Dating Standards...Why Mini Vans are Out

I am in a fairly foul mood today and have been struggling with today's post. Do I whine? Do I whine enough so I get some sympathy? Nothing's really "wrong"; it's just a day when I'm whining "why, why, why" in my head. Yes, exactly like Jan Brady whining "Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!"

Instead, I will explain how Jim was able to date and eventually--lucky guy!--marry a cool woman like me. I mean, I wasn't wearing the tiara back then, but I was still so cool.

On Sunday we went to WalMart. For Jim this is a mentally tortuous expedition. It's crowded. The parking lot sucks because half of it has disappeared because the store is under construction. I like to make him go though because I want him to know what I face while he works (minus the crowds and bad parking). It's not all sunshine and light here, buddy! It's not all lunching and blogging. (Oops, that was some whining. I think I got it out of my system.)

I saw a guy wearing the grossest sandals known to man. I pointed out to Jim that had he ever worn sandals of any kind in the early days of our relationship, that he would have been kicked to the curb. And forget about ever getting laid. Lucky for Jim he has a nice collection of gym shoes. (That's a +)

I have, on numerous times, pointed out why driving a mini van or any type of van would have been the instantaneous death of our budding relationship. He had considered the mini van, but settled on a truck. Because single men who drive mini vans/vans are serial killers.

(Except for my brother Tommy. Who I am pretty sure isn't a serial killer. Go check out his blog and you can decide for yourself.)
Sure, they might not actually have started actual killing yet. But there's scientific proof that when men drive mini vans/vans, they want to kill. OK, the science is a little obscure, but when I read the book Mind Hunter, that's how I interpreted it.

(OK, it's more like serial killers like mini vans/vans because they can black out the windows, throw their victim inside, and then do whatever it is that serial killers do. Well, we all know they kill...)

In those days I was going to be a great profiler. I wanted to know what made the human mind tick. Then I got my graduate degree in clinical psychology, started working with regular people, got so damned scared that I had to stop. You are scary, people! (That's not whining, that's abject terror!)

So, the rules so far are 1) no sandals and 2) no mini vans. Well, those are pretty much the rules and Jim passed both of them and got to marry me--the best prize of all! (There are also the no-loafers-without-socks and the no-members-only-jackets rules. And the don't-bring-your-own-hard-liquor-on-a-date-and-fall-into-my-building-and-get-a-big-gash-on-your-face rule. Oh, and the don't-tell-me-how-much-in-debt-you-are rule. One of my favorites: the don't-expect-me-to-find-dates-for-your-best-friend-who-sounds-and-kinda-looks-like-a-vampire rule. Seriously, none of my girlfriends wanted to date a vampire...)

I guess my point today is that you ladies have to have standards! You need to know what your hot buttons are. Stick to them and you, too, can be married to a wonderful man like my Jim. No, not actually Jim, he's mine. I'm not into sharing! Get your own!

PS Before spell check I spelled it "sandles" and thought it looked funny. I kinda like it though...