Kickball is for Cool People

In order to avoid a spinsterhood filled with organized senior citizens trips to Laughlin, I took some initiative this spring and joined an organized adult kickball league. Before you laugh out loud, let's just get this out of the way: 1) I have no athletic ability; 2) the only team I've ever belonged to was the swim team in high school and i sucked; and 3) I go to bed at 9:30 pm on weeknights so that I can read in bed for an acceptable amount of time prior to a good night's sleep. Regardless, I found a kickball team nearby and used the handy-dandy internet to sign up. A week later I was placed on a team called "Wishful Drinking." This suits me just fine since 2010 turned out to involve plenty of evenings visiting my Pops in the hospital followed by wine, lots of wine. And let's be honest, I was just happy to not be put on teams with witty names like "Fifth Base" or the Frex's former team, "Pink Tacos."

Three weeks into the season, the Drinkers and I had yet to win a game but damn it, we're having fun. The team is made up of a mix of misfits. Some young and still in school and way too cool for me. Some older and settled down and just as sleepy at 9 pm as I am. There's another teacher from the Westside (insert gang sign here), an engineer, a boombox with theme music ready for our "at-bats," and pitchers with really creative form. So far our team leaders have taught me how to catch, kick and throw and have also somehow maintained their patience when I don't perform those skills in a game with the same efficacy I did during practice.

In one particular game, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability to cover 2nd base. So confident, in fact, that I was wisely using my time to flirt with the opposing team members that happened to find their way midway on the diamond. Hipster Guy from the maroon team was my favorite. Hipster Guy has retro glasses, a super trendy watch and fun shoes. I like this. We're talking, we're chatting, we're smiling. This is good! Well... that is until two innings later when Hipster Guy is up to bat again. The pitch comes right to him. He kicks. It pops up. I make the sweetest catch, not to mention athletic act, of my life. The Drinkers cheer! I cheer! Actually, I yell "Did you see that?!" and proceed to gloat for another 90 seconds. I realize in the midst of my one and only moment of kickball glory that I have probably just seriously insulted Hipster Guy. Crap. After the last pitch has been thrown and the final ball has been kicked, Wishful Drinking does what any good sportsmanlike team would do and slap hands in a line with the other team, muttering "good game, good game, good game" to each maroon t-shirted enemy. When I reach Hipster Guy in the line I say "I'm so sorry! It's the only good thing I've ever done on the team and I got excited." He mumbles some sort of conciliatory remark and I leave feeling like a jerk.

The next week I am determined to make nice with Hipster Guy. At the bar after another night of losses, my teammates and I join the maroon table and it doesn't take long for Hipster Guy to gracefully say "hey! You're the girl who was talking mad crap to me last week!" Yep, that was me. I apologize sincerely and we chat for a bit. Unfortunately for me, I also use this time to make fun of Hipster Guy for being Canadian. Now, the roomie thinks this was totally justified for as everyone knows, Canadians are just naturally targeted for teasing. However, the roomie also thinks my flirting skills have somehow deteriorated to those of a twelve year old boy who pulls the pigtails of the girl he likes. Again, I leave feeling like a jerk.

Luckily, this jerk has a new plan: buy Hipster Guy a beer next time and DON'T insult him. Okay, game on.

Second Date Jitters

Anyone can seem charming for a few hours. That's what makes first dates, while nerve-wrecking, bearable. Second dates, now those take some skill.

Last week I went on a first date with Shy Guy whom I'd been emailing with for a few weeks. I was terribly nervous for the first date because there are just some things that one cannot predict. For example, what if I have to walk around the bar looking for him and then don't recognize him from the 3 pics on www.i'm-running-out-of-back-up-husbands.com? Or what if he's creepy and we have nothing to talk about other than his extensive knowledge of serial killers? I lucked out this time; Shy Guy was gentlemanly waiting for me at the hostess stand and didn't mention Ted Bundy once. He seemed quite sweet actually. He admitted that he is shy at first but had a few funny one-liners that let me know his sense of humor is right up my sarcastic alley. He has pretty brown eyes and game seven of the NBA Championship was on to save us from any awkward silences. I impressed him with some sports jargon that I picked up from a previous relationship (I knew humoring the Sports Guy by listening to his theories on Fantasy Sports would come in handy eventually) and I made it through the whole night without revealing too much of my neurosis. He even agreed with me that Kobe Bryant shouldn't earn the VIP of the series because he's just not nice. All in all, a good first date.

But good first dates inevitably lead to second dates. I knew it right away when he texted me later that night to thank me for a fun evening. (I know, sweet, right?) I find second dates especially worrisome for a couple reasons in particular: 1) the first date adrenaline is gone so you start truly sizing up the other person, 2) you're bound to divulge some quirk that your friends find adorable but a perfect stranger would find disturbing, and 3) two weeks after my last second date I got a nasty gram via text that said I give all women a bad name for using him for a meal. Second dates are scary! They're high pressure! And who wants high pressure for happy hour on a Thursday?

To protect myself from these dangerous pitfalls I must go into tomorrow night fully prepared with a positive attitude. Since he'll most certainly be viewing me with a more detail oriented eye I will repaint my fingernails and be sure to wear something flirty and flattering. Because we'll surely be discussing more in-depth topics I will swear a vow of secrecy on anything regarding embarrassing bathroom stories, bad break-ups and fears about my aging ovaries. Due to my more discerning attitude towards him I will take the advice of one my very happily married friends and NOT look for something wrong about him. (It's a crazy concept in my perspective but it might just work.)

All of my serious relationships were with men that I had known for a decent amount of time as friends. They already knew that I was a nut. They just decided I'm like brussel sprouts with cheese sauce; the yummy part outweighed the not so yummy. Plus I knew them! It's not like I was getting into a relationship where I was unaware he was obsessed with the innerworkings of the newest Mac or once belonged to a hair band.

But life moves us onward and upward so on and up I must go. So who cares if he finds out I act out scenes of "The Departed" at home for fun? So what? Maybe with some luck he'll have an even better fake Boston accent than I.

Ah Crap

Six months into joining www.my-master's-degree-actually-decreased-my-chances-of-getting-married.com, I have been matched with nearly 1000 men in the Phoenix area. I estimate I've communicated in one way or another with 150 men. I've gone on 5 first dates and 2 second dates. To recap there was The Lawyer, then the guy who quit his job to focus on school but was actually ditching class the day of our first date, the super sweet guy who helped me paint, the guy who lied about having a baby, and last week, the photographer on-the-side stockbroker.

I've openly admitted I have very little experience with first dates. Other than the T-Shirt Guy I had been friends with my serious boyfriends for quite a while prior to conning them into loving me. In spite of my naivete I feel like I've been doing a pretty good job. I think. I cover all the basics: Polite manners? Check. Cute outfit? Check. Plethora of funny stories? Duh, check. Just to make sure, I like to go over all important points with my colleagues.

The entire English department is made well aware of my upcoming dates and are also privy to the post-date wrap-up, whether they want to hear it or not. As far as I'm concerned, it is their duty as literary experts to listen to me tell my tales. (I mean, my well developed dating narratives are definitely on par with the likes of Jane Austen, Shakespeare and Homer. What, no?) Or at the very least humor me and my silly sensibilities, whichever.

Tomorrow I will be filling them in on my date last night. This was a second date with The Stockbroker who is perfectly nice. He's successful and bright, funny and ambitious, tall, drives a nice car and most importantly, he has a dog. Truth be told, I went on this second date at the urging of some of the other teachers.

The first date was somewhat of a bust similar to the other first dates. He was nervous and a bit shy and I was nervously babbling on and on. It was a Wednesday and after a stroll through the park with the pups, who, by the way, got along splendidly, we drove to a sports bar to grab a bite. Well, kids, let's just put it out there, I'm 29 and it was a school night and damn it, I was tired! We chatted a bit but I wouldn't exactly say he knocked my socks off, figuratively speaking.

At lunch the following day, my colleagues were thoughtfully eager to get the scoop.

"Eh," I said, "it was fine. I don't know. No spark."

"Oh god, you are turning into Elaine Benes,"exclaimed my favorite 5'9", grey bearded, uber liberal, female pop-star impersonating, rogue, back-up plan sperm donor.

Defensively I yell, "Nuh uh!... Wait, how so?"

Future baby daddy proceeds to explain that I seem to find minor issues with all these guys I've gone on first dates with; insignificant flaws that I use as excuses to not go out with them again.

"That's absolutely not true!" I shoot back.

Flash of memories involving things I thought during dates: Guys should have clean fingernails. His cologne smells like a retirement home. His right ear is larger than his left. He already forgot I love Radiohead even though I said it 7 minutes ago.

Reactionary inner monologue: Ah crap.

Wait! This can't be happening! I know I want to find the one. You know I want to find the one. My next door neighbor, dog trainer and the guy who takes my order at Pei Wei do too. So if the majority of Phoenicians agree I'm ready to find the one, then why am I picking these guys apart? Simple answer, none of these 5 guys are in fact, the one. Scary answer, I'm subconsciously knocking down every guy who walks through the door out of fear, insecurity and the inability to move forward and not leaving room for the possibility that they are just nervous.

I quickly decided to accept an invitation for a second date and again, it was fine. Yummy Mexican food, lovely weather on the patio, good conversation. The thing is, I left with the same conclusion, no spark. Oh well.

There is one secret advantage to not finding the one: the infamous Elaine dance moves including the thumbs up, elbows out, hair flipping, slow kicks won't have to be seen at my wedding!

Goal Interrupted

The whole point of this ingenious blog was to provide motivation to find me a hubby. It's not that I need to be married in 1 year per se (although that would be freakin' sweet) more so that I need to keep my goal in sight and live accordingly. Before you even say it, I've heard it all:
"It'll happen when you're least expecting it."
"Stop looking and you'll find him."
"Good things come to those who wait."
"Enjoy your single years because once you're married you'll never feel so free again."

Great, thanks. I'm sure all that advice is true for someone and I hate to burst all of your well-intended bubbles. However, my reality is that I'm 29, my grey hair count is now a staggering 7 and last week I attended a Bunco night where I was literally the only single woman. Ask yourself, is there anything in your life that you truly wanted that you didn't work hard for? I didn't think so.

But I digress, the purpose was to keep me on track with my goal and disappointingly I have once again lost my way. No, I didn't stop wanting to walk down that blissful aisle. Instead I veered off path with that all too common danger, The Frex (copyright pending.) The Frex is exactly what you think; the friend who is also the ex. Man, The Frex is tricky. And the thing is, you are more than aware of the risks. Every friend, family member, acquaintance, mental health professional and even other frexes warn you, often. So yes, I knew the possible perils.

The trickiness of The Frex exists in the details not discussed. For example, it's okay to ask about each other's days but not okay to ask about each other's plans this Friday night. Or it's okay to have frex-sex but not hold hands while watching a movie on the couch. Or my personal favorite, it's okay to spend the whole weekend together as long as we don't speak for a couple days afterward.

The Frex and I enjoyed months of Frexship. We cooked dinners, worked on my house, took the pups to the park, attended concerts, watched movies, played games, went shopping, and spent time, well, in bed. I ignored the warnings because dammit, I was having too good of a time to stop. For the first time in my life I chose to simply enjoy the moment, live in the present, carpe diem and whatever else those crazy non-worriers do.

Nevertheless we all know how this tale ends because the truth is The Frexship, while congenial and comfortable and convenient, is, by definition, ill-fated. The heart can only fool itself for so long and our time has run out. One of the Frexes moves on or moves away and the remaining Frex must find a way to accept this totally reasonable yet painful decision. And therein lies the rub.

Right now you may be saying to yourself, Jocelyn, where's the silver lining in all this frightening Frex talk? Well, my friends, the upside is that I'm back in the game. Hubby-hunting is in season and I'm loaded for bear. In fact, I've got a date this week. You never know! Maybe it'll happen when I'm least expecting it!

Justifiably Selective or Simply Picky?

I am lucky to have dated some really amazing guys. There was The Artist when I was 22 who let me paint his bathroom bright blue and brought home doughnuts before I woke up on Saturday mornings. There was The Future Minister when I was 14 who made me a mixed tape of Phil Collins songs and wanted to wait to have sex until we got married.

And then there were some good guys who just didn’t always make good decisions. There was Sports Guy who loved the Tigers, the D-Backs, the Cardinals, the Sun Devils, the Lions, Phil Mickelson, Tiger Woods, Michael Phelps, the Mercury, any high school football team and his ex-girlfriend more than he loved me. And who could forget my High School Sweetheart who once twisted a pipe cleaner into the shape of a heart ring and sweetly placed it on my finger but also makes a rather lucrative living in the good old porn industry?

There have been tall ones, short ones, bald ones, hairy ones, rich ones, poor ones, red fish, blue fish. My dating track record is a real-life version of Whoville. This eclectic list is due to the fact that I’ve never been particularly persnickety. If you make me laugh and I can find SOME good in your heart and you take me to Disneyland, well, then I’m yours. Plus, I’ll stick around even after the metaphorical poo hits the metaphorical fan. Once I love you, I love you forever. Knowing that, you can see why it’s important at the ripe age of 29 to finally be a bit more discriminating.

Dating sites like www.iwenttosixweddingslastyear.com makes rejecting someone a cinch. In fact, I’m starting to be concerned that I’ve quickly graduated from all-embracing to selective to downright picky. I “close” guys for all kinds of reasons now.

If you spell the name of your profession wrong, I close you. (Seriously, dude.)

If you unashamedly admit that you haven’t read a book since high school, I close you. (I’m an English teacher for Pete’s sake.)

If all your profile pictures are of you looking in the mirror and taken from your cell phone but you claim to love traveling around the world, I close you. (Uh… suspicious?)

If you list “keeping physically fit” as one of your three best life-skills, I close you. (That’s not a skill; rewiring my stereo system is a skill.)

If you select “my pet is a nice addition to my life but there’s no real emotional attachment” to one of my questions, I close you. (I could never subject Sadie the Dog to a man like that!)

If you list hunting, shooting and eating red meat as your favorite hobbies, I close you. (Enough said.)

If you identify “attending a lecture” as your favorite type of date, I close you. (Quit lying.)

If your “Top Three Things I’m Thankful For” include your sports car or capitalism, I close you. (We’re just not going to work out.)

Could any of these guys be “the guy?” I suppose but I think that’s unlikely. Am I being unfair? Quite possibly. But before you judge me, remember this, I’m hoping to find a man to be the father of my kids and my eggs aren’t getting any younger. I’m getting this show on the road and I’ve got no time to search for the sweet, intelligent man inside the deer-shooting, illiterate tool.

Reasons I'd Make an Awesome Wife

Getting to know someone on www.i’mtheonlysinglepersoniknow.com can be somewhat monotonous. It’s a series of all too predictable inquiries with all too predictable answers. One such question is “What do you have to offer as a partner?” Now, I get the question and I get how I’m supposed to answer: patience, a good sense of humor, loyalty, yada yada. But let’s be honest, that’s what every attractive, eligible lady like myself would say. Instead I have compiled a list of the real reasons I’d make an awesome wife.
1. I make popcorn on the stove top with oil and salt and all that fattening goodness.
2. I know enough about baseball to carry on a conversation but not so much that I would disagree about whom should or shouldn’t be inducted into the Hall of Fame.
3. I prefer Jon Stewart to Oprah.
4. I play a mean game of Texas Hold ‘Em.
5. I also think wicker furniture is untrustworthy.
6. I crochet lovely blankets.
7. I spontaneously sing songs I just made up about the family pet.
8. I make major holidays and birthdays super special yet not stressful. It’s a magical talent.
9. I always know the answers to French clues in the crossword. Ete? Jeune? Chien?
10. I don’t ask “what are you think about right now?” Okay, sometimes but not all the time.
11. I think spending an entire Saturday in bed watching a marathon of “The Wire” is a totally valid use of time.
12. I’m an awesome back-scratcher.
13. I genuinely think poop jokes are funny.
14. I have green eyes. Rare genes, anyone?
15. I always keep ice cream in the freezer for “just in case” situations.
16. I have phenomenal credit.
17. I’m getting sexier and saner with age.
18. I have amazing friends whose husbands are bound by solemn vow to help with all moves and major home improvements.
19. I’m not likely to die in childbirth due to my great hips. Plus it’s 2010 and we don’t need 9 kids to work the farm.
20. Since I hate beer, I never drink the last one in the fridge.

Puppy Love

I wasn't always a member of www. my-dad-started-spending-my-wedding-fund .com. My last relationship had quite organic beginnings. In fact, the meeting was the stuff of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan flicks.
It all began with Sadie the Dog. After my tumultuous 3 year spree with Sports Guy ended I decided to get me a new, more emotionally available companion: a dog. I took a trip to the pound "just to look" and 4 days later Sadie was my new best friend. I soon learned that dogs need direction so off to training we went. I don't mean to brag but Sadie took to training like a dog to, well, treats. She was best in her class at "leave it." No big deal.
One particular Sunday, the trainer had a set of newbies come in early to socialize with our more mature pups. In walked Zoe the Boxer and her dad wearing a "Global Warming Is Not Cool" shirt. I felt immediately attracted to T-Shirt Guy for the following reasons A) he has a dog, B) his shirt is witty, and C) he wears glasses and I secretly dig nerds.
The next couple of Sundays I look forward to seeing T-Shirt Guy and am slightly confused by his penchant for funny slogans such as "The Eh Team" with a giant maple leaf and a wordless design that actually has 99 red balloons. I attempt small talk. "Hey, there's a cool bark park downtown. Just FYI." "Hey, I also dislike global warming." But shockingly, T-Shirt Guy doesn't bite.
Finally I decide to take matters into my own hands. It happens to be the day after a birthday spent in Disneyland and I am feeling extra cute. I pre-write my number on a slip of paper before I get to class. I stick the paper in my pocket, ready for the moment. I ask the trainer again if T-Shirt Guy has ever mentioned a girlfriend or boyfriend for that matter. I wear my converse so as not to appear too eager. Trainer agrees that today is the day.
T-Shirt Guy and Zoe the Boxer walk in for class as Sadie the Dog and I are finishing our final session. We exchange niceties "hey, how's it going?" "Great, how are you?" I feel the blood rush to my head. I can't think of anything sophisticated and amazing to say so I pull the pre-written number out of my pocket, force it onto T-Shirt Guy and somewhat yell "If you want to go to the bark park sometime, call me." Now, the normal human being would pause here, look into the other person's eyes, maybe even wait for a response. But oh no, not me. Instead I make a quick 180, drag Sadie the Dog and essentially run out of there.
In spite of my less than smooth moves, T-Shirt Guy called. Sadie the Dog and Zoe the Boxer became best friends. And we all lived happily ever after. That is, for the next 6 months. After all, this is called 52 weeks to find a husband, not 52 weeks to plan a wedding.