Frivolous Glorious

Work It

2011-10-06T09:00:00.001-07:00

When I’m forced to shake hands with strangers I’m only half listening to their salutations, and mainly planning my escape route to the nearest functioning sink. I’ve tried to ignite the trend of “high elbowing” (it’s not catching on) and always schedule a first kiss for when my lipgloss is seventy-five percent empty. I’m a master yogini- my favorite pose is wedging my foot into bathroom door handles to pry them open. Yet, on that evening I threw caution to the wind and danced like I’ve never danced before. Hand in clammy hand, unmentionables grazing unmentionables, I was a shin-kicking, sweating, fake-Latin-salsa dancing hot mess and I relished in every second of it. I left the evening with a date prospect, and a deep guttural cough you’d expect from someone named Marge working at a truck stop. The date fell through, but the cough stuck.

Every time I hear a sassy salsa beat I’ll think of bronchitis and my “puffer.” Finally, I shook it, but the antibiotics produced a Train Spotting/master cleanse gastrointestinal reaction. The good news: My body is pool party ready. The bad news: Pool parties are for tramps and it’s almost winter. My love for fine literature is only surpassed by my love of horrifically bad television. “Oh, you’ve never read Anne Radliffe’s The Italian?” I’ll inquire, pretentiously, so I can justify segueing into a monologue about something shitty I saw on Bravo. And there, in a sweaty puddle on my sofa, I witnessed a cheaply produced program that very well might change my life.

Advice is tricky when you’re single because everyone offers it, and it’s always annoying. Each year I try Jdate for one month, and when it fails, my Dad will offer the following words: “Why don’t you join Italian date dot com?” I calmly explain to him that’s not a site, and if it was it would be filled with people like Joe Gorga. I begin to escalate and he eats pretzels and ignores me. Or he’ll say things like, “You can’t marry that guy. He’s old and stodgy. Next thing you know you’ll be eating watercress sandwiches.” Very helpful. My Mom offers equally relevant input. “We’re not paying for match dot com if you get on there and say a bunch of dumb stuff about fashion. No one likes that.” She occasionally gets a little too Joe Pesci for my liking by barging into rooms with an, “Oh, what, you’re feeling sorry for yourself?” She has an uncanny ability to sense self pity and pounce. Nothing enrages my mother more than self pity.

My sister doesn’t offer her opinion anymore. She’s just locked me out of her Facebook account.

A man friend will give me the two thumbs up about a fellow that is old enough to be my dad (and I’ll listen because my guy friend is hot and gay). Then he’ll later retract by saying he was really drunk, the geezer had a certain amount of “old-man charm” and, most importantly, was carrying two bottles of wine.

Fate was on my side when I flipped the channel. The premise is an attractive looking munchkin guy (who is either a therapist or matchmaker, I got in a little late) watches you go on dates and tells you why guys hate your guts. He makes you take off your Wonderbra and cut your hair and wear cardigans. Then he yells at you until you burst into tears and sob that you’re a good person, you just have really low self esteem (which is clearly not the case, but makes him stop yelling at you). Most importantly, he says one thing over and over again, and it’s the one thing that resonates: “You have to do the work.” Profound advice. So. Very. Deep. My eyes pool with tears (don’t judge, I hadn’t had a solid food in days).

The bronchial calamity gave me ample time to weigh in on my personal growth, which is pretty much the antithesis of my calorie-counting life philosophy. But between groans and wails, I knew something needed to change.

I’m stripping off my metaphorical Wonderbra (I would never wear an actual Wonderbra—disproportionately large bosoms make you look top heavy). When I meet someone unsuitable and think, “Maybe we could ...” like I’ve done every time in the past I’m going to pinch myself in the saddle bag. I’m not hanging on to dysfunctional old relationships because I’m too lazy to get out there and find a functional new one. Dates are not drinking contests, nor are they a good time perform Borscht Belt/ Paula Poundstone comedy routines (speaking of which, I should limit my excessive blazer compulsion). I’m going to be functional. Like a cardigan.

It’s cheesy, I know. But he made a point. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before from all of my friends and family. But between squirts of my puffer, I was listening.

I’m ready to put in the work. And I’m ready to take a nap.

Suspicious Minds

2011-09-07T15:18:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t always a mystery solver. I may have been slightly suspicious, but with little follow through.That all changed one fateful afternoon several years ago with an incident involving a closet and rickety step stool. If you’re wondering, now I’m a regular Nancy Drew. We both have inquisitive minds. We’re both a little outdated. We both grew up in fictional towns (River Heights and Boulder respectively). We will both poke around in your dresser drawer with a chopstick from our purse and get grossed out when we find grimy looking prophylactics and Gas X. Most importantly, we always crack the case.

I found myself at the birthday party of a date I had gone on six years earlier. It was odd with a dash of desperation (both the awkward invite and my gleeful attendance). He donned a suit fit for the cartoon cat in a Paula Abdul video, a nod to “1980s Miami.” Nearly middle aged men, theme parties and shoulder pads need not reside in the same dirt bar. But wait! He had arrived from work, and hadn’t had time to change. Oh. “I read your blog,” he offered. “Great characterization,” (the irony is not lost). Slamming his one hundredth vodka soda, he claimed to feel ill, then chugged random glasses of backwash water from the bar and I was smitten. Staring at me oddly, he was either actively falling in love or attempting to retain continence.

The rest was a corseted blur. I had been boxed out by what appeared to be the Director of Operations for a renaissance fair face painting booth (in lofty literary circles we call this “foreshadowing”).

My mystery solving methods are of the normal, rudimentary variety. You know, things like rooting around through garbage cans. Or taking iPhone pictures of medicine cabinet contents for googling (often this research occurs with them at your side on their ten thousand dollar couch which smells vaguely of belly buttons and turkey jerky). Occasionally you go searching for mysteries and all you get is a closet full of corduroy pants and an oversized wad of one dollar bills, the only mystery unearthed is how you’ve sadly ended up with a guy who has a closet full of corduroy pants. That’s rare, though. If you’re compelled to mystery solve it’s because you know you’ll find something.

Soon after the birthday party we started dating. When veering towards a relationship clues are omnipresent, all you need to do is open your eyes to find them. On our second encounter I could have only perseverated on his scrunch socks, the faux intellectual chatter about The Economist, and that fact that every Jewish guy thinks they’re “down with” Biggie Smalls because of the civil rights movement (they aren’t). Or that we were having a nice time together. But I looked closer. That’s odd. Each time we moved to a different room in his house along came his phone, which he quickly placed face down. The frequency of text arrivals I can only describe as Call Girl-ian. Hmmm.

I took to rarely blinking, and often sleeping with one eye open.

So I did what any girl in my position would do...I vodka sandbagged him. I wish I could say on that fateful date weeks later I was conniving enough to do it on purpose. But I have a Richard Simmons liver and can consume with the skilled voracity of an Irish frat guy. He was merely trying to keep up. Once he whined he didn’t want to imbibe on an empty stomach I could feel the air was thick with vulnerability. Good mystery solvers sense weakness and pounce.

I knew I’d find something, yet I was still shocked and outraged (with emphasis on rage) when I did. See, I’d violated mystery solving rule number one: Don’t Ever Believe Anything Anyone Ever Tells You Ever. Sweet sentiments are there to throw a mystery solver of course. On the bright side, he didn’t have a wife and kids in Utah. The not so bright side was the barrage of hokey excuses that followed. There were tears and yelling coupled with a vicious faux dumping. And you should have seen me. At one point I was wearing a basketball jersey. The hysteria was a near perfect time to exclaim my true feelings about his goatee- it’s a facial hair configuration only favored by professional magicians. But I kept quiet. He’d soon be re-entering the dating field and why should I help him get a leg up.

The next morning I woke in haze, half wishing the whole incident was a product food- borne-illness-related-dementia. No such luck! When you solve mysteries you have to face the music (which you’re actualIy the conductor of). I longed for a poignant moment. Or just a version of the truth. “I had a dream,” he said, staring at me seriously. “I never dream, it was so weird.” There was a pause for dramatic effect. I waited. “I was yelling at you and a group of people surrounded me and a started screaming ‘stop being mean to the little Mexican girl.’”

Case closed.

You Still Know Me

2011-08-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

When my favorite boyfriends in all of Boulder broke up, I knew my own (quasi) relationship was likely in trouble.

If two unbelievably attractive men who both wear tank tops and are proficient in backcombing hair and being fabulous couldn’t make it work doomsday was near for me, I could sense it. The probability of lasting with a guy who is often bedecked in cargo shorts and has interests that include curating a remote control collection, grilling undercooked chicken, and keeping his home soot free, were fairly low.

Still, our split was shocking. As we had been dating for seven whole weeks I had naturally planned out the next twenty years of our marriage, which involved a dual citizenship between his and my parents’ house. We were going to have kids and they were going to be mini, calamity prone and whiney. The best I could hope for was a diminutive cheerleader or wrestler. The worst, aspiring indie film maker or Haiku enthusiast. Not good. I’d watch bad Patrick Duffy shows on Friday with the family, while furtively injecting my Capri Sun with vodka from one of those wisdom teeth clean-y syringe thingyies. I’d be a girl scout troop leader that rolled my eyes and judged kids' bad outfits and dumb senses of humor. I’d cook brisket. We’d decorate our home in Judaica. I’d burn my fingers on a glue gun making potpourri sachets and go ballistic like Don Rickles in Casino. I’d simply ignore all of our big issues (two in particular) and huge differences. I’d be happy...Fine...Happy-ish.

I used to hate break ups. Now I think break ups are the best part of a relationship because they’re the most telling. True Grit, but with blubbering and crashing shit on the ground. I sat to write a farewell, dabbing at tears (but not too many because, honey, this smoky eye doesn’t apply itself). I’m sad. I miss you. Let’s be friends at some point. We had ups. We had downs. It’s always good to hit somebody up with a little Robert Frost action, the classy “road less traveled” route. Whomever gets the most down and dirty loses. Whomever retains an Elizabethan sense of decorum wins. Duh.

He replied within moments. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know you. Please respect my wishes and don’t ever contact me again.”

Interesting. I needed to process.

Most obviously, I’m sorry to inform you Kind Sir, but you already know me. You met me six years ago on a dumb Jdate when you wore khakis and told me I had scoliosis. And furthermore, you’re going to keep knowing me. Images of me in sassy outfits holding my arm in the horizontal, skinny bitch position are going to infiltrate your facebook newsfeed. When you see the fish platter I left at your house after a faux foray into pesto making domesticity (apparently five cloves of garlic is too many? And my Mom would like her plate back, thank you very much) you’ll know who it belongs to. When your bathroom sink drain is running slow you’ll know whose weave is all up in it. So there. Yes, the “I don’t want to know you” slant was kinda sad, but in all fairness I’m guessing there is more than a healthy sprinkling of people that don’t want to know me. And that’s just too bad. Everyone knows me.

Yet something strange had happened in the last few years. At twenty-nine I would have read the “I don’t want to know you,” jab and been rendered helpless, assaulting a vat of chemically engineered guacamole, using my finger as a spoon, weeping. At nearly thirty-two, well, not so much. After the initial jolt of shock and awe wore off, I was actually quite grateful. If somebody was that hell bent on really hurting my feelings after seven weeks, imagine what they’d do after fourteen? Twenty seven? How about six years, two months and eleven days? When facing divorce he’d punitively seek partial custody of my most prized possessions: The essential CHI flatiron and my vintage Hawaiian MuMu collection. Mean! Then he’d kick me whilst I was down with a text simply stating “I hate you.” Hurtful! Followed in succession by a second saying “You look like a post modern Urkel in those high waisted shorts you favor,” bundled with a requisite muffin top zinger. Rude! In a hot minute it was all becoming unfathomably fathomable.

Feelings are more easily respected before three martinis, so his information was promptly deleted. And that was it. I would say, “be careful what you wish for,” but it seems awkwardly desperate- like something I would have claimed when I favored Tresemme and Jamba Juice.

Later in the week I received an “Are we over?” text. It was a series of numbers, with no name attached. And I had no idea who it was from.

Lesson Learned

2010-10-26T15:02:00.000-07:00

If I was an R& B song I’d be “Lesson Learned” by Alicia Keys. If I was a short story that teaches a moral I’d be a fable. I’m sure there was a voice of reason character on the “Facts of Life” but I can’t think of who it was, so for now I’ll just say I’m Tootie.

It’s been a year since I’ve been in a long term relationship (and those four months did not fly by, might I add). It had to end, as being with my ex was about as exciting as dating a baked potato. Maybe less. At least you can spruce up a baked potato with sour cream and cheddar and Bacon Bits and other ass enhancing elements. But it was a good lesson. At some point in life you have to own up to who you are, and move the hell on. I no longer get sullen and introspective and privately berate myself for not being engaged in domestic bliss. Domestic bliss is for dorks. I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I hate pinching farts. I hate spooning. I hate listening to guy stories. I hate wearing “day makeup” makeup. I want to eat only takeout salad while farting in a full face of makeup on top of a pile of dirty underwear every night for the next twenty-six years.

There are two types of guys I seem date most often: Divorced Guys and Geezers. Surprisingly these two have not been mutually exclusive. The Geezers are lifelong bachelors, the divorced guys are more age appropriate (when you date Geezers thirty-nine somehow seems age appropriate, unfortunately). Brace yourself. It never seems to work.

I’ve been on a mere two dates in over two months.

First he was an attractive stranger. Then he became my good looking friend. Then we kissed. Now I’m going to ignore him in awkward bar settings. We went on one date. It lasted nine hours. I’ve had entire relationships shorter than our encounter. The worst part: I was sober. Sobriety on dates is my Achilles heel. I talked so much about every inappropriate date topic I now have an acute case of TMJ. There are some big differences between us. He detoxes after two drinks. Two drinks is my detox. He refuses to eat anything out of a box. Even Thin Mints? Terrible. I’m guessing this also includes anything in a bag, which rules out Ore Ida french fries. Blasphemy. My dietary staples are gluten free cheetos, vodka and aspartame. It’s bad enough I have to listen to my sister lecture on the dangers of tomato soup from a can. He brought a baggie of vitamins and supplements to ingest during dinner. “I only have three drinks a week,” I offered, hopefully. I have no problem lying on dates, especially if it’s a ridiculous and blatant lie. If both parties know one party is full of shit, then it’s not a lie. I thought everyone knew that rule. He’s old school. He hates texting. He doesn’t wear a seat belt. He brags about partying next to Prince (before Prince became a weird symbol, then Prince again). He lectures about alcohol and pretends like he’s not lecturing. I think we know how this ends. Inevitably we stopped dating, but the simple truth is despite the various oddities of our time together, he’s okay. And we’re kinda friends. How boring. Now I’m in GILF recovery (Grandpa I’d Like to...Yikes).

I retired from dating. Then I met the other guy.

I don’t fault divorced guys for dating. I just fault them for dating me. I’m probably the least kind and understanding person there is about this sort of thing. My most emotionally upsetting occurrence recently was when the screen on my iPhone shattered. In all fairness, I love my phone. I’m not amused by tales of adventures with your ex, or the forty-three pictures of you two in swimsuits on facebook. If you want to work it out like a 1990’s JCPenny catalog model, I encourage you to do so. Just leave me out of it. But in the end I can only blame myself. No one forced me to go on a date with a guy wearing a “transitional” wedding band on his right ring finger. I guess the man jewelry makes the rounds through all the appendages, until it ends up in the underwear drawer, next to gross boxers and her finger nail clippings. I know for sure when I’m divorced I won’t be keeping the ring. I’ll either hawk it, or throw it in a public sewer, depending on how drunk and or grumpy I am that day. Reminder: I’m not a therapist. If I was a therapist the date would cost about four times what the total bill will end up being. It’s one date. I want to have fun! I want to eat, drink and be merry. Divorced women are the life of the party, reveling in their freedom. Divorced men, not so much. I get you’re consumed with sadness, but that’s what take out pizza and soft porn in a Snuggie are for Divorced Guy.

The worst part about the date (and dating in general) was the “if only’s.” Like, "If only this sad guy wasn't emotionally crippled. He's got a great head of hair." Or, “If only this guy didn’t just say how cliquey Boulder is thus revealing his high SI (Social Irrelevance) factor.” How about, “If only this guy wasn’t welling up with tears at the Sundowner.” “If only things weren’t really deteriorating to the point of no return forcing me to abandon him and escape to a cab.”

He had made it known he didn’t want anything serious without any real context, and I had made it know I wouldn’t be seeing him again.The prospect of an emotionless fling with someone who is obsessed with someone else. Tempting! But I think I’ll pass. “Wow, I didn’t expect that reaction,” he countered, genuinely dumbfounded.

I went home, went to bed and didn’t give it another thought. He hadn't been on a date in years. So the next day I woke up to an overly dramatic email that began, “I hope you know that I didn't want things to end like that last night - it was painful for both of us I think,” and a bunch of blah blah blahs. How cringe inducing. Embarrassing. Hey putz, it was one night, I think we’ll all be okay. I’m the Grand Dame of bum endings. I’m used to that sort of thing. I actually thought it had gone alright. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make out in an alley. I didn’t barf. I didn’t raise my voice. A minor victory. For someone who refuses to even walk on the treadmill at an incline, dating a divorced guy is too much of an uphill battle.

There is a bit of speculation that perhaps I’m at fault for all the bad encounters I have. Now that’s just silly. Name one person you know who doesn’t have five drinks on a date and then share details about their Irritable Bowl Syndrome, then I’ll agree. I’ll own up to accepting dates with inappropriate suitors and that’s all. I’m a great date!

I pick the wrong people. Lesson learned.

From here out I’m dating only Sirs my age (or a little younger, or a tid bit older). A positive first step was my recent week long crush on a regular from one of my favorite spots. He’s my age. And cute. But in the end my love of the bar we visit triumphs over the potential love of my life. Don’t shit where you eat. Or in this case don’t piss where you drink. It’s baby steps. I now know what I’m looking for, and my quest for the elusive Party Professional begins. It’s my ideal guy, and if you’ve been to New Jersey you know they exist. Stockbrokers chugging Patron. Accountants taking Jaeger shots.

This perfect man is out there. And I'm pretty sure if I keep drinking in Boulder bars I’ll find him. Cheers to that.

A Not So Grand Finale

2010-08-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

I’m over it.

That’s all folks. Pack it up. There’s nothing left to see here. All good things must come to an end. Conversely, so do all bad things.

I’m not (quite) delusional and narcissistic enough to say it’s the end of an era. Era’s last longer than four months and are relevant to more than four people. So no era ending, just the conclusion of this blog.

I’m not throwing in the towel because of karma, or negative energy mumbo jumbo. I’m generally pretty self serving about that stuff. I believe it when I want to believe it. When my tarot lady (she doesn’t want to be called a psychic) gives me advice I'll probably do it, because I’m pretend new agey. When my mom says the same thing incessantly, like shrill New York Housewife Jill Zarin, I ignore it (sorry Mom, I think the nickname “Zarin” may stick). Negative energy: I’m rubber, you’re glue. Bounces off...Well you know the rest. My blog was a vessel for spewing back that which has been channeled to me in the form of douches, a giant suck it to coffee dates of the universe. Putting forth positive energy about dating is just about the saddest thing a lone girl can do. Don’t be faux hopeful, because no one is buying it. Once I start wearing sweaters on my head as a hat like Grey Gardens and stop plucking my eyebrows you’ll know I’m actually delighted with being a single bruschetta. I’ll go through stages where I smile and act chipper at the grocery store, trying to project positivity, just to test it out. You know who buys it? Homeless guys I mistake for hot guys waiting for the turkey slicer guy to jimmy open their can of pork and beans. It’s not like I’m going to stop writing and the skies will part, a ray of light will shine down on me, and I’ll suddenly meet a thirty-eight-year-old, never married Jewish doctor (well, but, umm, you never know, right!?)

“Aren’t prospective dates going to be nervous?” People asked, when they found out about the dating blog. Seriously? If a guy is such a wuss he’s crapping himself about this blog, this blog is going to be the least of his worries while dating me. More importantly, to quote Oscar Wilde, “The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about.” If I was dating me I’d be crushed if I didn’t make the blog. I’d read every entry eagerly hoping my unfathomably sad social conduct made the cut. Not making the blog means you’re such an irrelevant blob I can’t even make fun of you in a relevant way (and a shout out to all the left out, irrelevant blobs). Even the backlash was fairly minimal. A dropped facebook friend here or there. A random bitch out now and again. But that’s just a normal tuesday for me before the blog.

I’m certainly not at a loss for material.

I sometimes date professional bike people from foreign lands that are denied a mere glass of wine because they look so young, so I have to sit through a traumatically sober date, then chug like a frat guy to make up for lost time. Even whilst inebriated the terms “wanker” and “mate” are irritating, and now when I see someone in a cycling unitard I get cold sweats and clammy palms. All bikesters want to end up in Europe, and therefore like me because I’m the closest thing to Euro trash in Boulder. The next pro athlete I date is going to have gold teeth and be fighting a felony charge.

In one day recently I went on a stupid lunch date, an awful dinner date, and proceeded to storm into a bar and break up a date my sister was simultaneously on. When you and your little sister are on dates with friends in separate locations at the same moment, and you’re uncharacteristically good at solving mysteries, you’re bound to uncover dirt. He called me a, “crazy facebook stalker,” but I like to think of myself as a modern day Matlock, with less saggy earlobes. Some recent cases I’ve cracked: The Mystery of the Poor Old Guy Going Incognito as a Rich Old Guy, The Mystery of the Inexplicably Lazy Boyfriend, and The Mystery of My Clogged Sink Drain (which wasn’t much of a mystery after all). I did my signature drunken Frankenstein walk into the bar, and tore his shit up. 0-3 in one day seemed excessive, even for me.

I thought I had finally met my soul mate the other afternoon at Kinko’s. He approached me, a younger, tortured artist type asking about my “project.” I was making a igloo out of sugar cubes for Social Studies. Wait. I was getting business cards printed for twork. My soul mate was youthful and vibrant, and dressed cute. I knew my soul mate would be wearing expensive jeans! Then I saw that his Mom was giving him a ride, which leads me to think his artwork may have been for a high school assignment (and I found myself thinking, well, if he’s over 18...And I am yelling this paragraph from rock bottom).

I assumed these types of things happen to everyone. Apparently not.

But It’s getting a little too repetitive. All too familiar. DatethenDrinkthenMassivefalling out. Repeat. The only deviance is DrinkthenMakeoutneardumpsterthenAttempttodatethenFalling out. Repeat. I feel like I’m trapped in a PG-13 Chose Your Own Adventure. I find myself writing essays in my head about dating. While I’m on the bad dates. Not good. I want to go on boring dates with boring people that lead to boring marriages. A girl’s gotta have goals. Plus, I’m not sure what else I can reveal about myself. I’ve disclosed the small number of people I’ve you know what’ed, the large number of cocktails I can consume, and the certain charming brand of nutsy/apathetic/lazy/disinterested/overly analytical I am. What more am I left to over share? I’ve purged it all. Anything more might be self indulgent, that one extra vodka soda that makes you water barf.

If I wrote about you, I laud you for the material. I don’t think I was too hard on anyone, because, let’s face it, you’re a real tool. I’m sure a lot of people were sick of me after one essay, and lot’s of people were sick of me before this blog even started. But the most important factor is that I’m now sick of me.

Maybe there is more to dating me than these essays let on. Somehow, maybe less? Could I be more crass? More superficial? I guess anything is possible! See, how about that for optimism. The only way you’d know for sure is if we go on a date. It’ll be fun (and I need to start cultivating material for my comeback).

A Distinguished Critique

2010-08-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

Extensive background information. God, I hate it. Irritating white noise, what’s the point? I like my stories to begin in the middle. The storm. I don’t care about the calm before it. The only thing I despise more than boring details is when middle aged men send me contextually awkward, not funny, sexual innuendo via Facebook. Particularly when we’ve never even kissed (mouth open or closed). Too many scheduling conflicts, and his last ditch date offer was “come over to my house at eleven. I’ll make you breakfast.” I was stumped. I don’t eat after nine unless it’s fruit or I’m drunk and eating cheese by the block. Why would I want breakfast at eleven pm?....Wait....Ew!

“Why would I want breakfast at eleven?” I wrote.

His reply: “You’ll need your strength.” AH!

I sent him a link to a blog about dating older men. He said it was “well written and even entertaining.” He emailed me back an insultingly dumb men's blog. To summarize: Establish trust with a younger girl by not trying to get in her slacks (as an older fellow might call them) so you can then make your move slyly. I brushed it off- now he’d revealed his secrets!

It was a fairly jovial correspondence. Then he realized it was not some random, whining whiner, bitching in a blog. But rather yours truly who had penned, “Distinguished Gentleman Be Damned.”

EMAIL 1
(Scene: He sits at his computer, sweaty and outraged, pounding furiously. At ten a.m. On a work day).
Oh, let's just call a spade a spade then. Based on reading exactly one blog post, yes, askmen's advice is crap and no, it's not to be taken seriously. The point is that older men have the patience to wait until you can admit (to yourself and to them) that you want to have sex just as much as they want to have sex. Really, we're over the chastity game or any other posturing. A guy not wanting to get into your pants is no less a bunch of crap than you only having slept with *** men (the magic number for every girl who's selling chastity). No less a bunch of crap than every third thought in your blog being about sex / vibrators / relationships / drunken hook ups, and then you saying that you don't have sex until the 17th date (or some other prime number that's >7). Let's follow the math: You're thirty, you've had no relationship longer than four months and sex with only *** men. If you started dating at age 18 had five of those four month relationships and were shtoinking for 100% of those days (highly unlikely given your ban on instant shtoinking and the fact that daily shtoinking in days 1-120 doesn't lead to break up on day 121) you've got a mere 20 months of shtoinking in 12 years (144 months) or 14% of the time. If that were a month, you'd be looking at a little over 4x/mo. Middle aged married people get more. My friend's dog humps the neighbor's dog more often and they're both spayed / neutered. I've seen monkeys at the zoo jerk it more of
(In a fury he accidentally presses send)

EMAIL 2
(Continues hysterically typing)
whoops....more often....and they're in public.

But really, I'm just talking about going and having a glass of wine. Enough with your sex / non-sex fixation. Later tater.

(Scene: I sit clutching my iPhone. Yikes. I’m outraged. Say what you will about my essays, and infer from them what you want. Claim foul play. Speculate. Accuse. Rant. Rave. Whine. Fine with me. But math equations? Really? Algebra. That’s low).

MY RESPONSE
Lighten up. Pull your underwear out of your prostate.
P.S. Your email was incredibly long.
P.P.S I don't talk about vibrators in my blog, and every other thought is about alcohol.

To mis quote the great William Shakespeare, me thinks the Distinguished Gentleman doth protest too much.

A $34.95 Soulmate, The Conclusion

2010-07-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

I’m sick of meeting soul mates at one thirty in the morning. Many drinks and sweet nothings later the items of my clothing I’ll allow my new soul mate to remove are my trouser socks (which is the most alarming part of the scenario because I wear black trouser socks in July like a tourist from Istanbul). The internet seems logical. True love, that cute “how we met” story, it’s all so very sweet and hopeful. I was sweet and hopeful at twenty-two. Now I Camel Pack white wine and go on ill fated dates with men I could either be babysitting or care taking. I can’t seem to find a soul mate anywhere, and I look all the time. Maybe I'm just too busy to find a soul mate, which makes the internet a perfect option. I’m too busy trying to find a little cart without bird poop and avoiding using the same check yourself out aisle as a homeless person with one leg at the grocery store to find a soul mate. I’m too busy straightening my hair and tweeting to find a soul mate. I’m too busy smearing myself in cheap, stinky self tanner and shaping my eyebrows to find a soul mate. I’m too busy writing essays about not finding a soul mate to find a soul mate.

I pick a zip code in Denver chuck full of rich, educated, handsome, gym dwellers with a nice set of muscle tits on them. Are you wearing a skintight bedazzled shirt that highlights your over or undersized nipples? Are you talking about mixed martial arts? Are you sporting a giant watch and unstylish True Religion jeans that make you look like you have a Ken doll crotch? Perfect.

The emails arrive fast and furious. The second match.com dupes you into paying, all the suitable prospects vanish. Each ding is terror inducing. My phone is the enemy.

Getting lots of mail on match.com is like being the A minus student in basic math: Not much to brag about. Yet, you can’t help but become slightly puffed up with your own importance. Well don’t. Because the next phase is angst and depression as, toot toot, the freak parade begins. Shrunken Twinkie hued men, with bad jobs and Cabbage Patch Kid yarn hair think I would date them? Sad. I’m used to nerds writing me on Jdate. But that’s totally different. When you’re a nerd on Jdate, you have an MBA and your family is loaded. When you’re a nerd on match.com you play Dungeons and Dragons, and are wearing your cat around your neck like a scarf. Just gotta roll with it, though. Anyone can wink at you on match.com. In real life dorks would only dare wink if they have an uncontrollable tick. Semi hot guys write me too, but that makes me most uncomfortable. The hot guy on match.com is unforgivable because it’s explanation-less. If you’re normal on match.com you must have real problems.

I receive cringe inducing emails from people trying to be funny headed, “Hot Sexy Bee Keeper Looking for Love.” Genuine, heartfelt emails about life goals (yikes). Tons of droll, drool inducing come ons, "Do you like to travel?" "Do you have a favorite food?" There are the spooky emails. Snub call out emails, "why didn't you write me back?" which startle the crap out of me. Eventually, I try my hand at writing a couple of specially picked selections. I pen odd, random statements like, “Nice flannel shirt. Good work.” When they respond, I usually don’t write back. I wouldn’t want to date anyone that would want to date moron match.com me.

I immediately realize my plan is flawed on many levels. First, It makes me look like a borderline sociopath every time I’m forced to explain I actually live in Boulder. It’s like the witness relocation program for dating. And there are too many choices. If you had the time to go through everyone, you're clearly too much of a loser to get an actual date. Plus, Denver is such a long way to drive for a shitty coffee encounter. Coffee dates are the bane of my existence. The mere thought of the coffee date pay scenario gives me an anxiety attack. Us lumbering to the counter, “I’ve got this,” he’ll say chivalrously. Thank you. My coffee is twelve quarters, or three hours of parking. Too kind. I’m going to be greasy and crumpled with the requisite summer butt sweat from the drive. I’m going to be flustered and nervous. It’s going to be a bad time. I’m going to talk endlessly about nothing and make myself seem ten times more neurotic than I actually am (which is difficult to do). I will be able to see his pores from across the table. We will uncomfortably hug goodbye, and his armpit will touch my shoulder and I’ll almost barf. His breath will smell like four day old flatbread. I’ll spend the whole time pinching farts, as I worry who is silently judging me for being on an internet date. Then worse of all, the mall will be closed when we’re done and I will eat falafel alone, checking my match.com account.

I finally make one date with a snow shoe marathon runner (seriously) in Boulder. He doesn't own a television (no joke). Or drink (he caught me during a vulnerable period of sobriety. Which lasted two weeks). Somehow I'm digging all of it. Inevitably the deal breaker is the fact he asked me thrice is I like living in Denver. His lack of attentiveness irks me.

Apparently, I’m a lot less desperate and a lot more lazy than I had anticipated. Darn.

$34.99 down the drain. But let's get real, I can drink that in an hour. During a one month membership I go on zero match.com dates. Which somehow still seems like too many.

A $34.95 Soulmate, Part 2.

2010-07-06T13:03:00.000-07:00

My (ACTUAL) match.com profile as deconstructed by me:

You know how everyone always writes how difficult it is to compose these things? I was going to start off making fun of that. Until I sat down to actually write this. It's almost impossible (I’M LYING. IF I WROTE A MATCH PROFILE ABOUT MYSELF EVERYDAY FOR THE NEXT FIFTY YEARS, I WOULD STILL FEEL EDITED. AT ANY GIVEN TIME I COULD MOMENT I COULD SCRIBE A HAIKU, ONE WOMAN PLAY, ACOUSTIC SONG OR LIMERICK ABOUT MY FAVORITE PROTAGONIST...ME!) No matter what you always sound like you're posting to an online dating site. Wait...

 I thought I'd give it a try (BECAUSE I SPENT THE LAST SIX MONTHS FAIRLY SURLY, FULLY SELF IMPORTANT, AND BEHAVING LIKE THE LONE EDUCATED CAST OFF FROM THE BAD GIRLS CLUB). Generally speaking I go out quite a bit (IF I DIDN’T LIVE IN A TOWN FULL OF DRUNKS I COULD BE THE TOWN DRUNK). But it's getting increasingly agitating to try and have a meaningful conversation above the blare of music while people around you intermittently take shots and fall on their rears (SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS! CAN SOMEONE HELP ME UP FROM THE FLOOR, PLEASE?). Apparently it's less lame to say you met online than in a bar (NO IT’S NOT. THIS IS WHAT PEOPLE SAY SO THEY CAN MAKE THEMSELVES FEEL BETTER FOR BEING LIKE THE EAGLES SONG DESPERADO. AND WHY, OH WHY, DON’T YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES? NORMAL, GOD FEARING PEOPLE DON’T PAY 34 DOLLARS TO BE SET UP WITH GUYS FEEDING A BABY KOALA FROM A BOTTLE). Usually when I'm out I'm with friends (MY SISTER) wearing uncomfortable footwear (PEEING ALL OVER A TOILET SEAT BECAUSE SQUATTING IS A REAL BITCH IN FIVE INCH TORY BURCH PLATFORMS), and focused on my martini (CHECK). So here I am.

  About me: I walk on the treadmill listening to pandora (DON’T HAVE BOSOMS LARGER THAN MINE) I make a mean lasagna (RAGU, NOODLES FROM A BOX, SLAPPED TOGETHER RESENTFULLY, ONCE A YEAR). I love anything vintage: Books, clothes, furniture, knick knacks (LOOK FOR ME IN AN UPCOMING EPISODE OF HOARDERS). I have a degree in literature. I can drop it like it's hot in the club (SO PLEASE WRITE ME IF YOU’RE NAME IS ROY, YOU’RE FROM ARUROA, YOU HAVE THREE CHILDREN, AND YOU START YOUR EMAIL WITH “I’M NOT SURE IF YOU’D LIKE ME PHYSICALLY”).

 Above all you have to have honesty, about the big and little things (I POSSESS A SIXTH SENSE FOR UNEARTHING DEEP ROOTED PATHOLOGY, AND THE UNCANNY ABILITY TO FIGURE OUT YOUR EMAIL PASSWORD). I want someone with compassion (BLAH) a big heart (BORING), and integrity (SO SAYS MY PSYCHIC. NOTE TO SELF: GOOGLE INTEGRITY). If you can't laugh with the person forget it. Sense of humor is huge to me (BUT DON’T WRITE ME IF YOU’RE HUGE, NO MATTER HOW GOOD YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR).   

I have drive. And ambition. I like these things in others (POOR PEOPLE...BUMMER).

  I would like to meet someone who is smart intellectually, and quick. Up for anything, easily amused by the subtle, humorous nuances of life (WHO WROTE THIS? DID I WRITE THIS?). Big personality (OR EVEN A LITTLE PERSONALITY. JUST POSSESS THE ABILITY TO SPEAK). While shared interests are kind of important to me I'm willing to push and try new things (I’M NOT WILLING TO TRY NEW THINGS. I WOULD RATHER HAVE A LIFETIME OF VISIBLE PANTY LINES AND FIVE O’CLOCK ARMPIT STUBBLE THAN DO ANYTHING YOU LIKE INCLUDING LIVE MUSIC, BIKE RIDES, JAM BANDS, HIKES, BIKE RIDES, OR WALKING FARTHER THAN TWO BLOCKS. UNLESS IT’S TO A MALL) shared values are most important (DON’T EXPECT ME TO EVER HAVE SEX WITH YOU). I come from a great family who instilled in me good values. I've held on to them throughout adulthood (AND IT’S TOO LATE TO BECOME A SKANK SO DON’T ATTEMPT TO COERCE ME INTO THE SACK). I'm progressive in some ways, but like dating to be traditional and kind of old school (I WILL NOT BE GOING ON A DUTCH DATE). Of course you have to be attracted to the person you're with (YOU AND YOUR GIANT FACE SHOULD NOT BE WRITING ME. WHY ARE YOU WEARING A VISOR? ARE YOU SPOONING YOUR DOG?). And you can't be wearing Tevas on a night out.

  Honesty. Integrity. Humor. Attraction. Intellect. No Tevas. I don't think that's asking too much. (OR IS IT?)

A $34.95 Soulmate, Part 1.

2010-06-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

And so it goes. You walk through a bar like that single continuous kitchen/nightclub shot in Goodfellas, people saying hello then fading into the background.

That’s it. Finished. Zero. Zilch. Done. Not one person left in Boulder to date. Not one passable companion remains for you to order a greek salad, chicken well done, with. This is a bold statement, but I stand by it: I’ve dated every eligible bachelor in Boulder (and by eligible I mean highly ineligible, no one else would want, drunk goggles always lie, etc). My last illustrious romantic interlude was one week of actual dating and three months of closure. I knew it was really over when after a particularly poignant email heart to heart he ended his with, “If I see you blogging about this I’ll do the same ;)” It was a vaguely threatening, Don Corleone moment. But wait. You’re thirty nine. Your people are from Greenland or Denmark, or something. And most relevant: You don’t have a blog. So peace out right back ‘atcha, wink smiley (thankfully he’s too self satiated to read this, because if he did he’d be like hey psycho, we went on a total of four dates, stop writing about me).

Suddenly my romantic life is like that two day old bread with the orange sticker that senior citizens buy along with cigarettes and clearance crab legs: Stale.

I whined to my friend, an Episcopalian minister, about my dating woes. It was a near emotional breakdown moment. I’ll milk anyone for free therapy-ish advice. A Chaplin. My psychic. A therapist in friendly emails with a thinly veiled agenda. The girl working at the coffee shop. My friend has Jesus on her team so she’d have good dating advice, surely. She offered two suggestions. One, say a prayer and leave it in the hands of the universe. The other, internet dating. Not exactly the answers I had been hoping for, but at least I wouldn’t have to convert. Leaving it in the hands of the universe has led me to disproportionately high amount of conversations with guys who look like Will Ferrell telling me all the reasons someone wouldn’t want to date me. But dating on the web? Really? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done it. I’m a card carrying Jew, and it’s the tradition of our people. Latkes with a side of awkward Jdate. The only thing I can fairly compare these encounters to is the fun of being splashed on the feet by crotch run off from the lady in the shower next to me at the gym. One person in a relationship gets to be quirky, neurotic and annoying in Woody Allen kind of way. Guess who.

Then I’m casually drinking wine at a party, and suddenly a foe from town corners me lauding eharmony. Everyone’s on it, she said (in fact, several people I’ve dated were on the site... While I was dating them. Not exactly a Kumbaya moment finding this out after four glasses of red wine). Let me get this straight. No pictures? You answer six hundred and fifty two soul baring questions about yourself and are paired because of compatibility, not because of the mini image that pops up on your iPhone? Sounds delightful. Based on my interests and personality type I am going to pay (my Dad’s going to pay) thirty five dollars to be paired with a bunch of closeted, snarky, gay guys? My hobbies include drinking wine, watching Bravo, dieting, judging people’s bad clothes, and picking out of a crowd who bought their cheap shoes at Steve Madden. I don’t know which color best describes me. Which color makes me look skinniest? I get that Tanyalee was too busy with her busy career folding jeans in unstylish boots to go meet a guy. And Josh likes walks on the beach! But should we be impressed that two solid C's found each other? If you dig a little deeper via internet you’ll find Josh and Tanyalee are vocal about being opposed to gay marriage. Gross. I hate it when famous desperado's think they can have opinions on anything other than being hard up. Great endorsement.

Finally, match.com, the supposed promise land. After extensive research I’ve realized there are four categories of bachelors on it: 1. Guys with weird facial hair holding fish 2. Guys who only have pictures of themselves taken by their computer because they don’t have friends. 3. Guys that say things like “I like all food but chinese,” and “if you have a sexy body that would be a plus.” 4. Semi hot guys that look like they’re from New Jersey (yay!). I’ve always wondered, with all the singles on dating sites, how do people not meet each other? All these parties of one, why can’t they connect? I’ll tell you why. Because none of them will shut the hell up. Weird guys, fat guys, dumb guys, hot guys, they all have a forty point laundry list of what they’re looking for. I’m all for holding out, but no offense, lower your standards buddy. If you’re from Aurora and wearing a tank top odds of hooking up with a model-ish type (or even a Macy’s sales associate) are low. And If your profile is longer than a high school five paragraph essay you should be bitch slapped. I don’t need to read War and Peace about you being from Michigan and how you like to play tennis.

So there it is. Match. com. The final frontier. I don’t expect to meet a soulmate, but rather have a distraction from not meeting my soulmate. And I’ve come up with a highly logical plan. Match.com...In Denver! These guys say they like the gym, dress well, and look like they could bench press me with one arm. Finally someone will appreciate that I’ve mastered my emaciated body posture.

Everyone says they’ll never do it...So I won’t do it either.

Now excuse me while I put together a photo collage and witty paragraph that certainly won’t start with “writing about myself is so hard.”

Vodka with a side of Wedding Cake

2010-06-08T12:01:00.000-07:00

Dating is all about duality. The date we are actually on versus the date we are on in my head because I probably drank too much within the first hour, and read far too many Baby-Sitters Club books growing up. Yes! I’m in love! Yes! I’ll have another martini! Damn you Super Specials. You’ve altered my perception of romance. Damn you vodka! (I take it back. I’d never damn vodka. That’s borderline sacrilege).

You know the old saying, “You should know within two hours of a date whether you want to marry someone?”

No?

Oh, well, that’s because I made it up.

I usually know within one hundred and twenty minutes of our dinner that we’re going to get married. By this point in the evening I’ve likely had a trio of libations. My dates are like New York City bars- three drink minimums.

(Sip) See, we’re going to get hitched at the St. Julien, and I’m going to tweet about it. Yay! Now I can go to my twenty year reunion, and finally let myself get fat! You’ll still love me, right? My facebook picture may even be me in my gown, you spooning me, how cute! Cupcake tier? Adorable! Puppy ring barer!? Precious. Let's dance to something funny that shows our personality as a couple. I'll choreograph it. Do you like Ray J? I’m thinking April, May, June, or October wedding. Maybe winter? That’s good too. See, I’m orange year round, so I don’t mind strapless in snow. Unseasonably cheeto, all seasons. I'm a pretty princess! I love my special day!

Split a bottle of wine? Why not?

Do you like antiques? Because I’m kind of a closet interior designer. OMG our house is going to be amazing. Like Jonathan Adler, but more gay. Do you love knick knacks? Like, tons of them? Can we share a closet? Can I have my own closet? Can I have two closets? Can I put my clothes in your unused kitchen cabinets? What was that you said, oh another anecdote about your ex wife...Ha...Funny! She sounds just great (sip). She asked you how you cook your cauliflower. You boil it! Who knew? That's too much. Really, really funny. (Sip) I wonder if we could get in the NYT wedding announcements? I mean, I’m Jewish, and sometimes they put random couples in from weird states. I’ll have to come up with a moderately boring, intellectual-ish backstory, but it shouldn’t be too hard to make one up. I obviously can’t write that I met my husband when my mouth tripped and fell onto his mouth on the Round Midnight dance floor. Do you think the Rabbi will be so impressed? Totally! Do I want to see a picture of your ex girlfriend on your iPhone? Sure! Oh, well, look at that. A hat! I haven’t worn a hat since fourth grade. Great though, really stylish. Seriously. A real fashionista! Is that a Kangol? I didn’t know they made those anymore. She’s like a blonde LL Cool J (sip). Do you like to cook? We’ll totally split the cooking. I’ll do two nights, you two nights, then out to dinner with my sister, then date night. My specialty is anything that takes four minutes to prep. You can pick something up from Larkburger, or Mod Market on your nights. Just remember, sweetie, dressing on the side! (Sip) So your last girlfriend was twenty years younger? And, I’m sorry, what was that? A hostess! Great! Fantastic. I was a hostess in college. Really fun, really rewarding work (sip). (Sip) You were on how many dating sites? Six! Oh! Wow? I can’t even think of six dating sites, but that’s awesome. Way to put yourself out there. You must have become a typing expert.

Yes, I think I’ll take another glass of water.

We need to talk. I don’t think this is working. I feel like we’re growing apart. I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. So you like living in Denver? Yes, you must know tons of people. Really? If we go out to lunch we may run into your ex-girlfriends Nana, and that is not going to be awkward. No! I’m sure it will be totally not awkward. And she thinks you two should have gotten married? You guys were were set up by your parents when you were two years old- that’s fabulous. A little young to date, but when you know, you know. When I was a toddler I wore my cousin Danny’s clothes, and he’s a boy. They still think you should have ended up together? Wow! (Sip). I don’t think I’m in love with your anymore, I’m not sure I ever loved you. I can’t even look at you. Don’t look at me like that, you’ve changed. You slept with your ex after how many dates? That’s quick! (Sip). Mom, I’m moving back in. Yes, I just moved out three hours ago, but it’s not working. Do I want to come back to your place for more drinks? Oh look at the time. It’s late! I think I’m good (sip). Live in the moment? I’m just really tired, and with you still hooking up with your ex and all. I don’t even like dogs. I’m taking the puppy ring bearer to the pound. Thanks for the salad. I can walk myself to a cab. I’ll have my lawyer call your lawyer.

National divorce rate fifty percent? Those odds are great. One hundred percent of my marriages end in divorce.

Hopefully one day I’ll end up with some alimony. Now all I’m left with are hangovers.

Distinguished Gentlemen Be Damned

2010-05-19T15:26:00.000-07:00

It’s raining men. Young men. Boulder: The home of dull witted, gym dwelling frat guys, artsy collegiates wearing fashionable sneakers, and of course strapping restaurant bus boys. Tell me more about your twenty-five hundred facebook pictures you twenty-five-year-old Latvian Hottie! Yet amidst this veritable pou pou platter of testosterone laden hunks I somehow always manage to unearth the one forty plus, toxic bachelor, in the Boulder area. I’m a dating archeologist and I make out with fossils.

“How does it happen,” people inquire, with a mix of horror and awe. What they really want to say is, “Are you a gold digger?” No, I’m not a gold digger. Gold diggers are from Orange County and have giant knockers. I am from Boulder and knockers are not exactly my strong suit. Dates buy you a greek salad with chicken, and it is so very kind of them. Dates don’t pay your bills, buy you Marc Jacobs bags, or kick in to get fat from your ample ass injected into various areas of your face. I guess I should be a gold digger, but I’d have to be a lot more docile in temperament than I am. If you’re a money grubber when your date complains the raw meat you’re eating is not raw enough (thankfully this is not a euphemism) you have to go goggly eyed and agree. If you’re not a gold digger you tell your date to shut up, and kvetch you’re going to get the Hepatitis/E-Coli/Puke Flu trifecta, and berate him because you’re suddenly hammered enough to eat raw meat.

So what’s the allure? Old guys are all predictably the same. Their homes are decorated in austere Asian motifs, purchased at the PF Chang’s home store. Odd knick knacks, lots of tropical plants, empty fridges. Their houses are big- too big for a single inhabitant. And the music, oh the music. I am consistently appalled about the lack of sophistication in their song selections. I like Train’s “Soul Sister” on occasion when I’m starring in my own “The Hills” opening montage, bopping along in a cute ensemble. But there is a time and place for everything. If you’re setting the mood with “Fireflies” and then suddenly, with a push of a button a fire is burning regardless of season, something went wrong in your formative years. These guys always have good jobs. They describe their career path as “the sexy side of finance.” Are we on the soundstage of a nineties soap with shoulder pads? Is a USC graduate with pit stains writing our dialogue? The only acceptable time for the usage of sexy is if you’re describing your underwear in sexually luke warm email and you can’t think of any other titillating adjectives because all your underwear are size medium, stick out the top of your jeans, and are threadbare and white. Sexy.

Talking about relationships with someone over forty makes you feel like you’re pleading your case to Judge Mabeline Ephram: Why he should want to be in a relationship. Why he should want to settle down. Why he should stop sleeping with his ex. You’re Henry Fonda, and you’re dealing with one angry man. It’s a lost cause. He’s either had his heart broken, or has been single so long his heart has been replaced by a high tech, single guy gadget. He thinks you should be jumping out of your chair (or pants) with delight that he’s dating you- because he’s so very worldly and spontaneous. These guys like to “live in the moment,” which is a thinly veiled, gussied up version of the old “put out or get out” adage. It’s exhausting. They don’t even care if they could bounce a quarter off your ass, because inevitably they’ll be serving it to you on a platter.

I have a problem. I admit it. My peers staged an intervention when after multiple cocktails I accosted a guy from my gym with lots and lots of white hair and Dad jeans. I take it back. Dad chinos. I have drunk goggles that make white haired guys look dateable (Tom if you happen to be reading this I think you’re strikingly handsome and would love to meet you for drinks!) So why do I do it? If you google “I date older men,” you be directed to inane articles written by half wits citing dwindling testosterone as a reason old guys are good to date. If a lack of testosterone is the upside, I shudder to think of the downside. Maybe women date older men to find a mentor figure? Good grief. If I am now having to use a forty four year old single man as my mentor I have bigger problems than going on a date with a forty four year old single man. It’s a bad habit, and it needs to be broken. Rehab? Really, who knows? The issue will resolve itself, I believe. I’m almost 31. Pretty soon I’ll be too old for old guys to date. Then I’ll get with it and date younger hotties. But until then, if you sported a mustache during a period when mustaches weren’t ironic, what are you doing Friday?

Let's Not Talk About Sex

2010-05-12T15:32:00.000-07:00

To scribe about dating and not give even a fleeting shout out to sex is like a dear friend not letting you know the world can see the cottage cheese on your ass through your white pants (and unless you’re an extra in an R. Kelley video on a cruise ship please put them back in your drawer where they belong). It’s there and as uncomfortable as it is, it needs to be addressed. I suppose people have sex with people, but for most of my life i’d have just taken your word on the it. My drunken ways may suggest otherwise, but to truly know me you’ll figure out I am oddly old school. Everybody likes the drunk chick that may put out. No one likes the drunk, borderline mean, chick that yells at you at the mere suggestion of putting out. I’d guess most of it’s my upbringing. You can’t be raised Jewish and Italian without a foreboding and menacing cloud of guilt hanging over everything you do. When I was a kid I was told you should wait to have sex until you get married. Or as the yiddish saying goes you “Don't eat the challah before you've made the blessing.” I apparently didn’t get the memo all parents say it to their kids, and no one actually listens. Stupid me. I listened. So I waited. And waited... And waited. Here I thought I was going to be a pasta making, child rearing, sack of love. Turns out I grew up to be “Least Likely Person To Maintain a Relationship Over Four Months While Wearing An Impractical Outfit.” Who knew! As much as I would like to, I can’t blame my parents. They meant well, and not being close to marital/coital bliss was more my difficult personality’s fault than anyone else’s. But I continued to age and suddenly realized the only other humans in the universe who hadn’t had sex yet were morbidly obese individuals in sweat pants bitching on Ricki Lake (I watched this one a episode in the nineties and it’s literally haunted me all my life). I could either finally get on board or become a cloistered nun, which in retrospect is not sounding like such a bad idea. It’s not that I think sex is some sacred ritual with candles, ouji boards and an Enya bumping ghetto blaster. But every earth entity gabs about sex so much its become almost as boring as the sex itself. If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you? When everyone was wearing Ed Hardy, did you? It’s not even interesting to write about nude mud wrestling sans mud because the world is constantly bitch slapping me with it. Tweens are sexting (sick), the Real World makes me vomit in my mouth, and lots of High School girls look like desperate forty-four year old divorcees in ill fitting jeans shorts with their buns peaking out the bottom. If you’re a popular seventeen year old you’ve seen more action than I will in my entire life. I am a dating connoisseur, which invariably can have very little to do with sex. I am a good date, but not that good. I’ve made dating my business, and let’s not go mixing business and pleasure, okay? It’s dinner, drinks, more drinks. Repeat. Or not repeat. For something lascivious to occur it’s almost as rare as penumbral eclipse, pin hole in milk carton style, once in a billion years. I can barely complete basic functions of life without wearing a hazmat suit, would I really have anything interesting to prose about? So even though I write dating essays I will never write sexing essays. I leave that to the professionals- and not just hookers- but Dr. Ruth, Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, Dr.’s Berman and anyone who has had sex with over 3 people. Then you’re an expert in my book.

The Great Indoors

2010-05-04T15:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you meet guys at bars. It often happens in that perfect moment where you’ve had just enough to drink to be a cute, charming, affable and phony version of yourself, before the bottom crashes out and you start losing your shit and berating people (and it’s a fine 1-2 drink line).

We met and he called. Things were decent by first conversation standards. Chat, chat, chat. Blah, blah, blah.

Pardon me? What? Could you repeat?

I was shocked and utterly taken aback. Did I hear correctly? It sounded so foreign- like a different language. "So, what kind of things do you like to do in the outdoors?" he asked innocently. I wanted to drop the phone and back away yelling, "Nooooo, noooo.....!" Me? In the outdoors? (I had to break that into two sentences, "me" and "outdoors" simply can't coexist in the same space sans definitive punctuation). Being outdoorsy goes against everything I stand for. Nothing, I mean nothing, about me shouts, or whispers, outside endeavors.

Don't get me wrong, I like the outdoors as much as any other girl who pretends to like the outdoors so she can occasionally date hot mountain men. I enjoy the gravel path of Sanitas with my sister the day after too many cocktails, chatting amicably until she speeds past because I’ve essentially been walking in place for the better part of twenty minutes. On occasion I wear a snowboard on my feet and haplessly meander down a mountain praying my ACL is in tact once I arrive a long time later at the bottom. It's all for recreational purposes. When I was a kid I'd go frolic in the mountains, breathing the fresh air happily, playing in dirt. But all kids reared in Boulder do outdoorsy stuff. And let's face it, in retrospect as a kid I was a real asshole. By High School all us Boulder kids had grown out of it and became cheerleaders.

Here's the thing: You people all moved to Boulder because you like to attach yourself to weird devices and hurl yourself through the wilderness at varying degrees of speed. I am here because my parents decided to leave New Jersey. I love Boulder, don’t get me wrong. But enough with the non stop outdoors talk. It’s great you can ride your bike for four days without sleeping or eating, but you don’t see me boring you to tears with every detail about my vintage book collection.

I was considerably less offended when I was walking down the street and guy started singing a Bon Jovi song as I passed. It is my life, thank you very much Sir. That at least made sense because I’m pretty Jersey. Even when I am aspiring Sartorialist, I still look like I should be shoving a cannoli in my face, bridge and tunnel style. I invite you to peruse at the images from my Mother’s recent Hoboken High School reunion. Then you’ll get it. I don't appear to be someone who snowshoes or bike rides. I look like a Toms River, TJ Maxx clad manicurist. If you want to date an outside type, there are about four hundred REI's in the Metro Denver area chock full of girls in fleece willing to sport a helmet and claw up a rock with you. If you are taken by me you should realize I plan my hair straightening schedule in advance, and buy lots of pretty clothes I will never wear- and I thought this was all pretty obvious. My idea of a good time is not seeing you in spandex shorts on anything with wheels, and I don’t care if you could squeeze a lemon with your butt cheeks and make e coli ridden lemonade. I will go camping (if you promise beer and smores). But I am not a camper. I wouldn’t even wear Camper shoes. I don’t want any new hobbies. I am perfectly fine with the ones I have spent the last thirty years fine tuning.

I couldn’t believe his insensitivity. These agonizing shoes are meant for posing. Not hauling me up a mountain. Or even moving, for that matter.

Being Caring Weakens My Immune System

2010-04-21T16:18:00.000-07:00

I have been sick only twice in the past calendar year. While everyone else is coming down with disgusting, contagious viruses I am touching doors with my elbows, clutching public pens with my sleeves and throwing paper towels into a pile behind a bathroom door. I am highly germ phobic and am not ashamed to admit I wash my hands no less than seven hundred times a day. Like a Ivy League educated epidemiologist I trace what I believe to be the cause of the sickness.

Suspiciously, in both cases I got sick as a result of a weakened immune due to excess and undeserved nurturing.

I sometimes gross myself out with my aptitude for being caring. It’s a part of me I mostly despise, as often times the loving side takes over and makes me a creep, someone who will stare into your eyes and say nice things about your bad outfit. When things started to get serious with my then boyfriend, he went away on a trip to his motherland abroad. I spent two weeks desperately missing him, and composing heartfelt emails about our future together. Naturally, because of all the pining, I was worn down and ended up with the Swine Flu. I was unbearably ill, bed bound reading Alice Waters, fantasizing about the domestic goddess I’d morph into once I stopped crapping myself. I’d be an excellent wife after the cold sweats dissipated. The second time I was casually dating someone when he had to get a chunk of his stomach, spleen or other internal widget removed (who can be troubled to remember the details?) I know for sure it’s something that needs to be operated on when middle age men lift something too heavy and blow a gasket. I brought him soup in a blizzard- all the way in North Boulder- and sat next to him on his bachelor leather sofa. I even pretended to be interested in his favorite horrendous action movies and Iphone apps. When I got home I could feel it coming on...I ended up with one bitch of a cold that I couldn't shake, resulting in three fourths of my makeup being chucked because it harbored the ebola of cold bugs.

Two days a week I work with the elderly, as they are commonly referred. I am caring and nurturing towards them. I try to make them smile (which ends up mostly being at my own expense. For example I laughed along when the saying “What God's forgotten stuff with cotton,” was directed at my bust line by an 85 year old woman) and give them hugs if they need it. When I leave the job that aspect of my personality vanishes, or at least I try to make it disappear. I tuck my loving self away with my timecard and meal ticket, not to be seen again until the following week. Then I conjure my self indulgent cocktail/ shopping self. You gotta be tough, and If you aren’t you'll end up weeping that no one loves you while eating mini Twix endlessly and watching the Oxygen network in giant sweat pants. Which is so gross.

Is there anything wrong with being nurturing and loving? No. Nothing. People do it all the time. But it’s a dress I don’t feel like trying on for size. It’s like that Marc by Marc Jacobs that looks adorable on the rack, but makes you look like a new age pre school teacher with dumpy hips. Even after you take it to the tailor, and belt it, and don’t wear a bra you still look like you should be riding public transportation with a push cart full of Ritz cracker boxes. I haven’t determined this to be true, the universe has. This is bigger than I am. And if I deviate and start to become a softie I am struck down by an onslaught of mucous and agonizing body aches. And then who takes care of me? (insert Itzak Perlman violin solo).

Meeting Dates on the Internet is for People Who Don’t Know How to Get Drunk.

2010-04-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

Can you define an urban legend? What do you think of? Cars breaking down on highways, and a rusted van stopping? Crusty looking hitch hikers carrying half their belongings? Pumpkin headed creatures wielding blunt objects?

When I think urban legend I recall this one time I was in the locker room of my athletic club and ran into a rabbi from my temple wearing only a towel around her waist (gym locker rooms are the worst, I hate the suspense of who you might run into, and what crime against humanity and sanitation they might be committing. Generally speaking it isn’t the time or place to be blow drying your crotch. I certainly don’t like holy people topless putting on lotion, and i don’t like them using the elliptical. Holy people should be doing holy things. All the time). Somehow we started talking and she let me know about all the couples she’s married who met on a dating site for single Jewish people looking to wed. A site, I would like to add I have no experience with, and would never be on. No, seriously. Never.

This lends itself to the question: Who are these people!?! Who are these couples that get married from the internet? Do they actually exist?

Quite simply stated: No.

It’s an urban legend. People don’t meet on the internet. I’ll take it one step further, it’s a conspiracy. Bill Gates and that fat guy who owns Apple and was on Dancing with the Stars want you to think that you will meet your husband on the internet because then you will go out and buy and new computer with a million gigabite of ram thingey. Here is what you can get on the internet: Elizabeth and James high waisted pants that make you look like a carnival barker, and facebook invites from people wanting to gloat about their marital bliss and babies. You do not, I repeat, DO NOT, meet a husband on the internet.

There is this couple on facebook, she’s the ex of an ex. This couple, they are married with a baby, and they met on the internet. Or so they claim. We live in a society where everything has gone tech based. On top of all that nonsense the surgeon general is up our ass about everything we do, cigarettes, food, and the intervals at which we consume: moderation, health, etc. (this will come together shortly). With this in mind, I put forth a theory: 89% of people who claim to have met on the internet did not meet on the internet. 89% of people who have claimed to meet on the internet actually met when they consumed too many long island iced teas, thinking they were actually iced tea with a little bit of booze on the dance floor of Round Midnight. Now I ask you, what kind of world do we live in where getting wasted at a bar and meeting a soul mate is something to be ashamed of? A world that has been turned upside down.

What about the other 11%? Maybe they met online...But I can’t concern myself with that 11% because they are clearly people I wouldn’t want to socialize with.

Yes, internet dating is great in theory. You know what else is great in theory? Communism. And buying shoes online. Communism, internet dating and shoe shopping are all great theoretical concepts, but do you know what you end up with? Social anarchy, dates way shorter than their pictures, and bloody blisters.

Everyone knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone that met their boyfriend on the internet. I am not buying it. Please provide me with passwords, pictures, links, anything. I need to be in attendance at a wedding for a couple that met on the internet. I need a big screen, with pictures of them on the dating site, copies of emails from a valid site, etc. Then maybe I will believe it.

Sometimes, when the hangover wears off, alone on a Saturday, I think perhaps my future spouse is on a website. Then reality hits. Hello? My soul mate is not, I repeat NOT, online. My soul mate is lurking in a bar somewhere, ready to buy me a Ketel One Martini and tell me how witty I am because he thinks I may go home with him (which I won’t). Obviously. Call me old fashioned.

Bitch Outs from the Future

2010-04-08T09:36:00.000-07:00

If you asked someone in the 1950's what the future would be like maybe they'd have said flying cars, or crazy silver space getups. Robot dogs, and internet sites for dating. The future, however, is now. And the reality is a little orange box popping up on your email (you can't see their face or expression) only their name. But you can read. And you're being called a Royal Beotch.

You can't officially break up after one date. It's one date. But if you have more than 4 drinks you at least owe the person an explanation as to why you're snubbing them (drunk lady rationale). Through the course of mildly caustic emails we realized it wasn't going to work. I sat down and composed a thoughtfully written, long winded and self righteous emails talking about our pasts, presents and futures (which would most likely not include the other).

Suddenly I was like Billy Joel, frantically banging at my keyboard "Piano Man" style. The thing is, if you didn't pay much attention in 10th grade business class odds are your typing skills are not going to be on point enough to compete in an Gchat insult-a-thon. I never learned the proper way to type. I kind of bumbled with some generic slurs and retorts. My super zinger powers were rendered useless on a keyboard. I wasn't making much sense, and I wasn't really being very funny (humor is a key component in a good bitch out). And, sadly, as a former literature major I was still somewhat concerned with proper punctuation.

But I kept at it! I was deflecting the vicious words with all the zeal I could muster, brow furrowed (but not too furrowed, because that causes wrinkles). I pounded fitfully, until I got a good, rude-quip laden message written, and hit "enter" triumphantly. Crap! Bounced back. My final coupe de gras, and no dice. I'd been blocked. Ee Gads- I'd been foiled!

What ever happened to the good old silent treatment?

Dating a Dad

2010-04-08T09:28:00.000-07:00

Dating a guy with kids is like taking a time machine ride into soccer mom hell. One minute you're the girl he met at the bar, dressed fancy with sassy retorts and cute shoes, slinging cocktails and quips. Within a blink of an eye you're carrying mini North Face jackets and seventeen prizes won at an adult game emporium. You're wearing sensible shoes, not allowed to curse and forgot to wear a bra. Dating a Dad is for someone with an active imagination, and even more active delusional system. There will be no compartmentalization, and you won't be a big happy family. Someone is going to hate you no matter how cool, young and relatable you are. At least in real life people hate you for actual reasons. Kids hate you because you aren't their Mom, and no amount of sucking up will make you their Mom. You like kids, of course. You think it's funny they talk about eating boogers and inadvertently dress themselves to look mini Olivia Newton John's. But you don't like kids enough to have your own (yet). You dating a Dad is like a Will Smith movie: Worlds Colliding. Despite the fact you pride yourself on being the drunk Martha Stewart, in the end you're more the former than the latter. When kids are around you go from the controlled civility of hand sanitizer, to the chaos of reusable 3-D movie googles. And you realize, grimly, this is what will now be expected of you- and you'll never be able to live up to it. No matter how animated your stories, or kooky your antics, you'll always be the big bummer. You're Jason Bourne, living a life that isn't yours. When you arrive home, you're exhausted. You check your phone, expecting some sign of encouragement. Instead, a cryptic message, "We had fun. hope you did. going to bed."

You don't get a boyfriend out of it. But you do get a very bad cold.

A Breakup

2010-04-06T12:58:00.000-07:00

What to do after a breakup?

I don't know what kind of weird, self defeating crap other people channel their sadness into. Maybe sobbing in the fetal position and plucking out all their eyebrows, origami out of love letters, eating only green olives and hot tamales, reading US Weekly on a treadmill while walking at 3.2 and checking out a middle aged guy wearing blue umbros and white scrunch socks (because at certain angles he looks under 50). The first step is denial. Then you move to cornering random guys in bars after too many martinis and complaining about humanity, while they fidget uncomfortably and try to make a getaway to someone who may potentially put out. I know where to draw the line. Never would I do anything really self defeating, like hacking off my hair or eating gallons of ice cream and blowing up like a ballon. I do, after all, have some integrity (and by integrity I mean superficiality, naturally).

I sunk all my post break up Miley/Avril/Taylor angst into a series of essays about things I know: Dating, shopping and cocktails. I am not sure why harping in written prose about Philip Lim clothing was a good way to vent, but it was a proper vent none the less. I accumulated essay after essay, from months of writing. My intention was, quite simply, to put them in a blog about dating, shopping and cocktailing. No one reads blogs. And therefore no one would read my blog. But it felt very therapuetically Carrie Bradshaw-ian pecking away at my computer.

Then the unimaginable happened (which should have been imaginable because it had happened a year earlier).

I woke up one morning and the essays were gone. Turned the Apple on, gears spinning, clicking, air started blowing out of sockets. My MacBook was Steamboat Willy. A moment of dreaded finality appeared: The flashing question mark. Crash. And Burn. Seriously? Months of ranting, raving, musing wittily(?) had vanished. The Apple tech girl confirmed my suspicion (and yes I would tell Lou, her former basketball coach and my Dad, hello). No trace, no backup. Do people really use Time Machine? Or save to an outside source? Apparently yes.

Re write them everybody said.

There is nothing more I hate in life than a bad metaphor. They're the snidest part of the English language. Metaphors are your bitchy friend that makes backhanded comments about your sucky love life.

I couldn't re create the essays. My writing had vanished into thin air. Just like the relationship. All I could do is start over, because only the memories remained.

And a closet full of new designer clothes.