By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
By New Times
I've recently promised a few friends I wouldn't write stories about them. I'm about to break that promise because their stories are just too odd and funny to hide. But I feel comfort in the fact that my friends will accept me no matter what, especially when I'm speaking the truth.
And I won't mention names.
Please keep in mind that I haven't been getting out and dating much lately. Not only have I sequestered myself in the wilderness, I have also given up libations for a full year now. The wonderful proselytizers of AA preach no relationships for the first year — as fine a rationalization as I've ever heard.
A year of sobriety and abstinence is enough to test anyone's sanity. Okay, I've gotten laid a few times, thank God (without it, I'd be humping cacti — with the scars to prove it). What I'm getting at is that sharing with you, my beloved readers, what friends and potential lovers have confided in me is not the best way to get dates. "Oh, so you're the 'Spooning,' um, 'Forking' guy! Gee, I can't really make it over for dinner tonight."
All that mumbo jumbo aside, here's story number one. I recently went bowling (yes, I bowled sober), and a friend of mine had just returned from a visit to Colombia. After prodding and reading her Facebook page (Facebook: The saddest place on Earth), it was obvious she had gone to visit a guy.
So, I probed, "How did you meet this guy?"
"I met him on Facebook, playing poker."
"You're telling me that you're a successful woman of 30 and you flew to Colombia, alone, to meet a guy?"
I guess the dating scene is just that pathetic in Phoenix. At least we can agree on that. I went on to tell her that she has also entered the world of sex tourism. Where to next? I gave her a rash of shit and made her as uncomfortable as possible. I even threw in a line about fucking Juan Valdez and his donkey, too. (Hey, what are friends for?) And what's a vacation without a little nookie, anyway?
Now for story number two. I recently invited a girlfriend to swim at the ranch where I've been working. It was a blessing to have company out here, and cute company in a bikini is equal to the grandeur of the mountains in which I'm nestled. She came out to get some advice on her current relationship. She told me about this "great guy" who dotes on her incessantly and makes her feel special. So what's the problem? Yup, he's married, and she's having to deal with his awkward situation.
"Seriously? You're dating a married guy?" I asked. "That's how people get shot! How did you meet him?"
You guessed it: Facebook.
WTF! I told her to let him know that she has finally got her life in order, drama-free — married-man-free. It's not a good idea to delve into a relationship, spending all your energy trying to fix other peoples' problems. Then again, I'm almost 40 and single, so what the hell do I know? (At least she's getting forked.)
So, some dude in Colombia and another douchebag in a shitty marriage are pulling ass and I'm surrounded by beauty, penning a trashy column and renting out kayaks, and the only pussy I'm getting is the five feral cats I feed every night.
The key here is that anyone can get laid, but what's the quality of ass you're getting? Sometimes it's best to regroup and wait things out before dating the next guy/gal that comes along. In the meantime, practice your cooking skills.
I have been taking my own advice, spending time cooking with friends and swapping recipes. In fact, Ms. Colombia gave me a pork green chili recipe that she said was the best ever. This gal may be able to pull some ethnic ass from foreign countries, but we've gone toe-to-toe when it comes to ethnic foods — specifically her pork green chili recipe.
Okay, let me ask this question: If you were given a recipe for green chili wouldn't you expect it to be, uh, green?
I had been waiting patiently to concoct Ms. C's wonderful green chili, salivating on myself, fantasizing about that first tantalizing bite. I finally found a Thursday night to put all the ingredients together, but I should have realized something was amiss when it called for "stewed tomatoes."
I had everything washed, sliced, diced, and seared. The pork green chili recipe was going to be bueno. I dropped all the ingredients into a slow cooker, so it would be ready for an early lunch the next day. Flash-forward several hours. After watching a bad movie, I went to stir the "green" chili. I knew the movie was bad, but I hadn't expected this plot twist — the chili was pink. Like Pepto-Bismol pink.
I sent a frantic text: "Is it supposed to be pink?" The reply was, simply, "Yes." Then the battle started. "Why in the world would you give me a pink green chili recipe?"
"Green chili is sometimes pink," she replied.
I told her I didn't agree! If you make a chili, it's usually reddish brown. If you make a squash soup, it's going to be yellowish. If you make a white chili, it's white! Get my point?
I'm not sure whether it was the fact that I didn't believe in the chili, but let's just say that most of it was never eaten. If you're going to give a dish a name, then tell the truth! Facebook is a place where you can really see one's true color. I don't care what people say: I think it's the saddest place on Earth. But at least people are getting laid.