Love Me/Date Me

Oh, look, it's mid-July, and summer is in full swing. Chicago’s street festivals have outdone themselves yet again, the beach has delivered a few rousing games of volleyball and my winter-white complexion is finally surrendering to the sun. Snow season is a million light-years away, and summer has been, overall, worth the wait.

Except for that one thing that seems to have eluded me during this fair-weathered stint: the summer fling. Winter delivered the cozy video-game-prone boyfriend of a light-less basement apartment and an aversion to venturing outside (fine by me), and spring bounced back with a young, hip dilettante with a regular party schedule and an obscure Itunes library. Enter, summer. With its wealth of outdoor activities, short shorts and beer gardens, I was promised a slew of eligible young gentlemen, primed for a fling. (noun: a 3-month, casual encounter with unspoken codes of conduct set in place by summer romances past, full of al fresco dining, hot summer nights and a tragic but necessary parting come sweater-season.) Well, a few unpromising encounters and an all-too-eager suitor later (call me come February) leaves me with nothing short of seasonal affective disorder. Until one day…

I meet "M." (cue trumpets) M was at a mutual friend’s dinner party, and we hit it off right away. Numbers were exchanged, plans tossed around, and wham bam thank you ma’am we were Facebooking. Before I knew it, I was blowing off Mr. Come-To-My-Sister’s-Wedding and skipping a heartbeat when I heard the beep-beep-beep of my text message notification (or whenever someone unlocks an SUV. It’s really too cruel; I should change my ring tone.) Finally a DATE was set. We were to meet at M’s place for drinks, head to an art show and then to a friend’s birthday soiree. A perfect summer night. Roommate Dennis and I agonized over outfits (too “dressy” to too “messy“ to too “Karen Allen circa Raiders of the Lost Ark”) until I had concocted the perfect summer ensemble. Running late, I booked it to the Clark bus, breathlessly ran up M’s steps, overzealously rang the bell and gave my smartest smile as…

She answered the door. That’s right. “M" is a girl. Ha! I knew it all along, but I had you going for a while, huh? Yup, wearing a stylish dress (that I could totally borrow) with a vodka tonic in hand, I knew I had found my summer fling. We shared our respective travel adventures, career aspirations and of course, boy dramas, over many a cocktail before we headed out to start the night. A cross-town bus ride, an art show and a 7-11 slurpee later, I found myself in a well-lit alley with M and some of my friends who had come to meet us and share in the blissful summer night.

As we sat around, loudly laughing and passing around the pomegranate-green apple slurpee (yes, the flavor of summer), I couldn’t believe I had it this good. Who needs a fair-weather fling when I’ve found an all-weather friend? Let’s admit it, flings seem like a good idea in the throes of humidity, but after the ice cream has melted and the sniffles set in, what we once fell for in our idealistic fling can fade just as fast as those summer tans.

Instead, with my new friend and some tried-and-true old ones, in a city that was made for its summers, I finally feel seasonally satisfied, and for all seasons! But let’s wait a little bit longer for that sweater. This is too good to fling away.

You can’t write this s#*$. Let’s try anyway. Girl meets boy. Boy seems awesome. Girl Likes boy. Things going well… until. Boy tells girl he is seeing another girl, too. Girl is semi-crushed, but picks herself up and agrees to taking things easy. Dum diddly dee Girl is totally cool UNTIL. Girl runs into Boy with Other Girl and, while face is maintained in the moment, Girl gives in to darkest urges and Googles Other Girl to find…..

… Out that she’s a model. Nude. Lingerie. Did I say nude? Yes, nude. Crud.

Oh, Readers. This Girl is so unfortunately, me. And I’m not telling you this for your sympathy, or affirmations, or even your offerings of bourbon and ice cream. To tell you the truth, I’ve already had the bourbon and ice cream, and I’m in need of some distraction; so to you I write. Dating is hard, as we know, and as your dating blogger I feel like I should share with you the bad experiences as well as the good. So humor me by letting me humor you, because I’m being left for a totally naked blonde. (Oh, your sympathy? No, I simply couldn’t. Ohhh allright, if you insist)

OK, enough of this pity-party. I think this could be a dating lesson for all of us. Maybe my experience can guide you with what to do in case this happens to you— and you are not the model. Because let’s face it, if you’re reading this at a desk that is void of a strategically placed high powered fan over a lunch that consists of more than cigarettes, you are not The Model. But they exist, and date the same guys as you and me.

As they deserve to! Lest we forget, models are people too. And I’m not about to hate on a girl just because she happened upon the genes for freakish height and far- set eyes. But how the hell do you compete with A Model?!

You can’t, really. Because boys will be boys, and models will be models, and boys like legs and it’s as simple as that. Buuuut you can certainly put up a fight. Because there are certain things that non-models have that are just as natural as God-given cheekbones. Years of dating as a non-model equips a “normal girl” with skills and strategies for attracting a guy beyond knowing her angles. Years of practicing eye contact, bar-sidling, clever comebacks, charming anecdotes etc, vault us into a confident, sexy stratosphere that should make any model quake in her stillettos! Sure they have the walk, but we have the talk. You want the score of the game? Which one?. Politics? Please, I spent my Friday night watching Washington Week in Review. Hey— check out these sick dance moves! Did I tell you I make a mean risotto? It goes on and on. 

And Voila. Before you know it you’re right “up there” with the model, in a figurative sense that avoids the danger of grazing the ceiling fan. And that ability to hold your own will catch a few eyes! And the guy that sees right past a pair of pouty lips and straight to your asymmetrical eyebrows might be the keeper indeed. So party on, non-models. Let’s strut our stuff.

The saying goes something like, “Don’t judge a book by its cover," and I’d like to say that I adhere to age-old adages as much as the next guy. Lately, however, I’ve been struggling with this one in particular when it comes to my dating life. I’ve noticed recently that guys and girls alike are falling victim to my critical eye, getting the once-over and being mentally tossed into the “yes” or “no” pile based on a couple of snap judgments. Now I know a good bicep when I see one, and would love to date his bone structure at all costs, but this time, my radar isn’t even reaching skin-deep.

I’m talking about personal style, from the neckerchief to the floor. And my particular indiscretion, while superficial in context, is far from superficially motivated. Thanks to today’s fashion trends, SO much more can be read about a person just by looking at what he or she is wearing. With the advent of the “hipster” and the “trixie” or whatever overly descriptive, mildly constricting genre one happens to fall into, everything from music taste to favorite cocktail can be read on what you pull out of your closet. No longer do I feel guilty for snap judging! Simple self-expression has morphed into blatant advertising of the minutest personal details. Tight black T-shirt, skinny jeans and Converse = Joy Division and a PBR, while a strappy halter with a white jean skirt couldn’t be more Maroon Five with a Bacardi & Diet. Over-sized t-shirt, cargo shorts and Vans? Nirvana me up with a MGD on tap.

Now you can understand my panic, when I’m on to Date #3 and I’ve already rolled out the neutral and casual comfy T-shirt for Date #1 and the fail-safe, sex-on-eggs dress for Date #2, leaving me with some cash tips and raw shopping nerve to splurge on the quintessential outfit that will reveal all the right things about me.

So off I go, to the Chicago shopper's mecca: Michigan Ave and then some. The Loehman’s, the Nordstrom’s, the Macy’s, the H&M etc. Gasping and clawing, I bravely fight my way through the hordes of tweens on their prom-dress hunt, suburbanites on the pre-Wicked matinee time clock and corporate honeys dieting away their lunch break. Despite a (relatively) full wallet and a (relatively) open-mind, I somehow come up empty-handed.

To be utterly dramatic, nothing captured “me!" It seemed impossible to get away from the seasonal jewel-tones that sent visions of Jolly Ranchers dancing in my head, or the idiotic pockets on shapeless cotton dress and those infamous gladiator sandals. Forget about revealing too much cleavage. I’m worried about revealing a false identity! What? You think I’m high maintenance and only eat dry toast?! No, no! It’s only my strappy sandals before noon talking!!

Sigh. Yet fear not, for I eventually found something to wear. Exhausted and near defeat, I met up with my dearest friend Dennis and stumbled into a vintage store on the way home. And as far away as possible from current (and even recent) trends… I found my outfit. (And Dennis found his).

Judge away, but try and pinpoint a predictable mode of behavior with this blinding gradient leotard and red boater flats! Ok, maybe it’s a little predictable or reminiscent of my participation in the 1988 Summer Olympics as a member of the Lithuanian gymnastics team, but at least it’s fantastically fun (and not to mention, ridiculous...ly comfortable)

Or maybe it is just as revealing of my personality— in its own, funny way. Who knows what details about my life can be read on its electric blue exterior, but its mere existence on my person works as a bit of honest advertising at the very least. Yes, I AM fun, and a little crazy, and actually do have the balls to wear this thing out in public. And what guy doesn’t like a little confidence with his spandex? We’ll just have to see… Wish me luck, daters. I’ll let you know how it goes.

If there’s one piece of sage advice you’ll let me give you as your trusted dating blogger, it’s this: Don’t date An Actor. That’s right. You heard me. The idea for this post came the other day while I was riding the L. There was a cute guy… talking to himself. Upon seeing no bluetooth lodged in his ear, and noting that he was relatively free of schizophrenic ticks, I concluded to myself that he must be (drumroll please) An Actor! Sure enough, as my eyes travelled down his rumpled shirt I came upon a lone sheet of paper resting on his lap, complete with scrawlings, highlighter smears, and stage directions, over which he furiously pored, drinking in the words then spewing them forth in a storm of barely muted whispers and grunts. Acting, my friends— that’s what he was doing. I watched, amused, for a while, as he tried different inflections, gestures, and eye darts. Burying his head in his hands, he seemed to give up somewhere between Fullerton and Belmont, but sure enough sprang to life again after a swig of the Jack Daniel's hidden in his shoulder bag. After a few more runs of his monologue, he looked up to see that he had missed his stop, and flinging curses through the L car, he alighted into the night.

I sighed. And not out of love, lust, nor admiration. But for my foolish youth; for a time when that would have been the hottest thing a guy could have been doing aside from [insert your own personal fetish here].

See, I’ve dated my share of Performance Artists, and over the years I’ve learned a few things. I laugh ironically to think of all the anguish and annoyance that might have been avoided had someone (besides my mother) warned me against the all-too-tempting dramatic set.

Because an actor seems ideal! They are passionate, attuned to their emotions and creative, right? Yes, I suppose so. But with great talent comes great responsibility. And some actors can’t get beyond their character flaws to show you the lovely, creative, passionate person underneath.

Prime example. I went on a date with an “improvisation artist” a couple of weeks ago. And upon our first meeting, he had all the qualities I’m drawn to. Open, friendly, confident, charming, etc. Ok, I thought, I haven’t really dated an improver per se, perhaps that doesn’t fall into the “actor” category. So I gave it a go.

And he was nice, and charming. However, I couldn’t get past a major character flaw that had undoubtedly grown out of his improv training. There’s a technique in improv entitled the “Yes, And” principle, where, as a cardinal rule, an improviser on stage is always supposed to support whatever their fellow artist has put forth (hence the Yes) and then add something, top it, bring the game to the next level (hence the And). It works like a charm— on stage. In a dimly-lit sushi restaurant, when my “My sister has narcolepsy” is met with a “Yes! And I used to talk in my sleep when I was little!” results are less entertaining. The conversation continued in that vain until I could be topped with random tidbits no more, and needless to say, dropped the curtain on the date.

And yet another recent example. I went on a date with a full- blown Actor. He seemed different, and was older (and therefore more mature?) so I rationalized giving this one a chance. Things seemed to be going well, so well in fact, that I may have fallen for him just a little bit. But after a week of no word, and a few unanswered text messages on his part, I approached him, looking for answers. This time, he had dropped the curtain on our short dating life, yet not for reasons to do with me (so he says... Actors are also very good liars, so I took this with a grain of salt) He claimed that he was in the throes of a severe identity crisis, drowning in a desperate late- 20s search for who HE was (and yes, he referred to himself in the third person. Really tugged at my heartstrings). I took it like a lady, thanked him for his honesty, and sauntered away, a little crushed, but mainly annoyed that I had been suckered in once again! An older actor with an identity crisis!! The worst kind! It took me a whole day to sweep away the fond memories of our single date and swear off The Actor yet again.

And I can hate because I Love. And because I Am. That’s right, I am An Actor myself, if you haven’t caught on. (And my mother wonders why I don’t meet I-Bankers. Because they don’t audition, Mom. Or hit up industry nights.) And as boldly as I have warned you ladies and gentleman against dating An Actor, I will equally warn you against dating An Actress. We crazy. We always want to know what you’re feeling, we can fake cry to win an argument or the last slice of cake, and all we really want is your constant adoration, attention, and praise. Aaaannd you have to come see our shows, no matter how crappy. Terrified? Thought so.

Yet now for my conclusive, self-redeeming final thought. It could be worse. You could be stuck with an utterly boring [insert personal nightmare job here]. Or alone? Or maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe I’m just jaded. But for now, I’m attempting an experiment: No More Actors. Currently looking for a creative, passionate, yet headshotandresume-less guy. Can you quote Ionesco? See ya. Wait tables? Been there done that. Was suckered into your high school musical because you were an off-season athlete who could sing a little? I’m wary. Oh, what’s this… You paint! Read biographies? Don’t know the difference between stage right and stage left!? Hold on, let me put on my most charming smile…

You were walking west on Armitage. Faded skinny jeans, red handkerchief and brown sweater. Thought you were cute…

If you just happen to be the girl, boy or done-up accessory dog that applies to this ad, then boy-oh-boy did fate work in your favor.

Now I’m a firm believer in all things fate. I find it a much more relaxing way of being. But this relatively recent phenomenon has really got me questioning the parameters of what we consider “destiny.”

Riding the coattails of Facebook marriages and Google-ing is a intriguing phenomenon known as the Craigslist “missed connections” ad. For those of you who have been too busy scrolling through the more honest portions of Craigslist (yes, searching for the right used coffee table consumes most of my time as well), I will briefly explain. Directions for posting are pretty simple: You see girl/guy, fail to muster the guts to introduce yourself, go home and in a moment of “what have I got to lose?” you post a short line about noticing said person, list one descriptive feature, then wax remiss about not saying hi when you had the chance.

Now these posts can run from vague to utterly charming to downright creepy. And in the style of most things Internet, this romantic outlet has seemingly grown not only in acceptability, but in popularity as well. More and more are people actually reading and posting, infinitely upping your chances at a second chance.

Here’s where my liberal arts college late-night munchies with a side of philosophy come in handy. Fate vs. Free Will, or rather, Fate vs. Craigslist. In the not-so-distant past, you passed a hottie leaving the drugstore as you went in, and if you got a look or a smile, you were lucky. If Fate did not bump her into you, or send you both reaching for that last tube of toothpaste, then that was the end of that.

Until now. Fate can deny us a phone number and we have the opportunity to go behind Its back and try again via modern technology. Have we evolved into fabricating our own fate?

Now I am fully aware of the mind-bending arguments that surround this philosophical conundrum, and you’re welcome to get as meta as you want on me… but I have to wonder if this whole new method of finding love is all that natural. Sure, it’s dandy now, but I shudder to think of the handfuls of soulmates that passed me by, before a few double-clicks destined them to meet me at a well-lit, populated coffee shop. What did we do before missed connections? Just missed out? Now we have a new fate to depend on. If it’s meant to be, our posts will be answered.

And I do have to admit its convenient—you hardly have to leave the house. No drinks need to be bought, no risky pick-up lines, instead a mutual attraction agreed upon over email. Sure, you could muster up the balls and introduce yourself in person, but why risk rejection and humiliation when you can place your bets on an ambiguous MC post?

But does it work? So far, I’ve had a couple of friends find themselves/the object of their desire on an ad, and one of them is now dating their connected connection. Surprisingly heart-warming, no?

Of course that’s an exception to the rule; the majority of posts seem more akin to half-hearted scrawlings on a Catholic school lavatory stall. Yet the odds don’t stop any of us from looking, or holding that eye contact on the train a second longer, in the hopes of securing a post of our very own. Because after all, fate is fate, no matter how you spin it. As for me, I think I’ll attempt a fleeting smile at this fellow cafe-goer next to me and try my chances later on tonight. You were drinking a macchiatto. Reading your law text. Thought you were cute…

T-Pain just popped up on my Itunes shuffle, and I’m pretty sure it’s a sign. In his song, “Bartender,” T-Pain has broken up with his girlfriend and heads to a club. Long story short, he spots the bartender, she makes them drinks to drink, they then drunk ‘em (got drunk) and now he knows she thinks he’s cool. And the rest is history. So simple! As T-Pain says himself, of the 200 other fine ladies in the joint, he found none of them hot. So what is it about the bartender that outright caught his eye, and as us girls well know, the eye of most men in any bar or club? There’s just something about that chick who holds the liquor that makes the heads turn. Gee whiz, if phone numbers were currency, bartending school would cost almost as much as my theatrical bachelors degree.

Thank you, T-Pain, for you have shown me the light. If dating is my game, then I am in serious need of a new day job. You see, I signed up for this waitressing gig for one reason and one reason only: That phone number on the napkin I had heard tales of…. the lone diner who falls for the catastrophe waitress as they meet under the table over some spilled coffee… the legends of fame and fortune that await if I could only get discovered!! Well guess what— none of that’s happened. Instead I sling frittatas to the wealthy hungover brunch set. The majority of my patrons are ladies who lunch, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cranky trophy wives don’t want your phone number on their napkin or cheese on their veggie burger.

Where did I go wrong?! My mom is beside herself. How will I meet that handsome architect with the trust fund and the dominant genes to father my above average spawn?! I tell her not to worry, meanwhile biting my already hacked fingernails to the rhythm of the espresso grinder.

I’d like to follow T-Pain’s fine example and become a bartender, but I have absolutely no patience for the “parts” measurement system as well as an inability to resist the temptation of blue cheese olives. So that rules out that easy option. I guess I have no choice but to sit here on my couch with “Bartender” on loop and commence my mental “hot-job” hunt.

Keeping with the club environment and all of its lowered inhibitions, I came up with coat check girl. I could handle that. Pros of this job: slipping your phone number into that hottie’s Northface fleece while he jams to Of Montreal at the Metro. Con: Trapped in a small box woozy with the musk of winter wear while some creepo insists you’d look better in his coat, or his coat would look better on the floor, or is it you in his coat on the floor? Well anyway, you get the nightmarish gist.

As faraway as possible from the stuffy, overcrowded club awaits my next option… ski lift worker girl! Yes it’s cold and snowsuits will never be sexy, but if anyone has been skiing or boarding, there is something alluring about that Aussie ski instructor whose bearded smile lights up any beginner lesson. And I figure if I’m the only girl punching tickets in the snow, all the more options for me! Though I did hear once from a girlfriend who went out to Colorado for the winter that “The odds are good, but the goods are odd” Hmmm…

Ok, then. Howabout this: The song, “Most Beautiful Girl” from Flight of the Conchords claims “You’re so beautiful, you could be a waitress.” Well, so far no cigar. Let’s look at the next verse line for further guidance. “You’re so beautiful, you could be an air hostess in the 60s” Done and done. Cute outfits, playful banter and some mild sexism. Now if only I could time travel. I’d like to say that the allure of the air hostess lives on in today’s 757s, but have you seen the Southwest khakis lately? And, no, I don’t think HootersAir actually exists.

Exhausted of options, sick of T-Pain, and too asymmetrical to find work as a part-time model (third verse line from “Most Beautiful Girl”) I suppose I have no choice but to stick out this waitressing job, and wait to wait on that under-tipping businessman. If only!

“Hi, Christine. This is _____. Haven’t, uh, heard from you in a while… I hope you’re ok. I’m actually kind of worried. I saw there was a bike accident in your area, I hope that wasn’t you. And I heard the flu was going around. My roommate’s boss has it…. Oh no! I hope you didn’t get it through me from my roommate’s boss. In that case, let me know if there’s anything I can do… maybe some soup? Anyway… bye, I guess”

Crud. He was supposed to infer from my strategic scheme of unanswered calls and texts that he’s a nice guy, but I’m not really looking for something right now and I’d rather just be friends… Now he thinks I’m dead. Where did I go wrong?!

Recently, a girlfriend of mine was hanging out with a guy for a short two weeks, only to realize that he wasn’t for her. When she had decided to say bye and move on— without actually communicating that “bye”— it became apparent by his concerned voice-mails that the silent treatment was not going to fly. She realized that what they shared, while brief, was going to require a semi-formal breakup, complete with explanations, apologies, and even a small shoe box exchange of his and her stuff.

It’s happened to all of us. After a few dates, you decide for whatever reason that he or she isn’t what you’re looking for. And you’ve spent just enough time together that a wave goodbye and a dive into the nearest cab is no longer an acceptable ditch. But at the same time, you’re just shy of having The Talk that would have vaulted you into the obligation-laden Relationship. Now comes the hard part. Ending this ambiguous thing that never officially began.

What to do? Admittedly, breaking something off is difficult no matter how deeply entrenched your heart once was. Feelings are to be had and hurt on both sides. But who needs a full-blown break up when there is no box of stuff, no friends ready to take your side, and not that many memories to run through your head as you listen to emo kids wail and moan on your Itunes? Because of its transient nature, it’s tempting to treat this ambiguous “relationship” with the same regard you’d give to a withering houseplant.

I’m going to muster all of my maturity here and declare that there is a better route to take in these awkward situations, and it doesn’t involve the silent button on your cell phone. Yes, I’ve done that in the past, as well as been a bewildered victim, and I think we can all attest that it’s not that cool. So suck it up, and just let the guy/girl know. You don’t need to make it a drawn-out dramatic affair, just a simple explanation should suffice. He or she will most likely appreciate your honesty and you’ll get major points from the dating gods for your classiness and balls. Not to mention a clear conscience and spare room in your voice mailbox.

My mother was right. All these years she dressed me up, combed my hair, and marched me out the door on Sundays were working up to this. No, no, not my salvation, but I’m sure I’ll thank her for that later. For now I’m too preoccupied with my newfound discovery! I stumbled upon this clean-shaven jackpot at Our Lady of Mt Carmel this Easter Sunday. I have FOUND them. The dreamy, family-flanked, dressed-in-their-Sunday-best gentlemen of Chicago, standing, sitting, and kneeling in perfect unison, backlit by the glow of the stained glass windows and scented with the sweet perfume of incense. Not to mention the timely Hallelujah chorus.

I knew it was too good to be true. ‘Cause if there’s one thing I learned from Mother over my years of churchgoing, it was to keep my eyes front, my mouth shut, and my legs together. Surely this is no place for a romantic rendezvous, but can I get away with a peek over the shoulder, or a shy smile during the Sign of the Peace? ...If only I was allowed to give “the eyes” in the presence of the Lord.

This chaste church experience alerted me to a sobering truth about the dating world-- It’s frightfully narrow. All of our potential mates get squeezed through a narrow passageway known as The Bar, where all of our meeting and greeting is expected to take place. Well, what if Mr/ Ms. Right happens to be in the Wrong place at the Wrong time?

Like, at the end of a movie in a movie theater that does not encourage talking, smoking, or cell phones. Now I’m certain that I’ve come across instances of potentially meeting the man of my dreams, only to realize that it is neither the time nor the place for romancing. For instance, I ride the L at 6 AM. No one wants to be hit on before noon, and that’s that. Or the other night I was walking out of Blockbuster, and passed a cute guy heading in. What could I have said? “Blockbuster!? No way! Funny story…” would have primarily quickened his pace. Maybe, “Ahhh! Don’t go in there, the building is on fire!” would at least have grabbed his attention, as well as keeping him outside where I could ask lots of questions about his hobbies and workout regime.

No, no. Instead we’re restricted to bars, singles nights, and the occasional grocery cart collision as acceptable settings to pick up a date. What to do? We either have to expand the playing field and turn church/blockbuster parking lots/doctor’s offices/the 45yard dash into a singles paradise, OR trust that Fate will be kind enough to plant ourselves and our soul mate in a broken down elevator with a bottle of Moet in hand.

Now, as for church, there’s not much I can do besides, well, pray. And hope he shows up to the coffee social in the basement. Then again, as with all unfortunate missed connections, one can always post on Craigslist. “Saw you in church. Lookin' good… Same time next week?”

Seeing as we’re living through a politically charged period in American history, I thought I would follow the cues of our ground-breaking journalists and contribute to the ‘08 showdown with a political piece of my own. And no, I’m not about to expound upon the merits of having, or not having, a crush on Obama. Instead, a piece of governmental fluff! Know any couples who fall into these categories?

1. The Communist Couple: This couple lives in utter Utopian bliss, complete with thin walls and drawn curtains. Since wealth is shared, they’re left with no debate when it comes time to pay the dinner bill. Mundane chores are strategically split, one does the trash, the other does the dishes, etc. This poses a problem when one entity chooses to revolt, leaving a sink full of dirty dishes and a relationship that was really only good in theory…

2. The Fascist Fling: Totally hot, if you’re into that dominating dictatorship kind of thing. This couple believes they have the perfect union, and often times won’t break up for the sole reason that it would let down the “idea” of the infallible relationship. Due to their propensity towards invasion and overthrow, I would avoid hitting them up for that double date…

3. The Democratic Duo (courtesy of Josh)- This relationship is all about give and take, listening and sharing, and possibly some behind the scenes wheeling and dealing. Since democracy is based on all voices being heard and a fair vote, it can be difficult for there to be a majority when there are only two people in the situation who are disagreeing on something. This is when having friends and/or a close relative comes in handy. "Well Susan would like my hair that way," she asserts, giving the false sense of majority in her decision. "My cousin Eric had a bad experience with that," he could say, making his case seem more solid. Having a child can also be beneficial to help sway the vote one way or another in this relationship, automatically giving one side both a majority and plurality in any situation.

4. The Colonialism Companion: aka The Long Distance Relationship. These relationships start out strong, with multiple cargo trips to the new land, a willing supply of the colony’s assets (cotton, coconuts, etc) and a “distance makes the heart grow fonder” mantra. Soon enough, however, the motherland gets caught up in some turf war elsewhere and neglects to call the colony on a Saturday night. Revolution is most certainly in order, and with an epic breakup/war, the new colony is ready to venture into the dating world as a sexy independent state!

5. The Monarchy Match: In this relationship, one member worships the other. And the other, in turn, provides the subject with parades, occasional appearances, and tabloid fodder. But if I had to be in a politically designed relationship, boy this would be it. In this style, the monarch-- which would be me, through divine right, obviously-- would have unending, undisputed rule over all aspects of the relationship aaaand I’d get to wear kid gloves and dresses all the time. So there you have it! Some relationship musings with a healthy dose of politics. Now back to your regularly scheduled "Obama Girl" videos...

Bored on a Wednesday afternoon and what do I do? Join match.com. I know, I know. I should have just cleaned my room. But I had been talking to a friend recently about dating and its unspoken application process. We realized that the first few dates are frighteningly similar to a rigorous job interview. The physical assessment, followed by a mental once-over of their strengths and weaknesses, a bit of banter, then a discussion of hopes, dreams and desires for advancement in… the relationship. Gah! Fortunately, as I just learned on my mid-week Sunday, there exist dating beacons known as match.com, eHarmony.com or the zanier, kookier crazyblinddate.com, that allow you to bypass the first few interviews and jump right into love, love, love! I decided to sign up for a free trial (for research purposes only) and get a better idea of what questions people are asking these days. What does the average singleton need to know about a potential mate to take the bait? What I found was, well, average. Not to knock these dating sites, but they’re playing it safe. They’re the crossed ankles and buttoned blouse of questions. “Would you care for a t-yuna sandwich and please describe your best feature. Options include arms, face, or bellybutton. One sugar or two?” No, what I really want to know about a potential partner has nothing to do with his 1-5 level of commitment to pets or our shared workout regiment. Sure, these generic questions will enlighten me to his aversion to reptiles and his toned biceps, but that gives me no hint as to how far I might fall. So I’m amending the dating application. I’m digging deeper, getting more to the point, opening up the questions for a more intricate analysis. Here are the prompts I’ve come up with so far:

1. Do you smoke? Never? Liar. Don’t tell me you were never drunk and 19 at the Metro and maybe just puffed once or twice to catch the heavy-lined eye of that rocker chic?… Or, Yes? Why? And what brand? Check one, please. Parliaments? Oh pull up your Uggs and walk right outta here. American Spirits? Interesting. You must be vegan, or at least you stop and listen to the Greenpeace kids. Hot.
2. Toilet paper orientation. Up or under?
3. Does your voice get higher in pitch when agitated? How high? I don’t date anyone above an A flat.
4. Religious orientation? East coast or west coast Catholic? Go to church for your mother? Jewish? Did you invite the whole class to your bar mitzvah? And was there a live band or a DJ playing the Spice Girls?
5. Workout routine. How many times a week? Frankly, I don’t care. Rather, I will ask: Can you lift me over your head? (Someday if we’re ever in a lake or on the dance floor I’d like to have a Dirty Dancing moment. Cool?)
6. Winter Olympics or Summer Olympics?
7. Kids? How many? Oh my God, where?! Don’t talk about kids. I’m 22, and I am keeping this girlish fig-er for as long as possible. Now take a few steps back.
8. Please describe your best physical feature. And no, “Legs” isn’t good enough. What part of your legs? Thighs? Kneecaps? Ankles.

This is all I can come up with for now; my laptop battery is about to die. But I’d love to hear your very own nit-picky questions. Maybe we can create our own dating site… for people who want to know all about those weird little things that make it or break it. We would revolutionize the dating application! So post some questions! Because, face it, there’s no way I’m falling for a 28-year-old law enforcement official whose turn-ons are as plebeian as public displays of affection and boldness/assertiveness. Now if I could find out how he felt about the public access channel’s Saturday afternoon dog show, well, then we might have a date…