Miss Connections: The One with Nipples and Jesus

Let’s start off this week’s Miss Connections with an example of an MC that I see more often than I want, because, while I don’t believe in the institution of marriage, I like to believe that those who get married do. And yet MC seems to be an attractive place for people to post totally discrete solicitations that will never be seen by anyone other than their desired party: 

But You’re my Wife’s Best Friend… – m4w – 34 (Crossing the Line)

…..and I golf with your man. But I feel the sexual tension between us. The other night when we bumped into each other coming out of the bathroom, that intense look. I know if they weren’t in the next room. I’m so tempted to cross the line, but we can’t…right? Or can we? I know you’re out there struggling with the same question. Advice from others with any similar experience welcome. So confused…

Okay, just between us middle-aged cuckolds, let’s be real: you’re not confused. You’re unsure in the way that people who only want to risk a marriage for hot sex are unsure. Because if that hot sex never happens, well, it’s going to be a goddamn shame about that deposit on your wedding hall. And the years of building an emotionally meaningful relationship with another person will be lost—not to mention your wife!

But, even married men will be men, right?

Just one night – w4m

I keep thinking about our conversation and imagining many scenarios with you. So curious just want one night with you but your my husbands friend. I find you so attractive .. What do you think ? Hopefully you read these!

This is one of the many reasons I love MCs: just when it seems that someone has posted an MC that cements stereotypes about one demographic, you get another that proves everyone can be just as scummy! Didn’t think that the first poster would get anywhere with his MC? Well, think again, because turns out his friend’s wife does want to get freaky in the breakfast nook!

Though, not in the way that this next poster wants to get freaky:

Hot Ass Baseball Dads – w4m (North Andover)

God damn!

I love going to baseball each week just to watch all the incredible good looking baseball dads who are so involved.

Maybe I should pretend to forget my stance so one of those hotties that walk by and say ” hi” can touch me and give me goosebumps!!!!

I love sports and hot dads!!!

Who wrote this, a prepubescent baseball player? Why else would she be practicing her stance at a kids’ baseball game? And the use of exclamation points is clearly indicative of a Tiger Beat connoisseur. The title of this posting should be “Spice Up My Life (Daddy Issues),” because this little lady has a taste for salt and pepper! At least she comes by it honestly. About as honestly as this next poster:

Chestnuthill Bofa ATM – commented about your nipples – m4w

Around 5:45pm at the Bank of America ATM near the Atrium mall….you were a gorgeous brunette in super tight jeans and a white top with no bra. You look like Megan Fox. I walked in after and could clearly see your nipples thru your shirt. I have no idea what came over me, but when you turned around to leave I said “you have absolutely beautiful nipples”. You looked right at me awkwardly and said thanks and then left.

I’m not a perv. It just came out. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Just want to say sorry if I freaked you out…

Dear ATM Man,

I’m so glad you posted this. To be honest, I was a bit freaked out—but now that you explained that you were simply ENTRANCED by my MESMERIZING nipples, I totally forgive you. In fact, this isn’t the first time a man has been simply unable to control himself around my ENGROSSING nipples, and it’s probably my fault for wearing that shirt. You’re definitely not a perv, just a normal guy put under extraordinary circumstances.

Anyway, I appreciate the MC. You could probably sense that I check this religiously and so this was the best way for you to apologize to me.

Want to have wild sex in public sometime?

Megan Fox

And, last but not least, perhaps the greatest MC to have ever graced the Internet:


Susan – m4w (with Jesus)

I forgive you. In the time of Noah so shall it be in our time. Forgiveness is what you lack along with common sence, I suggest you Take Jesus into you’re heart and maybe you will not be such a hateful bitch

There’s things I could say, ways I could deconstruct this and the emotional state of the person who wrote it, but dear baby Jesus—who clearly endorsed this message—why would I?

Miss Connections: Love Lockdown Edition

Boston’s been through a lot this week. Its people have been subjected to emotional rugby, which is a game I am convinced has no rules other than “hurt each other,” only made worse by the relentless media coverage.

But through it all, Bostonians carried on—living, loving, loving from afar, loving in completely inappropriate ways and then posting about them on the Internet. Such as this first MC:

A much better show than Oblivion! – m4mw – 41 (Danvers)

Not a missed connection, really — I saw everything! (a la Patrick Stewart in “Extras”) — but thanks to the young couple who spent the entire, overlooooong 5 pm showing of Oblivion at Liberty Tree shamelessly getting it on in the back row. Obviously, I’m the guy who was sitting midway down the row shamelessly watching!


I suppose thanks are also due to the producers of this particular big-budget snoozer for not providing any competition to your writhing lapsex. I give you a five star review, three more than that flick deserves….

You didn’t seem to mind my brazenly watching you go at it — you even stuck around a bit as the credits rolled, perhaps waiting for me to leave. (I wanted to see who the key grip was, honest!) Anyway, if you enjoyed the added thrill of an audience, hit me up – the next matinee tickets will be on me. 🙂

The best part about this MC is that this man has clearly realized a fetish he never knew he had: being able to be a movie snob and an envoyer at the same time! Getting off to his own snarky one-liners about the movie he’s watching while others are getting off! When he says “the next matinee tickets will be on me,” he means it—because if there’s not a film playing at the same time, he’s not interested.

But as skeezy as it is to be getting down and dirty in a movie theater, and even moreso the man watching it, this next MC is truly in poor taste:

Girl on CNN – m4w – 28 (Watertown)

Just wanting to let the girl that was interviewed by CNN after the suspect was caught know that she is hot.

Solitary confinement can do a lot of crazy shit to your psyche. My brother was once put in solitary confinement in the Navy (and it had nothing to do with ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,’ so you can put away the jokes about “seamen,” as if my grandmother hasn’t made them already anyway). He said he learned how to win at Monopoly…against himself. I can’t remember ever finishing a game of Monopoly, aka The Four-Hour Exercise in How to Steal Money from the Bank Without Anyone Noticing, let alone after I’d spent time making up my own alter ego and then giving her the ol’ Capitalism Shakedown. The only time I’ve been in solitary confinement was (semi-)voluntarily for much of my childhood, and I ended up writing poetry…about how much I love America. Like I said: it changes people.

So it’s not totally unreasonable for this guy to make a totally inappropriate advance after being stuck in his house for hours on end. I mean, this woman was probably the first one he’d seen all day, if you don’t include his lipstick-smeared right hand.

But how, how how how did he justify this to himself? “I wish I could care about what this woman is saying, or the horror that my entire city went through over the past few days, but all I can think about is how sexy her mouth looks when she says, ‘I’m just happy the terrorists have been caught.’ Mmmmm. It’s even hotter than when my hand-mouth says it.”

I didn't mean it, baby. Oh, come on, Carol, you know I was joking! Don't give me the silent treatment, Carol.
I didn’t mean it, baby. Oh, come on, Carol, you know I was joking! Don’t give me the silent treatment, Carol.

The next poster has significantly better judgment when it comes to understanding what is MC-appropriate:

Hey, girl, hey. – w4w – 21 (Davis Sq.)

Hey. You with the face. I saw you looking and LIKING. Thumbs up. Two of em. BAM. Saw you outside of Diesel looking gay as a fish. And I like that. A lot. Hit me up. Alright, you had navy and green flannel on with these tight black jeans. Rocking a nice big pair of boots with laces. You had these glasses on… you look smart like WHOA. Like you go to Tufts or something. You probably have a tattoo. I’ll probably like it.

The fact that “gay as a fish” and “flannel” describes half (which, if anything, is a severe underestimate) of the clientele of Diesel, and that I’m sure similarly quirky and bold, yet coy and tongue-in-cheek, MCs have been posted for them many times, did not make me less endeared to this one. I think it’s because of the poster’s obvious self-awareness in writing this, and her ability to point out the ridiculousness of MCs in general without literally pointing it out (“Hey. You with the face.” instead of, “There’s no way you’ll ever see this, but…” =1,000,000 eprops [those are still legal virtual tender, right?]).

It could also be that I imagine Tom Cruise voicing the lines, “I saw you looking and LIKING. Thumbs up. Two of em. BAM.” And who isn’t whisked away to Wet Dream World by the thought of Tom Cruise hitting on you?

Answer: All the humans.
Answer: All the humans.

But this last MC, as always, takes the award for Most Heartwarming:

You mailed me my lost wallet?!?! (Brighton Ave, Allston)

I’d had a horrible Friday night, trying to cope with my sister’s deteriorating condition due to cancer. I started crying at the bar, surrounded by my friends and went to try to find the bathroom to compose myself when one of the bar staff told me I had to leave and escorted me out. In no condition to be alone, I tried frantically to text my friends to come find me as drops of rain and tears fell onto my phone, to no avail. Lost, disoriented, abandoned and scared, I managed to find a main street to catch a cab home, shakily got out onto Brighton Ave and walked one block to my house, losing my wallet along the way.

When I finally realized it was missing, too much time had passed for any hope that in a well-trafficked area, I would find my wallet. The thought of canceling and replacing everything was a constant reminder all weekend of the anxiety, shame and sadness of that night. Something told me, the entire time, that it would come back to me.

I checked the mailbox every day to see if someone had dropped it in there and when I ever reached in and felt the mailer today my heart jumped. I couldn’t tear that stupid stretchy FedEx plastic fast enough. There it was! But the biggest surprise was not that all three of my credit cards, my Charlie card with over $50 on it and four $20 bills were inside, along with my license, library card, hospital cards and medical alert card (I have a chronic illness); it was that inside there was one extra thing: a small piece of paper torn from a notebook that read, “Hey, found your wallet on the ground in Allston. Hope losing it temp. didn’t cause too much trouble”

I had to fight back a tear, I was so grateful. It may seem like a small thing, but for me it was much more than a lost item, a hassle and money. I cannot express how proud I am of Boston right now, and this one particular, anonymous good Samaritan. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can be sure this good deed will be paid forward many-fold.

Boston has a reputation for being a city of cold-hearted bastards—which is perhaps not helped by the fact that many Bostonians pride themselves on being cold-hearted bastards—but it is small, astounding acts of kindness like this that prove even New Englanders can be nice.

Or that we need to build a wall around the city, Texas-style, to prevent any more foreigners from ruining our reputation as borderline sociopaths.

Miss Connections: Minnesota 2.0 Edition

I recently visited my good ol’ home state dere of Minnesota, and in honor of the Land of 10,000 Lakes, this week’s MCs are all from the Minneapolis Craigslist. As we all know, most MCs in Minnesota happen in the supermarket, like this first one:

adam corolla fondled your pinneapples – m4w – 33 (uptown rainbow)

He questioned price on some cookies as made cashier run an isle to check a price..tdude then decided to hit in u..I noticed that he was touching all your items u were going to .buy then the more as he searched for change …I SAVED your gum and ran it outside to u as cashier said that would be sweet …I SHOULD HAVE ASK U TO DINNER. god knowyou weren’t eating pineapples after his grubbing hands were i on them …we did have a nice quick chat about him ..thou u think u digged him lol

What this guy lacks in grammar, he sure makes up for in chivalry! I mean, he SAVED her gum from both the much afeared Produce Fondler and her own terrible short-term memory. (We will ignore the fact that the cashier, whom the poster assumes is actually named “Cashier,” had to tell him it would be a sweet thing to do before he did it. Proving the fact that even sociopaths can do good deeds if given a bit of probing!) He SHOULD HAVE ASK HER TO DINNER, but apparently didn’t because she actually digs the Fondler. Which is not enough of a sign of this woman’s fetish for people who grope grapes, because this man still thinks he can reach her via MC.

Fact: You Are Both Weirdos, and Not The Kind Who Are “Meant For Each Other.”

This next poster expresses the same sentiment:

a poem… – m4w

you came into town

you turned my frown upside down

you went home with a douche

there is no good rhyme for douche

Well played, sir. Well played.

Okay, but where are some sweet postings for thoughtful people?

You Bought My Son’s Nerf Gun at Target – w4m – 38 (St. Louis Park)

My son was checking out at Target with a bag of nickels and you stepped in and bought his Nerf gun. I’m not sure if you were just sick of waiting in line for the a target check out guy to count up the change…either way you made his/my day. A first I thought it was Target that gave him the toy then he explained it was you. I wish I had known this before you walked out the door so I could say thank you. I was checking out in another lane and wanted my son to buy his own toy to learn a lesson about how much things cost and their true worth. You stepped in and taught him a far more important lesson about kindness and generosity. Thank you so much.

Wow, this is so kind. I mean, I’ve seen Pay It Forward, and Minnesotans do have that reputation for being what Bostonians would call “wicked nice, like retahded nice,” but this is really nice…a bit too nice.

Okay, here’s what actually happened: the boy was taking way too fucking long to pay for a $12 Nerf gun with a bag of nickels, because he was paying for it with a bag of nickels. The man behind him started mumbling angrily under his breath about how much he’d like to hit the kid with the bag of change, but the kid (who makes up for his poor business sense with a heightened sense of hearing) heard him and began to cry. The man, not wanting to draw more attention to himself lest people question his motives for purchasing Toilet Buddies, paid for the kid’s Nerf gun. So, not only did the kid get a free Nerf gun, he also learned that by crying, he can get anything he wants. And thus, another sugar baby was born.

This one is called, "Ca Ca Cow." I shit you not.
This one is called, “Ca Ca Cow.” I shit you not.

Congratulations, Mom—your son is going to grow up to be a socially-acceptable type of prostitute. Don’t worry though, his sugar daddy/momma will teach him the value of a dollar…because he’ll know exactly how much work he needs to do to get one.  

This next poster knows exactly what I mean, since women are apparently throwing themselves at him for no good reason:

You dig my accent? I have a question – m4w – 33 (St Paul)

Yet again I get a remark today from a very attractive young lady who said she loved my accent. Very flattering and everything but…

1) I guess I don’t understand how an accent can be ‘hot’ and

2) I don’t understand why I’m always told that in situations where I can’t capitalize on it, shall we say.

What’s with that?? Answers on a postcard please… or in an email. Especially if you’re the young lady who served me in Noodles & Company on Ford Parkway this morning 😉

Here’s some answers:

  1. You suffer from an inability to hear any sort of accent, like being verbally colorblind. Right, there’s nothing inherently ‘hot’ about an accent, unless you think that people who are from a different place are interesting and thinking about them moving their tongue in creative ways to speak your language reminds you of making out. Just like there’s nothing inherently ‘hot’ about blonde girls…unless you like blonde girls.
  2. I’m interested in what a situation that you could “capitalize” on would look like, and why this seems to be a widespread injustice committed against you by kind females. Should the young lady at Noodles & Company have first removed her name tag/t-shirt and then complimented your accent? Should she have waited until you used the restaurant’s bathroom and then whispered it through the keyhole?

At least she didn’t describe your accent as sounding like “a rubber life raft bobbing on a sea of steel drums.”

And, in normal Miss Connections fashion, we’ll end on a tender note:

TCF teller at Cub (scared of thunderstorms) – m4w (Hanson/Northdale Coon Rapids)

You weren’t my teller but I was next to you. You are the most beautiful woman I have EVER seen in my life! Your eyes and ur lips were so amazing! And your smile made me feel good! Scared of thunderstorms your boss said. I’d love to know more about you!

You’re right—her smile IS lovely!

Miss Connections: It’s A Lot to Digest

Anyone who knows me, even just through the social mediaz, knows that I’m totally incompetent when it comes to any form of technology. You could probably put oven mitts and a blindfold on a monkey and they would be able to figure out how to use the Internet better than I can. (Though, to be fair, I am referring to one of those monkeys that’s, like, only a few hundred thousand years removed from human evolutionary history. You know, the smarter ones. Whatever.)

The point is, no matter how much of an imbecile I am at technology, this woman is worse: 

Anthony Roberts I am feeling you – w4m (Waltham)


moody st

Your name is Anthony R ( I know your last name just not posting it here for obvious reasons)

I think your really cute and I want to get to know you but I am not sure if you feel the same

while you talk to me occasionally you have not asked for my number

but i want to hang out with you so email me if you see this

So, not only did this woman include Anthony Roberts’s full name, she also included a city, street name, and MAP of where to find him. I guess her idea of “being discreet” was not posting his cell phone number or Social Security number on the Internet. Well, at least she’s posting for someone she’s met IRL, unlike the next poster:

looking for your Dad – w4m – 72 (Arlington)

Hi, you are a nice young couple, we sat at the Legal Seaside bar enjoying “Portuguese Seafood Stew” yesterday (Friday March 15); we had a brief conversation about your dad, you and your husband live in Grafton.

I was there with my date, I would love to get in touch with your dad. My date was OK, but not what I’m really looking for. If you happen to see this, please ask your Dad to give me a call.

Thank you.

Okay, questions:
1. What did this person say about their father that was so appealing? “He’s filthy rich, ages better than a fine wine and is the best shuffleboard player in his retirement community”?
2. What exactly is a 72-year-old woman looking for? Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of senior citizens dating, because it gives me hope for the future and is like a big middle finger to the stereotype of chaste old folks, but at what point do you decide to just ride out your time by following the adage, “Love the one you’re with”?

3. Why is “Portuguese Seafood Stew” in quotation marks? It makes the dish sound more insidious than seafood anything already is.

I applaud this woman for her shamelessness, though, I really do. Just like this guy:

Man Who Ralphed at Park Street – w4m – 26 (Park Street (alewife))

To the well dressed gentleman who decided a crowded train platform at rush hour was a good place to lose your cookies.

I hope you’re OK. I would have helped but I suffer from a serious form of Emetophobia and was busy trying not to faint and or cry. It’s odd that no one seemed to acknowledge your sickness–but at least I can take comfort in knowing that if I were to suffer from a serious medical ailment, everyone would pretend not to notice.

Oh, is it your first week in Boston? Don’t worry, the collective nonchalance becomes ingrained in you after a while, so that not even you will notice when you throw up in public. 

Hope you were just drunk (at 5PM) and not suffering from the Flu. Let me know if you are OK and also WHY GOD WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME.

Again I ask: is it your first week here? Because he was definitely drunk. Why do you think the streets of the Financial District are lined with giant Irish pubs?

It’s really sweet that this woman is inquiring into his well-being. I mean, acknowledging that he did not intend to throw up at all, much less in order to send her into a conniption, or maybe just handing him a tissue as he was hurling would have been more considerate, but…this is, uh, nice.

Okay, I’ll fess up: I chose this one partially because imagining a man wearing a business suit and throwing up in public makes me feel better about my liberal arts degree. No, I don’t have a full-time job with a steady salary and an office in a skyscraper, but hey, you don’t see me blowing chunks in front of the evening rush hour crowd. At least, no one would be surprised if I did.

Though that mental image hardly competes with this one:

Muffin slap – m4w – 28 (Cambridge, ma)

I saw you on the street today. You had really long fingers. Like, way long. You could probably scratch your knees without bending at all. Also, your neck was fast. It moved with a quick swagger if you know what I mean. By the way you were really good! Now I like a lot of sauce, but this was one sassy slump. You were carrying 14 muffins in one hand with those dumpy fingers and all I wanted to do was create a good muffin slap across your sexy bugs. Contact me if you saw me creating a muffin slap opportunity. I am a man.

This MC reads like it was written alternately by Don DeLillo, a horny British brat, and…Aaron, actually. The language here is just glorious—your neck was fast. It’s a horrifying image, but it’s a very specific one nonetheless. “Sassy slump”? I don’t know what the hell that is, but dear God do I love it. And it’s anyone’s guess as to what this woman was really good at, but even the most overarching and misplaced compliments can deliver a self-esteem boost. The only part I totally did not understand was what a “muffin slap” is.

In addition to being effectively Amish when it comes to technology, I am totally out of the loop on the culture of anyone who grew up after the 1970’s. Naturally, I went to Urban Dictionary for the definition of “muffin slap”: 

This is a physical diss for all girls who have muffin tops. You approach one of these unfortunates from behind (for those more daring, or rather semi-retarded, you can advance from the front) and with both hands slap her muffins.

muffin top
Awww yeah, I wanna slap me summa dat

So this man, who provides absolutely no other description of himself than that he has a penis, is either being a huge fatphobic asshole, or just very open about his muffin slapping-fetish. And because I’m optimistic, and a little in love with his poetic description of her sassy slump sauce, I will assume it’s the latter.

You find that quick-necked woman, Man, and may you both slap each other’s muffins.

Miss Connections: When The Weirdos Come Out to Play

Scanning Missed Connections for interesting posts can sometimes be disappointing. Most posts are horribly vague–one this week actually just said, “You were hot, walking down the street. We made eye contact.” so, EVERYONE who left their house that day–or just vengeful nonsense–“Fine, go back to that whore, but will she ever understand what ‘Raging in the Deep’ means like I do?”

This week, however, the Freaks of Boston really came out in full force. Take, for example, this anti-pedophile:

Indoor Playground – m4w – 36 (Watertown)

Went there last week and was impressed with the mommies and nannies. I’m tall, lean, and bearded

If we smiled and made eye contact, say hi.

Have a good day

Let’s consider for a moment how a 36-year-old man found himself at an indoor playground stalking female child wranglers in the first place. He makes no mention of a child, like, “I was the dude with the five-year-old dressed as Spiderman who was screaming for an ice cream cone,” so I can only assume he was there alone. This is how I imagine his day went down:

–Wake up on couch in front of the TV, having fallen asleep to infomercials for Chia Pets that look like Obama, cigarette butts and Bud Light cans littering the floor
–Wallow in self-pity
–Drink a Gatorade and eat the leftovers of a Meat Supreme pizza you don’t remember ordering
–Decide to clean yourself up and go out (eventually settling on your nicest sweatshirt and a quick sink wash of your armpits)
–Search for some place more exciting than the dank bar you usually frequent in the early afternoons, remembering that women your age often have children and therefore congregate at schools, but loitering at an elementary school is creepy, so you eventually settle on the nearby indoor playground
–Feel strangely drawn to the maternal figures at said playground because you clearly need someone to take care of you, though it doesn’t really matter who at this point so no need to remember any of these women in particular detail
–Return home feeling like you’ve accomplished something and maybe grown as a human
–Wipe away said feelings by writing a MC for any and all of the women you just stared down while they tried to herd their children away from you
–Return to the couch, the only one who truly understands you

As much as that MC weirds me out, the next one hits a bit closer to home—because I actually used to live here:

courtyard Fremont you were role playing a dog getting pounded loved – mw4mw – 35 (Boston )

we went to bill burr Saturday night.

When I was a freshman at Emerson College, right in the heart of downtown Boston, they ran out of space for all of the incoming co-eds (“Oops, you’re homeless!”) and had to rent out the entire 7th floor of the Courtyard Marriot, down the street on Tremont. (Bill Burr was performing at the Wilbur Theatre that night, not twenty feet away. Also, “Fremont” Street is in Mattapan.) A lot of weird shit happens when you live in a hotel, but this is by far one of the strangest:

you were in the room next to us…
you role played a dog while your husband or boyfriend fucked you crazy from behind.
then you talked about it after you came and you got the outfit from I party…
thin walls in the hotel, but we want to meet you.
it was hot
email us the room number you were in
would love to have a drink together.

So at first you’re all, “Oh, they listened to a couple doing it doggy-style. It’s weird that they could tell the position through the walls, but otherwise this is pretty normal.” And then the poster is like, “BAM, I mean a literal dog outfit. Not only did we listen to the whole thing, we also realized we’re furries and into foursomes. Let’s make it happen.” It’s kind of beautiful, in a way, that these people found each other…it’s also disturbing for me to imagine all this going down in the bedroom I occupied for a year. How many people played out their “Shaggy Dog” fantasies on my sheets before I lived there?

This is one of the least creepy things you find when Googling "shaggy dog fantasy." Just...trust me.
This is one of the least creepy things you find when Googling “shaggy dog fantasy.” Just…trust me.

This MC, however, is even more personal…

Red Line, Green Line, Copley – m4w – 25 (Copley)

I got on the Red Line at Harvard and noticed you sitting with your friend. We both transferred to the Green at Park, and I sat directly across from you. We made eye contact. We smiled at each other. My heart literally started racing. We both got off at Copley. I wanted to say something to you, but you raced away and I thought maybe I had freaked you out. If you see this, and your heart started racing too, I hope that you respond.

You: short dark hair, jeans, pumas. Me: short dark hair, jeans, pumas.

…because it is definitely just a post for himself. Narcissists, take note: when you get goosebumps from seeing yourself in the reflection of a subway window, it’s time to hit up the Family Dollar for a pocket mirror. It will save you a lot of money in T passes.

VDMC: Valentine’s Day Miss Connections

What better way to celebrate Valentine’s Day than scouring the annals of Craigslist’s Lonely Hearts Club for the most laughable attempts at making human connections, I always say!

At least, that’s what I’m saying this year, because my Valentine to SFSF is the first Miss Connections of 2013!


[This is both the heading of the first MC, and my apology for being so negligent in writing Miss Connections. Moving on…]


That’s an amazing track record, isn’t it? Most, if not ALL, of the ladies who read this MC are writing to him. I’m almost afraid to post this, for fear it might turn into an Internet version of The Ring—once you read this MC, ladies, you have seven days to write to him or you, uh…cease to be a lady. I mean, you probably have enough time to read the rest of this blog post, but after that you should definitely consider writing to him.


Ah, the mystikal sighting of a lady! How long mere mortals have yearned to see one in the flesh!


Goddammit. This last line is so naked, so vulnerable, it almost makes me feel bad for mocking the poor guy. I just want to tell him that there is a place on the Internet for confessions of weakness, and it’s called Xanga circa 2004.

Okay, let’s try someone who knows whom they’re addressing, first name and all:

Sarah who works at Museum of Science + Children’s Museum. – m4w – 25 (The Sinclair)


i never do this, and I’m not sure what your story is, but we met tonight at the sinclair. you were with some friends but didn’t care much for the bands playing.

you told me a sub-par story about a coffee shop and a guy in a wheelchair. although you were slightly tipsy, it was adorable. i think you said you’re from texas.

i wasn’t in a great place to have a conversation, and you said you usually don’t talk to strangers, but I would love to hear more of these sub-par stories sometime over coffee or drinks.

I will admit that I opened this MC because my name is Sarah and, though I have never worked at either of these museums, I have always wanted to. So I imagined myself being this Sarah, one who works with science and brats and goes to concerts and talks to strangers. I imagined opening an MC where the poster describes me first as a disinterested audience member, then as a sub-par storyteller, who is adorable despite the fact that she is tipsy (which is definitely a euphemism for “sloppy”), and then almost maybe remembers my home state.

And then I promptly copied, pasted, and mocked. As adorable as this guy probably thinks he is in this MC, Sarah is offended. She thinks that wheelchair coffee shop story was worthwhile, and she doesn’t usually talk to strangers because, even when they have the buffer of the Internet between themselves and her, they will feel the need to tease her in order to win her affections. May as well tell Sarah her eyes are two mesmerizing crumbs of stale bread in pools of curdled milk, for God’s sake.

The next poster finally got it right:

Cute Toll Collector I-90E – w4m – 29 (Brighton/Allston Exit)

Me: brunnette, bangs, blue eyes, blushes easily. You: blond, very short hair, great smile.

You were so good looking I got flustered trying to hand you change…you may have been slightly amused? I make that drive every Monday and I think I’ve seen you on one other occasion and had a similar experience. Just thought I’d let you know the effect you’re having on female motorists.

Okay, it’s not the most inventive or heartwarming MC I’ve ever posted, but I appreciate it because it’s written for a toll collector. Do you understand how relentlessly boring a job like that is? You are stuck in a phone booth, asking grumpy passersby for change. It’s like being a professional highway panhandler. No one expects to have fun doing that job, and along comes this woman who not only gets flustered trying to hand you a handful of nickles, but she thinks about you enough to write an MC later. Now THAT is romance!

But the last MC this week goes not to the most romantic, but the poster who clearly has the best sense of humor:

To the girl who flipped me the bird this afternoon – m4w – 24 (Lechmere, Near Science Museum)

You: Irate woman (probably mid-late twenties), sunglasses, driving some sort of gas-guzzling “luxury” SUV.

Me: The blue-eyed dude in a silver Toyota Corolla that was unwittingly blocking some sort of stupid left-hand turn opening that could only be found in Boston/New England.

There was a huge cluster-fuck of a traffic jam just past the Lechmere T stop. You tried to make some insanely stupid, stubborn move across my lane. I, being trapped between a bunch of other cars (this was a traffic jam, bee tee dubz) had nowhere to go. You proceed to throw your hands up in exasperation and when I proceeded to mock you, you flipped me one hell of a sexy middle finger.

I laughed in return and threw one back at you. You then (I could only guess by your agitated facial expressions and lip movements) cursed at me and flipped another sweet, slender middle finger in my direction. I responded with a double-dose of “fuck you” symbolism, and you drove away.

Coffee sometime? Maybe we can tell each other to fuck off in person.

I had to read this MC a few times to decide whether I thought the poster was passive aggressively ranting or legitimately asking this woman out. Despite the fact that he insults her car and portrays little that he likes about her, I feel like this is a real MC. He doesn’t sound angry, and there’s no other reason for him to write all of this on CL unless he actually wants to chance finding this woman. Who knows, maybe he’s into rageful females.

But the real MC should be for this guy:

P.S. To the old dude who followed this girl through the same lane and shook his fist at me, you’re the man. I proceeded to mock you too, and instead of getting pissed like previously mentioned girl, you laughed and threw up a peace sign. You win.

He certainly does.


Sophie picks me up in Detroit, and we drive the six hours or so to Cincinnati. Like most stretches of freeway across the Midwest, the sights are all an homage to driving culture: huge buffet restaurants next to even bigger shopping malls, an “adult play place,” and billboards selling insurance and conservative morality.

Sophie and I have spent a lot of time driving together since we became close friends in high school, and the introspective, philosophical conversations inherent to long rides in the darkening night come easily. We discuss where we are and where we’re going, two 20 somethings with no obligation to stay put, and then giggle over silly stories and bad jokes. We’re driving down to see Eddy, another high school friend, who studied violin at the University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music, and stayed after he graduated to continue working on the music scene and to play with his band.

We pull up to Eddy’s house, a three-story building wedged in next to a police station. Eddy lives on the top floor, and the bottom two floors are used for his music program. He tells us this area is East Price Hill, which used to be a really nice area when the Price family still lived here.  It’s still not as degraded, however, as Lower Price Hill.

“The poverty rate in Lower Price Hill is around 40%,” Eddy says. “It’s one of the scariest places I’ve ever been. The poverty just strikes you.”

“What’s the poverty rate in Cincinnati in general?” I ask.

“About 30%,” he says. “Oh, wait, I thought you asked about Price Hill. The whole city in general? It’s much lower. Cincinnati has, per capita, the highest rate of millionaires in the country.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, especially the neighborhoods surrounding the city, like Indian Hill and Mariemont. Indian Hill, as a community, was the biggest supporter of George W. Bush in the 2008 elections, financially.”

And yet the biggest problem for Eddy’s youth orchestra group is money. MYCincinnati is a program that Eddy’s friend Laura founded just over a year ago and he joined, just after he had graduated from college, based on the lifesaving program El Sistema in Venezuela. The idea was to keep kids off of crime-ridden streets, away from temptation and out of harm’s way, and to give them skills that would help them succeed in other aspects of their lives: discipline, camaraderie, self-esteem. This structure, which has been replicated all over the United States (including SFSF’s base in Massachusetts) serves the same purpose everywhere, and is successful in turning out not only incredibly talented musicians, but also lowering crime rates and building more beautiful communities.

Eddy and Laura teach children how to play the viola, violin and cello everyday after school for two hours. Laura teaches the children who had never played a note on any of these instruments before joining the program, and Eddy guides the returning students, evidence of a successful first year. All of the instruments have been donated by a local violinmaker who simply believes in the program.

Sophie and I help out one day. Eddy puts us in charge of child-wrangling; basically, take the kids as they filter in, make sure they get their instruments and head to the correct orchestra. Eddy tells us that he and Laura suspect or know that many of the children have autism, Asperger’s, or some sort of condition that makes it difficult for them to function in social situations. One boy, who looks like a 9-year-old version of Benicio del Toro, refuses to let go of his stuffed beaver toy, and sits it next to him while playing. Eddy invites me into his orchestra room and introduces me to his musicians.

“Sarah and I grew up together,” he says.

“But I thought you were from China!” shouts one of the older girls.

“No, he’s from Minnesota,” replies a younger boy.

“But he looks Chinese!” she shouts.

Eddy quiets the rowdy musicians, then says, “My parents are from Korea, but I was born in Minnesota.”

“Oh, so they were immigrants?” shouts the same girl. “They came here with nothing but a suitcase and the clothes on their back! We learned about this in class.”

I talk with some of the kids at snack time, and realize that most of these kids are either immigrants themselves, or the children of new immigrants. Many are fluent in Spanish–immigrants from Guatemala and other Latin American countries, Eddy says. I ask them to teach me something, but they’d rather gossip with me about other students instead. After snack, one child sweeps up and the rest get back into playing position. Their parents start arriving, many mothers who just smile at Sophie and me, but when they speak it’s with a melodic foreign cadence.

The Happy Maladies, Eddy’s band, rehearse almost every day we’re there, and Sophie and I get to sit in while they perform. We sit on the bed in a room barely big enough for the four band members and their instruments.  I write down the first things that come to mind as they play:

a kaleidoscopic fever dream//the punk rock of string quartets//the joy of barely bridled chaos//emotional wanderlust//being wrapped up in a satin curtain from your grandparents’ house and rolling down a hill of wildflowers on the first day of spring

Though he was always gifted at music, I never heard Eddy sing until recently. It gives me chills every time. I smile to myself, an inside joke with my memories of his love for Joanna Newsome and Bjork. He and his bandmates are all very down-to-earth, modest even after playing a complex original tune on the banjo or upright bass and harmonizing all the while.

Eddy’s friends move slowly and lightly, and smile frequently. Everyone seems genuinely interested in meeting his high school friends. When we’re not at a concert or helping with Eddy’s orchestra program, Sophie and I drink coffee and play board games and write. I begin to feel like I live here.

On our drive out of Cincinnati, Sophie and I pass an enormous statue of Jesus, arms wide enough to encompass all of His children doing 80 on the freeway, next to a flashing billboard. “OUR GOD…IS BIGGER THAN…OUR STATUE!” The tongue-in-cheek humor and laidback attitude of the Midwest, as conservative as it can be, is what gets lost in the headlines, and is what makes me love it every time I return.


“This is called, ‘urban prairie,'” Taylor says as we drive past yet another empty lot overgrown with rusty grasses. I look down the street and realize that these patches of overgrown city greenspace are actually the norm, not the anomaly as I had assumed before she pointed it out.

“There’s been a problem recently with wild dogs,” she says. “Wildlife attracts wildlife.”

We drive past abandoned houses, crumbled and crumbling, buildings with fire damage next to houses that look like perfectly habitable Midwestern homes.

“Are there a lot of house fires?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Taylor says. “The day before Halloween is called, ‘Devil’s Day,’ in Detroit. A lot of houses are set on fire, as sort of a gang initiation.”

“Abandoned houses?” I ask.

“No, ones that people live in,” she says, and I can see that the pain it causes her to repeat this has hardened into heavy totem that she carries somewhere inside her lungs, to remind her when she speaks that this has never been easy for anyone to voice. We are walking around the Heidelberg Project, a series of reclaimed houses that stretch across two blocks in Detroit’s East Side, a neighborhood replete in urban prairie. The sidewalks, empty lots, and houses still standing are all part of the art, done by a group of local artists intent on reviving the community.

There is a lot of street art in Detroit, because it’s just so easy.  Land is ample.  So are canvasses.

This giraffe was part of an outdoor theater, made from reclaimed building materials, old furniture and makeshift light fixtures. You could say he’s part of the urban jungle.

I met Taylor my first semester in college, and we became friends over a shared interest in social justice issues. She moved to Detroit over a year ago to do Teach for America. She always wanted to be a teacher, and told them to send her to the place that most needed teachers, the place that others didn’t want to go. She currently teaches sixth-grade English. Outside of class, when she and her boyfriend, who also does TFA, are not debating the best teaching techniques, she takes her students out for hot chocolate and cheers them on at their football games. She’ll tell you it’s her job, but only about half of what Taylor does is actually required. She just knows that a lot of these kids need it.

“It took me a long time to understand that the people who live in these houses are severely impoverished,” she says, gesturing at beautiful old brick houses with scalloped awnings and long driveways. Her idea of poverty, coming from the West Coast, was much different. “In Seattle, poor people live in ugly high-rise apartment buildings. Here, everyone with money left, and all of these houses went up for sale. They look nice from the outside, but then you walk in and there’s no furniture. It’s really confusing.”

Poverty is different in places with space. Instead of cramming the impoverished into as small a space as possible in the center of an unsavory urban neighborhood, the city allows them to sprawl over unkempt land, live in large but dilapidated houses, away from any grocery stores or hubs of public transportation. Access to the city is still dictated by wealth, but that wealth is determined by convenience and crime rather than space or aesthetics.

I spoke with my father a lot while I was there. At first, he called to ask me how I was enjoying the Motown in Motor City.

This was the closest I got to anything Motown-related while I was there.

One day, he calls to tell me the police chief of Detroit has just resigned. “They’re telling visitors to the city to ‘enter at your own risk,'” he says. “You need to get out of there, now!”

“Dad, I have no way of leaving. Sophie’s picking me up tomorrow and we’re driving to Cincinnati. I’m leaving then,” I say.

“Well, okay. Just don’t walk around any neighborhoods you don’t know by yourself at night.”

My dad grew up in a rough neighborhood. I grew up in a very clean suburb of the Twin Cities. Our city repaved a lot of the biking trails around the lake near my house when I was in high school. He says I don’t know what it’s like. I tell him I feel like I’m in a disaster zone. “New Orleans without Katrina,” I hear it’s been called.

At least, that’s how I feel when I drive through the city without stopping, without slowing down to see any of the community gardens that have literally sprung up in the wake of urban collapse, the bicycle cooperatives, the independent bookstore hidden in the basement of an organic restaurant, the churches and churches and churches, and, of course, the art.

Taylor lets me borrow her car while she teaches one day, and I explore the city a bit alone. I stop at all of these places. I talk to a woman at a bookstore that sells mostly books geared towards Detroit’s largely African American community, many of which incorporate spiritualism and religion into their discussion of racial politics in America. She tells me that the space also operates as an art gallery most days. She laughs a lot during our conversation, but it never seems forced. People on the street ask me how I’m doing. I remember how genuinely friendly people are in a lot of the Midwest; it’s just part of the culture.

And that was what Taylor always told me about Detroit: it’s been hit hard, yes, by a disaster of our own making, but the people who stayed, the people who couldn’t afford to leave and those who could but chose not to, are all working to keep  the energy of Detroit alive, to build and create and transform.  The city is now an incubator of innovation in almost every area of public life, and the people who live here aren’t giving up on themselves, or Detroit.

[If you’re interested in helping provide books for Taylor’s classroom library, check out her wishlist of books. Her school can’t afford to provide any for her kids, and her students truly feel special to receive these packages!]

How to Remember Coming Out to Your Mother

I never wanted a tattoo until the day I knew I was going to get one.  It’s a similar feeling, I hear, to finding the person you want to marry.  My parents decided to get married after only six months, and they have been happily married for over 25 years now.  My mother said she just knew, that when you meet your soulmate, the one whom you’ve loved in every life before and will love in every life after, there’s no question.

Yesterday, while standing at work, I knew I had to come out to my mother.  I never wanted to, or felt I needed to, until I just did.  I left work, walked across the street to the Prudential Center, and sat down on the steps leading up to the Food Court.  I was sitting under the sign for Flamers, a hamburger joint.  Keeping my sense of humor in this situation, I realized, might be the only way to get through it.

I thought about having the conversation in the privacy of my own house, but sometimes I feel that expressing myself in the anonymity of the city is easier than the intimacy of my home.  I never go to the Prudential Center.  It’s a shitty shopping center with shitty architecture and I knew that if this memory turned out to be horrible, I could remember it with unequivocal disgust.  I had thought about doing it in front of the Copley Library, because it’s my favorite building in the whole city–the architecture is gorgeous, it has great art, the books go on forever, they have maps and this beautiful empty room I can only ever find by accident–but I would never want to chance losing that gem.  So I sat down next to a bunch of teenagers wearing shirts with trendy slogans and meandering through the waning days of summer, and told myself it was only a moment.  It would be over and then it would be a memory.

I called my mother’s cell phone.  She didn’t pick up.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  That coffee was not a good idea.  I called the home phone.
“Hello, sweetie!”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Oh, honey, I can barely hear you.  You sound all echoey.”
“Really?  Oh.  Can you hear me at all?”
Pause.  “You sound like one of the adults in the Peanuts cartoons.”
I walked about five feet away.  “What about now?”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell.  Keep talking.”
I did my best impression of the teacher in Peanuts.  “Wah wah wah, wah wah, wah.”
My mother laughed.  “You’re so funny.  But I still can’t hear you.”

I tried calling her again.  I adjusted the volume on my phone.  I called her cell phone.  She finally started laughing so hard at the absurdity of the situation that we hung up.  I biked to Commonwealth Avenue, where I hoped to find a quiet bench.  Instead, I found the Boston Women’s Memorial and sat down next to Lucy Stone.  She was lying on her side, writing something with a quill.  Her monument cited her as a journalist and abolitionist and activist for women’s rights.  Whatever forces of irony and coincidence that were conspiring in this moment gave me, at the very least, some sense of peace, like this conversation was meant to happen this way.

I called my mother again.  “Ah, that’s much better!” she said.  “So then, what’s up?”
“Well…” I began.  I had practiced my opening line countless times in my head, but it seemed irredeemably inadequate.  All words seemed weak, hollow, but they were all I had.  “I want you guys to know things about my life, even though I don’t need to tell you, because I live in Boston, but I think it’s important that I tell you something about myself that I have recently discovered, which is that”


“I am bisexual, and”

hold it

“sometimes I like women”

totally redundant but it doesn’t matter keep going

“so I thought that you should know that.”

There was a slight pause.  I wasn’t crying.  I hadn’t thrown up.

“Okay.”  And that was it.  She knew.  She knew and she didn’t freak out.  She expressed some confusion, which is not unique to my mother or people of her generation–“I understand being totally gay, and I understand being straight, but I don’t really understand the in-between”–and I told her it was a feeling, it’s not something that can be rationalized.  It’s like when you just know that you’ve met the one, or that you want something on your body for the rest of your life.  It’s when you discover an indelible truth about yourself, something that can be covered with clothing or lies but will never change its shape or force.

She said I didn’t have to rationalize it.  She said she wanted me to be happy, in whatever way that meant.  She said my friends and family don’t care because they love me as a person.  We talked about spirituality and God and the possibility of other universes.  We talked about signs and coincidences.  We talked about ghosts and the afterlife.  She told me my dad was holding a poker game at their house later that night.  She said she wouldn’t tell anyone else, unless I asked her to, because it wasn’t her business to tell.

I told her I loved her.  We thanked each other.  I hung up, giddy and hungry and exhausted and ecstatic, and biked home through the city streets, feeling freer than I ever had before.

Miss Connections: Tenth (Post) Anniversary Edition

This week’s MC (which comes latelatelate, I know—but if you’re missing it, you can always read the past weeks’. Or, you know, obsessively read MC to the point where it interferes with your social life. But who needs friends when you have the Loneliest Souls on the Internet, amirite?) marks the tenth week of the Miss Connections column. So, as a special feature, the first MC this week was sent in by a fan. If you have ever read the Comments section of any post on SFSF, you will read some snarky and/or inspirational note from a commenter named Susan. She’s my mom.

I know, cute, right?

Well, my mother started reading the Minneapolis MC—yes, I was born and bred in Minnesota, these hips don’t lie—and sent me the following MC, which is especially relevant because it happened RIGHT next to where she works, and because I am my family’s “dirty hippie.” It’s also fucking adorable:

Self Proclaimed “Dirty Hippy” at Dunn Bros. – m4w – 27 (Loring Park)

Dear Self Proclaimed “Dirty Hippie”,

You were sitting close to me at Dunn Bros. this morning, Saturday, talking with a friend/loved-one/telemarketer on the phone and you had an interesting conversation about your first days/weeks in Minneapolis.

Wait, was she talking to each of these three types of people in turn, or do you just assume that she would speak to a friend, a loved one, and a telemarketer in the same way? How many people use telemarketers as tele-therapists? Better question: why doesn’t everyone?  It’s not like they’re going to hang up on you.

They’ll just ignore you as if you were their parents trying to tell them Bright Eyes was cool seven years ago.

Yes, I listened to your conversation. I apologize for being so rude, but don’t worry, I’m here to help.

Okay, let’s be real: we all do that. If you’re in a public place, people will listen to your conversation. It’s not eavesdropping if they’re talking about something interesting, I always say!

The subject of bar stools arose near the end of your conversation and whether or not you should purchase some for your new apartment.

At first, I agreed with you and I thought you should wait to get bar stools until you actually have friends to sit in said bar stools. A very wise, logical point. Because, obviously, you would go to buy the bar stools, and the salesperson, the point person for your bar stool purchase, would certainly ascertain as to the use of your bar stools, as an inquiring salesperson is wont to do. And of course, with you not having any friends in the city, you would have to either 1) make-up friends and tell the salesperson that you are having a bunch of your (made-up) friends over for a (made-up) get together (probably Hawaiian/Tiki themed) or 2) tell the salesperson the awful truth that you just moved to the city and don’t have any friends, thus furthering your self-esteem downward spiral. And who wants to buy bar stools in a sad state? I certainly don’t. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. Buying bar stools should be a happy, momentous occasion.

Right up there with graduating high school and getting married!

I’m fairly certain you would be left weeping over your unused bar stools, cursing their existence. You would have to greet them every morning, filled with hollowed pleasantries. “Hey, Bar Stools! How was your night last night, empty and unfulfilled? Great. Mine too!”

I’m like REAL close to writing an MC for this guy, asking him to be a contributer to SFSF…

But then, as my mind wandered, I read through a couple inspirational quotes and phrases, and I realized, no! No! No, goddammit! Go buy the bar stools and the friends will come! Yes! Go buy the bar stools and their vacant, cushioned tops will call out to soon-to-be friends, yelling at the top of their comforting, bar stool lungs: “Yes, come sit on me! Relish in my proportioned butt to cushion seat ratio! Join me and your new friend “dirty hippy girl that sits on at Dunn Bros. on Saturday mornings” and we shall dwell in bar stool nirvana!” Yes. You just read that last sentence correctly. Defy the odds. Go buy the bar stools and the friends will come knocking. Self-esteem downward spiral be damned!

A newly purchased IKEA bar stool is a friend indeed.

Welcome to Minneapolis.





I mean, I can only assume that someone this charming, and actually funny, who is single, and yet lacks the confidence to approach this girl, must have some sort of physical aberration. Or, like, a predilection for brushing his teeth with chocolate pudding or another equally heinous quirk.

As much as I comb Boston’s MCs every week, I cannot read them all, let alone ones from other cities. SO, readers, this is where you come in: send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses! Send us your MCs with snarky comments! We will post at least one of these things on this blog. (The tired, poor, and huddled masses will also be put to good use…building the world’s most pre-beleaguered army. But that’s another blog post.)

You can send in your MCs with commentary, or just the plain ol’ MC and I’ll put my own spin on it, to: sanfranciscostreetfighter@gmail.com.

Okay, enough of the cutesyadorable fuzzy times; let’s get into that creepy shit:

Think you followed me to a gas station – m4w – 27 (Marlborough)

Left the Solomon pond mall, you were in a red Saturn. I think you followed me to rt 20 in Marlborough. I think I should have said hi. I was in a blue car. If I am right and you see this hit me up. I want to buy you drink and see where it goes.

Another reverse stalker MC? Again? Why is this a trend? This woman, of course, is delusional, as she fails to realize two very important things:

  1. Malls are meant to attract large groups of people.
  2. Freeways and highways are meant to provide routes for large groups of people to get from gathering places (see: #1) to any other place on Earth.

So the chances that this guy actually did follow her from the mall to Route 20 are very high. The chances that he did it on purpose, with the Bates-esque intention of seducing this woman via stalking, are right up there with the chances of Dick Cheney living forever: not totally impossible, but God help us all if either one is true.

Though, if this next MC is real, it takes this week’s pixelated cake for Most Terrifying Reality:

Craig Robinson I’m having your… – w4m – 26 (Back Bay)

Being optimistic, I’m going to assume that this sentence ends with, “parents over for dinner and forgot to invite you and all three of us have lost our phones and there was an Internet apocalypse and MC is the only thing left standing.” Because, really, the only other thing she could write, the strangest and saddest thing, is—

Baby in about 4 months.

That’s the one!

It would mean the world to me if you call me. My husband is thrilled to be a dad and is ok with you being part of this. You only get to see your child born once!

Or never, since I thought the best way to reach you was through MC!

I hope this finds you and finds you well.

Keri M.

There are a lot of questions left unanswered here. Like, why did she wait five months before contacting Craig, using the most obscure means possible? Is she working her way up through the forgotten and ignored methods of communication, beginning with Friendster and ending with actually just calling the guy? Why is her husband okay with this? If she slept with Craig five months ago, did she cheat on her husband, or did she get married within the past few months? Or is he a sperm donor? If so, shouldn’t she have a more reliable, and confidential, way of asking him to watch her push a human out of her birth canal?

But the most pressing question really is: How many weirdos responded pretending to be Craig, who weren’t me?  I can only hope for a follow-up MC…