The Fibonacci Sequence (of Love)

A long time ago, there was a young man who posed the question: “If I have two bunnies, and we put them together in a bunny love shack, how many bunnies will they exponentially breed over a year?”

Ok, so that’s not verbatim, but the mathematics behind it is important. I know you don’t spend your days contemplating mathematical equations and red hot rabbit sex, but stay with me.

The word problem of the breeding bunnies was formed by Leonardo of Pisa, otherwise known as Fibonacci. At least, he is the 13th century guy who was given credit for naming the sequence of numbers that would answer the question

To break it down, in the Fibonacci sequence you add two numbers in the sequence and the following number is their sum. Ex: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, etc. etc.

I’m actually terrible at math, but in this instance, I have developed my own mathematical theory on dating: The Fibonacci Dating Sequence.

Essentially, you are at any given point in your dating life the sum of the previous parts—if you are able to take the lessons learned from those experiences and add them together. (And yes, the 1 is repeated in this sequence. We’re all young and stupid once. We get a free pass.)

For example:

If Amanda gets urinated on, and the experience right before that was the same boy clogging her toilet, the sum of this data = this guy is an incompetent (and incontinent) jackass.

The following date in the sequence—with say, a complete sociopath—combines all of the previous experiences leaving Amanda with the knowledge that she doesn’t like to be peed on and is not a fan of going out with sociopaths who lied about being engaged.

Instead of a dating learning curve, I have a Fibonacci pyramid of dating knowledge that can only culminate in one thing: me meeting someone who likes decent beer, has a functional bladder and has no lusty feelings for fish.

Yeah, there are flaws in my theory. There are people who date the same type of asshole over and over (and over) again. For them, I think there’s a missing sequence that they aren’t adding to their knowledge base. That would make it more like algebra.

X + halitosis = bad date + X

In this situation, bad breath may not seem so bad. But when X=melted all of your spoons to freebase, that would constitute a bad date. But if you forget the value of X and only remember the bad breath you get stuck in a spiral. The bad breath being the deal breaker, the spoon melting could happen again, perhaps with a different iteration such as a pesky little meth habit.

Since I have a deep loathing of algebraic equations, I’ve decided to stick with my original math dating sequence and remember the bad so it doesn’t get repeated.

Lesson learned: The most important part of bad dates is the lesson learned.

Love and Chocolate

Oh, Valentine’s Day. Usually, I’m somewhat saddened by the lack of flowers being delivered to my desk. This year, I’ve decided to look on the bright side. Valentine’s Day is not a day to wallow in the pathetic wasteland that is my love life. It’s an opportunity to steal Valentine’s Day chocolates from my coworkers.

 “What? There was a giant box of Godiva on your desk earlier? I have no idea where that went. This chocolate on my face is, uh, Hershey’s. . . from the vending machine.”

Do they really need all that fat and sugar when they get to go out to a calorie-laden meal later? No. I’m saving them from heart disease. They should thank me.

I’ve also found Valentine’s Day to be useful in discounting the calories from my stolen goods because, frankly, if I’m not getting any affection later on, I at least deserve a damn piece of chocolate.

And later, after I have consumed a bottle of very special Barefoot Pinot Grigio by myself, I will take the time to call or text all of my friends to tell them how very special they are to me and how much I really love them . . . and to reiterate that I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk.

Lesson learned: Regardless of the greeting card industrial complex that orchestrated this holiday, it’s always good to celebrate love. Especially your love for wine.

Taking the Plunge

Earlier this week I received an email from Infant Brit. We haven’t been in contact since we broke up three years ago after he decided to give my headboard a golden shower. I guess, in my memory, I’d romanticized our relationship a bit. Other than “the incident,” was he really all that bad?

So I responded that I was doing well and asked how he was. And then he sent me this: “How’s your love life? I thought you’d be married with kids by now.”

Oh, right, we broke up because he has no tact.

Then it came flooding back to me. He was just awful and really disturbingly dirty. Not dirty in a fun way, dirty in the physically disgusting way. For example, one evening he was in my apartment and had to use the facilities. After a fair amount of time he came rushing out asking me what to do.

He had clogged the toilet.

Honestly, I don’t care if he, or any other guy, clogs the toilet. The plunger is right there, take care of it. In fact, I don’t even need to know about it. Alas, Infant Brit was not quite good at taking care of these ordinary things. He claimed that he had no idea how to fix a clogged toilet, and instead, added more toilet paper and overflowed said toilet. Apparently, water pressure and the mechanics of modern plumbing don’t exist in England. Or in his apartment in San Clemente.

Then he proceeded to tell me this was my fault.

How was this my fault? Because it was my toilet, I must have clogged it well before he spent half an hour in there.

I was left to plunge it myself, and then clean up the mess.

Lesson learned: This lesson is for guys, always know how to plunge a toilet. (And never make a girl you’ve just started dating clean up both your urine and your feces, at least not in the same week.)

Playing Dress Up

When I was young, and still had something resembling hope, I used to spend far too much time getting ready to go on a date. First impressions are important, and damn it, I was always going to make a kick ass first impression! There was the hair, the makeup, the nails, the outfit, the accessories, not to mention the planning what I would eat for the entire day to prevent any foul breath later. God forbid I touch anything onion or garlicky!

Depending on where we were going, it could take me anywhere from an hour to three hours to prep for a date. During one such extended preparation, I pondered what my date was doing to get ready to see me. Did he take the same delicate care in picking out his ensemble? Was he thinking about what cologne I might like the best?

No.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that guy didn’t even brush his teeth, let alone shower. And was that “I’m with stupid” T-shirt meant to be ironic?

And that’s when it hit me, I was spending far too much time and effort getting ready when it was going unappreciated. If I like the guy, yes, I will spend that time. Getting ready for a date I want to go on is almost fun. The anticipation of meeting up, looking nice and having a great time makes up for the inevitable curling iron burns and the possible razor nicks all the way down my leg.

But for the met-online, he wants chicken wings, and I’m not even sure he has the IQ of a gerbil dates, is it worth the effort? The last few blind dates I’ve been on, I’ve been so uninspired that I wonder if I should even bother brushing my hair.

Then again, what if Mr. Bad Grammar in an email turns out to be the future Mr. Amanda who will help me fix my vertical blinds, kill my spiders and gasp . . . open that peanut butter jar that I have been trying to get in to for three weeks!

So maybe I should make the effort of, at the very least, brushing my hair and making sure I don’t smell like I’ve been sitting in a cubicle farm for 9 hours.

Or not.

Lesson learned: If he doesn’t bother to shower, neither will I.

Rent-a-Husband

Last week, a friend of mine came up with a business idea called “rent-a-husband.” This wouldn’t just be fixing things around the house. Rent-a-husband could also stop by to open jars, take out the trash, snake a drain, etc. I scoffed thinking I could do all these things for myself. Having lived alone for most of my adult life, I like to think of myself as being fairly self-sufficient. I’ve learned to open my own jars, kill my own spiders and I have a step stool to reach those high shelves. As much as I’d like to have my own live-in handyman/boyfriend, I like to do these things for myself, which would negate the need for a rent-a-husband. In fact, I rarely ever ask for help when it comes to fixing things around my apartment, despite the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Case in point: I’ve decided to move to a new apartment and am in the process of cleaning up my current residence. The only part of the apartment that I’ve actually damaged in my three years tenure is the wand control on my vertical blinds.

I decided I would fix this myself.

Getting on my step stool I reached up, trying to figure out how the piece fit in with the other piece and made the thingy work. (Yes, those are technical terms.) Even on my stool, I can barely reach the rails for the blinds. I reached, and I pushed and I poked at the ceiling with the wand control, and I still could not get it to fit correctly into the slot.

So what does a girl who refuses to ask for help do when she can’t fix a set of blinds?

She squirts super glue up into the rail and smashes the wand into it to try to make something stick.

And that is how I super glued my fingers together and half the blinds to the wall.

Lesson learned: Even independent single women need help. I wonder if rent-a-husband would know how to repair a set of vertical blinds?

The Millionaire and His Date

I recently allowed my online dating profiles to expire. After a year of dating unemployed albinos, perpetually stoned baby haters and a guy obsessed with chicken waaaangs, I needed a break from the onslaught of topless man photos and “u look hawt” emails.

The last online Match that I encountered seemed very polite and well spoken in his emails so I agreed to go out with him just as my account went on hiatus. I typically restrict my first dates to just coffee but this guy seemed very enthused about going to George’s at the Cove, so I agreed.

I was alone in the bar enjoying a glass of wine when he walked in, and the first thing I saw was not my date himself, but his colossal man ring. It was enormous. I have never seen anything that large on a man’s hand outside of a Godfather movie. I didn’t even look up at him because my eyes were drawn to it as he moved his hands. When I finally did look up, I realized that my date was dressed like Thurston Howell III, the millionaire from Gilligan’s Island. All he needed was an ascot and the hat.

I try really hard to give guys the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t want to count this guy out because of his dated fashion sense or because he perhaps had an obsession with man jewelry. So I struck up a conversation with him about his job. His job has something to do with traffic management.

You know what’s more fun than sitting in San Diego rush hour traffic? Talking about it for two hours.

As I ordered my third glass of wine, I tried to change subjects to movies, books, music . . . anything but the I5 freeway! Alas, it seems all topics revert back to transportation.

The waiter gave me a sympathetic look as I drained my glass of wine and wondered how on earth I could get through dinner faster. If only I had eaten some bad sushi earlier in the day!

As we said good night, I hugged him and wished him well. We would not be going out again. It was like having dinner with my grandfather, if my grandfather was a nice person with a vested interest in highway construction. The saddest part, my date was only 28 years old.

Lesson learned: Well spoken and polite will get you far in Amandaland. Dressing like Thurston Howell will not.

The Good Beer

The Good Beer

As much as I love beer, I am not a beer snob. I’ll drink a finely-crafted microbrew IPA, or a can of BudLite. I just like beer. I like everything about it. It’s one of the most awesome beverages ever created. So a few years ago when my ex-boyfriend offered me a can of Miller Lite at a party, I thought nothing of it.

We had just started dating and this was the very first time I was going to his house to meet his roommates. They were having a party and ex-boyfriend was the only person I knew. As per usual, I wanted to make a good impression, which led me to be as awkward as humanly possible.

“Want a beer?” he asked when I’d been there for about two minutes.

Yes, liquid courage is what I needed. A can of Miller Lite would work as well as anything. So I cracked it open and proceeded to mingle.

Ten minutes later as I stood in the backyard trying my best to talk to ex-boyfriend’s roommate’s girlfriend, ex-boyfriend comes strutting out of the house with a Corona.

Again, I thought nothing of this other than “oh, Corona, I should find one of those.”

Perhaps the Corona had been brought in by a party guest for sharing?

No.

Apparently, ex-boyfriend had bought a case of Corona . . . for himself. The Miller Lite was for the party guests. The Corona, or as he called it, “the good beer,” that was ever so slightly more expensive, was just for him. After asking if I could have one, he said no and handed me another Miller Lite because that was what was intended for the guests.

Welcome to the party, Amanda!

Lessons learned:
A) Leave a party where Corona is considered “the good beer.”
B) Men who are unwilling to share one bottle of said “good beer” will not share other good things with you, like the covers, the remote control or their affection.
C) I should not be surprised that this guy still owes me money, four years later.

Merry Christmas, Amanda Brown

Last week, I went to Christmas party with my mother. At one point, someone asked me, “What’s your favorite part about Christmas?”

To which I replied, “The crushing blackness of depression . . . and candy canes.”

My mother was not exactly enthused with my response. Actually, a lot of people find my disgust at the holiday season disconcerting.

To clarify, I don’t hate Christmas. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are right up there with Thanksgiving in my favorite days of the year. I’m a big fan of anything that revolves around presents and candy and general good will towards men. It’s also the one day of the year that my dad let’s me dip into his collection of high end single malt scotch.

What I don’t like is the six or so weeks of over-hyped romantic fantasies that involve mistletoe and some poor hapless girl finding finding the love of her life with the help of a fat burglar who steals baked goods. Do I really want to watch endless hours of Reese Witherspoon, or worse, Valerie Bertinelli find true love at Christmas?

It’s the time of year where every commercial talks about what to “get that special someone” for Christmas or you’ll get asked “who are you bringing to the New Year’s Eve party?”

The previews alone for the movie “New Year’s Eve,” made me want to shoot an elf.

Whatever holiday you celebrate, if you’re single, that over-merried gush of expected romance is inescapable. And if, for some reason, you don’t feel merry about showing up alone to another holiday party, there are the nice little pats on the arm and the “you’ll find someone this year.”

Can I not just be happy with my peppermint schnapps?

Lesson learned: In the words of Adult Swim, “Have a reasonably jolly holiday season.” And if anyone wants to give you a new year’s resolution about dating, feel free to stab them with a candy cane.

The Twelve Dates of Christmas

On the first date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, a British man who needed to pee.

On the second date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, two bouts of flu and a British man who needed to pee.

On the third date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the fourth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the fifth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the sixth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the seventh date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the eighth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the ninth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the tenth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the eleventh date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, eleven creepy orgies, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the twelfth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, twelve cheating cliff divers, eleven creepy orgies, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

Have a merry December!

Homage to Turkey

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. Some might say my excitement over it borders on obsession. I begin planning my menu two months in advance. This past weekend I jumped into a freezer case at the grocery store to wrestle out a turkey, fully aware of the spectacle I was making of myself trying to lift a 21 lbs. frozen bird into the shopping cart. Thursday morning I will get out of bed at 4:30 a.m. to begin making everything from scratch while also whipping up a batch of bloody Marys. And by 9 a.m. I’ll be tenderizing (or drunkenly beating the crap out of) my turkey before stuffing it, tossing it in the oven and starting on side dishes and a plethora of mini desserts.

Why am I so crazy over a holiday whose origins began with land invasion and smallpox?

Because modern Thanksgiving fosters, nay, celebrates several of my biggest vices: eating too much, drinking too much, football and napping.

It also allows me to fulfill my overwhelming need to feed people. I constantly feel like I should be preparing some sort of food, no matter where I am. I’m practically the witch from Hansel and Gretel who fattens people up in her gingerbread house.

And finally, Thanksgiving doesn’t require a two-month, party-filled prelude that smashes obnoxiously romantic commercials, movies and TV shows in your face. No one says “It’s OK if you don’t have a date for this Thanksgiving party.” Frankly, it’s not a sexy holiday anyway. Who gets all hot and bothered by stretchy pants, food babies and the inevitable heartburn?

It’s simply a day to be thankful for what you do have, to drink like you don’t have to work the next day and then slip into a coma as the sounds of football blare from the TV.

Lesson learned: On Thanksgiving, there’s no need to worry about who you’ll impress, what you look like or if anyone will be calling you back the next day. I like to think of it as my dating day of rest.