On the 24th of December, I turned thirty. Earlier on in the year I was feeling kind of odd about it and giving it the kind of credence it didn't really deserve (as in, worrying about all the stuff I hadn't done yet), but by the time Thursday rolled around I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Because really, what else are you gonna do?
I had a good day by choice. Because, you see, a certain person who was sounding all super awesome the last time I wrote for you lovely people did something the day before my birthday that just pissed me off. He has this inability to pick up a phone and call me, which I find terribly unattractive, despite so many of his other great qualities. And while I was pretty upset for a short while, I decided not to be anymore. I wasn't going to let someone else's actions get in the way of me having a good birthday and Christmas, damn it. And that was how I decided on my first resolution.
I'm not necessarily big on New Year's Resolutions, but I do like to take stock every year on my birthday (which admittedly is only a week before the new year) and think about how I can do something different in the coming year. And so the very first one was that in my thirty-first year, I will not succumb to the urge to take to my bed when some evil male wrongs me. The second was that when someone is unable to meet a basic need/request/whatever of mine (you know, like "Hey, can I NOT always be the one to initiate everything?), I'm done. Of course this depends on what my expectation is and what the relationship is, but in this case, I'm all set. I will not waste my time.
I have other stuff to do this week. Like a date with a guy who produces shows for the National Geographic channel. Doesn't that sound so much more interesting?
Just a minute to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus (a little late), a belated Happy Hanukkah....and a happy, happy, merry, merry to celebrate whatever you celebrate.
Holidays can be a difficult for those of us that are single, but there are also a lot of plusses:
No stress over finding the perfect gift for a special someone.
No need to figure when to go with which family and how to get there.
The tree (and house for that matter) can be decorated in tiffany blue and silver if you choose (which is what I choose this year), without a peanut gallery.
The gym is still there on the 26th. If you've gained a few pounds since Thanksgiving, there is no one to worry about judging you for that (of course, the judging is usually just in my head, but whatever...I'm still saved from that!).
You do not need to help pick out, or pick out gifts from him for other people.
If you want to watch sappy holiday movies over and over, you can.
The family and friends that have been your support system since last Christmas, are probably still here this Christmas. Celebrate with them. Enjoy them. Love them. They will still be there after many relationships have come and gone.
So, remember how I said two Sundays ago I had a super awesome time and hopefully I'd be updating you soon? Well, aren't you lucky, because I'm gonna do that now!
As many times as I've tried the online dating thing, and as small as everyone claims my fair city is, I hadn't yet run into anyone I already knew in real life. That is, until the Saturday after Thanksgiving, when I got an e-mail commenting on my love of The Cutting Edge. When I looked at the photo, I realized it was a guy I knew casually from my last job. (One who I'd always thought was kinda cute, so...bonus!) And after a few e-mails back and forth, he asked for my number.
The next day he called and suggested we hang out, and offered to make me risotto. And we had a great night. And then there was date number two- also awesome. So I was starting to get pretty excited, because really, there were a lot of little things about him that I thought were great. Suffice it to say, he was earning points all over the place.
Admit it, people- we all have some kind of internal point system. Your date earns points when they do something good, and you mentally deduct when they do something lame. Even if you don't realize it, you're keeping score. So when he cooked me dinner, remembered mundane details from the stories I was telling, and was rather adorably trying to throw popcorn down the front of my shirt at the movies, the scoreboard was counting 'em up.
A week later, this past Sunday, my mom called and told me to come home, because my grandfather, who has been ill for some time, was probably not going to make the day. He died at 2AM Monday. Because the funeral wasn't till later this week, I came back to work for a couple of days, and yesterday by lunch the emotions and lack of sleep were making me crazy. And so I called him, even though I thought it might be a lot to ask after just two dates, and I asked if he'd come over and distract me. And he said "Sure."
So he rode his bike. To my house. Six miles. And he brought The Cutting Edge on DVD and a Ziploc bag of popcorn, and told me he hoped I had a pot with a see-through lid, because while any lid would work, it was more fun to actually WATCH the popcorn pop.
So, I had date #2 with the Port Prince. PP called on Wednesday and asked if I would like to go out again. I said yes (I have a 3-date rule, because I know it takes me a bit to warm up to people). Now, I generally take a very honest, almost too honest approach to dating-I tell people I am a homebody, I see no reason to lie and tell men that I'm "spontaneous and always looking for an adventure." This was clearly something PP was intrigued by, as he said "I know it wouldn't be your first choice, but I would like to take you bowling at (club in the city that has bowling)." And he seemed to almost be mocking my homebody-ness with the humor he seemed to find in "making me" go bowling. I was honest that it wasn't something I would choose, but I would be a good sport and go. I also questioned whether or not the city was a good idea on a night we were supposed to get a snow storm. He says he has 4-wheel drive, we'd be all set.
He shows up in his non-4WD car because he'd prefer to take the shit box into the city. We walk 10 minutes in a snow storm, at previously determined destination. Now this entire drive in he's talking about how he didn't think I was going to go and he is going to make sure I have fun (aka I totally don't want to date a homebody, so I'm going to force you to do shit you don't want to do). Now, I'm not a total party pooper-I would enjoy bowling in a group, or with my friends from work etc. However, not for a date and not at a place that has a club atmosphere. So...long part of the story short-PP can't get in, he has boots on and there is a dress code. He has a short meltdown (red flag) and then asks where I want to go. I choose a bar that I know and love around the corner.
I must say, he is talkative, outgoing and and nice, for the most part. However, some highlights of the conversation are as follows (I can't possibly list them all):
None of his friends are in happy marriages, they all forfeited their balls.
He thinks women who won't date a man based on height, education level, intellect, job or income are shallow and stupid (Meanwhile, he would never date a woman with children)
He whispered the word "gay" while telling me he has no problem with homosexuality.
He asked numerous questions about my ex, again.
He asked "what would you do if your ex called...well what if you didn't know it was him and accidentally answered."
He questioned whether or not I really want to pursue a doctoral degree, as I would have to put my life on hold.
And then...on the way home two shining moments:
Well, if you had said you wanted to stay at your place and rent a movie, we wouldn't have had to go into the city for bowling
And had touched my leg twice, both times it felt gross.
So friends, now I'm in a pickle. I have that 3-date rule and while I make it sound awful, it wasn't horrendous, it's just evident we are not a good match. Ugh, I hate my rules and I hate being a rule follower. He has left the planning of a 3rd date, up to me. I think I'm going to force him to see a chick flick.
This really SHOULD be an entry about my Sunday evening. Because, dear readers, it was FAB. It was so fab that I have reverted to my less awesome self who is now sitting around going "Please, please let him call me. No really, pleeeaaase!" But I'm gonna spare you until there's more to say (like, until he calls, or he doesn't).
Instead I'll tell you about an interesting phenomenon I have noticed involving a guy I know, one who I'll call the Toxic Avenger. Why? Because he is most certainly toxic, and he appears to have super powers. Chiefly, the power to know exactly when it's the WORST time to crawl out of the woodwork and try to hook up with me. Again.
I'm partly at fault here. I agree to do this again and again because, hey, it's fun and he's a former massage therapist and has other, um, talents. So what's not to like, at least on the physical level, yes? Except that he's cryptic and odd and makes me feel like I am the moony freshman to his sophisticated senior. Also, I have reason to believe he's not the most honest gent on the planet. Oh, and every time we're together it's like a compliment bomb went off. It's cool the first time, but then you start wondering how anyone could seriously wax THAT poetic about the curve of your hips. I mean, yeah, they look good, but for real?
So of COURSE, in the midst of me being all swoony over Mr. Sunday Night, and arranging a date with another guy who I'd already agreed to go out with, Toxic Avenger pops up on Facebook chat and wants to know what I'm up to Friday.
Me: I have tentative plans, actually. (Complete lie.) Him: So do I, but I figured maybe you'd want to one-up them. Me: I wasn't aware I had the power to one-up them. Him: Now you know. (signs off)
So please, Universe, let me have actual plans for Friday and/or some freaking willpower. If not...I guess at least I get a massage out of it.
Wow. It's been awhile. I tried to think of a creative way to tell you all where I've been for the last 2 months...Suffice it to say, it was a combination of a U-turn and a strike while trying to recover from said U-turn. The strike is officially over and I went on a real date over the weekend. My first real date since March.
Details: We met on match.com, he has a job, owns a house, has a car, is attractive and his emails were hilarious. The majority of the date went well. He was friendly, talkative and their were no awkward silences, which is always a plus. However, about 3 hours in he started asking a lot of questions about my most recent relationship. I tried to keep it vague: We broke up a year and a half ago, together on and off for 5 years, he's not in my life for a reason, blah blah blah. However, he kept asking questions about it and frankly I got so fed up I finally thought to myself "Fuck it, I'm just going to answer the damn questions and stop being avoidant." So I told him a good portion of the Jerry Springer relationship I was in.
Now, I know talking about exes is gererally a no-no on a first date, but at this point I'm annoyed that he kept asking and knew he would keep going until he would understand why I just didn't want to talk about it. I also have a certain level of understanding that it is a very crazy story and people are generally intrigued by it, so whatever...I told him. Upon hearing the story his response was: "Wow. Well now you make sense to me, I thought you were hard to read...I should probably tell you about my last relationship." Surprisingly enough, he says he's interested in going out again, so I guess the Jerry Springer story didn't freak him out too much. And while the last hour was torture, I am willing to see him again.
Then we come to all of the underlying issues that keep me from dating in the first place. Right now, my head is kind of spinning with the following: Do I really have the time and energy for a relationship? What if he gets to know me and hates me? I am not "smitten" by him, shouldn't I be? (I have movies and television to thank for that one) I hate getting to know people, I just want the comfort of already knowing someone.
So that's my story...we'll see what happens.
Have a mentioned my ovaries and uterus having been screaming at me to do something about my love life??
So it's been five dates. And it's mostly been fun. But there's this one problem.
He's always trying to make out with me and...I don't really care to, much. Yeah, I know. Me. Me, saying, "No thanks, I'll pass on the physical contact." And when we do, inside my head, there's this:
"Well, this is...OK. I mean, it's not BAD. It's not great either but...it's OK. I'll probably grow to really enjoy it, eventually."
Well, no. I probably won't. Boy, do I feel like I SHOULD, because after all, he's very nice. Nothing but nice. But I'm realizing that I can't magically make myself enjoy the time we spend together. So now I am trying to figure out how to end it...and I'm wondering, which is better? To end it over the phone, which seems so insensitive, or to end it in person, which seems more adult but would also be awkward, in the vein of "Hey, I invited you on date #6 just to ditch you! Peace out!"
What say you, readers? How would you want to hear the news?
It had been long enough, I figured. Not that I had any major grief from which to recover this time, but I guess I figured it had been long enough since my last date because I was getting bored. And when I get bored, the internets come a-callin'.
I decided to experiment with a different site than last time, and I found a few interesting folks. And so I found myself meeting one such person last Monday for Indian food. We had a good time- good enough, in fact, that we were out waaaaay past my bedtime because we had so much to talk about. But it was during the second date that I figured out who I was dealing with, so to speak. You see, ladies, he's a Nice Guy.
He listens. He pays attention. He's respectful of women. Crap, he might actually qualify as a feminist. And here I am, alternately thinking, "I didn't think you EXISTED!" and, "Oh...gee. You're nice. I don't know what to do with nice."
We'll see if NG stays that way- as you know, I've met quite a few men these past few months who went from nice to psycho or coward in less time than it just took me to finish my chai latte. For the time being I'll try to pace myself and learn to enjoy the nice.
“Don’t worry.You taste like tiramisu, sweet with a little bit of alcohol.”
A little bit of alcohol being the understatement of the century.
I have been on complete and utter dating strike since my last minute cancelation on the neuroscientist quite a while ago.He understandably guilt-tripped me as he was frantically ironing his shirt when I canceled just two hours prior to our date. I told him I’d rather be watching Glee and eating guacamole in my sweat pants. Perhaps that was a tad too truthful a response.
Since that uneventful moment several months ago, I have been greatly uninspired in the world of love. I have been completely without any flirtation, crushes, interest.Mind you, not to the detriment of my life as I am quite content currently.However, I can feel the ghost of love life future hovering over my head, chanting “crazy cat lady, crazy cat lady, an entire container of frosting never hurt a crazy cat lady!”
I have at least had the time to become much more Zen about the whole ex-boyfriend-proposing-to-his- girlfriend-of-two- months-then-blocking-me-from-contacting-him-once-I-voiced-my-astonishment debacle.I’ve also managed to break the cycle of craziness somewhat with My Favorite Mistake as now 3 out of 5 conversations actually end on a civil note.Okay, maybe 2 out of 5, but it’s still a vast improvement since our fiery showdown of destruction.
Queue Halloween and everything it entails for someone in their mid-twenties. House parties. Bargain basement costumes prominently featuring sequin leopard print leggings and a matching exposed bra. Too much alcohol, not enough dignity, and just enough inhibition to let the first two come together with disastrous results.In summary, I got really drunk.Freshman in college drunk. Should know better by now drunk. Drunk enough to be witty and snarky…and yet have to recollection of said comments. Drunk enough that when said comments are related back to me I want to ask, “Ha, who said that…Oh, that was me…Uh…sorry?” Drunk enough to call My Favorite Mistake and ask him to come over to the party I did not invite him to because I needed someone to hold my hair back as I embraced the porcelain throne.
More surprisingly, he did.He rode his little scooter cross town to come bring me water and rub my back while I blubbered like a toddler who had been asked to share their favorite toy for the first time. I lurched about, fell off my bed, and even in the midst of this made a pack with god that I was never going to drink again.I then pretty much attacked FM (post brushing teeth thankfully) and he was still gracious enough to tell me that my kisses tasted sweet but a little drunken.
I woke up the next morning and he was gone.He had tucked me in and left in the middle of the night after slipping a note under my door.He told me to pretend it was a dream and to not apologize in the morning. Burrowing in bed for a few more hours, I finally made it to a standing position.I took him out to lunch (as if moderately priced Greek food could be apology enough) and we watched a scary movie later that afternoon. I dropped him off at home later. We said good-bye.
And, oddly enough, we seem to be okay now.We’re not together or apart. We do not expect anything for each other besides showing up when it really matters and maybe a partner to see scary movies. It seems like both an end and a beginning, a little bit sweet and a little bit right.
This past weekend, the article about the blind date I went on ran in a local magazine. I had been polite but vague in my responses to the exit questionnaire, because I really did think the guy was nice and I didn't want to insult him in print, even if I wasn't interested. I was interested to see what he had to say about the experience from his perspective.
I won't share the link, as my full name and other identifying information are in the article. But suffice it to say, some of his responses were...odd. Awkward, even. Here are some observations from friends who have seen the article:
Upon seeing the photo of the two of us:
"Oh! Oh. Oh no."
"You look really cute. Like...you'd be a cute couple, just not with that guy."
About some of his responses:
"Well-proportioned is...probably a nice way of saying 'not fat'. But...it's kind of a compliment."
"This line makes me think he came in his pants: 'I found her very stimulating. That really did it for me.'"
Say it with me: EWWWWWW.
A coworker just suggested that people will be calling the magazine to ask for my number. Would that it were so simple! I guess the good news is, it was a decent date, and the article, while comical, wasn't totally humiliating. And hopefully after a couple of days people will stop noticing that I was in the paper. Unless they're attractive single men. They can notice for as long as they want.
This week's guest blog is from RoseByAnyOtherName, which is a really long name. Rose, who is not as verbose as I am, is guest blogging to tell us a bit about her trials and tribulations with unacceptable, rhythmically-challenged elderly suitors. Enjoy! (-Queen of Spades)
Okay, let’s be honest, I know I’m not the most attractive girl in the bunch, but I’m not the ugliest duckling either. I’m 24, have a pretty face, nice smile, but I am overweight. I’ve never expected to wooed by the James Bond or model type men, but I certainly would have expected better than this. Tell me, do I have a GIANT sign on my forehead that says “WANTED: OVERLY UNATTRACTIVE, CREEPY, MIDDLE AGED MEN!”? Really? Please, if I’m giving this vibe, please tell me as I will certainly take this sign off my head and shred it into pieces.
To explain, I’ve looked about the same since I was 16 years old, just 3 inches taller and a few inches wider. People have had always had issues discerning whether I am in my teens or my mid-thirties. In my youth, I also went through a stage of wearing ugly, neon, full-length skirts. Luckily, I have outgrown this. I’ve personally been attracted to the average to slightly rounder sized men around 3 – 10 years older than me. However, that rarely seems to be what (not who) is attracted to me. With the few exceptions, I most often have the ugly, overly aggressive, not very tactful 40 something’s hitting on me. Joy. Exactly a year ago (plus 2 days) I went to a Latin dance club with a group of girlfriends to celebrate my birthday. Very excited and all dressed up, I just wanted to be my “dancin’ fool” self & cut a rug on a rugless dance floor. The first man to ask me to dance was not a particularly attractive man (or not at all). But, I wanted to dance so I said yes. After agreeing, I immediately regretted my decision. Instead of gracefully twirling me around the rugless dance floor in a samba, he pulled me excruciatingly close to his sweaty, middle-aged belly while staring at me quite intensely. We then reenacted the rhythmically challenged “weebles wobble but they don’t fall down" mating ritual. (Side-to-side, side-to-side.)Fleeing the Weeble's clutching embrace, I quickly ran back to my girlfriends, glad that my laterals had gotten a good workout, but also horrified that someone old enough to be my father was persistently pursuing me across the rugless dance floor. After cornering me, he asked me out for a drink. I respectfully declined as I require that my dates be born within the same generation as I. Plus, I have a No Weebles policy. And, his lack of rhythm was shameful.
Shame, Weeble, shaaaaame.
Now, exactly a year later (and two days), I have been on several dates, some sketchy and some regrettably with pot fiends. Suffice it to say, I am still single. Signing myself up for match.com in a fit of boredom (and perhaps a little hope), I aspired to perhaps go on a semi-normal date for once with someone my age, with moderately-conservative values, who perhaps might like a crazy, now-24 year old like me. Could that be too much to ask?
Yes, in fact.
Then comes the dreaded WINK!
Only noticing that it was a 40-something, unattractive male, I immediately deleted the message. Five minutes later, after pondering the familiarity of this middle-aged man, I had to take another look. IT WAS WEEBLE! I do have to say at least he was honest in his profile picture as it was an honest representation of his weeble self. Horrified and completely amused, I had to call Queen of Spades. Before telling her anything, I sent her the link to his profile and asked if she recognized him. Laughing hysterically with her office minions near, she immediately calls me screaming, “WEEBLES WOBBLE, BUT THEY DON’T FALL DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!"
After dodging Weeble's second email after his ill fated wink and still laughing like a deranged hyena, I have established that besides wobbling, weebles also never give up!
Side note: Two minutes later, another unattractive, creepy, 40-something winked at me.
Since I am occasionally a person who stays in and watches TV and surfs the interwebs in search of all things interesting/amusing, I was intrigued when I came across Newsweek's story about why women have sex. It's actually a review of a new book studying that very question, and it discusses how in the past, it was assumed that women engaged in sex because they desired love and commitment. New research suggests we women do it for revenge, pity (the famous "mercy fuck"), affirmation, and even pain relief. Apparently nine percent of us have even used sex to barter for help around the house.
It got me thinking- have I ever done it for any of those reasons? Why do I usually do it? (Actually, lately I'm really thinking, "Will I ever do it again?" I hate slumps.)
What say you, readers? Have any of those ever been your reasons for sex? Or are you more likely to do it for one of Lily's reasons?
So here I am. Last date = anticlimax. Last couple of interested parties? Disappeared into the ether. So I'm left wondering, what next?
I could just sort of go along as I have been, which isn't the worst idea. I have plenty to do and it would give me an opportunity to see what might come my way "naturally", as it were. Or...do I actually put forth the effort of going back to online dating at this point, even though it's probably no different than it ever has been before?
Ultimately my level of boredom will decide for me. In the meantime...I'll have to resort to sharing something from an even more interesting place on the internet. Check out today's xkcd for a funny perspective on approaching a cute stranger. Been there.
Enjoy the second half of guest blogger LadyLuck's story! If you missed Part One, you can find it here.
Due to my success in business I decided to once again roll the dice – I quit my fabulous jet-setting job and moved to England to start my own business.Even though the economy was just starting to downturn, commodities and labor were cheap and the British pound was dropping – in theory, it was a great time to start a business in my chosen field.Since High Roller was content to stay in the States, I was on a mission to find a new player – and it didn’t take long.
I stepped out of a plane in London and thought that I was the hottest new game in town.It was there that I met up with a former travel acquaintance - a handsome and subtle stereotypical Englishman whom I’ll call The Royal Flush.Just four days older than me, Royal Flush was my ideal counterpart.In addition to sharing a love for exploring exotic travel locations he was also another jet-setting professional who loved his work.He was single with no children and loved what he did for a living.Like me, he genuinely enjoyed his life.His voice was soft with a devastatingly melodic British accent, and his eyes a stunning and captivating sky blue.I found his humble and somewhat awkwardly shy demeanor completely foreign and utterly intriguing.There was a spaciousness and contentment in him that gave me butterflies.We had a wild and passionate weekend – we explored the city together, walking hand-in-hand through Leicester Square, and had great dinners together, alone and with our mutual friends - followed by amazing, cataclysmic sex.It was one of the most memorable weekends of my life.
True enough, I had won again in regards to finding a new player – the problem was that halfway through the game I decided that I wanted to change the rules.I wanted to up the emotional stakes a bit, get to know him better – and maybe one day play the game of being a real couple.It had been so long since I was in a relationship that I had forgotten what it was like to be out, in public, holding hands with someone that just made me happy - genuinely happy, without all the pretenses.We were on the train, his arms wrapped around me, heading back to Holland Park when seemingly an angel whispered into my heart, “This is why people get together” – and in that moment, my addiction to the High Roller and our loose, high-risk, minimal-gain game had ended.My professional life, my geography and personal life were all changing – and now I wanted more.I didn’t want $200.00 bottles of wine, 5-star hotels or fancy meals – I just wanted to be with Royal Flush.Right next to him, wherever he happened to be.Sadly, by the time I realized this I had already set the stage for a mere casual game of strip poker.
As he got ready to leave the next day, Royal Flush kissed me sweetly and said, “If I don’t get out of here soon I’m going to need rehab,” and shortly thereafter he left.I was beside myself.Did he mean what he said, or did he just have a really good poker face?
I was recounting the story of my folly to a good American male friend, the Joker, a week or so after the Royal Flush had left England and gone back to Asia on business.The Joker suggested that if I really wanted to be with Royal Flush that I needed to show him all of my cards and suggest a new game.I realized that this strategy, while somewhat humiliating, was the only hand I had - and after much angst, I decided to deal.Due to his being in Asia, I wasn’t able to contact him by phone or see him in person so I sent a well-written, well-thought out email lightly suggesting a re-match.Sadly, my email went unanswered.He had simply folded.It seems that in relationships, as in gambling, there are no do-overs.
In the game of love I had lost all my chips.I no longer wanted the cheap slots - I had lost all interest in recreational games and put an end to my relationship with the High Roller.I had come to realize that what I was getting from him wasn’t real, but rather just a load of craps.
Not long after that relationship dissolved, the High Roller’s house of cards also fell - within a year his wife had left him.He lost his Ferrari, his house, tens of thousands of dollars and spent months in a bitter custody battle.While our relationship was never the source of the marriage’s demise, or at least that is what I was told, I imagine it had a severe, indirect impact on it, at best.As for me, the unexpected sharp downturn of the economy was far greater than what I had expected, and I’m still experiencing the distressing turmoil that comes with being an entrepreneur in these rough times.I had to move back to the States and take another short-term job to keep myself and the business afloat until we get back on our feet - and while I am fortunate enough to have great emotional support from my friends and family, and a great set of skills to fall back on, I feel a great hole in the support structure that a relationship partner could provide - and I feel its absence daily.I still think about the Royal Flush, and wonder what kind of cards he could have been holding if I had played differently, but I have had no success in establishing a reconnection.
While it’s easy to blame High Roller for starting this game - as many of my friends did, it was I, ultimately, that decided to play.I still hold myself, not him, accountable for having let other opportunities, be it with the Royal Flush or other similar hands, pass by – and to some degree, the demise of the High Roller’s marriage.
As of now, I am completely single and testing the waters in the new game of partner-seeking.Armed with more knowledge, experience and wisdom from my mistakes, I play far less than I did before and far more strategically - and only when the odds are in my favor.I also have my eyes firmly set on a different type of prize.I’ve studied the rules of the game and am better able to evaluate my hand.I have found that for me, the key to successfully giving up the addiction to wrong cards isn’t to give up the entire game, but rather to get a better understanding of my needs and intentions, and to play responsibly.
On Friday after work I was getting pretty nervous about the whole date thing...but it's hard to say if I was more nervous than I normally would be for any old first date. I'm incredibly talented at projecting all kinds of ridiculous fantasies and worries onto a first date, so I get pretty freaked out about them. But I guess this time what made me nervous in particular was that if the date went poorly, I'd have to work extra-hard to keep my cool since this guy was going to be telling a reporter all about his perspective.
I was relieved when I arrived at the restaurant and met the guy, D, who seemed normal, and nice. But...I didn't find him all that attractive. Not that he was unattractive, but I just wasn't all that attracted to him. The fact that the guy leading us to our table was VERY cute didn't help.
The dinner turned out to be pretty fun. We had some good conversation and didn't have a hard time finding things to talk about. Considering how much of a disaster it could have been, it really was pretty fun. He asked for my number at the end, and expressed interest in going out again. I said sure, because I really couldn't think of a reason not to...but I have to say, the more I think about it, the more I'm thinking that while we could maybe be friends, I can't really see myself dating him.
I just did my "exit questionnaire" for the magazine. I was honest but polite, which luckily wasn't hard. While it would have been nice to meet someone I was really interested in, it was a fun experience- and he'll make someone a great boyfriend. Just not me.
Those who know me know my long-standing joke about how I just want some guy to sit down next to me on the subway and say, "hey, let's get married!" Well almost kids, almost. This morning I got onto the train to begin my commute, which was late (shocker!), and a woman ran up into line and cut me off getting on (another shocker!). It just so happens she got one of the last seats on the train.
Let me digress for one minute. I did a charity walk on Sunday and my foot/toe is still feeling the effects. The prospect of standing for the duration of my commute was not thrilling me. Back to our story...
There is one seat available, however there were two larger men sitting on either side of the empty seat and they were both overlapping into the empty seat. One of these men was doing the whole spread eagle thing that men do...like they have the biggest biceps and "member" in the world. I didn't really feel like struggling to fit my fat ass into the seat, especially next to Mr. Spread Eagle. So the other gentleman (yes ladies, gentleman) gets up and offers me his seat. Now this is akward because suddenly I feel like my ass must be huge, or he totally thinks his is, or I look pregnant-he just essentially made two seats available and Catholic guilt begins to overwhelm me. I say "I'm fine, really" (Total lie as my left big toe was throbbing). And he says "Seriously. Don't worry about it." He walked off and I sat down. End of story. Thank you gentleman who saved my foot and my faith in chivalry.
We're pleased to introduce our very first guest blog entry. Welcome LadyLuck, with part one of her tale of High-Stakes Man Gambling!
My name is LadyLuck, and I’m a former Wrong Card addict.Here is my story:
I was 26 years old and on top of my game.I was young, skilled and I had a job that I loved where I made a lot of money and traveled all over the world.I was living high and large, and it was then that I met one called the High Roller.
An executive of a major company, the High Roller was everything wet dreams are made of - dashingly handsome, older, distinguished, successful, confident and rich. He had a taste for the finer things in life: He wore nice clothes. He had great hair. He drove a Ferrari. He smoked imported cigars. He was an exquisite chef that had mastered the art of fine cooking, and also had a 10-acre home on a prime piece of property outside of a major city - complete with a pool, spa and horse ranch.
And he was married.
He invited me to play his game.At first I refused, but then I told myself - and him – that I’d play just one hand, just to get him out of my system.However I discovered very quickly that this was a game that I could not lose – the odds of winning were 10 in 10, in favor of multiple orgasms.I had hit the jackpot.
The few good friends that I told warned me relentlessly that the stakes in this game were too high, but I was convinced that this was a sure bet.At the time I was travelling and living a great life as a single woman.I staunchly did not want a relationship for fear that it would hold me back.Being married with a child, High Roller had a Full House, and wasn’t eager to give up his hand.It was, in our minds, a perfect match.
The game continued for almost three years.Ours was the kind of relationship that movies are made of.(Adult movies, that is.)Secret meetings in 5-star hotels.$200.00 bottles of wine.Parties with other high rollers.High-quality, illegal drugs.He cooked me lavishly wonderful full-course meals, followed with superb desserts.We took long Jacuzzi baths together where we sipped wine and kissed softly by candlelight.We made love – and money.We did business together and both profited tremendously.Indeed I had placed a good bet – or so I thought.
Every so often, late in the night, he would hold me close in the dark and whisper softly in my ear about his thoughts of leaving his wife.As tactfully as I could, I made it clear that if he did that I would want no part of him at all - I was clearly on a winning streak, and even though I had tremendous feelings for him and knew that he played a good hand, I knew that ultimately I could never trust him.
Then – it happened.What happens to every Wrong Card addict:I got greedy...
I decided to take the plunge. And so tomorrow night at 8PM, I will be meeting a man I know only by his first name at a restaurant I've never been to. That part's actually not so out of the ordinary, though- what makes this more interesting is that A) We've literally never met or spoken or even e-mailed prior to this, and I know absolutely nothing about him; and B) After this date we get to rate each other and it gets printed in the paper where potentially EVERYONE could see it.
I'm actually kind of excited. I've not had too much success picking 'em so far, so who's to say a reporter who's never met me couldn't do a better job? And besides, no matter how good or bad this date is, it will be a Story. That much is guaranteed.
My mom wants me to call her right away on Saturday morning to tell her how it went. I guess she assumes I'll be out late.
Hey, are you all following TheWrongCards on Twitter yet? Do it!
There are three different types of mutants in my life, mutants in biology (blue lobsters), mutants in science fiction (superpowers and metahumans), and the most extreme form thus discovered the mutant in online dating (boring middle-aged CPAs who enjoy sport fishing and discuss their foot fetish openly). Here is a brief run-down on what distinguishes each distinct type of mutant.
Mutants in Biology: A mutant is an individual, organism, or new genetic character resulting from an instance of mutation. Mutation in this case is caused by a base-pair sequence change within the DNA of an organism, the end result being the creation of a totally new character trait not found in the wild type of said species.Mutants should not be confused with organisms born with developmental abnormalities, in which the DNA of the organism is unchanged and the abnormality cannot be passed on to progeny. A perfect example of this form of mutation is the blue lobster.
Why hello, blue lobster. Come here often? Do you enjoy dining out? What are your feelings on butter sauce?
Mutants in Science Fiction: Mutants were first introduced into science fiction as a rationalization to explain superhuman exploits. Characterized by their innate otherness, science fiction mutants are at once the “other,” something that comic books and FOX News have thus informed us is scary, as well as held in awe for the very thing that makes them the other. A hot example of a mutant in science fiction, or rather just an excuse to use this picture which teeters on the brink of being both ridiculous and libidinous, is Wolverine from X-men.
Wolverine is into outdoor sports and fencing. He is looking for a nice girl who is into cooking, kitchen cutlery, and knife cleaning. He too is tired of the “bar scene.”
Mutants in the Dating World:Mutants in the dating world consist of many distinct and yet unidentified types.Limited to extent of my ongoing research into mutations in the dating world, I present those who take up the majority of my inbox.
The most common type (for at least the most verbose email sender) is the Overzealous, Middle-Aged Bachelor garbed in chinos and a blue button-down, bonus points if pictures include one of him in a jaunty pose while standing on a elevated landmark such as on the top of a mountain and a second picture consisting of him holding a cocktail in a formerly swanky bar while surrounded by girls obviously at least ten years his junior.Though not shocking in description they tend to be the most shocking in content with (for me) the most common phrase sent either being “I want to worship you in every way, green-eyed girl” or “I love Coldplay [subtext I’m kinda hip, yo but vaguely dated]. Do you have nice feet?”
The second form of dating mutant is a combination I like to call the Muscle Man Tow Truck Driver hybrid. An offshoot of this mutation is the Muscle Man Tow Truck Driver with Puppy, fuzzball of cuteness usually prominently displayed in conjunction with the he-man flex pictures.Characteristics include a high ration of “UR” for “your” substitution, suburban dwellings, talk of the “bar scene,” and enjoyment of Las Vegas. Emails are generally limited to “Hi hun-whats up? Ur cute.”
The third mutant of interest, the Vegan Bike Messenger, I do have to admit I have an affinity for…until they start evangelizing about the evils of meat whilst casually mentioningNPR over 137 times in one conversation. They do have the benefit of being coherent in email form until the crazy starts to show around the edges about 3 emails into setting up a date at a vegan, 100% sustainable Tibetan-cupcake fusion diner that also hosts “underground” bands and bagpipes challenges. (Not that I know of any place so far, but I’m sure it would be a mecca for this particular mutant.)
Chet here enjoys vegan cupcakes, wine bottle cork ear plugs, and tiny 1930’s style mustaches. He also will shame you for having the “meat sweats” if you happen to enjoy a piece of bacon every so often.The upside, he could also shame you French if he wanted.
So, the mutants, as I call them, bring me great joy through inappropriate emails as well as reaffirm their otherness in both appropriateness and deranged fashion choices. It makes me wonder what shifts in their life have brought about their preferences and character traits. I am a firm believer that it is perfectly acceptable to be a weirdo, quirks and all, but sometimes they really make me wonder why they think I would be the one for them.Everyone already knows that I scream out “trollop” to innocent bystanders, but do I also really appeal to older fetish enthusiasts, suburban steroid lovers, and the mustachioed scenster?Actually, don’t answer that question.
Fleeing the Weeble's clutching embrace, I quickly ran back to my girlfriends, glad that my laterals had gotten a good workout, but also horrified that someone old enough to be my father was persistently pursuing me across the rugless dance floor. After cornering me, he asked me out for a drink. I respectfully declined as I require that my dates be born within the same generation as I. Plus, I have a No Weebles policy. And, his lack of rhythm was shameful. 
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