Circus Freaqué

I’ve decided to join the circus. I’ve come to this decision after long (5-minute) contemplative thought on my job prospects at this time. This decision has nothing to do with the painful, eye-gouging job interview that I went on today. The temp freelance job I got may go full-time in January – let’s all keep our fingers crossed - but I need a back-up plan just in case so HELLO Barnum & Bailey. I checked out Career Opportunities for the Circus, but I’m really not seeing a fit at this time.

Job Listing: Bearded Woman – I can’t grow one hair on my chin much less enough to qualify as a beard. Though I clicked through, there was no listing for “Hairless Freak.”

Job Listing: Ticket Taker – This one sounded promising ‘til I realized that I may have to touch the unwashed masses and talk to people who haven’t accepted Dental Hygiene into their lives.

Job Listing: Tightrope Walker – My balance is atrocious and I’m afraid of heights. Does it count as tightrope walking if the tightrope is only 6 inches off the ground? And, how many times can you fall off before people start booing?

Job Listing: Unicycle Rider – The last time I rode a unicycle in a parade, the clowns kept trying to stab me with their sharp sticks. Oh wait. That was a dream . . . .

Job Listing: Dancing Bear – Pink Tutu with these pasty white legs? Oh, I don’t think so.

I’m going to write the Circus and suggest a new position be added to the list of performers – Human Freak Magnet. “Come one, come all. Watch as this seemingly normal girl attracts the dregs of society. See complete strangers attempt to braid her hair or rest their head on her shoulder. Observe unfamiliar people who sit at her table and try to explain the aliens to her in their own special language.”

OK. Maybe the Circus shouldn’t be Plan B. How does one go about becoming a Dominatrix? I hear that they pay and benefits are simply excellent. Plus, people often refer to me as a pushy b**ch. 

Hello, Kitty Cat!

Sometimes, something looks good on paper but once you see it face-to-face, well, it's not so good. Working in radio, for example, can really kill your celebrity illusions. I spent a summer interning at a radio station and learned that most celebrities look better in their photos (thank you, Photoshop) and quite a few of them can really be self-centered jerks.

I met a man online that sounded good in print. College professor that was just a few years older than me, never married and living reasonably close. Not bad looking. Nice friendly smile. Needed a haircut (comb-over ponytails were NEVER in style, were they?). But that's like looking at a house for sale that needs a new coat of paint. Great bones, just needs a little superficial spruce-up. And, this is my year of personality over pretty.

I just wanted to do coffee. Less intimate, easier to escape from. But, he insisted on dinner. Fine. Maybe he'll be witty and brilliant and leave me wanting more. Yeah, and maybe I'll wake up 25 lbs. thinner because I was swimming in my dream last night. But hope, like unexpected bills and cellulite, springs eternal.

He looked just like his picture. Bonus! A surprising number of men post pictures from when they were 10 years younger or 20 pounds thinner. And, don't even get me started about the guy with the seriously broken teeth.

He was not witty and brilliant. At least, the first 20 minutes of nonstop nattering from him were not. He talked, without pause, from the time we sat down until our food arrived. I'm not even sure he paused for breath.

It's possible that after his first soliliquy, he may have hit his groove and turned into a brilliant orator. Hell, he could have recited Martin Luther King's rousing “I have a dream” speech. I wouldn't know. I started mentally reviewing my packing list after he passed minute 20 of non-stop talking. (I was leaving for a two-week vacation in mere days).

I initially tuned out during his description of how Second Life works and why it's a good teaching aid. Before I nodded off, however, I did catch his talk on why being a Dungeon Master in Dungeons & Dragons – which he still played at age 40 – made him a better teacher. I was fascinated to see what the correlation was. Regrettably, it wasn't fascinating.

I started listening again after our food came. The sustenance revived me just enough to be tepidly interested in what he was saying. And, may I say, thank you Jesus. I would have hated to miss this little golden nugget of celibacy.

“So, in order to learn how to use web design software, I designed a web page for my cats.”

“Oh, that sounds like a fun way to learn how to use the software,” I said. I mean, if I had to design a web page for a class, I could see doing a humorous one for my ferret entitled Frenchie, the Flying Circus Freaqué and using a picture of him mid-air leaping for a houseplant.

“Would you like the web address? You can sign their guest book.”

Pregnant pause. Was he joking? He's joking, right? He cannot seriously have a web page that he maintains dedicated to his cats, can he? So, I asked him about it. Lo' and behold. He does indeed maintain a web page dedicated to his feline friends. AND he updates it regularly. Oooh, would you look at the time? I'm quite sure I have to get up early tomorrow to dust my books. Needless to say, I didn't call him after I returned from my vacation. Seems I lost his number in the swimming hole.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should go back to treading water in the shallow end of the dating pool. At least it had better sight-seeing possibilities.

[Author's aside – WHY, oh WHY didn't I get the web address for his kitty cat website? There could have been comedy GOLD in them thar web pages.]

An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Don’t I wish!

I admit it. I was excited to go out with a doctor. He was obviously intelligent. He had a good job. Hell, he had A job. (Don’t even get me started about the unemployed garbage collector a friend set me up with. OK, fine. I’ll tell you later.)

He appeared attractive from his picture, albeit stoic, because he wasn’t smiling. It struck me as odd that you would use a picture of yourself where you looked so serious. Oh dear. Maybe he has no sense of humor. I hate people with no sense of humor. How do they survive in this mad, mad world without humor? But, I digress.

He wasn’t too much older than me (a few years). From talking to him, I knew that he liked to cook, had children from a previous relationship who didn’t live with him and had some of the same interests that I did.

I was sticking with my rules this time. Meet in a (crowded) public place and don’t exchange anything more than first names until you feel comfortable.

We agreed to meet at a coffee shop. I didn’t recognize him when he first walked up because his hair was almost entirely gray. It was black in the picture that he sent me. Reminded me of the C&C Music Factory song, “Things that make you go hmmmmm.” I was almost positive at this point that he had lied about his age (40), but it would be rude to ask.

In these situations, I always try to get to a meeting location first so that I can scope out the location and choose the best place to sit. This also allows me to get my beverage of choice and get settled. I have no problem with a man buying me a cup of coffee, but until I am reasonably sure there will be a second date, I think that I should pay my own way.

When he greets me, he smiles. Now I understand why his picture is stoic. His two front teeth are broken. Badly broken. Surely he must have dental insurance as a doctor. Why wouldn’t he get his teeth fixed? I choose to ignore this for the moment.

The first thing he tells me is that he appreciates my honesty in my profile. “You look just like your picture.” Well, I should hope so. It was only taken a few months ago. “So many women put up pictures of themselves that are like 10-years old or 50 pounds ago.” Hello? Pot? It’s the kettle calling to tell you... Still, cursed good manners prevents me from saying, “And your actual age is ...?”

He also told me that he appreciated my “honesty about my figure.” I put curvy. This is a hard question for me. I’m not slender. I am average in that I wear a size 12 and the average American woman wears a size 12-14. However, I’m 5’10 and the average American woman is 5’5. “A few extra pounds,” my male friends tell me, translates to HUGE and I’m not huge. So, I went with curvy.

In this phase of my Dating Farce, I still told people that I performed with a professional belly dance troupe as a hobby. I learned through painful experience that this is often the wrong thing to do. Though belly dance, in my mind, is no different from any other form of performance dance in that it involves a costume and certain movements, it is perceived in a very different way. Many men that found out I was a belly dancer seemed to think that I was either A) a stripper, B) easy or C) both.

He was “kind” enough to mention how “hot” he found belly dancing and how I had the perfect body for it. He was so into belly dancers, in fact, that his buddies hired one for his 50^th birthday a few years ago. Hello? Did you or did you not put 40 on your online profile? It would be ill-mannered to point out this little fallacy, but WOW it was tempting to tell Pinocchio’s that his nose was growing.

Ok. So he lied about his age. I wonder what else he lied about? I started fishing for more details. “How many children do you have?” Two, he tells me. One that just graduated from college and another who’s 29 and has children (!!!?). No WONDER his children don’t live with him. They’re too old to live with him. And a grandfather? You want me to go out with a grandfather? I’m still hoping to have children of my own some day and I’m not that much older than his elder child.

In the middle of our conversation, he interrupts me and says, “Did I tell you that big boobs make me horny? And, you’ve got a great set.”

Oh! Would you look at the time? I have GOT to go floss the cat.

“So, where do you see this going?” he asks me. Seriously? Seriously? Did you even READ my profile or did you get stuck on my “assets”? In my description, I specifically said that I really like children and I’m hoping to settle down and have some of my own one day. Hey! Truth in advertising. If you’re looking for a fling, I’m not your gal . . . I mean, unless you look like John Cusack or Oded Fehr. Then, all bets are off and I’ll have to introduce you to my “throw-down” list.

My Guardian Etiquette Maven won’t allow me to utter the words screaming through my brain (which start something like, “Listen you repulsive little troll. Though you only seem to have a nodding acquaintance with the truth ....”). Instead, I say, “I’m sorry. I just don’t see this going anywhere. We’re just at different stages in our lives. You’ve had your children and are just looking for a companion to have fun with and I’m looking for a serious relationship that will eventually lead to marriage and children.” 

“So,” he says, “we can’t just have some fun together?”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, “I’m not into flings.”

“Oh, I’m not into flings either,” he tells me with a straight face. “I just thought that we could, you know, hang out, have some dinner, release our mutual sexual tensions.” RIGHT. OK. Apparently he’s a bit slow on the uptake AND illiterate. I would tell him where to look UP the definition of fling, but I fear he wouldn’t be able to read it. Neanderthal! Is he really a doctor? I’m beginning to wonder.

Mercifully, I had told him up front that I was meeting my family at a certain time. This left me the perfect excuse to leave. I feared the Dreadful Cop-A-Feel Goodbye, but at least this horrible date was almost over. A patient of his gave me the ideal out, however. Bless Betty and Little Johnny. (Maybe he really was a doctor?) As I was standing up to leave, she came over to him. “Dr. ___________, I just had to tell you the Johnny is doing so much better . . . “ And away I ran.

He e-mailed me after the date and told me that he was disappointed that I ran off and he didn’t get to “tell me goodbye properly” but maybe we could get together and . . . . Yeah, OK. That’s not going to happen. I just e-mailed him back and told him that it was a pleasure meeting him and wished him luck in his search. (And I referred to him as a liar? I actually told him that it was “a pleasure” meeting him. Now whose nose is growing? I'd better watch my fibbing. Because, trust me, my nose does NOT need to be any bigger.)

Epilogue: He contacted me a few months later via e-mail and asked me if I had changed my position on casual relationships. Not so much. I again wished him luck on his continued search. 

Why I'm not a Chemist

I would just like you to know that I often write about the stupid things I do just for the amusement of my friends. So, please to enjoy.

Those of you who dye your hair understand the chemistry involved, I'm sure. This is why you don't end up with pink hair or Light Golden Brown speckled walls.

I have been fortunate that I do not have to dye my hair. My hair's stayed a relatively nice shade of blonde as I've gotten older and hasn't started graying yet. (But, trust me, the first gray hair I get will be yanked out of my head. And, any signs of going gray will be covered with dye.)

I've had my hair highlighted before when (I thought) it was getting too dark and lowlighted after one Pennsic when it was particularly light blond from too much sun. I've put color washes in my hair for fun. However, I really don't use much in the way of hair dye.

I guess I just don't get the chemistry involved. Either that, or I'm just an idiot. You decide.

While I don't dye my hair, I DO dye my eyebrows. Until I met my dance troupe member, I didn't even know of the joy that was eyebrow dyeing. I just went around with my pathetic platinum-blonde eyebrows looking like the victim of a barbecue flare-up accident. You couldn't even tell I had eyebrows unless you were about 6 inches away from me. And, really, people look pretty stupid without eyebrows. I tried to draw them in. But, as near as I can tell, makeup companies hate natural blondes. They make this hideous color of eyebrow pencil I'll call “strawberry taupe,” which is just not pretty.

I now go to Angela to have my eyebrows tinted. Angela is a genius. But wait! Where is the hideous dyeing story that I promised you?

I just paid for a very expensive car repair (and still had another one looming). In an effort to be fiscally responsible, I decided to dye my own eyebrows. Another troupe member did a fabulous job of dyeing her own eyebrows. So, I could to it too, right?

Yeah, we all know where this is going, don't we?

I buy a bottle of Light Golden Brown crème dye for the bargain price of $3.67. I mix up the color and gentle daub it on my eyebrows and lie down to let it set. Twenty minutes later, it's time to remove the dye. I'm disappointed to see that the color barely took. I carefully daub it back on and lay back down for another 10 minutes. It's slightly darker now, but still not the desired color. And, it's late, too. Why did I decide to START this process after 10 on Sunday night?

I guess I'll just keep the dye until tomorrow and try again. (Do you hear what I hear? “Danger Will Robinson. Danger!”)

I go into my bathroom Monday night to set into motion The Great Dye Fiasco. The bottle of dye is now lying on its side even though I left it upright. It seems that it can no longer stand because it's bulging and rounded. Hmmm. Perhaps I shouldn't have left it tightly capped? If only I had paid attention in chemistry class.

Well, clearly I should open it to relieve the pressure in the bottle.

Why, oh, WHY didn't I pay attention in chemistry class? Oh, that's right, because it started at 7:15 in the morning and my coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I usually napped through it. Well, my morning naps were now biting me in the ass.

Did you know that a tiny little 4” high bottle can shoot Light Golden Brown dye 6 feet across the room and hit every wall in the room plus the bathtub, toilet, counter, sink, mirror and light switch? Only the ceiling was left unscathed.

If only someone was around to enjoy my shenanigans and point and laugh at me. I cleaned it up, but my walls are now dyed, too. Thankfully, the bathroom is prepped for painting but hasn't been repainted yet due to my old friend sloth visiting.

Freakville, Population 1

What makes these people talk to me? I was really putting out "Eau de Gah!" this past week at a 4th of July party. Some intrepid party-goers were departing on their Harleys and two friends and I were admiring their bikes. The one man, in particular, had a beautiful classic Hog redux.

As we were talking about the Hogs, I commented to my friends that I used to date a guy who owned a Low Rider. This complete stranger steps right in front of me and says, "So, was he a good fuck? The guy who owned the Low Rider? I imagine that guys who own motorcycles are good fucks. How did yours rate? I've always wanted to own a Harley. You know, you have amazing eyes."

I turn to give my friends the, "Can-you-believe-this-freak?" look and they DESERT ME! Holy Crap. No they did not just leave me wallowing in Freakville, population 1. They are  now and forever more crossed off the “wingman” list!

This man just keeps talking to me as I stare at him like an alien with two heads. Told me how he wants to start traveling once he dumps his inconvenient wife and then tells me how hot he thinks it is that I'm a belly dancer. OK. Who the Hell told him that? Someone I know needs a-killin'.

I’d seen this man earlier around the fire, but he seemed relatively innocuous. My friends and I had been playing some Middle Eastern drums and he’d come over to join us with his little egg-shaped shaker. He was running around us shaking the thing like the person that you give the maraca to because they have no rhythm. He seemed a little hippy, dippy, trippy but otherwise harmless.

“Maybe we could go out sometime once I get rid of that bitch I’m married to,” he says to me. What? Is he STILL speaking to me? I zoned out for a minute there.

“You know, it’s kismet that I got to jam with you tonight. My egg has been missing for several years now but today, I just open the drawer and find it in like five minutes. It was obviously meant to be,” he says and winks at me. I hope that he is not making a pathetic allusion to the imaginary future “us” there, because I may have to join a cloistered nunnery if this is what my dating options have come to.

“You’re drumming was pretty good, by the way. I mean, I’ve played with better, but it wasn’t a complete abortion. You guys weren’t half bad,” he said.

Yeah, right. I’m playing a Turkish 10 and you’re running around me shaking an egg and we’re not “half bad”? Flattery like that will get you ... nowhere .... This exchange seems to be going on forever, yet I am still standing there basically mute. I don’t even know how to respond to the freak show going on in front of me. I feel like an observer at the zoo. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, watch as the hyena moves in on his prey.”

I was just beginning to think that he was the person that needed a-killin’ when my friend's daughter walked over to tell me about her birthday cake that they'd be cutting soon. With very little encouragement from me, we went to look at the cake and changed the cutting time to "now".

“Well, it was nice talking to you*, but I need to go see about a cake. If you’ll please excuse me.” With that said, I left my Find-A-Freak behind at the fire. So much for that "future ex-husband" material.

(*No. It was not a pleasure talking to him. But I just can’t seem to drop the social pleasantries even in these situations. Maybe I need Dr. Phil to help me. Perhaps he’ll tell me that I need attention from men positive or negative and that’s why I keep talking to these people, even when the conversation has turned inappropriate. Personally, I think it’s because I love a good story. When I am having these horrid conversations with the Freak du Jour, I keep thinking, “Man, this is going to make a great story for my friends!” And, truly, they do appreciate my stories. I call it free marriage counseling. After I tell them about my latest dating fiasco, they look at the partner they were just irritated with five minutes ago for not putting a dish in the dishwasher and say, “I love you, honey. I’m so glad that I don’t have to date anymore.”)

Evil, thy name is Dunkin

Chocolately goodness with sweet, sweet cream

Delicious sprinkles dotting the glaze

I could hear the sirens calling my name. Beckoning me from the table nearby.

My old nemesis, the Doughnut Fairy, popped up at work again today. I'm not a person that craves doughnuts. But, when you drop a box of sweet goodness right next to the printer, it's hard to resist.

I've been working really hard on dieting and having some success at it. But, for

the past three weeks, I've been in weight-loss Hell, unable to budge the needle

on the scale. So, I worked harder and ate less this past week and finally lost

another 1-1/2 lbs.

And here stood Beelzebub in an orange and white box coaxing me to put that 1-1/2

lbs. right back on. Even the Devil's Handmaiden – My Fitness Pal (an app which I

actually love) – tried to sell me down the river, pointing out that a glazed

doughnut is only 260 calories.

I know it was just my end of the day snackishness coaxing me to eat the overly sweet treat. If only I had a banana or some cherries with me ….

In desperation, I texted my weight-loss support group, the one I call the “No Excuses Club.” The Engineer offered me encouragement. But The Princess was my salvation. She reminded me of that oh-so-important rule – Go look at your butt in the mirror and picture the doughnut on it. Do you have room for a doughnut on it?

I scampered down to the bathroom and looked at my derrière and my still somewhat jiggly gut in the mirror. Nope, no doughnut room. That effectively killed my doughnut craving. I was now like Odysseus lashed to the mast with beeswax in my ears – I could no longer hear the siren’s call.

Butt-expanding crisis averted! 

Tra-la-la-la-la and a side of fries

(My last few dates have gone pretty well - sorry to disappoint - so I'll post one of my classic Flypaper for Freaks dates)


I was still doing Internet dating. I hadn’t been frightened away . . . yet. I was in a phase where I really took my time qualifying men before I would go out with them. I drifted between this tactic and the “Screw it! Let’s just meet him immediately” tactic, much like ripping off a BandAid to end the pain quickly. But, being that I was in the “slow and steady” phase, I e-mailed Mr. Potential. I IM’d him. I talked to him on the phone. He was a funny, funny man. When his e-mails came across as funny, I thought, well, it’s easier to be funny in e-mail because you have time to sit and think about what you want to say. It’s much easier to be clever with a time delay. But he was funny in IMs, too, and those were real time. Then, there are the type who are quite clever online but clam up as soon as they hear a human voice. So, I called him on the phone. Still quite funny. And, he was attractive in his picture, too. Are you hearing what I’m hearing? “Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!”

I agree to meet him at a bar for a drink. I’m trepidatious. He can’t be smart, funny, cute and single, can he? The door opens and in walks a man that looks exactly like his picture. Bonus! He is seriously cute in the “I-could-be-John-Cusack’s-first-cousin” sort of way.

We try to talk at the bar and realize that we can’t hear a damn thing because there’s a band playing. Needless to say, so far, he’s a brilliant conversationalist and I’m charming and witty!

It seems like a good idea at this juncture to head down the street to a burger joint and get fries and cokes. This will make conversation much easier. If only he talked. We get there and no matter what I do, I can’t get him to talk. He’s like the shy child hiding behind his mother’s petticoats. OK. People have shy moments. I have shy moments, not that most people I know would believe that. In fact, any time an extraordinarily good-looking man walks up to me and starts talking to me, I lose the ability to speak. Maybe that’s it. He’s intimidated by my good looks. (Hey! It could happen ... ) OK. I can work with this.

It’s time for innocuous conversation. Where do you work? Oh. No job. Okay . . . . Me? I tell him the name of the restaurant at which I’m bartending to supplement my freelance sheckles. Hmmm. Isn’t that interesting? He likes to take his mother there. And, he’s had a run-in with Keith, our nicest manager. How do you have a run in with a man as nice as Keith? I could call in late because my pedicure wasn’t dry yet and Keith would just laugh and say, “OK. Get here as soon as you can.”

Okay. Right. Family. He has a mother. Ask him about his family. Maybe that will get him talking. Oh, really? You like to take your mother out once per week to get her out of the home? How nice! That really is thoughtful. But, I just HAD to ask. “Is your mother in a nursing home?”

“No. A mental institution.”

”Pardon?” I must have heard that wrong.

“She’s been committed to an insane asylum for her own good, but they let her out once a week to go out to dinner with me.”

“Oh.” What is the polite response to this? IS there a polite response to this? I settled for Oh.

“So, you don’t live with her.” Yes, I know that is a stupid and obvious statement, but I’ve got nothing here! How do you respond to, “my mother’s in a mental institution”?

“Well, I do go stay with her sometimes.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes. If I’m feeling ‘not quite myself,’ I like to go stay there, too.”

“Pardon?”

I’m beginning to sound like an S&L executive before the Senate Judiciary Committee I’m saying “pardon” so much. So maybe Crisis PR is not in my future.

We move on to other topics and mercifully end the date before too much longer. He kindly allows me to pay the check and then tells me that he’s decided to allow me to take him out and treat him for his birthday. He told me to call him and let him know what night was good for me.

I didn’t call. Quelle surprise. I seem to have lost his number ….in a shredder ….

I go in to work the following Monday and I just HAVE to ask Keith about him. Surely Keith must remember the man he had a run-in with since Keith fights with NO ONE.

Oh, Keith remembered him all right.

When he stopped LAUGHING about who I went on a date with, he told me the story.

Only I could manage to secure a date with this man.

Let’s take a trip in the WayBack Machine to a week before my date. Oedipus and his mother come in, order their food and get it promptly. The mother calls Keith over to complain about her food. It seems she doesn’t like her fish and chips. Keith, of course, offers to replace her food with something else off of the menu. She tells Keith what else she would like, but then tells him that she would like a box for the fish and chips to take home to her cat, because its only fit for an animal. Keith, of course, tells her that if she wants to keep both entrees, she has to pay for both.

She disagrees. Loudly.

While she and Keith are “disagreeing”, her son covers his ears and starts singing –loudly – TRA LA LA LA TRA LA LA LA TRA LA LA LA.

Now I understand why Keith laughed until he snorted when I told him that I went on a DATE with this man. I begged him not to share my pain with my co-workers, but that’s like asking Liz Smith not to report on the latest starlet entering rehab again. Several of my co-workers offered to improve my love life by fixing me up with recent parolees.

I’m in Hell. 

Scenes from a Frog Pond

As I dip my sparkly-purple-polished big toe back into the dating cesspool, I am reminded why I don't date more often. It really can be more painful than a cavity filling at the dentist's office without anesthesia. For those of you who are attached, let these anecdotes be a gentle reminder of why you should tell your significant other every day that you love them … if for no other reason than you don't have to date anymore. Just a few pieces of advice, gentlemen, to make your date go more smoothly. 1. Chew with your mouth closed. And that's not just dating advice. EVERY ONE OF YOU should chew with your mouth CLOSED. You're not masticating the food for your baby bird. I cannot pay attention to a single word you're saying when you attempt to say it with a large wad of half-chewed food in your mouth. 2. Yes, if you tell me that you find me hot and would like to get to know me “in a biblical way” but can't pay for my $4 dinner (it's Mexican – it's cheap!) until you “know this relationship is going somewhere,” I will assume that you won't pay until I put out. And did you seriously just imply that I was a “$4 holla”? Wow. I'm not even a $400 holla. 3. It's ill-advised to show me the stuffed animal you carry around in your car as your mascot. I will judge you as less manly … and write about it in my Flypaper for Freaks blog. 4. If you “pride yourself in being a non-judgmental person and keeping your opinions to yourself,” you probably shouldn't then pontificate on why you hate Facebook, tweeting, blogging and social media in general. But, on the positive side, there's almost ZERO chance he'll ever read this! 5. The topic of every kind of oatmeal you've ever tried is, regrettably, not fascinating. Maybe save that gem for the 857th date. 6. Stereotyping is probably not the best idea when you don't know that much about your date. For example, I'd suggest not making nationality generalizations particularly if you don't know what nationality your date is. If you throw me a  softball like, “Well, you KNOW how Italians are …” I'll lead you down the path  clearly marked “astray.” I'm truly curious to hear what you think of the Italian  side of my family. There are quite a few blonde-haired, blue-eyed Italians you'll soon be surprised to learn. 7. You're not psychic. No matter how long you stare into my eyes or how hard you think about a number, you cannot "transmit" your birthday or age to me. And, no, I will not try to transmit mine back.

Sometimes the skies are too friendly

My Flypaper for Freaks moments are not just restricted to my dating life. I emit  a pheromone that freaks sniff out like the aroma of fresh-baked cookies. I fear that I am irresistible to them. One of their favorite places to accost me is on  airplanes. Who knows why. Maybe because I'm buckled into a confined space  and can't escape? Par example, when flying home from a business trip on the west coast, we stopped  in Denver. Everyone on the plane, except me, disembarked. I was the lone soul continuing on to the great metropolis of Clevesburg. Being that I was flying Festival Airlines (Southwest – which I call Festival Airlines for its free-for-all festival seating policy), I was free to choose a new seat – preferably one with plenty of leg room. I had my choice of any seat on the plane! As a bonus, the flight attendant had informed me that the flight was only half full, so the chances of one of the unwashed masses sitting directly next to me in a middle seat was low. My internal jukebox started playing a joyful tune that went something like, “Happy days are here again ….” Where to sit? Where to sit? I mused. Then I espied MY seat. It was the seat right by the window in an aisle where the rows of seats faced each other. I've never been on a plane before with facing rows, but, hey, lots of leg room, so it worked for me. I usually pick the window seat when possible. I find that looking out the window discourages strangers from talking to me and, unlike the aisle, there are no service carts bumping your elbow or people brushing up against you. I settled in with a sigh of contentment and started reading my book again while “happy days” continued to hum softly through my brain. I hear the shuffle of footsteps and didn't even bother to look up. I mean, who gets on an empty plane and sits next to the ONLY other person on the plane … in a middle seat? I mean, who'd do that … … … Yuppers. First person on the plane sits DIRECTLY next to me. And her four friends fill in the seats around me. There are now six people, including me, on the plane and they are all sitting within touching distance of me. What the Hell??? Who does that? The woman who sat next to me is now leaning on “our” armrest and peering expectantly at me. <SIGH> I look up and give her one of my best, closed-mouth, “nice-to-meet-you, please-don't-talk-to-me” half smiles and she lays her hand on my arm and says, “Sister, have you accepted Jesus into your life?” Why isn't the window high enough for me to bang my forehead on it? The happy tune in my head has now changed to the theme song from “Just Shoot Me.” She and her friends spend the rest of the flight to Clevesburg trying to “save” my blackened soul. They also told me ALL ABOUT the religious conference they attended in the Denver area.  How come I can blurt out the most appalling things at the most inappropriate times,  but I couldn't muster the gumption to say, “I practice black magic and like to hex  people who talk to me about Jesus.”? Hmmm? Is it because the polite part of me is  pretty good at stifling the bawdy, loudmouth who occasionally peeps her head out? I MUST have been Lizzie Borden in my past life and I am now atoning for my sins one freak at a time.

This ain't your momma's thong

Sometimes, we get a product that strikes me as so ridiculous, I have to get my immature, giggling-schoolgirl, knee-jerk reaction down onto paper before I can even try to write serious copy about it. I had one of those moments today when they handed me the “Belly Busting Thong” to write. Here was my first crack at copy: This ain't your momma's thong Don't let a little tummy pooch prevent you from wearing sexy panties. The Belly Busting Thong is just like an 80s mullet – all business in the front and a party in the back. The double tummy panel provides medium control to a less-than-delicious muffin top. Detailed in pretty European lace. Cool, silky fabric. Machine wash. S-XL. Black-12, Nude-80. Belly Busting Thong #095660 $28 [callout] reinforced stomach panel for extra tummy squashing Naturally proud of my immaturity, I presented the copy with childish glee to the buyer to review. I didn't tell her it was a joke. In retrospect, I probably should have. She tried proofing it while on the phone with a vendor. She tried to turn her laughing fit into a coughing fit and just ended up choking. The unsuspecting vendor asked her if she was all right. Now that I got that out of my system, I *might* be able to write it up. Hell, who am I kidding? I still snicker every time I look at the name. I'm not going to grow up in the next 5 minutes (or 5 years, for that matter). I should probably just use the vendor's supplied copy.

A Model of Beauty

Have you ever gazed enviously (or longingly) at the model in a magazine and thought, “Wow I wish I looked like her!” Well, I've got news for you, so does she. I work for a company that hires models on a regular basis and they are gorgeous! Genetic freaks that are almost 6' tall, weigh in the neighborhood of 120, have 24” waists, natural C-cups and don't look overly thin or bony. They were at the front of the line (twice!) when God was handing out genetic blessings. But, even with all of that going for them, we still do a shocking amount of Photoshopping to their pictures – and that's AFTER we've had them professionally coiffed, made-up, dressed and spray tanned. With the whisk of a Photoshop tool, we thin the model's thighs, trim her waist, whiten her teeth, smooth her crow's-feet, thicken her hair and even out her spray-tanned skin tone. She already has living Barbie Doll proportions that we make even more pronounced. Advertisements are selling a fairy tale. They imply that you, too, could look this good if you just buy their product …. and have a team office professionals make you over, take your picture and touch it up extensively. These models already have virtually unattainable beauty and proportions. Why would we take the virtually unattainable and make it physically impossible? Does it motivate anyone to strive for those standards? Or does it just make women feel badly about themselves and make men want something that doesn't exist anywhere but the pages of a magazine?

All Hail the Freakishly Pale

Let’s get one thing straight - I am not a circus freak. “Come one! Come all! Step right up and see the world’s shortest man! The boy with two heads! The woman who cannot tan!”

I keep hearing that tanning is “out,” just like leg warmers and mullets. Yet, you wouldn’t know this to go shopping for makeup. Store makeup shelves are lined with dozens of foundations for women with a “healthy” glow. Just try and find a foundation that works on “alabaster” (that’s a code word for pasty white) skin.

The Non-Pigment Challenged have colors to choose from like “honey tan,” “sun-kissed” and “bronzed.” Genetic Sun Repellants like myself are stuck with alabaster, ivory or bisque. Well, that’s just great! So, I can wear Plaster of Paris, dead animal tusk or cream soup on my face. How appealing.

I tried (and the key word is tried) to have my makeup done for a friend's wedding recently, only to be told “we’re sorry, you’re just too pale. We don't have any makeup for you.” ?! Why don’t you just post a sign outside of the spa that says “no redheads or blondes”? Pardon me, natural blondes.

The lightest color the salon had was “medium tan.” I couldn’t use that after a month of applying bronzer. What gives? The makeup artist sympathetically told me, “we’re accustomed to people tanning in the summer.” Well pardon me for being half Transylvanian vampire! We only like to go out at night.

I thought nothing more of my wedding makeup misfortune until I tried to buy some cosmetics over the weekend. To escape the sweltering, dripping heat, I went to my favorite old-money mall for some sticker shock and “because-I’m-worth-it” makeup. I found exactly the shade I was looking for (bonus!) in an oil-free, non-comodegenic, spf-15, “guaranteed-to-make-you-look-like-Nicole-Kidman” foundation. I put the sample down and reached simultaneously for my almost maxed credit card and the Magic Miracle in a bottle. Too bad there wasn’t any. Nor was there even a place on the shelf for it. So, I asked the hovering, overly chipper sales clerk about it. What do I know? Maybe they keep it in the Albino Only* Drawer.

Oh, the sales clerk informs me sadly, they don’t actually carry that shade in stock. They apparently just keep it around to torment those of us who would actually buy it. 

I think I’ve come to the crux of the issue. I’m chasing the Holy Grail of the makeup world: light, non-chalky, spf-15+ foundation. It’s much like the other Holy Grail I seek: the comfortable, costs-less-than-a-car-payment, underwire bra. Yeah, I’ll be finding that soon . . . right next to my Creamy Oatmeal Sun Missed foundation.

             

*No albinos were deliberately offended in the writing of this blog.

An explanation

One of my friends mentioned that I should explain why my Blog is called "Flypaper for Freaks". It stems from my belief that I AM Flypaper for Freaks. I attract "freaks" the way honey attracts bees. Lemme give you a few "freak magnet" examples . . . .

1. I was in New Orleans on business out for a drink with two co-workers. I told my co-workers that under no circumstances were they to leave me alone at the table because, if they did, a freak would sit down with me. The male co-worker laughed when I said this, the female co-worker confirmed my assertion. You know, of course, that they both deserted me. It took about, oh, five seconds for a man to sit down with me. He told me I was pretty then started talking about all kinds of crazy stuff (like aliens). He was ranting and raving and using some words that I think he made up. The male co-worker returned and made him leave.

2. My former belly dance troupe was walking up an down the streets of Coventry -- an eclectic Cleveland neighborhood -- handing out fliers for an upcoming performance. A woman started following me through the neighborhood. Every time I stopped, she would put her head on my shoulder and sigh. No matter what I said to her, she would not respond to me in any way or look at me. It was such odd behavior, that it almost seemed like she was doing a performance art piece or was part of the Candid Camera staff. I asked her to leave me alone several times to no avail. My very large male friend finally made her leave.

3. In Chicago on business, I was riding on an escalator with my co-worker when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. I expected her to ask me the time or for directions. Instead, she said, "my husband just died" then launched into the sad story of his passing and cried on my shoulder. She hugged me and went on her merry way. She was definitely the least odd of my "freak" collection, but it still made me wonder. Why do these people approach me? Most people tell me I'm intimidating at first glance. So, why do I not intimidate the more unusual types in society? What kind of strange vibe do I send out?

That is but a taste of the more unique characters I attracts, seemingly unwittingly. I used to also attract stalkers, but I haven't had one for awhile, which is great. Maybe it's because I am getting older, but who cares what the reason is? Three stalkers in one lifetime is plenty IMHO. Come to think of it, though, if I've managed to lose my stalker vibe, maybe I can also lose my "freak magnet" vibe. It's worth pondering . . . .