I had dinner with an acquaintance of mine last week. She's a surgical nurse, works long hours but really enjoys what she does. We were discussing men. She's married. Not happily, though. We spent the better part of dinner discussing her husband and his myriad of faults. Apparently he snores, farts, ogles other women, leaves a mess in the kitchen and has never put the toilet seat down. He also, according to her, doesn't respect her. If she is to be believed, his only redeeming quality is that he pays her bills without questioning anything. That is enough for her to stay married, apparently. But her editorial comments continue.
"Really," she said. "Why is it so difficult to find a normal one?"
The answer to that question, of course, is the original reason I started this blog. I know her husband, and he seems to be an okay guy. She definitely has different taste in men than I do. I know this because she once set me up on a doozy of a blind date. This was before my fifteen-minute rule.
The man was a plastic surgeon. She worked with him, said he was a great guy. Ever the cynic, I questioned why a great guy who happened to be a plastic surgeon would need to be set up on a blind date. She shrugged. "People are busy. You know how tough it is to meet quality guys. He has the same problem meeting women. You should just meet him. I think you'll like each other." She looked at my chest. "Maybe he'll give you a deal on some implants. You never know."
For some reason this reminded me of the time I went bra shopping at Victoria's Secret, and was immediately accosted by a helpful salesgirl, who insisted that I was a perfect candidate for their new water bra. Oh, yeah? What exactly are you saying here???
Chest comment aside, I could see her point, having had the same problem in meeting quality people, I agreed to a dinner date. I said as much. She laughed. "Honey, " she said. "He's quality. You'll thank me."
The doctor and I agreed to meet at a local Thai restaurant. All I knew about him was that he was taller than me, and had salt and pepper hair. I was pleasantly surprised. He wasn't bad looking, and only a few pounds overweight. The only stretching of the truth was the salt and pepper hair- even though all three remaining strands were salt and pepper. So it wasn't so far off the mark. We had dinner, the food was good, but the conversation bored me to tears. Chemistry, or lack of chemistry, appears pretty fast. He asked me if I could pick him up the next day, after a little procedure he was having; for my trouble he'd buy me another dinner, he just couldn't drive his little car, and he really needed a ride. I hesitated, because really at this point, I didn't care if I ever saw him again. I thought it was a little unusual for him to ask a woman he had just met to pick him up, but I decided that he must really need the ride. So I agreed.
Later that night, after the uninspiring dinner date was over and I was home, I grabbed my wallet for something and noticed something unusual: my driver's license was in the wrong place. As a survival skill against impending old age, I have to put everything back in the same place so I can find it again. I would never have exchanged my driver's license for my debit card. I racked my brains for when it could have happened. I did go to the rest room during dinner, and left my purse on the seat, but surely he wouldn't have gone through my wallet- would he? I looked through it a little more, and discovered that I was missing $20. Since I often operate on cash, I usually know to the penny how much money I have with me. Would a plastic surgeon really swipe a twenty from a me? And pull out, look at, and mix up my cards? Seemed improbable. And- I was already on the hook for the next day. I chalked it all up to another senior moment.
The next day I showed up at the hospital at the appointed time.
The nurse on duty looked down her nose through her glasses at me. She had major attitude and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet. "I see you are the next of kin," she said. I wanted to give her a pair of tongs to help her pull the stick out of her a$$ but instead I gave her my patented stop-seventh-grade-boys-in-their-tracks-look. "I barely know the man," I said. "Are you Allyson Wonders?" she asked in the clipped, officious tone that petty bureaucrats in charge of nothing often invoke. "Yes," I admitted, "I am, but..." My voice trailed off. She shrugged in an annoying manner- really, she was getting on my last nerve- and sniffed, "Well, for whatever reason Dr. Boring put you down as his next of kin. He's almost finished. Have a seat over there." She gestured to a bank of chairs against the wall.
Dismissed, I went and sat down, feeling really strange. The whole situation was too bizarre. Next of kin for a man I hardly even knew? Enough. When Nurse Officious was busy being condescending to the next patient, I grabbed my bag and left. I had just gotten back to the car when my cell phone began to ring. I decided to ignore it- after all, one shouldn't drive and talk on a cell phone.
A couple of months later, I was home having dinner and watching a game when suddenly someone knocked on my kitchen window, which overlooks the driveway. It was Dr. Boring. How the hell did he know where I lived, anyway? The driver's license, maybe? Too creepy. I wouldn't let him in, I just talked to him through the window, told him to get lost. He wanted to know, why didn't I pick him up as promised? I told him to take a hike. He continued to harangue me. Hearing the commotion, one of my neighbors came out- asked me if there was a problem. I explained that Dr. Boring just wouldn't leave, and my nosy neighbor, who also happens to be a cop in the Tenderloin, flashed his badge and told Dr. Boring to go and never come back, etc. So- off he went. I ran into him at Safeway, not too long ago. It was a little awkward but he didn't do much more than mutter hello and make a little jerk of his head in my direction.
Damn. There go those implants. Guess I'll just go get one of those water bras, instead.
.
"Really," she said. "Why is it so difficult to find a normal one?"
The answer to that question, of course, is the original reason I started this blog. I know her husband, and he seems to be an okay guy. She definitely has different taste in men than I do. I know this because she once set me up on a doozy of a blind date. This was before my fifteen-minute rule.
The man was a plastic surgeon. She worked with him, said he was a great guy. Ever the cynic, I questioned why a great guy who happened to be a plastic surgeon would need to be set up on a blind date. She shrugged. "People are busy. You know how tough it is to meet quality guys. He has the same problem meeting women. You should just meet him. I think you'll like each other." She looked at my chest. "Maybe he'll give you a deal on some implants. You never know."
For some reason this reminded me of the time I went bra shopping at Victoria's Secret, and was immediately accosted by a helpful salesgirl, who insisted that I was a perfect candidate for their new water bra. Oh, yeah? What exactly are you saying here???
Chest comment aside, I could see her point, having had the same problem in meeting quality people, I agreed to a dinner date. I said as much. She laughed. "Honey, " she said. "He's quality. You'll thank me."
The doctor and I agreed to meet at a local Thai restaurant. All I knew about him was that he was taller than me, and had salt and pepper hair. I was pleasantly surprised. He wasn't bad looking, and only a few pounds overweight. The only stretching of the truth was the salt and pepper hair- even though all three remaining strands were salt and pepper. So it wasn't so far off the mark. We had dinner, the food was good, but the conversation bored me to tears. Chemistry, or lack of chemistry, appears pretty fast. He asked me if I could pick him up the next day, after a little procedure he was having; for my trouble he'd buy me another dinner, he just couldn't drive his little car, and he really needed a ride. I hesitated, because really at this point, I didn't care if I ever saw him again. I thought it was a little unusual for him to ask a woman he had just met to pick him up, but I decided that he must really need the ride. So I agreed.
Later that night, after the uninspiring dinner date was over and I was home, I grabbed my wallet for something and noticed something unusual: my driver's license was in the wrong place. As a survival skill against impending old age, I have to put everything back in the same place so I can find it again. I would never have exchanged my driver's license for my debit card. I racked my brains for when it could have happened. I did go to the rest room during dinner, and left my purse on the seat, but surely he wouldn't have gone through my wallet- would he? I looked through it a little more, and discovered that I was missing $20. Since I often operate on cash, I usually know to the penny how much money I have with me. Would a plastic surgeon really swipe a twenty from a me? And pull out, look at, and mix up my cards? Seemed improbable. And- I was already on the hook for the next day. I chalked it all up to another senior moment.
The next day I showed up at the hospital at the appointed time.
The nurse on duty looked down her nose through her glasses at me. She had major attitude and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet. "I see you are the next of kin," she said. I wanted to give her a pair of tongs to help her pull the stick out of her a$$ but instead I gave her my patented stop-seventh-grade-boys-in-their-tracks-look. "I barely know the man," I said. "Are you Allyson Wonders?" she asked in the clipped, officious tone that petty bureaucrats in charge of nothing often invoke. "Yes," I admitted, "I am, but..." My voice trailed off. She shrugged in an annoying manner- really, she was getting on my last nerve- and sniffed, "Well, for whatever reason Dr. Boring put you down as his next of kin. He's almost finished. Have a seat over there." She gestured to a bank of chairs against the wall.
Dismissed, I went and sat down, feeling really strange. The whole situation was too bizarre. Next of kin for a man I hardly even knew? Enough. When Nurse Officious was busy being condescending to the next patient, I grabbed my bag and left. I had just gotten back to the car when my cell phone began to ring. I decided to ignore it- after all, one shouldn't drive and talk on a cell phone.
A couple of months later, I was home having dinner and watching a game when suddenly someone knocked on my kitchen window, which overlooks the driveway. It was Dr. Boring. How the hell did he know where I lived, anyway? The driver's license, maybe? Too creepy. I wouldn't let him in, I just talked to him through the window, told him to get lost. He wanted to know, why didn't I pick him up as promised? I told him to take a hike. He continued to harangue me. Hearing the commotion, one of my neighbors came out- asked me if there was a problem. I explained that Dr. Boring just wouldn't leave, and my nosy neighbor, who also happens to be a cop in the Tenderloin, flashed his badge and told Dr. Boring to go and never come back, etc. So- off he went. I ran into him at Safeway, not too long ago. It was a little awkward but he didn't do much more than mutter hello and make a little jerk of his head in my direction.
Damn. There go those implants. Guess I'll just go get one of those water bras, instead.
.
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