The F*%#ability Factor and Me

Last week I decided to take my dating prowess to the next level after internet dating and feeling super weird about it. Even though I did meet quite a few nice guys, I just didn't feel like it was for me. With half-interested disdain, I finally picked up my copy of Become Your Own Matchmaker by Patti Stanger and decided to just dive right in.

Step one was Dating Detox. In this stage I was supposed to forget all about men and work on me. Purify my body, hit the gym, watch TV, etc....Well, that's all grand and wonderful, but what if I have already been in a self-sustained dating detox for about a year now, what do I do? According to Patti I do it anyway for a minimum of thirty days. Okay, done. Wow, step one was super easy!

Step two was going to be a little more work. In this stage Mirror, Mirror, I needed to take a good hard look at my dateable self. Well, oh shit, this is not going to be a good step for me. Let's see, Patti hates red hair and guess what? I just became a redhead ala Nutrise Garnet. Oh, and my hair is short! I was doomed from the start.

I am also quite a bit larger than a size eight, the size the book insinuates is the size where a woman begins to lose herself. The beginning of fat! Oh really?

I also had to determine my "fuckability factor." This would be my entire self, at least on the outside: hair, make-up, sexy body, teeth, skin, and clothes. I  live in Oregon. Half of the male population looks homeless. I really don't think they are wondering wether I bought my sweater at the Gap or Prada. Hell, they probably think my Old Navy tee came from the thrift-store...and there's a chance that it did!

In this step you might concider having some work done. Work, as in plastic surgery or botox, etc.. Ummm, no. I like my face just fine, thank you.

I also needed to decide just what kind of girl I am. Well, I kinda feel like I'm all of them. I'm kinda intelligent, kinda cute, kinda girl next door, kinda sexpot. What to choose, what to choose???

On to Step three, Make Your Matchmaking Map. This is all about location. This is all about the lie. If you are anti-sports, other than peewee soccer like me, you should hang at the local sports bar anyway. I can see me now, Sudoku puzzle in hand, guzzling red wine while the Superbowl (that's baseball, right?) rages on! That is so NOT my scene.

She does give a very detailed list of places to meet men and a good detailed list of places to not to meet men.

I personally enjoy hanging out at my local coffee shop. Brian makes a mean Chai latte and it's a nice place to while away hours while blogging. However, according to Patti this is most definitely the absolute most horrific place to meet men. I have to quote this part because I got such a kick out of it.

Where NOT to meet men, "Starbucks, or the local coffeehouse: If a guy is hanging out there, especially with his computer, he probably doesn't have an office to work in, or, worse yet, he's unemployed or poor. In any case, he ain't husband material."

I guess husbands are supposed to be rich, have an office, or use the coffee drive-thru? Damn! I thought husbands were supposed to be kind, love you, take care of you when you have the flu, and share a life with you. I guess I was wrong again.

In this step, I was encouraged to make bio-cards: index sized cards with my photo and stats to hand out to eligible men I might meet. Ummmm, hmmmm, awkward much? When I spy the cute guy in the grocery store, I simply whip out my 3x5 card and hand it to him. That wouldn't be weird at all. Oh, and the photo should be professionally taken, and according to Patti, inexpensive. Somewhere in the ballpark of $350 to $500 dollars. I guess I can't use an old glamour shots from high school. Damn! I am foiled again. There is no fucking way on God's green earth I am going to be handing out bio-cards. They remind me of Vegas, and the lovely prostitution fun cards they hand out in the streets....NO THANK YOU!

For a good time, call Sarah. Yeah...right.

Step  four, Qualifying The Buyer. This is where you go husband shopping. I personally love the husband racks at Macy's, especially when they make it to the 70% off rack. This is where she sums up the loser type guys and the winner type guys. Men should be masculine; women should be feminine. Bullshit, bullshit. I know lots of happily married couple made up of dominant wives and not so dominant husbands. And vise versa. Can't you just be attracted to what you're attracted too?

In this step I needed to lay out my non-negotiables, the things my future partner must must have. Here is what I said..

1. Clean
2. Job
3. Like kids
4. Ambition
5. Polite
6. Read
7. Funny
8. Compassionate
9. Know the value of a dollar
10. Brush their teeth

The top five are supposed to be my absolute non-negotiables, I can bend a little for six through ten I guess. Well, brushing of the teeth isn't for everyone!

Step five (we're almost done), Adventures In Dating, is the crazy part. The part I dread. Actual dating sucks. It is odd, forced, mean, scary, and fake. I'll pretend to be awesome and you pretend to be awesome until (if you even get passed date one or two) the bullshit dies down, and we finally begin to be ourselves.

There is a thorough list of dating do's and don'ts. I was happy to find that I don't do many of the don'ts, and I do do (haha) many of the do's. Yay! I've finally scored a point!

The First Days Of Infatuation, step six is rad! I say live it up. In my experience (not so much) a man only pretends that he likes to do the dishes and rub feet for so long. Live it up! But, of course Patti warns to keep the eyes and ears unblurry! Look for warning signs. I swear Patti, I will, I will!

Step seven, Relationship Reality Check. In this step you should have reached official coupledom, you are a we. Can you live with him leaving his underwear on the floor? Does he watch TV too loud? Can you deal? You must analyze your relationship, pick him apart and see if you still like him. I actually agree here. For Christ's sake, no one should ever marry someone they hate. In this stage, I assume you can run before it's too fucking late.

Last step, whew. Step eight, Negotiating The Ring. Oh my God! What if you don't want a ring yourself? If he doesn't propose within the first year, you are supposed to negotiate the damn ring or move on. Really???? A year seems like a short-ass time to me. How about feeling internally ready? Spiritually connected? Something? Sorry, buddy, one year, I love you, but no ring bye bye???? Weird!

Well there you have it, my pessimistic take on the Millionaire Matchmaker. Hey, I love that show. It's fun. But that is just not me. I will never be the girl searching for love in a sports bar or handing out my porn/bio-card. I will be the girl who loves herself. The girl who knows she's a great catch. The girl who has her own dreams and ambitions, but I wont ever pretend to be anything but me.

The Ode To Life Funny Quote Contest!!!!

I have been blessed with a gaggle of amazingly funny women friends. Here is a list of my top 5 funny quotes from these awesome ladies. Please take a moment and vote for your favorite quote!

1.  "I was just over there working...and drinking...because, I'm a professional, like in Madmen."
2. "If you are going to cut school, can you at least get your homework done while you're cutting it?"
3. "I don't have road-rage, I have road-frustration."
4. "This lipstick makes me look fat!"
5. I'm sure she doesn't have an eating disorder....It's just called being poor."

Here's A Story...

Can you picture the Brady's living room in your mind? See Alice bustling around in her blue smock, holding a tray of ice tea (heavy on the sugar) for one of Carol Brady's Woman’s League meetings? Perhaps you have a favorite Brady, or you can quote lines verbatim?

“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”

Maybe you once imagined that you were one of the pretty girls at Marcia's slumber party, or that your baby doll's name was Kitty-Carry-All too?

The Brady clan is an anomaly. Cool enough to have updated spoof movies made, dorky enough to pretend you haven't seen every episode, and comfortable enough to be cozy and safe.

I've never spent a night tossing and turning wondering if Bobby was going to get over his fear of heights, or if Greg was ever going to find that perfect groovy girl. No way, those Bradys survive everything including high-school angst. They always meet their celebrity icons. Joe Namath doesn't just come to everyone's house, does he? Davy Jones, the teen dream of Miss Marcia, or a kiss from Desi Arnez Jr.!

“I'll never wash this cheek again.”

Marcia was certainly the lucky cheerleader of the family. The Marcia-Jan dilemma can't even be questioned. Surely the writers were playing favorites. Marcia got the good clothes, the good hair, and the good storylines. Jan got plots were she looked just like her homely aunt, horrid curly-cues, and glasses.

“Glasses! Oh, no, mom! They'll make me look absolutely positively goofy!”

Little Cindy just got to be cute with her pig tails and lispy quips.

“I'm not a snitcher; I just tell it like it is.”

Then there are the boys. We all remember Johnny Bravo, and Greg's move to the attic. Greg is the awkward guy who thinks he's cool.

“Hey there, groovy chicks. You're all hip in far out ways.”

I have always loved Peter. Peter is the “thinking” Brady. He's the friend you want by your side in a bad situation. He stood up to bullies.

Peter: “Let's reason about it.”

Buddy the Bully: “Shut up and fight!”

Peter: “Don't you want to talk about it?”

Bobby, was the funny guy, the stand up comic of the family. In any given situation Bobby almost always got the jokes.

Mike: "Jan's allergic to Tiger...and I'm afraid, boys, that they cannot live together in the same house."

Peter: "Aww Dad."

Greg: "That's terrible."

Bobby: "Where's Jan gonna live?"

Carol Brady, the ever doting wife and mother. Carol's hairstyles alone are episodes in themselves. Carol kept the plot rolling. She informed us viewers what was going on. Whether she was working alongside Alice in the kitchen or having a talk with her husband in his study, she always gave us the rundown.

“Tiger, Tiger? Whatever happened to that dog?”

Then there's Mike. Father and architect extraordinaire. Mike seemed like he could do everything except design some more bedrooms for all those kids. He was a wise wise man.

Greg: “Why didn't you stop me Dad?”

Mike: “Because I think you just proved you're smart enough to stop yourself.”

Then, of course, ever helpful Alice. I wonder how much they paid her? Hmmmm? Minimum wage? The lovable maid. Was Alice the maid? Housekeeper? Quick with a one-liner, willing to do laundry and cook for a family of eight and she still had time to date. I don't know how she did it.

“If there's anything I can't stand, it's a perfect kid. And six of 'em, yecch!”

There was once a time that I wanted to be a Brady or, at least, a friend of a Brady. Blended families are hard. Live-in help isn't cheap. We don't all go to bed in negligees with coiffed hair. Life is not the Brady Bunch, but it's fun to pretend that everything always works out in the end.

If there is something that I've learned from them over the years of watching, it's that you can't take yourself too seriously. Balls sometimes hurt noses, all kids are insecure, and meatloaf is its own food group.

Long live the Bradys!

Short Bitches Rule!!

“Good things come in small packages,” my mother always told me.

I always feel so “big” inside that I forget just how darn short I am until I see a pic of myself standing next to someone that I assume is about my height.

Everyone has outgrown me my entire life. My younger sister, all my cousins, my friends, everyone. I, however, never really realize it until I see that trusty pic.

Being as short as I am tends to bring out my inner bitch. I mean you have to stand up for yourself on a regular basis when you're only five feet. I look up at those tall people, wag my finger, and stomp my foot.

So you can imagine my surprise when my thirteen year old son, was suddenly towering over me. It seems like it happened over night, but of course there were years of growing involved.

He has started patting me on the head, a treasonous act if ever there was one! The worst part is that.....well, I love it!

I love that he is growing up! My baby is no longer the small kid in his class. He doesn't have “play dates” he “hangs out.” He can hold his own in an intellectual conversation!

Now, back to my shortness.....I love being short. I even love that I have to climb on a stool to grab the cereal. Capri pants are full length for me, could anything be better (unless they go out of style)?

I've been short all my life. I was born short, two months premature and a little fighter from the beginning. I'm told that I never stopped moving as a tiny infant and that when all the other babies were soundly sleeping, I was wiggling away in my incubator.

Four days shy of my second birthday my mom and dad had another baby, my wonderful sister Shannon Renee'. When Shan was born, two weeks after her due date, we were just about the same size. As little girls people often assumed we were twins, which made me very very mad.

Thirty something years later, I secretly love it when they think she is older, although it's probably my maturity level and not my stature that sway them into thinking this. 

No matter what, I'm happy being me. Bitchy, silly, and short...it's just me.

Two Girls, A Car, And A Fiasco

A few years ago my amazing sister and I took a rode trip to drop off her amazing son with our amazing Auntie B. The voyage there was magnificent. We stopped along the interstate, taking pictures of sunflowers basking in the golden sunlight and listening to hilarious mix-tapes from our 90's youth.

“Your own personal Jesus,” we sang at the top of our lungs while the teenager (who'd rather be listening to Duke Ellington) rolled his eyes and glowered at us from the backseat.

The teenager may not have been enjoying himself, but my younger sibling and I were having a blast. Evil me kinda-sorta thinks that there is nothing more fun than annoying a teenager; it's one of the greatest joys in my life.

Of course, there were numerous stops along the way at Starbucks (one must have the right fuel for adventure). Caffeine combined with some Thomas Dolby is just the best. Blinded by science, and peppy as peppy could be we arrived at my auntie's.

Finally there, we enjoyed a brilliant evening fueled by white zin and a crazy variety of the best yummies Costco has to offer. In the glorious garden, we drank and were merry until in the wee hours of the evening when we stumbled off to dreamland.

I awoke to a heatwave the likes that I had never experienced before in the Bay Area. I was already sweating as I loaded the car for the journey home and it was only 10am. I was actually excited by the prospect of getting in the car for the crazy drive back to Oregon. The air-conditioned vehicle beckoned as we hugged our loved ones goodbye. Tears were shed, embraces embraced, for even though teenagers are annoying, you tend to instantly miss them.

My sister cried on and off for the first hour, seriously missing the teenager. “What am I going to do when he goes off to college?” she wailed.

We stopped for gas, and us being from Oregon, it took a few tries to remember exactly how to pump our own gas. The things the mind loses from lack of use are startling, so I am giving myself a tiny bit of slack. When I removed the gas-hose-nozzle-thingy from the car it hadn't turned off all the way and I sprayed a great deal of unleaded all over my feet. Yay!

As I used a nasty little gas station bathroom to clean off my feet, I totally lost it. “I'm going to die...my feet are going to catch fire...there is no point going on..I can't get into the car, if we crash I'm dead...yada yada.”

It was gross, but I now admit to being a tad melodramatic. My patient sister coaxed me into the car with a sweet, “Get in the fucking car right now or I'm leaving you here.” I, of course, got my ass into the fucking car.

It took about two minutes in the sweltering heat to realize that the blissful air-conditioner was not working. We turned it off and turned it back on...nothing but hot air blew from the vent. “It must just be out of freon.” My sister felt certain.

So, we turned around and drove back to the gas station. The mechanic on duty told us that it was definitely out of freon (score one for my sister), but it also had a leak and he wouldn't advise filling it until the leak was fixed. Well crap!

Like the idiots we are, we decided to have it filled anyway. We scraped our money together and prayed for the best. Fifteen minutes later all the freon had escaped and we were broke. Still, we trudged on!

The stretch of I-5 that runs from California on up to Oregon is about the most boring stretch of highway in all of existence. On this day in the sweltering heat it was no different. On the way down we had spoiled ourselves with coffees and goodies to while away the hours, but after throwing all of our moolah away on the damn freon we were too impoverished for coffee, and the carefree mood of the day before had turned into catty bitchiness.

Our mix-tapes, that we had enjoyed just hours before, now sucked. We couldn't agree between “Dave Matthews Band” (which I hate) and "Natalie Merchant” (whom she hates). It was dreadful. The temperature outside the car was around 115F, and inside the car between the stifling heat and our stellar bitchiness was about 400F. (You probably think I'm exaggerating, don't you?)

By the time we hit Redding we thought we were literally dying. I wondered how the pioneers had done this trek? Walking and riding in wagons in this blistering heat sounds hideous to me. We were really happy to hit Redding, Wendy's was in sight and we were fantasizing about giant ice waters and sharing a Biggy Fry.

We ordered at the drive thru, payed at window number one, and then proceeded to window number two for our stuff. We were excited to say the least. At the window, the boy handed us our order. We almost cried, the waters we has salivated over were the size of thimbles and they contained no ice! We were now sad little bitchy girls in a hot car.

I came up with a grand idea! From that point on we would stop at every rest stop along the way and fill our little cups with water. I know, I know...I am a genius! Without my swift mind we might have died out on the barren road.

At the first rest stop we doused ourselves with water from head to toe. It was sheer heaven! Then we saturated every item of clothing that we had in the car with us. The wonderful cold wetness was dry within fifteen minutes, so we just kept repeating and repeating.

When we left my amazing Auntie B's at 10-ish, we had expected to reach home by 6-ish. It was now around 9ish, the sun was just starting to set, and we rejoiced at the almost darkness. The darkness, brought with it some cooler temperatures and a relief to our pale sunburned bodies.

Suddenly, this trip wasn't just a trek of crappy luck. No, this trip was an exploration of human triumph! At least that's what it became for the two of us. We may not be the roughest toughest chicks in existence, but we had conquered the sun, mishap after mishap, gasoline drenching, possible dehydration, and starvation. While, us prissy girls might not have made it back in the pioneer days, we had made it through twelve hours in a hot ass car. We were warriors!