Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  One of the measures by which we as men and women gauge our appeal is by how many eyes move to meet our gaze. What few single friends I have are beautiful young creatures with bodies unscathed by breeding and Big Macs, and yet these lovelies have the gumption to complain about the slim pickings and how only creeps have the nerve to approach them.

  “Well, count your blessings you at least get a nibble,” I tell them. “My bait’s so old even the bottom dwellers won’t bite. All I get are men who want green cards or I’ll get long, handwritten letters that come to my office from lonely prisoners convinced we are soul mates and if I would just read their 1,200-page book, I’d for sure realize they don’t belong on death row for killing their wives, which, naturally, they didn’t do or so they all say. Whew. That kind of mail will sure make a gal swoon.”

  “I’m a magnet for the grossest of creatures,” one of my dearest middle-aged, twice-divorced, once-widowed and newly single friend said.

  “Aren’t we all?” I ask. “The unsavories are the only ones with guts.”

  I then began explaining to her how to get a man, the advice coming from a woman who has been out of the dating pool for seventeen years. However, prior to my marriage, dear Singletons, I had my share of toads, warts and the occasional semide-cent human being. But when you’re young, my pretties, there is a sad tendency to toss out the good ones, thinking—actually, knowing—schools of these fine fish will be swimming by constantly and you can choose whichever one you want at any time. Provided, of course, you don’t weigh 200 pounds and are terribly unattractive, bless your hearts.

  Well, let me tell you cute girls something. Eventually, time runs out and the schools of fish swim in other waters. When you reach a CERTAIN age, the only thing swimming by are fatso hairy men crowding the lanes at the YMCA indoor pool in their Speedos, with swollen balls and perverted grins.

  Fear not, though. There is always hope, which can arrive and occur in the strangest of places.

  A couple of years ago, during a family vacation, I learned how to catch a man even if you have fat sacks, rolls of sidemeat, and a face that could benefit a hoisting by wooden clothespins or some serious shrink-wrap. All you have to do is put on a decent, décolletage-enhancing swimsuit, a sarong to hide anything lumpy or mottled, and cart around a fairly nice fishing rod. Yes, you read correctly: a fishing rod!

  Skip the ones with Mickey Mouse on them. The other fishermen won’t take you seriously and you’ll be called a Poser, which is a middle-school term meaning some sort of faker or pretender.

  Go to Wal-Mart or anywhere else that sells sporting goods. I like to go to Dick’s because just saying the word gives me a sickish pleasure. While there, invest in an adult fishing rod. A $15.99 special will do and don’t forget the tackle box—even if it’s really your makeup kit. He’ll never know. Make sure you’ve got a Ziploc bag of bait. I like the dead shrimp and squid, personally.

  Here’s what happened one fine sunny day on the great sparkling Atlantic coast in Hilton Head, the ritzy beach in South Carolina. I set out to fish during one of my marital-discord (PMS) days and squeezed all extra flesh into a purple rhinestone swimsuit, paired with a lavender sarong appliquéd in taffeta-like butterflies. Add to this fishing getup some pink lipstick and a single strand of pearls and designer sunglasses, and, I must say, you’ve got yourself the perfect Southern Belle fishing attire.

  The whole getup might shock some people at first, but they will get over it. Take my son, for example, upon seeing his mother in her Ready-to-Fish Wear, which should be hitting Vogue magazine any day, once one of their editors reads this piece.

  “You’re wearing THAT fishing?” he yelped as we headed to the beach and proceeded to spear shrimp and rank squid parts onto a rusted hook and cast the line, my arm fat waving at the sea, even with my thick golden bangle acting as a decorative triceps’ girdle.

  My first cast soared about two feet. The second and third, not much farther. I heard laughter. Male giggling. I saw to my right an attractive man shaking his head.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked as I professionally recast, this time my line going a good ten yards while I carefully and very prolike, took out the slack.

  “I’ve never seen someone like you fishing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He seemed taken aback.

  “I’ll have you know I grew up on a lake and have been fishing since I was 7,” I said. “I even take them off the hook with my bare hands, gut ’em and roll them in cornmeal.”

  “Did you dress like that back then?”

  He grinned and had the prettiest smile with all teeth in place. I knew he was using his Crest Whitestrips on a regular basis.

  “Don’t go letting a few fake pearls and gold bracelets fool you. Soon enough I’ll have a hammerhead on this hook, so you best body surf a few hundreds yards south of us.” He was adorable, like the plumber on Desperate Housewives .

  I gave him a flirtatious side tilt of the head. “You’re too cute and I’m too married,” I said, though at this moment, I’d like to use parts of him as bait and see what sinks its jaws into my hooks. Had I been single, I’d have asked him to come on over and watch, and I’d show him some pointers, other than my fairly new hooters.

  Being still married at the moment, I decided not to pursue this line of flirting, having been raised by a proper mother who scared us to death when it came to sin and the flames of Hell sure to cremate us daily. I didn’t want to reel in another man when the first was still on my line. There’s no sense catching one yacht till the other’s tied to the dock, so to speak.

  The cutie-pie fisherman took off when he saw he wasn’t making progress, in or out of the water, but my point is this: I could have had him. He was cute, had ALL of his teeth, a two or three-pack set of abs, most of his hair and only a slight case of that puffy-face syndrome older men who like beer will get. And you could have had him, too.

  Fishing, my dears, is a great way to meet men. Not swamp, creek, river or bridge fishing, but classy fishing in the finest bodies of waters, wherever one can find those.

  If a fishing pole isn’t feasible, try browsing in Dick’s Sporting Goods anyway for an hour or two, or one of the hip bookstores that also serves beverages. I see swarms of fellows drinking their Mocha Lattes while reading in bookstore/coffee shops. If he is reading a Penthouse or Hot Rod magazine, run the other way.

  I do not advise Laundromats as fertile grounds for meeting potential sweethearts. If he can’t afford his own damn washer and dryer, you best move on unless you notice he’s washing a barffed-on comforter or giant dog bed, which means he doesn’t want to spoil his own set of sparkling Maytags.

  Another excellent place to meet men is Home Depot or Lowe’s. Go in and say the following to either the help (although even if he’s cute his wages can’t be too high) or a handsome shopper:

  “Sir, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m just not feeling at home here as I do at Tiffany on Fifth Avenue where I know my way around every locked and sealed counter. Would you mind showing me where the nails and screws are located?”

  Why, they’ll drop everything if you’re fixed up a bit and don’t resemble a giant lesbian getting ready to tar a roof. You might want to smile at this point and say, “Me being here would be similar to you trying to buy eyeliner at the Estée Lauder counter.”

  He’ll either run or ask you out.

  As far as that old line about finding men in the frozen-food section of your local grocer, that may work, unless it’s a st
ore called It’s Old But Won’t Kill Ya, Animal Organ Central or Dented and Dated. Only the high-dollar grocery stores, even health-food stores, will sometimes net a decent catch.

  As for Internet dating, the wave of the current trends, I have witnessed plenty of men and women catching fish this way, then later either marrying them or throwing them back into cyberwaters. It may be the foam of the future, but those representing themselves can and DO lie. Dating sites on the Internet might end up being no more than electronic negligees, so watch out is all I’m saying.

  For those who already have a man and need a boost in the commitment department, I’m here to help. Remember, I’m the sister of a woman who once had seven diamond engagement rings and I can reveal her secrets now that she’s joyfully wed Husband Number Two she met off the Internet while wearing her cyberlingerie.

  Remember, timing is everything, and men’s horny-mones start cranking up around the first cold snap and continue through Valentine’s Day when merchants and TV commercials remind them that they can get laid if they buy chocolate and diamonds and say gushy stuff and act like they mean it.

  This is open season on mate snagging. Whip out those arrows and give Cupid a run for his sharp-shooting aim. The months between Thanksgiving and mid-February are the busiest time of year for engagements, according to somebody I can’t remember at WeddingChannel.com.

  The woman is known as one of the busiest wedding planners in the world, advising more than 720,000 brides each year. She’s penned a Top Ten list of “Signs Your Boyfriend Is Going to Propose This Valentine’s Day.”

  Some of those clues are obvious. Let’s say, for instance, he starts talking about platinum rings and princess cuts. These aren’t topics most men gab about. If you say princess cut to a regular ESPN-watching man, he’ll think one of the Royals had been stabbed. Mention marquise and he’ll think of the sign lit up at the All Night Nudie Den.

  Another clue is if you catch him suddenly pressing his face in the windows of jewelry stores. He’s either looking at rings or pulling the old Peacocking routine.

  Still another clue is a ring missing from your jewelry box. If he’s not on crack or a major thief, chances are he’s trying to match up your size. It’s also a positive sign that you’ll be treated to a dazzling diamond if he tells you not to make plans for a certain evening but won’t say what his intentions are. If after saying this, he takes you bowling, dump him. Unless of course there is a giant, flawless princess-cut diamond in one of the bowling balls and he’s also springing for the beer and hot dogs.

  Watch out, too, for the more subtle hints, experts say. What if he starts making his own coffee instead of plunking down cash at Starbucks, along with brown-bagging his lunches? Maybe, just maybe, he’s saving for a ring. Either that or he’s a secret gambler and lost big at poker or at the races. Or maybe his Internet porno bill came in the mail and he didn’t realize just how long he’d sat there last month dirty-chatting and tugging his man meat.

  Please dump all Internet porn viewers. Unless you enjoy the same habit. In that case you are a True and Unreformed Hussy.

  Another way to find out his mission, without breaking and entering his private plans, is to sit at his computer for a spell. Nothing like forgetting to erase one’s history to know where he’s been in cyberland. If wedding sites pop up like frogs after a heavy rain, you can be sure the question will pop as well. If porno ads pop up like…Skip that simile…It’s best to ditch and flee.

  Lots of these suggestions, some from the experts and some from my own and my sister’s experiences, are all good signs you’ve got a man who’s not scared of marriage. Yet it can be fairly hard with some men—this convincing him you’re the best thing since Sam Adams, and that a platinum band with at least a full carat or two flashing isn’t going to kill him but merely gouge his bank account. Nothing a tourniquet won’t cure.

  If you’re worried that the man you’ve invested all your best years in will never make an honest woman out of you, I’m sorry. Cut that fish from the line and let him sink to the muck below. He’s nothing more than a bottom dweller and will never rise to decent levels.

  All that out of the way, let’s discuss what’s out there in terms of heterosexual men.

  First, the kind we love: those who adore marriage or at least tolerate the notion. No problem pulling these babies in. It’s like fishing in a stocked pond.

  Next, you have the Lothario who considers himself something of a Hugh Hefner and likes being encircled by the estrogen variety pack. He’d never consider settling down to a home-cooked meal with a permanent Little Missus. This fellow isn’t going anywhere near a jewelry store but has probably made plenty of trips to the STD clinic.

  The third and by far most popular category, in my opinion, is the man who can take marriage or leave it. He will continue dating you until every tooth falls out and Croaker’s Rest Home has you both on its waiting list. This lazy paramour is going to need hints and coaxing and, I daresay, maybe a cattle prod to get him moving. Fear not. Here are a few tips. Some are from me, just a middle-aged woman with years of experience in dating duds, creeps, commitment-phobes, and an array of normal and ultrafine fellows I stupidly rejected in my youth, thinking schools of fish would always be swimming by.

  First of all, if he’s in the category of men who would rather be carted to an anesthesia-free vasectomy den than down any matrimonial aisle, cut him faster than you would a snapping turtle and let him swim off to ruin someone else’s life.

  Second, if he’s the type who’s begging you to marry him, check his temperature and his police record, and interview all friends and former neighbors. Extreme eagerness is a warning sign no matter how cute and darling you might be.

  Finally, there’s the lazy and blissfully blasé group of men, You may want to come right out and drop hints—huge, heavy, in-their-face hints. My favorite is talking very loud on the telephone to your best friend so that he can hear it when you say, “Julie Ann, I’m telling ya, girl. If he doesn’t have a ring on my finger by February 14, I’m going to go ahead and put myself back on the shelf. Know any nice single men? Oh, right. You were telling me about him. Hmmmm.”

  Be sure at this stage of the conversation that your slacker is listening. “Uh-huh. Of course it doesn’t bother me a bit that he quit his medical practice to become a senator and goes to Africa to feed the hungry every summer. Yes, I’m not one to care about money, but it is good he has that ongoing trust fund…Oh, my! You are KIDDING? Sounds great…He can’t possibly have said I was THAT cute…You just set it all up and call me…WHAT? Did you say nine inches!!! You are a naughty girl, Julie Ann, and I love ya for it…OK, then, I’ll talk to you later. Love ya. Bye now.”

  Games in relationships are taboo so they say. But they are also like voodoo. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that jabs a man where it counts—in his commitment zones. Even though I’m in the relationship camp that the delightful Bridget Jones character calls “Smug Marrieds,” I like to dip my pen from time to time into the dating pool and see what’s new out there for my wonderful singleton friends. Many of them, both the young and not-so-young, are back in the game. Some have found love on the Internet, which we’ve addressed and undressed earlier.

  Others have hooked up with beaus from the past. This hot trend is not my cup of tea, as my feeling is, “Why resurrect something you buried for good reason years ago?” Still, some find it quite fulfilling to excavate the heart and pump up old treasures. Good for them. May the joy be with them.

  I received a list the other day about first dates and given that supposedly about half the U.S. adults are single, duty says pass this on. I’ve narrowed it down and call it the “Seven Rules
for Successful Firsts.” I’ve also included my own tried-and-true no-no’s for those debut dates.

  1. Order food you like. Sending it back is obnoxious.

  My rule : Don’t say, “I’m not hungry,” or tell the server you’ll just have a house salad and Diet Coke. This sends a message you have issues with food or are borderline neurotic.

  2. Don’t brag about how great you are. Don’t ask how much he/she makes or what he weighs or anything about their ex’s.

  My rule : It’s not a good idea to talk about how fat both your front and back fannies were before Jenny Craig, or how your ex did time while you were in detox and met the man of your dreams down the hall. That said, if you’re in this for an Anna Nicole deal, it’s OK to ask how much the person brings home after taxes.

  3. Don’t chew gum. It’s trashy and annoying. Pop a mint instead.

  My rule : If your breath is bad, don’t even go on the date. Reschedule after a session with a tartar-removal specialist.

  4. Turn off your cell phone. The date came to talk to you, not hear you chat up someone else.

  My rule : If a guy answers a call during a date and he’s not the president or the father of sickly children needing tending, you can bet he’s self-absorbed or a crack dealer. You might want to say, “Excuse me,” then leave and don’t return unless you are super desperate, which you are NOT.

  5. Ailments and current health issues should be saved for later dates.

  My rule : Nothing scrapes the romance from a date’s potential sheen like talking about your latest Pap smear results. I once had a first date who told me he almost had to cancel because of a bout of what I call “Die Rear.” It was my first and LAST date with this human toilet.