Utter Disappointments

I haven't updated in a while, for which I apologize. In my defense I think I have officially hit the scummy bottom of the barrel... and it stinks like dead dreams and illiteracy. 

Seriously. If you ever want to feel bad about yourself.... like scrubbing-with-bleach-while-you cry-in-the-shower-knowing-any-sense-of-feeling-clean-again-is-a-futile-endeavor disgusting... join Plenty of Fish. 

Last week I officially deleted my profile. 

The first few offer for sex, threesomes, or other various, more unique perverted escapades were rather funny. However, the sheer amount of horror coming into my inbox by this time has caused my ovaries to shrivel up in self defense. My vagina has hung up the "Closed For Business" sign and is rocking in the corner with a Bible.

Things stopped being funny, and just became insulting, disgusting, and intentionally rude. 

For example: lose interest in a guy you've talked to a few times because he, say, proposed marriage? He'll just bombard your inbox, and when you don't respond, start sending you messages I can only describe as "rapey." 

According to his profile he works in law enforcement, so that's comforting knowledge.

Dear Every Guy I Know...

What really put me over the edge was yet another offer to "go down on me." I'm not really sure why guys make this offer thinking women are going to leap up and down with delight over it. They dole them out like they're doing us a favor... because they want to do us a favor. 

Dude: If you need practice, go to the farmer's market and buy yourself some soft fruits. I don't want to be involved on the low level of your learning curve.

Anyway. By the time I've read this message, I've had about three head-shakers, and I'm done. I sharply inform him that if he had bothered to read my profile (which has a pretty strongly worded recommendation that people only looking for a hook-up should look elsewhere), he would know that I am not interested in him putting his mouth or anything else anywhere near my poor, protesting lady bits. 

Well, he had looked at my profile, he told me, with smugness that does not have any place coming from a boy with that ugly a mug. But it is a unique offer, he added, and I had seemed like I was reasonable enough to accept it. 

Are you. Fucking kidding me. 

I let off a little steam informing this toity sonofabitch about how "unreasonable" I really am (muthafuckah!), and deleted my profile.

So I've been doing some reading on this phenomena called "negging," that is in no way new but has recently been given a cool wacky moniker so apparently it's mainstream now. Is this what has been going on? 

Respect, Reshpleckt. More Scotch!

For sure it's been used on me multiple times, and I can see where it can be effective. Because it makes you feel like crap. And when you feel like crap you want to desperately seek out that man and FORCE HIM TO ADORE YOU because otherwise, you're not really as pretty or drunkly hilarious as you thought you were, despite everyone else at the party insisting you're a delight.

But, even if it makes me feel fucking terrible (what's so wrong with meeee??), I'm not a shy 18 year old wandering a frat party while some dude tells my my friend is hot but I'm just "eh," so do I want to take a ride on his motorcycle? True story. 

I won't even go into a feminist rant about how much this annoys me, but I had multiple Women's Studies discussions that boiled down to this same situation... which I now know goes by the hideous term of "negging" (Probably named thus because it sounds like "leggings," and thus girls will think it's cute and want to wear it with Uggs and a Northface jacket tee hee!). 

Ladies, please do not ever fall for this cheap-ass douchebag crap. By his logic, you're too physically attractive for him, so he needs to make you feel uglier. We already have the popular media for that. This is like giving a dog a treat for biting you.

Bring booze!

Anyway, to resume. 

I switched back over to OKC, because the boys may be less attractive but no one has asked when he can put it in my booty, so I figure that's an improvement. 

Currently, I am on the fence about the latest interest. He's super duper cute, and we had a great conversation, but when it switched to text, things got iffy. Mostly because he doesn't just send me one text... he sends me four. I put the phone down to pee and I've got like seven pages of missed texts to wade through... though, to be fair I do take forever to pee.

......... g2g ttyl.

His sense of humor borders on immature, as does every sense of humor on every man I've even considered dating as of late. At least once in a while he'll throw something out that impresses me, so I know that he has the full capacity to be clever... but he'd rather try to think of a funny nickname for me despite my telling him, no, never ever give me a nickname. 

Again, it is the confusing conundrum of Boymen--they look like men, but they want to give you a purple nurple (HAHA BOOBIES) and stay out all weekend binge drinking and smoking weed around the coffee table. 

I'm 26 years old, dammit. I do my binge drinking inside, in the basement, like every other normal adult.

Summary: At the rate things have been going, I'm pretty content being single. 

-No one is telling me not to get more cats. I can get as many damn cats as I want, and no one can stop me except city ordinance if a noise complaint is received. 

-I can eat the entire bag of stir-fry "dinner for two" from the supermarket all by meself. That bag does not feed two people. That bag is lunch and I'm still hungry I do NOT WANT TO SHARE.

-I can watch "The Nanny" for seven hours a day without complaints, and no one can stop me except city ordinance if a noise complaint is received. 

-The highlight of my month can be that the sweatpants I wanted went on clearance at Meijer, and it's only sad if I make it sad. 

-When I wake myself up in the middle of the night with farting, no one else is disturbed. Except the cats.

-I no longer need to subject myself to the irritation that is eyebrow tweezing.  

And I feel pretty darn good about myself!

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. 

The Big Date Comes and Goes.

Yesterday I had the first date I can honestly say I have ever been excited for.

   The plan was to wake up early, go to the gym so I'd look extra slender, spend a leisurely amount of time polishing and buffing and shaving and plucking and applying and fluffing until it looked like Lindsay Lohan's downfall in reverse.

Seriously the scariest movie I've ever seen. 

However, because I am MeMe, instead I slept late, lay in bed working a few hours, enjoyed walking the dog too long, ran out of time and had to throw on make-up before booking it to the theater, where I arrived as the movie was starting. 

Unfortunately, I don't wear much make-up these days, and with the combination of yellow lights in the bathroom, it wasn't until I was on the highway that I realized somewhere along the line my skin had gone from Incredibly White to Kristen Stewart without informing my make-up supply, and it was more than evident that I was wearing foundation caked on like I was entering Witness Protection. I spent my drive trying to wipe off everything I'd just layered on, but by the time I arrived, frantic and missing a great deal of my Hot Girl Swagger, I'd managed to downgrade from "Tan Mom" to "Hopefully The Lighting Will Be Low."

I've been really looking forward to our date and eventual marriage.

Luckily, FH was totally calm about me arriving late, which is an important trait in a man interested in dating me, because I firmly believe being on time is for chumps or people with real jobs. 

We went in to see "The Hobbit," miraculously arriving mid-previews. And yes, he snuck in a flask.

I had a feeling he might since we had both made that awesome joke about a "Hobbit" drinking game, but the presentation was less OMG that's hilarious! You actually did it! and more, Oh. Mmk. Perhaps it would have been a more enjoyable game if I hadn't destroyed a bag of Sour Patch Kids in a horrific incident of gummie genocide and suffered the inevitable loss of all skin on my tongue. Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT pour straight vodka over that. 

Unfortunately, it didn't take too long to determine that Future Husband would need to be renamed, and the coveted (YES COVETED) title to go back on the shelf for later times. 

There was nothing wrong with him, although he wins the Expert award for picking flattering dating site photographs and I would have towered over him in heels. 

I just didn't feel that hoped-for connection, and it was obvious I was reading his hilarious and clever texts in my own imaginary fake Future Husband voice, thus improving them, because while we had a nice conversation, nothing about it make me go all squee inside.

After the movie, where I tried not to openly display how turned on I am by Aidan Turner..

Sorry about the squirming... it's just so... itchy... in here...

... we went and got dinner, at a really good Italian place, and had a nice conversation. He did everything well, too. We got drinks, I got whatever I wanted, and he asked if I wanted dessert after. 

We shared food and he told me he was impressed that I didn't mind him eating off my plate, but since I grew up with brothers and our dining episodes were mostly who can eat enough out of the trough to survive, my only goal is to eat more than my counterpart and to kill them and wear their skin as a trophy if they touch the last bite. Aren't most girls like that?

But, no click. No butterflies. No itchy seat. 

Honestly, I just don't see the point in dating someone if I don't spend the whole time they're talking picturing them naked on a beach pouring me a cocktail while we laugh about some mutual inside joke and share taste in music and personal values. 

You know. Standards. 

Which is to just say, if there's no spark with someone, then I will get bored with them. Quickly. And that spark is a sadly elusive creature.

So back to the drawing board. 

The Preparations.

My Big Date is set for Saturday.

   I can honestly say this is the first time... ever... I have actually been excited for a date. Not dreading. Not going forth with resigned acceptance. Not sweating horribly. Genuinely, happily excited.

Is this a result of my Dating Experiment? Did it actually work? Am I cool now?

Well, there's only one thing for certain.

This date can only spell my doom. 

Crap.

This has two possible outcomes.

One--that I will blurt out something awkward and weird.

Example: 

"Hi! I'm MeMe. I'm so glad we are finally doing this, it's really nice to able to get together in person. You know, I've dreamed of this moment. Only, you were on the bow of a ship, and I was your frightened, but not unwilling, captive. I think I'm going to order a beer, what are you having?"

Two--that there will be something terrifically wrong with him. 

In the words of the wise Samantha Jones... "Good on paper. Bad in bed."

Among other memorable quotes.

These could include:

Racist
Serial Killer
Weird Mickey Mouse Voice
Closeted Gay
Republican
All of the Above

There was mild concern he might turn out to be about fifty pounds heavier than his photos, but my friend reminded me that weight can be lost. I'd shell out for a gym membership for this guy. He made a joke about sneaking a flask into "The Hobbit." This is true love.

 Not much I can, do, however, if he Catfished me in general.

Although at this point, if Future Husband turns out to be a fat older woman with twelve cats and a stained mumu, I like her so much I'd say let's combine our pets, put an extra layer of plastic on the sofa, and begin the rest of our lives together. Yes, I really mean that, Erma. Drop the robe. Mama's home.

With the countdown to my Big Date on, the frantic preparations begin. How many trips to the gym can I physically squeeze in by Saturday? How many teeth-whitening treatments can I really apply before my gums turn black and my molars fall out? How rapidly could I recover from a minor nose job and eyebrow lift, like... what level of bruising are we talking, here? Can I cover it up with theater make-up?

 
And, my God, what can I wear that somehow hides my flaws, accentuates my strong points (boobs), flatters my coloring, and gives the impression that I am clever, fun, classy, sexy, and really good company on a couple's cruise?

But also makes him want me to meet his mother.

THE GAME IS ON!

Wait? What's That Tingling?

Okay, guys. I don't want to jump the gun here (me? never.).

I don't want to overreact. I don't want to get too excited because that has a serious habit of biting me in the ass.

But I think I found my future husband. 

And not in the way that you throw the term around when chilling (drinking) with your best friend in a nice restaurant (bar), and you pick the cutest guy there/ the one buying you drinks/ the only one left in the building and make a sweeping declaration that that, THAT, guy will be your future husband. And then you go to pee for the forty-ninth time.

I mean this in the way that no woman should ever admit without an anonymous blog. The, 'I've planned our wedding on Pinterest' way, and the 'I've already figured out how you will propose' (anniversary trip to Ireland) way.

I have literally imagined our entire relationship in my mind, right up to the point where you sneak into my hospital room, hold my hand, and our souls fly away and unite forever in the graceful form of snowy wild birds.

                                                  I like my fantasies well-planned.

Could have been a solid 400. 

So what happened to Hugz 'n Kissez?

Ugh! I gave him the boot after too many XXOO and winky-faced text messages. I'm pretty sure he's at home doodling pictures of our future children together in his Lisa Frank binder watching reruns of "Friends" on TBS.

                           Can I PLEASE just be the GIRL for ONCE in a relationship?

But anyway enough about Hugz 'n Kissez. He's out, Future Husband is in. Everything is on hold until I see where this thing goes with Future Husband (goes as in, to the altar). 

Mr. MeMe... That has a ring to it.

So what makes Future Husband so special? 

1) He is super attractive. The only downside is that he looks--a little too much--like Thing One... 

But since Thing One pretty much epitomizes my type (pirate), I can accept this. Actually it's a kind of nice to get back to the things I'm truly attracted to (beards). 

My one fear is that one day, when Mr. MeMe and I are happily married and giggling together over early-morning coffee before work (he knows how much I need my java fix!) I'll run into Thing One and his stupid girlfriend/wife person, and he'll think I was so in love with him that I had to replace him with someone who looks just like him but has a better jawline and is way cooler.

2) He not only carries on a conversation, with correct grammar and spelling and interesting anecdotes, I hang on his OKC messages. I long for them. I want to carry my laptop in my pocket and check it obsessively during dinner with friends until they yell at me to put it away they never get to talk to me anymore because I'm so caught up with Future Husband. 

3) He has the exact sense of humor I find funniest. No forcing jokes, no eye rolling. He is perfectly tailored to my needs. And so far, he seems to get mine as well. Not many men find my aggressive and mildly insulting sense of humor adorable and clever. 

4) He is an attorney--repeat, he has a good job. In fact in a few more years he'll probably be legitimately wealthy. He'll be able to fund my perfect Pinterest wedding. And I can argue/fight with him all I want and it will just lead to hot make-up sex, as is appropriate, rather than a crying boyfriend who thinks I'm dead inside and should be medicated.

5) He plays guitar in a band. He brews his own beer. He loves hiking with his dog. He has hipster glasses.

Perfection? Thus far!

    Yes, the original drive behind this dating blog was to get some experience dating so at some point down the road, whenever someone cute and in possession of a penis spoke to me, I would react less like the girl above and more like this:

Voom.

Also to have hilarious anecdotes I can consult for my future writing needs. And to piss off my ex.

However, since the unlikely result has been someone I might be actually interested in dating and eventually tricking into marrying me... bonus. 

What is this? MeMe, optimistic? Okay, moderately. I recognize that this may, very unfortunately, blow up in my face. But you know what, for once I don't care. 

This is the first time in a long time I haven't felt bitter, betrayed... and other "b" words. I need this because:

-My Big Crush, the one I stubbornly glommed onto for way more years than I want to admit, was ruined by reality. Reality is a dick and so is my Big Crush. 

-My ex's are all happy with their new girlfriends they both started dating immediately upon my dismissal because they're incapable of being alone, thereby negating any positive memories I might have tried to cling to of our time together because if I'm that easily replaced, it was all a bunch of crap. And so are my ex boyfriends.

-Anyone who is nice, smart, treats me right, etc., I am almost invariably not attracted to, even if they're cute, like some sick joke of nature or the sad blunt end of a Daddy Issues joke. I just do not fall easily. Falling just leads to unsightly ass bruising, and I try to avoid blemishing the Money Maker. 

So, anyway, right now, I'm going to enjoy my crush. It feels good to feel good again--for however long it takes to find out that he pees on hobos or keeps severed fingers in a mayonnaise jar in the basement freezer. 

Honestly, I'm almost terrified to meet him in real life and ruin this. 

                         Almost. 

Wish me luck. 

Boredom Yields Necessity?

I've had some requests to re-start my blog (you like me, you really like me!), which I very much appreciate. I apologize for going off the radar a bit-- it's been quite a busy while for me. I graduated college and stuff (pause for applause) so, you know... Respect.

I've also had some inquiries into my current level of love life (amateur) and unfortunately, I have to keep that under wraps. Let's just say it's been eventful--I had some respect for men restored by one, and taken away by another. Back to neutral here.

I'm sick as a dog, so I've also spent a lot of time watching "Ally McBeal" on Netflix, too, which has been strangely cathartic.

Sorry. Only got enough fucks for one in this cup.

She is self-absorbed, awkward, and gets screwed over by men! It's like watching a tall, anorexic version of myself (said every woman watching "Ally McBeal" ever).

Anyway. All it comes down to is I still get a mini panic attack when I think about being in a serious relationship.

Also I'm getting a little concerned for my social life. I'm spending an inordinate amount of time sitting in a dark basement with an ancient cat that looks like this.

But grumpier. 

I'm texting people I shouldn't. I'm drawing a smiley face on my pillow and trying to get it to tell me about its feelings.

Oh, you.

That ain't healthy.

                           Plus, I'm really bored. Real life is surprisingly dull.

So I've returned, with high hopes, to OKC and POF...

    Yeah, nothing's changed. No one got more charming or attractive in my absence.

I've had a request to "look up my skirt" (sorry, I don't really wear skirts). A few careful inquiries into what I might be looking for (SEX??), and an invitation to guest star in the unhealthy bedroom of a married couple.

Flattering.

And, of course, the basic "you're pretty," "I like your smile," compliments that mean absolutely nothing but I kind of need right now. Honestly, after a terrific rejection followed by a week of strep throat that has transitioned into some horrible mutated flu virus, I am flipping through old Facebook photos to remind myself that I'm kind of  hot and don't usually resemble a newly birthed Orc.

Like this. But with more mucus. 

So I'll accept my flat compliments for the moment.

I'm also altering my standards, trying to weed out the inevitable annoyances.

1) I will not go out with anyone that can't buy me a drink at the bar. Like, legally.
2) I seriously will stop talking to you if you fuck up "your." It's ONE THING that drives me nuts. Ok not the only one thing but it's a biggie.
3) I will not go out with you if you're ugly. Sorry. Our hypothetical children would be hideous and become horrible targets for online bullies.
4) If you can't bother sending more more than a "hi," I'm not interested. Put in a moderate effort... Unless you're really attractive. In which case, I'm flattered. How you doin'.
5) If you make a sexual reference, you're out.... Unless it's a really clever entendre.  Points for funny pervs. That's why my tagline is "more than a handful."
6) If you ask me about my tagline, I will act offended and assure you it is in reference to my personality, not my ample, supple bosom. Cad!

What's the line up after these eliminations?

Just one, and he's only made the cut so far because he's really cute. Like a tan baby kick boxer before he's gotten those gorgeous cheekbones shattered like a dropped plate.

Pro's and Con's Time? YUP!

Con:

-He's really fixated on cuddling with me. I'm not really a cuddler. I'm generally more of a... please don't touch me until we've gotten to know each other and reached a level of comfort for physical interaction. Maybe after a good year or three.
-He's also really fixated on the fact that I have pleather pants. That is probably my fault for bringing up the fact that I have pleather pants (I was telling him my aspirations for espionage).
-He signs everything XXOO. I'm not signing up to go out with a 14-year-old girl.

Pro:

-He's HOT. Dayum.

   So we have tentatively arranged to meet when I am feeling better (and bonus, the thinnest I've ever been! Thanks, highly contagious illnesses). Bonus points that he lives two hours away and is willing to drive out here to meet me. Maybe I'll even buy him a cup of coffee for his efforts.

As long as dinner's on him.