Black Hearts

Sometimes you experience something in life that transcends your imagination. In other words, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Fact trumps fiction.

At least it did last night.

First off, I am recovering from bronchitis, whooping cough, or a virus. My doctor could not decide which, so I'm on a plethora of medication and yet I made it out on Valentine's Day. Why? Because I'm devoted to this blog, people. I'm out there, testing those waters, filtering through losers and bores, idiots and morons, jerks and nerds, fuckfaces and douchebags. Just to find one little not-yet-rotted gem of a man.

As a singleton in Portland, rarely am I invited to a singles event. So when a friend told me about an anti-Valentine's Day event thrown by folks who subscribe to a couch surfing site, I figured, what's the worst that could happen? A bunch of strangers who have crashed on other strangers' couches and who like to travel. Not a bad idea. An adventurous bunch. I predicted they might be young (but 19?). I don't know what I was thinking: they might also be an international group of single globetrotters? I could find my real Mr. Vornado.

How can I do justice to the facial expressions of my friend, K.? In my line of work, I've learned to curb my reactions a bit but watching hers made the evening spectacular. The 19 year old boy was sitting next to me, of course. When he ordered a whiskey sour (at a brew pub) I thought it a touch eccentric. When he ordered two more, I took note. When he told me he worked at a grocery store, nights, I thought he might be somewhat down on his luck. When he asked the waitress for a burger but make it chicken and could he have guacamole instead of mayonnaise? I thought he was certainly high maintenance. When he called the guy utilizing the ketchup when he wanted it, a motherfucker….I had a couple more serious doubts. When he received said ketchup and starting hitting its end and announcing, "Fuck me like a camel," then I started to think I had happened upon the best Valentine's Day of my life.

Of course there was a cute man - when one is looking one will find one! He shall remain nameless (and initial-free) because I have forgotten his name. He was seated on my other side. He's been in Portland 5 months and works at the youth hostel and they pay him to do some work, so he gets to stay there for free. Before that he "lived" in Vegas for a while doing something he would not or could not describe, and before that he was woofing at a farm in Canada. It was obvious, so I just had to ask him, "Are you really a Jewish doctor? You just go around saying these things to see if girls really like you for who you are and not what you do?"

I almost gave him my card, he was nice, normal and not 19,this woofing dirty-sexy QT with scruff. That's how desolate this dating savannah is looking. But fear not. I have a date on Wednesday with a bald, potentially cute, 43 year old man who posed with random old people in his match profile. I like that.

And it's not so hopeless: I received a gift from a very loyal boyfriend. Not Freddy nor Mr. Vornado, but Fin - K.'s dog who sticks near me during our morning walks at the park. I swear he's not in it just for the treats. He loves me for my inner qualities. Thank you, Fin. I am enjoying my Ghirardelli chocolate immensely.

Happy Valentine's Day to Me.

I Like You So Much You Make Me Break Out in Hives

Apparently, things could be worse. After speaking with a formerly single friend, B., I feel better. Not only is she a wonderful listener and one of the most empathic people I know, she has had equal or more dating experience than I have, plus she is now happily married. It is important to have a person such as B. in your life. She is my silver lining. There could, at the end of this horrific - oh I mean learning experience type of thing - journey, be a person in the world I enjoy and he enjoys me. And i could be a wonderful artist and knitter with a fantastic book coming out and be featured in Vogue knits (Miss Flitt) and my husband could be very proud of me too. But wait, that's B.

So - B. one upped my date with Phantom D. She said, "You could be on a date with a woman." Then she clarified, "It's fine to be on a date with a woman, but when you were expecting a man…" More precisely, things could have been worse: I could have been not only on a date with a married man, a louse, or a moron, but a person of the same gender. I could have been on a date with a woman who is "transitioning." While this is a wonderful thing in a person's life and kudos to them, I expect my dates to at least be straight up, pun intended, when it comes to gender. Perhaps this is asking for too much.

I've finally found the answer: D. is a woman becoming a man and he's married and he's in the CIA and all of his limbs have atrophied because of his hospital visit where he got bed sores and nobody turned him. It makes sense. What doesn't make sense is that I have broken out in hives. There are just three, shiny, quarter sized and quite itchy, on my thighs of all places. I have not gotten hives since freshman year, high school when my supposed best friend, who being Indian and sporting a severe overbite and moustache, looked suspiciously like Omar Sharif, turned chilly on me, hating me outright, and recruited other ugly friends to follow suit. They all dumped me immediately. I recall my horror: I was in the bathroom, stressing out, when I saw the welts. I woke up with some more the next day.

By the time my mom called the doctor about her freakish daughter's "confluent welts and bumps" as she aptly put it, they had disappeared. Skin had the ability to do this to you - to turn on you and express your emotions. My mother wasn't fully convinced. Plus, she was pissed. I handed her the tell off note from said ex BFF. My mother grilled me some more about the ugly ex-best friend situation and finally had a sit-down with said girl's mother. I knew I was too old for such a thing then - a whopping 13 - but it was a nice opportunity to get my ex friend into deep shit with her mother. How could I resist? The hives went away and soon I started to feel better. Plus, I quickly made new friends, and they were more attractive, which meant I moved up a notch in high school speak, not to mention making a wonderful friend in chemistry who I could cheat on many tests with. Had I not met him, I may still be in high school.

So, that is my update on hives, high school, and nefarious men.
Date tomorrow night. Very much looking forward to it. I shock myself with this blind optimism.

Count Your Mobile Blessings

Among emails that say "This So Cute!" (I won't be opening that to look at the animal, baby photos or close ups of genitals, today, sorry) And a scary Forward: "What to do in an Earthquake" (I know what to do, cry in a doorway while hug-squeezing the life from A), "Your Mobile Blessings" (nearly curious to open this but suspect it is utter crap) and "Your Coupon Ends Thursday" (Shit. My coupon ends Thursday, I better click on this!), I've recently received ones from friends titled, That Goddamn Fucking Prick, Shithead, That Asshole and Fuckface. Fuckface may indeed be my favorite. Need I explain? Another favorite is the shithead one, because the message inside is quick and to the point: I just read your blog and I am so mad. Want to get together Friday night?

Of course I do.

I have no worries that I will bounce back in no time. I would be lying if I said I did not think about said moron's inability to return a phone call or text but the image of him sprawled out on a hospital bed sans fingers and toes is soothing. What is most pressing is that I have three full days of work and have forgotten my contact lens case back at my parents house in NJ. I can picture it sitting on my old, white headboard in my pink room among the half dozen other cases. All I have to say is: What are my mobile blessings? And where are they? I'd love them right now and I'd love for them to be delivered with my contact lens case since I have no time to pick one up this week.

Luckily dates are being arranged on Thursday and Saturday evening, and there is a happy hour on Friday, all of which translates into fun distractions and opportunities to meet someone better suited for me. And of course, more blog material. To count my my mobile blessings I would begin with the fact that really, there are no scoundrels imbedded in my life, or my skin.

As N. wisely put it, "At least he showed the asshole card early on."

True dat.

Fly Baby

In my absence Aggy has begun growling at other dogs. All of the people who have watched or walked Aggy have commented about this separately. The notes that describe the cuddles and pees and poops of my little monster also mention distinct growling. It's always the fluffy, white stuffed animals who have come to life types that you have to watch out for. Apparently, on one walk a neighbor mentioned that A. had looked so friendly and then the fierce growl at a pomeranian. Somebody missed her mommy! That's all I can say. I can't help but equate this to my relationships because, as anyone who knows me knows, Aggy is me or a projection of me or like an appendage of mine. Just like my dad and our dogs Dusty and Max, Aggy will be cremated and buried with me. My mother, on a recent drive cutting through a cemetery reminded us of her plans to be cremated.

Gently, she reminded my dad that he needed to pick a plot in the cemetery. "You better pick your spot." Long pause. "You know what I want," she said.

"But then what?" I asked her. "Where do you want to go?"

This was mulled over and my memory is fuzzy but I think the plan is to sprinkle her in a few different places. Or share her.

I thought this was dumb and said so. "Pick a place," I said, but nothing was decided. Maybe she'll pick a nice, sunny state. A vacation spot.

But back to the fascinating tale of why my dog is suddenly Jaws. Whatever way you look at it, Aggy and I are one in the same. Aggy's recent decision to snarl at pit bulls, and let out growls in the backseat of a friend's car to another dog three times her size who is sweeter than Mother Theresa and whose teeth I've not ever seen, is disturbing, mildly upsetting and completely understandable.

When people don't get what they want they take it out on whoever is near. That anger bubbles up and has to go someplace. Hold on. I do have a point here. I just don't quite know what it is yet. Okay, time to justify my blog again: this blog is where I can explain what happens on my dates, summarize, and in some form: growl. As you may suspect, no word from D. But you know what? Said pushy, Jewish woman - this describes half the East Coast - was right. Having other men you are dating makes a significant difference and here's why.

Whether D. is a narcissist, a married man, in the CIA or a fly baby (another term for a louse) or all four rolled up into one delicious, wingless cocoon: I'm not wasting any more time on him. If I had balls, I'd post his picture and phone number on this site, but since he is not really worth the effort of figuring out how to download a photo, I'll restrain. That said, if you see a man who looks like Robert Downey Junior only with a beard, less hair on his head, a bowtie, and a weird quasi-accent, texting his life away, feel free to toss your sandwich at him or your cocktail. He need not experience physical pain, just the equivalent of a little smack across the face or a tap on the nose. That's all I'm asking.

Thank you.