The Sporting Season

So it’s obvious that the NBA is done and that finally, OMdearG FINALLY, they have stopped playing ice skating sports in June.  You know how winter sports are over by the amount of contact you get from guys who you haven’t heard from since, I don’t know, the football season began in earnest?

First there was “Hey baby, how you doin’ Can I come over?”  He sent a picture of himself and Brad Pitt. He works in the business so that was clear why they were together. Whether or not he was bringing Brad Pitt was less clear.  If he’s coming too, sure swing on by.  If not, are you kidding?

Then there was the boy toy checking in.  He’s not really a boy. I mean at 42 you’re only a boy compared to a 60 year old so it’s a few years off for me but middle-life toy just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Hey you want it?”  I don’t know.  Is ‘it’ a free trip to Athens? A new Bentley? Sure – yeah dude! I’ll take either of those!

Then there was a guy I actually dated for a while. Been MIA.  Wasn’t hit by a bus but did fall off the radar except for the occasional bleep.  Bleep as in contact not as in bleep-out offensive words.  You know I don’t do that.  Bleep out offensive words, that is.  Anyway, come 7pm on a Saturday night, “hey you want to come over?”  Ok, a few things here.  It’s Saturday night.  Why are you assuming at 7pm I just have nothing to do and am available at the last minute. I mean most Saturday nights I DO have nothing to do and AM available (as it’s date night) but you don’t know that. What, I’m just waiting around for your call? And this particular Saturday night, thank god I DID have something to do. Secondly. Come on over?  You mean that literally because over means the GWB.  Have you forgotten you live in I-don’t-remember-where-but-not-so-close-NJ? It might be the garden state but take off your rose colored glasses. 

Then there was a text from I don’t even know who it was.  “Hey I’m back in California, you know I always had a crush on you, you should come visit.” 

 Honestly?

I’m one of those people who when the phones rings and the person says “did I wake you?” even if it’s 3am I always say No.  I don’t want to make them feel bad.  It’s stupid I know.  Same back in the days of dial phones, remember those? To dial it was 5 wupwupwupwupwup, 2 wupwup, 8 wupwupwupwupwupwupwupwup – and if you made a mistake no backspace to get rid of the last number.  You had to start all over again. 5 wupwupwupwupwup ….I know for some of you under the age of 20 this might seem incredible but I’m not making it up. This thing would ring annoyingly and you would pick it up and there was no number display.  No name.  No anything, just a voice. I mean when you think of it really, what a stupid invention. And then sometimes the voice would just start talking.  No intro, no “Hey it’s so-and-so”;  just start chatting away assuming they were the only possible person you would ever get a phone call from so why bother saying who it was. And because I’m someone who doesn’t in general like to make anyone feel bad I would just start talking back figuring the voice or something in the conversation at some point would make me understand who it was.  And usually it did.  It was like a game. Guess Who This is, like What’s My Line. (also…over the head of 20 year olds, sorry.)

Once, when I was living with my sister, I talked to a guy who asked for her by name and it took about 5 minutes to figure out he had the wrong house.  We ended up meeting for coffee because he said he looked like Ralph Lauren.  He had grey hair, otherwise, note to self about wrong numbers:  Hang up. 

So I get this text for an invite to California.  An old dog CAN learn new tricks because I said, Who is this? That always feels kind of rude but really….who is this?

 Turns out was this weird weird guy who I went out with a few times (the last 2 out of 3 due to boredom) who came into my house, made himself a burrito, helped himself to my pots and pans, poked through stuff in my fridge (which if you’ve ever been in my fridge is pretty slim pickings), insulted my dog (which if you know how I feel about my dog is pretty hard to do) and generally boorish.  Has a crush on me? Interesting. Not enticing, just interesting.  Haven’t heard from you since October but I should fly out to California because you have a crush on me?  I suppose I should be flattered.

 But……not so much.

This was all in one night. I’m so happy Wimbledon is starting. I just hope the pause between the end of the tennis season and the start of the NBA is not also accompanied by a full moon.

A Tall Tale

No man is 5’10”. I don’t know why. They just aren’t. If they say they are, well they’re shorter. 5’11” is good and shorter is shorter but if they say 5’10” Its a crap shoot at best. I have a friend who said as he looked me in the eye – level in the eye – I’m 5’10”. I’m 170 centimeters. Thankfully his son the engineer was with us and whipped out his calculator and said Dad that’s 5’7″. I knew that. I’m 5’7″. We’re eye to eye. Unless you have an oversized forehead, and I mean a good 5″ dome, how can we be eye to eye and you’ve got 3 on me? Go figure he was shocked. Truly shocked. So ok. Maybe that was a conversion problem. One guy I met who was obviously my height when I asked him about the 3″ difference listed just smiled slyly. Aka-caught in a lie aren’t I cute? If I’d lied about my weight by 20 pounds would it be cute? Just askin’. The only other explanation I have for the rest of them is this. Put your hands together like you’re praying. Cuz you’re gonna need it. Now put you hands pinky side down on a table. Pull your hands about 4″ apart. Now in your head hear “yeah baby, give me all that. You’re so big, gimme that 10 inch thang”. Now turn your hand in unison until the knuckles of one hand are on the table. Now take those “10 inches” and extrapolate to your perceived height. Voila! 67 inches turns into 70! It’s dating math.

Conversions confusions & confabulators.

And here’s how it works out in the field:

This friend of mine met a guy online. She’s 5’7″. He said he was taller. He wasn’t. She said at first it didn’t matter, so what if when he stood up he came up to her ears? She could hear him better that way. Who knows, there might even be some advantages. Then his little feet swinging in the air off the couch was kind of a turn off. But worse was the body odor. I said it wasn’t his fault. If his nose hit everyone’s armpits he thought that was how everyone smelled. The new pheromones. Aside: She laughed so hard when I said that that she peed in her thong. Not that she didn’t have time to get to the bathroom, just forgot that little slip of fabric was even there to remove. Small things get overlooked some times and that’s just another reason to stick to people in your height category. As an example.

So I said just go live your life. Do what you like. You’ll meet someone just out there. Frankly I hate when people say that to me. Like I’m some hermit in a cave. Sitting home knitting or tatting. But if misery loves company stupid advice needs passing on. So she likes to ski. Go skiing I said. That’s a guy thing.

So she goes.

Now I’ve lived in a ski resort. You can spend all day on the slopes and you can’t recognize the guy who’s skis you tripped over even if later you’re close enough to spill your après ski drink on him. (Do you see a pattern here? You can stop wondering why I’m single right now.) A guy with a ski cap, goggles, gloves, baggy parka just looks different than a guy with a tight turtle neck and a martini in hand. The beach is easy. Even a guy in super baggy calf length shorts looks pretty much the same later on in tight jeans and a polo shirt carrying a cognac to you as you emerge from the water (true story – but caveat – I was swimming topless and my boobs were only 24 years old. Well actually my boobs were about 8 years old but that’d be splitting hairs.) So after a day skiing she sidled up to the bar and there are all these tall good looking men and she probably spoke to half them in the lift line but now she gets to see them up close and personal. Conversation goes somewhat like this:

Hey, you’re active and into skiing.
I’m active and into skiing!
You’re good looking and fit.
I’m good looking and fit !
You’re around 38-50 age group.
I’m in the 38-50 age group!
You love to suck cock.
I love to… Hey wait a minute ….Huh? …. What?

Here’s some advice. Never ask a woman who’ve you’ve encouraged to spend hundreds of dollars on a weekend to have fun and meet guys how the weekend went when she runs into the annual ski trip for the Gay men’s whatever-what’s-the-difference club.

It goes like this:

Take your expletive weekend idea up you expletive body part and go expletive yourself with it (and that’s the cliff notes version). You get the picture. Ok, so gee – touchy, touchy. But the snow was good, right?

Fast forward a few months. She gets an invite to an engagement party. Friend met a guy online. Why is it it seems everyone else meets a guy online. Engaged? Serious salt in the wound. But wait … Silver lining. It’s little Mr Needs a Shower. Pot for every lid? Every pot armed with Irish Spring? Still it feels like a body blow, why is that? One mans lid is another mans deflector shield and you have also to remember, sometimes the lid is really to little for the pot. Some people are better at tilting it so it rests on the sides without really falling in but neither doing the job as intended. You just have to accept that.

Post script: she actually DID meet a guy and he’s tall and great and they’re doing happily so far ever after and she met him while out kayaking, biking, hiking, being the wilderness gal she is, just a-livin’ her life. That advice hasn’t worked yet for me but apparently, like a good rumor, there’s a grain of truth in every little pearl of wisdom out there.

A Rose by Any Other Name

When I was growing up it felt like I had a very common name, reinforced later in life by running into women at my age with my name.  Turns out while in the top 100, it was in the bottom 10%.  That’s pretty low down, let’s face it, there aren’t all that many names to begin with. It’s like what to make for dinner, when you have to do it every night you wish there were more animals we could eat just for the variety.  Then you go to Asia and realize that no you don’t.

Anyway, back in the 60s unusual names were more uncommon, if that’s not redundant and the unusual ones were less unusual.  There was the occasional “Siobhan” but not very often “Cozy” (although I did know one of these so maybe that’s a bad example).

My best friend growing up had my same name and it was a big laugh to call our name and see us both turn around. I don’t know why – does this show the simple mindedness of children or ease at which one finds humor in youth? To make matters worse our parent thought it would be a hoot one year if we both got the same hideous multi colored shoes. The early 70s, ugh, where were the fashionistas then? I never particularly liked my name and it doesn’t lend itself to nicknames so we were pretty well stuck.  I think at some point someone made a nickname of her last name but it wasn’t cute or endearing and I’m pretty sure she never really liked it much. They tried to make a nickname for me but it was beyond lame and that never stuck either. I think in a stoned haze we all tried to give ourselves nicknames and when the pot wore off 3 years later we realized how incredibly stupid there were; Len, Rick, Squiggy, Fed (one of those is fake – yes – only 1, you see? the power of dope). I now have a day of the week as a nickname.  It’s less stupid than it sounds and no, it’s not Wednesday Addams, thanks anyway.

That’s kind of a non-sequitor, non prequitor? to what follows, just a little background as to why I notice some of things I do – and I bet this isn’t the first time you’ve wondered about that.

As common as names are it wasn’t shocking to find myself with a handful of people I know who have the same name. Needless to say when one encounters as many people as I do there’s going to be some name overlap. When I lived in Senegal Amadou was a big one and of course in France there’s the ubiquitous Jacques.  The most common men’s name over time is Michael here in the good ol’ US of A but for some reason I ran into a lot of Franks, and no, that’s not a euphemism for anything else. In fact, many of them were from outside the US making it a popular name ‘over there’, wherever that may be. 

Now I never had trouble keeping my men straight but a friend at the time kept saying, wait, which one was this? So finally I started to give them numbers. That might seem odd but back in the day when there was John Cooper, John Mason, John Fletcher, no one thought it was odd to differentiate one from another by one’s job.  It just seemed easier than John The Blonde with the Bug Eyes who Lives next to Suzy with the Torn Apron and 7 Kids.  So for simplicity numbers just seemed more practical than Frank Construction guy and while I didn’t know this at the time, there would be occupational overlap which didn’t happen so much in a village of 60 people in rural England. So numbers they got.

Out of the current 5 three were always only friends, 1 moved to California and 1 got lost track of  although I’m pretty sure which tree I could find him under (not beneath) if I needed to.  Because I’m getting older and more senile rejiggering the whole number thing any time there’s a status shift became too complicated so they’ve retained their numbers and friends who know them now by their numbers – ugh – I can’t even imagine having to explain a new numbering system! There was a Frank who would have been number 6 but turned out he wasn’t number-worthy. I know you may be thinking, what, number-worthy, and unlike Elaine’s sponges (for those of you for whom that reference is obscure google: Seinfeld)  numbers are infinite , but one still needs to earn it.  So for the moment it’s been at a standstill at 5.

I won’t go into each one but Frank #3 is worth mention.

I was having one of those, Natalie Wood “I’m so pretty ….” days without the singing and dancing. They don’t happen often and if you’ve ever had one you know it attracts men like flies to …. Let’s just say those are the days men stop you on the street and ask you for your number. Phone number, not name number, that’s only me and MY weirdness.  As I was waiting outside Starbucks for a coffee meet and greet, this guy walks by and gives me the check over and goes inside. Mr. Date-Not-Date shows up and we sit down.  He was dull dull dull but over his shoulder this other guy is looking at me. And I’m looking back.  Somehow, on the way out, I slipped him a card because what the heck. No guts no glory, I wrote on the back because mostly that’s my MO in life. In college I used to send guys drinks at the bar.  Not often but for the shock factor of it was fun and once in a while it would blossom into something, a funny conversation if nothing else and you know how much I cherish a funny conversation. Even back then (wow…the seeds of the madness….) was always worth the $5.  That’s how old I am. A drink cost $5.  

So back to 2010 when drinks are $15, I went home, got changed and realized my nephew and his ravenous friends were arriving later so I ran out to buy food for my otherwise empty cupboards.  Standing there on the street was Mr. Gut/Glory having a smoke and we stopped and talked.  Next thing I knew, we were going out. Turned out he had a BBQ fetish and I had a BBQ, so had I been labeling them and not numbering them he would have been Frank Barbeque. It’s not often I have the actual object of fetish. I mean I have feet, for the guy who had a foot fetish but I’m pretty sure mine wouldn’t be up to snuff.  And as for the rest of them – as they say – let’s just not go there. So after quite a few BBQs, I mean every date started with “Hey, how about I pick up some [fill in the dead animal blank and here’s where fortunately we don’t live in Asia] …” I started to wonder and of course, I got my answer. Unfortunately, I found out, had I used the last name as personality/occupation adjective/noun he would have been Frank Antidepressant Drugs (middle name).  Or Frank Antidepressants Turned Recreational Drugs (baptism names).  ).  Or Frank Antidepressants Turned Recreational Year of the Bong Drugs (includes Chinese name).  Turns out he was in Starbucks killing his time before his shrink who was on the block and he was on the block daily.  No guts, no glory.  He’s since moved to the west coast and while he’s still #3 to me, out there with these other last names, he’ll be just one in a million – kind of like a guy who’s last name is Smith.