After a Memorial Day BBQ, and lounging around a pool with cosmos, Leanne, Dawn and I recovered with our favorite guilty pleasure, "E's Girls Next Door." Lately, I'm feeling especially maternal. I want a puppy, or something like it, but probably a puppy. So I've been surfing the Internet at the rescue shelters. They show quasi-messed up pups and their descriptions with their desperate little faces.
Meanwhile, on the couch one over, Leanne and Dawn are surfing for men. On match.com that is. They give me the whole it's-better-to-have-loved-and-lost speech and I try not to throw up in my mouth.
They are tough critics, laughing at a guy who says he likes Rolling Stone..."But he spelled Rolling with one l!"; or "What an idiot! Looking for a girlfriend posing with his last one!" (A little too close to be his sister.) There's also the person who says they want someone "intellegent" and the guy who says his turn ons are power and tattoos. Um, Seriously? Because that makes me no, and no.
Dawn tries to find a guy from Israel with one key prerequisite: "I have to have a guy who takes care of his toenails." Everyone's got their dealbreakers.
The most heart-sinking, gut-churning moment comes if you see one of your exes. Especially if it's you who is cropped out of the picture. Ouch. It's an enlightening read to learn that he's really interested in all of the cool things and places you turned him on to. At least you had some influence. But it sucks to see that you were actually too short for him anyway, were the wrong religion, and had the wrong color hair. If only you had met on effing match. You could have saved yourself a few months.
But no, not me. I'm "old fashioned." I meet someone and think I see hearts and stars and unicorns. If I was smart, like my girlfriends, I would have a membership to a matching service to sort by income, religion, height, smoking section or non, how many kids wanted, divorced, separated, age, and on and on. They call this being "informed", I call this sucking the mystery out of dating.
This is why I commend my girlfriends for having the motivation to get out there (get on the net, that is). I just don't have it in me to jump on the carousel, when all I really want is to adopt a puppy. I'd rather cruise the dog rescue shelters on the Internet. The descriptions are the the same. They talk at length about their personalities, what they like to eat (beef jerky), their age, height, if they play well with children. They don't have pictures with their ex-bitches hanging off their shoulders. They don't lie about their past. They straight up tell you if they've been hurt or abandoned. They proudly advertise their flaws. They don't tell you they're perfect when they just want a home and someone kind and loyal to feed them.
I could be biased, but I find their desperate little faces a lot cuter.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Call The Number On Your Screen To Vote For Me
Today I drove to Morgan Hill to meet Annette and a couple of her girlfriends at a wine/art festival. I drove separately because I wanted take a drive in the convertible, and afterwards they were going to look at wedding venues for one of her friends. So far, this summer, I'm bridesmaid free so if I can avoid any bridesmaidly like tasks, I will. I stopped off before hitting the 101 to get my car washed. I drove up to a white line and a big red stop sign, kinda feeling like I was at the DMV, when a man who smelled like a pack of Marlboro Reds jumped in the passenger side and started vacuuming. Another kid who looked about twelve offered me car "perfume" for an extra dollar. I took a look at Smokey. That was a no brainer.
I drove a cruise-controlled 70mph, hanging out in the commuter lane with with good pavement. I have this thing I do whenever I drive alone. I arrange playlists, and CDs. I DJ up my trip in concerto with my mood and mileage. Then (usually with the top down and quite shameless) I "sing." It's not really singing, as I am tone deaf. It's more like either talking loudly, mumbling, or passionate screaming. I can imagine it's not pretty, scary even. But trust me, I cannot help myself. I've tried. I've tried to not sing as I go past car windows, or only sing when my convertible top is up. I can't do it. I just don't care enough to stop.
A couple of days ago, I was headed down the 101, singing, or whatever it is that I do, and I actually started to notice that people were slowing down and smiling (laughing?) and giving me the thumbs up. When I exited, another guy in a convertible did a full turnaround and gave one of the saddest pity grins I've ever seen. Even the cranked out homeless dude who talks to EVERYONE scooted past my car a little afraid of the bizarre pitchiness emitting from the Saab. I'm pretty sure he didn't ask me for a dollar because HE actually felt sorry for ME.
I think I officially have a problem, too. I go to great lengths to travel solo as to have time to rock out. Now, I repeat, I cannot carry a tune, not even a little bit. As a teenager, when I babysat, babies used to start crying when I would try to sing a little lullaby. I have my father to blame for this. He has the worst singing voice I've ever heard. Ever. The most embarrassing part was growing up Catholic, at church every Sunday, my Pops thought he had a magnificent voice, so he would sing LOUDER. Can you imagine? People would grab their hats and glasses and clear out right after chomping down the communion wafer just to escape my Dad's finale after Father Buckalew's "Now Go In Peace To Love and Serve The Lord." (And apparently run away from your fellow parishioners for singing as bad as a level ten fart.)
Adam and I were supposed to drive from San Francisco to Indianapolis this summer. My Stanford classes end in a couple of weeks, and my University of Iowa classes start up the first week of July. Last year I did the trek alone, but didn't know if I'd have the energy to do all that driving by myself. Adam thoughtfully offered, and it's a beautiful drive, but I considered a few things. I thought about how many days I'd be in a car with another person, but more importantly the absolute deal-breaker, how many days Adam would be in a car with my singing. Or my suppressing my singing, or some combination of the two. My terrible singing is like a bad tic. I'm pretty sure Adam would leave me at a truck stop 300 miles into the trip if I sang Kelli Clarkson songs over and over and over and well, you get how totally uncool I am?
I do listen to cool music. I just don't like to sing cool music. If Simon Cowell ever heard me, he would tell me that I should move to Berkeley start a karaoke club with William Hung. I actually hate (not too stong a word) karaoke bars. They say you don't like what reminds you of yourself...well, some of those pitchless sentimental freaks must stike a bad chord with me, because I won't even stay for a free drink at a karaoke bar. At least I don't subject others to my tone-deafness, at least not on purpose.
When I was 23, my sister, my mother and I went on an Alaskan Cruise. One night, we thought, "Karaoke sounds fun!" I had never been. I didn't know that PROFESSIONAL singers that perpetrated like innocent lil first time undiscovered Christmas Caroler types. I mean, these people had MOVES. Before we knew what we had gotten ourselves into, we had signed up to sing, "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper. Ms. Lauper hits some very high notes, which isn't something you think about when you sing in the shower, or with your girlfriends. When it was our turn, I kind of blanked out. I sort of forgot how to read. Remi had to keep it going, and when I finally jumped back in, it was so awful, that I overpowered my sister's nice singing voice, and CLEARED THE ROOM. I'm not exaggerating. My mother was the only one left at song's end, sitting there, smiling big. She clapped frantically like fifty or more people did not just exit as though they had lifevests waiting for them so they could safely jump. As if that wasn't bad enough, the DJ (whom I should add could not escape because he was in a corner behind our web of black audio wires) actually turned off our microphones.
So, even as expensive as gas is these days, or as awesome as my car looks, if I ever offer you a ride of any sort of distance, best you heed Nancy Reagan's sage advice, and Just Say No! It's not that I don't value your friendship, it's just that I've come to terms with the simple fact that I can't help myself from committing S.W.D. (Singing While Driving) and as far as addictions go, anyone who tries to stop me will probably be disappointed.
I drove a cruise-controlled 70mph, hanging out in the commuter lane with with good pavement. I have this thing I do whenever I drive alone. I arrange playlists, and CDs. I DJ up my trip in concerto with my mood and mileage. Then (usually with the top down and quite shameless) I "sing." It's not really singing, as I am tone deaf. It's more like either talking loudly, mumbling, or passionate screaming. I can imagine it's not pretty, scary even. But trust me, I cannot help myself. I've tried. I've tried to not sing as I go past car windows, or only sing when my convertible top is up. I can't do it. I just don't care enough to stop.
A couple of days ago, I was headed down the 101, singing, or whatever it is that I do, and I actually started to notice that people were slowing down and smiling (laughing?) and giving me the thumbs up. When I exited, another guy in a convertible did a full turnaround and gave one of the saddest pity grins I've ever seen. Even the cranked out homeless dude who talks to EVERYONE scooted past my car a little afraid of the bizarre pitchiness emitting from the Saab. I'm pretty sure he didn't ask me for a dollar because HE actually felt sorry for ME.
I think I officially have a problem, too. I go to great lengths to travel solo as to have time to rock out. Now, I repeat, I cannot carry a tune, not even a little bit. As a teenager, when I babysat, babies used to start crying when I would try to sing a little lullaby. I have my father to blame for this. He has the worst singing voice I've ever heard. Ever. The most embarrassing part was growing up Catholic, at church every Sunday, my Pops thought he had a magnificent voice, so he would sing LOUDER. Can you imagine? People would grab their hats and glasses and clear out right after chomping down the communion wafer just to escape my Dad's finale after Father Buckalew's "Now Go In Peace To Love and Serve The Lord." (And apparently run away from your fellow parishioners for singing as bad as a level ten fart.)
Adam and I were supposed to drive from San Francisco to Indianapolis this summer. My Stanford classes end in a couple of weeks, and my University of Iowa classes start up the first week of July. Last year I did the trek alone, but didn't know if I'd have the energy to do all that driving by myself. Adam thoughtfully offered, and it's a beautiful drive, but I considered a few things. I thought about how many days I'd be in a car with another person, but more importantly the absolute deal-breaker, how many days Adam would be in a car with my singing. Or my suppressing my singing, or some combination of the two. My terrible singing is like a bad tic. I'm pretty sure Adam would leave me at a truck stop 300 miles into the trip if I sang Kelli Clarkson songs over and over and over and well, you get how totally uncool I am?
I do listen to cool music. I just don't like to sing cool music. If Simon Cowell ever heard me, he would tell me that I should move to Berkeley start a karaoke club with William Hung. I actually hate (not too stong a word) karaoke bars. They say you don't like what reminds you of yourself...well, some of those pitchless sentimental freaks must stike a bad chord with me, because I won't even stay for a free drink at a karaoke bar. At least I don't subject others to my tone-deafness, at least not on purpose.
When I was 23, my sister, my mother and I went on an Alaskan Cruise. One night, we thought, "Karaoke sounds fun!" I had never been. I didn't know that PROFESSIONAL singers that perpetrated like innocent lil first time undiscovered Christmas Caroler types. I mean, these people had MOVES. Before we knew what we had gotten ourselves into, we had signed up to sing, "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper. Ms. Lauper hits some very high notes, which isn't something you think about when you sing in the shower, or with your girlfriends. When it was our turn, I kind of blanked out. I sort of forgot how to read. Remi had to keep it going, and when I finally jumped back in, it was so awful, that I overpowered my sister's nice singing voice, and CLEARED THE ROOM. I'm not exaggerating. My mother was the only one left at song's end, sitting there, smiling big. She clapped frantically like fifty or more people did not just exit as though they had lifevests waiting for them so they could safely jump. As if that wasn't bad enough, the DJ (whom I should add could not escape because he was in a corner behind our web of black audio wires) actually turned off our microphones.
So, even as expensive as gas is these days, or as awesome as my car looks, if I ever offer you a ride of any sort of distance, best you heed Nancy Reagan's sage advice, and Just Say No! It's not that I don't value your friendship, it's just that I've come to terms with the simple fact that I can't help myself from committing S.W.D. (Singing While Driving) and as far as addictions go, anyone who tries to stop me will probably be disappointed.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
For The Kids!
Tivo Grey's and join Renee, Annette and I at One Brick's Happy Hour around 7pm on Thursday at JayBee on 20th in the Mission. Afterwards we're going to The Guardsmen 4th Annual Bachelor Auction to watch money buy some A-Listers some love. Or at least to see who Gavin Newsom will blame his recovering-alcoholic womanizing ways on next. The Guardsmen will be auctioning off 20 of San Francisco's Most Eligible Bachelors for Bay Area disadvantaged youth (and possibly a few disadvantaged single women).
Details:
Ruby Skye
420 Mason Street
San Francisco, CA
Tickets $25
Complimentary Cosmos 7 - 8:30 pm.
Event goes from 7:00 PM - 2:00 AM.
DJ and dancing after the auction.
Details:
Ruby Skye
420 Mason Street
San Francisco, CA
Tickets $25
Complimentary Cosmos 7 - 8:30 pm.
Event goes from 7:00 PM - 2:00 AM.
DJ and dancing after the auction.
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