The Broad's Side

Is it possible that a cross-section of the male population is suddenly turning into chicks? Lately, I feel as if I’m caught in a poorly directed Tween dramedy series. I’ve dealt with two different (yet almost completely the same) scenarios in the past several months that have really got me wondering about the power of the penis. Maybe at some point, they all dry up and fall off. I can’t be certain.

In the first situation, our hero (let’s call him Becky) calls me to tell me that he’s been thinking a lot about the way our crappy ‘relationship’ ended. I’m paraphrasing… he was far more emotional and sappy than I could hope to be. He went on and on about the fact that he would never be completely happy until he found someone to share his life with. He had never dedicated the time it takes to foster a healthy relationship. Would I please consider taking another chance on him? I briefly considered it, but then I remembered that I didn’t really like him all that much. He was a shitty boyfriend, at best. I decided that I was much more content with his friendship.

Imagine my surprise when a week later…. Facebook tells me that he’s ‘in a relationship’. WHAAAT? You have GOT to be kidding me. Did he order one of those Russian mail-order brides? How is this even possible? Well, it turns out that a green card was not part of the equation. The chick in question is someone I recognize from the local bars. Now, to her credit, she has always been very nice to me. She’s that girl that hugs EVERYONE like they’re her long lost best friend… mostly because she’s always drunk. She wears extremely tiny and inappropriate clothes which showcase her saggy, heavily tattooed ta-tas.  Oh… and she’s about 50 with two adult children. Hmm… how interesting.

What followed was a string of strange texts from Becky about his new tart. He wanted advice and my opinion about everything. I was praying he wasn’t going to ask me to go shoe shopping. Why are we chatting like girlfriends? I don’t really care to know about all of your ‘dates’, which conveniently are all showcased on Four Square if I lose track of what episode we’re on. Oh, is this ‘Becky and Tramp go to the bar’? Or ‘Becky and Tramp go to the other bar’? She’s a bartender, you see, so she ‘knows people’.

Fast forward a good half dozen weeks, and the status on Facebook changes to engaged! I wonder to myself if he sustained some sort of traumatic brain injury at some point that I’m unaware of. This girl is hardly marriage material! She’s a once and done kind of broad. At least now Becky’s four year old daughter will have a solid role model… and someone to share clothes with. I’m not holding my breath for an invitation to the wedding which will no doubt feature paper plates, cocktail weenies and a keg of Busch light. It’s all for the best. I know Becky’s taste and I would have ended up in a hot pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress. He’s a bitch like that.

The next scenario sucks slightly more because this Gossip Girl (we’ll call him Cindy) is actually quite a catch. He’s fresh out of a long term relationship that could aptly be described as rocky. I went head to head with another woman for his attention and lost round 1, largely because I don’t know how to do one of those duck faces when a photo op presents itself. All of her photos on social media (of course I looked!) were a bunch of girls who clearly bang each other’s boyfriends. There were noticeably no photos of anyone’s back… probably because they were all riddled with stab wounds. I kept the communication open with Cindy primarily because I really enjoyed the witty banter, but also because I knew he had fallen victim to the cheese of the month club. There was no possible way this chick could hold anyone’s attention for longer than 30 days. I was kind of looking forward to the ‘I told ya so’ moment.

Of course… that’s exactly what happened. Instead of getting my high heeled foot back in the door, I somehow managed to become a BFF of sorts. He’s telling me about his dating life like we’re two hens sitting at Starbuck’s sipping Lattes. During a two month span, I heard “I think I met someone” from him three times. I meet people every damn day! Are you talking about the UPS driver? Did he just deliver a wedge of sharp cheddar as this month’s selection?

I have to admit that I’m awesome with the advice… but C’mon! For the love of God! All the while I’m thinking, “shut up and take off your pants!” Seriously… I want to see if there’s a vagina under there. In all sincerity, I’m not mocking a man’s ability to be emotional. Aren’t you people supposed to be the level headed ones? Get to know people for the right reasons and find someone who stimulates you mentally as well as physically.

I speak from experience, my friends. The last serious boyfriend I had (we’ll call him Tina) did the exact same thing when we started dating. He was so into me right out of the gate, which should have been a huge red flag. He was by far the hottest guy I’ve ever dated and we spent eight straight days together. Within a week of knowing me, he said “I love you”. Rational Me says… “Whaaaat? Are you out of your mind?”, but Romantic Me thinks it’s a great idea to be in a relationship. A year later, I know that it was the idea of a relationship I loved, and that Tina was an extremely hot piece of ass that didn’t have everything I wanted in a potential life partner. People do this for different reasons. Primarily, maybe they’re just lonely. It’s a classic case of misery loves company. Most people would much rather be unhappy with someone than die alone. What if your ex has moved on? Well, you can’t let them be happier than you! You’d better show them who is boss. Just make sure that person catches wind of it, or else your efforts are in vain. If that person had shit for dinner, you’d better go back for seconds. We can’t have that kind of one-upmanship, now can we?

I almost feel a little bad for telling Cindy today to go update his Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’, because that’s what I-Carly would do. When it’s all said and done I respect people’s horrible decisions and know that you can’t learn from mistakes unless you’re permitted to make them. I’m sure I’ll still be around when Gouda reaches her expiration date, because that’s what girlfriends do for each other.

Next month I will be turning 40 and I thought I was still looking pretty good until a chain of unrelated events led me to re-evaluate and take some drastic measures. Let me give you a brief outline…
Event #1- My darling six year old daughter is going through a phase where she thinks she’s a talk show host. She loves to steal my phone when I’m not paying attention and record little video segments. After one of her make-shift commentaries, I found the following video on my phone…

Whaaaatt? “fat and selfish?” I can deal with selfish, because that’s probably an accurate assessment… but FAT? Oh my god, is it possible that I’m not thin and adorable like I think? I’m totally fine with her thinking I’ve never had a boyfriend (only Vic, as she points out). I don’t parade a bunch of guys in front of her. You never know what kind of freaks are lurking around out there. I’ve heard horror stories of deviants targeting single moms just to get to their children. I can’t run the risk of some sex pervert thinking my kid is hotter than me. Thus, all potential boyfriend candidates are put through a rigorous screening process. Understandably, only one has made the cut.

Event #2- I was knocked down a few pegs by a younger dude I thought was into me. I’m usually fairly adept at determining whether or not someone digs me. My instincts were off this time… probably all that fat messing with my equilibrium. I’m sure the hot piece of ass he selected over me isn’t as fat and selfish as I am. Or she’s 25.

Event #3- There’s a cart guy at work with Down’s syndrome who is potentially my #1 fan. EVER. After two years of seeing me five days a week, he still thinks my name is ‘Jan’, but I’m cool with that. There are plenty of guys out there who don’t know my name… or that I have a head. Guys love boobs, Down’s syndrome or not. That’s a fact… Google it. One day in the break room, my special friend informed me that I’m “really going downhill”. Oh… for the love of God! It’s that apparent to EVERYONE, I guess.

Clearly, I needed to do something about this. The only type of guy incapable of telling a lie had just called me out on the carpet. It was time to take action. I started with my diet. I was pretty much eating something from the cake family at every meal. I love cake, what can I say? They used to have cake day when I worked for the Cavaliers, and there was actually a celebratory cake dance. I went cold turkey my friends. No more cake, cookies, candy… nothing at all with more than 5 grams of sugar. It started to work immediately, and I’m much less of a spazz. I also cut out white bread, pasta and white rice. That shit was making me doughy. I also read a Cleveland Clinic study that attributed diet Pepsi consumption to an increased risk of stroke. Well, that would have been helpful to know a year and a half ago BEFORE the artery exploded at the base of my brain. Needless to say, I’m not hankering for another one of those.

I joined the Y and started going at least four days a week. My objective is to be able to bounce quarters off my ass by my birthday. I’m already down 12 pounds in 6 weeks and I feel more confident than I have in a really long time. I’m not saying I’ll be able to get my bikini contest body back, but I don’t want to be that chick whose only option is sweatpants or anything else made from a stretchy cotton blend. Regardless whether anyone sees my bangin’ new body or not… I’m the one who needs to be happy with it anyways. Good thing I’m so selfish.

We’ve all heard horror stories about the poor sap that puts his faith in online dating and ends up bilked out of thousands of dollars by a Swedish bikini model who professes her undying love for him. My guess is that it was probably a middle-aged fat guy somewhere in Wisconsin preying on the lonely and desperate. Scams like these are perpetrated every day. Before you know it, you’re funneling money to support some dude’s hooker and gambling habit for the empty promise of a blowjob. In reality, you have a better chance of seeing a unicorn or curing cancer. Some choose to believe that people are inherently good, but I’m calling bullshit. I’m going to share a personal experience, because I care about you… or something. After reading this, you should be able to spot a fake profile and potentially make an amazing one of your own if you happen to be a deplorable human being with no conscience and an overwhelming desire to crush dreams.

I’ve been fairly open with the fact that I’ve made some attempts at the online dating game. Don’t be naïve… it’s definitely a game. You essentially pick out people like you’re ordering from a catalog. For the record, it’s a pretty crappy catalog with what appears to be an unusually large clearance section (like pants with one leg three inches longer than the other). My ex used to hate it when I told people I ordered him on the internet. Hey, it was a fact.

I’d recently had a bad experience on the dating site in question… ok; it was a good experience that didn’t end up going in my favor. I was in one of my ‘F everyone’ modes, and the only reason I was still on the site was because I missed the cut-off date by two days and got sucked into another month of hell. I was already pissed off at anyone with a penis, so I really didn’t care who was e-mailing me. After a week or so, I received an e-mail that interested me… because I was all but certain it was someone who would either financially rape potential suitors or bury them in his backyard. I was immediately skeptical because the guy looked too perfect. I’ve never seen such great hair and eyebrows. I think my exact response to whatever shitty introduction he had was, “awesome fake profile picture. Either you’re the laziest person alive or you found that picture in Italian Vogue.” Who has one picture? Probably a guy who’s unable to produce more than one because it isn’t him. A normal person would go with their gut, but I just couldn’t be content with letting that go. I probably saved a few of you from falling victim to this guy with my two week cyber investigation. You’re welcome.

The following is a list of where this idiot went wrong…

1) He chose a ridiculous first name. He opted to embrace the Italian Vogue theme and go with ‘Marco’. If your plan is to stay as anonymous as possible, I would recommend Steve or Joe.

2) His imaginary profession was ‘surgeon’. When selecting your fake job, you definitely don’t want to overstep. Let’s face it; most chicks watch ‘Grey’s Anatomy’. I’m pretty confident that I could perform an appendectomy after all these seasons. Minimally, you’ll need to be prepared for at least one follow up question. For example, “What’s your specialty?” If you don’t know what type of surgeon you are, that could be a red flag. I’m an idiot, and I can think of a dozen different flavors of surgeons off the top of my head. Dissecting frogs in 8th grade doesn’t necessarily qualify one as a surgeon. My advice would be to say that you deal with fidelity bonds or something equally as boring. There aren’t any primetime shows in the line-up about it. I’ll guarantee that nobody has a follow up question for that! Broads will be begging you to talk about something else… anything else.

3) He was unwilling to take a picture with his smart phone of him posing with a copy of the current day’s Plain Dealer. I wasn’t being particular… Sports section, Entertainment, Comics… I afforded him some flexibility.

4) He was equally as unwilling to scan-send me a copy of his driver’s license.

Dr. Marco Italian Vogue finally caved when I told him that I’d never met a surgeon who was un-Google-able. I went on to explain that the medical board had record of three physicians in Cleveland with the first name Marco and none of them were remotely do-able. Sorry about that, real Dr. Marco #1. There’s a distinct possibility I will require an angioplasty in the future and you come highly recommended.

It turns out that Dr. Marco Italian Vogue is actually a married father of three from Brunswick. If I had to guess, he installs pools. After I suggested he seek psychological help, he naturally asked me for a second chance because he’d really grown to like me. Maybe once he takes my advice and trots out ‘Fidelity Bond Steve’, he’ll have a shot.

With today being Valentine’s Day, I decided that I was going to attempt to adjust my horrible attitude towards this made-up, bullshit ‘holiday’. So, I headed out this morning with a cheesy smile and practically had rays of sunshine shooting out of my butt. “You can do this, Jen” I told myself. Both the guy at Speedway and the lady at Dunkin’ Donuts were unreceptive when I told them I loved them and gave them candy… maybe because I gave them those crappy conversation hearts that taste like sidewalk chalk? Live and Learn… that’s my motto. Well, for today anyway. I wasn’t going to let these two jerks hold me down.

Next stop was the license bureau, where I had to re-new my plates. Typically, this would really piss me off. I try not to make eye contact in that place because I’m convinced that this is where rapists hang out between rapings. Everyone in there looks seconds away from a shooting spree. New attitude Jen was delightful though, I must say. I made small talk with strangers about crap I don’t care about and laughed at their awful attempts at humor. I was a regular Miss Congeniality. An elderly black man was so enamored with my fake ass personality that he told me how pretty he thought I was. YES! I’m awesome, I thought to myself. This was just the ego boost I needed on a day where nobody bought me flowers or candy. I was feeling amazing… until the old fart promptly failed his vision test. WHAT? How the hell can you not tell a W from an I? On the top row! Well, thanks a lot for the compliment, Ray Charles. They were still talking about revoking his license as I sulked out of there.

Why is it that I need affirmation? It’s getting to the point where I’ll take it wherever I can get it. Just last week at work, I had an incident that most people would find alarming. A sweaty, panting man approached me and nervously advised me that he had been watching me ‘for a long time’. A long time? Umm, like 20 minutes or a couple of years? I didn’t have an opportunity to ask because he handed me a Burger King napkin with his name and phone number scrawled on it in what I like to call ‘serial killer font’ and literally ran out the door. My initial response?… “Yep. I still got it!” To be fair, I don’t think he’s actually a serial killer. Yet. This guy is probably still drowning squirrels in mop buckets in his garage. He’s miles away from dismembering people in his bathtub. I’m still stalkable, and I think that’s great news. The day I’m no longer worth a good dosing of Rohypnol will be a sad day. No, I do not WANT to be roofied. Relax. I’m not advocating date rape. Or rape in general. I’m wearing my ‘rape is bad’ t-shirt right now, as far as you know.

So, Valentine’s Day still sucks. That’s what I learned today in a nutshell. At least tomorrow brings brighter things, like 50% all the Valentine’s Day candy at Target. Perhaps, I’ll buy myself some chalky conversation hearts and compliment myself via their messages all day. You’re right, little message on a piece of terrible tasting candy! I do rock!

Dear Verizon Gods,

I am writing in regards to my Samsung Gem cell phone I received when I renewed my Verizon contract for the next two years. I needed a new phone to replace my Blackberry Tour, which I absolutely loved. That device fell victim to an unfortunate set of circumstances, as it ended up in an old man’s Diet Pepsi at a Browns game. I will take accountability for the demise of the Blackberry, but in my defense, have you seen the Browns play this year? They’re horrible!

I’ve compiled a list of issues with the new phone along with reasons Verizon should replace it with a less crappy one. I visited one of your locations and was offered a replacement Gem. This is not a satisfactory solution, since it would amount to a feeble attempt at polishing a turd.

• At least a dozen times a day, I get an error message stating that the SD card has been unexpectedly removed. I, for one, prefer to expect my SD card removal. I’m in no mood for surprises when it comes to the sensitive nature of the SD card.

• If I’m searching online for a soufflé recipe, getting my celebrity gossip, or perusing all of the pornography the internet has to offer and a phone call comes in… CRASH. This device does not have the ability to do two things at once. My Allstate rep has ruined my day more than once with an ill- timed phone call.

• In the event that I should meander down a dimly lit rape alley, I’m not confident in the phone’s ability to pull off a simple 911 call. I’d have no alternative but to throw the phone at the attacker as a method of self-defense. Ironically, the phone’s only positive selling point is its lightweight, sleek design. It likely wouldn’t even make a rapist flinch. It would be like throwing a breath mint at him.

• When it shuts itself down, start up time is roughly nine minutes. In that amount of time, I could get an oil change, shave my legs or ruin a relationship. It’s unacceptable.

• Sometimes, it powers itself into ‘airplane mode’. I haven’t set foot on a plane in years, and likely won’t until Southwest reinstates free drink tickets. It appears that airplane mode is essentially a phone coma. You’re tricked into believing that it’s functioning, but in reality it’s completely useless.

• It’s a crapshoot on whether or not the person on the other end receives a text message or not. There have been a few occasions where this has been a useful tool and saved me some apologies in the morning, but overall I would consider it to be a liability and potential self-esteem crusher. Why won’t he text me baaaaackk?

• Mid-text, the phone loves to disable the function that allows you to see what you’re saying. Spellcheck still works its magic though. It’s always awesome when you’re trying to type a flirty ‘haha’ in response to a funny comment, but it comes out ‘Haitians’. Not exactly the same message, I’m sure you’ll agree.

• The camera doesn’t have a flash. Well… there goes all of my duckface, drunken photo ops with the girls on a Saturday night.

• The battery gets so hot, that it is actually uncomfortable to hold in my delicate hand at times. It might ruin my street cred if I start carrying around an oven mitt to take calls.

• Social media sites are barely usable. How will everyone get by without knowing about my check-in at McDonald’s or one of my witty “Is it Friday yet?” tweets I drop?

• Last, but not least… the name. Gem? Seriously? I’ve never once used that word without it dripping in delicious sarcasm. Example: “Bill beat his wife with a tennis racket? What a gem that guy is!”

Please see the attached link for similar reviews on this particular device. It’s worthless and should be recalled as it’s clearly defective. I hope that you can find a suitable solution to my problem. If not, I’m contemplating getting some string and a couple of soup cans. I’d likely fare better.

http://reviews.us.samsung.com/7463/SCH-I100ZKAXAR/samsung-samsung-gem-touchscreen-cell-phone-reviews/reviews.htm