Of Geese and Men

I’m baaaaa-ack. 

It’s been brought to my attention that I have not yet blogged in 2012, and I’m sure you’re all missing my great and wonderful musings…all three of you that regularly read this blog. And may I point out that my mother, who I have given the blog link to on multiple occasions, and who is a big proponent of me and my [non-existent] writing career, is not, in fact, a regular reader. I think that maybe she’s afraid she’ll glean a bit too much tawdry information from one of my date stories, tarnishing the “good girl” image she has of me, but I think that we can all agree this blog is not a catalog of sex-capades, a la Sex in the City. Maybe I would have more readers if it was…or if I didn’t go three months without posting…but alas I never kiss and tell – unless it’s really funny.

So, what have I been doing these last three months, you ask? I’ve actually been quite busy for someone who usually hibernates through the winter months. I’ve started a new job, where people are simultaneously very friendly and very segregated into their own little groups (and most of my group is not at my location), and where each morning I am forced to access the building via a gauntlet of honking, hissing geese and the subsequent piles of goose poop. There are, and this is not an exaggeration, several hundred geese currently occupying the pond behind the building and the lovely, park-like surroundings. It must be the beginning of mating season because they seem to be doing their little mating dances and pairing off.

Goose mating appears to be much easier than the human version. Maybe we should dispense with our dating rituals and take a cue from the geese. They are monogamous and mate for life – no cheating or divorce for the feathered Canadians, though I feel bad for the female who chooses the loud, aggressive asshole gander – she’s stuck with him. Courtship consists of a female seeing a male goose across the pond and dipping her neck up and down. Eventually, after the males have all shown off enough, the female chooses who she wants. It might take the male a little while to realize he’s been chosen (I guess male geese are as clueless to signals as male humans) but eventually he’ll figure it out. That’s when they get into showing off a bit, extending the neck, rolling their heads in an alluring yet demure way (she is still a lady, after all), and then lifting the wings and flapping (but she knows how to get wild).

Actually, if you think about it, goose mating isn’t really all THAT different from what we do. Think of, if you will, a dance club. You have the ladies on the floor and the men strewn around the perimeter. She locks eyes with one she likes and starts to throw him signals. Eventually he realizes she’s digging his jive and he heads toward her to dance, or in the case of uncoordinated white boys, sway awkwardly with a sheer lack of rhythm while trying to shout small talk over the deafening thump and screech of the music. She might tilt her head, roll her neck a bit toward him, and she’s definitely flashing a bit of what’s hidden under the feathers. Then, eventually, they pair off on their own, leaving the leftover singles to continue the ritual or perish alone in the harsh winter.

So, apparently, one of the things I’ve been doing over the last three months is learning way too much about Canadian Geese.

Another thing I’ve been spending a lot of time on is volunteering on a committee to organize a great event for one of my favorite non-profits – Gilda’s Club Rochester’s Third Annual Bachelor Auction – Gilda’s Guys. I’m going to plug this event for a minute, so bare with me…The event itself is fantastic, and keeps getting better with each year. We have 25 very good looking guys, who are all actually interesting to talk to, as well. On March 29 we will gather at Harro East Ballroom in Rochester, NY, dress these wonderful, single guys up in tuxedos and auction them off, one at a time, in front of roughly four to five hundred women. They range in age from low twenties to upper fifties, and the winning bidder will get a one hundred dollar gift card to a local restaurant, as well as some other goodies like theater tickets, baseball tickets, and a little pre-date primping at a local spa/salon. Best of all, every dollar that we raise goes directly to Gilda’s Club Rochester, a fabulous organization that provides free support and services to cancer patients and their families. They offer support groups, play space and events for children, special events for teens, a library of research and support books, cooking and craft classes, and so much more. If you’re not familiar with them, check out their site - http://www.gildasclubrochester.org . And hey, if you’re a single woman in the area or you  really enjoy a fun night out with some fantastic people watching, you can buy tickets to the event or just donate to the cause on the site, as well. 

Now, you’re probably saying, hey Jen, why don’t you just buy a guy there? And sure, that sounds like a great idea, but the truth is that I actually have this horrible, perhaps semi-irrational fear that if I did buy a bachelor he would look at me and go “oh crap!” I know, I know, I’m being too hard on myself and assuming the worst, and these guys are all so nice that I’m sure none of them would think that…or at least they wouldn’t let on that they think that, but I suppose it’s best that I leave the bidding up to the other ladies. I will admit I do have my eye on one or two, but I will, no doubt, be running around working the event all night and be far too busy [afraid] to bid. If I have any friends out there, though, [hint hint, nudge nudge] that want to come on down and buy me a date – I welcome and encourage it!

Besides the new job and the auction, I’ve been doing a few other things too, like participating in a two-month fitness challenge, indirectly causing a pretty big traffic back-up on a local expressway, and I’ve been on a couple of dates…but you weren’t really interested in that, were you? Truthfully, the dates themselves weren't all that interesting. I went out with a guy from the old job a few times (after leaving said job) before he suddenly pulled a disappearing act (something that I was more than okay with) on the same day that a crazy girl contacted a friend of mine to get the skinny on my situation with him and insist that he had a girlfriend (which I actually don't believe was true). Can we say drama? She wanted to warn me off, and though I didn't bother with a real response, I wanted to say, "girl, you can have him." Then I ran into him again a few weeks later, and he spent more time hitting on my guy friend than talking to me, which was really awesome on so many levels. So, then I let my sister pick out a guy, who seemed nice, at first, but with whom I ended up feeling like I was in a constant verbal boxing match with after only two dates! No chemistry, almost nothing in common, and flirty banter that got way too aggressive and combative - just what everyone is looking for in a date. 

And so, for now, with the budding of spring and the onslaught of wonderful, warm weather, the search for Mr.-Not-Completely-Horrible continues.

Yet Another One Bites the Dust

I waited a few days before writing this, not sure it even bared mentioning, but there are lessons to be learning and laughs to be had with each and every dating dud, downfall, and debacle...And this should be no different.

I've been "seeing" someone for the last eight weeks, and I use the term "seeing" loosely, because we had seven dates in eight weeks, and the farthest things went was a long anticipated but disappointing, lukewarm hug at the end of date number six. Not a great sign.

I spent the last eight weeks enjoying our dates, and feeling like we had a lot in common, a good, friendly connection, but I wasn't really sure if he actually liked me as anything more than a friend. One would think that you could assume he was interested, since he repeatedly asked me out, held doors, and insisted on paying, but I usually go by the tell tale little touches, hugs, or perhaps the occasional kiss. With this guy, though, I had none of that. And yeah, it was nice to know someone wasn't just going out with me to get sex, and sure, he respected my body, blah blah blah. (Especially good since I'm attempting the whole "no sex before monogamy" thing.) But after a while I was thinking I needed to accept that if he seems like he's just not that into you, he's not.

Nevertheless, I was having fun getting to know him, and had no other prospects in sight, so I ignored other bad signs, like the fact that he would go onto the dating sight right after getting home from a date with me. (Yes, yes, I'm a total cyber stalker...but if I have to do the online dating thing, I should at least get to enjoy the creepy benefits.)

Our eight week, hands-free affair culminated this past week when we went out to dinner. The day before, I noticed that he had taken his profile down from the dating site, an act I took to be a very good sign. I thought he was ready to stop looking. I thought he was ready to get serious, and he was, just not with me.

He picked me up and we went out for a lovely meal, chock full of good food and conversation. Afterward, he drove me home, pulled up the driveway and put the car into park, but didn't turn it off, and instead turned toward me and said, "Jen, I need to talk to you about something." Now, you might think he was going to say, "I really like you," or, "be my girlfriend," or something equally enjoyable, but I could tell from the tone of his voice and the look on the face that was not what was coming. My heart dropped a little and I felt a wide, fake smile spread across my face as I listened to him explain that he'd been casually dating online, but now he's met someone he wants to get serious about...and obviously that someone wasn't me. Smile still plastered to my face, I thanked him for his honesty, got out of the car, took my walk of rejection, and moved on.

But here's the kicker...At the end of our lovely meal, I unwittingly insisted on paying for the very dinner that was to be the precursor to my castoff, since "it wasn't fair to always let him pay." And he let me, knowing full well he was about to dump me on my ass.

I should have demanded my money back.

Happy Holidays

Holidays for single people can be a little difficult, surrounded by happy couples and new babies and people asking things like, "So, are you dating anyone new?" It's important to see the humor and keep on laughing at these times. And so, to that end, I give you...My Relationship Status Discussion With a Four Year Old...

Setting: Christmas Eve, my parents house, my cousin's four year old, Sydney, has just climbed up onto my lap.

Sydney: Who's mommy are you?
Me: I'm not anyone's mommy.
Sydney: Yes you are. Who's mommy are you?
Me: I'm really not anyone's mommy. I don't have any kids.
Sydney: Do you have a daddy?
Me: Nope, I haven't found a daddy, yet.
Sydney: Then who do you live with?
Me: I live alone...with my cat...(turning toward my sister) And that is officially the most depressing conversation I will have all Christmas.

How to Turn a Woman Off (and other dating DON'Ts)

I have some strange turn-ons. Actually, that's not really true. I have some strange turn-OFFS. Specifically, the complete and utter lack of punctuation is an extreme turn-off for me. I get more and more emails from men with an absolute lack of punctuation, and I just don't understand it. He could be smart, he could be charming, he could have the looks of Brad Pitt and the wit of Woody Allen, but the minute he hits send without a single period or comma included, he turns into a bumbling, backwoods buffoon, with too many beer bottles and not enough books. All charm and intelligence goes right out the window.

Another turn-off – and this one is, hopefully, not so strange – A proposition for a date from a 61 year old man. Let's all just take a minute to consider the gross-factor here. I have to admit, I looked at his profile – not because I was interested in him, per say, but because I had to see what kind of 61 year old man hits on a 33 year old woman. He had no picture, of course, which screams that he is either married or physically horrifying, or both! My favorite part of the profile was the age range he was looking to date. I always look at this when I get a message from an older man…even slightly older…I think it says a lot about the person. This particular gentleman was looking to date women ages 20 – 40, because society and Hollywood has apparently taught men that that they can and should date woman much younger and better looking than themselves. Interestingly, it's not the same for women…with the super-hyped exception of Demi Moore, but to be fair, she's a Hollywood starlet and forever immortalized by the uber sexy pottery wheel scene in ghost, so she doesn't count.  Needless to say, I did not respond to him, but I can't help but wonder…if Mr. I'm-Too-Sexy-For-This-Walker is not willing to date a 60 year old, what in the name of all that is holy and true makes him think that I am or should be willing to do so?

And lastly, turn-off number three – extreme arrogance. Now, let me explain. A little cockiness can be cute, especially if it's followed up with at least a tiny bit of humility, but there are some men out there, perhaps like our previously mentioned 61 year old bachelor, who truly believe they are a gift from the gods and we should thank our lucky stars that we get to so much as gaze upon their greatness. One such man really caught my attention, the sheer arrogance of his profile utterly astounding. He was divorced and had no pictures of himself. (You already know what I think of that.) But if he deemed a lucky lady worthy enough, he would grant her with a photo upon request. Instead, he had a photo of a young, skinny, big-breasted blond woman as his profile picture, and claimed that she was his ex-wife…interesting, since she was wearing a Hooters girl outfit in front of a restaurant surrounded by palm trees…but hey! Maybe he lived in Florida and his wife was a Hooters girl…it's possible. He claimed that he was putting that picture up instead to show that he "pulls tens." Even the way he stated that just screams "Hi! I’m a douche bag!" He bragged about the condos he owns, the car he drives, and the big piles of money he, no doubt, rolls around in on his giant, lonely bed of shame, and he implored the ladies of the online dating world to email him if they thought they were as hot as his ex.

Sir – Your arrogance has hit new heights of douche-baggery, never before seen by the world. Congratulations.

Thanks For All the Fish

I'd like to take a moment to thank the fine men of plentyoffish.com for the constant, never ending, ridiculous fodder for my blog. Without you, gentlemen, my life would be far less amusing. 

I'd like to thank the old dude who kept sending me gross messages, each dirtier than the previous. After I called you out on your disgusting behavior, Mr. I'm-Too-Sexy-For-This-Beer-Gut, you explained, through a string of words so crude and disgusting that I would never repeat them on this blog, that you were sleeping your way through the ladies of the dating site, and that all women were beneath you. Though I don't believe, for a second, that you could find as many hard-up women to sleep with as you claim, thank you - for putting it in writing…It made it much easier to get your profile shut down.

I'd also like to thank the man who sent me an angry message after I did not immediately respond to his first message, of, "Let's get a drink tonight." Though you think that my not responding within 20 minutes was "rude," Mr. Entitled, I appreciate your zeal. Unfortunately, I think that your two condos, boat, expensive car, and piles of money may have gone to your head. I'm afraid you simply cannot get everything you want the second you want it, and perhaps with the next girl you should try a slightly softer approach…maybe start with, "Hello, my name is ____." Just a thought.

And, finally, let me thank the many strange, awkward gentlemen who have sent me compliments that, quite frankly, really aren't compliments at all. 

• "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ricki Lake?" I know, she's lost weight, she's cute…but really, not the best celeb look-alike option out there.
  
• "I mean this only in a good way: I love that tiny asymmetry in your eyes. It makes you real." Though I do believe he meant this to be a compliment, I read it and all I could think was…my eyes are crooked??? How have I never noticed this!

 So, thank you, all ye fish, and keep the crazy coming:)

-        

The Bravest Among Us

I have decided to take a little break from dating to give my heart a little time to heal and build up the crunch candy shell that keeps it protected. It's a bit of a dating hiatus, if you will. Unfortunately, this means that I haven't had many interesting dating stories, of late, but that doesn't mean that I don't still have plenty of other ridiculous stories to share…my vault of hilarity and humiliation has a plethora of tales to which there is no end.

So I've been thinking…I could tell you one of the many, many, many dating stories of yor, from my single times in Buffalo and Atlanta, or I could wax philosophical about my past relationships and each bitter, dreadful, or amusing demise. I could talk about my first kiss, my first love, or other, more tawdry things, but instead, I think I'll give you…cockroaches.

Now, let me start by explaining that despite how absolutely horrible these things are, they are nothing, in my opinion, compared to rats, which is maybe why I can, at least now, consider stories involving them to be funny. Some people fear spiders, some snakes…me, I will scream and turn into a hysterical little girl at the mere sight of a rat…they terrify me to my very core in a way that I cannot begin to explain…and since squirrels are just rats with fuzzy tails - and don't even try to tell me otherwise - I'm not too fond of those things, either.  But since any story involving a rat is just horrifying without any side of funny, I will instead regale you with cockroaches, instead.

To be clear, I am not talking about those little bitty things that scatter in the light and exist in building I try to avoid like the plague they carry. I'm talking about the giant, freaky cockroaches that they have down south, known as waterbugs, or Palmetto bugs…Which are actually two different things, but might as well be interchangeable, as they are both large, fast moving, and horrific. (Side note: I know way too much about these things, thanks to the time I spent living in Atlanta, and the wonder that is Wikipedia.) They are around 2 inches in length, they have wings, and they are one of the fastest running insects in the world! These things are the stuff that horror stories are made of. Generally, they live in trees, where they should always, ALWAYS stay, but on occasion, they make their way out of said trees, and into our lives.

Here is one such story.

I moved down to Atlanta, all by my little lonesome, in September of 2006. The roommate I'd lived with in Buffalo, who also happens to be my cousin, and one of the tiniest full-sized adults you'll ever meet, drove down to Atlanta with me. My moving truck (a 'you pack it, we ship it" service) was waiting for us when we got there. If you have ever been to Atlanta, you know how hilly it is. My complex was no exception. Upon arrival, we discovered that the genius truck driver had parked the truck at least 50 yards DOWNHILL from my apartment…and left us no dolly. Being the very inventive gals that we are, we managed to move every last box, a very heavy recliner, and even my giant sofa using nothing more than our girly brawn and a desk chair on wheels which had been chewed down to almost nothing by my cat. Of course, we couldn't just move everything right into my narrow shoebox, because at some point between me packing it and them shipping it, someone added a couple hundred ants to the mix, and I refused to bring anything into the apartment until it was thoroughly shaken out.

Eventually, we moved everything in and started to explore the area. That's when I realized something.

I was on the WRONG side of town.

It had been a whirlwind move, selling my house, moving everything 1000 miles, and finding a new apartment, all in a very short time. I knew I wanted to live in the city and set my sights on an area called Midtown, but in my haste I ended up in a very beautiful, very expensive, very small and narrow apartment in a gated community on the WRONG side of Midtown. Actually, I was on the wrong side of a street that kind of cut through, separating the trendy, fun half from the shoot-you-in-the-face-for-looking-funny half. I was on the latter side of the street called Ponce de Leon. (Fun fact for my northern friends – they do not pronounce it the fancy way that we all learned in school. They pronounce is pawns-duh-lee-yawn. Drove me nuts.) Outside of my very lovely gated community was a Publix grocery store, where large scary-ass dudes stood outside the entrance after dark, flashing guns and drugs, in case you were in the market for either, while picking up your bread and milk. Around the corner was a holding center, and below my balcony was the parking lot of the Civic Center, where drug dealers and prostitutes would have a screaming turf battle every evening as they both tried to sell their wares.

It was a lovely place.

But that was all part of the experience, right? I wanted something new, something different…and you couldn't get much more different than that.

My cousin left and my mom flew down to bring me my cat. As we drove to my apartment, my mother was far from pleased at what she saw, but she was kind enough to keep most of her comments to herself as I tried to be brave and talk about how happy and excited I was. Eventually, though, I broke down, admitting that I hated the neighborhood and couldn't stay there. The next day we trudged back out into the huge, strange city, where, by the way, four right turns does NOT equal a square, and found a bigger, better, cheaper apartment in a much safer part of town.

That night, we got some food and settled in to start re-packing the apartment as voices from the parking lot below rose up and in through the single open window, a distant chorus of curse words drifting in on the breeze. Wanting to get a little more fresh air into the tiny apartment, I reached out and opened the balcony door, just an inch, maybe two, when something small and black ran in, scurried past my feet, and hid behind the couch.

I screamed. I screamed like a helpless girl in a horror movie. A mouse! A mouse had run into the apartment! At least, I thought it was a mouse…It was about the size of a small mouse, dark in color, and moved very fast. I stared at my cat, waiting for her to do her predatory cat thing and pounce, but she simply glared back, bored and annoyed at my antics. I called my mother out from the bedroom, and she took the three step trek into the living room to find me standing on a chair, clutching a shoe in horror.

"There is a mouse behind the couch!" I shrieked.

Being the fearless woman that she is, she pulled the couch out, caught quick sight of the creature before it darted back under, and then proceeded to let out a scream of her own and jump up onto another nearby chair.

"It's not a mouse. It's a giant bug!" she insisted.

Well, once I knew it wasn't a mouse, I was fine. I calmly climbed down from my perch and gave the cat one last longing look. When it became apparent that she was interested in taking this one on, I handed my mother another shoe and gave her directions.

"I'm going to pull the other side of the couch out and try to smash it. If it runs toward you, just jump down and hit it with the shoe, hard."

She didn't look convinced, but agreed. Pretending to be far braver than I really am, I clutched my shoe in one hand, yanked the couch out with the other, and there it was…the biggest cockroach I'd ever seen. I stared down as it glared back up at me, a sneer on its little roach face, and our eyes locked, the bug just daring me to squish it. I took a deep breath, and in the name of single, independent women everywhere, I charged forward, ready for the kill.

Unfortunately, the cockroach ran, too, right toward my mother.

"Hit it!" I screamed, trying to come around the other side. "Hit it now!"

And she did. Jumping down from the chair, she slammed the shoe down on the roach, heel first, and we heard a crunch. She hit it again, for good measure, and I let out a sigh of relief. My mother, though, wasn't quite done. Her eyes wild, her arm swinging, she smashed the shoe down again and again, yelling in a high pitched voice, "help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!" The words were a steady rhythm with each smack of the shoe.

I yelled for her to stop, my voice finally breaking through as the pummeling came to an end, and we both looked down at the tiny black remnants of the cockroach, most of which had been smashed down into the carpet, along with a dark, inky pulp.

Tossing our shoes aside, we sat, physically and emotionally exhausted, and I wondered for maybe the tenth time that week, if I'd made a mistake moving down south. The next couple of years would be trying at times, but I would eventually answer that question with a resounding NO! I did not make a mistake. Though I ultimately did not stay in Atlanta, that move ended up changing my life and making me who I am today. I would later have several more run-ins with the dreaded water bug, my shoe a handy weapon in the war, but that night I just pulled myself up, dusted myself off, and searched Google for the best way to get smashed cockroach stains out of the carpet.