Tragedy and love

After any terrible tragedy, especially one borne of hate, illuminating, hopeful messages of love surround us—poignant, often defiant notes that try to fill the deep, dark void that such an enormous act of hatred creates. The message in all of them is clear: everyone deserves love.

Love is the only way we get through dark times. It’s what props us up and holds us steady when it feels like everything is crumbling down around us. Tragic events make us hug our loved ones a little tighter and take stock of what’s good in our lives. It’s what we cling to when the despair around and inside us feels so raw and endless. It’s the light that keeps us moving forward.

I am lucky to have really wonderful friends and family, terrific people that I love and support with everything I have. Their happiness genuinely and wholeheartedly is my happiness and their struggles my pain too. My heart fills and aches as theirs do. I can feel their love for me span the miles that sometimes separate us. I can feel it when they show up for me, however stubborn or silly I may be acting or however absurd the circumstance I’ve roped them into is. I can even feel it more powerfully when they lean on me in their tough times, when they need my help. 

Always, and especially in times following tragic loss, I am overwhelmed by gratitude for having all these people in my life to love.

My heart is full with them and with my puppy, who has quickly become my beloved and enduring sidekick and has taught me so much about my own personality as I see it mirrored back in him (apparently, it's true that dogs take on their owners' characteristics). Aside from his insatiable desire for social activity, little Lolly’s capacity for unfailing love for everyone he meets once or a thousand times is a reminder to me to keep putting love out into the universe. There’s no reason not to, and it causes so much joy.

It sometimes strikes me that Lolly is the only one who would notice if I didn’t come home. I don’t hate being single, most times I really love it, but sometimes I wish for a human partner to share accountability, passion, life. And, especially in light of unpredictable tragedy, someone who would know if the unthinkable happened to me one day and I didn’t come home. Because, let’s face it, the unthinkable seems to be happening more and more in this world. Wouldn’t it be nice to know there’s someone who would know to look for me?

National tragedies, even local tragedies, create lasting wounds in people, anxieties and sadness that have the potential to really take root, even if temporarily. One of the anxieties that glows brighter for me at times like these is knowing that if I were caught up in a random, senseless crime, there’s a good chance no one else in my life would know I had been there. No one might know to look for me.

I’ve heard over and over from many people that they don’t like to set their friends up because there’s a chance it could go very badly, and they don’t want to be responsible for that. But, isn’t there also a chance it could go very well? Wouldn’t you want to offer your friends the possibility of it going well? I’ve found in my vast (too vast, probably) experience dating that set-ups almost always go better than online dates. At a certain point in our lives, set-ups and online dates are really the predominate way people meet, but there seems to be a lot of reluctance to do the setting up.

As we’re all looking for some way to contribute a little more to the amount of love out there in the world and to help in the aftermath of senseless crimes, I’d ask that, first, you donate blood, time and/or money for the victims and their families who so very much need and deserve our help, and then that you think about your friends who might also be looking for a little more love in their lives. Set your friends up. Give them a chance to have someone know when they come home at night.

Dogs are love magnets. Or so I've heard.

We went to a really fun barbecue at Cabin John Regional Park last weekend. There's a great dog park at Cabin John, so there were a ton of people with dogs there. Lolly had a blast, as he always does when there are people and/or dogs around. Such a social, little bugger, that one! I don't know where he gets it!

As we were all leaving, we happened upon a guy with a yellow lab he had had for about two weeks. Suddenly, all eight of us girls and Lolly descended on him, cooing about the dog.

"Aw! What a cutie!"
"How cute is your dog?!"
"What a little love!!"

The guy said to us, "Wow! I should have gotten a dog a long time ago! I never got this much attention before I had him!"

I guess it's true what they say: guys with dogs are way more attractive than guys without. And, guys with dogs get a lot of attention from the ladies. So, single guys, do yourself a favor and get a dog! For real, it works.

But what about for the ladies?

Sure, Lolly and I get a LOT of attention when we go out. Lolly is certainly a charmer and wants everyone to know. These are the types that coo over us, though:

• Families with small children
• Moms trying to get their kids to not be afraid of dogs
• Older men with their wives who are here on vacation and left their dogs who look just like Lolly at home
• Homeless men
• Other dogs
• 20-something girls
• 30-something girls
• Teenage girls
• 40-something girls
• Other poodle owners
• Old, old men with poodles (one guy we see occasionally even pushes his elderly poodle around in a stroller. I turn my nose up at that now, but talk to me again when Lolly's little joints are arthritic!)
• Gay men
• Men out with their girlfriends/wives/fiances
• Men who inevitably say, "My girlfriend would love this dog!"
• Men I then later see with their wives/girlfriends/fiances and sometime their own dogs

So, as it turns out, Lolly is not the love magnet I was assured a dog would be. Nary a love connection has been made since I got the little pooch.

Perhaps my mistake in date-attraction ploys was getting a curly, prancy dog. Lolly certainly tries his little heart out, running up with those pet-me, love-me, little, puppy eyes to everyone we see (I mean, really, a half mile walk takes like 40 minutes as Lolly turns on the charm for every, single person).

I wonder how Lolly's friend Stella The Great Dane's mom does in attracting suitors when they're out for a walk.

The key, I've decided just now, is to train Lolly to reel in the eligible bachelors. We've got to get some kind of routine down, like when Adam Sandler uses the kid in Big Daddy to manipulate women. This will totally work. Ah, another time life takes lessons from Adam Sandler movies!

Hey, Lolly! Come here! We've got some work to do!

The numbers are dire. Dire!

The Wall Street Journal tweeted yesterday that one in five women in Hong Kong will never find a husband as the gender imbalance widens. One in FIVE!

ACK!!! What if that statistic is relevant in DC?! I would totally be the one out of the five (in spite of all my sparkly magnificence, obviously. Obviously. Please agree!)!!

This was a funny joke to me until I actually did a little digging. Now, I’m bordering on a breakdown. The news does not sound better for me when you take a look at the actual comparative numbers. As I reported yesterday, for every 100 women in DC, there are only 89 men (according to the 2010 US census). Well, get this! For every 100 women in Hong Kong, there are 94 men (according to the 2012 World Factbook)!! That’s 5 more men than in DC! And, I’m not entirely sure how the gays play into this statistical meltdown I’m about to have!

I’m doomed!!! DOOMED!!!!!

That’s it. I need to move! Where should I move?! You know what I need? I need an insider at the US Census Bureau. We need to approach this logically, rationally and scientifically—you know, the same way as I approach everything.

The Census would have broken down all sorts of population statistics by state, region, city and—important to relocation imperatives—neighborhood. I’m almost sure that all this information could probably be found publicly, but in such a panicked state, who can sift through the vast and endless interwebs and then sort through numbers?! Do you know how long it took me to put the Hong Kong ratio of men to women into similar terms as I had the DC number?! I need an insider whose head doesn’t explode facing down so many digits!!

So, please, spread the word that I am in search of a number cruncher from inside the US Census Bureau who can run the numbers and tell me, down to the neighborhood, where I should move to ensure I am not the ONE in FIVE who never gets married. I will be sitting here, with my head between my knees.

Thank you.

Man hunting in Alaska

Did you know that for every 100 women in DC there are only 89 men? And, a depressingly/delightfully significant number of those 89 men are gay, gay, gay. Conversely, in Alaska, for every 100 women, there are 108 men. Burly, sexy, manly men.

So, I went on a cruise to Alaska.

Let’s just take a minute to reflect on the cruising population. At least on an Alaskan cruise and not including the 28 members of my family that were on the boat, obviously (what solidarity and support my family has, right?! There were so many of them on such a trip just to help me find a man!!*), cruisers are not what you might define as “eligible bachelors.” As it turns out, an Alaskan cruise is a popular vacation for family reunions and the retired community. It’s definitely not the top choice for hot, thirty-something men looking to cut loose, party and meet the loves of their lives! Imagine my shock! No matter, my sights were set on the man-packed land excursions!

Let me show you a picture, literally, of what the ports looked like where we stopped for a few hours at a time.

It’s hard to step out of the shadow of the cruise ship and the cruisers to experience the swarms of Alaskan men I was promised by the statistics (statistics!! That’s science after all!) when you’re in a town with a population of 600 that exists solely to cater to tourists.

One local Alaskan man tried to run me over in his minivan while I was taking the above picture and when he started backing into me. “What a potential meet cute,” you’re thinking, right? Well, you didn’t see me screaming at him and his toothless expression of overwhelmed surprise/fear.

Our stop in Juneau was more promising. The scenery was gorgeous! The hike we went on was beyond incredible! The guide, adorable! And, from California. Not local. Not Alaskan. Not single.

Everyone we met seemed to be a transplant from another outdoorsy city in the “Lower 48,” shipped in for the summer months to cater to the tourists. But, they were cute and endearingly passionate about whatever it was they were guiding us through. So, maybe there are more of them in the places from which they came?

Alaska turned out to be a bust on the quest for marriage material. But, there is hope! There have to be other regions that boast high numbers of eligible men. I saw some of their ambassadors while in Alaska. I’ll just have to start traveling to these other regions that promise high concentrations of men!

People travel all the time based on special interests: good hikes, beaches, white water rafting adventures, spa vacations, yoga retreats, safaris, wine tours… How is this any different?! I may have just created a new genre of vacationers!

You’re welcome, travel industry.





*The cruise was really for my grandma’s birthday. She loved it, and it was an awesome celebration! My impending nuptials were raised again and again, however, amid a flurry of familial support. My cousin in the hair care business, for instance, is on a quest for the perfect shampoo combination to put my tresses at maximum man-attracting potential. It really takes a village, doesn’t it?

I am a “runner.”

That’s right; you read correctly, I am a “runner.”

I hate to run. Hate it. But, I better learn to love it since I’m a “runner” now. Running is like a cult, though, so I’m sure the Kool-Aid will be passed around soon enough, and I will drink heartily because I am a “runner” now.

I went to a very serious running store last weekend and bought very expensive running shoes and inserts. The inserts make it REAL. I am a “runner” now. The guys at the running store put me on a treadmill with a whole computer and video setup to evaluate how I run and inform what shoes I need—and inserts as it turns out. Inserts make it serious.

As the computer indicated, I run sort of on my toes. After all, I was a ballerina! The running store guys thought that was mildly peculiar. Dancing seemed to them as weird as their love of running seems to me. But, I’m one of them now. A “runner.” Get used to it!

Once I announced to the store that I was becoming a “runner,” people there—actual runners—were excited to welcome me into the club.

Me: “I’m a ‘runner’ now!”

Store guy, a runner: “That’s great!! You should come to our fun runs! They’re great! Very social!”

Me: “Social?! I’m way more into socializing that running! I’m IN! I mean, I’m a ‘runner’ now, but I’ve always been social!”

Store guy: “We have fun runs on Tuesday and Thursday and a ladies’ fun run on Monday. You should come to any of them!”

Me: “Whoa, whoa… This seems intense. Which one is the slowest? I’m just a novice ‘runner.’”

Store guy: “Come to the ladies’ run! That’s a good one, and we’ll make sure you’re in a good pacing group. It’s a nice, flat course they go on, too.” 

Me: “Like a really slow pacing group, right? How far do they run?”

Store guy: “It’ usually about 2 to 4 miles.”

Me: “That sounds long!!” 

Store guy: “Haha! You can turn back at any time.”

Me: “That sounds like quitting!!”

Social running seems like an excellent way to meet running friends, maybe even running guys. We’ll bond over being runners, and then we’ll fall madly in love and get married (and, obviously, engaged before I turn 33 on February 21, 2013). Maybe we’ll then run around a beautiful tropical island on our honeymoon!

So, now I have to train up for a 4 mile run so I can seem like I know what I’m doing when I go “fun” running and then really “fun” running on my island honeymoon. This “running” thing seems like a lot of work. And, training to meet a man! Sheesh! Maybe the “love” of the “run” will be enough, and the fiancé will be a bonus?

Well, either way, I have way more friends who will run with me than who will go to a dance class with me, and working out is always more fun with someone else. Maybe one day it will be a really special person who will work out with me! And then maybe he will be the one to want to go to a ballroom dance class with me because it’s what I like. “Running” leading back to dancing. I like the way that sounds.

Living with a BOY! Yikes!!

With all this talk about my upcoming engagement (haven’t you heard all the buzz?! It’s everywhere!), it’s making me think. I mean, sure, the ring is going to be gorgeous, but it doesn’t end there, from what I hear. I mean, eventually, I’m going to have to live with this guy! And, that could get tricky!

I’ve never lived with a boy—well, except for my brother and a guy-like roommate. My brother was 12 when I left for college, so I don’t think my experience living with him will be the basis for any type of grown-up cohabitation. At the very least, hopefully there will fewer Legos all over the place. And, let’s talk about that one roommate: he had a bathroom completely decked out in cartoon ducky and froggy bath accessories. He also spooked easily. I’m pretty sure I scared him. Me! Sweet, little kitten! I’m really hoping my fiancé won’t share too many characteristics of his. Here’s crossing my fingers.

So, living with a boy… Seems frightening! There was a Sex In The City episode that one of my friends can quote in its entirety all about Secret Single Behavior. Those ladies were on to something! There are a few things I’m not sure a guy really wants to know about me, so here, let me share them on the internet instead, because that seems reasonable:

• I can spend hours staring at my face in a mirror, examining every pore, emerging wrinkle and hair follicle.
• I have almost as much make-up and beauty products as any medium-sized Sephora store. While this is no surprise to anyone who walks into my bathroom, I have a feeling it would be much less cute when my six different types of eye cream edge the lucky gentleman’s shaving cream right out of the medicine cabinet.
• Sometimes—gasp!—I like to sleep in full-butt underwear. Full. Butt. Underwear. Embarrassing! And, likely not sexy.
• I often have nothing in my refrigerator except eye masks and beauty peels.
• I don’t clean that often.
• I drink wine in the bathroom when I’m getting ready to go out sometimes. Ok, most of the time. (One time I knocked over the wine glass, shattering the glass and spilling red wine all over the toilet and shower curtain, which looked very, very horrific and wrong.)
• I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, irrationally convinced that something in my apartment is going to catch on fire and catch me off guard. Of course, this fear could be alleviated by buying a fire extinguisher to have on hand, but that just seems too simple.
• When left to my own devices, I sometimes eat the same thing every day for a week (let’s be real. I don’t know how to make all that many dishes!). And, you can count on whatever it is involving sour cream.
• I can spend hours playing spider solitaire.

So, there you have it. Landing the proposal is one thing. Getting the guy to stick around after we’ve moved in together might be another challenge all together!

Facing down 32, and it’s on!

I’m going to be 32 in February. Thirty-two. Yikes. To paraphrase the great oracle Jessica Simpson, 32 is almost 33, which is almost 35, which is almost mid-thirties. Hell, in my calculations, it’s pretty much almost 50!

It’s time to take control and be a grown-up, so I’ve made a life decision—you know, like grown-ups do. Here it is: I will become engaged while I am 32. There. It’s out there! It’s happening. Now, let’s get busy making it so.

I’ve written about various plans and schemes I’ve concocted to attract worthy suitors, but those were so ideas for my twenties. It’s serious now! This is for real. It’s time to pull out the big guns! So… Now, we just have to identify what those big guns might be…

I enlisted my friends to help. And, within a minute of announcing my big resolution for my impending nuptials, they all swore their assistance and then decided I will write a book and go on a big book tour. I think that plan has some kinks to work out; for instance, what the heck would I write a book about? And, of course anything I would possibly write would be completely nonsensical and fall into the broad category of chick lit.

Now, I haven’t actually been to a whole lot of book signings for chick lit books, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t swarming with eligible bachelors. Thanks, girls, but while that might be a fun idea, let’s focus on the task at hand!

Putting a pin in the book tour, I’ve instead made several happy hour plans—you know, at bars, where guys are proven to gather in hordes. I’m also building my events calendar for the year, trying to attend every interesting gala (I know what you’re thinking, but really, isn’t the guy I’m going to end up with also going to like dressing up and going to big, fancy events? I sure hope so.), all sorts of sporting events and any number of other fun gatherings. By the time I’m 33, I’m going to be either engaged or bankrupt, come hell or high water!

Stay tuned for updates on how this endeavor goes. We’ve got 13½ months to lock in a ring. Game on.

Work sparks

There’s a guy whose company shares office space with my company, and he is not ugly. So, obviously, I’ve zeroed in on him as the next potential Mr. Kristin Brown target.

Our interactions are those that will fill romance novels one day: I say something witty and brilliant; he looks overwhelmed, laughs, says something less than witty and borderline boring and goes on his way. Can you feel the excitement of burgeoning love?!

Like in high school when a crush would find excuses to just happen to be near your locker, the frequency with which he passes by or lingers near my office has definitely increased. I think we can all agree that clearly all this Kristin is working for him!

I’m pretty sure that I’m going to find that he’s less than smart if we ever eventually go out, and then I’ll be stuck with him at work. He seems nice, though, and has a good, professional job. And, at this point, that seems like just about enough!

The anticipation must be killing you! An update.

The date with the 24 year-old wasn’t so bad! He turned out to be smarter and more mature than many of the 30-somethings I’ve gone out with! The biggest 24-years-wise attribute he had was his assumption that we’d just jump right into bed. Oh, boys… Don’t worry; I set the kid straight with all the grace of a lady.

Major red flag (and isn’t there always something?): the young man doesn’t own a TV!!! I’ve been out with a different guy before who also didn’t own a TV but, instead, had a telescope. In an apartment building, on a crowded street, in downtown DC. That guy seemed a touch creepy. At least the 24 year-old wasn’t that unnerving!

Considering I count TiVo as my most prized possession, just ahead of the jewelry my dad has given me for milestone birthdays and my popcorn maker, I can’t imagine what he does at night in his tiny, tiny, studio apartment without TV. I can tell you he’s not exercising in there. He’d put a hand through the window with one jumping jack! What does he do during drinking-wine-on-the-couch time without TV?!

So, obviously, I’m not sure there’s a lot of synergy there. I will, however, entertain another date, should he ask. Hell, I’m not doing a whole lot else (except catching the new seasons of so many great TV shows)!

Another Hollywood Life Lesson

Ok. Let's get a reality check here.

If we have learned anything from TV and movies—and let's face it, we have learned a lot—in order to find real love I need to encounter some seemingly tragic-in-the-moment turn of fate that sends me reluctantly into a tiny, tiny town in the deep south or in Alaska. That's it. That's what it's going to take.

If I'm going to be serious about finding love, I need to get out from behind the computer, put my wine glass down on the bar and stop following cute stranger to see where it is guys like them are hanging out in the evenings. (That only happened once. How many times have I considered it, though? I reserve the right not to answer…) There are far fewer movies and TV shows about people who met online or in a bar than there are about people from big cities moving to tiny towns, being taken out of their elements, getting “rescued” by hot townies and realizing that, while seemingly miserable at first, the move was the best thing that ever happened to them.

So yeah, reality check: that’s what I need to do.

It happened for Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats, Anne Heche in the TV show Men in Trees, Nicole Kidman in Australia, Renee Zellweger in New in Town and for countless actresses in too-many-to-name teen movies. Hell, it even worked for Michael J. Fox in Doc Hollywood, Kevin Bacon in Footloose and Richard Gere in Runaway Bride!

So, obviously I’m looking forward to the new CW show Hart of Dixie, in which Rachel Bilson is forced to move to a small, southern town in which alligators cross streets (that’s in the previews for the show). You’ll find me every week during the season watching the show and taking furious notes!

Let’s talk about it, though. How is it that there’s one hot guy in town, and he inevitably falls for the out-of-place, seemingly obnoxious, new girl? Doesn’t that piss off the other girls in town? Wouldn’t that make them hate her? So, she gets the guy, but what about friends?! These movies seem to leave a lot of important stuff out…

I suppose the question in this Hollywood life lesson is, “Do I want friends or do I want love?” I have to say, if the objet d’ amour is someone like Harry Connick, Jr., James Tupper or Hugh Jackman, it might not be a fair choice!

It’s college football season!!!

Wait, whose blog is this??

Yeah, I’m not what one might call a “football fan.” I am a fan of fun, eligible guys, though, and as it turns out they are fans of college football! I smell a dating scheme coming on!

I decided I would find a college football team to support, get an adorable shirt for the team, go to bars on game days and flirt with the sports fans! This worked on many levels—provided I studied up on the team:

1. I could flirt knowledgeably with alumni or fans of “my team” during the game; they’d be impressed with my fandom and ask me out.
2. I could teasingly flirt with guys supporting the opposing team by trash talking—in a coy, yet knowledgeable way—they’d be impressed and ask me out.
3. I could flirt with boys at bars outside of game days, asking where they were planning on watching “the game;” then, of course, they’d be so charmed they’d ask me out.
4. I could spout off football facts in general conversation with boys in bars; they’d be impressed, ask me which “my team” was, we’d spar if there was a rivalry, and then they’d ask me out.

This seemed like a perfect plan. And! My guy friends were entirely on board with the plan! Now, they’ve laughed off many a scheme I’ve concocted, so their support meant this was a real gem and was going to work! Or, they just wanted someone to go to sports bars and watch games with them…

The first order of business was selecting a team for my undying loyalty. Since boys were involved, or perhaps because these boys were involved, a spreadsheet had to be created. With two separate tabs. Quite a bit of analysis and research went into this decision, and while options were narrowed down by “scientific” means, a true winner had to take into consideration a few more subjective inputs.

Important qualifications for The School:

• Cute guys
• Fun guys
• Smart guys
• High earning potential for graduates

(Notice none of the characteristics have anything to do with actual playing ability or on-field record. Those got cut from the boys’ requirements list pretty early!)

The spreadsheet indicated that the schools with the most fun guys, shockingly, didn’t have the highest earning potential! How were we to find The School with The Team?! One of my guy friends invested in this project decided we should ditch the smarts to go for a guy who likes to have a good time—or else I should just hope our other guy friend invested in the project, a rare Harvard graduate who likes to party, had some friends from school to go after. Please. We can all assume I exhausted the gravy train of friends of friends long ago.

We came out with the following lists.

Fun schools:

• Penn State University – These guys seem like jerks, don’t they?


• University of Mississippi – Really? Do I strike you as a Southern Belle that these guys would be attracted to?
• University of Georgia – See entry above.
• West Virginia University – So many reasons for no.
• University of Texas – I’m so not into cowboy boots or hats. Oh, and I’ve dated a couple Texans. No thanks.

We eventually knocked out the party schools because if the guys are at a bar and having fun, that’s pretty self selecting. They didn’t have to go to a fun school to be a fun guy! Back to the potential earners or otherwise nice guys!

Most well-rounded guys, according to the spreadsheet:

• Texas A&M – See Texas above.
• University of Arizona – As a sister of two Arizona State University graduates, I think I’d be run out of the family.

As scientific as we could get cross-referencing several different college rankings:

1. UT Austin: #2 football ranking, #7 party school, respectable average SAT score of 1240
2. California (Berkeley): #10 football ranking, has a sister school with a party ranking of #10, #21 SAT (1337), #21 Salary ($112k mid career)
3. Notre Dame (#18 football ranking, #9 Salary, #20 SAT)

The winner ended up being Ohio State. What can I say? We went to a bar one day, there was a cute guy wearing an Ohio State jersey, and a team allegiance was born! Spreadsheets be damned! This might be one of the many reasons girls make guys crazy.

How did Prince Charming Communicate?

Don’t guys understand that girls just want to be made to feel special? Don’t they watch romantic comedies?! Oh, wait… So, they don’t? Well, that explains the missing magic!

I’d like to submit into evidence some of my recently received texts for your consideration. Please, if you feel beloved or otherwise special in reading any of them and I’m missing something, let me know!

A Thursday, late afternoon:

I’ll be in the neighborhood with the usual suspects tonight. Catch up with us if ur out. :-)

This was from a guy recently met. I don’t know who the “usual suspects” are. I’m also not convinced I was the only person to have received this message. Oh! Oh! So, you’ll be in my neighborhood with people I don’t know?! I’ll rush right out!

I’m also pretty sure “catch up with us if ur out” is not akin to “I really enjoyed meeting you and want to get to know you better. Let’s get together so I can treasure your company and devote my full attention to you and whether we might enjoy each other.”


A Wednesday, about 6:00 before a date:

Hope you remembered to wear your drinking pants!!

Why?! Are we going to play quarters on this date? At your fraternity house?


A Saturday night, approximately 1:30/2:00am from an ex-boyfriend:

I’m sorry I was such a d-bag. You’re a great woman.

Oh yeah, I know I am. If you had realized that much earlier on, you could have saved us both a lot of trouble and probably wouldn’t have behaved so disrespectfully. Still, this doesn’t feel like a proclamation of regret or redemption in the early morning hours after, I’m sure, many manhattans.


Another Saturday night a few weeks later, about 1:15am from the same ex-boyfriend:

KBizzle!!!!!!!!

Translation: “Are you out? Can I come over? I miss getting regular action, and since I’m not getting any anywhere else, I’m going try and weasel my way back in here.”

Really? Remember when you said you could picture your life without me in it? This is what that looks like. Not what you imagined??


Wednesday, about 12:15pm (not from ex-boyfriend):

Hey friend. What’d you think of the earthquake? Pretty wild, huh? Don’t be a stranger if you’re out in the hood. We are always out having a good time…

I’ve met you once. We actually are essentially strangers. If you really want us to not be strangers, there is a way to accomplish that: make plans! With all the effort you’re putting into casually running into me sometime, you could just arrange a low-intensity, couple drinks date, you know.

----------

So, sorry, boys. I’m 31 now. I’ve learned the lessons of my early twenties and don’t need to go back. Late-night “reconciliations” and happenstance run-ins do not loving relationships make—typically. I’m smarter than that and worth much more. Why don’t you try to communicate with me as if you were more mature than a 22 year-old yourself?

What happened to the good, old days of phone calls to request nice dates, complete with a suggestion for time/place/activity? I’m starting to think they’ve gone the way of beautifully scripted letters and wax seals. At least I don’t have to wear bloomers under my dresses in this day and age! But really, which is worse? I’m not entirely sure.

Oh, c’mon. There are still gentlemen! Somewhere?

I can't believe my friends convinced me to post this story. If you want to know what it's like to be a single girl looking for her prince charming, this is a pretty classic anecdote, I suppose, in all it's vulgarity...

I had a date a week or so ago with a guy who was confused and had trouble distinguishing me from one of his crude, back-slapping drinking buddies and the tequileria we were in from a hole-in-the-wall, light-beer-slinging, peanuts-on-the-floor crap shack. It’s the only excuse for his language in the presence of such an elegant lady!

In our various pre-date correspondences, I had alluded to the accumulation of entertaining bad date stories I’d been collecting. So, he tried to compete. This blog is a small taste of the ammunition I’m packing when it comes to bad date comparisons, so you, my loyal readers, know that one needs to come big if he’s going to try to one-up me on dating stories. He had one story in particular that could have made it, but presentation is everything. And in that, he failed big time.

On a second date with a girl he met online, this guy was taking her hiking. I admired his effort to make it an interesting date. On the drive over to the trail, his date said to him, “I like you and could see this going somewhere maybe, so I should tell you something.” That seems presumptuous on a second date, but maybe I could learn something from being a little more forthcoming on a date. Or maybe not…

She continued with, “I just got out of a relationship.” My date then said that he had said to her, “That’s cool, so did I.” That wasn’t the end, though. She had apparently just gotten out of a long-term relationship with a woman.

Now, I saw that ending to the story coming a mile before we got there, but this guy wasn’t finished with the seemingly obvious proclamations. In case I wasn’t sure by virtue of his asking me out, he went on to say, and I repeat this verbatim, “I mean, I’m cool with whatever people may be into, gay, lesbian, straight, whatever. But, I like P**SY!!”

Are you freaking kidding me?! Where do I find these people? Thanks, “sir.” That was completely unnecessary and, oh yeah, even irrelevant to the story! So, there you go, buddy. You and your date had something in common. Please don’t ever call me again.

There have to be some genuinely nice, appropriate, good guys out there somewhere, right? Right?

I'm baaaaaack!

Have you missed me?

I’ve been out, going on dates, dating someone who epitomizes the word “jerk” (and so many other words that would not be ladylike to type), watching all my friends settle down and all the while accumulating stories. I’m back, though! I’d like to tell you that I’m picking the blog back up because I’ve got a burning desire to regale you with my stories or because I feel I’ve let you down with this gap in mindlessly entertaining life drama. However, I have to share that I’m taking to the web again for a no less worthy cause than to fulfill my destiny!

In addition to being prone towards the dramatic, I’m very lucky to have especially wise friends—when their wisdom is in my best interest or I agree with them. Otherwise, of course, they’re just regular friends. Wait, considering the only real readers of my blog are my friends, maybe I should suck up a little more; after all, I can’t risk alienating my base, as they say in politics! Let’s try this again.

I’ve got gorgeous, intelligent, skinny, magical friends who are full of the most profound wisdom, and I’m more than lucky to have them in my life.

The most recent piece of astuteness to come from my great gaggle of girlfriends was a little insight into my life’s purpose—see? They are wise to have ascertained my life’s purpose! The universe, apparently, has big plans for me. As my friend said, (and who am I to argue with flattery?! A lady, especially one more than slightly self-absorbed, never turns down a compliment!) I have been blessed with a gift for writing. (Her words, so don’t take it up with me if you disagree—oh, and if that’s the case, you’re welcome to STOP READING! Jerk.) So, God/the universe/whoever maps out people’s fate has delivered to me a string of bad or otherwise humorous dates so that I may extricate the good stories from the pain and amuse people with them! According to my friend, I will not find the love of my life until I’ve written a book or gone viral online with my “special gift.”

Never one to tempt fate, I am rising to my destiny and will recommit myself to keeping the steady stream of stories coming—and boy do I have content to share! Get ready.

Can you calculate “Foot in mouth?”

On a break from dating my adorable manfriend several months ago (you might remember this not-so-made-in-Hollywood girls’ trip), I found myself out at a bar. I know. Quite the shocking turn of events.

My mom happened to also be in town this particular weekend, and we were enjoying standing around catching up with the girls when two bold young men approached the group. As only moms typically pick up on, these boys seemed to have bee-lined over to us as soon as they walked in the door—forsaking the 12 other people they had come in with—to talk to us. Obviously, the only conclusion here is that we were looking SUPER hot. Duh.

The boys were good sports, taking quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from our feisty bunch—much of which focused on one of the guys' calculator watch. Yes. He was wearing a calculator watch. Like from the ‘80’s. We made quite a few jokes about when a calculator on one’s arm might come in handy. Calculating tips. Spelling BOOBLESS… Calculating when two trains might meet in the middle of the country if one left San Francisco travelling at 68 mph and one left New York City travelling at 95 mph…

At some point during the course of the night, the one guy was looking at me and said, “I like your necklace. It’s very… Umm… Colorful.”

Now, I’ve worn this necklace a thousand times. And, I do get numerous compliments on it. It’s several strands of colorful, wooden beads. Often people ask if I got it on vacation in Mexico or tell me it looks very exotic, interesting, fun.

So, I said to the guy, “You just thought about that for a good thirty seconds, and all you could come up with was ‘colorful?!’ That was some deep thinking! Very creative.”

When all the girls pitched in on the taunting, he started laughing and said, “Ok fine! I was staring at your boobs and thought I had just been caught looking, so I had to come up with something!”

The whole group burst out laughing then, and it continued when my friend Amy said, “I love that! I love it for so many reasons. First of all, I appreciate you noticing them. They are pretty fantastic, aren’t they?!” (I swear she really said that!) “Second, I love that you just admitted to it. And third, I love that you admitted to checking out KB’s boobs in front of her mom!”



And, after all that, later in the night he still asked me out. My coworkers really wanted me to go on the date and bring back the calculator watch as a trophy, much like a hunter would return from a big hunt with the head of a lion he had just killed.

Six months to land a man

About a month ago, I was diagnosed with a tumor on my optic nerve. I don’t know what it’s called or what kind it is because as soon as I heard “tumor,” my mind zeroed in on only that word, much like my vision may tunnel in on itself one day, apparently.

Well, maybe. I’m not sure what might happen, since the doctor was trying very hard to downplay the diagnosis until we know more about it. He didn’t laugh at my jokes that the receptionists thought were hysterical, though, so I didn’t take that as an especially good sign. His not thinking I was funny (me! The height of humor!) may have actually been worse than hearing the word "tumor." I mean, let's keep perspective here!

We won’t know more about it until they can measure the pictures of the thing, which were excruciating to have taken, against what it looks like in six months. The pictures were SUPER painful, but the ophthalmology residents milling around took pity and gave me candy. I’m pretty sure I ended up on top of that endeavor—like a toddler given a lollypop to make up for a shot.

There’s no reason to freak out until we know there’s a reason to freak out, right? Well, that’s what the doctor said, or a paraphrasing of what the doctor humorlessly said, at least.

The way I see it, however, I have the next five months to land a man and get him to fall madly in love with me. Let me tell you why: if the tumor is dangerous, treatment is definitely not going to make me more beautiful, at least not on a short-term basis.

Unless they’ve got a peg leg, guys in the bars, at least the ones I like to go to, are probably not going to flock to the girl with the eye patch. You can count on it, though, that if I do have to wear an eye patch, I will certainly play it up! I will go out with a parrot on my shoulder (stuffed, obviously, let’s not get crazy!) and a red bandana around my waist. I’ll also only pay for drinks with gold coins that I take out of a treasure box rather than a purse. And, I’m going to start working now on developing an affinity to rum drinks.

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Right?!

I’m not sure I’ll have to wear an eye patch. It might come down to chemo. Of course, I’m hypothesizing based mostly on my hypochondria, which I think the downplaying doctor would entirely endorse. Chemo, though, could result in some really excellent wigs. I think I’d try out red. Or! A different color every night! A guy will meet me as a blonde, ask me out, and a redhead would show up for the date. I'd convince him that he was confused about what color my hair was. It could be very, very amusing and produce a few good blog entries, which in itself would make the entire thing overwhelmingly worth it.

Maybe, though, my tumor will create a boyfriend hallucination for me. I mean, I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Izzy’s boyfriend hallucination made her very, very happy for a while!

All in all, I did catch that this type of tumor is very rare. And, it’s even rarer that it’s found to be cancerous or otherwise dangerous. The specialist I met with had only ever seen five of these, and none of them turned out to be anything to worry about. I’m seeing an even more specialized specialist in January to get the real deal of the thing, so I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out then. No use getting nervous before that time. I’ve even resisted my usual urge to obsessively online diagnose. Sometimes that’s meant actually sitting on my hands.

In the meantime, my coworkers have taken to calling it my Apple iTumor. And, we’re hoping to develop some pretty awesome apps.

It's a funny life, Charlie Brown

I once dated a guy named Charlie for a while. (Well, I dated him for a while. I’m pretty sure his name is probably still Charlie.) His last name, unfortunately, did not play well into my favorite name game.

But, if we had gotten married, I would have insisted that he take my name because then he would have been…

Yes.

CHARLIE BROWN!!

It was too good. One day, a bunch of friends and I were sitting around in fits of giggles fantasizing about what the wedding would be like:

The bridesmaids would wear yellow, tea-length, A-line dresses with big, black zigzags around the bottom.

I’d be walked down the aisle by a beagle.

The music would be played by someone on a tiny, tiny piano.

One of the groomsmen would carry around a threadbare blanket.

The minister would say much of the ceremony like this, “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah.”

Instead of those popular picture booths at the reception, there would be a “Doctor is IN” stand!

In place of flowers, there would be sad, little Christmas trees.

The altar would be a giant pumpkin!

Rather than shoving cake in each other’s mouths, he’d hold it, I’d pretend to go in for a bite and then not, and he’d fall flat on his face! (You know, like Lucy and the football.)

We’d ride away from the reception on a flying doghouse piloted by a little, yellow bird. No wait, that wouldn’t work.

Our kids would have had to be named Linus and Lucy.

Ha! It’s almost a shame it didn’t work out with Charlie Brown! Well, for the sake of the wedding, almost.

I live in a romantic comedy, I’m sure of it!

A few weeks ago, I was in a blissful relationship—so delightful that I scheduled a romantic weekend away at a beautiful resort for myself and my adoring paramour. What fun! What romance! What love!

So, of course, the week before we were to leave for the glorious mini-vacation, he remembered a boys’ trip to a depravity-riddled, hard-partying, beach town. Apparently, this was a trip he preferred to my sun-soaked, love-filled, spa/beach/pool romantic getaway. And, that was the end of that.

Embracing the storyline of so many chick-lit books and romantic comedies, I gathered a couple really great girlfriends, who came with vital reinforcements like chocolate and champagne cocktails (which is, of course, part of what makes them so great!), and headed out for a delectable girls' weekend. Men be damned!

I should naturally have stumbled unwittingly onto the absolute love of my life, right? I mean, I’ve watched all the movies. That’s how it works. Of course, at first we probably wouldn’t get along; I’d be annoyed he stole the best pool chair as he taunted me from it, try to trip him as he cut in front of me at the bar or “accidently” knock him out of his flowering lotus pose as he tormented me from his strategically-placed-behind-mine yoga mat.

Alas, let me regale you with the types of guys I met instead. Please, if you see some romantic comedy-happy ending potential in any of them that I may have missed, feel free point it out! I’m certainly one to learn from missed opportunities!

• The guy who whispered in my ear what kind of talent he predicted I had in bed and received a swift knee to the groin (ok, the knee in the groin may have only happened in my head and was, in reality, actually a biting remark as I walked away)

• The guy who brought his own drinks to the bar in travel mugs and insisted he wanted to take me back to his friend’s boat—where his 14 year-old son was waiting—and who then moved on from me to hit on the girl not much older than his son who passed too nearby (like 20 feet) to have not caught his attention (he didn’t get far with her before her dad swooped in for the rescue. Good move, Dad.)

• The very talented keyboard player in the musical duo performing at the bar who was so stoned he almost missed the second set, wandering around the resort property

• The guy who got “knifed” outside of a respectable pizza place, who seemed to be leaving out several details of the incident and couldn’t keep the story straight in relaying it to us

• A few guys with two kids each, two of whom adored their wives (sweet, but not helpful to finding my romantic comedy costar) and one who indicated he did not adore his wife as much through his advances on us (skeezy, and no thank you)

It looks like my only hope is to cause a huge scene at a family function (my family’s or someone else’s; let’s not be picky!) a la Bridget Jones, 27 Dresses, My Best Friend’s Wedding (although that didn’t really work out romantically for her either), Sweet Home Alabama, Love Actually… The list goes on and on, and who am I to ignore such divine inspiration?!

Surely it’s only a matter of time before Paramount Pictures comes a-calling! I think I’d like Reese Witherspoon to play me.

Metro Stalker

A few weeks ago, there was a really cute guy on the metro on my way to work. And, lucky day! He totally checked me out. I gave him one of my patented, tried-and-true, coy, flirty half smiles—feeling pretty good about myself.

Drawn to my undeniable magnetism, he came over and stood right over me (I was sitting, he was holding onto the bar behind my seat). I'm not entirely sure which stop it was at which he got on the train because I was distracted by how much I could see myself dating him, how happy we’d be together, the sparkly diamond he’d give me, the size of the house we’d buy together… As it turns out, that was also just enough to distract me from actually getting him to talk to me too.

I did notice, however, that he was not wearing a ring. I also noticed his work security badge dangling in my face, with his name conveniently emblazoned across the front. I swear it glowed when I looked at it.

Obviously, like any google-savvy young woman with just enough information to be dangerous, I did a little light reconnaissance when I got to the office. Ok, one might be able to use the term “cyber stalked” and may be completely accurate, but should we really get wrapped up in semantics?

Yes, I realize that might have been a little intrusive (and I also know that you’re thinking a better term might be psycho), but try and deny that you’ve done it. Uh huh, I didn’t think so.

I unveiled a wealth of information! Here's the kicker, though, according to his LinkedIn profile, two of my good friends knew people who knew him. I thought that was hysterical, so I emailed those friends to relate the funny story and prove just how easy the internet has made the seven degrees of separation game, even when played with strangers.

I thought we’d have a good laugh and that’d be the end of it. How naïve of me…

Coincidently, the middleman to one of my friends’ connections to my metro boyfriend was sitting in the cube right in front of her as she was reading my email. She told me she casually brought up my metro boyfriend to her cubemate. I’m still not 100% on how that “casual” mention actually went down, but I fear it was something like, “Oh my gosh! My friend totally checked out your friend on the metro, went back to her office and found out all sorts of personal stuff about him! Can you believe it?!”

Regardless of how that initial conversation transpired, my conniving friend and her cube buddy started talking about setting up a happy hour to get us all together. Awesome.

This is how I imagined the invitation to such a happy hour would go:

Cube Friend to Metro Boyfriend: Hey, want to get drinks on Thursday?

Metro Boyfriend: Sure, man, that’d be fun. Let’s find hot chicks.

Cube Friend: Unnecessary, Dude. You’ve already found one, although, you might be able to substitute the word “psycho” for “hot.”

Metro Boyfriend: Huh?

Cube Friend: Smooth move wearing your name badge on the metro. Some crazy chick tracked you to my coworker and then to me. You might want to get a police escort when you head home tonight. Who knows what else she’s found out about you? She could end up making a suit out of your skin. Didn’t that happen in a movie?

Metro Boyfriend: What? Wait, is she hot? Dude, I’m still in.

If I had had the balls to have actually allowed this plan to go to fruition, I’m pretty sure that this is exactly how I would have found true love. Or, the details would have shaped the memo section of a restraining order.