What's the Name of the Game?

If I’m having a down day, this Green Day/Weezer/Off Spring fan will chuck her alternative/I’m cooler than an arctic glacier playlist out her sunroof and crank up a little ABBA. So if you see a blonde weirdo cruising around town in a black Altima belting the lyrics to “Dancing Queen” or “Take a Chance on Me” behind tinted glass windows? Yeah. That would be me.

Recently, the lyrics to another ABBA tune caught my ear:

What’s the name of the game? Does it mean anything to you?

Interesting. These lyrics were written when I was still in Pampers. Looks like the only thing that’s gone out of style are plaid bell bottoms and avacado appliances. Human nature seems to be still singing the same old confusing song.

Games.

And I am not talking about a good old round of monopoly with Uncle Chuck on Thanksgiving. I’m talking about the kind of games people play in this eternally confusing place that is Dating Land.

There are unwritten rules, codes of conduct, and hidden agendas that are enough to make me want to become an asexual amoeba and just throw in the proverbial towel. I am going on year three of singledom and I am probably more clueless than I was when I first said “I don’t” (got a divorce).

The biggest game that I, personally, just don’t understand is this perpetual need that most men have to string numerous women along at one time. One of my guy friends just confessed to flirting/texting/emailing/coffee-ing and simultaneously canoodling with four women.

Yes, I just said four.

When I asked him if he thought this harem approach to life was normal, he assured me that yes, it absolutely is.

Really?

It sounds more like a part time job.

I wonder if he ever gets them mixed up? Accidentally emails Amy and calls her Angela? Maybe texts Barbara but mistakenly called her Bonnie? Forgot he already told that same funny story to Angela on Tuesday when he meant to tell it to Barbara on Wednesday?

I bet when he was a kid he stood at the candy aisle endlessly trying to decide between a candy bar, lollipop or a pack of gum. Oh wait a second, the taffy looks tempting. What to do . . . what to do. I am sure that little twit stuffed them all in his pocket, snuck into the store bathroom and sampled them all. And then when he still couldn’t decide, he bought them, took them home to his bedroom where he took alternate bites of each one until they were gone. Never really deciding which one he liked best but finishing them all off just the same.

I’m a Hershey bar.

I freaking knew it.

Well this is one game I am not signing up for. First of all, when it comes to dating I do not have ADD and I think that is a good thing. If I spend a couple weeks talking to a guy and getting to know him then he can trust that I am not perpetuating the same level of dialogue or attention with four other dudes.

I look at it this way.

Some day. I am going to meet “the one.” And when I do, I want it to be a good story. I want to be interviewed on my 50th wedding anniversary and say, “When Bobby and I met, we were crazy about each other.”

I don’t want to say, “Well, when Bobby came along I had hard time juggling my time with him as I was also seeing Tom, Dick and Harry.”

You know what the grandkids would say to that?

Yeah, one guess.

Grandma was a whore.

That’s what they’d say to that.

So, okay, Bobby, wherever you are. When we do find each other? I can promise you one thing.

My only rule is that we give each other our full attention and just see where it goes.

Because I’ll promise you one thing. Any grandchildren we may have someday are going to be awfully proud of their Grandma. Because the only game she’s going to be really good at?

Is Monopoly on Thanksgiving with Uncle Chuck.

Because Granny's got a hotel on Park Place, baby.

Pay up.