A bunch of us were talking the other day, and two of them had wonderful boyfriends/husbands named Steve.
“All Steves are great,” one of them enthused.
“Oh, come on, not all of them,” I said. But then I started to think: my oldest friend is married to a Steve, and she says the same thing. (Although she was married to another Steve before this one, and she hates him. But still.)
“Don’t write about this in your blog,” the other one said, eyeing me. “I don’t want him to get a swelled head. I liked it when he was still grateful.”
I thought some more and came up with three more Steves, all nice guys. (Not even counting my godfather, Uncle Stevie.) “Damn it, that’s it,” I said, slamming the counter. “I’ve seen the light. Get me a Steve!”
Nice guy named Steve wanted for compulsively creative and slightly wacky blonde politicial blogger. You should be geographically convenient to Philadelphia and emotionally available. No Republicans, smokers, substance abusers or Pee Wee Herman speeches,* please. You should be equally good at getting and giving. Transparency a must.
- “You don’t want to get mixed up with me, Dottie. I’m a loner, a rebel. There’s things about you wouldn’t know, couldn’t know, shouldn’t know.”
