eDissonance – “Hunting at the Park” Chapter 1a

“Hey, who are you texting?” As the only other member of the Hungry Huntress Club, I had the right to ask Carlee this question.

“You remember Marco?” Carlee’s blonde hair waves a halo around her Cheshire grin.

“How do you do that?” I’m scowling at her face.

“Do what?”

“Your hair never gets stuck in your teeth.” She closes her phone and ignores me.

“Marco? I remember Marco.” Boy, do I remember. “That Italian hottie you met here at the park, what, a week ago?” My eagerness looks remarkably like drool.

“Italian and Greek,” she smiles. And it was probably more like three days ago.

“Yum. Two of my favorite flavors, now conveniently wrapped in a single package.”

“Heh. You said ‘package.’”

“We’re pigs.”

We walk. She agrees by smiling some more. And not telling me anything.

“What does he want?” I know; I just want her to say it.

“He can’t spell for shit,” Carlee says, gifted at not answering.

“He sure is purty.”

“Mmmm…”

We look out across the grass, tucking a memory of Marco’s shiny Italian eyes into our pockets. Or somewhere. I wonder which parts of him are Greek.

Carlee is my friend. Carlee and I met at the dog park and our friendship was fast and furious. She was fast and I was furious. No, that’s not true. It’s just that I was single and Carlee was beating men off with cell phones. No, I mean FIGHTING them off.

I’m a pig.

We were walking our dogs around the perimeter of the Bark Park. Carlee has two, and I have one. Dog. Although that ratio was pretty much true with everything, especially all things hound-related. It was a cool, early-spring day in Michigan, light jacket weather, which for me meant jeans and an old B.U.M. sweatshirt that I liberated from a thrift shop. Somehow I’d made it to middle age without ever owning an excellent spring jacket. By contrast, Carlee was smoking hot in a hip-length safari coat and a cocky beret. (A beret!) She can actually pull off a beret without looking like a cartoon. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.

“It sure didn’t take Marco long to start spelling poorly at you.” I fail at keeping the snark out of my voice. “Which dog does he have?”

“You remember, Sonny? That beige cocker spaniel?” She knows that I will know. At the park, we are our dogs.

“Right. Sonny. Named his little rug-dog after a Pacino character. Cute as hell, that dog, but still intact, isn’t he? Coglioni still dangling about?”

“Yeah, humps everything that can’t pesto out of the way.”

“Like owner like dog?”

“You’re a pig.”

“Come on, gimme something.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” She grins under the beret.

We sit on the edge of a picnic table, feet on the bench.

“How about you?” Carlee asks, always kind, and genuinely concerned about the lack of Pacino characters in my phone. “Got anything in the works?”

I attempt a glare, but it devolves into a pout.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,'” she says, patting me on the arm. Patting me. This is pathetic.

“Come on,” I say, getting up from our table. “Let’s walk these bitches around the park.”

I wasn’t exactly jealous of Carlee’s hunting skills, but every time she told me about another good-looking sweet-treat who sniffed up on her hoping for a pat on the head, a part of me twinged. And the part of me that twinged was drying up. It had been a long time since I’d had a date.

Okay, maybe I was a little jealous.

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We walked our girl-dogs leash-free around the bark park.  Carlee had two pit bulls and I had my Bowie. Bowie is a husky/border collie mix with one brown eye and one blinding white eye. Not really blind, just striking. All of our dogs were shelter rescues, all of our dogs were girls, and all of our dogs were spayed and therefore unmolested by thoughts of virile Greyhounds – Italian or Greek. Theirs was a pampered existence of doggie ice cream and bottled water. They battled each other like Roman Centurions, but we indulged them like princesses. Carlee and I met at the park to let our girls run free and watch them turn away the insistent (and uncut) males who tried to tap a little of that sass from behind. But our girls weren’t having it.

“Ooh, come here, sweetheart,” an aggressive boxer might call out to my Bowie. “Back that thing up and drink my punch. I’m gonna show you what Mike Tyson WISHES he had.”

And Boxer Boy, impatient and cocky as the business end of his turgid joy rocket dripped Y-chromosome juice on the dirty grass, would paw my Bowie-dog’s shoulder. Once. Then she’d whip her head around and bite his attitude with a “PISS OFF!” And then piss on him, and trash-talk him for the final insult: “Back off, ya pansy fighter-boy or next time it’s my enamel on your nuts. You’ll be eating Rice Krispies through your blow hole after I Snap, Crackle, and Pop off your hush puppies.”

I love my little girl.

Carlee and I walked around the Bark Park watching our girls, and, yes, if not exactly hunting, then at least trolling for appealing possibilities. Carlee, however, didn’t even have to bait her hook. She would strut her bouncy blond hair and her beret (a beret!) barely inside the park and pretty puppy-eyed men would chase her. If they caught her attention, the men would mewl and wag their tails. Then offer to paint her house. I, on the other hand, got nary a runt. Not even a mercy pat for the wingman. But I kept trying. Because, you know, men.

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“Hey, incoming.” Hungry Huntress alert.

I nodded my head toward the bark park gate where a single male was entering with his spotted dog. The man was at least 50 meters away, but he walked upright and had hair, so we were obliged to analyze his potential. It was in the bylaws. We perched on a picnic table to adjudicate.

“Count the rings,” I say, asking Carlee for both an age estimate and a marital status prediction.

“Pretty good posture, but his hair is silver. Got kind of an Anderson Cooper thing going on. I’d say he’s in his mid-40’s and exercises regularly.” Carlee taps the tip of her tennis-ball-tosser on the ground, rhythmic, measuring, listening to the earth like the skilled predator she is.

“Yeah, and he’s got those loose-jointed limbs. Runner, do ya think?” I ask hopefully. We lean forward and focus our sharp binocular vision.

Carlee nods, “Maybe.”

“Flavor?” Carlee has keen ethnic evaluation skills.

“Um, mixed heritage. Northern European. He has likely eaten sauerkraut a time or two.”

“I can do sauerkraut. Married?”

“Well, his clothes match and they’re awfully clean. He’s probably married.”

“Damn.”

The sexy silver-hair loiters around the front gate as his spotted dog runs in circles, pestering him. “Let’s play, let’s play!” the dog says with every vibrating muscle. “What are we waiting for?” The dog’s desires are obvious.

Another male arrives, dark-haired, with a dainty Schnauzer on a leash. Carlee and I both sit up straighter. The new dark-haired visitor greets the silver-haired man with an almost-hug, a kind of chest lean-in. Their dogs sniff each other’s assholes and wag their tails. The dogs have obviously met before, and they run off to play tackle. The dark-hair and the silver-hair walk slowly around the park brushing shoulders and whisper-laughing.

Shit. These two are not in season. More precisely, they are not in our season. Their desires are also obvious. If they could sniff each other’s assholes they would. Carlee and I both lean back, breaking the spell, conceding that the hunt is over as our gay-dar finally kicks in.

“Dammit. He eats sauerkraut and kielbasa.” My hopes go limp as I recognize them as sausage-eaters.

“No fair!” Carlee whacks her ball-whipper on the ground.  “I couldn’t tell from here. I couldn’t see their teeth! You know I can always tell from their teeth.”

“Their teeth?”

“I can tell if somebody’s gay just from their teeth.”

“You cannot.”

“I can. Remember all the chatter about Doogie Howser?”

“Did he come out?”

“He will,” she says, banging her ball-thrower on the ground. “His teeth are as queer as his medical degree.”

“I don’t know, Carlee, clearly your gay-tenna needs some long-distance tuning. Besides, what could we possibly measure on men from this far away?” We giggle like school girls. Like school girls who are pigs.

When not actively sifting the litter for potential meal companions, Carlee and I would people-watch at the bark park, because it doesn’t get any better than watching dog owners chase their canine charges around a giant fenced-in dog-toilet, plastic bags on their hands, ready to scoop up Boomer’s droppings before they ripen in the rare Michigan sun.

And this is where I came to find a date.

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eDissonance, Chapter 1a, Hunting at the Park, by Erin Waugh
2 August 2015

I pull up the eHarmony website. I fill out what feels like the same survey that I filled out on LoveAndSeek.com, but eHarmony is going to “analyze” my answers and “scientifically” match me with people who are “compatible” with my “personality.” I just hope that I don’t end up with a “man” in “air quotes.”

The questionnaire is long, but I’m sure it’s worth it because “each compatible match is pre-screened across 29 dimensions.” I hum through 29 keys of “I Love Technology” and answer their questions. eHarmony offers declarative statements for me to evaluate like “I work better if people follow my lead.” I answer “strongly agree” only because there’s no option for “fuck, yeah.”

29 coffees later, I finish the questionnaire, and now eHarmony wants my money for the privilege of using their science. Holy romance on a printing press – why is love so expensive? For one month’s worth of eHarmony matches I could buy a bushel of zucchini and all three “Pirates of the Caribbean” movies.  But, this is science! So I agree to their usury and give them my credit card number. I submit my data, my pics, and my “personality.” I’m kind of excited. Who will the passion geeks pair me up with? Johnny Depp? Dave Barry? Neil DeGrasse Tyson? The anticipation gives me a small girl hard-on. I hit ENTER, sit back, and wait for the matches to roll in.

And I wait. And I wait some more. One day, two days go by. I’m imagining some massive Cray computer in Texas just churning away, rejecting applicant after applicant. Angry white lab coats whipping scraps of paper to the floor. “No! He’s not good enough for her. Have you seen her thighs? Try again!”

Finally, three days later, I receive an email telling me to log back on to eHarmony.

Congratulations! Chris from Lake Orion, Michigan, has reviewed your basic information and would like to start the process of getting to know you better.

Hot damn. Let the science begin!

I log on to see my new match. The eHarmony nerds must be really good, because Chris lives right here in Lake Orion, my home town, Where Living is a Vacation. (It says so on the sign.)

I read his bio. Chris is a Christian man, about my age, about my height, and he does not smoke. A great beginning! I pull up his picture; there is only one. (I sent in 29.) It’s a close-up of a rather large, rather round head. The head has a lot less hair than I’d like, and the eyes are sort of crooked and half-closed. Maybe it’s just a bad pic? Not everybody adores the lens like I do. I press on. This is science.

Christopher passionate about:
Relating to others, their opinions, staying healthy and being there for family and friends.

Okay. Generic and uninspired, but not offensive. I’m very fond of health.

Chris’s friends describe him as:
Affectionate, easy-going, a good listener, optimistic.

Boring, but it would be refreshing to meet someone who’s not a walking stress fracture.

The most important thing Christopher is looking for in a person is: Being a Christian! I need truth and honesty, love and respect, but NO SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE SO DON’T EVEN ASK!!

Whoa. Women must be all over this dude for him to write it in all caps like that.

The first thing you’ll notice about Christopher when you meet him is: My smile, laughter, and jovial good humor.

Excellent! Make me laugh, dammit. MAKE ME LAUGH!!

Some additional information Christopher wanted you to know is:
I do not have a “victim mentality,”
but my health may concern some women.

Well, okay. Maybe this is no big deal. After all, Farmer Bob from LoveAndSeek had a reconstructed esophagus, but it didn’t impede his ability to swallow my tongue. What little imperfection do you have, Chris?

I am on disability, unemployed, and my peripheral vision is shot.

Wait… what…? Not even hair and a job?

I have recently been declared “legally blind.”

But… how are you even typing this…?

I am a double amputee below the knees. I had a triple bypass in ’97 and a kidney/pancreas transplant in ’99.

No. This is…No. I’m being pranked. This is who the scientific ass-punks of eHarmony think is my ideal mate?? An overweight, unemployed bald man who can’t see, can’t walk, and can’t breathe?

I just had a stent put in my heart where there was 90% occlusion, and alas, my weight has crept up as the skin on the stumps break down when I exercise. I have no kids, I have never been married.

A man with someone else’s kidney but his own bloody stumps? What. The. Science.

I sip my coffee to recover my composure. I push my chair back from the desk and stretch my legs (I have legs!), and I accidentally run the caster over my purse reminding me that… THEY CHARGED ME FOR THIS MISTER POTATO HEAD!!

An ideal mate for me? Me, who takes her dog out running every day? Me, who puts an unnaturally high value on hair and the outdoors and the ability to create one’s own urine?

And hold on one more god-fearing minute there, FrankenStumpy. “The first thing you’ll notice about Christopher is his smile?” Not his mother-fucking wheelchair??

And did he really yell in ALL CAPS that there would be no sex before marriage? Has this been a serious problem for you, Short Pants? Not trying to be mean, but rooting around in the untrimmed cleft between Colonel Sanders’ white meats searching for your raggedy pope’s nose sounds like… Okay, I’m mean.

Dammit, eHarmony… This FAIL is so loud it hurts my ears. I am deafened by eDissonance.

Screw this. I turn off the lights and turn on Captain Jack Sparrow. Bring me some veggies.

From the chapter “Why Do I Need a Man Anyway?”
“eDissonance” by Erin Waugh