Just Hanging out in the Sahara

"So, about the blog lately," Naomi announces one day. I sense a topic suggestion coming. With an English degree, and BBF status, Naomi is the default Dating Land editor. And she takes it seriously. (I wonder if she's noticed yet that I don't pay her?)

"And?"

"And . . . call me crazy but I think Dating Land needs to go on a, oh I dunno, date? I'm down with the Santa story and the locked door but let's go, already. You've sat around on your single arse long enough. Dating Land is in a dry spell."

"Arse? Are you Irish?" I sarcastically counter.

"Don't change the subject."

"First of all it's not a dry spell if it's self inflicted. Secondly, you know I wait a month or two before deciding on what material to use. I can't write about what's going on in the present. I'd be psycho writer dating pariah if I typed up my personal life in real time and put it on the internet. Gawd woman. I'm not going to make the guys I date into sacraficial lambs for the sake of my writing."

"What are you talking about? What "guys you date?" You've barely left your house in a month!" A more pathetic truth was never spoken.

"Hey," I protest, "I go to the grocery store. And . . the gym."

"Oh boy. The gym. It'd more exciting if you knew someone named Jim. What about that Johnny Depp guy you met? Mr. Baseball."

"Him? Must we bring that lunch meeting up?" Leave it to Naomi, the woman with a boyfriend, to categorize a rebound moment as a real date. "I treated that whole thing like a business meeting." I roll my eyes to no one but myself. "I am sure he thinks I am a weirdo the way I rambled on and on and interviewed him so coldly. Argh," I sigh in frustration, "that was just humiliating quite honestly. I wasn't over you know who. I should not have even gone."

"Yeah, well, you are a weirdo but in a good way, usually. As for that decision, little Miss Sabotage, rebounds usually result in casual sex. I'm not sure what you were doing that day. I don't know if qualifies as rebounding, because you certainly didn't get laid."

"Really? You can tie lunch to sex? Really?"

"I'm talented."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous? I'm not the one who blew the date with Mr. Baseball who lookes like a celebrity. Didn't you say he cooks?"

"Yep."

"Damn. Looks like People magazine's Sexiest man alive and a chef? Wow. You should get a medal for messing that one up."

"You know, we didn't have much in common. He doesn't read. Well, he can read, he just doesn't read. I can't date someone who doesn't read."

"Are you looking for companionship or starting a book club?"

"Bite me."

"Okay, forget I suggested this. Your dating life is deader than your grandma's libido," she finally surrenders.

"Ew, if my grandma has a libido I don't want to know. Besides," I counter in defense, "part of being single is NOT dating. Sometimes it's the healthier choice to just spend some time alone."

"True. But if you keep this up, you're going to have to change the name of your blog to Creeply Old Cat Lady Land. You do realize.

"Hey, I like my cats."

"My point. Exactly."

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Merry Christmas everyone! My plans for the holidays include overdosing on snowman shaped frosted cookies, pretzels dipped in sugar, and sitting in a recliner at my parents' farm watching waaaaaaaaaaay too much Pay Per View. It does NOT, and I repeat NOT, include anything that remotely resembles dating.

Hmmmm. . . . maybe I should start saving up for cat litter now . . .?

~Audra