You've heard it said that there are two types of people in this world, those who love Neil Diamond and those who don't. Thank you, Bob Wiley, for your wisdom. However, we relatively reasonable people know that there are lots of different kinds of people out there. Variety is the spice of life! Different is good! It takes all kinds! And my favorite, We all live in a cultural salad bowl! Well, the same is true for crazy weirdos. There are all kinds out there. If you want to discover just how many varieties of weirdo are available to you, all you need to do is sign up for some speed dating.
For those of you living peaceably under a rock somewhere and are blissfully unaware of the cultural phenomenon that is speed dating, let me give you a little primer. You write your name on a sign-up sheet. You are given a number. You sit in a large room at a long table expectantly. Women sit on one side, men on the other. You have about two minutes to casually introduce yourself to the man in front of you before another one rotates into that same seat; you have two minutes to converse; repeat. The idea behind it: you get to know 10-20 people of the opposite sex in an evening as opposed to the traditional one person. The idea itself has some potential, let's say, if the participants go through some kind--any kind--of screening process. Otherwise, it's Russian roulette, and you're going to really wish you had all the bullets by the end of the night.
So why on earth would a normal, un-inebriated person of her own free will and choice decide to participate in such an activity? Best question ever. Let me answer as succinctly and cheerfully as possible. Heartbreak--if you can call it heartbreak after just four months of emotional disconnect. Some girls dye their hair a crazy color, some get drunk. Me? I go speed dating.
My rationale: the best way to get over something like the cold, dark room of heartbreak is to get right back up on the horse, right? Right?? Oops. Turns out the best way to send yourself back into crying fits of self-pity and thoughts of becoming a lesbian or dating cats is to go speed-dating.
I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning. But something had to be done about the aforementioned feeling of out-of-control hopelessness. Anything. And then, in front of me, on the program for church, the speed dating activity appeared. Now, to understand the extreme desperation of someone seeing this as a ray of hope, let me explain my church situation. I'm LDS. I'm 31 or over. Therefore, I've been relegated to outer darkness as someone who was given the chance to get married in my 20s, but totally blew it. So now I attend the singles ward for 31-45 year olds. It could be worse, as my LDS friends of similar unfortunate demographics can tell you. It could be a singles ward for 31-100 year olds. (No joke.) In any case, when you turn 31, you can either go to your geographic home ward, or if you live in the Salt Lake, Davis, or Weber counties (that's right, three entire counties), you have the option of attending my ward.
So you have a ward of nearly 500 (!) single people aged 31-45. Let that sink in for a second. Now, anywhere you go, you're going to run into eccentric people, people who are a little off, a little socially retarded. Imagine nearly 500 single LDS virgin people in their 30s and 40s. Imagine it. Most of these are going to be women. Granted, several of these will be strange floppy hat ladies or may still have personal hygiene struggles. But I'm willing to go out on a limb and say most of the women are relatively functional in society. They own furniture. They have jobs. As for the men... Well, that appears to be a different story.
In LDS culture, especially for single LDS women in the above age bracket, good LDS men are in demand. After all, how else are we poor LDS women to be exalted (reach ultimate after-life glory) without a good LDS man? And as the simple rule of economics, supply and demand, will tell you, if supply decreases while demand increases, well...
I offer a brief analogy. Let's say suddenly the demand for Magic Bullets suddenly skyrockets because the fate of humanity in the afterlife depends solely on the acquisition of at least one Magic Bullet. But let's say it takes about 21 years to make a quality Magic Bullet. That shit's going to be expensive. Sure, you could go with a generic brand, but that'll just end in broken hearts and tears. So consumers save and save and save, and some of them are able to buy the Magic Bullets before others have saved enough. This puts the Magic Bullets currently on the market in extremely high demand. Retailers can pretty much ask whatever they want for the Magic Bullets and people will pay it. But after the available Magic Bullets are sold, what's left? Mutant Magic Bullets, warped lids, short circuits, even missing parts. Is that what I've been saving for? A freaking unusable Magic Bullet? WTF?
So speed dating. What I'm saying is these men, these men are the Mutant Magic Bullets. They're missing parts of their brains, they have warped ideas and faces, short circuited emotions. Is this really all that's left? These are my options? To go speed dating with these sad sacks of humanity? All I can do is laugh. And I did, right in the middle of it when one of the Mutants is leaning over the table, his bug eyes and halitosis invading my personal space and asks, "What are you passionate about?" I laugh. Because if I didn't laugh, I would just start digging my own grave right now. What am I passionate about? Never speed dating again. Ever. Period.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Friday, October 8, 2010
Internet Dating (Reposted from 9/30/09)
Really, one could create an entire blog devoted solely to this topic. I'm sure there are some out there. Here's mine.
So like a dog to its vomit, when the well of dating runs dry (and when is it not dry?), I go back to the internet. The internet that brings us the finer things in life such as karaoke youtube-style and that one unicorn guy from Brooklyn. Why wouldn't the internet, the giver of such grand things, be a well-suited and magical place to meet people, even a dateable people? Good question, me. The hypothesis gains credibility when you consider that I can name three couples right off the top of my head, happily married, who met on the internet. And if I thought about it, I could probably name more, some married, some dating. (But I won't name names. Don't you guys worry!)
So if this is the case: people do meet their significant and dateable others on the interwebs (as my brother-in-law calls it), why is it such a shameful thing to say, "Oh, yeah. Me and the wife, we met online!" The fact is, it is shameful. It is creepy. And it is unnatural. Let me tell you why.
As I have dived back into the seedy world of online dating, I have discovered some things. One, I spend more time looking at my own profile than really caring about the other profiles of eligible men out there. I like looking at my pictures. I smile and inwardly giggle at the cleverness of my personality in my introduction. "Gosh, I'm adorable," I think. But as I think this, I click on my inbox and find that it's still devoid of messages. Devoid for weeks, mind you. So then I want to change the subheading on my profile to: "Hey, I'm cute dammit! And if you're too retarded to see, screw you, buddy!"
And this is on a good day.
Most of time, if there is a message in the inbox, it's from a "laid-back guy" who "loves the outdoors" and who will probably kill and maim you after he attempts to chat you up via video-chat where he reveals himself as the next TLC reality star in "The 700-Pound Serial Killer." If this is not entirely accurate, then the message is from someone who knew your great-grandfather in "The Great War" and finds you "cute as a button" and who will also kill and maim you and possibly eat your flesh. (Yes, I do realize I've changed to second-person, but I'm only trying to distance myself from this harsh and sobering reality. Get over it.)
If, by some miracle of God, in my inbox there appears a message from someone who, by all accounts appears to be "normal," I will write him back with something witty and clever and something I will spend entirely too much time on crafting. Even if all he writes is something completely inane or more boring than taxes, "Hey, what's up?" I will respond. I will spend whole minutes debating on whether to go with the smiley emoticon or the winky emoticon.
If this strategy works, and the "normal" online male responds with some equally clever banter, we may volley back and forth a few emails. And every night when I come home I will have this ridiculous bubble of expectation in my stomach: "I wonder if he wrote back? Did he? What did he say? Oh, he probably didn't write back. Don't be such a Desperate Doris. What if he likes me? Will this be the email that takes us to the next step?? The phone call???"
Of course these thought patterns are ridiculous. We all know how it ends. You either meet and he turns out to be a weirdo freak after all, or you don't meet. Usually for me, it's the don't meet. Want to know why? Of course you do.
After so many emails, I can't take it anymore. "Let's be like actual people who actually have conversations," I think to myself. This emailing is ridiculous. If I want a pen pal, I'll find a lonely inmate in Siberia who only speaks halting English or a poor Puerto Rican kid whose dream is to play soccer in America (not knowing this will only put him one rung above fast-food managers here). No more emailing. I want a damn date. That's why they call them dating websites, people. To date. D-A-T-E. Not the raisiny thing that tastes like flour. Going out. On a DATE. So I'll start by implying such things in our emailing volley. When he doesn't pick it up (which is a given), I inevitably resort to drastic measures.
Now, I don't think giving men my number is drastic. It's not. If I ever happened to meet someone in the real world who was not a serial killer and with whom I had some things in common, I wouldn't think twice about handing over my digits. I will never, ever hand over my digits if the man seems the least bit insincere. I'm not going to force myself on anybody, 'cause pathetic much? Come on.
Now, that said, at the point in the email correspondence that screams, "Go big or go home," I will type in my digits. My finger will hover uncertainly over the mouse which is aimed to click "Send." Finally, I will say to myself, "Screw it. If he's not man enough to ask you out on a real date, you never needed him anyway," and I will send him my phone number, naked and vulnerable little numbers.
GAH! We all know what happens after this: nothing. Can someone tell me what the hell this is all about? I'd like some logical conclusion: My number causes instantaneous blindness, or typing so much has caused irreparable carpal tunnel (did I even spell that right?). All I'm saying is that all you "men" out there on the internet are cowards. That's right, cowards. If you can't even show the least bit of initiative toward a cyber-relationship, what hope do you have of a real one? For crying in the night.
So, I've learned my lesson. Again. I'm leaving internet dating. If that means leaving dating period, so be it. I'm packing my metaphorical bags, and I'm traveling solo. Because my profile is adorable. And so is the person behind it. Even if I'm the only who thinks so. So there.
So like a dog to its vomit, when the well of dating runs dry (and when is it not dry?), I go back to the internet. The internet that brings us the finer things in life such as karaoke youtube-style and that one unicorn guy from Brooklyn. Why wouldn't the internet, the giver of such grand things, be a well-suited and magical place to meet people, even a dateable people? Good question, me. The hypothesis gains credibility when you consider that I can name three couples right off the top of my head, happily married, who met on the internet. And if I thought about it, I could probably name more, some married, some dating. (But I won't name names. Don't you guys worry!)
So if this is the case: people do meet their significant and dateable others on the interwebs (as my brother-in-law calls it), why is it such a shameful thing to say, "Oh, yeah. Me and the wife, we met online!" The fact is, it is shameful. It is creepy. And it is unnatural. Let me tell you why.
As I have dived back into the seedy world of online dating, I have discovered some things. One, I spend more time looking at my own profile than really caring about the other profiles of eligible men out there. I like looking at my pictures. I smile and inwardly giggle at the cleverness of my personality in my introduction. "Gosh, I'm adorable," I think. But as I think this, I click on my inbox and find that it's still devoid of messages. Devoid for weeks, mind you. So then I want to change the subheading on my profile to: "Hey, I'm cute dammit! And if you're too retarded to see, screw you, buddy!"
And this is on a good day.
Most of time, if there is a message in the inbox, it's from a "laid-back guy" who "loves the outdoors" and who will probably kill and maim you after he attempts to chat you up via video-chat where he reveals himself as the next TLC reality star in "The 700-Pound Serial Killer." If this is not entirely accurate, then the message is from someone who knew your great-grandfather in "The Great War" and finds you "cute as a button" and who will also kill and maim you and possibly eat your flesh. (Yes, I do realize I've changed to second-person, but I'm only trying to distance myself from this harsh and sobering reality. Get over it.)
If, by some miracle of God, in my inbox there appears a message from someone who, by all accounts appears to be "normal," I will write him back with something witty and clever and something I will spend entirely too much time on crafting. Even if all he writes is something completely inane or more boring than taxes, "Hey, what's up?" I will respond. I will spend whole minutes debating on whether to go with the smiley emoticon or the winky emoticon.
If this strategy works, and the "normal" online male responds with some equally clever banter, we may volley back and forth a few emails. And every night when I come home I will have this ridiculous bubble of expectation in my stomach: "I wonder if he wrote back? Did he? What did he say? Oh, he probably didn't write back. Don't be such a Desperate Doris. What if he likes me? Will this be the email that takes us to the next step?? The phone call???"
Of course these thought patterns are ridiculous. We all know how it ends. You either meet and he turns out to be a weirdo freak after all, or you don't meet. Usually for me, it's the don't meet. Want to know why? Of course you do.
After so many emails, I can't take it anymore. "Let's be like actual people who actually have conversations," I think to myself. This emailing is ridiculous. If I want a pen pal, I'll find a lonely inmate in Siberia who only speaks halting English or a poor Puerto Rican kid whose dream is to play soccer in America (not knowing this will only put him one rung above fast-food managers here). No more emailing. I want a damn date. That's why they call them dating websites, people. To date. D-A-T-E. Not the raisiny thing that tastes like flour. Going out. On a DATE. So I'll start by implying such things in our emailing volley. When he doesn't pick it up (which is a given), I inevitably resort to drastic measures.
Now, I don't think giving men my number is drastic. It's not. If I ever happened to meet someone in the real world who was not a serial killer and with whom I had some things in common, I wouldn't think twice about handing over my digits. I will never, ever hand over my digits if the man seems the least bit insincere. I'm not going to force myself on anybody, 'cause pathetic much? Come on.
Now, that said, at the point in the email correspondence that screams, "Go big or go home," I will type in my digits. My finger will hover uncertainly over the mouse which is aimed to click "Send." Finally, I will say to myself, "Screw it. If he's not man enough to ask you out on a real date, you never needed him anyway," and I will send him my phone number, naked and vulnerable little numbers.
GAH! We all know what happens after this: nothing. Can someone tell me what the hell this is all about? I'd like some logical conclusion: My number causes instantaneous blindness, or typing so much has caused irreparable carpal tunnel (did I even spell that right?). All I'm saying is that all you "men" out there on the internet are cowards. That's right, cowards. If you can't even show the least bit of initiative toward a cyber-relationship, what hope do you have of a real one? For crying in the night.
So, I've learned my lesson. Again. I'm leaving internet dating. If that means leaving dating period, so be it. I'm packing my metaphorical bags, and I'm traveling solo. Because my profile is adorable. And so is the person behind it. Even if I'm the only who thinks so. So there.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Kick A
I have been working out for almost six months, people. Six months! This is somewhat demented. In the history of mankind, I have never stuck with an exercise routine for this long. It's like asking a pubescent male to remember to shower everyday or a kindergartner to stop picking his nose and eating it. I've succeeded in all of the above. Well, mostly.
So what does this working out do for me? Well, I can generally feel smug. So that's good. But also there have appeared these guns. Not airsofts or magnums or tommys, but lovely little biceps and triceps. Imagine me kissing them right now. See? Smug.
Now that you hate me sufficiently (I would), you have to know that all this is because of Cindy Whitmarsh. Okay, okay, and also my smug sister. But Cindy, too. I heart Cindy Whitmarsh. I would marry her workouts if I lived in England and could marry anything I wanted.
So now all I have to do is keep it up. Pshaw. Just because it will be winter soon and it will be dark and lonely and my job will shortly take over my life like a python squeezes the life out of jungle monkeys and my hours at home will diminish and the stress will stack up like unused phone books doesn't mean I'm giving up! I can't. I mustn't. I shouldn't. It can't happen!! If you could see my face, you would see possibly some spinach in my teeth and then you would see the look on my face which would be a look of pathetic pleading. I must press forward in exercise! I must be determined and relentless. Now my face looks relentless. Especially the eyes. They say (only metaphorically) I will succeed!
So what does this working out do for me? Well, I can generally feel smug. So that's good. But also there have appeared these guns. Not airsofts or magnums or tommys, but lovely little biceps and triceps. Imagine me kissing them right now. See? Smug.
Now that you hate me sufficiently (I would), you have to know that all this is because of Cindy Whitmarsh. Okay, okay, and also my smug sister. But Cindy, too. I heart Cindy Whitmarsh. I would marry her workouts if I lived in England and could marry anything I wanted.
So now all I have to do is keep it up. Pshaw. Just because it will be winter soon and it will be dark and lonely and my job will shortly take over my life like a python squeezes the life out of jungle monkeys and my hours at home will diminish and the stress will stack up like unused phone books doesn't mean I'm giving up! I can't. I mustn't. I shouldn't. It can't happen!! If you could see my face, you would see possibly some spinach in my teeth and then you would see the look on my face which would be a look of pathetic pleading. I must press forward in exercise! I must be determined and relentless. Now my face looks relentless. Especially the eyes. They say (only metaphorically) I will succeed!
Cereal (Original Posting: 9/1/10)
I don't cook. I won't apologize for it. It's not that I can't. No really. I can cook if I want. But why would I want? Especially not when there's cereal. Someone once told me that cereal is like dog food for people. That's a horrible, misguided falsehood. I feel sorry for that guy. Living in the dark like that. No Fruity Pebbles or Honeycomb to comfort him. See, I love cereal. Sugar cereal. I even love the characters, especially the generic ones (shout out to my Marshmallow Mateys and Cocoa Roos). But our relationship, mine and cereal's, has not always been so smooth. It's not that cereal doesn't love me back. Ours is a love that defies time and space. Yet there was once one mutual enemy that almost tore us apart. It's hard to talk about even today. But for the sake of cereal, I will try.
I've always loved cereal. From the beginning of time... since I could eat solids. Cereal has been there for me through the toughest times. Apple Jacks, Cap'n Crunch, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. I've loved them all. The only problem was the milk. Milk had it in for me. As it turned out, I was lactose intolerant. How could this be, you ask incredulously. And you should. With a hearty helping of incredulity. Even after this heartbreaking milky discovery, I couldn't give up on my cereal. Years of stomach aches and embarrassing gastrointestinal breakdowns later, I discovered soy milk, lactose-free milk, rice milk. Yet these were all disgusting, if not utterly bank-breaking. Something had to give. My precious cereal and I made the impossible decision to take a break for a while. Nothing definite. But I was still destroyed.
Eventually, while standing in the dairy aisle one Saturday afternoon, daydreaming of Trix, Honey Smacks, Froot Loops, even Frosted Mini-wheats and Raisin Nut Bran, I decided to try to appeal to our vicious enemy milk one last time. I bought a half-gallon of skim, giddy with the thought of where I would visit next: the beloved cereal aisle.
It had been so long. So long since I had traveled down that exquisite aisle to do anything but yearn from afar. I quickly filled my basket. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Oh's, Life. Oh, how I'd missed them. But the trial of our separation was not over. We had yet to overcome the intolerance keeping us apart. As I sat down to my first bowl of Honey Smacks in several months, I said a little prayer. Please help me my intolerance for the cereal I do love.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the prayer. Whatever it was, cereal and I currently enjoy a full relationship. Milk still provides an occasional rift, but after that infamous breakup, cereal and I know that it's better to be together than apart. This is why I don't cook. Cereal has saved my life. I love it. It loves me. I don't have to worry about cleaning a million dishes, waiting expectantly near the oven or microwave, wasting leftovers. I pour one bowl. Just me and the cereal. It's synergistic. It's mind-blowing. It's my love for cereal.
I've always loved cereal. From the beginning of time... since I could eat solids. Cereal has been there for me through the toughest times. Apple Jacks, Cap'n Crunch, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. I've loved them all. The only problem was the milk. Milk had it in for me. As it turned out, I was lactose intolerant. How could this be, you ask incredulously. And you should. With a hearty helping of incredulity. Even after this heartbreaking milky discovery, I couldn't give up on my cereal. Years of stomach aches and embarrassing gastrointestinal breakdowns later, I discovered soy milk, lactose-free milk, rice milk. Yet these were all disgusting, if not utterly bank-breaking. Something had to give. My precious cereal and I made the impossible decision to take a break for a while. Nothing definite. But I was still destroyed.
Eventually, while standing in the dairy aisle one Saturday afternoon, daydreaming of Trix, Honey Smacks, Froot Loops, even Frosted Mini-wheats and Raisin Nut Bran, I decided to try to appeal to our vicious enemy milk one last time. I bought a half-gallon of skim, giddy with the thought of where I would visit next: the beloved cereal aisle.
It had been so long. So long since I had traveled down that exquisite aisle to do anything but yearn from afar. I quickly filled my basket. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Oh's, Life. Oh, how I'd missed them. But the trial of our separation was not over. We had yet to overcome the intolerance keeping us apart. As I sat down to my first bowl of Honey Smacks in several months, I said a little prayer. Please help me my intolerance for the cereal I do love.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the prayer. Whatever it was, cereal and I currently enjoy a full relationship. Milk still provides an occasional rift, but after that infamous breakup, cereal and I know that it's better to be together than apart. This is why I don't cook. Cereal has saved my life. I love it. It loves me. I don't have to worry about cleaning a million dishes, waiting expectantly near the oven or microwave, wasting leftovers. I pour one bowl. Just me and the cereal. It's synergistic. It's mind-blowing. It's my love for cereal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)