Me and Chuck Woolery

For some odd reason, when I was younger, I loved watching Love Connection.

Chuck Woolery with his slick pompadour and sharp suits could have been crooning to the ladies (and gentlemen) in the audience, but it was the contestants crammed into the upholstered chairs who commandeered the stage with their tales of dreadfully-bad blind dates and deaf audience members who would vote for another savory dinner at the Sizzler despite the obvious doozy just described.

When a long-term relationship ends, you either go hog wild and feast on the slop at bars, or you discreetly enter the dating pool with a bathing suit down to your knees. Neither option suited me, so I decided to mosey down the electronic path (of least resistance).

Profile? Easy. Single, educated, cute, and fit gal looking for...

Well, I doubt you want to read my drivel (by the way, I didn't use any of the latter text), so I'll just skip to the date part. When you're on Love Connection, who wants to hear about the guy coming to your door and ringing the freaking doorbell? Unless you're Joe from Home Depot trying to sell the latest Heath Zenith doorbell, cutting to the chase is more interesting.

Give me the Cliffs Notes version, Dr. Huxtable.

Hooked up at Pizzeria Uno for drinks. He had shaved his beard and I was wearing glasses (having left a year's supply of contacts in a storage unit in Belgrade, MT); so, neither of us recognized each other at first.

For the next two hours, we had a nice, casual conversation with the occasional touch, but there was no spark. (And GE is less than 1,000 feet away, and I thought they brought all good things to life?) Two glasses of white to his beer, and both of us knew that it wasn't a love connection. We said good night.

I'm not back in the saddle again, but at least this cowgirl put her boots back on.

Ticket to Ride

Some people buy regional knick-knacks (aka: crap that gathers dust on the shelf) when they move to a new city. I collect traffic tickets. Burlington is no different.

However, this experience was less stressful than when a Bozeman police officer pulled me over and questioned me for a record 45 minutes. Mayor McCheese didn't grill me and Andy Griffith wasn't whistling dixie when I got my first ticket in Burlington. Nope, it was just me, my windshield, and an orange envelope.

Ten dollars. My crime?

Apparently, I didn't pump enough change into the parking meter. My biceps did work OT at the gym the night before and, perhaps, weren't up to the challenge as my game of quarters ended years ago (so lack of change was not a problem, although lack of change is a good reason, sometimes, to make some change :^P). I couldn't come up with even a lame excuse.

Traffic cop beat me to the doughnut shop and scored the glaze when he saw Little Stevie sitting on the asphalt. I should've known better.