Eve and Bob
By Eve Sturges
A List:
1. You Do Not Talk About Mom’s Club.
2. You DO NOT Talk about Mom’s Club.
OH. Sorry. That is for something else, unrelated to this blog. Disregard rules 1 and 2.
3. All men, boys, and guys with whom I go on a date will from now on be named Bob. If his name really is Bob, he will still be Bob. I originally was going to use John. I—innocent as I am—was thinking it was a reference to “Dear John” letters…. But everyone else thought I was referring to men who pay for hookers. I have yet to receive any financial compensation for time spent with a man. So: Men=Bob. Mmkay?
4. I will number all dates arbitrarily, and in no particular order. This is to further protect…Bob. And myself, really.
5. I imagine that rules 3 and 4 will confuse the fuck out of everyone, including myself. I am so subversive and rebellious, bucking the system! (Insert maniacal laughter.)
6. If you are one of my Bobs, I suggest you read no further. This blog is a writing exercise for myself, for the enjoyment of others, at the exploitation of you. Go read something else. For G_d’s sake, GO READ SOMETHING ELSE.
A Slideshow:
Date #587: What would Alice say?
Lily’s classmates regularly turn a year older, as kids are wont to do. I’ll spare you the details of societal traditions of inviting everyone in the class to the birthday party. I suppose it’s the thought that counts. But I really hate spending money on a kid that I don’t know, and that my own kid may not even like, and I really hate spending time at these events. No one talks to me. Okay, so occasionally someone talks to me. And it goes like this:
Other Parent: “Blah blah blah MY HUSBAND blah blah blah REMODELING THE KITCHEN, blah blah blah JULIA ROBERT’S LANDSCAPER blah blah blah WE DRIVE A PRIUS”
Me: I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo.
Other Parent: “WE DRIVE A PRIUS”
Right. So anyway. Lily was super excited about this birthday party in particular because it had a Super Hero Theme. She dressed as the red power ranger, insisting that red is just like pink. We buy a Spider Man Toy of some sort, wrap it in Avatar wrapping paper of some sort, and go to the party. I wasn’t even in the mood to try; I brought a cross-word puzzle.
And—I’ll skip the details—there was Bob. 130 lbs of punk rock single dad-ness. Chuck Taylor’s. White tee shirt. Tattoos.
And—I’ll skip more details—we have coffee. And by coffee I mean that he also came over for some beer and we made out. And it’s super duper. And it’s super duper confusing. I think, officially, it is every single parent’s dream to find another single parent. Even if that parent doesn’t know it, deep down secretly, sits this unrequited dream. But now that it’s arrived, I’m scared to death. And I may be thinking too much here (it’s happened before) but I think we’re blinded so much by the Brady Bunch Fantasy that we can’t see each other….at all. We would be the coolest Brady Bunch ever, though. Like a punk rock Brady Bunch.
So the next step? I’ll panic for a while, tell him to get lost, back off, stop calling, let me Think. And then we’ll have more coffee. Good game plan, Eve. Grreat. (sigh…)