Good Samaritan or Smiling Serial Killer?

Yesterday as I walking home from the train station, a smiling man in a blue truck stopped to ask me if I wanted a ride. I paused for a brief moment, then smiled, thanked him and said I was enjoying the nice weather and the exercise. The thing is--I really wanted a ride. As usual, I had to pee REALLY BAD, my briefcase was REALLY heavy and I was REALLY tired. 

From the time I could walk, my mother, grandmother, aunts, and television have taught me to believe that you should NEVER EVER get into a stranger's car or let a stranger into your car. Especially a male stranger. Bad things happen to girls in cars. As my husband continuously reminds me, Men do not want to be friends with women. They are only interested in one thing. The one thing is the 'bad thing' that can happen to girls in cars. Of course I understand the rationale behind this. I certainly would not want my daughter to get into a potential ax-murdering rapist's car. 

So even though this man might have been a good samaritan, my suspicions kicked in. Why does he want to give me a ride? His smile looks a little TOO friendly. Maybe he wants to find out where I live, so he can come back later and rob me. What would I do if he locked the doors and refused to take me home unless I performed the 'one thing'?

It's not as if I live in a high crime area. Although philly has distinguished itself as having one of the highest murder rates in the country, I live 15 miles away in the bucolic town of Media (where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen). So my truck-driving good samaritan could have just escaped from the city jail and is cruising the small towns for easy prey. Or he could be a neighbor, who runs an underground porn ring for fetishists, who like reasonably attractive middle aged women. 

As I try to concentrate on not PEEING my pants, I wonder if there is a magic age where it is SAFE to accept a ride from a stranger. As Christians, we are all called to pass it forward--show kindness and compassion, while helping those in need. I deprived this man from his daily dose of good will.  When I'm 68 and STILL walking home from the train station (because I can't afford to retire), will it be all right to get into a stranger's car? 

my guy was about 10 years older than dexter with a really nice white smile and silver-streaked hair.

The Advantages of Having a Gay Boyfriend

1. Buff, Hot, Studly Arm Candy (who doesn't have ulterior motives when dining with you)

2. Access to Fabulous Beauty Products (Sisleya eye cream at $150 .5 oz--no wonder he doesn't have crow's feet.)

3. Someone who tells you that you are BEAUTIFUL, THIN AND SEXY. (and you believe him, because he doesn't want to get in your pants)

4. Excellent advice on clothing choices and exquisite taste (especially when buying you earrings). 

5. Truthfulness--to a point (When asking whether your butt looks fat in those jeans, instead of lying and saying NO, he will find the perfect pair of jeans to showcase your figure)

6. Great hugs (without the worry that it will turn him on)

7. Did I mention the part about not wanting to get in your pants??

Dedicated to Ronnie--my BGBFF

World's Worst Bowler

My friend Marianne invited me to the Elwyn Bowling Fundraiser. I actually gafawwed in her face protesting, I am the world's worst bowler.  Marianne is a good to great bowler and plays on a league every Thursday. Later that day, I start to feel guilty. For once, I have no plans on Friday night. My kids have a reprieve from their various sports and have plans that DON'T include me. Marianne always asks me to go out and I'm always too busy. Also the fundraiser is for a good cause--Elwyn Institute helps special needs children and adults. I recant and she promises me it will be fun. (They have a bar after all). 

We arrive and claim our own lane. This is important, since I do not want to be on a 'team'. I have issues stemming from childhood traumas of always being the LAST kid chosen for the team sport. I claim a pink bowling ball to match my sweater. Fashion is important if talent is lacking. Marianne has her own ball, custom-made for her barbie doll figure. I need a beer before proceeding further. 

My first round isn't so horrible--74. I'm ecstatic. Maybe I'm not the worst bowler in the history of bowling. Marianne bowls 158 and is disappointed. On either side of us, serious bowlers effortlessly bowl one strike after another. My game quickly goes downhill. Game two--54. Marianne tries to give me pointers. Don't let your arm cross your body. Remember to follow through. Don't rush it. You are RUSHING it. Aim just off the center. I can usually follow her advice for one round and then immediately revert back to my favorite shot--the gutter ball. 

You lack consistency and follow-through. This seems somewhat prophetic and applicable to the rest of my life. 

There is a D.J., who is playing GOOD danceable music--although I feel a bit silly dancing in my bowling lane, only to throw a gutter ball. After my third game in the 50's, I need another beer. My fatalistic defeatist attitude proves to be my undoing. The first 10 gutter balls are funny. After that, it's not so funny. Just when I think my score can't get any lower, I bowl a 41. 

The D.J. doesn't believe that I bowled a 41.  In fact, he has to come over and look at the scoreboard. He tells me that he never heard of a score that low. Next thing I know, I'm honored with the WORST BOWLER AWARD. This is quite an achievement. The blow to my ego is somewhat softened when I look at my prize--1 hour full body massage. (thankfully it's not with the D.J.) 

Funny moment of the evening--while preparing for her shot, Marianne's  ball flies out of her hand, propelled backwards, nearly missing my head and landing with a loud thump.