Sadly the most noteworthy thing, the thing that you would not believe about the next guy to grace my extreme dating diary, is something I can’t reveal. I’ve been avoiding using guys’ real names which is a real shame as the guy after the two professors named Mike* had the most awesome of names. His name sounds like he should be a mild mannered grad student by day and then hop into a phone booth, change into some tights and a cape, and go about fighting crime, leaping over tall buildings, and wooing women with a single, smoldering glance.
I’m trying to think of a similar name to give him in this post, one that truly reflects the awesomeness of his real name, but I’m falling short. For now, I’ll call him J. Frisco Blingtime* or Frisco* for short. Frisco* was yet another date where I’m not really sure what went wrong. We met up for coffee one day after I got off work and he finished with classes; he’s in the middle of getting his PhD in economics. Frisco* was a total cutie; average height runner with adorable reddish blond hair, aqua eyes, teeth so white it almost hurt my eyes….crap, the guy even had a dimple! Plus he could talk – he was smart and interesting. We talked for almost two hours over a cup of coffee. He’s lived all over the place and had really interesting stories. He did have pictures of himself in his profile with his two cats, which a friend thought was strange, but I was so far gone that even seemed cute to me.
I knew though, at the end of the date, that there was not going to be another. He walked me to my car and said he had fun talking with me, gave me a hug, but left me with no indication that he wanted to meet up later. It was entirely civil but definitely not leaving the door open for another date. For a few days I wondered what I had said wrong or if the pants I were did not adequately disguise the junk in my trunk, but eventually I decided to stop beating myself up as maybe he just wasn’t feeling any spark-type feelings. At least he didn’t do the “it was so nice meeting you and I’ll call you and we’ll go out again” routine; that has grown beyond old.
After Frisco* I had a similar experience with Joe.* I met Joe* for a couple of beers one night. There’s nothing to memorable about him but he was a decent enough guy. Joe* worked for a university and was getting his masters in sociology. He wasn’t as cute as Frisco* but he wasn’t too shabby. We shared a good, but not great, conversation and he introduced me to a new pub with nice microbrews so I guess that’s something. I didn’t have any warm tinglys with Joe* but thought I wouldn’t mind seeing him again and since he had said he’d like to go out again, I emailed him the week after our date. By the time I emailed him, however, he had changed his mind. This time I was more annoyed than disappointed. Joe* was definitely not superhero material.
Well, friends, if I don’t get off my butt and join another crazed dating site or scheme, my next post might be my last for a while. There is a doozy of a date that I still have left to share – not from a site but the blindest of blind dates possible. The current site I’m on has proved a little too hazardous; after Glen* the crazy golf date there was an even scarier one that I might share after the blind date.
*Name has been changed
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Notorious Tale of Professor Hickey
Once upon a time there was a weary, heartsick Princess who had been wandering alone for years in the land of earls of mediocrity and dukes of douchebaggery searching tirelessly…except for when she had better stuff to do like travel, yoga, bake, volunteer with her dog, drink mint juleps, go the spa, or attend roller derby bouts. The Princess had looked hither and yon for a Prince – not just any prince, but a Prince who was single, mentally balanced, intelligent, kind, with some semblance of a sense of humor, and at least minimally attractive. Also the Prince should live in his own castle and not with his mommy; or if not a castle, at least a decent apartment. Initially the Princess thought that these were reasonable qualities but after surviving date after date where at times she felt lucky to escape with her life, health, and some of her sanity, the Princess began to despair. The Princess vowed that if she met a Prince imbuing even some of the qualities she once thought not all that rare, that they would ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.
That is just a fairy tale of course; a real life happy ending for this particular Princess has not been written so succinctly or neatly.
In all my dating trials and travails, there are really two guys that I totally kick myself for not feeling all mushy about. The first was Phil*, winner of the title of nicest guy on the planet (see “Beware the Ides of March”). The second guy was the first of two professors named Mike* that I dated in 2010; henceforth he will be referred to as The Professor or Professor Hickey.
The Professor was everything I was looking for. He was tall (ok I know that wasn’t one of the qualities previously listed but after dating the Angry Midget, tall seemed good), extremely intelligent, an interesting conversationalist, funny, and attractive. He was a professor at a small college and was working on a book. Our first date flew by – there was witty repartee, lengthy discussions about numerous non-confrontational topics, and he seemed wicked normal and totally lacking a rage problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any sparks or hints of attraction but it was a first date and sometimes nerves can play a part. He was a perfect gentleman, said he would like to see me again and would be calling in a few days, and then asked if it was ok if he gave me a hug.
Our next several dates took place much along the same lines. We talked on the phone and emailed, made plans to meet for dinner, movies, etc. It was all good. But it was just good. It wasn’t great. Still, I remembered all too well the sorts of guys I had been dating before and thought to myself that I was lucky to meet such a gem.
The problem was that I couldn’t be sure there was absolutely no chemistry. I couldn’t be certain because the Professor kept our dates extremely platonic. Each date ended with him saying what a great time he had, asking when he could see me again, promising to call, and then a hug or a firm handshake. While not a brazen hussy, I decided after the third date to take matters into my own hands. It seemed absurd - we had to at least kiss to see if there was ‘something’ there. So I kinda threw my head into the path of his head as he was coming in for a hug. It was not my most graceful of moments and I’m lucky I didn’t actually knock him or myself unconscious. The end result was that he almost kissed my forehead and then gave me a weird high five as we parted ways.
I’d heard of guys who think of themselves as gentlemen and try not to rush a date, but this was becoming more and more ridiculous. Did he even like me? Here I was practically assaulting him, and he gives me a high five? I was pretty sure I would never hear from him again.
But no, we went out five or six more times over the course of several weeks. He called almost every day and was beginning to get a little mushy when ending the conversation. I did not take it as a good sign when I found his endearments irritating, but figured I should resist becoming too easily annoyed and try to tough this one out. In spite of all his vocal mushiness, he remained completely platonic on our dates.
Then we went to see Avatar. I was not really in favor of seeing this movie but he had chosen some romantic chic flick and I thought that might really push my irritation factor over the edge. Avatar seemed safer. He even attempted some physical contact during the movie and held my hand. Here’s where I’m not sure exactly what happened. It was either the 3D movie or my growing aversion to his mushiness, but I became severely nauseated. I mean severely. I kept trying to wrench my hand back but he was like a vice. Then he started rubbing my hand and I had to fight not to vom.
Although I knew the feeling of wanting to vom on a date was not a good sign, I decided to press onward. Really the Professor was a great guy and I was crazy not to be interested in him. So what if we had a totally platonic relationship! It would be sort of sweet. I had already decided that I wanted to platonic-marry Paula Deen’s son just so I could have her for my mother-in-law; how would this be any different? Ok, it would not be nearly as awesome because in spite of how wonderful The Professor’s mother is, there is only one Paula.
But I digress…this brings us to a few days before I have to leave on a work trip. We’d been on countless dates with a total lack of action and that just seemed to be how things would continue until the end of time. This night, however, things turned out a little differently. I don’t know if he got jealous by the fact that at dinner my hair stylist (from Turkey, cute, straight, obscene flatterer and pursuer of tips) practically tried to make out with me when we ended up at the same restaurant or if we had just reached the magic number of dates. But when the Professor drove me home after dinner, he sort of lunged for me. It wasn’t frightening at all…just…I don’t know…not good. Very not good. The Professor was a bit older than me so I assumed he had plenty of experience in the kissing department, but what happened distinctly reminded me of junior high where the guy practically gives you a tonsillectomy because this is the first time he’s ever attempted to stick his tongue down a girl’s throat. It was a bit awkward and kind of bumpy.
And then he gave me what has got to be the most permanent and ridiculous of hickeys ever given to a woman. I firmly believe that hickeys beyond the age of 15 are just plain wrong. Even more so when you give one to a woman in her 30’s in the middle of her throat in a location that cannot be hidden by the biggest of cowl neck sweaters or the most swaddly of scarves. And it is definitely unsat when you give the hickey in such a manner that it lasts FIVE WHOLE DAYS. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He then accidentally wrenched my grandmother’s earring out of my ear, where it became lost in his car.
So yes I became that woman, the one who goes to work with a ridiculous hickey, trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there. For the most part, people seemed willing to go along with my delusions. This was because they would avoid asking me altogether in favor of asking my friend what the hell was on my neck. I had tried to cover it up to no avail. My sweater did no good, neither did any makeup. My niece who was living with me at the time (don’t get too worried about me corrupting a minor – she’s only seven years younger than me) said that her friend recommended holding a really cold metal spoon against the offending mark to breakup the blood cells or something. None of it worked.
And better than having to go to work the day after said hickey, the following day I had to get on a plane traveling to a climate where sweaters would be ridiculous at best. I attempted to pull off the summer scarf look but there’s only so many days in a row that you can wear a scarf in 80 degree weather without drawing more attention to yourself than what you hope is your drastically faded hickey.
This of course was how Professor Hickey got his nickname. He would have stayed in the running longer had it not been for some non-internet date-like activity that convinced me that I could not be happy settling for a platonic relationship where my neck was permanently scarred. While this little dalliance was fun for a brief time, it showed me again that not all dukes of douchebaggery are found on the internet. But in a way I was grateful, as at least I remembered that there was something out there better than awkward platonicness/feelings of nausea.
It made it somewhat impossible for me to carry on with the Professor. We attempted another go, but it didn’t work. I did manage to get back my grandmother’s earring and then quickly spurn the Professor’s advances in an unfortunate inebriated text (if he could decipher the words, the gist of the message was that he was a wonderful guy but why would he think anyone older than a junior high student would dig a hickey).
I think of The Professor now and again and wonder if I made the right decision. In spite of the hickey and the awkwardness, he was a really great guy. I’m 99% certain that I did make the right decision. I’m not 100% certain that I’ll find a guy as nice or smart or fun as him but I’m 100% certain that he’s way too good of a guy to settle for someone that’s not sure she wants to be with him. I’m 100% certain that if I have to be embarrassed by having a hickey, at least I want it to be fun receiving said blemish. And I’m 100% certain that the only platonic relationship I’ll settle for is one where I get to eat butter-laden goodness prepared by Mama Deen herself for the most grateful daughter-in-law-to-be in the world.
*Name has been changed
That is just a fairy tale of course; a real life happy ending for this particular Princess has not been written so succinctly or neatly.
In all my dating trials and travails, there are really two guys that I totally kick myself for not feeling all mushy about. The first was Phil*, winner of the title of nicest guy on the planet (see “Beware the Ides of March”). The second guy was the first of two professors named Mike* that I dated in 2010; henceforth he will be referred to as The Professor or Professor Hickey.
The Professor was everything I was looking for. He was tall (ok I know that wasn’t one of the qualities previously listed but after dating the Angry Midget, tall seemed good), extremely intelligent, an interesting conversationalist, funny, and attractive. He was a professor at a small college and was working on a book. Our first date flew by – there was witty repartee, lengthy discussions about numerous non-confrontational topics, and he seemed wicked normal and totally lacking a rage problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any sparks or hints of attraction but it was a first date and sometimes nerves can play a part. He was a perfect gentleman, said he would like to see me again and would be calling in a few days, and then asked if it was ok if he gave me a hug.
Our next several dates took place much along the same lines. We talked on the phone and emailed, made plans to meet for dinner, movies, etc. It was all good. But it was just good. It wasn’t great. Still, I remembered all too well the sorts of guys I had been dating before and thought to myself that I was lucky to meet such a gem.
The problem was that I couldn’t be sure there was absolutely no chemistry. I couldn’t be certain because the Professor kept our dates extremely platonic. Each date ended with him saying what a great time he had, asking when he could see me again, promising to call, and then a hug or a firm handshake. While not a brazen hussy, I decided after the third date to take matters into my own hands. It seemed absurd - we had to at least kiss to see if there was ‘something’ there. So I kinda threw my head into the path of his head as he was coming in for a hug. It was not my most graceful of moments and I’m lucky I didn’t actually knock him or myself unconscious. The end result was that he almost kissed my forehead and then gave me a weird high five as we parted ways.
I’d heard of guys who think of themselves as gentlemen and try not to rush a date, but this was becoming more and more ridiculous. Did he even like me? Here I was practically assaulting him, and he gives me a high five? I was pretty sure I would never hear from him again.
But no, we went out five or six more times over the course of several weeks. He called almost every day and was beginning to get a little mushy when ending the conversation. I did not take it as a good sign when I found his endearments irritating, but figured I should resist becoming too easily annoyed and try to tough this one out. In spite of all his vocal mushiness, he remained completely platonic on our dates.
Then we went to see Avatar. I was not really in favor of seeing this movie but he had chosen some romantic chic flick and I thought that might really push my irritation factor over the edge. Avatar seemed safer. He even attempted some physical contact during the movie and held my hand. Here’s where I’m not sure exactly what happened. It was either the 3D movie or my growing aversion to his mushiness, but I became severely nauseated. I mean severely. I kept trying to wrench my hand back but he was like a vice. Then he started rubbing my hand and I had to fight not to vom.
Although I knew the feeling of wanting to vom on a date was not a good sign, I decided to press onward. Really the Professor was a great guy and I was crazy not to be interested in him. So what if we had a totally platonic relationship! It would be sort of sweet. I had already decided that I wanted to platonic-marry Paula Deen’s son just so I could have her for my mother-in-law; how would this be any different? Ok, it would not be nearly as awesome because in spite of how wonderful The Professor’s mother is, there is only one Paula.
But I digress…this brings us to a few days before I have to leave on a work trip. We’d been on countless dates with a total lack of action and that just seemed to be how things would continue until the end of time. This night, however, things turned out a little differently. I don’t know if he got jealous by the fact that at dinner my hair stylist (from Turkey, cute, straight, obscene flatterer and pursuer of tips) practically tried to make out with me when we ended up at the same restaurant or if we had just reached the magic number of dates. But when the Professor drove me home after dinner, he sort of lunged for me. It wasn’t frightening at all…just…I don’t know…not good. Very not good. The Professor was a bit older than me so I assumed he had plenty of experience in the kissing department, but what happened distinctly reminded me of junior high where the guy practically gives you a tonsillectomy because this is the first time he’s ever attempted to stick his tongue down a girl’s throat. It was a bit awkward and kind of bumpy.
And then he gave me what has got to be the most permanent and ridiculous of hickeys ever given to a woman. I firmly believe that hickeys beyond the age of 15 are just plain wrong. Even more so when you give one to a woman in her 30’s in the middle of her throat in a location that cannot be hidden by the biggest of cowl neck sweaters or the most swaddly of scarves. And it is definitely unsat when you give the hickey in such a manner that it lasts FIVE WHOLE DAYS. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He then accidentally wrenched my grandmother’s earring out of my ear, where it became lost in his car.
So yes I became that woman, the one who goes to work with a ridiculous hickey, trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there. For the most part, people seemed willing to go along with my delusions. This was because they would avoid asking me altogether in favor of asking my friend what the hell was on my neck. I had tried to cover it up to no avail. My sweater did no good, neither did any makeup. My niece who was living with me at the time (don’t get too worried about me corrupting a minor – she’s only seven years younger than me) said that her friend recommended holding a really cold metal spoon against the offending mark to breakup the blood cells or something. None of it worked.
And better than having to go to work the day after said hickey, the following day I had to get on a plane traveling to a climate where sweaters would be ridiculous at best. I attempted to pull off the summer scarf look but there’s only so many days in a row that you can wear a scarf in 80 degree weather without drawing more attention to yourself than what you hope is your drastically faded hickey.
This of course was how Professor Hickey got his nickname. He would have stayed in the running longer had it not been for some non-internet date-like activity that convinced me that I could not be happy settling for a platonic relationship where my neck was permanently scarred. While this little dalliance was fun for a brief time, it showed me again that not all dukes of douchebaggery are found on the internet. But in a way I was grateful, as at least I remembered that there was something out there better than awkward platonicness/feelings of nausea.
It made it somewhat impossible for me to carry on with the Professor. We attempted another go, but it didn’t work. I did manage to get back my grandmother’s earring and then quickly spurn the Professor’s advances in an unfortunate inebriated text (if he could decipher the words, the gist of the message was that he was a wonderful guy but why would he think anyone older than a junior high student would dig a hickey).
I think of The Professor now and again and wonder if I made the right decision. In spite of the hickey and the awkwardness, he was a really great guy. I’m 99% certain that I did make the right decision. I’m not 100% certain that I’ll find a guy as nice or smart or fun as him but I’m 100% certain that he’s way too good of a guy to settle for someone that’s not sure she wants to be with him. I’m 100% certain that if I have to be embarrassed by having a hickey, at least I want it to be fun receiving said blemish. And I’m 100% certain that the only platonic relationship I’ll settle for is one where I get to eat butter-laden goodness prepared by Mama Deen herself for the most grateful daughter-in-law-to-be in the world.
*Name has been changed
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
At Least I Got To Hit Some Balls
The notorious tale of Professor Hickey will have to wait for another evening as I have just returned from what is one of the best worst dates I’ve survived. I received an introductory email from Glen* last week. It was a longer email than most guys send, filled with questions about me and my interests, and ending with a request to meet up in “real life.” He wrote that he would like to walk around the Smithsonian with me to check out some of the exhibits or maybe go to a driving range since I like golf; something so that we could chat some more and get to know each other. He also wrote that if I wanted, we could exchange emails back and forth for a while, chat on the phone, and then finally meet in person but that since meeting in person was the only way to see if we really had chemistry, we might as well cut to the chase and meet up.
I have received similar requests in the past and have chosen to go the less direct, more traditional route. This time I decided I would do things differently. Walking around the Smithsonian could take a while though and was not as convenient so I agreed to the driving range. It seemed like a fun way to get to know him and even if it didn’t get to work, at least I would get to hit a bucket of balls.
I must point out that at that point in time, I knew very little about Glen.* I knew that he was a former Marine, self-employed, enjoyed the outdoors, and lived in Annapolis. There were pictures of him hiking and hanging out with friends. I also knew that he had taken the time to at least glance at my profile since he suggested the driving range because in my profile it said that I had taken golf lessons. That may seem like a small thing but not all the guys that have tried to chat me up have even read my profile all the way through.
We weren’t off to a great start when Glen* texted to say he would be a few minutes late. Even though I got there early I wasn’t too annoyed at first as I decided I could get some more practice before completely embarrassing myself in front of him with my lack of skills. However, things got worse before they even really began as he ended up being 30 minutes late. Not because he worked late but because he got lost. He got lost because he refused to look up directions before coming – he just figured he would find it out on his own. He told me that people rely too heavily on things like maps and the internet when they should be more self-sufficient. Then he laughed a little too loudly, a little too strangely.
Shaking it off I decided I was getting ahead of myself and trying to find things wrong with him before I even took the time to get to know him. So we settled into a somewhat comfortable silence as we both started taking some swings. The rest is all a blur of semi-enraged, rambling, vitriolic monologues by him while I became more and more afraid for my personal safety.
First Glen* started on a rant about reality TV. I’m not sure how we got there but I think it began with him talking about how selfish people are as of the last 10-15 years and how no one helps each other anymore. Glen* blames reality TV for this breakdown of society. I said early on that I really didn’t understand what he was talking about as I’m not a big fan of reality TV and I can’t see a link between the popularity of reality TV and a decline of altruism. He then asserted rather loudly that “A whore is still a whore. It doesn’t matter if she’s on tv. It’s still wrong.” I asked him to repeat that a few times as I wasn’t sure how he had come up with that statement and at first, as he was virtually yelling at me while saying this, it seemed like he was calling me a whore or blaming me for all the whores on tv. It had something to do with him not being able to go to a grocery store without seeing something on the Kardashians, a group who I have to be honest I’m still not sure why they’re famous and why I should care about what they do.
This first rant went on for a few minutes and was alarming more because it happened only 10 minutes after he arrived.
Next up on his list of pet peeves, Glen* began a tirade on the federal government that would last for the rest of the date. Now it's generally accepted that it's a severely bad idea to talk about politics in general on a first date. That is especially true when your beliefs are of the extreme variety, you're at a public place where loud conversations are not encouraged, and you cannot speak about politics and the government without working yourself into a foaming rage. Glen* believes that the federal government should be struck down. He said that there was nothing remotely redeeming about it and that we lived in an Orwellian nation with no rights and no responsibilities and he was sick of it. Glen* reminded me a little bit of the crazies that would call the office when I worked as an intern for a congressman while I was in college. I had a few crazies who called the office whenever I was scheduled to work, to tell me that they had built tin foil hats to prevent the government from listening to their thoughts and if I would send them my head measurements, they would build one for me too. Most of these guys seemed fairly harmless though – I had one who after we talked about his tin foil hats, he would recite me some patriotic poems he had written. Ok, so he was wacky and so were the others. But they were on the phone and didn’t have any of my personal information so they seemed relatively harmless.
Here I have to point out that Glen* was a physically intimidating person – a tall guy who works with his hands as a landscaper and general handyman – and the more inflamed he became during his vitriolic speeches, I actually began to get a little frightened. Thankfully we were in a public place and I did have my golf clubs close at hand, but still.
Next up on his list of things wrong with the world: seat belts. He’s against seat belts and feels strongly that there should be no laws requiring them. How dare a policeman pull him over and make him pay money for not wearing something that a government who’s authority he did not recognize order that he wear! This somehow turned into a 5 minute rant about the evils of Blackwater and Haliburton and the defense industrial complex in general. Apparently these evil contractors had stolen the only opportunities that “stupid Americans” had to get paying jobs to take care of themselves: the role of army cooks. Yes, Glen* morphed his rant on seat belts to one against contractors to a spittle-laden speech about how much trays of food cost in the army.
Then we were on to his obsession with the concept of survival of the fittest. This came up when an idiot on the other side of the range walked onto the grass to retrieve several of the balls that hadn’t gone far. I pointed the guy out to Glen* and asked him to hold up until the guy moved. Glen* tried to take a swing as he said it would teach the guy a lesson. Apparently a lot of idiots needed to be taught a lesson and if I would stop espousing the general “coddling and caretaking of society” then we could “weed out all the idiots who were ruining the gene pool.”
I don’t know at what point I changed from fear to anger but toward the end of the date I started getting really ticked. I had far too many bad dates to put up with this shmuckatelly for much longer. He had got in my face and ordered me to explain my opinions, defend myself as to why I thought his view of society was not what our forefathers had intended, and answer if I thought that everyone should be given a home and a car and everything they need while sitting on their butts waiting to collect welfare.
I didn’t rise to the bait. Not because I was afraid of what he would do if he got an angrier. But because I was too fed up to even waste my breath on this guy. Instead, I picked up my driver and took a swing at the ball, imagining I was hitting a different ball entirely.
Today I learned that I play better angry. Not when I’m angry at myself for missing the ball or for doing something wrong or playing poorly. But when I’m angry for someone wasting my time, attempting to blow out my small flicker of remaining hope that there is a funny, kind, unique guy out there waiting for me who is not stone cold crazy – that’s when I can really haul off and knock the stuffing out of that ball.
Amazingly, or not perhaps given my history, Glen* said that he had fun and that he’d like to go out again. I put down my club (but kept it close at hand), took my sunglasses off, looked him in the eye and said that while I respected his right to believe whatever he wanted and to express those beliefs, I didn’t want to listen to him anymore and that his beliefs, personality, interests, and pretty much everything were anathema to me. I told him that I was leaving but hoped that he enjoyed the rest of his evening and I may have even wished him good luck with his future matches, while under my breath I wished all his future matches better luck.
*Name has been changed
I have received similar requests in the past and have chosen to go the less direct, more traditional route. This time I decided I would do things differently. Walking around the Smithsonian could take a while though and was not as convenient so I agreed to the driving range. It seemed like a fun way to get to know him and even if it didn’t get to work, at least I would get to hit a bucket of balls.
I must point out that at that point in time, I knew very little about Glen.* I knew that he was a former Marine, self-employed, enjoyed the outdoors, and lived in Annapolis. There were pictures of him hiking and hanging out with friends. I also knew that he had taken the time to at least glance at my profile since he suggested the driving range because in my profile it said that I had taken golf lessons. That may seem like a small thing but not all the guys that have tried to chat me up have even read my profile all the way through.
We weren’t off to a great start when Glen* texted to say he would be a few minutes late. Even though I got there early I wasn’t too annoyed at first as I decided I could get some more practice before completely embarrassing myself in front of him with my lack of skills. However, things got worse before they even really began as he ended up being 30 minutes late. Not because he worked late but because he got lost. He got lost because he refused to look up directions before coming – he just figured he would find it out on his own. He told me that people rely too heavily on things like maps and the internet when they should be more self-sufficient. Then he laughed a little too loudly, a little too strangely.
Shaking it off I decided I was getting ahead of myself and trying to find things wrong with him before I even took the time to get to know him. So we settled into a somewhat comfortable silence as we both started taking some swings. The rest is all a blur of semi-enraged, rambling, vitriolic monologues by him while I became more and more afraid for my personal safety.
First Glen* started on a rant about reality TV. I’m not sure how we got there but I think it began with him talking about how selfish people are as of the last 10-15 years and how no one helps each other anymore. Glen* blames reality TV for this breakdown of society. I said early on that I really didn’t understand what he was talking about as I’m not a big fan of reality TV and I can’t see a link between the popularity of reality TV and a decline of altruism. He then asserted rather loudly that “A whore is still a whore. It doesn’t matter if she’s on tv. It’s still wrong.” I asked him to repeat that a few times as I wasn’t sure how he had come up with that statement and at first, as he was virtually yelling at me while saying this, it seemed like he was calling me a whore or blaming me for all the whores on tv. It had something to do with him not being able to go to a grocery store without seeing something on the Kardashians, a group who I have to be honest I’m still not sure why they’re famous and why I should care about what they do.
This first rant went on for a few minutes and was alarming more because it happened only 10 minutes after he arrived.
Next up on his list of pet peeves, Glen* began a tirade on the federal government that would last for the rest of the date. Now it's generally accepted that it's a severely bad idea to talk about politics in general on a first date. That is especially true when your beliefs are of the extreme variety, you're at a public place where loud conversations are not encouraged, and you cannot speak about politics and the government without working yourself into a foaming rage. Glen* believes that the federal government should be struck down. He said that there was nothing remotely redeeming about it and that we lived in an Orwellian nation with no rights and no responsibilities and he was sick of it. Glen* reminded me a little bit of the crazies that would call the office when I worked as an intern for a congressman while I was in college. I had a few crazies who called the office whenever I was scheduled to work, to tell me that they had built tin foil hats to prevent the government from listening to their thoughts and if I would send them my head measurements, they would build one for me too. Most of these guys seemed fairly harmless though – I had one who after we talked about his tin foil hats, he would recite me some patriotic poems he had written. Ok, so he was wacky and so were the others. But they were on the phone and didn’t have any of my personal information so they seemed relatively harmless.
Here I have to point out that Glen* was a physically intimidating person – a tall guy who works with his hands as a landscaper and general handyman – and the more inflamed he became during his vitriolic speeches, I actually began to get a little frightened. Thankfully we were in a public place and I did have my golf clubs close at hand, but still.
Next up on his list of things wrong with the world: seat belts. He’s against seat belts and feels strongly that there should be no laws requiring them. How dare a policeman pull him over and make him pay money for not wearing something that a government who’s authority he did not recognize order that he wear! This somehow turned into a 5 minute rant about the evils of Blackwater and Haliburton and the defense industrial complex in general. Apparently these evil contractors had stolen the only opportunities that “stupid Americans” had to get paying jobs to take care of themselves: the role of army cooks. Yes, Glen* morphed his rant on seat belts to one against contractors to a spittle-laden speech about how much trays of food cost in the army.
Then we were on to his obsession with the concept of survival of the fittest. This came up when an idiot on the other side of the range walked onto the grass to retrieve several of the balls that hadn’t gone far. I pointed the guy out to Glen* and asked him to hold up until the guy moved. Glen* tried to take a swing as he said it would teach the guy a lesson. Apparently a lot of idiots needed to be taught a lesson and if I would stop espousing the general “coddling and caretaking of society” then we could “weed out all the idiots who were ruining the gene pool.”
I don’t know at what point I changed from fear to anger but toward the end of the date I started getting really ticked. I had far too many bad dates to put up with this shmuckatelly for much longer. He had got in my face and ordered me to explain my opinions, defend myself as to why I thought his view of society was not what our forefathers had intended, and answer if I thought that everyone should be given a home and a car and everything they need while sitting on their butts waiting to collect welfare.
I didn’t rise to the bait. Not because I was afraid of what he would do if he got an angrier. But because I was too fed up to even waste my breath on this guy. Instead, I picked up my driver and took a swing at the ball, imagining I was hitting a different ball entirely.
Today I learned that I play better angry. Not when I’m angry at myself for missing the ball or for doing something wrong or playing poorly. But when I’m angry for someone wasting my time, attempting to blow out my small flicker of remaining hope that there is a funny, kind, unique guy out there waiting for me who is not stone cold crazy – that’s when I can really haul off and knock the stuffing out of that ball.
Amazingly, or not perhaps given my history, Glen* said that he had fun and that he’d like to go out again. I put down my club (but kept it close at hand), took my sunglasses off, looked him in the eye and said that while I respected his right to believe whatever he wanted and to express those beliefs, I didn’t want to listen to him anymore and that his beliefs, personality, interests, and pretty much everything were anathema to me. I told him that I was leaving but hoped that he enjoyed the rest of his evening and I may have even wished him good luck with his future matches, while under my breath I wished all his future matches better luck.
*Name has been changed
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Book Learning Don’t Mean All That Much
At some point around the time of the self-tattooer, a friend pointed out that I was dating a lot of guys that had never gotten around to finishing school. They’d all graduated high school and had done a few semesters of college but had never graduated; one of my exes spent a total of almost 6 years in college flirting with a variety of different majors. When we were dating quite a few years ago (before my internet dating hobby began) he first decided to be a songwriter and then a dentist, requiring him to take a few more courses before he could even think of applying for dental school. We haven’t seen each other in a while but I’ve heard he’s made his way through several more career choices and still hasn’t decided on a major.
At first, I didn’t really think too much of my friend’s suggestion as I have seen enough educated jerks to realize that a degree doesn’t always mean the guy is a prince. But the suggestion that I make criteria for dates even stricter than previously was a novel idea. I’ve had other friends offer up the opposite of the Air Force motto. “Aim Low,” they tell me. In their opinion I have grown far too particular and have significantly reduced the size of my dating pool to a point where it will be impossible for me to find anyone.
My friend’s suggestion coincided with a time when I was getting quite a few suggested matches that were professors, PhD candidates, and other professions requiring post-graduate studies so it seemed as it was fate. First up was Matt.* Matt and I only went out once and I’m trying now to remember what the hell he did – I know he was in some sort of engineering. His emails were well-structured and slightly humorous. What was most intriguing about his profile was that in each of the 5 pictures he posted on his profile, he looked like a completely different individual. It was highly odd. Only one of them was unattractive; the rest were all okay.
We met for coffee at one of my favorite coffeehouses, a joint that I had gone to in high school with my best friend after play practice and we would buy frothy beverages or chocolate concoctions and just shoot the breeze. The place has changed hands over the years but it’s still a good place to hang and one of the few non-chain coffeehouses that has been left standing. When I walked in, I realized that of course, Matt* looked the most like the unattractive photo. Undeterred, I brazenly ordered some steamy caffeinated goodness and sat down to learn all about Matt.*
What I learned first was that Matt* had some sort of nervous tic/eye condition. He spent the majority of the date blinking at me non-stop with his mouth slightly ajar. When I would speak, he would stare at me with no expression on his face other than what appeared to be the concentrated look of someone hell bent on not blinking. When he was speaking or when there were uncomfortable pauses (you guessed it – there were PLENTY of those), he blinked approximately 634 times a minute. I might be exaggerating slightly but that’s what it felt like.
What with all the blinking and uncomfortable pauses, it might have been difficult for even the most determined of men to make a favorable impression. Matt* was a perfect gentleman, but the stilted conversation and switching between staring and prolific blinking had me shaking his hand firmly at the end of the date and saying it was nice meeting him and wishing him luck on the site with his future matches.
After Blinky McStaresalot, there was a period of time when I dated two professors both named Mike.* The first professor stuck around longer so I’ll probably have to get to him in another post. The second professor Mike* was yet another one-date wonder. He was a research professor who worked in artificial intelligence. Saying he was wicked smart is a bit of an understatement. Saying that he was wicked obsessed with his facial hair is the biggest understatement in the history of dating.
In his profile pictures, there was one of Mike* with a full beard and several of him clean-shaven. The night I met him, he was sporting a very oddly pointed goatee thing with weird sideburns. I think he was it was kind of like a Vandyck. I had no idea what the hell this was so I guess I have no one to blame but myself for his 20 minute monologue of the various stages of his facial hair. At first I thought he said he had a Van Dyke as in Dick Van Dyke and thought that he was indicating a preference for dressing like a chimney sweep or wearing a full white mustache. But apparently a Vandyck is a legit style of facial hair. Well, its not legit in my book but it is apparently a style that other people have heard of and condone.
So Mike* went on for about 20 minutes about how sometimes he likes to have a full beard and sometimes he likes a flavor saver, sometimes he likes a goatee, etc. etc. He explained how it related to his moods and his goals at the time, blah, blah, blah. I zoned out a bit as I kept thinking, “is he really talking this much about his facial hair? Would he notice if I got up and left? If I reached across the table and shaved off his facial hair would he change topics or just keep going?” After the monologue, there wasn’t really anywhere else to go conversation-wise. I flirted with the idea of trying to start up another area of discussion but my heart wasn’t in it. It may not have been fair of me, but it really felt like I had learned all I wanted to learn about Mike* and it was time to run off into the welcoming dark night and hope that my next date would not be as fussy with or fond of his facial hair.
Alright, I will definitely have to wait until later to tell the notorious tale of Professor Hickey to really do it justice.
*Name has been changed
At first, I didn’t really think too much of my friend’s suggestion as I have seen enough educated jerks to realize that a degree doesn’t always mean the guy is a prince. But the suggestion that I make criteria for dates even stricter than previously was a novel idea. I’ve had other friends offer up the opposite of the Air Force motto. “Aim Low,” they tell me. In their opinion I have grown far too particular and have significantly reduced the size of my dating pool to a point where it will be impossible for me to find anyone.
My friend’s suggestion coincided with a time when I was getting quite a few suggested matches that were professors, PhD candidates, and other professions requiring post-graduate studies so it seemed as it was fate. First up was Matt.* Matt and I only went out once and I’m trying now to remember what the hell he did – I know he was in some sort of engineering. His emails were well-structured and slightly humorous. What was most intriguing about his profile was that in each of the 5 pictures he posted on his profile, he looked like a completely different individual. It was highly odd. Only one of them was unattractive; the rest were all okay.
We met for coffee at one of my favorite coffeehouses, a joint that I had gone to in high school with my best friend after play practice and we would buy frothy beverages or chocolate concoctions and just shoot the breeze. The place has changed hands over the years but it’s still a good place to hang and one of the few non-chain coffeehouses that has been left standing. When I walked in, I realized that of course, Matt* looked the most like the unattractive photo. Undeterred, I brazenly ordered some steamy caffeinated goodness and sat down to learn all about Matt.*
What I learned first was that Matt* had some sort of nervous tic/eye condition. He spent the majority of the date blinking at me non-stop with his mouth slightly ajar. When I would speak, he would stare at me with no expression on his face other than what appeared to be the concentrated look of someone hell bent on not blinking. When he was speaking or when there were uncomfortable pauses (you guessed it – there were PLENTY of those), he blinked approximately 634 times a minute. I might be exaggerating slightly but that’s what it felt like.
What with all the blinking and uncomfortable pauses, it might have been difficult for even the most determined of men to make a favorable impression. Matt* was a perfect gentleman, but the stilted conversation and switching between staring and prolific blinking had me shaking his hand firmly at the end of the date and saying it was nice meeting him and wishing him luck on the site with his future matches.
After Blinky McStaresalot, there was a period of time when I dated two professors both named Mike.* The first professor stuck around longer so I’ll probably have to get to him in another post. The second professor Mike* was yet another one-date wonder. He was a research professor who worked in artificial intelligence. Saying he was wicked smart is a bit of an understatement. Saying that he was wicked obsessed with his facial hair is the biggest understatement in the history of dating.
In his profile pictures, there was one of Mike* with a full beard and several of him clean-shaven. The night I met him, he was sporting a very oddly pointed goatee thing with weird sideburns. I think he was it was kind of like a Vandyck. I had no idea what the hell this was so I guess I have no one to blame but myself for his 20 minute monologue of the various stages of his facial hair. At first I thought he said he had a Van Dyke as in Dick Van Dyke and thought that he was indicating a preference for dressing like a chimney sweep or wearing a full white mustache. But apparently a Vandyck is a legit style of facial hair. Well, its not legit in my book but it is apparently a style that other people have heard of and condone.
So Mike* went on for about 20 minutes about how sometimes he likes to have a full beard and sometimes he likes a flavor saver, sometimes he likes a goatee, etc. etc. He explained how it related to his moods and his goals at the time, blah, blah, blah. I zoned out a bit as I kept thinking, “is he really talking this much about his facial hair? Would he notice if I got up and left? If I reached across the table and shaved off his facial hair would he change topics or just keep going?” After the monologue, there wasn’t really anywhere else to go conversation-wise. I flirted with the idea of trying to start up another area of discussion but my heart wasn’t in it. It may not have been fair of me, but it really felt like I had learned all I wanted to learn about Mike* and it was time to run off into the welcoming dark night and hope that my next date would not be as fussy with or fond of his facial hair.
Alright, I will definitely have to wait until later to tell the notorious tale of Professor Hickey to really do it justice.
*Name has been changed
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Putting the Aw in Awkward
Considering how much of my life must appear to be consumed with dating if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, it may startle some of you to know that I have other less extreme activities that take up my time. But given the ridiculous amount of dates that I’ve been on relatively recently, it was just a matter of time before this somewhat hazardous hobby spilled over into the rest of my world.
I’m getting ahead of myself as usual. My next date after being propositioned by a man technically old enough to be my father was with a cute young whippersnapper. Kurt* was ridiculously adorable – he looked like he should be in a boy band. Not the lead singer or that guy with the weird sideburns who can’t really sing and just speaks in a deep voice in a rhythmic manner, but the cute guitarist. And Kurt* actually was a musician. He played in a metal band.
Kurt* didn’t look like he belonged in a metal band at all. He had hair vaguely in the style of the Jonas Brothers and he was beyond clean cut. He could and did talk at length and without lacking in authority on the differences between metal and hard rock. He also didn’t drink at all, was vocally anti-drugs, and very much into healthy living. It was vaguely intriguing but a little off.
What was wrong was that he seemed so darn young. He was young enough to date my niece. At the time, my eldest niece who is only seven years my junior, was staying at my house. At some point during the date with Kurt*, I thought to myself how great I thought he would be for my niece. That’s when it became impossible for me to date him. For although apparently some men actually want to date women half their age plus seven years (google it – the fact that this theory is prevalent is for realsies not just the idea of a misguided few), the idea gives me the heebie jeebies. At that point in my life I wasn’t cut out to be a puma so I said goodbye to Kurt.* Notice that I didn’t say that I’ll never become a puma as I realize such a statement would ensure that my next date would be dangerously young and even as I write this I’m remembering the age of some of my exes in real life before I started this internet dating craziness so I’ll move on to the next thought.
Here’s where we get to the particular awkward moment that I referenced at the beginning of this post. One of my non-dating activities is volunteering at nursing homes with my dog. Its fun and he and I both dig it and the residents seem to as well. Basically we just go there and visit some of our regulars in their rooms, stop by the common areas, and spend time talking or just hanging out with the residents.
Anyway, I took my dog to the nursing home the night after my date with Kurt* and we met a new friend in the lobby. I hadn’t remembered meeting with Sharla* before but she kept saying she thought she knew me. As the residents have varying levels of mental coherency I just smiled at her and continued chatting away, coaxing my dog to do some tricks to entertain her. She became more insistent though, she definitely knew who I was and grabbing my name tag she stated authoritatively that I had in fact dated her grandson.
I assumed that she meant Kurt* as he was the most recent date I’d had; I started babbling embarrassed as she began asking me why I didn’t like her very nice grandson. I assured her that her grandson was great and a gentleman and that I wish that it had worked out, etc, etc. In the back of my mind I was a little freaked that I had only gone out with him once and that he had told his grandmother about me but I was becoming more and more embarrassed as she looked at me unflinchingly and asked again why I didn’t like her grandson. I assured her that Kurt* was a great guy and that maybe the age difference wasn’t that bad. At this point, things slid downward on the mortification scale as she asked me who the hell Kurt is. It turns out her grandson was Jim* who I had dated a few months prior (Jim being the slightly over-serious, loner, hiker, self-tattooer).
If I thought she was upset before, that was nothing compared to how she felt after she realized I had dated people after her darling grandson. Here I was a floozy, working my way through all the wonderfully sensitive gentlemen of the area and picking them off one by one, snubbing her grandson and not even remembering it right away. I hoped that the floor would open up and swallow me whole, but sadly I had to stand there and take my comeuppance shamefacedly while my dog became increasingly bored. I attempted to apologize again and shrank off into the building. I was going to go home at that point; chastised by a resident, I really just wanted to crawl under my covers and not come out. Thankfully I saw one of my regulars down the hall and decided to suck it up and press on. I can’t blame Sharla* for sticking up for her grandson, but I don’t blame myself either for not being in love with Jim.*
Next up, Blinky McStaresalot and a Tale of Two Professors. Or at least I’ll tell the tale of one – I might have to give the main professor his own post all to himself.
*Name has been changed
I’m getting ahead of myself as usual. My next date after being propositioned by a man technically old enough to be my father was with a cute young whippersnapper. Kurt* was ridiculously adorable – he looked like he should be in a boy band. Not the lead singer or that guy with the weird sideburns who can’t really sing and just speaks in a deep voice in a rhythmic manner, but the cute guitarist. And Kurt* actually was a musician. He played in a metal band.
Kurt* didn’t look like he belonged in a metal band at all. He had hair vaguely in the style of the Jonas Brothers and he was beyond clean cut. He could and did talk at length and without lacking in authority on the differences between metal and hard rock. He also didn’t drink at all, was vocally anti-drugs, and very much into healthy living. It was vaguely intriguing but a little off.
What was wrong was that he seemed so darn young. He was young enough to date my niece. At the time, my eldest niece who is only seven years my junior, was staying at my house. At some point during the date with Kurt*, I thought to myself how great I thought he would be for my niece. That’s when it became impossible for me to date him. For although apparently some men actually want to date women half their age plus seven years (google it – the fact that this theory is prevalent is for realsies not just the idea of a misguided few), the idea gives me the heebie jeebies. At that point in my life I wasn’t cut out to be a puma so I said goodbye to Kurt.* Notice that I didn’t say that I’ll never become a puma as I realize such a statement would ensure that my next date would be dangerously young and even as I write this I’m remembering the age of some of my exes in real life before I started this internet dating craziness so I’ll move on to the next thought.
Here’s where we get to the particular awkward moment that I referenced at the beginning of this post. One of my non-dating activities is volunteering at nursing homes with my dog. Its fun and he and I both dig it and the residents seem to as well. Basically we just go there and visit some of our regulars in their rooms, stop by the common areas, and spend time talking or just hanging out with the residents.
Anyway, I took my dog to the nursing home the night after my date with Kurt* and we met a new friend in the lobby. I hadn’t remembered meeting with Sharla* before but she kept saying she thought she knew me. As the residents have varying levels of mental coherency I just smiled at her and continued chatting away, coaxing my dog to do some tricks to entertain her. She became more insistent though, she definitely knew who I was and grabbing my name tag she stated authoritatively that I had in fact dated her grandson.
I assumed that she meant Kurt* as he was the most recent date I’d had; I started babbling embarrassed as she began asking me why I didn’t like her very nice grandson. I assured her that her grandson was great and a gentleman and that I wish that it had worked out, etc, etc. In the back of my mind I was a little freaked that I had only gone out with him once and that he had told his grandmother about me but I was becoming more and more embarrassed as she looked at me unflinchingly and asked again why I didn’t like her grandson. I assured her that Kurt* was a great guy and that maybe the age difference wasn’t that bad. At this point, things slid downward on the mortification scale as she asked me who the hell Kurt is. It turns out her grandson was Jim* who I had dated a few months prior (Jim being the slightly over-serious, loner, hiker, self-tattooer).
If I thought she was upset before, that was nothing compared to how she felt after she realized I had dated people after her darling grandson. Here I was a floozy, working my way through all the wonderfully sensitive gentlemen of the area and picking them off one by one, snubbing her grandson and not even remembering it right away. I hoped that the floor would open up and swallow me whole, but sadly I had to stand there and take my comeuppance shamefacedly while my dog became increasingly bored. I attempted to apologize again and shrank off into the building. I was going to go home at that point; chastised by a resident, I really just wanted to crawl under my covers and not come out. Thankfully I saw one of my regulars down the hall and decided to suck it up and press on. I can’t blame Sharla* for sticking up for her grandson, but I don’t blame myself either for not being in love with Jim.*
Next up, Blinky McStaresalot and a Tale of Two Professors. Or at least I’ll tell the tale of one – I might have to give the main professor his own post all to himself.
*Name has been changed
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Never Say Never…or You May Too May End Up Dating Yukon Cornelius
I had heard a couple friends mentioning joining free dating websites and I said I would definitely never do such a thing because you get what you pay for. Having made such a statement it was only a matter of time before I joined a free website. I can’t remember how I found OkCupid but I did find it and created my free profile and prepared to sort through even more crazies than I had on the sites that charge a fee.
One of the first guys I happened upon described himself as “fixing up my house some whenever I gets some cash. When I finish that up I’m debating some other options to broaden my horizons.” That coupled with a picture of himself with Carrot Top like hair holding a paper sack and standing next to a guy with teeth missing helped me realize that although this site did not charge a fee, there was definitely still a cost. I was very curious as to what was in the sack but since I decided the answer could have been something like “a human head” I decided against emailing him to find out.
The next guy had a picture of himself with a snake wrapped around his neck and he used his profile to talk about how much he liked to poop. He believed that this is when he gets his best thinking done, during an activity he referred to as “dropping some booty fruit.” Once he thought so hard he fell asleep and almost fell off of the toilet.
Compared to these first two members of the site I chanced upon, Jim* was Man of the Year. He really was an extremely nice guy, but a little bit off. Cute, but too skinny like one good hug would break him in two, he didn’t talk about his pet snake or pooping so he was already ahead in the game. He seemed like a bit of a loner, liked to hiking by himself for long periods of time and didn’t really talk about any close friends. We went out a few times but there were no sparks for me. I was slightly alarmed at his proclivity for giving himself tattoos, but other than that the really only negative thing was that he wanted to get really serious, really quickly and I wasn’t feeling the same way.
Next up was a doozy. Up until fairly recently, I had never really been into facial hair on guys. I mean on some guys it looked ok, but a full beard kinda weirded me out. When I started chatting with Christian* on the website, the current status of his facial hair was unclear. In one picture, he had a full dark beard. In another, he was clean-shaven. In yet another, he had a goatee. There were other intriguing things about him, such as playing guitar in a band, claims of inventing recipes featuring chocolate and bacon, and an interest in archaeology. I definitely wanted to meet this guy. By this point, however, I should have learned that it’s easy to have some chemistry on email but that you need to have an actual conversation with someone to see if there’s something worthwhile there. You also need to meet in real life to discover that he has the longest, bushiest, red beard possible. The type of beard that will collect food and beer foam without his knowledge or worse still that you will witness him take some crumbs from his beard and eat it.
It took me forever to figure out who he reminded me of. I had some time to ponder this as the minutes dragged on during our stilted conversation. He really didn’t find our conversation enjoyable. Or if he did, he chose to express this by staring at me with his mouth slightly ajar. I think of myself as being at least slightly humorous but not once on the date did he laugh or even smile. He just alternated between looking serious and looking semi-catatonic.
The date with Christian* was in January of this year and I was really racking my brain to figure out who he reminded me of; I had definitely seen him or someone like him in the not too distant past. I was pretty sure it was around Christmas time. That’s when it hit me: this guy was Yukon Cornelius from the animated classic Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. You remember the guy – the arctic prospector with the pointy red mustache and bushy beard? Well I dated him.
Needless to say that was not a match made in heaven, I closed out that month being hit on by a man who I’m pretty sure was married. He traveled to DC quite frequently and wanted to meet up with me on his next trip. He is memorable only in delivering what has to be the best worst pickup lines I’ve had in quite some time. Here is a transcript of the email he sent me:
Hey! Please read my profile? I hope that you find me intriguing, as well. I think that the first thing I notice are your eyes. They are very sensitive and adventurous!
I travel to DC frequently and plan to be in town on February 7 thru 10. I thought that I might reach out to you to see if dinner or drinks might be of interest to you. If so, maybe we can talk. (I much prefer talking on email (and phone) rather than cupid)
I am a 55 yr old professional white male seeking an articulate woman who is honest, fun loving, adventurous, and has a great sense of humor. I'm not someone strange. I am just a nice guy who enjoys meeting new people and loves to laugh and have fun. Oh, and I love younger women who have depth and maturity. I do hope you like mature men who are stimulating intellectually, as well as physically.
If I have piqued your interest, please write back? Who knows? We might hit it off. I look forward to hearing from you.
While I do think I might need to consider older guys more than I have been since men my age seem to be looking for girls between the ages of barely legal and not old enough to rent a car, I decided to pass on this one despite his affinity for my sensitive and adventurous eyes. Next up, some more misses and how I almost became a puma (youngish cougar).
*Name has been changed
One of the first guys I happened upon described himself as “fixing up my house some whenever I gets some cash. When I finish that up I’m debating some other options to broaden my horizons.” That coupled with a picture of himself with Carrot Top like hair holding a paper sack and standing next to a guy with teeth missing helped me realize that although this site did not charge a fee, there was definitely still a cost. I was very curious as to what was in the sack but since I decided the answer could have been something like “a human head” I decided against emailing him to find out.
The next guy had a picture of himself with a snake wrapped around his neck and he used his profile to talk about how much he liked to poop. He believed that this is when he gets his best thinking done, during an activity he referred to as “dropping some booty fruit.” Once he thought so hard he fell asleep and almost fell off of the toilet.
Compared to these first two members of the site I chanced upon, Jim* was Man of the Year. He really was an extremely nice guy, but a little bit off. Cute, but too skinny like one good hug would break him in two, he didn’t talk about his pet snake or pooping so he was already ahead in the game. He seemed like a bit of a loner, liked to hiking by himself for long periods of time and didn’t really talk about any close friends. We went out a few times but there were no sparks for me. I was slightly alarmed at his proclivity for giving himself tattoos, but other than that the really only negative thing was that he wanted to get really serious, really quickly and I wasn’t feeling the same way.
Next up was a doozy. Up until fairly recently, I had never really been into facial hair on guys. I mean on some guys it looked ok, but a full beard kinda weirded me out. When I started chatting with Christian* on the website, the current status of his facial hair was unclear. In one picture, he had a full dark beard. In another, he was clean-shaven. In yet another, he had a goatee. There were other intriguing things about him, such as playing guitar in a band, claims of inventing recipes featuring chocolate and bacon, and an interest in archaeology. I definitely wanted to meet this guy. By this point, however, I should have learned that it’s easy to have some chemistry on email but that you need to have an actual conversation with someone to see if there’s something worthwhile there. You also need to meet in real life to discover that he has the longest, bushiest, red beard possible. The type of beard that will collect food and beer foam without his knowledge or worse still that you will witness him take some crumbs from his beard and eat it.
It took me forever to figure out who he reminded me of. I had some time to ponder this as the minutes dragged on during our stilted conversation. He really didn’t find our conversation enjoyable. Or if he did, he chose to express this by staring at me with his mouth slightly ajar. I think of myself as being at least slightly humorous but not once on the date did he laugh or even smile. He just alternated between looking serious and looking semi-catatonic.
The date with Christian* was in January of this year and I was really racking my brain to figure out who he reminded me of; I had definitely seen him or someone like him in the not too distant past. I was pretty sure it was around Christmas time. That’s when it hit me: this guy was Yukon Cornelius from the animated classic Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. You remember the guy – the arctic prospector with the pointy red mustache and bushy beard? Well I dated him.
Needless to say that was not a match made in heaven, I closed out that month being hit on by a man who I’m pretty sure was married. He traveled to DC quite frequently and wanted to meet up with me on his next trip. He is memorable only in delivering what has to be the best worst pickup lines I’ve had in quite some time. Here is a transcript of the email he sent me:
Hey! Please read my profile? I hope that you find me intriguing, as well. I think that the first thing I notice are your eyes. They are very sensitive and adventurous!
I travel to DC frequently and plan to be in town on February 7 thru 10. I thought that I might reach out to you to see if dinner or drinks might be of interest to you. If so, maybe we can talk. (I much prefer talking on email (and phone) rather than cupid)
I am a 55 yr old professional white male seeking an articulate woman who is honest, fun loving, adventurous, and has a great sense of humor. I'm not someone strange. I am just a nice guy who enjoys meeting new people and loves to laugh and have fun. Oh, and I love younger women who have depth and maturity. I do hope you like mature men who are stimulating intellectually, as well as physically.
If I have piqued your interest, please write back? Who knows? We might hit it off. I look forward to hearing from you.
While I do think I might need to consider older guys more than I have been since men my age seem to be looking for girls between the ages of barely legal and not old enough to rent a car, I decided to pass on this one despite his affinity for my sensitive and adventurous eyes. Next up, some more misses and how I almost became a puma (youngish cougar).
*Name has been changed
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Eternal Truth of Seinfeld and Parisian Greetings
Although I’m nearing the end of my Match stories and getting to the exciting decision last fall to join a free dating website, there are two last memorable ones I wanted to share. First, there was Jared* the Caveman. Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where Jerry was dating a woman whose attractiveness was completely altered by changes in lighting? One minute, she was beautiful and he was smitten. The next, she looked like a ghoul and he couldn’t get away fast enough. Well, that was Jared. From one angle, he was fairly hot. From another angle, he looked like a slightly less hairy caveman. We met up at a bar and when he first sat down next to me, he looked great. We chatted, joked, flirted; it was all good. After I returned from going to the ladies’ room and sat down on the other side of him, I thought he had just hopped out of those annoying commercials selling car insurance. He had a distinctly Cro-Magnon look about him. His personality also tended slightly to the Jekyl/Hyde dynamic. One moment he was charming and witty. The banter was excellent –slightly sarcastic and biting but not too mean. Just 30 minutes later, and he was a creepy slimeball. This became even more evident when he discovered that I wasn’t immediately going to invite him back to my place. Although he said he would call so we could meet up again I was not surprised and was a little relieved when I never heard from him after that initial date.
The second match was perhaps more memorable for the beginning of the date than for any resemblance to a Seinfeld character, although he was a bit of a close talker. Bill* and I had emailed for a while and he really peaked my interest; he was funny, intelligent, and actually volunteered his time with the elderly. No, that wasn’t a line – I really do believe him. It’s just unusual and really cool; we actually did similar types of volunteering by visiting nursing homes with our dogs just for different organizations and at different facilities. And when I say he is intelligent I should be more specific; he was an actual physicist. I felt a little out of my depth but he did seem too good to pass up for fear of intimidation.
As promising as all of that sounded, I pretty much knew from our phone conversation that the date was not going to go well. He was highly nervous and had very annoying conversational habits. He ended every sentence by repeating the last phrase of that sentence or by clearing his throat and saying “uh huh uh huh ok.”
For example, when I asked how is day had been going he said “Today’s been going pretty well, pretty well. It’s been very busy at work, though, very busy at work. How was your day (throat clearing) uh huh?” I thought maybe it was a fluke but when I asked him where he wanted to meet the following day for a drink he said “How about that bar down by the lake, down by the lake? Its pretty cool (clears throat) uh huh, ok.”
There was a split second when I thought about ending it then, not even bothering to meet him. But I convinced myself that I was being too hasty and that he was probably just bad on the phone. Uh huh. Ok.
To set the scene, keep in mind that Bill* and I had never met before. We had exchanged several emails, seen each others pictures, done a little instant messaging, and talked once on the phone. So when I walked up to the bar and saw him standing outside, I was more than a little taken aback when as I reached out to shake his hand, he tried to kiss me. Open mouthed. With tongue. In my shock I was still able to turn my head so that instead of him frenching me hello, he ended up licking the side of my head and my hair. That’s right, I said hello and he licked my hair.
Time stood still for a bit as I gave a sort of strangled yelp and he looked at me nonchalantly as if nothing strange had happened. That is when I really needed the ganas to just walk away. Inexplicably, I stayed. I felt too mean to leave even though I was totally freaked. So I just kind of hurried inside the bar and he followed after me. I was a little smarter than usual though and ignored him when he was standing at the hostess stand saying he wanted to get a table and have some dinner. I pretended I didn’t hear him and hurried to an empty stool at the bar.
After such a horrible start, the only place to go is up right? If you actually believe that, then this must be the first of my posts that you’ve read. For the conversational “quirks” I had noticed during our phone conversation were omnipresent during our conversation at the bar. The scary thing was that I found myself adopting some of his habits, some of his habits. Trying to take control of the conversation and prevent me from losing all powers of thoughtful speech, I decided to talk to him more about his volunteerism. How could that go wrong? Well, when he told me that the name of his dog was Nixon and that he named him after the single greatest human being who has ever lived and then waxed rhapsodic about the wondrous traits of our former president for TEN SOLID MINUTES I knew it was time to call it a night. I knocked back the rest of my cocktail, slapped some money on the bar, and told him I had to hit the road. At this point, he tried to french me again! Yes, that’s right. He is that bold and I am that clueless. Of course he would try again! I had stayed in his presence for almost 30 minutes and hadn’t run away screaming so clearly we were meant to be together. This time I intercepted his face with my hand which he almost licked so I wiped it on the barstool, wished him luck in his future endeavors, and fled. Even as I was running away I heard him saying that he would give me a call so we could do this again, do this again…
The second match was perhaps more memorable for the beginning of the date than for any resemblance to a Seinfeld character, although he was a bit of a close talker. Bill* and I had emailed for a while and he really peaked my interest; he was funny, intelligent, and actually volunteered his time with the elderly. No, that wasn’t a line – I really do believe him. It’s just unusual and really cool; we actually did similar types of volunteering by visiting nursing homes with our dogs just for different organizations and at different facilities. And when I say he is intelligent I should be more specific; he was an actual physicist. I felt a little out of my depth but he did seem too good to pass up for fear of intimidation.
As promising as all of that sounded, I pretty much knew from our phone conversation that the date was not going to go well. He was highly nervous and had very annoying conversational habits. He ended every sentence by repeating the last phrase of that sentence or by clearing his throat and saying “uh huh uh huh ok.”
For example, when I asked how is day had been going he said “Today’s been going pretty well, pretty well. It’s been very busy at work, though, very busy at work. How was your day (throat clearing) uh huh?” I thought maybe it was a fluke but when I asked him where he wanted to meet the following day for a drink he said “How about that bar down by the lake, down by the lake? Its pretty cool (clears throat) uh huh, ok.”
There was a split second when I thought about ending it then, not even bothering to meet him. But I convinced myself that I was being too hasty and that he was probably just bad on the phone. Uh huh. Ok.
To set the scene, keep in mind that Bill* and I had never met before. We had exchanged several emails, seen each others pictures, done a little instant messaging, and talked once on the phone. So when I walked up to the bar and saw him standing outside, I was more than a little taken aback when as I reached out to shake his hand, he tried to kiss me. Open mouthed. With tongue. In my shock I was still able to turn my head so that instead of him frenching me hello, he ended up licking the side of my head and my hair. That’s right, I said hello and he licked my hair.
Time stood still for a bit as I gave a sort of strangled yelp and he looked at me nonchalantly as if nothing strange had happened. That is when I really needed the ganas to just walk away. Inexplicably, I stayed. I felt too mean to leave even though I was totally freaked. So I just kind of hurried inside the bar and he followed after me. I was a little smarter than usual though and ignored him when he was standing at the hostess stand saying he wanted to get a table and have some dinner. I pretended I didn’t hear him and hurried to an empty stool at the bar.
After such a horrible start, the only place to go is up right? If you actually believe that, then this must be the first of my posts that you’ve read. For the conversational “quirks” I had noticed during our phone conversation were omnipresent during our conversation at the bar. The scary thing was that I found myself adopting some of his habits, some of his habits. Trying to take control of the conversation and prevent me from losing all powers of thoughtful speech, I decided to talk to him more about his volunteerism. How could that go wrong? Well, when he told me that the name of his dog was Nixon and that he named him after the single greatest human being who has ever lived and then waxed rhapsodic about the wondrous traits of our former president for TEN SOLID MINUTES I knew it was time to call it a night. I knocked back the rest of my cocktail, slapped some money on the bar, and told him I had to hit the road. At this point, he tried to french me again! Yes, that’s right. He is that bold and I am that clueless. Of course he would try again! I had stayed in his presence for almost 30 minutes and hadn’t run away screaming so clearly we were meant to be together. This time I intercepted his face with my hand which he almost licked so I wiped it on the barstool, wished him luck in his future endeavors, and fled. Even as I was running away I heard him saying that he would give me a call so we could do this again, do this again…
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