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Ah, the days of being sick; how I won’t miss them. Watching paint dry is true, genuine entertainment and waking yourself with your own snores is less amusing than what others may think. But 6 boxes of tissue and 24 very long and hot showers later (I’ll atone for my environmental destruction), I’ve successfully won the battle of the boogers.

Dating conundrums happen to the best of us and recently (pre-cold war) I’ve had the pleasure of dating two entirely different types of men. However not long ago I found myself in a compromising situation and it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Insert obvious joke here and go ahead and have a giggle, I’ll wait a moment for you to refocus. Better now? Good, let me explain.

Say it with me, "Just Say NO! to ..."

I have a penchant for handy men. Something about a way a man can use tools, especially his caulking gun, that really makes me want to head to into my dank, cramped bathroom and rip apart the tub surround. Of course, not all handymen are created equal. Take a look at Hollywood’s stereotypical plumber and you’ll see that a few of their cracks need to be filled.

But then there are those plumbers that know how to use that snake of theirs and unclog my drains. Check out these two Roto Rooters/Ghost Hunters. I bet they know how get to the root of the problem and exercise my demons.

Who you gonna call?

“The Best Part of Me is Covered Up, Baby.”

While shopping at my local home improvement store, I asked a boyishly handsome plumber for advice about a stopped up drain – and this time it’s not euphemism. After being given some advice as to which drain cleaner would work best, I stayed to flirt a bit more and was handsomely rewarded with an invitation to dinner, which I naturally accepted.

His promptness surprised me and so did his choice of vehicle – a lifted, newer Dodge Ram pickup truck that required a hand up from my date in order to reach the cab without flashing God and country my underoo’s; no easy task in a skirt and heels. No Brittney moments for me.

The first date was a bit unexpected, but still fun, none the less. Bowling, complete with alley food and beverage (his idea of dinner), was a great way to get to know each other. How serious does your date take themselves? How competitive are they? Do they share fries or have a food phobia? Standing just this side of the line, you can play out your next move in more ways than one. Over all, I’d say it’s a strike.

The second date was at our local aquarium and though things were going swimmingly between us, there was simply something that was just “off.” You know what I mean, there isn’t one thing that you can label, there’s a quirk or some feeling that gets beneath your skin and you’re unable to name it. Despite this little red flag, we returned to his place for a little nookie and little it was.

Stripping down to our skivvies while his hands were assisting me with mine, he whispered huskily into my ear, “The best part of me is covered up, baby.” With eager anticipation, I greedily sought his best part. When he stated that his “best part” was covered up, I assumed he meant what was hidden in underroos, not by the amount of body hair it’d take an entire landscaping crew to trim his bush just to find his stump.

Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to an activity entitled Manscaping. Learn it. Incorporate it into your routine. Your future loves will thank you for it.


It took a few libido killing minutes to find Waldo, but once found the promise of promiscuity began…and ended within one minute. This is difficult to write as I don’t want to come across as being bitter, cruel, a bitch, whichever term of choice is yours, but it’s my duty to present the facts, regardless of how short they are.

Hit and Run

Size is always a topic at hand between men and women and as for this woman it’s all in how you use it. He was quite literally the size of my thumb (and at this moment, I wish I were an abnormally sized woman with big hands; would’ve at least had a bit more pleasure) and his technique was much like a jack rabbits. With a satisfied sigh, he rolled over and stated that he needed to get going on some paperwork. And with that, my Little Prince ceremoniously threw me my clothes. Needless to say, in this fairy tale, there was only going to be one happy ending.

Clearly there would be no third date. Well not unless I get the Ouija board out and ask a few family members if hell froze over. The thought of not kissing, among other things, this toad had crossed my mind upon the revelation of his “best part,” but the fact that he was very clean (apartment, included) and the only hang up was his exceptional ability to grow hair south of his border. Is it rude to check out the equipment before take off? Do we fake sudden cramps and the onslaught of our period? Or are we simply doomed to enjoy what little ride there is once we’re strapped in and fake an orgasm?

In a world of princes and frogs, how much do we fake?

I leave you with that question to ponder and I hope you will take a moment to leave me your thoughts as I’d very much like to hear them. For now, though, I’m going to purchase stock in Kleenex.