All about Steve #2 (Loser boy #1)

This weekend I wasted 96 minutes and five bucks watching the travesty of a rom-com "All About Steve." Before viewing, I thought, how can a movie with Sandra Bullock and Bradley Cooper be bad? Ugh. In too many ways to count. Wow, that script was terrible.

As previously reported, I spent the end of my work day yesterday talking to my new friend Burney, who never fails to make me laugh. We were trading dating war stories, comparing notes of how we're always the one before THE ONE, and I told him my best "at least now I can laugh about it" romantic tale, which happens to be about a boy named Steve.

{Story detour... just call me Donna Kay: while I intend to honor my pledge to survive 2010 resolution-less, I nevertheless have a mental list of things I intend to do, one of which is to hone my writing skills by devoting more attention to this blog. Less drivel, more funny anecdotes. To that end, I pledge to readjust my dating Karma by sharing some thoughts about exes. Some of the details may be changed to make the stories more amusing, but the gist will be true.}

My very sweet and well-intentioned neighbor, who also happened to be the same age as my mother, stopped by my house one day and asked if she could introduce me to a friend of hers. Skeptical, I dug deep and remembered I can't say no to nice people, so I agreed.

He was an engineer (plus) and recently divorced (minus) but had no kids (plus plus). We met for Chinese food and it was lust at first sight. Holy fried rice that man was smoking hot.

We casually dated for a couple of months, planning lunches and movies and trips to the lake. I liked him, sure. Did I mention he was hot?

The only issue for me was that I was pining for another guy. Who was--coincidentally but quite confusingly--also named Steve. But that's a story for another time.

One July morning I boarded a plane for a six-day sorority convention (which was as cheesy as you'd imagine) after bidding Steve #2 goodbye on the phone. He asked how long I'd be gone. I promised to call when I returned.

Eight days later I called him at work and was told he was "unavailable." He never called me back. I wondered what had happened. I got my answer the next day when a friend called and said "Aren't you dating Steve Lastnamewithheld?"

"Sorta," I responded. "Haven't talked to him since I got back from Atlanta."

Turns out he had a good reason. He was on his honeymoon.

I go away for less than a full week and the dude's wedding picture is in the paper. His bride? An 18-year-old Subway sandwich artist. {Lela thinks her title should be capitalized, but I refuse to do so on moral grounds.}

Granted, we were not serious and had I found out he was dating someone, I would have wished him well. But what are the chances he went in for a footlong, came out with a fiance, and a photographer was there to capture it on film? All in one week's time?

Moral of the story? Guys, I know "the talk" makes you uncomfortable, but if you've been out with a chick more than five times, you owe her a phone call before she sees your wedding announcement. Or, in 2010 terms, your status change on Facebook.

**That story's for you, Lela!