Did You Ever Have One of These?

I'm in a pickle. Not literally, but it sure is starting to give me a sour taste. And it's a dilly.

If you've read my blog, you've probably seen my posting about taking an internet dating test and finding out I am a Random Brutal Love Dreamer. (I'd have a hot link for you, but I'm too stupid to read the directions....) In a nutshell, I'm picky about my men. There's no one "type" for me, sort of like art. I may not know exactly what I like about a man, but I do know what I don't like about a man. Wussy, wimpy, overly nice, bubbly, blechy men.

And I've got one. And he's like a glob of Juicy Fruit stuck to my shoe: sticky sweet and will not leave me alone.

The fault lies with myself. Apparently, he thinks I'm pretty wonderful (and he's right) but he has somehow, perhaps subconsciouly, picked up that I'm not that into him. He would be right about that, too. He's even asked me if I want him to stop calling me, after I've turned him down for happy hour, movies, etc at least 4 times since we met. What was my answer, you may be asking. Well, lemme tell ya. "Oh my, of COURSE I want you to keep calling." WTF? I absolutely hate myself. Never, and I mean never, have I been given the ultimate "out" and didn't even pause to NOT take it. I'm sprouting chicken feathers this very moment.

Luckily the time between his calls is getting longer and longer, but that only lulls me into thinking he's gotten in touch with his own subconscious messages and then RRRRRRINNNGGGG. My teeth clinch, but for some reason I get that smile in my voice and find myself accepting a date with Mr. Nice Guy for tomorrow night. My eyes are so rolled back in my head that I can literally see my butt upside down and it's looking a little yellow.

When I say my prayers tonight (yes, I pray!), I will be asking for the strength and courage to kindly express the following: Hey, Mr. Nice Guy, I am not the woman for you. I am willful. I am cranky alot of the time, when nice guys are around. What? You haven't noticed? I am into going to concerts and you're not. I do not like country music and you do. You have no idea who Todd Rundgren is and that's just un-American in my eyes. I am into foreign accented boy-toys whilst I'm on vacation and you have never, nor ever will fit that profile. I have a potty mouth and it begins the moment I wake up in the A.M. I enjoy an occasional, make that frequent, bourbon and diet coke and I don't really care that it has aspartame and is killing me!

Bottom line: I'm a wild woman. A rebel. Hear me roar. And you will end up being walked upon and frankly, I don't like men as doormats. So - please please please figure out that I am not your type. Please. You do not want to mess with this. Please dump me, so I don't have to stomp you into a pulp.

Everyone out there in the blogosphere, wish me luck. I don't want to be the b*tch here, but I may have to pull that out of my bag. It wouldn't be pretty. At least we'll be in a public, but dark place so he shouldn't suffer too much humiliation. Shouldn't.

Now, don't you have work to do? Like putting away the good china from Thanksgiving? Shoo!