Me: So, 100 duck-size horses or one horse-size duck?
MadamBob: 100 duck-size horses, but I refuse to fight them.
Me: You’d lay down and let them kill you or you’d rehabilitate them like pit bulls?
MadamBob: The pit bull option. I want to saddle break them so I can open a Barbie riding school.
Me: You know, I used to have a cowgirl Barbie with white boots. She’d look fantastic on a dick-size horse!
MadamBob: Freudian-slip much?
Me: Hahaha! Lucky Barbie! Oh, I need to get laid. It’s creeping into normal conversation.
MadamBob: I’ve been out of the madam business for quite some time.
Me: All you people I’ve asked to set me up are being WAAAAY too picky! Or you don’t think I can hide the weird long enough to make it through dinner with someone you’d have to face afterward.
MadamBob: So even if I wouldn’t date them, you might? Except Duff. He’s great except all the ways he’s like my grandmother.
Me: Uh YES! And how’s he like your grandmother?
MadamBob: Church, church and church. And somehow I’m guessing he’s a turn off the lights, missionary kind of guy.
Me: Actually, sometimes the churchy ones end up being the wildest behind closed doors. And if not I’d just bring him over to the dark side or tell him to go in and get us seats while I park the car and then never come back. Don’t judge me! I’d leave him at church!
MadamBob: I’m just not sensing that a spark would be there. And he’d expect you to cook.
Me: Either I’d learn to cook because I love him or he’d learn to cook because he loves me and refuses to eat rum cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Why don’t think there’d be a spark? Maybe he needs a little wildness and maybe I need to not cuss so fucking much. It’s never going to be perfect.
MadamBob: Just years of observation of you both. And you’re right, it’s never perfect.
Me: He and I locked eyes a few times at happy hour. I wouldn’t have brought him up if I didn’t think there could possibly be something there. You do realize when I’m on a date I don’t act like I do on Friday afternoons in the car, right? I don’t swear and tell people to kiss my ass (not on the first date, probably), I don’t sing Highway to the Boner Zone and I don’t make up words for people who masturbate with squid that we also use as an expletive (mother squelcher!).
MadamBob: Isn’t the first date the prime time to be yourself?
Me: I’m not changing who I am for anyone, but I’m not letting it all hang out either. Not on the first date, but if he can’t handle my weird silliness he’ll be on the curb so fast it’ll make his churcy head spin!
MadamBob: Morgan Freeman help him.
Me: I think he and I need to be put in a room together and see if there’s anything there. And by “put in a room together” I mean meet casually at happy hour again or some other get-together where it’s just by chance. Except it’s not. Can you at least give me that much?
MadamBob: I can definitely arrange a happy hour.
Me: That’s all I ask.
MadamBob: So, 100 duck-size horses or one horse-size duck?
Me: Let’s get through happy hour and then we’ll decide how to raise the children.
MadamBob: Hey, I’m just making “normal” conversation.