Expiration Dates, July 12th

I wrote a book last summer called JEN’S LITTLE BLACK BOOK: Bacon Wrapped Dates. It’s a based-on-actual-experiences flirty fictional series of short stories that covers a ten-year time period between a crippling breakup and meeting the love of my life. (It’s seriously funnier than you can imagine!)

So I took a break from blogging (which is very bothersome to me as I’ve gotten the formula down and I relish the daily writing) and I’ve been editing the book like crazy for the last few weeks. Technically I finished the work last summer, but for whatever reason, I sat on it. I didn’t read through the completed chapters again until recently–a full year without so much as a glimpse. And I have to say that I’m so glad that I waited. Over the last six months, I’ve written more words than the novel itself– almost 80,000 to be exact. And all this thinking and editing and polishing has made me a better writer. Looking at my work now with a fresh eye has helped me to correct some glaring errors and convinced me to add some funny details that I think you’re just going to love.

There are many stories of course that didn’t make the book. Either I didn’t have enough details to share or I was worried specific information might be revealed about someone and I might somehow get into trouble for publishing the information. Anyway, a little blog about it is just the teaser I’m looking for to whet your appetite for the real book. So welcome to Expiration Dates– in honor of some of the men who lost me at hello or soon thereafter. All of these guys didn’t make it past the expiration date on a fresh carton of milk.

THE PLAYER: I went out once with a guy who whispered that he had just come straight from another date. He freely admitted that the two of them had gotten completely drunk together at a daytime Rangers game. So he showed up to our fancy Saturday night dinner date still wearing the team jersey wreaking of alcohol. The kicker was that he immediately offered me drugs (umm, yeah, no thanks) to keep his high going. When he turned around, I saw that his favorite player’s name wasn’t embroidered on the back of his jersey… instead he had his own name in huge capital letters sewn on! Listen supreme athlete that you are, I don’t think you’re making the team, especially with your possible drug and alcohol problem. No narcissists allowed either. He was booted from the roster before he could score. NEXT!

THE OMINOUS DATE: I met Greg at The Pier restaurant right on the water at 70th on the Upper West Side. We snacked on fried calamari and a sad little ramekin of red sauce with wilted parsley. We guzzled Tanqueray and tonics. He was incredibly average and I was bored but buzzed by my second drink. He was astonished that I was living in the City! Had my own place! He was still bunking with the folks at forty-five. So magically my stomach started to hurt. We walked toward the water where the lights along the pier illuminated the churning waters, casting dark shadows over the murky waves. “Wow,” I said. “It looks ominous.” “You can use that word in a sentence?” he asked. “Ummm, yes. Yes I can,” I groaned. I pretended to have awful and sudden stomach cramps, apologized, and said I needed to leave immediately. Before I hoofed it home, I told him I needed to excogitate (verb meaning think out, plan, advise) my next move, and based on the disgusted look on his face, I’m quite sure he thought that meant to throw up or worse!

LAND GRAB: I had one scary date with a guy who was super excited that he and his daughter had just moved back into the house where he grew up to live with his Mom. He was apparently waiting for his Grandmother to pass away so that he could inherit her house, but she was only 75 and in perfect health. When I saw him take out a tiny vial and pour it into my drink when he thought I wasn’t looking, I bolted for the door. I swear I thought he was planning to poison me so that he could live in my apartment!

PHONEBOOK DATE: I’m only 5’6″, not a giant but certainly not shrimpy either. A good friend who knew me well set me up on a blind date. When the guy showed up at my door, I looked through the peep hole, but I could barely see him. So I dubbed him a Double A Through Z, meaning that he needed to stand on two phone books just to reach the doorbell.

THE SWEATER: I went out with a guy who wore a 70s style sweat band across his forehead and around his head on a date! And although this sounds horrible (it was) it was probably good that he did because the stream of perspiration that trickled from his face, hairline, eyebrows, and upper lip even with the magic sweat catcher was like a scene out of Broadcast News!

BRUNCH: Adam texted and we firmed up plans. He suggested a walk. (A walking date? This was pre-COVID!) I told him the weatherman said rain. I made a backup plan for lunch at a neighborhood spot I liked named Café Luxembourg. Good idea. Until he was late by 23 minutes and showed up wearing an oversized freebie HBO t-shirt from the Sex and The City series featuring Mr. Big’s picture on the front and pink shorts. He didn’t use his knife to slide his food onto his fork. Instead he opted for his pointer finger. Why is that ever an option? Gross. And then he asked to have the bread basked wrapped up to go. Sooo tacky! So I nicknamed him The Pointy Piggy.