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Mind that it's about Anaheim...

I often hear friends as well as people I eavesdrop on at Starbucks mention how there are no men in Orange County, let alone Anaheim--it's smaller subculture. I think to myself that this must be a fallacy because there are tons of men everywhere. Constantly, my ego is boosted by “landscape artists” who whistle and shout: reason enough to walk the dog in the morning.

Looking at the population of Anaheim-- just over 330,000 people according to data--I wonder who these eligible bachelors are and why—if there are so many people—are women set on the thought of never finding someone.

Well, for starters you have guys like Ken Doll—coincidentally his first and last name—who drives a yellow, raised Hummer, self tans, wears very deep V-neck tee shirts and calls every one (even women) broseph after patting them on the back while awkwardly hanging on for too long.

Claiming he is an expert in retrieving stuffed animals from vending machines, there is Romano—no last name—who wears shorts longer than pants and has his area code, last name and possibly street address tattooed on his body.

Lastly, Chip Miller, a 22-year-old male who enjoys surfing, beer pong, girls, beer pong, reading (Maxim) and South Park: what a catch!

Yes ladies, these are our options if you are out on the prowl. So I take back my wonderment on why you feel you will never meet someone; however, the male to female ratio on the data research is fairly equal. Proving there is good news beneath it all, there’s a Ken Doll for everyone. Personally, Chip sounds like a ball to me.



You know what I despise more than waking up to a jack hammer? People who question factual information. People who, for whatever reason, can't seem to grasp what they were told is indubitably wrong--so, so wrong.

Some people wouldn’t believe Earth were round if I threw a globe at their head; pulled up every web site dedicated to the science of Earth’s round circumference as well as having Christopher Columbus himself avow it's not flat from his grave.

I blame Wikipedia for everything. Someone sit’s at home changing information ever so slightly during the commercial breaks of Wheel of Fortune.

The funny thing is, it’s usually one friend (we’ll call her Karen) who can't believe anything you say, just one. You then have to ask yourself, what book is Karen reading or newscast is she watching? Where in the hell did she hear Regis Philbin was a woman and Pluto is an orbiting Altoid?

If there were several people claiming this propaganda—an instance you could actually contest the information—it would make logical sense; however, it’s just one person against my senior year knowledge.

I have given up on Karen. I never argue anymore; it gets me nowhere. Sometimes I forget Karen has these problems. Finding myself set up for imminent failure, I still have word vomit and continue to toss in my own jargon of what I know to be truth.

Saying “no, but the DNA test said he is the father,” gives me the chills.

Chiming in with her alleged Harvard graduate brain, she claims DNA tests have been proven irrevocably erroneous; something she read somewhere or heard from someone. Right.


When Karen is around, I stick to discussing surface things which are perceptible. You may hear us talking about grass because we are sitting on it and if need be, quickly I can pluck two blades to prove it’s green due to photosynthesis. Raising an eyebrow, she notes it is not photosynthesis, simply food coloring. You see? There is no triumph with Karen.

Regardless, whatever reason this personality type needs to be in the right so often, I would rather sew my head to a rug than have to argue another story. Nail polish remover is not another salient form of alcohol and candle wax cannot be used for eyebrows.

Bottom line, I never win. You may as well finish that sentence with: “I read it in The Onion.” At least that is reputable false information.

The Safe Place by the Little Fox

How often do you find yourself in awkward moments of silence after a conversation goes from a simple hello, to talking about a dentist visit the previous week?

Then you pause as you try to relate something to the persons distaste for new toothpaste used in the office but fail. You then realize for the past ten seconds all you thought about was what you're going to make for dinner.

Most likely, I won't remember dentist guy two years down the road, let alone two weeks; however, I will remember a woman who stops me for a dollar simply because she is covered in tattoo's, wearing a fanny pack and dragging a child with a teddy bear backpack leash behind her.

People who are good--let's face it--are not as interesting. And by good, I mean goes to bed by 11 on a work night, makes sack lunches daily and can honestly tell their dentist they floss twice a day.

Talking to someone who has been in the drunk tank two or three times or posted bail for an alleged assault against their boyfriend animates my mind much more than hearing about an engagement or bah mitzvah; those happen all the time (so does the boyfriend assault, but give or take, it’s entertaining).

I can either walk away from that person with an example of someone I never want to amount to while laughing at them--not with them of course--or a great story to pass on for generations and all my friends at work.

An article in Psychology Today said people who take risks have a much healthier approach to life.

"Misbehaving, or acting in ways we'd normally deem improper can be good for our souls," said Rebecca Webber. "It can boost our mood, leave us with a sense of liberation, get our creative juices flowing, and make for great memories."

Someone who continually does what they presume is right is not having nearly as much fun as Hector, the janitor, who parachuted off a bridge yesterday out of the blue, just because.

What great stories people have that live their lives in the moment; I never want to be someone who discusses how mundane the new fall programming is on ABC at dinner parties: yawn.

I want to share crazy, ridiculous stories until I die about things not everyone can experience: like when I was on the Muni one afternoon with a friend and it halted to a stop from 60 to zero in two seconds in the tunnel. What a sight the passengers were. I re-create that scene from time to time out of pure enjoyment.

Boring people also lead to prediction. I have some friends that I can forlay an entire conversation because I know exactly how they will begin and end a phone call. That is, my friends, how boring some of you are. Yes, you. I don’t enjoy already knowing what is going to come out of the mouths of most; I like to be surprised. I like to learn of new adventures to partake in or crazy ideas. I thrive in hearing ridiculous stories that seem unreal. I envy those who get no sleep in the name of fun; I try but often lose in the case of sanity.

I am not saying go out and get a Mike Tyson tattoo on your face. I'm only insisting driving somewhere other than home after clocking out at five. Monday through Friday doesn't have to be routine. Pulling out a dinner labeled “Tuesday,” when you get home means you’re in trouble. Now no one really wants to run into you boring man.

"The healthy approach to misbehavior, experts agree, is to occasionally break rules, norms, or expectations in ways that don't cause any serious harm," Webber said.

I guess if you really want great stories so you can write awesome books like O.J. Simpson, then go ahead and murder your wife because if I did it, I would surely tell. Otherwise stick to mixing in simpler things; stuff that keep my interest when I bump into you occasionally.

The fact that your cat needs insulin shots is not that intriguing. I can only talk about that for so long until my attention is diverted to an ant hill behind you; which says a whole lot about your day.

Cassandra Rhodin
I recently read this post from Rich Santos, a writer for Marie Claire, about what makes a guy creepy and it really got me thinking: Well, what makes a guy creepy? A term too habitually used by girls:

That outfit makes him look like a rapist: creepy.

His teeth are crooked: creepy.

He laughs at everything I say: creepy.

Admittedly, the term does get tossed around almost too nonchalantly; however, there are indeed things that can make many guys deserving of the title.


Being too touchy right away: Creepy. Maybe not every girl is as rude as I am, but I like a little mystery. Someone who is all over me in the beginning cries desperate and needy. I like to warm the kettle slowly, let the water boil, allow the heat to rise; need more examples? I don’t, however, like the splash zone. You know, you’re enjoying the show, then unexpectedly you are drenched, unprepared--no poncho--and your churro is soggy. No fun.

Making weird noises when you hug: high pitch screeches to match the intensity of your grasp is just plain creepy. If I wanted to hug a dog toy, I would.

Texting or calling every day while in a relationship is okay. Texting or calling every day when you are not is creepy. What happened to the "I need man-space, ego?" Unless I am seeing you seriously already, it’s not funny or cute to hear you just made yourself dinner and are now watching Family Guy out of the blue with nothing else to add to that statement. It makes me wonder if you have a life or any sense.

Drinking lite beer; man up you creep.

Talking about celebrity girls like you can actually get them. Yes, we all have our innocuous crushes. I have my very long list of men--and Megan Fox--that I would not mind spending a night with. Meeting you for the first time should not involve the top ten movies you think Jessica Biel looks good in. Unless you want me carrying around a picture of John Mayer in a silver locket while professing my undying love for him then leave the sinister fantasies at home.

Talking about yourself like you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to Earth: because you aren't. You did not major in awesomeness, no matter how many times you claim you did. You are not a black belt in kick-ass. Just stop while you are ahead or at least while you are moving at a speed of normalcy.

Smacking when you joke; not only is this annoying, but it is uncomfortable for everyone around. During the act, by the way, someone is going through a play-by-play of how much harder you smack behind closed doors. I don’t need social services contacting me nor do I need to be smacked every time you say "orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

Thinking you are compatible with someone based off their looks. It doesn't work like that for girls. We girls are all about personality and then look’s (well, we tell ourselves that). If I can't carry on a conversation with you about my interests in which you can relate to, my blonde hair or whatever you saw and liked will not make this last.

Standing awkwardly close from behind while I am talking to a group makes me wonder what you are doing back there. Can’t you just stand next to me or in the group itself? Chances are, when I back up and step on your K Swiss shoes, my drink is flying in the air and a slew of curse words will follow. Not how a lady should act.

Lastly, under any circumstance, do not ask a girl for a kiss because you think you deserve it. You don't deserve anything shy of the prize at the bottom of a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Unless you are in a relationship with the person, asking ruins anything you might have redeemed from prior rile behavior cowboy.

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