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Last week the Wall Street Journal published an article by Kay Hymowitz titled “Where Have All the Good Men Gone?” I tried, but I just cannot let this one go. After watching the reactions, from both genders, that this particular piece stirred, I feel the need to offer my opinion… and I suspect it will not be what you suspect.

Hymowitz uses her article/book to argue that men in their 20s have stopped growing up, frustrating women everywhere who are looking for a good man with whom to start happily ever after.

This article elicited many a cheer of “right on sister” from single women across the nation and defensively charged comebacks from men claiming “nice guys never get the girl” and that “its the crazy women that drive men to behave like adolescents.”

COME ON people.

Let me start with the very first sentence in the article, which immediately got my blood boiling. Hymowitz  points out the “milestones of adulthood”  to include a high-school diploma (check), financial independence (check), marriage and children…wait, what?

I agree that getting married and having children are most definitely milestones in the lives of those that choose to do so, but are these honestly how we are going to define adulthood? Am I still in pre-adulthood because I haven’t yet chosen the path of marriage and children?

The rest of the article provides interesting theories into why more men now choose to prolong their bachelor days, pointing to economic and cultural influences, which are likely true, but my biggest beef is “who the hell cares?”

Yes, way less people between 25-29 are married than back in 1970. Um, thank God.

It’s about standards people. Some women whine about all the good men being gone as we get older. I get asked all the time why I don’t have a boyfriend or why I am not dating anyone. Let me tell you why, and its not because men are now less mature and there are fewer options out there. Its because I have standards and those standards have become more and more refined the longer I go through life and realize what it is that I do not want. In my twenties I went on dates all the time. I didn’t know what was important to me yet. I didn’t know what I wanted. That was the time to explore the possibilities and learn what it is that makes me tick. At the very least I got a free meal and a buzz out of the deal.

Today? I don’t need a free meal.  Today I choose not to waste my time going out with someone that I just know doesn’t suit my needs. I’d rather spend my precious time with friends than being polite to someone that I know will ultimately end up in my wake. The problem is not that there are less men out there, the problem is that I know what I want. And I don’t see that as a problem at all.

(Side note: to those of you who are going to write me about how I am too picky and am going to end up weeding out someone that could have ended up being the love of my life, buzz off. My gut has always proven pretty accurate and I’ve wasted a lot of time trying to fit square pegs into round holes.)

And as far as the “immature boys” that are causing so much irritation amongst the females that are rearing to do some rearing themselves? Ladies, look elsewhere. Date up a few years. Do your presenting at a coffee shop instead of the sports bar. If you don’t want to date a frat boy or someone with commitment issues then stop chasing them around. Believe me, your mature, loving, ready to raise a Jolie-Pitt style brood is out there…

and it has nothing to do with age.

I briefly dated someone 7 years my younger. He behaved like he was 55 and was a total bore. I did not go out with someone in his mid-twenties to hear about mortgage payments and fiber supplements. I went there to have a good time. Maturity is not about age. Its also not about “milestones.” Its about… well, maturity.

If a guy wants to spend his days talking star wars and playing Sega, and you aren’t down with it, then let him be. He is not the one for you, so walk away so you can be free to find someone else and let him keep doing what makes him happy.

I’m going to go ahead and keep doing what makes me happy too… and one day hopefully I’ll find someone that is also happy doing the same things. That will be a milestone in my adult life.

For the record…here is what I want. In case you know someone.

  • slightly self absorbed (ie. confident) on the surface but secretly thoughtful and generous
  • cute but not hot
  • healthy but big on indulgence
  • passionate
  • prone to geekery when it comes to those passions
  • appreciates music
  • savors learning
  • tallish (sorry, I always feel bad for short boys but a preference is a preference. Funniness can, however, negate shortness.)
  • I don’t care about width. Seriously. Unless you are gross, but that goes back to the healthy comment.
  • Loves to debate and isn’t a whiny bitch about it.
  • Wit (full stop)
  • And finally, and most importantly I am seriously turned on/off by the pants someone is wearing. Men can go oh so very wrong with bad pants.

That’s it. Is that so much to ask for? I think not.

Or if someone could just deliver me the nerdy guy on criminal minds, I have a feeling he’d work out perfect.

I leave you with a quote that I just stole from my new facebook friend. This speaks to all the guys whining about females that are crazy. Yes, we are. Deal with it.

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” – Marilyn Monroe

Seriously, what is the deal? I thought we started a new year. Doesn’t that mean everything resets and we slowly begin weaving our lives back into the messed up ball of complication we all found ourselves entwined in at the close of 2010? Well, my hairball is still here. And so is that of all my friends. I freaking love my hairball.

Is it an age thing? Is mid-thirties just a big truckload of freaky occurrences, unexpected let downs, and sharp turns in a deceivingly straight road along side a big bucket of manic episodes? And why oh why does the person five feet away from me in this coffee shop smell so bad?

I guess what I am saying is that life is still ludicrous. For you Spaceball fans, I’ve gone plaid. And I don’t seem to be the only one. Maybe its because our astrological signs changed… or maybe it’s because we welcome the chaos.

Sure I stress. I’m having a war of intelligence with squirrels. I’m running a business, seeking love, looking for a get skinny quick fix and kicking myself for constantly forgetting people’s birthdays and children’s names. But if I didn’t have all these things going on, where would I be? Constant change and uncertainty seems to be what I thrive on. It motivates me. It challenges me. It pushes me to tackle it like a New York Jets linebacker. We all freak out and say “Look at the clusterfuck that is my life!” But, didn’t we make all of the decisions that put us on that island? You are in control of your own clusterfuck.

I chose to live a dual life in Austin and Denver. Why? Because after four years of constant travel and movement, I settled down and spent six months straight at home in Austin. I had to stir the pot. Keep things in a constant state of motion.

Will I ever get the urge to truly settle in? Don’t get me wrong, the calming image of coming home each night to share stories of my day with the love of my life over a homemade pot roast and a glass of wine while watching the evening’s prime time sitcoms or a movie that was delivered to our mailbox by Netflix that morning does pop up in my head and strike an envious cord once in a while… Then two days later when I paint my wall purple on a whim, hop a plane to NYC or change out of my PJs at midnight to run down the street and catch a great band that is playing, I realize that my version isn’t so bad either.

I guess ultimately, whether we care to admit it, we all find ourselves in the environment we designed. Sure, we can accidentally take on too much, or chemicals in our brains may shift or an entirely unexpected event can make an unexpected impact on our lives, but day in and day out, we have control over the larger portion of our decisions and averages say we end up right where we should have predicted.

Take for instance these crazy people, also sitting by me at the coffee shop. They brought with them a phone. Not a cell phone or even a satellite phone. This is the same phone I had in my bedroom in 7th grade. It has a curly cord attaching plastic handset to plastic cradle and copper wire waiting to be connected to a landline somewhere. They keep talking on it, but I cannot determine if it is plugged into a jack or anything. It’s just on the table. Is this some sort of theater production? They may have been dealt an unfortunate hand that resulted in this interesting set up in the corner of the Hideout where they talk with imaginary business partners. Or hell, maybe they are in the CIA and someone is really on the other end of that line. What I am willing to bet is that they likely made several life decisions that brought them to this point. And all I know is that I chatted with them for a bit, and they are downright happy. They are happy with their hairball and so am I.

And also notice the big boots… that are not on the big feet they belong to. Stench revealed.

I may go off the deep end here and there, but a bit of the crazies usually comes along with people who are creative and brilliant. I’m going to embrace my crazy as an indicator of something fantastic. Welcome to clusterfuck island. If you don’t like my hairball then I guess we just weren’t meant to be. Sad Land next door is accepting new residents.

(Wow, Doc, these little white pills really do the trick.)

Oh, and I have a confession to make… I had no freaking clue where the Poconos were until I Googled it 10 minutes ago. I knew they were a “vacation destination” but I didn’t even know if they were mountains or islands, skiing or surfing. I wasn’t even totally sure if they were in the US. Hey, you can’t be super smart about everything. I reserve my brain for things that are much more valuable to me. (They are mountains in Pennsylvania).

Yes, I disappeared again. It was a heck of a few months sorting out what turned out to be a nightmarish move from Austin back to Denver. While I miss my Austin life and friends dearly, it’s great to be back in the “Sunshine State.” I’ll bring you up to speed on a few things, good and bad, and then we’ll just move forward like nothing ever happened.

Bad: Goodbye lakes

Great: Hello Mountains

Bad: Stepping into my future home to realize it was unlivable and my management company hadn’t taken care of it the last four years. (Real Property Management of Colorado)

Great: Waging a negative PR campaign against the bastards and realizing there is a market out there for “Revenge PR.”

Bad: Not having a home to move into when I arrived in Denver.

Great: Having the greatest friends in the world who gave me their basement and their brewery (ah, to wake up to the smell of hops each morning) to stay in while I repaired my home.

Bad: Leaving behind my chauffeur ants in Austin.

Great/ bad: Moving into my Denver home to realize I have squirrels and flies I can train to take their place. (For the flies, I have learned that spraying them with professional strength Mr. Clean bathroom cleaner, then grabbing them with a napkin is way better than smooshing their guts on your window. Plus, it cleans the window. Bonus.)

My new trainees

Bad: Leaving behind my Austin porch family.

Great: Gaining the horseshoe hoodlums (a group of daily drunks that put in a horseshoe pit between the sidewalk and the street. Each day they open the side door of their mini-van to provide music for the game of skill.) in my front yard and the homeless people who sleep in my backyard. At least they take my garbage out for me and dispose of their malt liquor bottles in the appropriate containers.

Bad: Leaving behind my Titos adoring friends in Austin.

The Tito's Sunday Funday Crew

Good: Rejoining my beer loving friends in Denver.

Bad: Leaving behind the live music capital of the world.

Great: Coming to find Denver now has a happening music scene.

Bad: Sabotaged yet another relationship.

Great: Got stellar advice from the greatest sister in the world: “You deserve someone that says ‘I cannot believe this amazing woman is available to me. I’m going to do whatever I can to make her mine before someone else does!’” Word, Michelle. Word.

Bad: Worst. Movers. In. The. World. I’ll spare the extended details for now, but the first thing they said when arriving at my place is, “Where do the homeless people hang out looking for work in Austin? We need a few more guys to move your stuff.” (Jet Van Lines)

Great: Another use case for “Revenge PR.”

Bad: Dad getting kicked out of the Brown’s game because a flask fell out of his sleeve during security check.

Great: Dad getting back into the game using another gate…flask and liquid inside intact! Brownies Win!

Cheering on the Browns!

Bad: My furnace blows a ¼ inch layer of dirt throughout my house daily.

Great: Perfect timing for my Dyson Christmas gift from my parents.

Bad: Gaining 10 lbs during the chaos of the last few months.

Great: Winter Clothes.

I’m sure there are many more I will recall over time, but for now I’d like to see if I can top the great year that 2010 turned out to be by focusing on crushing it in 2011! Happy New Year everyone!

Oh, and one more thing… I found a bird in my house. How ironic, given my lifetime love/hate relationship with the creatures. I was dozing off on my couch when something flew into the room. It was a red breasted robin, standing in the middle of my floor and staring at me with its beady eye. I opened my front door and pleaded with it to leave, but it just kept walking around. It sat on my couch for a bit, then headed over to my desk and checked on my work. I’m of course FREAKING out but he is just looking at me as if to say, “Do I really have to go?” Eventually he just sighed and gave in, slowly swaggering out my front door to the porch (Yes, I do believe birds can swagger). For a short second, I almost felt like asking him to come back in and hang out, then I wigged myself out about how the hell it got there and what other animals I was co-habitating with and headed over to sleep on Brie’s couch.

I’m still living in fear of waking up in the apartment of Ace Ventura, but alas, what would my life (and this blog) be if it weren’t for the drama!

I am not sure if it is just that I have more clarity and awareness of things happening around me because I have been off the sauce for almost two weeks, but I tell you what, things have been happening to me in that eerie “how is that a coincidence?” sort of way lately. You know, like those days where for some reason you reminisce about a song you haven’t thought of or heard in years, then it comes on the radio an hour later? Or you come across a picture of an old friend and they call you out of the blue? I am going to go ahead and chalk it up to some sort of planetary alignment or that I have somehow achieved some state of elemental balance in my life… why? Because I’d like to believe in that shit.

It started over the weekend when I was chatting with a friend of mine. He’s one of those people who asks innocent questions that tend to hurl me into intense bouts of self-analysis. We were talking about his recent birthday and I was asking about the possibility of an impending mid-life crisis, when he asked me what my favorite year was. Simple question. Surprisingly difficult to answer. I thought about it and rattled off a few good years as I tried to dig deep and recall my most favoritest time in my life.  An then it hit me! This is it! This is my favorite year in my life. And wow, how lucky am I to be able to say that? Don’t we all strive to be able to say that every year? Isn’t that what living in the moment is all about?  It’s not that my other years sucked. I have lived a phenomenal life. There are many things I would love to experience again, others I wish I could do over a little differently, and some I’d like to completely forget about… but ultimately I do not spend my days saying “I wish I could go back to XYZ.”  Thank God for that, because I think that would be a sad state.

I spent the day deliriously happy because I realized that my 30s rule, regardless of whether I will ever accomplish the task of getting back my high school body (I’m not gonna stop trying). Then, as if by some unknown force, I bought a Self Magazine for the first time in years. What do you know? It included an article called “Formerly Hot, Finally Content,” which was an excerpt from a book called My Formerly Hot Life by Stephanie Dolgoff… and she nailed it. Granted, her book is about coping with being in your 40s and I like to think I still got a little hotness left in me, but she so eloquently described the mental and physical changes we find ourselves going through as we approach “middle-age.” I’m definitely picking up the book, because I was hooked by page three, but my favorite quote so far is, “I’m young enough to have fun and old enough to know what fun really is, as opposed to tossing my head back in faux frivolity, as I sometimes did when I was actually hot and supposed to be having the time of my life.” That’s where I am now. No longer doing what the world deems as fun, and just going out and doing what I enjoy.

On that same trip to the grocery store I bought a plant. I dabble in plants here and there (who am I kidding? If this were a video I would not have a straight face). With the exception of these two indestructible terminator plants that have followed me loyally for years, they all commit suicide when I leave town. I bought this plant because it had a stem that was more like a trunk of a tree. Sturdy looking fella. I brought it home, put it in a pretty pot (left over from one of the deceased), placed it in the corner where I had envisioned it living, and then noticed a sticker on it that said “Money Tree.” Hot damn! Now, I know that money doesn’t grow on trees, so I consulted the interwebs to find out what the meaning of these money trees are. Apparently I brought home a version of the Chinese bonsai tree that is supposed to bring you wealth. And you are supposed to put it in the Northwest corner of your house which is the prosperity area of the bagua map. Um hello? Unintentionally, it was already in the most Northwesternest corner you can go in my home. Now that’s good ju ju.

When does the money start growing? Springtime?

THEN, I went running. It was 8:30pm at night, but it did not matter, it was still ridiculously, unbearably, insanely hot and I was dragging ass on my way home from the lake trail. I told myself to keep going. I had good tunes on so I thought to myself, “If you were at a show watching this music live, you would just keep on dancin, so just keep on runnin.” Then I continued thinking, “Wow, I wish that song by Ghostland Observatory was on… the one that says ‘Keep on Dancin’ over and over.” Then… BAM! Literally two seconds later that exact song, Dancin on my Grave came on. Big deal, right? I have over 800 songs on my iPod, people. This shit does not just happen. Someone wanted me to keep on running. So keep on keepin on I did.

Because some planet or other is in my house, or something went into retrograde, or someone forwarded a chain email wishing good vibes upon their 100 closest friends….whatever it is that put me in this state, I am going to go ahead and roll with it and keep following the signs/intuitions. I have always been a gut follower. Sometimes it takes awhile for my stubborn ass to finally listen to it, but I’ve come to have a pretty darn great and trusting relationship with my gut. So I am going to go ahead and forgive it for having a little extra padding on it. Nobody and no gut is perfect.

HP sent me the link to this Lemondrop article yesterday and I about fell out of my chair. Why? Because, 1. This bloke is a phenomenal and hilarious writer (part of his problem, actually) and 2.  Finally someone is calling out this disorder many of us suffer from and his description of it is spot on. “IRL Syndrome — When You’re Better on Paper Than in Person” is not about resumes that exaggerate people as corporate superheros, as the title might suggest. It is about people like me who have mastered the art of flirting through the written word, but completely fall apart when expected to display the same behavior in person. I can convey my wit, charm and seduction perfectly in 140 characters or through an email that leaves its recipient checking his inbox every 3 minutes in anticipation of the next perfectly worded masterpiece. When forced to charm the pants off someone face to face, I clam up, my lip gloss covered straw gets caught in my hair, I stick my head into ceiling fans… I’m a hot mess that leaves my potential suitor racking his brain for excuses to run for the hills. I’ve tried to convert my written fabulousness into real-life behavior, but my clumsiness and inability to find the right words around people of the opposite sex that I’m attracted to seems to just be hardwired. I’ve now resigned to finding someone of equal awkwardness… or someone that thinks my own inelegance is cute.

Speaking of cute, today is the trip over to debauchery island, AKA Put-n-Bay. This yearly trip typically results in two drunk Cadmus sisters in ridiculous hats thinking we are giant bags of cuteness. This year should be extra special since we now have to make-up for the disappointment of the Tom Petty cancellation… and we are celebrating Michelle’s birthday. Gotta go find some twinkly lights to wrap around the boat!

UPDATE: Tom Petty just canceled on us. Glad we hadn’t begun the drive to Cleveland yet. We’re going to find some other trouble to get into. Maybe drive to Sandusky to see the latest Twilight movie. Close second to the show…

Tonight Michelle and I will roll into Cleveland for the Drive by Truckers and Tom Petty. It’s been quite a long time since the Cadmus sisters caught a show. We may not be the finest of dancers, but when we have each other, we just don’t care.

This will be the seventh time I’ve seen Mr. Petty and his Heartbreakers. Never a bad show. I’ve seen Dylan, and Willie and other classic songwriters whose (while I will always have the utmost respect) live shows have unfortunately soured with age. Petty knows what the crowd wants, and he delivers. Every time I have coerced someone who is “meh” about him to go, they have left the show in disbelief that they liked so many of his songs. Never fails. Tonight though, I will not have to coerce anyone.

Back in college I rented a bus to take us from Lawrence to Kansas City to catch the Tom Petty. That time around I had to coerce a whole bus load of people. This may not have been the smartest approach, as I was so lit by the time the bus pulled into Sandstone amphitheater that I barely remember what took place, but I do remember a bus load of people thanking me at the end of the evening.

I also remember the one year I missed Tom Petty at Red Rocks in Denver. I was moving back to Colorado from a short stint in Kansas on that exact day. My boyfriend at the time said, “Have I got a surprise for you when you get in!” I psyched myself up for a night at the world’s most beautiful amphitheater with one of my favorite musicians. We hopped in the car and my mind immediately panicked because we were going the wrong direction. We then pulled into Red Lobster where a group of my friends were waiting for me to enjoy Lobsterfest! Don’t get me wrong, a night at the Lobster with a group of friends, boat loads of melted butter, plastic bibs and those goofy drinks that they serve is an evening to treasure. But I couldn’t help thinking I was missing the first tour he had been on since 1995… It’s the thought that counts, and this gesture would have gone over with flying colors in any other instance, but note to anyone that may date me in the future: study Tom’s schedule.

Tonight, we’ll be in Cleveland, so I expect some stellar people watching. Plus I am all growns up now, so I expect to be sober enough to appreciate my surroundings. Will turn on the mobile blogging switch and have the flip cam in tow!

Yes, I’ve been slacking. Partially due to the great Mac meltdown of 2010 that occured the day I got into Denver last week and partially because the technology fail forced me to remember that unplugging and being fully absorbed in the moment without one hand feverishly plugging away at the iphone or keyboard is sometimes really nice.

Unfortunately, for those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the great wedding dating experiment, I got nothin. I got into town and quickly realized that catching up with and hanging out with old friends is something I’ll take any day over playing dating roulette with the single folks at a wedding.

What I did confirm in the last week is that baseball games and amusement parks are prime breeding grounds for dousche beacons. Where do these folks come from??

We took in an afternoon baseball game at Coors Field on Sunday. The plan was to grab lunch and a few beers, hit the game, then find some trouble for the evening. …and that is what we did, but there were a few curve balls along the way. First, we went to a favorite downtown Denver drinking establishment, the Falling Rock Tap House. I kept pointing to beers I was going to order and Erik kept cautioning me against them because of their high alcohol content. After all, it would be a long day (I opted not to brag about my marathon drinking abilities, as I have learned that this doesn’t necessarily impress people…and I also learned that back at high altitudes, my abilities are severely comprimised). Ultimately Brie and I let a friend from the bar choose our beers and ironically he brought us the beer on tap with the highest alcohol content. That set us off at a good clip.

Ruphie Beer

At the game we took our places in the coveted seats along the third-base line and settled in for some beer and baseball fun…along with people watching. On 4th of July there are always some extra special outfits.

I will be the first to admit… there were probably some people that were “people watching” us too. Afterall, we are pretty freaking cool… that and Andy likes to yell things like, “Win this one for America, Helton!” (He was the first one out of the gate that day, if you know what I mean).

Happy Fourth

After the 7th inning stretch, everyone starts to get a little antsy. It’s when they stop serving beer, so you just hope for a quick two innings to maintain the happy feeling. Little did we know that this game would go on as many innings sans beer as with the tasty beveridge. We had the cute kids in front of us to entertain us for about 10 minutes, but the game ended up being the longest game in the history of Coors field. Yes, we are talking about sitting in a baseball stadium for 5 hours and 24 minutes. I can drive from Austin to Houston and back in that amount of time. Thank God we started with the Ruphie beer, so we were able to ride it out longer than usual. Brie and I finally bailed at the 14th inning to drink Jameson while the guys saw the last inning through. I’m pretty sure our departure is what finally pushed the Rockies to put up a W in the 15th.

The kid we briefly adopted in the 10th inning

 I could go into detail on all the other Denver adventures, but in the interest of being brief and with a somewhat “what happens off the grid, stays off the grid” aire, I’ll just say they included:

  • me agreeing to be shot in the air by a sling shot while strapped inside a giant metal hamster ball
  • impromtu homemade toga making contest
  • a gorilla suit
  • three unfinished games of yahtzee
  • a pedicure that might last until my next birthday
  • watching two rich Asian dudes suck down a magnum of sake and 3 big bottles of champagne
  • several fantastic meals (I didn’t even know I liked brussel sprouts)
  • and so as not to disappoint you with a whole week without incident, I did stick my head into an operating ceiling fan (not under the influence). Only a tiny cut resulted. Could have been worse. Could have lost a head or been swooped up with the nastiest of hair tangles.

Not too shabby for a trip that started out with me missing a plane (don’t ask me how I feel about the Southwest boarding process) and running through Pheonix with 7 bloody toes.

The Hamster Ball

 Am now back in soggy Austin, playing the new records I brought back from Twist and Shout and unsuccessfully attempting to complete the Mac data recovery process (and my own data recovery process).

I have an addiction. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I watch an infomercial, I buy the product. They get me every time. I can’t think of one I have watched that didn’t end in a burning desire to dial that 1-800 number.

It all started when I was growing up in Toledo. My Grandmother had this infomercialitis too. We would go over to her house and she would have every weight loss gadget that ever got air time on her 1960-something television in the back room. The rest of my family would roll their eyes, but I would squeal with glee. It was a playground of Ab Rollers, Thigh Masters and that weird thing with metal springs and plastic handles, like Brandon on The Goonies works out with.

What is that thing called?

Then, in my highschool years, I had insomnia and found myself staring at hour long commercials for kitchen gadgets and massive workout machines with smart cards! All I wanted for my Sweet 16 was the Magic Hand Blender or the Snack Master.

Over the years, I have sucked my friends and roommates into this addiction. At one point I learned you can save a boat load of cash by purchasing these things on eBay instead of through the product number or site. One of my roommates was obsessed with the Ronco Pasta Maker (Ron Popeil is the king of the infomercial kitchen). She bought it. We used it. Once. That was the same time that I bought the food dehydrator. I used it to make the worlds best beef jerky and dried apples. Once.

Now that I’m living on my own, I’ve convinced myself that I will use exercise DVDs and gadgets in the privacy of my own home. I am a proud owner of the Ab Circle Pro. DID YOU HEAR ME? I HAVE THE AB CIRCLE PRO. How does this happen? I need to go back and watch the show again. I need to dissect it and figure out exactly how they convinced me that sliding around on this ridiculous and clunky disc-like thing would be beneficial and fun. Fact is, it does work your abs. But even in the privacy of my own home, I can’t bring myself to throw myself around on that thing. I’m embarrassed to do that in front of myself.

I also have Barry’s Bootcamp DVDs (I followed up the once used “Slim in Six” system with this). It kicks your ass. I used it… once. No matter how much you tell yourself that you are going to pop these 20 minute DVDs in every day, it just doesn’t happen. Unless the real Barry is going to physically come into my home and yank me off the couch, his digital version is going to remain in the DVD case under my TV. That one came with a giant exercise ball, that is really a giant cylinder… We call it the “giant pill” because that is exactly what it looks like. It now sits in my guest room and haunts my visitors. Paint half of it another color and Dr. Oz could use it for one of his giant clown props.

The Giant Pill

I guess what I am saying is, if I had all the money back from these items gathering dust in my apartment (I also have the neck line slimmer, sheer beauty products and the bullet blender), I’d probably have enough money to order those P90X DVDs…

I often post about my pathetic dating life. Not because I am looking for pity or sympathy, but because it’s mildly entertaining and sometimes freaking funny, so I want to share it with you. Truth is, I thoroughly enjoy my life. I’m happy. I’m fulfilled. And there is nothing worse than some of the patronizing comments we single women have to endure from the happily coupled-up folks that surround us (often complete strangers). I am frequently the 3rd, 5th or 7th wheel during gatherings and outings, and I’m totally cool with that as long as I’m enjoying the company. Stop pitying us. Stop being awkward and uncomfortable with the single people around you.

A Glamour Magazine dating blogger, Erin Meanley, posted about clichés you should never say to a single person. Now I know I often make fun of the ridiculous articles we see in magazines like this (especially Cosmo) but this particular post was spot on. I find myself compelled to add a few more to the list and comment on a few that could use some reiteration.

  • “You just chose your career over love. Now that you are successful you can focus on finding someone.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone has said this to me, I wouldn’t need a freaking career. I’m pretty sure that almost no one actually chooses their career over love. When you don’t have a needy man or family occupying your time, you focus on the things in your life that you do have control over. Yup, my career took off because of hard work and dedication but suggesting I prioritized that over love is just insulting.

  • “Just wait for the right guy. Be patient.”

This one came from HP (thanks!). Be patient my ass. This is particularly irritating coming from someone who was married in their early 20s. As my single friends and I climb higher into our 30s and 40s the pressure builds, but not all of us are freaking out about biological clocks or finding someone to walk down the aisle with us in the next 5 minutes. Most of us just want someone to have fun with and to get busy with. Who the hell is panicking and stop telling me to calm down!?!

  • “It will happen when you least expect/aren’t looking for it.”

Um, thanks for the valuable insight. Who ever really expects it? Do the math, friends, and remember your single days. How many people did you meet before you found your significant other? Dating is a game of pessimism, so of course you won’t be expecting it to work out.

  • “You’re just too picky”

Have you seen the divorce rates in this country? Maybe most people are just not picky enough. I prefer not to settle and I’m not going to see that as a fault. Neither should you.

  • “When Zippy and I met….”

As mentioned in the article, I don’t give a rats about how you and Zippy met. We are talking about me here.

  • “You’re not going to meet that special someone in a bar.”

Actually, if I polled my close friends, I bet the majority of the married folks did meet in a bar. Why? Because I hang out with people who like to go to bars. I like to go to bars. My future boyfriend will also like going to bars. Where I am not going to meet them is at the gym, so stop suggesting that. Have you seen me at the gym? My face is beet red within 5 minutes and I tend to sweat profusely. I don’t want to meet someone at the gym. Stop suggesting the grocery store too. I don’t know a single couple that met in the produce aisle.

  • And everybody’s favorite: “There are plenty of fish in the sea”

Well no shit. I have eyes just like you and I can see all the persons of the opposite gender wandering about living their lives. This saying is just crap anyway because it suggests that I am sitting with my pole waiting for any random boy to sadly get caught on my hook. When will this one phase out already?

Ultimately, as Erin so perfectly points out, if you don’t have unique valuable advice to give (like the World Cup dating plan), don’t give any at all. We aren’t fishing for it and most of what you say ends up sounding condescending. We’re doing just fine so there is no need to assume we walk around under a dark cloud feeling miserable about our single status and need some sort of pep talk.

I know there are some whiny people out there that never shut up about their life sentence in singledom. But honestly, the comfortable/confident singles way outweigh the desperate ladies. Now, off to study that World Cup schedule…

Day one of the World Cup Dating Plan wasn’t a total bust, but I can’t say it was a complete success either. I’m going to call it a fact-finding trip. I needed to spend a day in the environment to assess how the people act and where the windows of opportunity are. Truth be told, I was having such a blast hanging with friends and cheering for the USA, that my mind was not on seeking out targets. Plus, that would defeat the purpose of finding a foreigner. During the England game, we set up a satellite office in Fado and we all were more absorbed in facebook and answering emails than anything else. I did learn that the English folks like to chant. It does not matter what it’s about… Could be “I’m England till I die,” or “I love beer,” or “the guy in the hat is a wanker.” One person starts the chant and the rest of the bar joins in. Its kind of fun. Although our “office” was set up right next to the chant leader, which got annoying after a while.

At one point I did have a gentleman come up and give me a World Cup sticker book. He said he saw me eyeing it (wha?) and “when you see a pretty lady coveting something, you have to give it to her.” Unfortunately, he had no accent and did not meet the height requirement. I know, cruel, but I only have a few weeks window. I need to stick to the plan. Am thinking Italy versus New Zealand tomorrow could be a great option. I’m going to the Passion Pit show tonight, so a 9am game is a bit aggressive, but hey, what’s the point in making a plan if you are not going to be dedicated?

In other news, the porch family has finally returned. I am not sure where they disappeared to for a week. Maybe they went on vacation, but they are back in full force. They were carrying speakers bigger than me into the apartment. They invited me to their party tonight. Must be a welcome back to the porch party. I also talked the guy who owns the pee shop to start carrying diet Mountain Dew. I’m really starting to make an impact on this neighborhood.

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