Pants 1, Khop 1. Final Score: Push.....

I am not going to lie to you.

Internet dating is rough. There are bad dates followed by worse dates followed by dates that leave you wondering just what kind puppy holocaust you spearheaded in your last life. Dates with the guys you hope never call (they do) followed by the rare dates with the ones you hope do call (they don't).

Serenity now!

Most of the time I find it pretty easy to stay upbeat about the hilarity of it all. After all, in what other venue would I have wound up dining with LifeIsShort443, who shared with me a detailed account of his self-diagnosed "abandonment issues" before the first round of drinks hit the table? And I ask you, how else would I have ever crossed paths with HeyItsMe, who's foolproof wooing techniques include referring to the city I openly love as "Filth-adelphia" a record three times in less than five minutes? And dear, blessed reader. Please, oh please, don't get me started about what happens when a good friend in the same metropolitan area who happens to share a pretty good physical resemblance with me also hops on match.com during the same time period. Truly, truly, that topic alone breeds enough material for a series of posts and perhaps an episode or two of "Facts of Life". Of course I would be remiss in not mentioning the fact that I have also met some very cool people, people whom fate chose to bring into my life via a good old fashioned "wink".

However, my heart is not made from tin, and when I am cut, I do actually bleed. Therefore, it is impossible to be immune from the lows that come with online dating. And those lows, boy are they low. On the walk home from dinner with LifeIsShort, my mind was assaulted with visions of married ex-boyfriends, a future with fifty cats and holiday after holiday after holiday of being A-L-O-N-E. Not surprisingly, I wound up working myself into quite a state. It's a good thing the path home didn't include walking across a bridge, because I can see the headline now: "Online Dating Drives Local Girl to Jump: One Meal with "LifeIsShort" Caused Life to be Long Enough".

If this does, in fact, happen, will somebody please take in my fifty cats?

Anywho, aside from the mental trauma, the other morning I discovered another side effect of my online search for love. On Thanksgiving morning I was preparing to head over to my parents' house for a day of American-style gluttony when it happened. Simply put, my pants betrayed me.

And it’s all the internet’s fault.

I don’t know about you, but I hate it when that happens.

Guys, you’re undoubtedly confused right now, but ladies, you know how this rolls. Life is good, not a care in the world, perhaps you’re even singing a little Debbie Gibson throwback number in your head. One leg goes in, followed by the other, pull ‘em up, go to button - wait. Uh oh. What’s going on here? What should be lose is obscenely tight. Lemme see if some squats will help stretch ‘em out. Crap. It’s wearable, but it’s certainly not comfortable, OH DEAR GOD WHY? [Cut to several moments of uncontrollable weeping.]

Such was the scene in my bedroom Thanksgiving morning, of all mornings, and when I finally peeled myself off the floor, I confirmed via measuring tape my worst suspicions: my ass had undergone a secret expansion of epic proportions, coming in at a full quarter inch above what I term acceptable for ass circumference. (Yes, yes, I do have a predetermined measurement of what’s an acceptable ass circumference. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Hel-LO???) This news would send me into a tailspin on any day of the year, but that day was so much worse. Goodbye, pumpkin pie. Adios, stuffing and sweet potato casserole. Farewell, second meal two hours later. Perhaps next year we will be on better terms.

How did this happen? At first I was stumped. I've been swimming just as much as always and have even been throwing some running in. What was going on here? Pardon my language, mom, but what the fuck?!?!

Then it dawned on me. My week used to go like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Stay in, cook healthy meal.

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Stay in, eat healthy left overs. Rejoice in health.

Friday: Perhaps some happy hour, followed by dinner out

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Whatever. Hey Steve, care to go running?

Lately, though, my week has gone like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Date

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Date (sigh.)

Friday: Crap. Another date.

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Really? Another *&%$ing date?

What, perchance, would you think the caloric difference would be between those two schedules? I can’t even begin to guess, but you know the result: a quarter inch above acceptable.

At this realization, I stomped into my office and shook an angry fist at my computer.

GOD DAMN YOU, INTERNET, GOD DAMN YOU!

Knowing that Thanksgiving Day serves as the starter’s pistol on the beginning of a month-long marathon of holiday over-indulging, I decided damage control needed to begin that very moment. I’m a firm believer in putting into place conditions that prevent bad behavior and setting up consequences for if it happens anyway. So what did I do? I took out my tightest, most constrictive pair of jeans, defied a few laws of physics and jammed my rear into them before heading off to a day of No Carb Left Behind at my parents‘ house. I wore those horrific things all day as a reminder of that quarter inch and as a pledge to not allow that quarter become a half. I’m proud to say that I made it until 8PM in those jeans, until I couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed a pair of my mom’s sweatpants and collapsed on the sofa. Moreover, I became the first person in the history of my family to actually have some salad with my Thanksgiving dinner, every bite of which was eyed with suspicion and contempt by my loving clan.

This month is going to be a constant two steps forward, one step back situation, a balancing act between enjoying the holidays and getting rid of that quarter inch. You know what the real kick in the crotch irony of it all is? What do you think is the Number One, Never Fail, Reliable as the Sun Rising Each Day method for Khop dropping a few pounds?

Going through a bad break up. Yep, yep, the pounds slide off my rear like water off a duck’s back.

Seriously????

Off to fat camp,

khop

Name This Tune......

Ok, 15 or so readers, I need your help.

The last blog entry got a lot of reaction from folks. Truthfully, I worry that I will never be able to top it. A greater part of me desperately hopes I never top it, but that's neither here nor there.

And in the wake of such a gold mine of writing material, I'm finding that this week's post (I'm aiming for once a week if you haven't noticed) just ain't writing itself. The post is waiting offstage like the act to follow Pavarotti, sneaking in one last smoke, holding back a little vomit and nervously exclaiming to anyone passing by, "Seriously? Seriously, people?? I gotta follow that?!?"

Poor little post.

Anywho, I decided that while I figure out how to deal with the fact that this blog may very well have peaked at entry number 8, I would enlist a little help from you.

She needs a name.

"Catchy Title Goes Here" was never intended to be permanent. I'm well aware it's kinda lame sounding and doesn't give the reader any clue as to what he is about to read. However, it is a spot-on accurate representation of what I was thinking at the moment of creation, thoughts that went something like this, "I have no idea what to name this damn blog. Why do blogs need names anyway? That's stupid. I'll name it later."

Also, I was not entirely sure if this second go at writing was going to be at all sustainable, so why waste time and precious brain power thinking up a title for something that may only exist for a week. That's just crazy talk.

So now that this little red-headed bastard stepchild is a few months old, and I think she'll be around for awhile, let's take one step further towards making this whole operation legit by giving her a name that isn't immediately met with a slightly confused, blank stare. After all, I don't wanna be in the same category as this girl's parents.

That's where you, dear friends, come in. I'm halfway decent at many things, ranging from paper/rock/scissors to novice-level Excel spreadsheet manipulations. I can hold my own in the kitchen and on the ultimate field. I've been told I'm a better than average kisser. I've successfully kept two cats alive for several years. I've been known to be an asset at the flip cup table. But I'm crap at naming things.

Some thoughts to keep in mind:

1. While this blog tends to veer towards the dating misadventures of myself and those around me, it's not limited to that. It just so happens that the dating misadventures of myself and those around me tend to make for more interesting reading than what I cooked for dinner last night and are less likely to get me fired if accidentally discovered by my boss than ranting about the latest asinine thing one of my customers said that day. However, in the event that a single, nice, gainfully employed, non-poly amorous man with no mommy or commitment issues should come my way, the name should not have type casted the blog, lest we find ourselves in a pickle.

2. Positive word association is a plus. Becky G. is the one that got me thinking about this re-naming project with her comment on the last post. And while I do think "Don't Hassle the Hop" is a hilarious name, I would like to avoid setting up a mind association between me and David Hasselhoff or similar:

Ideally, the name of this blog will make me sound hot. If that's possible. (Am I the only one that noticed that there was no way to read that line without staring at the Hoff's junk? Made ya look, heh heh...)

3. Keep it family-friendly.... you know, so I can keep making eye contact with family members.

If you have enjoyed reading this blog so far, take a moment and pay it back by dropping a comment with an idea, or at very least an empty promise that you're trying to think of one. No idea will be ridiculed, we're all just brainstorming here. The winner will receive a secret, yet to be announced prize. Probably something lying around my house or if you're lucky a gluten-free baked good. And of course my eternal gratitude 'n stuff.

Talula Plays the Hula ain't got nuthin' on me,

khop