The tragic results of peroxide poisoning

Time for my biannual blog post!

This time, I'd like to discuss a topic I know is near and dear to many of your hearts- television's most popular show about true love, "The Bachelor." Known for providing an opportunity for soul mates to connect with one another, this television mainstay has become a part of America's collective romantic being. "The Bachelor" is where men- good, strong men with big muscles, little body hair, and a penchant for nicknames (Matt! Andy! Charlie!)- can meet their all-American lady-friend-for-life. The bachelor is given a beautiful home, an unlimited budget to wine and dine their lady of the hour, and, if you are this season's bachelor, the talent from God to wave with both hands and wink at the same time (oh, Jake. Swoon.).

The catch?

The women vying for the man's love are certifiable batshit loons.

There are two types of crazy broads on this show: the women who sob uncontrollably to the camera after getting kicked off on Week 2, or the women who stick around until the bitter end, convinced that over the course of 12 weeks of taping a show, with television cameras following them, no connection to the outside world, and copious amounts of liquor, that they have found the love of their life? I must confess that I am partial to the former type of crazies. As her mascara outlines the Nile-sized rivers of tears flowing from each eye, she wails to the camera about missing out on the chance to meet her husband. She knows in heart of hearts that they are meant to be together. Unfortunately, he cannot see the magic. All he sees are the big boobs of the girl who is more likely to put out, and thus, earned a rose to stay on the show. There goes my husband, she wails between sobs. Maybe next season, Sad Crazy Girl.

The second kind of nutcase, the one who sticks around and accepts an engagement ring and pledge of eternal love from this charming suitor, is not nearly as much fun to observe. However, I give credit where credit is due, and props to the lady from Planet Romantic Delusions for making some good tv, too.

I get it. Love is hard. Finding love is hard. Anyone who has ever dated knows what a clusterfucky meatmarket it is out there. And, after many bad dating experiences, assuming television can only increase your chances to find love is not a hard mental bridge to cross. It can't get much worse than it already is, right? Wrong! It can get worse! Let's say you manage to beat the odds and end up on the show. My guess is that you are not going to make it until the end (just a hunch). And then what? You are forever immortalized in the annals of reality tv as the person some other person chose NOT to love. That cannot and will not leave you feeling okay about your life. You will end up in the back of a limo on your way to being unceremoniously dumped at the airport, booger-ing all over yourself and wailing about lost love.

But, I guess if you are a certain kind of crazy (see above), it all makes sense.

What I've been up to lately

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infinite_monkey_theorem

"Monkeys Don't Write Shakespeare"
Associated Press
05.09.03

Give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters, the theory goes, and they will eventually produce prose the likes of Shakespeare.

Give six monkeys one computer for a month, and they will make a mess.

Researchers at Plymouth University in England reported this week that primates left alone with a computer attacked the machine and failed to produce a single word.

"They pressed a lot of S's," researcher Mike Phillips said Friday. "Obviously, English isn't their first language."

A group of faculty and students in the university's media program left a computer in the monkey enclosure at Paignton Zoo in southwest England, home to six Sulawesi crested macaques. Then, they waited.

At first, said Phillips, "the lead male got a stone and started bashing the hell out of it.

"Another thing they were interested in was in defecating and urinating all over the keyboard," added Phillips, who runs the university's Institute of Digital Arts and Technologies.

Eventually, monkeys Elmo, Gum, Heather, Holly, Mistletoe and Rowan produced five pages of text, composed primarily of the letter S. Later, the letters A, J, L and M crept in.

Full article here

Genius!

Newest business idea: A pie company called "Jesus Crust"

Flavors:
-12 Apostle Apple
-Persecution Peach
-Last Supper Lemon Meringue
-Salvation Strawberry (can be combined with Resurrection Rhubarb)
-Pe-can Walk on Water
-Cheese-us of Nazareth (cheesecake)

For Kosher pies, please consult sister bakeshop, Jews for Jesus Crust.

Motto: Son of God-damn are they be delicious!

I dislike my place of employment. This is old news, and saying any more than that will make me what is colloquially considered a "broken record." My dissatisfaction has produced a pretty solid list of alternate career choices I would very much like to pursue. Please consider the following:

1. The third Obama daughter

I would like to be adopted by the First Family. They can change my name, hair, clothes...whatever they want, just as long as I can be their kid. Think of me as the Obama-fied Bridget McCain.

2. Ambassador

I have decided that being an ambassador is the EASIEST job in the universe. You show up, shake hands, say ten words, eat free food, and bounce. Apparently, international diplomacy equals glad-handing and devouring mini egg rolls. In order to achieve this objective, I plan to move to a small country where no one wants to enter civil service, sail through all of the mid-level BS (or pay my way to the top) jobs and quickly get appointed ambassador. Hello, life of luxury.

3. Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor tester

Behold- a career that would allow me to set my favorite foods to the music of frozen milk and sugar. Need I explain my desire for this job any further? Curiously, this job option strikes me as the least-attainable of the three.

I am so glad it took me $200,000 and four years to figure this out. Thanks, college!

this is why I don't have a twitter account

Hi. I'm alive. Mostly.

I guess I can ascribe the lack of updates to a complete and total lack of change in my life. Some people assume I never write because I am just too darn busy. Not so. It is merely a symptom of stunted development and absence of forward motion, an object at rest staying very much at rest.

That being said, everything is still the same. Spring is here. All these April showers better produce some huge goddamn May flowers. I've been listening to lots of new music, more specifically Rumspringa (after seeing them play live..pretty darn good) and Shilpa Ray (seeing her live this week...bitch slams that harmonium!) to name a few. Booked my trip to Europe today. I'm going to Geneva and Paris, neither of which I have seen before. If you read this and have a suggestion about what I should see, please leave a comment or email me! I have dubbed the trip "Tour de Fatass" as I am going to try to consume as much cheese and as many pastries as possible (this includes my plan to make a brie sandwich using eclairs instead of bread, with nutella instead of mustard). My ass is growing in anticipation!

That's about all she wrote. Consider yourself caught up on my life.

sigh.

Well...goddamn.

Here's a somewhat embarrassing note on my past: I resisted getting my eyebrows waxed for longer than appropriate. I don't know what my problem was (subliminal love for Frida Kahlo?), but crossing that threshold happened none too soon in the life and times of me. Ever since, I have been very, very particular about who touches them (wish I could say the same about some other parts). I've had them return to their natural state several times based on my insistence on them being in the right hands. you get it- I am, as the young folks say these days, a "pain in the ass." I would do it myself, but delicate maneuvers requiring nimble fingers and a gentle touch are not my strong suit (ask me about the time I superglued my fingers to my desk!). Add to this my terrible sense of symmetry and I emerge from the bathroom looking a little less like Kahlo and a little more like a Picasso. Hence, I always seek trusted professional guidance.

Which brings me to today, working from home and in desperate need of some eyebrow assistance. Against all better judgement, I decided to try out the nail salon near my house. It's cheap beyond belief and their manicures aren't that bad. Suck it up, self, I said. You need to let go a little- they're just eyebrows!

Things I am never doing again for $200, Alex.

I look absurd. Actually, no. I look surprised! Like I should end! All of my sentences! With this! You should also know that whenever I get upset, one of my many go-to tricks is to stand in front of the mirror, wailing that MY FACE IS LOPSIDED! Tears are usually involved and eventually I call Mom, who always knows just what to say to calm me down- "It's because your face was smashed against the uterine wall for all nine months. Then the doctors had to clamp the forceps on your face, which is why one eye is smaller than the other."

So, now you know. Your choices are either to avoid me for the next month or to throw me a party. I promise to look surprised.

A note of thanks

So much for my blogging idealism. After spending 8+ hours sitting in front of a computer at work, coming home and turning on my computer to blog is a thoroughly unappealing option. Thus, daily blogging has been a total failure.

Moving on, I am so goddamn happy this week has finally ended. Oy vey. Concurrent career, social, and financial dissatisfaction all lead to one bad mood. When working in tandem with the forces of time, days stretch to near-impossible lengths. My natural inclination when dealing with stresses such as these is to call my parents. Not only are they sympathetic ears, but I can be my unapologetically bitchy self without having to worry that I won't be invited to their birthday parties. My comically deficient self-edit feature is completely gone whenever we speak, something I should probably apologize for more often than I do (never). So thanks for listening Mom and Dad, even when you'd rather be doing anything else, like cleaning the pool filter or rearranging boxes in the garage. I'm really trying to reduce the frequency of my hysterical phone calls to you , with a long term goal of cutting them to two per week by the time I am 30.

See? This is another problem with blogging more than, oh, once a month- I have nothing to say. I could tell you all about my plans for the rest of this weekend, but who cares? Not me!

(cr)ash wednesday

I said I would start blogging for a week yesterday, and then didn't (pouting and ruminating is a better use of my time). So, it starts today.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, a fact I completely omitted from my consciousness until I realized the improbability of so many people having the exact same birthmark (in the shape of a cross, no less). I briefly considered popping in a church I pass on my way to work out of sheer curiosity, but decided to forgo a reminder of man's mortality for a tall latte at Starbucks. However, this particular church had a large purple "Ashes! Ashes! Ashes!" banner outside, a very jazzy touch and certainly an enticing way to attract repentant souls. Plus, being Jewish and all, I probably would have felt a little strange about the whole outfit.

Not much else to report, other than the collective misery of my entire social circle, myself included. I got another rejection letter for a job I thought I would be perfect for. Then again, I think I would be perfect for any job other than the one I have. More to come tomorrow!

FYI

Starting tomorrow, I am going to blog every day for an entire week. Why? Well, for starters I have nothing better to do. Also, I think that by announcing my goal, I will be less likely to shy away from this task. Or more guilty when I don't follow through. Talk to you then!

Avoided Connections

I love reading the "Missed Connections" on craigslist, but always wonder why no one ever seems to be looking for me. Enter my a-ha! moment for today:

People generally don't want to connect with angry girls who scream "Watch where you're going, shitbag!" at them on their way to work.

I don't!

Now that I know for a fact that my mother reads this, I feel like I should address a subject near and dear to her heart: marriage. Not hers, of course, but rather my own future as Mrs. Gainfully Employed Jewish Doctor/Lawyer With No Family History of Mental Illness. The topic was broached while I was home over the holidays, albeit unintentionally. It did not go well.

It started with a phone call. Normally I dodge answering the phone like Bush dodges shoes, but because no one else was home at the time, I decided to accept the terrible burden of being polite and picked up. On the other end was an old family friend, looking to speak with my father about poker or lawn care or whatever it is men talk about. I have neither seen nor spoken to this man in at least ten years, and it was admittedly nice to speak with him again.

I should take a moment to mention that, like my Dear Father, Fred is from Iran. This is not his real name, either, but rather the American version of his given name. It appears to me that most Persian men adapted their names when they moved to the U.S. of A. That's how I ended up with an Uncle Tony, an Uncle Jim, and even an Uncle Sam. Nomenclature aside, their values can best be described by the almighty t-word: traditional.

My conversation with Fred was off to a normal enough start, the exchanging of pleasantries and such, but came to a grinding halt in roughly two minutes. "So you are in New York! You must love it! Have you found a nice man yet?" he asked. I gave him the standard Single Girl in Manhattan answer, telling him that yes, I do love the city, and while I haven't met Mr. Right, I am "having a really good time with my friends." After feeding him this line from my personal stash of lies, all I heard was the sharp intake of a disapproving breath. "Oh noooooo," he said, infusing his words with misery cultivated by membership to a tribe whose priority numero uno is to be fruitful and multiply. The words that followed will haunt me forever:

"But, you are getting so old..."

He proceeded to tell me why I should get married, and what will happen if I do not get married soon. Apparently, I have the shelf life (and appeal) of a bag of Doritos. Sure, I'm reasonably fresh now, but in two years I will be particularly stale and undesirable, wanted only by those who are willing to settle for expired product.

I began to grow impatient listening to Miss Cleo predict my apparent future as a lonely hag and quickly hustled him off the phone. Thanks for your input, sir. Speak to you in a decade or so. Still shocked by Fred's unapologetic dressing-down of my personal life, I called my dad, partly to deliver the message before my goldfish-like memory moved on, and partly to rant about the utter absurdity of this man's insinuations. How dare he!

"Dad," I said, "you will never guess what Fred just said to me! He thinks I am getting too old and need to start seriously thinking about getting married! Insane, right?"

My father, tapping into his infinite supply of support for his little girl, was silent.

"Well," he said eventually, "he has a point. You should be thinking about these things and..." Another premature halt to another prehistoric conversation. Who are these people? Hey boys, the 18th century called- they want their values back.

Or...am I actually getting old? Do I need to get married, like, now? Thanks to Dad and his friend, I might as well turn into an old Chrysler Le Baron on my 24th birthday- functional, yet not the best looking ride in town. Why am I even wasting my time writing about this? I should be using this time to join JDate!

There's not a lot to say about this little exchange, except that it's been two weeks, and I am still thinking about it. My subconscious must have been bothered, though, or else my aforementioned memory issue would have allowed me to continue to move freely about my mental cabin. I suppose my rational half let go of the conversation almost immediately, made a sandwich, and read some essays by hero single Jewess (O.B.M.) Wendy Wasserstein.

The other, less-rational half of me interrupted this post halfway through in order to select a Tiffany & Co. platinum solitaire round brilliant cut diamond engagement ring.

Old Years Eve

Boy, do I hate New Years! Forced revelry and anti-climactic moments abound. I am the New Years Eve scrooge, but I can't say I care. As I told Allie, January 20th will be my evening of celebration, as I do think that we (the World at Large) are about to turn a corner. Anyway, enough of my political stumping and grumbling about mandated holidays. I just want to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year (you know, in case you celebrate today). May 2009 be a year of health, happiness, fewer drops in the Dow, and love and peace and all that other shit. A special thanks to all four of my blog readers--thanks! Next year I promise to write more.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go consume a bottle of champagne, bake and then eat 2 dozen cookies, and watch terrible television before my 2009 health resolution takes effect.

Please, Santa!

My Christmas Wish List- Recession Edition:

1. A "Single Ladies" leotard
2. To know everything

Express Train to Bitterville

It's been forever. Believe me, it is never my intention to go so long without blogging- it just sort of happens. I feel like in order to write a decent post, I have to be silly-angry. Lately, I've just been angry-angry and in no mood to bitch about the ways I feel I have been wronged on the interweb. Those complaints are best saved for face-to-face meetings, where my tears and angst can be appreciated to their fullest extent. Nor I am about to just blog for the sake of writing something. I'm hardly interested in my own daily happenings, a sentiment I imagine you, solitary reader, share. So, profound apologies.

A few things have been on my mind lately, thoughts ranging from the nominally serious to those with no importance or consequence whatsoever. And so, An Abbreviated List of the Things I Thought About This Month (in No Particular Order):

I. Green peas have no place in a salad.
The same goes for mandarin oranges. Nothing says "this salad will be disgusting" more than baby mandarin orange slices popping up behind intolerably large pieces of iceberg lettuce. In fact, calling mandarin oranges fruit is on par with calling a dust bunny a pet. Let's start labeling the cans appropriately- "Mushy Orange Shit (in heavy syrup)."

II. If you fart in an empty office and no one is around to hear you, does it make a sound?

III. Moving.
I saw a map of Denver, my place of origin, at the bookstore today and found myself getting surprisingly weepy and nostalgic. I am not taking this as one of those cinematic Signs From Above, but it is certainly weighing on my mind. In trying to navigate this post-collegiate haze of bill paying and general disenfranchisement, I wonder if I am not better suited for a quieter life back in that square state.

I miss the ease of driving a car, of not having to share a seat with large, sweaty men or girls dry heaving after a night of overpriced cocktails. That said, I do not miss the actual act of driving one bit, as my absentmindedness on the road would make that deep-voiced StateFarm man weep. (It's not my fault I only have two hands and a cell phone, a cup of coffee, and radio that all demand attention.) I miss the quiet that comes with urban sprawl, businesses that close at 7, and the peace after a good snowfall. Here, my ears are filled with the sounds of 8 million self-involved pricks scratching their way to the top. We live practically on top of one another, and there is no peace to be had after a good snow. No sir, there's nothing but gray slush and a collective bitch from those same 8 million about delayed trains. Colorado rarely made me angry, just sleepy from a general lack of things to do (unless you count beer drinking, mutton busting, and more beer drinking).

Walking in New York is fine, save for when it is infuriating. Fifty percent of my days are without major issue. Thirty percent of my days are with only a few minor issues. The other twenty percent make me want to take up sharpshooting. I stomp around with a dreadful scowl, continually ignoring the voice in my head that reminds me that such expressions cause wrinkles (and who wants those?). I can barely breathe without screaming, let alone form words and sentences. My head is filled with a noise that can best be described as what cutting the alphabet in half and letting the two sides beat the shit out of each other would sound like. It's unpleasant, distressing, and just plain annoying.

Speaking of sounds, I am afraid I must cut this little rant short. The leaping gazelles that live above me have begun their nightly romp, reminding me that it is almost midnight and I have to go to work in the morning. To be continued.

Udder shock and dismay

I am really excited for the new Of Montreal album, and decided to head to YouTube and watch a video for the first single. Perfectly harmless. What happened next has disturbed me in such a way that I have no choice but to blog about it.

When the song ended, the YouTube suggestion box popped up to alert me to videos I may want to watch next. I don't know how, nor do I know why, but at the top of the suggestion list was a video entitled "Breast feeding at 8 years-old." What a weird joke, pre-traumatized Me thought. My natural curiosity guided the mouse to the link, where I expected to find some sort of comedy routine, or maybe a puppy being cute. You know, normal YouTube fodder.

Wrong!

The video is exactly what the title states- a very large child, whose age is approaching the double digits, latched on to her mother's boob like a barnacle on the side of a ship. I thought my eyeballs were going to fall out of my head. I wasn't raised in the most prudent of households, but ohmygod! The Milkmaid's 2 children not only converse about the flavor of the milk, but also the shape, feeling, and milk out-put of their mother's breasts. At one point, the girls show off the pictures they have drawn of the breasts and the feedings. Let's just say they are very detail-oriented children.

What bothers me the most is the teeth. These kids have teeth capable of masticating the toughest of steaks, crunching Jolly Ranchers, and biting siblings foolish enough to pull hair and taunt. (Should something ever happen to my younger brother, God forbid, I have his dental records on my ankle, the result of my poor decision to kick him in slow motion.) One errant move or angry moment, and suddenly mom is without one of the many things that should always come in pairs (although this would solve the weaning issue in short order). I would sooner mix an 8 year-old a vodka tonic than let it near my chest. And how about the mother? Isn't she tired of playing Betsy the Cow to those kids? Someone should alert her to the modern parenting wonder that is the Happy Meal. The kids would be sated and entertained with a toy, thus distracting them from their portraiture.

I just don't get it. Or, I didn't until the end of the video, when the family says their own version of grace over a meal (Mom has her top on, so I guess the kids eat solid food, too). The moon, sun, and a few other celestial bodies receive their due gratitude as the family breaks bread.

A-ha! Light bulb! Stephen Hawking!

THESE PEOPLE ARE HIPPIES! Hippies! I knew there was an explanation for letting a child with fangs near the nips. Had I seen the program in its entirety, I am sure I would have seen the family tending to their beet crop, sewing new hemp pants, and packing a family bowl. Hippies!

I encourage you to watch the video, although perhaps not at work. And then, if you have time, check out the new Of Montreal song, because that's pretty good, too.

Where the hell have you been?

The short answer? Florida. I lounged by the pool, ate Cheez-Its and cookies, and just generally loafed about. I guess that is a perk of being half-employed: vacations when I say, for as long as I deem necessary. Just another way I exact my passive revenge on my abusive boss. I am almost entirely adjusted to the idea of my folks living in Florida, although there are still many reminders that their house is definitely, well, theirs.

When my parents moved in, "my" room became a dumping ground of sorts for the odd pieces of furniture they did not want to part with- but also decided they did not want to look at on a daily basis. It's ugly, and smells a bit like the dead relatives that bequeathed a majority of the aforementioned furniture. Given it's proximity to the laundry room, there are almost always carefully sorted piles of clothes heaped on the bed. Adding to the mix is my father's decision to put any photo or portrait they own of me in my room. I have often tried to convince him that it makes the room feel like a memorial to a departed one. Going home means sleeping in a creepy shrine that smells like Grandma Rose and Tide. I also try not to answer the phone while home. If I do, I am nearly always asked to speak my name slowly and clearly, and then explain my relationship to the known occupants of the home. I am the Narnia of the three children- very few know I exist, and the rest just don't buy it.

All in all, it was a very pleasant trip home. I did a fair amount of shopping, but mainly for boring things at stores frequented by Young Republicans. I discovered that Neiman Marcus is the best place to be when having a down day. The salespeople quite literally trip over themselves to get to you first so they may have the privilege of showering you with compliments and agreeing with you. If I told the saleswoman that I thought she was ugly and her perfume smelled like cat pee, her response would have been nothing but praise for my selection of the "Purple Vamp" eyeshadow and my flawless, dewy complexion.

I supposed that's the news for now. I'm back in New York, bored, a little sad, and eating peanut butter straight from the jar using carrot sticks. Apologies to James for not writing on Thursday, as promised. Perhaps I will make it up to you by coming to Savannah soon.

Unless there are bugs there. I don't do bugs.

rotten apple

I am a terrible person. I think this a lot, mostly as a result of the genetic Jewish guilt that makes me feel bad for simply existing.

But this time, I really mean it.

I work next door to Unicef, an organization that makes celebrities look good helps kids. Yes they do wonderful things, but all of their admirable charity work aside, Unicef won my heart for something far better: the cheapest lunch in New York City. It's not unusual to go out for lunch here, order a turkey sandwich, and be presented with a bill for almost twenty bucks. For a turkey fucking sandwich. Sure, the turkey is organic, hand-fed, and comes with a guarantee that the bird was loved from womb to table (the same most likely cannot be said for the New Yorkers eating the sandwich). No matter how great the deli meat and fancy bread, it's just a sandwich. Pre-Unicef, I probably spent more per week on lunch than clothes. (This probably explains why I look like a well-fed dumpster.) Unicef is a different story, though. A giant, delicious sandwich, with a drink and chips if you are feeling fancy, is roughly $5. I feel like I pay for my food while enveloped in an ethereal cloud.

Now to the part that makes me feel like the most worthless person on the planet. (Additional background info: next to all the food is a little condiment bar with all the usual dining accessories- sugar, hot sauce, ketchup, utensils, etc.) May I present to you a short internal monologue:

12:31 pm, at desk: Yogurt! I love you! I can't wait to eat you!
12:32: NO SPOON! WHY GOD WHY?! I hate you, yogurt! I guess I will have to go to Unicef to get a spoon
12:36, in Unicef Cafeteria: One spoon, in my bag. One yogurt, on its way to tummyland. I should probably grab a few more spoons for next time. And some knives. Probably some forks, too. Chopsticks? Eh, why not. (grabs fistfuls of plastic utensils, shoves them in bag)
12:37: I wonder if they have anything else that will go with my lunch. I already have carrots at work. Oh, but some dressing...What if I just put some dressing in a little container? They won't mind. (Goes to salad bar, pours dressing in little container, sticks it in bag along with utensils)
12:38: Those crackers look good, too. How about it! (Stuffs 12 packets of ritz on top of other pilfered goods)
12:39: Some backup Splenda packets, a refill on my waterbottle, and I am back to work! Yogurt, you will be mine!

It was I was riding the wave of stolen-goods euphoria on my way back to the office when the magnitude of what I had done hit me. I just stole from Unicef. UNICEF! As if their stuff is not cheap enough, I have to go and take a picnic's-worth of utensils, salad dressing, and crackers from them. COULD I BE A BIGGER ASSHOLE? Why don't I just go to Africa, find a hungry child, and pull the bread out of his mouth so I have something else to go with my meal? I am singlehandedly undoing years of trick-or-treating with those little boxes. Now you know where your nickels are going, folks: me.

So how does it feel to fleece a children's charity? Not that great! I am a terrible person.

bah hamburger

Three cheers for not having to start school on Tuesday!
Zero cheers for having absolutely no plans for the discernible future.

I've reasoned that it is time for an update, with this being the eve of a new month and the end of the summer season. The weather is changing here, right along with my disposition; both are growing a bit more frigid and ominous every day. With wrecked job plans, transient income, and an increasing penchant for 3-dollar Trader Joe's wine, autumn is not holding a lot of promise. And please, no more seemingly cordial advice on keeping a winning attitude, optimism, and other such nonsense. Those things join God, political reform, ghosts, and liposuction in the "crap people believe but are actually products of socio-cultural fear-mongering" category.

I seem to have tripped on the threshold between childhood and functioning adulthood.

It's in our blood

Update! I may have a coffee date this weekend with a guy who appears to be semi-normal, or at least able to carry on a conversation. Please note the severe skepticism clouding that statement. Given my luck this summer, romantic and otherwise, I am not inclined to put a lot of stock in planned social engagements with the opposite sex. This is only natural though; I contend that men are lousy at making/keeping plans and have been since the dawn of time. I can picture it clearly - Early Man and Early Lady going on a mammoth-hunting expedition, having a lovely, prehistoric time. The evening ends with Early Man knocking three rocks together, the pre-lingual way of saying "this was great! Let's do it again sometime." But he never stops by her dwelling again, and is soon spotted gifting a deer pelt to another lady. You can bet that the next village bonfire was pretty awkward for everyone.

My point being, if nothing happens this weekend, I do not think I will be the least bit surprised. In the meantime, I will continue to accept messages from other potential suitors. I like calling them suitors, as it makes the process seem fancy and dignified. One gentleman in particular keeps trying to initiate a conversation, but is about as attractive to me as a lard sandwich. He is definitely one of the computer-game-parents'-basement types. I admire his fortitude, as day after day there is a little note from him or something of the like. It makes me wish the website had a "Never In a Million Years" rejection button.

I told my father about joining the dating site, and he seemed pleased...until he learned that it's not J-Date. I am pretty sure I heard his heart sink over the phone. But really, who has 40 bucks to spend on a dating site? Let me pay you for the pleasure of feeling socially inept! Besides, I can still do this site and use the $40 to go to a bar and meet even more suitors. Logic, people, pure and simple. Anyway, Dad lectured me on the virtues of dating Jewish men, and then told me I should be getting serious about finding a husband in the next "two or so years". Apparently, once I turn 24, the other shoe will drop and I will officially turn into a tired, old hag.

Something to look forward to, I guess.

Exercises in social propriety

Or, "How I Learned to Stop Judging Myself, Instead Letting Others Do It For Me."

And if those titles aren't enough, how about "I Joined an Online Dating Site"?

I was in the shower and noticed remnants of a bruise and a fresh scar on my right calf. It was from that day at the gym well over a month ago, when I accidentally walked into an ab machine and gave myself a huge welt with a nice gash to seal the deal. I also rendered myself incapable to walk for a few minutes, much to the amusement of the other gym patrons, of that I am sure. It was the day before I met Kris at the coffee shop. He called me his girlfriend on our third(ish) date, and then he just didn't call me at all. He was not long for my life, but the evidence of my uncoordinated behavior decided to stick around. I guess you could call a bruise outlasting a boy the final straw.

Thus, I decided to try my hand at online dating. I like to think of the entire situation as a modern interpretation of Lazarus- we the huddled masses, the web our Mother of Exiles. I went in with an open mind, which has since closed ever-so-slightly, partly due to realizing the following: I certainly do attract a particular crowd. A slightly literate, video game-playing, basement-dwelling, baby daddy crowd. I do not want to play mom to you and your three year-old (in New Jersey, no less). I do not want to eat meatloaf with your parents while you are waiting for your online friends to come home from school in Japan so you can continue your "Call of Duty 4" gaming. And above all, I do not want to date someone who calls me "sexi mami" and offers to send me a picture of his "hOTtTt bod."

I am not throwing in the towel just yet, but if things don't get better, I am quitting. Then, my bruises and scars and I will all go for a lovely meal. Alone.