my own personal ad

Sometimes I wonder to myself how many men I’ve tentatively reserved my hand in marriage to in my life. I guess the contest of my eternity isn’t restricted to male competitors, come to think of it, I did recently wish aloud that I could be the one and only Mrs. Karen O; but down to brass tacks (what a dumb saying-did I even say that right?), I’m pretty sure I wasn’t serious with any of my wish list proposals. In the last week even, I think I’ve pondered my left ring finger’s possibilities to the likes of Andrew Bird, Andrew WK, both members of the Clipse, Elliott Smith’s corpse, the weird looking guy from Arcade Fire, Kevin Barnes and Kanye West alone. I know I’ve shared my lifelong ambition (at least since 2 weeks ago) of getting knocked up by Lil Wayne (even if that shit means I’m just poking holes in condom wrappers, the ultimate trickery), to at least 3 people.

Nobody seems to get that one, but don’t you see? It would be my golden ticket to babymamahood. My baby would have golden grillz, sweet face tats, and Lil Wayne doesn’t seem exactly to be hurting for cash (at least not with Birdman handing off million dollar packed Gucci cases for 26th birthdays), we’s the same age, he could make me laugh, and I wouldn’t give two shits with all the other bitches he’d be sticking it to. Plus, I’d probably get a sneak peek at any upcoming mixtapes and get free cds. That would be dope as hell. Who gives a crap if you can’t understand a word coming out of Weezy’s mouth? Not me, I still think it’s the ultimate goal of procreation. I don’t particularly want to be a mother or heave any puppies out of my lady bits, but fuck man, being able to link myself to the Martian for at least 18 years of my life would be hilarious to say the least. (If this plan doesn’t work, I really need to find a new job). One where I am distracted enough to not make plans of seducing (by force, if necessary); dirty little rappers in lieu of working for a respectable income.

Tricking rappers into making me babies aside, I wonder who else I’ve unknowingly promised my life to. I’m wracking my brain, struggling to remember who my first real crush was, who the first man I hopelessly sighed about when daydreaming, the first JRR + (xx) in pink glitter pen hearts. I know when I was 14; it was definitely Damon Albarn, a sexpot I’d still definitely bone today. Hey Blur reunion, get in my bedroom right now, you can come too, Graham Coxom and other two dudes whose names I don’t know, if you must. Oh, and then there were the days when MXPX and blink-182 rocked my world. Hahahahahaaha, sadly, those gents are probably much more likely to bed me than Dwayne Carter. I still remember being 17 and absolutely dumbfounded when I watched Good Charlotte and Mxpx rock the Rave in Milwaukee, having no idea what the VIP sticker the mysterious guy handed me meant, and why he said I was welcome back stage. It must have been my sexy punk rock safteypin torn up No Boundaries jeans I was rocking. Or my manic panic goopy pink highlighted hair. God I was cool, I think I need to rewind back to my senior year of high school style—at least then I could probably score at pop punk shows. But yeah, shit—who was the very first dreamboat? The original Mr. Jodi Robin Root. Was it a fellow Argyle Elementary student? Was it that kickass cartoon Grape Ape that rode around on top of cars? Was it Huey Lewis? (Def not the News, though--I always have had a weakness for Sports, since age 6, even.) Maybe I’ll never know who was the first, hell I’m having a hard time right now remembering who the last was.

I do know one thing though; I know I haven’t met whoever the last will be—or at least the next. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote my full name in cursive followed with a different last name other than my own—well, actually I can, it was when I thought I found my biological father and I was freaking the fuck out thinking my last name was actually going to be Goul. Can you imagine that? Jodi Robin Ghoul. That’s hott, right? Orrrrr not. Root ain’t so bad after all. I guess I’d probably marry Andy Samberg, he’s pretty kewl. Or Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles, he was pretty hot, even for an 80s guy. I’m sure 20 years later he’s still driving that sweet ass red porsche around, making out with 16 year old red heads over lit birthday cakes. I’d wear an 80’s peach bridesmaid dress like molly ringwald’s if it meant I could tap that ass.

All bravado and bullshit aside, I don’t think I’m the type of person who really could get married. I run away at the slightest possibility of interest in me. I am probably the absolute worst person I know at accepting compliments or flattery. It grosses me out. Say something nice to me and I wince like you just busted a line of beer farts. Tell me I’m pretty and you’re a pervy creep. Try to see me more than 3 times and I’m already on the other side of the planet. How the hell I managed to have a boyfriend for nearly four years is beyond me, I guess it probably had something to do with the lack of gooey terms of endearment. Mike called me things like Jodes or Boobs (I do have a nice set), and that was as sweet as I let it get, but after a while we were pretty much like an 80 year old couple or brother and sister duo anyway. Other than him, though, damn, I think my record was in high school for the super glorious 18 months of Jodi and Keith back in 10th-11th grade. And boy, oh boy was I a Nazi control freak with that poor schmuck. Ha! But again, we set our LOVE on a mutual obsession with blink 182 and vans sneakers and our inabilities to balance on a skateboard.

Between my failed puppy love and attempt at adult romantic normalcy, I’ve teetered on verges of interest—random drunken make out seshes in college (both male and female, cuz c’mon, I was sooooo wacky and experimental), off and on sparks with summer Tommy Bartlett flings (letting people you work with see you naked is always a very, very AWESOME (read, horrible) and awkward idea—no matter how many jager bombs in and young and skinny you may be), a (very) small handful of sickening obsession crushes (that could never, never be because I’m just way too emo like that), and then just casual dates with boring dudes that liked me and made the fatal mistake of complimenting me.

I joke a lot saying I’ll just wind up a crazy cat lady—and really this might wind up being the truth since I’m already half there. It’s like I’m sickeningly obsessed with finding a boyfriend, but at the same time fighting like mother fucking hell against actually pursuing any chances or options that come my way. Plus, I sincerely believe that I enjoy the company of my orange tabby more than 85% of the people I know, gross, right? It’s like I’m the pickiest not picky at all person that ever existed.

Here is how you know you will pass the Jodi test of love. Do you:
A) Wear glasses? (Not sure why, but this helps).
B) Like Kanye West? (Not mandatory, but def again helps at least on the attraction front).
C) Like to read (AND/OR) write? (Dude’s gotta be intelligent or I’ll get really bored really fast—although any artistic form of creativity works (drawer, painter, musician, etc), just don’t be a boring tool).
D) Think I’m hilarious? (I’m not, so maybe its best that you don’t—we all know how the flattery thing works with me, but if you laugh secretly to yourself than you probably won’t want to punch me in the face as often as most people).
E) Are a bit of an asshole? (This can either be read as playing hard to get, or sadly, just being an overall dick—that whole girl thing of liking the assholes is sadly true, but if you’re not a jerkstore you can at least play it off by ignoring a couple of my phone calls).
F) Like cats? (But not LOVE them, b/c I’m the girl here and I have the be the one who’s REALLY into the cats, it’s just kind of weird if a dudes likes my Molly more than me, sorry).
G) Get a kick out of dance parties? (You don’t have to boogie down yourself, if checkin out tha hood internet ain’t yer thang, but c’mon drunken sexy dance parties are the best).
H) Are patient? (I’m sure as hell not, and at least one of us would need to be or we’d be at each other’s throats).
I) Spontaneous? (I hate people that plan way too much and are overly careful—even though I am myself, so maybe scratch this one—although I am pretty random and stubborn with last minute ideas (see, not waiting even a day for my friend to go get my cat skull and crossbones tattoo 2 weeks ago)
J) Like to make out? (I’m a liplocker whore. No excuses).
K) Ok with Hall&Oates? (Because if you’re not then you are not good in my book).
L) Drink? (Let’s face it; I’m not exactly sober these days.)

So, if you win on those answers, and are okay with me ever getting up and cheating on you at the drop of a dime with Lil Wayne to fulfill my lifelong aspiration of having his child (don’t worry I wouldn’t be his girlfriend or anything, just take his sperm and bone him—we could still go steady though afterwards and you could be lil Wayne’s baby’s stepdad), then maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you take me out more than 3 times and let you meet my mom—as long as you don’t fucking compliment me, that is.

Wow, did I just write my own personal ad? MATCH DOT COM EAT YER MUTHER FUCKING HEARTZ OUT.