Saturday, February 26, 2011

Another one bites the dust...

Growing up, I was obsessed with romantic comedies and heartfelt television shows with an emotional climax (pun intended).  Some of my most coveted scenes have ruined my realistic expectations for what someone will do for my love to a pretty high degree.  You're probably thinking, "Wow, those are movies and television weirdo."  This I know, but I can't help it that I still dream of a Jake Ryan-esque individual showing up to give me my underwear back or that Jordan Catalano type trying to hold my hand.  Hell, I even kind of hope for an Adventures in Babysitting ending where the hot guy I met at an event shows up to return something to me and background music fades into 'And then he kisses me.'  (For additional romantic scenes, see also Dylan McKay and Brenda Walsh's first date 90210 episode and multiple episodes involving Casey and Cappie from Abc Family's Greek).    I'm not completely devoid of reality and know that most of these events will never happen, even if based solely on the fact that I'm way past my age limit for it to.  Yet, I do want some sort of romance.  Isn't that what most of these scenes convey?  Someone taking an interest in another, being interested in their quirks and still going for it.  Well, this probably still happens, but lately my encounters have been anything but.  These scenes are nice to foster a sense of hope (I mean why else would I youtube them over and over).  They don't, however, prepare you for the opposite end of the spectrum.  By this, of course, I mean online dating.   Nothing and I mean nothing, prepared me for what I would find in my online dating adventures. 

Last night I went on date three with, I'll call him, Herman.  Herman is a fairly decent looking guy with a respectable job who consistently emailed me back.  We went out two times before and had a fairly good time.  I mean I didn't want to immediately take my top off when we hung out, but I figured this was a sign of maturity.  Let's be real, college is long since gone and so is that 6'5", mutton chopped dreamboat who paid for my cup at a few keg parties, leaving me all a flutter.  I'm an adult now with standards.  Still trying to figure out my feelings for Herman, I decided to ask him to a movie and dinner at my place before.  He offered to bring dinner in which he would "surprise me."  My heart melted at this gesture leaving me to question, "Is this my Jake Ryan driving in his Taurus to steal my heart?"

He wasn't.  Two seconds after he entered my apartment  I wanted to punch him in the face and eat a bag of chicken strips to heal my wounds.  Herman put the capital D in douchebag.  He walked in and his first statement was, "Wow, this building and the hallway look really terrible, but your apartment looks nice inside."  SERIOUSLY!!  It didn't end there.  Within the first 15 minutes he managed to insult my dog, make 2 comments beginning with, "Not to be racist...followed by a racist statement", and asking me a few times if I get super bored and completely lonely being by myself in my apartment on the weekend.

Now, I'm not trying to criticize this guy, because I genuinely think he is well meaning, just completely clueless.  The slight digs continued.  He looked at my books and said, "Hmmmm, your books really make me think you are into philosophy."  Granted, I love philosophy.  I mean, my pantie dropping book (Pantie dropping book (PDP): A book being read by someone in a public area resulting in an instantaneous reaction by the observer to remove undergarments and hump the individual.  See also: Geek groupie), is a philosophy book (sorry cheeky monkeys, no specific information on what this book might be will be provided).  Anyway, his answer was not "Hey, not my style, but good for you."  It was a scoff followed by, "That's basically the opposite of me.  I only read presidential biographies."  Good for him, eye roll.  My response because I'm done at this point, "I almost bought a biography on Lincoln's life when I went on a girls trip to Springfield, IL this summer."  Yes, it was passive aggressive, but he was asking for it.

The final nail in the coffin, however, came after we viewed a movie.  In the car ride home, he began critizing teachers.  My mom is a teacher of which he is aware, but not.  Needless to say, when his car pulled to a full stop it was everything I could not to do a lunge and roll out of the car.

Well, back to the drawing board.  Herman isn't even the worst of my dating disasters.  There have been many, which you will eventually read about.  And even though it didn't work out with good ole Herman, I am sure I will one day find my Jake, Jordan, Dylan McKay or Cappie.  Afterall, going through the growing pains of dating only prepares us for being able to spot that one good apple reading our PDP.     

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Swinggle Says

By now you may be thinking, "Stephanie, your blog is intensely hilarious, full of spunk, and an accurate depiction of my swinggle life; if only I knew what leading a swinggle life means."  Rest assured, today is that day.  So, sit back, relax, draw yourself a glass of wine, and I will regale the tale of the birth of swinggledom.

This story begins with a simple disclosure.  I also apologize if this is going all Sex and the City on you, but I am blessed to have the greatest friends in the world.  Everyone thinks they have the greatest friends, but I live in the certainty that this is actually true.  Granted, I would venture to say this is a truth for everyone and rightly so.  It is important for us to experience that level of allegiance and care and share it.  With this being said, the story begins with two of my good friends enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning brunch, regaling each other with their frustrations about dating and living a single life.  Dr. Neurotic and Dr. Charlie, as I'll call them, were discussing their spreading body mass and poor hygiene practices, which they attributed to the brutalness of attempting to find a decent companion.   Tired of feeling less than they were, they made a pack designed to shed the bulge, improve overall hygiene, and celebrate the wonderfulness that is them. 

To achieve this, they formulated specific rules such as 1) Maintain a clean, decluttered living space.  Not only will you feel better about your Cleaver-esque abilities, but it will ensure your place is always prepared to invite guests.  2) Floss everyday.  Sure, flossing is a pain, but good oral hygiene is no joke.  In the event you do find that special someone, you don't want them to be able to detect what you had for dinner when you "get close."  3) Trim it up.  No one likes shaving, waxing, or whatever other crazy hair removal practices are out there.  No one likes to snuggle up with Sasquatch either.  4) Exercise.  Not only does it release those good neurotransmitters and promote our health, but it helps firm up that pesky flab.  When we feel more confident about ourselves, people notice.  5) Love you for you.  This is an important one.  The "rules" aren't to try to change ourselves for someone else, rather, it is about taking pride in ourselves and wanting the best for us (body, mind, spirit).  By recognizing our greatness and what we have to offer, we will more likely want to share this with someone worthy.  6) Don't forget your friends.  Time and again I have lost friends once they entered into a relationship.  I'm not unreasonable and know that things will obviously change when one enters into a partnership.  Priorities are different, but this is no excuse to ditch out and give the middle finger to your friends.  They have typically been there through the rough times (ie. Bringing you chicken fingers and Ben and Jerry's when you have a break up, thanks Dr. Neurotic...more on this later) and the good ones.  Be smart, find time to prioritize them too. 

With the formulation of these simple rules to live by, swingglehood was born.  Why swinggle, you say?  Because to be a swingin' single (ie. Swinggle...the Doctors spelled it Swingle, but I believe the extra g is sassy) is not to give up your keys at a group "party" and engage in raunchy escapades with various couples (I mean if you are into that cool.  Frankly that is a lot of limbs to wrestle with and way too much work for me.)  Rather, to be Swinggle is to recognize your inner fabulousness and all you have to offer.  Once you do, you may be surprised how others see you.  So, swing on fellow swinggles. 

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Head tilt, sigh, "Don't worry, you'll find someone."

I like to think my pet peeves list is rather short.  Sure, it is annoying when I ask for Dr. Pepper at a restaurant and they say, "No, but we have root beer."  It is moderately irritating that no matter how much I spend at Victoria Secrets I never get the good glossy bag.  And hey, I cringe when someone has a weak chin.  There is one thing, however, that makes my skin crawl.  Makes me want to throw myself into a catapult and jet off into the sunset.  The good ole head tilt, sigh followed by the words, "Don't worry, you'll find someone."  Any single person knows exactly what I'm talking about.  It usually comes right after someone asks, "Are you seeing anyone?" and the answer is no.  I want to tell them I'm fine with it and give them a number of a good psychologist because apparently they aren't.  Thinking about the countless times this has happened  sends me into a tizzy of self deprecating analysis, leaving me only to question, where have a gone wrong?

Considering this question, I feel I need to start from the beginning.  No, I'm not talking Genesis, rather Daniel Brent.  Daniel Brent was, well, I don't know how to describe who he was.  Daniel was a good friend of mine from kindergarten.  Yep, I can trace things way back to this time, when I was afraid to go down the slide, hated eating anything green, and loved Little House on the Prairie.  Well, Daniel was a good friend of mine in class.  We laughed, cried, shared our sandwiches with the crusts cut off (j/k, my mom was way too cheap to cut the crusts off), gave each other cooties, and were genuinely good pals. 

Everything was great until Valentine's Day.  He gave me a little bear that said I Love You and a kiss on the cheek.  I was disgusted.  Seriously, don't I sound like a mean little girl?  He gave it to me and I seriously just kind of stared at him like, "What is wrong with you?"  Some kids are good at Candy Land, others puzzles, still others being generally ornery, I apparently was good at stabbing a young boy's dream.  That was the end.  I don't really remember how things happened after that, but I still think of him some days.  Could my current state of spinsterhood be a result of this moment?  Is it possible the disgust I felt at that moment when a nice, genuine, friendly guy attempted to share his feelings set into motion a series of unnatural events in which I am now destined to date loser after loser until I have served my time?   Nah, but I wonder, was I born choosey?