Dating is just as I remember it; all wet

It’s been about a year since I went on my last “first date.” Until last night, that is. In between, I dated a couple different girls and actually got pretty serious about one of them; it didn’t work out. ‘Nuff said on that.

Point is, I recently found myself back on the market. Fortunately, I still have all my hair, teeth and most of my wits about me. Unfortunately, the dating scene hasn’t changed much in the year I’ve been away.

The online dating world is still full of crazies, desperadoes, saints and sinners and big fat fibbers. Of course, there are a few good ones out there, such as the girl I met last night. She was pleasant, intelligent, well-educated, a great conversationalist and on top of all that, pretty.

She wasn’t the problem. The problem was getting to the place we were to meet, an upscale yet casual restaurant in Royal Oak. Being new to the area, I’d never heard of the place, but I do have GPS—in my estimation, the single greatest invention of the century.

My dinosaur-mobile gave up the ghost recently and I have yet to replace it, so my daughter offered to loan me her car.

As date time approached, I shaved, showered, brushed my teeth, used mouthwash (just in case), ironed a shirt, shined my best shoes, splashed on cologne…when I go on a date, I pull out all the stops! By the time I walked out the door, I looked almost exactly like a young Tom Selleck. (It is possible, of course, that this assessment is purely self-delusion, but if so, it’s a delusion I intend to maintain as long as possible.)

“See you later, Moose,” I said to my daughter. (She hates the nickname, but has endured it since just before her second birthday.)

“Good luck, daddy,” she said. “Oh, by the way, the window’s not working.”

“The window?” I said.

“The driver’s side window,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but it won’t roll up.”

“It’s down now?” I asked, staring through the window at the rain, which had been pouring down in buckets for nearly two hours.

“Yeah,” she said. “You might want to take a towel.” I took two.

It took about ten minutes to get to downtown Royal Oak, by which time the entire left side of my body was soaked. My nicely-ironed shirt clung to my clammy flesh like an oil slick. My previously-combed hair looked a lot like Nicholas Cage’s in “Raising Arizona.” If I’d been wearing glasses, I would have wrapped tape around the bridge just to complete the disgruntled psycho killer look.

I drove around for a while trying to find the restaurant and that most elusive element in any city of size—a parking space. The deluge continued to pour through the open window.

I drove around a while longer. Eventually I figured out I’d plugged the wrong address into my GPS; I was six blocks from the place I was supposed to be and had driven past the restaurant at least three times during the course of my increasingly lengthy aquatic sojourn.

The parking space I eventually found was less than two blocks from the restaurant. This was fortunate, since the only umbrella in the car was bright pink and sported the Hello Kitty logo. Shambling along Main Street, I looked like the half-drowned remnant of a gay pride parade. (This being Royal Oak, I wasn’t the only one.)

My date arrived before I’d had a chance to attempt a quick fix in the restroom. I tried to keep my dry side facing toward her throughout the evening, but I’m pretty sure she noticed the puddle forming around my feet.

Back home at the end of the night I wondered, is this a harbinger of dates to come? And if so, is it too late to phone one of my ex-wives to see if she wants to get back together?

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Can I get a side of bacon with that sexist pig?

While helping me move recently, my good friend Rose let slip her plan for a sure-fire, big money-making business venture. It’s been three days since we talked and I’m still creeped out, marginally appalled, and fervently hoping she never finds the financial resources to actually go through with it.

Rose’s idea isn’t entirely original. It’s based, loosely, on another successful business chain, which I will not name here.

Let’s just say it’s a restaurant; a restaurant I’ve never been to, one named after a nocturnal bird’s call and featuring buxom women who are—so I am told—just way too excited to see any male customer who walks through the door.

My son Jordan goes there frequently with business acquaintances, friends, and on one notable occasion, my then-13-year-old stepson, James. James’ mother was not pleased, as I recall. Both boys raved enthusiastically about the place, though the menu and décor were mentioned not at all.

At any rate, back to Rose. She’s a sweet girl, kind, a little shy, generous, and in my opinion, a little too quick to appreciate a robust, well-proportioned example of the male species. (She uses the term “buff,” though, oddly enough, never while talking about me.)

Rose’s idea is to establish a chain of restaurants modeled after…oh, for the sake of expediency, let’s call it “Hoofer’s.” The difference would be this: Instead of beautiful, young, giggling girls, the wait staff would be made up exclusively of “hunky” guys. Shirtless. In tight, white shorts. Wearing roller skates, for all I know.

Rose calls it “Chester’s.”

She first mentioned it as we drove east on I-96 with my third truckload of personal belongings (proof that I’ve lived comfortably too long and need to get back to my Zen/Buddhist/Native American/impoverished Irish-Catholic roots). We were cruising past a billboard for deodorant or something that featured the shaved torso of a guy that had obviously spent his formative years sweating profusely beneath a 300-pound barbell while subsisting exclusively on a diet of carrot juice and anabolic steroids.

“It’s about time,” Rose said.

“Huh?” I said.

“It’s about time,” she repeated. “You always see those Victoria’s Secret ads with half-dressed girls. It’s about time they finally plastered some hunky guy shots around.”

Then she told me of her plans for Chester’s. At first, I didn’t think much about it one way or the other. But the more I considered the notion, the creepier it seemed to me.

I was, I discovered, uncomfortable with the idea of men being seen as sex objects, oiled-up eye candy for power-lunching business women in Donna Karan dresses and Manolo Blahnik heels. I mean, we guys harnessed electricity, invented the flush toilet, built the nation’s highway system! We deserve better than to be treated like mindless cuddle bunnies!

And yes, it has occurred to me that I never really had a problem with the Hoofer’s girls. That is entirely different. Though I’m not sure exactly how. I’ll have to get back with you on that one.

Meanwhile, I keep hoping Rose doesn’t find the financial backers she needs to get Chester’s off the ground. Date night would never be the same.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Nothing can stop the U.S. Air Force…recruiters

As I write this, the long weekend commemorating our nation’s birth is just behind us. Like most folks, I honored the noble deeds of our forefathers by grilling chicken, watching fireworks and flying the flag.

Independence Day is among my favorite annual events, in part because I’m unabashedly patriotic. My great-grandfather, grandfather and father all served in the military during wartime and I’m glad there’s a day set aside to commemorate the ideals they fought for.

My own military career was somewhat less auspicious. Let’s just say I didn’t always comport myself with proper military bearing and leave it at that.

But I’m thinking today of the way in which I joined up in the first place. It was the summer of ’81. My brother William and I, both recently canned from our respective places of employment, spent our days hanging out together at the home I shared with my wife and new-born daughter.

I remember it clearly, sitting there in the shade of the big front porch, swatting the occasional mosquito, wondering what we were going to do with our lives. I’m not sure which of us said, “Hey, we should join the Army or something,” but once the words were out there, it seemed the most natural idea in the world.

My wife came from a military family and when I ran the idea by her, she was all for it. (In truth, I think she would have been all for us joining the circus if it meant getting us out of the house.)

Thirty minutes later we were at the recruitment office, a building shared by four branches of the military. Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines; they each had an office there.

For no particular reason, we chose the Army. The recruiter spelled out the wonderful life that would be ours as members of the United States Army. The guy was good at his job and five minutes into his spiel and we were ready to sign on the dotted line. The recruiter left the room to grab the necessary forms.

That’s when the Marine recruiter stuck his head in the doorway and said, “You guys aren’t really joining the Army, are you? The Marines are the way to go, man. We’re the best.”

I had to admit, the Marine uniform was way cooler than the Army’s. By the time the Army recruiter returned with the forms, we were in the Marine office getting ready to sign on their dotted line instead.

The two recruiters joined in a somewhat heated discussion about “stealing” potential recruits. My brother and I waited in the main lobby while this was going on. That’s where the recruiter from the Navy found us.

“Hey,” said the Navy recruiter. “If you join the Navy, you get to keep your beard.”

This was something I hadn’t considered. I’d had a small beard since my 16^th birthday and had grown quite attached to it.

Our course seemed obvious; we would be Navy men. A glorious, manly life on the high seas, fighting pirates or Commies—didn’t matter to me. I called my wife to tell her the good news.

“Are you crazy?” she said. “You’ll be away from home for months at a time serving on some ship in the middle of the Atlantic.”

The recruiter assured her this wasn’t necessarily so and went to call his wife to talk to my wife to prove it.

While he was out of the room, the Air Force recruiter walked past and saw us sitting there alone.

A month later I was in Detroit taking my oath of allegiance prior to shipping out to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio where I would complete my basic training.

I loved my time in the Air Force, I really did. But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if the Coast Guard had also shared an office in that building. Or the Girl Scouts, Hare Krishna’s, or Scientologists.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.