Recently at work–my full-time job, about which I never speak–I had a conversation with a woman in her mid-thirties about dating. We both decided we’re allowed to be picky. I used to hear those words and think, well I’ll never be one of those. When I hear, “Oh she’s so picky,” honestly, all I think that means is looks or money. She’s either picky about his face or picky about his wallet. Well, I’ll never be that kind of picky. But I’ve realized I am picky about courage and self-esteem. So there, now it’s out. While on subject, I’m going to tell you about my night, but if you’re picky about writing style then you shouldn’t bother tonight. It’s 3:11 am, and I’m full of tired and digressions.
Tonight, I met Kevin Bacon. I stopped him on the street to ask for a photo. “Kevin, please just one?” I’ve never been this girl. I honestly couldn’t possibly care less about getting his photograph for myself; it’s not like he’s Oprah. Still, I knew someone who would really appreciated it, so I asked.
“Okay, just one.” And then he smiled. And I took his photograph… with the lens cap on. Doh. “You know that still counted, Red.”
“Oh please, you’ve got 6 degrees; I get at least another handful.” And he laughed, so I photographed him, and he let me.
So about the rest of the evening, well, first, it’s only fair that you know when I drink, there are only a handful of outcomes. Mostly, beyond yawning and needing to curl, I either end up letting my nerd show, or letting my slut go. Despite Nicki Hilton and Nicole Richie, let’s just say last night made for pocket protectors and protractors. At one point, if I’m even clear on it now, I actually started talking about a bell curve. I might have even said, “x axis.” I’m cringing, I FRICKIN’ KNOW!, even as I type this. What’s wrong with me sometimes? I subject strangers to my brain, as if with a handshake, I’m ready to give them an organ.
See there’s a bell curve to dating. You already heard this in my morning rant. You have to forge past standard deviations and realize it just might take a while to get to quality. Go ahead be picky. On subject, and to digress, what’s up with people who think it’s okay to pick their nose in public? I’m at a lovely party, with drinks and cookies. People smile and shake hands and compliment one another on their kitten heel Gucci’s. Surrounding all the lovely is moi conversing with a stylish educated woman. Midstream, she digs in her deep overcrowded handbag for a tissue. Her hand surfaces from her abyss of a bag with a ball of tissue, which she irons out between her palms. She of course does all of this while carrying on a full on conversation, about what, I can’t recall… must have been my nerdalistics. Then she spreads the tissue around her index finger and begins to pick and dig into her nose. Since when is this a norm? Blowing your nose is one thing, but full on pickolympics is quite another. I don’t care if it’s covered up with a tissue; you’re still picking your nose. No one talking to you knows where to look. Will you please fcuking finish and hurry up… it’s like someone who takes too long to cum. Just fcuking be finished. So, there you have it. I take it back; don’t be picky.