Dear Mr. Right

[Let me preface this by saying after age 23, no one dates just to date.  People date to find someone special…]

Dear Mr. Right,

Ask any female what they are going to purchase at a store and they already have a very close idea… I’m going to get the Juicy Couture strapless sateen dress with the sweetheart neckline and pleated ruffles and maybe a cute sling back sandal (probably tan leather) to go with it.  Easy button.

Ask any smart, level-headed, girl what her type of man is and she will think about the question for two, maybe three minutes.  She will tilt her chin towards the ceiling as if she is picturing him coming down to her from the clouds. Her answer is a pounding fist hitting the table.  Wait for it. Not seven seconds after that affirmation, she will also say, “but my last boyfriend was the complete opposite.” In our heads we have a picture of what we want, and yet we are ready for the contrary, sort of.  

•  “I think it would be wonderful to travel the world together.  But, my parents live in Scottsdale, so he would have to be open to living near my folks for at least a little while when we have babies…” open to the world- with an expiration date. 
  
•  “He needs to be exotic.  He can be from anywhere.  Maybe he doesn’t even speak English! But in the end, our kids will be going to the best private school in Long Island.” Deceptively demanding.  
• “I don’t know.  I don’t really have a type.  Tall, short, skinny, round, green eyes or blue.  Who cares?  He just needs to care about me.  Oh, and I want ginger children with blue eyes.”  Open and shut.

For the most part, women have this planned out.  You are sized up through multiple subconscious rounds before dinner has even started.  Ever wonder why you don’t hear from a woman again?  You said you wanted to live in Cleveland – ie. Scottsdale was out.  Sorry.  No second date?  You want your children to grow up on your parent’s ranch. Uh oh. The kids aren’t attending the highly competitive private school in Long Island.  We cut to the chase and are on to the next one.

So next time you meet someone and it starts to go well but you know it’s really going nowhere,

• You might think:  Let’s just have fun.  I doubt this will go anywhere.  I haven’t seen boobs in a while…
• She might think:  Threat levels are low, lowering defensive shields. 

Don’t be a jerk. Why waste time? …. Right! There’s no reason.  NEXT!  So, Mr. Right, I will never waste your time.  Please don’t waste mine if you know you are Mr. Not Really and I’m not the one from the start. 

♥,

Ms. Perfect.

Dear Mr. Right,

GUILTY.  Yes, me in the back with the vagina and the chocolate bar in my hand.  I am and will be a life-long chocolate lover.  It tastes sweet, it makes me happy, and for a brief second while it’s on my tongue, all is well in the world without you. According to smart people, “chocolate stimulates the release of three hormones in the human brain, serotonin theobromin and phenylethalamine. Serotonin produces a relaxed feeling, the other two are mild stimulates. Chocolate also triggers the release of endorphins, Classified as opiate peptides, these endorphins are responsible for the “high” produced by opiates, heroin and strenuous exercise. Which make you relaxed. Your mother suggests chocolate because it naturally induces calm in a person, so if you are hormonal (near your period, etc) it can help quell those feelings.” I don’t care if this love affair is unreciprocated.  Chocolate never will love me back.  My skinny jeans take one look at the chocolatety, sugary, caloric, fatty goodness as it’s going into my mouth and schedule an appointment at the gym before the melted pleasure has even left my tongue.

Ok, Skinny Jeans. You win. I’ll get my sneakers. 

Little do these little jeans know that this is where the magic happens.  The gym is where true social interaction occurs, animal behavior at its best, primitive cavemen come out to play.  Women go to the gym to improve appearance.  We sweat and work.  We understand that with no pain, there is no gain.  Run off those calories.  Crunch your way to a perfect midsection.  No one said Pilates was a walk in the park!  Conversely, male gymrats have a differing workout perspective.  Of course, this doesn’t go for all men, but an alarming percentage believe that the gym is a mating ground.  It is the new bar; a local watering hole. Instead of buying me a cosmo, he is *offering to buy me a carrot and wheat grass smoothie.  These men don’t usually work out.  They mix chemicals and create concoctions to alter their physical state and artificially bulk up.  This process relieves them of actual labor at the gym.  Sure, they lift a weight or two once or twice, groan really loudly, and then walk around in a small circle surveying the room like a rooster at a cockfight.  It’s absolutely necessary to see who witnessed the incredible feat because if it went unnoticed, the scenario will have to be recreated. 

Well, Mr. Right, let me drop some knowledge on you that will feel like a 100 lb. iron plate.  At the gym, I am not looking for you.  I don’t want to stumble upon you.  I don’t want you to find me.  I’m looking to drop some pounds.  I definitely don’t need to feel the spark, I want something sparked so I can feel the burn.  I don’t wear makeup to the gym because I don’t plan on meeting you, focusing on anyone or anything besides my heart rate or my iPod, and I don’t need to sweat off an application that would have cost me approximately $12.83.   Couture gym wear never became a trend because women don’t particularly care what they wear when they become red-faced, soaking wet, and out of breath (well, in this case).    

So, let’s save the pick up lines for the practice girls.  You know who I’m talking about- the girls who definitely aren’t at my, Ms. Perfect’s, caliber.  These are the women who wear makeup to the gym, flail their arms and claim to be doing bicep curls, and don’t even know what a medicine ball is but know exactly how to work the steam room.

The lines like:

1. “Excuse me, but I think I dropped something! My jaw.”
2. “Do you have a map? I just keep on getting lost in your eyes.”
3. “I’m afraid that I have to ask you to leave. Your sexy body is making other girls here look really bad.”
4. “Can I take your picture with my camera phone? I want Santa Claus to know exactly what I want for this Christmas.”
5. “I may not be the best-looking guy in here, but I’m the only one talking to you.”
6. “Are your legs tired? You have been running in my mind all day.”
7. “I’ve got a 6 inch tongue and please teach me know how to use it.”
8. “Hello. If I tell you my balls are bigger than my biceps, will you believe?”
9. “Hi, my name’s [name]. Remember it, you’ll be screaming it later tonight.”
10. “Nice legs you have! What time do they open?”

I’m sure these lines will work on your starter set.  Consider it practice of what NOT to use when you meet me.  But, when I’m at the gym, I’ve got my mind sweetly set on only one.  Yes, he is the same one who is only sweet to me for a short time, makes me work and sweat just to see him again, just might melt away into nothing if I hold on to him too tightly, and yes, he is rather abusive to my body, but Roy Orbison, The Everly Brothers, Emmylou Harris, Joan Jett, Cher, Keith Richards and Norah Jones have all told me that “Love Hurts”.

Sincerely,

Ms. Perfect.

(courtesy of this awesome site)

Dear Mr. Right,

Lace, Leather, rhinestones, or ribbon.  The search for the perfect undergarment is an arduous task.  Often underplayed, finding the correct size in either the panty or the bra is a mission not cut out for the weak willed.  If one is serious about finding a correctly fitting piece, poking, prodding, pushing and pulling is a definite practice that is unquestionably linked to embarrassingly standing bare-chested in front of a mirror with a cold-handed women with a tape measure.  Wearing lovely lingerie does little for us women, besides giving us the satisfaction and knowledge of its power over you, Mr. Right. 

Usually, it isn’t particularly comfortable, it doesn’t feasibly fit into our budgets, and we don’t walk around our apartments by ourselves wearing it commenting to ourselves about how remarkable our asses look.  (Well, I may do that last one.)  Most importantly, it isn’t even on our bodies that long until you (if it is worn correctly) rip it off.  Speaking for the collective, us girls go to great lengths to make men weak in the knees.  We love to see your faces look twice, your heads move up and down from our feet to our faces and then back again.  The plan has worked if you, Mr. Right, stutter when you speak.

When they say that it’s a two way street, they are right.  All I ask, Mr. Right, is that you pay slightly closer attention to the garments that you wear when presenting yourself to me. 

• Do you think that I am not paying attention when you fling your jeans across the room (especially when they slam across the wall, into the light switch turning the fluorescent bulbs back on) that you are wearing your briefs inside out and backwards? I’ve heard the myth that every pair can be worn for the length of four days and I am severely opposed and utterly disgusted.

• How about the other time when it was so difficult to remove said undergarment due to the amount of holes they contained?  I didn’t know if I was looking at some type of loosely crocheted underwear or a belted adornment from a pacific tribal nation.  Mr. Right, underwear is not and never should be an object of achievement.  It should not resemble a tree stump where one can count the holes similar to the way that we count rings. 

• I definitely don’t want to see any type of apparel on you that reads “LISA’S ASS” assuming that Lisa is an Ex.  Even if Lisa is your mother’s name, you seem far too dysfunctional for me to become intimately involved.

Bottom line, Mr. Right:  If you pay attention to your skivvies like you do mine, we’ll have a great time au naturale.    

♥,

Ms. Perfect.

Dear Mr. Right,

Had William Wallace done his Scottish thing to an uplifting score including Hanson’s MMMMbop and Spice Girls I’ll Tell You What I Want, I doubt I would have the same attraction to men in face paint, tiny braids, and skirts. This is neither here nor there. The truth of the matter is that music does something to our brain chemistry. Tonality of the instruments, combination of the notes, the lyrics, the song titles, and yes, whatever emotional connection we might have to the song all come together- dare I say orchestrate- and create the song’s meaning. Harmonize, yes harmonize, uncontrollable often external factors such as PMS, traffic, the weather, the shoes that you’ve been eyeing forever that are now on sale and aren’t in your size… Can all change a perspective of a song.

It is understandable for it to be difficult to communicate your feelings coherently, clearly, and eloquently in the form of spoken or written word. I commend your logic when choosing a song (or group of songs) to express your emotions. With this being said, going the “mixtape” route might not come across completely as you hope it will. To you, it’s a wonderful idea. Think: John Cusack in Say Anything. We think: Jon Favreau in Swingers. You should think twice about your song selection. Here’s why.

If you pick:

Any late 80s/early 90s rap music.
You think: Who doesn’t love this song?
She thinks: Is this guy retarded?

Anything by an artist who committed suicide.
You think: I’m so deep and artistic. She’s gonna eat this up.
She thinks: Who the hell am I listening to.

Anything by a lesbian/feminist/environmentalist artist.
You think: I’m so in-touch with my feminine side.
She thinks: Does he think he gets points for this crap?

Anything from a broadway musical (even if it is from Tommy).
You think: Dude, it’s the Who.
She thinks: This guy likes guys.

Anything under the radar/new/indie whether it sucks balls or not.
You think: I’m so cool. I know mainstream before it’s even sidestream.
She thinks: Wow, this guy really IS so cool.

Anything by John Mayer.
You think: I’m gonna get laid.
She thinks: Yup, this guy’s gonna get laid.

Anything from an artist with a history of or who sings about abuse.
You think: This song sounds sick. I don’t know what it’s about, but sick.
She thinks: RUN!

Anything by an American Idol winner or contestant.
You think: Hey, this guy/girl can really sing!
She thinks: What the hell is this guy doing watching American Idol?

Any folk/rock music not currently on the radio yet not indie (ie. DMB, Guster, Snow Patrol)
You think: This reminds me of summer concerts with friends.
She thinks: This guy is the ONE.
*USE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Any recently current rap song about drugs/alcohol.
You think: I’m so hood.
She thinks: I will NOT be bailing this guy out.

Any song in a foreign language.
You think: Ha! She doesn’t know that this song is about a goat!
She thinks: He’s so exotic.

So, Mr. Right, you need to be completely sure that your “Mixtape” says what you want it to say about you, that external conditions are in your favor, and that she won’t think you are gay. You wouldn’t want to crash and burn with an MMMBop experience…

But, let’s be honest. Who makes a “Mixtape” these days anyway?

Sincerely,

Ms. Perfect

Dear Mr. Right,

It is an exciting day when little Billy runs through the door, throws his Yo Gabba Gabba lunch box to the linoleum and exclaims, “MOM, I can count to infinity!” Mother beams, Billy gets another slice of meatloaf at dinner, and Father starts to ramble about his counting days in between puffs from a cigar. Indeed, it is a proud memory.  However, that skill will not stay sharply tuned without practice.  Once you have learned to count past the single digit, repetition is key.

I now know, Mr. Right, that it isn’t the child who watches the Count daily on Sesame Street (“Two, Two yellow bananas! Ah Ah Ah!”), but it is the dating bachelor who needs to be reminded of the artistic mastery of numeric skill.

While waiting for me to arrive at a date – one that I previously gave notice of my tardiness – Mr. Not-So-Right miscounted how many martinis he had consumed (even though the bartender had so kindly left the empty glasses on the bar).  Surely this was so that Mr. NSR could count them (similar to the manner in which kindergarteners and pro football players need to count on their fingers and sometimes toes), it proved to be an impossible and overlooked feat.  Simple arithmetic resulted in miscalculation, which then resulted in more martinis, which then resulted in slurred speech, and ultimately resulted in an exceedingly turned-off Ms. Perfect.

It is understandable that while waiting for me to show, excitement is building, anxiety is rushing to the surface, fingers start tapping, and ankles start uncontrollably moving.  I get it.  To some, it may even be endearing.  I admire forward thinking – how wonderful it is that Mr. NSR took the initiative and tried to keep himself busy until my arrival.

Instead of drinking oneself into an inexcusable mess, let’s try practicing our counting: we obviously need it.  Even little Billy knows that if you want to be a Super Counter, practice makes perfect.  Perhaps, had he been practicing or practiced previously, the martini incident never would have happened.  Mr. NSR and I would already be registering at Bergdorf’s.

Lesson learned: Count.  I don’t care what you count.  Floor boards.  Ceiling tiles.  Count the number of police chases that go by on Santa Monica Blvd. Practice your numbers and count the hairs on your head.  May I recommend the number or Ed Hardy items in the bar?  Do whatever it takes to keep yourself busy, because if I show up and you have failed to count the number of cocktails you have consumed, you can COUNT on the fact that I will turn around and walk away.

♥,

Ms. Perfect.