unDATE-able

Holy shit. Maybe it's the two cups of Seattle dark roast, but this morning I've got the jitters. Life jitters. I was watching the latest episode of Glee on the hulu.com the other day, and one of the incidental characters said something to the bitchy main character that really struck a chord.

"You go for men you know are unattainable so that when things don't work out it reaffirms your deep seeded belief that you are unworthy of love."

Wahwahweewah.

Is THAT my problem? Is the reason why I'm 28 years single because subconsciously I believe myself to be unworthy of affection? Secretly my brain is sabotaging my potential love life because it's like Groucho Marx says, "I wouldn't want to be a part of any club that'd have me."

When you start learning life lessons from a TV show, it's time to renew your library card.

I don't think self sabotaging is the issue here. I think part of it is my hardcore realistic brain combating my die hard romantic soul. My soul wants the magical passion of storybook true love, while my brain is constantly rolling its eyes. I feel like when it's "right", you'll know it. It won't be so hard to make things work--in fact, in the beginning, it won't be work at all. You won't have to worry about how much time to allow between emails or txt messages or phone calls. It won't matter if you ask them out or they ask you. There will be no need to decide when is "too early" to sleep together, or on which date it's okay to wear your hair in a ponytail. And my brain goes--fat chance, sucker. Keep holding your breath.

I feel like, for women, it's so much more about the "show" we have to put on. We're the ones painting up our faces, hoisting up our tits, binding our bellies, and hiking up our asses with high heels. What do guys do? Take a shower? Yes, I know some of them worry about what to wear and feel the pressure of how their car and wallet are going to be criticized. But is that really equatable to the hair removal, exercising, and bunions we must endure? Guys will tell you that they don't even LIKE all that presentation bull shit. They love a girl who's comfortable in no makeup, jeans and t-shirt. But what guys don't understand is that even that "natural" look comes out of 15 different cosmetic bottles, a drawer full of designer jeans, and a hundred dollar t-shirt.

Men are always saying that a woman can get laid any day of the week, without even trying. But that's total bull. Anyone can get laid any day of the week, just depends on how low you're willing to stoop. I'm not denying the power that some woman have. Beautiful women will always be powerful. Just as rich men will. And women can be very powerful after they've captured a man's heart--but only after. Until a man has surrendered his love and affection to a person, he's the one who gets to decide. Ugly men with great senses of humor can get gorgeous, smart, intelligent women. Fat, sloppy, arrogant men with money can get gorgeous, smart, intelligent (if not somewhat ruthless) women. The biggest trend in Hollywood right now is the fat, homely, Jewish guy get's the 10 point babe by being a "nice, good hearted, funny guy". Chics can get laid any day of the week...well that's why prostitution is the oldest profession in history.

Of course I'm speaking in generalities, stereotypes, and whatnot--but there's a reason why stereotypes are formed. There are exceptions to everything, ours is a world not etched in black and white. Paul Newman and Joan Woodward were a prime example. But they certainly don't make men like Paul Newman anymore. Maybe women are doomed to settle so that men can be satisfied thinking they've stolen a jewel from another man's crown.

Or maybe you just fall in love with someone and the world melts away around you. One woman's stalker is another woman's Romeo.

Determined Date

We really did it, folks. We hitched our stuck up noses to the Match.com bandwagon. Look out love! Oh brother.

Now, I don't want to delude anyone into thinking that this is my first foray into the online dating scene. No no no. I was dabbling with The Onion personals way back in 02'. Those Onion Personals have gone the way of the Do Do now. I believe they were morphed into OKCupid or some such thing. I met a number of young suitors from that internet matchmaker. There was one particularly unbelievable date that comes to mind. One that will forever stand out as a great example of how life is simply a comedy of errors.

The Red Head with Scoliosis

I was an innocent lass of 22 and new to the ways of internet matchery. It was also back in the days when digital cameras were not part of cell phones and still cost a mostly unaffordable penny. People had only one, maybe two pictures posted to their profiles--that's it. So if you were sneaky you'd find a profile shot or something with you in front of Big Ben or the Eiffel Tower to casually keep your likeness a mystery. Enter, O'Connor.

Profile shot of him laughing open mouthed at a life sized puppet mirroring his expression. It was cute, campy, and I had to give him credit because he didn't have frosted tips sticking out the top of an Abercrombie and Fitch visor (it was the fall of 2003 in Tucson AZ, people, don't tell me you don't remember that look). He had witty sarcastic things to say in his profile, and said he was a writer up in Phoenix. 25, 5'10, ex-high school wrestler, auburn hair. We did the email swap. Then we chatted on the AIM. Finally we ended up on the phone for a solid 20 minute chat/date set up. He seemed a decent enough guy, maybe a tid bit nervous but--hey, who wasn't? He said he was coming down to Tucson to review a band for the paper he worked for in Phoenix, so would I like to "grab something to eat, or whatever?" Needless to say, I was charmed.

He came down. Called when he hit the parking lot of my building so I had the pleasure of watching him pull up. And what treasure, pray tell, beheld my eyes? A late 80's Hugo hatch back with so much garbage, nerd litter, and debris that you could barely see out the back windowS (plural). I walked up to the driver's side window while he half assedly pretended to make room for me in the passenger seat. I shook off the initial shock and chided him gently, telling him "why don't you give this beauty a rest. I'll drive us around." He smiled sheepishly and parked. I watched him get out of his vehicle. The first thing I noticed was when he got out of the car, it seemed like he didn't quite make it all the way out. Like he'd left about 5 or 6 inches back in that clown car of trash because if he was claiming 5'10--I was the star of The Attack of the 40ft Woman. Then it seemed, as he started to walk toward me, that he was having trouble walking and just standing up straight in general. A few more steps and he was close enough for me to see him under the street light. A bright shock of orange hair flamed wildly a top his head, a pair of cheap wire rim glasses sat on his freckled nose. A khaki tan Members Only jacket was zipped snugly over a paunchy belly nearly blending in seamlessly to the khaki Dockers adorning his bottom half. And a dirty off-white pair of Reebok High tops with one broken shoe lace. Being the desperately empathetic soul I am, my first thought was, "You sniveling little lying shit bag!" But then he stuck out his hand to introduce himself and the illustrious words of The Dude popped into my head, "Fuck it."

As we got into my car he said he was glad I'd be driving because the drive down from Phoenix really aggravated his right hip. Which was his bad hip...because of the sever scoliosis he's had since birth. He hoped the sore hip wouldn't effect his mini-golf game--which was our planned pre-dinner activity. I was the one who'd suggested putt-putt (it IS the UFD*, after all) and therefore immediately wondered how high the uncomfortable factor was going to get tonight. But I'd enjoyed what little conversation we'd shared in the week or so leading up to this date so my hopes were still high about at least having a fun time with a new friend. Round two: 18 holes of "fun".

I'd chosen an old dilapidated course that was charming in it's chintziness. Half of the obstacles didn't work or were patched so heavily you could count the layers of paint on the nipples of the mermaid on the bow of the mini pirate ship. It was mostly deserted when we got there. The kid working the counter looked about as thrilled to be alive as Edgar Allen Poe. As we're purchasing our clubs and choosing ball colors, O'Connor is yapping a mile a minute about his mini-golfing expertise. Trying to talk to Chuckles behind the counter like they were old pros. It...was...off-putting. And we begin.

Our first topic of conversation is: work. I ask him about the show he's going to review. He tells me it's an underground hip-hop group that he heard about from some friends.

Hmph. Underground hip-hop. Ya don't say. What paper was it he writes for, you ask? I was wondering the same thing.

Oh, it's the free penny saver that his church puts out every couple weeks.

...

He doesn't get paid, yet anyway. Just doing some interning to prove himself to the editor.

Good thinking.

Two more holes go, and then I happen to land a hole in one on the fourth hole. I turn thinking we'd exchange a nice high five only to be greeted with his first expletive of the evening.

"That's bullshit!"

...

"I can't believe you got a hole in one first!"

...

He stomped off to the next hole. It took the next three to get him cooled down. I did my best to take at least 2 more strokes than he to make the putts. And the conversation ended up in the arena of sports. He explained that his competitive edge never left him from his wrestling days in high school. He didn't wrestle himself, of course, but even as a manager (water boy) you're a part of the team.

At the 15th hole; tragedy strikes--I get another hole in one. This time he throws down his club and stalks off to sit behind the mini-haunted house on hole 13. I stand staring in awe at the scene that had just unfolded. Before I could figure out a reaction, he came lurching back over.

"We're skipping to the last hole. I'm starving and I'll pass out if I have low blood sugar."

I stroll after him to the final hole. The classic clown face with multiple holes through the center of his head, each hole a different prize. O'Connor is determined to win a free game.

I line up, take my shot, and only manage to get it in the lowest hole--no prize for that one. He laughs in my face-literally. Then for the next five minutes he lines up his shot, perfecting angles, taking practice swings. He shoots...he lands in the same fuckin' hole I did. Upon witnessing his ball disappear into the clown's laughing mouth, O'Connor went totally Rumplestiltzkin. He barged into the shop and demanded he be refunded his money. Threw his club on the ground, folded his arms, and called Chuckles the counter stooge a criminal. Chuckles couldn't refund his money, but gave him a handful of game tokens. Which O'Connor picked up and threw on the ground. Informing me he'd meet me at the car.

I followed him out realizing this night was only half over.

Now at this point you might be thinking, why not call it a night here? Why go to dinner with this crooked creep? Maybe it was morbid fascination--how could it get worse? Maybe it was my own fear of being accused of shallowness. Maybe I was just hungry and thought I at least deserved a free meal outta this circus.

I took him to a little italian place on 4th street that I loved. We sat down and I ordered a glass of chianti.

"No alcohol for me. It causes brain damage."

If I'm lucky...

"I'll take a 7Up with a straw please, NO ice."

O'Connor then proceeded to drink not 2, not 3 but 5 glasses of 7Up with no ice. I'm sure of the number, because he asked our server not to take his empty glasses away so he could keep track of how many he had.

Throughout dinner most of the conversation came rambling out of his pie hole, when he wasn't sucking down sodas or slurping up spaghetti, that is. And what was he so enthusiastic about discussing? His mother.

"I haven't moved out yet because I feel like my mom still really needs me at home. She took it very hard when my dad left."

Wow, that is hard, I'm sorry.

"Yeah, it's been a rough 15 years. She has her good days and bad."

Check please.

When I come back from the bathroom he's totaled out the check with exactly what he owes--to the penny. He's on his phone with--you guessed it! his mom. I take the check to the front to put it on my credit card. As we get in my car he mentions his apologizes for being on the phone like that, but he wanted to make sure it would be ok with his mom if I stayed with him when I came to visit.

"So do you think you could come up on Wednesday or Friday this week?"

Uhhh....I...don't think.....this is really going to go anywhere. I'm sorry, O'Connor.

"Oh. Well that's fine. I'm not very sexually attracted to you anyway."

Aaaaaand scene.

The rest of the car ride back to my apartment was silent. I parked and we both got out. I said goodnight with a wave and walked toward the gate.

"Wait...Can I at least get a hug?"

Well I'm not heartless for crissake. I lean in for a quick shoulder squeeze and the squirrely bastard was a flurry of hands and tongue. I shoved him off and took a few steps back. I stared a moment in disbelief.

Really?--It was all I could think to say. Not "sexually attracted" to me, eh?

He turned back to his car, got in, and drove away.

And thus was born the story of the Red Headed with Scoliosis. To be followed by many more blind dates of insanity. You'd think with that kind of experience so soon out the gate, I'd be wary of internet courting. But I'm a die hard romantic or, in other words, a glutton for punishment. So let's see what you've got Match.com. I'll give you 6 months and $120 of my well earned, painfully toiled money--let's see what you can do.

* Ultimate First Date

"Female Expiration" Date

This being the first posting, you'd think I'd do some kind of introductory spiel with a back story explanation. But I'm far too impatient and impractical for that kinda bull shit. All you need to know is I'm 28, single, female, mostly straight, and I live in the worst city for dating: Los Angeles, CA.

I just returned from my first ever trip to New York City. I'd planned this big apple rendezvous for months. I'd gotten tips from gobs of friends and acquaintances (b/c when people hear you're going to NY for the first time, even if they've never met you, they ALWAYS have an opinion on what you should do/see/eat). In fact, I had so many suggestions and only 3 days to explore, that by the time I sat down on my Virgin American flight from LAX to JFK I'd decided to just let the wind blow me in whatever direction it saw fit.

I'd never flown Virgin America before, but if you ever have, you know that it is the future of airline travel. From the purple lighting to the young pink haired hipster flight crew, from the gently sarcastic safety demonstration video to the personal entertainment touch screens in the back of every headrest--it's fucking rad. It was during my audible awe over the portable game console located in the armrest that the gal sitting next to me giggled. We started chatting about the luxurious luxury of Virgin America and then fashion, careers, and finally: romance. She's my age, similar fashion savvy, political opinion, and education but SHE has a lucrative job in advertising which sucks up 10-12 hours of her day 6 days a week. She falls into that category of our generation I like to call "careerotic". So much of her existence is tied up in her career aspirations that she doesn't have time to find a mate. On top of her lack of time keeping her love life elusive is her quality status. A woman like her is hard to match in this day in age. She's smart, successful, and sassy: an S³. Men who can handle women of this caliber are usually in their late thirties to early forties, and men who desire women of this caliber are usually in their fifties--we're talkin' in the metropolitan areas here, people. Not Smalltown, USA. But for many S³ gals on the cusp of 30, a man 8 to 10 years our senior is ready for a different stage of life. They're thinking about babies and houses in the burbs, while we're fantasizing about spontaneous weekend get-a-ways and planning a European adventure.

So there we were, commiserating over this romantic conundrum of TIMING. It's such a delicate balance trying to "have it all". Career, love, success, and a family--they are all high maintenance mistresses asking for an increase in their credit limits. In my new plane friend's case, she was pushing so hard for career success because the opportunity was there, and the advertising business has a definite expiration date. Gotta strike while you're young enough to lift the axe and still show a little leg. But if you want to have a family while you're still young enough to see your kids out of diapers before you have to start wearing them yourself, you're looking at yet another expiration date. Female expiration dates are much less forgiving then male ones, as we all know from watching any local news broadcast anchor team. So we're battling against time tooth and nail, while our male counterparts are stumbling around recklessly waiting to bump into 30. What's the answer to pairing up then? eHarmony? Match.com? For some, yes. For others, no. For me...well, I hope the stories of my Dating Disasters, that are to follow, will help others find the strength to tarry on their romantic battles.