This one’s for the single straight men out there. I’m in Venice Beach, California. Home of misfits, hippies, hipsters, homeless, surfers, tourists, artists, con-artists and more singles than you can shake a handmade-hemp-stick at. (Also, stay tuned for more on this in: “The Abbott Kinney Disconnect – A Misfit’s Musings“.)
I meet a new guy friend every other day, either at the beach, espresso shop, grocery store or anywhere in between. (So far, no ladies are very friendly, though I do try and—fine—I’ve only been here two days and met one dude, so perhaps I’m exaggerating … but still.)
Everyone is looking for connection and probably love (or a temporary measure of it, which is not up my alley, so to speak). I’m here to finish editing my book (seemingly the never-never plan) and ‘find myself’ (also potentially the never-never plan).
I’d like to know how to let a guy know I’m not their type for short- or long-term love—if that’s what they’re looking for. I mean, it could just be friendship, but I need blog material. So, I thought, “What if I write a resumé of sorts?” But, since it might be presumptuous (and excessively narcissistic and egotistical) to print out and hand out, maybe I’ll hand out my business card directing all to this blog. (Just in case I manage to meet any lady friends, this blog post is mainly for gents.)
Those who are actually interested enough to read it, are not totally offended, and who still want to be my friend knowing I’m not interested in hook ups, flings, friends with benefits, or casual sex in any way, will do so without presumption. If this is you, I’m impressed you even looked me up. Thank you, I am humbled> And I apologize.
Without further adieu … my resume …
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Boring Misfit Narcissist Using Overused Descriptor Seeks Super Man (But Not Yet)
I don’t surf.
I don’t snowboard or ski or scuba dive or rock climb. I might cross-country ski and, for sure, I’ll snowshoe. (I have pink ones.) There’s a good chance I’ll tire of these; I’m kind of inconsistent that way. (Who has my snowshoes?)
I read books. Inconsistently. And I probably (definitely) can’t tell you the names of any acclaimed fiction authors, well, except Alice Munro. (She lived half time in my adulthood hometown; I’ve seen her house. I’m an ex-realtor—don’t worry, I don’t like most of them either, but I digress.) Self-help, ‘new age’ spiritual, and relationship advice are my genres of choice. God help me.
I believe in God. I got baptized in the River Jordon. Yes, in Israel. But! Don’t get all fucking prickly about that! I doubt, and I ‘sin’ and believe the Bible is a story of parables. Nonetheless, I ask, “What would Jesus do?” Not sure what Jesus would say, but I say lead with love (and a healthy dash of sarcasm and self-deprecating humour).
I write and like to think that I’m funny, or perhaps ‘peculiar’ is more apt. Now, I’m just trying too hard—forgive me. I do that, too, sometimes. At least I’m self-aware. Sort of.
I’m a mediocre cook but mostly lazy in the kitchen and throw around words like ‘organic’ and ‘healthy’ and ‘ethical’ to disguise my lack of culinary talent. I eat kale and spinach and broccoli almost every day or I don’t— …Well, anyway, I need my leafy greens.
I consider myself environmentally friendly but have been known to shelve my haughty values for a decent (if indecently not animal/earth friendly) hamburger now and then—this keeps me from getting too self-righteous. But I only buy organic (local, if possible) groceries, often from overpriced markets that support similar values (the ‘decent’ ones).
I try to stay fit and wish I could like yoga—more because yoga bodies are the most physically desirable to my vain eye—but I’m not that coordinated, and the last time I was in a yoga class, the bitter instructor pointed me out in class and told me to “do better” whereby I said “fuck you” and walked out of class leaving my good mat and bad Chi behind. (Note: that was before I became pseudo-Zen.)
I consider myself pseudo-Zen. I understand the power of now and presence, and this moment and all that crap, but sometimes I like being in my cranky sullen swollen ego, thank you very much. When I’m in that mood, I recluse. Sometimes for days. When I’m not reclusing, I love everyone. No really, everyone.
I have a well of compassion unless you’re my boyfriend. Then you must be better. I don’t know what better is, but I’ll try to help you get there, even when you don’t want to. Even when I don’t need you to.
I’m a little compulsive about trying to elevate others spiritually. Which brings me to my next feature—up to now, I have been a self-righteous hypocrite. Ouch. (Let’s be honest, I probably still am. Awareness is just that: awareness.) I like to think I’m flexible and can see all sides, but often that’s just bullshit. I swear like a trucker, sometimes. I was going to say like a “mother-f’cker” but that would have been too obvious. (My dad was a trucker. I’m a lot like my dad.)
I’m not going to go bungy-jumping or jump out of a perfectly good airplane or wake-board or water-ski or knit.
I’m not into pot or porn or pole dancing. Or any drugs. I hardly drink alcohol. Why would I? Life is pretty amazing. Even the shitty bits.
What’s not amazing to me is rap, R&B, and Top 40. (Finger-in-mouth vomiting gesture.)
I like opera. Carmina Burana is my favourite. That could be because, other than Pavarati, it’s the only name I’m familiar with or because I drove to Winnipeg, Manitoba, solo in a snow storm to watch the Royal Winnipeg Ballet perform with the Winnipeg Boys Choir and The Royal Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra. (I lived in BC, Canada, at the time but was staying sort of nearby–—2 hours north.) I also flew to Florida to see Pavarati. At the time, he was so fat and hacking that his death seemed imminent. I called my mother long distance on my cell phone so she could hear ‘Ava Maria’ live-ish. It was a terrible performance, but I’m glad I went.
I digress.
I’m not into politics (My stance: politicians are dumb and/or power hungry and/or afraid for their lives; vote with your dollar, try to survive and be kind). Nor will I amuse with knowledge of history or world events, though I will listen when you try to educate me, and I will philosophize and talk about relationships and psychology and philosophy ad nauseum, if that’s your thing and even if it isn’t. What makes people tick makes me tick (and twitch).
Most people who only know the ‘professional me’ think I’m all ball-busting business-bitchy hard. Hardly. I don’t let people see me cry, but I do cry—often enough. When someone does something genuinely giving with no claim to fame, or return favour expected, that really gets me. Or sometimes when I’m misunderstood and not liked because of that.
I am sometimes silly (yes, even goofy) and have a tactless, brass sense of humour tainted with sexual innuendo and politically incorrect quips. I’m not racist or prejudice unless you’re an asshole. (If you’re an asshole, I don’t like you. But I will still feel sorry for you. There is that compassion thing.)
I don’t watch TV and rarely watch movies. TEDtalks and Tolle TV are my on screen (laptop) entertainment media of choice. Though, I did become entranced with Under the Dome and People of Interest when I lived stayed with my mother this past summer. (Why can’t all men be like Jim Caviezel’s character, err, minus all of his qualities except the kicking ass part? Even though I don’t want a guy who fist-a-cuffs, there is something sexy about Caviezel’s character’s uber-masculine assertion. Damn that innate ‘protect me’ thing.)
If we get a dog, you’ll probably have to take care of it. But I might walk it from time to time (some restrictions apply). And none of those little ‘punters’ (that’s football talk for 3rd and 10 kick – no, I’m not into football.) I may seem more like a cat person: selfish, aloof and independent, but vulnerability quivers in my dermis.
I’d have kids but only if I didn’t have to work too hard, as in harder than I’m working now—which is not very hard—for additional income. It’s not on my priority list so it’s not worth it to me to add mouth(s) to feed unless you’re paying for them. Unless, of course, my passion eventually provides profits—we both know the likelihood of livelihood there. (The kids would be smothered in affection, though.) By the way, though these eggs have a shelf life, my doctor did say I have fabulous fallopians and the ovaries of a 20-year old.
I’m not a 20-year old or anywhere near it. I’m an old soul with a mentally mature mind. If you’re into getting into twenty-somethings, we’re not on the same page for dating, but I’ll gladly listen to stories and be your no-benefits friend, and maybe wing-woman.
My feet are cold 10 months of the year regardless of geographical location on the planet, and I will put them on you.
I drool on my pillow and have bad breath in the morning. I’ll do my best to protect you from all that nastiness, but I am real.
Are you still here?
At this point, you’ll have to pass a psychiatric test because clearly you’re ill. If you’ve managed to get this far, you’re perhaps painfully curious how bad this chick gets. You’ll be relieved to know (or maybe you don’t give a shit) that I have a few redeeming qualities (not to say these will redeem me all the way out of this bitch abyss) …
I love the forest and like to hike and bike (as in bicycle, but nothing extreme). I’m loyal and nurturing (if picking and plucking count) and generous but fair, which means I’ll help someone as long as he’s helping himself.
I have good Hi Jean! (Unless, I’m writing/reclusing.)
I’m fit and relatively (subjective) attractive. I’ve had a little ‘help’ getting here, but it’s not obvious. If you have a six-pack, you’re disqualified. I’m vain, but you’re not allowed to be. But I’ll save the dealbreakers/dealmakers for another post.
I’m pretty good in the sack (I’d say, ‘ask my references’ but maybe that’s crass) and enjoy fornicating regularly. (Or is it often? I guess that’s relative, let’s say five to seven times a week will work out nicely, though quality trumps quantity.)
I take naps and like cuddling—yes, this is on the good qualities list. Wait for it—I don’t mind if cuddling leads to sex.
Speaking of sex, I believe a woman should not hold out on sex because she’s angry or manipulating. Hug it out, resume fighting (err, constructive discussion) later. Ah, but same goes for the gentleman. (My philosophy on this: If you’re in a relationship with an asshole—don’t hold out, get out.)
I believe in keeping nether parts trimmed and tidy, but baby-butt-bald doesn’t work for me. On me or on you. TMI?
I have no filter (clearly) and have really loose communication boundaries. I usually skip small talk and go for the deep (read: inappropriate for early conversation) stuff. You never have to wonder what I’m thinking or what I want. Wait, is this a redeeming quality?
Well, in that case, I’ll throw this in: I’m divorced, and I believe in marriage. Put a ring on it. (No bling, though. That’s too look-at-me.) Marriage makes no sense, but I liked it.
I have learned to live simply and like it. I have no need of things. The basics are fine: food (organic), shelter (modest), experiences (life). I enjoy clothes and fashion but am not obsessed and am more than okay wearing yesteryears best looks. In fact, I don’t buy new (anything) anymore—there’s enough manufacturing contaminating our planet. (For the right guy, this is a plus.)
I do like to dress up and put make-up on and look western-society-sexy and go out once in a while—or stay in *wink*. Perhaps a play or a jazzy lounge. I have a hundred dresses. (Take that, bra-burners.) Most second-hand. (Redemption.)
Aside from a jazzy lounge, or similar facsimile, I’m generally shy and prefer to avoid crowds or loud places, unless observing from a(n emotionally safe) distance. I’m not a joiner and fear rejection.
I’m not rich, but I live within my means. I like to travel, but a road trip will do if that’s all we can afford, “Let’s check out the town next door. Why not!”
I’ll go camping if you build the fire, but I’m a fair-weather fairer sex—warm weather only, please. Women’s lib can kiss my fanny … Open my damn door for me. There’s that political incorrectness I warned you about.
I’m portable. That is—if I like where you live.
I’ll rub your back and your feet, stroke your hair and kiss your neck, and not only when you let me put my cold feet on you.
As mentioned earlier, I believe in God, but I’m not a Bible-thumper. I consider myself spiritual but make fun of religion, because laughing at it is easier on my adrenals than I-want-to-hit-you-hard. I pray. I also meditate but suck at it.
I have been told that I have a big heart, but that comes from friends. My sister gets that crown in my family. My family thinks I’m shameless. I say shame on shame.
I believe love, compassion and acceptance is the answer for everything, and I will try to reduce every debate down to that formula. I’m human and sometimes forget this mantra but repent quickly and forgive easily. That’s not to say I don’t believe in law and order and accountability, but I think we can have both, yes, even at the same time. I’m an idealistic realist and a forever woman-child.
I’m real.
Bare with me.
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What I’m looking for:
A man who can put up with the above. That is all. (Fib.)
Note1: OCD requires me to add 7 items to my spreadsheet. (Currently it’s at 93 must-have qualities.)
Note2: Update: Since writing this, I have now been in Venice Beach, CA, for eight days and have met several single men (I think the tally is nine by my count) refer to homework #2… Also, I started a yoga class. If a tree-pose falls in the class does anyone hear it? (In class, falling over, “Ahhh, shit!”) Answer: yes, yes they did.
What have I (re)learned?
I may be single forever, but I do have real friends who know this me and love this me, and I love this me (non-narcissistically) so all is well. Observe, embrace, accept. (Plus the love thing.)
Homework:
Cat allergy medication.
I will def definitely write a dealbreaker/dealmaker list for boys (just for shits and giggles). The first thing on it: humble, people – please! I don’t care how rich and / or famous you are / or think you are. Hashtag: turnoff!
