Corona Gold Digging

These Spanish language instruction tapes might not make me bilingual but they are making me laugh.

I had previously advanced from learning how to tell people that I don't speak Spanish to being able to say that I have no pesos or dollars and that I want some.

This will come in very handy in my next career as a Mexican beggar.

Subject of the next leccion? Beer. I kid you not. "I want to drink something. I want a beer," I am instructed to recite en Espanol.

So now I'm qualified to be a drunk Mexican beggar!

That's not the funny part. That came in the ensuing practice conversation in which I ask a senorita in a hotel if she wants to drink something: "Do want to drink a beer?"

Her immediate reply? "How may pesos do you have?"

No matter the culture, it's always about the money, isn't it?
Apparently as soon as though my lucrative begging career takes off, some Mexican gold-digger will come along and relieve me of my riches.

Muchas cervezas, por favor!

Unloading

I'm feeling self-destructive. That explains the red velvet cake I'm shovelling into my mouth and the Diet Mountain Dew I'm washing it down with. (I know it says "diet" but anything whose ingredients include something called "brominated vegetable oil" cannot be healthful.) Some of the frustrations that have piled up I've detailed before. See previous entries.

Then there's the townhouse I'm having built. That might become a blog of its own. When the builder, KB Home, constructed the model it didn't pass the code inspection. The upstairs bathroom was too narrow and the distances between the toilet, the sink faucet and the bathtub spigot were too close.

This isn't Bob & Joe's Housemakers I'm dealing with here, people. This is one of the biggest home builders in the country and it can't design a home that passes code? "The code changed," my sales guy tells me, as if I can't smell that BS from ten miles away. I could tell when I saw the model that it was a squeeze to get into the bathroom and I'm not exactly a hefty guy.

So the builder redesigns the bathroom in a way that I hate and doesn't tell me! My sales guy calls every other week to give me progress updates on the construction but never thinks to mention this. Oh, but wait! There's more! To make the bathroom wider, they have to cut into what was going to be the master bedroom's walk-in closet. Now it's not a walk-in closet unless you're (insert anorexic supermodel's name here).

Once the main structure of the building is complete, someone from KB Home leads you on your "pre-drywall meeting." It's on that walk through the home I notice the bathtub in the wrong place and say, in so many words, "Hey! WTF is up with my tub!" Again, even standing inside the building looking at it, they don't bother to tell me. I have to point it out to them!

I have two things going on here. One is that I essentially don't have the home that I signed the contract for and, two, I am dealing with people who obviously think they can pull any old crap out of their hat and have me believe it's a rabbit. I might not be the sharpest bulb in the drawer but the stink here is more than strong enough for me to sniff it out.

Then I see that the building that on the community site map sits to the south and west to mine is about to have its foundation poured in a place that will obstruct about one-third of the rear view of my building -- possibly including my unit. When I first visited the sales office before signing my contract, the sales guy told me there was a lot premium in addition to the home price. What for? "The pond view," my sales guy said at the time. Now my pond view could turn into that of someone else's patio. Listen, I realize that with townhouses, you're going to be closer to your neighbors than if you're in a single family home. But that shouldn't mean that I should sit within literal spitting distance of someone else's building.

And, for now, I won't get started on the damage to the tub that the project manager tells me that is merely cosmetic.


I could wrangle my way out of the contract and get my deposit back. But how do I get the last ten months of my life I've waited for this thing back? I have to live somewhere.

I know. It's not the end of the world. The home will be habitable. But it seems to me that when you're about to hand over a sizeable chunk of your life savings to someone for a home, there shouldn't be any questions about it, should there?

Hablo what?

Looking for a way to pass my commute to work more productively, I borrowed a "Speak Spanish Instantly!" set of cassettes from the library. "No books, no written exercises, no drills!" It says on the cover. And I can say without qualification that it works. After only two hours of intent listening and repeating to the recorded conversations, I can now tell people in fluent Spanish that, "I do not speak Spanish."

I relate this story via e-mail to Sarah and she, being this freak of human nature who has apparently, I am beginning to learn, studied every discipline on the planet, writes back in part:

Hola! Me llamo espanol pequeno. Estudie espanol para seis anos. Pero, cuando yo estudie el colegio, yo pare.

Don't ask me what that means because I do not know. (She had me at Hola!) "That was Spanish, right?" I reply. "I'm gonna have to take your word for that." I am, as usual, impressed and tell her so. Then I go for the cutesy ending:

Buenas noches!

(I think. If I just swore at you or recited a Mexican restaurant entree, I meant something else.)

Please tell me that that was at least minimally amusing. I feel like I'm spinning my wheels here and it's starting to depress me. Maybe this girl has such an dazzling array of talents that impressing her is going to take more than I have. "So you listened to some cassettes in your car? I took Spanish for six years! So you had four piano lessons and picked up the rest by ear? I was classically trained for a decade! And on.

There's probably more to my blahs than that. But that's enough to sort through right now.

Crap.

Too Clever For My Hair

I forgot to mention that one of the previous women to write me back had an e-mail address that read: "RX8Jenn@herISP.com"

I couldn't resist asking, "RX8? Does that mean that you drive a Mazda sports car. Or do you come from a long line of pharmacists?"

I might not get any dates out of this but at least I'll amuse myself. That's what's important here.

Desperately Seeking Bark

My attempt to scare her off having apparently failed, Ms. Seeking Liberal Yet Grounded wrote me back. She described her life outlook in ways that I frankly didn't completely understand. On her use of the word "liberal" for instance: I feel comfortable re-invoking the traditional meanings of abused words. Meaning may change, may be distorted, but as long as it shifts quicker than the generations pass I think it's fair to keep multiple meanings at the forefront, don't you?

Um. Yeah. Yeah, sure. OK so she might be a bleeding-hearted, tree-hugging liberal. That doesn't mean she wouldn't be a cool person. Let's what she makes of this:

Hi Libby*,

My principles in a nutshell: When the cashier gives me my change, I count it. If he gave me too little, I ask for the correct amount. If he gave me too much, I give back the difference.

Honesty might not be the best policy but, as someone once said, always telling the truth means you never have to remember what you said. Plus you occasionally get to see some very shocked looks on cashiers' faces!

I admire your idealism. I hope it survives law school.

My outlook, buffeted by the turbulences of reality, is more earthy. Former NFL coach Sam Rutigliano was once quoted as saying, "You have not lived a perfect day unless you have done something for someone who cannot pay you back." I don't live enough perfect days but I'm working on it. I'm working on rising above the petty sefishness and insecurity that keeps me from giving more of to others. I may not make it but if awareness is the first step to enlightenment I have a start.

I imagine that single motherhood + law school = not much time for crusades to save the world, let alone a relationship. How do you keep all the plates spinning?

I watch little TV. Family Guy, Grey's Anatomy and the occasional sporting event are about it. The last movie I saw in the theater was one in which I appeared. It was a small part in a short film that played at some city's International Film Festival. I like sappy romantic comedies, even with their trite happy endings because I'd like to believe that it could happen that way.

I don't travel widely. In a previous career as a reporter I moved around enough (7 states in a 9 year span) that I didn't have to travel to places -- I just moved there! A rolling stone gathers no spouse. I want to stand still at least until the room stops spinning.

I don't mean to imply I'm looking to get married. Or looking NOT to get married. I'm not looking for anything. I'm just trying to keep my eyes open so that I can see possibilities.

~ Jack

*Maybe that IS her real name.

Grey's Anatomy

This is a good show. Grey's is one of only two shows on television (Family Guy being the other) that I make any effort to watch. But its supposed brilliance is getting so overhyped that people who don't get it wonder if they're missing something.

If you're one of them, here's what you're missing:

You're missing a TV show.

It happens to be a show I like but if I were to miss an episode, it wouldn't leave a gaping hole in my heart.

Unless, of course, I missed it because I took a rail through my chest in a train accident.

Liberal Yet Grounded?

I replied to another personal ad today. It was titled, "seeking someone liberal yet grounded." In it, she writes: "I'm seeking someone who can match me on intelligence, passion, and dedication. Someone aware and awake, who has a commitment to the world outside themselves."

To which I replied:

Hi!

By "liberal" do you mean open-minded or politically left-leaning? There is a vast difference. Anyone who swallows the party line -- of either side -- in total obviously does little thinking for himself. It doesn’t take intelligence to parrot the arguments of either Hannity or Colmes.

That’s how you get people who say they are pro-life but who advocate the death penalty. Huh? If the sanctity of life were absolute, that would mean that even killers have the right to live. I don’t agree with that; it’s just an example of how people let themselves be herded into contradictions.

And there’s my political rant of the day. I’m not prone to those. However I am leery of people who label themselves as "liberal" or "conservative" or anything similar because it means they have too much free time on their hands -- unless, like the Hannitys and Colmeses of the world, they can make a buck off it. Otherwise, normal people are too busy trying to get through the day to attach such labels to themselves.

The cursory: White male; 40; 5'8" 180 lbs.; well muscled; non-smoker; non-drinker (yet still unafraid to sing karaoke); college educated (I even graduated!); employed; soon to be homeowner; no exes; no children; one cat.

I can’t read music but that doesn’t stop me from trying to compose and perform it. Computer software helps. I play music and golf equally badly but I intend to keep doing them anyway. I own my own video camera and have made short films with it that have shown at film festivals. If we advance to the point where we exchange our real names, you’ll be able to watch many of my video projects on my web site.

I’m going to withhold a picture for now, too. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed if we ever meet (while not quite GQ cover model material, I also won’t soon grace the cover of the local kennel club newsletter, either) but I’m in no rush.

Enough about me. What are your artistic pursuits? What are you studying in college and what’s your career going to be? (She said she was studying for a "great career.") How many children do you have? (She mentioned that she had kids.) How do you get along with their father? Answer some or all or even ones I didn’t ask. Tell me a story.

Internet Dating Etiquette

I've begun Internet dating, which is probably not quite accurate since since there haven't been any actual dates yet. But I just started.

I'm not using a pay site. Craigslist has a section for my area so I'm going to start with that and see if anything comes of it.

I've replied to three ads so far. They have each asked for pictures and I have complied. Each sent images of people I presume to be of themselves in return. So for all three I apparently passed the "looks test." Hooray for not being butt ugly!

The first woman describes herself as a 29-year-old non-drinker who exercises 90 minutes a day, which is cool because I also don't drink and I like to watch girls get sweaty. (Rimshot!) Actually, I workout 5-7 times a week and want someone who shares my interest in fitness. So that's good. Ninety minutes a day seems a tad obsessive but, hey, let's not get too judgemental right off the bat. She looks attractive enough in her photo, though she appears to devote none of her 90 minutes to working on her arms. A little flabby there. But, again, she's the first one. I don't even know what else might be out there yet.

What she hadn't mentioned in her ad was that being taller than her was not enough. She wanted someone taller than her while she was wearing stilts. Wilt Chamberlain, I'm not. First of all, he's dead and, talented as I'd like to believe I was, I have yet to master typing while dead. The fact you're reading this should suggest that I'm at least still breathing. And secondly, I'm not seven feet tall.

So, if you're scoring at home, which would make one of us (Rimshot!), I'm 0-for-1. This does not disappoint me. The flabby arms would have annoyed me at some point. Better she wave goodbye when I don't have to see it.

The second woman (the thought occurs that these might not even be women posting these ads, but I gotta think that I'd notice the difference at some point) says she's 33, and 5'7" with a slender build. She has, she says, "absolutely no problems with getting a male's attention everytime I go out." But she wants to advance from the clubbers she usually meets, preferably to man one with nice pecs. "My biggest turn on in a guy is a nice chest. (I'm a sucker!)" Whaddya know? I like a nice chest too!

(Ba-da-bing!)

I decide not to mention that in my reply. What I do write (including my willingness to sing karaoke completely sober) seems charming enough and she writes back -- if you can say that about a reply that doesn't include any actual writing. It consists of a series of five images of her in different poses, all but one from the neck up. They're of such high contrast they look like they might have been doctored to mask poor skin. But it works. She looks good in the pictures. The one that offers a glimps of her bust doesn't show a lot but if she's "slender," they probably fit her body well. Though I have certainly enjoyed the recreational use of large breasts, they are far from a requirement. Give me small ones that the girl enjoys being touched, nibbled and sucked and I'm good to go.

I write back, "You certainly photograph well. I presume, however, that you are more than just a pretty face." I ask her to tell me a story. That was a couple of days ago and she has not replied. Maybe she broke both her hands and can't type. Maybe forming sentences with words and all is giving her trouble and she's still working on it. We'll see.

That brings us to door number three. "Smart, Attractive Woman Seeks Same in Man," her headline reads. I'm guessing she'll settle for the smart and attractive parts. She wants a woman in me? I want me in a woman. (Rimshot! I'm killing tonight!) She says right in the headline that she's attractive. She adds later that, "I'm in good shape," and that she seeks her "physical equal." Are you getting the same vibe I'm getting here? We're talking hottie, right?

I send off my spiel and she writes back with attached photos of herself. I won't say she lied about her appearance. Let's just say that we differ on the definition of "attractive." She's not hideous or anything but she doesn't look athletic at all. Doesn't have a cute face. Generally not someone I would look at and think, "I wonder if she'll go out with me."

But thanks to life via the Internet, essentially I have.

What do I do? What's the etiquette here? Do I write back feigning interest for the sake of maybe meeting someone who could enlarge my circle of friends? That is, if she wasn't exaggerating her intellect too. Do I politely inform her that I don't think we'd be a match. Do I delete her e-mail and pretend the whole thing never happened?

Odd.

What about Sarah? You wonder.

We'll see about that. We traded e-mails on Sunday and I mentioned that I might have to come downtown, where she works, to cover a story sometime this week. It so happened that the story came together faster than I thought and I had to do it Monday. I e-mailed Sarah to tell her that I'd call her when I finished to see if she was free. She never wrote back.

She called. To tell me that she had a volleyball game and couldn't meet me. Then the kiss off: "But thank you for thinking of me." Followed by this: "I'd love to take you out sometime." This is what baffles me. One moment she sounds like she's pushing me away; the next she seems to be encouraging me to pursue her.

I'm going to let it cool down for a while. If she's interested, she'll initiate contact. She doesn't have to do the asking. All she has to do is to write or call to say, "Hi," and I'll start banging my head against the wall again for her, which appears to be the only banging I'm going to be doing with her. That's OK, as I'm mentioned before. But I'd like to find a way to sort this out with her so that I'll know if we'll always stay just friends or not.

Meaning?

I talked to Sarah today. While we have been trading e-mails steadily, we hadn't seen each other for a while so I called her just to say, "hey." She is fun to talk to because her voice has such an exuberance to it that you can hear the smile in it.

I caught her at work. She works for a company for whom I also once worked. That's where me met almost ten years ago. "Hi!" She caroled back. "Cory (another former co-worker) and I were just talking about you."

This is the second time in the last three weeks that she has told me that my name has come up in conversations she has had with people I worked with at this place. That just sounds odd to me. I'll have to ask her how, after almost seven years since I left there, I am still worthy of any mention. Even among those who remember me there, how would my name come up?

I'm not offended by this. I highly doubt that anyone is badmouthing me or anything like that. What I'm wondering is: Am I on Sarah's mind enough that she offers my name for discussion? And does that mean anything? Is she bouncing my name off people who knew me to get their reactions? If the reviews are good, will that enhance her esteem of me?

Better

As you might have guessed from the previous mess masquerading as a blog entry, yesterday was not one of my better days. A lot of stuff piled up. The home I'm having built has run into problems. The model didn't pass code inspection so they redesigned it in a way that I hate and didn't bother to tell me about it until I discovered it on my own. My new job is steady but boring. Then there's the Sarah situation, or lack thereof.

And I generally felt like I was getting screwed in life in every way except the one I want. "Life is full of disappointments," my dad says. At least I have that to look forward to.

I did visit my home site today and, for some reason, it didn't look as hideous as I remembered it. I'm still not happy but I can live with it if I have to. The fact that I found an Italian restaurant and a gym within walking distance of the place probably didn't hurt.

After a pointed e-mail from me today, the builder's sales guy told me that the company's main office will be contacting me. "If you have a name and number, I'll be happy to contact them myself," I replied. For all I know they'll offer to cancel the contract and refund my deposit. That would be attractive if I hadn't also invested nine months of my life into this home and if prices wouldn't be 10-20 percent higher than when I last went home shopping.

Sarah and I did not trade any e-mails today. Our flurries are invariably initiated by me and I did not have anything worthwhile to say, so I wisely did not say it.

No Satisfaction

It's one of those days.

People seeking out a sucker
thinking I was born this minute.
They tell me lies through their smiles
to sell me pies in the sky.
Like snakes in the weeds
there are assholes all around.
Who's looking out for me?
Who's protecting me?
Who!

Crap! Spilled something on my lap.
It's one of those days.
Nothing going right.
Life's full of disappointments.
That's my guiding light.
I don't care about pagan babies
starving somewhere in Africa.
I don't want to hear the cripples
telling me I'm lucky I can walk.

I want to scream.
I am ready hear me roar.
I'm tied up, tired of
being taking advantage of.
The car's going to leave me
stranded near the cubicle
inside my cell block.
The sentence is 8-5
plus the rush hours.
Twelve hours from door to door.
Half my day gone to pay the bills.

I wish I could sleep.
I wish I didn't have to.
Freaking computer.
Can't anything work right?
Not today.
I can't get no.
No no no.

Some f*ckin' poetry, that was.

Wait a Sec

I just re-read that last post. The part in which I write something about how being pen pals is good enough is not entirely true.

But it's not false, either. Hang with me on this. I'm not lying to myself when I say that. But in the back of my mind when I trade regular "hey, pal, how's it goin'" e-mails with Sarah, there's a part of me thinking that I want someone who is more to me than a pen pal or occasional lunch or dinner companion. And because she's top of mind, she's on the top of the list of potential girlfriends.

I'm sure that clarifies things.

Like crackers in broth.

More of Same

I don't intend to focus this whole blog on Sarah so if you tire of the subject, hang in there. It will change.

But not yet.

I've kept sending her e-mails. And she has kept replying. But I don't know that it's really getting either of us anywhere. Sometimes I feel more like I'm in a badminton match than a friendship. We smack a shuttlecock back and forth. I write; she returns; I volley back. A few of the things I've sent have not been the kinds of things from which I would expect a response. Yet, there she is, in my inbox again. But it's usually talk about nothing, really. Sports (which, granted, from a girl is highly arousing) and other mundane details of days.

Is it better to keep it light to keep it going or better to let it go until she wonders about me? I don't want to play games here. After a recent exchange of what this time were pretty deep cutting revelations to each other I had decided to cool things off. Then I came across something that I thought she would find amusing, snapped a picture of it and sent it to her with one line of text to explain it.

I do have to do a better job of remembering to talk more about her and less about myself when writing to her. What's everyone's favorite subject? That's right. Himself. Or, in this case, herself. So I need to make sure I talk about that more.

Here's the thing: I like this girl even as a pen pal or occasional platonic lunch or dinner companion. I'll be fine if that's as far as it goes. (Frankly it was easier when I lived in another state because we both knew that as far as it could go. I would hate for her to think that I only did all this conversing with her because I hoped to talk her into bed.

I don't know if any of this is making sense. It's nearing my bedtime so that I can get up and go back to work tomorrow.

Did I mention I got a regular 9-to-5 kind of job? If you've read through this mass of verbiage at all then you know I've been working as a freelance reporter. Too many times freelancer was a euphemism for unemployed so I went ahead and sought more permanent work. It's in a new field for me, though one I've had interest as an amateur for a while so it's not entirely alien. I'll still freelance as a sideline when time and scheduling permit but I've become of those people struggling through rush hours to get to and from some place where I sit in a cubicle counting down the minutes until I can leave from the moment I get there.

See? Look at that. A whole paragraph in which I didn't mention what's-her-name once.

Upon second thought

I'm probably just going to send Sarah the e-mails I write and hope for the best. If she stops replying I'll get the hint and let it drop.

In other matters, a very cleverly written blog a I occasionally visit includes the following post in which the author wants to know how to password protect her blog so that random strangers, such as yours truly, can't wander by and read it.

Let me think on this for a moment. Someone does not wish for her writings to be read publicly. Hmmm. How, oh, how is it possible to prevent that? Well, one idea does come to mind. She could, um, I dunno, not post them on the Internet?

Eh?

Sarah

I have a female friend that I bet would make a great girlfriend. I'd at least like to hang out with her enough to decide whether she's worth falling for. In which case all kinds of hilarious awkwardness will ensue. And don't worry, dear reader, if that happens, I'll surely detail it for you here.

But getting to that point has been difficult. She's one of those hyper-busy people who works a demanding job then teaches at a local college then goes and plays in an adult soccer league -- all of which I think is completely cool. Oh, and she's a concert-freaking-pianist.

No. I am NOT kidding.

So despite the fact that this woman is obviously world class at time management, even if we were dating the dates would happen about once a month. Fine. I'm not that needy. I have a cat, so I know how it works. Sometimes she wants me to feed her; sometimes she wants to cuddle with her and most of the time she wants me to leave her the hell alone so she can go do all her cat stuff to which I'm not invited.

Dating this gal would be a lot like that, except the cat has hairier ears and completely sucks at soccer. (In the cat's defense, I don't think the woman can amuse herself for hours simply by looking out the window. I also doubt that she can lick her own crotch. At least I hope not. Otherwise I totally have no shot.)

Here's why I mention this to you: This woman occupies a space in my mind now. I'll see or hear something and I'll think, hey, "Sarah" will get a kick out of this and it makes a convenient excuse for me to send her an e-mail. You might have noticed that I like to write. In small doses, I'm sure she thinks it's cute. Who doesn't feel flattered to know that someone is thinking about them?

As long as it doesn't go overboard. Here's where you come in. I'm thinking that some of the thoughts that Sarah spurs I should write down here instead of in e-mails to her. I was going to start tonight but now I'm tired and I'm going to go to bed instead.

Maybe the whole idea will get put to bed too. We'll see.

Your Approval Not Needed

I eat ice cream with a fork. Right out of the container. The ice cream looks like it's been raked.

In a way, it has.

Yum.

I Hit "Next Blog"

BEST BLOG TITLE SEEN RECENTLY:

God Is Not An Asshole
(http://godisnotanasshole.blogspot.com)

Needing such reassurance could be a sign that you're having a bad week.

SECOND BEST:

The Piano Has Been Drinking ...
... And It's Puking on My Foot.
(http://koalasarenotbears.blogspot.com)

Huh?

Whaddya mean we're "interracial"? Just 'cause she's from Philadelphia?


The above is not a real quotation, though I do have a friend of Asian descent from Philly so it's a line I could imagine myself saying -- which, come to think of it, is how I was able to write it down.

As far as real (allegedly) snatches of conversation that are hoots-and-a-half, if not appropriate for polite company, check out Overheard in New York. "Conversations from the streets, stores and subways," it says. Only in New York.