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.