Turns out, a lady can go from having multiple men interested at once to a pretty dry spell of terrible dates and notably terrifying OKC messages and, as a result, spend most of February listening to Fiona Apple and reluctantly eating sensible things like vegetables and homemade salads while pretending that they taste like cheese products (unsuccessfully).
Don’t worry readers, I’d be regaling you with some of these sad tales, starting this week with the story of a lovely gentleman I went out with a few times who ENDED UP HAVING A GIRLFRIEND. YUP.
And, judging by this gem of a message I received the other day, I could continue the trend of being the third in people’s relationships if I wanted:
Yes, being married is an issue for me. I understand it’s not an issue for everyone, and that the internet can be a convenient and effective place to find someone with whom you can cheat on your partner. Or, maybe this guy is in an open relationship, in which case, more power to him!
But, as I clearly state in my profile, I am looking for single, straight men. So, on top of being married, this guy either cannot read or just doesn’t care.
But that’s ok. I’ll pass for now, at least until I am out of salad and Fiona Apple tracks. I’ve had enough of attached men for awhile.
S, D, and I aren’t big fans of the traditional Valentines Day. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with the fact that we’re single. Back in high school and college, boyfriends or not, S and I would get together with six of our closest friends and host a little gathering called Februarium. Brought to us by our incredible friend E, Februarium basically was a time for us to share romantic reflections on everything from our first kiss to our favorite food to how we’d spend the perfect day–between gulps of wine and mouthfuls of cards and sugar. Basically, we were doing Galentines Day long before Leslie Knope (which is just another reason we should be BFFs with Amy Poehler!)
Image via Bustle.com
So while you won’t find any of us singing the praises of Vday, we did want to celebrate G-DAY (short for Galentines for all of you slow folks) here on the blog. So we decided to take a break from spilling the beans about our dates, and instead spill the beans about ourselves a bit, by telling you some of the weird things that matter a disproportionate deal to us when choosing friends or partners. And, how we assess those things on dates. This is a dating blog after all, so we can’t ignore the existence of men entirely.
We’ll start with my weird little obsession with asking the following question:
Who are the 3 best presidents and why?
Sorry I’m not sorry that this is the most DC-esque question a gal could ask. While I hate to be a cliche, I’ve learned that a date’s answer to this question illuminates so many things that matter to me.
1) Their general understanding/knowledge of American history and politics-If you couldn’t tell from previous posts, I am an unabashed nerd when it comes to history. I could debate Victorian England gender mores for hours, and diagram the critical battles of WWI. If I’m going to be spending time with a guy, I need to know that he has a basic knowledge of important events and people in his own country over the past 250 years or so. So, if a guy can’t come up with the names of three Presidents or incorrectly lists presidents named “Jim Beam” or “Peyton Manning”, I am not sure that a) I could respect him or b) that we’d have a ton in common.
2) Their values-There are “wrong” answers to this question. For example, if someone says, “Andrew Jackson, because I hate Native Americans,” then they are pretty much done for. Same thing if a guy lists Ronald Reagan as a favorite. I’m an unapologetic progressive, and in my opinion, Ronald Reagan was one of the worst people things to happen to poor and working class Americans this century. Actually, I’m gonna go ahead and say that guys lose major points for listing any Republican president (post reconstruction, of course) at all. On the other hand, a guy can win big points for extolling Lyndon Johnson’s domestic achievements, i.e. passing the Civil Rights Act, the Great Society, etc. Nothing turns me on the like VISTA program.
3) Their critical thinking skills-I am an self-admitted overly-analytical person. I want to know the reason behind everything, even when there are no reasons to be found.
Via quickmeme.com
So, I want to know a guy who can back his thoughts up with some reasons or evidence. Sadly, many Americans cite George Washington as their favorite President, but when you ask why, they can’t give you a reason. (PS: He won the war is not an acceptable answer in my book. First of all, he did that BEFORE he was President. Second of all, there were several non military moves responsible for our defeat of the British.) That said, I am not going to write off anyone who says George Washington, but I expect them to back it up with some facts (i.e., I really love term limits?).
4) Their ability to make a quick, clear decision-“What? Um? I don’t know? That’s just such a hard question…” There is nothing less sexy than asking a guy a seemingly innocuous question and having him agonize for 20 minutes over his answer (unless his answer includes Reagan, or W, or some other offensive conservative. Then the answer IS actually less sexy than watching him agonize). This is not a REAL test dude. I know you might feel pressure because I’m judging you so hardcore on your answers, but I’m also judging you hardcore on the WAY you answer. So, show me you can make a hypothetical decision. Because if you can’t, then I’m gonna worry about your real life ability to make decisions.
At the end of the day, I also really appreciate any answer that shows a sense of humor. Any guy who can make me laugh, through his answers or even by making fun of me for asking the question, wins the biggest points I can award.
HAPPY GALENTINES WEEKEND FRIENDS! And stay turned as D and S discuss their quirky tests/not tests in the next couple days…
G was a very handsome older guy who I met on OKC. So handsome, in fact, that my friends and I nicknamed him “the Cloon” because he looked like a poor man’s George Clooney. And let’s be real:
YUM.
There is really no such thing as a poor man’s George Clooney. Because anyone who can be compared to George Clooney is still a pretty handsome, albeit aged, piece of man meat. Other promising things about G included his professions (journalist), interests (bartending), and the way he got down to business planning our first date (fun, low key bar equally metro-accessible between his place and mine). Needless to say, as the day of the date approached, I was pumped cautiously excited.
Apparently, G was pretty excited about me too. Because when I got to the bar for our first date, he jumped up, hugged embraced me tightly, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
This made me IMMEDIATELY uncomfortable. I actually prefer to greet all my dates with a business-like handshake. I am more into post-coital high-fives than cuddling. (In fact, I consider the next morning goodbye high-five a signature move.) Why?Hugs and cuddling are for family, out of town friends, and babies. WHY DO WE HAVE TO WRAP OUR ARMS AROUND PEOPLE WE’VE NEVER MET BEFORE? WHY? (Don’t worry. We’re not going to explore my hatred of intimate touch on this blog. I save that shiz for my shrink. YOU’RE WELCOME).
Despite my urge to turn and RUN from somebody who was showing early warning signs of being a Too Friendly Freddie, I decided to stick it out for a drink. And I was glad I did, because G was very interesting and funny. He was well-traveled and well-read and we had a very spirited debate about where to find the best hamburger in DC.*
*This is a legitimate quest of mine, btw. Think of me as Odysseus, but wearing more clothes and with a healthier fear of the gods. But if you have any burger recs in the DC area, seriously, leave them in the comments so I can come home before my wife gets tired of weaving and is bamboozled into marrying a Porci. (And, if you not only understand this nerdy metaphor but are also laughing at it, we MAY be soul mates.)
Anyway, all was going well, until…
G GOT UP OUT OF HIS SEAT AND ANNOUNCED: “You are so funny and cute, I have to kiss you right here.”
And before I could protest, he had run around to my side of the bar table, and grabbed my face and KISSED ME. IN THE BAR. ON A MONDAY. AT 10 PM. Less than an hour into our first date. I could literally feel the eyes of the four graduate students at the bar staring at us and my face burned with shame.
Because if there is one thing I hate more than hugs from acquaintances, it’s FULL ON PDA. Making out in a bar/restaurant ranks high on my list of “sins thou shalt not commit in public”, right below those couples who sit on the same side of a table (AHEM, S). Moreover, this was not some neighborhood dive turned Saturday night dance club where you’re supposed to make out with another 20-something at 1 a.m. while Ellie Goulding plays in the background and your friends first pump around you and pretend not to notice. This was a nice bar, half-filled with a mix of business people and students and other couples (who I will hopefully never ever see again).
Honestly, friends, after he pulled that move, I stressed myself out so much (remember Anxiety Girl? She got on her craziest tights and took over my body) that I cannot remember the rest of the date at all. At the end of the date, G asked if he could take me to his favorite burger place the following weekend. I mumbled, “Let me see if I’m free,” and fled for a train back to my apartment.
But, after some deliberation and consultation (as is customary the day after a date),people convinced me I decided it would be silly to write a guy off for something as minor as PDA, especially since there was no way for him to know I hated it so much. Plus, he agreed to give me a delicious burger!
I am sad but not surprised to report that the burger was by far the best thing that I got out of G. After a couple of dates, I decided that G was not for me and sent him back into the universe to work his charms on another woman who would perhaps be more appreciative. So, watch out ladies. This could be you:
Damn. George. Damn.
First date rating: 4/10. As you can imagine, I docked 5 points for the kiss. If only G waited to kiss me till after we left the bar it would have been a 9.
Lesson learned: Protect your mouth at all times. You never know when someone will plant one on you. (Real lesson learned: TRY not to write people off for little things. This is still a lesson in progress for me, but I am working on it readers, promise!)
Ever wondered what the worst of humanity looks like and sounds like? Or where they are hanging out? Well folks, if you want an answer to that question, just go ahead and create a fake online dating profile.
Many months ago, a commenter altered me to this original piece, which demonstrates, in SCARY detail, just how far some individuals COUGHmenCOUGH will go to try to score with a somewhat attractive living, breathing person.
Now, if you have ever read this blog before, you are probably acquainted with my dear friend and alter ego, Tacosdelish. And if you’re new, welcome! I strongly advise you read this Introduction toTacos post partially for your amusement and partially for your safety, but in the meanwhile, let me summarize: Tacosdelish is my second, fake online dating profile where I take on the personality of a gaseous, gluttonous Chechen with an extra thumb. A few months back, OKC nudged Tacos incessantly to add a photo, so my friend and I googled, “mediocre looking girl” and slapped a blurry head shot from a random catalog up there (I am confident the model in this picture is either 20 years older by now or so significantly airbrushed she won’t recognize herself).
The new, cute picture resulted in the number of messages Tacos received SKYROCKETING through the roof. She also receives some unsavory chats, usually from “funcouple232” soliciting her immediate availability for a weird combination of a threesome and a poetry reading.
Usually, I immediately press ignore when I get chat requests on Tacos. But, thanks to the lack of new Sunday night programming on my favorite networks yesterday, (THANKS GRAMMYS! NO ONE WATCHES YOU, BTW!), I was performing a lackluster search on Tacos when a chat box from a fine young fella in the MD suburbs popped up, and I decided to engage with him a bit. And boy, am I glad I did:
First of all, let’s thank Bachelor #1 here for cutting to the chase. Even though he claimed to be a college student in his profile, he wasn’t scared off by Tacos’s information, which indicates that she’s 38 years old. I actually meant to type, “I think I’m friends with your mom,” which would have been scarier and funnier. However, this guy was not concerned with my wit. He was also not concerned with the fact that Tacos’s proclivity for guns matched that of a mass murderer. What would it take to scare this guy? I tried a different tactic:
That’s right. I was going to turn him off by misspelling things. Oh, and mentioning devil worship. And mentioning I was a DIY plastic surgeon. Oh, and mentioning I stole from my employer. But still, he did not relent. When he asked why I joined OKC, I replied:
Identity theft is real folks. Just ask these guys:
But yet, he replied:
CHECK MATE, SIR. I f you were trying to beat Tacos at her own game by being perverse, offensive, and just plain random, you have WON . I tip my hat to you!
Upon receiving this response from him, I promptly signed out of Tacos’s chat, fully disgusted by the whole exchange. (I also didn’t know which answer would be in the negative, yes or titties? They both sounded affirmative to me.)
I mean, I cannot lie, I did get a full seven minutes of LOL-ing out of this, and if you did too readers, we may make chats with Tacos a regular section on the blog.
And you thought this winter would be cold and boring…
Mark my words, in the next fifteen years, there will be a college course on dating, probably cross-listed under psychology and history. I mean, when I was in college, there was already a course, that, according to my loose recollection, was called something like, “Peeping under the Petticoat: Images of female sexuality in popular British magazines.” (Of course, being the gender studies junkie that I am, I think I took it.)
This hypothetical future course on dating would include, at the very least, three hours of course material on text messages, the form of communication that seems to dominate dating these days. We’ve already written about texting a bunch (texting too much, sexting, texting fails, etc) on this site. I personally HATE texting, but believe it’s one of those annoying, but inevitable things that one must do, especially when dating people you’ve never met in person with whom you want to avoid an awkward phone conversation full of long pauses, static, talking at the same time, and asking things like, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”
But texting too can have its awkward and frustrating pitfalls. I really think this Aziz Ansari clip says it all:
PREACH AZIZ! I hereby declare that the first college course on dating be named: Guess who is uninvited to the pizza party?: Texting and other humiliations you will experience when dating.
A couple months ago, I met a guy who was, at the very least, case study worthy for this course, if not a guest lecturer. His name was M, and he was a scruffy, tall, flannel shirting wearing, sarcastic, sound engineer. He worked at some very well known music venues in DC by night and made extra cash during the day shooting weird documentaries and promotional films for nonprofits and small businesses. Now, as I have alluded to briefly in my other posts, I am not exactly what you would call COOL when it comes to music and pop culture. I often find myself at the bar requesting a combination of Bob Seger and Whitney Houston, depending on what time of the evening it is. I get my clothes at Target (not ironically, for real) and the most recent thing I downloaded on my Ipod may or may not have been the soundtrack to Disney’s Frozen, which I sing along with while I fold my laundry.
C’mon, you’d be blasting this too.
Anyway, M somehow overlooked the lack of coolness on my profile and asked me out. After I agreed to meet, he wrote:
Oh, how M LOVED to text. But the thing is, he was pretty good at it. Funny, witty, and could keep up with my jokes.
We planned a date for the following week, so had a full week to know each other through text. The weekend before our date, M even drunk texted me.
Now, we all know that I don’t believe in sexting before the first date. Honestly, in my early years of online dating, this may have scared me off. But M played it off well, and soon enough we were joking around.
Sometimes, M’s texts reached beyond the point of my understanding. He liked to send me pictures, which was normal enough when he was in vacation in California, but less normal when he was texting me selfies from a brunch downtown. I mean, how many selfies can one woman take before she actually meets the fellow?
When M and I finally met, I was super psyched to find out a few things about him.
1) He was better looking than in his profile picture.
2) He was even funnier in person than in text.
3) He had access to free tickets to any show at any live music venue in DC.
M and I proceeded to have, what I thought, was a very good date. Drinks turned to more drinks turned to dinner and then to more drinks. We were joking around like old friends by the time we finished our first beer. I swear to god, readers, it was like a movie-worthy first date. People at the restaurant were literally jealous of our chemistry. The host at the second bar thought I was M’s WIFE.
After the date, M and I began to walk home (it was 11:00 on a weeknight after all). He lived a block away from the bar and when we got to his door, and said goodbye, he went in for a kiss. And it was a pretty awesome kiss, though it took me by surprise. And then we stopped kissing, and I turned to walk away, and he pulled me back in for a second kiss.
We were basically Kate and Leo at sunset, minus the good looks and the boat.
We said a goodbye, and he said, “Promise me something. Never let go.” and I said, “I’ll never let go M. I’ll never let go.” And he then he shivered and floated away on a piece of driftwood.
PSYCH, SUCKERS! What I just described is a scene from James Cameron’s Titanic. But it was almost that magical, I swear.
The next day, he sent me this:
What IS that,you ask? I. DON’T. KNOW. I sent the image to no less than three other experts, and they were just as stumped as I was. If you can figure it out, let me know.
So I replied in the only way I thought possible. With another inexplicable picture.
Yes, that IS me giving bunny ears to the stuffed dragon in my office. And, don’t worry, the actual photo was sent right side up.
And then, NO RESPONSE. FOR 2 DAYS. I was pretty bummed. I thought the date had gone well. I thought when someone kissed you and said they wanted to see you again, they meant it. I took the absence of his communication as a sign he wasn’t interested in me and sulked around for about a day, and then decided, the chemistry between us had seem so FREAKING GOOD that it was worth one more try. So, I texted him:
The next day, he replied:
WHAT? HUH? I did not know what to make of this response. Was he flirting? Blowing me off? A little of both?
Sure enough, I never heard from M after that inexplicable text, and about one week later, he disappeared from OKcupid altogether.
Date rating: 9.5/10. Like I said, the chemistry going down would make Jim and Pam jealous. I deducted .5 for the two nasty remarks he dropped about his ex girlfriend. Ovaries before bro-varies my friends, even when the ovaries belong to a stranger.
Lesson learned: There is no way to predict what will happen after a date. People often don’t mean what they say, and they have a multitude of reasons for doing what they do. This date definitely contributed to my journey into cynicism.
**Author’s note: For those of you who are wondering about why I am blogging about something that happened around Halloween, please accept my apologies. I went on a man-bender for the last quarter of 2013, and got very distracted by W and some other gentlemen who I will write about shortly. The Chris Christie-esque traffic jam I’ve caused on this blog is one of the reasons I am trying to limit myself to one guy at a time in 2014. (Three weeks in, btw, and I am about .75 of a guy away from this goal. So TGFMA (thank god for my archives)!
You know that feeling when you sign into OKC on a Sunday night (after a weekend of “swearing off online dating”) and see that you have 15 new messages? In the early days I called that feeling “hope,” because I believed that each of these messages would be from a nice, normal, cute guy who could potentially be my husband or at the very least, my jump-off.
However, after about one month I learned the cruel truth about the message to viable date ratio. Of the 15 messages you get each weekend, three will be from murders who aren’t even trying to hide the fact they are trying to murder you. Six will be some version of “hi hwo are u sexy grl? Free 2nit?”. Three will be from guys whose usernames are some combination of the words “dragon” and “daddy.” Three messages will be normal, and if you’re lucky, one will be from someone who you *might* be attracted to and have something in common with.
I’ve also learned that, apparently, men also message women on OKC for reasons other than wanting a date or even a lil something something. For example, I got a very promising message from a guy that read:
What a great intro message! Personalized (I love the League/TV), to the point, and somewhat funny! I took a look at this guy’s profile so I could craft a witty reply. It was pretty basic, except for this detail:
Now, those who know me know I love giving advice, even when I know NOTHING about the topic. So, I replied to him:
(I realize now I made a grammatical error, which I would totally judge someone for #languagesnob, so I apologize to the readers who caught that and are shaking their heads at my sloppiness and/or hypocrisy.)
But preposition mix-ups didn’t seem to bother this guy (probably because he was overcome with my wit and beauty). He responded:
Where I come from, we would officially call this bantering. And, we all know that bantering —> -love —> marriage —> babies —> co-writing our own sitcom about being a modern day couple balancing love, family, and work. (Preferably staring either Tina, Amy, or Mindy, of course). Eager to get started writing the pilot episode, I replied:
While I was busy congratulating myself on my candid, hilarious, honest response, I got the following reply:
Huh? That’s it? No, “can I have your number?” No, “would you like to grab a drink sometime?” Not even a follow-up question, like “what do you do when you’re not watching Law and Order?” NADA. NOTHING.
I understand I could have continued the conversation myself if I was DYING to go out with this guy. But I just got the sense he was more interested in getting career advice from a random stranger than actually asking me out. YOU’RE WELCOME, M, FOR THE ADVICE. Please know that if I ever hear about your successful career on the news I am going to stand at your doorstep trying to take some money/credit from you, all the while shouting, “We want pre-nup” or something equally insane.
Meanwhile, everyone else can just call me the Sheryl Sandberg of OkCupid, since apparently my purpose here is to give career advice. Lean. In.
(It physically pains me not to be able to embed the accompanying clip from Bridget Jones here, since it’s so befitting. But APPARENTLY no one reveres this cinematic triumph enough to upload it to Youtube. Click here if you’d like to watch. Aaaand I’m out. Take it away, L!)
It’s that time of year again, folks. Christmas has come and gone, and in the days between now and January 1. most people are concocting elaborate New Year’s resolutions to lose all the pounds they put on through competitive holiday eating and drinking. Due to my deep and dependent relationship with food, I am not actually sure the traditional “lose 10 lbs” resolution is going to work for me.
However, just because I’m not giving up my night cheese does not mean I don’t have some very rigorous resolutions up my sleeve, a few which are dating-related. And what better people to share them than with my co-bloggers and our wonderful readers? Here goes…
Resolution #1: Date one guy at a time
When I started dating this year, I felt like I was at a Golden Corral. For those of you who aren’t blessed enough to know firsthand, Golden Corral is an incredible, all you can eat buffet where for about $12.99 you can, “HELP YOURSELF TO HAPPINESS.”
I mean, the slogan for online dating is more like “Help yourself to herpes,” (L, you’re hilarious as always, but THAT SLOGAN IS TERRIFYING) but you get my gist. I basically went to the buffet, grabbed a mish-mash of delicious, though mostly unhealthy, treats, and ate them all at once. I tried the date the nice guy/ and sleep with the sex idiot combo (more than once). I tried doctors, several Booze Allen consultants (though stopped shy of Edward Snowden, dammit!), former Dominos pizza employees, and music industry mogulssound engineers. Why is dating multiple guys so appealing?
First, instead of trying to find a guy who has all the qualities you enjoy in another person, you have the much easier task of enjoying different things about different people at once. You can have a great dinner conversation with Bachelor A, and then leave and have great, ahem, non conversation with Bachelor B. Bachelor C takes you to a concert and you talk about music for hours, but he has no idea who Elizabeth Warren is. That’s ok, because you’ll have plenty of time to discuss the next election with Bachelor D a few nights later over a nice dinner.
Second, You don’t get too attached to any one person. After the abrupt demise of my very long term and very serious relationship last fall, I was terrified (and still sort of am) of ever getting close to someone again, and then getting hurt when things ended. What better way to ward off possible attachments than to not commit to one person? Who cares if Bachelor B disappears? You were seeing two other guys, and chances are at least one of them is still around. Score!
However, my whole “I’m so damaged/ I’ll never love again” thing is getting to be like a bad Grey’s Anatomy season series that will never end.
(MEREDITH. PLEASE STOP COMPLAINING WHILE EMPHATICALLY MOVING YOUR HEAD TO ONE SIDE.)
In 2014, I want to start to approach dating with the possibility of maybe wanting more than just a fling, and to do this, I need to hunker down and determine what qualities I really want in a boo and what I can’t abide by. And I think that will be a lot easier and more effective if I evaluate my feelings for one guy at a time. Which leads me to…
Resolution #2: Stop worrying about what he’s thinking, and focus on what I’m thinking
For all the boasting I’ve done on this blog (not to mention IN LIFE) about having the running title of “most insecure” among my friends (vying with C, of course!), crippling self doubt and second guessing are actually habits I want to ditch in 2014. It’s kinda tiring living in a mild state of terror, waiting for the worst to happen:
So, instead of agonizing constantly about what my dates are thinking about me, why they keep asking me out, if they are only in it so they can rob me/get a job/learn Swedish/make friends with all my friends, I am going to start asking myself more, “why am I in this? what do I want? Do I really like this guy? Why or why not?”
Not totally remembering what you said the next day. I.e., “Did I really tell that guy that I wanted to send anyone caught listening a to Dave Matthew Band songs to jail and Chinese water torture them? Right after he said his favorite song was Ants go Marching? EEEKKK” (Though honestly, if this was his favorite song, he deserved the insult. ) (Based on my highly scientific points system, this statement is completely true.)
The weekday hangovers. Mama’s not 22 anymore.
Did I mention the sleeping with guys you don’t even like thing? Cause it kinda sucks.
Happy New Year, y’all. Here’s hoping that next year, I go from this kinda single lady–
to this kind of single lady–
*Obviously I mean Beyonce, not Kelly or Michelle. (Personally, I’d take Kelly, too. Sorry, Michelle).
Congrats ladies! Your suffering has won you a tote.
Please email your mailing address to stucublog@gmail.com so we can send you some swag. We’re hoping that you’ll rock that shiz so regularly that Suri Holmes Cruise will beg us to create a line of children’s fashion.
And thanks again to all of our wonderful readers who shared their stories with us. And believe me when I say that your stories got us through some cold winter nights.
Speaking of cold winter nights, Momma has been feeling a lot of them recently, after breaking it off with yet another OKC bachelor. And contrary to what you may believe about me, pity parties/mini break ups involve more than whiskey. There may or may not have been some rocking out to this rather immature Avril Lavigne throwback:
Is there anyone out there besides me who DOESN’T hate this song? If so, holler at me, because we may be a match.
So, what happened? It’s really quite absurd, for so many reasons. Right around Halloween, I started messaging with a really cute 25 year old. I’ve always had a thing for younger guys. (No Mrs. Robinson jokes, please. I like to think of myself as more of a “Stacy’s Mom.”)
Besides, W was tall and handsome and had some solid ties to Philadelphia, my home city. While a quick read of W’s answers to OKC questions revealed that he, at most, would turn out to be a mildly intelligent jump off, I figured there was no harm in going on a date with him. At best, it’d be a Tuesday night adventure. And, if it sucked, I’d just bounce after one drink.
But here’s the thing. When we met up, it was so fun. This guy literally met every single one of the criteria that I love in a man, despite the $100 in weekly therapy and 1000 warnings I’ve received from my nearest and dearest.
On our date, W revealed the following gems:
He used to manage a Dominos pizza, but quit when “management was all up in his business.”
He was a liquor distributor who went to work “sometimes.”
He hated books because they told him “what to think” and “what to do.”
But before you shake your head and tell me just how many red flags you have already found JUST BY READING THIS BLOG POST, bear with me. W made me laugh. And, in a city full of guys who take themselves wayy too seriously, he was just such a refreshing change from what I encounter on a daily basis. And I love pizza. And liquor. So we have that in common. And did I mention I am a MESS for tall slackers wearing hoodies?
So after talking for 4 hours and closing down to the bar, we went back to my place. And if I provided you with the full details I’d have to charge you 99 cents per minute. And W revealed one more detail to me:
He was a recovering heroin addict.
I’m sorry, what? I must have heard wrong. Heron addict? Were you addicted to taking pictures of these water-dwelling birds?
No, I heard properly. Heroin. The shiz that the Barksdale gang is selling on the Wire.
WMDs! Pandemic!
Now, listen. I know I sound like Yuppie McPriveledged, and while in some ways I am, in many ways I am not. I really do think everyone has a past and makes mistakes and other people’s drug use is not something I get that bent out of shape about. The heroin part was not upsetting me nearly as much as the addict part. As you may have gleaned from my previous posts, I tend to fall for addicts. In fact, I have a pretty deep history with one. And I am not gonna get all Jerry Spring/Montell Williams Special on you, but let me just say that, having a relationship with an addict is the most fun/most stressful/most ultimately consuming thing that can happen to a person. So at that moment, even though I was 100% charmed by W, I knew that I could never, ever really date him.
But yet, when he texted me the next day and said he wanted to see me again, I said yes. And we had a great time. And so I said yes again. And again. And before I knew it, I was hooked. Some might say, ADDICTED. Bah Dum Ching–even at my lowest points, friends, I never pass up an opportunity for a cheap joke.
I knew one day it would have to end, but I convinced myself that day would be sometime next week, or after the next time we hung out. I figured, why ruin a fun thing? But the more we hung out, the more signs I started to see that the time was near. One thing that did bother me about him was that he was super flaky. I mean, he could not make plans for anything more than three hours in advance.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
And this bothered me. Why?
1) Because I’m a busy woman! I’m not just sitting around my parents’ house, waiting for some guy to pick me up and take me to the commuter rail parking lot for some heavy petting # highschool #beentheredonethat
2) Because I thought it meant that he was just not that into me. I know that his inability to make plans could have also been explained by the fact that he was a 25 year old, barely-employed drug addict. However, I took this inability personally and thought that his flakiness was just a way of dicking me around. And, the more attached to him I became, the more the possibility that he was just not that into me bummed me out.
So the next time he reached out to me, I decided to end it.* And, while it sucked to momentarily disappoint him, and to voluntary turn down someone whose ahem, company, I was really enjoying, I am glad I ended it.
* What actually happened is I consulted no less than four colleagues, three friends over Facetime, my therapist, my sister, and two relationship blogs, and they all implored to me stop seeing him, and finally I listened.
Anyway, after a week, I recovered from the moping and was prepared to go on with my life. And there I was, a few mornings ago, checking Tacosdelish’s messages. (This is not something I do often, because, she seriously receives 20 messages per day, 15 of which are sexual innuendos mentioning food, butts, or farts.) But when I looked in her inbox, what did I see but a message from W!!!!!
Upon reading this, I did what anyone would do in my situation. I freaked out, ceased work, started to hyperventilate, and g-chatted S an SOS message and claimed that W was “in love with Tacosdelish”. To which she calmly responded:
S:
:
S was right. This message was benign, and even if it wasn’t, who cares? It actually makes for some unbelievable blog material and a funny ending to a somewhat depressing tale. So thank you W, for that! I hope you and Tacosdelish are very happy together. And I hope you bring a Chechen dictionary to your first date.
Entry #5—The Chemist, or, The Time I Accidentally Went on a Date with a Ponytailed Carnie
This was a few years back so the details are fuzzy. That and I blocked out the majority of what happened due to a) disinterest, b) horror, and c) I knew I would never date again should I have to relive this type of experience in my mind. I assure you, readers, his profile seemed normal. Tall and fit, short hair with a beard, a chemist. His e-mails must have been funny — witty, even– and would have lacked the classic first messages along the lines of “hey gurll,” “damn u fine” etc.
I must have thought to myself, looks and brains? My my, how did I get so lucky to snatch this one up? If you ever have that thought and you’re looking at an online dating profile, the answer unequivocally is this: you’re about to be deceived, girl. You’re about to be deceived.
We decided to meet for a drink at a bar near my apartment at the time. He was already sitting down when I got there but I almost didn’t recognize him. I wish it was because I needed glasses, or because it was super crowded, or because I was blinded by the gorgeous Adonis sitting before me, waiting to smile at me and ask me for my hand in marriage. But really, it was this: how does a tall, fit, bearded man transform before my eyes into an obese man of average height with a ponytail????
You read that right. Ponytail. I’d ilke to state for the record that I have not now, nor will I ever, date a sheman with a ponytail. Probably could have posted a photo taken within the last 6 years, sheman.
He proceeded to order a beer and then explain that, while he was a chemist, his real joy was working at the carnivals every weekend making fried dough. I’m sorry, what?! Please repeat. You’re a morbidly obese ponytailed carnie? Oh, he loved him a carnival. His friends were the carnies, and he liked smelling like fried dough. Carnie told me all about his life at the carnival, and his recently ended nine-year relationship to a woman who came with both depression and a child. And when I say he nursed that beer I’m telling you: he. nursed. that. beer. He took an hour and a half to finish a single beer and when he finally took that last sip of backwash I thought to myself I did it! The end is in sight! I can feel it, I can touch it, I can smell it! I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while I was in there made friends with a stranger.
I said “Girl, I’m on an absolutely horrible date, he’s seriously the worst.!”
And she gave me advice that I went on to cherish on many dates thereafter: “So say you have to go and just leave.”
Oh. You mean, I can do that? I can not be polite, and smile and nod, and feign a minimum of 18% interest while I try not to laugh as I’m writing haikus in my head of how bad this is going and how much you were not what I was expecting????
I went back to the table, looking for the waitress so I could surreptitiously ask her for the check or, even better, hoping he’d already asked for it so I could get the hell out of there, and run back to the safety of sweatpants, Grey’s Anatomy, and men who don’t have ponytails or work at carnivals on weekends. I’d just gotten back to the table when he said the ugliest words in the English language: “I just ordered another beer.”
NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I thought of the last hour and a half of my life, gone. I thought of his ponytail, and his ex-lady friend, the depressed mother. I thought of him touching any part of my body, even if clothed, and shuddered. And then I thought of my guardian angel, my new friend from the bathroom, and I mustered the courage to say: “Oh, sorry, I actually have to go!” I felt such joy at how refreshing it was to say these words, and refused a ride home. The next day I got an e-mail from him, saying how much he enjoyed our date, how he really felt like we had a strong connection, and he couldn’t wait to see me again. Sorry, ponytail, but you need to check back into the carnival. We’re all stocked up on fried dough here.
Friends! This post concludes our first-ever, “worst date ever” contest. We are so thankful to everyone who entered, especially because we got to take a break this week from coming up with hilarious content and let our readers do it for us instead! That’s an especially good thing, since I am in full on Debbie Downer mode after ending things with the first guy I’ve really liked in a long time. (Get ready for more life lessons, and hopefully more Blerta, readers!) My misery (and the fact that I binge drank like a college freshman last night to forget about it) is preventing me from creating a poll, and the framing that would come with it.
So while I continue to act like a sulky toddler, S, as always, has agreed to be a true pal. She’ll be getting the poll up tomorrow. Stay tuned!
One day a few years ago I was feeling very optimistic and agreed to go on a blind date arranged by….my mother. She had met my future date’s mother at a business meeting and once they both realized they had single kids who lived in the same city they got to plotting. They were very pleased with themselves for making such a fantastic arrangement. He, a nice Jewish law student, and she – a sassy Irish-Danish girl from Jersey. I was, as I said, feeling optimistic, and as my mother said “What’s the worst that can happen? You get a free meal?” Fair point mom, fair point. Who doesn’t like free things? I was game.
The minute I saw my date, however, I was immediately discouraged to find out that my date had Michael J Fox’s height without any of his charm and charisma. His short stature was topped off with a giant Jew-fro making him significantly taller yet still under 5’5″. I decided to still push through though – onto the free dinner! Perhaps he had a wonderful personality or was secretly going to be the Billy Joel to my Christie Brinkley. (I do NOT actually think I am at all in Christie Brinkley’s class but my point is, that Christie and Billy’s wild discrepancy in the looks department accurately compares with the looks of myself and my awesome, awesome date).
At the bar/restaurant, my date went on to order some of the most expensive food and beers off the menu. I had a $9 chicken cutlet and one beer. We sat and chatted for a little bit because I could talk to a brick wall so I’m sure he thought I was having a good time (side note – I was not). At the end of the evening the bill came and the waiter placed the check closer to my date. I saw the check and the meal was well over $60 what with his large meal of “drunken clams.” He immediately picked it up and I thought – way to go, date! – Just as that thought left my brain, he threw the check back onto the table with a $10 bill and said “This is all I have….”
…….
…….
I. know. Did I just get up and tell him to have fun washing dishes then? Or ask him where his DEBIT CARD WAS? It was 2007 and no one walks around without some sort of plastic. And adults do not go places without having enough money to pay for AT LEAST themselves, let alone their date. No. No. I was mortified and silently went into my wallet and pulled out the emergency cash I had in case I “had to go dutch.” Little did I know I would be paying for the ENTIRE MEAL.
I left that evening and sat and cried by myself in the train station. I immediately went home and made my mom pay me back the money for the dinner. So at least technically, I did get a free dinner. Thanks mom!!
The next day he sent me an email saying he had a really great time and he’d like to do it again.
Stupid Cupid 