<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758</id><updated>2011-11-27T15:17:33.804-08:00</updated><category term='Mid-Courtship Disaster'/><category term='Cougar Hunting'/><category term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category term='A Couple We Can Believe In'/><category term='Movie Night'/><category term='Cheap Bastards'/><category term='Reading List'/><category term='Wardrobe Malfunctions'/><category term='Love and Marriage'/><category term='The Saucy Shelf'/><category term='Gives Us Hope'/><category term='But Seriously...'/><category term='Completely Psychotic'/><category term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category term='I Lied on My Profile'/><category term='WTF?'/><category term='Un-date Log'/><category term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>My Very Worst Date</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>63</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-7579365286107848432</id><published>2009-04-19T15:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-19T15:31:36.241-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><title type='text'>My Very Worst Date Moves</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seuk06RmWMI/AAAAAAAAAME/SkrKT-tlb-A/s1600-h/house-moving-3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seuk06RmWMI/AAAAAAAAAME/SkrKT-tlb-A/s320/house-moving-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326532213198969026" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Ladies and gents, we've moved to &lt;a href="http://myveryworstdate.com/"&gt;MyVeryWorstDate.com&lt;/a&gt;. Please visit us at our new home from now on. Brand new and all the old My Very Worst Date yarns are on the new site. We'll be expecting you (and all your stories)!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-7579365286107848432?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/7579365286107848432/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-very-worst-date-moves.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7579365286107848432'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7579365286107848432'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-very-worst-date-moves.html' title='My Very Worst Date Moves'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seuk06RmWMI/AAAAAAAAAME/SkrKT-tlb-A/s72-c/house-moving-3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2201862619758807041</id><published>2009-04-17T08:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-17T08:50:48.329-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Living Just Enough for the City</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seijwskw44I/AAAAAAAAAL8/4_S1LCsIrNA/s1600-h/img_taxi.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seijwskw44I/AAAAAAAAAL8/4_S1LCsIrNA/s320/img_taxi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325686616360018818" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;When I lived in New York City, I actively dated on Match.com. My Very Worst Date happened when I met a guy at a Union Square restaurant. I walked in and saw a guy sitting at a table looking around, but he was clearly 10 years older than the photo he’d posted online. His hair was also much thinner, but I decided to give it a shot anyway and introduced myself.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;  The waitress came right over and asked if we would like anything to drink.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"No, we don't want any cocktails," he said rather curtly. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I let it slide because I thought he might be an alcoholic for a second. Still I was annoyed that he spoke for me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"Well, can I order a soda then?" I asked.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"Do you have to?"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I was turned off by his cheapskate ways but I still tried to enjoy the rest of the meal since he seemed fairly charming otherwise. After dinner, we stepped out of the restaurant into a rainy, rainy night. Since we were both headed to the Lower East Side, I suggested we share a taxi.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"Do you have your Metrocard with you?" he asked. "Because we're taking the bus." &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I had one in my back pocket, but I was shocked that in the cold rain he would want to wait for a bus just to save a couple of bucks.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"And is it one of the unlimited ones because I forgot mine?" he added.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I gave him the card, which had four bucks left on it, and I hopped in a cab to meet my girlfriends.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2201862619758807041?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2201862619758807041/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/living-just-enough-for-city.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2201862619758807041'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2201862619758807041'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/living-just-enough-for-city.html' title='Living Just Enough for the City'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Seijwskw44I/AAAAAAAAAL8/4_S1LCsIrNA/s72-c/img_taxi.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-649946712730699371</id><published>2009-04-16T07:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-16T09:49:52.245-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Gives Us Hope'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='A Couple We Can Believe In'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In: Unmarried Bliss</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SedCyZAp5VI/AAAAAAAAAL0/u3RPAzj2TLQ/s1600-h/610x.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SedCyZAp5VI/AAAAAAAAAL0/u3RPAzj2TLQ/s320/610x.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325298517863425362" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;After playing lovers in the 1988 baseball film &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Bull Durham&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;, Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins became a real-life couple. Susan has said that in some ways Tim, who is 12 years her junior, is "older and more traditional" than she is. A dad to two of Susan's three kids, Tim says, "Age hasn't been a factor." He directed her Oscar-winning performance in &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Dead Man Walking &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"&gt;and t&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;he duo regularly makes headlines for their anti war activism. While the New Yorkers have never married, they remain more committed than ever as they go into their third decade together. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-649946712730699371?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/649946712730699371/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/couple-we-can-believe-in-unmarried.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/649946712730699371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/649946712730699371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/couple-we-can-believe-in-unmarried.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In: Unmarried Bliss'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SedCyZAp5VI/AAAAAAAAAL0/u3RPAzj2TLQ/s72-c/610x.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-8303471535527727562</id><published>2009-04-15T08:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-15T09:03:25.187-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mid-Courtship Disaster'/><title type='text'>Dynastic Cabin Fever</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeYBOQ1c8tI/AAAAAAAAALs/UCrA5edsDBQ/s1600-h/business_seat_1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 189px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeYBOQ1c8tI/AAAAAAAAALs/UCrA5edsDBQ/s320/business_seat_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324944953961149138" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Sometimes a Very Worst Date happens outside the traditional 'dinner and movie' set-up. Your romantic hopes might be crushed earlier or later on. So we present our first &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Mid-Courtship Disaster&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;...&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;For the first time in my life, I found myself thrilled when the flight attendant showed me to my seat. I was flying business class for work and expected everything to be a little classier and better looking but my neighbor exceeded all my hopes of a glamorous traveling companion.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Not only did he look like an South Asian version of John F. Kennedy Jr., he was also reading a book about surgery. I silently thanked God for the blessing he’d delivered to me. Now we had the entire New York-Los Angeles trip to get to know each other, I thought as I settled in. The promise of his looks was fully fulfilled in his personality - he was remarkably erudite and stunningly intelligent. By Las Vegas, I was ready to marry him. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Before we alighted at LAX, he gave me his number. That's when he dropped in another number: his age. I knew the guy was younger than me so I guessed late 20s. I was older (in the next decade) but not by that much so I did not think it was that disgraceful - until he revealed he was 18. His parents had been several rows ahead of us on the plane!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;After I’d finished up with work in L.A., I decided to call him on the urging on my colleagues, who cheered loud and excitedly, "Why not?" We ended up going out to fancy restaurant, where the reality of his age came home fully. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;When the waiter came up to ask if we wanted cocktails, I held my breath. He ordered a soda and later, he charmingly and thoughtfully discussed how he’d spoken to his friend about me and how they’d weighed up the relationship’s possibilities of working out. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;For me, this was not My Very Worst Date in the traditional sense, but it was still something of a dating tragedy. I was crushed. I met the man of my dreams and he turned out to be a boy of 18. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-8303471535527727562?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/8303471535527727562/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/dynastic-cabin-fever.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8303471535527727562'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8303471535527727562'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/dynastic-cabin-fever.html' title='Dynastic Cabin Fever'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeYBOQ1c8tI/AAAAAAAAALs/UCrA5edsDBQ/s72-c/business_seat_1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-1438489107177677427</id><published>2009-04-14T07:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-14T21:46:18.548-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cougar Hunting'/><title type='text'>On the Prowl</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeSl4OFobtI/AAAAAAAAALk/D919R3NmMzk/s1600-h/45152183.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeSl4OFobtI/AAAAAAAAALk/D919R3NmMzk/s320/45152183.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324563044731743954" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Lamenting the end of &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.vh1.com/shows/rock_of_love/season_3/series.jhtml"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Rock of Love Bus&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;? Those matchmaking reality shows not cutting it? Well, tomorrow night TV Land PRIME's debuts &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.tvland.com/prime/shows/cougar/season1/stacey_the_cougar.jhtml"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;The Cougar&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;, hosted by Vivica A. Fox (genius casting there). The new show, from the creators of &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;The Bachelor,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; claims it's eager to shatter dating stereotypes (cougar-iffic Stacey thinks age is a number and there's a double standard on women who date younger men). Essentially, 20 younger dudes compete for the mother-of-four's heart, and there's even a set of 25-year-old twins in the mix. Then there's SNL's recurring "Cougar Den" sketch. And later this year, Courteney Cox Arquette will star in the risque ABC sitcom &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Cougar Town&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;. While the Hollywood trend feels a little late to us (we've seen cougars in the wilds of Newport Beach, Beverly Hills and Manhattan for quite some time now), at least 40-plus gals are getting TV jobs. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-1438489107177677427?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/1438489107177677427/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/on-prowl.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1438489107177677427'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1438489107177677427'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/on-prowl.html' title='On the Prowl'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeSl4OFobtI/AAAAAAAAALk/D919R3NmMzk/s72-c/45152183.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-877692170859199521</id><published>2009-04-13T08:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-13T08:51:50.541-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Wandering to the Folks</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeNYcTBwNzI/AAAAAAAAALc/nPdQw9F78DI/s1600-h/InLaws.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 304px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeNYcTBwNzI/AAAAAAAAALc/nPdQw9F78DI/s320/InLaws.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324196427649267506" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;After I ended a long relationship, my best friend from college thought it would be a good idea to fix me up with her boyfriend's childhood buddy because we were both wine connoisseurs. I agreed. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The location of our first date was a wine cafe. It did not start well. Within five minutes of the date, he was already pointing out that I had a "terrible habit of biting my nails." I was troubled by this critique but ignored it and the other small comments that danced on my nerves.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;After lunch, he suggested a walk. I'd had too many glasses of wine so I agreed even though I knew the date was going nowhere. On route, he asked if I would mind stopping at his old friend's house for a minute. I didn't mind especially since he came into town for the specific purpose of our date. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We approached the house and rang the bell. An older couple answered the door, which totally confused me. It took me a while to realize that they were his ex-girlfriend's parents, who clearly were not over my (apparently highly eligible) date. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We sat at their outdoor bar (drinking beer mercifully!) for two whole hours discussing how he would one day marry their daughter and how wonderful their relationship had been.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I have never felt more uncomfortable in my life. This dude still wants to know why I never called him again.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-877692170859199521?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/877692170859199521/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/home-to-mama-and-papa.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/877692170859199521'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/877692170859199521'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/home-to-mama-and-papa.html' title='Wandering to the Folks'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SeNYcTBwNzI/AAAAAAAAALc/nPdQw9F78DI/s72-c/InLaws.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-853151204090039086</id><published>2009-04-10T07:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-10T08:10:03.178-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>In the Waiting Line</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sd9Z1ZIBi7I/AAAAAAAAALM/KcPJUhHS4dg/s1600-h/13_p0aa.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sd9Z1ZIBi7I/AAAAAAAAALM/KcPJUhHS4dg/s320/13_p0aa.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323072058387696562" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:Times;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;W&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;hen I was 15, I met this guy while standing in line for tamales on Christmas Eve near my house in Texas. My parents habitually bribed me to wait the three hours it took to procure the best tamales in town during the holiday season.  Although this guy had two first names, instead of a first and last name like any reasonable person (a guaranteed sign of trouble in the south), he seemed nice enough, so I gave him my number and we went out later that week. But it soon became apparent that this guy was still terribly torn up about his ex-girlfriend and I think he tried to recreate the closeness of that bond the only way a 16 year-old boy knows how: in turn painfully over-sharing embarrassing details about his life and bragging about his sports prowess. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This led to a 45-minute discussion about the joys of pole-vaulting, as well as an admission of bulimia, all while using a tiny can of breath spray as he talked. After I turned down his kind offer to see a picture of his ex-girlfriend and go park somewhere, he decided to continue the date at Wal-Mart, where he bought a CD that reminded him of some school dance he went to with his ex. While driving me home, he put in said CD and started crying. After he dropped me home, I realized that I forgot my jacket in his car.  When he turned his car around to bring it to me, he said, "It must be fate," to which I replied, "No, it's just forgetfulness." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-853151204090039086?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/853151204090039086/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/in-waiting-line.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/853151204090039086'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/853151204090039086'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/in-waiting-line.html' title='In the Waiting Line'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sd9Z1ZIBi7I/AAAAAAAAALM/KcPJUhHS4dg/s72-c/13_p0aa.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-7633634288152834446</id><published>2009-04-09T08:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-09T09:30:27.234-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Gives Us Hope'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love and Marriage'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='A Couple We Can Believe In'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In: Just The Two of Us</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/famecrawler/2008/07/08-15/jada-will-smith.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 468px; height: 586px;" src="http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/famecrawler/2008/07/08-15/jada-will-smith.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;How smoking are these two? So much so that the rumor mill can't stop speculating that Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith are really a gay (or bisexual) couple married in heterosexual and career convenience. Pinkett Smith recently brushed off the titters in an &lt;a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102110238"&gt;NPR&lt;/a&gt; interview (no less!), where she basically said: you can believe us or you can lump it. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;With that out of the way, we can proceed. Smith met his pint-sized princess (and former Miss Maryland) on 'The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air' when she auditioned to be his onscreen girlfriend. She didn't get the role but got her prince. Twelve years on, the two have a couple of kids, genre-jumping careers and a marriage that's apparently as rock solid as Pinkett Smith's biceps. &lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Their secret? She has said utter commitment to the union. Smith's mentioned that they've studied why Hollywood couples break up and have learnt from that. He also told a &lt;a href="http://www.nowmagazine.co.uk/celebrity-news/265795/will-smith-i-ll-tell-my-wife-if-i-need-to-have-sex-with-someone-else/1/"&gt;U.K. tabloid magazine that he'd tell the wife if he wanted to sleep with another woman&lt;/a&gt; last year. No word though if he has - or if she's done the same. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Perhaps it's not the swinging open marriage that gossip purveyors have in mind but the two might just have the kind of crystalline communication that most of us crave. They even tell each other who they have celeb crushes on (him: Beyonce, Salma Hayek; her: The Rock). But we can only imagine that their "I like her/him.." conversations end with "...but I love you."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-7633634288152834446?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/7633634288152834446/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/couple-we-can-believe-in-just-two-of-us.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7633634288152834446'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7633634288152834446'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/couple-we-can-believe-in-just-two-of-us.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In: Just The Two of Us'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-1270237961900868861</id><published>2009-04-08T09:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-21T13:50:50.989-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>The Human Stain</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdzSVDKX4PI/AAAAAAAAALE/ElbS5rCW7VA/s1600-h/orange.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdzSVDKX4PI/AAAAAAAAALE/ElbS5rCW7VA/s320/orange.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322360118712983794" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;was on my second date with a guy I really liked. We had a wonderful dinner at a nice hotel and then moved to the nearby lounge for drinks afterward. I was sitting on a white couch and it was pretty warm outside this particular evening. After a few moments I looked down and realized that there was some sort of orange stain on the couch. Then it occurred to me that I was actually the cause of this. I had gotten a spray tan in preparation of the date, but now I was basically sweating it all off right onto the pure white couch. My date nicknamed me “Oompa Loompa” that night and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. Luckily he didn’t mind too much because we are still together three years later. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"&gt;PLEASE VISIT OUR NEW SITE --&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://myveryworstdate.com"&gt;http://myveryworstdate.com&lt;/a&gt;! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-1270237961900868861?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/1270237961900868861/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/human-stain.html#comment-form' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1270237961900868861'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1270237961900868861'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/human-stain.html' title='The Human Stain'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdzSVDKX4PI/AAAAAAAAALE/ElbS5rCW7VA/s72-c/orange.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5960712623391263203</id><published>2009-04-07T07:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-07T08:09:04.804-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='But Seriously...'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>Call Back Blues</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdtqieXQpuI/AAAAAAAAAK8/B4oZ9ap57_4/s1600-h/phone(2).jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdtqieXQpuI/AAAAAAAAAK8/B4oZ9ap57_4/s320/phone(2).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321964525167093474" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;You thought the first date went well. So why then are you still waiting to hear back from your potential beau? A new book called &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.amazon.com/Why-Didnt-Call-You-Back/dp/0307406539/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&amp;amp;s=books&amp;amp;qid=1239115699&amp;amp;sr=8-2"&gt;Why Didn't He Call You Back: 1,000 Guys Reveal What They Really Thought About You After Your Date&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; by dating coach Rachel Greenwald [first tome: &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Find a Husband After 35 (Using What I Learnt in Harvard Business School)&lt;/span&gt;] out today attempts several answers: you were a bossy boots, you were too full of the blahs, drank too much etc. In short: you were a bad date. The book reminded us of a more literary take from another era altogether on the no-phone back phenomenon by famed wit Dorothy Parker. Her short story &lt;a href="http://hennessey.lib.ok.us/telephonecall.htm"&gt;A Telephone Call&lt;/a&gt; is a stream of consciousness soliloquy by a woman praying (and waiting by the phone) for a dude to ring her back. It's hilarious, painful and pathetic. A cautionary tale if there ever was one.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5960712623391263203?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5960712623391263203/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/about-that-second-date-call.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5960712623391263203'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5960712623391263203'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/about-that-second-date-call.html' title='Call Back Blues'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdtqieXQpuI/AAAAAAAAAK8/B4oZ9ap57_4/s72-c/phone(2).jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4335872060809512963</id><published>2009-04-06T07:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-06T07:25:59.101-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Not a Smoothie</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdoQMK1Rp6I/AAAAAAAAAK0/pZwm5LVrjSc/s1600-h/produce.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdoQMK1Rp6I/AAAAAAAAAK0/pZwm5LVrjSc/s320/produce.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321583710943946658" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;   "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;In a fit of internet dating in college, I agreed to meet up with a fellow. We'd talked online and over the telephone, and seemed to have enough in common that getting together for smoothies was not out of line. His request to meet me in the produce section of a local market was odd, but I tried to chalk it up to just being quirky-cute. I arrived early to scope out and five minuets later, there was a guy hanging out by the starfruit. When I squinted and turned my head to the side, I was able to see how this individual was related to the photograph online, but it was a stretch. I made my approach and introduced myself. He was much more nervous than he was on the phone, and had made me a mix CD full of really romantic stuff. Eek. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;   "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;The conversation over smoothies was nice, but I wasn't really feeling it. I'd taken the bus to meet him, and he offered me a ride. At that point, I was still down for hanging out, so I accepted. We started to drive and he mentioned that he had gone by the liquor store to "stock up for when we went to his place that night." I took that as my queue to tell him that he could just drop me off at my house. He agreed, and the rest of the drive went by in silence until we were about five blocks from my residence when he turns to me and breaks the silence, saying, "So... you're Jewish?" I blinked at him, surely with an open mouth, and finally said, "&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;What?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;" I had never told him what religion I was. He stammered, "Well, you know... uh, dark hair and, your, uh... big nose.... um. Uh. I guess you're not?" I told him that the next corner was fine, hopped out of the car, and walked the remaining blocks back to my place.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4335872060809512963?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4335872060809512963/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/not-smoothie.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4335872060809512963'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4335872060809512963'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/not-smoothie.html' title='Not a Smoothie'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdoQMK1Rp6I/AAAAAAAAAK0/pZwm5LVrjSc/s72-c/produce.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5178028638909437537</id><published>2009-04-03T08:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-03T09:12:02.853-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Chicago with a Side of Whopper and Fries</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdY0UNYabfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/4Mfwlbq8Gu4/s1600-h/whopper-720573.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdY0UNYabfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/4Mfwlbq8Gu4/s320/whopper-720573.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320497531578904050" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;My first mistake was allowing my parents to set me up on a blind date. The guy picked me up and informed me that we were going to a Chicago concert. I was not that keen on the band but it was a free concert and we had great seats. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It turned out to be a total bust. My boy sat there not clapping, not singing (who doesn't know the words to &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hard to Say to I'm Sorry&lt;/span&gt;?) and definitely not moving, never mind swaying or dancing. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;On the way home, he told me he wanted to grab food and drove up to a Burger King drive-thru. At this point, I was shocked to silence. He ordered his food and then casually asked me if I was hungry. I told him I was "fine." After getting his meal, he drove to his house, got out of the car and made his way inside. I had no choice but to follow him. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He finally wolfed down the Whopper and fries and offered to take me home if I wanted him to. Um yeah! At my front door, he asked me if I wanted to go out again next weekend. I told him no, I didn't want to ever go out with him again. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I heard through the grapevine that he's now married. I wonder how often he and the wife eat at Burger King...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5178028638909437537?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5178028638909437537/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/chicago-with-side-of-whopper-and-fries.html#comment-form' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5178028638909437537'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5178028638909437537'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/chicago-with-side-of-whopper-and-fries.html' title='Chicago with a Side of Whopper and Fries'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdY0UNYabfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/4Mfwlbq8Gu4/s72-c/whopper-720573.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4785038667516776198</id><published>2009-04-02T06:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-02T09:27:15.592-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Un-date Log'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Un-Date Action</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdTX_1vYiaI/AAAAAAAAAKg/inzwzFW6ewU/s1600-h/jager_bomb_2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 293px; height: 318px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdTX_1vYiaI/AAAAAAAAAKg/inzwzFW6ewU/s320/jager_bomb_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320114551588948386" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;While I was grabbing coffee before class, a cute enough, well built guy came up to me. We chatted a little and I gave him my number. He seemed normal enough. He called and we organized to meet up at the grad students' lounge and head to a party the following Wednesday. I don't like house parties but I figured I'd try to be open minded. And birthday parties are always kind of festive, right? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I arrived at the lounge, he was sitting by the fire. Half asleep. Lovely. He woke up and proceeded to pound three beers (to my one glass of white wine) and then insisted we do Jager Bombs. Then he began a monologue about industrial music. For the record, I am a slummy hipster. I don't like industrial.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;After texting incessantly while we sat there for about an hour, he announced that we had to leave for the party NOW. We rushed into a cab and headed off. He stopped at a liquor store, and asked me to pitch in for booze because he was "broke." Perfect. Then, after some detours, we finally found the house (he'd copied the address down wrong). At that point, he realized he did not have enough money to pay for the cab. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I paid and tried to remain optimistic. I realized that we were in an icky part of town that I did not know well but still I was ready to party. We entered the house and there were a grand total of four people there. They were trashed and wanted snacks. So my "date" and the two girls left for the store, leaving me there with the host, who regaled me with tales of his recovery from meth addiction and his former penchant for visiting prostitutes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When the others got back, I escaped to the restroom and texted eight different friends telling them to call me and pretend to be my roommate. My friend A graciously obliged and informed me that our pipes had burst. You see, since she was not good in a crisis, I had to go to her. I got in a cab and got the hell out.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But before I did that my companion for the evening walked me out to the cab. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"Is this a date?" he asked.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"No, it's not," I replied affirmatively.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He proceeded to assure me that he would call again. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My response? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"I wouldn't."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4785038667516776198?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4785038667516776198/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/un-date-action.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4785038667516776198'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4785038667516776198'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/un-date-action.html' title='Un-Date Action'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdTX_1vYiaI/AAAAAAAAAKg/inzwzFW6ewU/s72-c/jager_bomb_2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3919236293616264716</id><published>2009-04-01T08:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-01T08:18:42.386-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Wardrobe Malfunctions'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><title type='text'>Getting Personal</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdOFt6QWQSI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/HUtkbNHuUqw/s1600-h/personal-ads.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdOFt6QWQSI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/HUtkbNHuUqw/s320/personal-ads.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319742608633119010" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;n the mid-90s I was 19, I had just come out of the closet and was taking six weeks of summer school in Ohio and there were very few people on campus. I picked up an alternative free city paper and discovered the personals section in the back. So I brought it back to my dorm and placed one because it was free. A few days later I had a message from this guy and we had a good chat. He was in his early 30s, but I didn’t mind the age difference. Since I didn’t have a car, he offered to pick me up, so I sat outside the student union and this red Toyota Celica pulled up. “Fuck,” I thought to myself as soon as I saw him. He was wearing acid washed tapered jeans, white sneakers and an open buttoned white shirt that revealed a black t-shirt. Oh and he had thick Coke bottle glasses and buckteeth. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Since I was the only person in the area and had told him what I looked like, I couldn’t get out of it. We went into town and I picked a place where no one could see us. He ordered spinach dip, but managed to get it stuck in between his teeth. He snorted while laughing and proceeded to reveal that he was divorced and still lived with his ex-wife who was actually a post-op tranny. He said he married her because she needed a visa and he “really liked trannies.” The sad thing was that he had no clue I was having such a miserable time. He insisted on stopping for an ice cream sundae at Friendly’s before dropping me back at my dorm and I didn't argue because this guy could have easily driven us into the woods and I would have disappeared. He told me he’d love to see me again, but I told him I just didn’t feel a connection. I avoided personal ads from that day on.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun:yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3919236293616264716?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3919236293616264716/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/getting-personal.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3919236293616264716'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3919236293616264716'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/04/getting-personal.html' title='Getting Personal'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdOFt6QWQSI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/HUtkbNHuUqw/s72-c/personal-ads.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3355536953489778115</id><published>2009-03-31T22:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-31T22:47:02.048-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Gives Us Hope'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In: Michael J. Fox and Tracy Pollan</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdL_lbOjJMI/AAAAAAAAAJw/MsjdnP3xAWk/s1600-h/11.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdL_lbOjJMI/AAAAAAAAAJw/MsjdnP3xAWk/s320/11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319595128307000514" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;They met on "Family Ties" and have been married for more than 20 years. She's a little taller, but he ice skates faster. Michael J. Fox's latest book, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.alwayslookingup.com/"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Always Looking Up&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;, reveals candid details of his Hollywood love story with Tracy Pollan, which has survived and thrived since his Parkinson's diagnosis. He describes Tracy as his rock, but then says: "I think what she is is much more special than being a rock. Rocks are rigid and nonyielding and she's very fluid." Tracy says the diagnosis has helped their marriage. "When we were first married, he was so busy working all the time," she explains. "So, in some ways, it's made him a lot more available." &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3355536953489778115?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3355536953489778115/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in-michael-j-fox.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3355536953489778115'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3355536953489778115'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in-michael-j-fox.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In: Michael J. Fox and Tracy Pollan'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdL_lbOjJMI/AAAAAAAAAJw/MsjdnP3xAWk/s72-c/11.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-388566592093806515</id><published>2009-03-31T07:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-31T07:20:57.578-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><title type='text'>Hole in None</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdImhpRtODI/AAAAAAAAAJo/2T8EPcjSj9w/s1600-h/golf1_03.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 307px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdImhpRtODI/AAAAAAAAAJo/2T8EPcjSj9w/s320/golf1_03.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319356469335636018" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;  "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Very shortly after my 17th birthday I had my first real date ever: putt-putting with a boy I’d met from another high school. His mother and her boyfriend came to pick us up, but when we got to the mini-golf, they made it clear they weren’t going anywhere. So my first date, ever, was a double-date with my date’s mother and her boyfriend. Apparently, she didn’t trust her son to behave himself alone with a girl. Once we started to play I accidentally hit my date in the knee once with the ball, and once right in the gonads with the club on a mis-aimed backswing. Then we went to an adjacent restaurant for the standard burgers and fries fare. The thing was, the boy I was with didn’t have enough money to pay for his own food, much less mine. And his mother wouldn’t give him any. I wound up paying for the two of us, even though he’d been the one to ask me out. I naively kept dating him that summer, but before September I dumped him. He called my house two weeks later; my mother told him I wasn’t home. He told her he’d accidentally cut off a finger in woodshop class.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-388566592093806515?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/388566592093806515/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/hole-in-none.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/388566592093806515'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/388566592093806515'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/hole-in-none.html' title='Hole in None'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdImhpRtODI/AAAAAAAAAJo/2T8EPcjSj9w/s72-c/golf1_03.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5792118708198823413</id><published>2009-03-30T06:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-30T07:06:48.995-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Stairway to Hell</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdDOi_uTobI/AAAAAAAAAJg/MmBkxFaPyqI/s1600-h/interiors-double-radius-stairway-rising-volutes_lg.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdDOi_uTobI/AAAAAAAAAJg/MmBkxFaPyqI/s320/interiors-double-radius-stairway-rising-volutes_lg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318978260541088178" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;When I was a freshman at college, I went on a date with a lovely guy, who happened to be a senior, which was a huge deal to me then. After dinner at the local pizza joint, we stopped at his place to pick up something he'd forgotten before heading to his fraternity party. Somewhere on the way down the three flights of stairs that lead to his apartment, I slipped. It was March in Colorado so there was black ice everywhere but of course I didn't see any on the step.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Now when I say I fell down the stairs, I didn't just trip. I full on tumbled. It was like a scene out of an action movie, but to me it felt like everything was happening in slow motion. I could see him (ahead of me) trying to catch me but it was too late. Before I knew it, I was lying in a clump at the bottom of the stairs. I'm not sure what hurt more, my hip or my pride. I can't really explain the pain because I was numb with embarrassment. I immediately popped up and laughed it off while desperately holding back the tears.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He asked if I wanted to go to the ER but I brushed it off, saying I was O.K. As we walked to the party, which seemed like 100 miles away but was only a three-block distance, I felt my right hip throbbing with pain. By the time we got there, I was in so much pain that I could hardly walk. I excused myself and had a friend walk me home. When I got to my dorm room and peeled off my pants, I found a bump the size of a grapefruit on my hip! My friend took me to the ER, where I found that I did not break anything but would need physical therapy for a month.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I nursed a huge bruise on my leg and couldn't sleep on my right side for months. I don't know what happened to my date since I never saw him again. I am sure he's told the story of the poor girl who fell down the stairs on the first date many times. It still hurts a little bit just thinking about it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5792118708198823413?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5792118708198823413/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/when-i-was-freshman-at-college-i-went.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5792118708198823413'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5792118708198823413'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/when-i-was-freshman-at-college-i-went.html' title='Stairway to Hell'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SdDOi_uTobI/AAAAAAAAAJg/MmBkxFaPyqI/s72-c/interiors-double-radius-stairway-rising-volutes_lg.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4307336937979944154</id><published>2009-03-26T08:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-26T09:14:46.434-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>If You Can't Take The Heat...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScupeWbNjAI/AAAAAAAAAJY/5iI-1Uy-mCM/s1600-h/CD602+SS+Oven.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScupeWbNjAI/AAAAAAAAAJY/5iI-1Uy-mCM/s320/CD602+SS+Oven.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317530123921886210" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;After several successful dates, I offered to cook dinner for a lawyer I was seeing. As I thought he was &lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;quite a catch, I desperately wanted to impress him, so I researched recipes and decided on a salmon dish. On the day of the date, I lovingly seasoned and prepared the salmon for roasting at his apartment. I felt quite confident that my cooking skills would seal the deal as far as our budding relationship was concerned. I arrived to find his kitchen in a bit a mess. I cleaned up a little, popped the fish in the oven and proceeded to join him in the living room for a glass of wine.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We were in deep conversation when we noted a funny smell filtering into the room. It was coming from the kitchen. When we entered it, it was full of smoke. Not just wisps escaping from the burnt salmon, but actual plumes of smoke, which had us gasping for breath. The oven was on fire! The fire extinguisher was not going to cut it so he called the fire department. As he did so, I anxiously envisioned the entire structure - it was one of those tightly packed New York apartment buildings - burning to the ground, thanks to my culinary efforts. They arrived in minutes, providing me with a small degree of relief. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;However, after they put the flames out, they proceeded had to tear down the walls of his kitchen to make sure there was no unseen electrical fire. Being the lawyer that he was, my date began snapping pictures of the damage to document it for his landlord. It turned out there had been some oil left in the oven, which was what likely caused the fire. It was totally my fault, but the firemen looked at my date with an expression that said: get rid of this girl!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My date was quite the gentlemen about the whole fiasco. After the firemen left, he even asked what we should do with the rest of the evening. Utterly mortified that I'd just burnt his kitchen to the ground, I said it was probably time for me to call it a night. Neither of us called each other again. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4307336937979944154?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4307336937979944154/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/if-you-cant-take-heat.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4307336937979944154'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4307336937979944154'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/if-you-cant-take-heat.html' title='If You Can&apos;t Take The Heat...'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScupeWbNjAI/AAAAAAAAAJY/5iI-1Uy-mCM/s72-c/CD602+SS+Oven.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6254591016432171696</id><published>2009-03-25T08:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-25T08:40:54.061-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Wardrobe Malfunctions'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>You Spin Me Right Round</title><content type='html'>&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScpQHeMQ4PI/AAAAAAAAAJI/mKh_vXqD91Q/s320/Zipper.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317150399358099698" /&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 3px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 3px; "&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScpQHeMQ4PI/AAAAAAAAAJI/mKh_vXqD91Q/s1600-h/Zipper.jpg"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"&gt;My Very Worst Date happened one summer at Myrtle Beach. My date took me for &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; "&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScpQHeMQ4PI/AAAAAAAAAJI/mKh_vXqD91Q/s1600-h/Zipper.jpg"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"&gt;dinner and then we went with two of our friends, who were also on a date, to the rides at the amusement park. We decided to go on this ride that I had never been on before. I was looking nice in my all-white outfit and my date looked great. So the ride starts, spinning up and spinning down, and after a few seconds I turned to my date.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 3px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 3px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;“I think we better stop this ride I think I am going to be sick,” I said.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 3px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 3px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;“Just hang on you’ll be okay,” he replied.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 3px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 3px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;We kept spinning and I knew I was going to lose it. And by it I mean the dinner &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;we just had. After I hurled on the ride, my white outfit now had colorful spots and my date now matched me. Finally our yells and pleas to stop the ride worked and we got off, but we were all a mess. My girlfriend and I raced to the ladies room to try to clean up and the guys did the same. But when we came out and they were gone. We never saw either of those two guys again and I can’t say I blame them. The moral of the story? Do not mix food with an amusement park ride and white outfits on a first date. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;blockquote type="cite"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"   style="  -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 3px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 3px; font-family:Geneva;font-size:12px;"&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6254591016432171696?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6254591016432171696/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/you-spin-me-right-round.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6254591016432171696'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6254591016432171696'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/you-spin-me-right-round.html' title='You Spin Me Right Round'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScpQHeMQ4PI/AAAAAAAAAJI/mKh_vXqD91Q/s72-c/Zipper.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-100325508767720707</id><published>2009-03-24T07:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-24T08:45:08.308-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Last Night The DJ Saved</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Scj1FIOYDGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/BO06VE4lD5o/s1600-h/vinyl-record-dj.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Scj1FIOYDGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/BO06VE4lD5o/s320/vinyl-record-dj.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316768828566801506" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I had fancied this really hot, hipster DJ who played at a bar in downtown New York for ages. We were friends of friends and had spent months outrageously flirting with each other. Finally, one night at the said bar, he grabbed me and asked me to come home with him. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Since he lived in deepest Brooklyn, I invited him to my place instead as I lived just over the bridge in Williamsburg. I suggested we get a cab back there but his option was the train. I offered to pay the fare (about $15) but he countered by saying that the subway would be "more fun."&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Unfortunately for our night of passion, the L train was running on a shorter route so we had to get off and take a shuttle bus to my usual stop. A journey that should have taken 20 minutes max prolonged into a one and a half hour voyage during which he yapped incessantly and revealed that his intellect did not quite match up to his looks. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We got home well after 3 a.m. and I immediately put my pajamas on, yawned and said I was going to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at 6 a.m., mostly due to my discomfort at having him in my bed. When he got up and tried to be seductive and charming, I told him I had to work. After all, I have pay for those late-night cab rides somehow! I didn't say that of course though I wish I did. He left soon after. &lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-100325508767720707?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/100325508767720707/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/last-night-dj-saved.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/100325508767720707'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/100325508767720707'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/last-night-dj-saved.html' title='Last Night The DJ Saved'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Scj1FIOYDGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/BO06VE4lD5o/s72-c/vinyl-record-dj.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4418204950817128689</id><published>2009-03-23T08:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-23T09:38:17.262-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><title type='text'>Two Drink Minimum</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScenDq3PE9I/AAAAAAAAAI4/zA3qaEL049E/s1600-h/3mic.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScenDq3PE9I/AAAAAAAAAI4/zA3qaEL049E/s320/3mic.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316401566621570002" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"   style="border-collapse: collapse;   font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I was out visiting a friend in Los Angeles and met this guy. We stayed in touch with each other and he decided to fly out to visit me in New York, which was also where his sister lived. He asked if I would mind if his sister came with us on our first official date, since we would be spending the other evenings of his visit alone together. I agreed and of course I wanted to meet her, even though I was a little scared of her, since she sounded like a real no nonsense kind of chick. We went to dinner and I only ordered a salad. Even though I normally love to eat, I wanted to appear dainty and feminine, so I was fine with just a few small bites of food. Big mistake. They were pounding drinks and I joined in even though I’m a total lightweight. By the time we got to a comedy club I was hammered. I literally passed out at our table and began snoring away on my date’s shoulder. Apparently the comedian even started making fun of him. After being woken up I headed outside where I proceeded to barf in the street. His sister managed to call their mom and tell her all about me and the evening. I was mortified. Miraculously he wasn’t upset and still liked me because now he’s my boyfriend.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4418204950817128689?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4418204950817128689/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/two-drink-minimum.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4418204950817128689'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4418204950817128689'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/two-drink-minimum.html' title='Two Drink Minimum'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScenDq3PE9I/AAAAAAAAAI4/zA3qaEL049E/s72-c/3mic.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-7127647400356544134</id><published>2009-03-20T13:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-23T09:40:13.355-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love and Marriage'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In: RIP</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScQFXef561I/AAAAAAAAAIw/X4t5ziD78nE/s1600-h/amd_liam.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScQFXef561I/AAAAAAAAAIw/X4t5ziD78nE/s320/amd_liam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315379361086040914" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Like everyone, we at MVWD have been shocked at how Natasha Richardson died suddenly after a ski accident this week. The reports that her mother and legendary actor, &lt;a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/celebritynews/5020513/Vanessa-Redgrave-sang-a-lullaby-to-dying-Natasha-Richardson.html"&gt;Vanessa Redgrave sang her &lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/celebritynews/5020513/Vanessa-Redgrave-sang-a-lullaby-to-dying-Natasha-Richardson.html"&gt;The &lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/celebritynews/5020513/Vanessa-Redgrave-sang-a-lullaby-to-dying-Natasha-Richardson.html"&gt;Sound of Music&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/celebritynews/5020513/Vanessa-Redgrave-sang-a-lullaby-to-dying-Natasha-Richardson.html"&gt; tune&lt;/a&gt;, &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Edelweiss,&lt;/span&gt; before the life support machine was turned off, was especially touching. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;It was the song that Redgrave performed at her daughter's first wedding to producer, Robert Fox. The bride wore a pantsuit with a down-to-navel cleavage (according to &lt;a href="http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/the_awful_truth/b105045_Natasha_Richardson_Remembered.html"&gt;Ted Casablanca at E!&lt;/a&gt;) to that wedding but the alliance fell apart when she met the strapping Liam Neeson on Broadway in the early 1990s. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The two got together and Richardson apparently tamed the player in Neeson. "I am pleased that women fall in love with him," she said, according to the&lt;a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/gossip/2009/03/18/2009-03-18_natasha_richardson_and_liam_neesons_magi.html"&gt; NY Daily News,&lt;/a&gt; "because I know why." We can't help but love that cool observation. The two married in upstate New York and went on to have two kids. It is devastatingly sad that Neeson now has to reprise the widower role he played in the 2003 Richard Curtis romantic comedy, &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.loveactually.com/"&gt;Love Actually&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/span&gt;in real life.&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-7127647400356544134?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/7127647400356544134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in-rip.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7127647400356544134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7127647400356544134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in-rip.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In: RIP'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScQFXef561I/AAAAAAAAAIw/X4t5ziD78nE/s72-c/amd_liam.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2077748845960461952</id><published>2009-03-20T09:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T10:51:14.964-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><title type='text'>Hock Shop for Tokens of Love Lost</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScPJIX7JulI/AAAAAAAAAIo/6IVy78MVTNs/s1600-h/pawnshop.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 251px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScPJIX7JulI/AAAAAAAAAIo/6IVy78MVTNs/s320/pawnshop.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315313130925570642" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;You don't need to be reminded that we live in tough, tough economic times. And you probably don't want to recall that ex-boyfriend of yours. But reconsider, especially if he left a trail of gifts behind. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;You no longer wear or want that wedding ring/iPod/Coach bag in the back of your closet but you've yet to cast it away for good. Enter the eBay for break-up purging: &lt;a href="http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/"&gt;Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry&lt;/a&gt;, the site that allows you to flog now-unwanted tokens of love for comforting, cold hard cash. All you have to do is post an image of the item (which can include 'Gifts that should have been jewelry'), provide the back story (we like the &lt;a href="http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/index.php?option=com_marketplace&amp;amp;page=show_ad&amp;amp;catid=11&amp;amp;adid=15366&amp;amp;Itemid=26"&gt;one from the girl who's selling a dress&lt;/a&gt; for a date that never happened with a former beau who used her money to buy weed) and a short description of the item. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry is useful for profitably getting rid of old baggage but it's also handy for picking up some bargains. Perhaps the &lt;a href="http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/index.php?option=com_marketplace&amp;amp;page=show_ad&amp;amp;catid=12&amp;amp;adid=13684&amp;amp;Itemid=26"&gt;Tiffany's sterling silver money clip&lt;/a&gt; ($50) to stash all dollars you've made from your heartbreak?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2077748845960461952?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2077748845960461952/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/hock-shop-for-tokens-of-love-lost.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2077748845960461952'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2077748845960461952'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/hock-shop-for-tokens-of-love-lost.html' title='Hock Shop for Tokens of Love Lost'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScPJIX7JulI/AAAAAAAAAIo/6IVy78MVTNs/s72-c/pawnshop.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5804382335430063535</id><published>2009-03-19T09:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-19T11:42:00.815-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Love 'Em and Leave 'Em</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScKR8qpUB_I/AAAAAAAAAIg/obHTxwghDPU/s1600-h/Curb+Address+Pic+3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScKR8qpUB_I/AAAAAAAAAIg/obHTxwghDPU/s320/Curb+Address+Pic+3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314970981676353522" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met this cute guy at a bar and he hung out with my friends and I for the rest of the night. I ended up drunk and back at his one-bedroom bachelor pad where we did some high school-style making out. The decor at his apartment consisted of t-shirts with silly sayings that were pinned to the walls. After a few more kisses we ended up just falling asleep. When I woke up I called my friend. I was concerned because my friend had a fight with her girlfriend the night before and I spent a few minutes consoling her before asking her to pick me up. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You're leaving?" he asked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah. You know I'm the love 'em and leave 'em type," I joked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That set him off. He proceeded to start yelling at me, saying that I put my friends first and didn't have a backbone of my own. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I thought we were getting along great and really have something here," he pleaded. "You really are just the love 'em and leave 'em type!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I was gathering my belongings he stormed into his bathroom, slammed the door and told me I could wait on the curb. I happily obliged and waited for my ride outside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He then tracked me down through MySpace and sent me a note recapping the entire evening and morning, again referring to me as the "love 'em and leave 'em" type.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5804382335430063535?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5804382335430063535/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/love-em-and-leave-em.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5804382335430063535'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5804382335430063535'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/love-em-and-leave-em.html' title='Love &apos;Em and Leave &apos;Em'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScKR8qpUB_I/AAAAAAAAAIg/obHTxwghDPU/s72-c/Curb+Address+Pic+3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3222052210067919469</id><published>2009-03-19T07:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-19T09:58:18.698-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>What the Frock?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScJaM2P6_nI/AAAAAAAAAIY/h9iaCCXd0z0/s1600-h/Kenley-project-runway-1853681-280-425.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScJaM2P6_nI/AAAAAAAAAIY/h9iaCCXd0z0/s320/Kenley-project-runway-1853681-280-425.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314909687017832050" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Remember Kenley from last season's "Project Runway?" She seemed a little crazy on the show, but we never expected this! Turns out that the designer we all loved to hate &lt;a href="http://www.newsday.com/iphone/ny-bc-ny--people-kenleycoll0319mar19,0,3932426.story"&gt;was arrested in her Brooklyn home&lt;/a&gt; on Tuesday morning after assaulting her sleeping ex-fiance with everything from a laptop and apples to water and -- wait for it -- her cat! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;According to court documents Collins told her ex-fiance, Zac Penley, "You're lucky … it could've been a lot worse." Kenley was promptly arrested and charged with 2nd degree assault, 3rd degree assault and criminal possession of a weapon in the 4th degree.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The "Runway" finalist's comment upon being released from jail on Tuesday morning?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It was a miscommunication."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're pretty sure Mr. Penley would call it something else. Ladies, violence is never the answer.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3222052210067919469?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3222052210067919469/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/what-frock.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3222052210067919469'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3222052210067919469'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/what-frock.html' title='What the Frock?'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScJaM2P6_nI/AAAAAAAAAIY/h9iaCCXd0z0/s72-c/Kenley-project-runway-1853681-280-425.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3974706684348501091</id><published>2009-03-18T17:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-18T17:17:26.752-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>I Ain't Saying She a Golddigger</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScGPEAq8n_I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/7kLHsk-MBNY/s1600-h/FineDiningStillwater-large.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScGPEAq8n_I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/7kLHsk-MBNY/s320/FineDiningStillwater-large.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314686334336278514" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met a nice and attractive girl at a bar so I asked her out. She told me there was this restaurant she was dying to try so I made reservations for Friday night. The dinner was good, but very expensive. I figured that on the second date we would go somewhere more casual. But she suggested another fancy place. I obliged, but I was determined to go somewhere cheap if it continued beyond the second date. We had great conversation and I was definitely interested in dating her because she was smart, beautiful and well traveled. When I asked her out for date number three I suggested we go bowling. She sighed and said she really wanted to try this new hot spot she read about. She agreed to bowling, but proceeded to pout throughout the date. I asked her what was wrong and she explained that dating was the only way she ever got to try these upscale restaurants since she was fired from her job six  months prior. She said she really missed her old lifestyle. I flat out asked her if she had any interest in me beyond my ability to take her to dinner and she shrugged her shoulders. I gave her ten bucks for a taxi and walked out.   &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3974706684348501091?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3974706684348501091/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-aint-saying-she-golddigger.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3974706684348501091'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3974706684348501091'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-aint-saying-she-golddigger.html' title='I Ain&apos;t Saying She a Golddigger'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScGPEAq8n_I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/7kLHsk-MBNY/s72-c/FineDiningStillwater-large.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3066133074747887447</id><published>2009-03-18T12:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-18T12:30:33.931-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>Sake To Me</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScFIxg1RekI/AAAAAAAAAII/u2yPlCvu42A/s1600-h/redballoon.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScFIxg1RekI/AAAAAAAAAII/u2yPlCvu42A/s320/redballoon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314609050738063938" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hit it off with a great guy who I met at a bar when I was cocktail waitressing. He took me to a local sushi joint and I guess I became quiet because of nerves or something. Frustrated, he picked up a conversation with the two women on my other side. I thought, 'I have got to loosen up here,' but instead proceeded to get drunk on sake. After dinner we went to his house and he asked me if I would like some Champagne and next thing I know I wake up on his couch around 4:00 am. "Hello?" I asked. He comes out of his room and tells me that I passed out so he left me on the couch. Embarrassed, I decide to make it up to him and bring him a bouquet of balloons later that day. I made it to his place, but heard about three or four of the balloons pop thanks to the cottage cheese ceiling in the hallway. He was not home so I wrapped the attached ribbons to the door handle with the card.  Before I could tie them in a knot, I lost a few more. We never recaptured the magic of the first night we met. Of course, I kept running into him after that, which is almost unheard of in Los Angeles.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3066133074747887447?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3066133074747887447/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/sake-to-me.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3066133074747887447'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3066133074747887447'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/sake-to-me.html' title='Sake To Me'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/ScFIxg1RekI/AAAAAAAAAII/u2yPlCvu42A/s72-c/redballoon.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3010800140687980833</id><published>2009-03-17T07:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-17T07:30:00.432-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><title type='text'>The World's Worst Pick-Up Lines</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb-zCZbz5DI/AAAAAAAAAIA/I6MniGw_gMc/s1600-h/shapeimage_4.png"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb-zCZbz5DI/AAAAAAAAAIA/I6MniGw_gMc/s320/shapeimage_4.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314162939089118258" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.honeymoonwithmybrother.com"&gt;Honeymoon With My Brother &lt;/a&gt;author and friend of MVWD Franz Wisner is at it again with his new book &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.howtheworldmakeslove.com"&gt;How The World Makes Love&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; (St. Martin's Press), out today. Here's a short list excerpt from the book:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The World's Worst Pick-Up Lines&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Don't I know you from a past life? INDIA&lt;br /&gt;2. What's a nice place like this doing around a woman like you? CZECH REPUBLIC&lt;br /&gt;3. I would love to be a farmer and you to be my soil. Our crop would be bananas. NICARAGUA&lt;br /&gt;4. At what time does a hurain like you need to be back in heaven? EGYPT&lt;br /&gt;5. You are smelling very nice to me. BOTSWANA&lt;br /&gt;6. Let's have cafezinho. I can call you or nudge you. BRAZIL&lt;br /&gt;7. My parents already have engaged us to be married. They just forgot to tell you. INDIA&lt;br /&gt;8. How would you like your breakfast eggs, scrambled or fertilized? NEW ZEALAND&lt;br /&gt;9. So, you like music? LOS ANGELES&lt;br /&gt;10. Does your backside want my phone number? BRAZIL&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What are your worst pickup lines, abroad or local?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3010800140687980833?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3010800140687980833/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/worlds-worst-pick-up-lines.html#comment-form' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3010800140687980833'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3010800140687980833'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/worlds-worst-pick-up-lines.html' title='The World&apos;s Worst Pick-Up Lines'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb-zCZbz5DI/AAAAAAAAAIA/I6MniGw_gMc/s72-c/shapeimage_4.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2790596581576852246</id><published>2009-03-16T06:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-16T09:08:07.824-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Little Lie</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb5cy_cw7sI/AAAAAAAAAH4/9lPevOwJNik/s1600-h/2006-02-18.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb5cy_cw7sI/AAAAAAAAAH4/9lPevOwJNik/s320/2006-02-18.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313786641439059650" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I once went on a date with a woman I met online. Her profile on the dating site said she was 'petite.' Her headshot photo looked great so I was excited to finally connect in person. When I arrived at the assigned bar to meet her, she turned out to be a 'little person' (or a midget in more commonly-used parlance). The misrepresentation was a shock, which made it my very worst date. I have nothing against people of small stature but I do have a problem with people pretending to be five feet tall when they are less than four feet high. Talk about stretching the truth! &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2790596581576852246?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2790596581576852246/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/little-lie.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2790596581576852246'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2790596581576852246'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/little-lie.html' title='Little Lie'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sb5cy_cw7sI/AAAAAAAAAH4/9lPevOwJNik/s72-c/2006-02-18.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6304295492608722547</id><published>2009-03-12T08:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-24T08:45:32.482-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Teenage Tale</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbkqK2Mmh5I/AAAAAAAAAHw/cJ3jK4n2xXM/s1600-h/DSC_9355.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbkqK2Mmh5I/AAAAAAAAAHw/cJ3jK4n2xXM/s320/DSC_9355.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312323601295640466" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I was 15 and had spent the second half the night making out with my first bona fide boyfriend on his basement couch (the first half being spent at dinner and a movie). In between swapping spit, we were swigging shots of Jose Cuervo. I was obliterated. I stumbled into the bathroom at one point and tripped over an area rug. As my entire body pitched forward toward the sink, I caught a glimpse of my long hair suspended straight up in the air. My mouth, which was about to be a canal for projectile vomit, connected with the rim of the sink. Gonk. When I stood up, bleary-eyed, my two front teeth were broken in half. Like a West Virginia meth addict's. I panicked--but only slightly. Then I puked. I walked out and showed my boyfriend my jagged smile ("loooooook!"), already crying. He had been fixing something on his drum set. He started crying immediately, saying, "You're gonna hate me!" Then he bent over the skeleton of his drum set, bared his front teeth, and smashed his face into the metal. Gonk. Half his two front teeth were gone. Now that's love.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6304295492608722547?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6304295492608722547/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/tkktkttk.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6304295492608722547'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6304295492608722547'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/tkktkttk.html' title='Teenage Tale'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbkqK2Mmh5I/AAAAAAAAAHw/cJ3jK4n2xXM/s72-c/DSC_9355.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3977325341292354822</id><published>2009-03-11T08:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-11T09:03:39.019-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Gives Us Hope'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbfgoiC1YUI/AAAAAAAAAHY/SISM3ctqAbw/s1600-h/002625621687.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbfgoiC1YUI/AAAAAAAAAHY/SISM3ctqAbw/s320/002625621687.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311961272444870978" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Married for nearly two decades, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.thebiographychannel.co.uk/biography_home/1034:0/Tom_Hanks_Rita_Wilson.htm"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; are one of those Hollywood power couples who don't show up on TMZ, fighting in parking lots or having indiscretions at nightclubs. Hanks is busy acting, directing, collecting $20 million-plus paychecks and being an all-around nice guy, while Wilson has been producing hits like "Mamma Mia!" and "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" and raising needed funds for EIF's Women's Cancer Research Fund. They just seem damn happy to be around each other and we like that. Perhaps it's the &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/200802_omag_long_marriage"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;advice Wilson was given&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; by her real-life Greek mother that has kept this bond going strong.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3977325341292354822?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3977325341292354822/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3977325341292354822'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3977325341292354822'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/couple-we-can-believe-in.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbfgoiC1YUI/AAAAAAAAAHY/SISM3ctqAbw/s72-c/002625621687.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4903982980281987808</id><published>2009-03-09T07:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-09T08:03:11.435-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>The Love Doctor</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbUvjGsW4EI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/zcZtwXKd15g/s1600-h/love_doctor_500.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbUvjGsW4EI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/zcZtwXKd15g/s320/love_doctor_500.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311203615691956290" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="border-collapse: collapse;  font-family:'Times New Roman';"&gt;&lt;p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; "&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;was excited to go out on my third date with a dreamy doctor.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;We were having a good time when the table two down from us told the table of girls next to us to lower their voices and that they were being offensive. The girls were being obnoxious and almost started a fight.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;They turned to us, asking if we thought they were loud. We said no, they were “fine,” trying to be polite. We all started to engage in small talk, but before I knew it, the girl next to me was deep in conversation with my date, ignoring everyone else around.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;“Oh where do you live?... Where do you work? Oh wow, my shoulder hurts, doc! Maybe I could see you!” Pretty soon they were the only ones talking and then they exchanged numbers right in front of me! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;At some point during the crazy evening, he also informed me that he had on leopard print tighty whities with monkeys on them. Great times. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I guess the moral of the story is, just because you’re a dreamy doctor, doesn’t mean you can’t also be a douche.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; "&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4903982980281987808?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4903982980281987808/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/love-doctor.html#comment-form' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4903982980281987808'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4903982980281987808'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/love-doctor.html' title='The Love Doctor'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SbUvjGsW4EI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/zcZtwXKd15g/s72-c/love_doctor_500.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-3779301145705794440</id><published>2009-03-05T08:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-16T14:12:34.568-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><title type='text'>This Is Your Brain On Love</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa__NTZMgNI/AAAAAAAAAHI/MpQXix7CWCM/s1600-h/albert-einstein.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa__NTZMgNI/AAAAAAAAAHI/MpQXix7CWCM/s320/albert-einstein.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309743089702437074" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Dr. Alex Benzer, author of &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Tao of Dating&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;, has a op-ed piece on &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-alex-benzer/why-the-smartest-people-h_b_169939.html"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;The Huffington Post&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:medium;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; that claims dating is harder for smart people. He makes an intereresting case (smart people spend more time on achievements than relationships for example), but can't you be smart, attractive, interesting, and very dateable? And if so please head this way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He goes on to give some good tips on opening up to the world, whether you're in the top 5% of intelligence or not:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"The purpose of relationship (and perhaps all of life) is to practice the loving. No partner is going to be 100% perfect anyway, so learn to appreciate people for what they have to offer, not what they don't. And love them for that. That's what real loving is."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-3779301145705794440?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/3779301145705794440/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/this-is-your-brain-on-love.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3779301145705794440'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/3779301145705794440'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/this-is-your-brain-on-love.html' title='This Is Your Brain On Love'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa__NTZMgNI/AAAAAAAAAHI/MpQXix7CWCM/s72-c/albert-einstein.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-133079624539513991</id><published>2009-03-03T08:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-03T09:05:55.172-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Punched Out</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa1exDfTtgI/AAAAAAAAAHA/CYeqqh2tYGM/s1600-h/FE_DA_080225dental_wisdom.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa1exDfTtgI/AAAAAAAAAHA/CYeqqh2tYGM/s320/FE_DA_080225dental_wisdom.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309003732582905346" /&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:medium;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;I took about a week off work to recover from my wisdom tooth operation but found that I was chipper enough to go out that same evening and decided to head out to the local gay club with my friends. Armed with a few shots of Jager and the not-so-necessary pain medication, I was unstoppable and looking mighty fine. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My roommate, who's quite the wing man, spotted a cute and very drunk guy at the bar and proceed to grab his ass and point at me when the looked for the culprit. I took over and began to chat to the young man, who was visiting from Texas. We then hit the dance floor and started to make out. And by make out, I mean he tried to head butt me with his teeth. I thought it was a drunk party foul and tried again to no avail. The guy enjoyed the teeth bashing! I tried to get away but my friends pushed me back, scolding me for never giving guys a chance. Finally, because I was high as a kite, I decided to take him home with me. When we got home, he proceeded to strip completely in front of my roommate and pass out. I was ready to call it a night anyway since my face hurt so much. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When we woke up in the morning, we started making out. This time, it was less violent because he was laying down and had less momentum to head butt. But then he started to substitute the foreplay with punching. Now I am a non-violent individual but a boy's gotta to defend himself so I played along with what he considered "hot" until he got this look in his eyes. He then proceeded to jump up and stumble into the bathroom where he burst into projectile vomiting. That was the end of that. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-133079624539513991?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/133079624539513991/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/punched-out.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/133079624539513991'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/133079624539513991'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/punched-out.html' title='Punched Out'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Sa1exDfTtgI/AAAAAAAAAHA/CYeqqh2tYGM/s72-c/FE_DA_080225dental_wisdom.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5114361801262230700</id><published>2009-03-03T07:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:02:26.532-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>The Anti (Speed) Date</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/images/union_jack_400.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/images/union_jack_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Here's an antidote for those who hate the dating dance: speeding hating. On the other side of the pond, Brits, who've never really cottoned on to the dating idea (preferring instead to get slaughtered on Stella and pull whomever they fancy and close the deal by taking them home), are enjoying this new trend, which the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.mirror.co.uk/life-style/sex-health/sex-and-relationships/2009/02/14/if-all-that-valentine-s-day-romance-makes-you-want-to-scream-let-off-steam-with-speed-hating-115875-21121705/"&gt;The Mirror&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; bills as: &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;div&gt;"... the second-cousing-twice-removed of the more conventional speed dating. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But instead of having three minutes to impress the opposite sex with your painted-on smiles and zest for life this is a night dedicated to grumbling, misery and despair."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We think this fits with the whole Brit self-deprecating persona. And there is a lot to bitch about in these economic times so why not just get it out there on the first encounter? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5114361801262230700?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5114361801262230700/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/anti-speed-date.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5114361801262230700'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5114361801262230700'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/anti-speed-date.html' title='The Anti (Speed) Date'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-8017056974371851702</id><published>2009-03-02T07:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-02T08:00:19.001-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Heavy Subject</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SawCMTftm9I/AAAAAAAAAG4/e3SGBCKjKxw/s1600-h/victoria-picnic.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SawCMTftm9I/AAAAAAAAAG4/e3SGBCKjKxw/s320/victoria-picnic.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308620471177944018" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"   style="border-collapse: collapse;   font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I joined JDate hoping to have fun and live a little after my recent recovery from an eating disorder. Since I’m a culinary school grad, the guy I was chatting with suggested we go for a picnic and bring dishes to share. When I met him, he broke out an array of foods from a large lunch bag. As we got to know each other, I  told him about my exercise addiction and eating disorder recovery. He then went on about another JDate he had with a girl who he described as being unbelievably articulate, which he said turned him on. I asked why I was on this date instead of being with her. He said she was on the “heavy side” and that it represented “excess,” “laziness” and someone who is “out of control." I couldn’t believe he was telling me this after he knew I had a rough battle putting on weight after being plagued by the obsession about being thin. To top it off, he asked if I wanted to join him for a run sometime. It’s like he was offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-8017056974371851702?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/8017056974371851702/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-joined-jdate-hoping-to-have-fun-and.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8017056974371851702'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8017056974371851702'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-joined-jdate-hoping-to-have-fun-and.html' title='Heavy Subject'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SawCMTftm9I/AAAAAAAAAG4/e3SGBCKjKxw/s72-c/victoria-picnic.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6670331113404451567</id><published>2009-03-01T08:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T16:57:20.912-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Taking Him Back?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Saq6TBn9VeI/AAAAAAAAAGw/QCs3sk9CAFE/s1600-h/rihannachrisparty020909_01.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Saq6TBn9VeI/AAAAAAAAAGw/QCs3sk9CAFE/s320/rihannachrisparty020909_01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308259946825864674" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;This doesn't come as a complete shock to us here at My Very Worst Date, but &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.people.com/"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;People&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; is reporting that Rihanna and Chris Brown are "definitely together." The reconciliation is in effect at Sean "Diddy" Combs' house on Miami Beach's Star Island. How apropos. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;From &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20262262,00.html"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;People&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;: &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;"They are definitely together and care a great deal about each other," says a Miami source. "They feel like staying in and working through their issues. So far they have not wanted to go out." Brown, however, did venture out earlier on his own. On Thursday he hit the water to Jet Ski with pals. Rihanna and Brown's reconciliation comes nearly three weeks after Brown, 19, the alleged battered the "Umbrella" singer on Feb. 8.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;What does this mean for Rihanna's career? Will people still embrace the singer if she takes back the guy who &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.tmz.com/2009/02/22/rihanna-photo-face-beating/"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;beat her in the face&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;? What does it mean for her millions of fans who are impressionable young girls? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6670331113404451567?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6670331113404451567/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/taking-him-back.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6670331113404451567'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6670331113404451567'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/03/taking-him-back.html' title='Taking Him Back?'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/Saq6TBn9VeI/AAAAAAAAAGw/QCs3sk9CAFE/s72-c/rihannachrisparty020909_01.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2677805283160392969</id><published>2009-02-26T13:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-26T14:05:24.534-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Flipping Not Allowed</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SacQzpkbCLI/AAAAAAAAAGo/nTtlt6x_78c/s1600-h/grilled-meat.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SacQzpkbCLI/AAAAAAAAAGo/nTtlt6x_78c/s320/grilled-meat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307229165397412018" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;I had been dating this amazing guy for a month or so. Our whirlwind romance had me falling madly in love. One night, he invited me over for a BBQ but my mother was visiting. He insisted I bring her along, which I did. He was super-excited when we arrived and tried hard to impress her. When he took a break from the grill to grab something from the house, I decided flip to the meat on the BBQ. He came back and screamed at me: "What are you doing! You are so controlling! Why can't you let me be the host!" Then, he stormed off, leaving us speechless. I went to look for him and found him curled in a fetal position staring into the void in his bedroom. I could not get a response for him so I went back to my mother. We sat there and wondering what to do. I was sad, disturbed but also amused, especially when we decided to eat some of the meat since we were starving. The next day, he called apologetically and said he should not have been drinking while on his medication. Needless to say I had no idea he was on meds. I guess the paranoid behavior should have tipped me off - he kept a samurai sword under the seat of his car and had a panic button installed in his bedroom. If my mother had not been there, I might have rationalized this and forgiven him. But because she was, there was no going back. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2677805283160392969?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2677805283160392969/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/flipping-not-allowed.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2677805283160392969'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2677805283160392969'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/flipping-not-allowed.html' title='Flipping Not Allowed'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SacQzpkbCLI/AAAAAAAAAGo/nTtlt6x_78c/s72-c/grilled-meat.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-7389909926854668023</id><published>2009-02-24T16:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:02:47.311-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Wardrobe Malfunctions'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='But Seriously...'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><title type='text'>Marriage à la Mode</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://nymag.com/images/2/daily/fashion/08/04/15_idcrossdress1_lgl.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 356px;" src="http://nymag.com/images/2/daily/fashion/08/04/15_idcrossdress1_lgl.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;After yesterday's fashion dating hilarity, we sobered up a bit when we read about how dress preferences can kill a relationship in Mariella Frostrup's agony aunt column in &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Observe&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;r&lt;/span&gt;. Mariella, a reformed party girl, Friend of George Clooney and serious literary journalist, is our kind of agony aunt. Her stunning resume and late-but-extremely-happy coupled up status are some of the reasons we heart her. Then, there's her wisdom and attempts at empathy. Here's what she said to the cross-dressing husband who's losing his wife because of his wardrobe choices:&lt;div&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;The closest I've come to understanding the urge was when I found myself attracted to &lt;a href="http://www.eddieizzard.com/"&gt;Eddie Izzard &lt;/a&gt;despite the fact that he was wearing rather nasty nail varnish and a skirt shorter than mine. It taught me that you can never predict or dictate what's going to turn you on. Reverse discrimination is rife in what we wear. Women sport ridiculous concoctions, call them fashion and are admired by their contemporaries. Men are barely tolerated out of trousers. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;div&gt;The rest of her terribly sane and sensible advice is &lt;a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/feb/17/familyandrelationships"&gt;here.&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-7389909926854668023?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/7389909926854668023/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/after-yesterdays-fashion-dating-story.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7389909926854668023'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/7389909926854668023'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/after-yesterdays-fashion-dating-story.html' title='Marriage à la Mode'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5419683252460565226</id><published>2009-02-23T09:26:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T16:56:49.209-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Wardrobe Malfunctions'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Master of the Wardrobe</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SaLsCRU1vKI/AAAAAAAAAGg/MNAucaUyRKA/s1600-h/avagardnerdc.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SaLsCRU1vKI/AAAAAAAAAGg/MNAucaUyRKA/s320/avagardnerdc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306062834750569634" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;On a third date with a very cute and interesting guy, I wanted to get beyond the surface, so I asked him to tell me some about himself. "I do like to wear women's clothing sometimes," he replied. My response: Huh?? "Well," he said, "You are wearing men's jeans so it's not that different." I was wearing Levi's. We kept talking and before I knew it he was explaining his favorite fabrics. Blouses and skirts were his preferred dress style apparently. By the end of the date, I was driving him around, and pointing out my best-loved boutiques and discussing make-up as if I had found a new shopping buddy. I must have been shell-shocked at the revelation, but the next day I decided not to see him again. It was a decision he found perplexing.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5419683252460565226?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5419683252460565226/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/master-of-wardrobe.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5419683252460565226'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5419683252460565226'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/master-of-wardrobe.html' title='Master of the Wardrobe'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SaLsCRU1vKI/AAAAAAAAAGg/MNAucaUyRKA/s72-c/avagardnerdc.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-407540693741912426</id><published>2009-02-18T07:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-18T07:53:57.110-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love and Marriage'/><title type='text'>Dating Dear Old Dad</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZwuq9LkyzI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/kTMvq3OVBuI/s1600-h/Diamond_Engagement_Rings.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZwuq9LkyzI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/kTMvq3OVBuI/s320/Diamond_Engagement_Rings.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304165776648096562" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Want to know "&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/02/11/lw.programmed.to.marry.parents/index.html?eref=rss_topstories"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Why You're Likely to Marry Your Parent?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;" According to experts interviewed by CNN, we are inherently programmed to marry partners who remind us of our parents. Since you grow up familiar with a certain type of person (funny, outspoken, affectionate, offensive or even abusive) you then become attracted to similar versions in the dating pool because it feels comfy, whether you' like it or not. Some of these couplings yield fantastic results, while others lead to pure drama. If marrying someone like your mom or dad gives you the creeps, don't fret, there is hope. Simply go about your search consciously, don't jump in to marriage right away and get help if you have unhealed issues. As if dating wasn't hard enough. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-407540693741912426?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/407540693741912426/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/dating-dear-old-dad.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/407540693741912426'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/407540693741912426'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/dating-dear-old-dad.html' title='Dating Dear Old Dad'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZwuq9LkyzI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/kTMvq3OVBuI/s72-c/Diamond_Engagement_Rings.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-9163735524415115293</id><published>2009-02-17T07:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-17T09:12:15.061-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Something's Fishy</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZrYGeqo56I/AAAAAAAAAGI/HzVRPJn5tEo/s1600-h/kitto-03.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZrYGeqo56I/AAAAAAAAAGI/HzVRPJn5tEo/s320/kitto-03.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303789117004900258" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Thor, a guy I met when I was out with a friend one night, was 45 minutes late picking me up. He drives us to a Japanese restaurant and lets me know that he has never tried sushi.  He asks the waitress why sake doesn’t taste like wine and if Geisha stomp on rice to make it. “I think I’m going to get this California Roll,” he says. “Now, what about this avocado fish? What’s that like.” I explained that avocado was actually a fruit. Dinner arrives and he eats with his hands because “this chop stick thing blows my mind.” He talks about his take on religion, the book he has just read that is a “cross between Dungeons and Dragons and the Bible,” how his mother is going to love me and then about how attractive and tall our children will be. He reaches up to get his Budweiser from the table. His elbow hits the underside of the table flipping it over. Sushi, soy sauce, beer and red wine take flight in the direction of my white pants.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Finally, the bill comes. He opens it, closes it … and hands it to me. Then says, “So, ah, what are you throwing in?” Stupidly, I reach in my clutch and put down the entire contents of my wallet (forgetting to save cab fare so I don’t have to accept a ride home). He drops me off at home and asks if I am busy over the weekend. “Yes Thor, I am busy,” I say. He asks, “What about next week?” I said I was busy and then going out of town and then simply just not interested. “This evening did not go very well,” I explained. He said that he had a great time. Then he asks, “What about your friend? Do you think I could call her?”&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-9163735524415115293?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/9163735524415115293/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/somethings-fishy.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/9163735524415115293'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/9163735524415115293'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/somethings-fishy.html' title='Something&apos;s Fishy'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZrYGeqo56I/AAAAAAAAAGI/HzVRPJn5tEo/s72-c/kitto-03.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-634180454776051671</id><published>2009-02-15T22:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:02:04.013-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love in a Time of Recession'/><title type='text'>The Romance of Recession</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZmE4FeBmEI/AAAAAAAAAFs/etE0kNKKpUw/s1600-h/17a_19_dianacupid_415x275.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZmE4FeBmEI/AAAAAAAAAFs/etE0kNKKpUw/s320/17a_19_dianacupid_415x275.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303416135281121346" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;The economy be damned! We are all still searching for love, according to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/12/fashion/12dating.html"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;The &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/12/fashion/12dating.html"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;New York Times&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;, which recently regaled us with a series of facts that show that both online dating and offline matchmaking are booming. With no 9-to-5s to go to, people have more time to surf profiles on the likes of Match.com, and the search for a soul mate has become more urgent in these scary times. It's also apparently about substance this time around because we're no longer impressed by money. Although we do still want potential partners to have jobs, according to the article's stats and reporting. Even in a depression, we want cupid to keep his bow and aim it right! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-634180454776051671?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/634180454776051671/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/romance-of-recession.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/634180454776051671'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/634180454776051671'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/romance-of-recession.html' title='The Romance of Recession'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZmE4FeBmEI/AAAAAAAAAFs/etE0kNKKpUw/s72-c/17a_19_dianacupid_415x275.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6115077430578103310</id><published>2009-02-15T09:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-15T09:08:23.656-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Coffee, Tea or Me</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZhLzqvtd1I/AAAAAAAAAFk/PSg_FOVjdM8/s1600-h/318929pUwt_w.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZhLzqvtd1I/AAAAAAAAAFk/PSg_FOVjdM8/s320/318929pUwt_w.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303071912248571730" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;My very worst date was when i drove down to Seal Beach to meet a guy for coffee. As soon as I stepped out of my car, he rushed over to me, and asked me if i liked the area and then if I thought I could live there. Caught off guard, I responded, "Uh, I just met you." He then asked me if I would go to his house and shower with him. Just for the record, i didn't.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6115077430578103310?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6115077430578103310/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/coffee-tea-or-me.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6115077430578103310'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6115077430578103310'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/coffee-tea-or-me.html' title='Coffee, Tea or Me'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZhLzqvtd1I/AAAAAAAAAFk/PSg_FOVjdM8/s72-c/318929pUwt_w.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6279679292760891838</id><published>2009-02-12T21:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:03:01.367-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>My Animalistic Valentine</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZWhQBespnI/AAAAAAAAAFc/O6WIPs7Y2yA/s1600-h/Zoo+Sign.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZWhQBespnI/AAAAAAAAAFc/O6WIPs7Y2yA/s320/Zoo+Sign.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302321432945796722" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;When I was fourteen, the most popular - and creative - boy in my class asked me out on Valentine's Day. Naturally, I was flattered, thrilled and highly anticipating some grand romantic gesture. As you do at 14. On the day, he arrived with a bunch of red carnations, which are usually used for decorating tombstones in our hometown. So far, not so romantic but my teenage heart remained hopeful. But not for long as our walk ended at the local zoo, where we walked around until he settled on a bench in front of the monkey enclosure and unpacked a lunch box from his rucksack. Ahead of us, a male baboon unpacked his proverbial lunch box and began humping his mate. Now, as an adult, I know animal watching can be fascinating, romantic even, in the wild. But watching them go at it in a cage on the most romantic day of the year strikes me (even now) as beyond odd. Needless to say it was excruciatingly &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;embarrassing&lt;/span&gt; to watch the primate porn. But there's more.. After they finished their (or his?) business, the male reached out and grabbed my bouquet to the delight of his girlfriend, who munched on it happily. At least, she enjoyed her Valentine's Day that year. &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6279679292760891838?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6279679292760891838/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/my-animalistic-valentine.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6279679292760891838'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6279679292760891838'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/my-animalistic-valentine.html' title='My Animalistic Valentine'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZWhQBespnI/AAAAAAAAAFc/O6WIPs7Y2yA/s72-c/Zoo+Sign.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6080461153448616030</id><published>2009-02-12T20:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:00:24.320-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='The Saucy Shelf'/><title type='text'>Bye-Bye Benefits</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZUE_PUVIVI/AAAAAAAAAFM/cJEoWpHNCwk/s1600-h/butterfly1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZUE_PUVIVI/AAAAAAAAAFM/cJEoWpHNCwk/s320/butterfly1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302149620788699474" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dating someone less than eligible (read: jobless, aimless, pot habit etc)? A solution emerges in this week's &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The New York O&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;bserver&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;a href="http://www.observer.com/2009/o2/want-improve-your-boyfriend-break-him"&gt;The answer? Dump him&lt;/a&gt;. This act will apparently set off the "Butterfly Effect" and spur the loser to get his (the article is gender-specific) act together. But alas, once he's done that and got himself a job and life, he might not fly back to you... Could the message be that what's broke isn't worth fixing? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6080461153448616030?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6080461153448616030/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/bye-bye-benefits.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6080461153448616030'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6080461153448616030'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/bye-bye-benefits.html' title='Bye-Bye Benefits'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZUE_PUVIVI/AAAAAAAAAFM/cJEoWpHNCwk/s72-c/butterfly1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-8170036528140982268</id><published>2009-02-11T09:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-11T09:35:10.379-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZMMPxC1QLI/AAAAAAAAAE8/2Mb_GvO7Lv8/s1600-h/Telephone.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZMMPxC1QLI/AAAAAAAAAE8/2Mb_GvO7Lv8/s320/Telephone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301594651347992754" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;B&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;efore internet dating became the norm, I signed up with a matchmaking service, which featured 3-ring binders full of members' one-page profiles that included pictures. I picked out a decent-looking guy in his early 40's with interests and attributes I liked and we arranged to go on a date. So in walks this guy, who had to be in his 60's, with a horribly bad toupee and he makes a beeline for me. At this point, I wanted to die but I decided to be polite and not walk out so, instead, we sat down for dinner. Big mistake. I don't even remember what we talked about during dinner because all I could hear was the whistling coming from his ill-fitting upper dental plate every time he spoke. Since I didn't walk out on him or take him to task for lying on his profile, which I now suspect other women had justifiably done, he took this to mean that I liked him and hounded me with phone calls that I managed to avoid for weeks until one late night at work. I quickly pretended that my phone was malfunctioning and that I couldn't hear who was on the other end of the line. He kept saying, "I know you can hear me," upper plate whistling all the while through the speakerphone. At least, he never called again!  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-8170036528140982268?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/8170036528140982268/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/matchmaker-matchmaker-make-me-match.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8170036528140982268'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8170036528140982268'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/matchmaker-matchmaker-make-me-match.html' title='Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZMMPxC1QLI/AAAAAAAAAE8/2Mb_GvO7Lv8/s72-c/Telephone.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-8206174664690168694</id><published>2009-02-10T14:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-10T15:43:42.357-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Crime of the Very Passionate</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZIIYP9PiEI/AAAAAAAAAEs/B9foefUrgwU/s1600-h/rihanna_brown320.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZIIYP9PiEI/AAAAAAAAAEs/B9foefUrgwU/s320/rihanna_brown320.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301308924061780034" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;We nominate Chris Brown and Rihanna for the Very Worst Grammy Night Date...These two were the cutest things. They spent ages denying their relationship. We couldn't help wondering if J Hova's gospel for his proteges included a no-boyfriends passage but then we learnt that &lt;a href="http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20042075,00.html"&gt;Jay-Z was actually screening her dates&lt;/a&gt;. Meanwhile, Chris and Rihanna kept being snapped in more-than-friendly situations. She said they were like siblings and he declared it was just that they "&lt;a href="http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1584491/20080331/rihanna.jhtml"&gt;had the worst luck with pictures&lt;/a&gt;." But then they could not hold back anymore and there was all-out PDAs. Now a public bust-up of her doll-like face and a possible prison sentence for him! Then there are those nasty, viral rumors about the cause of the car fight. Good relationship gone bad, seriously bad. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-8206174664690168694?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/8206174664690168694/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/we-nominatechris-brown-and-rihanna.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8206174664690168694'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8206174664690168694'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/we-nominatechris-brown-and-rihanna.html' title='Crime of the Very Passionate'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZIIYP9PiEI/AAAAAAAAAEs/B9foefUrgwU/s72-c/rihanna_brown320.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-9161583159652729941</id><published>2009-02-09T07:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-24T08:45:57.077-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Blood and Whine</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZBJ-KU7iCI/AAAAAAAAAEk/i7gyn5k_ToU/s1600-h/wine_in_glass.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 303px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZBJ-KU7iCI/AAAAAAAAAEk/i7gyn5k_ToU/s320/wine_in_glass.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300818093687932962" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I asked a girl I was casually dating to attend a charity wine tasting event and, as could be expected, we both caught a pretty good buzz. At dinner afterwards, I ordered a Cabernet, while she had a straight gin martini. Followed quickly by another. And another. She then says she’s not feeling well and heads to the restroom to purge, but returns feeling much better, and wants to head to the bar across the street for one more drink. Unfortunately, another dude she was dating happened to be there. He looks at her, ignoring my presence, and asks her if she was coming over that night. Annoyed, I started to leave and she ends up following me. As we were walking along on our way home, she keeps talking about this other guy.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I suggested that we sit down to discuss what just occurred. However, instead of sitting on the bench, she went head first into it and looked up at me with blood pouring out of her nose. People began stopping and asking her if she is OK, while looking at me like I just punched her in the face. I duck into a bar and grab a ton of napkins. I am now cleaning blood of both our shoes, while she tries to get Niagara Falls to stop. She starts slurring about the other guy again, at which point I blurted out an obscenity, and turned around and went home.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-9161583159652729941?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/9161583159652729941/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/blood-and-whine.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/9161583159652729941'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/9161583159652729941'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/blood-and-whine.html' title='Blood and Whine'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SZBJ-KU7iCI/AAAAAAAAAEk/i7gyn5k_ToU/s72-c/wine_in_glass.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5723812938575902373</id><published>2009-02-06T13:30:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-07T09:34:58.003-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Get Shirty</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SY3BAlMXWpI/AAAAAAAAAEc/JzPrK28j1gM/s1600-h/tom-cruise-risky-business-guitar-hero-bob-seger-underwear-a-rod-kobe-hawk-phelps.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SY3BAlMXWpI/AAAAAAAAAEc/JzPrK28j1gM/s320/tom-cruise-risky-business-guitar-hero-bob-seger-underwear-a-rod-kobe-hawk-phelps.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300104552213076626" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I met a first date for a drink at a bar close to my house. He seemed OK - not quite knocking my socks off but not bad either. I had walked to the bar and when the date was over, he asked to walk me home. I declined but he insisted. At my place, he announced that he needed to use the bathroom. I was too polite to tell him to take his butt back to the bar so I let him in and waited by the open front door for him. He came out of the bathroom wearing his shirt. No pants, no underwear, nothing. He was also at full salute. "Hey, what do you think?" he asked with his arms spread wide to show himself off. I laughed but that didn't deflate him. "What?" he cajoled like a little boy. "Come on...just a little? How about oral? A hand job?" Despite this, I remained polite. I stood by the open front door, saying no and asking him to put his pants back on. Finally, I told him he was making me really uncomfortable and that I would go get my neighbor if he didn't leave. He did and later called to ask for a second date! &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5723812938575902373?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5723812938575902373/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/get-shirty.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5723812938575902373'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5723812938575902373'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/get-shirty.html' title='Get Shirty'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SY3BAlMXWpI/AAAAAAAAAEc/JzPrK28j1gM/s72-c/tom-cruise-risky-business-guitar-hero-bob-seger-underwear-a-rod-kobe-hawk-phelps.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4899869799212361403</id><published>2009-02-05T15:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-05T15:20:22.010-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>A River Runs Through It</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtz8lwuJ8I/AAAAAAAAAEM/TH75cbq_u58/s1600-h/kernfall.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtz8lwuJ8I/AAAAAAAAAEM/TH75cbq_u58/s320/kernfall.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299456871297329090" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="  ;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Sometimes we are subjected to the worst date ever, and sometimes we are the cause of the worst date ever. My first job out of college was pretty lame, but the thing that kept me going back each day was this cute, blond Canadian girl. Our relationship started from conversations at the copy machine to lunches and daily conversations in each other’s cubicles. I finally invited her on a rafting trip I was going on with some friends, which I thought would be the perfect first date. For lunch that day, I went down to the work cafeteria and bought myself the Friday Special: the Super Burrito.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun:yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;As usual, it tasted great and filled me up. At the end of the day we headed out for the three-hour drive and life was perfect, until about a half hour from the campsite.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;At that point my stomach started doing things I had only seen in movies. Twisting left, twisting right and bubbling like a witches pot. I quickly pulled over to the side of the road ran out of the car and into the bushes. After a few more stops with similar results we made it to the campsite. But by this time I was hanging on by a thread and my symptoms had moved from throwing up to extreme abdominal pain. She was worried for me, but was slightly annoyed when she had to figure out how to put up the tent, while I lay on the ground writhing in pain.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="  ;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Right about midnight things went from bad to worse. I woke up to an experience similar to throwing up, however from a different part of the body. Being that we didn’t have proper facilities, I had to wash myself in the river, naked and dispose of that set of clothing. Too embarrassed to go back into the tent, I stumbled to the top of the hill by the Porta Potties and slept on the ground, all the while fearing that a mountain lion was going to drag my emaciated body away for an early morning breakfast.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;As I was in no condition to drive, she was to be the pilot for the three-hour ride back. Of course the drive may have been shorter if we weren’t stopping at a gas station every 20 miles so that I could remember that Super Burrito I had eaten the day before. I know you are thinking that in the end it probably all worked out and that we looked back on the incident and laughed about it. Unfortunately there is no recovering from bad burritos or bad dates.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4899869799212361403?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4899869799212361403/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/river-runs-through-it.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4899869799212361403'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4899869799212361403'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/river-runs-through-it.html' title='A River Runs Through It'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtz8lwuJ8I/AAAAAAAAAEM/TH75cbq_u58/s72-c/kernfall.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-1375637863998488421</id><published>2009-02-05T13:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-06T10:34:50.607-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Movie Night'/><title type='text'>Loves me, loves me not</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtihLUJmEI/AAAAAAAAAEE/vyG5abei5eQ/s1600-h/hes-just-not-that-into-you-.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtihLUJmEI/AAAAAAAAAEE/vyG5abei5eQ/s320/hes-just-not-that-into-you-.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299437708644030530" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;Out tomorrow is the film spawn of the book that came from the&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Sex in the City&lt;/span&gt; one-liner: &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.hesjustnotthatintoyoumovie.com/"&gt;He Just Not That Into You&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;Early &lt;a href="http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20256768,00.html"&gt;reviews&lt;/a&gt; of the flick, which stars Jennifer Aniston, Ben Affleck, Drew Barrymore, Scarlett Johansson and Ginny Goodwin, are lukewarm but we will still be checking it out since we agree with the philosophy behind the phrase. Whether we're talking spades or bad dates, we prefer the unvarnished and ungarnished versions.  &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-1375637863998488421?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/1375637863998488421/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/loves-me-loves-me-not.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1375637863998488421'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1375637863998488421'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/loves-me-loves-me-not.html' title='Loves me, loves me not'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYtihLUJmEI/AAAAAAAAAEE/vyG5abei5eQ/s72-c/hes-just-not-that-into-you-.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5970188865753213195</id><published>2009-02-03T05:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:03:29.096-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reading List'/><title type='text'>Up Close and Hilariously Personal</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYiZfotlU-I/AAAAAAAAAD8/xaNCxOCiUj4/s1600-h/Heart-shaped-biscuits-001.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYiZfotlU-I/AAAAAAAAAD8/xaNCxOCiUj4/s320/Heart-shaped-biscuits-001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298653730384991202" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYiUoFXj0BI/AAAAAAAAAD0/lSvd56bz0dM/s1600-h/cov3102.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;As we've heard and &lt;a href="http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/blind-date.html"&gt;read&lt;/a&gt;, the truth is often sacrificed in the prose of online profiles. Presentable becomes "gorgeous." Obesity is passed off as "a little extra meat." Being "athletic" means having been to the gym once in the last six months. So we were amused to read about the &lt;a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jan/24/london-review-books-personal-ads"&gt;self-deprecating, self-lampooning&lt;/a&gt; lonely hearts in the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;London Review of Books&lt;/span&gt; via &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Guardian&lt;/span&gt;. There's no way of knowing how factual/satirical the claims are but we enjoyed the the cheek of these Brit bibliophiles: &lt;div&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;"Mentally, I am a size eight. Compulsive-eating F, 52, WLTM man to 25 for whom the phrase 'beauty is only skin-deep' is both a lifestyle choice and a religious ethos..."&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5970188865753213195?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5970188865753213195/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/up-close-personal-and-hilariously.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5970188865753213195'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5970188865753213195'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/02/up-close-personal-and-hilariously.html' title='Up Close and Hilariously Personal'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYiZfotlU-I/AAAAAAAAAD8/xaNCxOCiUj4/s72-c/Heart-shaped-biscuits-001.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2865635733576185448</id><published>2009-01-29T07:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-24T08:46:31.269-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Drunk and Disorderly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Dine and Dash</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYHPNeuglhI/AAAAAAAAADs/v9p_Aa18Gsg/s1600-h/402696_fpx.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYHPNeuglhI/AAAAAAAAADs/v9p_Aa18Gsg/s320/402696_fpx.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296742467257800210" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;When I was 19, I met this guy and we exchanged numbers and even had a good night kiss after a few too many drinks. The next day, I went out of town for a few weeks, but he invited me over to his apartment for dinner and a movie after I returned. I didn't really remember what he looked like so when the guy answered, I was hoping it was his roommate, because this person was missing two of his front teeth. Unfortunately for me this was my date. As much as I wanted to leave I decided to stay for the dinner that he had prepared. Everything was fine until he asked if I noticed anything weird about my salad dressing. I told him I didn’t and he said, "I added some protein powder to your dressing because you mentioned earlier that you don't get enough protein in your diet." Between the lack of teeth and him slipping mysterious nutritional supplements in my food, I knew this was going nowhere. We still had a movie to watch and it was only 8:00pm so I couldn't say that I was too tired. Then he said, "I have to tell you something. The reason I invited you here instead of taking you out is because I am now on house arrest and am only allowed to go to school and work." I thought he was joking until he lifted his pant leg and showed me the monitoring device on his leg. In the few weeks I was on vacation he had gotten sentenced, for what I have no idea! At that point, I didn't care about being polite; I grabbed my purse and said I had to go.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2865635733576185448?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2865635733576185448/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/dine-and-dash.html#comment-form' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2865635733576185448'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2865635733576185448'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/dine-and-dash.html' title='Dine and Dash'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SYHPNeuglhI/AAAAAAAAADs/v9p_Aa18Gsg/s72-c/402696_fpx.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-4308452130907762633</id><published>2009-01-27T07:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-27T08:21:21.058-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='The Saucy Shelf'/><title type='text'>The Far Side</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX8tWGw5Y4I/AAAAAAAAADk/oaAAXygQsDw/s1600-h/berg.book2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 286px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX8tWGw5Y4I/AAAAAAAAADk/oaAAXygQsDw/s320/berg.book2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296001544607064962" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Lust. How far can it take you? Apparently to all kinds of weirdo places. Daniel Bergner's &lt;a href="http://www.amazon.com/Other-Side-Desire-Journeys-Longing/dp/0060885564/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;amp;s=books&amp;amp;qid=1233071726&amp;amp;sr=1-1"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Other Side of Desire: Four Journeys into the Far Realms of Lust and Longing&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; out today, promises a tour of sorts (amputee chasers, foot fetishists etc). The author, who's reported from Sierra Leone and Angola (as in the infamous Louisiana prison), discusses the book &lt;a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/24/books/24berg.html?pagewanted=2&amp;amp;ref=magazine"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;. While you are at it, you might want to check out his recent &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Times Magazine&lt;/span&gt; piece entitled &lt;a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/magazine/25desire-t.html?ref=books"&gt;'What do Women Want?'&lt;/a&gt; It's eight pages long but features a lady scientist who makes people (with wires attached to their bits) watch apes in action. &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-4308452130907762633?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/4308452130907762633/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/far-side.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4308452130907762633'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/4308452130907762633'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/far-side.html' title='The Far Side'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX8tWGw5Y4I/AAAAAAAAADk/oaAAXygQsDw/s72-c/berg.book2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-5957474253588225750</id><published>2009-01-26T09:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-26T11:00:43.916-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>In the Bedroom</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX31V64SHpI/AAAAAAAAADc/s9eHRcDRaX4/s1600-h/givingpage+-+bedroom+door+pic+-+web.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX31V64SHpI/AAAAAAAAADc/s9eHRcDRaX4/s320/givingpage+-+bedroom+door+pic+-+web.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295658493788954258" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I waited a couple of months to sleep with this great guy I was dating. Usually I like to get physical earlier to make sure there is sexual chemistry, but I could see this becoming something serious so I thought I would try to wait awhile and not rush things. We finally went back to his apartment after a fun Japanese dinner and I was ready to get down to business. He toured me through his spotless two-bedroom place, saving the bedroom for last. As soon as we entered I gasped. There were seven of the most childish stuffed animals I have ever seen on his bed. They were all lined up in a row just staring at me. I was horrified and mumbled something about having to play tennis early in the morning and left. I never returned his calls and didn’t feel bad about it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-5957474253588225750?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/5957474253588225750/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/in-bedroom.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5957474253588225750'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/5957474253588225750'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/in-bedroom.html' title='In the Bedroom'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SX31V64SHpI/AAAAAAAAADc/s9eHRcDRaX4/s72-c/givingpage+-+bedroom+door+pic+-+web.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6704594767675052106</id><published>2009-01-22T14:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-23T07:37:23.775-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Summer showdown</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.seriesadictos.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/tony-soprano1.jpg" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;For a whole summer, I was enchanted by this extremely good-looking man (think talking, charming, well-travelled CK Underwear model). Our first few dates were some of my very best: French restaurants, great wine, concerts in the park, BBQs with his family, lazy Sunday brunches etc. That summer - and our relationship - lasted into September. More precisely to one mid-September Saturday afternoon when I woke up in his apartment which was a slight dump despite the fact that he was in the decorating/contracting business. I'd needed a towel and he directed me to his closet. Like the rest of the place, it was a mess. I was digging up the mound of clothes when I chanced upon a firearm. A handgun. The kind you see on &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Wire&lt;/span&gt;. I screamed and leapt out of the closet. Needless to say, I don't have an NRA membership and am petrified of the idea of civilians carrying guns unless they live and hunt in the countryside. I doubted somehow that this guy was planning to shoot Bambi for veal parmigiana. He tried to explain that it was for protection. I didn't even want to know what that meant so I hightailed it out of there. Later, I found out that being a contractor from New Jersey can mean something else too...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6704594767675052106?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6704594767675052106/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/summer-showdown.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6704594767675052106'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6704594767675052106'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/summer-showdown.html' title='Summer showdown'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6217300271469585199</id><published>2009-01-21T16:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-06T10:32:54.009-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='WTF?'/><title type='text'>Cutting a Rug</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXfCr4ScOxI/AAAAAAAAADM/ftGrF2st2pU/s1600-h/8779-004-E4C18F37.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXfCr4ScOxI/AAAAAAAAADM/ftGrF2st2pU/s320/8779-004-E4C18F37.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293913946097203986" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;I was dating this guy named Milton and he asked me to be his date to his 21&lt;/span&gt;&lt;sup&gt;st&lt;/sup&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt; birthday, which is a big deal in England, where I was living at the time. It was in a big hall just like a wedding or bar mitzvah with his parents at the front table. We went out to have the first dance in front of probably 120 people. To be festive I took some confetti from the table and threw it up in the air. Some of it landed in his hair so I went to flick it off and his whole toupee came off. I had no idea he was wearing a wig especially since he was only 21 years old. His brother came over and patted it down. He was mortified, but I was more mortified. &lt;/span&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6217300271469585199?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6217300271469585199/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/cutting-rug.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6217300271469585199'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6217300271469585199'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/cutting-rug.html' title='Cutting a Rug'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXfCr4ScOxI/AAAAAAAAADM/ftGrF2st2pU/s72-c/8779-004-E4C18F37.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2598694904742224954</id><published>2009-01-19T11:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-05T17:11:36.000-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Gives Us Hope'/><title type='text'>A Couple We Can Believe In</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXUdJOWyH3I/AAAAAAAAADE/dCYnNTlJdsc/s1600-h/090119_r18125_p465.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXUdJOWyH3I/AAAAAAAAADE/dCYnNTlJdsc/s320/090119_r18125_p465.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293168981353570162" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Change officially begins at noon in Washington D.C. tomorrow. President Barack Obama holds the hopes and dreams of many, including ours at MVWD. In the annals of courtship of the famous and fabulous, Obama and Michelle represent how things can go unbelievably right (and remain so). We've seen the fist bumps, the election night kisses, heard their cute remarks about each other (she: he's got bad breath; he: she's always right), read about &lt;a href="http://www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/omag_200702_firsts"&gt;their first date&lt;/a&gt; and been generally enamored about how actually happy they look. Here's an early image of them (a few short years after they began dating) taken in 1996 in Chicago by Mariana Cook and republished last week in &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The New Yorker&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "&gt;. Not only did we did we ooh and ahh over the lovely meditations on their marriage in the &lt;a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/01/19/090119fa_fact_cook"&gt;accompanying interview&lt;/a&gt; but we were impressed by the rather saucy Indonesian print (the one in the middle) overhead in the portrait.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2598694904742224954?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2598694904742224954/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/couple-we-can-believe-in.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2598694904742224954'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2598694904742224954'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/couple-we-can-believe-in.html' title='A Couple We Can Believe In'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXUdJOWyH3I/AAAAAAAAADE/dCYnNTlJdsc/s72-c/090119_r18125_p465.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-1656621103855669213</id><published>2009-01-15T10:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-16T09:47:51.732-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Just Plain Pathetic'/><title type='text'>Silence is Not Always Golden</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC1b_aUAsI/AAAAAAAAAC0/JP2V9rsWBhU/s1600-h/Enjoy_the_Silence_by_WickedNox.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC1b_aUAsI/AAAAAAAAAC0/JP2V9rsWBhU/s320/Enjoy_the_Silence_by_WickedNox.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291929054643225282" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;My first couple of dates with an engineering professor I met on Match.com was okay. He was pretty passive: he'd never ask the host for a table or the waiter for water. I decided to give it one last try since he otherwise seemed to be a nice, smart guy. But I decided that I wasn't going to step up and do anything. I would do the Dinner of Silence and resolved to not speak unless he asked me a question. It was the quietest (and longest) dinner ever. Afterward, we went to the parking lot to get our car from the valet, but he was nowhere to be seen.  My date said, “Let's just wait, he'll eventually show up.” &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;I wasn't willing to devote any more time to this date so I took it upon myself to look for the valet who I finally found in a car lying across the seat, snoring, with his feet hanging out the window of his own car. I politely said, “Excuse me” several times with no response. My date was standing at the front of the lot, just watching me, so I reached over and grabbed the valet's toe and shook it. He woke right up and got our car immediately. Finally, as we were driving away, my date turned to me and said, “I thought you were obnoxious back there.” I can't tell you how hard I bit my tongue on that one. Thought I'd never hear from him again, but he actually called the next day. Go figure. I did not return the call.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-1656621103855669213?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/1656621103855669213/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/silence-is-not-always-golden.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1656621103855669213'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/1656621103855669213'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/silence-is-not-always-golden.html' title='Silence is Not Always Golden'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC1b_aUAsI/AAAAAAAAAC0/JP2V9rsWBhU/s72-c/Enjoy_the_Silence_by_WickedNox.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-2174521849428683130</id><published>2009-01-15T08:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-16T08:25:38.969-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I Lied on My Profile'/><title type='text'>Blind Date</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC05gjgALI/AAAAAAAAACs/YLc5v9mf8BA/s1600-h/ElCholo_2_1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC05gjgALI/AAAAAAAAACs/YLc5v9mf8BA/s320/ElCholo_2_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291928462244708530" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span style=" ;color:black;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;At times, I seem to have made online dating a career and one of my earlier negative online dating experiences involved plans to meet at El Cholo restaurant on Western in Los Angeles. Driving from Newport Beach (about an hour south) was a commitment but I felt it was proper as a gentleman. I was fortunate to endure light traffic that day and got to the restaurant at about 40 minutes early. The hostess informed me that the wait would be about an hour so I added myself to the list and set to waiting for my date. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;More than an hour went by and then I heard my name called for the available table. I told the hostess that my date had not yet arrived. She kindly stated we would be seated once my date arrived. I waited a bit longer only to hear a voice next to me say, "Hi. I've been here the whole hour watching you. I could tell that you didn't recognize me. I've been waiting here deciding what I should do.” &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;She was morbidly huge, 15 years older than her photos and I found out that she had two kids. All of those things were major deal breakers from the beginning. To say she was dishonest with her published photos, age and weight would be an understatement. I told her to never do this to anyone else again. I'm not sure if I was angrier because I was lied to, drove the long distance for nothing or departed El Cholo without enjoying a good meal. Maybe it was all those reasons together.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-2174521849428683130?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/2174521849428683130/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/blind-date.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2174521849428683130'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/2174521849428683130'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/blind-date.html' title='Blind Date'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC05gjgALI/AAAAAAAAACs/YLc5v9mf8BA/s72-c/ElCholo_2_1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-6462864957011614440</id><published>2009-01-15T07:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-16T09:49:19.915-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Completely Psychotic'/><title type='text'>The Boy Next Door</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXCzXyC1kyI/AAAAAAAAACk/obCZ_C0uWBU/s1600-h/mel.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXCzXyC1kyI/AAAAAAAAACk/obCZ_C0uWBU/s320/mel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291926783312368418" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;A year ago, I met this guy in the parking garage of my apartment complex.  One day we pulled up at the exact same time and started chatting. He was your typical dreamboat: six-foot-four, good head of hair, great body and a nice smile. The next morning I came down to my car and there was a note stuck on the window that said, "It was nice meeting you yesterday. I think you're really cute and would like to take you for a drink if you're interested.”  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;That weekend we went out for drinks and I had a strong suspicion that something was off about him, but I was too blinded by his Ed Hardy sequins to think clearly, so I proceeded with the date. About 30 minutes in he starts to tell me that his father is in the KKK and that he thinks Mel Gibson’s views on the Jews is 100% accurate. So far all I had gotten to was my name and where I was from.  How did we go from, “Do you have siblings?" to racial and religious hatred? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;Needless to say, I was not ok with this. I told him in a polite yet sarcastic manner that since I was Asian and my best friend gay, it probably was not going to work out. I was so offended and put off by this point that I asked him why he would want to date me anyway and he responded with, "I figured since I moved to California, I should try to be &lt;/span&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;open&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-size:13px;"&gt;.” I got home, tore up the note, and threw it in the trash.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-6462864957011614440?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/6462864957011614440/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/boy-next-door.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6462864957011614440'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/6462864957011614440'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/boy-next-door.html' title='The Boy Next Door'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXCzXyC1kyI/AAAAAAAAACk/obCZ_C0uWBU/s72-c/mel.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1298524102029035758.post-8019320832904789383</id><published>2009-01-14T21:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-16T08:30:43.654-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Why Didn&apos;t I Say Something?'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cheap Bastards'/><title type='text'>Check It</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC115krORI/AAAAAAAAAC8/XKZY06ma41E/s1600-h/chocolate_birthday_cake.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 304px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC115krORI/AAAAAAAAAC8/XKZY06ma41E/s320/chocolate_birthday_cake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291929499752675602" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I met this guy through a friend at a Christmas party and we had a successful first date full of laughter, good food and chemistry. When he called for a second date he explained that it was also his birthday. I felt a little awkward about spending that special day with him since we just met, but he said birthdays weren’t a huge deal for him and he’d rather spend it with me than doing something with friends or family. He picked me up and took me to a fancy restaurant that I had read about. I bought him a miniature chocolate cake as a surprise since he was taking me somewhere so nice. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;When we got there he ordered a pricey bottle of red wine and filet mignon. We had a great meal and some romantic kisses, but when the check came he just sat there. I went to the ladies room thinking that there was no way he expected me to pick up the check. When I returned the check was still sitting on the wood table just staring at me. He must have known I was irritated because he said he didn’t have enough cash or a credit card assuming it was my treat. Rather than saying something I paid the $210 bill in a state of shock. I was so disgusted I knew I was never going to talk to him again and I didn’t. Every time I drive by that restaurant I kick myself for picking up that tab. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1298524102029035758-8019320832904789383?l=myveryworstdate.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/feeds/8019320832904789383/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/check-it.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8019320832904789383'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1298524102029035758/posts/default/8019320832904789383'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://myveryworstdate.blogspot.com/2009/01/check-it.html' title='Check It'/><author><name>My Very Worst Date</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17487604507943648426</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_EYnDHpshOj0/SXC115krORI/AAAAAAAAAC8/XKZY06ma41E/s72-c/chocolate_birthday_cake.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry></feed>
