Shock me Amadeus!

People surprise me every day – and not usually in a good way. There’s the guy that showed up on my doorstep 2 years after we broke up with roses begging me back. I know you’re thinking that this was sweet but we broke up after only a month and I’d moved since then so he had to go stalker-style to find me. And, since he had a history of showing up on my doorstep drunk and crying and screaming that he loved me (seriously a month people, just a month) back 2 years ago, I was forced to be extremely clear about what will happen next time he steps foot on my property. He makes me glad I own a gun and have an alarm system. However, if he tries the 2am screaming on the lawn thing again, he won’t have to worry about me shooting him. Since he sounds something like a wounded moose he should worry about my neighbor the hunter. Lucky for us all, he hasn’t been back (that I know of).

Then there’s the guy that walked up to me randomly one day at a gas station and gave me a single rose telling me he thought I was beautiful. I was both flattered and surprised and absolutely SURE he was going to rob me or shove me into the trunk of my car. I know, why can’t someone just do something nice for someone without everyone assuming they have bad intentions. I’m sorry, blame the people like my first example. Incidentally this man did not rob me or shove me in my trunk so it was just a very sweet gesture but he was at least 20 years my senior so we just didn’t have a chance. I’m sorry sir.

And it’s not just men that I find shocking. My friend’s daughter asked me when she was only 3 if I ever rubbed my vagina. I was speechless. I didn’t want to give the kid a complex about it but I didn’t want to encourage this kind of topic (or encourage her to spend too much time rubbing hers). And, I certainly wasn’t going to explain that it my age we have something way better called “the rabbit”. I told her that all vagina talk was for mommy. I have no idea how her mommy handled it but I’m pretty sure “the rabbit” wasn’t part of the conversation. However, she’s 6 now and she’s not asked me about my vagina again so I think I’m in the clear.

Today I was surprised by an acquaintance I made 3 years ago. Today I checked into myspace for the first time in months to see that I have a 2 month old email from him sitting there unread. Whoops. Turns out that 2 months ago he got divorced and can now admit that he’s had feelings for me since the day he met me 3 years ago. And yes, you read that correctly, I called him an acquaintance. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him in person. He’s invited me to a few house parties but I’ve never been able to go to any of them because of schedule problems. I’ve never talked to him on the phone. Our entire “friendship” was via myspace emails and comments and even those weren’t with any sort of regularity (as illustrated by the fact that one sat unnoticed for 2 months in my inbox).

I’d first like to point out that this is a lot of shocking information for an email. I had no idea your marriage was on the rocks. This is the kind of information that really should be broken slowly and in chunks, don’t you think? I guess there’s no protocol for the 3 year crush but simply telling me he got divorced was shocking enough for one email. Then maybe feel me out a little and ask about my life, if I’m dating anyone. Then if the coast is clear pull out the “I’ve wanted to ask you out for a long time.” I guess given the frequency with which I’ve check my myspace email he figured that could take years and it was better just to jump in feet first.

The problem is that I have no idea how I feel about the notion because I am so shocked. Unfortunately there’s no protocol for responding to such events either. I don’t know what to say first, “I’m sorry I didn’t check my email sooner,” or “A lot can change in two months, is this still accurate and true?”

I’ll tread slowly but I am going to say this. This guy claims he’s had feelings for me for three years based on a few in person conversations and some email banter. So, there’s a chance that all the guys I’ve given my number to in bars are just waiting for their divorces to be finalized before they act on their feelings and call me up. That finally explains all the times I’ve given out my number only to never be called. So, guys, when you do call, break the news slowly – after all, I’d have never given you my number if I knew you were married.

Bringing 'em to Jesus with Sarcasm

I used my typical sense of humor in describing myself and what I’m looking for when I filled out my online dating profile. Apparently, no one else had a sense of humor about it because I have gotten a lot of emails commenting on how funny it was. Unfortunately, a lot of these emails are from people that aren’t good matches for me and even these guys know it. I’ve gotten all of the following:

“I wish I was a few years older”
“I wish I was a lot younger”
“I wish we lived in the same state”

But….this one is my favorite:

“I wish I wasn’t atheist.” (you see, I said it was important that my match shared my faith)

You hear that Jesus? I’ve nearly inspired faith in a non-believer through sarcasm. That’s pretty miraculous.

He has the cutest....dog...

I recently admitted to myself that I wasn’t going to meet Mr. Right in any of the impossibly romantic scenarios I’d always imagined. Obviously we’ve long surpassed the chances of Mr. Right being my high school or college sweetheart. And that fantasy where my car breaks down and some hottie with a medical degree and a mechanical hobby pulls up behind me and fixes my car and subsequently proposes after he sweeps me off my feet is obviously never going to happen. First of all cars are far more reliable than they are portrayed to be in romance novels and when they do break down, the reality is that you call AAA and sit there for 2 hours in the sweltering heat and if someone does pull over to help you, he’s missing several teeth or he calls you “little missy.” And since I really hate jogging, I’m kind of putting my own wrench in that scenario where I twist my ankle on the trail and the same hottie with a medical degree stops to help me limp back to my car and by the time we get there he’s madly in love with me. So, my car’s not breaking down on the campus of a medical school of hotties in need of lovin’ and I’m not jogging in July heat in the southeast and it appears that men don’t just come knocking on my door to get a glimpse of me. I know, shocking!

As a result, I’ve decided to dip my toe into the online dating pool. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, however in previous experiences I’ve found that like the gene pool, someone should add more chlorine to the online dating pool. I still haven’t found the site where they pair up women that are college educated, career-oriented, financially stable, and successful with men deserving of such women. I have found plenty of sights where men living below the poverty line in mom and dad’s basement proudly display their GED on the wall and send me emails that say “your pretty” and “Theirs a lot more to me than you can read on my profile.” Yeah there is – there’s some proof that you shouldn’t have passed your GED if you can’t get the your/you’re their/there thing straight.

I’ve also found that online there seems to be a warped sense of reality. I didn’t specify the body type I’m looking for but I’ve noticed that people that indicate that they’re “a few extra pounds” have a different definition of “few” or “pounds” than I do. One guy looked like he may have eaten an entire civilization. Darling, that’s not a few extra pounds. And I understand a woman describing herself as curvy but what exactly is a “curvy” guy? Where are these curves exactly? What was wrong with “stocky” or “heavyset”?

All that aside, here’s my biggest problem. I’ve gotten several emails already. However, I realized that I’m responding to the guys with the cutest dogs in their pictures. Wait… Am I looking for a date or a dog? Maybe I’ve just assumed that if a dog likes him then he must be a good person. However, I’ve poked a hole in that theory too. The homeless guy that used to panhandle outside of the O’s games when I lived in Baltimore had a dog and I wouldn’t date him (but I would have taken his dog home). Am I just assuming that someone that has room for a dog in their life has a big heart? Well, let’s face it, dogs don’t come with a lot of baggage. They don’t complain about sleeping on the floor. They get excited over rawhide. I’m going to be a little more difficult to please at times. I mean, if you show up on my birthday with rawhide, we’re going to have issues. I obviously want these guys for their dogs. This is not how to get a dog.

A normal person would (have never ventured down the online dating road in the quest for canine companionship to begin with) go get herself a dog. She’d bond with it, love it, and then see how she felt about continuing the quest with online dating. The problem is that my schedule is so un-dog-friendly. A couple nights a week I don’t get home until after 10. I have a couple cats and they really love me. That should be enough. But a date would be nice and if I’m weighing my options, I may as well give a few brownie points to the guys with cute dogs.

When the going is tough - the tough go shoe shopping

Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been a little down as of late. My method of dealing with these feelings is no secret either. When the going gets tough, the downtrodden go find something new to trod around in – preferably with a high heel and on sale. At least if I’m going to trod around with a long face my shoes will say “fabulous!” So, I made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of inner healing, DSW Shoe Warehouse. Don’t get me wrong, I love designer labels with hefty price tags that put me back a car payment but when I’m looking to fill empty holes in my heart, it’s quantity, not quality that counts. We all know that the rebound guy is never supposed to be the one you love forever and it’s the same with the “make me feel beautiful again” shoes. If you can get three for the price of one, well then that’s three days of decent reasons to get out of bed without the risk of resorting to ramen noodles for the rest of the month. So, my closet loses more space to shoes and I spent a lot of the weekend trying to figure out what to wear with that red and white patterned number I bought (instead of reasons why I’m not happy). I’m sure I’ll come up with something they’ll compliment. And don’t think all this shoe shopping was a picnic either – I am still healing from foot surgery so I could only try on left shoes. I even have to wait another two to three weeks before my foot is healed enough to wear my newest additions. But sometimes you just need something to look forward to – even if it is just putting on a new pair of shoes.

The Sith take revenge on my left ear...

Apparently, I keep my sense of humor in my left ear. This is why I’m so pissy and un-funny when my allergies are really bad and I have Darth Vader Ear (you know what I’m talking about – Darth Vader Ear is where you can hear yourself breathing in your ear even though you know that whatever physiological road map inside your body that connects your ear to your lung has to be really long and twisty and so you can’t possibly figure out how it’s THAT LOUD). Darth Vader Ear doubles as my funny-bone inhibitor…or if you consider the fact that I’m a smart-ass, there’s some joke about constipation in there somewhere, but I’m too tired and impacted to get to it right now. Anyway, so I have always been prone to attacks of Darth Vader Ear and momentary lapses in the ability to amuse myself (and the other 4 people on earth that find me funny) however my Darth Vader Ear has become a constant phenomena as of late. Allegra used to clear it for 12 hours at a time. As it became less and less effective, I supplemented with random decongestants. However, at this point, all have failed me and I’m one “Luke, I am your father,” away from a black cape and some questionable choices in fashion head-wear.

So…today I consulted with a physician. Now, when I say I consulted with a physician, I mean, I called my “friend” as in a guy I went out with a couple times but we stay in touch and occasionally catch up over dinner or drinks. However, he’s totally qualified! He happens to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor so this is RIGHT up his alley…er…down his canal? I’m not sure how he’d feel about that analogy but you know what I mean. Anyway, and by “consult” I mean I called him and it turns out he was sitting by a pool at a hotel in Florida at a medical conference. So, it’s not like he looked at me or ran any tests or anything remotely scientific and stuff but he is qualified to make expert guesses over the phone. Anyway, he told me a few more decongestants to try over the next few days but he scolded me for letting this go on for so long and told me that depending on the results of the tests he IS going to run on my ear when he gets back, if medication won’t make my ears drain then I would be a candidate for surgery to have tubes put in. Ok, ok, ok…first of all, why do they say “candidate?” It’s not like the surgeons are standing there in pre-op electing which one of us “lucky” ailing patients gets to pay for their kid to go to Harvard or fund their new boat. I don’t have to prepare a speech to explain why I should be selected for today’s OR time. And if I did, what would I say?

“Look, I need these tubes, without them, I’m going to have to go light saber shopping because I can’t wear this cape and helmet and not have a light saber and do you really want a pissy girl with a constipated sense of humor on Atlanta’s highways wielding a light saber at rush hour? It’s really for the public health and safety that I ask you for this opportunity to be severed…er…I mean served.”

And secondly, this is a surgery they do on kindergarteners, not on someone that’s less than two months from turning 30. What’s going on? Kids need these things because their little ear tubs are too small and when they grow up these surgically implanted tubes just fall out because their little ear tubes grew and their bodies finally started working properly. What’s going on here, did my body just suddenly forget what its doing or am I going in reverse? Because if things on my body are going to start shrinking, I have some nominations for pieces that are great candidates but they don’t include my ear tubes. We can start with my ass and my thighs and go from there but leave the ears alone.

Anyway, I could be overreacting. It could be fixable with a different decongestant or something. But I ask you to keep your fingers crossed for my ear tubes because I’ve had a lot of surgery in the last 9 years. And I’m not talking all walk-in-the-park kind of surgeries. I have woken up from surgery in intensive care. I have had emergency blood transfusions. I have spent more than a month in the hospital at a time. I have had holes drilled in my spine. I have had large portions of internal organs removed so I just don’t have happy feelings about hospitals. So, if I could avoid exposing my head to any sort of cutting utensil, I’d like to do that.

And before I wrap up my left-ear issues, I’ll close by saying this. I could probably pull a little humor out of my other ear in my left-ear emergency status but I just haven’t felt up to it this past week. Mr. Damn is mad right now and hasn’t spoken to me in over a week. It’s easy for me to poke fun at us when we’re struggling to find the same page but when I’m afraid he’s closing (or closed) the book, I can’t find any levity – my heart is just too heavy. So apologies to any loyal readers (I know, I’m stretching…my ego) looking for updates but hopefully I’ll have more for you soon. In the mean time maybe I’ll get my ear un-impacted and find some other things to blog about.

An Open Letter to My Feline Terrorist

My bed is a queen-size bed so if you are the size of a standard house cat, you have a lot of options for bed entry points. Since only one human sleeps in the bed, and she has been known to awake violently and toss you off the bed when you really startle her, one would think you would typically choose an entry point on the opposite side of the bed to avoid landing on her and possibly suffering a “toss off”.

One has obviously overestimated your intelligence or has overlooked the fact that you are a closet masochist. In fact, perhaps you are actually an evil genius and you planned the early morning attack scouting out locations from which to achieve maximum trajectory and impact to reach your target. Perhaps you conducted reconnaissance throughout the night as I slept to locate the appendage beneath the covers so you knew where to land. Perhaps you timed it so that I’d slept as long as possible before the alarm went off to ensure that the last pain pill I took at midnight had long ago worn off. And when it was time – you orchestrated it beautifully: a flying leap from the top of the armoire to the bed landing squarely with all four paws down on the foot I had operated on 2 days ago.

Was that supposed to be payback for the vet incident last week? Seriously, the punishment was extreme for the crime and I gave you your most favorite thing in the world when we got home: cheese. After I stopped rocking back and forth crying and chanting “OW, OW, OW, OW, OW!” not a single one of my favorite things were waiting for me. No Tiffany & Co. blue box? No Jimmys, Manolos, or Ferragamos? No bottle of whiskey (to numb the pain until the pain pill kicks in – okay, that might be a bad idea)?

Anyway – I just want to make sure this is really clear: you so much as glance in the general direction of my foot and you won’t have to worry about bed entry points because you’ll be busy trying to figure out some far more basic entry points – like the ones to get into the house.

It all started with a box of Tampons...

There was an “incident” at the grocery store several weeks ago that my friends still find every available opportunity to exploit for their amusement. It occurred when an influx of hormones aligned with my overzealous pitching arm too close to the shopping basket of an attractive male and resulted in a tragically errant box of tampons. In short, I was lobbing a box of tampons into my cart when it skidded across the top of a bag of cat litter, bounced off the paper towels, and landed squarely in someone else’s cart. The someone else happened to be a rather good looking guy who at the moment happened to be bent over engrossed in the dental hygiene products so he didn’t notice my blunder. I had a panic attack wondering how to dislodge my tampons from between his pasta and soda. I was running through the possible scenarios in my head and decided reaching into his cart was bound to attract his attention. I automatically nixed the idea of mentioning to him that I’d thrown my tampons in his cart because how do I exactly word that to the hot grocery shopper? “Hey, excuse me, I’m kind of moody, bloated, and obviously not a good pitcher so can you pass me the tampons over there by the rigatoni?” I’m sure he’ll ask for my number right away. However, before I came up with an idea for handling the situation, he selected his product of choice, smiled at me and walked away – with my tampons in his cart. I was far too befuddled to chase him down for a box of tampons so I abandoned the rest of my list, grabbed a new box, and headed straight to check out.

I did post an apology to him on Craigslist under Missed Connections which received a ton of responses. I was amazed at how many men were willing to ask out a girl that just admitted in print that she’s moody and bloated just because she has a sense of humor. In addition, this has been the butt of many jokes in my circle of friends. One friend asked me for some business cards to stick to boxes of feminine products so he could hurl them into the carts of guys he thought might be good matches for me next time he was at the store. Another guy suggested that I just throw tampons in random guys’ carts and then approach them and ask, “are you single or are those for me?” (Ok, so we were into the liquor when we came up with these.)

Well, today I was at the same grocery store to get some prescription refills and as I wandered through the greeting card aisle I looked up and found myself face-to-face with the tampon guy. I almost choked. He definitely noticed the shock on my face so there was no recovering or covering it up. I had to come up with some explanation for my behavior because he looked concerned that perhaps he had something hanging out of his nose or something. I didn’t have nearly enough time to think and before I could turn on the filter between my brain and my mouth I heard myself say, “I dropped tampons in your cart.” OH MY GAWD – NO I DID NOT. I did. Uugh. He looked so confused because at the moment – he had no cart, just one of those baskets you hand carry. “No.. I mean.. I did… not today… before… you walked off and… but I was embarrassed…so I didn’t stop you…I just got another box…” Is this what it feels like to drown in quicksand? He looked more concerned now than he did when he thought he might have something hanging out of his nose.

Deep breath – start over.

So, I started at the beginning attempting to use complete sentences and vocabulary that indicates that I have an education that extends beyond first grade. By the time I got to the end of the story, he was…laughing…and I wasn’t sure if I should turn and run out of the store or laugh along with him. Since I actually needed the prescriptions I was having filled, I was kind of stuck.

He admitted that he found them when he went to check out but he was too embarrassed to give them to the checkout girl and tell her that they weren’t his so he stuffed them in the candy bin. We had a good laugh but shockingly, he didn’t ask for my number. I don’t know why, I didn’t attempt to put any feminine products in his basket this time.

So, if you’re reading this and you were just too shy, I’ll meet you in the feminine products same time next week?