The Meet Market

The other night, I went to Professor Thom's in the East Village for a book launch party.  My colleague wrote an e-book, soon to be a paperback, called Salary Tutor (check it out -- who among us couldn't use a bigger paycheck?).  As he was introducing his agent and publisher to us, I got to thinking about my own book.

Say what?

Yes, I wrote an unpublished novel AGES ago -- back in 2002, to be exact, when I was just 29 years young.  And all 285 pages have been sitting in a box ever since.  Well, they briefly saw the light of day back in 2009, when I dusted them off to blog an excerpt from one of my favorite chapters. 

But mostly, it's been a life in the box.

Anyway, I went digging in that old box when I got home from the party, and I discovered that even waaay back then, I knew online dating was full of freaks and losers.  Like this guy, this guy, THIS guy, this guy, and most recently, this guy.  And I hadn't even signed up for any dating services at that point in my life, like I did at age 35 or 37. 

But somehow, I just knew.  Behold, snippets from Chapter 20: The Meet Market...


A homely young woman was sitting on her couch, under a crocheted blanket, eating chocolate ice cream straight from the container.  A voiceover declared, "You can eat ice cream on your couch." The next scene showed the same woman, now a sexpot in a French bistro seated across from a gentleman in a tuxedo. "Or you can eat ice cream off your date."  They cut to the woman's face and she winked as he put an ice cream-coated fingertip in her mouth.  The voice said, "You decide," as the words "No More Lonely Nights" scrolled across the screen, with the URL for an online dating site. 


Eventually, the book's main character, Kate (a girl loosely based on me), made the decision to join this dating site.  Unsure how to navigate these unfamiliar waters, she first did a little profile reconnaissance...


Kate came across cutesy screen names like IrishYouPeace and Shiksappeal, nostalgic names like OuttaTime88 and TheOtherDarrinStevens, nasty names like Chitty_Chitty_Gang_Bang and Jenitellya, and creepy names like AshleighsDad and Pastor_Gary. 

In her dating experiences, Kate was a lot like Goldilocks.  Some of the porridge was too cold, some of the beds were too soft, some of the bears were too short.  She'd yet to meet anyone that was "just right."  That seemed as good a screen name as any, so JustWrite29 was born.  In the wee hours of Saturday morning, she posted the following profile:

     JUSTWRITE29 - LOOKING FOR MR. MAYBE
     Cable television talent booker seeking an escape from the single life.  I prefer beer to wine, dinner to dancing, and
     brains to brawn.  You prefer brunettes to blondes, movies to marathons, and sarcasm to slapstick.  If you have also
     run out of friends to hit on, you find yourself bored by the bar scene, and would rather poke yourself in the eye with
     a fork than sit through another fixup, we should probably talk.


It wasn't long before Kate began receiving responses to her new profile...


A small, yellow envelope appeared at the bottom of her computer screen, so she took a detour from reviewing the morning's news stories to reading her email.  There were seven new messages, all a result of the dating profile she just posted.  "This is too easy," Kate said as she waded through the messages. "Come to mama!"  What she quickly realized is the reason it was so easy was because there were a lot of spooky freaks patrolling the information superhighway in the middle of the night, many of whom likely still lived with mama. 

The messages came with photos attached.  She found it funny that someone named PlayLikeAChampionToday was giving a buddy hi-five.  The caption might as well have read: I'm going for the gold in the Douche Olympics.  Bronze simply will not do.  Date_Seeking_Missile promised to take Kate all the way to DEFCON5.  Staring at his picture, Kate made a mental note never to date a man who wore clogs or bathing suits that resembled panties.

Someone named Theres.Something.About.Marty explained that he enjoyed long walks on the beach.  "Yeah, on a leash.  Woof, WOOF," Kate said aloud as she deleted his message.  The hairstyles here were something like she hadn't seen since her high school yearbook.  For the candidate best suited for male pattern baldness, she was torn between LastAmericanSmoker with the moustache and mullet and TKESully82 who looked as though he dove headfirst into a jar of Dippity Don't.


Kate continued wading through messages, until she got to the last one...


The speedy death of her faith in Internet dating culminated with the following glorious proposition:

     TO:                JustWrite29
     FR:                NE_PatsFan11
     DATE:            Saturday, April 5, 2:41AM
     MESSAGE:      i like your butt. can i wear it as a hat?

Without hesitation, she deactivated her online dating profile.  It may have been rash, but she was not prepared to be hit on by losers in the comfort and privacy of her own home.  No sense in meeting men even less mature than the emotional toddlers she'd been dating all her life.  She'd relegate those lame pick-ups and horrible fix-ups to the bars, where they belonged.


See!  All those years ago, I knew even without knowing, that online dating is the pits.  Case in point: about a week ago, one guy decided to jump past the guided communication on eHarmony and deliver me an "icebreaker."  From his profile photos (6 total), he could only be described as a Tank Top Enthusiast.  He sent me the oldest pickup line in the book, "Haven't I seen you someplace before?" 

I replied, "Yes, that's why I don't go there anymore." 

And then I closed the match.

For every 100 guys like the ones above, there's MAYBE 1 normal one.  If that!  I'm emailing right now with a guy from Long Island who appears totally normal.  The good news is that according to his photos, he has no affinity for sleeveless undershirts and shows no obvious signs of wanting to wear my ass as headgear.  But what do I know?

Now I'm thinking maybe I should read the rest of the manuscript!  It's like a freaking crystal ball!  Who knows what other sage dating advice (online or otherwise) that my young, cute 29 year old self has for my old, haggard 37 year old self?

Stay tuned...


tags: dating, writing

Federal Un-Reserved

I don’t typically blog about guys I've never met. But I'm making an exception.

I’m fully aware how out-of-practice I am in the dating department, so I specifically chose eHarmony because of their guided communication process. It's less scary.  Not like Match where you generally meet up right away. I'm not ready for that. 

I need a barrier.

Now, barely a day goes by that I don’t receive a request to communicate from a guy. And I decline almost ALL of them. It’s not that I think I’m that great, because if recent history has taught us anything, um… I’m not.

It’s just that if I'm certain I’m not interested -- based purely on a 30 second assessment of his profile and pictures -- I don’t want to waste his time. Or mine.

Mainly mine.

Anyway, about 2 weeks ago, I heard from a guy. Let’s call him Alan Greenspan, former chairman of the US Federal Reserve banking system. “AG” was 44, 6’1”, and owned a home in Forest Hills, NY. Never married, no kids, worked as a “US government securities compliance examiner,” whatever that is, and classified himself as someone who was good at managing his finances. I should hope so!

If the pictures were to be believed, he had blonde hair (which I don’t typically go for), nice teeth (which I do), and was as cute as a 44-year-old grown man can be. Despite the fact that he loved the Rangers, Dave Matthews, and dogs, like someone I once knew, I decided to reply.

First, we exchanged multiple choice questions and answers. Mostly stupid stuff like, if you were to go on a dream vacation, would it be to a cottage by the sea, or to Paris, or a sandy beach, or hiking? (I'm allergic to hiking.) Then we traded our top 10 relationship must-haves and can’t-stands. (Can you guess what mine might be?) Finally, we sent short answer questions, like what is your best physical feature? (My rack -- kiddiiiing -- my smile.)

Finally, it was on to open communication. At this stage, we were still emailing through eHarmony so no contact information changed hands. But he seemed nice and normal, so I moved forward.

I won’t describe what happened next, you’ll just have to read it for yourself. Here is our email exchange, unedited:


Hi Jennifer,

Thanks for your responses so far during these initial stages. It's been great getting to know you...and I'd love to find out more. I know you said you had written up a response to my second question (i.e. What are the most important interests/activities/beliefs you want to share with your partner? Tell me your thoughts on kids/family, living near/around NYC, music/dancing, sports, PDA/intimacy, pets, vacation, politics, and religion) but that it would not fit.

Let me know your thoughts on those items, especially intimacy. I ask about that specifically since I see that among your ten must haves that you do not have either passionate, affectionate or sexually knowledgeable. What is your opinion and desires when it comes to sharing affection and passion with your partner. An unreserved physical expression of feelings is part of the necessary communication in a long term relationship. I want someone who also wants to be able to freely express their attraction (verbally and physically) to her partner. And I'd love to know about the other issues as well.

Hope to hear from you soon,
AG 



Hi Alan,

Thanks for your note. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you too! I have to be honest, though, I’m a little uncomfortable discussing intimacy in depth at this stage. I wouldn’t list anything overtly sexual as a top 10 requirement in the person I date mainly because as a woman, I think that message attracts the wrong type of guy. I purposely selected “Chemistry” instead. I agree, both physical and emotional intimacy are critical to a lasting monogamous relationship, but it takes time to build that trust.

If you don’t agree, that’s totally ok, but then perhaps we aren’t a match. If you can understand my point of view, then please write back and I’d be more than happy to answer the rest of your questions.

Best,
Jen



Hi Jen,

While I don't want to make you discuss anything that makes you uncomfortable, I was looking for general attitude toward intimacy (affection, verbal and physical exchanges) with your partner. If it is something that is not important to you, then at least I know that before I decide anything about a chance for us. If you are on board with me on this issue, then we should move forward and talk on the phone.

As much as chemistry may include intimacy, I wish to specifically address it since I want to be able to be unreserved with my partner when it comes to expressing my high regard for her. I understand trust is needed to enable both persons to express themselves and that you do not want to attract the wrong guy, but since honesty is needed from day one, I just want to make sure we see eye to eye on this topic.

I understand that you wouldn't be verbally or physically intimate with any person early on, but I'm not into holding back feelings (especially verbally)...it's my way of always being honest.

Care to share any more details?  Feel free to call me at 917-XXX-XXXX whenever you have time.
AG



Greenspan,

Thanks for writing back. I guess I feel like I have told you generally what my attitude towards intimacy is -- I think it’s important. I’m a fan. But now I have to be blunt -- I’m put-off by your fixation on this topic. Particularly when we don’t even know the most basic things about each other, like where we grew up or if we have any siblings. Passion, intimacy, chemistry, whatever, develops over time. Or it doesn’t.

Thanks for your number, but I really don’t care to share any more details on this topic. I wish you good luck with your search.

Goodbye,
Jen




Okaaaay. So was it wrong of me to be totally weirded out here? Was I too harsh?  Am I the jerk for not wanting to discuss this?

No. 

Personally, I think I should have turned this into a drinking game and taken a shot every time he said the word “unreserved.” I'd have been shitfaced after the first paragraph.  What does it even mean, anyway?

Vote below:

poll by twiigs.com

tags: dating, polls

My Jersey Valentine

February 14th gives me acid reflux.

You can’t avoid it, even if you try, mainly because Hallmark’s bought every other commercial, declaring it the day we say, “I love us.” Or else it’s Kay Jewelers, the Leo Diamond, and marriage proposals in Chinese, Spanish, AND English. Every kiss may begin with Kay but every commercial ends with me throwing up a little in my mouth.

As you know, I’ve recently (reluctantly) reentered the dating scene. Virtually at least. And I can confirm that there’s no shortage of freaks waiting to meet me. The more things change, the more they stay the same. But since I’m waaay out of practice, I’ve decided it would be prudent to take a few lessons from people who have had FAR more experience with the opposite sex than I have.

I’m speaking, of course, of the cast from The Jersey Shore.

I snuggled up on my couch yesterday and read both Here’s the Situation: A Guide to Creeping on Chicks, Avoiding Grenades, and Getting in Your GTL on the Jersey Shore AND The Rules According to JWoww: Shore-Tested Secrets on Landing a Mint Guy, Staying Fresh to Death, and Kicking the Competition to the Curb. To call this a Master Class would be an understatement. I even took notes! 

Consider it my valentine to you.

Absorbing the dating advice in these ghost-written treasures took ALL my brain power. So to fuel my studies, I also ate a box of the most scrumptious mini cupcakes on Earth and watched Valentine’s Day and I Hate Valentine’s Day. I like to cover an issue from all angles.

I would also like to learn to “crush it 24/7.”

So single friends, we’re about to get schooled from 2 individuals who know a LOT about VDay (and also, perhaps, VD)…

ON PHYSICAL ASSETS
Sitch: “Milky white abs make chicks want to puke. Slicked up abdominals encourage the ladies to slip and slide.”
JWoww: “You can’t go wrong with cleavage.”

ON HAIR
Sitch: “Don’t be going to Supercuts. You want a barber who’s craft is cutting hair. It’s his art. He needs to wake up each morning thinking about cutting hair the same way I’m thinking about hitting the gym -- with passion.”
JWoww: “Humidity will make you poodle up.”

ON PERSONAL GROOMING
Sitch: “At a minimum, you’re going to want to shave your chest and six-pack. I trim, but don’t fully shave, my armpits."
JWoww: “An acrylic French mani is a must. No chips or smudges; your fingers should be flawless. Until you bust one scratching some bitch’s eyes out.”

ON CLOTHING
Sitch: “If you’re having difficulty deciding whether or not to purchase a particular garment, there is one sure-fire method left at your disposal. Put the magnetic security tag gently to your ear. If you can hear the faint, distant thumping of bumping club music, buy it.”
JWoww: “If I had to label my personal style, I would say it’s 'Sexy Sophisticated.' Some critics have dubbed it, 'Stripper Chic' -- and I can live with that.”

ON ACCESSORIES
Sitch: “Some cutting edge shirts today include a necklace integrated into the garment itself. If you think this means you don’t have to wear a separate, standalone necklace, you couldn’t be more wrong."
JWoww: “Never leave home without a change of panties. They could come in handy.”

ON PICKUP LINES
Sitch: “So many bros get all hung up on pickup lines, as if it really matters what you say to a girl. If you’ve chosen your target correctly, the first thing you say to her is merely a formality.”
JWoww: “Here’s a no-pressure opener that will get the conversation going: 'Hi.' (Basically, that’s about all a guy needs to hear to get his attention.)”

ON MS/MR WRONG
Sitch: “Nine out of ten times, the grenade is a grenade because she’s ugly and fat.”
JWoww: “Learn to spot a man-whore a mile away. This is a necessity. It will save you time, energy, and aggravation.”

ON DATING
Sitch: “If you roll up to a place out of the blue, having never been there before and having done zero recon, that’s the moment your date will know you’re a clown. Maybe you’ve been to the Olive Garden in Tom’s River, but does that mean you can trust the Olive Garden in Eatontown will be just as classy? Do you know for a fact that the chicken scampi will be succulent and the breadsticks unlimited at this strange new Olive Garden? No, dude, you don’t.”
JWoww: “If he’s interested, he is interested enough to ensure you eat well and get home safely in a cab. No cheap bastard makes a good boyfriend. And if he doesn’t know what a florist is, dump him.”

ON ROMANCE
Sitch: “When you bring a chick from the club back to your shore house, things should progress quickly from there. It’s the Jacuzzi, and then up to your private quarters for some pounding out. After you’ve done your work, you need your rest.”
JWoww: “Reheated pasta never tastes the same. When you serve it as leftovers on Tuesday, it just aint as good. The same goes for relationships. All that’s gonna come from getting back with an ex is heartburn.”

ON THE MORNING AFTER
Sitch: “I need to be aware at all times of the whereabouts of possessions like my cell, wallet, and jewelry. Believe it or not, some girls steal things as a memento of our experience together, as if smooshing wasn’t enough.”
JWoww: “It is a hard-and-fast rule that a Guido will never wife-up a one-nighter.”

A FINAL WORD ON BECOMING MS RIGHT
Sitch: “Once you get beyond the riff-raff at the club (ie: grenade launchers, zoo creatures, hypnotic hyenas, trash bags, etc), girls break down into five categories, from sleeper to keeper:

• Fifth class: purely physical attraction with little to no emotional attachments
• Fourth class: not cute enough to take her places where she’ll be seen, so watch movies on her couch
• Third class: good-looking on the wrong side of gorgeous, take her out but spend your time in the dark
• Second class: a girl you invite to dinner, giving her the full benefit of your GTL rituals
• First class: beautiful, smart, classy, and cooks a mean chicken cutlet -- this is no chick, this is a lady”

So there you have it, sage advice straight from the experts. Makes me proud to call Jersey home. And thankful I can, in fact, cook a mean chicken cutlet. Maybe there’s hope, after all.

You know, all this knowledge is exhilarating!

I feel like I want to conquer new subjects -- like getting my finances in order! I wonder if MC Hammer’s written an investment manual?


tags: dating, holidays, jersey

Oh, Just Pull the Trigger Already!

So… I said back in November that it was time to start dating again. And it probably was!

But I didn’t.

It’s the holidays, I thought. Let’s get through that first. Then I was down in Del Boca Vista for a couple of weeks visiting the ‘rents. Too busy playing shuffleboard and eating dinner at 4:30 to meet anyone not eligible for Social Security. And then work got crazy. So I didn't make the time. Then the drain in my tub clogged. I couldn’t possibly start dating with my world in such chaos.

I’m just delaying the inevitable. Procrastinating. Wasting time. You know it, I know it too.

It’s like when you put off making a dentist appointment, which incidentally, I also need to do because I don’t want my teeth to rot inside my head. Similarly, I also do not want to die alone with 14 cats gnawing at my remains. I don’t like cats at all! Especially when they are nibbling my face off.

So, to avoid this grisly fate, I reactivated my profile on Eharmony. Closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. I freshened up a few photos. I updated a few phrases. I dusted off my requirements. And I shelled out $240 to join for a year (yep – you read that right – aren’t you glad you don’t have to do this anymore?).

I chose this site over Match – for now – because it’s like dipping my pinky toe back into the dating pool. There’s a whole communication process you have to go through first that seems less intimidating to me than jumping right into meeting a total stranger for drinks. We all remember how that goes. 

I’m not quite ready for that. Yet.

You might be surprised to hear that I'm giving online dating another chance. But at my advanced age, there are few options for meeting new people. Plus, I still do believe the process can work! I just met the wrong guy. And I suppose, he met the wrong girl. It’s astonishing to me, looking back at how much I put up with. So regardless of the guy I date next -- or the guy after that, or the guy after THAT -- my own personal mission is not to compromise what’s important.

To get as good as I give.

I still believe I can find that guy who will be my best friend. Who will have my back, as I have his. Who will adore me -- quirks and all. Who I can trust will say what he means, and mean what he says. And who I can call before I fall asleep and he’ll know it’s me -- not from the caller ID, but by the sound of my voice.

He’s out there, I think. I hope! And if he’s not... don’t anybody let me buy a cat.


tags: dating

Time

Six months ago today, I took my engagement ring off. Well, actually, slammed it down on a coffee table, if you want to be accurate about it.

It seems like yesterday, and like a lifetime ago.

If you told me when I woke up that my day would end like that, I'd have laughed, even though we’d been “off” since the minute I moved in. We weren't always like that, mind you. For the majority of our relationship, we were great.  But once we lived together, we stopped communicating (except to bicker about home improvement), he stopped bringing me flowers (he used to give me a bunch every Tuesday like clockwork), he took off the ring I’d given him (which he once said meant so much). He refused to attend family functions. He stopped opening doors, holding hands, you name it.

Whether he lost that loving feeling on his own, or it was a reaction because he thought I'd lost it first, one thing was clear: He was not interested in me. At all.

Our entire relationship went downhill the day the moving truck pulled up. At the time, I spoke to friends who said this was normal -- part of the growing pains of living together. I spoke to him about it too.  And at first, he was apologetic -- I deserved better, he said. Then, he started ignoring the situation entirely, like it was all in my imagination. Finally, we started to argue.

I’d just assumed we would work everything out. Instead, it blew up after just 2 months of living in his home.

What’s funny is I actually thought things were getting better.  We’d just celebrated our 1 year “winkiversary” with a day trip to Mohegan Sun and then had brunch in Stamford. Money was tight, so instead of getting him the biggest external hard drive I could find for his extensive music collection (a thoughtful, if not romantic, gift), I settled on a card, which professed my love for him and reiterated my commitment to our relationship.

Two days before I took my ring off, he made a detour on the way home from picking me up at the train station. I’d been coughing for a while, so he decided it was time for me to see a doctor. “Someone needs to take care of you, for a change,” he said. As it turned out, I had bronchitis, but when we left the dr's office, I felt better. He does care about me, after all, I thought.

Then that very day, May 27th, I’d purchased his Father’s Day gift -- 2 season passes to a water park out on Long Island, where his family has a house. One for him and one for his daughter. She’d talked all winter long about taking me there so we could ride on the lazy river and eat churros together. I’d probably only have gone a few times at most, but since they spent summers out there, I thought they could really make good use of the tickets and have some fun.

I look back on that now and wonder when exactly he decided I wouldn’t be around come summer.

The end of my relationship began with a very simple question: “What are we doing this weekend?” It was Memorial Day and I was looking forward to a few days off, together, to continue what I thought was us reconnecting.

“I’m going to Long Island,” he replied firmly.

Something about the way he said it just didn’t sit right with me. So I paused a minute and asked, “Wait, YOU’RE going to Long Island, or WE’RE going to Long Island?”

“I’M going to Long Island,” he repeated. And with those 5 words, my world began to crumble.

He needed some space, he said, to decide whether or not we should continue this relationship. Nevermind, that the place he was going to clear his head would likely be chock full of people, dogs, and a baby. He didn’t need quiet time to think. He needed to get away from me.

Not long before this, I’d gotten an email from the catering manager at Metrazur, the restaurant where I’d hoped to host our wedding reception. It overlooks Grand Central Terminal, the same place where our relationship began. It would have been a lovely and romantic place to get married (pity you couldn’t make it). Anyway, she’d invited us to come in for dinner to try their food out before putting any deposits down. At the time, he brushed it off, but that night, he brought it up again.

“And YOU want us to have dinner there?” he stood to emphasize the point, practically laughing at how naïve I was. “WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED!”

Well, this was news to the World’s Dumbest Fiancée! At that moment, the tears stopped and my blood began to boil. I could not believe my ears. In the very same spot where he once proposed, he ended our relationship. Talk about coming full-circle.

I yanked the ring off my finger, slammed it down on the table and yelled, “Well then why the FUCK am I wearing this?”

I never saw the ring again.

I spent that weekend alone, in his condo, while he was off “thinking.” He left me his car, but I had nowhere to go. Pathetic, I know. Whenever I’ve told this story to my family and friends, invariably, the person asks, “Why didn’t you call me??”

The answer is that I thought he would come back.

I don’t know what it’s like for guys, but for girls, I think Hollywood has us convinced that guys come back. Time and again. Generally with grand romantic gestures. You know how it goes. He does something rash, he is miserable, the music swells, and he admits his life would be nothing without her. Then they kiss. The end.

Well, maybe I AM a moron because I truly thought the same would happen with us. I didn’t want to bring everyone into the drama, only to have him come back, sorry and looking to reconcile. “Yeah, um, you know that guy who made me cry that you now hate? Ooops, just kidding! Oh, and thanks again for the soup tureen -- the wedding's gonna be awesome!”

No! I wanted them to like him! So I said nothing, until I knew it was over.

That took a week.

An excruciating week. I wanted to fight for our relationship and fix things. He did not. I said I still loved him. He wasn’t sure. In the end, he wasn’t conflicted. He wasn’t emotional. He wasn’t sorry. And he certainly wasn’t the guy I fell in love with. He was just done. “Turned off,” in his words.

It’s funny, because he came into this relationship like he'd hitched a ride on the Acela. I came in on a Schwinn. Anyone you talk to would agree, I was so cautious. He set the pace on EVERYTHING -- and it was fast. He arrived at every relationship milestone, big or small, before I did. And while I was always playing catch-up, I actually enjoyed it, in a weird way. I’d finally met a guy who was upfront about how he was feeling. I could trust that, and just figure out how I felt. Knowing this, I suppose I should have seen it coming that he would also be the one to end things.

That’s a milestone too, right? Maybe more like a tombstone…

Anyway, I know, there are 3 sides to this story -- my side, his side, and the truth. I’m sure I made mistakes and I'd imagine that in his mind, the way he broke up with me is justified. And who knows? Maybe his family and friends were as glad to see me go, as mine were to see him go. He had a few big issues looming over his life before we ever met. None of which were my doing. But all of which I stupidly tried to help fix.

Big mistake. 

We haven't had any contact since June, and I suspect we won’t ever. To me, he's a heart-breaking memory. And I’m pretty sure I’m dead to him, if he thinks of me at all. It's just as well. I suppose if he’s done me ANY favors in all of this mess, it’s that. None of those pesky, regrettable text messages or phone calls that drag on for months  In that sense, it was a clean break. But only in that sense.  And while my relationship ended 6 months ago when I took my ring off, it wasn’t until I moved back into my own apt that I officially started thinking clearly.

I got my life back in August. Now it’s time to move on with it. Again. To meet new people. Again. To date. Ugh.

Again.

I should probably issue an apology to the first 5 guys I meet. It won’t work out. And it’s not them -- it’s me. No REALLY, it’s me. I wish somebody made dating palette cleansers. Just pop a few to wash away the past and be minty-fresh for the future.

The thought of dating anyone new once made me sick to my stomach. I still don’t love the idea, but it’s time. Time to dust off those dreadful online dating profiles and open the floodgates to all freaks and losers who live within a 50 mile radius. Maybe I'll find a gem in there.

You know, winter’s coming up -- if I’m lucky, I’ll meet a guy that still believes in that grand romantic gesture. Like peeing my name in the snow.

And when things get more serious, and I’m ready to invite him over for dinner, I’ve got just the dish. There’s a famous recipe called Engagement Chicken. It originally came from the Barefoot Contessa. Legend has it that staffers at Glamour magazine would whip this up for a cozy dinner at home with their boyfriends, and poof! He’d pop the question.

I won't be making that.  But a hearty helping of PLEASE Don’t Be An Asshole Pork Chops just might be in order.

Wish me luck...


tags: breakup, dating

Off the Market

I really never thought I’d be writing a post like this.

I try to be as honest as I can be in this blog. It’s not like my manuscript -- which is actually fiction, despite the fact that it resembles my life and the people in it.

This blog isn’t loosely based on my life over the last year -- it kinda IS my life. Here, I try to push aside feeling stupid, or random, or neurotic, or whatever, and just tell a story that I’d be amused to read. (YOU can be the judge of how successful I’ve been in that endeavor!)

So if I’m being honest, I should tell you that I feel like I’ve spent my entire adult life celebrating other people’s milestones. And I’ve been happy to do it! I just couldn’t ever help feeling a little left behind, as my +1 was generally a giant handbag instead of a boy -- over, and over, and OVER again.

When I was able to focus on me -- to whip up one or two milestones of my own -- I shared my indecision about jumping into the scary online dating pool. I took you with me as I waded through thousands of freaky FREAKY profiles. And I recounted the ridiculous dates that followed (FLOSSING… um… seriously?!? I still can’t get over that one). There were actually more where those came from, but they were SO boring, even I couldn’t find the funny.

As you know, throughout this whole online dating process, I have been… selective. I didn’t dismiss 4 out of every 5 guys who contacted me. Or even 9 out of every 10. Oh no. It was actually closer to 99 out of every 100. (I know!!) But with each guy I actually did respond to, it became abundantly clear why THEY were still single (nevermind me… I’m perfect). Inevitably, within the first week or so of emailing, I saw SO many red flags I swore I was running in Pamplona with the bulls.

Which made my decision NOT to meet most of these guys very, very easy.

For the handful that I did meet, it was always One & Done. I didn’t particularly want to see them again, or they didn’t want to see me, or it was mercifully mutual. And it’s not like I was out looking for a husband -- I wasn’t delusional enough to set the bar THAT high! I was just looking for a guy I’d want to spend more than an hour with, without fantasizing about gnawing my own arm off to get away.

I mean, let’s face it, ANYONE can get a date, or even a boyfriend for that matter. But I didn’t want just ANY guy -- that’s not my style. I wanted to meet the right one for me. My match. Besides, I didn’t make it ALL the way to 35 only to settle for some schmuck (which is exactly what I would have been doing with any of the clowns that crossed my path). The pickins were SO slim, I very nearly pulled the plug on all of it back in April.

This just isn’t for me, I thought.

In total, over a 6+ month span, I was matched with a staggering 6,000+ guys, and of that, 700+ contacted me in one form or another. (I know, I can’t even believe it.) And I KNOW what you’re thinking -- who DO I think I AM? Should I be that picky at my incredibly advanced age? Especially when faced with a near-certain future of becoming a tragic spinster with 14 cats??

The answer is yes. I should have been that picky.

Because amidst the freaks and losers, I truly found a gem. A one in a million kind of guy. The needle in the proverbial haystack. I know I told you I didn’t believe in The One. And maybe I still don’t. But I did meet my match, perfect for me in every way. Which makes me a very lucky girl, and makes the final chapter in my online dating saga a very happy one, as I officially -- and quite publicly -- take myself off the market.

I should probably send Match a muffin basket to say thanks, wouldn’t you agree?

(PS: He is the only other person on the planet that doesn’t eat eggs either -- now if THAT’S not a match, I don’t know what is)

The Headless Horseman

You may not have noticed, but I only blog about dates with guys I know I’ll NEVER see again.

Why?

Well, I think it has a little something to do with the notion that a guy I’m actually interested in may not be too keen on the idea of me broadcasting my opinions about him on the Internet. I mean, do you really want to read a review of yourself? On a first date??? I know I don’t.

That’s almost as much of a buzzkill as telling these guys the name of the website I work for (hint: it has to do with weddings). Based on the general reaction so far, it would be less disturbing to say I work in a leper colony.

Anyway, I held off for 2 months on writing about the guy I call The Headless Horseman. I thought we might meet up again. Mainly, because he said, “Let’s meet up again!” But that ship has sailed… so away we go!

He was from Chemistry. He was 37, lived in CT, never married, no kids, no pets. Had an MBA, worked in finance (Again? Really? Seriously? I need to diversify my portfolio. Then again, maybe I don't.). He claimed to be 6’2”, with brown eyes and brown hair. I say “claimed,” because he didn’t have any photos posted. Not a one.

Now, I KNOW what you’re thinking. No photo? Are you CRAZY? He must be married, or horribly disfigured, or 1 of the 10 Most Wanted. I should really know better.

It’s true. He might have been all those things, but I plowed ahead anyway. SO unlike me.

We emailed pretty regularly for a few weeks. ONLY email -- he never gave me a phone number, and never asked for mine. And while there was a definite formula to his responses -- roughly 4 paragraphs long, with exactly 2 questions every time -- the substance of his emails was both nice and normal. The only oddball thing was that he still would NOT give up the photo, even after I explicitly asked for it! It was too personal, he said. Okaaaay.

Eventually, he did ask me out. I secretly wondered if he'd be wearing a bag over his very private head. When I met him, I didn’t even know who I was looking for. Not smart, I know. But could I really get killed at a Starbucks in the Waldorf? I’m thinking no...

And, turns out he WAS normal looking. Totally, average-ly, middle of the road-ly, normal looking. Forgettable, even. Like a piece of dry toast. I was like, what, no tan line from where his wedding band usually is? No droopy eye so I can’t tell if it’s staring at me or my boob? No giant scorpion tattoo on his face from his stint in the Joint?

Nope. Nada. Normal.

We spent about an hour and a half talking -- conversation was easy breezy. I even laughed. On purpose! And for the first time during this whole miserable online dating process, I thought, here’s someone who’s NOT horrible! I just might like to see this not horrible person again!

When we parted ways, he shook my hand to say goodbye (karma for Costanza?), which I didn’t take as a good sign. But he emailed me a few days later saying he had a nice time and wanted to do it again. Which I DID take as a good sign. Over the next 6 weeks, though, The Headless Horseman drifted from potential to pen pal to poltergeist.

As you know, I’m not terribly forward, so I waited for him to make our next date. We emailed back and forth for about two weeks, but not a peep. And these weren’t dead-end emails where he was just too nice to come out and say he wasn’t interested. He always asked me MORE questions. So I answered them. Until I got fed up with being pen pals.

I decided to be bold.

I told him I’d be in CT visiting my brother and sister-in-law before their baby was born and it would be great to meet up for lunch on my way back to the city. Lunch on a Sunday. Sounds casual enough, right? Non-scary? He responded about an hour later saying he’d “very much look forward to meeting” but he was golfing with his old boss. Ok, that’s cool. He said he expected to be back in the city in the next 2 weeks for work and would let me know once he knew the exact date.

Well I certainly wasn’t putting another date out there. So I waited. He kept emailing, so I replied. And then waited some more. Tenth email’s the charm, right? Wrong.

After that, he disappeared. Poof, like a ghost. Until this past Friday.

Pumpkin Head popped up out of the blue. Right there in my inbox! He changed his email formula too. Two paragraphs, NO questions...

Work’s been crazy, he said. I’m sorry, he said. Hasn’t had time for dating, which was the “story of his life.” Blah blah blah. Whatevs. I didn’t want to be totally rude so I sent him a short note today (5 days later) to wish him the best, and say I hope he makes time to enjoy the summer (if the sun ever comes out again). The end.

And so, here we are. What do YOU think happened here?

Was his job REALLY such a drag? Or was he just not that into me? I’m thinking the latter… which is ok by me. Because at the end of the day, I want a guy with a head. And some balls.

Seven Strikes

So I’ve had a bunch of dates lately. Honestly, more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. I blame the Spring. I may need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all (ok, ok, I HAVE a spreadsheet to keep track of it all).

I met one of the Match guys for drinks at Dos Caminos. Let’s call him George Costanza (not because of the way he looked, thankfully, but because his screen name had a Seinfeld flair to it). He was 39, grew up here in NYC, lives on the UES. Emory undergrad, MBA from NYU, and manages a hedge fund (when he's not busy being an architect or an importer/exporter). 6’1”. Had an ex-wife and hair (on his head), didn’t have kids or pets. And loved TV.

Are you noticing a few scary patterns here? I know, I am too…

Anyway, from the moment we said wassup, Georgie was a step (or two or three) ahead of me. You might say, he was putting the cart before the horse. He was the Kramer to my Jerry.

We’d had a few email exchanges -- brief ones mainly focused on our mutual love of television and the time/date/place of our first meeting. The only personal nugget he revealed to me that wasn’t in his profile was his first name. So when he arrived (9 minutes late), said, “Hey, you!” as though he’d forgotten MY name, and went in for the hug, he was met… with a handshake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! We barely knew eachother. There was no need for any more physical contact than you might have with a loan officer.

Strike one (half for the potential name-forgetting, and half for the huggy hello).

He led the way to one of the downstairs bars and he ordered our drinks. That was nice. A vodka martini for him, an Amstel for me. Right off the bat, he started talking about 24 (apparently he watched all of season 1 in BED with his ex-wife, "Susan"), and explained how we could learn a thing or two about torture from Jack Bauer. THAT is what is known as a Conversation Killer. It was a first date 1-2 punch of the ex-wife and the cheerful subject of torture. I had nothing to say. So I sipped my beer. Strike two.

We were seated pretty far from the bar, side by side on two stools, like we were waiting for the bus. It wasn’t long before he got up and stood in front of me, while I stayed put on the stool. In the time it took to drink a drink, he’d invited himself over my apartment TWICE (once to “see my DVD collection” and again, in an offer to hook my TV up to my laptop so I could download bootleg movies). I shrugged my shoulders uncomfortably. Strike three.

Costanza finished the last of his martini, leaving just 3 olives on a stick. He savored the 1st one like it was a chocolate éclair fresh from the trash, then chomped on the 2nd. He slid the 3rd one off the stick, swirled it around in his glass, and offered it to me. To me?? ICK!! Forget I don’t really like olives, but here was this stranger offering me the backwashiest one of the bunch. Gross. And, strike four.

He must’ve been sending secret hand signals to the bartender behind his back, because next thing I know, there’s another drink in my hand. Ugh. With a new drink, also came a new desire to sit down next to me. So he did. And he whipped out his Blackberry to show me pics of his nieces and nephews. A couple of pics, ok. But we must’ve looked at 150. And peppered between the photos of smiling children celebrating Festivus were weird things. Like a bacon-wrapped meatloaf. And a close-up of some woman’s cleavage. And a small white dog, wearing a motorcycle jacket while smoking a cigar. You can’t make this stuff up. Strike five.

Throughout the impromptu slideshow, he seized several opportunities to touch my shoulder, my arm, my knee. I kept slowly sliding further and further away until I only had 1/2 of 1 butt cheek still left on the stool. BIG strike six.

At that point we’d been there for over an hour -- and I was practically standing anyway, so I was ready to end the date. He really wasn’t such a bad guy, but he was just so forward that it put me off. So, I muttered something about having an early meeting (maybe I’M the guy here?), and put on my jacket. We went up a long flight of stairs where I’m 90% sure he was trailing behind to get a better look at my… behind (yes, ok, HE IS the guy). I’m feeling generous, so no strikes here.

When we got outside, I saw it started raining. Pouring, actually. So we both opened our umbrellas. And I turned to him to say thanks for the drinks, goodnight, and goodbye. He asked me to share a cab, and I politely declined, saying something stupid about loving to walk in the rain (PS: I don't). So that was it. The final moment. The end of the date. And he goes in for… the kiss (um, really?!?).

So, what did Georgie get? A face-full of my hair, which was growing denser by the minute in the extreme humidity. Striiiike seven.

Now, I’m not a baseball fanatic or anything, but I’m fairly certain you only get THREE strikes. And I think Captain Observant finally got the message too, because I haven’t heard from him. Except for the time he showed up on my doorstep with some bootleg DVDs.

Kidding.

So what do YOU think? Do I need to loosen up? Or does being an uptight sourpuss suit me?

Mr. Wrong

I wanted to say a big thanks to everyone who answered my little survey and sent me lovely emails about my novel!

I'm sure 14% of you will be thrilled to know that my paper mache boyfriend is drying as we speak. Luckily, I had more than one copy of my manuscript laying about -- and you actually encouraged me to blow the dust off the cover and take a peek inside.

In a nutshell, my novel, Twenty-nine, is a coming-of-middle-age story. The dawn of a new decade forces Katherine Hunter to take stock of her life and she isn’t at all happy with what she sees. Guided by her addiction to horoscopes, Kate navigates her way down a barbed path to the big 3-0, along the way juggling age-old friendships, romantic disasters, a stagnant career, and the evil beast that is her bathroom scale.

I thought I’d share a few snippets from one of my favorite chapters -- titled “Mr. Wrong.” Somehow, it rings as true to me today as it did when I wrote it more than 6 years ago…


“I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

To many people those eight words were filled with hope. It was a chance to live the fairy tale. Happily ever after. To Katherine Hunter, those words were anxiety-filled disaster balloons waiting to pop and ooze all over her head. The last time Kate naively agreed to a fix-up was the summer after she graduated college, during one of many off-periods with her ex, Jack. The fix-up was with a red-headed, bird-faced octopus who got a swift knee to the nuts when he got fresh and forgot the meaning of “no.” The experience was enough to make her swear off blind dates forever.

Still, the offers came in over the years from unsuspecting folk who had not yet heard her “Under No Circumstances Shall Ye Set Me Up” manifesto. These people -- cab drivers, co-workers, friends, bosses, her mother, her tailor, her dental hygienist -- were all well-intentioned, but they never really took anything relevant into account when looking for love.

They'd say, “I have a brother (son/friend/dog walker) who is single (divorced/just got out of a bad relationship/incarcerated) who wants to (needs to/should/would if he knew what was good for him) go out with a nice girl like you.”

These collective yentas, invariably married or live-ins, and their star-crossed love connections had little motivation other than the fact that Kate and Prince Not Particularly Charming were both single. Nothing like putting two strangers at a dinner table in front of a hearty helping of small talk with a side of uncomfortable silence, Kate thought. Basing a date on this criterion was the social equivalent of setting up two people because they both had noses…


I won’t give away the meat of the chapter, but let’s just say that Kate eventually goes on another blind date. And it doesn’t go well.


… Kate stood up and walked out. In the one stroke of good luck that evening, a taxi of mercy sat outside the restaurant with its vacant light lit and whisked her across the Hudson to pick up her car. While exiting the Holland Tunnel, her cell phone rang. It was Alex.

“Do not speak. Pat’s a freak. He sent his friend Ed. And now you are dead,” Kate inadvertently rhymed turning this debacle into Dr. Seuss for pathetic singles. (I do not like guys with fake names. Please do not play these foolish games.)

Silence from the other end was broken by a male voice, “Kate, it’s Henry.”

“Ah. Well, pal, same goes for you. Please tell your wife that the next time I want to have an evening like I just had, I’ll head down to the Port Authority, find a man eating from the garbage, ask him to dinner, and then let him shit in my purse.”

“Come on, he was that bad?”

“He wasn’t even there! He sent a stunt double to determine if I’m datable!! Regardless, I’m becoming a lesbian tomorrow. Please be sure to pass it on.”

Kate snapped her phone shut and looked at the rear-view mirror in disgust as her cab driver with no vowels in his name raise his unibrow in interest. "Perhaps a nun would be a safer bet," Kate muttered under her breath as they sped off into the night.



So, what do YOU think of blind dates -- love them, or loathe them? And has anyone EVER been on a good one?

Chemistry

So I’ve been casually wading through a very murky online dating pool for almost six months now (ugh, has it been that long?). I’ve now closed, archived, or otherwise dismissed over SIX THOUSAND "matches." Yeah. Seems impossible, right?

Who do I think I am?

All this time, I’ve been pretty passive about the whole thing. I don’t email first or break the ice or wink or whatever. And it’s not laziness -- it’s more of a control thing (I can hear you rolling your eyes).

Ok, I’m guilty! Like most girls, I like the guys to come to me. And they actually do. It’s just that they’re all wrong. ALL wrong. All. Wrooong.

One guy, for instance, recently wrote me and asked, “Can I put a deposit on you?” I was like, dude, I’m not a hooker. Or a timeshare in the Bahamas.

Delete!

Clearly, this was going nowhere. And since I’ve already tried to decode guys’ profiles with moderate success, I felt it was only fair to re-examine my own. I mean, maybe I’ve been sending out the wrong signals. Maybe I’m asking for all the freaks and losers of the world to contact me. Like a secret message from the mothership.

Anyway, I took a hard look at myself on all three sites. Not at the photos, or even my physical description, but the actual words I used in my profile. What I’d originally written was full of personality. I thought it was a good representation of who I am -- an independent, funny, loyal, curious, hard-working girl with a passion for life. (Did I mention I'm modest, too?)

Unfortunately, nobody wants to date HER. She, evidently, has cooties.

So, last week, I put my marketing hat on to try something different. Instead of giving the consumer… er, I mean the GUY… what I want, I decided to re-write my profile to reflect what HE appears to want -- which is a pretty girl, who’s pretty plain.

First thing I did was downplay anything about my career. Driven? Not me! Funny? No jokes here! I took out everything that made me interesting, really. What I wound up with was a very short, very vanilla profile. I also added a bit of a challenge: I said I’m the kind of girl who is often asked, “How are you still single?” And I ended with a clear call-to-action: “Thanks for reading my profile. If you like what you see, I’d love to hear from you.” Again, I didn’t change any photos (there are 7), or my physical description at all.

Now, to be clear -- NONE of what I wrote in my new (boring) profile is untrue. It’s just that I took a zesty dish, like say, a paella, and instead made chicken soup.

The result? 36 guys contacted me in the past week. Thirty-six. Just to put that into context, in a typical week, I usually hear from no more than 5.

I guess the good news is I’m a good marketer -- and even as picky as I am, I’m actively emailing with 7 guys right now, 4 of which have already asked me out. The bad news is nobody is looking for a smart, funny, independent woman. They all want chicken soup. Maybe this is what I’ve been doing wrong all these years? I don’t know.

And just in case you might think this is a fluke, an equally smart, funny, independent friend who’s much younger than me (and a blonde!) just did the same thing. And guess what? She has the same result. Her inbox is flooded.

Depressing? Unfair? Totally awesome? Give me a piece of your mind in the comments below!

Old Wooden Teeth

Chemistry’s been a total dud (and by that, I do mean both the website AND the nonexistent “spark” from online dating). I can’t understand why every guy I’m matched with on that site makes less than $25k/yr and lives at home. It must say something about my personality, like I’m a caretaker, or a cheap date.

Anyway, after two Match misses, I finally went on a date with a guy from Chemistry. At 38, he was closer to my age. Lives in a walkup in the East Village. Never married and no kids, but unclear on his pet status. He was an even 6’ tall -- a nice change from the Hobbits I’ve been meeting. He called himself a “TV fanatic” (me too!). By day, he’s a composer who writes jingles to pay the bills, and by night he said he is opening an off-Broadway musical. Plus he plays about 85 instruments. Now, I’ve never dated an artsy guy before. I’m generally attracted to the complete Neanderthal opposite. So this was a change of pace. A broadening of my horizons, if you will.

Leading up to this point, I’d been calling him Old Wooden Teeth. Not nice, I know! But in all his photos, he had a very plastic smile that made his teeth seem fake – but not like veneers, or even caps. These choppers looked old school. Like George Washington and his sturdy wooden teeth.

Upon meeting him, I realized he also had a tiny, shrunken Beetlejuice head and exceptionally long ET “Phone Home” fingers. But I digress…

We decided on dinner and a movie. Or more accurately, a movie, then dinner. Wow, I thought, FINALLY a guy who wants to spend more than 20 minutes getting to know me! He was pretty insistent on seeing Rachel Getting Married, because it was the only Oscar-nominated film he missed. Nevermind that I’d already seen it, or that it’s WAY too heavy for a first date, or that it came out like 6 months ago -- he scoured the city to find the last movie theater on Earth that was still playing it.

Okay, fine.

So I arrived, and he’d already purchased 2 tickets. Score! No awkward conversations at the ticket counter! He looked basically normal (save the teeny-tiny head and super-long digits), but I noticed he was wearing a lavender scarf wrapped several times around his throat. I remembered seeing that same dainty scarf at Ann Taylor LOFT -- a thought I quickly dismissed.

We went directly to the snack counter. I decided I was paying, so I’m all ready for my $20 popcorn and a diet coke. He asked for hot herbal tea with honey. The snack guy looked at him like he had ten heads (ten very small heads). We settled on popcorn, a diet coke, and a steaming cup of hot water. Yum.

We made some idle chit-chat where he talked only about himself, his music, his “craft.” Didn’t ask me a single question. I soon realized that he didn’t want to get to know ME at all, he just wanted an audience. Awesome. So, the movie starts and we’re basically the only people there. He decided to dig into the popcorn after all, and our fingers occasionally touched. With the right guy, this is cute -- flirty, even.

Not this time…

I was feeling a little uncomfortable, like maybe I wanted to sit in a different row so we wouldn’t be so close to each other in this big, empty theater. So I did what I always do in these situations -- I built a Wall of Hair. What’s that, you ask? If I’m not attracted to a guy, I’ll flip my massive mane onto whatever side he is sitting. This accomplishes a few things: It creates a natural barrier between our heads, it prevents whispering in my ear, and generally discourages any unwanted coziness.

This has been an effective technique in the past.

So I’m quietly sitting behind my hair wall, going in for popcorn ONLY when the coast is clear, and I start to hear this strange humming. It’s really low, but really annoying. Humm, hummm, humhummm. I realize it’s coming from HIM. Terrific. Mozart goes on like this for about 45 minutes.

We’re well into the rehearsal dinner scene where Anne Hathaway’s character melts down, when I see this movement out of the corner of my eye. He was rooting around in his coat pocket for something. A mint, maybe? A cell phone? An asthma inhaler? Any of those items would have been acceptable.

When I finally peeked through the hedge that was my hair, I realized he was doing something in public, in the middle of a movie, that I only do in the privacy of my own bathroom: He was flossing.

Let me repeat that… He… Was… FLOSSING.

F-L-O-S-S-I-N-G-!-!

I was like, EWWWW, gross! Who DOES that?!? And what guy (who’s not a dentist) just randomly carries floss around? I mean, I hate when popcorn gets stuck in my teeth as much as the next guy. Well, clearly, NOT as much as the next guy. But you catch my drift. Maybe Woody was afraid of his teeth rotting, but this was insane.

Needless to say, I said I was feeling a bit “under the weather” after the movie, and I bailed on dinner. He’s since sent me an email to see if I’m better and to tell me he had a lovely time. I’m not writing him back. Telling a grown man that he should not publicly floss on a first date, is like telling that stinky kid in junior high that it’s time to start wearing deodorant.

It's an awkward conversation that I'd rather avoid entirely.

So give it to me straight -- am I being too harsh on him?? Should I have found his sudden dental hygiene urges charming? Discuss.

Toilet Bowl Boyfriend

In keeping with the rules of Lent, I ordered up a plain cheese pizza tonight. About 15 minutes after I placed the order, my phone rang. Naturally, I assumed it was the lobby telling me the delivery guy was on his way up.

It wasn’t.

My mom was on the other end. She likes to check in to make sure I made it home safely. It’s cute, really. So we chit-chatted for a few minutes, and I think I successfully convinced her I would survive yet another day in the Big Bad City. Then, I happened to mention that I ordered a pizza. Plain cheese – just like Jesus likes it.

You’re familiar with the phrase, “no good deed goes unpunished,” yes? Well, the conversation went a little something like this:

MOM: Oh no…
ME: What?
MOM: It’s just…well, I just thought you were in for the night.
ME: I am in for the night. The pizza comes to me.
MOM: But you have to open the door.
ME: Yes, that’s generally how food gets inside.
MOM: But you don’t know who this guy is.
ME: Yes I do. He’s the pizza delivery guy.
MOM: But you don’t know what he’s up to.
ME: Delivering pizzas, I think.
MOM: He could take advantage of the situation.
ME: What situation?
MOM: That you’re ALONE.
ME: Huh?
MOM: You hear about it all the time on the news.
ME: Mmm-hmm…
MOM: Flush the toilet when the doorbell rings!
ME: Okay…
MOM: Then, turn on the shower. Are you writing this down?
ME: Uh-huh…
MOM: I’ll send you some of Dad’s pants. Underwear too.
ME: (silence)
MOM: You can keep them on the couch.
ME: Awesome.
MOM: That way, he’ll know you’re not alone.

So, let me get this straight: I need to invent a hungry slob of a boyfriend who orders dinner, then leaves his dirty clothes strewn all over the living room BEFORE taking a dump (and a shower!), just to trick a random delivery guy into believing I’m not alone.

Being single is SO complicated.

Mr. Nice Guy

After sifting through thousands of duds, I finally met another guy, also from Match. Luckily, it was not a Columbo repeat performance.

He was 42 and a financial analyst. Got his MBA from NYU. No kids, no pets, never married. Lives on the UWS during the week and spends his weekends in NJ at a house he’s renovating. Physically, he was cute. Twelve year old boy kind of cute (I mean that in the most non-gross way possible). And at 5’9” he was MUCH shorter than I like, but really, what else is new? He probably wasn't thrilled with an amazon like me either.

He first emailed me about 3 months ago. Not a wink, an actual email. With words. I wrote him back because it was apparent he read my profile (mainly because he quoted it back to me), and his profile was thoughtful and sweet. But as the weeks ticked by, he never once asked for my number. Instead, he told me all kinds of stories. He was a regular Charles Dickens. This went on for SO long, I really just thought he wanted to be pen pals.

When Short Stuff finally summoned the courage to ask me on a D-A-T-E, he chose a Starbucks. In Grand Central. Ok, I guess. Though don’t guys ask girls out to dinner anymore? (Too big a commitment, I’m sure).

Anyway, during totally legitimate dinner-eating hours, we spent our time breezily chatting over coffee. Actually, it was hot cocoa for me, I hate coffee (oh RELAX, it’s not like I said I hate puppies).

In our time together, he did a fair amount of annoying name dropping (drives a Mercedes and an Audi, whipped out his platinum Amex for a $7 check, has a Sub-Zero fridge, blabety, blah, blah). I’m guessing that was just the nerves talking to show me that he’s taller when he stands on his money. Eh. About halfway through our coffee/cocoa liquid meal, he ordered up a rice krispie treat, which my stomach and I just assumed he planned to share. Nope. He picked up the whole marshmallow-y hunk and ate it like an apple.

Overall, though, I have to say this guy was actually pretty normal. He listened to me ramble on about nothing, asked questions that would seem to indicate he was interested in future ramblings, told totally regular stories about his family and growing up on Staten Island, had solid recall of our many, many, MANY email exchanges, and basically seemed like an all-around nice guy.

And you know what I realized?

I like jerks. It’s really as simple as that.

I think I've always known it. But UGH, I wish it wasn’t true! Blame it on some mutant relationship gene, I don’t know. But nice guys -- at least THIS nice guy -- was… boring. I wanted to like him. All 5’9” of him. Really, I did! But no. I guess it comes down to this: I need someone to keep me on my toes. And he was kind of like an open book. One that I’ve read before. And then returned to the library.

About a week later, we emailed. I was the first to put it out there -- we’re a bit lacking in the chemistry department. Still, he said he wants to be friends. And I think he actually means it.

Sigh.

A Shameless Plug

Confession time: I’ve never loved Valentine’s Day.

Actually, I don’t think VDay loves me. I mean, what else could possibly explain the box of conversation hearts I picked up last week at CVS? It was not filled with sweet nothings like “Kiss Me” or “Cutie Pie,” but rather, MY box had an inordinate amount of sugar hearts emblazoned with the words “Let’s Read” and “Book Club” in bright pink ink.

Was it a subliminal message from Cupid? Did I accidentally pick up the diabetic librarian snack pack? Maybe it's a sugary lesson in abstinence? I don’t know.

What I DO know is it’s pretty ironic that for the past 3 years at work, on Valentine’s Day, I’ve thrown 14 weddings at the Empire State Building. This is me! The girl who has never, ever been married. And who can count on her thumbs the number of times she’s even been dating someone special on this most auspicious holiday (and honestly, one of those may not even count – he got me a Whatchamacallit, which I do love, but still, an obscure 75 cent candy bar does not a proper VDay gift make).

Anyway, even factoring in the one couple who invariably gets cold feet every year, that still means that I’m responsible for 39 marriages. Yes, somehow, this single gal actually pulls it off! Luckily, what I lack in personal experience, I make up for in Type A organizational skills.

So, here comes my shameless plug…

In this time of fiscal frugality, just skip the overpriced roses, chocolates, and dinners this Saturday, and enjoy a free Sleepless in Seattle-style moment by tuning in for a few live-streaming weddings. It's an exciting marathon day of "I Do's" that starts before dawn and ends after dusk. What could be more romantic?

While I have a soft side that really enjoys helping to make this amazing opportunity possible for deserving couples across the country, the part of VDay I most look forward to happens later in the evening.

You too?

Well, I suspect my night ends a little bit differently than yours. When I get home I’ll take a hot shower (NOT a bath, it’s totally gross to marinate in your own dirty water), put on some comfy PJs and fuzzy socks, and then I’ll pass out in my fluffy bed, exhausted and enjoying the fact that I’m not being bothered by a fine fellow looking to redeem a “love coupon.”

Oh, did I forget to mention that my Whatchamacallit was accompanied by a homemade coupon for a foot rub? Yeah. No wonder we broke up.

So, won't you be my Valentine this Saturday?

Online Dating Decoded

In my 20s, meeting guys was SO much easier. Put on a cute outfit and some lip gloss, then head to a bar with the girls (my friends, that is, not my boobs, although they always came too).

Nowadays, only cougars hang out in bars. Nice girls go online, or so I was told.

So I went online. And in three months, across three different sites, I’ve been matched with literally thousands of guys (2,618 to be exact).

Pretty good odds, no? I mean, if I ever achieved those numbers in a bar, I’d undoubtedly be a raging alcoholic (with a raging STD). On the surface, these odds SEEM great, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that in the world of online dating, nothing can be taken at face value.

Why? Because everybody lies. Except for me (actually, that's a lie). So I’ve created this handy dandy decoder to get to the bottom of things.

You can thank me later…

HIS PHOTOS:
Landscape/travel lead photo = My looks are not my strong suit so I want you to think I’m interesting
Photo with a bunch of guys in it = I'm hoping to confuse you with my better looking friends
Photo with a girl = This is the prettiest girl I know who won’t sleep with me
Photo with a girl cut off or blurred out = This is my ex, you will be compared to her
No photo at all = I’m married or otherwise taken and need to remain incognito
Wearing a baseball hat in all photos = I’m bald
Standing in front of a car = I have a teenie weenie

HIS GENERAL PROFILE:
Typos and bad grammar = I have stains on all my clothes
Social smoker = I smoke regularly and kissing me will be like licking an ashtray
Live with roommates = I live with roommates (and they will watch you pee)

HIS EDUCATION LEVEL:Some college = I have commitment issues
College grad = I can hold my own in beer pong
Ivy league graduate = I’ll never let you forget I’m smarter than you
Graduate degree = I’m still paying off loans

HIS EMPLOYMENT:Self-employed = I’m unemployed
Financial Services = I heard if I say that, girls will sleep with me
Poet = I once wrote a girl’s name on a bathroom stall
Income, I’ll tell you later = I want you to think I’m rich

HIS APPEARANCE:
Athletic = I have a gym membership and watch sports on TV
Physically fit = I will spend more time in front of the mirror than you do
Average = The average American is overweight, and so am I
Heavyset = I sweat in a snowstorm
Huggable = I have more body hair than a buffalo
5’11 and under = My height when I spike my hair and wear my “tall shoes”

HIS PERSONALITY:
Family man = I live with my mom
I don’t play games = I play games
Sensitive = I cry myself to sleep at night
Young at heart = I could be your dad
Emotionally stable = I am medicated
Outgoing = I will regularly embarrass you
Open-minded = I may have a felony on my record
Non-conformist = I have piercings in uncomfortable places

HIS HOBBIES:I am a huge [insert sports team] fan = I am a face-painter
I love the outdoors = I don’t wear deodorant
I like to cook = I haven’t been in a relationship in this decade
I prefer the simple things in life = I’m unemployed

HE'S LOOKING FOR:No drama please = I drove my last girlfriend crazy
Friendship = Um, no I’m not
A soul mate = You will need a restraining order when we break up


So that’s it! I’m sure women lie tons too, but all I can say there is good luck, because with all the makeup and hair dye and Spanx we’re MUCH better at the “illusion” than guys are.

25 Reasons It's Swell to Be Single for the Holidays

Ah, the holidays! For many singletons, it’s that special time of year when your geeky co-workers start to look pretty good, and your exes somehow find themselves on the wrong end of a late-night phone call (after three too many Santa-tinis). But that’s not me. Really!

Truth is, I’d rather be alone than be with someone I’m not interested in. And until I’m a tragic spinster with fourteen cats, I’ll continue thinking that way.

Besides, flying solo definitely has its perks -- especially at the holidays. Here’s 25 reasons that might have YOU wishing you were single too:

1. You don’t have to argue in the cab on the way home about him hitting on an elf
2. Nobody will snore in your ear while you’re trying to have a silent night
3. No sense getting your candy canes in a twist over who’s family to spend the holidays with
4. No need to smile and pretend to like the present his mom gave you
5. You don’t have to go to his holiday party and make small talk with his boss, Senor Halitosis
6. Don’t believe the hype, flannel pajamas and cotton undies are all the rage
7. You don’t have to shave (assuming you enjoy being called Chewbacca Claus)
8. Nobody drinks the last of the egg nog and puts the empty container back in the fridge
9. Your DVR can be full of awful Lifetime holiday movies and no one will erase them
10. No one will yell at you for taking your laptop on Christmas vacation
11. Snow falls from the sky, not from his scalp (‘tis the season for the flakes that don’t melt)
12. You don’t have to dress up in matching reindeer sweaters for your annual holiday card
13. You can eat an entire tray of Christmas cookies and no one will judge
14. You can poke all the assorted chocolates and put the ones you don’t like back in the box
15. You can sing Christmas songs off-key and nobody will throw M&Ms at your head
16. You can be naughty and no one will care but Santa
17. No unnecessary “ornaments,” like stinky socks and dirty boxers, hanging around the house
18. The toilet seat is always where you want it (this is a gift that keeps on giving all year long)
19. No scruff to make your face as red as Rudolph’s nose
20. Snuggling is overrated, having all the blankets to yourself on a cold winter’s night is priceless
21. Two empty stockings = twice the presents
22. You can take the money you would have spent on his gifts and spend it on booze
23. No painful trips through the nutcracker, aka when are you two FINALLY getting married?
24. No fear of broadcasting on Facebook that you’ve moved to Splitsville, Population: You
25. Think of the money you’ll save on mistletoe!

Season’s greetings!

(See anything I missed? List it below!)

What a Waste of Lip Gloss

So I went on my first date with someone I “met” online.

The guy was from Match. He virtually winked at me, we exchanged several anonymous emails, then spoke on the phone and texted. On paper, he seemed pretty good...

He had a cleverly-written profile that used big words and didn't contain any grammatical errors. 43 year old hedge fund manager. Never married. No kids, no pets. Owned his apt on the UWS. Penn undergrad and Wharton MBA. Former college-level tennis player. A “people person” with a “feminine side ingrained by sisters.” Said he ate healthy, and ran or biked 15-30 miles per week. Had most of his hair. At a reported 5’10”, he was shorter than I normally like, but I thought I should keep an open mind.

We decided to meet.

Based on his pictures (there were 10), I arrived at Soho Park expecting someone who looked like David Addison from the Blue Moon Detective Agency. What I got was someone who looked more like Columbo. His suit was all rumpled, he had a belly like Santa, and SUCH big dark bags under his eyes that I’m confident Delta would have charged him a handling fee for merely setting foot on a plane. And even though I was in heels that made me just under 6’, he was no 5’10”.

Okaaaay. Keep an open mind.

We quickly sat down and there was this weird exchange with the waitress. She brought him something that looked like a coke or an iced coffee in a to-go cup. He sent it away and ordered a glass of white wine while I ordered a beer. Then she brought menus. “We won’t be eating,” he declared, and started rapidly firing questions at me. It felt very much like an interview, not at all like a conversation, and he kept asking me things we’d already discussed on the phone. Still, I tried to be breezy and light, tell stories, BE HUMAN. His eyes darted all around, and he checked his BlackBerry 7 times.

When I did manage to squeak a question in, I got mostly vague answers. “So, how many siblings do you have?” “A few.” “How long have you lived in New York?” “A while.” “Where’s your office?” “Downtown.” He fidgeted in his seat like a kid that had to go potty. But I did get one direct answer when I asked if his parents still lived in Florida. “They’re dead,” he replied.

Everything I said was met with the same reaction, an exaggerated, “Woooow.” We started out by talking about work, so at first, I thought the wows meant he was impressed. But when I said I liked pepperoni pizza and he said wow, I knew this date was over. He downed his glass of wine while I was only halfway thru my beer, and practically jumped out of his skin asking for the check.

It was actually pretty rude -- I was like, wait, YOU have had enough of ME? Oh, ok.

It was very awkward outside, so I went to shake his hand, as if to say, “Good luck, Freak.” Instead, he went in for a shoulder hug and an air-kiss on the cheek. But one cheek wasn’t enough -- apparently he thinks he’s European, because he barked, “One more!” and air-kissed my other cheek. I was like, ewww, you weird little midget!

And with that, I jumped in the first cab I saw, went straight home, and ate an entire pepperoni pizza.

Wow.