Carol

I'm taking my truck in for the fourth windshield replacement.  I don't know what it is about these Honda Ridgelines.  Of all the trucks I've ever been involved with, this truck is over all, superior to most.  Granted I can't haul huge loads and the box is smaller than most, but if you're looking for the most bang for you buck, you can't go wrong with the Honda Ridgeline, and because of some of it's limitations, friends and family are going to be less likely to request help when moving.  That's a huge plus, in my books.  It's a unibody design, has all the get-up-and-go that a sports car half it's size possesses and the amenities inside are a dream.  There's a huge trunk in the bed of the box, which come complete with drain holes, so you can fill it with ice and keep your beverages cool while at the beach or tailgating.  The truck, like I said, is an absolute delight.  Superior to most on the road, except for that blasted windshield.  There has to be a flaw in the design, because how can I go through so many windshields in the seven years that I've owned it.

A single stone chip, cascades into a full blown crack, from stem to stern.  In this most recent case, I picked up a stone chip nearly two weeks ago, and the crack erupted nearly right away, spreading from near the passenger side edge, clear across the bottom of the windshield, then upwards, dissecting my line of sight, straight into the driver's side pillar.  I've driven the truck like this for just over a week, so I'm taking it in Thursday morning to have the windshield replaced.

I'm told that the process will take about four hours to complete.  They offered me a ride home, but I'm opting instead to meet a friend for breakfast and maybe shoot about town, time permitting.  She calls me her shopping buddy and if it's an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours, she can call me whatever she wants.

I contacted her and she agreed to meet up.  "It's a date." I replied, quick to add, "Not a real date."  She's one to take things in a literal sense, so I need to be on my toes to combat her first instincts.  She's a looker, I'll giver her that credit, but I'm not so lucky that I get to spend time with attractive females.  Especially, any that would find me appealing.

She "L.o.L'd" and commented that she'd help me with a dating profile one day.  I kiboshed that idea right away.  I've tried those sites in the past and have had nothing but scathing bad luck with them.  The worst of which is the true inspiration for this blog entry.  CAROL.

I don't remember a lot about Carol, except all the negativity.  I'm sure in time, she would've come to be a pleasant person and less psychotic, but that's not a gamble I'd wish to take with anyone.  I've battled psychotic in the past (Terri), and that's a twisted road I don't wish to trek again for a very long time, if ever.

The profiles on these dating sites need to be honest and forthright.  Some embellishment is understandable.  I told the truth about myself, but used a picture of the ECW wrestler, Tommy Dreamer, because someone once told me I looked a little like him.  Of course, someone else told me I looked a little like Julian from The Trailer Park Boys, so their credibility is up in the air.  Carol, on the other hand took great artistic license in her description of herself.

First of all, she said she was athletic.  She worked out daily and was physically fit, although she was a bigger sized girl.  As I'm no prize winning pig, either, I can look past such trifling.  Next she described that she was a health nut.  She never mentioned being a vegan, so we were two-for-two.  She was a nurse, which means a meaningful employment.  That's a good sign.

We exchanged telephone numbers and chatted for about a week or so before agreeing to meet for breakfast.  I came to her apartment door in an old masonry building near downtown, and the person I had pictured in my head for a number of weeks, was not the person who stood across the threshold from me.  Her polar opposite, in fact.

She was athletic much in the same way a sumo wrestler would be considered an athlete.  She did workout daily, as had claimed, but it was only to walk to the bus stop at the end of the block, where she rode the remaining five or six blocks to the hospital where she was employed.  She had a treadmill in her livingroom that held multiple plastic-wrapped cases of two-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi, which was the only contributor to the healthy diet that I saw any evidence of.  I'm sure the most liberal of dietitians would still disagree that potato chips and pretzels are not a part of a healthy diet.

She lived alone in the one bedroom apartment, but there had to be at least three half filled ashtrays lining the route from the front door to the living room.  The apartment was disheveled with clothing sprawled and strewn everywhere.  "I'm glad she cleaned up for company." I quietly joked to myself.

She was a huge mess.  A joy to speak with on the phone, but now in person, she seemed like a totally different person.  She was wearing nothing but tight yoga-style pants and a sports bra, as it that was a real article of clothing to be going out for breakfast in, but like I said, I'm not prize winner either, so giving her the benefit of the doubt, off to breakfast we went.

She sat across from me, devouring her breakfast like a hyena tearing into the carcass of a wildebeest.  It was not a pretty sight.  There was, literally, food flying about the table.  If I'd had reached over, I'm sure I would have lost a finger or two.  I'm not sure if she was grunting at all, but for the sake of the story, let's agree that she was.  I'll say this much for Carol, she was not healthy by any means of the definition, but she sure as f**k had a healthy appetite.  I can't recall what exactly it was that she'd ordered, other than it cost a small fortune and it put her in a right randy mood.

No sooner had we returned to her tiny little apartment, but she was ready to go, if you know what I mean.  I, on the other hand, was not.  I was tempted only in the fact that it'd been a long time between physical interactions, but I was not ready to venture down that road.  I told her straight out, "I do not have protection," in hopes that this would dissuade her from any advancements.  I figured being a health professional that would be enough.  "No probs!" she said with glee, "I'm on the pill."  I can't imagine why she'd bother being on birth control.  Watching her eat, alone, would suffice as birth control.

She was determined, though, to get a piece of Jeff, going so far as to block the path to the door, but I was determined too.  I insisted that she allow me to go to the nearby 7-11 to purchase condoms.  This proved distraction enough to allow me to flee.  Thankfully, she never knew where I lived and despite some hateful phone messages, she finally abated her assault when I lied to her, telling her it was her smoking that was the deal breaker.

I have not intention of pursuing the affections of another via the dating site avenue.  I'd much rather hang out with friends and meet some lovely single woman that way.  Unfortunately, all my friends have either gal pals who are in relationships or are borderline psychotic.  No thanks!  I've sailed that ship and I bailed out in time to avoid a total meltdown of the nuclear reactor. 

Man On The Moon

I have the perfect body.  That is to say, that if this shitty body I have, can be defined as "perfect".  The norm would dictate otherwise, but I've come to the realization that no matter what sort of workout regiment or diet I was to commit to, my level of desirability to the opposite sex, will be null and void.  To elaborate further;  Even if I were to become the most physically fit fella in the city, I'd remain ugly as f*ck.  

No matter how much I squint, looking into the mirror, it is still my ugly mug that I see squinting back.  To be perfectly honest, I'm not even clear on the conquests I've already had in my life.  To the best of my knowledge, every one of these fantastic women have had good vision, therefore by simple deduction, I have to believe that it was charm and charisma that got me to share that special bond with them.  These days, however, I'm rarely faced with a situation that will allow me to impart my special characteristic.  It's rare that I converse with anyone at work, especially those of the female persuasion.

I was thinking the other day, that if I were the person I am today, back in high school, there's a good chance that I'd have been more popular than I was.  In high school, I was invisible.  A "living ghost" as it were.  Roaming the halls, too shy to speak to just about anyone.  I had friends, sure, but my place on the pecking order was near the bottom with the dog shit and spent chewing gum.  Whether that was the case, truly, it's how I've always perceived myself back then.

Nowadays, I don't have many opportunities to mingle with people.  Availing myself in a social situation, faced with any single women.  I've gone to the bar with friends, but really, does a person really wanna establish a relationship with some floozy who's half cut with her boobs bouncing out of her two-sizes too small shirt?  Not really.  Fun to watch from the corner of the booth, but I can't respect someone who doesn't respect themselves.  Although, as I type out these words, it would seem that I, too, have little self respect.  Not to mention that the premise of exchanging an intelligible conversation with a heavy bass pounding in the background is f*cking impossible.

I'm not that interesting, anyway.  Even with those I've already have an established friendship, I rarely have anything significant to share.  One of my best friends in the world, who ironically I only see once every few months, I never have anything that interesting to share when we do catch up.  He'll ask about what's new in my life, and I almost always have nothing to tell.  I work, I come home, I repeat.  Weekend comes and more times than not, I stay in the entire weekend.

As per my current situation of not meeting anyone, or having opportunities to engage anyone long enough to warrant a social outing of warm refreshments and a tasty meal, I suppose that's on me.  Ball's in my court, so to speak, but I honestly couldn't even tell you what sort of venues are out there for a single (unattractive) fella like me.  Go to a church?  Gimme a f*ckin' break!  Plus, I wouldn't feel right about seeing someone who believes so strongly in something that I find absolutely preposterous.  Online dating?  Not a chance.  I tried that years ago and got burned by one chick and then the other described herself as "athletic", but in reality was a chain-smoking battle tank.  I'm no prize, myself, as I've plainly pointed out, and definitely should not be throwing rocks from my glass house, but f*ck.  I'm not interested in cigarette-ash-stinkin' sibling of Jabba the Hut.

Another argument for winning the lottery would be my sudden attractiveness to women.  With a couple mill in my bank account would definitely make me much more attractive to women.  I know this is a shallow point, both on my account and theirs, but with enough zero's behind a number, would even make John Merrick* suddenly appear like Gerard Butler to the most finicky of women.  In the meantime, I think I could maybe get away with just wearing sunglasses everywhere.  Kind of like Belushi in The Blues Brothers.  Wearing my Raybans always make me feel better about myself anyway.  

The biggest frustration I feel, I think, is when I look around me and see all these other ugly motherf*ckers of equal or greater hideousness, partnered with an attractive significant other on their arm.  A special someone  with whom to spend time with, laugh with, converse with.  Someone to just be with.  That's all I'm really concerned with.  The physical aspects of any relationship is one thing, but someone to just be with.  A shoulder to lean on when the times are tough.  A smile to share a laugh with when the times are great.  I don't think that's too much to ask.  I just don't know how to do it, is all.  I believe that deep down, I'm a fairly decent guy.  I have a good job, own my house, and have an awesome head of hair.  I'm not perfect, this is true, but people seldom are.

It's been said by those who come out of a marriage and are faced with the single life once more, of having "ring rust", so to speak.  Having no idea on how to dive back into the dating pool.  I've never been married and I still have no f*cking clue....

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*John Merrick was "The Elephant Man"*