Business in the front, party in the back

Tell me, where's a Blog Share when you need one? I was going to tell you a boy story, but it really is the sort of story I should not publish on the Internet. It would be mean and premature and would do nothing whatsoever to help me resolve the dilemma I'm in right now. So instead I will just say that I'm coming to fear I'm that stereotypical terminally single girl in every movie and sitcom you've ever seen--the one who's never happy and always finds one little thing wrong with every person she dates... a crooked earlobe, or a stray eyebrow hair, or some other heinous offense that she can't possibly get past.

Except that that's not me. Really, I swear that it's not. After all, my longest relationship to date has been with a guy whose stomach is so large and round, it looks like he's smuggling Humpty Dumpty around under his shirt. The dude actually named his ample gut (named it after his skinny old uncle, no less), and I found it charming, not revolting. Really. So yeah. I have my reservations. Everybody does, I think. But I can get past them, when all else is well aligned and feeling promising. Or, I hope so, anyway.

Jury is still out on my dates this week. I guess that's what I'm saying with all this.

Meanwhile, I have very little else on my mind to write about, which is the only reason I just spent three paragraphs telling you absolutely nothing. Sorry about that. It is colder than the proverbial witch's tit here at the moment (I despise that phrase, so please take my use with irony), and perhaps it's affecting my brain. It's also affecting my social calendar, unfortunately. My friend Carrie and I discussed venturing to a pond hockey tournament on a local lake this weekend, but I doubt either one of us even owns the appropriate layers to make that a reasonable plan. Incidentally, no, I'm not generally much for pond hockey (or any hockey, except maybe the tonsil variety, with the right partner), but we were going on a tip from a girl at Carrie's gym who assured us it was a fine place to find some single men. In Minnesota, I'm hoping that sort of event draws the general rugged, outdoorsy type and not strictly the Slap Shot-worthy, hockey hair type, as a mullet would most definitely fall under that category of one little thing wrong that could turn me off, and if I'm going to spend any more time than necessary outdoors when the wind chill is thirty below, it damn well better be for a guy with a proper haircut.

Alas, we may have to find another venue for our socializing and sport-flirting this week. We're trying this new thing, you see, where we actively attempt to put ourselves in situations where we're more likely to meet new people. This plan also involves going for drinks at a new-to-us bar at least once every two weeks in '08. I fear that plan might simultaneously conflict with our half-assed and insincere goal to drink less, but I like to rationalize potentially unhealthy behavior in the name of research and social experiment, don't you?

And with that, I'm going to quit digging this hole in front of me any deeper and work on that other goal that's not going so well: the "get to bed at a reasonable hour on week nights" one. Goals, schmoals. It is the Year of Stef! It'll all work out somehow, don't you think?