Monday, September 5, 2011

It Was Bound to Happen

I had a date. Have you picked yourself up off the floor yet? Yes, the man who invented the “Milton-Date” keeps getting on that horse in the hope of finally being able to ride it at least once around the stable. Some day, I’ll write a book about all my bad dates.

But before you hear about the big date, some observations of late. I don’t know if this is true where you live, but in the DC Metro area, the first thing people ask is what you do for a living and where do you live. Then you are asked, “Do you own or rent?” You know what my answer has been over the years, which may explain my lack of viable life-partners.

However, whenever I invited people over, I never felt the need to say, “Come to my apartment, and here is the address.” I would just give the address and let them figure it out. Of course, upon arrival, I would get asked, “Do you own or rent?”

I always wanted to say, “Here is a copy of my lease. Now fuck me and leave.”

I never did have the nerve to say that, but wouldn’t it have been cool if I did?

One guy many years ago complimented a couch I recently purchased when living in Dutch Village in Newport News and then said, “I bought one just like it, but I had to Jew the guy down.” I just told him to leave. I didn’t even give him a handshake or a cigarette.

But now, I live in what some consider a curiosity. Think about it. How many people, beside me, do you know who live in a mobile home? Has my home become the Yoko Ono apartment of trailer park living. Do people only come over just to see it and not me? They do look up and down and all around with that look on their faces that says, “I always wondered what these look like on the inside. I wonder if it will tip when all of us stand on one side?”

I have to admit that I have had to mention my type of home in situations where I didn’t have to in my life as a rent-boy … I mean renter.

For instance, when living in Mount Pleasant, my apartment had a door at street level, so when I took a cab, I would say the second door from the corner. A week ago, I had to leave my car at the shop, so I took a cab home – no cheap trip in Howard County.

When the cab driver pulled onto my street, he said, “Oh, I must have made a wrong turn.”

I said, “You’re right. This is where I live.”

Should I have said, “The mobile home park up on the right” or “Look for the guy in the wife-beater walking his dog”?

Do we have to point out what kind home we live in when either taking a cab or giving someone directions? “Yes, it’s the cheaply constructed McMansion at the end of the block.” “After you make the first left, look for the house with the upside-down mortgage and blue shutters.” “My building is the one up there with the tiny condos and paper thin walls.”

Actually, I think people should do the above from now on. It would save all of us a bunch of trouble.

Upon pulling up to my house he said, “Do you like living in one of these?”

I knew it was bound to happen. Someone would refer to my home as “one of these.” Seriously, you’d think I live in a tree house. I should get a sign that says “no girls allowed.”

So I said, “Sure, as long as you get a good set of Michelins, these houses are quite comfortable.”

He didn't laugh.

I knew that wouldn't be the last time I heard “one of these,” but it gets better.

I left work a half hour early the evening of my big date. My first date of 2011. A lot of good that did me. There was an accident that shut down I-95 and diverted all the traffic onto Route 1. I found this out while stuck on Route 1 by asking the lesbian in the car next to mine. I knew she was a lesbian because she had short hair, looked like an attractive version of Bruce Jenner, and she was driving a Chrysler PT Cruiser. Two things I know about lesbians. They are the only people who buy PT Cruisers, and they all either owned, learned how to drive in, or lost their lesbian virginity in an AMC Spirit, which I drive – another reason I go dateless. After telling me what was going on, she said, “Nice car. I used to own one.”

“No kidding?” My genitalia performed their own sex-change.

I finally made it home two hours later. That is right. It took me more than two hours to drive ten miles. I thought I was back in Rockville. Thank God that isn’t an everyday occurrence.

Getting home this late meant I had little time to walk Esmeralda, feed her, take a shower and wait for my Viagra to kick in. While walking her, my phone rang. It was my date.

He said, “I must have made a wrong turn. I’m in a trailer park.”

“The preferred term is mobile home community, and mine is the second one on the right after the mail boxes.”

Esmeralda and I rounded the corner and saw him sitting out front in his F-150. I thought You drive a pick-up, so you better not judge.

Once inside, he looked around, up and down, the way everyone does when they first enter my home, and he asked, “Do you like living in one of these?”

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