Ode to Online Dating

As a tribute to the delightfully dreadful experiences I’ve been privy to while dating dudes I’ve met online, I decided to pen this little poem made up of memories from my many encounters from over the years, ranging from the shock of meeting the man of the moment and realizing that he is nothing like his description of himself to my responses to some of the god-awful antics, questions, and various other utterings of which I've been the target while on these meet-n-greet-n-run-away-as-fast-as-you-can outings.

 

Ode to Online Dating

“You’re about nine inches shy of 5’10”.  And two decades older than 30.”

“Would you please stop talking about your hot ex-girlfriend?” And: “No, I don’t like it dirty.”

“Please don’t fart and blame it on your dog.  In fact, please don’t fart—at all.” 

“It’s ‘ciao’ not ‘chow.’”  “Get your hand off my thigh.”  “Stop calling—I haven’t answered since fall.”

“Excuse me, I can see you staring at my boobs.”  “I’m sorry; did you just say 'my wife’?” 

“South Park and Simpsons don’t count as interests—my God, would you please get a life.”

“I don’t give a damn about your Rolex watch. I don’t care if your suit is Armani.” 

“Did you stop to take note that I’m not superficial? –And care even less about your Ferrari”.

“No, the carpet does not match the drapes; does this Cabernet match your shirt?”

“I’m not into threesomes.” “I will not have your baby.” “Getting the door for me wouldn’t really hurt.”

“You asked me to go ‘halvsies’ on our very first date, so no, there won’t be a second.”

“A bright yellow hummer does not make you cool.” And: “Pilot-slash-model is not a profession.”

Beware of (another) Douche

As a preface, I would like to acknowledge that the obnoxious email exchange that was initiated by cutesweetgent was not the worst thing in the world. He was being a dick, for sure - but that, alone, didn't warrant an autopsy of his match.com profile. When a closer look at his profile revealed that he regularly alters vital details such as his age and where he's from, however, I decided that a postmortem was definitely in order. Not only does he prove that he is a lying asswipe, but his profile, in general, is a joke. What's more is that this is also a frightening peak behind the mask of lies so brazenly worn by some of the men on these dating sites. 

For the record, I do believe that there are plenty of men on Match.com and in the rest of these online shark tanks that are, in fact, catches. I've seen a few friends reel in some bona fide winners over the years, and I'm hoping that, more recently, I've landed a keeper, myself. Regardless, there are plenty of bottom feeders just like cutesweetgent - and thus, plenty of reasons for hopeful, well-meaning singles to keep their guards up when fishing in these waters.

Now, without further ado, let the slicing, dicing, and satirizing begin...

Most Eligible Bastard

Reaching back into my most recent vault of virtual a-hole encounters, I bring you: cutesweetgent36. What a charmer! Touting himself as "100% a gentleman" and "the type of guy you can bring home to meet your family," this cad came across my match.com profile and promptly bagged his gallant guise right from the start.

...Brief backstory: if you've been reading my blog then you know that I was previously accosted by a different cretin for being "arrogant," even though my profile opens with a laundry list of faults. Later in the profile, I do seek redemption, and in an attempt to make myself sound even remotely interesting, I recall having once interviewed both Hugh Hefner and Snoop Dogg on the same night for an article I was writing at the time. It's just a random experience that people tend to find amusing -- little, naive, southern-twanged me hanging out with a porno mag monarch and a gangsta rap pioneer at the Playboy Mansion. And sure, I dropped a couple names, but having also referred to myself as whiny and klutzy (among other flaws), I figure it all evens out in the end.

Cutesweetgent36 apparently disagrees, and upon reading my profile, decides to make the following demand:

Read on for more on my dealings with cutesweetgent36...

Sweating It Out in Moving Hell

I just wanted to check in and tell everyone to bear with me for the moment. I just moved (across town, nothing special - although I am now only a few miles away from Mark3 - more on that later) so I've not had time to post much lately. 

I will definitely be revving up again once I emerge from this relocation netherworld, though, so be sure to check back soon!

Asshole Analytics

I just wanted to report that the "Beware of Douche" post featuring the biggest mistake of my life and the satirical dissection of his mythical self-portrait that is his match.com profile has gotten 5920 hits as of this morning.
 

I couldn't have asked for a more invigorating catharsis than to know that 5920 souls on this planet have been entertained by the comedy that was my former life. Thanks for reading, you guys!

The Assclown Exposé Continues

Click here to read more about nchillbilly3

I may be dating someone at the moment, but that by no means implies that I've forgotten the hell from whence I came. That being said, I have no intention of quashing what makes up much of the intended spirit of this blog. Indeed, the pejorative butthole bashing will live on. I will continue to out the dimwitted dudes who live among us, combing through the pages of online dating sites, piggishly picking the lucky ladies upon whom they will hurl their verbal vomit. 

In this afternoon’s spotlight we have none other than nchillbilly3...

When the Greener Grass is Your Own

Mark3 turned down the job. 

He actually turned down the job. The very, very good job. He said that, at one point, he was 90% sure he would accept it, but after stepping back and carefully taking stock of his life, he decided he was happy with what he has. 

There is something that is so completely enviable about that. Every time that I've ever been offered a significant opportunity in life, I've taken it. The grass was always greener, the outlook was always brighter, and the possibilities were always more substantial. I have no idea what it feels like to be in his shoes right now, but what an extraordinary position to be in – to be offered an incredible opportunity and then turn it down because, in comparison, you prefer the life that you already have.

What a revolutionary outlook. I would love more than anything to see my own world through eyes like those. Now that he is staying, perhaps I finally can.

Buttsex, Blowjobs, & Other Words to Avoid When Meeting Your New Guy's Family

Meeting the family members of the person you are going out with is always a daunting prospect. Obviously, they love him, they want the very best for him and they want to protect him. You are entering the picture as a relative unknown. They know he likes you, but that’s about the only thing you have going for you, so it’s up to you to prove to them that you are worthy of their son's/grandson's/brother's/cousin's/nephew’s romantic company.

In general, though, I’d say that I am pretty comfortable in social situations - meeting the family, included. Also, meeting his relatives is key to finding out what makes him tick – and if they really dig you, then that can be a serious relationship booster. In my experience, dads always like me, so do brothers, moms are cautious but warm up quickly, sisters are pretty similar to moms, and grandparents invariably size me up using adjectives typically reserved for puppies like “precious” and “adorable." Anyway, my point here is that family meet-and-greets are definitely a step up on the social stress-meter, but they aren’t the worst things in the world.

…is what I would have said up until this past weekend.
 

Big Feet, Big...

It sure is nice to be dating someone whose socks I can distinguish from my own. Douche had tiny feet, and his tiny man-socks would always end up in my sock drawer. It was very frustrating.

Just sayin'.

The Other Shoe

I guess that when the other shoe drops, it doesn't always manifest as emotional recoiling, after all. If you have been following this blog then you know that things with Mark3 have been going well - very well - eerily well, in fact - which is why I've been wary that it's just too good to be true. Now I'm finding out that maybe it is – but it's not so much a shoe as a big ole boot that appears to be teetering on the edge at the moment: Mark3 was offered a job. A good job. An amazing job, in fact. 

In New York City.

He wasn’t even looking for it – and he certainly wasn't looking to relocate. It turns out that an old buddy of his happened to have an opening for a position requiring someone with a very specialized skill set, and it just so happens that Mark3 is perfectly qualified. So the guy called up Mark3 last week and essentially offered it to him on the spot. And it’s not just a job. It’s a crazy cool job. A job that, no doubt, 100 other equally-qualified people would gladly take for half the pay – and here, they are offering him far more than he’s making now. 

Beware of Douche

Introducing . . . my ex-husband. On match.com. This very minute.

Priceless!

Let this be a warning to single women everywhere: THIS is why you shouldn't necessarily take online dating profiles at face value.

I’d struggled with whether to post this, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s essentially a public service announcement. I discovered my ex's profile on match.com...only two weeks after we declared our marriage over -- and it's still on there now.

I'm a little befuddled by the fact that he decided to join match after cheating on me with two different women. If those chicks were so awesome that he was willing to risk his marriage just to get a piece, then why the hell isn’t he dating one of them?

At any rate, the point here is this: some people on these online dating sites are BIG FAT LIARS, and here is my ex’s profile to prove it. And not only is it festering with fibs, but you'll also notice that in his profile picture, he is wearing a wife-beater. How appropriate. 

I’m so embarrassed to have ever been even remotely associated with him. Worse, this makes me worry about all of the poor, unsuspecting women out there that this douchebag is currently screwing over. I can only hope that they get wise to his bullshit before they, too, end up throwing away years of their life trying to cultivate a relationship with someone who is apparently a figment of his own imagination.

Read on for your enjoyment.

And for the icing on the cake: below is the profile he used when I met him. Same F-ing profile. Somehow, he managed to date a woman for three years and get married, yet nothing about him has changed? Weird, huh?

What a complete cocksucker. 

The Birther Lives

Those of you following this blog probably know about the birther. If you don't, here ya go: birther blog post. Either way, guess what: the birther is back. A full two months after I so unceremoniously dismissed him, he apparently developed a case of amnesia. Last night, this email arrived in my inbox: 

The birther in all his douchey glory

Hi! It has been more than a few minutes since I last saw you!!!! How are you doing?!?! I hope all is well, I thought I would have seen you at work by now but no luck :-( anyway, hope you're doing okay and I hear from you before I die, muah

"muah"? Are you kidding me? What does "muah” mean, anyway? I think it might be that kissy-sound type thing that wealthy French people, heiresses, socialites, and flaming gay dudes use to greet each other. At any rate, no one should be using this unless he or she belongs to one of those aforementioned categories. And no one should be trying to use it phonetically when writing. Ever. It’s stupid.

My second gripe: why this numbskull so oblivious? I mean, let’s pretend for a second that he doesn’t recall our last date. It’s been two months. If someone I was going out with took a two month hiatus, I would take that to mean that they do not want to be with me. And if that someone could actually go two months without speaking to me, why would I want to be with them?  

Third gripe: chill with the punctuation.

Here's How It Will Go

Things with Mark3 continue to go well. I am, however, just sitting here waiting for the other shoe to drop. He appears to be a genuinely good guy, but I haven’t fully trusted my own judgment for a while now (for obvious reasons). I’ve therefore been guarded and cautious, yet thus far, he hasn’t let me down. He knows about my baggage and my skeletons and still, he sticks around – everyday a little more steadfast than the day prior. We’re complete opposites in all the right ways and similar in all the good ways, and when I’m with him, I get to live the kind of life that I want because we seem to want the same things. He’s adventurous and supportive and sexy and candid and calming and grounded and diplomatic and sensitive and open-minded, and he sometimes seems to have the emotional intelligence of a veteran therapist. He can also turn a phrase like few people can. Admittedly, I have a weakness for that skill.

So what’s his deal? And if that f-ing shoe is gonna fall, then I wish it’d do it sooner than later so that I can get on with my life – either with him in it or without.

Falling for Mark3

Ya know, for someone who is single, looking for a relationship and has an actual prospect in her life, I certainly don’t do myself any favors.

I was over at Mark3’s house again the other night and had brought an overnight bag (yes, an overnight bag – don’t worry, it’s cool – he suggested I bring it so that I wouldn't have to drive home late at night and could just get ready for work there the next morning). His walk-out basement has been converted to the master bedroom, and so I was taking my bag down there.

As I get about halfway down the stairs, Kaya, his cute and capricious, yet kitty-killing dog decides she wants to go downstairs, too. Painting a clearer picture for you: Kaya is an awesome dog, but she is half-pit bull/half-lab and 60 pounds of muscle, so when Kaya wants to go somewhere, she’s going – anyone in her way, be damned. On this particular night, it turns out that I am that anyone – and I’m walking down a flight of stairs. And wearing heels.

There is nothing good about this picture…

Obsessive Repulsive Disorder

I’m not in the mood to mince words today: this shit you'll see below irritates the hell out of me. I awoke to find three – THREE – emails from this self-proclaimed “Renaissance Man.” Wikipedia defines a Renaissance Man as a a person whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas. Clearly, propositioning, persuasiveness, and patience are not among these areas for “Jim,” here, whose medieval approach more than misses the mark.

Regrettably, this is not the first time I’ve been the victim of this kind of online dating haranguing by some overzealous fucktard. I don’t know what gets into these guys. Are they über-insecure, completely irrational, ravaged by OCD, or just fricken nuts? Read on to try and wrap your brain around the presumed logic behind this dude's match.com methodology…

Chez MarqueTrois

My love life is such a roller coaster.

I just wanted to say that Mark3 invited me over to his place the other night and made me dinner. I've never dated a guy who could actually cook anything that didn't come from a jar or a box in the freezer, so as you can imagine, this was one serious treat.

I am not sure what I was expecting, exactly -- and I don't even need to get into the specifics -- I just want to say: Mark3 made one heck of a meal -- nothing from jar, can, box, or freezer. Seriously, he even made his own salad dressing.

I mean, homemade salad dressing? Are you kidding me? I think I feel a new bar being set.

...Although, even the world record-holding limbo champion couldn't manage his way under the previous bar set by my ex, so I guess that's not saying all that much -- but I think you catch my drift.

One Nightstand

I began house-shopping about a month ago and last week, I sent my realtor a request to see three properties: a two-bedroom condo, a three-bedroom townhouse, and a four-bedroom single family home. It wasn’t until after viewing them that I realized how ridiculous that was – those properties completely run the gamut.

So exactly what kind of home am I looking for? I guess the answer depends on what kind of life I want to have – or rather, what kind of life I assume I'll have. Stripping this conundrum to its core, we find the obvious source of the vexation: Do I think I’m going to be single for a while to come or not?

This takes me back to a time before I'd gotten married. I wasn't just single, I was very single. And I’d just moved into my second home. 

Introducing the world's biggest dick

...And not the good kind either.

So you have to check out the email exchange below between me and quite possibly the angriest guy on Match.com. This dickhead (otherwise known as Bside180) "winked" at me several days ago. For those of you who aren't familiar with online dating lingo, winking is a way for (typically gutless) dudes to show a woman that they are interested; I posted about it earlier this week: Winker Post. Personally, I don't have time to respond to guys who don't bother taking the time to email me in the first place, so I ignored it. And in any event, if a guy is really interested, he’ll usually follow up with an email because I suspect most women don’t respond to winks.

Then, two days later, I check my email and find this:

SecretBootyCall

I logged on to my Match.com account this evening to find I'd received a "wink" from this burgeoning Casanova who shrewdly chose the screen name “SecretBootyCall” to woo the womenfolk.

Dude – it’s a dating site. Not a phone-me-up-at-3am-for-a-quick-non-committal-lay-with-a-grey-mustached-cowhand site. You want a booty call? Check out buttlocators.com.

This next Match.com month is already looking promising......

Me Give You Dead Turkey

Another passenger aboard the Match.com Welcome Wagon...

'Cause nothing says romance like a guy holding a giant dead turkey. This strikes me as caveman logic, i.e. "Me like you, me want feed you, me bring you big dead turkey, you happy, you want make baby with me."

Sign me up!

This one's got some balls

Literally. 

Pardon my language here, but I cannot restrain myself:

WHAT THE FUCK? 

This is a picture from the profile of a guy who just wrote to me. He has consciously, voluntarily posted this photo for all the world to see -- and I for one am gonna make for damn sure that the world gets a good long gander.

But back to my all-caps expletive -- I probably utter those same three words while browsing through about 90% of the dating profiles I see. This one time, however, I think I may have an answer to this typically rhetorical question. 

I have to say, I don't think this is a lapse in judgment on his part at all; indeed, I think his motivations are exactly what we are all afraid they are: He wants to show us that he has a giant wiener.

I was tempted to hypothesize that he has simply crammed a sock down his drawers, but then I took a step back and decided to psychoanalyze this tool...

Always a groomsmen, never a groom.

So, I went to a wedding this past weekend and just wanted to pass along a text I received the day after from a gentleman who attended as well. He was the best man, actually, and had come in from New York. He was also one of only two single guys there -- and so, of course, we were introduced to one another. Parts of the night are hazy, but I recall that we shared a couple dances...right after a couple of shots of vodka (hence, the haziness). Super-classy wedding behavior, huh? (In my defense, though, the bride -- who really is super-classy -- also indulged in a shot or two. To say the least, it was probably one of the most entertaining weddings I've ever been to.) 

At any rate, following the shots + drunken dancing, Best Man proceeded to follow me around like a lost puppy for the remainder of the night. I don't even have a clue how he got my phone number because I certainly didn't give it to him, but the next morning, I received this text from a NY area code:

"You're pretty beautiful. Last night I dreamt fantasies.
I'm in town until tomorrow. Tonight's the night?"

"I dreamt fantasies"?? Really dude? That's what you're going with? And "Tonight's the night"--with a question mark? No, tonight is not the night. No night is the night, for that matter.

I have this image of him sitting there that morning, carefully crafting this message like he's a modern day Shakespeare, thinking to himself "this is some good shit, man." 

...Here's to betting that playing best man is probably the closest he'll ever come to altar.

Winkers

I have a quick online dating rant...

I hate winks, and I hate winkers.

Winking, for those of you who aren't familiar with online dating lingo, is an option that match.com members can take to show someone they are interested as opposed to sending an email. All you have to do is click on a button and it sends a message to your mark notifying them of your interest. 

To date, I have personally never winked, nor have I ever responded to one. 

I'm sure it has some sort of utility – perhaps for those who are painfully shy and just cannot work up the courage to make a genuine first move. To each his own, and if the painfully shy type is what floats your boat, then go get 'im girl. It’s probably also helpful for women who aren’t really down with the Sadie Hawkins thing and would prefer that the man take the initiative.  That’s not for me, but I get it. And not to be sexist or anything (except that I’m totally being sexist when I say what I’m about to) but my beef isn’t really with women anyway; it’s male winkers that I take issue with.

Call me crazy

So, I’d mentioned that I’d been rather introspective over the past couple weeks. It does, as you might imagine, have a lot to do with venturing out on a second, then a third and fourth date with Mark3, and it has everything to do with moving on with my life.

I’ll be honest: I’m scared. I’m scared because in all the years I've spent dating, I’m not sure I’ve grown any savvier at it. I've made crappy decisions, I've been a bad judge of character, and this last time, I screwed up monumentally by actually marrying a man who turned out to be a complete douchebag. And you know what? Despite about a year's worth of soul searching since the split and easily ten or so hours spent on a therapist's couch, I'm still not entirely sure what I did wrong -- and as such, I am not at all confident that I won't screw up again.

This recent revelation is, in fact, this poignant: I've kept a journal for many years and four months into my relationship with my ex, I scribbled across a journal page: 

"This is a man who will never cheat on his wife."

The Bachelor & the bachelor

I would just like to say that Mark3 has once again proven himself. Allow me to explain:

I am, admittedly, a pathetically obsessive fan of The Bachelor. I have seen every season.

Every. Season.

Well, likely out of some kind of karmic spite for my undying devotion to this horribly indulgent reality show, my DVR has decided to betray me each season by opting never to record "The Bachelor: After the Final Rose" (and for any of you not in the know, this is the show where they bring back the "winners" for a full debriefing on the show's conclusion). Again, I wasn't home in time to see it live this season, nor was I there to manually record it, and so again, there would be no Final Rose for me.

I also love the New York Timez!

There are a hundred ways I could go with this one, but I'm just going to begin and end with this little detail...

He lists his "last read" as "The Wallstreet Jornel."

I don't even know what to do with this one, really. The irony is just too rich.

God help all of us single women.

Mark3: Post-Date(s) Commentary -- at last

First of all, I'm about six days late with this one. Some of you have pointed that out, so my apologies -- but I appreciate you keeping me on my toes! I've had a very introspective week with regard to relationships which has resulted in me stalling on this post, but I'm not getting into that now. This one is all about Mark3. 

You might have noticed the pluralized “Date(s)” up top. You are, in fact, reading correctly. There have been two dates with Mark3 in the past week – and on top of that, two additional meetings that fall into more of a gray area (I’ll explain later). 

A little white-out & it was like she was never there.

You can scratch your ex-girlfriend out of a picture till your heart's content, tape it to the wall and throw darts at it for all I care.

But don't put it on a dating site.

Let me explain this very carefully: Presumably, you joined this dating site because you are hoping to find a woman. This means that it would be wise to post material that women will respond favorably to. For instance, your stupid motorcycle from four different angles -- who cares? A wall of your trophies -- that's awesome, sport. A close-up of your favorite NFL player -- that's just weird. 

Slice me off a piece of that man-meat

I'm sure that, at first glance, you thought I was gonna destroy this guy. 

I'm not.

I have no idea what his deal is. He couldn't possibly be looking for an actual woman -- but that said, why the hell is he on here? To demonstrate his stellar knack for eccentric satire? If so, he's succeeded, but to what end?

His writing is ridiculously entertaining in the most unconventional way. Take a look at the narrative. "Man-meat"???  OMG - it's like he's doing my job for me.

Please don’t eat my kitty

Ok, so I went on my first date with Mark3 last weekend. I met him at a little Mexican restaurant. He seemed pretty cool and even had a few bonuses (owns a home), although also a few minuses (is a straight, single guy, trying to remodel it). I’ll be honest, we talked like we’d known each other for years even though the nature of our questions suggested only a of couple hours.

I’ll go ahead and skip to the cutest part – prior to the date, I had warned him that I’d been sick earlier in the week and had a bit of a cough. Predictably, I started hacking away at some point in the night (so sexy, right?). I finally stopped and composed myself. Mark3 then laid a cough drop in front of me.

…Mark3 had brought me cough drops. That is pretty damned adorable -- it’s thoughtful and the opposite of cliché. Big points for Mark3.

Jack the Stripper

It's Monday morning and there's nothing like the sight of man-boobs to get your week started off right!

This profile is like one of those "how many things are wrong with this picture" brain teasers. Let us count:
1. Man-boobs. (I cannot reiterate the tragedy of this enough)

2. Four photos in his profile and they are all self-snapped mirror images of varying depths and one outfit change -- in case you were curious what the man-boobs look like under a t-shirt.

3. See his headline. Just so you know, he's not just looking for a lifetime of happiness -- he's seriously looking.

Why I'm not a cougar

Probably so that I don't have to deal with dumbshit comments like this one by the 26-year-old beach bum below. Apparently, he thinks that 35-year-old women are supposed to look old and ugly -- or at least anything but "young n cute."

...Yeah, good try, but you kind of blew it with that one, son. And if your headline really rings true for you, then I'm gonna go ahead and guess that you probably complicate your life pretty damned often. Triple wink ;)

Date1 with Mark3

Tonight is my second date this week but with a different guy. Perhaps I'm overly-optimistic, but I've got some high hopes. This one is pretty cool on paper.

We will call him Mark3 because he will be the third Mark I've gone out with in the past 5 years. I ended up dating both previous Marks (Dr. Mark for 6 months, Coach Mark for 3 months), so the odds are squarely in Mark3's favor.

...But are the odds in my favor tonight? That might be the more appropriate question. I've been a bit under the weather this week and probably shouldn't be going out on this date (or going anywhere for that matter) because I'm slightly high on some likely toxic combination of cough suppressant and Sudafed. He's taking me to a concert but wants to meet for drinks first at a cute little hole-in-the-wall Mexican cafe. I'm fairly sure that throwing tequila into the mix of whatever's keeping this slap-happy perma-grin on my face right now is probably not a good idea.

This one could be interesting.

How not to make a first impression

I will be the first to admit that I am not always the most P.C. person in the world -- but there is politically incorrect and then there is just being an asswipe.

See email below.

Do you really want to lead off with an observation that demeans the mentally disabled? That's what you’re going with? Really?

(...And in case any clarification is needed, I did mention in my match profile that I am a not-so-good driver. I kinda get tired of everyone talking about how awesome they are -- no one is that awesome -- so I made a list of things I suck at -- operating behind the wheel of a car being one of those. I did not, however, use the words "retarded person" -- those are Asswipe's.)

Lastly: "Jambalaya"? Really?

Sociopathetic

See his email.

This will make the fifth email that Passion4Life has sent to me in three days. It will also be the last because I've now blocked all correspondence from him. 

Seriously -- what is he thinking by sending this email? I'm pretty sure he borrowed the idea from a movie that involved either a murder or an abduction. If you're gonna go out with this guy, you might as well stop and file a restraining order on the way to the restaurant.

More on my gay date

Some of you have requested an elaboration on last Sunday night’s date with the man we will call Eloquent 38-year-old (see Entry 11 & Entry 12). I assume you were dissatisfied with the one word report, saying simply: “Gay.” How do I know, you ask? Truth is, I don’t – not for sure. Let’s just call it a hunch – a hunch I easily gathered within the first 15 seconds of meeting this very tall and immaculately groomed man who took my hand, kissed it, and then said “Well hello, madame” and fluttered his eyelashes. I don’t even flutter my eyelashes.

Post-date commentary

Gay.

Date night

(tonight)
Am presently applying makeup that I pray I'm not wasting.

Reasons not to use Google Translator

Allow me to present Exhibit A:

Something good

So I am pleased to report that I have, in fact, been asked out by a seemingly normal guy – an ostensibly sane, mature, employed, 38-year-old who, judging from his photos, appears to have all of his teeth. Of course, we “met” on that wretched dating site. We’ve exchanged a few (rather lengthy) emails and assuming he’s writing his own letters (I rarely assume anything when it comes to men these days), he’s got a pretty impressive head on his shoulders. He is a remarkable writer, which is excellent, but I’ll have to tread judiciously -- I tend to become easily enamored with good writers. 

The best was his initiation of this precarious next step: actually meeting. I’ll share.

So at the risk of spoiling the magic that is the Match.com double-blind email system, would you like to put our witty banter up against the rigors of real-world contact? Perhaps a drink or food or both? I am flying home on Saturday night and as yet have nothing doing Sunday eve, Monday eve, or any of the subsequent eves.

Long-winded, yes, but cliché it is not. I dig it.

Ok, ew. That's all. Just ew.

...referring to Rico Suave's message to me. Just read.

He's clearly more smarter than me

It's really hard to know where to start with this assclown. If you can even get past the image thumbnails without throwing up in your mouth a little bit, you're still gonna want to hang on to that bottle of Pepto.

Note how he starts his narrative by demanding a photo from whatever bold bimbo would actually take the initiative of emailing him. Not like we should be surprised -- we are already aware from his own pictures that this guy buys books for their pretty covers. As you read on, much of the rest speaks for itself.

Now, as you continue skimming down, you must prepare for the pièce de résistance. You’ll see I’ve taken the liberty of circling it in red. No need to blink twice, for your eyes do not deceive you – he’s actually misspelled “intellectually.” ...I can’t imagine there exists a better example of irony, and for that, St8FitPro, I must thank you.

Lie to me, demoralize me, then bind me in leather.

First of all, if you are 46, then I am barely legal.

Second, men who specify what kind of woman they are seeking by listing an age range that doesn't include their own make me want to vomit. CharlestonMan's age isn't even within half a decade of his preferred paramour. As if his ass can afford to be picky. I'm sure 30-year-olds everywhere are just falling all over themselves to get this guy's attention.

Third, you decide to display three photos to express who you really are…and you pick the one of you posing with your muzzled and clearly spirit-broken dog? Is this some creepy attempt at subliminally conveying that you are into S&M or are you just a complete jackass who forces into submission the one little soul on this planet who actually likes you?

I think we are done here.

Oh my god, I've been dating a birther.

I've been seeing Tony for nearly three months now. Tony is perfect on paper -- a tall, handsome, intelligent, gainfully-employed dog lover -- but from the moment I met him, there's been something about Tony that bothers me. Problem is, I've not been able to put my finger on it -- and so, as often as my gut would tell me "cut this one loose," failing any concrete revelations of an even remotely disturbing nature, I have continued to see him. After all, he treats me well, he uses proper grammar, he calls when he’s supposed to and he has washboard abs with the face of a Ken doll.

I’d been hoping that this “feeling” was completely unfounded – nothing more than a cog in a series of emotional defense mechanisms that had been spinning furiously since the break up of my marriage. …And I know very well that if I’m ever to have a healthy relationship with a deserving man, I cannot project onto him the faults of previous suitors. Therefore, I had tentatively decided that I would have to be presented with tangible evidence of Tony’s fatal flaw(s) in order to send him on his way. A “feeling,” alone, would not serve as sufficient evidence.

Finally, after 90+ days of doing exactly what I’d vowed during divorce proceedings to stop doing (ignoring my gut instinct), my gut screamed “I toldya so” only seconds after being socked.

It happened last night. We were cracking crab legs and knocking back a couple of Coronas at a hip little seafood joint. Just moments earlier, he’d commented on how pretty my hair looked. 

“Awww” – right, ladies? 

Now, perhaps I need a little time to mentally dissect the night and the conversation that followed, in particular, because I cannot for the life of me recall how we got from my new highlights to a heated political dispute in under two minutes flat, but whatever the route – we got there. I vaguely remember saying something to the effect of, “Go ahead and be honest – I can respect your opinion even if I disagree with it.” Then I heard those four words flow frighteningly freely out of his mouth: 

A photo of THE "elusive" birth certificate.

“Obama is from Kenya.” 

I waited a beat—internally begging for a laugh or a smile or some other expression that would indicate he was kidding. But he just sat there. And so did I.

As the realization of what was happening began to sink in, I silently confronted the fact that this would be our final date while contemplating whether to let the night play out amicably, demand this closet conservative take me home now, or excuse myself to “the bathroom” and go hail a cab. I went with option number one, though regretted the decision the whole way through the five-minute diatribe that followed his admission, during which he denied the existence of our president's birth certificate and spouted off a string of right wing talking points that are typically shouted at local television cameras by dimwits carrying signs like "Hey government, keep your hands off my medicare" and "Say no to the pubic option!" Finally, I just asked him to stop talking.

“An opinion is one thing, the truth is another,” I told him. “You are entitled to your own beliefs, but you aren’t entitled to your own facts.” 

I continued, “What’s next? Are you now going to tell me that you don’t believe in evolution?”

“Wellll…,” he started. And then I just pressed my index finger to his lips, smiled sweetly, and said simply: “Shhh.”

The rest of the night was inconsequential. I was saved by the NBA dunk contest being broadcast on the television above us. We talked sports for the next hour and then he took me home.

And so ends the truncated tale of Tony.

***  

Just for kicks and giggles, I've decided to include this helpful link -- full of lots of colorful pictures of Obama's birth certificate -- should Tony ever stumble upon this site and feel the need to be enlightened.
Click here: Factcheck.org's ruling on existence & validity of birth certificate