You had me at…narcissist?

So I get it: for some people, being single is GLORIOUS. No strings attached, no commitments…you can be with whoever you want, whenever you want, and the possibilities are endless (in theory). But for other people, being single SUCKS. Constantly in search of their next “someone”, they’ve perfected the art of painting themselves in what they think is the most positive light imaginable. And I often find it hilarious to see exactly what kinds of things people think will attract the opposite sex. What do I mean? Well…

I’m no genius , but I do happen to have a brain (and I know how to use it). When looking for a possible mate, nothing is sexier than a guy who can crack me up one minute, then switch gears and have an intelligent conversation about foreign policy or the potential of finding alien life on Mars the next minute. So I have to admit that statements like this boggle my mind:

“I don’t require females to know much…but a passion to learn is nice.”

Ahem. Yes, you heard that right. I wanted to respond “Oh, really? Thank goodness! I didn’t want to hurt myself!” *giggle* *flip hair*

Now, I haven’t always been the self-confident woman that I am now. Like many women (and men), I’ve questioned my level of hottness, the degree of ease with which I could “bag” a guy, and the desirability of my curvaceous body. But in recent years, I’ve come to recognize that–in my own way–I’m a catch. Despite my new-found confidence, gentlemen please make no mistake: flattery will still get you everywhere. So I was glad when he chose to highlight that particular qualitity in himself:

“My female friends say that I promote their self-esteem while still making them feel comfortable.”

Ah, I see! Because nothing makes me more UN-comfortable than a little flattery, and a compliment or two. I HAD to have entered some other dimension, some alternate reality occupied by tall, skinny white guys whose brains actually formulate thoughts like these, things started to get better:

“Everything good always happens to me!”

Oh! Well, that’s positive, right? No one wants to date a guy who’s living proof that karma really IS a bitch…

“I think I’m really supportive, positive, and accepting of other people…”

YESSSS!

“…but I tend to lack compassion for people who make bad decisions.”

NOOOOO!!

And just when I thought guys only wanted athletic and toned women on their arm, he was able to set the record straight:

“…she doesn’t have to be in shape. I can already run a 5 minute mile. She just has to LOOK like she is in shape.”

I sat for a moment, confused and pondering the difference between “being in shape” and just ”looking like you’re in shape”. Then I realized we’re talking about the difference between EATING and, well STARVING YOURSELF. And just when I thought there wasn’t a humorous bone in his very long, lanky body, he pulled this gem out of nowhere:

“I’m thinking about getting citizenship in an African country so I can say I’m African-American.”

If he could have read my thoughts, he’d know I was dying to ask: “How on EARTH are you still single?!”

“What’s In a Name?”

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
-Juliet
Romeo & Juliet

While attending a recent happy hour function for work, I was asked by a group of friends if I had any “office crushes”.

“You mean, people at work that I’m interested in?” I replied, a little surprised by the question. “Uh, no.”

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve met a TON of people at the office, and I’ve made several new friends in the year since I was hired. But I go to work to–wait for it–WORK. This isn’t a social club, and the 35^th floor isn’t a bar. Besides: I don’t date people I work with. That’s just a recipe for disaster.

“You mean, there’s no one?! No one you even think is cute?” one of them pressed.

“Well, I’m not DEAD,” I said, a quick glance around the room to see who might be listening.

“So there IS someone! Who?”

“Well, he only walks past my desk a zillion times a day,” I explained. “It’s hard not to notice.”

I paused. Oh what the hell.

“John Johnson,” I confessed, then quickly added: “But it’s not like THAT! I mean, yeah he’s hot. But I’m not interested. I just…notice.”

Blank stares. Confused stares. Concerned stares. My mind races into overdrive. “What did I say?”  I wonder. And then it hits me. My eyes go wide and I clamp my hand over my mouth.

“Oh my god! No, no that’s not who I meant!” I cry out, laughing in embarrassment. “Not John Johnson! Oh my god…I meant Mathew Mathews!”

My friends all breathed a sigh of relief, letting out their own nervous laughter.

“I mean, yes–John Johnson also walks by my desk a million times a day. But that’s totally not who I meant,” I quickly fumble, trying to recover. “I don’t know why his name came out!”

“You totally had me going there for a second,” Sally said with a big laugh. “I was sitting here wondering how to tactfully express my complete disagreement with you on that one!”

See, you have to understand:

John Johnson:

Mathew Mathews:

John Johnson:

Mathew Mathews:

Talk about a Freudian Slip!! Now, Sally calls me Essaytch Johnson (deservedly so–it was hilarious). And every time John Johnson walks by my desk, I turn a million shades of pink, recalling my blunder. At this point, he probably thinks I do have a crush on him. Crap. Oh well–whatever I can do to boost a Klingon’s ego.

Take me out to the ball game…but leave the So. Co. at home!

The summer after I turned 18, my parents went temporarily crazy. I was a recent High School graduate, a blonde bombshell with a job and a car, getting ready to embark on the great adventure of college–in another city, no less! And while the parents of most of my friends were busy holding on tight to their little chicks before they flew the coop, my parents let me go…just opened all the doors and windows and let their youngest girl fly free. Not only did they let me fly, first they invited the foxes into the hen-house…literally!

My dad was a pretty athletic guy growing up-he played 3 sports in high school, and was on the UW Baseball team in college. It’s no surprise that he’s a big sports nut to this day, even though he can no longer play, and why he has a soft spot in his heart for young athletes. So when the son of a former colleague of his decided to come to Portland for the summer to play baseball and needed a place to stay, my parents offered up our spare room. And when that son brought his two best friends with him to play ball as well, we converted the den into a dorm room.

I was in heaven that summer, sharing a house (and a bathroom) with not one, not two, but three college baseball players. And they were GORGEOUS. I was instantly popular, not only because I brought the cute boys with me to every party that summer, but because they could legally buy beer. In fact, the last time that I remember being drunk on beer specifically was with those three…

They had graciously offered to accompany me to a keg party being thrown by a former classmate of mine, and as soon as we arrived, the beer started flowing. Before I knew it, I was being challenged to keep up with the boys–for every beer they drank, I had to drink one too, and they couldn’t get a refill until I had finished my last. Even when my cup was filled mostly with foam after tapping the third keg, I still had to chug it down so they could go get their refill. It was at that party that I learned that sometimes, emptying the entire contents of your stomach into the bushes is a great way to sober up…and makes room for more beer!

Sometime in July, my parents (remember, they’re temporarily crazy) decided to go to Vegas for vacation, and they left me and the boys to watch over the house. We were more than happy to oblige, and immediately invited friends over for a little BBQ. I don’t remember much about that night, but at some point we were feeding beer to the dog, and I found myself playing a pretty dirty version of “Truth or Dare”, made all the dirtier by the fact that we were pretty drunk on Southern Comfort and Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi.

Lest you think that I was a dirty whore that summer, or that the guys were less than gentlemen during their time living with us, let me put your mind at ease. Sure, we had our moments of drunken debauchery. But most of my time was spent at the ball park with my parents, cheering on the boys from the stands while eating hot-dogs and Cracker Jacks. It was an all-American summer, filled with our country’s greatest past-time, national anthems, fireworks and–yes–beer.

I’ve tried many times since that summer to become a beer drinker. Despite all my efforts, the tang of hops and the yeasty taste of even the lightest brew only conjures up memories of puking up foam in the bushes at that keg party whilst Baseball Babe #1 held back my hair. And please, for the love of God, keep Southern Comfort (or any other liquor one might mix w/ Coke) far FAR away from me! But if you’re looking to show me a good time, take me to the ballpark and buy me a hot dog. Even if our team is having the worst season on record (hello, Mariners? 100 losses, REALLY?!), I’m a sucker for a good game of ball.