I have not had a date since November. Why?, you ask? Partially because I’ve lost all faith in the male population and because I believe that the male brain (or lack there of) is far too clogged with motor oil, video game scores and internet porn to ever function at more than an elementary level again . . . but that never stopped me before, did it?
I’ve not been dating because I’ve been *moving*. And moving is a lot like dating.
Now the average person may *think* that something like *moving* would have nothing to do with that stupid, backwards caveman ritual we call “dating”, but let me tell you:
You have no idea.
At the time I may not have noticed how odd/ offensive/ blatantly rude all of this was, but that’s only because when I am focused on something, nothing else exists. I get tunnel vision to the Nth degree. Prince Charming could have stood in the middle of the street every day, professing undying love for me and I’d have looked right past, scanning the yards behind him for “For Rent” signs. That’s how bad it was.
The first thing I did was post an ad on Craigslist, stating I was looking for an affordable little one bedroom apartment for my collie and I. It was witty and cute and it stated *exactly* what I wanted. I included a picture of me with the dog, mainly because I wanted to show how big the dog was and it definitely got responses . . . oh, it got tons of responses! All from single men, wanting me to move into their homes. Most of them didn’t even want to charge me rent and a few told me I’d just be responsible for the cooking and cleaning! The nerve! Mind you, this was not a sexy shot- no bikinis, just me and the dog, sitting by the Christmas tree! But still . . .
Okay. Plan B.
I started looking through apartment listings, trying to figure out what to do and the first place I looked at was okay. Location was all right, the rent was doable, but the landlord showing it was afraid Lily would bite the neighbors. As this stout, bald man put his hand on my thigh and whispered through his spit drenched teeth, “Maybe we could work something out?”, I very quickly realized that I didn’t want to live there anyway. SAYONARA, SUCKER!
I’d won that round, but I still didn’t have anywhere to go, no place to call home. So I kept trying . . .
The next apartment I looked at was over some family’s garage and I had coffee with the dad- he proceeded to tell me (between sobs) that his wife was screwing her boss or some crap, that he now had free reign to do whatever he wanted. And that if I was interested in the apartment, his wife was out of town the third week of every month and we could be “alone.”
Every ad I answered, it seemed some guy recognized me from Plentyoffish- my screen name on there is the same as my email, but OH MY GOD! I’d get responses like THIS:
“The apartment has been rented, but I’d like to take you to dinner.”
For real? Are you freaking kidding me?
For awhile, I was all packed with no idea *where* I was going and though I’ll admit the idea of “moving nowhere” was a bit liberating in a way, as time went on, I became more and more desperate. The dog was a problem everywhere, no one would rent to me because of my vicious beast who *may* do unspeakable things, like herd some sheep! Or (gasp!) save Timmy from the well!
I had a few ideas: Number one, commit a crime, live rent free in jail. But alas! If landlords were groping me and propositioning me that badly on the outs, imagine what they’d do to me in jail! Oh, the terror!
Now my second idea was to have a mental breakdown, let insurance cover being thrown in the looney bin- I’d feign an attempt at suicide and be institutionalized, like many great artists before me! Oh, how very poetic! How Sylvia Plath, how Virginia Woolf!
But neither jail nor Bellevue was going to solve the dog problem.
I thought about moving to space. All that unclaimed real estate and lots of room for my fierce, drooling Lassie Dog to run around in. “Moving nowhere” doesn’t sound so poetic when you realize you can’t *actually* move nowhere. Suddenly those Plentyoffish guys were worth checking out!
One of them said he had an apartment convenient to my location and his emails were pretty nice, so I figured I may as well check that one out. I looked him up on Facebook and he was actually pretty cute, so I agreed to meet him for lunch, check out what he had to offer. But the cute guy didn’t show up . . .
I had lunch with his father.
Then I’m ten miles away, in Crescent Beach at this “apartment” that’s supposedly “convenient” to my location. The “apartment” (and note the snotty quote marks) was a screened in porch that had been turned into a skeleton of a room. It had no bathroom, it had no kitchen, it had no bedroom . . . It was just a room.
I gave him an “Are you kidding me?” type of look and he scratched his head.
“Well, maybe my ad was a little premature, but it will be finished soon! Til then you can use my kitchen and my bathroom!”
He showed me the rest of the place, which was a shell basically- no fridge, no kitchen, nothing. He dragged me upstairs: “But look! I’ve got a bathtub! With jets!”
Of course he did. Seven hundred a month for an empty shell, but it included utilities! And a bathtub! With jets!
What’s really scary is that I almost had to take this deal. If my lovely poet cottage hadn’t magically found me (*that* night, thank god!), I’d be living in Crescent Beach, with a man thirty years older than me, who’d be trying sneaky idea after sneaky idea to lure me into his bathtub! With jets!
Is it any wonder I haven’t been dating? This has been a headache from hell and now that it’s over, I wonder if I may not want to find another, easier hobby- like joining a religious cult and sacrificing game hens? Maybe dabbling in organized crime? Bank robbing and prostitution should be a hoot! If all else fails, world domination could be fun! I’ll look into it.
ANYTHING but dating.
Or maybe I’ll just sit back and enjoy this, take a break from Bri World and pray that nothing interesting or outlandish happens to me for awhile!
Signing off indefinitely.
Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!