Summer brings out the worst men in as much as it brings out the worst IN men. Standing in front of my mother’s house this evening, while discussing the latest in pop culture with the woman of the establishment, I was approached by a sidekick in a 4×4. I say “approached” when I’m starting to think I was stalked. I mean, riding up and down a street past the same house waiting for the right moment to wow them with your pick up line is considered stalkerish, right? I don’t know. I’m a little out of practice. And I say “sidekick” because he, the person wanting desperately to attract my attention, was in the passenger seat. When told how beautiful I was (he did have the courtesy to say the same to my mother, not that she’s not a good looking broad but sometimes the penis gets in the way of a man’s brain… I digress), he asked me my name. I told him the same name I give all prospective suitors. With a point of my finger to my wedding band, I let him know he was talking to the one, the only… Married. “No, no,” he clarified, “what is your NAME?” as if I did not hear him the first time. “Uh huh,” I continued, “I heard you. My name is Married.”

You’d think this would send him on his way, right? Like I said, I’m out of practice. As of July 29th, I will have been eight years out of practice. Even more significant, as of the ninth day of the month of January in the year 2009, I will have been twelve years out of practice. All this and I have yet to live a full 365 days of my 30th year living on this Earth. And the icing? I’m someone’s mother twice over. Let’s not break out the champagne. Really. My point is, although I have some miles to me, I’m still young. Not as young as I used to be, but young enough to make people wonder at first glance. ‘Tis genetics. I swear, we all look like that. Again, digressing. Out of practice. Right.

Men have evolved. Not in a good way but definitely not in a way I remember in all the three years I was in the dating world. Is that evolution? Probably not. But this is men we’re talking about. Did I mention they have penises? Did I mention that this same penis makes them look at my wedding ring and go, “So does this mean you’re NOT going to give me your phone number? Can I at least text you? E-mail? You’ve got kids? Me, too. I’ve got three. How many do you have? See, now you’ll have to call me so we can set up a play date. Your husband won’t mind that, will he? It’s innocent! The kids! And the playing! And McDonaldland! Yeah! and stuff… call me?”

I wish I could say this was the first time. But I have been places with BFam by my side and STILL get approached. I have been places, said my name was Married and hear, “Yeah, that’s my name, too” and get shown a similar ornament on the ring finger. They don’t care. It’s shocking.

So I could say I don’t want a scrub for obvious reasons. I’m married. Obvious enough. And, yes, sir, that’s what you are hanging out of your friend’s passenger window of his pick-up truck. Yes, you, sir, I’m looking at you! No, I do NOT want to be your next baby momma. Really. And, no, we cannot be friends with benefits. Because I know I’m all types of sexy standing here with mascara running down my face from a day’s wear, two screaming kids in my backseat, stretch marks from those same screaming banshees, swollen ankles and Cheetos most assuredly stuck somewhere to the back of my butt. Did I mention the chin hair I have yet to pluck? Mm-mmm. Gotta have you some of THAT! Sick bastards.