So, last month, I went ahead and made good on a promise I had made to Daisy. Ok, it wasnt exactly a promise, it was more like a New Years Resolution that Daisy made me make, for my own good (of course), but semantics, whatever...What was the promise/resolution you ask?
Daisy made me promise to break out of the rut and try online dating, or e-Hoeing, as she is fond of calling it.
I know what youre thinking.... So keep it to yourselves! This is my blog!
Anyhow, back to the story...
About a month ago I broke down and signed back up for match.com. I did it because I promised, and because more importantly, they promised to "make love happen" for me. After pondering the decision for about two weeks, I figured why not?! If it didnt work, Ill get 6 months more miserable experience FREE of charge, and the right to bitch and moan in earnest about the plight of my situation, because after all, I was indeed doing something to remedy it. And, the optimist in me was thrilled by the prospect that it just might work, and Id finally find my happily ever after...
Ok, Im not gonna lie, the right to bitch and moan in earnest was my real motivation... but then again Im sure you all already knew that.
Upon completion of my profile, I began receiving messages and "winks" instantly. I had almost forgotten how fun it can be to have a liege of adoring fans. Feeling pleased, I opened my match dashboard, and instantly remembered why I stopped "e-Hoeing" in the first place: my adoring fans were the same bunch of unfortunate misfits and rejects I routinely tried to avoid in the real world.
Determined to have a positive attitude, I began searching for my next ex-boyfriend.
As I scrolled through the pages and pages of eligible bachelors like a kid in a candy store, I had to take note of the ones who said they werent down for a girl who had a carpet crawler. This narrowed down the field a bit, but surprisingly not to the degree I was expecting it too.
After finding several young men who tickled my fancy, I began the arduous process of flirting, via email. I say arduous, because it actually is more challenging than you might think to find something witty and intelligent to say in order to intrigue one into replying. After sending out a few winks and emails, I signed off, pleased with the evenings progress and excited about the prospect of actual dates coming my way soon.
The next evening I signed on to see how many men wanted to date me now. Much to my dismay, I had no replies from the emails and winks I sent out the night before. A quick investigation showed that while all 4 gentlemen had read my emails and looked at my profile, none of them deemed me worthy to write back. That hurt a smidge, but I figured that meant I had bigger and better things waiting for me.
As the days rolled by I continued to send out virtual flirtations, but sadly received only disgusting advances in return. Heres a sampling, for your reading pleasure:
The first assault to my eyes and principles was from a 37 year old businessman from NY- we shall call him Mr. NY for the remainder of his stay here on the Couch. Mr. NY sent me a very brief but to the point email stating that he is a "businessman from NY" and that he would be in Long Beach next week. The email then went on to say that the purpose for contacting me was to see if I wanted to meet him one or more nights the next week for "...dinner and sex..". He was staying at a nice hotel (who's address he provided) and I could stay there with him for the duration of our association.
How gracious.
I also encountered the bizarre ravings of a guy, who's tagline read: "Alcoholic Seeks Obese Metal Patient". Yes, "Metal Patient". No, thats not a typo- at least not on my part. This fantastic gentleman wrote me a rather presumptuous email and extended a similar invitation as Mr. NY. I really enjoyed his profile full of pictures of himself with strippers in Vegas, and self adoring propaganda riddled with misspellings and incorrectly quoted cliches.
What a catch.
I was almost ready to call this online adventure a complete failure when I received an email from a nice, quiet guy who we shall call Mr. Geritol. Mr. Geritol was 42 years old, never married, and lived in his parent's nursing home with them. He enjoyed walks on the beach and romantic dinners at sunset, and made a special point to note that all the pictures from his profile were indeed recent pictures and not "sexy me 10 years ago" (because let me tell you in case you dont know from experience, the 10 year old, 50 lbs ago photo scam runs rampant in online dating)... All of Mr. Geritol's photos were taken last month on a cruise he took with his 80 something year old parents.
Ahhhh, how nice. (BARF!)
Finally, after deciding perhaps I should fake my own death, as this is the only way match.com will refund your money (No joke folks, check it out in the terms), I received an email that wasnt terrible and demeaning. As I read the email, I was pleasantly surprised with the prospective suitors ability to form basic sentences in a manner that was both logical, but not a complete bore to read either, and made no mention of his rather large male parts or ability to please me with them.
Net-Net: It was a decent email, finally!
After I finished the email, I cautiously clicked on his profile to search for what was really wrong with this guy. After a thorough inspection, I was actually pretty optimistic. Handsome, home owner, stable job (a cop), and seemingly chivalrous but not a total wimp. Holy crap! This one looked promising, so I went ahead and replied to his email.
Over the next two weeks, the cop and I exchanged emails and several phone calls. Finally I sensed it was time to take this to the next level, and almost as if he read my mind, the next email asked me when we could meet. So, we made plans, and a time was set. And guess what? For once I was actually a little bit excited! I know, right?!
As Saturday rolled around, I found myself getting more and more excited at the prospect of going out with someone. It had been so long since Id felt that feeling, that I tried on 3 outfits before finally deciding on jeans, a teal silk top, and black patent leather peep toe pumps. I was filled with school girl anticipation as I drove to the designated meeting place.
My childish glee however waned when I got out of my car and looked around bewildered for my date. We had just hung up the phone only moments before, yet I did not see the tall, blonde, handsome Keeper of the Peace anywhere. I searched the frenzied crowd of rowdy children, annoying teenagers, grumpy geriatrics, and saw only a handful of young(er) men, none of which could possibly be my knight in shining armor.
He must be inside, I thought to myself, as I hurried in, all my high hopes and expectations renewed. My hope was short lived however, as a smarmy looking figure began walking my way, leering salaciously at me. I recoiled to think that this could possibly be my date, and my heart sank when he extended his hand in my general direction. Whatever hope that was waiting in the wings, ready to spring back up from within soul was ruthlessly squelched when he indeed confirmed, "Hi, Im Mike".
Dammit.
"Hi!", I said, forcing a smile.
As I struggled to think of something further to say and a way to disguise my disappointment, a nice young lady rescued me, as she ushered us to our table. As soon as we sat down (and no he didnt even attempt to pull my chair out for me- a legitimate strike!) I began scouring the menu, and Mike began talking about his most recent bust (which was actually a minor traffic violation but whatever). Upon deciding between a couple suitable options, I made an attempt to make witty small talk, and asked my companion why he had not even opened up his menu.
"Youre not going to look at the menu?", I asked, baiting him.
"No, I know what I want", he replied.
"I see, familiar with the menu. Is this where you take all your hot dates?", I said smirking, eagerly anticipating the response such a comment would undoubtedly solicit.
"No.", he began, "I just like really bland food."
This was not the response I was expecting...
"You like bland food?!", I asked in clarification.
"Yeah- no spices, no salt, just plain. I hate mingling food flavors.", he explained.
"Really?!", I asked even more disappointed than before.
Creepy, and dull. What a powerhouse combination.
"Yeah," he continued, "but that should make it pretty easy for you. You wont have to do much for me."
"Huh?!", I said, completely floored by the audacious implication.
"When you cook for me", he said. "I expect a woman to cook for me. But youre lucky- you dont have to do much but make my dinner bland every night".
The absurdity of that statement made me actually laugh out loud.
"Youre funny!", I said, feeling relieved because I mean, he had to be kidding, right?!
"Im serious.", he said sternly.
"Uhhhhhhhh, yeah, not so much cupcake", I replied shaking my head, words dripping with sarcasm.
I figured things would only get worse from this point on, but he continued on as if I had said nothing. Clearly officer Mike was not the sharpest tool in the shed and completely missed my total disdain with his apparent supposition that I would be donning an apron sometime soon and cracking open a bottle of Ragu for him. Oh dont get me wrong, he was definitely a tool... just a very dull, unattractive, and frankly BLAND tool.
As he droned on about the legality of crossing double yellows and passing in an intersection, all I heard was "blah, blah, blah".
Finally, the meal was over, and it was time to go. While he did pay, he informed me I would be paying the next time, and he managed to walk me to my car.
"Well, thanks for lunch", I said.
"Youre welcome", he replied.
Then came the worst of all moments during a date.... the weird awkward time when decisions must be made! Thankfully he didnt try to kiss me, but he gave me the worlds most uncomfortable and awkward hug, and said "See ya".
As I climbed into my car, I heard him shout something across the parking lot that I couldnt quite make out.
"Huh?", I asked.
"WHAT KIND OF PANTIES ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?", he shouted again. "SO I CAN PROPERLY IMAGINE IT".
Horrified, I sneered back at him in disgust and replied:
"GRANNY PANTIES!"
"High-waisted white cotton ones!"
Needless to say, I did NOT call officer Mike back ever again.
