Alas.

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.

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.

Yet...

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.

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.

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.

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?

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 Match.com:

"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.

   NOTE: 
   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.

   NOTE: 
   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.

   NOTE: 
   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.

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.

THE ONLY FUNNY JOKE MY DAD EVER TOLD (WHEN I WAS LIKE NINE, AND MILK CAME OUT OF MY NOSE):

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."