It's Like a Classified Ad, with More Sex and Whining

Missed Connections.

It’s my understanding that in the world of dating, the term ‘missed connection’ implies that there was an instant where things could have flourished, but you dropped the ball and you missed your chance to plant your seed (heh heh). It would appear, however, that a good portion of North Americans have a different understanding of this term.

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I get great joy out of perusing the Missed Connection (MC) section of Craigslist. While some might browse my internet history and think I’m desperately hoping that someone spotted me on the street and felt the need to write about me, I’ll be the first to tell you that that is true nonsense. I mostly read them because I like to bask in people’s idiocy.

If you’re unfamiliar with Missed Connections, you must live under a rock or up a mule's ass, but since you’re here, reading this today, I will enlighten you. In an ideal world, MC is an e-classified ad devoted to reaching out to strangers that the writer feels they could have had a real connection with.  In reality, MC is more like a drunk text. In other words, you probably shouldn’t write it because the person probably doesn’t want to hear what you have to say and/or it’s a booty call. 

Often times, when I’m reading through the posts, I find myself getting frustrated with the writer. I’d hate to tell you “Man in the yellow coat”, but “I saw you on the bus. You were wearing a red scarf and you were playing with your iphone.” doesn't count as a missed connection. The bitch probably didn't even know you existed. (And if she did happen to notice you, chances are she was texting her friend/boyfriend/grandmami, telling them about the creep that won’t stop staring at her.) Instead of being a little pussy and hiding behind your computer screen, grab yourself by the balls (not literally, please, you’re in public) and take a shot with the hot bitch on the bus. You have wasted my precious time, and I have better missed connections to scrutinize. Thankyouverymuch.

I know I’ve mentioned my wonderful and hilarious roommate before, but I don’t think I talk about her enough. (She might disagree with that…) I happen to know that she shares my love for Missed Connections. She may spend fewer hours per week reading these e-love stories, but she still supports my addiction. One night, she got home after polishing off some pints and admitted that sometimes she makes eye contact with people intentionally on the subway (read: stares them down), in hopes of having someone write about her on MC. In the same breath, she acknowledged that this probably comes across as crazy, but she does it, nonetheless. This, singlehandedly, is reason enough to be friends with her. Her actions are definitely missed connection worthy. I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me more eager to get to know someone than having them stare at me for 8 subway stops. That’s romance, folks.

What I’ve come to noticed in my hours of MC surfin’, is that there is a huge difference between the content of m4m (man for man), w4w (woman for woman) and m4w (man for woman). After years of perusing, I’ve decided that the categories should be renamed to this:

1)      Let’s get naked. (m4m)

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Let’s break this down a little further, shall we?

1)      Let’s get naked (m4m).

This category has the odd sentimental missed connection, but let’s be honest here folks, 85% of these ‘connections’ involve the word “naked” “gym” “shower” and “horny”.  Often times there will be pictures of penises involved, and I don’t love that, but you boys always give me a good laugh. Carry on.

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

This category makes me feel a little ashamed. While there is the odd ‘real’ missed connection, these are jammed pack with tear-filled poems dedicated to lost loves. I’d hate to tell you, “S”, but it’s not a missed connection if you were at one point ‘connected.’  This is called a break up and I’m sure “J” doesn’t care if your ‘Ode to September’ haiku is packed full of your metaphorical, bleeding twat heart. Let it go. Take some pointers from the m4m and go get your fuck on. “J” is probably wrist-deep in a new emotional hoe as we speak.  (That was a little harsh. She’s probably not that emotional.)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Here is where you find the classic bus scenario that I mentioned earlier in this post. While this section is comprised with more ‘legitimate’ missed connections than the other 2 sections, it’s also filled to the brim with creepiness. Here’s the section my roommate would be mentioned in, if her subway staring contests ever materialize into an MC.  In my mind, it would read something like this: “I saw you on the subway. You had hazel eyes and straight-across bangs. You kept staring at me and I felt like I had something on my face. I think you might have tried to wink… or maybe you were just blinking slowly. You were cute, though, so holler at me if you see this.” And you know what, guys? She wouldn’t answer. Who meets people on Craigslist, anyway? That’s just creepy.

So, even though so many of the entries in Missed Connections are absurd, cheesy, skeezy or lame, (or all of the above), I just can’t help myself. I’m not going to suggest that you all start devoting time each week to bask in the absurdity of these Craigslist gems, but I will say this: Someone had better write about me ASAP, or I’ll start thinking all my hours of winking at strangers is a total waste of time. 

WINK.

I say, "Potato", you say, "Let's run the world with pigeons."

I’ve hit a wall.

I keep staring at the blank screen, trying to think of something that might make you chuckle or, at the very least, huff loudly through your nostrils, but the proverbial crickets be chirpin’.  

This is all your fault.

If you weren’t so intent on being amused when you read my blog, I could just write about how much I love potatoes and that would be that. I wouldn’t need to think up clever anecdotes and new ways to say the word ‘tit’. I could just be all “Yum. POTATOES. Nom nom nom” and you would take it like a champ.  

Actually, can we take a moment to pause and appreciate the potato, folks. I mean, for serious. The possibilities are endless with those little delicious fuckers. Starchy, adaptable vegetable FTW.)

If I had an online store, I would sell T-shirts that say:

Since y’all aren’t here to read about produce, you’ve left me up shitcreek without a paddle. Nothing overly interesting has happened in my life lately.  I mean, I could tell you about last weekend and how I got so drunk I nearly picked up a cougar by accident, or about the time my landlord locked me out of my apartment and I reluctantly donated my bananas to raccoons, but those stories would probably compromise my ‘cool shit’ reputation, and we can’t have that, now, can we?

So instead, I’m going to enlighten you with a brief story that outlines why my roommate may eventually take over the world.

One quiet evening, I sat in the living room of our little apartment. The television may have been on. This is not relevant to the story. My roommate was in the kitchen, probably doing something with food and/or drink (so far, this story is going really well…), and suddenly came hurtling into the room.

Roommate: “Okay, think about this:  If you were telepathic with pigeons… like, if you were all ‘Dr. Doolittle’ with them, you could totally take over the world. With pigeons.”

Me: “What exactly would you accomplish by communicating with pigeons? Tell them where to poop, and to swoop down near people’s heads when they aren’t paying attention to scare the shit out of them*?”

Roommate: “They were used in the war!”

Me: “Well then.”

Roommate: “Think about it!”

So, if she starts acting strangely more strangely and engages in bizarre one-on-one interactions with pigeons, I’ll know to watch my back- because bitch be taking over the world, Dr. Doolittle style. 

(P.S. I still think you're crazy, roomie. And I've thought about it.)

 

* I’m 90% sure that pigeons exist for the sole purpose of fucking with me when I’m drinking wine in a park.

Don't Go On the Roof! Updated!

I have a raccoon problem.

Not in the ‘I can’t quit raccooning, guys- I’m hooked!” kind of way. But in the ‘they are taking over my life and will probably eat my cat’ kind of way.  And I don’t even have a cat.

Last spring, I had the luxury of discovering a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch. As we live on the third floor of a house, it felt a bit like a special delivery. The kind of delivery you’d expect from Satan, or Joan Rivers.

This was shocking and upsetting for two reasons.  1) I stopped eating meat 8 years ago because I had to dissect a fetal pig in high school and wanted to die the whole goddamn time. So it was pretty much like staring trauma directly in its hideous, inbred face. 2) It’s a fucking dead raccoon fetus.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation, I decided to grab the corner of the tarp that was conveniently strewn on the ground beside it, to temporarily cover it. Out of sight, out of mind, right? WRONG. Out of the tarp jumps the biggest raccoon fucker I’ve encountered to date. Probs from the pregnancy weight, but I’m going to judge her anyway. Bitch scared the living shit right out of me.  Worst thing? I was home alone. 

After a few hysterical phone calls and likely several shots, I stood for a long period of time, face pressed up against the glass door, expecting to see the unsuccessfully-covered fetus move. It didn’t… as dead things generally go…  The next day, my roommate and her heroic Irish boyfriend disposed of the body- later telling me they had had another encounter with Bitch-Jumps-Out-of-Tarps, but this time she also had a (living) baby. Hooray! More Raccoons all around! Just what Toronto needs!

A few months later, summer arrives and a fresh-faced 19 year old lad moves in downstairs. Sharing a love of booze, we instantly got along.  One night, he proposes the idea of climbing onto our roof sometime. My roommate agrees this would be a jolly good time, while my first thought was That’s where the raccoons are. They throw their fetuses from above- don’t go up there.  Trying not to sound like a total lunatic, I kept that thought inside and shrugged off the idea, hoping it wouldn’t arise again.

A couple weeks later, the following text message conversation takes place between me and my roommate:

Roommate: We’re thinking of going up on the roof tonight.

Me: Oh man, don’t! Maybe there are raccoon bodies up there!

Roommate: HA! If there are, I’m so getting them taxidermied and using them to scare you constantly.  Oh, what’s in your bed? Oh, what’s in the fridge? Oh, what’s in the oven? RACCOOOOONS.

And then I’m going to make them wear Anne Hathaway masks.*

Me:  I hate you.

 

*If you don’t get that, you should read this post.

Lesson: Don’t expect your roommate to support your irrational fear of raccoon fetuses. And also, dead raccoons are far more terrifying when you put Anne Hatahaway’s face on them.

Update: 
Roommate has provided a sample of her upcoming work.

Why yes, that IS a baby raccoon emerging from her stupid chin.

 

Contagious, like VD

After years of having roommates, some batshit crazier than others, (more on that later…) I moved out on my own and swore I’d never look back.

This was back when I was living in Montreal, where the cost of a large one bedroom apartment downtown roughly gets you a shoebox-size shithole on Pimp’s Lane in Toronto.

I decided to do the irresponsible adventurous thing and quit my job to move to a city where I can barely afford soap. Living alone was clearly not an option, but lucky for me, an old friend of mine had already been living in the city for awhile, and was looking for someone to live with.  Probably shoulda stuck to craigslist, eh, roomie?

With the inevitable stint of unemployment in my midst, I did what any broke person in desperate need of money would do… I slept, and drank.

Rest assured, my loving roommate was always looking out for me. Much like a pet, she was sure I got my nourishment, one way or another. One late morning I awoke to a text that read, “Hey, I’m pretty sure I left a half-eaten peach on my bed.”  Followed by, “You’re welcome to eat it.”  Thank you. You’re the sweetest.

We have lasted almost a year together now, and she’s awesome enough that I’ve kept track of some of the ridiculous and enlightening things that come out of her mouth.

This morning I stumbled upon this gem.

“I kinda feel like Beyonce’s energy is contagious… Also, I like replacing the ‘boy’ part in her song If I Were a Boy with things that I’m doing at the time. Like, if I’m making beans, I sing ‘If I were a bean’.”

You’re the best.