I Need a Pop-Up

If there's one thing I'd change about dating sites, it's the pop-ups. Actually, it's the lack of them. I'm just sayin', a girl could use some helpful screeners—intuitive little truth-telling identifiers—to aid in the "should I or shouldn't I" process.

Boys, there's an itty bitty issue with some of your advertising, and I'm not talking about your snackpack. See, I value upfrontness. Unfortunately, some stuff that's not in your profile is actually quite important but gets buried behind the really big questions like, Do you have a car? So I just got to thinking, what if we girls could do Q&A that a magical pop-up screener could then dissect for us BEFORE we go on a date with you? All we'd have to do is decide if we're okay with your real truth. Sweet. Can someone invent this for me?

To plead my case, here are just a few random pop-ups that would have saved me a lot of trouble recently:

Me: You say you only date one woman at a time and expect me to do the same, but what you really mean to say is:

1. I get first dibs.
2. I want to elope with you right after dinner.
3. I fear failing miserably by comparison to any other man on the planet, except Todd Akin.
4. I'm secretly a big nerd and would do anything to get in your pants.

Me: When you said you were five feet six inches, were you thinking that fell within the 3" margin of error?

1. Wha-what?
2. Wow, you're a girl AND you do math?
3. Ptthp. I've got something else that's longer.
4. What height works to get me in your pants?

Me: If I let you kiss me, what will it feel like?

1. Your pillow. I can't help it.
2. A honey badger. I can't help it.
3. A slimy squirmy sea snail. I can't help it.
4. Who said anything about kissing, I just want to get in your pants. I can't help it.

Me: When you say you have no strong political stance, what you really mean is:

1. All libs are unpatriotic, immoral pagans who talk bad about poor rich people, the NRA, and sadly misunderstood major corporations.
2. I can't wait to take you to the next Newt rally!
3. Rush, Hannity, Colter, Bachmann and Bachmann's rainbow posterboy hubs should fill the next presidential cabinet—OH YEAH!
4. A vote for me is a vote for getting into your pants!

Me: You didn't mention your T-level, but I'm gonna need clarification on which team you play for.

1. Fabulous that you noticed, but I'm, like, totally so male.
2. Just cuz I said "Fabulous" five times in five minutes while gesturing and giggling like a centurion in a Roman bath house, does not mean I don't love boobs and vaginas.
3. Betcha my male anatomy can still give you a fabulous salute.
4. Know what would be fabulous? If I could still get in your pants.

Sigh.

There. The defense rests.
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Total Crap

This post is an experiment in stream of consciousness writing, which means no self editing, which means it's full of crap. You have no idea…

See, I'm a perfectionist. Not that I'm perfect; I just think I need to be. Maybe you already figured that out. Usually, people see things in you that you don't like to acknowledge, long before you come clean about it. I could use a 12-step program. Step One: Admit you are powerless to your compulsion. Here's my admission: Crap!

I also have a teensy problem with being unnecessarily thorough in the pursuit of covering all my bases. And occasionally I fast-pitch sports analogies. Right across the plate!

Speaking of the plate, I have a stomach issue, which causes nausea that stifles my hunger sometimes. The Doc, before he runs expensive tests, gives me pills to take. Of course, pills first, pinpoint the exact problem later, right? But what really amuses me is the fact that Doc gave me Aciphex, which seems an ironic name for an intestinal issue.

Speaking of intestinal issues, my gold crown popped off my molar while I chomped on an over-cooked chicken fajita, and I promptly—to my horror—swallowed it. Since what goes in must come out . . . Talk about your ass effects. When and if that sucker shows up, submerged and glistening in the porcelain deep, I'll not be "proctpecting" for gold. Nope. Waving and flushing, cuz I'll be damned if I'll rescue a piece of forged metal from the crapper just to pop it back into my mouth. Murphy's Law would have a field day with me.

Speaking of swallowing, the crown might as well have been my last meal, since I subsequently spent three torturous hours in The Chair at the mercy of a masked dentist and her incompetent assistant, Tabitha (her name sounds all innocuous, but no). Tabitha tried to drown me three times and rip my mouth open, until she figured out that a ton of pressure and a smidge of suction was the sure path to her patient's expiration. And yippee, I get to go back and see Tabitha when the new crown comes in. Something to look forward to.

Told ya, total crap. Unedited. Heh. I know you're not buying that. Whatevs. There's no cure for perfectionism; you can only treat it. Mostly with restraints on the hands and electric tape over the mouth. Plus, I'm a notorious bucker of rules—even my own. So I edited. I'm weak. And I don't own restraints—none that come off the bed post. Probably shoulda edited that last part out, but no.

And we are back to Step One: Crap!

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Cliff Diving, Or How I Became 0 for 7

Friday, I leave work early to spend time at the pool. Uh-oh, here comes my neighbor, a muscle-bound gym junkie, who's pretty adorable. Alas, he's too young for me, and he says things like, WE could do this, and WE could do that. But—and this is kind of important—we just met. I am always surprised by this. I think, Don't you want to get to know what you're not going to like about me first, before you dive in?

Couple weeks ago, I met International Sales Guy Michael online. Holy shit, we hadn't even had our first face-to-face and I felt like a mail-order bride. Don't get me wrong. Michael is model handsome, physically fit, intelligent, fun, yada yada. Of note, we'd both been dumped by people we adored and trusted, so why he wanted to talk exclusivity is beyond my emotional IQ. But I was 0 for 6 with nothing to lose. Might as well check him out, right?

Date #1, Friday. The wining and dining commenced, followed by a walk down Sixth Street where we ducked into Pete's piano bar—always a good venue for revealing my true colors with a boisterous sing-along to the crudest songs known to man, wherein my date either gets me or he doesn't, or he's tormented by the thought of introducing me to his mother. I do come with a warning, which I should wear on my boobs so when he loses focus and is startled to hear profanities from the sweet and petite girl, he is reminded, "Oh yeah, she did mention a proficiency in sailor talk," which is NOT the same as, Me love you long time. However, enter the Disney Whore.

Date #2, Saturday. Great time, good chemistry, and Michael danced me around the room like Fred Astaire. Didn't make me laugh (vital if you want to get to first base), but I mused, if anybody could breathe new life into this broken heart, maybe . . . Still, my gut instinct had already assessed the situation and blinded me with flashing neon lights:  What up with this "I'm only seeing you" expectation, cuz—I'm just tossing this out there—WE JUST MET!  He went from "Call Me Maybe" to "Hey Baby, Let's Go to Vegas."

Some people meet and instantly fall in love, and maybe when I was much younger I did too. But with experience comes reservation, and usually I'm a toes-in-the-water girl before I cannonball in. So, barely wet, this guy's rush to cliff-dive into a relationship scared the livin' shit out of me.

So sorry, you are not for me. So sorry, c'est la vie!

And so it goes, the count rises. I'm 0 for 7 now, with one in the batter's box and one on deck. Let's see if this season at least somebody gets on base.
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