Save the Date

In between bubble baths, trips to the gym and a viewing of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, I found myself with a schwee bit of time for a blind date.

Let me get this out front early: He was nice and it was fine, but it was the romantic equivalent of oatmeal. Still, way better than the blind date where the guy brought his mom. No way in hell to save that date.

The fact that the newest lurve encounter didn't end in bliss is okay though, kids, because I don't really think I'm ready to be dating just yet. I have a tendency to try and rush through everything, including broken hearts.

But, as my lovely homegal, Lorelai, said to me, I made myself pretty dern vulnerable in the last go 'round with love. So, I'm feeling very protective of my heart these days. Ya'll go on and Chicken Dance and Hokey Pokey without me; I'm gonna sit this one out.

That said, I have been introduced to a valuable asset for single women: Don't Date Him, Girl. Dirty Dawgs, be forewarned: If you've done somebody wrong, she's going to tell all of her friends, and then she's going to tell the Intertubes. And people will comment about it. Oh, will they comment!

I was very glad to find a sea of strangers on Don't Date Him, Girl (Phew) because both my intuition and my co-pay for the health clinic are quite high. Actually, my worst fear would be seeing my Dad on the message boards. I mean, he's a great guy—he'd never actually be on there, but this is the kind of stuff that runs through my head when I am worrying. So.

Man, I wish I had a super bad blind date story for you, my pretties, but truth is, I have a really good track record—even the guy who brought his Mom made sure she was pretty cool. She totally kicked my ass at Golden Tee and we split some jalapeno poppers.

Ultimately, when it comes to blind dates, even if it's not love at first sight, I've always enjoyed the cocktails and going home with the waitress.

In fact, I'd like to get paid to be a professional blind dater, but I believe they call that being a "call girl." Whatevs.

Just tells me the world isn't ready for the 123V brand of lovin' just yet, and it validates my delicious hermity-ness these days.

In the Comments section tell me your best cure for getting over the broken heart hump—so to speak, of course.