December 31, 2008
Dating’s a bitch.
And this is the time of year when it’s easier to plop in front of the TV with a bottle of Veuve and watch a House marathon rather than suffer through, as the only single person* in the room, the forced jollity of holiday events. You start to miss the days when your mother pestered you about your dating life. Anymore, she just slaps on her Colorform smile, tells hyper-enthusiastic tales of others – who got married even older than you – and passes the twice-baked potatoes with a heavy sigh; resigned to the fact that the children born to your siblings are going to be the only grands she’s going to get.
(*For the record, no, my widowed grandmother does NOT count, thank you very much and besides, evenshe has a boyfriend, so suck it!)
But it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been “out there”. I’ve tried. Honest I have. I’ve just gotten the fuzzy end of the lollipop more times than I care to count.
An Evangelical jazz drummer proposed marriage twice, only to break off the engagement. Twice. Both times as dictated by God who audibly spoke to him on the bank of a lake in Texas. A scientist told me the morning after our first night spent together, that, while I looked ‘just fine’, my BMI still indicated that I was technically obese. There was a chef who would only have outercourse, even though the relationship had progressed to the apartment-shopping phase. And let’s not forget the lawyer whose break-up speech proclaimed that I was comfortable to be around, and made every event an adventure, but I just wasn’t ‘thunderbolts and lightening’.
Despite all of that, I persist. I am a hopeful romantic. I cling desperately to the knowledge that, in the words of Fivel Mousekewitz, “Somewhere, out there … someone’s thinking of me and loving me tonight”.
Bolstered by this ridiculous ongoing fantasy, I recently joined an internet dating website.
(I know… Please don’t judge me.)
Truth be told, however, that lawyer was wrong. I am ‘thunderbolts and lightening’. I’m no gentle summer shower – I’m a torrential downpour. I’m outspoken. Bossy. Tact isn’t always my forté. I’m a career gal. A broad. I’m definitely more Yentl and less Hadass. Fanny Brice. K-k-k-k-k-katie. (Pick a Streisand character… any Streisand character…)
But knowing that Barbra, for all her chutzpah, is a certifiable bitch, I got to thinking maybe this time around, I should soften things a little. Resolve to e-volve and use the internet for its Powers of Good: To help me finally find my Avigdor.
In order to do so though, I would need to get back to some basics. Take a refresher course and revisit some fundamental Junior League principles. Try and be a lady…
… for once.
So I turned to one of the classics:
Let’s see what advice Betty has that can help me in 2009…
1. Shut up and dance. Got it. Moving on…
2. Note to self: Wait 24 hours (or until sober) to e-mail, text or tweet.
3. The girl should make the move??? What??? Clearly Betty’s never read The Rules.
4. Good plan. Don’t let the guys know that you’re seeing more than one at a time. That’ll be our little secret…
5. If I don’t speak to men I’ve never met, how the hell is this internet dating thing going to work??? I think Betty needs to rethink things for the next edition.
6. Call me a cynic, but I think I’m going to be hard-pressed to find a Yankee who will perform his ‘manly chore’ for this nice Southern transplant…
7. So I suppose I shouldn’t keep ruling out those guys from Staten Island, eh? You never know. Underneath those velour tracksuits, they might be swell.
8. Listen, Betty. If the guy doesn’t like me for who I am, then he can go fuc— (Deep breath…) Manners… manners…
9. Then how is he going to know I like him???
10. See #9.
Thank you for reading. I had a lovely time. So glad you came. I do hope you’ll call again soon!
– – – – –
Images (used without permission) from Your Manners Are Showing © 1946