The Broad's Side

I’ve always openly mocked online dating and the level of desperation that typically accompanies it. After some thoughtful consideration, I decided that maybe I wasn’t being fair since I’d never tried it and clearly my choices in men aren’t all that great. After all, how much worse could it be than my recent experiences? The last guy that screwed me over voluntarily shaved all of all his body hair and donned a swimsuit and a poorly shaped brunette wig for a Halloween costume. I think his toenails were still painted pink when he used that foot to kick my ass to the curb. Quite frankly, he actually looked better as a woman.

I swallowed my pride and posted what I considered to be a fairly entertaining profile, complete with the stipulation that any men that thought it a wise decision to go shirtless in their profile picture would automatically disqualify themselves from contention. I immediately received an overwhelming number of responses, primarily from the retirement home sector of the online dating community. It’s like I sent out a casting call for one of the ‘Cocoon’ movies, asking for head shots and bios. One old fellow claimed he was 65, but I’m pretty sure he was the same guy that dated Rose on a few episodes of the Golden Girls. He tirelessly pursued me with his ‘winks’, which are evidently what you’re supposed to send to someone you fancy. I ignored him at first, but then I felt bad because he could potentially die at any moment. I politely replied that he was a tad old for me and that I was actively working the cougar angle (seeing as it has been wildly successful thus far). He refused to take no for an answer and pointed out that I’d absolutely adore his sense of humor. As the idea of his wrinkled old junk nagged at my brain, I sent back, “For the love of god… I don’t know CPR.” It might sound harsh, but there’s a glorious level of anonymity that partners with online ‘dating’. I’ll likely feel bad when I undoubtedly run into him trudging through Giant Eagle with his artificial hip/walker combination though. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

The monikers people select to brand themselves with in the online world is highly entertaining. Some of the irresistible gentlemen who appeared to really dig me were. ‘LonelyGuy16’ (and yes, it’s probably because LonelyGuy1-15 were already spoken for), ‘FreakyGuy’, ‘WannaBeUrMan’ and ‘Lurchdog’. If you’re contemplating the world of online dating, please take this piece of advice: Do not under any circumstances announce how ridiculously lonely and undesirable you are, suggest that you want to be anyone’s man that you’ve not yet met, or call yourself anything with the word ‘dog’ included. Simple enough? I’ll admit, I went through and doled out about a dozen ‘winks’ to guys that all looked exactly the same… tall, dark hair, light eyes and neatly trimmed facial hair. If you were to put together a Law and Order type photo array, you’d never be able to distinguish one from another. That’s my ‘type’ and so far… Jackpot! What I was unaware of at the time was that you inevitably cock-block yourself once you ‘wink’. Your conversation goes on lock-down until you subscribe. I batted 10 for 12, but I have no clue what any of them said in response since I’m a cheap ass.

Out of the 93 and counting inquiries I received, I only responded to one. He definitely fit the parameters of my ‘type’. His screen name was ‘Billy’, which I can deal with even though I’m not all that thrilled with people over the age of 8 calling themselves anything ending in ‘Y’. He sent me his phone number and we exchanged texts all afternoon, and surprisingly I found myself thinking he was pretty cool. I agreed to meet him for drinks and it just got better. He was well spoken, handsome, and very funny. The only drawback that was immediately evident was that his profile information wasn’t really gelling with what he was telling me. He had ‘just moved back from the West Coast ‘and was ‘looking to meet new people’. It turns out that he’d been back for four years… a presidential term, if you will. I wasn’t going to split hairs over it though. The other thing I found disturbing was that he didn’t seem to be very certain about where he resided. He stated that he lived with his mom part time and his sister the remaining days of the week. Like joint custody? Hmm… that’s odd. Ok, well he was hot so I continued to listen as the discrepancies mounted. That date ended on a fairly good note, even though I was keenly aware that he wasn’t being completely forthcoming. I chatted with him via text all day the following day and agreed to see him again that night. The night couldn’t have been more perfect. He seemed like a real catch… a great guy all-around. We made plans to see each other again Sunday, but he cancelled at the last minute saying that he was babysitting for his sister. Ok… that’s a little strange, but no big deal. Shit happens, I guess. The texts completely stopped and I didn’t hear from him all day. If you’ve EVER babysat, you know that your phone is your savior. You have all kinds of time to chat. Any 16 year old girl can tell you that. At this point, he could have told me he had another date lined up… wouldn’t have mattered. We just met, so I would’ve been cool with that. Babysitting? That’s the best you can muster? It was the most asinine excuse I’d heard in ages. He also told me that he was forbidden from having a Facebook page because he worked for the government, and yet… there he was! Jesus, the profile picture was the same one he used on the crappy dating site. Who the hell lies about Facebook? To what benefit? Needless to say, this guy turned out to be the Lord of all the douchebags I’ve ever dealt with. I can say with confidence that my foray into online dating has come to a screeching halt with Billy at the helm, probably lying over his religious beliefs, favorite TV shows and whether or not he likes pizza just for kicks. Maybe I would have been better off with old raisin nuts.

If baffles me that people actually go to bars with any expectation of meeting someone. This approach is so flawed, it’s laughable. I’m by no means suggesting that you can’t meet anyone worthwhile over a few cold ones at the watering hole… shit, I love bars. My point is: you can’t TRY to do that. You’re setting yourself up for monumental disappointment if this is your strategy. A dear friend of mine was feeling horrible after experiencing a painful divorce, so we went out to see a band play and have about fifty drinks. I saw that look on her face as she panned the crowd, only to see fist-pumping, Affliction tee shirt wearing assholes everywhere. She surely was looking for a sturdy ceiling fan and a long rope. I knew I needed to take immediate action. I instructed her to pick out the biggest idiot in the room. Who makes your stomach churn most? She pointed half-heartedly at a very young white boy wearing a ridiculous fedora styled hat. “That hat’s so douchy, it might as well be an applicator tip.” she muttered. Ok, Done. At this point, I called the bartender over and asked her what stud boy was drinking. I grabbed a beverage napkin and a sharpie, because why wouldn’t I have one of those on hand? I scrawled neatly on the napkin, “If my ass was a basketball court, would you bounce your balls on it?” then I put a lip print on it and handed it to the bartender. We watched as she proceeded over to douche nozzle’s table and set his bud light draft on the napkin, stating that it was from an admirer. Within seconds, he was proudly passing the napkin around the table. As if any relatively normal chick would use THAT as an icebreaker. He was on a mission to find this dream girl and practically tripped trying to get to the bar to find out her identity. I’ve seriously never seen anyone that happy. We watched while he approached virtually every woman in that bar, trying to sniff out whether she was the one looking for his doggy style loving. Sadly, he never did locate her. We let the guys next to us in on the game, because they seemed relatively normal. I think they enjoyed it even more than we did, and bought us drinks because of the added entertainment value. And that, my friends is how you successfully meet people at bars.

I have to admit that it wasn’t the first time I used that particular game to add a little fun to my evening at the expense of others. The first time was when Bobby Sura still played for the Cavs. He was one of my favorite people to make fun of. One night in particular, I felt like screwing with Bobby for my own personal enjoyment. I immediately noticed that there were two rather large, giggly broad’s on the other side of the bar vying for his attention. They both had bleached, feathered hair, skin-tight clothes and gobs of unflattering make-up. Jackpot! I sent a drink across the bar to Bobby, complete with smutty napkin. The bartender indicated that it was from Thing 1 and Thing 2, and walked away. Watching his level of discomfort was by far one of the most gratifying things EVER. He mustered a weak thank-you wave across the bar at the monsters, and they completely freaked because they had no idea why this NBA player was acknowledging them. They were jumping up and down hugging each other in disbelief. Bobby was horrified. At one point, he actually asked me to protect him by pretending to be his girlfriend. Hell no, you’re on your own, pal! I finally admitted that I wrote the note about two months later. I was afraid the experience was keeping him up at night and affecting his game.

The point is this… If you walk into a bar expecting to stumble upon some great love connection, you’re out of your mind. Most people can’t make that type of judgment based on physical traits and under the influence of adult beverages. If you’re able to take a step back and realize how hilarious the whole scene is, you’ll be much better off. At that point, you might shake up a few people with a decent sense of humor at the very least. Who says playing games is bad? I say… bring it!

Shockingly, I’m not a fan of any holiday that is designed to remind people whether they’re in love or not. I couldn’t be less attached at the moment, but if I had a man I’d prefer that he not be a mindless drone. Is society seriously full of a bunch of idiots who run out and buy candy and flowers on command? I’m clearly not one of those women who will get all bent out of shape if you forget Sweetest Day or Valentine’s Day. In fact, I hope you do. Why on Earth would I want a man to show a crap load of fake affection because the candy industry could really use a spike this time of year? Aside from that, why the hell would I want to go to a restaurant full of people who find it worthwhile? Let me get this straight… We’ll need a reservation, the food will likely take three times as long, and the place will be full of canoodling couples on dates? That my friends, is exactly how I envision hell. Leave it to Cleveland to decide that one of these mush fests isn’t quite enough in a calendar year.

I’m originally from New York, so upon relocating to Ohio I had no idea what Sweetest Day was. Not many outside of Ohio, Michigan and Illinois do. I was managing a little retail store when one of my regular customers wished me a happy Sweetest Day. I must have looked at this poor woman like she just walked off a space ship as I said, “Umm… you obviously must be confused. I’m not Swedish and I didn’t realize they had their own special day. How does one commemorate such an occasion? Swedish meatball buffet and an appearance by the bikini team?” After a vigorous line of questioning, I determined that it was essentially just a Valentine’s Day wannabe and I’ve refused to participate since. I did attend a Sweetest Day wedding in 1997 which also happened to be game 1 of the World Series. In hindsight, I feel bad for MF’ing the bride for her delusion that this was a romantic day for a wedding. The Indians lost the World Series in the 11th inning of game 7 and the marriage didn’t last much longer. I feel slightly responsible for both.

Sweetest day is always celebrated the third Saturday in October and was launched in Cleveland in 1921 by some random guy. He was a candy store employee that decided on his own (wink wink) to spread goodwill through confectionary, teeth-rotting sweets. I for one believe that there’s probably some underground candy mafia behind it. However, I am determined now more than ever to start a holiday of my own. I’ve had just about enough of the facetiousness that accompanies the majority of these holidays. I want there to be a day where we can all contribute to society in a positive way without all of the phoniness . If the objective here is to stimulate the economy… I can play along with that. What if there was a day each year where we all went out and purchased a really large shirt for someone who clearly doesn’t know they need one? We’ve all seen the 4X woman in the size Medium shirt, with her bazooms flopping everywhere. Something like this would benefit a great number of people, and possibly prevent a few car accidents as well. We could call it ‘Fattest Day’ or something equally as catchy. Not the best name for a holiday, but C’mon neither is Sweetest Day. Just a thought.

As for me, my ‘holiday’ was spent on my couch drinking a $3.99 bottle of wine straight from the bottle and watching a Law N Order SVU marathon. I said ‘I love you’ to that bottle at least twice, and the only present I received was PMS. It was a perfect evening. Much better than having to wait an hour for my appetizers.

This week there was yet another secret Facebook wave of status updates designed to make all you men out there wonder what the hell all those wacky broads were talking about. The objective was to start your message with ‘I like it…’ and conclude it with something original like ‘on the coffee table’ or ‘right by the front door, baby!’ Here’s the wild and crazy part: Wait for it… It had nothing to do with how or where these chicks liked to get banged. I’ve lost your interest already haven’t I, boys? The punchline here is that it’s all about where women fling their cheap Target purses when they arrive home. Tee Hee! We got you good, didn’t we? And you thought your fat Aunt Marge was trumpeting proudly that she ‘likes it in the hall closet.’ I don’t really care for Facebook or anyone on it telling me what to do, but I couldn’t resist the urge to compose my own ‘I like it…’ update. Here it goes: ‘I like it when my guy takes it from me in public, preferably amidst large groups of people. I find that it makes him feel awkward, other guys feel a bit uncomfortable, and it almost always ensures that no other women will talk to him.’ I was de-friended eight times for being insensitive because evidently it has something to do with Breast Cancer awareness.

Last year, the gimmick was to post just a color as your status… white, black, leopard print, you get the gist. In honor of breast cancer awareness month, this was actually the color of your bra. At least this movement made a little more sense to me. There’s a clear cut relationship between boobs and bras, and I can’t argue against that point with any conviction. I don’t know about your friends list, but I don’t want to envision the majority of mine partially naked. I don’t need to know that your gigantic nursing bra is beige with baby puke stains. ‘But, Jen this is about Breast Cancer awareness!” As if I’m not completely aware of breast cancer, or any other cancer for that matter. I wouldn’t wish that crap on my worst enemy (Jennifer Love Hewitt), don’t even get me started on her and her ‘Wonderland’ of a body according to that douche, John Mayer. I’m fairly confident that I’m 100% against Cancer in any form. What kind of asshole is FOR Cancer? People are acting like I walked around wearing an ‘I Love Cancer’ tee shirt, for Christ’s sake. I just choose to take a more logical approach and possibly donate to the cause or maybe participate in a walk. If you want to know what color my bra is, it’ll cost you a minimum of two drinks and perhaps some witty banter. Fair enough?

What does a handbag full of lip gloss and tampons have to do with Cancer, you ask? Hell if I know. I was even more concerned by the decision to involve sexual innuendo. How is being a trifling whore assisting in the crusade against malignant breast lumps? Oh, that’s right… It’s not. I also feel like women may be under the impression that men are a hell of a lot more interested in what we say and do than they actually are. I highly doubt that there was a network of men out there trying to crack this code. It’s more likely they glanced at your status update and shrugged, “Hmm… Tricia likes to bang on the ottoman. Good to know. I’ll file that little nugget for future reference.” These dudes surely weren’t hoping that they’d soon find a cure for Breast Cancer based on it. I’m sure there will be a trickledown effect and we’ll continue to see these updates as the less Facebook savvy women catch wind of it. I can’t wait until next year when we find away to talk about make-up with a seemingly blowjob centric theme in order to make everyone aware that Cancer still sucks.

There are certain times in my life where I’m all but certain that I should have a penis of my very own. It seems that those things have magical powers that could potentially excuse me from a bunch of things I hate doing. A perfect example reared its ugly head today when I was forced to attend a wedding shower on the first NFL Sunday of the season. I think I have a better understanding of the concept of Karma now. I must have done something unspeakable to have this brought upon me, but to be fair I was probably drunk at the time. I can’t think of much that I hate more. Essentially, a bunch of women sit in a room and pretend to get excited as the prospective bride opens items such as blenders and four slice toasters. What the hell am I supposed to say, “Ooh, you’re gonna toast the shit out of that bread… times four!” There’s undoubtedly that crazy aunt that has commentary for every gift. “Wow! A crock pot? Set an extra place at dinner the next time you make beef stew. Mmmm.” I wanted in on this game, but I was holding out for the bathroom hand towels so I could contribute to the witty banter by exclaiming, “Woo-Hoo! I can’t wait to come over and take a shit in your bathroom so I can use those bad boys. Man, those look soft!” Take that, Aunt Sheila. I win. I also wanted to ask if there was a TV in there somewhere so we could get to watching the Browns game, but no such luck. I’m quite sure that when you arrive in hell, Lucifer makes you sit in a chair while other people open presents that suck in front of you.

I tried really hard to distract myself from the brutality of not knowing the score of the Browns game or how my fantasy football teams were faring, but there was little cooperation from the estrogen fueled minions. I could have sworn that I heard a “Here we go Brownies” chant at one point, but it was just Aunt Molly trying to pass along the desert sampler tray. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Murphy’s Law made me its bitch. One of the co-hostesses perkily jumped up and announced that it was time to play Wedding Shower Bingo. Oh, for the love of god… I don’t want to play any god-damned games at this point unless it’s Wedding Shower Russian Roulette. The objective of this crappy game is to guess which stupid presents the bride will be opening in front of you and put them on a bingo board. You get to cross off spatulas and rice cookers as they present themselves. On a side note, what the hell is a rice cooker and who could possibly need one? How freaken difficult is it to put some Uncle Ben’s and a little water in a sauce pan? You rice cooker people are idiots. Get over yourself and make your Minute rice like the rest of us. The co-hostess felt the need to act out gifts while she announced them for the benefit of the elderly and people in the back that couldn’t see. Her hand mixer routine was pretty solid, but the plunger was amateur at best. It was like watching a really horrible Tina Fey SNL skit. I couldn’t wait for the bride to open a set of kitchen knives so I could get in on the action with my ever-popular wrist slitting charade. I’ll have to admit that I’ve played worse games though. At my sister’s baby shower, the hostess thought it would be a great idea to eat pudding out of diapers like it was baby poop. She seemed shocked when I said, “No thanks, I’m trying to quit.” I think I was called a ‘spoil sport’ or something equally as juvenile because I was opposed to mock shit eating for entertainment purposes. On what planet do people do that?

People with penises don’t have to deal with this nonsense. While we’re pretending to fawn over Pyrex, they’re down at the tittie bar checking out silicone. They don’t ever have to go to any of these other asinine parties I keep getting invited to either… Pampered Chef, jewelry, wine and sex toys. Let me just clarify… I hate all of that crap. I prefer cheap Giant Eagle wine at $3.00 per bottle, so unless your wine list for your party includes the 2010 vintage bottle ‘o crap I usually indulge in, there’re really no point. I also prefer cheap, disposable jewelry in the event that I need to flee the scene of the crime after a drunken night, inadvertently leaving one earring on some dope’s dresser. I haven’t had that privilege lately, but I like to keep my options open. I’m a firm believer that sex toys should be purchased in the way God intended; at a seedy, dimly lit porno shop with non-descript black plastic sex toy bags. Besides, would you really want me sitting next to your mom or co-worker at your giggly sex toy party? Ill-advised at best.