Dating and other bad habits.

In a crowded bar one night, when my mom and I had gone out for drinks, I saw a guy I’d dated for a few weeks. (And by dating, in this case I mean had meals together so we could have an excuse to see each other naked). Luckily he didn’t see us.

“That’s fill-in-guy’s-name-here,” I hissed.

She turned casually, eying him from head to toe. He fit the classic “type” from my serial relationship days.

“He looks familiar,” Mom said, teasing me because he and that guy I wanted to marry could have been twins.

“C’mon Mom. I don’t really have a type anymore,” I retorted. Which is mostly true because now that I’m a serial dater I leave typecasting to Hollywood. (Unless the bearded mountain man type thing sticks as the “new” type).

So, coincidentally, this guy fit the type. But there was something else in Mom’s face.

“What?” I asked, watching her hunt for words.

“Well..” she thought out loud. “He’s not what I expected. He’s not as good looking as some of the others.”

He’s not bad looking either. But kind of goofy. Mom was right about that.

“He was really interesting,” I explained to a woman who is perfectly aware of how easily I get bored. “Besides, what others? I don’t generally introduce you to men I date, Mom. I haven’t met anyone worth meeting you in a while.”

She turned again to watch him take his drinks from the bar before disappearing into the crowd.

“He’s not as pretty as your other blondes,” she said, picking up her martini. I guess watching him walk made something click, because she turned back to me smiling and toasted my whiskey.

“He must have had a big dick,” she grinned.

“Moooooooom!” I shrieked, moderately mortified by her foul mouth, before smirking and sipping some whiskey.