asked him if massage was something he had studied and become licensed in or if it was just an interest of his.  No, he just gave really good massages.

That’s nice.

We talked a little more, and, pretty soon, he mentioned again that he gave really good massages.

This was obviously important to him, so I decided to take the bait.

“Oh really.  What kind of massage do you do?” I asked.

“I give really deep massage.  I’ve been doing it for a really long time.  Do you like massage?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t like a massage?”

He started talking about how he couldn’t have dates at his house because he had kids at home, and asked if I have kids at home.

“Yes, I do,” I answered, “I also have a pit bull who’s really happy to meet new people.”

“You have a pit bull?”



As you know, if you’re a regular reader, when I bring up my dog, I’m normally talking about how sweet and loyal he is, but don’t think I won’t use a pit bull to my advantage if I have to.  As far as I could tell, this guy, for whatever reason, maybe he was married, maybe his kids really were at the house, he did not want me to go to his place.  He did, however, want to come to mine.  Plus, let’s not forget; he wanted to give me a massage.

It sounded like a lead in to a cheesy porno.

I asked him if he had been on OkCupid long and mentioned that I hadn’t even finished filling out my profile yet.

“I’m surprised you could get enough information about me to know you wanted to go on a date,” I said.

“Well, I liked what I saw,” he replied.

I had, in fact, posted my photo.  That part was finished, but, other than that, I had only typed some nerdy crap about being an INTJ and then stated under the other sections that my profile was a work in progress.

A few minutes later, I was again being told what a great massage Man #26 could give me.  It was time to stab him in the eyeball with my drinking straw.

It was sort of like Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman” when he keeps insisting that he can drive, “I”m an excellent driver.”

“I’m an excellent masseur.”

See.  Same thing.

After about 45 minutes of this massage nonsense, I had basically had enough and told The Masseur that I had a lot of work to do.  I needed to get back to it without a massage.

Have a nice day.


Just another date closer to 100.

Man #25, The Karaoke Kripple

15 04 2012

At the end of my date with The Leading Man, he suggested we go out again, and I was totally willing. I liked his laid back vibe and I could definitely see myself hanging out with him again. I know my game theory calculations say I should reject the first 37 men outright, but Man #24 was a good one. Let’s face it; most dates are sort of a drag. So, when you have a good one you want to double down.

While I waited to see if Man #24 would ask me out again, I commenced email correspondence with Man #25. I found him on His online profile made him sound fun and musically inclined. In his profile he mentioned that he enjoyed going out to karaoke with his friends.

Well, what do you know? I also love karaoke. I’m a sucker for a man who knows how to sing or how to play an instrument. In fact, years ago, I used to say I would marry the man who could sing “Let’s Make Love” by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill with me. I can play it on the piano, and I need a partner.

Didn’t happen.

Anyway, Man #25 was also tall, 6′-3″ and good-looking. I don’t usually email men first, but in this case, I did.

He got back to me right away, and after a couple of emails back and forth he sent me his phone number. I called him and the conversation flowed pretty easily. When he asked me what about him I was attracted to, I confessed it was the karaoke. Basically, he just sounded fun. We talked a little more about singing and before I knew it I was doing something on the phone I had never done before…

…I was singing the duet, “Just A Kiss” by Lady Antebellum, over the phone with Mr. Karaoke.

Now what’s not to like about a man you can make beautiful music with??? Let’s just say that sealed the deal. We had to meet in person. It went something like this:

Mr. K: “I think I’d definitely like to meet you.”

Me: “I think so too.”

Mr. K: “Where should we go?”

Me: “Well, maybe we should go do more karaoke if you’re up for it.”

Mr. K: “Absolutely. That’s sounds fun.”

That’s it in a nutshell. We met at Rock Box and spent a couple of hours singing as many songs as we possibly could. He had a nice voice, and could hold his own with a mic. While there, we also had a drink and had a nice conversation. After the date, he walked me to my car, gave me a hug, and said we should go out again soon.

I agreed. It had been easy-going and fun.

Unfortunately, the real Mr. Karaoke did not appear until after the date. The next thing I knew Man #25 was calling me in the morning when he woke up, texting me throughout the day, calling when he got off work, and again in the evening before he went to bed. I started to wonder if he really had a job. I know some women find a lot of phone calls flattering, but anyone who has been reading this blog for a while knows I don’t. To me, it felt like a red flag.

I would just like to find a happy medium, someone who would call every couple of days or so. Instead, I either get the guy who never calls or the one who calls and texts several times a day. For crying out loud. Isn’t there a middle ground?

I played along for a while, but his calling and texting started to feel controlling. He didn’t seem needy in a pathetic sort of way, but, instead, it seemed like he was trying to keep track of where I was, what I was doing, and who I might be with even though he had no rights to this information. It started to annoy me to say the least.

Then during one of our phone conversations, Mr. Karaoke started talking about how he hadn’t been able to work because of he had injured his knee. Add to this the fact that in a previous conversation he announced that he didn’t think he would ever be able to retire, and I deflected the subject and asked him a related question about his work instead of asking him about his knee.

Avoidance? Yes.

I’m not good at dealing with other people’s maladies. After too many experiences in my life where I have had to be the responsible one, I’m leary anytime something starts to feel like someone might NEED me for something they should be able to do for themself.

Even my sons know that my answer to an injury is usually, “put some ice on it.” Don’t get me wrong, if there’s blood, I’ll jump into action, but, with my boys, I always found that if they put ice on an injury, it would either keep the swelling down while we got to the hospital, or they would magically be all better and ready to play again within minutes. One result I didn’t get was children who cried MORE as soon as they got my attention.

If The Karaoke Kripple was trying to get me to take care of him and his knee, again, it felt like a red flag, and I wasn’t biting.

The next night, he called me again, and again mentioned his knee and the fact that he had not been able to work. Since it seemed like the subject of this knee was not going to go away, I asked him, “Well, do you have disability insurance?”

“I have an L & I claim,” he said.

“Well, I guess I can understand why you feel you’ll never be able to retire then.”

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but it involved a grown man acting helpless, and a smart ass remark on my part, followed by The Karaoke Kripple exclaiming, “that wasn’t very nice.”


Whaa fucking whaa.

This is where I decided there was no sense in beating around the bush with The Karaoke Kripple. I said, “Look. In the past, I’ve made the mistake of taking in men who arrived with only a bag of clothes and a pickup truck, and I’m done with that. I need to watch out for myself. I WOULD like to retire someday, and I’m not about to take care of another grown ass man who can’t take care of himself.”

As you can imagine that was the end of that.


Finally, before you start thinking that all I listen to is country music, I’ve been working on singing “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?

Man #17, The Mistake

23 06 2011

Some of you may be wondering what happened with Man #17.  This is all I will say:

And That’s Why You Should Learn to Pick Your Battles

Now if only I had a 5 foot tall metal rooster to show for my troubles.

Man #2, The Florida Transplant

24 02 2011

I knew Man #2 was an idiot before I ever met him. 

That probably sounds harsh, but the first red flag that this guy was not playing with a full deck was when he said he was primarily on to meet women with kids who could play with his daughter.  He was a divorced dad from Florida, transplanted to the Pacific Northwest for work. When his daughter visits him, he wanted her to have other kids to hang out with. 

Now, as much as I want to cut a single dad a break, I’m not buying it.  I’m trying to think of a single scenario that would cause me to go to an online dating site to find my sons some friends.

Like, NEVER.

I was thinking Man #2’s reasoning sounded more like, “I’ll go online and find a woman who can take care of my kid when she comes to visit.”  I might be completely wrong about this, but as a woman of an age when I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel on my childrearing years, I’m cautious of anyone who has kids that they’re trying to push off onto me.

So, why would I even bother to go out with him, you might ask.  Well, when he said he was just looking for friends, I figured this seemed harmless enough.  He wasn’t a troll.  He seemed like a professional kind of guy. Plus, it would be a good way to get a date checked off the list with someone who didn’t appear to be overtly sleazy, creepy, or inarticulate.

Another statement he made that should have been a red flag was when he explained that, like me, he had been working on his MBA.  He had stopped while he was working on getting a promotion at his job.  I totally understand how balancing work and education can be difficult, but I was thinking one of the best ways to get that promotion would be to finish the MBA. 

Maybe.  Maybe not.  What do I know?

The next intelligence indicator occurred in an email when Man #2 started bragging about the fact that he had an SUV.  He had a Cadillac previously, that he missed driving, but he also enjoyed driving the new SUV.  It had started to snow, and he boastfully stated that although he was from Florida, he was quite confident driving his SUV in the snow.

This was really two red flags rolled into one.  First, I am of the opinion that whenever a man starts boasting about the type of car he drives or how much money he makes, he is really trying to convince a woman what a potent beast of a man he is.  Replace the word SUV with penis in the above paragraph, and you start to get a sense of what I’m talking about.

Second, the fact that Man #2 actually thought he could drive his SUV in Pacific Northwest weather was almost laughable.  He suddenly seemed to me like a man who was more braun than brain.  I didn’t want to squash his dreams, however, so I actually didn’t even respond to this email.  I mean, who am I to tell him that it’s not really the snow, but the ice, he has to watch out for?  What do I know?  I certainly don’t want to get in the way of a man and his big SUV.  Sometimes life is the best teacher.

Ok.  I should not have even written that last sentence, because when I met Man #2 for our date the next day, all he could talk about was how much money he would have to spend to get his Trailblazer fixed.  Apparently, he had gone out in the bad weather and ended up in the ditch.  He bragged about how Channel 4 reporters interviewed him, how his driver’s side window was on the ground and the right side was up in the air.  He even boasted that he had been airborne for a moment.  He had spent 2 hours waiting in the snow for a tow truck before finally deciding to walk for 2 hours uphill in the snow back to his house.

He was so interested in talking about his SUV adventure, he didn’t have any time to ask me anything about myself.  Imagine that.  Not surprising really.

A lot of thoughts went through my mind as I sat there smiling, nodding, and sipping my coffee. 

I imagined him sitting on a couch watching “Manswers” on Spike TV. 

I thought about my little house with the few nice things I have, and how I don’t want anyone messing them up.

I thought that even though he did not have a dead animal photo on his profile maybe he needed one.

What can I say? Not all of them are winners.  As my mom likes to say, “NEXT!”

It looks like The Blues Man sent me an email.

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