On Fashion and Trophy Dating (and camoflauged man purses)

My friends and I were having a discussion over a few cheap beers and we came to this conclusion: Never date a man that wears cargo shorts.

The upstanding man at the table relented that the cargo short was not in his fashion repertoire.

"I didn't even know they still made them," Ali stated with both awe and concern. I like to think of her as Alley because I have to ride my bike down an alleyway as my most direct route to her house. But, I digress. 

This is the second unflattering reference to cargo shorts I have had in as many days. While sitting at Mod's on 5th and Boston and waiting for my delicious salmon sesame seed crepe, I was reading the daily funny pages. The cartoon was an old couple talking. It went like this:

Old lady: "Are those cargo shorts?"

Old Man: "Yes. They are amazing. They have all these wonderful pockets where you can keep all your stuff."

Old Lady: "I see. So basically you are wearing a giant purse."

Follow me, dear readers, as I attempt to anthropologize the reasoning behind our newly found dating rule. Let us make a study of the cargo short wearing man:

Cargo's were originally designed for outdoor activities and military needs. The extra pocket space was required to carry items necessary for the wearer's survival and well being. Manly indeed.

But, when you take them out of the war zone and into the arena of your local shopping mall or restaurant they are as the old lady said--nothing but man purses disguised as yuppy fashion.

We pontificated on the type of man who needs a purse but wants to disguise it in such manly camouflage.

This man is nothing more than a pretty boy. He needs the extra pocket room to carry his chap stick, little black book, and extra sand for his ever chaffing vadge.

He has a lot of buddies, but not a lot of friends. Surface is as far as he goes. It is all about paint and polish and glamour for this man-purse wearing fashionisto.

He and his buddies all have nicknames (taken usually from their last names) that they earned at the Frat house in college. When not using their nicknames, they call each other, "dude" or "bro."

Inevitably they date the simple blonde girls. I am a cute little blondey so I have run into more than my fair share of the "dudes." Thankfully they usually run for the hills when they discover that under the trophy wife exterior, I actually have a brain in my head. All it takes is a few moments of conversation and a 3 syllable word.

They'll move along to talk to an actual tropy wife. And, so will I--to someone with whom I can discuss the latest book I have read or art exhibit I have seen. Everybody wins. Everybody is happy in the end.

Sometimes I guess you can judge a book by its cover. Or in this case ... a dude by his man purse.

It is White Trash Night on St. Louis Street

About 20 minutes ago this old man pulled up and parked his Harley on the sidewalk in front of my neighbor's house across the street. He sat there calling over and over on his phone until what I think is his daughter comes out of the house. Now they are fighting on the sidewalk. And I am shamelessly watching from my front porch.

He's propped up on his bike and screaming almost unintelligibly at his daughter. The gist of it is this ....

"You stabbed me in the back an I give you everything I can! I give all (mutter mutter slur mutter mutter mutter slurrrrrrrr) An you take my granson an tell him lies annnnn you turn him against me! You stab me in the back ann you motherfuckers don't even know!! I give you all. (more slurrrrrs and mutters and grunting yells) I give you everything! I'm unna ... You wooden know the hell you bring on you! You an your mother ain't seen nothing! Michaela!"

I really don't know much of what Michaela said. She wasn't yelling like a redneck. All I heard was "They're telling lies on me, Dad!" and "He is MY son."

I was just minding my business eating my dinner and enjoying the beautiful fall weather. But it's always nice to get dinner AND a show!

eHarmony brought more eHumor than anything else ...

I like dares-- especially the harmless ones where only your ego is in danger of being maimed.


My roommate dared me to put up a profile on eHarmony. He argued that I was too picky and expected too much to get very many matches.

I thought he was crazy. So I accepted the challenge (without knowing the personal novel I was going to have to write to complete the stinkin thing!)

They asked me everything but my mother’s maiden name and how I would rate myself in the bedroom. (By the way eHarmony, you should add the latter question to your survey. I bet people want to be matched on sexual prowess, too.)

So about 300 questions and an hour later I was ready to view my matches.

9 matches.

Seriously! That’s it? HAHAHAHA! Damn the Roomie for being right! Thank goodness the profile crap was free (except for that hour or so of my life I won't ever get back).

So I browse through the matches. (Without pictures. You have to pay to see them so I’ve included pictures of what I think they look like based on their profiles)

Let's see what wonderful men I am matched with!

Who might be my future co-star in the “We met online and now we’re married!” – Happily ever after commercials??? Oh! The suspense!

Well, let me tell ya. I’ll be a spinster for life if those 9 profiles are the best eHarmony has to offer.

The first few weed-outs were easy.

35. Nope. Too old.
35 again. NOPE!
26. Nope. Too young.
Lives in Bartlesville. Nope.
Lives in Fort Smith? Dang how far out did I set my match radius? Nope.

Ok 4 left.

Hmm. 28 in Tulsa. Sounds good. Let’s see …

“I’m a pretentious artsy type that digs European culture and looks down my snooty little nose at my fellow countrymen.”

-- Why are some artistic people so anti-American? Just a thought for you … YOU LIVE IN AMERICA! And in the heartland, no less! Move to the snotty East Coast or Madrid if you are so inclined to despise the people here.










Ok. 32 in Tulsa. Promising ….

“I am an oil worker with lots of tattoos and 2 kids.”


--Oil worker, ok. Tattoos, ok. 2 kids and one is a TEENAGER? Nope. Jeez. I just can’t. She’s half my age.







27 in Tulsa. 3rd time’s a charm …

“I am a super Christian and I never smoke or drink. I have just returned from Africa on a mission trip and am now getting my masters from ORU”

– I don’t mind Christians. I believe in some form of God. I was raised and am now a recovering Catholic. But, I do smoke. And, I do drink. I also get a little panicky around the pew-jumping, bible-thumping, babbling like they are hallucinating type of Christians. I just can’t hang. My faithful upbringing was far too stoic and structured to reconcile myself with a full band, stage lights and people screaming in the isles on Sunday morning.

Oh, and as for missionary. I enjoy it. But I think we are off base in how we define the word.


29 in Tulsa. Well last, but maybe not least …

“I laugh at my own lame jokes lol just want 2 tell u that I forgot how 2 type out full sentences n use punctuation I spelled out exspecially tho u should b proud lol”

– LEAST! Most definitely least!






So those are the fish in my eHarmony Sea. Glad I did that as a dare rather than out of desperation or I would have been seriously depressed.

And if I am a little picky—it’s just because I deserve it.

Have a good weekend everyone. I think I’ll stick to going out and meeting men the old fashioned way!

Reincarnated From Myspace. Please Turn me Into Pencils!

A recent conversation with co-workers on death made me think of this blog I wrote years ago. From the depths of Myspace: An oldy but a goodie ...

The New York Times featured and article on the art of death.


It seems there is a grassroots movement to make death more stylish, at least for your loved ones to enjoy.


Lauren Clauson finds comfort in giving her mom a spin every now & then. Her mother's ashes were placed in an urn with a New England fall motif. The urn is mounted on a prayer wheel she can spin when she is thinking of her mother. Basically, its a fancy lazy Susan. No. Her mother's name was not Susan. Yes. I am going to hell.

When I do, I want to be made into pencils. You can really be made into pencils! How cool is that? Pretty damn awesome if you ask me. I would love to bite it and then be manufactured into hundreds of shiny yellow #2s
 
The reason I am so keen on having my corpse ground into pencil lead is the same reason I love empty journals so much: Infinite possibility. A pencil and a blank piece of paper is a powerful force. Anything a person could imagine is possible: Doodles when you are bored in class. Grocery lists. Love letters. Hate mail. Notes for a final exam. Poems. The great American novel.

I like the idea that I could die and still have the chance to be anything. Even if I end up the knarled stump of a thing whose owner suffers from writers block.
 
In keeping with the theme, "I have gone completely bonkers and want to be made into pencils," I want my funeral to resemble and 8-year-old's birthday party. The program could look like an invitation
 
 

The only difference is there would be kegs of beer and an open bar.

People would sign my guestbook with a crayon or a washable marker. Or, they could use me to sign my guestbook. I probably won't mind since I'll be dead and made into pencils. I want the place to be covered in balloons and streamers. People should feel free to suck helium from the balloons.


My guests would play Duck, Duck Goose! Tiddly Winks & Pin the Tail on the Donkey. There might even be a pinata!

Everyone would get a cupcake. Every cupcake has a candle. Everyone gets a wish.

When it was time to go, everyone would get a party favor bag. Inside of it would be an empty journal/sketchbook, a Shannon pencil, a CD, a bottle of booze and an aphrodisiac.

The icing on the cake of life: good writing, good music, good booze and good sex.

Some of the pencils should be passed out on the streets at random to ensure maximum variety of usage.

All that is left is to decide what gets stamped on the pencil. I'll leave it up to you guys.

Maybe something like this: Irish #2 pencil. Great for writing bullshit.