Thursday, November 7, 2013

Introspection and Shit.

I've been thinking a lot lately.

I blame the weather - come this time of year, a darkness peppered with rainstorms creeps in over the Midwest like it's heralding some terrible future (it is: snow), and I, along with about 70% of the population, take to my bed at high noon because it's so dark outside it looks like the climax of a horror flick.

Maybe I just read "Julie of the Wolves" too many times as a child but already I am starting to revert back to the ways of our ancestors as a means to survive. I'm striking up alliances with neighborhood animals and finding my place in the local squirrel pack (it's lower than I expected). I'm performing strange mystical rituals by the light of the candle I finally lit by rubbing two sticks together (matchsticks). I'm doubling my caloric intake in preparation for the long winter and also because mozzarella sticks were on sale.

Long story short, it's dark, I'm dark, and I've been thinking a lot.

One of the first things I'm realizing is that I'm a lot stupider than I used to be. More stupid? Dammit. See? I don't even fucking know.

I'm not sure whether to blame this on the fact that I'm now on the downward slide toward thirty and that my brain is deteriorating within my skull more and more with the passing of each day...  or that I've been pumping my body so full of various forms of alcohol for the past ten years and I can light a flame with just my breath (and two matchsticks).

For whatever reason, I'm dumber. I'd worry that this will impact my future career options, unpredictably alter my social interactions, and inevitably steer me down a much simpler and safer path in life than I had envisioned for myself as a quick-witted teen... but my poor brain can't process that much all at once.

Frankly, I need to conserve any remaining strategic abilities for kicking Fluffertail out of the pack. I'm tired of getting the shittiest acorns. That bitch gotsata go.

Secondly, that I care less. Possibly this is because my critical thinking skills are degrading so fast that next year I'll only be capable of sipping a juice box in a rocking chair for the better part of the day, but I just. Don't. Care. I'm getting older and stupider at light speed, and I've wasted a lot of my life putting up with people I shouldn't have, laughing off jokes that hurt my feelings, and having crushes on men that would probably rather date Fluffertail if it came down to a choice.

I'm done with that shit, I really am. Something switched on inside of me (it was probably just hidden beneath all the intelligence, before) that I'm grateful for. People will call me a bitch, people will call me overly sensitive, but I'm going to just call it like I see it now and follow my freaking bliss. I don't need people like that in my life. I'm edging closer to death with every breath, and I need my final days full of people that appreciate that I'm learning to stand up for myself.

Third, I'm noticing that other people are really stupid too.

Yes, I've always known this, because until my brain rotted away I've held myself above these silly, simple fools. I laughed at their little antics, and rested assured in the knowledge that I was better than them.

Well, now I'm down on that level, and since stupidity has given me confidence (aren't most of the stupid people you know strangely confident? That is because they literally don't know any better), I'm ready to tell you folks how stupid you're being in the hopes that we can all band stupidly together and form one and a half or so reasonably intelligent beings. Idiots, we need to unite.

Most especially when it comes to dating.

I do believe I already had a small rant regarding the Friend Zone, so I'll gloss that one over.

Let me just reiterate this: If a girl or guy tells you they just want to be friends, and you stick around hoping they change their mind, you are an idiot. I don't care which movie you think your life is based on, it ain't happening for you, Julia Roberts. Pull your head out of your ass and quit pretending you care about their feelings when you're really just biding your time to bone them.

Guys, being nice doesn't mean you deserve a hot girl. If you're so fucking nice, date a nice ugly girl and quit complaining that the 10 won't date the 3 even though he's like, always there for her. 

Girls, if he's not interested in you, plenty of other men are. You have boobs.

This is not all rocket science. I have seventeen brain cells left, and even I know this.

Uh, do you have an ass? Asses count too.

One of the biggest complaints I hear from my guy friends (or "friends") is that dating is too difficult because they don't want to get rejected. In real life, they lurk in that Friend Zone hoping that one day she'll get drunk, cry on his shoulder because her cat died or something, and see that he's been there for her all along. In the online world of dating, they message one or two girls significantly out of their league, complain when neither Tiffany nor Amber responds, and throw up their hands in defeat.

This all is very stupid. I love you guys, I do, but you're being really stupid.

However a whole new brand of stupid has revealed itself to me as of late. I haven't been dating much lately, probably because I've been so busy trading pelts and growing Yeti legs to keep me warm during the winter months.

Some of my friends are, however, and the best thing about having other poor souls stuck in online dating with you is that you can all stalk the guys your friend is talking with.

Yes, we do that. Did you notice that a girl checked out your profile but did not message you? You probably have a coffee date with her friend that week.

Because I deleted my Plenty of Fish account, my stalking abilities were frustratingly limited, so I signed back up. My experiences with POF have been disappointing and disgusting to the point where I had to scald off most of my skin and some of the memories. So, when creating a profile this time around, I went the most unappealing route I could.

I left everything blank except for my hobbies (Eating. Cooking. Food. Recipes. Leftovers.). My body type is "carrying a few extra pounds." Looking for friends only. My profile pic was of me making an indecipherable face and drinking from a penis cup at a bachelorette party.

Still, the messages came. Other people like food too! Omg we have so much in common.

I consulted my friend on this strange happening, and she noted that my picture gives off the impression that I really love to party and have fun or, as she gently put it, that I'm "easy." I immediately switched it to one of my Halloween photos - entirely in make-up and costume, making the craziest eyes possible, there is absolutely no way to determine what I actually look like underneath it all. None. I could be Jessica Alba or Bill Nye, you would never be able to tell.

If anything, the messages increased. I'm getting favorited right and left. Hahaha, I seem fun. Nice picture. Wanna get coffee?

I have not answered a single message nor made any attempt to seem approachable, my profile is almost entirely blank, and there is no way to distinguish what the hell my face actually looks like. This is the online "Shields up" equivalent of wearing chain mail, a ninja mask, and using my Katana to lop off the hands of anyone who comes within striking range.

Why are men throwing themselves at an online profile that is so clearly not going to end well? The same reason girls think they can only date men that order salads for them at dinner.


Seriously. I love you all, I really do, and myself even more, but got damn. We need to get our shit together, people, before the squirrels take over.

I've been in their midst, and I know how they think, and the human race is in true danger.

Lets order a pizza and talk strategy.

Friday, October 18, 2013

Ah, Fuck it!

Hello my beauties!

Well, I suppose we all knew this was inevitable. It's time to get me back on the market.

I'm in such a hot, sexy prison right now, I can't even stand it. 

At the moment, however, I'm battling a little bit of Manhate. Why, you ask with such concern?

Because men are stupid, that is my answer. Don't worry though. I think women are stupid too. Basically, I hate everyone, and mix cocktails in the dark whilst muttering black thoughts to myself and shooing mewing cats away from my slipper-clad feet.

First, I am continually, wildly disappointed in my men friends. Not all, mind you. A select few I still text very hopefully, but the general lot I am finding are really annoying.

The concept of male/female friendship seems to have gone out the window. I clearly am not capable of being friends with a man without desperately seeking to remove all his clothing AT ONCE SIR.

This seem to largely tie into the fact that I can only be their friend until they start dating someone. That someone assumes I wish nothing more than to remove the clothes of the male friend I had somehow magically controlled my baser impulses around up to this point, but now that this friend is in a relationship, I clearly seek to destroy it.

Ladies, a word of advice. Let your men have female friends, even attractive ones. And be NICE to those female friends. If I like you, I won't sleep with your man. If you piss me off... there really are no promises. I may just show up at his house at random and flash some boob, not because I would take pleasure from it but because I really just want to make you that mad because you took my friend away and I no longer have anyone to grab a beer with on Friday nights. Okay, Tuesdays.

I just like hanging out with people who are impressed by how much I can eat.

There's no way of sugar coating that. If you piss me off, I will show your boyfriend my tits. You've all been warned. If you're sweet to me, we will all be best friends until the end of time and I will casually laugh off his jokes about threesomes that make us both uncomfortable.

Another thing I'm sure most women who have reached my age (year "supple") have noticed is that rejecting a man, honestly and openly, but still asking if they want to be friends leads them to lie. They just lie. Yes, that's okay. No, not a problem. We'll still be buds. UNTIL A CHICK WHO WANTS TO DATE ME COMES ALONG.

At that point, I cease to exist. Thanks, pal.

Honestly, this has happened so many times I could literally market my life's story for a movie plot and be financially set for life. Yes, it might end up on Lifetime because my life basically sucks, but you get the point. I'm somewhere in between "Good Luck Chuck" and "Misery." I honestly pray those in question all end up divorced.

I have already mentioned the problematic situation of being forced to go single to a wedding, as a bridesmaid, where I will no doubt be pitied and possibly stoned to death by older Polish relatives.

Since I have literally no one left to hang out with in this fucking hick town, and being denied the ability to bring one of the very few men left that I can honestly call my friend, this all chased me back to online dating in some vague hope that I'd meet someone who, if not worthy of introducing to friends, could at least keep me company on a Friday night until I could find someone else to keep me company on Saturday night.

Let's face it, I require a lot of attention.

Interestingly, the men who noted my return to OKC were those I had already been in contact with previously...

This includes Gerard Butler Guy, who holds onto the ridiculous optimism that maybe I've ignored him and dodged his texts and messages for months because I'm just so into him it scares me. Clearly his dull personality and unwillingness to pick up the tab have not taken him off the market.

It also includes what actually amounts to a "slew" of writers, as well. Apparently putting that I'm more or less of a writer on my profile inspires other people who consider themselves writers to think we have something in common. You know what makes me immediately not like someone? Potential competition.

Be good at math. We'll encompass all aspects together. Do not be a better writer than me or I will hate you. I am not even going to pretend I'm not petty in this. I have very few talents of which I am proud, and I refuse to date someone who is, in actuality, more talented at writing. That only leaves me drinking and picking up stray cats.

Only whites. Reds taste like feet. 

However, writers can at least hold on a conversation (via messaging, text, Facebook, and any other media that primarily involves typing thought). I've got a good handful that were happy to see me back online, that know the difference between "too" and "to" (and "two"), and thought the pictures I added of me making stupid-ass faces were "sexy."

That's one good thing about writers - we are idiots. I made a joke about constantly wearing sweatpants (I am literally wearing sweatpants as I write this. I wear sweatpants 96% of of the week), and he countered with a joke about how the only way I could be sexier was if I ate potato chips in bed.

I hope you meant that, fucker, because don't even try to pry this bag away from me.

You know who love lazy women? Writers. And Philosophy majors.

And the unemployed (this includes both writers and philosophy majors).

... In conclusion, I hate most men and most women, but I'm going to try to date again anyway. Whatever. At some point I still like to think I'll get something meaningful out of this experiment.

Let's do this.
It's probably wisdom. Yeah. Wisdom.

Saturday, October 5, 2013

What. Fucking. Ever.

Welp, my lovely Mustache Man was spotted cuddling up on some very slim organic hippy-type lady today, thus ruining my crush much too early. Was it too much to ask that he not just throw that in my face at this juncture? Let's be real. There's no way I was going to actually talk to him. I would have dragged this out for months and been perfectly happy secretly pretending we were a couple. Those fantasies keep me going in my everyday life; those, and imagining I'm a guest on "Ellen."

One of the problems with living in a small town, especially being an almost-thirty in a small town, is that dating pickings are slim... especially if you're as picky as I am. Yes, I'm looking for a lot out of my next guy, but the next guy could possibly end up being my husband, so why not be particular?

But everyone is either married, has moved out of this stupid city (as you should too!), someone you know/grew up with, or just overall unappealing to you for whatever reason. Maybe there's something to the fact that they've stayed here while everyone else fled in a Biblical manner.

Possibly I need to go on a bad-boy binge and just sow some wild oats before stumbling upon the Future Mr. MeMe, but that's equally difficult in a small town where everyone knows everyone, unless you want that guy you randomly made out with in a parking lot to show up at your next social gathering. Not speaking from experience or anything.

'Tis the seasons for weddings, and it's turning out to be especially rough on me this year. Not that I'm not excited for everyone who's out there tying the knot or producing babies. But I'm faced with standing up in a wedding soon as the only single bridesmaid. This sets me up as 1) a figure of pity or ridicule for the older crowd and 2) a figure of sex for the males who assume I'll be upset and rendered desperate by my situation (they are correct, and I will also be drunk).

Perhaps it's time to reopen the dating files and get out there a couple times a month, at least to keep my spirits up and make me feel like I'm making some small attempt to socialize with the male species.

Plus, I'm bored as hell half the time, and I could use someone to hang out with on a Friday night. It won't hurt my bank account if someone else is buying the drinks, either.

Time to wade through the applicants. Wish me luck.

Thursday, September 26, 2013


Just a quick update on my Mysterious Mustache Man...

Three failed attempts to stalk him later, this endeavor was a bust, and frankly, a complete waste of my good make-up. Do you know how much it costs to make myself look like I fell out of bed gorgeous? That shit cannot be squandered. Time and money like that can never be regained.

I did this for YOU.

At this point I'm pretty confident I hallucinated him and all his mustachey gloriousness. He has left no trail.

We didn't even get a chance to make pottery together!

Or, more realistically, he pleaded with his employers to stop forcing him to go to the market where the creepy girl stares at him a lot.

Come here often?

Either way, I labeled this one "bust," cried into my margarita (spent a lot of time looking at gifs), and started pasting pictures of Joseph Gordon-Levitt onto all of my photos to see how we'd look as a couple.

It's a good thing I have hobbies or I'd be pretty bummed right now.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Kiss Kiss, Crush Crush

I know I haven't been around much lately... I'm sure your journals have had to hear all about this emotionally stressful time and the void I've left inside you, but you'll be happy (I hope) to know that it's for all good reasons that I've been so absent.

MeMe has been... content lately. Life is pretty good. Ducks are lining up reluctantly into their rows. Throwing in the added chaos of dating men I'm only moderately interested in has just seemed like an unnecessary way of messing shit up, so I've let it go for now.

They say that good things happen to you when you're not looking for them, and for once, I've stopped looking. With that, I've fallen hardcore into a new improbable crush.

I haven't had a crush in a while. One of the worst parts about learning more about your crush is that usually it ruins the crush because these are actually real people and not the perfection I've built in my head.

My crush tank emptied slowly, one by one. I stopped stalking people who don't like me and texting boys that are bad for me. I finally came to terms that my fall-back crush ain't going nowhere. I quit trying to make "fetch" happen.

So I've been floating around crush-free (more or less). Ryan Gosling a la "The Notebook" has had to take the place of a crush in all of my fantasies, and honestly, let's face it: my odds of taking Ryan Gosling to bed are only like... 40, 45% at best. It sort of ruins a daydream for me when I'm so fully aware that it will come to nothing unless Eva Mendes suddenly drops dead on set and everything goes according to my evil plan MWAHAHAHAHA.

And, while no doubt this crush will take some energies away from all the productive events in my life, like trying to not suck at my job, and paying bills and car payments on time... it's kind of nice to have one again.

Everyone likes to have a crush. It gives us something to think about when we're stuck in traffic, or right before bed, or when you forget to bring a magazine to the bathroom.

This weekend I was at the Farmer's Market hunting for organic food to make meals with, because in my transformation into an Adult I've become disgustingly adorable and these are the sort of things I do now. The organic booths are limited, but I know one in particular that I like to hit, largely because it's manned by a real cutie pie and I don't hate lookin' at the goods while I'm shopping.

Cutie Pie was, this day, busy helping others, so I stepped back and let him customer-ize. He glanced up at me and went back to helping old ladies pick out produce (D'aww), getting a little frazzled, and telling them apologetically that he was suddenly flustered.

I'd like to think this is because he noticed me and how adorable I looked in my leather boots, but in real life my ego isn't really that substantial, and I just waited my turn patiently while he got his shit together and distantly thought how nice it would be if I were the source of all the flustering.

When it was finally my chance, I picked out an ear of corn--yes, a single ear. Cutie wouldn't have it. He threw all of his remaining corn at me for the same price, met my eye with ridiculously pretty blue ones, and bam... I was head over heels.

A little dazedly, I wandered off, smiling like an idiot and clumsily balancing an armful of corn. Ryan Gosling went out the window--Cutie leapt into my imagination.

We wake together at dawn to till the soil, after he brings me coffee in bed, and we laugh as the sun comes up and our rescue pets and goats roam the land. Together, probably wearing little floral printed aprons, we built a mildly successful business and are the fucking cutest farming couple the local markets had ever seen. He wears plaid and smells like grass and Gain detergent and brings me sunflowers when I'm not expecting them. I carry everything in a wicker basket, and learn to like pie. We adopt twin Chinese babies and raise them off the earth to be selfless and good. Before bed, we all read classics together by lamplight (my fantasies always seem to take place in the cabin from "Little House on the Prairie"). We grow old together and die hand-in-hand (Wait, no, that one is special just for Ryan).

Happily, I found the rest of my party, and told them the news: I was in love. He had blue eyes, and he had given me free food. He was my dream man.

One major problem:

He has a mustache.

Not like, a little fuzzy mustache because he forgot to shave that morning.

I mean like ringleader of a circus mustache. A mustache ironic to the point where it's no longer ironic (ironically).

People who know me know that I hate, hate mustaches. Mustaches are for men in unmarked vans telling children they have candy. Mustaches make me think of 1970's cold cases, and the horrible boss I hated so much I once pushed him. A mustache is just the sad destruction of a perfectly good beard.


My cyber stalking refused to pay off, so tomorrow I'll have to doll myself up until I look as natural as possible, put on something that projects that I'd make a fine wife, and go stalk him in person. Does he have a wedding ring? Does he like women? Is he too young for me? Is he open to shaving? These are all important questions I need answered.

Or, OR, the more likely scenario... I refuse to make eye contact, can only grunt and point at which items I wish to purchase (You, YOOOUUUU!!! My God, how much??), and slink off without any of this vital information.

But hey, at least I won't ruin my nice new crush by talking to him.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The Overshare

This may officially cross the line into an "overshare," but if you bear with me, I promise at some points it may or may not be relevant to dating.

My body is, at this point in time, gearing up for what can only be referred to as a Superperiod...

The Superperiod is one of the most deadly natural events known to Man... Specifically to Man.

You left the seat up again, you fool! You've doomed us all!

A little anatomy lesson for those who don't believe me:

Within the production of a Superperiod, a female's body goes through a confusing series of events.

First, she becomes enormously fat. Her uterus is convinced its time has finally come, and preps her for being pregnant by making her look fucking pregnant.

Add in combination an eruption of acne she hasn't experienced since she first hit puberty. Now she's even more hideous. I'm not a history buff, but I'm pretty sure right after God cursed Woman with the period, he felt bad and invented make-up.

She just wants to wear her glasses, avoid people (who will laugh at her for being hideous those pricks), put on pants without a waistband and eat pickles out of the jar, because deep in her belly her uterus is demanding a continual sacrifice of potato chips and brownies like an obese Mayan deity.

There's no arguing with this creature. She's up in the middle of the night fashioning together makeshift garlic bread by the shameful green glow of the microwave, and it can't be avoided. All you Men can do is pretend not to see and let her simmer in her own self-hatred.

Confusingly, while the tangle of hormones in her body has combined to make her as unattractive as humanly possible, somewhere there's an instinct that drops with the egg screaming BREED BREED! '

She will want to have sex with everyone. Everyone.

It's like beer goggles for your reproductive parts. Suddenly, everyone is gorgeous and probably her Future Husband.

That greased up 40 year-old guido in the volkswagon? Future Husband.

The fat guy in the deli ""sampling" every single cold meat? Future Husband.

That dude walking in front of her with the ponytail? Oh no, wait, that's a chick.

I wouldn't kick him out of bed... 

I won't even mention the mood swings, I think we all know the real dangers of the Superperiod. Beware, gentlemen. She'll sex the shit out of you and while you're climaxing she'll chew right through your spinal column, Praying Mantis-style, because you told her six weeks ago that you thought Jennifer Aniston was pretty.

Why don't you go fuck JENNIFER ANISTON YOU FUCKING PIECE OF CRAP?? My mother was right about you.

And then, she'll cry and ask you to hold her.

It won't make sense. Don't try to make sense of it.

So, where does this leave MeMe?

I had mentioned previously the very young guy that managed to stalk me down and ask for my number. I had given it to him, agreed to go out, and had a sudden rush of Ick that made me a little ill and thus provided an excuse to not go.

Unfortunately, for work, I still had to go to his place of employment. I hadn't expected to run into him on a regular basis. Things have changed. Shit got serious.

I steeled myself. I would just go out with him and act horrible. I would sabotage the date. I would talk about my many cats, and my Pinterest wedding, and how many children I wanted, and who were his grandparents so I could incorporate our families in their names?

That way, the next time I had to see him, he'd do the polite thing and hide in the back room for an hour.

However, when I went in there, pimpy and grotesque and about three inches away from bitch-slapping the people standing next to me for breathing (not heavily, just breathing)... I realized I had forgotten how attractive he was. Wow.

And not openly off-put by my horrible state. Still interested even though I'm stuffing gummi worms into my mouth- directly from my purse? Color me flattered.

Chemical changes. Brain waves. A gentle but persistent persuasion from the nether regions. SCIENCE!

Then this happened:

So, yeah. Ahem. I embark upon another dating... experiment.

The Younger Man.

This should be interesting.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

The Gentle (?) Letdown.

My wild weekend of dating turned out to be somewhat of a bust. First the cancellation from the mistaken racist, and then a cancellation (blamed on a change of work schedule) by the second, who I would say I was most interested in meeting with (and not just because he's a bartender... only mostly because he's a bartender).

My third and only date remained steady, bless his little heart. We met for coffee today-- I arrived early and bought my own, because I am frankly feeling on the bitchy edge of anti-social off and on the past few weeks (I'm blaming a serious amount of stress all  at once, including a death in the family) and the thought of going through the "who will pay" dance made me cringe. I didn't think I could muster up enough fake gratitude for a cup of coffee to make it worthwhile.

He was nice, and he liked to talk, which worked out well for me since I've been more in the mood to glare and fester, but of course, as usual, there was no real interest on my part. The only thing I could arrange any enthusiasm for was our discussion of "Game of Thrones," which is my new obsession and a nice change from my conversations revolving around mutant sharks. I didn't even go into detail about my multitude of pets when he asked me, which is usually the topic of conversation that turns me into a warm-hearted tiny white Oprah.

And this picture is from when I gave him a bath! 

It was, as my friend termed it, the "Snore Date."

No rudeness on his part, just a general lack of compatibility. I was glad he talked, because unless my coffee magically transformed into a frosty brew, I didn't have the energy for feigning interest in the things he enjoys, and he didn't seem especially enamored of my own likes and dislikes, and was only lukewarm when I showed him a slideshow of my cats.

An hour into it, I was confident nothing was going to happen, and also hungry (bitchiness level: high), so I excused myself to go home and eat ( + sweatpants). The poor man checked his phone for the time.

"Oh, it's only been an hour? Feels like longer!"

Yes, it really did, but thanks for that flattering reminder. This earned its appropriate response from me... something between a sneer and a look of disgust, along with an acerbic concern I had bored him.

So, yeah...

I wasn't sure I'd hear from him after all of that, but I did a few hours later, thanking me for the date and asking to grab a drink another time.

I set my phone aside. I pondered. I forgot about it and watched "True Blood." I remembered. I worried. I watched more television and did laundry.

While most agree I am perfection (statistics show), one criticism I do get from those that know me and know of my dating routines is that I avoid letting men down in the worst possible way.

To me, this is utter kindness, with only a strong dash of cowardice.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" My friend says.

NO. I would not want to know. Absolutely not. I've touched on this before and I reiterate it. In casual dating situations (exceptions may exist based on how "casual" I consider the situation), I would rather assume (and hope) that the man in question died a tragic death on the way home from our date--possibly running his car into the river because he was lost in thought about how marvelous I am and didn't see that a freak storm had washed the bridge out, yonder--rather than that he found some part of me lacking.

Especially on such short acquaintance, when I work so hard for them to not notice all the Crazy I've swept under the rug. On first dates, I'm at my best. I'm charming, more or less. I'm pretending to care about your job and your interests.

I showered.

So what is the problem? Is it my crooked smile? Is it that one of my jokes came off wrong? Is it that I blurt out things before I can consider them? Do you not like an in-depth critical analysis of "Sharktopus?"

*eye twitch*

We've all got our tragic flaw, and mine is that I want that to be good enough... for everyone. I can't become prettier, or more interesting, or pretend to enjoy things I don't.

It is what it is.

But I like it, and if someone else doesn't... well, honestly, I don't want to know about it. Let's just gradually lose touch and pretend we don't know each other when we see one another on the street. That was I can go on thinking the problem is your sexual confusion, and nothing to do with me.

When I consider rejection of another, all I can think is of how I would feel in their place... how I am reducing them to a shivering glob of insecurity by my cold, heartless disinterest.

I spoke with them, I looked at them, and I found them lacking, or unappealing.

 How dare I? Who the fuck do I think I am? I DON'T GOT TO CHANGE FOR NOBODY!!

Apparently, though, this is not how the rest of the world thinks. Not everyone is on my level of defiant desperation. General consensus is: if you don't want to go out with a guy again... he should probably know that.

I can only change my phone number so many times. The kind thing to do is to cut ties, move on, and get a new phone in case they drunk text and make me feel bad.

So tonight I made the effort to man up. After a few hours of putting it off (fantasies of "how could you, you bitch? I loved you!" popping up on my screen), I had my first experience with gently rejecting someone I had gone on a date with.

I'm gonna need a bigger mug.

I did the best I could, using honesty and smiley faces and every other method of kindness I can portray via text. I told him I had a good time. I told him I just didn't feel the specific (nearly unobtainable) connection I was looking for... which was totally my fault, fer shor I'm practically dead inside. I told him I'd love to hang out as friends, which is true (he has all the DVD seasons of "Game of Thrones"). I threw in some more emoticons.

I have not heard back yet, so I assume he has killed himself.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Dipping My Toe Back In...

Damn. I need a Pedi.

I'll try to keep this short and sweet, since I'm low on topic, but fact of it is, I miss you, and I want to reach out and bad-touch you via Internet blogging. Shh... just let it happen.

Fortunately or unfortunately (seeming dependent on the day), my dating life has fallen to the wayside in favor of trying to get my shit together in other aspects of my existence. Like:

#1 Navigating being a good or at least tolerable employee, even though 75% of the time I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and 5% of the time I'm crying in the car while I contemplate just driving to Mexico and becoming a drug lord.

#2 Taking care of my babies and cleaning puke out of my hair. God, they puke a lot. Why? Why, on the bed while I'm sleeping? Why on my pillow?

#3 Getting my health in order by eating crazy good organic food. See #1.

#4 Renewing my pursuit of the elusive Literary Agent.

And this is all good. This is what grown ups do, or so I've been told. I even bought myself a coffee maker with a timer, so I can get out of bed at a "reasonable hour," sit on the front porch and glare at the neighborhood children over a nice cup of java with almond milk.

But it doesn't leave a lot of time for dating. How can I tell those damn kids to keep off my lawn when I'm on a date?

When free time rolls around, it seems a more comfortable and logical choice to spend it with friends-- people I already know and don't have to feign interest in, or do my hair for, who will not be offended when I suddenly blurt out that I want to go home NOW get the tab, they just know that sometimes I just suddenly hate everything without reason and that's just who I am.

No fuss. No drama. No push-up bra.

The smoking hottie, I may have mentioned, was onto my blog, but what I did not realize was that he was onto it from the start, and I played into it rather like a mice in a maze hornily running after some hot cheese. Alas.

He did bring up something that made me think (yuck). He admitted he was nervous that I was analyzing him the entire date.

It's a fair assumption that I'm going on these dates ready to eviscerate the hapless men whenever they misstep, but it's not quite true. I'm still on these dates as dates, and I'm still vaguely hoping that something will click. I break them apart the same way I break apart everything I experience-- I write, and by nature I can't avoid that internal narrator that turns everything into an experience. If I got your love and approval for a detailed narration of my excursion to purchase Tampax, things may be different here.

Of course, then I post it all online, which is admittedly pretty weird but it works for me because I'm admittedly pretty weird.

Regardless, it was all a little confusing.

I got the dating itch again the other day, when a cutie was chatting me up at the car wash. I felt all giggly and gleeful, like I was in high school again getting attention from the sexy guy in my Biology class. How often do cuties chat me up, after all? I laughed, I tossed my hair, and I felt like a kid again.

When he found out we had gone to the same school, it was even better. And then when he asked what year I graduated, I figured out why it was giving me such a throwback to high school. He was practically still in high school.

I sobered up from my little high, put on my bifocals, and cut that shit out.

I've got two dates (with legal, consenting adults) this weekend in an effort to strike that memory from my mind. I had three, but the third cancelled because he was not comfortable dating "multiethnic" girls at one time.

Luckily, that was an autocorrect from "multiple" because I thought he was pretty racist for a few minutes.

Both are nice guys. Not my usual type (unshaven hippie pirates), but polite, and kind and complimentary. I feel this ensures me at least some good conversation... and who knows what else?

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Let MeMe Be Your Guy-d

Somewhere along the line I lost sight of the fact that I intended this, originally, as a guide, for those other awkward ladies and men trying to navigate the treacherous and slutty waters of the dating pool.

Maybe that's for the best.

What authority do I have, after all? My go-to response in social settings is to laugh awkwardly and fidget while avoiding eye contact, sometimes replying to questions with a noun or adjective that has absolutely no right to be included in the sentence.

"How are you doing today, MeMe?"

"Jaunty birds. Two-by-fours. Eclectic coffee pencils (nervous laughter). Amiright? You know!"

And yet, the shocking realization is that I am still not anywhere near the most awkward, uncomfortable, cringe-inducing human in the Internet Dating World of OkCupid.

Even my Groupon subscription, at this point, is gently recommending I try

"Half off. Come on, MeMe... please listen. We're worried about you. It's 50% off now, and 50% more normal. Just think-- that's 50% less bitching from you. Think it over, won't you? For your own good?

For some reason, I persist, although my interest in the dating world can only be described as "lackluster" at best.

Gerard Butler did his best, and even suggested a mini golf outing, which, I feel (for him) was a true stretch of the imagination. I agreed, because I hate open rejection, and then went into the ritual of only answering half his texts, weaning him off until there were no more responses and he got the hint and stopped asking.

Since he would only text me once every few days this was not much of an issue, and my worry that I was stifling his burning passion for me alleviated.

Smoking Hottie, meanwhile, actually texted that he realized he was being rather stingy in an attempt at strange (and awkward) flirtation, and offered to buy me (yes, purchase!) sushi one day if I could make it out to his neck of the city.

Obviously, he reads my blog.

I'm open to this, because I enjoy looking at him, but again, there's really no worry that these boys are going to bust down my door to get to me. Call me old-fashioned but I like a man who's the perfect mix of giving me breathing room and obsessing about me to the point where it is no longer healthy.

Because this blog also turned out more popular than I could ever have expected or hoped (and I love you desperately for being so interested in my terrible dates, tragic history, and overall madness), I've been getting a lot of feedback from various individuals, who are trying to follow my "rules" but not fully grasping that I make shit up as I go, and will in all likelihood change my mind next week, swearing I never even SAID the thing that I had, previously, been so strident about, let it GO already good gracious.

So, for my bros out there in utter confusion, here's a few basic rules that I may or may not waver on down the line (my ladies, please feel free to comment any additional Golden Rules that I may have overlooked):

Rule One: If You Ask Her Out, You Pay. Jesus. 

   It's really as simple as that. Yes, we live in 2013 and feminism means women are striving to be equal to men, earn the same amount per dollar, and live in a world where we can be respected and admired and safe, even though Kickstarter just funded a guide for men that literally tells them it's okay to just grab our hands and put them directly on the penis. It's a confusing battle between good, evil, and old fashioned here.

But just answer me this: Did you ask her out? You did, didn't you? Then plan on paying.

   If she asked you out, and you said yes, not only is she my new hero, she should also expect to foot the bill. Or at least go Dutch. Fair's fair.

   But, speaking as someone who gets rejected every time she asks a man out, yet seems to be in hot demand when she appears to be totally uninterested (admittedly, awkwardness maaaay be a factor here), men seem to prefer to be the ones doing the asking. Am I being too bold? Am I scaring you? Am I literally not making any kind of sense whatsoever in my attempt to communicate with you? I don't know. But if you want to be the ones doing the asking, go right ahead. Just pay.

   Don't preface the date with a condescending wink and a pat on the hand, followed with, "It's on me, so order whatever you want, little lady." Thanks, I think I'll order my dignity back.
   Don't hold up your hand like a Supreme and tell her you've got it when the check hits the table. Just pick it up, and put your card down like it ain't no thing. You got this. You planned this. Let her fiddle with her purse a minute, because we genuinely feel bad if we don't offer (unless 1- she is an entitled bitch or 2- you were just the worst of companions for the course of the meal), but assure her, it's on you and thanks for spending the evening with you. Boom. I don't care if you bought me water and I splurged for a slice lemon, that's what I like to hear.

   If you can't afford a nice dinner and a movie, or don't want to put that kind of investment into a new person, go for coffee. Go for ice cream. Take a walk. Read her some romantic epic poems (please don't read her poems on the first date). Figure it out, son.

   This does not mean you have to front the bill for your female friends, your mother and extended family, and every woman in the bar. Are you trying to sleep with them? I certainly hope not (though I can't speak for some guys I know). Thus, they don't expect you to throw cash at them like they're spending their weekend twirling on a pole beneath a shiny disco ball.

Not again, Cousin Judy... You promised!

Rule Two: On the Initial Approach... Don't Be So Weird.

Seriously, quit being so fucking weird.

-Do not propose or profess love before a socially appropriate amount of time has passed.

 That is just never okay. Please stop doing it.

Let's analyze an example, shall we?

"Ok so maybe this is a bit forward.. .. but how about we go explore Chicago, you know because I'm an expert on the place... While there we could get engaged.. Yeah you know like wedding future wife be with me forever engaged hahaha .."

My first reaction to this (second, my first is that this individual absolutely has no concept of how to use ellipses) is holy hell, he's going to murder me somewhere in the three-hour drive it would even take to get to Chicago. I'll end up stuffed into his dead mother's wedding gown and kept in a dry basement closet until the police find me twenty years later during a drug raid.

You look like you're about a size four... 

Not only is suggesting we spend a total of 6 hours in a car together on a first date (assuming I even make it back) very presumptuous and completely horrifying, adding to the fact that I'm coming home with a (very small, no doubt) rock on my cold dead finger is just way too much pressure.

  Desperation level: Expert.

   My friend is experiencing a similar problem--a man she dated for a month (a year ago) continues to text her with declarations of love, and an insistent that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

   They broke up because she found out he was engaged. To his cousin.

   You can't bounce back from this, buddy. I don't care how much you claim to love her in the hopes that she'll forgive you for being an absolute piece of crap, because girls like that, right? That's all they want--committment!

 You gots to git.

Please help me; I don't even know this man.

-Don't start off with a joke. Or a pick-up line. That ranks only slightly less pathetic.

-Do NOT neg her. I don't even think men know they're doing it half the time. If you are incapable of delivering a compliment without wrapping it in an insult, than you need to analyze why you can't just tell someone you think they're attractive without adding that they look like of like a thicker version of Julia Roberts. Are you so afraid your honest appreciation will be rejected that you add in a preemptive return snub? Don't get pissed when she's not flattered.

DO: Be honest. Yes, that can be difficult. It may not get you a return message on a dating site. It may not get  you much in person, either. Women have men bombarding them with crap, crap, crap, all the time. In the bar. On the street. While driving. At the store. While walking the dog. During delivery of our firstborn. Constantly, it's just:

Hey! Girl, you single? Hey! Hey! Hey! Nice Ass! Hey!

In my case, "Hey! How old are you? Hey! Hey! Hey!"

We block it out, automatically. Honesty will make an impression. A nice, "Hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but I think you're really lovely, and I'd love to buy you a drink/talk with you for a minute/get your number and maybe take you out this weekend, because I can see you're with friends and I hate to interrupt" will either get you digits, or at least a really nice lie about already having a boyfriend if you're a 2 and she's a 9 (Rule Three: Know Your Limitations).

DON'T: Be too honest. "You're so hot I want to bang you right here and now on the bar, and I don't care who's watching. Ursher-style."

Rule Four: Accept Rejection Gracefully

I can't really help you here; I'm still working on that one.

It always has time for me.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Step 5, 8, 16, 21, and 56... Resignation

The time has come again. MeMe felt the siren's call of dating---but mostly I just missed you guys--and  attempted the dreaded second date.

Not once, mind you, but twice, in the hopes that something magically strange or awkward would happen, and I could report back with a great second date story that you could share around the water cooler, with your grandparents over breakfast, or work into your wedding vows right in that tricky spot where you're not quite sure what story to put between the day you met and the day you proposed.

Unfortunately, both dates were more or less unremarkable, so I must resort, as usual, to some salty language in an attempt to liven things up.

Obviously, the first order of business was to meet up with the smoking cute studlett that is, let's face it, too young for me, but who is very pretty and who I enjoyed speaking with.

And I enjoyed speaking with him again, though I started noticing things I had missed on the first date.

For example--because what's one of my posts without bitching about the check?--the first date was just coffee, and he was sitting and visually absent when I arrived, so I ordered my own coffee and went off to find him.

In retrospect, it was a bit odd that he had already ordered his, and was maybe more legitimately trying to hide around the corner of the cashier than simply out of sight.

I say this because he invited me out for round two at a time when I had a mere few precious dollars to my name (pretty much like every other day), which I mentioned.

He offered, via text, to pick up the tab... but with a winky promise that I'd get the next one. Well sure, that's adorable, and isn't that how kids these days flirt?

Except without the charming addition of a winky face emoticon, he got kind of intense about it. I had to do a pinky swear that I would pick up the tab next time around. He was beaded with sweat and shaking until I broke down and agreed, because I was starting to foresee that third date not being an issue.

I bought black coffee, mind you. It was less than two dollars.

Well, I reminded myself that he was recently out of work. And a handful of years younger than me (props). I could vaguely relate to his concern, and tried to brush it off.

We talked for two hours again. He is really fascinating to talk with, kind of like a cute little white Morgan Freeman on some PBS special. Philosophy, odd science, fun facts... he is obviously very intelligent, and I felt my brain waking up a little, pleased to finally have an opportunity to impress, and give the fake smiles and on-cue laughs a break.

Although, then there were those moments where he told the story of an older homosexual man confessing his love, or underwear cuddle time with his male roommate, that made me wonder why I like my men so gay.

Afterward, despite the stimulating conversation accompanying my sudden fear that I'll end up married to a really clean-cut man who spends an inordinate amount of time with his best friend Julian, I left noticing that I had lost some of that spark from the first date.

I think the stimulating conversation may have overlooked the fact that the two of us need to get to know one another to build anything. I learned about sensory deprivation, Indigo Children, and how a recognizable gay celebrity wanted to more or less adopt him, but I didn't leave with any sort of picture of who he was as a person.

The only really clear picture I came away with was the worrying image of him and his roommate sitting in sticky repression on their sofa together, clad only in tight white briefs and denial.

I was not adverse to meeting again... and purchasing him a round, or a coffee (though nothing much fancier than that on principle). After all, he was shelling out for gas and coming to see me, and with local gas prices figuratively dropping the soap and telling us in a husky voice to "bend on over an' pick it 'urp," that's nothing to be overlooked.

Until he told me he was going to Puerto Rico this weekend, just for "fun." Okay. You may not have a job at the moment, but if you can fly off to a tropical land on a whim, you can fucking pick up the tab for Panera coffee, and even a muffin should I feel so inclined. Sympathy and understanding REVOKED.

So, I set up a second date with Gerard Butler, who had tried a few times to arrange one via text but never found me in a particularly interested mood. He had promised, this time, that it would be "on him," since I made a point of noting I was brizzoke as shit after our last date had ended with me reluctantly taking my half of the sushi dinner he had so helpfully suggested.

I honestly did not even shower for this date. I have started a new job that I am still trying to navigate and thus in a perpetual state of stress and nerves, and my body isn't quite ready to return to a diurnal schedule after half a year of sleeping through the day and scurrying around at night with my eyes reflecting car headlights. Showering and the subsequent beautifying routine just sounded exhausting, especially for a late-night date. I wore my glasses, a little mascara, and the clothes I had worn the night before for getting drinks with a friend. It definitely took him a minute to recognize me.

We met at a neighboring town, at a really fun bar with a great vibe. People in dreadlocks were beating Bob Marley out of bongo drums, and there were stuffed jackalopes all over the room. I was more excited to see that people really do congregate and have a good time on the weekends than to see Gerard, because I live in  a city based on that town in "Footloose," but I will admit that, upon second perusal, he is very attractive. I think upon initial meeting I was too busy noting ways that he is NOT Gerard Butler to realize that he's a pretty handsome lad.

The bar, while I loved it, was way too loud for conversation. That was probably all right. Neither of us really had much to say.

In between sets I launched into my nervous "say anything oh God just talk" habit, again, like a hysterical little monkey in red pants. I don't even know what came out of my mouth. He probably couldn't hear me anyway.

I know, however, I made a few attempts at jokes--at least one of them had to have been clever--to no response. Barely a smile cracked.

I laugh so hard I cry at my own jokes, but nothing from this guy? Hard audience. The more I noticed this, the more desperately I tried to become funny, and the more stoic he seemed to become, and the monkey just chattered harder.

Could I resign myself to a life of just not being funny?

He is, I will say, sweet, and definitely kind of shy and awkward, which comes off as strange on a guy over six feet tall who is build like Gerard Butler (Yeah, I looked).

But when he walked me back to my car and hesitantly tried to feel out a third date, I couldn't feel it. I like men who are goofy and know when to be ridiculous and make me look  like the stoic one.

I don't think it would work. I watched my dad ignore my mom's jokes (and vice versa, though his, to be fair, were terrible) for their marriage right up to the end, and I know that I need someone who yes, thinks I'm clever and intelligent, but also uproariously funny (and hot)... and doesn't mind picking up the first few checks.


A rabbi was called to a small village in Africa called Trid, to deal with the issue of a giant who had invaded and was going around kicking the tar out of the villagers.

The rabbi went, and found the giant roaming around, happily kicking the poor people of Trid halfway to China.

"Giant!" The rabbi called bravely, hoping reason would end the horror. "This is wrong! You must stop kicking these poor people!"

And then the rabbi cowered, bracing himself for a foot to the rear.

The giant only laughed, however.

"Silly Rabbi," he boomed. "Kicks are for Trids."

Sunday, May 19, 2013

MeMe Lives For a Day

Wait, wait, wait... Wait. Did MeMe just have a good date?

With someone who actually is attractive and also happens to not be four inches shorter than claiming on their profile?

... Apparently one just has to give up hope entirely.

Even better than the fact that he was incredibly cute head-on... and then he'd turn just-so and hit the perfect angle and becoming what I like to call "shockingly attractive holy shit..." he was super interesting and seemed totally unaware of how much I was daydreaming about boning him.

He's a nerdy hipster pirate with an interest in sociology and the human mind and one of those people who gets so caught up in a project they forget to eat. I don't think I've ever forgotten to eat in my life. I eat while planning my next meal. I suddenly feel like I'd be way cooler if I got so intense I forgot to eat... but low blood sugar on my part results in destruction and death for those around me so I'll settle for developing my alcoholism. That's sort of interesting too.

Still waiting to hear from him and get that all-important follow-up contact, though we talked for two hours, took a walk, and he mentioned meeting again so I feel pretty confident all is well--which probably means he won't call.

Or has finally recognized that he is gay will only call to thank me. Dammit!

If he does contact, I will certainly meet him again and see how it goes. This has definitely been the best date I've been on thus far, and the only one I'm actually eager to see again. I want to skip over the awkward getting-to-know-you stage and just lay my head on his chest while we stare at the stars and do other ridiculously annoying romantic crap because he's just. that. cute.


Saturday, May 18, 2013

To Everything... Turn... Turn... The Lights Off and Go Away.

To my loyal readers:

I apologize for dropping off the face of the earth again. I've been so terribly busy, rushing to and fro, recording documents, scanning, faxing, dialing... okay, whatever, fine. I dropped my laptop and then about fifteen minutes later dumped a margarita on it for good measure. Don't worry though; I had more margarita on hand. Crisis. Averted. 

There is a Season: 

Turning 25 for the third time this year, I've learned a few things.

ONE: No, you can't spend the whole month binge-eating pizza and burgers and then expect to eat a salad one day and drop five pounds. Your body has finally turned on you. Your glory days are gone, and you SQUANDERED them you terrific fool! God bless your oddly youthful face; all is not lost.

TWO: You will start saying stupid shit like 'they seem like such a nice family!' and meaning it. You will also read ingredient lists while grocery shopping to avoid aggravating your lactose sensitivity or prompting heartburn. Probably while parking your cart in the middle of the aisle with joyful obtuseness and smiling at babies.

THREE: More cats will show up. You can walk down the street, and cats just fall into line behind you. They can sense that you're single and know that it is only a matter of time before you doze off in an armchair and they can chew off your face. Keep extra bags of food handy and take short naps to maintain vigilance.

FOUR: Suddenly, a night on the town seems like a lot of work. You know what sounds fun? A mellow night in with friends. Possibly a board game and some mixed drinks. You can have fun, be in bed by nine and you don't have to worry about avoiding sunlight and loud noises for the next six days. Doesn't that sound nice?

And then there's FIVE, where you realize that you're suddenly an adult and your entire life is now moving you toward a "future." You've got a real job that pays you this amazing thing called a "salary," and your days of watching TBS until the wee hours of the morning are screeching to an end. You now own a twill dress and a jacket and you're working on an air of quiet authority. Most horrifyingly, you're stuck between joy that the bills will be paid and you won't always live in your mom's basement and you can buy a car that isn't held together with duct-tape... and a clenching worry that you're turning away from the things that are important to you. Like watching TBS until the wee hours of the morning because you're feeling "artistic."

Worse, the weather is changing, and, as a female, sights, smells and even a specific temperature prompt memories from random moments in your life. Remember that one time you played hide-and-seek with your brother in the field outside a red church and it was of absolutely no importance or note? You do now.

Lately, to my chagrin, it's been those "happy" moments I shared with Thing Two... when what is now "crazy" he still considered "fun" and "challenging."

And I want to be able to sit and absorb these moments from my first dabble into love, but then I'm reminded that Thing Two sure as hell isn't wasting his time thinking about how we had a few laughs... he's too busy with the new girlfriend he picked up the moment we ended (or just slightly before, still not quite solid on that timeline which is a constant source of frustration...) so any effort I may put into reminiscing seems entirely wasted and I hate wasting my time unless it's by playing video games or blacking out after too many cocktails.

I think what's confusing is that, with the rest of my life finally on track, I'm ready for a real relationship. Yes, I've had to squeeze about ten years' worth of dating experiences into the past few months, and yes, I've probably acted like a sixteen-year-old for most of them as I've tried to absorb how the social mating process works after years of celibacy inflicted by braces and acne while I developed a "personality" and crippling phobias about opening up to people.

But, as stupid as this whole experiment may appear to an outsider, it's done its job. I can small talk, I share my feelings, I make extended eye contact, and I'm comfortable with physical contact.

So, I've gotten all that weirdness out of the way, and with warm weather here, I'm ready for someone to rub my shoulders after a long day of work and take me out for a nice dinner (he's so sensitive!). I want to do relationship-y things... like not talk for long periods of time, possibly while sitting on a porch swing. Make comments about the weather. Discuss varicose veins and the dangers of sun radiation. Maybe gently argue politics then fall asleep during sex.

As you may have picked up on by now, I go through phases: Desperately Want a Relationship phases, which lead to a few awkward dates, which lead to Thank God I'm Single, I Never Want One of These Morons to Think They Own Me phases. So this was only a matter of time.

In an effort to pull the rest of my life together and put myself on the track to a pretty diamond, two chocolate labs and a summer house in the country, I've reconnected with those men otherwise ignored on my dating website.

And so, inevitably, I went after the hottest ones first. Tomorrow I have a coffee date with a guy who is incredibly, smoking hot (if his pictures don't lie)... like, way, way out of my league, but who likes small dogs and is afraid of cats. I figure that balances him out. Makes it less of a challenge.

He and I seem to run the pattern of forgetting about each other, texting a lot, forgetting, and then marveling that we still haven't gotten together. I get busy, he goes on a tour of the states to film a documentary. Etc. He's cool, that's the point of that story. He films documentaries. That almost makes up for being afraid of cats.

Thank God that while I was sitting outside (drinking) thinking about past relationships and how much I hope they're miserable without me when the sudden reminder of this hot guy and his interest hit, and I contacted him and we made an actual official date.

Gerard Butler guy has messaged a few times trying to get together, but, while I considered it, there wasn't enough there for me to feel like struggling to make conversation for an hour (although he did offer to pay, per my comment that I couldn't go out until my check came in).

So, we'll see how tomorrow (coffee date) goes. If not well, then let's pray I become entirely absorbed in having a career and forget my recent urge to date again.

At least I can now afford, with some frugality, to regularly hire an attractive male prostitute to tell me I'm pretty and pretend that our lovemaking is entirely about the emotional connection. So much an improvement, and definitely worth the extra cash.

Friday, April 26, 2013

What's The Point Besides an Excuse to Binge-Eat Ice Cream?

I got a little nervous and excited for my date with Gerard Butler's Body Double Guy... as in, I drank a glass of wine to calm my nerves as I sat on the couch in my pajamas until the last possible moment I could do so.

I pulled out the stops, looks-wise, when I finally made myself get up. I even shaved my legs and put on the magic skirt that does some kind of wondrous thing to my backside, as if God Himself has reached down and given it a smack of approval. Bury me in this skirt.

I aimed for that cute, care-free and low-maintenance look that only takes about three and a half hours (and a serious level of skill) to create. I even strategically left my freckles make-up free, as if I'm just naturally fresh-faced and sun kissed and didn't at all have to wipe the foundation off of them individually. 

And I got to the restaurant only like five minutes late. That is a clear indication of my seriousness. I looked good. I made an entrance. I was fucking prepared for this.

Gerard Butler Body Double Guy had suggested we meet for sushi, which shows he has awesome taste in food and also suggests he probably read in my profile that I love sushi... which shows an ability to read.

I went in for the hug and he went in for the handshake. He was tall and I am not tall, though I wore my hookeryest boots, and the combination of all of this was an incredibly awkward hug where our arms bumped and ricocheted as if our bodies were unconsciously rejecting the embrace.

I just laughed because Awkward Girls don't give a fuck, but he seemed truly horrified.

The date was, for lack of a better description, dull. He was good looking, but on the quiet side. This forced me to carry the conversation which is not something I have any talent in. I will literally just blurt out everything that I'm thinking as fast as possible with no real connection between ideas. I ended up talking about Sharktopus for like twenty minutes.

If you do not love this movie we can't be friends. 

The only part of the evening really worth noting was when the waiter came and asked how we wanted the check. Gerard Butler Guy went super quiet. I waited. And then I waited. And then the waiter looked at me with a sympathetic tear in his eye and I told him to just split it. 

The Rules of Dating (For Men):

    1) If you invite the girl out, pay. 
    2) If you pick the restaurant, pay. 
    3) If you don't plan on paying... do not suggest an expensive meal.
    4) Just fucking pay holy crap.

If I had known I was covering my portion of this, we would have been splitting a bowl of Ramen noodles on a pair of folding chairs in the backyard, and I would not have wasted my time putting on real clothes. 

Psst. Get those, will you?

Yes, yes, equality and whatnot. Listen, I don't care if you don't make a lot of money. I don't mind picking up my half, or trading off... down the road. But the first date is the one where you at least pretend I'm worth putting a few bucks into.

I have officially asked out one guy (who agreed, that is), and as I am poor, we got coffee. I picked up the tab, because I am a gentleman and also I had a coupon for a free coffee. Point is, not paying when you've asked someone out is tacky. 

Possibly he was just not feeling me, although he did seem to appreciate my boobs (who wouldn't?). Maybe talking about a land-walking shark-octopus hybrid developed by the government as a specialized killing machine was not the way to win his heart. He yawned and stretched a lot, and ate every piece of ice in his glass like he would be charged extra if he didn't. I suggested twice that he could go if he needed to be somewhere, but then he would insist he was fine. I supplied the out, so that's his problem.

 Don't rush me when I'm drinking a beer.

He did walk me to my car and mention doing it again sometime, but I've learned that everyone just says that because we're all fucking liars. Sure, call me. Just don't expect me to answer.

I have not heard from him yet, so either he is playing the Game or he was legitimately not interested in me and my fascinating talk about the mucus production of my foster cat. This will make him the first one who hasn't contacted me after a date, so my ego ain't hurting just yet. 

Going out with him and finding it was more or less another dud of a night put me into a weirdly desperate mood. Luckily I gathered a few friends together and over drinks they entertained me with talk about buttholes, and all seemed right with the world again. 

Some days I need to remind myself that there is nothing wrong with being single... and that is in fact pretty awesome. As of next week I officially plummet into my "late" twenties, and I still work at a job where pants are optional. I'm starting to feel the pressure of society, enemies, and ex's thinking I'm "failing" because I'm not in a relationship. My Facebook is blowing up with engagement and marriage announcements and I'm still at that stage in my life where if I manage to brush my teeth I consider the day a success. 

But then I remember that I have total freedom, friends that will take me out for margaritas, and that I'm fucking awesome at arcade games, and I no longer give a crap that my family members think I'm probably a lesbian. 

I'll make some lucky lady very happy one day.

Tomorrow I'll probably get a wave of hormones and decide my life won't be complete until I move into a white house and have four freckled children, but for right now I'll just enjoy. 


Text at midnight: "Maybe we should just get sushi again next week."

... Does that sound incredibly resigned to anyone else?

Sunday, April 14, 2013


   With the deletion of my Plenty of Fish profile, things have seemed a little bleak. Mostly because I was bored not having messages to check... I have been okay not being bombarded with sexually explicit requests. Go figure.

    My messages on OkCupid were dwindling, and really, I didn't much care anymore. I'm back where I started in this whole Dating Experiment... Dating is stupid an' I don't wanna do it.

   Occasionally I hop back on and look around, but the options are just... really?

I messaged one guy with a hopeful optimism, because he was really cute and has a beard and was wearing flannel, but I kid you not, he included this in his profile:

"I write adult fiction (dirty stories... like NC16 dirty)."

Hrm. Mature.

   I messaged him with fingers crossed anyway (because damn, that beard), asking if perhaps he writes for profit?

Nope. "For giggles and boners."

... Okay.

What about this guy?

"hey hi hello hallow marhaba hola."


   I found one who looked more or less promising, although his pictures were just close-ups of his lips so fair guess he looks like Gollum with beautiful lips.

Maybe he's born with it...

He had mentioned on his profile this, regarding online dating:

"(for guys) at first, you spend time trying to read through profiles and think of interesting things to say, and then you put in the effort into writing to someone. and usually you get no response, or if you're luck, you get a simple 'no thanks.'"

  I messaged him and asked if this was true. Honestly, honestly, I would rather a guy just ignore me than message back "no thanks." If he ignores me, I can assume he is 
1) Dead 
or 2) Too intimidated by my good looks and charm to risk answering me with something off-putting, so, crippled by anxiety, they can only stare for helpless hours at my message, unable to respond. 

However if he answers, he's solidifying the fact that he just does not find me attractive, because, really, what else is he going off of here?

And if he does not find my profile pictures attractive, then he is really not going to be into me when I'm eating peanut butter cups on the couch at 2am, with no make-up and in the same shirt I've worn for three days.

I was informed "yeah you thought wrong" and "of course" a guy wants a rejection message. Something something only girls with low self esteem don't confront a guy and give him closure. 

Wow, my bad. I guess I shouldn't have anticipated any sort of kind or helpful response from someone whose profile calls everyone in his city "fat" and says "im becoming more and more convinced that there isnt a woman in the area that's good enough for me." 

But then... and now is my moment to really truly brag:

I was checking out the profile for a decent-looking guy, when I noticed something... something amazing. 

A picture of himself and Gerard Butler. Looking buddy-buddy. Arms around, smiles on. 

My stalking commenced. 

Let me just list off the awesomeness that is this dude.

1) He has worked on multiple film sets, including doing stunt work and working as Gerard Butler's body double.

2) He has competed on multiple Ninja Warriors. In fact, we have to push our coffee date to next week because this weekend he will be in Baltimore for another one. 

3) He substitute teaches for mentally and physically handicapped kids.

4) He spells correctly, and has not yet asked me to participate in anything that would require me to be naked. Gentleman! 

5) He cooks.

This is literally the kind of guy girls make up for family events in an effort to prove they're not a lesbian. He probably spends his free time volunteering at a homeless shelter and advocating for abused puppies. I'll bet he rides horses on the beach. 

My one concern going into this is that he sounds very active... and while I like to take a leisurely stroll now and then, and once in a while alternate a few minutes on the thighmaster with eating cupcakes, I'm a pretty mellow person. I love to go out, but I need a good two-to-three weeks to recover afterwards. I love being outside all day but where will I nap?

Either way, I totally get to brag about this to everyone ever. If it doesn't work out I'll just grab his ass on the goodbye, so I can close my eyes and for once, finally, know how it feels to inappropriately grope Gerard Butler. 

In my many fantasies that have already sprouted from this, I work my way up... body double, to face double, to the Butler himself, and make an honest man of him. 

...And here's where I tie her down and... no, it's okay, she's my wife.

So all in all, I think I deserve this:


I think this is purely a bragging rights date, to be honest, and rather a time-passer, but rest assured BRAG I SHALL. 

And then, smugly satisfied, the snow shall cease, and I can finally go on my real date with my Groomsman, because, and I don't mean to be cheesy, it's like my friend says:

"If you look THAT happy in a picture when talking to someone, then there is something there."

The dating future is bright, y'all. 

Thursday, March 28, 2013


So The Texter never made it to a second date. I feel like I saw this coming, but I was sort of enjoying the attention for once, for a brief, darling period. Then I realized it was too much attention. Holy crap.

Here's the deal: he is a really sweet guy, and damn but if he isn't the cutest stinkin' thing. Maybe, though, a little too sweet. A lot too sweet? Too much, just... too much.

True story.

If you have any sense of self worth, you're probably recognizing the flaws of that statement. Indeed, I am literally beginning to question if there is something deeply skewed in my idea of romance at this point. I'm pretty sure I get a bigger thrill from cancelling a date than going on one because if I put on my good make-up and the date doesn't go well, I legitimately feel cheated because that shit ain't cheap.

Even my best friend was on this guy's side. He just likes me. A lot. That's something to pity, not fear.

Okay, but...

The day after our date, he bought me a stuffed animal. Not like he won it at a fair in my honor, but still. I tried to tell myself it was a cute gesture, but you know what I really don't need at this point in my life? Stuffed animals. I have like 60 real ones shedding on my bed and pooping right as I'm about to eat. What I really need is someone to take animals from me.

Then there was the texting. So, so much texting. Again, I reminded myself that, while in a long-distance relationship, texting was extremely important to me. If he wasn't texting me, I assumed that he was probably flirting with someone thinner and prettier and with lower moral standards (Side note: I have since been reassured by others suffering through long-distance relationships that this is, unfortunately, normal behavior). So shouldn't I be grateful that this man was making a serious effort to keep in touch with me at all moments of the day including when he knows I am asleep?

Okay, but Texter lives like... 30 minutes away, tops. I don't really know him so I don't really care what he's doing.... but isn't he at work? What the hell -- 7 missed alerts? And that funny picture is sort of racist.

I was going to respond but I took a nap instead.

Additionally, he wanted to plan a second date as soon as possible... Okay, not a bad thing. He liked me a lot and he wants to spend time with me.The issue came when I wouldn't commit to scheduling a third date as well. No, I am not planning my week around seeing you as much as possible. We hung out once.

I hedged my way out of that one without having to blatantly tell him it was more of my time than I was willing to give to someone I barely know. He did, after all, remind me a few times he has been off the dating scene for a while, and was rusty. He would gently remind me of this when I started to seem irritated, which was kind of a lot, and I would take a deep breath and remember that I am kind of a nutcase and should be sympathetic to other awkward daters.

But the next incident pushed me over the edge.

Since I was sick and couldn't hang out, he asked me to help him decide what to do on his day off.

I'm not sure why this annoyed me so much. I guess I feel like people who are pushing thirty should be able to make their own decisions about what to do with their free time. Again--I don't know you. I don't know what you like to do, and honestly, if I'm not involved, I couldn't give a rat's ass. If a decision in any way involves my happiness, please just assume that I will make it. Lay the options before me and accept that we'll be doing whatever it is that suits me best and that it probably involves cocktails... but if I'm not participating, I could not possibly care less how you're spending your day. Now leave me alone so I can watch this Psych marathon.

But he couldn't just let that go. He was insistent that, as a writer, as an adventurer, and as a woman and thus by nature opinionated, I should be jumping to make choices for him. Strange that now I'm taking the damn reins, whereas previously, I was "needy" and cute like a little animal for being sick.

I can be your mommy or your kid, dude, I can't be both... and also that's disgusting and I don't want to be either.

Somewhere along the lines he threw in a Princess Bride "As you wish," which maybe I am taking way too literally as a Princess Bride fan but did you just tell me that you love me?

Oh. Um... 

So, I told Texter that I think we are looking for different things in a partner. I was informed, very quickly, that I had misinterpreted his intentions, and he was just looking for a friend.

I've gotten this one before. It seems to be a knee-jerk reaction to rejection. I once had a man try to give me a fifteen minute talk on why, when he asked to buy me a drink at the bar and I told him I wasn't interested, I should be open to accepting friendship from strangers and less inclined to assume a man asking to buy me a drink at a bar is a romantic (sexual) overture... and did I have some animosity issues toward men?


Really? Just friends. Then why don't you go and buy that dude over there a drink? Let's just say frankly that your odds of going home with him are way more promising.

Maybe I'm speaking for myself here but do women do that?

If I hit on you and you reject me, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't hitting on you while mentally naming our future children. I'm just going to call you a dick and resent you. No big deal.

How about in a month or two? I can wait. 

Oh, and tell the story to my closest friends who will also act shocked at your horrible dickish behavior and offer me possibly reasoning for his decision.

Such as: He wants to love me... but it scares him how much better that him I am!
My beauty is really intimidating.
No, the girl with him in that picture is in no way more attractive than me; he is just covering his regret. Also she's a whore.

Yes, thank you, I would like more wine while you come up with more totally true statements.

So after that, I guess I'll probably Facebook stalk for a week waiting for any sign of a change of heart, and finally when that fails, I'll just resume my desperate love for celebrities who can never hurt or disappoint me and thus make the ideal crush. Like you're so great. If I'm a bird he will be a fucking bird too.

And isn't that the mature way to handle things?

So, anyway. The good news is that I deal with romantical disappointment by becoming immediately more thrilled that I am single and completely independent.

I go for a run. I admire myself in the mirror and applaud myself for being a strong, intelligent woman who knows her own mind. I have a glass (bottle) of wine and consider texting men I know do NOT want to hear from me. I cry over a few Jane Austen movies. I remind myself that the best revenge is living well-- as in, being more successful than the people you hate so you can rub it into their stupid faces. I dwell on that one guy I met in Indianapolis I was convinced was my soul mate and will never see again (Because I stalked him and he found out).


Thus, I return to the loving fleece-lined embrace of my sweatpants, and life is good again.

The bow tie makes this class out the ass.