How is This My Match? Vol. 3

Posted on July 15, 2011 by B

Well, this seems to be catching on…

When I introduced the How is This My Match? feature a few weeks ago, it was in an effort to keep things brief. The Internet is designed to be short and sweet, and my posts tend to be the opposite, often breaking the dangerous Thousand Word Barrier. Because when you’re discussing things as important as a girl who can’t stop wearing holiday sweaters, you need a lot of words to capture the complexity of the situation. I wanted to keep writing long, but also have shorter pieces that would allow you guys to zip in and out quickly and help me post more often. So HiTMM? was born, and so far you guys really seem to dig it.

Here’s the thing though – you can’t send me your terrible matches. Because what happens is, I look at them, then they see that I’ve looked at them with Match’s “Who’s Viewed My Profile” feature, then they write me, thinking that I’m checking them out and probably  interested in getting it on, and it gets awkward fast. Leading to me getting emails like the one I did today, which read…

(clearing throat, putting on reading glasses…)

“You look familiar. Did I sleep with you?”

And what exactly am I supposed to do with that? So, I love the support, and I’m glad you guys are digging the new column. But if you want me to check out the preposterously bad recommendations Match has made for you, you’re just gonna have to copy and paste the person’s profile into an email. Deal? Deal.

Now, please tell me, How is This My Match?

57 year-old woman
New York, United States

seeking men 48-57
within 25 miles of New York, United States

Come on, Match. I mean COME ON. I don’t expect brilliant selections, people I’ve dreamed about meeting my whole life but never knew were out there, soulmates that went undiscovered until you found them and suggested them to me in Daily 5.  I do however expect someone that I can be entirely certain is, in fact, a woman. That’s not asking that much. No dudes, Match. No dudes. And, I thought this was implied, but along with No Dudes, I also want no women that very well might be dudes. Like 40% chance at least. Just to be safe, let’s say 50%. No one who’s at least as likely to be a dude as they are to not be a dude. Agreed?

And hey, don’t think I didn’t notice how well you did on proximity this time. For the first time on HiTMM, you picked someone in my state. Nice work baby, you’re learning. (However, 57 is way too old, so let’s not go patting yourself on the back just yet. Also, she looks like a dude.)

Her Headline: Beautiful,Bold And Bald….by choice…if your into hair surprise..don’t be scared it’s smooth.

Hair surprise.

I believe I can say without equivocation that I am not into hair surprise. In fact, I don’t think anyone is. I don’t have the slightest idea what hair surprise actually is, but I’ll tell you right now, we’re all gonna vote no on it. Who wants a hair surprise? I want hair to be exactly what I expect. No surprise. No, “oh my god was I shocked when I figured out what was going on on your head!” I want hair boring. Hair totally predictable. Hair hair.

Her Profile: I like to think of myself as a bold,beautiful woman who sports a bald head…by choice who’s strong relaible & independent, I honor myself everyday. I am so grateful for the blessing that has been bestowed upon me. I’ve been resilient in lifes challegenes and I’m still standing by the graces of “Jah, I have no issues with relinguishing control as matter of fact I welcome it at times. 

We’re all works in progress…would you agree. So with that said Lets,Live,Love & Laugh….Peace & Blessing 

Seems like a very nice lady. Probably refers to “Jah” more often than I do, but we could work around that. “Bald by choice” is going to be our stumbling block, I believe. Thanks though, Match, I can see you really thought this one out.

Last Read: I’m into inspirational books.

Me too! Wait, you get inspired by pornography, right?

For Fun: Working out free style.

I think I’ve seen people working out at the gym “free style”, and it’s horrifying.

What You Have in Common: You’re both into weight lifting.

Me.

So…she’s 25 years older than me, quite religious, and shaves her head, but we’re a good match because we’re both into weightlifting?! How does that work? We’re gonna go lifting together one day? I’m not even into weightlifting. Who told you I was into weightlifting? The last weight I lifted was my cat. I’m into running on a treadmill, then walking quickly by the weight room, trying not to make eye contact.

But thanks anyway, I can tell you really busted your ass on this one.

How is This My Match?


Posted in How is This My Match? | 3 Comments

Dating Myth: “All I Want Is Someone Who Can Make Me Laugh”

Posted on July 12, 2011 by B

Cole Porter is a liar.

You guys know the classic song, right?

Birds do it…

Bees do it…

Even educated fleas do it…

Let’s do it,

Let’s pretend we care about sense of humor.

You ask anybody what they’re looking for in a mate, one of the first three things they’ll say is “sense of humor.” No doubt about it. It’s our dating mantra. “I just want someone who can make me laugh.” “Laughter’s all that really matters in the end, isn’t it?” “Looks fade, but sense of humor is forever.” Then how come I’ve never seen a guy say, “would you check out the jokes on that girl?”

She didn't do this to check out a funny dude, believe me.

90% of the women I write say they’re looking for someone who can make them laugh. I know, because when I read that I make a point to tell them I write comedy for a living. They, in return, make a point to subtly question my job stability and long-term ability to provide, and so the dance begins. But women, especially, say they love guys who can make them laugh. Do they mean it? No idea. But I’ve been in a lot of bars with a lot of funny dudes, and ladies’ heads have not swiveled. However, if a guy walks in who looks like Johnny Depp, or even better, looks like he just got into a fight with Johnny Depp, there’d be swiveling all over the place. Like the desk chair convention was in town. (Are there desk chair conventions? Probably not. Needed it for the joke. Worth it? Probably not.)

Men, however, are no better. If a girl isn’t funny, or at least playful in her emails, I report no interest in her. But, truth be told, if she looks good in a tank top I’ll probably find a way to get interested, at least for a little while. Many of my friends say that finding a lady to joke with is a priority as well, yet I can count on one hand the ones they’ve dated that I’d trust to tell me a joke. “Knock knock. Who’s there? Long Island Iced Tea. Long Island Iced Tea who? What? No. Get me a Long Island Iced Tea. Also, do you have any gum?”

Never saw an US Weekly with Buddy Hackett on the cover. Why?

Not convinced that we’re all liars? How about this: if sense of humor was really such a big, if laughter was truly the great equivocator, then only the funniest people would date the funniest people. If you were hilarious, and all you truly wanted was hilarious, then you’d grab Kristen Wiig or Tina Fey and be done with it. Everyone would pursue the absolute highest level of humor they could obtain in a mate, so the uproarious would date the uproarious, the semi-uproarious would date the other semi’s, and there on down. But you don’t see that. Funny people date unfunny people all the time. It’s the hotties who only date other hotties. Relationships aren’t organized by laughs, they’re sorted, obviously, by looks. The most attractive date each other, as do the cutes, as do the weirdos. That’s life. And the funniest people, well, they go for the hotties too. Sense of humor never enters into things.

So why do we do it? Why do we say we want someone who can make us laugh, then chose someone who can make us hot?

Not funny.

There’s two explanations. Either we’re all shallow deceitful fucks (here’s looking at you, Johnny Depp), or there’s something more complex going on. My theory, shockingly, is the latter. I think that we’re not as a jaded as I’ve made us out to be. Deep down, we know the right match for us is someone who can make us giggle those dizzy little you-know-just-what-gets-me giggles. We know, in our hearts, that laughter is what we truly need in a partner, but we’re weak. We’re weak, horny little pigs, and we give in to the immediacy of our desires. Because sense of humor is not immediate. It doesn’t grab you the minute you lay eyes on someone, the way that smiles or tits or asses so reliably do. The prospect of a lifetime of laughter sounds good, amazing, even, but it can’t send that instant jolt through your body the way the right girl can when she smiles and twirls her hair. (Tough break, bald girls). The fact is, we’re idiots. Even though we know that humor is a lot more important than hair color (sorry again, baldies) to the point where we ourselves state it as our greatest priority, we still go after the most attractive person we can get our hands on. We’re schmucks, really. And in the end, predictably, sex sells. It’s true in politics, movies,  and magazine covers – so why shouldn’t it be so when it comes to actual, well, sex?

Sadly, though, we don’t know this about ourselves. We say we want sense of humor, hook up based on looks, then feel disappointed when the shapely young girl with the winning smile is less interesting than the pint glass she’s drinking out of. (Although, admittedly, I do have a bit of a thing for pint glasses.) We break up with that chick, say we’re gonna do better next time, then make the exact same mistake over again. It’s the Transformer’s 3 Syndrome. No person in their right mind who saw Transformers 1 or 2 would think, “man, I’ve got to get me another two and a half hours of that shit!” But then the summer rolls around and we see the previews with the fancy robots, and the cars that turn into shooty things, and shooty things that turn back into spaceships, and we think “maybe this one will be better.” And then we go, and want to die. So the next time you spend a night with a boring beauty, just remind yourself that you just bought a ticket to see Transformers 3. For like the hundredth time. Then you’ll have a real walk of shame.

So what do we do? How the fuck should I know. I go out on dates with people I don’t know, you think I’ve got it all figured out? Probably, we should be honest with ourselves. We like funny, but we’re addicted to hot, and until we get over that this whole sense of humor business will continue to be a myth. But that’s not so bad, it’s just part of the process. And maybe then we tell the truth when someone asks us what we’re looking for in mate…

“I want someone to see Transformers 3 with.”

Posted in Internet Dating is Weird | 6 Comments

How is This My Match? Vol. 2

Posted on July 6, 2011 by B

In our first installment of HITMM, we met a lovely 63 year-old woman from the Pennsylvania area that Match’s Daily 5 insisted would be my perfect mate. We’ll never know why exactly, but if I had to guess I’d say it had something to do with her love of ballroom dancing, knitting, and Dancing with the Stars, and my complete hatred of those three things. But Match insists their Daily 5 are chosen using fancy things like “algorithms” and “ratings”, so they’d never suggest another stinker would they? Wooouuullld they?

How is This My Match, Vol 2…..

21 year old woman
Maryland, United States

seeking men 20-25
within 25 miles of Maryland, United States

Alright, look. There are plenty of problems with this, which I’ll get to, but let’s start with the basics. I AM 33 YEARS OLD. I know you know this, Match, because when I click on the profile of myself on your site, it tells me I’m 33. And there’s a picture of me right there to prove it. In fact, if one day I got into a terrible accident and hit my head and needed, more than anything else, to figure out how damn old I was, I would look it up on Match.com, because I know that’s a place where saying exactly how old you are is important. This young lady is seeking a man between 20 and 25. 33 is not a number that’s between 20 and 25. It’s just not. Not even close. And my desired age range starts at, I think, 28, which means the youngest person I would even think about dating is three years older than her most ancient, grandfatherly possibility. That is not good. Honestly, I don’t even really know what algorithms are, but I would think they’d be able to parse a complicated mathematical minefield such as this.

Oh, also, New York City, where I live, is not within 25 miles of Maryland. It’s closer to within 250 miles. Do you not have a map, Match? You should get a map. Or just use Google Maps. That’s easy too. Or MapQuest, I think that’s still around. That one’s fun because it makes it sound like a dangerous journey….MapQuest!

All of this is to say, Match, that before I’ve even gotten to the specifics of this young lady’s profile, the idea of me dating her is completely preposterous. You might as well have recommended a 75 year-old man. (Smash cut to: Me on a date with Larry King. Confused, but not altogether unhappy. Smash back.)

Now, let’s get down to the nitty gritty…

Her Headline: Like I sayed I am crayz I say what I want to I dont care what ppl think of or say.

Uh oh.

Profile: I’m out going girl I love to go out and have fun as long as I dont get in trobley. When u get to now me I am crazy amd radom. I dont care what ppl say about me or think about me. I can be funny sometimes. 

I would like him to be funney like me for who I am not lie to me us me treast me the same no matter who we are around. Trust me.

Well, I think well all like to have fun as long we don’t get in trobley. Sometimes I feel like I’m the kinda guy that trobley just follows, you know? Oh, pardon me. U now?

The authentically prepared dutch dish, Radom.

Hey, you guys read this site. I make typos. Sometimes I make lots of them, and truth be told, I’m not all that concerned with rooting them out. There’s probably typos in this very post. It’s a blog, I’m not getting paid to write it, you’re not paying to read it, so I feel we can all survive a botched sentence and here and there. But come on, this shit is insane. You’re telling me the algorithms can’t pick up “Male – Writer” and “Female – Thinks ‘Radom’, ‘Funney’, and ‘Treast’ Are Words”, and sense there’s a problem?

College: ITT Technical Institute, Owings Mills, MD

Oh yeah, I know that place. I think it’s within 25 miles of my house.

Favorite Things: I like all kind of music. when I watch tv it is mosty paranormal. I love horroe moves.

I feel like I’m trapped in a horroe movie right now.

Last Read: I dont read books.

You don’t say.

How is this my match?!

Posted in How is This My Match? | 11 Comments

Your Awful Story Olympics VI

Posted on July 1, 2011 by B

Happy 4th of July!

Whenever I am about to attend a summer BBQ, as most of us will this weekend, I look forward to it as a great opportunity to meet women. Not that I ever really meet women in the place you’re supposed to (last place I picked a girl up: Staples), but I like the sound of it. Everyone’s outdoors in a festive mood, they’ll be music, grilled meats, wine and spirits: it’s a romantic rendezvous waiting to happen. And then I remember sweating. People sweat like crazy on the 4th of July, me especially. And, then, when we aren’t dripping body water, we’re eating mayonnaise-based salads, getting sunburns, and wearing sandals. Basically, barbecues are a collection of the unsexiest behaviors known to man. If only we could find a way to include nose hair trimming. So, the pressure’s off, gang. The 4th of July is actually a terrible time to meet someone, which means we can all focus on what really matters: our favorite tank-tops (mine is called a “t-shirt”), throwing on some tunes (or NPR), and getting really really drunk.

In that spirit, here are this month’s worst emails, from you, my loyal readers…The Awful Story Olympics.

The Bronze

Do you know what a upperdecker is? (DO I?!) Well a guy I went out with a month ago did an upper-decker in my toilet. No idea why, the date was totally fine. Beat that… K. Cullen, Los Angeles CA

A lesser known variation on the upper decker, a "Triple Decker."

An upper decker, for those of you who have dignity, is when you…move your bowels…in the upper tank of a toilet, instead of in the toilet bowl itself, as God intended it. Yeah, that’s a thing, and it has a name.

I have the strong feeling that no one would pull an upper decker after a date that was “totally fine.” It’s a fairly aggressive act. Unless, wait, were you going with the caricature of a 19 year-old frat boy? How did you find out you’d been upper decked? How did you know it was him – I’m certain there’s many a cleaning lady who enjoys a nice toilet tank poop. I have so many questions for K. Cullen, but, as I imagine most people do after being upper-decked, she’s fallen oddly silent and won’t respond to follow ups. Details!

The Silver

Hey man, love the site. (Of course you do.) I went out with a girl recently who I knew was weird. She had tattoos, she was into voodoo, she was weird. But also hot as hell. So we went back to her place, got in bed, and had a good time.

I wake up the next morning, and feel something’s off. I can feel her legs next to me, and she’s moving around some, but I look at her and she’s totally asleep. It’s just fucking weird. And then she starts moving around a lot, and so I look down and pull up the sheets and MOTHERFUCKER there’s a FUCKING snake in the bed. Like a big goddamn snake, just hanging out in the bed. I jump out of bed screaming, which I’m not proud of, but fuck, it’s a fucking snake. She wakes up and is like, “what’s the big deal, he’s totally harmless?” It didn’t look harmless. It was huge and was probably trying to strangle me. I got out of there so fast. 

Who has huge snakes, and who lets their huge snake sleep in bed them??!! Chris, Washington DC

Well, Chris, my huge snake sleeps in bed with me every night, if you know what I mean. And THAT is the sort of thing a guy who does upper deckers would say. Call back!

Nobody likes pets sleeping in the bed, whether it’s dogs, cats, snakes, or goldfish. There’s something about waking up staring a pair of paws or a cat anus that really takes the intimacy out of the next morning wake up, you know? No matter how much you love your pet, chances are your partner doesn’t give a shit, so give the animals the boot. Or, if appropriate, turn them into boots.

The Gold

An email received from an incredibly lucky reader, Maggie Y in Atlanta, Georgia.

Hello there, my name is Brandon and I would like to take the time out to let you know that I read your profile word for word and was very impressed… That sudden burst om impression wat the catalyst of me sending you this message.. I’m not going to presume that I know what you’re on OKC  looking for, some women on here say that they’re looking for one thing but the harsh reality is they’re expecting something else entirely (Ie Brad Pitt riding a white steed carrying a dozen roses and chocolates)… As of now I’m sure you’re smart enough to deduce that I don’t look like Brad Pitt, nor have I ever owned or rode a white steed in my life, I have however found time to ride a donkey at the state fair(I don’t know if that gives me points or not lol) but in all seriousness I thought you were worth more than sending you some of the following.. 

1 – ur hot 

2 – nice pics 

3 – sup 

4 – we should chill 

5 – cool profile 

I’d be very interested in getting to know you better through some good old fashioned conversation, then mabye a cup of coffee or tea.. 

Till then take it easy 

B.

I feel like I should point out that dear Brandon was a fairly thuggish ruggish black gentleman wearing a doo rag, which made the donkey-riding fair scene all the more intriguing to me.

Wow, that’s a doozy. Thanks, Maggie. I love how Brandon points out, in list format, how other people write short, shitty, perfunctory emails, but that he is better than that, and that Maggie deserves better. Brandon is more noble, more caring, so he will deliver…a LONG, shitty, perfunctory email. It’s still boring, it’s still cut and pasted, and it’s still not gonna lead to anyone writing back. Oh, and I probably wouldn’t promise that you’ve read her profile when it’s pretty obvious that you haven’t read her profile. Sup.

Still though, I’d kill for a picture of him on a mule at the county fair.

Happy 4th of July, everyone!

Send me your awful stories here! As always, anonymity will be respected! More or less!

Posted in Your Awful Stories | 4 Comments

The Girl Who Loved the Homeless

Posted on June 29, 2011 by B

It’s hard to know when you’ve really hooked a girl. Is it when she first laughs at one of your jokes? Or after that first kiss goodnight? Or, maybe, is it the first time you have this timeless romantic exchange…

Me: So, would you rather date me, or a homeless person?

Her (long pause): At this point, I’m really not sure.

That’s when you know you’re in love. How do you get there? Read on…

I had been on three dates with Rosie, and for the fourth I wanted to spice things up a little. We’d done drinks, dinner, and she’d come over to my place to watch a movie. The best thing about inviting a girl to your place to watch a DVD is that you might as well ask, “wanna come over and make out?” You never actually watch the DVD when you ask someone to come over and watch a DVD. What, I’m going to sit on a couch in private next to someone who’s interested in me and has breasts and just stare at a TV screen? I don’t think so. We should just change the phrase “wanna match a DVD?” to “wanna go to at least second base?” But I digress…

So, in an effort to show Rosie that I’m not a complete horndog, I invited her to a nice, respectable afternoon at a movie theater. With the old folks, and the kids, and the matinée prices (I gotta get something out of the deal, right?). Not only that, but I tell her to pick whatever movie she’d liked. What a wonderfully sweet and considerate idea, right? Right. And then she picked My Sister’s Keeper.

Please kill me.

My Sister’s Keeper is for all the people who’ve loved Cameron Diaz’s fine comedic work, but were wondering how she’d do in something more serious, like, say, playing the mother of a girl dying of Leukemia. The answer to that riddle, incidentally, is terribly. She does terribly as the mother of a child who’s dying of Leukemia. So bad, in fact, that at a certain point, people in my theater started rooting for the Leukemia. “Come on, take her already! Don’t make her sit through another Cameron monologue – she’s just a child!” I didn’t expect Rosie to pick such a, well, bad movie for our date, but I offered, so it serves me right. And looking back on it, My Sister’s Keeper was easily the highlight of the afternoon.

After finishing the film, Rosie and I decided to get a drink, in the hopes of forgetting what we’d just been through. On the way to the bar we walked by a homeless man who asked for change. She stopped and gave him what looked like a handful of quarters, I gave him…nothing. Rosie waited, as if the message sent from my brain to my hands telling them to take out dollars and hand them over just hadn’t arrived yet. Finally…

Rosie: Do you not give money to homeless people?

Me: Uh…

…which is an awkward enough conversation without having to do it immediately in front of an actual homeless person. So I tried to keep walking a little bit ahead, out of the Artful Dodger’s earshot, but Rosie wasn’t having it. Turns out the sort of person who wants to see a movie about kids dying of Leukemia is also the sort of person who will interrogate the ever-loving shit out of anyone who doesn’t hand over their wallet to the first dirty individual they find lying in the street. Who woulda thought?

The amount I give to charity. Daily.

Rosie (getting louder): Come on, you can spare a little something…

Me (getting quieter): I give to charity, I just don’t believe in giving to people on the street.

Rosie: Right, sure you do. Give him some money!

When you’re on the precipice of an argument outside, you’re natural instinct is to go inside. “Come on, people are looking at us out here, let’s go inside.” And, when you’re on the precipice of argument inside, you feel like you’ve just got to get outdoors. “Come on, everyone can hear us in here, can we just go outside?!” I desperately wanted to get Rosie in the bar, while she wanted to harass me in the street. I won, but that would be the only time that day. It’s alright, I’m used to it…

Rosie: It doesn’t bother you that he’s hungry and you could help him get food?

Me: No, it bothers me that he’s thirsty and I could be helping him get booze. I heard an interview on This American Life saying that there’s countless soup kitchens in New York-

Rosie: Oh, so NPR says it’s fine to ignore the homeless, so that’s what you do?

Ira Glass would totally have my back

Me: No. (Thinking: Yes.)

(And, yes, I recognize it’s an annoying liberal douchebag thing to do to say you heard something on public radio that allows you to be selfish and piggy, but, well, I really did hear it.)

Now everyone in the snooty little bistro that, I might add, makes a rather ironic choice for my bleeding heart date, was staring at us. At that point, I would’ve killed for another hour of My Sister’s Keeper. Give Cameron another daughter and this time let her have palsy! She continued…

Rosie: Look, it’s just…I feel really strongly about homeless people. They need our help, and so many people won’t help them just because they assume they’re drunks. But they’re not always…

And that was, to be frank, when I kinda zoned out. I mean, this was just weird. Rosie was a cool girl and all, and I’m genuinely as guilt-ridden as the next liberal, but our first fight being about homeless people was a little too much. She kept going on and on, and I kept not listening, so as it became clear that she was going to stop talking any moment, I had to come up with an answer. I had the chance to be sensitive and supportive and apologize for my actions and my “misunderstanding”, or I could be snarky and obnoxious. I think you remember how this one turns out…

Me: So, would you rather date me, or a homeless person?

Rosie (long pause): At this point, I’m really not sure.

That night there would be no watching of DVDs.

Posted in Horror Stories | 1 Comment

How is This My Match? Vol.1

Posted on June 23, 2011 by B

One of my favorite features on Match.com is The Daily 5. The D5 is a list compiled for you everyday of five profiles that you absolutely, positively must see. They are reported to be your “perfect matches,” a group selected using a “unique set of algorithms,” based on your preferences, profile, and rating of previous Daily 5 choices. Also, without fail, the selections are entirely insane.

No, not my favorite.

Certainly you’re familiar with this phenomenon, when Netflix suggests a movie they’re sure you’ll like, and you’re so offended that you want to call the company to complain. “No, I would not absolutely love Pootie Tang, thank you very much!” Or Amazon recommends The Hotel for Dogs soundtrack, based on your previous shopping selections. TiVo has been recording any and everything starring Noah Wylie for me for years, and I can’t figure out how to make it stop. It’s maddening, and it’s a little insulting. “Is this really what you think of me, inanimate electronic object?!”

So now I have decided to fight back. The Daily 5 has been suggesting such ridiculous people that it’s time shed some light on this dirty little secret: it has no fucking idea what it’s doing. I can’t remember the last time I clicked “like” next to a D5 suggestion, much less emailed one of the lunatics it foisted upon me. My criteria are pretty broad: a woman in her mid 20’s to late 30’s, any race, any height, most body types, who lives near me and went to college. That’s it. What do I get? 75 year-old divorcees who live in Cincinnati and can’t spell “can’t.” Or an emaciated 18 year-old who’s into “fashion and trees.”

Today I’m introducing a new feature on It’s Not a Match, called “How is This My Match.” Each time The Daily 5 makes a deranged recommendation, I’ll post it here, starting with the fine lady below. As always, my intention is not to mock the people themselves, just the idea that they’re right for me. I’m sure they have a match out there, but it ain’t me. It really really ain’t.

So seriously…How is This My Match?!

63 year old woman
Pennsylvania, United States

seeking men 55-70
within 25 miles of Pennsylvania, United States

Profile: I am a fairly old fashioned lady with a good sense of humor who is looking for a good loyal friend/companion. I love ballroom dancing, but ‘old fashion’ dancing is okay too. Most of my friends are married or in relationships, and I enjoy sharing in their activities. However, I miss being part of ‘a couple’. I miss out on many things as I feel uncomfortable being the fifth wheel.

So…Ballroom dancing and “old-fashioned” dancing are different things now? Because to me, when I think old-fashioned dancing, ballrooms jump pretty readily to mind. What’s a truly old-fashioned dance then, clutching a picture of John Quincy Adams while you sway slowly from side to side? And what’s the Dougie? Future dancing?

But on the positive side, most of my friends are in relationships too!

For Fun: Dancing – enjoy Ballroom dances; sewing, knitting, crocheting for gifts and charity

Has a more a senior citizen sentence ever been written? I defy you, Daily 5, to show me anything in my profile that seems akin to crocheting for charity. Oh, also, I’m not 55-70 living within 25 miles of anything in Pennsylvania.

Favorite Things: Dancing with the Stars; do NOT like reality TV shows.

If there’s one unifying characteristic in this fine lady’s profile, it seems to be the love of dance. The last time I danced, people died. She doesn’t need that. And oh, by the way, Dancing with the Stars is a reality show.

How is this my match?!

Posted in How is This My Match? | 6 Comments

The Girl Who Called Me Chip Boy

Posted on June 21, 2011 by B

Dicks.

I bring a wide spectrum of winning qualities to each of my Internet dates. First of all, I blog, which is second only to swashbuckling on the List of Hobbies that Women Find Sexually Exciting. Second, I blog about my dates, giving women the rare chance to be humiliated not only during the evening itself, but afterwards on the Internet as well. That’s two potential disasters in one! Third, I am allergic to gluten, which not only sounds dorky, but means that I can almost never eat out and often ferret little snacks with me wherever I go. Fourth, I have a full body rash. Actually, I don’t, but you’d buy it after reading the rest of the list, wouldn’t you? I’m what they refer to in the dating world as a “triple threat,” meaning at least three different times during the date you will threaten to get up and walk away. But hey, I know my faults, and am more than happy to have a laugh at my expense. The trouble comes when my date starts laughing along with me, and pointing out faults I hadn’t yet considered. That’s when things can get ugly. Very, very ugly.

You wouldn't email her?

Tami was a woman I put some effort into, partially because her profile made me laugh, and partially because she looked exactly like Connie Britton from Friday Night Lights. Whether those parts were evenly sized, I’ll let you decide. I first started emailing with Tami before she went on a long vacation, and when I sent the “have a good trip, let’s hang out when you get back!” email, I think we were both thinking, “yeah, right.” She was going to be in South America for a month, which in Internet dating time is equal to like two and a half years. You gotta strike while the iron is hot on Match, and after thirty days in the tropics, our iron was going to be cold, drained of water, and sitting on a table in a yard sale somewhere.

A month later, however, much to my surprise, Tami emailed and asked if I’d like to have that drink. A quick check of Facebook revealed that she did in fact still look like Connie Britton from Friday Night Lights, so I was in. We met, and immediately began breaking every first date rule I have. As you know, I recommend only two drinks on a first date – she had like six, and I managed three before getting totally smashed. I don’t have a rule about not letting your date totally outdrink you, because, well, I never really imagined it happening. I’m big and girls are small, and usually the roofies I put in their drinks hit them long before the alcohol does. After three cocktails though, I almost asked Tami how Coach Taylor was in the sack, so I switched to soda and my trusty water bottle. She did not. Also, Tami ordered food – putting this right on the verge of being a dinner date, something else I strongly forbid. Thankfully, because of my food allergies, I couldn’t join her in eating, which I explained to her in as ungeeky a way as possible. Dinner date rule intact! (One person eating is obviously just a snacking date.)Unfortunately, a few more rules would die on my first night with Tami. I smoked a cigarette, which is a habit so lovely that I try to save it for a bit further on in the relationship, just so she doesn’t get too turned on all at once. Also, we did some kissing, french-style, which I at least pretend to not want to do on first dates, so I can seem classy and reserved. All in all, it was an action-packed 4+ hour date, and I was sure it was the start of something memorable. As always, I was correct…

The face of evil.

On our second date, Tami and I did drinks and a movie. We missed dinner, so during the film I snacked on some gluten-free chips I brought with me. Now I recognize that’s a little weird – bringing food into a movie date, but as I said earlier, living gluten-free requires you to become real weird real fast. At least 90% of things you would find in a convenient store or on a restaurant menu have wheat in the them, so you have to fend for yourself. Otherwise you run the risk of eating something dicey, then saying to girl you’ve just artfully lured into the bedroom, “You’re totally turning me on right now, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a second and drop a nuclear bomb on your toilet. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, call the cops.”

Ultimately however, the second date was a success. We finished our movie, did some more celebratory kissing, then eagerly planned our third evening together. Being an experienced dater, I knew full well what a third date meant. For two dates, you’re a gentleman, on the third date all bets are off. Staying over, making out, nudity – all on the table for date #3. You don’t end third dates with a polite kiss on the cheek, you end them with enticing, romantic, possibly erotic things whispered into each other’s ears as you head toward someone’s apartment. Usually. Our third date ended like this:

Me, basically.

Tami: My friends call you Chip Boy.

Me: What?

Tami: They keep asking me, “so what crazy thing did Chip Boy do next?”

Me: Uh…

Tami: They love it. Man, did they laugh when I told them about you.

It seemed that the lovely Tami had regaled her friends with the story of the valiant Chip Boy, who took girls to movies, then shoveled bags and bags of potato chips into his mouth in the comforting darkness. But that was not where it ended…

Tami: And then when I told them about the water bottle and you not eating dinner, they just about lost it!

Me: OK, wait a second…

Tami: I was a party the other night and people kept coming up to me and saying, “are you the one who went out with Chip Boy?!” It was hilarious.

Me: It sounds hilarious.

Tami, apparently, found several things about me very, very funny. 1) I brought a water bottle on our date and drank from it. A water bottle not unlike this:

that millions of people have and drink from on a daily basis. 2) When she ordered dinner on our first date, I declined, saying I couldn’t eat anything on the menu because of allergies. And 3) I went to a movie with her and ate a bag of chips. Her friends loved these outlandish tales so that they dubbed me Chip Boy, and eagerly awaited the next edition in my legendary saga.

Look, I get it. We all talk about our dates with our friends and make little jokes. Some of us even talk about those dates online and make rather big jokes. I’m down with that. But when it gets to the point of needling nicknames and untold thousands of people walking up to someone at a party and laughing about the crazy bullshit said date did, that’s going a little far. At least a little far to tell me about on our third date.

Tami: What, you don’t think it’s funny?

Me: Well, you know I just brought the chips because I’m allergic to a lot of things so I have to bring something along with me in case I get hungry, right?

Tami: Sure, but it was just a joke. Don’t be so sensitive.

Me: I don’t mind, I guess. It’s just that, those things aren’t really…funny. They’re just kinda…things.

Tami: God, you are so delicate. Why don’t you try not taking yourself so seriously?!

Displeased with "Football Boy" nickname.

And that’s when the yelling started. Not by me, as confrontation is significantly unpleasant enough for me that yelling is reserved only for my cat, and my super, after my super has left the apartment. But holy shit did she start yelling at me. Apparently I was being a jerk, not laughing at her jokes about me. Not just a jerk, I was being “stuck up,” “boring,” “selfish,” “sensitive” AND “insensitive” simultaneously (which is hard to pull off), and, of course, “lame.” And Tami felt it necessary to make sure everyone in the bar knew about it. (Now I know why Coach Taylor was so pissed off all the time.) Finally, just as I thought she was wrapping her diatribe up, Tami pushed it one step over the line.

Tami: Gosh, you must not be a very good comedian if you can’t even laugh at yourself.

You can say I’m a lot of things, but don’t for one second think you’re going to say I’m not funny and get away with it. At that moment I got up and walked out of the bar, uninterested in whether or not Tami was behind. When I got outside it was clear that she was, and she expected a cab hailed for her. Because, above all else, she was a lady. I stuck out my hand, and when a car service pulled up instead of a cab, she objected. “You don’t think I’m actually gonna take a shady town car, do you?” I answered her question with another question.”There’s an option to end this date as fast as humanly possible and you’re going to turn it down because it’s not the right kind of car?!” Tami looked at me and nodded. I wished her goodnight, hopped in the car and drove off. Chip Boy out.

In retrospect, I know that Tami meant well. She was trying to do that playful banter thing that couples do, when they josh about the goofy things they did on their first dates. She just misjudged the appropriate timeline for such a thing by…maybe…seventy-five dates. But it stung a bit. So when she texted the next day and, as a form of apology, said “I guess I drank one too many gin and tonics last night, huh?”, I couldn’t resist responding. A forgiving person would’ve said, “don’t worry about it, and best of luck.” What I said was, “yeah, maybe you should get yourself a water bottle.”

Posted in Horror Stories | 6 Comments

Can You Date Someone Who Uses Emoticons? :-/

Posted on June 14, 2011 by B

For all we know, this man may not have a head.

There’s a lot of things you can hide when you’re an online dater. Heavier than you’d like? Post a picture of just your face. Speak with an unappealing accent? Skip a phone call and go right to the first date. Have a peg leg? Cleverly arrange your photos so you’re always standing in a bucket. If you use emoticons when you write however, or – even worse – a lot of emoticons when you write, everyone’s gonna know. And you could be in for a heap of trouble.

:(

Of the dating deal breakers that I am most often emailed about, use of emoticons is easily top 3, behind “doesn’t want kids”, but in front of “not posting a picture.” That means people are more comfortable going out with someone who might look like a monster than someone who would follow a ; with a ) in their profile. Just look at this note I got last week…

B,

There’s a guy that I basically joined Match to email with. He’s cute, super smart, and I totally giggled while reading his profile. So I emailed him, and he just WROTE BACK!!! BUT, at the end of this message he wrote….. 0:-3

I assume that’s an emoticon, but what does it even mean? I thought only teenage girls and fucking librarians used emoticons. Give me one good reason not to delete this guy right now?

" :-p "

Wow. Totally unnecessary lashing out at librarians there. I mean, come on people, they organize our books. I told the emailer that I didn’t need to give her a good reason to keep the guy, as she had already given me four. He’s smart, funny, attractive, and you joined Match to talk to him. That’s good stuff! The Notebook was built on less of a romantic connection than that. But honestly, deep down, I understood her problem. It’s one thing to use emoticons, it’s another to use them so often that you can delve into esoteric combinations that are meaningless to the colons-are-only-to-be-used-as-punctuation universe. Apparently 0:-3 means “angel” or “innocent,” which is a lame enough message to express in a first email that you really shouldn’t have to revert to drawings to do it. So when the reader wrote me back and said she just couldn’t date an emoticon user and deleted his email, deep inside I nodded in approval. Because I, you see, am a reformed emoticon phobic.

Several years ago, I wouldn’t even look at someone who had a :) or a 8>} or even a WTF or LOL in their profile. If you were gonna open a parenthesis, you damn well better close it, and frivolous use of abbreviation was not to be tolerated. I was, what you might call, a snoot. “What’s wrong with words?!” I remember typing in many an IM window, after one of my friends said LOL following one of my typically hilarious remarks. “Words have been good enough for thousands of yours, we don’t suddenly need to revert to drawings or acronyms!” My friends would, not surprisingly, never laugh at anything I said ever again.

I went along happily emailing people in my terse, sarcastic style, and judging them harshly when they dared respond with anything resembling an emoticon. I’m sure there were a few double exclamation points in there that I mistook for bunny ears or chopping down trees, and deleted emails from innocent people who just happened to be enthusiastic. I didn’t care though. Emoticon users were foolish buffoons who bounded about smiling and winking and ROFLing at everything they saw. They were like the Joker without the permanent scarring and unfortunate backstory. They were the sort of people who wore pajama bottoms as pants and called yogurt “gurt.” If they had a collective image, it would be…

Bruce Vilanch. It was harsh, I agree. But then a funny thing happened. I realized, that with very few exceptions, Matchers were not responding to my emails. I was sending out these funny deductive little gems and getting diddly squat in return. I read them over. Hmmmm. It occurred to me that I could be coming off like a total and complete asshole. Sarcasm and playful banter are tough on email, even tougher from someone you’ve never met. So I tried something daring, something bold, something that made my heart die a little bit inside: I used an emoticon.

You know what happened? The girl wrote back.

:)

Ever since, I’ve been an emoticon fiend. I absolutely love them. I’ll use them two, three times a text. Last night I sent a message that had more forms of punctuation in it than it did actual letters. LOL! It turns out, when people know I’m not being a dick, they find my remarks altogether winning and hilarious. OK, not altogether. Partiallytogether? Moretogetherthannottogether? The point is, to you emoticon harpies out there, relax. If you want to be a snoot about grammar or spelling or not looking like Bruce Vilanch, fine. That’s a mountain you can die on. But don’t reject somebody for a simple ;>0. They’re just trying to be understood. Would you want to miss out on someone great, just because of a few keystrokes?

If so, then all I can say to you is…WTF.

Posted in Advice | 2 Comments

Burning Question: Can I Email Someone Twice?

Posted on June 7, 2011 by B

This, but with boobs.

I think that, honestly, the woman of my dreams probably doesn’t email people back right away. Certainly not the people she encounters online dating. First of all, she’s busy. She has a demanding career in the field of writing for SNL/teaching literature/impersonating Jessica Biel/being the first female manager of the Boston Red Sox. On top of that, she has her hobbies. And frankly, the girl of my dreams just doesn’t feel right if she can’t spend at least an hour a day parasailing/playing guitar/cleaning up oil spills/training to be the first female manager of the Boston Red Sox. So I understand if she doesn’t respond to my first email quickly, she probably gets so many. It’ll take her a day or two to wade through the other suitors and come upon the majesty of my message. She will open it and immediately see that this is the one. She’ll recognize it for its humor, its intelligence, its obvious demonstration of an almost supernatural sexual appeal. But what if, even then, after she’s saved the rainforests and adopted all the stray puppies and called for the perfect hit and run, what if the girl of my dreams still doesn’t write me back? What do I do then?

Simple. I write her again.

Hold on! What?! You can’t write someone twice! You’re harassing them. You’re becoming one of those deranged Internet daters who copy and paste every message, who live in a different state, who have only the loosest understandings of the English language, who never ever ever take “no” for an answer. That’s what people say to me when they ask if they can email someone twice. Then, calmly, sagaciously, in a manner that no doubt reflects the great Dalai Lama himself, I respond, “What’s the worst thing that could happen? She’s gonna not write you back…again?”

Wanna know what the perfect second email should contain? Of course you do. Well, all those precious details can be yours for JUST $2.99! 

Buy my new book Not a Match: My True Tales of Online Dating Disasters. Available for your ereader on Amazon and iTunes. I promise it will get you laid! (May not be true.)

Posted in Advice | 14 Comments

The Girl Who Overshared

Posted on June 2, 2011 by B

Haven't read it.

I’ve always taken a sick delight in saying the wrong thing. Once, while serving as a Best Man, I gave a rehearsal speech so off-color that I was heckled by the groom’s family. (“If he’s the Best Man then I’d like to see the Worst Man,” they said, which, admittedly, is a pretty good line.) Then, not to be outdone, I offered a toast at the wedding the next night which was so bad, so profanity-filled, that the video is still passed around gleefully by my friends, like my own personal Zapruder film. Occasionally I say the wrong thing by mistake, but usually it’s just that I can’t keep my dumb mouth shut. A situation presents itself and instantly my mind searches for the least appropriate thing I could say, then obsesses over what would happen if I actually said it. Often before I can come up with the answer, I’ve already said the damn thing out loud. At a fancy shmancy party a few weeks back, when standing amongst countless strangers, a friend asked me if I knew what she and our mutual pal Ethan did last night? Before I knew what was happening, I said “explored the benefits of anal sex?” really loud, then looked around in delight. No one else was delighted. Not even one little bit. It turns out most people don’t bring up anal sex willy nilly at black tie affairs. Especially not Ethan, who was now standing next to me, with a new girlfriend he brought to the party. And you know what the fucked up thing is? I’m still smiling! I think it’s a great story, even though I got caught and humiliated and looked at by more than one person as very possibly having Aspergers. The point is, this quality can make me a real terror on first dates. And if you pair me up with someone who has the same issue – well then we’ve got a blog post waiting to happen.

The minute I met Gail, I knew she was going to be one to remember. Everybody’s number one complaint about Internet dating is that people don’t look like they’re pictures, and they’re right. I’ve been burned by it, I get countless emails about it, it’s totally legit. Young Gail was no exception, she looked very little like her pictures. The difference? She was much better looking in person. Like much better. She was so foxy, she would make foxes insecure to look at her. I was actually a little speechless when I first saw her, which for me, can be a good thing. I ushered her into my go-to date bar, and tried my hardest not to say anything stupid.

After a few drinks, two things became clear. 1) Gail was Quirky with a capital Q. Her sense of humor was strange, perhaps even stranger than mine, which I was into, but noted with some concern. 2) Gail was wildly out of my league. When the waitress came to take our order, she looked at me, looked at my date, then looked back at me with some combination of shock and horror. I actually have a picture I snapped on my iPhone…

The other lady is a second waitress who came over when she heard the commotion. They were not, however, the only ones to take notice of Gail. A table of guys sitting next to us began to openly ogle her, and talk back and forth about, no doubt, vanquishing me and having her to themselves. It was like having drinks next to the Cobra Kai. I knew I would soon have to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to give these guys the opening they were craving. Faced with the choice of either getting up or peeing on myself, I fled to the men’s room, and sure enough, when I returned, four of them were asking her how she liked her salad. Gail said it was fine, which seemed to stump them in a way they didn’t expect. Turns out, the Cobra Kai are idiots. Again, she was all mine.

Amazingly, miraculously, the date was going quite well. She was laughing at my jokes and I was laughing at hers. It’s time like these when my love of the inappropriate is most dangerous – when there is the potential of actual success. Anybody can say something dumb when a date is already spiraling out of control, that’s child’s play. The real men make asses of themselves when the future is on the line. And I, most certainly, am I real man. (In this one regard.)

Gail: What age range did you list on the site? Am I too old for you? I think I might be too old for you…

Me: No, I wrote up to 35.

Gail (playfully): Well maybe I’m too young for you then…

Me: I think you’re just right.

Gail: What was the bottom of your age range? 18? 25?

Me: No, I think it was zero. I like my women to be zero years old. -1, if possible.

Gail: Oh, uh…

Me: I didn’t mention that in my profile? I kinda have a thing for babies

Gail (starting to look uncomfortable): Um…

Me (unable to stop): It kinda sucks, when I move into a new neighborhood, I have to go around and introduce myself. But it’s totally worth it for some baby action.

Gail (now quite uncomfortable, really): That’s…

Me: Sorry, too much? That might have been too much. Just ignore me.

Gail: That’s not funny.

Me: I know. Agreed. I’m sorry, let’s change the subj-.

Gail: I was molested when I was a kid.

Me: Wha…uh…what?

Gail: By my Dad.

Aaaaaaaaaaand BOOM. She said that, then I looked at her, I said:

To this day, I don’t know whether Gail was joking. I’m 99% sure she wasn’t, because it didn’t seem like a joke, and it’s not really funny of course, and at no point did she say “gotcha about that whole molestation business!” But, I mean, who talks about that? On a first date? When you’re sitting next to the Cobra Kai? I guess the truth is I’m 100% sure she wasn’t joking, but I’m able to talk 1% of myself into thinking that maybe she was so I can feel a little better about things. I feel, of course, incredibly badly for her on all accounts. For her experiences, and for having to deal with my jackassery in relation to her experiences. I’d say I’ve learned my lesson, that I don’t broach awkward topics on dates, even in jest, but we’d all just know I’m lying. So…perhaps we should bring this to a close.

There was not, of course, a second date between Gail and I. Actually, I tried, but not surprisingly, she didn’t return my call. Perhaps for her that’s equal to heckling. I certainly deserved it…

Posted in Horror Stories | 8 Comments