Friday, December 12, 2008

Thank You, and Goodnight.


Somewhere along the way, just when I didn't think it was possible, I met the right man. Turns out I already knew him. I just hadn't seen him for 25 years.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love.

We are two peas in a pod.

So, although it's been fun, it's high time I closed up shop.

Doesn't mean I'm done, just means I'm on a new path. And by that, I mean check out my new blog, Best Boyfriend In The World.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Red Flags



If only I'd had this information last November, it could have solved me a lot of trouble over the next couple of months. From the Daily Om:

Warning Signs
Paying Attention To Red Flags
Just as the universe wants to provide for our needs, it also seeks to protect us from dangerous situations, destructive relationships, and even minor inconveniences. Frequently in our lives, perhaps everyday, we encounter psychic red flags warning us of potential problems or accidents. We may not always recognize the signs. However, more often than not, we may choose to ignore our intuition when it tells us that "something just isn’t right."

Red flags often come in the form of feelings urging us to pause for a moment, listen to our intuition, and reconsider. We may even experience a "bad" feeling in our bellies. This is a red flag letting us know that there may be a problem. We may not even know what the red flag is about. All we know is that the universe is trying to wave us in a different direction. We just have to pay attention and go another way. We may even wonder whether we are paranoid or imagining things. However, when we look back at a situation or relationship where there were red flags, it becomes easy to understand exactly what those warning signs meant. More often than not, a red flag is not a false warning. Rather, it is the universe’s way of informing us, through our own innate guidance system, that our path best lies elsewhere.

We may try to ignore the red flags waving our way, dismissing our unease as illogical. Yet it is always in our best interest to pay attention to them. For example, we may meet someone who outwardly seems perfect. They are intelligent, attractive, and charming. Yet, for some reason, being around them makes us feel uneasy. Any interactions we have with them are awkward and leave us feeling like there is something "off" about the situation. This is not necessarily a bad person. But, for some reason, the universe is directing us away from them. Red flags are intended with our best interests at heart. No harm can ever come from stopping long enough to heed a red flag. Pay attention to any red flags that pop up. The universe is always looking out for you.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Good Luck Chuck


Battlestar Gallactica was great.
Because just as I predicted, goddammit, my date dropped off the face of the earth.
I know, after everything I've been through in the past few months I should've known better than to give him my phone number. But he said he was driving up here. We had a date.
However, I have not heard from him since Thursday, when I sent him the email with my phone number. Total radio silence.

I also rented Good Luck Chuck, and am convinced that not only do I have a phone number jinx against me, I am the female version of Chuck. I'm no dentist, but it seems like every time I get something going with a guy, either in person or online, I serve as a conduit to lead him to the next gal. I'm a good luck charm for them.

The 'date' I never had this weekend was so attentive before I gave him my phone number. Emails 2 or 3 times a day. Every day. Long, involved emails sharing our history. I was stoked that he was such a motormouth - or motorfingers. Whatever you'd call someone who talks a lot through emails. Then he disappeared. I went back onto Yahoo! Personals (even though I've cancelled my account) to see if he had just dropped off the internet entirely. And he hadn't. He's back online, searching the personals ads again, probably communicating with another woman who was better at the cyberflirtation game, someone closer to his zip code, someone with prettier feet. He likes feet.

Well, I'm done.

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Damage Control


The other day I'm driving in the car. And my kid, of all people, tells me that Toots and the estranged wife of my convict friend are having a party this weekend. MY KID. She wanted to know why I wasn't going, and why I wasn't invited.
All of my friends have been invited, even those who have come to me wondering why they they were invited, since they're not really friends with the happily tanned couple. "Damage control," I said. "You were invited because you're MY friend. And right now, he's trying to make a play for as many of my friends as possible to ward off being cut out of my social circle."
Why do I think this? Because months ago when he hurt my feelings one evening, he expressed grave concern that I might become upset enough with him to shut him out of my social circle. That he might not be welcome in my home anymore to drink my gin, relax in my hot tub, or have me make dinner for him. Yes, he said these things.
So it's no surprise to me that my formerly stingy friend is now planning to start spending his trust fund to buy off my friends. Kinda sad that all it's gonna take is a nicer hot tub, a gas barbecue and a kegerator to do that. Actually, all of that was previously purchased by my friend who now languishes in prison. The friend that Toots and I visited together, as he was planning his trip with said friend's wife out of the country. He's just buying the beer, the brats, and I figure next he'll buy the house to save it from foreclosure. What a guy.
Yeah, I know. I don't even need to continue explaining why he's a poor excuse for a friend.
It's my friends that I'm more concerned about.
The sad yet masterfully devious part of this scheme is that by inviting my friends to a party has put those in the know in the very uncomfortable position of having to decide whether to mention it to me, or to stay out of it. They have all pretty much decided to stay out of it. One said it was so he didn't have to listen to me bitch about it at Scrabble night. So they kept mum. And then they cancelled Scrabble night. You see, in order to avoid any difficult conversations with me, several of my friends have opted to avoid me. Therefore cutting me out of my own social circle.
And the rest of my friends wonder why I seem angry these days.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Date vs Battlestar Gallactica


I have a date. This weekend.
He's not from these parts.
You know I have a little trouble finding spongeworthy men in these parts.
But trying to date a man who's not from these parts has its own complications.

Twice I've been told that they can't give me the time and attention that I deserve because a 3 hour drive is just too far to maintain a relationship. Or to start one. At least that's what they tell me.

The date this weekend says that doesn't bother him. And he's willing to try it, to see if we click. To see if there's chemistry.

But I'm skeptical. Not that we'd have chemistry. I'm simply skeptical that there isn't some landmine thats going to explode sometime between now and then to divert his 3 hour drive from occuring. It could be anything from that knee injury to a delayed flight to cold feet to the most likely scenario, meeting someone else between now & our date, which I call "Good Luck Chuck Syndrome," which I hear I have a bad case of. I'm a conduit to love - with other people. Kiss me, fall in love with someone else. Maybe I could make money doing this.

My parents told me to always have another option so that if my plans don't turn out, I've got a backup plan. So I've got the entire season 1 of the new Battlestar Gallactica on DVD ready to go, and some microwave popcorn on hand. Just in case. I'll let you know how it turns out. Battlestar Gallactica, I mean. I hear it's pretty good.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Cherry


I hadn't heard from him in 16 years. 25 years ago we were high school friends. He followed me everywhere. At punk concerts, he'd stand behind me with one hand on my shoulder. Just in case. My boyfriend was jealous. I didn't see why. He was just a friend. A good, generous, caring friend. He left long, handwritten letters for me. I'd come home to find a chocolate covered cherry on my pillow and one long stemmed rose. 
"That poor, son of a bitch," my dad said. "He's in love with you and he'll never have you."
I confronted him, he denied it.
25 years later, he wrote to me, and said it.
"You were my first love."

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Good Friend


"I think I've been a pretty good friend," he said.

I think your opinion of yourself doesn't really matter when you're judging what a good friend you have or haven't been. Seems to me in this situation, that what matters is the opinion of those you think you've been a friend to. And if your friends are telling you that you haven't been a good friend, that trumps your opinion of yourself.

Let's play Cops & Robbers


It all started out innocently enough.

  • He told me he had lived in Austin, Texas.
  • I told him that my dad was born there.
  • I told him my grandparents lived in Kerrville, Texas for decades.
  • He told me that his father and his father's father and his father's father's father lived in Kerrville.
  • He told me there's a street there named after his family.
  • I told him my father's father's father's father lived in Austin, and there was a street there named after my family.
  • He told me his family were mainly Texas Rangers back in the 1800's.
  • I told him my family consisted mainly of gunslingers hunted by Texas Rangers.
  • He told me that wore a pistol in the waistband of his scrubs as he searched for survivors of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans.
  • I told him I have a pair of furry leopard spotted handcuffs.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Sorry, we're closed.

I know this is going to be a let down for some of you who have derived great pleasure in what I like to refer to as my dating pratfalls over the past few months, but I've cancelled my subscription to Yahoo! Personals.
I suppose, speaking from a purely practical point of view, it was actually not a bad investment.
I think I spent somewhere in the range of $39.99 for the privilege of communicating with romance minded men within a 300 mile range.
I received, in return for my investment, 3 decent dates.
They consisted of:
  • A muffaletta sandwich, half a bag of chips and a diet Dr. Pepper from Granzella's.
  • A steak dinner and two glasses of Cabernet, followed by a movie and a giant diet coke.
  • Another steak dinner with a bottle of Louis Martini Cabernet, and one follow up glass of wine.

It cost me:
  • $40 in gas to meet one date
  • $5 in long distance charges
  • $3 in materials for a couple of cds I made for one musically interested date
  • 3 hours of driving time
  • Just a shred of my dignity

So all in all, I think it all pans out pretty evenly. I had some nice meals, good wine, interesting conversation, and my dog loved the steak scraps.

For the record, my favorite date was the muffaletta sandwich.

I'm not saying I'm done with dating forever. But a month of that was enough for me.

But you'll be happy to hear that before I signed off forever, I made one last sweep for land mines, and may have found one that's armed - literally.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

The Sicilian


Shortly after my ex moved out,  I was out with a girlfriend, and saw a friend across the bar, a firefighter who'd played on my softball team the year prior. I went to speak to him, and noticed a beautiful man standing next to him. Tall, shaved head, big eyes. Big, brown, beautiful Sicilian eyes. I felt him looking down at me. I looked up into those gorgeous pools, hopeful that he might actually be attracted to a 41 year old with a few extra pounds and a ten year old at home. Apparently he was.
He said, "Hey, you're cute. Are you married?"
I showed him my bare, unadorned fingers.
He gets right to the point.
Maybe things were looking up for me, I thought, as he looked down at me.
And then he opened his beautiful mouth and out came the most vulgar suggestion I have ever been propositioned with in my life. I won't go into the details, but it involved doing something with two very prominent parts of my anatomy. Something that might have given him an immense amount of pleasure, but would've done nothing but left me all sticky and in need of a wipe down.
At that point, I'm told by all my friends, I should've thrown my drink in his face. But I was drinking a $12 martini. But you'll be happy to know I politely declined his request for no strings attached, right here and now sex. But gosh, thanks for thinking of me.
Months later, my girlfriend and I ran into the same two guys. I ignored the Sicilian, and talked to the firefighter. Eventually I got around to asking the Sicilian if he remembered me, or the exchange we'd had (or rather didn't have). He told me that he didn't really remember it because he'd had a lot to drink that night, but the firefighter had filled him in about his previous behavior. 
He said, "I've turned a new leaf. I'm not like that anymore. I'm really sorry for being so disrespectful. It was really rude of me."
I was pretty astonished, especially since I'd found out after meeting him that he was famous for that kind of behavior. And now here he was, apologizing.
I asked him what led to him to this realization.
"I'm a new father." He'd had an oops moment last summer with a short lived relationship, and now had a brand new month old baby daughter. His eyes lit up as he told me about how beautiful she was, and how nice her breath had smelled, how he loved to spend time with her, changing diapers out of his man-bag. He pulled out his cell phone to show me photos. 
He told me now that he had a daughter of his own, how horrified and angry he would be if any man ever spoke to her the way he had. If any man disrespected his daughter the way he had done to other women. And it changed him. To the core, he said. "I gotta be a daddy now."
He seemed sincere. 
But you know that before the evening was over, I brushed his hands away from my breasts at least 4 times, and removed his hand from creeping up my skirt once.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Ode to Kirsty MacColl


Girlfriends, I'm finally channeling Kirsty MacColl.

So I'm on a date. Not a bad date as far as dates go. I tried to convince him beforehand that he didn't really want a date with me because we were most definitely not going to be compatible. 
I was liberal and he was conservative? He didn't care. 
He's a grandfather and I still have a kid at home? Well...maybe not. 
He's a flag waving Christian and I'm a religion bashing humanist? 
Oh. 
OK. 
Yeah, you're right. We're not compatible. But hey, we can be friends.

Anyway, before I confessed my disdain for Christianity, akin to spraying man repellent in his face, he wanted to go for a walk with me after dinner. Wanted to get out of the noisy restaurant to go somewhere quieter where we could talk. Ummmmmmmm...... yeah. 

So I channeled Kirsty MacColl, my favorite songwriter, may she rest in peace.

I stuck out one leg, clad in the coolest Betty Page leopard spotted 5 inch heels (courtesy of Large Marge & Target), and said,


"In These Shoes? I don't think so."

Friday, April 25, 2008

I Created A Monster!


Remember my Scientific Experiment? The guy who I gave my phone number to just to see if he'd disappear on me, who scheduled a date and then cancelled it 12 hours later? He actually did, eventually, contact me again. About a week later. Apparently his 'family emergency' was now over, and he was hungry for dinner.
By that time I'd already gone out with the Detective, who had hinted around at asking me out again in the near future and I had a lot of other things planned for the next week. And then there's the child that I'm raising. I told him my dance card was full right now, so I couldn't commit to anything at the moment, but I'd let him know when my schedule lightens up again. 
His response?

"Whatever. I'm not playing this game." 
(Editor's Note:  I cleaned up his bad punctuation & spelling for you.)

Then he sent me another email. This time I'll let his bad grammar speak for itself.

"You jump all over the first guy that comes along. Well i guess the world will pass you by. If you really wanted to meet someone with the world to offer you would make time. We could meet for coffee quick see if we hit it off. Or I could wine and dine you. Would you like to Vegas for the weekend. Sperate rooms what ever. All on me everything. I mean everything. No strings if you realy want to go have fun and be wined and dined. You let me know. I'm a stand up guy. I don't bullshit. I'm fir real are you"

Then I got another one.

"I really mean what I said. Now you blow me off makes me want to meet you even more. "

Creepy. I guess when I performed that scientific experiment, I created a monster. Oops.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

How To Lie With Statistics




Here's some interesting stats on the men who have checked out my internet dating profile so far:
32 Men have the cojones to allow me the liberty of knowing they've viewed my profile.
Of those 32 men
9 are at least a decade older than me.
The oldest is 60.
6 of them only looked at me because I contacted them.
15 are Christians.
Almost all of them have beards, motorcycles, and have included photos portraying themselves with dead fish on a hook (or bloody, in their hands). Like that's a turn on for women.
And you wonder why some men complain their wives just lay there like a cold fish. Isn't that a turn on for men?

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Ill Wind

Take That, Toots.

I heard it on good authority that Toots, the guy who disappeared and then ran off with a friend's estranged wife to Cuba, has returned to town from their month long trip south of the border.

Which is sort of a shame.

I was kind of hoping he'd have a run-in with the law and end up with a split lip and a black eye, cold and shirtless, rotting in an 8x8 foot jail cell with a hole in the floor for a toilet, and a frigid southerly breeze that blows back up through the plumbing.

Not that I wish him any ill will or anything. Just an ill wind.


Tuesday, April 22, 2008

3 Minutes After Meeting


Granzella's. Saturday. Noon Thirty Three.

"Did you see that guy, in front of you, waiting for the bathroom? He had his hair in a fucking bun. I would never have hair like that."
"You used to have hair like that, down to your ass."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't wear it in a bun. That is so gay."

Monday, April 21, 2008

Burning Man


I thought I was intense. On fire. A meteor. But in his company, I'm a pussycat.
I thought I was a little outspoken (okay, a lot). But when I'm with him, I seem introverted.
I thought I was the one who shocked people. But his words make me blush. And he points it out.
I thought I was the rebellious, independent one. He puts me to shame.
I thought I was the overtly sexual girl. Around him, I feel downright virginal.
But if he pissed me off and I flipped him off, he'd just laugh and maybe kiss me instead of holding a grudge for a year.
He burns so brightly, that it tempers my flame.
He is Henry Rollins. He is Dali. He is Triple Scorpio. He is Mozart, Sid Vicious and G Love all rolled into one.
My future potential has a lot of potential.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Yee Haw


I am so ashamed to admit this. If you claim I said this, in public, I will deny it.
If you even so much as make a subtle hint in a crowded room, I will tell you that you are plum crazy, and I have no idea where you came up with such balderdash.
I have a weak spot for cowboys.
I don't know if there's a 12 step group for this affliction. Mainly I've been able to get a handle on my problem through being a die-hard liberal, staying away from Country & Western music and farmland communities. But once in a while, I'll go to the rodeo, like I did this weekend.
I have to wear dark glasses, because I tend to do a lot of ogling.
I don't know if it's the tight haircuts and shaved faces, the shirts with the piping and mother of pearl snap buttons that are so easy to unsnap. Or those big, eye-catching belt buckles. Maybe it's the tight jeans and the pointy cowboy boots, or perhaps it's those sexy hats. The way they walk with their finger cocked in a belt loop, a nod of the head, a tip of the hat. If you want to know if chivalry is dead, head to the rodeo. It ain't.
It'd never work, me and a cowboy. I just can't imagine it. But my imagination tends to get away from me, about once a year, when the rodeo comes to town.
So I sat in the stands Friday night with my girlfriends, and while there were a few interesting moments out in the dirt, most of my time was spent watching the butts in the grandstand.
Later, at the Palamino Room, I danced with Frank, who had on a black cowboy hat. He asked if I wanted a drink. I said, "Yes. Water, please." He brought me back a Bud Light.
We danced, I wore his hat, and I removed his hand from crawling underneath the elastic of my bra at least 3 times.
I danced slowly with him, this big hunk of 27 year old cowboy, while he sang "Neon Moon" into my ear, drunkenly off-key. He asked if I was coming back to the rodeo the next night.
Nope. I'll be back on the wagon by then. 

Friday, April 18, 2008

Pardon My French


I wrote a poem.
Musings on a potential future lover.
No one in particular.
Just where my mind went while I was in the Safeway produce aisle a few days ago.
I translated it into French, using Babelfish.
Then I translated it back into English.

Quand je suis au magasin d'épicerie et les fraises ont lieu dans la saison, je pense à sélectionner les baies les plus rouges et les plus mûres et les alimenter à mon amoureux dans le lit.

Quand c'est un beau jour, je pense à la façon dont gentil il devrait s'étendre dans un pré, faisant une sieste avec mon amoureux, et lisant des livres ensemble.

Une nuit claire, je pense au sujet de ce que serait il comme au stargaze de mon baquet chaud, et contemple l'univers, les bras de mon amoureux enroulés autour de moi.

La nuit quand je vais dormir, j'allume mon côté gauche, et imagine mon amoureux derrière moi, m'embrassant, mettant en forme de tasse mon sein dans une main, le reste de nos doigts et des jambes entertwined, peu embrasse décorer mon cou.


When I am with the store of grocer and the cutters take place in the season, I think of selecting the reddest bays and ripest and of feeding them with my in love in the bed.

When it is one fine day, I think of the way in which nice it should extend in pre, making a nap with my in love, and reading books together.

One night clear, I think about what it as with the stargaze of my hot bucket would be, and contemplates the universe, the arms of my in love rolled up around me.

The night when I will sleep, I light my left side, and imagines my in love behind me, embracing, formatting of cup my centre in a hand to me, the remainder of our fingers and legs entertwined, little embraces to decorate my neck.

When I am outside with friends, I imagine that my in love is with us, an arm draped above my shoulder, according to the conversation and the laughter, and leaving me sip on his beer. I imagine my in love to seize my jacket of the back of the chair and to whisper in my ear, "love of I your friends, but leave suits us between in the bed."

I think of suction on his lower lip. To slightly run my fingers in bottom of its chest under its button of belly, but above its buckled hair and to intend its breath to catch. I imagine to draw his hair right, and to leave fingerprints on my in love behind.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

It's a Man Flood!


Excuse me, do you have your phone number? I seem to have lost mine.

Have you checked out the Worst Pickup Lines at the bottom of the page?

The above nugget, a little gem, popped up this morning.

I'd like to happily report that since I have made a steadfast rule to not give my phone number out come hell or high water, I have been virtually flooded with male companionship requests.

There's the barbecuing grandfather 25 miles away who would like to take me to dinner tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Or perhaps the one after that. And he'd like me to call him. Anytime. Day or night.

Then we've got the math teacher who promises not to get pissed off if I beat him at Boggle. Which you know I will. But if he gives me a 6th grade pre-algebra problem, I'm screwed. Not literally.

There's also the guy that looks like my Dad. I just can't even make jokes about that. But I asked him if it was alright with him if I set him up with one of my friends (if I can think of anyone who'd like to date my dad besides my mom).

This morning, I heard from a wildlife biologist who called me an "attractive red head." I have no idea where he got that impression. Maybe he's corresponding with so many women that he's getting us mixed up. I hope that doesn't happen to me.

And there's my twin brother, separated at birth, who said, "People who don't like classical music usually haven't spent any time listening to it. Fuck 'em. Bach fucking rocks." Right on, brother! He also said, "Thank God for punk rock, " and apparently spent as much time in the principal's office as I did growing up. I want to marry this man. Ok, I take that back. Immediately. I take it back. You never heard that out of my mouth. But I can't wait to meet him halfway in between here and there.

And of course there's my detective, who popped into my office yesterday. The only one of these men I've actually met and shared a meal with (other than a late night snack at the keyboard). He asked what I was up to next weekend. I said, "Nuthin. But I'm not giving you my number. You know. The jinx."
He said, "I know where to find you."
Okay, then.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

In Case You Were Wondering



Regarding the little experiment I conducted last week?

The results seem to still be holding.

The guy from the next county over, who told me he had a sudden 'family emergency' and had to break our date, but would contact me to reschedule?

He hasn't.

Not that I thought he would.

If he does actually call me, that would mean that the men I give my phone number aren't dropping off the face of the earth altogether (destroying my theory), and it would mean something else is going on instead.

Like, perhaps men are simply in it just for the hunt....tracking down the elusive phone number, and as soon as they've found it, they jot it down in their little black book and head back out on the hunt for the next number. You don't think that's what's going on here, do you? That men really are all about the pursuit and never about the catch?

Well that's no fun.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

The Olympic Athlete

I'm a big mentsch.
In my last post, I mentioned that when I first joined Yahoo! Personals I had saved some profiles that caught my eye but were well out of commute range. Like the Olympian, in San Francisco. An actual Olympian white water kayaking champion.
Drop dead gorgeous. Funny. Well traveled. Fearless. Successful. 
After my experience with the Paralympic athlete back in February, I was a little reluctant to consider someone so driven, because I figured a women would be somewhere pretty far down on his priority list. As in:

147. Vacuum under bed
148. Make time for girl
149. Replace ant bait in garage

Plus, although I've made incredible progress towards getting in shape over the last year, I've got more work ahead of me. I tried to imagine a buff, toned, Olympian dating a size 14, and I just couldn't see it. But I saved his profile. For the day that I'm a size 9.

A week or two later, I went back to his profile. I thought about him. Thought about him a lot. Tried to visualize him in a relationship again. And finally, I saw it. I knew it could work. So I emailed him. Last week.

You'll never believe this, but he emailed me back.

And he's interested.

In fact, he said he was "totally psyched to meet."

Don't go getting all excited for me, though.



Pause for dramatic effect.


And don't go thinking I gave him my phone number. 


I gave him someone else's.

Here's what I had said to him in my email:

"I know this is going to be a little bit strange, but I think you might be interested in meeting a friend of mine. I saved your profile a couple of weeks ago ... blah blah blah...you know this part... But in the meantime, I've just been thinking about this good friend of mine who lives near you in the Bay Area, who is semi-recently single that I just have a hunch about. I've looked at your profile a couple of times, and I just keep thinking, "He's so cool, I bet he'd really like my friend from college." She's a jet pilot, travels around the world, has her MBA, and she's gorgeous. Athletic, outdoorsy, tall, slender and a blonde, blue eyed goddess."

And so, as soon as he's back from his trip to Nepal, before he goes to Guam, and perhaps in between my friend's flights to Washington D.C. and Kazakhstan, they'll have a chance to meet. And if they get married in some far off location, they had better pay my airfare there and back, dammit. 

I'm such a giver.

Monday, April 14, 2008

The Detective


New tactical maneuvers were in order.
I went back online, to my saved profiles. The ones I'd looked at weeks before when I first signed up for Yahoo! Personals, the ones I'd saved because there was something that  sparked an interest in me, but I didn't have the courage to follow up on. 
There was one guy, in particular, that really appealed to me. He was cute. I liked his smile. He looked smart. And active. 
So I wrote him.
He winked back, almost immediately, but with one of those quick little multiple choice pre-written comments  ("Your profile made me smile,") that told me he was either too stumped for words to write his own reply or wasn't a paying member of Yahoo! Personals. So I gave him the Detective Challenge.
I told him that I wasn't that difficult to find, and that perhaps he should just print out one of my photos, hop on his mountain bike and bring it downtown. Show it around. To the homeless guy with the cast on his leg who sits on the same bench every day and watches the traffic go by. To the gal in the box office at the theatre. To the couple who own the make-your-own-wine place. And that if he found me, I had no plans for the weekend.
The next day, my phone rang at work.
"Guess what," he said. "I found you. I AM a really good detective. Do you know who this is?"
And so, we had a date. 
In one hour. 
If he'd cancelled, it would've broken The Experiment's record by 11 hours.
But he didn't.
I attribute this mainly to the fact that I never gave him my phone number.

I think I'm finally getting the hang of this.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

The Experiment


Put your bets on me to finish last
Or just scratch altogether.
Maybe this is just a bad case of Murphy’s Law.
Or maybe there IS a God, and she DOES NOT like me.

But for some reason, I fall flat on my face right out of the gate, every time.

With every man I’ve communicated with online, as soon as we’ve gotten to know each other well enough that we’ve both agreed to meet, and I give them my phone number, they disappear off the face of the earth. Remember the Wild Canadian Boar? It happened with him. And the Deep Swimmer? Him too. 
One thing you should know about me. If I hadn't gone into the line of work I did, I would've been a detective. Or perhaps a research scientist. I'm curious by nature. I want to know the answers. So I thought a little research project was in order. To see if this was indeed, an actual pattern, or just bizarre coincidence.
There was a guy from the next county over who'd been dogging me online for a few days. I'd blown him off, telling him that I was following another connection, and didn't want to entertain two possibilities at once. Which was true. Also true was the fact that I didn't really see any real similarities between us. I was skeptical that any kind of connection was possible. Shaved head. Big goateeish beard. A great big bear of a guy.  Perfect. For my experiment, I mean. Definitely not the guy for me.
At this point, I just wanted to prove my hypothesis: That any man I gave my phone number to would ultimately flake out on me before even meeting.
So I emailed him. Told him that I'd changed my mind. And that I was free Friday for dinner.
The Experiment emailed me back. We were on. OK, so maybe my theory was wrong! 
He called me 'Sweety' and wanted to know what restaurant I wanted to go to, and how to reach me.
I told him to meet me in front of a well known landmark in the middle of the city at 7pm, and that we could go to any one of a number of restaurants from there. But just in case we crossed signals, I gave him my cell phone number. 
There ya go, I'd given him my cell phone number. 
The last time I'd given my phone number to a man I had a date scheduled with, it took him approximately 18 hours from the moment he committed to the date to cancel the date and the communication altogether. 
How long would it take this time?
Twelve hours.
Twelve hours later, there was an email in my box from The Experiment:

"Don't take this the wrong way. "
Where have I heard that before? Ah yes, the Homecoming King. I don't have to conduct research to know what follows the phrase 'Don't take this the wrong way.' Nothing good.
"I would very much love to meet you. I'm unable to at the present time. Due to a family emergency . I know you will understand. Thank you. I have you number and will contact you within a few days to reschedule our engagement."

Hypothesis proven.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Deep End Of The Pool


“Let’s go swimming.”

That’s what he said to me.

I have had a Lemony Snickett month. A series of unfortunate events. But you know what? I didn't give up on men. In fact, I continued forging on, unwilling to give up. I know, I've been ruthlessly hard on them in Blog World. But those guys - they deserve it. I know there are good men out there.

Eventually, all my friends keep telling me, something's gonna give.

And not all that long into it, I came across someone special. Someone who got me. I was overjoyed to finally meet someone, although he’s far outside of my zip code, who thinks like I do. He had no use for the shallow end of the pool. He loved that I told him that I am a mermaid who enjoys the deep end of the pool, where the water is warm and your feet can’t touch bottom. We talked for a week, several times a day. In long, soul exposing letters. He said to me, “You’re so outwardly focused, always doing things for others. Tell me. Do you know what lurks deep inside?” And we shared. We both typed to each other with tears clouding our eyes, talking about years of inward self-exploration which led to life changes and journeys into dark places only to come out eventually into the light.

He was unafraid. He welcomed the brightness of my glow. The intensity of my being. After so many recent disappointments, my spirits were lifted, even though I had to go looking 2 1/2 hours away to find someone my own age who thinks on the same level, and wants to explore a relationship the same way. He just wanted to make sure that if he was going to take a chance on me, that I wasn't someone who had a brick wall built up around my heart. That I was willing to open up, ready to give and receive. That the hurt of my past didn't cause me to exist on only a superficial level in the future to protect my tender spots. He wanted to know that I was willing to go on a journey of self-exploration with him. If I would hold his hand when we jumped into the deep end of the pool together.

He wanted to meet me.

He had a long way to drive.

But he was up for it.

I knew that if he liked my letters, he would love meeting me in person. Because I have so many journeys to tell him about that we hadn’t covered. I knew we’d spend hours and hours talking when we finally met, being forced out of the restaurant when they turn off the lights. And that we’d continue our conversation, walking along the river. 

In an email he said, “Next Friday. I’ll come to you.”

I said, “Yes. Let’s meet. It’s going to be wonderful. Here’s how to find me.”

The next morning I was on the phone with a friend. I told her I had a date.

“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “You know how you are.”

I said, “No, I’m not. This is a good guy, very sincere. We’re connecting at a very deep level. But I just gave him my phone number and full name. Isn’t this, judging from the past, when he’s supposed to fall off the edge of the earth and disappear?”

As we were laughing, I clicked on my email.

I had 1 message.

It was from him.

You already know what it said, don’t you?

“Thank you for the reply and insight. I have a confession to make. I had dinner with a group of co-workers last night. I have worked with most of them for 10 years off and on. One of my friends introduced me to someone I have known for a while but timing was never there.
I was given the opportunity to talk with her about her travels, life journey, and her passions. We talked until 2 a.m., until we were kicked out of the wine bar. I told her about you, and our great communication. What is strange is we had shared the same information that you and I had. Only because we have worked together was this "connection" created. I wasn't expecting anything. I did want anything. I can not help but get that meeting and sharing out of my head. I have come to the decision to explore this connection and ideals of life. The main choice was not only timing but our distance. I do not mean to offend but would rather be upfront with you. I will put myself on hold for now with this site, and see what life brings. Thank your for your time, communication, and openness. A part of me is tormented.”

You think you're tormented? Oh, honey. You don't know torment. You've just met someone. You're ecstatic. You're filled with hope and excitement and giddiness. Butterflies in your stomach, tears waiting to spring forward from your eyes. You spoke to her about me and our amazing conversations, and how much you were looking forward to finally meeting me. Your heart was swelled. Your insides were swirling. She saw that light in you, and wanted it for herself. I don't blame her. I'd like to take some of the credit for priming you to be ready to experience the true joy of opening up your soul to another and having it polished, filled up and handed back to you. Plumper, redder. More delicious. You are not tormented. That would be me.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Think Vs. Feel


My life currently has Oscar potential.


David Romanelli has pinpointed how I've felt all week in Livin' In The Moment.

Think about the difference between a good movie and a great movie. A good movie engages your mind enough to keep you in the cinema for two hours. But a great movie makes you feel intense love, despair, anxiety, fear and hope. In much the same way, a human being that makes you think is an interesting human being. But a human being that makes you feel enough emotion to stand up and act - or keel over in laughter, or wipe the tears from your eyes - that is a truly powerful human being.

It'll all make sense tomorrow. Maybe.

Karma


I was on a blind date a while back....
Who it was wasn't important, because this story is not about my date. Although, yes, it did happen to be my blind date. 
And he said something about not knowing what I looked like. So instead of describing myself, I called over the bartender. The bartender and I aren't close friends, but we know each other. So I asked him to describe me to my date.
He said, "She's very Aryan... and she's got fantastic tits."
Thanks. You can leave now.
What is wrong with men? To my friends who are embarassed for me that I'm exposing my personal disappointments for the world to read, those who think I'm full of anger, well...wouldn't you be if this crap kept happening to you? Can you really blame me for gritting my teeth, clenching my fists and stomping around for awhile?
Maybe this is just karma hitting me in the face for something I did a long time ago. So I accept that I probably deserve a few bad things to happen to me before something good happens again. But it doesn't stop me from being completely astonished that so many of the men I've come across in my life treat women horribly, bumbling along without a clue as to how to respectfully treat a woman.
I mean, come ON. Aryan? 

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Will Boys Ever Learn?




















Did They All Go To The Same School Of Disrespect?

A few weeks ago I ran into a guy pal and his friend on a street corner, in front of a wine bar before a Greg Brown concert nearby. My friend introduced me to his friend, who immediately started passing out compliments - I looked fantastic, and I smelled good, and then they invited me to join them for a drink before the show.
I had to go to the box office to check on my tickets first, but told the guys I'd love to join them, and I'd be back in 5 minutes. I skipped off down the street, feeling pretty chipper. Guys never invite me for a drink.

Now, when I say 5 minutes, I don't mean 5 girl minutes, which is more like 20 minutes and involves the reapplication of makeup. I'm the kind of of girl who can go from dirty and disheveled to ready for a night on the town in 9 minutes flat. I've clocked myself. So when I say 5 minutes, I mean 5 minutes. 
But when I returned to the wine bar, 5 minutes later, they were nowhere to be found.
I stood in the middle of the wine bar, feeling sort of dumb. I waited around for a few minutes to see if they'd return, but they never did. So I left and went to the concert.
The next night I ran into my pal's friend at another establishment. 
He was sitting at a table with a familiar looking guy.
As I was preparing to leave, I approached the table, and asked my pal's friend what had happened to the two of them the night before.
He told me that the wine bar was so busy that they'd left and gone down the street to another bar. He told me that they'd asked the bartender to tell me where they'd gone, but of course, nobody told me anything. I chided him a bit for not waiting just a few minutes for me before leaving, because I thought I'd been ditched.
I said, "You know, it's bad manners to tell a girl she smells nice, invite her out for a drink, and then disappear on her."
He laughed, then pointed to the guy sitting next to him and said, "I learned everything I know from this guy."
I looked at his table mate. It was my Blind Date. You know. THE Blind Date.
"You know, I believe you," I scoffed. "Goodbye, fellas."

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

A Rose By Any Other Name


An open letter to the fella who left a dozen red roses and a stuffed bunny on my doorstep on Valentine's Day





Dear you,

I just don't know how I can thank you.

Really.

I have absolutely no idea how I am going to thank you, because I have no idea who you are.

Don't worry, I got the note you left. It was really sweet and humorous, especially the part about the flowers being for me and the bunny being for my daughter, unless I had a thing for stuffed animals. I thought it was interesting that you put photographic paper in your printer to put the note on, but made sure to sign your name in ink at the bottom, a personalized touch.

The thing is, and I'm embarassed to say this, but I can't make heads or tails of your signature.

And that has put me in a pretty delicate situation that has proven to be pretty awkward.

I've been asking around, and nobody will admit to giving me the flowers.
There was the guy who was my good friend and was a little more than a friend for about 2 weeks back in January. He seemed like the most likely candidate to feel obligated to do something for me on Valentine's Day, but at the same time, I really didn't think he'd want me to confuse our relationship for a romance. But I asked him anyway if the flowers were from him, and he says they weren't. And now he's avoiding me like the plague.

So I asked all the rest of the men in my life. I asked the guy I'm having dinner with tomorrow night, my buddy that I had lunch with last weekend, my sweet gay neighbor across the street, and a couple of my married guy friends, which was a real stretch, since I knew they hadn't even gotten flowers for their own wives. But hey. You never know. They all denied it.

I didn't stop there. After I ran out of potential men, I moved on to women. They all thought it was really sweet that I received roses and tried to help me decipher your signature, but no one has confessed to being responsible for your act of kindness. Or romance, I'm not sure which. At one point, I was convinced that someone was playing a cruel joke on me, giving me roses to mislead me into thinking someone had romantic feelings for me, and intentionally signing an illegible name. But my friends tell me I'm being ridiculous, that nobody, friend or foe, would go to the expense of buying a dozen red roses and a stuffed animal for a joke. I checked into it, and when I realized the outrageous price tag on red roses on Valentines Day, I agree. It wasn't a joke.
So I apologize if I hurt your feelings or seemed rude for never thanking you for the lovely gift. I imagine that you think I'm a heartless destroyer of men's hearts because you did such a sweet thing, and I never even acknowledged it. Since two months have gone by and you have still not made yourself known to me, I thought a public display of gratitude was in order.

Thank you, whoever you are.

The flowers are dead and gone now, but I've saved the note, and keep buying fresh flowers to remind me of your sweet gesture. Maybe someday you'll find the nerve to ask me why I never thanked you.

Editor's Note: Dear Readers, what do you think the chances are that the woman I bought a dozen red roses for on Valentine's Day colluded with her new lover, Toots, to repackage the flowers, add a friendly note with a generically undecipherable signature, and leave them on my front doorstep? That would mean that ultimately, I have myself to thank. No wonder nobody ever stepped forward. Sorta makes sense, in a wacky, weird way. 

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

How Kiss & Tell Got Its Name



Next time you're feeling down, just remember, your date didn't run off to Cuba with the gal you bought Valentine's Day flowers for.



I was over it.
I was so over it, my first experience out of the gate, that I didn't bother writing about it on this blog, dedicated to the humiliations I've suffered so far in my recent post-divorce status.
But today I decided I should tell you why I chose the name Kiss & Tell. It's not because I plan on telling you about every man I kiss. It's because of the first man that I kissed after my husband moved out. Yet another musician. Let's call him Toots. Toots told me that he wanted it understood that he didn't "Kiss & Tell."
At the time he made it sound like he was such a deeply private person that he didn't feel it was anyone else's business what we were doing. It took me awhile, but now I understand he wanted me to keep quiet about our relationship because he didn't want it to ruin his chances with other women. Or maybe it was just one specific woman.
I know, I'm such an idiot.
I'm such a trusting, foolish, idiot.
Don't go thinking that I was in love with Toots, or thought that love was going to come about with him. I understood from the beginning that he didn't want a relationship. With anyone, he said. He said he was soured on the idea. Again, I believed him. And I accepted it, because I needed intimacy and human warmth and that connection, and someone to treat me like I was special and worthy of a back massage and a good cuddle. These were the things I was missing out on. Love would come later - or rather I hope that it will eventually come to me - with someone else. Someone who could appreciate the love and affection that I have to give. Never for a second did I think he was that person.
But, you know that saying. Until Mr. Right comes along, I'll settle for Mr. Right Now.
But a funny thing happened once he and I - for lack of a better term - started dating.
Toots quit being my friend.
After the first naughty weekend, I didn't hear from him for 4 days. Totally unlike him. Until then, we communicated almost every day. By phone, by text, in person.
After the 2nd naughty weekend, he didn't respond to a sweet, flirtatious text message I sent.
And when I saw him 4 days later and asked why he'd disappeared again and not even responded, he said, "Yeah, I knew I was gonna catch some shit for that."
Well then, friend, why did you do it?
I expressed to him my consternation that as soon as our friendship turned physical, he was suddenly having difficulty remembering that we were supposed to be friends. Our friendship, hanging out and communicating was important to me. And then, after that, I decided that I'd just let him contact me from now on.
I bumped into him on the street once or twice after that.
But he never called me again.
I'm going to break from my train of thought for a moment to tell you about a favor I did for a friend a few months ago. Bear with me, it fits in with my story.
A friend of mine is currently doing 18 months in Lompoc. I received a letter from him a few months ago, asking if I would do something special for him on Valentines Day. Being incarcerated, he was unable to buy his wife flowers. A dozen roses. I ordered them, dictated the sweet note about how he knew things were tough, but he was committed to working things out. I paid for them with my credit card, knowing that I would not be reimbursed. I did this with a sense of melancholy, knowing that I had nobody in my life who was going to buy me a dozen roses for Valentines Day. There's more to this story, but it doesn't relate to what I'm telling you today. But you'll figure it out when you read about it somewhere down the line.
I received another letter today from my friend in prison who told me what happened to Toots. He ran off with his wife. They are currently vacationing together somewhere south of the border.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Party Foul

This Week's Lesson: Do Unto Others As You'd Like 'Em To Do Unto You

I went to a party the other night to celebrate the collective birthdays of a couple of Rams in a joint fete. I didn't know more than a handful of people there, and that was a good thing. I'm trying to get out of my social circle (which is harder than it sounds) to meet new people.
I put on my party hat, which in this case was a metal Viking helmet with large horns protruding out the side. Seemed appropriate, for the Ramma Jamma celebration.
I met some fabulously interesting guys. The new photographer for the paper, with a thick drawl and a passion for grocery store candy machine figurines. He's kind of touchy feely. I like that. The fantastically adorable forest service employee who offered me a personal tour of the smoke jumping school (I smell heat!). And then there's the bleached blonde, totally cool homeboy who, like me, stays up way too late manically creating stuff. He and I talked for hours. I like talking.
The smoke jumper ate a burger while we were talking, and I thought I spied a bit of barbecue sauce on the side of his nose. But I wasn't sure, know what I mean? What if it was a booger. Or worse, part of his face. You don't want to try to wipe off someone's birthmark. So I tried not to look at it, and felt kinda bad because if it were me, I'd want someone to tell me, "Hey, you got some crap on your face." But no, I didn't want to embarass him, so I just tried to be attentive and look directly into his eyes and not at his nose.
Don't look at his nose.
Don't. Look. At his nose.

Finally, thankfully, he got involved in a conversation with someone else.
That's when I started talking to the blonde boy. And it seemed like we talked for hours. He was just fascinating to me.
Eventually, I had to go to the bathroom. I was so proud of myself for getting out of my normal group of friends and meeting new and interesting people, that I sassily said to my reflection in the mirror, "You go, girl!" and gave myself a big ol' smile.
I didn't eat any of the hamburger, so I'm pretty sure it was bits of brownie in my teeth.
Yeah, you go girl.

By the way, the guy in this photo, courtesy of Getty Images, isn't nearly as cute as the boy who had barbecue sauce on his face. But it had to do.

Blown Away

Ladies, follow these handy tips on how to create an internet dating profile that'll catch some attention!

What's a Dater Hater to do on a Friday night? I was at a local watering hole with some galfriends, and bumped into an acquaintance of the XY persuasion that I'd seen on Yahoo! Personals.
I asked him why men are so rude and disrespectful that they don't bother responding to friendly inquiries from women on internet dating sites.
He told me maybe I should work on my profile.
I have a great profile. Well, I thought I had a great profile. I mention that I'm outgoing, funny, a little bit wild, but also the most dependable person you've probably ever met. I mention that I'm into music and movies, scrabble night and frisbee in the park, pint night at the pub and bicycling along the river. I also mention that I have a masters degree in kissing.
For those of you who know me, do I have myself pegged accurately? I can take it if you disagree. Afterall, my goal this April is to learn how to be flatly rejected over and over again.

He said, "Did you screw up your photo then? You're totally cute, great hair, nice smile, nice eyes. Did you post an unflattering picture?"
"No, I'm totally cute in my photo!"
"But does it show off how fantastic your tits are?"

Um, no.

"You know what would get you some attention?"

I'm all ears.

Remember, I don't make any of this up.

"You should say you love giving blowjobs."


Thanks to Getty Images for the photo that just doesn't do this blog entry much justice. But I'll take what I can get.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Ring My Bell


When I first entered the world of internet dating, it was totally incognito. I had a profile, but nobody could see it. Of course, that meant no one could find me. Only the men I contacted personally would have access to my vitals. At the time, I was confident that I was only going to have to reach out to one or two men, put myself in front of them, give them a big, sparkly smile, and they'd be smitten, interested, want to meet me immediately, and I'd have no further need for internet dating.
Yeah, right.
It just didn't happen that way.
First I reached out to my Canadian Wild Boar. You know how that turned out. I also reached out to another guy who hadn't been online in the past couple of months (I smell a June wedding).
After the Homecoming King decided he preferred his ex-wife to me, my immediate reaction, within 5 minutes of him leaving the room, was to go online and turn my profile on to be viewed by anyone.

I Am Open For Business!

I was pissed off. Not at the Homecoming King, mind you. We're actually still friends. I hope good things happen for him. I just wish even better things would happen for me, and they're not.
But he was definitely the straw that broke the camel's back. I was ready for the shallow end of the pool. No more getting emotionally involved. No more getting excited or giddy, no more butterflies in my stomach, no more being nice. I decided that I was going to put myself out there like a tomato in the vegetable bin and let all the men pick me over, check me out, see if I was worth having for dinner. And then I'd go out with whoever asked me, but they'd be getting the new me. The shallow, uninterested, skeptical woman who starts off pessimistic and makes them change my mind. You want a piece of me?
WORK FOR IT.
If there was one mistake I've made when it comes to menfolk in my life, it's definitely that I haven't made them work for it. I give in way too easily, because at heart, I'm a passionate, sensual, romantic who loves intimacy and being in love.

Now that I'd opened up my profile, all my girlfriends said, "Just relax. Let them come to you." Meaning sit on my hands, be patient, and they'll start winking and emailing in droves. Because I'm a total catch. Well, that's what all my girlfriends say.

One thing you should know about Yahoo! Personals. You can set your account up so that you can sleuth around, check out profiles without the other party knowing. Or, you can boldly march in and leave footprints. So far, in the past 3 weeks, 23 men have left footprints on my doorstep. I'm guessing that hundreds are hiding in the bushes. How many have had the guts to ring my doorbell?
One.
No, he's not the guy for me. He had a neck chain, a photo of him, hair slicked back, in his Camaro. Sunglasses and moustache. And he's a good Christian. That's actually the only thing I have a problem with. Poor guy, he doesn't know that my ex became so religious that I am still finding droppings of faith all over the house that I keep having to clean up, and he's been gone 8 months. I can't do Christians. I've got a religious gag reflex thing now that I just can't help.
But at least I emailed him, and was straight up with him. Told him that I probably wasn't date material for him because of my current religious attitude.
But at least I was polite enough to respond.
Because I think it's rude when someone makes the effort of putting themselves out there, and not receiving even an acknowledgement that you exist. And yet, this is the general modus operandi of all the men out there involved in the internet personals.
Back to this patience thing. I have none.
So after a few days, I started contacting men from 35-45 who peaked my interest. I left short, cute, messages telling them we had some things in common, or I liked their profiles, and to check me out and get in touch.
I wrote to 10 men. Wanna take a guess as to how many of them wrote back?
Shall we break it down into how many wrote back who wanted to immediately meet me for drinks, those who had a one sentence reply encouraging me to tell them more, and those who responded with a polite rejection?
I'll let you know as soon as one of them does any of the above.

I'm already far too insecure to deal with the rejection of men I already know and have kissed. Now I'm opening myself to flat rejection from numerous, random men I've never even met. Could this get any more pathetic?

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Man Hunter


My Attempt At Catching The Elusive Wild Canadian Boar

One night, in a fit of frustration while I was on a month long holding pattern to see if some guy I kissed was ever going to call me back, I perused through the Match.Com profiles in my zip code. I was looking for a guy with a college degree who doesn't smoke (much), is somewhere between middle of the road and liberal in his political leanings, and doesn't own a bible.
I didn't think I was asking for much.

But within 20 miles of my zip code, Match.Com gave me a grand total of 3 men. One peaked my interest. I stored him away in my mental cache.
Then I checked out Yahoo! Personals. Of the 2 men that matched me, one was the same guy from Match.Com.

We had a lot of similarities.
Both separated. With kids. Gainfully Employed. Love to laugh. Love live entertainment and movies. He's Canadian. I lived in Alaska once. Close enough.
And here's the thing: he said he liked women who weren't afraid to show their wild side. Well, that's me.
So I winked at him. Bold. My first wink.
Nuthin'. No response.
I thought about it, and came to the conclusion that since the computers that sort out who's right for whom had twice come up with "Loves to Laugh," as the guy for me, that I'd better just go for it. What did I have to lose?
I gave Yahoo Personals my credit card number so I could have the luxury of communicating with him, and then emailed him. Told him the Cyber Gods thought we'd have chemistry. We didn't want to make them angry, did we?
He emailed me back!
We emailed back & forth a few times on Thursday. I offered up a couple of possibilities to meet in person. Afternoon at the dog park. Pint night at the pub. Starbucks on the corner. He said he'd meet me now if it wasn't so late. Friday was out, he had a hunting education class with the kids. How about Saturday? I couldn't Saturday, but I said I had the entire next week open and available, and (gulp) decided to give him my phone number.
And then he disappeared. Never heard from him again.

Is that some kind of Canadian mating ritual? Is he testing out my hunting skills? Wants to see just how wild my wild side is? Sorry. My wild side does not include putting on camo, smudging my face and setting up a duck blind out in Central Valley to hunt you down. I'd send my dog out for you, but it's hard to pick up a scent over the internet.

Friday, April 4, 2008

It Boggles My Mind

Today I changed my internet dating profile to say that I'm the best darned Boggle player ever.  In response, Yahoo! Personals emailed me, suggesting that I consider checking out the profile of a guy they thought might be a good match.

He's a conservative logger who lives an hour away. He's a sports nut 10 years younger than me (okay, that's not necessarily a bad thing) who smokes a lot, and in his only photo he had his arms around a pair of sexy brunettes who looked to be Captain Morgan Rum spokesmodels. And he was a bad speller who can't figure out where to put an apostrophe. He's "not looking for a perminate relationship, but would'nt rule it out."
And then Yahoo! had the nerve to suggest to me that I relax my standards a little bit so they could match me up with a wider selection of guys. 
I might ask for my money back.

He's Big In Japan. Here, Not So Big.


Apparently, the key to getting a man to beg you to call him is to treat him with complete disdain, goad him into an argument and behave like a total disrespectful bitch. Why didn't anyone explain this to me before?

Wednesday night I'm with my girlfriend, and we go to this quiet little wine bar so I can complain about my rotten luck with men. We walk in the door, and there at the end of the bar, is this little guy. I think even he would describe himself as Leprechaunish. He didn't speak with a Gaelic lilt. But he was bearded, wearing a white business shirt (I could even see an undershirt poking out from his unbuttoned collar). And he was rather smallish. OK, I'm being nice. I have to stop doing that. He was a tiny little man with astoundingly small hands. If he'd asked me to sit on his lap, I would've crushed him. And he was really drunk.
"Hey Ladies! Come sit over here!" he shouted when we walked in the door, and patted the seat next to him. My friend made a beeline for stools at the other end of the bar. I grabbed her elbow and steered her over his way.
"What are you doing?!" she stage whispered.
"Come on, it'll be fun," I say.
You know what I was thinking, dontcha.
I'm a man hating she-bitch on wheels right now, this will be good practice. I don't feel like being nice to men, and this is the perfect man to not be nice to. Plus, it'll be great fodder for tomorrow's blog.
I knew he wouldn't let me down. And he didn't.
He was a slurry, obnoxious, loud little man with a big drinking problem, so I immediately starting pushing his buttons, goading him into an argument. I was gonna learn me some skillz.
I told him I thought I recognized him from somewhere. Sex offender registry? County jail inmate website? (I figured it out later. I'd seen him at a concert the year before, and he was removed from the premises for being drunk and obnoxious.)
He wanted to know my name in the worst way. I wouldn't tell him. He said, "I don't give a shit anyway."
I begged to differ.
"As soon as I tell you my name, true, you won't give a shit. But it's going to drive you nuts as long as I don't tell you my name, because you want to know what it is so badly. So yes, you do give a shit, and there you have it."
"Is it Kathy? Beth?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Which one?"
"Pick one."
He clenched his little fists and banged on the countertop.
He says, "I'll tell you my name!" He pulled out a business card and tossed it to me.
"Ahh, you're an attorney. Some attorney. You can't argue for shit. If I was an attorney, I'd kick your ass all over the courtroom."
That's when he got up from the barstool (that's also when I realized he was about 5 foot 4), and did this crazy little dance, waving his arms and swinging his hips around. It was downright freaky. Kind of like a belly dancing gorilla.
Where's my damn Taser?
And then he started speaking in Japanese. Fluently. Well, if you asked a Japanese person, they'd probably tell you he was slurring fluently in Japanese.
But I am not making this shit up.
My friend says, "I think I'm turning Japanese."
I say, "I'll bet he's big, in Japan. Here, not so big."
I was feeling just a little bit guilty that I was being so incredibly rude to this guy, but only because I'm usually so damned nice. Too damned nice. And those days are over.
I'm on a very important educational mission of learning how to treat guys like shit.
And then he left. His parting words: "Well, you've got my card, call me. We'll have a drink, grab a coffee, whatever. We'll have fun. Call me. It was nice meeting you. Call me."
Sayanara.

Note: Thanks to Getty Images for finding me the perfect photo of an attorney doing a gorilla belly dance. Never thought I'd find an image of that. Admittedly, first I looked for a drunk Japanese man dressed as a Leprechaun. No luck there.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

ZAP!


I received this handy advice from "Unsettled" yesterday. I just wish I'd had one last night when I met the Japanese leprechaun.
More on him later. Much more.

"I believe what you may be missing is the all important Taser. This remarkable tool has proven very beneficial as a way of discouraging rude and thoughtless behavior. Just when your date opens his mouth and emits a very unsatisfying nasty, just ZAP! him! You'll feel much better. It's also useful as a deterrent for you. ALWAYS start a date by identifying which end of the narcissism pool your date is from. If it's a place in high school you never wanted to be, then ZAP! yourself. NO need to entertain the high school quarterback, then or now. You might even start all conversations with new dates by identifying their status in high school. I personally recommend former geeks. Course, once a geek always a geek, but by this time they all make really good money and enjoy someone to have fun with. Give the former shallow end a chance: look for the pointy rim glasses and pants pulled up too far. You might be pleasantly surprised..."

Right on!
I actually got a little excited, thinking maybe what I needed to do was to go find myself a geek to help me design my own Date Taser - a slim line model in zebra stripes or leopard spots, or pink with rhinestones that would fit snug inside my bra where my cell phone normally resides. And then I found that someone else had already done it for me.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Love Isn't Blind. But My Date Is


Don't Date The High School Quarterback Part II


I sat around waiting for him to call me for about 5 weeks. I know, that's a ridiculously long time to wait. But nobody else was beating down my door to ask me to dinner, so really, I wasn't waiting. I was just living my life. And hoping he'd eventually call. I saw him once, at a party (he was the guest of honor) at a local tavern. Briefly. I just said a quick hello & then stayed away. Because I didn't want to be pushy or overbearing, didn't want him to think I had stalker potential or that I was pathetically desperate. Plus, all my friends were saying, "Guys love a good chase. Let him chase you!" 
I ask you this: How do you play hide & seek with a guy that can't see you standing right in front of him?

Then a few weeks later, I bumped into him again, same tavern.
I said, "Long time no see."
He hugged me, said things had been pretty crazy, but were finally leveling out. I said, "Yeah, I actually thought maybe you were upset with me about something because you never called me."
He said, "Yeah, well, you're smart, and you're pretty (I won't argue this point, but how does he know?) but you're aggressive, and I just can't do aggressive." And then perhaps to illustrate his point, he told me how he'd dumped another gal after they'd gone to dinner a few times because she'd asked him where the relationship was headed. He told me that she'd chosen the worst possible time to ask him this, so he ended it. Crushed her little head.

I realized that I'd been there when it had happened.

It was at the party. I'd seen a sweet faced blonde who stood in the hallway near the bathrooms, facing the crowd, wiping away tears and being consoled by a friend. I thought to myself, Now that looks like a girl who just got dumped. Poor thing. But why is she standing there, out in the open, crying? Obviously the guy who just dumped her is in this room, because she was all smiles 10 minutes ago, and nobody's left the party. So why doesn't she go into the bathroom to cry? If some guy had just dumped me, I certainly wouldn't stand out in the open and cry like that where he could see me.

Oh.


I get it. He can't see you.

So I told him, "Yeah, I was there when you dumped her. You made her cry."
He let out an astonished, "HA! I knew it! I knew it! You were paying attention! You were watching me!" And he said it as if I'd been busted spying on him. 

Conceited, self-centered prick.

"No. I wasn't watching you. I was watching her. Jerk."
I walked away from him while he was still talking to me.

He's blind, alrighty. In more than one way one.
And forget the kidneys. This guy needs a heart in the worst way.