Nothing can make that unfunny. And nothing will make the relationship between Bob the Builder and Wendy ok. He's a jerk and she's pathetic. Couldn't she assert herself just once and tell Bob she likes him? Oh, no. Much better to pine away in silence while that insensitive lout dances the night away with Mavis, that hooker. Bob isn't even cute. And his best friend is a dump truck. Guys without real friends are a bad bet. Although I loved Sex and the City, I never got Carrie and Big. My sister-in-law, not a fan of the show, saw the movie and immediately noticed the problem: He had no friends. Beware the guy with no friends, y'all! If a bunch of guys who don't even care how their friends smell don't like him, something ain't right. bob did build Wendy a pergola, which is the equivalent of Big's closet for Carrie - nice, but not enough to prove he's in it for the long haul. In fact, they were both just showing off.
As previously mentioned, I'm not a radio star. Marti Bluestein, however, is. And I'm going to be on her show, Chick Chat, this afternoon from 3:25 to 3:40. Stream it live here or listen on AM 1230 in Columbia. No promises, but I'll try to be entertaining.
Namasté, y'all!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Video killed the radio star.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Dear Diary,
We were going to a casual place for dinner, but I dressed anyway, because we were supposed to go somewhere later. I actually dried and straightened my hair and ironed my dress - the blue one with the big black border at the bottom, which I wore with my awesomest red patent leather Christian Louboutin sanadals. Not that it mattered, because after dinner (a quick salad), I got ditched. My date decided to go see the band with two of his guy friends and I got to drive my brother in law and sister in law home. They didn't seem like they wanted to go home, either, but we didn't really have a choice**. It was very confusing, because before and during dinner, we talked about not going to see the band.
I would have called some other friends to see what they were doing, but my date had given me just enough cash to pay the sitter, who doesn't take checks. Or debit cards. And I really wanted to go out, because at dinner, I got stuck at the end of the table, with people I didn't know who were half my age. And someone spilled their beer at me. Luckily, I was standing up so not much of it got on me, but I hate drama at the table. And some of it did get on my toes, which felt gross. And I hate beer. And my dinner wasn't very good, so I was looking forward to having a snack somewhere else.
I can't explain how depressing it is to be all dressed up, looking forward to a night out, and end up with beer-sticky toes and your date handing you a wad of cash and leaving with his friends. And it feels terrible to drive your other friends home, knowing they wanted to go out and were counting on you to go with them. And you know it's all your fault because you're such a loser that your baby daddy would rather go to a part of town he doesn't like to see a band he's not into than spend one more minute with you. And it feels worse when he says, one foot out the door,
"I'll stay with you if you want me to..."
And by that point, you don't want him to. You want another date, preferably one who likes you or at least thinks you're hot.
I would have gone home and cried, and broken up with him the next day, old school-style. I'm not proud of this, but a couple of times, back in the day, I broke up with people by just never returnng their phone calls or speaking to them in public. I only started saying "hello" again once I was sure we were definitely broken up. Socially sophisticated, I was not. Anyhow, the whole crying/breaking up thing wasn't an option. The kids were awake, so I ended up watching "Ghostbusters" with them in my bed, until it got too scary and we switched to re-runs of "Leave It to Beaver," both excellent choices, by the way. I hate Barbara Billingsly - she is so skinny! And why did I never notice how hot Ward was?
Next weekend, I'm going out with my friends instead. How did this happen?
Love,
Me
*But we have three kids and I like our house, which I couldn't afford on my own.
** Boring explanation of why we didn't have a choice: I wasn't supposed to be the driver and I had already had two glasses of sparkly wine, which is my limit for driving. We could have gone somewhere else, but I would have been the sober third wheel. Can you imagine? It would have been so pathetic. I might have even been "the girl who cries." Don't you hate that girl? The one who cries at every party - and if you ignore her, which you should, since she does it every damn time, you look like a b*tch. And my in laws thought about going back out and driving themselves, but you know how it goes when you think you have a driver... The whole thing was just embarassing. I felt like we ruined their night. Nothing makes you feel like a loser more than bragging to the sitter that you won't be home until close to midnight - and showing up just after 9 pm. Also, all the kids are awake when you get home. At least 50% of the reason you get a babysitter is so someone else will put them to bed. I felt like a jerk. But I wasn't the jerk, now was I?
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Diet Soda Nirvana
There are things you share in a marriage, sacred things that no one outside of that sacred pair can ever understand. Many years ago, my then-boyfriend* and I were en route to a U2 concert in Clemson, South Carolina. We were coming from Rock Hill, South Carolina, traveling down small highways all the way.
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Before we got old and had to watch our figures, we used to always have cold Diet Pepsi's and Cool Ranch Doritos on road trips. It's a testament to our deep commitment** that we were willing to eat something so halitosis-inducing on the way to a public event. Obviously, we only had eyes for each other...and breath, I guess.
We stopped at a country store for our snack, my sweetheart reaching deep into an old, ice filled cooler for two Diet Pepsi's***. We opened them, with far less ceremony than we would have, had we known that they would be the Coldest. Pepsi's. Ever. They had thin flecks of ice across the surface. You cannot recreate those flecks in a freezer. I've tried, many more times than I should have. If a scientist could pinpoint the exact moment at which Pepsi becomes flecked with ice and could invent a machine that would achieve that moment, at the mere flick of a switch, they would win a prize. It would be a big, shiny prize, awarded by the Daily Digress for Lifetime Achievement. And I would pay at least $74 for a machine like that, but I would appreciate a little discount, since I awarded the prize and all.
The concert was pretty good, too, but we never talk about that. I vaguely remember some sort of grocery cart theme. We do, however, occasionally look at each other dreamily and think of the Pepsi's. Sometimes, one of us says it out loud. Other times it's understood. That, ladies and gentlemen, is love. Isn't it?
Namasté, y'all!
* Foreshadowing! I said then boyfriend, which implies he isn't my boyfriend anymore. But I was just talking about husbands and wives, so...guess who I married? Aren't I clever?
** More foreshadowing! Eh, I'll go ahead and tell you. My then-boyfriend is my now-husband. Awww...
*** This is bugging the crap out of me. I know that the correct plural form of "Pepsi" should be "Pepsis," but that doesn't look right at all, so eff it. "Pepsi's" it is. Besides, "Pepsis" is a bug genus. Ew.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Why not just tell her the truth?(Alternate Title: There are some kooky people on television.)
- Don't use big hand gestures. Small ones are more feminine (Translation: Not too scary for the drunk guy.)
- Personal space is something to be micro-managed. Move in close. Now back away. Not so fast. Move in one half of one inch. Now back up one inch. (This could backfire. You might end up looking like you have to go to the bathroom. Or worse.)
- Look at him. Look away. Make a coy face, like you're all,"Oops! Silly me got caught checking out your fabulous face! Teehee!" Now do it again. Advanced technique includes, but is not limited to, blushing on cue. (I seriously doubt most men would notice all this drama. Or maybe they just weren't that into me.)
- Don't make unattractive faces. Try to look pretty.
"You know," she kindly informed me, "The reason boys don't think you're pretty is because you make funny faces when you tell stories. I mean, I know it makes the story better, but everyone thinks you're ugly."
Well, actually, I did not know boys didn't think I was pretty. I thought they were just intimidated, at least that's what I told myself as I stumbled through adolescence, more or less dateless until I was old enough to drink legally. And my stories were funny, although those ugly faces might have something to do with the fact that I crave Botox now. Eventually, I found boys who were man enough to laugh at my jokes and quick enough to see a flash of pretty in between the ugly faces. Or maybe pretty just wasn't a priority. Who cares? In any case, I think my friend was just jealous or maybe a bit self-centered. Another time, when I was crying over an enormous zit, she comforted me.
"Well, you're lucky. Your skin isn't super smooth like mine, so people probably don't even notice when you have a zit. Everyone notices when I do, because my skin is so perfect."
She was full of insight. It was great to know I was so hideous that a monster zit made absolutely no difference. I didn't keep in touch with her after high school, but I hear she turned out very pretty. It's not always wrong to employ subterfuge. Sometimes it can be genius. A friend of mine in college once found an excuse to bring up the Mariana Trench in a conversation with a boy she liked. As she brushed her fingers against his face, she said,
"Isn't is scary to think about all the creatures in the Mariana Trench? It would be so dark, you would have no idea what they looked alike. You could just feel them brushing against your face. Unless one of them bit you. Then you would be in horrible pain and probably die!"
As if you wouldn't die just from wandering around the bottom of the ocean. I hear the water pressure's pretty hard-core down there. This was a great technique, by the way. As far as I know, they're still together. I'm sure she wouldn't mind any of you single ladies using it. Boys love smart girls who are into creepy stuff like unimaginable sea creatures.
Anyhow, the subject of Dating Boot Camp was a very obnoxious woman. She talked too loud, interrupted everyone and spit a little when she talked. Also, she needed more lipstick. No one told her any of that, though. They just stuck her with a bunch of rules she had already forgotten by the time the show taped. Then again, I talk too loud and interrupt (and very occasionally spit when I talk) and I found a hot boy who likes me anyway. So maybe she should just stay out of bars and hope for the best. And learn some funny stories. Boys like funny stories, ugly faces and all.
Namasté, y'all!
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Who's a bigger liar?
To the fifty three year old:
No, you did not do the horizontal (or vertical, as the case may be) monkey dance with that stewardess.
And, no, she certainly did not stare at you for the whole flight, before beckoning you to the galley with her sparkly, manicured nail.
And she was too wearing underpants, not that you would know.
And, no, you were not sitting in first class, working on a presentation for your big meeting in L.A. In fact, chances are good that you're marginally employed, if at all.
And, I know you didn't claim this, but you certainly implied it, you are in no way, by any stretch of the imagination, handsome. Not a chance.
And, seriously, couldn't you have done better than that story? It was so boringly obvious.
To the thirteen year old girl:
Yes, you probably do have a crush on that boy in your math class. All thirteen year old girls have a crush on someone. I remember it well. Although I didn't go on an actual date until college, I did go on imaginary dates. Constantly.
That boy, however, is probably not "the cutest guy in your whole school." Or, maybe he is, but trust me, he's not that cute. Study hard and go to a good college. That's where the really cute ones are.
And no, he was not looking at you "flirtatiously" as you walked out of the bathroom. Thirteen year old boys don't look at you flirtatiously, they stare off into space. If you happen to be in that space, it may appear that they are staring at you. But not flirtatiously. That was a lie, wasn't it?
And, heck no, you did not wink at him. You were way too chicken. Ba-baaaaahck!
And, finally, no, you didn't suddenly realize that your skirt was tucked into the back of your tights, underwear or panty hose (does anyone even wear panty hose any more? I'm so out of touch.) No one makes that mistake, unless they are really, really drunk. Were you drunk? Do you really want to put that out there, albeit anonymously, in a national publication? Probably not. Just put it on Facebook, like all the other kids your age.
And, thirteen year old girl, don't feel bad. Every thirteen year old girl wants to have silly stories like that to tell. And cute boys to like. And every thirteen year old girl exaggerates. I once had a major crush on a boy, not that he knew, because I never talked to him. I mean, he and I hung out a lot, in my head, exchanging witty and flirtatious banter, but I wasn't ready to actually talk to him. Then, on our class trip, he sat with some other girl on the bus, a girl who could actually speak to members of the opposite sex. I spent the trip listening to Whitney Houston sing All At Once on my Sony Walkman, on a tape I had recorded from the vinyl album I owned, and trying not to cry. I had made the tape by playing the album on my Fisher-Price record player and holding up the microphone of my parent's old tape recorder. The sound quality was fairly awful, which suited my melancholy mood. The recording method made Whitney sound a little bit like Billie Holiday. You want to know the most pathetic part? I might be exaggerating, because one's brain has a self-protective way of blocking these things out, but I think I made the tape while envisioning listening to it with the cute boy, who would fall madly in love with me on our class trip. Yikes.
Oh, fifty three year old guy? You, sir, are pathetic. Did you think I would have kind words for you, as I did for thirteen year old girl? Nope. She has her whole life in front of her. She can get better and her shyness is actually saving her from the embarrassment of teenage romantic entanglements. You, sir, don't have that kind of time. Depressing, isn't it?
Namasté, y'all!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
It would seem that I am a hag and didn't know it.
I'm not Xenobia, which he realized, but not quickly enough to save my ego. He felt compelled to tell me how much I looked like his friend Xenobia, who happens to be the sister of a local public figure, who happens to be nearly seventy years old and looks like a man. He thought I was old enough to have a sister who's older than my parents...and looks like a man. I haven't seen Xenobia, but I have seen her sister and, while I'm not the prettiest person alive, I really don't think I look that bad. Or that old. Or that mannish, damnit. What a jerk.
Not that I care too much about my looks. Well, no more than any woman. Some days, I wish I was smarter or more employed, and others, I just wish I was prettier and had better clothes. But I digress. When I was in college, grunge ruled and we made a point of not being pretty. I didn't shave my legs** and I wore combat boots with granny dresses and mini skirts, when I wasn't wearing overalls and a tank top. Messy hair wrapped up in a rubber band ruled and I at least pretended not to wear makeup. My girlfriends and I wanted to prove that we didn't have to go out of our way to make ourselves attractive to men (oh, the folly of youth!) The whole look was supposed to scream, "NOT SEXY!"
Which is why I felt mildly annoyed at a local bar the other night (Hint: The name is kind of like "Aerial Platter," but not.) The waitresses there were rocking my college look, but all wrong. They had the ugly plaid mini skirts and boots, but they had added tons of makeup, hair gel and, in several cases, fake boobs. It seemed so hypocritical, tarting up grunge that way. Of course, I didn't really care. I'm not so old that I don't know that every generation will do their own thing, fashion wise. And I was probably a teensy bit jealous of the fake boobs; I'm not that brave, but it sure would be nice to have those.
I did want to tell them that they didn't have to try so hard. It's true what your mother said, by the way,
"Just be yourself and you'll have plenty of friends! But put on a little lipstick. You look washed out."
Every time I tried too hard to be something I wasn't, I ended up with a boyfriend or friends I didn't really like. I don't blame them, either, because I made every effort to seem like I was their sort of person. "Be yourself." "Remember who you are." "Act natural." However you want to put it, your mother was right. She was right about the lipstick, too. You do look washed out, just a little.
At the end of my grunge phase, when I was headed into my garish lipstick and high heels phase***, I went on a camping trip with a bunch of people, including a boy I liked. I'm so not a camper and one of the best things about my husband is that, like me, he will only camp at a Westin or some place even nicer. I love him. And I love the Westin. Anyhow, at some point during the trip, Outdoorsy Boy caught me surreptitiously putting on lipstick, just like my mama taught me. He was merciless, ignoring my protests that the color was called "Twig," hardly a color at all, and was made by MAC and had never been tested on animals. He was nice enough, but all wrong for me and I should have known it right then. Be yourself, and you'll end up with someone who's just right for you. Try and be someone else and you'll end up with their boyfriend, who, no matter how attractive, you do not want. But put on a little lipstick. It really will brighten up your whole face.
Namasté, y'all!
* Name has been changed because I live in a small town.
** Correction, I experimented with not shaving my legs. That counts, right?
*** Which I'm still in, by the way.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Honesty is such a lonely word.
"Okay," she grinned, winsomely I'm sure, "You can see my i.d., but I'm not 21!"
I love her for that. I love her for other stuff, too, but that answer was the pinnacle of cool. She managed to take the fun out of it for her accuser. She maintained some level of dignity and all she ended up with was a ticket, which I believe has since been expunged. Or maybe not, but who cares? By accepting that the jig was up, she also saved herself several moments of heart-pounding stress and a little embarrassment. Most importantly, she stole the cop's thunder. All she had to do was look him in the eye and tell the truth. As they say at the X-Man's school, "easy peasy, lemon squeezy."
Honesty is simple and relaxing, but it takes practice. I'm kind of a slacker and I have ADD. That combination has made me less reliable than I should have been at times. I regularly handed in papers late in college, so I got pretty good at it. I learned early that honesty and minimalism were the least infuriating to my professors. Instead of offering elaborate excuses for my tardiness, I would say,
"I'm sorry this paper is late. I hope you can still accept it."
If at all possible, I tried to drop it in their mailbox with a note rather than handing it to them. That way, they could save face, too; they never had to discuss the lateness. I never even got marked down for being late, because I made it easy for them. Excuses are only good for humorous effect, by the way. One time, I was over a month late turning in a paper, for a lecture I had attended maybe three times. I slunk into the department office, planning to drop and run. I should have done it during the class, when I knew he wouldn't be there. Instead, I walked into the office, paper in hand, only to be greeted by all of the teaching assistants and my professor. They were having a meeting about the class. Someone asked me who I was looking for. I answered, as breezily as possible,
"I'm dropping off a paper for Professor So-and-So."
Someone looked up and said,
"I'm Professor So-and-So."
We didn't recognize each other, which should tell you something. I apologized and admitted that I didn't really have an excuse. I asked if it would help my grade if I made one up. He graciously said,
"No, but we might find it entertaining, so give it your best effort."
I reeled off every excuse I could think of, from "My dog had cancer" to "There was a sale at the Gap that I couldn't miss." At the end, I asked if it would help my grade if I cried a bit. The kindly professor said,
"Maybe, but you don't have to actually do it, I'll just mark here that you did."
And he made a very official notation on my cover sheet. I think I got an A-.
Telling the truth was much easier than trying to lie. I'm not a good liar and I suspect that most teachers know when students are lying and find it either infuriating or boring. And being bored when you have other things to do, like grade papers or drink beer, is infuriating.
Most of us lie when we're embarrassed by the truth, usually if we believe we're at fault. While I'm not proud of the fact that I'm less organized than I should be, I don't think it's a major character flaw, either. We also lie when we're trying to be tactful, which I endorse. Nobody likes people who insist on being brutally honest, at all times. I can usually avoid that sort of lying, too, because it's easy enough to just not offer an opinion. When someone asks for my opinion outright, I'll try to say it nicely, but I'll tell the truth, vaguely if I have to.
There's one time I'm pretty sure you should lie, but I'm not sure how. Thanks to my hapless husband, I don't have to deal with this one any more. How is a young woman supposed to turn someone down, without hurting their feelings and without opening the door to more invitations? Not that I was all that sought after, but there were times when someone asked me out and I liked them. Just not that way. Certainly it's important to give everyone a chance, because you never know how it'll turn out, but what if you're sure? There's always the, "I'm on the other team" option, but no one wants to start that rumor about themselves in a small town like this, because it might deter other suitors. There's the "Sorry, I'm seeing someone," but the possibility of getting busted is middle to high. When the goal is not to hurt someone's feelings, you need an ironclad excuse. "I'm just not that into you" can lead to, "Why don't you give me a try?" The only response to that is, "No, seriously, I'm not into you at all." Not so nice.
In a perfect world, people read ever-so-subtle signals and understand that the answer is "no" before they ask the question, but dating is hard and you have to ask a lot of frogs out before you find the right one. I hated the sinking feeling I would get when someone was about to ask me out and I knew I'd have to say no. I'd try to change the subject. If that didn't work, I'd try to pretend I didn't understand the question, so they could save face.
"What am I doing Friday night? This Friday? Oh, same old, same old, hanging out with friends, just like always! We like the Art Bar. Do you ever go there? Sometimes we go other places. I bet you hang out with your friends on Fridays, too. Aren't Fridays fun? We can all hang out with our own friends."
I admit, it wasn't a great technique and it never rarely worked. Even though I don't need the information, y'all know I love to give advice, so hit me with your best line. Email Me or, if you wish to remain totally anonymous, make an anonymous comment. If you aren't anonymous, and submit the best response, I'll give you a prize, à la one of my favorite bloggers. These are the requirements:
- It must be brief.
- It must indicate to the potential suitor that he or she must never speak of a potential date again.
- It must not hurt feelings.
- It must not be humiliating to the speaker.
* I would have been there. I was lying in the hotel room debating whether or not I should go without my new husband. He was passed out upstairs (must have been the
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Drinkin' and Bloggin'! Round Three! Ding!
A and I just had the greatest date ever. The babysitter came at 4 pm and we went to a two hour Yoga workshop about Vasistasana (that would be Side Plank for you non-Yogins). After that, we ate at Baan Sawan, the greatest Thai restaurant ever. And now it's only 8:30 and we're already home and the kids are pretty much ready for bed. A is walking Baby J around the block to get him to sleep and the X Man and I are watching "Napoleon Dynamite," one of our family favorites. And I'm still on the party train drinking the "Technically, I've had too much already, but it's only 8:30 so why stop now?" standby: Cristalino Brut. Try it. S'pretty-good-not-bad.
Later, I'm going to attempt to recreate my Grandmother's Famous (well, in our family) Coconut Cake. She gave me the recipe years ago and I never made it. Actually, I lost the recipe and had to ask her for it again. She's one of these totally organized people who never loses anything so, when she gave me the recipe, she no longer felt responsible for it and got rid of it; my grandmother is not a hoarder, so if she doesn't need it, it's out. However, because she is the Best Grandmother Ever, she somehow found it and gave it to me again. I promise not to lose it this time and, if I don't finish the bottle of Cristalino, I'll put the recipe on my Blaaaaaaaahg tonight, when I finish making it. I might have to put the recipe up tomorrow, maybe with pictures!
Naaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaasté,y'all!
Monday, August 06, 2007
The first time I worried about the future romantic life of one of my children was when O, now 9 tears old and closer to an actual romance than I like to think about, was about two months old. He spent the first month of his life in the hospital, so by the time he got home, I spent a lot of time holding him and just staring at him. I guess that isn't all that uncommon in new parents. In fact, just to destroy any credibility I may have had as a rational, cool person, I'll admit to the time that my husband and I were lying on the bed, with O between us, staring at him and I (please stop me - this is so embarrassing) made the excruciating observation that our bodies formed a heart shape around little O (gag, puke, I know - but you had to be there!)
So anyhow, he was about two months old and my husband called in the middle of the day just to chat and wanted to know why I was weepy. It's a testament to his extreme bravery that he even asked, because you never know what you're in for when you ask someone why they're all emotional in the middle of the day. I burst into tears and explained that I had been staring at little O and thinking about how he would grow up so quickly. I was thinking about his learning to walk, losing his first tooth, making little friends in pre-school and having his first little crush. I think this is when I started tearing up. My heart swelled thinking about how he would like some cute little 12 year old girl and how sweet and funny and smart he would be. And how hard it would be for me to let go (in my defense, I'm not as bad as my friend L who claims that she has already screwed up her 6 month old son for good because she's been telling him since birth, "No woman will ever love you like I do," and she has no intention of stopping.) Then the thought crossed my mind that the little girl might not like him back. And that his heart would be broken. I imagined him coming home from school, his backpack dragging, and struggling to hold back tears because he'd been scorned by some...stupid little you know what. And I was filled with rage at the little brat who would reject my perfect son. I inwardly cursed her cruelty as I hugged sweet, innocent two month old O to my chest. It broke my heart to imagine how I would explain to him, if he even told me about her, that she was never good enough for him and that NO WOMAN WOULD EVER LOVE HIM LIKE I DID! Oops.
Flash forward a few years (nine to be exact) and O has become quite a fan of the ladies. He went to Yoga with my husband the other day and read a book in the lobby while A practiced. As an oldest child and avid reader myself, I understand what a great pleasure it would be to have an hour and a half of reading time with no little pests around to try to eat, rip or take the book. And the book was the long-awaited Harry Potter 7 (aka Harry Potter and the Deadly Something or Another), so he was way into it. But not so into it that he didn't notice the young, but about 15 years too old for him, and attractive woman at the desk.
A week later, I took the kids to the studio as A's class was ending (A's class let out as mine began, so we were meeting in the parking lot to hand off the children). We were a bit early, but I planned on waiting in the parking lot to avoid loading and unloading the masses. O kept saying maybe we should go in. I thought I was being a real comedian and said, "I know why you want to go in there. To chat up the ladies. She was pretty cute, wasn't she?" Now, before you think I'm a mean mommy, tormenting and humiliating my children and toying with their tender emotions for sport, please know that O loves this kind of teasing. I think it makes him feel sophisticated or something. He responded, with a much too cocky grin, "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not gonna' ask her on a date or anything." And, thus, the tables were turned. My intention had been to embarrass my son (in a fun way, I swear!) and the conversation had taken a dark turn. Suddenly, I was forced to acknowledge that dating was not as far in the future as I had hoped.
I asked O where he would take someone on a date and, in typical grandiose fashion, he said China "or a trip around the world or something." X, who is 6 years old and slightly less worldly, said he would take a lady to Ben and Jerry's and "we could walk, because it's good to walk on a date." I agree. And he has plans to buy a banana split on the date, to share. I hope his date appreciates his thriftiness and doesn't just think he's cheap.
On my parents' first date, to an out of town football game, they stopped at a diner on the way for lunch. As was customary back in olden times (like, the 60's), my father asked my mother what she wanted so he could order for her. She asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. "You don't want milk," he said. Of course she did, and told him so. He told her milk was too expensive to order in a restaurant, when it could be purchased in a grocery store and enjoyed at home for so much less. She though he was joking (albeit not too suave-ly) and assumed she would have her milk. When the waitress returned, he ordered her a grilled cheese sandwich and...tea (or coke, she can't remember, maybe because she was in shock.) For some reason, she continued to date him, married him, had four children with him and eventually talked him into ordering milk in restaurants. I can tell it still bothers him though, just a little.
My own husband, on our second date, tried to talk the door guy at a local bar into letting us in two for the price of one, because we had missed the first part of the band's act. Thanks to his charm, it worked. And I realized that I had met the guy that was as thrifty and charming as dear old Dad. I was actually dating several people at the time, and A was the only one who didn't pay for dates; we split the tab every time. And I married him, forsaking all others. Must have been the charm.
I know my mother in law had (and has!) the same worries for her two sons that I have for mine. NO WOMAN WILL EVER LOVE THEM LIKE SHE DOES. In her case, no woman will ever be French enough or a good enough cook either, but there isn't a thing I or my sister in law can do about that. The fact is, no woman will ever love a man like his mother does, but given how overprotective many of us are, that's probably a good thing (as my husband like to say, his mother puts the "mother" in "smother"). But if the ladies don't get the charm, wit and general perfection of my sons, it'll still break my heart.
