This title may sound a bit odd considering I've been in two serious relationships that involved marriage discussions, but it is meant to be taken very literally. My first foray into "dating". Relationships these days are very different then they once were. They start off much less-organically these days (or much more-organically, depending on your interpretation of the the word organic). This will be nothing new to people of my generation, but may seem a bit wrong to those who are older. Here is the course of modern romance:
You meet a girl at a party, through a friend. or at a bar. After chatting for a bit, if there seems to be a connection or mutual attraction, you swap phone numbers with a vow to "do something sometime". In precisely three days, (anything less shows desperation, anything more shows an insincerity of the invitation), you send a text, asking them to come over to "watch a movie". This invitation has nothing to do with movies. The movie itself is irrelevant, but it needs to be something cool that you've seen already. The person comes over, a bottle of wine gets opened, and the movie is put in the player. If the moment seems right and the wine is consumed at a certain rate, kissing begins with the movie in the background. Depending on the quality of the kissing and the level of promiscuity, this make-out session leads to a relocation to a more private place. The movie will remain playing on the TV so if a roommate comes home, they know that there is some make-out action going on upstairs.
When you enter the bedroom, you've officially gone on the modern equivelent of "a first date". Many things can happen behind the closed doors; what happens is a function of the following equation S=(.5A+B)/P. S of course stands for sex. Sex can be defined in many ways. More on this later. A is the variable for attraction, which is measured on a scale of one to ten; this is actually the least important variable of this particular equation. It is easily overridden by the two other variables. It cannot however be ignored completely and a high enough A may result in sex. B is the booze factor. Count one for each drink consumed by each person. If a second bottle of wine is consumed, some sort of sexual interaction becomes highly likely. If B is ever above 20, sex will be attempted but will ultimately fail. You divide the product of these by the Prudishness variable (P). Prudishness is measured on a 0 to 10 scale as well. If the relative prudishness is 0, both partners are total sluts and the equation become undefined, meaning intercourse is guaranteed. A relative prudishness of 10 rarely happens; these people just go on dates. Now, after the math is done, here is generally the outcome.
If S is:
1-2 = Merely making out
2-5 = Making out without shirts
5-6 = Some sort of wandering hands
7-8 = Oral Sex
9 and over = Intercourse
These are of course approximate measures.
No matter what level of S, there is going to be some sort of talking afterwards. This is when one determins if there is compatibility for relationships. If things were fun, there is a near guarantee of a repeat, only the pretense of "watching a movie" is dropped. Based on the quality of the post-coital or really any sort of endorphin-infused conversation, the two people determine if they want to start going out. The endorphins lower the censorship of speech, so people are often very frank and will talk about spiritual/philosophical things. You are officially boyfriend/girlfriend after doing this about 3-5 times. Once you reach this point, the old definition of a first date happens.
I personally think this is a silly system that is the opposite of how things should be done. That said, I've never been on a first date with anybody that wasn't already my girlfriend. Now that I'm single again, I really would like to take a more old-fashioned approach to relationships.
So, I met a girl a few weeks ago. After a few marathon conversations at the bar, I decided that I would ask her out on a proper date, before there was any kind of kissing. I invited her to a dinner and a movie and she said yes. Great right?! No, come the day of the date, I got a text message saying she was too tired to want to do anything and we'd take a rain check (she's yet to contact me). I'm not stupid; this means that she is not interested in dating. Given the level of flirtation pre and post invitation, she seems to be stuck in the model of our generation. Since I asked her on a date before making-out or having sex, this is sign that I'm moving way too fast; this is a sign that I consider her to be my girlfriend already. What is wrong with our generation?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Our flirtation with the ficticious Tracy Fields
As some may already know, as of October 1st, our roommate Dawn will be moving on to other places, leaving us with a spare bedroom. Although the place is affordable with only three residents, they did it for the entire time I was in Australia, it becomes much more affordable with four. Finding a roommate in this current age is often difficult; fliers with dangling phone numbers are often untorn, people who are pleasant either live alone or are never allowed to leave by their roommates. In the modern age, one has to turn to the dark, unprotected venue for getting things from other people. In the modern age, one has to turn to the craigslist.
Oh, if only the craiglist was not a cesspool of scammers and murderers, whores and owners of worthless things with good PR. The craigslist does have wholesome, well-natured people, such as myself, but these are buried amongst all the crap, pretending to good.
Well, we luckily found such a good person: Tracy Fields. A kind-hearted altruistic soul who does humanitarian work with orphans. Tracy Fields, the young nurse who had just returned to her home in Mackay, Queensland in Australia only to find life in the real world not stimulating enough, so wanted to head the US to mix things up. Tracy Fields, the 5'7" occasional tennis player who doesn't drink or smoke, but is not bothered by those who do. She sounded like a perfect roommate. She sounded like the type of person with whom I could get along and share stories of my travels.
I found it odd that Tracy Fields's phone number had a land line prefix (03) but had 9 digits and was written in the phone number format we used in the United States. Landlines only have 8 digits such as (03) 45644394. I attempted to call and had no luck connecting. I found it odd again that she referred to the number as being a cell phone. Why did she say "cell phone" and not "mobile"? Well, I did refer to our "living room" as a "lounge" and our "downtown" as the "CBD" just to be nice and show off my knowledge of the lingo, she may have been doing the same. Why would she have a cell phone with an (03) prefix, not an (04) prefix like everyone else in the country? Finally, if she was from Queensland, shouldn't she have a (07) prefix and not a Victoria prefix. These things should have been warning signs, but they merely came off as odd.
She said she was from Mackay, a town where I have numerous friends and spent a total of three weeks. As a part of the package of photos of the house/pets/roommates, I inserted a photo of myself in Mackay, just for fun. She made no mention of the photo, did not ask to see if we knew mutual people, or make any comment at all about the fact I've spent so much time in her hometown. This was the first one that actually registered as suspicious.
The other tip off was her robotic use of the same email subject, "I am Interested!!". Yes, we know you are interested, you've made that clear in the prior two email's subjects as well as in the texts of the email. No "Re: I am Interested!!". No, "Contact Info". No, "Thanks". Just "I am Inerested!!" After pointing this out, Manda rationalized it for a second, then suggested we search for her on "the google"
Well, "the google" was not so rationalizing. "The google" said she was a craiglist scam. The website had her name as well as verbatim sentences from her emails. I politely told Tracy, that I "will be unable to live with you since you seem to be a fictitious person for the purpose of tenant fraud." I kindly thanked Tracy for wasting my time and made the offer to seek assistance from the law if further contact was made.
This was the scam: Apparently, there are very many people out there, from all over the world who are 5'7" don't drink or smoke, but are not bothered by people who do, and work with underprivileged orphan children. These mobs of people all would like to move to various cities around the United States and all have rich uncles that are more than willing to provide rent until they can break into the field of nursing. The clan of unrelated uncles all have the tendency of sending checks for more than the asked amounts. For some reason, they all have the ability to only notice the overpayment after sending the check (rich uncles are impulsive with their check writing). The niece, who we will hypothetically call Tracy Fields, asks people to send a check back for the difference. Of course, the rich uncle turns out to be not so rich and original check bounces. A clever scam, not too ambitious in its scope, but worth enough to spend the time on it.
The good news is that they only know my Name, email, phone, and address, all public info. I'll keep watch for any suspicious activity, but I think we dodged the bullet. Now, I have to reach back into the craigslist cesspool and find another potential roommate.
Oh, if only the craiglist was not a cesspool of scammers and murderers, whores and owners of worthless things with good PR. The craigslist does have wholesome, well-natured people, such as myself, but these are buried amongst all the crap, pretending to good.
Well, we luckily found such a good person: Tracy Fields. A kind-hearted altruistic soul who does humanitarian work with orphans. Tracy Fields, the young nurse who had just returned to her home in Mackay, Queensland in Australia only to find life in the real world not stimulating enough, so wanted to head the US to mix things up. Tracy Fields, the 5'7" occasional tennis player who doesn't drink or smoke, but is not bothered by those who do. She sounded like a perfect roommate. She sounded like the type of person with whom I could get along and share stories of my travels.
I found it odd that Tracy Fields's phone number had a land line prefix (03) but had 9 digits and was written in the phone number format we used in the United States. Landlines only have 8 digits such as (03) 45644394. I attempted to call and had no luck connecting. I found it odd again that she referred to the number as being a cell phone. Why did she say "cell phone" and not "mobile"? Well, I did refer to our "living room" as a "lounge" and our "downtown" as the "CBD" just to be nice and show off my knowledge of the lingo, she may have been doing the same. Why would she have a cell phone with an (03) prefix, not an (04) prefix like everyone else in the country? Finally, if she was from Queensland, shouldn't she have a (07) prefix and not a Victoria prefix. These things should have been warning signs, but they merely came off as odd.
She said she was from Mackay, a town where I have numerous friends and spent a total of three weeks. As a part of the package of photos of the house/pets/roommates, I inserted a photo of myself in Mackay, just for fun. She made no mention of the photo, did not ask to see if we knew mutual people, or make any comment at all about the fact I've spent so much time in her hometown. This was the first one that actually registered as suspicious.
The other tip off was her robotic use of the same email subject, "I am Interested!!". Yes, we know you are interested, you've made that clear in the prior two email's subjects as well as in the texts of the email. No "Re: I am Interested!!". No, "Contact Info". No, "Thanks". Just "I am Inerested!!" After pointing this out, Manda rationalized it for a second, then suggested we search for her on "the google"
Well, "the google" was not so rationalizing. "The google" said she was a craiglist scam. The website had her name as well as verbatim sentences from her emails. I politely told Tracy, that I "will be unable to live with you since you seem to be a fictitious person for the purpose of tenant fraud." I kindly thanked Tracy for wasting my time and made the offer to seek assistance from the law if further contact was made.
This was the scam: Apparently, there are very many people out there, from all over the world who are 5'7" don't drink or smoke, but are not bothered by people who do, and work with underprivileged orphan children. These mobs of people all would like to move to various cities around the United States and all have rich uncles that are more than willing to provide rent until they can break into the field of nursing. The clan of unrelated uncles all have the tendency of sending checks for more than the asked amounts. For some reason, they all have the ability to only notice the overpayment after sending the check (rich uncles are impulsive with their check writing). The niece, who we will hypothetically call Tracy Fields, asks people to send a check back for the difference. Of course, the rich uncle turns out to be not so rich and original check bounces. A clever scam, not too ambitious in its scope, but worth enough to spend the time on it.
The good news is that they only know my Name, email, phone, and address, all public info. I'll keep watch for any suspicious activity, but I think we dodged the bullet. Now, I have to reach back into the craigslist cesspool and find another potential roommate.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Salads
Two days ago, I was suddenly craving a salad, only a salad. I promptly headed to the kitchen, grabbed some spinach, chopped up some fresh pears from my tree in the back, threw in some raisins, fresh tomatoes, cashews, carrots, and homemade balsamic vinaigrette. I ate the salad merrily and it satisfied me. This was an automatic action and sat back, bellyful of plants and realized some startling things.
First, I craved a salad. It's not that I've ever disliked salads, they've just merely held role as an occasional supplement for something more meat-intensive. When living in the dorms, I used to eat two big spinach salads a day, nothing too fancy. Merely a giant glob of cottage cheese on top of the bed of leafy goodness. But to crave a salad for dinner, as the star of the show, that's a bit weird.
Next, I realized how rare it would be that I would even have all the ingredients for a bountiful salad on hand. Produce has always been one of those things I just don't buy. I'm typically home for dinner for only about three nights a week, so our produce just goes bad. Nobody in my house snacks on veggies. Lately, the produce has been getting eaten, I've merely thrown away a bunch of cilantro since I've been home.
Finally, and most amazingly, I was content with the salad. It wasn't a lead up to a piece of chicken or a sandwich. It tasted good, it filled me up and it was healthy. I pondered these ideas and wondered if this is one of the first symptoms of adulthood. Liking vegetables...how novel.
First, I craved a salad. It's not that I've ever disliked salads, they've just merely held role as an occasional supplement for something more meat-intensive. When living in the dorms, I used to eat two big spinach salads a day, nothing too fancy. Merely a giant glob of cottage cheese on top of the bed of leafy goodness. But to crave a salad for dinner, as the star of the show, that's a bit weird.
Next, I realized how rare it would be that I would even have all the ingredients for a bountiful salad on hand. Produce has always been one of those things I just don't buy. I'm typically home for dinner for only about three nights a week, so our produce just goes bad. Nobody in my house snacks on veggies. Lately, the produce has been getting eaten, I've merely thrown away a bunch of cilantro since I've been home.
Finally, and most amazingly, I was content with the salad. It wasn't a lead up to a piece of chicken or a sandwich. It tasted good, it filled me up and it was healthy. I pondered these ideas and wondered if this is one of the first symptoms of adulthood. Liking vegetables...how novel.
Polka and the Paradoxies of Perfection
It's September 14th and this is the best time of the year in Minnesota. After the oppressive humidity of the summer, but before the cold sets in, the air becomes just the right level of wet, just the right level of heat. It becomes as we Minnesotans describe as perfect. It is the time of year when a person can't stay inside. It is the time of year when a person can't resist the outburst, "Damn, it's a nice day!" at least three times a day.
I am sitting outside in my pocket of South Minneapolis, painting a cabinet door, drinking an IPA (the conditions are just right for this particular variety of beer), and listening to the never ending planes that fly overhead. Everyone is outside, enjoying their own form of serenity in their 20x20ft backyards. To my left, the hippies are picking the last of their harvest, passing the joints and the time behind their wall of ivy. To my right, the Mexican migrants are listening to polka and working on their trucks, drinking Modelo and chatting away in a conversation I can't understand. Occasionally, one will look up at the sky during a non-awkward conversational lapse and exclaim what can only be translated as "Damn, it's a good day!"
When lots of people are crammed into a small space, it can be seemingly hard to appreciate the peacefulness of this time of year. You can't sit alone and enjoy the stillness of September 14th in Minneapolis. We all have to enjoy it together. The polka is enhancing my evening as the smell of my jerk burgers, popping and sizzling on the grill is enhancing theirs. The city provides a different kind of serenity, the serenity of life, the serenity of people. Not having many nice days in Minnesota makes the ones we have that much better. Not having much space makes the 20x20 ft patch of grass seem like an endless pasture. All one can do it just lean back in their chair, stare at the planes flying overhead and yell over the roars and the polka with a mouth full of the sweetest corn in the world and exclaim, "Damn, it's a good day!"
I am sitting outside in my pocket of South Minneapolis, painting a cabinet door, drinking an IPA (the conditions are just right for this particular variety of beer), and listening to the never ending planes that fly overhead. Everyone is outside, enjoying their own form of serenity in their 20x20ft backyards. To my left, the hippies are picking the last of their harvest, passing the joints and the time behind their wall of ivy. To my right, the Mexican migrants are listening to polka and working on their trucks, drinking Modelo and chatting away in a conversation I can't understand. Occasionally, one will look up at the sky during a non-awkward conversational lapse and exclaim what can only be translated as "Damn, it's a good day!"
When lots of people are crammed into a small space, it can be seemingly hard to appreciate the peacefulness of this time of year. You can't sit alone and enjoy the stillness of September 14th in Minneapolis. We all have to enjoy it together. The polka is enhancing my evening as the smell of my jerk burgers, popping and sizzling on the grill is enhancing theirs. The city provides a different kind of serenity, the serenity of life, the serenity of people. Not having many nice days in Minnesota makes the ones we have that much better. Not having much space makes the 20x20 ft patch of grass seem like an endless pasture. All one can do it just lean back in their chair, stare at the planes flying overhead and yell over the roars and the polka with a mouth full of the sweetest corn in the world and exclaim, "Damn, it's a good day!"
Monday, September 7, 2009
Job Hunt
I knew that finding a job would be hard in our current financial climate. Many of my friends are either unemployed or trapped in jobs they hate because nothing better materializes. I decided that my best bet was to divorce myself from the idea of finding the job. I plan to go to Asia in about a year, so finding a career path job was not a priority. I just wanted something to pay the bills that I could potentially enjoy. In fact, I really wanted to do something that I've never done or planned to never do. So I got a generic resume together and hit the craigslist.
I tossed around being a baggage handler...which wouldn't be too bad, because I wouldn't need to spend extra time working out and I could fly places for free. I applied to be a psychiatric associate at a mental hospital, a file clerk for the Star Tribune, a reviewer of 1970's rock albums at $5 a piece, tried to pick up a commission for a film script, and applied to be a booking agent for local rock bands. I applied for about 20 or so jobs in all. Of course, it was only the food service related work that got back to me and only one materialized into an interview.
'Twas the Chatterbox pub, a local hangout in my neighborhood that is quite popular and "hip". The interview went well, especially since the district manager was the protegee of my old district manager at Cosi. We swapped Dave stories for a while and it went pretty well. I was hired a few days later. So, looks I shall be a server now, which is much more awesome than it sounds. The restaurant is really fun, encourages us to act crazy and wacky (which do the opposite is a real challenge for me), plus, I may be making more money than I was as a manager. Crazy. I'm glad it only took me a month to find a job.
I tossed around being a baggage handler...which wouldn't be too bad, because I wouldn't need to spend extra time working out and I could fly places for free. I applied to be a psychiatric associate at a mental hospital, a file clerk for the Star Tribune, a reviewer of 1970's rock albums at $5 a piece, tried to pick up a commission for a film script, and applied to be a booking agent for local rock bands. I applied for about 20 or so jobs in all. Of course, it was only the food service related work that got back to me and only one materialized into an interview.
'Twas the Chatterbox pub, a local hangout in my neighborhood that is quite popular and "hip". The interview went well, especially since the district manager was the protegee of my old district manager at Cosi. We swapped Dave stories for a while and it went pretty well. I was hired a few days later. So, looks I shall be a server now, which is much more awesome than it sounds. The restaurant is really fun, encourages us to act crazy and wacky (which do the opposite is a real challenge for me), plus, I may be making more money than I was as a manager. Crazy. I'm glad it only took me a month to find a job.
Canning Day
There is an event every year that signals the end of summer for those who've lived in small towns or on farms. It always begins around eight in the morning, when you are woken up by the sound ominous rattling and bubbling noises. Running downstairs to investigate, you get assaulted by oppressive, Vietnam humidity and the overwhelming smell of tomatoes. This day is special day for all of us known as canning day.
The previous weeks are a constant build up to this day. Mom and Dad begin thrusting tomatoes onto everyone they can find. At the same time, all of our gardening friends are throwing tomatoes at us as well, so this method rarely depletes the quantity of tomatoes in the house. I'm sure that after a few days, a single tomato may change hands about seven times, most of the time however, that very same tomato will end up back in its household of origin. "Aaron, eat some tomato slices!" I don't like raw tomatoes, but such an excuse rarely works.
"Do you know how much work goes into growing tomatoes?"
For a vegetable that is so "difficult" to grow, you'd think there would be a deficit of them. Somehow though, every cousin, aunt, friend, sibling, neighbor, coworker or random vagrant on the street seems to have bushels to give away.
So we eat tomatoes. Tomato salads, spaghetti, fresh salsa, tomato quiche, tomato cake, tomato bread...everything has tomatoes in it. Just when the giant basket of tomatoes or in our case, sink full of tomatoes is just about gone, the next wave ripens. At some point, when your BSAL (Blood Salicylic Acid Level) reaches the near deadly level of .2, when the body rejects the intake of a single squishy bite, canning day is upon us.
Canning day is a bad misnomer, there are always too many tomatoes to can in a single day. So we spend two or five days, typically over labor day weekend, boiling, peeling, chopping, seasoning, canning, sealing. The counter fills with salsas, stewed tomatoes, chopped tomatoes, marinara, pickled tomatoes, tomato chutney. We trip over lids, broken glass and slide upon pools of boiling water. When work begins the next day, all gardeners have blistered, burned fingertips.
Then the next round of tomato trading begins. Jars swap hands fifty times. Everyone has their special canned good everyone loves; everyone has their canned goods that are terrible. And everyone knows somebody who can't can anything well. This person is always the most prolific, giving canner in town.
After all the jar trading, the canned goods get packed up, brought to basement and set next to the last twenty years of canned tomatoes, where they will never be seen again until the next load is stored in a year. Nobody wants to eat tomatoes until the next year.
The previous weeks are a constant build up to this day. Mom and Dad begin thrusting tomatoes onto everyone they can find. At the same time, all of our gardening friends are throwing tomatoes at us as well, so this method rarely depletes the quantity of tomatoes in the house. I'm sure that after a few days, a single tomato may change hands about seven times, most of the time however, that very same tomato will end up back in its household of origin. "Aaron, eat some tomato slices!" I don't like raw tomatoes, but such an excuse rarely works.
"Do you know how much work goes into growing tomatoes?"
For a vegetable that is so "difficult" to grow, you'd think there would be a deficit of them. Somehow though, every cousin, aunt, friend, sibling, neighbor, coworker or random vagrant on the street seems to have bushels to give away.
So we eat tomatoes. Tomato salads, spaghetti, fresh salsa, tomato quiche, tomato cake, tomato bread...everything has tomatoes in it. Just when the giant basket of tomatoes or in our case, sink full of tomatoes is just about gone, the next wave ripens. At some point, when your BSAL (Blood Salicylic Acid Level) reaches the near deadly level of .2, when the body rejects the intake of a single squishy bite, canning day is upon us.
Canning day is a bad misnomer, there are always too many tomatoes to can in a single day. So we spend two or five days, typically over labor day weekend, boiling, peeling, chopping, seasoning, canning, sealing. The counter fills with salsas, stewed tomatoes, chopped tomatoes, marinara, pickled tomatoes, tomato chutney. We trip over lids, broken glass and slide upon pools of boiling water. When work begins the next day, all gardeners have blistered, burned fingertips.
Then the next round of tomato trading begins. Jars swap hands fifty times. Everyone has their special canned good everyone loves; everyone has their canned goods that are terrible. And everyone knows somebody who can't can anything well. This person is always the most prolific, giving canner in town.
After all the jar trading, the canned goods get packed up, brought to basement and set next to the last twenty years of canned tomatoes, where they will never be seen again until the next load is stored in a year. Nobody wants to eat tomatoes until the next year.
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