This is the second time in two weeks I've awakened, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at two o'freakin' clock in the morning. Last week it was because I had had a beer too many prior to bed and woke up when I had slept it off. This time it was because I was so tired yesterday that I went to bed entirely too early. I seem to be programmed for seven hours' sleep, no exceptions.
The sad thing about waking up this early is that there's a limited amount of stuff you can *do*. I don't watch much T.V., so that's right out--especially since I don't have cable. I suppose I could go have the weight room to myself, but there's something obscene about working out in the wee small hours. And vacuuming or moving furniture is not an option, either. Neither is, say, refinishing my kitchen table or running to the hardware store to buy a drill.
So when I'm done here, I'll probably end up doing a little book-sorting and bill-paying.
Poor Man A. He's put up that online personal ad with the headline "Passionate Man Seeks Diva". He'll probably be wondering six months from now, as he surveys the wreckage of his bank account and the chewed stumps where his limbs used to be, where he went wrong.
Divas are bad news. I know one. I used to know her quite well, but I lost her in the divorce. She was tall and beautiful and energetic--the sort of woman you expect to be a complete woman-hating man-eater until you talk to her and discover that you're wrong. Then, several months later, you discover that you were right after all.
Divas expect presents. This particular Diva (she described herself and her friends that way, so it's not like I'm being nastier than usual) would guilt the men she was dating into gifts by comparing what she'd gotten from whom. She was highly irritated that an otherwise-presentable man couldn't buy her what she wanted because he was a high-school teacher.
Divas expect to be supported. Even with a good job, they don't take as much pride in independence as they do in being able to con some poor male into subsidizing them.
Divas remove all their pubic hair as a matter of habit. I have only one example of this behavior, but I'm feeling safe in my assumption. A Diva's goal, after all, is to Land A Man...and what better way of doing it than by making him think that you're actually much more unconventional than you are?
Divas vow respect for the distaff sex and love for their own...but only on their own terms. The most dangerous group in the world is a bunch of self-described Divas in a bar. If you're not Diva material, you won't be treated badly--oh, no--but you will be subject to a makeover attempt or two. If you're intelligent and funny, but under five foot five, you'll become the Smart Funny Friend of sitcom fame. (For what it's worth, this did not bother me when I was hanging out with Diva & Co. Smart and Funny are unusual enough in their world that I was a bit of a stumper and so avoided trouble.)
Divas eat reduced-fat frozen lunches. 'Nuff said.
So, obviously, Man A needs a Diva like he needs a Whipple procedure.
If I were writing his personal ad--and keep in mind I've known this man for a decade and like him pretty well, dating or not dating--I would say this:
"My friend needs a girlfriend. He's small and light-boned but strong and flexible. He does a great Reagan impersonation. He knows more about the Beatles and VW microbuses than anybody else on the planet. He's funny and smart and good with kids. He has a marvelous Dachshund. He's good with money and real estate. He cooks like a god and makes it look easy. Better, he's gainfully employed. He's not much to look at right at first, but his brains and humor make him handsome. Plus, he's got a dimple in his right cheek that only shows up in certain lights. He's not going to treat you like an idiot if you don't know how to pronounce things on the menu. He likes a woman with brains and good tits. Give the man a chance! I dated him for five months and have nothing but mad props for him."
Writing a personal ad for myself (not that I plan to) would be much more difficult. "Thuddingly Dull Nurse Seeks Non-Trollish Male" is not exactly a winner in the headline department. Though, come to think of it, it beats all hell out of "Passionate Man Seeks Diva." "Short, Vaguely Overweight Redhead Seeks Man She Can't Beat At Arm-Wrestling" is true for the first clause but not the second. "Not Afraid of Brains?" might be a good opener, since it's a qualifier both in the literal and figurative sense. "I Spend My Workdays Up To My Elbows In Other Peoples' Guts; Come On and Show Me A Good Time" is accurate but wordy.
And so on...
Warning: this will be very girly.
I ordered a truckload of clothes from Victoria's Secret. They arrived yesterday. VS has good, sturdy clothes with realistic sizing and, as long as you stay away from the slutwear, it's realistic to expect you can wear it in public as well.
The haul includes two short-sleeved knit cotton snap-front dresses, one navy and one black, a plaid linen shirt dress which may have been a mistake, three bras and two tank tops to replace ones that I wore out after three years, and a bunch of underwear of various prints. All cotton. Oh, and a pair of Dr. Scholl's high-heeled X-strap clogs that are *very* silly. Two pairs of shorts are on back-order.
I can't wear polka skirts and vintage all the time; this makes a nice change. And all of the outerwear, except for maybe the shirt dress, will go with Converse sneakers.
The look on the face of the UPS man as I opened the door was priceless. Imagine the woman you'd expect to get a large box of goods from the leading lace-bra manufacturer in the U.S. Now imagine her diametrical opposite. That's me.
It's pleasant to have more real clothes in my closet than I do scrubs. Now if I only didn't live in pajamas when not working...
Off to sort books. Anybody who wants any, let me know.