Yikes!!
I went to my Eharmony mailbox today - after my weeklong pity party - to discover that I am three hundred and twenty-six men behind.
Boy, do I have my work cut out for me!
And I'm most certainly not going to ignore those three hundred and twenty-six PPC's (Potential Princes Charming), because, well... because, the love of my life might be number three hundred and five.
Better get with it!
Love,
Maggie
p.s. Gentlemen who are willing to buy me lunch or dinner get extra points.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Random Thoughts on Losing My Job and Other Things
I'm still pretty raw about this.
It was a week ago today that I lost my job. Being on the other side of seven days has allowed me to gain back some of my equilibrium: I'm not crying every 30 seconds, and the big bag of chocolate on my coffee table is still over half full. I had an interview this morning, and I have another early next week.
So...it's getting better.
And in the midst of all this sturm und drang, a very bright and wonderful spot. I found an unexpected letter in my mailbox today, with a postmark that I recognized; a friend who lives far away, a friend I've never met in person. When I opened the envelope, I found a money order for an amount that will buy me a good amount of groceries and a couple of tanks of gas.
I was moved to tears when I opened that envelope; such an unexpected gift, a drink of cool, fresh water in the desert, precious friendship in a time when I've been feeling even more alone than usual.
Sometimes, those unexpected gifts of love are the things that enable a struggling individual to carry on; that give someone in despair the ability to raise their head and look again at the road in front of them... and it might, in some cases, be the one thing that tethers a suffering person to their life, the one thing that says, "I'm here for you - don't give up."
This was a small act of kindness that came to me as a light in the darkness. I wrote my friend back, and I promised her that I would never forget this and, that I would pass it on.
We never know how a small act of kindness will be received, nor can we know the full effect a small random act of kindness may have on the one who receives it. Today, I was on the receiving end of one of those small acts of kindness...and it means more to me than I can say.
So, reader, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that - I urge you to create a small act of kindness. It needn't be expensive; it can be as simple as letting someone in front of you in traffic, holding a door open for the person following you, or putting a dime in a parking meter that's about to expire. Whatever it is, please, just do it, not only because it's the human thing to do, but because it will surely come back to you on that dark day when that small act of kindness will lift you out of despair and bring a smile back to your face.
Thank you, my friend, for that gift.
Love,
Maggie
It was a week ago today that I lost my job. Being on the other side of seven days has allowed me to gain back some of my equilibrium: I'm not crying every 30 seconds, and the big bag of chocolate on my coffee table is still over half full. I had an interview this morning, and I have another early next week.
So...it's getting better.
And in the midst of all this sturm und drang, a very bright and wonderful spot. I found an unexpected letter in my mailbox today, with a postmark that I recognized; a friend who lives far away, a friend I've never met in person. When I opened the envelope, I found a money order for an amount that will buy me a good amount of groceries and a couple of tanks of gas.
I was moved to tears when I opened that envelope; such an unexpected gift, a drink of cool, fresh water in the desert, precious friendship in a time when I've been feeling even more alone than usual.
Sometimes, those unexpected gifts of love are the things that enable a struggling individual to carry on; that give someone in despair the ability to raise their head and look again at the road in front of them... and it might, in some cases, be the one thing that tethers a suffering person to their life, the one thing that says, "I'm here for you - don't give up."
This was a small act of kindness that came to me as a light in the darkness. I wrote my friend back, and I promised her that I would never forget this and, that I would pass it on.
We never know how a small act of kindness will be received, nor can we know the full effect a small random act of kindness may have on the one who receives it. Today, I was on the receiving end of one of those small acts of kindness...and it means more to me than I can say.
So, reader, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that - I urge you to create a small act of kindness. It needn't be expensive; it can be as simple as letting someone in front of you in traffic, holding a door open for the person following you, or putting a dime in a parking meter that's about to expire. Whatever it is, please, just do it, not only because it's the human thing to do, but because it will surely come back to you on that dark day when that small act of kindness will lift you out of despair and bring a smile back to your face.
Thank you, my friend, for that gift.
Love,
Maggie
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Medicating Myself with Chocolate
Welcome to my pity party.
I've spent a lot of time this weekend doing three things: crying, eating chocolate and scouring Monster.com and CareerBuilder for jobs. I even went to Craigslist (is that an act of desperation?).
Oh - I forgot: staring into space has taken up more of my time than usual.
I'm having a rough time. Of course, I'm catastrophising (is this a word??) to the Nth degree while I'm busy staring into space; I'm old, you see. I've had three jobs in the last year. I've been picturing the faces reading my resume, reading the expression on those faces, and seeing the thought bubble, "Hmmm. Great skills, but she's had three jobs in the last year; she must be a flake. Too bad." I see the mouseclicks on the delete button and myself disappearing into the ether with all the other free-floating electrons.
I've been imagining my meagre savings dribbling away, dollar by dollar by dollar as I pay my rent, my car payment, my insurance, my cell phone bill and the myriad of other bills that come every month like clockwork. I see myself being evicted from my apartment, losing my car to the repo man and desperately selling everything I own on Ebay - and ending up living in a box under the overpass of the 170 freeway at Colfax (that's one of the nicer underpasses - it's close to the park).
I wonder what one wears to elicit maximum sympathy when standing on a freeway on-ramp with a sign "Homeless - Will Work For Food." Would it help if I blacked out one (or more) of my teeth with an eyebrow pencil? Do I write the sign with a lipstick?
Of course it helps to write about it.
Crafting the words, finding the perfect adjective, going back to edit a sentence to punch it up or make it funnier - all that helps. There's something so very soothing about the click of my nails on the keys and seeing my words appearing on the screen - and knowing that you are out there to read it. It makes me feel less alone, and I've even managed a smile or two at the thought of myself standing at the on-ramp to the 101 freeway at Laurel Canyon, my cardboard sign in my trembling hands, with one of my teeth blacked out with an eyebrow pencil (I still haven't decided what to wear.).
I know I'll get through this. Between you, the flood of words, my own resilience, survival skills, intelligence and sheer pain-in-the-ass grit and toughness - and the cats (one of which is currently "helping" me type - say hello, Spikey!) who love me unconditionally, I will get through this.
To quote one of my favorite antibellum heroines, "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
Here's hoping for a better day!
Love,
Maggie
I've spent a lot of time this weekend doing three things: crying, eating chocolate and scouring Monster.com and CareerBuilder for jobs. I even went to Craigslist (is that an act of desperation?).
Oh - I forgot: staring into space has taken up more of my time than usual.
I'm having a rough time. Of course, I'm catastrophising (is this a word??) to the Nth degree while I'm busy staring into space; I'm old, you see. I've had three jobs in the last year. I've been picturing the faces reading my resume, reading the expression on those faces, and seeing the thought bubble, "Hmmm. Great skills, but she's had three jobs in the last year; she must be a flake. Too bad." I see the mouseclicks on the delete button and myself disappearing into the ether with all the other free-floating electrons.
I've been imagining my meagre savings dribbling away, dollar by dollar by dollar as I pay my rent, my car payment, my insurance, my cell phone bill and the myriad of other bills that come every month like clockwork. I see myself being evicted from my apartment, losing my car to the repo man and desperately selling everything I own on Ebay - and ending up living in a box under the overpass of the 170 freeway at Colfax (that's one of the nicer underpasses - it's close to the park).
I wonder what one wears to elicit maximum sympathy when standing on a freeway on-ramp with a sign "Homeless - Will Work For Food." Would it help if I blacked out one (or more) of my teeth with an eyebrow pencil? Do I write the sign with a lipstick?
Of course it helps to write about it.
Crafting the words, finding the perfect adjective, going back to edit a sentence to punch it up or make it funnier - all that helps. There's something so very soothing about the click of my nails on the keys and seeing my words appearing on the screen - and knowing that you are out there to read it. It makes me feel less alone, and I've even managed a smile or two at the thought of myself standing at the on-ramp to the 101 freeway at Laurel Canyon, my cardboard sign in my trembling hands, with one of my teeth blacked out with an eyebrow pencil (I still haven't decided what to wear.).
I know I'll get through this. Between you, the flood of words, my own resilience, survival skills, intelligence and sheer pain-in-the-ass grit and toughness - and the cats (one of which is currently "helping" me type - say hello, Spikey!) who love me unconditionally, I will get through this.
To quote one of my favorite antibellum heroines, "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
Here's hoping for a better day!
Love,
Maggie
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Life, Interrupted
I lost my job on Friday.
To put it baldly, I got fired. I had been there for only six months, so perhaps it doesn't hurt as badly as getting fired from a long-term job for not cutting the mustard. And yes, that's what I was told, that I wasn't "performing up to expectations."
It sucks all the way 'round. No matter how you say it. It just plain sucks.
It's another form of rejection, isn't it? And rejection is always a hard pill to swallow. It brings up all the things about ourselves that we don't like, it turns the spotlight on our flaws, it creates doubt where there was self-confidence.
It inspires one hell of a pity party.
I've already applied for a couple of dozen jobs, and I have an interview on Monday with a temp agency. I've worked temp before, and it's better than no work at all. I'll do it again if I have to; anything to keep body and soul together.
If I had a husband or a wonderful significant other, this time wouldn't be so difficult. It's rough being alone when times are hard. I've got nobody but myself to give me the requisite pep talks, nobody but myself to encourage me to get out of bed in the morning and soldier on, but frankly, myself doesn't bloody feel like being all positive and encouraging. Me and myself have been eating chocolate for two days and crying a lot.
That brings me round to my search for love on Eharmony. I have one more payment of $100 due for my Eharmony membership, at the end of March. That's the same time my health benefits run out. I find myself regretting that $300 commitment right now, and not feeling at all like wading through the mountains of men they're throwing at me. I probably wouldn't be good company now anyway.
I don't know how long I'm going to be down in the dumps, reader. It has been a very rough year, and I'm feeling rather exhausted. Misfortune and hard times have been my boon companions since I got laid off last February, and I have yet to get my life back.
Encouraging comments are most welcome.
Love,
Maggie
To put it baldly, I got fired. I had been there for only six months, so perhaps it doesn't hurt as badly as getting fired from a long-term job for not cutting the mustard. And yes, that's what I was told, that I wasn't "performing up to expectations."
It sucks all the way 'round. No matter how you say it. It just plain sucks.
It's another form of rejection, isn't it? And rejection is always a hard pill to swallow. It brings up all the things about ourselves that we don't like, it turns the spotlight on our flaws, it creates doubt where there was self-confidence.
It inspires one hell of a pity party.
I've already applied for a couple of dozen jobs, and I have an interview on Monday with a temp agency. I've worked temp before, and it's better than no work at all. I'll do it again if I have to; anything to keep body and soul together.
If I had a husband or a wonderful significant other, this time wouldn't be so difficult. It's rough being alone when times are hard. I've got nobody but myself to give me the requisite pep talks, nobody but myself to encourage me to get out of bed in the morning and soldier on, but frankly, myself doesn't bloody feel like being all positive and encouraging. Me and myself have been eating chocolate for two days and crying a lot.
That brings me round to my search for love on Eharmony. I have one more payment of $100 due for my Eharmony membership, at the end of March. That's the same time my health benefits run out. I find myself regretting that $300 commitment right now, and not feeling at all like wading through the mountains of men they're throwing at me. I probably wouldn't be good company now anyway.
I don't know how long I'm going to be down in the dumps, reader. It has been a very rough year, and I'm feeling rather exhausted. Misfortune and hard times have been my boon companions since I got laid off last February, and I have yet to get my life back.
Encouraging comments are most welcome.
Love,
Maggie
Monday, February 15, 2010
Are Men Cheap?
Really? Are they cheap?
Why is it that all the men on Eharmony seem to be the guys who signed up for the free weekends?
It is beginning to annoy me, because I picked Eharmony precisely for the fact that they make you do this slow dance before you get launched into the wilds of "Open Communication." I suck at "Open Communication." I'm getting better, I'll grant you, but I still want to lead up to the big event slowly and gently.
Instead I'm getting a flood of communications from these men, like a ping-pong match - and the first chance they get, they put in a message like this:
i'monlyoneharmonyforthefreeweekend.emailmeatlonelyguyatyahoo.com!
What's up with that??
The free weekend thing means that they can't even see my picture. I don't know quite how to feel about this; but I do know that I'm finding myself to be somewhat annoyed at these cheapsters - and that reminded me about my rant of yesterday about cheapass things and how long they last.
I put up my $300 bucks to find the love of my life; why aren't these men willing to do the same?
So far, the three men I'm currently corresponding with, TR, Jeff and Willie (who as it turned out, couldn't respond to me since he signed up during Eharmony's last free weekend!!) have all besieged me with a version of that same email above, i.e., they aren't paying members and could I email them my picture asap?
This is exactly what happened with Tom, remember? He was a free weekend member who couldn't see my picture - and when he did, he told me I was too fat. (Not a good memory, reader!)
I'm going to have to think about this one.
In the meantime, a bit of an update...
TR (according to him, it either stands for Theodore Roosevelt or Tryannosaurus Rex) has turned out to be a little on the strange side (and reader, I think this may be an understatement). I have swapped a couple of emails with him, and he sent me this long, overblown four page document (advertisement?) complete with 46 pictures, extolling the virtues of his condo, which he decorated and is currently selling, for which he asked me for a critique (what am I, a proofreader??).
And then...he sent me a picture of a very skinny fellow in a tiny thong? bikini? penispouch? (what the heck do you call those things, anyway?) designed to look like a tuxedo - which he labeled "formalwear" -!! He says it is a picture of him in his younger days, and it bears no resemblence whatsoever to the round-faced, bearded and gray-haired man in his close-up shots.
This is just too weird. There is no way in hell - short of torture or someone standing over me with a gun to my head - that I would send ANYONE a picture of myself in my underwear. Ever.
I did critique TR's condo advertisement. He did ask, after all! And since I love watching HGTV, I'm up on all the latest 'must haves' for homebuyers - you know, the granite, the double vanity, the stainless steel appliances and the hardwood floors - none of which this condo has (and which I mentioned). I didn't like the black curtains; I suggested a lighter bronzy shade to compliment the tan walls and a lovely slubby silk or textured linen for the fabric... and...finally, I commented that four pages of adjective-packed verbiage seemed like a bit of a hard sell, so I suggested he pare it down to one page and let the pictures do the talking.
He hasn't answered back.
Perhaps that will suffice to send him screaming into the sunset. If not, I'll have to gently, but firmly, let him know that he's not the one for me.
Willie seemed like a nice fellow. But there was this long period of silence, in which I waited and waited for him to respond to my communication. His silence was finally broken -- by another free weekend. I'm supposed to wait around for him until the next free weekend comes along??
Jeff, as it turns out, is another free-weekender. He and I have a lot of the same creative interests, i.e., writing, acting, theatre, etc. He sent me that patented free weekender email, so I sent him a quick email with my picture attached. He hasn't responded, so perhaps I'm too fat for him as well.
I'm getting somewhat frustrated. It has been nearly two months, and I've had one rejection due to my weight, one nebbishy date and one genuine weirdo.
Lordy. What's a girl to do??
Love,
Maggie
Why is it that all the men on Eharmony seem to be the guys who signed up for the free weekends?
It is beginning to annoy me, because I picked Eharmony precisely for the fact that they make you do this slow dance before you get launched into the wilds of "Open Communication." I suck at "Open Communication." I'm getting better, I'll grant you, but I still want to lead up to the big event slowly and gently.
Instead I'm getting a flood of communications from these men, like a ping-pong match - and the first chance they get, they put in a message like this:
i'monlyoneharmonyforthefreeweekend.emailmeatlonelyguyatyahoo.com!
What's up with that??
The free weekend thing means that they can't even see my picture. I don't know quite how to feel about this; but I do know that I'm finding myself to be somewhat annoyed at these cheapsters - and that reminded me about my rant of yesterday about cheapass things and how long they last.
I put up my $300 bucks to find the love of my life; why aren't these men willing to do the same?
So far, the three men I'm currently corresponding with, TR, Jeff and Willie (who as it turned out, couldn't respond to me since he signed up during Eharmony's last free weekend!!) have all besieged me with a version of that same email above, i.e., they aren't paying members and could I email them my picture asap?
This is exactly what happened with Tom, remember? He was a free weekend member who couldn't see my picture - and when he did, he told me I was too fat. (Not a good memory, reader!)
I'm going to have to think about this one.
In the meantime, a bit of an update...
TR (according to him, it either stands for Theodore Roosevelt or Tryannosaurus Rex) has turned out to be a little on the strange side (and reader, I think this may be an understatement). I have swapped a couple of emails with him, and he sent me this long, overblown four page document (advertisement?) complete with 46 pictures, extolling the virtues of his condo, which he decorated and is currently selling, for which he asked me for a critique (what am I, a proofreader??).
And then...he sent me a picture of a very skinny fellow in a tiny thong? bikini? penispouch? (what the heck do you call those things, anyway?) designed to look like a tuxedo - which he labeled "formalwear" -!! He says it is a picture of him in his younger days, and it bears no resemblence whatsoever to the round-faced, bearded and gray-haired man in his close-up shots.
This is just too weird. There is no way in hell - short of torture or someone standing over me with a gun to my head - that I would send ANYONE a picture of myself in my underwear. Ever.
I did critique TR's condo advertisement. He did ask, after all! And since I love watching HGTV, I'm up on all the latest 'must haves' for homebuyers - you know, the granite, the double vanity, the stainless steel appliances and the hardwood floors - none of which this condo has (and which I mentioned). I didn't like the black curtains; I suggested a lighter bronzy shade to compliment the tan walls and a lovely slubby silk or textured linen for the fabric... and...finally, I commented that four pages of adjective-packed verbiage seemed like a bit of a hard sell, so I suggested he pare it down to one page and let the pictures do the talking.
He hasn't answered back.
Perhaps that will suffice to send him screaming into the sunset. If not, I'll have to gently, but firmly, let him know that he's not the one for me.
Willie seemed like a nice fellow. But there was this long period of silence, in which I waited and waited for him to respond to my communication. His silence was finally broken -- by another free weekend. I'm supposed to wait around for him until the next free weekend comes along??
Jeff, as it turns out, is another free-weekender. He and I have a lot of the same creative interests, i.e., writing, acting, theatre, etc. He sent me that patented free weekender email, so I sent him a quick email with my picture attached. He hasn't responded, so perhaps I'm too fat for him as well.
I'm getting somewhat frustrated. It has been nearly two months, and I've had one rejection due to my weight, one nebbishy date and one genuine weirdo.
Lordy. What's a girl to do??
Love,
Maggie
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day to me!
Perhaps I shouldn't post when I'm pissed off.
But I am thoroughly pissed off, and I'm going to post anyway. So there!
I was anticipating a quiet day; I'm communicating with several nice men on Eharmony, the weather is gorgeous, and I was planning a shopping trip later on, maybe, or trying a new recipe, but soaking every single one of my good towels with dirty water from my kitchen floor was most definitely NOT on the agenda.
After luxuriously reading in bed until 8:30am, I got up and made myself some coffee, and thought I'd go ahead and load the dishwasher and give the kitchen a quick once-over while the pot was brewing. So I loaded up the dishwasher, tossed in the Cascade for shinier-than-shiny dishes and started it up.
It normally makes a hissing sound when it starts up, but after a few moments, it struck me that this was not the normal hissing sound - it was louder and more ominous.
So I ventured into the kitchen to discover that the entire floor was awash in hot water - oh, friggin' CRAP! So I threw open the cabinet doors under the sink and started madly pulling out bottles and cans and sponges and rolls of paper towels and dust cloths and boxes - to discover that it looked like some idiot who obviously never graduated from any kind of school for plumbers or cracked a volume of "Plumbing for Dummies" had simply stuck a rubber hose on the nozzle for the hot water - without any kind of fastener whatsoever!!
Even I - a girly girl, with a french tip manicure on my gel nails, who has never ever done any sort of plumbing - know that when you fasten two of anything together in the plumbing world, you first seal the threads of the screw or pipe with some kind of plumber's putty, then you put the second pipe on, tighten it down, and then you support that connection with that metal band fastener thingie that you can tighten with a screwdriver or a small wrench!!! And...if you want to do a plumbing job right, especially on any kind of important and often-used fixture, you should use metal - not rubber and plastic. Even I know that.
Hell, I don't even know the correct technical term for whatever it is that is needed - but I sure as hell know that a rubber hose is not a good idea for any kind of fixture that needs to last, especially under pressure and very hot water.
So, when I see all that friggin' water, I grabbed my cell phone - and then I ran out the door and down the stairs to my landlady's apartment (with my cell phone unused in my hand and in my pajamas) and started madly ringing the doorbell. (All the while, very hot water is spraying everywhere under my sink.) After about three hysterical rounds of four or five rings, a bleary-eyed young man (her son?) opened the door. I blurted out that there was hot water spraying all over my kitchen floor and ran back up to my apartment.
I spent the next ten or so frantic minutes trying to get everything out from under the sink - after I shut off the dishwasher and determined that the water hadn't backed up in there because of something blocking the drain. When I had finally madly pulled everything out from under the sink, I discovered the hot water nozzle (or whatever it is you call that thing) was spraying hot water full-blast under the sink, because that blankety-blank-blank rubber hose had come loose.
I tried at first to force the hose back on to the nozzle, but the water was way too hot (I burned my hand, damnit!!) and the pressure was too high. Then I tried to shut the water off with the shut off valve. (Lefty loosey, righty-tighty - it works!) The valve was pretty stiff (and that water was goddamned HOT), but I finally succeeded in shutting the water off, and I burned my hand in the process.
The landlady called on the phone and I told her what was going on. She told me to put all my towels in the water to soak it up. I was horrified. I don't even have that many towels in the first place, and soaking up dirty water off my kitchen floor was not what I wanted to do with them. But I did it anyway. I pulled every towel I own out of my linen closet and laid them in the water. They are now completely sodden, and piled in the sink. Great. Fifty pounds of wet towels in the sink, which I am going to have to pay $2.25 per load (in quarters, mind you!) to wash and dry.
My landlady finally showed up to see what was going on. She told me that the apartment of the poor guy who lives downstairs is completely flooded; his carpeting is soaked. Poor guy. He's not home much; I think he stays with his girlfriend - he's going to be in for an even nastier surprise than I got. Poor guy.
I told my landlady that the water had gotten underneath the dishwasher and the refrigerator, so I asked that she have someone come to clean up the mess, because I cannot move the dishwasher, and I sure as hell am not going to move my gigantic fridge by myself.
She agreed, thank goodness, so my next task was to move everything off the top of the fridge...which is also artfully (and very inconveniently) covered with really cool tacky magnets from around the world.
The plumber came, thank goodness! (Julio, you are my Valentine!) He had the problem fixed within ten minutes, and then he showed me the rubber fixture he took out from under the sink.
As I suspected, it was a cheapass rubber hose that had originally come with a cap attached to thread onto the nozzle. So, it actually did have a fastener at one time, apparently, that cheapass plastic cap on the end of the length of rubber hose that screwed onto the nozzle, and it was expected to somehow hold up under the pressure and heat of the constant use of hot water under the kitchen sink. According to Julio, my plumbing Valentine, to save a couple of bucks, whoever did the plumbing in this apartment used that rubber fixture (as opposed to a metal hose and fixture) because it was cheap.
But, as it happens with all cheapass things, they wear out quickly, and so, predictably, this morning, that little cheapass rubber hose, from just a little too much pressure and a little too much very hot water, gave up the ghost and broke off (also predictably) just beneath the threaded cap, thus kicking off a flood of epic proportions.
In order to save a few bucks, the owner of the building approved the use of a cheapass rubber hose when the proper metal fixture and flexible hose would have only cost a few bucks more. Let's be generous and say it cost $10 more than the cheapass rubber hose, shall we?
So, what has Mr. Building Owner gotten for his ten buck savings?
An emergency visit from a plumber on a Sunday morning.
And an emergency visit from professional carpet cleaners to not only clean up my apartment (soaking up the water from the carpet at the kitchen door, which is wet), but to do a big clean-up job on the poor guy's apartment downstairs - which is pretty badly flooded. Also, the carpeting in the stairwell and hallway is wet as well - I took down two bags of water-soaked debris and noticed the squishy sound my feet made on the stairs as I wended my way down the four flights leading to the garage.
All for a grand savings of ten whole dollars. Hurrah!
Reader, this is the very meaning of the cliche "penny wise, but pound foolish" brought to unpleasant life.
The carpet cleaner came. He checked behind the fridge and fortunately found no visible water. He also removed the front panel of my dishwasher and didn't find any water under there either. So he's going to clean and dry the six or so square feet of carpeting near my kitchen door...and then go downstairs to do damage control on the apartment beneath mine.
As an aside and a corollary to this story, I have lived in several apartments here in Los Angeles over the last twenty-five years, and since my first apartment, which was on the ground floor, was burglarized twice (I was home both times), I swore never again to live on the first floor. The Rhino People (you get the idea, right?) who lived in the apartment upstairs -- also were a very large (seriously large!) factor in my decision never to live on the first floor again, but that's a story for another blog.
My subsequent apartments (all four of them) have been on the top floor of the building I lived in - mostly as a kind of safety precaution, because I like having my windows open, and only the most determined burglar is going to climb the wall like a spider to get in the windows.
As it turns out, this top-floor policy has saved me even more misery, because I'm not the one with the BIG flood. That poor guy downstairs....
Sign me "Pissed off in Los Angeles,"
Maggie
But I am thoroughly pissed off, and I'm going to post anyway. So there!
I was anticipating a quiet day; I'm communicating with several nice men on Eharmony, the weather is gorgeous, and I was planning a shopping trip later on, maybe, or trying a new recipe, but soaking every single one of my good towels with dirty water from my kitchen floor was most definitely NOT on the agenda.
After luxuriously reading in bed until 8:30am, I got up and made myself some coffee, and thought I'd go ahead and load the dishwasher and give the kitchen a quick once-over while the pot was brewing. So I loaded up the dishwasher, tossed in the Cascade for shinier-than-shiny dishes and started it up.
It normally makes a hissing sound when it starts up, but after a few moments, it struck me that this was not the normal hissing sound - it was louder and more ominous.
So I ventured into the kitchen to discover that the entire floor was awash in hot water - oh, friggin' CRAP! So I threw open the cabinet doors under the sink and started madly pulling out bottles and cans and sponges and rolls of paper towels and dust cloths and boxes - to discover that it looked like some idiot who obviously never graduated from any kind of school for plumbers or cracked a volume of "Plumbing for Dummies" had simply stuck a rubber hose on the nozzle for the hot water - without any kind of fastener whatsoever!!
Even I - a girly girl, with a french tip manicure on my gel nails, who has never ever done any sort of plumbing - know that when you fasten two of anything together in the plumbing world, you first seal the threads of the screw or pipe with some kind of plumber's putty, then you put the second pipe on, tighten it down, and then you support that connection with that metal band fastener thingie that you can tighten with a screwdriver or a small wrench!!! And...if you want to do a plumbing job right, especially on any kind of important and often-used fixture, you should use metal - not rubber and plastic. Even I know that.
Hell, I don't even know the correct technical term for whatever it is that is needed - but I sure as hell know that a rubber hose is not a good idea for any kind of fixture that needs to last, especially under pressure and very hot water.
So, when I see all that friggin' water, I grabbed my cell phone - and then I ran out the door and down the stairs to my landlady's apartment (with my cell phone unused in my hand and in my pajamas) and started madly ringing the doorbell. (All the while, very hot water is spraying everywhere under my sink.) After about three hysterical rounds of four or five rings, a bleary-eyed young man (her son?) opened the door. I blurted out that there was hot water spraying all over my kitchen floor and ran back up to my apartment.
I spent the next ten or so frantic minutes trying to get everything out from under the sink - after I shut off the dishwasher and determined that the water hadn't backed up in there because of something blocking the drain. When I had finally madly pulled everything out from under the sink, I discovered the hot water nozzle (or whatever it is you call that thing) was spraying hot water full-blast under the sink, because that blankety-blank-blank rubber hose had come loose.
I tried at first to force the hose back on to the nozzle, but the water was way too hot (I burned my hand, damnit!!) and the pressure was too high. Then I tried to shut the water off with the shut off valve. (Lefty loosey, righty-tighty - it works!) The valve was pretty stiff (and that water was goddamned HOT), but I finally succeeded in shutting the water off, and I burned my hand in the process.
The landlady called on the phone and I told her what was going on. She told me to put all my towels in the water to soak it up. I was horrified. I don't even have that many towels in the first place, and soaking up dirty water off my kitchen floor was not what I wanted to do with them. But I did it anyway. I pulled every towel I own out of my linen closet and laid them in the water. They are now completely sodden, and piled in the sink. Great. Fifty pounds of wet towels in the sink, which I am going to have to pay $2.25 per load (in quarters, mind you!) to wash and dry.
My landlady finally showed up to see what was going on. She told me that the apartment of the poor guy who lives downstairs is completely flooded; his carpeting is soaked. Poor guy. He's not home much; I think he stays with his girlfriend - he's going to be in for an even nastier surprise than I got. Poor guy.
I told my landlady that the water had gotten underneath the dishwasher and the refrigerator, so I asked that she have someone come to clean up the mess, because I cannot move the dishwasher, and I sure as hell am not going to move my gigantic fridge by myself.
She agreed, thank goodness, so my next task was to move everything off the top of the fridge...which is also artfully (and very inconveniently) covered with really cool tacky magnets from around the world.
The plumber came, thank goodness! (Julio, you are my Valentine!) He had the problem fixed within ten minutes, and then he showed me the rubber fixture he took out from under the sink.
As I suspected, it was a cheapass rubber hose that had originally come with a cap attached to thread onto the nozzle. So, it actually did have a fastener at one time, apparently, that cheapass plastic cap on the end of the length of rubber hose that screwed onto the nozzle, and it was expected to somehow hold up under the pressure and heat of the constant use of hot water under the kitchen sink. According to Julio, my plumbing Valentine, to save a couple of bucks, whoever did the plumbing in this apartment used that rubber fixture (as opposed to a metal hose and fixture) because it was cheap.
But, as it happens with all cheapass things, they wear out quickly, and so, predictably, this morning, that little cheapass rubber hose, from just a little too much pressure and a little too much very hot water, gave up the ghost and broke off (also predictably) just beneath the threaded cap, thus kicking off a flood of epic proportions.
In order to save a few bucks, the owner of the building approved the use of a cheapass rubber hose when the proper metal fixture and flexible hose would have only cost a few bucks more. Let's be generous and say it cost $10 more than the cheapass rubber hose, shall we?
So, what has Mr. Building Owner gotten for his ten buck savings?
An emergency visit from a plumber on a Sunday morning.
And an emergency visit from professional carpet cleaners to not only clean up my apartment (soaking up the water from the carpet at the kitchen door, which is wet), but to do a big clean-up job on the poor guy's apartment downstairs - which is pretty badly flooded. Also, the carpeting in the stairwell and hallway is wet as well - I took down two bags of water-soaked debris and noticed the squishy sound my feet made on the stairs as I wended my way down the four flights leading to the garage.
All for a grand savings of ten whole dollars. Hurrah!
Reader, this is the very meaning of the cliche "penny wise, but pound foolish" brought to unpleasant life.
The carpet cleaner came. He checked behind the fridge and fortunately found no visible water. He also removed the front panel of my dishwasher and didn't find any water under there either. So he's going to clean and dry the six or so square feet of carpeting near my kitchen door...and then go downstairs to do damage control on the apartment beneath mine.
As an aside and a corollary to this story, I have lived in several apartments here in Los Angeles over the last twenty-five years, and since my first apartment, which was on the ground floor, was burglarized twice (I was home both times), I swore never again to live on the first floor. The Rhino People (you get the idea, right?) who lived in the apartment upstairs -- also were a very large (seriously large!) factor in my decision never to live on the first floor again, but that's a story for another blog.
My subsequent apartments (all four of them) have been on the top floor of the building I lived in - mostly as a kind of safety precaution, because I like having my windows open, and only the most determined burglar is going to climb the wall like a spider to get in the windows.
As it turns out, this top-floor policy has saved me even more misery, because I'm not the one with the BIG flood. That poor guy downstairs....
Sign me "Pissed off in Los Angeles,"
Maggie
Saturday, February 13, 2010
A Question from a Reader
Hillary wants to know what happened to Jeff and Alex.
Well, Hillary, actually, so do I.
You see, I'm kind of in limbo with Jeff and Alex.
Neither of them has responded to my last communication, and the way Eharmony is set up, you just can't nag them.
I did send the one "nudge" Eharmony allows me - about two weeks ago, but neither of them has acted on it.
I only have two choices at this point: 1) continue wait for their responses or 2) close the matches. I suspect their lack of response indicates a lack of interest - that's the obvious reason, isn't it?
Thanks for the reminder, Hillary. I'll let you know what I decide to do about Jeff and Alex.
Love,
Maggie
Well, Hillary, actually, so do I.
You see, I'm kind of in limbo with Jeff and Alex.
Neither of them has responded to my last communication, and the way Eharmony is set up, you just can't nag them.
I did send the one "nudge" Eharmony allows me - about two weeks ago, but neither of them has acted on it.
I only have two choices at this point: 1) continue wait for their responses or 2) close the matches. I suspect their lack of response indicates a lack of interest - that's the obvious reason, isn't it?
Thanks for the reminder, Hillary. I'll let you know what I decide to do about Jeff and Alex.
Love,
Maggie
Friday, February 12, 2010
Hallelujah!
I got matched with Jesus.
Seriously. And who knew that Jesus lives in San Pedro??
I snark, reader.
But I did get matched with Jesus from San Pedro. Maybe He's the one.
This made me giggle madly, as there are endless jokes to be made about being matched with Jesus. (Where do you meet Jesus for a first date? Church?)
Poor Jesus. I couldn't even look at his profile. Maybe when this attack of the silly wears off and I can think of him as "Hey Seuss" instead.
Actually, I was contacted by an interesting fellow who styles himself "TR." He is 6'3" - that's good. He can spell - that's better, so we'll see where this one goes. I may have another date to report by the end of this weekend.
I cut another one of my suitors loose tonight: Tam. He sent me his Must Haves/Can't Stands - and one of them was "I can't stand anyone who is overweight."
I am overweight. It's obvious in my picture that I'm overweight. Besides, I have to say, that particular Can't Stand pisses me off. How would guys feel if I had a Can't Stand like this: "I can't stand anyone who's bald on top." ...?
I'm sorry, but if a man has that in his MH/CS, I'm cutting him off. Even if I was Kate Moss thin (which only happens in my dreams), there's no guarantee that I'm going to stay that way forever. Hell, I've been thin. I've been thin and I've been fat. Right now, I'm kind of in the middle. And besides, unless that man looks like Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford, he ain't got no business playing the fat card.
So, buh-bye, Tam.
I wasn't really interested in meeting him anyway, so it's just as well.
I've taken to sending interesting men Icebreakers. I talked about those in my last post; they're these little one-liners you can send someone just to say hello. For some reason, I get a little intimidated at the thought of just sending five nosy questions to someone I don't know...and who might reject me.
Hmmm. He might reject me. I need to get over this. I am going to get rejected. That's the nature of this particular beast, isn't it? So, going forward, I resolve to send my five nosy questions to anyone who strikes my fancy - no matter where they are or how intimidatingly cute they are. For all I know, there will be someone who has a thing for cushiony redheads.
Love,
Maggie
Seriously. And who knew that Jesus lives in San Pedro??
I snark, reader.
But I did get matched with Jesus from San Pedro. Maybe He's the one.
This made me giggle madly, as there are endless jokes to be made about being matched with Jesus. (Where do you meet Jesus for a first date? Church?)
Poor Jesus. I couldn't even look at his profile. Maybe when this attack of the silly wears off and I can think of him as "Hey Seuss" instead.
Actually, I was contacted by an interesting fellow who styles himself "TR." He is 6'3" - that's good. He can spell - that's better, so we'll see where this one goes. I may have another date to report by the end of this weekend.
I cut another one of my suitors loose tonight: Tam. He sent me his Must Haves/Can't Stands - and one of them was "I can't stand anyone who is overweight."
I am overweight. It's obvious in my picture that I'm overweight. Besides, I have to say, that particular Can't Stand pisses me off. How would guys feel if I had a Can't Stand like this: "I can't stand anyone who's bald on top." ...?
I'm sorry, but if a man has that in his MH/CS, I'm cutting him off. Even if I was Kate Moss thin (which only happens in my dreams), there's no guarantee that I'm going to stay that way forever. Hell, I've been thin. I've been thin and I've been fat. Right now, I'm kind of in the middle. And besides, unless that man looks like Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford, he ain't got no business playing the fat card.
So, buh-bye, Tam.
I wasn't really interested in meeting him anyway, so it's just as well.
I've taken to sending interesting men Icebreakers. I talked about those in my last post; they're these little one-liners you can send someone just to say hello. For some reason, I get a little intimidated at the thought of just sending five nosy questions to someone I don't know...and who might reject me.
Hmmm. He might reject me. I need to get over this. I am going to get rejected. That's the nature of this particular beast, isn't it? So, going forward, I resolve to send my five nosy questions to anyone who strikes my fancy - no matter where they are or how intimidatingly cute they are. For all I know, there will be someone who has a thing for cushiony redheads.
Love,
Maggie
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Whew.
It has been an eventful couple of weeks, readers.
That dreaded "real life" thing has intruded - no, let's tell it like it is: real life just freakin' butted right in and made me miserable for the last couple of weeks. Drama at work, an unexpected layoff (not me, thank goodness!) and a boss who has developed a taste for cracking the whip have all added up to me having a lot of things on my mind that have nothing to do with my fishing expedition.
But let's see if we can catch up here, and we can start with Carl. I tossed him back. He just didn't awaken any kind of feeling in me at all, except for maybe a faint sense of boredom (sorry, Carl!). I sent him an email in which I told him that I just didn't think we had any potential and closed the match. I did feel kind of sorry for him, but I'm not going to go out with someone I don't particularly want to go out with just because I feel sorry for him. No more "Nice Girl Syndrome, " right?
Since then, the folks at Eharmony have been doing their level best to bury me in piles of eligible men. Seriously - they sent me at least ten emails every single day, "Meet your new match ______!" Where were all these men when I was out looking for them? (Heh. Sitting at home signing up for Eharmony, I guess.)
I can't seem to keep up. I logged in last night and waded through about 40 of them - yes, I am really behind on this! The far-away ones got closed, and now, I'm closing the ones with no photos. If they're too ...what? Ashamed? Picky? Afraid? to show their picture, I'm not interested.
I have sent a couple of what Eharmony calls "Icebreakers" to a few cute guys. Icebreakers are these cutesy canned one-line messages you can send to someone. It's not like sending the first questions, but it's a way to say hello. My favorite is "Your profile brought a smile to my face!" but so far, nobody has responded.
There are three gentlemen who have requested communication; two of them look like grandpas and the third looks like Michael on The Biggest Loser and spells like he's still in sixth grade. I closed that match; I feel a little guilty for being shallow, but this is my life, and I need to be engaged and thrilled by the person, and excited at the prospect of getting to know them. I don't want to be someone's mercy date.
So far, Eharmony seems to be kind of a dud, but I have 10 and 1/2 months to go on my membership.
As a very interesting aside, the conventional wisdom says that some of the best matches can be made by caring friends. As it happens, I was at the home of one of those caring friends, and I happened to be introduced to a very attractive fellow named Dan - who happens to be single. He's a talented guy, and funny and smart. My friend asked me if I'd be interested in Dan, and I said, "Are you kidding? He's totally cute!" My friend smiled and winked. I'll keep you posted.
It's Valentine's Day on Sunday, and once again, I have no one to share it with. Maybe I'll buy myself a bouquet of roses. And chocolates, too.
Love,
Maggie
That dreaded "real life" thing has intruded - no, let's tell it like it is: real life just freakin' butted right in and made me miserable for the last couple of weeks. Drama at work, an unexpected layoff (not me, thank goodness!) and a boss who has developed a taste for cracking the whip have all added up to me having a lot of things on my mind that have nothing to do with my fishing expedition.
But let's see if we can catch up here, and we can start with Carl. I tossed him back. He just didn't awaken any kind of feeling in me at all, except for maybe a faint sense of boredom (sorry, Carl!). I sent him an email in which I told him that I just didn't think we had any potential and closed the match. I did feel kind of sorry for him, but I'm not going to go out with someone I don't particularly want to go out with just because I feel sorry for him. No more "Nice Girl Syndrome, " right?
Since then, the folks at Eharmony have been doing their level best to bury me in piles of eligible men. Seriously - they sent me at least ten emails every single day, "Meet your new match ______!" Where were all these men when I was out looking for them? (Heh. Sitting at home signing up for Eharmony, I guess.)
I can't seem to keep up. I logged in last night and waded through about 40 of them - yes, I am really behind on this! The far-away ones got closed, and now, I'm closing the ones with no photos. If they're too ...what? Ashamed? Picky? Afraid? to show their picture, I'm not interested.
I have sent a couple of what Eharmony calls "Icebreakers" to a few cute guys. Icebreakers are these cutesy canned one-line messages you can send to someone. It's not like sending the first questions, but it's a way to say hello. My favorite is "Your profile brought a smile to my face!" but so far, nobody has responded.
There are three gentlemen who have requested communication; two of them look like grandpas and the third looks like Michael on The Biggest Loser and spells like he's still in sixth grade. I closed that match; I feel a little guilty for being shallow, but this is my life, and I need to be engaged and thrilled by the person, and excited at the prospect of getting to know them. I don't want to be someone's mercy date.
So far, Eharmony seems to be kind of a dud, but I have 10 and 1/2 months to go on my membership.
As a very interesting aside, the conventional wisdom says that some of the best matches can be made by caring friends. As it happens, I was at the home of one of those caring friends, and I happened to be introduced to a very attractive fellow named Dan - who happens to be single. He's a talented guy, and funny and smart. My friend asked me if I'd be interested in Dan, and I said, "Are you kidding? He's totally cute!" My friend smiled and winked. I'll keep you posted.
It's Valentine's Day on Sunday, and once again, I have no one to share it with. Maybe I'll buy myself a bouquet of roses. And chocolates, too.
Love,
Maggie
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Oh, and p.s....
I found out earlier this morning that the Superbowl is next weekend.
Silly me. Another week to root for the Saints.
WHO DAT??
Silly me. Another week to root for the Saints.
WHO DAT??
Meatloaf and Frozen Peas
Yep. Meatloaf and frozen peas.
That's Carl.
We met at a local coffee shop, a busy restaurant from the IHOP mold, full of noisy kids, noisy parents yelling at noisy kids to be quiet, an assortment of senior citizens and yups on their cell phones. Not a place I would have chosen. Starbucks may be cliche and all, but at least they have good coffee - and no screaming children.
I got there around 12:30 - I had no idea how long it was going to take me to drive from my house to the coffee shop; traffic in this town is an endless enigma. So I sat in my car and leafed through my Crate and Barrel catalogue (which is all I'll ever do, because everything in that damned catalogue is ridiculously overpriced!!) until it was time to go in.
I sat in the lobby with a family (and yes, they had screaming kids) and waited for about fifteen minutes. Finally, I see a guy walk up. He peered in the window but didn't react when he saw me. I chose to wear a shirt the same color as sweater I was wearing in my photograph, so it would have been pretty obvious that it was me. He didn't react; instead he wandered around the front of the place for a moment, and then he sat on a bench outside the restaurant.
I couldn't put him together with his picture; he did not look at all like the shots of him on Eharmony. Different angles, I guess.
So I wondered. Was it him? Why didn't he come in? Didn't he know that he was a few minutes late, and that I was probably sitting inside?
I sat there and dithered.
How embarrassing would it be if I went up to this total stranger and asked, "Are you Carl?" I was cringing - what if he wasn't Carl? So I sat there, and the guy showed no signs of coming in. So, I gathered up my dignity and went out and did just that: asked "Are you Carl?" Fortunately for me, he said yes. (Whew.) He said that he hadn't been able to see me through the window. (And yes, reader, I am currently shaking my head and rolling my eyes - just a little. Why not just come in and do a quick check of the lobby, right?)
Anyway, we got served our drinks - he's a Diet Pepsi guy, and since I can't stand that yucky stuff, I made a joke about being a Diet Coke die-hard - and did that mean we were doomed...? He laughed, and we had a chatty lunch. He told me about his job. I told him about my job. I mentioned that I had gotten laid off in 2009, and he mentioned that they were expanding his department.
You probably would have dozed off, reader. I almost did. The only thing that kept me awake was my chicken quesadilla and some really nice iced tea - it was brewed, not that instant crap. (I digress, don't I?)
I noticed that Carl had a cold; he was sniffing (which was kind of icky), but he was considerate enough to apologize. I did have an uncharitable thought or two that he should have been considerate enough to cancel until he was well.
We got through lunch and he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk around the lake. So I said ok, and we got in my car and drove about a mile or so to the park. There were lots of people there, and he kept waving me away from parking spaces, saying that he "always parked way in the back." So I kept driving, and passed several more parking spaces and he told me to keep going. When we finally got to the part of the park where he claimed there were always parking spaces - guess what? No parking spaces.
One thing I noticed was that he was a back-seat (front-seat) driver. What is it with guys that they have this firmly held belief that women cannot drive without direction...? Who made that stupid rule anyway?? So we drove on, with me gritting my teeth.
Then he wanted to show me the model airplane park. I said OK to that, but I really could give a crap about model airplanes. We drove a little further and pulled into another park; this time there was a parking space (complete with mud), so I pulled in. We sat at an empty picnic table and watched very large boys play with their very expensive toys for about an hour.
He kept patting me on the knee to emphasize his points, which I began to find mildly annoying, along with the icky sniffing (the nasty juicy kind). Finally, I said that I had to go, because I really do have something I have to do for tomorrow, and I need to get busy.
I don't really think we're going to hit it off, readers. He's nice, but he's kind of nebbishy and I think that I'd eventually find him to be very annoying. I'm going to toss him back and let him continue fishing (he's not only on Eharmony, he's on Match.com AND Chemistry.com...is that a red flag?).
Meatloaf and frozen peas. I think I'm going to hold out for a nice, juicy, rare steak.
Until next time, readers,
Love,
Maggie
That's Carl.
We met at a local coffee shop, a busy restaurant from the IHOP mold, full of noisy kids, noisy parents yelling at noisy kids to be quiet, an assortment of senior citizens and yups on their cell phones. Not a place I would have chosen. Starbucks may be cliche and all, but at least they have good coffee - and no screaming children.
I got there around 12:30 - I had no idea how long it was going to take me to drive from my house to the coffee shop; traffic in this town is an endless enigma. So I sat in my car and leafed through my Crate and Barrel catalogue (which is all I'll ever do, because everything in that damned catalogue is ridiculously overpriced!!) until it was time to go in.
I sat in the lobby with a family (and yes, they had screaming kids) and waited for about fifteen minutes. Finally, I see a guy walk up. He peered in the window but didn't react when he saw me. I chose to wear a shirt the same color as sweater I was wearing in my photograph, so it would have been pretty obvious that it was me. He didn't react; instead he wandered around the front of the place for a moment, and then he sat on a bench outside the restaurant.
I couldn't put him together with his picture; he did not look at all like the shots of him on Eharmony. Different angles, I guess.
So I wondered. Was it him? Why didn't he come in? Didn't he know that he was a few minutes late, and that I was probably sitting inside?
I sat there and dithered.
How embarrassing would it be if I went up to this total stranger and asked, "Are you Carl?" I was cringing - what if he wasn't Carl? So I sat there, and the guy showed no signs of coming in. So, I gathered up my dignity and went out and did just that: asked "Are you Carl?" Fortunately for me, he said yes. (Whew.) He said that he hadn't been able to see me through the window. (And yes, reader, I am currently shaking my head and rolling my eyes - just a little. Why not just come in and do a quick check of the lobby, right?)
Anyway, we got served our drinks - he's a Diet Pepsi guy, and since I can't stand that yucky stuff, I made a joke about being a Diet Coke die-hard - and did that mean we were doomed...? He laughed, and we had a chatty lunch. He told me about his job. I told him about my job. I mentioned that I had gotten laid off in 2009, and he mentioned that they were expanding his department.
You probably would have dozed off, reader. I almost did. The only thing that kept me awake was my chicken quesadilla and some really nice iced tea - it was brewed, not that instant crap. (I digress, don't I?)
I noticed that Carl had a cold; he was sniffing (which was kind of icky), but he was considerate enough to apologize. I did have an uncharitable thought or two that he should have been considerate enough to cancel until he was well.
We got through lunch and he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk around the lake. So I said ok, and we got in my car and drove about a mile or so to the park. There were lots of people there, and he kept waving me away from parking spaces, saying that he "always parked way in the back." So I kept driving, and passed several more parking spaces and he told me to keep going. When we finally got to the part of the park where he claimed there were always parking spaces - guess what? No parking spaces.
One thing I noticed was that he was a back-seat (front-seat) driver. What is it with guys that they have this firmly held belief that women cannot drive without direction...? Who made that stupid rule anyway?? So we drove on, with me gritting my teeth.
Then he wanted to show me the model airplane park. I said OK to that, but I really could give a crap about model airplanes. We drove a little further and pulled into another park; this time there was a parking space (complete with mud), so I pulled in. We sat at an empty picnic table and watched very large boys play with their very expensive toys for about an hour.
He kept patting me on the knee to emphasize his points, which I began to find mildly annoying, along with the icky sniffing (the nasty juicy kind). Finally, I said that I had to go, because I really do have something I have to do for tomorrow, and I need to get busy.
I don't really think we're going to hit it off, readers. He's nice, but he's kind of nebbishy and I think that I'd eventually find him to be very annoying. I'm going to toss him back and let him continue fishing (he's not only on Eharmony, he's on Match.com AND Chemistry.com...is that a red flag?).
Meatloaf and frozen peas. I think I'm going to hold out for a nice, juicy, rare steak.
Until next time, readers,
Love,
Maggie
Saturday, January 30, 2010
My First Date!
Yes, sports fans - tomorrow, I'm meeting Carl for the first time.
But I guess I'm getting a little ahead of myself - I completely skipped over the phone call, didn't I? I did, and I apologize. Here's how it went down.
I have about a 45 minute commute from work to home, so I thought that would be a good time to call Carl - I mean, I'm stuck in my car in traffic, so what else is there to do, right?
So...I dialed the number, and he answered the phone. Amazingly enough, I was able to say hello in a normal voice, and it got better from there. We had a nice chat, and as it happens, Carl and I both have a weakness for ice cream. I guess if we run out of things to talk about, we can always compare the relative merits of rocky road and butter pecan, eh?
As our conversation wound down a little, Carl asked me if I wanted to meet, and I said yes. So we set up a meeting for tomorrow at 1pm at a local coffee shop, and then, if things go well, we'll take a turn around the lake in a nearby park.
I'm getting a little nervous, and I must confess (I do a lot of confessing, don't I?) that I have had the urge to call him and cancel. It's my nerves, I guess. He's new, and I feel like I'll be on display like a prize heifer; but on the other hand, I'd be willing to bet that he feels the same way. I'll just keep reminding myself of that.
It's going to be a relatively short date - tomorrow is the Superbowl, after all, and I must be home to see my beloved Saints beat the pants off the Colts.
I promise I'll tell you all about my first date...but it will have to be after the game.
GEAUX SAINTS! Who dat??
Love,
Maggie
But I guess I'm getting a little ahead of myself - I completely skipped over the phone call, didn't I? I did, and I apologize. Here's how it went down.
I have about a 45 minute commute from work to home, so I thought that would be a good time to call Carl - I mean, I'm stuck in my car in traffic, so what else is there to do, right?
So...I dialed the number, and he answered the phone. Amazingly enough, I was able to say hello in a normal voice, and it got better from there. We had a nice chat, and as it happens, Carl and I both have a weakness for ice cream. I guess if we run out of things to talk about, we can always compare the relative merits of rocky road and butter pecan, eh?
As our conversation wound down a little, Carl asked me if I wanted to meet, and I said yes. So we set up a meeting for tomorrow at 1pm at a local coffee shop, and then, if things go well, we'll take a turn around the lake in a nearby park.
I'm getting a little nervous, and I must confess (I do a lot of confessing, don't I?) that I have had the urge to call him and cancel. It's my nerves, I guess. He's new, and I feel like I'll be on display like a prize heifer; but on the other hand, I'd be willing to bet that he feels the same way. I'll just keep reminding myself of that.
It's going to be a relatively short date - tomorrow is the Superbowl, after all, and I must be home to see my beloved Saints beat the pants off the Colts.
I promise I'll tell you all about my first date...but it will have to be after the game.
GEAUX SAINTS! Who dat??
Love,
Maggie
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
May I Confess...?
I'm scared.
Yep. Petrified.
Carl sent me his phone number, and said that he's "waiting for my call."
That was ...when was it? Last Tuesday, I think. Poor Carl. I think of calling him and I just freak out.
Why? I mean, what's the worst that can happen? ("That he'll answer the phone!!" gibbers my terrified inner child.) One - or six - of those awkward moments when the Cone of Silence descends over the conversation; I can just hear myself saying, "Say, how 'bout them Saints?!" (How 'bout them Saints!! WHO DAT??? But I digress, don't I?)
Anyway, I just don't know what to say. And I hate making amusing and polite chit-chat with someone I don't know, especially over the phone. I sound like a dork. He said that he doesn't like to discuss politics, which is always a reliable fallback. Heck, if I had my choice, I'd much prefer to swap emails for a while, but Carl is a man of few - and misspelled - words.
I don't feel any attraction to Carl, really. Maybe I'm being too all-fired picky, but Carl seems about as exciting as a Swanson TV dinner. Straight from the freezer. Meatloaf. With peas.
Poor Carl. I don't know what to do with him. All week, I've been making excuse after excuse for not picking up the phone and calling him. It was raining really hard. I had three fillings and my mouth hurts. I was busy watching television. The Biggest Loser was on. Oops - gotta clean out the litter box and take out the trash! Can't call now!
Readers? What shall I do?
Here's my dilemma: I can't figure out whether I don't feel any attraction for Carl and that's why I don't want to call him, OR I don't want to make the call, so I'm telling myself that he's an icky little man and I don't like him.
See? The eternal dilemma of which came first, the chicken or the egg.
It has been so long since I've had a date that I can't tell if a guy will come along who will make me feel so tingly that I can't wait to talk to him on the phone or if it's specifically Carl who makes me want to chuck my phone off the balcony and flee. Or, worst of all, maybe there isn't a man out there who can make me feel all tingly - maybe my "tingle" is broken.
That would be awful, to have a broken tingle.
At this point, I don't really have any desire to go out with Carl, but I have this feeling like I have to give him a chance. Like it wouldn't be fair if I simply said, "Gee, Carl, you're probably a very nice man, but I'm not really interested." Give Carl a chance, my mind says, be a Nice Girl and give him a chance.
And then, I ask myself why.
Why do I have to give Carl - a man I'm really not interested in meeting - a chance? Don't I deserve to have a man who makes me feel all tingly, or am I so old and old-maidish that I must just take whoever comes along and give him a chance, just so I can get off the shelf...?
I think this is a case of what I call Nice Girl Syndrome, you know, that if you're a Nice Girl, you have to say yes to people and do things you don't want to do - or you won't be a Nice Girl. And that includes giving men like Carl a chance.
Boy, what a mess I am.
Anyway, reader, I haven't quite made up my mind about Carl - yet, but I think I'm leaning toward emailing him and asking him if he'd mind if we swapped emails for a little while, so I could get to know him a little better rather than jump in with the phone call. That would give me a chance to explore my feelings a little more and see if I can resolve my chicken/egg issue.
Feel free to jump in any time.
Love,
Maggie
Yep. Petrified.
Carl sent me his phone number, and said that he's "waiting for my call."
That was ...when was it? Last Tuesday, I think. Poor Carl. I think of calling him and I just freak out.
Why? I mean, what's the worst that can happen? ("That he'll answer the phone!!" gibbers my terrified inner child.) One - or six - of those awkward moments when the Cone of Silence descends over the conversation; I can just hear myself saying, "Say, how 'bout them Saints?!" (How 'bout them Saints!! WHO DAT??? But I digress, don't I?)
Anyway, I just don't know what to say. And I hate making amusing and polite chit-chat with someone I don't know, especially over the phone. I sound like a dork. He said that he doesn't like to discuss politics, which is always a reliable fallback. Heck, if I had my choice, I'd much prefer to swap emails for a while, but Carl is a man of few - and misspelled - words.
I don't feel any attraction to Carl, really. Maybe I'm being too all-fired picky, but Carl seems about as exciting as a Swanson TV dinner. Straight from the freezer. Meatloaf. With peas.
Poor Carl. I don't know what to do with him. All week, I've been making excuse after excuse for not picking up the phone and calling him. It was raining really hard. I had three fillings and my mouth hurts. I was busy watching television. The Biggest Loser was on. Oops - gotta clean out the litter box and take out the trash! Can't call now!
Readers? What shall I do?
Here's my dilemma: I can't figure out whether I don't feel any attraction for Carl and that's why I don't want to call him, OR I don't want to make the call, so I'm telling myself that he's an icky little man and I don't like him.
See? The eternal dilemma of which came first, the chicken or the egg.
It has been so long since I've had a date that I can't tell if a guy will come along who will make me feel so tingly that I can't wait to talk to him on the phone or if it's specifically Carl who makes me want to chuck my phone off the balcony and flee. Or, worst of all, maybe there isn't a man out there who can make me feel all tingly - maybe my "tingle" is broken.
That would be awful, to have a broken tingle.
At this point, I don't really have any desire to go out with Carl, but I have this feeling like I have to give him a chance. Like it wouldn't be fair if I simply said, "Gee, Carl, you're probably a very nice man, but I'm not really interested." Give Carl a chance, my mind says, be a Nice Girl and give him a chance.
And then, I ask myself why.
Why do I have to give Carl - a man I'm really not interested in meeting - a chance? Don't I deserve to have a man who makes me feel all tingly, or am I so old and old-maidish that I must just take whoever comes along and give him a chance, just so I can get off the shelf...?
I think this is a case of what I call Nice Girl Syndrome, you know, that if you're a Nice Girl, you have to say yes to people and do things you don't want to do - or you won't be a Nice Girl. And that includes giving men like Carl a chance.
Boy, what a mess I am.
Anyway, reader, I haven't quite made up my mind about Carl - yet, but I think I'm leaning toward emailing him and asking him if he'd mind if we swapped emails for a little while, so I could get to know him a little better rather than jump in with the phone call. That would give me a chance to explore my feelings a little more and see if I can resolve my chicken/egg issue.
Feel free to jump in any time.
Love,
Maggie
Monday, January 18, 2010
Short People
I figured that since I've been neglecting my project for about a week, I ought to go over to Eharmony and check out my new matches.
They're all short. 5'6", 5'7", 5'8".
There's nothing wrong with short guys. But come on, I'm nearly 6 feet tall in my stockings, and a guy who's 5'6" is going to have his nose at about boob level. Nice for him, maybe, but for me? I dunno. I'd kind of like to have someone who can look deep into my eyes...without standing on a stepladder.
And yes, I know, dear reader, I'm being shallow. So I've come to a kind of a compromise here. If they're 5'6" or taller, I'll let them contact me. If they want to meet a woman who towers over them - they've got good self esteem, and I like that. So, short guys - step up to the plate.
Jeff and Willie have stalled out. I don't know what's going on with either of them, but the ball's in their respective courts. Perhaps it was something I said in my answers to their questions that has given them pause. Who knows?
In the meantime, there's Carl. He contacted me, and I've responded, even though I think he looks like a small-time thug who has escaped from the set of "The Sopranos." I don't think Carl and I are going to work out. I asked him my three wishes question, and his answer raised a flag. He first wished for Haiti to be "fixed" - and that's a good thing, but then he wished for "a good president." Uh-oh. Have we got an Obama-hater here? I hope not.
I'm going to find out though, because he asked me the same three wishes question. Here's what I said: I told him that I liked his wish for Haiti, and that I'd second it. Then I said that I was happy with our current president, so instead, I'd wish that Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and Rice be tried for war crimes. (For my third wish, I went for the classic: world peace.)
If he's a Republican, that answer will ...smoke him out of his cave, won't it?
I wasn't too sure about Carl anyway - even before the "good president" wish; one of his MH's is he wants someone who is "very conventional sexually." Now that's just weird. What on earth does that mean? That he always gets to be on top? That the missionary position rules? No soapy sloppy sex in the shower? No naughty spanking? No romps with feathers and chocolate syrup? No cunni...well, um, yes, let's just leave it at that. Conventional man-on-top-woman-on-bottom-missionary-position sex is dreary and boring, isn't it?
I believe that if you only want to have "conventional sex" it means, simply, that you have no imagination or creativity or sense of fun. It means that you fall into a routine of every Tuesday is meatloaf and sex night. Ketchup on your meatloaf, two kisses, 16 thrusts and done.
No-freaking-thanks.
And yes, reader, I am extrapolating a whole lot from just that one thing. But hey, I was right about Tom, wasn't I?
Love,
Maggie
They're all short. 5'6", 5'7", 5'8".
There's nothing wrong with short guys. But come on, I'm nearly 6 feet tall in my stockings, and a guy who's 5'6" is going to have his nose at about boob level. Nice for him, maybe, but for me? I dunno. I'd kind of like to have someone who can look deep into my eyes...without standing on a stepladder.
And yes, I know, dear reader, I'm being shallow. So I've come to a kind of a compromise here. If they're 5'6" or taller, I'll let them contact me. If they want to meet a woman who towers over them - they've got good self esteem, and I like that. So, short guys - step up to the plate.
Jeff and Willie have stalled out. I don't know what's going on with either of them, but the ball's in their respective courts. Perhaps it was something I said in my answers to their questions that has given them pause. Who knows?
In the meantime, there's Carl. He contacted me, and I've responded, even though I think he looks like a small-time thug who has escaped from the set of "The Sopranos." I don't think Carl and I are going to work out. I asked him my three wishes question, and his answer raised a flag. He first wished for Haiti to be "fixed" - and that's a good thing, but then he wished for "a good president." Uh-oh. Have we got an Obama-hater here? I hope not.
I'm going to find out though, because he asked me the same three wishes question. Here's what I said: I told him that I liked his wish for Haiti, and that I'd second it. Then I said that I was happy with our current president, so instead, I'd wish that Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and Rice be tried for war crimes. (For my third wish, I went for the classic: world peace.)
If he's a Republican, that answer will ...smoke him out of his cave, won't it?
I wasn't too sure about Carl anyway - even before the "good president" wish; one of his MH's is he wants someone who is "very conventional sexually." Now that's just weird. What on earth does that mean? That he always gets to be on top? That the missionary position rules? No soapy sloppy sex in the shower? No naughty spanking? No romps with feathers and chocolate syrup? No cunni...well, um, yes, let's just leave it at that. Conventional man-on-top-woman-on-bottom-missionary-position sex is dreary and boring, isn't it?
I believe that if you only want to have "conventional sex" it means, simply, that you have no imagination or creativity or sense of fun. It means that you fall into a routine of every Tuesday is meatloaf and sex night. Ketchup on your meatloaf, two kisses, 16 thrusts and done.
No-freaking-thanks.
And yes, reader, I am extrapolating a whole lot from just that one thing. But hey, I was right about Tom, wasn't I?
Love,
Maggie
Still Waiting ...Now What?
Well, here I am, with my line in the water, and the fish aren't biting.
I confess, I've also been truly distracted by the tragedy in Haiti. It seems wrong, somehow, to worry about getting a date when all that is going on, doesn't it?
I apologize for the gap in my posts here; I'll try to do better.
In the meantime, please go to the American Red Cross website or Doctors Without Borders - or to whatever your favorite charity is - and donate as much as you can.
If you pray, please do that too - after you donate some money.
Love,
Maggie
I confess, I've also been truly distracted by the tragedy in Haiti. It seems wrong, somehow, to worry about getting a date when all that is going on, doesn't it?
I apologize for the gap in my posts here; I'll try to do better.
In the meantime, please go to the American Red Cross website or Doctors Without Borders - or to whatever your favorite charity is - and donate as much as you can.
If you pray, please do that too - after you donate some money.
Love,
Maggie
Saturday, January 9, 2010
While We're Waiting...
...how about some trivia?
Yep. Now I'm waiting. My communication with Jeff and Alex and Willie (oh my!) has seemingly stalled. My inbox is still full of my new matches, but when I checked last night, there was really nobody who struck my fancy.
Of course, my inbox has had another influx of eligible men, and I need to log in to Eharmony to check them all out.
In the meantime, did you know that on today's date, January 9, 1810, President James Madison asked Congress to ratify a treaty with the Kickapoo Indians...?
No?
Well, now you do.
Love,
Maggie
Yep. Now I'm waiting. My communication with Jeff and Alex and Willie (oh my!) has seemingly stalled. My inbox is still full of my new matches, but when I checked last night, there was really nobody who struck my fancy.
Of course, my inbox has had another influx of eligible men, and I need to log in to Eharmony to check them all out.
In the meantime, did you know that on today's date, January 9, 1810, President James Madison asked Congress to ratify a treaty with the Kickapoo Indians...?
No?
Well, now you do.
Love,
Maggie
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Update
Well, my fishing expedition has had a very busy first week.
I read in a book somewhere that when the British ruled India, young ladies of good family would embark on the long perilous journey from Old Blighty across land and sea to exotic, faraway India to catch a husband. Many, many of England's best and brightest young men served in the British army and were employed by the British East India Company, and were posted to exotic locations all over the Raj, from Kashmir to Bombay to Delhi to Cawnpore.
These brave soldiers probably ended up feeling somewhat harried when the ships sailed into the Indian harbors and all the eager young memsahibs disembarked with their governesses and nannies -. and their formidable Victorian mamas - in tow. In fact, this book said that the men referred to the flocks of disembarked eligible unmarried young - and not-so-young - mems fresh from Home as the "fishing fleet."
There. That was a complete non sequitur and my first bit of trivia. I must confess, I do love trivia, and I have a brain full of it; be warned, I may trot out random bits of it here and there as the thought processes connect the dots in my brain.
Anyway, it has been an eventful week. Let's see...I've been dumped once already.
My email inbox is full to bursting with new prospects every night. I'm trying to keep up, but man, this is beginning to feel like a full-time job! Go in, give 'em a quick once-over, check height (anyone under 5'8" is an instant candidate for closure; remember, I'm close to 6 feet tall!), check spelling (anyone who can't tell the difference between "your" and "you're" is another instant candidate for closure), pause momentarily on their location, because a match from a red, red state might not be such a good idea - considering that I'm about as liberal as you can get.
And I do one final check for their religion (I chose "neither spiritual nor religious" as my selection, since I'm an out-of-the-closet atheist); if it says "Christian" I go straight to their "What I Can't Live Without" lines - and if it says anything about Jesus, their wonderful savior or their church, they go straight to the Close Match dustbin. I've got no patience for that!
I'm communicating with three delightful gentlemen, Jeff, Alex and now Willie. Alex and Willie and I are still doing the Guided Communication dance, with its attendant back-and-forthing.
Jeff and I, on the other hand, are about to embark upon the sea of "Open Communication," where we can share our thoughts unfettered by Eharmony's rigid structure. And I must confess, dear reader, that that makes me nervous. This is where I lose my confidence in my ability to charm; what do I do? Send my phone number? My email address? Set up a meet-and-greet over coffee at Starbuck's (now, isn't that a cliche??)?
If you have any advice for me, believe me, it's most welcome! What on earth do you say to someone you've never met, when you're worried that he might think you're too fat? You can post a comment at the end of this (and every other) blog entry, and I promise I'll read them. Oh - and thanks in advance!
Love,
Maggie
I read in a book somewhere that when the British ruled India, young ladies of good family would embark on the long perilous journey from Old Blighty across land and sea to exotic, faraway India to catch a husband. Many, many of England's best and brightest young men served in the British army and were employed by the British East India Company, and were posted to exotic locations all over the Raj, from Kashmir to Bombay to Delhi to Cawnpore.
These brave soldiers probably ended up feeling somewhat harried when the ships sailed into the Indian harbors and all the eager young memsahibs disembarked with their governesses and nannies -. and their formidable Victorian mamas - in tow. In fact, this book said that the men referred to the flocks of disembarked eligible unmarried young - and not-so-young - mems fresh from Home as the "fishing fleet."
There. That was a complete non sequitur and my first bit of trivia. I must confess, I do love trivia, and I have a brain full of it; be warned, I may trot out random bits of it here and there as the thought processes connect the dots in my brain.
Anyway, it has been an eventful week. Let's see...I've been dumped once already.
My email inbox is full to bursting with new prospects every night. I'm trying to keep up, but man, this is beginning to feel like a full-time job! Go in, give 'em a quick once-over, check height (anyone under 5'8" is an instant candidate for closure; remember, I'm close to 6 feet tall!), check spelling (anyone who can't tell the difference between "your" and "you're" is another instant candidate for closure), pause momentarily on their location, because a match from a red, red state might not be such a good idea - considering that I'm about as liberal as you can get.
And I do one final check for their religion (I chose "neither spiritual nor religious" as my selection, since I'm an out-of-the-closet atheist); if it says "Christian" I go straight to their "What I Can't Live Without" lines - and if it says anything about Jesus, their wonderful savior or their church, they go straight to the Close Match dustbin. I've got no patience for that!
I'm communicating with three delightful gentlemen, Jeff, Alex and now Willie. Alex and Willie and I are still doing the Guided Communication dance, with its attendant back-and-forthing.
Jeff and I, on the other hand, are about to embark upon the sea of "Open Communication," where we can share our thoughts unfettered by Eharmony's rigid structure. And I must confess, dear reader, that that makes me nervous. This is where I lose my confidence in my ability to charm; what do I do? Send my phone number? My email address? Set up a meet-and-greet over coffee at Starbuck's (now, isn't that a cliche??)?
If you have any advice for me, believe me, it's most welcome! What on earth do you say to someone you've never met, when you're worried that he might think you're too fat? You can post a comment at the end of this (and every other) blog entry, and I promise I'll read them. Oh - and thanks in advance!
Love,
Maggie
Sunday, January 3, 2010
I'm Communicating!
OK, I am officially "communicating" with two of my matches, Jeff and Alex. I contacted Jeff first, and Alex contacted me first.
I had to request Alex's picture, which was kind of a drag. But I understand the point - he wants me to be interested in his good qualities, rather than his looks. I get that, and according to his initial information, he has some good qualities. He passed my spelling test, anyway. So, I answered his questions - again with my do-it-yourself typed-in answers. I hate those canned choices!
I have to admit, though, that the lack of picture is kind of a turn-off; I mean, what is he hiding? Does he weigh 500 pounds or have big warts? And would I be shallow if I closed the match if he turns out to be unattractive?
I'm going to have to think about this one. It's only the 3rd of January, and I have 362 more days to do this, so I can take my sweet time about it.
I knew when I signed up for Eharmony that this 'fishing expedition' was going to force me to think about a lot of things I'd rather ignore, and push me out of my comfort zone...and so it has.
Jeff, the guy I contacted, intrigued me. His profile was witty and smart - and correctly spelled. I liked his pictures - a series of three terrific black and white shots (I love b&w photography!). He reminds me of George Carlin - which isn't such a bad thing; George Carlin (may he rest in peace) was an awesome dude with a killer sense of humor, after all. I sent him a request for communication - complete with my pictures - and today, he responded. This one could be interesting!
Could a first date be next...?
Love,
Maggie
I had to request Alex's picture, which was kind of a drag. But I understand the point - he wants me to be interested in his good qualities, rather than his looks. I get that, and according to his initial information, he has some good qualities. He passed my spelling test, anyway. So, I answered his questions - again with my do-it-yourself typed-in answers. I hate those canned choices!
I have to admit, though, that the lack of picture is kind of a turn-off; I mean, what is he hiding? Does he weigh 500 pounds or have big warts? And would I be shallow if I closed the match if he turns out to be unattractive?
I'm going to have to think about this one. It's only the 3rd of January, and I have 362 more days to do this, so I can take my sweet time about it.
I knew when I signed up for Eharmony that this 'fishing expedition' was going to force me to think about a lot of things I'd rather ignore, and push me out of my comfort zone...and so it has.
Jeff, the guy I contacted, intrigued me. His profile was witty and smart - and correctly spelled. I liked his pictures - a series of three terrific black and white shots (I love b&w photography!). He reminds me of George Carlin - which isn't such a bad thing; George Carlin (may he rest in peace) was an awesome dude with a killer sense of humor, after all. I sent him a request for communication - complete with my pictures - and today, he responded. This one could be interesting!
Could a first date be next...?
Love,
Maggie
Saturday, January 2, 2010
I've Been Dumped - Already!!
Well, damn.
It had to happen, didn't it? Being dumped.
Tom - he of the gray hair and slight paunch and possible messy divorce - decided that I'm too fat for him. Evidently, he thinks that he's going to find himself a hot babe. Well, good luck with that, Tom. He sent me an email telling me that I have a "pleasant face" but he's all into fitness and his sex drive is tied up with weight, etc. etc. (Heh - that's simply a variation of the old "But you have such a pretty face..." canard.)
My answer? (Besides a resounding "BULLSHIT!!"...?)
Let he who is without a single extra pound cast the first stone.
Yeah, snarky, I know, but shit - he ain't no Harrison Ford. He's more like George Wendt (the guy from "Cheers").
This is the part about dating that always pisses me off. Middle-aged guys with gray hair and potbellies telling me that I'm too fat.
Well, hell, he's probably losing his hair as well. Snarkity-snark-snark.
I'm trying to be fair here. And I do understand that a whole lot of men think with their ...um, well, you know, right? And that tossing myself into the dating pool, I'm bound to run into the delusional George Wendt types who believe they rate a date with Angelina Jolie. Oh, man.
This is the sucky part of dating.
It sure didn't take long for the sucky part to happen to me, did it? This was why I had cold feet about this whole project - I knew damn good and well that it was going to push every button I have. Every weak spot, every vulnerability, every insecurity, every fear. I knew that going in.
I was going to cut Tom loose anyway. Remember that little question I asked him about his 3 wishes? One of his answers was to be finished with his divorce - and that should have been it right there, only I missed it. (Note to self: read answers more carefully.) I do not want to get involved with someone who's even remotely still married! Period. End of story. Someone in the midst of a divorce, no matter how cordial, is absolutely NOT ready for a new relationship, and I am not going to be somebody's rebound.
You know what I think? I think that Tom is judging me based on all his icky baggage, and I do not need that aggravation. Looking back, his Must Haves/Can't Stands are a lot clearer now; they felt kind of judgmental and even slightly hostile to me. All that business about my being industrious and clean! And who the hell doesn't like pets??
OK, I'm cooling off now. I was smokin' for a minute there, wasn't I?
Now that I'm a bit calmer, and I can think about this with a cooler and more analytical head, this match didn't feel right from the beginning. Several of his comments were worrisome to me, tiny little red flags, if you will - which proves that I have reasonably good instincts and that I should learn to trust them. Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I thought.
Oh, well. This one was getting tossed back anyway. I just didn't get to do it first. And...truth to tell, he won't be the last, either.
Buh-bye, Tom! Cross Frog #1 off the list.
Buckle up, kiddies - it's going to be a bumpy ride!!
It had to happen, didn't it? Being dumped.
Tom - he of the gray hair and slight paunch and possible messy divorce - decided that I'm too fat for him. Evidently, he thinks that he's going to find himself a hot babe. Well, good luck with that, Tom. He sent me an email telling me that I have a "pleasant face" but he's all into fitness and his sex drive is tied up with weight, etc. etc. (Heh - that's simply a variation of the old "But you have such a pretty face..." canard.)
My answer? (Besides a resounding "BULLSHIT!!"...?)
Let he who is without a single extra pound cast the first stone.
Yeah, snarky, I know, but shit - he ain't no Harrison Ford. He's more like George Wendt (the guy from "Cheers").
This is the part about dating that always pisses me off. Middle-aged guys with gray hair and potbellies telling me that I'm too fat.
Well, hell, he's probably losing his hair as well. Snarkity-snark-snark.
I'm trying to be fair here. And I do understand that a whole lot of men think with their ...um, well, you know, right? And that tossing myself into the dating pool, I'm bound to run into the delusional George Wendt types who believe they rate a date with Angelina Jolie. Oh, man.
This is the sucky part of dating.
It sure didn't take long for the sucky part to happen to me, did it? This was why I had cold feet about this whole project - I knew damn good and well that it was going to push every button I have. Every weak spot, every vulnerability, every insecurity, every fear. I knew that going in.
I was going to cut Tom loose anyway. Remember that little question I asked him about his 3 wishes? One of his answers was to be finished with his divorce - and that should have been it right there, only I missed it. (Note to self: read answers more carefully.) I do not want to get involved with someone who's even remotely still married! Period. End of story. Someone in the midst of a divorce, no matter how cordial, is absolutely NOT ready for a new relationship, and I am not going to be somebody's rebound.
You know what I think? I think that Tom is judging me based on all his icky baggage, and I do not need that aggravation. Looking back, his Must Haves/Can't Stands are a lot clearer now; they felt kind of judgmental and even slightly hostile to me. All that business about my being industrious and clean! And who the hell doesn't like pets??
OK, I'm cooling off now. I was smokin' for a minute there, wasn't I?
Now that I'm a bit calmer, and I can think about this with a cooler and more analytical head, this match didn't feel right from the beginning. Several of his comments were worrisome to me, tiny little red flags, if you will - which proves that I have reasonably good instincts and that I should learn to trust them. Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I thought.
Oh, well. This one was getting tossed back anyway. I just didn't get to do it first. And...truth to tell, he won't be the last, either.
Buh-bye, Tom! Cross Frog #1 off the list.
Buckle up, kiddies - it's going to be a bumpy ride!!
Friday, January 1, 2010
This one's FAST!
Tom has already answered my questions and sent me his.
His last question was "Describe your ideal man." This is what I wrote:
Someone who cares about me - warts, character flaws, extra pounds and all. Someone who thinks I'm beautiful - even in the morning when my hair is sticking up funny and I'm all mussy and rumpled. Someone I can talk to endlessly and never get bored. Someone who doesn't judge me and find me wanting. My ideal man is a combination of Keith Olbermann and Michael Moore. Someone smart who gets my geeky sense of humor and bad puns. Someone with a tolerant nature - I don't like authoritarians or anyone who feels he has to push me around or tell me what to do or how to wear my hair. I like who I am and I'd like my man to do the same. I don't want to be stifled or smothered and jealousy is a real turn-off for me.
Wow. I'm a girl who knows what she wants!
Open communication is next.
Love,
Maggie
His last question was "Describe your ideal man." This is what I wrote:
Someone who cares about me - warts, character flaws, extra pounds and all. Someone who thinks I'm beautiful - even in the morning when my hair is sticking up funny and I'm all mussy and rumpled. Someone I can talk to endlessly and never get bored. Someone who doesn't judge me and find me wanting. My ideal man is a combination of Keith Olbermann and Michael Moore. Someone smart who gets my geeky sense of humor and bad puns. Someone with a tolerant nature - I don't like authoritarians or anyone who feels he has to push me around or tell me what to do or how to wear my hair. I like who I am and I'd like my man to do the same. I don't want to be stifled or smothered and jealousy is a real turn-off for me.
Wow. I'm a girl who knows what she wants!
Open communication is next.
Love,
Maggie
Happy New Year!
And so it begins. The Big Manhunt. The Eharmony Safari.
I'm communicating with one of my matches, Tom. This is what they call "guided communication." You have these eight stages, a back-and-forth dance that you have to go through before you can reach the nirvana of "Open Communication" and tell each other your phone number or last name and set up that initial meeting or phone call. At each stage, either one of us can close the match if we read something along the way that convinces us that it's not going to work out.
He contacted me first, by sending me his first five questions - you pick them off a long list. There are some serious ones and some more light-hearted questions. You can answer them by picking one of the choices provided, or you can write in your own answer. I prefer - mostly - to write in my own answers, because those silly canned answers just don't tell the whole story. Here are a few of the questions I answered:
How important is chemistry to you?
My answer was one of the canned ones: I think chemistry can be generated over the long term with someone I really like.
That answer, canned or not, works for me. Next question:
Your idea of adventure is:
My answer was freeform: Anything I've never done before - anything can be an adventure!
He wanted to know about my fashion preferences (stylish, but quirky) and my pets (he now knows about my four cats).
Then it was my turn to send him my five silly questions. I asked him how he felt about traditional gender roles (no male chauvinists, please!), how often he laughs (gotta have a sense of humor!) and whether he likes discussing current events and "the issues of the day." I also sent him the pet question; I guess I'm trying to ferret out whether or not he faints at the sight of a fresh hairball.
His answers? Well, he gets a B-. He wants me in the kitchen, and he gets to do the manly man stuff. The big worry is that he says he's "not a pet person."
That could be a problem. "Not a pet person" can be secret code for compulsive neat freak - which will NOT work with me. I'm an indifferent housekeeper with a fairly high tolerance for clutter and four cats, which means cat hair, cat litter and the occasional cat accident, which generally involves some rather nasty looking liquid with chunks in it.
Well, no judgments like that yet.
Anyway, next are the "Must Haves/Can't Stands" - a list of ten things each that you must have and can't stand in a partner. You get to pick from a laundry list of virtues and sins. My must haves generally revolve around character; I want someone smart, affectionate and honest, with a generous nature, a good sense of humor and a willingness to resolve conflicts. My can't stands are also strongly character-correlated: I do not want someone who lies, who uses drugs, who is a hypocrite or religious freak, a racist or a bigot.
So, I duly send along my Must Haves and Can't Stands.
He sends me his Must Haves/Can't Stands. Hmmmm. His Must Haves/Can't Stands read like a list of what he wants in an employee: financially responsible, industrious, loyal, responsible; I cannot be lazy, and I must be clean and sexy.
Do I sound like I'm trying to talk myself out of meeting with this guy? Those MH/CS of his are a little concerning to me. But, I soldier on - let's be fair here, right?
So - on to the next step, sending the 2nd set of three questions. This time, you can make up your own. So I decide to address that cleanliness thing. I ask, "You said you can't stand someone who "isn't clean." Could you please define that?" and I went on to add a bit of explanation, "I just want to know that you won't lose your temper over a couple of dirty dishes in the sink."
I chose one more serious question, "What are you looking for in a relationship partner" and one silly question, "If you had 3 wishes, what would they be?" (I like the imagination aspect of that kind of question.)
Now, I'm waiting for his answers. Or he may decide that I'm a crazy cat hoarder and he wants nothing more to do with me and close the match. Or I may decide he's an authoritarian neat freak who hates cuddly little animals and close the match.
We'll see, won't we?
Love,
Maggie
I'm communicating with one of my matches, Tom. This is what they call "guided communication." You have these eight stages, a back-and-forth dance that you have to go through before you can reach the nirvana of "Open Communication" and tell each other your phone number or last name and set up that initial meeting or phone call. At each stage, either one of us can close the match if we read something along the way that convinces us that it's not going to work out.
He contacted me first, by sending me his first five questions - you pick them off a long list. There are some serious ones and some more light-hearted questions. You can answer them by picking one of the choices provided, or you can write in your own answer. I prefer - mostly - to write in my own answers, because those silly canned answers just don't tell the whole story. Here are a few of the questions I answered:
How important is chemistry to you?
My answer was one of the canned ones: I think chemistry can be generated over the long term with someone I really like.
That answer, canned or not, works for me. Next question:
Your idea of adventure is:
My answer was freeform: Anything I've never done before - anything can be an adventure!
He wanted to know about my fashion preferences (stylish, but quirky) and my pets (he now knows about my four cats).
Then it was my turn to send him my five silly questions. I asked him how he felt about traditional gender roles (no male chauvinists, please!), how often he laughs (gotta have a sense of humor!) and whether he likes discussing current events and "the issues of the day." I also sent him the pet question; I guess I'm trying to ferret out whether or not he faints at the sight of a fresh hairball.
His answers? Well, he gets a B-. He wants me in the kitchen, and he gets to do the manly man stuff. The big worry is that he says he's "not a pet person."
That could be a problem. "Not a pet person" can be secret code for compulsive neat freak - which will NOT work with me. I'm an indifferent housekeeper with a fairly high tolerance for clutter and four cats, which means cat hair, cat litter and the occasional cat accident, which generally involves some rather nasty looking liquid with chunks in it.
Well, no judgments like that yet.
Anyway, next are the "Must Haves/Can't Stands" - a list of ten things each that you must have and can't stand in a partner. You get to pick from a laundry list of virtues and sins. My must haves generally revolve around character; I want someone smart, affectionate and honest, with a generous nature, a good sense of humor and a willingness to resolve conflicts. My can't stands are also strongly character-correlated: I do not want someone who lies, who uses drugs, who is a hypocrite or religious freak, a racist or a bigot.
So, I duly send along my Must Haves and Can't Stands.
He sends me his Must Haves/Can't Stands. Hmmmm. His Must Haves/Can't Stands read like a list of what he wants in an employee: financially responsible, industrious, loyal, responsible; I cannot be lazy, and I must be clean and sexy.
Do I sound like I'm trying to talk myself out of meeting with this guy? Those MH/CS of his are a little concerning to me. But, I soldier on - let's be fair here, right?
So - on to the next step, sending the 2nd set of three questions. This time, you can make up your own. So I decide to address that cleanliness thing. I ask, "You said you can't stand someone who "isn't clean." Could you please define that?" and I went on to add a bit of explanation, "I just want to know that you won't lose your temper over a couple of dirty dishes in the sink."
I chose one more serious question, "What are you looking for in a relationship partner" and one silly question, "If you had 3 wishes, what would they be?" (I like the imagination aspect of that kind of question.)
Now, I'm waiting for his answers. Or he may decide that I'm a crazy cat hoarder and he wants nothing more to do with me and close the match. Or I may decide he's an authoritarian neat freak who hates cuddly little animals and close the match.
We'll see, won't we?
Love,
Maggie
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