Jawwwwwg

                       

Women are somewhat notorious for changing their minds. We all know this. But women who date will most definitely agree and stick to a few key things. Always have some type of mouth freshener on you, shave until you resemble tofu, and never date a guy whose name you can't passionately scream out in bed.

As if the plethora of guys who drown in a sea of cheap cologne and 10 dollar chinatown sidewalk sale sweaters weren't enough of a dating limitation, we now also have to contend with the annunciation of their names.

The list is endless, but let’s start by naming a few that don’t work in the bedroom, now, until the end of time.

There can’t be any Freds, Kenneths, Donalds, Abrahams, Ahmeds, Barts, Olivers, Edwards, Mervins, Jillians, Jamies, Willies, Mortons, Adolfs, Linuses, Nathaniels, Thurstons, Waldos, or Wolfgangs.

Nor anyone that has your fathers name. Or anything even remotely close to it. For example, my fathers name is Jerry. So anything even starting with the letter 'J' is even a little too eerily close for me. So just to be on the safe side, I say eliminate the letter to the left of 'J' and the letter to the right of 'J'.

So no dating 'I', 'J' or 'K' names for me either.

We're down to choosing a man from the mere 23 letters left in the alphabet and here we are, already limited beyond reason to whom we'd even consider dating. And we haven't even said fucking hi yet.

There are a few names that happen to be in the safety zone. John, David, Chris, Michael, Joe, Brian, Eric, Tom, Paul, Scott, Jim, Greg, to name a few... and i used to believe 'George'.

And if you're reading this and happen to share any of the aforementioned acceptable names, know this is sheerly a coincidence and not some twisted methodology of getting my friends to disrobe and dangle from a trapeze with me.

Back to George.

This all changed for me once I dated my first George.
At first I thought, well, theres George Clooney, George Washington, and King George the Third. Not bad. But then I thought a little harder, and realized there's also Curious George, George Bush, and Boy George. Which instilled a fear, followed by more fear. And then a rectal spasm.

The possibility of dating George came into play via an internet dating service. George emailed me every day. George got no response from me every day. Because George misspelled everything, every day. An absolute Dawn dating deal breaker. But George was unrelenting. So much so, that even seeing George's name became as irritating to me as shaving my armpits with sulfuric acid and a 40 Grade sandpaper.

Online dating sites are for hopeless losers right? They're made for the bottom dwellers of society. It's where the leftovers and people that were hit in the face with a bag of nickels converge. I know this.

And there I was, 2 years ago, loserly filling out every question of my profile like my children's next breath of air depended upon it.

However, I did but remain stoic in my position to never actually DATE anyone from there, but to rather just window shop until someone interesting should possibly emerge.

Little did I know that I was window shopping at a store that was blown up for insurance money and had nothing to offer the greater female populace but the sad, war torn tattered remains, of the male citizenry, just for the asking.

I wasn’t even sure why I signed up for this online dating act of desperation in the first place. It's so not my style. I'm sure that was my mothers brainwashing / dating contribution. The same one who every time watches Derek Jeter on TV says, “ Now THAT'S the kind of guy you need to meet.”

Really, mom? Derek Jeter? Tall, sexy, boyish millionaire? How refreshing and unpredictable. 

So out of the hundreds of ugly, emotionally bruised, player, prosthetic limbed, pot bellied, tragic, jobless, disheveled, hillbillied, arrogant, tacky, mutant, grandpas who I politely turned down by telling them I had liver failure and only 6 months left to live, George, like a plantars wart, just kept coming back. And I thought 2 things. He's either so dumb that he can’t take more than a hint, or his penis requires night vision goggles and sifting devices to find. Neither of which appealed to me.

But George was a fireman. George had 2 kids. George was relatively cute. And George lived only an hour and a half away from me. And George was persistent. So once the name ‘George’ passed the bedroom inspection test, by saying it, from every possible sexual angle known to mankind, I decided maybe Georges earnest attempts to meet me weren't something I should so quickly dismiss. His name sounded a little more annoying when I yelled it swinging from the trapeze, but I blamed that particular deviation on the Doplar Effect, and let it slide.

The day after the experiment, I get online and see yet another email from George, but this time I decided to respond to the bold request of exchanging phone numbers, and possibly go on this much offered date.

It is just a date right? How bad can it be with a relatively cute fireman. There were however, these two pictures, ( not good considering he only had 2 pictures ) where I noticed his eyes looked unusually strange, like his thyroid was ready to explode. But I second guessed it and assumed that maybe someone was just stabbing him in the back right as the picture was being taken.

So fine. I give him my cell number, and say we should talk sometime. Not even ten minutes later, my phone rings. I see an unfamiliar number and immediately know its from George. I'm a little nervous but figured we could always talk about the proper treatment for sunburns, the ' Dalmations Are Deaf ' myth, or if all else failed, i could just have an uplifting conversation about people jumping to their deaths on 9/11.

I answer the phone.

Me: 'Hello?'

George: " Hi Dawwwwwwwwwn, it's Jawwwwwwwwwwwwwg."

me: "Oh. Fuck. uhhh uhhh..I mean, Oh. Hi!"

A horrible accent resulting in an R-less George.

Now this was something I had never foreseen in my extensive Bad Name research. Not only was his accent so strong that he was destroying his and poor George Clooney's name, but now he's destroying my name as well.

Dawn. The sunrise. Pastel colors. Dewey leaves. Long shadows. I didnt think it was ever possible to ruin Dawn. But he did. I personally wouldve been happier with "Hey Gertrude" at that point.

So now, theres a new addendum to my original rules: You can't have two 'awww' sounding partner names. No Shawn and Dawn, Nor Harrys and Marys. No Jimmys and Kimmys.

No Garanimals name matching.

I also couldn't help notice, but according to my calculations, 'Ewwwwww' had the same amount of 'W's as he made 'Jawwwwwg' sound like it did. A gruesome discovery that I'm convinced was more than likely, a sign from God.

This was not looking nor sounding good. Plus it had the overt 'J' sound of my fathers name. Making this introduction more repulsive by the minute.

What am I going to do now?! Can I call him Derek Jeter instead? At this point, I'm thinking Chinwendoo is looking better than I had thought. If he really liked me, he'd change his name to Chinwendoo. Hey when i got married, i changed my last name. So what is so bad about changing his first name. Show a little commitment and willingness to sacrifice for Christ's sake. We're in the 'woooing' period. Now's your time to shine, and slay dragons for each other.

For a moment, I thought of pretending he dialed the wrong number by responding "Pardon me? This is Connecticut you've called. I think you meant to call Bensonhurst."

But instead, I opt for pulling out the Bible and decide to practice that "Do Unto Others Bullshit, and simply say "Hi!" in return.

He continues: " Hi Dawwwwwwwn, it's Jawwwwwwwg, from 'Internet Dating Nightmares? ...you just gaymee me yaw numba???"

FYI, years of being married into a Jewish family and having the quintessential Jewish in-laws, who basically would've paid front row tickets to see me terminally gag on The Body of Christ Wafer, have taught me how to be perfectly , inauthentically pleasant when all the doors are locked, and I have no way out. So I pull this learned trait out of my bag of social goodies and perk back up to my normal self, and continue conversing.

I don't really recall what we spoke about because all I seemed to focus on hearing was him say individual words like…cawwwwl… tawwwking….beach bawwwwls, and something about the Jersey Shawwwww.

We talk for another 15 minutes until I realize I can't go on and need an excuse to hang up. "I'm sorry George, my phone is breaking up. I can't seem to properly hear any vowels or consonants . Thanks for cawwwling, it was nice hearing your horrendous accent and I'll cawwwl you back when I'm less grossed out, less educated, or more dead."

But it came out more like, "...Thanks so much for calling. It was nice talking to you, but I'm kind of busy from now until Armageddon." 

We hang up and 20 minutes later, and he texts me a picture of his abs.

Who would send someone a picture of just their headless abs?! Plus now I'm growing more concerned by the minute that he has no head, you know, from the insurance job explosion.

In typical woman fashion, I quickly grab the phone and call every female I’ve ever met dating back to the Mesozoic era to shred this guy into little pieces.

My friends unanimously agree that I was possibly being too harsh, and say that accents don't mean anything. ( Nor did his chronic misspellings, bad grammar, bulgy eyes, severed stomach or Fuggetabout's either... I suppose.)

Then I was hit with this sudden pang of guilt. Maybe I was in fact, being too harsh. Maybe he was a genuine nice guy that just never received a Hooked On Phonics book as a Christmas stocking stuffer. Or his parents never introduced him to other humans.

My ‘friends’ advise me that if he calls again, I should at least be willing to meet him for a drink. Maybe they're right I thought. Plus he's a fireman. So if I pass out from boredom or stupidity or decide to set him on fire, he'll know what to do.

I eventually concede and make that pact with my friends. 
The friends that I am no longer on speaking terms with.

Sure enough, 2 days later, I get the call.

I had him in my phone log then as, 'Jawwwg'.

I hadn't seen that many 'w's in digital display since the launch of the first dot com business.

I take a deep breath and answer my phone.

Me: "Hello?"

George: " Hi Dwwawwwwwwwn, it's Jawwwwwwwg ???"

Now I'm hearing additional 'W's, right after the 'D'.

And why does he have to go UP at the end of his name.. like he's asking me a question. I just wanted to say " You called me, asshole, don’t you know your own name???" And then I realized, no. He doesn't know his own name.

We continue to talk, and he asks me out for that coming Saturday night.

I was torn between stabbing my ear with a rusty hypodermic needle or going on this date.

Stabbing my ear won, until I realized he would just keep cawwwling anyway until I lowered my standards to ankle height and succumbed to the torture.
So Saturday night, it was.

Growing up in New York City, I was always aware of my New York accent. But after one phone call with George, it occurred to me to start retracing my roots to see if I was possibly a descendant of Queen Anne.

Saturday night comes, and we're to meet in front of a local bar in CT.

I arrive 10 minutes early purely on the 'the first to come, can be the first to run like hell' concept.

He approached the bar, sees me, and emphatically waves while yelling out an embarrassing ...... " Dwwawwwwwwwn!!!"

I was surprised he had even recognized me considering I violently withdrew my head into my turtleneck once I heard him. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't bad looking, I'd say he was a 7 or 8 on a scale of one to 10.

But I'm referring to the IQ scale.

He grabs the door handle of the bar and says:

" Hea, lemme get the dawwwwwwwww."

As the alcohol took affect, all of George's small talk became white noise. But my brain dead trance was occasionally interrupted with hearing " blah blah blah dawwwgs", “blah blah blah glassa waaawta”, and "blah blah are ya ready ta awwwda."

I look to his eyes for some type of possible physical connection, and all I see looking eagerly back at me were 2 golf ball eyes precariously hanging out of his head. I kept nervously putting my hand over my glass in fear of them falling into my drink. Which I needed desperately at this point. My internal monologue being " I told you dumb Dawn! I TOLD you they were too buggy. Knife stab my ass!"

I let him talk for a while, If that's what we're calling it. Because I, on the other hand, was quite speechless. He said he was so glad that I was so 'smawwwwt' and glad that I wasn't shawwwwt, and that I was gawwwwjus.

He talked about his friend Pawwwwwl, and his 2 dawwwwwtiz, and her pet hawwwwss.

I managed to be as pleasant as I knew how, and drink as much as possible to prevent a personal suicide attempt, by me willingly beating my brains in, in the public restroom with the toilet seat cover.

After a 3 hour, R-less conversation, I lied to him and told him that I needed to wake up early the next morning to run. Because running was on my mind. Running fast, and far. In high heeled shoes.

I thanked him for the nice evening of drinks and hemorrhaging ear canals and walked to my car. However, walking is an understatement.

I actually got a $250 ticket in the parking lot for running too fast.  Who gets a ticket for running too fast? I never knew that could happen. I mean I knew you weren't ever allowed to run fast through the hallways in 5th grade, but I didn't realize they were finally cracking down on it so hard now.

The very next day, I hear my phone ringing. This time, it was ringing with an accent. I look down at the caller ID and see it's Jawwwwwgy Pawwwwwgy, and let it go to voicemail.

But my conscience gets the best of me and I realize I should return the call to say a final thank you. But the thought of talking or listening to Jawwwwg has become about as appealing as drinking hot earthworms through a straw.

"You have 1 new message."

I press play, and make a face like I just swallowed the drainage off a coronors floor.

I listen. For a second.

" Hi Dwawwwwwn, it's Jawwwwwwg?"

The thought of listening to the rest of the message doesn't even cross my mind. I press delete, and call the entire east coast once more for counsel.

I was met with a resounding "Yes, call back, that's the right thing to do."

Those friends are now listed as 'Antichrist' on my phone log.

Like ripping off a hot waxing strip from the pubic region, I decide to do it quickly and get it over with.

He answered his phone on a mere 1/8th of a ring.

After spitting the puke out that had just suddenly accumulated in my mouth, from the desperate 1/8th of a ring pick-up, I said real quickly " Oh hi its Dawn."

And just as he started saying " Oh hi Dwwawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn!!" , I thought "Shit here we go again" and figured I’d run out and do some grocery shopping and maybe visit some friends, in hopes of me returning to the call as he was nearing his completion of W's.

But it was useless.

He was still only on his 876th 'W' when I was done gallivanting around town.

He continues to talk and ends with a claim of wanting to go out with me again that following weekend.

That's when I knew I had to be completely honest with him. Ok 'completely' is a lie, I'm not that heartless. I mean hawwwwhtless.

Me: "George, thank you so much for coming up here and taking me out, I had an okay time, but I've decided I really need to take a break from dating for a while."

George: "Oh noooo really??? Was it sumptin' I said???"

Me: "No Jawwwwg. No. It was just one fucking letter in particular."

Let's Play Name That Porta-Potty, Shall We?

While most moms sit around and think of their kids next soccer game, I, on the other hand, take a sick interest in thinking of more appropriate names for Porta-Potty mobile toilets.

On a recent outing, after consuming 3 large bottles of water, I was in dire need of finding a bathroom. But the only thing that was around was the infamous plastic outhouse sitting in the center of a wide open expanse of grass.

As I tentatively opened the plastic door of this rocky preschool shit machine, I try desperately to not make eye contact with what appeared in the toilet to be the inners of the entire eastern seaboard.

It was unusually balmy that day, so it was hot in there. Like an Ezy-Bake oven for shit.

As an added bonus, it was also sporting an aggressive tropical humidity index as well.

I scan the walls for gekkos and tree frogs but all I find stuck to the ceiling was some mysterious brown spots and a never before seen rare breed of used toilet paper that was about 3 seconds from biodegrading onto my forehead.

But I'm desperate, so I decide to test my inner strength, as well as my waning lung capacity and go for the pee.

No joke I put my hoodie on. 

Dont particularly need the e-coli sticking to my hair thats already damp from the low pressure pee front haze in there.

I hovered over the toilet, legs squivering, saying my Hale Marys with my forehead sweating in fear of making contact with the intestinally diarreah baptized seat, ...

I cant help but think, all my martial arts training, staying in a horse stance and focusing my breathing, channeling my chi, has it's moment of shining glory...in a fucking porta potty.

If the need should ever arise again to find a bathroom where the toilets filled with community defecation and precariously shakes when you close the door....two thoughts came to mind. The first thought was, I think I'd rather crap in my pants.

The 2nd thought was, I think I'd rather crap in my pants.

4 days later, I'm still holding my breath in fear of the smell still being trapped in my nosehairs somewhere.

But as I hover over the toilet seat testing every muscle and ligaments resistance capacity, a flood of more accurate names for these......these olfactory playgrounds, came to mind.

The name of this luxurious facility that I embarked upon was comically called

'The Royal Flush'

And I think...yeah more like: 'The Colon Flush'.

I exit the Porta Potty as if someone was chasing me with an axe.

Some other desperate fool awaits me outside.

i hold the door open, and picture the group effort decay inside he's about to witness, lower my head, and say..."Dude...it wasnt me, it was all of Connecticut."

So here's my names, for a more honest Porta-Potty World:

1. Shit Outta Luck

2. The Crap Trap

3. Stop And Plop

4. The Melting Pot

5. The Fisher-Price Pietri Dish Playhouse

6. Take a Load Off

7. The Bung Lung

8. The Poop Coop

9. The Hotter Squatter

10. The Shit Terrarium

11. Take Your Breath Away Waste Management

12. The Stank Tank

13. The Shit Pit

14. Holy Crap, Mother Of God

15. Helter Shelter

16. The Last Resort

17. Ass In The Grass

18. The FeCAL LoCAL

19. The Butt Hutt

20. The Shat Vat

21. The Log Cabin

22. The Stool Shed

23. The Community Dump

24. The DUNGeon

25. You Won't Believe This Shit

Feel free to share with me your own, and next time youre in Porta-Potty hell, i hope you'll think of me. :)

Love Is In The Air. Or Is It Carbon Monoxide.

February 14th. Here it is. Hearts...love...and flowers that are technically dead when you receive them.

That lovely day of the year where happily coupled couples prove their undying love for each other by paying $300 at a restaurant for a chicken caesar salad, embarrass the entire human race by frolicking around together in their matching red sweaters, and exchange waxy boxed chocolates that they purchased from the same store they buy their Q-tips and diarrhea remedies from.
What other day but Valentines Day. And as we know all too well, usually only to bite into every piece of chocolate, to find out that you didn't get the one you really thought it was.
A little too synonymous with relationships, if you ask me.

The other kind of persons you'll encounter on Valentines Day are the surly singles. The disgruntled dateless who'll celebrate the day by cursing those in love, fantasizing about creative ways to handicap their exes, ripping every friend to shreds who happen to have their Facebook profile picture as 'the couple shot', or simply decide to sit home and pop in the extended version of Loius Armstrong's " What A Wonderful World" as they're blubbering and praying for a speedy relocation to February 15th, where they can go out and appear to be less single again.

I'm not really sure which category I fall into because A) I do like popping chocolate in my mouth like it's fistfuls of popcorn. But B) I also do love bawling my tear ducts dry to my wedding song, "What a Wonderful World".

But honestly, to me Valentine's Day has always been a pretty ludicrous day. Even when I was happily married or dating someone seriously, I opted out on the forced romantic evening out / Beanie Baby stuffed animal/pre-written Hallmark card exchanges. That's like giving someone a meme. I think Valentine's Day actually became the day I detested relationships ... mainly because this eternal love for me wasn't typically expressed in loving, poetic words and hardcore romance, it wasn't expressed by running naked through a field holding hands (never do this with me by the way ), but generally more through the purchase of something like a new vacuum cleaner or coffee grinder with a half case of hazelnut CoffeeMate Creamer. Seriously guys, this isn't Black and Deckers Centennial Celebration. Women don't want to plug their Valentines Day gifts in. Even if they're lacy and pink, and encrusted with diamonds, nail guns, cleaning apparatuses and stud finders are gross gifts.

So whether you're married and happy, married and disgusted, single and dating every night, single and ugly every night, single but really married, it doesn't matter. Valentine's day is still a premeditated day of love and certainly not the day to judge the one you're with based on any type of stupid present. Women, being notorious for this. 

Plenty of crappy spouses buying awesome presents, and quite as many awesome spouses buying some pretty ridiculous ones.

Take my mom for example. One year she complained to my stepdad that she was disappointed that she couldn't find artichokes anywhere. He thought he was being cute and oh so adorable, and a few weeks later for Valentines Day, bought her 8 artichokes, put them in a box, wrapped them, and proudly gave them to her.
My stepdad is a retired NYC police officer. After that present, and 20 years on the force in the South Bronx, the only person he's ever encountered in the 5 boroughs where he actually became in fear of his life, was from my mother that day. So no gifts with cords, and no produce.

And guys, while we're on the subject of gift giving, I'd personally stay away from surprising a women with any type of lingerie. Women are a bit picky about what fat reserves they're willing to display after gorging themselves on dinner.
And the last thing you want to do with a women, is get her to begrudgingly stuff her ripely-dinnered self into a tight contraption that she didn't first try on 86 versions of---that is more than likely made up of nothing more than a wheel of dental floss. And as a Valentines Day special, comes with a free camera. I personally think you'd be safer with the outcome if you swam in a tank with a school of piranhas and a raw steak wedged in your every orifice.
Women need dress rehearsals.
Or someone dies.

So keep your lingerie fantasies exclusively to the Victorias Secret window mannequins until she's the one buying it.

And speaking of lingerie, if sex is on your Valentines Day itinerary, do yourself a favor and stay away from any conversations involving her weight. If you say she looks thin, she'll hear it as "Oh, are you saying i usually look fat?"
Even if you say "You look great tonight, hun!", she'll misconstrue it into: "What does that mean... I don't look great all the other nights?" Trust. It'll happen. We're females. We have PHD's in this shit.

And for the love of God, please don't ask a girl... "Will you be my Valentine?". Or even worse yet, get engaged.

That's just straight up Cringeville.

Post Valentines Day week, is twenty times worse. It's sadly the week of neurotic, loser women comparing and contrasting V-Day night stories /gifts, and lamely emasculating him for comparing poorly to that dude that always seems to crop up around this time of year... The guy who buys his girlfriend a house in the Costa Rican rainforest, as he delivers her the deed to that house on a glistening, pulsating steed, while he's flicking rose petals in her wake and holding her up to the heavens on his bicep. Doesn't matter whether you're a man or a women. We all want that bastard drawn and quartered.

Obviously, we all know loving someone is a complicated idea. And it can be just as complicated to express that love. Be it verbally or otherwise. But we also know that love is not a tangible gift. It's a deep understanding and often an inexplicable magical, spiritual force between two people.
Or in my experience, a Norelco SpeedTrim Razor with a built-in Heel Exfoliator.

I think true love needs to be that intoxicating pull between 2 people that makes everyone else around them seem to disappear. (Those people usually first being their friends.)
Love can feel equally powerful, yet dramatically different with every person. Each one being as unique as say, a tomato splatter on a wall, from a tomato that was hucked against it by different pitchers. That's love.
That mysterious sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, every time you see them, like you just ate a steak that you thought said expires Feb.14, 2017, but really said Feb. 17, 2014. That's real love. It's having that one person in your arms and feeling complete. A feeling of holding on and never wanting to let go, like you're on a turbulent flight to LA, holding a spiked grenade and a vile of nitroglycerine. That's love.

Love is a special, beautiful thing that happens between two people, that shouldn't be undermined by appointing it only one day of the year. Oddly enough, when you're not in love, it's more like that absolutely disgusting thing that happens between two people that induces vomiting. But regardless, real love is an every day love. Valentines Day is amateurs night. It's the prom for love. Am I starting to sound like one of the surly singles? I'm just curious.

And too many people often mistake true deep love, for a person they're just physically attracted to. If that were the case, I believe I should march off to a Justice of Peace with an Oreo, a bag of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and a vibrator.
The purely surface things can be tricky. Beautiful bone structure doesn't pay the bills. So don't be fooled. Look deeper. Try and get them to talk, form a sentence, complete one side of a Rubix cube. Picture them old. Visit their aging, ailing parents for a quick genetic crystal ball reference, look for facial structure weaknesses, live with them when they're vomiting and have a disgusting stomach flu, and for good measure, throw a few screaming kids and some astronomical Amex bills in there, and then decide whether or not it's true love. Otherwise, they're just cute and fun. True love is earned, and proven over the years and multitude of life's hardships. Not when everything is picture perfect and your faces still haven't slid off your skulls.

I'd hope that to know me, or any of you, is to love us, all year round. 

So I'm wishing all of you true love, every day you're alive.

And minimal boxed chocolate homicides on February 14th.

<3
~dawn