You knew better, right? There is no way I will ever sign up on an online dating site.
I know many people who've found their true love their soul mate, their counterpart, their everything on a dating site. Yada yada yada whatever. They are happy beyond measure -swearing that paying whatever membership fee, writing a (very factual, I'm sure) bio, throwing up a photoshopped picture of themselves in some lip-puckering sultry pose, and hitting 'submit' has given them more daily pleasure than anything they could have ever imagined. Have these people never eaten dark chocolate?
The whole online dating phenomenon does not help one iota with my jaded. Someone was just telling me that "at our age, it's more about finding someone that is 'compatible' and has similar interests in life rather than true love." Hogwash and humbug, I say. Or at least I hold to in an effort to have the happily ever after which has eluded me for forty solid years.
But thankfully in the meantime, I have not lost my sense of humor. Not only are there the usual suspects in the way of online dating sites, but now apparently there is one called: FarmersOnly.com. I saw it on a commercial as a "woman" was "driving" a John Deere through a field as she happened upon some toned and tanned sweaty farmer planting something totally unrecognizable to us city folk. And as crazy good luck would have it, he even had a towel on him to wipe his brow.
The only thing which I did recognize in all of this was my utter contempt for one more marketing ploy aimed at suckers. Along with verification beyond a doubt that when I move in a few years, it will not be to a farm.
East Coast New-England style house with a big ass French Rooster Country Kitchen? Twist my arm. Just not too hard since I may have to plant a garden or something if they're low on lobster.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
PITA
Write Drunk; Edit Sober --Hemingway
Thank you, Ernest. Although I promise I am not drunk or even drink right now, as I've been on the proverbial wagon since last month. Exactly one month ago today, in fact. It's never wise to consume beer that is darker than Mich Ultra in a fashion which rivals how you wished Tom Hanks would have eaten at his special reunion party once he got off that godforsaken island.
Now that we have that all cleared up, let's move on to the topic de jour: I had an 80 minute massage at Woodhouse earlier. To say it was long overdue is an arrant understatement. After dumping my things into a locker, I changed into the plush, commodious robe and those hard plastic slipper things which don't do a thing for your feet after a long run. To the hallway I went, making nice with the way too bubbly employee who insisted upon walking me the six steps around the corner to the Quiet Room.
The Quiet Room is quite possibly my favorite room in Fort Wayne. No, I'm not embellishing for effect. That room makes me happy and instantly reposed while simultaneously reminding me what cozy feels like.
When I drift off to dream, that room is exactly the kind of place my mind wanders. From the floor to ceiling stone fireplace, to the candles aligning the massive wood mantle, I sunk deep into the oversized leather couch and all its welcoming pillows - hot cinnamon tea in hand. As I gazed into the fire, the thoughts which swirled in my head at warp speed were all over the place; yet, I was completely and utterly relaxed. I'm like James Taylor. I can only get to a point of total calmness if I'm in front of a fire or if it's raining. Someday I am going to go to Aspen or Zermatt and just reminisce for days in front of a gigantic stone fireplace wearing the coziest sweater and drinking spiked hot cocoa.
Half-asleep, I heard a deep voice mumble, "Beth?" No way could this be the guy who'd be working on me for the next 80 minutes. My hard plastic slippers went shuffling down the hallway behind a man who was clearly either Lou Ferrigno or his younger twin brother. And by incredible hulk-ish I mean I was pretty sure the room we were about to enter contained one massage table, some birds chirping through speakers and certain death.
About-to-break-me-in-half asks if there are any special areas of interest, areas which are troublesome or causing me pain. Reluctantly, I tell him I am a runner so my legs are always a wreck. He nods, and assures me he understands as he is also a runner. If I wasn't so scared for my life I would have laughed in his face, the one attached directly to his bulging shoulders. Instead I silently followed the directions I know by heart: hang up the robe, kick off the torture shoes and crawl under the sheet face up. He'll be in to kill me in a second.
It started out fine. Enjoyable, in fact. I like when they don't talk and I especially like the head rubbing. Anthony (I think) commenced there and was on a roll when all of a sudden, I stopped breathing.
"Too much pressure?"
"Nope. I'm good."
"You seem pretty tough."
Great. I love when people tell me that, especially people who don't know me. While that may be true once in a while, it most certainly is not true all the time and it definitely wasn't true as he went for the arm/elbow combination down my legs. That IT band is tricky.
"I can work on your hips later if you'd like."
Apparently my silence was taken as an affirmative. I had noticed Anthony's multiple tattoos only seconds after meeting him. Roughly half-way through our session, he divulged that he was in the Navy. Not only was this unrestricted line officer busting my back, he decided to point out our unfortunate similarity.
Don't go there. Please don't go there - either literally or verbally, I thought.
"Yes, I foolishly got it about twelve years ago. Honestly, I forget it's there so I also keep forgetting I need to get it removed."
Once someone asked me if it said, "Leon." Funniest friend I've ever had. Have. Had. Anywho...I gotta get this thing removed.
To the hips he went, and by hips I mean glutes. It hurt so much there was only one thing for me to do as he was poking and prodding and bruising: put myself back in front of that fireplace, in my own little Quiet Room.
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
I will not be seeing Anthony again. Or hopefully anyone named Leon.
Thank you, Ernest. Although I promise I am not drunk or even drink right now, as I've been on the proverbial wagon since last month. Exactly one month ago today, in fact. It's never wise to consume beer that is darker than Mich Ultra in a fashion which rivals how you wished Tom Hanks would have eaten at his special reunion party once he got off that godforsaken island.
Now that we have that all cleared up, let's move on to the topic de jour: I had an 80 minute massage at Woodhouse earlier. To say it was long overdue is an arrant understatement. After dumping my things into a locker, I changed into the plush, commodious robe and those hard plastic slipper things which don't do a thing for your feet after a long run. To the hallway I went, making nice with the way too bubbly employee who insisted upon walking me the six steps around the corner to the Quiet Room.
The Quiet Room is quite possibly my favorite room in Fort Wayne. No, I'm not embellishing for effect. That room makes me happy and instantly reposed while simultaneously reminding me what cozy feels like.
When I drift off to dream, that room is exactly the kind of place my mind wanders. From the floor to ceiling stone fireplace, to the candles aligning the massive wood mantle, I sunk deep into the oversized leather couch and all its welcoming pillows - hot cinnamon tea in hand. As I gazed into the fire, the thoughts which swirled in my head at warp speed were all over the place; yet, I was completely and utterly relaxed. I'm like James Taylor. I can only get to a point of total calmness if I'm in front of a fire or if it's raining. Someday I am going to go to Aspen or Zermatt and just reminisce for days in front of a gigantic stone fireplace wearing the coziest sweater and drinking spiked hot cocoa.
Half-asleep, I heard a deep voice mumble, "Beth?" No way could this be the guy who'd be working on me for the next 80 minutes. My hard plastic slippers went shuffling down the hallway behind a man who was clearly either Lou Ferrigno or his younger twin brother. And by incredible hulk-ish I mean I was pretty sure the room we were about to enter contained one massage table, some birds chirping through speakers and certain death.
About-to-break-me-in-half asks if there are any special areas of interest, areas which are troublesome or causing me pain. Reluctantly, I tell him I am a runner so my legs are always a wreck. He nods, and assures me he understands as he is also a runner. If I wasn't so scared for my life I would have laughed in his face, the one attached directly to his bulging shoulders. Instead I silently followed the directions I know by heart: hang up the robe, kick off the torture shoes and crawl under the sheet face up. He'll be in to kill me in a second.
It started out fine. Enjoyable, in fact. I like when they don't talk and I especially like the head rubbing. Anthony (I think) commenced there and was on a roll when all of a sudden, I stopped breathing.
"Too much pressure?"
"Nope. I'm good."
"You seem pretty tough."
Great. I love when people tell me that, especially people who don't know me. While that may be true once in a while, it most certainly is not true all the time and it definitely wasn't true as he went for the arm/elbow combination down my legs. That IT band is tricky.
"I can work on your hips later if you'd like."
Apparently my silence was taken as an affirmative. I had noticed Anthony's multiple tattoos only seconds after meeting him. Roughly half-way through our session, he divulged that he was in the Navy. Not only was this unrestricted line officer busting my back, he decided to point out our unfortunate similarity.
Don't go there. Please don't go there - either literally or verbally, I thought.
"Yes, I foolishly got it about twelve years ago. Honestly, I forget it's there so I also keep forgetting I need to get it removed."
Once someone asked me if it said, "Leon." Funniest friend I've ever had. Have. Had. Anywho...I gotta get this thing removed.
To the hips he went, and by hips I mean glutes. It hurt so much there was only one thing for me to do as he was poking and prodding and bruising: put myself back in front of that fireplace, in my own little Quiet Room.
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
I will not be seeing Anthony again. Or hopefully anyone named Leon.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Paying the Price
"Yep, that's true."
It is not a stretch to say I have been told on more than one occasion that I'm hard to argue with. Since a preposition just ended that sentence, I'm not so sure that is actually true. However, I will cop to unyielding and never forgetting one word someone with whom I'm "arguing" has either just said or has said in the past. Anamnesis, if you will. Sure, as necessary, I may gently remind them of their current or former statements and point out how they may be in complete contradiction to what they are screaming about in that exact moment. Color me helpful.
Hard to argue with? Nah. Should have been a lawyer? Yes. (Although, I'd swim through an ocean of puke before I'd ever consider becoming one right now.)
Admitting you are wrong is a hard thing to do; admitting someone else is right is even harder. Yet, admission to someone that they have you and your situation pegged is excruciatingly arduous. Especially when you never wanted to end up in that situation in the first place.
Being rendered defenseless against rhetorical questions about yourself is no picnic. Definitely absent is any immediate image of a young and carefree girl with hair billowing in the wind as she holds hands with her soul mate while skipping across a field of overgrown corn on their way back to the checkered tablecloth where he uses his best manners and hand feeds her cheese in between sips of world-class white wine.
(Run on sentence. Easy to argue with.)
Today granted me not only clarity but the opportunity to go through one more excruciatingly arduous situation vis a vis that type of admission. Thankfully, mercifully, it was with the one individual whose motives I have never, nor will ever, question. And I question everything.
As forever true and dear friend always tells me: If you want something badly enough, you make it happen. Everything else is just an excuse.
I hate excuses.
It is not a stretch to say I have been told on more than one occasion that I'm hard to argue with. Since a preposition just ended that sentence, I'm not so sure that is actually true. However, I will cop to unyielding and never forgetting one word someone with whom I'm "arguing" has either just said or has said in the past. Anamnesis, if you will. Sure, as necessary, I may gently remind them of their current or former statements and point out how they may be in complete contradiction to what they are screaming about in that exact moment. Color me helpful.
Hard to argue with? Nah. Should have been a lawyer? Yes. (Although, I'd swim through an ocean of puke before I'd ever consider becoming one right now.)
Admitting you are wrong is a hard thing to do; admitting someone else is right is even harder. Yet, admission to someone that they have you and your situation pegged is excruciatingly arduous. Especially when you never wanted to end up in that situation in the first place.
Being rendered defenseless against rhetorical questions about yourself is no picnic. Definitely absent is any immediate image of a young and carefree girl with hair billowing in the wind as she holds hands with her soul mate while skipping across a field of overgrown corn on their way back to the checkered tablecloth where he uses his best manners and hand feeds her cheese in between sips of world-class white wine.
(Run on sentence. Easy to argue with.)
Today granted me not only clarity but the opportunity to go through one more excruciatingly arduous situation vis a vis that type of admission. Thankfully, mercifully, it was with the one individual whose motives I have never, nor will ever, question. And I question everything.
As forever true and dear friend always tells me: If you want something badly enough, you make it happen. Everything else is just an excuse.
I hate excuses.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Crazily Foolishly Rational
Today I was reminded that I loathe not only the French, but the Greek as well. Maybe not the people of these origins, but the language. Life. It's one big oxymoron.
I have two more Soprano's episodes to watch before I return the set to my Dad. I'm still somewhat embarrassed to be taking life lessons from Tony Soprano, but, certainly not above it. You simply can neither discount an Italian heritage nor ridiculous feelings which come to the surface under extreme duress, copious amounts of alcohol, or counseling sessions. Dr. Melfi was trying to help Tony see why he's attracted to certain types of women. Easy peasy. He pays her enough in cash earned from his Waste Management profession that seemingly, it should be a breeze.
But alas, things which should be typically never are. Things which should be vary greatly from reality. This I know all too well; just like I know that hearing Dr. Melfi say, "L'amour Fou" on a show which could not possibly be any more Italian is almost as asylum-funny as what I was taught in church this morning:
"Philosophy" is a combination of two words: "phileo" - to love; and "sophia" - "wisdom."
And this, my friends, is where I would end with a smiley face if I used them.
I have two more Soprano's episodes to watch before I return the set to my Dad. I'm still somewhat embarrassed to be taking life lessons from Tony Soprano, but, certainly not above it. You simply can neither discount an Italian heritage nor ridiculous feelings which come to the surface under extreme duress, copious amounts of alcohol, or counseling sessions. Dr. Melfi was trying to help Tony see why he's attracted to certain types of women. Easy peasy. He pays her enough in cash earned from his Waste Management profession that seemingly, it should be a breeze.
But alas, things which should be typically never are. Things which should be vary greatly from reality. This I know all too well; just like I know that hearing Dr. Melfi say, "L'amour Fou" on a show which could not possibly be any more Italian is almost as asylum-funny as what I was taught in church this morning:
"Philosophy" is a combination of two words: "phileo" - to love; and "sophia" - "wisdom."
And this, my friends, is where I would end with a smiley face if I used them.
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