From the monthly archives:

August 2005

The “Third Date” Rule

Everyone has different ideas about when you should infuse a dating relationship with sex. Apparently, the widely accepted “third date” rule no longer holds true. First of all, in New York, I’ve been told that it’s the “second date” rule. Secondly, everyone has different ideas about what time is the right time. Tyrone says that women, if they want a particular guy to like them, should only have sex after 55 hours of contact:

X greater than 55 = sex
X less than 55 = no sex

“Really,” he says, “how well can you really get to know someone before 55 hours of contact anyway???” How he came up with “55″, I do not know, but Sarah always has sex on the first date if she likes the guy:

Like guy = yes = sex
Like guy = no = no sex

A friend from my gym, Tonya, says that you should only have sex after two months from the first date if you see the guy once a week or after three weeks from the first date if you see the guy more than once a week:

First date + (# of dates / 2 months) OR First date + (# of dates / 3 weeks)

What’s with all of the counting? In my opinion, it’s this: women are afraid that, if they sleep with guys “too early”, they’ll think they’re easy and stop seeing them.

Why this topic?

Well … yesterday, a very handsome and incredibly sexy (and of course, foreign) man, Fernando, called me again. I met him last Sunday and we shared great conversation over drinks. Since then, we’ve exchanged a couple of emails and telephone calls. We’ve also enjoyed one unbelievably passionate kiss. We’re going out this weekend and I’m really looking forward to it. No worries. Vince Vaughn be damned, just this once, for a change, I’m gonna be like the girl in the PG13 movie that everybody’s really hoping makes it happen, not like the girl in the rated R movie. Why? Because, I think there’s a possibility that I could actually like this guy and I don’t want to blow it.

{ 27 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Body Parts.

On Sunday, I had brunch with Samirah. Recently, the husband of one of her coworkers grew gravely ill and the coworker gave him one of her kidneys. They were “a match” in more ways than one, apparently.

“But then she didn’t talk about her husband for a long time so everyone in our office worried that he’d gotten sick or something,” Samirah explains. “Finally, someone asked her, and she was like, ‘we got divorced.’”

I gasped. And then, I laughed. It wasn’t funny ha ha, but it was funny in that awkward “I-don’t-know-what-else-to-say-or-do-but-laugh” kind of way. And, although I knew what I was about to say next would sound horrible, I said it anyway, “in the divorce settlement, I would have asked for my kidney back.”

Samirah laughed.

“I’m not joking.”

Actually, I’m not even sure that I would have forked over the kidney in the first place. And, if I did part with it, I would have posed no less one hundred questions beforehand. Is anyone else in your family a match? What if we get divorced? What if, after the surgery, my only remaining kidney fails?

The Kidney Stuff stays with me long enough to later bring it up in casual conversation with my friends Mags and Bro. I tell them that I wouldn’t give my kidney away. They think this is horrible. I joke that the word vital in vital organs must be lost on them both, but I honestly admire their selflessness and genuine kind-heartedness.

“What if I really needed a kidney?” Mags wonders aloud. “What would you say if I called you?”

“I’m telling you now. Don’t call me.” I don’t think she believes me. We’ve known each other 12+ years.

“No, seriously,” she asks, “what would you say?”

“I would tell you to call Bro.” They’ve known each other longer.

Bro, “Gee, thanks. You’re horrible, you know.”

I search for something to rid my feelings of guilt, “I’m an organ donor; doesn’t that count for anything? I signed my eyeballs and every other bit of my body away to science.”

Bro, “Uhh, not me! If you’re an organ donor and you’re in an emergency situation, they don’t try as hard to save your life because they need the organs. I’m not donating.”

I’m confused, “so, as long as you’re living, you’ll hand over a kidney, but if you’re dead or dying, you’re suddenly gonna get stingy?!”

It’s complex. Some of us are organ donors. Some of us donate blood. Some of us would give a vital organ to a loved one (or even a stranger) if they needed it. Me? I’ve donated enough blood to make an army of vampires drool, but I don’t think that I’d give my kidney to anyone except my sister, my two nephews, and maybe a handful of close friends if, in the moment, I truly felt that God willed me to do so. And, if I’m dead, my body isn’t mine anymore so open it, cut it up and take whatever you need to help those who are still living. Hmm, I’d love to hear others’ thoughts on the subject…

{ 9 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Translation: French (Canadian) to English

In response to my previous post, a couple of you wrote to me to ask, basically, what the hell was that frog talking about?!?! For your reading pleasure, below is the transcription of the “I am French Canadian” rant. (You can click here if you would like to hear it again instead of read it.):

I AM NOT A CANADIAN

Guy Québecois

(clears throat)
I’m not unemployed or smuggling cigarettes across the border. I don’t eat Pepsi and May West for breakfast. I don’t watch da hockey game doing it doggie-style. And no, I don’t know Claude, Manon, or François in Abitibi-Témiscamingue. But I’m sure they all have nice teeth.

I smoke in church. I speak Québecois in joual, not French or English. I pronounce it “tird”, not third. And eating French Fries with cheese makes sense, mon ostie. I believe in a distinct society, as long as someone else pays for it. I believe in language-police, not equal rights. And, calisse, I believe that Club Super-Sex is an appropriate place for my wife and me to celebrate our anniversaire. What the hell, she goes on at ten anyway.

In Québec, the Stanley Cup actually comes around more often than Halley’s comet. I can get beer at the dépanneur, not the convenience store. And maybe I can’t turn right on a red light. But tabarnak, I can go right through it. Because Québec is the world’s largest producer of maple syrup. The home of Céline Dion and Roch Voisine. The land where everybody is shacking up and the legal drinking age is … just a suggestion.

Je m’appelle Guy, and I am not Canadian! Mot, t’a dit, tabarnak, ostie. Merci, salut la vedette.

(Transcribed by Monique Adriaansen, Mel Priddle, & Jon R … and Alan Bick , 2004)

{ 6 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Tabarnak! Send Our Asses 2 Canada

I’ve got Canada on my mind.

Why? First, Bro is currently in Quebec having a grand ol’ time. Second, I’ve recently been razzed by some random Canadian who literally claims that the entire city of Toronto hates me. Yeah, the entire city, “hates Stolie.” All this talk of Canada has made me think: I should venture north of the 49th parallel once again! This is turning out to be a North American year. In a couple of months, Mexico. After that, Canada … Oh, Canada …

Typically, American primary and secondary schooling doesn’t include lessons on Canada’s history, culture, politics, geography or anything else. I learned all that I know about Canada from my Travel Guides and Suzy, an absolutely lovely Canadian friend that lived in the same European city in which I was living. Suzy taught me that the word snatch does not mean grab. The beaver is an important animal, equally worthy of love as his other 4-legged friends. And, Ottawa is the capitol of Canada. Suzy also taught me about my own land. She said she originally thought America’s influence was so strongly felt in Canada because the two countries neighbor each other, “but you come all the way across the Atlantic,” she said, “and it’s exactly the same here. That’s scary.”

Indeed, it is.

At any rate, my friends and I are sending our asses up to Canada later this year. Thus, the migration of single, sexy, liberal and leftist Americans to that fair land, Canada, continues. Off we’ll go! More details later. In the meantime, if you’re aching for a lesson on Canada, watch the Joe Canada video. It’s really funny. Seriously, watch it. And, if you like Joe’s I am Canadian rant, you’ll totally love this mp3 parody, I am French Canadian.

{ 4 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Tiocfaidh ár lá!

I’m absolutely fascinated by the Troubles of Northern Ireland and I plan to visit Belfast one day in the near future. If it’s about Northern Ireland, I see the movie, watch the BBC report, read the book and/or date the boy. Several years ago, I added Killing Rage by Eamon Collins to my summer reading list. If you’ve not read this book, I highly recommend it. It’s a non-fiction account of an IRA turncoat, Collins’, life inside the IRA. (If you have a favorite book on N.I., recommend it to me.)

SIDENOTE: Trip Down Memory Lane with the Irish Boy. While living in England, I dated an absolutely gorgeous Irishman who laid claims to a very loose, albeit active, association with the IRA. He was from Belfast. Blue eyes. Great smile. He typically wore his brown hair very very short/buzzed except for the times when he shaved it off entirely. And, he had the most amazing voice you could ever imagine. It oozed of sex appeal. He wasn’t very tall ( … this was BEFORE my recent revelation …) but he was definitely cute. It was the first, and only, time that I dated a Bad Boy.

At any rate, back to Ireland. There’s a lovely Gaelic phrase: Tiocfaidh ár lá! In translation, it means “Our Day Will Come.” Although it’s the slogan of Republican-Minded Celtics, oddly enough, I’ve sort of adopted as my dating Mantra and it works. One day I’ll meet a great guy that I can date without growing bored in the long-term. My day will come. Tiocfaidh ár lá!

{ 5 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Houston, We Have a Problem …

And, I’m not talking about the Space Shuttle Discovery. (By the way, check out this really great blog: How I am Becoming an Astronaut.) I’m talking about Houston, the guy that I went on a few dates with.

So, I receive an email from my friend Pegs. I LOVE Pegs. She asks what happened to Houston since I hadn’t said anything about him lately.

I tell her that it didn’t work out. No details. No drama. Just didn’t work out.

Pegs is great and I miss her. She is a Numbers Geek, as am I. AND, what’s more, she always gives great advice about boys. For example, when she heard about my weekend with Le Canadien, “Oh no, no, no,” she emailed me, “swapping kisses with exes of any sort is a BAD idea. Le Canadien??!? Even worse. You should be paddled, and I’m not talking in the sense that your aerobics instructor was.”

And, it gets even better … PEGS SENT ME CHOCOLATE! Well, it wasn’t actually like “real” chocolate. It was a picture of chocolate, but that’s a long story … :-)

{ Be first to get down with the Funky Brown }

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