Mommy is Dating

Challenge # 12 was to send a “steamy stext message.” Already I’m in a quandary. The single mother who does not have a partner has a little trouble meeting this one. Do I stext the ex-husband? Probably won’t go over well with the new live-in girlfriend, and besides … ick. Do I stext the ex-boyfriend? I’m thinking that’s the equivalent of sitting my vag over the exit of a hornets’ nest and then beating the fuck out of the nest with a stick. In a word? Hell no. I’m almost tempted to ask one of my gal-pals to play along. After all, there was that one time, extremely drunk, when we swapped spit in a dark corner of a seedy bar in China Town. (Is that redundant?) But no, though I think she’d have helped out, I cannot imagine the two of us getting through the challenge without each of us falling to the floor, clutching our guts. And likely the only wetness in our panties would be a result of peeing.

Now, I’m nothing if not resourceful. I mean, I once made the equivalent of a tampon out of leaves and tree sap. (Don’t ask.)

So I think to myself: I’ll just broadcast on Twitter that I’m looking for a volunteer to help me with Challenge #12. I’ll call it twexting. It’s safe and harmless, right? twexting a stranger should be easy. I mean, really. So what if he thinks you’re a $5 ho because you say something like, “Looking forward to getting the high hard one from you later.” That’s a problem? Not so much. It’s not like I’d be risking my professional credibility.

Not that twexting is without challenges. For example, there’s a fine line between twexting and twalking dirty. twexting is kind of like wiping yourself after tinkling: If you linger too long on the front side, you find yourself sitting on the toilet for another 20 minutes. As wiping is to lingering, so texting is to twalking dirty. So, I have to be careful, or I’m going to be jumping ahead a couple challenges.

But really, twexting is the perfect solution. There’s something about 140 characters that brushes all inhibitions aside. And then there’s the fact that more than half the people on Twitter aren’t who they say they are anyway. Twexting with someone will be a bit like having sex with a stranger during Carnival. No one’s going to be “discovered.”

I’m actually pretty proud of myself for coming up with this solution. I’m feeling like a big girl in a brand new training bra, little pink bow n all.

But perhaps I’m gloating prematurely, because alas: I tweet once, twice, three damn times, and no takers. I tap my keyboard vehemently, “Hello! Is this thing on?” Boo-fuckin-hoo, not one damn response. Even strangers aren’t interested? My ego is surely taking a bruising. I quickly call my aesthetician, my hair stylist, my fashion consultant and my personal trainer to rejuvenate the package that is “me.” I’m not sure what to do about my damn personality.

If there’s one thing I am, it’s determined. (Yes, that’s a euphemism for ‘ridiculously stubborn.’) I muster the courage to take one last gander at finding a Twext volunteer. And much to my chagrin, I discover I’ve been begging with my “professional” Twitter account. Really? No takers? Yeah, well a good percentage of them would have been fired by HR had they responded. So. DORK. And so much for the professional credibility.

Well this blows. I change courses. Rather than begging for volunteers, I request feedback on a proposed stext: “Meet me @ my place for lunch. I’m wearing a trench coat and serving me.” Well, hell! I should have put my marketing degree to work earlier, because suddenly I’m flooded with DMs. I read through each of them as I wait for the night’s dinner to cook. Hey! I’m a chick. I can multitask! And I come across one from the Hot-Dad-I’ve-Been-Crushing-On: “If you’re serving you, I’ll take the entrée and the a la cart.”

I really, really want to respond, “Great! Eat me.” Instead, I leave the kitchen for my bedroom and lock the door. Dinner may be burning, but that’s what Domino’s is for.