Single on Valentine’s Day!

Screen Shot 2015-01-29 at 6.53.16 PMWe’re coming up on that wonderful time of year again when everywhere you turn it’s love, love, LOVE! Beautiful displays of artery-clogging candy and bounteous bouquets of blood, red roses. I’m talking Valentine’s Day—yay! Or, actually, not “yay” because this year, you’re nobody’s Valentine—the two of you broke up, remember? Well here’s my relationship advice to you:

I am a recovering pessimist (on Step 8) and no one has ever mistaken me for Pollyanna (even from the back), but, believe it or not, I have a few positive things to say about the state-of-the-nonunion on Valentine’s Day. Unless you’re already circus-idiot happy about your singlehood, here are five (5) great tips for finding yourself alone on the day that everybody’s coupled off:

  • Will You Be Thine—So, you’re single, big whoop. So’s half the married population. Point is don’t go thinking you’re the creature from the chocolate lagoon just because you don’t have someone to heart right this minute. Don’t get sucked into the Valentine’s day vortex and believe all the sugar-coated propaganda. Don’t forget who we’re talking about here: fabulous YOU! Your fabulousess does not fluctuate with the presence or absence of a valentine. It’s inside you and here to stay. Remember that and buy yourself a bouquet you really like.
  • Throw Yourself a Vity Party (Valentine’s Day pity party)—feeling a little sorry for yourself? Acknowledge those feelings so you can be done with them and move on! Vity party favorites include making a drawing of your sad-cat feelings, putting it in a cast iron pot and sending those negative vibes away with the flick of a match. The truth will set you free.
  • Celebrate Good (and single) times. COME ON!—Relationships that work do not end. If yours did (for whatever reason), it wasn’t working. Thank the break-up god you are no longer in a non-working relationship and are now available for The One that will. From this perspective, Valentine’s Day is a day of national singles’ celebration! Rock on!
  • Give Yourself a Goodie…or three— Don’t wait around for someone to give you what you want. Give it to yourself. Avoid crowds and notorious romantic zones on the big day, but pamper yourself nonetheless. How about a pedicure, a facial or a massage? Enjoy your favorite DVD with a steaming mug of your favorite coffee or tea or download the latest hot tunes onto your iPod and have an energizing jog in the park. Do unto yourself as you would have others do unto you!
  • Demand and You Shall Receive—Are you clear on your hopes and dreams? Do you know what you really want in a mate? Make your intentions known. Put your true desires out into the universe with a no-holds-barred, prince charming “treasure map”. Write out the top ten things you want in life and then bury it, like a time capsule, in the back of your underwear drawer. Be very concrete and then…fuhgetaboutit at least until the next time you go digging for that sexy thong.

In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review


The Woman You Dump Today is the Bride of Someone Else Tomorrow

Need dating or relationship advice? You've come to the right place.

Need dating or relationship advice? You’ve come to the right place.

So, you’ve dated a certain wom
an long enough to call her your “girlfriend”. Fast forward a bit and now you’ve dated her long enough to call her your “ex girlfriend”. Congratulations, sort of.

Time to slip-out-the-back-Jack except if you’ve dated long enough to do the deed and use the g-word, slipping-out-back isn’t really so pretty now is it. “Millions of guys do it. Why shouldn’t I?” True, but think about it: the woman you dump today is someone else’s bride of tomorrow. And vice versa. That’s right, some other guy right now is preparing to dump your future girlfriend/wife/alimony payee. Better hope he’s reading this article and letting her down easy, right? Save yourself and your fellow man a lot of future fallout by taking a moment to review these simple revitalized dumping clichés, I mean pointers.

Cliché #1: It’s not you, it’s me.

This tried and true phrase is a catch all for when that certain je ne sais quoi (translation: I can no longer stand you) is missing from the union. Use this phrase only if you’ve been dating six months or less (any longer and you’ll appear lame and insincere like the lame-and-insincere cad you are :)

Try instead: It’s not you, it’s us.

Sure, it’s close but there is a subtle and serious literary distinction here. Instead of referring to yourselves as two distinct individuals, you’ve introduced a third party: the two of you together. Akin to the “royal we” (aka majestic plural) you’re now speaking for yourself as well as the entity to which you subscribe. So, if you, as an individual, don’t feel the two of you is working and you, as representative of the two of you together, don’t feel the two of you is working well, that’s two against one and who can argue that?

Cliché #2: I need space.

“I need space” is the weenie’s precursor to “It’s not you, it’s us” (the phrase formerly known as “It’s not you, it’s me”). Weenie-ism aside, “I need space” is used when, for whatever reason, the relationship isn’t working, but you want to leave the door open in case you can’t find somebody better before you desperately need to hide the salami. P.S. If a relationship is working you don’t need to “take space” because you are able to lovingly negotiate all the space you need within the confines of the relationship. Oh right, that.

Try instead: I have a unique opportunity to do X and so I’m going to have to break our plans. (repeat as necessary)

This is a wonderful passive/aggressive tactic:

  • Passive because by breaking plans in advance for a “unique opportunity” you appear rather innocent while your motivation is anything but and
  • Aggressive because by simply taking space instead of announcing the need for it you are a man of action.

Practiced enough over time, in rapid succession, this tactic is guaranteed to set you and your weenie free.

Cliché #3: I love you, but I’m not in love with you.

Hold it right there mister. Never use this phrase as it is more toxic than polonium-210. No woman ever recovers from it (see dumping someone else’s bride). Immediately strike it from your long-, short- and in-between-term memory; do not ever use it with anything remotely sentient/conscious. The idiot who coined this phrase foolishly jumped into something super quick because there was serious chemistry and…then there wasn’t it. Or he knew the whole thing was wrong from the start but stayed (and stayed) because he couldn’t be alone, hoped it’d get better, she was great in the sack or all of the above. Shame on him for having the emotional life of a paramecium and saying, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

Try instead:  We’ve had some amazing times together that I will never forget but I don’t feel we have enough in common to move forward.

Women will argue this one (sorry). For every commonality she mentions simply nod knowingly—do not speak. She’ll soon tire. If she’s extremely tenacious occasionally say, “Hm.” If she keeps arguing, point out how much she likes to argue and you…don’t. Ciao bella.


In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review



Ah, Go Unstuck Yourself (a series) – reach out and touch someone

Today’s relationship advice tip:

Screen Shot 2015-01-22 at 6.48.52 AMGoal attainment is a delicate balance of focus and perspective. Too much self focus (me, me, I heart me) and you stop getting invited to parties. Too much perspective (why bother, it’s all been done before) and all you do is eat bon bons all day. When I get laser-focused on trying to attain, when my world becomes the size of my overly contemplated belly-button, when caught in a fit of the mental twirlsies it’s then I know it’s time for a reality check. And when I say reality I mean it, as in get off the keyboard and into three dimensions. I know!

When you need to get out of your head, as we all do at times, I recommend unplugging from the net and plugging into the world at large or, as I like to say, reach out and touch someone. Well, not literally, or you might get arrested, but the next time you’re out, smile at five complete strangers (yes, including that guy or girl you’ve had your eye because why not?).

Studies show controlling the face controls the mind and therefore facial expression can influence mood. In February 2009, psychologists at the University of Cardiff in Wales found that people whose frown muscles were deadened by Botox were happier and less anxious than those who hadn’t had the wrinkle treatment (any study that encourages the use of Botox is a favorite study of mine).

I’m not advocating walking around smiling like a circus idiot, but if I’m feeling stuck in my own Private Idaho I make a point of connecting, i.e. literally making eye contact with a live human being and smiling more, especially at strangers. Sometimes I force myself to strike up random conversation at Starbucks or while waiting for a light to turn. People can’t seem to help but respond and smile back and that just feels good. Sounds a bit simple I know but you might just be surprised at the results. Put it on your to-do list along with researching wormhole travel and starting a decoupage club.



In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review


Resistance, Denial & the Funky Chicken (or hey me, get out of my way!)

Screen Shot 2015-01-20 at 7.19.31 PMI know when “we” hear the phrase “relationship advice” we automatically think boy-girl/girl-girl-/boy-boy (etc) romantic love but what about your relationship with yourself, your love for yourself (but not your romantic love for yourself, that’s well none of my business)? Believe it or not your relationship with yourself is the most important relationship you’ll ever have because it is the basis from which you will relate to the rest of the humans on the planet. Ever thought about that? If not, don’t worry because I’ve thought about it for you. Read on!

This post is for all of you who have something in your life that’s not going quiiite right, but can’t figure out why. At one point or another, that’s all of us so pull up a chair and get ready to learn how to smell the chicken aka resistance and denial explained. Finally.

Ever go grocery shopping and then, on the way home, stop suddenly to avoid hitting a dog or a crazy skateboarder or a crazy skateboarder and his dog? You hear something clunk against the inside of the trunk but are so grateful for not having taken the life of something(s) you forget about it. When you get home you’ve completely forgotten about it, take what you think are all your groceries from the car, and go on your merry way. Two days later there’s a slightly funky smell in the car, think old sushi, but guess what? If you roll down the windows doing sixty it goes away. This is called, Resistance.

Four days later you look everywhere (almost) and spray two entire minutes of air freshener the result of which is sweet old sushi, but guess what? If you roll down the windows doing eighty-five it sort of goes away. This is called, Denial.

Six days later your car reeks from three feet away. It’s raining so you open the trunk to get an umbrella and kablammo! What the…chicken? Grocery store, sudden stop, clunk…(now rotten) chicken! Congratulations, Columbo! This is called, Progress!

While resistance and denial are never the answer to life’s big, funky chicken problems they are very often the reaction of choice. The thinking is, maybe if I just keep doing sixty, i.e. stay busy, these nagging issues will magically disappear. Right and a cheerful, tittering bunch of woodland animals will arrive at your doorstep to help you clean house and sew your new wedding dress.

Fact is, when you smell the stink of life it’s a gift because you then have a choice as to how you want to deal with it. One metric ton of Febreze anyone?

The lovely thing about seeing (or smelling) a situation for what it is there’s no going back. Once you see, you can’t not see (or write this sentence without a double negative). But seeing a situation for what it is and knowing what to do about it—how to effect positive change—are two very different things.


In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review


How You Doin’?

Dear Guy on Dating Site,

Here are some simple steps to follow if you are interested in contacting me:

1. Browse my Profile

Notice I didn’t say read my profile. I know you’re busy with your wife and kids I mean trolling the site, sending 10s or 100s of notes/day. And who can blame you? Internet dating for a guy is like a kid in a barrel store shooting fish or something like that. I don’t expect you to read everything because focusing too much on any one woman before you’ve made contact is time consuming not to mention creepy. The point is make me feel 10% special by knowing something specific to me.

2. Hone in on something you find interesting or funny.

And mention it in your intro note so it looks like you browsed I mean read my profile. Make it look like you give half a sh*t (or a quarter). Sample lines include:

-I have all my own teeth.

-You don’t look like a horse.

-I like that you do yoga but shave.

Male folks, it’s that simple.


Dear Guy on Dating Site,

Here are some simple steps to follow if you are interested in bugging the sh*t out of me:

1. Be in your 20s and send me a note asking if I’d like to be a sex mentor, cougar, mommy, dominatrix, submissive, cash register.

2. Be any age and write: “how was your weekend?” or my Hall of Fame favorite, “hi.” These are La-Z-Boy intros. I delete these. Occasionally I say hi back and then it’s like it’s a hi-off. Who’s going to crack first and form a complete sentence with pronoun and verb? Ooh.

3. Be old enough to be my daddy or grandaddy. Thank you for stating your correct age and posting a relatively recent photo. I wasn’t born yesterday and apparently you weren’t either so up your search criteria by 20 years and we’ll call it a day.

I could go on and usually I do, but I have to go online and find the love of my life. Thanks for reading. See you at my wedding!



In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review


The Anytime Hierarchy of Swear

The Anytime Garage Door repairman called me a c*nt (and it wasn’t in the throes of passion; some people are wired that way, who am I to judge?) after which he called me a bitch (and not “his bitch” cause that’d be different). On what planet do you call someone a c*nt and then a bitch? If anything, the c-word is akin to your final bow not your how-do-you-do. Why is this news?

His name was Mike. I know this because when I called Anytime Garage Door to report him, the guy on the other end said, “That’s Mike,” as if Mike called everyone a c*nt (actually, I gave the address where this wordsmith was working and then phone guy said, “That’s Mike.”)

“Well,” I said, “Mike called me a c*nt…and then he called me a bitch.”

“Really?” the guy said. “That’s not acceptable.” And I agree, it’s not. He most definitely should have called me a bitch and then a c*nt. Who doesn’t know c*nt is the reigning queen of swear words. Anything that follows is pabulum. Even the phone answerer at Anytime Garage Door knew this. As far as I’m concerned someone has taken the idea of “anytime” too far.

For good or bad, right or wrong, it’s not every day I get called the c-word. Let me explain:

I live in a lovely neighborhood by the sea. A neighborhood where, because everyone wants to live here, the houses are packed in six feet from one another. We’re packed in like…people who really want to live by the sea. Our garages back out onto a narrow alleyway. While working on one such garage, Mike parked his truck in the alley blocking access, in and out.

I returned from a dog walk and told him I would be leaving soon and could he move his car? He said, no problem.

Five minutes later I came out to see he’d moved his truck about three feet to the far side of the alley, giving me barely enough room to get by—not exactly what I had in mind but I was practicing the art of not yelling at a-holes. As I was squeezing past, Mr. Anytime opened the garage from the inside, near-missing my passenger door by inches. What The?!

I rolled down my window and as I was yelling Mr. Anytime closed the garage door. Really? I and my inner Hulk raced out of the car just as the door was opening again. When Mr. Anytime saw me in all my hulking glory he closed the door—open, close, open, close; I’d say Mr. Anytime’s the guy who causes the repairman to come. Adrenaline racing, I reached for the bottom of the door and lifted it high above my head. I felt like roaring.

Who knew exactly what I was saying at this point. I know it had something to do with Mr. Anytime’s poor parking choices to which he replied, “Does it look like I’m parked?” (zen koan?) followed by, BAM!, “C*nt!” followed by, as we now know, “bitch,” followed by my neighbors appearing just in time to see me yelling into a garage hanging from the door held high above my head. Hi.

I let go of the garage door and asked Mr. Anytime for his card. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. Instead, he pointed to his truck et voilà, “Anytime Garage Repair” with an 800 number. As I went to retrieve my phone from the car to snap a photo I overheard my neighbors voice their agreement that “parking” in the alley was a no go. I missed a few sentences of the exchange then emerged from my car to hear Mr. Anytime say I should take my anger out on my husband. For a second I didn’t know who he was referring to because I’m not married, never have been. When I realized he was referring to me I thought, even after yelling, hulking and carrying on Mr. Anytime assumes I’m lovable enough to be married.

Odd as it sounds, I took it as a compliment and thought, damn straight this c*nt is lovable. As a matter of fact, this bitch is, too.




In need of dating and relationship advice? If you liked this post drop me a line, post a comment, tell your friends and check out my latest book: “There’s a Pattern Here & It Ain’t Glen Plaid,”
“. . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . great practical suggestions . . . A quirky, earnest guide to regaining self-esteem for the modern woman.”  —Kirkus Review


How to Over-night with a Baby Baboon

Put a baboon on it.

Put a baboon on it.


Practice makes perfect tail hole placement.

Practice makes perfect tail hole placement.

I recently returned from volunteering at an African Wildlife Sanctuary where one of the volunteer activities included caring for Maximus, the three-month old baboon, at night. He was one-month old when his mother was shot by a farmer.

A three-month old baboon weighs about three pounds. When sleeping don’t worry about crushing it. It will scream and you will move. The scream of a baby baboon is enough to make a Marine cry. You will immediately do whatever it takes to make it stop.

Until Pampers® makes a baboon-specific diaper line you are on your own when it comes to tail holes. Punch the tail hole in the diaper before you take baboon possession. On the non-tab side of the diaper measure the width of two fingers up from the bottom center. Punch a hole the size of your index finger. If you’re over-nighting with Sheila, the seven-month old, make it the size of your thumb.

Prior to bedding down it is advisable to bathe your baby baboon. Not for him, for you. He’s been swinging in trees all day, rolling in the dirt and shitting and peeing himself. While a three-month old baboon is very active during the day at night he’s just plain scared. Think: hairy goiter-sized thing super glued to your hip therefore it’s difficult to disrobe with a baby baboon clinging mightily. If you try to move it it will scream (see above). Some suggest ripping it off like a band-aid from your hip and placing it on your head but then how to wash its bottom (bottom washing was a high-priority goal for me)? Forget about relocating the baboon and, with your one available hand, simply soap up your clinging monkey like it is just another body part. Afterwards wrap a towel around yourself and your baboon.

Baby baboons are animated and squirmy. Diapering a newly washed one is not easy. Threading the tail through the hole first is advisable (all I can say here is: good luck) then pin its chest down with your palm, endure a scream or two and secure the tabs…in back. Baboons, and all primates for that matter, have opposable digits on all four limbs—imagine having thumbs on your feet—which makes undoing things, especially front-facing tabs, a snap. Who Flung Poo, anyone?

If you have any clue about how to care for a young live thing give your baby baboon its bottle immediately. If you are like me, pretend to sleep until you hear your baboon flying around the tent until it comes to rest on the bedside table where it finds its bottle of formula.

You will need to change a baby baboon’s diaper twice during the night. I changed it once and thought I was up for an award. If the award was a pee-soaked mattress then guess what? I won! News alert: A baby baboon lives on formula and therefore its pee does not smell. Its poop, on the other hand, does which just goes to show you some things are universal and understood. While others, like over-nighting with a baby baboon, are not. Good luck!

The Snopes Report on Laser Hair Removal

I was a hairy child who took after my father who took after a Slavic werewolf named Petra many generations removed. I was thirteen when I first heard about the potential for laser technology to be redirected from the flagging defense industry to the hairy women of the world. I was in the kitchen eating Wheat Thins and Cheez Whiz staring absent-mindedly in the direction of the Avocado Amana refrigerator when I heard those mellifluous words: permanent hair removal.
Prior to engaging in laser hair removal, growth started south of the Tropic of Bellybutton. Re: density think concert attendance for Madonna (in the 80s, not “Madge” in the ’00) and ended at the follicular non-man’s land aka the toenail. I had to shave twice a day if I didn’t want to look like a Flintstone.
For my 30th birthday I bought myself a one-way ticket to Baby’s Bottomville. I bought a pre-paid, five-year, no-hair guarantee at the local, laser-hair removal parlour.
The pamphlet described the procedure as relatively painless likening the discomfort to the snap of a rubber band—Goliath’s rubber band maybe. I can only speak from my experience, but I would liken the sensation to an electric sewing machine needle à la the epidermis-and-taffeta number that creep was fashioning in Silence of the Lambs.
I’ve always prided myself on what I believe is my higher-than-average tolerance for pain and so, for the first session, I gripped the table and sweated. For session two I brought the dog’s rubber kong to bite. By sessions three I was sporting a topical anesthetic cream and by session four I was on vicodin.
After five years of having this done every thirteen weeks I am now amazingly hair free. And for the first time ever I have a clearly defined and recognizable (from land, sea or air) Bermuda-free triangle—no one gets lost, no one gets hurt.

Broaden Your Horizons with Cornstarch (or “why the garbage disposal was invented”)

I’m following a recipe from an online bed-and-breakfast printout for cooking up syrup for my fruit salad. Normally, I’m opposed to mucking up fresh fruit. It’s like putting makeup on a baby—detracts from all the natural beauty (and bottle sucking is a complete waste of MAC lipstick). But a friend made the fruit salad with the syrup and it was delightful, a real mouth dance so I got the recipe and am taking a whack.

The fruit syrup I am making calls for arrowroot. I know what arrowroot is. It’s a fancy-pants cousin to cornstarch and we all know what cornstarch is—the precursor to cement. My history with thickeners goes back to the seventh grade with Mrs. What’s-Her-Face. Three other students and I had to make a fruit pie and it came out like a trompe l’oeil ice cream sundae or faux-spill coke can—the thing did not move. It was a pie statue. A total dessert gridlock. When the world’s super powers go ape shit on each other and obliterate all DNA, what will remain standing is a cockroach outline of the skyscrapers and my replicant-of-a-pie. Mrs. What’s-Her-Face gave us all a “D”.

It’s been twenty-five years since 7th-grade home-ec, aka the pie-stocene age, a quarter of a century past fruit-filled humiliation and yet when I measure out a tablespoon of arrowroot I flashback and feel inadequate.
At first, everything—the orange-and-pineapple juice mixed with sugar and the don’t-make-me-say-it ok arrowroot—is super liquid-y. The recipe says to stir “constantly”, but I hate the idea of “constantly” anything and soon tire of circling the pot. I set my wooden spoon on the kitchen counter where, over the next nanosecond it super glues itself to the tile surface.
I look into the pot again and still, everything is pretty splishy splashy. I know a chemical change is supposed to occur at any moment but it’s hard to believe, really, even with my history and all.

And then it happens. While I’m not looking.

While I’m cutting up a mango actually. The thickener mists descend behind my back enveloping the somewhat-ly stirred pot. A post-traumatic stress flashback and blup, blup, blup, when what to my wondering eyes should appear: a potful of translucent slime good for freaking your sister out in the dark and not much else. The Psycho shower scene plays out in my head with a wooden spoon and Mrs. What’s-Her-Face in place of Norman.

As I frantically wrestle the wooden spoon from it’s final resting place my concoction zooms past the slime stage through a stronger, more robust flan phase before resolutely aligning its molecules into a lickable slab with a hardness factor just south of cubic zirconia.

Oh, sure, you can add more liquid, try and trick the pot of flubber back to it’s original soupy state, but elasticized food products (which this has now become) are the density of Jupiter and as stubborn and voracious as a black hole (let’s just say Stephen Hawking got it right). I add the equivalent of a doughboy full of o.j. and the mixture only just begins to give way. What started out as an effort at two cups of syrup has resulted in a metric ton the consistency of flu hack.
“They” say you can never go back and what “they” really should have said was: you can never retroactively “constantly” anything so really all my last minute flailing is just that (if you got through that last sentence without re-reading, congrats to you.)
So there I am, pick axing the hack block with my best meat cleaver, re-experiencing the state of thirteen hood all over again complete with the contradictory and overwhelming sense of personifying “Loser, the Super Hero”.
While, it’s true, I had yet to succeed-with-syrup and my beautiful mangoes lay in their own private Alcatraz, I didn’t let it go at that. In fact, I didn’t let it go at all. I transformed the entire experience and my perspective. Prior to final solidification I staked an oasis of drink umbrellas like flags atop Mt. ArrowRoot, stepped back and realized I had created a book end, a doorstop, a paper weight. I failed at nothing. I had, instead, created…ART!
What greater good is there than to channel negativity into creativity? I proudly set my newly cooked sculpture, with a 70-year half-life, as a hood ornament for all to admire.

Deconstructing “Call Me Maybe” Lyrics (aka Sisters are Doing it to Themselves)

I threw a wish in the well,
Don’t ask me, I’ll never tell
I looked to you as it fell,
And now you’re in my way

Many cultures throughout history have regarded water, because of its vital necessity to human existence, as a sacred gift from the gods. The idea of a wishing well, a body of water which will grant wishes, comes from this tradition.

I’d trade my soul for a wish,
Pennies and dimes for a kiss
I wasn’t looking for this,
But now you’re in my way

Our protagonist would trade her soul for this wish! The wish turns out to be for a man, ergo this woman would trafe her soul for a man. Would someone get Gloria Steinem on the line? And yet at the same time our protagonist “wasn’t looking for this” thing she wished for? Me thinks she doth lie too much, but let’s continue.

Your stare was holdin’,
Ripped jeans, skin was showin’
Hot night, wind was blowin’
Where you think you’re going, baby?

Initially, it would seem the object of this woman’s affection is interested. He is looking at her intently. His pants are ripped? Is he poor? Unlikely. In fact, in the era in which this was written purposefully torn pants were in fashion, an indication of one’s level of style. Most jeans of this type are very expensive so from this limited information we can assume the man in question has means or at least we know the money he does have is spent on appearing fashionable. What follows: hot night, wind was blowin’, is an indication of the season. And while it may be a stretch, I’d like to posit that perhaps this is a tongue-in-cheek reference to the protagonist as sometimes a talkative woman is referred to as a windbag. It may be an oblique reference but not completely unfounded as you will soon see our protagonist is quite repetitive. Further scholarly research is required to establish this as historical fact. But unsupported or not let this be a lesson to all young girls—less is more.

Hey, I just met you,
And this is crazy,
But here’s my number,
So call me, maybe?

It’s important to remember this love letter/poem/Internet sensation is from a brief era of extreme experimentation when the male/female paradigm was turned upside down. Woman took on the role of aggressor typically reserved for the male and since the heterosexual male couldn’t take on the role of female he had no role at all (except to take women’s numbers and call them, maybe). And, for the record, she knows it’s crazy…

You took your time with the call,
I took no time with the fall
You gave me nothing at all,
But still, you’re in my way

This is a classic example of the come here/go away syndrome many couples engage in otherwise known as Bossy-the-Cow-runs-after-Mr.-Good-for-Nothing. She herself says he gave her “nothing at all” which only serves to make Bossy run faster. Poor Bossy. As my Grandma Etty would say, this young man of interest is as cool as the other side of the pillow. Bottom line is the man should always want it more and, as my Uncle Ezra would say, this one would rather chase sheep.

Before you came into my life
I missed you so bad
I missed you so bad
I missed you so, so bad

This is an interesting use of tense to create emotion, ie missing someone before you have met them (also, and less interesting, is this example of protagonist as repetitive windbag). It’s like in the movies when someone drinks a love potion and falls in love with the next thing that crosses their path. Everyone in the audience wants to yell, Don’t kiss the troll. It’s the potion talking, stupid! And after this man’s rebuffing he is still “in her way”. Really? I would argue the protagonist herself is the only thing in her way, living inside her pretty little head and running after unavailable metrosexuals in ripped jeans. Let’s hope someday soon she sees the light. Unlikely but…maybe.