laugh more.
And the reason you get so excited is because this guy might be the one . The guy you’ll want to spend the rest of your days and nights with.
At least, that’s how it is with me.
But the majority of first dates end up being duds.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s the odds.
How can you expect to find Mr. Perfect without discarding a lot of Mr. Grosses along the way?
I’m looking for a knight in shining armor who will sweep me off my feet and pay my son’s college tuition. What I generally get is a toad in dirty underwear who expects me to do his laundry and prepare sumptuous meals for him because I’m, like, a chef .
After rejoining the dating pool, I’ve learned to enjoy preparing for a date because sometimes it’s the only pleasure that lasts.
If it sounds like I’m jaded, I am.
Almost all of my female friends, I’ve noticed through the years, spend at least three hours getting ready before a first date. Some spend days. They’d spend weeks if they had that much notice, but most guys don’t think that far ahead.
Three days before my date with hubba-hubba-Tony a.k.a. Easel Boy, I began preparations by power shopping for the ideal outfit. The next day I found the perfect, sexy-strappy shoes.
When I began my preparations early on the afternoon of The Date, my goal was to eke every bit of pleasure out of getting ready. My schedule was filled to the brim with activities such as manicure, pedicure, body-hair removal, and bubble bath.
While I was excited about Tony and my Tuition Plan, it wasn’t likely that the first salesman I auditioned would be a winner. I’m not that lucky.
At worst, preparing for The Date would leave me relaxed and feeling my best for two hours over dinner with an attractive Mr. Creep-Me-Out. At best, we’d hit it off, I’d continue thinking he might be Mr. Perfect, and date number two would be in the bag.
So I was standing in the kitchen, determined to gain pleasure from my pre-date rituals, hard at work so I could adequately pamper myself, when my son stuck his nose out of his bedroom.
“Whaccha up to, Maman ?”
I didn’t cringe, not even a little. Maybe the French expression was growing on me? Nah. Sticking the cucumber into the food processor, I said, “I’m making a mud facial.”
He looked at the bag of 100 percent clay litter sitting on the counter beside the food processor. “We don’t have a cat.”
“It’s for my facial. Mixing it with liquid will turn it into mud.”
“Le ick.” He held up his hands as he backed away. “Just so long as you don’t consider it an ingredient for dinner.”
“You’re having pizza, so you’re safe.”
“Delivery?”
“Yup.” I added some water to the cucumber slices, then hit the puree switch. Within seconds, my fresh cucumber was a lovely green froth.
“Can you order a large pizza? That way I can have a friend over.”
“You got it.”
I should have paid more attention to him. Instead, I was concentrating on adding the green froth to a bowl of litter. I hadn’t made this facial before, and it seemed a little odd to use litter on my face, but mud facials are made of clay and since the brand of kitty litter was 100 percent clay, I didn’t see why it wouldn’t work like a charm. The facial mixture came out a bit lumpy, but it probably needed to steep a while.
Since I had other things on my agenda, I abandoned the facial goo and headed to the bathroom. Once I wrapped my hair in mayo and Saran Wrap, I returned to the kitchen and stirred the facial. It was getting muddier and less lumpy. Figuring it needed more steeping, I returned to the bathroom and began my pedicure.
After moisturizing them in the bathtub, I then sanded and powdered and generally loved my feet. I once read an article in Cosmo that said women who loved their feet were happier. I wasn’t sure if I agreed but figured it wouldn’t hurt to find out. I even had those cute, bright pink foam pads for separating my toes,
And the reason you get so excited is because this guy might be the one . The guy you’ll want to spend the rest of your days and nights with.
At least, that’s how it is with me.
But the majority of first dates end up being duds.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s the odds.
How can you expect to find Mr. Perfect without discarding a lot of Mr. Grosses along the way?
I’m looking for a knight in shining armor who will sweep me off my feet and pay my son’s college tuition. What I generally get is a toad in dirty underwear who expects me to do his laundry and prepare sumptuous meals for him because I’m, like, a chef .
After rejoining the dating pool, I’ve learned to enjoy preparing for a date because sometimes it’s the only pleasure that lasts.
If it sounds like I’m jaded, I am.
Almost all of my female friends, I’ve noticed through the years, spend at least three hours getting ready before a first date. Some spend days. They’d spend weeks if they had that much notice, but most guys don’t think that far ahead.
Three days before my date with hubba-hubba-Tony a.k.a. Easel Boy, I began preparations by power shopping for the ideal outfit. The next day I found the perfect, sexy-strappy shoes.
When I began my preparations early on the afternoon of The Date, my goal was to eke every bit of pleasure out of getting ready. My schedule was filled to the brim with activities such as manicure, pedicure, body-hair removal, and bubble bath.
While I was excited about Tony and my Tuition Plan, it wasn’t likely that the first salesman I auditioned would be a winner. I’m not that lucky.
At worst, preparing for The Date would leave me relaxed and feeling my best for two hours over dinner with an attractive Mr. Creep-Me-Out. At best, we’d hit it off, I’d continue thinking he might be Mr. Perfect, and date number two would be in the bag.
So I was standing in the kitchen, determined to gain pleasure from my pre-date rituals, hard at work so I could adequately pamper myself, when my son stuck his nose out of his bedroom.
“Whaccha up to, Maman ?”
I didn’t cringe, not even a little. Maybe the French expression was growing on me? Nah. Sticking the cucumber into the food processor, I said, “I’m making a mud facial.”
He looked at the bag of 100 percent clay litter sitting on the counter beside the food processor. “We don’t have a cat.”
“It’s for my facial. Mixing it with liquid will turn it into mud.”
“Le ick.” He held up his hands as he backed away. “Just so long as you don’t consider it an ingredient for dinner.”
“You’re having pizza, so you’re safe.”
“Delivery?”
“Yup.” I added some water to the cucumber slices, then hit the puree switch. Within seconds, my fresh cucumber was a lovely green froth.
“Can you order a large pizza? That way I can have a friend over.”
“You got it.”
I should have paid more attention to him. Instead, I was concentrating on adding the green froth to a bowl of litter. I hadn’t made this facial before, and it seemed a little odd to use litter on my face, but mud facials are made of clay and since the brand of kitty litter was 100 percent clay, I didn’t see why it wouldn’t work like a charm. The facial mixture came out a bit lumpy, but it probably needed to steep a while.
Since I had other things on my agenda, I abandoned the facial goo and headed to the bathroom. Once I wrapped my hair in mayo and Saran Wrap, I returned to the kitchen and stirred the facial. It was getting muddier and less lumpy. Figuring it needed more steeping, I returned to the bathroom and began my pedicure.
After moisturizing them in the bathtub, I then sanded and powdered and generally loved my feet. I once read an article in Cosmo that said women who loved their feet were happier. I wasn’t sure if I agreed but figured it wouldn’t hurt to find out. I even had those cute, bright pink foam pads for separating my toes,
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