It Begins. . . .

I went to my very dear friend and former JVC roommate Adam's wedding outside of Washington D.C. this weekend. Although weddings seem to be a pretty common occurrence for most of my friends (and all of my other old JVC roommates), this was actually the first wedding of a friend that I'd been to, and the first of anyone that I was at all close to. I am grateful for that.

I find it interesting that I have (I think unconsciously) surrounded myself with people who are totally not on the marriage fast-track; I can't help but suspect, however, that this is going to start to change. Am I about to find myself in a high stakes game of "Last (Single) Person Standing?" If that's the case, I think I have what it takes to go really far!

Despite rain that drove Adam and his fiance Kristi inside his parents' house for the actual ceremony, the wedding was beautiful, I think Adam and Kristi are going to be really happy, it was fabulous to see all my JVC roommates again (and laugh over all the ridiculous things that happened that year), and--in a classically Adam attempt to keep things real--we had barbecue pork ribs to go along with the china, crystal and white linen tablecloths.

Claire, Sara, Erin, Sarah, Jen and Adam--Casa Dorothy Day 2002-2003--at Adam's wedding


Adam and Kristi saying their vows.
Oakland's unofficial "husband school"--now taking applicants!

Weekend updates

Had a really fabulous, laid-back weekend. Here are some of the lessons I learned:

1) Don't order french fries at an ice cream parlor. Unless, that is, you're prepared to gnaw your arm off while you wait for them, while simultaneously silently cursing your friends who are plowing into their ice cream sundaes.

2) Root beer floats are really two receptacle projects. And if you don't have two glasses/bowls, you'd better have a glass and a tub. Otherwise, you're gonna wish you had an umbrella, some goggles, a raincoat and a lot of handiwipes.

3) Soccer is addicting.

4) There is such a thing as embracing the awkward too much. If you're talking about beer bottles and the cap/no cap discussion comes up, you've gone too far.

5) If you're not going to come prepared to do the gourmet picnic at Stern Grove, then you'd better end up sitting next to a guy named Nico who has french bread, cheese, truffles, vegan cookies and a lot of wine to share.

6) Bonus points if he immediately points out that he's straight and single and then picks up your friend.

7) When matching opening bands with headliners, it is important to put the mellower act first and build up to exciting dance music. Otherwise people use up all their energy and fall asleep during the main act.

8) The trick to making the girls' bathroom line go faster than the men's is apparently to have 8 women's stalls for every one men's stall.

9) Club waziema is closed on Sundays. But fortunately, Fly Bar was doing a $10 "all you can drink from the Full Sail keg" special so it all worked out OK.

10) $10 All you can drink does not, in fact, mean that you should try to drink a whole keg by yourself.

11) If you ignore lesson 10, you should make sure you don't let drunk guys you don't actually know make crank calls with your phone. For all you know, he might be telling people that he's your parole officer.

12) Drinking on a Sunday afternoon is only a good idea if you stop before Monday morning.

Short and Sweet

Just two words: Dirty McFlirty.

Chicano Park

On the suggestion of a friend, when I was in San Diego last weekend I visited Chicano Park. The park is located in Barrio Logan, a predominately Latino neighborhood in San Diego.



In the 1960's, I-5 was built straight through the heart of the neighborhood, and many residents were displaced. While many simply accepted the destruction of their neighborhood, some were willing to fight back. Over the course of a number of years, residents organized and fought to take back the land from the control of the Highway Patrol.



In 1970, after hundreds of residents occupied the area and used civil disobedience to stop bulldozers from tearing down even more of the nieghborhood, the land under the freeway was transformed into a park.



Chicano Park is now a symbol for how communities can save their cultures and their neighborhoods by standing together and fighting. If you want to know more about this awesome and inspirational story, go here.

Shenanigans at the "brewery"

The "brewery"

I think I may have met my match--someone who is as willing to push the envelope of awkward as I am. He might even be a little more willing, frankly. Let's recap what happens when three funny people--one of whom loves mediocrity and two who embrace awkwardness--get together and get drunk.

So Miranda's friend Darren came down from Sacramento to hang out with us on Friday afternoon. Now I've met Darren once before and my general impression was that he was a funny, fun guy. (He claims that I trash talked him during a game of Phase Ten, but I think that is highly unlikely--although not improbable--because I know for a fact that I wasn't actually playing Phase Ten that night.) But I had no idea how funny Darren was until Friday.

But here's the deal. I'm way too lazy--and it's now too far removed--to bother with an entire write up of the craziness that was two Friday's ago experience of the "brewery." If you want the long (and I do mean LONG) version of the night, check out Darren's blog account of it. (But take it with a grain of salt--I was not anywhere near as much the instigator, and he was not anywhere near as much the helpless victim who played along as he makes it seem. I promise. Oh. And I'm definitely not quirky.)

Here are the quick and dirty highlights of my night with Darren and Miranda:
--George (as always). As soon as he saw me, he made a beeline, pulled out his best (and by best I mean ridiculous) "smooth" manner, and when I commented on how I could see two of myself in his aviator glasses, he replied "you must be enjoying that very much."

(On a side note, when I recounted that moment to a friend the next day while waiting at a stop light, some middle-aged guy with his toddler turned around and said "wow. That's a dumb line. I would have said 'well I wish I could see two of you right now.'")

This is Darren's best impersonation of George's smoothness

--George asking me to invite my friends to his party because "they were hella cool." Get your own hella cool friends.

--George calling me "quirky." That's like the pot calling the kettle black, son. Actually it's not like that at all, because I'm not "quirky." And if I hadn't been holding a really good Belgian beer in my hand at that moment, I might have started a street fight with George right there to prove it.

--Darren lying to a homeless guy about how he and I were married and then causing a big fake scene while we waited for a table at some restaurant.

Good times at the "brewery." Good times.

Top 10 Marathon Moments

10) The guy wearing nothing but a speedo and a REALLY large sombrero while running the marathon.

9) Listening to this band of Marines' pretty good rendition of Beyonce's "Crazy in Love."

8) Having no qualms about drinking 4 margaritas and eating my body weight in Mexican food later in the day.

7) Getting to run on a freeway. (They had blocked it off especially for the race.)

6) Overhearing the guy next to me ask his friends: "When have you ever gotten to run on a freeway? At least, you know, when you were sober?"

5) Discovering that all the Team in Training people who went to San Diego raised more than $12 million dollars for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

4) The group of running Elvises.

3) Josh in a purple tank top.

2) Never having to consume Powerade, Powerbars or Gu ever again. (I will be especially happy to never eat another Strawberry Cliffshot as long as I live--runny strawberry jam with salt in it is NASTY.)

1) Crossing the finish line with a smile on my face.

Would the Real Team Awesome Please Stand Up?

It was questionable whether I was going to make it off that plane without going postal on some hyped-up happy marathon runner. But I made it safely--and without further incident--to my hotel room, where I promptly barricaded the door to ward off any further interaction with Team Awesome.

Shortly thereafter, Becky arrived, looking traumatized. She had survived her flight from San Francisco with the Team as well. (*A word about Becky's team: while I've been putting up with Team Awesome, Becky's been dealing with the San Francisco equivalent, Team Sucks a Lot. They really do. It's mostly rich-bitch Marina girls who've cornered the market on being unfriendly. And at least one of them--we're pretty sure--has really botched-up butt implants. So while they're not quite as peppy, they're still pretty awful. Becky was grateful to have survived.) So we hugged and swore never to leave the other person alone with the Team again.

And then we devised a plan. We weren't going to let the Team drag us down. We weren't going to drown in a sea of pep without a fight. We would fight cheesy with . . .irony. We would reclaim Team Awesome.

And so we did. We took our Barney-purple Team in Training jerseys and we wrote TEAM AWESOME on the back. And then we wrote it on our arms. And then we made a pact: anytime a Team in Training person yelled "Go Team" at us during the race, we would respond with "TEAM AWESOME!!!" (Pronounced TEAM AWE-SOME!)


And then, as our coup d'etat, we convinced (and by convinced I really mean insisted) our friend Josh to wear my extra Team in Training jersey (which was too small on me, and thus WAY too small for him) while cheering us on. Not only did he wear it, but he ran the last four miles with Becky in it. Now that's a good friend, and a deserving member of the real Team Awesome. And so, Becky and Claire managed to avoid the pep, bring the irony, and overall have an awesome marathon experience. (What kind of awesome, you ask? Team Awesome!)

Team Awesome members Claire and Josh post-race. He carries off the jersey with aplomb, don't you think? I've been told he has quite the thing for purple!

Team Awesome Goes Bad-Ass.

Team Awesome does San Diego

So I ran this marathon on Sunday. But before I really get into it, here's a little back story on how this came to pass:

My friend Becky and I decided back in February that we would raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and train for this marathon with their program, Team in Training. At the time it seemed like a brilliant plan: raise money for a good cause and have a structured group setting to make sure you're doing all the training to get you ready to run 26.2 miles. There was, however, one thing that we could not have expected about Team in Training that made it kind of scary (and in my book akin to Chinese Water Torture):

The pep factor.

I've never met so many happy, peppy people in my life. Like abnormally happy and peppy. "Should-have-been-hired-to-work-at-Disneyland" kind of happy. "Got-kicked-off-the-cheerleading-squad-for-being-over-the-top" kind of peppy.

And let me just be clear. I do not do peppy. I was a cheerleader in high school, and I am very sure I used up an entire lifetime's worth of peppy cheer in those three and a half years. There is literally none left. I CANNOT handle peppy. Or cheesy. Or any type of "too sincere for its own good" sacharine sweetness. This is why I hate musicals, and a cappela groups and movement songs. And it is also why I HATE Team In Training.

So we show up for Team in Training and it's all chanting and cheering and clapping and "GOOOOOO TEAM!" all over the place. This is bad enough for me. But then they tell us that we're going to have to come up with a team name. I can feel myself starting to cringe as I look desperately for an exit from this cornball filled hell. After a brief flirtation with the name Team Outstanding (and I hope you don't think I'm kidding) we finally settle on Team Balance. I quietly retch in the corner. Privately, to Becky and to my other friends, I decide to refer to the crazies as Team Awesome. (This is, of course, ironic.)

Becky and I start going to the team workouts. I don't last long with this. Every time I go, I can feel the "Go Team" and "East Bay ROCKS" chanting, the Team Balance name, the super-excited, happy and energized people who just can't wait to bust out some jazz hands eating away at the core of my very cynical soul. This is not acceptable. I decide to train on my own. Because really, when given a choice between revolting peppiness and running 20 miles by myself--hell, given the choice between peppy and just about anything else--peppy is going to lose.

I stayed aloof and removed up to the day that we all flew down to San Diego. And then something terrible happened. I got trapped on a plane with Team Awesome. And they were in prime form. Most of them were wearing their Team gear, and as soon as the flight attendant had finished the flight safety speech, the chanting began. And then singing: "We are the Champions." "We Will Rock You." God knows what else because by then I was curled in the fetal position in my seat, rocking and covering my ears while screaming "I can't hear you, I can't hear you."

Ok that's a lie.

But the chanting and the singing is not.

So much adbsurdity, so little time

Ok, so I have about 4 things I need to blog about, but as a warm up to those, I thought I'd throw out this little gem of weirdness from my day:

I've been reikied.

I ran a marathon on Sunday. As could probably be expected, I am rather sore. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that I have been walking like a Zombie for the last two days. (By which I mean that I can't bend my legs and so I have to kind of rock back and forth from leg to leg to propel myself forward.) And that whole no bending the leg thing has made stairs, hills and sitting not really so fun. I pretty much just groan and wince and grumble my way through it. That is, until this afternoon.

I was volunteering for a political campaign, and one of the other volunteers noticed my stiff gait and pained expression. He asked what was wrong, I explained and he asked me to show him where exactly my legs hurt.

I pointed to a spot on my hamstring where the pain seemed to be strongest. Suddenly he leaned behind me and placed his hands near--but not on--the spot I was pointing to. For a very long moment we stood like this--me bent backwards, pointing, him scrunched over, waving his hands over my leg. Everyone in the office turned to stare. One woman asked if everything was OK and seemed concerned that he was trying to accost me. I told her it was OK, although I'm sure I looked pretty freaked out.

Finally he stood up, smiled and told me to try walking now.

I did.

All the pain and stiffness was gone. My Bride of Frankenstein gait was no more.

I turned to him, incredulous and more than a little suspicious. "What did you do?" I demanded. "Wait--did you just reiki me?"

*Note: For those of you not new age-y enough to know what reiki is, it's the art of healing people by using and changing the energy field around their bodies. I have basically always assumed it was a load of hooey.

"Let's not worry about what it's called," my New Age hippy friend said. "I don't like to pigeon-hole my healing with labels.

"But if you're interested in learning how to do that yourself, I strongly suggest you take classes at the Berkeley Psychic Institute. It will help you get more in tune with your body's inherent healing power."

"OK, nutjob," I thought to myself. But then again, I guess you shouldn't knock it if it works. And here you have my first experience with being reikied.

When Electoral Politics Goes Bad

A friend of mine who is currently living abroad in what I have always considered to be a sane, rational and relatively progressive country called me today with some big news.

"Guess what?" she said. "We have a new political party."

Thinking this was the big news, I replied "Oh, hey that's great."

"Yeah, we get a new political party at least once a year."

So what then was the big news?

Her reply:"This political party is all about pedophilia."

Me: "WHAT??!?"

"Yeah, they want to drop the age of consent down from 16 to 12, they want to make it legal to have sex with animals, and they want to allow child porn with kids 12 and older as long as it's 'tasteful' and the kid consents to participate."

Me again: "WHAT?!!!?"

"Oh, and they also want to make train travel free for everyone in the country."

Bits 'n Pieces

1) Saw the following written in chalk in the stairwell leading to the 19th Street BART station on Friday: "Even our brotha Jesus got killed by the Po-pos." God I love Oakland.

2) If I ever have a band (unlikely, since I don't sing and can't play any instrument other than the piano and even then I only play classical music. And only for my mother) I've come up with the best band name ever. "Amy's Lamey Friends." That's gonna be my band's name. Actually, it's the underground secret name. It'll have some other name that most people know it by, but the really cool kids will know what it's really called. For everyone reading this who just went "what the hell is she talking about?" I apologize. It's an inside joke, and I hope to hell that the three people who get it will think it's really hillarious.

3) Went to the brewery on Friday afternoon. One friend accidentally peed on himself, one friend lost half of her beer because it was so windy (it literally blew out of the glass!), and I had a near run-in with George, which would have been awkward, and not in the fun way.

4) Tractor Pulls and Apricot Fiestas? Must be hanging out in the valley.

Perhaps justice isn't dead after all. Oh wait. Yes. Yes it is.

My faith in the criminal justice system, which was rapidly withering on the vine, has just had a small infusion of hope: a jury found Ken Lay and Jeffrey Skilling guilty of lying about the finances of Enron, thus leading to financial devastation for thousands of Enron employees when the company collapsed.

Admittedly, their attorney is going to appeal the ruling, and the odds are pretty good that even if they do go to prison, it won't be for long enough and it will probably be one of those white-collar prisons with tennis courts and yoga classes (a la Martha Stewart), despite the fact that they probably did more damage and wreaked more havoc than many people locked up in real prisons.

And since they are such good friends of the current administration, there's still the possibility that GW will step in and push for some crazy act of Congress (Terri Schiavo, anyone?) to get them off the hook. Or maybe, as is his usual strategy, he'll just bypass Congress and, you know, lawfullness, altogether to get them out of trouble. Maybe the CIA and the NSA can help out with that. Or maybe there's still time for them to figure out how to blame the Enron employees for this whole mess. When in doubt, blame it on the poor people. That always works. And heck, if in the process of helping out some old drinking buddies, we can all figure out how to undermine just a little bit more of the Constitution, then so much the better, right?

Is it still considered cynicism if it's founded in reality?

Bay to Breakers

Despite the fact that this is my 4th May in the Bay Area, this was the first year that I'd participated in--or even seen-the spectacle that is the Bay to Breakers.

For those of you who are un-initiated, the Bay to Breakers technically is a 12K race that goes from the East Side of San Francisco (the bay) to the West Side (the ocean, or breakers. )Considering that 50,000 people registered for it, I'd say that probably a good 100,000 people participated. Of that number, maybe 20,000 actually attempted to run a fast time. The rest, realizing that it's San Francisco and thus a) it's hilly, b) it's kind of cold and c) there are about 5 million free-spirited anarchists all looking to dance in the streets and just generally get in the way, decided to to dress up and walked/drank it. This is the spirit which which I approached the Bay to Breakers (dressed as a scared-of-water snorkeler complete with pool floaties), as well as my friends Helen and Becky (who dressed like 80's aerobics instructors).

Here are some pictures, but seriously, they don't even begin to do justice to the zany drunkness that is the Bay to Breakers. Naked men who shouldn't have been naked, one naked woman painted red and one belly dancing, people wearing nothing but plastic wrap, approximately 200 people all wearing orange, a super old snow white with her seven dwarfs, gold aliens with anal probes (that's how they explained it to me in line buying 40's at the convenience store, anyway), about 5 sets of Noah's arc (complete with animals), the cast of Gilligan's island, about a million pirates: yeah--they were all there.



The $2 Miller High Life 40--"For on the go," as it said on the label. Quite the deal.



Snow white and her 7 dwarves


Claire tries to drink beer out of her snorkel. It leaks all over her shoulder and her pool floatie and she realizes it won't work. Then 20 minutes later, she tries again.



A trojan horse and a lot of, um, Trojans.



Becky signs the naked guy



My favorite Bay to Breakers costumes of the day: the protesters. And what were they protesting? Yeah that's right. Running.


Becky, Claire and Helen post-race and pre-food

Soul Cleaning?

I know, I know. It's been almost a month since I wrote in my blog. Is it possible that nothing bizarre or funny has happened to me in almost a month?

Proabably not.

The real issue is laziness, crossed with busy-ness. But that's a cop-out: when there's awkwardness to embrace, I'd better damn well be embracing it. And then writing about it later.

So while I get on that task, here's a little tidbit to tide everyone over:

I've now seen this kind of strange van twice in the course of a week. What made it so strange, you ask? On the side of the van was a logo, advertising "Pro-One Janitorial Services."

But on the back? On the back, it said "Ready or not, here we come. GOD. Let go, and let GOD."

Um, what?

Fun Guns: The New "It" Accessory

Miranda's 27th birthday was Saturday, and in honor of her officially beginning her "late 20's," we decided to stalk her favorite author--Anne LaMott--throughout the North Bay.

Okay, maybe "stalk" is a strong word, but we did try to visit as many of the places Anne hangs out and talks about in her books as we could. This took us to some random places (e.g. the beach adjacent to San Quentin) and some very posh places (e.g. Tiburon and Sausalito) where we amused ourselves by drinking too many Bloody Marys, eating too much salt water taffy and making fun of a lot of yuppies. ("Jennifer? Robert? Is that YOU?")

Although the day was officially coined "The Anne LaMott Tour of the Bay Area" I prefer to call it "Fun Guns Around the Bay." See for yourself.

Yuppie Fun Guns

(complete with Bloody Mary and the open shirt collar with copious chest hair.)

Happy Fun GunsCharlie's Angels Fun Guns

Tired Fun Guns

Rally Fun Guns! (Notice how Matt is aiming for the bear)

Writers Who Can't Punctuate

This is a picture of the schedule at the Make-Out Room. Writer's With Drinks? Shameful, guys. Just shameful.

An addendum. . . .

Here's the text of the Craigslist "Missed Connection" I posted last night in an effort to find Zooty, the guy who got stuck in the doors of a BART train while trying to give me his number. I actully don't have any inclination to call him, but I thought it would make for a funny "Missed Connection" anyway. The big goal is to land on the Craigslist "Best of. . . " list. (Oh, and to give credit where credit is due: the text of this craigslist post was written by my friend Erin, who enjoys ridiculousness even more than I do.)

Did you get stuck in the door of a BART train last night? - w4m - 25

---

Reply to: pers-153081605@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-04-20, 7:16PM PDT


You: tall, lanky and bruised, answers to the name of Zooty. Me: sassy crossword lover on the Richmond BART line, coming from the A's game. We shared a magical ride, but the cruel forces of the BART doors kept your number from me. Please respond, and we can make beautiful crosswords together once more.

BART

I am a magnet for off-balanced, wacky people. I am also the person that the strange, random stuff always happens to. A case in point:

I'm coming home from the A's game last night. I get on the train, plop down into a seat, and immediately zone out as I wait for the train to pull away from the station. I barely glance up as a big, tall guy sits down next to me and pulls out the newspaper crossword puzzle. After several minutes of sitting and minding my own business, this guy--with no warning, and no introduction at all--shoves the crossword puzzle at me, sticks his pen in my hand and says: "Here. You work on it." And then, almost as an afterthought, he says: "Are you any good at crossword puzzles?"

Um, yes I am good at crossword puzzles, so I started working on the puzzle. After a few moments he leans over my shoulder and begins to comment on the clues that I've answered: "Epees! I totally should have known that one!" "Oh, a knit is a stretchy fabric--I wouldn't have guessed that." Next thing I know we're working on it together, and I'm giving him shit about his dumb suggestions for answers.

Then suddenly, he says: "So, in about a minute I'm going to give you my phone number." I don't know how to respond to this, so I just start laughing. But he continues. "I won't take your number though."

When I ask him why not, he says that hasn't really been working out for him lately, so he's decided not to ask for it anymore. When I tell him I'm used to being the one who asks for numbers, he asks if I had been planning on asking for his, and I tell him I hadn't really thought about it.

"Do you have a name?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says.

"And the name is . . . . ?"

He tells me his name is Zooty, just as we get to my stop (where he is transfering to the train on the other side of the platform). As he gets onto his train, he asks "So, can I give you my number?"

I tell him sure, and he starts to write it down on the newspaper, but the pen won't work. The BART bell rings, and the automated voice announces the train is departing. Suddenly the BART train doors close. ON HIM. After a moment they re-open, and then close again. Still, ON HIM. He is still trying to scribble out a number, caught as he is with only one arm and half his body atcually on the train.

People on the train are groaning and glaring and yelling at him to get on, already. People in the station are laughing and pointing. I am hiding my face in my hands in embarassment.

The train doors open one more time, and he darts out and hands me the paper, then jumps back on BART before the doors slide closed and the train starts moving. As I move to leave the station, the women in front of me ask: "Did he just give you his phone number?" Yes. "Did you just meet him?" Oh yes. "Wow that's quite a catch!" they say. A catch? I'm not so sure, but it sure made for a damn good story. Now it's just too bad I can't actually read the phone number.

"Sweetie. . . . "

So this guy that I've been e-mailing on Match.com (but who I've never met or even spoken to on the phone) calls me tonight and leaves a message in which he calls me "sweetie" not once but TWICE.

Now, I feel like I have spent my whole life honing a public persona that discourages the use of terms of endearment. I have worked hard at crafting a slightly prickly exterior that brokers no such inclination towards monikers like "honey" or "sweetie" or "darling." I have tried to make it clear with my public facade of cynicism and crabbiness that in choosing to venture into affectionate name-calling like this, you risk being skinned alive by me. How is it possible that this very critical aspect of my persona has not made it into my online profile and into my e-banter with this guy?

What on earth would have given him the impression that I was the kind of girl who would appreciate being called "sweetie?" All I can say is: he'd better not be planning on holding my hand or doing any cuddling, because that will be the final straw. I WILL smack down on it.

Dating as the fifth circle of hell?

A friend just sent me the link to a new dating site--IPod Dater. Apparently the deal is that if you join (for free), you can download videos of people explaining why you should want to date them, and then you can contact them. I'm sort of hoping it's a joke, but I don't think it is.

So after the demise of my last relationship attempt, I find myself (unwillingly) back on Match.com. I thought I canceled my stupid subscription, but I apparently didn't, so now I feel obligated to get something out of it until my subscription expires for real in May. My heart's not really in it, though.

The proof? I have gotten ridiculously picky about who I will contact on Match. This is the danger of anonymous online profiles--it's super easy to write people off based on little tiny details that annoy you. So with no further ado, my top 10 list of Match.com profile turn-offs--if you have any of these going on in your profile, you won't be hearing from me:

1) Bad grammar. Did you say nice instead of nicely? Good when you should have said well? You're off the list.
2) Bad spelling and punctuation. I understand that this is a relatively casual mode of communication we're talking about here, but bad spelling just makes you look dumb, and who wants to date someone who can't spell "schedule"?
3) Referencing how hard it is to meet people in your profile. It just makes you look sad and desperate. You're right: it is hard to meet people, but does anyone really want to be reminded of it? I didn't think so.
4) Inappropriate Match names. Examples: NiceBunsBaby and ShutTheFuckUpandKissMe. Seriously? I'm sure those names are reeling in the dates.
5) Anyone with half naked pictures of themselves in their profile, particularly if they're obviously flexing. You're probably a cocky bastard and everyone knows that really hot guys are always more trouble than they're worth.
6) Anyone old enough to be my dad. Or uncle. This, by the way, is the vast majority of men who contact me.
7) Anyone who has to say they are funny, smart or sarcastic in order to prove it. It's the primary rule of writing, people: Show, don't tell. If I can't tell you're funny, smart or sarcastic from the rest of your profile, you're probably not as funny, smart or sarcastic as you think.
8) Anyone who calls himself a "nice guy." This means you're either a jerk who's trying to front like you're a good guy, or you're really a nice guy, and women (at least this woman) generally assume that means you're a big, wimpy pushover.
9) Men who claim to be really, really busy with work. When you tell me that you work 100 hours a week, I wonder when, exactly, you were thinking you'd have time for a relationship or even a date. Perhaps the 100 hour work week is a sign that you're not really in a place in your life where you should be dating?
10) People who start their "About Me" section with the word well. As in, "Well. . . .I'm really funny, blah blah blah." There's no real reason for me to be annoyed by this. I just am.

So with all the guys that those pet peeves eliminate, I have managed to narrow down the Match.com world to approximately. . . . two people. And both of them live too far away for me to really consider dating anyway. Oh well. At least I still have Ipod Dater.