this is how a man sets you up on a blind date: last weekend i was in the car with caitlin and ron coming home from smoque, where i almost decided to give up on men entirely and marry a piece of their delicious brisket. caitlin and i were talking shit in the front seat when all of a sudden ron interrupted our mindless ladychatter from the back, "hey samantha, what are your titties, about a 40DD?" i glanced over my shoulder in mock horror to watch him tapping away at his iphone. instead of waiting for a confirmation he continued to text while murmuring aloud to himself, "yep, she has a nice big ass, too. shit sits all high on her back, mm hmm." caitlin demanded to know who he was talking to. "i found somebody new for sam to have sex with," he said. "nice dude, smart, doesn't talk too fucking much. isn't that what you're up there bitching about?" this is how a woman sets you up on a blind date: she browbeats her boyfriend into exhaustively scrolling through the mental rolodex of every man he's ever worked for, talked to, or shared a goddamned elevator with until he can come up with one who has a job and isn't married and might be convinced to eat dinner across from a woman she's only willing to describe as "very smart" and "super funny" with "an amazing personality" and then drops your unsuspecting ass in the middle of the dating ocean in a goddamned inner tube with no flippers or oxygen tank. GROAN.
if i was a lesbian that shit would be perfect. bitches love talking about how awesome our personalities are, and i'm sure i'd be in a civil union right this minute if you jerks were setting me up with your former softball coach instead of that dude your boyfriend played intramural soccer with a couple summers ago whose facebook status just changed back to "single." and i appreciate the consideration, i really do. i just wish you assholes would stop setting my dumb ass up like a cow going to slaughter. i keep getting blindsided by dudes who have no idea what they're in for and have a hard time masking their disappointment. sometimes they don't even fucking try, stupid bastards. and it's not that i don't appreciate the effort, because i do. i really do want to put a spanx on to awkwardly sit across from that dude your husband met in the dominicks parking lot after he backed into your volvo who just broke off his engagement and talk about television shows he pretends to never have heard of over a plate of mid-priced pasta. yes, please. sign me right up. but could you first maybe give him a heads up about WHAT THE FUCK I LOOK LIKE?!
women are polite. AND DELUSIONAL. we like to think that all that matters is a sense of humor and good taste in music, when what really matters is that a man cannot insert his penis into one of my jokes, so if he isn't interested in fucking this face or this body then what is the goddamned point? zoe and her boyfriend at the time orchestrated a blind date for me last year, and when she emailed me the proposition the first thing i said was, "did you tell this asshole what i look like?" and of course she hadn't because, according to her, in real life it shouldn't matter if your bra has four hooks. and of course it shouldn't. i'm pretty goddamned amazing. humble, too. but if a dude doesn't want to drink a beer across from someone with minotaur thighs and deceptively slender ankles, i am going to look like A MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE. zoe is the sweetest, and i wish i weren't such a shithead malcontent and could walk around with her brand of wide-eyed optimism. but my wide-hipped realism knows fucking better.
it was my first blind date in the history of ever. now let's clarify what i mean when i say BLIND. having a beer with a dude you met on the internet isn't really a blind fucking date. i mean, you've seen some blurry, faraway, dimly-lit pictures, haven't you? and you know he likes foreign films and quiet evenings cooking together at home, don't you?! well then that asshole is not a goddamned stranger. i know how many times you read his match.com profile, gurrrrrl. you can recite his "favorite hot spots and destinations" blindfolded while hanging upside down from your meticulously painted toenails, bitch. STOP PLAYING. anyway, real blind dates are terrifying events, the mere prospect of which causes me to break out in a cold, anxious sweat, coordinated by my well-meaning friends who ignore any physical or personality flaws of mine to arrange dinner plans between me and handsome friends of theirs who are mistakenly convinced that they are about to eat a steak across from the hottest, smartest, funniest woman they will ever encounter on the face of this earth.
and i don't get nervous because there's something wrong with me, i get nervous because my fucking friends are all, "sam's hilarious and so smart and you are going to love her," and never like, "listen dude, this bitch snores and she writes dick jokes and sometimes she has to wear a brace on her wrist and her thighs touch. is that cool? does that sound like someone you might be attracted to? YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FIDGET AWKWARDLY AND KEEP CHECKING YOUR WATCH THE WHOLE NIGHT, RIGHT?" so these unsuspecting dudes are expecting halle berry with a genius IQ and a book of limericks tucked in her handbag to come strolling in, and then here i come lumbering into the goddamned bar in a dirty t-shirt with a bald head and four frayed-edged books falling out of my bag, glasses askew, already shitty drunk, and he's like, "OH, HAI. are you the person the girl i'm supposed to be meeting brought as her bodyguard?"
zoe had sent me an email of highlights: background, education, job history, dating overview; it was like a curriculum vitae for his penis. at that point, though, she'd already done the same thing on my behalf, and even if he sounded like total trash i was going to have to get my shit together and meet him. i mean, what the fuck was i going to say? "sorry, munchkin, i'm too busy and interesting and important to get drinks with a dude working on his phD in some shit i've never heard of because i never took physics in high school. i'd much rather stay home in my pajamas and watch the town again." pffft.
i remember it was snowing that night, thus causing the conundrum of whether or not to suck it up and wear my unattractive gross winter boots or risk breaking my ass in half in front of some hot dude by wearing some less sensible shoes and trying to walk on ice. i opted for the former, and made sure i got to the bar early so i could hide my feet under the table. after which i'd only have to worry about crushing one of his toes beneath them. the bartender, who knows me by name, sent over a drink. right after i'd ordered a beer. and a goddamned shot. and before any of this could be reconciled, the most adorable dude i've ever seen in my entire fucking life came smiling toward me with his hand outstretched. the waitress and i exchanged a silent OH SHIT, GURL as he surveyed the table. "i'm an alcoholic," i joked, then bit my tongue because that would only be funny if i'd been surrounded by half a dozen club sodas. le sigh.
it wasn't a bad date, it just wasn't exactly a date. i told a lot of jokes (SO MANY JOKES) and stories and he laughed a lot and pretended he wanted to hang out again. which we didn't. ever again. zoe obviously owes me dinner. AND A BOYFRIEND.
i got an email last sunday afternoon from an address i didn't recognize. it was from a gentleman i've never met who'd apprently been informed by my friend katie that i am "a bright, dynamic individual [he'd] benefit from getting to know." i hated him immediately. because i don't like pretentious gasbags, and no real person describes someone else as BRIGHT and DYNAMIC unless he's making fun of you. or they are reading a television script. but that shit was written coherently and spelled correctly, so i kept reading. his name was stephen (NOT STEVE; remember that shit, it'll be on the quiz) and he described himself as "charismatic and dark," which is exhausting just to think about. who words shit that way?! if i wanted to fuck you and i was going to send you an email before we met, i'd say, "i tell a lot of jokes and i'm a total fucking party. i'll swallow without gagging." or something like that. the point is, i wouldn't call myself "ebullient and convivial."
i wrote him back while waiting for the addison bus in the freezing cold. a handful of sentences: witty and playful, excruciatingly polite. at his suggestion we made plans to go to the hopleaf, because everyone and their grandmother cannot fucking get enough of that stupid goddamned place. WHAT THE FUCK, CHICAGO? listen, i love brisket as much as the next carnivore, and that duck is a goddamned jam, but standing butts-to-nuts with a bunch of bearded indie beer snobs is not my idea of a good fucking time. you can't even breathe in there on a friday night, the air is so heavy with pretension and hipster poseurs. in an effort to make a good impression i agreed to meet him there, but i want you to know i was TOTALLY ROLLING MY EYES as i wrote back, "see you there at eight!"
below please find the transcript of our date, including the reasons why i'm never going out with your brother's childhood best friend's chemistry tutor ever again in my entire fucking life.
1 this goddamned ass. it's a masterpiece, that's true. but some people prefer a smaller one, and we have to learn that personal preference isn't illegal. is it a crime against his penis? absolutely, because i'm killer in bed and everyone knows that skinny girls bruise easily and never want to do anything exciting. you can bodyslam a zaftig broad and CONTINUE TO FUCK HER. seriously, you could blast my ass with a taser and i wouldn't make you pull out. real talk.
i took the bus to our date, which is thoroughly demoralizing and not smart in the least. i'm the kind of asshole who will take a cab two blocks on a perfectly sunny day, but when faced with the daunting task of trying to charm the dude who used to deliver your mail i'm a total fucking idiot and choose instead to try to expertly disguise my skin flaws with makeup while riding in a moving vehicle with fistfighting teenagers and screaming toddlers launching themselves into my eyeliner hand every thirty-five seconds.
i got to the bar early, which was a relief because i was sweating. in the middle of winter. OMG THIS FUCKING HIPPIE DEODORANT. i showed the door man my ID and shoved through the nineteen assholes blocking the doorway with their proust discussion and found a place at the bar where i could drop my bag and stick some napkins in my armpits. i ordered a fancy beer (more on that later) and pulled out my kindle. half an hour later i checked my phone. there was a text from him. "are you here?" i texted back, "at the bar, reading like a nerd." i spotted a handsome black dude in a nicely appointed suit making his way through the crowd while staring at his phone. i extended my hand as he approached and said, "stephen? i'm samantha." his response: "doesn't katie know? i usually date dancers."
2 satanic devil tattoos. all my shit is mean and aggressive-looking and right where you can see them, skulls and skeletons and a screaming grim reaper brandishing a smoking pistol. they look totally fucking cool, man. all black and gray, so menacing and full of death. i love that shit. but did you know that some people would rather a lady have kitten-faced butterflies tattooed at the small of her back? and that's not what i have.
OKAY. just so we're all on the same page, i interpreted that as "the women i date are the circumference of your forearm." i mean, right? no hello, no how are you, NO NOTHING, just straight to the hate. and speaking of my forearm, he took my right one in his hand and said, "this ink is, um, interesting. are you depressed?" i wish you could've heard this dude's tone of voice, like i'd fucking slapped him with that arm and he was deciding whether or not to chop it off. "my tattoos are righteous, dude. should we get a table?"
realizing that he might have started things off on the wrong ballet slipper, stephen apologized and tried to explain what he'd meant by the whole dancer thing. here's one of my favorite things to do: when someone says something crazy or stupid to me, i stand there and let him try to clean up his mess for my amusement. most people hate uncomfortable situations, preferring instead to say, "oh, that's okay" to relieve you both of that awkward discomfort. NOT MY ASS. if you need to tell me how sorry you are, i will stop everything i'm doing to sit and watch you shit yourself and turn red in the face while trying to explain how bad you feel. it pleases me greatly. so he stumbled through some nonsensical bullshit for three minutes, pleading with his eyes for me to let him off the hook until finally i interrupted him to say, "skinny girls. i get it. let's eat."
3 i'm "earthy." this shit is rarely a compliment when a black dude with obviously manicured hands says it to you. i shaved my head when i was sixteen. prior to that i had shoulder-length chemically straightened hair that took forever to deal with and was incredibly expensive. i also had a scalp full of chemical burns and gross patches that flaked and peeled. i had to get up early before school to flat iron the roots before curling the ends, after i'd spent the entire night trying to stay perfectly still so the silk scarf i wrapped around my head would stay put. only to wake up with impeccable hair that had to be shielded at all times from wind, dust, open flame, and, most importantly, WATER.
"is your hair curly naturally?" he asked after ordering A CRANBERRY JUICE NO VODKA from the bartender. i snickered into my beer and told him that yes, these curls don't come from a bottle. "i've never gone out with a woman as earthy as you are." first i panicked and thought my woodland spice natural deodorant had somehow evaporated in the twenty minutes between my apartment and the bar and my natural musk was starting to soak through my shirt. but then i realized he meant that he'd never been out with a nappy-headed black bitch, and the only kind of asshole who mentions that is the kind of asshole that prefers you'd walk around with your scalp fucked up with a sewn-in yaki weave. i explained to him that my choice to go natural saves me a ton of money and stress and is good for both my health and the environment.
"yeah, but you'd be so much prettier." SIGH.
4 jeggings and gray t-shirts. okay, so i don't have little black date night pants and heels. and i'm lazy and uninterested in fancy clothing. never have i ever been rewarded for struggling into some painful clothing. seriously, not once has my tiptoeing awkwardly all night ever resulted in any tangible gains. i hate peeling off some control-top shit at the end of the night to get in bed by my goddamned self. and for what? so that sweater dress i shouldn't have spent $150 dollars on would get caught in the top of them anyway, giving the entire restaurant a view of my hamhocks?! man, fuck that. so i don't buy nice shit anymore. jeggings, t-shirts, and new balance are the most you can ever hope to get. sometimes i'll wear those flats that make me look like i have dainty chinese feet, but only if i really like you.
i spilled brisket on my shirt, twice. much to stephen's visible horror. but look, i can't help it if the bread is so stuffed with delicious meat that it's hard for me to hold it. plus, we had to wait for over a fucking hour, and that much small talk with a dude who kept asking what it was like to be "internet famous" made me drink. a lot. he ordered the mussels and, after having referred to himself in the third person as a "connoisseur of seafood," he couldn't figure out how to get them open and eat them. after dropping two in his lap and dumping another down the front of his crisp white shirt he told me that next time he was going to take a page out of my book and "dress for dinner like [he] was going to a monster truck rally." it was the first time i laughed all night. WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE.
5 dudes like pocket pals. seriously, every man i know wants the human equivalent of a baby chihuahua. tiny people with underdeveloped internal organs who fit nicely into your gym bag. i'm tall. 5'9" with no shoes on tall. and you wouldn't think that would be such a big deal with all these milk hormones and shit producing gigantic young men, but even nba forwards want to walk around with lollipop kids dangling from their jockstraps.
and i don't get nervous because there's something wrong with me, i get nervous because my fucking friends are all, "sam's hilarious and so smart and you are going to love her," and never like, "listen dude, this bitch snores and she writes dick jokes and sometimes she has to wear a brace on her wrist and her thighs touch. is that cool? does that sound like someone you might be attracted to? YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FIDGET AWKWARDLY AND KEEP CHECKING YOUR WATCH THE WHOLE NIGHT, RIGHT?" so these unsuspecting dudes are expecting halle berry with a genius IQ and a book of limericks tucked in her handbag to come strolling in, and then here i come lumbering into the goddamned bar in a dirty t-shirt with a bald head and four frayed-edged books falling out of my bag, glasses askew, already shitty drunk, and he's like, "OH, HAI. are you the person the girl i'm supposed to be meeting brought as her bodyguard?"
zoe had sent me an email of highlights: background, education, job history, dating overview; it was like a curriculum vitae for his penis. at that point, though, she'd already done the same thing on my behalf, and even if he sounded like total trash i was going to have to get my shit together and meet him. i mean, what the fuck was i going to say? "sorry, munchkin, i'm too busy and interesting and important to get drinks with a dude working on his phD in some shit i've never heard of because i never took physics in high school. i'd much rather stay home in my pajamas and watch the town again." pffft.
i remember it was snowing that night, thus causing the conundrum of whether or not to suck it up and wear my unattractive gross winter boots or risk breaking my ass in half in front of some hot dude by wearing some less sensible shoes and trying to walk on ice. i opted for the former, and made sure i got to the bar early so i could hide my feet under the table. after which i'd only have to worry about crushing one of his toes beneath them. the bartender, who knows me by name, sent over a drink. right after i'd ordered a beer. and a goddamned shot. and before any of this could be reconciled, the most adorable dude i've ever seen in my entire fucking life came smiling toward me with his hand outstretched. the waitress and i exchanged a silent OH SHIT, GURL as he surveyed the table. "i'm an alcoholic," i joked, then bit my tongue because that would only be funny if i'd been surrounded by half a dozen club sodas. le sigh.
it wasn't a bad date, it just wasn't exactly a date. i told a lot of jokes (SO MANY JOKES) and stories and he laughed a lot and pretended he wanted to hang out again. which we didn't. ever again. zoe obviously owes me dinner. AND A BOYFRIEND.
i got an email last sunday afternoon from an address i didn't recognize. it was from a gentleman i've never met who'd apprently been informed by my friend katie that i am "a bright, dynamic individual [he'd] benefit from getting to know." i hated him immediately. because i don't like pretentious gasbags, and no real person describes someone else as BRIGHT and DYNAMIC unless he's making fun of you. or they are reading a television script. but that shit was written coherently and spelled correctly, so i kept reading. his name was stephen (NOT STEVE; remember that shit, it'll be on the quiz) and he described himself as "charismatic and dark," which is exhausting just to think about. who words shit that way?! if i wanted to fuck you and i was going to send you an email before we met, i'd say, "i tell a lot of jokes and i'm a total fucking party. i'll swallow without gagging." or something like that. the point is, i wouldn't call myself "ebullient and convivial."
i wrote him back while waiting for the addison bus in the freezing cold. a handful of sentences: witty and playful, excruciatingly polite. at his suggestion we made plans to go to the hopleaf, because everyone and their grandmother cannot fucking get enough of that stupid goddamned place. WHAT THE FUCK, CHICAGO? listen, i love brisket as much as the next carnivore, and that duck is a goddamned jam, but standing butts-to-nuts with a bunch of bearded indie beer snobs is not my idea of a good fucking time. you can't even breathe in there on a friday night, the air is so heavy with pretension and hipster poseurs. in an effort to make a good impression i agreed to meet him there, but i want you to know i was TOTALLY ROLLING MY EYES as i wrote back, "see you there at eight!"
below please find the transcript of our date, including the reasons why i'm never going out with your brother's childhood best friend's chemistry tutor ever again in my entire fucking life.
1 this goddamned ass. it's a masterpiece, that's true. but some people prefer a smaller one, and we have to learn that personal preference isn't illegal. is it a crime against his penis? absolutely, because i'm killer in bed and everyone knows that skinny girls bruise easily and never want to do anything exciting. you can bodyslam a zaftig broad and CONTINUE TO FUCK HER. seriously, you could blast my ass with a taser and i wouldn't make you pull out. real talk.
i took the bus to our date, which is thoroughly demoralizing and not smart in the least. i'm the kind of asshole who will take a cab two blocks on a perfectly sunny day, but when faced with the daunting task of trying to charm the dude who used to deliver your mail i'm a total fucking idiot and choose instead to try to expertly disguise my skin flaws with makeup while riding in a moving vehicle with fistfighting teenagers and screaming toddlers launching themselves into my eyeliner hand every thirty-five seconds.
i got to the bar early, which was a relief because i was sweating. in the middle of winter. OMG THIS FUCKING HIPPIE DEODORANT. i showed the door man my ID and shoved through the nineteen assholes blocking the doorway with their proust discussion and found a place at the bar where i could drop my bag and stick some napkins in my armpits. i ordered a fancy beer (more on that later) and pulled out my kindle. half an hour later i checked my phone. there was a text from him. "are you here?" i texted back, "at the bar, reading like a nerd." i spotted a handsome black dude in a nicely appointed suit making his way through the crowd while staring at his phone. i extended my hand as he approached and said, "stephen? i'm samantha." his response: "doesn't katie know? i usually date dancers."
2 satanic devil tattoos. all my shit is mean and aggressive-looking and right where you can see them, skulls and skeletons and a screaming grim reaper brandishing a smoking pistol. they look totally fucking cool, man. all black and gray, so menacing and full of death. i love that shit. but did you know that some people would rather a lady have kitten-faced butterflies tattooed at the small of her back? and that's not what i have.
OKAY. just so we're all on the same page, i interpreted that as "the women i date are the circumference of your forearm." i mean, right? no hello, no how are you, NO NOTHING, just straight to the hate. and speaking of my forearm, he took my right one in his hand and said, "this ink is, um, interesting. are you depressed?" i wish you could've heard this dude's tone of voice, like i'd fucking slapped him with that arm and he was deciding whether or not to chop it off. "my tattoos are righteous, dude. should we get a table?"
realizing that he might have started things off on the wrong ballet slipper, stephen apologized and tried to explain what he'd meant by the whole dancer thing. here's one of my favorite things to do: when someone says something crazy or stupid to me, i stand there and let him try to clean up his mess for my amusement. most people hate uncomfortable situations, preferring instead to say, "oh, that's okay" to relieve you both of that awkward discomfort. NOT MY ASS. if you need to tell me how sorry you are, i will stop everything i'm doing to sit and watch you shit yourself and turn red in the face while trying to explain how bad you feel. it pleases me greatly. so he stumbled through some nonsensical bullshit for three minutes, pleading with his eyes for me to let him off the hook until finally i interrupted him to say, "skinny girls. i get it. let's eat."
3 i'm "earthy." this shit is rarely a compliment when a black dude with obviously manicured hands says it to you. i shaved my head when i was sixteen. prior to that i had shoulder-length chemically straightened hair that took forever to deal with and was incredibly expensive. i also had a scalp full of chemical burns and gross patches that flaked and peeled. i had to get up early before school to flat iron the roots before curling the ends, after i'd spent the entire night trying to stay perfectly still so the silk scarf i wrapped around my head would stay put. only to wake up with impeccable hair that had to be shielded at all times from wind, dust, open flame, and, most importantly, WATER.
"is your hair curly naturally?" he asked after ordering A CRANBERRY JUICE NO VODKA from the bartender. i snickered into my beer and told him that yes, these curls don't come from a bottle. "i've never gone out with a woman as earthy as you are." first i panicked and thought my woodland spice natural deodorant had somehow evaporated in the twenty minutes between my apartment and the bar and my natural musk was starting to soak through my shirt. but then i realized he meant that he'd never been out with a nappy-headed black bitch, and the only kind of asshole who mentions that is the kind of asshole that prefers you'd walk around with your scalp fucked up with a sewn-in yaki weave. i explained to him that my choice to go natural saves me a ton of money and stress and is good for both my health and the environment.
"yeah, but you'd be so much prettier." SIGH.
4 jeggings and gray t-shirts. okay, so i don't have little black date night pants and heels. and i'm lazy and uninterested in fancy clothing. never have i ever been rewarded for struggling into some painful clothing. seriously, not once has my tiptoeing awkwardly all night ever resulted in any tangible gains. i hate peeling off some control-top shit at the end of the night to get in bed by my goddamned self. and for what? so that sweater dress i shouldn't have spent $150 dollars on would get caught in the top of them anyway, giving the entire restaurant a view of my hamhocks?! man, fuck that. so i don't buy nice shit anymore. jeggings, t-shirts, and new balance are the most you can ever hope to get. sometimes i'll wear those flats that make me look like i have dainty chinese feet, but only if i really like you.
i spilled brisket on my shirt, twice. much to stephen's visible horror. but look, i can't help it if the bread is so stuffed with delicious meat that it's hard for me to hold it. plus, we had to wait for over a fucking hour, and that much small talk with a dude who kept asking what it was like to be "internet famous" made me drink. a lot. he ordered the mussels and, after having referred to himself in the third person as a "connoisseur of seafood," he couldn't figure out how to get them open and eat them. after dropping two in his lap and dumping another down the front of his crisp white shirt he told me that next time he was going to take a page out of my book and "dress for dinner like [he] was going to a monster truck rally." it was the first time i laughed all night. WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE.
5 dudes like pocket pals. seriously, every man i know wants the human equivalent of a baby chihuahua. tiny people with underdeveloped internal organs who fit nicely into your gym bag. i'm tall. 5'9" with no shoes on tall. and you wouldn't think that would be such a big deal with all these milk hormones and shit producing gigantic young men, but even nba forwards want to walk around with lollipop kids dangling from their jockstraps.
he paid the bill and winked at our waitress, who was the size of my left calf. she glanced at me and i waved it off, "no worries, girl. he's my brother." at this point in my life absolutely nothing comes as a shock or surprise, especially not the disgusting behavior of some silly dude. "bye, steve," i said, gathering my bag and shit. "it was nice meeting you. i'm just going to leave you here to flirt with homegirl and avoid all of that awkward fake hugging and shit people usually do after these sorts of things. get home safe, good luck with everything." i hadn't really listened to anything he'd said during dinner as it sounded like just a bunch of pompous windbaggery and self-importance. you know what i'm talking about. "oh my big fancy job and my big expensive house and my big fast car." BORING.
"i prefer stephen!" he called after me, and i laughed and flipped him off over my shoulder. my favorite feel better song is "off he goes" by pearl jam, and i found it in my ipod and turned the volume all the way up in case stephen decided to chase me down to offer up another criticism. i sent katie a shitty email FROM THE BACK OF A CAB.
the next morning i was on my way to work and got a text from katie, who obviously waits until she gets to work to check her email, unlike those of us who rabidly refresh that shit on our phones in desperate anticipation of some fresh and exciting news. i mean, um, it's not like i do that or anything. i meant the rest of you guys. anyway, it was a forward. "i had a lovely time with your friend last night, k. she was friendly and fun. incredibly bright and dynamic." dudes are amazing.
"40DD?" i asked ron in the car last weekend. "that's all i get?" caitlin blanched, incredulous that ron would be telling a dude my measurements instead of listing the last nine books i've read and my thoughts on the arab spring. nonplussed and completely not offended, i caught his eye in the rearview mirror and said, "you missed a D."
he winked and smiled. "that's cool, babygirl. he'll just find that other one after he meets you." now that is how you set a bitch up. JUST SAYING, omg.
