Moving...

After several of my tech-savvy friends asked me why I'm using clunky old blogger, I've decided to give Wordpress a whirl. The site is in the process of moving to its own domain. Go check out http://www.lovingtheweb.com.

Thanks!

Haley

Haley was a unique person. She lived with several cats in a small apartment a block away from me. She was four years older than me, too. She and I met through OkCupid, but she was already very familiar with me and all the intricacies of my life.

Or, at least, the parts of my life I posted on my blog.

Haley was what I would call a loyal reader, and what others might call a cyber-stalker.

Our first communication wasn't through OkCupid -- it was through my blog comments, where she would often praise my posts, even if it was just a youtube link. Haley made a point of commenting on everything, often pointing out how we lived in the same neighborhood.

Now, I had other loyal readers, the most prominent of them being Irene, an older woman who found my blog very randomly and signed each post, "Luvya, Irene," which creeped me right the fuck out. I sort of lumped Haley in with Irene -- to me, they were people who read every word I wrote and posted lots of comments. I figured this was no big deal, so long as these people stayed on the internet and out of my real-world existence.

Then I logged in to OkCupid to find a message from Haley.

"Hey Sam!" it started, "This is Haley, the girl who is always commenting on your blog! I saw that we were matched on here and thought I'd give you a shout out. Do you want to grab some dinner sometime?"

I figured sure, what the heck, I can have dinner with a reader. Because, at this point, I still viewed Haley as a reader and nothing more.

You see, I am like lots of guys in that I often have difficulty picking up various vibes. I've gone out to dinner and a movie with someone and thought it was a date when it clearly was not. That was actually kind of common for me for a while. This was the opposite.

I told Haley to meet me Saturday night at a restaurant in our neighborhood. I arrived wearing jeans and a sweater -- nothing fancy. Very casual. She arrived sporting makeup, styled hair, and a very nice cocktail dress.

And yet I still thought I was just meeting a new friend for a burger.

She talked about her long-term singleness, her trouble meeting guys worthy of dating, and how she wants to have kids someday. She laughed at every marginally funny thing I had to say. She smiled at me. She made lots of eye contact.

It still wasn't clicking. Not at all. I just didn't think of her that way. I couldn't think of her that way. That had never even crossed my mind.

The check came.

"Dutch?" I asked. It was this moment, as she was pulling out her wallet, that she knew that I didn't know that this was a date, which I guess is the reason she tried one more tactic...

"What shall we do now?" she asked as we left the restaurant.

"Well, I'm just going to walk back to my place," I said.

"Want some company?" she asked.

It now occurs to me that some very mutually enjoyable things could have happened that evening, had I been paying any attention whatsoever to Haley's behavior. Instead, we went back to my apartment and watched a rerun of Law & Order: SVU, a mood-killing show if ever there was one.

After about 30 minutes, she gave up and left. I didn't see her or hear from her for several months. When I finally did run into her at the grocery store, she introduced me to her boyfriend, a very friendly guy who looked like me. A LOT like me.

And that was when I knew it had been a date.

A topical diversion...

This was just forwarded to me. Basically, a girl in Toronto was out for a few drinks with her friends, with this guy, Dimitri, came up to her and started hitting on her relentlessly. To make him go away, she handed him her business card. Dimitri proceeded to leave two voicemails for her. They were so ridiculous that instead of calling him back and telling him to buzz off, she shared them with a local radio station, where they were promptly put on the air.

Now, obviously, I'm like the guy in that I think I'm a catch. Heck, I know I'm a catch. However, I also readily admit that I'm far from perfect, and I don't expect the women I date to be perfect, either.

No, really. I don't expect perfection. Honest.

Dimitri, I know you're out there, and I've had a few hits from the Toronto area. If, on the off-chance (1 in 2.25 million, approximately, assuming 50% of the population of the Greater Toronto Area is male) you're the one reading, please, seek therapy. You've got some serious superiority issues.

Reader Mail

Hi Sam,

I met this fellow last year through plentyoffish.com, one of the two major free online dating sites. At the time, I was 27 and he was 25. We'll call him "Tom." Tom started off sending me a message through the site saying that it was really too bad that I'm a smoker, because he so thoroughly enjoyed reading my profile that he would have really liked to go on a date. Not really sure how to respond to this, I replied that I was sorry to hear that and that his own profile seemed nice and I was sure he'd find a nice non-smoking girl out there some day. This was my polite way of advising him that, while I am fully aware of the risks of smoking, if I am ever going to quit doing it, it will be because I want to, not because some man wants me to.

Tom didn't seem at all dissuaded by my apparent brush-off and went on to say that he could easily be friends with a smoker and wanted to know if I would be interested in chatting via IM. We exchanged IM information and talked for a week or two. Tom was very intelligent, and things were going fairly well so far, but I was a little put off by how Tom frequently wanted to get together RIGHT NOW for an impromptu lunch/dinner.

Eventually we planned to meet for dinner. Things went fairly well, though something was still a little "off." We met up for a second date, and this time he said that he wanted to continue our date after dinner and go somewhere else. I wasn't busy that evening, so I agreed. He wanted to go to a bookstore. I thought that was an unusual destination for a date, but I had already agreed, so off we went.

We reached the specific bookstore where he had requested to go. I noticed that he didn't seem to have any specific objective in mind. He wasn't going to a particular section in the store. I started wandering around a little and looking at various books. After a short time, Tom seemed to see something and made a beeline for a counter. I followed. He had a friend working there. His friend was very much a stereotypical "nerd" and he introduced us. We spent only a few more minutes in the bookstore before Tom requested to go to another store which seemed an equally random request. Upon reaching the next store, Tom once again, remarkably, knew someone working in the store to whom he wanted to introduce me.

Suddenly the desire for ice cream seemed to overcome Tom. We were near an ice cream place, but he wanted to go to a DIFFERENT ice cream place a few miles away. I should really have realized where this was going by now, but I naively agreed. Sure enough, Tom had a nerdy friend working at the ice cream place.

As the evening was winding down and it was time to take Tom back to his car, we passed a movie theater where I had once made the mistake of ordering extra butter on my popcorn. I told Tom the story and ended the tale with "What I ended up receiving was a bucket of butter-flavored soup with real popcorn bits." Now, I realize that such a remark would likely elicit a chuckle from most people. However, from Tom, I received a few second of dead silence, followed by an uproarious belly laugh which resonated throughout my vehicle and was promptly followed up with "You're so quotable! Real popcorn bits!"

This was not the first time Tom had laughed inappropropriately hard at a remark I had made, but it was certainly the creepiest.

I realized at that point that I had to figure out a way to end things. I am a bit of a geek by most peoples' standards. I can usually fix my own computer, I can hold my own in a "Kirk vs. Picard" debate with "Sisko," and I have played mutliple MMORPGs. However, being taken around town on a world tour to be introduced to all of a man's nerdy friends in an effort to prove that he actually knew a girl was a bit much, even for me. After receiving a barrage of text messages the next day while I was at work to tell me what a great time he had and how he couldn't wait to see me again, I decided that I had better call Tom on my way home from work that day to break the news to him.

I was not at all cruel. I elected not to point out the odd tour he'd taken me on or the apparent hero-worship he had for me after only a couple of dates. Instead, I focused on the fact that he reminded me very much of a good friend whom I could never see myself dating (this was also true, although the friend in question would never engage in such bizarre behaviors). He was not at all happy. He stammered for a bit, but I remained firm. Eventually, he thanked me for "the line" and hung up. I never heard from him again, despite his initial assertions that he only wanted to be friends.

All in all, Tom was a sweet guy with a lot of very positive attributes. Things might have turned out differently if he hadn't been quite so over-the-top.

Sincerely,

Simone

Thanks for your e-mail, Simone. I'll admit, sometimes it's definitely easy to fall victim to the quick and easy infatuation that is a hallmark of online dating. And some people, well, they fall hard. Really hard.

Tom was one of those people. I'm sure, like you said, he's a sweet guy with a lot of very positive attributes, but I'm guessing he didn't get a lot of second dates, and that's probably because he puts it all out there so quickly. It's really a shame, some people just need someone to tell them this.

I understand why you did what you did, Simone. You were trying to spare Tom's feelings. But here's the thing -- when two people want to go in different directions, feelings will be hurt.

I've got a friend who recently went through a divorce. The divorce itself wasn't too difficult, as it mostly involved signing papers. However, getting to the point of actually saying, "this isn't working and I don't see any other solution" was a nightmare. She kept waffling back and forth, saying her now ex-husband could change, "if he just got a better job," or "if he just got his degree," or any of about a dozen other "if he just..." statements.

The thing is that people can change, but they have to be the ones who want to initiate that change.

What it always came back to was the fact that this friend didn't want to hurt her ex-husband's feelings, and she didn't want his family to hate her.

One day, after hearing this song and dance for the thousandth time, I finally went off on her.

"It's a failed relationship," I told her. "You're both miserable. Just because things didn't work out the way you had intended doesn't make you a bad person. It makes you human. Staying together isn't going to help anyone -- it will only prolong the misery for both of you. And, you know what? Things are going to suck. Feelings are going to be hurt. Perhaps, in the future, you guys can be friends again, but for now, you both just need to be away from each other."

Here we are, nearly a year later, and she and her ex-husband are divorced. And they are on civil terms. They're not best friends, but they don't want to gouge each other's eyes out, either.

What does this have to do with Tom and Simone? Like I said earlier, Simone, I understand why you did what you did. You wanted to spare Tom's feelings, and I don't fault you for that one bit.

However, from the guy's perspective, I don't see that as being the only option.

Some people won't change until they are motivated to do so themselves. I hope, somewhere down the road, Tom either finds A) someone who isn't scared off by his weirdness (and don't get me wrong, homeboy is weird,) or B) someone who dates him for a while and then breaks things off, and tells him, in plain terms, how over the top he is, and how that's the reason she's breaking things off.

It's what Dan Savage calls the campsite rule. Realize that you're probably not going to spend the rest of your life at this "campsite," so you should leave it better than you found it when you arrived, so others may enjoy it in the future.

Thanks for your letter, Simone, and keep reading!

If you would like to tell me about one of your misadventures in online dating, send me an e-mail -- samsingleguy [at] gmail [dot] com.

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Emily (Part Seven -- good lord, get it over with already!)

After seeing Emily for about six weeks, I decided to paint my bedroom one weekend. I figured since I was the only one using it, it wasn't such a terrible idea. Emily and I hadn't crossed that threshhold. I have to admit, I was scared off by the STIs, even after she was treated and declared to be clean once more.

So I decided to paint. My room was boring -- just plain off-white walls -- so I wanted something different. I invited Emily to help. I hadn't seen her or heard from her in a few days, so I thought it would be a good chance to hang out.

"No," she said. "I'm not going to be your free labor."

Okay then.

"But," she continued, "do you want me to bring you food?"

Score. I accepted her offer and she said she would be over soon, burritos in hand.

This was Friday evening. Sunday afternoon, about two hours after I had finished painting, she arrived, sans burritos.

"Let's go out to get something," she said. "My treat."

"I thought you were coming over Friday," I said. "And then I didn't hear from you all day yesterday. I don't want to be 'that guy,' but you said you'd be over soon, which I thought meant two hours, not two days."

Granted, I didn't starve to death or anything as a result of not having a burrito on Friday night, but this was more than a bit rude.

"Sorry," she said, "I got a little bit caught up in something this weekend."

"You're still buying, right?" I asked.

"Of course," she said.

We went to Qdoba in search of burritos. Well, I should say I was in search of a burrito. Emily, on the other hand, was in search of perhaps the most ridiculously complicated Qdoba order I have ever witnessed.

"Naked chicken queso burrito, black beans, but without the queso, and with the ancho sauce, mild salsa, with a soft tortilla on the side," she said to the young woman behind the counter who clearly did not get paid enough to deal with this bullshit.

"Why don't you just get an ancho burrito?" I asked.

"It's not the same," she said, ignoring the fact that both burritos consist of meat, beans, rice, and your choice of toppings such as salsa, shredded cheese, sour cream, etc. The only real difference was the sauce. And why order a burrito without a tortilla, only to get the tortilla on the side? Why not just get the damn burrito in the tortilla (the way God intended) and let it spill out onto a plate after the first bite like it's going to do anyway?

"Just a chicken burrito," I said. "Black beans, corn salsa, shredded cheese, and sour cream please."

"No problem," said the young woman, cheerfully.

Emily's order had not been met with such enthusiasm.

We got our burritos and our drinks and sat down.

"So," said Emily, "I've got some exciting news!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" she said. "There's this guy, and we've been going out for a few weeks now, and I think he's great!"

"Oh yeah?" I said, under the impression that she was speaking about me as if I weren't there, telling me of my amazingness, etc. "Tell me about him!" I continued, smiling knowingly.

"Well, his name is Steve," she said.

"My name is not Steve," I thought, "but she's probably messing around with me."

"He's a computer guy," she continued.

"Emily never really has asked what I do for a living, but she knows I work with web design sometimes, so yeah, she's definitely talking about me," I told myself.

"He's raising his six year old daughter, and she's so cute!"

"Daughter?" I asked, "That's a strange way to refer to my male dog."

"Huh?"

"You're talking about me, right?" I said.

"No," she replied, "I'm talking about Steve."

"Huh?"

"Steve," she repeated. "The guy I'm dating. We met on eHarmony."

"Wait a minute," I said, "So how long have you been seeing Steve?"

"A few weeks," she said.

"What about us?" I asked. "I thought you and I were dating..."

Emily was suddenly quiet.

"You mean to tell me you've been stringing me along for the last few weeks?"

No response.

"We've gone out a few times each week for the last month and a half, and for half of that time, you've been seeing someone else?"

"Well, yeah," said Emily, breaking her silence. "What did you think this was?" she asked, "A relationship?"

"Uh, yeah?" I said. "We go out to dinner, we go to movies, we spend time with each other, we often end up making out. I mean, I know it's kind of junior high-ish, but I thought we were just taking things slow, and I was okay with that."

"I... Uhhh..."

"You offered me a key to your apartment just last week," I said. "How is all that not indicative of a relationship?"

"I'm sorry you got that impression," she said, after some thought. "We are in a relationship, but not that kind of relationship..."

It then occurred to me -- I had fallen into the role of her gay boyfriend. Only I wasn't gay. Or her boyfriend.

She had strung me along for nearly a month. She wasted a portion of my life. I know, it's only three weeks, but in that time, I declined several communication requests from matches on eHarmony because, as I told them, I was pursuing another relationship. Because that's what I thought it was -- a relationship.

I should have seen the writing on the wall. She had gone from contacting me several times a day to contacting me once every couple of days, and usually only by text message. I thought we were past the infatuation stage and were now at a more healthy point in our relationship where we didn't need to be in constant contact.

Some men would have made a scene by telling her off, calling her a liar, or saying hurtful things. I'm not one of those men. No, I'm the man who quietly finished his burrito and drove both of them back to his house, and walked up to the front door, all without saying a single word.

"You're mad, aren't you..." Emily said to me as we stood on the porch.

"Whatever," I said as I unlocked and opened the door. "Do you have your things?" I asked.

"Yeah, why?" said Emily.

"You should go now," I said.

"I'm sorry," said Emily. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Pooh."

"Don't call me Pooh," I said, closing the door before she could come inside. "I fucking hate that."

Emily (Part Six)

A week after the hospital ordeal, Emily was feeling much better. We decided to have dinner -- this time at my house. I was getting sick of driving all the way to her place, so getting her to agree to dinner at my place was a minor victory.

"What do you want me to make?" I asked.

"You cook?" was her reply.

"Of course I cook," I said. "I'm not a totally helpless bachelor."

"I don't eat frozen foods," she said.

"But we had ice cream last week," I pointed out. "That's frozen."

"Ice cream doesn't count - it's supposed to be frozen."

"Ice cream does count," I argued. "You never said anything about its virgin state."

"Whatever," she said. "I don't eat frozen foods. No frozen chicken, no frozen vegetables, nothing like that."

She never did explain why...

"Okay," I said, and proceeded to throw out a few recipe ideas. Enchiladas. Pizza. Spaghetti.

Her answer was the same each time: "No."

"What do you want then?" I asked.

"I really like pizza from Richie's," she said. "We get it at work all the time."

"Richie's?" I asked. "As in the place that's halfway across the county?" I desperately hoped that there was some other place called Richie's three blocks from my house.

"Yeah, that's the one," she said, confirming my fears.

So much for my minor victory -- I now had to drive an hour, round-trip, to pick up a pizza from this place. And, to make matters worse, Richie's isn't anything spectacular. In fact, I would go so far as to call it underwhelming. It fails to whelm.

Plus, Richie's was expensive -- $18 for a medium pizza.

The evening was already a loss. An hour of driving -- past no fewer than a dozen excellent pizza places -- to buy an overpriced, mediocre pizza, that would undoubtedly be cold by the time I got it back to my house.

Shit.

"I'll make brownies," she said.

Suddenly things were looking brighter.

I drove to Richie's, picked up the pizza, and got home mere seconds before Emily arrived at my door. She carried a round pan. An empty round pan.

"Where are the brownies?" I asked.

"I'm going to make them here," she said.

"With what?" I asked, as she walked into my kitchen and began going through my cabinets.

"Where's your flour?" she asked.

"I don't have flour," I said, surprised that her idea of "making brownies" involved coming to my house and using my ingredients.

"How can you not have flour?"

"It's easy when you don't buy it."

"Sugar?"

"No sugar, either."

"Eggs?"

"I've got eggs."

"I guess it would be a stretch to think that you would have unsweetened chocolate and vanilla extract," she said.

"You guess correctly."

"Where's the grocery store?" she asked. I gave her directions, and she left.

Forty five minutes later, she returned. In her bag was one item -- a store-brand brownie mix.

"How did that take you 45 minutes?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Let's eat!"

The pizza, now just slightly above room temperature, had been sitting on the table the entire time.

"Didn't you put that in the oven to keep it warm?" she asked.

"I didn't think it would take you 45 minutes to get back," I said.

We microwaved some pizza and put the rest in the refrigerator. If Richie's pizza was mediocre when fresh, it was downright repugnant when reheated.

After the pizza, Emily began making the brownies. She measured the oil and water and cracked the eggs. I couldn't be trusted with anything beyond stirring.

"Do you want to lick the spoon?" I asked.

"Lick the spoon?" she said, "who on earth does that?"

This was the exact moment I knew Emily and I would never amount to anything. I have only a few requirements of the women I date -- they have to have at least three of the five senses, they must be employed, and they have to lick the spoon (salmonella be damned.)

I kept my mouth shut as she put the brownies in the oven and set the timer.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "What do you have?"

"Have you ever seen Roger & Me?" I asked.

I figured since things between Emily and me were going nowhere, it would be the perfect opportunity to watch a documentary that is definitely NOT a date movie.

I didn't warn her.

"Pets or meat?" she said, reading the sign in the movie. "What does that mean?"

THUNK

"OH MY GOD!!!"

"Oh, yeah," I said casually, "I forgot about that part."

DING

"Brownies are done!" I got up from the couch and poured myself a glass of milk.

Emily sat on the couch, her hands covering her eyes.

"Is it over yet? Tell me when it's over! Pooh! Tell me when it's over!"

It would be over soon enough.

TO BE CONTINUED...