I hate robots…well, not as much as I hate Cupid, but I still don’t like them.
Maybe I’m a Luddite at heart, but I’ve never been too fond of robots. I just don’t trust them. Furby’s freak me out. I hate Farenheit 451 simply because of the mechanical hound…and I love dogs. But not robot dogs. Even my local library has succumbed to the lure of the robot. I reached forward with my human hand to open the front door, but was usurped by an apparent robot eye, who saw me coming and opened the door for me…et tu, Audubon Library? Saturday Night Live hit the mark, when they created a tongue-in-cheek commercial about the all too real threat of robots among us…
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So I asked Mr. Robot to please hold off on sending anymore of his brilliant “matches” my way. At least until I am ready to give the wild ride known as dating another try. And hopefully, this will give Mr. Robot some time to cool down and realize I’m not a bad lady. Even though I hate him, just for being a robot.
Twiddling my thumbs…
I’m not the type of gal who sits back and waits for the action to come to her. I like to create my own action, which so far, has not gotten me arrested, thank goodness. So this whole, riding-the-wave, let’s sit back and wait for the universe to send Prince Charming my way has not been very easy for me. In fact, it’s like asking me to cut off my hands, and then trust that someone isn’t going to chuck a dodgeball at my face.
Since I’ve decided I needed to take a little hiatus from the dating biz, I think I need to take up some new hobbies. I seriously need something to keep me out of trouble. So I’m brainstorming right now, especially given that it is winter and cold as all hell, hoping to come up with some cool hobbies. Here’s what I have so far.
- Collecting snow flakes. It’s awesome until they melt, which is like .05 seconds
- Turning the mini-snow mound at the end of the driveway into a mogul run. It may only be 6 feet high, but I can’t ski, so it’s a fair fight.
- Knitting some fashionable mittens for my dog. No, forget that. I hate knitting. And my dog is not a diva.
- Learning to Irish Dance…hahahahahahahahahahaha. Ha.
As you can see, I need some help. Serious help. Maybe not the kind that a new hobby can fix, but at least I’m entertaining.
Dear Cupid: You suck
Whose idea was it to arm a chubby toddler with a bunch of arrows? I mean really. He’s still wearing a diaper, if not running around completely buck naked like some sort of wild animal. And we’re supposed to trust our hearts to this creature that hasn’t developed control over their bodily functions? No wonder we’re all in trouble when it comes to love.
I would like to ask you, Cupid, that if you plan on hitting me with one of your arrows, could you have the common decency to at least attempt to also strike someone that might work for me? ‘Cause I’m starting to think you’re some kind of freakin’ masochist, who is really just out to screw with humanity. And not in the good way.
On a positive note, I have begun to believe that there are really amazing men out there, who do match my heart…however, the fat little cherub seems to be having a field day, making sure I’m only finding ones who aren’t interested in me, for whatever reason. Oh great, raise your quiver, and hit me with one of those arrows, but make sure one doesn’t find their way to him. That’s nice.
Better yet, just quit aiming that thing at me altogether. Yeah, that’s what she said.
Riding the Wave…
I have some very smart friends. They’re smart enough to realize when I’m being a nut job, and gently bop me on the head. Today one of my very smart friends gave me some good advice. She said, of a situation, “ride the wave and enjoy it.”
So I am doing just that; riding the wave. Now I don’t want any of my immediate family to worry and order an ambulance to be on stand-by. I have a penchant for breaking myself when trying anything that involves bodily coordination, and I know my limits. I’m not actually on a surfboard, or even near the ocean. But I’m trying to learn to accept the rhythm of the waves without fighting against the tides.
Today I sat down to write a very different post. Quickly, I ran dead into the brick wall we call writer’s block. I went to the gym to get the blood moving through my brain, and realized that there was a good reason I couldn’t get the words to come. I didn’t believe in the topic I was going to write about anymore. And that’s a good thing. 🙂
Holding out for a hero…
Despite the heart-stopping fun I’ve been having recently while searching for a suitable mate, I think the time has come to take a break. For real this time. It’s just not working. And in the immortal words of Billy Joe, “You can’t go forcing something if it’s just not right…”
In all honesty, I can deal with the rejection, disappointment and frustration. I teach high school after all–I’m well versed in those areas. But what I have realized is that I don’t want to settle. And I could have already. Thank god I didn’t! I could try to come up with an eloquent description of what I’m looking for…but what I want isn’t a “thing,” it’s a feeling.
So, with all due props given to Uncle Kracker, here is what I want, and will wait for…possibly for eternity, but a lady’s got to have standards!
SMILE
You’re better than the best
I’m lucky just to linger in your light
Cooler than the flipside of my pillow, that’s right
Completely unaware
Nothin’ can compare to where you send me
Lets me know that it’s okay, yeah it’s okay
And the moments when my good times start to fade
You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed
Sing like a bird
Dizzy in my head
Spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold
Buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Oh you make me smile
Even when you’re gone
Somehow you come along just like a flower
Poking through the sidewalk crack
And just like that, you steal away the rain
And just like that
You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed
Sing like a bird
Dizzy in my head
Spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold
Buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Oh you make me smile
Don’t know how I lived without you
‘Cause every time that I get around you
I see the best of me inside your eyes
You make me smile
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold
Buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed
Sing like a bird
Dizzy in my head
Spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold
Buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Oh you make me smile
(Oh you make me smile) oh you make me smile
(Oh you make me smile) oh you make me smile
Show that Hemi!
In one of my past diatribes, I criticized guys on online sites for posing with their cars. I apologize. If you have a car, you should brag about it. Seriously.
I used to think it funny that Plenty of Fish asked members to say yes or no as to whether they had a car. “Ha, ha, ha,” I thought to myself. “What a silly question!” In truth, this question does not delve deep enough. Lots of people in the area have cars…it’s just that they are up on blocks. Technically, they could answer “yes” to this question. So I propose that they add a follow-up question, “And does it run?”
But even that may not be enough to portray a real picture of the situation. A few weeks back, one of the thank-god-I-didn’t-end-up-meeting-him matches offered to meet…as long as it was within half a mile of their house. Anything further, and their car would overheat. And, no, they have no money to fix said vehicle so that I might actually feel like I was on a grown-up date and not meeting Jimmy at the mall while my mom went shopping.
So, we would need a second follow-up question, “And can you actually drive it more than 20 miles at one time without it stopping or exploding unexpectedly.” But I’m not sure Plenty of Fish wants to go in a re-write the code to make these an option. Which is why I am now quite happy to see a guy posing with a vehicle. Because I can at least reasonably hope it is not his dad’s car, and that he might actually be grown up enough and responsible enough to maintain a vehicle.
So if you are a fellow trying to come up with a good pic for your online dating profile, go ahead and pose next to your Hemi. Just don’t straddle the hood, like you’re in a Whitesnake-gone-wrong video–that’s just weird.
Damn icebergs….
Can we just say that my foray into online dating this time around has been more tragic that The Titanic…because James Cameron will never want to make a blockbuster about this drama. And because Leonardo DiCaprio has never mounted my bow, shouting “I’m king of the world!” But, I digress. For some reason, the great big sea has been filled with icebergs instead of tasty fish. I blame global warming. Damn CFCs.
In reality, I blame Al Gore. Didn’t he invent the Internet? That’s why he’s so hot about global warming; he knows it’s a red herring to cover up the havoc he wreaked upon humanity. At least Tipper forced the record companies to slap parental advisories on our CDs, so kids could know which ones are full of cursing and sexual references.
I’m getting off topic. I really have no one to blame but myself. At heart, I am an optimist and believe in the basic goodness of man. This lulls me into a false sense of reality that the world is not over-populated by assholes. At this point, whereas I have come to the disappointing conclusion that the Loch Ness Monster is not real, I need to acknowledge that assholes do, in fact, exist. Because I have made first contact with a LOT of them.
What I still don’t understand, is how I seem to be an irresistible beacon. Somehow, my power transcends the cold wires that connect one laptop to another…I seem to have my own personal wireless freak satellite orbiting the globe. I know I’ve complained about this before, but no one gave me any sort of acceptable reason for the situation, so I still get to complain.
I’ve been contacted by scam artists. I’ve been contacted by men who only want sex. How do I know? They send me a message that asks “Do you want to have sex?”…well actually, the usually read “do u want 2 have sex”, so I am assuming they are asking. I have been contacted by guys who tell me I am too fat, and by guys who tell me…wait for it…I’m not fat enough. And people wonder why I’m not having fun yet.
Most recently, I’ve been in contact with a guy who seems stable, sincere and kind. I’m not saying anything else right now, for fear of jinxing the hell out of myself. I’m just hoping he’s not like the Loch Ness Monster; something I think would be so cool if it really did exist, but all evidence points to the contrary. And hopefully, he’s not like Bigfoot, either…he’s too hairy.
Smooth move Exlax…
One of the reasons I decided to try online dating was that I used to think the offline dating world was full of idiots. Now I know that idiocy knows no bounds. Idiocy can cross the barriers of technology much like a stomach bug runs rampant through a preschool. One sicko, and next thing you know, every throws up in their mouths a little bit.
Exhibit A. Enter a young man who sends me a message ’cause he thinks I’m pretty. Aw, that’s sweet. Too bad I didn’t realize he had the IQ of a snail. He probably thinks twigs are pretty. But I digress. We exchange a few emails, he can crack a joke or two, and I’m thinking he may be fun to hang around with. Until he tells me that we can’t meet anywhere that would require him to sit or stand for more than five minutes. He apparently has a herniated disk. But, if I want, I can bring a DVD to watch while he lies down on his futon and rests his back.
Now, let’s assume he’s being honest and he’s broken. The fact that he thinks a great date for me would be watching a crappy movie while I watch him wince in pain is just…idiotic. The fact that he can’t understand me when I suggest that maybe now just isn’t the best time for him to be looking for a gal pal suggests he is…an idiot.
Fast forward 3 months. I re-establish my profile on a couple of dating sites after I feel more ready. Guess who sends me an email, about what a pretty lady I am. Not only is he stupid, he has some serious memory issues. Guess who reminds him of the fact that he already revealed to me his inner idiot?
I guess the lesson to be learned is this: if you are going to be a Casanova of the online dating scene, keep a dang list for god’s sake!
Rachel Baron Writes 