I’ve been seeing this commercial for farmersonly.com, which suggests to men that they “don’t have to be lonely with farmersonly.com.” Since I’m a card-carrying member of Match.com, OKCupid, eharmony and seriously considering BlackPeopleMeet.com, I’ve been giving some thought to converting to a farm girl. Below is my pro/con list:
Con’s to farm life and a farm man:
I DON’T EAT MEAT. This would mean my farmer would have to grow vegetables.
I can’t wear plaid.
Despite picking up dog poo for most of my life, certain smells cause me to dry heave for hours at a time. This could be considered rude or psychotic.
At least in movies farmers look like they are very close to their families. Conversely, I live on a rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean many miles from my family and have one sibling I don’t talk to.
I have a strict policy of not waking up before the sun does.
I can bet my life that my liberal views on politics would make my farmer want to put me out to pasture.
I often get physically injured when faced with fencing and materials that need to be hammered or sanded down.
The couple above isn’t wearing any shoes. Despite living in a state where the most common shoe is a flip-flop, I don’t like to walk on grassy areas without shoes and socks. Maybe its an occupational hazard that comes from being a pet sitter. I just know too much to walk on grass barefoot anymore. Friends don’t let friends get Leptospirosis.
Can’t help but notice the yellow labrador pictured above is clearly disinterested in this couple. If two models dressed like farmers can’t get one of the worlds most friendliest creatures to even feign a smile, than I certainly wouldn’t get along with real thing.
The gentleman pictured, while clearly good looking, appears slightly metro-sexual. I would be quite surprised if he even knew how to turn on a blender let alone large farm equipment.
I watched a show last year, which reenacts amazing rescues. There was a gentleman who fell into a silo filled with corn and he sunk like a stone. Apparently vegetables can kill.
Pro’s to farm life and a farm man:
Farm men probably have nice arms.
I’m a fan of men in Levi’s.
Well…there we have it. As desperate as I am to find my spoon, I think I can find a Levi-wearing, good-armed vegetarian who doesn’t live on a farm…I hope.
While dealing with a bit of heartache, I was thinking of the quote “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson authored this little nugget and contrary to popular belief it was never meant to refer to romance. It was the result of his best friend and classmate passing away at age 22.
Many people make the mistake of attributing this quote to Shakespeare. I can only assume the possibility exists that many broken-hearted people are walking around quoting the Lord to make themselves feel better. However, the reality is their soul is crushed and the only reason they are not taking a golf club to their significant others head is because of this misunderstood piece of wisdom.
Regardless of why Tennyson penned this quote, I actually beg to differ. I don’t believe that tis better to have loved and lost. I would consider it a treat if a man could just once leave me exactly the same way as he found me. No better, and no worse for the wear. I’m sure Tennyson would be in disbelief to learn that when a couple dissolves in this century they can each stalk each other as much as they wish, which leads to one party feeling like they have an active relationship with the other.
If I could forget that I recently had a great time, maybe the following would not occur:
Sudden bursts of diarrhea
Intense feelings of rage towards men
Additional grey hair
Binge eating which ties into the diarrhea…sorry : )
Frequent trips to the car wash where I can primal scream
Rage-full texts and e-mails sent from yours truly, which will now live in cyberspace longer than I will exist on this earth
With that said if you are male and should see me on the island of Oahu, unless you are the most emotionally available person you know, please refrain from approaching me. May God be with you if your male, a jerk and you approach me during a certain five days of the month.
Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.
To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.
My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.
Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?
My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:
Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.
One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.
So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.
Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…
I’m sorry, but if I’m considering a relationship with a horse, then more people need to read about it, hence the repost!
I believe my working with dogs has set the bar higher for me in terms of what I want in a man. I’m looking for a guy who shares the most favorable traits of a dog. Notice I said favorable, this is to rule out licking of the genitals, and rolling or eating of poop.
Perhaps what I need is a Centaur, the half-man, half-horse from Greek Mythology. There are many positives that can be gained from a relationship forged with a Centaur.
I would be able to converse with my Centaur because he’s half-man on top. He could also stay up on current events, which we could then discuss afterward. If he’s a Trump supporter, he will be shown where the barn door is.
I’m not exactly sure what’s safest for my Centaur’s tummy, but I know that I’m sure as hell not eating hay, even laced with chocolate. Going out to eat might cause a challenge because his horse ass wouldn’t fit in a chair. However, my human ass is headed in that same direction so we could commiserate.
Because he would have horse feet, I would have to learn to be a farrier. While he wouldn’t be able to farry (?) his own feet, he could still massage mine. I’m also assuming his feet wouldn’t smell, because his feet are really more cuticle than flesh.
I guess we would have to be careful not to exercise too close to eating because of the possibility of his getting bloat. This really wouldn’t present a problem for me as my horse ass doesn’t like exercise.
I can’t get away without mentioning the possible size of his bowel movements. I know what you were thinking, but wait for it. I’m 47 and can’t even admit to p**ping so thinking of the ramifications involved with my beloveds crap is terrifying. The cool thing here is that because he has arms he could let himself out and even pick up his poo. This works out well, because I have shame issues and don’t look forward to sharing a bathroom. Pretty funny to think about my shame compared to an animals whose poop could be the size of a small child.
Certainly if I can’t talk about human bodily functions, sex is off the table, but how can one not address that I could have a husband who isn’t hung like a horse, he’s a hung horse. My body can hardly accommodate the smallest speculum at my gynecologist office or a tampon slimmer than my pinky. I experience zero relief when I remember that an infant comes out of there since an infant has never come out of mine.
While I don’t anticipate meeting a Centaur on Oahu because we have limited parking, please let me know if you could think of any additional pro’s or con’s for this particular type of dating.
There’s enough traffic on Oahu, that it’s become necessary to employ radar speed signs to ensure the safety of pedestrians, drivers and dogs. The combination of construction work, resident speeders, and sun worshipping tourists have made this necessary.
I enjoy radar speed signs for a bizarre reason. There’s something profoundly satisfying to me about getting a request correct regardless of how easy it is to comply. My town wants me to drive at 35 mph, and look I can do it, I’m a genius. Someone roll-out the red carpet.
I began to fantasize about how awesome it would be if a flashing sign would present itself for every stupid decision I was about to make. When my eyes would rest on specific subject matter, a hologram would appear to show me what’s a good decision. For the sake of ease let’s assume a speed limit of 20 mph is optimal.
1) I’m at the supermarket, hungry and in need of a snack. I look at a Baby Ruth, and my hologram begins flashing the number two. I view the peanut M & M’s and the number rises to a flashing six. I half heartedly glance at the apples, and the number hits a steady 20 mph.
2) I pass my reflection in a store window and instinctively suck in my stomach until it hurts to inhale, my hologram flashes an eight. I exhale to let my gut out to it’s natural resting place and pretend to like who I see in the reflection, my hologram reads a steady twenty mph.
3) I’m wasting time on Match.com and view a profile of a guy who lives with his mom, and enjoys LARP ( Live Action Role Playing) my hologram hits a flashing four. I then look at a guy whose profile name is “LARGEGIRTHFORU” and the hologram breaks into pieces.
4) I’m watching the movie Sixteen Candles and realize at one point I was Samantha’s age, but now I’m her moms age and tears start to roll down my face. My hologram flashes a 1. I inhale and make believe my best years are yet to come and my hologram reads a steady 20 mph.
Some women like myself, just need to see the big, red flashing numbers to know what to do.
*MORE IMPORTANT, ANYONE KNOW WHAT THAT BUENO BAR IS ON UPPER LEFT? NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE.
Despite not having a savage tan or knowing how to swim, I’ve spent my entire life living on two islands. Unfortunately, neither has provided me with the skills necessary to find love. The most profound lesson I learned while living on Long Island, New York is how to speak with in one of the worlds most recognizably annoying accents.
I currently live on Oahu, Hawaii and have learned despite their being many fish in the sea many of them are bycatch. Being constantly surrounded by water not only makes me have to pee constantly, it has led me to wonder if dating in Hawaii is more difficult than on the mainland (continental United States.)
In Hawaii I’m exposed to sun almost 365 days a year, which is wonderful, but leads to interesting dating dilemmas. Barring any tropical storms there are only a few weather conditions in Hawaii where residents are advised to stay indoors.
A first date in Hawaii could take place outside, which means I’m only half-dressed. If I were dating on the East Coast there would be several months of the year that I could wear a year a medium-weight sweater, leggings, and knee-high boots. If I felt so inclined I could even wear a hat, scarf, and gloves. Activities for first dates on Oahu might include water sports like paddle boarding to a nearby island or surfing. Setting aside the fact that I don’t participate in any water activity, for me to consider showing that much skin on a first date would be physically and mentally exhausting.
First, I would have to even out my farmers tan because my fleshy upper thighs are Elmer’s glue white. Then because I have dark hair I would have to shave my bikini area, which I would have to start planning yesterday. I would need to fast for two weeks in order to flatten my stomach and if this date occurred whilst I’m on my period it might have to be postponed by nine days in which time I’ll likely lose interest. It stands to reason if I’m half-naked on a date, then my date will also be half naked. This scenario might be perfect for some women, but I prefer to avoid this if possible. It’s kind of similar to my refusal to watch a white man dance. Ideally I would like to put off both activities until I’m already attracted to a man.
Since I live in such a popular tourist destination there is a chance that even if I see a gentleman who peaks my interest he could be on vacation. While it’s true that for some women there could be no better scenario than a fling whereby one party must board a plane to return home. I don’t want to fall in like with someone only to be told his all-inclusive vacation package ends in two days.
On the positive side since he is not local, I can easily convince him that I know every cool non-touristy thing to do, eat and see, which really couldn’t be further from the truth. More times than not if a tourist asks me where my favorite beach is, I pretend I don’t speak English. People assume if you live in Hawaii you spend a lot of time at the beach. The high cost of living in Hawaii means many residents work several jobs and are just too damn tired to hang-ten.
If sunny days were my only challenge dating on an island that would be fine, but it’s not. Hawaii is composed of many ethnic groups hailing from China, Japan, the Philippines, Polynesia, Europe, and North America. Even though New York is considered a melting pot of cultures, there are many enclaves of New York City that cater to ethnicities. Whereas in Hawaii residents from entirely different cultures function as one community. I’m told I offend residents with my talking out of turn, laughing too loud, and my picky eating. Some of this is because I’m from the East Coast, some of it is unique to me, but all of it offends the many cultures that comprise Hawaii.
The fact that I don’t like island food might not seem like a consideration to take when dating someone local, but if the relationship progresses it’s sure to become a problem. Not only am I vegetarian, I won’t eat foods of a certain color, texture or shape and prefer not to eat fruits and vegetables. It’s considered extremely rude in Hawaii if you refuse a food that’s offered to you. Clearly, I can’t eat meat, but if I’m offered a salad with Shallot White Wine Vinegar dressing it will assuredly make me gag since I prefer creamy dressings.
Besides my rejecting local faire I do other things that irritate island residents. The town that I live in has been overrun with tourists since President Obama began spending his Christmas holidays here. How does increased traffic play into my notion that dating on an island could be more difficult than elsewhere? Remember this is the state that coined the term “Hang Loose.” Most Hawaii resident’s don’t flip the bird, give obscene hand gestures or honk the horn while in traffic. In fact, honking is almost illegal in Hawaii. A driver may not honk for the purpose of getting the car in front of them to move faster. Only a “toot” is allowed in order to let another driver know to be cautious of possible harm. There’s a huge chance that I wouldn’t be able to hide my road rage while in a car with a potential mate.
Could any other hindrances possibly exist to make island dating challenging for me? Of course!! If I had to guess I would say more men have tattoos on Oahu than on the mainland. Maybe it’s the vegetarian in me, but I don’t like branding of any sort. Many men on Oahu enjoy fishing or golfing as their sport of choice. When it comes to fishing I don’t enjoy watching animals struggle to get their last breath. In terms of golf I don’t have the patience to stand in the hot sun, while people are waiting behind me for their turn.
I’m a strong believer that “where ever you go there you are.” Even though it’s easy for me to see the challenges of dating on a rock located in the Pacific Ocean, I could just as easily find negatives about dating on the mainland. I took both my charming and abrasive personality traits with me to Hawaii and I experience them with people whose personalities would likely be the same regardless of where they live. I actually recall thinking I couldn’t wait until I moved from Long Island so I could meet men who are emotionally available and don’t speak funny. Now I live in Hawaii and the men still speak funny and I realize there aren’t any emotionally available men anywhere. For every man from Long Island who believes it’s acceptable to leave me alone in a dark parking there’s a man in Hawaii who will easily justify not paying for a date that he arranged. The bad news is men act the same regardless of their geography and the good news is there is life on Mars!
When you sit down at your favorite eatery does the wait staff hastily remove the extra place setting at your table? Are you single-handedly blamed for complicating the seating charts at your married friends’ parties? The outcasts of whom I’m speaking are the world’s single or unattached individuals and according to concrete data, are finally receiving the respect they deserve.
Eric Klinenberg, a sociologist specializing in culture, and author of Going Solo, states that there are more single individuals living in the United States than ever before and, as a result, singles are considered part of “the greatest social change of the last 60 years that we haven’t named or identified.” I was under the impression that I’m just another SWF (Single White Female), but I’m actually part of a cultural phenomenon. If you’re a single lady then you’re also part of this social spectacle.
I recently some took time to consider if I’m similar to other solitary individuals included in this mass. What I quickly discovered is that, despite now belonging to a group whose numbers are 124.6-million strong, I appear to be a minority within the majority. However, just like I never thought my being single would be looked at as anything other than pathetic, I refuse to believe there aren’t other women like myself in existence. Women whose versions of singlehood differ vastly from the singles Mr. Klinenberg describes.
Why is the United States teaming with singles anyway? It’s in part because today’s singles are waiting to find their soulmate before getting married, while earlier generations were pressured into marrying young. I’m in full agreement with this sentiment, but did you need to be married and divorced to realize how important destiny should be? I’m a 47-year-old virgin-to-marriage who has been looking for my soulmate since puberty. The time spent in search of my North Star breaks down to more than three decades that I’ve been walking this Earth, or at least the East Coast and Hawaii, in search of my “spoon.”
In a bizarre twist of fate the decision to avoid settling is being used against many never-been-married women. Divorced women by definition have either been loved and left or been loved and decided to leave a relationship. Regardless of who left whom, the common denominator in both scenarios is that at one point in time, a married couple supposedly loved each other. On paper it looks as if no one has ever loved me as opposed to looking as if I have a good head on my single, solitary shoulders. Instead of receiving kudos for my judgment, men view me as a loveless spinster. I’m hoping my approach to this dilemma is similar to that of other single women. I choose to employ a process known as lying. I’m not Pamela Lewis, a single individual in search of my lifetime partner in crime; I’m Pamela Lewis, a divorcee. Certainly I’m not the only single woman who has figured out a way to look a tad more loved than she is!
Mr. Klinenberg believes today’s singles are also postponing marriage due to their dedication to career goals. As a result of delaying marriage, singles are relishing the time spent alone in their man caves and lady lairs. They’re not easily convinced that giving up their old, moldy Barcalounger® for love is a worthwhile trade. Conversely, I’d be so overjoyed to find love that even if my potential mate had an overwhelming desire to hang his filthy, baseball hat collection on the wall, I wouldn’t protest. Likewise, if he wanted to display his vintage shot-glass collection, I wouldn’t take issue. My only caveat to living with a male is that he refrains from hanging any carcass on the wall that once had a mother. I can’t imagine that there aren’t single women like me who would gladly give up the stuffed animal collection they’ve had since age 13 in exchange for love.
Despite their desire to be surrounded by things that make them feel good, it’s a fallacy to assume that today’s singles are a narcissist bunch. They are gentrifying their communities, as well as attending classes and lectures. While it is mortifying to admit, I don’t do a damn thing for anybody other than myself. This is not to suggest that I don’t have empathy for others. I’m simply saying that unlike my millions of singles peers, my life is a mess and it needs 100% of my attention. There must be other single women whose heads are filled with too much anxiety about their future to consider committing to random acts of kindness. For me, to be charitable I might have to get one evening of good sleep despite the constant 3 a.m. ruminating about my lack of money, family, friends, or anyone to bury me.
My career makes it close to impossible to attend classes or lectures. No, I’m not a doctor whose surgeries take eighteen hours to perform or a defense lawyer who is up until the wee hours preparing documents for a stay of execution. I own a pet-sitting service, which is highly unpredictable. I could have a dog in my care that refuses to poop or is trying to pass a tube sock. In either event, I must be there to witness its natural conclusion.
Some may look at the word single by the dictionary definition: “the only one of something as opposed to several.” For myself, the best definition of singlehood is the one that I provide for myself. My definition of single would reflect that I’m happy, I can take care of myself, and I’m not single because I’m deficient in character or morals. My suggestion to other single women is to do the same, but make sure not to take into account the opinions of your Bubbe on your mother’s side or your Nonna on your dad’s side. If neither knows the torture of dating in this century than for this subject their opinions shouldn’t matter.
Might I also advice ignoring any media that suggests you’ll be happier when married or even that a good laxative will make you content. Even though there’s no formal name given to the state of singles now replacing the nuclear family as the current most popular domestic unit, maybe we could at least start by updating the word single to mirror something else entirely. What if we replaced the word single with the word smart? When overheard in a conversation between wait staff at a restaurant, the usage might sound like, “Ms. Lewis, the woman sitting at table 47 is smart so you may remove her extra place setting.” If your alone at a movie theatre and a party of two asks if the seat next to you is taken simply answer, “No, it’s free because a smart person knows never to share their Goobers.”