Pesto, Relationships and Happiness

I overslept this morning, waking up groggy, slightly headachy, and seemingly incapable of rushing to make it to the Unitarian church I've been attending this summer. Instead of making it to the service, after walking Charlie I've been pondering three things: pesto, relationships, and happiness.

The last shall be first so let's talk about my current musings on happiness. I started re-reading the book The Geography of Bliss this week for a critical thinking class where we had to take an article or book and examine the arguments in said work and how the author made or did not make his or her case. All the other people in the class picked articles on information technology, military decisions, or the economy but I decided I wanted to examine the arguments that Eric Weiner sets forth in The Geography of Bliss to see what makes some places happier than others. I could tell the rest of the students thought I was a hippie, trippy liberal type but since I kind of am I didn't take it as an insult.

If you haven't read the book, I'd recommend it. And if you're a freak like me and can't read a good book just once, pick it up again. Weiner travels to a variety of countries to figure out why some peoples are happier than others and the findings are surprising. Happy countries include places like the Netherlands, Switzerland, Iceland, and Bhutan. America may be the home of the brave but sadly we rank in the lower end of the mid-range of most sociological studies into happiness. At least we beat out Moldova, Tanzania, and Rwanda I guess, but it still seems like we should be happier than we are.

The study of happiness is one of contradictions. Republicans are happier than democrats (go figure). People who are more tolerant are happier than the intolerant, but homogeneous nations are among the happiest on earth. People who attend church are happier than those that don't but secular nations are happier than religious nations. There is no link between happiness and suicide rates; Switzerland is highly rated in both. Married people are happier than singles (I lose out again) but people without children are happier than those with children.

The strongest argument that the author makes is that a person's happiness is intertwined with those around them; people are happiest when they are part of a vibrant and active community and when they trust one another. By some accounts, trust is the most important factor to happiness. That alone could seem to make singles lose out again accept that recent studies show that single people are actually more likely to be an active part of their communities than their married counterparts; singletons tend more towards civic activism and volunteerism, at least according to Eric Klinenberg when discussing the trend of increasing amounts of people choosing to live alone in his book, Going Solo.

So now for the pesto and relationships. I know about the first but apparently not the latter. I've just started doing some freelance article writing in an attempt to build up my resume in terms of writing and editing and to improve my writing overall (with the hopeful goal of finishing my book sometime in my lifetime). I've mainly been writing for a "dating and relationship expert" who is very nice but has me write things like why do men lose interest after the first few dates and how to get your man to commit. The last one I sent her, I actually thought was good. So I have to admit my pride was damaged a bit when she told me she needed something more practical--a step-by-step guide to help intelligent, attractive women to find a man, date him, and make it into a relationship.

Those who know me can appreciate the irony of me writing such an article as I can't remember the last time I actually had a successful relationship in the form of a boyfriend who wasn't a complete lunatic. I felt a little like a hypocrite and also a little nauseated, but I sat down and wrote the article and thought I did a pretty good job.

After seeing my client's recommendations though, I'm not sure that I can fix it to be what she wants. Because meeting a guy and having a relationship isn't like making pesto, which I did fairly easily this morning. My little container garden out back has been prolifically producing basil so I decided that this morning I had to make and freeze copious amounts of pesto. The steps to doing so are pretty easy: 1. Pick and wash 4 cups of basil leaves 2. Put basil in food processor along with 4-6 cloves of garlic, one-half cup of pine nuts, and one cup of olive oil. 3. Blend until smells delicious and is somewhat liquidy green wonderfulness. 4. Pour into ice cube tray to freeze so you have nice individual servings of pesto. 5. When you want to use, thaw and add in grated Parmesan cheese. Done.

I don't really think getting and keeping a relationship can be broken down into the same, neat little steps. If it can, I don't know what they are. I don't own the rights to any of the articles she buys from me but since she didn't buy this one, here's what I came up with. I'll mess around with it later today to try to get it to be what she wants, but I actually think what I had was probably the most practical steps I could have come up with that could be genuinely useful.

How to Get a Boyfriend

We like things totally spelled out these days: 8 ways to lose 10 pounds, 6 new hairstyles, 14 steps to financial success and 5 steps to building the perfect resume. It’s almost like following a recipe. Up front, recipes tell you exactly what you will need for ingredients, each individual step to get to the end result. Some even tell you the total amount of time that will be required to bake that perfect cake: 25 minutes preparation, 60 minutes baking time, 85 minutes overall.

If only things were that simple in getting a boyfriend. You know, something that said to mix up 1 cup of patience, 2 gallons of persistence, and a good dollop of a sense of humor; total time overall: 6 months. Unfortunately, even though men claim to be more logical and less emotion-driven than women, I haven’t found the perfect scientific method for getting that great boyfriend.

That being said, my years of dating experience have helped me develop a sort of formula to improve my chances for obtaining that mysterious and highly desirable prize of a boyfriend. This isn’t foolproof but I think that following some of these steps will improve your chances of ending up with a boyfriend.

Step 1: Get Your Act Together. This step is probably the most critical –if you don’t do this not only will you probably not get a good boyfriend, you’ll also not have the greatest time in your everyday life. You need to figure out who you are, what you want, what you need, and how you prioritize all the various elements that go into making up your life. If you don’t know who you are as an individual, you won’t be happy as part of a couple. I know far too many women whose identities are completely wrapped up in their husbands’ or boyfriends’ identities. These women end up being relationship chameleons, changing to reflect the habits and preferences of their partners rather than reflecting who they truly are.

Step 2: Put Your Best Foot Forward. If the first step is about getting the inner you in shape, step 2 deals with getting that outer you in shape too. No crash diets, plastic surgeries, or exorbitantly costly wardrobe changes are in order. But it is almost a universal truth that when you look better and are happier with your appearance, you are more confident and confidence attracts other people to you. I’m not talking about overconfidence or arrogance, but a decent amount of self-confidence goes a long way. So make sure you’re doing some sort of exercise you actually like, eating healthy, spend some time on your grooming, and put on something that makes you feel hot—not slutty or overly glamorous, but at least several notches up from sweats.

Step 3: Get Out There. I wish it were as easy as ordering up a boyfriend through a high-end catalog and having him delivered right to your door, but sadly if you don’t leave your house and go somewhere where prospective boyfriends hang out you’re probably going to stay single. Now you can try an online dating site—I have and as a result have met some great (and some awful) guys—but you have to eventually meet up in real life. If you haven’t gone the online route, I’d recommend joining a group that does something you’re interested in. Volunteer with an organization that helps build houses for the homeless and you might chat up a tall, dark and handsome stranger while installing siding. If you like kayaking, running, reading, cooking or whatever, there are tons of groups out there where you can actually meet men who share the same interests as you. I’d recommend something like that over heading out to your local bar.

Step 4: Listen More than You Talk and Be Open. When you’ve met that guy that you think could make good boyfriend material, ask him about himself and really listen to the answers. Figure out early on if this is a guy that you actually could want to spend time with in a relationship. Now you might find out something that at first glance, seems different than how you prefer things or how you look at the world. But before you kick him to the curb, be open to trying something new. Don’t try to change who you are, but you never know—you may find out that you get a boyfriend and a new hobby or interest in the process.

Step 5: Don’t Overthink Things. I don’t know about you ladies but when I like a guy, my tendency is to overanalyze everything he says and does. Not only does this make me miserable but if I vocalize that overthinking of mine, it can drive him away. Don’t call him multiple times a day and don’t text nonstop. If he wants to spend time with his friends, don’t complain that you don’t get to see him enough. You both need to be secure enough in your burgeoning relationship to let each other do things independently. It will make the time you spend together even sweeter.

Step 6: Appreciate What You Have and Make Sure You Feel Appreciated. I have a disturbing tendency of watching sappy, sickly sweet romantic comedies and build up a fantasy idea of my future boyfriend. There is no way that any normal human guy can live up to the qualities displayed in the perfect boyfriends and husbands on display in the movies and television. You will not be able to change him into a perfect specimen of hotness and chivalry. He is who he is and if you can’t appreciate him the way he is, you need to get out now. And remember back around step 2 when we talked about self-confidence? Well, you need to make sure that he appreciates you for who you are and doesn’t try to change you. Feeling unappreciated and like something is wrong with you will sabotage your self-confidence and make you miserable.

If at the end of these six steps, you end up with a great relationship, well, that is just fantastic. If you don’t or you find that your guy doesn’t appreciate you or treats you poorly, don’t settle. The woman who can follow the steps will be the happiest and healthiest version of herself possible, with or without a boyfriend.

It's Like 10,000 Spoons When All You Need Is A Knife

Today I paid a long overdue visit to my Aunt Marge. I've been meaning to visit her for months and I finally hauled my lazy butt over there. I see my Uncle on my mom's side fairly frequently, about once a week or so. We share mutual interests in dogs, festive beverages, making sure that he and my cousin have an appropriate amount of homemade baked goods, and attempting to prevent WWIII from breaking out between said uncle and cousin. I sadly see uncles and aunt in Florida and England far less frequently than I'd like to. Since air fare is pretty steep right now, I decided to at least pick up the slack with my Aunt Marge. She's not as coherent as she used to be, but she still loves to sing and when she laughs you can catch glimpses of the sunny, funny side of her. 


Isn't it ironic then that, on the weekend I decide to put a concerted effort into working on my book of the joys of singletonism, my dear Aunt turns to me in a moment of unexpected clarity to ask, "Didn't you ever think of getting married?"


I was momentarily stunned while she sat patiently waiting for my answer. I replied with something along the lines of yes, I did think of it but it just hasn't worked out that way. She looked confused for a minute, maybe thinking that I had meant to get married but somehow never got around to it; like how I mean to clean the basement but it remains a hot mess. Then she grabbed my face and told me I was beautiful. That was almost too much to take; I teared up a bit, seeing myself through her eyes, and decided that that was so much better than being told I'll meet the right guy soon--this being what far too many people say when asking why I'm not married.


My aunt could have written her own extreme dating diary if she had chosen to. Well, maybe not extreme but she was a hell of a lot more successful than her maiden niece. My aunt had been married fairly young but sadly her husband passed a long time ago. She never remarried, but man, did she have the fellas running in circles for her! There was one gentleman who bought her fine jewelry and other wonderful presents, another who sent her flowers fairly frequently. Lest you think there was anything untoward about their liaisons, she reassured my mother repeatedly in my presence that she didn't care what they bought her, none of them was putting his shoes under her bed.

After her proclamation of my beauty, she and I chatted a bit more, me trying to describe some of the more memorable men that I've dated and her responding that they sounded like a bunch of simpletons. She was in and out of it for the rest of the visit but snapped back to when I mentioned a recent morning with my father. I told her that taking a page from her book, I'd started having out-of-tune (on my part) sing-alongs with my dad since music seems to be one of the few things that still reaches him.

Anyway, that morning he really wasn't into it. I couldn't find any song that moved him. He just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed CD cases trying to find one that would break through when all of a sudden, he started singing "A You're Adorable," a song that he sang to me all the time as a little girl. He forgot some of the words, but I don't think I've heard anything more beautiful in a long time. He may not always know who I am and he is so disinterested in almost everything these days, but there is a part of my dad that is still in there.

When I told my aunt about this, she started singing the song right away. I joined in and we did our own little duet in the common family room area, surrounded by the other residents. Then I kissed her cheek and returned home.

For the past two hours I've been thinking about her question. A few years ago that question would have me curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and chain watching horribly cheesy romantic flicks. In fact it did when my very young nephew--I think he was 8 yrs old at the time-- ruefully shook his head, said to me, "I just can't understand why you're not married yet." I'm pretty sure he overheard that from either his parents or mine and it was supremely difficult to convince him that not everyone gets married and that it wasn't something to be sad about. Hell, at the time it was difficult to convince myself.

Maybe that's why I started writing my book, as a means of convincing myself that the life of the singleton is a great thing and nothing to pity. Maybe that's why I have taken a serious hiatus from Internet dating, as the dates were getting crazier and less fun. I know I haven't delivered on this site's promise of extreme dating and although I hate to disappoint anyone that is actually still reading this very infrequently updated blog, I have finally realized that I don't need to wait around for a better half. I'm whole myself.

Don't get me wrong, if a tall drink of water turns up, I won't send him packing. Especially if he is wildly wealthy and either travels frequently or believes in separate wings of the same mansion. I have just lost my tolerance for wading through the online crazies to find someone acceptable, let alone awesome. On that note, I'll stop procrastinating on coming up with an ending for my book and just start writing it.

Sad Sick Singleton

No, I haven't suddenly become sick of being a singleton. Rather, I wanted to bring up one thing about singletonism that truly sucks, namely being sick. I recently developed a disturbing and disgusting allergy to my contact lenses. I didn't know this at the time, I thought I just had torn a lens and had a bad pair. Let me set the scene for you: I'm still at the office about 90 minutes after I was supposed to have left and my eyes are killing me. I determine that one lens does seem to have some type of tear and couldn't figure out what the hell was up with the other one. The result is that my eyes are irritated and itchy, I'm becoming increasingly cross-eyed from not being able to look out of both eyes successfully at the same time, and this cross-eyedness has me feeling like I'm going to vom.

So of course this is when my boss decides that we need to have a meeting about how we can overachieve on a task that we haven't been officially assigned yet, despite the fact that my eyes are red and twitchy and I increase the amount of mentions of being about to vom. I finally get enough done to the point where I am set free into the balmy night although on the way at least two people try to stop me for another meeting. GAH!

As soon as I get to my car, I realize that all is not well as I have got to drive myself home. I can only credit a fleet of guardian angels, some seriously undeserved good karma, or nearly blind luck that I made it home with myself and my car all in tact. When I get home, Charlie is at the door waiting for a long walk and some entertaining. I look around for my butler to walk him, take out my eyeballs, and give me a Manhattan, but sadly I have not achieved independent wealth yet. So I pry the lenses from my eyeballs, hurriedly put on my glasses, and head out the door for a highly squinty walk. After the walk, I'm pretty much done for the day except that as Charlie has not learned how to cook me dinner or take out the recycling, there is no rest for the weary.

The next day I had fully planned to take the whole day off but as my work to do list had not become my to done list, that dream was shattered, leaving me with the hope that I could at least take a half day. My eyes are actually worse despite opting for glasses over the hateful lenses and prodigiously using eye drops. I make it an hour or so when a colleague sends me into a near panic by wondering if I have scratched my cornea and developed an infection. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I manage to make an appointment with the one ophthalmologist who works in the state of Maryland on a Friday and get out the door only slightly late for the appointment.

But there's that pesky part of being a singleton again, I have to drive myself to the doctor's where I learn that somehow in the past year I have developed a serious allergy to my lenses and have some awful infection. This is when I would have loved to have someone to drive me around and make everything better, but Charlie can't reach the gas pedal so I motor to 3 pharmacies to find the expensive and elusive eye drops I require and then return home.

There have been worse times when I've been sick and filled with angst at my solitary state. During those times I will whine mightily until my sister arrives to bring me juice, walk Charlie, pick up my meds, or generally be angelic. But although I know that I can call her whenever (and hope that she knows the same goes if she needs me), that good ole fashioned Catholic guilt makes me feel bad for bothering anyone. This is when it would be ideal if in/near my house there were someone with two legs, a driver's license, and the ability to make tea and soup who would come unbidden to deal with me in my sick and sad state.

Now I know that having a husband or boyfriend does not mean that all my woes would be made wonderful. I've seen plenty of friends whose spouses are miraculously unavailable or unwilling when my friends don't feel well. But if I had some sort of manservant or minion, he would have to tend to me and bring me saltines, eyedrops, fixed ankle walkers, or whatever my little heart desired. Just the thought of having a minion has made me feel a little better.

Thinking Outside the Box

“Thinking outside of the box” has to be one of my least favorite sayings (along with pre-planning and “I’m not disagreeing with you but…”). However, I dearly wanted to think outside of the box a few days ago when I had to make that fateful leap of checking the box for 35-39 instead of 30-34. It was just some stupid survey but if it hadn't been my laptop, I might have thrown it to the floor and run out screaming.

I already had the feeling that I was headed for my three-eighths life crisis. As a sign of how loony I had become, I sat down and actually figured that since I am possibly now somewhere between one-third and mid-life crises, that I likely at the three-eighth stage. Since I’m not a balding male, this crisis has not involved purchasing a sports car or taking up some sort of extreme sport. On the more feminine side, this crisis has not (yet) involved a major or even minor plastic surgery purchase or juice fast.

As far as I can tell, this particular crisis just involves a lot of thought of the number 35. I see it as these looming numbers, 100 feet tall and made out of something like concrete, and about to crush me like a bug. Images of what I thought my life would be like by the age of 35 have been fairly persistent too. No, not the thoughts that you have when you’re 5 years old and 35 seems ancient. But how in high school, when we had to fill out those things with where we thought we’d be in 10, 15, 20 years’ time.

I actually saw my senior year book with all those thoughts written out not too long ago. I thought that by 35 I’d be married, have at least one kid, and be happier with my weight and body image. I actually did write that out – I didn’t write that I wanted to be skinny, but that I wanted to be a healthy weight and be happy with my appearance.

As I tried to remind myself with my last post, I have in fact achieved that last bit. Sure I could stand to lose a few pounds so that my jeans were a little more comfortable, but I’m about 35 lbs lighter than I was in high school. I guess one out of three ain’t bad because unless I meet a guy, get knocked up, and have a baby in the next 11 months and 19 days, I will exit the age of 35 without having fulfilled the first two parts of what I thought I’d be by the age of 35.

It’s not that this number has me thinking about running back to online dating sites (although some have serious potential at least for unitqueness/hilarity/mortification/physical endangerment like SeaCaptain Date, FarmersOnly, and the Ayn Rand Dating Site). Nor do I feel the need to hit the sperm bank and pick out a donor. It just feels a little weird. Like there’s some great big “to do” list out there and not only have I not done the things on them, but may never do those things. And I might be okay with that.

Don’t get me wrong there are some days when I am decidedly not okay with the idea. But by and large, these things usually don’t weigh on my brain for days on end. Until 35.

By the time my mom was my age, she had 5 kids and was 8 years away from having moi. Crap, by the time my mom was like 28 or 30, she had 5 kids. However, she had 5 kids before she ever had a house of her own whereas I’ve had my own little abode for about 7 years now. She had also never worked outside of the home and to this day never worked outside of the home, whereas I’ve been gainfully, if at times unhappily, employed for 13 years. And although I have no kids of my own, I’m the proud aunt of some damn find nieces and nephews, and honorary “Auntie A” to a few kids that are so cute, they could get away with murder, or at least tying my hair into knots or pounding on my stomach when we play “salon” or “hospital.”

But still, 35? I don’t feel 35. I still feel like an idiot teenager who has no idea what to do with her life and keeps hoping someone will show up and make the decision for her. I still plot out the tattoo that I’ve been planning on getting for about 10 years or so, were it not for my crippling fear of needles and pain. I still drink milk from the carton sometimes or have too many beers or take a nap when I know I should be cleaning or doing something productive.

They say age is just a state of mind. My favoritest boss in the world is somewhere around 73 years of age and he still works the schedule of a person younger than me and with a fire in his belly that I think will prevent him from retiring. Yet I know people my age who live like their best years are behind them.

When I look at Charlie, I can see more grey in his muzzle, but he still runs around like a pup. So even though some of those lines around my eyes and mouth aren’t going away and I fear its past time to call up the stylist and touch up my roots, I will try to run around, not like a teenager as I don’t think I can take the angst and emotional turmoil, but maybe like a 24 year old. The time when you’ve had to live a bit on your own but you can still remember the last time you woke up with your head in the toilet, although you may wish you couldn’t. When life seemed like an array of endless possibilities, nothing decided, nothing set in stone.

And on that note, I gotta get moving as I’m going to a concert soon with a friend from college. We’re going to see Dar Williams, a singer/songwriter I first saw in concert when I was 18 and she came to my college. Afterward, she went out with a few of us to a diner for late night pancakes and philosophical discussions. I saw her again I think around my senior year and then a few years after graduation. So my Brendala-friendala and I will grab an early dinner, hit the early show, and maybe grab a beer before she heads home to the kidlets and love-muffin hubs and I head home to Charlie who will probably get to hear me singing off-key to one of the more apropos Dar songs, “You’re Aging Well.”

You Are What You Eat?

I realized today that it's been 10 years since I went on a weight loss program that I actually stuck with and that mostly worked. I say mostly because I have put back on about 15 lbs of the near 60 lbs I lost. Regardless, I'm pretty proud of my accomplishment since I know the odds were not in my favor. According to a study I just read on the Internet (so you know it must be true), something like 95% of people who lose weight put most or all of it back on. So I did pretty good.

And yet, I am still obsessed with my weight. I'm going to guess that if I were to add up all the minutes when I thought about my weight on a daily basis, it would average about 45 minutes. This is a total guess but I think a lot days it may be more than 45 minutes. For a while I thought about keeping a record and making a notation every time I thought about my weight, but in addition to it being really depressing, if I decided to do this I would skew the results because I'd be conscious about how often I obsess on my weight and would think even more about my weight.

I know in my head that it's only a number on a scale and that I have a very distorted image of myself. But most of the time, knowing that in my head has no effect on how I see myself, how I've always seen myself. Since I was eight years old, I've been chunky, overweight, fat, whatever you want to call it. I kind of remember it starting around 3rd grade. There was a really extended period that year where my mom had a hard time getting up and dealing with the world, so my dad fixed my lunches. Dad would pack me the most fantastic of lunches: bags and bags of Cheetos, Ding Dongs, candy bars, those crackers with the red spatula and a well of cheez. You name it, if it was junky and delicious it was in my lunch box and there was usually enough for 2 or 3 kids. And I loved it. 

Of course, these dangerously wondrous meals were not the only factor of my increased weight and the fact that it stayed like that for 2/3 of my life. I was never an athletically inclined kid which is a roundabout way of saying that I was crap at sports and humiliated by/terrified of gym class. To say that I was a geek is a bit of an understatement. I was that kid, you know, the one who takes extra math and science classes on the weekends and in the summer. Once upon a time, I was actually pretty smart until the omniscience of the Internet and the presence of calculators on my cell phone meant that I spent less and less time thinking about problems and finding ways to solve them. 

So I was that kid. The nerdy one, who was in honors classes, band (and yes even summer band camp), drama, etc. It was great. I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I accept and even embrace my dorkdom. Except there was always something that diminished my love of life and self-confidence: my weight. I had this idea that when I was thin, everything would be better. This idea has stuck with me pretty much to this day. Once I hit puberty, I became convinced that as soon as I became THIN all of the guys that I had crushes on would regret how they ignored me and ask me to go out with them. I saw the word THIN in these big, hazy, glowing letters, as if they were bathed in a heavenly light. Something highly desirable and seemingly unattainable.

The thing is, I actually did have more guys interested in me once I started to drop some lbs. Its not like they were lining up around the block, but I had a period where guys who hadn't noticed me before, did. This was even before I had turned to dating websites. These guys from "the real world" were pursuing me. Me. Can you believe it? I couldn't. Now I don't know if it was solely due to the weight loss, or if because I was feeling better about myself, I went out more so I met more guys, or if my increased self-confidence drew them in and made them LIKE like me, not just like me. Maybe it was a bit of all of those things. 

But even when I got to my slimmest, I believed I needed to lose more. I still think that now. When I enter a room, I look to see if I'm the biggest person there. It's automatic; I've tried to stop it and while I don't obsess about it all day long, the idea of my weight in comparison to others--that idea persists. 

I have accepted that I just like food too much to ever be thin. I mean, food is great. There are so many wonderful dishes out there to try, I don't know how skinny minnies can resist. And I really enjoy cooking, particularly baking. I feel calmer when I'm in the kitchen. Ideas come to me a little more freely.  I don't want to give that up even if I were to become a size 6. Plus, my food can make other people happy, which is a really great feeling. A while ago, I made pots de creme for a friend and she was so enthused that she said she would leave her husband, move in with me immediately, and become my minion if I agreed to make the dessert every day. I have always wanted minions. But I digress. 

You may be wondering, what is my point? Why am I blathering on and on about my now-not-so-secret obsession with my weight? There is an idea, or rather the nugget of an idea, that popped into my head. If I admitted this obsession--this fear that people thought I was fat and that who I am is related to how much I weigh-- if I admitted this, I could move the hell on. 

Am I afraid that my friends and family, at least the ones who read this blog, will think I'm crazier than they already thought? Maybe a little. But sitting here now, just a few minutes after getting all of this out there, I feel freer. I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders even if it hasn't been lifted off my thighs. My new goal is for every time my brain goes back to that place and I think negatively about the junk in my trunk, I will stop and think of one thing about myself that I like. 

I'll try not to take this too far in the other direction to the point where the main thing that's fat is my head as I become so convinced of my awesomeness that I am unbearable to be around. Honestly, I think almost everyone out there could do with a little more self-confidence, a little less focusing on our flaws. At least once a day, look in the mirror and like what you see. Not what you would look like if you worked out a little bit more, or looked more like you did when you were younger; like what you see here and now. Maybe doing this will make it a little bit easier to go out in the world and see the beauty in someone else, in everyone else. 

Golden Girls

I know its been 100 years since I last posted but that was largely due to the fact that I've actually been working on my book. Gah!!! It is both exciting and completely unnerving at the same time. I mean, will people actually want to read about me for scads and scads and pages? Is this something I'll write and my friends will hide their grimaces and say things like "way to go" or "I really like the cover?" But let's leave this hand-wringing and angst until later for my latest dating rant.

On Saturday night I went to a party at the nicest house I've ever seen in real life without having to pay for admission. It was seriously swank: 3 floors, ultra finished basement, wine cellar, multiple balconies for me to recreate scenes from Evita, ginormous garage, beautiful lawns, and a fantastic porch. I felt like a perpetual sophomore using milk crates as furniture.

Now don't get all excited, I wasn't on a date with the owner of this house (although I do have a plan to become the couple's new best friend and get invited routinely to spend the weekend at their estate). Nor was I on a date with anyone. But I was there with a single guy friend who I've known for over a decade now. Before you start thinking this is one of those Harry-Met-Sally deals, let me say that he has unreasonable expectations about the female body and he has 2% body fat. He also hates to stay up past 9pm, doesn't like bevvies or lots of people, and doesn't seem to really dig dogs. He is however a really decent guy and a good friend so when he told me about this party for a friend of his who I hadn't seen in years, I said yes.

The evening itself was good - I really didn't know anyone else but people were pretty friendly, the birthday boy was hilarious as usual, and in spite of the fact that it was an ultra-posh pad I managed not to make a goober of myself. What was unnerving was the convo I had with my friend that brought me.

We were talking about how difficult it is to find someone to date. He has also tried multiple dating sites and although he hasn't had my atrocious luck, he also has yet to meet his other half on said dating sites. Anyways, my friend was saying how he was debating going on a date with a woman because she was one year older than him. One year. Yet, he was totally comfortable dating a girl 12 years younger than him. Sadly I don't think he's alone in this preference. Most guys I meet that are my age are looking for some girl in her early 20's maybe as old as mid-20's. When they find out how old I am, some of them high tail it for the hills as if I were actually 40 years older and offering them a prune cocktail.

The thought of dating a guy in his early to mid-20's gives me the heebie jeebies. My cousin and I have been talking about giving speed dating a try, but she wants to join the 25-35 yr old crowd where I feel more comfortable with the 30-40 yr olds. It isn't that I wouldn't consider dating a guy younger than me, its just that a) men don't appear comfortable with that b) the few I've met or interacted with are crazily immature and c) I'm just too tired to set myself up for something where I fear the guys would think I was an old maid trying to cruise the playground.

Why is it that men almost always seem to want a younger girl? I have been approached by some younger guys online but they inevitably are the ones who talk about suffering from a case of "macro-phallus," live with their parents, all of their profile pics feature them drinking with lots of ladies, and cannot seem to carry on a conversation that doesn't at some point lead to a discussion of my undergarments. Seriously, this one tried to instant message me for like two weeks in a row (before I figured out how to block him) and always started out with a question about my panties.

So what are the options left for me? Dating the psychos I find online, picking out my next boy, er, manfriend at the nursing home I volunteer at, being harangued by boys who seem to be perpetually pubescent, or being alone? Out of all of those, the alone thing isn't looking so bad.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Two things have made me question what is it about me that seems to only attract weirdos and assclowns. Last night, I went out to dinner with some old friends that I hadn’t seen in what feels like about 100 years. We had all worked together once upon a time and were getting together because the one couple had moved out of state a few years ago and is back in town this weekend. It was a great evening and that might make you wonder why I’m pondering my seemingly endless supply of bad luck in the guy department. In addition to the first couple I mentioned, there was another couple and a single female friend. Whilst we were waiting for a table, the subject of my insane dating stories arose and I began chatting with my single friend about her foray into the world of online dating.

Now this friend is trying one of the many sites I have tried. She’s been on eHarmful* for a month or so and has met very few of the guys she’s been matched with, but is continuing to communicate with a small number of gents. What’s strange to me is that, even though she has only met a few of them, none of them were weird. None were matches that swept her off her feet, but none of them were wacko. Given my experience, I really don’t understand how that is possible. She said that she thought it was me – that somehow I was attracting all the crazies. I replied, somewhat frantically, that it was just that I had dated so many guys that there bound to be some who were a little bit nuts or frightening. But a nagging voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up and kept saying “what if she’s right?”

Fast forward to this morning, whilst walking my faithful canine companion I realized it’s been about a year since my last online date and that date was with the satanic fecalphiliac. If you want the full story, read Deal With the Devil, but the short version is that he had an email that had “666” in it and when I asked why he said because it was so easy to remember. And for some reason in at least two phone conversations before we met, he talked about poop. A lot. I mean, any discussion of poop before you even go on your first date is alarming, but he really seemed incapable of not talking about it. I think the context was about my dog and did I often come home to a house filled with poop, did I have to pick up his poop all the time outside, etc,. etc.

When I met him, he didn’t seem to be satanic and he managed to get thru the whole date without mentioning feces. That’s about all that could be said for the date though, so it was both our first and our last date.

So with my friend’s words from last night ringing in my years, coupled with the memory of my last internet date a year ago—this is of course not counting the debacle with the dog walking neighbor (aka the DW) who I didn’t meet online but now have to see constantly as he runs in and out of the neighborhood with that chippy little girlfriend who of course I have not thought about flinging a bag of dog poo at, but I digress… where was I?

Oh yeah, so now I’ve spent the morning wondering, is it me? What is it about me? I’ve philosophized that because I’m probably the first woman in a long time that has actually appeared to listen to what these guys are saying, that this is why these guys tell me all their strangest and most embarrassing traits within 20 minutes of meeting me. That may or may not be true, but I need to rewind to even before that point in time. What is it about how I portray myself online and “in the real world” and the qualities I say I am looking for in a guy, what is it about those things that seems to make me a magnet for the maniacs?

In composing my online profiles for the various sites, I often solicit the feedback of friends, both female and male, to ask for pointers. I’ve changed profile pictures and how I describe myself and what I’m looking for based on these pointers. I’m not trying to say that my friends are responsible for my profile catching the eyes of every weirdo in the DC/MD/VA area, but saying that I’ve taken the time to get people’s opinions on the profile to see if it’s the best way to go.

I just tried to find some examples of what I’ve posted but can’t find a single record.  The closest I’ve found was some of the answers I put to the free form questions that make up a person’s profile on Viral Venus* and here are some snippets:

Self summary: What do you say about yourself in 100 characters? I love to laugh and love to make other people laugh. I'm pretty independent and love to try new things. I try to spend as much time as I can with family and friends. Interests include yoga, working out, reading, writing, hiking with my dog, sucking at golf, cooking, playing the piano, and just hanging out with friends and family.

I'm the youngest of six kids and have a large extended family as well who mainly live in the area although fortunately some are in great places to visit like England. I really enjoy traveling and have plenty of places left on my wish list to check out. Some of my favorite trips have been kind of last minute plans with my sister or a friend - driving through Tennessee, taking a Navajo tour of Canyon de Chelley and staying overnight in Monument Valley, or hitting my aunt and uncle's cabin in WV for a long weekend.

I like learning new things and am an inexperienced trivia buff. I used to speak Spanish semi-well but a beginner's Chinese class gave my Spanish tones, and a general disuse has eroded my skills. This past year I started taking golf and yoga classes and really enjoy them although am far better at yoga than golf. I'm taking some cooking classes with a friend and am contemplating brushing up my Spanish or picking up a new language.
           

I’m really good at: Cooking, yoga, getting into hijinx with my friends, playing bizarre medleys on the piano, making fish faces

The first thing people notice about me are: My willingness to make a fool of myself to make people laugh, my crazy laugh, my NBA player-like height (ok, totally kidding on that one)

Fave books include "Gods Behaving Badly", "Eyre Affair", "Secret life of Humans", "Once and Future King", "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Fave movies include "Philadelphia Story", "Office Space", "Old School", and "Stranger than Fiction." Fave food includes Chipotle burritos, breyers mint chip (but not with the burritos), pecan pie, and twizzlers.

On a typical Friday night I am: Checking out a new restaurant, having drinks with friends, or cuddling up with my dog and finally plowing through some of my netflix movies that spend most of their time sitting on top of the t.v. waiting to be watched. Or if its warmer I'm at a golf class making a fool of myself with a friend and then out on the town afterwards to relive how goofy we were at said golf class.

That wasn’t what I had on most of my profiles but although I tried to keep accurate records of the disasters I dated, I couldn’t find any of my many dating site profiles. I know I’ve asked you in the past for examples of pickup lines (see What’s Your Sign?), but your new mission, dear readers, should you choose to accept it is to help me figure out how I should describe myself in a way that is both honest and appealing and most importantly in a way that will attract more mentally healthy guys than not. If I am to rejoin the frightening world of online dating, or other set-up schemes, despite my dating history, I would need some way to change it up so that when I’m describing my dates to friends as we catch up, phrases like “afraid of people and food”, “afraid of electricity,” “I feared for my physical and mental safety,” or “hair licker” are not the first words that come to mind.

*Name has been changed.