The Broad's Side

Just the other day, I posted my first message to a dead guy via Facebook. Weird, right? I’m not even sure he had a Facebook account. If he did, he wasn’t on my friends list, but for whatever reason I posted a message just for him. To be fair, I’m sure Zuckerberg has limited control of the privacy settings in the afterlife, so it’s totally feasible that the message was received without incident. The original notification that my first male obsession in my life had passed away was conveyed through a friend’s status update as well. It’s become a normal part of life, considering that you can get a message out to so many people in a short period of time. Someone will post RIP ‘Guy Who Died’ typically followed by a general message of sympathy for the friends and family, as well as any information pertaining to the services. My issue with this revolves more around the ‘likes’ that accompany said announcements. I just don’t feel comfortable giving this particular type of update a ‘like’. Someone will post an obituary from a local news source, and there’s always a notation that ’15 people like this’. That comes across as “Woo-Hoo, he’s dead” to me. I think people must panic and clicking ‘like’ is a hell of a lot easier than coming up with something comforting or thoughtful to say. We’ll forgive you, death likers.

It’s also become fairly commonplace for someone to start up some sort of memoriam page on Facebook. You can have an entire page dedicated to the person in question. It will invariably be titled “RIP Guy Who Died.” You would have to join this group by once again insinuating that you like the fact that someone died. Click ‘like’ and you’re in, just be prepared for the backlash. Chances are, you also ‘like’ other things as well. Your newsfeed might look a little something like this… “Bob likes Pizza, Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2 and RIP Guy Who Died.” If that doesn’t make you look like an insensitive asshole, I don’t know what does. I mean, first of all who the hell LIKES ‘Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2’? It’s inconceivable. Seriously, George Lopez was awful in that movie and it’s clearly just a rip off of the Taco Bell dog, not to mention the clear cut racism. It’s apparently, the longest chalupa commercial ever made. Jesus, Bob. What the hell were you thinking? Plus, do you really need to announce that you like pizza. Doesn’t everyone? Now all you’ve managed to do is piss people off and you’ve lost all credibility. Nobody will ever again care what you like and poor Guy Who Died is left by the wayside. How many ‘likes’ would you have to get on one of these RIP pages before it was considered a success? We’ve already established that you can’t challenge Pizza in this battle. Maybe if you were able to rack up more ‘likes’ than ‘Meatball Lean Pockets’ it would be fairly impressive. Don’t get me wrong, those are delicious.

From the time I was 17-20 years old, the target of my RIP status update was the guy I absolutely worshipped. He was a few years older than me, so my parents were none too thrilled with the time I spent with him. I have a feeling they knew exactly what went on in that IROC he drove. On one occasion, he was caught with his pants down (literally) in my parent’s house. My mom came home way too early from the store, but this guy didn’t skip a beat. He unloaded my mom’s groceries from her trunk as he smiled and chatted her up… all while his fly was still down. He had a way of charming people that was almost disturbing. I, on the other hand, did not see the light of day for a month. I remember overhearing my dad say, “Damn, that guy’s good.” To my mother while they were discussing the fact that we likely desecrated their home. Unfortunately, my dad probably gets to read these status updates too, so he knows this guy’s coming and might have some questions for Prince Charming on the other side. Maybe I’ll fire off a tweet asking him to be nice, although I feel like Twitter might be more popular in hell. Besides, I can’t make my point in 140 characters or less. Facebook it is! I’ll see if I can get those two set up with a tee time. Don’t worry, I’ll set it up as an event so they get the proper notifications.

Dedicated to C.T. You will be missed!

I have no clue why anyone would opt to name their online dating site Zoosk. It reminds me of the sound old guys make when they sneeze. “Ah..Ah..ZOOSK”. Unfortunately, it’s a pretty solid indicator of what you might find in the way of selection on the site. As a public service, I’ve decided to share some of my experiences with you.

I was corresponding with this incredibly attractive guy for several weeks, when I finally agreed to a date. He wasn’t all that funny, but I just assumed that his hotness factor would distract me from his sucky sense of humor. He suggested bowling, which honestly sounds like a bullet to the brain to me. I’m not a bowler. Write that down, please. The minute I walked into this stupid bowling alley, I knew I’d been had. The man that greeted me looked like Mr. Rogers in the very late stages of his stint in the ‘neighborhood’. This dude didn’t have ONE hair on his head that wasn’t grey! Are you kidding me? In his profile picture, he had beautiful dark hair and matching eyebrows. That picture had to have been snapped before digital cameras were even an option. It was probably developed at Walgreens from one of those disposable ones. I saw some crappy movie once where the main character witnessed something so frightening, that his whole head turned grey virtually overnight. I doubt this was the scenario, but in case it was a true story, I reminded myself to inspect my own head for greys ASAP. The first words out of his mouth were: “So.. . do I look like my profile picture?” WHAAAAT? I replied without skipping a beat, “Well, you and I both know that you don’t.” Instead of running out as if the building was on fire, I elected to bowl with Gramps. His personality was dreadful and he smelled like he had just eaten a fistful of moth balls for dinner. I’d speculate that we were about six frames in when I began faking a horrific bowling injury. I grabbed my shoulder and winced as I groaned about my ‘damned rotator cuff injury flaring up’. I started babbling about Tommy Johns surgery, even though I know full well that’s an elbow injury. I apologized as I explained that time was of the essence. I surely needed to apply some sort of heat source immediately. I really had to fight the urge to ask him to sing the ‘Won’t You Be My Neighbor’ song before I hightailed it out of there.

I’ll have to admit, that I had some fun times on Zoosk… at the expense of others. Evidently, a lot of guys will cut and paste messages into the body of e-mails that they send to random women. I received one that appeared to be thoughtfully worded, until the last sentence. It said, “Happy Sunday”. My simple reply … “Umm, It’s Thursday” seemed to suffice in this instance. One fine 60 year old was looking for his perfect lady. It was critically important to him that she was ‘mentally challenged’. I politely pointed out that he probably should consider revising that to ‘mentally challengING’. Two VERY different things! By far my favorite was the idiot with the screen name ‘whoreallyknows’. The intention, I assume was ‘Who Really Knows’, which is dumb on its own. My feedback for this particular gent was as follows…

Who’s Ally? What does she know?… and why are you calling me a whore?

All in all, if I had to make a recommendation… I’d say hell no to Zoosk. I tried to quit repeatedly, and it was nearly impossible. It’s like the mafia of dating sites. You’re in for life. I finally e-mailed the administrator and threatened to post a bunch of random penis pictures on my profile. That appeared to do the trick. I can’t say that it was a complete loss. I did meet someone that appears to be pretty fantastic although it’s too soon to tell. Who knows? Maybe I found a needle in that shitstack.

With each miserable attempt at a relationship, I find myself more intrigued by the prospect of retiring from dating forever and becoming a crazy cat lady. I’m deathly allergic to cats, but it would still be much less painful than dating. If I had to choose between a little wheezing and a heart that’s snapped in two, there’s really no question there. Besides, terrifying bloodshot eyes and a hacking cough might add to my overall persona. I’d have to invest in some Winnie the Pooh sweatshirts and mom jeans and stop washing my hair, but that’s doable. I already have a broom and I’m certain I could effectively yell at the neighborhood children while running down the street waving it frantically in the air. They’d probably be doing something super annoying like breathing too loudly. Damn kids. Do you think the APL has some sort of ‘Box o Cats’ promotion running? I saw on the news that some jerk threw away a perfectly good box of felines recently. Dumpster cats have got to be good for my cat lady street cred. The least amount of effort that I have to put into this, the better. The concept of taking in random strays wasn’t very effective with men, so I’m assuming it wouldn’t work out all that much better with cats. Besides, I don’t want to end up with some mangy, one-eyed cats. I’m crazy… but I still have standards. Ok, so that’s up for debate.

I’m not really sure how many cats you need to own before being elevated to the status I’m attempting to achieve. Do I start out with a six pack of cats or go right for the full case? I don’t even know what they eat. I mean, besides lasagna. Duh… everyone knows that! The closest I’ve come to cat ownership is back to back episodes of Tom and Jerry cartoons. Evidently, cats are idiots and mice are ruthless little assholes. Wikipedia won’t teach you that handy little fact.

I have a friend that might be able to tutor me in my quest to be the ultimate crazy cat lady. He rescues cats on a fairly regular basis, and I’ve always openly mocked him in the past. He essentially collects cats. Oh… and also guns. This unusual duo of hobbies earned him the affectionate nickname ‘Cats and Ammo’. I’m not entirely certain that he doesn’t shoot them just so he can ‘rescue’ them immediately thereafter. Relax. Don’t go calling PETA. You cat lovers really can’t take a joke. When it comes down to it, it’s probably a horrible idea. I don’t really want one of those ‘Hang In There’ posters with the kitten clinging to a tree branch hanging in my bedroom. I hear that’s mandatory. If my luck with cats is anything like my track record with selecting men, I’d end up with some Stephen King ‘Pet Sematary’ incarnation. I think I’m at least three terrible boyfriends away from being cool with that.

One of my least favorite things about Facebook is all of the stupid forwarded messages. You know the ones I’m referring to… “If your husband holds your hand while you skip through tulips…” blah blah blah. You’re then supposed to post this message in agreement and to show that evidently you’re a fabulous spouse, parent, child, dentist, etc. I find it mind numbing at best. It’s even worse when they try to guilt you into posting some type of cancer or equally as tragic disease message. Like I want to feel responsible for some guy losing his left nut because I didn’t post the ‘I hate Cancer’ forward. I became embroiled in a bit of a Facebook tiff over one of these messages posted by a ‘friend’ regarding the imaginary rape of a child. The message went as follows…

‘This guy raped a five year old little girl. He ruined her life, she is alive & in the hospital can’t move and can never have children, or a normal life. This guy goes by different names he is in hiding & has AIDS. The girl came out positive. Please help us catch this animal. Every time this message is fwd the Dell Hospital will donate $.15 to Maria’s medication & treatment. Please don’t hesitate to fwd this. It could’ve been you’re daughter or sister. God bless. Thank you!. Forward this to as many people as you can.’

Please ignore the obvious issues with commas. I’m just the messenger here and wanted to post it exactly as it was featured on this dumbass’ Facebook wall. There was even a picture of the AIDS afflicted, pedophilic rapist attached. I’m awe-struck that anyone would read this and genuinely feel like there was an ounce of truth to it, let alone re-post it. I simply replied that it was a hoax and that no hospital on the planet uses text messages and Facebook posts to generate donations for a child’s healthcare expenses. Oh, plus it originated in June last year. Someone’s a little slow on the draw. The friend in question, Bobby Friend (totally not joking, by the way), proceeded to fly off his steroid hinged handle because I belittled him by insinuating that this wasn’t a true story. In my best estimation, some pissed off girlfriend decided to get even with her no-good, cheating man. What better way to get that party started than to post a disparaging rumor via social media? Bobby went nuts… for four days.

Just to clarify, I met this charming guy Bobby Friend exactly once for about twenty minutes. It was painful at best. He was wearing a long-sleeved red be-dazzled Ed Hardy shirt and a blank look on his face. I seriously thought that maybe ‘PUNK’D’ was making a comeback because my friend Melanie actually thought I’d have an interest in this tool. We ordered up a round of shots and my other friend Michelle noted, “Bobby, you might not like this. It doesn’t have Creatine in it.” However, it’s hardly as much fun mocking people who just don’t get it. Clearly, Michelle and I both were rewarded with friend requests the next day. I was not surprised at all to find out that Bobby gets punched and kicked in the face for a living. He’s some sort of MMA fighter, which I reckon might impress some broads. PUH-LEASE! As if this guy could remember a birthday? I’m personally a fan of the ‘smarts’. I imagined Bobby Friend fake punching his way into the ring wearing one of those boxing robes… only the hood on his would be Elmo’s head. How freaking awesome would that be? “Bobby Friend, the friendly, face punching, kidney kicking phenom.” Pure Marketing genius.

I’m pretty masterful at the art of debate, largely because I’m fairly intelligent. Arguing with this douchebag was like trying to explain to Corky from “Life Goes On” why he couldn’t drive the family car on the sidewalk. Bobby had such magical insults as “ DO YOU HAVE SNAKES in your head?????” Umm.. I’m not certain what the hell that means. Wouldn’t I feel that? Yes. Yes, Bobby Friend. I am, in fact Medusa. I am a snake headed freak. Maybe steroids cause those types of hallucinations. In a fit of Hulkish roid rage, Bobby de-friended me on Facebook and I’ve been crying for three hours. How am I to get along in life without Bobby Friend, my hour long friend? This is worse than the day I found out that IHOP down the street was closing its doors forever. WHYYYYY? I plan to spend the rest of my day trying to piece my life together after this devastating loss. If the rest of you don’t mind, could you start combing the streets for this AIDS patient? Apparently, he’s hiding so be sure to look under the couch and in closets.