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My friend and fellow member of the Double D gang (yes, it is exactly what you think. A group of girls that have big boobs and occasionally meet up to drink whiskey), Courtney, today introduced me to my new favorite writer, Laurie Notaro.

Courtney and I were on our way to the big bicycle sale in Aurora because we thought if we bought bikes that we would ride them to bars and restaurants, thus getting in our workouts as we head to our favorite activities. The problem is that we are so lazy that once we got 1/5 of the way to the bike sale (in the car) we bagged the idea and went to the mall instead. At the book store is where Courtney suggested I read some of Notaro’s books, suggesting that this stupid blog reminds her of these extremely witty and addictive pieces of literature.

I got home and immediately crawled into bed (at 2pm) to begin my assigned reading and avoid the massive pile of work looming over my head like a persistent stalker that can’t take no for an answer. Holy shit, Notaro is hilarious. And I think she might be the married version of me. She even writes open letters to the cable company and has unwanted rodents in her house. You all should check her out instead of reading my mindless drivel.

I’m trying to find a hobby and creative outlet. I’ve been feeling really creative lately but I have this nasty habit of not finishing anything. I have three scarves half-finished in my “knitting basket”, I stopped each one when I had an imperfect stitch. One is for my lovely niece who excitedly picked out her pink yarn during Thanksgiving so Crazy Aunt Jen could knit her a scarf for Christmas. I’ll shoot for Easter but it’s a stretch. I went through my art box the other day and found 7 sketch pads full of unfinished drawings that I quit as soon as one scratch had the incorrect perspective. During that moment of discovery I also found a sketch I did of my ex-boyfriend, Freddy. Wonder if I ever showed it to him. It’s pretty good. Maybe I’ll just hang it on my wall for the next time he comes over to fix something in my house. See if he notices. I recently bought a sewing machine but just don’t have the patience and I don’t know how to temper my foot on the pedal.  As Brie put it, I’m either going mock ten or crawling, which means my stitches are all over the place and the bag I made last night looks like old man’s pajamas. I even have four unfinished novels. I think next I am going to try photography. You snap the button and then you are done. You can’t not finish photography right?

Meanwhile, my friends are helping me plan out my man tour. You see, when I broke up with Freddy back in 2004, I went on a mission to visit exes and boys that got away in various cities across the US. Not sure how it materialized. I guess it was some version of sewing wild oats after being tied down for several years. We called it the 2004 tour de whore. Because I’m feeling nostalgic, we are working on something similar for 2011. So far California, Kansas, Nebraska and New York have made the list. I’m bringing a wing man on all of my trips. I wonder if I could get someone to sponsor me…

I’m open to suggestions on what to name this year’s tour. It’s tough to rhyme with eleven.

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

CORRECTION: Port Clinton does in fact have a bowling alley. It’s also on the outskirts next to my tech friendly coffee shop. Saw it as I took an alternate bike ride to “the office.”

Every year I visit my sister and her family in Port Clinton, Ohio at the end of July. Some of you may remember my description of the Port Clinton “Walleye Drop” several years ago. Michelle’s birthday is July 22 and it always falls right around the weekend of “Christmas in July” at Put-n-Bay. For those of you that do not have encyclopedic knowledge of all party islands across this fine nation, Put-n-Bay is a “village” encompassing a whopping 0.6 square miles of South Bass Island (to be honest, it actually is the whole island) about 15 miles off the coast of Ohio in the middle of Lake Erie. Around 200 people live on the island year round, but thousands of people visit it during the summer season to get drunk and act stupid (yes, of course we are going). Picture Bourbon street… on an island. In addition to the strip of bars and music venues, there is a winery, a crystal cave, all your typical water sports and people dart around on golf carts and bicycles. Each July there is a weekend where the entire island celebrates Christmas. Bars and shops are decorated and all the boats docked at the marina for the weekend are wrapped in twinkly lights and topped with blow-up snowmen and reindeer. Of course there are drunken Santas and elves wandering the island all weekend  in search of “naughty” ladies.

Essentially, all summer long there are people ready to cut loose, heading over to the island in their boats or on the big ferries that haul people to this fantasy island from Port Clinton every 30 minutes. Port Clinton is a small friendly town, just down the way from Sandusky, Ohio and Cedar Point, the Roller Coaster Capital of the World. It is also home of the world champion decoy carvers, who live right across the street from my sister!!

Home of the World Decoy Carving Champions!

Home of the World Decoy Carving Champions!

Now, aside from the wastoids shuffling through town to be ferried to debauchery island,  Port Clinton is your typical small town environment. There is gossip, there is a Frisch’s Big Boy, there is a local bar (that also happens to be the yacht club) that regulars meet up in daily, there are local businesses, there’s no gym, bowling alley or movie theater. When I asked the local coffee shop if they had internet, I was met with borderline hostility. Her word’s said, “sometimes if you are lucky you can steal it from across the street, but no, we do not have internet here.” But her eyes said, “let me tell you where you can stick your information super highway.” I was able to ride my bike a few extra miles to the “new” coffee shop on the outskirts of town. They met my technological snobbishness with open arms. They are bleeding edge.

Tech and shopping challenges aside, there is something about this type of town that just allows you to exhale a little more. When you roll into the bar at night, you aren’t competing with rail thin women in designer miniskirts with $2000 bags purchased via trust fund. Riding your bike down the main street along the coast of the great lakes brings the same exhilarating feeling as walking the beach in Mexico, without the sweltering heat and wild dogs.  The sound of birds are the calming coo of seagulls rather than the squawk of grackles fighting over an abandoned tortilla chip.  I wasn’t even the least bit ashamed letting it all hang out in a bikini next to the yacht club pool yesterday and my niece and nephew are going to have an awesome childhood growing up here. Could I live here permanently as a single woman in her 30s? No, but it sure is a nice place to visit.

In fact, my sister often, somewhat seriously, suggests that I should move out here. While we were in Mexico in May, I finally said, if she could find five eligible men that actually fit the parameters of someone I would consider dating, I am willing to go out on five dates while I am in Ohio this summer. Her goal being that I fall helplessly in love and move here to be with the man of my dreams (sounds like me, right?). My goal being to prove that me moving out here would mean a life of loneliness. She set out to get the dates set up. I am here now. There are no dates.

The day I got in, I went straight to a graduation party in Cleveland for my cousin. I love our family get-togethers. We are fun. …and unapologetically rough around the edges. As I sat there guzzling my 5th cup of wine from a plastic Dixie cup, I began thinking about a conversation I had the other night with a friend of mine. I was telling him how, spending the last four years in Austin, I have been all too often exposed to the people who are “Dallas”. We are talking about the perfectly accessorized, perfectly tan, perfectly lip-sticked, carry a book on your head and never trip over your 3 inch heels ladies. I explained that no matter how hard I try… I will never ever be able to be so put together. I’m a klutz and I leave things, people and chaos in my wake pretty much everywhere I go. I can spend an hour putting on make-up or coifing my hair, but I will still look like a hot mess 30 minutes later. I will always have a portion of my dinner down the front of my shirt. I will rarely turn down an offer for a free shot. I don’t glisten, I sweat. I may be able to temper my language, but I am a firm believer that every once in a while, an F-bomb is just the most appropriate way to convey my point. I’ve tried to be classy, and failed. It’s just not in me. And I finally understand why. I AM FROM OHIO for God’s sake! And I am ok with that. In fact, I am proud of it. I can’t stand being around people who are 100 percent put together. In my experience, those are the people who are a big bag of crazy beneath that thin layer of perfection. We are real. What you see, is what you get. And as I often do, I am going to go ahead and hazard that there are people out there that find my clumsiness and occasional lack of tact endearing. It’s not like you can’t dress me up and take me out someplace nice without offending people. I clean up alright and I enjoy nice clothes, nice places, nice food and drink. But, you will not find me at a baseball game with heels and a clutch. You will find me in the dog pound with a flask and a bone.

As I arrived at the graduation party, it didn’t take long for the conversation to focus on my dating situation. It’s my fault, I frequently expose myself. My Mom was talking about setting me up with another of her friend’s sons (insert eye roll), who recently separated from a long time love, and my aunt commented on how I could be the rebound girl. To this I noted that I am typically the girl who guys date before they move on to someone who they can commit to (I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended by this, but in Jen warped mind fashion, I’m gonna go ahead and take it as a compliment). My dad noted that this makes me the “prebound” girl. Good call Pops!

Off to explore more Port Clinton lifestyle. I just looked up from my computer to see seven ladies in their 60s ordering at the counter. All of them in capris. I think that is the local uniform…

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.

It was about a year or so ago that I found myself sitting in a conference room at our agency headquarters in Portland with several of our senior execs and two scientists from Dallas. These gentlemen insisted they had invented a scientific model that could predict anything in the world. They were demonstrating how they could apply their predictive model to PR and told us about all the impressive global companies in telecom, space travel etc. for whom they had predicted all kinds of outcomes. After they left, I made a side comment about how I should apply this predictive tornado model to my dating life, if it worked so well. One of the agency founders looked at me and said “Oh, I have the answer to your dating problems.” Well, I was immediately interested because she is a very wise woman who I have learned many valuable things from. At lunch she gave me the details of her “104” dating plan. There are 52 weeks in a year and two weekend nights each week, hence “104.” She committed to going out on a date every Friday and Saturday night until she found someone she wanted to stay with. I think she said she only ended up going on nine dates before she found “the one”…

Given my track record, I am not ready to hand over all of my weekends to terrible dates, but what I did learn from this conversation is, just like in business or most other parts of your life,  you gotta have a plan. Enter “The World Cup 2010 Dating Plan.”

I went to Fado yesterday afternoon to visit with some of my Australian friends during the Australia vs. Germany game. When I opened the front door, to my surprise, hot men with accents were spilling out all over the place. And we aren’t talking frat boys or West 6th douchebags. I pointed this out to my friend Dec and we began to devise a plan. This World Cup thing goes on everyday until mid-July! Dec noted that I could also be very targeted about what type of guys I meet. If I’m looking for a Greek guy, I just show up when Greece is playing. I’m warming up to this idea. I am now very interested in the full World Cup schedule. I should brush up on my knowledge of the game, but I reckon being there to celebrate or console these fans of their home country could be a good spot to be in…

I’m off to study the schedule and develop my “outreach” plan.

You know where to find me

HP is one of those romantical people who used to read the “Shot in the Dark” column in the Austin Chronicle. You know, the one where people take out ads to find that woman they bumped into in the yellow dress in line at Wich Wich? I always thought that was a complete waste of head space to peruse those classifieds, then HP recently had this interesting encounter unfold…

So she met some chap at the Chicago airport on her recent trip to Austin. The conversation ended when she ran into a friend of ours. Next thing you know, she’s here in Austin and gets a Twitter message from a friend that goes like this: OMG KERRI! THIS IS ABOUT YOU!!! http://chicago.craigslist.org/chc/mis/1751486251.html.

I mean… what are the chances??? I want to say its cute and sweet and romantic, but I just cannot. It’s creepy and craiglist-y. There has got to be some other way you could track down this lost love… oh wait, maybe ask for her number when you are chatting her up at the bar? I am also wondering how Kerri’s friend found this post? I am sure there is a logical explanation that doesn’t involve her crawling for new dates on the scariest of websites, such as she finds the craigslist personals funny and amusing (there is some seriously good substance there) but again, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?

The chances are slim, like lottery slim, that someone you met is going to read your craigslist personal ad. And then you shoot yourself in the foot twice because the chances of you actually being attractive to that woman after using craigslist to boost your love life are decreased significantly.

I told her she needs to respond to him, just so he knows it works and he doesn’t give up hope that sometimes you can beat the odds you are given. Hope is a powerful force. Not sure if she is going to follow my advice…  I wouldn’t.

On another note, Chicken Shit bingo? Well… its anti-climatic. In theory, it sounds like a really good time. And I am sure if I was as wasted as that gross dude from Dallas that kept groping HP and I, it would have been a good time. But Jesus Chrysler, birds can take a long freaking time to poop. I was remaining sober due to the work on my desk waiting for me to return, so I was firing on all cylinders and my senses were heightened. It was 107 degrees in there… and it smelled like, get this… poop (except for when Dallas dousche was close talking with his stale beer breath). We were all gathered around and super excited when they dropped the bird in the cage. Everyone was cheering when it would walk over their number. We were all pumped at the thought of going home $108 richer. Then it just got old. That bird strolled around pecking at bird seed and hot dog buns for 1.5 hours. One guy looked at me and held up his ticket number and said, “this thing is like a jail sentence. I’m stuck here now until that damn bird poops.” I wonder if they constipated it so we would stay and buy more beer.

We finally left, as did everyone except 2 people, to go sit outside for a bit. The band promised to holler when the shit fell. At one point, I went back in to check on how things were going and wouldn’t you know it? I was lucky enough to be one of the few that actually witnessed the pooping. And it was freaking nasty. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say that staring at the ass of a chicken when it actually drops a deuce is not at the top of my list of things to do.

Poop shy chicken

Will I go back? Yup. Why? Because I love dive bars. I love good ole Texas music. I love Ginny. I will just know better this time than to stay sober and stare at chicken butt for an hour. I’ll buy a square and put an intern on the poop watchin.

Those of you that know me well know that I often accidentally run 9-10 miles instead of 5 because I like to try out “new routes” that leave me stranded places. Well… Mexico is no different. I grabbed Erin (my iPhone) and set out for a nice run down the beach this morning.

As I neared the end of the three mile beach, I realized that I grossly underestimated the power it takes to propel oneself across sinking sand. I needed to find an alternate route to avoid calves like these:

Yowza

I consulted Erin and she indicated that I could turn up the road and run back on 5th street. This road looked questionable, and by questionable I mean abandoned and overgrown, but I have come to trust what Erin tells me. (I know what you are thinking, Mom. This location is ripe for kidnapping. But I am just fine.) So I headed down this road. It was long, but Erin told me to keep on going and the main street was just up ahead. What she did not share was that the road was just up ahead on the other side of a dead end, guarded with three fences and a dingo.

The "Road"

I had to retrace the extra few miles only to head back and take the beach route after all.

Unfortunately, it was high tide, so there was little hard beach to run on.

Fortunately, I was up against a fence that I could grab onto in order to jump a rogue wave that came in.

Unfortunately, the fence was made of rusty barbed wire.

Fortunately, I get frequent tetanus shots for obvious reasons.

I’ve chosen to forgive Erin, because she did provide the most random but perfect playlist to accompany my run. She knows me so well…

I did notice that people were looking at me strange on my way back. I thought they were in awe of my athletic beauty. When I got home I realized that they were really just watching whether I was about to drop dead. I get a red face when I work out. Really red. It just happens. In third grade cross country I literally won the “red face award.” (You know, the pity awards they give to kids that aren’t any good and don’t win the real awards). Anyway, multiply the red face by about 25 when I am running in Mexico.

Post run red. Not pretty.

So I actually bailed on the Peep Meet last night. I was having too lovely of an evening hanging in the hammock working on my screenplay (oh yes kids, there will be a movie). Tonight I’ll be back at the Dirty and Badboys with Karen and friends though. Watch this space.

I also read more in that stupid brain book. Get this… large breasts are not something that men are instinctively drawn to. They just think they are fun to play with. Hence the term fun-bags. Sigh.

I’m taking a break from the Playa play by play (fun to read and to say) to share some of the random thoughts I’ve had as I reflect beach side each day.

1. I have no hips. It doesn’t matter how skeletal I become, I will never have the hourglass shape that a recent book I read says instinctively attracts men because your hips tell their subconscious, “I want to and am built to have your babies.” This book is all about the hormonal and chemical make up of our brains and how it affects our behavior… it got quite dry after the 3rd page of random hormonal terminology. If this is all true though, doesn’t that mean there could be a shady scientist creating a brain chemical altering pill in his bathtub-turned-science-lab that causes men to be attracted to women with three arms or other unique features? I wonder how much these types of drugs would go for on the black market. You could drop one into the object of your affection’s beer or coffee. Its like modern-day witchcraft… I may not be screwed after all.

2. My niece is crazy smart. I mean everything she says is cute just because it comes from her, but get a load of this progression:

  • 1 year old: My sister says, “what is the magic word?” when Nora asks for a snack. Instead of replying with the expected “please”, which at the time was one of 4 words she knew, she responded with “Meeska…Mooseka…Mickey Mouse!”
  • 2 years old: Upon opening her McDonald’s happy meal, only to discover that it has healthy apple slices instead of french fries, she swipes the entire meal off her high chair to the ground declaring, “This is not a happy meal!! This is a sad sad meal!”
  • 3 years old: Nora once heard my brother and I reminisce about an old Seinfeld episode and kept this one in her pocket until months later. After listening to my sister and David comment on the meal they had just had, Nora piped up from the back seat of the mini-van to say “and these pretzels are makin me thirsty!!”
  • 4 years old: When my mother was recently putting Nora to bed, she looked up at the sky and mentioned in a matter-of-fact way, “Huh, that cloud looks just like Barack Obama.”

I guess what I am trying to say here, in case any of you were still skeptical, the baby in the closet incident had no long-term effects on the brilliance of my niece.

3. A twitter friend of mine sent me a note yesterday asking why it is that I go on so many bad dates. He wondered whether the quality of men in Texas was just poor or if I had an issue with the gender in general. The answer to both is no. It took some serious contemplation to arrive at what I think may be the answer. The fact that the older we get, the quality of the water in the dating pool goes down is partially true. I mean, I don’t date younger, so a simple mathematical equation confirms that there will be less viable options available to me as time goes on.

That said, I am going to be mature and introspective enough to admit that I am part of the problem here. I’m what they call a modern woman, an independent, aggressive… ok, controlling, person in most facets of my life. Which is all the more reason why, in my dating and romantic life, I have chosen to remain somewhat old-fashioned and reserved. I guess you could say I am lacking the cougar instinct. I am not a hunter, as matchmaking queen Patti Stanger calls it. Relationships are just one area where I prefer to be pursued and taken care of. Laziness? Maybe. But it just feels nice.

And therein lies the problem. It seems I only get pursued by irritatingly obnoxious men with unwarranted confidence and totally wacked out behavior. Am I unknowingly sending out some sort of douschebag mating call? Do I have to learn how to hunt to snag a date that suits my palate? I am not sure what the solution is here… I’m open to suggestions.

4. My friend Jason at RewashedNews read the stars today. I found it funny but dismissed his predictions until I found myself sans toilet paper this afternoon (I’m an Aries). It’s more likely that I finished the roll during a drunken/sleepwalking bio break last night than it actually being stolen, but it’s eerie that his reading was pretty spot on. I’ll now be relying on him for various life altering decisions like which highway to take and where to find the best sea scallops.

Meanwhile, back at the temporary casa, Mom and I are preparing for her last night in Playa. Last night we passed the test and deemed ourselves officially local. They stopped heckling us on the street, either because they recognize us or we are now bronze enough to look like we’ve been around the block. Either way, we felt a sense of accomplishment.

Off to the Dirty Martini for a cucumber vodka dinner. Now that is not a sad sad meal.

It has come to my attention that, now that my blog is no longer anonymous, I cannot be so free with the shredding of the morons that I attract like flypaper and agree to go on dates with. Wait, yes I can. Hopefully it teaches them a thing or two. But today I am teaching on behalf of my dear friend…

Her buffoon date that she was set up with by a “friend” sounds eerily similar to my mortgage banker dating disaster from 2008. Where do they learn this behavior?

Dear overly confident, typical Dallas, completely inappropriate jackass (OCTDCIJ),

I heard about your blind date with my fabulous friend and am taking it upon myself to share a few pointers for your next dating adventure. Let’s go ahead and do this in a “dos and don’ts format” so you can follow easily.

Don’t make “You don’t teach children or anything do you? Because I don’t think you know how to freaking read,” the first thing you say to your date when she gets in the car because your GPS system has a different street name than hers.

Don’t immediately share that you hate (yes, you used the word hate) gay people, cops and zoos. In fact, don’t ever share that. In fact again, just don’t hate.

Don’t try to be a comedian by saying “I mean really, who needs to see a giraffe?” Its not funny. Its dumb. And giraffes are super cool.

Do avoid beginning every story you tell with “So I was kind of a prick when I did this, but…” In fact, you should avoid telling those stories that highlight your prickiness altogether. And nobody uses the word prick anymore.

Don’t say multiple times, “I’m just too old to go out and drink all night you know,” then later say, “Sorry I didn’t call you back on Sunday. I was so hung over from Saturday night.”

Don’t be nasty and say “It says it right there on the menu, geeez,” when your date innocently asks the kind waitress a question.

Do take the fact your date declined another beer as a sign that she now wants the date to be over.

Don’t order another beer and say “I’m having another one. Now are you going to have one, because I ordered one?”

I believe there is someone out there for everyone, so I am sure someday, OCTDCIJ, you will snag one of those women that will date you for your shiny BMW and put up with your jackassery. But in the meantime, I’m fighting one blowhard at a time, to lessen the amount of hours good women waste sitting across from people like you.

Good day, jc

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