Juliette Miranda

It seems to me that baseball is something of a missed-opportunity sport. Really, any game that involves a heavy bat should include hitting more than just a ball. I get the whole “national pastime” aspect of baseball, but as I sat, shivering and trying desperately to flag down the beer guy at last night’s Cubs game, I couldn’t help but think what a difference some bloodshed would make to liven up the game. Barring that, a few scantily-clad women sashaying across the field wouldn’t hurt. Baseball must be the least rock n roll sport on the planet.

Not that I actually understand the logistics of it, of course. I’m sure baseball would be far more fascinating if I knew why it wasn’t appropriate for me to yell “DEFENSE!” in the middle of an inning. Still, there is an amusing cultural aspect to attending a game, which more than makes up for the lack of chair-gripping excitement.

Chicago itself has a lot to do with it. The crumbling “confines” of Wrigley Field are steeped in as much heritage as they are peanut shells, spilled beer, and pee. But even a heartless neophyte like myself can’t help but feel a small thrill walking in the gates: Wrigley Field is just such an iconic Chicago site, going there is one of the few things that makes me happy I live here.

Although I suppose that point is debatable depending on whom you ask. This town is spitefully divided between “North” and “South”-siders who will defend their turf and accompanying team more fiercely than street thugs and hookers. With parents from the south side, friends on the north side, and my personal home in the suburbs, my loyalty is typically to wherever I happen to be standing.

But of the group of friends I was with last night, one happened to be a die-hard White Sox fan. Had our tickets not been of the “VIP” variety and comped through a work connection, I’m certain he would have been less inclined to deign to walk through Wrigley’s hallowed gates.

His derision did make for some confusing moments for me, however. As I struggled to understand complex phrases like “bases loaded” and cheer at appropriate times, he took to applauding the opposing team. Not helpful for the chick who had to be told that hitting the guy at bat with the ball is actually a bad thing. (I think.)

In the end I wound up cheering for everything, which, with good company and a few beers, is an easy thing to do. What I lack in knowledge I do make up for in enthusiasm, even if my friends wouldn’t let me flash the players.

Maybe when the weather gets warmer.

A problem that wasn’t on my SATs: Consider all the men in the world. Now, narrow that population down to only include eminently datable men: the ones who are available; not on parole; intelligent; creative; reasonably attractive; and not prone to violent outbursts, obsessive jealousy, or fanatical fascination with sports teams or supermodels/porn stars/underage pop tarts. From that group, narrow it down to only include men who would be both interested in and capable of dating me (the key word being “capable”). Finally, from that remaining group, narrow it down to only include men I would be interested in being with. How many men are left standing?

I got -472 the last time I attempted to solve the equation, but my math has always been a bit sketchy. Still, I’ve posed this problem to several friends and received similar answers. Hope is certainly the last thing that comes to my mind at this point.

It’s not that I’m so furiously interested in dating, but I admit I am somewhat dreading my future. As a (married) friend pointed out recently, despite all comfort in being independent and alone, it is still exhausting to be single.

The worst part is all the discussion and explanation. My arithmetic problem has become my standard answer to the dreaded, “So, why aren’t you seeing anyone? You’re a smart, attractive woman.” It’s a better answer than what I’d like to say: “Funny, I was just wondering how on earth you’re NOT single, but had the grace to keep it to myself.”

Frankly, the fact that I am smart and attractive essentially kills my odds anyway. If I’m not fending off jerks who consider catcalls and expletive-laced e-mails an appropriate form of courtship, then I’m wasting my breath trying to convince “geeks” that they aren’t as out of my league as they think.

Then, when I actually do plan an outing with a man who doesn’t offend my lofty sensibilities and who has a moderate grasp of Emily Post’s common courtesies, something invariably trips me up. Like the fact that his ambition (which initially seemed so attractive) rules his life and requires six-month advance planning for future outings. Or that he’s so wracked with issues from his divorce that he winds up fetal before the night is over.

It’s bad enough having to contend with these issues while on the date; having to relate them to well-intentioned questioning friends and family after the fact is even more painful. More often than not I tend to just not tell people when I go out anymore. Still, even I succumb to stupidity from time to time and recently let slip to my father that I had made plans with a guy one weekend.

“Well, that’s great news!” he said. “Let me get your mother on the phone.”

Since he ignored my shrill screams of, “Please god, nooooooo,” I was forced to hang up the phone before she could pick up and e-mail him later to say my phone had been disconnected, indefinitely. The last thing I needed was to spend five hours answering questions like, “What does he do?” and “Another musician? Why can’t you find a nice guy?”

It didn’t matter. I had said too much already, and my father spent the next week excitedly spreading the word to my entire family that I had “found a new man.” Predictably, the date was a bust and I then had to divert the swell of “whys” to my blog.

If this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, there is a good chance I may fall victim to the crazy cat lady syndrome. When the only thing that seems to add up in my personal life is my misanthropy, is there really any other option?

Reason #34: Chocolate Dipped Mocha Swirls

I went out drinking the other night. It was the good kind of drinking, the kind that involves fishbowls of tequila, good cheer, and satisfaction in knowing you’ve managed to stave off therapy for another month.

Actually, it’s possible my “get out of therapy” card may have had its expiration date extended. Having recently quit an exceptionally draining and thankless job in favor of a welcoming and challenging new one, I have to admit I’ve been feeling rather pleased with myself. (My resignation, I’m sure, landed with a thud on my manager’s desk. Few sounds are more satisfying, particularly when they announce a well-deserved, giant step up the career ladder that did not come at the expense of my soul.)
Though completely unoriginal, it is still nevertheless fitting to draw the comparison between job hunting and dating. In either case, the end goal is the same: to find a good match. My recent good job score is fortunate considering my miserable state when it comes to dating. Had one not given the inch I desperately needed, I’d likely be accepting Get Well Soon cards with rounded corners at the local padded cell right now.
My friends T and Blue have been unfailingly supportive these past few months as I’ve hovered somewhere short of okay. What may not be entirely obvious is that for as brutal as I am on people in general, I’m even more brutal on myself. Being an egoist is not as easy as one might think.
Still, a new job and a few choice words from friends can do a lot to shift perspective. In a recent email exchange with T and Blue, T wrote:
“J, you’re a great catch. You’re independent. You’re fine as hell. You have a signature style. You even make tube socks sexy!!! I never heard of such a thing! You throw down in the kitchen. You’re a lady in the streets & a freak (and u know it) in the sheets (takes one to know one)! But it’s obvious there is a deeper side to you. A side that most guys can’t compete with. Can’t control. Can’t manage or be equally as engaging.”
Can’t argue with that. And why should I? If I put my baggage to the side, it’s a relief to finally be able to smack my hands on the table and proclaim that I do, in fact, rock.
And since my hands are free for the moment, I may as well take this opportunity to offer the:
Top 33 Reasons Why I Rock
1. This damn blog.
2. I am heartbeat away from being a professional pastry chef.
3. … and can cook a killer dinner, too.
4. My skirts come in two lengths: short and dishcloth.
5. I will always drink you under the table.
6. …and still be able to walk upright.
7. …even in heels.
8. Once is never enough. Particularly first thing in the morning.
9. There is always food in my fridge, extra pillows on my bed, and Playboy on my coffee table.
10. Anything involving Meg Ryan or Rachel Ray is banned from my home.
11. I once got on stage during an open mic night and belted out “Home Sweet Home”, a song that no one, and especially not Vince Neil, can sing on key.
12. … and took a bow afterward.
13. If there is ever anything you need, from late night conversation to help moving a piano, I’m there.
14. I always return shopping carts to the store rather than letting them drift around a parking lot.
15. I use a Mac.
16. With little prompting, I can talk for hours about the genius of Three Dog Night, Don Mclean’s “American Pie”, and Michael Nesmith.
17. …as well as quote extensively from House of 1000 Corpses, Big Trouble in Little China, and The Muppet Movie.
18. The bigger the screen, the happier I am.
19. I love you for who you are.
20. Yoga makes me very bendy.
21. I have never had a one-night stand.
22. Sex and the City is not my source for fashion tips, relationship advice, or lifestyle justification.
23. …but Almost Famous is.
24. I deliberately failed Music Appreciation in college to protest the instructor’s complete lack of music knowledge.
25. …and still graduated cum laude.
26. My hair is spectacular.
27. I always know what I want and like.
28. …which means you will never have to ask me, “What do you want to do?”, “Will you be in that store long?”, or “Is this okay?”.
29. Although I cannot whistle, I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue.
30. Listening is one of my stronger skills.
31. I can go to Disney World and still have musicians hit on me.

32. I trick or treated every year up through my senior year of college.
33. I know when to shut the hell up.

Life right now is not without its perks.

Few things are hotter than bowling shoes and knee socks.

(Perhaps this is Reason #34.)

I chase my bitterness with wine tonight. One goes down easier than the other, and I imagine the clouds in the horizon are mountains. It’s going to take more than wine to get me to tell the truth, though it rises in the back of my throat like the lyrics of my favorite song.

My lips press together. The softness can hardly hold back my relentless craving for the familiar. It’s a bittersweet contradiction that the thing I’ve said I don’t want is the only thing I can think of. Though nothing ever comes of such morbid romanticism, I can’t help but pick at it, click on it, try to force my way through stories I’ve already read.

The colors and the flavors and the sounds are now no more than a hand held up, a gesture of encompassing acknowledgment that does little to sway my conflict. If anyone understands this, it would be you.

More seems to happen when I’m not consciously looking. My mornings start when I find it; my days end when it vanishes. The minutes in between are what keep me awake.

Were my resolution less a tangible force, I’d be more inclined to dim the lights and ease into acceptance. Or maybe I’d actually speak the words I really mean, I can’t quite be sure. Pride, ego, fear, and consideration make a strong filter for the division between mind and heart and provide a convenient cover story.

Still I stand behind it all. There’s safety in pain, a lustful satisfaction that masquerades as comfort. I’m certain you know what I mean.

Something always breaks in the end. If it’s me, and with my scratched surface and itching arms it may very well be, I will tell the truth.

Salvation or my ultimate ruin is only a few words away.

Having recently waded back into the dating pool with the kind of unfortunate results that make becoming a Buddhist monk in Tibet seem a more appealing option, I’m forced to consider that maybe I’m just not the kind of person who will ever find a decent match.

I’m certainly more accommodating than any girl in her right mind should be when it comes to relationships, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. My first inclination was to blame the guys: really, what kind of fool would leave a girl who will happily swallow (pun intended) whatever comes her way?

But then, after a few glasses of wine, it all became clear. I’m the freak. I’m the one who keeps a lifesize cardboard cutout of Jon Bon Jovi in a closet; I’m the one who refuses to install cable; I’m obviously the one who is scaring everyone away.

The Guy In That Band You Know confirmed my suspicion when he explained that I was too smart for him. Not that he likes his girls dumb, he added quickly. Of course not.

I stopped listening to him at that point, I was too consumed by the obscene number of things that are obviously wrong with me. It’s too late to change I’m afraid, so I instead embrace the:

Top 33 Reasons Why I Will Be Single FOREVER

1. This damn blog.

2. I know how to make chloroform at home.

3. My idea of a fun night in involves a bottle of whiskey, either of the Hostel movies, and a heated game of Scrabble.

4. I have a consuming, detrimental need to be with a musician.

5. …and consequently have such rigid opinions about music it’s futile to expect me to listen to anything that wasn’t released circa 1965-1989.

6. In fact, I rarely talk to anyone who wasn’t in a band circa 1965-1989 or isn’t currently in a band that sounds like it’s from that period.

7. Whole Foods is the only place I will grocery shop.

8. What’s left of my paycheck after grocery shopping is earmarked for use to add to my obsessive collection of panties and tube socks.

9. The only thing that rivals my amassment of lingerie is my horror movie library.

10. I require yearly trips to Disney World.

11. I will favor my cat over your allergies every time.

12. Charles Bukowski is the king of my literary fantasies.

13. Steve Holmes is the king of my sexual fantasies, except when trumped by Lexis, my favorite stripper.

14. Events such as my birthday, career promotions and relationship endings are always marked with a trip to the local gentleman’s club.

15. …where they know my name, table preference, and the fact that I have a small mole on my right breast.

16. … and I often make more money than I spend.

17. Misused apostrophes and quotation marks are inexcusable to me.

18. I know how to say the “I” in “I love you.”

19. I consider selfishness to be a virtue in others as well as myself.

20. My misanthropy has yet to be proven wrong.

21. Even when it’s 98 degrees outside, I will still spend four hours in the kitchen preparing dinner or baking cookies.

22. At family functions, my mad scientist father shoots lightning bolts at people.

23. Reading a book is a perfectly acceptable way for me to kill a few hours… or days.

24. Too much talking annoys me.

25. Otherwise simple activities, like changing the oil in my car or getting new wiper blades, take on monumental proportions in my silly little world and require hours of thinking and planning.

26. …but I will always be able to hook up a stereo, television, and computer faster than you.

27. I turn into Regan from the Exorcist when confronted with threatening situations such as riding a Ferris Wheel, swimming, or needing to locate an unfamiliar bathroom.

28. Snow makes me violent.

29. Garlic is my friend.

30. Few things make me laugh more than lemurs, wiener dogs, and anti-squirrel propaganda.

31. I rarely wear makeup, but insist my hair always look spectacular, even at the expense of valuable sleep time.

32. Attendance at Huey Lewis & the News and Bon Jovi concerts is mandatory.

33. Despite all my bravado, I secretly want my life to play out like a Jane Austin story.

I know. It’s hopeless. You can direct all comments to me in Tibet.