If I Ask A Girl To Dance

If I ask a girl to dance, the worst thing she can say is no, right? While serving out my 12 year mandated sentence in the Pelham Public School system, this was by and large the only thing I learned that stuck with me despite my biology teachers’ insistence that in order to be taken seriously as an adult, one must have a basic knowledge of Sickle Cell Anemia, or the compelling arguments made in the Real Life Application section of my math book which stated that Pythagorean’s Theorem is used daily by  ghost hunters of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania in order to keep tabs on which bar the immortally inebriated ghost of General J.E.B Stewart has stumbled into. However, much like the 14^th century thinking that the Earth’s surface was flat, or the outlandish idea that Batman could hold his own in a fight against Superman, or the absolutely ludicrous notion that Edward was better suited for Bella than Jacob, the statement that I opened with, which for me had bordered on becoming Scientific Law, is a lie!

December 31, 2014: My family had been invited to my sisters’ boyfriends’ New Year’s Eve party and I was granted permission to tag along. Using context clues and your recollection of how many times your high school varsity quarterback began one of his Monday morning “I had an epic weekend” party tales with the phrase “granted permission to tag along” you can pretty much get a ballpark figure of how many high school parties I was willingly invited to. But by some Channing Tatum-like demonic possession I was somehow able to walk up to a female and string together a consonant and vowel combination that was, dare I say it, cool.  

It very well may have been winning my class’s 5th grade geography bee or perhaps it was making it onto the varsity Cross Country team my freshman year, but I had developed this carefree, ignorant attitude masquerading itself as confidence and thought “If I ask this girl to dance, what’s the worst that could happen?” We, as humans are only capable of using roughly 10% of our brains’ potential which means that, scientifically speaking, I was 90% more screwed than I could have possibly realized.

Her next decision, in all likelihood may have been the result of an excessive consumption of Bad Decision Juice, or possibly she had a few more high school community service hours to complete from several years ago, but I, Mark Woonton, was led on to the dancefloor by a 20-something year old Spanish girl.

Allow me to share with you my ethnic background. I am 50% Irish, 50% English and 100% certain of three things in this lifetime:

1.       My ancestors were some of the most horrible, awful and close-minded people in human history

2.       I don’t belong in direct sunlight for a moment longer than 2.5 seconds

3.       I must not come within a five mile radius of any dance floor anywhere at any time

Unfortunately, prior to this no one had bothered to tell me that most Latin songs have prearranged steps which are more numerous than those on an ancient Mayan temple.  So, she began to engage in an activity rhythmically and visually recognizable as the skill of dancing. I say skill, because I, on the other hand, had turned into an epileptic baby deer on ice skates.    

She looked at me and said “Are you alright?” But she didn’t say it like this was her first time seeing me after my grandmother had died. No, she said like the top of my head had just spontaneously burst into flames. After that, her voice took on a sound easily recognizable to any parent as Learning Curve Tone. LCT is used in an instance where you’re trying to explain something such as tying shoes or zipping up a jacket to your child a number of times not capable of being represented on a calculator and in order to compensate for your frustration of being solely responsible for bringing such a stupid little human being into this world and wanting to sound like Gandalf yelling at the Balrog on the bridge of Khazad Dum (“Child! Crawl back in to the warm, dark chasm from whence you came!”) But instead, you end up going up about ten octaves in tone and sound like a Furby in the soprano section. And standing in front of me on the dance floor I now had a Tony Robbins action figure complete with three motivational phrases: “Great!” Good job!” “There you go!”   

I very quickly sank into a positive self-talk, rehabilitating inner monologue “OK Mark, this isn’t exactly going how you had planned, but it’s going to be alright. Do you know why? Because you are calm and confident in who you are. Speaking is something that you do very well, so just think of something to say to smooth over the situation. Maybe try saying Thank you for the dance. Thank you for the dance? What is this the Royal Ball of 1704? No don’t say that!” But luckily, I had been so lost in my anxious thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the song was ending. The second the last note was hit she said “Ummm, I’m going to go check and make sure we have enough ice upstairs.” The lack of conviction in her voice coupled with absolutely zero direct eye contact told me that her and I had just entered into an evolved, adult version of the old “I think I hear my mom calling me for dinner” that I used on the neighbor kid who wouldn’t leave me alone in elementary school. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I live my life by the credo of Detroit singer, songwriter and my personal philosopher, Bob Seger “Don’t bother taking me to the disco, you’ll never even get me out on the floor!”

Bachelor's Duplex Directory

Diversity is a beautiful. From soda on the east coast being referred to as pop in the Midwest or a meal of mashed potatoes and sausage served in England being called Bangers and Mash. It truly is fascinating how each culture puts a spin on something to make it their own.  However, I am also aware that travel can be stressful enough let alone having to remember all of the different rules of social etiquette and foreign terminology.  

I just bought my first place and quickly realized that rooms I thought I had learned the names of as a child differ as I entered into Single adulthood. And with several days of experience, a still standing duplex and an overly self-stroked ego, I now consider myself the Muzzy The bilingual beast creature of Bachelor Living terminology and would now like to pass on what I’ve learned. I know that re-teaching yourself the names of rooms you thought you were familiar with may seem trying at first, but I promise that much like readjusting to driving in the States after a vacation in Europe or remembering the mandated One Finger Wave when traveling on the roadways of Boston and New York, with knowledge and repetition the use of these names will become second nature and allow you to communicate clearly and effectively to your bachelor friends. And as any of the members of society in The Giver will tell you, precision of language is a very important thing. So let’s begin:

Bathroom: Museum of Not So Fine Smells Odor Exhibit, Axe Body Spray Chamber

Kitchen: Salmonella Breeding Lab, Trans-Siberian Orchestra Preshow Pyrotechnics Test Site

Bedroom: Unexpected Guest Arrival Useless Junk Storage Unit, Mt. Laundry Treacherous Trek

Garage: Tenants Territorial Gaza Strip War Zone, 1997 Honda CRV Unfit To Be On the Road Weapon of Mass Destruction Holding Hangar

Family Room: Lonely Room, ESPN Observatory  

 

Well, any of my exes will tell you I’m not great at ending things, so good luck and happy traveling!

Hit Me Baby One More Time

I am unfortunately the kind of person who has been cursed to have an onion-like effect on the eyes of an infant the second anyone has invited me to hold their baby.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, while I was at a BBQ, a family introduced me to their little boy whom they had just adopted from Latvia. Without hesitation, he climbed up onto my lap, turned his head and gave me a Gerber baby cute smile. I remained absolutely motionless, as if watching a pelican in its natural habitat while on a trip through the Everglades.

My dreams of future fatherhood were quickly dashed as he farted, laughed hysterically and ran away

Wrong Number 2: The Second Circle of Hell

Some of you may remember a while back I posted a story about receiving a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize, but I answered the call anyway. The person on the other end was looking for someone not likely belonging to the same ethnicity, generation or gender as myself. I hung up and moments later received a second call from that same number. (If this synopsis was not eloquent enough for you, please consult my earlier post entitled Wrong Number and perhaps that will be more to your liking) I thought that this was the most awkward phone conversation one could possibly have.

I was wrong.

No less than one hour ago, I received a phone call from a collection of numbers not symmetrical to any of the numerical patterns already in my contact list (by the way, the moral of this story comes now, if you are not in my contact list, I’m not picking up) but I pick up and say “Hello.” Without pause, in return I get an enthusiastic and sweet “Hey baby!” I am not in a relationship, nor am I a tech savvy infant so although it pained me to hang up on someone who was clearly a sweet and loving woman, I said “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.” (P.S. when did referring to your significant other in the same likeness as a small child become endearing?? I hope to one day understand….Anyway….oh yeah, end parenthesis!) She hangs up and not moments later I get a call from the same number. I rationally decide to let it go to voicemail where she will hear a message in which MY voice states MY name, my current status of unavailability and a brief apology that if, after restating my name clearly and eloquently, I am not in fact who you are looking for, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. No voicemail. Good! Five seconds pass, I’m in the cl……Dangit! My ringtone is one of those random, preset, really happy sounding jingles that’s really deceiving when you know you’re either A.) Going to argue with the person on the other end or B.) Getting called by a complete stranger for the third time in ninety seconds. It occurs to me that this may very well be Matthew Mcconaugheys’ wife (Lord knows this wouldn’t be the first time our phone voices got misconstrued…..must be so awkward for him!)

Now, growing up in the Woonton household, we had a rule (Bahahaha……A rule) No cell phone use after 9:30! On any given evening at 9:29 and 50 seconds my mother would be at my door giving me a countdown. However, this rule, much like touching the top of a beautifully lit stove or fitting a fork oh so snuggly into the electrical outlet, I had to find out the adverse effects of breaking for myself. I could still hear her sharp yet somehow sweet voice in my head. I was jolted from this reminiscent daydream by the sound of my phone.

 Well mom, you were right yet again! She had clearly done what she did in order to keep me away from crazy clingy women like this.

I choked back tears as I glared up at the clock realizing that I had only 7 ½ hours until I had to be up at 5 the next morning for work. With a shaky hand I placed the phone against my ear and in an absolutely grief-stricken voice pleaded with the woman on the other end “Please! Just let me go to sleep! But do me a favor, will you? When you do get in touch with your husband, tell him that I said if he EVER needs anything, a place to stay, a friend to talk to, a new cell phone provider, I PROMISE to be there for him. Here, let me give you my number……”  

On This Date In History

Celebrating a dating anniversary is kind of like winning a Triple A baseball championship. A handful of people hear about it and pretend to be happy for you for twelve seconds, but deep down everyone knows that so long as you continue to work hard, the difficult and most stressful times are still in front of you

Date Night, Cutlery and You

Hi, my name is Marcus WellIllBeDarnedSheActuallySaidYes. If there are two areas of study in this world that I have acquired a great wealth of knowledge that I now feel obliged to pass on to my fellow man, it is Digimon cards and dating.

We haven’t much time and I have far more important things to discuss, but I’d like to quickly dispel the fallacy of the two biggest concerns on date night, clothing and hygiene. Does your wardrobe consist exclusively of outfits worn onstage by Lady Gaga during her most recent world tour? No? Good. Then just use your best judgment. Moving on. Are you familiar with the grammatical and physical application of words like soap, shampoo, deodorant and baby powder? Good. Are you not an Australian rugby player who sweats by the gallon? Of course you’re not! Australian men have no need for this advice! They have built-in, the most potent anatomical aphrodisiac of all-time, an Australian accent. According to an article I strongly believe should be on WebMD, the almost magically hypnotic sound of the male Australian accent is the leading contributor to weakness in the knees of 99% of women. The only ones immune to the Australian mans’ charm are the miniscule population of elderly females who are hard of hearing:

Now, when life on Earth first began, the menu consisted of one thing, Wooly Mammoth. After a while, the commonality of this rendered the age-old question of “What’s for dinner?” pretty much useless and human communication disintegrated to your basic frustrated grunt and growl sounds. After some time,   place settings grew to consist of a single fork, knife and spoon. But thanks to the ever-increasing gluttonous nature of this country of ours, made apparent by the Big Gulp, the All You Can Eat Buffet and the Cheeseburger pizza, when you take a seat at almost any eatery, you are now greeted on either side by an armory of silverware. This is the leading cause of stress and anxiety that already accompany the customary first date jitters. I am going to walk you through piece by piece, the purpose and proper use of each utensil. 

The first fork on your left was used by King Triton to try to get Ariel to cover up before she went out for the night. But because parents nowadays are so weak in their stance, within a few minutes he hands the fork to her and she uses it later on to comb her hair at the dinner table for some reason. But let’s cut her some slack because she did change into a different species and teach  herself to walk in a matter of 92 minutes and quite frankly, I saw far worse behavior from members of the varsity football team at the dinner during my prom and these fellas have supposedly been human their whole lives.

The next fork on the same side allows you the option to stab away the hand of an overly anxious waiter who fails to acknowledge your existence for the half hour following your initial meal selection, but is readily hovering over you as you’re still picking at scraps.

If there is a third fork, please notify your waiter or waitresses immediately as this is exclusively to be used by Tom Hanks to catch fish in order to survive after his plane crash-lands on a deserted island

The first big circular spoon on the right is used to dig yourself out of the conversational crater that is The First Date Awkward Silence. If there is a moment where you’re both staring into each other’s eyes that doesn’t involve the dreamy telepathic planning of your future wedding just do what I do, ask her what she thinks of jelly beans.  

The spoon parallel to the first allows you the option to catapult peas, partially chewed meat, scalding hot water or whatever you desire at the Pre-K Pavarotti three tables over who feels as though he’s matured well beyond the confines of the high security high chair where he is being held against his will. And he has quite logically chosen to communicate this discovery by screaming his head off.

The knife on your right is to be used as a pointer when talking about the various interesting newspaper articles or paintings on the restaurant walls. This knife is specifically for people who use their hands a lot when they talk in order to make the people around them feel as though there is just one heated recollection and passionate retelling of the argument with mom separating them from death.

Next to that there is a slightly smaller knife that you probably thought was used to spread butter. Wrong. This knife is for male use only and is essentially a first date safety net in case you accidently nick yourself a bit while shaving. Here’s what you do in order to recover from this first date folly: Pick up the knife and because the young lady sitting across from you has probably been sketched out from the get-go, simply stare somewhat psychotically into her eyes for a brief moment and then alternate your gaze between her and the knife and then say “You look nervous. Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got ‘em?  

And listen, with regards to the drinking glass, when your trying to get every last drop, maneuvering between the ice cubes like some kind of thirst-driven game of tetras, you’re not a person saving money, you’re a rude and you sound like a broken humidifier, OK?  

Well, here she comes, good luck champ! I know what you’re thinking, but Marcus, we haven’t even talked about how to conduct myself or what to say to her all night. All we’ve talked about is the apparently mythological origins of the forks at Chili’s. Yes, and there’s good reason for that. Look at her. Now, look at yourself. You see, this is what we in high society refer to as a pity date. I mean, you made HER pick YOU up for Pete’s sake! She feels bad so she’s selflessly agreed to subject herself to the judgment of being seen out in public with you this one time. Your only hope with a young woman like this is to ask intellectual, thought-provoking questions like “If a florist works with flowers, what do you call the guy who put in the linoleum down in your kitchen? Now, if you don’t mind, while writing this script I’ve spent the past few days off of Facebook, not answering my phone, in my room with the lights off making sure I don’t subject myself to figuring out what happens in the Game Of Thrones season finale before I get the chance to watch it. I hear it’s to die for………….HA!

A Sure Sign I'm Getting Old

A sure sign that I am getting old is the fact that, in the morning, I now prefer talk radio to music. While I’d like to believe that this newly developed preference is simply because I want to stay abreast of what’s going on in the world around me, I have also come to the sad realization that a key element factoring in to my decision is people like Jason Derulo are able to have studio sessions where, based on the finished product, I can only assume they have an overly tired big rig truck driver repetitiously back up over their foot just as they open their mouths and make noises. This is then recorded and advertised to the world as music and for reasons unknown to me, is absolutely eaten up by the general public. 

Morning radio also oftentimes has an entertainment segment to keep us up to date on the most current struggles and hardships that have befallen the poor dear celebrities of today. For example, I recently heard a story that while on a hike, Taylor Swift had to walk down a mountain backwards in an effort to avoid getting her picture taken with some giddy passerby. Forget ticket sales, I think the new measuring stick for whether you’ve “made it” or not is that your perspective of leisure activities is forcibly and totally altered. I love writing, but speaking as someone who was born without and will never have depth perception a day in his life, if my writing ever hit Nicholas Sparks status and I had to start walking down mountains backwards, I’m out!

One particular morning, conversation on the radio centered on the history and recent eradication of was once known as the corporate lunch hour. This was the name given to a sixty minute period of time in which coworkers would assist each other in jimmying off their ankle bracelets, leave their places of employment and venture out to see the sights, sounds and general sense of spaciousness that the outside world had to offer. A group would head over to their favorite eatery making small talk with the very person they had been badmouthing to someone in the break room over by the coffeemaker not five minutes prior. However, in todays’ productivity driven world, this sacred time has metamorphosed itself into what is now a twelve second window of opportunity in which employees are encouraged to back away from their computers and ingest a corporate supplied pipette full of krill that has been pre-chewed by a penguin and then return to work.

One huge exception in my partiality to talk radio over music: David Allen Boucher on Bedtime Magic. If you haven’t taken the proper precautions by either A.) Sleeping for 20 hours beforehand to ensure that you are well rested or B.) Drinking twelve Red Bulls, nine Rockstar energy drinks and three cans of amp, I promise you that the smooth sexiness that results from David Allen Boucher vibrating his vocal chords, you will be absolutely soothed out of your mind and put to sleep quicker than a UFC fighter in a guillotine choke as your vehicle goes careening into a guardrail. And just to be clear, this isn’t meant to be anti-Magic 106.7 as much as it is pro-you staying alive. Because you have now been informed of this, if it were to occur, it would be entirely on your shoulders (and neck and back and possibly dashboard) as someone who knew the facts but went ahead and did what they wanted anyway. You know what that means? It means Barry Feinstein can’t help you because he only helps people who are injured through no fault of their own. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my 22 years on this green land havin’, blue water flowin’ and Arianna Grande inhabited land mass of ours it is this, if a man who concludes his commercials with a Mr. Clean style folded arms pose and a stern look which simultaneously conveys “Don’t worry, I gotchu” and “Don’t EVER mess with me!” can’t do anything to help you, you’re screwed…….What were we talking about again……