Practically Perfect in Every Way

I’ve been contemplating nicknames for the aforementioned potential Mr. Right. I’m still thinking that he needs a nickname that doesn’t imply that I’ve already picked out Labradors and named our children (and for the record no, I have not named our children or picked out pets).

I caught myself rambling about him to my best friend because that’s what I do, ramble and tell my best friend EVERYTHING. She shot her cocktail out her nose when I told her that he’s practically perfect. Once she stopped laughing and stopped making those faces you make when you get a carbonated beverage up your nose, she pointed out that I’ve obviously found a brand new pair of rose-colored shades because, “If it comes with a penis, it comes with problems.”

She’s right, it’s just a matter of time before I find myself waving the empty cardboard toilet paper tube in his face crying (I’m assuming I’ll have PMS when this happens) because I just used a page out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog to wipe. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we get there.

It’s the “practically perfect” comment that gave me an idea for his nickname. Mr. Poppins? I had to think about it for a second. He doesn’t remind me of Mary Poppins in any way at all. He doesn’t have an accent, I’ve never seen him with an umbrella, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t float about. However, as far as I can see through these rose-colored shades, he’s my idea of perfection right now.

Then I saw his bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I AM NOT JUDGING (and I’m certainly not volunteering to clean it up). I’m just saying that my fondest childhood memory of Mary Poppins was her ability to pick up everything off the floor with a snap of the fingers. He may be perfection to me right now but there’s been no finger snapping in his bedroom for quite some time. For the record, I’m a complete disaster myself. I really don’t care if his room is a mess, as long as I get to be in it with him (yes, you may turn away and puke – that was sappy, I’ll wait). I’m just saying, thus was the death of Mr. Poppins as a potential nickname.

I’ll keep pondering…

When whiskey and leather pay off

There are certain times in life you find yourself looking for Mr. Right. You want that stable, dependable, smart and sweet guy that you can take home to momma as a potential future baby daddy. Then one day you realize there’s something fundamentally wrong with your relationship (like he’s so hairy you’re vacuuming the bed when he’s not in it or he’s boinking the neighbor and you wonder if she vacuums the bed so her husband doesn’t find out) and you break free and then you’re just looking for Mr. Right-Now. This is the guy you’d never vacuum a bed over (“Oh, let’s go to your place, mine’s being fumigated”) and certainly never cry if the neighbor was vacuuming her bed for him too because you’d just toss him away without a second thought.

And the last thing you’d expect is to put on a leather corset, go out with the girls, get wasted on whiskey and end up finding a Mr. Right. Yeah, I said Mr. Right. I was totally looking for a Mr. Right-Now. But…there he was and despite the fact that I was drunk, very agreeable, wearing leather, and (by the end of the night) making out with him, he asked me out on a date instead of just trying to take me home. Honestly in the state of mind I was currently in, taking me home would have been fine.

So, we went out on a date, where he kissed me goodnight. And another, where he kissed me goodnight. Five dates before he even tried to get to second base. Not what I would have expected out of a drunken leather-clad bar make-out scene. I kind of feel like I hit a jackpot.

It’s really too early to tell…but we’ll put “Mr. Right” down as a possibility for his nickname.