The Late Femtastic

In a word: bleah.

In more words, I feel crappy. I’ve felt varying degrees of crappy all day, with a migraine and general grossness. And all day long I’ve been sweating like I’m running a marathon even though I’m wearing a light shirt and running no “thons” of any kind. Needless to say I eventually took my temperature.

No fever, which is good.

Actually I was 96.8. Now I know that seems low, but you have to also realize that “normal” for me is a degree less than normal for most folks – I run 97.6 all the time. So I was only a little below my normal at about 2pm today.

Just now I got home from the Oscar bash and all, still feeling crappy, and I decided to take my temperature again (because still no thons, but yet still also with the sweating) and now I’m clocking in at 95.6.

So I have a theory (because seriously, when don’t I have a theory?): I believe that I died overnight in my sleep (which is a nice way to go, so I’m ok with that) but I have such a strong personality, not to mention a super-powered internal heater when I’m sleeping, that it’s taking me a long time to cool off completely. Or stop moving. Or stop t-a-l-k-I-n-g.

Based on my progress so far I’ll expect to finally cool off around Thursday, finally fall down about Friday and finally shut up… well, never. But two out of three ain’t bad. (do you think they can get a wireless signal to the morgue?)

Maybe it would help if I made one myself?

This country has had presidents almost the whole time, and some of them have been pretty dang good. It was for this reason that I decided to go ahead and take the day off last Monday, even though my employers seem to prefer to totally take our political system for granted and not give any time off at all. Whatever. (communists. Or socialists. Some kind of “ist” for sure…)

Anyway, the Royal Family was also off for the day so we decided to spend the day together, and to spend it at the coast.

Tangent which might be a rerun: Here in the Pacific Northwest (which is where Hippyville is located) we don’t have beaches really. We have ‘The Coast.’ “What is the difference?” you ask? This is the difference:

A beach is often sunny and lovely, and people have been known to swim in the actual ocean when they are at the beach, and sometimes there are people who lie on towels with very little clothing on them and try to get something they call a “tan.” This is a beach.

The COAST is pretty much always overcast, or maybe raining, and usually windy. You would NEVER swim in the ocean at the coast because the ocean is extremely dangerous and exists mostly to kill you. Also to house fish and other aquatic life forms, but mostly just to kill. You. You’d never even turn your BACK on the ocean at the coast, let alone go SWIMMING in it. The appropriate amount of layers of clothing to wear to the coast is somewhere between three and eleven, plus the requisite rain coat and floppy hat, cinched up right under your chin so as to not blow away. This is the coast.

Tangent done. (maybe again.)

If you’re from some of the places with beaches you probably think that the coast is a terrible place, but those of us from the Pacific Northwest love our coasts. We love to drive to them and park our car and walk on the long stretches of windswept sand or clamber over the lava formations peeking into the tide pools hidden among them. We think that poking a sea anemone or finding a starfish is cool like licking a celebrity or finding free money. And secretly? We like it all even more when its raining.

Anyway, it was this kind of northwestern, Hippyville-type enthusiasm that sent us driving over to the coast. Once there we were amazed at how NOT pacific northwesty the weather was! There was this big ball of fire in the sky, and the sky itself wasn’t the comforting, reassuring grey that we come to expect, but instead a shocking and even scandalous shade of LIGHT BLUE! Was there massive wind? THERE WAS NOT! I was even forced to remove layers! REMOVE LAYERS I SAY!

Despite this end-of-the-world-is-nigh weird weather we still had a lovely day. We poked anemones and walked down stretches of sand and everything. And the kids did those things that the kids do: Princess Longtoes took her first steps on sand, followed by long minutes sitting on the sand and marveling at the strangeness of sand. LONG minutes. Dude, sand is just stinking cool is all. Meanwhile, Princess Stinkbottom found a STICK! In fact she found TWO STICKS! And once she was done experience all the joy that writing in SAND with a STICK can bring she started noticing there were also SHELLS! There were also FEATHERS! She was in full-on astoundiosity about all the amazing things that are just scattered over the coastal range. And ALL. FOR. FREE.

Eventually it was time to take the 30 broken, extremely plain seashells and the 6 sandy, sad-looking seagull feathers and the two driftwood-y sticks and go home. Unfortunately by the time that it WAS the time to go home we were still walking down the sandy stretches. We still had a pretty impressive hike back to the car in front of us. A prospect that Princess Stinkbottom was totally GO about at the bottom of the hike and pretty dang DONE about once we finally reached car. Still, she made the hike, and was conscientious to check, and double-check, that her Dad still had the 30 shells and the 6 feathers and the 2 sticks all the way back. ALL the way back. Super-important shells and magically delicious feathers and could-cure-cancer sticks all made it every step of the way back to the car.

By the time we got back to town the somewhat toasted Princess Stinkbottom was now a lovely golden brown on both sides, with an ooey-gooey freak-out center. She had a meltdown in the Rite-Aid (where we stopped for bathrooms and beverages! Because there is no “Bob’s Bathrooms and Beverages” store on the coast! Or anywhere else in the world! Thank you very much Your Dang Mr. Highness PULL OVER THE CAR BEFORE I MAKE MY VERY OWN BEVERAGE IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!!) and another at the Applebees and she really just needed to be going home.

They dropped me off at my house and I open up the back to get my crap. And then I have one of those moments where the parents who know me remember that I can sometimes be helpful and therefore they shouldn’t just stop knowing me entirely even though that’s what makes the most sense right then. Because me, I don’t always have that filter in the brain between thinking of something funny to say and saying it which would ask the question “will the kids get that you’re joking or are you about to stick a grenade in that car seat?” No, I opened up the back of the car and grabbed my jacket and my camera bag and said to all in the car “and I’m taking all of these shells too.”

KA.

BOOM.

There is no amount of apologizing to the car full of parents who now have to talk their absolutely fried 4-yr old off the ledge of “she’s stealing my very special and magical shells!!!” that will do. And I’m pretty sure that the look that the King shot me over the head of his hysterical daughter should be registered as a lethal weapon. Because I actually fell over dead right then from it’s impact. No court in the land would have convicted him either.

(but for the record? The parents laughed first.)

looky, I gots a Wordle!

Thanks to The Bloggess and her general abundance of knowledgy things, I have discovered the wonder that is Wordle. Behold, you scan down and see the wordle that is Unlikely In Love!

It's a funny thing -- you throw in a URL, chocked full of things that you created, and it brings you a graphic. And then you have to try like hell to not read all into it! the obvious choices are the big words: Love, match, people... But I love that "y'all", "cheese", "stinky" and "olde" show up.

For instance, "olde" means I'm fancy -- see the unneccessary "e" at the end? I mean ende? And the "y'all" proves that I'm one of the people, just like George Bush and Brittany Spears and other regular folke. (I mean "folke".)

I think that I should use this as a way to set some blogging GOALS. If any of you feel like helping me with setting a goal, I'd love your help in picking three new words that will display prominently in my next wordle. Word me, people! Go crazy with it! Literally think outside this box!

Dear Mr. Universe...

I decided that the most appropriate way for me to “celebrate” Valentines Day was to finally write back to Mr. Carl and set up the cocoa date. You guys already know that I’m not really wanting to do this, but I said I’d do all the stuff and this is one of the stuffs and so I’ll do it.

Except that I won’t. Because Mr. Carl apparently thought that the most appropriate way for him to “celebrate” February 6th was to close our match. And this was a huge surprise to me, because why the heck would he not want to continue to send me emails that he could then wait weeks and weeks to hear back on? Who would find this not fun? Some stupid HUMAN guy, that’s who! So screw him and his stupid desire for respectful responses and stuff. WHAT. EVER.

(Sigh)

Right, so there’s no cocoa date to set up. I took some time to mourn the opportunity (and about 20 minutes to feel honestly relieved that I didn’t have to go meet this person, and about 5 minutes imagining that he found some super-wanting person who was looking for a guy who would call her all the time and want to know about her every move and around 3 minutes eating Valentines candy and 27 seconds sucking chocolate off my fingers.) and then I jumped online and pushed on.

But I still had to find an appropriate way to “celebrate” Valentines Day.

Right then I’m hearing the voice of one of my favorite work friends in my head. She reminds me of the me I probably could have been if I’d been more something earlier on, ya know? Anyway, to my surprise about a year ago she announced that she was engaged, AND that she met Mr. Right on Emelody. If someone had asked me to list 5 things I never thought that my work chum (who I will call Xena) would be caught doing they would be 1) crack cocaine, 2) sock darning, 3) mailing anthrax, 4) making local porn and 5) online dating (not necessarily in that order).

When I pinned her down and asked her what was the deal she told me that she decided that she needed to do something to show the universe that she was committed to this “wove” thing. And these were the words tobogganing through my brain as I sat on the Royal couch (while babysitting the princesses). And with that encouragement I send questions to both of the new matches that Emelody had just sent me (even though one is pictureless and the other is too old, too far away and too into fishing). But I didn’t stop there – I then went to lighter.com (just think about it) and I winked at about 6 different guys who were cute and not any of my deal breakers (religious, married, republican, eaters of babies, watchers of reality tv).

I have officially sent word to the universe. I will expect a prompt reply in the form of a hot, single rockstar/photographer from Australia…

Still waiting…

still waiting…

still waiting…

Mmmm, yummy chalk.

Saturday is that day every year where people in any kind of love (from new, shiny, yet-to-be-crushed love to aged, mature, slightly stinky like a fancy cheese and with Ye Olde Lettering on it love) to feel totally superior to the rest of us. Not that many of you DO, and what’s up with that anyway? If I were ever in love on Valentines Day I’d wear a shirt that says “I’m totally in love – don’t you wish you were?” and gold shoes with Cupid’s wings on the heels.

Still, I respect the restraint that you loved ones show we, the lonely masses. (also the name of my future rock band, by the way. “Hello Cleveland! We are the Lonely Masses! ARE YOU READY TO ROCK????” Awesome.) Here’s my lack of restraint:

• Number of heart-shaped chocolates I’ve been given so far: 3
• Number of chalk-flavored heart-shaped candies on my desk today: 45
• Number of flower delivery guys who came to my desk looking for someone else today: 3
• Number of spamails that I’ve received this month about Valentines Day: 12
• Number of these spamails that are specifically for “enlarging” things for the holidays: 3
• Number of little kids valentines I’ve received from co-workers this week: 4
• Number of temporary tattoos from such a valentine that I’ve attempted to stick on my arm: 1
• Number of tattoos that actually stuck on my arm: 0
• Number of excellent little kids that I’ll be baby sitting on Valentines day so that their parents, who are in love with each other, can go see a movie and have smooch dinner: 2
• Number of bits of dirty underwear I’ll be wearing under my babysitting clothing: 14

…after all, it IS Valentines Day, people!

And finally? Here's what my chalk-flavored, heart-shaped candies said to me today:

• I ♥ you
• Stir my ♥
• lover boy
• to
• sweet love
• my (mushy word, probably man?)
• Angel
• cool
• Awe Some
• Mushy word, probably Love?
• nice iru
• spice it up
• real love
• my treat
• how race
• lets kiss
• on
• love him
• dream
• sugar fir
• go grrrrr
• marry me
• sugar die
• ugahhhhhh
• sweet talk
• be fine
• ask
• top chef
• real gu
• get real
• (blank)
• only
• sugar pih
• my girl
• ♥ of golf
• ANID
• dear one
• mine
• top
• my man
• my arv

Here's hoping that you all eat your own fair share of chalk-flavored, heart-shaped candies while wearing secret Valentines Day underwear and reading your dirty Valentines Day Spamails!

The Plans Possible

OK, so apparently everyone in the world with a blog is either pregnant or has a kid or whatever and I hate them all. (even those that I know personally. Sorry, but there’s just too much hate being unused in the world now that Obama is in office and we’re all “Yes we can”-ing and everything. So I’m using all of mine on the parental people. It’s my duty as an American, y’all.) I don’t have a kid, and I’m approaching “super-old”, and I’m afraid that if I have a kid now my Mom and Dad won’t live long enough to help me with ABSOLUTELY EVERY PART OF THE PROCESS which is necessary because I’m (you may not know this yet) TOTALLY SINGLE.

So then I think if I’m just not gonna get to do the parent-thing then I should really be DOING something with my life. Taking advantage of the fact that I can pick up and fly to Borneo without having to pack little pink backpacks or find someone who would be willing to be someone’s mother for a week. I think of all the things that my parenty friends tell me they wish they could do but can’t, due to the additional steps involved when you have kids, and I’m not doing any of them either. So what the hell?

So I think I need to figure this out. I am either going to go to my doctor and say “please to start poking me with needles and soaking my brain in extra heaps of girly-chemicals so that I might spend all my days flashing back and forth from tears to anger to Cheetos, Cheetos, CHEETOS and just generally wreaking havoc on my life so that I can give you every single spare dollar I have to buy little wriggly boy-worms which you’ll use to infect me so that I can come back later and be told “nothin’. $300 please.” And then repeat over and over.
OR I’m going to quit my job and become a world-famous travel photographer, winging my way from Sydney to Paris to Reykjavik to Guadalajara and taking one draw-jopping picture after another, and I’m gonna go to all the amazing book parties in New York and tell stories like “and so after we picked all the shrimp tales out of her Wonder Bra and wiped the cocktail sauce off the Lamborghini we all decided there was nothing left to do but jump into the Jell-O pool. Again.” and just generally be that spectacular friend that you envy even though she’s always staring at your two kids with wistful eyes.

Or maybe I’ll just eat more Cheetos and watch some General Hospital. (they blew-up the O.R., y’all!)

Another example of “the crazy, I am full with it!”. By Femtastic.

The newest E-Melody match (remember that we are calling him Señor Spiffypants in the same way some people climb big mountains: because he’s there) hasn’t closed the match. Not at all. Which means, of course, that he’s not a good match. And in what way is he not a good match? Well he’s just not attractive. And I wish I were evolved and Zen enough to be all “who cares if he’s not much to look at, for I’m sure he’s an amazing person INSIDE!” but I’m not. I’m all kinds of human and flawed and wanting of everything, and when I saw his pictures my “ooh, he didn’t close the match!” became “oh. Right. Got it. Sigh.”

So THEN, later on I got a thing from Lighter.com (less of a “find your soulmate!” site and more of a “find someone super-cute” site) reminding me that they still love me, even though I don’t give them money anymore, and that I can look at their stud corral for free if I want to. So I wandered through, and there on the first page was this SUPER-hot guy! Smokin’, people! Yummy!! with a capital “YUM!” And so did I wink at him? I did not. And WHY did I not wink at him? Obviously because he’s way too hot and would look at my picture and go “oh. Right. Got it.” and cleeekity-cleeek the “no thanks” button.

So to recap, I’m looking for someone much cuter then I think I can actually get. So I’m going to reject those not cute enough, while simultaneously fleeing from those as cute as I’d like. I think this is a super-rabid strain of crazy, which should come with mouth-foaming and in-tongues speaking.

I also know that I have just left Mr. Carl hanging about the cocoa date. Which is bad, and kind of mean (except for the fact that I’ve taken so long to respond to ALL his emails so at least this is par for the course so far, but whatever…) and I’m totally going to email him today. I swear. Or tomorrow at the latest. By Friday for sure. And when I email him I’m gonna say… something committal about a cocoa date. Promise.

This is only a test...

E-Melody has sent me a message that I have a new match (we’ll call him Senor Spiffypants. Why? Because I get to. Start your own blog and you can call someone that too.) waiting for me at home. I have to wait until I go home because apparently some beaurocratic puppet-master, tool of The Man and controller of all things fun and not fun, decided that it wasn’t COOL for someone to be spending their work day surfing the web looking for love and they BLOCKED E-Melody at my work! UNBELIEVABLE!

Anyway, I got the “Haaaaave you met Senor Spiffypants?” email (with apologies to Barney*) today around 1:30pm. Now, let’s see how long between when they send the email saying I’ve got some awesome new match to go look at and when the good Senor (and his spiffy, SPIFFY pants!) close the match because my eyes are too close together or I don’t enjoy enough Opera or I look like I might, just MIGHT, worship Satan. Any guesses?

(sorry about the pessimism. I was mugged by a jar of peanut butter this morning before work and it’s got me all jacked out of shape.)

~TO BE CONTINUED~

*I have no idea why there are french subtitles on this clip. Were it my clip there would not be. But were it my clip there would be no clip because I have no idea how to make these clips. So thank god for the french bastards out there (or bastards who have french friends for whom they enjoy to subtitle video clips) who CAN clip things up.

Battle of the Bulge - Compare and Contrast edition.

So the battle of the bulge is in full swing! And by full swing I mostly mean that every yummy thing I eat is currently coated in a thick film of guilt, and I’m extremely aware of my tummy. To make matters worse, the Queen has been tracking her eating and exercising on her own blog. And it includes words like “non-fat” and “sit-ups” which make me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

To better illustrate the difference between our battle plans, here is what a week of eating and exercising would look like on MY blog:

Monday:
Breakfast = 2-3 handfulls of cheesy goldfish crackers, 12 oz. of Pepsi
Lunch = leftover Chinese food, some kind of Mein (probably lo)
Dinner = chicken Ceasar wrap
Dessert = 1 fudgicle (maybe 2? I got dizzy around 11:45 and may have treated myself with an additional fudgicle purely for medicinal purposes)
Exercise = biked to/from work twice, 1 bonus Monday hour of tap dancing

Tuesday:
Breakfast = 2-3 handfulls of cheesy goldfish crackers, 12 oz. of Pepsi
Lunch = P, B & J on white bread, 12 oz. of Pepsi, 10 min. of reliving my childhood through food.
Dinner = Exceptionally crappy Banquet chicken dinner frozen dinner w/ mashed potato & corn, 12 oz. of Pepsi
Dessert = 1 fudgicle
Exercise = biked to/from work twice, 1 hour of tap dancing

Wednesday:
Breakfast = 2-3 handfulls of cheesy goldfish crackers, 12 oz. of Pepsi
Lunch = P, B & GJ on white bread, 12 oz. of Pepsi, fat-free memories of youth
Dinner = Chicken Ceasar wrap, 1 dozen tater tots (maybe more – I confess I didn’t actually count them.) 12 oz. Pepsi
Dessert = The Last Fudgicle
Exercise = biked to/from work twice, 20-min. of crying due to lack of additional Fudgicles, absolutely NO tap dancing.

Thursday:
Breakfast = Oh cheesy goldfish crackers, only you understand me. You and your friend, 12 oz. of Pepsi
Lunch = Lean Pocket, which is neither lean nor a pocket, but DOES taste like cardboard filled with cat food and cheese whiz
Dinner = Cheese burger, OK? WITH pickles! And probably not even LITE pickles! But I had things I had to do and it was late and I didn’t want to make food and whatever! You’re not the boss of me!
Dessert = 2 small bowls of Frosted Flakes w/ 2% milk. Because it’s not just for breakfast anymore.
Exercise = biked to/from work twice.

Friday:
Breakfast = 2-3 handfulls of cheesy goldfish crackers, 12 oz. of Pepsi, who the hell brought cinnamon rolls?
Lunch = tiny 1-person cheese pizza w/ chicken scattered around the top because cheese pizza is boring.
Dinner = Take-out Indian Food!!! Chicken Tikka Masala and plain Nan. And big heaping bowl of nirvana because I love me some Indian food! (but it was low-fat nirvana, if that makes any difference.) and, OF COURSE, 12 oz. of Pepsi.
Dessert = 1 small bowl of Cap’n Crunch w/ crunch berries, 1 ice cube (fat free, y’all!!) to stop the mouth-bleeding from the sharp crunch-corners, candy bar at the movies.
Exercise = biked to/from work twice, built shrine to person who brought cinnamon rolls

…yeah, I don’t understand why I’m not a tiny, little size 2 yet either. Probably a glandular problem. Or perhaps a vindictive metabolism.

PS. Dear Pepsi, I expect your corporate sponsorship of this blog to commence immediately. Yes, I am willing to change the name to “Pepsi’s Unlikely in Love” in exchange for a lifetime supply of soda and the promise that you’ll change back the logo immediately. Femtastic don’t like image change!

I love a man in uniform

For whatever reason there are just a ton of commercials for Emelody on TV right now. Oh, how I hate them. I hate when they say “my friend told me about the caliber of guys she was meeting on there.” Because then I think about the caliber of guys I’M meeting on there, and either this town is full of only crap single guys or I’m just not worthy of high caliber men.

Funny thing is that neither of these thoughts brings me comfort.

I’m not moving to another town. And I’m about as good as I’m gonna get. (not really, but as far as THEY know I am. They don’t know that I’m currently the size of a panzer tank or that I’ve not successfully finished doing my dishes this year or that when left to my own devices I’m pretty much totally unable to resist eating 3-4 bowls of Cap’n Crunch Even after the crunchy crunch bits have poked the crap out of my poor mouth. I’m pretty darn sure that there’s no way they can no that. Probably.)

I read this article on the Emelody site about “What not to say on your profile and it boiled down to 1) be able to spell stuff, 2) don’t tell him about the Cap’n Crunch thing, 3) Love everything, 4) pretend you are alone and aimless and 5) don’t be THAT GUY. None of these help me.

I read another article that was the 5 biggest turn-offs for dudes, and THEY were 1) flakiness, 2) poor communication, 3) Not Playing Fair, 4) Trying to Change Him and 5) Ultimatums. In other words,

But here’s the deal: none of these articles help me, because what I’m not getting is matches. MAAAATCHEEES. I need the magic love-making interweb monkeys at Emelody to bring me guys that I can try not to turn off or who can read my profile and be horrified or WHAT-THE-HELL-EVER. See, Emelody asks all these questions and they use that to pick your matches and when they finish making your profile-thing they give you this report that’s supposed to describe you and my report was (this still makes me vomit in my mouth a little) TOTALLY DEAD ON.

And I get no matches. The me that they have figured out is unmatchable.

Fmeh.

(I hear a box of Cap’n Crunch, with fabulous berries of crunch mixed in, calling my name. Because the Cap’n and me? Oh, that’s a match baby.)

Silly Girl Ranged Attack with +4 Charisma Modifier

A couple of weeks ago I broke one of my cardinal rules of shoe buying and purchased some silly girl shoes. They have all the components of silly girl shoes: They’re oh so pretty, they have a stupidly high heel and no method of attaching themselves firmly to my feet. All looks and no sense = silly girl shoes.

Normally I shun the silly girl shoes because while they’re not comfortable, they are super-expensive. But these were on SALE. REALLY EXCELLENT AND CHEAP SALE. And also? They’re COMFORTABLE. ACTUAL AND FOR TRUE COMFORTABLE TO WEAR. And because of these loopholes I bought these silly, silly girl shoes, big heel and all.

And then today they tried to kill me.

This is the third, only slightly less-significant reason for not buying silly girl shoes: they will, by their very nature, try to break your ankle or, even better, your neck. They do this by being ever so very tall and tippy. Much taller and tippier than things that one straps to their feet should ever be. And these are even tippierer because they don’t strap to the feet at all. They just sit under the feet, not holding on to anything and, in fact, constantly threatening to abandon the feet entirely if they disagree with the feet’s planned route. I’ve had these particular silly girl shoes since right after Christmas and I wore them to a few things, including a couple of days of work, without incident.

But then TODAY? Oh, today it was ON!

Walking down the hallway on my tall, tippy, silly girl shoes I went around a corner and spontaneously decided to try walking on the SIDE of the shoes. And of my feet. Which, of course, required me to bend my ankle at a 90° angle. To the left. Which is a bend my ankles don’t really do. Oh, and also it made a super-dainty “crack-pop!” noise, which I’m sure is a fine noise for ankles to make. They’re very “crack-poppy” joints.

Long-story-short I’m not hobbled and will live to walk again, and I didn’t even throw away the silly girl shoes. But this is just one of the silly girl things I really just don’t do, don’t get, don’t fathom.

Like who are these women who change their purse to match their shoes and outfits? Who DOES this? It’s all I can do to make sure that I’ve got everything I need in the one purse I carry, and I can’t imagine moving things from purse to purse every day. This would make me very, very crazy. (not to mention my shoes rarely match my outfits anyway. The phrase “close enough” is a dear, dear friend of mine when it comes to dressing. Especially the putting on of shoes.)

And also I am utterly baffled by the invention of the clutch purse. This strapless purse is, to me, simply the most efficient way for someone to lose all things important to them in one forgetful moment. And the same people who said “you know what would be awesome? A little, put-downable purse with no strap!” are the same geniuses who said “women don’t need pockets. That’s why we invented purses…”

Also I don’t wear make-up. I gave it up for two reasons: First, I hate the feel of the stuff on my face. No matter what I put where, that’s where I’ll suddenly develop an un-scratchable itch. Second, every minute that I spend putting on make-up in the morning is time I could be sleeping. And sleep vs. make-up? NO CONTEST. (Keeping in mind that for me sleep vs. just about anything is no contest. Sleep vs. double-fudge brownie served on a bed of money stacked on the naked body of Damien Lewis is still NO CONTEST.)

All this to say I guess I’m not much of a girl in the grand scheme of things. But as it turns out I’m a pretty dang good nerd! (As I write this a hobgoblin has fallen under the fierce sting of my longbow!)

Next: all the reasons that my awesome nerd prowess should find me an awesome nerd to love…

You know what? I think maybe we really can!

I don't care who wrote the words. All I know is that today's inaugural speech was the first time in my life that a politician inspired me. Here are the lines that I loved best from today's start of a new day:

each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions - who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them - that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.

do our business in the light of day

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.

know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness.

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West - know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.

a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task. This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

...proud again to be a citizen - thanks, chief.

Super-uncomfortable coffee date in 3, 2, 1....

Mr. Carl wants to have coco.

And in all honesty, I don’t want to. Not that I have anything against coco, mind you! I’m a big coco enthusiast! Been drinkin’ it my whole life! Yay for coco! But I have zero interest in meeting Mr. Carl. I mean think about how awkward it is to try to write him a decent email… Now extrapolate that into 45 min. of time sitting across a table, trying to make the art of blowing on my coco seem meaningful and interesting. And secretly hoping that some hunk of vintage space garbage is whizzing through the atmosphere headed straight for the coffee shop to put me mercifully out of my misery.

Good times.

BLEAH. I was really hoping we’d be able to string along these uncomfortable emails for several more weeks before I had to face this. (and that during that time Fernando would become disillusioned with the floozy who currently has his attentions and would go back to his foolishly closed matches and see my snazzy new photo and realize that I am EXACTLY what his fiery latin heart has been searching for all along. Or that I’ll win the lottery and find some pretty trophy boyfriend.)

(note to self: buy lottery ticket.)

I’m tempted to ask for opinions from you, my trusty readership, but since I fell off the blogging wagon for pretty much the entire month of December I think my actual readership right now consists of 3 web-crawling robots, a quadriplegic in British Columbia who’s computer is stuck here and won’t respond to his frantic eye jiggling trying to get back to google and The Queen. And I think if I don’t go meet Mr. Carl she’ll stop reading, and then it will just be me and jiggly eye guy.

So instead of asking if I should meet Mr. Carl, maybe I could ask “any suggestions for making this a less hellish experience?” Or maybe “anyone out there want to wear my handy-dandy Femtastic full-face mask and go in my place?” (Note: Handy-Dandy Femtastic full-face mask will be available for purchase in time for Christmas of 2009. If ever…)

Strategy.

I’ve got a new strategy. I’m going to learn the ways of the lonely, lonely nerd, and then I’m going to travel to where they congregate (someplace like a gaming store or… well pretty much a gaming store) and I’m going to conquer them and become their queen.

Here’s the deal: all my dude friends from childhood, who are very cool now, and who have wives, HOT wives, and kids and actual lives and everything? Well, they all started out as hard-core, 20-sided dice rolling, Car-Wars playing, Star Trek-quoting nerds. And thus began my unavoidable love of the nerd. And even though they’ve left many of their nerd ways behind, they’re still total nerds at heart.

These soft, nerdy inner-core has shown itself recently when they decided to do an email version of D&D. Yes, THAT D&D. Dungeons, and also while they’re at it, Dragons. And in the ULTIMATE nerd compliment, they’ve asked me to adventure with them! And while many a cool and/or popular girl would be unable to prevent themselves from laughing out-loud, I find it to be a great honor and I ALSO am totally jazzed about doing it!

I see it this way: it incorporates many of my favorite things (writing, games, an excuse to wear a cloak and possibly carry a sword, legitimate use of the word “forsooth”) and will mostly be done in the secret inner-sanctum of my home! Oh sure, you guys know about it. But you’ll tell no one. I know you’ll keep my secret. (heck, if you’re gonna tell any of my secrets I’d start with the one about the sex tape!)

Lest you think I’ll wake up tomorrow, put on my skinny jeans (god do I love these jeans – I’ll tell you about them some other time) and fancy shoes and come to my senses I will tell you that I’ve already committed to the quest: I bought a manual. I went into a game store, which was rich with nerdy atmosphere, and asked for a D&D Players Handbook, and was informed that there are many editions (I asked for the shiniest one) and gave him many duccets and left, my head held high! (hidden under the VERY LARGE brim of a floppy hat, of course, but still mostly high…)

I know what you’re thinking: “Oh yeah, when I think of D&D players I think “total chick magnet”. You’re TOTALLY gonna attract someone this way!”

That’s just what I was thinkin’ too.

So I guess now I create my characters (I’m waffling between half-elf narcoleptic hooker or dragonborn accountant with a fear of wool and words that end in “-ogy”) and then we begin our exciting questy quest of adventure and fun! (PS: I’m so going to die a virgin. Even though I’ve had sex.)

Career Planning on a Monday is a BAD idea...

So I think I know what I want to be when I grow up. That would be my “good news.” The “bad news” is that it’s a super-not-easy goal and something I’d have to try to do while having my day job and there’s no guarantee of success and even if I DO succeed at being this thing that I want to be I might still have to keep my day job and did I mention that the thing I want to do is NOT my current day job? Yeah. Well.

I’d really enjoy to be a writer. A professional, published, “hey, would you like my card? My card that says “Writer” in the title?”-type writer. The reasons why I think I want to do this for a living is that it would be something I could do from the comfort of my own home (or heck, if I could finally get a laptop I could do it from my own bed! Or could you imagine writing a novel entirely from your happy little toilet? Awesome…), it would let me use my imagination (currently only utilized in this job when I have to send emails shaming people for their deplorable fridge etiquette) and its something I truly enjoy doing.

So if I’m gonna be this I gotta get going. Rumor has it that writing a book could take a little while. A few days, possibly some weeks, heck maybe even a month or three! (or, you know, the rest of my life…) I’d just LOVE to get started on this, my “change my whole life and give me an actual career and a reason to get up each morning and be the key to my entire happiness” novel (tentatively called “No Pressure, baby!”) but first I have to do the dishes. And clean the kitchen, and the living room, and there are still some Christmas decorations I haven’t figured out how to put away yet, and also the stack of old bills in the office that fill and entire 10-gallon plastic butterfly bin (at least until I file them, which I’m gonna do any day now) and I just started this very cool jigsaw puzzle of spices…

So here’s the plan. (shut up, I do too have a plan. Yes I do, and shut up.) I’m going to take January, and probably 1-2 weeks in February, and get my danged life in order. I’m going to CLEAN that kitchen, and PUT AWAY those Christmas decorations, and FILE those… SHRED those old bills and just generally get on top of the big pile of unmanaged crap that is currently my life! Once that’s done I’ll sit down and start putting word to paper. I make no promises to having a full plot at that point, as right now I have 3 cool ideas, a phrase and a title. How does this grab you: “Mr. Pennywhistle Kills you and your Pope: a love story/cook book”

No fair stealing it for your own “change your whole life and give you an actual career and a reason to get up each morning and be the key to your entire happiness” book.

For those of you who know that I am a dedicated reader of such blogs as Dooce.com and Faster Than Kudzu, and who think that I’m totally copying them and expecting my life to be as killer as theirs are just because I write a book I have one word: TOTALLY. (and I DO SO have a PLAN – SHUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUP!!!!!!)

(and I totally meant to write to Mr. Carl this weekend, but I partied at my Dad’s b-day bash until 4:30am on Saturday and then there was the ever-important ‘sleeping in’ on Sunday, followed by some hardcore sitting on the couch thinking that I should really get up and clean something. So who had the time to write?)

Find me a Dude just like the Dude that married dear old Mom!

Today is my Dad’s birthday. He’s something like 68 years old I think? He’s at that point where he’s older than “middle aged” (unless he has plans to live to be 140 which he has not shared with me) but not yet up to “old”. My grandmother who lived to be 96? SHE was old. My grandfather who hit 100 before mortal-coil-shuffling? HE was OLD! But my Dad isn’t there yet. Plus he’s also super-awesome, and that sheds years so…

Anyway, you know how I’m super-single? The singlest person ever? Queen of the singles? Well, I’m also a daddy’s girl which I know comes as a HUGE surprise. (I’m also a mommy’s girl. It’s the problem one has when their parents are equally amazing. But I digress. And you say “Durrrr!!!!”…) So when I meet dudes one of the eventual parts of the process is when I compare them to the best dudes I know, one of which is my Dad. Most dudes fall REALLY SHORT of the mark. There are many things that I appreciate in my Dad and would want to see in any potential partners, and here are the top 10:

1. He’s always happy to see or hear from me. Always. Every. Single. Time. I could talk to Dad on the phone for 20 minutes, hang up and call him right back with something forgotten and he’s just as happy to hear my voice the second time.
2. My Dad could no sooner be “shy” than he could be a female, republican or reptilian.
3. The guy totally understands how most things work. And if he doesn’t get it now let him mess with it for a while – he’ll get it eventually
4. He whistles.
5. Next to my father your pet dog is about as loyal as your pet fish.
6. My dad doesn’t have pet fish. (I’m pretty sure fish are the pet equivalent of performance art.)
7. he likes musicals while simultaneously being not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay.
8. he’s not gay. (seriously, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, but I’ll confess I find that a turn-off in men. It’s something I’m working on.)
9. He has no problem with my being a pushy, kick-ass, aggressive chick. In fact, I’m pretty sure he takes credit for all of that.
10. He loves me. (coincidentally, I love him right back)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEST DAD AND BEST HUSBAND TO MY MOM EVER! (And by the way, way to go Mom!!)

A good investment

So my friendly, polite, sensitive and maybe entirely too nice online boyfriend was not mad at me. In fact the whole point of his latest message to me was “hey, hadn’t heard in a while and wanted to see how your holidays went!” Also there was the subtext of “I’m oh so very nice and would never think to nag someone to answer the LAST damned message that I sent so quickly last time, thereby clearly indicating my interest in getting to know you, you selfish, insensitive BEEEE-OTCH!!!” (obviously.) And so, faced with not one but two nice little messages from the only guy who didn’t reject me 6 seconds after we were matched I did the only reasonable thing! I replied to him right away, and he replied to me, and now we’re madly in love and hoping for a June wedding. The end.

(are all the crazy people who clearly don’t understand my level of “broken” gone?)

No. No, of course not. I did what you already KNOW I did. I wrote him nothing. I didn’t even stop to consider writing him back at all. I closed the browser window and PROBABLY went out to the living room to watch a Bones rerun or something. Priorities. It’s all about priorities.

I am going to reply. As long as he’s still there, and still sending (instantaneous and dripping with inappropriate hope) messages I’ll reply. Eventually. But really it feels like a chore. Like my “to do” list says “dishes, find living room floor, write back to Mr. Carl, de-lint bellybutton, solve economic crisis…” Bleah.

I did update my profile picture, because I think that’s what has been repulsing the few matches that have instantly closed in the last few months. (Oh Fernando, where are you right now? Are you in the throws of fabulous grabby-touchies? Does she love you like I would have? (by which of course I mean with extra toys and such…) Do you ever think of me?... Oh Fernando!) I have convinced myself that I need a more “come hither” picture. And I actually have one! I found a picture an uncle took of me during the trip down to the fiery armpit of California last August! Now the actual look on my face is “take the picture already, and if you even THINK about dropping my beloved camera in the pool I’ll remove each of your internal organs one by one through your left ear.” But it could also be “come hither.” If you don’t know me very well. And also it’s sunny and I’m kind of smiling and neither of these things are true of most pictures I have of me!

I realized that I only have a few weeks left of this membership. I know it’s been SUPER worth the money spent, what with all the awesome contacts I made and all the exciting, stimulating matches and everything. But I think I’ve already decided that I’ll probably re-up, at least for a little longer. Right? Your thoughts?

(OK, so now I’m gonna go reply to Mr. Carl. Or possibly finish off a bag of Pirate’s Booty. It’s a toss-up really.)

Unlikely In Love: The Flashback episode.

So according to The Bloggess (who should know, because HELLO? She has the word “Blog” right in her NAME?) all bloggers are apparently supposed to do a recap of the past year on their blog. But she didn’t know until just now, and I didn’t know until I read it in her blog, and so here I am. Late again.

But the good news is that it gives me ONE MORE THING to blog about, which is awesome!

Also I was totally going to write a post about new years resolutions, as I have some (sort of. I guess more accurately I have some thoughts about the new year which could be called “resolutions” if it weren’t for the fact that I’m primarily “against” new years resolutions.) but that post has become stuck in my brain and won’t come out.

(shudder)

MY POINT is that I have bloggy things to craft and share with you guys (who, by the way, are definitely pissed at me for the lack of blogging, because my little stats report thingie was ALL KINDS of red numbers, which loosely translates as “they’re bailing on you! Fleeing the crappy, non-writing ship like rats who don’t read and who see cheese on that floating bit of wood!” And you have every reason and right to be pissed, and I am definitely groveling and e-pologizing for being SO LAME here in blogland. But I digress…) but some of them are being uncooperative. So for right now I’m going to fall back on classic television solutions to such lack of writing inspiration and share with you guys my “flashback show.” Instead of finding a cohesive plot which explains why I would be thinking about the previous year like this, I’ll just hypothesize about what possibly drew the throngs of readers to that particular post. (hopefully one of them will feature “butt” quite a lot!)

Do me a favor and as you go from old episode to old episode do that wavy-lines thing and make that “doodle-ee-doodle-ee-doodle” noise, ‘kay?

Unlikely In Love’s top 10 most looked at posts:
1. “Femtastic Gets New Glasses” – proof of just how popular antimetropia has become since I broke the news. I’m SO a trend setter!
2. “So Few Words, So Many Syllables” – features such super-handy phrases as “Stinkbutt”, “body parts identification” and “Princess in da house, yo!”
3. “Mouths and Irony and Aluminum Foilishness” – ummmmm, “turkey kielbasa, all spicy and good”?
4. “Femtastic Hates Getting Her New Glasses” – Antimetropia, people – it’s huge!
5. “And Away We Go!...” – there are many things that could be the draw for this, but if I’m being actually honest I’d say it’s probably this sentence: “Ew, I think you have e-cooties!!”
6. “Big Finish!” – AN-TI-MET-RO-PEE-AH, people!! The glasses saga is everything!
7. “This is Me, Testing a Blue Pen” – In this post I coined the phrase “penporium”. I suspect that most of the folks who have visited and re-visited this post are those desperate to take my clever word creation and make millions with it. It’s just that genius.
8. “All the good ones ARE married or gay.” – 50% married readers, 50% gay readers = 100% posty love.
9. “Shuffle, Ball, Step, Whizzz” – Is there anything better than pee humor? No. There is not.
10. “100 Things About Femtastic…” -- All of these hits are me. I keep forgetting what the heck I’ve already told you guys about me!

The one I forgot to title for like 3 days...

I think my imaginary online boyfriend-like-person might be mad at me.

You know how I didn’t write any blog posts for a really long time? And how it was because holidays are super-busy (but also super-awesome, which makes the super-busy part of it totally worth it, but still super-busy)? Well at the same time that I wasn’t writing to you guys I was also simultaneously not writing to Mr. Carl. At all.

Like he’s written me two lovely, albeit boring as watching fish evolve, emails and I’ve written him one response. (I do think, though, that I met the boring requirement. I seem to remember having fallen asleep while writing my reply at least once, so boring was my lame email reply.) It took me at least a week, and probably two, to write the first reply, and then when I finally did “send” it he replied back to me in something like a day. A DAY! Plus, in the reply he told me how he had to run because he was rushing off to the airport to catch a plane and I’m thinking “what in the hell are you doing writing me an email when you have a plane to catch? DID YOU NOT NOTICE THE BORING?!?!” Ugh. So even though I have many busy, busy holiday things I was doing on which I can blame my weeks of not replying to the second instantaneous response from Mr. Carl, it’s really because bleah, I don’t wanna.

But I will, because if I don’t you guys will be fed up with me and The Queen will take away my television!

So it was with that less-than-enthusiastic, but completely obligatory, wave of… something… that I faced eventually taking the 3-6 minutes it takes to craft boring and lame emails to reply to Mr. Carl. Except that TODAY I got an email in my personal email saying that I have a message from Mr. Carl waiting for me in my EMelody account. (which I can’t access from work, as they have blocked EMelody at work because they are apparently not paying me to find the man of my dreamy, dreamy dreams but whatever, I don’t love you either stupid job…) So I have to wait until I get home to see what he wrote.

But when I saw he wrote I had this response: “oh crap! My online non-boyfriend-person is probably mad at me and I’m gonna get in trouble!”

I’m gonna get in trouble. Even though he doesn’t have my last name or my contact info. And even though I’m secretly hoping that there’s some nice, boring single girl out there looking for some boring boy just like Mr. Carl to settle down and like a whole lot, who will relieve me from my obligation to keep sending and receiving boring emails from Mr. Carl. It’s like my EMelody pen pal just assigned me homework!

So I’ll check when I get home. He’s probably just sending the classic “hello? Anyone out there?” email, and I’ll feel like a doofus and have to hide the doofusness in my reply.

My boring, boring, SO BORING reply.

Replace the "B" with the upside-down Double-U thingie and it all bakes sense...

I’b sick.

(and also cough, cough, hack, die.)

I wish I could blabe all of my lack-of-posting od this cold, but that would be a lie. But I can blabe the last 5 days of by not posting on this cold. Also I cad hate this cold for the coldidess of it.

(seriously, hack DIE.)

Before the cold I was just so having the holidays! I was baking (but not actually baking, like with an oven, but instead baking like how it would sound if I didn’t have a cold, with an eb. Upside-down double-u thing.) things that were gifty of nature like fabulous calendars highlighting how awesome is by photo-eye (and by hubility. Don’t forget my abazing, earth-shattering hubility) and also jewelry that was sparkly. SO sparkly. And this year again I didn’t do a Christbas card but instead did a CD of all the busic with which I was obsessed in the last year, which (get this) I do in lieu of a card because I hate all the hassles of sending Christbas cards.

OK, now I’b just gonna wait here for you to stop laughing at by piles of dumb…

…

…(ban, by cuticles are out of control!)…

…

…finished? Lovely.

All of this is just to say (hold it – coughing very much now!) that I’b a bad, bad blogger who dropped off the face of the earth and all bostly because of a holiday that I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, but that I don’t seem to banage very well. (…and how was YOUR ChrisbaHannuKwanzicas?)

But now I’b sick. Hack DIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!

Here’s the deal: I have bany posts in my head. Bany of them. Know how you find a gift for someone around the holidays and then once they’re off your “purchase” list you just keep thinking of new, excellent gifts for theb? Well when you’re way, WAY over-busy to write blog posts you spend all of your free tibe (and by free I don’t bean tibe where I could be writing a blog post, but bore accurately tibe in the shower or driving or falling asleep or standing in line waiting to get a shopping ball gift card watching sobe TREBENDOUS DOUCHEBAG be totally nasty to sobe poor, abused seasonal ball employee!!!) seeing excellent things about which you could write a blog post. If you weren’t in the shower. Or driving. “Hey, buddy, could you cobe over here so I could write a blog post about how buch of a tool you’re being during this the bost “be good, don’t pout, for goodness sake!” tibe of year on the back of your head???”

So now that the holidays are just about over, and I’ve taken care of all the “being sick” I need to do in the next 5 years, and my “brain” is full to bursting with blog post potential you should, IN THEORY, have things to read for a while. HAPPY NEW YEAR, BY PEOPLES!!!!!

(Hack. Also seriously for the last time die, die, DIE.)

Oh hi, I didn't see you standing there...

Ummmmmmm, hi.

(embarrassed, awkward pause)

Right, so I suck.

Look, I could waste your and my time with the long, whiny and entirely my fault reasons/excuses/bitchfest of where the heck I’ve been the last what – 2 weeks? Maybe more? Or I could just sum it up like this: Christmas is HARD.

I pretty much always seem to kill myself with entirely too many fabulous, ambitious projects for gifts. What starts off with “hey, I could give someone a calendar of family pictures!” always ends with “and that’s why I spent every night for a week up until 3am, searching years of photos so that I can create a chronological photo essay of the evolution of our family, printed like a painting on canvas and framed in an antique gold-plated frame. From Italy. The Country.”

The good news is that the last of the absurd, over-the-top projects was finished yesterday and I can now shun my “Santa’s Elves” existence and return to you! My Internet Bestest Friends! The bad news is that I only got 4 and a half hours of sleep last night (did I mention the final project is done?) and that’s 3 nights in a row of that and also I fell asleep typing the word “chronological” up above there, and again just now between “Santa’s” and “Elves”. So I don’t have the push in me to write anything worthwhile (I can see it now: the Christmas of the post of “eleven things I would not want shoved into my pants on a long hike.” Number 3: pickled rats-heads!) so I’m just going to leave you with three wise gems of depth and wisdom:

1) promise of a snow storm is not the same thing as a snow storm.
2) wait, what was I gonna do just now?
3) If enough pressure is placed it is possible to make a crease in the bridge of your nose with the top of the “F7” key.

But for now? S-L-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-P!

Comparatively speaking.

I finally sent a reply to Mr. Carl’s first non check-boxy communication. Not a GREAT reply. Not a CLEVER reply, or even a particularly coherent reply? But I sent a reply. I replied.

And then? Then E-Melody asked me to basically decide if I was in love or not. Right now. No pressure or anything, but now that you’ve checked a bunch of boxes and sent chunks of info and received other info chunks and you’ve each sent one whole email we were wondering if you have picked a date, color palette, song for the first dance…?

It was just a survey, I guess, but I was kind of amazed by some of the questions. Or even by the fact that they kept, they KEPT referring to the thing just barely going on here as a relationship. “How interested would you say you are in this relationship with Mr. Carl?” “Are you satisfied with the pace of this relationship with Mr. Carl?“ AM I TOTALLY NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP YET WITH MR. CARL? DO I WISH YOU WOULD STOP USING THAT WORD WHEN REFERRING TO MY EMAIL TO MR. CARL? DO I THINK THAT YOU MIGHT REFER TO A CUP OF COFFEE AND SHARING OF A CHEESE DANISH AS “MARRIAGE”?

If the survey had included the question “what word best describes your level of investment in this “relationship” with Mr. Carl?” I would have had to check the “tepid” box. There’s nothing specifically wrong with him (as far as I know – if he has a box of human heads in his attic he hasn’t mentioned it yet. Probably prudent – don’t want to give everything away too fast. Gotta keep SOME secrets, right? What were we talking about again? Oh, right. “tepid”) but I’m really not jazzed. I realized how luke-warm I feel about it when I found myself really interested in another match.

We will call him Fernando. (and we will mysteriously swoon a little at the mention of his name. Even though I just now made it up.)

First let me say that his real name was even more fabulous. I almost put the real name here in the blog only because it’s such an iconic one! Suffice it to say his name brings visions of smooth, barrel-chested, stallions gripping lacily-boddessed wenches against the mast of a pirate ship! In all honesty I originally SCOFFED at this name. Openly scoffed. Considered rejecting the match on the name alone.

But this guy’s little bio-thingy was the first one that ever really caught my attention. And no, I really can’t tell you why – I’ve read and re-read his bio a couple of times to try to figure it out, but it’s too subtle. Except one thing: he’s one of twins, and he and his twin brother were born in Italy and then moved here and THEN orphaned and adopted and all of that really intrigued me, plus the impact this unique history had on his view of “family”. For whatever intangible reason I was, for the first time so far, actually jazzed.

Which is why I should really have KNOWN that he would close the match right away. And should even more have known that the reason he closed the match was because he’s already involved with someone else. (what, me bitter? Of course not! Grumble…)

I will keep going with Mr. Carl as long as he does. But so far he’s no Fernando.

Thanksgiving was holding me hostage. Yummy, mashed-potato hostage...

Oh hi. How was your holiday? Was it turkey-rific? Pie-tastic? Food-nomenal? Yeah. Mine too.

I must confess, and even issue a warning for some people (the “anti-holiday” people. The ones who get angry at the sight of lights strung on rooftops in early December. The ones who flinch at every “fa la la la la…”), that I am very “pro” holidays. I think I’ve already mentioned my love for all things Christmas (which I’m happy to apologize for right up until the 4th Thursday of November, but we’re officially in ‘the season’ now so Jingle Bells, baby!!!) but I love Thanksgiving too. Thanksgiving is just like Christmas but without gifts! Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE me the gift giving! That’s one of my very favorite things about this time of year: the permission to give any gift I want to any loved one I want! You can’t imagine the amount of time and energy I spend the rest of the year coming up with excuses to gift the gifts I find and want to gift. “Here, Queenie, is a very cool thing I am giving you because today is the 16 week anniversary of that one time you said I looked cute in these pants!”

EX-HAUSTING!

But a lot of people get freaked out by the gifts thing. So Thanksgiving is excellent because you get the people and the food and the fun and the general sense of “Whee!!!” without the stress from those who find gifting stressful.

And there’s pie.

However, much as I loved the holiday weekend I am sorry about the big lack of posts. I had PLANNED to do a post on Wednesday. One could say even a solicited post. A favorite blogger of mine issued a challenge on that pre-holiday-day: give thanks for the hard, bad or otherwise “challenging” things! (and then write about it. In a blog. You see where I’m goin’ with this...) I was ALL ABOUT this challenge. Because LO! A CHALLENGE! PROFERRED INSPIRATION – NOW GO!

Turns out, though, that it was harder than I figured.

I was totally without idea! Couldn’t come up with any kind of silver lining for things like the economy or flea infestations or my overly-huge rear. (“I give thanks for my big butt, because if this economy keeps tanking I might be able to use my pants as a tent! Thereby giving easier access to the fleas...?”) I wracked my brain for ideas and came up empty handed. (keeping in mind that Wednesday was the all-time least productive work day I’ve had since last December 24th. As a whole the only benefit in my being at work at all was the way my mass kept the building from becoming airborne and floating off into the sky. And YOUR WELCOME.)

Where was I? Oh right – no ideas. So distracted was I by the impending pie and upcoming green bean casserole that no productive thought could survive the oxygen-free atmosphere.

Then suddenly it was Thanksgiving and just an AWESOME day! Food and games and family and conversations and werewolves (don’t ask) and I was finally struck with that inspiration that had been eluding me all the previous day.

And so I would like to give thanks for my single status! Because even though it means that I came home to an empty (save for cats) house and had to make my food all by myself and had nobody with which to share the joy of the Kermit the Frog parade balloon or the arrival of Santa Clause, I ALSO did not have to figure out how to juggle the gatherings of 2 (or more!) sets of family and parents and obligations. I didn’t have to have 2, or 3, or 11 Thanksgiving meals throughout the weekend to satisfy all the invitations.

To be honest, one of the things that I COMPLETELY DREAD about the idea of being partnered is the hassle of having to share my life with someone else’s family. What do I do on Christmas? I open presents with my parents and go to the gathering of my family. Period. The End. I don’t have to go to my family’s house one year and his family’s house the next year. I don’t have to EVER spend my beloved holidays with people who are not MY people. I can’t even fathom the idea of spending Christmas with anyone other than my very own family. In almost 40 years I’ve never had to. It would seem like not having Christmas at all!

So, even though the goal of this whole blog is the finding of a partner, on the holidays I revel in my independence and the complete LACK of partner complications. My big hope is to find that amazing, single guy who’s entire family was lost at sea. (fingers crossed!)

Even though it’s practically a week too late, I’d still love to pass on the suggestion for everyone to look for that challenging thing that they normally consider bad news and find a way to give thanks for even that. Consider it the first step of this newest holiday season.

And then? Have Pie. Happy Belated Thanksgiving, everybody!

Right up until they join forces and overthrow me...

I want a Roomba.

I’ve never wanted one before. I’ve heard that they work best on floors and don’t do much to pull up cat fur. I live in a mostly-carpeted house with my two cats, Senor Sheds-a-Lot and Missy La Dumps-Her-Fur.

They’re still pretty expensive, and I’m sure if I held out eventually they’d drop down to nothing. Heck, some day they’ll probably be disposable and you’ll get them from those machines at the door of the grocery store. “Gumball or Roomba… Gumball or Roomba… Hmmm….”

Given that eventually we’ll all be conquered and dominated by the robots I’m not sure it makes sense to bring yet another one into the house. I’m already having to keep a close eye on my TiVO and my digital camera. (No, I’m not worried about my computer. It’s a Mac. We all know they are generous of heart and noble of spirit. When the robots make their move I’m gonna seek sanctuary at Apple headquarters.)

And yet, as of right now, I want a Roomba. Why? I give you Exhibit A:

Because now I can blame YOU guys!

You foolish, foolish people… Why do you encourage me the way you do? (Oh, and by the way? LOVE YOU FOR THE ENCOURAGING THE WAY YOU DO! Many E-Smooches for the comments on the last post! And to those of you who have not yet commented on this post, let me just tell you that commenting will make you feel minty fresh AND will unlock the secrets of getting into some kind of E-Heaven. I’m just sayin…) Thanks to Bridget and the Anonymous but OH SO WIZE AND CLEVER commenter I’m gonna keep going. Because I might spin a tale! Because I deserve happiness! But mostly because otherwise Bridget will stop reading. (mean!)

So when last we saw our heroin she had completed all of the official E-Melody assignments. Multiple choice questions and “how much I hate these things” vs. “how much I hate anyone who ISN’T these things” and then essay questions (which, by the way, I’m pretty sure I totally aced! I feel really good about the essay portion of my exam! I used some excellent SAT words, like “illusory” and “obfuscate”, and I demonstrated a connection between my personality and the mythic beauty of Helen of Troy.) and now? NOW?

Now “Mr. Carl is taking his turn to read Dr. Warren's open communication message and send you his first message.”

Apparently if you get through all the gates and tunnels and adventurous other communication-challenges you get lectured by some guy. Also? I don’t get to read the lecture until Mr. Carl is done reading the lecture and sending me his first message. Like this knowledge is too valuable to give to both of us. Like they have just the one copy of the lecture-knowledge, and I can’t see it until Mr. Carl is done, and also please don’t fold or crease the knowledge and don’t write in the margins because we need it to be in good condition for the next folks.

Fmeh.

Now I don’t know if I’m allowed to share the special, magical Dr. Warren knowledge with you guys. It’s possible that I’ll be required to sign a bunch of legal documents swearing me to secrecy and saying that if I DO share the knowledge I have to give E-Melody something important like my driver’s license. Or a kidney.

(If I share the special, magical knowledge of wove and womance and “how to please your man!” and they make me give up a kidney I’m sure one of you wonderful, encouraging readers will give me one of yours, right?)

From wanna-be-Dooce to possible-Douche

First let me just say that I would like to be Dooce when I grow up. Or Joss Jackson. Or Amalah. I would like to be any of these people who write blogs that are beloved by many, and also who are super-amusing writers (and if you are NOT reading their blogs, and you ARE reading MY blog I have to tell you both MMMMMMWAH – KISSES OF LOVE AND GRATITUDE!!!! and also ARE YOU MAAAAAAAAD????? GO RIGHT NOW AND READ THEIR BLOGS! ALL OF THEM! AND READ BACK IN TIME AND ESPECIALLY THAT FUNNY ONE THEY WROTE THE OTHER DAY! (any of them. It doesn’t matter. They all wrote something funny the other day – it’s guaranteed. That’s how good their blogs are)) I would like to be someone who can take/find/make the time to write many times a week (and here’s the big stuff) and HAVE NO DAY JOBS AND HAVE SUPER-INTERESTING THINGS HAPPEN TO THEM ALL THE TIME ABOUT WHICH THEY CAN WRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE!!!!!

In other words: I apologize that my lame life is so very lame, to the point where I have to talk myself out of writing about the funny color my poop was the other day simply because it was the most uniquely-noteworthy thing for that day. (but to be fair? Green. It was green. I’m just sayin’…)

Sometimes I see fancy photography magazines where they have this big multi-page spreads of amazing photos of vintage architecture in Venice, Italy or tremendous waterfalls in Australia or lions on the prowl in the Serengetti and these pictures are breathtaking. But of COURSE they are! I think to myself “Heck, I could take breathtaking photos of fancy old houses or waterfalls or lions if I were in these places too!” (me? Petty and envious? NONSENSE! And also gimme your cookie!)

I’m having the same thoughts about these amazing bloggers that I love and read and who’s lives I covet. Because if I were a famous author I would probably get to go to New York and have exciting parties and rat sightings to write about! If I were a super-successful, and sometimes controversial, professional, full-time blogger surrounded by the conservative capital of the nation I could have a fabulous meet-and-greet, IN LOS ANGELES NO LESS, to which I could invite my millions of readers! If I were a brand new mommy I’d have heart-touching stories about my brand new baby and the birthing of same to share!

OK, but then I know what you’ll say next (because I know you, my favorite e-friends so well! And also because you’re MOSTLY imaginary and in my brain); you’ll say “hello??? Matches on E-Melody??? There’s something you could be writing about!! BE WRITING ABOUT THAT PLEASE!!!!” And mostly you’d be absolutely correct. Heck, that’s pretty much 75% of the reason I even do the online match thing! “Lo!” I think, “I will join and I will get matches and I will regale my e-friends with the hilarious and the absurd and “oh my god, can you believe he wrote THIS???” and we will laugh, and laugh, and laugh… good times.”

Here’s the thing though: Mr. Carl might be actually in to this.

Seriously, he responds really fast! Like when I get a question I take a day or two to think about the reply. Sometimes several days. Often a week… But not Mr. Carl. I sent him my three new questions and he replied back in a couple of days! And these aren’t multiple-choice, “click a box” responses this time. We’ve apparently progressed to the essay questions, where you have to craft words together into a paragraph-type answer. These take some level of thought. And he saw the questions I sent and did the thinking and replied right away! RIGHT AWAY!

Which frankly? Is freaking me out.

What is with the enthusiasm, dude? Same time, man, same time -- you don’t know me! (and here’s where the “what ifs” show up) What if he’s chomping at the bit for WOVE? What if he’s looking for wove and mawwiage and all that stuff and FAST, FAST, FAST??? What if he’s thinking “soon there will be dates and love and everything will be SOOO perfect, because E-Melody has assured me that we’re a match. And if it’s on the internet it can’t be wrong” And what if he’s thinking that I’m thinking these thinks too? And what if I’m mostly thinking “ok, I should probably go answer the questions from Mr. Carl so that we can get to the next step in case the next step is chocked full of high-larity, about which I can blog.”

What I’m saying is this: If he’s doing it for the possible wove and I’m doing it for the blogging, does that make me a complete rat bastard? Because while I love me some writing, I don’t want to be stomping on anyone’s feelings in the process.

Your thoughts? Anyone? Anyone?

Next I'll ask Keith to just write all my posts. Because GO KEITH!

One of things I was MOST excited about last Tuesday night was that all the politics, politics, POLITICS was going to finally settle down. Seriously, I've been afraid to answer my phone or the front door for months because 50% of the time I was greeted by someone eager to tell me why I ABSOLUTELY MUST VOTE AGAINST/FOR THE LOVE OF GOD VOTE FOR (RANDOM PERSON, BALLOT MEASURE OR PROPOSITION) OR ELSE WE WILL ALL DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!! My region votes by mail and it's great because once you figure out what you're voting for/against you can send it away and put a little sign on your front door that says "I've already voted" so that the voting police will leave you alone. (or if you're a sneaky, under-handed person you might even put the sign on your door as soon as the ballots arrive in the mail -- they don't know!)

So I awoke Wednesday to a fabulous, politics-pushing-free-zone. Revel in the lack of people wanting to tell me how to think and feel about things and stuff! Whee! What's that, automated phone message? You want to help me with my mortgage rates (a tricky thing, since I rent) or extend my car's warranty (which it's never had) or sell me satellite tv (HA!!!)? Go right ahead! Sell me and get me and extend me! Just so long as you don't want to talk about voting I'll even let you give me a longer schlong.

And then I read the E-paper, about how my good friends the citizens of California got together to present a group "F*ck You!" to the gay population of the state. And I said to myself "Oh Balls. Guess nobody called the Californians and told them how to vote."

First things first: I am opposed to the idea of Prop 8 or anything that says to a sub-section of our nation (or world) "you do not have the right to make a legal, official life with the person you love." I'm appalled that so many states decided to exercise their rights to be small-minded and selfish and petty and just generally wrong. The whole thing is tragic and stupid and other snarky, irritated and frustrated-because-I-didn't-have-any-chance-to-vote-AGAINST-it things. But rather than me tell you my feelings I'd like to continue the wave of general praise for Keith Olbermann which is sweeping across the internets and just let him tell you my feelings. Because what he is about to say? Yeah. Hell Yeah.

Tell 'em, Keith:



(thanks, thanks and more thanks to The Queen and the brilliant pop culture pundits at www.mamapop.com for clueing me on to this.)

battle of the bulge, Part Four - weight loss through hate and office products

So I’ve been battling (sort of) and so far my triumphs can be described thusly: I’ve lost a grand total of something like half a pound. And also my soul has been wrung completely dry of all soulful moisty goodness. SO HUNGRY. This, for me, is extremely frustrating because I feel like the last two months have been all about me trying to eat the less bad-for-me foods and less of those food anyway and also trying to find ways to exercise, exercise, exercise. And all this for ½ a pound.

Part of my trouble is my magical and unstoppable metabolism. My metabolism is both sneaky and brilliant, and responds to change almost instantly. I change my foods from those yummy, fatty and deep-fried to their lite ™ and helthi (also ™) cousins and it confuses the systems for a day or two, sure. But by the end of the week the metabolism is on to me and it’s found a way to leech rolly-polly pounds from the Lean Pocket and the sliced apple. So I cut back on the number of apple slices and have only ½ of the English muffin and only 1 taco for dinner rather than 2. And of course the scale drops initially, but once again my danged metabolism figures it out, and even the working out it out-smarts! “Go ahead!” says Mr. Metabolism, “tap your little heart out! Bike to work three times a day if you want! Do your puny little sit-ups! You can’t stop me!!” And then it converts my bone marrow into a new chin.

To make matters worse, I have friends like Risky and the King, who have the good witch Glenda metabolism to my Wicked Metabolism of the West. My friends are related to each other in such a way as to allow them to share their metabolistic traits, which work like this:

Eat a King-Sized Snickers and two bags of Doritos per day + blink your eyes eleven times = drop a pant size, step out of your over-big shoes, become invisible when turned profile. How I hate them.

Case in point: Risky has always been the tall, willowy type with the porcelain skin and the curly, black hair, even in Jr. High School. And yet it was around then that she introduced me to Annual Pig Out Day (which you and I call “Fourth of July”) The way she chose to celebrate had less fireworks and more bopping down to the 7-11 to purchase GOBS of junkfood: chocolate and chips and ice cream and fabulous Hostess creations and even just thinking about the piles of food has caused one of my arteries to completely close – pardon me for a minute as I self-CPR me back to life.

Clear…

Anyway, Risky took a day and ate, ate, ATE and when the dust settled guess how many pounds she gained. GUESS! Do you have a guess? Does your guess start with “not a danged pound” and end with “and so I killed her dead!”? Because if it does you’d totally be right! (except for the killing her part. But I think totally wanting to kill her counts. Also the wanting could be aerobic, so…)

Where was I going with this again? Oh, right! The hate. The searing, seething but apparently not at all fat-burning hate…

Right now the King mocks me and my sad, all-too-human metabolism with his biking to work. He bikes to work once a day, and then also bikes home also once a day. For a grand total of two trips a day, about 40 minutes of biking per day. (when exactly did my blog posts become word problems?) I bike to and from work TWICE a day, taking almost 50 minutes of biking time. And he loses weight! And I lose nothing! NOTHING! GAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

So here’s the plan for this, the last month of the Battle of the Bulge:
Eat nothing but salad greens, sunflower seeds and reams of copy paper. (roughage)
Stop driving completely and instead walk EVERYWHERE, and always uphill
Channel my hate of my skinny friends to my thighs and tuckas, utilizing it’s fiery hotness to burn away calories.

I SHALL PREVAIL!!

EDITED TO ADD: Did I mention that The Queen now has her own blog? Did ? Because she totally does! And on it she will tell you how she is attempting to win the battle of the bulge. So you can go there to read what she has to say, and then you can come back here and wonder how the hell I don't just explode from all the Strawberry Poptarts. Sigh.

Pants-wearing optional, racism a deal-breaker and other shocking developments...

So I know that I’ve never gone this far w/ a match on E-Melody before because I’m only just now beginning to think that this feels a lot like school. Like “falling in love homework” Like E-Melody is some online teacher who keeps sending me home with a new assignment. “Very nice job on your first three questions – solid B+. Now before our next class please search your soul and bring me a dozen things that you cannot live without, as well as another dozen things that you just cannot stand.” Because after there are questions and more questions then there are the Must Haves and the Can’t Stands.

Also I have to say this particular exercise just seems silly. I mean if you explained to me the various steps to finding Twoo Wove via onlineness this one would have seemed sound – compare those things that you either really must have in a mate (needs to have a head – neck-onlys need not apply!) as well as those things that you really cannot abide (anybody who shoots snot rockets really should die alone! I’m serious!) But then when you get to this step it seems silly! Because it’s not these kind of unique things, but instead it’s stuff that I have to categorize as “Ummm, DUH!”

The good news, though, was that I apparently created my list when I set up the initial profile, so at least this step was EASY. I went through the list, which I made almost 2 years ago and which I honestly don’t remember making, and can’t really even be sure I did make, because although I agree with the list WHO WOULDN’T????

Minor tangent: I’m sorry so many of the recent posts are so listy. I read them later and I cringe with all the listiness, and I promise myself that there will be no more posts which are just me telling you EVERYTHING TO THE LAST DETAIL of what E-Melody is like. Guh. But I’m sorry, I cannot seem to avoid it this time either. But next time I will! I promise! If the next blog post is all listfull you can go ahead and… read it and love it and tell your friends? Please don't go away...

Examples of things that I can’t live without include:

Emotionally Healthy: I must have a partner who is emotionally healthy, and able to share a stable life with someone else. (Not me, I want someone who can’t make it through a coffee commercial without sobbing and who insists that I enter the room backwards just in case he can’t face me at that moment.)
Communicator: I must have someone who is good at talking and listening. (Wait, talking AND listening? Where DUST THOU get these impossible expectations? I suppose you want someone who can both chew AND swallow too, eh? Ridiculous!)
Loyal: must have someone I can count on to always support me. (Or, failing that, please don’t make faces behind my back when I’m talking at parties. Or at least let me come in to the parties, rather than sitting in the car. Or at least let me get in the car. Instead of the trunk. This time.)
Spirit of Volunteerism: must have a partner who shares my willingness to volunteer and support community and/or social causes. (…ok, I have no response to this one. I seriously don’t remember picking this one. But I guess I’d better start volunteering and supporting community and/or social causes. …crap.)
Kindness: I must have a partner who is gentle and kind. (WHO WOULD NOT WANT THIS? This has to have been an “ok, I'm out of other options, guess I’ll pick the “kind” one. It’s either this one or “generally likes to wear pants when out of the house.”)

…The Can’t Stand options were much the same, and rather than my listing them let me nutshell it by telling you that I’m apparently not willing to date someone who is a boorish, depressed, mean-spirited, arrogant racist. And apparently you need to stipulate this. Because apparently there are some women out there who WANT THESE THINGS? Who are these women? And do they really need to spend $50 a month to go online and FIND these things? Are the boorish, depressed, mean-spirited, arrogant racist men of the world really such rare, precious gems that you have to search and search and search for? REEEAAALLLYYY????

I sent him my lists, because that was the current homework assignment, and in about 2-3 days he sent me HIS lists. And again to not list things I will nutshell it and say that he is ALSO looking for an emotionally healthy, kind and funny communicator, and especially does not want to date a lying, cheating, arrogant, foul-mouthed racist. (gosh, I wonder where all the racists go to find love? Is there an E-Purity website out there somewhere?)

And now I have a new assignment: sending YET MORE QUESTIONS. But we’ll cover that next. For now I have to go tell the other 10 guys that I’m already dating some story about my not being awesome enough for them (ha!) so that they’ll go the f*ck away. (good thing I’m not racist.)

Yes I Can? Really?

Is it me or is it really hopey around here these days? (and by “here” I mean the nation. And by “these days” I mean mostly since Tuesday) For the most part I don’t do the politics thing here, but I’ll go ahead and fly my flag for a minute: I’m one of the people who was HAPPY about the outcome of this most recent election. And if you need a why let me just say because we have hit ROCK BOTTOM, people, and no matter what we need something really different. Though it is trite, I’ll go ahead and drop the new party line: we need us some serious CHANGE.

Now it looks like we may get some. Yay!

As such, the concept of change has been heavy in the air, like crappy cousin Chip’s fajita farts in the communal tent. With so much talk of change everywhere to you look how do you not look inward and think about your own capacity for change? Answer: you don’t.

And so I must confess that for the first time in years and years I find myself thinking that it MIGHT be possible that I indulge in partnership.

DO NOT FREAK OUT. I haven’t met anyone or seen anyone or even had a sex dream or anything. We’re just being conceptual right now. We’re shooting the sh*t, we’re throwing around ideas, we’re raising something up the flag to see if anyone sets it on fire. But even just the act of me leaving this option open is a little huge. Because despite the online dating and the speed dating and the thousands of wooooooooooords spent on this pursuit in the last 2 years, I’ll be brutally honest and tell you I’ve not once actually expected anything to come of it. Igloos by Satan’s beach house and pigs with pilot’s licenses have seemed as likely.

But this week, while contemplating all the possible changes I could make on my life I actually entertained the idea that there had been some massive, scifi-scale shift in the fabric of reality. And that maybe there’s a person out there up to the challenge?

Interesting.

(also I’m going to start bathing, go back to wearing a bra and I’m going to stop ending every sentence with “and like dat dere…” It’s a brand new day dawning, people!)

(and like dat dere…)

Q & A. Or actually A and Q.

I answered questions. I am a question answerer. Erer. Er.

The Question Man we will now call Mr. Carl. For no reason other than I’m sitting here watching a NASCAR race and the guy for whom I’m cheering is Carl and so Mr. Carl it is. Mr. Carl asked me 5 questions, as is the way they roll at E-melody. His questions were these:

1) What kind of exercise do I prefer?
I wanted to say that I prefer to not need exercise, and to be skinny and pert anyway. I wanted to say that I prefer to go dancing with fabulous packs of fierce homofexuals, no boyfriends allowed. I wanted to say that I would vote for any presidential candidate who can promise me a completely exercise-free method to be both trim and also fit. But that seemed like a lot of crazy right up front, and also you shouldn’t talk politics on the first ‘date’. So instead I told him that I’m a tap dancer. Because he should get at least a little of the crazy up front, right?

2) My idea of a romantic time would be:
OK, so this is tricky because I don’t respond well to the idea of a romantic time. I tend to roll my eyes and bite my lip and here my own voice yelling “lame!! Laaaaaame!!!” at each lighted candle and Celine Dion song. But didn’t we just decide that the crazy needed to be spread out over time? So I simply told him “You show me your favorite movie and I’ll show you mine.” Because just saying “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” was dangerous.

3) What style of dress do I prefer?
Danger, Will Robinson! Of the 4 pre-crafted answers I could pick from I decided “I dress for the occasion” was sufficiently non-committal. I’m hoping that, inspired by my answer to number 1, he’ll picture me in white tails and top hat, black cane and surrounded by Busby Berkely girls.

4) Would I rather date someone who is:
This question is one I have also sent, because it touches on the issue of time. How much time do you want? How much time will you need? If I never have any time for you at all will you WHINE ABOUT IT? I told Mr. Carl that I would prefer someone who is busy, with a structured scheduled, where I would know what days they will be available for fun. Mostly because he’d better be looking for someone just like that. Because I have an important blog to write, and he’s gonna have to wait his turn!

5) How often do I find myself laughing?
This is where I get a danged trophy for NOT answering “every time I read the profiles of dudes who match me on E-Melody!” I was swimming in self control. I was careful and forward thinking, and I, as it turns out, was not going to sabotage things instantly after all! After such impressive willpower I felt I should immediately go to the living room and eat every last bit of Halloween candy in the bowl. But first I needed to give Mr. Carl some kind of answer, so I picked the almost-honest “I crack myself up!”

Once I sent these answers to Mr. Carl I was then instructed to send him some of my own questions. I was there, the mountain was showing me it’s big, mountainy butt as if to say “bet you can’t climb me!” so I capitalized on my momentum and 5 sent questions:

1) When in a relationship, how much personal space do you generally find you need?
Most questions have 4 answers to pick from, plus the option of "other" and you write in your own response. The options for this question were:
- I don’t need personal space; I like together time.
- time spent at work is enough personal time and I wanna spend the rest of the time with my partner.
- I just need one night a week of personal time and the rest with my partner
- when I’m with my partner I’m completely there, but I do need personal time for reflection
Sadly, this is a trick question because none of these work for me. I’m looking for that one guy out of twenty who writes “look, I’ll call you when I call you. Back off, will you? YOU’RE SMOTHERING ME!!!”

2) Which of the following scenarios would make you more nervous?
- making a presentation in front of 500 people (because apparently I’m looking for someone not afraid to start a pyramid scheme?)
- taking a long car ride with someone you just met. (isn’t this how most episodes of “Without a Trace” begins?)
- talking about your biggest fears with your lover. (Or being involved with someone who wants you to call them “your lover.” Ech.)
- meeting with the president of your company (…ok, that has potential for being scary…)

3) On Saturday night, would you rather go to:
I won’t even give you the options here, because the only bad answer would be if they wrote in “bed.” (unless they mean it in the dirty way. Except that would be “ew!”, so I’m still opposed to the answer “bed”.)

4) What is your opinion of traditional gender roles?
OK, if you’re a guy this has to seem like a complete trap, right? And it is! Instead of the normal 4 possible answers this one just has 3, and they’re basically “loves me some Donna Reed!”, “loves me some Sarah Connor” or “pass.”

5) Outside of a romantic relationship, are you competitive?
Translation: can I play RISK with you or not?

I sent these questions to Mr. Carl, and since I was on a productivity roll I sent them to all 4 of the other matches too. Lookit me, sending questions out like I’m actually looking for wove. Who IS this woman?