Single All the Way

Single male, single male,
Single all the way!
Oh what fun it is to ride—
Alone!—
In a one-horse open sleigh!
   -Unknown

The Christmas season, in addition to the manger scenes and Santa Claus and the Grinch and all of that good stuff, is certainly also full of love, love, love everywhere, isn't it? From every Hallmark Channel movie to every song about getting hitched by a snowman named Parson Brown or staying indoors while it snows because "it's cold outside," you can't escape it.

Then there's the mistletoe, which contributes to a good deal of snogging and Eskimo kissing and I-don't-know-what-other gooiness between twitterpated folks each and every December. The Angry White Loner has never kissed or been kissed under a mistletoe, but it remains high atop his Bucket List (wink, wink).

For crying out loud, even the once-mean-and-nasty Grinch finds a woman friend in the live-action How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

My point, and I guess I have one, is that the Christmas holiday can be a good deal of fun for people in love but also acute torture for single folks—something akin to either being strapped to a chair and forced to listen to a continuous loop of Rebecca Black's "Friday" or having your chest hairs plucked out with an old pair of pliers.

It's enough to make making out with the family dog, which is something my family's dog is more than willing to do, look like a good alternative to being all alone on Christmas Eve (or at midnight on New Year's, for that matter).

One of my friends, now married, had a good deal of fun his "family" Christmas card when he was still a single man. Usually, this "family" photo consisted of him sitting alone on a bench . . . and that's about it.

I want to be like him when I grow up.

So, my message is: If you've got someone to hold onto as it snows buckets outside during this holiday season, that's fantastic. More power to you! We all want to be where you are. But also: Be kind to your single friends. It's a tough time of year for them. It doesn't get any easier with Valentine's Day approaching in February, either. Don't rub their faces in it.

Also: I have mistletoe socks, and I'm not afraid to use them.
 

That's a Deal Breaker!

What are your deal breakers?

It's a question that got me thinking a couple of nights ago when I watched the latest episode of one of my favorite TV shows, "Studio C," and saw the music video posted here.

A deal breaker, in this sense, then, is defined as "something that makes it impossible to continue dating someone else." At least, that's how I define it.

Some of the Angry White Loner's major deal breakers include:


 -Jerks

 -Inability to be honest with me

 -Clinginess/high maintenance

 -Major baggage

 -Publicly or privately insulting or disparaging members of my family

 -Wanting anything less than a temple marriage, and/or supporting principles or causes that go directly against Church doctrine and teachings

 -Refusal to support my interests or hobbies (sometimes, this involves merely giving me time and/or space to pursue them rather than participating in them)

 -Voting Democrat

 -Preferring cats over dogs

 -Preferring country music to "good" music

 -Not liking Star Wars

 -Not liking "Weird Al" Yankovic

Just kidding about those last few. Only partly.

Easier Than Telling the Truth

For those who are not familiar with the movie Office Space, it features one of the worst bosses of all-time: Bill Lumbergh.

What makes Lumbergh a despicable boss is not that he is rude or someone who is extremely difficult to get along with; quite the contrary, in fact, is true. The man is over-the-top nice and polite when conversing with his employees. What makes him loathsome is that, in his Ned Flanders-esque manner, he tells those who work for him to do horrible things, like coming in to work on both Saturdays and Sundays in addition to the regular Monday-Friday work week.

Over time, I have come to realize that I feel very much like a Lumbergh employee when someone either breaks up with me or turns me down for a date. Have you?

The "Lumbergh" is being as nice and polite as possible while telling you . . . well, horrible things, or perhaps things that still make you feel horrible about yourself even though it has been done in a nice, polite manner. The Lumbergh may say one thing while meaning something completely different, yet the result is still the same: You're being dropped like a rock.

Honesty can be a hard thing to convey, as a recent song by Kris Allen proclaims. Saying the Lumbergh-isms we've all been culturally programmed to say are certainly "easier than telling the truth."

As a result of these kinds of situations, and I'm sure we've all been through them, the Angry White Loner is providing a public service today by telling you what a person really means when he/she is breaking up with you or rejecting you for a date.

No need to thank me!

"I'm just not looking for a relationship right now": I am not looking for a relationship with you, puke nose.

"I'm just taking a break from dating right now": I am not looking for a relationship with you, puke nose. I'll probably be dating some other guy again in a week and will even post about it on Facebook and/or my blog, since we're friends and all and you can read all about it.

"You're a really nice guy, but . . .": Everything that comes after but means that you're just not *that* nice of a guy for me to hang with. Well, I mean, after you pay the bill at La Caille, then you're not.

"I already have plans that night." Can I get a what-what for some Halo?!

"I'm just too busy right now.": I have 24 hours in a day, same as you. But I also have a TiVo full of "Greys Anatomy"s and "American Idol"s and such to watch right now. Plus, as president of the George Clooney Fan Club, I have a lot of correspondence to catch up on. Truthfully, you may rank something like #84 on my list of priorities right now. #83 is changing my cat's kitty litter.

"You're such a good friend - like a brother!": You've been friend-zoned, sucka!

"I really don't feel that much of a connection with you.": I don't want to mace you, but I will if you ask me for my number once more.

"I'll try to come.": I won't come.

"I'll maybe try to come.": I definitely won't be there.

Big Boys Don't Cry

It happened again.

I have now seen the first three episodes of the current season of "Secret Millionaire," and I have ended up bawling like a baby at the end of each one.

For those who are not familiar with "Secret Millionaire," it is a reality TV program that doesn't stink to high heaven. Unlike such better-known programming as "Keeping Up with the Kardashians," "Jersey Shore," "The Bachelor," etc., one of the major things that sets it apart is that it actually features admirable and interesting people who are trying to do worthwhile things with their lives.

In each episode, a self-made millionaire travels to an impoverished and/or crime-ridden neighborhood within a major U.S. city and must live there for a week, residing in the kind of housing that people on welfare inhabit and also living on the same budget, which usually amounts to only $30 or $40 a week such basics as groceries. At the same time, the secret millionaire ventures out into the community to find worthy charities and causes for which he/she can donate time and effort: shelters, soup kitchens, support groups, anti-drug counseling, centers for the disabled, etc. Quite often, these charities are, like to people who run them, operating on a shoestring budget.

At the end of the week, the millionaire pays one final visit to these charities, revealing his/her true identity as a successful businessperson. He/she then presents these charities with a check, which is often for tens of thousands of dollars and is taken out of the millionaire's own pockets. Sometimes, that figure goes as high as hundreds of thousands of dollars.

My favorite part of it is that the recipients of these checks, real salt-of-the-Earth people working at these charities because they have a sincere desire to help others and to make their communities better, have absolutely no clue that this money is coming to them, and their reactions are always priceless. At the end of the episode, you find out what they end up doing with the money they have been given. Quite often, it goes a very long way to helping others who are in need.

It's hands-down one of my favorite things to watch on TV. And, as I mentioned earlier, it always makes me cry.

"Secret Millionaire" isn't the only TV show that gets to me, gang. I am also a sucker for the LDS-produced movie The Last Leaf, which stars Jane Kaczmarek (the mom from "Malcolm in the Middle"!) when she was much younger. I could tell you about the other films that have made me weep, and there are more than a few, but then I fear I would be falling into territory in which I could easily be blackmailed by y'all.

Other TV shows/movies have made me laugh so hard that I have cried, such as the Pod People episode of "Mystery Science Theater 3000" and the YouTube video of the children's orchestra playing Richard Strauss's "Also Sprach Zarathustra," aka the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey. There was also the time that I discovered our family's golden retriever, Rolley, chowing down on the gingerbread houses we had made earlier that week. She had finished nearly two houses, from top to bottom, when I discovered what she had done.

Let's just say that I chuckled so hard and so long that I had to change my pants when I was finished.

That brings the Angry White Loner to the question: Is it okay for men to admit that they cry?

I can't answer for other guys, but I believe crying can be the outward expression of what are healthy emotions. It can also be a great release of pent-up stress, worry, or heartache when it is not motivated by joy and, thus, can be very therapeutic.

Most importantly, it shows women that we men are sensitive, new-age guys.

Allergies

Have you ever had an allergy test? I've now been through two of them. Each time, it has been no less than a supremely funky experience.

The other day, my arm looked like this (only not so tan and with many more freckles):

Okay, so, this wasn't exactly my real arm, but trust me; I did you a favor. The real thing looked far more gruesome than this.

As it turns out, I am allergic to a good number of things. Both cats and dogs, which I or members of my family have owned as pets for as long as I can remember? Yep, I'm allergic to both. Of the 32 things I was tested for, I am allergic to 26 of them.

While Spider-Man's only weakness is very small knives, mine is . . . well . . . you name it.

The protocol now is to begin a series of weekly allergy shots to build up my immunity. Either that, or I suppose I can go out in public in a hazmat suit or a plastic bubble for protection.

Shuffling Off the Mortal Coil

For those who have followed my blogging through my older blog, Disconcertingly Choppy - and, let's face it, that may be as many as a dozen people - as well as those who know my family and extended family personally, then you may remember that my nine-year-old niece McKenna got a hamster, which she named Hammy, for Christmas. She was very excited about getting Hammy as a pet and has taken good care of him in the four months since that time. Around the house, it was not unusual to see Hammy rolling around in his hamster ball or just being held and cared for in McKenna's hands.

Well, a couple of days ago, Hammy left us. Someone, and I won't say whom, squeezed Hammy a little too tightly, and in an instant he became Peruvian food. (I've tried hamster twice - both times in Peru, in those "when in Rome" situations - and, incidentally, and it tastes like chicken. I don't recommend it.) McKenna, surprisingly, wasn't upset at the person who did this (accidentally, I might add), but was she was rather grief stricken by it and was somewhat inconsolable throughout the day.

Rather than have the traditional family home evening that night, we instead held a graveside service for Hammy, who was laid to rest in the backyard. McKenna talked about what a great pet Hammy had been, and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence. As you may recall, this was on the same day as the explosions at the Boston marathon, and feelings were tender all around.

A wise person once said something along the lines of: "Death is an important tool. It teaches us to tell each other that we love each other."

I'm paraphrasing here, but I appreciate the sentiment. When tragedy strikes, and it will affect us all to one degree or another, it's often the only thing we can do. I believe it applies to all instances when we're affected by death - be it terrorism that takes human lives untimely, or unintentionally enthusiastic hugs, or everything else between and beyond.

And so, my friends, let me take advantage of this opportunity to tell you that I love you, collectively and individually. I realize that a blog is not the ideal means for doing this, so take it for whatever you may think it's worth. I'm not great at expressing it vocally, as my "love language" tends to be either spending quality time or performing acts of service, but please know that I am truly grateful for the relationships I feel the Lord has blessed me with in my life, be they family, friends, co-workers, or even acquaintances who may yet become lifelong friends.

Hammy would want it that way.