As this blog gets more popular, people are naturally looking to me for dating and interracial advice. I could use all this new found popularity to retreat atop some high hill in the clouds, go bald and grow a really, really long gray beard and charge people $50 to rub it for good luck.
But the truth is, I’m an expert on a lot of stuff related to relationships, not because I’ve got alphabets behind my name, but because I have gotten sooooooo much experience from the string of losers I’ve dated over the years. And unlike those that dish advice as if they defecate rose-scented poo, I’m pretty clear about what an idiot I was for a long, long, time.
Like the guy I dated briefly after meeting him at Venice Beach. (Just an aside, never, EVER date someone you meet from Venice Beach, California. You never know if they’ve had all their shots.) He had no job. But he was fione. And virtually homeless. After finding out all the shady stuff he was into, just kissing him made me run out to get an H.I.V. test.
THEN, also in my dumb-assed 20’s, I dated a guy who swept me off my feet. He was self-employed (had his own tow truck business–I was aiming REAL high at the time) and bootlegged cell phone numbers and sold them back when you could do that kind of stuff. Pagers were still en vogue, and I had his number–and that was it. He was going through a “divorce,” he said. Being learned in all forms of bootlegged phone numbers, he gave me his ‘home’ number, which of course, was never answered. Note to the youngins: if a grown man doesn’t give you his home number and never invites you over for dinner, chances are he’s as married as I am. You know how I found out he was still very much married? He walked into the same beauty salon I went to for a haircut while I was there for a press and curl. He hadn’t answered my pages all day, BUT! dude walks in and WHATAYAKNOW? he’s got a big, shiny, gold band on his left ring finger. I was crushed because this guy wined and dined and was frankly–how do I say this–well… I can’t, because this blog is PG-13. But TRUST me, he was goooooooood at it.
In both cases, I later had a “What the hay-ell was I thinking?” moment that in retrospect makes me shiver me timbers and thank GOD IN HEAVEN I am not single. Anymore.
The blame for me making all those mistakes with men before I finally “got it” lay smack dab in the lap of my mother. Sorry Alice, but you sucked the big cheese on advice in the guy department. Still love ya, though. But it wasn’t all her fault. She got zero experience from her mother, so she just passed on the favor.
Okay BB&W, spill it. What was your “What the eff was I thinking moment?”