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.
Aha!
Apparently, zombies and flowcharts are attention getters. Shortly after I published my “Are you dating a moron or a zombie?” post, I received an email from Mutual of Omaha asking me if I’d mind being on film.
My knee-jerk response to that question is always, emphatically, no. But since they are a legitimate financial institution, I figured whatever they wanted to film me for would be in good taste. Perhaps they wanted me to be on Wild Kingdom, even though my only knowledge of animals is restricted to small dogs and domestic cats. And once I had a goldfish that lived for three years.
Sadly, I was not to tame any lions or go in search of prehistoric looking lizards, they wanted to film me as part of their “Aha! Moments” campaign. Essentially, they wanted me to recount any epiphanies my blog has brought about.
The only thing I can think of is that now instead of telling me that they hope I meet a nice guy, most of my readers say “it’s going to suck when you meet someone, no more blog.”
I don’t know if I find that heart warming or sad.
To make matters worse, I had to meet the Omaha people in a van/bus in Balboa Park. Windowless vans do not inspire confidence in me, especially when paired with video cameras.
They seemed fairly legit though, so I stepped into said windowless bus and . . . blank.
As soon as they said they were filming my brain stopped recording. The only thing I remember saying was that I didn’t want to date bed wetters or raging alcoholics. I left ten minutes later clutching a souvenir clapboard and trying to figure out what level of ass I had just made of myself.
The result is this momentous video of me:
Apparently talking about bed wetters didn’t make the cut. Oh well.
Lesson learned: When being filmed for Internet ad campaigns, take a deep breath, smile, and for crying out loud, don’t talk about alcoholics.
The Chicken Dance
About a week ago I received an email from a guy on Match. It simply said, “Can I ask you a question?”
I’ve got to give this guy credit for being an attention getter. If he’d sent me the same ‘ole crappy form email: “Hi, I’m a San Diego native who likes eating quesadillas and hanging out with my friends, ” I probably would have ignored him. But this peaked my interest, so I replied. His question was, “Do you know how gorgeous you are?”
Before you think I’m naive (well, at least about this), I am well aware that this is just a line that he has probably used on a lot of women. But what can I say, I’m a sucker for flattery.
We exchanged a few texts and he eventually asked to meet up. Great, I thought, I could use a nice date. And then he laid out the details.
“It’s 25 cent wing night. We’ll get some wings and $3 long islands. I could use some good waaaaaaangs.”
Wow.
It’s not that I have a problem with going to a dive bar, or chicken wings, or even quarters. But the last thing you say to a girl you don’t even know is, “Hey baby, let me buy you some sub-par chicken parts and turpentine cocktails.”
Let’s not even get into the messiness associated with eating chicken wings. Not exactly a first date food. My first dates usually consist of a cup of coffee and seeing if we can stand talking to each other for more than 30 minutes.
I asked him is he was trying to take me to Hooters for a first date, which he denied. Instead he asked me to a crappy bar in Pacific Beach. For those of you who are not from San Diego, Pacific Beach is where college kids go to kill their dignity on the weekends. It’s my least favorite part of town and I actively avoid going there.
But I was willing to go along with all of this until he started text messaging me. Not once or twice, but all the time. “What are you doing?” “Where are you?””Are you drunk?”
We hadn’t even met yet.
The texts began to morph into conversations that included various pet names for me (gorgeous, baby, etc.) and how fun it will be to get “f-d up.” Our date was on a Wednesday, which would mean no long island iced teas and probably not more than a glass of wine.
Eventually all of this began to remind me of a bad Lifetime movie about date rape. I decided we should meet somewhere else where I felt comfortable, and could perhaps enjoy something not deep friend and coated in butter. (OK, yes, I admit that I was worried about the potential for heartburn).
I asked if instead of “waaaaaaangs” night, we could meet somewhere else. I suggested a bar closer to where he said he lived and ended my note with “in all honesty, I loathe PB.”
Mr. Chicken wings was not excited about the change in plans. He asked me if I was lining up other dates that night, and that he was craving wings and was not willing to move the venue. I also don’t think he understood the meaning of the word “loathe.”
After asking a few of my friends what they thought, I decided this wasn’t exactly the kind of guy I was looking for. We obviously have different priorities, his being chicken and mine being . . . not chicken. I sent a final text telling him I thought we might just have different expectations and perhaps we shouldn’t meet after all. Best of luck. To which he told me I was a judgmental bitch and he didn’t need my luck.
And the irony is, later that night, I was craving chicken wings.
Lesson learned: Sometimes it helps to use smaller words when explaining your feelings.
A Slightly Serious Halloween
In honor of one of my favorite holidays, I created a handy flow chart to help you decipher if your date among the living dead, or just the brain dead. If you’re a single guy, you could easily use this guide to find out if the girl you just went out with smelled that way because she’s shunning deodorant or is slowly decomposing.
So read ahead and find out: Are you dating a zombie?
(And yes, I made those blood stains myself! I’m practicing my Photoshop skills.)
Happy Halloween!
Almost Famous
Over the past few days, someone I recently dated has been indirectly in the news. (Don’t worry, it’s not for killing anyone.) Exciting for him, less exciting for me that I get reminders of him over the radio. It did, however, get me thinking of my one and only brush with dating someone famous.
When I was 22, I was helping out with an awards ceremony for work where I was introduced to a variety of San Diego’s elite. For the most part, I was ignored, but one guy took a special interest in me and asked for my number. Being young and naive (and extremely flattered) I agreed. At the time, I just thought he was a nice guy and had no idea who he was. I also thought he was about 35.
Turns out he’s a relatively famous artist and my mother practically fainted when I told her his name.
I should also mention that no, he was not 35, he was 47.
We met at one of his galleries where he took me up to his studio to show me where he painted. His studio was also the loft he inhabited when he stayed in town. My eyes were immediately drawn to the six-foot topless wooden mermaid that was suspended face down over the bed. Among his other fishy decor, several scandalous drawings he had done of Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
Ok, so he had a thing for fish.
We left after a few moments to grab dinner followed by a movie, but lingering too long at dinner (fish) where he talked exclusively about his own brilliance as an artist, we missed the movie.
“Let’s just watch something at my place,” he said.
I was young. He was literally old enough to be my father and I was somewhat in awe that someone as famous as this guy had asked me out. So I agreed.
He put on the movie Desparado. I missed most of the movie because I was so preoccupied with appearing lady-like and mature. Fast-forward approximately 37 minutes to where Antonio Banderas and Selma Hayek bare it all for the camera and quasi-famous artist lunges across the couch, sticks a hand down the top of my dress and licks the side of my face.
My first thought was: how do I respond to this?
My second thought: It’s really too bad that there was garlic butter on his dinner.
Daintily, I plucked his hand away and excused myself to the bathroom where I attempted to wash my face with yet more dirty pictures of The Little Mermaid staring at me.
Pleading tiredness, I left and went home. He gave me a signed copy of one of his gallery books as a parting gift. Really, he shouldn’t have.
Lesson learned: Fame does not equal class. (And also Ariel can be a total slut!)