A Brief Period of Normalcy with a Side of Squeamishness

After my date with the truck-driving, computer-hating, anti-food misanthrope I called the dating service and really let them have it. I had provided feedback after each of my previous failed dates, but felt fairly justified in going a little crazy on them after my date with Scott*. The service had the nerve to reply that they had made sure that he at least liked dogs since that seemed to be my main criteria. With dangerously rising blood pressure I laid out for about the 10th time the minimum criteria:
1. Single (as in not married. No negotiations). If divorced must have been divorced for at least one year. I am not looking to be someone’s reentry back into dating life. Prefer no kids from previous relationships as complicates things, but am somewhat negotiable on this point.
2. Employed. Likes his job. Can take care of self.
3. Lives alone, maybe with a roommate. Not only can support self financially but can do his laundry, cooking, cleaning, etc. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy but fairly self-sufficient is an attractive quality.
4. Sense of humor. As in he has to have one.
5. Intelligent
6. Has to at least tolerate, if not actively like dogs.

After that, I’d pretty much agree to meet anyone, at least for a drink or a cup of coffee. I don’t expect the service to be able to know if there will be chemistry between us but the men they’re picking for me to meet should at least meet the minimum criteria. The girl with the service agreed and apologized profusely as I described the demeanor, “witticisms”, and appearance of my latest date; she then swore that the service could and would do better. She carried on at length about all the many suitable men that she had lined up for me with glowing descriptions and assures me that she would contact me the next day with the first candidate.

Surprisingly the next date did meet all the minimum criteria. Mark* did something with mortgages that I never quite understood and as this was during the housing boom, he was doing pretty well for himself. He was decent looking, could carry a conversation without alarming me or the waiters serving us, lived on his own, and had a dog. He was blissfully normal which was nice for a change. We dated for a month or two and had perfectly normal, average type dates where neither of us feared for our lives or sanity. Sadly that was all there was to recommend them – sparks flew for neither of us and we decided to stop seeing each other before anything got too serious.

The next guy seemed even more promising. He actually was funny, lively, and fun to be around. I should have realized, however, as he described his love of “extreme” anything, that it might carry over into an area of his life that would make me squeamish. He was a DJ, had spiky white-blond hair, and had this kind of devilish glint in his eye. We went out a few times and he kept me entertained with stories of his adventures traveling to exotic locations, snowboarding, base jumping, etc.

It was on our third or fourth date that he took me to a pretty swanky restaurant. The food was great; they even made their own cinnamon ice cream. Mmmmm…. But I digress. We were enjoying an after dinner coffee and dancing around discussions of our histories. He mentioned that he had been engaged; I wasn’t sure how to respond but he’d been fairly outgoing and open so I asked him what had happened. He said that it just hadn’t worked out and gazed off into the distance, looking a little morose. I fidgeted a bit, feeling embarrassed that I had asked the question, when he looked me in the eyes and said that she decided she was a lesbian but that it ended up working out ok as that was the first threesome he had ever had and it opened his eyes to a whole world of possibilities.

I wasn’t really sure what the proper etiquette was for when your date, who you don’t know too well, tells you that his ex was a lesbian and that he loves threesomes. Particularly when you’re at a nice restaurant and the waitress has overheard everything and almost spilled her entire tray in shock. I think I made some sort of sound like “hmm” or maybe “huh.” I then became highly alarmed as he looked at me, then at the waitress who had shuffled nervously off to another table, then back at me and raised one eyebrow in a questioning manner, and then winked. I was afraid to excuse myself to the ladies room, fearing that he would believe I was off making arrangements with her for later. I think I opted for nervously coughing and saying I had forgotten that I had to be up early the next day and could we get the check.

The journey for him to drive me from the restaurant back to my house was one of the more awkward car rides I’ve taken. For the life of me I can’t remember what the hell we talked about. I think I blathered on about the weather or sports, pretended to check my voicemail for a solid five minutes, and then there were some serious awkward pauses. He attempted to contact me a few times after that but I was way too squeamish to attempt another conversation. Thus ended my relationship with DJ 3-way and now whenever I hear an innocent voice-over on the radio I wonder as to the sexual histories of the announcers and contemplate penning a note to Dear Abby to ask what the etiquette is for gracefully turning down a threesome.

My next date was with Steve* the ardent young Republican. He was pleasant, extremely well-mannered, treated me well, could hold up his end of a conversation, did not hate my dog, and never suggested that I have a threesome with a waitress. Our sense of humors didn’t gel, however, and I wasn’t attracted to him. Although younger than me, he was way more mature in terms of being highly driven and motivated. Plus all of his friends were well-to-do older Republicans who worked the charity circuit more ferociously than most people worked their 9-to-5’s. We went out for a few weeks but I was hoping for something more than platonic evenings with someone who I disagree with most of the things they hold dear.

The service then fell short of my first criteria by setting me up with a guy who not only had been divorced for less than two months but who’s major hobby was talking poorly about his ex-wife. Surly Scott* could not say enough about the insane mess that was his ex-wife. Within the first 20 minutes or so he had convinced me not only that she was crazy (for marrying him) but that he had quite a few issues himself. I managed to flee the bar after 25 minutes total.

After this date I thought it appropriate to call up the dating service and remind them of the basic criteria. The woman I spoke with practically wept she was so mortified for their lack of attention to detail. She then hand-picked me the guy who at that point was the most attractive one the service had set me up with that far. This was my first metrosexual.

Metrosexual Matt* was highly groomed. He dressed way better than I ever had and was beyond fastidious in his appearance. A rep for a pharmaceuticals company, Matt* had a very posh condo at the Inner Harbor, loved to travel, loved fine wines, and knew which designers were in and out of style. He had to have had a manicure prior to our first date and told me he was so obsessed with his weight that his friends called him “manorexic.” Sadly at this point, he seemed like a real catch and I probably would have dated him for a while but I think I was not fashionable enough to suit his tastes. In retrospect it was probably a case of all’s well that ends well, as I find that I grow annoyed when it takes a date longer to get ready than it takes for me; plus I enjoy good food and libations way too much to be with a man who is constantly counting calories for both of us.

Next up will be a man overly fond of cologne searching for a baby mama, the date that almost wasn’t, and what I thought was one of my better first dates. If I have the energy to plow through them I may finish up this particular dating service on my next entry, although I think the “parking lot pisser” may deserve his own place in the limelight. (*Name has been changed.)

Eating Before Dinner and Worst Date EVER

Clearly the dating service I had signed up for was more trouble than it was worth, but the masochistic part of me wanted to find out what the dating service could serve up for me next. Would it be a cross-dressing Nazi? A twitchy man whose hobbies include taxidermy? The answer came in the form of Dr. Creep.* He was the first Indian guy I’d ever dated during my extremely sheltered life. But I’ve always been interested in Indian culture and he represented the Holy Grail of single men: a doctor. I could already see my mom bragging to all of her friends. Unfortunately Dr. Creep* didn’t make the best of first impressions since he showed up 30 minutes late. He did call to say that he was running late but I felt like quite the dumbass sitting at the bar waiting for him.

When he eventually arrived he explained his lateness saying that he wanted to go home to have something to eat. This was perplexing as we were supposed to meet for dinner. So when the waitress came to take our order he wasn’t hungry. I was so irritated that I ordered a second drink and a sandwich which he sat there and watched me consume while I fumed and he drank tap water. When the check came he actually pointed at it and asked if I wanted him to pay. I was highly perplexed at someone actually asking that rather than either just paying or indicating that we would split the check. However, I was more annoyed than perplexed so I said I did in fact want him to pay. In his mind this must have passed for a great date and he actually wanted to go out again. I said that unfortunately I would be busy washing my hair for the foreseeable future.

Which brings us to the main act, ladies and gentleman – the Worst Date Ever in the History of the World. Unfortunately he would be followed by at least another 8 or 9 weirdos including “D.J. 3-Way”, “The Parking Lot Pisser”, and “The Young Republican With Too Much Saliva” but we will save them for later because this cat was really the be all and end all of dating duds. I knew as soon as I saw him that this was not a match made in heaven. The dating service encourages patrons to dress as they would for a business event or special occasion. Most people were professionals and came directly from work. So I was a little taken aback when Skinny Scott* showed up in acid washed jeans, the whitest Reeboks known to man, and a t-shirt. Do they even make acid washed jeans anymore? I’m assuming that in the late 1980’s Scott* bought a butt-load of them and brings out a new pair every year.

As the waitress seated us and visibly tried not to laugh, I could feel a headache forming across my eyes. I should have immediately ran out of the restaurant screaming but thought I might be judging a book by its cover or doing one of those other clichéd things that you’re not supposed to do. Our waitress took our drink orders and left us with the menus to consider dinner options. I had learned at that point to have at least one drink to take the edge off of my date’s craziness but not too many to impair my judgment to the point where I might actually think one of them was suitable or become to altered to drive far, far away at high speeds.

Innocently I asked Skinny Scott* if he wanted to just have appetizers or if he wanted dinner. “I don’t like food,” Scott* said. Blank stare from me as while I’ve heard of people not liking specific types of food --for example, I hate chick peas in their natural form as I think they look like little asses-- I have never heard of someone not liking food at all. “I don’t like to eat,” he offered as further explanation which actually did explain his skeletal appearance. “I really don’t know what to do with what you’ve just said,” were the actual words that came out of my mouth followed by awkward pauses on both or our parts.

“I mean, I don’t like to eat a lot,” Scott* said, realizing somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain that he sounded like a loon. “Oh, ok,” I said. What I should have said was “I’m sorry, my leg appears to have fallen off and I have to go have it re-attached. What I actually said was “why don’t we split an appetizer pizza as I think that we have to order something to sit at the table?” “OK. Except that I don’t like anchovies or those black things with the holes in the middle,” he offered. “Huh?” I repeated for the fifth time in the first five minutes of our date. I eventually figured out that he meant olives and we managed to settle on the barbecued chicken pizza although he was blown away as he had never heard of anything that “fancy” before.

At this point, staying at the table and continuing the date seemed crazy but like a hideous car wreck that not only can you not look away from, but you know that the more you continue to watch the more likely that you will crash your car as well, I was locked into this date come what may. So we dove right into the pool of insane conversations. It went a little something like this:

Me: “What do you do for a living, Scott?”

Him: “I’m a truck driver.”

Me: “Huh. That sounds interesting. You must like to travel then.”

Him: “No, not really.”

(Pause)

Me: “Oh. Well. What do you like to do?”

Him: “I like to watch tv. And hang out with the dog.”

(Sigh of relief on my part since at least I can be reasonably sure he won’t recommend I have my dog put down so I can go out more.)

Me: “What kind of dog do you have?”

Him: “Golden retriever.”

Me: “Well is it hard being gone all the time? Or do you have a dog walker or board her a lot?”

Him: “Oh, no. I don’t need to board her at all. My folks watch her.”

Me: “That’s great! My parents watch my dog sometimes too when I go away for work and vacation. He loves going to their house because they spoil him rotten. Do your parents spoil your dog?”

Him: “Nope. They see her all the time. I live with my parents so they see my dog every day.”

Me: (gulp of drink) “Oh is that because you’re always traveling for work?”

Him: “No, I just like living with them.”

(Pause.)

(PAUSE.)

(Silence of several minutes goes by as I try to figure out a fake emergency to extricate myself from this situation. I silently contemplate stabbing myself in the thigh with my fork so I can go to the hospital rather than stay here for one more minute. Looking back, this would have been less painful than the actual date.)

Him: “What do you do?”

Me: “Well, I’m a research analyst so I research a lot of different topics and then write up reports on them.”

Him: “Do you have to use a computer?”

Me: (perplexed) “Um, sure.”

Him: “Because I hate computers. Nothing good comes from them. There’s nothing that you can do with a computer that I can’t do with my own brain and a pencil. Plus there’s all that porn out there.”

(Sound of waitress’ muffled laughter as she brought my glass of wine.)

Me: “Well, I really don’t have to research porn so its not really an issue.”

(Silence)

Me: “So, have you been to this restaurant before?” (Now I realize that this was a stupid question for a self-confessed hater of food but I was really at a loss.)

Him: “Nope, never.”

Me: “Oh, I just came here a few months ago with some of my friends from high school.”

Him: “I don’t have any of those.”

Me: “Friends from high school?”

Him: “Friends. (long pause) I don’t have any friends. (Interminably long pause). I don’t really like people. I’m not a people person.”

(Really, really long pause while I contemplate trying to burrow out underneath the booth and run for the hills)

Me: “I really don’t know what to do with what you’ve just said.”

(Pause as busboy fills our water glasses.)

Him: “You know what I really hate about these people?”

Me: “Um. What people? Busboys?”

Him: “They’re all gay. Like I work with these Guatemalans and I’m pretty sure they’re all homosexuals. They’re always hugging each other and slapping each other on the butt.”

Me: “Well, football players slap each other on the butt and you don’t think they’re all gay, do you? (nervous chuckle) Plus I doubt the entire country is homosexual.”

Him: “I don’t know about that. I think they could be. Its like with the Asians.”

Me: (fearfully) “The Asians?”

Him: “Yeah, they’re all a bunch of perverts.”

Me: (incredulously) “The entire continent of Asia?”

Him: “All’s I know is I saw this show on how in Tokyo you can buy dirty underwear from a vending machine. Now that’s just sick. They’re all just a bunch of sickos.”

Me: “Let me get this straight. You saw a television show about a vending machine in one neighborhood in one of the more populous cities in the world, and based on this, you think the entire population of the continent of well over 1.5 billion people is perverts?”

(Silence. Pause. Sound of me gulping down my drink).

The rest of the evening is kind of a blur but I did manage to stay a whole extra five minutes. Now, where’s that convent application?                                                                                     *Name has been changed

Anger Management

When last I left you dear readers, I had managed to shake off the tentacles of Stalker Steven* only to find myself on a date with a legit rage-aholic. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire" seems to have become my dating motto.

Malevolent Matt* seemed fine at first glance: reasonably attractive, well-spoken, and seemingly intelligent. We got off to a fine start, the normal pleasantries were accomplished without anyone sweating profusely or psychoanalyzing the other. Then Matt* reveals to me that he “used to have a rage problem” but was totally fine now.

At this point I have to tell you that I’m highly perplexed at what it is about me that makes guys decide to reveal so much on the first date. I mean I guess it’s a good thing and can save me some heartache and hassle later on but I gotta tell you, it’s a little frightening. I think part of it was that I made the mistake of actually appearing to listen to what they said. I’m pretty sure I was the first women to ever actually pay attention to them as opposed to just shrieking and running for their lives.

Far be it from me to put someone down who admits that he has a problem and attempts to fix that problem. Sadly for Malevolent Matt*, he seemed to have some more issues to work through as shortly after announcing his freedom from anger and rage, he screamed at the waitress for forgetting that he wanted his mayo on the side. I mean he literally screamed at her for at least a solid two minutes. I’ve never heard a grown man reach that octave.

Now, I get irritated when waiters and waitresses get orders wrong but I have managed to convey my disappointment without throwing a high-pitched tantrum. I took this outburst for the warning sign it was and managed to get out the door reasonably quickly - not quickly enough to avoid him flinging his business card at me but quickly enough that he couldn’t follow me to my car.

The next date would see my first repeat in the category of male names. Machine gun Max* was my next date. And I decided we should try out a new restaurant. At first I used this dating service as a means of trying out new restaurants and bars. It seemed a good idea to not only try to meet new men but also to try out places I had always wanted to try. I quickly found that given that the types of dates I had tended to ruin restaurants forever and leave me so mortified I may never return there again so I picked a few restaurants that I liked fairly well but would be okay with avoiding if I was sufficiently shamed by the performance of a given date.

When I called the dating service after Malevolent Matt* to complain about the crappiness of my dates and warn potential victims of Matt’s anger, I demanded that my future dates actually resemble the qualities I had expressly asked for when I signed up for this service. The voicemail I received about Machine Gun Max* seemed promising, although honestly all the descriptions started to blend together after a while – these paragons of male virtue hardly seemed to have times to hold down jobs they were so into sports, arts, wine festivals, poetry, long walks on the beaches, etc., etc. Max* reportedly was tall with brown hair and brown eyes, loved the outdoors, enjoyed wine festivals and art equally along with football and basketball, and worked out constantly.

What walked through the door the night of our date decidedly did not match that description. He was tall but was completely bald and while he may have worked out at one time, I’m guessing that time was sometime during the 1990’s. But I rallied and thought maybe--just maybe--he was a match personality-wise. Sigh. I should have realized this was just plain crazy of me. His version of loving the outdoors was four-wheeling and his major interest was collecting and shooting machine guns.

He also lived with his parents. There’s nothing wrong with living with your parents when you’re a baby, toddler, adolescent, teenager, or even for a few years in your 20’s. My extensive dating experience, however, has led me to believe that adult males who live with their parents tend to expect the women in their lives to take over the role of mommy and that is not anything I want. Maybe there are some single ladies out there who dream of picking up their spouse’s clothing and washing it, making his breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, and generally catering to his every desire but I was born missing that gene and would have ended up feeding him a casserole of his stinky gym socks and deodorant if he expected the royal treatment on a daily basis.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was sadly none of these things. I have a dog named Charlie who I adore. He is a 4 year old mutt that I got from this animal rescue shelter and I am borderline crazy about this dog. I previously thought most guys would dig a chic with a dog, but this was not the case with either of my Maxes.

After revealing his careers included bail bondsman and proprietor of a liquor store and talking in details about the weapons that were in his personal arsenal, I said I really had to get going as I had to go feed my dog. His response was that I should think about euthanizing my dog so that I could go out more. I sat there stunned and slack-jawed until he chuckled nervously and said it was just a joke and that I really needed to lighten up. I began then not only to question the wisdom of continuing on with this date but the wisdom of ever dating another man again. Ever.

I know the suspense is killing you but I'm going to hold out a little longer. At this point you're probably thinking, "How in the hell can they keep getting worse? At some point wouldn't sanity set in and she would become a recluse never to date again?" But I promise in the next post to explain how my date after Machine Gun Max* would be more annoying than any of the others thus far and exactly how the date after him would earn the title "Worst Date in the History of All Time. Ever." *Name has been changed

3 Dates From the Worst Date Ever in All of Time

So this post will cover dates 1 through 4 of the worst dating enterprise I've tried...at least this far. By this point in time (circa 2006-7) I was already starting to doubt that there were any single men left in the Maryland/D.C./Virginia area who were not criminally insane. This particular dating service allegedly requires applicants to come in for an extremely long and detailed personal interview, fill out numerous forms, and then be photographed. They ask you approximately 600 questions of an extreme personal nature about your hopes and dreams, likes and dislikes, exes, pet peeves, etc.

Then the service assures you that they will review your file against the numerous files they have on single people of the opposite sex and find perfect matches. After a match is found, they contact your potential soul mate and find out when you both are free and arrange lunch, drinks, or dinner. Thus when you meet them if you are not interested, your date has no personal information on you other than your first name unless you give them additional info, so things can end relatively painlessly if it was not a good match.

The problem is there seemed to be no extensive search or hard work to match you up with people who had similar interests. As far as I can tell, they feed your information directly into a shredder and then pick up a phone directory of insane asylums and randomly select dates to inflict upon you.

The first date was with a guy who turned out to probably be the best catch, but at the time his egregious man-jewelry and bathing himself in cologne made me slightly queasy. Richie Rich* as I thought of him in my head could have been my ticket to bon bons and becoming a lady who lunched, but personality-wise we were not even remotely compatible. He managed to let it slip during the first five minutes that he was in fact an honest-to-God millionaire. I’d never known a millionaire before. I kind of thought they’d be somewhat suave and debonair, probably older, and would want to buy me lots of trinkets and dandle me on their knee.

Unfortunately this was not the case with Richie Rich*. He peppered the conversation with heavy mentions of his second home, time-shares, vacations, the boarding schools he would expect his children to attend, etc. In retrospect I should have dropped everything to become whatever it was that he wanted until I snared him with my wily ways and he was powerless to resist my charms. But his heavily gilded man-jewelry plus his ego the size of Texas was a bit much for me and I hit the road.

After Richie Rich there was Shel* the Shrink. Shel the Shrink* was extremely sensitive and very solicitous about my thoughts and feelings on everything. Seriously – when the waitress forgot to bring us bread even though she had brought a basket for every other table, he asked me how this made me feel. When the kitchen had run out of the item I ordered, he asked me how this made me feel. While listening to me talk about my love of traveling or growing up in a big family, he tilted his head thoughtfully to one side and said “hmmmmmm...wow… I see…so, how did this make you feel?” At the end of the date I thought he was going to ask me for my co-pay and set up an appointment for a follow-on session in two weeks time but thankfully I managed to escape into the balmy summer night.

Shel* was followed by Married Max* – who I thought would forever hold the title of Worst Date in the History of the World. Prior to our date, Max* had been reading a lot of book jackets on what women want and decided that honesty was the best policy. Don’t get me wrong – I’m a major fan of honest guys. Not the kind that will tell you when your butt does in fact look big in those jeans, but the kind that are honest with the healthy white lie sprinkled in to soothe my troubled ego. But Max* decided that he would tell me everything that I could possibly find wrong with him in the first ten minutes of the date.

First of all, let me say that Max* was highly nervous. I have never in fact met so highly nervous of an individual. He was sweating profusely – the sweat of a man who is going on his first real date in something like five years and knows that he is carrying a substantial amount of baggage. Within ten minutes of shaking my hand with a death grip, he tells me the following things about himself:

1. He is 26 (no biggie, I was 28)
2. He has been married twice (um…..)
3. He has two children (!!!!!!!)
4. Well, if you want to be absolutely technical about it, he’s still married but had been separated for a few months. (here’s where I should have ran for my life)
5. Whatever woman he winds up with next will have to understand that he will always be close to his current in-laws as they are his family.
6. His own family is horrible and he never speaks to them anymore. Apparently he was never good enough or smart enough for them and they always made fun of him for not wanting to go to college.
7. He has thus decided that all people who have gone to college are pretentious assholes.
8. He next described his hatred of all animals.
9. Waxed rhapsodic of his love of smoking heavily.
10. Finally, he declared that he was looking for a woman who was happy with traditional gender roles as in taking care of her man.

Then he knocked back a martini in one gulp and threw his business card at me, daring me to date him. And of course he was cute. The previous two dates were not what I would call lookers. Thank God for my friend who upon sensing that my masochistic nature was actually leading me to think of dating this wreck, she threatened to beat me within an inch of my life if I ever called him again.

After Married Max*, came Stalker Steven*. Stalker Steven* seemed pretty good at first. We didn’t have a ton in common, but he could carry on a conversation and didn’t seem to be still married or insane. I wasn’t that attracted to him but wasn’t physically repulsed at first so I went out with him a few times to see if maybe after the nerves died away if there was more attraction. But after a few dates I was pretty sure we were not meant to be. Kissing Stalker Steven* made me feel slightly nauseated which is never a good sign for future physical relations.

I had a fabulous set of excuses to end it as things started getting really busy at work and I was getting ready to go on vacation so I told Steven* that I was really going to be unavailable for the next several weeks but would send him an e-mail or give him a call when things eased up to see if he still wanted to hang out, but that if he wasn’t interested that was okay too. A note to singles – just rip the band-aid off then and there. Most times subtlety is wasted on members of the opposite sex when it comes to relationships and you can save yourself and them some pain and time if you just take care of business then rather than delaying the inevitable.

So Stalker Steven* said he understood that things were hectic and that he was fine with giving me some time and space. In Steven*-time though, that meant 36 hours. Because within 36 hours he had emailed me twice “just to check in.” The following day treated me to a voicemail asking if I was free the following night, then another voicemail asking if things were okay. When I responded with an email reminding him of our previous agreement he said he thought he had given me enough time at which point I replied via email (I know – I’m a wimp) that I thought this was not going to work out and wished him luck with his future matches. Then every other day for the next two weeks I got voicemails and e-mails alternately apologizing for being so clingy or berating me for being so unresponsive.

After Stalker Steven*, I decided to take a break from the dating service and put my membership on hold to go to the beach and chill out and contemplate if being single was really all that bad. After a restful couple of weeks I foolishly decided that I should at least finish out my year membership – although the thought of another 10 months of this was enough to make me want to enter a convent. Just please don’t tell my mother that as she would get so excited she’d probably start embroidering me a habit.

Unfortunately my date after Stalker Steven* made him look like a good catch. But that story will have to wait for another day...

*Name has been changed

Background - Updated!

For those of you new to the blog you're probably wondering why it's called "Extreme Dating Diary" when it seems like I never post anything about dating. Well, if you take a look at my earlier posts you'll see why I'm on yet another self-imposed dating detox period. But I still love to write and still keep having very bizarre experiences so this has become less an "Extreme Dating Diary" and more the "Diary of a Crazy Singleton." 

I'm still a single 30-something woman (gasp! yes there are some of us left and they do let us roam wild), living in Baltimore and I have tried a variety of dating sites and schemes. Left to my own devices, I typically choose the underwhelming. Rather than Prince Charming I find myself leaning to Earl Mediocre or even the Duke of Douchebaggery.

So for a fairly long time I tried what seemed like every dating site and service known to man (except Sea Captain Date and the Ayn Rand dating site...I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued by both but I'm mighty afeared). And along the way there were mad crazy hijinx, some fairly normal decent guys, and way too many slightly scary men. 

It's not that I've given up dating entirely. In fact I am toying of joining a few Meet Up groups or at least looking at all the emails they send out about potential group outings. In the meantime though, I'm nearly finished the process of writing a book about living the single life, dating dilemmas, and how to survive and even enjoy functions without a plus one. Anyways, come take a stroll thru the weirdness that is my life. I promise you this: it is rarely dull.