FAQ For The Single Girl

Hi guys. It’s me, Red, your date for Wednesday night. I’m sorry for not giving you a Friday or Saturday like you asked. But until I know whether or not you’re going to talk like a Muppet or try to lick the back of my throat, I gotta reserve primetime for my friends. Anyway, you seem to have a lot of questions for me, and I feel like the answers that I’ve been giving have been a little dull. So I figured I’d give you this list of Frequently Asked Questions and let you decide if you’d like the date to continue or not. If you want, you can hit me up when you’re done. I’ll be at the bar.

Him: So what are you looking for in a relationship?
Me: I’m looking for the kind of guy that I can sit with in an awkward silence and then finally I’d clear my throat and he’d say, “What was that?” and I’d say, “What was what?” and he’d say, “Oh, I thought you said something,” and I’d say, “Oh, no, I just cleared my throat,” and he’d say, “Oh.”

Him: So do you have a type?
Me: No, not really. I find that once I get to know someone and enjoy their personality, they become much more attractive to… okay, I can’t even keep a straight face for this one, I’m sorry. I like guys who are six feet or taller and look like they should be linebackers. This means I like bouncers. Bartenders, too. Also firemen. God, I’m like obsessed with firemen. The other day I was at work and the fire alarm went off and the first thing I thought was, “YES!” Seriously. I didn’t think, “Save the children.” It was like, “Number one, put on lip gloss. Number two, don’t worry kids, you’ll see mommy and daddy again someday in heaven.” Anyway, I realize this is probably weird for you because you said you’re five foot eight, which really means you’re five foot six, by the way, we’re onto you, and you have the build of an Ethiopian child getting by on a bag of rice that costs seven cents a day. Incidentally, I’d like to know where they buy their fucking rice, because the Near East brand that I like goes for at least a few bucks and it only lasts for a meal or two, maybe only one if you’re cooking for more than two people. So anyway, don’t feel too bad about yourself, because it’s not like I rule guys out because they’re not my exact physical type. I’ve dated plenty of guys who aren’t big and tall. I just don’t like to have sex with them. In fact, I have a special title for them: Guys I Went Out With Once. No, I’m kidding. If we hit it off, sometimes I call them Friends. I jest, seriously. I’m a jokester. At the end of the day, I know I’ll probably end up with a dancing hairless midget just so all my friends can be like, “Ha ha, remember when you used to like real men?” So, you know, there’s always a chance for you. I mean, it’s really, really small. We’re talking like “shot in hell” territory, but still. You can hope for it. Hope is a beautiful thing.

Him: I have a dog. Do you like dogs?
Me: Gah, fuck me. No, I mean, that’s great. That’s fine. Dogs are just another one of God’s beautiful creatures. I would never say that I hate dogs. Some of my closest friends have… no, okay, fine, I fucking hate them. I don’t want to hurt them or anything, don’t get me wrong. We coexist peacefully. But my whole thing is that they can’t, well, they can’t wipe their asses, you know? So basically it’s like having a naked person who has never wiped their ass in their entire life climbing all over you and your furniture. And you have to feed them and clean them but when you get older they don’t return the favor. And don’t even get me started on cats.

Him: So do you like your job?
Me: Yeah. I mean, sure. I like it in the way that I like wrinkle cream, you know? Since I need it I’m glad that I have it, but I’d really prefer a world where the need for it didn’t exist. I’d also prefer a world where the lady at the fucking discount liquor store didn’t look at me and then not ask for my license even though there’s a ginormous sign right next to my head that says, “IF YOU LOOK UNDER 30 WE MUST ASK FOR YOUR IDENTIFICATION.” So basically she’s taking $15 of my money, giving me a subpar shiraz, and calling me a hag with her EYES. Bitch.

Him: So what would be your perfect day?
Me: My answer is supposed to involve a hike, right? Or a picnic? Fuck that. So, okay. I wake up because my phone rings. It’s someone calling to tell me that work is closed for the day. No, wait, it’s just closed for me because I’ve been working so hard that they’re giving me the day off. In fact, they’ve named the day in my honor. I turn over to shut off my alarm clock and see that Jason Varitek is asleep next to me. Happy Red Day! Fourteen hours later we get out of bed. I find that I’ve lost twenty pounds and gained skin pigmentation. I step into my insta-ready machine and five seconds later I’m showered, dressed, and accesorized. Also, drunk. As for the rest of the day, does it matter?

Him: So why are you single?
Me: Because it’s a lot more fun than being in a relationship. Most of the people I know who got married in their 20s are divorced or have restraining orders now. And most of the ones who didn’t seem miserable or bored out of their freakin’ skulls. And some of my single friends aren’t much better. I mean, these are bright, intelligent, funny, successful women who, with a few exceptions (and thank GOD for the exceptions) talk about their weddings as though it’ll be their passport to happiness and not a very expensive party in an uncomfortable dress after which they score copious amount of Crate and Barrel flatware, which is something to consider, I admit. I mean, I know that life isn’t a fucking variety show. I’d like to meet someone, and all the stuff that eventually goes with that. But I guess I never really understood why there’s such a rush to give up being young and having fun for sitting on a couch with some guy who is nice enough but who you basically need to hand cue cards to in order to engage in a semi-intelligent conversation. I hope I end up with a guy on the couch, don’t get me wrong, but the ones who have auditioned for the job so far haven’t exactly made the cut. And I’ve said it before, no hard feelings, best wishes for continued success, I hope they dance. But in the meantime I’d rather actually enjoy my life than lament the lack of someone I probably haven’t even met yet who isn’t going to make me deliriously happy unless I was happy before I met him. I mean, um. Why am I single? The leprosy, I guess. I find that it really hinders me sometimes.