Denver Dumb Men's League

TTHFCIF

First and foremost, I promised updates on the keychain situation as circumstances warranted.

*warrantwarrantwarrant*†

First, Angel-eek found the entire push-button animal keychain line here,% where they have many, many cool things and I really want the duck mirror. I don't even look in mirrors‡ and I want the one with the duck feet.

Then Lyda, bemoaning the lack of zombie keychains, tracked these down. Despite her misgivings they may be too cute, I am madly in love with them. I used to have nightmares when I was six that looked a lot like those keychains.

Well, those and the hideous Frankentoys from "Toy Story."

For the record? Nothing to do with keychains, but Lyda also found this collection. I think a Zombie Knitter thong would be an excellent test for a man's dedication to the pursuit of a little trim.

Which brings us to our real topic of the day: men. And the dedication aforementioned.

[SUMMARY: Segueways are my speciality.§]

So let's talk about boys.

Oh, how I love boys. And men. And guys... 'specially guys.

I love their chronic simplicity. I love their straightforward communication style. I love taking their money at the poker table and how good natured they can be about it. I love watching football with them.

The more astute among you may recognise I'm talking about guy *friends*. If there's a hint of love or lust in the air, all that goes out the window.

Then they become the stereotype of a thousand predictable sitcoms. Every bad, mad comedienne shilling for two drink minimum shifts from shrew to incisive sociologist solely because she's so RIGHT. And even we reasonable and sane women¶ suffer from bouts of why-can't-he-call-when-he-says-he's-going-to-call misandry.

[SUMMARY: Poetic wax: apply liberally, buff to a purple shine.]

See, I met this nice guy last weekend.#

He beat me in a spelling bee, but graciously†† conceded that our spelling aptitude was at least comparable, amid mild bouts of giving me shit for misspelling "boudoir."

And he chatted me up.

And I gave him one of my MOO cards.

And he kissed me. Several times.

And when I told him I'd knitted Sue's rainbow scarf, he said, "Huh. That's kinda... hot."

Wait... let's go back to the kissing.

Top four kisses, all time (in order):

1. Mark, the coffin kiss, 1982: Our high school drama department was working the Denver Jaycees' haunted house. I was out of our cauldron and down the graveyard path at the BBYO cemetery, hanging out in a stand-up coffin, playing dead, getting a little rest from all the cackling and stirring. Mark walked up, pulled the split-lid‡‡ over us a little, leaned in and laid his lips on mine, absolutely parallel, and ran the very tip of his tongue across my top lip and then blew on it gently. I don't know if it was the coffin, the hot guy or my lack of experience, but I may have come just a little at that moment.


2. Different Mark, the stair kiss, 1986: I was hanging out with The Denny Lake Band§§ at the ABC Motel in Gunnison after their gig during Western State College homecoming festivities. The very cute, very smart guitarist¶¶ spent the night in the corner talking to me about important stuff while the other musicians drank, diddled their egos and tried to get into Stesha's pants. He asked for my phone number when Stesh and I were leaving. I was behind him going down the outside stairs from their door. Halfway down, he turned and I thought he was going to say something, but he laid a liplock on me that literally made my knees go weak. Good thing he had his arm locked around my waist or I would have collapsed. It was a quality kiss, but it was the spontaneity of it that put it over the top. And the aesthetic -- very Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville.


3. Currently a tie: The Boy, the bottom of my stairs, 8/15/06: I believe he was jealous of Marco during the Def Leppard concert at Red Rocks. Marco and I were having a good time, singing along, joking... and on the way home, Marco and The Boy made friends and agreed to take Mary, Marco's girlfriend, and me golfing the following weekend. Feathers soothed a little, The Boy laid a relieved, slightly possessive kiss on me before saying goodnight that made me go, "Oh!" TIED WITH: The Spelling Bee Champ, by the watering station at the Coral Room, the wee hours of 3/23/08: Just a spectacular kiss. Firm, warm, mobile (but not too), wet (but not too), sexy, judicious use of the tongue, good suction... just a really good kiss. And it didn't hurt that it was followed by a half-dozen more of the same. And a declaration of knitting as "hot."

So why hasn't he called?

I was speculating with Ange and Bag Lady Kathryn that he may have misunderstood something I said.

See, after a few of these lovely kisses, I told him he was very good at it. He paused for a moment and said, "Well, I guess there's always room for improvement."

At the time, I thought it was a little odd, but it sounded like the sort of thing I say when I'm caught wrong-footed,## so I shrugged, smiled and said, "Could be."

We had been in the midst of saying our good-byes, but I turned around to say something to Kelley and he just disappeared. Again, I didn't think a whole lot of it, but...

Now he hasn't called.

And now that I'm in the check-the-phone-for-a-dial-tone phase, I'm wondering if he thought I told him he *wasn't* very good at kissing. And he was crushed. And he's somewhere, nursing his wounds, dreaming of the young††† woman who so fascinated him and so defeated him.

Perhaps he cries in his pillow every night.

[SUMMARY: Leave me to my fantasies. Did you not hear he hasn't called?]

On the other hand, there's Soldier Boy, who calls every couple of weeks and either 1) says, "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night? We should get a beer or something," then never calls, or 2) calls at 9:30 on Sunday night to say, "I'm in your neck of the woods, I was hanging out with a buddy and I thought maybe we could get a beer or something. Right now. Run."

OK, he doesn't really say, "run," but you get the idea.

I called him after I got home Wednesday night, a couple of glasses of wine making me brave, and said, "You do know I'm a girl, right? And you have to give me at least a few hours of lead time so I can shave my legs and put on the war paint."

"Honey, you know I'm not a planning kind of guy..."

"Oh, I know. But... legs. Shaving. Girly stuff. I'm not asking for much. Three or four hours warning."

"What are you doing August 8?"

"Smart ass."

At least we're both very aware of our needs and our shortcomings. I don't know The Spelling Bee Champ well enough to know what the hell he's thinking. If he's thinking at all.^

There I was crying in my beer, making Ange and Kathryn listen to my junior high rantings.‡‡‡ They were being very supportive, and Ange chimed in with, "They should have a Denver Dumb Men's League."§§§

Ange introduced me to the Denver Dumb Friends League KittenCam, which can be equal parts disappointing and addicting. We had been talking about that and DDML just popped right into place.

[SUMMARY: That, my elementary school-level readers, is a clear example of serendipity.]

Now, I got my cats at the DDFL ten years ago. My hedgehog had waddled off the mortal coil almost a year before and Brother offered to adopt me a cat for my birthday.

"But I don't like cats," I said.

"You only don't like cats because you've never had a cat," he replied.

So we went to a couple of different DDFL shelters a couple of times each. I watched the cats. I read their names and what history the DDFL had on them. I learned of their medical and emotional issues.

In the very room you see on KittenCam, I fell in love with my Quill and Lucy.¶¶¶ I watched them climb and hide and rub noses and I knew this was the pair I was seeking. The DDFL rep brought them into a room with me so I could get a little one-on-one and we all three were hooked.###

I had to fill out paperwork promising to take care of them and allowing that the DDFL could inspect my home for cat suitability and repossess the cats in the event any allegations of abuse or neglect were substantiated.

Then there is a two- or three-day cooling off period (you can't take them home the second you find them).

Because I was renting, they also had to get the OK from my landlord for me to have pets.

Then they micro-chipped them and sent them home with me.

My friends came over a couple of nights later to meet and greet and bring kitty treats.

[SUMMARY: A well-conceived process.]

How difficult a transition is it to make to a DDML?††††

Think about it:

-A place where you can watch the men in their habitat for a few days before seeing them in person.
-A place where you can visit them and get a feel for them before you actually mingle with them.
-A place where they have their medical history, emotional state and family history all typed up on a card.
-A place where there are always options for adoption.
-A place where they are electronically marked so you can find them if they stray.
-A place that makes sure you have thought it through and your home is open to the adoption.

Then a forum to meet friends and family all in one fell swoop?

It may be ideal. If only we could get the men into those little cages...

[SUMMARY: I think I'm funny. Don't send Glenn Sacks after me!]

How much would you love to be looking at the DDML SmittenCam right now?

And do you think I should ask Sue to ask Sarah to ask The Spelling Bee Champ to check whether he likes me, yes or no?‡‡‡‡


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): That's much funnier in person. Out loud. Really.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Ange also got a post-grad collegiate rating on her reading level, but it in no way makes me want to stick DPNs up her nose. I'm happy for her continued success and wish her all the best.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): As is evidenced by my classic Nick-Nolte-in-lockup hairdo.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): If you say this with a posh British pronunciation (spěsh'ē-āl'ĭ-tē), I'm pretty sure it will boost my reading level.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Shut up. If you want to stay on the "reasonable and sane" train with me, you have to stop laughing.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Oh, yeah. This may look a little like social commentary, but it's all about me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And -- it seemed -- sincerely...

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): For easier viewing!

§§FOOTNOTE (dizzy, head-spinning smooches): No, you've never heard of them. Just detail for the sake of authenticity.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (like tuning pegs on a guitar): Not an oxymoron.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like an object lesson into your brain): Like the time I was staring at The Boy, daydreaming, largely unaware he was even there, when he said, "What?" in that sorta sexy way that invites a love-nibble of a reply. "Did anyone ever tell you you have really nice teeth?" I said. Wrong-footed. Like that.

†††FOOTNOTE (Calgary? Cavalry? Calvary?): Damnit, stop laughing. Hey, one other point in his favour was that I thought he was about 30 and when he asked, "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?" and I confessed to 40 (thinking I might just be relegating myself to the role of mother figure), he was so visibly relieved because he thought I might be in my 20s and he's 38 and just doesn't have a lot of truck with youngsters. It could happen. I was wearing pigtails.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Perish the thought! He hasn't stopped thinking of me since that night. He's haunted by my wit, my beauty, my curly hair... his work suffers and he loses sleep. Or maybe I'm projecting.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (how many ways can I say "train tracks"?): "Maybe I should ask Sue to ask Sarah if he likes me. Or maybe I should tell Sue to tell Sarah to tell him I thought he was a really good kisser, just in case he thinks I said he was a bad kisser. I really like him. Where's Sue? Do you think I should talk to Sue?"

§§§FOOTNOTE (spinning right out of orbit): Ange regularly and frequently says the funniest, smartest things I hear in any given week. She claims, "...my contribution was the name. I'm just the idea person, I'm not so-much about action or follow-through." Bless you, Angel-eek for letting me steal your idea and provide my own wonky follow-through.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (clubby!): Quill and Lucy were littermates, actual brother and sister, given up by a guy who moved to a rental where he couldn't have both cats and his dog. He chose the dog. He also named the cats "Garth" and "Axl," so his whole mental state may be suspect, but they were well-loved and well-trained kitties, so I bless him a little every time Cat for Scale purrs at me.

###FOOTNOTE (we are taking such a pounding): I don't think Brother was immune, so let's say "all four of us." He started volunteering at the shelter not too long after that.

††††FOOTNOTE (have I ever been this crossed?): None. None difficult transition.

‡‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (we're nearing the Golden Spike): Wasn't this fun? Hasn't it been a long time since I've shared my stupid girl neuroses about boys with you? Don't you wish we could do this more often?


Wow. It's really unfortunate Blogger won't let me put "Dork" in the labels more than once.