Buzzin’

Okay ladies, I’m sorry that I’ve been slacking on delivering dating stories but my boyfriend is all old fashion and gets annoyed when I trawl the web for cyber babes or go on romantic outings with other dudes. I know, what a bore.

I’ve also been working on the book that’s coming out next fall! AND we’re developing our stories for a TV show, so cross your fingers, toes, and eyebrows for us!

In the meantime, here’s a little taste of the dynamic dating duo from yesterday’s VH1 Morning Buzz interview. Watch as I mime penis sizes on national television while Granny wags her head at me from Skype:

http://on.vh1.com/BMBLwngmn

Meet My Mom

Guess who the newest, hottest, busiest lady is on the online dating scene? Besides being an expert man-eater she is also Granny’s spawn and my life source. She is my mom.

My little sister recently left the nest to attend university in the northeast. Lonely without her daughters and growing bored of her single life in Florida, my madre decided to take a dare and move closer to/stalk her kids while trying out a new life in Washington D.C.

Granny called me with a hunch this week. “Your sister, she tells me your mother is gallivanting on the web looking for men.”

I told her she must have been mistaken. If mom were online dating she would have certainly confessed it to us, the self-proclaimed experts. She is single and new to DC so it makes sense, but I mean, obviously she would have told me and not my little sister first.

I called my mom yesterday to get the story straight. “Oh yeah,” she giggled. “It’s such a hoot.”

Although I was offended not to have been enlisted for advisement, I put aside my middle-daughter syndrome and welcomed her into the family business. “Tell me everything,” I demanded.

“Someone asked me if I’d be the Demi to their Ashton and they were like 22 years-old,” she began laughing hysterically. “I have a lot of young guys messaging me because they can’t believe I’m 56.” I could practically hear her patting her own back. “I get at least four people a day writing to me that are in their 20s to their 60s.”

Although this may sound like an exaggeration, I am not entirely surprised. My mom is a little hottie, there’s no denying it. I’ve had about thirty pounds on her since I hit puberty. She is tiny, in shape, keeps active, and looks great in spandex. No wonder the fellas are lining up. She assured me however; that the youngest she’ll date is two years her junior.

“I could be tripping all over myself with my ego with these men, all because of this one friggin’ picture,” she giggled.

“What’s the picture?”

“I didn’t know how to download or upload a pic, or whatever you call it,” she said. “Then I was in the shower and I had an epiphany: I could take a picture off Facebook. So I put it up. I’m wearing a bathing suit.”

“You are wearing a bathing suit in your dating profile picture?” I asked part horrified, part amused.

“It isn’t terrible!” she insisted.

“A one-piece or a bikini?”

“NO! A tankini!” she yelled. “I’m not wearing a thong, it’s not disgusting. It is a tasteful tankini.” The lady runs at least one marathon a year. A sad fact of life, my mom can pull off a tankini better than me. “Is that terrible?” she asked, her self-conscious side beginning to peak up from her daughter’s bullying.

“No,” I said to calm her. “It’s just making me laugh that my mother has a Facebook picture on her dating profile of her in a tankini.”

“Hey listen, I went to two different baseball games this week with two different men.”

“What?”

“I’m telling you this tankini… I think every man in Washington is writing to me. I’m telling you, it’s great. I’m loving it. It’s so much fun. I don’t have enough time. If I wasn’t working 11 hours I would be out every night of the week.”

I was beyond impressed. My mom is killing it on the dating scene. A total inspiration for singles who move to a new city and are looking for a way to integrate themselves, make new friends, and watch some baseball.

Desperate to see the alluring tankini pic, I caved and sent my mom a friend request on Facebook. The sneaky teenager in me who wants to have secrets from my mom declined her request a few years back.

“I have to think about whether or not I’m going to accept you now,” she teased.

Luckily she did, and let me say… Men of DC, watch out for the hot lady in the tankini!

LISTEN TO THE CONVERSATION WITH MY MOM: mom chat

The Nut

Attention Readers: Give me your stories and your firstborns! Or just your stories…

Cathy sent me an email about a date with a man from Match.com. She wrote:

I was on a second date with this “nice” guy and we seemed to really be clicking. He wasn’t paying attention driving me home and side swiped a parked car a few blocks from my house. 
That was bad enough but then he directly denied hitting the car at all. He even called me “crazy”. Sure enough there was a mysterious large dent in the front of his car. When I pointed it out, he STILL told me I was seeing things.
I was so annoyed and creeped out that I walked back to the car he hit and left my date’s name and phone number under the windshield wiper. I haven’t heard from him since.

My advice? He probably wasn’t paying attention driving because he was too busy stealing glances at you, praying to the online dating gods to cue up some Usher on the radio while plotting tactical ways to get to second base.

I am no stranger to the “deny til you die” method but given the situation I think he sounds like a moron for not fessing up. If he were a real man he would have laughed it off, taken responsibility, then bought you a house and a new car.

I hate that he called you “crazy”. If I were you, I would have really shown him crazy and keyed his car on my way out. Then I’d pull his trick of denial. “What? Key marks? I don’t see any key marks.”

I have to say, I love that you didn’t let him get away with it. You’re like a little Judge Judy bringing justice to the neighborhood. I’m sure you know this, but you’re lucky you haven’t heard from him.

When I asked Granny for her take on the date she got fired up and told me repeatedly, “He’s crazy, he’s a nut job, he’s a lunatic!”

Her protective grandmotherly instincts kicked in, “If this guy’s a nut he could come after you, because he’s a lunatic. I’d say leave, get far away from there he’s a nut job. If he didn’t admit it and it’s as obvious at the day is long, don’t you think there’s something wrong with him?”

I suggested my typical defense mechanism, “Maybe he liked her too much and was embarrassed?”

“Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,” she immediately shot me down. “He’s a nut.”

Then she brought up an insightful argument, “What is he going to do run away from responsibility if they start up a relationship? What if she likes him and then finds out later, in a different way, that he doesn’t know how to take responsibility for his actions?” Aha, and that’s where her extra fifty years of life and experience on this earth shines. She’s right, better learn now then later.

“Best thing for her to do is forget him. Butt out. Forget him,” she concluded.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: the nut convo

EMAIL your stories to: grannyismywingman@gmail.com

Drum Roll, Please!

Psssssst… we’re back! My little pop tart of a Granny is hot out of the oven, through with her skin cancer treatments, and almost ready to slide back into her dating shoes (most likely kitten heels).

I called Granny to let her know that besides her selfish granddaughter (me), readers were missing her dates. “Don’t make me blush, my face is red enough as it is from the radiation,” she chuckled, clearly flattered.

“We miss your stories! No one tells it like it is like you,” I stroked her ego, a strategic wingman move.

“You’re saying that I’m bitchy?” she giggled.

“I’m not, not saying that,” I replied. “But we both are. A healthy dose of bitchiness.”

“Well you may be missing them, but you can come do my packing, go to my doctors appointments, you can do it all,” she huffed to add a tinge of her signature Jewish guilt. Then, “Okay, Jesus, give me a week.”

Fair enough, besides recovering from the radiation Granny is in the process of packing up and moving to a new apartment. Rest assured, she’s more excited to get back to dating than you are to read about it. Get ready for some from some fresh Granny dating stories in the very near future!

Now on to some news! Cue the drum roll, harmonica solo, and ribbon dancers….

Ladies and gentleman, singles and the committed, I went and got myself a badass boyfriend! A real life boyfriend, a man who as far as I can tell is the best thing since macaroni and cheese stuffed omelets. Besides being an all-around charming dude, he is 6’7, which means I have finally succeeded in fulfilling my life-long dream of having a man who doubles as a jungle gym.

More news! I’m going to need some more harmonica, maracas, and a heavy dose of cow bell…

I’m writing a book! Picture me high kicking, fist pumping, and pelvic thrusting (heavily)—I’ve been doing a lot of this lately.

Yep, this little diva is pulling it together and buckling down to write a BOOK! Oy vey. Get ready for the ups and downs, the laughs, and of course the bitching of the online dating journey with my Granny.

I’ll update when the book gets closer but in the meantime I’d like to turn the tables and hear from you. I’ve been absurdly honest with you guys… I mean come on, Booty Pop? Let’s talk some shit ladies!

If you have cringeworthy, silly, or dubious dating stories and/or questions about the online dating process me and a wise old witch (Granny) have been through the dating trenches and would love to give you our two cents and then some. Let us be your wingwomen! Email your stories to: grannyismywingman@gmail.com

Let’s get this party started! Cue Rihanna’s “We Found Love in a Hopeless Place”. *Pelvic thrust, pelvic thrust, fist pump, pelvic thrust.*

Wear Sunscreen

You may have noticed that lately my little feisty Granny has not been pulling off her end of the bargain as my wingman and partner in online dating crime. She’s got a good excuse. A few weeks ago she was chatting with a man on the phone who she was planning on going out with when she found out she had to begin radiation therapy on her face for skin cancer.

“My nose is gonna be redder than Rudolph’s,” she told me. “There’s no way I’m going out with him until it’s healed.” Some things change with age but vanity is not one of them.

Although cancer is a terrifying word and illness, I keep reminding Granny that it could be worse. Skin cancer is the most common form of cancer in the US. Facts: One in five Americans will develop skin cancer in the course of their lifetime. Between 40 and 50 percent of Americans who live to age 65 will have skin cancer at least once. – This is Granny’s fourth time and luckily this time there is no melanoma.

I know cancer talk is heavy, but it’s real and that’s what Granny is about. As a teenager/young adult you never think about the consequences of things like smoking, tanning, partying, whatever vice you indulge in… and how it can affect you later in life.

Suddenly I get why Granny threw a shit fit on a trip to Orlando when I was 15 and refused to put on sunblock at the Holiday Inn pool. I instead chose to slather myself in baby oil. I am a white Jew; clearly I should have taken her advice. When she saw the beet-red burn on my chest she refused to talk to me the next day as I sulked around the Magic Kingdom applying aloe every thirty minutes. When she finally spoke she shook her little finger in my face and said, “Trust me, when you’re older you’ll wish you took my advice.” Ugh, she is always right.

“Why don’t you be honest with him?” I asked. It seems to me that old people like to kvetch with each other about their illnesses.

She refused, arguing that it would be smarter to make up a different excuse until her face has healed. “That would chase him away. There is no man that wants to be dating a woman with cancer,” she insisted.

I respect her decision and know skin cancer is scary but judging by the statistics and considering he lives in South Florida, odds are there’s a very good chance he’d be able to relate with her on the issue in some way.

She assured me that this was only a hiccup in her dating life, she’s eager to get back on the field after she finishes her four weeks of radiation. “Every Monday I see the doctor and the scientist, ya know the guy that takes care of the machines? He told me ‘You’ll get more tired as it’s over then you’ll be little by little fine.’”

We were both relieved to hear the news. Granny told the doctor, “I have things to do, places to go and people to see. I’m not your typical 76 year-old, I’m very busy. Right now there are things I want to be doing that I’m not doing but I gotta deal with this first.” Go Granny go!

LISTEN: convo

Muse Mocker

When I told Granny about the poet’s ”self-published” book of poetry, she couldn’t hold back her fangs. “Whaaaat!” she exclaimed. “So in other words, it’s a non-happening.” Granny has one setting: real. The lady can’t help but keep it real.

I explained his obsession with finding a muse. “A muse?” she giggled. “He needs three muses. He needs a muse for morning, noon, and night.” I wasn’t up for any of the positions.

“Do you remember the movie?” she asked. “There was a movie about a man looking for a muse. He probably saw it and thought he would copy it.”

“He’s a poet,” I said, half-defending my date/half-winding Granny up.

“Oh he’s a poet?” she scoffed. “I think he’s stealing poetry and moving it around backwards.” She laughed at herself. We both have the tendency to crack up at own jokes, even when they’re lame ones.

I wanted to write off the poet but I felt bad after I received the text from him after our date: “I never write this time of year but you inspired a poem.”

When I told Granny the only thing it inspired was more mocking from her, “Ohhhh he doesn’t write this time of the year? Maybe Santa has to come out before he writes,” she cracked up again at her wit. “Oh good Lord. Oh my God,” she hollered.

“I feel bad,” I whined. “He keeps texting me, I just want him to stop.” It can be hard being so desirable…

Without a beat of hesitation she said, “Tell him you’re going to Africa.”

The lady is witty, resourceful, quick, and sneaky. I am definitely her granddaughter.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVO: convo

Man Seeking Muse

Between the hustle and bustle of work and enjoying the start of summer in the city it’s been a hot minute since I’ve trolled the web for men. I logged on to OKCupid the other day, before the site even loaded I got an instant-message from PeachDreams complimenting one of my photos where I’m wearing white jeans. “Those white pants, they inspire boys. You realize that, right?” he wrote.

I’ve received a few messages about the white jeans since I uploaded the photo. Ladies take note: men dig white jeans. Since Memorial Day has passed, I’m feeling jazzed and excited about my summer 2012 collection (that’s what I refer to as the drawer with my summer clothes in it). “Inspires? How so?” I pried, looking for more strokes to my ego.

“It inspired me to write to you in hopes that there’s more muse where that muse came from.” I assured him there was. Muse? Yes, of course I’d like to be someone’s muse. My summer collection has many flowy pieces that I feel could easily cater to a muse theme.

I checked out his profile and learned that he was a brooding poet. His poet identity seemed to be a heavy subject in his profile. He described himself as serious, analytical, and cerebral with a head of “poet’s hair”. In all his photos he looked away from the camera, with a moody brooding stance. A poet’s muse? I might be too goofy and obnoxious to play the part. I wasn’t sold that we’d be a good fit, but there was a chance he could be my Patti Smith and I could be his Robert Mapplethorpe… just two iconic artists… or something like that.

When he suggested getting ice cream I knew that at least if we had nothing in common, I’d get a cone out of the deal so I went for it. He requested that I wear my white jeans but I was auditioning for the part of the muse and nobody tells a muse what to do, a muse just does (I also seem to have misplaced the jeans) so I opted for a black summer dress instead.

I was a few minutes late to the ice cream shop, “I’m wearing blue jeans sitting out front,” he texted me. As I locked my bike up I scanned the few patrons and saw only one in blue jeans. He didn’t look at all like the dark poet from his pictures.

He smiled and approached me, “Hey, I’m Rob,” he said, grinning ear to ear. We got some cones and settled on a stoop to eat them. He spilled some of his ice cream on to the sidewalk then quickly leaned down to wipe it off. I reminded him that it was New York City and some dairy drops wouldn’t harm the concrete but he told me he felt otherwise.

“So tell me about your poetry,” I began. It was subject that he clearly felt strongly about in his online presence so I thought it would be a good way to open him up in real life. I was wrong.

“It’s highly intellectual and incredibly literary, far too hard to break it down in a simple conversation,” he said as he wiped the sidewalk some more.

“You write haikus?” I joked.

“Haiku. Not haikus. Haiku is the plural of haiku. Like “sheep”,” he corrected. “But no, my writing is not like that.”

I nodded, trying to summon a serious muse-like smile. “So on your profile you say you’ve published a book, where could I find it?” I asked.

“I’m not selling it because I don’t believe in consumerism. It’s a project I self published, for me.”

“Tortured artist?” I teased.

He nodded solemnly and looked into my eyes. “What’s your sign?” he asked.

“Pisces,” I made a fish face.

“She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak. I’ve been locked inside your Heart Shaped box for weeks. I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap. I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black,” he recited to me.

“Is that an original?” I asked.

He shot me a repulsed look. “No, that’s Nirvana. You didn’t recognize that?”

No, I’m not cool. I did not recognize the Nirvana quote. Geez, rub it in. I felt I might have been failing as a muse.

“Are you happy in your life?” he asked me. I quickly affirmed that I was. I am, I can’t help it. Life is good. I love my friends and family, my roof deck, my bicycle, the summer, my summer collection, and everything I have going on.

He clearly wanted me to recite the question back so I did. “What do you think?” he asked. “Do I look happy?”

He didn’t look unhappy, I can tell you that. “Yeah, I hope you are. I’d say you look happy,” I replied.

He huffed; it was clearly not the answer this poet wanted. “Everyone tells me I have sad eyes, you don’t think my eyes are sad?”

I looked at his perfectly combed blond hair and into his bright blue eyes that would have made for terrific World War II propaganda and shook my head. “Nope, those eyes look pretty bright to me.”

“What about my pictures?” he pushed on, “Don’t my pictures portray sadness?” he asked.

His pictures were moody but clearly intentionally so. “Yeah, they were a little darker but in real life you don’t look like that.”

At first he looked annoyed but then he said. “You might be muse material.”

As much as I enjoyed my cone and the idea of being a muse, I certainly wasn’t cut out to be this guy’s gal. Having someone to inspire me and that I can inspire is one thing but having someone that needs constant cheering up is not my game.

I hope he finds his muse and I hope I can find my white jeans because mama’s got some summer strolling to do in those man-snatchers.

Secrets

Granny’s been engaging in some flirtatious banter with an old hippie on JDate. Although he lives in South Florida, he wrote to her that he’s been “chilling” with some pals in Cali for the past few weeks. Based off his profile, where he tells tales of working on a Kibbutz, owning vegetarian restaurants, and winning tennis competitions, it’s clear that this man has led quite a life. But of course, so has Granny.

“He asked, ‘What’s the subject of your best story?’” she told me, clearly entertained.

“What is it?” I asked, expecting her to draw a blank or at the very least take a moment to consider.

“Oh, he doesn’t want to know,” she said, bursting out in to a fit of giddy laughter. “Or I don’t want to tell him. One or the other.”

I was suspicious and envious, how did my 76 year-old Granny know off the top of her head the subject of her best story? She’s lived fifty years longer than me, had countless more experiences and yet she automatically knew what it was. If someone asked me that question I’d need time to think and then probably opt for the top five, where at least one tale would involve summer camp.

“What is it?” I asked, brimming with curiosity.

“I’m not going to do this with you now,” she firmly stated.

I couldn’t believe how certain she was in her story. I needed to know what she was holding back. I know Granny’s lived a wild life but I never thought to ask her such a simple yet intriguing question. “You know immediately what the subject of your best story is?” I pressed on.

“Yes,” she confidently confirmed. “But I’m not going to tell you now, I have company.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

Ah, the relationship between a mother and daughter. I love that the judgment gets to skip a generation and I get to be the one swapping salacious secrets with my Granny. I haven’t squeezed the story out of her yet, but I will. Ohhhh trust me, I will.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVO: convo

Poo Poo

As you may have noticed, Granny and I took a brief hiatus from our dating marathon last week. Don’t fret, we’ll be back into wining, dining, and bitching our brains out shortly but I had to make a quick run to Kenya where I founded and operate a charity.

My life is a balancing act of good and evil. I work in a nightclub strutting around in sequins and stilettos selling booze at exuberant prices to wealthy suits in order to get some kicks and make a living. All that opulence led me to a Robin Hood-esque mission of forming an organization where I can link into the moola and make something good come out of it.

Last week instead of stalking future lovers on the internet I was hanging with some kids in Nairobi where my organization buys textbooks, university scholarships, and runs reading clubs for girls. Twice a year I make the trip to Kenya to get my fix of love and reality, a hold on myself and the world around me, and give some good back. If you want to stalk me/get involved you are more than welcome to: www.thereadproject.org

Anyway, my trips to Kenya shake Granny up for two reasons. 1) She’s a neurotic Jew. 2) She’s jealous that I haven’t invited her to come along with me.

Prior to this trip she tried to scare me off with her witchy ways, “I’m worried there will be life threatening danger this trip,” she prophesized like a mad woman. Luckily, I ignored her and went on my way. When I got home I called her.

“Where ya been?” she asked me, as if she forgot that I had gone to sub-Saharan Africa. In this dating process Granny and I have gone from talking weekly, to daily, to hourly. The week absence of calls while abroad was tough for both of us.

“I didn’t die,” I notified her.

“I’m just glad you’re back,” she told me. “I guess because I’m getting older, with every trip you take I worry more.”

I wasn’t ready to let the witch off so easy. “You told me I was going to die,” I reminded her. I wanted to drill home how crazy and out of line her remark was.

“You know it’s like poo-poo God,” she explained.  “You know the Jews? Poo-poo poo-poo? I was warding off the bad spirits.” She may be more of a Jewess sorceress than I originally understood. I only know about one kind of poo-poo.

“Let’s not get into it, no depressed state of mind, please,” she said. “You’re home, you’re good. I feel very comfortable having you home. When you go back I’ll worry again. If I were there with you, I wouldn’t worry…” she began then giggled. She’s always subtly suggesting that she’d like to join me on a trip.

“You want to be my sidekick in dating and charity?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Anytime,” she said definitively.

Although emotionally rewarding, my visits tend to be exhausting, highly physical, uncomfortable, and fast-paced. “How would you feel about pooping in a hole?” I tested her.

“Sleeping in a hole?” she asked.

“Pooping. Pooping in a hole.”

“Oh come on, I did that in Yugoslavia twenty years ago,” she bragged. “And you know what? In a movie theater. You just followed your nose to the poop hole, you knew where it was. Trust me on that one.”  She went further, “And next door was the restaurant we ate in, and I even remember what I got for dinner because there was no choices. I got spaghetti bolognaise,” she paused to heave. “Oh God, it’s gagging me now that I’m thinking about it. Really, I know about poop holes. I also experienced one in a country next to Israel. It was a friendly country but the poop hole was not pleasant.”

“They never are,” I confirmed.

“Been there, done that,” she said referring to the poop hole, but really it applies to most experiences in my life.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: conversation.mp3

Leftovers

“I had a date with an older man,” I called to tell Granny.

I know my Granny; I could hear the disappointment in her dramatic exhale. “How old?” she huffed.

“42,” I replied.

“Okay, and what was he a billionaire?” I love that her first assumption was that I am a hot-young-gold-digging-thang on the hunt for a sugar daddy. I’m not denying that I am, but Jeff didn’t really come off as Mr. Money Bags.

“No. He has kids,” I casually slipped out. I knew this would throw her over the edge.

“He’s gonna support them for the next twenty years,” she hollered. “Why on earth at your age and with everything you’re doing in your life would you want someone’s leftovers?” The lady had a point.

I tried to explain my theory on being a second wife but she cut me off with a dose of reality. “That’s not for now, that’s for waaaay later in life.” Although I get where she was going with things, I hope I never end up with anyone that would be considered “leftovers”.

“You are successful,” she affirmed, “a successful independent woman who can take care of herself.” I feel like burning my bras, sculpting a statue of Granny, then saluting it.

Once she built me up and got me back on her team she began to work some classic Granny tricks, “I have a 21 year-old that plays in Godspell,” she told me, I’m not sure where she’s plucking this reserve of young lads from. “Twenty-one and cute as can be,” she assured me.

I didn’t know what Godspell was but I did know I wasn’t interested in anyone who was not legally allowed to drink in 2011. “I met him and his brother. He’s so tall,” she cooed.

She knows how I feel about height. The taller the man, the closer to God. “How tall?” I couldn’t help but play into her game.

“I’d say he’s 6’5-6’8 and I might be underestimating,” she was clearly overestimating. If he was over 6’8 he wouldn’t be an actor he’d be a pro-basketball player. “He’s tall, very tall…. But he’s young so I didn’t think you’d be interested…” she said, clearly trying to pique my interest.

I refused to take the bait, “I’m not. I don’t need a 21 year-old South Floridian actor in my love life.”

“He’s an actor, a singer, and a dancer… and very talented apparently, but okay,” she said giving it one last ditch effort.

“Set him up with Jessie (my rebellious teenage sister),” I suggested. This shut her up.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION:convo.mp3