The Weather is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful.....

The other night found me sitting in Old San Juan sipping a mojito. A damn fine mojito, I might add. The occasion warranted a photo, and that was all good. Glasses up, smiles flashed, click! Aw, such a good shot. But before I knew it, that photo was posted and tagged on Facebook courtesy of “Mobile Uploads”. Over one thousand people (my 300+ friends, as well as the 300+ friends of each of my two companions) were suddenly given a window to my dinner in Old San Juan to watch me enjoy my mojito in real time. And I must admit, even through the heady haze of vacation euphoria, I was annoyed by this.

I love you all (well, most of you, anyway), but honestly, you weren’t invited.

Right now, I am away. I am on vacation, on a remote Caribbean island off the coast of Puerto Rico, sitting on a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, sipping my morning coffee. The only sounds hitting my ears are the waves crashing on the beach and my fingertips clicking on my keyboard. I am in heaven, doing something that refreshes me in an environment that simply oozes endorphines. There are no conference calls to attend, no sales figures over which to fret, no parking spots to find. If you call my cell phone, the outgoing message is a somewhat politely worded way of saying “unless you are about to tap me on the shoulder, you are shit out of luck until I return.”

There is a rooster crowing in the background, reinforcing my point.

As one who pens a blog regularly featuring her dating life, who is an avid Facebooker, and aspires to Twitter more frequently (if only to quell the peer pressure from one Mr. O’Neill, but still), I am cognizant that writing a blog entry ranting about not wanting to appear on Facebook during my vacation, while that vacation is still taking place, seems highly hypocritical, even nonsensical. But there it is.

You ask a hundred different people about social networking, and you’ll get a hundred different opinions. As a consequence of where we have landed in time, every living, breathing human being in the Western world falls somewhere along this new continuum, from those who tweet, blog, Facebook, or Google buzz (or for God’s sake all four - seriously, We.Get.It.) every time they pick their noses to the total boycotters, who between firing up their VHS recorders to watch reruns of Mr. Belvedere, judgmentally take their own noses and throw ‘em way up in the air. They then look straight down those antisocial noses at us and all the perceived narcissism that comes with assuming that people to whom you haven’t spoken since high school graduation care to know that your kid peed like a big boy today, you got concert tickets to that thing you wanted to see, your fibromyalgia is acting up, or you just posted a new blog entry about Booty Call Shrimp.

We social networkers participate for versions of the same reason, to stay connected to someone or something. Although for many of us, our individual desire and quite frankly our need for it seems to cycle through peeks and valleys. I can site several examples where a friend has moved to a new city, is rendered firmly outside of his comfort zone, and a very noticeable spike occurs in activity. My news feed will light up like a Christmas Tree with updates on the his first day of work, a new sofa purchase, the discovery of a place that makes a mean Italian sub, just like the place back home. Perhaps to calm anxiety about the new place by solidifying connections to the old as if to say, “Please don’t forget me!”, perhaps to blow on the embers of a new local connections, probably both. Then, as time goes on, those embers become flames, and the spike of FaceSpacing goes back to the pre-move baseline.

I’m a shameless example of this myself. And a lot of you know this because you access this site through my Facebook page. Khop’s doing this, khop’s up to that, khop just commented on my status, khop just posted a highly inappropriate eCard on my wall. Woops, looks like khop might be drunk right now. At least, I hope she is.... And why not participate? It’s fun, and it keeps me engaged with so many people I can’t see on a regular basis. The downside, though, is that all that online living puts me at terrible risk for not fully living. Instead of being present, I’m distracted. Instead of entirely focusing on you, the person at whom I’m looking, I’m somewhat focused on them, the couple hundred people I’m so anxious to tell about what I’m doing, I’m not really gonna experience it myself. So this time, I’ve gone rouge. I’ve pared down the activity, instead turning my attention this iguana crossing the street (seriously, there’s an iguana crossing the street). And even though I know that the masses greet each new day in utter terror that today will be another khop-absent day, I have to think we’ll all survive.

Social networking tends to strike a nerve in folks, and I’m cognizant that the tone of this post may rub some the wrong way, as plenty (myself included) have documented their way through many a vacation without missing an online beat. We get off the plane - tweet! We have that first margarita - status update! Off to a massage - buzz! In fact, several of my friends are currently on vacation themselves. How do I know this? Facebook, of course. No judgement intended - who am I to say boo on this, anyhow? It’s not like I succeeded in going completely off the grid myself, nor did I want to. I checked my email everyday, caught up with a few people over gChat, took a peek at the ol’ news feed, even posted a buzz (albeit completely unintentionally) that my cousin rightly heckled. But what I did want was to practice the art of being completely immersed in the present moment, not only with all five senses, but also with my thoughts, something I so rarely do, but so keenly long to do more. And now, several days later, on the plane ride home, I’m happy to report success. How refreshing.

Besides, would you really want to have seen any of the following in real time anyway?

khop may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet.

khop scratch that, *now* may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet

khop if there is a downside to banging out a 2 mile open water swim in the Caribbean, it’s the tan line left by the damn swim cap across my forehead. Heavy emphasis on *if*.

khop just saw a guy riding on a horse through town, carrying a rooster. Can I move here?

khop thinks there’s no shame in taking a ride back to shore from pirates. In fact, there’s glory in it.

khop just glowed in the bio bay. w.o.w.

khop just finished her third 2+ mile open water swim in three days. This last one hurt. But I-ah beat-ah Steve-ah!

khop has some horrific tan lines, compliments of Speedo.

khop is zooming back to san juan in a taxi driven by a man drinking Johnny Walker Black out of a coconut.

khop just kissed Puerto Rico goodbye. :(

Postin’ the photos on MyFace,

khop

PS: Emphatic, eternal thanks go to Oscar and Kara for welcoming us onto their island and into their home.

Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta - Subtitle, “Hey buddy, I’m lofting a softball right over home plate.”

Note: Since I've been slacking a bit on the writing and am a bit desperate for content, I'm going to be selfish and post this here, instead of guesting over here.

We all have a repertoire of “go to” moves. Moves we whip out when we’re aiming to woo, impress, or make the sexy time. They might be smooth lines, a specific pair of booty-enhancing jeans, or just the raise of one eyebrow. Whatever they are, they’re there in our pockets, ready at a moment’s notice to stop the object of our affection in his or her tracks.

I am, I’m afraid, one of very few moves. In fact, historically speaking, the more I consciously try to impress the opposite sex, the less successful I am. My smooth lines will be awkward and mildly offensive. I can’t rock the jeans-in-boots trend, so I’m horribly out of fashion. And if I try to raise just one eyebrow at you, you’ll probably think I have some sort of neurological tic. I am bitter about this. I wish slow, embarrassing deaths on the women who can purposefully spin webs that men actually compete to dive into, because I just cannot do it. It is only when I’m not really trying at all that I have any luck with the menfolk. For someone who has spent a lifetime seeing her efforts in academic and professional arenas translate directly into positive results, this is frustrating, to put it mildly. But it is what it is.

One move I do feel I have is in the culinary arts. Simply put, I know my way round a stove. This comes into play when I’m trying to woo a man with my womanly vibes, swaggering around my kitchen with my gingham apron and my skull ‘n crossbones spatula. (kidding about the apron, not about the spatula). I send out evolutionary pheromones that make him go all cave man and subconsciously link me with warm, delicious food, my hope being that he will keep coming back for more.

Of the food. Of course.

The very fact that I need to keep pulling this move out as relationships end and new ones begin, indicates that there may be some flaw in my logic. But that’s really neither here nor there. Back to the kitchen!

Over time Booty Call Shrimp has become one of my signature dishes. To be clear, it is not reserved exclusively for romantic evenings (I have made this dish for my parents), but certainly it is one of the dishes I think of first when there is a man on my radar screen. It has come out as early as Date 2 (shockingly slutty, I know), and it has been held back until later in the game. But it almost always makes an appearance. In fact, I wonder how many Men I’ve Tried To Impress are reading this now, feeling slightly cheap and thinking, “Really? That was a move? I thought I was special.....” Of course you were are. But for all women everywhere who they themselves have fallen victim to a move (perhaps one of your own), consider this as one small drop in the bucket towards evening that shit out.

Booty Call Shrimp is terrific because it’s seafood, thereby slightly fancy, and almost fool proof. The original recipe came from an issue of Cooking Light, but I’ve long-since lost it, and now I just cook to taste.

One last programing note before forking over the recipe. I must give a shout out to my swoop, who had never seen this move show up on his plate until an impromptu dinner party for six last weekend and who also was not phased by the angle I planned to take with this post. I had bounced this idea around with Wise Cassie quite awhile ago, but I have not had a taste for Booty Call Shrimp until this past weekend. Way to roll with it.

And now, I give to you Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta

Subtitle, “I shaved my legs today.”

1/2 lbs uncooked shrimp per person. I’m persnickety about springing for larger, fresh water shrimp, but do whatever your budget will accommodate.

1/4 cup kosher salt

lots of tomatoes, I like a mixture of plum, vine ripened and cherry

green onions

lots of basil

a few cloves of garlic

salt

pepper

olive oil

a hunk of butter

white wine (cooking or drinking)

pasta

parma cheese

optional additions: spinach, lump crab meat (although i find this to be a low ROI addition)

• Peel and devein the shrimp. Make an ice bath with kosher salt and brine the shrimp for 30 minutes.

• Meanwhile, quarter and seed the big tomatoes. Discard the seeds and juice. Dice the flesh

• Chop the green onions, garlic and basil.

• In large saute pan, heat olive oil and butter to medium high. Saute garlic for a minute or so. Don’t let it burn! Add shrimp and green onions. Saute for 4 - 5 minutes, until you can see that the shrimp are fully cooked. If you don’t know what fully cooked shrimp look like, google it. Turn the heat down to medium. Add spinach here, if you’re doing it. Saute until it’s wilted and reduced. Add the diced tomatoes, basil and the white wine, about a quarter of a cup if you’re cooking for two, then splashes as needed. Not too runny! Add salt and pepper to taste. Add cherry tomatoes and cook until they are still intact but the skins look like they’re gonna break. At the last minute gently fold in lump crab meat (if doing), just enough to warm it, but not enough that it breaks up and is lost in the slush.

• Serve over cooked pasta. Top with parmesan cheese and crushed up roofies. Fluff your hair, touch up your make up, and enjoy!

Workin' it,

khop

Reasons 4 - 205 Why Dating Is Rough: What burner am I on?

Internet dating has been on the back burner. Simply put, I cannot be bothered. Dating in general and internet dating in specific requires a certain amount of fresh-faced, bright eyed and bushy tailed optimism, lest you come across as one of those jaded, life-weary, angry types. And every once in awhile enough becomes enough, and even the most good-natured, happy go lucky dating warrior runs low on the mental energy required for another turn up to bat. Any coach worth his salt will bench an exhausted athlete to allow for “strategic disengagement”, but in the sport that is dating, I am my own coach. Thus, this charm city newbie has hidden her profile for a bit and in the cold winter months is choosing the company of her TiVo, her cat (now where have I heard that phrase before?) and real life opportunities as opposed to another wink and a plate of overcooked chicken at Baltimore’s newest trendy bad restaurant.

Have I declared a strike? No, no, that sounds so hostile. More like an indefinite Match Mancation. Wouldn’t it be nice if I went all “The Weather Is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful” and never came back?

As relaxing as this is, it has posed a problem, though, the problem of writing material. While I can get away with a post or two about Boeuf Bourguignonne every once in awhile, let’s face it. Yes, it is heavenly to motor through a plate of the stuff; however, you and I both know it’s not why you tune into this particular blog. No, no, you tune in because God Almighty you love a good old fashion train wreck. And I ask you, reader, what’s a better wreck of said train than my ass expanding due to a chronic case of datis interwebis horrificus? I’ve been half-tempted to take the profile for a spin just to have something to write about, but this seemed wrong. Horridly, karmically, God will afflict me with the world’s largest impacted colon as punishment wrong.

Besides, it’s too damn cold out. And did I mention real life?

Back to the problem of writing material. Lucky for me, a Baader Meinhof happened recently when in the span of a day or so the concept of “Back Burner” relationships came up as a trending topic of conversation. Seems as though everyone’s got a thought or two on them. More interestingly, everyone’s got a different place for them in their dating line up. These conversations struck a cord with me, as I’ll admit to at times having as active a back burner as the next gal. Moreover, I am acutely aware of situations where I have been the person on someone else’s back burner. And all this interests me. So for a series of upcoming posts, I decided to put the tens of thousands of dollars my parents spent on my science degree to good use. I canvased some friends via email, collected data on the subject and have been trying to tease out trends (or as my former boss would creepily say “massage the data”). I’m comparing it with my own observations and attempting to write it all up. Probably not what my faculty advisor envisioned all those years ago, but really. What has he done for me lately?

I’ve been working on this topic for nearly a month now, and I sense a few folks getting impatient, as more than one person shot me a “what’s this piece of crap?”-type email upon reading the nickname post. My humble apologies. Turns out that the back burner has a little more meat on its bones than I anticipated, and I’ve been spending quite a bit of time scratching my head and staring at it, circling it, kicking it, and wondering if I should throw good judgement out the window and brazenly forage ahead or disappear into the night and pretend this topic never existed.

Much like inviting two dozen people over for a sit down dinner of Boeuf Bourguignonne.

Why do I do these kinds of things to myself???

Upon hearing I was having so much difficulty, my vertically gifted West Coast readership suggested that I calm the $%^& down and break this topic into a series of posts. (BTW, way to use those Wharton management skillz to get some productivity out of me. That degree just paid for itself...) What a great idea. So in a rare display of common sense, I’ve decided to simplify, to eat this elephant one bite at a time. Thus, back burner musings will be coming to you piecemeal.

And the Boeuf Bourguignonne will be a buffet.

By the way, to the freeloading jerks who are reading this now but never shot me a reply, thanks, you know, for being so supportive of my dream and stuff. Duly noted. Now would be a terrific time to send me some thoughts. Just sayin’.....

Firing up the stove,

khop

What's in a Nickname?

If you’ve dated me, it's very possible you have a nickname.

In fact, if there has ever been the slightest hint of a romantic connection between you and I (and this includes just me thinking you’re hot from afar), the Vegas bookies would put the odds on the truth being that myself or one of my friends has granted you an alternate title, and you are referred to as such when you are not around. Perhaps there was a time when you and I were hanging out, and I came out of the kitchen into the living room where you sat, opened my mouth to address you, stopped short and restarted. Remember? This confused you at the time, and allow me to clear up the mystery now. See, I was about to slip and call you Church Boy instead of Dave. Jim Gimme Summy instead of Jim. Coke Can instead of, well, we’ll leave that one alone.

The first memory I have of this dates back to the eleventh grade, but I can’t imagine there weren’t instances before that. I won’t relay this earliest of examples, because quite frankly it does not reflect the kinder, gentler person into whom I have since evolved. Or should I say devolove? (BTW, there is only one person on the entire planet who just might get that last sentence, and if she did she may have just fallen out of her chair laughing.) At that time code names were essential, for we were back in the dark ages, the other significant B.C. (Before Cell phone), where instead of firing off a quick text or email, communications were written on actual paper and extreme care was required to ensure that the integrity of the chain of custody was maintained at all times. In the event that these written communications (notes folded into paper footballs) were intercepted by the opposition (teachers) or rival rebel factions (competing girl cliques), their origins must be indiscernible and the message unintelligible. Plus, who are we kidding, nicknaming was just so damn fun. Wrong, mean, and bad karma-inducing, yes. But giggle-till-we-drop, let’s-go-make-another-mix-tape fun.

In college the nicknaming continued, even though the need or care for unshakable anonymity evaporated. The primary goal here seemed to be simple identification, a necessity at a school of 15,000+ students where Matts and Mikes and Ryans and Robs ran rampant. Where names such as Swimmer Hottie 1, Swimmer Hottie 2, and Frat Boy George scored low with the French judges for creativity or humor, the German judges gave them high marks for utility, and as such we all knew exactly about whom someone was referring at any given time. This is not to say there were no exceptions, as admittedly titles such as Trench Coat Mafia and Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle were thrown around. But seriously. If you knew a guy named Kyle, and he incessantly wore a t-shirt that listed the top ten reasons to become a chemical engineer, wouldn’t you slap a nickname on that shit too?

I also think it’s worth pointing out here that the nicknaming in college was not reserved exclusively for romantic affiliations, real or desired. No, no, I would like it to go on the record that I did not have a thing for or with Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle. No, no aaaaaand no.

If I had a prayer of growing out of the nicknaming habit after college, it soon went to hell in a pie basket, for after graduation I joined PADA, an organization with a long, rich love affair with nicknames, though most names are the out in the open variety as opposed to behind the back (exception, I hope: Porn ‘Stache). Actually, a more accurate statement is that PADA serves as an example of the nicknaming trend that is very common in the sport of ultimate frisbee, a phenomenon that I *think* I recall being documented in Ultimate: The Greatest Sport Ever Invented By Man (a quick, amusing read that is one big inside joke for ultimate players). Anywho, Edgely, the Philadelphia ultimate mecca, is a place where you will get blank stares if you mention that Andrew, Chris and Kevin are on your Spring League team this season, but you’ll see a nod of full understanding by referring to Smart Guy, Goose and Bulb. Yours truly is caught up in this nicknaming mess as well, as just last night I overheard Wise Cassie referring to me by my parental-given name and then having to clarify by calling me Khop. After all, who the hell is this Kathleen person? A small part of all this nicknaming comes, I think, from a need for easy identification, as this sport flashes a middle finger to conventional sporting norms, reserving things like numbered jerseys for only the more serious players. But mostly it is indicative of a solid truth of ultimate: we're odd, and we enjoy that fact very much, thank you.

I will say that while this trend makes for good banter and an amusing social scene, it can be horridly problematic. If you get to know someone by a nickname and then begin to date said person, at some point a transition is necessary, whereby you continue to use the appropriate nickname in public, but privately his or her real name is used, for, you know, the facilitation of intimacy ‘n stuff. I’m not gonna lie, there are many things I don’t mind being called, but the Very Last Thing I want to hear in the throws of passion is, “Oh Khop....”

Menfolk out there, take note.

So why all the male nicknaming? Damned if I know. It definitely has nothing to do with how much or how little I like the guy, as in thinking through the men who have and have not received nicknames along the way, there’s no direct correlation. Men I have been crazy about have had names bestowed upon them, and men I’ve been “not so much” about have gone without. The vice versa of both is also true. I could go all Psych 101 and theorize that I’m objectifying them, avoiding intimacy, yada, yada, yada, and who knows. Maybe there’s some truth to that. Mostly I think I’m just quirky and bizarre. But we knew this already, right? In any case, it's not meant to be derogatory. Well, most of the time anyway, heh heh....

Someday, I will stand at the pearly gates and Jesus Christ himself won’t let me into heaven until I tell Him what His Khop-given nickname is.

I swear, Jesus, the only thing I’ve ever called you is my homeboy.

Say my name!

khop

Boeuf a la Bourguignonne: Rachel Ray wouldn’t touch this recipe with a ten foot pole.

Click here for my lastest spot on The Soused Chef, to read about how I went all Julia Child on yo ass by whipping up a frenzy with Bouef a la Bourguignonne.

And the answers to your questions: No, I don't have any left over. Yes, I will make you some. Yes, it took more than Tobias' gnarly old steak bone...

Getting my stew on,

khop

Ugh. Here we go, getting all "end of the year reflective"

*Note* First off, please excuse the crickets and tumble weed for the past few weeks. Getting rid of that pesky quarter inch (done. kinda), closing out the year strong in my Actual Job (done) and holiday partying like Clark Griswold (doing) have made sitting down long enough to string a few pseudo-coherent half-thoughts together rather difficult. Some day if the dream lives and this operation goes legit with more than just one writer monkey at the helm, you won't even notice my absence. But for now, suck it. I've been busy. So back to the post at hand.....

I know, I know, December self-reflection. It's so cliche.

But this dose of meditation has less to do with 2009 drawing to a close and more to do with the fact that recently I entered my name in the lottery for this particular self-inflicted torture. As I clicked “enter”, I was struck by the reality of how different my life is now from just one year ago. “Swim across the Chesapeake Bay? Oh you must mean because Osama bin Laden himself has attacked Sandy Point, and this is the one way humanity and America can be saved.”

That is how I would’ve likely responded to that notion a mere twelve flips of the calendar ago.

Additionally, in the days since that particular run of the computer mouse, I’ve been acutely aware of what I’m doing at any particular moment, and I’ve found myself comparing it to exactly what I was doing one year ago. Why? Well, let me annoyingly answer a question with another question: How much does your life change from one year to the next? Really, truly change? If you spent a moment jotting down the things that are true about your life today, place of employment, residence, family, friends, your hobbies, your pets, anything, and compared it all to a list of things that were true about your life one year ago, how much of it would really be different? Our lives are rarely identical from one year to the next, but change typically occurs piecemeal, in one aspect of our lives at a time. As such, even if there is a Big Event, such as a new job/spouse/child, most of the other things we know to be true are still in place. Life is still mostly familiar. However, every once in awhile, a comparison of two lives separated by nothing more than 365 days could not be more striking.

If you were a spectator to my life last year at this time, you would already know that last December my life was one big hot mess. My often-charmed existence could more aptly be described as cursed. The operation had gone horridly haywire, the wheels had come flying off the machine, and the appropriate Google image search would yield this beauty. In short, things were “no bueno”. Occasionally, I would spot someone in my immediate company take a step or two back when they thought I wasn’t looking, presumably to avoid getting struck by all the lightening.

I can’t say I blamed them.

What happened? Well, rewind to Thanksgiving of 2008, when life seemed to be ticking along quite nicely. I had exciting career prospects, a boyfriend who had me smitten, and a rock solid plan to quit this hell hole called Baltimore and go back home to a sweet new crib in Philly, where I clearly belonged. Then December 1 hit, and a big roll of the dice turned up a losing combination. In what can only be described as cinematic fashion, someone turned the leaf blower on the house of cards that was my life. I’ll refrain from boring you with unnecessary detail, but suffice to say by the time the ball dropped on Times Square welcoming 2009, I found myself unemployed, heartbroken and moving into my parents‘ house, exactly what every modern girl in her 30’s dreams for her life.

Oh, did I forget to mention that grandma kicked the bucket that month, too? Even through the tears I couldn’t help but appreciate the comedic timing of all the shitiness. Had my limbs started falling off one by one, I can’t say I would’ve batted an eyelash.

Good times!

I've always said that bad times are a blessing, because it gives the people who love you a chance to flex their friendship muscles and show their stuff. If you find yourself in the midst of a tough spot and you don't find your loved ones elbowing each other out of the way in their rush pick you up and carry you through your misery, then either you've chosen the wrong set of friends or you haven't been a very good one to them. And thus, at very least my friend-picking skills proved rock solid, and once again it became evident how blessed I am with great family, as everyone stood by me like champions. My parents put a roof over my head and food in my cats’ bowls. My sister gave me a spare key to her house in case I needed escape. Dr. Shazam offered her "poo throwing services" and other various methods of creative revenge. I remember one weekend where Becky and Tad, God bless them, dragged me from one holiday party to the next, finally waving the white flag and taking me home as, “oh, for the love of God, she's crying again."

Rarely in life do we have the opportunity and/or are forced to start over essentially from scratch, but January 1, 2009 found me sitting in my old bedroom gearing up to do just that. With no job, no mortgage, no spouse, no children, and not even a car payment to hold me down, I really could do anything I fancied. So did I follow in the footsteps of Frances May and Elizabeth Gilbert, blazing my own trail to find love and adventure overseas? Well, no. As a matter of fact, turns out that being unemployed during one of the worst job markets in recent history causes one to lose the gumption to spend even a few weeks pissing through some severance money in Italy. (I’ll have to leave that to the next time I get laid off, sigh.) But over the course of the next few months, I landed a great gig, I bought a cute little postage stamp of a house and dusted off an old love by diving back into the pool. As a result of those three actions, I scan the landscape of my current world and marvel at how few things in my day to day life remotely resemble what was true last year at this time. Where I wake up, what I spend my time doing and with whom I spend that time are utterly different. A few months ago I completed my first triathlon, and two days ago I hopped in the pool to knock out a 4000 meter swim. The notion of either last December would’ve inspired little more than a confused, blank look. Exactly one year from the night Becky and Tad lugged a whimpering blob around Wilmington, I poured myself a drink at a holiday party in Baltimore and toasted a room full of good friends, not one of whom I knew existed one year ago. These are just a few of a seemingly endless list of examples.

To be fair, there is much that remains consistent. My family is the same, I am still the owner of two ornery pets, and my long time friends are still there, even if primarily via Facebook. I still have all my limbs, and once again I have an orange pork chop on my business card. Additionally, some of the changes have been sad ones. There are people who are definitively absent from my life, and the word Edgely is not currently in my daily vernacular. Mad4Mex happy hours are at most a biannual treat instead of a weekly occurrence, and I’m fairly certain my forehand flick is getting worse and worse by the moment, if that’s even possible.

Out of all of this, one of the coolest pieces for me is a renewed respect for the concept of time, something that is so easy to take for granted. If the world has collapsed around your feet, think of what awaits only a couple hundred days out, when you’ve worked your way through the storm. Similarly, if you find yourself in a good place, be sure to appreciate the present, because the leaf blower could be getting gassed up at this very moment, just for you. The beauty of the cycle, though, is that even if two weeks from now you were to find yourself clamoring around, picking up cards off the wet pavement, six, twelve or perhaps sixteen weeks later would likely yield a whole new house of cards, probably better than the old one or, at very least, different in a cool way. Cheers to all that.

Clearly not playing with a full deck,

khop

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