Being “set up” with someone has unnerved me since my dating life began in kindergarten. I’ve never been open to matchmaking and probably never will. Perhaps it shows a real closed-mindedness on my behalf. More likely, I just find it distasteful and patronizing.
Undoubtedly (and I mean 100% undoubtedly), I will not be attracted to this “ideal match.” I end up being shocked and insulted that my friends think so little of me as to set me up with someone so woefully unfit.
Take Clint, for instance (you’ll remember him from “Clint called me a Slut” days): Last week, he pulled up to my house in his pickup truck and told me has some “good news” for me. He just met with an insurance salesman (he recently purchased a new home) and guess what? He thinks I’d really hit it off with him! His name is Wayne Krassman.
My fists tighten and my stomach turns as they usually do in these situations (because again, I really, really hate someone trying to set me up on a date.) But I tried not to show it.
“So,” I asked breezily, “What qualities of his do you think will match mine so well?"
Clint thought for a second then responded (and these are his exact words, people):
“Well, he’s available, he’s your age…and he has a full head of hair.”
“How about his limbs? Does he have all his limbs?”
“Well, then Lordie, calls the preacher! I gots to get me a dress!”
Clint looked exasperated.
“Clint, if you’re going to hook me up with someone, don’t you think he should have some characteristics a little nearer and dearer to my heart, like say, a good sense of humor or creative abilities or hell, even a big cock.”
“You’re too much.”
“Okay, it doesn’t have to be that big. It’s more about the girth, anyway.”
He drove away in a huff.
“Girth!” I screamed after him.
It just so happened I had some insurance needs too, so I found Wayne on Facebook and added him as a friend and explained that I require flood insurance for my home.
You see, I’m in the process of a buyout on our family home. My brother and I acrimoniously co-own a home at the Jersey shore, where we both live. He’s lived here for three decades; I’ve lived here for two years. (You can guess who thinks he is the rightful owner of the house even though legal papers say differently.)
After years of squabbling about this house, I’m done. I’m ready to walk away from this messy familial Gordian knot and find my own home, with some fat-cocked, 4-limbed, hairy-headed man who shares my age as well as my bed. Who that magic man is, only time will tell.
So I called Wayne Krassman and conversed about flood insurance, which is required for the loan my brother needs to buy my portion of the house from me. Should my brother be doing this legwork? Hell yeah. But will he, fair reader, will he? (Psst...the answer is unlikely.)
Krassman seemed full of helpful information but it was a stressful call. He warned me of the myriad of ways we could be denied this loan. If I didn’t know better, he was gleaning satisfaction by relaying to me every worst-case scenario possible. There's always people out there like that - the ones happy to tell you bad news.
“But Wayne, this house has been paid off for decades. We’re applying for a loan that’s a quarter of its worth. If for some strange reason he defaulted, they’d still benefit!”
“Well, banks aren't in the home-selling business. Especially not now. Do your homework. You could be in real trouble.”
My future suddenly seemed quite scary. I imagined being stuck in this house forever, spiders setting up camp in my hair, losing front teeth and naming squirrels. Many thoughts raced through my mind but not for one second did I want to “hook up” with this guy...hook him through a cheek muscle, yes. But I forced myself to be nice. I needed help. Choking back worried tears, I muttered:
“Wayne, thanks for taking the time to explain this to me. This is all new territory.”
Then the "man of my dreams" says, apropos of nothing:
“I’m always happy to help a woman as attractive as yourself. I really liked some of those sexy shots you have on Facebook.”
I could smell the indignation broiling in my brain. Smoke slowly leaked from my nose.
“That’s pretty inappropriate, Wayne. I’m actually concerned about my welfare, not some stupid pictures on Facebook.”
“So who took them?”
Wow. Brass ones - dangling and clanking brass ones. Not only does he hear a potential client’s immense disapproval of his sexist line of comments, but he continues down this road, proudly and blithely.
How I wish I could tell you I stung him with some pithy one-line response. And how I hung up the phone and lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke out like an indignant Lauren Bacall.
But I did none of that. Because I was desperate for information that may help my future. So I swallowed my pride like a load of warm cum and continued to ask the heartless and clueless cretin about flood insurance.
Humiliating? Most definitely. I definitely lost some dwindling self-respect for the sake of flood insurance.
When I was done with our "first date", I reached for a Zombie Pill (what I affectionately call my anti-anxiety meds that the Gyn prescribed me when I broke down for no apparent reason in his office a few months ago.) I grabbed a glass of wine to enhance the mind-melt effect. (As my late, great friend Krissie used to say "When the bottle tells you not to mix with alcohol, they're just trying to deny you a good high.")
I sat very still on the worn living room couch, staring out the window, waiting for the pill to kick in.
Clint stopped by a little later. I told him dreamily that I conversed with Wayne.
“Well, what do you think?”
My mind had already started melting. My financial worries became warm jelly and the sunset seemed particularly sunsetty, what with all its oranges and purples and red wine.
“I think I'm in love.”
"I knew you guys would get along!"