Cats: Not the Musical

There I was, minding my own business, when I received the following
e-mail from someone on Match.com *. This message has been copied and pasted. It truly pains me to keep the grammatical / spelling errors intact, but I’m doing it for posterity:

Subject: Passion for Animals

Message:

I have a deep passion for animals. I had an upsetting weekend. One of my beloved cats got very sick and has been at the animal hospital since Saturday. He had some kidney problems. He is not out of danger, but at least he is still alert and surviving. I am keeping my pet taxi in my car as a good luck charm with the hope that I can bring him home soon.

Another think positive is if we can make a connection. We have very similar interests. I see that you like going to concerts. I probably have gone to close to 300 concerts over the years. I think that we share some common interests is a good thing.

A few items to note here:

– My profile clearly states that I am fiercely allergic to cats. Sure, they are creatures that many people hold near and dear to their hearts. I get that. I have a few in my backyard that talk to me in the middle of the night. They’re very social. But telling me about feline kidney issues is not a quick way to spur up the romantic chemistry.

– Notice how he mentions “one of” his cats? It means there is more than one. Perhaps a gang of cats? I debated over whether I would include any one of a variety of “pussy” puns here and decided against it.

– I feel bad for this guy for having a sick pet. Of course I do. But why offer such detail to a total stranger?

– “Another think positive is if we can make a connection.” Does anyone understand what that means?? I don’t.

– Where’s the greeting, the introduction, and / or the closing?

I would like to take the opportunity right here to create a response to “RStepper” since this is my safe haven of snark and non-confrontation:

Hi RStepper,

I am so terribly sorry about your cat. You seem like a very caring person who will make someone very happy one day. That someone may be a cat, or a cat-loving human who doesn’t sneeze and develop oozing eyeballs from being around a cat for longer than 5 minutes, such as myself.

I hope your cat is alive and well. Perhaps you can buy him a wig. That will make both of you feel better: http://kittywigs.com/

German man marries his cat.
Photo credit from this illustrious story:
http://perezhilton.com/2010-05-03-german-man-marries-his-cat#.UH1jjm_A-So

* Since I originally starting drafting this post, I have received not one, but two further e-mails from RStepper. In one, he seems to have no memory of writing to me the first time and tells me about charging is phone post-Hurricane Sandy at the Verizon store. And that’s the whole e-mail. In the follow-up, he starts catching an attitude and demands to know why I haven’t responded to him. Sorry folks, RStepper is now officially blocked.

Why are we Holding Hands?

On a beautiful summer afternoon, I was obviously sitting inside, on my couch in the air conditioning, and staring at profiles on my favorite free online dating site. Jay and I started IMing and since he typed in full sentences and didn’t ask me to come over to his house within the hour in a costume (happens all the time), I decided that he was dating material. Jay had his own apartment, a job and looked to be pretty handsome. About 6 feet tall, with wavy dark blond hair and he worked at a music label (yes, I was shocked that some still exist too!) We bantered humorously back and forth via text for the next day or so and made plans to meet at a wine bar that Saturday night.

I had left another bar earlier after watching a friend’s band to make it on time for our date and it turned out that I was early. He picked a cute place. I sat at the bar and sipped my wine waiting for him to walk in, while yet again, trying to look cute and breezy. And then Jay came through the door. I suppose he kind of looked like the person in his photos, but there was something lacking. I honestly feel like online profiles can really mess with one’s head since they are only one-dimensional. This then forces us to create the second and third dimensions in our heads and if our date doesn’t match up to that creation, there might be some severe disappointment and lack of chemistry.

So there was zero attraction to the in-person Jay. Nothing blatantly wrong with his appearance but it just wasn’t there. But hey, he was friendly enough and we were at a bar, so I had no problem getting to know someone over a glass of wine or two. The topics of conversation ranged from how Jay’s 19-year-old cousin was crashing at his apartment to how Jay liked to keep mixed nuts in his freezer and randomly snack on them. No, neither of these topics or anything else we discussed made him any more attractive, nor did the film of sweat that was easing its way across his forehead and heading down the rest of his face. He swabbed his brow with some napkins, but the sweat wasn’t stopping. The moisture was that of someone’s perspiration in the midst of a heavy work-out, but alas, he was merely sitting at a bar.

Jay at the bar.

After about an hour and approximately 4 not-so-absorbent cocktail napkins later, I made my move to leave. I was staying at a friend’s empty apartment for the night, which was a few blocks away. Jay offered to walk me there, which I thought was nice and polite, until I felt a giant clammy hand reach out and take mine as we walked down the street. I nervously glanced to my side while Jay kept the conversation going, and I kept wondering what made him think that this was an occasion for hand-holding. Yet, I didn’t pull away.

About two blocks away from my destination, while we were in the midst of discussing something very intense (most likely mothballs or the whittling industry or something) the giant cold cut-like hand pushed me over to the door of a CVS pharmacy. And suddenly, there was a tongue in my mouth for a few seconds. Astonished, and wondering how the cold cuts got from my hand to my mouth, I pulled away and said the only logical statement I could muster: “Thank you.”

CVS / Lover’s Paradise

I was sufficiently grossed-out, if not now terrified that Jay thought we were having a romantic experience. I kept him chatting about music for the rest of the walk to my friend’s apartment, and when I announced that we were there, he seemed to lean in for another tongue lash, or even worse: an invitation upstairs. I giggled like a 5 year old school girl while he stared at me. I figured a kiss on the cheek and a “Thanks, talk to you soon!” declaration into the smoke that billowed behind me as I ran into the building would politely hint that I was not interested.

Once I got into the apartment, I took to scrubbing and sanitizing my hands and mouth as much as possible. As I started a text to my friend, asking how much white wine of hers that she would allow me to drink to kill the creepy boy germs and my memory of our experience together, an incoming message popped up:

“Now you know I’m a good kisser.”

I do?

Needless to say, Jay was another (incredibly creepy) frog in my quest to find a prince.

Persistence is Key…to Confirm That You’re a Lunatic

I received the following message through Match.com. As usual, the fact that I received an e-mail got my attention, and once I clicked over to view the sender’s full profile, it all made sense. Imagine, if you will, someone who auditioned to play the part of a Street Fighter character, complete with a fitted faux-leather jacket and a barbed facial expression. It seems to be an attempt to look masculine, but it really just looks like he is about to sneeze. That’s what “ILuvToLaugh” looks like in his profile.


My suitor would be the one on the right, with the gun.

Let’s drift away together into his delightful prose, shall we?

Subject: Uh. No Way

Message:

You know, my friends say that it’s not good to show your hand too quickly (especially online), but after coming across your profile, I had to send you a message to concede that I am a sucker for feminine girls with polarity. I’m not ashamed to admit it!

I mean, don’t get me wrong — it’s NOT like I am some sort of mythical knight out on a quest to find the girliest girl of legends or some frat dude drooling over valley girls who look like they’re straight from the set of Clueless; it’s like that happy medium between a girl being really comfortable with her femininity and balancing the confidence to show it. And it seems like to me, that you fall into that happy medium! (there is a reason why it’s called a happy medium instead of a sad or mediocre medium right?)

Anyway, where are my manners? My name’s Tim, and if smart, funny, stylish, cute, and overall just frankly awesome guys are your thing, then don’t send me a message. Oh wait, I messed up. I mean DO send me a message. I get confused sometimes 🙂

I’m not going to lie. Once I saw the Street Fighter picture, I was kind of confused. The e-mail had me a bit more baffled. But, being the “feminine girl with polarity” that I am, I concluded that this is a canned e-mail and “Tim” doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I certainly don’t. But there’s more!

One Month Later…

Subject: You were burglarized…?

Message:

Hey,

So I was checking my account today in utter disbelief that I didn’t hear back from you yet, and then I just realized what must have happened to you–

You must have been burglarized, and the only thing that horrible and wretched thief must have stole was your keyboard. I feel bad now you poor, poor soul… you must have been so traumatized just sitting there staring at my profile on the screen, clicking away futilely and slamming your mouse down in frustration multiple times while cursing the heavens that this had to happen to you today and that there’s no way for you respond to me.

Like I said… luckily for you, I’m an exceptionally perceptive guy. I mean how many other guys would know that is EXACTLY what happened to you with the limited information you gave me 🙂 And since I’m also in the business of solving problems, here’s some solutions to help you get in contact with me:

1. Get some matches, grab 3 garbage cans, and arrange them in a triangle formation to set them all on fire simultaneously. This will create an accurate smoke triangulation signal so I can come over and find you. I’m like a modern-day knight in shining armor.

2. Use your trusty phone to text me at 646-943-3%*$ so we can continue the conversation

Hmmm… well his first message said he certainly wasn’t a knight, so which is it? Am I dealing with a knight-like Street Fighter character or what?!? And, if I really was burglarized, why would I ever want to commit arson right after that? Would this guy really want to date both a victim and a criminal?

My point is, if you attempt to go the creative and humorous route, you should have the intelligence to back it up. Taking the time to create not one, but two canned e-mails that are sent to anyone you deem to have a heartbeat should also include some logic. Not only am I now having visions of video game characters creating online dating profiles, but I am pretty sure that “ILuvToLaugh” (aka: “Tim”) assumes that I am MacGuyver.

Me, preparing for a date.

I just can’t deal with that sort of pressure.

A Bundle of Nerves Named Lee

While she is experiencing life on the other side of the world from me, lostnChina recently wrote a great post entitled “The Sarcastic Woman’s Guide to Online Dating: The Whole Enchilada,” which I believe touches on some real issues those of us who have dared to look on the Internet for companionship have to face. She has also dated a man who is completely obsessed with Amway – which is something else we have in common. Yes, I will discuss my Amway guy in a future post – don’t you worry. Anyway, lostnChina sums everything up fairly early by saying, “Most online profiles come across as too-good-to-be-true and exaggerations abound.” She’s right about the profiles. I would like to add that e-mails and text messages that follow can have the same effect.

I was spending the night at my brother’s house after a festive Rosh Hashanah celebration and had my laptop out to look at online profiles. Honestly, is there a better way to close out a holy and blessed evening than perusing J-Date? We began instant messaging right away, and when we took those messages over to AOL, I knew our exchange was getting intense. Well, not really, I think we were both bored out of our minds and found that spending more than a few minutes on J-Date was embarrassing. In any case, we spent a few hours chatting that sacred night. One can say that our romance blossomed at the beginning of the Jewish New Year. Or not…let’s not get dramatic.

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In his photos, Lee had really dark hair and eyes, looked to be in decent shape and wore dark framed glasses. Lee was the first (and only, now that I think about it) divorced guy I chatted with online extensively. It sounded like he had gotten married when he was very young to a girl who was from another country. As they both grew up, and she became acclimated to life in the US, they grew apart and their marriage ended. That detail is neither here nor there, but I was curious after meeting him how he was ever a married man, and I figure you might be as well by the time you finish reading this.

Once we used similar phrases to describe what we do for a living, we both realized that we worked in the same industry and as it turned out, knew many of the same people. Lee had a really dry sense of humor and we enjoyed making each other laugh through our quirky one-liners and stories of past experience. We e-mailed and texted back and forth for a few weeks to continue our intricate comedy show. He told the most entertaining stories and was as charming as can be. I loved the way he “spoke” during this time. It was both self-deprecating and sexy, since he had the confidence to say anything. And then it became time to meet in person.

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I shakily approached the guy who looked pretty much like Lee’s photos and was standing outside the bar-restaurant we decided on for our first date. I gave him a big smile and told him it was great to finally meet him in person. He looked up from his phone long enough to make eye contact with me for about 2 seconds and mumbled a greeting, looking either like he thought I wasn’t the person he’d been texting for weeks, or he was absolutely terrified. It seemed to be the latter, since he did open the door for me to the restaurant and I lead the way to our table.

Once we sat down, we actually started communicating as though we had, in fact, been in touch for a while. However, he was really nervous. I asked him more than once if I had something on my face or in my teeth because he was now staring at me very intensely. Some stutters also came out of his mouth, but I was glad we were speaking. I ordered a vodka tonic from the waitress, and Lee did the same. And then his was gone within 5 minutes. He ordered another one, and then that one disappeared in pretty much the same fashion. After that happened I jokingly said, “Thirsty?” and he put his head down, and said he was nervous. I tried to explain that there is no need to be shy or anxious and that I met up with him because he seemed like great guy and we got along well thusfar. To give him a bit more confidence, I told him that I was glad he actually looked like his profile pictures. That didn’t help him much, and he told me that I was even more beautiful than mine. Aww, yes, that was nice to hear, but the compliments, and nervousness did not end throughout the entire date. After my second drink, I ordered an appetizer, which Lee said he was too shaky to eat but ordered another drink. We talked about some work things, and other general topics, but it didn’t seem like he was really listening to anything and just kept staring at me in that weird, creeper way. I was wearing work clothes – pants and a button-down shirt – and you would have thought I had on a negligee. I felt dirty.

The date lasted a bit less than two hours and Lee had ordered and drank a total of five cocktails. We parted with him still being shy, and me feeling like a supermodel. I had no idea what the hell had just happened, but he definitely was not the person I thought I had been e-mailing and texting with all the intimate details of my life with earlier. I have zero issues with anyone having as many drinks as they would like, but the lack of personality and creepy anxiety combined with the superfluous cocktail guzzling just confused me.

As I stroked my lustrous supermodel hair at my desk the next morning, I received an e-mail from Lee explaining that he had a great time. The only sign that I got that ‘electronic Lee’ was the same person as ‘date Lee’ was that he apologized at the end of his e-mail for being so nervous.

Then he asked me out again. And I had to refuse. That might sound really harsh, but you have to understand that when someone is nervous, to the point that they are borderline sinister, that doesn’t sit well with me. Confidence, and a clear speaking voice, are key.

If you feel bad for Lee, don’t. Facebook suggested that I become friends with him a year or so later, and his main photo included him smiling with a female, who I assumed was his latest love interest. Maybe she went shot for shot with him on their first date, made the first move and beat the anxiety out of him. Or maybe he read this:

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And even after the Facebook suggestion, I made a huge social media faux pas and hit the wrong key on my LinkedIn profile. I ended up sending a bulk message to every person that the site thought I might know and invited them to be a connection. Lee was one of them. Being such an open and boisterous technological personality, he actually responded to my erroneous message, explaining in a lengthy manner that while my name and company sounded familiar to him, he had no recollection of ever meeting me. Tempted to remind him of his evening of creepdom, I started drafting a reply, recounting our courtship, and eventually decided against it.

Lesson learned. Always talk to your possible love interest on the phone before you meet in person. There is a lot you can learn from a person’s tone of voice that any amount of text and two dimensional photos cannot exude.

Oh, and don’t send bulk e-mails to strangers. You might end up reaching out to a blind date from the past.

A Very Special Guest Post: “Why Don’t You Like Me?!”

I can’t think of anyone better to pen the first guest post on my blog than the male who has tortured me the most in my life – my older brother. Now a married man of almost a decade, he reminisces about one of his wild and crazy nights out as a single club-goer, long ago in the tale below…

My best friend, who shall remain nameless, has been a Ladies Man from time immemorial. Since we were 12 years old chicks have always dug him. Twenty-five years on and it gets a little old sometimes, being a mere mortal standing in the shadow of flirty, oozing, greasy Sicilian greatness.

Over the course of this time standing in the shadow of a Sicilian Adonis, I have also had the awkward honor of flying wingman for said Sicilian Adonis. One hundred percent of the time he has always been flirting with the better looking gal, and I have always had to make due with whatever Lady Luck threw my way. One particular Flight of the Wingman stands out in my mind as being particularly horrible (or hilarious, if you’re not me).

The Sicilian Adonis and I were in our early 20s and partying at Webster Hall in New York. I always loved going there in the 1990s because it was a mega-sized club with multiple rooms, great music and minimal pretense. I always felt almost cool there. This particular night I felt really cool because the place was not crowded at all…we could actually move around from room to room without getting jostled.

We made it into a huge ballroom that included thumping industrial and dance music…The Sicilian Adonis’ prime feeding ground. He knew what he was doing…women that he was interested in were never found in the heavy metal or rock rooms. The chicks there were pretty scary most of the time. In the dance hall rooms were most of the goers, the hot ones who were ready. That is what attracted the Sicilian Adonis.

A few drinks in, we took up our usual observation position on the outside of the dance floor. Chicks a-flutter, everywhere…the man just had to take his pick. A few less-drunk women had already noticed him. We slowly waded into the sweaty female crowd and started to slowly get used to the music. Slightly buzzed, my inhibition fell away and I began to dance. The Sicilian Adonis did as well.

We had done this so many times in groups large and small that we rarely had to speak to each other. Body language and facial expressions were enough to report status. This operation was particularly easy as the odds were in our favor overwhelmingly…there were barely any other men around. After only a few minutes we each were dancing with women and not with ourselves anymore. The Sicilian Adonis had found a tall, tan girl with black hair and a respectable rump-shaking ability. Her frumpy friend, who found me, was dancing a bit too energetically and getting close enough that her sweat stained my own shirt. I accepted my reality and rolled with it.

Within ten minutes the Adonis had struck and was sucking face on the dance floor. How did he do this? Every time. I was now locked into the situation and my disheveled gal pal also looked ready to suck some face. She went in for the kill and I quickly juked to the right and shouted into her ear “Wanna get a drink?” She nodded eagerly and we went to the bar…I had successfully dodged a bullet there.

The bar was not particularly crowded and we were able to get drinks quickly. The music was less thumpin’ and we were able to strike up a conversation. I started with the highly original, “So what do you do?”

“I work at CNN, I’m an intern there.” That actually interested me so we started talking about her work and what she wanted to do with her life. Bad move. She thought that our conversation was not part of my wingman responsibilities…maybe that I was even interested. How unprofessional! Who knows though, she could have been playing wingman as well. Do chicks do that?

Anyway after about ten minutes of talking she grabbed me by the sweaty shirt with her meaty paws and dragged me back out onto the dance floor like a sack of dirty laundry. This girl was strong…and that might lead to issues.

We danced for over an hour and as the room got more crowded my own sweat started to mingle with the sweat she was spewing all over me. The Adonis was enjoying himself thoroughly, making out and laughing and generally being himself. If he could live his whole life making out with tan chicks and sweating 24 hours a day, he would. Who wouldn’t really, I guess…

After a solid hour of not making any moves as part of my duties, I could see that the CNN frumpster was getting frustrated (frumpstrated?) and really wanted to get the party started. She went in for a kiss again and I again asked her if she wanted a drink. This time it was much more awkward and quite obvious that I was avoiding having my face sucked by her.

We got to the bar and after getting jostled and pushed as I was supposed to, finally got a few more drinks. The time was drawing near…either I was going to have to do my duty as wingman and go all in, sucking face and whatnot, or I was going to have to disappear. Rude? Yes. But these were the cold facts.

“Why don’t you like me?!” cried the CNN frumpster into my ear. I think the music actually stopped in the dance hall too. I had never been asked this before. People in general, never mind girls, could not care less if I like them or not. I was temporarily shocked, and I pretended to not hear her, just to get a few more seconds to try and formulate a response or just flee through the crowd. Legs frozen in fear, I had no choice and had to respond.

“What?” I asked, putting on my best naïve face, which is an exact replica of the face I ordinarily have on.

“WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME!?” she shouted again, her eyes getting all glassy.

“What makes you say that? I really like you!” I lied.

“Kiss me!” she shouted, spitting some of her drink onto my sweaty shirt. A little club soda would get that out.

“I have a girlfriend!” I lied again.

“I don’t care!” she fired back.

She was a pro. The only way I could keep from getting drawn further in to this quagmire was to get back out on the dance floor and find the Sicilian Adonis. I shouted “Let’s go dance!” ignoring her question and she actually followed me back out on the dance floor. “Born Slippy” by Underworld was playing, a favorite song of myself and the Sicilian Adonis, and of the CNN frumpster too apparently, as she began gyrating and flinging sweat and drink everywhere. This was spiraling out of control, and I could not find the Adonis anywhere. He must have been getting busy in one of the dark corners of the hall.

The whole dance floor was dancing in unison as my heart pounded. How far would I have to take this? Would I actually have to get physical with this girl one way or another? I prayed to Jesus.

Before it got too ugly, the 11 minute song finally ended and I whipped out the bathroom excuse. I found the Adonis in there by the urinals, either peeing or admiring his genitals…it was always hard to tell which.

“Oh man this chick is awesome!” he shouted. I just leered at him as I peed.

“Don’t worry, just a few minutes more,” he said.

“You want me to go back out there? Are you fucking crazy?”

“Come on I had a bad break-up, I need this,” said the Adonis.

“Fucking guy,” I muttered.

I zipped up and we returned to the dark dance hall. Both girls were waiting. CNN frumpster said “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” I lied, and left out the part “because my friend just had a bad break-up and needs your friend’s tongue in his face.”

The music was much more subdued now so all four of us could hold a conversation. The girls asked what we did and I immediately answered that we were trapeze artists. That answer typically scared away most chicks for its sheer dorkitude. But these two started hysterically laughing and it seemed like they thought I was serious.

“Get the fuck out of here!” the tall tan one shouted. “You mean for the circus? How do you get into that?”
I was stunned, as was the Adonis. Was this ever going to end?

“You are so cute!” shouted the CNN frumpster. Crap…this was terrible. As we continued to discuss working for Ringling Brothers and the Big Apple circuses, the music picked up again. We all stumbled on to the dance floor, which had grown much more crowded. Growing exhausted and soaking wet with my own sweat, sweat from the CNN frumpster and drinks from everyone around me, I gave the Sicilian Adonis the nod. This was a five minute warning to wrap up his business and it was a firm timeline, no fucking around.

I was very excited as the dance floor continued to grow more and more packed. After five minutes, I finally was able to get lost in a crowd of strangers and extricate myself, a sticky, soggy mess. I breathed the air of sweet freedom and met the Sicilian Adonis outside the building.

“Man, that girl was cool. Got her number,” he said contently.

“That was a lot of work, she actually asked me why I didn’t like her,” I told him. “HA!” he laughed, then rubbed my head as he usually did after mild successes. “You did good.”

We went further downtown and the Sicilian Adonis bought me a gyro at one of our favorite post-dance restaurants. Looking back, I suppose that was a little less than a fair exchange for six hours of hard work. But the alternative was far worse.

Yes, it could have been worse. As each of my stories demonstrates, it is almost always worse. Ah, the single life!  Now I want a gyro…


Summer Venting

Warning: Angry female complaining coming up.

During the last two weeks of online dating adventures, I have had some very frustrating experiences.

There was GolfProSal who looks to be approximately 500 pounds and a lot younger than my dating age range. He has a pet that he poses with in all of his profile pictures. He claims she’s a dog but she looks like an extra hairy ferret. His e-mail:

Hi. I’m Sal. How are you? Whats your name? You are so beautiful. To describe myself in a few sentences is tough but I would say: I am a very sweet guy and a perfect gentleman. I am honest and loyal. Just as important as that is I am such a funny person and great with conversation as well. If you are at the point in your life where you are looking for something long term and looking for a guy that treats a woman like a lady then maybe we should chat and see if we are compatible. I am on this site hoping to find love again but this time for good; but if I only made a great friend in the process that would be nice too. I try to be laid back and don’t put pressure on things. I let the cards fall where they may. Hope to here from you soon. Ciao Bella. Sal

Oh, Sal. You seem kind. Take up something besides golf and change up the canned e-mails.

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Luvsthemthick is about 20 years older than my dating age range, and between his screen name and his message, I can tell he definitely knows how to sweet-talk a lady:

Hi names angel. Awsome pic hun. Would love to chat let me know.

(Swoon).

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It’s not like I don’t reach out to those who interest me. I winked at FunnyLawyer, who I thought was promising. He wrote back and we entered into a wise-cracking, flirty e-mail exchange. For one day. See, what happened was that he wrote back to me within a few hours, then waited about 2 days to respond the second time, and even claimed he typically is “a lot quicker” with his responses. The next two times he wrote back to me, I was in shock that he even remembered to e-mail me back because he waited 5 days, and then 7 days to send me a few sentences. I know that’s not very eye-opening or humorous, but if you feel as though you have a decent repertoire with someone and a week goes by without communication, most people would assume that either the other person is dead or they are no longer interested. No – just really difficult for FunnyLawyer to get to that e-mail. It’s not cute to act like it takes you a week to write less than a paragraph. Done talking to me? Then don’t e-mail at all!

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If that doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, well you are right. However, a few weeks prior, I wasted a little bit of my life on someone whose texting habits were even worse than that. For example, he asked what I was doing for the weekend on a Tuesday evening, and I answered a few minutes later. He then thoughtfully responded on Wednesday night (24 hours later), “that’s cool.” And that was it. Very fulfilling.
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LobsterHunter sent me this detailed message:

Hey there what a smile lets talk call me LEONARD @ 212 123 4567

* Cuban2121 wrote to me yesterday, telling me in his introduction that he recently got thrown off another online dating site and that he wasn’t looking for “prudes.” He also mentions in his profile that he has “naughty pictures.”

There have been others, but the aforementioned are the ones that stick out in my mind. As I copy and paste some of these messages from the sites, a hottie noticed I was online and sent me a comprehensive introduction:

Hi.

Oy.

Selfishly, I just want to get this negative activity off of my chest. I truly wish I was able to meet potential suitors the “normal way” as so many acquaintances advise me to. I also appreciate the “don’t give up with online dating – my best friend’s sister’s housekeeper met her second husband that way!” and the “you need to go out and do activities!” remarks. They’re keeping me afloat. Clearly.

Yep, I just became “that girl.”

Southern Gentlemen

Contrary to what I might convey (and often think to myself), not all of my first dates have been with people that I have met online. A few years back, a roommate decided to set me up with a friend of the guy she was seeing. Originally from Texas, his name was Brandon and he worked for a major company producing a radio sports program that aired live every morning. He sounded nice enough on the phone, and he definitely had the Texas drawl, so we planned to meet a few days later for a drink.

I met Brandon at the bar at the W Hotel, which made me feel chic. Clearly, it doesn’t take much for that to happen. He was decent-looking, average height with brown hair and eyes, dressed appropriately and was pretty laidback when we first met up. As we sat in the lounge area, Brandon explained that he goes out for drinks quite often during the week, as it is almost a requirement for his job. Being such a high-society player myself (stop laughing), I nodded as though I understood the entertainment business and the lifestyle that goes along with it. “How do you function every day for the morning show you produce if you are partying every night?” I wondered aloud. He explained that he typically has only one drink, if anything, and ends up going home relatively early when he does his professional socializing. “Honestly, I don’t ever really get drunk,” he said. Fair enough.

On my way back from the very chic ladies room a bit later, I noticed that John Mayer was standing at the front desk of the hotel lobby. I overheard him saying to a minion that the odor in his room was atrocious and something needed to be done. Personally, I believe it might have been his own body he smelled, but the complaint was being taken seriously nonetheless. Feeling honored for being in the same vicinity as the dirty crooner, I walked back to Brandon excited to share my tale when I noticed that he was surrounded by about 4 extremely tall men in suits. I put on my best fake smile as I stood next to all of them while Brandon rambled about some sports crap with them. Apparently, they were members of a college basketball team and he knew them very well. Blah blah blah…some other sports stuff. Then we were on to the next part of our night.

We went to a lounge in the same area that we started that was called “Suede.” My research tells me that this one-word gem is now closed. This is sad because I have great memories from my few hours there that night. For one thing, there was a really cute bartender in the downstairs area that I started chatting up when Brandon got annoying. Yet, another reason was that since he actually knew the staff of the lounge, we got to hang out in the “VIP” area. In retrospect, I was just excited that I was allowed to smoke cigarettes in our little section while the rest of the clientele could not. Oh yeah, and Charles Barkley was also there. Alone. I was once again star-struck, and got really excited about hearing anything he had to say while he sat with his knees nearly hitting him in his face. I suppose it isn’t too comfortable to be squeezed into a tiny area when you are a giant. Of course, Brandon “knew” Charles and immediately started chatting him up about basketball. So I sat on one side of Brandon. Charles was on the other. It was pretty loud so I couldn’t hear their conversation. Charles had bought us a round of drinks (tee hee!) and once I was done with my 5th cigarette, I got bored. I’m pretty sure Charles was uninterested as well. My logic is as follows: if your entire career and life is all about basketball, how much can you possibly talk about it? Especially at a lounge? I tapped Brandon and said I was going to go to the downstairs bar for a bit. My new bartender friend would definitely pay more attention to me. I wish I was able to bring Charles along. It didn’t matter anyway. Brandon grabbed my arm and said, a bit too authoritatively, “DO NOT leave me alone with Charles.” Some would say he should not be telling me what to do, and that he seemed to have some major ego problems. I would agree, but I listened to him and stayed.

Good thing I stayed. Finally, when Brandon shut up for a minute, I had the opportunity to share my independent social genius with Charles Barkley.

Me: (beaming from ear to ear for no real reason) “I like your watch!”

Charles: (looks down at the giant set of diamonds and platinum covering half of his forearm) “Thanks. I buy my watches like I buy my homes.”

Me: (smiling, in some sort of dreamland) “Ha ha, right. Me too!”

Wait, what? There’s no way that statement, or my agreement for that matter, ever did or ever will, make sense. Eh, that doesn’t matter. We were buddies now! A little while later, when Charles was leaving, he hugged and kissed me on the cheek, and said, “It was verrra nice to meet you. You’re a verrra pretty girl.” Why wasn’t I out with Charles instead?!? I love that man.

Soon after, Brandon and I moved on to the third destination of the night. The club “Air” has since closed just like Suede. Not only did my date flirt with a tiny man named Antoine to get through the velvet ropes of this amazing place, but we hung out with yet another celebrity! Sadly, I have no recollection of his name, but I do remember that he was beautiful and approximately 9 feet tall. And he was another charming guy related to sports. I’m pretty sure someone mentioned that he was on ESPN’s “Cold Pizza.” None of that really matters. The point is that I really didn’t care about my date at all, but was having a great time at the places we went to by myself. As a matter of fact, I was walking around the club and happily dancing a little bit on my own when Brandon came up to me, complete with a rumpled and now-stained shirt, his eyes looking in two different directions and slurring “there you are!” I guess this was one of those nights where he did, indeed, “get drunk.” It was time for the social outing portion of the date to come to a close.

So here’s the part where I have to beg you not to judge me. I know, I know – why wouldn’t you do that when that is what I do to others throughout this entire blog? Well, I would think you just like me better, no?

I went back to Brandon’s apartment. I SWEAR on all that is holy that I wasn’t planning on doing anything slutty or indecent, and I admit that it was a horrible decision to even walk through the door with him. But I did, and I hung out for a little bit. While we are on the topic of his apartment, I have to just mention that it was tiny and a total mess. Anyway, at one point, when Brandon went to the bathroom, I decided that it definitely was time to go home, be in my own bed, and well…dream about Charles Barkley.

I was putting on my jacket when Brandon came back and asked why I was leaving so soon. Smiling, I explained that I had a great time, but was exhausted. He looked a little confused, and slightly angry. Then he responded with one of the most record-breaking statements I have ever heard. His answer (make sure you are sitting down for this one): “You know, the only reason I agreed to go on a date with you was because I heard you needed to get laid.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. But I said nothing in response and left. I was in tears on the way home, trying to figure out the logic behind what he said. Later, I realized there really wasn’t any. If someone had even told him that I “needed to get laid,” why bring that up? Also, has he used that line before with any success? In other words, he’s a complete tool bag.*

I have zero regrets about that night. I learned a lot, including the fact that I might be my own best date after all.

*My roommate told me a few months later that Brandon had been fired from his job. He was hung-over and fell asleep during one of his live shows. How’s that for good karma?

Ladies and Gentleman, I give you Roger and the Clichés!

So I have a profile on a free dating site. While you may think that placing my photos and bio into an unrestricted pool of insanity and misplaced ego is ridiculous, then… well, you are right. However, there are some relatively normal folks on this site that haven’t accosted me with a chainsaw just yet.

I got a message from Roger the other day, which inspired me to visit his online profile. Both of these wonderful pieces of writing deserve to be displayed and critically analyzed for obvious reasons. So let’s do just that:

[THE PROFILE, ABRIDGED]

Self-Summary

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and turn around sometimes, you might miss it.(1) We get one chance at this life thing and really my intention is to make the most of it. I’ve been truly blessed to have had the ability to retire from one job at young age and now have the ability to smell the roses (2) before I embark on the next career. My glass is half full (3) and I intend on taking full advantage of the gifts that I have. No one knows when that taxi cab is going to jump the curb and take us out (4). So I try to live each day like it is my last, though responsibly.

What I’m doing with my life

I just finished one career and now I’m taking my stab (5) as a building manager and aspiring writer (6).

I’m really good at

Making someone laugh (7). I have a dry wit about me. I like making someone feel like the most important person in the room.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

How full my cup is (8) and the road that I’ve traveled to get here. Life has been a journey(9) and being at the point I’m at now makes me appreciate where I’ve been.

(1) First of all, there is one and will only ever be ONLY ONE Ferris Bueller. You don’t get to quote one of the greatest movie characters of all time, and make it the first sentence about you. If you are that much of a tool, the correct way of stealing someone else’s quote is by inserting “quotation marks” around it!

(2) Uh, “smell the roses”? I think of an 85 year old woman and a bathroom when I hear that.

(3) Half full of what? Stolen quotations?

(4) What taxi cab? Where is it taking us? What the hell are you talking about?!?

(5) “my stab” – which would be different from “his” or “her” stab. Any of those pronouns would still make the “stab” sound just as cryptic as the taxi murder reference.

(6) I think you mean “reaching for the stars.” And you’re really good at creating written content thus far. Thumbs up!

(7) Nothing he has written is purposely amusing in any way. And by the by, when someone says they will make you laugh, that typically means they will stare at you uncomfortably each time they make a corny remark about nothing you care about.

(8) Is the “cup” a euphemism for something?

[THE E-MAIL, UNABRIDGED]

“Hey there,
I’m Roger. I’m a New York native that recently moved back and am loving re-acquainting myself to NYC. I’m in a great place in my life and am just looking for someone to share my half full glass with, though I’m not in a rush to get there. I’d love to talk to you sometime if you are game.
Roger”

Grammatical errors and the obvious fact that this is a canned, generic e-mail that was most likely sent to a list of people aside, there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. However, there is absolutely no excuse for the superfluous platitude. All I really know about him is that he feels lucky and extremely positive about something – but I have no idea what that is.

You may say that I can always respond to him to find out more. And then I would tell you that in his pictures, he’s wearing a giant set of rhinestones in his ears.

Simple equation I often have to repeat:
Hideous jewelry + excessive use of clichés = all bets are off.

And we move on…

One Hour of Passion

Matt had the sarcastic charm that I typically giggle at in his J-Date profile. He had light hair, blue eyes, a smile with a child-like quality and was totally unapologetic about liking reality TV shows. He spoke my language so I gave it a whirl. After about two e-mails in one day, I handed over my digits and Matt called me later that evening:

Me: “Hello?”

Matt: “Hey, it’s Matt.”

Me: “Oh hi. How are you?”

Matt: “Good. Okay, I won’t waste either of our time by having a long phone conversation. Are you free this Thursday after work?”

Me: “Tee hee… Um, yep, I think so.”

Matt: “Okay want to meet at Flanagan’s* on 7th at like 6 – 6:30? I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

I dug Matt’s style. It really is logical. Why waste time going back and forth online or on the phone before meeting in person and knowing if there is any chemistry or not? I added “not beating around the bush” to my mental list of Matt’s attributes.

On Thursday evening, I sat at the bar sipping a drink while waiting for my charming, blue-eyed dreamboat to walk into the bar and sweep me off my feet. Every few seconds, I would glance at the door waiting for him to walk in, quickly looking down at my phone again, to make sure I kept up my breezy appearance. And then a crouched dude with a comb-over in a grass green polo shirt and khakis who looked generally annoyed at life walked in. I couldn’t help but stare at him obviously. I was once again mystified by online profile photos. Sure, the images of Matt I had checked out could have translated into a confident and good-looking guy with a good vibe. But in this case, the real-life Matt was a bitter, hollowed version of his photographs. I suppose his face was the same, but angrier-looking, and surrounded by a lot less hair. We exchanged greetings and got a table toward the front of the bar.

I am not the world’s best conversationalist by any means, but I can certainly hold my own and keep things interesting with the general population, and I have never had a problem on dates. Without even thinking of any sort of meaning behind it, I asked Matt how work was. You know, since most of us spend a large portion of our lives earning our keep, and we had both just come from our offices, that topic just came naturally.

Matt: “Oh, I’m not talking about work. I was there all day, and now I’m not.”

Amused by the angry leprechaun, I asked him what he would like to talk about.

With a deadpan look on his face and the several dozen hairs he had left glistening with gel sweeping over his head, Matt said he wanted to discuss “our passions.” So I flipped the dialogue back in his court and asked him what he is passionate about.

Matt: “Reality TV shows!”

Again, I thought he was kidding, but his diatribe about people being crazy enough to go on television with their eccentricities proved that this was a topic he was certainly zealous about. He went on for a few minutes about some of his favorite shows and though I tried to chime in a few times, I couldn’t keep up.

The ongoing serious look on his face caused me to look elsewhere, and while I didn’t even notice that I kept glancing away from Matt, he declared that I had horrible eye contact, which just made me more paranoid. About 15 minutes into this date, I assumed that I was sitting with a gay guy who had an unhealthy obsession with “Survivor.” What’s worse is that I realized that I couldn’t even be friends with him because he seemed to not have a friendly bone in his body.

At some point, Matt decided to switch topics. Rest assured, he was still focused on being passionate about nothing and indirectly insulting me.

Matt: “So, you’re alone in a room that is 12 feet by 12 feet. You have an old ladder, no light source, a horse and a small window with bars over it. How do you find a meal?”

Ah yes, the ol’ psychological study performed by those who like to find strangers online, pretend they are looking for heterosexual companionship and truly know how to get to hold eye contact throughout a romantic conversation. Whatever my answer to Matt’s hypothetical situation was, he wasn’t satisfied with it and told me that a psychologist would say I am insecure, negative and basically sucked at life.

So, no, there certainly wasn’t a love connection with Matt. The only sign of human warmth he demonstrated during that evening was that he walked me to the train station. And that was only because his train would be stopping at the same station.

I often wonder if Matt ever found the masochist who is able to look him in the eye and discuss episodes of “The Real World” for hours. That is one lucky man.

*For the life of me, I can’t think of the name of the place. It’s a dive bar – that’s all you need to know anyway. Nosey-pants!

Carlo and the Pussy Cat

From the second I saw him standing in the middle of the sidewalk turning in every direction, looking as though he was begging to get accosted, I knew it wasn’t going to work out. I was on the phone with my mother as I stood a few feet away explaining my discontent in his proverbial lack of height and masculinity that he accentuated in his profile pictures on match.com. “Oh stop whining and give the guy a chance,” Mom said, and hung up.

I approached Carlo and we made our awkward introductions. Away we went to a small café he knew of a few blocks away. It was a really nice place with a good menu and a pretty quiet atmosphere. Once we sat down and had a drink, I remembered that I did like the way he carried on a conversation, how open and comfortable he was. Well, perhaps he was a little too comfortable. Since it was an Italian café, most of the staff seemed to be from Italy, and our waiter spoke in broken English. I had ordered the buffalo mozzarella salad, and offered Carlo some of it. Behind his glasses, I saw his eyes open up really wide and before I knew it, he screamed on the top of his lungs, “MY COMPLIMENTS TO THE BUFFALO!!!” across the room. I guess he really liked it. While I turned bright red from embarrassment and the Italian waiters all looked at each other trying to figure out what happened, Carlo went back to his own plate.

So at this point I knew he was a little animated and random. That’s not the end of the world. We soon started discussing past relationships. Yep – one of the topics you’re never supposed to talk about on a first date. That’s how we rolled. It started getting interesting when Carlo mentioned a few details about his most recent relationship. He proceeded to tell me that his last girlfriend, that he dated for over two years, was divorced, a mother of 3 and was 42 years old. Carlo and I were about 25 at the time, so I was very curious about his long relationship with a woman nearly two decades his senior. As it turned out, the woman was not too mentally stable and Carlo spent much of his time in the relationship trying to make her happy. I started comparing this ex-girlfriend in my young and naïve head to myself and was baffled. I couldn’t even begin to understand how someone would be interested in a mother of 3 and then want to date a child such as myself. We talked a little bit more about it and with no real cause, Carlos declared that his ex was the “GREATEST, STRONGEST WOMAN [HE HAD] EVER KNOWN!” There were tears in his eyes, and he was using the same volume in his voice that he used for his buffalo outburst, but this was a lot more … um…emotional.

So with the nonsensical screams in the café out of the way, Carlo then asked if I wanted to walk around a little bit and maybe get a drink before parting. I figured there was no danger in that, but once again, I was wrong. During our stroll, we were chatting like friends and trading sarcastic comments back and forth so when we were about to pass a store called the Pink Pussy Cat, Carlo thought it was a good idea to go in. I guess I didn’t want to look like a prude and probably thought it would provide some good laughs. The problem I had was that we ended up looking like an established couple to the Pink Pussy Cat employee. And Carlo was more than happy to comply with that assumption. She ended up showing us some “devices” that were kept behind lock and key and while I must admit, she definitely knew her stuff, I wanted to die. After the word “stimulation” was mentioned to us for the third time in a 2 minute period, I was ready to go. And Carlo wanted to know why I was so uncomfortable.

Carlo really was (probably still is) a very nice guy. I hope he found someone who can keep up with his free spirit and extreme volume.