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.

Hazel

In 2004, I joined an up-and-coming dating site called OkCupid. The best thing about OkCupid was that it was 100% free.

That was a price that worked quite well with my budget. At the time, I still hadn’t found the job I have now. I did, however, have a shitty mail room job at a faceless corporation.

Actually, the corporation wasn’t faceless – the CEO (and company namesake) could be seen walking around the office all the time. The dude was kind of a dick. Well, actually he was kind of friendly, but I say he’s a dick because, with a college degree, I was making $16,000 a year schlepping manila envelopes from office to office 40 hours a week. And this company’s main area of business was increasing the morale at other companies. Ironic, huh?

But I digress…

At the time, as a single guy, free definitely fit in my budget. So I joined this site (at the suggestion of a friend) and started contacting people. One of them was named Hazel.

Hazel was about a year younger than me and had just graduated from college with a double-major in museum studies and art history. Hazel had a plan that involved getting a job at a reputable museum and working there forever. That sounded to me like a pretty lofty goal, until I found out that Hazel’s family was pretty darn wealthy, and her dad was very well-connected.

Hazel would find that job, eventually. But in the mean time, she was, just like Alicia, living with her folks.

At the time, Hazel and I both lived near St. Louis, so we went to the Forest Park Balloon Race for our first date. When we met up, I discovered that Hazel had brought her best friend, Terri, who I happened to know. Terri went to college with me and often hung out with some members of my circle of friends. A very odd coincidence if I do say so myself. But, at the same time, a very fortunate occurrence, since Hazel was painfully shy, and this way, at least we would both have someone to talk to.

The date went well, and we made plans for a second outing the following week.

We met up at a Mexican restaurant, where we proceeded to engage in awkward conversation for about 45 minutes.

And then I became ill. Physically ill. Rush-to-the-restroom ill. Something wasn’t quite right about the nachos I had ordered. Something was undercooked. And I had ingested it. And it wanted out. Now.

Apparently, whatever was wrong with my nachos was also wrong with her quesadilla, as she also had to make a rushed visit to the restroom.

As far as dates go, this was definitely not in my top three.

Pale, weak, and a bit dehydrated, we both made our way out of the restaurant as fast as we could, agreeing that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. However, the meaning of the word “this” was a bit muddled. For me, it was the restaurant choice (which, for the record, was her preferred eatery). For her, it was the date itself. And she was right. We had very little in common – she wanted to talk about art. And only art. She asked me what artists I liked. I conceded that I only knew of five artists – Monet, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael Sanzio, Donatello, and Michelangelo. I knew Monet because my mother dragged me to a Monet exhibit at our local art museum when I was younger. The other four I knew because they were the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She did not find this humorous.

I asked her what sort of art was her favorite, which apparently is like asking a mother which of her children she loves the most. That question earned me a cold stare, so I quickly changed the subject.

“So, what do you do for fun?” I asked.

“Oh, my friends and I like to go out to restaurants and the occasional bar,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” I continued, sensing this was going somewhere. “You mean like in the Loop?” I asked, referring to St. Louis’ University City Loop – a vibrant entertainment district very close to where she lived.

“No,” she said, “We (not sure if she meant her group of friends or if she was using the Royal We) find The Loop to be juvenile. We much prefer the CWE,” she said, referring to the Central West End, a more upscale entertainment and shopping district a few miles east of The Loop. Snobbery in action.

And that’s when the illness forced us to excuse ourselves from the table, thank heavens.

As I mentioned, that was our last date, which is a good thing, since there was very little compatibility.

A few years later, I posted a personal ad on Craigslist (a loaded subject I’ll get to at a later date) and woman a few years younger than myself responded to it. When I replied to her e-mail, she wrote back and asked, “Did you go on a couple of dates with girl named Hazel in 2004?”

I responded that yes, I had, and asked if she happened to know Hazel. Within seconds, I had another e-mail from her in my inbox, and in six words, I knew I never had a chance with this girl.

"Hazel is my sister. No thanks."

Alicia

The year was 2003. I was 24 years old and just out of college. And, once again, I found myself single -- just as I had throughout most of my college years.

When my generation arrived at college in the fall of 1998, we were filled with the hope of several years of sustained economic growth (thanks, Bill Clinton!) and the promise that this prosperity could last at least another four years.

Large companies were hiring liberal arts majors left and right. It was because liberal arts majors were well-rounded, college recruiters told us. In 1998, it wasn't uncommon to find someone with an art history degree working at a Fortune 500 company, pulling down $50,000 a year.

When I graduated in four years, I was going to be that guy. I had it all figured out.

Then 9-11 happened. And the economy tanked. And suddenly having a BA in English didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. But there was no way I was going to start all over again. I mean, I only had a couple of semesters left before I graduated. Surely I would find a job. Or at least I'd teach. Or something.

Well, I did eventually graduate with that English degree, and found myself right back where I was in the summer of 1998 -- living with my parents. My contemporaries and I were the boomerang generation. We graduated and moved back into our parents' basements because there was nothing else for us to do. Sure, we could find jobs, but they were rarely of the sort that paid more than $9 or $10 an hour -- not really enough to live on.

I worked a series of crappy jobs for a while. Substitute teacher, convenience store clerk, retail electronics sales, and even spent some time as a costumed character at Six Flags.

Yes, really. Side note: teenagers suck. Especially when you're a costumed character at Six Flags. They like to punch anything furry. Not cool, teenagers. Not cool at all.

Anyway, at that point in time, my life was missing something. And magically enough, a coupon for eHarmony showed up in my inbox one day. Three months for $40.

"What the hell, I'll try it," I thought, disregarding the fact that I had, at most, $43.29 in my checking account.

Ten weeks later, and not a single date. Which, in retrospect, isn't surprising, since on average, people on eHarmony tend to be older and more mature. And more established. I mean, jeez, I was living in my parents' basement, cobbling together a laughable income from a series of part-time jobs, and had absolutely no clue what I was going to do with my life. And I was being matched with mostly 28 and 29 year old women. I had no idea what to expect out of adulthood, as I still had my head planted firmly up my ass, where I was desperately searching for a way to continue my college-era life. My 30 year old self is just as interested in dating a 24 year old living in her parents' basement as those other women were in dating me -- not interested at all. I don't blame them one bit for politely passing me by.

I feel I should point out that the aforementioned standards (from the last post) did not apply in 2003. The aforementioned standards are actually a direct result of 2003.

All hope seemed lost. Granted, I was a total wreck of a person at the time, but hopes and dreams aren't just for people who don't suck at life. Everything started to look up when I was contacted by a woman the same age as me. Alicia was her name.

She was in a similar life situation -- living with her mom, working a part-time job, finishing up school. She had a bunch of pets, and worked as a veterinary nurse. We got to know each other online, and then decided to meet up for a movie.

Things went well. We got coffee after the movie. After all, what good is a date that only involves watching a movie? You don't get a chance to talk.

She talked. A lot. She committed a classic first-date error. She overshared.

She told me all about her massive amounts of credit card debt. And her issues with her mom. There were a lot of mom issues.

The thing about oversharing is that it is contagious. When one person does it, it becomes easier for the other person to justify it. So, obviously, I told her about my similar situations. And how I hated living at home, but I couldn't afford to go elsewhere because I couldn't find a decent job and didn't know what I wanted to do with my life and blah blah blah blah blah...

Surprisingly, we went on another date. Again, a movie. And this time, we went to dinner, too.

With my friends.

That may have been a bit awkward -- bringing the friends into date number two. But they invited us along. It wasn't really my idea.

We discussed a third date. She said to call her and set up plans.

So that's exactly what I did. I called. And I left a message. And called. And left a message. And called again. And left a message. In the messages, I pointed out that I thought she was great, that I'd really like to see her again, and apologized for springing my friends on her on our second date.

Finally, about a week later, she e-mailed me.

Thanks for the compliment. It's very sweet! **blush** :-) And by the way, your friends are nothing to put up with. They're very entertaining. I had a great time on Friday, honestly. That said, there's something else I should say. Okay, I want to be up front and honest with you. You're totally awesome, and I've had a great time when we've hung out. But, I'm not really feeling a romantic connection. A friendship connection, definitely. I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's coming from my end. Maybe I'm not as ready to be in a relationship of any kind as I thought I was. Right now, nothing seems to be as I've thought it was.

She went on to describe how she also didn't know what to do with her future, how she was reconsidering her earlier career choice, etc., and acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, she realized that she and I both needed to get our shit together before we could be in a serious relationship.

Rejection.

Let's look at the play-by-play:

Thanks for the compliment. It's very sweet! **blush** :-) And by the way, your friends are nothing to put up with. They're very entertaining. I had a great time on Friday, honestly.

Translation: "you're not a terrible person, and your friends are cool too... And things Friday were good, but..."

That said, there's something else I should say.

Translation: "There is something I should have said after the first date."

Okay, I want to be up front and honest with you. You're totally awesome, and I've had a great time when we've hung out. But, I'm not really feeling a romantic connection.

This is the standard "it's not you, it's me" (INYIM) turndown. It starts by building the rejected person up by telling them about their redeeming qualities, and then comes back around to the rejecter's feelings -- something that the rejected person cannot verify or contest.

A friendship connection, definitely. I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's coming from my end.

Translation: "If you want to still talk to me, that's fine, but I'll probably ignore you, and I will never have sex with you."

Maybe I'm not as ready to be in a relationship of any kind as I thought I was. Right now, nothing seems to be as I've thought it was.

This is a reinforcement of the earlier INYIM, this time referencing not her personal feelings, but the general sense of chaos that surrouded her at that point in her life.

At the time, my 24 year old lizard brain thought this reason was total bullshit. But now, I realize she was right. Neither of us was ready for a relationship. We both had lots of stuff that needed to be sorted out.

I never heard from Alicia again, as my subsequent attempts to contact her (and take her up on that offer of friendship) were unsuccessful. And that's something I've learned over the years, mostly thanks to Alicia. When someone you've dated (even if it's just one or two dates) says they want to be friends, they rarely mean it. It's a fake proposal -- an exercise in diplomacy, if you will. Only once has the offer of friendship turned out to be legitimate... But more on her later (pending her approval.)

An introduction

Hi there.

I'm Sam.

I'm 30 and live in the midwest. I've got a lot going for me -- a great education, a stable job, a house I own, a great group of friends, a loving and supportive family, and what I'm pretty sure would be the world's greatest dog, if such things were quantifiable. Now, don't get me wrong -- I'm not perfect. I drive a very well-worn pickup truck (midwest, remember?), I earn a modest salary, and like many Americans, I'm overweight. But that's an issue to be discussed at a later time.

Oh yeah, and I'm single.

I've been in relationships, but nothing has seemed to stick. Well, not for more than six months, that is. One could make the argument that there is one common factor in all of these unsuccessful relationships -- me. And I'm not going to deny that. I have been present for all of these failed relationships. And the problem might be me. But maybe that's not such a bad thing... I believe standards are important. And I'm not talking about superficial standards, such as breast size and hair color. I'm talking about the less-tangible things. Things like being gainfully employed, having an education, and living someplace other than the parents' house. Those are the three biggies for me, and everyone I date has to meet those criteria. I don't think those are unreasonable requirements for getting past the gatekeeper to my heart.

God that's cheesy. But yet, it's true.

Like most people my age -- those born in that murky area between generations X and Y known as the middle of the Carter administration -- technology has become an integral part of my life. And as you know, technology is being utilized by single people everywhere (myself included) to meet that special someone.

I have a not-insignificant number of friends who have met their boyfriends, girlfriends, and even spouses on various dating sites. I know that these things work. Or at least they can.

I also know that any jackass can put something on the internet. Case in point: this blog. But I digress. What I'm getting at is that there are a lot of people on these sites. A LOT of people. Some of these people are wonderful, loving, caring, considerate, drama-free individuals.

At least I assume that some of them are. I have yet to meet any of them.

And even if I did meet one of those wonderful people, this blog is not about them.

No, this blog is about everyone else with whom I have crossed paths when online dating turns into real-world dating.

Please note that the stories I tell here are true. The names and some identifying details have been changed to protect those who are (or are not) innocent.