#3: Aging Sporadically

While I was never much of an underage drinker in high school (this post is off to a rockin' start), I was a little jealous of Canada and the UK for having much more relaxed age limits.  I lived/live pretty close to Canada, but not quite close enough that I could justify driving up there just to drink, especially at 19.  I was saddled with other important commitments like "flunking out of my first college" or "being a really terrible telemarketer".

The 21-vs-18 oddity in United States age restrictions is more than a little confusing.  The government is telling me that I'm old enough to enlist in the Army and elect government officials and smoke and buy lottery tickets and get a credit card, but NOT old enough to drink or gamble (really? so the lottery isn't gambling?)

...and either way I'm not old enough to rent a car.

My Celebrations of Adulthood Part I and Part II were anticlimactic...a feeling shared by many, I'm sure.  I remember my friend taking me to Giant Eagle at 12:30 in the morning to purchase cigars, and after perusing the exactly three cigar options available at that hour I settled on Tijuana Smalls (under the rationale that Primus' "Shake Hands With Beef" featured the not-so-subliminal line "Roll out the cannon, boys.  Steal us some wine. Puff Tijuana Smalls.")  This was my first and last time partaking in this brand.

By the time 21 rolled around I was already pretty well-versed in drinking (HI MOM AND DAD), and while my actual birthday featured no drinking -- to the best of my recollection -- we did throw a pretty kick-ass Y2K party in our apartment, where I drank a lot of Zima.  This is, by far, the most dated sentence I've ever written.  If I could have incorporated "and then my friend called on the home phone" or "just after logging into AOL..."

The actual sensation of adulthood, though, seems to come even later than 18, or 21, or 25 (not that renting a car doesn't come with a thrilling sense of responsibility).  It sort of washes over you in waves.  Here are just a handful of occurrences over the past 20 years that added a few points to my adulthood score.

• If I see a car with a backside full of bumper stickers I think man, he is going to have SO much trouble getting fair trade value for that thing.
• My 401(k) was significantly affected by the stock market crash.
• I have a 401(k).
• I went to the movies by myself (Matrix Reloaded, for those curious...I fell asleep in the middle).
• I have a vested interest in the aesthetic state of my front yard.
• I got a certified letter from the borough demanding that I pay my past-due garbage collection bill (despite them never sending me said bills...and I was sure they had my address, since they collect trash four feet from my fucking house every single week).
• My daughter has complained that "you're embarrassing me, Dad."
• Cashiers refer to me as "sir".
• Music I used to listen to in school is in steady rotation on the oldies station.
• I care less and less about sports with each passing second of time.
• I am occasionally content with doing absolutely nothing all weekend and I'll brag about it to coworkers on Monday.
• I once was 20 minutes late to work after sitting in the car to listen to the rest of a long-form news story on NPR.
• The only time I'm carded is out of pity when I'm drinking with someone that does look young enough to be carded.
• I've complained about the rowdiness of my neighbors.

I didn't feel like an adult when I turned 18.  I mean, it's hard to put on an air of responsibility when you're living with your parents and bringing in a $400 paycheck that seems like an incredible amount of money.  Ditto for 21, when my parents paid my rent (although I adultishly reasoned with them that my rent would be cheaper than the cost of on-site housing at college) and my roommates and I shopped exclusively at Sam's Club so we ended up eating pierogies or ramen every day for months at a time.  I didn't even really feel like an adult when I got my first job, because after bills I was most likely to spend my disposable income on cigarettes and Playstation games.

I think the government should modify the definition of "legal adult" to one of three achievements (whichever happens first):

1. "The age at which you feel slightly embarrassed to be shopping at the mall."  For me this was around 24, when stores like Hot Topic started cropping up to remind me that there is an entire generation at my heels that are driving supply and demand more feverishly than I could ever hope to.  
2. "The age at which you're at the pharmacy at 4 in the morning buying children's tylenol"...because, c'mon...what you REALLY want to do after you get your vomiting toddler to go back to sleep is to down a few stiff drinks and fall asleep to Friends reruns.
3. "The age at which you adopt a pet."  I realize that you could adopt a pet at like 14, but a) you're at least imitating someone that aspires to be a responsible person, b) you're giving a cute animal a loving home (and it BETTER be loving), and c) the next decade of early morning poop walks/constant litter box scooping/never-ending cage cleanings should give you the right to reward yourself with a beer or the chance to throw $20 away on some slot machine.  Besides, wouldn't pet shelters be virtually empty if this was a legitimate rule?  Kids would be scooping up dogs by the armful just for the chance to throw a kickass party.  THINK ABOUT IT, BIG BROTHER.

#2: Finding Your Niche

I met this woman at the Cage.

Context is everything.

Squirrel Hill Cafe is the legal name for the Cage, or at least the name plastered on the facade. For those on a lower frequency of the hipster spectrum, the Cage is a dive bar that seems to attract clientele that like their beer cheap and their lungs filled with smoke.  It's as if all of the cliques from my high school hold a weekly reunion there.

We talked for a while (this woman and I, not the high school cliques...focus, seriously), mostly leaning towards the job-interview-esque questions like "what do you do?" and "what's your biggest fear?" or "when can you start?"  I'm mostly kidding.  But eventually (by which I mean "after enough alcohol") the conversation degraded into my wheelhouse of half-assed one-liners and non-sequiturs.  I think this happens because 75% of the conversation I'm actually having is going on inside of my head, and what the general public hears is the illogical conclusion.  As a result I'm prone to blurting out things like "shouldn't ALL animals have been named after the sound they make?" or "I think you and I have very different interpretations of the color green."

Later in the evening she bet that she could guess my middle name.  And I think I replied with "ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm......okay?"

"Okay, so what's your first name, again?" (I realize that this does not imply a successful encounter, but I don't think my name is particularly irrelevant compared to other specifications, like my favorite smells, or if I like my dressing mixed into my salad or on the side)
"Timothy."
"Oh, Edward."

She said it just like that, like my middle name was the lamest discovery in the history of time...as if it was tattooed on my forehead and I just wasn't aware.

I mean, that's cool shit, isn't it?  Not helpful in any way, but still cool.  I don't think she possessed any sort of extra-sensory perception or supernatural affinities, but I'd imagine some heightened sense of social redundancy gave her the ability to determine the most reasonable middle name to go with a first name.

Not that I said any of that to her.  I think I stopped after "that's cool shit."

She asked me if I had any unique skills that paralleled hers and my first instinct was to say "no...I mean...who does?" So what I said was "no...I mean...who does?"

Yesterday I was typing up revised guidelines for some changes to a database I made at work (in case you were concerned that my home databases are undergoing significant changes).  Being hyperfocused on the task at hand and donning headphones means my coworkers have to try unique ways to get my attention, often involving projectiles.  But, this particular employee was not aware of this caveat and instead stood in front of my desk for a good five minutes before I had looked up.

"Were you working?"
"Yup...just typing up some steps."
"Wait, so you were working?"
"Yeah...why?"
"You weren't just mashing your keyboard and pretending to ignore me?"
"Ha, um, nope.  Why would I ignore you?"
"I just...nobody types like that."
"Like what?"
"Like...all crazy like."
"Oooookay....well, I guess I type all crazy like, then."

I didn't think much of it until a few hours ago, when I was writing an e-mail and my daughter asked me if I was actually writing words or just typing gibberish.  So, before I took her home I tested my ability to type, since it appears to be so unnerving to people:

I don't know if there's any significant benefit to typing 105 WPM except that it's going to take me 1/3 of the time to write this blog when compared to an "average typist".

But, on the plus side I know what I can tell the next stranger at the next bar!  And then I can be all "oh so you don't believe me?  Someone pass me a laptop, I'm about to throw down, mofo!"

#1: I Hate to Cry

I am not new to online dating (cue sad trombones), which leaves a chance that my irritation with the banal or the redundant can be chalked up to what I imagine is a longer-than-normal tenure.

But...why? Why is this such common commentary to find in people's profiles?

To pull some of these snippets I ended up doing a Google search, so now random men all over the country have me listed as a visitor to their profile.  Maybe they'll think "hmm...my writing inflection must be a little too androgynous" and rewrite their profiles.  I should send them a message that says "I'm not interested, just proving a point about the superfluity of information on this dating site."

That was a really long way to explain that describing oneself with "I love to laugh" apparently crosses all genders.

OF COURSE YOU LOVE TO LAUGH.  You are not a masochist (and if you were there is still a reasonable chance that you still love to laugh, but not as much as you love being in pain).  You are not a robot.  Unless you have a hernia or you're constantly drinking milk and afraid of any nostril-related accidents, you love to laugh.  You can't get enough of it.  A good portion of your day is dedicated to seeking laughter.

From my own perspective, when a woman lists "I love to laugh" in their summary, she's telling me "I am as interested in you reading about me as I am writing about me, and neither really interest me."

And that's fine, I suppose.  A few years ago I'd have to glance at another person across the bar/library/muesum/busy intersection and think I wonder if THAT woman loves to laugh...  Busting out the knock knock jokes was always such a shot in the dark.

I don't know if online dating is really for me, at least not anymore...but I am 100% certain that, should I find some success in that bizarre land, it won't be with someone that loves to laugh.  I am going to totally date the only laugh hater in town.  You snooze, you lose, man.