Create an Imaginary Infestation

People are always wondering how they can catch that man of their dreams and finally be happy, but I say stop wasting your time and learn to be happy on your own.  Think realistically about how much more fulfilling your life can be as a single gal minus the drag line to someone who judges you, treats you as a trifle, and thinks your harebrained schemes are juvenile.  Once you're fully committed to the idea of being alone, then here is a good first step to warding off any of those annoying soul mates that will inevitably come knocking. Acquire a paranoia about an imaginary insect infestation in your home. A good example is the time I thought I had bedbugs. I was living in Los Angeles, a city where dreams are made. My dream in the month of April 2010 happened to be of the Cimex lectularius variety.  I remember the details vividly. It was a Saturday, and I had just borrowed what I liked to pretend was the 'community' vacuum cleaner, but in reality actually belonged to the extraordinarily literate building manager. He housed that vacuum in the laundry room of good old Edgemont Manor in Los Feliz, and I would sneak down and borrow it from time to time. That particular afternoon I vacuumed the absolute hell out of my apartment. The corners, the closets, the blinds, - I even went so far as to use the hose attachment on the crumbs in the toaster, and on all 5 levels of my bookcase. There was not a dust bunny to be found by the time I finished. I was satisfied. Content. Maybe even a little happy. My apartment was immaculate, and because of that, suddenly, my life, too, seemed to be in apple pie order. I went about the rest of my weekend a little more focused and aware than usual and even got myself to bed on time Sunday night so I could approach another soul-crushing work week with technicolor alacrity.  But when I woke up Monday morning, I noticed I had several small bites all over my body.  At first I thought maybe it was a dust allergy - after all, I had kicked up so much of it on Saturday that I felt like a Steinbeck character heading West. But ten or so minutes into wakefulness, a sudden doom washed over my entire being. I knew what the bites were. There was no other explanation.  I went to bed bite-less and woke up covered in welts. It had to be bedbugs. The evidence started falling into place faster than a spicy tuna roll from a Phoenix, Arizona strip mall sushi joint speeds through the guts of all its consumers, and I started to panic. But it was a helpless kind of panic, for if this infestation were true, then it was already too late.  The damage was done. I'd seen the news stories on TV. These things were unmanageable. There was no hope. (To be continued...)

DJ Spinster

There are several books on the market these days promising to help you find yourself a man and settle down. You've seen, or at least heard of them, right? Find A Husband After 35 (Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School), Become Your Own Matchmaker, The Rules, Why Men Love Bitches, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. These books prey on the weak, as most everything does these days, and the weak willingly buy into it, desperately hoping that this will be the charm they have been searching for that will somehow allow them to acquire that table scrap of happiness in an otherwise dreary existence. That table scrap of happiness usually translates into finding that perfect significant other to share this existence with. That special someone that will make one feel complete. This is a mistake, if you ask me, to think that it's up to some separate entity to make a person complete, but then again, I'm probably not the best person to ask, since I prefer a life less populated.

I, personally, don't ever have to worry about staying single. It is definitely in the stars for me. My eccentricities make it so.  I used to think that some fetching lad was going to be awed and charmed by my special brand of quirkiness to the point where they'd show up in the vacant lot next to my apartment building late at night, serenade me, rush me off to the Justice of the Peace, then whisk me off to Niagara Falls for a vintage style honeymoon. Instead they regard me with fear and trepidation when I start rattling off the latest statistics about MRSA virus outbreaks or obscure trivia about Rabies success stories. It also doesn't seem to help that I have completely unrealistic expectations about who should be interested in me, seeing as how I'm basically a senescent dreamer in the vein of Blanche DuBois, yet I imagine that swains such as Johnny Depp and Jeremy Scahill should be fighting for my hand, delighted to put up with each new peccadillo I can conjure up for them.  Finally one day I realized there was no need to feel desperate that Mr. Right hadn't come along.  Somewhere along the line I figured out that I only thought I needed this dashing stranger to save the day, when all I really needed was to hold up a glass to myself and see me for who I really was. A stubborn, immature, harpy not willing to compromise my super-liberated lifestyle with the next Okie lummox who happened to hold the door open for me.  Only then did I discover that a truly interesting life was about to begin.