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Tales from the White Trash Files…

Mar 26

SquidHumor, Relationships dating 1 Comment

I’ve never been great at picking guys who are ‘good on paper.’ Despite my two very expensive degrees from a reputable university, I’ve never dated someone who has put in more than a few semesters of community college. Despite the fact that I’ve been pretty much on my own since 18, I’ve dated many, many men who still live at home and whose mothers still do their cooking, dishes, and laundry. While I often spend summer evenings enjoying a bottle of wine and a good book in my backyard surrounded by my potted plants, I generally date men who would rather be playing Xbox with a six-pack of PBR in their parents’ basement.

Select friends tell me that my choice in men is a reflection of my being white trash (which, for the record, I am not). I’ve gone out with men who are ‘good on paper-’ who grew up in Connecticut, went to Ivy League universities, and are given lucrative stock options at their corporate firms… but these guys just aren’t my cup of tea. I mean, I’m the child of a foul-mouthed cop who always had a case of Bud in the fridge and a pack of Marlboro reds in his pocket… I can’t bring any-old pansy-ass home to mom and dad, and I wouldn’t want to.

Admittedly, when it came time for college, I packed up and moved away from my hometown to live in the city, and I do have quite the collection of designer clothes (from Filene’s Basement and Marshall’s, of course), and I do enjoy an al fresco Sunday brunch on Newbury Street or a night at the theatre… but that doesn’t mean that I want to date, in the words of the Governator, a ‘girly-man’ who does the same. I would much rather a man who can pinpoint the strange noise that my car is making, who can build a shelving unit for my books, and who wants to throw back a few pints after we do some yard work on a Sunday afternoon.

Perhaps when I hit my thirties my priorities will have shifted and I will be looking for a man who can’t take one hand off his blackberry to take his suit off and f*ck me, but for now, I’ll be at the neighborhood bars looking for every unshaven, Guinness-breathed, Boston-accented mechanic, carpenter, and state DOT worker who will mow my lawn and give it to me good once he’s already worked up a sweat.