Alone Again (Naturally, Fortnightly)

Dan has left for a two week trip to Europe, which means I have our new apartment all to myself. 

So check Craig'sList while I try to unload Dan's vinyl collection in his absence for some sweet deals. I'll give all the Zeppelin away for free!

Oh, I couldn't be that cruel. Though I am scared enough of the record player that Dan will return to a two-inch layer of dust on the cover - I just look at vinyl, and it scratches. 

Instead, I'm enjoying life spread-eagled on the bed, with Marvin (the Demon Cat) making a shockingly quiet foot warmer. It's time to Netflix in bed and think about cohabitation. I'm kind of scared that Dan and I won't make it to six months, that we'll have to break the lease, find a sublet, chainsaw our Ikea Kallax shelf in two for equality's sake. I know that's the risk anyone takes moving in with another person, even in a strictly platonic context. Things might not work out. Familiarity will breed contempt, and the kind of resentment that leaves one counting toilet paper purchases and floors mopped for signs of inequity.

There might be hope though. I'm happy for the extra bed real estate, but I already miss Dan. I can't wait for him to fly home and sprawl out, which makes me think we can make it. 

If not forever, then at least until our lease goes month to month. 

Moving On Up

A few things that happened since my last post:

1. Dan and I awkwardly went back and forth on the question of moving in together
2. We decided not to move in together
3. I realized most decent bachelor and 1 bedroom apartments were out of my solo price range
4. On an unrelated note: the question of moving in together was suddenly reopened
5. We decided to move in together
6. We found a place we liked
7. We got it
8. We're moving on up to Forest Hill!

Anyway, if you don't live in Toronto, Forest Hill is uptown. The homes are large, the trees are leafy, and the lawyers are busy. It's the place where a couple recently took another couple to court because, among other things, the other wife just kept on staring at their house for seconds at a time. Though it did prompt this visit from the judicial burn unit:

[24]           As I explained to Plaintiffs’ counsel at the hearing, a court cannot order the Defendants to be nice to the Plaintiffs. Litigation must focus on legal wrongs and legal rights – commodities which are in remarkably short supply in this action.

The apartment building Dan and I will be living in is likely far, far away from that part of Forest Hill. But you can never be too careful. Fortunately, I know three people fresh out of law school. And I'm sure (if they define billable hours in cookie units) I can mobilize them if someone so much as squints at my rusty bike and wheezing self. 

Domestic Thursday: A Saison and Change

Last weekend I was at Bellwoods Brewery. It was a beer event (Beer for Boobs), and beer festivals usually mean two things: I drink too much and I drink weird. There's a festival mindset that makes you pass over perfectly good pilsners and brown ales because another beer is brewed with breakfast cereal. And so, after all that sampling, I needed to go back to basics. I lurched over to the Bellwoods Bottle Shop, and bought two beers: an IPA, and the Farmhouse Classic Saison. 

The saison is definitely one of my favourite styles of beer. Usually spicy, often fruity, it's complex while remaining drinkable. This Bellwoods version isn't as spicy as some saisons, but there's something kind of grassy in the beer. As if you're really drinking it at the farm, instead of in a city where you're lucky to find an allotment garden. 

Well, that's the craft beer, but the domestic endeavour this week isn't even a craft. Which is fine by me - this past month I've found curiously little time for crafting, even knitting. Instead, I'm thinking domestic in the big picture, as in my domicile. 

Seems I'm planning to move. 

Marvin, The Best/Worst Cat in the World, will be coming with me. The chair he destroyed probably will not. 

This leaves me with two months to find a new place, which means Dan and I have about a month to awkwardly go back and forth on whether we're moving in together. One the one hand: we spend enough time together already, we may as well save on rent. On the other hand: he's allergic to my hellcat, and I like to fart without shame. Somehow, though, I don't think it will mater. Toronto's depressing rental market will just make the choice for us. 

Facebook Official

Yesterday marked exactly one year since I first met Dan, aka The Suitor. We marked this momentous occasion (the longest relationship either of us has had so far in the following ways:

1. Dan bought me flowers
2. I bought Dan a vegetable peeler
3. We had dinner at the same pub as our very first date
4. Then we played trivia, because it was our regular trivia at Dave's, so it was convenient as well as cute
5. I finally changed my Facebook status to "in a relationship"

Anyway, we placed but fourth at trivia, which I hope isn't a bleak sign that the good ship MarDan is headed for the rocks. 

The Facebook relationship update, on the other hand, was very well received. Last count: 42 likes. The interesting post on gentrification I posted hours later? Two likes! Maybe my friends just felt awkward that they were checking their Facebook in a bougie cafe that had displaced a Colombian social club. Still, there is a striking difference between how Facebook handles relationship stuff, and how it handles any other sort of life event. 

Relationships, engagements, marriages and (I guess) break ups: "life events." All other things: mere "status updates." You get a big star on the life event posts, along with a little photo montage of the parties concerned. I dodged that bullet thanks to Dan not being on Facebook, so now it just looks like I'm delusional. 

Of course, I know I haven't hit "peak like." There are at least two life events and one status update that could still top this occasion. I could:

1. Give birth
2. Get married
3. Win some sort of major, international award (debatable)

Introducing Dan

If you've been a long-time reader of my blog - that is, if you are my Mom - you'll know that I usually try and keep most of my personal life off of this blog. Not all, of course. A girl's gotta vent, and so you'll get the odd maudlin blog post or loaded list. But, today, I'll make a change.

Because I would like to tell you about Dan. Dan is a nice guy, which isn't that unusual, but he's also a nice guy who likes me - a historical anomaly. Just in the past twelve months I had a disappearing act, a casual thing who ended things for an ex, and the greatest foolishness of all - liking somebody in an open relationship too much. The reasonable conclusion was clear. If it's not them, it's you; if it wasn't my tastes, it was me.

So I wasn't in the best mental state when I first met Dan. I had decided to write to him because he reminded me a little of Aaron Rodgers in his profile photo. And even though he didn't look that much like my favourite quarterback in person, there was something likeable about him. I agreed to a second date, but that day he kept on pushing back our meeting time, and pushed it back so far that my phone died. By this point I was irritably waiting in a bar, depressed by the hummus plate, and completely unaware that he was waiting outside. In the rain. After half an hour, I left, only to run into a soggy Dan by the door. Naturally, a third date was in order, where we walked around for an hour before he neglected to invite me in to his house.

And, honestly, if he hadn't texted me to say he was foolish, I probably would have never seen him again. But he did, and I decided to see a movie at his house, and when we were both awkwardly sitting on his couch I decided that since he wasn't about to kiss me, I would kiss him. And I did. And, four months later, I am very glad I did.

My OCB Week Days 3-6: Farewell, My Liver

Since my last week turned out to be so hectic - I blame the siren call of tall ships and brunch - my week of OCB-themed posts didn't happen in a timely fashion. Instead, enjoy this digest-style edition of the week my liver died.

Day 3: To Routine
On Wednesday, OCB-stamped activities were happening all over the city, but I was sitting next to four taps only. Wednesday night is trivia night at Dave's on St Clair, where the revolving roster of my team, Vegan Summer Camp, puts in a weekly appearance. I love Dave's beyond all reason. The food's good, there's a bunch of kitsch on the walls, the servers are friendly, and Steam Whistle goes on special for trivia night. On a personal note, I have fond memories of Dave's. It's where I cemented my friendship with an old roommate by crying on his shoulder over some guy, and where I went on a first date with another boy, who hasn't made me cry on anyone's shoulder yet. It's good to have a local where you don't have to yell to talk. And there's something to be said for a weekly routine, with a reliable beer - Steam Whistle may not be as exciting as a smoked fruit beer with three kinds of hops, but it makes missing the Four Tops question go down easy.

Day 4: To Change
However, the next day I figured I should take advantage of the festivities. Black Oak (and board games) were supposedly on feature at The Only, one of my favourite east end bars. Unpopular Toronto sentiment: the west is nice, but the east is where it's at. It's less... you know... scene-tastic. There are places where you can mail a letter, and not just bars that will sell you a fourteen-dollar cocktail. Also, there was a Popeye's within walking distance of my house. Go biscuits! Anyway, I started off the night with a Black Oak brew, their marmelade saison. I thought it too fruity and a little flat, but I really liked the Cameron's Obsidian Imperial Porter I used to chase it. Cameron's makes perfect "dad" beer, bottles that are balanced and not too showy. The Obsidian is probably one of their more extreme offerings, aged in rum barrels and with strong coffee notes. It's also 9.2%, which really helped take the sting off my Ticket to Ride defeat.

Day 5: Back to the Neighbourhood
Feeling tired, broke, and possibly a little gassy, I desperately wanted to be housebound on Friday. But I still wanted to have beer. So I went local at the LCBO, and bought cans of the Kensington Brewing Company's Augusta Ale and Hockley Valley's 100 to bring over to the suitor's house. He lives mere blocks away from Kensington, so the Augusta seemed appropriate. And the presence of a new beer from the mysterious Hockley Valley, not a member of the *official* Ontario Craft Brewers, rarely spotted at a beer show, was intriguing. Hockley is uncommonly common on LCBO shelves, but not on social media, when the reverse seems to be the rule in the craft beer world. For a while I thought the brewery had actually folded, leaving a store of beer that was being slowly liquidated. Well, here's the 100 to prove me wrong. The beer isn't scoring well on Rate Beer at the moment, but either we got a good can or we've both gone insane, because the suitor and I thought it was pretty drinkable. And since he had the notion of putting curry mayo on our BLTs, I feel like he's at least on the ball.

Day 6: Finale
"I am full of food and high alcohol Indie Ale House beer. I feel great." - Me, to my brother

Action Movie Buddy Seeks Same

While casting about oh so fruitlessly on Facebook for someone - ANYONE - who would see the 80s action classic Miami Connection with me at TIFF, I came to a realization. My Toronto friends don't like action movies.

Which means I must not have any true Toronto friends at all... right? 

No, my friends are just too classy for me. Well, to solve this problem, I turned to the same place which had solved so many in the past. Or at least the place which helped me sell my old crockpot: Craigslist. In the "strictly platonic" section, I posted the following ad:

While I love all my friends dearly, these friends don't seem to love cult action movies. What? I know! Shameful. So I'm looking for people who would get as excited about screenings of They Live! and Miami Connection as I do. (Cross-posting to both genders, because ass-kicking knows no labels.)  

Since I chose the "strictly platonic" section, this naturally meant I was looking for the following type of reply:

You sound "A" OKee but the problem with you is your age. Basic data: I am single, white, born and raised in Europe, blond & blue eyed, 52 y.o.a., 5'11", clean shaven, no tattoos, no STDs, no smokes, no drugs. I am straight, "naturally dominant", mature, sane with a good sense of humour.

Oh yeah. The problem with me is my age. Instead of your age. And YOU. And oh, Craigslist. Where nothing is ever truly platonic. Not even, probably, the "for sale: rvs" section.

Bonjour Tristesse and Gin and Tonics

There's a rhythm to the radio silence on this blog. I work a job that alternates periods of intense stress and business with stretches of relative calm. Last week came from the first category - classes were back in session, and the children-who-are-our-future were banging on my door, demanding textbooks. But, for once, my job wasn't the thing weighing heaviest on my mind.

I haven't yet put Project OKCupid out of its misery, though recent events have me reaching for the shotgun. If they were hilariously awkward dates, I would write about them here in excruciating detail. Perhaps there would even be diagrams. But, instead, it's the fairly banal fact that some people* don't like me as much as I would like them to. I try to reason with myself. "Noted philosopher Bonnie Raitt wisely noted that 'I can't make you love me'," I'll say, before returning to gaze morosely out of the streetcar window. "It's not me, it's him. Or the situation. But definitely not me. I'm perfectly acceptable." But these sunny-ish thoughts fail to stop the deluge. It sucks that he doesn't want to see me again, it sucks that I can't change that, and it particularly sucks that I feel this way after just a few nights spent with the boy, because that is irrational. And I want to be a creature of reason instead of bad habits.

Oh, if I could have a feeling-ectomy I would, and have all this silliness neatly cut out of me. Unfortunately, with the current state of medicine, that's a no. And as much as I'm (again, irrationally) hurt with the fella, I'm really mad at myself. Every time this happens, I worry about my judgment. Then there's the wasted hours of reflection, which I probably could have used to write, knit or at least clean my room. The time I just spent reading the dating advice book of a friend's friend isn't helping. I feel like I'm stewing in relationship slurry. So, tomorrow: we cancel the OKCupid account, we sign up for a class, and we start drinking instead of thinking.

*Well, a particular person, but it ain't like it was the first time.

In the Cards

A few days ago, this landed in my inbox:

Subject: It's Time for Your Tarot Reading

$20 is all it takes to get a reading by UofT's renowned tarot reader. (Really! Look…Proof that I'm renowned! http://www.hrandequity.utoronto.ca/new/otc2/otcwdk.htm)

As always, 100% of the proceeds are in support of UTM's United Way campaign.

My first reaction was something along the lines of "Ah! Spammers!" Then I realized it was coming from the university listserv, at which point my reaction was something like "Ah! Foucauldian spammers!"

Once I realized it was on the level though, I was intrigued. In spite of my skeptical nature and schoolgirl crush on science, I own a tarot deck. Then again, if you were ever an awkward girl in high school, who had rented The Craft on VHS, you probably own a tarot deck too. It was the reader's endearing profile that eventually tipped me into asking for an appointment. If I couldn't spend time with a comic book-loving knitter and write the whole thing off as charitable giving, what the heck is the point of being alive? And, on that note, my life is/was a big hot mess, so maybe the cards would have the answers.

On the man front: I probably won't have a serious relationship in the next year, and I tend to focus on unattainable men. This last fact was indicated by the three of cups, which depicts a man gazing fixedly on a cup's mirage, ignoring the two decent ones at his feet. This, of course, was hardly news to me. In fact, the cup-o-vision has a name, which I won't share. I've also been neglecting my health. And the bad news didn't stop there. The cards also revealed that A FRIEND WOULD BETRAY ME. Will it be one of you? If it's not, and I get married and get in shape during the coming year, I am totally demanding a $20 refund from the United Way.

Bus Love

In the interests of my own emotional survival, I've cultivated a bus crush. If I take the bus to work at a certain time, or back eight hours later, I'll see him. Pale, bearded, probably undernourished, he'll be reading a book. I'll open mine in sympathy.

After six weeks, that's the level of intimacy we've achieved.

And I'm fine with that.

If I actually had to talk to him, and find out what he was reading, it could ruin everything. He could be gay, married, gay and married, or worst of all, be in the middle of reading a terrible book. My love is strong and true, but probably not strong enough to survive Atlas Shrugged. I would also have to confront the fact that my passion is one of convenience. Ever since I slung books at my university bookstore, I've nurtured crushes on coworkers, as a patch whenever the work, or even the paycheque, was not enough. Unfortunately, this didn't work out so well in Victoria, where I had no office options, few local options, and probably ended up fixated on a longboarder because of all that. I have a similar problem with my current job, but the Commuting Reader seems to be the solution.

I just pray he never buys a car.

In Which My Toe Gets Bitten Off in Shallow Water...

This past weekend I was in the throes of the "afternoon drunks," and decided to start an online dating profile.

It was a decision I regretted within an hour.

That was how long it took for some dude, high on male privilege and/or life, to message me an analysis of my personality based on my dating profile, ending with "How can you be more idealistic than you look if you don't even have a picture up lol" First, I didn't have time to put one up, second, I'm not very photogenic, third FUCK YOU and fourth lol, YOU ASSHOLE.

Anyway, I kept my profile up, lol, in spite of this small setback. Pinball Mike from 3030 met his current girlfriend through a dating site, and Pinball Mike is pretty great. Maybe I could meet the generic, Mr. Pibbs-version of Pinball Mike! So I felt somewhat optimistic when I got a message from another potential suitor. The hat was questionable, but at least it was clear that he had taken the time to read my profile. Before messaging him back I thought I would read it too. Bam. Married, and in an open relationship.

I will die alone.

No one will mourn my passing.

Except maybe the cats.

But all is not lost. When I texted my conclusions to my friend S, we agreed to die alone... together.

Love Hurts, And Sometimes Steals Your Tea

Even my dreams have begun to sadden me. Last night I was dreaming about meeting a guy in some sort of meet-cute situation in an apartment. For most of you, normal, happy people, the next part of the dream would have involved some sexy adventures of at least Cinemax standards. However, I dreamed I went to his apartment the next day, only to find the loose tea he had stolen from my apartment. It was all there- the Earl Grey, the genmaicha, the rooibos, the bougie green tea with the little fruity bits in it. There was a confrontation, dramatic tears were shed, doors were slammed, he admitted that he had a compulsion and I gave him the ultimatum that "I'll only see you if you get heeeeelllllp!"

It was kind of like an episode of Intervention, crossbred with a Lifetime movie of the week and sponsored by Tetley.

I woke up remembering the "green tea with the little fruity bits" detail distinctly, and the rest of the dream with some concern. Really, if my dream guy is a tea-hording klepto, and not a bare-chested English 19th century lord with suspiciously good dental work and a disdain for the social conventions of his time, my real-life prospects have got to be depressing. Which reminded me of a recent conversation I had with a friend, where I confidently promised to "work harder at, you know, that whole aspect... of life" once I found a job in Toronto and moved there.

Really, that was just a way of buying time, and even that looms oppressively in my future. My anxiety was not helped by a post on a Toronto city blog that offered a glimpse into that very future. It was about a singles event with an ugly sweater theme, held at a bar with an awkwardly long name. That kind of name is usually a good indication that it will house equally (and endearingly) awkward men, so at first I was all like "Whoah, I could get a head start on my vow!!", then was more "That bar name is actually mildly annoying" and finally: "I would likely want to burn down that bar and the be-sweatered men it contains, mostly out of misdirected self-loathing, but also because of drunkenness."

So, now that I've saved myself the trouble of finding an embroidered cat sweater at Value Village, I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't also save myself from this doomed vow. Some people are good at dating- I'm not one of them. Some people are good at learning how to be good at dating- I'm not one of those either. I don't even know how to blow dry my hair. My temporary conclusion is that, yep, I'm still planning to move to Toronto, and if nothing works out in the suitor department, that's fine. But if something does work out, that's fine too. I'll just have to remember to keep an eye on my Elf Help (organic) tea, and put out the Lipton as decoys.

Ballad of the Beardies

I have never pretended to be the luckiest girl in the world when it comes to the menfolk. The reasons for my lack of success are legion (complete lack of personal charms, still trying to find that elusive combination of unibrow and accordion-playing ability, etc.)

So, today's tale will be another tale of woe, but this time one of woeful amusement instead of woeful horror.

There's an adorable café near my house, seemingly populated at all hours by an endless array of healthy BC folks wearing scarves, Cowichan sweaters and typing on the Macs. (Full disclosure: I write this in that self-same café on a Mac, but am wearing a striped hoodie.)

A few weeks ago, I had what I thought was a torrid smile affair with a charmingly bearded chap sitting next to me on the couch. He smiled at me, I smiled at him, then briefly considered asking him about the article he was reading in the Times-Colonist.

Of course, I didn't, but I held high hopes that Beardy would reappear in the café eventually. Would we move on to complete sentences at some point? Why, no, I have my reputation to consider, after all. But he didn't! Oh, there were other beards, but they didn't belong to my Beardy.

Oh so I thought.

Eventually I realized that nearly every patron, save the mustachioed hippie with the bubble wand, is a tall, handsome white dude with some kind of fuzzy facial outgrowth. I could have seen my Beardy a thousand times AND NEVER EVEN KNOWN. And maybe I did. So, I wrote Beardy off and decided to pursue my next dream: becoming Mrs. Comic Book Store.

And then I found out that Mr. Comic Book Store is married and has a child. Stay tuned next week for another episode of "Ill-Advised Days of our Lives."

I Love My Roommates

Two Snippets of Dialog:
Protagitron: Tragedy, Iris: Richard is going back to Markham.
Iris: Who's Christian?
Protag: RICHARD.
Iris:... Who's Richard?
Protag: Sigh.

A few minutes later:
Iris: Protagitron, you're the only constant in my life.
Protag: I thought that was Mister Claws.
Iris: But he'll die before you.
Protag:... Who, Richard?
Anthony: Laughs loudly from his room.

Yes, my acquaintance Richard is leaving. If you've stuck around this blog for awhile, he was the mysterious V I mentioned way, way back, upon whom I briefly entertained before the Q shenanigans came underfoot. Somehow we eventually became friends. But he also makes me think that some personal relationships are more complicated than simple categories, and that some have, well, layers. Even if they are only complicated on one side. Look, it's like sedimentary rock: here's the respect I have for him as a person, and there's my loyalty to him as a friend, and above that is the knowledge that's all we are. And of course, there's the fact that, even as I babble to him about Neil Gaiman's current run on Batman, I can't look at him. Because I might let my attraction become less subtextual and more textual (sexual?).

Sometimes I think I would much prefer being a stock character in a movie than someone dealing with real, dull life. The editing would be better, and the soundtrack more exciting.

Just Call Me Mrs. Crazy Man

I never thought I was the marrying kind, but thanks to SnarkFest, I've finally found a man who's changed my mind. Let me introduce you to my future husband- that is, if he doesn't "iggy" me.

"If I find that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain the parts of this profile that pertain to you, I will simply state something like: "It is clear that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain what I stated in my profile, you are now iggied." Iggied means that you are put on my ignore list so that I no longer receive messages from you."

Well, I better read carefully then. Let's look at some of his qualifications:

"You cannot walk seven (7) miles non-stop averaging 1 mile per 20 minutes and without drinking or eating anything during the walk."

He'll never see the Ho-Ho's I've hid in my fanny pack! Great, on to the next one:

"As my wife, you will have no desire for a career of your own, since as my wife your career will be working side by side with me starting and running our own businesses (Yes, I’ve started and ran my own successful businesses in the past). Only my future wife and me will know the details of the businesses until they are started. All you will know now is that they will be financial in nature, they will help others financially."

Well, that doesn't sound shady at all, so I'm on board. In fact, I'm willing to transfer all of my current assets to him RIGHT NOW. I hope he can use a couple of bucks and a coupon for a free Subway cookie for his business venture. But, wait!

"I was married once, 20 plus years. I haven't kissed a girl since being divorced over three years ago."

Wait, someone divorced this peach? But, why? Who could show such a stunning lack of judgment? What could this perfect man possibly have done to warrant a divorce?

"Most women, even those ten years younger than me look older than me. I want a woman who looks younger than me."

You know, I think something's coming to me...

"Sorry, but when it comes to turning me on, light chocolate to white skin color is needed. However, there are exceptions for darker skin, but they have to be very beautiful."

Yep, I'm definitely locking in on an answer...

"I want a woman whose goal is to be praised by God with the same praise God gave Sarah, Abraham’s wife, that is, God praised her for her servant attitude and obedience to her husband even to the point that Sarah called her husband lord and master. Such a woman can scarce be found, even in the Christian community who supposedly believe the Word of God. Scarce can be found a Christian woman that even comes close to receiving the same praise from God as Sarah did."

But it's only a hypothesis... could he be a giant toolbox? Is that it?

"And generally never becomes a problem for the man to fulfill. But, as time goes on, the wife starts using her sexual favors as a tool to manipulate the man into giving her what she wants or doing what she wants. First, this shows that the wife is becoming less submissive and more disobedient. But the bottom line is, when the wife demands payment, whether in the form of things (getting her what she wants) or actions (do this or that for her), she has become a whore."

I better whore around for more evidence before I present my conclusions to the public though.

"Where the slave and wife are most similar is when they are given a command. In this instance, they are both to obey with all their heart, mind, body and soul with an enthusiastically positive attitude. They are to both obey because they love the one giving the command."

Ah, eureka! RESOLVED: CRAZY INTERNET MAN IS A GIANT DICK. QED.


Ah, the Internet. It's always like turning the rock over on humanity, you never know what's going to crawl out. Still, immersing myself in the mind of this loon made me wonder if I had my own list. If I was looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, what sort of criteria would I put on my list? And then I remembered that I had a list like that. When I was eleven. It was full of ridiculous things. He had to be tall, at least six feet, but that was mostly so I could have a minion to reach things from the high shelves at the grocery store. I wanted him, and I do not lie, "To care about the world and NEVER VOTE PC OR REFORM." It was 1998, in other words, and I underlined never twice. Oh, and he had to have dark hair and blue eyes, be "impossibly handsome," (I think I had hit the Harlequin stash then) wealthy, drive a nice car, and give me a library of my own. Then I realized that, as of Tuesday, I was twenty one. Exactly ten years older than my checklist, although you wouldn't know it, since dep owners still ask if I'm buying beer for my parents. And what has changed? I've learned that I would let all of my requirements go for some people, even when the situation was hopeless and doomed, doomed, doomed to anyone of sound mind or sobriety. And I like it better that way. At least I'm not trying to leave Harlequin cover copy.

I guess I could come up with a new list. Right now, it would read something like "Must be nice, enjoy arguments, and tip well." Smelling inoffensive is also desired but not crucial. As for the online crazy man, I don't know. I'm trying to be kind and positive, but I can't help hoping the perfect checklist girl gives him a raging case of stealth junk rot. Because they don't publish Consumer Reports for people, jackass.