Recently Bob entered into a fledgling bro-mance with a guy from the health club. We’ll call him “health club guy”. They struck up a conversation in the locker room (please.. in towels) and made plans to play racquetball. Bob had been wanting to start playing racquetball as part of his midlife-crisis-health-fitness plan in addition to swimming and running. And as luck would have it, health club guy was looking for someone to play with.

One perfunctory trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods for the necessary equipment: glove, goggles and a new racquet (he had two perfectly viable racquets, but claimed they were unacceptable due to their advanced age – new technology in racquets and all) and Bob was off to his play date. Maybe it was the new racquet, but Bob and health club guy were a bit mismatched. Apparently the midlife-crisis-health-fitness program had been such a success that Bob kind of whooped his new buddy’s butt.

Undiscouraged health club guy invited Bob to play again. Bob agreed. To me Bob waffled: he had a busy week; it wasn’t much of a workout; health club guy wasn’t that good; the chosen day wouldn’t work, blah, blah, blah. He phoned health club guy to bow out and I listened as he almost broke their date. When he got off the phone they still had tentative plans to play again.

“What the hell was that?” I asked “Why didn’t you just cancel?”

“I told him I wasn’t sure if I could make it.” Bob defended

“But you don’t want to play.”

“I know, but he sounded sad” Bob said finally.

First of all – really? A grown man (who Bob barely knows) sounded sad that he might not get his ass kicked at racquetball again?

If I am to accept that, them why would Bob lead the poor guy on? Bob knows this bro-mance isn’t going anywhere and yet he won’t cut him loose? He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. If Bob were honest with him, health club guy would more than likely recover and get back to trolling the locker room for a new less fit racquetball partner. That would be the right thing to do.

I can only hope after all this time that any women Bob almost broke up with when he met me aren’t still waiting for him to call.

Now on to more pressing nonsense: The Bachelor. Last week’s episode shocked and entertained everyone with the expulsion of the wide eyed (and clearly innocent “What producer?”) Rozlyn who, had she remained on the show, would have definitely been crowned “Most Hated Girl in the House”. Being one who enjoys her reality television with maximum drama, I could have used a more explicit definition of  which line was crossed and with whom, but never mind. As it turned out the highlight for me was watching this season’s resident bunny boiler, Michelle, gloat in the satisfaction that at least one of her unworthy adversaries had been outed.

Monday night’s show actually gave me reason to admire our hero Jake and start disliking almost all the girls. I was really impressed and delighted that he shut down the two women who were trying to test or tease him. Crazy-deperate Michelle attempted to get Jake to beg her to stay and he flatly refused, showing her the door (of a cab). As much as I admire his impatience with her game play, I am afraid that he also reduced crazy quotient for the remainder of the season. The other young lady whose bubble burst unexpectedly was Elizabeth. After reading Jake a note saying that she would refrain from any lip locking activity until or unless she was the last girl standing, she repeated told him how much she wanted to kiss him, what a good kisser she was and so on and so on. The absurd moment came when Jake called her on this behavior and she tried to say that he was pressuring her to kiss him. Really? Are you that dim, Elizabeth? Next she’ll be telling People Magazine that he let her go because he knew she wouldn’t put out in the Fantasy Suite episode. Puh-leeeze. Both of these bimbos had their bluffs called and I totally enjoyed it.

Which brings me to the element of The Bachelor that I am not enjoying at all this season: the “group hate”. There is bound to be conflict between women in a house who are all compteting for the attentions of the same guy, I get that. Further, I haven’t really formed any opinion of Vienna (the object of the group hate) other than to question her parent’s choice of names (it is a sausage, people). She doesn’t seem mean spirited to me, just clueless. And while I am convinced she had no idea what she was apologizing for, she tried and the mean girls rejected her apology. It all feels very high school and makes me squirm. It’s too bad because the meanest of the mean girls, Ali, was my favorite until this week.

Now that I have gotten all that off my chest, I am definitely going to look into getting one of those “life” things I hear so much about. They have those at Costco, don’t they?

That being said, I am dating again. Choosing a puppy, for me at least, is a similar process. I don’t really have a type except to say that I am not partial to purebreds. Mostly they remind me of really handsome WASPy guys with no quirks or character. I mean, a Golden Retriever has that Chad Somethington look, an Ivy League grad from a white picket fence home. They make for a really nice guy and dog, sweet and good looking, but predictable and kind of boring. I am all about the unpredictability of rescuing a mutt (as it happens Bob is a purebred – Polish American Boobhound, but he was definitely a rescue).

So as I search the match site, www.petfinder.com and the local shelters I am looking for someone whose mix of breeds speaks to me. I don’t know what that is yet. I will know, as I did with Bob, when I see it.

Yesterday I went on my first date with a female Bernese/Rottweiller puppy. She was sweet, but to be perfectly honest, she didn’t look like her picture on the web site. She had clearly put on weight and had aged some. I am not completely superficial and I could have gotten past the deceit, but there was no connection. I just didn’t feel her. 

My second date was with a male Beagle-ish puppy. He was cute and lively, but really just one of the guys. I like a guys’ guy, but seriously, he wouldn’t pay any attention to me at all. He just tugged at the leash trying to get to the other dogs. It was clear: he was just not that into me.

I didn’t expect to meet the perfect dog on my first couple of dates, so I am not disappointed. I am probably not ready just yet anyway. I am just getting to the swing of dating dogs again. The more dogs I meet, the easier the decision will be when I meet the right one. Tomorrow we are going to a Pet Expo, which as far as I can tell is the canine equivalent of speed dating. I can’t wait.