Impasse

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.

The Story of a Former Wrong Card Addict, Part Two

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.

The Big Reveal

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.

Chivalry. I've seen it!

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.

The Story of a Former Wrong Card Addict, Part One

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...

Stay tuned for Part Two, coming soon!

Mystery Date

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!

Meet the Mutants

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 mentioning NPR 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.

Queen of Spades

And just like that...he's gone.

You know, maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm crazy. Actually there's a good chance of that. But seriously, maybe I was nuts thinking that when a date ends with the guy saying this:

"So...this has been really fun. Next time we'll have to try and get together on a NOT-school-night, don't you think?"

That usually means he wants to see you again. Yes?

Well, silly me. Because instead of making that third date, Mr. Calamari has disappeared. No response. Zip. Zilch. Nada. He's in the wind.

This isn't a new thing for me, unfortunately. In fact, I have had at least five men disappear on me in the past year. Now, maybe some of you are thinking this has everything to do with something I did, and hey, maybe it is. I'm certainly not perfect, and not everyone's going to like me. But I think it has more to do with cowardice. It's easier for them to just never call back than to have to say, "Sorry, but I don't want to see you again."

Funny enough, Mr. Calamari had heard about some of the crazy, angry guys I dated earlier this summer and he said, "If we go out on a date, even if it doesn't work out, it won't end like that." He was right. But there's more than one way to be a jerk.

Trollop

Tonight, I dealt with my first crazy. I feel like I'm in the club now!

The background: Fucktard, a single 28 year-old man who went from 0 to crazy faster than a Jennifer Love Hewitt movie goes straight to DVD, winked at me, emailed me, called me and then text messaged me all without much action on my part. He's attractive and seemed to be able to string together complete sentences, so I was willing to see what happened. (Oh, how my standards have fallen.) Two or three emails later he starts texting me during the day. Below please find our conversation, crazy talk marked in red.

"Hey, what are you up to today? Want to go out later?"
"Sorry, I have an audition later. I'm herding a bunch of students around. I lead an exciting life."
"So, now that we're talking...When was your last boyfriend?"
"Ha, smooth transition there."
"I'm for real." (I should have know right here that this was going to bottom out very quickly.)
"A couple of months ago."
"How long were you with him?"
"About a year and a half. Why? Are you conducting a survey? Are there prizes?"
"You didn't cheat or anything did you?"
"Uh, no...I would never cheat. Uh, why do you ask? Do YOU have a history of cheating?
"Just curious. Been with anyone since?"
"I've been on some severely boring dates."
"So, any intimacy since?" ("Intimacy," I hate this word. Not the state of being or action, but the actual word makes me cringe because it is so unattractive.)
"I do not discuss my sex life with strangers, sir."
"We are both adults. So, how recent?"
"So not your business, my friend. Besides I was on a dating strike for a while."
"So, when was the last time? You didn't say...doesn't have to be a date. Maybe you had a hook-up."

(Silence.)

"Well?"
"Well, I'm not going to share. A lady does not kiss and tell."
"So, what? A week ago?"

(Silence.)

"Ha, I knew it!"

(Silence.)

"You officially fail at life. I do not appreciate your questions, so we are done here. This does not work for me. Best of luck."
"'Cause I was right! I can tell a trollop* a mile away! Done where? I didn't give you the time of day. Peace." (Please see above cat picture. I'm fairly certain I made this face when the T-word came out.)
"Luckily, I can tell an asshole from just a few texts." (Okay, so I should have just ignored him, but look at what gems I got from this!)
"Not an asshole at all which if you weren't ignorant and actually got to know me you'd see that."
"Too bad. Not interested." (I just had to say this, of course.)
"I wasn't interested in you. Again I never gave you the time of day so not too sure what you think you are talking about. No worries though, plenty of low grade quality men out there for you. One day you'll mature up to the big leagues with the rest of us. Peace."

(Silence only broken by my fits of hysterical laughter.)

He called me a trollop because I wouldn't discuss my sex life with him! I seriously snorted in laughter for about 15 minutes after his last tirade. So amused.

The Trollop

(Queen of Spades)