Back in April, I was given the opportunity, for one day, to lecture all three sections of “ENC 1102: Composition II, Research on Writers, Writing, & Discourse” at the University of Central Florida here in Orlando.

The professor, Nikki Stack, is a friend of mine from high school, and when she invited me to be a guest lecturer, I was thrilled.  Being a professor is a dream of mine, and getting to live that out for a day was a fantastic experience.

Me with UCF Professor Stack

I had an hour to fill and I decided to talk about writing and the varying roles it plays in my professional work, in writing humor, and in writing for stand-up.  After learning how to use PowerPoint (a program I never thought I’d have to use in any way), I wrote a lecture centered around 19 slides, covering everything from SEO and persuasive writing techniques to comedy and why Twitter is brilliant for writing exercises.  Starting off with my childhood, I gave a brief bio that explained my decision not to practice law and why nobody should be a lawyer, ever.  I discussed why and how I started my business, and explored my reasons for going into comedy. And, as can be expected, I pushed envelopes and crossed lines.

Each class started with this disclaimer from Professor Stack:  ”Today, we have a guest lecture from an old friend of mine, Dr. Adam Avitable.  He’s a lawyer, a CEO, a well-known blogger and humorist, and a stand-up comedian.  He will be talking about writing and how it applies to his life.  Since he is a comedian, there will be profanity and shocking content, but you are all adults and should be able to handle it.  If not, you may want to leave now.  And may the Lord have mercy on your souls.”  That last line may have been implied, not explicit, now that I think of it.

Not all of the presentation was profane and obscene. There were normal slides that examined the persuasive writing I have to do when acting in a sales capacity for my business, although, I did tell the class how to use those same manipulative techniques to get their way very easily.  For example, if you want your friends to hang out with you, don’t ask “Do you want to hang out?” or “Who wants to hang out?” – it’s too easy to say no to those requests.  Instead, just say “Go out with me tonight?”  It’s a demand that’s phrased like a question, and people are more likely to agree without realizing that you’re commanding them, not asking. Try it next time you want something and you’ll be amazed how much better it works. This was some serious wisdom I was imparting here!

Even though my very nature is to be persuasive and manipulative (something I rebel against every day, as I try to be honest and forthright instead of underhandedly getting my way), I was much more interested in talking about humor.  I felt like it was an environment that was rife for exploration and discussion.  Unfortunately, Professor Stack felt that an in-depth analysis was too advanced for the class, so I kept it simple.

In order to punctuate the final bullet, the next slide I showed had nothing but the word “BONERS” in large print on it, accompanied by my repeated use of the word, loudly and firmly, until everyone in the class either looked embarrassed or was laughing.  ”Boners is a funny word, by default.  Nobody can say the word boners and not have some reaction. Just think about the word – boners, boners, boners.” And then I illustrated all of the points in that slide with a mini fake quiz.

I explained how the incorrect grammar, punctuation, and capitalization actually helped to provide emphasis where it was needed and to paint an explicit picture in their heads, and how the answer went somewhere they didn’t expect.  It was a simple example, but as I revealed each part of the slide, I was rewarded with a good laugh from every class.

Each class was surprisingly attentive and seemingly interested in what I was presenting. Most of them were in their late teens, and I would like to think they got some entertainment out of someone like me being blunt, using frank language, and having no shame. I do think that I may have scarred a few of them for life, though, when I talked about realizing my dream of becoming an underwear model . . .

In the end, I emphasized the importance of writing in everyday life and told them, “Fuck math. That’s what calculators are for. You need to know how to write.  I wouldn’t hire someone with a typo on a resume or cover letter even if the job didn’t involve writing in any way.  Being a good writer will open a lot of doors.  But only figuratively.  You actually need hands or really awesome toes to open doors literally.”

There was something immensely satisfying about taking the clusterfuck that is the last 35 years of my life and wringing any type of wisdom or intelligent discourse out of it. While I felt awkward talking about myself in that capacity, the response and interest from each class, including the relevant questions they asked afterwards, demonstrated that what I’ve done in my life so far has some modicum of instructive or motivational value.

I would love to be a professor.  I’d love to teach an entire course on humor in writing, from Shakespeare to MAD Magazine to Douglas Adams to Jenny the Bloggess.  It’s not the lifestyle that drives me, and it’s not the abundance of young, highly attractive, libidinous women with daddy issues. It’s that feeling that your life and the lessons you’ve learned are worth something to someone else – someone unrelated to you, and someone who can learn and benefit from those lessons and pass those lessons onto others. It’s about as close as we get to being eternal, and that appeals to me in a way that I think is surprising to absolutely nobody.

Okay, I’m not being completely honest here. It’s actually the abundance of young, highly attractive, libidinous women.  I mean, c’mon.

BONERS!

I pride myself on being the type of friend who always remembers the birthdays of my friends and family. When I was younger, I kept everyone’s birthday written in a little black book and would call everyone to wish them a happy birthday. As I got older, I had a Palm Pilot, and then used Outlook Calendar. It was (and is) important to me to show my friends that I care about them enough to remember their birthdays.

Thanks to Facebook, all of the effort that would normally go into being a good friend and remembering birthdays is gone. Every single day of the year, I have notifications of the birthdays of my friends and of the random people who I’ve added on Facebook, and everyone’s wall is littered with generic birthday greetings that show absolutely zero effort, zero sentiment, and, as a result, mean absolutely nothing.

Over the last two years, I’ve developed a series of Facebook birthday wishes that will stand out, make someone laugh, and show that your friend means more to you than a boring stupid “Happy birthday!”  Recently, I saw that someone had stolen one of the greetings I came up with and used it as his own, so I decided that maybe I should share them with the world to help each of you become proficient in wishing your Facebook friends happy birthday without being trite or without blending into the crowd.

Below you will find the top seven birthday wishes that you could possibly wish any friend or family member.  These are birthday wishes that can be posted to your friends’ Facebook walls, emailed to them, or printed out and handed to them in an archaic style that we used to call “birthday cards” back in my day.  In order to make it easier for you to be an awesome, bad-ass Facebook friend, I made graphics for each birthday wish that you can just link to on their wall.  It still doesn’t require much effort, but at least you’re not a loser anymore!

Message:  Here’s to a fantastic birthday!  May it be filled with family, friends, booze, and lots of awesome boners.

Perfect for:  Single friends, newly married friends, young relatives.  Male or female – everyone can enjoy awesome boners.

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhOYgG

Message:  Good luck with celebrating your inexorable march towards your inevitable grave.  Have some more cake.

Perfect for:  Grandma or grandpa, fat friends, anybody in a coma, small children.

Link for Facebook: http://bit.ly/JhPkDX

Message:  Happy something something . . . ooh, shiny!

Perfect for:  Dogs, anyone under the age of 25, Tea Party Republicans

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhPxqD

Message:  Congratulations to you for celebrating today, the anniversary of the day that you emerged from your mother’s vagina.

Perfect for:  Siblings, your spouse, acquaintances, anyone who wasn’t born by Caesarean.

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhPFXk

Message:  How do you say “Happy Birthday” in I don’t give a shit?

Perfect for:  Foreign pen pals, cousins three times removed, mom and dad, your priest or rabbi

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhQ2Rq

Message:  Here’s to a birthday filled with fun and happiness and free from interruptions by a sneak attack from a rival clan of ninja assassins.

Perfect for:  Ninjas.  Duh.

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhQoI3

Message:  Leave me a piece of cake or you will never see your child again.

Perfect for:  People with children, people with pets, aunts and uncles, the gays.

Link for Facebook:  http://bit.ly/JhQyPo

And there you have it! With these Facebook birthday graphics, you too can stand out from the crowd of lazy, ineffectual friends who have the creativity of a writer from Two And A Half Men. Go off, spread birthday cheer, and be awesome!

Need more expert advice from Avitable?

• How to talk dirty
• How to get hired for any job
• How to write well and get published
• How to be funny
• How to throw an awesome party

I laid, naked, on the tile floor of my bathroom, alternating between shivering and sweating, dry-heaving and sobbing while my entire body twitched involuntarily.  This had been going on for hours, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

My Friday night started off relatively normal, if having six people under the age of 25 drunk and swimming in your pool is normal.  I was not in a party mood, so I nursed one drink for a few hours and hung out in the pool, dodging the occasional mosquito and ignoring the fact that the pool was just a shade too cool to actually be in it at night.

Almost two bottles of tequila were consumed.  Beers were shotgunned and the night was dotted with the glow of cigarettes.  I floated in the pool, thinking about how hungover everyone was going to be.  I reveled in my plans to go to bed soon, wake up early Saturday morning, and clean my garage.

As I toweled off and got ready to go to bed, a friend approached me.  ”I heard that you were interested in some baked goods,” she said.  ”Here – take a cookie.  They’re really strong, though.  I only ate one and I was knocked out for a day.”

Let me digress for a second.  When I was 32, I decided to let loose of control a little and try a few new things.  I smoked my first cigarette, I had alcohol for the first time since I was 19, and I smoked weed for the first time.  Now, at 35, I might drink once or twice a week, smoke a cigarette every now and then when I’m out drinking, and I’ll smoke weed maybe once a month or less.  I’m not a habitual consumer of anything that’s unhealthy, except mayonnaise and Oreos.  No, not together.

I looked at the tiny, petite girl and thought “Oh, if it knocked her out like that, this will be perfect for someone my size.  I’ll eat this cookie, and it will just help me sleep great tonight and I’ll wake up ready to clean my garage!”  So she handed me a cookie the size of a manhole cover (may be an exaggeration) and I ate the entire thing.

An hour later, the guests were gone.  It was 1 AM and I was laying in bed, playing a game of Scramble when the cookie kicked in.  The letters in my game flipped and became their mirror images.  My hands looked like they were two-dimensional, as drawn in a comic book, holding my phone.  The music I had playing slowed down until it was distorted beyond recognition.  I began to see waves of colors on the edge of my vision.

Extreme nausea drove me from my bed.  I crawled to the bathroom and propped myself up near the toilet.  For what felt like hours, I dry-heaved, tears streaming down my cheeks.  My body twitched uncontrollably and sweat poured from my face.  The paranoia began to grow.  What if this never stopped?  Why was I naked? Why didn’t anyone notice I was in pain?  What if I died?  Was I going to die?  What if nobody noticed I died? Why was I naked?  What would they say at my funeral?  Would everybody laugh? Why is everyone laughing at me? Why was I naked?

I used the trembling remains of my willpower and what I assume to be latent, untapped telekinetic powers to make my phone float from my bedside table to my porcelain-hugging home.  It didn’t work, though, which may have been a good thing.  The list of names I would have called was long, including my mom, my best friend, my girlfriend, and my roommate, but most importantly, starting with 911.  I wanted people in white coats with Indian accents to tell me I was not going to die, that I was going to be okay, that I had superpowers as a result of eating the cookie.  But then, right there, amid the hallucinating, the tweaking, and the paranoia, coherence and reason spoke up:  ”I can’t call 911, I don’t have health insurance.”  And that’s when I decided that I was going to make it through the night all on my own while also wondering how many people have actually died because they don’t want to incur the cost of calling 911.

Two days later, and I’m still recovering.  The saddest part of the entire experience is that even the thought of eating a cookie makes me nauseous – how can this be possible when I love cookies with all of my heart and stomach and the cockles of my heart and even the sub-cockles area?  I’m going to have to slowly re-introduce different varieties of cookies into my life until I’m able to look at a Tupperware filled with giant homemade chocolate chip cookies without running for the porcelain.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is telling people that I somehow managed to overdose on marijuana.  It’s hard to get any sympathy for what was literally the worst night of my entire life when people can’t stop laughing long enough to actually feel bad for me.

And to preemptively answer any questions:

Yes, I am sure it was just weed.  No, I did not know that edibles are more potent.  No, I didn’t realize that one cookie has multiple doses.  Yes, I know I’m a lightweight.  Yes, my vagina is fine, thank you for asking.  Yes, you can actually overdose on weed and it’s more common than anyone realizes.  No, I don’t mind that you’re laughing at me so hard that you peed yourself a little.  And, finally, yes, this really happened, and yes I know it’s ridiculous, and no, I can’t believe it either.

With the movies “The Avengers” and “The Dark Knight Rises” both coming into theaters in the upcoming weeks/months, I’ve seen a lot of unnecessary and troubling arguing going on in the geeky fanboy world.  One camp is pro-Avengers and one camp is pro-Batman, to the detriment of the other.  Why can’t you enjoy both and want both to succeed and make lots of money and be good movies?  Why does one have to be better than the other?

It’s petty and stupid and obnoxious.  And it prompted me to write this post.  I’m not going to be like that.  You can have your shitty favorites and your weird opinions, and I’ll still like you.  You see . . .

I’ll still be your friend, even if/when you:

• Think “The Wire” is better than “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”;
• Don’t dip your fries in mayonnaise;
• Choose Team Edward;
• Enjoyed “Fifty Shades of Grey”;
• Consider Macs to be superior computers;
• Exercise;
• Vote Republican;
• Disparage “Jersey Shore”;
• Hate chocolate;
• Find Angelina Jolie attractive;
• Have an AOL email address;
• Prefer Pepsi to Coke;
• Speak Klingon instead of Shyriiwook;
• Choose vegetarianism as a life choice;
• Watch “Big Bang Theory”;
• Don’t watch “Community”;
• Think Marvel is better than DC or that any character is better than Superman;
• Dislike Ke$ha;
• Recycle;
• Find Dane Cook or Jeff Dunham to be funny;
• Love your Android;
• Have never seen “Veronica Mars” or “Firefly”;
• Despise Los Angeles;
• Type in textspeak, even in emails or IMs;
• Wear Crocs;
• Drive under the speed limit;
• Join the ranks of people who bitch that “SNL just isn’t as funny as it used to be”;
• Won’t make a Facebook account;
• Shop at Walmart;
• Choose In-N-Out over other fast food;
• Like Dan Brown’s books;
• Think men should be hairless;
• Don’t own a microwave;
• Would rather watch Star Wars: Episodes I-III instead of IV-VI;
• Consider any movie to be superior to the book upon which it was based;
• Still have a VCR and an answering machine;
• Watch “American Idol” or “The Voice” or “America’s Got Talent” or anything else like that;
• Drive a hybrid;
• Root for a sports team of any type;
• Don’t eat bacon;
• Refrain from posting self-portraits of yourself on Instagram and Facebook regularly;
• Prefer blondes or brunettes to redheads;
• Like Jay Leno;
• Would rather cook a meal at home than go out to a nice restaurant;
• Call TV the “idiot box”;
• Watch Fox News; or
• Comment on posts through Facebook or on Twitter instead of on the actual post.

What about you?  What will you forgive your friends for doing?

I would like to present an excerpt from my upcoming book “Twenty-eight Shades of Chartreuse” for your review.  To provide you with some context, this scene finds your protagonist, Woody Symbolic, at the mercies of the indomitable Gertrude Chartreuse.

With my apologies to E.L. James, author of the “Fifty Shades of Grey” tril- nah, fuck that.  No apologies whatsoever.

Pouting, I stare longingly at the dark and foreboding beach, waves crashing darkly as the darkness overwhelms me with its inky blackness.  ”Mr. Symbolic,” she announces quietly, her voice taut with displeasure and something else that borders on passion mixed with angry lust.

“Yes, Miss Chartreuse?” I ask questioningly, turning, hesitantly, to face her, knowing that just the sight of her would cause my blood to rush and my pulse to race.  Gertrude Chartreuse stands facing me, wearing a white blouse from Lane Bryant that fits snugly across her expansive, broad torso, a silver pin-striped jacket that costs more than my entire wardrobe, and a severe dark blue skirt that tapers at her knees.

“Stop that,” she commands in an authoritative voice.

“Stop what?” I question askingly, even though I know the answer.

“Stop picking your nose.  You know what that does to me.”  I’d rather pick your nose myself, she said to me only two weeks earlier, when we first met.  I was delivering a package to Chartreuse Industries when I literally tripped over my untied shoelaces and fell into Gertrude’s strong, willful grasp.

Feeling impulsively rebellious, I arch my finger towards my nose and slide it inside gently, watching her eyes widen and hearing her take a sharp breath.  ”Get over here, Mr. Symbolic,” she demands commandingly.  ”It’s time for your punishment.”

Yes! No! Maybe! Inside, my subconscious begins to pummel me for being so indecisive.  He begins to fight with my inner god, who is dancing and celebrating at another sacrifice being made on the altar of my utter humiliation.  I ignore them both and start moving, slowly, towards this insatiable mountain of a woman, flashing back to our first open, honest, forthright exchange . . .

From:  Gertrude Chartreuse
Subject:  Summary of my email
Date:  June 3 2011 1:43 PM
To:  Woody Symbolic

I have been thinking about you all day.  Can I buy you a yacht?

Gertrude Chartreuse
CEO, Chartreuse Industries

***********

From:  Woody Symbolic
Subject:  I like to change the subjects every time I email because I don’t really understand how email works
Date:  June 3 2011  1:44 PM
To:  Gertrude Chartreuse

Jeez, that seems mighty rude of you.  Fuck yes you can!  Jeez.  Fuck.  Jeezfuck.

Woowoo

***********

From:  Gertrude Chartreuse
Subject:  Okay, I’ll have my assistant
Date:  June 3 2011 1:46 PM
To:  Woody Symbolic

take care of it.

Gertrude Chartreuse
CEO, Chartreuse Industries

It was at that moment that I knew, completely and entirely surely, with only a lot of doubts and hesitation, that I would do anything for that beautiful handsome woman as long as she kept buying me things.  And anything was about to happen.

Gertrude grabs me and holds me flush against her body.  Suddenly her hand is gripping my head as she kisses me long, hard, and passionately, her tongue in my mouth, which is apparently what happens during long, hard passionate kisses.  She stares at me, her one good eye dark and mysterious yet filled with a spark of mischief and good humor.  Her other eye looks in the opposite direction, so I don’t know what it is filled with.

“Oh, Miss Chartreuse,” I breathe breathlessly.  Her answer takes form in her actions, clasping her hands tightly on either side of my head and forcing it down her broad, rippling chest and her powerful, barrel-like stomach, until I face that spot that clothes and covers the most wonderful of all spots . . . her sex.

With a flick of her wrist, she pulls me to my feet.  ”Take your clothes off and lay on the bed,” she growls with passion, her eye flashing with heat and desire.

I comply, eagerly, yet hesitant of the pain that may come.  Do I trust Gertrude, with her newly waxed mustache and lumberjack arms, to stop before she hurts me?  Before she bruises me and makes me black and blue with bruises?  My subconscious is too busy watching last night’s Mad Men to do anything, and my inner god is just jumping around yelling “Jeezfuck”, so I go for it.

Naked, laying on the bed, I feel the room shake as Gertrude approaches.  With the speed of a really fast rhinoceros, she’s upon me, first tying my hands to the bedposts, then my feet. I watch as she eases out of her clothes like someone shucking a really large ear of corn. Moaning, I revel in the sensation of the sound of a slightly squishy thud as her panties fall to the ground

Her bosom heaving, Gertrude pulls out a foil packet from behind her back, smiling at me with her mouth.  I hear the foil crinkle in that packet, and then she’s ready, holding it in her hand.  She groans as she sits astride me, kneeling over me, with her sex hovering over my sex.

“Ready?” she asks breathingly.

“Yes,” I whisper quietly, and Gertrude eases herself onto me, slowly, fantastically slowly, until I am filling her sex with my sex.  I moan because the sensation of the merging of sexes causes me to experience a pleasurable feeling.

As she moves up slowly and then down slowly, and then up slowly again, Gertrude reveals the contents of the foil package.  ”Eat,” she whispers passionately, “I need you to eat.”  She holds the newly unwrapped Ding Dong towards my mouth and thrusts it inside.  ”Eat!”

For the rest of the erotic adventures of Woody Symbolic and Gertrude Chartreuse, you can purchase the amazing, compelling, award-winning “Twenty-eight Shades of Chartreuse” for only $29.99 in places where books like this are sold.  So, like, Hot Topic, Dillard’s, and the BlogHer conference?

When Ree sent me an advance copy of her newest book, “The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food From My Frontier”, about two months ago, I had big plans.  I was going to pick a recipe and attempt to make it, on video, and show the disastrous results.  But, life got in the way and before I knew it, her book was already out on shelves. Plus, the only cooking utensils I own are to-go menus and my phone.  And a microwave, if that counts.  So I decided that instead of making the recipes, I would just interview Ree instead.  And being the gracious person that she is, she also agreed to give away signed copies of her books plus a cool extra!  You can find more details about the giveaway after the interview.

I love redheads. They are, by far, my favorite of the Lord’s children. Unfortunately, they’re the Lord Satan’s children. They say that all redheads are crazy. And by “they”, I mean me. A little crazy is good, but sometimes a redhead is too far along the GCS or ginger craziness spectrum, and it gets frightening. Where do you fit along this scale, and how does your crazy manifest itself?

Ree: I am definitely crazy, but not in any fun, fiery redheaded ways. I don’t have a temper, I’m not mysterious or unpredictable, and I’m not demanding or moody or prone to histrionics.

What I am is addicted to Real Housewives and American Chopper, afraid of the phone, content never to leave my house if I don’t have to, and incapable of listening to people eating cereal.

I don’t know – the woman who sat on the floor of a limo and showed that she could lift her foot above her head seems like she can be a fun crazy redhead!

Mayonnaise is one of my four food groups. I have tried Hellman’s Olive Oil Mayonnaise, normal Hellman’s, Duke’s, and have yet to come across the world’s best mayonnaise. Do you make yours from scratch? If so, how? If not, what’s the brand that you prefer? Also, do you judge me for sometimes licking the spoon after scooping mayonnaise onto my plate to dip chicken tenders in?

Ree: You are my brother in mayo. I love it more than most things, and I love a lot of things. I have made my own mayonnaise, but on a daily basis, I passionately reach for Hellman’s. It is head-and-shoulders above any other storebought brand (though I don’t have access to Duke’s) and it completes me. I dip my fries in mayo, then ketchup. It’s important that it be done in that order.

I sometimes swirl the ketchup and mayonnaise together into what Will Ferrell calls “fancy sauce” in Step Brothers, but there’s nothing better than the undiluted taste of mayonnaise on almost any food.

Ree, your book is full of great, easy-to-follow recipes. Since I received it, I’ve been meaning to try out one of the recipes, but I keep getting distracted on my way to the grocery store and end up eating bar food and having a liquid dinner. So I’ve decided to hire a Peruvian housekeeper named Marta who will be preparing all my meals for me, and probably cutting them up and feeding them to me. Which recipe would you suggest we try first?

Ree: I feel a strong urging in my spirit that you would love—and that Marta could easily feed you—my Rigatoni and Meatballs. The meatballs can be easily halved or quartered, and the rigatoni can easily be speared with a fork. And you will have leftover meatballs, which you can heat up the next day, then violently smash between two pieces of bread for a meatball sandwich. And the next day, you can slice the remaining leftover meatballs and lay them on top of a frozen cheese pizza before baking. Meatball pizza is one of the true joys in life.

Plus, there is no end to the immature jokes I can make about balls! You’re a genius.

What’s the worst meal you’ve ever made and how badly did you screw it up? Would you make it again?

Ree: In my twenties, I was cooking a delicious vegetarian pasta sauce that involved shredded carrots, onions, diced tomatoes, and one essential ingredient: white wine. I found I was out of wine, so I used beer instead. It did not work. I still have nightmares about the final result.

I think that “delicious” and “vegetarian” are mutually exclusive words. But you know what’s not mutually exclusive? Me and porn! How’s that for a segue?

I’m not a huge, huge fan of porn, but when I watch it, I like amateur porn. However, your photography of your food is very professional and it’s my favorite kind of food porn. I’m very conflicted. Do you have any advice?

Ree: Could you repeat the question?
Okay, never mind…I’ll try to plow through it.
On the food porn front: I’m glad you like my food photos. They have come a long way. The photos in my early food posts can only be described as grody. But I’ve improved over time. My style of food photography is to get way up in the food’s business, and to take photos from the perspective of the person doing the cooking (as opposed to someone watching someone doing the cooking. Wait…what?) I just cook, picking up my camera and snapping as I go. So I think it gives people the sense that they’re there doing the cooking, too.

I feel funny in my pants. All that plowing and getting up in their business . . . which brings me to my next question.

What would you suggest is the best technique for cooking bacon naked, so as not to have any unfortunate grease burns?

Ree: Hold on. I need to get a mental picture of this.
Okay, I’m back. And I have some advice: Please don’t cook bacon naked.

Well, that’s no fun – who wants to put on clothes to cook? Isn’t the whole benefit of cooking at home that it’s something that you can do naked? I still can’t go to the McDonald’s in Altamonte Springs after Nude Drive-throughGate 2010.

When I finally make it over to the ranch to visit, what meal can I look forward to eating? What is a favorite of your boys that you make more frequently than others?

Ree: I’m looking forward to your visit, and I will greet you with an authentic country feast of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy. It will make your heart both sing and palpitate.

That sounds fantastic. As long as there’s lots of mayo on the side! And now, for a bonus question!

Who’s your favorite male blogger on the Internet today?

Ree: Adam A-VIT-able. I was intrigued with his funny and provocative writing, but meeting him in person and discovering that he was considerate, kind, and soft-spoken cinched it for me.
(By the way, please don’t post that he’s considerate, kind, and soft-spoken in person. He doesn’t really want that information getting out.)

And now I know what kind of crazy redhead you are – the kind who can’t keep secrets and who ruin carefully constructed facades! Thank you for the interview, Ree!

And now for the giveaway! There are several ways you can enter, and each way gives you one chance to win:

1. Leave me a comment telling me your favorite meal to make or eat, and/or;
2. Share this post on Facebook and comment with the link, and/or;
3. Tweet this post and comment with the link, and/or;
4. Email me a photo of you, posing just like me in the photo in the beginning of the post!

On Tuesday, May 1st, I’ll draw names at random. Each of the FIVE winners will receive both of the following:

• A signed copy of Ree’s book “The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food From My Frontier”,

• AND a Wusthof Classic Hollow Edge Nakiri 7-inch knife!

Good luck, and thanks again to Ree for taking time out of her schedule to answer my questions.  If you are a blogger who has written a book, I’d love to interview you as well! Contact me through my site for details.

Dick Clark, television producer and well-known host of shows such as “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve”, “Pyramid” and “American Bandstand”, died Wednesday at the age of 82. I sat down with the eponymous host for a posthumous interview:

Me:  Mr. Clark, thank you for taking the time to speak with me.

DC:  It’s my pleasure, young man.

Me:  It seems like you’ve been a presence on my television since I can remember, and I was sad to hear of your passing.

DC:  Oh, I won’t be gone long.  This Dick will rise again.

Me:  Did you just-?

DC:  This Dick took a stroke and kept on rockin’ hard.  Nothing can keep the best-known Dick in Hollywood from standing tall and throbbing with pride.

Me: Uhh- is the category “Things I Never Thought I’d Hear Dick Clark Say”?

DC:  You got moxie, kid.  This is one Dick who wants you to succeed.  This Dick wants you to feel his presence behind you as you move up in the world, pressing against you and pushing you to do better and better.

Me:  My head hurts.

DC:   Try some of my new pain reliever – Dick’s Rubbing Cream for Good Head.

Me:  No, I’ll be okay.

DC:  Okay, your loss.  This Dick likes to rub his head with this cream at least four or five times a day until it makes him ejaculate loudly with pleasure.

Me:  Really?  Who says that?  And why do you keep referring to yourself in the third person?

DC:  This Dick is only one out of many Dicks all struggling to expose themselves to the light and thrust themselves into the public eye

Me:  Wait – you’re saying that there are multiple Dick Clarks out there?

DC:  Yes.  We are legion and my fellow Dicks are underground, safely enclosed inside a giant plastic sack, waiting for the moment to penetrate the world forcefully.

Me:  So, you’re saying that there is a giant bag of Dicks out there just waiting to fuck us all?

DC:  Yes.  Let the countdown begin!

Me:  Now?  The Dicks are coming out now?

DC: 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .

Me:  Is there any protection against the Dicks?

DC:  7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . .

Me:  Are they scared of being slapped? Should I slap a Dick?  Whack it?  Submit to the Dick?

DC:  4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

Me:  Is Ryan Seacrest a Dick?

DC:  No, he’s an Asshole.

Me:  Oh.

DC: . . . 1 . . . FOR NOW, DICKS SO LONG . . . /salutes

Me:  Well, shit.

Enjoy this interview? Check out my other dead (mostly) celebrity (mostly) interviews (actually written by me!) in the sidebar –>

Last week I threw a party at my house, and instead of sending out invitations or using evites, I relied exclusively on Facebook‘s option to “Create an event”.   We’ve gone a long way from sending out personal invitations and the Miss Manners approach to RSVPs and party attendance.  It can be frustrating and complicated, but by following my simple steps, your party can be as amazing and epic as mine was!

1. Make an event that sounds exciting.  One month before the actual party, create an event on Facebook.  Since all of your friends get spammed on a regular basis by event after event, from stupid charities that aren’t actually events to out-of-state performances of their friends’ third-grade children, you have to make it sound exciting and compelling.  Some good titles you can use are as follows:

• Free iPad to Every Attendee!
• My Spouse’s Intervention – Please Help
• Meet Brad Pitt
• My Last Chance To See You Before I Die Of Eyeball Cancer
• I’ll Provide Sexual Gratification For All Who Attend

2. Invite the right people.  Using Facebook’s invite function, you can send out invitations to all of your Facebook friends, but don’t go crazy.  It’s important to only invite friends who will be engaging, social, and who will bring hot, slutty friends.  If you have friends who do not have a Facebook account, there is an easy solution.  People not on Facebook don’t count as real people and deserve to die sad, lonely deaths.

3. Don’t panic!  When your party is only one week away and nobody has responded to your event, it’s okay!  In today’s society, it’s common courtesy not to RSVP in any way to any event, and it’s normal if not a single person has the decency or respect to actually let you know that they’re attending.  Etiquette is for old people, dude.  Just relax and take a deep breath, then send out the invite to your secondary group of Facebook friends – the ones who will sit in cliques, talk quietly, and stare hostilely at the other cliques at the party.

4. Use psychological tactics to encourage the best attendance.  When your party is three days away and you still have no idea who’s coming, if they’re bringing anything or even if you’ll just be sitting alone by your pool crying, don’t worry.  Post a passive-aggressive message on the Facebook wall for your event.  Something like this should work:

“Hey guys – don’t forget about Friday’s party!  I’ve been spending a lot of money on food and drink, and would really like for you to be the people who benefit from it!  Let me know if you’re going to be able to make it, because if not, I might just donate all of this food to the shelter and go visit my grandmother in the hospital instead.  Nana doesn’t have long to live.  Hope to hear from you soon!”

Follow that up with a few posts on the Facebook walls for the most popular friends that you’ve invited.  A good technique can be to pretend like you’ve forgotten if they’re attending:

“Hey hot stuff, can’t wait to see you Friday!  I forgot – did you say you were going to be able to make it and bring a bottle of booze?  Let me know, k?  Sweet!”

5. Buy enough supplies.  By this point, let’s say you have 190 outstanding invitations.  A good rule of thumb is to assume a 50% attendance rate, so go out and buy food and drinks for 95 people.  At a typical party, each person will drink the equivalent of 14 drinks and eat the equivalent of 6 entrees, so, for example, if you were having a cookout, you would want to have 1,330 beers and 570 burgers.  Don’t forget mixers, soda, and snacks, as well.  60 cases of assorted soda, 14 gallons of juice, and 38 bags of different flavors of potato chips should be sufficient.

6. Get your final preparations ready.  On the day before your amazing, epic party is about to start, you may feel worried that nobody has responded to your wall posts or RSVPed in the positive or negative.  No reason to panic!  This is the point when you can start inviting the rest of your friends – the people who are loners and will just sit by themselves and text instead of interacting.  Invite the uggos and the sad sacks.  The wallflowers and the odoriferous.  The large and hairy.  In fact, just make the event public on Facebook and invite anyone who manages to see the post.  Follow this up with a series of posts on your wall hyping the party and encouraging people to visit.  Don’t be disheartened when only your mom and your uncle who lives in Massachusetts like your status.  It will be okay!

7. It’s time to party!  Your event may have stated that the start time for your party was 6 PM, but it’s important to know that nobody except your friend with halitosis and Aspergers who can only talk about Star Wars will show up before 9:30.  At the earliest. Don’t despair – leave him to watch the door and head down to the local homeless shelters. Pack as many hobos as you can into your car and bring them to your party – you can even tie them to the roof if you need.  The bums can act as placeholders for your partygoers until the 12 people who are actually your friends show up at midnight for fifteen minutes and then leave.  Plus, the homeless will actually appreciate the booze and will be plenty social, though they may only be social with their imaginary friends.  And I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone to cuddle with that night easily!

It may seem daunting, and it can be a lot of work, but throwing a successful bash using Facebook’s event system can be rewarding and socially illuminating at the same time! Don’t let the minor frustrations of the system and the sheer lack of decent manners among humanity keep you from putting on the best party you can!

Need more expert advice from Avitable?

• How to talk dirty
• How to get hired for any job
• How to write well and get published
• How to be funny

I’m not considered the most sympathetic person in the world.  I’m narcissistic, egotistical, sarcastic, and otherwise a pretty selfish guy.  I’ve always prided myself, though, on being brutally honest, and in the last couple of years, I have taken that to a new level, blogging with a transparency that I’d never done before.  It’s been refreshing, freeing and, apparently, inspiring and motivational.  I say “apparently” because I didn’t realize how inspiring and motivational I was until I got this email from a man who simply called himself “Dan Pearce, that blogger who showed up out of nowhere with a million manufactured visits from China and India and who writes with the sincerity of a bad Lifetime movie.”  And this response was so powerful, I couldn’t not share it with you all.

Hello Mr. Avitable,

My name is Dan Pearce and you may not know who I am, since you’re not a parent blogger and you don’t have the traffic nor influence to benefit me in any way. I’m not the type to talk about myself (okay, I totally am), but I get thousands of visits and likes on Facebook anytime I write anything, and tens of them are from genuine readers who are real people.

Occasionally, my US-based traffic drops below a thousand visits a month, and by occasionally, I mean monthly, so I decide that I need to motivate people. I do in-depth keyword analysis to find terms and phrases that result in high Google traffic, and then I create a superficial motivational message to surround the SEO framework. My inspiration comes from a variety of sources, like Oprah, high school creative writing papers, and from reading bloggers who tell genuine stories that actually come from the heart.

Back in November, I wrote a post that set the Internet on fire called “I’m Christian, Unless You’re Gay”. It was a completely fabricated post that had a wholesome message about tolerance. And I’m aware that my experience with people who are gay is limited to that special episode of “Full House”, and I know that the fictional characters in my blog posts all talk, use colloquialisms, and sound like they were written by remedial high school students writing a PSA for the school’s TV channel, but isn’t it the message that counts? People were moved to tears by my story of my fake friend who was gay. Every time he told someone he was gay, they unfriended him on Facebook and stopped talking to him. Every single time! That happens!

Anyway, it’s been five months and people have finally stopped congratulating me for being a tolerable Christian and for not hating my fake gay friend. I’m glad they stopped, too, because I’m not a hero. Well, I am, but I’m just trying to set an example for the rest of the world. After the hooplah died down, I had a talk with God about how He could help me get more traffic and boy, did He give me an earful. I realized that it wasn’t enough to demonstrate how to be a tolerant hero. I needed to motivate and inspire people to change, as well.

That night, I laid in bed watching “The Return of the Jedi” and thinking. I needed to write something that would spark and encourage poignant discussion, but more importantly, more traffic to my site. What I needed was a villain. Who is redeemed at the end. And lightsabers!

I decided to craft a treacly-worded letter that was sent “anonymously” to me by a conservative homophobic mother whose son was asked to write about my fake gay friend in school. Over the course of the letter, she would find out that her son was gay, and it would affect her to such a degree that she would change her entire perspective on homosexuality and acceptance, and even her small town of Endor would be changed as a result. It would be inspirational. It would be amazing. It would be heartbreaking. It would be . . . shared on Facebook.

The post got the response I had carefully calculated it would. But then something happened. One of my detractors – someone who treats me much like the Jews treated Jesus – mentioned a post by a gay dad blogger, who had just come out to his daughter and wrote about it. I read the post and was floored. My vision dimmed and the world appeared in front of me as if diminishing down a blackened tunnel. This is how people really act and speak? This is what genuine emotion and substance is like?

I shared this post with countless people. I made my publicist read it. I made the 100 Chinese laborers who I pay to click on links and like posts read it. I made my fake gay friend read it. And finally, I saw the light. It’s not about the message. It’s about genuine human stories. It’s about the fact that my cliched statements and trite storytelling techniques actually detract from the people who are actually going through these issues.

Mr. Avitable, I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I’m unmotivated to write fake stories as if they’re real and appeal to the heartstrings of morons and gullible fools for traffic and income. I’m at a loss. The only solution, as I can see it, is for you to write a fake letter from me that points out all of the reasons that I’m a colossal hack and an utterly useless and worthless blogger. Please. For me. For my fake gay friend. For all of my fake stories.

Sincerely yours, Dan Pearce

Whew.

I don’t know if this was a prank fake letter I received or a real one. I don’t know if Dan Pearce has the self-awareness to understand how obnoxious and terrible he really and truly is. I just know that if one person can make a difference, it should be someone genuine, with real problems and real issues, who writes transparently and honestly, like in this post. These are the posts to be celebrated and shared and enjoyed. Not another word of the shit that passes for content on Single Dad Laughing.

For more details, I’d also suggest checking out my friend Beta Dad’s post about Dan Pearce.

Katrina was a divorced 40-year old pharmacy technician who was born with no front teeth in West Virginia.

Wait.

Let me start over.

“Katrina is interested in you!” began the email from Chemistry.com on Friday, July 16th, 2010. I followed the link to her profile and saw a pretty redhead with green eyes. She was 40, which was at the highest point of my age threshold.

When I first started dating, I thought that I would only be interested in women who were at my age or younger. I’m young at heart, I have a lot of younger interests, and I can legitimately see myself having a lot in common with someone who was as young as 22 or 23. As it is, I do have several female friends who are that age and I feel completely at ease with them and capable of talking for hours.

Over the course of the last several months, though, I have learned two important nuggets of information. First, women over the age of 35 are in their sexual peak. I mention this not to presume that I will have sex with any woman that I date; however, sexual compatibility is an extremely important factor for me, on the same level as intellectual equality and emotional resonance. And an older woman who is in her sexual peak is more likely to appreciate passion and sex in a way that a younger woman would not, more likely to be more comfortable in her own skin (notice I say more comfortable – I’m fully aware that plenty of women, and men for that matter, will always have some issues of self esteem and never be completely comfortable), and more likely to view sex as beneficial to her and for her own enjoyment instead of providing it as a service to someone that she likes.

The second nugget I learned is that most women in their early twenties think it’s pretty fucking creepy if a man in his mid-thirties hits on them. Last week, I was visiting the parents’ house of a friend from high school who was in town. She and I were at the kitchen counter, drinking and talking, when her 22-year old sister walked in. “Flo,” the vodka prodded it out of me, “let me ask you a serious question.”

Flo looked at me with her head cocked. I’d known her since she was four years old and I rarely had anything to say to her that wasn’t silly, ridiculous, or obnoxious. “Do any of your friends date guys in their early 30s? Would they? What do you think about it?”

Her eyes sparkled a little and she did this little half-laugh. “Well, in college, Nancy, one of my four roommates, dated a guy who was 32, but that was really creepy. He came to visit one time and stayed with us – we were all weirded out.”

I pushed. “What’s creepy about it?”

“Well,” she thought for a second and I could see the lawyer-in-training looming behind her eyes, “here we are, starting out on our own, finding our way and figuring out what we want to do and who we want to be. And here he is, hopefully having figured most of that out already, so why does he want to spend time with us? What could he possibly have in common with my friend Nancy? The only reason that he might want to date someone that young is for sex, and that just makes it creepy.”

“At what age does it stop being creepy?”

“How old are you? 33? Personally, I think anyone younger than 26-27 would be weird.”

“So I guess that means that you won’t set me up with any of your friends?”

It was nice to see that she had perfected the cold stare that her mother had used on me many times as a teen. And an adolescent. And last year. “No.”

I filed this information away in my “Dating by Committee” mental folder, where I keep all of the advice that I solicit, and decided that maybe it would be a better use of my time and energy to focus on women my own age and older. If I encountered someone young who was mature and to whom I could relate, maybe I’d pursue it, but it wouldn’t be my primary focus.

40-year old Katrina was waiting for me, so I continued to read her profile. “Vivacious redhead seeking adventurous male!” exclaimed her headline. “I’m kind of an adventurous male,” I thought. “I like redheads,” I thought. “I don’t even know what vivacious really means but I like the sound of it,” I thought.

Without reading further, I replied to the icebreaker that she sent to me. Chemistry.com has these icebreakers called “chemistry starters”, designed to help facilitate conversation between two single people. You can sort your top five pet peeves or fears, or you can choose from a list discussing your dealbreakers and essentials for a successful relationship, or do one of several other activities that are relatively inane.

Less than ten minutes went by before she replied with another chemistry starter. I responded, and within thirty minutes, I had an email from her:

“Hey there. If you would like to get to know each other even better, my cell is ###-###-####. My parents and brothers live in your area. Nice place, but craaaazzzyy drivers. lol. I have unlimited texting and minutes. I am late for work now. So, text or call me and I will respond. It has been fun getting to know you on here. Would like to meet you for coffee or icecream. Katrina”

We texted back and forth throughout the day, and as the late afternoon approached, I broached the subject of meeting for ice cream. She responded immediately with a suggestion of a location and time to meet that same evening. I didn’t have plans, so we set a date.

At this point, I realized that I hadn’t actually read her profile past the headline and seeing her red hair. I’m not sure why, although I would imagine it stems from my mother being a very strong influence in my life and a redhead, but redheads are my biggest weakness. When I see an attractive redhead in public, my pulse quickens, my breathing gets shallower, and my nostrils flare as if trying to capture her scent. The paler the skin and the more freckles, the more likely I am to spontaneously propose.

Wondering if I had made a mistake, I started to review the rest of Katrina’s profile. For her description, she wrote:

“I am a vivacious, witty, fun loving, outgoing, adventurous, sexy, sensual, flirty, intelligent and honest female. I love meeting new people and watching action suspense movies. I read voraciously and love having deep intellectual conversations. I must be stimulated mentally to connect physically. Life should be all about fun and adventure. I enjoy riding on bike trails and exercising daily. I have tons of energy and love rollercoasters. I like going to rock concerts. Music is a huge part of my life. I want a man who can be my best friend and who can handle my energy level. One who dares to discover the inner me that no one else knows. Tap the desire that longs to be free! I am very uninhibited and do not drink or do drugs. I get high on life! I would love to meet a man who enjoys church and social activities such as Bible studies and Christian rock concerts too. Not a perfect man, just one who love Jesus.”

Her profile also had this information:

“PROFESSION/ OCCUPATION: I am a Certified Pharmacy Technician.”

“A BOOK, MOVIE, CONCERT OR PLAY THAT SHE’S RECENTLY ENJOYED: I saw Wolverine last Saturday and it was non-stop action! it rocked! A must see movie.”

“POLITICAL OUTLOOK: Conservative”

Immediately a few warning bells went off.

1. Bible studies. I have a complicated belief system that does not conflict with Christianity in any way, but I don’t view church or Bible study classes as enjoyable activities. I consider the Bible to be flawed because even if you do believe that it started as a perfect writing directly from God, it has since been interpreted over and over again by man, and man is flawed. The general teachings of Christianity are excellent, and I subscribe to the concept of loving your fellow man and living a good life, but I consider most organized religions to have too much moral corruption to provide the right message. And Christian rock fucking sucks.

2. Does not drink or do drugs. I felt hypocritical viewing this as a warning sign, since from the ages of 21-32, I didn’t drink either, and the first time I smoked pot was in a Vegas hotel room in December of 2009. However, as someone who didn’t partake in those activities, I know that there are two types of non-drinkers – the ones like me who never begrudge someone else’s good time (and may even be a bit of an enabler) and the ones who judge anyone who drinks as inferior. In my experience, anyone who has to proclaim that they get high on life probably falls into the latter group.

3. Conservative. Could I be in a relationship with someone who calls themselves politically conservative? I don’t know, but I think it would be a struggle. Even among my friends, the few who consider themselves Republicans are actually very moderate. Instead of choosing “Moderate” or “Middle of the Road”, two other choices for that category, she selected “Conservative”. A conservative non-drinking Christian who likes Bible study. This did not bode well.

4. Liked Wolverine. Not even my man-crush on Hugh Jackman and Ryan Reynolds could prevent me from seeing this movie for the absolute shitfest that it was.

I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. The point of dating is to be open to meeting a lot of people, to find people to whom I click, and, in the end, to find love, right? If I close every door before it even opens a little, I’d be doing myself a disservice. Plus, redhead!

Arriving early, I parked and waited. As the time of our date approached, my phone rang. It was Katrina. “Hi! Traffic is bad, so I’ll be a few minutes late. I just thought that we could talk while I drive and get to know each other a little better.” Her voice was perky and cute.

“Hi Katrina. I think that’s a good idea. Where are you coming from?”

“Oh, I’m from about twenty minutes away, so it’s not too bad. So, where are you originally from?”

“I was born in Boston, but grew up over on the beach. How about you?”

“I’ve been here for about twenty years, but I was born in West Virginia. It’s so funny, people always hear West Virginia and they think hillbillies and moonshine,” I was nodding my head, “but I grew up outside the biggest city of West Virginia and we had actual sidewalks.”

“Oh, well, sidewalks – you know that’s a sign of real civilization.”

“I know, right?” She chirped. “Can I just say how much I like your voice?”

“Thank you. I have heard that I have a good phone voice.”

“You do, and I really like it that you enunciate and sound so articulate. I think that’s really important to me, because I went to a lot of speech therapy as a kid. See, I was born without any front teeth.”

Time slowed.

Her words registered and I immediately pictured something out of Deliverance. One of the creepy little kids, dressed in rags, watching from the woods, toothless and grinning. She continued, “But I didn’t worry. I just prayed to Jesus to give me some teeth and once my adult teeth came in, I had all my front teeth. I knew God wouldn’t let me down!”

This is the point where I admit that I was almost a very shitty person. I almost hung up the phone, backed my car out of the parking spot, and drove home as if the devil herself was behind me. I seriously contemplated it. I may have even put the car in reverse and started to back out when I decided that I should still give her a chance. Also, I really wanted some ice cream.

Our conversation continued over the next twenty minutes, and I found out that she was very smart but people didn’t take her seriously and that she only says the word “fuck” in the bedroom. I learned that she’s been on many dates and while she liked the person in question, they had no interest in continuing, and she didn’t know why. She managed to sound simultaneously like a virgin who wanted nothing more to hold hands and a “firecracker in the sack” who would blow the mind of any man who welcomed into her bed. I know those aren’t usually mutually exclusive, but the way she talked, it was almost as if these were two separate individuals. Still, I persisted and waited for her.

When she arrived, I met her at her car. She looked mostly like her photos, although some of the vibrancy and sparkle that was evident in her profile photos was lacking here. As we got ice cream and walked around the shopping center, she kept up a constant dialogue. I interjected when appropriate and answered questions when I was asked, but she was clearly in charge of the conversation.

The warning bells that had been quietly going off from reading her profile clanged louder and louder as the conversation progressed:

• She had been separated for two years, but the divorce was not yet final. “It costs like $517,” she said, “and I’m waiting for him to pay his half. At some point, though, if I can save up that much, I’ll just pay the whole thing so it’s over with.”
• “I went on one date, and he had like three margaritas with dinner. We went to the beach after and I skinny dipped in the ocean, because I knew he wasn’t going to remember it the next day. He wanted to go out again, but I had no interest. Serves him right for getting drunk on our date! He got so mad!”
• At one point during our walk, she asked me how many dates I had been on. I told her, and she exclaimed, “Oh my God! You’re such a newb! Why do I always find the guys who have just started dating?” I asked her how many dates she’d been on in the last two years. Before she answered, I had always assumed that dating is something to be done leisurely and with a long-term goal in mind. However, according to her and her 250 dates in 24 months, it’s apparently a race, and I’m losing.

We arrived back at her car, empty ice cream cartons in hand. She continued to talk as we stood there. “One time I was on a date with this guy. He seemed really nice and I liked him, but he kept trying to look at his watch when he thought I wasn’t looking. Well, I’m really observant and I don’t beat around the bush so I asked him loudly ‘Do you have somewhere to be?’ and he gave me some excuse of needing to go feed his dog. Whatever. I don’t have time to waste on people who can’t be up front and just tell me they’re not interested.”

We continued to stand there at her car and I willed her car to be just like KITT from Knight Rider. I wanted it to open the door and start the engine, so she’d get the hint and drive away, but it didn’t happen. I considered looking at my watch, but I don’t have one, and then I considered just looking at my wrist where a watch would be. I even considered saying, “Speaking of dogs, mine must be starving!” I did none of these things, though, and she continued to talk, oblivious to the fact that our date was over. So I interjected instead. “Let’s call it a night.” The surprise was evident in her face, but after a quick hug, she got in her car, drove off, and I felt immediately like I just dodged a giant bullet.

An hour later, I received this text: “I had a great time with u & would love to get to know u better, but i had the feeling u want something else. I think i was not ur type.”

I replied with a very nice message agreeing with her conclusion and thanking her for her time, instead of replying the way that I really should have:  ”A 40-year old woman really should be able to write “you” and “your” when texting.”  Maybe I should reconsider my age limits. At least if I dated 22-year olds instead, I’d expect that level of communication.

Originally published on my anonymous dating blog on August 31, 2010.