Common Ground of Sorts

No, I’m not dead. Not in a ditch, not killed and mangled and also more killed in a dark alley or anything like it. I have survived “date number one” safe and sound, and I’m sorry that I took so long to come back and post, thereby causing some concern on at least one person’s part.

My lack of posting is not from lack of TRYING, let me assure you! The desire was there. I really wanted to write, and tried and tried, but I kept smacking my face into keyboard from the falling asleep. Because the subject was BORING. The date wasn’t particularly good, or exceptionally bad. It was just really, really ‘hmph.’ Very “Eh.” Awfully “whatever.” I tried to figure out a way to explain the experience, because I knew I was gonna have to tell you guys something. And finally I found the perfect analogy in my head.

This date was a 90-minute ride in a public elevator.

You know how when you’re in an elevator w/ someone else you just make small talk until the elevator gets where you’re going? Like that. And you know how you keep checking to see if you’re close to your floor yet? Like that. And you know how people never look directly at you in an elevator? Like THAT.

Not kidding. Not once did Potential Dude look directly at me. Not once! At first I just figured it was the awkward beginning stuff, where you are really aware of the length of your nose or how hot your hair is on the back of your neck, and then you wish you had a mint no matter what you’ve had to eat that day. So hey, maybe Mr. Potential is obsessed with the size of his eyeballs or something.

But after half an hour? Hellooo, I’m over here!! I’m the thing w/ boobs and a purse sitting immediately to your left! Looky-looky-loooooookyyyyyyyy! And nuthin’. If he hadn’t told me this story about Sarah Vaughn calling him a “blue-eyed devil” I’d have had no idea he had eyes at all! (OK, that’s a lie. I’d have noticed if he had NO eyes. The gaping holes in his head, the putting his hand in the butter – these things would have stood out some. I’m sure. I’m just sayin’…)

Mostly my reaction to the date was pretty much no reaction. Seriously, it was just a non-event. Nothing to be tingly about, nothing to be pissed about. The highlights went something like this:

• Dang, I’m sweatier then I’d expected after biking there. I will hie myself to the bathroom for paper-towel-bath.
• Here comes a dude – I hope this is the date! Otherwise? Awkward…
• OK, older then I’d hoped for. Or he’s lived a really hard 45 years!
• Yeah, I am pro-making a toast at a good friend’s wedding too. So we have that in common.
• Crap, I missed my bail-out call from the Queen! (luckily she called back. Because she was willing to go into labor based only on a signal from me. Just to get me out of a painful date. That’s love, people! But I let her go on, labor-free for now)

Tangent: he totally knew what that call was for. I’m all “oh hi, how are you? No. No. Yup. Ok then, I’ll see you later!” yeah, he wasn’t stupid. I could tell from his whole demeanor (I was gonna say ‘the look in his eyes,” but, ya know, eyeless Joe and all that…) that he knew exactly what the other side of the conversation was. “I’m fine, unless you think I need to go into labor right now? I don’t? So you’re ok for now then? Good luck!” So then I knew I was giving him a kind of signal, like “hey dude, I just gave up a perfectly good chance to ditch you. But I stayed, so I must be invested in something here.” And I was kind of worried that he’d take it as too much encouragement. But that was SO not something I needed to worry about! (what floor are we on now? Elevator so slow…)

• Oh good, we’re talking about movies. I like movies! Of course we don’t like any movies in common.
• I’m sorry, did he really just tell me that he had to move to a new state because he was running from people who wanted to kill him for owing them drug money? Three Different Times? Someone catch me as I swoon. And by swoon I mean wish that I’d asked The Queen to call back in 20 minutes…
• Hey, the server is kind of cute
• Yes, I, too, would spend over $1,000 to see the Beatles in concert. So we have that in common.
• Ok, we’ve talked about movies that I liked and he didn’t, jazz music which he loves and I hate, the fact that he thinks people who read graphic novels are lame (Batman is awesome and anyone who doesn’t agree is made of poop and eggplant)… are we to my floor yet?
• Hey, I could never finish the Lord of the Rings books either! So we have that in common.
• Points for using the words “precocious” and “epoch” both in sentences, both correctly and both without sounding like you were showing off.
• But still I’m glad we’ve reached my floor. All the small talk was so exhausting.

The last time I went on a date was over 15 years ago. So I definitely don’t have experience at this. And maybe awkward and vaguely boring small talk is what all first dates are supposed to be like? Doesn’t matter – either way I won’t be seeing Potential Dude again. I think he’s on the same page there.

So we have that in common.

Will the real Mr. Wonderful please stand up!

So here I sit, with one fellow who seems very intent on meeting me (about which a sane person would say “how flattering!” but I say “clear signs of his lack of good judgment and/or questionable sanity”) and another fellow who is so off-limits as to be made of cyanide-laced-plutonium-snake-bullets! And of course I’m most giggly about Dr. Cyanide.

Don’t worry – I’m not crazy myself (although I play one on tv). Never shall I poop where I also eat. (ew.) But it’s the difference between the known commodity (i.e. I know this forbidden fruit is smart and handsome and successful and cool, and did I mention he winks? He’s a champion winker? Sigh about the winking.) vs. the unknown commodity (i.e. online dude who could look like Lurch or be as talkative as Lurch or as successful as Lurch or be in any manner Lurchfull.) I go towards what I already know, even when I also already know that what I know is a no-go.

But correct me if I’m wrong: the winking was dirty pool on Dr. Cyanide’s part, yes? I mean, he also knows that he’s fruit of the No-No-No-No-No variety, so why must he tease?

The Queen suggested (because how smart is she? Oh so smart!) that I peek at his left hand. And I will. Even though I a little bit don’t want to know, because of COURSE he’s married and probably a Dad and therefore even more cyanidey and plutoniumish. That’s too much evidence and I wouldn’t even be able to fantasize anymore. Right now I can get a total Pretty Woman/Working Girl/Name Your Completely Unrealistic Chick Flick Where The Girl Does What Nobody Should Do and Wins Anyway Here-type fantasy going when I need a little pick-me-up.

But once I know he’s married? I will fantasize no more.

I tried to fantasize about Potential Dude, but I can’t shed the certain feeling that anybody found through this channel couldn’t possibly be a winner. My fantasies about Potential Dude normally end up with him borrowing money, or possibly my car. To pick up the drums. For his band. Which someday will totally be the next Megadeath or Starland Vocal Band. (shudder)

ANYWAY, by this weekend I’m guessing that one man will be officially married and the other officially crazy/creepy/crappy, and so I guess I should really enjoy this, the week of wacky, faboo potential! The week where my fantasy life could be of a mysterious stranger who pursues me (and may or may not be a millionaire or prince of a foreign land!) or a handsome professional type who’s a total sweetie, and the exciting prospect of fruit all “hands-offy!”

Danger, Will Me-binson

For a minute last night (yes, the same night!) I thought Potential Dude had ruined it. He started out pretty strong, with a clever and even pseudo-charming message and references to pop culture and such, and even with the smoking (cannot tell you what a turn-off that is, because yuck-yuck-YUUUUUUUCK!!!) and the age question I was officially intrigued. I even replied, which I’d been pretty sure would NEVER happen.

Then, about half an hour later, this weird thing happens. My browser pops up this little window without me saying “hey browser, pop up a little window won’t you?” and when it develops all the way it turns out to be some kind of magic talking box. And the talker is Potential Dude and the message is instant and says something like “send me your email address so you can tell me !” and I went “Gah!” followed immediately by “DIE INSTANT MESSAGEY BOX!!!!” and clicked it dead!

Now, were Beautiful Dreamer in my place she’d have been very excited about this additional, this spontaneous and this super-speedy contact. But for me? Too much! I just sent you an reply not more then 30 minutes ago and you’re clamoring for more? And you want my email address? Way, way too much, Mr. Potential Dude!

Here’s the thing: I LOVE me some internet, don’t get me wrong! I think it’s just about the most amazing invention of my whole life, right after Fudgicles and that powdery chemical candy that you eat with the candy stick, right? But I’m also CONSTANTLY aware of the massive population of whackadoodle nut-chiladas out there! If they did a poll of the internet to find out the ratio of doodle-bugs to non-doodle-bugs I’m sure it would be 50/50 IF THE RATIONAL PEOPLE ARE LUCKY! And OF the population of scary-freaky-odd-sad-broken-crazy-gahgahgahgah-types out on the net, I’m sure close to 200% of them are searching the online dating universe for a partner.

And at this point someone out there is all “hey, YOU’RE out there searching for a partner on the web. Are you saying there’s something wrong with you?” And I’m all “are you NEW? HELLO!!! Of course I know there’s stuff wrong with me! I’m Lady High Empress of the Whackadoodles, keeper of the scepter of RBBRRBBBRRBBRRBBRR!!!” and you’re all “what, you really think there’s something so weird about you?” and I’m all “didn’t you read this post? And this one? And pick any post you want, they all scream “Run from the crazy single lady before she snares you with her box of nasty sarcasm and pudding!” and you’re all “wha- um, I don’t… I mean I just, uh, er, I um-“ and I’m all “Woopity, whoopity, whoopidy! Lookit me, I’m all invisible! Somebody catch that giant flying turnip because it took my cheese-shoes!”…

But enough about me.

This morning there were another two messages. Twice the number of messages I was going for. 200% more messages then I’d been looking to get. And at this point I’m expecting “You’re so excellent, what should we name the first baby?, I don’t want you to spend so much time with your girlfriends anymore, does this dress make me look fat?” and I don’t even want to OPEN the messages.

Don’t worry, I finally opened them and they were fine. Lots more questions – I think this guy thinks he can take me in a pop culture challenge! – but mostly normal. So I sent another reply today. This is bordering on conversational at this point, folks.

Getting every bit of what I paid for.

So I decided to sit down and complete my fweewove.com profile. Everything. My likes, my dislikes, religious beliefs, political stance, favorite food, biggest fear, place I'd least like to be kicked (Barcelona)... the whole she-bang! This, I figured, was the key to finding my true wove! If I don't let them know who I really am and what I really want, I reasoned, then how could I expect them to help me? It took some time, but I got it done, and with my newly specific search parameters I called for a match.

And this is what I got:

"polyamorous, looking for another new relationship"

Apparently my Mr. Right is shacked up with a Mrs. Right and a couple of little Rightlings, but they have an understanding. And a corral of "friends" on the side. And an opening for a new "friend." And probably hot-and-cold running cable-porn. And an uncanny ability to give me the fuzzy, leaping, sideways-hinged and double-barrelled heebie-jeebies! (brief pause for shudder dance of a thousand great googly-mooglies!)

And in case you need more excellent information I should mention that Fabio here looks to be about 5 and a half feet tall. And 3 and a half feet wide. With kind of a dirty Teddy Ruxpin thing goin' on. And did I mention he's looking not for a special lady, but more for an additional, or "spare" if you will, special lady. A sparecial lady. He apparently is so overflowing, so bubbling over with masculine machismo magic that just one, or possibly two, or maybe even three to five women just can't satiate him. Nor, apparently, can two to five daily donuts. But really, who could resist such animal magnetism? (cough, gag, pinch of vomit into my mouth...)

Not only was this the first match that my newly specific search brought me, but it was the ONLY MATCH. The ONLY ONE. This is IT. If I am to go to the person with which I am meant to be I will have to dig deep, deep into my Mr. Rogers training and really rock my sharing skills. Please Mr. Polyamorous (which is, I believe, Latin for uber-randy, which is German for mucho-horny, which is Spanish for "I actually think I can get a bunch of women to come have loose sex with me despite my personal appearance and wife plus kids."), won't you be my neighbor?

I will admit, people, that this response to such specificity is disappointing. It's sure a good thing I didn't pay for this one!

I don't need a man, I need an accountant...

Today I started my day with all those wonderful morning things. Birds chirping. sunlight pouring in the window. Little kitty faces nuzzling me to "get the hell up already!" An email from my bank gentling letting me know that if I was hoping to overdraw my bank account by about $100 then Mission Accomplished!

Oh crap.

See, here's the deal: I don't balance my checking account. I never have. Or more to say I've tried a couple of times, but it doesn't work w/ my sad little brain.

But I also just about NEVER write checks, and this is exactly why: the time delay thing. That's what got me here. Checks I wrote a couple of weeks ago just finally, yesterday, hit my bank. Why? I have no idea. Either the businesses that I wrote these checks to don't really need the money or they are as bad at managing their funds as I am, but whatever. It doesn't matter why. They get to do that, because I'm supposed to remember that I wrote these checks and until they come out of the bank I'm supposed to remember that they're out there. That's what I'm supposed to do.

That's clearly, though, not what I do. Or did. For me it's much more "once spent, it's gone." I'd written these checks weeks ago and I'd mentally called them "done" and so when I paid my bills online the other night I failed to say to myself "oh yeah, and remember that the balance you're seeing here now is actually $200 LESS then that. Even though it doesn't look like it now. But remember that. Because it is."

The other funny part (funny like "god, what the HELL is wrong with me really?" funny) is that I have a check for $250 in my purse. With a deposit slip clipped jauntily to it. All ready for depositing and enjoying in all it's monetary goodness. This has been there for a while, but I keep forgetting to GO to the bank. Because not only do I hate to write checks, but I hate to get them too. In my perfect world we'd get rid of actual cash and little paper slips that pretend to be cash and we'd all just have the little magic chip in our thumb that we stick on the magic thumbchip reader and it KNOWS how much money we have and moves it from person's bank acct A to retail person's acct B. Right then. Done and done.

The only reason that I wrote a bunch of checks in the first place, thereby confusing my normal money management system, is because the purse got stolen. So here's the big punchline to that story: Though the DoucheBage who stole my purse got only $3 in cash, he has since cost me (figuring in my head, carry the 2, picture me w/ tongue sticking out corner of mouth while I have to think about numbers...) about $400. Ha. ha. ha...

The Queen has told me many times about how in her relationship with the King it's very clear who manages the money: he does. Not because she can't (she can do math. She's smart and also hot.) but because she's like me: she doesn't WANT to manage the money. She knows that they have different strengths and weaknesses, and one of his strengths is being really good at keeping their money situation copasetic, and one of her strengths is buying super-cool shoes. And as long as he does his part, and then tells her how much money there is in the super-cool shoe budget, she can do her part.

So as I build my idea of the perfect dude here's absolutely one of my requirements: money-management-man. I'd be happy making that money, putting it into the bank (via direct deposit of course), fixing the car, wiring the stereo and disposing of the cat poop and dead snakes. If he'll make dinner, clean the bathroom and manage the money. Anybody know someone like that? Anybody? Anybody?

Looking for Lawrence of Arabia, getting Larry the Cable Guy

Ya know how 2 weeks ago I said I was gonna take a break from the manhunt? Yeah, well as I feared no sooner did I decide that then the free and local online dating site spit out several "hey baby!" connections. Because irony has such a messed up sense of humor. And so I went to check them out, because if they're coming to me the LEAST I can do is meet them half way!

Apparently the type that I attract is something like this:

• Cowboy hat
• moustache, no beard
• wears cammo. In the city.
• enjoys hunting/fishing/other death-oriented hobbies
• wants to treat someone like a queen/goddess/right purty filly
• has 2-6 kids that just might need a new baby mama
• bears a striking resemblence to someone who just might have an interest in gettin' er done.

Sigh.

I'm not trying to be picky, although I'm sure that's how I sound. And I'm not expecting Brad Pitt or Robert Redford or even Robert DeNiro or even Robert Wagner! But how 'bout not Robert the unemployed manure salesman? How 'bout not Bobby the trophy snipe hunter? How 'bout not Bobbo the trained monkey? 'kay? Really? How 'bout?

I'm gonna work with the idea that I should take the time to fill in more of my blanks on the freebie matchmaking site. Really all they know about me is girl, age, location, not dead, likes boys, homo sapien. Doesn't give them too much to work with. And who knows, maybe there's a box I can check that say's things like "no dudes who enjoy gutting anything." or "not interested in learning to appreciate "chawin' tabacki" or "anyone who says grace over a bag of Cheetos need not apply." (although to be clear: Cheeto enthusiasts are very welcome! Yeah, wipe me all over with that fake, neon-orange powder-o-wove, baby! ...sorry, too much?)

The other trend that just keeps being true is that if they're cute they're also looking for someone who can "keep up with them" as they bike the Rocky Mountains or free-climb the Space Needle. I don't think the right person for me would consider teaching a turbo-spinning class a reasonable hobby. I'm more looking for someone who thinks that learning to pick up socks with your toes is a reasonable hobby. I'd just like them to be kinda cute while they're walking off that foot cramp. (be a man!)

So as of tonight I return to the hunt by fleshing out my profile with fweewove.com. (hmmph. Fleshing out. Dirty.) I'll tell them what I want and don't want and then I'm sure they'll come knocking on my (email) door and say "what ho, we have foundeth for you yon stallion of beautiest brow and galliant heart! He doth profess much wove for you and asks do you feel the same?" And I will reply forsooth:

"I'm sorry, did you call me a ho?"

I keep waiting for him to say "kidding..."

OK, so I'm trying to develop a schedule to check Match.com. Because, after all, I did (accidentally) pay for this additional 3 months so I should be making the best of it, right? (shut up. Seriously. No kidding, stop the laughing. Too mean. Way to mean...) I just kind of forget I should be paying attention to it, and it's not like there's much happening to remind me to check in. So I need to make sure I'm paying attention, because there's an argument to be made that at any time a possible Mr. Right could pop on to the site, feel unnoticed and pop right back off. All while I'm not checking because I'm watching people playing Human Tetris on YouTube.

So I'm checking.

Now see, I've been there often enough, and the cast of characters changes seldom enough, that I really only need to skim the surface and look for new faces.

Today there was a new face, and his newness gave me the hopes! He was not only new, but with faceness too! A non-invisible, non-vampire (what is the story there -- they have no reflections, so do they show on film? Anyone? Anyone?), non-cameraless new guy who could be my special someone. Oh a flutter! A twitter! A swoon and preen and preeky-eekle, click on him quick!

At this time I learn an important lesson: don't swoon or preen or preekle until you read the profile. Because seriously, I get it: the dude likes sex. I GET IT.

The only thing Mr. Manly Man could do to drive home the point more (sorry, couldn’t resist) would be to have his primary picture be of his rock-hard schwangadoodle aiming due-north! It’s weird enough that his pictures include a long shot of his bare legs (are we saying “look how hot my legs are!”? No, we are not.) and also a shot of him posing in front of your gym. Because “look, I’m all rock hard. ALL rock hard.” (“see, I’m making another sexual reference there. With the rock. And the hard. And hey, want to have some sex?”)

But just in case his subtle, not-too-obvious, not at all smacking you in the face pictures weren’t really coming across, here are some items he thought fit to include in his profile:

“My perfect match is just as comfortable in a little black dress as she is in running tights. She will share bio rythms first and possibly fluids later. She is educated and independent but down to earth. She is high energy and has a little freak in her.”

Translation: “I’m all about the body. Yours, mine – it don’t matter. But you will need to be all model-lookin’ and also be in to things that I could later include in my monthly (so far fictional) letters to Penthouse. If you are a hot pizza delivery girl, a hot copy machine repair girl or a hot Jehova’s Witness that would be a super bonus… Oh, and read or do math or something.”

"I like endorfins. I get them by running for a couple of hours usually, but other aerobic activities with the right partner are more fun."

Translation: "Did I mention that I work out? Did you see the pictures of me being gymmish? Gymful? Gymtastic? I really don't think I can stress enough how sexy I think it must be that I'm a worker-outer. Also, and I want to be very, very clear here: sex is excellent and hot and I don't get to have it very often, so maybe we could mostly send dirty emails to each other and then skip the first date and just have some sex. Or I could pick up some low-fat yogurt or fat-free chips. (How do you feel about anal leakage?) Don't forget that I'm hot and that sex burns calories!"

"Favorite things: Hard bodies and soft hearts."

Translation: "I hope that you're a loving person. Loving sex, that is! (did you get that I am really horny? REALLY, TREMENDOUSLY horny!)"

I feel both very self-confident and also very self-controlled right now. And also right now I don't miss sex at ALL. I sure hope he finds that inhibition-free, size 2 aerobics instructor real soon. Don't give up, Mr. Manly Man -- she's out there!

THAT Guy. But not THAT guy.

The Guy I'm looking for is everywhere in this damn town. He's not this one specific guy -- I've not quite yet begun my fabulous hobby as dude-enthusiast/stalker. (Still waiting for my night goggles and tazer/net grenade gun to arrive.) He's all these guys that you see out in the world that strikes the "mmm. like that." chord. The Guy you see walking down the street or in his yard or somewhere who is, just for that moment in time, exhibiting something that makes him irresistible. I’m talking like:

The Guy sitting at a coffee shop outside table, reading the paper and enjoying the nice weather on a sunny Saturday morning. He's saying "yeah, I'm relaxed. I can take the time to enjoy a cuppa joe and some news o' the day." plus he's lookin' smarty-smart! Ooh! A reader!

The Guy sitting in his car in the lane next to mine, and he's SINGIN' HIS HEART OUT! Singing with the radio, just lettin' it rip! Plus bonus: same radio station that I'm listening to. This is a guy who gives not el crappo de uno about what anyone else thinks of him. He wants to sing? He’s gonna sing! "Embarrassed" is not a color in his paint box, let alone "shy." Add to that the stellar taste in music and we're talking dude-gold!

The Guy at the gas station who overheard someone in line saying they were short a buck for the gas they'd already pumped, and who beat me to the punch as he pulled buckage from his pocket to help out. Generous, empathetic, plus also FAST! I mean I was really goin' for it and his cash was on the counter before I had my money clip free of my trusty denim stronghold! (um, dirty?)


I also see The Guy I don't want everywhere I look. He's even easier to identify because OH MY GOD! He's the guy where you see him, you shudder, and then you want to find the parent responsible for raising such an OhMyGodity. Find them and greet them with a firm-but-classic "What the hell were you thinking?!?!" plus bonus whack upside the head. Who am I talking about? Oh, you SO know! Frinstances:

The Guy who, as he tromps past you down the sidewalk, all sweaty and bleah, fires a nose-rocket. A jet-propelled booger. A super-sonic snot-shot. Right at your feet! He’s so very, very classy and also super-sexy that I might swoon, except that I don't want to faint into his booger puddle.

The Guy standing on an average street corner (not the problem) with more then average tummy (still not actually the problem) who helpfully lifts up his shirt (not necessarily problem, unless followed by...) and gives his belly a long, enthusiastic scritch, scritch, scraaaaatch, scratch, scratch. Oooh, it feels so good -- you can see it on his face. His big, oblivious-to-the-grossness-of-watching-someone-tummy-scratch face! (shudder, shudder, SHUH-DDERR!!)

The Guy sitting in his un-muffled muscle car (because someone told some guy once that what really impresses the chicks is if your care is louder then a speeding train. Hot!) in the left-turn lane, waiting for the person in the car in front of him to make that heart-stopping leap between oncoming cars to complete their turn. The Guy who (in an effort to be helpful and encourage a safe and smooth transition for everyone involved) kindly lays on the horn while simultaneously (because he’s a multi-tasker) screaming 6 or 4 skillion nasty and also foul-mouthed suggestions about what they could do with their head/brains/ass and/or genitalia, since they’re obviously too stupid to come up with these ideas on their own. Or make a left turn. But you have to feel for This Guy, because he’s probably late to get home and kick his dog or kid or wife.

It just shows that it’s not just about finding a Guy, it’s about finding The Guy. And not The Other Guy.

Another deal-breaker I wasn't aware of.

So for my J-O-B (gleh) I have to make packets for these seminars. It's one of those things where you're adding names to forms and putting names on labels and naming names on names of namey-things, so you see a lot of names. (alotalotalot of names) Yesterday I'm naming the name-name-names on some namernames and I realized something else that makes me itchy (and not in the good way):

Couples who's first names have the same first letter. I'm talking Bob and Barbara Smith; Chester and Chelsea Jones; Felix and Fiona Farfegnugan. I know this isn't necessarily their fault, and that most likely they didn't scour the globe looking for a mate who shared their first name starting letter. (For those few who DID scour the globe I say SHAME ON YOU.)

I can't really tell you why, but I know that it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I'm heebie-jeebied all over from such things. It brings to mind women w/ jauntily flung shoulder-sweaters and men's thick man-bracelets. Itchy.

And so I have to add "dudes who's name starts w/ "F" to my deal-breaker list. Of course one doesn't get their real names from the site, so I will have to work out some kind of witty way of checking on that in any first emails. After all, I don't want to become smitten with an F-dude. Don't want the heartbreak that is emailing w/ someone and finding out we have oh so much in common ("Really? You sucked your thumb until Middle School too? With a blanky or not? Yeah, I was a blanky-user too!" and then thumpy hearts and musical notes floating around my head and tingly tingles) and then have the guy say "by the way, my name is Franktastic -- what's yours?"

My name is can't love a man named Franktastic. Sigh.

I'm winking, I'm winking!

So Saturday night I'm hanging w/ The Queen and Princess Stinkbutt, and Queen asks (all nonchelantly) "So whatever happened with that guy that winked at you? You know, after you winked back?"

And I, also nonchelantly, tried my best to crawl all the way into her couch rather than admit the truth, which is ever-so-sadly this: I forgot to go and wink back.

I just forgot! I'd decided to wink back, based on all the good advice I got here, and I was all go for winking, I promise. But as Queen oh-so-eloquently put it, I'm just not properly motivated. Or at least I wasn't by Quasinatra. And I honestly and for truly just forgot.

How did I remember that I'd forgotten? Well I went to Yenta.com last week and decided I was gonna go on a winking spree! A Pepsi-fueled, throw-sanity-to-the-wind winking fit! I winked at no less then 5 different guys, and discovered some extra limitations I'd not realized I had. For instance:

• No picture? I probably won't wink. No picture and you describe yourself as "bald"? I definitely won't wink. It's not that I'm anti-bald, because people, there are some FOINE bald dudes out there! (Hello, John Locke? Hello Cap'n Piccard? Anyone? Anyone? I'm just sayin'!) But if I can't see how you're rockin' the bald then I'm not that brave.
• You have children? I'm not opposed to that. You have 3 kids, and they all live at home? Hmm, well it's still possible but I admit I'm nervous. Your headline is (I kid you not) "Looking for a new mother for 3 great kids"? Have you considered the "new mom" aisle at Wal-Mart? Oh crazy, crazy, CRAZY man?
• Know what? There is no level of handsome that will get me to drive 2 hours for a date. 20-30 minutes maybe, if I'm properly motivated, but I'm not blowing a tank of gas and a quarter my waking day just getting to some guy.
  

But beyond little red flags such as these (or mostly just these) I was a winky-winkin' fool, baby! I heard the voices with their words of doubt (did he really say he was an American guy looking for an American girl? Oh come on, that guy's posing in front of a fake sunset. Iguana! That clearly says "pet iguana"!) but I listened to them not a bit. I was winkin' to the left, winkin' to the right...

But here's the secret truth: I honestly looked at this as my chance to prove a deeply held belief, which was that this is all a massive waste of time and energy. This winkapalooza all started with this thought: any guy that I would ever even consider winking at will reject me. Guaranteed.

You may see this as a sad thought. For me, once I coaxed the idea out from behind that mental bush and took a good, hard look at it, it was extremely freeing! I don't have to worry about who I make contact with, because it's never gonna go anywhere. So wink away, baby! Wink until it develops into a real-life tick! Wink like you're goddang James Bond, license to wink! WINK LIKE YOU'VE NEVER WINKED IN YOUR WINKIN' LIFE!

So I did.

This was (mostly) done 5 days ago, and now you must guess how many guys have rejected the wink from this initial winksplosion. How many do you think? Put your money where..., no wait, I mean put your mouth where... no, that's gonna go naughty. Just guess.

I Call Shenanigans!

I'm sorry, maybe I'm bitter or I'm projecting my personal drawbacks on the rest of the world, but I refuse to accept that this many people exercise 3-5 times each week! It's just not realistic. It's not believable!

And YET that seems to be true of practically every single guy on Yenta.com.

Excercise? "3-5 times a week"

Diet? "Keep it healthy"

Body Type? "Slender. Athletic. Chiselled and also God-like. Want to lick me? Go ahead, lick me. I taste like strawberries!"

So then just I have to ask: are they lying? OR are they terrible, puppy-kicking, non-rewinding people? Because if they WERE all those things they claim to be -- "kind, funny, smart, generous, gives to the poor, sings with woodland critters, this close to finding a cure for cancer" -- WHY WOULD THEY HAVE TO BE DESPERATELY SEARCHING FOR LOVE? ONLINE? It just doesn't add up. (and I recently got a big old A in a college math course, so I'm uniquely confident in my math skills.)

I know this because I know some good guys. And all of the good guys that I know are involved; just about all are, in fact, officially married. We women, as a gender, don't tend to let the good ones stay available for too long. Quality men are just like simple yet comfortable black pumps on clearance -- practically impossible and therefore immediately snatched up!

So I could believe that there would be some gems out there, but according to Yenta.com there is a great big pile of perfect, fabulous, drop-dead gorgeous guys out there just desperately trying to get a date.

Oh, and also later there will be terrible flocks of monkeys come flying out of my butt. It's gonna be awesome.

T-t-t-t-tangents...

Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you. (now see, in my head that sounded all profound and deep. but in writing? Just dirty. sigh.) Yes, ladies and..., well pretty much just ladies, things are all sorts of familiar now! I'm wrapped up in that most well-worn of beach towels: rejection. In less than 24 hours Monty sent word my presence was not required.

I know what you're saying now. "24 hours? Well hell, you could have told this 2 days ago!" You're right. And I started to a bunch of times, but each time this same thing happened. Everything came out all bitter and hissy. See, this is what put out my fire to pursue this kind of stuff in the past. I got danged tired of the rejection, and even more tired of the nasty little bitch I become in the face of it.

(Woah, this is becoming another very real and bitter post. Allow me to break things up with a random tangent, shall I?)

Tangent: tomorrow (today already for some folks) is that most commercial of holidays, Valentines Day. This year I think it's being brought to us by Target, Coke and the letter P. This holiday is one that really separates the boys from the men, I say. Or more accurately the single boys from the dating men, and same goes for the ladies. If you're doing the wove thing when this day wheels around it's all about "do something or don't? If I do something am I just pandering to society's insistance that I choose today to be romantic? If I do nothing am I being an ass-hat?" Here's your answer, dating/mating world: yes. Yes, yes, a thousand chocolates over yes! You are pandering, you're letting the rest of the world dictate your romantic schedule and you're a complete and utter bastard if you don't. So suck it up, buy a single wed wose or a teddy bear holding a box of inedible chalk talking hearts or those truly classy silk boxers with the big, red lips all over them and get to it!

And then there's those like moi, who have to decide if they'll shun the day (usually with much bile and self-pity), take back the day with the tried and true "hey, why don't all we single friends get together and do something!" plan or pretend that the 14th of February is no different than the 13th (like anyone's buying that.) Me? I used to celebrate with as non-romantic a movie I could find (Platoon, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, most things starring David Spade...) and eating an entire pizza by myself (using the traditional "hell, if I'm not dating anybody then there's no one to care if I gain 5 pounds in a single sitting!" rational) but that seemed like giving the day more oomph then made sense. Now I just look it as the day before the day when all those boxes of candy go on big-time sale!

So Sunday night I come home from a rollicking evening of Grammy-tastic action to an email from my very good friend, Yenta.com, assuring me that I shouldn't give up hope just because oh yeah, by the way, that dude what I winked at reacted with something along the lines of "yeesh! Are you high?" and beat feet in the away direction. I really appreciated that Yenta was there for me in that, my time of need. There with generic encouragement to get back on the e-horse and go find someone else who can reject me tomorrow! But in all honesty what I felt like doing was, in my opinion, a very reasonable and balanced reaction. It was a plan of two steps:

1. write an email apologizing to him for the mistake wink, as I had no interest in him whatsoever and that the wink was actually due to my cat messing with the computer while I was on the john -- "she winked at no less than 17 different guys while I was taking a dump. I'm so glad that you're not interested, because you couldn't be further from what I was looking for if you tried. For instance, I'm looking for a straight guy..."
2. copy his picture and paste it into all sorts of doggie-porn chat rooms under the moniker "poodle-poker"

Tangent: Dooce.com posted a link to a list of bad gift ideas from Amazon.com which I couldn't have loved more if I'd compiled it! It had not just one, but multiple creepy sex costumes included, which has me wondering what is the DEAL with sex in costumes? I know my sex experience is limited (much in the same way that the number of minorities allowed into the KKK is limited) but is there such a large population of folks who get hot and sweaty at the idea of knocking boots dressed as a 5-ft baby? Seriously? (shudder.) Also, it has really been a long time for me, because I don't remember for the life of me where the wolf urine, the tick nipper and the 4 lbs of cow crap come in. Would that be the "foreplay" I keep hearing about?

I did try to follow Yenta's advice and check for anyone new out there at whom I could wink. Apparently the pickings are sticking to their strict diet of parsley, red ants and criticism (which is the same diet that Nicole Richey is on, by the way.) In other words, they are still slim, these pickings. Am I being too selective? Perhaps. How do I tell? Based on the small amount of info I'm provided and these akward, sketchy and sometimes frightening pictures I'm not finding anyone I want to open a door to. But correct me if I'm wrong: that's what I'm supposed to do, right? I'm supposed to look for someone who interests me and make contact. It's just the first part I'm having trouble with.

Tangent: Valentines for friends - for 'em? Agin' em? What say you guys? Because I've received a ton (sorry, should have been T-U-U-U-U-H-N) of valentines cards and gifts from friends. And it's a three-part process. First there's the reaction that you show your friend: Wow, that's so nice, thank you so much! Simultaneously there's the reaction in your head: great, another box of pity candy, another lovely poem about how good a friend I am where a dirty limerick about my boobs should rightly be, another friend worried that I might finally OD on Mad Dog 20/20 and Firefly reruns because I'm unloved on Feb. 14th - how pitiful am I? And then there's the internal struggle: should I have bought something for this friend too? I figured they'd be celebrating with their spouse/main squeeze; oh crap-a-doodle, are all of my friends expecting cards from me? Am I now officially a bad friend on top of a kaka significant other? Don't get me wrong, because I know that these are truly coming from a good place. My friends are all really excellent people who are just thinking of me. But I gotta be totally honest here (thereby taking me off the hook everywhere else) and state that I'd rather skip it, thanks all the same. Spend the money on the silk boxers!

Anyway, if you look at my scorecard so far I've got Mr. Eloquent of the non-sequitor pipe pics and the "I'm stealing my own soul" self-portraits AND a big "Wow am I out of your league, sweetie" rejection from Looks-good-on-paper-but-probably-would-have-sucked-his-thumb-and-called-me-mommy-Dude. I'm pretty sure that means I'm losing. Time to start figuring out how I can cheat.

Happy Valentines Day, everybody!

I have no response to that...

Well Yenta.com is off to a pretty good start. Not more then 48 hours after I posted all the wonderfulness that is me I had over a dozen fellows checking me out. More than that, one even sent me an email. Due to the wonders of technology this email came right to my regular email inbox, so I found it during my usually boring morning check-in. And I'll admit that my first response was to be excited! More so then I would have expected really. "Ooh, looky!" I thought to myself, "someone was already interested enough to reach out! Take that, Wove.com!" and I triumphantly opened up the email from this, my first official suitor! And I found this:

i thought i was to be of this site a couple of days ago so i dumped the information off my profile. well match did a auto renew that was not approved so i did some changes on the profile and need to put up better pictures. see ya.

.....blink. Blink. Blink.....

What do I do with this? I feel like this was not a message to make a connection, but more of an FYI. "Hey," he seems to be saying, "just in case you go looking and find my profile and wonder why there's no info and the pictures aren't very good, here's the deal." I read it like I was scoring it, like the guy that takes you out to pass the driving test for your first license. "Hmm, can't spell "off" - check. Ooh, blames the technology for his not knowing how the system worked - check. Ouch, has been here for at least a month and has yet to put up good pictures - check. Hey, would you pass me the "FAIL" stamp for this application?" Needless to say, I think I've already got an insight into why this guy is looking for a little help with his matchmaking.

To be sure I wasn't judging him unfairly based on one less-then-stellar email I did go and check out his profile. He's not for me. I mean he's not a serial killer or skinhead or anything overtly "Gah!!" like that, but there's no click. No "pow!" No "where have you been all my life!" Based on the pics that were there, all my life he's been laying pipe under houses. (He even had pictures of the pipe. And the houses. With no sign of him in the picture at all. No idea why.) And I have to wonder if he's looked at my profile, beyond my (clearly GENIUS!) headline. We don't match on much beyond the physical. And you gotta love any guy who answers the question "what do you do for fun?" with the fact that he's spending all his fun time on Yenta.com "e-mailing candidates that do not respond in general, they seem to have a lot of hang ups." Ooh, tell me more, big daddy! I love bitter, disgruntled guys who make big, sweeping generalizations about the rest of the world!

Still, I was trying to find a way to see this as a positive step that I should take. After the bust that was Wove.com I thought I should do whatever I could to make this a more productive endeavor. But the nail in the coffin for me was this phrase:

"...they make a lot of money and do not need what they are looking for..."

Yeah, see ya buddy.

As you guys already know about me, this pursuit is absolutely not one of need. I'm not searching for someone to take care of me, or support me, or solve all of my problems. I can take care of myself and do it pretty dang well. I have been supporting myself for close to 20 years, thanks. No guy will ever be able to solve all of my problems and I don't want one to. It's as my Granny said when explaining why her marriage to my grandfather didn't work out: "He wanted me to need him, and I didn't. I chose him, I loved him and I wanted him, but I didn't need him."

I'm not looking for a hero or a solution or a parachute. I'm looking for a buddy or a partner or a good foil. But until the right person comes along I'm doing just fine. I can afford to be choosy. And choosy I shall be! So I sent this first suitor (whom I will call Bitterman) one of Yenta.com's pre-crafted "no thanks" emails, saying basically that we're not a good match. (they didn't have one that said "I'm just gonna dissapoint you like all the others before me, and why would you want to go through that yet again? So just assume I'm another one of those damn self-sufficient bitches and move on. Have you considered something in a mail-order-type-deal, say from somewhere super-crappy?")

So what we know now is that Yenta.com is a faster process then Wove.com, but that the matching may be just as funky. May be. Stay tuned!

Wove.dumb...

OK, one day was cute and all. But at this point I'm being mocked by wove.com. Every day I get more and more matches, and from more and more remote spots within my "geographical region." I'm closing them all for the same reason -- I still don't live in any of those other places because I live in MY place! -- but take the hint they do not. The next day: 6 more matches from far and wide.

So then, in addition to "no thanks!ing" the matches, I go into my settings and reselect my distance limitations. And they show me that they are, indeed, listening by sending me 7 matches from places I'll never live.

Today? 8 new, craptastic matches. (and if I'm not mistaken there was a little E-snicker this time.) But I finally figured out what I had to do. I had to "reset" my priorities. I apparently told the folks a wove.com that physical distance is not the most important thing to me -- I called it "7 out of 9" -- so I went in and changed that priority to "very important." But just as I was making the change I realized that if I take "distance" out of the flexible matching option the brain trust behind wove.com could start throwing matches at me that are less attentative to some of my other less-critical match priorities, and I thought I should take a look at what those other things might be.

And now I'm nervous.

The things I set as least important to me were:
Height
Education
Income and Age

So now that I've taken 'distance' off the table, here's what I fear I'm getting next:

-"Wove.com wants you, Femtastic, to meet Milton. Milton lives in , is 87 years young and is the extremely comfortable with his stature of 3 ft. 4. Luckily this height helps him to fit right in with the rest of his classmates in the 6th grade of Lonely Elementary. (If you two make a match please be aware that he'll need to borrow a little cash for that first date.)"

Yes, when the Online Dating Website you've hooked up to starts sending you folks from distant lands it sure begins to feel like their way of saying "Psssst: you are unmatchable. You've frightened away all the dudes." Now that would be freaky to many folks, but I'm so proud of my independence I'm seeing this as independent confirmation from a neutral source that it don't matter where I go or what I do, because no dude can handle me. Hah! (you're beginning to see just where this is going, right? Welcome to the ride.)

Must Stands, Can't Haves...

I had messages from wove.com today. Not one, but two! The fancy-pants makers of sayings would call this that 'feast' part of the equation, after all the famine we've been tangoing through. We had the "Must Haves" and "Can't Stands" from Princey (for the last time, I'm not telling you where the nickname comes from! Secret is secret, dammit!) in record time! (To be fair, he's the first to do this, so he both sets and breaks the record. Oh hell, he IS the record.)

From Princey's lists of "Must Haves" there were several items that... gave me pause. Not red flags like "Must Have 6 legs" or "Must worship my strangely shaped naughty parts," because those would give me more then pause. Something along the lines of leaping, crawling heebie-jeebies, ya know? (spelling police -- heeby-jeeby? Your call.) But ok, here's a frinstance:

"I must have a partner who maintains high standards of personal hygiene, orderliness, and other personal habits."

...I remember seeing that one on the list and thinking "wow, that would make me sound like some kind of uber-sensitive, anal and picky wackadoo. I'd better not pick it." Apparently either Princey didn't reach that conclusion or he's some kind of uber-sensitive, anal and picky wackadoo!

"I must have someone who is willing to share my interests and passions."

...I want to hope that he's just trying to talk about having things in common with a partner. However, I've also seen too many control-freaks who figure if you're not in to whatever they find cool you're just wrong, wrong, wrong. And I'm already wrong enough in life, I don't need new opportunities for that.

"My partner must be financially responsible."

...this is a good thought, but the thing is that I'm, er... whatdyacallit... like, not. I'm not. I mean I'm not filing for bankruptcy or ducking loan sharks or anything. But if my spending enthusiast ways make me so crazy I'd probably be peeling him off the ceiling. No thank you!

And my personal favorite:

"I must have someone who is mature and experienced as a potential sexual partner and is able to express himself/herself freely."

What he probably meant: I want someone who isn't a virgin, a prude or catholic priest." What I'm hearing: "you bring your own saddle, I'll supply the branding iron and Crisco, baby!" followed by animal mating sounds, the smell of bacon grease and the taste of Cocoa Butter and feathers.

And people, you should know this about me: I'm NOT a prude! In fact, I'm extremely motivated to find someone with which to do some parallel parking, if you know what I mean. (oh, and if you don't know what I mean you either shouldn't be reading this or my Mom is finally checking out this link.) What I'm trying to say is this: I have not had touchy-feely, mattress-bouncy, spring-testing fun for over 10 years. A solid DECADE. So if anyone should be throwing down that naughty gauntlet it would be me. And therefore if I'm made hinky by this particular "Must Have" I think I should go with me gut on this one. Right?

From the land of "Can't Stands" I was singing along with his karaoke tune pretty well until I hit this sour note:

"I can't stand someone who likes to spend excessive time sleeping, resting or being a "couch potato."

One of the things I promised myself when diving into this deep and uncharted pool was that I'd be honest about who I am and what I'm looking for. I'd love to say that I'm not lazy, don't spend excessive time sleeping and have never worn the suit of the "couch potato." Oh hell, I could totally say that! I'd just be lying, is all, and then I'm breaking promises I made to myself and I can be such a bitch when I'm pissed off, so I need to keep me on my good side. So honesty it is: I'm not just a couch potato -- I'm the dang queen of the couch potatoes! You wish you could spend as much time lounging on the couch as I do! If you tried, you'd probably pull a muscle!

I could either end this communication now, or I could turn the crank one more time. If I did that I'd send him another set of 5 questions from a whole new list. But I'd also have to wear the bastard hat, because I'm 96% sure that I'd just be indulging in the social experiment at that point. I want to keep seeing what happens next, but I gotta remind myself that this actually isn't a computer game, where I keep going through each level until I save the Royal Cosmonaut or defeat the Evil Asparagus. It's just an amazing simulation.

Too pooped to cover email number two -- must be why they invented tomorrow!

Goes around, comes around.

Man, sorry for bringing the room down like that. But if I can't be honest to the point of sorrow with you, my bestest of unknown mystery friends, with whom can I?

So, where were we? Oh yeah, I was rejecting someone completely out of hand. And trying not to feel like crap for it. If anyone missed episode one of this saga, there are reasons. Good reasons. Not at all shallow reasons, and I'm sure this is the right thing to do. Now I just gotta do it.

When last we saw our hero (psst: that's me) she was pushing the button marked "Close Match", figuring that would be that. But oh no, me hearties, there's more!

First, you get yet another fabulous list of options. Lists are very big at wove.com. They have lists for what you want from a mate, lists of what you are like, lists of your faults; then you get to being matched and there are more lists, for the questions that you want them to answer or the steps you can take. OR the list of 18 different reasons why you're ditching a match. 18. I'm not sure which was more surprising: that there were 18, or that there were only 18. Some of my favorites were:

• "I don't think our Must Haves and Can't Stands fit." -- I had to read that sentence like eleventeen times before I understood it.
  
• "I'd rather not say" -- a secret rejection? How french!
• "Other" -- I'm going to close out a match with "other" some time just because it tickles me. (and right after that I'm going to hell)

But what to pick for this guy, my first rejection? Sadly there was no "Because of my passion for maximalism," so after sorting through that list it seems like the closest one to the truth would be number 13, "I think the difference in our values is too great." But what I've learned from my own experiences (yes, that's plural -- it's been a big week!) is that you should try to figure out what that will sound like to the person you're rejecting when they don't know the specific thing that sent you away.

After all, "difference in our values" could mean "I close this match because friendships are important to you and hate friends!" or "I'm offended by your desire to help those less fortunate then you. Jerk." So I'm reading every question and trying to decide how it could be misinterpreted. (it was either this or washing my hands, washing my hands, washing my hands...)

And then that smart little voice in the back of my head, the one normally drowned out by the Smurf song or dirty limericks, pushed through with this noble, poignant thought: "Ahem... Are you kidding with this? You don't owe him anything -- you have no relationship with this person at all and he's going to live beyond your stupid match! Seriously, how important do you think your opinion of these people is to them? Wow, no wonder you always wear button-up shirts -- you'll never get that massive melon through a head hole!" (give me a moment, I must dry my emotional eyes.)

OK, so "crappy, minimalist-loving values" it is. I shall now click that box and see what comes next...

Nothing! Rejection delivered. So we're down to 2 guys. 2 guys who may or may not actually exist. 2 possibly fictional, pictureless guys. Yeah, this online matchmaking thing is totally awesome.

Match the Fifth...

...in which I get to put on the douchebag suit.

Flashback: remember McSecondy? The dude who took one look at the little smattering of information they gave about me and knew right away that I wasn't right for him? The one who rejected me without a second thought, dismissing me like so many peanut shells on the floor of the baseball stadium of his life? Remember that douchebag?

Well today the roll of douchebag will be played by me, your very own Femtastic.

I'm gonna reject someone. And I feel like I should have guilt about it, but it's just so definitely the right thing to do that I can't work up the guilt stuff. Blame the parents.

Now I'm sure you're wondering why I would be so sure that someone is rejectable. I have not just one very good reason, but TWO. And I should mention here that having two clear reasons to bail on someone is impressive when you consider just how little the puppet masters at wove.com tell you about someone in the initial match. Here are the topic headers for what they share:

• important interests that you and "The Dude" share
• one thing "The Dude" is most passionate about
• three things which "The Dude" is most thankful for
• 3 Relationship Strengths
• The most influential person in "The Dude's" life
• "The Dude's" friends describe him as
• Three of "The Dude's" best life-skills

And in case this list gives you hope that there's knowledge to be gathered from it, let me assure you there isn't. They're mostly just various ways of wove.com saying "look how amazing this guy is! Don't you want him?" It's not as though a likely response to "The Dude's" friends describe him as" would be "Rude, Angry, possibly a serial killer."

But here I was, faced with a minor sprinkling of information which said to me oh-so-clearly "Not the dude for you!" And let me tell you, at last, why. In response to the question "one thing "The Dude" is most passionate about" there was this sentence:

"I am most passionate about making a decent effort to live a lifestyle that is congruent to my envisions. For me, this puts veganism on top of the list. "

Now the overall idea here I applaud, especially his use of "congruent." But I cannot deal with a Vegan. (the people who know me and read this blog are now wetting themselves with laughter at the sheer idea of me and a vegan. Let's give them a minute to compose themselves. How are those cuticles coming along?...) To say that I'm not a big vegetable eater is like saying that Jeffrey Dahmer had some unconventional eating habits. I'm a carnivore, people, just as was my ancestor, the Tyranasaurus Rex!

And let me clarify: I'm also absurdly fond of all animals and living things. I'm the one in the office charged with taking the spiders outside so they won't be killed. I feed squirrels along with the birds. I can't watch a movie if I know that the animal dies within it, even if the animal is the villain! (Jaws, Cujo, Godzilla remake -- all non-Femtastic-approved movies for just this reason.)

But I'm sorry, there is just nothing quite as tasty as juicy fried chicken, a succulent filet of salmon, even a simple cheeseburger. So the idea of me and a vegan (and a tremendously enthusiastic vegan at that!) is an absolute laugh riot. (It gives me his nickname, though, which I hearby dub Vegan Guy.) And yet it doesn't end there.

He also added this sentence as a follow-up to the vegan bombshell:

"Not far behind are minimalism and volunteering. "

"But Femtastic, what could you have against volunteering?" I hear you ask. Absolutely nothing. I'm very pro-volunteering. I spend 3 hours a week volunteering time for our local animal shelter myself. No, it's definitely not the volunteering.

Minimalism? How can someone be passionate about minimalism? And I'm asking this literally. If anyone has an insight as to how that could be done please chime in, because I'm just lost here. A dictionary I found defines minimalism as "Use of the fewest and barest essentials or elements." It would seem to me that passion works in a totally different direction. Could one actually say, passionately, "Wow oh wow, look at how few essentials or elements they've used here! Awesome!"

And then Vegan Guy wrapped up his answer with:

"I'm also probably far too passionate about keeping fit, that's strictly for selfish reasons."

and that's when I ran away, away, away. Because though I like the idea of being fit, for me it's more of a conceptual thing. Like wanting to be 100% honest, or entirely free of envy. Or learning how to take flight. All cool, but just just not realistic. And I'd like to be with someone who might push me a little in this area, but not so much that I'm forced to end our relationship by crushing his head with my microwave oven (after having used same oven to make a new batch of oniony tater tots, of course.)

There was one more thing, but it's more of a pet peeve then a problem. You'll notice that the question that spawned all of this bad disclosure was "one thing Vegan Guy is most passionate about." ONE THING. How many things do you count in that response? Because I count five. Five things. Five things in response to a question asking for one thing. Five times more things then were requested. 500% more stuff then he was supposed to shove into that answer box. One thing, Vegan-guy! One!!

So, I clicked the "close match" button, and I bet you think it ends there, right? Well, it does for today, but (and I've always wanted to do this!) I must say:

TO BE CONTINUED

The wish list

First, a recap for those of you still filling out your score cards:

McFirsty: we were "matched" (so romantic -- can't wait to tell this story to our grandkiddies) on Oct. 26, and I sent him my piercing, probing (dirty!) questions that day, despite his being plagued with a lack of face (if his "picture" is to be believed). After getting no answers I nudged him on Nov. 6th. I'm overwhelmed by the affections he's lavished on me, carefully disguised as ignoring me completely. Such a Romantic!

McSecondy: Matched and ditched all in one day. I sent him a closed message to let him know that I thought he was moving too fast and I needed to find someone who would take a little time with their relationships. Ironically, this guy had a picture. (stupid irony.)

Princey: Matched on Oct. 29th, picture-free again. He's also been shy. Or quiet. Possibly imaginary? I decided not to nudge Princey because... yeah, I'm sure there was a reason when I decided that. I'm slightly less sure that it was a really good reason. (It certainly wasn't a very memorable reason, so...) Thoughts on nudging anyone?

Newstand Dude: Matchness achieved on Nov. 9 and, big, hairy dang surprise: he also had no picture. In further pursuit of my social experiment I've opted to let N.D. send me questions rather than sending them to him. Which I'm just sure he'll do. Any day now. Just wait...

And all of that brings us to now. Still waiting for something to happen.

While we're getting so very good at this waiting, waiting, waiting we've so far talked about what I consider deal breakers (no smokers, boozers, angora rabbits) and we've talked about what the E-Experts at wove.com think I'm looking for (funny, open-minded, not suicidal). But there's still one more list that I think is worth covering (especially since there ain't nothin' happenin' over at wove.com): the wish list. Those things that I'll be using as a tie-breaker should I discover many possible mens of my dreams. Here's what that list might look like:

• Plays the drums. Don't ask me why, but I've had a soft spot for drummers since puberty. Maybe it's the excellent rhythm, or maybe the absurdly muscle-bound right calves -- who can know? But loves me some drummer boy.
• Plays pool. I'm sorry, but the sound of pool balls whacking together is audio-sex, people! And someone who can really control a pool table gets my attention. And I do mean that in the way that you're thinking. (except for you -- stop thinking that.)
• Australian accent. Oh come on, do I really have to explain that?
• Can cook. Because I really can NOT cook. I also don't enjoy it. But any guy who could, and would want to, cook me some crazy-good meal would earn fabulous gratitude in whatever form he'd prefer.

I'm sure there are others I could come up with, but those who know me would all throw these out if asked this same question about me, so I know these are right. Now what I need is to have so many dude options to choose from that I must refer to this list to narrow the field. Wish me luck on that first part!

It's those damn little things...

So to understand the inspiration for this post you must first read the most recent post on Dooce.com (click it -- it does tricks!) Go ahead and read it, I'll wait... (and now I'm humming and checking my cuticles for hangnails.)

See, now I couldn't have agreed more with her husband's take on the importance of petting the dog. It may seem like such a small thing, but those small things are the kinds of signs I think everyone should be on the look out for. Here are some others that, to me, seem like important red flags:

• being rude to the serving staff at the restaurant
• laughing at the misfortune of others
• accusing complete strangers of low character
• gloom-and-doom-sayers
• love-at-first-sighters
• loaning or borrowing money right away

I had a guy I dated for far, FAR too long and I remember that I was completely oblivious to many of these kinds of warning signals. That's probably the only thing I regret or am embarrassed about from that train wreck of a relationship. I tell stories to friends of things that he said or did and I can see them looking at me and thinking "how the hell did you continue to date this schmuck for 2 more years???" Once they hear them it makes it really hard to convince them to loan me their car or let me care for their children.

Best example story I have of this: Having lunch with the guy (whom we will henceforth call Irish Boy, though that's not any slam on the Irish. He was just a terrible representative for them) and with my parents. He's telling a story about a time he played some vicious trick on a close friend in the Air force, and he's laughing and laughing (and I'm trying to crawl, head-first, in between my shoulders and disappear entirely.) Finally he finishes his story (completely oblivious to the fact that he's the ONLY person laughing) and my Dad says to him an old family phrase: "It's easy to fool someone who trusts you."

Irish Boy's response? "yeah, isn't it great?!"

And yet, 2+ more years until I finally figured out how much of a mistake the whole thing was. I stopped telling that story to friends who generally think well of me, because I always had to follow it up with "I swear, I'm really not stupid. I think maybe I was distracted by something shiny that day?"

Anyway, this time I'm determined to pay much more attention! And at the same time I'm hoping that anyone who tunes into this blog (where are you guys anyway? anyone? anyone?) will chime in if you see me missing a big ol' red flag. Send up smoke signals, use semaphore, or hey, anybody else notice that comments thing down there? Cool!

In a word: Woah.

So I finally got through the profile on my online dating site of choice. The people who complained that the profile takes forever to get through? I'm sending them all cakes that say "understatement of the year." Several days, people! Now granted I couldn't just sit and do it (because then when would I have written my posts to you guys?) but even if I had done so we're talking over an hour easy. I was all cranky and bitter and "screw you guys, I'm goin' home!" when I was finished.

Then they said "OK, do you want to see info about who we think you're looking for?" Well hell, I'd taken the time so I might as well check out the results.

It's spooky! We're not talking "tall, blond, must like dogs, no creeps, must like color blue...," which is what I was expecting. These are detailed descriptions of all sorts of aspects of a person's personality and character, spelled out to the point that you're matching famous movie characters to each one! Here are some examples of the dude I'm apparently perfectly matched to:

Some important qualities that your ideal partner brings to the relationship are:
He has a great sense of humor.
His friends all appreciate his ability to make people laugh on occasion.
He is usually open-minded and flexible.
He is generally pretty happy about his life.

...all true. I mean if you asked me "what are you looking for in a guy?" I wouldn't have pulled on a cardigan sweater, grabbed my meerschaum pipe and said in a mock english accent "That he have a great sense of humor, have friends that appreciate his ability to make people laugh on occasion, is usually..." But I don't look at this list and say "this is totally not me." Another nugget:

Kindness: Your ideal mate is the kind of person who wants to
support you through life's ups and downs. He will be willing to be there for you emotionally, but he may not always know the best way how. You don't need the perfect man, but you will do best with someone who tries to be sensitive to your feelings, even if he isn't always perfectly attuned to your needs. You and your ideal mate will be mutually supportive, but won't demand more from each other than you are willing to give.

...also true! I especially appreciated the inclusion about being mutually supportive, but not demanding more that one could give.

I'm surfing through page after page of these determinations regarding both who I am and who I'm looking for and it's really familiar! Man, you gotta know I didn't want to give an ounce of merit to all the questions, questions, questions I had to wade through in the dang profile. But it's hard to argue with the end result.

I do think that the net they're casting is a bit wide. It reminds me of psychics in a nightclub act. They know how to throw out general enough "predictions" that they're bound to find someone who connects. After all, it's not like someone's ideal mate will be a person who has a bad sense of humor, or who doesn't want to support their mate. Still, we all know from worshipping at the idol Google that the way to improve your search results is to widen your parameters.

I now have to do the following few things:
-take a digital picture suitable for posting. (shudder.)
-decide if I'm going to sign up w/ this site and, if so, for how long.
-commit.