Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  6. Leave work at work.

  My rule : I think this one is a bit harsh. Some people like to hear about other’s jobs. If he’s closing his eyes or yawning, you may want to make up a career. If you’re desperate—which you’re NOT—you could always tell him you had to give up your evening job at Bubba’s Nudie Den because of shin splints. If his eyes don’t open, run for the door. If they do open, run anyway.

  7. Be a good listener. If you’re doing all the talking, you’re not on a date; you’re giving a speech.

  My rule : If you are out with a political candidate, you can bet your last dollar he’s going to campaign his little heart out on your date. Tell him/her you need to powder your nose, then hightail it out of there as quickly as possible. I once had this happen and ended up buying two tickets to a political pig pickin’ just to shut him up.

  I realize it’s not easy out there in the dating world. But with these tidbits of unconventional wisdom in mind, I know you’ll net the fish of your dreams.

  Cast on, Sugahs. Just don’t forget the pearls and sarong, the lipstick and bangles.

  Ode to Bald Men, Precious Thangs

  I used to glance right past bald men, a shallow woman I was before I encountered gray hair and sagging skin mottling my own middle-aging body, a condition of muscle atrophy I call the “Crock Pot” effect.

  I may not be terribly fat, but since I gave up exercise, my meat’s falling off the bone like a Crock-Pot chicken I tell my friends who have personal trainers and muscle definition. I guess they have time for such frivolities as good health.

  Being in my forties, I’ve learned time will teach a girl a thing or two. And one is that if a man is bald, he’s usually not as vain as those with full heads of hair and is less likely to plunge as Narcissus did into a pool upon falling in love with his own reflection.

  I have never taken a formal poll, but my guess would be they are less likely to cheat. Also, if they have all their teeth in good to excellent shape, to hell with their hair or lack thereof. There is one exception to the baldies. This would be that unfortunate condition I like to call the “potbellied pig” male-pattern baldness.

  This is when the poor man has one hair here and another there, some of which is spaced a good half inch apart and stiff as a bore’s, just like pig hair. Bless their oinking hearts.

  Regardless, I’ve personally come to love bald men, especially the partially bald ones that have the fringe around the edges and no hope in hell for a comb-over. While not at all proven, my theory is that this clownlike pattern of male baldness generally occurs in your more jovial and intellectual men. I’d like to do a study on this, but am too busy worrying about my children growing up decent and not going to jail or marrying Bubbas who drive and/or restore El Caminos.

  I don’t care how many full-fluffy-haired men are out there. If a girl can get past her fear of the shining egg, she’ll learn there are not enough great things to be said for Bald Men.

  Truth is, Bald Men are a Win-Win. Maybe someone will see my idea (it was here first) and make up some bumper stickers and I can get rich enough to buy retail and the real Crest Whitestrips instead of the store brands that all but pull out my teeth.

  You don’t need to read the above paragraphs again. You have read correctly. If a fellow has good teeth, there’s nothing wrong with a head minus hair. My personal motto is: Teeth are the Foundation. Hair is but a Shingle.

  All this bald talk stemmed from a column I wrote in which a certain reader got all riled up, as my readers will do from time to time, particularly on the days when their Vicodin prescriptions run out. The man had taken offense to my column about “fishing to catch a man,” in particular the part where I mentioned attracting only bald men who “ma’am me.” He was so angry he canceled his newspaper subscription. It wasn’t funny, he noted, and e-mailed me wondering how I’d feel if a man wrote an article saying, “Even the flat-chested ones quit looking his way” in describing women.

  I replied:

  Dear Sir,

  My husband’s going bald and I’m four-chested, much like a milking cow. Also, as a side note, I’ve been going bald for two years but have learned the great art of the Female Rooster Comb-over Puff-and-Spray, a new look for women who are receding.

  I continued in this euphoric type-fest:

  Look in the mirror, dear smooth top.

  Be proud that you are hair-free and that when you cook, no one can accuse you of dropping a hair into their Quiche Lorraine. I praise bald men. Purely love them.

  He picked up the phone about an hour after our e-mail exchange, slurring, “You old snooty witch. Who do you think you is? I lost my hair in a turkey-frying accident and how dare you insult follically challenged men in your sorry-ass col-yume?”

  “I apologize, sir,” I said, “I have grown to love, admire and respect the bald men of—”

  I’ll have you know,” he said, “that turkey-frying incident on Thanksgiving took my eyebrows and lashes along with it, along with part of my bottom lip, and since I was out there nekkid, it being 4 AM and all, it singed away my pubic area.

  Oh, damn. What does one say to that? Should I tell him about my boyfriend who lit his own genny-tale-ya fur afire on purpose to kill a bad case of crotch crickets? Should I hang up?

  Before I could answer, he continued. “Women like it if you ain’t got no hair down there to get caught in their teeth, if you’uns know what I mean. Looky, here. All’s I’m saying is be nicer in your col-yumes about bald men. You never know how they got that way, you’uns hear me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Now what was your name again?”

  “Bubba. Bubba the Bald Wonder.”

  Since a humor columnist can hardly write a single paragraph without setting off a blazing fire of anger from the ultra-sensitive or the special interests groups, here are my true and purest thoughts on why it’s lovely—even preferred, to a degree—to be bald:

  You will save at least $8 a month on shampoos, $10 on electricity from the lack of blow-drying, and $15 because only the ear and nose hairs need a trim and you can do that yourself. (Unless you’re like Bubba the Bald Wonder and burned those during a manly grill out or turkey-frying inferno.)

  Don’t forget all those savings on conditioners, gels and sprays. Enough to buy you a case of Bud Light.

  The only toiletry bald men need for the head department is sunscreen with an SPF of 30 in order to protect the Great Hairless One’s tender top.

  Bald men are less likely to crash into a storefront window while peacocking.

  They are less likely to cheat, unless addicted to the Web site www.womengoingintoheatoversmoothtops.com. I made that up, but may start one and charge a hefty fee to go along with my bumper sticker business.

  With bald men, you won’t have to wash the pillowcases as often, like other women whose husbands shed profusely, unleashing dandruff and the odors of the day trapped in all those crevices.

  If you forget your compact, you can just tell him you’ll need a full head tilt.

  You won’t have to wash his combs nor will he require an extra towel every time he showers. Men with too much hair typically use multiple towels.

  You’ll be able to get out the door much quicker in the wintertime. Cap him and shoo him into the vehicle. No need to wait on him to festoon a ’do.

  But best of all, and the number one reason to love a bald man is…drumroll, please…If all that blood is
n’t circulating on top of his head, it’s got to be going somewhere else!

  If It’s Not in His Kiss, Could It Be in His Boxers?

  M ost junk mail that comes across my computer gets trashed. But when the headline screams, HOW TO TELL IF SHE’S READY TO BE KISSED , well, curiosity gets the best of me.

  Especially when it’s a guy telling us these things.

  The author of the Kiss Test, at www.datingsecretsonline. com, said just thinking a woman’s lips look luscious isn’t indicative of her interest. Well, duh, dude. He says a guy first has to touch a fair maiden’s hair and comment on it being soft as he feels and smells her tresses. If she smiles and seems to enjoy it, then she probably won’t mind if he up and plants one on her. So says he.

  If I was with a guy who started messing with my ’do, I’d have to knock out his teeth then and there. You don’t fool with just any woman’s hairdo, I don’t care where she’s from. Certainly not if it’s been sprayed and lacquered, maybe even put in a kiln, glazed and fired.

  We take our hair seriously. I remember Tidy Stu saying, long after we got married, “The first time I felt your hair it was like grasping old hay that a mule had upchucked.” Wow, glad he kept that to himself back then.

  Look here. I may be out of the dating pool, but I sure remember plenty of times when I wanted to be kissed and got nothing. Or when I didn’t want to be kissed and got clobbered or slobbered. The Web site author, who I’m sure is a precious and peachy thing, also claims he knows top-secret body language to keep a woman’s attention, things like: how to approach a new woman you’d like to meet and what to say to start a conversation without resorting to pickup lines. He also knows of fun places to take women that are free, thus no paying for expensive dates.

  Personally, I don’t like cheap dates. I don’t mind poor dates, but if they are tightwads with money, they can hightail it elsewhere, preferably the nursing home, Croaker’s being my personal favorite. Mr. Cheapy Pie can entertain the ladies with his guitar and cheesy smiles. Maybe if he opens the case, someone will throw in a few pennies. Or dentures. Or a wad of tissues, maybe a walking stick or prosthesis.

  Not to be shallow, but if on a first date a man takes me to a church event, that’s fine and impressive. But he’ll score more points and chances for smooching behind the pews if he plunks down a fistful of cash in the collection plate when it passes amongst the crowd. A good woman doesn’t mind a poor fellow as long as he knows where to direct moolah when it does come toward his pockets, and that would be to us or the man upstairs.

  What’s really bad is when you go out on a date and he forgets his wallet or credit cards and then swoops in like some rabid bat and plants a toothy kiss somewhere between your lips and chin, maybe even causing an open and bleeding wound if he has hyena choppers or fangs a dentist failed to file.

  There is nothing to ruin a kissing mood like a set of hyena teeth. Sugar pies, there are men (and women) out there with teeth like the Ugliest Dog Alive’s, though he’s now dead, God rest poor Sam, the Chinese Crested’s soul. You wanna see him? Go to www.samugliestdog.com.

  My beautiful friend Myrtle who is making me call her Emma in this book because she’s always wanted to be an Emma, says many a date or potential suitor ended up ruining, flat-out destroying the mood, when he opened his mouth and flashed some Ugly Dog hyena teef. Not teeth, my dears, but teef .

  She’s been surfing Match.com and is suddenly learning why some of the men don’t smile in their photos. She found one who had great possibility as a prospect and decided to meet him in person, getting the fright of her life when he accidentally smiled and his hideous (we pronounce it hid-yus) set of Billy-Bob teeth caused her to swallow her Ultra-Whitening Tic Tacs and began hacking uncontrollably. It was a shame, she said, because he had so much going for him, things like a job and 401(K) plan and a fairly decent and restored Pacer.

  “I broke down in an e-mail and told Houston he needed his teeth bleached,” she said, laughing and wailing. “They’re crooked, and I don’t mind that as long as there’re enough in the gums so it’s not like looking down a dark hole, but, damn, they are brown. BROWN! Not just yellow but dark brown. Shit brown, Susan!”

  Being charming and Southern, she said in her gentle e-mail to this man, “Nicely bleached teeth would show off your beautiful dimples and gorgeous blue eyes.” She knew how to get another date with him and slap the Crest Whitestrips or Zoom machine his way.

  “You gotta be honest,” she said. “There’s no pussyfootin’ around when it comes to teeth.”

  Hear that, ladies and gents? Get thee to a bleaching den ASAP. You can have a brighter smile for as little as ten to thirty bucks if you buy over-the-counter, which sure beats not getting another date. Also, it’s a great idea to use dental floss for more than holding up bad socks or strangling insects.

  Brushing once a day, as one of my dearest friends does, isn’t going to cut it either. If you don’t have hair, that’s not your fault, however, if you don’t have teeth, then you are a lazy SOB or, bless your heart, have a gum disease that’s NOT your fault.

  I had to tell as much to my dear friend who grinds and is dangerously close to having himself a set of Green Giant Niblets corn teeth.

  “But I brush them long and hard,” he said.

  “Your butt will be at Affordable Clackers if you don’t floss, get to a dentist and use something besides that toothbrush from 1986 to scrub those tartared teef.”

  Bless their molars. The latest research shows gum disease as a result of tooth neglect can cause heart problems, even death. It’s all a matter of that old jingle: the hip bone’s connected to the leg bone…”

  Regardless of oral care or lack thereof, let’s jump back to the part where that dating guy says he knows when a woman wants to be kissed. I think I know more than he does, as my information stems from the mind and experiences of a reformed Hussy Queen who’s had plenty of practice, too much, by my double-virgin mother’s standards.

  First, the woman who wants to be kissed will casually lick her lips (I’m not talking about a slutty motion or a dog about to get a steak). She may even stare at your face and lips. Then again, if she’s not a Recovering Hussy and is in full huss mode, she’ll just do all sorts of vile things with her mouth and tongue to get your attention.

  Second, she’ll subconsciously pucker. Third, she will be wearing perfume and nice clothes, not a muumuu with orthopedic slippers and a steel-belted radial bra or ugly old Mee-Maw drawers with crotches the same color as bad teeth.

  For starters, a kiss is like the salad, and if it’s bitter, wilted or made entirely of iceberg, well, the entree can’t be much better. It goes without saying the teeth must be tip-top, as should the man’s breath.

  An astute editor at my paper approached my desk with another one of those Harlequin Romance reports featuring the topic of kissing—best kisses, most kissable men and women, and best movie kisses.

  First, let me preface this by saying I’ve lived long enough to have survived some horrendous kisses, and no doubt delivered a few myself before proper training. As a young girl, I practiced on my own hand, windowpanes, even trees if the bark wasn’t too bulky or rough, pine trees being the worst.

  Before we drumroll to Harlequin’s top kiss picks—who, I’ll go ahead and tell you, are all the usual suspects: George Clooney, Julia Roberts, Halle Berry, Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Will Smith, Jennifer Lopez and Michelin Tire lips, aka Angelina Jolie—let’s return to those early kisses of youth.

  I’d like to share wit
h readers some of the notables on the Buzzard Fleet, that pet name chosen for my ex-boyfriends. I share this fleet because these are the types most of us will have run-ins and lip-locks with rather than the Mel Gibsons and Pierce Brosnans of the Harlequin Calendar world. Here they are, my pretties…

  THE PECKER: This male is like a hen in a coop, stabbing the female face with painful, jabbing pecks at lips, cheeks, chin and anything else he finds worthy of the craw. Never go out on a second date with a Pecker unless you like scars and wounds. Those with hamster and hyena teeth are notorious peckers.

  THE SWOOPER: Here’s a guy who’ll come diving in at all the wrong angles, craning his neck and plummeting like a blind, fanged bat, never meeting with lips but instead crashing into various other parts of the face. Tragic sense of landing, the poor fellow. One nearly bit off my nose.

  THE WRITHING MISSILE: What this muscular wonder loves to do is show his dates he’s got a mean tonguing machine ready to burst out of its own enameled gate and enter yours. Warning: Clamp down hard to prevent a damaging onslaught. His tongue is lizardlike, rough as a cat’s, and like some sort of hardened piece of mobile liver. He is of the wrong notion that the farther he can cram his missile down your throat, the happier you’ll be. Get a clue: if your tongue’s not dark chocolate, don’t stick it in so freakin’ far.

  THE STEAMROLLER: When he decides to kiss, he lays one on so crushing it could all but suffocate a girl. What’s typically left of a woman once he’s peeled back the passion is a set of flattened lips and loose teeth. Steer clear from this Kissing Battering Ram.