Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single (3 page)
Read Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single Online
Authors: Heather McElhatton
Ted bounds into my cubicle. “Did I ever tell you that you're the most beautiful woman in the world?” he asks. I ignore him and turn my computer on. Ted's always saying slightly retarded things he thinks are funny. He professes his love for me on a daily basis, which is ridiculous. Ted in love with anyone is ridiculous. He's the nicest, sweetest little guy you'll ever meet and he treats me like a queen bee, but he's short and has crew-cut red hair and basically looks like a maltreated redheaded wood elf.
“Well, you are the most beautiful woman ever,” he says and sets a Starbucks on my desk. “Skim latte with nutmeg.”
“Thanks.” I take a careful sip.
“Get any sleep last night?” he asks.
I scroll over my loaded e-mail in-box. How can I already be behind when I just got to work? “Some,” I say, “eventually.”
“Good. Lunesta?”
“I took two Benadryl, drank a glass of red wine, and watched the Home Shopping Network until I passed out.”
“That would do it.”
“I still didn't get to sleep until about two in the morning. I saw an ad for an FLDS dress and I went online and bought one.”
“An FLD what?”
“Fundamentalist Mormon dress. You know those weird dresses Mormon women wear? High collars and poofy shoulders? They look like
Little House on the Prairie
dresses, but without buttons.”
Ted makes a face. “Why would you want one of those?”
“They sell them to raise money for their compound or whatever.”
“But why do you want one?”
“I don't know, I thought maybe I would start talking to the Mormon girl who sold it to me and we would strike up an online friendship that would end up in a high-risk escape plan where I pick her and her sister-wives up on the Utah border or something. Also I can wear it next Halloween.”
He stares at me and rests his chin on my vertical filing cabinet.
“You are so sexy,” he says. “I think I might die.”
“Did you do Supersaver?”
“Yep,” he says. “Done.”
“Thank God. I hate Supersaver.”
“I know.” He smiles. “I'm the best! Do you want to sing the Ted song?”
“No, I do not want to sing the Ted song.”
“Oh come on! It's easy. I sing a line and then you just sing out
Ted!
”
“I'm aware of the lyric structure.”
“Who's your favorite guy?” he sings.
“Ted,” I say grimly.
“Who's the funniest one you know?”
“Ted,” I sigh.
“Who's the most handsome man who also does extra work on weekends just to make your life a little easier on Monday mornings?”
“Ted. Ted who needs to get out of my cubicle.”
He bows, pivots on his foot, and leaves, but keeps singing. I can hear him bellowing the Ted song as he lopes down the hallway. I gotta admit it, he's pretty funny. If only he didn't look like a woodland elf. The idea of having sex with him seems like it would require a small green condom.
I return to the computer and open my daily e-mail from my mother, who likes to send cleaning tips, smug aphorisms, dating advice, prayer requests, and cute photographs of poodles wearing top hats and/or pictures of her only grandniece, Abbygael, who is ten months old and acts like she might have autism, even though everyone swears she doesn't.
“ISN'T SHE
AM
AZING?” my mother writes.
I stare at Abbygael's bulbous forehead. There is something definitely wrong with that kid. I think my cousins are beginning to suspect a problem, too, because they're starting to dress her in a lot of sunhats, bonnets, and single lace ribbons, which bisect her cranium and look more like a surgeon's cutting line than hip baby fashion.
I e-mail Mom back.
She's so cute! I wonder if that tremendous head growth means she's going to be a superstar in math! Wouldn't it be awesome to have a state champion mathlete in the family? Like a girl-scientist who discovers a new way to animate life or something?
Mother is not amused.
“Your cousin is a child of God,” she fires back, “not a Frankenbaby.” Then she says I should come to church more often and learn a little humility, which is a good point. If there is in fact a single male deity in charge of this barn dance, and a confirmed bachelor at that, then we really ought to try and get on his good side, especially if we're going to hatch female family members who need to wear safety helmets to butter toast.
I check my online dating account. I'm signed up on ExplodingHearts.com, which is supposed to match you with people better than you could match yourself, because you
fill out a quiz that asks if you prefer walks on the beach or cozy candlelit dinners and whether or not you kiss on the first date. When I filled out my profile I briefly considered just saying everything I know guys want to hear, that I'm a size zero and I like to barbecue steaks in a thong and sometimes I have secret lipstick-lesbian fantasies where I get into a pillow fight with my supermodel girlfriend and then we decide to have sex. But instead I opted to tell the truth, just to minimize the disappointment factor, if nothing else. I listed my real age, my real weight, and my real hobbies, which include watching
Golden Girls
reruns while eating Taco Bell. Might as well cop to it now.
Today I have eight new e-mails, indicated by eight little red hearts that sprout wings and vibrate. Once you've opened an e-mail, the wings disappear. I read through these messages and my enthusiasm turns from curiosity to something resembling that feeling you get when you turn on a light and a creature with a billion legs scurries up the wall.
The first message is from a soy farmer in Ohio. I don't know what soy is.
Hey Good Lookin!
Whatcha been cookin? No seriously, I've gotten real used to cooking for myself. I don't expect a gal to cook for me or clean or even come home every night! Ha ha ha! That's a joke I used to tell my wife. She's gone. Write me back!
âHarry
The second message is from a Russian man who lives in Chicago and wants an “efficient woman” to help him run his security business. Plus she should cook.
Privet milaya moya!
I am of to your love. It is of a preposterous thing. Please to meet me in small dress of the sexy and know that I am of a marrying way.
âVasya
The third and fourth messages seem so similar, I suspect they are the result of an Exploding Hearts “first-e-mail” tutorial. Like fill-in-the-blank Mad Libs for guys too stupid to write something of their own.
Hi there Jen!
Are you tired of the same old boring guys? Do you want a meaningful relationship? Well look no further! That's what I want! I am a successful, educated professional who exactly matches the description of what you're looking for! Please contact me at your earliest convenience, so we can see if our hearts are meant to explode together!
âUNEVERKNOWRITE?
The second one says:
Hi there sexy!
Are you tired of the same old boring guys? Do you want a good time? Well look no further! That's what I want! I am a business student who exactly matches the description of what you're looking for! Please contact me at your earliest convenience, so we can see if our hearts are meant to explode together!
âThe14U!
What's the point of telling someone “about yourself” anyway? Nobody tells the truth. Everything means something else. I've learned what a few things really mean the hard way and I've started my own dating profileâto-English translation phrasebook.
- HANDY AROUND THE HOUSE
He will not call a plumber under any circumstances. Ever. - GOOD WITH MONEY
He's a cheap bastard and will make you go Dutch. Forever
. - FAMILY MAN
He's still married. - LOVES KIDS
He has kids and no daycare provider. - MATURE MAN
He's at least fifty
,
and looks at least sixty-five. - YOUNG AT HEART
He's trolling for a preteen. - CASUAL GUY
He wears dirty sweatpants out to dinner. - METROSEXUAL
He's hoping if he dates one more girl
,
he won't be gay. Doesn't matter. He's gay. - LOVES MOVIES
Loves porn. - GOOD PERSONALITY
He's fat. - GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR
He's fat and desperate. Will laugh at anything you say. - OUTDOORSY
He pees in the sink. - READY TO SETTLE DOWN
He's just been dumped. - LIKES TO HAVE A GOOD TIME
He gets drunk. A lot. - LOTS OF FUN AT PARTIES
He makes an ass of himself in public. - A GREAT DANCER
He thinks he's a great dancer. He's not. - NOT OVERLY EMOTIONAL
He's a sociopath. - SELDOM DATES
Seldom gets second dates
. - UNDERSTANDS WOMEN
He's been married and divorced four times.
I hate online dating. I really do. The odds are so stacked against the possibility that you might like and be attracted to a total stranger, who then also likes and is attracted to you, that they cannot be calculated. I've been on so many uncomfortable, if not painful, dates that I'm starting to go out on blind dates armed with a suicide hotline number in my purse.
I don't think I can handle one more nerve-wracking, mind-numbing date/freak-fest/judge-a-thon where we sit across the table picking each other apart, hoping we aren't being picked apart, but of course we are and so one of us ends up crying in the car. Maybe I should just quit this site, although they never let you go without a fight, so you have to click through three more screens that ask you:
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CANCEL YOUR ACCOUNT? CANCELING YOUR ACCOUNT IS PERMANENT AND CANNOT BE UNDONE. YOU WILL LOSE YOUR ENTIRE PROFILE INCLUDING YOUR PICTURES. PLEASE LIST YOUR REASONS FOR LEAVING US HERE. REMEMBER YOU ALSO HAVE THE OPTION TO HIDE YOUR ACCOUNT RATHER THAN CANCEL IT. NO ONE WILL BE ABLE TO SEE YOUR ACCOUNT IF YOU HIDE IT AND YOU CAN COME BACK ANYTIME TO REACTIVATE.
What they're really saying is:
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CANCEL YOUR ACCOUNT? LET'S REVIEW THE SITUATION. YOU WERE DESPERATE ENOUGH TO COME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE, SO THINGS WERE ALREADY PRETTY BAD, RIGHT? MOST PEOPLE ARE MARRIED BY NOW AND YOU OBVIOUSLY MISSED THAT
BOAT. THAT BOAT, SHALL WE SAY, HAS SAILED. YOU LET THE GOOD ONES GET AWAY. YOU KNOW YOU DID, BECAUSE MATHEMATICALLY SPEAKING THERE HAD TO HAVE BEEN SOME GOOD ONES. SO NOW THIS IS WHAT YOU GET AND, FRANKLY, YOU'RE LUCKY TO GET IT, BECAUSE STATISTICALLY SPEAKING, YOU'RE NO SPRING CHICKEN, NO MATTER HOW YOUNG YOU ARE.
For now I'll keep my Exploding Hearts membership. I'm not up to the mental stamina it would take to cancel the account, and besides, who am I to look down on soy farmers or the Russian Mafia?
Big Trish, the cranky art-department assistant, slumps past my cubicle. She's recently divorced and now dating an ex-cop with two daughters from a previous marriage who have turned out to be demanding little brats that make her life hell. The strain of it is stamping purple half-moons under her eyes and cutting a massive vertical worry wrinkle between her eyebrows. Poor thing. She really has put on weight, though. I try not to notice stuff like that, because I fully understand women's body-image issues, but you can't help noticing an ass that big. I think about how horrible it would be to have my ass balloon up like that and how with portion control and healthy eating habits there's no reason for it. Then I have a sudden, irresistible urge for a Cinnabon.
Cinnabon Cinnabon Cinnabon
.
What do they put in their icing anyway? Probably sweetened condensed milk and animal tranquilizer cream. I have to stop eating them. Somehow. So what if I splurge today? I hate that word. Splurge. Glurge gorge purge. It sounds like the sudden beginning of something, like if I splurge on a Cinnabon I will splurge right out of my skirt and splurge into the shape of Jabba
the Hutt and then splurge into the river, where I can float like a splurged barge.
I think I still have one of those free Cinnabon coupons in the back of my desk. I hid it there so I wouldn't be tempted toâ¦there it is! The power of positive thinking works! I Google the calorie count in a Cinnabon. 730 calories. A Minibon only has 300, but those are gone in like two bites. Okay, if I get two Minibons, that's less than one big one. I don't know if the coupon is good for Minibons.
Now this is serious. If I plan this exactly right, I can sneak out before the roundup meeting, get my gooey, sticky Cinnabon and cram it into my big mouth and it could be the best moment of the day and possibly the week. If I go now, I can make it back to my desk before Ted returns from the design goons and I can gorge myself in private.
