For what amounts to a long time now, I have opted out of the whole dating thing.  Too lazy, I guess, and what do I really need it for?  I have a single cup coffee maker (a gift from Cheater Pants as he was working himself out of a job).  I have friends to go out to lunch or dinner with, a dog to cuddle up to and… ahem… I can take care of myself.  (I know women are not supposed to admit to such things – but I think Dr. Ruth would be proud).

So why date?  It’s a hassle.  At least for me it’s not like the romantic comedies where you just break up with one guy and another even hotter and more wonderful guy is waiting to pick up the pieces.  It’s a lot of work.  And this internet dating thing?  Oy.  First you have to figure out which service is for you; (if it’s free does that mean only cheap men are on it?).  Then you have to build this ridiculous profile that tells the your potential date how fabulous and worthwhile you are.  And then you can start looking at their ridiculous profiles.  At this point you (okay I) am already overwhelmed and I haven’t even communicated with anyone yet.

Now comes the looking at dozens of profiles and trying to figure out if you even want to talk to someone based on their statistics and the best picture of themselves they could find.  (Here’s a tip:  EVERYONE looks better in sunglasses.  So that “hot” picture of you looking all outdoorsy and gazing into the distance in your Ray-Bans might look good, but unless you plan to be wearing shades on all our dates – take them off for the picture.  Got me?)

Now it’s time to connect with someone:  e-connect, go on a “coffee date”, try to be open-minded and get past their awkward humor and never hear from them again.  Or: e-connect, go on a “coffee date”, try to be open-minded and get past their gold nugget ring and have to change your phone number.  Either way – blah – it’s no fun and I haven’t got the patience.

Then a month or so ago, I was on a flight to Boston and I happened to sit next to a lovely, intelligent woman who had a theory.  Let’s call her Debbie Datesalot.  She said “You have to think of internet dating like shopping for jeans.  You don’t have to buy every pair you try on, but you do have to try on a lot of pairs before you find the right ones.”

Now this was a woman who was rushing home because she had a date that night.  Her third that week.  And as she seemed very intelligent and successful (a former publisher of a major medical publication and current business owner), I thought I should pay attention.

Debbie expounded on her theory as follows:

Step 1:  First you have to figure out what store to shop in.  You don’t automatically go into every store in the mall when you’re looking for jeans.  So you have to treat dating sites the same way.  Window shop.  Do you want a boutique that caters to the elite (think eHarmony.com), a department store that has a little of everything (maybe Match.com), or a discount store where everything is cheap (maybe one of the free sites like Plenty of Fish).

Step 2:  Once you have figured out what store to shop in, you have to try on a bunch of pairs of jeans.  Just try them on.  Don’t marry them.  If you don’t like a profile at all, don’t take it off the rack.  If it interests you enough to try it on, go for it.  But don’t waste a bunch of time.  Get off-line as fast as possible and go for the coffee date.  Don’t give out your number and if the fit isn’t good put the bell bottoms back on the rack and try the next pair.  No hard feelings.  No big deal.

Step 3:  Okay, so now, let’s say you’ve found a pair you think you like.  You can proceed to take the jeans home with the knowledge that you can still get a full refund for thirty days if you leave the tags on.  Go on a few more dates with the perfect boot cut, and see how it goes.  Remain careful about giving out too much personal contact info.  Phone number yes, but address maybe no.  After all no one likes a stalker.  And if these jeans don’t seem like a perfect fit, don’t be afraid to take them back.

Step 4: Repeat as needed.

I have to admit Debbie’s theory is a good one.  It makes the whole thing maybe a little less personal, and maybe slightly less horrific.  The thing Debbie didn’t know when telling me this story is that I abhor buying new jeans.  I’ve been wearing the same two pairs for years.  In fact, I only buy new ones when my size changes (see “Why does Facebook Think I’m Fat“) or when the current ones fall apart or go dreadfully out of style.

And also, if you take this theory a bit further, does it mean that you get to shop for a new man as soon as you get tired of the old one?  (That I kinda like).

But putting that aside, I realize in my current state of single, semi-employed (thank you Big Tony), empty-nesterism, I should really consider dating (and buying new jeans).  And I will.  I am.  Quit bugging me – I’m working up to it.

I had to assume the modern snake oil salesmen were targeting everyone… you know… casting a wide net and all of that.  So I clicked the “Not Interested” button and moved on with my life.  Was the seed of paranoia planted right then?  Perhaps.  But it was so small, I barely noticed it.

Next came the ads to “Lose Weight with Jillian”.  Okay – I’m staring to get the message and the paranoia seed is now growing into a little sprout.  Facebook might just think I’m fat.

How is this possible?  Is it looking at my posted pictures and snickering with it’s friends?  Or is it secretly looking in through my laptop and seeing the bowl of popcorn or the daily ice cream sandwich and quietly tsk-tsking?  ”But Facebook, I swear the popcorn is ‘Light Butter’ and the ice cream is low fat.  No really, I promise.”

Then the ads relax for awhile, only offering me dates with hot young men who don’t actually exist and millionaires who may exist, but who definitely do not look like the guy in the picture.  Phew.  Okay.  I feel better.  At least Facebook thinks I’m dateable.  And I did tell Facebook about my single status, so he didn’t have to snoop to find that one out.

But as it turns out, Facebook was just setting me up for a fall.  Giving me that false sense of confidence you get when things seem to be okay for awhile.  And then BAM.  He hits me with ads for dating services for “Curvy Women” and ads for men who like a “Real Woman They Can Get a Hold Of”.  Yikes.  Now, I’m sure of it.  Facebook thinks I’m fat.

This is so not okay.  Either Facebook (bastard that he is) wants to keep my self-esteem low so that he can pounce with a ridiculous offer when I’ve just polished off the Haagen Dazs .  OR he thinks there is a good chance that ANY woman over 40 is fat.  Either way – he sucks.

When another driver gets really pissed at me and flips me the bird, he is clearly ridiculous and getting upset over nothing.

Before we get down to it, let me set the scene for you:  Mine is what we call a “blended” family.  And my Thanksgiving is the once a year event where we take all the crazies, throw them in said blender and hope we get a strawberry smoothie and not a big fat disaster.  Most years we come out of it with a few minor scratches but having enjoyed the chaos.  This year was no exception.  We had a new location this year of course.  Instead of a house with multiple bathrooms and a couple of rooms you could go hide in, this year 20 of us celebrated in my sparkly new one room nest.

The 20 included, my mom and stepdad, my memory challenged father, his other ex-wife and her current beau, my brother, his partner and his two kids, my daughter and one of her friends, two of my three half sisters, my friends The Bickersteins (not their real name – duh) and their 15 year old daughter, my recently divorced friend (we’ll call him GS for Good Sport) and his 6 year old daughter, Cheater Pants (who got a reprieve from my personal “no-fly” list this year), and me.  Got it?  Do you need a minute to absorb that?  Take all the time you need… I’ll wait.

Now on to the “Oy Veys” from the weekend (in no particular order):

1. My daughter walked in on someone in the bathroom peeing.  (The new nest has one bathroom with two doors, apparently one door did not get locked – oops).  She claims to not know who it was.  Better that way I think.  If it was one of her grandfathers, she might be scarred for life.
2. Cheater Pants got a little handsy and actually brought a bag of overnight stuff thinking I might let him stay over.  Really?  If I was ever going to go there, it would not be with my ENTIRE family in town and my daughter staying in the SAME ROOM!!
3. Was short one table cloth, so used a sheet instead.  Don’t think anyone noticed.  Maybe less of an “oy” and more of a “hee hee”.
4. Memory Challenged Dear Old Dad asked the newly divorced GS’s little girl where her mother was and then proceeded to explain to GS (not knowing who the hell either of them were) that this little girl’s parents were divorced. Yikes.
5. Someone stepped on the dog.  Poor little Buster.
6. My Stepfather, (let’s call him Daddy Warbucks), a.k.a This Year’s Villain, basically told Dear Old Dad off for being memory challenged.  That’s like a kicking a homeless person in the street.  So not cool.  In fact I think that one should be elevated from an “Oy Vey” to an “Oy Gevalt” (loosely translated – Oh Heaven Forbid!).
7. My brother brought and played home movies of his kids 8th grade graduation and a play they were in.  This was a very, very, very long Oy.  (My daughter announced during this session that if I had ever done this to her she would never have forgiven me).
8. The Bickersteins got down to some bickering right in front of their daughter and really everyone who was sitting there.  Can you say “awkward”?
9. My stepmother and her beau bought a fruitcake as their contribution.  It is still sitting here unopened.  If I bring it to you as a gift this year, don’t hold it against me.  I am unemployed after all.
10. My brother’s partner broke a chair.  Luckily he is thin so this was not a reflection on his weight but he may have been rocking back in said chair like a 12 year old… just sayin’.  The broken chair is also still sitting here with the fruitcake, but I promise not to re-gift it to you.

Alas, despite the “oy vey” moments, I think everyone had fun.  Our yearly tradition of Trivial Pursuit continued until about 12:30AM when I finally had to kick the stragglers out and everyone seemed genuinely enthused about doing it again next year.  Everyone, that is, except Daddy Warbucks, who may look for an excuse next year.

Now on to Chrismahanukwanzakkah!  Weeee!

It’s weird because officially there is a lot wrong in my life right now.  Let’s review:

1. I lost my job about a week and half ago.  That’s right.  The Cowardly Big Tony finally pulled the plug.
2. I have a strange pain that the doctor’s can’t seem to diagnose.
3. My entire family is about to land in my new nest for Thanksgiving.  That’s 20 for dinner in a one room apartment, People.  Can you say stress?
4. My dog (cute little Buster) has not yet adjusted to city life after almost three months and yesterday chewed to bits my best black bra. He also peed on my awesome new rug from CB2… 1 day after I got it.
5. No man.  This is not a new condition, but one that must always be mentioned on lists such as this.

So – given all these things, you would think I would be having a pity party.  The joblessness alone being reason enough to shed some tears and huddle semi-terrified in a corner.

But no.  People… I am actually feeling happy.  Delighted even.   So I had to do some self analysis and I thought I’d start with listing the good things in my life:

1. I no longer have to go to a job that was stressing me out.  A place where every interaction with the ethically-challenged, talentless ass-kisser, Big Tony, made me want to hurl.
2. I love, love, love my new apartment.  I love city living and I love the apartment itself.
3. I love the fluffy and loyal Buster – despite his current state of unrest.
4. My family is almost all coming for Thanksgiving!  It will be a crazy zoo of dysfunctional but lovable people and I CANNOT wait!
5. I bought a new vacuum cleaner yesterday (and some rug cleaner) and cleaned my new rug from CB2.  You can barely see the stain.  This is extra fun because I do have a random obsession with vacuums.  (I really, really wanted the Dyson ball vacuum, but couldn’t spend the $400 bucks.  So instead I got the Shark Navigator – for less than half the price and it works GREAT).
6. Oh and maybe the best reason to be happy of all.  My 18 year old daughter still wants to spend 45 minutes on the phone with me.

So as I analyze, I’m seeing a lot of overlap on the two lists.  Odd, huh?  Well, I can’t really explain how I feel. I’d like to chalk it up to some brilliant life philosophy that I have crafted that would make you all instantly happy too.  A philosophy so brilliant that I could write a book and become an overnight success.  Alas, that’s not the case.  It could be my daughter – or the new vaccum – or my fabulous apartment.  It could just be that I will never have to see Big Tony again.  Or it could be a new form of dementia.  Regardless — I’m happy and my only advice to you would be that if you find yourself in such a state – don’t waste time questioning it.  Just enjoy.

But all in all, I think it is safe to say that no one,  no matter what the upsides are, wants to be reminded that they are alone.

So as I get settled into my new super cool new single person space, having parted with 90% of my stuff, I realize that I must get some new pieces of furniture to feather my nest.  So off to the big Swedish furniture store I go, undeterred by the fact that I will have to lug the furniture to my car, into my building, onto the elevator and down the hall.  Undeterred by the fact that I will have to assemble the furniture all by myself.

“I can do this”, I think.  “I am woman.  Hear me roar!”.  So I pick out my items, manage all the lugging, unpack the goods and pull out the directions.  And here is what I see:

Apparently there is no such thing as a table for one.  But at least they gave the sad little cartoon version of me a hammer, so I can knock some sense into the heartless fellow who wrote these directions.

PS – Wondering where the heck I’m living these days?  It took awhile but I did find a new nest – and I’m busy feathering it.  More details to come.

Suffice it to say… crying would be much more enjoyable if it didn’t make you all stuffed up afterward.

I think it may be actually anti-capitalist propaganda, but I can’t swear to that.

Alas, in my never ending apartment search I cannot seem to find a “best nest”.  I actually think it might be like Mars.  It exists but you can’t really get there from here.  Or maybe it doesn’t exist at all.

I keep thinking I will walk into a place and think “Oooh – wow – this is it.”  But so far that hasn’t happened.  Perhaps I am too picky – or to cheap (or let’s face it too poor), but either way I need to make a decision.  In the mean time I continue to sell off all I own and prepare for this weekend’s Good-Buy Suburbia Sale and Party!

*NOTE:  If you need a translation for this post… picture an ostrich with it’s head in the sand and a big martini in it’s hand (or wing).