The threshold to marriage

As I was catching up with old friends on facebook this week (thank you fb, you're sooo much better at this than myspace), a startling fact occurred to me. I, am the threshold to marriage.It's true. I'm not one to jump to conclusions. I always say no once before I'll jump into the cold swimming pool of any situation, but numbers don't lie.
Let's take a look at the facts, after which I'm sure we'll agree that a steady relationship with me will put you on the one way train to Matrimony Town, poulation: You. Now, for the sake of this study, let's take only boyfriends, ones that I've had since high school- because, well, I was a late bloomer. Of the dudes I considered full fledged "boyfriends," please observe the following :

Karl: Engaged to his boyfriend (so, he's married if you speak fluent San Francisco, which I do)

Andy: Formerly Married

Matt Davis: Married

Frank: Married


At first glance this isn't that big of a whoop. I'm 26, lots of my friends are married.And come on, there's only 4. The kicker is, they each married the very next person they dated- minus a rebound of course. They're all different ages, from different social circles, and economic backgrounds so that eliminates any, "just that time" bullshit. And yes, there were other dudes, but these were the most serious (can you even use that word when you had braces at the time? whatev) So let's expand the data. Even when you count the not-so-serious, "yeah I guess we were together sorta" guys you have

Jim: Married
Derrick: Cheerleader, so um I'm not sure where that falls
Peter: Touring with a chick and her dad- yeah he's screwed
Jaime: Really shouldn't be considered a boyfriend but I'm sure he's shackin up with someone and by a certain age, that means married
Zack: Pretty sure he's married
Wilton: Well on his way with an amazing girl

Thats still a 6.5/ 9 ratio. I'm no mathematician, but that's compelling. And my most recent serious bf could break the cycle as he is still single. But chances are, the next Greyhound into the IE will have his beloved riding shotgun and carrying a carburetor she rebuilt with an empty pack of smokes and a stick of gum. Bitch. Plus, just looking the 4 hardest hitters, that means that the dude's I considered real bf's, are ALL married. Not some, ALLLLLL. Yeah, wow.

So what does this mean exactly? That if you don't want to get married, Don't Date Me! Seriously, head for the hills man, cause you are gonna get the stank of commitment on you and it's gonna play out like an Axe commercial meets the Ring. No one's safe! You'll be so happy and...grinning- it'll be terrible so just don't ok! Conversely however, if you're lookin to meet the girl of your dreams and settle into some steady wholesome love that'll keep you warm and decently pleased for the rest of your life, date me first I'll fix ya right up. Just think- 6 months with me and I'll exercise all your daemons, teach you to be a gentleman and before you know it, we'll be breaking up over an ill fated text message and you'll be on your way to gettin down on bended knee- boys to men style with an amazingly beautiful woman you can take home to your mother, ending the awkward stand off I've created with my comments on your moms religion and your dads golf obsession. Not to mention your sister thinking I'm a little too smart for my own good and your brother can go back to skateboarding with his friends rather than swapping urban dictionary terms with me at the dinner table-It'll be great! Just think of how much of a handful she WON'T be compared to me, right?

I need a drink....

R-Dawg makes her Annual Appointment

Calling to make the appointment has to be the best part about it. There’s nowhere to go to make the call in the first place, so I ultimately hike around my office building during a break trying to find a place where I can have a semi-private conversation without looking like I’m waiting on an 8ball. Then, once I get through the hold music and a few transfers cause, ya know, schedulers need breaks too, I get someone capable of typing my numbers into a computer. Then start the rounds of personal information, which I get to spout in a public place tring act like its not my date of birth, or my social security number or anything ya know, sensitive. Seriously, if I wanted to commit identity theft, I’d find a chick tucked into a corner on her cigarette break and just listen. Bet I’d get at least half of the personal stuff I need, know where she lives, who she’s dating, AND whether or not she has the herp. Ugh. My favorite moment of today’s call was when the scheduler asked, “Has it been a year since you last appointment?”
No lady. I just like being used as a human sock puppet and calling you is cheaper than maxing out my Visa on 16th and Mission. Got anything for tomorrow afternoon?

Please. ..?

Gym Chicks, Ugh...

Dear Diary,
Today I went to the gym for the first time since the new millenium. I had decided to go yesterday when I realized that sweat on fat only works in one place, and by place I mean location, and by that I mean my local YMCA. I walked in to see a half empty fitness area, clean and sparkling. The place was damn near deserted with the exception of the clusterfuck by the counter. I patiently waited while a slightly distressed clerk helped strung out mothers with afterschool program fees. Half an hour later, with my bright red 1week membership in hand, I hit the workout floor. By this time everyone in the neighborhood had heard about the persperation avalibility, so getting to a machine wasn't as easy as it would have been if the mothers-in-screaming hadn't taken their sweetass time. But no bother, I jumped onto a treadmill and began what I knew would be the most liberating and phisical part of my near purposless day. After entering just about everything except a urine sample into the treadmill, I was off. As I powerwalked my way to invigurating bliss, I noticed the girl next to me. She had long dirty blond hair, a huge shirt with equally large pants, and not one but TWO tabloids on her treadmill shelf. She had set her incline to cliff-side and her speed to 'where's the bathroom'. She clutched the rails of her machine as if riding a flying bull. She was about my age, quite thin. She glanced over, first at me, then at my treadmill settings. She would look at mine, then at hers, toss her thrown-together ponytail, and continue her climb. Clearly, she was hating. For a split second, I was besmirched. How could some dumb bitch who can't even operate the manual settings on a YMCA treadmill be talking trash with her eyeballs when I had JUST got there?! So I eat, FUCK YOU BITCH! Just cause your trashy ass is here to burn off the baby weight from your last failed relationship with a high school drop out, doesn't mean you can come my way tryin' to shit throw my millin' time! BITCH! But then, I decided to chill. After all, I was at the Y in San Francisco. If anyone looked like a freak, it was twig sister, not me. Besides, what kind of pathetic, apple slice diet snatch would risk a brawl with yours truly. My conclusion was simple, given my appearance and light hearted nature, this starving olympic reject had taken me for a cookie.
How simple life can be....

First and Last Harassment Training