Thursday, January 12, 2006


Sasha and the Trash Barge

It's 9:23 and about my bedtime (insert pathetic joke here) but I'm watching the figure skating championships on ESPN 2 (The Ocho! If you saw Dodgeball you'll get the joke) while surfing the web. Q is in bed singing to himself and it's pretty cute in a way, and I can't stop laughing about it, even though I should tell him to get some sleep. I've gone to the kitchen a poured myself a glass of wine and my favorite, Sasha Cohen, is up...a very good performance in my humble uneducated opinion. It's the highest scoring one so far.

I love figure skating, I love the gracefulness of it and watching people do something that I can't do. I hate it when the commentators have to tell me what is wrong with every single performance though. Shut Up! Let me enjoy the talent and the music and I don't care if they missed the skate placement of their triple luggy trachiotomy. I know I couldn't do it, so shut up and let me enjoy it. Talk in between the skater's show, talk while the judges write on their cards, talk during something I don't care about. It's like the time I was in Baltimore staying on my unlce's sailboat, which was docked in the Inner Harbor. There I was watching the sun rise over the downtown buildings, the city was waking up, traffic was starting to move, and it was the perfect summer morning. Those of you that know me know that I love cities. I love high rise glass and concrete. I couldn't have asked for anything better when all of a sudden a trash barge comes rambling along filling the air with some foul smell and horrible noise, I was in Baltimore so only God knows what or who was in that pile making that smell so bad. It shattered the tranquility of the morning. That's what these morons are like to me, shattering the tranquility of Sasha Cohen's performance.

Web Love

While I was on the internet I typed in the wonderful Google box "Dating Sucks" because, well, recently it does for me. I hate being single and as much as I try to convince myself I'm better off alone, I just know I'm not. Sorry C.J., I'm trying and I can't take it. Anyway, I'm going to Pittsburgh next month with a group to go to see my beloved Penguins hockey team. I was all excited about it until someone made a joke, the didn't mean any harm by it, but, it was about me being "El Cinco". What is that? Well it is me because I am going with a group of four, two couples. Two happy relationships and me, Ole Cinco, the spare fith wheel that sits under the mats in your trunk.

As much as I hate being single, I hate the dating game even more; a terrible dilemma, I know. I hate how fake the "dating game" is. Right there, we call it a game. A game is supposed to be fun, this isn't fun. Let's look at a typical first date, no, let's start before that, let's go back to the first impression. Boy sees Girl, Girl sees Boy, in a split second a terabyte of thought goes through each of their minds. Thoughts about attraction, physical features, sub-conscience thoughts about sex, marriage, children; yes it does go that deep with a first impression. We're talking biological stuff now and each of us have instinct to reproduce, even if we never do or we deny those thoughts. So let's say that this person meets your standards, let the games begin. Now you have to get courage to talk to Her, I say her because I'm a Him and because even 50 years post Dwight and Mami Eisenhower, it's still up to the man to make the first move. As I make my approach the first impression is still being made, and I have to not act like an idiot, but not like an ass either. So I strike up a conversation, which is either going to go one of two ways, either complete acceptance or complete rejection. Are we having fun yet? I'm going to give Him the benefit and figure that there is acceptance. Maybe phone numbers are exchanged, here comes some more game day strategy, how long do I wait to call? I don't want to seem like I don't care, but I don't want to seem so desperate. Girls like assholes, so maybe I should act like I don't care, but I really like her. Two days, no wait, make it three, yeah three, good solid odd number, but I really want to talk to her...oh fuck it, it's probably the wrong number anyway. Am I starting to sound like a John Cusack movie yet? So you call, how many days you waited is up to you, and you get the dreaded voice mail (please insert some heavy dramatic music), her message starts telling you how she can't come to the phone right now, yadda, yadda, yadda. Meanwhile your head is racing, what do I say? Your back to the good guy/asshole routine again. Should I leave a message at all? I'll just hang up and...Too late! BEEP! "Duh Duh Uhh this is ____ Just calling you, uhh, I guess your not around (No shit dummy, hence the voice mail) I guess I'll talk to you later or you can call me...Uhhh, bye." Oh the Mighty Case struck out. What an idiot! Guess what Gentle Reader? We haven't even got to the first date yet and we're assuming that He even had the courage to talk to Her in the first place and not go back to his hole and say how hot she was. Welcome to my world!

Granted that was an elaboration, but not to far from the truth. Some of the articles I read are telling me all these dating "rules" that contradict eachother and tell me to put on this fake persona. I'm pretty personable, but also shy. That's who I am. This rules tell me to change who I am to get a girl. Why, so she can find out later that she doesn't like the real me? I have a friend who when he and his wife where dating used to go out a lot. He likes going out, she doesn't, but she covered up this fact to make him happy. They got married and she wanted to stay home. Why was this not brought up earlier? The point is this, let's be honest up front and make the world a lot easier to date in. Take my situation of parenthood in to account and it gets even worse.

Of course when I'm not looking, then she'll be there. What a bunch of crap that is. How do you take a hopeless romantic and tell him to stop looking? Maybe that's a question that can never be answered, but who the hell knows? Maybe She does...