Gang Way for the Pirate Queen!

As many of you know, I have posted pictures of 

myself dressed as a lady pirate on several online
   
dating sites. Hey, you gotta stand out, right?
  
Well, stand out I do, and the ol' salt who begins 

his  response with, “Ahoy, me lovely!”, or 

something pirate-y, goes to the front of the line. 

Unless, of course, he asks if I can be “boarded” or 

“walk the plank,” in which case his profile gets 

tossed overboard along with the rest of the bilge.

Pirate Queen don't play that. 

Recently, though, I exchanged texts with a guy 

who could talk the pirate talk and walk the pirate

walk: he was actually building a boat. He posted a

picture of it with his dog aboard. Hmm, good with

his hands and loves animals. I was intrigued.

So I suggested we meet for a drink, and he 

replied, “Shouldn’t we chat a bit first? Get a feel

for ourselves?” OK, he's willing to take it 

slow.  Nice.

Then the conversation took a starboard turn. 

(From here on in I have corrected the spelling and 

punctuation for easy reading; italics are mine.)

“I swear you are going to be in disbelief as 

to my abilities . . . we will get to the 

attractiveness, ‘what drew our attention’

soon. Yes, I think you’re a hottie ass but

‘first things first.’”

Hmm. He brags about his “abilities” right off, then

becomes a bit bossy. Who died and made him 

skipper?

I thought about this a while. Too long awhile for 

him, apparently, because then he sent this little

gem:

              "Also would help to respond, 

               otherwise you're

               in the life boat."

Ooooookay, definitely bossy.

My yeshiva-trained zayde used to toss out neutral 

remarks to gauge the mindset of whomever he was

having a discussion with. Little did the listener

know these casual sentences were more like hand 

grenades with the pins pulled out. Here’s what I 

said:

        “Well, I have to go to work now. 

         I’ll talk to you later.”

How’s that for neutral?

To which he responded:  

“No hurry here . . . when you‘ve got time. 

Just don‘t hang on the phone long. Ain’t 

heard nothing about ‘bout you . . . I’m 

seeing you (were) married and just wanting

attention. You want an evening of lust, 

something fresh and fun. Adventure, 

excitement? Got (it) all for you but I don’t 

do shit blind.”

Now we see the scurvy knave for who he is. 

Thanks for being so obvious, Pirate Dick! You 

just saved me a lot of time.


Usually, you have to wait till the third date before

you find out the truth about your “first mate.” He

knows all about what I’m “wanting”? Wow! Can

you imagine if he actually met me? Think how

much he would know then! He’d even find out I 

don’t really like that kind of language right off the

mast!

I had to extricate myself from this as gently as 

possible, so I texted back:

“You are very cute & clever & 

VERY INTENSE . . . However, a mellow, 

easy-going guy is more my speed. I’m 

 sorry – it doesn’t look like it’s in the stars

for us. U R cute and should have no

problem finding a match. Best of luck in

your search, Stephanie.”

Or at least it was the most gentle letdown I could

come up with. I deserved points for not saying, 

“You sound like a real asshole.”

Welllllllll! Hell hath no fury like a pirate scorned!

Here’s his response. (I will withhold comment

until after he’s had his say.):

“Like I thought. Looking for a fake! I ain’t

that boy. I’m a man that’s fun as fuck. Step 

up and quit being scared. I too think you’re 

delicious ;p but I’m just a dude that likes 

 his life. I don’t play (games) unless it’s 

role-playing in bed or elsewhere. Not a 

mind reader. Been married three times, 

have three kids. Not a knight. Surely no 

angel not the devil, just a man that has been

hurt, loved, committed and deceived. Want

a man you’re attracted to? Tell him you’re

buying the wine. Then pick up the tab on

dinner. Stand out!

I clearly see a woman that wants (a man)

but stands in the shadows unwilling to see

the light in fear exposure to self. I’m sorry

for your pain, as I too lived my share. 


Survivor of incest. Alcoholism and wealth

is unbeatable (sic) as a child.

Where am I going with this??

I live in the present, exposed my pain, fears

and entrapment of secrecy (sic), only to

regain me and find who I (was) once.

‘So intense?’ Yes, I am for clarity at first,

intense in a life now of creativity and 

thriving endeavors. Painfully real and

TRUE to self. Courage and bravery (give

me) the mark of the PIRATE . . . entitled

with honor.

So, my dear, I regret(fully) depart your ship

as asked! Chart your destiny with truth, 

courage and integrity.”

Well, that was forty lashes with a wet text. This 

may be the first time someone was keelhauled via

iPhone.
 

Let me get this straight: I'm the type of woman 

who “stands in the shadows” for “fear of 

exposing” herself? Me?! Nobody who’s ever read 

this blog or met me would accuse me of being a

shrinking violet.  Like, ever.

Oh, right: he never actually did meet me.

Dodged that musketball, didn’t I? 



So now I say -

      

Be warned, all ye Pirate Dicks! Steer

clear of these waters! The Pirate Queen 

has cast off her bowlines, and she'll not

brook any foolhardy lubber while she

searches for real booty. 


Watch out, laddie, or that dead man's chest 

might be yours. 

G-d Bless Ye, Ass-men, Everywhere!

When you’re a woman busy raising a family, you tend to lose track of certain things: world events, names of former co-workers, and, oh yeah: your ability to attract men. Once you’re elbow-deep in diapers and breaking up sibling warfare, you tend to stop caring whether you‘re a “hottie“ or not. You’re too busy working to “work” it, and you no longer care that your unwashed hair is tied back with one of your kids’ socks.

But when you find yourself “unhalved” and on your own after a decade or two, the differences between you and the other gals tends to get spelled out in vivid relief. Suddenly, little things begin to loom large: skin of younger women, firm and glowing; the ability of their breasts to defy gravity without the use of pulleys, weights and levers; the sounds of males necks snapping as they swivel to get a better look. Meanwhile, you've got new problems: turkey-like loose neck skin and wisps of scowl-hiding bangs getting caught in your crow‘s feet. You’re darned right it’s not for sissies.

The hell with it: post-divorce, I went to work at a nursery. Plants, that is, not kids. Primarily because plants don’t talk back or look at you funny when you try to flirt. Plus, the clientele at the nursery tends to be benign: gentle retirees, young moms toting pre-schoolers, lost husbands seeking anniversary gifts. Sweetly unthreatening, just the way I wanted it.

But as it turned out, there were unexpected perks to the job. It turns out the perkiest one of all was something I had been sitting on all my life! I don't want to brag, but it turns out I have a cute butt. Yes, my behind, which I had never noticed (mainly because it’s not in front of me) was suddenly attracting a great deal of attention from my male co-workers. I’m convinced the nursery job application included the question: “If Male, are you an Ass-man? Yes/No. If "No," please do not continue.”

I seemed to have stumbled upon a Secret Order of Worshippers of the Female Gluteus Maximus, and they had made me their Goddess Divine.

Now, there are those of you who think I’m being all conceited, so let me just say this to you: Shut up. I have gone from being a nondescript soccer “Ma’am” to a “Spank-a-licious Mama,” and if you ruin it for me, I will hunt you down and stick my finger in your eye.

“Are you going to wear those black pants tomorrow?“ our 21-year old Houseplant maven, Paul, asked anxiously. I had to laugh: that was Paul’s day off, and he didn't want to miss The Show, starring my Lil Ol’ Moneymaker. Pinch me: younger dudes were anticipating my outfits and hoping for wardrobe failure!

Our 27-year-old Pond-and-Chemical guy, Sean, was particularly pointed in letting me know that he wanted to take my ass-thetic attributes out of the showroom for a road test. It’s flattering, but it’s not the chemistry that’s stopping me, it’s the math: as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’ve been sexually active longer than he’s been alive, and it’s my policy not to erase the fine line between “Who‘s the hottie?” and “Is that your son?” (See my essay, "Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce.") But when Sean invited me out to a bar recently to meet his friends, I figured, Why not? By the time I got there, he had already had a few drinks, and greeted me warmly.

“You made it!” he called out. He gave me a bear hug and lead me over to one of his friends for introductions. I got a glimpse of the young man’s face before Sean turned me around, pointed at my bottom and announced, “Dude, check out this righteous booty!”

Before I could say anything, Sean was leading me around the bar, backwards, so my still-fine behind could have a meet-and-greet with the rest of his posse. I didn’t get to see what they looked like, and you know what? I didn’t care.

I've written a song for Sean, for my co-workers, and for Dorsal Fanciers everywhere. It’s a bar ditty, of course, to be sung in an Irish accent, in Sean’s honor. Please keep in mind, this song is not about me, but a tribute to Ass-Men everywhere. It's best sung with a cold one in your hand, and begins with a hearty: 


“Ohhhhhhhhhh!”
Oh, back her on in
And feast yer eyes, lads,
On the finest caboose in the land!

It rides firm and high,
From her back to her thighs,
In a way altogether most grand!

Oh, the way that it sways
Makes the angels sing praise:
"Hallelujah! We've seen the Divine!"

Raise yer stout and yer beer,
For we're all Ass-men heeeeeeeeeeeeere!
Thank the Lord for the Female Behind!"

G-d bless you, Fanny-fans, one and all! We know you're behind us 100%!

This is a Repeat Treat from 2008. For more essays, go to the Home Page and click on the year you'd like to view.

This is a repeat in honor of Veteran's Day. I dedicate this essay to my friend, Jeffery Martinez, who saw action in Iraq and has since etired from the Navy.

Come Veteran's Day, I am a mess. When the San Jose Eagle Scouts' Color Guard begins its slow march east on Santa Clara Street to the foothills, I am already choking back hard sobs. Several lovingly-restored vintage military vehicles join the procession, where only an hour before, G.I. buffs had shown all the cool equipment to my kids. They even let them climb onto the tanks and into the ancient ambulances - "that's a litter, son, not a bed," they solemnly explained. Now they roll by, and their ramrod straight backs tell you everything you need to know about their pride.

Today, we honor those who have risked their lives for our liberty. It is because of their dedication that we are not forced to show  loyalty to a tyrant or a distant sovereign. Today, we pay tribute to the men and women who have risked everything to defend a Constitution where each of us is considered American, regardless of their political opinions, religious beliefs or ethnic origin. Today we take the time to thank them.

Slowly, open air convertibles roll by with city officials waving from the back seat; groups like Rotary and Eagles and Moose make their appearances as well. But I'm here, like so many others in this flag-crazed crowd lining the street to see The Show. That's right: the vets themselves. Here, in the shadow of high-rise buildings representing high-tech creativity, march the men and women who guaranteed that those industries could thrive in safety.

And leading the way, marching proudly, are vets of World War I, bless them, maybe for the last time. Here come the Nissei warriors, Japanese-Americans who fought hard in Europe and liberated death camps even as their families were interned at home. Here are the Negro Unit Veterans, who, even after fighting for their country, were still not allowed to swim in public pools in the South - but Nazi POWs there were welcomed. Then come the Philipino troops who bravely fought alongside the Americans in the Pacific. Bravely marching by now are the Korean War. Veterans of the Viet Nam war, once vilified upon their return home, now hold their heads high, waving, and one of them smiles and waves back.

"God bless you!" I manage to call out through my constricted throat, "Gam san nida!" - that's Korean for "thank you," if I remember my M*A*S*H reruns correctly. Okay, they're not Korean themselves, but I am moved by the spirit to thank them as many ways as I know how. The polite but firm mounted officer has to remind me three times to stay back, ma'am. I am flailing my arms, a one-woman welcoming committee. Tears are streaming down my face, and my kids are doing their best to ignore their overwrought mama as they throw down loud "poppers" they bought from a sidewalk vendor for fifty cents.

The crowd greets all the veterans enthusiastically. The vets are beaming. It's great to be here at home, we all seem to be saying to each other. Yes, this flag we now wave madly or bear majestically has flown over some things we wish it hadn't, things like segregation, political corruption,  lynchings, the internment of Japanese-Americans.

And yet . . .

And yet, each one of the vets, each of us waving from the sidewalks - we all seem to understand that this flag stands for some things greater than all of us put together. We all share the belief that people have the right to taste the sweetness of freedom. That wrongdoers and bigots and crooked politicians will have to answer for their actions. That we all benefit from justice. That being able to work hard and make something of oneself, regardless of one's status, is a freedom worth fighting for. That it's crucial to one's soul to be able to wear a yarmulke,  or pray the rosary, or worship freely. That it's vital to one's heart to be able to express oneself as an artist, or write a controversial novel, or even join a group of fellow Pomeranian fanciers, without government interference. For this American mom, that means everything.

So on the vets march, past billboards printed in English and Spanish and Vietnamese and Tagalog. I wish that whoever has opposes us could experience what we're feeling today. I wish they could understand that Veteran's Day is not a gloating show of military strength as it is in totalitarian regimes. It's not there to glorify an enemy's defeat. There are no displays of might, no weapons shaken in the air or fired as a challenge to future threats. It's not a celebration of our imperialistic intentions, or whatever it is they're accusing us of this week.

What it is, is simply pride in making a stand for something so simple yet so precious: a safe place for anyone who dares to dream.

What it is, is simply our home, the United States of America.

Dr. ABC

To Dr. Amy with Affection, Gratitude and Astonishment.

You will  be relieved to know I see a therapist. 

When someone asks, “How often do you see her?"
I  reply, “As much as possible and not a minute too

soon!” She of Infinite Wisdom, Blessed Be Her

Name, has guided me away from many a near-  

fatal faceplant. I call her Dr. ABC, not only 

because those are her actual initials, but also

because she keeps me grounded in the basics. 

Such as gently, steadfastly asking me whether the 

direction I’m headed is the only one, and if not, 

what are the alternatives? Like, maybe not the one 

headed for the brick wall?

Recently, I dragged myself to her office from the

Valley of Cherry Garcia. For those of you who are

unfamiliar with this bleak terrain, count yourself

lucky. (You can learn more about these sad state if you read my essays “Love, Loss and Strutting into the Future” and “Okay, Speed It Up!”.)  If you have ever found yourself in that Pit of Despair, I don’t have to describe it to you. You already know that you can not fix a broken heart with a month of facedown bed rest and a constant supply of sugary snacks.

Time to call in the specialist.

Dr. ABC has acquainted me with an unusual 

concept known as “Mindfulness.” It sounds 

bizarre, but it’s where you actually stop and think
about whether or not your emotions are based on 

facts.  It turns out there's a difference. Example:

let’s say you have a nightmare that you’re being

chased by a monster and wake up in a cold sweat 

with your heart beating 100 miles a minute. 

Someone tells you the monster isn't real, but your 

agitated state suggests otherwise. 

That’s how your emotions trick you into thinking

they’re an accurate gauge of reality. You feel

them, so they must be legit, right? But when you 

look at the facts of what actually happened ("It

was only a dream"), you realize you can climb 

right back in the cockpit and fly the plane. 

Once you’ve removed the dire, “prepare-for-crash-

landing” panic, you can move freely about the 

cabin, as if the pilot had turned off the “Fasten

Your Safety Belt” sign. Lower the tray table and 

order a drinky-poo, if you'll allow me to pound 

this metaphor into the dust.

It’s good to have different choices of how to

respond, rather than automatically downshifting 

into despair. When you choose to let the facts 

steer you, suddenly the "road not taken doesn't 

look so appealing.

Especially when you can see that road would have

taken you right over a cliff. 


That's when it's good to have a friend in the
control tower. 

Lame Things Guys Do If They Think There's a Problem in Their Relationship: 














(That's right: not a goddamn thing.)

Lorraine and the Pacific Ocean

 

I came across this story I wrote many years ago and was surprised to see how pertinent it is to Vixenhood. Every woman is entitled to step outside the narrow boundaries of her expected role at least once in her life. I hope it will remind you of any dreams you may have let go of, and think about making them come true, "just because." I'll let Lorraine explain it. Enjoy! - SW  

Lorraine and the Pacific Ocean

Everyone who knew I was taking this trip thought I shouldn't go. My daughter Jilliene kept glaring at me, or she’d work it into the conversation somehow. Like, Kimberly, don’t talk to your grandmother that way. She’s leaving for California and God knows if she’s ever coming back! And her hand goes on her hip and here comes the glare again. So I said, Oh, for Pete’s sakes, Jilliene, of course I’m coming back, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what she was thinking.

They all thought they had good reasons for me staying. That’s the disadvantage of living in Brookside: you don’t do anything but everyone knows about it. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its advantages. It does. Just ask all the young couples trying to get houses there. But I think they’re looking at the houses and not the neighborhood. They think living in a close-knit suburban community is the American Dream, because of TV. But unless you actually live there, you don’t really know.

Even when I was buying things for my trip, I had to hear about it. I just wanted some hand wipes, hand lotion, a fresh compact and some Pepto-Bismol for when my stomach gets nervous. But Ray behind the counter has to quiz me, What are you going to do out there, Lorraine? And I said, I won't know till I get there, will I? Then he says, Nothing good ever came out of warm weather. Besides, don’t you watch the news? Before I could answer, he says, What would Mike have said about all this? Can you imagine someone saying that right to my face? I looked him right in the eye and said, If you recall, Ray, we buried Mike six months ago, and if he had any objections, he should’ve spoken up before then.

All of this excitement, all because Jilliene’s friend Sarabeth told her I was running off to California to be with a stranger I met at the gas station! See what I mean? You never know what’s going to come flying out of people’s mouths. I told her, Jilliene, don’t be ridiculous. Just because I talked to someone I don’t know doesn’t automatically mean I’m running away with him. Honestly. And Jilliene says, Aha! So you were talking to a stranger. Like she’d solved some great mystery. I said, Yes, as a matter of fact, I did happen to chat with a young man who was also filling up a while back. And I would very much like to know how Sarabeth or you or anyone else got the idea I was running away with him. Jilliene said, Well, maybe you’re not, but Sarabeth said he had wild hair and crazy eyes. And I said, Oh, now really, that is just plain ridiculous! I was the only one who was close enough to see his eyes. That shut her up for a second, but I could see she had another dozen questions, so I suggested we just drop the whole thing. She started up with her But-but-but's, but I just said, Jilliene Lee, I’m going because I’m going, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter how old your children are – sometimes you have to talk to them that way.

Just for the record, I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers, and he was the one who started talking to me. And I thought, this isn’t so bad. Yes, his hair was a bit messy, and he wore lots of layers of clothes even though it wasn't cold out. But he had a nice smile and he was friendly.  And, his eyes were not crazy, they were blue, if anyone's asking. Of course, I didn’t say any of that out loud. We just chatted, back and forth about how he was going to college back east and that he was going to see his parents in California and how seeing America was pretty amazing. And I just said how nice it was of him to  go see his mom and dad, and how I have a daughter and grandchildren. And then I just said to him, I’ve always wanted to see California. I’ve always thought it would be beautiful there. I didn’t know why I was saying any of this to him! I was kind of shocked the way it just popped out. But this young man, David, acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. He said California was truly amazing, and why didn’t I ever go? And I said, I don’t know why. Because, truthfully, we could’ve afforded at least one trip out there. And Mike wouldn’t have minded. But it seemed too far away to drag Jilliene, and then time went by, and we never did go.

Anyway. This young man says, When are you going to go, then? I laughed, but he said, No, I mean it: when are you going to go?  Because there’s only one Pacific Ocean and you’ve never seen how amazing it is.  He kept using that word, amazing. And before I could say anything to that, he looks me straight in the eye and says, If you’ve always wanted to go, you owe it to yourself to do it. Just like that! Not, Wouldn’t-it-be-nice? You owe it to yourself. Well, there was something about the way he said it, because it got me thinking: I never have set eyes on either ocean except for pictures and TV – when did I think that was supposed to happen? What’s to stop me from getting on a bus right now and going to California? Then I said to myself, Now you’re just being completely ridiculous – that’s enough of that.

This young man and I wished each other well and waved goodbye and that was the end of that. I can assure you, we made no plans to run off together. But when I got home, I took a good, hard look in the mirror. I said to myself, Of all the crazy notions. What do you think you would do out there? But then I said, Lorraine Ensley, if you live your whole life without ever once doing something just because, well, then you were never alive to begin with. And seeing the Pacific Ocean is the best just-because I can think of. I didn’t say it exactly that way, but I did make up my mind to do it. And after that, there was no turning back.

I found out how much a round-trip bus ticket to Los Angeles was, which was not cheap, but not as bad as I thought. I felt so bold! Which is what I was, really, because I had never done anything like that before. But I didn’t dare say a word of it to Jilliene or anyone else because I knew they’d just try to talk me out of it, which they did. But it didn’t work, obviously.

Jilliene said I was just being ridiculous not telling her my plans. She kept saying, What if you end up in the hospital? What if this? What if  that? Right up until I got onto the bus. But I wouldn’t say a word, because I didn't want anyone back home to come looking for me. But mostly because I don’t know myself. I have enough money to stay at a motel for a week, according to the AAA Guide. With a side trip to Hollywood to see the stars’ homes. Other than that, I just don’t know. Walk around, maybe? See what there is to see. I’ll just have to decide once I get there.

I know just what I’m going to do when I see the Pacific Ocean. I’m going to kick off my shoes and run in up to my knees and splash around and wriggle my toes in it. And then I’m going to sit down on the sand and watch it for a long, long time.

What a Relief It Would Be!

I'll admit it: I'm a bit scattered and absent-minded. (Can you hear the bitter laughter of my friends as they say, "Yeah, just a bit!"). A wonderful innovation for people like me has been the way you can find your phone just by dialing the number.

Why stop there?

I think there are a number of important personal items that need the same kind of monitoring system. Wouldn't it be great if there were an app that found them for you at the push of a button? We could call it the "Relief Map App," and here's how it works:

You know how when you go the Visitor's Center of a state park, you sometimes find a relief map of all the important sites? Often, these can be lit up. In other words, when you press a button, a light goes on, showing you exactly where to find the restrooms, handicapped access, campgrounds, etc. 

Wouldn't it be great if we could push a button on our phones to find out where missing items are in our own personal Relief Maps? Think how much time we'd save!

Here are some of the things I would like to have set up so I can find with the push of a button:

- keys;

- glasses;
- sunglasses;

- checkbook;

- money;

- lip gloss;

- the nearest nice single man (hey, I can say what I'd like to have, right?).

I'm serious, you guys: this one's not that far-fetched. Think about it: we have an app that allows us to play Scrabble with a stranger in Scranton. Why should a few items vital to our very existence stay undetectable in the immediate vicinity?

Will someone please design this? I'll be happy to split the returns, 50-50.

"I SOOOO Don't Got You, Babe," But "If I Could Turn Back Time," What Would I Do Differently? (With Apologies to Cher)

Did you ever hear that “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?” I call bullshit. No one wakes up alone and says, “Well, at least I used to have someone kiss me good morning. How lucky was I?”

I believe in the other cliche, “Love conquers all,” because it happens to be true. Most days, you'll find me with clenched teeth, uttering these words: “OK, Love, you win! I’m alone! Happy now!?”

Looking back, I took my relationships way too much for granted. I never knew how much a part of me the bond had become until it wasn't there anymore. (Cue Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi:" bop to the beat, weep for the words.) Sure, you miss the grand things that everyone can see, like having a built-in date to events, or being part of a one-word identity, as in “Bob-and-Betty are getting a new car.” But those are the first things you let go of. It’s the little things that leave a gaping void: kisses before you've said goodbye, funny messages left on the voicemail, meeting at the usual places. Those are the niggling, maddening moments when you realize, “Oh. I can’t do that anymore.”

And that’s when you know your heart’s not done grieving.

Sometimes, when I drive by a familiar haunt, I expect to see a younger version of myself strolling out, naive, carefree, unable to imagine life alone.

What would I say to that girl? Would I tell her to appreciate the good things about the relationship while she can, 'cause they ain’t gonna last forever? Would I warn her, “Sure, it's great - now. Pretty soon, though, it'll become a circus run by evil clowns."?

But it wouldn't matter what I would say: there would be no use talking to my younger self, because she never listened. And if she did, she wouldn't have believed any of it.

That's something we have in common.

Vixen asks, "But didn't you say I was the love of your life?"

Lame Guy responds, "I said that?"

Vixen says, "Must've been a meaningful moment for you. 

Here's a meaningful moment for me: go piss up a rope."

Dating Cheat Sheet #2: Lame Things Guys Text to Gals They Met Online

"Hello, Beautiful!" - Translation: I can't remember your name.

"Sorry I was unavail. for the last 2 weeks, busy @ work" - Translation: Mr. Air-Traffic-Controller eased previous girl-plane into departure and is now ready to signal holding pattern girl-planes in for a landing. And guess what? You're the first girl-plane in the queue!

"Now I'm TOTALLY COMMITTED to you!" - Translation: "I'll act interested - until someone hotter comes along."

"Let's REALLY get to know each other!" - Translation: "Will sex be in the picture, and if so, how soon?"

Vixen replies: "Glad to hear your tray is in the upright and locked position, but you can consider my flight cancelled. Hope the next girl-plane has a safe landing. Roger and OUT."