How To Catch A Man

The mouse that has taken up residence in my house is quite the crafty little creature.  This morning I woke to find he set a trap of his own.  He knows me!  It won’t be long until this entire endeavor turns into a Rube Golberg contest, “MOUSE AGAINST MAN.”

Speaking of men, I wonder if I could catch a man with that trap?  I’ll need to secure a loan for the bait.  Yet, in order to obtain a loan, I’m going to need to catch a banker.  No bank is going to give this girl a loan.  How does one catch a banker?

On second thought, I think I’ll just go back and lay my head in that trap.

Mouse Series: Letter From Mouse

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How To Catch A Man

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Girl, You in Heap O’Trouble

Throughout my online dating career I maintained hope in finding a beautiful, funny, kind and compassionate guy with a zest for life that, at the very, least rivaled mine.   However, a far more logical and rational use of reading profile after profile, has surfaced. I’m switching careers from professional dater to writer. Keep an eye out for my first book:

“Girl, You In A Heap O’Trouble  Looking For A Man At Your Age.”

Can’t Catch A Man Or A Mouse

I had to watch 2 youTube videos to learn how to set one of those “snapper your necker” traps without amputating a finger. It took – NO lie – an hour.  There it sits. Beautifully set like a pro, might I add? The only thing missing is the tiny red carpet. It is not surprising that this mouse wrote me the following note:
Good try sweetheart, but I saw an old friend I lying around in this thing. I hadn’t seen him in a few winters.  I thought he might have moved south but, nope, it looks like he didn’t quite make it.  It was a sad surprise to find him when I moved back in here on that cold, wet day last week.  I found the poor bastard dead, and by the looks of him I’d guess 1-2 years dry. Now, I ain’t all that smart but this here sure looks like the same contraption and it smells, oddly reminiscent of him and of… peanut butter.  I’ve gone off the peanut butter. I hear it can kill you. 

The mouse was right.  An Ex-BF set that trap for me long ago.  We broke up and I didn’t have the foresight to think ahead and have him set some alimony traps for the future. Lesson learned.  Anyway, I forgot it was sitting under the couch until the scratching began.  I went to fetch it, as it was the only trap I had left over. Quite unfortunate that it was “occupied.” The sight of him was a bit distressing. He was dried stiff-and-tight between the little silver snapping bar and the wooden dock.

A pair of surgical gloves, pliers and eyes closed tight … voila! Dead mouse removed. It took some elbow grease but an hour later a freshly set, albeit, heavy used trap was placed into employment. Three days later….no mouse, just the note.

 

Train of Thought

Train 29 from Pittsburgh departure 11:59 p.m. to Chicago arrival 9:45 a.m. 

The ride could have been very romantic but it was not.  I was so cold that the temptation to spoon my 66 yr old chair neighbor, required my greatest efforts to resist.  I feared she’d wake up, try to move and find herself pinned to her chair with my legs draped over hers and my arms wrapped around her wide waist. Oh my, how she’d been a warm beast to cuddled.  The lady across the aisle tossed and turned endlessly causing a ruckus.  Again, I tried to resisted the urge to stand up, do the Curly eye-poke and a fast 5 chops to her solar plexus. She is now wide awake reading from her glaring iPad magnified to the font of 600.  I wish she was reading something interesting.  By the way, the traditionally dressed Muslims at the station were Catholics. They knew that the temperature would dropped below zero and dressed accordingly.  My eyelashes were frozen shut and I had to use the head rest napkin as a blanket for my feet. I tried like hell to fit my feet into the magazine pocket in the back of the chair in front of me but it only had enough give to fit something with width of a single defraction grading.  I didn’t bring water and everyone else has a bottle.  However, while the man behind me was sleeping I decided to take a brief stretch and do a quick sun salutation. On my forward fold, reaching for my toes, I grabbed the water bottle out of the bag he had so conveniently placed on the floor near his feet.  Inhale, sweeping arms up to the sky, with a brief pause at my lips, I chugged what turned out to be vodka. Exhale, bow back down and places the empty bottle safely back in it’s place. I’m now drunk enough to get some sleep.

On-Line Dating: A Buffet of Choices

Like the buffet, we look at all the options tempting our taste buds and put several on our plate. After all, we have the liberty to toss out anything we don’t like without penalty or concern .  It’s as simple as going back through the line and making a few new selections.   There are so many other things that look absolutely dee-lish. The buffet – so convenient and yet in the end it’s just reheated food that is terrible.

Frankly,  I’m sick of the process.  I want to bump into a guy like I did in the “old days.”  You know, where he would catch my eye or I, his. We both did the “snapback,” checking out how it all looked from behind.  I took small carefully calculated steps to prevent scaring him off.  It was like luring a deer out of the field,  hoping  to get it to ear an apple out of my hand.  Patience and endurance were critical skills.

I didn’t mind taking this time. In fact, I thought the entire process was thrilling.  I felt like a super sleuth carrying out an important covert operation. My best observational skills were employed before I’d go in for the kill.  A small bit of harmless stalking was required.  After all, I needed to find out if there were active brain cells under that gorgeous mop of hair.

A plan was created.  I began finding ways to bump into this hot, new interest of mine.  A simple rerouting of my path around the building increased my likelihood of running into him.  My mind created unnecessary or invalid excuses to pass by his office, classroom, or work area.  I began to track his comings, goings and routines.  It wasn’t  by chance that I stopped to get coffee at the same time he did.  Of course, this had to appear as if my run-in was purely a coincidence.  The last thing I wanted was to appear forward, aggressive or down right crazy.  Which, by the way, was most likely the case because all my mind could do was plot my next stalking event.

Whoever created the water cooler, “thank you!”  Water cooler talk was my first brilliant tactic.  A simple exchange of, “Hi” or some other small greeting.  A smile flashed and my first step toward marriage was made. I stifled my enthusiasm so not to come across too desperate.

The next day, I might add a comment about the weather or sports; A man’s 2 favorite topics.   After a few run-in’s, the simple greetings turned into brief conversations. Great information would be gathered during these moments, such as what he did the past weekend. BINGO, I now knew where he hung out.  Suddenly, I started hanging out there, too.  It was exciting and anticipation was built piece by tiny piece.  A perfectly implemented plan to catch a promising dare.

This natural stalking process didn’t require me to sit at a dinner table while being drilled with a thousand personal questions ensuring I would never measure up.  Now-a-days the assessment is  an interrogation.   During first dates, both parties are assessed for injury that now makes them damaged goods.  More often than not, both leave with some level of disappointment.  The selection doesn’t taste so good after all.

Oh well, back to the buffet line.

Gone Fishin’

Why is it, more often than not, a man’s dating profile includes images of him proudly holding up a fish? Is it because he wants us to believe we will never go hungry if we chose him? Are we to be impressed by his primal hunting instincts and deft bate and hook skills? Should we to be lured by his cleverness in tricking an animal with the IQ of Dory?  News Flash: You guys are marketing to the wrong audience; You’re using the wrong bait.   We don’t want to see your fish.  A fish doesn’t make you “hot” it makes you “smelly.”  You’re not Brad Pitt in  A River Runs Through It; You are  Joe Pesci in Gone Fishin’.  My response to the guy with the catfish:

Hey, nice fish but I saw a dating profile photo of this guy holding up a gift certificate to Mama’s Fish House in Maui and I’m hoping to hook him.  If he gets away, I’m considering this other guy I ran into at the check-out line in the grocery store.  Can you believe this man single handedly found the crab legs, asparagus and cheetos? He’s a keeper. I’m going to marry his ass!

The Diss From A Not-So-Shiny Knight

A Letter from a Knight.

Dear Princess,

I fear I fall short of the knight in shining armor you seek.  I think life has put a dullness on my shine and I no longer want to be the hero everyday. I think I need a hero of my own sometimes.

So yes. I have little doubt you are amazing and I am totally infatuated but I end more days feeling like I can’t keep you smiling than ending them knowing you are happy. That is the death of me.

So I content to wonder what the princess would be like to hold while I lament letting you down. It’s a conundrum I tell you.   Maybe Sunshine has the answer

A Response from a Princess

Dear Not-so-Shiny

A knight in dull armor is still a knight.  His silver plated suit may be scratched, dented or even missing entire pieces. The injury to the shield may be so deep it cuts clear down to the flesh. Under this metal layer however, is where the hero resides.

Isn’t everyone a hero?  Haven’t we all stepped up, survived, placed ourselves in some sort of physical or emotional “harms way” to protect another?   Isn’t saying all of that stuff about “falling short,” a cop-out and a dismissal?  For sure, at times it can be too hard to get up and move forward. We get tired walking the gangplank that requires careful placement of one foot ahead of the other.  It is terrifying, not to mention exhausting.  We’ve all experienced moments of inadequacy and often “fallen short” of our own expectations.

This  princess’s dress is not covered in fine lace nor accessorized with glass slippers or diamond crown.  Hell, it is more akin to cinderella’s scrubbing rags.  The dress is plaid and 5 years old. My feet are covered with flip flops. My crown is a rubber banded ponytail.  Furthermore, my undies and bra don’t match.  I could lament upon it, wishing it were different.  Today, I’ve decided it makes me more interesting. More of a surprise.  It is my own little secret that no one can see. I have piles upon piles of these little secrets under my plain armor of plaid cotton.  This mismatch doesn’t have to drag me down. However, that is not to say that I don’t occasionally  feel like burning the whole damn lot.

There have been times – many times – I’ve taken off these flip flops and donned galoshes because I needed them to trudge through my own puddle of tears or the tears of others. No one carried me across. I didn’t know if walking through the pond was right or wrong;  I just did it based upon what strength I could summon, what amount of fear I could suppress and because I needed or wanted what was on the opposite edge.

Sometimes, I had to be drug across shark infested waters because panic paralyzed me. I didn’t  believe in the form, safety or potential of what was the shore. Other times, I couldn’t walk through or around that seemingly endless body of water.

Am I still a hero? Ask anyone who knows me or of me.  I’ve stopped trains but the true measure of my heroine-ness happened after I got run over by one.  I peeled myself of the tracks to reach out to someone else who needed a bit of saving.  Mind you, I don’t look or feel the same as I did prior to the wreck.  In some ways I’m worse and in other ways, I’m better.

I often wonder when I’ll be a heroine again; The sort that saves another.  It is that very hope which has literally carried me through the past several years.  Sometimes it feels lonely and heavy not having a person to carry me across.  I tread, swim, sink and hold my breath. Swimming across will be empowering.  We all need that  feeling being something “more” to someone else, a purpose to drive us forward.

There is no doubt I have failed at being a super heroine more often than not. In most cases I’ve failed to be my own hero. Does it make me weak or strong that I went to bed and still got up but in the course of the day that is ALL I did? I’ve wondered at times if I’m a fool or a one tuff chick. Yes Michigan, my smile falters. I’m not so damn amazing. I’m not sure how I “feel to hold,” but I expect at times it might feel pretty prickly. Gotta wear garden gloves at times.

Regarding your dullness of your armor, try TARN-X and a micro-cloth.  I hear it works wonders. I hope sunshine is your answer.

 

Princess in Pa

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