Shame on Seamus

People, the only thing worse than being rejected is being rejected respectfully. No Crap E-mail should ever include the words “charm,” “wit,” or “shortage of women like you.” And there should definitely be no follow-up e-mail wishing you luck on an exciting career prospect you mentioned during a date. What the hell is that about?

Couldn’t he have at least made the effort to do something outrageous? Offensive, even? I mean, I am a special lady and your run-of-the-mill “It’s not you, it’s me” just doesn’t cut the mustard. After a man has told you that he can’t go out with you again because he thinks he needs to go into intensive therapy (therapy, you happen to discover two weeks later as you’re stumbling out of a bar at closing time, that involves making out with someone who looks like she can’t spell the word “psychiatrist”), you begin to expect a little bit more from the people you’ll never go out with again. A man once copied me onto an e-mail screed that he sent his friends using “The Catcher in the Rye” as a literary framework (oh, how that phrase doesn’t do his analysis justice) for discussing why I was an ungrateful bitch. That is the Hope Diamond of Crap E-mails right there and I’m a little insulted that anyone thinks I deserve anything less.

I’m the first to admit that I’m a bit spoiled when it comes to this kind of thing. I know that not everyone is lucky enough to need all their fingers and some toes to count the number of dates they’ve had cancelled via text message. But I just want to say to all of you reading this and wondering if you’ll ever find a man to treat you rudely, don’t worry: he’ll come along eventually. You may have to kiss a lot of Prince Charmings, but I have complete faith that you’ll find your frog.

Speaking of great headlines, I saw this one from the BBC this evening: “For black holes, there appears to be very little room for mediocrity.”

I imagine a black hole lecturing his son about how he’s going to subsume the universe right or not subsume it at all. “Bobby, we’re black holes. That means something. Now pick up your Hawking radiation and get back out there. Come on, champ, there’s no crying in epic destruction!”

This story also reminded me of my all-time favorite science story EVER (you don’t have one?) in that it’s a delightful reminder that we have no fucking clue about anything. The story discusses the theory that we’re products of a computer simulation by hyper-intelligent humans, or “posthumans,” if you will. The scientist – I’m sorry, philosopher – who came up with this theory acknowledges, though, that even if such intelligent beings existed, they might not waste their time coming up with us:

“This kind of posthuman might have other ways of having fun, like stimulating their pleasure centers directly,” Dr. Bostrom says. “Maybe they wouldn’t need to do simulations for scientific reasons because they’d have better methodologies for understanding their past. It’s quite possible they would have moral prohibitions against simulating people, although the fact that something is immoral doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

That last part is where you really see his philosophical training in action.

Anyway, what makes this my favorite science story EVER is the following:

“Dr. Bostrom doesn’t pretend to know which of these hypotheses is more likely, but he thinks none of them can be ruled out. ‘My gut feeling, and it’s nothing more than that,’ he says, ‘is that there’s a 20 percent chance we’re living in a computer simulation.’”

“You guys, it’s TOTALLY JUST A HUNCH, but I think I can put an exact number on the likelihood that everything we experience is the result of immoral superbeings dicking around after they got bored with stimulating their pleasure centers. I mean, I’m not exactly sure but I’m exactly sure it’s 20%. Do you think I should call the New York Times or just, like, wait for them to contact me?”

UPDATE: The Discovery Channel ran the first story under the headline, “Sorry, Goldilocks: Black Holes Come in Small and Large.” Get it? Because she wants a black hole that’s just right? Well, suck it up, sister. This ain’t the Burger King and you can’t get that shit made to order. XOXO, The Discovery Channel

I bought a studfinder this weekend because I needed one for a home improvement project. (Insert every joke ever made about my dating life here.) Anyway, in my search for the studliest tool on the market (ibid.) I kept coming across these incredibly sensationalistic decorating headlines: “Can This Bathroom Be Saved?” “Don’t Buy Window Treatments Without Reading This First! “I Have a Secret: I Hate Your House.” “My 13 Year-Old Chaise Lounge is an Out of Control Slut!” They are all real headlines except for the last one. I made it up to make a point, which is when did Architectural Digest start cribbing from the Maury Povich Show?

I wish I could take credit for this, but it comes from Married to the Sea.

My debate coach once told my mother that I was a great kid, but a little high-strung. I think my response when my mother told me this was to shriek “WHAT?!? I’M NOT HIGH-STRUNG!!!” and stomp off in a huff. If it isn’t clear from that little anecdote, and the fact that I was on the debate team in high school, my coach was absolutely right. My string is so highly-strung that birds get nosebleeds when they land on it.

I want to thank my loved ones for putting up with me during those times when I have the patience of a rat terrier on amphetamines. You’re marvelous, all of you.

I think it’s a really good sign when you get up to your apartment at the end of a date and your face and palm are red from smacking yourself repeatedly in the forehead as soon as you got out of sight of your date’s car because you feel like you’re not as cool, smart, attractive, mature and funny as you think he was.

And it’s an even better sign when you have so much nervous energy that you fly up the stairs to your apartment like it’s possible to outrun your awkwardness. Except it’s not, and you’ll probably bite it hard and think to yourself, “This is not how I wanted to get carpet burns tonight.”

And if the nervous energy extends itself into a weekend-long cleaning spree, well, you’ve got it bad. You may not understand why you’ve scrubbed your toaster until it’s so spotless that your date could see his face in it (and it’s plastic) but you do know that you don’t deep clean your small appliances for every Tom, Dick & Harry that comes along.

This is me in one hour and one half:

Get ready, weekend, because I’m going to do you right. Ohhh…

Can we please, please make “My junk tastes like pumpahnickel! Call me!” a thing? Please?

I recently had a rather unpleasant fight at the end of a date about going Dutch. This wasn’t some “Oh, no, please, let me, it’s my treat” kind of thing. He basically told me that I could pry the check from his cold, dead hands and I acquiesced because it wasn’t worth getting his blood on my dress.

Though I seriously considered the idea when I reached for my purse he remarked, “Oh, no need to pretend to get your wallet. I’ve got this.” Aaaand that’s all you’re getting tonight.

I’ve done online dating before but thinking that that will prepare you for match.com is like thinking that driving a car will be adequate training for flying the space shuttle. There are so many features and buttons and ways to stalk and be stalked that most of the time I just log-on, click around aimlessly for awhile, log off, and hope that I don’t end up like Matthew Broderick in WarGames.

The Onion ran a headline last weekend that read

I came across that article while waiting at the salon to get my first haircut in six months because I had a date that night. It’s a miracle that I survived such a catastrophic breach in the irony-space continuum.

A friend said to me during The Hiatus, “Don’t worry, you’re just like Michael Jackson. You may be retired but you’ll be back.” First, I made sure that the utter self-neglect had not gotten too out of hand and that he meant to say Michael Jordan. Then I pointed out that Michael Jordan was good at basketball and so maybe the comparison to my romantic life didn’t really apply. Anyway, consider this post my Space Jam because there are going to be a lot more Looney Tunes in my life now that I’m dating again.