While I Was Out, 10-31-11

So, it's been a week already. 

Here's how I know I'm an awful person:  Yesterday my friend Stacy texted me the following:

I got to use your line this morning in the elevator...only because this lady was so rude.  She said "to make a long story short,' and so of course I said "too late."  Please note she wasn't even talking to me.  It was awesome!  I'm awesome!  You're awesome!

I'm a good friend.  I encourage my friends...and apparently, I encourage them to be rude.

But seriously, that's pretty awesome.

So I started the week by admitting that, like millions of other people, I tend to use technology almost solely to take amusing photos of my pets.

Then, with a nod to Halloween, I explained that I'm a cyborg with very clear death demands.

But when I wasn't being a bad influence on my friends, being a Marketing Genius, or freaking you out with my mortality, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved this week:

Any Halloween clip that features anything dry-humping Al Roker's leg had me at "hump."  But the truly hysterical part of this is that the woman in this segment was demonstrating how to decoupage a pumpkin.  And that's not even double entendre!

Now I know what my Starbucks crew is really thinking when I hit the drive-thru every morning.

Did you hear the hubbub this year about people choosing to dress up as other ethnicities for Halloween?  Apparently the furor went farther than we thought.

I can't help it.  I love squirrels.

This may shock you, but I dig science.  This concept is pretty freaking cool...and by the way, the next time you eat calamari, I think you should say "Wow, this tastes so intelligent!"

That being said, I can't help myself.   Seriously, I have poor impulse control.

Tired of the whole "Occupy" thing?  You're not alone.  Not even in your refridgerator.

God help me, the ski slopes are open in Colorado.

And finally, Happy Halloween, Siri!  And people who ask me stupid questions!

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Cyborg, You Borg, We All Borg

It's almost Halloween, so I have a confession to make:  I'm a cyborg.

That's right.  Part woman, part machine.  Not so much in the sexy and futuristic "Bladerunner" way, but in the "at-least-I-won't-die-in-the-Macy's-parking-lot-clutching-a-coupon" way.  But for fuck's sake, that sale was worth it!

Here's a haiku I wrote about it:

Dumb little defib

wired to my heart always

on you I depend.

One of the uber-cool things about having a defibrillator and being a cyborg-- other than the obvious cosmetic benefit of having a giant scar on my chest-- is that the batteries to the dfib only last 7 or 8 years, necessitating "minor" surgery every so often in which people actually look at and touch your heart. When you're one of the world's pre-eminent naval gazers like me, this means you're forced to deal with your own mortality a little more often than those living the non-cyborg lifestyle.

I had my defib replaced in the summer of 2010, prompting many people to remark on how "brave" I was.  Um, no.  You know how when a celebrity has an illness, everyone writes about his or her "brave battle" against it?  Yeah, not so much.  I was brave in the kind of way where you throw a series of mini fits of rage/panic attacks of the "no wire hangers" sort that would make Joan Crawford proud.  Seriously, in terms of drama it was some of my best work.  William Shatner himself would be shamed by the overreaction.

3 days prior to this surgery, I sent the following email to my sister, and three of my best friends.

Okay, not to be morbid or anything, but I just want to remind you of my death demands, should something go horribly wrong on Monday. I am relying on you!

1. I have two life insurance policies.  I have a loan against one of them, but I don’t know what that means in terms of payout.  
2. I think I may also have a life insurance policy through my company.  Don't know how to tell.
3. I have a 401(k), but I don't really know what that is.
4. I own some stock. I’m not sure if there is a beneficiary for stock or 401(k)s  because I’m stupid about that stuff.
5. I do not have a Will.  But damned if I haven't always had a Way.
6. When I survive this surgery and feel sheepish about sending this email, remind me to get my financial shit together.
7. "Vegetable" is not a good look for me-- you know how I even hate candid photos.  If I go all brain-dead and drooley, pull the plug.  I am not kidding.  Plug the plug or I will haunt you.
8. I wish to be cremated. I’d like my ashes taken back to Texas… not sure where I want to be sprinkled, but I’ll stew on that over the weekend. Won’t that be fun??
9. Mmmmm...stew.
10. I would prefer a cocktail party to a funeral.   It should be catered.  There should be an open bar and definitely a champagne toast (I'm picturing many). Please no deviled eggs on the buffet and no carnations in the arrangements. You must make sure this is a festive thing—I wish to be celebrated, not mourned.
11. Celebrate me, dammit!
12. Please find the absolute best photo of me possible and put it in a frame in lieu of a viewing. I should look thin in this photo, so Photoshop it if necessary. There will be no “viewing” of my dead body. If you let there be a viewing, see #7 above because I will completely haunt your asses.
13. There are several songs that must be played at my cocktail party:
    1. Good Riddance, by Green Day
    2. I Won’t Back Down, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
    3. I’m Gonna Live Forever, by Billy Joe Shaver
    4. Say, by John Mayer
    5. Amazing Grace
    6. You Make My Dreams Come True, by Hall & Oates
14. Everyone, and I mean everyone, must 80s dance to #f above.
15. I understand that Mom and Dad will want a religious service and that’s okay too. Please be sure they use 1 Corinthians 15:55 and Psalm 27:1 (my absolute favorite).
16. But I want a cocktail party.
17. If there is an obituary, please make me sound more important and wonderful and happy in death than I was in life. See #10 above.
18. There are some things in my bedside table that I would prefer Mom and Dad not see. Second drawer. Take care of that.
19. Don't judge me for #18.
20. I love you all beyond measure… Time, distance and death will never, ever change that.

Spoiler alert:  I survived the surgery.  It was like a Christmas in July miracle.  The kind of miracle that takes place like 10 times a day in every cardiac unit of every hospital in the world.  Not unlike childbirth...or the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team.

That's the problem with self-indulgent emails written while in a free-form panic:  They stick around to remind you what a poozer you are. 

Sigh, even as a cyborg, I'm still uncool.

NerdTime

You know that stage in a relationship where you just can't get enough of each other? 

When you're apart you just want to be with him. 

When you go to sleep you want him there.

When you wake up you want him there.

When his sister comes to visit you drink your body weight in wine, profess your undying love for him to her, and then force him to sing "Endless Love" with you.

(No?  That last one was just me?  Whatevs, people.)

Well, fortunately, there's an app for that.  It's called FaceTime. And anyone with a Mac, iPad or iPhone can use it to video chat.  So sometimes on the three nights per week we don't spend together, The Boy and I FaceTime.

It's taken me awhile to get the hang of it.  And by that I mean it's taken me awhile to figure out how/where to set up my iPad so that I look as slim and attractive as possible.  For those of you facing this dilemma, here's a tip:  Lie on your stomach with your head turned towards the camera. Seriously, my eyebrows look exquisite from this angle.

Ideally, we have a lot to say in these video chats.  Sometimes we catch up on our day and mock corporate America.  Sometimes we discuss super-important current events like the Project Runway finale (although that's probably more just me talking and him nodding and trying to look interested while enjoying my eyebrows).  And sometimes, like all couples, we basically have nothing to say and yet keep talking anyway.

Last Wednesday was one of those times...and so with this amazing technology at our fingertips, here is what our conversation ended up looking like:

Why yes, that is in fact my cat Cali and his dog Gus.

Clearly Cali hasn't figured out how to play up her eyebrows.  And Gus is literally phoning it in.

Amateurs.

While I Was Out 10-25-11

So, it's been a week + 1 day already.  Sue me, I'm tardy with my wrap-up.

When you're in a relationship, I think it's possible to have separate interests-- as long as you communicate well.  For instance, here's an actual Instant Message conversation between me and The Boy from last night:

Derek:  Hmmm...maybe I need to watercool my PC.

Andrea:  ?

Derek:  It's a super-nerd thing.

Andrea:  And so clearly I know nothing about it.

Derek:  Instead of using fans and air to cool your CPU, you put a radiator and water pump in your PC to  cool it the same way you cool your car.

Andrea:  Sounds...um... overwrought.

Derek:  That's kind of the point.  It's like when guys put big engines and paint flames on their car
  ...but the nerd version of that.

Andrea:  (going thru the mail) Ooooo-- the White House Black Market Catalog arrived!

Derek:  (silence)

Andrea:  Yay!  Patterned tights are in again this year.    I love being "on trend."

Derek:  Yeah, um...I don't have any idea what you're talking about.

Andrea:  It's like when a guy paints flames on his car.

Derek:  Ah.


Okay, so I'll admit it:  This week, the posting was slim.

I started the week by telling you all about the stalker I cultivated last Fall through match.com.

I then admitted I obsess over previous posts and felt compelled to update the one on my stalker to explain how I killed Uncle Marty.

I'd also like to go on record with the following statement:  I do know that if Freddie is an actual shut-in and his Uncle Marty did in fact pass away, I'm a complete and total shit.

Okay, with my conscience now clear, I can move on.

So when I wasn't entertaining you with yet another really uncomfortable dating situation, being a Marketing Genius, or educating The Boy on women's hosiery fads, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

More from my beloved AT AT.

Please take a moment to color my underwear important.

Yet another reason I love Adele.

Afraid of spiders?  See one get his comeuppance.

I have more in common with this guy than just the way I look in my Forever Lazy.

I now have a pretty good idea what life was like for my big sister when we were growing up... although I probably wore a shirt.  Probably.

Happy Halloween, Google Plus!

And finally, Toast toasts toast.

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7 Revisited: The Time I Killed Uncle Marty

An update to Episode 7 of "Adventures in Dating."  

I have a horrible habit of going back to my previous posts and reading and re-reading them and obsessing about how I could have written each one better.  I usually decide to leave them alone and remind myself that I'm not actually getting paid for this and perhaps I should put a bit more time into my paying gig... but this time Stacy reminded me that I forgot to mention Freddie's "Uncle Marty."

Sigh. 

I've never been a murderer before, so it's possible I blocked this from my memory.

As you may recall, Freddie was either a 14-year old boy, a wheelchair-bound hunchbacked shut-in with 4-inch long fingernails who saved his scabs, or a slightly overweight old-fashioned millionaire with an affinity for gummi snacks.  I wish I could be more specific, but I'm apparently not a good judge of character.  So that's pretty much as far as I can narrow the field. 

So yes, Freddie was freaking me out... and because I lacked the sense of self to say "Hey, this isn't a match for me," I just became very busy.  Most of us have been on the wrong side of the "I'm just not that into you" equation, so it's not surprising that the Fredster recognized the pattern.  And so suddenly and without warning, "Uncle Marty's" health began to fail.

"Who the hell is 'Uncle Marty?'" you may find yourself asking.  I know I did.  But the heretofore unmentioned "Uncle Marty" was apparently one of the guiding forces in young Frederick's life and it was destroying him to watch his loved one die.  Had he ever mentioned this relationship before in the hours and hours we spent talking?  No.  But a man's heart is like the ocean... Oh wait, that's not quite right.  A man's heart is directly tied to his penis and when the catch of the day starts making a run on the end of the line, a man's penis has to stand strong.

Am I mixing metaphors all over the place?  You bet.  I'm in uncharted waters here.

I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Freddie.



Because last Fall I was a complete tool, I of course replied with a series of platitudes that would have made a glittery little coffee cup greeting card proud.  Did I suspect that "Uncle Marty" was no more real than the $32 million, the fishing boat, and the buff physique from twenty years ago?  Absolutely. And hence the unnecessary quotation marks around his name.

But I couldn't risk it.

  

So each time I faded away, Freddie trotted out the plight of "Uncle Marty" and each time I did the "right" thing by serving up a bunch of banalities which simply continued our conversation... much to the delight of his little stalking, creepy (and quite likely) enlarged heart. 

When I finally stopped replying, it should come as no surprise, "Uncle Marty" died.  In fact, the way Freddie described it in his poorly-spelled and mercilessly punctuated email, "Uncle Marty" joined the angels.

I tried to feel something, other than abject terror that this freakshow had my home address.  I'm a nice person.  You know, deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and judginess and dating sanctimoniousness.  But all I felt was relief that "Uncle Marty's" pain was over and that meant mine was too.

As I write this, The Boy is researching Freddie.  He says it's because he wants to keep me safe...but I suspect he's also curious to know if my Haribo Hero was for real...if there was $32 million, an Uncle Marty, any of it.

Admit it-- you're a little curious too.

The last time Freddie contacted me (which I think was roughly 6 weeks ago, so look for an update in two weeks), he invited me to lunch again.  Stacy BEGGED me to go so we'd have some new material...but as much as I love that girl, I don't want to find myself chained up in a well in someone's basement, putting the lotion on my skin. 

If only match.com had allowed videos then.  On a side note, I had that poodle's haircut in 1985.

Call me selfish.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7: Stalk It Up to Experience

This is the 8th installment of my Adventures in Dating series.  You can chuckle at my misfortune in episodes One, Two, Three, Four, Four 1/2, Five and Six here.

Last Fall, I cultivated a stalker via match.com.  Which in retrospect is kind of designed to do precisely that.  His name was Freddie. 

Yes, Freddie.

The funny thing is, we were about one week into it and I emailed my Texas girls and told them that I was pretty sure I had met someone really special.

Well, not really met, per se, since we had only spoken on the phone and texted at this point.  But sure, he was special.  Why?  Um, I think it was because he was paying attention to me and no one else was.  And God knows, I had a long and sheepish history of liking the people who liked me.  If you were to ask me why I married my first husband, the truest answer I could give you is "because he asked."

Freddie allegedly lived in Phoenix but maintained a residence here in Denver as well.  He owned his own commercial real estate company and business was gooooooood, people.  In fact, he rarely even flew commercial.

What did he look like?  Well, I'm not really sure.  He had 3 photos on his match.com profile:  One of his alleged dog sitting in his alleged Jeep at the beach, one of the back of his shoulders and head reeling in a marlin or sailfish on a boat, and one from about 100 yards away of him looking incredibly buff on a jet ski.  Okay, if I was being honest with myself, the jet ski photo was suspiciously yellowed and crinkly-looking, like something quite old that had been scanned into the computer, and probably at Walgreens.  But hey, maybe he left it in the sun or something?  Maybe on his boat while he was sport fishing?  And after all, the back of his head certainly looked attractive enough, even if the shoulder looked slightly meaty.

This is where I remind you that I was lonely. Terribly lonely.

Plus, Freddie said his net worth was $32 million.  I actually had to ask a friend if that was good.  Clearly, I have an issue with finance-- and have long felt that math is a faith-based initiative.

So we chatted by phone at night and texted during the day.  And why didn't we meet in person?  Well, it seems Freddie grew up Catholic and felt it was improper for us to go on a date until my divorce was final...which was roughly 60 days away.  So "we" decided to wait.  Yes, I'll admit I thought it was something right out of a rom-com-like plot line in which the mega-rich hero is a little portly and needs to slim down before meeting the girl of his dreams... but I told myself that he was trying to do the right thing.

Insert Rocky-like montage of Freddie on a stationary bike in his amazing home gym, watching his personal chef preparing a chicken breast for him, jogging on the treadmill while staring dreamily at my photo (which would be taped to the display screen), peering hopefully over his belly at the numbers on his scale as they head south.

This is simply how my head works.

Freddie wasn't so much about the spelling.  And his punctuation was...well, let's go with creative.  And sure, sometimes he muttered things under his breath that sounded strangely like words he was pretending I was saying.  Still, I soldiered on for a few weeks, certain that I had met a nice guy who was just trying to do the old-fashioned thing.  A nice guy who talked a lot about taking me on fabulous trips via chartered planes.

In what can only be described as a rookie mistake, when he asked me for my home address because he wanted to mail me a gift... I gave it to him.

And several days later, it arrived.  A greeting card.  More exactly, a glitter-covered greeting card, with a drawing of two cups of coffee on it (cuz coffee-liking was something we had in common), and some free verse about how glad he was that I was his friend.  He signed it "Luv ya lots," a sentiment I hadn't seen since 500 people signed it in my high school yearbook.

I truly wish you could see the glitter.

I tried to imagine my handsome multi-millionaire game fisherman in the Hallmark store, choosing that card.  And I just couldn't.  His handwriting was a huge childish scrawl, and he wrote things like "your [sic] the best."  I began to suspect that my Freddie wasn't a slightly overweight yet incredibly successful businessman with whom I would spend lazy afternoons in the tropics...but rather a shut-in.  Or perhaps a 14-year old with a prematurely deep voice, likely caused by a disfiguring and inoperable tumor.

Before you start to think that Freddie was just a sweet and socially awkward guy, understand that at the same time that he was sending me his sparkly little greeting card, his texting and emailing had taken on a decidedly naughty tone.  Freddie had ideas.  Lots of ideas-- some of which strangely involved gummi bears.  And he was interested in talking me through each one of them.  Incongruously, he signed each of these emails "Take care and God bless."  It's one thing to be the object of someone's desire... it's quite another to be the object of a pseudo-religious nutjob's completely bizarre desires which involve high-fructose corn syrup and other things we don't speak about in polite company.  Especially when you really don't know what he looks like.  And he has your home address.

I stopped taking his calls, responding to his texts and emails.  I started feeling weird (well, more weird than usual) when I went out in public because I wouldn't know him if I saw him on the street (unless he was about 100 yards away and slightly yellowed). 

On the outside, my Texas girls and I laughed about it.  Stacy and I decided that he was a 500-pound wheelchair-bound hunchback who lived in in my attic.  We admired his chutzpah for getting his wheelchair up there, especially while carrying his oxygen tank.

But inside I worried.  A lot.

Freddie got upset with me for dropping him.  His emails and texts escalated rapidly...and then suddenly stopped.  He sent me a final missive in which he told me he was deleting my info from his Blackberry and I wouldn't be hearing from him again.  But that he'd be in town in January and maybe we could have lunch.

Sigh. 

This was last November, and I still hear from Freddie every two months.  It is so to-the-day that I'd swear he has an Outlook reminder that pops up saying "Stalk Andrea."  Sometimes he'll do something like accidentally send me an empty email...with the hope that I'll hit reply.  I don't.

I do still have the greeting card.  It sits in a tray on the desk in my home office...mostly because if I disappear at some point, it contains his handwriting, his home address, and likely his DNA.  Also because sometimes Stacy texts me with "Take care and God bless" and I return the favor by sending her a photo of the card.

So what did we learn?  Well, we learned to keep our home address to ourselves.  We learned that there is a seedy side to the gummi bear.  And we learned to get a recent photo and a fairly immediate date before entering into a virtual relationship with an old-fashioned hunchback.

Damn it, I was never meant to fly commercial.

Yes, really.

While I Was Out 10-17-11

So, it's been a week already.

Have you ever had a conversation with someone on Ambien?  If you ever get the chance, totally do it.  I once had a 15 minute chat with my Ambien-grooving ex about the Dream Police.  No, not the Cheap Trick song-- the actual Dream Police.  I taunted him with this for years. 

Well last night, it was my turn.  The Boy decided he wanted to talk to Andrien (that's me on Ambien) and in an effort to see how out-of-it I was, he asked me "Do you know who I am?"  I apparently smiled and said "Yes. You're my husband."

Oh yes. Yes, I did.

He laughed and said "No I'm not."  And I said "Not yet.  But you will be."

Don't you wish you were this cool?

So this week I started off by admitting that I couldn't Find the Funny but tried to anyway by comparing myself to Elizabeth Shue and sharing the weirdest movie scene of all time.

I then found the funny hiding in the unintentional erotic language of football.  Illegal use of hands!  Roughing the passer! 

And finally this week I showed off my fancy college education by criticizing television commercials.  To be fair, I think it's a feat of writing that I worked the word "Hoohah" into that post 6 times.  I almost can't stop saying it now, which will likely become an HR issue for me at some point.

But when I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or celebrating my 6 month anniversary with The Boy by telling him that he's going to marry me, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Now that we've all been waking up Full of Awesome, it's time to start our Daily Affirmations like 4-year old Jessica.  I can do anything good!  On a side note, her dance moves are better than mine.

Poor thing doesn't understand yet that her curls aren't her friends.

Yeah... I'm gonna need you to go ahead and-uh work late tonight.  I am Business Cat!

I seriously almost peed my pants over the whippet dressed like a Star Wars AT-AT Walker.  Do yourself a favor and scroll all the way to the end to see two bonus photos of this hapless creature.

You know it's love when you do your imitation of a "Guy on a Buffalo" naked in the hot tub and your boyfriend not only cannot stop laughing but still inexplicably finds you attractive.

Hey wolf, I've got something for you... it's a kick from a buffalo!

Interested in pursuing a menage-a-trois, but not sure how to invite your third?  Have I got the greeting card for you!

6 degrees indeed.  I love Bacon. 

And finally, I'm not sure when they start with the cookie-selling, but I'd suggest you buy a box.  Perhaps several.

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Zippity Hoohah

In one of my college courses I distinctly remember learning that one can never successfully advertise one's product with a negative.  The product-- or at the very least, the purchase of the product-- should make you faster, taller, better looking, smarter, richer or more popular... it should never cause you to be the object of ridicule.  Before I continue, let me just say  that yes, people who get Radio-Television degrees really do take classes and occasionally we even pay attention, so shuddit.  I'm pretty sure I scored a solid C in this class. 

So either the conventional thinking on this has changed, or some of the people making creative decisions these days missed that class.  I totally understand.  I missed a lot of classes, just not this one.   Exhibit A:  The Chevy Volt commercial.

People hate me because of my car.  You should buy one and be hated too. I wish there were more buttons I could button on this shirt so I could look even more like a tight ass.

For starters, I think it's a mistake to associate your product with a pressing need to go to the bathroom...even if your product is designed to make people go to the bathroom, which I presume is not one of the features of the Chevy Volt.  I can't be sure, though, because this dude clearly needs to go to the bathroom.  Secondly, everyone at the gas station hates this guy because of the car he bought.  How does this make one feel good about his choice of car?  Does the smugness he feels over having an electric/hybrid car make up for the overall scorn?

And speaking of products related to going to the bathroom...have you seen the "Enjoy the Go" commercials for Charmin?  I mean, I know these were brought to us by the folks who showed us a teddy bear with dingleberries in recent years...but seriously?  Do we need to spend this much time talking about pooping?  Do we consider this progress?

Enjoy the... oh God, it's just too gross.  I'll buy your product if you'll just stop talking about poop.

But perhaps the most disturbing commercials as of late have been the "Hail to the V" series for Summer's Eve.  Unfamiliar?  Could be because they were so racist and offensive that they were pulled from the air... Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it's difficult to write a compelling TV ad when your product is something used on the Hoohah.  But knowing the difficulty that I have in getting things approved through my legal department (who once refused to let me use the word "secure" when describing a security product), I'm completely amazed this got the green-light. 

The premise here is a talking hand (a la Senor Wences) as an ethnic vagina imploring her owner to take better care of her.  Before you watch this, please understand one thing very clearly:  This was not a joke.  This was an actual television ad intended to increase Summer Eve's market share in the world of Hoohah products.

There is much to wonder about this Down Under. 

There was also a Hispanic version involving multiple childbirths and a leopard thong...if you don't believe me, just google it.  It's too pathetic to post here and I just think a talking vagina that needs subtitles is something I'm not cool enough to write about.  I'll leave that to Eve Ensler.  Or perhaps J.Lo.  I'm thinking her Hoohah has a tale to tell.  Hoohah from the block, if you will.

As often happens while writing a blog, I've been sitting here for a while trying to figure out how to write myself out.  The Boy suggested I write a dialogue between the nether-regions of my body but I will take the high road here.  I refuse to anthropomorphize my body parts for your reading enjoyment.

So how about we end this with a positive negative?  While the purchase of this product still resulted in a negative experience for this guy, I think it works because he comes out looking like a hero. He literally gets better looking as the commercial goes on because his wife is such a harpy. 

John Clark can have you, you ungrateful Hoohah!

At least he doesn't look as though he needs to go to the bathroom.  So thank you, AT&T. 

First Down-the Hatch

With all due respect to baseball fans... I cry uncle.  It's mid-October and... enough already.  Even the announcers are disinterested and the sportscasters on my local news station are reporting on baseball with all the enthusiasm one would bring to the Bataan Death March.  I don't even understand how teams keep playing when they know they can't go to the World Series.  That's as pointless to me as window shopping.  Or exercise.

So I think the overwhelming question is this:  Are you ready for some football?  Yeah?  Well, let's go to the map:

Um, what's up with the way Texas is split 70/30 Cowboys/Texans?

My team is the Philadelphia Eagles.  This statement generally generates the "Oh, are you from Philly?" question . I'm not.  The next question is always "Why Philadelphia then?"  Well, quite simply, I'm a girl.  So when the Oilers left my hometown of Houston and I was forced to pick another team, I deployed a tried and true female tactic:  I went with my favorite color, green.

As I saw it, the color green gave me three choices:  the Jets, the Packers, or the Eagles.  First, let's get one thing straight:  This Dan Jenkins-reading girl was never gonna cheer for the dog-ass Jets.  And the Packers?  Please.  That just sounded gross.  But the Eagles-- now they sounded like a good, solid working-class team.  Plus the mascot is an animal and everyone knows animals are cute.

Okay, maybe not this animal.



Yes, I now know there was a fourth choice in the Seattle Seahawks but it was the nineties and I honestly was unaware that Seattle had anything except coffee shops, grunge music, and the Space Needle.

And that's the beauty of football:  It doesn't have to make sense.  Any game that asks morbidly obese men to wear white stretch pants while playing in the grass is pretty much saying "Get your freak on, baby.  All are welcome here."  Feel like arriving at the stadium at 8:00 a.m. to stand around and eat burnt hotdogs from a football helmet-shaped grill?  Help yourself.  Feel like foregoing your shirt and grease-painting your expansive belly and man boobs in sub-zero temperatures?  Well, why the hell wouldn't you?  Want to throw batteries at Santa Claus? Welcome to Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love.

Football is an hour-long game that inexplicably takes four hours.  For years you had John Madden yammering away like someone's half-deaf grandfather gone off his crazy pills.  Yeah, Turducken, we get it. Now stop screaming and scrawling on the Zonkastrator like a spastic toddler.  There are scantily-clad pole-dancers/cheerleaders, keeping the fans warm with their all-American ass-shaking/team spirit.  Serious sportscasters talk with deep gravitas about some guy's groin injury as if it were a matter of national security.  An almost life-like Troy Aikman quotes statistics like a wooden-faced puppet who just wants to be a real boy.  There's $20 parking, $12 beer, $7 hot dogs and the ability to shriek "We're number 1!" for absolutely free.

I'll admit that in 1994 I didn't know a thing about football.  All I knew was that I was newly-married to a sports fanatic and if I didn't learn the game I'd never see the man.  (Had I known then what I know now about said fanatic, I'd have stayed ignorant.)  But like the dutiful little wife I was never destined to become, every Sunday I sat in front of the TV with a football encyclopedia in my lap and each time a penalty was called or I heard one of the announcers mention the name of a play, I'd look it up in the book.  If that's not dedication people, I don't know what is. Sadly I eventually realized I loved the game more than I loved the man... and threw a philosophical flag at the entire marriage.  Personal foul, you creep.  100-yard penalty.  4th down?  Nah, hit the showers, asshole.

Once I truly understood the game, I really enjoyed watching it, if only for all of the sexual innuendo.  Get your backfield in motion? Ooo-ah, ooo-ah!  Taking it deep into the end zone?  Bow-chicka-wow-wow!  Splitting the uprights?  Oooooh yeah.  The endless possibilities totally appeal to the 12-year old boy in me and any given Sunday will find me giggling like a school girl over the unintentionally erotic quotes from whatever game I'm watching.

So my thought is this:  Let's just end the baseball season due to lack of interest.  Let's talk more football.  In fact, let's talk a lot more erotic football-- and let's have the sportscasters keep score of the outrageously sexual things that get said during a game. 

Even better, let's make it a drinking game.  There are definitely a couple of tight ends that I'd like to see go bottoms up. 

And I honestly don't even know what that means.

What's your favorite football-related sexual innuendo?  I need to add to my repertoire.  And stock my liquor cabinet.

Find the Funny

So here's the deal:  I can't find the funny tonight.

I can't find the funny and I know it's what you expect of me and I don't want to disappoint you this early on in our relationship... but each thing I've tried to write tonight has been a little bit melancholy. And I'm not sure you come here for melancholy.

I'm pretty confident it's the peri-menopause...and you know what?  I'm not anywhere near ready to talk about that.  But does it make me feel sexy?  Oh, hells to the yeah, peeps.  Hells to the yeah.

The good news is that I see Yoda (my shrink) tomorrow for the first time in months...and I usually have plenty to write about once my head has been sanitized for your protection.

But before then, here's a peek at what's happening in my noggin tonight.


Have you ever noticed that TR Knight and Chloe Sevigny are the same horribly glum person?

Or that at some point in the 80's I was Elizabeth Shue?

       

And speaking of Elizabeth Shue, have you seen the creepy kid pointing to his flux capacitor in this clip from "Back to the Future Part 3?"  The blond one on the right, named Vern.  It happens about 20 seconds in. Seriously, is he a troll?  I think you'll be as appalled as the chipmunk.

These are the things I think about, people.  Simply so you don't have to.  You're welcome. 

I'm going to go enjoy a sexy night sweat now.

While I Was Out 10-10-11

So, it's been a week already. 

It started with me telling you about my wacky match.com swan song.  To this day, I have no idea how that didn't work.  Then again, I am also flummoxed by fractions, pivot tables and cartwheels.  And the metric system?  Forget it.  It's like people are just making that shit up as they go along.

And then I told you all about the manic need for acceptance that turns me into Jimmy Durante.  Let's face it, any post in which I recount a toddleriffic pants-pooping episode really only proves the point of this entire blog, which is Hey! Pay attention to me!

I made two big changes that affect how you can interact with me.  The first is that I removed the whole "type this word" thing when you want to leave a comment.  I know that was a pain in the ever-lovin' ass, it just took me this long to figure out it was optional.  I hope this gets you to a-commentin'!

The second change is it's now easier for you to share my blog with others.  Below each post, there is now an adorable little icon that looks like an envelope with an arrow in it.  If you click on that, you'll hit a form that lets you share easily.  So give the gift of Andrea, won't you?  If not for you, think of the children.

But while I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or entreating The Boy to buy Lion King theater tickets (4th row, baby!), I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Remember when you were five and woke up FULL OF AWESOME every day?  Buy one of these tshirts for your girl kid!  (I bought two-- one for me and one for my bestie-- not realizing they were kid sizes.  Yep, I woke up full of awesome that day!)

Two of my most favorite things in the world in one commerical:  Pistachios and... the Honey Badger.  Guess who's not eating cobra this week? 

I totally want to live in this house.  I don't even care where it is.  Do you think the dusting would be an issue (for my maid)?

Click here to learn why my new mantra is "Save a pretzel for the gas jets."  You gotta love a politician this inspirational!

And finally...this lil guy just reminded me so much of Boo (one of Derek's dogs)...both in looks and sentiment:

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

All of the People, All of the Time

Recently I was at a cocktail party, because that's the kind of glamorous life I lead.  "Cocktail party" is perhaps a bit grand, so let's just say that people were standing around and drinking.  It's possible it was a sporting event.  Or maybe an intervention, I wasn't really paying attention.  The point is, we were all standing in a group talking and before I knew it, the circle had closed around me and I was standing in the middle of it with everyone waiting for me to say something funny.  Even for me, it felt a bit odd.

I think it's because I'm a people pleaser.  It's the kind of thing that makes me turn on my best Jimmy Durante when there's a lull in the conversation and before you know it, "a-cha-cha-chaaaaaa" all eyes are on me.  Not necessarily because I like people looking at me but because I like people liking at me.  In fact, I need it.  It's also what likely makes me come across as a giant egomaniac whenever people start talking about their kids.

I don't have kids.  So when people talk about theirs, I get a little panicky because we have no common ground.  And without common ground, I can't force people to like me.  In these situations, it never occurs to me to just listen to what they are telling me...No, that would involve the high levels of self-esteem that I have yet to acquire.  I do listen, but while they talk I am scanning my memory files the entire time so that I can share a similar amusing anecdote.  And since the only thing I have in common with kids is that I myself was once a kid....well, I always tell stories about myself.

And fortunately for everyone, I was there the whole time I was a kid, so I have lots of stories.

Wanna tell me about potty training your child?  You can bet I'll reciprocate by telling you all about the amusing way I used to stand in a corner and poop my pants while covering my eyes because I thought if I did that, I disappeared, therefore insuring that my pants-pooping would go undetected.

Oh, a funny family vacation story about a toddler who would only drink apple juice, but pronounced it "appogee?"  Trumped by the classic tale of how I was so difficult on a trip to Yellowstone when I was 3 (why would you drive from Houston to Montana with a toddler?  Why??) that the moment we were seated in a restaurant, without looking at a menu my Mom would quickly say "she'll-have-a-grilled-cheese-and-please-oh-God-please-bring-it-right-away."  Sometimes she'd add emphasis by grabbing the waitress's wrist and imploring "Do you have any crackers?"

Your child is reading?  Delightful!  I'll scarcely pause for breath before I tell you that when I was her age, I would take my books under the kitchen sink and pretend the cabinet was my private library.  On a side note, I still love the smell of bleach. Oh my God, look at me, I'm still talking about myself!

The thing is, I catch myself doing this and I can't seem to stop.  This manic need for acceptance and a sense of belonging in a world in which I clearly don't belong compels my mouth to just keep talking while my brain screams at me to fling myself out the nearest window.

In reality, it's exactly what I'm doing now.  Hey, look at me, look at what I'm doing!  Isn't it funny?  Isn't it cute?  Don't you just want to take me home and put me in a glass box on your mantel?

So, please.  If you find yourself at a cocktail party or some sort of drinking event and you happen to look over to find me in the center of a group of people inexplicably doing the Roger Rabbit, be kind.  Remember, I just want you to like me. 

And if I clamp my hands over my eyes and say "don't see me," do yourself a favor:  Get home to those darling kids of yours.  Some day, I'll like myself enough to let you talk about them.

Like me, only slightly less manically driven to please.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 6: Truth in Advertising

This is the seventh installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series. Enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, and 5 here.

Shortly after the zombie apocalyptic date with Plan Z, I just gave up.  On the whole, that winter the men contacting me through Match.com were, well...they just weren't in my league. Not even close. I'm not even sure what league they'd be in.  I don't think there was a single man over the age of 65 in the greater Denver area that had not asked me out. And the ones near my age? Good Lord. They were definitely out-punting their coverage as well. It was as if I was the only person along the Front Range who was clear on the theory of Natural Selection.

Actual Match.com suitor. As if.

In a rare moment of clarity, I had this thought:  When it is actually hurting your self-esteem that men are attracted to you, it's time for a game-changer.  A fairly big one.

I had approximately 2 weeks left on my Match.com subscription and I decided to just absolutely go down in flames. Truly and seriously. It was time to stop playing nice and just put something out there that was so over-the-top ridiculous that it could no longer go unnoticed by the forty-something hotties that had to be out there.

It was one of those "this might be just crazy enough to work" moments.

So with the help of my friend Mike (who I met on Match.com but who was geographically undesirable because he lived in Chicago) I updated my profile:

"Just about everyone on this site loves to travel, loves taking long walks on the beach, loves puppy dogs and describes themselves as honest, loyal, compassionate, caring, sincere, trustworthy, loving, friendly, confident, financially secure, intelligent, happy, healthy, fun loving, and spontaneous and is looking for the same... but not me.


I don't like clowns. Or carnival workers. Or mimes.


I am seeking a rude, obsessive, compulsive, neurotic, nagging, anti-social, manic, emotionally unavailable, paranoid man who has major anger and jealousy issues... but basically is normal. Bonus points if you never want to have sex, let me see my friends, want to spend all of my money and are mean, controlling, moody and manipulative.


Also, I'm also looking for a man who has a good memory. For instance...remembering to bring his credit card when we go out.


As far as for what I am really looking for? Good question. Honesty, check. Funny, check. Comfortable with who he really is, check. Pretty much everything else is negotiable.


We are not perfect, thus the reason for this site. Have you spent time in prison and it wasn't your fault? Tell me about it. Did you do something so inappropriate at last year's company Christmas party that you were terminated unfairly immediately? Let's hear about it. Was that whole thing where you were issued a restaining order just a silly misunderstanding? I'm listening.


I'm looking for someone intelligent who must enjoy talking about big and deep issues in addition to whether Brangelina are going to adopt any more kids or what is going on at "The Jersey Shore." So, if you think the topic of Brangelina or "The Jersey Shore" qualifies as a big and deep issue, my guess is we would not be a good match. Alternatively, if you have no clue who Brangelina or what "The Jersey Shore" is, I'm also guessing we would not be a good match.


I know I don't want to be a "Match Lifer" and am guessing you don't either. I'm not going to tell you I'm Snow White, but I'm closer to Snow White than the Evil Queen...even if I'm not into dwarves.


The whole mysterious chemistry thing is the key here. Intangible. Elusive. What everyone is really looking for. It can’t happen on a web page. I know if we go out, you will laugh...a lot. And you'll likely think things line up rather well physically, too.


I think if we met and there was mutual chemistry, we'd find out over time what makes us each unique. And I guess that's the real challenge here, isn't it?"

Sadly, it was decidedly crazy, just not crazy enough to work. No one seemed to "get" the sarcasm. In fact, I went from having 65 year-old men pursuing me to having 65 year-old enraged coots pursuing me, each convinced I was as angry at the world as he was. I suppose I should've been flattered that they they were taking time away from their manifesto-writing to say hello...but mostly I was just disappointed.

Disappointed that in six months time, I had managed only to reconfirm my worst fears: That I was unworthy of love, that I was destined to die in my house and be eaten by my cats, that I'd soon be traveling the world alone wearing a caftan and large wooden jewelry.

Like this, only with chunky wooden jewelry and more chins.

So I gave up on Match.com and turned unenthusiatically to it's older, more successful but less attractive brother, eHarmony.  I spent minimal time putting together a very honest, if not at all sarcastically hysterical profile, answered all of the questions about my 27 levels of deep compatibility truthfully, and tried to ignore the fact that the guy on the eHarmony commercials looked like a pedophile. I figured he'd likely be the only septuagenarian on the site who wouldn't ask me out. Upside, people!

And then I met an Oompa-Loompa.

But that's a story for another day.