Don't Forget the Pepper Spray (Second Edition). Kristen Marie

So, James and I made it to third base that night when I was forced to remove his jeans to discover he didn’t wear underwear. I jammed the epi-pen into the side of his leg and held it there, waiting and terrified.

      After about twenty seconds, the longest twenty seconds of my life, James took a breath! Unfortunately, in the process of being unconscious and then snapping right out of it, James urinated all over the truck and me. He began to cough and gag, and then began to experience the fullness of pain he was in. He came into a better frame of consciousness when the fire truck began to slam James’s truck with its powerful water hose. We both yelled in fear as the truck nearly fell over on its side. Once the hornets were mostly gone, the paramedics came to get James out. I followed to the hospital in a separate ambulance where I was treated for all my stings and wounds.

      I just kept thinking what the hell just happened. I had the perfect date planned and those hornets thought it was all right to completely ruin it. How dare they! At least I got to see James naked and…it wasn’t too bad. What is wrong with me! He pissed himself while I jammed a needle into his leg! Ahhh! Focus. Where is he?

      James was put in a coma for three days to help deal with the pain. When he awoke, his first words were, “sorry for peeing on you!” He laughed nervously and took my hand. I kissed him, lightly. His face was still very swollen. I told him I would never forget this date.

      At least I got to see him naked…!

      DON’T PLAY WITH MATCHES

      

I met "Lauren" on Match.com. Or rather, she found me. That was the first red flag. Women are never attracted to me on Match.com, unless they are from Russia or the Philippines and seeking a green card marriage. If you're gorgeous, stuck in 10-below Moscow and want to move to sunny L.A. , then I'm your go-to-guy!

      So I was surprised when Lauren, a Los Angeles native, sent me an e-mail. We went back and forth. I thoroughly amused her with my wacky anecdotes and list of creative dates (“Magic Date—We go to a magic show at Magicopolis in Santa Monica and then make some magic of our own, woo, woo!”). Hey, what girl wouldn't fall for that?

      Our first phone call was actually a lot of fun; we had several things in common, a love for the original Twilight Zone TV series, London and Vicodin. Gosh, could she be THE ONE? One red flag that came up was how many times she managed to fit drinking into the conversation: “I have to meet with my dad; it's nothing a good drink won't get me through.” “I have to work tomorrow, nothing a good bottle of wine won't get me through.”

      We made plans for our date. I was to pick her up at her mom's house where she lived. Okay, so she was 31 and lived with mom, “Rent isn't cheap in Los Angeles, I would do the same thing,” I thought. But I thought about it a bit more, “Wait a second, my mom drives me crazy in less than 24 hours. I would throw her through a window.”

      About two hours before the date, Lauren called and told me that she would come pick me up at my place, “My little nieces are here and they are so precocious, they'll embarrass me” she insisted. So Lauren picked me up in gas-guzzling SUV and we went to a restaurant where she immediately ordered wine, with one glass. She went on to tell me how she usually drinks Vodka, but she was in a “wine mood.”

      At this point, this thought struck me, “Gosh, she just might be a raging alcoholic.”

      It went downhill from there.

      She scolded me for placing too much butter on my dinner roll. “That's pure fat,” she crowed. When I talked about being a writer, she rolled her eyes, “How can you make a living doing that?' A few drinks later, she bragged, “MY boyfriend is “very successful” and “owns an art gallery.”

      (That's why she didn't want me to meet the nieces, they would have spilled the booze, err beans, on Aunt Lauren.)

      At that point I told her that she shouldn't be out with me while having a boyfriend. “Why not? It's not like something is going to happen with us.” the lush laughed.

      Politely civilized, I didn't make a scene in the restaurant, but later that night, I wrote her a scathing e-mail. She subsequently had me banned from Match.com…for which I am eternally grateful.

      JUDAS THE GREAT

      23-years-old and dealing with a dating dry spell was no place to be. My gorgeous blonde sister had guys throwing themselves at her, but since she had a boyfriend, she liked to pawn the panting puppies off on me. How pathetic.

      Now I was no nerd, well not entirely anyway. I was tall, lean, long brunette hair, fun, outgoing, witty, intelligent… but enough of the adjectives my mom liked to toss my way.

      At the time I worked for an insurance company and my sister, the bombshell, worked down the street at Subway. She called me one day and said, “I’m sending a guy up to meet you. He’s seems really nice and he’s been asking me out for a while, and he just didn’t want to take no for an answer. He asked me if I had a sister…so he’s coming to see you.”

      Oh great. Two minutes later he’s walking through the office door. He’s tall, a little overweight, dark hair and eyes, but seems pleasant enough, that is until he opens his mouth.

      After giving the once up and down, lingering a little too long on the down, he says, “So you’re the sister huh? Well I’ll take you out on one condition.”

      “And what might that be?” I asked.

      He replied, “If you’ll change your pants, you’re wearing floods.”

      I should have clued in right there that this guy was going to be a pompous, chauvinistic jerk, but loneliness and desperation over-rode my decision and I told him he could pick me up at 7:00 p.m.

      As I waited for him to pick me up that night, I pondered something else that should have been a red flag for me. His name is Judas, but since Judas is a bad guy in the Bible, he changed the pronunciation of his name to (Joe-des.) Yeah, you’re really fooling people, pal.

      Judas was an hour late. I almost left three times to go hang out with my friends, but just as I was getting in my car I saw his headlights slowly maneuvering down the driveway.

      He didn’t open the door for me, just rolled down the window and told me to get in.

      When we arrived at the Chinese restaurant nearby, the owner greeted him warmly and said, “Oh Joe-des, is this your new girlfriend?” In nearly the same breath she turned to me and expressed, “He brings all his girlfriends here.”

      Dinner arrived and no sooner as I reached to pick up my fork, it was slapped out of my hand by Judas. He then fiercely clasped both of my hands in his and said a very loud prayer. He scolded me, letting me know condescendingly, that no matter where you are, you never eat without blessing the food.

      Everyone in the restaurant was looking at us, so I tried not to make a bigger scene. But I couldn’t resist giving a smart aleck “amen” at the end.

      We got through dinner and got back in the car. He drove me to an outdoor pool complex and parked in front of the driving platform. That’s when he proceeded to tell me the life story of his Olympic dream dashed by his commitment to his religion.

      Choking back the tears he told me how he was once the greatest diver in the world and that had he been in the Olympics, Greg Louganis would never had won the gold. Clutching to the door handle, ready to make a run for it, he proceeded to tell me that the reason he had to forgo the Olympics was because he was personally asked by the head of his church to serve a proselyting mission instead.

      Now there is nothing wrong with this; in fact it’s quite admirable. But when you combined the shape of his body, with the outrageousness of the story and the holier-than-thou manner in which he told