Saturday, April 28, 2007

My Date With A Skunk

It was the year 2000.

I was single after being in an on-again/off-again 9 year relationship (I was a slow learner in my 20's) with a very unpleasant man named Steve.

I had not dated anyone for about a year.

I had just started a travel assignment at a county hospital.

Most of the PM shift nurses were married. One of the single ones was on and she kept bugging me to join. I refused, thinking it was a great way to meet a serial killer or pervert....not my next boyfriend. She would not take no for an answer and using her own credit card, signed me up and set up my profile.

I was wary. She sat me down and gave me her rules for dating in the 21st century.

1) It is a numbers game. The more you date, the sooner you will find the one nice guy out of the bunch of players, dorks, perverts and assholes.

2) A girl has got to eat. Even if the date sucks, at least you got to eat a nice meal.

3) It takes 3 dates to rule a guy out. If he doesn't scare you, creep you out or make you barf on the first should have another one. If you are not into him by the 3rd date.....set him adrift.

I made my own 4th rule

4) Never go on a date alone. I would have one of my friends make reservations at the same place I was meeting the guy. They could watch from a distance and make sure I didn't get abducted or something. My married/coupled friends liked it. They got a date night out of it and they could check out who I was dating.

So, with these rules in mind......I set out into the dating world. I had my personal criteria in mind. I wanted someone tall, chubby, bald, goatee wearing, smart and funny.

So, I just hung out and waited for guys to contact me. Not the best decision. With my "covert chaperones" in tow, I proceeded to go out with a string of weird men. None were as weird as Paul, or as I like to call him, ESL Paul.

It started like this......
I get a message from this guy named Paul. It is obvious from his email that English is not his first language. I cannot tell where he is from from his profile. He writes in his "About Me" section, "I am not fat or bald. I want woman who know what she want". I am trying to keep an open mind, so I email him back. We exchange emails for about a week and I agree to talk on the phone with him. That is when I find out where he is from...............FRANCE. We talk and he seems nice. Smart, Funny.......okay, I set up a date. I get my friend Brenda and her boyfriend to be my chaperones. Her boyfriend is an ex-cop, so I am feeling pretty safe.

I am standing in front of the restaurant.......very nervous and I hear it.....My name in French. "Meeshell, is zat you?" I turn around..............this dude LIED in his profile! He is about 4 inches SHORTER than he said he was.......not a good first impression.

We get to our table and I notice his HUGE, BUSHY UNI-BROW. My inner voices starts, "For cripes sake, how many of these dates am I going to have to go through? The food better be good at this place!". I try to quickly recover. "This is not who I am, I don't want to write this guy off just because of external things........"

So I try to forget about his LIE about his height, his uni-brow and continue with the date. His accent is pretty thick. I can usually understand accents better than most, but I am used to Spanish and Chinese accents. French is less familiar, so I am really concentrating on what he is saying, so I can understand him.

Then I start to notice.... This guy is really smart. This guy is funny. This guy has a lot of money. This guy POLISHES his nails! Jesus! Why would a guy polish his nails? Then the wheels start turning.....if he polishes his nails, I could probably get him to wax his uni-brow. Yes, he is short.......but that means I will never have to wear high heels again!!! According to rule #3, I have no reason to not go on another date with him.

So dinner is over, I had a pretty good time. He walks me to my friends are already in their car doing surveillance on the "good-bye". I tell him I had a nice time, I tell him to give me a call. I give him a hug. I just can't shake someone's hand after a date. I figure a hug is good if I am considering a second date. If you stand there all awkward, they might try to kiss you or something. If you hug them......they can't kiss you. I am thinking it's all good. Then he looks at me and says: "What? No keess?" I think to myself "oh, he is French! They do that kiss on each cheek thing!" So I give him an "cheek kiss type thingy" on each side, thinking that is what he meant. I mean, I am trying not to look like a hick american chick. He then looks at me and he says " I want you to keess me with passs eon!" He then proceeds to grab the lapels of my coat and pull me so close to him that he practically smooshes my boobs under my armpits and up to my chin! It takes me a second or two to regain my composure but I regroup, look at him and say " I am not gonna light the fire, if I don't plan on cookin!" (not very cosmopolitan, but I could barely breathe with my boobs all smushed up, let alone think of something continental to say!) He still hasn't released me from his grip! Instead he says "What do you mean? I deed not say anysing about cooooking".

I wiggled out of his grip so quick! I jumped into my car, waved goodbye and took off. As I was driving off, my friend Brenda calls on my cell phone. She and her boyfriend are cracking up. They try and act concerned and ask if I am okay. I tell them I am and they reply "Dude, you looked just like that cat in the Pepe le Pew cartoons!"

Friday, April 20, 2007

UB40 Wrote A Song About This. (Profanity)

My nights and days get all screwed up after I have worked a few nights in a row. I try to stay awake when I get home in the morning and just take a nap in the afternoon. Then when Mr. Misha gets home from work, we can have dinner and spend the evening together before hitting the hay, thus...turning my internal clock back to "dayshift"

Sometimes, it doesn't work. I will go to bed with Mr. Misha and wake up at 3 or 4 am, WIDE AWAKE. I try and quietly do things in the front of the house to allow him to get some sleep. On one particular morning, I decided to cook. I had purchased a bunch of ground beef. I was going to brown it all, separate it into 1lb increments and put it in the freezer. When I needed it, for tacos (my husband likes tacos), or some other ground beef meal, I could just pull it out of the freezer and "Viola!"

So, I am in the kitchen, browning the meat. Our cocker spaniel, Mimi, is sitting at my feet praying to her little dog deity that I will drop all 10 lbs on the floor. While standing at the stove, I hear the doggie door open. I can't believe that Mimi has left her post! I look down, she hasn't! I walk towards the dining room and there I see it! It is a FUCKING RAT! A FUCKING RAT has come in Mimi's doggie door!

I must digress a bit.

I pride myself on being a cool chick. I can usually do most things myself.

I know how to: change my oil, find a stud in a wall to hang a heavy mirror, pitch a tent, drive a 4WD, change a tire, shoot a gun and Bar B Que a nice steak.

Things I want help with: reaching things on the top shelf, killing spiders bigger than a nickel (the squish grosses me out), opening jars, lifting the couch so I can vacuum under it.

The ONE thing I WILL NOT with fucking rodents!

So here it is, 4:30 on a Sunday morning and a FUCKING RAT is in my dining room. What do I do? I run screaming into the bedroom. I am running around the room like a fart in a windstorm screaming "THERE IS A RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!" I keep yelling this until he wakes up (if you know my husband, you know this takes a long time). He wakes up and sits straight up in bed and says, "What?" I repeat "THERE IS A RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!" He says, "Huh?" Again, I scream "THERE IS A FUCKING RAT IN THE DINING ROOM. GET IT! GET IT!"

He jumps up, puts on his boots and coat, and grabs his car keys and LEAVES THE HOUSE!

I barricade myself and the dog in the bedroom. I am wondering where my husband went and trying to figure out how to sterilize the entire house. I am sure that the whole house is now infested with the Hanta virus. Just then, the phone rings, it is Mr. Misha. I answer it and he says, "What am I doing?" I repeat, but this time I don't yell "There is a rat in the dining room, you have to get it. Go to the store and get something to get the FUCKING RAT out of the living room." He says "OK'" (Mr. Misha is not a big talker when he first wakes up).

For what seems like an eternity, Mimi and I stay huddled on the bed. I am imagining that my entire kitchen, dining room and living room are being over run by Ben, Wilbur, Templeton and any other celebrity rat I can think of. I am looking through my public health nurse textbook to see what diseases I am going to contract from this FUCKING RAT.

He finally returns. His shirt is buttoned wrong, his shoes are untied, and the hair on his head is sticking out and up, Bozo the Clown style. In his arms are three bags of various contraptions to catch a rat. He spent about $60.00 in Long's. He starts pulling out extension cords and hooking up all these ultra sonic rodent repellents. I am skeptical. I am not satisfied. I ask him to lift all of the furniture up and make sure that the rat has left. Of course, I am scared that the rat will come after me when he lifts the furniture, back to the bedroom for Mimi and me.

Finally, Mr. Misha gives me the "All Clear". I finish browning my meat; I put in the individual bags, place them in the freezer.............and start to sterilize the house.