Today I received a bouquet of flowers from an admirer, for the first time in about a year. I am very flattered, even if the young gentleman in question is the five-year-old who lives downstairs and the bouquet consisted of three stalks of dame's rocket that were growing alongside the garage. He's a cutie. I've always been a sucker for big brown eyes.
Plus he let me play with his R2D2 figurine.
30 May 2005
26 May 2005
New Neighbors
No, the burning-Bronco human neighbors did not move away. These new neighbors are of the avian variety, and there are two pairs of them.
About a month ago, I started to hear the joyous, burbling call of a house wren. I heard him singing from various vantage points in the neighborhood, but the viburnum in the backyard seemed to be a favorite perch. Last year I hung a nest box in the viburnum, but it went unused during the spring and summer (though when I cleaned it in March, it was full of twigs, so someone must have utilized it as a winter roost). I was most pleased when the wren began construction, stuffing sticks, bark, and plastic Easter grass through the entrance hole.
Male wrens build several nests and then take their mates around to inspect them. Mrs. Wren makes her choice and then proceeds to rebuild to her specifications ("Dammit, Harry, I told you I wanted the couch over there"). I did my own part to try to impress the female by leaving some plump grubs exposed when I finished turning over my garden. "Convenient location, close to dining and shopping," I thought, hoping she'd decide on the house in the viburnum.
And I think she did. After I thinned the radish seedlings yesterday, I stood on the toes of my sandals, trying to peer into the nest box without getting too close. Out darted a tiny wren. It hopped around the viburnum for a while, not singing, so I hope it was the female. I thought I saw some softer materials in the nest cavity. I hope there will be little wrens soon.
The second new neighbor is a bit more of a concern. When the blue jays started inspecting a beam in the "garage" (more like a three-sided carport), I was amused. I like blue jays - they're smart and colorful and mouthy. When I returned from Point Pelee this weekend, I discovered the female already sitting on eggs. The nest is not even two feet away from where I park my car. While I feel a certain wonder at having such a beautiful creature make a home so close to me, I also feel a certain caution. Blue jays are not shy. They screamed for several minutes at a cat that wandered too close to the garage. They will peck my head, I guarantee it. My car has already taken a direct hit of white bird doo. When the babies fledge and fall from the nest in their first attempts to fly, I'm afraid I'll run them over.
But such things are in the future and may not come to pass. I've left the jays alone, and so far they haven't seemed bothered by my presence. Yesterday I stood directly beneath the nest and watched the mother bird's black-edged tail move up and down with her breath. I'm thinking of leaving some peanuts in a dish nearby. Welcome to the neighborhood, feathered friends.
About a month ago, I started to hear the joyous, burbling call of a house wren. I heard him singing from various vantage points in the neighborhood, but the viburnum in the backyard seemed to be a favorite perch. Last year I hung a nest box in the viburnum, but it went unused during the spring and summer (though when I cleaned it in March, it was full of twigs, so someone must have utilized it as a winter roost). I was most pleased when the wren began construction, stuffing sticks, bark, and plastic Easter grass through the entrance hole.
Male wrens build several nests and then take their mates around to inspect them. Mrs. Wren makes her choice and then proceeds to rebuild to her specifications ("Dammit, Harry, I told you I wanted the couch over there"). I did my own part to try to impress the female by leaving some plump grubs exposed when I finished turning over my garden. "Convenient location, close to dining and shopping," I thought, hoping she'd decide on the house in the viburnum.
And I think she did. After I thinned the radish seedlings yesterday, I stood on the toes of my sandals, trying to peer into the nest box without getting too close. Out darted a tiny wren. It hopped around the viburnum for a while, not singing, so I hope it was the female. I thought I saw some softer materials in the nest cavity. I hope there will be little wrens soon.
The second new neighbor is a bit more of a concern. When the blue jays started inspecting a beam in the "garage" (more like a three-sided carport), I was amused. I like blue jays - they're smart and colorful and mouthy. When I returned from Point Pelee this weekend, I discovered the female already sitting on eggs. The nest is not even two feet away from where I park my car. While I feel a certain wonder at having such a beautiful creature make a home so close to me, I also feel a certain caution. Blue jays are not shy. They screamed for several minutes at a cat that wandered too close to the garage. They will peck my head, I guarantee it. My car has already taken a direct hit of white bird doo. When the babies fledge and fall from the nest in their first attempts to fly, I'm afraid I'll run them over.
But such things are in the future and may not come to pass. I've left the jays alone, and so far they haven't seemed bothered by my presence. Yesterday I stood directly beneath the nest and watched the mother bird's black-edged tail move up and down with her breath. I'm thinking of leaving some peanuts in a dish nearby. Welcome to the neighborhood, feathered friends.
24 May 2005
3 Days, 79 Birds, 1 Point Pelee
American Goldfinch, American Redstart, American Robin, American Woodcock, Baltimore Oriole, Barn Swallow, Bay-Breasted Warbler, Black-and-White Warbler, Black-Bellied Plover, Blackburnian Warbler, Black-Capped Chickadee, Blackpoll Warbler, Black-Throated Green Warbler, Blue Jay, Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher, Blue-Headed Vireo, Bonaparte's Gull, Brown-Headed Cowbird
Canada Goose, Canada Warbler, Carolina Wren, Caspian Tern, Chestnut-Sided Warbler, Chimney Swift, Chipping Sparrow, Common Grackle, Common Nighthawk, Common Yellowthroat, Cooper's Hawk, Double-Crested Cormorant, Downy Woodpecker, Dunlin
Eastern Pewee, Eastern Screech Owl, Eastern Kingbird, Forster's Tern, Gray Catbird, Great Blue Heron, Great Crested Flycatcher, Great Egret, Hermit Thrush, Herring Gull, House Finch, House Sparrow, House Wren, Indigo Bunting, Killdeer, Least Flycatcher, Lincoln's Sparrow
Magnolia Warbler, Mallard, Mourning Dove, Northern Cardinal, Northern Parula, Orchard Oriole, Ovenbird, Philadelphia Vireo, Purple Martin, Red-Eyed Vireo, Red-Headed Woodpecker, Red-Winged Blackbird, Rose-Breasted Grosbeak, Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
Scarlet Tanager, Short-Billed Dowitcher, Slate-Colored Junco, Song Sparrow, Swamp Sparrow, Tree Swallow, Turkey Vulture, Veery, Warbling Vireo, Whimbrel, Whip-poor-will, White-Crowned Sparrow, White-Throated Sparrow, Wood Duck, Wood Thrush, Yellow Warbler
Canada Goose, Canada Warbler, Carolina Wren, Caspian Tern, Chestnut-Sided Warbler, Chimney Swift, Chipping Sparrow, Common Grackle, Common Nighthawk, Common Yellowthroat, Cooper's Hawk, Double-Crested Cormorant, Downy Woodpecker, Dunlin
Eastern Pewee, Eastern Screech Owl, Eastern Kingbird, Forster's Tern, Gray Catbird, Great Blue Heron, Great Crested Flycatcher, Great Egret, Hermit Thrush, Herring Gull, House Finch, House Sparrow, House Wren, Indigo Bunting, Killdeer, Least Flycatcher, Lincoln's Sparrow
Magnolia Warbler, Mallard, Mourning Dove, Northern Cardinal, Northern Parula, Orchard Oriole, Ovenbird, Philadelphia Vireo, Purple Martin, Red-Eyed Vireo, Red-Headed Woodpecker, Red-Winged Blackbird, Rose-Breasted Grosbeak, Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
Scarlet Tanager, Short-Billed Dowitcher, Slate-Colored Junco, Song Sparrow, Swamp Sparrow, Tree Swallow, Turkey Vulture, Veery, Warbling Vireo, Whimbrel, Whip-poor-will, White-Crowned Sparrow, White-Throated Sparrow, Wood Duck, Wood Thrush, Yellow Warbler
17 May 2005
The craziest acronym
I've seen in a while: COLLAPSE (Corrosion of Lead and Lead-Tin Alloys of Organ Pipes in Europe).
COLLAPSE is a "research project formed when a mysterious corrosion began appearing in the hollow cylinders of some of Europe's oldest and most venerable" pipe organs.
What I find mysterious is that while the "o" of an unimportant word, "of," gets picked up into the acronym, the "o" of an important (capitalized, even!) word, "organ," does not. In fairness to all the words, shouldn't it be COLALTAOOPIE?
From Newsweek
COLLAPSE is a "research project formed when a mysterious corrosion began appearing in the hollow cylinders of some of Europe's oldest and most venerable" pipe organs.
What I find mysterious is that while the "o" of an unimportant word, "of," gets picked up into the acronym, the "o" of an important (capitalized, even!) word, "organ," does not. In fairness to all the words, shouldn't it be COLALTAOOPIE?
From Newsweek
10 May 2005
It's 1:07 in the morning, a time I don't usually see anymore, though I once considered it a fairly early time to go to bed, back in the days before the 9-to-5. Lately if I am awake, it's usually because I need to pee or am getting home from a hot date with K. No such luck this morning. This morning I was awakened by an exploding SUV.
Okay, that's hyperbole. I was awakened by someone pounding on the neighbor's door, yelling for everyone to get out. Other muddled voices cried out, I think someone shouted for the door-knocker to get lost, a dog started to bark. This isn't surprising. The neighbors in the two houses south of me act like this when the weather gets warm. They come home drunk, fighting and cursing, or drag the T.V. out onto the porch to watch the Pistons with the sound cranked up (so I don't miss a free throw). I'm kind of scared of the teenagers - they come and go so much that I'm not sure who belongs over there. My neighbors burn shit in the backyard. They have a lot of burnable shit, all over the porch and in the thirteen sheds in the backyard. This time something was burning in the front yard.
"The ___ is on fire!" I heard the door-knocker yell. There was a word in that ___ spot, but it was unintelligible - house, apartment, Bronco, something. I rolled over to see my mini blinds glowing orange. Fire. Some reptilian remnant of my brain comprehended and started moving my body out of the bed before the language sub-routine came online. I looked out between the slats to see a blaze eight feet high and looking like it could consume a national forest. I couldn't really tell what was on fire, but it looked like the porch of the second house over. Shit, I thought. All that shit's gonna catch fire.
Followed by: My house next. Something exploded. My heart beat in my throat.
Neighbors burst through the door in nighties or wrapped in sheets. As I turned from the window, there was a knock on my door. Going down the steps, I thought maybe I should pop the cat in her carrier and take her out with me, but I didn't stop. It wasn't the next door door-knocker - it was my neighbor from the apartment downstairs, her Pre-Raphaelite red hair flowing picturesquely as usual, clutching her little boy. "There's a big fire," she breathed. "We heard a big bang. We thought maybe it was your cat or something."
My cat? Anyway...
Her mother and sister, visiting from California, were also there. They all look better without their bras on than I do. We bare-foot padded out to the damp sidewalk and speculated about the fire. "There's so much that goes on over there," my neighbor tsk-tsked. Other neighbors came by, some in robes, some with enough sense to put sneakers on, some chasing their dogs, for crying out loud. Nothing like a house fire to bring folks out. The cops, who know their way to this part of the street well, showed up in a moment, followed by two fire trucks. Mom walked right over to the scene. She reported back to us that it was an SUV on fire, that the woman who had just parked it was "drunk or something," and that Broncos or Jeeps or whatever are known to catch fire due to a fault in the cruise control. I stood there trying surreptitiously to prop my boobs up with my arms.
An arc of foam shot through the air. The fire was out in under a minute. I excused myself and went back inside. The cat growled, but whether it was because I didn't take her with me or because she was accused of being as loud as a gas tank explosion, I don't know.
The little clusters of curious and concerned folk have dispersed. It looks like the authorities are taking statements from the owners of the charred chassis. The cops and one of the fire trucks have left. Since I can't sleep with so much as a blinking VCR in the room, I'm sure I won't sleep 'til the second truck is gone too.
Okay, that's hyperbole. I was awakened by someone pounding on the neighbor's door, yelling for everyone to get out. Other muddled voices cried out, I think someone shouted for the door-knocker to get lost, a dog started to bark. This isn't surprising. The neighbors in the two houses south of me act like this when the weather gets warm. They come home drunk, fighting and cursing, or drag the T.V. out onto the porch to watch the Pistons with the sound cranked up (so I don't miss a free throw). I'm kind of scared of the teenagers - they come and go so much that I'm not sure who belongs over there. My neighbors burn shit in the backyard. They have a lot of burnable shit, all over the porch and in the thirteen sheds in the backyard. This time something was burning in the front yard.
"The ___ is on fire!" I heard the door-knocker yell. There was a word in that ___ spot, but it was unintelligible - house, apartment, Bronco, something. I rolled over to see my mini blinds glowing orange. Fire. Some reptilian remnant of my brain comprehended and started moving my body out of the bed before the language sub-routine came online. I looked out between the slats to see a blaze eight feet high and looking like it could consume a national forest. I couldn't really tell what was on fire, but it looked like the porch of the second house over. Shit, I thought. All that shit's gonna catch fire.
Followed by: My house next. Something exploded. My heart beat in my throat.
Neighbors burst through the door in nighties or wrapped in sheets. As I turned from the window, there was a knock on my door. Going down the steps, I thought maybe I should pop the cat in her carrier and take her out with me, but I didn't stop. It wasn't the next door door-knocker - it was my neighbor from the apartment downstairs, her Pre-Raphaelite red hair flowing picturesquely as usual, clutching her little boy. "There's a big fire," she breathed. "We heard a big bang. We thought maybe it was your cat or something."
My cat? Anyway...
Her mother and sister, visiting from California, were also there. They all look better without their bras on than I do. We bare-foot padded out to the damp sidewalk and speculated about the fire. "There's so much that goes on over there," my neighbor tsk-tsked. Other neighbors came by, some in robes, some with enough sense to put sneakers on, some chasing their dogs, for crying out loud. Nothing like a house fire to bring folks out. The cops, who know their way to this part of the street well, showed up in a moment, followed by two fire trucks. Mom walked right over to the scene. She reported back to us that it was an SUV on fire, that the woman who had just parked it was "drunk or something," and that Broncos or Jeeps or whatever are known to catch fire due to a fault in the cruise control. I stood there trying surreptitiously to prop my boobs up with my arms.
An arc of foam shot through the air. The fire was out in under a minute. I excused myself and went back inside. The cat growled, but whether it was because I didn't take her with me or because she was accused of being as loud as a gas tank explosion, I don't know.
The little clusters of curious and concerned folk have dispersed. It looks like the authorities are taking statements from the owners of the charred chassis. The cops and one of the fire trucks have left. Since I can't sleep with so much as a blinking VCR in the room, I'm sure I won't sleep 'til the second truck is gone too.
08 May 2005
01 May 2005
Wake Up Call
For some reason, I woke up at 6:00 am this morning. I didn’t need the bathroom, I was tired from staying up ‘til 2:00 reading Ian McEwan, and the cat slept soundly by my elbow. Maybe it was the Carolina wren bellowing on my bedroom windowsill.
I’m glad to hear him. Carolina wrens pair up for life, travel together year-round, and I almost never see one without a partner. The conspicuous male belts out variations on his “teakettle” theme and the female churrs back to him from a more-concealed twig. They’re small and loud-mouthed and belligerent and loyal and I love them for it. Sadly, something happened to the original pair who tried to tough out a snowy winter in Michigan this year. They came to the windowsill for peanut chips throughout the season, then suddenly were gone. On a walk around the house a few weeks ago, I picked up from under one of the lilac bushes what first looked like a fuzzy leaf. It turned out not to be a leaf but a small, cinnamon-colored wing, a Carolina wren wing.
Of course I have no idea what happened. There are plenty of dangers to wrens about: cats, bad weather, that Cooper’s hawk who dined regularly on juncos at my neighbor’s feeders. I’ll never know whether it was the male or female of the original pair who died. Still, I like to think this morning’s visiting alarm clock is the survivor and that he’s singing for a new mate, an energetic, white-eyebrowed bundle of feathers, song, and hope.
I’m glad to hear him. Carolina wrens pair up for life, travel together year-round, and I almost never see one without a partner. The conspicuous male belts out variations on his “teakettle” theme and the female churrs back to him from a more-concealed twig. They’re small and loud-mouthed and belligerent and loyal and I love them for it. Sadly, something happened to the original pair who tried to tough out a snowy winter in Michigan this year. They came to the windowsill for peanut chips throughout the season, then suddenly were gone. On a walk around the house a few weeks ago, I picked up from under one of the lilac bushes what first looked like a fuzzy leaf. It turned out not to be a leaf but a small, cinnamon-colored wing, a Carolina wren wing.
Of course I have no idea what happened. There are plenty of dangers to wrens about: cats, bad weather, that Cooper’s hawk who dined regularly on juncos at my neighbor’s feeders. I’ll never know whether it was the male or female of the original pair who died. Still, I like to think this morning’s visiting alarm clock is the survivor and that he’s singing for a new mate, an energetic, white-eyebrowed bundle of feathers, song, and hope.
18 April 2005
Crimes Against Shrubbery
Ah, spring, when a young gardener’s fancy turns to greening plants. The sap starts running, the leaves peek out, and the gardener fumbles for the shears and pruners.
“Pruning – The Kindest Cuts” reads the headline for a class at the community college. I pay more attention to items of botanical interest than I used to. For four months last spring and early summer, I worked part-time at a local landscape nursery. I’ve always been more interested in animals than plants, but the nursery job taught me a deeper appreciation for plants as living organisms. Although I’m certainly no expert, I know enough to know that each plant has its own characteristics and needs, and I also know that many casual gardeners pay no heed to their plants’ characteristics and needs (mea culpa). Some shrubs really love being whacked back to the ground, while others will simply never recover from such a severe pruning. Without knowing what each plant requires, gardeners will make the unkindest cuts, lopping off branches left and right and then wondering why the hydrangea never flowers. Indiscriminate pruning can be harmful and can compromise the health of a plant. Or it can be just plain ugly.
Forsythia frequently finds itself the target of overzealous pruning. Beloved for their early, vibrant yellow flowers, forsythia threaten to take over Michigan. The ubiquitous shrubs are found in every neighborhood and office park, and the occasional highway berm. Often the poor Goldilocks are shorn of their blonde tresses. Forsythias’ genes compel them to be leggy and airy, tall and expansive. Left to their own devices, forsythia do not resemble cauliflower au gratin, as these distressed shrubs outside a fast food restaurant do.
Here’s what forsythia are supposed to look like.
Would you give an Old English Sheepdog a poodle cut?
Would you make a sheepdog goosestep in precise formation with a platoon of other dogs? That’s sort of what’s happened to these plants unlucky enough to be drafted.
Now, I don’t find arbor vitae to be among the most charismatic of shrubs. They’re unassuming, quite happy concealing foundations, providing backdrop for showier plants, or adding winter interest to cemeteries. They look embarrassed here, shorn and naked from the waist down, and regimented into some redneck version of Versailles. When I drew “lollipop trees” as a child, this is exactly what I had in mind. I never thought they actually existed.
These examples of crimes against shrubbery come from fairly well-off parts of two different towns. It goes to show that this can happen anywhere. Anywhere. Even right in your own neighborhood.
Please, stop senseless shrubbery abuse. Call your landscaping professional today.
Second photo of forsythia by Bradford McKee. His article Hack Job appeared last year in Slate and inspired this post.
Other photos courtesy of my accomplice KT.
“Pruning – The Kindest Cuts” reads the headline for a class at the community college. I pay more attention to items of botanical interest than I used to. For four months last spring and early summer, I worked part-time at a local landscape nursery. I’ve always been more interested in animals than plants, but the nursery job taught me a deeper appreciation for plants as living organisms. Although I’m certainly no expert, I know enough to know that each plant has its own characteristics and needs, and I also know that many casual gardeners pay no heed to their plants’ characteristics and needs (mea culpa). Some shrubs really love being whacked back to the ground, while others will simply never recover from such a severe pruning. Without knowing what each plant requires, gardeners will make the unkindest cuts, lopping off branches left and right and then wondering why the hydrangea never flowers. Indiscriminate pruning can be harmful and can compromise the health of a plant. Or it can be just plain ugly.
Forsythia frequently finds itself the target of overzealous pruning. Beloved for their early, vibrant yellow flowers, forsythia threaten to take over Michigan. The ubiquitous shrubs are found in every neighborhood and office park, and the occasional highway berm. Often the poor Goldilocks are shorn of their blonde tresses. Forsythias’ genes compel them to be leggy and airy, tall and expansive. Left to their own devices, forsythia do not resemble cauliflower au gratin, as these distressed shrubs outside a fast food restaurant do.
Here’s what forsythia are supposed to look like.
Would you give an Old English Sheepdog a poodle cut?
Would you make a sheepdog goosestep in precise formation with a platoon of other dogs? That’s sort of what’s happened to these plants unlucky enough to be drafted.
Now, I don’t find arbor vitae to be among the most charismatic of shrubs. They’re unassuming, quite happy concealing foundations, providing backdrop for showier plants, or adding winter interest to cemeteries. They look embarrassed here, shorn and naked from the waist down, and regimented into some redneck version of Versailles. When I drew “lollipop trees” as a child, this is exactly what I had in mind. I never thought they actually existed.
These examples of crimes against shrubbery come from fairly well-off parts of two different towns. It goes to show that this can happen anywhere. Anywhere. Even right in your own neighborhood.
Please, stop senseless shrubbery abuse. Call your landscaping professional today.
Second photo of forsythia by Bradford McKee. His article Hack Job appeared last year in Slate and inspired this post.
Other photos courtesy of my accomplice KT.
17 April 2005
Marriage Proposal
I received a proposal of marriage, oh, about two months ago already. This was in earnest, despite the fact that I was proposed to over the Instant Messaging function of an Internet dating site.
I was an addict of said dating site off and on for about three years. Imagine a lab rat hitting a bar to receive a bit of cheese, and every once in a random while a crumb of cocaine. I logged in daily – no, that’s a lie – I logged in at least three times a day to make sure Prince Charming hadn’t sent me any free “smiles” or anted up the cash to send me an actual e-mail. Usually no one did. But one time I hit the bar and the most gorgeous visiting professor of philosophy popped out. Of course, there was also the time I received a miniature church organist, but it’s the rush of the philosopher I feel compelled to try to replicate.
Before work one morning, I logged on and the blue instant message light started blinking like a K-mart special. The spelling and grammar had a non-native speaker quality about them. “Wow,” he said (or typed). “You are so preety for me.” What unwashed Midwestern woman in flannel pajamas at 7:25 in the morning wouldn’t be flattered? His name is M., and he thinks I’m a nice “lday.” Suddenly I’m awake without my usual mug of weapons-grade black British tea. Hey, this could be the one.
Clicking on his profile, I saw that his idea of romance includes love poems and that he enjoys his pet in his spare time. Literate and likes animals – so far, so good. He has a university education. He is 30 years old, slim, and wants kids. Perfect!
He also “lives approximately 5,430 miles from your home,” in Lagos, Nigeria.
Maybe I should invest in a web cam. Maybe my twisted wire grimace would have deterred him from typing “r u married?”
Is there a right answer to this question? If I say “Yes” to dodge him, I’ll be accused of being among the 30% of people on Internet dating sites who are married. How about the truth? “No,” I typed.
Wrong answer. “i can marry u,” he volunteers. And leave warm, sunny Nigeria for Michigan, halfway to the North Pole? “No,” I typed, actually feeling guilty entering those two keystrokes. I was breaking up with him already and moving on.
“i can come.” Now I’m paralyzed. Why do I always get the tenacious ones?
“i can stay with u.” I don’t answer. I’m getting my socks out of the drawer.
“why no?” he finally typed.
Seconds tick off the clock. Why no, indeed? Why can’t love really be as easy as simply saying, “Yes?” Aren’t literature and history filled with couples drawn together in the strangest ways? Don’t we all know some happy pair, partnered for years, who went to get the marriage license on their third date? And isn’t this part of the allure of Internet dating, that the One is out there and all you need do is fill out the questionnaire and set your search criteria to have him or her delivered to your inbox, heralded by a flashing blue button?
I am unable to make the leap. I plop back into the chair and slay my virtual suitor by telling him we don’t know each other, and never will. I still check my account every once in a while, though I've pretty much weaned myself from the habit. M. is still out there, logging on, looking, and probably proposing to my downstairs neighbor right now.
I was an addict of said dating site off and on for about three years. Imagine a lab rat hitting a bar to receive a bit of cheese, and every once in a random while a crumb of cocaine. I logged in daily – no, that’s a lie – I logged in at least three times a day to make sure Prince Charming hadn’t sent me any free “smiles” or anted up the cash to send me an actual e-mail. Usually no one did. But one time I hit the bar and the most gorgeous visiting professor of philosophy popped out. Of course, there was also the time I received a miniature church organist, but it’s the rush of the philosopher I feel compelled to try to replicate.
Before work one morning, I logged on and the blue instant message light started blinking like a K-mart special. The spelling and grammar had a non-native speaker quality about them. “Wow,” he said (or typed). “You are so preety for me.” What unwashed Midwestern woman in flannel pajamas at 7:25 in the morning wouldn’t be flattered? His name is M., and he thinks I’m a nice “lday.” Suddenly I’m awake without my usual mug of weapons-grade black British tea. Hey, this could be the one.
Clicking on his profile, I saw that his idea of romance includes love poems and that he enjoys his pet in his spare time. Literate and likes animals – so far, so good. He has a university education. He is 30 years old, slim, and wants kids. Perfect!
He also “lives approximately 5,430 miles from your home,” in Lagos, Nigeria.
Maybe I should invest in a web cam. Maybe my twisted wire grimace would have deterred him from typing “r u married?”
Is there a right answer to this question? If I say “Yes” to dodge him, I’ll be accused of being among the 30% of people on Internet dating sites who are married. How about the truth? “No,” I typed.
Wrong answer. “i can marry u,” he volunteers. And leave warm, sunny Nigeria for Michigan, halfway to the North Pole? “No,” I typed, actually feeling guilty entering those two keystrokes. I was breaking up with him already and moving on.
“i can come.” Now I’m paralyzed. Why do I always get the tenacious ones?
“i can stay with u.” I don’t answer. I’m getting my socks out of the drawer.
“why no?” he finally typed.
Seconds tick off the clock. Why no, indeed? Why can’t love really be as easy as simply saying, “Yes?” Aren’t literature and history filled with couples drawn together in the strangest ways? Don’t we all know some happy pair, partnered for years, who went to get the marriage license on their third date? And isn’t this part of the allure of Internet dating, that the One is out there and all you need do is fill out the questionnaire and set your search criteria to have him or her delivered to your inbox, heralded by a flashing blue button?
I am unable to make the leap. I plop back into the chair and slay my virtual suitor by telling him we don’t know each other, and never will. I still check my account every once in a while, though I've pretty much weaned myself from the habit. M. is still out there, logging on, looking, and probably proposing to my downstairs neighbor right now.
11 April 2005
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