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.

On Twitter

Follow me on Twitter!

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...

Emily (Part Five)

"Come over 2nite?"

This question had made frequent appearances on my cell phone as of late. After realizing how much work it was to care for two rambunctious dogs (and undoubtedly, some complaints from the neighbors), Emily had given Lily back to the rescue group from which she came. This resulted in more free time for Emily -- free time she wanted to fill with me.

I usually wasn't able to make it over to her apartment, as these requests came during the week. When I get home from work, I have a dog and a house waiting for my attention. However, this night, I decided to take her up on it.

My dog was staying with my mother for the week -- since I haven't given her any grandchildren, she enjoys spoiling the four-legged equivalent. Their mornings together are filled with long walks. The afternoons are set aside for trips to the doggie spa (yes, my mother takes my dog to a spa.) The evenings are filled with belly rubs and doggie ice cream (yes, my mother buys a special brand of ice cream for my dog, which shouldn't be all that surprising given the revelation about the spa.) A good time would be had by all: the dog would be pampered, my mother would have a mammal to spoil (her human grandchildren are all in school), and I would be free to shack up with Emily.

I packed an overnight bag and headed to her apartment after work.

When I arrived at six PM, she was already in her pajamas. And when I say pajamas, I don't mean anything sexy. She looked like the poster child for the flannel industry.

It was warm outside. And it was warm inside.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I feel like crap," she said.

"Have you been to the doctor?" I asked.

"I called, but he can't see me for another week," she explained. "I think it's just kidney stones."

She looked awful. The color had drained from her face, she had chills, a fever, and a cold sweat. And she complained of pain in her lower back and pelvic area.

So much for the romantic evening I had envisioned.

We sat on the couch and watched television. She was curled up in a ball under no fewer than three blankets. I was sweating like a fat man in a sick girl's apartment. Because that's exactly what I was. I walked over to the thermostat -- 84 degrees.

"Pooh, if you touch that, I will fucking kill you," said the pile of blankets on the couch.

"Emily, this is ridiculous," I said. "You need to see a doctor now."

Surprisingly, she didn't argue. Within minutes, she was dressed, and we were both in the waiting room of the ER.

There wasn't much of a crowd, so she was seen by a doctor surprisingly quickly.

"Come back with me, Pooh," she said. "Please?"

I went into the exam room with Emily and listened as she described her symptoms to the nurse.

"Fill these out," said the nurse, handing a clipboard to Emily. "Are you the husband?" she said, looking at me.

"No," I said, not entirely sure of what I was.

"Are the two of you family?" she asked.

"No we are not," I said.

"You need to wait outside," she said. "Family only."

"Sorry, Em," I said, trying to hide my relief at not having to be in the room during various examinations. I returned to the waiting room, where Matlock was currently playing on an old television mounted to the wall.

A few minutes after I returned to the waiting room, two young women came into the ER -- one of them was hopping on one foot. They were both in Hooters uniforms.

"I sprained my ankle," said the hopper, as the woman at the registration counter handed her a clipboard and directed her to sit in the waiting room.

"Ugh," said the other girl into a cell phone, "I had to bring one of our girls to the ER -- she fell and sprained her ankle. And a table of ten guys just sat down in my fucking section, can you believe this shit?" She huffed past me and out the door, leaving her co-worker to fend for herself at the hospital. After all, there were tips to be had, and those hot wings weren't going to move themselves.

Over the next 45 minutes, Hooters girl, whose name, as it turns out, was Kara, proceeded to hop from her chair in the waiting room to the registration counter no fewer than six times. And there was much jiggling.

A woman in scrubs entered the waiting room. "Sam? I'm looking for Sam?"

I stood up.

"Emily would like to see you," said the woman.

"But what about the family-only rule?" I asked.

"I'm the doctor," said the woman, smiling, "I'll make an exception."

When I arrived in Emily's room, she was sitting on the bed in a hospital gown. Her eyes were pink and puffy.

"That asshole," she said.

"Hey," I said softly. "What's wrong?"

"My ex-husband," she said.

She went on to explain that her pain wasn't from kidney stones. Her pain was from several sexually transmitted infections she had contracted from her ex-husband. As if contracting multiple STIs from her ex-husband wasn't bad enough, this was proof that he had been unfaithful.

The good news was that these infections were easily treatable with common antibiotics. The bad news, though, was that they had lingered in her body for a very long time. While she would probably be fine, there existed a chance that the infections may have permanently affected her ability to have children.

Emily was devastated. Her outlook instantly went from "put a baby inside me right now" to "will I ever be able to have children?" This was no simple transition.

"It'll be okay," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders as she cried into my shirt. Emily looked up just in time to see Kara the Hooters girl hopping past the door.

We laughed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Reader Mail

If you have a story about your online dating experiences you'd like to share, type it up and send it to me -- samsingleguy [at] gmail [dot] com. I'll publish it here for all the world to see.

Note: you may want to change names to protect the not-so-innocent.

Dear S.S.~

As a member of a few online dating sites, I am quite a fan of your blog. I received this e-mail yesterday and thought I would pass it along. I didn't make this up. After reading it the only thing I could possibly think was "what?" Looking at it again, I'm pretty sure Santa just asked for a booty call in an e-mail through a dating site.

Single Sam, Thank you for not resorting to this type of behavior while trying to find a lady.

Sincerely,
Charlotte



Dinner with Santa?

The reindeer and I will be in Festus for two weeks while the sleigh gets serviced and I thought it might be fun to meet some of Santa's helpers while I'm here.

In all seriousness I am traveling on business and thought I might as well get as much use out of this service that I am paying for as possible and hoped you might take advantage as well.

I am simply looking for a sweet lady who would like to go out a time or two while I'm in town and have a good time and show me the sights. I'll even spring for dinner.

I'm not looking for anything more then a fun date unless lightning struck and fireworks go off and in that case you could always move to the North Pole or I could open Santa's workshop in Missouri.

I love movies, country and western dancing, I can waltz and jitterbug (swing) as well. I'm open to any fun event ide as you might have you only need bring a smile and well yourself.

So please feel free to take advantage of a nice guy willing to buy you a meal. After all who would deny Santa Clause even in September.

This e-mail came with a picture of the offender, who looks NOTHING like Santa. He is nearly twice Charlotte's age and lives several states away.

The first thing I noticed was a spelling issue. Santa Claus is a jolly old soul who brings presents to children at Christmas time, whereas (The) Santa Clause is a crappy Tim Allen movie. Learn the difference, people. Secondly, the guy who wrote this probably thought he was being funny, but somebody really needs to let him know just how damn creepy this is.

It's people like this guy, the self-proclaimed "Santa Clause" from an unidentified southern state (think about where Pee-Wee went to look for his bike) who make me feel a lot better about myself.

Emily (Part Four)

Things were going well with Emily and me. A few days after our talk, she had begun texting me constantly, which, at first, seemed sweet.

Then the texts started arriving at stranger times. They read, mostly, as follows:

1:01 AM, Thursday

Emily

Hey pooh, what's up?

Of course, I would reply that I was trying to sleep, and that both of us had to be at work in less than seven hours.

1:17 AM, Thursday

Just thinking of you...

As sweet as this is, that still did not negate the fact that we needed to do things in the morning. Adult things. And not the fun kind.

1:22 AM, Thursday

Wanna come over?

Okay, now this one definitely got my attention. I did want to go over there. Oh god, did I ever. But doing so would require several things:

1. I would have to bring my dog along.

2. Our dogs would need to get along with one another -- not a given, since her dog is barely out of puppyhood and mine is pretty old, and despises young, energetic dogs. He's kind of a canine codger.

3. Pooh? Did she call me Pooh? It was late. It took a while for it to sink in.

4. I would have to either bring a change of clothes or return to my house extra-early so I could get ready for work.

5. Her apartment is a 30 minute drive from my place.

1:34 AM, Thursday

Maybe this weekend then?

I agreed that I would come over at some point on Saturday, since I didn't have much else going on. And, don't get me wrong, I really did want to spend time with her.

It was Saturday morning before I knew it. At 10 AM, Emily called me.

"Guess what!" she said excitedly.

"What?"

"I adopted a puppy!" she said.

"Uhhhh..."

"She's so cute! What should I name her?"

"Was this a spur of the moment thing?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, "Roscoe and I went to Petco to buy some food, and we saw her and I just couldn't say no. She's so cute!"

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked, playing the role of reason. "I mean, you work so much, and Roscoe is home by himself in his crate for so many hours each day..."

"Oh, they'll be fine," she said. "They love each other already!"

"Okay..."

A few hours later, I arrived at her apartment. I had stopped at a nursery to buy her a small gift -- just because. I prefer to give plants instead of flowers. Plants actually grow and thrive, unlike flowers, which, despite their beauty, soon wither and die. And a plant can have flowers, too. But not all the time. Just like any relationship will have its beautiful moments, its plainness, and sometimes the leaves may even start to dry out. Its beauty is in its ability to grow, and to become something wholly new. Additionally, a plant requires care, attention, and nurturing to keep its leaves green, much like a strong relationship requires a similar commitment from its stewards.

Also, plants are usually cheaper than flowers.

So I brought her a plant with purple blossoms -- something that would look great on her windowsill. I rang the doorbell and was instantly greeted by a cacophany of barks, howls, and yips from inside the apartment. She cracked open the door.

"Roscoe! Lily! No!" she said, trying unsuccessfully to calm the dogs. "We just went outside! It's just Sam! He's here to see mommy!"

She managed to subdue the dogs long enough to give me a kiss on the cheek and take the plant to her kitchen counter.

"That's Lily," she said, pointing to a precious brown and white Boston Terrier puppy. A rather large Boston Terrier puppy. A rather large Boston Terrier puppy who was now peeing all over the floor.

"Lily! No! Bad!" she said, swatting the pup with a roll of paper towels. Just as she did that, a snarling Roscoe lunged at Lily, nipping at her hindquarters, and causing her to seek refuge on top of an ottoman in front of the sofa, where she continued to pee.

"Roscoe, be nice to your sister," said Emily, as she handed me the roll of paper towels and a half-empty spray bottle of pet stain remover. "Can you spray this wherever she just peed and then soak it up with the paper towels? I need to take her outside. She isn't exactly housebroken."

"You don't say."

There I stood in the apartment, with Roscoe, who seconds earlier had been trying to dispatch his "sister." Roscoe growled at me as I sprayed the ottoman, the floor, and part of the sofa, and began cleaning up Lily's mess.

"Don't fuck with me, dog," I said as I rose to my feet to remind Roscoe how much larger I am than him. "I will not hesitate to lock you in the bathroom."

Roscoe growled. I stood my ground. We had met before. He knew me, and I knew him. He growled some more, and began showing his teeth. I put down the paper towels and spray bottle and grabbed Roscoe's leash (which had been attached to his collar presumably since Emily brought Lily home, since the two got along so well) and dragged him to the bathroom, barking all the way. As I returned to the mess, Emily and Lily came back inside.

"Where's Roscoe?" asked Emily.

"Bathroom," I said. "He was growling at me. And showing his teeth."

"Nuh-uh," she said. "He likes you!"

"Tell him that," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'm on his shit list."

"You're not doing it right," said Emily as she took the spray bottle and paper towels from me. "You have to really soak the spots. Don't just mist them." She proceeded to finish cleaning up the mess her dog had made on her floor and furniture, and then walked to the bathroom to release Roscoe.

"Are you going to be good now?" she said. "Are you going to be nice to your sister?" Emily grabbed Roscoe's leash and led him out of the bathroom. He immediately began barking and lunging at Lily with enough force to almost take Emily to the floor.

"Roscoe," said Emily in a soothing voice, "calm down -- she's not going anywhere. You need to be nice to her."

Roscoe did not listen, and proceeded to nearly duplicate the same incident as earlier. This time, I took Lily outside, where she did not pee, as the contents of her bladder had undoubtedly been released all over the apartment by now.

We went back inside to find Emily soaking up a wet spot on the carpet with a wad of paper towels. Roscoe had been locked in the second bedroom this time -- the second bedroom with the door that doesn't close too well.

"So, how are you today?" she asked.

"Oh, fine I guess," I said. "Just hanging out in my quiet house with my well-behaved dog. You know, the usual."

She gave me the look. You know the one.

Lily, who was not being attacked or cuddled by anyone at the moment, began yipping. High-pitched and frequent yips. Yips that could certainly be heard in the surrounding units.

"Shush Lily!" said Emily, causing Lily to yip louder. Roscoe began barking from the other bedroom, followed by a sound that was undoubtedly him pushing at the door.

"Emily," I said, "Lily is adorable, but--"

"I should take her back," said Emily, completing my thought. "Well, she's not going anywhere. They just need to get used to each other."

"It's your apartment," I said. "I'm just worried about how you're going to handle two dogs. And, to be honest, I don't think your neighbors will appreciate the yipping."

"They haven't said anything," she said.

"Em," I said, "it's only been a few hours."

"Right," she said, "it's only been a few hours. Give them time to get to know each other." Emily began picking up the soaked paper towels and headed toward the kitchen.

"Lily," she said, "come here, sweetie! You must be hungry! And thirsty!"

She placed a bowl of water on the floor and began reloading the super soaker otherwise known as Lily's bladder. Shen then measured out a small scoop of puppy food -- the fancy, expensive kind -- poured it in a bowl, and placed it on the floor. Lily attacked it voraciously.

THUD

Roscoe came barrelling around the corner from the spare bedroom and into the kitchen, snarling and barking at Lily the entire way. He lunged at her hindquarters. This time, he made contact.

YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP

Lily jumped onto the sofa and proceeded to pee everywhere, paying special attention to the areas that had just been cleaned. Additionally, her leg had begun to bleed, adding a new stain to the sofa. In a matter of seconds, Roscoe had inhaled the fancy, expensive puppy food and was now licking the bowl clean.

Emily took Roscoe to her bedroom, closed the door, and left him there for the remainder of my visit. She then tended to Lily's leg, which, fortunately, wasn't as bad as it originally appeared.

"I don't think they're going to kiss and make up," I said.

"They just need time," said Emily, as she turned on the TV.

We both rubbed Lily's belly as she sprawled across our laps. Soon, she grew tired of this and jumped over to the ottoman, where she barked her high-pitched puppy bark on account of our lack of constant attention.

In the bedroom, Roscoe growled.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Emily (Part Three)

After dinner and the card shop, Emily and I agreed to go out again and parted ways for the evening.

The next morning, Emily sent me a text message.

"I don't think it's going to work out," it said. "I don't see us going in the same direction in life."

This was news to me, as I hadn't thought we had really reached the point during our phone calls, our dinner, or the movie where we discussed our life goals and where we wanted to be in 10 years. Perhaps it was because when I found the card about potty training, I didn't swoon about how I can't wait to teach my own children to not urinate in the living room.

I was right. At least partially. After ruminating on the matter for a few days, I called her and asked what was up.

"I always thought by now I'd have babies," she explained. "I had it all planned out, but then everything happened with my ex-husband, and now I just don't know. Everything I had planned is on hold now."

"I'm open to having kids," I said. "I didn't think we'd need to have this conversation after one date. But since we're having it, I guess I should tell you that if I am going to ever have kids, I want it to be a few years down the road. I'm just not ready for that right now, though."

"Well," she said, "there's something else..."

She went on to explain that the fact that I'm overweight bothered her. Even though she, herself, was a bit overweight too. She said she wanted me to be healthy.

I agreed. I do want to be healthy. I've struggled with my weight for over 20 years. It's not a fun thing. It's a terrible thing, actually. Deep down, I am extremely self-conscious about my appearance. And, of course, self-consciousness leads to self-medication, and damn if there aren't some excellent-tasting salty and sweet medications readily available pretty much everywhere.

But I digress. She wanted me to lose weight. But she said she also wanted to lose weight. And we could do it together. I agreed. It sounded like a great idea. Plus, it's much easier to do these sorts of things with someone.

"But," she said, "I'm not going to force you to do anything."

"Okay," I said.

"I mean, really, I'm never going to tell you that you can't eat something."

"Fine," I said. "Not a problem."

"Okay," she said. "I just don't want you to resent me for wanting you to lose weight."

"Why would I resent you for wanting the same thing I want?" I asked.

"Well..." she said, pausing long enough for me to assume the call had been dropped.

"Are you there?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"Well what?"

"Well, my ex used to tell me what I could and couldn't eat..."

"That's terrible!"

"And he made fun of my weight. And he told me I was fat and ugly."

"You're beautiful," I said. Because it was the truth.

"You're sweet," she said.

"Not sweet," I said. "Just honest."

Clearly, this guy had done quite the number on her. What kind of jerk says those things to another human being? Let me rephrase that. What kind of jerk older than ten says those things to another human being?

A jerk with tons of issues. That's who.

"So," I said, "If you still don't want to see me, that's fine -- I respect that -- but I just want you to know that I would never resent you for wanting me to be a healthier person."

She apologized and said she'd love to go out again.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Alice

Alice and I connected via eHarmony. She was a 25 year old girl from the suburbs. Very bubbly, very friendly, and very excited to meet me.

She came to my place and we went from here to dinner at a Mexican restaurant nearby. The food was really good. The conversation, not so much.

Alice had spent a lot of time talking to me on the phone over the previous week. Granted, she did most of the talking. She would talk. And talk. And talk some more. Don't get me wrong, she's an awesome girl, and very sweet, but she just talked a LOT. And the trend continued through dinner. I barely got a word in edgewise.

And the more she talked, the more I wondered what was running through that mind of hers. She talked about how she would use double the recommended amount of detergent in her laundry, so it would get extra clean.

"I don't think that's how it works," I said. "You're really just buying twice as much detergent as you actually need."

"Okay," she replied, "I'll try it your way, maybe..."

She talked about how she studied abroad in Mexico for a year, but yet, at the Mexican restaurant, she kept mispronouncing Spanish words. And not difficult ones, either. I'm talking about words like "salsa" (soltz-ah) and "tortilla" (tor-tee-luh). Had she not paid attention at all?

I decided to overlook these little things and just have a good time and enjoy her company.

Eventually, we finished eating, and the bill came.

"I've got it," I said.

"Oh, that's sweet!" she said. "Can I leave the tip?"

"Sure."

"How much?"

"Oh," I said, "whatever you think -- maybe 20%?"

"Okay!" she said, pulling a wad of $1 bills from her wallet.

The restaurant where we dined was my idea of the perfect restaurant -- good food and very low prices. The bill, for both of us, including margaritas, was $16. If Alice had left a 20% tip, that would be $3.20. However, the service was pretty good, so I'd even go up to 25%, or $4.

Alice plunked down seven singles.

"Is that right?" she asked.

I want to take a minute to point out that Alice is an accountant. An honest-to-god accountant. For a company. A company that pays people money to work there. I'm no math genius, but figuring out 20% of a modest restaurant tab isn't rocket science.

"Oh, no," I said, "I already paid for the food. It's on me." I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she wanted to go Dutch.

"I know, silly," she said. "I mean for the tip! Is seven dollars enough? Is that 20%?"

"The bill was $16," I said.

"Yeah," she said, "what's 20% of $16?"

"Three-twenty," I replied.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Uhh... Yeah," I said.

"Okay, if you say so."

We left, went back to my place and made out for a little while. Mexican food breath and all. It wasn't my brightest move, but again, I was giving her the benefit of the doubt.

I never claimed to be a saint. Besides, what if the whole 20% thing was just her sense of humor? What if she was just messing with me?

Over the next couple of weeks, we saw each other a few more times and had some similar experiences. I'll spare you the details, but I arrived at the conclusion that this girl simply wasn't all there.

Well, that, and the fact that every weekend for the next two months she would go out drinking with her girlfriends and drunk dial me. I know the drunk dial is, in many instances, a sign of affection. However, one drunk dial in particular, at about 6 PM on a Friday (she's a lightweight, apparently) is where I decided to draw the line.

While we were talking, I heard squealing tires and car horns.

"Alice," I said, "are you okay?"

"I'm doooooin juuust fine, bay-beeee," she slurred back. "This stuupid car in the stuupid road tried to hit me."

"Why are you walking in the road?" I asked.

"Where else aaaam I supposed to walk, silly?" she said. "Roads are for transportation!" she exclaimed, obviously very proud of herself.

"Alice, please hang up the phone and get out of the road. You're going to get hurt."

"Oh, you're such a worrywart," she said. "Worrywart worrywart worrywart!" She then started laughing.

"What's so funny," I asked.

"Worrywart is a funny word!"

More honking.

After she made it safely to the other side of the road, or at least out of the lane of traffic, she told me she'd call me later. I thanked her for the warning and decided at that point that I could not see Alice again.

It was for her own safety.

Emily (Part Two)

After dinner, Emily and I made our way to the local Hallmark store to buy a card for her niece’s baptism the following weekend.

“You never see any funny baptism cards,” I pointed out.

“Well,” said Emily, “maybe that’s because there’s nothing funny about baptism.”

“Sure there is,” I said. “I mean, what if your niece poops during the blessed event?”

“My darling niece would never do such a thing,” she said, glaring at me.

“Yeah, but what if the priest drops her in the water?” I said. “That would be horrifying at first, but kind of funny later on.”

Emily punched my shoulder. Hard.

“You’re terrible,” she said, trying to fight back a smile while remaining indignant.

“Maybe she just needs some little water wings,” I said.

“Stop,” pleaded Emily. “Just stop. I need to find a card.”

“Okay,” I said, “how old is your niece?”

“Three months,” she said. “She was born in May.”

“Why are you getting her a card?” I asked. “She won’t be able to read it. She probably doesn’t even have the motor skills to open it. Or even hold it. In fact, it might even be more dangerous to give her a card, because she could get a paper cut.”

“I’m getting her a card because that’s what you do. You get people cards,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “but what’s the point of spending four bucks on a piece of paper with some glitter, a schmaltzy verse about how much Jesus loves you, and handing it over to someone whose first inclination will be to put it in their mouth and slobber all over it?”

Seriously. Hallmark has really done a number on our society. There is a card for everything. And I mean everything. While Emily was searching for the perfect card to give to a sack of drooling, illiterate flesh her precious niece, I browsed through the rest of the cards.

Throughout the shelves were randomly placed lavender markers with “UNIQUE NEEDS” written on them. Upon further investigation, I discovered that these were the super-specific cards that less than one out of every thousand people coming into the store would ever need. There were flowery cards wishing your boss a speedy recovery from his surgery, brightly colored cards celebrating a child’s successful potty training, religious cards celebrating a priest’s retirement, and rather plain cards celebrating the birthday of an accountant. I am not even kidding.

And then it got a little more ridiculous. There were an alarming number of cards for owners of pets. There were cards wishing a speedy recovery to a pet after surgery, cards congratulating people on having kittens, and my personal favorite, a surprisingly large number of sympathy cards for people whose pets have just died. And that’s when I started giggling.

Giggling right in front of the purple placard that said, “LOSS OF PET.” Which is where Emily found me.

“What’s so funny?” she asked. I handed her a card, and she began to read the contents aloud:

(cover)
Dogs
Have a way of teaching us
About love,
Loyalty, joy
And
Friendship.

(inside)
The gifts you dog gave you…
Happiness, companionship,
Unconditional love…
Will never leave you.
I’m so sorry for your loss.

“Oh dear god,” she said. “Really? You think this is funny?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “I’m not saying losing a pet is funny, but I am saying that the fact that there’s such a wide selection of cards for people who have lost pets is kind of funny.

And then I showed her the potty training card.

“Oh my god!” she said. “That’s ridiculous!”

So I bought the potty training card, and we made plans for another date.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Emily (Part One)

About a year ago, eHarmony matched me with a girl named Emily. She was 28 and had just gone through a divorce.

“I went out drinking with my friends,” she explained, “and the next thing I knew, I was on eHarmony.” Because apparently it’s shameful to enroll in an online dating service when not under some sort of chemical influence. Regardless, we started e-mailing back and forth, which turned to instant messaging, which turned to a series of three-hour phone calls.

The little things we had in common were numerous. We both drank the same kind of beer, loved the same band, enjoyed the same restaurants, and, most importantly (at the time) we both were planning to vote for the same person in the 2008 presidential election. At the end of one of the lengthy phone calls, she said, “gosh, maybe we should just go to Vegas and get married…”

I knew she was kidding, so it didn’t alarm me. We both had a good laugh over it, and decided to make date plans for the following evening. We decided to start things off the old-fashioned way, with dinner and a movie. Well, actually, a movie, followed by dinner. But the order isn’t that important.

We met outside the theater, where I was waiting with the tickets. She was very excited to see me and gave me a big hug – not bad for our first in-person meeting. We entered the theater, took our seats, and waited for the movie to begin.

The movie was good, and had all the makings of a wild night in Salt Lake City – we held hands and cuddled. It turned out that she also liked to stay for the credits. Score! Another similarity!

Soon, we were on our way to the restaurant – a very popular chain restaurant specializing in cheesecake. That’s all I’ll say. And because it was a Saturday evening, this restaurant’s popularity was at the peak of its weekly cycle. In the waiting area, we were surrounded by families, groups of friends, and other couples on dates. There were no seats. There wasn’t even a good place to stand. We had to settle for standing under some sort of large potted fern.

Eventually, we were seated at one of the only tables for two available in the restaurant. It was a tiny table, nestled snugly between two larger tables, with no more than six inches of space on either side. To the left was a group of obnoxious sorority girl types, to the right, a family of nine, complete with two middle-aged male know-it-alls and a crying baby in a high chair.

Now I should point out that I hate crowds of any sort. If there’s a group of more than five or six people in any given location, unless they’re friends, you can count me out. I’m definitely more of a one-on-one kind of person. That being said, I was extremely uncomfortable in this seating situation. But I decided to just deal with it. Besides, it’s not like these people were going to invade our space or anything.

“So, you two married?” asked a woman in her 40s at the table with the family. Emily and I were a bit startled.

“Uh, no…” said Emily, “we’re on a date.”

“Oh, that’s sweet!” said the lady. “How long have you two been together?”

“About three hours,” said Emily.

“Marge!” the lady hollered across the table to an older woman, “These two are on their first date! Isn’t that adorable?”

“Awww, that’s sweet,” gushed Marge. “My Jerry, rest his soul, took me to a wrasslin’ match on our first date.”

God rest his soul? Awkward. How does one even respond to that?

Thankfully, the younger woman spoke up again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your date – it’s just that our tables are so close together…”

“Yeah,” I said, breaking my silence, “they sure are…”

“If you want to move to a different table,” said the woman, “we won’t be mad. Frankly, I’m surprised they seated anyone at that table – it’s so small!”

“Emily, do you want to move?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s up to you.”

Not wanting to be "that guy," I decided to stay put.

"I'm fine if you're fine," I fibbed.

"Okay then," said Emily.

The waiter came, and Emily ordered some sort of fancy chicken dish.

"Sorry to bother you again..." the lady next to us said, tapping Emily on the shoulder. "I ordered that and it's VERY good," she said.

"Oh, um, thanks," said Emily.

"I'll have the barbecue burger," I told the waiter.

"Oh, that looked so good in the menu," offered the woman, "but I just couldn't justify all that fat."

"Fair enough," I said, directing my attention toward Emily once again. "Did you like the movie?"

"Yeah, it was good. Did you?"

"Yep."

And that's it. I was out of things to say. This is the trouble with talking so much on the phone before a date -- you have the potential to reach a conversational dead end. And when that happens, sometimes I tend to make an ass out of myself. Like when I asked the art snob what kind of art she liked best.

So I just sat there. Silent. This way I absolutely wouldn't say anything stupid. Plus, I knew the lady at the next table was listening in.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" Emily asked after a minute or two.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "I just think we covered all the bases with our conversations over the last couple of nights... I don't know what else to talk about."

The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of our food. I picked at my fries. We forced some conversation about our dogs, jobs, lives, etc.

"Have fun, you two!" said the lady from the next table as she and her party packed up to leave. Emily and I responded with fake smiles.

"Holy cow," I said. "She sure was nosy."

"If she bothered you, why didn't you want to move?" Emily asked.

"I didn't want to be THAT guy," I said.

"Sam," she said, "when I said it was up to you, I wasn't testing you. It really was up to you."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

After we finished dinner, Emily needed to stop by a Hallmark store to buy a baptism card for her niece, who was being ritually dunked in holy water the following weekend.

"You don't have to come along," she said.

"I like card stores," I said. "Plus, I probably need a card for something."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Party Girl

I have a theory about dating sites. The quality and appropriateness of the matches you receive is directly related to the amount of money you pay for your membership.

On eHarmony, I receive matches who are within a couple years of my age and who have similar relationship goals (i.e., children, marriage, etc.)

On OkCupid, the requirements for my matches are twofold: a vagina and a pulse.

While I'm definitely not knocking OkCupid or singing the praises of eHarmony, I firmly believe that because of the financial requirements of being a member of eHarmony results in a more serious and sincere membership base. In other words, you're a lot more likely, in theory, to be matched with someone on OkCupid who isn't as serious about finding a relationship as you are. And sometimes, the matches on OkCupid aren't really matches at all.

Take this match, for example. I don't know her name, and I have never tried to contact her. However, she was matched with me, despite the fact that she is a 20 year old party girl and I am a 30 year old homebody. We are clearly at two different stages in life, and I'm guessing she won't be ready to consider settling down for at least five or six years. Whereas I'm certain that if I tried to keep up with her lifestyle, I would be hospitalized from exhaustion and/or alcohol poisoning within six weeks. Here's an excerpt from her profile, complete with her punctuation and spelling errors:

On a typical Friday night I am

8pm- picking out my clothes....trial...error....trial...error....trial....error....trial....PERFECT!!
9pm-SHOWER
9.45pm-multi-tasking by pregaming and sittin a towel drying off ( i hate actually drying with a towel i like to just wait til i'm dry LOL)
10.30pm- rushing to get dressed because i sat too long! but going a little slow because i'm kinda buzzed!
10.45- arrive at my bestie's house and wait on her!
11.30- do my make up while she drives
11.40- arrive at jimmy john's to pick up that 11 with bacon to give to my favorite starving bouncer
11.50- get to the bar (wow i got the jimmy johns and to the bar in ten min...that's just because they're so freaky fast!) hand over the sandwich!
11.52- argue with the new bartender about how i truly am on so and so's tab!
11.54- hand back my drink because she forgot the lime!
11.55 to 3.00- try to have fun while being harassed by various men in the bar!
3.00- stumble out with my bestie
3.15- it's time to sober up....so we stop by jack in the box only to find out they're closed because we can never remember which ones are 24 hours!!
3.30- pass out! (not literally!)
12pm the next day- wake up hungover as hell and wonder why i spent 3 hours getting ready for 3 hours of fun!

Oh. My. God.

I am so far beyond the point in my life where anything about this girl's typical Friday night sounds appealing. Plus, she really doesn't seem like a person I'd want to get to know. At all. Ever. Here's why:

1. 10.30pm- rushing to get dressed because i sat too long! but going a little slow because i'm kinda buzzed!

That's so classy -- getting buzzed before heading to your "bestie's" house. I mean, unless your "bestie" lives a block away. And you can walk that far in what are undoubtedly at least five inch heels.

2. 11.40- arrive at jimmy john's to pick up that 11 with bacon to give to my favorite starving bouncer

God forbid you should have to stand in line and pay a cover charge like a normal person. I mean, seriously. You're better than that.

3. 11.52- argue with the new bartender about how i truly am on so and so's tab!

This is the thing that bothers me the most, as it implies that she is either A) dishonest, becuase she's weaseling her way onto someone's tab, or B) manipulative, because she has weaseled her way onto someone's tab.

4. 11.54- hand back my drink because she forgot the lime!

What a fucking self-absorbed brat.

5. 11.55 to 3.00- try to have fun while being harassed by various men in the bar!

Okay, on the off chance that the girl who wrote this profile is reading this blog, I'm going to take a minute and speak directly to you:

Girlfriend, please. They're not harrassing you. You fucking love the attention. Don't even act like you don't. It's the whole reason you go out to begin with.

Plus, I saw your pictures. You're wearing a short, low cut party dress in every single one of them. And in half of them, you're dancing on some sort of bar or raised surface. While your profile pictures did not verify it (thank god) I suspect you don't really mind it when the boys (i.e., the sleazy bipedal lizards who roam the club "scene" in St. Louis) get a glimpse of what's under the hood. Or, in this case, up the skirt. Modesty is not your strong suit. And neither is self-respect. I'm going to bet your vagina is hosting more bacteria than a petri dish at the CDC.

I could be totally off base, though. But I doubt it.

Courtney

A while back, eHarmony matched me with a 23 year old teacher named Courtney. Courtney taught through a non-profit organization that placed recent college graduates in underserved school districts. Courtney had agreed to be placed where she was needed most, regardless of where she ended up. Not too long afterwards, she ended up in one of my city's worst neighborhoods, teaching math.

Courtney and I e-mailed back and forth for a couple of weeks, and before long, she sent me a friend request on Facebook. Because, after all, if you are younger than 26, it is impossible to actually know a person unless you are his or her Facebook friend.

We continued writing to one another via e-mail and Facebook. We even discussed going on an actual date. And then, all of a sudden, she was nowhere to be found. She had stopped replying to my e-mails and completely disappeared from Facebook.

I wasn't too concerned, as nothing had really developed between us beyond e-mailing back and forth, but I was definitely puzzled. There were no signs that she wasn't interested. Quite the opposite, actually. She and I were e-mailing back and forth quite frequently. Overall, it was a puzzling situation.

A week later, I met up with my friend Caitlin for drinks. I told her the about the mystifying situation, and she offered to search for Courtney on Facebook. "She may have blocked you," she said.

"But why would she do that?" I asked. "Things were going fine, and I didn't say anything horribly offensive to her... At least I don't think I did."

"She's 23," Caitlin said, her left eyebrow cocked. "This generation doesn't 'get' real interpersonal relationships. She is very much of that generation, and it could be that, for whatever reason, she's not interested in you," she explained, "and her solution, rather than being up-front and telling you about it, was to just block you. It's all the same to them, even though it really is nothing like having an honest conversation. Or even sending an e-mail."

Caitlin, who is the sort of person who carries her Macbook wherever she goes, including bars, whipped it out, found a WiFi signal, and went to work.

Sure enough, Courtney was still on Facebook, and had blocked me.

I was angry. And then I was confused. And then I was angry again. And then it all just swirled together into a vortex of disappointment. Obviously, the only solution here would be to send a self-righteous e-mail.

So that's exactly what I did. I borrowed Caitlin's computer to write the e-mail. Right there. At the bar. After I had been drinking for an hour:

Hi Courtney.

I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you're not interested in me. It's pretty obvious -- you haven't contacted me since Saturday and then blocked me on Facebook for no apparent reason. If you're not interested in me, that's totally fine. I understand and respect that. However, all you had to do was say so. Instead, you chose to go about it in a roundabout manner.

The way you handle a situation says a lot about you as a person. While I never really had the chance to get to know you, the way you handled this particular situation tells me that you probably still have a lot of growing up to do. For what it's worth, you will earn a lot more respect from others by dealing with unpleasant situations directly, rather than resorting to circuitousness.

Good luck with whatever you do.

I clicked send before handing the computer back to Caitlin, who immediately started laughing.

"Circuitousness?" Caitlin exclaimed. "Do you honestly think she knows what 'circuitousness' means?"

Okay, so maybe the e-mail wasn't necessary. And maybe I'm a bit of a douche for using big words on a small problem. But damn it, I needed to tell her off. Besides, at this point, I wasn't really trying to win her over as a friend or anything.

"Another round?" Caitlin asked.

Charlotte

In the spring of 2006, I had been at a good job for a year and a half, and had lived by myself, in an apartment, for a year. I had also been corresponding with a girl on OkCupid. Her name was Charlotte. Her pictures appeared attractive -- a somewhat stocky woman with short strawberry blonde hair, glasses, freckles. Granted, her face seemed kind of oblong, but I'm not one to be overly picky. As I alluded earlier, I'm a big guy. As long as the women I date weigh less than me, I'm perfectly happy. Basically, that means as long as you're under about 250, we're good to go.

We had e-mailed back and forth, chatted online, and even talked on the phone. She seemed pretty broken up about having given up her virginity to her ex-boyfriend, and obviously had some sort of regret issues about that. I assured her that it didn't make her a bad person, and that I really didn't care. Because really, I don't care. I'm not a virgin, and I don't expect the women I date to be virgins, either. It's not a big deal. It's just sex.

We finally agreed to meet up at a sandwich shop one evening, after I got off work. I arrived at the shop, bought a cup of coffee, and camped out at a table near the entrance, waiting for my date to arrive. As I sat, gazing out the window into the cold spring night, the traffic signals began reflecting off of the sidewalk, wet from that day's steady rainfall. The people outside hustled and bustled down both sides of the street, eager to reach their destinations, all trying to avoid getting drenched by the ongoing spring shower. All except for one large figure, lumbering through the night in a drenched black hooded sweatshirt. The figure slowly made its way to the door of the sandwich shop, its silhouette blocking the green and red glow of the signals in the intersection at the end of the block.

The figure entered, turned in my direction, and removed the sopping wet hood.

"Are you Sam?" asked Charlotte, breathing heavily as she removed her flimsy, yet soaking sweatshirt to reveal her 350+ pound frame.

I acknowledged that I was indeed Sam, and I offered to get her a cup of coffee. She accepted.

As we chatted, it was obvious that she had adjusted the aspect ratio of the pictures on her profile to make herself appear thinner. Again, I want to point out that I have nothing at all against persons of size. I am one myself. However, just as some women do not find me attractive because of my size, I do not find some women attractive because of their size. That being said, I was not going to let Charlotte's weight be the sole determining factor for me. After all, she walked through the cold March rain to meet with me that night.

So we sat and chatted. Well, no, that's not accurate. To call it chatting would imply that a two-way conversation took place. There was no such conversation. Rather, she was telling me about the troubles she had enrolling in a university as a transfer student.

"I went to the admissions office," she said, "and they told me they needed my transcripts from my old university back home, and I said I didn't have them, but they needed to let me in anyway because I already paid the application fees and blah blah blah..."

Sorry, that's the point where I zoned out.

"Good lord, she sure does talk a lot," I thought. "I wonder if she does this on every first date?"

"And then my landlord said I needed to find a new roommate," she continued, "because the old one moved back home, but I can't afford that place by myself and..."

I tried to get a word in edgewise. No luck. She just kept going. And going. And going. A true case of diarrhea of the mouth. Charlotte was a chatterbox. But not in a cute or endearing way. No, she was a chatterbox in the I'm-a-victim-of-the-world kind of way.

"And then," she went on, "I called my daddy and he said he'd take care of it for me."

"Wait," I interjected. She stopped talking. Really? It was that easy? I just had to say "wait"?

"You mean to tell me," I said, "that you, at 25 years old, still call your parents when things don't go your way?"

"Well, no," she said, "just my daddy."

"Oh," I said. And then I told her I had a headache and needed to head home early. "Tough day at the office," I lied.

"Oh," she said, "Okay, let's do this again sometime..."

I told her I'd call. Another lie. I hate lying to women. Or to anyone, really. But I didn't know of a more tactful way out. Sure, she posted less-than-honest pictures. I don't care a lot about that, but it does say something about a person's character. For the record, even though I'm a big guy, I always post recent pictures of myself, including at least one full-body shot. Because if someone is going to turn me down for my size, I want to know right away so I don't waste any more time on them.

Would I have gone out with her if she had posted accurate pictures? I don't know. I guarantee you, though, that her weight was not the issue. No, it was the fact that, at age 25, she still had her dad fighting her battles for her.

If you aren't enough of an adult to handle difficult situations on your own -- because, you know, difficult situations are inevitable in this cluster fuck we call life -- you're not enough of an adult to date me.

I would have done the exact same thing if she were a 110 pound swimsuit model, too. I guarantee it.

A few months ago, I received a fresh batch of matches on OkCupid. Among them was a girl who looked vaguely familiar. But her profile sounded interesting, so I contacted her.

It was Charlotte -- she had lost a lot of weight. So much that I didn't recognize her, and I sent her another message.

She wrote back:

Hi, we've actually met before -- I weighed more and my hair was a different color. We had a date at a sandwich shop downtown a couple years ago, but you begged off and left suddenly and I never heard from you again. My e-mail is...

Clearly she was still interested. However, remembering nothing but the daddy dependence, I chose to respond simply by congratulating her on the weight loss and wishing her well.

People may lose weight, but they never lose daddy issues.