In an effort to indulge my dear readers with juicy tidbits from my past I bring to you today’s installment of Dates of Yore. In this segment I will divulge certain details about dates I went on in San Francisco. Please sit back and enjoy.

Naked Lawyer Guy

Lawyer, Mid-thirties, Son of a high ranking Iranian Military official.

It started innocently enough, a romantic lunch at a Belden Alley eatery. Giggles and wine, some smooching. He sent a follow up email within the appropriate amount of time. Unfortunately he was leaving in a few days to Monaco for a month and by the time he got back I was leaving for a year in Italy. Needless to say, it looked as though our future was not meant to be.

When I returned from Italy he had heard through friends that I was back and called me for a second date. I put him off for a few months while I finished writing my thesis. When we finally went out, we met up at some posh joint on the Embarcadero. He ordered drinks and proceeded to tell me that he was a man-slut. I laughed and said “that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, no you’re not.” He said, “I am, really.” I responded, “So why, then, have you been chasing me down for the past year +?” “Cause you’re hot.” I wasn’t buying any of this, it reeked of fear of commitment.

After dinner and a bottle of wine I wasn’t ready to drive home so we went for a stroll. Somehow he had steered me to the front of his building. He asked me up and I said no thanks. Then he begged, saying that he wanted me to see the new condo he had recently bought. I caved and we went up. Once inside, I sat in the livingroom flipping through a family photo album while he went to the restroom. When he came out he was stark naked, alas the man-slut. I told him to put his clothes back on and that I had to leave. He was gentlemanly enough to dress and walk me to my car. When we got to my car there was a parking ticket. He grabbed the ticket from the windshield, leaned over and kissed me and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”

Two weeks later the second notice came, I paid it.

Bad Teeth Guy

Teacher, Late-twenties, PhD. Berkeley.

Bad teeth guy was one of my first adventures in online dating. We had amazing conversations over the phone and decided to finally meet. We met for oysters at a small restaurant in Berkeley on Fourth Street. As soon as he walked in I was relieved, he was handsome. Then he smiled and he had the most fucked-up teeth I’d ever seen. Throughout the evening I kept telling myself, ‘Meme, don’t be so shallow. They’re just teeth. He’s brilliant and funny, get over it.’

So, let me premise this by saying that I have no qualms whatsoever about paying for dates. I just don’t like going dutch. I prefer when one or the other pays…it all evens out later. When the check came I put my credit card on it. He took the check, my credit card and his and instructed the waitress which items went on which card. Whatever, right?

On our next date we decided to meet up for lunch downtown Oakland. He picks out this quaint lunch spot with outdoor seating, the kind where you order at the counter and they bring you your food. We order sandwiches and I hand him a 20 dollar bill. I notice that he pulls out a 5 dollar bill, uses both to pay. takes the change and puts it in his pocket, not even a dime in the tip jar. Needless to say, I was irritated by this, clearly the man had money issues. I quickly ate my lunch and suggested we check out the farmer’s market a block over. I decide to buy a huge bag of oranges, he stands idly beside me probably irked by the fact that I didn’t try to haggle down the price. As we return to my car he walks ten paces ahead of me while I’m struggling behind him with my bag of oranges and the left-overs from lunch. Swinging his arms from side to side, he turns to me and says “Where the heck did you park?”

I decided, when it came down to it, those were some fucked-up teeth.

True story, bitches.

DH wants to suck my toe. He doesn’t tell me this until after the fucking meal and the club and the twenty-eight drinks. He doesn’t tell me this on the phone when he’s trying to break down my wall of defenses to go on the stinkin’ date in the first place. His best friend GS who used to also be my best friend before he told me he wanted to suck my toe, never tells me that he’s going to want to suck on my toe either. But come 3:15AM on a Saturday night, there he is at the foot of my bed, in the inner-sanctum of Missy’s palace — asking to suck my toe.

First of all: WHAT THE HELL.

Second of all: Um, WHAT THE HELL, dude?

Thirdly: If you’re going to ask to suck on my freakin’ toe you have to be more specific because just asking “Can I suck on your toe?” makes you look like a bitch who doesn’t have his shit in order.

Fourthly: Oh, you want to suck my left big toe? Um, WHAT THE HELL.

I don’t know where this freakish fetish came from and I DO NOT WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHERE or why you are one of the dedicated toe sucking badasses in the world. I just want to know why, if you are one of these people, you wait until I’m drunk laying on my bed to announce this to me. It seems a tad, well, dishonest. I refuse to date a toe sucker. Honestly. I’m not doing it.

Fifthly: There’s the door, my friend.

Take your freak-ass obsessions with TOES and go to a shoe store. For you, it’s probably like a strip club.

Today’s installment of Girlfriend for a Day gives you the opportunity to know what it’s like to be my boyfriend for one day, and one day only. It’s the commitment without the commitment. You may sign up for one of the following packages:

1. The Saturday Package: Hanging out at home, doing laundry, getting frisky. Maybe I’ll cook dinner, maybe not. You’re probably not getting any. $39.99

2. The Weekday Package: You go to work, I go to work. You don’t hear from me. You go home alone and fall asleep. $4.99

3. The Wallet-Buster Package: You take me out to a fancy dinner, after-dinner drinks and dancing. You also bring a gift, jewelry, electronics, etc. I get progressively drunker throughout the evening. By the time you get me back to your place I’ve passed out. $49.99 (cost of dinner and gift not included)

4. The Sweet Girlfriend Phone Call: I call you and tell you that I miss you. You respond inappropriately, an arguement ensues. $9.99

5. The Two-Timer Package: You show up at my place unannounced and find me in bed with your best friend. Free. You join in. $999.99

6. The PMS Girlfriend Package: You come over and I start by telling you that you’ve replaced the toilet paper the wrong way, I burst into tears and ask you if you’re ever gonna ask me to marry you and why the hell you brought over Moo Goo Gai Pan when you know I don’t like Chinese food. I repeat over and over while sobbing, ‘you really don’t know me at all’. $19.99

7. The Call From the OB-GYN’s Office: Topic of your choice. $99.99

There are two loves in my life. Two “obsessions” if you will. Two perfectly designed elements found on this planet Earth of ours that make me squirm with happiness: Any reality TV show that contains an audition montage and Tuna. My idea of a perfect evening is watching the first few uncut episodes of American Idol and X factor with a plate of slightly chilled tuna sashimi, grilled Ahi steak and a plain can of “Chicken of the Sea”.

I could watch strangers auditioning on TV for hours on end. They should create a channel dedicated to only this. I love the vulnerability, the pathetic pimply souls who believe they have talent when they warble an offbeat version of the latest Justin Timberlake song, the diamonds in the rough soon to be the “next big thing”. It all feeds my inner diva, that little “x” factor I’m sure resides in me somewhere.

Then there’s the tuna. I experience a strange phenomenon where my back molars itch, actually physically itch, whenever I think of tuna. It is happening right now. It’s been happening probably ever since I even developed my back teeth. Perhaps my mother ate too much cans of StarKist when she was pregnant. Man, this itching is getting bad now. I may have to dig out the emergency can of tuna from the bottom of the cupboard.

I either should find a tailor made support group, or become a casting director who barks out her sushi order for lunch everyday to her assistant.

If you see me walking down the street please stop what you’re doing, drop everything and give me your best, dirtiest, raunchiest one-liner. If we’re out on a date, please interrupt my endless philosophical pontificating and tell me how much you’d like to lick me here and there. If I’m sitting across from you in the library, please oh please, undress me with your eyes. If you see me sitting on my balcony as you’re coming home drunk from a bar, get down on your knees and profess your undying need to flip me about and show me how it’s done. If I’m laying out in the park getting some rays, use your frisbee hitting me upside the head to start a conversation.

It would be best if you A. drool while talking to me, B. look me up and down constantly, C. let condoms fall out of your pocket while gesticulating wildly, D. make growling sounds between words, E. mention that you’re disease-free while talking about politics, F. bring up the size of your member at least 10 or more times, G. drop coins in my cleavage and try to fish them out, H. use your best Barry White voice.

Do not under any circumstances A. think about spending the night, B. use pet names that don’t include words such as hot, pussy, blow job queen, etc., C. make grand romantic gestures , D. ask me for my phone number.

If you’ve ever been to a bar (which would mean you have to have a social life so if you don’t go ahead and skip to the previous entry) you’re pretty fucking used to seeing the pretty girl with the dog-face by her side. You know, how it goes — it’s like the animals in the Africa…there’s the weak one and there’s the strong one. Well, at my time-waster of a job, I am the strong pretty one and my boss is the dog-faced, limping wildebeest that’s about to get the smackdown.

Thing is - nobody seems to realize that yet, except for me.

Where I work isn’t important, except you gotta know that I work in one of those Hollywood companies where what you drive defines you, where what you eat defines who will go out with you, and where what you wear defines how much money you make. It’s where a self-conscious, no-backbone, sad, angry little woman with no home life gets an Exec. VP job and tells someone who is smarter than them and better looking than them to do shit just for the sake of doing shit. Little does the limping bitch realize, but her secrets are not only her secrets — but they’re pretty close to being printed somewhere for everyone to read and if she doesn’t get the hell off my back she’s going to feel the full force of these bitches’ claws.

Bitch has got claws, baby. And they’re sharp.

So the no-backbone dogfaced Mercedes driving wench calls me from her car just as I’m sitting down this morning at 9:15AM (I’m not even supposed to be there until 9:30 but I come in early sometimes to go through her shit) and wants to start rolling calls — but this is how idiotic she is… She knows no one is even in their office yet, but because she’s such a friggin coward, she has us put in calls to all these people so she doesn’t have to talk to them. Then they call back and she’s busy and we put the return call back in around lunchtime when she knows they’ll be gone again. This can go on for days if she doesn’t have the courage to just speak her fucking mind. Which she doesn’t. Anyway, this morning in particular she calls me not to roll calls like I figured but because she wants me to go out and get her, wait for it now cause here it comes — a portable enema from the fucking Rite Aid Pharmacy.

Uh, excuse me?

Yeah, I heard her right. She doesn’t know what exactly they’re called or what kind she wants (and neither do I) but she’s telling me that I have to get her one so she can (yes) USE IT today. She says to me, and I’m not shitting you (no pun intended): “Oh, Missy — I have been eating like shit all week and you know I can’t purge so…this is the better alternative. You’ll have to show me how to use it, okay?”

When did her ass suddenly become my business? Until I’m kicking her out ON IT because I’ve taken over her job, I have no reason to even go near that big fat sphere of flab. I tell her I don’t want to leave the phones and she screams at me to go get her the damn enema and so I hang up on her and think of a better way to handle it. I wait about five minutes, then call her back on her cell sounding all panicky and I tell her that on my way out the President of the company was walking in and asked me where I was going… And that I told him I was heading to the Pharmacy to pick up an enema for dog-face.

What’s her face screams her bloody head off.

I just laughed. Cause, well, it was fucking funny. And now she’s gonna be walking down the halls with her ass to the wall, just because she thinks people will be talking about her. And she won’t ask anyone if the story’s true because she won’t want to bring it up. It’s brilliant, if I may say so myself.

A few dozen more of these and she’ll be out of her mind. Maybe she’ll even have to go on one of those retreat weekend things where they make her feel better about herself. Like before.

This has surely been the week of newness here at girlspoke. We have been busy busy busy recruiting new talent and with the addition of Betty we are also excited to introduce Missy.

Here’s a bit of info about our dear Missy:

Missy is an L.A. chick to a tee. Born and raised in the San Fernando Valley she went to college out in Southern California and currently works for a “well-known” media company, that is, until she knocks off her boss and takes over. And while she likes to tell people that we were sorority sisters, we both know she never would’ve made it into Berkeley with her spotty high school record.

She’s currently single but, unlike some of us, is not at a loss for dates in this town.

She can’t stand idiots, so choose your words carefully.

So, please give a warm welcome to Missy and all the joy she has to offer.

I love my gmail. I’ve had it since back in the day when people were forking out over 100 bucks on Ebay for one. There are those privacy rights advocates and conspiracy theorists who find the scanning of the text of emails a human rights violation. There are even people who refuse to email me at my gmail account. I find it all humorous. I’m always curious to see which ads appear on the sidebar and how relevant they might or might not be. So the other day when reading the latest email in the thread from the dear one I glanced at the sidebar and found the following ads (see image).

Is He/She The One? I’m not sure if I’m ready to ask this question yet. In fact, when I read that I nearly fell over. I mean, should I be asking myself that question so early on, and do I want to hear the answer? What if the answer’s not favorable? Maybe I need to know. What if he is the one but I am not the one? Ahhhh!

Romance: How To Become Romantic? Who the hell do they think they are? I can be romantic, really. I am all romance all the time and I resent their accusation that I may be lacking in that area. Why just the other day I thought about making the dear one a mixed CD. I didn’t do it but it’s the thought that counts, right? Oh my god, maybe I’m not romantic. Maybe I’ve been deluding myself all this time. I’m calling the specialists right now.

Back & Neck Pain Products: pain in the neck, me? CLICK

…the newest member of girlspoke.This is Betty and she is joining us from that fair city across the pond, London. With her style and panache she is sure to elevate the sass level well beyond orange alert. Think Woody Allen meets Flashdance or eating spicy tuna rolls with Wonder Woman on her invisible plane, First Class of course. You’ll never know what hit you.

I’m sure you’ll enjoy everything Betty has to offer. So without further ado…I’d like to welcome Betty into the girlspoke coven.

I regret to inform you that I will not be able to post today. I expect normal posting to resume tomorrow. Due to three amazing dates it seems that my brain has turned completely into mush and I am unable to form thoughts that do not cause me to giggle or blush or run to the bathroom. In the event that normal cognative skills do not return I may be forced to subject you, my dear readers, to severe giddiness and overuse of smilies Should you become physically ill upon reading, I shall not be held responsible.

Thank you for your patience, please stayed tuned.