Losing Momentum

Ho-ly shit she's digging out the Veranda. Spicin' things up. 

Admission: obviously I've lost momentum on this whole dating experiment. 

It just so much effort. Unless I'm really hungry, I don't much look forward to it. And if I'm hungry I'm probably whining and pissed off anyway, so I get even more annoyed about it. 

First I have to shower. Like, real showering. I can't just rinse off and call it good because I'm putting my hair up anyway. A human beyond a member of my family is going to be within smelling distance of me and the water seems to be hitting some sort of force field of odor. I haven't shaved my legs since summer. You know what's dangerous? Balancing in the shower with a sharp object. I really don't feel like endangering my life on a regular basis when my normal routine has become working diligently on deepening the ass print in my armchair. I need a thick covering of leg hair so the cats will accept me as one of their own.

Then there is makeup. I don't even want to talk about it, I'm tired already. It's two words made into one to trick you.

And now, while I may smell ridiculous awesome and my skin is flawless (oh, just good genes and living well), there's the overwhelming task of doing my hair. A task complicated by the situation of being half-way through a transition from using shampoo to using "no-poo" which is pretty much how the cavemen washed their hair (with organic apple cider vinegar). 

Allegedly cave ladies had supple, shiny hair full of volume and pizzazz, but I'm still in the stage where the roots look like I've been wearing a heavy knit hat for months and the bottom seems to be emulating Alice from Dilbert.  

Needless to say, I've been rocking the sassy pony (future band name?).

Wednesday I finally met up with Zoolander. I was originally supposed to get martinis with him last week, but I caught a bout of agoraphobia and instead ordered pizza and caught up on "Downton Abbey" while wearing men's sweatpants. 

The cats need company.

I don't have much to say about Zoolander. As I am coming to expect at this point, he was not as attractive as he was in his pictures. He did have beautiful cheekbones--I wanted to use them to hide my house key when I went away for the weekend--but other than that I wasn't much impressed. 

His major first date flaw: Zoolander talks over me. Actually, lots of people talk over me; I'm kind of used to it, although it's not a trait I'd really appreciate in a long-term potential mate. When I was telling my mom about how my date talked over me, my brother was talking over me. The story took hours. 

The good news is he took me out for sushi, so while he was making sure I didn't get a word in, I was eating more than my fair portion of the plate. Win. You keep talking, pal. This tempura tuna ain't gonna eat itself.

 Maybe his cheeks wouldn't be so hollow if he stopped yapping during meals. 

Can you pass the soy sauce?

Tonight I met up with News Guy. I knew this was going nowhere, but Zoolander, frankly, gave me no fodder whatsoever for a good blog post. I threw myself on the blade for you, readers. 

News Guy is thus termed because he works for the news. Yes, I really stretched for that one.

Yet again, News Guy did not look like his pictures. What is this magical angle these men are finding? Will they share their secrets? Granted I chose my pictures as representative of what I look like under ideal circumstances, but they still look like me. 

I passed News Guy's table uncertainly, circled back around, and hid in the corner to text him. I didn't go over until the man who kind of looked like News Guy checked his phone. 

He was exactly what I had anticipated after texting him for a few days... only in person one can't pretend the battery on one's phone has died. I was stuck. At a tiny, tiny table. Forcing myself to smile until my eye twitched. 

I knew about fourteen seconds after sitting down with him this wasn't going to work. And worse, I wasn't going to enjoy it. When he waved dismissively at the waitress my stomach shrank. When he smugly told me he was paying for dinner and I could get whatever I wanted, my conscious threw up its hands and told me, fuck it, girl. Get the big shrimp. 

News Guy was definitely the worst of the dates so far. Everything was confrontational, aggressive and judgmental. Everything I said was incorrect. My opinions were wrong, and any time I tried to argue them, he just shook his head snarkily, and said "Oh, you really are opinionated." At one point, before I had finished my first and only beer, he even called me a drunk. 

And yet, I was the one trying to carry this thing. He didn't contribute, he just shot down my every comment. 

Here's an example of how the conversation went:

(Finding myself lacking in conversation and staring at my beautiful, delicious shrimp)

MeMe: Have you ever been to Melting Pot? The fondue place?

NG: No, I don't like fondue. 

MeMe: Oh. Well, I love it, but every time I've tried to make it myself it hasn't turned out right. 

NG: I can see that.

MeMe: See... what? You don't... think I could be a good cook?

NG: Not really. I can't see you being good at cooking. 

MeMe: I'm a good cook. I love to cook. It's one of my favorite things to do.

NG: Nah. 

... FUCK. YOU.

Dating is stupid.

Obligatory Valentine's Day Post

Ah, yes. Valentine's Day approaches. 

It would seem appropriate to post some long, angry, bitter rant now about the commercialization of love, consumerism, communism, etc.

But I've never actually had a date on Valentine's Day. Thing Two doesn't really count, because we were long distance so I spent the night alone as usual anyway.

You know what I have always had on Valentine's Day? A good time.

Yes, all the Facebook updates about how romantic and sweet so-and-so's Boo is (zomg!), alongside uploaded photos of a bouquet of roses and a homemade meal tends to make me a little

Yeah. Choke on it.

But I'm like that regardless of the day, let's be real. 

Valentine's Day for single ladies is the one day a year when it's not only socially accepted, it's expected, that you will get sloppy drunk, cry, and throw up three dozen mini candy bars on the side of the road.

Everyone comforts you and tells you how pretty and smart you are. And you get to agree with them for once and no one will call you an egotistical bitch! 

I've been waiting all year for this shit. 

After my disappointingly bland date with Future Husband (I), he took the hint that I wasn't interested, and  we went our separate ways. 

...My lovely pirate.

I was a little bummed, but this whole Dating Experiment is helping me not throw all my emotional eggs into one basket. I was excited, I was disappointed, but more importantly, I got over it. 

Luckily for me, as if it was simply waiting for me to pass this all-important test, POF suddenly started parading its most handsome of men in front of me. 

Could they sense that I was becoming cool and aloof, and probably too good for them? Was I playing hard-to-get via Internet message? 

Out of nowhere - or maybe men feel the social pressure to be in a couple on Valentine's Day as well - I was bombarded by messages from good-looking men, with steady jobs and fair grammar. They seemed determined to lock me down as soon as possible, and as usual, I found my reaction to being wanted was to become more stubbornly attached to being single. 

Thanks for paying. 

Go on, boys. Send me that scripted shot of you half-lifting your shirt in the mirror. I'll just add it to my collection. You want to get drinks on Tuesday? NO. I will tell you WHEN and WHERE we will get drinks, and you will like it, and you will pick up the tab. I OWN YOU.

A few I selected to continue talking to, and here's the process: we have a good time messaging online for a bit, and I give you my number to text me. If you pass the text test, then we can meet up in person. 

Surprisingly few will pass this test. How this happens is beyond me. 

Are they having their mothers write out their dating profile and messages to me? Why this sudden change? Immediately spelling, grammar, and basic human standards seem to deteriorate. 

The first of these poor sacks was HugzNKissez, who, to be fair, I didn't expect much from in the first place. The "xxoos!" and constant baby names from a complete stranger proved too much for me, and I did the respectful thing and totally ignored him. 

But wait, that usually works. HugzNKissez did NOT get it. He kept texting, and messaging. The same fucking xxoo's. Over and over. Oh, sweetheart, his phone has been down, did I try to get a hold of him?? XXOO!!!

x fucking o bitch.

NO, my GOD. So I did the next step... I told him that I was sorry, but that I didn't think it would work out between us. 

Well, then he got mad, and wounded. It was "bullshit," and I was "leading him on." I'm pretty sure the most dramatic break up I've ever had was via text with a guy I never actually met in person. He demanded more information. I gently told him I just didn't think we were compatible, but he was nice, and handsome, and he'd do just fine. 

He demanded to know WHAT exactly was not compatible. 

Okay. Well. There's no nice way to say 'you're so dumb I'd worry about your safety if I didn't hold your hand crossing the street,' so I just ignored him. Dumb AND annoying. About an hour later he texted "Lol oh I think I know."

Sure you do, sweetie. And I'm 10 years old and I'm going to ask you WHAT WHAT?? I MUST KNOW!
Eh, probably just going to accuse me of being a lesbian. I get plenty of that at family Christmas, thankyouverymuch.

I had a second one who seemed pretty normal while messaging, but over text was just... unintentionally creepy. I'm pretty sure he was trying to be funny or charming, but it made me want to put on a second layer of clothing. I stopped talking to him when he told me the worst part of texting was that he wished he could be looking into my beautiful eyes when he talked to me.

Dude, I don't even know you. And I don't let people just stare all willy-nilly into my eyes. What are they looking at? Did I miss something when I plucked? Are they trying to read my secrets?? Get out of my soul!!

Okay! It wasn't the dog! Geez!

My other two options, however, are promising. Both are attractive, smart, and make me laugh.

Zoolander, as I shall dub him because of his insane model cheekbones, is my number one at the moment. Not only is he gorgeous (well, via selectively chosen pictures), funny, and smart, he is grateful that I contacted him. Yes, grateful. Flattered. You know what MeMe loves? Ass kissing. 

Get right up on there, boys, plenty of room. 

Bonus, when I told him I hate Twilight, he told me that was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard a woman say in his life. 

THAT is how you flirt without being creepy.