It was summer and the house smelled of french toast. The good kind made from Challah bread floating in a river of real maple syrup from Vermont. A long month spent at sleep away camp left me hungrier than normal but with a lessened capacity for overeating. After thirty days of subsisting on jelly sandwiches (I hate peanut butter) and watered down Kool-aid, I could not put down the three hamburgers, two pizzas and one funnel cake that were the norm in those days (and pretty much these days as well). I was only on my sixth slice of thick eggy goodness when that familiar sated feeling began to settle in.
I finished off the last bite and glanced over at Memma as she reached for another slice. French toast was our favorite food. It was the only thing our mother made well and we demanded it at every meal. Memma, two years my senior, had the eating speed and dexterity I lacked. While I slowly licked my fork and fingers after each bite (lest I miss the teeniest drop of syrup), Memma moved with a hoover like speed that ensured she got to all the good pieces first. Yet where I lacked speed, Memma lacked the endurance and girth that came naturally to me. Memma might finish her third piece while I was just slurping the syrup out of my hair after only my first piece-but while she was watching cartoons an hour later, I would still be working. Slow and steady wins the race, at fat camp anyway.
My father, normally absent from these mid-morning feasts as he enjoyed being physically active and would go for long runs on the weekends before smoking a couple packs of cigarettes, was present this particular morning. He sat across from me reading the paper and attempting to hide the look of disgust on his face as he watched me clog arteries and develop love handles before his very eyes. My mother, clad in her Sunday best of an over sized "It's a Woman's Right" t-shirt and stirrup-ed stretch pants, puttered about pretending to clean the kitchen. Instead she simply shifted mounting piles of dirty dishes and papers from one spot to another (this is a keen skill of my mothers, cleaning without actually producing any sort of sanitary, organized, or otherwise worthwhile result). Baby Mannah, barely two years old, was off traveling the world with a well-trained dog (a long held dream of the toddler).
"Girls." My mother moved towards the table. I began to pour syrup on my now empty plate, covering the ceramic surface before lowering my head and slurping the sticky sweetness into my mouth. "Girls there is something your father and I would like to talk to you about." My thoughts were covered in sugar and maple and my attention was not immediately drawn to the perceptibly dour, limp tone in my mothers normally shrill and commanding voice.
"Mephie," my father abruptly pulled the plate away from my syrup covered face. Something was up, my parents knew that nothing got between me and my syrup. "Listen, there is something we need to talk to you about."
My mom continued, "We both love you very very much."
Shit. This speech could end one way and one way only. Adoption. I was being given up for adoption. I knew that eventually Mannah would edge me out as the youngest and cutest. I shouldn't have eaten so much syrup. I should have learned to wash my own clothes or done some chores. Why didn't I listen when my dad told me to clean my room or when my mom told me that if I kept eating all the cheese before anyone else had some she was going to stop buying it. Life was so unfair. Just because I didn't shower every day or contribute in any tangible way to my family, I was being kicked out?
I had long feared potential relocation to Australia. Relocation marked by familial abandonment and the use of outhouses instead of bathrooms. After watching the Meryl Streep "The Dingo ate my baby" movie and a couple lifetime made for tv movies on orphans forced to turn tricks and strip, I was pretty sure that my cushy suburban life was the purgatory stage on the journey to Australian homeless hell.
"And nothing that happens will change that," my mother continued, unaware that I was in the midst of an inner soliloquy on the inherent unfairness and cruelty of giving your nine year old daughter up for adoption.
Memma grabbed my hand under the table. This surprised me. Why was she worried? She was the favored child. She was "of normal height and weight" and "brushed her hair every night." She wasn't going to be shipped off to Australia. No that was me.
"Your father and I have decided to have a trial separation." The words reverberated in my ears. Separation, separation, separation. Australia vanished from my thoughts and I realized they weren't getting rid of me, they were getting rid of each other, I would be starring in a different lifetime movie altogether. The tears came came quickly, thick sticky tears mingling with maple syrup residue on my sunburned cheeks. The rest of my parents rehearsed speech was swallowed by the wails now erupting from the children of this newly minted broken home.
"You're UGLY." I screamed at the top of my lungs. I intuitively knew, even at this young age, that people are most affected when you attack their looks. "You're ugly and I hate you." I ran upstairs to the sanctuary of my room, slamming the door and dramatically throwing myself on the bed. I was the star of my own melodrama. I was upset, devastated, inconsolable. I was going to get two wardrobes! My parents were horrible, miserable selfish people. People were going to feel so bad for me, I would get extra attention! I was abandoned, forgotten, collateral damage. I wonder if there would be a pity trip to Six Flags!
A lot of crying and screaming ensued. I broke things. Mainly my own things in my own room, which looking back was a pretty stupid way to punish my parents. My father, it turned out, had already rented an apartment in the next town over, a town I had long considered to be haven for trashy divorcees and convicted sex offenders. He would be moving out in less than one week at which point we would begin the dreaded every other weekend rotation. My mother would stay with us in our house and be our main caregiver during this trial separation.
All of this seemed to come out of no where. Maybe it's because I was too busy trying to convince everyone to go to The Sizzler all the time, but I hadn't noticed any tension between my parents. I was also 9. Sure they weren't affectionate like on TV and maybe they never laughed together like my friends parents, but they never fought and we didn't live in a trailer, so how could they be getting divorced? Later when my sister and I compared notes I learned that while I was away at summer camp my father had started sleeping in the spare bedroom. Memma thought this was normal, I guess we know now its not.
Over the next few months I realized that divorce was not quite what I imagined. I would not, it turned out, be getting a new set of clothing for my Dad's house. My parents had the audacity to tell me to "pack an overnight bag." On the upside, I was a novelty. My friends, all products of functional families, showered me with attention. When I told a group of girls during a sleepover party, everyone started crying and hugging me. I was a tragic star! There was no pity trip to Six Flags, but there were quite a few pity trips to breakfast buffets (which are kind of like my own version of Neverland).
The trial separation turned into real separation and then divorce. My dad started dating my sister's best friend's mother, my mom started dating everyone else. I acted out, lit some things on fire, knifed some kids at school - the usual - and blamed it on my parents' divorce. I had excuses for forgetting homework and school books. It was great, you know, beyond the whole my parents got divorced, essentially ruining my young life and shattering my belief in love thing.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Checkers the Flying Guinea Pig
Animals are not my friends. I don't like to pet dogs on the street, coo at kittens or watch birds. Fish make me nervous. I am constantly afraid that they will somehow find their way into my mouth and I will inadvertently swallow them live. The idea of a fish swimming around my intestines is not pleasant to say the least. I kill all bugs on contact, swat at pigeons, and sneak up on squirrels before screaming boo. My cold stone like heart has no room for puppies and ponies and all things cute and cuddly.
Many people regard this distaste for all things furry to be an aberration from the human condition of swooning over anything on four legs with a wet nose. But maybe the masses are wrong. Maybe the need to domesticate animals, cut off their testicles (or take out their uterus'), collar/leash/brand/otherwise mark them, and give them ridiculous human like names is the abnormal impulse.
As children we all kill our fish, sit on our hamsters, hang our cats (you guys did that too, right?). First we covet the life we are entrusted with, then we see how much pain we can inflict before snuffing it out. We get the animals we begged for on birthdays, Christmas and Kwanzaa only to experiment on them, learning the limits of life and death. As we get older and society's standards of ethics and decency are imposed on us, we lose this desire to hurt, kill, and otherwise mutilate un-housebroken beings. But are we overcompensating by taking them into our homes and letting them eat off our plates? I would say yes, yes we are.
Oh I have had animals over the years. I wasn't always in touch with my inner hardheartedness. There were fish and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, cats and dogs. I killed, or wanted to kill, just about every one of those (I never wanted to kill my dogs, but I have a feeling that I may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths - who knew you couldn't feed them chocolate and grilled cheese). This pattern of pet acquisition and death has not foreshadowed a life as a serial killer; it has however made it hard for me to watch people kiss their dogs.
Checker's death is the only one that still weighs heavily on my already condemned soul. He was Memma's, my older sister. A guinea pig for all intents and purposes, but also her best and closest friend. He had short white hair with brown square patches, much like a checker board. Memma loved him so. He was her tenth birthday gift (my parents really enjoyed giving live gifts), and he was instantly the best pet she had ever had. She would let him loose in her room and then cry for hours when she couldn't find him (he was always found days later under her bed). She would brush his little disgusting hair with my barbie brush, then place the brush back in my room so I didn't know. Luckily for her Barbie and checkers had the same color hair so I never noticed, if I had it would have been a dark day for both Memma and Checkers.
Memma held photo shoots for checkers. Arranging all her many stuffed animals at the edge of her bed, she would place Checkers in the middle and snap away with her Polaroid camera-a relic from her 9th birthday. When the pictures developed after a few quick shakes and blows (that's what she said, sorry I couldn't resist) you wouldn't notice the guinea pig at first. You would simply think it was an elaborately staged stuffed animal photo shoot. But after staring at the picture for a moment or two (not that anyone ever gives that sort of picture a second look), you would see those beady little eyes staring back at you and realize this child was going to grow up and become an animal pornographer or a financial analyst (same thing really).
One day Memma was playing with a friend in our backyard. Up in my room I also had a friend playing with me. We played Barbie and lamppost boyfriend (a fun game where we took turns slow dancing with a tall floor lamp as though he were a boy) while the afternoon sun shined through my open window.
"Mephie." I heard my name being called. "Mephie come to the window."
Recognizing my sister's voice and being all too desperate for her attention and approval I abandoned sweet lamppost boyfriend and ran to the window.
"What's up Memma, you are so cool, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I really want to play with Checker's, can you toss him down here?" She smiled as she asked.
Let's just stop and consider this for a minute. My ten-year-old sister, my living idol, had just asked me to "toss" her beloved guinea pig out my bedroom window (which mind you was on the second floor of our house), so she might play with him. I'm not even sure how one plays with a guinea pig. They do not do anything (unless you consider sitting still while you take pictures to be something). Though I was only eight and not an animal lover, something inside of my told me this was wrong. Memma persisted.
"Mephie, I promise I'll catch him." She cajoled. "Pleaseeeeeeeee."
I didn't need a lot of convincing. I ran across the hall to her room, grabbed the thing out of its tank-like cage and went to my window. My friend who had silently started slow dancing with lamppost boyfriend now took notice.
"Meph, don't do that, its a badddd idea."
My friend was a pussy.
Memma held up her hands and nodded encouragingly. Leaning as far out of my window as my chubby stomach would allow, I tossed Checkers with all my might.
He flew threw the air, gloriously ascending in a high arch. Memma and my eyes were glued to the flying pig. We were transfixed by this moment of sisterly love and guinea pig devotion. It was not to last. I guess we thought maybe he would glide for a while, but it turned out guinea pigs are not natural gliders. The guinea pig began to descend, hurtling towards the Earth. Memma being the maternal pet owner quickly covered her eyes and head with her arms. Guess who didn't catch Checkers.
Checkers landed (barely missing our massive deck and built in grill) on the grass just feet in front of Memma. She ran to him.
"Mephie, what did you do!!!!!!!" Memma was now cradling the limp guinea pig in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You told me to throw him." I said defensively.
"I didn't think you would actually do it. You are such an idiot." Because when someone begs you to throw a guinea pig out the window you are supposed to know they don't mean it?
Checkers didn't die from the fall/fly. Memma nursed him back to health with guinea pig food and photo shoots. I got grounded for two weeks and wasn't allowed to see lamppost boyfriend. Checkers was never the same. About two months later we found out he was a she when she birthed three baby guinea pigs. Apparently her brother in the pet store cage had taken some liberties with her. Within three days of the babies' birth, Checkers ate all three. This is when I knew I never wanted another pet again.
Many people regard this distaste for all things furry to be an aberration from the human condition of swooning over anything on four legs with a wet nose. But maybe the masses are wrong. Maybe the need to domesticate animals, cut off their testicles (or take out their uterus'), collar/leash/brand/otherwise mark them, and give them ridiculous human like names is the abnormal impulse.
As children we all kill our fish, sit on our hamsters, hang our cats (you guys did that too, right?). First we covet the life we are entrusted with, then we see how much pain we can inflict before snuffing it out. We get the animals we begged for on birthdays, Christmas and Kwanzaa only to experiment on them, learning the limits of life and death. As we get older and society's standards of ethics and decency are imposed on us, we lose this desire to hurt, kill, and otherwise mutilate un-housebroken beings. But are we overcompensating by taking them into our homes and letting them eat off our plates? I would say yes, yes we are.
Oh I have had animals over the years. I wasn't always in touch with my inner hardheartedness. There were fish and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, cats and dogs. I killed, or wanted to kill, just about every one of those (I never wanted to kill my dogs, but I have a feeling that I may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths - who knew you couldn't feed them chocolate and grilled cheese). This pattern of pet acquisition and death has not foreshadowed a life as a serial killer; it has however made it hard for me to watch people kiss their dogs.
Checker's death is the only one that still weighs heavily on my already condemned soul. He was Memma's, my older sister. A guinea pig for all intents and purposes, but also her best and closest friend. He had short white hair with brown square patches, much like a checker board. Memma loved him so. He was her tenth birthday gift (my parents really enjoyed giving live gifts), and he was instantly the best pet she had ever had. She would let him loose in her room and then cry for hours when she couldn't find him (he was always found days later under her bed). She would brush his little disgusting hair with my barbie brush, then place the brush back in my room so I didn't know. Luckily for her Barbie and checkers had the same color hair so I never noticed, if I had it would have been a dark day for both Memma and Checkers.
Memma held photo shoots for checkers. Arranging all her many stuffed animals at the edge of her bed, she would place Checkers in the middle and snap away with her Polaroid camera-a relic from her 9th birthday. When the pictures developed after a few quick shakes and blows (that's what she said, sorry I couldn't resist) you wouldn't notice the guinea pig at first. You would simply think it was an elaborately staged stuffed animal photo shoot. But after staring at the picture for a moment or two (not that anyone ever gives that sort of picture a second look), you would see those beady little eyes staring back at you and realize this child was going to grow up and become an animal pornographer or a financial analyst (same thing really).
One day Memma was playing with a friend in our backyard. Up in my room I also had a friend playing with me. We played Barbie and lamppost boyfriend (a fun game where we took turns slow dancing with a tall floor lamp as though he were a boy) while the afternoon sun shined through my open window.
"Mephie." I heard my name being called. "Mephie come to the window."
Recognizing my sister's voice and being all too desperate for her attention and approval I abandoned sweet lamppost boyfriend and ran to the window.
"What's up Memma, you are so cool, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I really want to play with Checker's, can you toss him down here?" She smiled as she asked.
Let's just stop and consider this for a minute. My ten-year-old sister, my living idol, had just asked me to "toss" her beloved guinea pig out my bedroom window (which mind you was on the second floor of our house), so she might play with him. I'm not even sure how one plays with a guinea pig. They do not do anything (unless you consider sitting still while you take pictures to be something). Though I was only eight and not an animal lover, something inside of my told me this was wrong. Memma persisted.
"Mephie, I promise I'll catch him." She cajoled. "Pleaseeeeeeeee."
I didn't need a lot of convincing. I ran across the hall to her room, grabbed the thing out of its tank-like cage and went to my window. My friend who had silently started slow dancing with lamppost boyfriend now took notice.
"Meph, don't do that, its a badddd idea."
My friend was a pussy.
Memma held up her hands and nodded encouragingly. Leaning as far out of my window as my chubby stomach would allow, I tossed Checkers with all my might.
He flew threw the air, gloriously ascending in a high arch. Memma and my eyes were glued to the flying pig. We were transfixed by this moment of sisterly love and guinea pig devotion. It was not to last. I guess we thought maybe he would glide for a while, but it turned out guinea pigs are not natural gliders. The guinea pig began to descend, hurtling towards the Earth. Memma being the maternal pet owner quickly covered her eyes and head with her arms. Guess who didn't catch Checkers.
Checkers landed (barely missing our massive deck and built in grill) on the grass just feet in front of Memma. She ran to him.
"Mephie, what did you do!!!!!!!" Memma was now cradling the limp guinea pig in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You told me to throw him." I said defensively.
"I didn't think you would actually do it. You are such an idiot." Because when someone begs you to throw a guinea pig out the window you are supposed to know they don't mean it?
Checkers didn't die from the fall/fly. Memma nursed him back to health with guinea pig food and photo shoots. I got grounded for two weeks and wasn't allowed to see lamppost boyfriend. Checkers was never the same. About two months later we found out he was a she when she birthed three baby guinea pigs. Apparently her brother in the pet store cage had taken some liberties with her. Within three days of the babies' birth, Checkers ate all three. This is when I knew I never wanted another pet again.
Friday, July 10, 2009
How to Ensure You Don't Get Asked on a Second Date, by Yours Truly
I joined match to spice things up, meet people outside of my social circle, get some free drinks, you know the regular stuff. Or that's what I told people anyway. There may, as it happens, have been some ulterior motives or otherwise subversive thoughts behind my venture in e-dating. If you are using the Internet to date you are probably seriously unattractive or an actual midget. A dim-witted fool that has unsightly hairy moles dotting his horribly misshapen face. This is how I envisioned the standard male edater. That or my father.
As a really intelligent, attractive and humble young woman I should have been the star of the fucking Internet. The ultimate catch for these socially inept losers. (Why this totally awesome person was forced to edate is not of concern here. Just assume that I tore my way through all the available men in the greater metro area and none of them could keep up with my wit and beauty, thus forcing me to look into the broader arena of computer nerds and those who play dungeons and dragons in their spare time, a diamond in the rough). These freaks should have been lining up at the Internet cafe door (or at their home PC as it is no longer 1995) to wink, message, or otherwise fawn over me. My mere presence on the world wide web should have brightened each and every one of their days.
In my recent weeks of edating it turns out this little theoretical gem upon which I predicated my match experiment may not be entirely true. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of leprechauns and social pariahs out there, and they are genuinely excited to see me and enthusiastically let me know this in their multiple misspelled messages. But there are also some borderline normal people, perhaps even people out of my league in the mix. This can be the only explanation for the fact that I am not already in love, no one has proposed to me, and I am not in the family way.
In fact, my world has been kind of toppled and now sits on its head. Not everyone loves me. Moreover, not everyone laughs at all my jokes and appreciates my neurotic obsessive idiosyncrasies. When I meet the people I have deemed below me in person, they sometimes reject me. What the fuck is going on here? Is my self-perception somehow skewed? Am I not as cool as I think I am? Perhaps.
All of my recent first dates have a common them: no progression to date number two. My potential beloveds tend to break off all contact at the point when I say "Bye, it seems like I didn't weird you out too much. Don't worry, there are bathrooms on the way to the metro!" or one of my other favorite parting notes "Can you walk away first?" Are these not normal standard ways to let your date know that you had fun and want to do it again? Is it totally inappropriate to make jokes about your high fertility level? Maybe its because I grew up in a home in which the phrase, "Can you please pass the spermicidal jelly?" was regularly used at the breakfast table - but I happen to think excessive body hair, bizarre scars, your mother's legs, or your parents painful divorce are fun getting to know you topics.
If you are also out in the field (of love) and trying to avoid actual emotional connection and intimacy-as it appears I am by exhibiting bizarre and off putting behavior on first dates-then here are some surefire ways to make your companion uncomfortable and sufficiently afraid of you so that he will never call you again.
Get awkward with the introduction. Throw yourself into that 'nice to meet you' hug with such trepidation and nervousness that he can't help but think you were abused by some similar looking man in the past. This is guaranteed to start the date out on the wrong foot. If he doesn't go for the hug and instead opts for a handshake, make sure your palms are as sweaty as humanly possible. If you are anything like me and have overactive glands, this shouldn't be a problem.
Once you are situated in the bar/restaurant/gondola, wherever you have decided to have your date, be sure to position yourself as far away from him as the physical setting will allow. Sit back in your chair, cross your arms over you chest, and purse your lips. Nothing says I'm interested like putting a distance between you and your date that suggests you might think he has the capability to transmit swine flu.
If you have agreed upon drinks and know there is not going to be any food ingested on the date, drink quickly so as to get as drunk as humanly possible as fast as humanly possible. If you are doing drinks along with dinner, drink even more, and even faster (maybe bring a flask). Avoid sobriety at all costs. If you feel the urge to vomit don't tell him, instead make a weird face and run to the bathroom without explanation.
If you are going on your first date after e-meeting, print out his match/eharmony/craigslist picture before hand and then compare the print out to men as they walk by. It is far worse to not recognize your date and pass by them three times as they sit sadly looking up at you from a corner booth than to bring an insurance picture and feel slightly like a stalker.
Spit. Get way to excited about a joke or story that has no relevance to the natural flow of conversation and accidentally spit all over the place when you hit the punchline.
Pee at least three times. Intermittently. This will be taken as a sign that you either do not like your date, are desperately avoiding having to pay the check, or have some serious bladder issues. If you are lucky all three will be assumed.
Bring up Jesus. Whether you are Jew or Gentile, Muslim or Hindu, Jesus alienates people of all faith when discussed in improper context. Try and throw a couple exasperated "Jesus Christ"s out there when you think something is funny. Or maybe note that you just never "got into the whole Jesus thing." If you are Jewish be sure to mention it defensively. Nothing makes a guy lose interest like mentioning your time spent in Israel and going into a three hour political diatribe about your feelings on Palestinian statehood and not being religious but more culturally connected to your conflict ridden homeland.
Ask questions. Really detailed, way too personal questions. Don't stop at where they went to school, ask them where they applied for undergrad. Why they didn't get into their top choice? How much money do they make? Have they ever had to go with a girlfriend to get an abortion? Is that misdemeanor from 10th grade ever going to be expunged?
Flail. You should be sufficiently drunk at this point and no good drunken store can accurately be told without a couple arm waves and a bobbling head. If you can muster some slurred words that will work in your favor as well.
In the weeks to come, as you embark on obsessive and extensive post date analysis with your friends who are in happy and healthy relationships, your phone will remain silent. You will ultimately be left wondering why the supposed losers from match who you are better than anyway don't "feel any chem." with you. It is then you will realize that you too are on match. And just because you have already decided everyone on match is weird, you can not in fact behave like the truly bizarre and freakish person you are. At the very least, you should try and avoid spitting.
As a really intelligent, attractive and humble young woman I should have been the star of the fucking Internet. The ultimate catch for these socially inept losers. (Why this totally awesome person was forced to edate is not of concern here. Just assume that I tore my way through all the available men in the greater metro area and none of them could keep up with my wit and beauty, thus forcing me to look into the broader arena of computer nerds and those who play dungeons and dragons in their spare time, a diamond in the rough). These freaks should have been lining up at the Internet cafe door (or at their home PC as it is no longer 1995) to wink, message, or otherwise fawn over me. My mere presence on the world wide web should have brightened each and every one of their days.
In my recent weeks of edating it turns out this little theoretical gem upon which I predicated my match experiment may not be entirely true. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of leprechauns and social pariahs out there, and they are genuinely excited to see me and enthusiastically let me know this in their multiple misspelled messages. But there are also some borderline normal people, perhaps even people out of my league in the mix. This can be the only explanation for the fact that I am not already in love, no one has proposed to me, and I am not in the family way.
In fact, my world has been kind of toppled and now sits on its head. Not everyone loves me. Moreover, not everyone laughs at all my jokes and appreciates my neurotic obsessive idiosyncrasies. When I meet the people I have deemed below me in person, they sometimes reject me. What the fuck is going on here? Is my self-perception somehow skewed? Am I not as cool as I think I am? Perhaps.
All of my recent first dates have a common them: no progression to date number two. My potential beloveds tend to break off all contact at the point when I say "Bye, it seems like I didn't weird you out too much. Don't worry, there are bathrooms on the way to the metro!" or one of my other favorite parting notes "Can you walk away first?" Are these not normal standard ways to let your date know that you had fun and want to do it again? Is it totally inappropriate to make jokes about your high fertility level? Maybe its because I grew up in a home in which the phrase, "Can you please pass the spermicidal jelly?" was regularly used at the breakfast table - but I happen to think excessive body hair, bizarre scars, your mother's legs, or your parents painful divorce are fun getting to know you topics.
If you are also out in the field (of love) and trying to avoid actual emotional connection and intimacy-as it appears I am by exhibiting bizarre and off putting behavior on first dates-then here are some surefire ways to make your companion uncomfortable and sufficiently afraid of you so that he will never call you again.
Get awkward with the introduction. Throw yourself into that 'nice to meet you' hug with such trepidation and nervousness that he can't help but think you were abused by some similar looking man in the past. This is guaranteed to start the date out on the wrong foot. If he doesn't go for the hug and instead opts for a handshake, make sure your palms are as sweaty as humanly possible. If you are anything like me and have overactive glands, this shouldn't be a problem.
Once you are situated in the bar/restaurant/gondola, wherever you have decided to have your date, be sure to position yourself as far away from him as the physical setting will allow. Sit back in your chair, cross your arms over you chest, and purse your lips. Nothing says I'm interested like putting a distance between you and your date that suggests you might think he has the capability to transmit swine flu.
If you have agreed upon drinks and know there is not going to be any food ingested on the date, drink quickly so as to get as drunk as humanly possible as fast as humanly possible. If you are doing drinks along with dinner, drink even more, and even faster (maybe bring a flask). Avoid sobriety at all costs. If you feel the urge to vomit don't tell him, instead make a weird face and run to the bathroom without explanation.
If you are going on your first date after e-meeting, print out his match/eharmony/craigslist picture before hand and then compare the print out to men as they walk by. It is far worse to not recognize your date and pass by them three times as they sit sadly looking up at you from a corner booth than to bring an insurance picture and feel slightly like a stalker.
Spit. Get way to excited about a joke or story that has no relevance to the natural flow of conversation and accidentally spit all over the place when you hit the punchline.
Pee at least three times. Intermittently. This will be taken as a sign that you either do not like your date, are desperately avoiding having to pay the check, or have some serious bladder issues. If you are lucky all three will be assumed.
Bring up Jesus. Whether you are Jew or Gentile, Muslim or Hindu, Jesus alienates people of all faith when discussed in improper context. Try and throw a couple exasperated "Jesus Christ"s out there when you think something is funny. Or maybe note that you just never "got into the whole Jesus thing." If you are Jewish be sure to mention it defensively. Nothing makes a guy lose interest like mentioning your time spent in Israel and going into a three hour political diatribe about your feelings on Palestinian statehood and not being religious but more culturally connected to your conflict ridden homeland.
Ask questions. Really detailed, way too personal questions. Don't stop at where they went to school, ask them where they applied for undergrad. Why they didn't get into their top choice? How much money do they make? Have they ever had to go with a girlfriend to get an abortion? Is that misdemeanor from 10th grade ever going to be expunged?
Flail. You should be sufficiently drunk at this point and no good drunken store can accurately be told without a couple arm waves and a bobbling head. If you can muster some slurred words that will work in your favor as well.
In the weeks to come, as you embark on obsessive and extensive post date analysis with your friends who are in happy and healthy relationships, your phone will remain silent. You will ultimately be left wondering why the supposed losers from match who you are better than anyway don't "feel any chem." with you. It is then you will realize that you too are on match. And just because you have already decided everyone on match is weird, you can not in fact behave like the truly bizarre and freakish person you are. At the very least, you should try and avoid spitting.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Happy Birthday America...and Mannah!
This past weekend millions of Americans celebrated the 233 anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. America's B-day if you will. Like most anniversary and or birthday celebrations, this special day is marked by excessive eating and drinking, parades, and large firework displays.
For me and my kin the annual celebration of America coincides with the birthday celebration of the youngest Madison girl (yes, this is not in fact our real last name, but my family has asked me to make this as anonymous for them as possible; they claim that my blogging is a self indulgent blemish on our otherwise pristine image). Little Mannah, the patriot that she is, was born the day after our nation's birthday. She graced our family on the 5th; forever reminding us that while as a country we may have been able to break free from the tyrannical grip of the British empire, as individuals we are forever bound to those we are forced to call blood relatives.
This year Mannah turned sixteen, sweet sweet sixteen. I did not get her a gift as she has never given me anything other than head lice and a headache. Instead, I dedicate this little ditty to the story of Mannah.
For the first 7 years of my existence I was the youngest of two girls. Memma, 21 months my senior, and I were the closest of siblings. She would pour toys on me (its unclear if her intent was to shower me with love and affection or to cause permanent brain damage to my soft unformed head), carry me around the house, and otherwise love me as all attention starved barely older girls love their younger, cuter baby sisters. Over the years Memma and I grew up as two sister peas in a pod. I relished my role as the youngest sister and while I wanted a puppy quite badly, I never really desired more siblings.
I'd like to note that while I love little Mannah now, for many years I resented her and its pretty much all my parents fault (love you guys!). It all started one winter evening, the eighth night of the Jewish festival of lights. For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish tradition or the Adam Sandler song, Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday that normally coincides with Christmas. While there is no historical or religious precedent for exchanging gifts during this 8 day holiday, Hallmark and the normative Christ oriented traditions of the Western world have turned it into the x-mas for Jews. Basically we get gifts for 8 whole nights.
In my family, the biggest gift was always reserved for the 8th and final night. That final night of Hanukkah back in 1992 Memma and I received a gift that would forever change our lives. All week my parents had been talking up our "big" last gift. They were so excited about it and I, having grandiose and unrealistic expectations, couldn't help but imagine things that I have only ever seen on VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Children.
The big moment came after we lit the Hanukkah candles and my mother sang 43 songs in Hebrew. My father handed us a a thin square package wrapped in blue shiny paper. It looked like a book, but of course it couldn't be. At that point in my life I still believed in all things good and holy; the general premise of my early childhood that my parents did in fact love me and desired nothing more than my happiness was vaguely in tact.
It had to be tickets to Disney World or a picture of the family yacht we had just purchased. As we tore the wrapping paper off shock and dismay slowly enveloped our small faces as they shone in the dim glimmer of CVS brand Hanukkah candlelight. It was a book. But not just any book, it's cover was shiny and featured a graphic picture of a partially developed fetus in utero. Were my parents indoctrinating us about the evils of abortion? Of course not, we are from liberalsville, NJ. Were they giving us the gift of sex education? Definitely not, my mother had been sure to explain the proper use of condoms on a banana years ago. Then what was it.
"Memma, Mephanie" My mother said, barely able to contain her happiness. "You are going to have a little sister!"
My mouth dropped open as my mothers hands clapped in the air. I'm glad one of us was excited.
"You mean the book is our gift?" I said, shocked by this sham of holiday gift.
"No Mephie, your getting a little sister, that is your gift." My father said.
"But you didn't have to pay for that." Memma observed astutely. "And the book only cost $14.95." Memma, already a financial wizard at the tender age of 9, made out the price under my mother's attempted Sharpie cover.
So it appeared, that in total, our Hanukkah gifts amounted to three pairs of socks, some pogs, a $14.95 book that graphically displayed the nature of human gestation, and the cost of a broken condom. Totally kidding on that one, my mom tricked my dad and poked holes in her diaphragm (guess who's not going to get any gifts ever again after their family reads that).
Nine months later, on July 3rd, my mother went into labor. I can't say I was particularly excited about Mannah's timing. That year I was to march in our town's annual July 4th parade with my dad. I was pretty excited about this and had been looking forward to it for months. I had stocked up on patriotic attire and even had a pair of dangly troll earrings with red, white and blue hair. When my mother went into labor the night before the parade, I figured the baby would be born and then my father would return from the hospital and march with me. I was wrong. Mannah decided to drag our her birth and didn't make an appearance until the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. Guess what that meant, no parade for me (not with my father anyway, I marched with my childhood friend Mhloe and her father, but it was NOT the same).
I guess I would be lying if I didn't admit to some mild enthusiasm about the birth of Mannah. I was bizarrely excited by the idea of being at a five person table in a restaurant as opposed to our standard 4 (though this wouldn't last long, Mannah wasn't even out of the high chair when my parents divorced and the five person table went up in smoke). I had also loved to the naming process; insisting that Hillary, in an ode to our then first lady, was the name for my unborn sibling. Clearly I was overruled on this one.
Within a few weeks however, it was apparent that Mannah's presence meant less attention for me. I tried to remind my parents that I too was just a child, the baby really. I started drinking out of a small plastic bottle (I drank juice only, don't get any ideas) and insisted I sleep with my 7 year old baby blanket. Mannah still seemed to capture more attention.
Not being the cutest and most loved daughter slowly sunk in and I realized I was now a middle child. Being the positive beacon of light that I naturally am, I was able to turn this new found familial irrelevance into an opportunity. I would be, I realized with great clarity and sense of purpose, a role model, nay, the single most important role model in Mannah's life.
I was now on a mission to teach Mannah the in's and out's of life. I played Mozart over her sleeping crib. I counted her toes as each piggy went to market. I threw things at her to build her reflexes. As she got older I let her do things like fetch my snacks from the kitchen so she would develop cooking skills. I had her sit by the TV and manually turn the channel so she would know to NEVER EVER lose the remote or its batteries. I was caring to say the least.
When my parents divorced only a year after Mannah's birth, I was careful to treat the subject with sensitivity. I explained to her for years to come that she wasn't the reason they didn't love each other any more. Instead, she was a save the marriage baby and it was in spite of her that they could not stay together. (Side note: most parents do not appreciate it when you explain their separation as the fault of your younger and extremely impressionable sibling).
I taught her other life lessons. For example, when she was about 7 and I was about 15, Mannah did something to really piss me off. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that I had a cookie in my mouth at the time. I was so mad at her childish insolence that I used the only weapon I had, the half chewed cookie. I spit said cookie in her face. This was an especially harsh lesson because everyone that knows me knows my affinity for all things cookie. But I think she really learned to never again do whatever it was that had pissed me off in the first place.
Now Mannah is 16 and I am 23. Its hard to believe that she is a woman, mostly because she still retains some of the man like qualities that garnered her the nickname Tranny at the tender age of 12. Though our relationship has been tumultuous at times, I think she knows I love her and value her as a sister, but definitely not as a holiday gift.
For me and my kin the annual celebration of America coincides with the birthday celebration of the youngest Madison girl (yes, this is not in fact our real last name, but my family has asked me to make this as anonymous for them as possible; they claim that my blogging is a self indulgent blemish on our otherwise pristine image). Little Mannah, the patriot that she is, was born the day after our nation's birthday. She graced our family on the 5th; forever reminding us that while as a country we may have been able to break free from the tyrannical grip of the British empire, as individuals we are forever bound to those we are forced to call blood relatives.
This year Mannah turned sixteen, sweet sweet sixteen. I did not get her a gift as she has never given me anything other than head lice and a headache. Instead, I dedicate this little ditty to the story of Mannah.
For the first 7 years of my existence I was the youngest of two girls. Memma, 21 months my senior, and I were the closest of siblings. She would pour toys on me (its unclear if her intent was to shower me with love and affection or to cause permanent brain damage to my soft unformed head), carry me around the house, and otherwise love me as all attention starved barely older girls love their younger, cuter baby sisters. Over the years Memma and I grew up as two sister peas in a pod. I relished my role as the youngest sister and while I wanted a puppy quite badly, I never really desired more siblings.
I'd like to note that while I love little Mannah now, for many years I resented her and its pretty much all my parents fault (love you guys!). It all started one winter evening, the eighth night of the Jewish festival of lights. For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish tradition or the Adam Sandler song, Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday that normally coincides with Christmas. While there is no historical or religious precedent for exchanging gifts during this 8 day holiday, Hallmark and the normative Christ oriented traditions of the Western world have turned it into the x-mas for Jews. Basically we get gifts for 8 whole nights.
In my family, the biggest gift was always reserved for the 8th and final night. That final night of Hanukkah back in 1992 Memma and I received a gift that would forever change our lives. All week my parents had been talking up our "big" last gift. They were so excited about it and I, having grandiose and unrealistic expectations, couldn't help but imagine things that I have only ever seen on VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Children.
The big moment came after we lit the Hanukkah candles and my mother sang 43 songs in Hebrew. My father handed us a a thin square package wrapped in blue shiny paper. It looked like a book, but of course it couldn't be. At that point in my life I still believed in all things good and holy; the general premise of my early childhood that my parents did in fact love me and desired nothing more than my happiness was vaguely in tact.
It had to be tickets to Disney World or a picture of the family yacht we had just purchased. As we tore the wrapping paper off shock and dismay slowly enveloped our small faces as they shone in the dim glimmer of CVS brand Hanukkah candlelight. It was a book. But not just any book, it's cover was shiny and featured a graphic picture of a partially developed fetus in utero. Were my parents indoctrinating us about the evils of abortion? Of course not, we are from liberalsville, NJ. Were they giving us the gift of sex education? Definitely not, my mother had been sure to explain the proper use of condoms on a banana years ago. Then what was it.
"Memma, Mephanie" My mother said, barely able to contain her happiness. "You are going to have a little sister!"
My mouth dropped open as my mothers hands clapped in the air. I'm glad one of us was excited.
"You mean the book is our gift?" I said, shocked by this sham of holiday gift.
"No Mephie, your getting a little sister, that is your gift." My father said.
"But you didn't have to pay for that." Memma observed astutely. "And the book only cost $14.95." Memma, already a financial wizard at the tender age of 9, made out the price under my mother's attempted Sharpie cover.
So it appeared, that in total, our Hanukkah gifts amounted to three pairs of socks, some pogs, a $14.95 book that graphically displayed the nature of human gestation, and the cost of a broken condom. Totally kidding on that one, my mom tricked my dad and poked holes in her diaphragm (guess who's not going to get any gifts ever again after their family reads that).
Nine months later, on July 3rd, my mother went into labor. I can't say I was particularly excited about Mannah's timing. That year I was to march in our town's annual July 4th parade with my dad. I was pretty excited about this and had been looking forward to it for months. I had stocked up on patriotic attire and even had a pair of dangly troll earrings with red, white and blue hair. When my mother went into labor the night before the parade, I figured the baby would be born and then my father would return from the hospital and march with me. I was wrong. Mannah decided to drag our her birth and didn't make an appearance until the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. Guess what that meant, no parade for me (not with my father anyway, I marched with my childhood friend Mhloe and her father, but it was NOT the same).
I guess I would be lying if I didn't admit to some mild enthusiasm about the birth of Mannah. I was bizarrely excited by the idea of being at a five person table in a restaurant as opposed to our standard 4 (though this wouldn't last long, Mannah wasn't even out of the high chair when my parents divorced and the five person table went up in smoke). I had also loved to the naming process; insisting that Hillary, in an ode to our then first lady, was the name for my unborn sibling. Clearly I was overruled on this one.
Within a few weeks however, it was apparent that Mannah's presence meant less attention for me. I tried to remind my parents that I too was just a child, the baby really. I started drinking out of a small plastic bottle (I drank juice only, don't get any ideas) and insisted I sleep with my 7 year old baby blanket. Mannah still seemed to capture more attention.
Not being the cutest and most loved daughter slowly sunk in and I realized I was now a middle child. Being the positive beacon of light that I naturally am, I was able to turn this new found familial irrelevance into an opportunity. I would be, I realized with great clarity and sense of purpose, a role model, nay, the single most important role model in Mannah's life.
I was now on a mission to teach Mannah the in's and out's of life. I played Mozart over her sleeping crib. I counted her toes as each piggy went to market. I threw things at her to build her reflexes. As she got older I let her do things like fetch my snacks from the kitchen so she would develop cooking skills. I had her sit by the TV and manually turn the channel so she would know to NEVER EVER lose the remote or its batteries. I was caring to say the least.
When my parents divorced only a year after Mannah's birth, I was careful to treat the subject with sensitivity. I explained to her for years to come that she wasn't the reason they didn't love each other any more. Instead, she was a save the marriage baby and it was in spite of her that they could not stay together. (Side note: most parents do not appreciate it when you explain their separation as the fault of your younger and extremely impressionable sibling).
I taught her other life lessons. For example, when she was about 7 and I was about 15, Mannah did something to really piss me off. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that I had a cookie in my mouth at the time. I was so mad at her childish insolence that I used the only weapon I had, the half chewed cookie. I spit said cookie in her face. This was an especially harsh lesson because everyone that knows me knows my affinity for all things cookie. But I think she really learned to never again do whatever it was that had pissed me off in the first place.
Now Mannah is 16 and I am 23. Its hard to believe that she is a woman, mostly because she still retains some of the man like qualities that garnered her the nickname Tranny at the tender age of 12. Though our relationship has been tumultuous at times, I think she knows I love her and value her as a sister, but definitely not as a holiday gift.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
How I Got Rabies in Morocco
Disclaimer: Rabies is a very serious and often fatal disease. I do not support the spread of rabies among animals or humans. I do not think actual rabies is funny nor would I mock it's victims in death. I only intend to mock rabies in the abstract as it relates to my younger sister and her desire to pick up, feed, pet, house and otherwise love kittens seen on the streets of North African and Middle Eastern Countries.
As I prepared to travel to Morocco this spring I knew I was taking some life threatening risks. First there was the plane ride. Despite the supposed "safety" of air travel, I am fairly certain that I will die in some fiery plane crash. There are a couple of theories I have developed to ward off plane crashes and of course I took the customary in flight precautions like wearing close toed shoes, counting the number of seats between myself and the nearest emergency exit, and alerting the flight attendant to all suspected terrorists on board. Then there were the advance safety measures employed too avoid certain death. Before even heading to the airport I followed the lottery rule. Whenever I have a big flight (or a simple 45 minute flight from DC to NYC), I buy a lottery ticket. If I win the lottery the lottery I can't fly, ever again. Clearly the win indicates that all good luck for a lifetime has been used up and at every opportunity bad luck and death are lurking. It’s the natural law of karma, one really great thing means misery and crap is waiting at the other end. Luckily I didn't win the 200 Million jackpot the day before my flight for Casablanca. I had one base covered.
Then there is the attractiveness clause. I know (from watching Lost and just being really in touch with the Universe) that God only takes down planes with really good looking people aboard. There are a couple reasons for this. First, in the unlikely event that the plane crash lands on a deserted island, there need to be enough good looking people to get together and procreate. Ugly people having ugly babies on some gorgeous palm tree lined beach just doesn't cut it in the grand scheme of things (you can pull from the karma justification above, if your plane crashed then the chances are you will at least be able to find some super hunky mate to gather your coconuts and keep you warm in your hut).
The second reason ugly people don't make for a good plane crash is that ugly people don't really illicit sympathy. If the plane crashes and everyone dies (which is probably a more likely scenario than the deserted island), the pictures CNN scrolls across the screen are going to need to display some young tan couple that's recently engaged, or a beautiful young mom with her three cherub like babies. We want to cry for these people and their lost youth. No one is going to cry for some balding snaggle toothed lady with a lazy eye who had to pay for two tickets because her ass couldn't fit in one seat.
Needless to say, when sitting at the gate, convulsing and crying hysterically because I know my time on this planet is running out, I am slightly comforted by the presence of persons missing limbs, wearing an eye-patch, lacking proper hygiene or someone with those bizarre lobster fins instead of arms. I can only hope that the man with two wooden legs, a harelip and only one tooth is sitting next to me.
Assuming I didn't perish en route to Morocco, there were other opportunities for my downfall waiting for me on arrival. Some of which were foreseeable, others which were not. The foreseeable dangers included but were not limited to spending ten days with my Mother and 15-year-old sister Mannah. Now Mom and Mannah (the sister) are great, in small and diluted doses but ten non stop days together created the very real threat that I would kill them both and face very serious jail time.
Having taken many trips with Madre throughout the years, I knew we traveled well together. We both like museums, food, attempting to figure out foreign public transportation systems and soaking up local culture. She is a fine woman (and deceptively young looking!), and I love her dearly (especially because she paid for the trip), however I knew there would be things that tested my limits. For example, my mother’s habits at the buffet style hotel breakfast are a bit bizarre. Apparently the woman grew up in times of famine because every time we went to the hotel breakfast my mother packed away about fifteen meals worth of rolls, jams, cheeses, yogurts, fruits and other perishables that were unlikely to make it through the 90 degree day unrefrigerated.
Alas, I murdered no one and my plane made it safely across the Atlantic, thus the last threat I faced was that of the unknown. A couple notes about the unknown, it’s hard to pack for. How was I to know I would need pliers and a sledgehammer? Had I brought these items the unknown would have been far more manageable and my brushes with death far less fear inducing.
My first night in Morocco I was on my own. Having arrived in Casablanca a day before my mother and younger sister, I traveled by train to my hotel in the city center. Not speaking a word of Arabic or French made this slightly difficult as the vast majority of people seemed to know little English. Yet people were unbelievably helpful in my quest to find my hotel and I made it in one piece by around 8:00 pm local time. I was delirious with exhaustion, unbelievably greasy, and not surprisingly hungry upon arrival. Once in my room I decided I would take a quick shower before heading out to scrounge up some authentic Moroccan food. My sense of adventure had kicked in and despite not speaking the language and looking fairly out of place I was excited to strike out on my own and find some good Moroccan food.
The shower was fine, really relaxing. I step out and towel off, brush my teeth and then go for the door. This is weird, I think, the door handle is turning but the door won't open, must be the moisture from the hot shower. So I wait, patiently, for a minute or two before trying the door again. The door still does not open. My mind goes quiet for a second and I consider the possibilities: my mother got there early and is playing a mean spirited trick on me, there is some sort of rapist/murdered who has decided to lock me in the bathroom before assaulting me, or maybe the door was just stuck. After about an hour of turning the door handle between drop kicks it became apparent that option number three was indeed a reality.
The possibility of escape from Bathroom of Doom seemed pretty slim. My mother was not due to arrive until the next day at five and I had left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door so there wouldn't be any maid service the next morning. It was then that I considered curling up in a ball on the bathroom floor, clad only in a small hotel towels and crying my self to sleep. But my hunger urged me onwards and for two hours straight I banged on the bathroom door screaming "I am stuck in the bathroom in room 1504, please get someone from the front desk." As this was a rather Euro minded hotel I added a " s'il vous plait" in there every so often hoping it might help a passerby to understand.
Finally about two hours later two men from the front desk were alerted to a girl screaming on the 15th floor and came to my rescue. Still half naked and in utter hysterics I barricaded myself in the now open bathroom as the concierge and bell hop tried to pry my out and hand me my bra. If only I had the sledge hammer.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Hey Internet, Find Me a Date!
Everyone is Internet dating these days. Both of my parental units are avid e-daters. These middle-aged daters are on the prowl for love in chat rooms, on Match, on J-Date, even E-harmony. I was home on a school break the day my father called me over to the computer, excitedly pointing at the screen. There, I saw, was a picture of him leaning against a tree, wearing khaki's and a sports coat, a weird and inviting smile pasted on his face. The whole thing resembled a Viagra ad in Men's Health. At his request I proceeded to read the profile.
"Strong yet vulnerable...a man of contradictions...looking for a love that knows no bounds."
When my parents first got divorced I suspected the break up was rooted in my father's potential homosexuality. He loves show tunes (the man had a CD of Les Miserables playing in the car at all times), was very concerned about his appearance (he's been known to tan in public parks wearing only skimpy running shorts, no one wants to be told at lunch in high school that there dad was spotted at the town park wearing nothing but yellow [for all intents and purposes] booty shorts), he owns skimpy running shorts and he is unbearably clean. He has always maintained that he is not in fact gay; however I was once again forced to call this into question when I read about his vulnerable strength and yearning for boundless love.
After the emotional scarring that was reading my father's cyber pick-up essay he wanted to throw some salt in my wounds and asked for my opinion. Answering honestly, I told him it was a little mushy and I found it unappealing (which I think is probably for the best, being wooed by my own Dad's dating profile would be pretty fucked up). Pops was offended by this, insisting that, "This profile is amazing, women from all over the country email me to tell me how moving they find it. Just the other day a woman from Ohio told me she thought I was in touch with my feelings, and wished she could meet me." My father than proceeded to scroll through a list of women he was in contact with and asked that I help him figure out who might be fat in real life. Those with out full body pictures required intense scrutiny, mainly focused around the chin and neck, which he informed me gave away body weight. Yeah, my dad's a real sensitive renaissance man.
Despite all this, I recently joined the ranks of e-daters, hoping that my dear dating Dad would never run across my profile and try to figure out if I was hiding some blubber. The decision was made rather hastily on a lazy Sunday afternoon while watching the cinematic masterpiece "Snakes on a Plane" with a small friend named Mara. As we sat with a computer and a half gallon of ice cream between us, we knew then and there that the time was right for finding love. There is just something about Samuel L. Jackson's impassioned performance that awakens the need for companionship. Mara, being a Jewess much like myself, decided to give J-date a try. As Mara is on the midget side of things J-date, a site populated solely by Jews who are for some reason or another generally pretty short and hairy, seemed the appropriate choice for her (as it happens she enjoys the occasional hairy man). I however had an inkling that the Goyim men of Match.com might be more likely to clear my 6 foot height requirement and got to work creating a profile. And thus in between bites of ice cream and snake induced deaths I starting shopping for boys on the Internet.
Here is how I advertised myself:
"Strong yet vulnerable...a man of contradictions...looking for a love that knows no bounds."
When my parents first got divorced I suspected the break up was rooted in my father's potential homosexuality. He loves show tunes (the man had a CD of Les Miserables playing in the car at all times), was very concerned about his appearance (he's been known to tan in public parks wearing only skimpy running shorts, no one wants to be told at lunch in high school that there dad was spotted at the town park wearing nothing but yellow [for all intents and purposes] booty shorts), he owns skimpy running shorts and he is unbearably clean. He has always maintained that he is not in fact gay; however I was once again forced to call this into question when I read about his vulnerable strength and yearning for boundless love.
After the emotional scarring that was reading my father's cyber pick-up essay he wanted to throw some salt in my wounds and asked for my opinion. Answering honestly, I told him it was a little mushy and I found it unappealing (which I think is probably for the best, being wooed by my own Dad's dating profile would be pretty fucked up). Pops was offended by this, insisting that, "This profile is amazing, women from all over the country email me to tell me how moving they find it. Just the other day a woman from Ohio told me she thought I was in touch with my feelings, and wished she could meet me." My father than proceeded to scroll through a list of women he was in contact with and asked that I help him figure out who might be fat in real life. Those with out full body pictures required intense scrutiny, mainly focused around the chin and neck, which he informed me gave away body weight. Yeah, my dad's a real sensitive renaissance man.
Despite all this, I recently joined the ranks of e-daters, hoping that my dear dating Dad would never run across my profile and try to figure out if I was hiding some blubber. The decision was made rather hastily on a lazy Sunday afternoon while watching the cinematic masterpiece "Snakes on a Plane" with a small friend named Mara. As we sat with a computer and a half gallon of ice cream between us, we knew then and there that the time was right for finding love. There is just something about Samuel L. Jackson's impassioned performance that awakens the need for companionship. Mara, being a Jewess much like myself, decided to give J-date a try. As Mara is on the midget side of things J-date, a site populated solely by Jews who are for some reason or another generally pretty short and hairy, seemed the appropriate choice for her (as it happens she enjoys the occasional hairy man). I however had an inkling that the Goyim men of Match.com might be more likely to clear my 6 foot height requirement and got to work creating a profile. And thus in between bites of ice cream and snake induced deaths I starting shopping for boys on the Internet.
Here is how I advertised myself:
snakesonaplane15
Hey internet, find me a date!
| Have kids: | No |
| Want kids: | Definitely |
| Ethnicity: |
|
| Body type: | About average |
| Height: | 5'9" (175cms) |
| Religion: | No Answer |
| Smoke: | No Way |
| Drink: | Social Drinker |
More of My Photos
In my own words
for fun:
I like wikipedia a lot.
favorite hot spots:
Ethnic food is fun, especially things I get to eat with my hands. I tend to frequent the same bars on U St./gtown/downtown/adams morgan every weekend so am always looking to try something new. Southeast Asia and or Australia.
favorite things:
I really like water, The Office, french toast and sleeping late.
last read:
I'm in the middle of Empire Falls.
About my life and what I'm looking for
I'm really looking forward to finding love on the Internet, you know, surf the wave of the web. If I can find a sofa on the Internet, I can certainly use it to find a reasonably intelligent, mildly well adjusted guy who enjoys watching really bad reality TV and/or lifetime movies.
Recently, I caught the tail end of a TV show on TLC with a family that has 18 children and the mother is pregnant again. Like a car crash I couldn't look away but was kind of afraid to watch. Every one's name started with a J and they wore matching outfits! If this is the sort of thing you were hoping your future might hold, I think we may not be meant for each other. Much like I don't intend to birth 18 children, I'm also not a fan of rodents as pets or the use of emoticons.
Things I do enjoy include but are not limited to exploring new areas of DC (alas I am not a native), This American Life on NPR, saying "that's what she said" entirely too much and when it clearly doesn't apply, g-chat and following my whims to new places.
As for my perfect match, assuming he shares my feelings on small towns populated solely by your own children, emoticons and rodents, I suppose all I can really hope for is someone taller than me who appreciates and doles out sarcasm.
______________________________
This profile has not surprisingly elicited some bizarre and unattractive respondents. There was the 37 year-old father (not mine) from rural Pennsylvania. The balding 25 year-old from Maryland who in his own words "is smarter than the average person." My personal favorite was the 30 year-old from right here in DC. He messaged me shortly after I joined saying first, "nice profile, care to get to know each other." I never responded because he was of course unattractive and wiry looking in all of his pictures (which were posed and taken by himself in one of those obvious ways). The very next day I received this follow up message, "oops, sorry i didn't mean to email you, your body type says about average." I mean sure, that's a totally okay thing to say. I guess I should stop eating at this point, no one likes someone who is about average.
Then of course there is the endless series of winks. Winks are the lazy/passive aggressive man's way of flirting over the Internet. Frankly I find them a bit ridiculous. We are already so unable to socialize normally that we have turned to a website to find us suitors and suiterettes, must we then forgo the actual message option and merely wink at one another. To one wink I responded:
Subject: ARRGHHHHHHHHHHH
Message:
Hi,
Thanks for the wink, I'm not really sure what that means but I was quite pleased to get it. I can't wink, I only have one eye, tragic pirating accident in '93.
Anyway, I don't like animals, I'm originally from Jersey, and LOVE Medieval Times. Tell me about yourself.
Thanks.
His response seemed wholy unaware of my mention of the high seas and Medieval times, we have yet to meet.
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