It's Raining Men! (Okay...Drizzling)

After cooking dinner tonight, we were unsure of what in the world we could write about: we haven't experienced any significant emotional trauma in the last three days (more so just annoyance, kind of like a splinter that is just underneath your skin), we had an enjoyable weekend, and nothing overly scandalous occurred...shockingly. Perhaps there was a lack of alcohol, good decision-making, a full moon - the reason is unclear, especially because, as usual, there was plenty of alcohol, potentially poor decision-making, and definitely a full moon.

Upon further reflection (okay, one more glass of wine), we realized we did, in fact, have plenty to explain for entertainment value.

• Wednesday night, 11:31 p.m.; Thursday morning, 12:13 a.m.; Friday morning, 12:33 a.m.; Friday morning, 12:43 a.m.: We receive two ignored phone calls, two ignored text messages, and are two super-annoyed girls who have learned their lesson and will not "come over and cook dinner" in the middle of the night.
• Saturday morning, 1:45 a.m.: One of us is called upon, as apparently we are not "girlfriend" material but rather "taxi service." This would be okay if we were getting something (i.e. gas money, people) out of it. Perhaps he should return to that Thai prison.
• Saturday morning, 10:45 a.m.: Piecing together the events of the night before, one of us exclaimed, "I did what?!"
• Saturday morning, 10:46 a.m.: One of us untagged herself from the other's Facebook photos.
• Saturday afternoon, 2:30 p.m.: One of us attends a World Cup party with a new guy and has a blast. (He has a real job, a real house, real friends, and no sign of a girlfriend/wife/significant other. Therefore, in fear of pulling one of our classic moves and messing it up before it even starts, we will refrain from further mentioning him in this venue. See? We're learning!)
• Sunday evening, 6:57 p.m.: Upon waiting for the arrival of the guy we swore we would not mention again, on a patio in downtown Des Moines, we were approached by Lance Eisenstädt (see previous post) who was entering the establishment for a solo dinner. Because we hadn't had enough awkward experiences with him in the last two weeks, we decided to invite him to join us. And had a lovely dinner.

While one of us is flying high on the wings of a potential something good, the other clearly needs to go back to the drawing board.

(Addendum to previous post about where to not meet men: the middle of one of the city's busiest roads while you are chasing your dog - who apparently did not want her picture in a rainbow lei broadcast over the Internet - who jumped out of the window of your moving vehicle.)

Dinner tonight: seared filet with mixed-herb gremolata, roasted seasoned asparagus, garlic naan, and a fresh berry cream tart. (Note: this will not be prepared when trying to impress a certain someone who will not be mentioned again in this blog, as it nearly burned down the entire apartment complex. However, it was very, very delicious.)

Is This Thing On?

As many of you may know (or more likely probably did not know or care), we were interviewed as dating experts last week by a live-streaming radio show. While one of us spent the day at work and in grad class like a responsible adult, the other polished off a few bottles of wine after earnestly promising her co-interviewee that she would stay for "only one drink."

Oops.

Because of our amazing culinary reputation, we naturally assumed there would be at least one question regarding our mad skillz in the kitchen, so this is what we focused on during our car ride downtown.

Wrong. Now we know not to prepare. For anything.

After stumbling into the studio with our neatly written index cards and red wine hives, our mouths dropped to the floor when we noticed our co-panelist, the only male in the room. Was it Brad Pitt? Barack Obama? No: closer to a cross between Lance Armstrong and Alfred Eisenstädt; this man could have been one of our blog subjects, had he agreed to more than one date with yours truly.

Thankfully, there was a technical error, and instead of talking to our international fan base, we entertained the five of us in the soundproof booth. Some of our favorite questions included

• What is your favorite pick-up line? (Um, "hello" usually works... Although, "I have a tab at the bar" is music to our ears.)
• Are your blogs for real? (Um, yes. Do you think we can make this up?)
• Where do you meet men? (Um, we don't. Have you read our blog?!)

This final question prompted us to reflect (for all of 30 seconds) on the best places to meet potentials. While that list for us is very limited, we could write a novel (or a blog) on where not to meet men. And so we share with you, dear readers, our lessons well-learned:

1. A radio interview about dating when you have already (unsuccessfully) dated the only male panelist.
2. The gynecologist office: clearly, they have baggage (or will in approximately nine months).
3. Friday night at home watching TLC marathons of "Toddlers in Tiaras" or anything involving a white dress.
4. North Dakota.
5. The recycling room at the grocery store. (This could work if we recycled cases of import beer rather than boxes of $2 wine.)
6. The Pride Parade. (Pretty sure Mr. Leather Iowa is not interested in us, regardless of how cute our dog looks in a rainbow lei.)
7. A sports bar at 9 a.m. in the morning.
8. Craft stores.
9. Parties with the smug-marrieds.
10. The produce department at the grocery store. (Thanks, Tracy.)
11. NRA meetings. (Thanks, Lance Eisenstädt.)
12. The premier of Eclipse. (We know it doesn't come out until June 30th, but we're just guessing.)
13. Church. (We could say this with more certainty if we actually attended.)
14. Planned Parenthood lunch-and-learns. (Yes, we are politically active. No, boys probably don't want to know about VD Investigators.)
15. The dog park without a dog.
16. Kleinfeld's in New York City.

After our dinner of coconut-crusted fish with a red curry sauce, Thai rice, and sugar snap peas, we are hitting the pavement to bring you more updates as to where to not meet men. Dedication, we tell you.

There Are A Lot of Stinky Fish in the Sea, Too

In light of our recent negative experiences, we have decided to cast a wider net in the dating pool, trolling uncharted waters to see what we could reel in. Before we set the hook, we have to reel them in to see if they measure up to our admittedly low standards. Sometimes there is a snag in the line, sometimes they don’t always make it to the boat, and sometimes, especially recently, they get so covered in oil that they can’t even swim. And notably, we now more thoroughly understand the necessity of catch-and-release.

Our first guppy was brought to us by a superior fisherwoman – the queen of the sea (and by that, we really mean our workplace). While he certainly measured up in certain ways (humor, open-mindedness, good punctuation), the spark just was not there. So…we baited the hook and cast again.

God bless technology because while the first gentleman was introduced via email, the second was acquainted through a long-distance phone conversation, in which we were trying to open a new checking account. After the requisite “how’s the weather up there?” (we suspect that people don’t really know where Iowa is and therefore use the weather to try and figure it out), we proceeded to have an hour-long conversation about sports, music, and travel. We were able to peruse his photos on a popular social networking site, and to our pleasant surprise, he was, in a word, HOT: hot like the sun that scorches the Texan land where he lives… Clearly, this has lots of potential.

Casting the net even further, we were able to track down a previous suitor – yes, the one we had ditched in favor of the crazies at the casino – using technology as well. After piecing together what little information we had about his first name, his profession, and his hair color, we – in a word – stalked and emailed him. (Disclaimer: if you establish a profile on a popular networking site, you are asking to be found.) We set up a date, and he walked right past: mistaking the brunette for the blonde in the profile picture, forcing the brunette to text him and him to awkwardly tell her that she should change the picture so that it is her alone and not false advertising. Not surprisingly, there was not a date number two.

Another fish that somehow got snagged in our net was caught at a mutual friend’s birthday party. After a few hours of talking and enjoying each other’s company, he proceeded to ditch the 26-year-old for the teenagers who had illegally entered the bar. We tried to explain to him that despite his position as a local rock star (status questionable), he was not nearly famous enough to pull that shit. Several weeks passed without hearing from Music Man, and then he surfaced out of nowhere. We attribute this resurfacing to his realization of the frailty of life due to the passing of his musical friend (who, surprisingly, actually was famous) and needing to connect to what’s really important, creating something substantial in this fleeting world. Turns out, though, that while he was quite interested in meeting up, it was only to sell – not give, SELL – us tickets to his upcoming gig. We (not-so) regretfully declined.

Thankfully, one of the men we met last summer had mysteriously reappeared from what we can only assume was an extended stay in a Thai prison or a severe accident in the Amazon. He must have undergone a lobotomy or attended a boyfriend-boot camp, as he is now calling sober at 8 p.m. as opposed to drunk and needing a ride (no pun intended) at last call. He agreed to meet for a drink after a disastrous dinner date with another suitor, and it was actually a pleasant experience. However, he has been promising a second date for the past two weeks, but fingers crossed, this is because he is becoming a grown-up and not backsliding into douche-baggery.

To get through the current environmental crisis and to effectively sift through the dregs of our nets, we realize we need a new strategy: we will sharpen our hooks, we will perfect our bait, and we will cast where the fish are biting – the sushi-grade fish, of course, not the bottom-feeding catfish. Des Moines, get ready for the Deadliest Catch.

And what better dinner tonight than beer-battered fish tacos with tomato/avocado salsa, brown rice, and a fresh fruit salad?

Shameless Plug

We forgot to mention that we are one step closer to world domination and are being interviewed on a local radio show this Tuesday evening at 9 p.m. Luckily for you, even though it is a local show, it is streamed live over the World Wide Web. Tune in to YP Live to see and hear us talk about being single in the city. We believe we are being advertised as "dating experts," which we at first took as a compliment but have more recently realized as perhaps not the most illustrious title: we simply have a lot of experience in the dating world because we suck so horribly at it. We either make poor choices in men, or, when lucky enough to make a good choice, generally blow it by doing something stupid.

Tune in tomorrow for an updated list of suitors, and tune in Tuesday to see just how drunk we can get between grad class and a live radio interview.

Ready to Rumble!

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Like most single ladies do, we spent our weekend on the prowl.

Yesterday, our first stop of our 12-hour summer kick-off event was a sports bar for the USA-England World Cup game. We entered the English pub with high hopes: we are athletically-minded girls who enjoy the nature of competition, we can talk somewhat intelligently about most sports, and thanks to years of training from our collective five brothers, we can drink most men under the table. However, when we arrived at said destination, the only room available was in a dark corner behind the bar-mounted video game. While we appreciated the patriotism of the giant foam finger and Mad Hatter Stars and Stripes, it would have been nice to see the game and potential date-ables (and for them to see us). Making the best of the situation, we ordered several pitchers of warm Bud Light (sorry, bartender: $10 pitchers of imported beer is not what we call a deal).

To celebrate the victory (the tie was a win in our books) and to foreshadow Germany's performance over Australia today, we headed downtown to a Biergarten where we proceeded to drink large quantities of warm German beer while listening to a raucous rendition of "London Bridge is Falling Down" by the Des Moines branch of Douchebags International. Unfortunately, the older women who were on "Crawl for the Cure" did not find the young gentlemen nearly as endearing as we did, and they were firmly escorted to the exit.

After our entertainment disappeared, we made it to our third stop in our attempts to drink around the world (no free t-shirt at the end of this journey): a classy Mexican restaurant. We parked ourselves in a primo location of the fabulous patio just prior to the Saturday night dinner rush, hoping to enjoy the beautiful summer air and watch the pretty people of the city schmooze over cocktails and guacamole. Alas, a relaxing evening was not in the cards for us: our two friends (a married couple, don't get excited) were spotted by three ridiculously inebriated acquaintances who unfortunately decided to join in (i.e. ruin) our night. After being peed on by a baby whose mother did not pack additional diapers, stepping on a pint glass that one of the acquaintances haphazardly threw on the cement patio, being called an "f-ing bitch" too many times to count, and apologizing profusely to every other patron on the patio, we finally had had enough: we were going to fight. Just kidding: we left.

Thank God for $5 Sangria.

Because our sense of decorum prevented us from lashing out on people who actually offended us, we decided to take our posse to another bar: to challenge a foursome of international visitors to a rousing game of shuffle-puck. After engaging in an intense battle of psychological warfare and utilizing all methods of intimidation, we made up for the World Cup tie and soundly trounced ass against Spain, Puerto Rico, and Peru. Go USA.

Our weekend did not end there, though. Not only are we interested in athletics, we are also very socially minded and wanted to show our support for everyone in our community by standing on the corner and waving a rainbow flag during the Pride Parade. Interestingly enough, one of our ex-boyfriends was proudly throwing Tootsie Rolls from one of the floats... (Did we mention ignoring red flags?)

Because this was probably not the best place to find a date (we apologize, Mr. Leather Iowa 2002 - we are as uninterested in you as you clearly are in us - can you hear the whip cracking?), we headed to yet another World Cup game, this time at a friend's house. We entered the basement party with a six-pack of beer and some Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes we were about to lose, and found ourselves in the company of two married couples. Again, not the best place for singles.

We topped off the entertaining - yet unsuccessful - weekend with a small dinner party for our sister and her boyfriend. (Once more, could we plan this any worse?) On the menu was spicy shrimp linguine, pan-friend okra, and steamed broccoli, followed by a cinnamon-sugar cheesecake topped with fresh red raspberries.

Recipes for Disaster

Many of you are probably wondering what brought us to this desolate intersection of broke ‘n single, what caused us to be wandering down this lonely highway of solitude, stepping over the broken bones of relationships past, constantly replaying mistakes made on the giant screen of the sky in front of us. (Apparently, our lives bear striking resemblance to Dali’s paintings.) After all, we have not always been broke ‘n single – okay, we’ve always been broke, but that doesn’t feel quite the same as when you’re broke and not single.

A Brief History – Very Brief (so little time…ours and yours)

Please allow us to “Benjamin Button” you back to where it first began…

Part One:

A pattern may have arisen based on previous entries, but I would like to clarify the men I have been associated with in the past: an Olympian, a Brazilian soccer player, a political candidate, a published author - all socially-minded, somewhat gainfully employed individuals. I have seen their resumes, and I would hire them. However, none should have been hired as “boyfriend.”

In discussing the latest in the string of failures, I would like to caution you as to where you throw your vote in the next local election. While at first he appeared to be a knight in shining armor, he turned out to be quite the frog among princes. Although he was waving red flags like I was in the last lap of a stockcar race, I ignored all of them:

• One ex-wife and their son
• One allegedly soon-to-be-ex-wife and their son and her son from a previous relationship
• No visible means of financial support for all three children
• Friends and family unaware of “pending divorce” (and his failure to produce paperwork)
• Questionable details regarding past
• Lack of communication and disappearance for days at a time (don’t be mistaken: it was somehow my fault)
• Ownership of a time machine that magically transported him 660 miles in a mere hour-and-a-half

Clearly, I should have been dating the baggage carousel at O’Hare International. The break-up was such a surprise that it took me nearly six weeks to figure out why I shouldn’t immediately get back together with him.

Part Two:

Heyyyyyyyy! While past involvements have been fairly unremarkable, one may wonder how I found myself in Iowa in the middle of January. Not only did I choose to travel from a tropical paradise to Tornado Alley*, I opted to do so during the biggest blizzard of the year. This was all for a boy – a boy who failed to tell me that he

• Had a girlfriend
• Of five years
• Enrolled in my graduate program
• Taking the same classes as me
• Whose best friend lived across the street from me

Interestingly, this would have been good information to have prior to moving 1,300 miles from home – for a boy about whom I apparently knew nothing. This mirrors a situation I found myself in six years ago when my live-in boyfriend came home from a business trip with a fiancé, who apparently knew nothing about his girlfriend of five years. P.S. Girlfriend (me) had moved almost 3,000 miles across the country to live with this douche-bag who salsa’ed very well. Oh, sweet irony.

We are about to go crazy-English on yo’ ass: how do we combine our obvious cynicism with the inherently humorous and ridiculous partners we have had? We searched high and low for Oedipal themes throughout our relationships but found none. Clearly we haven’t learned our lessons from these past adventures (have you read our blog?), and we likely won’t anytime in the near future. But don’t worry: the dating scene in Des Moines, Iowa, is alive and well. After all, we do have advanced degrees, are pretty funny (have you read our blog?), are semi-good-looking, and have wide-ranging interests – so, in effect, we're perfect. Thus, it can’t be that hard, right? Right? RIGHT?

*Don’t worry: my kit is prepared with a helmet, whistle, flashlight, water, and dog food.

Cha-Cha-Cha

Dear loyal and faithful readers,

We hope you are still with us after a week-and-a-half hiatus. We apologize, but life calls. While we prefer to be largely irresponsible most of the time, wine isn't free, and we had to take care of business. However, we are back - with a vengeance.

(Note: during this post and possibly both previous and future posts, we may have found a wrinkle in time [which, thanks to Madeleine L'Engle was one of our favorite books in the third grade]. At this time we would also like to pay homage to James Frey and apologize to Oprah.*)

Memorial Day weekend: a time to reflect upon the sacrifice of brave Americans who paid the ultimate price for our freedom. In order to commemorate the holiday, we decided to do the most American of all activities: cook a great dinner, take a wine walk, and trespass on private property. The dinner, as you'll see below, is a delicious rip-off of a prominent seafood chain's signature dish. The wine walk occurs regularly following long hours in the kitchen: pouring wine from our classy glasses into Solo cups to walk the forested streets of Des Moines' upper-crust neighborhoods. The trespassing occurred when one of us and our esteemed guest for the evening garnered some liquid courage and thought it wise to explore the private, secret gardens of one of the largest historical mansions in the state. The third, less daring partner, remembering an event that resulted in her being handcuffed at her high school, waited at the end of the mile-long driveway, on the other side of the road, in the dark, armed only with her Solo cup, saying for the first time ever, "I learned my lesson."

So Friday we did the most American of all activities (breaking and entering), and Saturday we celebrated the diversity of our country by dining at an upscale Mexican restaurant (and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu) and attending a Salsa party. While we arrived at the private club on the 34th floor early enough for dance lessons, we opted out: after all, we have watched enough Dancing with the Stars. However, when the dancing commenced, we realized that instead of watching the TV show, we should have ordered the Zumba videos and worn our sparkly, feather-trimmed gowns...leotards...bikinis. Alas, we hijacked an already-occupied table** in the darkest corner of the room and proceeded to make fun of every single attendee. (Girl with dress-size denial and the unfortunate haircut: we sincerely apologize to you.)

However, we did end the weekend with the reds, whites, and blues: there sure was a fun band at the winery!

*We collectively hold two degrees in English.

**Purse and shoes at a table does not signify "occupied" to us - especially if they "accidentally" fall off the table.

(Our dessert for the evening: Jamaican Coconut Pie, swimming - toward America - in an ocean of rum. It was most likely this, not the several bottles of wine, that made for a rough Sunday.)