The New Man List

Since February has been a revertible roll in the hell fires and outright damnation, leaving me with little desire beyond pouring gasoline and lighting a match to it, I deviate from the broken soul, transgressions of life, disasters and other affairs on the sewing machine, and Lifetime Movies via travel to perhaps loose my NOW card.  Okay, really, I probably lost the NOW card ta couple of weeks back when I saw a mouse--in my trash can--and went running to an upstairs neighbor and banged on the door in panic.  To add to that imagery, I was in a pair of well-worn sweats from an alma matter, a pair of Uggs, and since I was home post working hours I was sans bra.  The wife beater, under the hoodie, did not really shield the bounce as I jumped on the bed when my neighbor pulled that mouse out of my house.  

Judge me later.  

On that note, since it is Leap Day--a damn fictional day that should be an international holiday since what do you do with this day beyond trudge through it--I give you comedy in horror.  

Funny things happen when you own your single life and lack of desire to really settle down.  Mind you, I was single lady for 36 years before I had an early--and rather public--mid lifer with a marriage.  You and your best friend sit on a window ledge that resembled something from a gable in a deranged doll house, drink copious amounts of Advocaat, you attempt to teach her some Polish (eventually saying "I'll keep the poliski.  Inny.  Yea, that's daha lutfen. (that goes from Polish to Turkish in saying another, since she's the bar tender on tour . . . pouring fifty-fifty swigs)" while laughing to the point of ache, repeat such events in Garrison, NY because you could only stare across the river at the West Point compound for so long before feeling like you were on the set of an impending horror flick, and you felt the need to stay behind screens since crickets and mosquitoes were literally attacking you.  A cricket jumped into my bra, yo.  Seriously, that's not cool since dudes making their way to my bra should buy me dinner first.  

Fresh, clean, green air? Give me some smog to smother those mosquitoes from time to time. 
With that being said, single gal has a list for potential gentlemen callers.  Why? Because the next time some dude comes along history has taught me to put it in writing.  Adaptability is one thing, but attempting to alter the DNA of my social being is not a question up for discussion.  

Notes from an alcohol marked journal . . . 

1. Language.  Other than English.  I know five, and while I make no claim to have mastered much beyond English I can get by in the others. Some better than others. We live in a globalized a world people. 

2. Be a liberal.  Or at least don't be a damned neo-con in Dem clothing.  

3. Have a well used passport. Granted mine has more stamps for Turkey than anywhere else, but . . . Much like our lives, our travels and paths should be a tapestry of design and exploration.  Not the same show year after year. I'm serious. None of this shit, "I've always wanted to but never . . . " No. If you couldn't tell, I'm full of wanderlust, which keeps me po', and I have too much to give, see, and learn to sit around and be complacent and let everyone else see my dreams before me.  I'm gone half of the time, and on average work a 12 hour day.  You can't handle that, well . . . I work for travel, and travel for work.  Last year I was home less than six calendar months, and none of that was consecutive!

Perhaps I should note that I’ve been to like eleven countries, with about three more happening in the next 2.5 months . . . that being said, travel with me yo.  Makes you a better person, that’s for certain.  I’ve lived in nine states and been to like 33.  I seriously had to count all of that too!

4. Be on board with progressive feminism.  Don't expect a weekday ritual of my cooking your dinner while you slouch on the couch with your hand in your pants and feet in the air.  Or do.  Know I've got a right arm punch, as I had an older brother once.  He taught me well.   

5. Recognize the awesome nature of our work with US-Turk relations, tourism, and feminism.  Okay, this should probably read don't yell at me and tell me every single place is dangerous and make borderline--or outright--racist statements.   

6. Understand the need and nature of Medical Humanities, which corresponds to why career shifts and evolution occur.  Don’t tell me that the grassroots and social discussion of medicine and health is a point of silly meander.  Women’s health, hell men’s health, reforms have all started because someone started talking and the chatter gained strength, momentum, and a national audience. 

7. Socially drink. Be able to hold your drink. Know the difference between healthy drinking and fuck bombing it. 

8. Eat meat and pork, yet don't fucking expect it every night. Know that I only eat white meat about once a week and red meat when I have a metallic taste in my mouth.  Why? I do not process animal proteins properly.  Hence, of the many shades of Lupus meat consumption has gone to the wayside. 

9. Have interests beyond sports and alcohol. 'Nough said.  

10. Pass the Tanfer Test. You have no idea how serious this one is. If you can't hang then, as we say in Turkish, güle güle. She’s stateside once a year, and when her mother—a superb cook—invites us out for dinner do not skirt.  Sev really does make a mean, mean meal.  Of course, when we invite you to come gallivant some European city with us post conference make the point to come.  Don’t wait until two months before to say, “No, I don’t want to travel with you two” and then give me a diatribe about us being snobs and such. 

A)   We don’t invite just anyone on our passport adventures. 

B)   We have a finely tuned method to travel, affording it, and stretching meager funding as far as humanly possible.  The makes us thrifty. 

11. Deal with Lupus.  I mean come on.  I've been living this hustle since I was sixteen.  That is more than half of my life!  You can certainly deal with bouts of exhaustion and not flip out when my face looks like a fucking satanic butterfly took a crap on it, my joints swell like footballs, and movement is an Olympic effort. It's regular-occasional. Deal. I do.  

12. Be able to iron his own shirts. 

13. Be able to sew on a button. I sew but that doesn't mean I'm doing someone's mending for a ten dollar Wal-Mart shirt that should have been retired years before. 

14. Have at least a MA. Dude.  I wavered once.  Never again.  I’ve got a PhD, and I might sound like an elitist ass right now but dude has to be at my level. 

15. Be within a decade of my age. Ahem, as in if you have grown children my age DO NOT ask me out. It is creepy. I will tell you where to stick it. 

16. Deal with an occasional filthy mouth. Seriously. It is what it is, and no you shouldn't expect it every day or--on the flip side--be appalled when it does appear. 

On that note, I’m told with a list like this—hell even a fraction of it—is going to keep me single for life.  C’est la vie.  Gives me more time to fill up the next passport stamp, see the next Lifetime movie script unfold (domestically or internationally), and take that next step around the unknown corner. 

And now February, here's your match.  I wonder if the Daffs are out yet?