Dancing: Episode 1 "Dancing with the stars"

I confess, I lie about my age. Frequently. 

Sometimes I'm younger (especially when being "younger" makes my accomplishments more impressive) ... most of the time I'm older. - - But! Since blogs are all about being honest you should know that I am really 25. 

Back to lying.  

I think it's fair to describe my "friend pool" as mature. And as mature thirty-something's, we (:cough cough:) often find ourselves at "mid singles" (30+) events. Most commonly, these are dancing events. I'm not talking ballroom dancing, but it's certainly not bump'n'griding either.... It's somewhere between "bar dancing" and "cousin Lisa's wedding reception dancing". 

Picture this, only 50 years later: 

In fact, some of the people pictured here might STILL attend these sort of functions, though I can't be sure. The regular attendees average an age of 40, have been through at least one marriage, and have kids older than I (really) am. Though I usually date "older" men, this is a bit extreme for me.

Yet I still go. Religiously.

I have several reasons why, which will span more than one blog-post, but today I'll focus one. 

Or three. 

Morgan, Fidel, and Johnny.

It's like an episode of dancing with the stars (doppelgangers anyway) every time we go! I have boogied on the same dancefloor with the likes of Morgan Freeman, Fidel Castro, and Johnny Depp! It's totally okay to be jealous. Thankfully, these characters show up as religiously as we do. I've even danced with Fidel on one occasion, a night I will never forget. 

I was having a very... uncomfortable night... due to my menstrual cycle (which has a mind of it's own sometimes) so I decided to "sit out" during a majority of the songs so as not to aggravate the situation with my dancing. What I didn't realize was there was an invisible neon sign I must have been wearing around my neck. It probably said something like "I'm here alone" or "Easy prey" or maybe  "I'm in my prime baby-making hour" - because I got more male attention this night above any other like it. 

Fidel walked back and fourth in front of me a few times before he managed to make eye contact. I thought my face read "piss off", but it must have been shadowed by my invisible neon sign. He asked me to dance. (I agreed, because my mama taught me better.) And, because I'm sure you are all wondering what he was like - he asked me about my religous background, if I had any kids, then stared at my boobs. It was less than romantic.

I'm sure Johny and Morgan have more class. Though, I can't say for sure since I haven't found the nerve to do more than stare at them (from a safe, non creepy, distance) as of yet.  For my own cheap entertainment, I've contemplated starting a conversation something like this:

"Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Tommy Lee Jones? I mean, the resemblence is remarkable!........ no?......... Morgan Freeman, really? ......... Yeah, I guess I can see that now, you are black after all....... You get that all the time? Really? That's fascinating." - - But then maybe that's why I get the guys like Fidel, becuase *I'm* the one who lacks class?

Oh well. For what I lack in class I absolutely make up for on the dance floor. It's just a shame that there's no mirror ball trophy. I think Johny and I could sweep the floor with the competition.  

-Mag.

"The Secret Admirer Caper" (and how it has saved my Valentines Day, 3 years running)

I recycle. I like the idea of benefiting from the value of something far longer then that something was intended, it's like cheating... but in a good way.  I recycle a lot of things that you wouldn't consider recyclable... like underwear (more on this later).

Another thing I like to recycle?  "Feel good moments". It's practical. There are a lot of bad days that I have made better by digging through my memory bank. 


I like to pretend that the "feel good moments" (or the circumstances leading up to said FGMs) are happening all over again. Almost immediately, little things like your car not starting (because your mother left your lights on all night long) just can't bring you down! Try it! 


This is an especially beneficial practice on days such as today. You can call today a holiday (and I will silently gag myself) or you can choose to see February 14th as any other day - in either case, it's hard to miss the fact that people (single or otherwise) act a little weird. And it's contagious. 

Don't we all wish we could be her?!

Despite your best efforts to "play it cool", you may begin to crave chocolate with new and heightened intensity. Or you may find yourself looking at your office door hoping the next giant teddy-bear with human legs waddling down the hallway is actually for you. In some cases, you may even consider flirting your way into the heart of that old college creeper who would buy you the moon if he thought he could date you - just to see what you'd get.


Yeah? Yeah. We've all been there. 


That's when recycling can save you from particularly rash decisions; like cutting open one of your co-workers teddy-bears and setting fire to the stuffing. 


Here's what saved my bacon today:


*Flashback 2009*

"There's a delivery here for  you" one boss says to me. 


"Funny, I never get any packages .... Oh my!" I say with surprise as I stare at a very large, very fragrant, flower arrangement. 


"Who are they from??" 


"The card doesn't have a name.... it just says: 'I hope you have a wonderful day, you deserve it! love you!' - wow. That is... that is really sweet."


"You have a secret admirer!" 


***


So there I was, thrown back into the hype and mystery surrounding my gifted flowers. I re-opened the case of the "secret admirer" and weighed the facts. I had a couple of theories: 


First: My bosses bought me the flowers. I had never been given flowers before working at my place of employment, but occasions increased 300% once I was employed with them. Logically, they were my fall back. - But! I had to wonder at the card signed with "love", that was a bit strange given our very professional relationship... not to mention I am their book keeper, and I never saw a charge come through. Tricky. 


Second: It was the accountant. Matt. As I may have mentioned before, I am the only single person in my office. Naturally my dating life is often given the spotlight. My bosses had/have their suspicions that I was/am secretly dating the accountant. (Poor guy, he's the only single in his office too.) Matt and I are long-time friends and I know him to be a jokester... and he (being aware of the aforementioned suspicions) would find this sort of thing funny. He also has a tendency to be sweet and thoughtful. The only problem to this theory is that he's also cheap. He denies ever spending a dime on a practical joke. Hmm. 


Very briefly I considered the wild card option, after all it could have been that creepy guy from college... but I would always come back to these two theories. Both parties still deny being responsible for the gift - and both parties find the opposite suspect most plausible. Their arguments back and forth had me wondering at one point whether my bosses put Matt up to it, so BOTH theories could actually be correct. A hybrid theory! 


Before I knew it, my work day was over. I was no where near close to solving the mystery (again). But I was okay with that. I think the mystery was (and still is) the best part to the flowers. Little did my admirer know, his/her gift keeps giving.  


And so I survived another February 14th thanks to a recycled flower delivery... more importantly so did Mr. Snuggles.


Who says recycling can't save the world??


-Mag.

If it were Mono, you'd be singing a different tune.

I'm sick.


I've been hacking up a lung (or rather the contents OF my lungs) for going on a week now. I have a very serious phobia distrust of doctors, so I haven't paid one out-the-nose-in-outrageous-fees-nigh-unto-the-giving-him/her-my-firstborn-child for his/her input yet. That said, this isn't a real and proper diagnosis, but I'm pretty sure I have a cold.


The common cold.


I also know it's a cold because 8 of the 24 residents at work are similarly diseased. (Note: I work at a residential treatment center for adolescent boys). And, for the record, they were thus long before this blog post was even a twinkle in my eye (the same eye that is now heavily clouded by various OTC codeines).


This means that no matter how prudish I am about germs...



No matter the great care I take to washing my own hands...

   

No matter the pains I go through to provide buckets of hand sanitizer for them and the staff we hire...







- - those teenage boys' infectious parts have mocked my every effort and won the battle. My feelings are a little hurt.


And that's the truth. It's a common cold that I got by commonly going to my common job. 


At least this time last year I could pretend it was the beginning of H1N1 (Swine Flu) and get a little sympathy out of the deal. (If not sympathy, then a little peace and quiet. No one came near me for 7 glorious days.)  - No such luck this year.... So. I'm left contemplating the idea of blaming Mono instead. 


I would much rather tell people I have Mono over a cold, any day. ... Why?  


First, that implies I must have gotten sick via some deviant kissing. I must have kissed 30 men (or more) to have found "the kissing disease", those are the odds they tell me. And, let's face it, no one's reputation could be so hurt by a little more accusational kissing. 


Second, there is a guy with whom I work already out sick with Mono. His misfortune conveniently supports mine and adds a plot-twist I could have only wished for. The rumors that would spread around my place of work would be well worth the possible character loss. (It doesn't suck to be the only one SINGLE in your office if you actually have a love life.) 


Third, the infection time for Mono typically lasts about a month... longer in some cases! I could milk the Mono story for a mid-winter vacation! Tell me it's not better for my Mono on the sunny beaches of California! ... I can hardly move anyway, may as well have something nice to look at! 


Most importantly: People would not have a audacity to call me, or my ailments, common. 


Because I am anything but common. And wheezing when I talk, breathe, laugh, cry, sing, burp, or sleep is anything but common. Thank you.


*This message was brought to you by the wonder of Equate-brand NyQuil.* 


-Mag.

Speed Dating: 27 reasons my married friends should stay married.

Sadly, I've had far too many conversations with disgruntled-married-friends lately. I can't exactly relate as I'm not currently (nor have I ever been) married. Nonetheless, I am a compassionate friend. I listen, agree when necessary, offer to hide bodies if applicable, regurgitate Dr. Phil-isms when the moment permits, and over-all help them feel like "everything will work out fine.", no matter the circumstance.

I do not own the above picture

However. Even in my moments of compassion, there are times that I have the urge to slap each and every one of them across the face, hard. Especially when they say to me "Oh, sometimes I wish I were single again. You make it look so fun.". Okay, maybe they don't always say that last part, but it must be true since they seem to glorify my dating-life (or lack thereof).

Recently I rediscovered (for my disgruntled married friends) 27 more reasons they should be glad they are no longer "on the market". I attended a speed dating function with my church. (I know, I know, I brought it on myself) ... And I left almost in tears. It's hard to decipher which emotion was strongest; despair or hilarity.

There were two circles of hard, cold, metal chairs in the gym. The girls sat on the inner circle, the fellas on the outer. We were given cards to take down numbers should we find ourselves intrigued with the person after our 2 minute interview, as well as a paper with "question ideas" which some found helpful. The usual "What do you like to do in your spare time?" and "Tell me about your family" types.

I do not own the above picture

My favorite question provided on that list: "What is your stance on cannibalism? For or against?" (I don't know about you, but I find this sort of information crucial to dating. I need to know that if the date goes south, and dinner doesn't arrive on time, he won't be considering me as an appetizer. - - At least, not on a first date. I do have standards you know.)

I do not own the above picture

In fact, I used the question a few times when things felt like they couldn't get more awkward. (Hah!) I asked a man, #5, who at first glance had merit. (Seriously, he looked like the love-child-offspring of 'The Rock' and Rick Fox, if such a thing were possible). He responded "I drink blood. I find it nice when it's been chilled in a chardonnay glass." - And I might have found that a little twilight-hot if he hadn't just admitted to spending 13 years in prison, thus creating the initial awkwardness. I was left wondering why he was in prison, and WHO let him out?

I could have wet myself with the response of another suitor (#12), who said to me "Well. That depends on the situation. Let's say I'm stranded on a desert island with my 5 kids (in my head: Wait. You just said you didn't have kids..?) and I know a helicopter is going to come and save us in 10 days. On day 5 we start to starve. (In my head: Oh my, he's going to eat the babies!?) In that situation? I'd probably start chopping off my limbs and feeding them to the kids to keep them alive." (In my head: Well that's not where I saw this going... but I'm not sure which is worse....) - I stopped asking that question after this guy came around.

Since it's my luck, I also had the misfortune of "running into" an ex-boyfriend (the same one I found out was a pedophile and dumped immediately, I now advocate for familywatchdog.us) who, in spite of our not talking much since 'the incident', seemed to know a great deal about me. This was a striking contrast to the 6 men previous to him who knew (and seemingly wanted to know) nothing about me. 

I learned a lot about them though. One fella has a goal to learn to play 5 instruments. He already knows how to play the recorder, so only 4 more to go! Another dude writes novels. His current book is a "classic in the making" he's been told. Oh, and he's 19. I really wanted to set him up to collaborate with the guy that came by 8 minutes later and told me about how he hunts dragons in his spare time. He was quite the story-teller too. 

I do not own the above picture

As if the aspect of 30 "first dates" in an hour isn't bad enough, there's the repetition. I mean, I'm a well-rounded person, but I can't give 27 different answers to 'what do you like to do in your spare time?' I had one "date" greet me then say "I overheard that you like photography". I panicked. In that moment I had no idea what else I was I was interested in, nor could I intelligently answer any of his questions about photography because I was too worried I wouldn't know what else we could talk about. I was a tragic waste of his 2 minutes, I could see it in his eyes. 

And it was about this point (he was number 24) that I began to realize the  despair of my situation. The last 3 guys didn't even have a fighting chance. By the end of the night my number card was empty, and my head was spinning. 

I'm convinced they will use speed dating as a form of torture in Hell. (That and car-shopping. Both are equally hell-ish tortures.) You will know what sort of life you lived if you die and are handed a little pink cue-card and a "Hello! My name is:" tag... It's enough to make me behave in this life. Seriously. 

So. To those of you arguing with your spouses about duvets or whose turn it is to do the dishes, bear this one thing in mind: The grass is no greener here than it is on your manicured front lawn with the white picket fence. 

-Mag.

Big Bang: The beginning

I can't really say that I side with Darwin-ians on the issue of evolution. 

(Arguably, there are those family members - we all have them - that make us question the ape-descendant theory. In my case, I'm pretty sure that has more to do with poor hygiene habits than it does our family-blood-line...pretty sure.)

However. There is some stock to the idea of evolution. At least on a personal level. I'm certainly not the same girl I was 10 years ago. I'm not even the same girl I was yesterday. I've molded. I've adapted. I've evolved. 

This is about the raw data supporting my personal evolution....

---

Oh. And the unibrow? ... It comes from my mother's side of the family. Really. 

Mag.