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

Back to Match

I should be embarrassed to admit this, but I’m pretty sure I was a match.com pioneer. I’ve had many, many memberships – all one month at a time – dating back to the 90s. Really.

It is always the same predictable cycle with me. I get frustrated with the lack of selection in the man department which inevitably leads to a complete dating drought and then at 2am on some random night, I’ll find myself battling insomnia, drag myself out of bed, shuffle to the computer, peck in that familiar web address, and run a search. For a brief moment, I experience a twinge of giddiness as I think, “Maybe this time I’ll find a nice guy.” I’ll usually spot a dude or two with potential – enough potential to persuade me to grab my wallet and pull out my Visa.

Every time I resort to re-upping my membership these days, I fully expect to enter my credit card information, hit submit, and see some message like “You again? Really?” or maybe even “This one’s on the house!” either out of pity or to thank me for my continued patronage. No such luck with the latter, though. The memberships only get more and more expensive.

I then tweak my ever-evolving profile and upload a new photo or two. By this point, I've baited my hook and cast my line; the only thing left to do is wait till I feel that familiar little tug, reel it in and pray it’s not a barnacle-covered shoe. I always get a few quick nibbles – all of which I throw back. Finally, sleepiness sets in, and I return to my empty bed. By the next morning, I’ll have 97 new emails in my inbox. I’ll browse them one-by-one and become progressively disheartened at the clichéd, cheesy, poorly composed, and sometimes just plain scary messages that greet my bloodshot eyes.

Over the course of the next three days, I’ll land something I think could be a keeper. We’ll have several exchanges. In the meantime, I’ll have become so disgusted by the bullshit overflowing from my inbox that I’ll opt to hide my profile. I’ll probably go out with what's-his-name within the next few days – no sense in wasting time emailing and gabbing on the phone. I learned a decade ago not to do that, as you can easily spend a month whiling away hours on the phone with Mr. Possibly only to finally meet him and know within the first 30 seconds of making eye-contact that the night is going to end awkwardly. Physical chemistry is a powerful thing and there are perfectly attractive, smart, articulate men that I’ve met after seven pleasant phone calls and have known instantly that I’d never feel anything for them.

The date with what's-his-name will, more often than not, go south. Sometimes I’ll see him again and maybe for a few weeks or even a month or so, but it will always end and membership now canceled, I will, once again, declare Match.com an exercise in futility and I will go about my business convinced that I can conceivably meet a good guy the old fashioned way.

Then I don’t.

And then the vicious cycle starts all over again.

…Today, the cycle continues. And still, no complimentary membership.

Someone Peed in My Dating Pool

Seriously. 

Somewhere along the way, my dating life devolved into a murky mess of mistakes, misjudgment, missed opportunities and mishaps, taking me from Miss to Mrs and back again. Thankfully, my boundless cynicism and proclivity for self-deprecation has managed to convert my tragic personal life into endless entertainment for friends and family.

I've now decided to blog about it.

With regard to my motivations, I’m not compelled to do this out of some narcissistic assumption that my life is so intensely fascinating that others – whether I know them or not – are clamoring to get the scoop on my day-to-day existence. Rather, I suspect it’s out of some primal need for a deeper catharsis that I’ve decided to turn my almost-hyperbolic heartbreak into fodder for the masses. To an extent, I’m also driven by the idea that there may exist other chronically single souls that could find some cold comfort in knowing they aren’t alone.

Then, of course, there is the simple fact that four-minute phone conversations and quick a.m. debriefings with aforementioned friends and family are not a sufficient means of truly conveying and/or illustrating the hilarity, absurdity, or misfortune that is inevitably observed during my many encounters with the opposite sex -- these typically resulting from electronic exchanges, be it emails, text messages, or dating site solicitations. A blog, I reason, will enable me to communicate this content more effectively. I must also acknowledge the distinct possibility that my friends and family don’t always find my short stories entertaining or may not necessarily be in the mood to listen to my perpetual venting and lamenting – in which case, they can simply choose to read or not to read.

Admittedly and from a self-serving sense, I’d also kinda like to force a little meaning into what I feel is the otherwise pointless personal torment inflicted by my love life’s failings. Those closest to me, long ago, resorted to quelling me with the everything-happens-for-a-reason consolation. All I can say at this point is that if there is a reason, it certainly hasn’t made itself known yet – and the what-doesn't-kill-you-makes-you-stronger rationale is little more than a slightly philosophical way of answering the question “Why?” with “Because." -- so that doesn’t count as a reason in my mind. That said, maybe, just maybe, this blog will lend me a little sense of much-needed purpose as I forge on in pursuit of that one good man who has managed to elude me for going on two decades now.

And so, without further ado, please turn your attention to the regularly scheduled drama of my life, already in progress…