A Handful of Mixed Nuts

     Welcome to yet another crazy blog post about the Match.com men. This is my eighth entry of my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” series. The email exchanges never cease to amaze me.
     The first man up was a retired bachelor, at the upper end of my range age. His profile picture screamed Hannibal Lecter, sans straight jacket.
      “I had a dream about you last night. I couldn’t stop kissing your neck. I think it was the musk oil and your soft skin creating a sweet spot I couldn’t resist! Do you think that is a typical guy thought, or is it possible that women really are special to me? Just wondering… CyberCasanova.”
     What the ??? Typical guys do not think this way. Musk oil? Who talks about, much less dreams about, musk oil? As far as being special goes, maybe the kind of “special” that is tonight’s dinner entrée with fava beans and Chianti.
     I don’t know about you, but that was entirely too bizarre for me. There was no, “Hello.” Or even a, “Good evening.” I can not believe this guy thought that was an acceptable introductory greeting.
     I replied, “Honestly, I found it to be forward and creepy since we don’t know each other. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “I think you misinterpreted my comedic style email about a thought experiment of how men think when we see a pretty girl and react with romance laden thoughts of love and affection as if we fast forwarded through courting to a point in the relationship where friendship develops into partners.”
     Huh? A comedic thought experiment? You have got to be kidding me. I didn’t find any of it particularly funny.
     It has been said that there is a fine line between genius and insanity. This guy seemed to have crossed that line.
      “It didn’t come across as comedic. You might want to rethink your approach. Best of luck to you.”
      “We are what our genes say we are and if it’s a smiling, happy, pretty girl that lifts us to happiness to want to live another day, then the Cosmos has set forth profound physical laws and properties to help ensure the survival of our species. A gentleman knows to look but not touch unless given permission. The Devil doesn’t make us, the Cosmos does. You’re probably just another fake profiler that doesn’t know the difference between E=mc2 and their hat size. Just sayin’… CyberEinstein.”
     You’re freaking nuts! And obviously, the Cosmos is slacking big time, because you’ve survived this long.
     I loved his slam on my integrity and intelligence. I think I will refer to him as “CyberNutJob.” And the Cosmos did not make me say it, nor did the Devil. I did it all on my own without consulting my genetic code or altering the space-time continuum.

     The next bachelor did not want to take “no” for an answer. He was within my age range. However, we had nothing in common based on our profiles. Absolutely positively nothing.
     Every picture posted was shirtless. And most were old pictures. They looked like Polaroids from the ’70s. His profile and his emails were written in all capital letters. So, he was lazy on top of everything else. I apologize for the caps, but I want to give you the true essence of the exchange.
      “JULIET…LET ME BE YOUR ROMEO.”
      “We do not have enough in common. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “ROMEO NEEDS YOU…I’LL COME TO YOU….I PROMISE I’M AS GOOD AS ADVERTISED…ONLY 10 TIMES BETTER!”
      “No, thank you.”
      “ROMEO CAN’T BE ROMEO WITHOUT YOU.”
     I did not reply.
     Two days later, he sent, “I KNOW…YOU SAID NO…I DO RESPECT THAT…BUT I TRUELY BELIEVE YOU MISSED JUDGED ME.”
     No, I definitely did not. All I want to do is correct your grammar, spelling and punctuation.
      “You do not respect me because you keep contacting me. My answer is no.”
      “I DO RESPECT…BUT COULD YOU TELL ME WHY…MAYBE I’LL LEARN SOMETHING. BE NICE.”
     Oh my God! Seriously? Okay, buddy, you asked for it. And I’ll try to be as nice as possible.
      “No, you really don’t respect me because you insist on making me justify my answer. You are not my type, and I am not attracted to you. You have cats. You smoke. You want children. You have so many grammatical errors in your profile, I lost track. You indicate that you will become violent when defending loved ones. You posted shirtless pictures only. And last, but not least, you refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer. Nothing you say will cause me to change my mind. Please do not contact me again.”
     Well, you know he did. But I ignored him, and he eventually went away. Ugh!

     The next bachelor was a retired lawyer. He was well out of my age range.
      “Good looking, sometimes charming, generally well-behaved lawyer calling.”
      “You have a dog, and I am severely allergic to dogs. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “Pity. Outside of my dog we are a pretty good romantic prospect. I’m as pretty as you, and as smart, creative, sophisticated and wealthy as you’ll find in these parts. Don’t rule me out on the onset.”
     Friends, he was not as pretty as me. Not even close. God forgive me, but the way he styled his red hair made him look like a clown. Not quite Stephen King’s, It, clown, more like a circus clown.
      “My reaction to animals is anaphylactic. So I can not be around them or people who own them. Best of luck.”
      “I have a solution! No hugging, kissing, or ETC. pending the occurrence of at least one of the following:
     1) You become uncontrollably driven to hug, kiss, or etc. with me so as to suffer a bad reaction notwithstanding.
     In your freaking dreams!
     2) You become gradually (and miraculously) acclimated. (I GROW ON YOU)
     You would grow on me like a flesh-eating disease!
     3) You take a Sudafed or other effective medication. (I will pay for testing and treatment- ha ha)
     Over-the-counter meds don’t work for anaphylaxis, moron.
     4) I take a ridiculously thorough bath beforehand. (You can watch!)
     Yuck!!! I shudder at the mere thought. You could not pay me to watch.
     5) My poor dog dies.
     I pity that dog for having to put up with you.
     6) We give it a CAREFUL AND JUDICIOUS TRY.
     Oh sure, because you’re not the one risking your life. Easy for you to say, “Let’s give it a shot.” You’re not the one who could die.
     Let’s meet for coffee, sweetness, I promise you won’t get the hives!”
     Not if you were the last man on earth!
     Life with this guy would consist of one idiotic, never-ending argument after another. Talk about exhausting.
      “I am not persuaded by your arguments. Anaphylaxis is not like a regular allergy. There is no medication I can take to avoid it. I am sorry, but my answer is still no. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “I know perfectly well the effects of anaphylactic shock. It is after all, an allergic reaction, which is not unique to yourself. Changes in your physical environment could ameliorate the symptoms. In addition to physical factors, the power of the mind cannot be ignored and can produce remarkable things.”
     Sure! Let me just mentally will my throat not to close and miraculously stop myself from dying due to the lack of oxygen. Gee, why didn’t I think of that before??? If it was that easy, I would have tried it with the cowboy from a few posts back. I would not waste my newly-discovered superpowers on the likes of you.
     I did not reply because I knew he would keep arguing. He sent four more emails. I ignored each one.
     Then, a short time later, he sent the same initial email to me. But another quickly followed. It read, “Oops forgot! You’re the anti-dog screwball, never mind.”
     As I shook my head in dismay, a little voice beckoned to me. Behold! It is a jar of Nutella® calling my name. Mmm…hazelnuts – the kind of nuts a girl can truly love!

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

Girls’ Night Out

    While I was home for the holidays in Rochester, New York, I went out one evening with a few girls from high school. In our dresses and high heels, we decided to try a new, fancy little restaurant. To protect the identities of my friends, I will call them Mary, Callie and Sam.
    That night was an escape for all of us. Mary had been tending to her sick children the entire week. Callie had spent the day with a broken toilet and a less-than-pleasant plumber. Sam had just finished her twelve-hour shift at the hospital. And honestly, I was dying to get out and have some fun. Don’t get me wrong. I love spending quality holiday time with my parents. But sometimes, a girl just has to have some non-family fun!
    The perky blonde hostess, in her size zero black dress, escorted us to a dimly-lit table near the window. As we sat, Perky handed us our menus and rattled off the day’s specials.
    As she walked away, Mary muttered, “I hate her.”
    In stereo, Callie, Sam and I agreed, “We all hate her.”
    Mary sighed. “I used to be that size.”
    Sam piped in, “Mary, you’ve lost over forty pounds. You look fantastic!”
    We all agreed. Mary smiled.
    And that was the end of the negative talk. We drank, ate and laughed as the trees beyond the window sparkled with white Christmas lights.
    When the waitress asked if we wanted dessert, we held out our hands for the dessert menus. Sam and Callie decided to split a warm brownie topped with vanilla ice cream, smothered in hot fudge and whipped cream. Mary and I devilishly opted to share a crêpe filled with Nutella® and topped with chocolate sauce, Grand Marnier® and raspberries. Hold the whipped cream.
    As we waited for our desserts, I decided to visit the ladies’ room. Mary joined me, because we always go in pairs. To our surprise, it was a one-person bathroom. Although it was a new restaurant, it was retrofitted into an old building.
    Anyway…I offered to wait for Mary. She said not to bother, so I returned to the table. After a few minutes, my cell phone buzzed. It was Mary’s number. The text message read, “911!”
    I laughed, and texted, “LOL.”
    It was answered with, “NO! I really need help! NOW!!!”
    My mind raced with all of the possible female emergency scenarios, including a wet foot. Maybe she tried to flush the toilet with her shoe, and she slipped. Not knowing what type of help she needed, I grabbed my purse. If you have not seen my purse, it’s more like an overnight bag. It is stocked with all sorts of essentials. I bought the gigantic thing to carry copies of my books with me everywhere I go. But I digress…
    A line had formed. I walked to the front of the line and knocked gently on the door.
    “Mary? It’s me.”
    The door cracked open. Mary yelled, “Get in here!”
    I squeezed through the small opening and shut the door behind me. She appeared slightly disheveled. Her hair was okay, but she was perspiring. And her dress didn’t fall properly.
    “What’s wrong?”
    Mary hiked up her dress and turned away from me. She pleaded, “Help me!”
    I saw what looked like black sleek sea creature strangulating her thighs and rear end. One cheek was partially encased. The other cheek was slightly suspended by the black material bunched under it. I desperately tried not to laugh.
    She sighed. “Spanx®. I can’t move it.”
    “Do you want it up or down?”
    “Up!”
    “Okay!”
    This miracle product was bunched mid-tush. Honestly, the view wasn’t pretty. And I could not budge it.
    “I think I’m going to have to roll it down and try to yank it up with one big tug.”
    “I don’t give a damn how you do it, just do it!”
    I swear that thing was made out of indestructible, flexible steel. It was even hard to roll. I pulled down. Her underwear came along for the ride.
    “Sorry.”
    Frustrated, she pulled her underwear up.
    “Okay, Mary. I’m going to pull up on the count of three. So, suck in.”
    On three, I pulled. The top stretched and elongated, but it hardly budged. “You have got to be kidding me! How did you get this on at home?”
    Mary admitted, “John did it for me.”
    I studied the problem, hands on my hips. “I think you might need a bigger size.”
    “No! This is the perfect size!”
    “But you can’t get into it without help! This is nuts.”
    “Just help me already!”
    I zipped my mouth and unzipped my purse. I reached in and located a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
    Mary watched as I put them on. “What are you planning on doing with those?” she asked, a bit wary.
    “This thing is similar to compression stockings. They tell you to use gloves to get a better grip. I’m hoping it will work. Turn around.”
    “It’s worth a shot.”
    I shimmied the Spanx® up to just below her derriere and gathered all of the material into my gloved hands. I positioned myself with a wider stance than normal and hoisted with all of my might. I pulled so hard that Mary hopped and lost her balance. She grabbed for the sink vanity.
    I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. At first, Mary was upset. Then, she started to laugh too. And we couldn’t stop. Here we were two grown women in a ladies’ room trying to pull up a freaking pair of Spanx® and failing miserably. We laughed heartily to the point of tears.
    The Spanx® rested mid-buttocks at this point, creating a Continental Divide of sorts. Still laughing, I told her to hold on to the vanity and to brace herself. I was determined to get those Spanx® up, if it was the last thing I ever did.
    I yanked as hard as I could. Mary’s feet left the floor again, but this time, the Spanx® cleared its hurdle.
    “Oh my God! Thank you!”
    “You’re welcome! Can you breathe?”
    As she smoothed out the front, she replied, “A little.”
    “No one is going to believe this.”
    “You can’t tell anyone.”
    “I am a writer. This is too good not to tell.”
    “Oh God!”
    “Don’t worry. I won’t use your name. But this is hysterical!”
    “Glad I could provide you with writing material.”
    Mary and I checked our makeup. All of those laughing tears caused our eye makeup to smudge. After we touched ourselves up, I opened the door. We were greeted with questioning and annoyed looks by the women standing in line.
    We smiled as we walked past them and returned to our table.
    “We thought you both fell in,” Callie commented.
    Mary answered, “Nope. Just a little wardrobe malfunction.”

Copyright © 2013 by Suzanne Purewal