She's Just Not That Into You

Yes, women can be socio-paths when it comes to dating. For anyone reading this who does not know me, I toss around the term 'socio-path' very liberally, thereby covering a huge spectrum of possible personality disorders. I much prefer socio-path to psycho-path because socio-paths are, ultimately, a lot more terrifying. Anyhow, whether said socio-path keys your car and slashes all your tires because you chose a night with the boys over her, or if she decides to sleep around during your honeymoon (all of these are real incidents I have picked up while watching bad dating bootcamp shows), for every crazy woman, there there is an equally unstable man. And let's hope to Jesus that they don't ever meet, pair, and spawn.

A few years ago, the book, He's Just Not That into You, slapped a bunch of desperate, delusional women across the face. I mean, what this man wrote is not rocket science; in fact, it is basically common sense: He doesn't call you back after you call him six times... guess what? he's just not that into you!

Of course, it took a man to write this fine little dating guide for the dating disabled. Sadly, a book for men about what not to do and say to women has not reached such prestige. This may be for several reasons: a) it has not been written and b) if it has been written, it has not been embraced because that's not how guys role. They don't really do self help.

While there may be books out there for men with tips for reading women written by women, I am far too lazy to research it right now as it is midnight on a Tuesday and I am watching Chelsea Handler while writing this. I would really much prefer to just relay a lovely little vignette of a man my sister sat next to on the airplane recently. Over the course of a two hour flight, he did and said so many terrifying things that I am surprised my sister does not need some sort of post traumatic flight therapy. His name was Josh, he was 27, and had his associate's degree from some unknown college. He liked to overshare. Here is his story and the rules he broke:

1. Do not talk about how much money you make

"The first thing I picked up from this guy," said my sister, "was that he was trying to imply that he made a ton of money."

Apparently, in his job as some sort of sales representative, Josh was making bank. My sister actually remarked that she thought it was very insulting that he thought his salary would pique her interest. I have to agree. I do not all women have 'gold digger' stamped on their chests. Sure if you have some extremely cool job - like if you are an astronaut or a pet psychologist or a psychic- by all means tell me about your career. That makes you interesting. Your cash does not. I would really like to meet a pet psychologist.

2. Do not size yourself up to me (literally)

"And he also kept saying how i was probably too tall for him or that he was too short for me. As if he was assuming I would date him or something," she told me.

My sister is about 5'8". Yes, she is on the taller end. On the plane ride, Josh informed her that he about 6'0" which is man code for roughly 5'10". Then he made the aforementioned awkward comments. I mean, seriously, how do you move forward from an assinine comment like that? He had basically sunk his battle ship within 5 seconds of meeting her.

3. Do not talk about your future children, especially their appearance/ genetic dispositions

"He told me he hopes his future children get his curly hair, even though its a recessive trait."

Whoa, shit, stop. When you are 27 and speaking of your future spawn, you make me want to throw up in my mouth. and then probably all over you. And, for the record, who wishes jerry curls on one's offspring? vom.

4. Do not talk about finding your wife/girlfriend/or the next girl you sleep with

"Josh kept talking about wanting a girlfriend and wanting to get married. Then he got super upset when Men's Health said that Miami is not a good place to find a woman to date seriously."

Well, duh, Miami is not a good place to have a relationship. Even though this section is meant to criticize the way Josh publicly lamented to my sister, a mere stranger, about his lonely single life, I need a moment to vent about how this moron is not going to take advantage of Party Paradise for a year.

Anyhow, imagine you are a girl sitting on a plane and some man casually flips through a men's health sobbing about his single-dom? Do you want to jump his bones in the airplane bathroom? Absolutely not. He is mopey, desperate, and annoying. Primarily annoying and, in addition, kind of creepy. Don't be so fucking desperate. Don't sit too close.

5. Do not think out loud/overshare/talk about your ex within 5 minutes of meeting a girl

"He kept making all of these really annoying random comments. There was this girl walking down the aisle, and he said, "OOoh I hope she gets to sit next to a hottie.." then he gave me a creepy smile."

When you make comments like that, Josh, the girl sitting next to you knows exactly what went through your head when you sat down next her. And she is creeped out. She is also creeped out by the way you have wistfully spoken of your wife and girlfriend. And how you have asked her how long she has been dating her boyfriend, whether she has made it to the two year mark. She is probably also annoyed that you have taken this time to naturally segue into a conversation about how your last girlfriend was too clingy. At this point, you lost her at, "I'm too short to date you," as you showed her that, ultimately, you have limited confidence. You also just let the random girl sitting next to you on the airplane discourage you from ordering a meal because she doesn't like the smell of deli sandwiches. And she' s not even your girlfriend. You, my friend, have been whipped by a strange girl. Good luck in Miami.

***

Obviously, I have just dented the surface of some of the most glaring errors males make. I definitely don't deserve to be published. Or to have a major motion picture starring Drew Barrymore, Ben Afflect, and, ah it wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't be complete without Jennifer Aniston in my fine blog's honor. I do think, though, that men and women could save themseleves a lot of trouble by embracing a little thing called a filter.

Don't Take Life Sitting Down

Well, it looks like plights for gender equality have reached a new extreme. Yes, women can be corporate executives and play professional basketball. But now, with the help of Go Girl Urination Device, females can now pee standing up. Just like a man.

Before I stumbled across this Go Girl empire of all things urinary and portable, I was never really aware that my inability to pee standing up was a draw back. Sure, maybe it takes me about 30 seconds longer to urinate than a man, thereby giving a male colleague a lunch break that is roughly 30 seconds longer than mine. Or maybe, while out in the woods, I would have to find a denser neck of the woods to drop my shorts while a man can just pull it out just about anywhere. But I wouldn't necessarily consider myself at a disadvantage for this. I also am 99% of time avoiding the great outdoors- I prefer patios. Furthermore, I think the concept of a urinal is tremendously disgusting and awkward. I'm glad that public establishments had to ultimately spend more money to build more bathroom stalls for women.

Anyhow, for the love of all that is androgynous, women can now shove a funnel like device with a spout just below their nether regions and apparently "go anywhere" because "life's greatest adventure shouldn't be finding a bathroom." The Gogirl comes in lavender, but you can purchase either a traditional pink or a special camoflauge container. There are gift packs to boot, as well, in which you can get a GoGirl tshirt so that you can flaunt that you pee like a man.

I have one small question: WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?!?! Ok so maybe this funnel thing would keep you from having squat or splash out in the woods or could be used within a public stalls to prevent you from sitting on a toilet or taking advantage of the 30 second glute/hamstring work out that results from squatting (hidden workouts are the best). However, this still doesn't mean you can pee ANYWHERE- it simply allows you to pee differently.

I was so thrown off by this entire concept that I investigated the website further. Apparently, there are types of Go girls: Outdoorsygirl, Skigirl, Globalgirl, Mommygirl, Citygirl, and Roadgirl.

So the descriptions for Outdoorsygirl and Skigirl almost make sense. Skigirl might need to go off into the woods and use her Go girl, though i'm not really sure where she is going to keep it while she's on the slopes. I guess in the pocket of her ski jacket. Outdoorsygirl, also, is in the woods all day so now she doesn't have to step off the trail to far. Even Globalgirl might be roughing it in India or in the jungles of South America. I guess the world really can be your toilet.

The concept of Mommygirl definitely bothers me. It suggests having one's young daughter use it to prevent germs. Sadly the germs it prevents will not outweigh the psychological problems and gender confusion she will experience later.

Roadgirl also perturbs me as I get this vision of traffic violations galore while urinating en route.

While trying to figure out which type of girl I was, I decided that I fit best as Citygirl. For the Citygirl, Go girl aims to please the impatient, high maintenance clipping from club to club in her hooker heels :

"Worried about germs in public places? Had it with impossibly long lines at clubs, stadiums, or big outdoor events? If there's a will, there's a way-- when you've got a go girl in your bag."

There is no way I can even try to defend this as a plausible concept. It would only result in a UIP or sex offender violation. What would I do? pull out my Gogirl and urinate into my empty vodka redbull? the thought of it makes my stomach churn! Sorry, Gogirl... you are not for the City Girl. Even if City girl were to use it in a public restroom stall for sanitary reasons, Isn't it all the more worse to be carrying around remnants of your own urine in your purse after peeing? I also do not think that peeing into a funnel would go over so well while getting tips'.

Though Gogirl boasts, "You won't be like a man. You will just be able to pee like one", I will not be breaking that bad boy out at the bar, mall, or any of the very public places I go to on a daily basis. I much prefer the hidden work outs.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

In lieu of all of all this holiday spirit, I would love to know what a song about date rape and the birth of Jesus Christ have to do with each other. I really do. It is just so jarring to hear "Silent Night" one minute and in the next, a man creepily cajoling a woman to have "just a half a drink more" and squealing, "how can you do this to me."

In all reality, the song is kind of pathetic on both ends. You have your man who is begging on his hands and knees while still trying to persuade this girl into just a little sip o' roofie-nog. Basically, she has no choice but to freeze on the frozen tundra outside or to fall at the mercy of this very needy man. This also makes me wonder: how is she getting home? is he implying that she will have to walk or does she have a car like a normal person? Then again, if she has been slurping holiday punch all night, this option may no longer be plausible.

Naturally, she decides to sing along with him, occasionally adding to the creepiness by bringing up members of her family. Yes, I must remember, the next time some man tries to convince me to go home with him, to sigh heavily and say, "oh dear, i don't know what my mother will say." Or, better yet, my brother, especially since my brother is 17 years old and could hardly care less about the adult choices I am confronted with on a daily basis.

While listening to this song, I can think of two situations where it could easily go down. The first one that comes to mind is a frat house located slightly out of the way of central campus. In my mind, I am picturing maybe the FIJI house or ZBT at Michigan because those houses are basically in Kalamazoo. FIJI really fits the bill as it is up on a high hill and has a ridiculous driveway. One night, while attempting to go to FIJI, I never even made it there because I fell down the driveway six times. Of course, in Ann Arbor it is acceptable to wear stilettos when it is 5 degrees outside and the world is covered in black ice.

I could completely see this song taking shape after two silly 19 year olds had a hey day with an ice luge. The girl, I can assure you, is wearing stilettos, and is legitimately concerned about making it down the driveway to even get into a cab. She is also probably dreaming of NYPD pizza garlic knots. Yummmmm.

I can also, in my older age, see this happening a made for tv movie, particularly one of the lifetime movie network. I should probably not be admitting to the world that i spend a substantial amount of time during the course of the week watching this channel, but, unfortunately for me, I do. Over the course of the last week, I have seen John Stamos starring as a dangerous hit man with double life, a smattering of rapist/serial killer flicks, and one random one about a haunted farm house. For the most part, I could see this scene fitting in nicely to one of the awkward seduction and/or attack scenes on these fine films. There would probably even be some sort of song and dance act.

Given the option, I would probably walk out the door of this man's house considering that a) I am too old to be contending with frat boys, b) because desperation is a turn off and c) I have a terrible singing voice.

Dick

"Well, in my opinion, he should not be re-elected president of the HOA."

"Why do you say that, Herb?"

"Lots of reasons- for starters... to resurface the jacuzzi.... just wasn't all that necessary."

The View: Poolside Old Man Edition's current topic-- who to vote for the head of the HOA- wove itself in and out of a sun induced sleep that I was trying to enjoy on perhaps the most perfect Saturday afternoon. For the next hour or so, Herb, Ted and Bob droned on through a garden variety of quibbles and quabbles, among these topics: The HOA, youngsters running around at bars, and late night noise.

My ears perked up at late night noise, just waiting for them to quip about the volume of music coming from the 2nd floor.

I hadn't always intended to live in a retirement community. However, in the 19th hour, when my roommate, Noreen, and I were about to become either a) homeless or b) subject ourself to another painful 6 month lease at the San Marin ( my previous complex which was actually a breeding ground for the service industry aka extremely annoying on the one night I want to sleep: Sunday). It was then that our useless realtor, Colin Prick ( poor idiot was unfortunate enough to have a name that rhymed with Dick and Prick), who had done absolutely nothing for us, found this little diamond in the rough or, perhaps, tooth in a pool of tapioca.

The moment I walked in, despite the mature carpeting in the hallways and the reek of the near dead, I felt at home, as the apartment itself was absolutely phenomenol: completely floored in marble, black granite counters, and rich cherry wood cabinets. The balcony, still boasting marble, was extremely large, large enough to comfortable place three beer pong tables.

And so, one blistering July day, we moved in, with the help of temporarily unemployed male friends who had spent the night at our apartment. Said 'temporary' unemployment is certainly voluntary as smoking pot while watching star wars and playing golf are priorities. Though I was extremely pissed when i woke up to find them sprawled on my old apartment's floor, a nearly empty fifth of some off brand whiskey and a spilled bag of pine nuts beside them, it was because of them that I was able to retire at 23 in my new old people's home, complete with an emergency rescue button next to the master bath toilet.

Days later, I found myself riding the elevator with a lovely woman named Delores, with whom I discussed her purchase of a new visor and matching sea foam green t shirt "Scottsdale: Most livable city". I'd like to think Dolores and I have a lot in common. We are both shopaholics and fans of colors most people think are disgusting. I bet her favorite candy is Dots and that she loves Maeve Binchy novels and Lifetime Movie Network. Who knew a party princess like me could fit in so nicely in a retirement community. I was in heaven as I truly love old retired people, especially for their big ears and slight hunchbacks.

Life was absolutely arcadic until I met Richard. Richard was the on-site maintenance man who seemed nice enough at first until I solicited his help. Despite the fact that his job was to support tennants with requests, because I was 23 and a mere renter, he seemed to turn his old nose up at me.

"Young lady," Richard snarled at me one day after I returned home from a long day of work, "you know you move too quickly. You are forgetting to lock your mailbox. Mailman won't deliver your mail if you don't lock it!" I stopped, turned around tiredly and apologized before trooping upstairs. That was a little harsh.

A few days later or, rather, Friday night, I returned home from a night out with youngsters to find that the door to my condo, literally, would not shut. That night, too tired to deal with it, I put in my denchers and went to bed.

The following morning, I awoke and realized I still had to give ol' Dick a call, even though it was Saturday. Fortunately, he was not too severe and only reminded me six times to lock my mailbox and put my parking permit sticker on my car. None of which I actually would do with enough promptness to his liking.

A few weeks later, as I left my condo in a Monday morning haze, I walked down the fire exit stairs to find the main doorway taped off because Richard was waxing the foyer floors. However, unfortunately for Richard, I was late and already needed to shave ten minutes off my commute as it was. As I clumsily began to step over the yellow tape, he spastically jumped out from around the corner like a guerilla fighter.

"Hey you," he growled, his beedy eyes furrowed behind bifocals, "Can't you read the signs!?!!? GO AROUND!!! and don't you know you are not supposed to park out front in the guest spots!?!? Read your home owners manual!!!!" I glared at him and mutter something unintelligible. Clearly, I had lost that morning battle.

The home owner's manual was a gem of a document with more stupid rules and disclaimers than you could shake a stick at. Among these, one of my favorites entails the procedure for Christmas trees: if you must have a real one, it must be disposed by being cut branch by branch and delicately place in a garbage bag. As for balconies, You were not to have more than three potted plants and only one may stand higher than the balcony rail. Do not park in guest spots on any occasion... the nagging list went on and on. I rolled my eyes and shoved it back in the drawer.

While living in the retirement community under the watchful eye of Richard, I realized I was becoming more and more like my neighbors: I seemed to be developing some form of on early onset Alzheimer's when it came to parking my car. Either that or my car was magically moving itself from place to place. The first time it happened, I had circled the back streets of old town crying to my mom about my lost car. You see, I had thought I had parked it across from the bridal store when, in fact, it was two streets parallel in front of a Native American art store, or one of the hundreds. Granted, this happened after watching Michigan lose another football game, but that was truly no excuse.

The second time it happened, I really burned every bridge with Dick. It was early Saturday morning around 2 am. I had just returned home after enjoying some cocktails with friends when, lo and behold, I noticed my car was not parked in its usual guest spot. I panicked. It had been towed!

Of course, my gut reaction was to call Dick. I reached across the concierge's desk and grabbed a card, and punched his number into my phone as quick as my arthritic digits could. When he did not answer, I left him a garbled message about how my car had been towed.

"I never read about towing from guest spots in the...er...manual," I cried, "i'm really sorry I never put the stickers on my car!!!" I hung up the phone and defeatedly climbed the stairs to my apartment. I then called Noreen freaking out. Again no answer. As I openend my door, my phone range: it was noreen.

"Your car's at Jen's!!!" she said, " I knew this phone call was coming... I just figured it would come tomorrow morning, not tonight!!!" Great, my best friend had already accepted my failing retention rate.

The next morning I woke up and my first thought was: Richard is going to kill me. For the next week, I slipped in and out back doors and made sure to not use the main entrance or be in the building from 8-4 on weekdays (easy, as I do have a day job).

One night, Noreen called me as I was on my way home from the gym.

" I ran into Richard," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I was tremendously afraid of this 65 year old maintenance man.

She went on to tell me that he had curtly reminded her that his hours are 8-4 M-F, and under no circumstance was he to be called at 2 am on a Saturday. Of course, he threw in, per usual, that guest spots are not to be occupied by residents.

Tito

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You already ordered a water. One drink per customer-short flight." The flight attendant scowls at me. I am pretty sure she hates her life. But I suppose you would too if you had a seven year old boy's haircut, a muffin top, and a shift that involved the 8 pm flight from Phoenix to Vegas.

"Yeah, well i want to order vodka soda, i'll pay for it," I persisted, as if i would have a choice, "how much is it?" She scowled at me again-

"We don't take cash." She kept moving and refused to serve any of my friends. Clearly a discrimination case. 28th ammendment, please: no discrimination toward vegas bound youth. Crotchety ol' bitch.

Two seconds later, a nice looking male flight attendant passed down the aisle with peanuts and pretzels. I stopped him, told him how rudely i had been treated. He was, of course, sympathetic and hurried to bring me a complimentary beverage just as they announced there was too much turbulance to serve at all.

Things were off to a great start- I had been served before paying customers. Jen, across the aisle, shook her head and said, "It figures you would get served."

As I am quite convinced that the best things in life are free, that must mean that weekends in Vegas are among the best things in life. There is never a better time to be a female than on a weekend in the city of flashing lights. Despite the fact that we had of course paid for our flights, our 3 night stay was gratis, compliments of our friend Ashley's pseudo uncle who we fondly referred to as Lester the Molester. In all reality, I am sure Lester was a just a run of the mill harmless creepy old man who really wanted to 5 twenty-somethings out to dinner. Ashley's mom, though, said to be wary of ol' Lester. Conveniently, Ashley lost her phone the first night we were there, thereby making it impossible to contact poor Lester.

Of course, when I mentioned a gratis stay in Vegas it was not necessarily at the Bellagio or the Wynn... we were booked that the tried and true Stratosphere which is arguably still on the strip. Upon arrival, we stepped up to the desk and met Sandy, a stereotypical NY Jew with a beard that I could only imagine would boast matzo particles on any given occasion.

"Hi there," Ashley said brightly to Sandy, "we are registered under a Mr. Lester _______". Sandy looked at her skeptically. "Which one of you is Lester?" he grunted at his stupid little joke. Ashley looked at him, "He registered us- he said it would be all set." Sandy began to putter around on his computer; we would learn over the course of the weekend that Sandy loved to putter and make people wait obscene amounts of time for simple requests. He had a tendency to almost make you feel guilty about needing his services. Sandy took his job very seriously, and had no tolerance for fun and games.

Amidst his putzing and fettering away of our precious Vegas minutes, he took all of our licenses and examined them with the precision of an FBI agent.

To Jen, Ashley and Sammy, he made some elitist Jew joke that Shana and I could not comprehend and then smirked and pointed at us, "Goyim... they don't understand." In response, I asked Sandy if he wanted to go clubbing later and garnered a hysterical image of this fat man in a little suit rocking out at Tao and sweating shamelessly.

Eventually, Sandy gave us room keys (and we quickly found out that only one of them actually worked), and we began our whirlwind Friday night that, for me, ended in the food court of Caesar's Palace at 4 am shrugging off a broken dress strap and casually gnoshing on cheese fries off some stranger friend's plate. I guess we all have our moments.

The following morning, due to aforementioned cheese fries and most likely several pieces of pizza that I do not want to admit to, I did not feel all that awful and was ready to seize the day at the Tao Beach pool party.

Tao Beach was essentially the most exclusive frat party I have ever been to in my entire life. Unlike Rehab, which, personally I find overwhelming and commercial, Tao Beach is much more intimate. On this particular day, LMFAO was performing so naturally I texted Red Foo as I had met them outside of LAX a few months ago while waiting for blue shuttle bus. I guess even rockstars pinch pennies. Much to my dismay, Red Foo did not respond, but I had absolutely no time to sigh sadly as within moments we had joined the company of a bunch of little nuggets in bright pastel swim shorts. The head nugget, one who essentially had a shag rug taped to his chest, was the keeper of vodka and stood on top of the cabana bench so we could see eye to eye.

The nuggets were touchy little beasts but, overall, not unlike Lester who we would now never meet, they seemed relatively harmless and quite generous. This seemed to be the theme of the weekend: harmless, generous and just a little bit uncomfortable.

We would not see the end of harmless and generous throughout the weekend. After two long nights out, plenty of new stranger friends, two day long pool parties, we were headed for our final hours in Vegas. That is when we met Tito.

After moseying around Moon at the Palms/ taking advantage of ladies night champagne, we stumbled upon a table of decent looking fellows and I struck up conversation with a Mario Lopez replica in a white jacket.

"Oh hey," I said, "why don't you let me take the picture? That way you can be in it!" Nice goes a long way. the man flashed a smile. He looked even more like AC Slater, dimples and all.

Slater hopped in the picture, lithe as a gymnast and did a bit of a sorority squat. After the photo sesh, we introduced himself, "Tito," he said, pouring another drink. I told him my name and asked if his parents were fans of the Jacksons. Tito was not offended because, not unlike myself, he was more of a teller than a listener. He launched into a diatribe about his life. Within moments I learned that he was an architect from San Francisco, a cancer survivor, and Ayn Rand was his favorite author.

"Oh, I love Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead," I squealed. I am a dork and am always impressed when i meet any man who is relatively literate. It was quite possible Tito and I were soulmates.

Sadly, that dream died about thirty seconds later when "I got a feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas started bumping and I learned the dire truth: Tito was a clapper and looked like he was about to get on the soul train, white jacket and all. If there's one thing that I really dislike it's men who feel the need to clap while they dance. Suddenly I had visions of him hopping around in a Jackson 5 music video. Tito, in all his hot glory, was just another generous-harmless-awkward man out on the strip.