Category Archives: love

10 Reasons Not to Date Me

 Here are ten important facts about me that have led me to abstain from dating. You’re welcome for not foisting myself upon the single straight men of the world.

1. I don’t believe in anything, and I’m not a very good liar. So if I’m the person with you in your last moments on earth, I probably won’t make you feel hopeful or comfortable with your mortality. I might even make you feel worse.

2. I take pleasure in being cranky, and I have no intention of changing this. I revel in my misery.

3. I don’t eat meat or poultry or fish, so steak and seafood restaurants are out. Also, mushrooms make me feel like someone took a fireplace bellows and pumped my stomach with air. It’s unpleasant.

4. I’m allergic to cats and dust and probably my own boogies.mrwiggles

 

5. I live in Boston, stubbornly, despite despising cold weather and feeling no love for snow. I take sick pleasure in driving maniacally in the city. I love this city. Because I love pain, apparently. It feeds me.  I am a study in creative masochism.

6. I form weird alliances with inanimate objects which, when crossed, put you on my enemies list. You must understand and accept my long-standing relationships with: My ancient and wonderful Camry, my grandfather’s steamer trunk, my weird, fluffy grey zip-up cardigan sweater.

IMG_04287. Sometimes I read great literature and enjoy theater and the arts. But I am not above binging on the worst television ever produced by man. I fall into a trap, lured by dark fascination, then subdued by laziness, schadenfreude, and sense of superiority over the morons that parade across my screen.

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8. I might murder you. Sometimes, when I’m sitting in traffic, standing on the subway platform, or sitting in a meeting, I consider what would happen if I randomly murdered someone for no good reason. So far, I haven’t acted on the impulse. So far.

9. I may or may not have bored a snail to death. I live alone with some plants, and an aquarium filled with fish, shrimp, and frogs. I had a snail. He committed suicide after several attempts last year. I think maybe he saw something through the glass that bothered him, but who knows? I was left with a lot of questions. He went out with the trash, since I didn’t think flushing a snail shell would be a good idea. Maybe that was disrespectful.

10. Without coffee, I am nothing. An empty track suit. A social security number and a dental record. A dying house plant. Without my daily coffee ritual, I am unable to hold a conversation with you, or retain any of the syllables that have been thrown in my direction during that time.

 

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What’s on Your No List?

When preparing to enter the dating world, it is important to know what you are looking for, and –perhaps more importantly — what you hope to avoid. There are obvious traits that everyone should try to avoid (Pathological liars, violent drug abusers, racists and video-game addicts come to mind).

But I have an additional list of rules for a prospective partner. These are the identifying traits of men with whom I know I will not get along. It’s not meant to offend anyone — We’re each of us special, unique snowflakes with different tastes. But, still: some of the snowflakes are not for me, and it’s better to know that ahead of time. Right? Continue reading

A Seemingly Endless Loop of Stupid

melted-popsicleI wanted to write something brilliant and profound this weekend, but the heat and humidity in Boston was prohibitive. On Saturday, my apartment was 90 degrees Fahrenheit with a humidity of Oh-Who-Cares-Anyway? It was one of those days that meteorologist Dick Albert used to refer to as “a case of the muggies.” It’s a slow disaster. You envision tossing your less-than-useless warm-blooded body into the harbor, but that would take effort, so you just eat popsicles and watch the veins in your arms swell like firehoses.

I escaped for a couple of hours to a café to write. The place was packed tight with other heat refugees and their smells. I scored a small table, but was wedged between two couples. The couple on my left did not speak, but smiled into each other’s loving gazes as they entwined and then re-entwined their fingers endlessly. Endlessly. From the edge of my vision, I was witness to a good 45 minutes of finger entwinement. It was the manual equivalent of the “I love you more”/”No, I love you more” argument spun into an infinite, real-time, looping gif that can’t be closed, ever.

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 What do you do with that? There’s no law against being an insufferably adorable couple, apparently.

Well, you could turn and be distracted by the couple to the right. The guy was seated right next to me. I couldn’t catch a glance without being very obvious about it, so I can’t comment on him except to say that he had a tall-guy voice, and that he seemed to let the woman do the talking. And the woman – who was seated across from me, was talking non-stop, seemingly about the guy’s troubled relationship – with someone else.

Again – what can you do? As far as I know, I do not have the right to stand and condemn this blatantly obvious manipulation/seduction/ego-twaddling that was happening within arm’s length. I just know that when she twisted her hair around a finger and said “You know, you can definitely stay at my place for as long as you need to – to… clear your head,” that was my cue to knock back my latte and leg it out of there.

Back into the sweaty, hive-like busy streets of Back Bay. I bought new living room drapes. Then I went home, put the drapes up, took another shower, had a popsicle, watched the drapes drape. Because that’s all I had in me.

Somebody strike a Match (dot-com)

Online Dating Gives me Agita  Here’s what happens every time I start to fill out an online profile: I get as far as filling out all of the questions, and then I look at the pictures of prospective dates and feel the need to flee the scene. It’s not that there are not any decent men online. There is a mix of good and bad, like everywhere else. It’s not their fault at all, since I’ve never reached the whole “Talk to online stranger” phase of the transaction. It’s just that I feel like a deli item, on display: “Please do partake of my choice cuts of pastrami.” Is it clear now why men are knocking down my door to get to the wonder that is me?

And so, I ask for your help, dear reader. Share with me your wisdom.

Morose Musings on Mollusks, Mullets and Mercury

These are merely random musings, and do not necessitate any 9-1-1 calls.

I hate Hump Day, and I hate people who say Hump Day. I’m pretty sure literally everyone feels the same way.

I want to slather Vaseline on my face and then wrap it in swaddling towels with a tiny hole in the front for looking out. Then just lay on my couch watching Suze Orman lecturing some dude about his IRA. Stupid idiot. You need a Roth.

Maybe I could order a box of romance books and then set them on fire. I doubt my landlady would appreciate that, but what does she know of hearbreak? Continue reading