Adverteasing

Delbert pushed up his thick glasses and hit "send," squirming with excitement. He had posted a personal ad on a social media site, soliciting for sex without ramifications. His heartbeat pounded.
At 5 feet, 4 inches and 220 pounds, sweaty Delbert didn't actually have a chance in the real world with real women.
He was 28, a virgin, and still living with his parents. (No offense to all the other 28-year-old virgins living with and mooching off their parents!)
Delbert was a bit of a slacker, but more than saavy with all things computer. He had a part time job at Best Buy, where co-workers referred customers with computer based questions to him but had little else to do with him.


He'd fallen hard and fast for Monica, the assistant manager, but was crushed to discover she was dating the manager from Circuit City. He had thought fleetingly about squealing to corporate about a "conflict of interest" shared between managers of two warring companies, but soon lost interest as Abigail, a prim and proper college student with amazing braces and pimples that matched her freckles, began her employ at Best Buy.
Delbert took it upon himself to "train" Abigail; alas, however, she was not in his department and his training session ended ubruptly when his former flame Asst. Mgr. Monica busted his meaty chops for dawdling and drooling during work hours.
After that episode, Delbert retreated to the confines of his pig sty, an upstairs locker room smelling bedroom in his parents' stuffy, aging "bad-part-of-town" home. There, surrounded by Star Trek and Charlie's Angels posters, his chubby nubbs pecked at the keyboard of his Apple.
Internet access was Delbert's saving grace. Without it, his communication was limited to defending why the meatloaf set aside for dinner guests was half eaten or yelling at his neighbor's dog to stop pooping in the yard. (It was Delbert's duty to de-poo the family property!)
Online this lonesome eve, Delbert's deliberation was ended. His masterpiece ad for unrestrained sex with any female over 18, "age/race/weight unimportant" was complete. His photo, while only slightly altered (he Photoshopped an older picture of Mel Gibson over his senior high school portrait (when he weighed a mere 198 pounds) was plastered to the bottom of the ad, along with his real cell phone number and e-mail addy.
Within two minutes, Delbert struck pay dirt. He pressed his finger to the bridge of his slumping glasses and glared eagerly at the screen. A reply from Wandamamumra1324@hotmail.com.

"Are you still looking? I am:)"

Fascinated by his remarkably speedy success in the world of hunting and bagging babes, Delbert pecked out a nervous reply, including his full name, address, cell phone number, and e-mail address, with the promise to send more pictures, including nudes, if requested.

Three nervous minutes ticked by. Delbert's palms and pits perspired profusely. (Okay, enough alliteration!)

Bingo! The reply from Wandamamura1324@hotmail.com !!!


"Delbert,
Hey babe!  Yes, I am real. Glad to see there are other people on this site looking for the same thing that I am. ;) To be completely honest... I am just looking for a hookup/good time. I really don't have time for anything serious in my life right now, but who knows?  So tell me a little about yourself? What do you want? What do you like sexually? Let me know and i will send you some more sexy pictures ;)"

Delbert barely read the words. His eyes were fixated on the photo of the statuesque model primping before her cell phone in an anonymous women's restroom.  Her spaghetti straps had slipped off both shoulders and her lacy bra unashamedly broadcast her bodacious bust. (I know, I have a thing for alliteration!)




His reply was dutiful, calculated, albeit sweaty.

"Wanda, you are amazing. You are perfect. I have heard of feminine protection, but you are feminine PERFECTION! You make every man's dream come true. I would be most honored to have you be the ultimate subject of my ultimate dream. Please call me immediately.
Resptectfully at Your service,
Delbert P. Newcomb"


To his joy, a reply came within the minute.

"Delbert,

wanna meet up?? This e-mail thing is getting old. If you want babe, you can actually verify you are not a sex offender creep or anything at my profile below and give me a call or text. My phone number is listed on the profile page. Sorry but it's the only way I'm going to meet someone offline. have to be careful these days.  Ever since the social networking serial killer thing a while back i have to be extra safe. :( Message me once you are verified and then we can plan something. im ready when u are hun!


 xoxo, Wanda"

Delbert read her profile with interest. She was 5'7" (he'd have to wear cowbody boots or platform shoes on their first date) and weighed 128 pounds. He hoped he wouldn't step on her. His fat face fell when he got to the part about a credit card number. Oh, well, Delbert told himself. As soon as he could sneak his parents' Visa card after they were asleep, his dream date would be a phone call away...

Five cents worth

I'm in a stuffy room of on the quiet side of a modest hotel. The room has two bunkbeds for four foreign exchange students working the summer in our tourist town. Nearly 10 students from Turkey adn Russia crowd the room, watching me, the only American.
"Who has five pennies?" I announce to the group of boys and girls.
A murmur goes thorugh the audience, as I clarify which coins are pennies. Five cents is gathered and I proceed to explain homonyms with an illustration. Erdom, a Turkish boy with the least English skill, is my example.
"Hold out your hand," I tell him. He glances at his peer group, who nods. He obeys.
I place a penny in his open palm.
 "Do you smell anything?" I say.
He looks back at the group. One of them translates in Turkish.
He shakes his head, "no."
"You have a scent," I say.
Now it's my turn to look at the group. "Do you understand?" I say, slowly. "Scent means smell. And this little coin is known as a cent. The two words sound the same in English, but have a different meaning."
Nods and sounds of affirmation and realization waft through the group. Erdom appears confused, but tries to act as if he, too, understands.
I place another penny in his open palm.




 "Do you see any fruit?" I say. He answers, "Fruit?"
I use hand gestures like I am eating something. "You know, fruit?" Someone jabbers something in Turkish. "Oh, yes. I mean, no. No fruit." Erdom smiles.
"You have a pair," I say.
The room discusses this. Nods and words of acknowledgement. The more fluent explaining in their respective languages to the less.
Third coin. "Do you see any snakes?"
"You have three copperheads."
One of the Russian boys asks the proper spelling for the poinsonous snake name, writing it down when I tell him.
Four pennies now in Edom's palm. "Do you see any cars?"
"You have four Lincolns."
And now, the finale... the fifth and final penny placed in his hand. "Do you see any naked women?"
A pause.
Erdom isn't sure what this means. His delighted counterparts explain.
He smiles, embarrassed. "No."
"And you won't see any for just five cents!"

I just had to meet this woman

 She was picture perfect from a movie script. Blonde. Alone. In a dress. Sitting outside in one of a string of outdoor seating areas splashed along South Miami Beach's Espanola Way.
The night air was inviting. I was walking alone, my friends otherwise occupied. Nothing to do.
I stopped, too quickly, looking at her to abruptly. Then, casually, as if everyone on the semi crowded street were watching, I nonchalantly eased away from my female subject, browsing the area with my eyes as if looking for a lost friend.
 Convinced I wasn't being detected, I walked casually past my subject. She had a sadness in her eyes. Probably Russian or Ukrainian, trying to find her niche on the selfish southeast tip of America adrench in tourism.
A second pass, a "should I or shouldn't I" conversation to myself...
My feet were heading in her direction, my heart pounding with each step. Hurry before I chicken out.
"Where are you from?" (My famous opening line. Not smooth, per se, but sincere.)
The sad eyes focus on me. Her wine glass is nearly empty.
"Russia."
Bingo!
I settle in with my best Russian greeting, explaining to the stranger I am indeed visiting a Russian friend here in Miami Beach. Which, of course, I am.
She invites me to the sit, but not at her table. Her large handbag occupies the seat across from her. I perch awkwardly at the next table, leaning toward her as we exchange information.
A waiter appears; I order a glass of wine to match hers. She offers me the option to move to her table. I pick up her bag, but she will not allow the precious brown leather pouch to touch the ground. I move the bag and the chair to her side and drag my chair to her table. All is again well.
She gives me flat, undecided replies to my banter. Her eyes don't mask her suspicion; nor do they betray her more than mild interest.
Her name is Olga. Typical Russian, she is under 30 and has already lost her life's compass.
Typical American, I'm well beyond 40 and still searching for mine.
My zeal and enthusiasm doesn't rub off; yet she fancies my company until my wine and hers are gone.
She provides the requested contact information and excuses herself, Eastern European style.
But I'm not finished.
I dash after her. She is already down the street, crossing an intersection when I find her again. It is nearly 11 p.m. and I am not comfortable with her being alone on the streets. That will be my rationale should she question my persistence in being near.
I am now ten feet away, walking abreast of her confident high heeled steps.
Her looks over. "What are you doing?"
"Walking."
(I figure honesty is as real as it gets!)
"Why are you following me?"
"Oh, I'm not following you. I'm walking with you."
She has no real reply ready and trudges on. We both realize she hasn't a clue where she is going.
"So, what are you doing?" I offer.
"Looking for a job."
"It's 11 p.m." I observe. "A little late?"
She sighs and keeps walking, looking in a bar as if she wants to enter, then backpeddling almost on top of my feet upon her sudden exit.
I do a graceful sidestep to avoid a collision.
"I'm American; I can help you get a job," I volunteer cheerily.
She continues to strut.
"At least, I know very good English; not so good on my Spanish, which seems the language of choice around here."
My blonde companion is unmoved.
"If you want me to leave, just say 'get out of here--- you're a creep and I don't ever want to see you again!' and I'm gone," I blurt.
She doesn't reply. This girl likes me!
We are back on Espanola Way. "What kind of job do you want?"
"Something like this one," she says, indicating an attractive girl hostessing at a restaurant.
I approach. "Hello, this is my friend from Olga from Russia. She is looking for work like yours. Do you know of any openings at your restaurant?"
The girl is more than pleasant and helpful with information. "Be persistent," she advises. "Keep coming back. Managers hire people on the spot for who show the most interest."
Our non-American friend doesn't quite understand. Perhaps she thinks filling out an application is the only requirement and that a boss will happily call her back.
Sigh.
We continue down the street, beyond the busyness and into the darkness.
"Why are you still here?" she demands, as if my usefulness had expired.
"Keeping you safe," I say, sincerely.
I make more small talk. She indicates her desire to stop by a department store. We enter. Since it's Christmas time, I go to the holiday section and return with a pair of reindeer antlers on my head. I extend a santa hat to my guest.
"Here," I say. "Put his on."
She declines. (No surprise there!)
"Ah," I say. "Here's the hat for you! (I give her a Bag Humbug Santa hat). Do you know what that means in English?"
She shakes her head.
"It means "Olga is a grouch! She is jaded and cantakerous!"
"What means jaded and cantakerous?"
"Look it up," I say.
Her hand held device translates the words.
"I am not!" She declares.
We are now in the candy isle.
"What kind of candy do you like?"
Olga likes Reeses.
I get the biggest, most expensive brick of Reeses peanut butter cups available. It costs over $13.
"I need your pen, Olga."
"Why?"
"So I can write to Olga from John on your gift," I say.
"You have to buy it first."
"Oh no, I need to write on it first."
"Why?"
"So the sales girl won't think it's for her."
It takes a lot more convincing that I'm willing to share here in this blog to get Olga to agree to letting me borrow her precious pen. But, after all, she realizes I am certainly trying to offer her a very decent gift, as far as gifts from strangers go.
We leave the store. I carry Olga's and my purchases in a bag.
Behold, she is staying at the same high rise I am staying at.
We neither one have a security card, so we approach the security guard together.
Olga gives her name and unit number. The guard gets ready to waive us both in, when Olga goes KGB on me.
"We're not together," she snaps, and walks off toward the gate to freedom.
"Olga! I have you gift right here in this bag," I say, pointing.
I look at the male guard. "Women," I whisper. "PMS. One little spat..."
He looks at me with sympathy. "I hear ya," he says, shaking his head. "Go on in."
Both inside, I glare at Olga.  "Way to throw me under the bus!"
She seems satisfied that she had put me through so much. I hand her the bag. She removes the Reeses and hands it to me.
"Oh no, that's for YOU. Remember, it says right here with your own pen's ink: To OLGA from JOHN."
She smiles politely. "Thank you."
She is at her door.
"So, I will see you tomorrow late morning?"
"I never said that."
"Call me!"
She waives and turns to her building.
"Paca," I say in Russian.
"Bye," she replies in English.

Women.

Language Barrier

Martina

Her name is Martina. She is from Kazakhstan, like my friend Naz, who introduced us. My first encounter with Martina was last night, when she went with us to look at the sights and eat too much too late afterwards.
Martina's Russian and Kazakh exceed her English speaking skills. Naz, fluent in English, Russian, Kazakh and Chinese, does the bulk of the talking and interpretation for her.
This morning, I came to Naz's hotel room and Martina answered the door. Naz was still asleep. I summoned Martina outside while Naz got ready.
Martina wore a yellow dress that complimented her Eskimo-like dark features with a pronounced nose and slanted eyes. I motioned for her to sit in the only plastic chair on the sidewalk and perched on the not as comfy air conditioning unit protruding from Naz's hotel window.
"I am a teacher," I announced.
"I'm?" Martina asked, wondering if I meant her.
"No," I said, pointing to myself. "I am a teacher."
Martina smiled. "I'm a teacher, too. I study."
I nod. "I teach from the heart, not the head," I said, pointing to each.
"You are afraid to speak English, but you must not let the fear stop you. You must learn to speak from the heart."
I looked into her eyes. "You worked hard this summer," I said, slowly. "Housekeeping is hard work. Thank you for doing the important job of making sure the dirty rooms get clean."
I paused, making sure she understood.
"You are valuable," I said. "Do you know what valuable means?"
Her eyes brightened. "Volleyball," she said.
"No," I replied. "Valuable. Like gold."
Her foreheard crinkled as a blank look stole her expression.
"Gold," I said again. "Very valuable."
"Dirt," I went on, "No valuable."
She nodded, grasping the concept.
"You are gold," I said, looking directly into her eyes.
She teared up.
"You are valuable. You are important."
\I felt like the lady in the movie The Help who convinced a young unwanted child of her worth.
I took Martina's hand and motioned for her to stand.
"Stand here," I said, walking away ten paces. "Now close your eyes and walk to me."
"I'm?" she said, pointing to herself.
"Yes, you. Close your eyes (I closed mine to show her) and walk to me without opening them."
She looked puzzled, but closed her eyes. Was she afraid to defy this strange English speaking expert?
She gingerly stepped in my direction.
"Come on," I coaxed. "You can do it."
She took a few more uncertain steps before stopping an arms length from me.
Martina opened her eyes.
"You let the fear stop you," I said. I returned her to her original position. I backed up to where I had been ten paces away. I closed my eyes. I walked toward her without hesitation and stopped right in front of her before opening my eyes.
"You must be confident," I said, looking into her face.
"You must not let fear stop you."
She nodded.
Impulsively I hugged her. She hugged back. I whispered in her ear.
"I love you."
She whispered back, "I love you, too."
We drew back and each noticed the other was crying.
The language barrier eroded in the light of new friendship.

Front left burner and other single man ramblings

Living alone has its rules. No one writes them. But the lonely understand them. Like using the front left burner on the stove. It's the only one us guys who live alone use.
No need to dirty up the other three. And no need to cook more than one item at a time. After all, it's just you eating.
Why the front left?
Simple. It's closer. Don't have to reach for it. It's nearest the microwave and sink. The other three burners are strictly off limits, reserved for when the kids come over if I have to muster something beyond the scope of one pan.
Most food in a single man house is pre-packaged. Cereal. Milk. Eggs. But eggs are not dealt with more than once a week or so.
Bread. peanut butter. (Can't ever find the original butter knife, so lots of those peanut buttery knives end up in the water cup in the sink for holding until enough gather for a real dish washing session.)
Dishes are done once a week, or quickly one plate as soon as it's dirtied. Either you wash the plate right after eating, or it will become part of a pile to tackle on the weekend. Or, scratch that, weekends are too busy. Maybe on a Monday night. Or a Friday afternoon, just before the kids come over on their weekend. Ya gotta straighten the house in time for the kids to clutter it up.
Their clutter is annoying. Mine is comforting.

Bathroom visitor

I thought I lived alone.

But one day, in the bathroom, I realized I wasn't the only one in there.

An 8-legged intruder hung from the ceiling.

Normally, arachnid ridding is a ritual in a household.

 But I don't live with other humans. So, not wanting to be entirely alone, I let the spider live.

Sure, I can kill it when I'm ready. On my time. I don't have to comply with the standard of snuffing the spider just because someone is freaked out. Actually, it's okay with me that I'm never alone. That I have a guard over the toilet. And the spider doesn't seem to mind, either. Maybe it's grateful for my willingness to let it live. Maybe it doesn't know how lucky it is to live in a spider friendly house.

The ants on the counter are another matter. They have to go...

Making a big splash

Two-year-olds provide their own entertainment for themselves, and for those of us with more birthdays than they.

Not realizing he had an audience, my lil' tyke squatted by the puddle, stick in hand. He smacked the water like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Apparently, the maneuver was intriguing. He smacked the water again, watching the ripple effect. Then he struck in staccato, not waiting for the ripples to subside. Eight or nine whacks.

Then he stood, moved to another side of the puddle, stick in hand. He squatted and repeated the aforementioned procedure.

After his third session, I giggled. He looked up, detected. Then he turned back to the water and spoke on the puddle's behalf: "Ouch! What did you do that for?" he said, imitating the water's supposed reaction to his striking.