Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel

Yesterday as I was lounging around and eating figs (filling my mouth with sunshine, daisies, and buttercups), I was thinking again about Mr. Motorcycle, and Mr. Las Vegas, and various other Misters, and I pondered the fact that I have had nothing but slightly weird experiences with members of the opposite sex. (Addendum: Except for those gentlemen who are my very good friends, and who are totally, incredibly normal....)

Its almost as if anyone who wants to date me has to be slightly nuts, or just kinda damaged. Or, twice my age.

I tell myself that its the aura of calm reliability I give off. They cling to me, like a drowning man to a raft.

I was thinking about writing a book: Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel. Subtitled: Really, Is This IT? Sub-Subtitled: Thank You, God.


I'm serious.
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Once I was out with someone, and in a very Ozzy Osborne kind of way, his brain was fried.

The bill came, and I watched him stare at it, and count on his fingers, and then pause, and then stare, and then try to use the calculator on his phone, and then get really annoyed and swear and bang on the table. This cycle repeated itself a few times, and then finally I couldn't take it.

"Do you need me to figure out how much you need to tip?"

"Yeah, I don't know whats WRONG with me."

I do, darlin, I do.
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And then one time, this happened:

 I was having dinner with a guy and he was munching away, and I was playing with the candle (I always do, I can't help it), and suddenly he said, "You know, I would probably never marry you (umm....well, thats ok because I'm not sure I  know you well enough to even consider that), but I'd want you as a mistress."

I swallowed my ice cube (it really hurt), and stared at him. "What?"

"Yeah, you would make a better mistress than a wife."

"What." (I'm gonna kill you now.)

"No, I mean it as a good thing. I would probably like you better, and want to be with you more than whoever I was married to. I just think you suit the role of mistress better than wife. I think we'd have way more fun that way."

He paused. "Or, you'll end up with someone twice your age, and I'll just be really disappointed."

While he finished his vodka martini (I think he was in the middle of a Bond obsession (maybe this accounted for the mistress talk)), I got up and went to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I looked like a mistress. 

I came to no solid understanding with myself, and concluded that mistresses probably don't go around with the word stamped on their forehead.

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Without even going into the other half dozen or so more stories I could regale you with, I have this to say:

Really? Is this IT? Thank you, God.