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It has recently come to my attention that the average national age for women to get married is 25. In Utah, that average age drops to 22.5. I just so happen to be a fine, foxy Utahan in my early twenties, and frankly, I think I'm in trouble.
I have never actually had a boyfriend, so I am not an expert on the subject of relationships (unlike my friends Oprah, and newcomer Tyra Banks). According to the state average, if I don't jump on this marriage bandwagon soon, all the good guys will be gone. I will be forced to live a life of solitude with only my fourteen golden retrievers to keep me company. I will have the need to purchase a cane to chase all the hooligans off my perennial-infested front yard shortly after converting to the Jewish religion so my vocabulary can include such words as 'putz,' 'mazel tov,' and 'shlep' (which, to my sister and my dismay, means 'to drag around').
It is obvious from my ring less hand and sudden urge to buy a colonial-style house (complete with veranda and rocking chair!) that I must be doing something wrong in my ritual courting. Hopefully, by sharing my few tipplets, you may find love before the dreaded state average gets you and beats you down with the newest issue of 'O Magazine.' Best of luck.
1. Never under any circumstances go out on a blind date.
You never know when you are going to get that crazy guy who for no reason at all shows up with one pant leg rolled up, introduces himself by his alias 'sensual cricket,' and drives 15 under the speed limit so he may admire the exact precision of the white lines on the road.
2. Do not continue the date if his car is 'lacking.'
If he picks you up in a POS nailed one to many times by birds with problematic bowels, has more than 2 bumper stickers, or has not been vacuumed in the past 3 years, RUN. Might I suggest he drive nothing less than a Honda, Acura, Mazda, Nissan, or Toyota. Bonus points are awarded for guys that show up in a Beemer, Mercedes, Porche, or Rolls Royce. Nice cars mean money. Money means comfort. I ain't sayin' I'm a gold digger, Kanye, but a girl's gotta have standards.
3. Make sure his visible body is void of any deformity or additional extremity.
Families and friends will find just about anything wrong with a potential boyfriend. On one such occasion, an interest (who, I must admit, had not discovered the beauty of a minor tweeze) was affectionately referred to as 'eyebrows' or 'caterpillar' by my siblings. After an all-too graphic dream of mammoth brows trapping me in a cocoon, whatever relationship that could have blossomed was quickly clipped.
So there you have it. Three dating tips from a defective dater. Now parden me as I leave to prepare for the Sabbath before Yente arrives. Perhaps she has finally found a suitable husband for me. I only hope he is not like the shlemiel she found last week. Oy vey...
So here it is, the weekend. Some people kick back by drinking coffee, others go running, my husband watches “Cops.” I read the obituaries. I’m a self-defined critic of obituaries, although I like to think of them as the “Cliff Notes” of a lifetime.
Lately I’ve been fascinated on how you can describe decades of time in three inches of vaguely-written text. I’ve found that obituaries have a top secret coded language (unfortunately not the kind you can use with your Ovaltine decoder ring). Regretfully, this code only allows the use of 25 adjectives including: courageous, noble, valiant, and gone fishing. I’m always looking for more description about the deceased, rather than a list of relatives or directions to the funeral home. After perusing hundreds of obituaries, I’ve decided to request an obituary facelift. Look at it as “Flip this Condolence” or “Project Whitelight.” Its pretty simple – more creative visuals, less form and structure. I have attached an example of my own obituary (but let’s hope for the real deal my family coughs up the cash to attach a picture and a few more paragraphs).
Hot Mama passed away Friday from eating too much processed cheese and not getting enough sleep.
She lived life on the edge, never using her Rollerblade brake to stop, just preferring to jump on the nearest grassy surface or use the old “squeeze the thighs together” technique. She loved the free mini energy bars you receive after running a 5K. A master of gimmicky dance moves, her favorites were the running man, pencil sharpener, and booty shake. She believed that for every one part bagel there should be two parts cream cheese. A funny gal and first-class belcher; her favorite days were spent gossiping and laughing with her family.
Family, friends, and pets of Hot Mama know who they are and know that she loves them. A barbeque/dance party has been planned for Saturday night. In lieu of flowers, please bring a copy of your favorite song, as Hot Mama has requested to be buried with her i-Pod so she can jam out while in line for heaven.
As I was fumbling towards the fridge to grab a glass of Sunny D this morning, I got to thinking about how I’m about 67% sure my death certificate will list “sleep deprivation” as the reason for my passing. I also got to thinking about how efficient it is as a form of heinous torture. You forget your name, how to dress yourself, how to pay for items at Rite Aid, and how to make anything that resembles a complete sentence.
Now I know that sleep deprivation isn’t glamorous or exciting. You don’t hear the blond Russian from “Rocky IV” muttering “I must wake you” or see Jack Bauer begging for a power nap. Wikipedia says it isn’t an actual form of torture, but I beg to differ. If “Mythbusters” ever does an episode on torture myths, I like to see if they can prove that sleep deprivation is a true torture device. I'd love to see Adam and Jamie without a few nights of sleep and see if they can still do those fancy-dancy math equations.
Alright, so you probably guessed it…I’m bitter. I’m a self-proclaimed connoisseur of sleeping. I could easily write Joy of Napping or Snoozing for Idiots. I kissed those days goodbye a long time ago. After about day 273 of no sleep, I think you just learn to accept your new identity of a sleepy, stuttering zombie. One day I’ll be able to list “sleeping” as my fondest hobbies. In the meantime…I’m still waiting to watch a trailer for a new Jean-Claude Van Damme movie where I hear the movie trailer voice guy say: “He’s survived being shot, stabbed, and forced to watch reruns of ‘Small Wonder,’ but can he survive the torture of…sleep deprivation...?”
This Sunday, while enjoying a most relaxing afternoon with Hitch and Wendy's Frosty Floats, my sister discovered the joys of texting (welcome to the cyber world, Hot Mama). For your entertainment I have posted the texting conversation that took place between her and my poor, defenseless guy friend:
Hot Mama: "Hey big hunk, you are so sexy and hot...smootchies bootchies xoxo"
Victim: " Alright who was that?"
HM: "What? Why would you say that?"..."Sexy baby..."
V: "Whats up?"
HM: "I want your body...good lookin' Mmmmmmm"
V: "Well what are you going to do to get it?"
HM: "The tickle monster is going to get you."
By this time, I had feared for my dear sister's sanity (and my freind's!), and decided to call this poor lad. After many minutes of uncontrollable giggling and outbursts of Right Said Fred's 'I'm Too Sexy,' we have admitted him to the Valley Mental Clinic, and the doctors tell us that he is expected to make a full recovery...after he stops singing the Campbell's commercial jingle...Possibilities! Sadly, the doctors fear he will never stop screaming at the sight of wiggling fingers. My sister, having been exposed to the heavy addictive substance deep within text messaging, has requested that she be buried with a Sidekick so she may attempt to contact ET in the afterlife.
Our prayers are with both of you...and anyone who has had to dance with someone rocking the 'Q-tip'...please throw it away.
Recently in my daily parenting reading obsession, I came across an article about talking to infants. It told readers to narrate your daily life to increase the baby’s vocabulary. I automatically wondered what my life would sound like narrated, by Clive Owen (my narrator of choice): (Mr Owen’s voice) “She slowly opened the cabinet and reached for the three-pound jar of peanut butter. She sighed as she spread the PB on her piece of whole wheat white bread, realizing it was the 82nd day in a row she had made this exact lunch decision.”
I already talk to the babe a ton already, but after reading this article, I decided to step up my game. I soon came to the conclusion that narrating your life can sure make life interesting. Here’s a few phrases the little one heard on a recent trip to the grocery store:
“Yippee! There’s a sale on Kraft singles! Aren’t these like Twinkies and have an expiration date of ‘eternity?’ Hopefully, because we’re buying a few packs. I wonder if these work like garlic…because if so…I might start smelling like processed cheese.”
“Mom needs cloves to make applesauce cookies. What?! Seven dollars for ground cloves? They must be filled with some secret addictive drug for that price. That’s it, from here on out, our applesauce cookies are getting seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and crack.”
What I found to be interesting about letting my internal monologue come out (other than the weird looks and death threats), was how much I had to censor myself. It’s a good thing too, because the last thing I need done is to be slapped upside the head with cold cuts for letting some of my inner thoughts slip out. Although, I guess as I was being beat down by thinly sliced salami I could narrate: “Oscar Meyer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.”
Yesterday, while in a heated conversation about radiant heating with my sister, I made a comment regarding the possibility of getting an A on my Anthro. final. Immediately after making said comment I frantically searched for the nearest wooden object to bang my knuckles on. With much dismay, the best I could manage was the wall, which, I can only hope, had some form of wood beneath the painted surface.
This got me thinking: why do I have to 'knock on wood' in the first place? I'm sure I could hop on Google to find where this jinxing superstition came from, but sadly, the ambition needed for a task of this magnitude was lost after the Jenga incident of '04... so sad...
Why wood? What makes wood the weapon of choice in this superstitious situation? In all seriousness, what if to save ourselves from the possibility of a jinx (that, I'm sure, would alter the entire course of our lives) we had to slap tile, or poke linoleum?
Where am I going with this? Knock on wood protest, baby! From here on out, I, Miss P, am no longer falling prey to this odd behavior. I will take the risk of a jinx! Superstitions are for suckers. Take that Stevie Wonder.
3. Make sure his visible body is void of any deformity or additional extremity.
