You Don't Know What You Got Til It's Gone

You know what I miss? Cheesy pick up lines. I hate to say it, but I just don’t think they exist anymore.

And it’s our fault, ladies. We put too much pressure on men. Our standards are too high. It’s not enough that we expect them to be attractive, and smell good, and dress nice, and have a good job, and be funny. We also demand that the first thing they say to us ever be original. And witty. One, maybe two sentences that convey they are highly intelligent, yet have a sense of humor and know how to have a good time. Heck, if their come-on isn’t downright ingenious, we won’t even let them buy us a drink. No matter how much we like free alcohol.

Shame on us, ladies. Shame. On. Us. We didn’t know how good we had it. We didn’t know how bad it could get.

Gone are the days when a guy will toss out, “You must be tired. Because you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

But you know what? He’s right. I am tired. Tired of running away from creeps with pick up lines nothing short of psychotic.

You guys remember the dude who tried to ask me out using a large bird statue? That was bizarre at best, and, not surprisingly, it didn’t make me want to leave the husband and run off and make gargantuan bird babies with Fowl-Man. But as far as pick-up attempts go, that was mere bird seed compared to the gentleman who thought accusing me of being a cold-blooded killer would be the way to my, apparently murderous, heart.

About a week prior to the bird incident, I was at the liquor store (up until this day known as the happiest place on earth) purchasing two bottles of champagne for a Christmas brunch I was attending the next morning.

There were three people in front of me in line. The cashier delighted in having a very long conversation with the person she was checking out. Normally, this would have sent my impatience into overdrive, but I had just learned of the Sandy Hook tragedy a few hours earlier. If the worst thing that happens to me in life is waiting a little longer in line, then I will do it gladly.

I got out my phone and began the twitter, facebook, blog, email rounds. After a minute or two, I glanced up to see if the line had moved. It hadn’t. Cashier was still talking away.  The guy in front of me (who was purchasing a case of Busch Lite, in case anyone was wondering) thought this would be a perfect opportunity to turn to me and say, “Please don’t bash her in the head with your bottles.”

Uh, what?!?!???!?!

Surely I had heard him wrong. But he said it again.

“Please don’t bash her in the head with your bottles. You’ve got that look in your eye.” He turned to his friend, who was in front of him in line (also purchasing a case of Busch Lite), with a look that was all, heh heh, look at me, I’m talking to her.

I was beyond stunned. Seriously, dude? You’re hitting on me by telling me I look like someone who wants to assault, if not, murder another human being? That’s seven kinds of disturbing and I want nothing to do with you. 

I returned to my phone, occasionally glancing up to see if the line had moved. Every time I did, he’d start to say something to me. But I must have had that look in my eye – you know, the one that conveys I want to bash someone over the head with champagne bottles – because he shut his mouth and turned away.

Is this really what this world has come to? Pick up lines meant for serial killers and bird bangers?

Thanks, but no.

Just once, I’d like to be at the grocery store and have a guy ask me, “Come here often?” Because then I could say, “Yes. Yes, I do come here often, but I still don’t know where the frozen meatballs are. I’ve looked everywhere. Can you help me? And no, meatballs aren’t a euphemism for your meat and balls. I want actual meatballs. Mini ones. For my crockpot. And no, crockpot isn’t a euphemism for my vagina. And by the way, I’m happily married so please don’t take my asking for your help to mean I want to go out with you. I don’t. I don’t even want to continue talking to you. I’d actually really like for you to go away before I continue talking about my vagina with a total stranger. But not before you help me find the meatballs. Oh, and by the way. Thanks for the tired, cheesy, lame pick-up line. I really appreciate it.”

I realize that in that scenario someone still ends up looking like a crazy person. But that someone? Is me. A woman. Women are allowed to be crazy. In fact, we’re kinda supposed to be. But men? Men are supposed to be cheesy. And attractive, and smell good, and dress nice, and have a good job, and be funny.

And above all, know where the darn meatballs are!

No wonder this country is in disarray. We have gotten our gender roles confused. We, as a nation, will not survive if this continues. But fear not! Now that I have identified the problem and its solution, I’m going to get busy drafting a letter to the President citing the restoration of cheesy come-ons as the way to returning America to its former glory.

But first, let me ask you: Do you have a map? Cuz I keep getting lost in your eyes.

Tell me, what's your favorite cheesy pick-up line?

Comment gem!

TriGirl:

I feel like you missed an important part of that pig search, in that the person felt the need to qualify "Pig..*the animal*...". As opposed to "Pig the Persian rug".