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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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:
*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.
"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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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.)
"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.)
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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.)
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.)
Monday, February 7, 2011
Truth in advertising
"Smell this," I said to the strange woman walking down the aisle of the cleaning products line of the supermarket. "Does it make you want to puke?"
She looked at me a little oddly, I'm not sure why, but then she leaned forward to sniff the scented candle I was holding.
"Oh, I like that one!" she said. "That smells like my grandmother."
"Was your grandmother a large-breasted woman who liked to give hugs?" I asked, in all seriousness.
"Ye-e-e-sss," said the woman, now looking at me as if she'd suddenly realized she was talking to a complete stranger in the cleaning product aisle of the supermarket.
I held out the candle with the label facing out. "It's called Lavender's Warm Embrace."
"Huh."
"And if you think that's weird, just wait 'til you smell Tequila Lime Tranquility," I said. "That smells like lying drunk on a beach in Mexico."
My new friend and I spent five minutes sniffing candles and marveling at the names. In the olden days, candles had names like Vanilla, Freesia, Orange Spice, and Bayberry. But no longer. Now candles don't have scents... they have lifestyle aspirations.
Vanilla is "Open Your Heart".
Orange is "Fresh Start Citrus".
Bayberry is "Homecoming and Togetherness".
Freesia is "An Angel Whispers 'You Can Do It!'"
As much as I dislike clever marketing for being manipulative, I have to acknowledge that it works. You aren't just buying a new candle. You are buying a new life. Most marketing works like this. These jeans will make me skinny. This phone will make me cool. This sports car will make me a hit with the ladies.
With a farewell to my cleaning aisle friend, I thought about how online dating profiles are marketing campaigns for the lonely.
I'm no marketing expert, but I'm clearly better at advertisement than most of men whose profiles I'd been reading. In fact, lately I'd read so many profiles that I was starting to see distinct patterns. Profile types that were selling essentially the same product, in spite of the fact that they had been written by dozens of different men.
Consider the gentlemen below. I've given a cutting-edge candle scent to each of them, to help you fully picture the lifestyle you get with your purchase.
Scent: Clove and contempt
Profile:
"Im a quality guy. Im really hot. Im smart. Im so funny I should be a comedian. If u are not top quality material then dont message me. Im serious. If your fat and ugly then dont bother. Im not going to settle for some loser bitch."
What I think:
And you shouldn't settle, sir. Your perfect the way U R.
Tip:
Telling me that you are awesome and I suck doesn't make you sound awesome. It makes you sound like a jackass.
Scent: Stale beer and desperation
Profile:
"I lost a bet. My friends are making me do this online dating crap. I told them that everyone on these sites are losers. Now we've got another bet that no one will write me. Prove me wrong."
What I think:
I know for a fact, sir, that there is at least one loser on this site.
Tip:
Don't insult me. Don't insult yourself.
Scent: Fury and pine
Profile:
"No cheaters. No liars. NO FAKES. IF YOU ARE A FAKE I WILL FIGURE IT OUT SO FAST IT WILL MAKE YOUR HEAD SPIN. DON'T EVEN TRY ME."
What I think:
Sir, we haven't met, and I haven't done anything to you. Why are you YELLING AT ME ALREADY?
Tip:
No matter how passionately you feel about something, don't use all caps. It makes you look like the crazy guy at the bus stop who yells at strangers.
Scent: Man sweat and contagion
Profile:
"I will treat you right. I will lick you from head to toe. Will you let me lick you?"
What I think:
No. No, I won't.
What I will do, however, is give you this tip:
If you were walking down the street and you said that line from your profile to a woman on the sidewalk, she would mace you. I realize that the Internet is a Wild West of social interaction, but generally, if something in real life would put you on the business end of a can of pepper spray, it isn't polite to say online either. And even if it were polite, dude, you just simultaneously propositioned every woman on the Internet. Disgusting.
Scent: Sandalwood and bitterness
Profile:
"I hate dating. I hate these profiles. I never know what to say."
Tip:
Not saying that would be a good start.
What I think:
Why would I want to date someone who hates dating? That doesn't sound fun at all.
Which is pretty much the point. I don't want to date someone who hates dating. I don't want to date someone who hates himself. And I certainly don't want to date someone who hates me. If your profile tells me that you hate me, it isn't going to be very effective.
Well, it may be effective at telling me to stay far, far away, but it isn't effective at getting me to date you.
Oh, dear.
Okay, I fear that I have made a strategic error here. I take back what I said. Let me clarify my position.
Dear Men on the Internet,
If you hate dating, please tell me in your profile. If you hate yourself, please take out a full-page ad in the paper. If you hate me, please shout it from the rooftops. Don't follow my advice on appearing appealing and dateable. Please, please, please continue writing lousy profiles so that I can tell you'd make a lousy boyfriend. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Jen.
**Disclaimer: All of the names for candles in this essay are fake. However, the names for actual candles are so ridiculous that I may have accidentally made up a real name. If I have, I offer my sincerest apologies.
Oooh. That would be a great candle scent: My Sincerest Apologies. I'm thinking of a heady floral with a hint of musk.
She looked at me a little oddly, I'm not sure why, but then she leaned forward to sniff the scented candle I was holding.
"Oh, I like that one!" she said. "That smells like my grandmother."
"Was your grandmother a large-breasted woman who liked to give hugs?" I asked, in all seriousness.
"Ye-e-e-sss," said the woman, now looking at me as if she'd suddenly realized she was talking to a complete stranger in the cleaning product aisle of the supermarket.
I held out the candle with the label facing out. "It's called Lavender's Warm Embrace."
"Huh."
"And if you think that's weird, just wait 'til you smell Tequila Lime Tranquility," I said. "That smells like lying drunk on a beach in Mexico."
My new friend and I spent five minutes sniffing candles and marveling at the names. In the olden days, candles had names like Vanilla, Freesia, Orange Spice, and Bayberry. But no longer. Now candles don't have scents... they have lifestyle aspirations.
Vanilla is "Open Your Heart".
Orange is "Fresh Start Citrus".
Bayberry is "Homecoming and Togetherness".
Freesia is "An Angel Whispers 'You Can Do It!'"
As much as I dislike clever marketing for being manipulative, I have to acknowledge that it works. You aren't just buying a new candle. You are buying a new life. Most marketing works like this. These jeans will make me skinny. This phone will make me cool. This sports car will make me a hit with the ladies.
With a farewell to my cleaning aisle friend, I thought about how online dating profiles are marketing campaigns for the lonely.
I'm no marketing expert, but I'm clearly better at advertisement than most of men whose profiles I'd been reading. In fact, lately I'd read so many profiles that I was starting to see distinct patterns. Profile types that were selling essentially the same product, in spite of the fact that they had been written by dozens of different men.
Consider the gentlemen below. I've given a cutting-edge candle scent to each of them, to help you fully picture the lifestyle you get with your purchase.
Scent: Clove and contempt
Profile:
"Im a quality guy. Im really hot. Im smart. Im so funny I should be a comedian. If u are not top quality material then dont message me. Im serious. If your fat and ugly then dont bother. Im not going to settle for some loser bitch."
What I think:
And you shouldn't settle, sir. Your perfect the way U R.
Tip:
Telling me that you are awesome and I suck doesn't make you sound awesome. It makes you sound like a jackass.
Scent: Stale beer and desperation
Profile:
"I lost a bet. My friends are making me do this online dating crap. I told them that everyone on these sites are losers. Now we've got another bet that no one will write me. Prove me wrong."
What I think:
I know for a fact, sir, that there is at least one loser on this site.
Tip:
Don't insult me. Don't insult yourself.
Scent: Fury and pine
Profile:
"No cheaters. No liars. NO FAKES. IF YOU ARE A FAKE I WILL FIGURE IT OUT SO FAST IT WILL MAKE YOUR HEAD SPIN. DON'T EVEN TRY ME."
What I think:
Sir, we haven't met, and I haven't done anything to you. Why are you YELLING AT ME ALREADY?
Tip:
No matter how passionately you feel about something, don't use all caps. It makes you look like the crazy guy at the bus stop who yells at strangers.
Scent: Man sweat and contagion
Profile:
"I will treat you right. I will lick you from head to toe. Will you let me lick you?"
What I think:
No. No, I won't.
What I will do, however, is give you this tip:
If you were walking down the street and you said that line from your profile to a woman on the sidewalk, she would mace you. I realize that the Internet is a Wild West of social interaction, but generally, if something in real life would put you on the business end of a can of pepper spray, it isn't polite to say online either. And even if it were polite, dude, you just simultaneously propositioned every woman on the Internet. Disgusting.
Scent: Sandalwood and bitterness
Profile:
"I hate dating. I hate these profiles. I never know what to say."
Tip:
Not saying that would be a good start.
What I think:
Why would I want to date someone who hates dating? That doesn't sound fun at all.
Which is pretty much the point. I don't want to date someone who hates dating. I don't want to date someone who hates himself. And I certainly don't want to date someone who hates me. If your profile tells me that you hate me, it isn't going to be very effective.
Well, it may be effective at telling me to stay far, far away, but it isn't effective at getting me to date you.
Oh, dear.
Okay, I fear that I have made a strategic error here. I take back what I said. Let me clarify my position.
Dear Men on the Internet,
If you hate dating, please tell me in your profile. If you hate yourself, please take out a full-page ad in the paper. If you hate me, please shout it from the rooftops. Don't follow my advice on appearing appealing and dateable. Please, please, please continue writing lousy profiles so that I can tell you'd make a lousy boyfriend. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Jen.
**Disclaimer: All of the names for candles in this essay are fake. However, the names for actual candles are so ridiculous that I may have accidentally made up a real name. If I have, I offer my sincerest apologies.
Oooh. That would be a great candle scent: My Sincerest Apologies. I'm thinking of a heady floral with a hint of musk.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Oh, my lord.
(This is part two of a story. If you haven't already, read part one.)
"How about that one, near the posters?" I say, pointing at a table by the far wall.
"Sure!" says Guy agreeably, "I love this place. Their muffins are awesome."
"And I like the atmosphere. The people talking. The posters for community events. The eclectic musical selections," I say.
"I like that too," he says, smiling shyly as we sit down.
"So, Guy," I say, peeling the wrapper off my muffin, "what do you do for a job?"
"I work with computers," he says.
"Really! That's a popular choice around here."
He laughs. "Yeah."
"Tell me more. I love hearing about people's jobs."
"Oh, it's not that exciting," he says.
If my coffee shop had running commentary like a football game, the color man would point out that there are two secret meanings to "Oh, my job's not that exciting":
a. If the speaker says that, smiles, and blushes, he means "Let's talk about nothing but my job for the next 30 minutes, because, frankly... I'm kind of a big deal."
b. If the speaker says the same phrase, but looks sad and wistful, he means "Even thinking of my job makes me want to die. For the love of god, can we talk about something else?"
"I understand," I say. "So, tell me, Guy. How do you really like to spend your time?" I broke off a piece of my muffin and got comfortable. If someone doesn't like to talk about his job, he usually wants to talk about his hobbies.
"Well…" says Guy, dithering.
I'm sitting there thinking, "Oh, hell." If he won't talk about his job and he won't talk about his hobbies, this is going to be a really dull conversation. I mean, I pride myself on being able to have a polite conversation with just about anyone, but I much prefer talking with someone who actually talks back.
I know: I'm so demanding. It's no wonder I'm still single.
I chew my muffin and do an impression of someone who is patient."Wait for it," I tell myself. "Wait for it."
"Well," says Guy. "I like to read."
Hallelujah! A response I can work with!
"I love to read!" I say. "What kind of stuff do you read?" I take a look at his long, wavy brown hair, falling over his shoulders. His goatee. His intellectual glasses. His Birkenstocks. "Science fiction? Fantasy?"
"I like those," says Guy. "But, my favorite is philosophy. I read a lot of philosophy."
"That's fascinating!," I say."That's a really uncommon choice."
"Yeah," says Guy, smiling and blushing.
"Is there a particular philosopher you read a lot. A favorite?"
"No," he says, proudly. "I read them all, but I don't agree with any of them completely."
"Ah. 'If two men are in complete agreement, one of them isn't thinking.'"
"Yes!"
Guy smiles broadly and his face relaxes. He leans back in his chair and breathes a bit easier. He has the look of someone who has just decided that I am his kind of person. I relax as well: this whole conversation is going to be a lot less work now.
"There is actually one thing I like to do. Not so much a hobby... as a passion," says Guy.
"What's that?" I say, breaking off another piece of muffin.
"My friends and I like to have intellectual discussions."
"Oh, right! You mentioned that in your profile. I'm trying to remember the phrase you used…'intellectual and meaningful discussions on far-reaching topics'? Was that it?"
"Yes."
"I should have asked about that straight off. That phrase really caught my eye. I wasn't sure what you meant, though."
"Well, we talk about intellectual things. And debate philosophy."
"Uh-huh…" I say, doing my patient impression.
"And have discussions."
"Uh-huh." I take a sip of coffee.
"On far-reaching topics," says Guy.
"Ah." I sip more coffee and smile. What the hell is he talking about?
"Do you like to do that, too?" he asks.
"Do I...like to talk about intellectual things... and have discussions... on far-reaching topics?"
"Yes," he says, leaning forward to hear my answer better.
"You know, Guy, I'm still not sure what you mean by that."
"Because my friends and I, we have these discussions several nights a week. So I'm looking to date someone who wants to do that too."
"I see."
"So, do you like to do that?"
"Well, I'm not sure." I break off another piece of muffin while I think. I feel like he's talking in code. What am I missing here? There has got to be some clue in what he's said so far. "You said that you like debating philosophy. Is it that you and your friends read a particular philosopher and then get together to discuss his work? Like a bookclub?"
"Not so much a bookclub. More like a compare and contrast of different philosophies."
"Oh, you mean you pick a question like "Is man's inherent nature good or bad?" and then you talk about what different philosophers say and decide who's right?"
"Yes!" says Guy. "Except, of course, they are usually all wrong."
"All of them? …Wow. ' All' is a lot of wrong philosophers."
"Well, that's why we are doing this," says Guy.
"This?"
"We are debating the philosophy in order to come up with the right answer."
"The right answer?"
"Yes."
"For…?"
"Everything. We are coming up with a comprehensive guiding philosophy which is the one right way for all people to live their lives."
"Ohhh, I get it," I say.
And I do get it. I get that I am having coffee with a fruitcake, instead of a muffin.
"Your philosophy," I say, "could you also call it a religion?"
"Yes, you could."
"Is it a monotheistic, polytheistic, or non-theistic religion?"
"Monotheistic, of course."
"So, one god.” I say. He nods. “Is the God Jesus Christ ?"
"Oh, no," he says, "not him."
"Of course not," I say.
Guy chuckles softly. "That would be ridiculous.”
I decide that I should ask the next question gently. "So, the god of your monotheistic religion…is…who, then?"
Guy looks me straight in the eyes. "Well, me, of course!"
I blink a few times. "Of course! Ha ha! That was obvious! I don't know how I missed that!"
Guy laughs along as well, and then suddenly turns serious. "So would you like to join our group?"
"Uh, well, um, could you give me a few examples of your tenets, so I could know some of the founding principles your group has already decided?"
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," he says.
"No? Why not?"
"I can't tell you anything until you join the group." He shrugs as if it were obvious. One has to protect one's cult.
"Ahhh. Yes." I start scoping the emergency exits.
"So, Jen, do you want to join?"
Crap. I have no low-quality chocolate and I'm fresh out of talking parrots. Plus, my nemesis apparently did watch enough Batman in the 70s to know that he shouldn't give away the details of his evil plans for world domination.
Luckily, I have a tool on my belt that Batman and Robin lacked.
I push back my chair and stand up. "Thank you very much for meeting with me, Guy. It was a fascinating conversation. Unfortunately, I don't think we're a good match. Good luck with your search."
"Wait, what?" says Guy. "You're leaving?"
"Yes."
"But…why?"
"Well, Guy. That's just one of the mysteries of the universe."
He sat there with his mouth hanging open as I walked away.
Holy bad date, Batman! That was a close one.
"How about that one, near the posters?" I say, pointing at a table by the far wall.
"Sure!" says Guy agreeably, "I love this place. Their muffins are awesome."
"And I like the atmosphere. The people talking. The posters for community events. The eclectic musical selections," I say.
"I like that too," he says, smiling shyly as we sit down.
"So, Guy," I say, peeling the wrapper off my muffin, "what do you do for a job?"
"I work with computers," he says.
"Really! That's a popular choice around here."
He laughs. "Yeah."
"Tell me more. I love hearing about people's jobs."
"Oh, it's not that exciting," he says.
If my coffee shop had running commentary like a football game, the color man would point out that there are two secret meanings to "Oh, my job's not that exciting":
a. If the speaker says that, smiles, and blushes, he means "Let's talk about nothing but my job for the next 30 minutes, because, frankly... I'm kind of a big deal."
b. If the speaker says the same phrase, but looks sad and wistful, he means "Even thinking of my job makes me want to die. For the love of god, can we talk about something else?"
"I understand," I say. "So, tell me, Guy. How do you really like to spend your time?" I broke off a piece of my muffin and got comfortable. If someone doesn't like to talk about his job, he usually wants to talk about his hobbies.
"Well…" says Guy, dithering.
I'm sitting there thinking, "Oh, hell." If he won't talk about his job and he won't talk about his hobbies, this is going to be a really dull conversation. I mean, I pride myself on being able to have a polite conversation with just about anyone, but I much prefer talking with someone who actually talks back.
I know: I'm so demanding. It's no wonder I'm still single.
I chew my muffin and do an impression of someone who is patient."Wait for it," I tell myself. "Wait for it."
"Well," says Guy. "I like to read."
Hallelujah! A response I can work with!
"I love to read!" I say. "What kind of stuff do you read?" I take a look at his long, wavy brown hair, falling over his shoulders. His goatee. His intellectual glasses. His Birkenstocks. "Science fiction? Fantasy?"
"I like those," says Guy. "But, my favorite is philosophy. I read a lot of philosophy."
"That's fascinating!," I say."That's a really uncommon choice."
"Yeah," says Guy, smiling and blushing.
"Is there a particular philosopher you read a lot. A favorite?"
"No," he says, proudly. "I read them all, but I don't agree with any of them completely."
"Ah. 'If two men are in complete agreement, one of them isn't thinking.'"
"Yes!"
Guy smiles broadly and his face relaxes. He leans back in his chair and breathes a bit easier. He has the look of someone who has just decided that I am his kind of person. I relax as well: this whole conversation is going to be a lot less work now.
"There is actually one thing I like to do. Not so much a hobby... as a passion," says Guy.
"What's that?" I say, breaking off another piece of muffin.
"My friends and I like to have intellectual discussions."
"Oh, right! You mentioned that in your profile. I'm trying to remember the phrase you used…'intellectual and meaningful discussions on far-reaching topics'? Was that it?"
"Yes."
"I should have asked about that straight off. That phrase really caught my eye. I wasn't sure what you meant, though."
"Well, we talk about intellectual things. And debate philosophy."
"Uh-huh…" I say, doing my patient impression.
"And have discussions."
"Uh-huh." I take a sip of coffee.
"On far-reaching topics," says Guy.
"Ah." I sip more coffee and smile. What the hell is he talking about?
"Do you like to do that, too?" he asks.
"Do I...like to talk about intellectual things... and have discussions... on far-reaching topics?"
"Yes," he says, leaning forward to hear my answer better.
"You know, Guy, I'm still not sure what you mean by that."
"Because my friends and I, we have these discussions several nights a week. So I'm looking to date someone who wants to do that too."
"I see."
"So, do you like to do that?"
"Well, I'm not sure." I break off another piece of muffin while I think. I feel like he's talking in code. What am I missing here? There has got to be some clue in what he's said so far. "You said that you like debating philosophy. Is it that you and your friends read a particular philosopher and then get together to discuss his work? Like a bookclub?"
"Not so much a bookclub. More like a compare and contrast of different philosophies."
"Oh, you mean you pick a question like "Is man's inherent nature good or bad?" and then you talk about what different philosophers say and decide who's right?"
"Yes!" says Guy. "Except, of course, they are usually all wrong."
"All of them? …Wow. ' All' is a lot of wrong philosophers."
"Well, that's why we are doing this," says Guy.
"This?"
"We are debating the philosophy in order to come up with the right answer."
"The right answer?"
"Yes."
"For…?"
"Everything. We are coming up with a comprehensive guiding philosophy which is the one right way for all people to live their lives."
"Ohhh, I get it," I say.
And I do get it. I get that I am having coffee with a fruitcake, instead of a muffin.
"Your philosophy," I say, "could you also call it a religion?"
"Yes, you could."
"Is it a monotheistic, polytheistic, or non-theistic religion?"
"Monotheistic, of course."
"So, one god.” I say. He nods. “Is the God Jesus Christ ?"
"Oh, no," he says, "not him."
"Of course not," I say.
Guy chuckles softly. "That would be ridiculous.”
I decide that I should ask the next question gently. "So, the god of your monotheistic religion…is…who, then?"
Guy looks me straight in the eyes. "Well, me, of course!"
I blink a few times. "Of course! Ha ha! That was obvious! I don't know how I missed that!"
Guy laughs along as well, and then suddenly turns serious. "So would you like to join our group?"
"Uh, well, um, could you give me a few examples of your tenets, so I could know some of the founding principles your group has already decided?"
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," he says.
"No? Why not?"
"I can't tell you anything until you join the group." He shrugs as if it were obvious. One has to protect one's cult.
"Ahhh. Yes." I start scoping the emergency exits.
"So, Jen, do you want to join?"
Crap. I have no low-quality chocolate and I'm fresh out of talking parrots. Plus, my nemesis apparently did watch enough Batman in the 70s to know that he shouldn't give away the details of his evil plans for world domination.
Luckily, I have a tool on my belt that Batman and Robin lacked.
I push back my chair and stand up. "Thank you very much for meeting with me, Guy. It was a fascinating conversation. Unfortunately, I don't think we're a good match. Good luck with your search."
"Wait, what?" says Guy. "You're leaving?"
"Yes."
"But…why?"
"Well, Guy. That's just one of the mysteries of the universe."
He sat there with his mouth hanging open as I walked away.
Holy bad date, Batman! That was a close one.
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