Compelling headlines dating dating a smoker advice

It is as if my buddy Joe's unconfirmed, unsubstantiated, off-the-record barroom trash talk went right to the front pages of the Old Gray Lady and the rest.

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I took that particular need and blended it with another one, stepping up to a group of three women who had been hovering near the table. " I asked, and one of them, the one with the smile that seemed to be about nothing in particular, dug into her purse and handed me one. It was a first date, one I wasn't sure would be followed by a second, and how was I to know that the woman on the other side of the table would set the presidency into seismic rumblings?

I thanked her, introduced myself, and resumed hunting my target stripes. She struck me as cheerful, open, a bit too much a resident of Planet Hap-Hap-Happy in my acerbic view. She mentioned, more by way of observation than complaint, that her transcribing duties for the DOD were massively challenging for someone who had more skill in communication than in typing—a tidbit now used as bimbo ammo, though it seemed reasonable to me at the time.

A little bizarre in her almost childlike sweetness—it was tough to juxtapose her almost giddy warmth with the gravity of the places she had visited, like Bosnia—but she was from both L. Physically, she was pleasant without being overwhelming. She said as much: "Yeah, I'd really like to get together again. I was coming down with a cold, and she had to get up early the next day for her last day at work, so I dropped her off before midnight with a very innocent goodbye.

She's a little chubby, but she's leaps and bounds prettier than that vacuous mug shot beamed all over the world. As it happens, our second date got lost amid New Year's, my vacation, and my setting up a new apartment—in the cleaning of which I threw out her number. Now, to your questions:xxxxxxxxxxxx After a couple of hours of semicandlelight, I don't know if she is capable of fantastic, Medea-scale delusions. But maybe Newsweek reporter Mike Isikoff and Net bottom feeder Matt Drudge are, too; I have no idea. Drudge seems to have no compunction about his personal role in our national deep knee-bend toward Gomorrah; Isikoff apparently thought there was nothing revolting about his going on Letterman this week. And I don't know if she was riding Air Force One, so to speak. Though my guess would be based not on my date with her but just on the same compelling car-accidentlike wreckage we're all rubbernecking to see.

But I am not my brother, and it didn't take long—about a second, actually—for me to go from glimpsing the Caymanian Compass to joining my fellow townies in an obsession.

I couldn't watch enough airport-bar CNN-blaring televisions. When the gong of scandal ringeth, count on me to be the first in line for the hanging, salivating in expectation of the next tidbit.Whether we care about her or not, we've all done the math on Monica's behalf, parsing out her destiny over warming beers and neglected finger food.No matter the permutations, there are really only three options: 1.) It happened the seamy way it looks, in which case I feel sorry for her.The rest of you had been huddling around your cable-news campfires to all hours, swapping "I know a guy who knows a guy"s, riveted by all the mumblenewsing, quidnuncing, hearsaying, tattling, and idle-chattering. But a funny thing happened to me on the way from Cayman to the States.When you scuba dive, if you plunge deep into the abyss—say, deeper than 66 feet, or two "atmospheres"—you can't rise to the surface too quickly or you risk a serious medical problem with a silly name, the bends.We should be allowed to pick our own pictures at times like these.) A great dresser—she wore some black '70s number, kind of, but not in the slightest bit revealing or inappropriate. When my brother returned in '94 from a year of studying ancient texts in Israel, he was incredulous and disgusted with our national obsession with Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan.

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