Sure, he mistook “yoga” for what I can only assume was “yogurt” (“I’m not much into health food,” LOL okay), but beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll admit, I was excited when I saw the response a week later. Did I stutter? This ad was written with anyone other than my boyfriend in mind. An intellectual who preferred athletic sex on Massachusetts beaches to downward-facing dogs. I thought I had communicated my vision: cocktails in the rain. Why would I ask for what I already had? You’ll note that nowhere in my solicitation did I mention a Cheech Marin mustache, a Ford Pinto, or a micropenis.
And he wasn’t above lying to get one, because believe me when I tell you that none of the descriptions in my ad applied to this man! I only ran my ad in said paper because I had never seen him read anything but cartoons on the toilet! He can feign literacy all he wants, but clearly, being tired of his “lady,” he was looking for a side piece. “I was tired of my lady.” Oh, really? Is that why you tried to mount me in the shower every morning like Luke Duke sliding across the hood of the General Lee? Also, the whole “I read the paper in bed” line is rich. What I would like to do is expose some of the more creative liberties my ex-boyfriend (and the defendant in my ongoing civil suit) took while “writing,” no doubt while he was pulling another all-nighter at work, higher than Nadia Comăneci doing a handstand on the uneven bars. I won’t torture you by reprinting the lyrics. I went with the ad, and the rest, unfortunately, is history. We never spoke except for me saying things like “Aren’t you tired yet?” or “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific is not meant to be used as a lubricant.”Īnyway, so, yes, sue me, I was looking for more! And they didn’t have Tinder back then, so if you wanted a date you had to either write an ad in the paper or go to a disco and inhale enough amyl nitrate and Paco Rabanne fumes until the barback started looking like John Travolta.
And let me tell you, no one is hornier than a man who’s been up all night on a cocktail of Mello Yello and amphetamine pills! It was exhausting. One thing you won’t hear in the song is how my boyfriend worked the night shift selling Dexatrim at a call center, so the only time we crossed paths was from 6:30 to 7 a.m., when he would get home while I was showering. Had I known that a moment of weakness after drinking a bottle of Chablis and “reading” the 1974 Christmas issue of Playgirl that I kept hidden under my pantyhose would result in the creation of this terrible yacht rock earworm, I would have popped a Quaalude and gone straight to bed that night instead of writing the personal ad that has become, as my therapist likes to say, “the reason you see me twice a week.” I just need to get that off of my chest, because I’m getting older and when I exit this mortal plane, and the obituary headline inevitably reads, “Woman Who Inspired the Famous Piña Colada Song Dies After Bleeding from Ears,” I need the world to know that this was not the life I wanted, for myself or for any of you.
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