When I’m forced to shake hands with strangers I’m only half listening to their salutations, and mainly planning my escape route to the nearest functioning sink. I’ve tried to ignite the trend of “high elbowing” (it’s not catching on) and always schedule a first kiss for when my lipgloss is seventy-five percent empty. I’m a master yogini- my favorite pose is wedging my foot into bathroom door handles to pry them open. Yet, on that evening I threw caution to the wind and danced like I’ve never danced before. Hand in clammy hand, unmentionables grazing unmentionables, I was a shin-kicking, sweating, fake-Latin-salsa dancing hot mess and I relished in every second of it. I left the evening with a date prospect, and a deep guttural cough you’d expect from someone named Marge working at a truck stop. The date fell through, but the cough stuck.
Every time I hear a sassy salsa beat I’ll think of bronchitis and my “puffer.” Finally, I shook it, but the antibiotics produced a Train Spotting/master cleanse gastrointestinal reaction. The good news: My body is pool party ready. The bad news: Pool parties are for tramps and it’s almost winter. My love for fine literature is only surpassed by my love of horrifically bad television. “Oh, you’ve never read Anne Radliffe’s The Italian?” I’ll inquire, pretentiously, so I can justify segueing into a monologue about something shitty I saw on Bravo. And there, in a sweaty puddle on my sofa, I witnessed a cheaply produced program that very well might change my life.
Advice is tricky when you’re single because everyone offers it, and it’s always annoying. Each year I try Jdate for one month, and when it fails, my Dad will offer the following words: “Why don’t you join Italian date dot com?” I calmly explain to him that’s not a site, and if it was it would be filled with people like Joe Gorga. I begin to escalate and he eats pretzels and ignores me. Or he’ll say things like, “You can’t marry that guy. He’s old and stodgy. Next thing you know you’ll be eating watercress sandwiches.” Very helpful. My Mom offers equally relevant input. “We’re not paying for match dot com if you get on there and say a bunch of dumb stuff about fashion. No one likes that.” She occasionally gets a little too Joe Pesci for my liking by barging into rooms with an, “Oh, what, you’re feeling sorry for yourself?” She has an uncanny ability to sense self pity and pounce. Nothing enrages my mother more than self pity.
My sister doesn’t offer her opinion anymore. She’s just locked me out of her Facebook account.
A man friend will give me the two thumbs up about a fellow that is old enough to be my dad (and I’ll listen because my guy friend is hot and gay). Then he’ll later retract by saying he was really drunk, the geezer had a certain amount of “old-man charm” and, most importantly, was carrying two bottles of wine.
Fate was on my side when I flipped the channel. The premise is an attractive looking munchkin guy (who is either a therapist or matchmaker, I got in a little late) watches you go on dates and tells you why guys hate your guts. He makes you take off your Wonderbra and cut your hair and wear cardigans. Then he yells at you until you burst into tears and sob that you’re a good person, you just have really low self esteem (which is clearly not the case, but makes him stop yelling at you). Most importantly, he says one thing over and over again, and it’s the one thing that resonates: “You have to do the work.” Profound advice. So. Very. Deep. My eyes pool with tears (don’t judge, I hadn’t had a solid food in days).
The bronchial calamity gave me ample time to weigh in on my personal growth, which is pretty much the antithesis of my calorie-counting life philosophy. But between groans and wails, I knew something needed to change.
I’m stripping off my metaphorical Wonderbra (I would never wear an actual Wonderbra—disproportionately large bosoms make you look top heavy). When I meet someone unsuitable and think, “Maybe we could ...” like I’ve done every time in the past I’m going to pinch myself in the saddle bag. I’m not hanging on to dysfunctional old relationships because I’m too lazy to get out there and find a functional new one. Dates are not drinking contests, nor are they a good time perform Borscht Belt/ Paula Poundstone comedy routines (speaking of which, I should limit my excessive blazer compulsion). I’m going to be functional. Like a cardigan.
It’s cheesy, I know. But he made a point. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before from all of my friends and family. But between squirts of my puffer, I was listening.
I’m ready to put in the work. And I’m ready to take a nap.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Suspicious Minds
I wasn’t always a mystery solver. I may have been slightly suspicious, but with little follow through.That all changed one fateful afternoon several years ago with an incident involving a closet and rickety step stool. If you’re wondering, now I’m a regular Nancy Drew. We both have inquisitive minds. We’re both a little outdated. We both grew up in fictional towns (River Heights and Boulder respectively). We will both poke around in your dresser drawer with a chopstick from our purse and get grossed out when we find grimy looking prophylactics and Gas X. Most importantly, we always crack the case.
I found myself at the birthday party of a date I had gone on six years earlier. It was odd with a dash of desperation (both the awkward invite and my gleeful attendance). He donned a suit fit for the cartoon cat in a Paula Abdul video, a nod to “1980s Miami.” Nearly middle aged men, theme parties and shoulder pads need not reside in the same dirt bar. But wait! He had arrived from work, and hadn’t had time to change. Oh. “I read your blog,” he offered. “Great characterization,” (the irony is not lost). Slamming his one hundredth vodka soda, he claimed to feel ill, then chugged random glasses of backwash water from the bar and I was smitten. Staring at me oddly, he was either actively falling in love or attempting to retain continence.
The rest was a corseted blur. I had been boxed out by what appeared to be the Director of Operations for a renaissance fair face painting booth (in lofty literary circles we call this “foreshadowing”).
My mystery solving methods are of the normal, rudimentary variety. You know, things like rooting around through garbage cans. Or taking iPhone pictures of medicine cabinet contents for googling (often this research occurs with them at your side on their ten thousand dollar couch which smells vaguely of belly buttons and turkey jerky). Occasionally you go searching for mysteries and all you get is a closet full of corduroy pants and an oversized wad of one dollar bills, the only mystery unearthed is how you’ve sadly ended up with a guy who has a closet full of corduroy pants. That’s rare, though. If you’re compelled to mystery solve it’s because you know you’ll find something.
Soon after the birthday party we started dating. When veering towards a relationship clues are omnipresent, all you need to do is open your eyes to find them. On our second encounter I could have only perseverated on his scrunch socks, the faux intellectual chatter about The Economist, and that fact that every Jewish guy thinks they’re “down with” Biggie Smalls because of the civil rights movement (they aren’t). Or that we were having a nice time together. But I looked closer. That’s odd. Each time we moved to a different room in his house along came his phone, which he quickly placed face down. The frequency of text arrivals I can only describe as Call Girl-ian. Hmmm.
I took to rarely blinking, and often sleeping with one eye open.
So I did what any girl in my position would do...I vodka sandbagged him. I wish I could say on that fateful date weeks later I was conniving enough to do it on purpose. But I have a Richard Simmons liver and can consume with the skilled voracity of an Irish frat guy. He was merely trying to keep up. Once he whined he didn’t want to imbibe on an empty stomach I could feel the air was thick with vulnerability. Good mystery solvers sense weakness and pounce.
I knew I’d find something, yet I was still shocked and outraged (with emphasis on rage) when I did. See, I’d violated mystery solving rule number one: Don’t Ever Believe Anything Anyone Ever Tells You Ever. Sweet sentiments are there to throw a mystery solver of course. On the bright side, he didn’t have a wife and kids in Utah. The not so bright side was the barrage of hokey excuses that followed. There were tears and yelling coupled with a vicious faux dumping. And you should have seen me. At one point I was wearing a basketball jersey. The hysteria was a near perfect time to exclaim my true feelings about his goatee- it’s a facial hair configuration only favored by professional magicians. But I kept quiet. He’d soon be re-entering the dating field and why should I help him get a leg up.
The next morning I woke in haze, half wishing the whole incident was a product food- borne-illness-related-dementia. No such luck! When you solve mysteries you have to face the music (which you’re actualIy the conductor of). I longed for a poignant moment. Or just a version of the truth. “I had a dream,” he said, staring at me seriously. “I never dream, it was so weird.” There was a pause for dramatic effect. I waited. “I was yelling at you and a group of people surrounded me and a started screaming ‘stop being mean to the little Mexican girl.’”
Case closed.
I found myself at the birthday party of a date I had gone on six years earlier. It was odd with a dash of desperation (both the awkward invite and my gleeful attendance). He donned a suit fit for the cartoon cat in a Paula Abdul video, a nod to “1980s Miami.” Nearly middle aged men, theme parties and shoulder pads need not reside in the same dirt bar. But wait! He had arrived from work, and hadn’t had time to change. Oh. “I read your blog,” he offered. “Great characterization,” (the irony is not lost). Slamming his one hundredth vodka soda, he claimed to feel ill, then chugged random glasses of backwash water from the bar and I was smitten. Staring at me oddly, he was either actively falling in love or attempting to retain continence.
The rest was a corseted blur. I had been boxed out by what appeared to be the Director of Operations for a renaissance fair face painting booth (in lofty literary circles we call this “foreshadowing”).
My mystery solving methods are of the normal, rudimentary variety. You know, things like rooting around through garbage cans. Or taking iPhone pictures of medicine cabinet contents for googling (often this research occurs with them at your side on their ten thousand dollar couch which smells vaguely of belly buttons and turkey jerky). Occasionally you go searching for mysteries and all you get is a closet full of corduroy pants and an oversized wad of one dollar bills, the only mystery unearthed is how you’ve sadly ended up with a guy who has a closet full of corduroy pants. That’s rare, though. If you’re compelled to mystery solve it’s because you know you’ll find something.
Soon after the birthday party we started dating. When veering towards a relationship clues are omnipresent, all you need to do is open your eyes to find them. On our second encounter I could have only perseverated on his scrunch socks, the faux intellectual chatter about The Economist, and that fact that every Jewish guy thinks they’re “down with” Biggie Smalls because of the civil rights movement (they aren’t). Or that we were having a nice time together. But I looked closer. That’s odd. Each time we moved to a different room in his house along came his phone, which he quickly placed face down. The frequency of text arrivals I can only describe as Call Girl-ian. Hmmm.
I took to rarely blinking, and often sleeping with one eye open.
So I did what any girl in my position would do...I vodka sandbagged him. I wish I could say on that fateful date weeks later I was conniving enough to do it on purpose. But I have a Richard Simmons liver and can consume with the skilled voracity of an Irish frat guy. He was merely trying to keep up. Once he whined he didn’t want to imbibe on an empty stomach I could feel the air was thick with vulnerability. Good mystery solvers sense weakness and pounce.
I knew I’d find something, yet I was still shocked and outraged (with emphasis on rage) when I did. See, I’d violated mystery solving rule number one: Don’t Ever Believe Anything Anyone Ever Tells You Ever. Sweet sentiments are there to throw a mystery solver of course. On the bright side, he didn’t have a wife and kids in Utah. The not so bright side was the barrage of hokey excuses that followed. There were tears and yelling coupled with a vicious faux dumping. And you should have seen me. At one point I was wearing a basketball jersey. The hysteria was a near perfect time to exclaim my true feelings about his goatee- it’s a facial hair configuration only favored by professional magicians. But I kept quiet. He’d soon be re-entering the dating field and why should I help him get a leg up.
The next morning I woke in haze, half wishing the whole incident was a product food- borne-illness-related-dementia. No such luck! When you solve mysteries you have to face the music (which you’re actualIy the conductor of). I longed for a poignant moment. Or just a version of the truth. “I had a dream,” he said, staring at me seriously. “I never dream, it was so weird.” There was a pause for dramatic effect. I waited. “I was yelling at you and a group of people surrounded me and a started screaming ‘stop being mean to the little Mexican girl.’”
Case closed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
You Still Know Me
When my favorite boyfriends in all of Boulder broke up, I knew my own (quasi) relationship was likely in trouble.
If two unbelievably attractive men who both wear tank tops and are proficient in backcombing hair and being fabulous couldn’t make it work doomsday was near for me, I could sense it. The probability of lasting with a guy who is often bedecked in cargo shorts and has interests that include curating a remote control collection, grilling undercooked chicken, and keeping his home soot free, were fairly low.
Still, our split was shocking. As we had been dating for seven whole weeks I had naturally planned out the next twenty years of our marriage, which involved a dual citizenship between his and my parents’ house. We were going to have kids and they were going to be mini, calamity prone and whiney. The best I could hope for was a diminutive cheerleader or wrestler. The worst, aspiring indie film maker or Haiku enthusiast. Not good. I’d watch bad Patrick Duffy shows on Friday with the family, while furtively injecting my Capri Sun with vodka from one of those wisdom teeth clean-y syringe thingyies. I’d be a girl scout troop leader that rolled my eyes and judged kids' bad outfits and dumb senses of humor. I’d cook brisket. We’d decorate our home in Judaica. I’d burn my fingers on a glue gun making potpourri sachets and go ballistic like Don Rickles in Casino. I’d simply ignore all of our big issues (two in particular) and huge differences. I’d be happy...Fine...Happy-ish.
I used to hate break ups. Now I think break ups are the best part of a relationship because they’re the most telling. True Grit, but with blubbering and crashing shit on the ground. I sat to write a farewell, dabbing at tears (but not too many because, honey, this smoky eye doesn’t apply itself). I’m sad. I miss you. Let’s be friends at some point. We had ups. We had downs. It’s always good to hit somebody up with a little Robert Frost action, the classy “road less traveled” route. Whomever gets the most down and dirty loses. Whomever retains an Elizabethan sense of decorum wins. Duh.
He replied within moments. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know you. Please respect my wishes and don’t ever contact me again.”
Interesting. I needed to process.
Most obviously, I’m sorry to inform you Kind Sir, but you already know me. You met me six years ago on a dumb Jdate when you wore khakis and told me I had scoliosis. And furthermore, you’re going to keep knowing me. Images of me in sassy outfits holding my arm in the horizontal, skinny bitch position are going to infiltrate your facebook newsfeed. When you see the fish platter I left at your house after a faux foray into pesto making domesticity (apparently five cloves of garlic is too many? And my Mom would like her plate back, thank you very much) you’ll know who it belongs to. When your bathroom sink drain is running slow you’ll know whose weave is all up in it. So there. Yes, the “I don’t want to know you” slant was kinda sad, but in all fairness I’m guessing there is more than a healthy sprinkling of people that don’t want to know me. And that’s just too bad. Everyone knows me.
Yet something strange had happened in the last few years. At twenty-nine I would have read the “I don’t want to know you,” jab and been rendered helpless, assaulting a vat of chemically engineered guacamole, using my finger as a spoon, weeping. At nearly thirty-two, well, not so much. After the initial jolt of shock and awe wore off, I was actually quite grateful. If somebody was that hell bent on really hurting my feelings after seven weeks, imagine what they’d do after fourteen? Twenty seven? How about six years, two months and eleven days? When facing divorce he’d punitively seek partial custody of my most prized possessions: The essential CHI flatiron and my vintage Hawaiian MuMu collection. Mean! Then he’d kick me whilst I was down with a text simply stating “I hate you.” Hurtful! Followed in succession by a second saying “You look like a post modern Urkel in those high waisted shorts you favor,” bundled with a requisite muffin top zinger. Rude! In a hot minute it was all becoming unfathomably fathomable.
Feelings are more easily respected before three martinis, so his information was promptly deleted. And that was it. I would say, “be careful what you wish for,” but it seems awkwardly desperate- like something I would have claimed when I favored Tresemme and Jamba Juice.
Later in the week I received an “Are we over?” text. It was a series of numbers, with no name attached. And I had no idea who it was from.
If two unbelievably attractive men who both wear tank tops and are proficient in backcombing hair and being fabulous couldn’t make it work doomsday was near for me, I could sense it. The probability of lasting with a guy who is often bedecked in cargo shorts and has interests that include curating a remote control collection, grilling undercooked chicken, and keeping his home soot free, were fairly low.
Still, our split was shocking. As we had been dating for seven whole weeks I had naturally planned out the next twenty years of our marriage, which involved a dual citizenship between his and my parents’ house. We were going to have kids and they were going to be mini, calamity prone and whiney. The best I could hope for was a diminutive cheerleader or wrestler. The worst, aspiring indie film maker or Haiku enthusiast. Not good. I’d watch bad Patrick Duffy shows on Friday with the family, while furtively injecting my Capri Sun with vodka from one of those wisdom teeth clean-y syringe thingyies. I’d be a girl scout troop leader that rolled my eyes and judged kids' bad outfits and dumb senses of humor. I’d cook brisket. We’d decorate our home in Judaica. I’d burn my fingers on a glue gun making potpourri sachets and go ballistic like Don Rickles in Casino. I’d simply ignore all of our big issues (two in particular) and huge differences. I’d be happy...Fine...Happy-ish.
I used to hate break ups. Now I think break ups are the best part of a relationship because they’re the most telling. True Grit, but with blubbering and crashing shit on the ground. I sat to write a farewell, dabbing at tears (but not too many because, honey, this smoky eye doesn’t apply itself). I’m sad. I miss you. Let’s be friends at some point. We had ups. We had downs. It’s always good to hit somebody up with a little Robert Frost action, the classy “road less traveled” route. Whomever gets the most down and dirty loses. Whomever retains an Elizabethan sense of decorum wins. Duh.
He replied within moments. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know you. Please respect my wishes and don’t ever contact me again.”
Interesting. I needed to process.
Most obviously, I’m sorry to inform you Kind Sir, but you already know me. You met me six years ago on a dumb Jdate when you wore khakis and told me I had scoliosis. And furthermore, you’re going to keep knowing me. Images of me in sassy outfits holding my arm in the horizontal, skinny bitch position are going to infiltrate your facebook newsfeed. When you see the fish platter I left at your house after a faux foray into pesto making domesticity (apparently five cloves of garlic is too many? And my Mom would like her plate back, thank you very much) you’ll know who it belongs to. When your bathroom sink drain is running slow you’ll know whose weave is all up in it. So there. Yes, the “I don’t want to know you” slant was kinda sad, but in all fairness I’m guessing there is more than a healthy sprinkling of people that don’t want to know me. And that’s just too bad. Everyone knows me.
Yet something strange had happened in the last few years. At twenty-nine I would have read the “I don’t want to know you,” jab and been rendered helpless, assaulting a vat of chemically engineered guacamole, using my finger as a spoon, weeping. At nearly thirty-two, well, not so much. After the initial jolt of shock and awe wore off, I was actually quite grateful. If somebody was that hell bent on really hurting my feelings after seven weeks, imagine what they’d do after fourteen? Twenty seven? How about six years, two months and eleven days? When facing divorce he’d punitively seek partial custody of my most prized possessions: The essential CHI flatiron and my vintage Hawaiian MuMu collection. Mean! Then he’d kick me whilst I was down with a text simply stating “I hate you.” Hurtful! Followed in succession by a second saying “You look like a post modern Urkel in those high waisted shorts you favor,” bundled with a requisite muffin top zinger. Rude! In a hot minute it was all becoming unfathomably fathomable.
Feelings are more easily respected before three martinis, so his information was promptly deleted. And that was it. I would say, “be careful what you wish for,” but it seems awkwardly desperate- like something I would have claimed when I favored Tresemme and Jamba Juice.
Later in the week I received an “Are we over?” text. It was a series of numbers, with no name attached. And I had no idea who it was from.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Lesson Learned
If I was an R& B song I’d be “Lesson Learned” by Alicia Keys. If I was a short story that teaches a moral I’d be a fable. I’m sure there was a voice of reason character on the “Facts of Life” but I can’t think of who it was, so for now I’ll just say I’m Tootie.
It’s been a year since I’ve been in a long term relationship (and those four months did not fly by, might I add). It had to end, as being with my ex was about as exciting as dating a baked potato. Maybe less. At least you can spruce up a baked potato with sour cream and cheddar and Bacon Bits and other ass enhancing elements. But it was a good lesson. At some point in life you have to own up to who you are, and move the hell on. I no longer get sullen and introspective and privately berate myself for not being engaged in domestic bliss. Domestic bliss is for dorks. I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I hate pinching farts. I hate spooning. I hate listening to guy stories. I hate wearing “day makeup” makeup. I want to eat only takeout salad while farting in a full face of makeup on top of a pile of dirty underwear every night for the next twenty-six years.
There are two types of guys I seem date most often: Divorced Guys and Geezers. Surprisingly these two have not been mutually exclusive. The Geezers are lifelong bachelors, the divorced guys are more age appropriate (when you date Geezers thirty-nine somehow seems age appropriate, unfortunately). Brace yourself. It never seems to work.
I’ve been on a mere two dates in over two months.
First he was an attractive stranger. Then he became my good looking friend. Then we kissed. Now I’m going to ignore him in awkward bar settings. We went on one date. It lasted nine hours. I’ve had entire relationships shorter than our encounter. The worst part: I was sober. Sobriety on dates is my Achilles heel. I talked so much about every inappropriate date topic I now have an acute case of TMJ. There are some big differences between us. He detoxes after two drinks. Two drinks is my detox. He refuses to eat anything out of a box. Even Thin Mints? Terrible. I’m guessing this also includes anything in a bag, which rules out Ore Ida french fries. Blasphemy. My dietary staples are gluten free cheetos, vodka and aspartame. It’s bad enough I have to listen to my sister lecture on the dangers of tomato soup from a can. He brought a baggie of vitamins and supplements to ingest during dinner. “I only have three drinks a week,” I offered, hopefully. I have no problem lying on dates, especially if it’s a ridiculous and blatant lie. If both parties know one party is full of shit, then it’s not a lie. I thought everyone knew that rule. He’s old school. He hates texting. He doesn’t wear a seat belt. He brags about partying next to Prince (before Prince became a weird symbol, then Prince again). He lectures about alcohol and pretends like he’s not lecturing. I think we know how this ends. Inevitably we stopped dating, but the simple truth is despite the various oddities of our time together, he’s okay. And we’re kinda friends. How boring. Now I’m in GILF recovery (Grandpa I’d Like to...Yikes).
I retired from dating. Then I met the other guy.
I don’t fault divorced guys for dating. I just fault them for dating me. I’m probably the least kind and understanding person there is about this sort of thing. My most emotionally upsetting occurrence recently was when the screen on my iPhone shattered. In all fairness, I love my phone. I’m not amused by tales of adventures with your ex, or the forty-three pictures of you two in swimsuits on facebook. If you want to work it out like a 1990’s JCPenny catalog model, I encourage you to do so. Just leave me out of it. But in the end I can only blame myself. No one forced me to go on a date with a guy wearing a “transitional” wedding band on his right ring finger. I guess the man jewelry makes the rounds through all the appendages, until it ends up in the underwear drawer, next to gross boxers and her finger nail clippings. I know for sure when I’m divorced I won’t be keeping the ring. I’ll either hawk it, or throw it in a public sewer, depending on how drunk and or grumpy I am that day. Reminder: I’m not a therapist. If I was a therapist the date would cost about four times what the total bill will end up being. It’s one date. I want to have fun! I want to eat, drink and be merry. Divorced women are the life of the party, reveling in their freedom. Divorced men, not so much. I get you’re consumed with sadness, but that’s what take out pizza and soft porn in a Snuggie are for Divorced Guy.
The worst part about the date (and dating in general) was the “if only’s.” Like, "If only this sad guy wasn't emotionally crippled. He's got a great head of hair." Or, “If only this guy didn’t just say how cliquey Boulder is thus revealing his high SI (Social Irrelevance) factor.” How about, “If only this guy wasn’t welling up with tears at the Sundowner.” “If only things weren’t really deteriorating to the point of no return forcing me to abandon him and escape to a cab.”
He had made it known he didn’t want anything serious without any real context, and I had made it know I wouldn’t be seeing him again.The prospect of an emotionless fling with someone who is obsessed with someone else. Tempting! But I think I’ll pass. “Wow, I didn’t expect that reaction,” he countered, genuinely dumbfounded.
I went home, went to bed and didn’t give it another thought. He hadn't been on a date in years. So the next day I woke up to an overly dramatic email that began, “I hope you know that I didn't want things to end like that last night - it was painful for both of us I think,” and a bunch of blah blah blahs. How cringe inducing. Embarrassing. Hey putz, it was one night, I think we’ll all be okay. I’m the Grand Dame of bum endings. I’m used to that sort of thing. I actually thought it had gone alright. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make out in an alley. I didn’t barf. I didn’t raise my voice. A minor victory. For someone who refuses to even walk on the treadmill at an incline, dating a divorced guy is too much of an uphill battle.
There is a bit of speculation that perhaps I’m at fault for all the bad encounters I have. Now that’s just silly. Name one person you know who doesn’t have five drinks on a date and then share details about their Irritable Bowl Syndrome, then I’ll agree. I’ll own up to accepting dates with inappropriate suitors and that’s all. I’m a great date!
I pick the wrong people. Lesson learned.
From here out I’m dating only Sirs my age (or a little younger, or a tid bit older). A positive first step was my recent week long crush on a regular from one of my favorite spots. He’s my age. And cute. But in the end my love of the bar we visit triumphs over the potential love of my life. Don’t shit where you eat. Or in this case don’t piss where you drink. It’s baby steps. I now know what I’m looking for, and my quest for the elusive Party Professional begins. It’s my ideal guy, and if you’ve been to New Jersey you know they exist. Stockbrokers chugging Patron. Accountants taking Jaeger shots.
This perfect man is out there. And I'm pretty sure if I keep drinking in Boulder bars I’ll find him. Cheers to that.
It’s been a year since I’ve been in a long term relationship (and those four months did not fly by, might I add). It had to end, as being with my ex was about as exciting as dating a baked potato. Maybe less. At least you can spruce up a baked potato with sour cream and cheddar and Bacon Bits and other ass enhancing elements. But it was a good lesson. At some point in life you have to own up to who you are, and move the hell on. I no longer get sullen and introspective and privately berate myself for not being engaged in domestic bliss. Domestic bliss is for dorks. I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I hate pinching farts. I hate spooning. I hate listening to guy stories. I hate wearing “day makeup” makeup. I want to eat only takeout salad while farting in a full face of makeup on top of a pile of dirty underwear every night for the next twenty-six years.
There are two types of guys I seem date most often: Divorced Guys and Geezers. Surprisingly these two have not been mutually exclusive. The Geezers are lifelong bachelors, the divorced guys are more age appropriate (when you date Geezers thirty-nine somehow seems age appropriate, unfortunately). Brace yourself. It never seems to work.
I’ve been on a mere two dates in over two months.
First he was an attractive stranger. Then he became my good looking friend. Then we kissed. Now I’m going to ignore him in awkward bar settings. We went on one date. It lasted nine hours. I’ve had entire relationships shorter than our encounter. The worst part: I was sober. Sobriety on dates is my Achilles heel. I talked so much about every inappropriate date topic I now have an acute case of TMJ. There are some big differences between us. He detoxes after two drinks. Two drinks is my detox. He refuses to eat anything out of a box. Even Thin Mints? Terrible. I’m guessing this also includes anything in a bag, which rules out Ore Ida french fries. Blasphemy. My dietary staples are gluten free cheetos, vodka and aspartame. It’s bad enough I have to listen to my sister lecture on the dangers of tomato soup from a can. He brought a baggie of vitamins and supplements to ingest during dinner. “I only have three drinks a week,” I offered, hopefully. I have no problem lying on dates, especially if it’s a ridiculous and blatant lie. If both parties know one party is full of shit, then it’s not a lie. I thought everyone knew that rule. He’s old school. He hates texting. He doesn’t wear a seat belt. He brags about partying next to Prince (before Prince became a weird symbol, then Prince again). He lectures about alcohol and pretends like he’s not lecturing. I think we know how this ends. Inevitably we stopped dating, but the simple truth is despite the various oddities of our time together, he’s okay. And we’re kinda friends. How boring. Now I’m in GILF recovery (Grandpa I’d Like to...Yikes).
I retired from dating. Then I met the other guy.
I don’t fault divorced guys for dating. I just fault them for dating me. I’m probably the least kind and understanding person there is about this sort of thing. My most emotionally upsetting occurrence recently was when the screen on my iPhone shattered. In all fairness, I love my phone. I’m not amused by tales of adventures with your ex, or the forty-three pictures of you two in swimsuits on facebook. If you want to work it out like a 1990’s JCPenny catalog model, I encourage you to do so. Just leave me out of it. But in the end I can only blame myself. No one forced me to go on a date with a guy wearing a “transitional” wedding band on his right ring finger. I guess the man jewelry makes the rounds through all the appendages, until it ends up in the underwear drawer, next to gross boxers and her finger nail clippings. I know for sure when I’m divorced I won’t be keeping the ring. I’ll either hawk it, or throw it in a public sewer, depending on how drunk and or grumpy I am that day. Reminder: I’m not a therapist. If I was a therapist the date would cost about four times what the total bill will end up being. It’s one date. I want to have fun! I want to eat, drink and be merry. Divorced women are the life of the party, reveling in their freedom. Divorced men, not so much. I get you’re consumed with sadness, but that’s what take out pizza and soft porn in a Snuggie are for Divorced Guy.
The worst part about the date (and dating in general) was the “if only’s.” Like, "If only this sad guy wasn't emotionally crippled. He's got a great head of hair." Or, “If only this guy didn’t just say how cliquey Boulder is thus revealing his high SI (Social Irrelevance) factor.” How about, “If only this guy wasn’t welling up with tears at the Sundowner.” “If only things weren’t really deteriorating to the point of no return forcing me to abandon him and escape to a cab.”
He had made it known he didn’t want anything serious without any real context, and I had made it know I wouldn’t be seeing him again.The prospect of an emotionless fling with someone who is obsessed with someone else. Tempting! But I think I’ll pass. “Wow, I didn’t expect that reaction,” he countered, genuinely dumbfounded.
I went home, went to bed and didn’t give it another thought. He hadn't been on a date in years. So the next day I woke up to an overly dramatic email that began, “I hope you know that I didn't want things to end like that last night - it was painful for both of us I think,” and a bunch of blah blah blahs. How cringe inducing. Embarrassing. Hey putz, it was one night, I think we’ll all be okay. I’m the Grand Dame of bum endings. I’m used to that sort of thing. I actually thought it had gone alright. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make out in an alley. I didn’t barf. I didn’t raise my voice. A minor victory. For someone who refuses to even walk on the treadmill at an incline, dating a divorced guy is too much of an uphill battle.
There is a bit of speculation that perhaps I’m at fault for all the bad encounters I have. Now that’s just silly. Name one person you know who doesn’t have five drinks on a date and then share details about their Irritable Bowl Syndrome, then I’ll agree. I’ll own up to accepting dates with inappropriate suitors and that’s all. I’m a great date!
I pick the wrong people. Lesson learned.
From here out I’m dating only Sirs my age (or a little younger, or a tid bit older). A positive first step was my recent week long crush on a regular from one of my favorite spots. He’s my age. And cute. But in the end my love of the bar we visit triumphs over the potential love of my life. Don’t shit where you eat. Or in this case don’t piss where you drink. It’s baby steps. I now know what I’m looking for, and my quest for the elusive Party Professional begins. It’s my ideal guy, and if you’ve been to New Jersey you know they exist. Stockbrokers chugging Patron. Accountants taking Jaeger shots.
This perfect man is out there. And I'm pretty sure if I keep drinking in Boulder bars I’ll find him. Cheers to that.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A Not So Grand Finale
I’m over it.
That’s all folks. Pack it up. There’s nothing left to see here. All good things must come to an end. Conversely, so do all bad things.
I’m not (quite) delusional and narcissistic enough to say it’s the end of an era. Era’s last longer than four months and are relevant to more than four people. So no era ending, just the conclusion of this blog.
I’m not throwing in the towel because of karma, or negative energy mumbo jumbo. I’m generally pretty self serving about that stuff. I believe it when I want to believe it. When my tarot lady (she doesn’t want to be called a psychic) gives me advice I'll probably do it, because I’m pretend new agey. When my mom says the same thing incessantly, like shrill New York Housewife Jill Zarin, I ignore it (sorry Mom, I think the nickname “Zarin” may stick). Negative energy: I’m rubber, you’re glue. Bounces off...Well you know the rest. My blog was a vessel for spewing back that which has been channeled to me in the form of douches, a giant suck it to coffee dates of the universe. Putting forth positive energy about dating is just about the saddest thing a lone girl can do. Don’t be faux hopeful, because no one is buying it. Once I start wearing sweaters on my head as a hat like Grey Gardens and stop plucking my eyebrows you’ll know I’m actually delighted with being a single bruschetta. I’ll go through stages where I smile and act chipper at the grocery store, trying to project positivity, just to test it out. You know who buys it? Homeless guys I mistake for hot guys waiting for the turkey slicer guy to jimmy open their can of pork and beans. It’s not like I’m going to stop writing and the skies will part, a ray of light will shine down on me, and I’ll suddenly meet a thirty-eight-year-old, never married Jewish doctor (well, but, umm, you never know, right!?)
“Aren’t prospective dates going to be nervous?” People asked, when they found out about the dating blog. Seriously? If a guy is such a wuss he’s crapping himself about this blog, this blog is going to be the least of his worries while dating me. More importantly, to quote Oscar Wilde, “The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about.” If I was dating me I’d be crushed if I didn’t make the blog. I’d read every entry eagerly hoping my unfathomably sad social conduct made the cut. Not making the blog means you’re such an irrelevant blob I can’t even make fun of you in a relevant way (and a shout out to all the left out, irrelevant blobs). Even the backlash was fairly minimal. A dropped facebook friend here or there. A random bitch out now and again. But that’s just a normal tuesday for me before the blog.
I’m certainly not at a loss for material.
I sometimes date professional bike people from foreign lands that are denied a mere glass of wine because they look so young, so I have to sit through a traumatically sober date, then chug like a frat guy to make up for lost time. Even whilst inebriated the terms “wanker” and “mate” are irritating, and now when I see someone in a cycling unitard I get cold sweats and clammy palms. All bikesters want to end up in Europe, and therefore like me because I’m the closest thing to Euro trash in Boulder. The next pro athlete I date is going to have gold teeth and be fighting a felony charge.
In one day recently I went on a stupid lunch date, an awful dinner date, and proceeded to storm into a bar and break up a date my sister was simultaneously on. When you and your little sister are on dates with friends in separate locations at the same moment, and you’re uncharacteristically good at solving mysteries, you’re bound to uncover dirt. He called me a, “crazy facebook stalker,” but I like to think of myself as a modern day Matlock, with less saggy earlobes. Some recent cases I’ve cracked: The Mystery of the Poor Old Guy Going Incognito as a Rich Old Guy, The Mystery of the Inexplicably Lazy Boyfriend, and The Mystery of My Clogged Sink Drain (which wasn’t much of a mystery after all). I did my signature drunken Frankenstein walk into the bar, and tore his shit up. 0-3 in one day seemed excessive, even for me.
I thought I had finally met my soul mate the other afternoon at Kinko’s. He approached me, a younger, tortured artist type asking about my “project.” I was making a igloo out of sugar cubes for Social Studies. Wait. I was getting business cards printed for twork. My soul mate was youthful and vibrant, and dressed cute. I knew my soul mate would be wearing expensive jeans! Then I saw that his Mom was giving him a ride, which leads me to think his artwork may have been for a high school assignment (and I found myself thinking, well, if he’s over 18...And I am yelling this paragraph from rock bottom).
I assumed these types of things happen to everyone. Apparently not.
But It’s getting a little too repetitive. All too familiar. DatethenDrinkthenMassivefalling out. Repeat. The only deviance is DrinkthenMakeoutneardumpsterthenAttempttodatethenFalling out. Repeat. I feel like I’m trapped in a PG-13 Chose Your Own Adventure. I find myself writing essays in my head about dating. While I’m on the bad dates. Not good. I want to go on boring dates with boring people that lead to boring marriages. A girl’s gotta have goals. Plus, I’m not sure what else I can reveal about myself. I’ve disclosed the small number of people I’ve you know what’ed, the large number of cocktails I can consume, and the certain charming brand of nutsy/apathetic/lazy/disinterested/overly analytical I am. What more am I left to over share? I’ve purged it all. Anything more might be self indulgent, that one extra vodka soda that makes you water barf.
If I wrote about you, I laud you for the material. I don’t think I was too hard on anyone, because, let’s face it, you’re a real tool. I’m sure a lot of people were sick of me after one essay, and lot’s of people were sick of me before this blog even started. But the most important factor is that I’m now sick of me.
Maybe there is more to dating me than these essays let on. Somehow, maybe less? Could I be more crass? More superficial? I guess anything is possible! See, how about that for optimism. The only way you’d know for sure is if we go on a date. It’ll be fun (and I need to start cultivating material for my comeback).
That’s all folks. Pack it up. There’s nothing left to see here. All good things must come to an end. Conversely, so do all bad things.
I’m not (quite) delusional and narcissistic enough to say it’s the end of an era. Era’s last longer than four months and are relevant to more than four people. So no era ending, just the conclusion of this blog.
I’m not throwing in the towel because of karma, or negative energy mumbo jumbo. I’m generally pretty self serving about that stuff. I believe it when I want to believe it. When my tarot lady (she doesn’t want to be called a psychic) gives me advice I'll probably do it, because I’m pretend new agey. When my mom says the same thing incessantly, like shrill New York Housewife Jill Zarin, I ignore it (sorry Mom, I think the nickname “Zarin” may stick). Negative energy: I’m rubber, you’re glue. Bounces off...Well you know the rest. My blog was a vessel for spewing back that which has been channeled to me in the form of douches, a giant suck it to coffee dates of the universe. Putting forth positive energy about dating is just about the saddest thing a lone girl can do. Don’t be faux hopeful, because no one is buying it. Once I start wearing sweaters on my head as a hat like Grey Gardens and stop plucking my eyebrows you’ll know I’m actually delighted with being a single bruschetta. I’ll go through stages where I smile and act chipper at the grocery store, trying to project positivity, just to test it out. You know who buys it? Homeless guys I mistake for hot guys waiting for the turkey slicer guy to jimmy open their can of pork and beans. It’s not like I’m going to stop writing and the skies will part, a ray of light will shine down on me, and I’ll suddenly meet a thirty-eight-year-old, never married Jewish doctor (well, but, umm, you never know, right!?)
“Aren’t prospective dates going to be nervous?” People asked, when they found out about the dating blog. Seriously? If a guy is such a wuss he’s crapping himself about this blog, this blog is going to be the least of his worries while dating me. More importantly, to quote Oscar Wilde, “The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about.” If I was dating me I’d be crushed if I didn’t make the blog. I’d read every entry eagerly hoping my unfathomably sad social conduct made the cut. Not making the blog means you’re such an irrelevant blob I can’t even make fun of you in a relevant way (and a shout out to all the left out, irrelevant blobs). Even the backlash was fairly minimal. A dropped facebook friend here or there. A random bitch out now and again. But that’s just a normal tuesday for me before the blog.
I’m certainly not at a loss for material.
I sometimes date professional bike people from foreign lands that are denied a mere glass of wine because they look so young, so I have to sit through a traumatically sober date, then chug like a frat guy to make up for lost time. Even whilst inebriated the terms “wanker” and “mate” are irritating, and now when I see someone in a cycling unitard I get cold sweats and clammy palms. All bikesters want to end up in Europe, and therefore like me because I’m the closest thing to Euro trash in Boulder. The next pro athlete I date is going to have gold teeth and be fighting a felony charge.
In one day recently I went on a stupid lunch date, an awful dinner date, and proceeded to storm into a bar and break up a date my sister was simultaneously on. When you and your little sister are on dates with friends in separate locations at the same moment, and you’re uncharacteristically good at solving mysteries, you’re bound to uncover dirt. He called me a, “crazy facebook stalker,” but I like to think of myself as a modern day Matlock, with less saggy earlobes. Some recent cases I’ve cracked: The Mystery of the Poor Old Guy Going Incognito as a Rich Old Guy, The Mystery of the Inexplicably Lazy Boyfriend, and The Mystery of My Clogged Sink Drain (which wasn’t much of a mystery after all). I did my signature drunken Frankenstein walk into the bar, and tore his shit up. 0-3 in one day seemed excessive, even for me.
I thought I had finally met my soul mate the other afternoon at Kinko’s. He approached me, a younger, tortured artist type asking about my “project.” I was making a igloo out of sugar cubes for Social Studies. Wait. I was getting business cards printed for twork. My soul mate was youthful and vibrant, and dressed cute. I knew my soul mate would be wearing expensive jeans! Then I saw that his Mom was giving him a ride, which leads me to think his artwork may have been for a high school assignment (and I found myself thinking, well, if he’s over 18...And I am yelling this paragraph from rock bottom).
I assumed these types of things happen to everyone. Apparently not.
But It’s getting a little too repetitive. All too familiar. DatethenDrinkthenMassivefalling out. Repeat. The only deviance is DrinkthenMakeoutneardumpsterthenAttempttodatethenFalling out. Repeat. I feel like I’m trapped in a PG-13 Chose Your Own Adventure. I find myself writing essays in my head about dating. While I’m on the bad dates. Not good. I want to go on boring dates with boring people that lead to boring marriages. A girl’s gotta have goals. Plus, I’m not sure what else I can reveal about myself. I’ve disclosed the small number of people I’ve you know what’ed, the large number of cocktails I can consume, and the certain charming brand of nutsy/apathetic/lazy/disinterested/overly analytical I am. What more am I left to over share? I’ve purged it all. Anything more might be self indulgent, that one extra vodka soda that makes you water barf.
If I wrote about you, I laud you for the material. I don’t think I was too hard on anyone, because, let’s face it, you’re a real tool. I’m sure a lot of people were sick of me after one essay, and lot’s of people were sick of me before this blog even started. But the most important factor is that I’m now sick of me.
Maybe there is more to dating me than these essays let on. Somehow, maybe less? Could I be more crass? More superficial? I guess anything is possible! See, how about that for optimism. The only way you’d know for sure is if we go on a date. It’ll be fun (and I need to start cultivating material for my comeback).
Monday, August 2, 2010
A Distinguished Critique
Extensive background information. God, I hate it. Irritating white noise, what’s the point? I like my stories to begin in the middle. The storm. I don’t care about the calm before it. The only thing I despise more than boring details is when middle aged men send me contextually awkward, not funny, sexual innuendo via Facebook. Particularly when we’ve never even kissed (mouth open or closed). Too many scheduling conflicts, and his last ditch date offer was “come over to my house at eleven. I’ll make you breakfast.” I was stumped. I don’t eat after nine unless it’s fruit or I’m drunk and eating cheese by the block. Why would I want breakfast at eleven pm?....Wait....Ew!
“Why would I want breakfast at eleven?” I wrote.
His reply: “You’ll need your strength.” AH!
I sent him a link to a blog about dating older men. He said it was “well written and even entertaining.” He emailed me back an insultingly dumb men's blog. To summarize: Establish trust with a younger girl by not trying to get in her slacks (as an older fellow might call them) so you can then make your move slyly. I brushed it off- now he’d revealed his secrets!
It was a fairly jovial correspondence. Then he realized it was not some random, whining whiner, bitching in a blog. But rather yours truly who had penned, “Distinguished Gentleman Be Damned.”
EMAIL 1
(Scene: He sits at his computer, sweaty and outraged, pounding furiously. At ten a.m. On a work day).
Oh, let's just call a spade a spade then. Based on reading exactly one blog post, yes, askmen's advice is crap and no, it's not to be taken seriously. The point is that older men have the patience to wait until you can admit (to yourself and to them) that you want to have sex just as much as they want to have sex. Really, we're over the chastity game or any other posturing. A guy not wanting to get into your pants is no less a bunch of crap than you only having slept with *** men (the magic number for every girl who's selling chastity). No less a bunch of crap than every third thought in your blog being about sex / vibrators / relationships / drunken hook ups, and then you saying that you don't have sex until the 17th date (or some other prime number that's >7). Let's follow the math: You're thirty, you've had no relationship longer than four months and sex with only *** men. If you started dating at age 18 had five of those four month relationships and were shtoinking for 100% of those days (highly unlikely given your ban on instant shtoinking and the fact that daily shtoinking in days 1-120 doesn't lead to break up on day 121) you've got a mere 20 months of shtoinking in 12 years (144 months) or 14% of the time. If that were a month, you'd be looking at a little over 4x/mo. Middle aged married people get more. My friend's dog humps the neighbor's dog more often and they're both spayed / neutered. I've seen monkeys at the zoo jerk it more of
(In a fury he accidentally presses send)
EMAIL 2
(Continues hysterically typing)
whoops....more often....and they're in public.
But really, I'm just talking about going and having a glass of wine. Enough with your sex / non-sex fixation. Later tater.
(Scene: I sit clutching my iPhone. Yikes. I’m outraged. Say what you will about my essays, and infer from them what you want. Claim foul play. Speculate. Accuse. Rant. Rave. Whine. Fine with me. But math equations? Really? Algebra. That’s low).
MY RESPONSE
Lighten up. Pull your underwear out of your prostate.
P.S. Your email was incredibly long.
P.P.S I don't talk about vibrators in my blog, and every other thought is about alcohol.
To mis quote the great William Shakespeare, me thinks the Distinguished Gentleman doth protest too much.
“Why would I want breakfast at eleven?” I wrote.
His reply: “You’ll need your strength.” AH!
I sent him a link to a blog about dating older men. He said it was “well written and even entertaining.” He emailed me back an insultingly dumb men's blog. To summarize: Establish trust with a younger girl by not trying to get in her slacks (as an older fellow might call them) so you can then make your move slyly. I brushed it off- now he’d revealed his secrets!
It was a fairly jovial correspondence. Then he realized it was not some random, whining whiner, bitching in a blog. But rather yours truly who had penned, “Distinguished Gentleman Be Damned.”
EMAIL 1
(Scene: He sits at his computer, sweaty and outraged, pounding furiously. At ten a.m. On a work day).
Oh, let's just call a spade a spade then. Based on reading exactly one blog post, yes, askmen's advice is crap and no, it's not to be taken seriously. The point is that older men have the patience to wait until you can admit (to yourself and to them) that you want to have sex just as much as they want to have sex. Really, we're over the chastity game or any other posturing. A guy not wanting to get into your pants is no less a bunch of crap than you only having slept with *** men (the magic number for every girl who's selling chastity). No less a bunch of crap than every third thought in your blog being about sex / vibrators / relationships / drunken hook ups, and then you saying that you don't have sex until the 17th date (or some other prime number that's >7). Let's follow the math: You're thirty, you've had no relationship longer than four months and sex with only *** men. If you started dating at age 18 had five of those four month relationships and were shtoinking for 100% of those days (highly unlikely given your ban on instant shtoinking and the fact that daily shtoinking in days 1-120 doesn't lead to break up on day 121) you've got a mere 20 months of shtoinking in 12 years (144 months) or 14% of the time. If that were a month, you'd be looking at a little over 4x/mo. Middle aged married people get more. My friend's dog humps the neighbor's dog more often and they're both spayed / neutered. I've seen monkeys at the zoo jerk it more of
(In a fury he accidentally presses send)
EMAIL 2
(Continues hysterically typing)
whoops....more often....and they're in public.
But really, I'm just talking about going and having a glass of wine. Enough with your sex / non-sex fixation. Later tater.
(Scene: I sit clutching my iPhone. Yikes. I’m outraged. Say what you will about my essays, and infer from them what you want. Claim foul play. Speculate. Accuse. Rant. Rave. Whine. Fine with me. But math equations? Really? Algebra. That’s low).
MY RESPONSE
Lighten up. Pull your underwear out of your prostate.
P.S. Your email was incredibly long.
P.P.S I don't talk about vibrators in my blog, and every other thought is about alcohol.
To mis quote the great William Shakespeare, me thinks the Distinguished Gentleman doth protest too much.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A $34.95 Soulmate, The Conclusion
I’m sick of meeting soul mates at one thirty in the morning. Many drinks and sweet nothings later the items of my clothing I’ll allow my new soul mate to remove are my trouser socks (which is the most alarming part of the scenario because I wear black trouser socks in July like a tourist from Istanbul). The internet seems logical. True love, that cute “how we met” story, it’s all so very sweet and hopeful. I was sweet and hopeful at twenty-two. Now I Camel Pack white wine and go on ill fated dates with men I could either be babysitting or care taking. I can’t seem to find a soul mate anywhere, and I look all the time. Maybe I'm just too busy to find a soul mate, which makes the internet a perfect option. I’m too busy trying to find a little cart without bird poop and avoiding using the same check yourself out aisle as a homeless person with one leg at the grocery store to find a soul mate. I’m too busy straightening my hair and tweeting to find a soul mate. I’m too busy smearing myself in cheap, stinky self tanner and shaping my eyebrows to find a soul mate. I’m too busy writing essays about not finding a soul mate to find a soul mate.
I pick a zip code in Denver chuck full of rich, educated, handsome, gym dwellers with a nice set of muscle tits on them. Are you wearing a skintight bedazzled shirt that highlights your over or undersized nipples? Are you talking about mixed martial arts? Are you sporting a giant watch and unstylish True Religion jeans that make you look like you have a Ken doll crotch? Perfect.
The emails arrive fast and furious. The second match.com dupes you into paying, all the suitable prospects vanish. Each ding is terror inducing. My phone is the enemy.
Getting lots of mail on match.com is like being the A minus student in basic math: Not much to brag about. Yet, you can’t help but become slightly puffed up with your own importance. Well don’t. Because the next phase is angst and depression as, toot toot, the freak parade begins. Shrunken Twinkie hued men, with bad jobs and Cabbage Patch Kid yarn hair think I would date them? Sad. I’m used to nerds writing me on Jdate. But that’s totally different. When you’re a nerd on Jdate, you have an MBA and your family is loaded. When you’re a nerd on match.com you play Dungeons and Dragons, and are wearing your cat around your neck like a scarf. Just gotta roll with it, though. Anyone can wink at you on match.com. In real life dorks would only dare wink if they have an uncontrollable tick. Semi hot guys write me too, but that makes me most uncomfortable. The hot guy on match.com is unforgivable because it’s explanation-less. If you’re normal on match.com you must have real problems.
I receive cringe inducing emails from people trying to be funny headed, “Hot Sexy Bee Keeper Looking for Love.” Genuine, heartfelt emails about life goals (yikes). Tons of droll, drool inducing come ons, "Do you like to travel?" "Do you have a favorite food?" There are the spooky emails. Snub call out emails, "why didn't you write me back?" which startle the crap out of me. Eventually, I try my hand at writing a couple of specially picked selections. I pen odd, random statements like, “Nice flannel shirt. Good work.” When they respond, I usually don’t write back. I wouldn’t want to date anyone that would want to date moron match.com me.
I immediately realize my plan is flawed on many levels. First, It makes me look like a borderline sociopath every time I’m forced to explain I actually live in Boulder. It’s like the witness relocation program for dating. And there are too many choices. If you had the time to go through everyone, you're clearly too much of a loser to get an actual date. Plus, Denver is such a long way to drive for a shitty coffee encounter. Coffee dates are the bane of my existence. The mere thought of the coffee date pay scenario gives me an anxiety attack. Us lumbering to the counter, “I’ve got this,” he’ll say chivalrously. Thank you. My coffee is twelve quarters, or three hours of parking. Too kind. I’m going to be greasy and crumpled with the requisite summer butt sweat from the drive. I’m going to be flustered and nervous. It’s going to be a bad time. I’m going to talk endlessly about nothing and make myself seem ten times more neurotic than I actually am (which is difficult to do). I will be able to see his pores from across the table. We will uncomfortably hug goodbye, and his armpit will touch my shoulder and I’ll almost barf. His breath will smell like four day old flatbread. I’ll spend the whole time pinching farts, as I worry who is silently judging me for being on an internet date. Then worse of all, the mall will be closed when we’re done and I will eat falafel alone, checking my match.com account.
I finally make one date with a snow shoe marathon runner (seriously) in Boulder. He doesn't own a television (no joke). Or drink (he caught me during a vulnerable period of sobriety. Which lasted two weeks). Somehow I'm digging all of it. Inevitably the deal breaker is the fact he asked me thrice is I like living in Denver. His lack of attentiveness irks me.
Apparently, I’m a lot less desperate and a lot more lazy than I had anticipated. Darn.
$34.99 down the drain. But let's get real, I can drink that in an hour. During a one month membership I go on zero match.com dates. Which somehow still seems like too many.
I pick a zip code in Denver chuck full of rich, educated, handsome, gym dwellers with a nice set of muscle tits on them. Are you wearing a skintight bedazzled shirt that highlights your over or undersized nipples? Are you talking about mixed martial arts? Are you sporting a giant watch and unstylish True Religion jeans that make you look like you have a Ken doll crotch? Perfect.
The emails arrive fast and furious. The second match.com dupes you into paying, all the suitable prospects vanish. Each ding is terror inducing. My phone is the enemy.
Getting lots of mail on match.com is like being the A minus student in basic math: Not much to brag about. Yet, you can’t help but become slightly puffed up with your own importance. Well don’t. Because the next phase is angst and depression as, toot toot, the freak parade begins. Shrunken Twinkie hued men, with bad jobs and Cabbage Patch Kid yarn hair think I would date them? Sad. I’m used to nerds writing me on Jdate. But that’s totally different. When you’re a nerd on Jdate, you have an MBA and your family is loaded. When you’re a nerd on match.com you play Dungeons and Dragons, and are wearing your cat around your neck like a scarf. Just gotta roll with it, though. Anyone can wink at you on match.com. In real life dorks would only dare wink if they have an uncontrollable tick. Semi hot guys write me too, but that makes me most uncomfortable. The hot guy on match.com is unforgivable because it’s explanation-less. If you’re normal on match.com you must have real problems.
I receive cringe inducing emails from people trying to be funny headed, “Hot Sexy Bee Keeper Looking for Love.” Genuine, heartfelt emails about life goals (yikes). Tons of droll, drool inducing come ons, "Do you like to travel?" "Do you have a favorite food?" There are the spooky emails. Snub call out emails, "why didn't you write me back?" which startle the crap out of me. Eventually, I try my hand at writing a couple of specially picked selections. I pen odd, random statements like, “Nice flannel shirt. Good work.” When they respond, I usually don’t write back. I wouldn’t want to date anyone that would want to date moron match.com me.
I immediately realize my plan is flawed on many levels. First, It makes me look like a borderline sociopath every time I’m forced to explain I actually live in Boulder. It’s like the witness relocation program for dating. And there are too many choices. If you had the time to go through everyone, you're clearly too much of a loser to get an actual date. Plus, Denver is such a long way to drive for a shitty coffee encounter. Coffee dates are the bane of my existence. The mere thought of the coffee date pay scenario gives me an anxiety attack. Us lumbering to the counter, “I’ve got this,” he’ll say chivalrously. Thank you. My coffee is twelve quarters, or three hours of parking. Too kind. I’m going to be greasy and crumpled with the requisite summer butt sweat from the drive. I’m going to be flustered and nervous. It’s going to be a bad time. I’m going to talk endlessly about nothing and make myself seem ten times more neurotic than I actually am (which is difficult to do). I will be able to see his pores from across the table. We will uncomfortably hug goodbye, and his armpit will touch my shoulder and I’ll almost barf. His breath will smell like four day old flatbread. I’ll spend the whole time pinching farts, as I worry who is silently judging me for being on an internet date. Then worse of all, the mall will be closed when we’re done and I will eat falafel alone, checking my match.com account.
I finally make one date with a snow shoe marathon runner (seriously) in Boulder. He doesn't own a television (no joke). Or drink (he caught me during a vulnerable period of sobriety. Which lasted two weeks). Somehow I'm digging all of it. Inevitably the deal breaker is the fact he asked me thrice is I like living in Denver. His lack of attentiveness irks me.
Apparently, I’m a lot less desperate and a lot more lazy than I had anticipated. Darn.
$34.99 down the drain. But let's get real, I can drink that in an hour. During a one month membership I go on zero match.com dates. Which somehow still seems like too many.
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