Are MAN-TIED? Manti T'eo and Lennya Kekua—it's not so unusual . . . In online dating? Are you kidding?

Are You MAN-TIED?  Manti T'eo and Lennya Kekua—it's not so unusual . . . In online dating?  Are you kidding? 

"Manti Te'o acknowledged to ABC's Katie Couric that he maintained the illusion of his dead girlfriend in the weeks after he received a call claiming that Lennay Kekua and her death were hoaxes,"

according to a CNN article.

http://www.cnn.com/2013/01/23/us/teo-hoax-abc/index.html"

Of course, this could never happen to you, right? WRONG!  Every time you are ONLINE led on by someone who's connecting with you, texting, calling, and causing you to move into high hopes and big expectations, you're re MAN-TIED.  Oh how our imagination works! It's supposed to when we want to fall in love.

Take Kate.  Educated, good-looking, independent woman friend.  Mr. X responds to her profile.  They appear to hit it off.   Kate has been looking for MR. #1 for a while. Lots of dead ends, goofballs, idiots, liars and some rebuffs. Some desperation.  She's quite happy when this one seems on be on track.  But Logical Kate knows logically it's nothing more than a connection.  What she doesn't know that she'd more delighted than she may know. Her brain is in need of a good boost of happy neurotransmitters. They rush out and make her happy but they are not done with her.  Her reward center, the one that is connected to love, sex and desire is switching on.   

Kate and Mr. X begin texting one another.  Back and forth they bat cute comments and quips.  "We're so much alike," she says to me at dinner.  While she is thinking she might have just discovered her other half, I want to bleat, "What do you except?  Do you think he'll tell you he doesn’t like romantic flicks? 

He's in Panama digging the canal and they can't yet meet.  He's collecting insects for a research project.  He doesn't like the phone.  Her comment, "He's an intellect." My thoughts?  Can't make himself available, travels a lot and bugs, the bug thing is a turn off.  "Does he know that you call the exterminator for fruit flies?"

               

Three weeks go by and she has callouses on the finger tips. X is wonderful, considerate, and funny.  She's imagining his home, the smell of the blueberry pancakes she knows he's cooking.  She pulls up his profile and tells me to read a line she's intrigued by.

               

"I like the ordinary, I find consolation in the ordinary events of the day, a butterfly on a flower, the morning dew on a blade of grass—oh war is not me!"

"He's deep; he doesn't seem to need a lot to make him happy." Here is what I hear.  Ordinary.  Who doesn't appreciate the simple things?  And who the hell would say "I like the complicated things in life.  And that war thing?  Where did that come from?  Day by day imaginary boyfriend grows larger than life and they're imaginarily traipsing through her mind and imagination. Suddenly Walt Whitman-Alan Ginsburg is going on hikes with her; she'll bring brie and wine.  He likes Pinot Noir.  "I'm going to take X to the nature conservatory, what do you think?  "There's the new art exhibit in town, German Expressionism.  I felt like Munch's The Scream, and I did.  "This guy isn't real—you've never met him!" 

It's week four.  Suddenly X's opinions matter.  "So today, X, said that there is going to be a wheat shortage in Italy and the price of pasta will soar."  as a consummate Italian, normally a pasta-world-crisis would pull me out of a deep sleep.  I look at her. "Since when is X a part of your opinions?  

"You know, we’ve been talking for over a month.  It's like we've been on thirty dates."

"If you had really been on thirty, dates, made it to thirty dates, you'd be having great sex, wonderful meals, holding hands and spooning as you planned moving-in, a honeymoon or a vacation.  You'd know his family, kids, and all his nuances. 

               

Nuances?  Yes, the shit that can make it our break it.  The throat clearing, nasal spray he just have to use—and God forbid the wandering eye. 

'Wandering eye?"

"My friend Bunny dated a guy with wandering eye. She couldn't tell from the camera shot, his eye had a three second fix point but then it would move off to the side. She had to take Dramamine just to follow his conversations. 

"Whew, you got me worried." Said Kate. "I was thinking about the other wandering eye, you know the kind of guy who can't focus on you and as you're talking, he looks off and follows some bouncing ass across the room.

"Oh, he had that too, In fact I think that's how got it—eye torsion, he was the worst cheat." 

Week five.  Imaginary boyfriend is stalled in the amazon.  No contact for three days. I was waiting for him the send her the ransom note looking for money.  I packed her and her vodka up and we went to my house for the weekend. An artic storm hit and the power went out.  She sat in my snowbound car charging the phone and waited for her imaginary boyfriend to respond. 

"I sent him five texts today and he hasn't answered!  Do you think that's too many? I mean after all he could be kidnapped, he could be sick, I'm just concerned."

"No you're desperate." 

My friend was man-tied.  Her emotions were Shanghaied.  It could have been deliberate; he could have been pranking her.  Or he could have been living out a pseud relationship just to have semi-phone sex and a feeling he was really dating.   Dabble-dating, a form of flirting.  Anytime anyone amps up your amorous expectations and doesn't come through you are Mantied.   T'o-ed. 

RULE: Keep texts and emails brief, unemotional, light and to the point.  Unless you want an imaginary friend, you need to meet.  If they can't, you ask them when they think they will be back from Mount Everest, the golf tour, digging in Egypt and say, "I will contact you again when you are free."  Don't stray.  Don't be weak.  Don't succumb to keeping even a light contact.

 Why would you do that-desperation?  You think he'll find another love if you snap the chord.  Well, consider this a test.   A serious guy will want to get down to business sooner than later.

Did friend ever meet him?  Yes.  After months imaginary boyfriend showed up.  He had a voice like Mr. Rogers.  Yes, the Mr. Rogers.  The man with the Kids TV show.  And he was wearing a cardigan. 

Love and Hurricans and Tropical Storms. Sandy is coming

It was November 9, 1965 when the black-out happened.   No storm, just no power and nine months later, babies.  The legend was published in a series of three articles in the New York Times where doctors reported that they saw an increased birth rate after that week of hell.  Five years later it was debunked by  love-skeptic,  J. Richard Udry, who claimed he saw no statistical surge in screaming women in laboring.  He was so wrong.  It takes up to one year to get an egg and sperm to shake hands.  He forgot that back then there was birth control.  I know—I babysat plenty of people who had condoms in their nightstands, making a side business of harvesting their crop—it was better than weed.  I lived in a time where you might have to produce a marriage license or have your parents phoned if you tried to purchase one of those things.  But that's another story.  

Some twenty years ago there was the October snow fiasco.   Then I lived through Irene. 

Hubby didn't take it seriously so we never prepared.  By the time we realized this huff-and puff might be true, we had to battle torrents of rain to the local  Piggly-Wiggly.  No candles left I was left to use my Jewish-Italian-Hispanic resources—I knew the international aisle.  Amidst the Kosher soups, the bags of beans and boxes of pasta my hands knew where to reach,   Rokeach and Manischewitz Yahrzeit candles—to honor the dead, then Maria Mother of God greeted me between the Allessi Risotto and Colavita olive oil, followed by San Lazaro nesting next to the rice and Amanida Ajo Blanco- a Spanish white garlic.  I grabbed that garlic along with the tall yellow glass candles.  A hundred dollars later I had light.  That's when I learned what the term WATT meant: one candle equals one watt, unless they are kosher —those ingenious Jews know that white wax reflects more than yellow, blue, green or red.  Leave it to them to come up with a perfect small candle that lasts 24 hours and in the end gives you a shot glass.   

Then it hit.  We were trapped by the private road that showed us what being cut off from the world was really like.  Crazed with e-withdrawal, no power, cooking formerly frozen steaks on the barbi in the garage, eating canned goods I thought were only good enough for the poor, re-reading dog-eared novels, watching my Benz float away, my roof come off, crapping on a dry-wall bucket, drinking water from my tub, I began to go crazy.  Hubby was worse—there were no video games, baseball, football and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies to capture his attention. 

I did what and any normal person would.  Using the grill  I made a chicken dish using the risotto, an entire head of parsley and Spanish garlic I met earlier.*  I broke out the whiskey and wine, followed by the three year old weed found in my kid's knapsack.  OMG, weed is so much more potent nowadays.  We lit the fireplace and hunted down the old scrabble game now missing half the tiles.  I managed to place "frenzy" in my first hand.  He got "now" off my N.   I responded with "you" leaning off his Y.  And then he placed "uck" beneath my F. 

I was stunned, which is a strange perception when you're high.  Do you know it?  It's when half your brain is saying "wow man, isn’t this cool," and the other side is panicked and screaming,  "OMG-you shouldn't have smoked this shit."  Suddenly I realized why I gave up on pot.  But David came to my rescue.  He tenderly kissed my mouth and smiled, revealing his parsley checkerboarded teeth--confirmation that I was a great cook.  What more could  Jewish, Italian and Spanish woman want?  So with San Lorenzo summoning his power of everlasting endurance, The Virgin Mother smiling, and Jewish spirits dancing on the walls, I slowly settled on that scrabble board and did what Dr. Urdry said was a myth.  An hour later, my ample ass embedded with tiles that spelled frenzy, now, and  fuck I was tempted make the words  "fun,"  "funky," "zen," and "rock." 

Now it's Sandy.  Again, he did the same thing- poo-pooed the storm.  But not me.  After buttoning up our Woodstock house I assembled a horde of saints and Jews to back me up, with some wine.  The glass and wax is gleaming on my kitchen island, waiting for the power to go and the power to come—to learn again what's important. 

Yes I'm scared.  But the scrabbled cubes are lost and the only letter I might assemble are on keys!   So write.  dawnmhopper@gmail.com

* Lemon-garlic Chicken- (Really Italian)

I should know, I live in Italy half the year.  Don't get scared by the ingredients.   First, slowly begin to sauté a lot of chopped garlic (the whole thing head)  in olive oil, making sure you don't burn it.  Add an entire bunch of chopped up parsley.  That parsley will actually fry and transform into something you never thought parsley could be.  (Think of great sex with a really nice man).  The rule is that you don't want to burn the garlic or the parsley. Set this aside.
Now you need the chicken.  You can make this recipe with any kind of chicken.  If it's boneless breasts, salt and flour lightly, it in olive oil and butter.  Pieces can follow the same rule.

 After they are browned, put the chicken in a baking dish, followed by the garlic-parsley mix and squeeze a lemon over all of it.  Bake at @350 until you are sure that chicken is done.  Boneless breasts are done very quickly.  Cook risotto or pasta and top it with our garlic-chicken.   Now top the entire dish with a ton of grated Romano cheese.  Make sure your lips are olive-oiled  and you have plenty of parsley in between your teeth as you kiss.  My husband has fished out that green for me.   

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