I’m On the Prowl – for Page Hits

I’m sort of on the prowl. At the grocery store. The soccer fields. McDonald’s. Even the DMV.

I can’t help myself. Sometimes when I see a woman, I just know she’s the one. I’ll size her up – see what her clothing and accessories say about her. If she appears smart, or technically savvy, or maybe even a bit lonely.

I always check that ring finger.

If she wears a ring, I’m more likely to approach her. I’m not proud of this, but I’ve learned that a wedding ring actually enhances our relationship.

I alway look for that specific quality. She either has it, or she doesn’t. It’s tough to explain. But if she has it, I want to share myself with her. You know, the part of me that makes its appearance about this time every week. I want to expose it. Hear what she thinks of it. Elicit her admiration, maybe.

I want her to know me.

Some might call me charming. Or an opportunist. I prefer to think that I have exceptional social skills and a little something (okay, a BIG something) that keeps the ladies coming back for more. Something provocative, even.

That something? My blog.

I want the page hits. And the comments. I love the comments.

I believe in my blog. It’s informative, and edgy. Well, maybe not, but it means a great deal to me, helping me grow not only as a writer, but to understand myself as a father and as a man.

I was inexperienced at first, even a little awkward. I needed to “make things more personal” and “get naked with my emotions.

Back to moms….

I had a few choices during a fire alarm once at the DMV. Chatted it up with the nice-smelling girl named Kristen ahead of me. Pretty. Mid 20’s, jeans and boots. Friendly. She just didn’t have it, though. That look of joy with a twinge of exhaustion that tells a guy he’s in the presence of something as heroic (and kinda hot, really) as a mom.

Nothing to see here … busy businessman … quiet young guy who looks like he’s going to be in trouble for being late to work … two cheerleaders dolled up for spirit day.

Wait. Under that tree. Two o’clock. Looks like a pair of mommies, Houston.

I run my fingers through my hair. Straighten my clothes. Make my approach.

Me: (jokingly) Come here often?

Mom 1: Once a year.

Me: So … which one of you pulled the fire alarm? And … are you moms?

The direct approach. Women appreciate that. Laughter ensues.

What gave it away? They’re not wearing mom jeans or carrying a diaper bag. One’s in scrubs. The other, toting a huge coffee. Both smile. One tells me the details of her son’s recent tongue-bite injury.

They have that quality. They just do. They’re snapping pictures of the fire truck. Total Facebook-update material. (It’s lucky truck 13, by the way.)

I mention my blog. One has her phone out in an instant, to check it out.

“Hey … I found you.”

“Ha!” she says. “This guy’s writing about the bad words his daughter knows!”

Got you right where I want you, mama.

Another notch in my belt.

I mean, hit on my page.

I hope she’ll share me.

With a friend.

There’s plenty of me to go around.