When I go on dates and the man ends up a complete whack job, I always wonder how many guys I’ve been out with who count me as a horror story. In all honesty, I can think of exactly two men out there who can legitimately think of me as an absolute weirdo.

In one case, were I ever to run into him again and get a fearful glance, I’ll merely have to bring up that he was a 35-year-old man trying to sleep with a 22-year-old girl, and that he deserved every ounce of crazy that I threw at him.

In the other case, the man got a good look at my insanity, excused himself politely, and has thankfully never brought it up again. We peacefully coexist on various social networking sites, ‘like’-ing each other’s statuses and whatnot. I think he knows he just pushed a few too many wrong buttons. Combine that with me not getting my way on where that relationship was going, and it’s insta-crazy.

Outside these two instances, I’m solidly not crazy. As proof of my sanity, I keep going on dates. Maybe you think that doing the same thing over and over again (going on dates) is the definition of insanity, but I see it as perseverance. That, and a test of patience. After all, I’ve not killed any of these fuckers.

Long ago I wrote an entry about the worst date I’d ever been on. Since that time, I’ve learned a bit about him that might explain our different outlooks on the night. For instance, cultural differences in dating lead some new-to-the-country guys to display consistent peculiarities. Also, having lived near the man for about a year, I learned that he is a raging alcoholic.

On Saturday night I found myself in the company of a man who lives more than a thousand miles away. He was polite, kept up in conversation, and gave me no reason to say no when he invited me to lunch the following day. Geography makes this a no-go on an actual relationship, but lunch with a handsome man never hurt anyone. If nothing else, I figured it’ll give me good practice for future dating opportunities. And, really, who doesn’t enjoy an ahi salad for lunch?

This entry now segues into a pseudo article that offers dating tips for men. After all, I’ve previously written an article that regularly gets hits on how to increase your chances of getting a response off a dating site.

Now, instead of employing my suggestions to prosper in the virtual world, it’s time to focus on what not to do on a date.

First and foremost, Put the Goddamn Cell Phone Down. I know that he is in town for business and fielding a ton of emails for sales interviews, but it wouldn’t have killed him to put the cell phone away for the two hours we were together. Not only did he stay glued to the incoming emails, but he also stopped twice to check voicemail.

His constant checking said that he didn’t care about my company, and I essentially stopped talking (as not to disrupt his work). I enjoyed my ahi and arugula by the beeps of his phone pad while he responded emails.

However, during the time that we did share conversation, I was reminded to Keep Your Baggage to Yourself. I should know nothing of this sort:

That your dad died when you were little. That you would have had another sister, had she not died of SIDs. That your mom went to jail when you were 11 because she and her friend beat a three-year-old to death while they were high. That you met your eldest son for the first time a few weeks ago. That you’ve had three colonoscopies in the past year.

There are friends I’ve had for years yet don’t know this much about. And frankly, unless we are best friends to the end or I’m siring your children after a few years of marital bliss, I don’t need to know any of this.

When you’re not going on and on about the badness you’ve encountered during your three or four decades on this green and blue rock, it’s also a good idea to Avoid being a Jerk.

We all know there are certain topics to avoid. Both politics and religion are potentially polarizing or offensive, and that’s really not what you’re going for on a first date. Keep it light, keep it airy, and don’t ask if I date black guys and then stare at me judgingly as I exclaim that I love all men who are polite, well-spoken, and clean.

At this point, the date doesn’t seem to be going well. After all, he’s asked several times if I was bored, interpreting my silence as he tip-taps on that tiny keyboard as such. Then he was met with an emphatically negative head shake when he laid all of his business out and stated, “That’s all my baggage. What about you?” And then there’s silly ol’ me with my insistence that I’d happily smash Taye Diggs, Ludacris, Lenny Kravitz, Shemar Moore, and Will Smith.

After all this, I will say that when it came down to the typical acts, he did indeed Maintain the Chivalry. He pulled back my chair. He provided assistance with putting on my jacket. He held doors — both to the restaurant and to the car.

Because of the chivalry-related items above, I really want to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. I’d like to think that this is an instance of a girlfriend in the past wanting to be taken care of in a nontraditional way, and his compliance was his way to trying that out. However, this certain act caught me completely off guard and makes me have to spell out to Don’t be Weird.

Homeboy opened the car door, assisted me in, and then… buckled my seat belt for me.

He did it so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to react. Because, really, who in the frig buckles a seatbelt for anyone over the age of five? The valet and I exchanged WTF expressions, validating that my surprise was indeed warranted.

As he helped me into the car post-lunch, he started to reach for the belt, and I stopped him:

Me: That’s okay! I’ve got it!

Him: What? Don’t you like being treated like a lady?

Me: Like a lady, yes. Like a baby, no.

Well guys, my two hours at lunch netted you five tips on how not to screw up a date. Check back again, as I’m sure I’ll have more dates with plenty more tips on what not to do.

I remember the first time I ever called 911. I lived in a really shady part of Austin, and there was someone blatantly driving drunk. In a span of about 1000 feet, the guy nearly caused three accidents. As he approached the road, he pulled into oncoming traffic and proceeded toward a very busy road.

This wasn’t in the age of cell phones, so I pulled over and dialed the three numbers that were drilled into our little heads when we were wee ones. I guess I expected the operator to be like, “Oh crap! That’s dangerous, and we’re on it!”

Sadly, I was mistaken. She was annoyed that I couldn’t tell her where the guy was intending to go. I had his car’s make, model, and license plate; however, I couldn’t read his booze-riddled brain to say anything more than he was heading toward Riverside Dr.

Fortunately I moved to a better part of town and never had to call Austin’s 911 operators again.

Several years later, I found myself living in Chicago. Although I lived in the wealthiest zipcode around, with a big city comes big city problems. Also, with a big city comes a kick-ass response time and professionals who do their job in and out.

I call, they gather the proper information, and someone’s there within minutes.

Some jackasses are beating the crap out of some other jackasses in River North. BAM! The cops are there, pulling jackass off of jackass.

Each time I called, the operator was efficient, helpful, and totally on top of things.

When I found myself in New Caney, Texas at the start of 2009, I knew a lot about my life was going to be different. However, the professionalism of one’s local 911 operators never crossed my mind.

Ya know, it’s not like I go around calling 911, having the police check on windows left open, cars parked for too long, or kids loitering on corners. The three times I called 911 while living in Montgomery County, I was met with absolute contempt.

In one instance, a brush fire just broke out. I told the operator it was about 2 miles west of a large intersection, and she gave me lip about needing a cross street. If you’re familiar with New Caney, you are probably laughing right now. Cross streets? When directions are told in the manner of telling someone to turn left at the third cow pasture, cross streets aren’t exactly known. Add to it that this particular road is just long, and, well, that’s that. I did my part in reporting it. Any subsequent damage is off my conscious.

The second time I called was to have the police retrieve a man who was riding a bicycle down the center of a very busy road. It was dark, he was weaving, and his bike was — HELLO — riding down the yellow line. I called and said something like, “Could you please send a cop to come get the drunk guy riding down the center stripe on the loop on his bike?” and was shot back, “How do you know he’s drunk?!”

Look, I wasn’t hoping for the Montgomery County police department to come swarming out and arresting this law-breaking citizen. Mostly I just wanted them to take him off the road so he doesn’t accidentally get hit. If nothing else, I’m saving the county time and effort: getting a drunk guy off his bike is a lot less messy than sweeping brain off the street.

The third time I called was to report a case of road rage where someone tried to run me off the road, and then got out of his vehicle to threaten me. I don’t know what this hillbilly thought I did, but I wanted them to have his license plate number if I was going to be shot.

This 911 operator told me that he was probably having a bad day, and to just go about my business and let him go about his. I could, of course, have an officer come to home to take a statement. But I should know that nothing would come of it because it’s my word against the hillbilly’s. It’s the truth, yes, but can you say:

o_O

Less than an hour later, I was on an airplane leaving that godforsaken shithole. It was fine timing for getting the frig outta there.

I now live in a new city. Things here are pretty quiet. After all, I live in the suburbs with a bunch of upper-middleclass families. I’d make some quip about how the worst thing to happen in this area would be jaywalking, but the police presence every single night after 11 p.m. tells me otherwise.

Drunk driving is #1 around here.

Tonight I met up with a friend. He had already been there a few hours, throwing back the beers. I sipped my hot tea while talking with another bar patrons, noting that he was nodding off, clumsy in his stool, and talking jibberish.

My, “All right, big guy. I’m driving you home,” was met with resistance. Dropping him off is not an issue at all. Taking him to his car tomorrow morning before work also isn’t a deterrent from taking up my offer. We went back and forth a couple times, and then he started toward my car.

He hit the wall. He walked into a chair. He hit the server’s station. Once outside the restaurant’s patio, he nearly fell off the curb. I asked if that was enough proof that he should ride with me, again saying that I’d drive him to his car as soon as he woke up, and he got even more insistent.

I grabbed his arm. I yelled at him. He grabbed and yelled back. I said that I was now seeking assistance and that he should expect to see the cops if he tried to drive home. I went back to the restaurant, and 911 was called.

When I went back to my car, he wasn’t around. Driving down the road back toward our homes, he wasn’t walking. I don’t know what he chose to do, but I guarantee there was a police car looking for a grey Xterra around the restaurant.

I don’t care if we are friends, I will call 911 when you drive drunk.

As the OkCupid blog reports, only 32% of messages get a response. According to that number, your chances of getting something back seem pretty slim. However, when you consider what content a majority of the messages sent contain, your chances aren’t that bad… or you’re part of the population doing something wrong.

I’ve only recently started reading the forums. Time and time again, I hear men whining about ‘bitches’ who don’t write them back.

If you view my profile, it has a banner saying that I respond “very selectively”. As one of those ‘bitches’ who chooses not to write a majority of people back, I took a week’s worth of messages to examine and display just why I reply to messages so infrequently.

NOTE: I gathered the data a few months ago, so as not to embarrass anyone in recent history with the message he might have written.

I received 35 messages that week, so my sample size works pretty well. Not every message is included in this write-up, as many are single sentences that fall into the first category. For the sake of not repeating myself, I chose only one example to explain why that method doesn’t work.

Let’s now examine the messages.

Profile not read

There’s no doubt that online dating is a time-consuming effort. OkCupid does a good job of narrowing your list, but it still takes time and effort to locate profiles, read what the other person says, and come up with an opening message.

The quickest way to get shut down (besides something obvious, like the litany of messages I’ve received asking about lewd acts), is to send a generic message that gives no indication that the profile was read.

This is a vast majority of the messages I receive.

Hi, how are you?

Not compelled to write you… Or the three others this week who wrote essentially this same thing.

I’m a second generation lonestar. Grew up in small towns along the Texas gulf coast, mostly doing the kinds of things that I imagine people do when they live somewhere else. Feel most like me when outside, but spend the longest part of my working days in the house I’ve been buying for the last many years. I’m older brother to a lil red-headed sister. She’s one of my favorite people. I drive a VW diesel — it’s green and economical. sorta. My dentist tells me I have great teeth. (He’s really very complimentary so I’m starting to think I’ve got something).. I try to do the right thing. I know stuff. So please, look me over and if you’re up to it, write back!

“Here’s a whole lot about me. I didn’t feel like reading your profile to see what we have in common, so I’m hoping you’ll find something in my mini introduction that makes you want to say hi to me.”

i think you are very attractive and would love to get to know you, if you feel the same message back and see where it goes from there…

or

You seem like a pretty cool person, and intelligent too. I would love to chat sometime.

Generally flattery gets you everywhere. And, yes, it’s better to compliment my smile rather than my rack. But throwing out a generic compliment isn’t enough to get a response.

I fully acknowledge that some of these messages weren’t necessarily sent with the intention of getting conversation started. However, I feel that I need to point out that this doesn’t work for the sake of users who write nice things with hopes for a reply.

Receiving this sort of message simply says: Your photos were hot enough, and that’s enough for me. Now please take the time to read my profile, figure out if we have anything in common, and then write me a thought-out message to start some conversation.

Don’t be lazy. Profiles have text for a reason.

Profile read, failure to execute

This is a frustrating type of message because you know that the other person put a little effort into it, yet there’s just nothing to work with.

I hear you already: “Quite being a jerk, check out his profile, find something, and then write back.” And since you’re calling me a jerk, I’ll respond as one: “I’m the one with 35 messages a week. Give me something to respond to, and I might.”

I’m including these two not to point out that they’re necessarily wrong in their approach. (It’s a actually good start.) I just want to show how this can be improved so you don’t get caught in the ‘maybe’ pile.

Totally understand your outlook. Nightshift at my job is what keeps me going – i just can’t do the 9 to 5. I would like to know more of your thoughts on anything – you have stirred my curiosity.

There’s a section in my profile about how I’m investing in real estate and doing some forex trading, so props to the guy for mentioning that. However, he fails to deliver on a follow-up query. My “thoughts on anything” make him curious to hear more, but it doesn’t make me curious enough to respond. Too vague.

Hey, just saw your profile and thought I’d say hi. Let’s argue about politics and religion!!!! I don’t have anyone to argue with these days!

Once again, this guy pulled something from my profile. However, it would have been a whole lot more interesting if he’d have said something like, “So, what do you think about XYZ? I’d love to hear your opinion and tell you why you’re wrong over coffee.”

FTW

I got one message during the sample week that received a response. Many weeks don’t have such a message. And even when they do, sometimes I go to the guy’s page to find that he lives 50 miles away, loves his dogs, or hates ‘bitches’ who don’t respond to messages. There’s also the ultimate kiss of death for someone looking for a relationship with me: looking for casual encounters. (This is another blog entry for another time.)

In sum, this is an example of a good message. Writing such a note might get you a response. However, your profile and stated goals also have to align.

Dinner somewhere you’ve never been and recreational arguing?! Sweet!

Tabling the fact that we don’t know each other (for the moment), that sounds like a pretty damn happening way to spend an evening, and making new friends is always good. Plus, in a town with such good Taiwanese, Ethiopian, Modern English and Nouvelle Indian places, there’s surely a decent opportunity for culinary misadventures…

Care to argue sometime? I won’t even think about bringing you know who up!

He pulled a couple things from my profile, threw in some enthusiasm, and sounds like an interesting dinner companion. Bravo!

Fail, fail, fail

These are the weird ones I just had to include. Enjoy!

…how the hell does this thing figure you’re only a 1% enemy? I wonder what question out of the 2500 you’ve answered that didn’t line up. It’s kind of unfortunate that out of all the people on here within a 7 year age range, you’re the only one that seems to give a shit about not being a chunky butt. What’s up with that?

He had me up to ‘chunky butt’.

Hi i was looking at you profile and you seem like a really interesting girl, i know I ama little younger than you, but I would love to have a good time with you and share different experiences and emotions. what do you think? i am really honest and discret.

Sharing experiences? Emotions? Being ‘discret’ about that sort of thing?

Ear-resistible? I would go van gogh for you.

I don’t even know what the fuck this means. The guy wants to bite off my ear? Do I need a restraining order?

Twas an odd hour at night
And feeling quite right
Until I happened upon a phrase
that I try as I might
did not seem correct…
“People who use big words to sound smarter.” And those of us who know all them big hard words due to standardize testing forcing us to learn them.
While my lexicon is quite verbose
perhaps more so then most
I wish it to be known
I do not use it just so my intelligence will be shown.
or Yo what is up you foxy lady.

What. In. The. Fuck?

Lately I’ve been on-loan to another team at my job. Things are going well in the sense that I’m appreciated, they like the way I think, and they value my input. Things aren’t going well in that they want me to attend two meetings per day and read through 106 emails per week.

If there are two work-type things I most don’t enjoy, those are they.

(I take that back. Those are numbers 2 and 3 behind filling out my actuals, detailing how many hours I spent on each project.)

Anyway, during minute 64 of my 30-minute meeting, my brother’s dog started doing his “I really need to take a leak” dance. I was on a blog hiatus when I learned the unfortunate events that occur when said dance is ignored (or in my case then, misinterpreted), so I can’t reference back to that story.

That being said, I took ol’ Maxwell’s sidesteps seriously and opened the door for him. Instead of high-tailing it (har har) to a nearby bush and returning to the house, the fucker just took off.

I’m in a meeting with some important person trying to talk through our pagination and grouping options, so I’m not much help in doing, well, anything to prevent the 67 pounds of dust and fur from doing whatever he wants to do.

Le sigh.

I resign myself to finishing out my meeting and then searching for the flea bag.

Those who know me in real life or via Facebook know that I’m now the owner of a shiny, new SUV. It’s really, really nice, and I keep it really, really clean. I even have Airwick clip-on things to make my car smell like dryer sheets.

In sum, there’s no way I’m letting that sack of shed in my new whip.

I rummaged through the collection of keys for the Keena fleet, coming up with the key for the only non-nice car we’ve got: my brother’s truck. (He’s currently driving my dad’s truck around school while some routine maintenance is performed on what he affectionately (and facetiously) calls his Black Beauty.)

The thing with my brother’s truck is… well, it’s been driven by a young man in his early 20s. It smells like boy. My above-mentioned Airwick clips have nothing on the salty scent that wafts when you merely crack open the door.

So with the windows open and my head hanging out, I took ol’ Black Beauty in search of that nasty beast.

I searched. And I searched. And I searched.

That asshole dog was nowhere to be found.

Because there was nothing more for me to do and I knew I’d get my ass chewed by my maa for losing the geriatric hound, I went and ate crab legs with my sister.

(In one short week back in Houston, I have clearly reverted back to being 15.)

Mid-way through our butter-dipped friends of the Alaskan variety, I got a text from my dad saying it was safe to go home since the dog was found.

And where was he, as my mom made a single lap in Black Beauty?

One goddamn street over, playing with some puppies!

No matter how frustrating it was to worry about said dog (Did I mention that he’s ten years old? And half-deaf? And possibly half-blind?) and circle the ‘hood over and over, I’m glad he’s safe.

Now, if he’d quit farting while lying next to me, we’d be even better.

As can be expected, things aren’t going so hot here. I mean, yeah, I’m fine. I have my health. I have my monies protected. I’m surrounded by good friends. I’m gonna make it. Blah blah blah.

But much like a pregnant woman viewing a commercial for dryer sheets, I’m prone to inappropriate bouts of tears. Being the sort of person with little emotional reaction to, well, anything, it’s getting rather annoying. Damn these human-esque traits!

And because emotional instability is THE BEST time to make major decisions, I just put in an application on an apartment in a city far, far away.

I’m not giving the details quite yet, but it’s along the lines of my big ol’ move to Chicago where I essentially know no one, have no set plans, and am just gonna show up, move into an apartment, and go from there.

Unlike my move to Chicago, it won’t be seven degrees outside:

Also unlike Chicago, I am employed this time with the work-from-home gig I’ve held for six years. I won’t have the freedom to wander nearly as much, but right now I’d rather the money to eat sushi than the time to find sushi places to look into and think about one day eating within.

I put in an application for an apartment in a decent area where I can walk to a few things, park my car without issue, and not have to carry mace everywhere I go. The place also has granite counters, so hopefully that correctly indicates that it’s not a flop house. Add to it that I’m also glad to see a 24 Hour Fitness gym down the way and an easily accessible Wells Fargo bank branch, and you have no doubt that I’m a bona fide adult.

Having moved four times this year (oh wanderlust!), I’ve got things down to a minimum. And by that, I mean that all of my personal effects fit into two boxes, a gym bag, and a suitcase. (My move to Chicago in August included one extra box, so yay me for pairing it down even more!)

My next move will be into an unadorned home where no one else currently resides, so I now have to consider things like dishes, linens, and that really good-smelling spray cleaner you can buy from Target.

Now that I’m in a location with enough space to pack my items in a manner I find acceptable (hurriedly moving out of one’s home via trash bags in seven minutes flat does not bode well for organization), I’m shopping for said items with hopes that settling into my new home doesn’t require multiple excursions to Target — no matter how much I like their cleaning supplies.

from R. S.
to anonymous@craigslist.org
subject Best Ad I’ve Read

Hi!

Unquestionably, yours is the best ad I’ve read on cl. You sound like the perfect person I’m seeking.

Drum roll…..

but I’m married.

Gasp.

Lacking a mental and physical connection with my mate, but unable to leave, I am seeking to fill a void in my life. If you’re not interested in getting involved, I completely understand. If you’re still reading:

37, wm, 5′9″, 168#, good looking, highly educated professional (who is important at work ) respectful, sane, ddf, clean, great sense of humor.

I have a face pic if you’re still reading…

from Jo
to R. S.
subject Re: Best Ad I’ve Read

And here’s a CL Best-of written just for you!

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/phi/187640237.html

…to live with the man I love.

It was real, and it was perfect. And there’s really no feeling like being enveloped in someone’s arms when everything feels so right.

There’s also no feeling quite like the one where you see something wrong, seek and gain confirmation that your eyes aren’t playing tricks, and then you get the fuck outta there.

So now I’m living in a friend’s second bedroom, out of the garbage bags I used to move hastily out of what we considered ‘our home’ for a whopping week and a half.

I’d love to vent my frustrations, but I’ll save it for another time when I can provide links to ward away any threats of libel.

After all, one can’t be sued for defamation of character when everything said is 100% true.

And, really. That’s that.

When your work involves anything to do with writing computer manuals, you know work’s going to be like scraping your brain with sandpaper. I accept the boredom as inevitable, and appreciate that I’m good at what I do, people mostly leave me alone, and I get paid like a pimp.

Taking those positives, I long ago got used to the constant tscht-tscht against my grey matter.

We’re currently fixing everything that’s wrong with a web site, and my to-do list has gotten out of hand. My boss offered to take about 20 of my 150+ items, so I happily assigned them to her. Mid-way through her fixes, I got an IM:

[16:14] SheBoss: I’m about half-way through the SIRs you gave me, and I have a new appreciation for how boring your job can be.

Kickass.

Not too long ago my nephew announced that God visited him on the playground.

I know some of you just gave that an, “Awww.” I, however, am of the opposite opinion.

Perhaps it’s my being in the South, but I’m now seeing way too much of religion geared toward children that mimics the way Sesame Street hammers the ABCs into their little heads.

Indoctrination via song and story is still indoctrination, and it very much raises my radar when it comes to protecting those kids.

I understand that kids at the boy’s age are coming to grips with the realities of a scary world.

Pets and grandparents die. People lie. Others cheat, steal, and take other unsavory actions.

Their little brains process this world and naturally seek an explanation. For example, child abuse isn’t something the kids can comprehend, but punishment is. And knowing that someone who hurts kids is being dealt with by the biggest and baddest boss out there brings some comfort. It doesn’t explain the actual issue, but it does pacify the need for there to be some right to this wrong.

Since they’ve started attending church, they have been making comments that throw me. Most uncomfortably is that any cross is “where Jesus died”. And, by the way, “Why are there so many crosses on the side of the road?”

Anyway, my anti-indoctrination for kids spiel aside, the kid said something rather funny.

After exclaiming that God visited him on the playground that afternoon, we asked what God had to say.

“God says, ‘Two thumbs up!’”

My convictions aside, it’s hard to argue with that.

[09:38] Me: I have this urge to say nice things to you
[09:38] Me: I must be ovulating

Am I the only one who has a problem with Edible Arrangements? These franchises are popping up all over the place, and they just piss me off. I acknowledge that it’s one of my irrational angers, but I just don’t get it.

They’re bringing fruit. That looks like flowers. To your office.

It’s worse than a stupid cookie-gram.

Sixty dollars! For fruit!

If I’m spending $60 on fruit, it had better be at least four 750ml bottles and fermented.

Other things I irrationally dislike:

Those caveman Geico commercials. Going to concerts. People who use big words to sound smarter. Fanta. Back rubs that don’t involve the Thumbs of Death. Insincere compliments. People who make noise when they kiss. Inconsiderate drivers. Whiskey. Later finding out that he’s got a girlfriend. Dogs. Cheap shoes. Thoughtless presents. Sarah Palin. Unscented candles. Horses. Slow walkers. People who snap their gum. The color green. Bowling, no matter how much I drink. People who can’t take a goddamn joke. People who get pissy when I say goddamn. Being touched on the face. Anything peach-flavored.

#1 hit for jaded men on Google.

When I first got to Texas, it looked like I was going to inherit my sister’s current vehicle, providing her with another that I purchased. I took the initiative to put new tires on what was about to be my car. Things never quite settled on the vehicle swap. I got over it, knowing that the $400 for tires was needed. That was that.

Well, not too long ago, my sister was driving home with the kids when her tire — I kid you not — exploded. A couple of farm kids stopped to assist the single mother on the side of the road at midnight, busting a u-turn to check on her when they heard the blast.

The next day she went to Discount Tire to have them make good on the full warranty, and she was driving off without hassle a mere hour later.

Kudos to the company for their service. I feel it’s safe to say that God also gives them two thumbs up.

For those not hip to the Facebook, your main page lists these ‘feeds’. Feeds contain your friends’ user-defined statuses (“Jo has the neighborhood kid out there mowing her lawn. Totally worth $20.”), any site activity you’ve taken recently (Jo has joined the group “Not turned on by 18-yr-olds who mow your lawn for cut-rate prices.”), and any posted links (Jo suggests “match.com for dates, not trolling the younguns in the neighborhood.”).

As said above, I’m fascinated by them. Because I have more than ten friends, each time I log onto Facebook, there’s something new.

Of my eleven friends, I have a good number from my high school. Like many small Texas towns, many people from here love Jesus. Sure, Sure. Lots of people in all sorts of places love Jesus. Blah blah blah. But these people REALLY love Jesus. As in, they exclaim everything is a product of Jesus’ doing, live in their little church bubbles where everyone agrees with that way, and don’t see how anything about their behavior differs from much of the population.

Now, before I get into the meat of this, I’ll go ahead and say that I don’t care if you love Jesus. I know plenty of nice people who do. However, my Jesus-loving friends do nice things because doing nice things is the right thing to do. These Jesus-loving Facebook friends do nice things because they want to make Jesus happy. I see just as much wrong with this as I do with Dick Cheney talking about torture.

READ: Torture is wrong because it’s wrong; not because it’s not always effective.

That being said, I’m especially drawn to the Jesus-y exclamations on these feeds.

One comment was about a child was turning one, and his mother exclaimed, “Praise the Lord!”

How about, “Happy birthday!” instead? I mean, sure, it’s great you managed not to lose the kid for twelve entire months. But really? You needed Jesus to not screw that up?

Another wrote a blog about how she wants to be more Christ-like. Her primary focus: not kissing strangers.

I cannot make this shit up.

And another was dealing with sick kids who kept re-infecting each other. Instead of shaking her first at viruses and vowing to have her family wash their damn hands, she says, “Satan leave us alone.”

I damn near had a coronary at the absudity.

A friend and I were chatting on IM the other day and discussing what I’d noticed. It reminded me of ‘bible dipping’ from Running with Scissors.

Bible dipping is basically the magic eight ball of divine prophecy. You think of a question, seek guidance from above, and then land your finger on a random page and passage to help answer your inquiry.

The friend was looking for an example, and my pointing yielded interesting results.

Me: Does Matthew smell like cheese?
Me: “and his skin, and his dung”
Me: WOW
Me: This thing really works
Matthew: wow.
Matthew: wow.
Matthew: really wow.

Although uncanny, I’m pretty sure Jesus had nothing to do with this.

I really and truly keep trying to update my blog, only to write something about how much I hate being in transition, not really knowing where things are gonna go. I’m not about to emo out on anyone (bad poetry isn’t my style), so I’ve decided to dedicate this entry to telling you what you’re missing by not following me on Twitter.

Weighed in at the gym: 14 pounds down. I don’t see a difference, but I’ll take it.

As mentioned in the entry from the other day, all I do is work and work out. As further paragraphs in this blog entry will prove, it’s not entirely true; but I do work out on most evenings. Since I haven’t really done anything intentional to lose weight, it’s proving that consistency is key to seeing a change.

Go figure.

In truth, I don’t see that change. But my jeans are telling me it’s true. And my shirts. And my gym clothes. Any my gaping bras, DAMMIT.

When I get down a bit more I’ll consider a large-scale shopping excursion. Until then, I need to find a local, fashionable friend to tell me what to buy. Since leaving Chicago, I’ve resorted back to nothing but plain-colored shirts. At least I’m now wearing them with cute skirts, wedge sandals, and awesome jewelry instead of plain jeans and chunky-heeled boots with silver studs.

Happiness is “Men in Black” on TNT.

I so rarely watch movies (despite what this entry will have you assume), but there are a few that feel like home.

We all know that “Amelie” is every girl’s favorite movie. I found it so absolutely delightful that I left the Dobie theater and walked straight to the record store on the Drag and bought the album. And though I deem it charming and love the story, acting, and soundtrack, my favorite movies are still those with karate and explosions.

Particularly, “Rush Hour” and “Rush Hour 2”.

My TV watching is also along those lines, but it’s not as embarrassing to say that “Burn Notice” is my favorite show.

For the record, I’m looking for a boyfriend with TiVo since “Burn Notice” starts at the beginning of June.

Rascall Flatts and ‘mutton bustin’ were worth my AmEx points.

Right before I moved, I checked my AmEx points and saw that I had roughly a gazillion of them. I planned on getting myself an iPod since everyone else seems to really like theirs. I even went so far to find a faux-boyfriend to load it with music so I wouldn’t have to invest in hard drive space for MP3s or install iTunes.

I loaded up the points page, browsed through the selection, browsed some more, and then hit the browse button even harder, like I meant it. Alas, all they had was a stupid silver iPod. Silver is not purple, so I defiantly didn’t get one.

So instead of buying an iPod to listen to music I don’t even really like, I accumulated even more points.

Then I found myself in Houston and remembered that the rodeo exists and that I love me some boot-scootin’, and I blew all of my points on tickets for my family.

My maa, Jenna, and I saw Rascal Flatts. We liquored my mom up, danced in the aisles, and had an all-around good time — despite the woman next to us smelling like she sprayed herself with every available perfume in Walgreens. With so many rhinestones and big hairdos around, I vowed to amp it up a notch the following week.

The following Wednesday, I took the entire Keena clan (minus my oh-so-studious brother) to see Reba. Forgetting about my broken foot (Did I mention that? No? So, I broke my foot. All is fine now. The end.), I wore boots. Other than the crippling pain, we had a great time. We took the kids to the carnival first, watched the cowboys and cowgirls so their things, then settled in for Reba’s show. For about 20 minutes of the show, my niece and nephew dropped it like it was hot. Then the boy announced he had growing pains in his shins, and the girl was tired. So we left. And went to the carnival again because they apparently weren’t *that* tired. All in all, it was a fantastic night.

A week later, Jenna and I took off by ourselves for Keith Urban. Despite not particularly caring for music, I’ve been to my fair share of shows. Of everything I’ve ever seen, this was the best show I’ve been to. Keith Urban was ah-may-zing. If you ever have the chance to see him, DO IT. It was so much fun.

After that show, Jenna and I got our IDs out and went to the big tent on the other side of the fairgrounds for an adults-only show and dancing. We made friendly with another group of women and danced until they shut the place down.

Besides all the family stuff and partaking in some great entertainment, there was also something called mutton bustin’. My descriptions can’t do it justice, so I’ll leave this topic with this video:

Not only is Boy cuter than the other kids, he’s better at t-ball too.

My time in Houston primarily revolves around my family. After my sister got herself a couple kids, the dynamic at our get-togethers really changed. I actually *gasp* like these people I’m related to.

That being said, I spend A LOT of time with my niece and nephew. I regularly find reason to pick them up in the early evening, take them to run my errands, and stop for dinner before dropping them back at home.

Despite a Facebook page full of reminders that people have similarly-to-my-sister squatted out children since I left this sleepy little town 15 years ago, I’m still shocked when I see someone I previously knew at tee ball practice with their very own 5-yr-olds.

So odd.

But as this area’s header says, my nephew is better than your kid. The end.

Happiness is a half-off diet cherry limeaid.

Do I really need to explain that Sonic has happy hour from 2 until 4 every single day?

Was reminded tonight of just how impeccable a southern man’s manners are.

I have a man friend who whips between being a special someone and a not-so-special someone. It’s one of those things where things could potentially work out really well for smoochin’ and whatnot, but neither of us is willing to move to make it happen. And since neither is willing to do anything, nothing ever happens.

But when the sweet pea comes into town for work, I’m always reminded why my long-standing crush continues.

We have one of those relationships where we can be talking about nothing in particular, then it jumps into way more truth-telling than I’m comfortable doing with anyone else, and then jumps back into safe territory without me even taking a blink.

He touches my inner gooey parts, even if he doesn’t get to touch the outer, more fun gooey parts.

Drunk and at my high school nemesis’ house. She is fucking awesome.

There was a time where I had a very bad boyfriend who did very bad things because he’s a very bad person who should be hurt very badly. One of the things he did was turn me against someone I was acquainted with, and she against me.

Fast-forward 15 years, and I received a Facebook message from her. With a little hesitation, we met up at her house for Indian food and to catch up.

Lo and behold, she’s really, really awesome.

3.5 bottles of wine, some Wii bowling, and whole lot of laughs later, I have a for-real friend.

Grapefruit overload!

My dad came across a foreclosure not too far from their wiped-out house and wanted me to take a look at it with him. He told me about a grapefruit tree in the backyard, so we first stopped at the busted-up house to fashion a PVP pipe for some orb-picking. We walked away with better knowledge about the house’s pier and beam damage and two grocery bags full of the best grapefruit I’ve ever put into my mouth.

The grapefruit were so good, I *might* have gone back for another sack full of breakfast.

In striving to continue to expand my real estate business, I’ve been eyeing Galveston for a good, long while now and have made several trips out to that dirty little island. It’s by no mean one of those beautiful white sand beaches where the blue waves lap at the shoreline, but I’m a little in love with the place.

If I ever settle down there (a distinct possibility), I’ll have to put a grapefruit tree in the yard.

Newsweek: Stress is good for you. Screw you, Newsweek.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been packing for a move to an unknown location. My thoughts on where to land vacillate quite frequently. I’ve finalized my location to Austin’s Hyde Park neighborhood (and will be signing a short-term lease this weekend), but for a while it switched between that, Galveston, Phoenix, a nicer part of Houston, and my ever-present dream of Hawaii.

With exception to Hawaii, those are great places to do the above-mentioned real-estating. I figure if I can land somewhere for a couple months, I can see what there is to see for properties.

That, and there’s a man in Austin who I need to hammer things out with and figure out if it’s a Go or a No-go. But we’re not going to talk about that right now since I don’t mention smoochin’ unless it’s a Go. Do note that I’ve kept my mouth shut for years now.

That being said, there’s been a significant amount of stress in my life. And I don’t care what Newsweek says, I prefer my life stress-free.

Even better: Renters approved, and they want most of my stuff. In Chicago soon-ish to clean things out.

After some donkey in my Chicago building listed her similar unit $50k below market in an attempt to sell it quickly, I put mine on the rental market and got renters immediately. That meant I had to hustle up to Chicago to clean out my place for them to move in.

My very first post-flight encounter with another human was in line to buy a CTA card to ride the train into the city. There was a single line for two machines. Being second in line, when the lady in front of me didn’t have her money out and was fiddling with her purse, I announced that I was going since I sufficiently had my shit together prior to being at the front of the line.

The old bat didn’t like this, exclaimed that she had her money ready, and insisted that I not go before her.

“Fine, you go.”

Under normal circumstances, I’d not be such a sack of crap. In my defense, my flight was at an ungodly hour. And, really, the lady had more than enough time to pull $2.25 out of her purse and position it in-hand to keep others from waiting any longer in the line.

She shuffled forward, putting her first dollar bill in. Then her second. Then she hit vend.

Again, under normal circumstances, I might have said something. Ya know, like, “Note the eye-level signs, lady. The train no longer costs $2. You need to put in another quarter.”

But since she was so insistent that she was ready to roll, I let it go and smirked to myself about how pissed she was about to be when she’d have to stand in line again to add a quarter to her card.

I was done with my transaction just in time to witness her smack her stomach on the turnstile and be told by a not-so-friendly CTA employee that she needed to learn to read signs.

Buuuuuuurn!

The rest of my weekend went pretty well. A friend kept me constant company while I packed everything up. My not-boyfriend and I coordinated his movers to facilitate a mass move with both our items. I had dinner with the gays and learned a new game that’s worth remembering. I had brunch with a couple friends and shared girly talk. I had dinner with the regulars. I had another dinner with another set of regulars. The movers pulled up to take the last of my stuff as I was literally on my way out the door to go to the airport, and it was kinda zen to say goodbye to Chicago.

Miracle of miracles, $62 and no diabetes.

And in final news, the cat indeed doesn’t have diabetes. He’s back to his normal self, and I’m not spending $200 a week in getting him poked and prodded.