Will the real Mr. Wonderful please stand up!

So here I sit, with one fellow who seems very intent on meeting me (about which a sane person would say “how flattering!” but I say “clear signs of his lack of good judgment and/or questionable sanity”) and another fellow who is so off-limits as to be made of cyanide-laced-plutonium-snake-bullets! And of course I’m most giggly about Dr. Cyanide.

Don’t worry – I’m not crazy myself (although I play one on tv). Never shall I poop where I also eat. (ew.) But it’s the difference between the known commodity (i.e. I know this forbidden fruit is smart and handsome and successful and cool, and did I mention he winks? He’s a champion winker? Sigh about the winking.) vs. the unknown commodity (i.e. online dude who could look like Lurch or be as talkative as Lurch or as successful as Lurch or be in any manner Lurchfull.) I go towards what I already know, even when I also already know that what I know is a no-go.

But correct me if I’m wrong: the winking was dirty pool on Dr. Cyanide’s part, yes? I mean, he also knows that he’s fruit of the No-No-No-No-No variety, so why must he tease?

The Queen suggested (because how smart is she? Oh so smart!) that I peek at his left hand. And I will. Even though I a little bit don’t want to know, because of COURSE he’s married and probably a Dad and therefore even more cyanidey and plutoniumish. That’s too much evidence and I wouldn’t even be able to fantasize anymore. Right now I can get a total Pretty Woman/Working Girl/Name Your Completely Unrealistic Chick Flick Where The Girl Does What Nobody Should Do and Wins Anyway Here-type fantasy going when I need a little pick-me-up.

But once I know he’s married? I will fantasize no more.

I tried to fantasize about Potential Dude, but I can’t shed the certain feeling that anybody found through this channel couldn’t possibly be a winner. My fantasies about Potential Dude normally end up with him borrowing money, or possibly my car. To pick up the drums. For his band. Which someday will totally be the next Megadeath or Starland Vocal Band. (shudder)

ANYWAY, by this weekend I’m guessing that one man will be officially married and the other officially crazy/creepy/crappy, and so I guess I should really enjoy this, the week of wacky, faboo potential! The week where my fantasy life could be of a mysterious stranger who pursues me (and may or may not be a millionaire or prince of a foreign land!) or a handsome professional type who’s a total sweetie, and the exciting prospect of fruit all “hands-offy!”

Good, solid advice

OK, so some of you out there may be starting new jobs, like I am, and you want to start things out RIGHT. And I applaud that! Starting things out right is highly underrated! There are all sorts of good lessons that people just don't think to learn, and that will help you with the starting of things out-rightly!

For instance, be sure to learn people's names as soon as you can.

Oh, and try to take notes, lots of notes.

And never, ever, ever GET A CRUSH ON SOMEONE WHO IS KIND OF YOUR BOSS.

Oh no, you would never do that. Only a complete idiot would let themselves develop any kind of flitty, heart-poundy headrush just because a boss-type-person comes up and grabs their hand. Only a COMPLETE idiot. Because how dumb really? Dumb like "ooh, look, a fan! What happens when I stick my tongue into the blades? Surprise and horror -- it hurt? Wow, so not expected!" dumb. Like "hello Mr. Fork, please meet the insides of Mrs. Toaster!" dumb.

You, my smart and sensible friends, would never catch yourself looking way too deeply into some handsome boss-type's eyes just because he's looking right back at you (a little too intensely) and then realize that the last part of what he was saying was something you should have been writing down and weren't and now you have to come up with an excuse for why he needs to repeat that part since you were, after all, STARING RIGHT AT HIM, SEEMING FOR ALL THE WORLD TO BE LISTENING TO EVERYTHING THAT HE SAID! No, no, no you would NOT.

What else could I suggest for you and your out right starting of things? Well, it’s good to ask questions, lots of questions. Be sure to start off as organized as possible. Be optimistic – everyone likes the cheerful Charlie.

I saw that! Not EVERYONE! Bosses on whom you should not be crushing don’t like cheerful Charlie, or maybe they do, but even so you should be crush-free there! No crushes, none! No crushing in the workplace at all! That way you won’t meet someone and think they’re crushy and get intrigued and then find out “oh yeah, that guy? That’s someone who is kind of a boss of yours. Yeah, he is nice, isn’t he?” and then have to boil your own head.

You already know that smart, handsome, friendly boss-types are going to be married anyway, and probably with kids or something, and so even if they weren't a boss-type (and therefore totally off limits anyway) they'd STILL be a foolish choice for crushing upon. Because you are smart and wise and don't sit around thinking up new and marvelous ways to make your life even more absurd and (I may have mentioned this, but because it bears repeating) DUMB, DUMB, D-U-U-U-U-U-U-M-B-B-B-B!!!!

Oh, and be sure to wash your hands. Because at least you have your health. Good luck with the new job!

Getting every bit of what I paid for.

So I decided to sit down and complete my fweewove.com profile. Everything. My likes, my dislikes, religious beliefs, political stance, favorite food, biggest fear, place I'd least like to be kicked (Barcelona)... the whole she-bang! This, I figured, was the key to finding my true wove! If I don't let them know who I really am and what I really want, I reasoned, then how could I expect them to help me? It took some time, but I got it done, and with my newly specific search parameters I called for a match.

And this is what I got:

"polyamorous, looking for another new relationship"

Apparently my Mr. Right is shacked up with a Mrs. Right and a couple of little Rightlings, but they have an understanding. And a corral of "friends" on the side. And an opening for a new "friend." And probably hot-and-cold running cable-porn. And an uncanny ability to give me the fuzzy, leaping, sideways-hinged and double-barrelled heebie-jeebies! (brief pause for shudder dance of a thousand great googly-mooglies!)

And in case you need more excellent information I should mention that Fabio here looks to be about 5 and a half feet tall. And 3 and a half feet wide. With kind of a dirty Teddy Ruxpin thing goin' on. And did I mention he's looking not for a special lady, but more for an additional, or "spare" if you will, special lady. A sparecial lady. He apparently is so overflowing, so bubbling over with masculine machismo magic that just one, or possibly two, or maybe even three to five women just can't satiate him. Nor, apparently, can two to five daily donuts. But really, who could resist such animal magnetism? (cough, gag, pinch of vomit into my mouth...)

Not only was this the first match that my newly specific search brought me, but it was the ONLY MATCH. The ONLY ONE. This is IT. If I am to go to the person with which I am meant to be I will have to dig deep, deep into my Mr. Rogers training and really rock my sharing skills. Please Mr. Polyamorous (which is, I believe, Latin for uber-randy, which is German for mucho-horny, which is Spanish for "I actually think I can get a bunch of women to come have loose sex with me despite my personal appearance and wife plus kids."), won't you be my neighbor?

I will admit, people, that this response to such specificity is disappointing. It's sure a good thing I didn't pay for this one!

Grumble, grumble, murder, grumble...

Woe to be the guy who was waiting at home for me on days like today.

I am cranky. No, sorry, it should be this: CRANKY. I can't exactly explain when it started, and it was probably something very minor. But then websites that I wanted to look at had the audacity of being unavailable! And tools that I need to do my job here at my job were messin' with me! Not working and such! And it got warm enough outside that I was slightly uncomfortable when driving home for lunch! SLIGHTLY TOO WARM! And now I know I'll have to take the life of an innocent bystander before I'm done today. I don't want to, you understand. I have to.

Seriously, I'm normally a pretty jovial person. I'm all light-hearted and cheery and I often make other people's days turn all around just because I'm (as I may have mentioned) goddamn jovial! But then you get a day like today, where it feels like all the annoying things in the world have conspired against me. This kind of day is bad. It's a bad thing. And I become pure, unadulterated evil when exposed to enough of a day such as this.

Oh but see, the evil happens mostly at home. Because that's the thing I love about my home -- nobody there but me! I don't have to be nice to anyone or polite. I can indulge my inner a**hole and nobody else gets hurt. (oh sure, there's the kitties, but they're extremely sensitive to that shift in the air that means "Mama ain't happy!" and they make themselves comfortably scarce.)

I had another post, one that I've been meaning to publish for over a week, that I'd almost finally finished. Almost! And then my day reared it's ugly head and another poor soul was lost to it; the soul of the unpublished post. Now everyone should be very, very impressed that I didn't kill any of the following 3 people who wandered by my desk right after that. They were smiling and cheery and totally unaware of the minefield they were traipsing through. "Tralala!" cheered them as they treekled by, "look how gleeish are we because we have no idea that you're a human bear trap, just waiting to chew off our bottoms!" and they oblivious themselves right by and I DON'T EVEN KILL THEM!

But I don't because I know I can soon go home and grumplemungus around there and get it out of my system w/out actual bloodshed. If there was someone there when I got home, like a partner, I'd have to greet them like this:

"Get out. Get out right now while you still have your life and your precious, precious limbs."

They'd run, but they probably wouldn't run back. Or they would foolishly stay to try to make me feel better and I'd have to spend the bulk of the night burying body parts and scrubbing blood out of the carpet.

Lucky me and lucky everyone else that I'm a single girl on days like today.

It Could Be Worse, Chapter Two...

OK, so when you're not doing something, but you're surrounded by it, you tend to become observant. You see things that you're sure the rest of the people (the ones doing it. (giggle.) not that "it".) don't see. Here are some examples that make being "in wove" a little less of a goal:

1. Dude and chick walking along, Dude's arm slung super-cool around the chick's shoulder. He's walking her through the place (name the place: grocery store, mall, County Fair, etc.) and he's really being cool and she's really aware of his coolness. He's macho, not even looking where he's going and she's smitten, with googly-eyes only for him, and that's when he walks her straight into a pole or tower of boxes... Super-cool...
2. You're sitting in a coffee place or restaurant or somewhere that couples go to be coupley and you hear this: "Do you wove me?" And then you resist the urge to chuck-up in your coffee or salad. Nothin' worse then that relationship where one must constantly be told their woved, right up until the other forgets why they ever said "yes I wove you." in the first place.
3. You're the second person to notice the very, very married guy checking out the uber-hotty college co-ed. The first person? Mrs. Married Guy. Now Cranky Mrs. Married Guy. And you know that she's noticed him how? Your eyes met hers as they were moving off of the soon-to-be-late Mr. Married Guy. At that time you determined it's too time consuming to have to give the witness' statement and you beat feet elsewhere. As the cries erupt behind you. Via Con Dios, Married Guy. Via Con what-were-you-thinking Dios...

I'm sure there will be more such observations in the future. Hey, is that a movie I can see anytime I want to without having to check with anybody else first there in the distance?... (evil grin visualized here.)

It could definitely be worse...

Sometimes in life the universe comes along, on it's cosmic milk-and-egg delivery run, to remind you that things could be worse. For me that moment often comes when I see scary biker pirate dude.

There's a guy who frequents the neighborhood just north of mine. He's one of those guys who is recognizable to everyone -- "oh yeah, I know the guy you're talking about! I just saw him at the west side Shop-fer-Crap last Muffleskin Day!" -- but known by no one -- "no idea who he is. Sure stands out in a crowd, though!" And boy does he! But wait, let me paint you a picture:

• About 6 ft tall.
• Super-skinny. I'm talkin' Tim Burton animated hero skinny.
• Long, dark hair down his back. Stops probably just over his nonexistent heiny.
• Sometimes just moustache, sometimes full-on evil Spock goutee.
• Always wears the same thing: black, beat-up skinny jeans and a black biker jacket. And the leather jacket is always, always zipped up to nipple-height. (I'm guessing -- I haven't actually measured the height of his nipples.)
• Right hand is a razor-sharp, wrought iron hook.

I'm gonna give everyone a chance to catch up, because if you're like me, you had to go back and re-read the first part of the description after you covered "hand is a hook." A HOOK. A HOOK. HAND IS A GODDAMN POINTY, SCARY, "GET OUT OF THE HOUSE, HE'S IN THE BASEMENT!" HOOK! And this guy is just living in my town. A fellow resident of Hippyville. Mr. Scary Biker Pirate Dude, esquire.

You can't drive past such a fellow citizen and not do a couple of things. Double-take. Watch him in your rear-view mirror. Wonder where he's going or where he just came from. Mr. Scary Biker Pirate Dude, walkin' down to the Piggly-Wiggly for Cheezy Doodles. Senor Biker Pirate Muchacho, off to the pet store for food for his ferret. Forsooth, Biker Pirate Scurvy Dog, how be the puppet show and mime-a-palooza you attended? And by the way, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR RIGHT HAND?

That's the other thing you can't help doing after driving past old S.B.P.D. (as I'm calling him). You have to wonder what happened to his hand and, more to the point (sorry, couldn't resist) why, when he was faced with the decision about how to replace his now-missing righty, he went with "fully-sharpened, wrought-iron, scary, scary, scary hook!" Not a fake hand, or one of those articulating jobbies that can open and close. No, he thought "this is the opportunity I've been waiting for to finally have a sharp, steel, pokey thing with me at all times." No doubt he'd been forced to suffer many instances where he was needing a sharp, steel pokey thing and had none. Never happen again!

But if you're like me the other thing that you sometimes do, as S.B.P.D. is getting smaller and smaller in your rearview mirror, is wonder if there is a Mrs. Scary Biker Pirate Dude. What would the woman in his life be like? What would be the pitfalls of living w/ someone who always has a meat hook coming off his wrist? Does she have any Black-and-Decker body parts of her own? Any funny stories about getting jabbed by the hook? Complete with ugly-looking puncture wounds of course. Just how big a vat of bactine would someone have in their home when living that life?

So I'm trying, as I wander past my now-familiar cast of Yenta.com characters, to remind myself that they may be no Paul Newman or Nathan Fillion, but at least they probably don't have a sharpened, wrought iron hook for a hand. And that's gotta count for somethin'.