A Bad Dating Gem!

Egads!  When looking for my self-review for work, I found this little gem that I submitted to The Chicago Reader last year, responding to their request for bad dating stories.  The sad thing is that I forgot about all 3 of these instances (even though they are hilarious) - which further proves just how terrible & traumatizing the dating scene is.  Enjoy.

This is 1 week in the life of a single 30-something.

Last Saturday night a guy I was set up with met me out at a bar.  Let's call him J.  I had met J exactly once, on a casual drinks date a few days earlier.  The first thing out of his mouth on Saturday (after pleasantries were exchanged) was "I shaved my balls tonight."  Excuse me?  Pardon?  WTF?  Who says that?  I was very put off and didn't really know what to say- but don't worry.  He elaborated.  For approximately  5 minutes.  Guys, take a note.  That is WAY too much information.  Keep your grooming habits to yourself & you have a better chance of a girl finding out for herself what's happening in that arena.

The following Wednesday I was on a first (blind) date with a different guy.  He brought absolutely nothing to the table and I had a tough time staying awake.  I wasn’t acting like my usual sparkly self because, really, why bother.  Towards the end of drinks (we had 2) we were finally talking about something that I found interesting, and I became more animated. 

He said to me that as I became drunker, my accent came out and I was more “Jewy”. 

There are so many things wrong with that statement that it’s hard to know where to begin. 

1.       I wasn’t drunk.  I had 2 beers.  You were just boring. 

2.       I don’t have an accent.  Dummy. 

3.       Do not refer to a Jewish person as “Jewy.”  It’s insulting and makes you sound ignorant.

FAIL.

The next night I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday.  A very handsome man approached me at the bar and was flirting with me.  I (obviously) flirted back.  We chatted for awhile and were becoming more comfortable around each other.  He apparently thought this vibe gave him the freedom to say anything, and he gently touched the back of my head and said “Does your mother know you did this to your hair?” 

Um, come again?  Are you insinuating that my very short, stylish pixie haircut is heinous?  The kicker to this guy is that I think he’s married!  Here is why I suspect that – you be the judge. 

A.            He’s older (late 30s) and very good looking

B.            He was dressed in a dapper manner

C.            He smokes & was acting cagey about it (I bet his wifey doesn’t approve – neither do I)

D.            He pulled out his iphone to get my number and fiddled around with it for awhile, before saying that it wasn’t working.  He asked me to write my number on a cocktail napkin.

Ergo, married.

And people wonder why I’m single.

Flavor for Your Ear - Volume 2

Hope you find some new hits - enjoy your weekend!
xoxo

	SONG	ARTIST
1	Stutter	Elastica
2	Something Else	Diamond Rings
3	Will You Love Me Forever?	Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
4	Catcher In The Rye	Datarock
5	Ana NG	They Might Be Giants
6	Get In Line	I'm From Barcelona
7	It's A Shame About Ray	Lemonheads
8	Zero	Yeah Yeah Yeahs

My Parents Dream Come True.

As I've mentioned a few times, my parents are a wee bit concerned about my perpetually single status.  And while I think they would be happy at this point if I marry anyone at all (except for perhaps a felon), they would be over the moon if I married a fellow M.O.T. (Gentiles, that stands for Member Of the Tribe.  AKA- Jews.  We have our own secret language.  Jealous??)

My folks have taken matters into their own hands on several occasions to try to steer me in the direction of single Jewish men.  Like when they sponsored me on J-Date (twice) by paying for my membership.  Or when they forced me to go to the Matzo Ball in Boca Raton, which is a dance for Jewish people on Christmas Eve, since we clearly have nothing special happening on that particular evening.  Mom & Dad drove me 45 minutes to the "ball", dropped me off by myself to go to this shindig and apparently went to a nearby Denny's to hang out for several hours until it was time to pick me up.  I was 28 years old, by the way.  

But this new website might be right up their alley:  http://www.thejmom.com/%20

I would like to place a bet with a reputable Vegas bookie on how quickly my parents will snatch up this opportunity to have the ability to influence my fledgling love life.  And secretly- between just us girls - I welcome any help I can get at this point.  The more people I have working on my case, the better.

xoxo

Really?? Really.

This is a facebook status that a sorority sister of mine posted today:

Dear illness: please leave me and my boys alone! We take vitamins, eat well, work hard and play hard. Go bother someone single please!

I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that when a person took a vow of marriage & popped out a kid or two that they also were granted immunity from the sickness gods.  If that is the deal, maybe I will begin to take this whole "marriage" thing a little more seriously.

I mean, single people have enough issues already to deal with- we don't need to take on married people's quota of cold & flu.  We have family members constantly asking us if we are dating anyone seriously, grandparents reminding us that they aren't getting any younger and, in my case, parents secretly wondering if you are gay (not that there's anything wrong with that).  And like I told my folks years ago- I'm not gay.  I'm just a failed heterosexual.

So, ease up girl.  And remember you live in a society where we all - married & unmarried alike - should be treated equally.  If this anti-single behavior continues, I'll be forced to start a single brigade to cough on your salads & hawk lugies in your espresso.

xoxo.

Epic Fail.

I hate riding bikes.  This is how I usually end up after riding a bike - just ask my family:

So why I decided to try spinning the other night is beyond me.  (Ok, I lied. I know why I tried spinning. Because my fat ass desperately needs exercise.)

I entered spin class a virgin, having never tried this before.  I didn't even know the basics, like how to set up my bike.  BTW- moving the bike from its position against the wall to the class floor is pretty much a workout in and of itself.  I should have left after moving that piece of equipment & called it a day.

I asked the gal next to me how to adjust the seat, after explaining I was new to the class.  She looked at me as if I was a complete & total moron, but at least she showed me how to move the seat.  (She failed to mention that I was also supposed to adjust the handlebars.  Jerk).

The instructor was a tiny Asian woman who was at least 7 months pregnant.  She jumped right into class without asking if anyone is new to this and then we were spinning!

I hated it immediately & was trying to figure out my exit strategy.  Most people think they can't walk out of a class full of people, like it would be too embarrassing or something.  Trust me- I've walked out of a few classes in my day.  But since it was only a 45 minute class & there was a semi-attractive, seemingly straight guy right by the door, I decided to stick it out.

The spin leader was shouting at the class to go to level 7, 8, now drop it to a 2 ... and I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.  Where are these levels that she speaks of?  All that my bike had was a red knob with a minus sign & a plus sign- but there were no numbers anywhere.

And whenever we stood on the bike to take a hill, I would get over-eager trying to keep up with the rest of the class, peddling my stumpy little legs as fast as they could possibly go- and then my foot would fall out of the pedal harness & I would fall off the bike.  This happened over, and over, and over.  So not cute.

Meanwhile, the pregnant Spin Nazi practically has smoke coming off of her feet, her frigging legs are moving so fast.  I have never felt more uncoordinated & unathletic in my life (and considering that I have never felt like I am either of those things, this was a pretty epic fail.)

At the end of class, I approached Spin Nazi to ask about the levels and I explained that I was new to the class.  She was basically like, Duh, I saw you fall off of your bike a few times.  (what a sweetheart.)

She was like- The levels are what you think they are.  What does an 8 mean to you?  What is your level 2?

That is without a double one of the stupidest things that I have ever heard.  How am I supposed to frigging know what my level 8 is when I've never done this before?  Frankly, attending the class and not walking out is a 10 to me.  Go Lori!

And a friendly piece of advice to fitness clubs everywhere:  Having an amazingly athletic, highly pregnant group instructor makes us non-athletic, slightly chubby, single girls hate exercise even more.

I am going to go back to the treadmill, where 8 = 8 and I can hop off whenever I want without judgment.  

Flavor for Your Ear- AKA- Music is my boyfriend

In the prophetic words of CSS, "Music is my boyfriend."  Since clearly this whole dating men thing hasn't been working out for the last, oh let's say, 15 years.

And because I'm a giver, once a week I will share a playlist with my blog peeps on what I am listening to RIGHT NOW.  It's gonna be so awesome.

Here is my current playlist, which I began this week after purchasing yet another new replacement iPod.  ::sigh:: 

This mix was developed partially by adding my favorites from my most recent acquisitions (in the case of #1 & #2) and the rest are from hitting shuffle & adding what catches my fancy to my Feb 2011 playlist (playlist title copywrited.  Don't even think about stealing it.)  j/k.

So, what do ya think?  Judge away.
xoxo

	Song	Artist
1	Hi-Fi Goon	Throw Me the Statue
2	Corner Of The Sky	Cut Copy
3	The Great Defector	Bell X1
4	Airplanes	Local Natives
5	1999	Shout Out Louds
6	A Mistake	Fiona Apple
7	Whoever You Are	Geggy Tah
8	Sweet Disposition	The Temper Trap
9	I Only Want You	Eagles Of Death Metal
10	This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)	Talking Heads

Mortified - Starring LG...Part 1

The following 2 video clips form one complete story- a performance I did for Mortified  (http://www.getmortified.com/), which has an amazing proposition:  For grown adults to get up in front of an audience of total strangers & read artifacts from their adolescence.  Think notes, school essays, poems, diaries, letters, etc.

My performance is read directly from my 8^th grade diary & is about my first foray into weight loss.  If you read the post “Dumped”, you will see that I was unable to keep the poundage off.

I hope you enjoy watching me get Mortified.
xoxo

Mortified - Starring LG - Part 2

Do not pass GO, Do not collect $200 – unless you have watched Part 1!

A Shout Out to the Original Blogger, Doogie Howser, MD

On the one week anniversary of my blog, I wanted to take a quick moment to give thanks to the pioneer who started the blogging revolution:  Doogie Howser, MD.

For those of you who didn’t come of age in the early 90’s, you might have missed this amazing television gem about a super-genius, who, at age 13, is a medical doctor- but still has to deal with typical adolescent hijinks & coming-of-age issues like kissing girls & wet dreams.  Doogie is played by cultural icon, Neil Patrick Harris.

At the end of each episode, Doogie would type up a couple inspiring sentences on his ginormous computer, succinctly delivering the message of the last half hour to the show’s apparently moronic audience.  Granted, the internet hadn’t been invented yet, so he couldn’t put his nerdy computer diary into the public realm in 1992, but he tried.  He tried.  And I for one would like to thank Doogie for pioneering this brave new world.

While I am doling out credit to the techy early adopters of the 1990’s, I’d like to give a quick shout out to the first cell phone user – Zach Morris. 

I mean, COME ON.  Zach Morris had a portable cell phone when the rest of us were barely off rotary.  These are real American Pioneers people.  When was the last time Davy Crockett did anything relevant?  Like, 250 yrs ago, you feel me??

Anywho, thanks guys, for being awesome. 

Dumped.

I was dumped by my first love.  Wah, wah, right?  Cry me a river.  No big deal, I’m sure you are thinking.  Except for one significant detail.

WE WEREN’T DATING.

Let me tell you, it’s pretty traumatic to have the first love of your life preemptively break up with you.

It was the summer of 1995 & I was at my favorite place on earth – Camp Sabra.  Camp Sabra is a sleep-away camp at the Lake of the Ozarks.  It’s a magical place, where Jewish kids who are total nerds & social outcasts during the school year reign supreme.  You are free to be yourself & individuality is actually encouraged.  At Camp Sabra, being different is cool.

I took that notion and I ran with it. 

Now, you need to realize that I was going through that weird part of adolescence, when you don’t really know who you are & what you stand for.  I decided my sophomore year of high school that I was going to be a grungy-hippie alternative chick.  I went from wearing the teen-approved uniform of GAP & Banana Republic clothing to only wearing relics from Goodwill & thrift stores.  My hair was out of control – it was really long & had kind of a jew-fro thing going on.  I parted it right down the middle & wore kiddie barrettes on either side; you know, the cheap, plastic kind that were butterflies and hearts and shit.

I wore black combat boots and a ring on every finger.  The one that elicited the strongest reaction (ergo, it was my favorite) was a large orange plastic ring that had a round, clear bubble on the top that contained a dead roach. 

The piece de resistance that completed my slacker uniform was the smoking habit I picked up my freshman year.  That, and the extra 20 pounds I put on.  Whoever said that smoking made you skinny lied.  This is me at 16 years old (please note the Pez dispenser that I cleverly turned into jewlery.)

I arrived at camp with butterflies in my stomach.  This year, I was going to be a CIT (counselor in training).  Finally, I was no longer a camper & was going to get to experience Camp Sabra, after dark.  And I was psyched because my giant crush was also a counselor.   I will refer to him as Boy to protect him from you guys, because you are going to be really pissed when you hear what he did to me.  

W e had struck up an easy friendship earlier in the year through our youth group, BBYO, and it seamlessly continued on at camp.  He hung out with me in the counselor’s lounge, which pretty much looked like a rec room straight out of Animal House.  It was so cool.  There was a smoking lounge in back where I spent a lot of time.  Oh, the capricious 90’s, when no one cared about cancer.

One particular night after Shabbat, I was lying on the couch in the lounge, pretending to watch The Rocky Horror Show for the 100^th time, but really I was watching Boy play spades, silently hoping that he’d come over & talk to me.  And then he sauntered over & sat on the edge of the couch I was slovenly lying on.  I thought that my heart was going to pound right out of my chest.   He asked me if I wanted to go down to the ski dock and hang out. 

This was my shot right?  My chance to spend private time alone & in the dark with my fake boyfriend.  (he wasn’t exactly aware of my feelings at that particular time).

But instead of an enthusiastic “YES PLEASE!!” my stupid nerdy self said “Um … I don’t think we’re allowed.  I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Boy looked at me strangely & was like – uh, ok.  And left the lounge.

I immediately panicked and desperately wanted to hit the rewind button on the conversation.  How could I be so stupid? “We’re going to get in trouble???”  What is wrong with me?!

I was desperate to find a friend to talk to, so that I could word-vomit all of the ooky feelings & see if I could somehow salvage the situation.  In my desperation, I picked the wrong person to confide in – the biggest yenta in camp. 

I told her everything – how much I loved Boy, had pined for him for months, and when I was finally was given the opportunity to maybe suck face, I chickened out.  She pretty much agreed that I completely fucked up the entire situation & suggested that I make a move at the camp sing along the next night.  There was going to be a bonfire on the beach, boys playing guitars- it was sure to be a magical evening.

The next night, I pulled out all of the stops.  I tamed my jew-fro, borrowed a baby-doll dress from a fellow chubby counselor & even put on some make-up.  I was ready to make my move.

Unbeknownst to me, the Yenta had spent the better part of the afternoon telling anyone who would listen about my ginormous crush on this boy.  And naturally, he found out. 

But I was blissfully ignorant of all of this during the bonfire, where I was doing my best to woo my love with my eyes.  He wasn’t reciprocating.  In fact, he pretty much gave me the cold shoulder the entire night, which was really unlike him. 

After the bonfire was over & the campers were tucked into their bunkbeds, I hustled back to the lounge.  To my dismay, my fake boyfriend was totally macking on a blonde chick with a fat ass.  And she was eating it up with a spoon.  Dejected, I retired to the smoking lounge to drown my sorrows in my Camel Wides.

The Yenta caught up to me & had a shit-eating grin on her face.  She looked like the cat that ate the canary.  “What?” I snipped. 

“I helped you with your problem!  I spread the word that you are interested, so that Boy knows that you really wanted to go to ski dock with him last night, but you were just scared of getting in trouble.”

I simultaneously wanted to cry and throw up.  And die.  I wanted to just die right there in the smoking lounge.

Now I knew why he was acting so weird to me … he knew I was in love with him and he didn’t like me back.  I dejectedly walked back to my cabin & cried myself to sleep.

Boy & I avoided each other for the entire next week.  I was distraught that I had lost my friend & my crush, and didn’t think that it would be possible for the situation to get any worse.  But it did.

The following Friday, Boy told me that he needed to talk to me & asked me to meet him at The Bench before Shabbat services.  The Bench sits in the middle of the camp – at the intersection where the boys & girls camps meet.  It is a very public place.

I met him before services & I was so nervous that I was sweating out of every pore in my body.  I wasn’t sure what he wanted to talk about it – could it be possible that he reconsidered & wanted to ask me to be his girlfriend? 

Spoiler alert- that wasn’t what he wanted to discuss.

The talk took around 5 minutes & it was literally one of the worst moments in my adolescence.  Boy gave me “The Talk” – it’s not you, it’s me – and we weren't even dating! 

He told me how great I am & how much he appreciates me and our friendship, but he just doesn’t see me like that.  And then he told me that he was dating the big-butt blonde – who I don’t even think was Jewish! – and he hoped that I could be happy for him.

To say that this was one of the most devastating moments in my teenage years would be an understatement.  It was sheer humiliation.  Reflecting on this trauma 15 years later, I wish I could tell 16 year-old LG to keep her chin up, that this whole dating thing gets better.  But that would be a lie - It’s a hot mess out there.  However, there is one benefit to being on the dating scene for 15+ years.   It’s a veritable story factory & I’ve been cranking out humiliating, embarrassing & ridiculous dating stories since 1993.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Stuart- AKA The Devil

I have an embarrassing situation to share.  You always think that it can’t happen to you, won’t happen to you – that you are too strong, too smart, too independent to ever stay in an abusive relationship.   But if my story can help just one person, maybe it will all have been worth it.

I was in an abusive relationship with my cat, Stuart.  And he was the one doling out the punishment.

Stuart was a pure-bred, Russian Blue cat that allegedly cost $2000.  I got him for free, which in hindsight was still too expensive for the pain he cost me.  

I came upon Stuart from a friend of a friend of a friend…  you get the picture.  The couple was tearfully parting with their beloved pet (oh, the theatrics) because they were expecting a child.  Oh, and because their other cat, Wilbur, was on anti-anxiety medicine because Stuart tormented him.  And both cats were relieving themselves outside of the litter box; Wilbur, due to his anxiety, and Stuart, due to his narcissism & drive to be THE dominant male.

One other note about Stuart.  He was totally gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Stuart was the most flamboyant, fabulous cat I’ve ever encountered.  He refused to play with male-centric toys like hunting mousies.  No, Stuart preferred to prance around with jelly bracelets dangling from his teeth.  He adored wearing a purple bandana.  And he was a total drama queen.  If you walked into a room, he instantly dropped to his back, exposing his belly for stroking, and batted his eyelashes.  If you happened to be in a rush and were able to pass up this adorable plea for affection, Stuart would jump up & run in front of you and assume the position again.  It was beyond cute.  Here he is:

So it was a total shock to me when Stuart went from being a sweet & loving cat to a demon that was ruining. my . life.   

Stuart & I had just moved into our new 1 bedroom apartment.  It was my first time ever to live on my own, and I decided that I should get a pet so that I had some company in case I was lonely.  A cat seemed like the perfect pet choice because they are relatively independent animals.  They don’t need to be walked like a dog & can easily stay on their own for a couple days without much concern.  At least, normal cats are able to stay on their own…

I was 25 and working a lot, traveling a lot, and partying a lot.  So I wasn’t spending much quality time alone at home with Stuart.  And he began to get jealous and resentful, which he demonstrated to me by urinating on my furniture.  

At first it was the couches.  I rectified this situation by putting painters plastic over my couches when I was traveling, so that the pee wouldn’t soak into the cushions.  But Stuart was savvy.  He started peeing on the couches AFTER I returned home from a trip, as if to say – Don’t even try to leave again, sister, if you know what’s good for you.  

I took Stuart to the vet several times to address the issue of him urinating outside of the box.  The vet suggested providing him with 2 litter boxes;  1 for #1 and 1 for #2.  I lived in a 1 bed, 1 bath, and my cat had 2 bathrooms.  Amazing.

I took to covering my couches at all times, except for when I was sitting on it.  So Stuart upped the ante.  One night while I was sleeping, he stood on top of my comforter and took a pee- right where I was sleeping.  My cat gave me a golden shower.

I jumped up & started screaming and was just in complete disbelief.  There is absolutely no more aggressive of behavior than for a cat to stand on top of its owner & pee on them – as if to say, You’re my bitch.   It’s a sad night when you have to wash your linens at 3 in the morning.  

I wasn’t able to sleep at night after Stuart peed on me.  If I left my bedroom door open, I would wake up the instant he stepped on my bed, in fear that he might get me again.  (For the record, he did pee on me one other time).  But if I left my door closed, he would scratch & cry outside the door, making a moaning sound that sounded like “Why, why, why.”  It was heartbreaking.   Alternately, he would run the length of the hallway and slam his body against the door, which was terrifying.  And as I lived in an older building, my bedroom door didn’t shut properly in the jam– it more just stuck.  And Stuart was able to essentially kick it open, which would wake me up.

It was time to take matters into my own hands.  I jimmy-rigged my door by putting a step ladder under the handle & a pair of flip flops against the closet wall facing the door, so if Stuart opened the door, the step ladder hit the flip flops & he couldn’t get in.  Genius. 

This was a great temporary solution, but I was still unable to get a good night’s sleep, what with Stuart constantly whining “why, why, why” outside my door & slamming his body against it like a wrestler.

After he peed on my couch one morning before work- while staring at me- I finally decided that enough was enough.  I had burdened my friends & family long enough with my Stuart woes.  My mom was practically refusing to take my calls.  

After 1 year & over $600 in vet bills, trying to fix my devil-cat, I decided to give Stuart up.  I brought him to the Humane Society & cried my eyes out.  I begged them not to put him down because he really was a sweet, loving boy – he just needed A LOT of attention. 

I called the HS every day for about a week, checking to see if Stuart was finally adopted & he finally was.

I was rid of Stuart (and my comforter & those couches) almost 6 years ago, but I still think of him from time to time – and thank god that I finally came to my senses & ditched the devil cat!

Speed Dating Debacle.

First of all, you need to know that I live my dating life on 1 simple principle:  I'll try anything once. My for instance is that I once dated an extremely ugly guy for about a month on the off-chance that he might grow on me.  Spoiler alert:  he didn't.
After too many dates, I finally realized that not only was he ugly, but he also lacked personality.  And he had a cursing problem.  I mean, I like to drop an F-bomb as much as the next person, but his cursing was beyond excessive. 
But I digress - I need to tell you about my speed dating disaster, er, I mean experience last night.
My friends & I signed up for this Groupon / Hurrydate Speed Dating event that advertised itself as the "world's largest" and was trying to set Guinness Book record.  It won.  There shouldn't be awards or prizes for this kind of humiliation. 

We all met at Hub51 for pre-SD (speed dating) drinks & dinner.  It dawned on me during dinner that there was no age qualification when signing up - and this concerned me.  Traditionally, SD is set up in age brackets for obvious reasons (Someday, I'll tell you how I know so much about SD).   Being 32 (which some men consider to be over-the-hill, but I consider to be in my mid to late 20's), I feared that there would be a bunch of kids running around the place & I would be viewed as a grandma.  As it turns out, this concern was valid.  Most guys were in the 23-27 age range (by my estimate).  I knew I was in trouble when my first suitor arrived.  I am pretty sure he still had his baby teeth.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of speed dating, here's how it works:
You get X amount of mini-dates that last 3-5 minutes.  Last night we had 25, 3 minute dates.  I was sandwiched between 2 really pretty girls, both of which were younger than me.  Not great positioning, if you ask me.  I would have fared much better between 2 morbidly obese women- then at least it might not have been such a big deal that I looked like a total cougar.

Fun fact: 5 out of the first 9 guys were named Matt.  There are simply too many Matt's - which I accidentally told the last Matt.  He didn't think it was funny & his feelings seemed to be hurt a little bit.  My bad. 

Anywho, out of the whole lot of 25, there were only 2 guys I was actually somewhat interested in- and this is after setting my initial age concerns aside.  

The first guy, Patrick, I scared off by insisting to him during the after-dating cocktail hour(s) that he has a Canadian accent.  Apparently, he was born & raised in Chicago.  After having him speak sentences to my friends to try to detect the accent, he backed away from me slowly - and then abruptly turned around & disappeared into the crowd. 

The second gentleman, Hans, was sorta hitting on me at the end of the evening as the bar closed, asking me to stay and have a drink with him.  I was actually contemplating it until I asked him if he liked my friend's purse (which is tres chic, btw) and he replied that his boxers are the exact same pattern.

And then he proceeded to unbuckle his belt and pull his pants down. In a bar.
You can't make this stuff up.

Finally, there was a kid who looks exactly like Kenneth Parcell from 30 Rock, which instantly endeared him to me, and he was just this sweet kid, really friendly.  During post-cocktails, he told me that he wanted to take me on a real date... but he was really stinking young.  Too young.   I was like- sweetie, you're too young for me.  And he's like, why- how old are you?  And I said "How old do you think I am?"

In retrospect, that was a colossal mistake.  But I assumed he'd say anywhere in 27-32 range. If he were smart, he would have stuck in that range. His reply?  "39."

He thought that I was 39 goddamn years old.  I was like- what the fuck is wrong with you?  I'm only 32!  He goes, what's the difference?

Kenneth is only 24, BTW.

He also told my friend that she reminds him of his friend, Hayley, and they call her "pumpkin tits."

Net / Net:  I am never doing that again.  It's brutal on the self-esteem.  But on the bright(er) side, my abs hurt from laughing today remembering the debacle that was last night.