It happened on a Friday night when she was out with her friends and b-friend watching her favorite band. As usual she was having a great time dancing, drinking, and soaking up the good tunes. Before she knew it the band was wrapping up their final set so she requested the tab from the cocktail waitress.

Her boyfriend leaned over and said someting in her ear. She couldn’t understand him so she looked inquisitvely back at him and kissed his lips.

He didn’t smile or return the kiss. Instead, he leaned back in toward her and screamed: “It’s over. I can’t date you anymore.”

That time she heard him loud and clear. Instead of responding with a kiss she responded by handing him the tab and then walking out with her friends.

Couldn’t the 2am dumping have waited til’ morning?

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Not only is this a great opportunity for the rest of us bloggers to gain a few links, but it’s great to exercise that creative muscle.

The prompt I chose is If you had to star in a reality TV show, which one would it be and why? Here’s my response:

Life and Times of a 21st Century Genius

It’s not if I’ll star in a reality TV show, it’s when I’ll star in a reality television show. My first preference for a show will my own, of course. I mean, who wouldn’t want to watch me live my daily life and see all the fascinating things I do.

Like the minutes I waste every morning waiting in line for my latte. Or the first hour of my work day when I surf the web, read the news, and harass other bloggers with my wickedly novel comments.

There’d be so much action in my life that they’d need more than one cameraman at all times. Like during the best part of my day, when I go next door to chat with my co-worker. We complain mostly about traffic, weather, work load, and bosses, but whatever the  topic, it’s always titillating.

Then, the cameras would follow me as I walk from office to office to share my insights into making the business run better. I will expel summaries of meetings this other person wasn’t in and share reflections on something I read.

After I’ve impressed everyone with my astounding intellect, it’ll be time for lunch. It will take me another 15 or so minutes to find someone who is going to a place that I have an interest in.

One lady will say tuna sandwiches from the deli. She always says that and every day I say no way.  Burritos from the burrito place the IT guys will say – forget it.

I won’t stop pacing these halls until someone sys sushi. Sushi dammit! That’s what someone of my celebrity status needs to eat for lunch.

Finally I will have found someone to eat lunch with me and the cameras will follow us into my co-workers two-door Civic. It’ll be a little tight in there between the microphones and and lights. But we will make it work.

Then after, 45 minutes of talking about last night’s TV line up, the producer will call my cell phone and encourage me and my co-worker to rear-end someone on the way back to work. They need a “teaser” for the following episode, and like they say: “If it bleeds, it leads!”

My co-worker and I talk about it for a minute and when she finally believes my lies that the network will pay her insurance deductible, she agrees. Problem is the person she rear-ends must be an illegal driver because he drives away so fast after the accident that the camera crew doesn’t have time to get out of the car for the footage.

Oh well, there’s always the next day.

After lunch I’ll catch up on the news and blog posts, then head to a committee meeting. We’re planning the holiday party right now and it’s critical that I be there. If I don’t speak up about the karaoke machine, then no one will.

Then it will be about 3:30pm and I’ll panic a little about the fact that I haven’t done any work that day. I’ll have a heart to heart with the camera over the pains and struggles I have in my job. I’m not fulfilled. I’m not challenged. My boss doesn’t appreciate me. I’m thinking about a lawsuit. It’ll be a tough confession. I might even cry a little.

Then, motivated to work, the cameras will record me staring at my computer screen for minutes without blinking, typing maniacally and returning phone calls to the east coast where it’s now 7pm and I know no one is at their desks.

Once the work day is over I’ll head home to have dinner and a brutal argument with my boyfriend. We’ll be in the midst of discussing our recent problems, which will be timely since the reality show is going on and everything.

What he won’t realize is that I’ve been cheating on him. I can’t seem to stop because I think its fun and it doesn’t ever occur to me that he’ll find out once the show airs.  He’ll find out one night when we’re snuggled up on the couch eating sushi and watching the third episode. He’ll dump me, but take me back after the network offers me a second season of Life and Times of a 21st Century Genius.

The second season will be better than the first because that’s when I’ll accidentally get pregnant.

And if Life and Times of a 21st Century Genius doesn’t work out, then I’ll try out for Survivor. Is that show even on the air anymore?

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And that something is misdirected violence.

While sitting on the couch I practiced balancing a tennis ball on my head with arms spread wide. This is not an easy task and one that I admit to be quite good at. Apparently watching me do this for 20 or so minutes was somewhat annoying to the boyfriend. To get that point across he took the ball from me and then threw it in my general direction.

The ball landed on the couch, which I was now standing in front of. In pure football tackle form (or at least what I would call tackle form) he started to race toward me. To keep him from grabbing the tennis ball and to keep him from tackling me, I put my hands out to stop him at his shoulders.

Instead I stopped him at his face.

With a fingernail I managed to slice the side of his forehead, even drawing blood. He claims I attacked him, but I claim bad aim and self defense. Though this morning upon seeing the swollen red bump on his face, I do feel a little bit like an abuser.

I blame Superbad. That movie’ll make anybody a little crazy. I don’t recommend it. For your boyfriend’s sake, don’t watch it.

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I called these men my “T boyfriends.” Without sounding too stalker-esque I knew their cologne, what books they were reading, and what stops they got on and off at. I never intended to speak to any of my T boyfriends (there were several), I was just greatful to have interesting commutes.

Not everyone is as shy as I am, though. I do have friends that overcame the silence among subway passengers that serves as barrier to any sort of relationship building.

One friend of mine saw a cute guy on the subway every day for weeks. Finally, she was sitting next to him and decided to pull the plug from her iPOD and offer to plug it into his. He agreed and few songs later they became friends.

Another friend–after losing her balance while hanging on to the bar–fell against one cutie who then got off at her stop and coincidentally needed directions. He also asked for a date.

So it can pay to try and make a subway boyfriends the real thing. Too bad I never had the courage.

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Like many first kisses, it was precluded by lots of drinks at a club. The overhead lights were dim and the black lights and disco balls were in full affect. With both of these two factors in action it was near impossible to tell a cute guy from the next, but in my drunk state, I was confident the man with me dancing was gorgeous.

A few more trips to the bar for beers and I started liking this guy more and more. When we snuggled in the back booth to make out I was delighted (it must have been the beers), but when my tongue braised the bottom of his teeth my delight faded. I couldn’t help but notice the sharp edges of two of his teeth. Seconds later I felt one of those sharp edges pierce the tip of my tongue.In pain, I flinched and pulled away feeling the taste buds on my tongue vibrate with the music. I tried to recover, but it just couldn’t be done. Moments later the lights came on and revealed the man in his full glory. Turns out this man was more gorgeous than I thought.

The pain magically subsided, and I went back in for another kiss, but not before he smiled and I noticed those teeth. Those pointy, sharp, and about as yellow as I’ve ever seen teeth.

I’m no tooth model and I recognize I sound superficial, but the beautiful brown locks and glistening blue eyes could not make up for the oral hygiene.

Here’s a dating tip for those that need it: caps and bleach could get you a second make-out session. Try Ivory White teeth whitener. Note: if you sign up for Ivory White, the product will automatically be shipped to you and your credit card automatically charged. Don’t blame me, just thank me for your second make out session.

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THE END

ps – I didn’t write this. Just thought it hysterical enough to share.

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It was a simple enough process, really. I moved the night stand on my side of the bed away from the wall an inch or two and threw the cord behind the table. I wasn’t able to reach the outlet by just standing there so I laid down on the floor to reach the plug.

Not surprisingly I had to reach through an assortment of dust bunnies and change to connect the plug to the outlet. What was surprising, though, was the presence of a yellow scrunchy. Maybe it was more like an elastic, but either way, it was not mine.

In walks the BF and I throw the soft hair tie his direction asking who the other woman is. He laughs and I laugh knowing that there is no other woman. I know this because of the dust bunnies and because no one has worn a yellow scrunchy since the 90s… or at least I hope so.

My concern changed. I don’t think he’s seeing someone else. But what kind of woman was he seeing before me? The kind of woman to wear a yellow scrunchy?

Was she a fashion imbecile? Was she an athlete? Was she 20 years older than me?

I never got an answer. My boyfriend couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer my questions.

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Jay Leno went into the audience to find the most embarrassing first date that a woman ever had. He found a woman with this story…

She said it was midwinter. Snowing and quite cold. And the guy had taken her skiing in the mountains outside Salt Lake City, Utah, for a day skiing. No overnights. They were strangers, after all, and truly had never met before.

The outing was fun but relatively uneventful until they were headed home late that afternoon.

They were driving back down the mountain, when she gradually began to realize that she should not have had that extra latte.

They were about an hour away from anywhere with a rest room and in the middle of nowhere! Her companion suggested she try to hold it, which she did for a while.

Unfortunately, because of the heavy snow and slow going, there came a point where she told him that he had better stop and let her go beside the road, or it would be the front seat of his car.

They stopped and she quickly crawled out beside the car, yanked her pants down and started to pee.

In the deep snow she didn’t have good footing, so she let her butt rest against the rear fender to steady herself.

Her companion stood on the side of the car watching for traffic and indeed was a real gentleman and refrained from peeking.

All she could think about was the relief she felt despite the rather embarrassing nature of the situation. Upon finishing however, she soon became aware of another sensation.

As she bent to pull up her pants, the young lady discovered her buttocks were firmly glued against the car’s fender.

Thoughts of tongues frozen to poles immediately came to mind as she attempted to disengage her flesh from the icy metal.

It was quickly apparent that she had a brand new problem due to the extreme cold.

Horrified by her plight and yet aware of the humor of the moment, she answered her date’s concerns about ‘what is taking so long’ with a reply that indeed, she was ‘freezing her butt off’ and in need of some assistance!

He came around the car as she tried to cover herself with her sweater and then, as she looked imploringly into his eyes, he burst out laughing.

She too, got the giggles and when they finally managed to compose themselves, they assessed her dilemma.

Obviously, as hysterical as the situation was, they also were faced with a real problem.

Both agreed it would take something hot to free her chilly cheeks from the grip of the icy metal!

Thinking about what had gotten her into the predicament in the first place, both quickly realized that there was only one way to get her free.

So, as she looked the other way, her first-time date proceeded to unzip his pants and pee her butt off the fender.

The best part of it all?

They fell in love and he became her husband and was sitting next to her on the Leno show.

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I had a boyfriend once who wore holey underwear. I used to come over to his place with new pairs and sneak them into his drawer. The first time he noticed right away saying: “I prefer Calvin Klein, not Hanes.”

“I don’t care what you like; just wear some without so many holes,” I said.

He didn’t. I came over a few days later to find him in front of the TV in his underwear with holes.

I decided to try again. I bought a three pack of Calvins and snuck those in his drawer too. Again he noticed pretty quick and said, “I only like gray, I’ll never wear white.”

“I don’t care what you like; just wear some without so many holes.”

Again, he kept wearing the holey underwear never letting go of what I thought should be embarrassing. He wasn’t embarrassed.

A third time I brought over three brand new, freshly washed, gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I was certain this would be a successful feat. I nonchalantly opened his drawer, and carelessly threw in the boxers so he wouldn’t notice anything out of order. If I folded them or even placed them neatly, he’d know they were from me.

A few days went by and I came over for some dinner and a Netflix only to find him on the couch pulling on the errant strings of his holey underwear.

I had no choice. Without a seconds delay I surprised him by pulling off his underwear and running to the trash to rid me of them for good. I then went for the drawer to find the others. Coming up empty handed I went back to the living room where I had left him sitting.

And there he was, on the couch with the darned underwear back on. He had gone and pulled them out of the trash. I’m not sure if they were stinky before this incident, I never got close enough to notice, but I’m certain they were stinky now.

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For me, what is worse than being seen at the gym is being recognized at the gym. If it’s a friend that sees me it is certainly disruptive, but much less traumatic than having a guy I met at the bar last weekend see me in a compromising stretch.

In order to avoid seeing people I know, I avoid peak hours and eye contact, if possible. My strategy is quite effective, but not fool proof as I learned a few weeks ago.

On this particular day I was running on the treadmill. At one point I turned my head to check the clock behind me when I saw Tom. Instinctively I snapped my head back around without acknowledging him. I wanted to date Tom after meeting him at happy hour the Friday before. But had I just ruined my chances with my god-knows-what jiggling around for the last thirty minutes?

I ended my run, wiped my face as best I could, and turned to step off the treadmill. Unable to avoid him altogether, I acted surprised with my sudden smile and slow wave.

Hey, Tom said without slowing down at all. I’ll call ya.

I could tell my Tom’s nod and subtle wave that our Friday afternoon cocktails meant nothing. Slight devastated, I decided to skip the sit ups and squats and go directly to the locker room, grab my things and go home.

To speed up the process even more I kept my work-out clothes on deciding it was ok to take the train ride home in my smelly gear. I opened my locker, grabbed my bag from the hook and pulled the strap over my shoulder. I hastily pulled my nicer smelling work clothes from the locker and shoved my things in to my bag. I pulled the flap tight and snapped the button securing my belongings.

As I walked out of the locker room I saw Tom walking in my direction. There was no where for me to go. No way to escape. I made eye contact without even trying.

I waved and smiled politely for a few moments before I took a sharp right turn to leave the gym. Not a second before I took that turn I noticed how Tom burrowed his eyebrows and looked me down, up and then down again. It is not as though he was checking me out, it was as though he was trying to figure me out.

Did I really look that goofy in my sneakers and sweaty t-shirt?

I continued on my way toward the exit walking past the four rows of treadmills, past the two rows of elliptical machines, and past the row of bikes before reaching the door. As I walked down the first step leading to the door I felt something brush against the outside of right my knee. I walked down the second step and again I felt something brush my leg, except this time I felt something catch on my pants.

I looked down and there it was: my black, lacy, 36B-sized bra with extra padding hanging entirely out of my bag. One end was hooked to the inside of my bag’s flap and the other end was hooked to my cotton capri pants!

As I ran out the door I clutched my bra by its left cup and mercilessly drove it to the bottom of my bag. Everyone had seen my lacy black number.

Tom saw my bra. All the people on the treadmills saw my bra. All the people on the elliptical machines saw my bra. All the people on the bikes certainly saw my bra.

This time I might have been seen by everyone at the gym, but next time I’m sure to be recognized with or without the dangling bra.

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