Ball Wipes and Bicycles

[WARNING:  This post contains a lengthy discussion about a man's balls – Proceed at your own risk]

Ok, so this week in CONTRACT land was a bit bizarre.  First, I learned that my fellow contractors would rather be in an office of their own (window or not) rather than in the conference room as a group long-term.  Not that they don’t enjoy the company, but long-term they would rather have their own space.  I, on the other hand, quite enjoy the companionship of the room and would have no problem if the gig lasted a few months longer.  When I said to the group – “I love being in the room with y’all, being able to chat whenever I want,” CONTRACTOR Tanya’s response was, “I can tell.”  Not quite sure how to take that.  Anyway, on Friday as we were winding down for the week my fellow contractors and I came up with, what we believe will be, a multi-million dollar idea.  We were randomly chatting (and hey, I’m not the only chatter box in the room – no matter what CONTRACTOR Tanya thinks) about all the commercials out there designed to humiliate a woman and/or make her feel like her nether regions need a freshening up.  There are sprays, deodorants, wipes, powders and whatnot for “freshening” the vagina.  There are yeast infection commercials – where a girl stands looking at herself in a storefront window in gray baggy clothes knowing she can’t possibly interact with the human population until she buys a soothing over-the-counter crème.  There are razor commercials where the bushes (yes, I said bushes – and I am sure the symbolism is not lost on you) change form as a woman walks by into nice svelte well-groomed bushes.  There is a new commercial (I think it's about fighting odor too, but I can't remember) where the phrase “hail to the V” is used (yes, meanng vagina).  I mean REALLY???  So one of us said, “why aren’t there as many humiliating products out there relating to the smell of a man’s privates” – and that’s when we came up with the idea of “Ball Wipes.”  See the problem is, society has not created in men the same insecurities as they have in women.  By seeing the advertisements on TV and in magazines we start to believe that the natural scent of our vagina is somehow bad and that our vaginas are really meant to smell like lavender or a summer’s breeze.  We decided we needed to start a grass-roots campaign to freshening up the balls.  To help men understand that perhaps their balls were meant to smell like woodland hills or pine chips or the bark of an oak tree.  The more and more we thought of this idea the better it sounded.  We spent much of the day on Friday canvasing our friends and family.  The men, as expected, were not initially overwhelmed with the idea.  Of course, that’s because men are still under the impression that there’s nothing wrong with the smell of their balls.  Women, on the other hand, were enthusiastically in favor of a ball freshening wipe for men.  A few examples of responses were:

·        CONTRACTOR Juniata’s mother:  “Hon, are you sitting next to a stinky man on the subway?” [side bar – if you can smell your balls through your clothing “Ball Wipes” will not help you – you must seek medical attention.  After Juniata explained further why we were creating the product for men, she simply stated “well, they need them.”

·        CONTRACTOR Clare’s brother:  “Interesting”

·        CONTRACTOR Tanya’s brother-in-law: “We don’t need a wipe, we can just take a shower” – Right, cause women can’t take showers – that’s why we need 5000 products to make our vaginas smell like morning glories.

·        My Sister Lisa: “Men should have something anyway, I’m tired of them disparaging the vagina.  I think mine smells wonderful.  Balls however always smell untoward.  You have my blessing.”

·        My Friend Olivia:  “I think they do need their own line of crap.  Do it.  Wipe the balls.”

·        My Friend Darryl: “I think the gays would be all over it. . . It might be harder to sell to the straight men, as usual!  But it could have potential.”

With our mixed reviews (100% support from women and only gay men in our corner) we drew up a crude contract (pictured below) and I reached out to my law school buddy and Intellectual Property attorney.  I worried that he might think I was joking – so I made sure to put “I’m not joking” in my email to him.  His response was as follows:

“Ball Wipes – nice.  I definitely have some interesting friends.  One of my female high school friends recently wanted serious legal advice on the legality of moonshining in one’s home.  Now another friend wants advice on ball wipes.  You’re killing me!!  You could get Jimmy Johnson to do the commercials (used to be the Cowboys football coach). He already does Extendz commercials, which is for a pill that is supposed to enlarge your twig.  Now you can have a larger twig and clean berries!!” 

A few emails went by with him asking about how I was doing, how was Ireland.  I had to redirect him back to Ball Wipes, as he wasn’t taking my issue seriously.  Finally he responded with some actual legal advice:

“Don’t see much patentable potential in wipes to clean your nuts since wipes have been around forever to clean various “surfaces.”  This would be an obvious extension of cleaning wipes as far as the patent office is concerned.  However, you could certainly trademark the name and any other catchy nut-cleaning jingle that you come up with to sell these things.”

As the day came to a close, we had our idea, our “initial” reaction from friends and family, a bit of advice from an IP attorney and our “contract.”  We knew we had our work cut out for us, but we figured with the right marketing spin and support from women and gay men we could do ANYTHING!!!  Later that night CONTRACTOR Juniata did a bit of research (she is very committed to this product) and emailed us (the subject line of her email read “sweaty balls”).  She forwarded a link to a website for a product being launched in the UK called "Fellas" wipes (fellaswipes.com), we all agreed that the name of their wipe and their marketing is for shit and we are not worried at all about ball wipes competition from across the pond.  A bit after that CONTRACTOR Tanya emailed us and said that the whole concept of Ball Wipes has led to some pretty interesting discussions in her circle of friends/family and that her metro-sexual brother-in-law (previously canvased for his opinion) is now the butt of several “sweaty ball” jokes at his office – no surprise as he is an IT guy who works with mostly men.  One of the guys forwarded her a blog discussing the “sweaty ball” subject pasted here:

http://www.steadyhealth.com/sweaty_balls_t143247.html

Hey – at least we have folks talking about it!!!  It won’t be long until men realize that their balls are supposed to smell like pine straw!!!!  This is going to be big y’all!!!!!!  Don’t be surprised when you see us on The View.

On the fitness front – yeah, hard to follow a sweaty balls discussion with my fitness update, but I must quickly mention that I purchased a bicycle this weekend.  My friend’s partner passed away two years ago and he had a bike that he only used a couple of times.  It is a $500 REI bike and he sold it to me for $100.  I am excited to have the bike and look forward to being invited on bike rides from those of you who also have bikes!!!!  Keep me in mind.

That’s all for now.  Ciao!

The "Ball Wipes" Contract

My New Bike!!!

Last Dance and a Bit of Nudity

Well, last Tuesday was our last belly dancing class.  There was no certificate, no whoop and holler, no cookies.  After we ran through the dance for the final time the instructor simply walked back over to the sign-in desk and that was that. While Deborah and I both thoroughly enjoyed our five weeks of belly dancing, we agreed that the last class was a little lacking in ceremony.  I mean, I don’t know about you, but folk in my world don’t learn a belly dance every day.  It’s not often that I strap on a jingly bell sash and shake my bon bons.  I mean I have been known to shake my bon bons, but not under such tutelage.  We expected at least a little break from the normal pump and grind on our last day.  Oh well.  We learned the final flourishing moves to bring our dance to a close and headed out into the rainy night.  Deborah and I ended our five weeks much like we began them - stuffing our faces and drinking adult beverages.  We met up at Felini’s Pizza afterwards and split a pizza and a bottle of wine.  The chick at the register actually carded us!!!!  Four months away from 40 and we get carded.  Maybe there is something to this belly dancing after all.  Prior to leaving class that night we asked the instructor about the belly dancing workout class (shimmying sans the choreography).  We might check out a class or two to see if we like it.  Nonetheless, I need to figure out my next fitness adventure – and quick!!!!  This blog can’t survive on pooch encounters and panic attacks alone!  Well, maybe it could, but that won’t help me get any skinnier!!  Lawrence is going to start training for another marathon in November and I might join him on the days he runs for 30 minutes.  Oh, did you think I was going to say I would train for and run the marathon too?  Silly person. 

This past weekend (not the one we just had, but the one before that) Lisa, Greg and the kids (my niece and nephew) were in town.  We hung out, ate out and went to the Korean spa, you know, the usual.  What?  Family day at the Korean spa is not the norm for you?  Well, then you are the poorer for it.   I discovered the JeJu Sauna a few years ago and Lisa and I have been going occasionally ever since.  The JeJu Sauna is modeled after a traditional Korean bath house and is quite famous around the country (or so I’m told).  It is open 24 hours and costs $25 a person per 24 hours.  You are issued a uniform (cotton elastic waist pants and a t-shirt (pink for girls / yellowish for boys) and a toothbrush when you arrive.  Once you have your gear, the boys head to their locker rooms and the girls head to theirs.  Through the locker room you can access the girls only (or boys only depending on your parts) wet room where the sauna, steam room, hot tubs, massage and scrub services and bathing areas are.  Out in the common areas where boys and girls can intermix (wearing your uniforms) is where you will find individual saunas for meditation and relaxation.  A few examples are The Rock Salt Room, the Red Clay Room and The Charcoal Room.  Each sauna provides a different benefit (i.e. relieves stress, strengthens the cardiovascular system, removes toxins, etc.).  No shoes are allowed anywhere in the JeJu – so once you enter your locker room you deposit your shoes in the shoe cubbies right inside the door.  The floors in the common areas are heated so your tootsies won’t get cold.  Korean folk are sprawled out all over the place in the common areas taking naps.  There is also a food court serving Korean food – and smoothies.  Lisa and I made the mistake of ordering the Kimchi one time and quickly learned that no matter how long we stayed in the healing saunas, nothing was going to soothe the bubblin’ crude that was about to erupt from our intestines (and that’s all I’m gonna say about that).  Anyway, back in the women only wet areas (as I don’t really know what goes on in the men only areas) everyone is naked.  Many of you already know the story of when Lisa and I went to the JeJu for the first time, but I will do a quick recap here for those of you who haven’t.  Lisa and I read the website prior to going and knew that there was a room where folk were mostly naked, but the website indicated that if you weren’t comfortable with being naked you could wear your bathing suits or use the towels provided by the spa.  Well, when we first got into the locker rooms we decided to just wear the uniforms provided for us.  We made it to the door of the wet room and glanced in – everyone was naked.  We went back to our lockers and decided to put our bathing suits – and walked back to the door of the wet room – saw a sign that said no clothing in the hot tubs.  We went back to our lockers and stripped down to our birthday suits.  On our way into the wet room we grabbed a towel – it was the size of a kitchen dish towel.  The only way you could use the towel to cover up your important bits would be to actually hold it in place against your body (which would just look silly).  Naked and all, we went straight for the hot tub.  After being in the wet room for about ten minutes it went from being totally weird and awkward to being totally liberating.  The women around us were all shapes and sizes, all ages, all races – and we were all naked.   There is a room in the wet room where the services take place - mostly scrubs.  The room consists of ten or so plastic covered tables.  Five on one side and five on the other side - all out in the open.  If you so choose, you can get a "scrub" - If you ask Lisa, this means a nice exfoliating scrub, leaving your skin smooth and supple.  If you ask me, this means a torturous technique where the skin is literally removed from the bones.  To each her own I guess.  The funny thing about this room is that the staff (all Korean women of course) are not naked or in uniform (matching bathing suits or otherwise).  No, they are in their un-matching bras and panties.  While you are being exfoliated (if you are Lisa) or wounded (if you are me) the women yell back and forth to each other in Korean - all the while scrubbing each nook and cranny (yes, all of them) and telling you to occasionally "turn side".

We were worried about how my niece would handle the nudity, as we had not warned her in advance and she is getting to be that age where nudity matters.  Lisa was worried that if we warned her ahead of time, it would make a big deal out of it and she wouldn’t want to go.  She, like us, was hesitant at first and chose to wear her bathing suit.  After she entered the wet room and noticed that everyone else was naked (even the kids – some her age) you could literally see the thoughts going through her head.  She felt out of place in her bathing suit.  I said to her “why don’t you just take it off and if you want to, you can put it back on.”  She said “yeah, Ok” and took it off.  It took about ten minutes for the transformation to take place and then she totally loved it.  You could tell that she enjoyed the freedom of it all and the fellowship of the women.  I don’t think she felt like a kid while she was back in the women only area.  She probably just felt like a female – enjoying the company of other females – each having shed all of her inhibitions, which is a rare encounter indeed.  I am as self-conscious as they come about my body.  I hate putting on a swim suit – hell I don’t even wear shorts anymore.  But for some reason, back in the women only wet room of the JeJu Sauna, with everything stripped away and nothing to hide behind – we all just become women, naked and beautiful. 

Greg informs us that there are big screen TVs all over the walls in the men’s only side.  I am guessing the men aren’t having the same “bonding” experience as the women.  Maybe the TVs are there so they don’t have to look at each other’s junk.  Who knows

Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

So I interrupted this “in progress” post to share with you the post about my encounter with the unidentified wild animal.   Hopefully you enjoyed it, but now we should get back to our regularly scheduled program.  Just to update you quickly on the last two belly dancing classes – I believe we have learned nearly the entire dance (which beginning to end lasts less than three minutes).  In my mind, the only thing missing from my dance (I mean other than a person who actually looks sexy doing it) is a grand flourish of an ending.  I attempted to practice the choreography this weekend at the cabin but drew a total blank towards the end.  I knew there were “choreography notes” on the studio’s website so I decided to look them up and give myself a quick refresher.  I located the notes on the website and they might as well have been written in wingdings font (for those of you not familiar with “wingdings font” – here is a sampler: (ioikammellowarea).  I am NOT exaggerating.  I mean seriously?  For beginners I would hope the notes would be “written for dummies” – sort of like “Ok girls, remember to do your tippy toe steps and then turn in your circle thingy and then you do that again and do another circle thingy and then you do your shimmy shimmy and then you spin around.”  That’s the type of notes that would work for me – NOT “1^st 8: 1-2 is R s-s-s, 3-4 is L s-s-s w/ arms in standard W. 5-8 is 4 X R small traveling Egyptian hip twists in CW circle L hand behind head, R arm straight out from shoulder finger tips towards ceiling – remember to isolate!”  As soon as I arrived at class this week I asked the instructor to do a quick refresher for us because the dance notes made me want to curl up in the fetal position and go to my happy place.  She said “no problem, everyone complains about them” – weeelll, shouldn’t that prompt some sort of  revision of the notes?  They should let me re-write them! 

Anyway, I was totally out of sorts in belly dancing class this week.  Not only did I arrive at class not remembering the last bit of the dance, but my mind was totally on other things.  I just felt 100,000 miles away during the lesson and I think the instructor noticed.  I am proud of myself for actually going to the class – it was touch and go there for about an hour until I finally decided I had to go.  Where was my mind - if not on belly dancing?   I learned earlier in the day that I have to testify at a hearing involving a foreclosure I conducted TWO STINKING YEARS AGO!!!  While I was in Ireland I was contacted by an attorney regarding this same foreclosure.  The hearing was supposed to happen in July while I was still out of the country.  I provided my statement via affidavit which I had notarized in Skibbereen, County Cork and then I mailed it overnight to the US – none of which was easy to accomplish – I assure you.  As my luck would have it, the hearing did NOT happen while I was in Ireland – and now it is scheduled to happen next month. Yay!!  Goody!! Super fantastic!!!   Now that I am back on US soil they want me to testify in person, which means opposing counsel gets to cross examine me and do her best to make it look like I screwed it all up so that her poor helpless client who borrowed millions of dollars is not responsible for paying a deficiency.  Learning all this just took me back to that place again – that worrisome and stressful place (a place VERY VERY VERY far away from my happy place).  So, because I was in “that place” again it was difficult for me to be totally present during class.  I pretty much stayed in “that place” all night and had difficulty sleeping.  Go away worrisome / stressful place!!!!  You are not welcome here!!!!!  The next day CONTRACTOR Tanya asked “why do you care about that foreclosure” – “well, I don’t know, I just do.”  The look on her face said she didn’t understand why it was causing me such distress.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good explanation for her. 

My out-of-sortness is probably also being perpetuated by my “between book status.”  It happens every time I finish a good book or collection of books.  I know I need to jump to a new book (and I have plenty of books to choose from), but I always feel reluctant moving on.  I know I will like the new book if I just give it a chance, but I really miss the old book.  I inevitably have a couple days where I am just stuck in book purgatory.  Yes, I realize that this post is a little depressing and I have just pointed out to all of you that I am a chronic worry freak who has book separation anxiety.  Luckily most of you already knew this.

I’m also on my period (or having my “lady days” if you prefer).  Sorry male followers.  It is what it is.  No matter how much “Dove for Men” soap Darryl puts in my bathroom, I am still a girl.  Period happens. 

I wish all the blogs could be funny and happy, but unfortunately “scary trials designed to make me look like an inadequate attorney” + “book purgatory” + “lady days” does not = happy funny blog.  I’ll try harder next time. 

To Conclude (and yes, I think we can all agree, it’s time to bring this post to a close), next week is our final belly dancing class.  It doesn’t look like there will be any final exam or special recital (thank God) to recognize our having mastered (and I use that term loosely) the dance.  I assume that on this final day we will run through the entire dance “from the top” no less than 500 times (to ensure our proficiency) and then we will simply be released into the world – having reached belly dancing enlightenment. 

Maybe we’ll get a certificate, or a sticker . . . . or cookies.

I'll go away now.

Pied Piper of Pooches -

I had started working on another post, updating you on belly dancing from this past week and some other stuff, but decided to interrupt myself for this late breaking post.  I will update you on belly dancing later.  For now, I must tell you about my impromptu trip to Knotty Pines this weekend.  Most of you know what Knotty Pines is, but for those of you out there who might not know (if there is anyone), Knotty Pines is a cabin in the woods of Mentone, Alabama that I own (until I cannot afford it anymore) with two of my best friends Darryl and Lawrence.  We bought it in 2008 – just before property values decided to give us all The Finger – and named it “Knotty Pines.”  Anyway, Fall has arrived, the temperature is cooling down and I decided that a weekend amongst the colored leaves sitting on the porch with a glass of wine was in order.  Most of my friends are too chicken shit to stay at the cabin alone, and Lawrence swears that one time he stayed here alone and woke up with the door unlocked – when he is certain he locked it – but we don’t really believe him.  Last night was uneventful.  I arrived after dark and just had time to settle in, watch a missed episode of Grey’s Anatomy and have a dinner of chocolate chip cookies before it was time for bed. 

I slept in this morning and had a lazy breakfast, veggie sausage biscuit (a chocolate chip cookie) and coffee, on the porch.  I was singing at the top of my lungs until I realized that my new neighbors were home and might not find it peaceful to wake up to me singing “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips – no matter how beautifully I was singing it (no comments).  I warshed up (that’s how you have to say “washed up” in the country) the dishes and put on my walking clothes.  The  road (formerly dirt, now semi-paved with hints of potholes) leading from 117 down Country Road 642 to the cabin is about 1.25 miles long (right, Darryl?) so I figured I would walk up and back to get my Fall fitness on.  I hadn’t been walking three minutes when I saw a mid-sized tawny colored critter jump from the road into the woods at the sound of my approach (light of foot I am not).  I was forming the breath to say “here kitty kitty” when logic registered and sent a message to my “Aw, there’s a cute animal” clouded brain that perhaps that critter was a little too big to be the type of kitty that I would want to cuddle.  From that point on I was on “wild animal alert.”  I didn’t turn back, but as I continued my walk I did think up various scenarios of ways to escape a mauling from said wild animal in the event of a face-off.   I thought of grabbing a large stick and bopping it over the head or jamming it in its jaws as it went for my jugular; I thought of running at it full speed while wildly waving my hands in the air and hollering at it (what would I holler? I don’t know.  I guess I could holler “get” – that’s what you say in the country when you want an animal to go away – it’s sort of pronounced “geeAT” with an escalation in volume towards the end – it’s quite an effective deterrent); I thought of telling it I was currently under the protection of the local brown bears and that messing with me would bring a whole shit storm of trouble to him and his like (bluffing of course).  But as I continued to think up scenarios I passed the spot where I saw the critter jump into the woods and didn’t see or hear a thing.  I just kept on walkin’, yes indeed.

As I neared a house towards the end of the road where I would turn around I heard a dog bark (not unusual in the country, so I continued).  As I got right in front of the house where the dog was barking I saw several more dogs before I realized that the fence was open.  All at once seven (yes, I said SEVEN) country dogs (some looking a little sketchier than others) came barreling out through the fence towards me – all barking.  Well now, some people made of lesser stuff might have panicked at this moment, ran in fear, assumed blood would surely be shed (their own).  I, however, hold special power over dogs – regardless of the number.  If you followed the Ireland blog (and many of you did) you know that dogs from all over the village would follow me – sit with me at the harbor, join me on walks, whatever.  I was basically the Pied Piper of Pooches.  As the pack of dogs (and 7 definitely qualifies as a pack) was about half-way to me, I came to a stop in the middle of the road, stood confident and called forth my most powerful doggie voice and said “What are you doggies doing.”  One by one tails began to wag and dog butts began to curl in towards their middles to form that “oh, please oh pleases pet me doggie U-shape.”  They simply did not stand a chance against the power of my doggie voice.  It is more powerful than vampire glamor (if you know what that is) – oh yes.  The pack surrounded me on all sides begging for attention.  A couple jumped up on me, but I corrected that poor behavior right away and let them know that would not be acceptable.  The one I identified as the alpha dog ran back to the house and came back to me with his bone – a clear sign of acceptance and respect.  I petted him, bone in mouth, and that’s when I had a brainstorm.    I still had to walk back to the cabin through the area where I had spotted the “wild animal” jumping into the woods.  I was comfortable with my plans (a) and (b) for dealing with an encounter – but plan (c) - the brown bear protection bluff - was shaky at best.  So, I solicited - and was granted protection from the alpha (score!).  The alpha gathered the necessary muscle to assure me safe passage home (I didn’t question his decision – even though one chosen mutt did look a little small, but small mutts can often be the fiercest).  I headed home surrounded by my guard dog detail and returned to my door unmolested by wild animals.  I paid the dogs in Wheat Thins and they are now resting up on my porch (guarding detail can be very tiring apparently) before they head home. 

So I will leave you to go sit on the porch where the breeze is blowing leaves off the trees, country dogs are taking a load off and gunshots are echoing in the distance – sweet home away from home Alabama. 

Life ain’t nothing but a funny funny riddle. . . . .thank God I’m a country girl.

These Aren’t My Breasts, Just The Bags They Came In.

I was not nearly as sore this week following belly dancing class.  Mostly just in the calves and feet from all the tip-toe dancing.  As I mentioned in the previous blog, we only have three classes left of beginning choreography class.  I am going to find out what the “Belly Dancing Workout Class” entails and will consider signing up if it looks like it might be fun.  My Mother suggested signing up for some other type of dance exercise class (such as hip hop dancing).  If a hip hop dance exercise class involved popping in the Chaka Khan CD and just letting lose with freestyle dancing, I would be all for it, but I fear that it would require more choreography and I think after belly dancing 101 is over, I will look for something a little less “learn the movesy” - if you get my drift.  I actually considered looking for a river dancing class.  The Irish set dancing does not appeal to me at all – it is really just square dancing.  It involves all kinds of swinging your partner round and round and do sa doing – not so much my gig – too many opportunities to cause damage to other people and I don’t want that on my conscience.  Now, river dancing, you say, is quite difficult and very HIGH energy.  I would only embark on such an adventure if I found a class that was really designed to just teach you some of the kicks and stomps, etc. and not to make you an expert river dancer.  I’m not sure if such a class exists – but I will search around. 

I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that one of the CONTRACTORS I temporarily work with has been doing Match.com (for those of you of an older – less virtual generation, Match.com is an on line dating site).  I haven’t done Match.com.  I have, however, done “eHarmony” (dating website), "It’s Just Lunch” (actual matchmaking agency) and “Hurry Date” (where men and women meet and have mini 8 minute dates to see if they like each other).  The eHarmony was like a full time job – you constantly have to monitor the site to see who the system serves up for you (as you cannot pick your own matches – the system is all knowing and can find your perfect match…. if you just *believe*).  If you don’t monitor the site constantly the matches can pile up and it just becomes too overwhelming – kind of like when you go into a restaurant and the menu is 10 pages long.  Instead of saying “oh boy, look at all these wonderful choices” you sort of stare blankly at the menu without seeing a single entre and then your brain explodes just a little and you order a salad because it’s on the first page.  It’s Just Lunch boasts itself as being a true “matchmaking agency” – learning all about you and matching you with the perfect person.  In reality it is a “send every man who has signed up on a date with you because there are 10 women to every man” agency.  Not quite the fine-tuning I was hoping for.  I paid $1400 for that “special treatment.”   Hurry Date events are interesting – you meet at a local bar/restaurant and the women sit at individual tables and the men rotate around the room to chat with the women for 8 minutes (or maybe it was 6 minutes) each.  At the end of the night you make your choices and if someone you chose has also picked you then you can contact each other and the rest is history.  This system has its benefits – you actually get to lay eyes on a person face to face – and you are not forced to make your initial decision based on their “photo of choice” on line.  However, it is weird to spend your night conducting mini interviews for potential dates.  Plus, if no one that you liked picked you too – you get to feel bad about yourself.  It would be pretty to think that it wouldn’t bother you – better luck next time – but it does bother you and it might take a chink out of your confidence armor that may or may not already be diminished by the fact that you are nearly 40  - and all the “traditionally sexy bits” have gone south for the foreseeable future and you are not nearly as thin as you’d like to be - and there may or may not be random hairs growing where they should not be growing -  hypothetically, of course.  My new favorite saying “those aren’t my breasts, just the bags they came in” is sad, but true.  To be a single woman at 40 has a totally different meaning than being a single man at 40.  For the man it’s like “oh, that rascal (not sure why we revert back to 1940s vernacular), nobody has managed to snatched him up yet” or “he is still sowing his wild oats” as if the single middle-aged man is like the triple word space on the scrabble board – just waiting for that lucky woman to come pluck him out of bachelorhood.  His homeboys all worship him for managing to stay out of the clutches of married life for so long.  For a woman it means you might as well cash in your buy-3-cats-get-one-free Groupon at Pets-R-Us.  Anyway, I digress.  CONTRACTOR Clare thinks I need to get my swagger back and suggests that I own who I am and the body I am in and try Match.com.  To be honest – I’m not sure where I left my swagger – I might have left it in a pair of tight-rolled faded jeans on 4^th North of the dorm at UNCA, or on the dance floor of Cinjades nightclub in downtown Asheville back in 1992, or in the backseat of a 1967 VW convertible. . . . (oops, just kidding, forgot my parents were following).  There are a few people I can think of (and I won’t name names) who might have simply walked off with my swagger along the way.  Who really knows – but I think it’s too late to retrace steps at this point.  I guess if I can’t get my old swagger back, I’ll just have to get some new swagger and make it mine.  I picture swagger as being like a Harry Potter wand (“the wand chooses the wizard”) – in that the swagger chooses the player.  I will have to make myself worthy of some new swagger!  I may or may not do Match.com with CONTRACTOR Clare – I need to decide if it’s worth spending the monthly fee on my CONTRACTOR wages.  If I do end up doing it, I can assure you it will produce many laughs.