Come On, Gentlemen.

It’s true, I confess.  I am one of millions of people who has an online dating account.  Not for any conventional reason, either; I’m not shy, I have plenty of time to go out and meet people, and I don’t get nervous on first dates.  Truthfully, I was bored and figured it would be a more efficient way to weed out the crazies instead of sitting through a grueling 30-minute coffee date before fake-yawning my way out.  Dinner on a first date?  Yeah, no.  Way too much of a time commitment.  You can always make coffee dates longer, but you can’t make movies or dinner shorter. I’ve been on enough ghastly first dates to know that it’s just not worth the risk.  I ran across a profile this evening that included several of the most ridiculous, yet awfully formulaic things that men write, and I’m sure there are at least a few ladies who share my chagrin.

1) If you don’t have a sense of humor, it’s not going to work out.

Don’t be an asshole, everyone has a sense of humor, you dolt.  Did you consider that maybe she just doesn’t share in your delight of Ren and Stimpy re-runs?  Or in your sarcasm, because the only way you know how to make jokes is to insult people, only to promptly defend yourself by informing the individuals you’re hurting that they are “too sensitive.”  Or perhaps she doesn’t appreciate you telling that story of when your frat buddy threw up on a girl in a nightclub.  Or maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t think Steve-O is a genius, and considers the term “jackass” to mean precisely what it should: an inconsiderate, feckless, harebrained idiot.  Surprisingly, there are significant differences between men and women.  It would serve you well to learn them and treat her like a lady, not a humorless, talking pair of boobs.

2) I like to go out, but also enjoy spending a night at home.

-Cool, sounds like nearly everyone else on the planet.  Truly a fascinating, original fact about your unique and compelling personality.

3)  I don’t really know how to write these things.

-So, you’re unfamiliar with your own hobbies?  Appearance?  Dreams and goals?  Pets?  Family?  Occupation?  Oh, I’m sorry–you mean you’re too lazy to try and form whole sentences. The “Women Throwing Themselves At Your Feet” line starts just over there, at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.  Take a number.

4)  I want a woman who motivates me to be a better man.

-No.  Nonononononononono.  WHY CAN’T YOU DO THAT YOURSELF? Why is it my job as “the woman” to keep tabs on your moronic behavior?  Why do I have to set the example for how a grown-ass man should act?  How amazing do I have to be to “motivate” you to throw a video game console away?  How incredible do I have to be to make you realize that black-out drunk is never acceptable?  How interesting and beautiful and caring and patient do I have to be to make you understand that respect and romance are not bargaining chips for when you want something?

Ladies, do not date in the hopes of a guy becoming a better man.  Dump that guy, go find the one who has already made himself into a real catch, and bam, Bob’s your uncle.

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Just Kickin’ Around

In the spirit of new experiences, I decided this afternoon that I wanted to try a new form of fitness.  I used to rock climb, circuit train and Zumba with the best of them, but one can only take so many poorly remixed Shakira songs before desperately needing a change of pace.  I checked my university’s group fitness schedule and lo!  What luck!  I discovered a kickboxing class, and immediately saved myself a place.  Kickboxing?  Psh.  If I can Zumba 5 times a week, I can most certainly float and sting for an hour.  For those who are unaware, I am a certified Zumba instructor, and also a retired acrobat (“retired” sounds nicer than saying “I quit”).  There was a time in my life when I was 107 lbs. of rock, and could climb a rope with no feet faster than a Sifaka.  That time, however, has long since past.  For a brief moment this afternoon, I forgot that I am now a sluggish academic who spends 75% of her day sleeping, cooking, or watching Dr. Who, expertly evading productivity.  So me, my extra 10 lbs. and my overly confident attitude went flouncing off to kickboxing, convinced that it would be a “moderate” workout.

Holy. Shitake. Mushrooms.

The instructor was dreadfully peppy, and I had no idea how much I would appreciate that quality about her later.  As the class eased into a rhythm, I was in the zone.  Punching and kicking in a fury, I pictured every obnoxious ex-boyfriend, every driver who had cut me off, and every technical support rep who had ever asked me, “did you push the ‘power’ button on the device?”  After the first 20 minutes, I had worked up an impressive sweat, and was at the beginning stages of fatigue.  The instructor then said something completely unexpected: “Alright, everyone get ready for jump-squats!”  What?!  There are no hardcore plyometrics in kickboxing!  Only kicking and boxing!  After the first round of jump-squats and jump-lunges, I was effectively dying.  Mentally rallying myself, I vowed to finish strong and not complain–but then the tricep dips came.  And the plank-to-pushups.  And football runs.  And plank-to-pikes.  And then we did it all over again.  GOOD GOD, WOMAN.  At about the 45-minute mark, I was deeply humbled.  My quadriceps were laughing at me, and my abs were on strike for inhumane working conditions.

Some valuable lessons were learned this evening. 1) Just because you didn’t gain the Freshman 15 doesn’t mean you’re still in shape.  2) Appreciate the pep, because sometimes the only thing keeping you going is that crazy woman’s smile at the front of the class.  I’ll be damned if she can do it, but I can’t.  3) Stretch, because throwing your back out at the age of 25 just looks stupid.

Be Vewy Vewy Quiet…I’m Hunting Empwoyment

Having entered the last semester of my senior year, I am now completely consumed by cover letters, resumes/CV’s, spreadsheets of company research, and an overall feeling of panic and ineptitude.  Since the beginning of the semester, I have sent 40 applications, written 12 emails of inquiry and answered 2 phone calls from companies begging me to sling insurance, and have since heard absolutely nothing of promise.  Additionally, companies now use entirely automated application systems which exclude any chance of an applicant calling to inquire about the status of an application, following up, or requesting an interview.  If combined, the deliberate dodging of communication, economic slump, abundance of unpaid (read: worthless) opportunities and potentially deadly expectations of new hires (like this stuff), the only thing left to rely on for a soon-to-be-college-grad is luck.

Before the end of April, I anticipate having applied to a total of approximately 125 open positions, with the hope of receiving just one utterance of, “we’d like to invite you for an interview.”  If allowed to present myself, in person, to a hiring manager, I’m completely confident that I could land a job.  However, if one assumes that at least 20 other people apply for the same position (conservatively), and if one crunches the numbers, that gives me a 5% probability of being chosen, assuming we all have comparable skills and qualifications.  Now, I know it’s impossible to boil all this down through mathematical probability and that there are an infinite number of other factors involved, but if I’m being perfectly candid, that little 5% is significant to me.  It looms in the distance, ever-present as I go about my daily activities, always whispering in my ear…”You want to go for a run?  That’s 30 minutes you could spend job hunting.  You think you need to work on your thesis?  What’s more important, graduating with honors or being able to pay off your student loans?

So until such a time comes around in which true panic is necessary, I will continue my repetitive, seemingly endless journey towards the elusive “big-girl job.”  I will continue typing factoids of my education and geographical preference into the same dreary formats, and creating new ways of transfiguring my previous employment as a Hooters girl.  I will persist in harassing the receptionists at my desired places of employment, digging for names, titles and contact information.  My family has continually given me excellent advice, including, “you only need one ‘yes.'”  It’s facts like these that keep horripilation at bay.  

As Mad As a Bag of Ferrets

This blog does not have a purpose, or a focus, or a theme, or any kind of profound personal discoveries of which I feel compelled to share with the world, and I adore it that way.

I have considered starting up another blog for quite some time now (after 2 short-lived attempts in the past) and struggled with the overwhelming urge to “categorize” it somehow.  Some people write about parenting–but I’m not a parent and I don’t think anyone cares to hear the discipline methods I employ with my cats.  Some people write about writing, which I believe requires experience that I don’t have.  Some people write about business, or DIY projects, or photography, aliens, photography of aliens,  fashion do’s and fashion don’t’s, dating or sometimes just weird shit like this.  I thought of blogging about linguistics (my field of study), travel, dating horrors, my cats, my triumphs and failures in the kitchen, etc., but I eventually decided on one topic: stuff that’s in my head.

Perhaps one day it will be how funny I think it is when I feed my cats turkey, or three Tuesdays from now I may write about my love/hate relationship with high heels.    Whatever will be, will be, and this is the beginning.