04 October 2010

Chick Flick

Being single in my early thirties, the most frequently asked question by people who meet me for the first time is: "why are you single?" To which I reply: "I think I'm too picky." Followed up quickly by: "what is your type, then?" in hopes to either a. "figure me out," b. play yenta or c. make polite conversation despite finding my lifestyle disgusting and against god's will. In any case . . .

Having a type definitely pigeon-holes you into a relationship you may regret in the long run. One of my friends, for the longest time only dated Asian girls and when he least expected it, a (white) girl came along and snagged his heart. So, even though I may have a "type," my friends know I am an equal opportunity dater. No: I am not desperate. I just firmly believe that if you put up restrictions and limitations (unreasonable ones), you may miss out on some good people. Case and point: Jack Sprat and his wife. Kermit and Miss Piggy. Bert and Ernie.

"Poe" was my type: Italian, 6'3, older (38 - 10 years my senior), black hair, blue eyes, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, lumberjack looking guy and a 9x5" cut sword. Swoon! But the one major problem with him was that he was a box full of corn flakes and that, my friends, made him not so Grrrreat!

"Poe" had his fair share of it. One of the things he first began to call me was "Buddy." I thought it was cute, endearing even. I mean the way he said it though was fun and youthful and straight-sounding . . . as opposed to "hey guurrl, hey!" I know you know what I'm talking about, Wendy Williams fans. He said it much like how Ernie would say "Hey Bert!" Then I introduced him to my friends and he said it . . . to me . . . to my brothers . . . to my best friend. It lost it's appeal, but I guess more importantly, it lost it's original effect on me.

Again, I can handle stupid, I can handle ignorant, I can handle rude, but for what ever reason I have a really low tolerance for corny. Corny you cannot change.

One night, as we were sitting on his couch watching Crank Yankers on DVD, he sparks up a doobie, turns to me and says:

Poe: I think we should read to each other.
DeeCue: What?
Poe: I think that sometimes, instead of fucking around, we should read to each other.
DeeCue: [chuckle] What, like the newspaper?
Poe: No, like a novel, a chapter to each other.
DeeCue: [up-turned corner of mouth, smirk-like] Really?
Poe: Never mind.

Contrived.

I thought I was just being mean, so I gave it another try. I brought "Poe" into my life, introducing him to my friends and family. Coincidentally enough, my birthday was right around the corner and thought the relaxed atmosphere would be a great way to have the rest of my nearest and dearest meet the guy. The bar I was having my party at was having a Sex in the City movie promotion where you could win tickets to the premier and be escorted to the city in a limo and onto a red carpet. Picture it: crowded (straight) bar, filled with 20-somethings - mostly females - dying to get these tickets. Every half-hour, the DJ would announce the drawing was near and to get your raffles.

Finally, the drawing. A hush in the crowd. And there is "Poe" yelling out: Chick Flick! Chick Flick!

My younger brother turns to me and says: look at that guy; what a goon.

Point of the conversation: Keep your options open.

- DeeCue

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