Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Pumps, Fuck Me

I am loving this song right now.
A fairly recent obsession with Amy Winehouse has lead me to purchase both of her CD's, Back to Black, and Frank.

I know it's horrible to be a crack head, but we all loved Billie Holiday and Edith Piaf. Tragic lives, but soulful voices. Amy gets to join this crew.

And this particular song makes me laugh, especially because I can not find the explicit version anywhere. It's all about these trendy girls, and how they will never find love - their bag of tricks has dried up at age 30.

I'm starting to think the same thing, only I never had a bag of tricks and I'm hardly trendy. I do not want to be a footballers wife - I've dated my share of athletes. I think I'll stick to the scholarly boys. Nerds are hot anyway. I know. I'm living proof.

In the past few weeks, I've gone out on several "dates" - one was great. My standards are just too high. But I'm not really prepared to negotiate my fine points: Tall, college educated, funny, social, emotionally available, employed, and thin.

My Mother reminded me if it wasn't for blue collar workers, I wouldn't be here. My Dad is an automechanic - and kind of looks like Jason Lee with the moustache. Guess Mom thought that was hot back in the day. Should I open myself up to EVERYTHING? Should I date a deisel mechanic? I don't think so. If that is going to keep me single, than so be it.

I don't want to be fondled by dry, rough hands. Or ones that require Lava soap to come clean. I wouldn't mind a manicured hand feeling me up though. That is, if I let people feel me up. Which I don't. Usually. Sometimes. OK, I totally do.

In another discussion with a co-worker, I realized that maybe my "age gates" are too small. I'm 31 - so in reverse, I'll date to 25. But it has to be an even spread...so that means I'll date up to 37. 6 years on both sides. I was advised to lift the upper end to 40. Which means 9 years - if I swing that both ways, I could date a 22 year old - and that isn't going to happen.

I wish dating were more like a library. I walk in, look up what I want on the OPAC, go to the shelf, and find what I'm looking for. Best of all, when I get to the shelf, if I look to the left or right of my title - there might actually be something I want even more, that I didn't think of looking for.

Sort of like when I went to the shelf to check out A Passage to India, and found Maurice. That was fate. I had a love affair with that book for years.

Moral of this blog: I better dust off my Fuck Me Pumps.

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