My Descent Back Into The Hell Of Online Dating

That's right boys and girls, "kimmiesis" is going back on view. *Whimper*

The year following my divorce, I realized I was going to need assistance going out into the dating world. After all, I'd just spent 11 years of my life with one man, *cough* and knew nothing .... NOTHING about dating. I turned to Match.com and my-oh-my have there been some rides on that shiny roller coaster of the dating forlorn during the past few years.

Example: One early date wanted to cook me dinner and, when I arrived at his apartment, I found that I was a few minutes early and he had just arrived home from work. He showed me around his apartment, which turned out to be a tribute to Napoleon that included not only framed artwork but ... an actual bust of the French leader as well. Did I mention that he had laid out his "date clothes" on his bed that morning? Without any of the gory details, the date ended with my standing abruptly, uttering, "I need to leave," and walking out the door. [Ah, hell, there are going to be bad dreams tonight.]

I have been away from the online dating world since the beginning of April. I can only take a couple months at a time of Match.com before I need a break ... am I the only one with this pattern? Anyway, I have successfully updated my profile with a cynicism sure to frighten away 98% of all men and am only anxiously awaiting the approval of my newly uploaded photos before clicking that "show profile now" link. Wish me luck, pray for me, pray for them, throw some salt and knock on wood.

With my apparent love for online dating, you might wonder what has succeeded in dragging me back into the insanity. That's simple. A combination of boredom, curiosity, and a buy 1 month, get 3 free offer for MSN customers.

No, really, I'm that easy.

You Know You Need A Vacation From Life When ...

You know you need a vacation from life when the realization that you've left your phone at work results in an odd feeling of contentment. Mind you, this is my one and only phone. I have no other means of instant communication (unless the person with whom I want to converse happens to be online at the same time).

Other than a slight uneasiness over my current inability to dial 911 if necessary, I'm good. Great even. And obviously inching ever nearer to my ultimate destination ... hermithood.

Udderly Ridiculous ... or ... "EEEEEWWWWW!!"

In case any of you missed PETA's newest suggestion, the group has contacted our beloved Ben & Jerry's urging the popular ice cream creators to stop using cow's milk in their product and, instead, use human milk.

That's right, for those of us who mentally cringe at the thought of the possibility that we suckled (Eeeeeew) our mothers' breasts at any point, PETA might just have hit on the one and only way to curb our ice cream cravings .... even my insatiable desire for their pints of Strawberry Cheesecake.

Name a Remake Better Than the Original

Because it is certainly not the new Knight Rider. Raise your hand if you agree that Val Kilmer's "K.I.T.T." is freakin' creepy.

The series starts tonight ... I doubt it will last longer than the eight episodes of Bionic Woman, now cancelled.

So Sorry Little Lamb

In a stunning piece of legal literature, the Michigan Court of Appeals has finally answered that question nagging so many sexual predators out there: Is that soft woolly form so beloved on Old McDonald's farm considered an "individual" under Michigan law?

Um ... No.

The opinion, released just yesterday for publication, includes the dictionary definition of "individual" as a "single human being" or "person," along with a claim that the definition of "victim" from the Crime Victims' Rights Act is "an individual" capable of having a spouse or guardian and the panel of three's leap of legal analysis, "Only human beings are able to marry and have spouses." [Note to self: apparently gay men and women are not considered human beings in Michigan either.]

The purpose of this decision? To determine whether a defendant convicted of an “abominable and detestable crime against nature” with a sheep, i.e., bestiality boys and girls, should be required to register as a sex offender. The answer, unfortunately, is also ... No.

Now, I understand the reasoning of the panel and the need to following the law as written; however, the thought that individuals showing such a willingness to harm animals in this way, a way that demonstrates their sexual depravity and violent, sexual predatory natures, are not required to register as sexual offenders rings wrong.

Mary had a little lamb ... run little lamb, RUN!!

To Forks or Not To Forks ...

That is the question. And apparently the answer for an increasing number is ... YES! YES! To Forks, To Forks!!!

Forks, Washington, the small town depicted in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight craze is going through some delightful, economic, growing pains as fans descend upon the town in the hopes of finding a silver Volvo stalking them.

My own personal descent into a permanent mental age of 15 could only be capped off with a visit.

Little sister? [$5 says she just went all giddy with the thought that I'm actually serious.]

The Public Fart or Why Me/Why Now

Have you ever found yourself wondering why God, the universe, or karma has worked to place you at a particular place at a particular time?

At roughly 9:30 a.m., I donned my jacket and went in pursuit of my skinny skinny mocha lattecino, first stopping by several offices to see if I could find a cohort (in order to use the weekly coupon), then spying mail in my mailbox, reading the enclosed opinion and order, which led to the need to hunt down a motion, talk to others about the motion, and file a response to said motion, then finally stumbling out to the elevator an hour later ... in pursuit of my blessed SSML once again.

I pressed the "down" button as a large woman came out of a neighboring office and stood quietly beside me. We waited. The elevator "dinged" open and, as I walked by her into the small enclosed space, she looked flustered, stepped inside next to me, and the following exchange took place:

Woman: "Oh, excuse me," in an embarrassed tone.

I turned in the elevator surprised, "What?"

"I farted."

*uncomfortable pause as the elevator doors close*

I added, "I didn't hear anything"

"Oh good. It's just so embarrassing."

"Um, don't worry about it."

She put a hand over her stomach, "It's just that sometimes depending on what I eat, my stomach is unsettled."

*silent prayer for doors to open immediately*

"Yeah ... well ... I hope you feel better."

Her "thanks" came from behind me as I squeezed through the opening doors.

Bounding out into the relatively fresh air of downtown, I found myself wondering: What is the proper response to the public fart? Do you ignore it, hoping no one else noticed? Do you fess up, as this woman did, only to find out that you've exposed yourself needlessly? Do you enter into an expanded discussion of bodily functions with complete strangers?

I have no answer ... other than to pray that I personally never need an answer.

Laugh At A Funeral Kind of Girl

My Uncle Claude died on September 2, 2008. "Aunt Eula and Uncle Claude's" was a destination commonly stated at home growing up. The names were always uttered together. Aunt Eula, who passed away eight years ago, was a sweet, soft-voiced woman with an affinity for hats and clip-on earrings while Uncle Claude smelled of tobacco, cussed every other breath, and had a cackle of a laugh that defies duplication. They were an important part of childhood in my family.

Uncle Claude was 90 years old when he passed away following a massive stroke. Although he spent his final few months in a nursing home, my Uncle Claude managed to completely elude hospitals in his 90 years, many of which were spent smoking cigars and most of which included the chewing of tobacco. He valued friends and family, loved old stories and older jokes, and didn't expect a damn thing from anyone or anything. Uncle Claude informed the nurses of Miller's Merry Manor (No, seriously, that's the name - as if any nursing home can truly claim to be a source of merriment) that when it was his "time to go" they should not call in a minister but, rather, a bartender because he wanted to leave happy!

"I say, I SAY ... I said I told 'em not to call a minister but call the bartender 'cause I want to leave happy!" [insert indescribable cackle]

Uncle Claude's funeral was a week ago Saturday. I left early Friday to go to his viewing Friday night at the insistence of my sibling and we ran smack into my mother's side of the family in full force. My Mom is the youngest of seven siblings and one of the five remaining. I left the viewing with two observations: 1) I am a lofty lofty 5'3" despite the Mishler blood in my veins and 2) "We're enjoying the view" should never be uttered by an elderly uncle to his niece ... ever.

My sister and I had a mission when we arrived for the funeral the following morning - give my Uncle Claude one last round of Skoal pouches for his journey. My uncle was being buried as he would have wanted in his classic bib overalls and he typically kept his round in his front breast pocket so ... well ... the covert operation went smoothly and Uncle Claude will keep his end of his deal with best buddy Virgil (Virgil is apparently supposed to bring the beer when his time comes).

Why am I a 'laugh at a funeral' type of girl? Perhaps because this was the funeral of a beloved relative who had enjoyed a long happy life with little sickness and a lot of sass. Perhaps because having to unbutton bib overall pockets for the purpose of stashing your uncle's "stash" there makes one feel irreverent. Most likely because the minister began to speak and a clear image of The Princess Bride popped into my and my sisters' heads. In particular, the priest, played by Peter Cook, from the "mawwage" scene of that "bwessed" film.

I dared not look down the row to any of my sisters during that funeral. We all sat together in the second row ... right at the front ... and I just don't know if our shaking shoulders would have been viewed as appropriate crying or not. Add in the minister's low, loud, stage-whispered "Aaaaamen" and we were all very nearly and completely 'laugh at a funeral' kind of girls. In a way, I kind of wish we would have let it loose ... somehow, from somewhere, I bet we would have heard an indescribable cackle added to the giggles.

And I have no doubt, none, that he's cackling heartily today with Eula at his side.

I Hurt.

Every. *%*#ing. Muscle. Hurts.

The majority of the current damage to my body occurred Saturday while moving my little sister into a new apartment. A new apartment three floors and six flights of stairs up. Without counting the four steps down into the basement and two steps up in the lobby. A new apartment without air conditioning.

[I know I'm writing in fragments - be patient - I'm improving from the single word sentences above.]

Saturday passed in a blur of sweat, pain, and ice-cold, Brita-filtered, water. Then, after a night sleeping on the floor with multiple things piled under my legs in a desperate attempt to curb the lower back spasms, I woke early to several more hours of lifting, bending, stairs, water, and sweating. I will say I am hugely thankful that Jenny's new Indiana-fed pet spider didn't crawl from its cedar chest home to introduce itself while we were transporting said chest up the stairs (he waited until later when she was alone and ready to sleep to announce his presence in the middle of her bed). I'm also thankful that Jenny was the one who fell backwards onto the stairs with the last load (a blessed air conditioner). Nevertheless, every frickin muscle in my body hurts especially my feet, calves, thighs, biceps, back, palms, and, yes, fingers.

So, on this beautiful holiday as I head into work (!!!!), I've been researching how to handle my sore frame. It is amazing how many things pop up with a simple query "what to do about sore muscles" but here is an example. There were many suggestions but I think I'm going to start with lots of water, some protein (for use as my body repairs), easy stretching, and a walk mid-day downtown to keep things moving and hopefully get rid of some of the lactic acid that causes so much of the soreness.

That's my plan. One protein smoothie coming up!

One last thought ... the wikiHow site linked above allows users to edit their answers. I am fairly certain that a 5th step needs to be added to their How to Make Sore Muscles Feel Good answer - "Hire gorgeous, heterosexual, moot, professional masseur for relaxing massage followed by chocolate and/or ice cream."

That Online Lessen We All Need To Learn

People are CRAZY! Especially, it seems, people from North Carolina.