Breakfast At Tiffany's

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Pussy Cat Theatrics

Part of: Seinfeld-esque

[Breakfast: Balance Bar (honey peanut)]

On my mini-break, I was sitting in the sun wearing a straw hat and my glamorous sunglasses that remind me of the nice Persol’s that someone stole from me. Two older women (over 50) who I was hanging out with were talking about a jerky guy, Marc, who had recently married a sweet woman named Sheri. The bleached blond explained how the two had met on an Internet dating site. I had been catching most of the conversation while reading Vanity Fair and drinking a margarita, but at this point I whipped off my glasses and hat so I could make real eye contact.

The bleached blond turned to me, “And Sheri e-mailed Marc asking what his favorite food was, because he left it blank on his profile.”

Bleached blond stared at me, “Wait, Tiffany, I don’t know if you can hear this.”

WTF?

She went on, “Are you over 18?”

And she was dead serious. I nodded my head.

“So he wrote that his favorite food was pussy!” Bleached blond exclaimed.

I was feeling sorry for this chick, but she blatantly chose to ignore the red flag. This was their second or third correspondence. If you pay close attention, you can figure someone out in three dates. But the Internet can be a bit trickier.

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