Whiplash

To Whom It May Concern:

When you run into two ladies of a certain age having a conversation at a convenience bar in the train station -- or any bar, for that matter -- it's in poor taste to try and hit on one, while thoroughly ignoring the other. Or, once you've been blown off by the former who stomped off in disgust, to focus your attention on the latter, who's been observing the whole train wreck with a great deal of amusement and knows exactly what's going on in that pointy little head of yours (both of them, actually).

You get no style points for observing that my friend, who's a good five years younger than me and in much better shape, must have had "wicked acne" back in high school, or that "she's a complete bitch." That was my friend, you cretin.

You get no style points for using a commuter convenience as a pick-up bar. That's just... tacky. I'm there to kill a few minutes before I go home... and that does not mean home with you.

Let's see -- you're at least 15 years younger than me, fit and in the process of a nasty divorce... or so you say. No points for you for archly observing out that I'm an older woman and that you like that. You might have pretty looks, but you are not a pretty person. Your behavior just says you have an itch that hasn't been scratched in a while, and I'm conveniently elected. How incredibly flattering.

You repeatedly offer to go home with me. You do not offer to take me home with you. You do offer, over and over again, to do a face-plant in my lady bits, as if I should be grateful for the opportunity.

Listen up, Doofus: I don't take anybody home. Ever. I'm not opening my door to you, nor my arms -- let alone my legs.

You were right about one thing, Buck-o -- I am a firecracker when I choose to be. My body may currently be the Land of Misfit Toys, what with the busted wheel and bit of weight gain that goes with quitting smoking, BUT in between my ears it's a WONDERLAND.

Pity you'll never even get a peek, pal.
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[For my regular readers -- we were grabbing a quick beer for the road on our way home from Therapy Night, for Pete's sake, not auditioning for Cougar Town. Sheesh. And you wonder why I hate dating?]
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Update: Maybe I'm getting old, but I find it really disturbing that someone would be suggesting banqueting on my girlie bits before he'd so much as shaken my hand, for cripe's sake.

Wait a minute. I'm beginning to sound suspiciously like someone else I know...