At least I'm not behind you in a drive-thru

People and their drink orders can be frustrating. I'm not a mind reader, I don't want to hold your hand while you make this decision and you're right, your first date is judging you.

When someone wants a martini, this is how long the conversation usually lasts,

"I'd like a Tanqueray martini up with a twist."

DONE.

The other night a guy orders,

"I guess I'd like a regular martini."

"Sure." I'm hoping he'll elucidate on his own.

"Thanks."

"What kind of martini would you like?"

"A regular one." He sighs, as if I'm the problem.

"Vodka or Gin?"

"Vodka."

"What kind?"

"Ketel one."

"Up or on the rocks?"

"Up."

"Olives? A twist?"

"Twist."

"Ok." I start to make the cocktail.

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"On the rocks."

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This blog will never defriend you, I promise

In therapy yesterday I mention Facebook. I try to spend as little time on the site as possible. I noticed that someone I haven't talked to in eight years defriended me. Why did she do that? Why do I care? I spend the next fifteen minutes seeing who else from that group of friends defriended me. We still have forty-three mutual friends. What am I doing? I have better things to do with my time. I wonder if I'm still friends with...

My therapist agrees and sighs,

"I spend a lot of time talking to people about getting defriended."

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Define drinking problem...

I made one slight miscalculation in picking Pizza Hut for Valentine's day dinner. There was no booze. The one Tiger and I went to in Michigan had plenty of beer. How was I supposed to know Pizza Huts in Massachusetts are so deficient? I think about going somewhere else. I look out the window. There's KFC, Taco Bell and a gas station. Tiger says,

"Maybe it's a Massachusetts thing."

"But Chuck E. Cheese's has beer and wine."

We enjoy our delicious breadsticks and pizza. Tiger asks,

"What would you like to do now?"

"Get a drink."

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Roses are red, Violets are blue, lets go to bed, so I can blog something new

I told you I'd write you a poem
Dearest readers of mine.
I'm going to Pizza Hut
With my Valentine.

I SWEAR it has nothing to do with this.

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Happy Valentine's Day whether you have testicles or not

Happy Valentine's Day! Or whatever. This is the first time in four years I've had a Valentine who wasn't my mom so I'm not going to hate on the holiday. I've already received two boxes of chocolates. One from my mom and one from my landlady. My landlady also gave me flowers.

Maybe this Valentine's Day you should be asking yourself: "How can I be a better tenant?"

So the other day my dog came to visit. He drove from Worcester to Boston (with the help of my mom) to see me. And this brings up a blog ethics question. I use a code name for everyone, do I need to use a code name for my dog? Does he care? He has limited internet access.

Booker is my dog. He lives with my mom, she does all the work and I pay child support.

I'm excited to take him to the dog park. We take him to one in Worcester and he loves it. Then Tiger took me to the dog park in Cambridge and it was packed. I knew I needed to bring Booker.

My mom, Tiger, Booker and I head to the dog park. Booker stops on the sidewalk feet away from the park and pees all over the concrete. All the other doggie parents are watching us. I let Booker off the leash and into the enclosure. He is swarmed by all the dogs. His tail is between his legs, his hair is up. Oh no! I exclaim to my mom,

"He's so scared!"

"He needs to poop."

"He's scared!"

"The dogs aren't letting him poop."

Doggie parents are talking and shouting. How do I explain to the dog that is trying to bite Booker's neck that he'd really like to poop? My mom was right. Booker runs off to the corner, poops and is ready to play.

I'm hoping he'll run around like a madman. He smells butts. He smells more butts. At one point he's in a butt smelling train circling a pole. Why isn't he running around? He mounts a dog. He's in love and he's obsessed with her butt. He won't pay attention to any of the other twenty dogs in the park. Tiger comments,

"She's not that cute."

"But she's the best looking girl here." Besides, I don't know if Booker's gotten his nose far enough away from her butt to see what she looks like.

She climbs up on a bench. Booker is not deterred. Any chance he gets, he humps her. Is that? Yup, his penis is out. Why is this happening? He's fixed. She leaves. He looks for her for a long time. Ten minutes later he finally brings himself to smell other butts. We leave the park. Booker heads home alone. He does not have a Valentine, unless you count the cat.

Tiger and I spend the evening googling "erections without testicles."

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Roses are red...

I'm writing a Valentine's day poem for Tiger. I'll write one for you tomorrow.

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Now where did my computer go...

I have to clean my desk; there's no room to blog.

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What were we doing?

My new vibrator has a learning curve. It has eight speeds and while all of them are enjoyable, there are two I enjoy the most. I have to cycle through all of them to find the one I want. This isn't a problem when I'm alone, but with Tiger VERY nearby, it threatens to kill the mood. I find the mode I want. I change it. I change it back. I want to change it again, but I keep missing the mode I want. I click through all eight speeds twice over and then nothing. It's stopped. It won't turn on. Tiger reassures me,

"My phone is like that, I have to switch through all the modes to get to the one I want."

"It won't turn on at all."

"I'm sorry."

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Game Over, thanks for playing

My therapist usually seems pleased to see me, but the other day when I come in, she's almost bouncing in her chair. She exclaims,

"I've been thinking about you!"

"You have?"

I'm happy to hear her say so, even if this is what I pay her for: to think about me.

She hands me an outline of the five stages of a relationship. It makes a lot of sense. I decide that I'm somewhere in between stage two and three. Not the worst place to be. We read through the whole thing,

"Stage five, only 15% percent of couples make it here."

Yikes. This is a hard game to win.

After the session she emails the stages to me. Tiger and I go out for drinks and review the hard copy at the bar. He says,

"I'd like a copy of this."

"Sure I'll forward it to you."

Later that night, buzzed, I click on my therapists email to forward it to Tiger. I write him a lovey dovey note,

"Dear Tiger, blah blah blah, love, love, love and p.s. here are the relationship stages."

I click send. But wait a minute, I never put in Tiger's email address. Who did I send it to? Oh dear. I hit reply instead of forward and I sent my love note for Tiger to my therapist.

I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to unsend an email. There is no app for that.

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I don't have anything against schnapps

I come down hard on people who are too snooty about their craft cocktails, but the other end of the spectrum is just as demanding.

A beefy guy with a thick Southie accent asks,

"If I tell you what I want in my drink can you make it?"

"Sure."

"I want dark rum, pineapple, cranberry, and banana schnapps."

"I'm sorry, we don't have banana schnapps."

"You don't have banana schnapps?!"

"No sorry. Would you like that drink without the schnapps?"

"No, it's not the same. You really don't have banana schnapps?"

"No."

"What kind of place is this?"

His wife whispers,

"It's not that kind of place."

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