Dear Internet

I don't think I've every actually written a "dear John" letter to break up with someone. I usually do that in person. But when I decided to stop writing this blog, who should I have sent the letter to? The whole Internet? Awkward.

In any case, Internet, I'm sure you've figured out that I haven't been posting. It isn't you, though. It's me. I love you for your blogs, your news articles based on twitter feeds, your catchphrases ("Clean ALL THE THINGS!"), and your videos about sloths. But eventually I decided I didn't want to spend 20 hours per week writing blog entries. [Yes, that is actually how much time it took.]

So, since I could, I just stopped. I didn't even feel bad about it. It was the easiest break up ever, at least for me. I do appreciate that some of my dedicated readers felt that I had let them down, and I felt bad about that. My readers were awesome and encouraging, and I really loved it when my friends would quote me to me in the middle of conversations. The most often quoted:

• "It's either a good date or a good story."
• "A tip for the gentlemen out there: self-loathing is actually not as attractive a characteristic in a date as you might think."
• "Did you just make a joke about shooting my dog in the head?"
• "HOBO TOOTH! HOBO TOOTH!"

Sadly, no one has ever used the phrase "gnocchi pimp" to me, which I think is a gross oversight.

Occasionally, I meet someone at a party and they ask about what I do for fun. When I say that I write, they ask to read something of mine. For those people, here is a list of a few of my favorite entries. I hope you enjoy them. For dedicated readers, if you have a favorite line, please add it to the comments. Thanks for being so supportive while I was writing this. I'll let you know if I start a new project.

The glass is half full. Of men.

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/07/glass-is-half-full-of-men.html

Something fishy

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/08/something-fishy.html

Seeing the signs

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/08/seeing-signs.html

The perils of dating and ravioli

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/09/perils-of-dating-and-ravioli.html

What are the odds?
http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/09/what-are-odds.html

Out on a limb
http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2009/10/out-on-limb.html

The value of life experience

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2010/02/value-of-life-experience.html

Princesses and unicorns

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2010/06/princesses-and-unicorns.html

Mysteries of the universe (part 1)

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2010/09/mysteries-of-universe.html

Oh, my lord (part 2)

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2010/10/oh-my-lord.html

Truth in advertising

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2011/02/truth-in-advertising.html

Liar, liar, pants on fire

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2011/05/liar-liar-pants-on-fire.html

Picky, picky, picky

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2011/07/picky-picky-picky.html

The meaning of life, love, and salad

http://whenthehalfgodsgo.blogspot.com/2011/11/meaning-of-life-love-and-salad.html

 

And for the folks who ask for advice on dating profiles, look at:

• Princesses and unicorns
• Truth in advertising
• Liar, liar, pants on fire
• Out on a limb

 

Thanks again,

Jen

Wishful thinking

Stereotypes are bad, Internet. They encourage you to make assumptions about people, and you should really appreciate them each as the wonderful individuals that they are. And stereotypes are frequently wrong! For example, based on stereotypes, you might assume that everyone in Seattle works in software or airplane assembly. You'd think that they'd all be wearing fleece and Gore-Tex, and that everyone would spend their spare time in coffee shops, hiding out from the rain.

This is so not true! In fact, I'm sitting in a coffee shop right this minute, and only 75% of the people in here are wearing fleece or Gore-Tex!

Of course I am wearing both fleece and Gore-Tex, because it is pouring out and I didn't want to soaked on the way to my daily coffee, Kindle-reading, and subtle eavesdropping session. Oh, the joys of eavesdropping in coffee shops. It is just like having a life without actually having to talk to people.

On some days, I am not so good at the talking to people part. I'm better and the "listen and snicker quietly to myself" part.

Like this morning, at the table to the right of me, the Universe has given me the heart-warming drama of mother and child. You know the one. You have seen it for yourself, I'm sure.

Girl: I want a hot chocolate.

Mom: You have a hot chocolate.

Girl: Too hot!

Mom: Blow on it a little to cool it off.

Girl: No!

Mom: Sophia, you are not acting like the little lady I would expect a three year-old to act like.

Girl: I have boots.

Mom: Yes. You have kitten boots.

Girl: Boots. Boots. Boots. Boots. (kicks her chair leg, repeatedly)

Mom: Yes, they are lovely boots. Please stop kicking the chair.

Girl: Boots. Boots. Boots. Boots. (continues kicking)

Mom: Sophia, I would like to enjoy my coffee before we go to playgroup...

Girl: BOOOOOOOTS.

Mom: …because I really need my caffeine today. And I would like you to behave properly.

Girl: I want a hot chocolate.

They continue in this loop for a while. Man, I am so glad this isn't me. I don't have the patience to be a mom. The boots are adorable though. I wonder if they make those in adult sizes?

Mom: Sophia--

Girl: NO.

Mom: Young lady, I--

Girl: NO.

Mom: Why are you saying no? You don't even know what I am going to say? Wouldn't it be more effective to find out if you agree with me before you answer?

Girl: NO.

Mom: For example, since you aren't listening to me, how would you know if I were about to say--

Girl:  (kicks chair more loudly, and with malice)

Mom: If you want something, you'd be more likely to get it if you used your words.

Girl: I want a hot chocolate.

Mom: You have a hot chocolate. With extra whipped cream.

Girl: Too hot.

Mom: Well, wait it out. (turns out her cell phone and starts reading Facebook while sipping her coffee)

Girl: I want it now.

Mom: Hmm. Uh-huh.

Girl: I want to go to Disneyland. (accusingly)

Mom: Hmm. I see. (slurps)

Girl: I want a pony. (defiantly)

Mom: Ohhh. (types in status that may say something like "shoot me now")

Girl: I want a sparkly dress. (plaintively)

Mom: Mmm.

Girl: I want ice cream. (authoritatively)

Mom: Uh-huh. (clicks "like" on some meme-photo)

Girl: I want a puppy. (steely-eyed glare)

Mom: Huh.

Girl: I want ice cream. (flaring her nostrils)

Mom: You don't say. (slurp)

Girl: (screeches her chair back, puts both hands on the table, leans forward and screams towards the top of her mother's head) I WANT A ICE CREAM PUPPY!

Everyone in the coffee shop turns to stare. No sound is heard other than the steaming of milk.

Mom: (very quietly) You do? I do too! But ice cream puppies are so hard to find. Oh, wait! I know! I know how to get an ice cream puppy!

Girl: (skeptically) How?

Mom: We can wish to the Very-Quiet-Wish Fairy! She's totally going to bring us an ice cream puppy!

Girl: Is that a real fairy?

Mom: Yes! She is! And she is an extremely powerful fairy, in the hierarchy of fairies.

Girl: She is?

Mom: Oh, yeah, totally. She totally outranks both the Tooth Fairy and Santa. But she is very, very picky about which wishes she grants.

Girl: (thinking)

Mom: There really is only one way to get her to give you want you want.

Girl: What?

Mom: You have to make a very quiet wish.

Girl: Like this? I want--

Mom: Oh, no. That is MUCH too loud.

Girl: (quieter) I want a--

Mom: Nope. Uh-uh. Waaaaay too loud. I can still hear you, and we are in a coffee shop full of posturing hipsters.

Girl: (quieter still) I want a ice--

Mom: Ehhh. That's closer. Try again.

Girl: (her lips barely moving) I want a ice cream puppy.

Mom: That's great! Good job, Sophia. She'll really like that. Now you just have to say your wish-- very quietly-- 300 times.

Girl: How many is 300?

Mom: Shhh! Just keep saying it, and I'll let you know when you can stop.

Girl: (nearly miming) I want a ice cream puppy. I want a ice cream puppy. I want--

Mom: (turns back to her phone)

Nicely played,  lady. Nicely played.

It's rare I get to eavesdrop on such a master. Most of the time I listen to people complain about their coworkers or their exes, and as far as I can tell, no one knows how to handle either.

I sipped my coffee and started reading my Kindle again. Thank you, Universe, for that kind gift of entertainment. And, oh what's this?  A pair of twenty-something college types, a guy and an girl, sit down at the table to my left. They are exuding an energy best described as "giddy first date".

Oh, Coffee Shop Eavesdropping Fairy, you are too kind to me.

Tall Thin Blond: I know, and she was like, "Get that thing away from me!"

Chubby Guy in a Fedora: Ha! That's hilarious!

Tall Thin Blond: She was sooooo drunk.

Chubby Guy in a Fedora: Drunk people are hilarious.

You know how in romantic comedies there is always some funny but normal looking  guy dating the ridiculously attractive blond super model type? I have always thought that was a figment of Hollywood. Until now, since it is like I'm sitting next to Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogen.

These two are behaving exactly as you'd expect people to be on a first date.  She is hanging on his every word. He is gazing longingly at her boobs only when she looks away. Ah, new love.

Please don't think I'm judging. I admire them. Dating is like a role playing game: danger lurks around every corner, and just when you think you've gotten the hang of it, the malicious Game Master declares that you have been eaten by a Grue.

Secretly I'm rooting for the guy. Normally I'd be on the girl's side, but in this case my allegiance is with the smart, funny one on a date with someone way out of his league. Gotta love an underdog, even if he appears to have been dressed collaboratively by every guy in his frat.  Awww, it's so cute when they try.

Against all odds, it seems to be working out for him.

Blond: I know, right?

Fedora: True story!

Blond: (laughs)

Fedora: And then  Pepper Spray Cop turns to Hilary on a Cell Phone..

Blond: (laughs)

Fedora: …and says, "I don't remember leaving THAT there."

Blond:   You are so funny!

Fedora: Oh, pshaw.

Blond: (slurps from her blended iced coffee drink, and smiles with her eyes over the edge of her cup)

Fedora: (smiles back, looks a little smug at how well this date is going)

Beware the smugness, dude. The universe does not appreciate the smugness.

Fedora: Hold on a sec. Let me grab a Stranger.

Blond: Who?

Fedora: (gets up, goes to front of shop, gets a free newspaper, holds it up triumphantly)

Blond: What's that?

Fedora: The Stranger. It's like the best paper ever. You really aren't from around here are you?

Blond: I told you! I grew up on a farm!

Oh, playing the Innocent angle. Nice choice, Blondie.

Fedora: Let's see what we have today. Arty photo. Movie reviews. Political rant. Sex advice column.

Blond: You read a sex advice column?

Fedora: No, of course not. I don't need a sex advice column.

Blond: (raises eyebrow)

Fedora: Here it is. The personal ads.

Blond: You need personal ads?

Fedora: These things are the best. Just listen.

Where are you going with this, Fedora?

Fedora: "In search of someone to beat me and make me weed their garden. Organic pesticides only."

Blond: What?

Fedora: That's what it says! Someone's looking for that.

Blond: No way.

Fedora: Way. Here's another one. "Long range trucker. Ex body builder. Looking for a relationship with someone who isn't afraid of a man in a lacy, pink thong."

Blond: What does that mean?

Fedora: Look at this one. "I'll be your young lycanthrope. You be my sparkling vampire. Jell-O pudding optional."

Blond: This is kind of weird. Are people in Seattle all like this?

Uh-oh, Fedora. Pay attention. Your lovely blond is looking decidedly uncomfortable, and you are not noticing because you are too busy scanning the "Other seeking" category.

Fedora: How about this? "Young, hot stud. Looking for two women for a three way."

Blond: Is everyone in Seattle like that?

Fedora: What? That one's not so weird.

Blond: Weird enough.

Fedora: Come on, that one is perfectly normal. See, here's another one, "Married couple looking for bisexual woman to complete our threesome. Pictures of us on request."

Blond: Whatever.

Oh, I see where you are going with this, Fedora, and this path is fraught with danger.

Fedora: Come on. Everyone does that.

Blond: (drinks icily)

Fedora: Would you, like, be into that?

Blond: (steely-eyed glare)

Fedora: Because there could be a dinner fairly nice in it for you.

My head whipped around to stare. I'm sorry, Internet, I couldn't help it. No more Kindle façade for me.

Should I:

1. Interrupt him and give him advice.
2. Interrupt her and give her advice.
3. Stay quiet. One doesn't interrupt other people's dates.

Vote for one of these three choices by using the poll at the top of the page. Voting closes on 4/30.

While you are at it, add a comment to suggest a phrase that I can include in the next chapter. Go on. Challenge me.

While we are on the subject of irony

In one corner: Alanis Morissette.

In the other corner: Ed Byrne, an Irish comedian who is wearing his clever trousers tonight.

Hopefully that will keep you busy while I'm writing the next post. Thanks for the comments with inventive phrases; keep them coming!

Recalculating route

Yes, I haven't posted in a while. Let me tell you about that.

On Saturday night, I was standing in a crowded room, wearing a t-shirt that could best be described as "trashy", eating sushi, and talking about Zorg. And--

Actually, let me back up.

 

The last several years, my life has literally been a story. This has been a fascinating experiment. It isn't often that the new-age-hippie-woo-woo claim that "you create your own reality" is so true. I've really valued the chance to view my life with some perspective, to look for the humor in bad dates, and to get such wonderful encouragement about my writing from my friends. (Since I have never advertised this blog, my readership is comprised of people I know in real life. And some web-crawling search bot from Estonia; that checks in regularly too.)

In addition to the perspective and encouragement, I had something to look forward to. At some point, I'd meet a great guy, and then I could smoothly end the blog and get on with the next phase in my life. Ah, a happy ending to my tragicomic dating dramas.

But no guy showed up, and my real life adventures were significantly more tragic than comic. I didn't want to write about that.

A little pathos makes for a compelling narrative; a lot of pathos is just a wicked downer. And I was pretty tired of bumming myself out by thinking of bad dates; I wanted to do other things with my time.

Right, so. What to do instead? I came up with a lot of options.

• I could change the format, making the story into a play, free verse, or a novel.
• I could post every day, even when I had nothing to say, which would likely result in a lot of discussion of what I had for lunch. (A burrito.)
• I could open it up for everyone to talk about their bad dates, instead of just mine.
• I could delete it and move on with my life. I have plenty of other things to keep me entertained.
• I even considered making it into a choose-your-own-adventure game. (Ha ha. I crack myself up.)

The status quo, ignoring the blog and letting it languish, was a pretty lame option. I just wasn't sure what to choose. Decisions have a way of influencing everything you do after. The only do-overs you get are changes in what you do next, not what you already did.

It's like with  my mother's GPS, who huffily announces "RECALCULATING ROUTE, RECALCULATING ROUTE" whenever my mom defies instructions and goes left instead of right. (For the record, my mom then  shouts back at her phone, "THERE WAS A DETOUR, BITCH! DEAL WITH IT.")

I'd spent a lot of time thinking about this lately, so on Saturday night I decided to go to a friend's birthday party and let the question stew in the back of my mind. Maybe the stars would look kindly on me and point to a solution. And as a worst case scenario, I could at least enjoy myself while dressed ironically in a t-shirt that was perplexingly demeaning to both women and electrical tape.

To clarify, this is ironic because I am pro-woman and am very classy. Also, I have nothing against electrical tape.

In any case: It's Saturday, I'm dressed in a ridiculous costume to please the birthday girl, and I'm headed to a party where my friends will appreciate my ironic shirt and help distract me from my writing-induced angst.

The party is already hopping by the time I arrive. There's a guy in a trench coat on the deck, setting up a giant telescope to watch the moon. Stepping inside, I see a crowd of people who have all interpreted the costume theme creatively. There's  an air-brushed t-shirt, some big hair, several programming t-shirts, some jorts, a sparkly disco shirt, a plaid hunting outfit, a ball gown, and a pair of garbage bags.  Though to be fair, some of those people might not have been in costumes. One can never quite tell with this crowd.

"Hey, Jen!" said Air-brushed T-shirt.

"Hey! Good to see you. How's work?"

"It's fine. But your outfit is fantastic! You are rockin' that look. You should dress that way all the time!"

"Uh, thanks, I guess. How's the new house?"

"It's great," he says, but he's too busy doing head-to-toe body scans on me to really answer. I excuse myself, grab a soda, and head up to another friend.

"Hey, Jen!"

"Hey, Plaid Hunting Outfit. How are you feeling?"

"Ehhhh. OK. Not quite better yet."

"What did you have?"

"Bronchitis."

"Ohhh, that sucks. Bronchitis is horrible. How long have you had it?"

"Two months."

"Ugh. I'm sorry. It sounds like it is really sticking with you."

"Yes, like the image of your shirt will stick with me forever," he said.

"Ah, yes. It really dances along the line between good taste and bad taste, and then makes a decisive leap towards utter tackiness, doesn't it?"

"The electrical tape really--"

"Oh, say no more," I said.

"-- goes beyond--"

"No, really. Please say no more."

I work my way over to the food, and run into someone else I know.

"Hey, Jen."

"Hey, Programming T-shirt. How are you doing?"

"I'm doing very well. What are you up to?"

I sigh. "Well, apparently I'm wearing this shirt." I back up a bit in the crowd so he can see.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you are."

"It's ironic, because I'm so classy," I said, but he didn't hear me because he was staring too loudly. Sigh.

I scan the room for a better option, and see my blessedly female friend Olivata Luna, the cheerful master gardener, who is wearing a fetching sparkly disco top and a stellar pair of earrings. She won't feel the need to cast me in the porn film running in her head. Plus maybe I could get some advice on getting a rat out of my compost bin.

"Hey, Olivata!" I shouted as I wove through the crowd.

"Hey, Jen!"

"How's the garden?"

"Great!" she said, then said a bunch of Latin that was probably plant names but sounded like "epithelial sarcophagus pachyderm".

"Excellent!" I said, and nodded as if I understood. She's a much better gardener than I am. I mostly plant pretty flowers and hope they live.

"How have you been?" she asked, still smiling. Ah, so nice to see a friendly face.

"Good. Tired. Working hard. You?"

Her face fell instantly. "Eh. I'm shutting down my online dating profile." She curled her lip in disgust.

"Oh. No suitable suitors?"

"No. Not even. No." She shook her head vigorously.

"I'm sorry. A wonderful guy should find you and treat you--"

"Not like a total jerk?" she said.

"Yes. Not like a total jerk."

"Could I also get one that bathes regularly? Because my luck so far has been poor."

" My luck hasn't been much better. And it takes so much timeto date. I just needed a break. My profile is on hold, but not deleted," I said.

"So, if you aren't dating as much," she smiled devilishly, "then you have more time for writing."

"Argh."

"You haven't posted in a while…"

"Blergh."

"…and I always enjoy reading it." She looks hopeful again, her star earrings dancing in orbit.

I sigh. My dilemma spills from my mouth in one incoherent and whiny whole.   "I want to write, but I don't know what to do. I'm thinking I should change the blog somehow, but I have a lot of choices and I'm not sure which one is best. And what if I choose wrong? Or what if I do something different and then give up? I might give up! And then the whole Internet would mock me."

"They aren't going to mock you."

"Easy for you to say. Your dating life isn't published for all the world to see. Maybe I should switch to writing fiction. Then I could control what happens."

"Yes!" she said as she grabbed both my arms for emphasis." You make your own reality, you know."

"Right."

"Oh! You should make it a choose-your-own-adventure game!"

"You know, I've actually thought of that," I said.

"Do it!"

"Did someone say 'choose-your-own-adventure game'?" said Plaid Hunting Outfit. "Because just the other day I was reading about a Zorg generator."

Which, as I said earlier, was not the weird part of my evening. I stayed at the party a bit longer, meeting new people, catching up with old ones. After a while I got tired of being jostled, of being pushed to and fro by the crowd. So I found a quiet bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the party through the wall. How does that poem go? Something about "only the gods know the path of the stars"? No, I'm pretty sure I'm misquoting it.

But perhaps I am philosophically  correct nonetheless. There isn't any way to know what is going to happen. I'm trying to make the right choice, and there really isn't a "right" choice, just a next choice.

I got my coat, looked at the moon through the telescope for a while, and drove home. I have to choose something. What should I choose? I have to choose something. What should I choose?

Once home, I greeted the dog, let her outside for some fresh air, and checked my phone one last time for the night.

Which is when the weird thing happened.

There was an e-mail message from Blogger, where I host www.halfgods.com, telling me that someone had left a comment. That's odd. Only one person has ever left a comment before. And--No, wait. Really?

The comment was from someone I don't know, who found the blog by searching on Google.

Does that mean that people are reading this?

Oh! Hello, Internet! When I addressed you as my readership before, I thought I was just being ironic. I didn't think that anyone was actually paying attention.

Geez, I should really post more often.

Okay, fine, Internet. I'll make you a deal. If you are actually reading, then I'll actually write.

You:

1. Add a comment to any post. Flattery is good.
2. Suggest a phrase ("rental goats", "fluffernutter and pumpernickel", "space ninjas") or a situation ("hanging from the balcony", "at the coffee shop", "while ogling Olympic swimmers") and I'll pick one to incorporate into a future post.

I have no control over what you suggest, and you have no control over what I do with that suggestion.

Ha! You don't know the paths of the stars either, do you? No, you don't, because from now on, I'm writing fiction.

The meaning of life, love, and salad

Ah, the age old philosophical questions.


"What is the meaning of life?"
"What is truth?"
"Is there a God?"
"Am I single because of bad timing, or do I just suck?"



That last one is frequently phrased as "destiny or free will?" but we all know what they meant.



And I don't have an answer for you. I studied computer science, not philosophy. I think it is possible that all philosophical questions basically boil down to questions about love, and I can't answer any of them. My algorithms are useless here.



When in doubt, fall back on math. In a philosophy of love I'm just playing the odds: if it is all a matter of time then I don't need to do anything; if it is all up to me then I better get to work. Making my self somehow more awesome wouldn't stop fate, so just in case I could find something that I'm not entirely awesome at and improve.



For example, flirting. The other day, at the bus stop, there was this cute guy I really wanted to talk to.

Bus stop guy: Good morning!
Jen: Glkjflfflpp!
Bus stop guy: Pardon?
Jen: (laughs awkwardly)
Bus stop guy: Lovely weather we are having, isn't it?
Jen: Oh, yeah. Mbmmmblppkinhg?



No, really. That's exactly what I sounded like.



I was trying to be all witty and articulate, but while I was talking there was this whole tape running in the back of my head with a second-by-second critique, plus at the same time the thirteen-year-old girl inside of me was squealing, "OMG he's so cuuuuuuute!" The end results was me saying everything simultaneously.



Mmm, yeah. A possible area for improvement.



So just in case my eventual marriage hinges on me actually exhibiting some social skills, I headed to the nearest bookstore chain and made a beeline to the Love and Relationships aisle. I was ready to solve this problem like the foxy-hot geek I am. By throwing books at it.



There were more than enough options, including three about "rules", a series involving increments of time ("Get married in 90 seconds or less"), several titles including the word "secret", and one requiring that I exhibit "radiant purity". I have no proof it won't work. And I'm committed to the idea of being the best me possible, especially if that me gets a date.



It's an opportunity for science!

I picked a dozen books, read them in a weekend, highlighted the important parts, used color-coded sticky notes to flag the themes across the collection, and wrote up a summary for myself. I considered laminating it, but decided that would be overkill.

The upshot of my research was this: there were lots of logical, simple things I could do to be better at talking to guys. So many things, in fact, that if I tried to do all of them at once my head would surely explode. But no problem: I can handle this.

I chose one behavior that all of the books mentioned: people like you more when you smile at them when you greet them. Makes perfect sense. Well within my current capabilities. It was just a matter of demonstrating the behavior with greater consistency.

I decided on a plan: while walking my dog after dinner that night, every time I walked past someone, it didn't matter who, I'd smile at them. If they responded in kind, I might follow up with some socially appropriate vague comment about the weather, an item of their clothing, or a local sports team. At the end of the walk, which would take approximately 20 minutes, I'd analyze whether I thought smiling had influenced how the subjects had reacted to me. Perfectly reasonable. If it did work, I might extend it to other, more demanding situations like parties, or even dates.



With scientific inquiry on my side, off the dog and I went, and frankly I was a little nervous. I normally consider myself a confident person, so naturally when I am having a non-confident moment I berate myself until I'm hiding under the table.



Oh, crap. First subject. A woman walking a Chihuahua. I decide as a warm-up, I'll smile at the dog instead of her. The dog seems unperturbed, so I count this as a success.

Second subject. Deep breath. An older man walking slowly. As we approach, I watch him, make eye contact, and…smile. He looks a little surprised, but smiles back. Hey, that wasn't so bad! Plus I probably made a lonely old man's day, since he looked so surprised to be treated with kindness by a stranger.

Third subject. A woman about my age, listening to her iPod. I adopt a casual manner, as if I'm just walking down the street with my dog, then as she comes in range…eye contact…smile…success! She smiles back as well, with a gleam of delight in her eyes, if I do say so myself. This is going great! I'm a natural!

Fourth subject. A man in a Mariner's jersey proclaiming him to be Ichiro. (I'm fairly sure he isn't actually Ichiro.) I'll up the ante here and actually speak. Coming in range…eye contact…smile…"Ichiro!" I say, giving a thumbs up. He laughs and gives me a thumbs up as well, "Yeah!"

Clearly, I'm awesome at this. The rest of the walk continues to be one stellar encounter after another. Kid on a skateboard. Smile. Woman with twins. Smile. Couple taking their lattes for a walk. Smile and smile.

Then I see, headed toward me on the sidewalk, a truly demanding test-case: a guy, my age, who is totally my type. I can do it. I can do it. I will make eye contact. I will smile at him. I will speak to him about the fact that we are wearing the same t-shirt. It's fate! I can do it. I can do it. "Heyyyyy," I say, "Nice shirt!"

The universe holds its breath, then…the guy smiles. Ear to ear no less, with a bit of a chuckle.



Yes!



I am a rock star of social interaction! I could write these silly books! I'll have a boyfriend by the end of the week with these skills!



I practically skip the rest of the way home. The dog can hardly keep up with me. By the time we unlock the door, I am nearly glowing with pride at my heretofore unknown prowess in winning over the masses. This dating thing will be easier this time. With a little practice, I'll get better and better. My own little self-improvement project. I'm in such a good mood that I leave the dog at home and head off to the grocery store, where I decide I'll continue to Smile For Science. Smile at the guy who plays harmonica for spare change. Smile at the girl restocking the flowers. Smile at the deli clerk.



"Hey, Jen," I hear behind me.

"Hey! How are you?!" I say. It's an ex-coworker of mine that I haven't seen in a few years. I'd always thought he maybe didn't like me much, but there he was: talking to me in front of the deli cold case for twenty minutes. About his job, his new bike, my garden, my dog. Perhaps we'd always been friends and his standoffishness was just my imagination, born of a lack of self-confidence. Perhaps I'd always been good at this, but had only been doubting myself.



Self-improvement, indeed. Here I was, thinking that I needed to read a dozen books on how to talk to guys, and my only problem was self-doubt. No secret here; this is a problem which, since it is all in my head, can be solved the instant I wish.



When I returned home from the grocery store, I had self-confidence like a philosophy major with straight As.



To give myself the benefit that everyone else was enjoying, I flip on the bathroom light and turn to the mirror to give myself a stunning smile. "Hey, there gorgeou--"



What. The. #%$*.



I lean in to the mirror, to make sure my eyes aren't deceiving me. Nope, no trick of the light.



One of my two front teeth is completely and entirely covered by a piece of spinach. I look like when Marcia and Carol Brady dressed up like hobos for the school talent show and blacked out strategic teeth to look picturesque. An entire tooth! In the middle of my smile!



Instantly, my brain runs a high-speed montage of every person who had smiled at me since dinner. Every shocked, amused, puzzled smile. I thought they were friendly, but they were really just surprised to see me look like a crack whore.



Oh, god! That cute guy in the t-shirt!



And, hey! Wait a minute! I talked to that coworker in front of the deli case for 20 minutes and he didn't say anything! Grrrr.



Well, let's review the experiment. I smiled at a dozen people. They all smiled back. It is unclear whether my smiling at them made them like me more, due to the influence of a leafy confounding variable. Experiment would need to be repeated at a later date.



And one thing I'm sure of: that guy in front of the deli case? Not a friend, no matter how friendly he'd seemed. Because forget dating-- I'll tell you my philosophy on how to be a friend. A friend would have shoved his pointy finger right in my face and shouted, "HOBO TOOTH! HOBO TOOTH!"



As for the question of love being controlled by fate or awesomeness, I'm not sure. But I suspect that brushing my teeth would help either way.

Why procrastination is bad

I've learned my lesson, Internet.

My last post was about my ambivalence about online dating and my non-ambivalent feelings about Kim Kardashian's declaration on the cover of People that she hadn't expected to be 30 and still unmarried. It was possibly not my most charitable post.

In truth, I bear no ill will to Miss Kardashian. She was just on my mind because I'd read about her while waiting for my dentist appointment. And before you accuse me of jealousy, I want to clarify that I am not jealous of her money (more trouble than it is worth, I've heard), her reality t.v. show (I am a total dork in front of cameras), or of her magazine cover shoot art directors that bizarrely think she needs to be Photoshopped (crazy people are annoying).

In order to show you that I was a perfectly nice and non-bitter person, I wrote a whole post about how I wished Kim Kardashian and That Tall Basketball Guy well on their engagement. The post talked about how lucky she was to meet someone she loved so much. I said all kinds of nice things about love.

But her engagement was really short, and I was kind of slow about putting the post up. And then suddenly she was married, her wedding was broadcast on E, and the guests were rumored to have gotten flip-flops with the bride and groom's names. Oops.

So I revised the post. I talked instead about weddings and wished the happy couple well on their marriage. I was going to post that a few days ago, but then I went to a party and figured that there was no harm in posting the next morning.

The next morning I woke up and my favorite DJs informed me that Mrs. Kardashian is getting divorced. (Don't believe me? 29,300,000 Bing search results are unlikely to all be wrong.)

I admit it: my first thought was "CRAP. I have to write that post AGAIN?!" This is because I am a terrible person.

My second thought was, "Poor people. That's horrible."

Seriously, getting divorced under any circumstance must be terrible. Getting divorced after a few months is embarrassing. Getting divorced in front of media scrutiny would be... hell on earth.

Now I have a new hobby: I'm writing in my gratitude journal 29,300,000 times how glad I am that my breakups are of no interest to TMZ, with the hopes that I can ward off the bad karma that I surely deserve from using Miss Kardashian as blog fodder. As soon as I finish that, I'll rewrite my old blog post again. Really, I'll get right on that.

Keeping up

I remember when I learned the meaning of the word ambivalent. I was happy that I'd learned such a useful word, but simultaneously sad that I'd spent so long thinking it meant "dizzy".

It's easy to be ambivalent about dating, especially online dating.

• On one hand: a bazillion guys. On the other hand: too many creeps and weirdoes.
• On one hand: in the long run, you only hit what you aim at. On the other: other people are out of your control. You may need to wait this out.
• On one hand: Society would really like to convince you that you will only be happy if you are dating someone. On the other hand: Society can suck it. I'm awesome regardless of whether or not I'm dating someone.
• On the hand that generally wins: I'd really like to date someone who likes me and treats me well. I'm not doing that now. I should probably try something else.

Oh, the dilemma! Be exactly who you are, but since you are trying so hard and it isn't working, be different.

I do try both. I try to be the best version of me, to be grateful for what I have, to trust that things are working out as they should. I also try to get better at things. Better at being happily single and better at being dateable.

Sigh. And then there is Kim Kardashian.

Kim Kardashian is fond of smiling at me from the cover of People magazine, proclaiming things like "I thought I'd be married by now".
"Oh, Kim," I said outloud to the cover of People, "my heart weeps for you! Yours is a tragedy for the ages! To be 30 years old and unmarried, that is a fate worse than death!" I rolled my eyes and groaned in frustration at society's relentless marketing campaign for coupledom. Perhaps what Kim needs is a little time to be her own person, with no man and no magazine cover.

On the other hand, Kim's complaints aren't that very far from what I think about myself sometimes. And you know the old adage: People in glass houses shouldn't throw People magazine across the room in a huff.

According to Facebook, I know people who know a clever woman who got sick of Facebook telling her via targeted ads that (since she was single) she must be fat, lonely, and unloveable. She made her own Facebook ads, advertising ideas of her own. Subvert the sad-making paradigm, technologically savvy sister!

I watch her Ignite talk and think, "I should totally rage against the pressures of society! Who cares what anyone thinks?!"
Except me, and I think I'd like a date for Friday night.

My ambivalence was definitely affecting my online dating personality. There were lots of evenings where I would avoid the room with my laptop, knowing that if I didn't sign in, I wouldn't have to deal with my suitors. I was drowning in online dating e-mail queries, and I couldn't even keep up with them. All perfectly fine guys, but not guys I wanted to date. But I really should, so I'd send them mail, but then I wouldn't want to reply to their mail, but that would be rude, so I'd reply, and they'd ask me for coffee, and I'd say yes, and tell myself that I should get out of the house. It would be good for me.

And then I forgot. Internet, I admit it. I stood someone up because I didn't remember that I had a date with them. Which makes me (say it together now...) a terrible person. Really!

That was the point when I decided that I needed a break from online dating. I canceled my membership and decided I'd try something else.

Picky picky picky

Lately, my married friends have been telling me that I'm too picky. All of these guys, they tell me, are just fine. They are fine, and I am flawed in that I seek perfection. I am unreasonable and should just settle down and get it over with.

Oh, gee, thanks for the encouragement.

I try to remind myself that the people who tell me I'm too picky are probably thinking that I have my choice of wonderful guys. Why shouldn't I? I'm wonderful! Surely the wonderful guys are swarming around me like drunken bees to honey. Surely, it's all my fault.

Of course, when I actually am dating someone, these same well-meaning friends groan and sigh and roll their eyes in pity whenever I forgive my fella for some fault (real or imagined) that is vexing me that day. Truthfully, my biggest mistake in relationships is staying in them too long once things go bad. When you love someone, you have to allow them their mistakes, tolerate the stupid small little things, and stick with them. At least, that is what I tell myself. My friends tell me to DTMFA instead. "Go on! Get back out there! The love of your life is just waiting for you! The Best Guy in the World is looking for you RIGHT NOW. Hie thee to the Internet, and jump on that online dating horse once again! You'll never find someone better while you are with this loser!"

Oh, gee. Thanks for the encouragement.

I remind myself that my friends have generally been out of the dating pool for a while. They forget. My single friends never nag me because they know what horrors lurk in the depths of that pool.

As an example, I'm going to tell you about the shortest date that I've ever been on.

I read his profile. He seemed cute, educated, and nice. Not perfect, but neither am I. I met him for coffee. We chatted about work; he had a fascinating and sexy job as a statistician. (What? I don't know what's wrong with you. I think that is super hot.) We discussed coffee. We discussed food. We discussed where we grew up. We discussed my dog. We discussed his favorite guitar. We discussed literature, music, and politics. We discussed our common love of hiking.

"When you say hiking," I said, "do mean that you like to take long walks or that you like to go mountain climbing with an ice pick? Because I've discovered that there are two camps on that one."
"I'm more of an ice pick guy," he said.
"Ah. I'm more of a long walk kind of girl," I said. "I usually walk with my dog, and she's getting older. If I do a really demanding hike and she gets injured, she's too big for me to carry back to the trail head."
"Oh, yeah. That would be inconvenient!" he said. Then he held his hand in the shape of a gun, and pantomimed holding the gun up to someone's head. "BANG! Sorry dog. Got to get home." He laughed.

I did not.

I turned my head sideways and looked at him carefully. "Did you just make a joke about shooting my dog in the head?" I asked.
"Um. Yes?" he said, holding very still.
We stared at each other briefly.

"Alright, then," I said, standing up. "I need to be somewhere...where you aren't." And I left.

Perhaps it is all my fault. Perhaps I am too picky. But, you know what? I'm actually okay with that. Even if I'm the pickiest girl in the world, when it comes to who to date, I am the one who gets to pick.

Liar, liar, pants on fire

One evening I was working hard at my second job (reading online dating profiles) while the dog napped at my feet. She's very supportive of my efforts, and tolerates quite well the periodic outbursts of commentary that I give to my monitor.

"Meh," I said, to one particularly dull suitor.
"Hmph," said the dog with one eye half open.
I kept clicking and she drifted back to sleep.

"Blehck," I said, to a profile of someone claiming to be more or less constantly drunk. Not my thing.
The dog rumbled in dismay as she rolled over.

I read more. And more. And more. There seemed to be no end to mediocre matches.

"Ugly. Stupid. Clueless. Mean," I said, clicking through another four gentlemen.

I know, Internet, I'm a horrible, terrible,  judgmental person...but at least my dog likes me. In all fairness, if you read several dozen terrible profiles each evening, you would likely be getting a little bitter too. The ROI on reading dating profiles is atrocious. If you are going to do online dating, you will need to accept that you will spend entire evenings wading through profiles of people you aren't the least bit interested in. Hours and hours of this. Also? Hours.

"Come on, interwebs, give me something interesting. Or entertaining. Or at least different."
The dog thumped her tail against the floor, but didn't seem very hopeful.

And then, miraculously, the Forces of teh Interwebs blessed me in a way I hadn't even expected.

"Hmm. He's kinda cute," I said as I looked at the latest guy. I kept clicking through his pictures. There were a lot of pictures in all kinds of places. But...there was something off. What was it? I scanned his stats. Ah, there it was: he said that he was 6' 2", but his pictures showed that he was clearly not. At least, if his pictures were accurate, then they had all been taken in the Land of Giant Things. Giant cars. Giant trees. Giant park benches. Nope, using my advanced knowledge of relative size and an understanding of the natural universe, I'd say that this guy was about 5'2" instead of 6'2".

"Liar!"
The dog growled quietly.

This suitor was hardly the first liar I'd seen on my dating site. In fact, some researchers recommend that you lie in your online dating profile. Theoretically, you will only be matched with someone whose criteria line up with your statistics. So what if you have a quality that few people are looking for? Tell the truth and the love of your life will never seen your profile. Lie, and you could still meet her in person, at which point you can charm her with your wit, your smile, and your encyclopedic knowledge of Incan matrimonial headdresses. Lie, and you still have a shot.

Unless of course, she hates liars. And goodness gracious golly, I do so hate liars.

On the plus side, though, liars make your life so very interesting up until the point where you kick them to the curb. I had asked the Forces of teh Interwebs for something interesting. This fella was definitely interesting. In addition to his dashing 6'2" physique, he also claimed to simultaneously be a mechanic and to be attending a prestigious Seattle medical school at night.

"Oh, no you aren't, Mr. Fibb."

Being a mechanic is a tough job. Being in medical school is a tough job. Being a student in the famous medical school he named is a really, really tough job. So tough that it is a full-time job and night classes are not an option. There is simply no way that he was telling the truth. Now, it was possible that he was taking classes as a prerequisite for applying to medical school, but that wasn't what he claimed.

"Bogus!"

I scanned his profile and photos for more evidence of his awfulness, when---

"Hold. The. Phone."
Even the dog looked surprised.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. No, not my imagination. His last profile picture featured him, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and tight jeans, sitting on a flight of stairs, with his knees spread, and his hands "subtly" directing attention to his crotch. You know, like "it's a coincidence that I just happen to have my hands pointing here, but now you will surely be subliminally drawn to my epic masculinity".

"Oh, Forces of teh Interwebs, you are entirely too generous to send me such a gift. I would not have thought that someone so wonderfully well-suited to me would be single." I read more of what he was looking for, and he fell into the group of men I could charitably call "accepting". He was searching for a woman who was:

• Any race
• Any age
• Any religion
• With or without kids
• With any hobbies or no hobbies
• And between 3'0" and 7'11"

*chime*

Suddenly, a chat window appeared. This guy was serendipitously looking at my profile while I was looking at his. He saw the icon that showed that I was online, so he had decided to strike up a conversation in real time. Oh, fortuna.

Guy: Yo, g! How you doin girl!!!
Guy: ;)
Jen: Hi, Guy. I'm fine. How are you?
Guy: Just chillin. Ya know. Hows it hangin?
Jen: My day is going just fine. Thank you for asking.
Guy: Ya. Thats the kinda guy I am.
Jen: A gentleman.
Guy: Word.
Jen: I was just reading your profile, and I am just amazed!
Guy: :)
Jen: I can't believe that you work as a mechanic and simultaneously attend medical school at night. I just can't believe it!
Guy: Ya. I'm pretty amazing.
Jen: Clearly! And so altruistic! Medicine is such a noble calling. What drew you to such a challenging field?
Guy: Uh. You mean Y am I a doctor?
Jen: Yes. [Did you notice that in the space of two minutes he went from being a med student to having graduated? He's such a prodigy!]
Guy: I can't lie to you. Its for the moniez...adn moniez! LOLz.
Jen: It is a lucrative field, that is true. What is your specialty?
Guy: Ya, I'm real special. ;)
Jen: I mean, what kind of doctor are you?
Guy: Im a plastic surgin. Witch means I make ugly people hott. LOL! So....... you wanna go out sometime?
Jen: I'm sorry. I can't. But I wish you the best of luck with your search.

And Internet, because I try to be a nice person, I didn't end my message with "LOLz!"

Here's the thing I don't get about liars: doesn't he realize that I'll figure it out eventually? Or does he just not care?

Did he think that I wouldn't notice the 12 inch discrepancy in his height? Did he think that he could successfully trick me into believing that he was a doctor? (Because I'm not sure witch was my clue, but I don't think he's a surgin. Just sayin'.) And , Internet, you missed out on one of the best parts because you can't see his photos. Think for a second about how you picture him based on the descriptions I gave and the things he said. What does he look like to you? Fix that picture in your mind...

He's a scrawny white guy. He's a scrawny, short, white guy, pretending to be a doctor, pointing to his crotch, and talking like a gangsta. Yo, dawg. That's wack.

To be sure, I think there is room in the world for lies. When I tell you these stories about my dates, I obscure their identities to protect them. That's a kind of lie. If a woman asks me if she looks fat in these jeans, there is only one answer and it isn't yes. But lies are a really poor basis for a relationship.

I suppose it is possible that this guy didn't care about that. Maybe he was looking for a hookup and didn't plan to keep up the surgeon facade; his plan might have been to meet me for coffee, pointing "subtly" at his crotch, and let the magic happen. Who knows, really? Liars are a temporary diversion, sent from the universe to distract us with their hideousness and then go on their way to torment someone else.

So I thanked the Forces of teh Interwebs for the entertainment, and went on to the next profile.

4 realz.

Three days later

(This is part 3 of a series. If you haven't already, read parts 1 and 2 first.)

After I read all of the stuff on the Internet, I went about my life. I went to work. I walked the dog. I went to the gym. I watched tv. You know, the usual. Plus, for a friend's birthday, we went to a musical at one of the big theaters in Seattle, a touring production of a Broadway show. Quite good. That guy isn't the only one who enjoys musical theater.

Oh, yeah. That guy. Thinking of him reminded me that I hadn't looked at the dating site in a few days. When I signed in, I got an alert: "You have eight new messages."

Eight? That's odd. Who are they from?

Oh.

Oh, dear.



Message 1:

"Dear Jen. I apologize for the comment about erectile dysfunction drugs. That was inappropriate. I was trying to be funny, but I guess I failed. I just want you to know that I'm not too old, to… you know. I hope you can forgive me."



Message 2:

"Dear Jen. How are you today? I'm hoping we can move on from the problems we've had and put them behind us. I'm looking forward to meeting you! How about coffee?"



Message 3:

"Dearest Jen. You must be having a busy day. What do you do? I'd love to hear about your job. I'd love to learn everything about you. What's your favorite flower?"



Message 4:

"Roses? I bet it's roses. I wish I could send them to you now, but I don't know where you live. It's so unfair! Technology is keeping us apart!


We should meet."



Message 5:

"I want to meet. Do you want to meet?"



Message 6:

"Why don't you want to meet me? I thought we had moved past that little issue. I've moved on. Haven't you? I know I made a mistake, but it was a one-time thing. I'm not like that. It was a fluke."



Message 7:

"Please forgive me. Please. Please. Please. I don't know what I'll do if you don't forgive me. You mean everything to me. You do. I'll do everything for your love."



Message 8:

"You bitch.


I give and give and give, and what do you do? You take take take. You are like a leech. A leech for my heart and soul. Do you like playing with my heart like a toy? Do you like stomping on my soul like so many wine grapes? Well, let me tell you missy! My soul isn't an episode of I Love Lucy! You can't treat me like that!


I can't believe that I renewed my membership for you! That's right! My membership expired two days ago, just after we met, and I renewed it at great personal expense! For YOU, you ungrateful witch!


I'm starting to think that you aren't fully committed to this relationship."


Oh, I'm not committed, Drama Guy. But you should be. With a mandatory 72 hour hold for observation.
I choose my words carefully in my response.

"Guy.


I didn't receive any of your messages until this morning. After reading them, I can tell that we are not a good match. Good luck with your search. Goodbye."

The next day at work, I cheerfully wait for Wolf-pack Travis. When he walks in, I sit there patiently while he takes off his coat, opens his soda, and sits down. I'm grinning ear to ear.

"Have I got a long, overly detailed, tangential, and sometimes entertaining story for you," I say.

Second chances

(This is part 2 of a series. If you haven't already, read part 1 first.)


"See, look," I told myself. "He's not that bad. He does volunteer work. He likes plays and art museums. He likes hiking. He likes his sister's kids. He has a cat. Perfectly decent guy."

The dog, lying at my feet, lifted her head and looked at me. "Perfectly decent guy!" I said to her. She didn't look any more convinced than I felt. Even though there wasn't anything specific I could point to in his profile, there was something about him that bugged me. A little alarm going off in the back of my head. Was that woman's intuition? Or me being a snob? A bitter, single snob?

A compromise occurred to me. I opened up a chat window and clicked on Photo Joe.

Jen: Hey, Joe. You around?
Joe: What's up?
Jen: There's this online guy that I want to check up on. Can't tell if he's crazy or not.
Joe: Do I know him?
Jen: I think your friend Theatrical Teresa might. Can you ask her?
Joe: Sure. What's his name?
Jen: Guy. He's got red hair, 6'3", glasses. Does theater, including a production of The Music Man, from the looks of the photos in his profile.
Joe: What do you want me to ask her?
Jen: Is there trouble in River City? Is he mean? Crazy? Creepy? All of the above?
Joe: Gimme a minute.



A few minutes later, the chat window chirped.
Joe: She knows him.
Jen: Excellent! Is he a total psycho?
Joe: No, she says he's a nice guy.
Jen: Oh. Damn.
Joe: What?
Jen: I think I was kind of hoping to have an excuse to brush him off. There is something about this guy that bugs me.
Joe: Not a good sign.
Jen: Are you sure she didn't say he was crazy?
Joe: Yeah, sorry.
Jen: Hmmph. Then why do I have the feeling that I should only meet him if I have a fleet of bodyguards stationed in the coffee shop?
Joe: Sign me up.
Jen: What?
Joe: Pick a coffee place near my house and I'll get there before your date.
Jen: I was kidding….but, you will?
Joe: Yes.
Jen: And eavesdrop the whole time?
Joe: Yes.
Jen: And we could have a secret signal in case I need to escape quickly?
Joe: Yes. And I'll bring my laptop and do a date play-by-play via Twitter.
Jen: LOL! Like performance art!
Joe: I'll bring the kids. We'll use them as a distraction if you need to slip out the bathroom window.
Jen: Suddenly, I can't wait to meet this guy. Does that make me a terrible person?
Joe: Probably. But that's what I like about you. How's Saturday?
Jen: Hold your horses, Skippy. I haven't even sent the guy mail yet. I'll get back to you later this week.


Since I couldn't write a form letter, I would have to put a little work into this. The secret rules say that I should:
1) Say hello.
2) Say something that indicates that I read his profile, preferably something nice.
3) Point out a common interest.
4) Ask a question that encourages him to respond.



I write:
"Hi, Guy. That's a great picture of you from The Music Man. People should really wear pinstripe suits more often. What kind of cat do you have? I love animals. --Jen"


Okay, fine. It's not going to win the National Book Award. It just needs to show some interest and give him the opportunity to respond if he's interested. It'll do.

I click Send and then go about the important business of reading stuff on the Internet. Within a couple of minutes, I hear a chime.

Huh?

I flip back to the window for the online dating site. There is mail from Guy.

"Hi! Jen! It's great to hear from you. That's a great picture of you in your profile. I'm glad you like the suit. I still wear the bow tie sometimes. That picture's from a production of The Music Man I did a few years back. Great show! I say that I'm an actor, but I actually have two jobs. The acting and one to support my acting. You know how it is! I love acting. Acting is my passion in life! I wish I didn't have to have the other job, but oh well! At least I have the smell of grease paint, LOL!


My cat is so funny! He has a black mustache on a white coat, so he looks like a villain. Sometimes I call him Snidely Whiplash! I joke that he's going to tie me to the train tracks and that a fair maiden will have to save me. Bwa-ha-ha! How about you? --Guy"

How about me? How about me…what? Do I like acting? Do I have a cat? Do I laugh maniacally? The letter rubbed me the wrong way. But was it because of the excessive use of exclamation points? Or because I'm a horrible, judgmental person? With Photo Joe volunteering to safeguard my date, there really wasn't a downside to continuing. Plus, I could brag to Wolf-pack Travis about how I wasn't too proud to get a date. I ignored the nebulous but persistent alarm.

"Hi, Guy. Cats with mustaches are adorable. I saw one yesterday on I Can Has Cheezburger with a sombrero. So funny! It's great that you get to do something you love you much. Do you have a favorite musical? --Jen"



"Hello again! Jen!


That rhymes!


I love all musicals and all plays! I especially love The Man of La Mancha. I really believe in the message, you know? When I play that part, I have to wear a wig. I used to have that photo in my profile, but some women thought I was old. But I'm not old at all! Nope! No need for erectile dysfunction drugs here! LOL! You can believe me on THAT one!..."


He wrote several other paragraphs, but my horrified eyes were stuck on the phrase, "no need for erectile dysfunction drugs here". Apparently, the rule to not tell strangers about your erections was a secret rule to this guy. Goodness gracious and damn it. I had been so looking forward to the Tweet-a-date. But if I went now, all of Photo Joe's tweets would be bad puns. ( "Jen's having a hard time with this one." "This date is falling short." "This guy is rubbing me the wrong way. If I were Jen I'd blow him off.") Damn it.


"Dear Guy. Your comment about erectile dysfunction drugs wasn't appropriate. I'm telling you so that you won't make that mistake with the next woman. Good luck."

Oh, well. I tried. I did give him a second chance. Maybe Wolf-pack Travis would still be proud of me. Now back to that important business of reading stuff on the Internet.

 
(To be continued.)

First impressions

I sit, quietly, staring forward intently and unblinking. For all the world looking absorbed in what I am doing. Focused. Strategic. Like a hunter in a duck blind, waiting for the duck to land on the pond.


I hear footsteps down the hall, getting closer. That distinctive sound that I heard every weekday morning. Then in my office door, Wolf-pack Travis appears.

I swivel my chair to face the center of the office that I share with Wolf-pack Travis. "Good morning!" I say brightly.

Very, very brightly.

Travis winces. Unlike me, Travis isn't so much of a morning person. I bound cheerfully out of bed at 5 a.m. and get to work early. By the time he arrives, I'm about ready to explode if I can't share the stories of the evening before. I do my patient impression while he takes off his coat, opens a can of soda, and sits down. He takes a sip of the soda and a deep breath. He's ready.

"How was wolf pack last night?" I say. "Did you terrorize the hipster sheep?"
"Yes. Herded them into their bars for microbrews and their coffeeshops for lattes."
"That's hardly difficult. They were going there anyway."
"I guess we mostly just ran then. Next time is fartlek night," says Travis as he takes another sip.



Travis has a semiweekly run through his trendy Seattle neighborhood with a group of men all training for a marathon. The thought of them running together always made me think of Twilight, though I suppose the guys in his running club probably don't have an ancestral feud with vampires. I had nicknamed the group his "wolf pack", and made sure to ask about it every Wednesday and Friday. It's only polite. Once he is awake enough to handle it, I force him to listen to my long, overly-detailed, tangential, and sometimes interesting stories. The least I can do is give him a chance to say something before I launch into my latest comedy of errors.


"Excellent," I say, patiently. "What else is new with you?"
He takes another sip, and steels himself for the inevitable. "Nothing much. How about you?"


I take a big breath. "Well, since you asked… the usual horrific profiles. One guy had a picture of him in acid-washed jeans lying on the hood of a sports car."
"He did not."
"He did. AND with feathered hair," I say.
"Was this picture taken in 1982?" asks Travis.
"Does it matter? Either the only good picture of him was taken 20 years ago, or he's still lying on sports cars with feathered hair. Both possibilities are hideous."
"Did you send mail to Don Johnson?"
"Strangely enough, no," I say.

I should explain the mechanics of online dating sites to you, Internet, in case you are unfamiliar with how they work. There are lots of different sites, each targeting different demographics. In all of them, you enter some search criteria-- man, about 40 years old, lives near Seattle-- and write some kind of profile describing you and showing a picture of what you look like. Some sites also have you take a personality test. Then the site combines your search criteria and whatever data they have on you and match you up with people who resemble what you are looking for. You then read the profiles and decide yes, no, or maybe on each of them. Then you can send and email through a double-blind system that hides your real name and address from your potential date, just in case he turns out to be crazy.

Past that, there aren't any specific rules. I usually write e-mail back and forth two or three times, to figure out whether they can hold an appropriate and polite conversation. If yes, I meet them for coffee. In any case, back to our story.


"Did you send mail to Don Johnson?"
"Strangely enough, no" I say.
"Damn," says Travis. "I wanted to hear about him showing up for coffee in his speed boat, chased by a drug lord."
"What can I say? Clearly a missed opportunity on my part."
"Clearly."
"Why do men put up old pictures anyway?" I ask. "Do they think I'm not going to notice when I meet them in person and they are 20 years older than they claimed?"
"Maybe they figure that once you are attracted to the person they are inside, you'll look past the walker and the oxygen tank."
"Wishful thinking. I'm much too shallow for that. Oh, speaking of wishful thinking, I got mail from two separate guys telling me, 'Don't worry, ladies. I have a job and a car.'"
"Ni-ice."
"I was tempted to write back, "Way to go, slugger. Let me know when you move out of your mother's basement too."
"Harsh!"
"And recently there was a charming fellow who sent me a form letter," I say.
"A form letter? People do that?" asks Travis.
"Oh, yes. This one was particularly ridiculous because he clearly didn't match a single one of my criteria other than 'male'. There is no way he read my profile."
"Why do you think that?"
"He's 18 years old, dropped out of high school, wants a no-strings-attached hookup with a woman who appreciates caffeinated malt liquor and bowling."
"Got to respect a man who knows what he wants."
"True. Some guys just send a form letter saying, 'I read your profile. So, how about it?'"
"How many of those guys have you gone out with?"
"Strangely, none. Though in most of those cases I assume they aren't losers, just new at the online dating thing. When I first started, I wrote some letters that were about as lame."
"Did it work for you?"
"Strangely, no. But I figured out the secret rules soon enough."

Every society has rules for social interactions. You know, like in Pride and Prejudice when Elizabeth Bennett complains that Mr. Darcy didn't dance at the ball when there were unmarried ladies who were wanting for partners. In their society, there was a rule about that. Also, rules about which daughter gets married first (the oldest first, then the second oldest), how to address the second unmarried daughter in the family (Miss Elizabeth, not Miss Bennett), and which class restrictions can be ignored (almost none of them).

I don't want to return to a time where all social interactions were that formal, but there are benefits to having clear rules to follow. My modern-day suitors would benefit from a little guidance on what not to say to a woman they wish to woo. As things stand, the online dating world does have rules…but they are secret rules that you have to figure out for yourself.

"Secret rules?" says Wolf-pack Travis.
"Sure. Like 'Don't send form letters' and 'Unless the site is specifically for arranging hookups, do not tell the entire Internet that you want to lick her.'"
"That is…sound advice," says Travis, sagely.
"Frankly, I'm getting a bit tired of all these losers. I spend hours on this site every week, and the best I can find is, 'So, how about it?'"

Travis takes another sip of his soda and looks pensive. "Do you ever think that maybe you aren't giving them a chance?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, most of these guys you are eliminating based on their profiles before you even meet them. What if the profiles give the wrong impression?"
"First impressions are important," I say, a little poutily.
"Sure, but what if he's a good guy with a lousy profile? You aren't giving them much of a shot."

Traitor, I thought as I looked at Travis with a squinty-eyed glare. Your role is to listen to me dis random men and then tell me that it is completely inconceivable that I'm still single. It's a secret rule! I dislike the implication that I'm a snobby harridan, whose bitterness drives eligible men away.

I dislike this, but secretly I acknowledge that it might be true.

"You are saying that I should give some of them a second chance?"
"It might lead to more dates," said Travis in a completely reasonable manner.
"Damn you and your completely reasonable suggestion," I say.

I had been hoping that my judgmental and derisory manner was one of my finer qualities, but it was possible that, like Elizabeth Bennett, a woman my age could possibly stand to be a little less picky. Maybe Travis had a point.

That evening I was online, once again, wading through profiles. Endless profiles.
"Sigh."
Click.
Click.
Click.

"Ugly, stupid, clueless, mean," I say out loud at my monitor as the profiles flip past. Click, click, click.

"Hmmm." This next guy has some potential. Good picture, looks friendly and outgoing. And then I notice that his profile is listed as 'actor'. "Oh, good god. Entirely too much drama!" I say as my mouse moves towards the No button. But then a little angel appears on my shoulder, with running shoes and a can of soda. "Don't be so judgmental," says the miniature Travis. "Give him a second chance!"



Grrrr. He was right. I was prejudiced. Many years ago, in college, I had a bunch of friends who were actors. Actors are lovely people-- they are exciting, and fun, and tell great stories-- but they come with a side effect that I found hard to handle: their lives are very dramatic. I had this one friend who could go through an entire relationship (meet, fall in love, get engaged, break up, put a pagan impotence spell on his dorm room) in the space of a week. I'd eat lunch with her every day, and every day there was new drama. I felt like a minor character in a soap opera, and it was exhausting. Since then I've avoided drama whenever possible.



But this guy wasn't that friend, even if they are both actors. Damn Wolf-pack Travis and his completely accurate character assessment; I wasn't giving this guy a fair chance.



Sigh. This whole personal growth thing is no fun at all. I moved my mouse away from the No button and dragged my judgmental gaze back to the profile for a second chance.



(To be continued.)