First in Time, First in Right

Thought I'd compile a list of firsts for this year, to commemorate the passing of 2006. So, without further ado, things I did for the first time this year:

--Cancelled plane tickets
--Was hit on by a grandfather. That I met on a plane. Who wanted to come visit me. When his tour of duty in Iraq was over.
--Purchased my very own auto.
--Overnighted on beautiful and wacky Little Sable Point. And met the beautiful and wacky inhabitants.
--Drove a boat. Not well. But drove it.
--Kissed a married man. Without meaning to. The married part, anyway. I did mean to kiss him. Hi Mom!
--Drank blueberry vodka. To excess.
--Wore a leather skirt. However, Chris Berman did not ask me to go anywhere with him.
--Got frozen out of my house. Twice.
--Drank beer out of a paper bag while wandering aimlessly around East Lansing, Michigan. I've wandered around there aimlessly before, but not with a beer in a paper bag.
--Kissed a police officer. But never in uniform. Hello, again, Mother.
--Spent the night at a hunting lodge with a seven-person hot tub and wooden moose motif. No, I did not use the hot tub. I could barely bring myself to use the shower.
--Purchased and slept with...an electric blanket. Perverts.
--Won a golf league.
--Heard my mother say, "When I get home from church..."
--Got a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt.
--Got out of a ticket because I was late for a tee time.
--Kissed someone significantly younger than me. Really young. Like I-could've babysat-for-them young.

Maybe you should stop reading now, Mom.

--Discovered my hair can be naturally curly if I put in enough product.
--Saw an actual basketball game at the Breslin Center.
--Failed to get into an NCAA pool for the first time in ten years.
--Got driven home from a party from an actual gentleman who didn't try anything. And who's probably gay.
--Made banana-stuffed french toast. However, not frequently enough.
--Fell for the "wanna come see my motorcycle" line, because I really did.
--Dropped a couple of dress sizes.
--Started giving out my phone number on my business card. How did I get so old and still have to be doing this?
--Stayed on the 60th floor of a hotel.
--Learned that people from California don't necessarily know who Barak Obama is.
--Saw actual drug deals go down in a bar.
--Didn't buy a Christmas tree.
--Hit the longest drive by a woman at the FOP golf outing.
--Got hit on at the FOP golf outing.
--Went out drinking at a Polish hall for Pulaski days. Yeah, don't ask.
--Learned that there are people out walking around with coils in their head.
--Didn't carve a pumpkin for Halloween.
--Engaged in a very public display of affection. Middle-of-the-street public. I'm a bad girl.
--Did not go to a Big Ten football game for the first time in years.
--Learned that, when it comes to what I haven't got, three kids is right up there.
--Took an unplanned trip on the spur of the moment.

So, while I haven't learned any new languages or how to play the piano, I think it has been a fulfilling, eventful and interesting year, all told. I can only imagine what the next year will hold.

I wish you all the best this year and next--see you on the flip side.

Travails of Texting

I resisted cell phones for a long time. Long, long time. I didn't get one until about four years ago. And then only because the office I worked for actually bought one. I thought they were ridiculous and the people that used them equally so. As my father used to say, "He must be important. He has a cell phone."

Of course, now I'm addicted. How did we find each other in movie theatre lobbies? In crowded clubs? In parking lots? How did we order pizza when driving in from out of town? How did we call NPR while sitting in traffic jams outside of Detroit? Or maybe that's just me.

I also resisted texting. Equally ridiculous, with a side of juvenile. Who texts? High school kids and people with MySpace pages. Certainly not anyone I know. Nor anyone my age. Why text when you can actually call someone and say something to them like a normal human being?

Well, for the same reason that I send emails to my secretary when she's sitting approximately 10 feet away: because I don't want to deal with her.

There isn't any way around it. Texting is ridiculous and juvenile. But it is like sending emails--there is some form of disconnect there. You can say things in texts that you would absolutely never, ever say to someone's face. As examples, recent texts from my phone:

"Why be disturbed, you are a deviant like me."

"Oh, I'll stick with speechless."

"U have to buy me dinner first."

"Bullshit called on that one."

"You look great in that skirt."

And those are ones that I got. Don't ask what I sent out in order to get those responses. Please don't.

Texts remind me of when we first started playing with email, in college. We all had email accounts where I went to school--campus accounts where you could send messages to anyone on campus. And this was twelve, thirteen years ago. We'd flirt over email, sending stupid little messages that the other person might not ever even get, since not everyone even checked their email accounts at that point. And we had no idea that, someday, those same types of emails could be saved and used against us in a sexual harassment lawsuit or as a reason to fire us for working on personal business on company time. Not that any of us do that.

We're assuming, at this point, that these texts disappear into nothingness at some point. And, God, I certainly hope so. Because we need to enjoy this kind of anonymity to some degree. We need to have this method of telling people things we're too afraid to tell them to their face or saying in front of other people. That they do look good in that skirt. That they shouldn't be sitting next to that slut at the bar. That they're wearing thigh-high stockings. That the plan is to ditch what's his face before heading to the next bar. That they kiss amazingly, incredibly well.

Because I'm relatively certain that I don't want my employer to know any of that crap about me. Other than the good kisser stuff.

The Stupidest Thing

I was thinking, recently, about the dumbest thing I've ever done while in pursuit of a man. Not necessarily the dumbest thing I've done to get him. That list would be too long. As would the list of the dumb things I've done to get rid of a man. Like leaving the country.

No, more like the things we've done that made us look really stupid in front of someone we liked. Falling down in front of them. Driving in reverse rather than first gear after saying goodbye. Stalling out the car when picking them up for dinner. Those sorts of things. Those painful, humiliating moments that haunt us for years. The moment we can point to and say, "There. That was the moment I looked like a moron."

A few years ago, I met this guy. Looks-wise, he was absolutely everything I've ever wanted. Tall. Dark hair. Big brown eyes. Good smile. And could carry on a conversation. Was gainfully employed. Dressed well.

He made the hair on the back of my neck stand up when I met him. I rarely, if ever, go on point for a guy. It usually takes months of conversation, background checks and deep cover investigation for me to even consider whether I'd pursue something with men that I meet. However, this one? This one gave me goosebumps.

We met in an office where he was getting ready to be interviewed. He and a couple of other guys were sitting around, watching Univision. Not because they were Hispanic, but because the daytime soaps were on and they all liked watching the hot women with bad lipliner chew scenery.

I'm waiting for someone, too, so we start talking about stuff. I don't even know what. It was like in the movies, where I'm just watching his lips move and not paying a whit of attention to any actual words coming out of his mouth. He did mention liking white zinfindel, which caused me significant pause. However, I figured that I could prohibit trailer park champagne from our relationship once I got my hooks into him.

I got called out of the room. I kept talking as I walked out, being my normally witty and charming self as I walked toward the door. Entertaining the room, as I do. Which prevented me from looking where I was going. Which I should have been doing. Because, in trying to leave, instead of walking out the doorway? I turned and ran right into the wall.

Never got the date.

80's

I went out with a friend for her birthday on Friday night. Dinner first, then a local club. Every couple of weeks, the club hosts an 80's band and they always, always draw big crowds. We'd talked months ago about going to one of the shows and, luckily, the timing worked out so that we could go the night before my friend's birthday.

Now, I lived through the 80's. I wore leg warmers. I had a red pair with stripes and polka dots. Even tassles. A cream-colored pair. Hot pink. I had a pair of parachute pants from Chess King. A net shirt that I wore over a ripped sweatshirt. A pink Members Only jacket. I was one well-dressed sixth-grader, let me tell you. Probably the only time being an only child ever paid off for me was with respect to clothes--I had more than I knew what to do with.

So this club really made me laugh. Some people dress up. And they try. They really do. But their impressions of the 80's are so off the mark that I wanted to go up to them and give them a good shaking.

Lots of side ponytails. Which, yeah, I don't really remember so much. Side ponytails, to me, either means Napoleon Dynamite or Elizabeth Daily in Valley Girl. Really, they'd be much better off, realistically speaking, wearing those hideous banana clips. Or the barettes with the ribbons woven through them. With beads hanging off the ends. Oh God, I was such a fashion victim.

Another thing: rainbow-striped socks. Really, so many of these girls looked like the guest star on a very special episode of Family when Buddy brings home the neighborhood retarded girl for dinner because the school bully was picking on her. Or like, you know, that girl from Napoleon Dynamite. Which was filmed in Nebraska or Kansas, not the 80's.

But, anyway, we go. And let me tell you, what a freak show. First, there's the guy (I think) who was all of 4'11" and looked and acted like Jack Black's younger, more frightening brother. And his tongue was pierced. Don't ask me how I know this because it might give me acid flashbacks and I might have to be hospitalized. He was dancing next to the birthday girl and rubbing his butt up against her leg, due to his height impairment. I bravely and graciously moved her out of the way, since it was her birthday, and took the catbird's seat next to him. I then gave him the dirtiest look I could muster--which he was really too drunk to recognize. Luckily, my heels were of a height as to expose only a few feet of myself to his "dancing."

Then there was the Shirtless Wonder. He'd apparently had a bunch of beer poured on him and, as a result, took off his shirt. He then proceeded to use it varyingly as a lasso, a rally towel or a flag. I think he was going for the Billy Idol look in the Rebel Yell video, but failed utterly. At one point, he hit the birthday girl upside the head with his wet, soggy shirt. When we looked back at him in horror, his friend said, "Be afraid. Be very afraid." We were.

My favorite was the 250 lb. guy with the muscle shirt that read "Pump" on the front. He had on a black curly wig with a bandanna and Elvis sunglasses. I think he was trying for the Captain Lou look, but had failed to tape rubber bands to his face, a la the Cindy Lauper videos. I was hoping his shirt was a Hypercolor shirt, but it didn't seem to change colors when he started to sweat. Other than, you know, being darker.

The band took off after a rousing rendition of I Love Rock 'n Roll and the lights came up. The dance floor was quickly cleared of dancers and only the crushed and broken plastic beer bottles remained. The floor was coated with a thin sheen of liquid. One spot was red in color, where someone had either spilled Mountain Dew Code Red or something a bit more sinister on the floor. That's one thing that never changes over the year--the look of a good dance floor gone bad.

Christmas Newsletter

I sent out a Christmas letter this year. You know, one of those cheeseball newsletters with all the news from the year. If I was married and had children, it would be full of their exploits at kindergarten, like when little Timmy clogged up the toilet at school with parts of his Elmo doll. I, however, have no children, so had to fill the letter with exploits of my very own. Some of those exploits have been explored in these pages, like the Roller Girl stunt. Some have not, like the particularly violent illness I went through in July that triggered what has become, to date, a 25 pound weight loss. It is amazing what flu/food poisoning/plague can do to your attitude toward food.

I've always written pretty tongue-in-cheek when writing about my life. I don't think very much is worth taking seriously. Kittens and puppies, maybe. And North Korean dictators. But that just about covers it. Everything else is fair game. Including most parts of my life. Those that I'm willing to write about, anyway.

So I was surprised to find that people were worried about me when they read what I thought was a pretty funny newsletter. They thought I was depressed or sad or generally not right. Which, really? Goes without saying.

I'm going to state it loud and proud: I really like my life right now. I admit, I haven't had the best of years. However, it hasn't been the worst, either (a record held jointly by 2005 and 1993). I look and feel better than I have in about ten years. I have a great group of friends. I have my family, my health, a good job, a good boss (who doesn't know I'm writing this at work), no free time, a trip to Florida coming up and five more pounds to lose before I can fit in that ridiculous red satin skirt I bought on a whim. Life is good. So, if you're reading this and you thought I might be ready for the nuthatch? No worries and have a great holiday.

Stalker

I once had my own stalker. When I was in grad school out east, I dated a guy that I worked with at the resort, waiting tables. He was originally from Florida, but would move up and down the coast, working as a server, depending on the season. My friend, Dave, christened him "The Migrant Waiter." He wore really tight black jeans and tennis shoes, but opened doors and paid for dinner and was a good starter kit, as far as boyfriends go. Of course, I practiced good compartmentalization skills and hardly ever exposed my friends to him for any extended period of time for fear of spontaneous combustion.

And he liked to drink. Boy, did he drink. CC and 7 was the drink of choice, which I believed for a long time was the drink of choice for all alcoholics, until I started working at a meat-market bar and discovered that all alcoholics actually drink Captain and Diet and smoke Marlboros. I then proceeded to date all of them, too.

The Migrant Waiter also screwed around. A lot. So much so that they apparently found a number of women's panties between his box spring and mattress after he moved out of resort housing. Since I never saw him cross-dressing, I can only assume that he collected them from his conquests. You know, like how serial killers keep trophys? Not so far off the mark.

Of course, people who screw around on a professional level often assume that everyone else does, too. So, if there was ever a night that I didn't call him, didn't pick up when he called or was generally unavailable, it was an instant crisis of epic proportion. I'd get six or eight voice mails--not just hang-ups, but long messages. Frequently drunk messages. Yelling, cajoling, wheedling. Which served, of course, to endear him to me even more...except not.

One banner evening, after sitting at the bar all night, he stole his roommate's car, drove a half-hour to my house and sat in my driveway with the lights shining on the front door. Of course, I wasn't even there--I was at the bar in town with a bunch of people. My roommate and her boyfriend sat in the living room, waiting for him to take an axe to the front door and yell, "Here's Johnny!" As you can imagine, they were less than pleased.

On the way home, he managed to drive off the road and into the river, then got picked up by the state cops. By the time I got home, I was getting messages from the police post up the road about picking him up. Luckily, he'd managed to roust one of his cronies to come pick him up and I went directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. How he got away with all that without going to jail, I will never know.

By that point, I was going out of town on weekends to the shore just to get the hell away from him. My friend's family had a place on Long Island where we would go, drink Mud Slides and sing Come On, Eileen--the greatest pressuring-your-girlfriend-into-sex song ever written, until More Than Words. That's where I met the Semi-Pro Volleyball player and justified every single one of the Migrant Waiter's fears.

Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.

St. Pat's

I got dumped on St. Patrick's Day this past year. Which is very much in the not cool realm of the spectrum, since I'm about as Irish as the day is long and now the day will have fairly negative connotations for me for at least the next few years. Although I do have a long, long history with some fairly bizarre St. Pat's Days. Including the year I got lost with two other safety patrols in Arlington Cemetary. And the year in Naples, Florida. And the year the guy I liked hooked up with my roommate, which eventually led to me losing approximately 50 pounds.

So, things weren't going so well anyway. The boyfriend had been making me cry a lot. Not about anything in particular. And not being overtly mean. But things were off and I was sad and it was all just...weird. I should have known ahead of time. Especially when I said to myself, "Self, he's treating you just like he treated his ex-girlfriend." I'm obviously a dunce.

He wanted me to go to a conference in the big city. I didn't really want to go, but he made a big stink over it, so I relented. A bunch of people I used to work with were going to be there--people he still worked with. This was the annual trip for "shrinking"--drinking, then shopping at the mall across the street from the conference. This usually involved getting kicked out of Max & Erma's due to public indecency. Not mine, thank God.

I go. And we hang. And things are still obviously weird. And we're in the car with a bunch of people, going to dinner and he's talking about going to a birthday party at the hall (God, yes, he is a member at a hall and what the hell was I THINKING, anyway?) and I ask if I can go.

He turns and gives me the stink-eye. "No."

We do not speak for the next two hours. Two hours of me drinking beer in silence. Of watching NCAA basketball. Silently gloating as his alma mater lost.

He drives me back to the hotel. There's a scene in the car. He tells me about the woman he met two months ago--TWO MONTHS AGO--with whom he really thinks he can make it work. If you had been watching the scene with subtitles, it would have gone like this:

"I met this woman I really think I can make it work with." I've met this chick who likes to drink as much as I do.

"I really didn't plan this." I got drunk and slept with her after the football game.

"I don't want the jewelry back. You should keep it. I bought it for you." I bought everything at Kohl's Fine Jewelry Department and they don't take returns and it isn't good enough to pawn.

"We've broken up before and gotten back together. Maybe we can make this work." I'd love to still see you while putting it to this other one, but only if you stop being so whiney and demanding.

"I need a cigarette." She doesn't care if I smoke pot, either.

So I cried my cries that night, and a couple nights after. But I never called him again. And haven't to this day. I find that really interesting, because we were together, off and on, for four or five years almost. And I could practice enough self-restraint and dignity to never ever call him.

I seem to have lost that dignity now, as evidenced by the times of phone calls listed on my cell-phone bill.

Note to self: No calls after midnight...

Magic Moments

There are some very rewarding moments in life. Getting into the school of your choice. Getting the job you really want. Watching your child take its first steps. Remembering where you put your car keys.

However, there is very little in life more rewarding than, during a lunch-time Google search, finding a picture of the guy that broke your heart, the guy you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, the guy you really did think was perfect--Really!--the guy who played James Taylor and the Cranberries the first time you went over to his house, the guy who caused you to save a dress for ten years because it was the dress you were wearing when he first kissed you and, DAMN, you looked GOOD. Finding that guy's picture. And it is from his private elementary school's newsletter (that should have been the first clue) just published last winter. And looking at that picture and discovering that, not only did he get really fat, like, Orca-fat, but that he also wore a white tuxedo to his wedding.

Sometimes it takes a while for God's little plan to reveal itself.

First Impression

Ever met someone and thought, "Wow, they're fabulous!" They seem to be everything you like: funny, enthusiastic, cute, intelligent. Way above mediocre. And then, without any warning, they open their mouth and say something. Or you read something on their MySpace page. Or you see a photo of them doing something questionable. Or their friend throws them under the bus. And your entire perspective changes? Has that happened to you?

It seems like that is all that ever happens to me these days. So disappointing.

RV

About five years after we graduated from college, I went back down for a football game with two of my guy friends. We'd all been part of a group of people who started hanging out freshman year. One of them, Clay, I met because he roomed with my best friend's friend from high school. The other one I met when we burst into his room with a bottle of booze and taught him and his gay friend how to do slammers. Yes, I'm sorry, Bo. Ben was definitely gay.

Clay still lived in the state where we went to school and Bo was flying in. We met in the big city, where Clay was to pick us up and drive us down to campus, about an hour away.

So I trundle down to the parking lot of the hotel to wait for them. Clay used to drive a crappy little Escort or something similar, so I was kind of watching for that, although it was likely he was driving something newer. However, I was not prepared for what I eventually saw.

A large, avocado-colored RV careened into the parking lot, cutting the corner just a bit too close and hitting the curb on its way into the parking lot. I could see two faces beaming at me through the curved glass windshield.

"Please, God, no. Don't let it be," I silently prayed. But, of course, it was.

Clay managed to borrow the behemoth from his roommate, who'd likely purchased it at a sheriff's auction after a drug raid at the local meth lab. Inside was like Brady central, with puke-colored carpet and lovely wood-grain stickers on all the cabinetry. The toilet didn't work (a fact to remember later) but it had lots of seating and could hold many, many coolers. In short, a perfect expanded party bus.

So I hopped in and we were on our way. Of course, we didn't get very far before stopping for a beer run. This was always fun for us, since we all remembered the days when we couldn't buy beer at all. We then made the hour run down to campus.

I can't tell you how many people rose to their feet and gave us rounds of applause as we drove through the neighborhoods near the football stadium. We were conquering heroes returned. We were role models. We were in a position to aspire to. We were, in short, complete assholes.

We go to the game. We drank beer in the parking lot. We probably lost. But it was a beautiful day, we had a great time, it was just like the old days. Just without the likelihood of arrest looming in our immediate future (that only came to fruition a few years later).

Later, we walked through campus to our favorite bar, where we managed to get barstools, witnessed a fistfight and drank our fill. After a day full of drinking, we opted to camp out in the RV rather than try to make it back to the city that night. However, we knew we needed to get an early start, since Bo had to catch a flight back out of town.

We woke up and start the RV. It was foggy that morning, Scooby-Doo foggy, if you know what I mean. We drove out of the ghostly campus, through the country-side toward the city. The airport was approximately an hour or so away and we'd left with plenty of time to spare. So we thought.

Now to the part of the story Bo and Clay don't know. I'd been under a lot of stress during this period of time. I had a huge, huge, huge work project on the table that was going to go to presentation in a week. I really shouldn't have been out of town at all, much less out boozing at a football game. I was a total stress-ball--couldn't sleep or eat or much of anything. I'd figured I needed a break, just to get away from the situation and get a little perspective. Hey, any rationalization in a storm.

Also, I am really, really regular, you know, in the womanly sense of the word. So regular that I pull other people onto my schedule. I know, you think this is TMI, but it does come into play in the story.

I wasn't due for another two weeks. Well past the date of my presentation. However, as I sat in that RV...the one with no working bathroom and no running water, I realized that I was early. Way early.

Just as I came to that realization, the RV ground to a halt.

"What the hell?"

Clay went outside to look under what could, in some third-world countries, be considered a hood. I went in what could be called the bathroom, except there was no bath and, really, no room, and confirmed my suspicion. No tampons, no bathroom, stranded an hour from the city and my luggage and my dignity.

Although the gas meter read that there was still gas in the tank, Clay took a gamble and began jogging toward the nearest service station, about five miles up the road. Bo and I sat in the RV, pondering our respective fates should we fail to reach town. Him: stranded in the midwest for the foreseeable future. Me: complete humiliation in front of guys. You judge who was worse off.

Luckily, Clay found some motorist to take pity on him and got a ride to the service station, where he bought five gallons of gas. And, since you're actually hearing this story, you must know by now that the RV actually did run out of gas and it wasn't anything more serious. Bo caught his plane, I got to the drugstore and Clay drove that bad boy all the way home.

And now you know...the rest of the story.

Boy Scout

I'm sitting here in my office with a huge run in my stockings and am debating whether or not I go to the mall to get another pair to replace them. I'm supposed to have a drink with someone this evening and, if I go straight from here, I have to stop at the mall and get a replacement, because I'll go batshit insane otherwise. I am the girl who had to pull over to a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway to change my shirt because I dribbled Diet Coke on it early in a drive set to end in Vermont. No way could I drive the entire way with cola stains on a white t-shirt. THE HORROR!!!!! So I have to go to Penney's and brave the Christmas insanity and go buy stockings and, wait for it, change them in the car. Free show, one and all. All for the sake of a drink with someone who, at the last minute, will likely cancel, just like he has the last...oh, say, four or five times. Now, why am I waiting for his call again?

And, of course, I'll go and buy them and thrash about in the car in an effort to prevent one and all from looking anywhere they probably shouldn't, after standing in line with every teenage girl buying dangling earrings and babydoll underwear (although, with Britney? Is anyone still wearing it?). And then he won't call. Because that's the way life goes.

When you overprepare, overthink and overwork, you usually aren't rewarded for it. Or at least, not in the way you think you're going to be rewarded. You plot and plan, thinking that things are finally going to go your way. You wear the hot skirt and party panties. You bring perfume. You've got the right lipstick, the right shoes and your phone battery is charged. You are ready. And the call doesn't come. It never does, when you think it is going to.

But then, sometimes, you are pleasantly surprised. When you think you've done all that shaving and plucking and painting for nothing and you're sitting on a barstool in your friend's house at midnight, thinking that the title of your autobiography should be "Fucked Again: Tales of an Unfamous American" just like Plant used to say (John, not Robert), someone shows up that you've never met, never expected to meet, and will, in all likelihood, never meet again. But, while it lasts, it certainly is fun and funny and amazing and memorable and he was just so adorable I can't even say so I'm going to shut up right now. And all the plucking and shaving and painting is not always for naught.

It really is just like your mother said. You really should always wear clean underwear. You never know where you might end up and who might end up seeing it. The girl's version of the Boy Scout motto.

I have to go buy stockings now. Pretty ones.

Guy Girl

Most people would think I'm kind of a girly-girl. I paint my nails. I hate camping. I have too many shoes, too many hair products and too many holiday towels. Although my mother bought me most of those--I don't know that I would actually ever purchase white hand towels with Rudolph sewn on them with gold thread myself.

But I'm a guy's girl, too. I like college football. I'd just as soon drink beer as wine (particularly if the wine is pink). I know what Orvis sells. I'd never buy anything from there, but I know what they've got. I've held a handgun at Gander Mountain and considered purchasing it. Except that's a lot of shoe money. I used to be the only girl invited to Cave Man dinners in college, where everything was eaten by hand and no actual speech was allowed. I own Gettysburg and watch it all the time. I love Rudy even though I hate Notre Dame. I watch tattoo shows and motorcycle shows and shows on the fall of the Roman Empire. I got a black eye playing football at last year's Michigan-Michigan State football game.

That's why the past few months have been so weird for me. I've always had a big circle of guy friends. And I've always had one or two specific guys to hang out with, to go watch football with, to call if I got tickets to something. These weren't always guys I was dating. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I always had someone I could call, someone's March Madness pool I could get into.

Right now, I don't have that. I've gotten to a particular point in my life. Most of these guys I hung out with are married. And that's great, because I honestly doubted that most of them would ever live this long, much less find someone to put up with their crap and actually procreate with them. But, on the flip side, they've got kids to take care of, parent-teacher conferences to go to, trips to the in-laws, etc. Wives don't look particularly kindly on their husband's single female friend, especially if the friend encourages beer-drinking.

Or, the guys are divorced and busy chasing 20-year-old tail. And there's nothing particularly wrong with that, either. Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, I suppose.

However, that leaves me without buddies. No guys to just hang out with, grab a beer with--without them thinking that I'm looking for a husband or a date for New Years or even a few magical stolen moments in the parking lot.

I miss my guys, I guess is what I'm trying to say. And I don't know where to find them.

A Wee Bit

I just deleted an entire post for its sheer assholery. I can't write much this week as my life is insane. Suffice to say that I am alive and acting like an idiot, in all the ways, shapes and forms with which you are familiar.

Ego

There is little better for one's ego than to be one of only four women in a room full of twenty-something college men at 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

Good times.

Word Problems

I never did particularly well with word problems on tests. My issue with them has more to do with patience that actual reading comprehension. I was great with reading comprehension. But I want to read the crap and answer the question based on my memory, not on figuring stuff out about trains or why A has more pennies in their pocket than C based on the price of milk.

I remember taking a test for graduate school. The word problems in those tests are ridiculous. I suppose they want to test your ability to think logically. Or else use the results to determine how easy it will be for them to erase every speck of imagination from your brain and turn you into a mindless, unthinking drone who will drink whatever Kool-Aid is set before you. I believe that Jim Jones helped draft the LSAT while a student at IU.

There was one question that I vividly remember. It had to do with a large round table and 8 to 10 people sitting around it. Each of them had different relationships with each other. Some could sit next to each other, others could not. It was like an advanced version of "planning your wedding" when everyone is divorced and you don't just have to figure out who sits at what table but the place card settings also.

I am faced with a similar situation almost every Wednesday, when I go down to my local watering hole. There is a group of people that I hang out with that I've met through work and we meet after work for a few beers. As most of the people aren't married (or at least tell people that they aren't), there have been a fair share of hook-ups, break-ups and general screw-ups in the bunch. So, as a result, every Wednesday poses its very own word problem:

A: Young woman, divorced, used to date B, likes to stir the pot.
B: Older man, divorced, used to date A, still unhealthily attached to her.
C: Young woman, student, hooked up with D, now thinks he's bananas.
D: Man, marriage status unknown, has at least hooked up with C and likely others, probably is bananas.
E: Older man, never married, gets grabby when he drinks too much, usually drinks too much.
F: Young man, unmarried student, always the last to leave.
G: Young woman, unmarried and unemployed, obsessed with F.
H: Man, married with three kids, an actual nice guy.
I: Man, divorced, hooks up with J on occasion as well as unnamed others.
J: Young woman, divorced, only slightly bananas.
K: Me.

So, A and B can never sit next to each other. C and D can never sit together. G wants to sit next to F. J will always sit between I and any other female. K cannot sit next to E. A and C will probably want to sit next to each other to talk about K. D always has to sit next at least one female. H can sit next to anyone.

If I could figure out a way to make this seating arrangement work, I might be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. As it stands, the night usually ends with someone leaving in a huff. Someone else is texting somebody sitting across the table about how much they: a) want them; b) hate them; c) hate them because they want them; or d) apologizing for catty remarks. Someone will usually pull a chair up somewhere they aren't wanted. And if somebody doesn't quit touching the back of my neck, they're going to draw back a bloody stump.

It is a good thing this whole situation involves beer.

Freaks

I just got this response to one of those ridiculous chain email question/answer deals. The response is from my friend's husband. No wonder I embrace spinsterhood.


Copy, answer and send on...
READY?????? And go.......

1. Do you open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas
Day? December 4th I got Jocelyn drunk enough to make her think it was Christmass

2. What is your main dish for Christmas dinner?
Jack with side of coke

3. Real tree or fake? What does it matter? Oscar (their dog) pees on both!

4. What is your favorite Christmas cookie? Jack and coke

5. What is your favorite Christmas beverage?
Beer chaser

6. What is your favorite Christmas movie? A night in paris (I think it was Christmas time?)

7. What is your favorite Christmas song?

8. Ever been kissed under the mistletoe? I’d call it rape.

9. Do you have Christmas lawn decor? Santa but Jocelyn got drunk and tried to have “it” with it.

10. Lights on your house? Front light.

11. Colored lights or white? I prefer African American lights

12. How many Christmas trees do you have? Yes wife makes me have it so I can have it with her.

13. Do you buy Christmas presents for your pets? Dog sex toys.

14. Do you have your own stocking? Yes and fuck you

15. What is your favorite family tradition? Dad gets drunk and mom yells I vomit on the couch

16. Do you have a favorite ornament/decoration? Presents to me

17. What is your favorite Christmas smell? Turkey farts

18. What is your favorite Christmas memory? The year dad got so drunk he passed out early

19. Do you have a Christmas pickle? Right here baby!

20. Is there Christmas decor in your bathroom? Stool samples

21. Do you send Christmas cards? Are you GAY?!

22. Do you have a poinsettia? Don’t try to trap me with words I can’t read

23. Do you have a Santa hat? No a jimmy hat.

24. What do you want for Christmas? Money and no more chain mails!

25. Do you believe in Santa? Well who the fuck else is going to buy me stuff.

I Want to Ride It Where I Like

I can't ride a bicycle. Or, more accurately, I don't know how to ride a bicycle.

When I was five or six, my parents bought me a bike. I remember it vividly. It was blue with a white basket on the front. The basket had plastic flowers on it. I'm sure they spent hours putting the thing together, my father cursing under his breath because he only had a flat-head screwdriver when he really needed a Phillips head. I don't know if I got it for my birthday or Christmas, although I'm leaning toward Christmas. I think there's a photo of me somewhere with the bike and I've got my little yellow coat on, standing in front of our house in Dallas.

I had training wheels and I was doing okay. It wasn't an everyday think, being on the bike. I was a fairly quiet child, just as happy to play with Star Wars action figures in my room than run around outside. Once I found that ironing board for sleeves that I converted into my own personal Millenium Falcon, I was pretty much set.

But my parents wanted me on the bike, so I rode the bike. I had gotten just about to the point where my dad was about to take off the training wheels. Maybe he even did. And then?

That little brat, Emily, from down the street, came pedalling by my house on her bike. I never liked her. She smiled and waved, her golden curls bouncing with every push of the pedal. She was about a year younger than me. Seeing her, on that bike, doing it better than me? Something inside of me cracked.

"I don't want to ride it anymore."

So I didn't. I don't think I got on that bike ever again. At the time, I can remember thinking that I'd have a driver's license in ten years anyway, so what did I need to know how to ride a bike for, anyway. I think it says something about me that I couldn't bear to have someone that I considered less able do something better than me. On one hand, it is good to not want to lose--it is a quintisentially American trait, and my parents were and are quintisential Americans. However, not wanting to learn to ride a bike because you might look foolish? That, paired with the fact that I used to throw fits when I lost to babysitters at Sorry, should have clued my parents into the fact that they might want to consider boarding school as an option.

Of course, that wasn't the last time I was on any bike, but that's a story for another day...

Cold

I almost got locked outside of my house this morning.

I'd gone outside and shoveled my driveway early. The plow trucks clear the parking lot but don't do individual driveways, so we are left to fend for ourselves if we want a clear area in which we don't have to worry about breaking legs or other various body parts.

Until last year, I never shoveled. I used to spread some salt, when the association would put out garbage cans full of it on the corner. But now they've gotten cheap and have figured out that they wouldn't be liable anyway, so why bother.

My ex-boyfriend got me a shovel last year for Christmas. The gift that keeps on giving. Right up there with the extension cord, the Hallmark candle and the potato masher. I wanted a potato ricer, not a masher. There is more than one reason that we were not compatable.

So now I use the shovel. I go out after walking on the treadmill and do it while my heartrate is still up, fooling myself into thinking that I'm still really kinda getting exercise while shovelling. I'm not, really. The driveway is so small that there isn't much damage I could do to myself in the amount of time it takes to clear the area. Although, I must admit, my back hurt the other day and it took me until this morning to realize that it was because I was chipping and and clearing ice from the driveway last weekend.

I grab the shovel and go out the front door, leaving the door open and shutting the screen door behind me. I shovel the driveway and even consider shovelling for the neighbors, but then think better of it. Then I prop the shovel by the garage door so I can pull it in when I leave and then step up to the door.

The screen door has one of those push putton handles--the verticle ones with a big button on the top. The button, of course, is located under a bend in the gutter three flights up. And the gutter leaks. Do you see where this is going?

There's ice all over the handle. And it is frozen all over the button. Thereby making it impossible to actually depress the button and open the door. I'm wearing a coat, sweatpants, a sportsbra and a coat. Not good.

I'm outside for approximately 15 minutes--the time it took for me to find a rock in the small planter area in front of my condominium and chisel away at the ice on the handle.

I then went inside, sat on the couch and wondered if it was too early for a Bloody Mary.

Signs of a Bad Day

You realize at about 11 a.m. that your underwear is on inside-out.

You spend twenty miles driving behind a guy with a sticker on the back window of his pick-up reading "Dump the Bitch--Let's Go Huntin'!"

You left the office early on Friday and come in Monday to 16 voice mails.

You check your phone bill and find that you called some guy 10 times between 2 a.m. and 3:42 a.m. last Saturday.

You have to balance the cost of a Christmas tree against the cost of cat food and beer.

You couldn't get a date if you bought a calendar.

You have to have a root canal.

You have to ask around to find out if you were the drunkest person at the office Christmas party, and are then told that it was all on video so you can see for yourself.

They had karaoke at that Christmas party.

There is a light flashing at you on your indicator panel in your car and you can't find your driver's manual to figure out what it means.

When you find out what it means, you can't shut it off.

You don't have enough energy to put your underwear on rightside-out once you make your discovery.

What a Girl Wants

Let us start with a list of those things that I've always told people that I want in a guy:

An adult.

Someone who is responsible.

Honesty.

A good cook.

Funny.

Employed.

Clean. Like their house. Personal hygiene also considered.

Not a functional alcoholic. Or, not an alcoholic, much less a functional one.

Trustworthy.

Somewhat intellectual.

Non-drug-using.

Has hobbies, or is involved in something outside of their job, or some kind of outside interests.

Not clingy or overbearing or overprotective or generally annoying.

Fun.

Now the experiment:
I compiled a list of guys. These are all guys that I have known over the past ten years. At least from the second semester of my second year in graduate school until the present day. They span from guys that I had long-term relationships with to guys that I went on one or two dates with. Or guys with whom I had more than a fliratious relationship. I won't describe what constitutes a "more than flirtatious relationship", since my mother may read this and I want to keep things PG-13. Hi, Mom.

Without going through my journals, which have faithfully recorded the stats of all men with whom I've been the least bit infatuated over the past ten years, I came up with a list of 20 guys. This list was drawn up during the several hours I spent sitting at Discount Tire getting new tires put on in expectation of snow, so there has been no confirmation or investigation done into the completeness of this list.

No, I'm not going to list them all. Perverts.

What I'm going to do is run a comparative study of the list against my previous list of those things which I claim to be looking for in a man and see how, over the past ten years, I've done.

Early bets indicate not well.

1) An adult. Well, they were all within a few years of me, age-wise. And I was over 21 at the time, so...yeah. But, honestly, looking at the list, it is hard to quantify. The most adult of all of them were the guys that I just went on one or two dates with. And I am probably making that judgment because I never got to know them well enough to realize that they, too, were idiots.

2) Someone responsible. Two of the twenty had children, which indicates a certain level of responsibility, since they weren't in jail for non-payment of child support at the time I was with them. However, the fact that at least four of these yahoos drove Jeep Wranglers (and one a wanna-be Jeep) and only about three of them actually owned their own homes seems to indicate a certain...joie de vivre that isn't necessarily present in someone who is looking out for their 401(k). Actually, that's a better measure. Probably 7 have 401(k)s, one has two houses, one owns his own business, and five have criminal records. Excellent.

3) Honesty. Not a good catagory for me. One sent roses when he was cheating on me. One left town while on probation and a bench warrant is likely still out for him. One disappeared completely. One I only see when he's hitting on women in bars. One said he was taking care of tsunami victims when he went to rehab (long after our tryst was complete, thank God). One dumped me after dating another woman for two months on the sly. How many were honest? Subjectively? Nine. Better than I thought.

4) Good cook. Good odds here. I've dated a lot of guys from the service industry. Three chefs. Five more that I can qualify as having cooked for me and I enjoyed it. The food, too, not just the manual labor. I'm willing to give a couple others the benefit of the doubt. Although there was the one guy whose refrigerator only held various types of beverages and a package of baloney. That, my friends, is suspicious.

5) Funny. I can't think of one of these guys that I didn't think was funny at times. Or, more importantly, that didn't think I was funny. Wait, there was one. Well, two. Okay, five. Still, fifteen is pretty good.

6) Employed. They were all employed or in school, which is close enough, really. Well, the one kept quitting various jobs. And the other one was in business for himself and wasn't making money. But is that the same as unemployed?

7) Clean. The only one who had the appearance of poor personal hygiene was the wake-and-baker who dyed his hair green so he didn't have to work the Sunday brunch omlette station. But I know he actually was.

Homes are another matter. I'm convinced that my last boyfriend and I broke up at least partially because I refused to ever go to his house. The floors freaked me out--I could never walk around barefoot. And his bathroom? I cannot explain the horror to you.

Then there was the guy who only got furniture his friends were getting rid of. Or the one who lived in a basement in Maryland, which is a scary experience in and of itself.

There were a couple of clean ones. The renter with white carpet. And the other renter with white carpet. And the guy whose roommate's girlfriend would clean.

That, my friends, is where I draw the line.

8) Alcohol use. One guy wanted the Ravenswood logo as a tattoo. Others, I've never actually seen anywhere outside of a bar or my house. Out of the 20, who do I think didn't have alcohol issues? Well, the wake and baker. The one I ran out of town. The cop. No, not that one. No, not that one, either. Heh. The law student. And the other law student. The freak. The divorced guy. And the architect. Eight without issues. More than I thought, really.

9) Trustworthy. I'd call all of them if I had a flat tire. Ones I thought didn't have other women on their speed dial? Six. And two of those proved me wrong. And two that I didn't know enough to judge.

10) Intellectual, somewhat. One started me reading Kinky Friedman. One was...well, an architect. Or something. One read alternative history. One idolized James Madison. One played a lot of Minesweeper on his computer. Not a ringing endorsement of this list.

11) Non-drug using. I should preface this by saying that I do not smoke, snort, inject or otherwise use drugs. Hi again, Mom. Who didn't, or wasn't, while I was with them? Probably eleven. Remember--wake and bake.

12) Hobbies. Most of them didn't, which I find really strange. You have to have something to take your mind off stuff. Art. Do-it-yourself projects. Motorcycles. Skydiving. I'm going to say that, in many cases, I didn't get to know them enough to tell you what their hobbies were. Other than beer drinking and watching Big Ten football, which is more like a religion than a hobby and, therefore, doesn't count. But, what I know? Four of them were involved in something major outside of their jobs. And I've golfed with a couple of them. But I usually ended up crying on the 15th hole, so that might not count.

13) Not clingy, or otherwise generally assholish. I had one guy who used to stalk me, to the extent that he crashed his roommate's car in a river while driving to my house, drunk. But he's outside the ten-year window, so he doesn't count. One guy was a total ass. The rest were pretty cool. This is probably because they were busy hitting on my best friend behind my back. So they didn't really care what I was doing.

14) Fun. They were all a good time. I had fun with all of them. At least I didn't waste time hanging out with people that made me miserable. At least, not until we'd been together for a year or so...

Other fun factoids about the list:

Most common name: Mike, I think.
Car: Jeeps. Damn, I am a sucker.
Common jobs: Food/alcohol service and legal/justice.
Most common arrest: Drunk driving.

And there's only one who's name I can't remember. He's the one that brought flowers to our first date. What the hell does that say about me?