Wingwoman, or You Really DO Need a Full Frontal Lobotomy

This post is REALLY long, but worth it.


Yeah, so, knowing you have no game is one thing. NOT knowing you have no game, and wondering why you aren't getting laid is a totally different realm.

Enter: Mr. Oblivious
Not his real name.
Obvioulsy, protecting the ignorant. I mean, inoccent.

This is a story of an affable, stable, good looking, single (read never married) man in his late forties, who has become an aquaintance of mine through business associations.

Mr. O and I occasionally go out for drinks or dinner when he is in town, and last night was such a night. There is always a re-occurring pattern of Mr. O bemoaning the fact that there seem to be no women his age, that are able and/or want to just "have a good time" but not become attached. Points for being honest and upfront. I can handle that. I am not at all tired of hearing about it, nor do I feel sorry for him; I just want to help him! He is a nice guy.

Last nights events were not at all predetermined, with the exception of meeting at Market Street for drinks. I get done working, get home, put my son to bed, shower, throw on the Missouri sweatshirt, jeans and flip-flops. While dabbing on the perfume and slashing on the lipstick I pop a quick text to Mr. O to let him know that I look more like a college co-ed, than the respectable (cough) business chick he usually sees. I was quickly reassured with a, "Thats okay, I look like a yuppie. Lavender shirt." Lavender? He used the word lavender. I am pleased. There is hope. I scuttle over to MS, and arrive to the drink that I asked him to order for me. He succeeded in not screwing it up or having to text me for reassurance. More points.

We are talking about our respective jobs, laughing about nothing in particular, chatting about an upcoming trip of his, all the stuff you do when you meet aquaintences for drinks. When, of course, Old Faithful shows up. "Why can't I find someone my age that just wants to get laid?"

{inward groan, (but not really, Mr. O is a great guy)}

Okay, we must do something about this; NOW. I scope the place out. It's dead. It is to be expected, it's Tuesday night. The only chicks in there are fat little sorostitutes that can't get anyone to even RADOMLY have sex with them, and are trying to leech attention from the few ugly drunk Fratties that have made it past the bong to the bar. Pass. Mr. O wants to have sex, not a baking lesson. (Roll it around in flour 'till you find a wet spot...no thanks!)

Drink some more, laugh at the fat chicks, observe the Fratties drinking their Trust Fund away, and hope for a Life Support System for a Vagina to walk in. About 20 minutes go by, and voila! Here she comes Miss Amer-I-Have-On-A-Trench-coat-And-Sandals-ica! Sweet! She looks like she will do. Mr. O conceedes that as long as he doesn't have to "make 5 trips to Salisbury just to get to it" he would do her tonight.

Let the WingWomaning begin!

After listening to her chat with Fat Sorostitute and Large Drunken Black Man for a few minutes, I decide I have gathered enough information to make a move.
"Hey, Artsy-Kinda Chubby-Not Pretty-Not Ugly (real name hidden for soon to be obvious purposes), where is it again that you teach?"

*cue deer in headlights look*

Looking at me she says,"Uh, XYZ University" (an out of state college). *blank stare* I see her eyes shift to my right, where Mr. O is sitting. Her face INSTANTLY brightens! "Can I come sit over there so I don't have to holler?", she hollers. She hurridly collects all her plunder and plops very excitedly down in the chair next to Mr. O. Almost instantly she notices his hands. Picks one up and starts examining it. Yep, she knows the test.**** So after the "palm reading" is over she is very very interested in talking to Mr. O. (imagine that!).
Oh yeah, she teaches GLASS BLOWING! Mwhahahahahahaahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Mr. O and Ms. GBer are chatting quite well.{I realize I am showing TOO much interest in getting them to talk when she asks me if I am his pimp!} She has shown him the book she is reading. He has show interest. She has taken a large Sharpie and written her name AND PHONE NUMBER in the front of the book and loaned it to him. She is leaning in closer. Her legs are touching his. She keeps touching his arm, his hand, his leg, etc. He just doesnt get it. He is sitting FACING the BAR with both hands wrapped around his drink! So she can't see, I reach down, grab his belt loop and tug him around, so he is now facing her. I stick my elbow in the middle of his back and push him towards her, and finally, i have to very sneakily, reach around and grab his arm to slide it back so he is not making a difinitive 'wall' between the two of them. Sheesh! Body language lessons forthcoming!

Chat, chat, chat. All fine and good, but I don't really hear any closing remarks. Hmmmm. Problem. So, a local business owner, that is a fun aquaintance, who has been entertaining me for the past 10 minutes or so, finally is beginning to understand what I am trying to make happen for Mr. O. This casual observer, now privy to a few details, can even see that if this chick had her legs open ANY wider, one could shove a text book up there! (Read: she was ready to taken to do "the deed"!)
I ask Mr. Business Owner to help. Somehow. Some way, shape or form! With some quick thinking, and a small bladder on the part of Mr. O, the answer appears. Mr. Business Owner will follow Mr. O to the mens room and tell him that Ms. Glass-Blower couldn't be more ready! Yippee! My winging is done! I pay my tab and leave, anxiously awaiting either a post-coitus text or a walk of shame/morning after communication.

I excitedly texted him at 6:22 this morning, knowing his obsessive compulsive ass was already up, regardless of the prior evenings' activities.

"Okay, I know you are up. Sooooooo? What happened????"

"Nothing. Walked her home. She wants a real date"

You have GOT to be kidding! I my sex-dar has NEVER been that off!!!! Oh, well. When I finally had a chance to talk to him this morning, we both concluded that: #1) We learned what to do better next time (body language, anyone???), #2)If he had been more attracted to her he prolly would have made it work, and #3)Mr. O most defininely has no game.
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But according to Mr. Business Owner, who literally came RUNNING from the bathroom to tell me (in a very cute I*alian accent):"Dat gurl had betta taka you friend home...he gotta MONSTA schlong****! Eet was dees beeg: (indicates a good 9 inches)! Wowa!"

So, now we know that much, and soon, we will HOPEFULLY not know much more. At least about Mr. O's "monsta schlong"!

Woe Is Me. And all that other whiney shit.

I am way fucked up.
I mean, really fucked up.

Low self-esteem.
Religion.
Anti-pride training. (Not negative feelings about gays and lesbians. The biblical sort of pride; too big for your own britches sort of pride).
Apply liberal doses of mental and emotional desensitivity training and the Monster that is Iva is born.

How does one react to the discovery that: they have devalued themselves to the point that they do not have the ability to believe or comprehend that someone who could be with anyone that they chose, would in fact choose them??? {I have a hard time believeing that someone who could be with anyone of their choosing would, in fact, choose to be with me}. That is a big knock on the head. I feel stupid for allowing myself to feel that way. I am upset with myself for not requiring better.

I think society has trained us to have the opinion that women who require balanced, sensitive and ladylike treatment are self-serving selfish bitches. FAIL!!!! I know there ARE men out there (somewhere) that are sexy, smart, balanced and hot all at the same time. I know, I know, not on the Shore, but they DO exist! Please, humor me. Do not burst the bubble.