Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Back in the saddle again....

I'm still alive, everyone. You can stop worrying now. Because I know your lives clearly revolve around whether or not I post here. What can I say? I'm a giver.

My computer was infected by the creeping crud. My McAfee virus protection expired, and I didn't have the money to renew it, so I continued to surf the net without virus protection. Yeah, that was a bad idea. Viruses ABOUND. My brother the tech-guy had to reformat my whole darn computer because it was riddled with so much ad-ware, spy-ware, ass-ware, or whatever other malicious code was slapped on it. Who are these unemployed 40 year old tech goobers that sit in their parents' basement all day creating this stuff to infect the rest of us? No, I'm really asking, WHO ARE THEY?? I was without a computer for that whole week and weekend while he was fixing it. HELL ON EARTH.

This whole experience has made me realize I have a small addiction to blog reading, myspace, email, and the internet in general. Oh well! I've got to give my public what they want...a new blog! But apparently, my last couple entries were a bit too "racially charged" for some readers. Can I tell you how much I upset some of my hispanic readers (aka Ro and her whole posse she alerted) with my entry on Walter Mercado? By the way, I stand by my comparison of him to Richard Simmons...endeared by many, but a total freakshow nonetheless. Hey people, I could have compared him to Miss Cleo, but he's more entertaining than that Jamaican crackpot. Let's just hope the Korean contingency doesn't defect because of the Kim Jong Il puppet video entry (which has since been removed by YouTube...eff.), or my readership will be severely damaged. So I've decided to take today's post in the direction this blog was originally intended to talk about...dating.

My match.com subscription expires on April 7. Based on the yahoos I've met so far, for that reason (and monetary reasons also), I probably won't renew it. But I figure I've paid for it until then, so I'm mustering up the energy to make a final effort while I have this resource at my disposal. I've dusted off my copy of the Four Man Plan, and I'm back in the saddle again (hence the title of today's post). I'm now talking to a few different guys on Match right now, and a couple of them even have my phone number. So I may have some actual stories to share in the coming week or so. However, I do have a little diddy from my Easter weekend for you all now.

My first altercation comes not from someone I met from Match, but rather someone I met while at church over Easter weekend. Every year, our choir director hires some brass players for our Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday services. Normally, a prerequisite for these guys is that they're at the age of retirement, with wrinkles and saggy earlobes being the order of the day. But there was one shining exception playing the trombone just a few feet away from where I sat...and he looked EXACTLY like Chandler Bing. I know the actor's real name is Matthew Perry, but I don't know Matthew Perry. However, I know Chandler Bing like the back of my hand. So M.P. will always be Chandler Bing to me. Deal. Back to real life trombone-Chandler...he was the kind of cute that I couldn't help but steal glances of...it's like I didn't have a choice. I HAD to look at him. Again. And again. I felt like I was in high school, and was staring at the cute football players, hoping they'd notice me. Only high school was replaced by a choir loft in La Canada, and the football players were replaced with a choir and a bunch of white geriatric horn players. And Chandler Bing.

After Easter Vigil on Saturday night(which was THREE hours long), I decided that I would give him my number after Mass on Easter Sunday. That way, if I got shot down, I wouldn't have to deal with the humiliation while sitting across from him for a whole Mass. But in the world of dating (and life, for that matter), things only seem to happen for me if I put myself out there and take the risk, so I had to do it. I went home that night and neatly wrote a short note with my phone number addressed to "Trombone-Man", and stuck it in my purse for my Easter morning mission.

Sunday morning, I got up and got ready for church. I'm not going to deny that I spent some extra time getting ready and getting cute, but I had a good excuse...it was Easter, so of COURSE I wanted to look nice for Jesus. DER. All morning, I rehearsed what I'd say to him, "Hi. I'm Jen...you guys played great this morning. I hope I'm not being too forward, but I was wondering if I could give you my phone number." BAM...easy enough. If I got a yes, I'd hand over the paper with my number, and hope a conversation continued. If it was a no, I'd reply with a "Thought I'd try, thanks", and be done with it. I knew I had a high chance of a no, judging from my observations of him. He was handsome, clean cut, well-dressed...why wouldn't he be snatched up already? Taking these factors into account, I'd estimated there was at least an 80% chance of him being taken or gay, so I knew the odds were against me. But I had to find out, just in case he'd just been callously dumped the previous week, giving me a window of opportunity. After church, I waited out front wearing my sunglasses, so I could hang near a couple friends and look occupied, but still be able to stealthily scope him out when he left. Right on cue, he left the church, on his way to the parking lot. I weaved my way over to him, and promptly forgot everything I wanted to say, and I didn't even have my carefully written piece of paper in my hand. Then I blurted out, "Excuse me, um, would you mind if I gave you my phone number?" When he hesitated, I added, "I mean, if you're not already taken or anything." Just REAL smooth on my part. He smiled, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry, I AM taken. But I'm really flattered. Thanks." At least he was sweet about it, and didn't laugh at me or vomit. BONUS! I then said something lame about cute trombone players being hard to find, wished him a happy Easter, and I PEACED THE HELL OUT OF THERE AS FAST AS I COULD. Never asked his name, and I forgot to give him my name when I decided to bombard the poor guy. Classy, Jen.

Gentlemen, I don't know how you deal with being shot down by ladies. Seriously, I'm glad it's the guy that normally asks the girl out. I left church feeling dejected, humiliated, embarrassed, etc...all your typical adjectives. I wanted to cry, but I wasn't sure why...it's not like I knew the guy or had any emotional investment of any more than 3 hours in him. I suppose it's a knee jerk reaction to the embarrassment, the endless string of rejection, the disappointment of another guy I liked being taken, blah blah blah. But at least I did it...there's nothing worse than chickening out, and wondering what might have happened if I had. At least I know. So I'm keeping the faith. The One is out there somewhere, maybe he just plays the contra bassoon instead of the trombone. And if you can't have faith on Easter, when can you?

Thanks for the kindness, Chandler Bing. Now go break up with that ho you're dating, and come back to La Canada for the choir girl that didn't even have the consideration of giving you her name.

SIDE NOTE: One of my co-workers turned me on to this blog called "Stuff White People Like". It's a running list/blurb of all the things in life that are ridiculously 'white' things to enjoy. This is not to be confused with a list of things klan members or rednecks like...that would be an entirely different list altogether, and Jeff Foxworthy has exhausted the redneck thing PLENTY. This is about your run-of-the-mill middle class whitey. It's good stuff. This guy/gal has us totally pegged. I've added it to my favorite blogs list on the right, if you'd like to check it out. Oddly enough, the co-worker that led me to this blog is Armenian. Thanks, VB.


Ash said...

Jen don't you know McAfee sucks!


its all about avg and ad-aware.


Kelly said...

Oh Yen, that trombone player is CLEARLY cirque-du-so-LAME. You sure have bigger balls than I have, I'll tell you that much. I WISH I had your balls. Balls, balls, balls.