Hook Dude is real!

I got corroboration this weekend that Scary Biker Pirate Dude is not a figment of my imagination. (you guys remember him, right? The guy who is part biker, part pirate? The one who sports a big, sharpened steel hook for a left hand? Remember?) Given how striking he is as a visual I was sure that everyone would know who I meant when I mentioned him in passing.

But oh no! The fact is that nobody, NOBODY (NO-FRIGGIN-BODY!!!) I know has ever seen him. How is this possible? Many members of my family live within a reasonable walk from my house. They frequent many of the same neighborhood locations that I do. The drive many of the same streets, upon which I'm constantly seeing him stroll. But when I say "oh you know, the guy with the steel hook for a hand? You know? Right?" I mostly get back 'blink, blink, blink...' and then a quick change of topic. To anything that won't make them wonder if I'm starting to lose it. And honestly I, too, really started to worry that he was a first symptom of something I'd later be calling "the dark and scary days of me being wackadoo." (Also gonna be the title of the book, and I'm taking submissions for cover art currently.)

Ah, but what ho! Yes, people, I got me some corrobo-rockin'-ration!

Here's the scene: I'm standing in the self-check aisle at my neighborhood grocery store. I'm waiting for all of these people who, for some reason, decided to do their own checking-out, even though to do so apparently requires them to examine EVERY SINGLE INCH of each bit of packaging. I guess they're looking for the magical barcode, but it's all I can do to not scream "just swish it, people! Swish it over the reader! It will find the code, it always does! Swish, damn you all, SWISH!!!!" I'm standing there reminding myself that if I did that, and then mentioned the SBPD I've been seeing wandering the streets, that there would be a snappy new white jacket in my future, with bonus crotch straps and everything.

And then I look up and Holy Crap, my hallucination is standing right there! Hook dude! Right there! Getting change! Hook dude needs change, people! Only non-figments need change, right? If you're imaginary what would you need $3 worth of quarters for? To do your imaginary laundry?

I'm so struck by having my hallucination in such a very pedestrian setting that I have to be nudged by the folks behind me when a space cleared up. Which is very not me. I'm a nudger, not a nudgee. But I'm absolutely fascinated by this incredibly mundane transaction taking place before me. "Why does he need change?" I'm wondering. "What pocket will he put the change into? Does he ever use the left pocket for anything? I wonder if there's a hole in the left pocket from one time he forgot and tried to put something in there?" Never has anyone been so transfixed by one person handing another person a small smattering of silver coinage. Never.

I step up and do my swishing (and never once search for the barcode, because for the love of God people it is magic and will beep! Just swish and trust!) and bagging and paying and try really hard to not stare at the last few minutes of the 1-act play I am calling "hook dude gets change on a Saturday." Staring is pretty tricky anyway, since it's all happening almost exactly behind me. But once the machine is munching up my cash and I can casually peek around hook dude and his change have disappeared.

I can't just leave it at that, so as I'm stepping out I stop and say to sassy check-out lady (my favorite one -- she totally agrees with me about the faith-based swishing) "So, you saw him too, right?"

"What? Saw who?"

"The guy w/ the hook? Hook dude? Scary Biker Pirate Dude? You saw him, right?"

"Oh sure, he comes in here to shop all the time!"

...and so now here is the visual that plagues my mind: Scary Biker Pirate Dude, wandering the aisles of Groceries-R-Us, a basket hanging from his hook as he decides between lilac or mountain breeze scents for his dryer sheets.

It's totally ruined him for me.

Are we there yet?

Or "Do I gotta?"

Or "She's not just a pretty monarch. She's smart too!"

...I had an epiphany tonight. Now, don't get too excited because traditionally my epiphanies are neither earth-shattering nor long-term, but here mine was:

The idea of checking either of the online dating services felt like a chore. A chore. Like "oh crap, before I go to bed I'd better check Yenta.com and the other one." And then kind of a "poopsters." feeling, like you get when you're almost ready for bed and you realize tomorrow is garbage day. Or when you fall asleep on the couch and crawl from sofa to bed and are just drifting off as you register that your teeth are unbrushed. You know what I'm talking about, right? That "dang, I was almost scott free!" sensation.

But instead of garbage or plaque-defense it's "finding wove."

Its not that I don't want to have wove. I like the idea of being in wove, all mooney-eyed and giggley-pussed and such. And I have some fond memories of when I think I might have been in wove in the past. That time. Assuming that I was in wove, which is something I won't ever know for sure until I get to do it at least once more and then compare sensations.

But I realized today that the concept of pursuing wove, seeking it out, hunting it down... WHAT A HASSLE!!! It sucks, and the older I get the more it will suck. And the more lame I will feel doing it. And I don't like feeling lame.

The Queen has said in the past that my lack of partner was due mostly to my lack of making it a priority, or really going after it, or possibly "not working hard enough." I don't know if that was true in the past -- there was this 6-month stretch where I was positively chasing a dude from my office, and as exhausting as that was I'm sure I was working hard! -- but I'm pretty sure it's about to be true. Maybe I just need a break? Maybe I need a change of perspective? But for the next week or two I may not do much in pursuit of wove.

Not that I won't write -- I promise I will write. But maybe a bit more about the life of a single gal and less about the ways to be a double. A plural? A plenty? A couple.

But before I shift focus, here's a picture of the cute guy that lives across the street from my uncle and came over on the fourth w/ a 75-yr old copy of Colliers to show to the rest of the men. Enjoy.

Some say now that I need either a dude or a dog.

Wednesday, July 4th at Midnight:o'clock I had a purse, containing all the pursy things that purses are supposed to have (plus also a new CD and the rockinest cool set of pens in an assortment of colors).

Wednesday, July 4th at 2:15am I had one no longer.

Who knew such a thing could change so quickly and so suddenly and all while you were accidentally asleep on your couch, the purse hanging 8 feet away on your coat tree?

Yeah, I was the (I'm not going to say victim. Not just not this time but not EVER. I've never been a victim and I'm not gonna change that now!) unlucky recipient of a visit from some nefarious individual w/ very quiet shoes and sticky fingers. As far as I can tell (and the cops think I've got a pretty good handle on the events) I dozed off in my hot living room watching the tv some time just after midnight just sitting on my couch. Sometime between then and when I woke up again (with a jaunty "oh crap, I was going to do things before I fell asleep!!" tripping off my lips) at 2:15am somebody wandered off the sidewalk to my front door, determined that my impromptu nap was a hearty one and that they could get inside, grab my purse and book it without waking me. And they were right! (and they were also great bastards.)

Was my front door closed and locked? No. It wasn't locked because I don't lock my doors until I go to sleep (and sometimes not even then, in which case whoopsie!) and it wasn't closed because the only way to cool off my house in these dog days of summer is to push the cool air from the back of the house through the front door of the living room. (I use an elaborate series of fans because the waving of my arms wasn't so effective. Stupid arms...) I have no windows that can be opened in my living room. My screen door was closed and my drapes closed and there's no question that it wasn't the most secure situation in the world. But I don't live in the hood, people. My neighborhood isn't wrought with gang wars and rapes and slashers and such. And I wasn't planning the nap.

The cop told me that he was pretty amazed that someone would actually enter a house with me 10 feet from the door, let alone at night (since the massive majority of the crime in our area is by tweakers looking for quick cash with which to score another hit, and mostly done during the day when there's nobody home)

All in all it's not such a big deal. The only significant inconvenience left to tackle is getting a key for my car, since both my regular one and the spare were in my purse. (Seriously, it made sense at the time!) I've re-keyed the house, shut off all the cards and such, secured my bank info and called (almost) all of the identity theft people I need to call. Right now the biggest bummer for me is the impact this has had on how all of my people see me.

See, before that moment on 7/4/07 I was a self-sufficient single woman who had lived alone for years and never had much damage to show for it. I was able to say "I can take care of myself" and nobody dared challenge the assertion because I was so ornery (or "awnry" as I like to say it!) and because there was no evidence to the contrary. But since 2am Wednesday I've got people questioning my choices and my decisions and feeling bad for me and I hate it all. I honestly considered keeping the whole thing to myself, but since I needed some help I called The Parents, and I knew I couldn't ask them to keep it quiet. It's just not the way of my people.

And I know that my people are all coming from a place of love! That's our place -- the place of love! It sounds like a sixties hash house-slash-coffee shop, with excellent pie (except the strawberry rhubarb - skip that) and service with a very dreamy smile, but really it's the key to our people. So I can't really get pissy about how they are showing their concern. What's going through their heads are "oh my god, what if that guy (yes, we've decided it was a guy. And by "we" I mean me. And by "decided it was a guy" I mean it just was a guy. It just was. A guy.) had done something worse? Thank diety-of-choice she's ok! How scary!" while through my head goes the constant mantra "I just wish I'd have woken up. I'd have killed him dead. So very, very dead his ancestors wouldn't have recognized him."

But I hate that for at least a while I've lost a large chunk of my credibility as a grown-up. I just don't get to be self-sufficient until someone else has a bizarre and crappy twist of fate, allowing me and all of my people to fixate on them and their life. Sigh.

In the meantime, Her Highness thinks if I can't get a guy I should get a dog. I think those who run my house would not agree...

Ladies and Gentlemen: Mr. Right

This is the man of my dreams. If only I had a ticket to Japan:



Things I love about this dude, based on this display:
1) he's a snappy dresser! Notice that he planned this excursion before September 3rd, so as to not be caught wearing white (or plastic) after Labor Day.
2) he has excellent taste in music. Who don't love them some Earth, Wind and Fire?
3) finally, a guy who likes to go dancing!
4) attention to detail: he smartly moves his booty out of the street when he senses approaching cars.
5) check out the package people! And wisely protected by a plastic candy coating...

BONUS: check out the dude to his left (our right) when he's on the subway car. Seriously? Should you try to act like you DON'T NOTICE the Stormtrooper boogying next to you? Is that the way to go here? Maybe he was just thinking "well there goes my weekend plans -- I can't go out dancing in my Darth Vader costume NOW. It will look stupid!"

Thanks to Kelly from MamaPop, who thanks Missy, for this link and love.

If at first you don't succeed, try the free one.

There's this local version of E-Wove that is also free, and I'm sure you're thinking what I'm thinking: "small-down made and free == scary..." But actually? Not so bad! In fact in some ways this is the dream option for me

• My second favorite price -- free! (my favorite price is one where I get the thing and also a wad of cash. "here, have wove and also a complimentary toaster oven!" But free is also good.)
• Just about everybody seems to have a picture. Not a shy crowd!
• I can't send any emails if I don't shell out any cash. And you know what? I don't WANT to send emails. I can send out a little E-flirt, like those winks or nudges or online footsies, but then I want the other guy to make the first real contact. And I can use my membership status as the excuse for not emailing. Yay for built-in excuses!

I've done a little looking around and so far it actually seems like it could be encouraging. But that doesn't mean there are no turds among the roses. And the roses should take more time to review, so let's take a quick look at the turds I've found so far, shall we?

Mr. Curious: just one picture, but it's excellent! It's of Curious (his tagline, not my idea) getting into his car, sportin' the "rock on!" hand gesture (come on, you all know what I'm talking about. first finger and pinky finger at attention, with the other three at ease. Rock on!) and his arms just FULL of bottles of booze. And not regular sized bottles -- these are Costco-level bottles, like you could use to stand in for barbells! "Rock on, single babes, while I enjoy a little drinking and driving!"

Fashion Icon: Seems like a possibly nice guy, but every single picture (EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.) has him sporting a different Cosby sweater. Every single color of the rainbow appears in each one of them! The pictures themselves seem to strobe on the screen, and I'm concerned that an evening spent across from such sweaters could result in some kind of seizure!

Road Warrior: His picture has him rocking full leathers ala Mad Max, with the shaved head and the futuristic sunglasses. So VERY receptive and inviting! And then his tag line says this: "Spankills." I don't know what it means, but it magically seems to contain both the words "spank" and "kill" So it can't be a good thing.

Puppy Love: You know that I'm a big animal fan, so at first the picture of a guy with his dog seemed cute. Endearing even! But I made the mistake of looking at the rest of the pictures. Each one is a lovely pairing of man and dog. Man and dog. And then my favorite: man letting the dog drive. I really wouldn't feel right about getting between them. They have a love that men and dogs don't find every day!

Unibrow: Need I say more?

...OK, so that would be the "bad news" part. But it also looks like there could be some good news, and frankly I'd just like a new pile of faces to look through! What shall we call this new online source of wove? I dub it "fweewove.com"!

I keep waiting for him to say "kidding..."

OK, so I'm trying to develop a schedule to check Match.com. Because, after all, I did (accidentally) pay for this additional 3 months so I should be making the best of it, right? (shut up. Seriously. No kidding, stop the laughing. Too mean. Way to mean...) I just kind of forget I should be paying attention to it, and it's not like there's much happening to remind me to check in. So I need to make sure I'm paying attention, because there's an argument to be made that at any time a possible Mr. Right could pop on to the site, feel unnoticed and pop right back off. All while I'm not checking because I'm watching people playing Human Tetris on YouTube.

So I'm checking.

Now see, I've been there often enough, and the cast of characters changes seldom enough, that I really only need to skim the surface and look for new faces.

Today there was a new face, and his newness gave me the hopes! He was not only new, but with faceness too! A non-invisible, non-vampire (what is the story there -- they have no reflections, so do they show on film? Anyone? Anyone?), non-cameraless new guy who could be my special someone. Oh a flutter! A twitter! A swoon and preen and preeky-eekle, click on him quick!

At this time I learn an important lesson: don't swoon or preen or preekle until you read the profile. Because seriously, I get it: the dude likes sex. I GET IT.

The only thing Mr. Manly Man could do to drive home the point more (sorry, couldn’t resist) would be to have his primary picture be of his rock-hard schwangadoodle aiming due-north! It’s weird enough that his pictures include a long shot of his bare legs (are we saying “look how hot my legs are!”? No, we are not.) and also a shot of him posing in front of your gym. Because “look, I’m all rock hard. ALL rock hard.” (“see, I’m making another sexual reference there. With the rock. And the hard. And hey, want to have some sex?”)

But just in case his subtle, not-too-obvious, not at all smacking you in the face pictures weren’t really coming across, here are some items he thought fit to include in his profile:

“My perfect match is just as comfortable in a little black dress as she is in running tights. She will share bio rythms first and possibly fluids later. She is educated and independent but down to earth. She is high energy and has a little freak in her.”

Translation: “I’m all about the body. Yours, mine – it don’t matter. But you will need to be all model-lookin’ and also be in to things that I could later include in my monthly (so far fictional) letters to Penthouse. If you are a hot pizza delivery girl, a hot copy machine repair girl or a hot Jehova’s Witness that would be a super bonus… Oh, and read or do math or something.”

"I like endorfins. I get them by running for a couple of hours usually, but other aerobic activities with the right partner are more fun."

Translation: "Did I mention that I work out? Did you see the pictures of me being gymmish? Gymful? Gymtastic? I really don't think I can stress enough how sexy I think it must be that I'm a worker-outer. Also, and I want to be very, very clear here: sex is excellent and hot and I don't get to have it very often, so maybe we could mostly send dirty emails to each other and then skip the first date and just have some sex. Or I could pick up some low-fat yogurt or fat-free chips. (How do you feel about anal leakage?) Don't forget that I'm hot and that sex burns calories!"

"Favorite things: Hard bodies and soft hearts."

Translation: "I hope that you're a loving person. Loving sex, that is! (did you get that I am really horny? REALLY, TREMENDOUSLY horny!)"

I feel both very self-confident and also very self-controlled right now. And also right now I don't miss sex at ALL. I sure hope he finds that inhibition-free, size 2 aerobics instructor real soon. Don't give up, Mr. Manly Man -- she's out there!

Check me, I'm Ginger Friggin' Rogers!

Because I think I'll meet some guys there. That's why. (can't breathe. Laughing. too. hard...)

No, I can't REALLY make a direct argument for my decision to sign up for tap dancing class being "on mission." Well, I can SORT OF make an argument. It goes something like this:

1: I'm currently a chunky girl who is also so much out of shape
2: As we all know, chunky girls (people) don't deserve wove.
3: Tap dancing could un-chunk me a bit
4: If I were less chunky I could maybe deserve some wovin'.
5: And then I'd have to come up with something else to write about. (well crap.)

...ok, so let's forget the item number 5. But the other four -- they work, right?

I'd be lying if I said that was the driving force behind this decision. Really it's just this: I love to watch people tap dance. I love how it feels walking around in tap shoes. That click, click, click sounds cool, no matter what you're doing. You don't have to be really tappity-tapping. You can be trotting through the kitchen, or washing the toilet (gotta be somewhere w/out carpets of course) but that tippy-tappy sound is cool! (oh, and in case the people who own the tap shoes store read this blog, I was never actually cleaning the toilet while wearing the shoes. If the kitties tell you otherwise they're just being troublemakers. And, therefore, kitties.)

Tapping around in tap shoes is like playing pool or shuffling cards or ???. You don't have to be good at it to enjoy that satisfying rush when you make the right noise. (hmmm. Mayhaps I should add "or sex" to that list?) You can spend an hour slamming a white ball into all sorts of other balls and never once go into a pocket, and yet enjoy that sound each dang time. I know you can do this. I have often done this! (It's funny, but I can't seem to make this whole paragraph stop sounding dirty. I'm trying!)

But still I'm very excited about the first class, this Wednesday. I'll dress in my normal workout gear -- crappy sweat pants, crappy sports bra, awesome Atom.com t-shirt -- and I'll know not at all what I'm doing. But I'll make all the right noises!

Again: dirty.

THAT Guy. But not THAT guy.

The Guy I'm looking for is everywhere in this damn town. He's not this one specific guy -- I've not quite yet begun my fabulous hobby as dude-enthusiast/stalker. (Still waiting for my night goggles and tazer/net grenade gun to arrive.) He's all these guys that you see out in the world that strikes the "mmm. like that." chord. The Guy you see walking down the street or in his yard or somewhere who is, just for that moment in time, exhibiting something that makes him irresistible. I’m talking like:

The Guy sitting at a coffee shop outside table, reading the paper and enjoying the nice weather on a sunny Saturday morning. He's saying "yeah, I'm relaxed. I can take the time to enjoy a cuppa joe and some news o' the day." plus he's lookin' smarty-smart! Ooh! A reader!

The Guy sitting in his car in the lane next to mine, and he's SINGIN' HIS HEART OUT! Singing with the radio, just lettin' it rip! Plus bonus: same radio station that I'm listening to. This is a guy who gives not el crappo de uno about what anyone else thinks of him. He wants to sing? He’s gonna sing! "Embarrassed" is not a color in his paint box, let alone "shy." Add to that the stellar taste in music and we're talking dude-gold!

The Guy at the gas station who overheard someone in line saying they were short a buck for the gas they'd already pumped, and who beat me to the punch as he pulled buckage from his pocket to help out. Generous, empathetic, plus also FAST! I mean I was really goin' for it and his cash was on the counter before I had my money clip free of my trusty denim stronghold! (um, dirty?)


I also see The Guy I don't want everywhere I look. He's even easier to identify because OH MY GOD! He's the guy where you see him, you shudder, and then you want to find the parent responsible for raising such an OhMyGodity. Find them and greet them with a firm-but-classic "What the hell were you thinking?!?!" plus bonus whack upside the head. Who am I talking about? Oh, you SO know! Frinstances:

The Guy who, as he tromps past you down the sidewalk, all sweaty and bleah, fires a nose-rocket. A jet-propelled booger. A super-sonic snot-shot. Right at your feet! He’s so very, very classy and also super-sexy that I might swoon, except that I don't want to faint into his booger puddle.

The Guy standing on an average street corner (not the problem) with more then average tummy (still not actually the problem) who helpfully lifts up his shirt (not necessarily problem, unless followed by...) and gives his belly a long, enthusiastic scritch, scritch, scraaaaatch, scratch, scratch. Oooh, it feels so good -- you can see it on his face. His big, oblivious-to-the-grossness-of-watching-someone-tummy-scratch face! (shudder, shudder, SHUH-DDERR!!)

The Guy sitting in his un-muffled muscle car (because someone told some guy once that what really impresses the chicks is if your care is louder then a speeding train. Hot!) in the left-turn lane, waiting for the person in the car in front of him to make that heart-stopping leap between oncoming cars to complete their turn. The Guy who (in an effort to be helpful and encourage a safe and smooth transition for everyone involved) kindly lays on the horn while simultaneously (because he’s a multi-tasker) screaming 6 or 4 skillion nasty and also foul-mouthed suggestions about what they could do with their head/brains/ass and/or genitalia, since they’re obviously too stupid to come up with these ideas on their own. Or make a left turn. But you have to feel for This Guy, because he’s probably late to get home and kick his dog or kid or wife.

It just shows that it’s not just about finding a Guy, it’s about finding The Guy. And not The Other Guy.

Only real requirement: be a woman. Check and check!

Last night I went back for my second experience w/ the Woman's Group. Now, did you guys notice just how funky that reads? It's not me, right? The Woman's Group. ooooOOOOhhhh! Yeah, this thing definitely needs a nickname. We're going to call it the Babe Brigade! No, how about Uterus Union! Oh, I know: The Estrogen Experience! (woah, that last one sounds like a name for an all-female Pink Floyd cover band and lazer light show!) OK, so the name needs a little thinking. For this post we'll just call it the WG, so you'll know what the heck I'm talking about without me having to type out the Woman's Group each time. And therefore feel goofy.

ANYWAY, the meeting for me started off a wee pinch rough because I was late. Something that folks should get used to when they know me. I'm not someone who can make "punctual" a high priority, because I always miss-gauge how long it will take me to do something. And so, when I got there the building in which the meetings happen (a cool, futuristic looking office building made of black metal and dark glass which is kind of the Deathstar of office buildings in our small hamlet) was all locked up! They were up there, on the 4th floor, having a lovely meeting of like minds and I was like minded and wanted to meet, but I could not get there.

But I remembered what the rule was: if you're late, call! So I called the magic number that I thought was key and it rang, and rang, and rang... ring... ring... aaaaaand message. Dang. Message, which means one of three things:

1) I've mis-remembered what number to call if I'm late.
2) The person who's number this is decided not to come to tonight's meeting.
3) Turns out they hate me, so they see I'm calling and they all gather around the cell phone and say things like "oh ugh, not her -- let's not answer! Tee hee, giggle and twitter, aren't we a fabulous flashback to insecure highschool!" and then they talk about fashion and boys and fashion and thank their lucky stars that I'm always, always late.

In case it was reason #1 I was lucky that where I work is 2 buildings down from the Deathstar, so I walked down, turned on the computer and logged on and all the other copious amounts of security crap involved in just using the computer, and I went to their website and checked the number on the website aaaaaaaand... it's the same one that I called before. Sigh.

So I walked back to the Deathstar to see if anyone was standing by the door wondering where oh where had I gone, since they'd come a-runnin' all the way down the stairs (because the sense of urgency of wanting me to join their meeting made the elevator too, too slow!) just for me. Finding the door still locked I called the magic number again -- message -- and again -- message -- and again, and seriously would someone be on the other end of this line? If I squint can I see up to the meeting room? Are they staring and pointing and laughing? I made one last try (I'd not been leaving messages beyond the first one, by the way -- didn't want to seem desperate. HA!!) and was going to leave message #2 to say "hey, nevermind. I'm heading out and I'll try again next week." and low and behold there was life on the other end!

Turns out it was option #4: "I had totally forgotten you were coming tonight and had turned my phone on vibrate." I didn't feel at all like a doofus with all the calling. And I'm sure the 16 calls listed on her phone made me seem very confident and self-assure. They'll probably vote me queen of WG next.

But once I made it into the building things went much more smoothly. There were some familiar faces and some new ones and everyone was, once again, cool and cashz (how the hell do you spell "cashz" like short for casual?!?! clearly a word never meant to be put down in letters.) and excellent. Certainly if I were judging these evenings just on the people there I'd be sold on coming for always and for true!

But what I noticed is that the topics once again focused ever so much on relationship stuff. Last time it was "intimate relationships" and this time it was "communication." Not that these things are exclusively for romantic relationships, but they tend to lend themselves to those situations, especially in the WG. I just feel kind of like a fraud or like I'm wasting their time since these things don't much apply to me. I can't really spit out brilliant contributions since I am neither involved in these, nor do I have much in the way of experience to draw from. That would be like getting parenting advice from George Clooney. (which I'd do, just to have a reason to sit and watch his lips move. Sure hope I didn't just type that out loud...)

Yeah, I'd about decided that this might not be the right place for me when someone mentioned that they were talking to Habitat for Humanity about doing a project there. And someone else (or gosh, was it maybe even the same lady?) then mentioned that they'd like to do something about finances or budgets, etc., as a topic for a future month. Now we're talking! Maybe, I realized, I'm just starting during a month where the focus is oh-so much on "how to get your guy to make you as happy as does your dog!", but that the future could hold other themes where I COULD contribute! So I'm gonna keep doing this, at least for the foreseeable future. Or until they finally find out that I'm the most single woman ever, ever, ever and suggest I find a "singlest women ever, ever, ever group." (or SWEEEG.)

In the meantime, I made a KILLER name sign!

Thanks, Dad! Thanks a bunch!

So, today is Father's Day. Me, I love my Dad. I do. Heck, many people would probably characterize me as a Daddy's Girl, in that I have many things in common w/ Dad and also I idolize him (and Mom too, but we're talking about Dad right now) far beyond any rational or reasonable expectation. What I'm saying here is that I'm a big Dad Fan.

And yet I blame him for much of my trouble w/ "finding wove." Because, you see, I grew up figuring that guys were generally like my Dad, and they are SO NOT. My Dad is extremely unique in the world of men, and while that was excellent growing up and is excellent for my Mom and all that, it really confused the guy question for me. I mean, how can you hope to find a guy just like dear old Dad when dear old Dad isn't like pretty much any other guys? For example...

My Dad doesn't do sports, except for car sports. He's not what you would call competitive, and definitely not sporty competitive. My Dad has never been one for the mean funny, or "I was just messing with him" humor or any kind of digit-pulling or arm punching. The only fight my Dad has ever been in was when a dude in his office sucker-punched him for being a damned hippy peace freak -- it was the 60's -- and my Dad didn't even punch back. Dad likes musicals and listens to James Taylor and Annie Lennox (among bunches of others.) He whistles like he's been concert-trained, saves spiders caught in the house, likes cats but not dogs (nothing evil but just not a dog person)...

Dad and I mutually love Looney Tunes cartoons, comic books, Stephen Sondheim, watching NASCAR, Lost and Boston Legal, going to the zoo, eating bagels and ice cream (but SO not at the same time!) and stand-up comedy. We mutually don't get why so many guys prefer to be crapweasels and then apologize to just not being crapweasels in the first place, or why someone would find it funny to screw with a friend (I'm talking to you, Ashton Kutcher) or necessary to punch a rival.

It's not that men like my Dad don't exist -- they do. They're my uncles and my cousins and someday my nephews. Oh, and they're off limits. (I know you already knew that, but I wanted to make sure that you knew that I know that they're off limits, ya know?) So the good news is that I've been surrounded my whole life by these tremendously cool guys who are kind of exactly what many woman say they're looking for, and the bad news is that they've spoiled me for all the crappy men who are out there looking for dates. So I say to my father thank you! And also curse you (and I shake my fist at the sky.) And thanks to my Mom for finding him in the first place. And, of course, happy Father's day.

Heart of Stone Meets Junebug the Wonder Kitty

OK, so as many of you know I lost a Granny a month+ ago. She was a good Granny -- a great one in fact. Oh heck, I'll say it: she was the very bestest Granny that ever was, and I know this because so many people for whom she wasn't actually a Granny still claimed her as their own. And when I say I lost her I don't mean "hey, has anyone seen Granny? I put her down right here to go get a pen but when I came back she wasn't here?" I mean the kind where she's mourned by folks and people find it sad and someday we'll get a container of ashes from the medical people and have to decide where she'd want to be sprinkled.

We had a little family memorial on Mother's Day weekend and at that event many people cried. Some really let those waterworks flow, and some got teary but subtley and some barely cried but if they tried to talk you could hear their voice get crackly. One of the folks in that final category was my Dad - son of Granny. My Dad is like most Dads -- he doesn't cry. Like never. I think I've heard him get crackly twice ever before, and I've known him a long time! So I make note of when his voice cracks and it cracked that day. But I didn't cry.

We had a much bigger, official memorial for her a couple of weeks ago and people came from far and wide. There were eloquent speaches and readings and people sharing memories and the crowd was packed with smiling faces that were soaked. We had this cool slideshow running on a laptop with 100 shots from throughout Granny's life which also sent people colliding from laughter to tears and back again. Dad made it through almost all of his amazing Eulogy/tribute without crackling, though his one tiny break towards the end broke down many of the tear-walls of the folks listening. The Queen set a new rule, effective immediately -- nobody else dies as long as she's pregnant! I didn't cry.

Don't get me wrong, because I do miss Granny tons and tons. I just am not sad at her passing. Granny, she was super-old (and kudos to her for that!), she had an amazing life and at the end it all was so very terrible that her passing was a huge relief to everyone, including her. But it's more then that. It's also that I just don't cry. As a rule I just don't cry. The people who've seen me puddle up, let alone really let loose, number on 2 hands I think. It's not that I'm opposed to crying, but I just don't do it. Hence the nickname Heart of Stone. It's just one of my things. The one big exception: critters. I love me critters! Cats, dogs, rodents, bugs, reptiles, you name it and I love 'em. I'm one of these people who would have a house full of animals if it weren't for the fact that those people are pretty much always crazy. The spot in my heart that is the softest is the one for critters and the like. And so enter Junebug.

Junebug is this stray cat that adopted our office here about a week ago. She's a long-haired kitty (which normally I'm not as in to) and at least some siamese (also not my breed of preference) and her big, blue eyes are ever so slightly crossed. And she's lovely and friendly and a talker and oh so sweet that I've lost a filling and two crowns since she arrived. Once it became clear that she was someone's pet who was someone's pet no more (I can only hope that they died, because otherwise they just abandoned her and they, therefore, sucksucksucksuckSUCKsuckSUCKITYSUCKSUCK!!!) I fed her and gave her water and I've been trying to find her a home.

And I've been crying.

It just breaks my heart when these little balls of love and devotion and affection are completely abandoned by those they put their faith in! And they can't ever understand that they were just unfortunate enough to put their faith in bad people -- they just know that they're lost and nobody is loving them anymore. Even though they loved unconditionally, as only the animal kingdome really can. Every day when I get into my car and leave her sitting at the back door, watching me leave her again, it breaks my heart all over again.

Who knows, maybe this is the universe giving me something to feel about just in case there's left over Granny stuff that I'm bottling. I don't feel like I'm bottling about Granny, and I'm not a person who believes in God per se. But I like how the universe sometimes comes along and slips in things that you need because we big, dumb people all too often get in our own way. So if this is Granny giving me something to invest in so that I can do whatever other mourning I need to do that's ok with me. I know that Granny would have loved and worked for this kitty just like I am. She was classy like that too.

Anybody want a sweet kitty?

EDITED AT 3:45pm TO ADD:

Junebug has a home! A woman from an office upstairs just coaxed her into a cat carrier and took her home to love her and squeeze her and call her..., well, probably not George, but probably not Junebug either. Let's hear it for happy endings, people!!

Feeling really good about that new Yenta.com subscription...

As I promised, I took some time to look around and see if there are any new faces at Yenta.com.

There aren't.

There are some new guys, but they are of the faceless variety. However they do have some very strange ideas of how to promote their faceless selves through their words. Here, for your entertainment and enjoyment, are some tragic and baffling examples of headlines that picture-free guys are using to woo women to their faceless glory (and I've pasted them all exactly as shown in their faceless profiles):


"Why describ it, that would spoil the surprize. Call and find out" This is right up there with "taste it, then I'll tell you what it is." or "pull my finger." Anybody foolish enough to take that one step further deserves the bank-robbing rock band drummer with phantom face and "eats his own poop" breath. Who lives with his mom. And shoots his boogers. And believes the government is out to poison his toothpaste and deodorant... and now I'm showering...

"New in town and kind of bored." So let me get this straight: you're advertising both that you're friendless and also that you're unable to entertain even yourself. Man, I am so hot right now that the M&M's in my pocket are now candy-coated soup!

"Looking for an honest loyal woman who knows how to relax and enjoy life" This sounds to me like a new and fabulous way of saying "I have been screwed over by high-strung women who were lying whores. But now I'm ready to love you." It's hard to believe that this hot catch is still on the market, people.

"quiker, stronger better looking..." but not much of a speler.

"Man who is depressed wants to live again and may have more to offer than is aware of." But no pressure. Even though if you don't love me and make me feel better about myself I will probably drink a bleach/Comet/Jaegermeister cocktail. (and die, by the way.)

"Entropy is the golden rule in life for me." Truly I have no response to that. But maybe it's best that there is no picture here?

"Your mom goes to college." YOUR Mom goes to college!

"love you" Even though we haven't met and I don't trust you enough to share my face with you. Now please loan me some money and/or let me move in.

"Zen Sensualist Embracing the Body Electric" I gotcher body electric right here, baby!

"I want to pick ticks off of you." We have a winner! Candid, straight to the point and no nonsense. All good traits. Plus knows how to handle a wooden match, I would guess! (Oh crap, I think I need to shower again. But first -- heebie jeebie dance. Seriously. SO many heebies and also jeebies...) Can you believe that I have not yet found Twue Wove?

Can I ruin perfection? Yes I Can!

Where the hell have I been, right? Well I will TELL you where I have been! I went to the top of the world, people!

The Royal Couple and I took a road trip to the big city to catch (wait for it...)

THE POLICE LIVE IN CONCERT!

Oh it was so very, very Fantabulorousorific there are no words! (welll now there's that new one, but up until right before now there were totally no words.) We jumped in the Royalmobile, dropped off Princess Stinkbutt with the Queen Mom (The King's mom) for the night and headed hours away to the big city where big things happen and big people come to make a big noise.

Now seeing The Police live is guaranteed magic. the worst you can do with that is still better then a million other things you could do. There was no worry that the time beholding The Police would be anything less then the greatest 4 hours of history. but it was so much more then that because the entire 2 day adventure was perfect! You know how you plan some cool adventure and you think secretly to yourself "what things in this plan might go kablooey, and which would I prefer and how could I handle it and, and, and...", right? Sure, I did this. Turns out that was all for naught!

NOTHING WENT WRONG. NOTHING. N-O-T-H-I-N-G! The drive was smooth, the hotel was classic, we killed time as we'd planned to and had yummy burgers for dinner as planned and after all that we went to see the M'ing-F'ing POH-LEESE! LIVE! IN CONCERT! And we got sleep and had breakfast and drove home and that all went super-good... AND I got to take 2 days off of work. AND I got to purchase an excellent Police t-shirt. AND I got home with enough time left in the day to relax and reflect on the excellent 2 day adventure.

So then you know what I did? Oh, it's very excellent too. Once this fantabulorousorific 2-day slice of heaven was over I spent the next 2 days in a massive, stymying funk. Sat on the couch with the blues. Did not a thing because I was way too bummed to do anything. I Was SAD. And I was lame. And I was sad because I was being so very, very lame.

I'm not going to explain how it is that such a good time could become such lameness -- either you've experienced a similar lamiosity (lameness, lamestence, lameish, etc.) and you get it or you're a better person then I and you'd never, ever understand it even if I tried to explain. The good news is that a combination of The Tonys, girl's night of sushi and one dark chocolate truffle that I ate all by my gluttoness self did the trick and I'm off the couch. I'm thinking of the next cool thing I can do. I'm winking and taking pictures and figuring out what I want to be when I grow up (shut it!) and writing this mindless drivel for you, my chosen few who like me even though I've found a new level of lame that snails and weeds and toe-jam will be saddened by. Bless you for your questionable standards!

So watch this space for more stuff. And if you get the chance to see one of your most cherished bands live in concert? DO IT.

Cast of Characters

Who the heck are the other people/places and possibly (eventually) things in this blog? I will update this list as promptly as I can throughout the life of this blog. Here ya go!:

• The Englishman (or T.E. for short) - my steady guy, my special friend, the first person I've been able to fall in love with in over 13 years.  He's younger than me.  No, seriously, much younger.  Younger than that.  Even younger.  Are you getting nervous?  Then you're just about right.  But despite our age difference and the fact that he lives in the UK (oh yeah, did I mention that?  He does.  8 hour time difference.  Awesome) we're completely in love and making the best of it every single day.
• The 'Rents - my parents, who always happen to rock. No, seriously. They rock more then parents are supposed to, which has been a little funny growing up, but I've since learned to accept that my parents are too cool and will always be strangely thus. It's the cross I must bear...
• The Queen - best chum and mother to Princess Stinkbutt, who serves as both excellent sounding board and also example of how to do this life thing pretty darn well.
• The King - married to The Queen, another best chum and father to Princess Stinkbutt (anybody else feel a little uncomfortable that at this writing I've apparently never waxed poetic about my love for The King? Awkward...)
• Princess Stinkbutt - heir to the best chum throne and cute as, say, a button or possibly a teeny, tiny mouse who squeaks and drives a wind-up car or boat. Just that cute.
• (together they are The Royal Family)
• Risky - yet another best chum, plus also sister to The King and aunt to the Princess. She insists on being good at an absurd number of things. I believe next on her list of things to be good at is either flying or making gold from cheese.
• Lulu - my sweet girl kitty, all calicoish and SO bossy! She's like me in that way.
• Mr. Man - my boy kitty, coming into his kitty manhood and a BIG fan of sleeping. He's like me in that way.
• Hippyville - The funky little town where I live.
• Beautiful Dreamer - a co-worker/friend who is also online dating, but to much more success. If you define success as meeting far more men, and therefore going on very crazy-seeming dates. Which I'm thinking is how most people would define it.
• WWIT-Dude - The one serious relationship I can claim to have had. It was generally crappy and he was generally flawed in some very human ways, but this is where any and all relationship lessons I've learned came from.
• Wove.com - the first relationship website I tried. It's the kind where you create a "profile" which knows your inner you and therefore knows who/what you need in a partner and promises to find you that partner. They lied.
• Yenta.com - the second relationship website I've tried. It's more of a dating site, where you make a much simpler profile and then you wander through the aisles of possible mates and pick out ones you like. And they then ignore you. While you ignore the ones who like you, but which you're not interested in. I'm expecting Mr. Right any second now.

Sleepy Blogging = Forget to Title...

Hey there. It's me. I know I don't look familiar because it's been SO LONG since we've been together. Would that I had a tremendous and also excellent excuse too, but the best I could do was "my cat was being super-annoying so I took a nap instead."

I have such dedication to my craft.

So tonight I went to this woman's group meeting. I'd been hearing about this group of women from a recently acquired new friend (I ordered her from this fabulous discount friends website. Shipping free!) and I'd toyed with the idea of checking it out. Tonight I stopped toying!

I'd kind of created this mental image of what this would be like which I realize now was far too informed by television: A big conference room of powerful looking women in power suits talking on iPhones and Blackberries and movering and shakering all over the place! (No, my new friend never said any of this stuff. I think the entire fantasy bloomed from the fact that some of the women in this group have helped on this other blogging project and it made them seem all diverse and professional. And diverse and professional just automatically translates to power suits and iPhones. I was also surprised that none of them were being played by Heather Locklear.)

I get there and it's this very cool conference room with this very cool view of this VERY cool sunset. And in the conference room are about 7 women all in similar age ranges to me (mid twenties to late thirties, but I'm just guessing and if any of those women ever find this website I want to go on record that I SUCK at guessing ages! You all looked 29 and virginal! Unless you'd rather have looked 32 and worldly! I can go either way!) and dressed like me -- cool and comfy. None of the suits worn had powers beyond ultimate snuggliness. So now I'm feeling like maybe I could mesh w/ these folks.

The topic at hand, as luck would have it, was "intimate relationships" and I rocked my being wise and eloquent. I threw out some of the following deep concepts:

"you're totally right, right up until it turns out you're wrong."

"A relationship w/out intimacy is like exposing a role of film -- don't mourn the pictures, because you never had them."

"pull my finger."

...that last one I might have heard somewhere else. But one thing's for sure -- I was trying to be as awesome and together and wise and generous (with my copious wisdom) as I could possibly be.

Never mind that I haven't had an intimate relationship with a dude (other then relatives and charming homos whom I love but gave up on romantically when they married that other dude) in over 10 years.
Never mind that I've been so celebate in the last decade that the entire area has closed up and is scheduled to be torn down so as to put in a Starbucks.
Never mind that up until a few weeks ago I thought I'd lost even the power to be crushy on someone.
Let's just focus on how wise is me.

So I felt a little bit dishonest, but I rationalized it thusly: nobody ever asked me "what's your love life been like?" and if they had asked I would have told them the whole skinny. Heck, it's so much fun watching people's eyes slingshot out of their faces when they hear about my sex life (or sex lack-of-life) that I can't resist telling. I tell strangers on the bus -- a bunch of women sitting around talking about intimate relationships is almost too easy. And yet they did not ask and I did not tell.

I'm gonna go back the next possible Tuesday and try this woman's group again. It was fun, they were cool and I have Tuesdays free, so what's not to like? I have this funny idea that I'll keep going and making a name for myself by sounding all smartsy and such, and then weeks down the road someone will finally, finally ask and I'll spill my figurative guts. And right after that they'll spill my physical guts. So I gotta make the in between smartsy really count!

Day after cranky, where now I am zen-cool

OK, the only good thing about a day of crankitude like yesterday is that the next day my irritation tank is pretty much empty. It will take me 2-3 days to charge it back up, so now I'm super cool. I'm Zen cool. You could poke me with a paperclip and I'd be like "cool. Look, there's a tiny spot on my arm now. cool." and maybe I'd even nap a little. (also I post things off-mission.)

I brought in to work cool music to listen to on my headphones. (that's how I can listen to any music that I want here at the office w/out worrying that someone else might not be in the mood for the Ramones or the Violent Femmes -- I have headphones on my head. It's my music, and my music alone.) So right now Prince is telling me all about the rosey-colored hat his sweety wore that one time it rained. Pretty soon he's going to explain to me what he does or doesn't need from a girlfriend. Rumor has it that being either rich or cool is not required. I'm cool anyway.

I decided to have a bagel and red delicious apple (the only kind of apple that tells you how good it's gonna taste in the name -- it's delicious, people!) for breakfast, which is different then yesterday or probably tomorrow, because usually I have a Pepsi and 3-4 handfuls of Cheddar Cheese Baby Goldfish crackers. But bagel plus apple equals coolness, so that was today's breakfast.

I took a little break this mornin' and wandered out to commune with nature. In this case the role of "nature" was being played by a duck couple that hangs out in the bushes by our office (they're the best version of love, people. Ducks should so be the international animal ambassador of love! Screw swans -- they're mean and have hidden secret bird teeth! However I'll cover the duck=romantic thing in some future post.) and a cat that I think wanders down the river bike path from a rich person's house to look for free-range critter snacks. They entertained my visit with much generosity. I think they could tell how cool I am.

There was this guy that I had to call because my boss said "hey, could you call this guy and ask for this thing?" and when I first called I talked to his assistant, who faxed the thing right over. But I had to call back because the thing she faxed looked like a draft copy and when I called back the actual guy answered. (with me so far?) So anyway I explained to him why I was calling and "gee, Mr. owner of the little local business-guy, could you have your assistant send the finished copy some time? No hurry." and he was totally ass-hatty and pissy and told me to have my boss (you remember him -- he's the guy that asked me to make this call in the first place?) call him back. And the reason why? "Because I told you to tell him to call me back." Because I told you to. Like I'm 5 years old and I've asked him "why?" 60 times in a row and all he's got left is "because I told you." SUPER jerky asshat.

Yesterday I would have excused myself for a quick errand, where I would have driven to his office and set fire to all the fancy cars in his parking lot. (because I don't know what car is his, but I know it's fancy and probably black with some kind of asshat ego plate like "culr thn u" so if I burn them all down I get him for sure.) But yesterday I was not cool or Zen at all. Today I'm cool. Today I feel sorry for him that he's so not cool and feel even more sorry for his family since I bet he's always an asshat and I was only super-not-cool for yesterday. (and just a little bit I hope that a duck craps on his head while flying over him today.)

So I'll try to finish that other post again today, because even if it does commit suicide for a second time I should be able to take it in stride. Because I have the reserves to absorb such annoyances today. Today I am keeping my lunch soda frosty in my armpit. Today I am Samuel L. Jackson's pen pal. Today I am friends to the animals and the Prince. Today? I am cool.

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.

Another deal-breaker I wasn't aware of.

So for my J-O-B (gleh) I have to make packets for these seminars. It's one of those things where you're adding names to forms and putting names on labels and naming names on names of namey-things, so you see a lot of names. (alotalotalot of names) Yesterday I'm naming the name-name-names on some namernames and I realized something else that makes me itchy (and not in the good way):

Couples who's first names have the same first letter. I'm talking Bob and Barbara Smith; Chester and Chelsea Jones; Felix and Fiona Farfegnugan. I know this isn't necessarily their fault, and that most likely they didn't scour the globe looking for a mate who shared their first name starting letter. (For those few who DID scour the globe I say SHAME ON YOU.)

I can't really tell you why, but I know that it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I'm heebie-jeebied all over from such things. It brings to mind women w/ jauntily flung shoulder-sweaters and men's thick man-bracelets. Itchy.

And so I have to add "dudes who's name starts w/ "F" to my deal-breaker list. Of course one doesn't get their real names from the site, so I will have to work out some kind of witty way of checking on that in any first emails. After all, I don't want to become smitten with an F-dude. Don't want the heartbreak that is emailing w/ someone and finding out we have oh so much in common ("Really? You sucked your thumb until Middle School too? With a blanky or not? Yeah, I was a blanky-user too!" and then thumpy hearts and musical notes floating around my head and tingly tingles) and then have the guy say "by the way, my name is Franktastic -- what's yours?"

My name is can't love a man named Franktastic. Sigh.

'Cause I'm a WOOOman! Double-ew, Oh, M-A-N!

I can bring home a mower
'semble it with my own hands
And never, never, ever let you
Forget there's no man!

...sorry about that. But if it makes it any better, rest assured that I'll have the song stuck in my head WAY LONGER then you will. Because that's how my brain (never) works.

So today I tell you of how I don't need any man. I know this is a point I've made before. (some people think I make it way too much. Then again, some of those people didn't even own a toolbox until I gave them one, so ha!) Anyway, yesterday was a great example of a day where, except for some mechanical aid from my Dad, I accomplished things oft called "manly"and yet without any penis.

This all starts with the fact that it rains a bunch in Hippyville. Makes things green and lush, but also makes it hard to find time to mow the lawn. And I have kind of a big lawn (like 400-500 square feet maybe?) and also my lawn is about 79% weeds. Weeds, weeds, all kinds of weeds. I don't feel self conscious about it because it was mostly that way when I got there and I just lost the losing battle I was fighting. ANYWAY, all this is just to tell you that I'm trying, this year, to conquer these weeds -- the weed wars I'm calling it -- and the rain is just working against me. I need, right now, to mow and to re-spray some excellent weed-killing stuff on the remaining weed strong-holds so that I can then mow (again) and rake the last of the dead bodies off of the battlefield, and then throw down grass seed and sit back and marvel at my grassy accomplishments.

But first I have to mow the lawn. And it keeps raining.

So yesterday was sunny and excellent and I ran home and changed into junk-jeans and started mowing! I was pushing around my antique gas mower(I call him Clippy the Wonder-Mower!) that was a permanent loan about 3+ years ago. It's old and funky and some parts are a little completely broken, but it works just fine for the thing I need: cut down and bag me some grass and weeds. Along we mowed, munchy-munchy-munchy-Plehhhh... Without warning my old mower friend just passed away.

Did I panic? No! (lie, I did panic for a sec, but I bet everybody does that.) I started going over everything that I already understood about lawnmower physionomy. Sparkplug still attached? Check. Still full tank of gas? Check. Throttle still connected to engine? Check. Etc, etc, etc. Then I called my Dad (the superior motorhead) and he came over and checked my checking and determined that I'd checked the checkable items checkily. We removed the sparkplug (and got excited when it seemed like the connection had been wimpy! Easy solution! But not our solution.) and cleaned it and checked the gap and cleaned the air filter and did a bunch of other things, and finally decided two things: it was not easily fixed (hmmm, pretty much no compression behind the sparkplug. That's bad.) and I needed a plan B.

I sent Dad home for his dinner and came up with my plan B: I drove over to my local department store with sad clothes but excellent tools and appliances (you know who you are) and purchased my first personally-owned lawn mower! It's red (why are they always red? They're always, always, absolutely always red! Except when they're green, but that's hardly ever because mostly always they're red-red-red.) and shiny (which Clippy hasn't been since ever) with baggyness and clean wheels and it's mine-all-mine-all-mine.

When I flagged down the fresh young man to take my pretend money for my very real mower he asked if anyone had helped me and looked shaken when I said no. He then asked if "someone" was moving the car around to the loading area and should we wait for "them." And I said no. And he got kind of lost and twitchy, because here he was in a scary place with the sale of a large, possibly dangerous power tool and no man to discuss torque and engine size and horsepower with. Me? I just watched him twitch.

Once I was able to convince him that I knew which model I wanted, what attachments I didn't want and that I was able to do the paying for it part all by my little, girly self I asked where to pick it up, and drove my very own car around to the loading area all by my little girly self too. And I didn't break a nail or anything! (take that, boy salesperson!) Then I had to go through the same song and dance as I talked the loading area guy to into letting me shove it into the car myself because, after all, I had to be able to get it back out again once I got home, right? I drove me and my mower home and put it together and filled it with the required fluids and nobody was killed or made otherwise dead during any of it!

And I'm not done yet! Once I had put my shiny (it's SO shiny!!) red mower to bed in it's new home I came in to tackle my cloggy bathtub drain. Oh yes, I had to deal with a drainage issue in the same night! And this is not the first night of arguing with this tub. Since Sunday it's fought me, and I've had three mornings of grimy feet and three evenings of ucky toxic goo fumes all over the bathroom. Yet still it refused to let the water fly freely to it's watery home. So I got the big guns. I bought a snake! A drain snake! A red (to match the mower), but less shiny, drain snake and I snaked that drain hoo boy! Snaked it within an inch of it's drainy life I did! And was I successful? Did water flow freely???

No. Super-failed. Big lack of any water zooming about. Today I had to give in and call drain-cleaning specialists.

But that's not the point, people. My point is this and only this: I tackled both the heartbreak of dead mowers and the agony of drainyless drains all by myself. I used tools and devices and contraptions and took things apart and put them together and did the some assembly that was required and everything.

Don't get me wrong -- men can be quite nice. They can be tall and broad of shoulders. They can sport evil-looking facial hair (evil but also nasty!) and rock a sporty shirt/tie combo. Nothing better then a guy who can give a quality foot rub or make a tasty dinner! I like them and sometimes want them and occasionally desire them (dirty!) and am proud that I don't have to need them.

Until someone has to climb a ladder. Screw that sh*t -- Mama don't climb no ladders!

EDITED TO ADD:
Men can be hunky, dashing, manly-hot jet pilots who do tricks at 1 million miles an hour and charm the socks off of both me and Jon Stewart. Woof!

Things I hate about my J-O-B

To be clear, I have had worse jobs then the one I have now. MUCH, MUCH WORSE. I've had jobs that paid far less, jobs that required the touching of food or people's (almost) naked body parts, jobs where I had to stand or walk pretty much the entire time. I've worked for people who would cry when challenged, or people who felt it was good for the overall company if he occasionally screamed at someone until they evaporated completely. There was a fellow I worked for who seemed extremely nice on the face of things, but it turned out he enjoyed to lie, insult and finally go crazy. Which was even more disorienting because of how nice he seemed. On the face of things. See, nice guys aren't supposed to be all those evil things. It breaks the brain when they are.

What I'm saying is that the j-o-b that I currently have is not the worst there ever was, and I know this 100%. I have no confusion over this fact. It's the main reason that a job that was supposed to be temporary 2+ years ago has evolved into something a wee bit more constant -- because it was better then nothing and not too terrible a way to spend the day. And in terms of what I do it's not too hard and the expectations on me are usually not too unsurmountable.

But still I groan every weekday morning. Still I find myself repeating my morning mantra from 6th grade, when I had to get up for band practice BEFORE school: "I think I'm sick. Am I sick? I don't feel great, but am I actually sick? I should probably check my temperature, although I don't actually feel warm... I wish I could stay home." And here are the top three reasons why I'm coming down with the plague at 7am, 5 days a week:

Reason #1: I work for "The Man".
It's true, I do. And it's SO "The Man" too. It's this big corporation who's only goal is to make big money by helping other "the mans" make and keep and hoard and squeeze and bathe in big money. They're all about waste and using-up and "who cares?" and "I got mine, screw yours!" It's depressing. I feel like I need to shower and brush my teeth half-way through the day. Only half-way. There's no point in raising questions of "shouldn't we stop printing these 100-page reports every single week?" and "hey, why don't we have a recycling bin?" and "I sure do wish there was a safe place to put a bike in our parking lot so I didn't have to drive to work all the time..." because by saying these things you are a communist slacker hippy freak. And also wasting "The Man's" time. Which is someone's money. Big money. (showering now.)

Reason #2: THE MAN is notoriously stupid.
I cannot calculate how much of my sad, dirty time is spent trying to explain things to the robots working at the Home Office (nest of "The Man") things like "but if we mail this on day A, how can you expect it to be back, signed, and mailed to you and received by you all on day B? Do you know something about the magic of mail that I don't?" I actually had a conversation w/ someone at the Home Office (probably a lovely person, but one who has been very clearly trained that they follow the bouncing ball of the script and they do NOT THINK FOR THEMSELVES! EVER! ON PUNISHMENT OF BEING CRUSHED UNDER A MASSIVE PILE OF EXCUSES!!!) about how we'd sent in a form to update a client's existing bank information. H.O. drone was busy explaining to me that there WAS no existing bank information, and therefore what should she do with this replacement info? In an effort to keep making progress as I brought up the client's accounts on my end I asked her "couldn't you just set that bank information as their bank information?"

"Yeah, I could do that." silence. silence. Hey, is that a tumbleweed I hear rolling behind them on the other end of the line? Rolling by the silence?

"So, would you do that then?" I ask, feeling stupid for having to say it out loud.

"You want me to do that then?" she asks back, apparently not convinced by all that saying out loud that I stupidly did.

"Yeah, that would be --" and then I'm stuck with what to say next, because here I sit, staring at the great gobs and GOBS of existing bank information we have on file for these clients. These clients whom she called me about due to their complete lack of existing bank information. So do I say "great." so as to finish my thought and just hope she can set up bank info? Do I ask her to verify the client info again, just in case she magically pulled up clients with the same names but who live in Texas? Do I ask if I'm being punked? Candid Camera? "Hey," I finally finish up, "could I talk to a supervisor?" I figured it would be good if I freed up this person to catch all those errant tumbleweeds.

Reason #3: Red Tape, Red Tape, Red Tape...
Today, a very average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, I processed (I kid you not) over 265 pages worth of forms, applications and other assorted paperwork. I had to call and ask some poor soul to send me an original death certificate for their late wife because WE won't take a copy, even though everyone else will. Now that is one hell of a fun conversation to have with a GRIEVING WIDOWER. "So sorry for your loss -- could you dig through your paperwork and mail me yet another piece of paper, which will look exactly like the one you already sent but be a lovely shade of blue? Thanks. Sorry. Crawling down the drain now..." And whenever I start to get the hang of how all this stuff is currently working they send word from on high (chief breeding grounds of "The Man") that they're about to change everything. Not COMPLETELY change it, but enough that nothing will be correct for about a month. This, they figure, will help to prevent any accidental progress that someone could be making.

The people I work with are lovely; bordering on spiffy. They're all good eggs who also want to do their job well. The people I work for are also lovely and seem to value me, which is a very nice feeling. But this job is burning out my inner hope and positivity. Much like boric acid. I think I need a change.

I feel funny

As it turns out, I still have hormones.

I still have tingles and sizzles around cuteness.

When gleefully exposed to smokey-good cuteness my insides do all the things insides are supposed to do, flip-flopping and swirling and whee-ee-eeing.

Why do I tell you this? These things that most would consider not necessary? These things that most would say with that "well of course I can count to 10, cross my fingers, blow my nose... why do you ask?" I say this because I'd not been completely sure.

Used to be I had crushes on people. I was the crushiest of crush havers, both on the impossible and possible. I'd get them on tv people, on movie stars, on rock stars. I'd get them on UPS delivery dudes (rock those brown shorts!) and the tech guy I worked with. But I'd get them. And frankly, I'd enjoy them!

I like crushes! They're simple (no need to worry if you should do something because when it comes to crushes you should never, ever do something) and fun (ooh, tingles much like I fell asleep on my hormones wrong and now they've gone all pins and needles!) and remind you that lust is fun and possibly sex might be too -- something to think about someday. Yeah, I'd crush at the drop of a hat. A cute hat. On a cute person, worthy of a good crush.

Then one day it seems like I stopped having them. I became crushless.

I'd still find people attractive, woofy, even hot. I'd still appreciate a solid butt (oh Daniel Craig, newest of the bonds, why can't James spend the entire movie walking in and out of the surf in tight trunks?), good face, stuff like that. But no tingles or racing wows or that goofy grin for no reason except hormones. Crushless have I been.

After a while I figured this is what it's like when there's been nothing hormonal for a while. The system gets used to it, the same way people tell me you get used to not eating sugar or drinking caffeine. (crazy, crazy people who would deny their body these gifts of wonderment because they are crazy and also hate their body and never want to experience the true joy that is an icy, frosty glass of Pepsi. Crazy.) I figured that such an adjustment would probably just make things easier, and that if there was nobody to get a crush on anyway then what did it matter? Best to not be frustrated.

But not so! Because last night there was this guy and guess what -- cute! Guess what else -- crushy cute! Actual shades of smittenness, with little flutters of "oh gosh and golly!" swirled in like fudge! Yes, it was a lovely evening of "ooh, did he just make eye contact?" and "hey there, he chuckled ever so slightly at something witty that I SAID!" plus "why oh why will nobody else mention how awesome I am? Work with me, people!" All in all, a very nice and spicy way to spend an otherwise average Thursday evening. And so nice to get the sizzles back.

And now, the exciting conclusion...

(I don't know why I set myself up like that. Such pressure! What if this conclusion isn't so exciting? Or it may be kind of exciting, but it's not really a conclusion... Yeah, I really should have called this something like "just in case you were wondering..." or "oh, and by the way this is the uneventful ending of the thing from before.")

So when last we saw our hero (that's me) she was all irritated with Yenta.com, sending them an angry email demanding to know where they got off charging her for another 3 months when she was pretty sure(ish) that she'd done something that had made it cancel or something. How Dare!!! This after her total ambivilence about whether or not to sign up for 3 more months, or to instead take up snow kyaking or space table tennis. (in space no one can hear you foul.)

DAY ONE:
Femtastic: I can't afford another 3 months. I need that money for other things! Also I'm angry that what I thought was happening was either not happening or I was confused. Both things that make me angry! And besides, hasn't this all been kind of a waste of time? Yes, I'm absolutely sure that I'm going to fight this until they give me back my money and cancel this additional 3 months!

[stomps off in a huff. At least until she gets 2 steps from her computer, where there is this big bin of mail and things to file, and she has to climb over that and then there's the laundry basket and other things... don't trip... don't fall...]

DAY TWO:
Femtastic: I can't believe they haven't replied to my email yet. Absurd! Where is their pride in giving good customer service? Oh, I am so gonna yell at them in the next email. And I'm writing that next, scathing email right now!

[sees that new episode of Heroes is starting.]

Femtastic: OK, not right now, but really soon. Probably before I go to bed. So Scathing will it be!

DAY THREE:
Femtastic: Oh boy, now it's been even longer and they haven't replied, and I'm gonna write them and yell and Oh! Looky! I got paid! Well, that's good. That's gonna let me do a couple of things I couldn't do for fear of that $60 coming out of the bank account. So glad that I was paid, and hey I should go now and buy that new CD by (insert name of musician who makes CDs). Also I want bagels and $30 of clearance anything from Target. So I will have to write the scathing (SO SCATHING!) email later toni- tomorrow. I'll write it tomorrow because after all my shopping tonight I'll be sleepy. But tomorrow, it is SO ON!

DAY FOUR, FIVE, SIX:
[Femtastic goes to the beach with her family for a super-cool Mother's day weekend and also Granny appreciation gathering and has a really good time and just doesn't even care about the $60 or the scathing email, because look how pretty the sunset and how sparkly the shiny beach stones!]

{Time Passes...}

DAY ELEVENTY-THREE:
Femtastic: So wait, who was I scathed at again? I know I was scathed at somebody... Starts with a V? Or an E? Maybe starts with a C... Sigh. The fire, she is gone. I am too tired, and it's been too long. And I got paid, so I guess I'll do another 3 months of Yenta.com after all.

...and so we find ourselves as members of Yenta.com once again. And since I did pay for it I went ahead and took a renewed look around, with new, renewedy eyes.

But that's something for the next post.

Cliffhanger!

Previously on Unlikely In Love...

Femtastic: Oh crap, I have 24 hours to decide if I want to do any more Yenta.com. Help me, readers out there, help me!

Readers: Keep going, you can do it, don't give up the dream, if you don't love yourself then how can anyone else love you, never let them see you sweat, you're soaking in it, etc...!

Femtastic: Wow, I'm so glad that my readers came through with their suggestions. My readers are awesome... I'm gonna cancel Yenta.com...

And now, Unlikely In Love, Season Finale Cliffhanger episode, now with more "Wowsers!!":

Femtastic: Yeah, even though the readers who had an opinion had the opinion of "don't stop yet, and maybe even make those marketing bastards at Yenta.com come through with the 6-month free service!" I'm still gonna cancel because funds are tight (damn you, Uncle Sam! And also your friend the cracker of heads in Ford Escort station wagons! And the gas companies too! rant, rant, rant...) and because I'm just not sure this avenue will work for me and plus also second guess and lose all confidence and and question my every move and wonder what the hell I'm thinking and other really bold, dynamic things that could go through someone's head...

[Femtastic goes to her computer and futzes around with things over at Yenta.com. Femtastic finds the "want to cancel your subscription?" button, conveniently located hiding right under a rock behind a couch under a sheet in a locked closet marked "radioactive waste - do not enter!" and almost, barely, pretty much doesn't but practically does click it. But doesn't click it. Mostly.]

Femtastic: I'll decide about this later on, like maybe right before midnight tonight.

Next day...

Femtastic: Crap, crap, crap, I never went back to Yenta.com! I'll bet they totally charged my credit card for another three months! Crap!

[Clicks through the website and finds what sure looks to her like her subscription has been cancelled. Seriously, she really did look and see stuff saying "you're not subscribed anymore. You want to play, you gotta pay beotch. We don't love you anymore." but in marketing-eeze. She breaths a sigh of relief and vows to think of it no more that day.]

Next day...

[She probably mowed her lawn, or there may have been a movie or a nap. Or a movie about a nap? I'd see that movie...]

Next week day, which was probably the next day or the one after that...

Femtastic: I'd better write the post about what I decided to do about Yenta.com. For my loyal readers, whom I hate to leave hanging. [type, type, typity-type, pithy cute things that are witty and clever and which I will be oh so smug about having written...] Let's see, what was the exact wording from the website that said that I was no longer of the body? Why, I'll just go to the site and see!

[clicks to Yenta.com, where they welcome her with open, loving arms and ask "where have you been the last couple of days? What did you do this weekend? You look like you got a little sun -- did you get some sun?" and in no place say that she isn't signed up. Femtastic checks the subscription status page, and where she was really, really sure that it said "nobody here loves you until we get more money!" it now says "we love, love, love you so much -- at least for the next 3 months. Oh, and thanks for that $60 that we took from your bank account."]

Femtastic: Damn you, Yenta.com! I wish I could quit ya! (winkies to everyone who got that.) I'm writing such a strongly worded email like you would not believe!! You'll be sorry, you will!

[writes an email that could possibly be referred to as "scathing" or at least cranky. Sends the email. Eagerly awaits the apologetic reply. Waits, waits, waits...]

TO BE CONTINUED...

WILL Yenta.com ever reply to Femtastic's email?
WILL she get a refund on her subscription charge?
WILL she ever find love, online or offline?

STAY TUNED! (for like, a day or so. Nothing like January of next year. Seriously, blink and I'll be back.)

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.)

Either I'm cynical or she's CRAZY.

Beautiful Dreamer is playing the field again, bless her big, old, squishy heart. It's not that she's ditched the previously happy-find-dude, but since he lives out of town (a 45-min drive) and they're not overly serious yet she decided there was no reason she should stop keeping her options open. This, by the way, is one of those rare times that I totally agreed with her!

So through her online dating site of choice (something like "Big Ol' Fans o' Jesus Who Are Lookin' for LUV.com") she's got another 2-3 guys on the line. She's quite skilled at this! One fellow is what she would call "forward" or what I would call "Run, Run, RUN AWAY from the crazy man!" We are clearly coming at this from very different perspectives.

What do I mean? OK, here's a good example. She's not yet met this man, OK? I think it's important that we establish this fact and refer to it often. (don't worry, I'll handle that part.) So far it's been some emails and a few phone calls. During a recent phone call they were making plans to meet. Meet for the first time, remember!

Many options were tossed out, including a drive to the coast which is about an hour away. At which point he starts on this very bizarre train of thought:

"Of course if we go to the coast for dinner we'd be there pretty late. We'd have to drive back late. Unless we stayed the night? I have friends who live on the coast and I'm sure we could stay there. Or we could go to a hotel? Of course we'd get seperate rooms. Or if we didn't I assure you that I'm a complete gentleman. I mean even if you ended up lying in my arms you'd be totally safe..."

In the space of one paragraph we go from "hey, we should meet some time." to "I promise I wouldn't grope you too badly if we slept in a hotel room together. You know, that first time I ever meet you." Gah!

Or there was the time they were talking on the phone (probably about how they couldn't pick eachother out of a line up, seeing as they have NEVER MET) and Mr. Quickie McQuickerton announces that he (on a walk as they chat) has arrived at his dream house. He then proceeds to describe this house, it's features, price, location etc., because she needs to come by at some point and look at it and decide if she likes it too, since they couldn't live in it if she didn't like it. Once they'd met. Ever. Since they haven't yet met at all. EVER.

Oh, and also that she has a kid named (false name now) Kate and he has one named (also false name) Kaitlin, so "they'd have two Kates." They. That family would contain 2 Kates. That family that hasn't actually even met yet, but please let's be sure to contemplate the name challenges and pick out the house and practice the story of how we met to tell our Grandkids, assuming that we ever do meet. BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT EVEN MET YET!

She tells me these stories and she's all a giggle and a twitter and a piffle and preen and "isn't he cute? Isn't he sweet? Isn't he duckie?" Where as in my head I'm thinking "isn't he stalkie? Isn't he clingy? Isn't he the guy I'll be giving a statement about after he meets you, claims you and then kills you in some terribly romantic murder suicide!!!!" I sure won't be able to say to the news anchor from Channel 5 "Gosh, it sure was a surprise. He didn't seem at all like the type." Man oh man does he seem like the type! Look in Wikipedia under "the type" and we might be able to see what this guy looks like, for I'm sure he's pictured proudly.

I don't know exactly why her pursuits for online wove are so much more productive then mine. I'd ask her if she's doing anything special, but I can't tell her that I'm doing anything at all, so that's out. But I can't help if wonder whether part of the difference is deep-seeded in our ways of looking at this stuff. Because she finds each new facet cool and fascinating, where as I'm seeing the prologue to a Lifetime movie-for-women around every corner.

Oh well, maybe I am making murderous, calamitous mountains out of nervous, twitchy little molehills. If not I guess I could get up at her memorial service and tell everybody "I told her so." Once they've actually met. (shudder...)

With apologies to the Clash.

Guess what? My membership with Yenta.com expires very soon. Extremely soon. OK, TOMORROW soon. I happened to wonder exactly when I signed up (because it seemed like it had been a little while) and so I peeked over there and noticed that under "End Date" it says 5/4/07. Which is another way of saying tomorrow. A really specific, direct, clear way of saying "you're going to have to decide about doing this again tomorrow, dufus." (the 'dufus' is silent)

I'll be honest -- I wasn't really ready to make this danged decision again. Heck, it feels like I was trying to figure out what to do about Wove.com only a few months ago! (ha.) Now I'm back here again wondering if it makes any sense to spend $60 for another 3 months of contacting nobody and having nobody contact me. (Who says I don't have a positive outlook? Bah!) Then again, here's the curveball for this time around: this particular website advertises that if someone is a member for 6 months and does not find wove (and really, what would be the odds of that, right? Crazy talk!) they'll get an additional 6 months for free.

As itchy as I get at the idea of throwing another $60 down this rabbit hole, I can't help but wonder if that might not make it worth it. After all, I do like rabbits. And I think I'd like the idea of getting another 6 months that are pressure-free. Just having this sitting in the background, waiting for that magical email saying "hey, I'm a young, handsome, brilliant and witty millionaire who has spent the last 10 years studying abroad and now wishes to find love. Oh, and I love to cook, love the Muppets and just happen to have a disease which makes chunky women look absolutely irresistable to me. What's your sign?" [Open For Business]

So I know I'm not giving you guys much time to chime in, but I need your help. What should I do here? Opinions? I've sent an email to the people running Yenta.com to make sure that I'm understanding their pitch correctly -- I'd hate to commit to another 3 months (and a wad of cash which could be buying me monthly chocolate, which you can always count on) only to be told "oh gosh and golly no, that offer only applies if you pay for a 6-month membership, not 2 3-month memberships. That's not how the math works. You're screwed. Thanks for calling and have a nice day."

But assuming that the offer does apply, should I stay or should I go now? After all, if I go there may be trouble. Then again, if I stay there could be double! So, my darling friends and fellow readers, let me know. Should I stay or should I go?

UPDATE:
I heard back from Yenta.com and they tell me this:

"Oh gosh and golly no, when you signed up 3 months ago we weren't making that offer so you do NOT get 6 months for free if you don't find wove after the next 3 months. Even though we truly do believe that if you do this for 6 months and don't find wove you should get 6 free months. We're confusing like that... And have a nice day."

The grande scheme of things

There's this job and I want it.

More then I want a partner I want this job.

More then I want to be skinny so as to better be worthy of a partner I want this job.

More then I want to be sexually refreshed before I die so as to make sure that if there is an afterlife that no snotty angel says to me "really? One person? And you lived to be HOW OLD? And he was an A-Hole too, right?" and then tch, tch, tch's at me and shakes his halo-sportin' head I want THIS JOB.

Just so you understand where the search for love or lust or nooky or whatever falls in the grand scheme of things, it goes like this:

1) happy in my own skin
2) friends and family to be happy and healthy
3) life pursuit (job, career, whatever) that is important to me and makes a difference
4) not be poor. (I don't need to be rich, but I don't ever again want to have to pick between a new mop or dinner.)
and finally...
5) a partner. Or a membership to the chocolate of the month club.

But right now, just about more then anything I want this one new, excellent job.

I won't give too many details -- suffice it to say it's a job that would have many of the things I sit and dream about while at my current job. It would provide me with a feeling of personal pride in my work. I could do something creative with my time. I'd have a stinkin' cool title. (I cannot tell you how high on my list of career priorities "cool title" sits. The day that "Web Master" became an actual title on people's business cards I cried just a little bit. I'd love to be something with "wizard" or "Lord" in it.)

Here's where I'm in "pit of my stomach full of angry pit vipers" stress mode. I applied to this job something like a month ago. I did the whole sh-bang; the resume, the cover letter, samples of my previous work... I was at least impressive enough for them to say "Interesting... Tell me more..." (but in the special hiring manager lingo, dontcha know.) Oh and I gave them more. More awesomeness! And then I knew that I'd have to wait.

And wait. And wait...

I know what you're thinking: "if she would put as much attention and energy and desire into spicing up her love life as her work life this woman would be rolling in dudes!" I think it says something important that the idea of putting this level of interest into my love life just makes me feel tired. Or maybe it's just that a dream guy hasn't showed up, where as the dream job has.

Still, one dream thing at a time. Let me land this big fish and then we'll see what else is floating out there. (come on monthly chocolate!)