Three and a Half Men: One Half and Civil Engineer

Posted on April 4, 2014 by Belle of the Library

So, my winter dating hiatus has ended and once again, I’ve gifted you with a ~~cliffhanger~~ series chronicling why I’m about to just delete all of my profiles and buy a bucket of cats. A few weeks ago, I jumped right in with Engineer No. 94. He was nice. He wasn’t particularly attractive. He was successful. The conversation flowed. Then he ignored me all weekend and, after two weeks (a fortnight, y’all!) of regular texting, it came off as game playing. I tried to get back into the idea of him, but I couldn’t shake the thought that he’d had another date lined up and I was his second choice… or that he was following some lame three day rule. I want someone who’s interested in me and I’m past the game playing age. Also, he looked a little like Ward. I love Ward like the little brother I never wanted, but I think of him about as sexually as I do…

I am literally looking around my living room to find something that I think of with as little sexual interest as my good pal Ward… huh… apparently he’s the yardstick by which to measure all things asexual. Good to know.

So, from Engineer No. 94, we move on to my one half.

One Half/Andy

What the hell is a half date? Wait. Why does this one have a name?

If you’ve read any of my dating posts, or like, the introduction to this one, you’ve realized that I don’t give actual names to the men I date. Part of that is anonymity. Part of it is a refusal to acknowledge that they’re real people, wielding real rejection and/or disappointment. Part of it is that my ex-husband refused to work and I value employment that much. Mostly, it’s a lot easier to remember their professions, than their names, likely because of the previous reason. So, I call them by their job titles… and now there’s Andy.

Andy gets a name, because he’s not Auto Parts Manager. He’s Andy. I’ve known the guy my whole life and I mean that literally. There are many facets of growing up Catholic in the South; so many, actually, that I have a post I’ve yet to write, titled “Catholic in the South.” One of these is knowing every single Catholic kid in town… because there’s only the one church. So, Andy and I shared preschool, first communion, our 5th grade class, confirmation, and junior year Biology II together. He’s just… Andy.

So what earns him a whopping .5? Well, it wasn’t actually a date. Andy and I have been chatting on Facebook, for the past few months, about our faith, dating mishaps, Netflix recommendations, dogs… the works. Having grown up in the same church, we both eventually gravitated toward the parish in a neighboring town, because we didn’t like the priest at our childhood church. So, when said priest retired, Andy asked if I’d been to the new guy’s Mass yet. I said no and he asked if I’d like to go.

You know, to be fair, this isn’t really a thing people do, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t really a date. Andy and I didn’t hang out in high school. We got along. He was a band nerd and I was just a nerd. Our friends hung out, but not once did Andy and I ever spend time alone. So, he gets a .5, for this thing that’s not really a thing.

Why was it noteworthy, then? Well, we had a great time. I enjoyed hearing about Andy’s job, family, and what he’s been doing since high school. We found out we were both downtown for similarly crazy New Year’s Eves in 2011. He’s a mile tall and wasn’t bad to look at, with his scruff and church clothes. It was just… pleasant. It was also a reminder of what it’s supposed to be like, spending time with someone of the opposite sex. It wasn’t awkward, and no one yelled at me about The Walking Dead, or had furry hands, or told me I was a dumbass if I spent less than $2,000 on a bike… because it was with Andy. I don’t know if I’ll ever find quite the same connection and comfort on a first date, as I did with a man who attended all of those confirmation retreats with me, but that sort of camaraderie… it’s nice to occasionally have someone correct my aim. As I’ve said before, every date (or .5 date, as it may be) has served some purpose in my life. Andy, the reminder that fun could be had with a man, got me through my date with Civil Engineer.

Civil Engineer

I met Civil Engineer on Plenty of Fish and we progressed to texting fairly quickly. Too late, I realized he was a year younger than I, but Jane is always insisting I’m going to miss out on the man of my dreams, if I let something so superficial stop me. So, I persevered, telling myself that one year, does not a man make.

After texting for a bit, I realized that Civil Engineer was, indeed, just really… young. It was just the tone of his text messages and his only stated hobbies of TV and video games. I told myself, however, that unless a potential date actually did something to turn me away, like asking if I like to be rubbed (true story), I’d continue contact and see where it went.

Now, in the past I haven’t accepted dinner from men. I don’t know if we’re going to like each other. I don’t want to feel like he’s invested both time and funds, if it’s not going anywhere. Men, however, don’t seem to get that. Every single one of them wants to meet for dinner, so I’ve just stopped fighting it. If they want to spend $20 on a stranger they may never see again, whatevs. So, when Civil Engineer suggested dinner at one of the more expensive chain restaurants in the city, I just went with it. I dressed appropriately, in the same dress I’d worn to church with Andy, just a few hours earlier. I looked pretty danged cute, if I do say so myself. So, I gave myself the usual you will not die alone pep talk as I walked into the restaurant and gave the hostess Civil Engineer’s name.

Now, in addition to his emotional age, I had one other suspicion about Civil Engineer: that he was somewhat effeminate. The night I texted him while waiting for my dad to change my tire, he responded with…

Oh, that sucks girl.

Again, unless he clearly did something to turn me off, I was going to keep talking to the guy. Besides, my dad calls me “girl” sometimes… like he does Bea. The man has literally spoken the words “that bobcat come flyin’ out from underneath.” He’s as far from effeminate as they come. I told myself it was the same.

No, y’all. It was not the damned same. My daddy calls my stepsister and I “girl”, because we’re his girls. Civil Engineer called me “girl” because…

Oh. Em. Jingles. Remember that time I went out with the geologist, who looked like Gollum? I didn’t realize it, until I wrote the blog about our dates and posted a picture of Gollum? Zetus lapetus. I should’ve gotten an autograph.

I can say one thing in Civil Engineer’s defense. One fucking thing. He did not lie. He had the job he claimed to have and he looked like his photos. So, when I introduced myself and he gave me an oddly loud, “heeeeey”, I told myself to stop being such a superficial bitch and ignore the tenor of his voice. I sat down and he continued to talk very loudly. I am not a quiet person, y’all. My dad is mostly deaf in one ear. I’ve got a high tolerance for volume and I thought this dude was loud. Again, I decided to ignore the trivial first impression stuff. So we started talking… and it all went downhill from there.

Me: “I hate to drive. I don’t know why. It just stresses me out.”
CE: “Oh, I know what you’re sayin’. It’s bad news bears out there.”

It’s what now? Okay. I know. I just quoted Zenon: Girl of the Twenty-First Century, like a paragraph ago. I’m also a chick and I didn’t say it in the voice of Herbert the Pervert.

At this point, I still had both Jane and Gail in my head telling to be nice, so I said nothing each time the man exclaimed that something was “bad news bears.” However, I started to think about how I could never introduce this man to my family. My dad is Jed freaking Clampett. Even if I could bring myself to be attracted to someone so effeminate, I could not even picture sitting down and introducing my dad to him. The same goes for pretty much every other person in my family, as the man would be the butt of every joke.

When I’d arrived, CE already had a beer in front of him, which I took as an indicator of nerves. That’s fine. I’ve nothing against a little alcohol. As the date progressed, however, CE… appeared to have a problem. Our date lasted approximately an hour and a half. In that time, CE had five beers. I counted. Not only is that a ton of alcohol, but a lot of cash as well. This wasn’t a cheap restaurant. His stories didn’t make this sound like any less of a regular thing, either, as he shouted tale after tale of his grad school binge drinking. The man was practically performing the vitameatavegamin commercial by the time the check came.

Perhaps, that’s why he was such an ass.

CE: “Wait. What year did you graduate high school?”
Me: “2006.”
CE: “Wooooooooow. You’re like a whole year older than me. How do you feel about that?” -winces-

He fucking winced. Now, after my date with this metrosexual frat boy, I won’t be dating anyone below the age of 28, ever again. That’s my personal preference. If, however, it was his personal preference to date someone younger, he should have done so. My age is no secret. It’s on my profile. You can search by age. If it’s an important enough issue to get drunk and insult me, you should probably do some better weeding, douche nugget.

Gail: “Wait. Go back. You forgot to tell me how you responded to that.”

Me: “Well, when’s your birthday?”
CE: “September 12th.”
Me: “Woooow. You’re a year and three days younger than I am.”

As most first meetings go, the conversation led to a brief discussion of our online dating history. I told CE that one of the problems I have, is that most men seem to want to leave my home state. I’m not game, because my whole family and career are here, so it’s hard to find common ground on this issue.

CE: “Yeah, I don’t want to leave the state. I mean, sometimes I do. Like, sometimes I think it would be great to just pick up and leave the country.”
I’d decided, at this point, that I was going to be polite, but I was never going to see this man again.
Me: “Well, now’s your chance. You’re single… no wife, no kids.”
CE: “Yeah. I’ve got friends with wives and kids and they’re just stuck. Like, they’re trapped. Forever. The old ball and chain.”

Dude, why are you here?!?!

After CE missed the fact that I was trying to get him to leave the country, we moved on to discuss TV shows.

Me: “Well, I like True Blood and-”
CE: “Oooooh, you’re a Twilight fan aren’t you? You watched all the movies and loved ’em.”
Me: “Well, I did read the books and I liked them well enough, but-”
CE: “Oh, don’t lie. You know you loved ’em. I’ll bet you went to all the midnight releases.”
Me: “Actually, I didn’t really care for-”
CE: “Oh, that’s what they all say. Every girl I dated was like ‘I don’t like them that much,’ but then when the movie came out, guess who had to sit through them.”

I’m sorry. Was that permission to speak?

CE: “So what’s in Shetland? Are your girlfriends there? Your gee effs?”
I shit you not. He phonetically pronounced GF’s, either stereotyping all women (I am so wet right now) or being über gay. I lean toward the former.
Me: “Well, um, my best friend lives there.”
CE: “Oh, yeah? What’s she do?”
Me: “She’s a mail carrier.”
CE: “Well… …. …. it’s a job.”

Listen, you drunken elitist asshole, not everyone wants to be an engineer, teacher, librarian, nurse, or scientist. Not everyone needs to go to college and spend thousands upon thousands of dollars to find a career they love. Some people are lucky enough to find that without a degree and it’s pompous bags of dicks like you that are making those degrees redundant in our society anyway, by suggesting everyone needs one to be of value. Someone has to deliver your reminder postcard from AA and enjoying doing so does not make her any less intelligent, worthwhile, or pleasant. Asshat.

At this point, the date was pretty much over, though CE yammered on about how much more successful he was than anyone else in high school, after ordering dessert… because obviously the date was going so well. I had reached that point, where all I could think was…

I want to be home. I want to not be here. I don’t want to go through the awkwardness of leaving, when he’s clearly enjoying his own company (as everyone can hear), but I want to be gone.

So, I subtly… pssshhh. I can’t even type out the lie. I was subtle as a pipe bomb when I cut him off mid-sentence as he announced how badly he had to pee (again), because the beer was “flowing right through” him, to declare…

Me: “I actually have to go.”
CE: surprised “Oh. I’m sorry to keep you. I didn’t mean to make you stay longer than you wanted.”
Ooooh. Guilt tripping. Haaaawt.
Me: “It’s fine. I just have to work tomorrow. Thank you for dinner.”

He insisted on a hug and I turned my head away. I quickly walked to my car and realized that I’d just used the excuse “I have to work tomorrow” to leave a date at 7:30.

Jane: You didn’t! That’s as bad as flat out rejection!
Me: Psh. Whatev. I’m sure he was too drunk to notice.
Jane: Be nice.
Me: What can I say? It’s bad news bears out there.
Jane: Oh, that’s just really bad.

If I can get get Jane Give-Him-Another-Chance Williams to tell me it was a bad date…

Three and a Half Men: Engineer No. 94

Posted on March 27, 2014 by Belle of the Library

The good news: My winter dating hiatus has ended!

The bad news: My winter dating hiatus has ended!

I doubt I’m the only woman with a first date, internal pep talk. I may, however, be the woman with the most ~~negative~~ forthright one.

Dating is awful. Dying alone is worse. You will give him a chance. You will be nice. You will try. You will not die alone.

Apt.

As I’ve explained in the past, my desire to date is directly related to the weather. Well, here in the South, spring has arrived… mostly. In true Belle form, I’ve reached Panic Dating Mode and have once again opened accounts on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, in addition to Match and Christian Mingle. I’ve vowed to continue talking to any man who has no deal breakers, unless he scares me… but that’s another blog post. I’ve even been successful… if successful means dates.

Engineer No. 94
For realz, yo. They are all engineers.

No. 94 messaged me on Match, before I hit Panic Dating Mode. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but that’s never been the most important thing to me, as long as the person isn’t completely repellent. Love at first sight is a myth, y’all. We messaged back and forth online for about a week and a half, which is more than my norm, but I hadn’t actually been on a date since September and was a bit hesitant. It’s possible I was looking for reasons to blow him off, but I stuck with it and he seemed really nice. We ended up texting every day for about two more weeks.

No. 94 seemed to have a good balance between nerdy and country. He liked science fiction and guns. I wear cowboy boots with my Gramma’s pearls. He read articles on Reddit for fun. I’ve told 22 people about the article I read detailing Samuel L. Jackson’s involvement with the Civil Rights Movement. Honestly, the guy seemed pretty promising, so we met at a Panera Bread, when it was 60 degrees out. Sixty degrees means a choice between cute and warm, around these parts. Don’t worry… I chose cute and felt pretty good about the amount of effort I was expending.

When No. 94 asked which location I wanted to meet at, I gave him a guesstimate intersection, specifying that I wasn’t sure, but it was between Shetland and the far side of the city. Well, apparently, the north/south cross street did, indeed, have a Panera Bread on it… about 15 miles north. Oops.

I was a little afraid that No. 94 would be ticked off about the misdirection, particularly when he didn’t respond to my apology text.

I may have been the wrong person to choose a location. I got lost on the way to my dad’s house once. No joke. I’m sorry.

I was wondering if I should head north, but eventually received a text telling me he was five minutes away. I briefly considered telling him I’d gone to the other location, but decided there’s a time and a place for my weird sense of humor. I thought it was kind of him to come to me, though I’m the one who made the initial mistake… more or less. The Panera Bread he chose was a completely irrational location for either one of us, but you get the idea.

I’ll say this for No. 94. The guy looked just like his pictures. He had very large ears and wore an unflattering haircut for them, but was otherwise pretty nondescript. He wasn’t a mile tall, but he was taller than me in cowboy boots, so that was enough. I noticed these things while choosing something meatless (never giving up meat for Lent again) from the menu. Then came the awkwardness.

I’m not sure if No. 94 intended to pay for my meal or not. I am sure, however, that he asked me, he chose the restaurant, and he was the only one in possession of a penis, so he would be paying, unless he was willing to clearly declare otherwise.

Cashier: “Is this together or separate?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
– No. 94, who had been staring at the menu, realized we were waiting for him. –
Me: “Awkward.”

You know what makes everything more awkward? Blurting out the word “awkward.” Sigh.

No. 94 either intended to pay the entire time, or realized the pressure was on and manned up. Don’t get me wrong. Had he not, I would’ve paid for my own meal, without further comment. However, I do think that, in The Conservative South, his refusal to do so (on a first date, initiated by him) would speak volumes about our difference in opinions on gender roles. While I would’ve stayed and made the best of the evening, it is extraordinarily unlikely I’d have considered going out with him again.

Beyond these initial hiccups, No. 94 and I had a really good time. We talked about television shows, some political opinions, our families. He wasn’t Sexy Like a Disney Hero, but we had things in common. He was successful. He didn’t make fun of my master’s degree. It seemed promising. We left, only because the restaurant closed, and I told him…

Me: “I had a great time. I’d love to do it again. Message me if you’d like to get together.”

If you’ve read this blog, pretty much ever, you’ve probably witnessed my claim that “emotions go with the last fucking Horcrux.” I don’t do heart-on-my-sleeve. In the interest of trying, though, I made it crystal clear that I was interested. He seemed the same… and then I didn’t hear from him all weekend.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I don’t want to be with a man who texts me constantly. In fact, I’ve stopped talking to men for just that reason. – He was an air traffic controller, worked for an hour at a time, and texted me every hour he wasn’t working. – Clingy freaks me out. You keep your feelings on the inside, dude. The thing is, No. 94 and I had been texting daily and conversationally for two weeks. We didn’t necessarily have lengthy conversations, but we did restate our interest quite regularly. Then, I meet the guy in person, we have plenty to talk about, and I don’t hear from him for an entire weekend? Not even an…

I had a great time. Let’s do it again, sometime.

By Sunday night, I’d pretty much decided my usual. There’s a lid to every pot and it’s okay if I’m not his. There wasn’t a lot of physical attraction; maybe he felt that, too. I’d even attributed my own interest to the possibility that I was ovulating, blaming my eggs for screaming at me to find someone, anyone, now. Late that night, I got…

I had a really good time on Friday. I’d love to go out again.

That’s it? I don’t warrant any kind of explanation for sudden lack of contact, right after our first meeting? Seriously, I wouldn’t care if we hadn’t been texting multiple times a day for a fucking fortnight, which he had been initiating. I wouldn’t care if he worked on the weekends. I wouldn’t even care if it had been a second date. However, the way you blow someone off, after a first meeting, is to ignore them. So, naturally, in my inability to make grown up decisions all by myself, I asked Gaily.

Gail: “Either he’s playing games, following some kind of dating rule, which is exhausting and we’re too old for that crap; or he had someone else lined up for Saturday night and wanted to see how it went with her.”

Remember, Gail is the reason I went on a third date with Gollum the Awkward Geologist. She once continued spending time with a man who grabbed her nipple on a date, insisting she was sure he understood they were just friends. She doesn’t hand out ‘nah’s’ lightly. Regardless, I did eventually respond to No. 94. Despite his renewed efforts, I was very much feeling what Gail had suggested, and had been even before she verbalized it. I want a man who’s interested in me. I want to be interested in him, also. By that point, I had just talked myself out of him and I couldn’t find it again, no matter how hard I tried. Even my boy pal, Ward, when told about why I wouldn’t be seeing him, gave me a man’s perspective with…

“What an ass.”

Ultimately, every man I’ve ever dated has served a purpose, has helped me to learn something about myself. Texan Engineer taught me that similar faith is not optional. Insurance Salesman taught me that bathing is not optional. Engineer No. 94 taught me that obvious interest is not optional. He was a good reintroduction to the dating world, though. I’ve certainly had worse dates… like last Sunday, when Civil Engineer taught me that masculinity and manners are not optional. As with my last series, The Week of 1004 Dates, if I told you about all 3.5 of my most recent dates, it’d be a novel. So stay tuned.

Okay, Cupid, your aim sucks.

Posted on February 21, 2014 by Belle of the Library

My eagerness to date seems to be directly related to the weather. The second temperatures drop below fifty, it’s all “Fuck love! My pink Christmas tree is plenty of romance for one! Should I cook the cookie dough or just eat it raw? What would it taste like if I covered it in chocolate and peanut butter?”

I’m pretty sure it tasted like sex. I’m not certain, though. It’s been awhile.

Now that temperatures have risen above fifty, I’ve decided to spend my free six months of Match, you know… actually trying… with spunk. Gail calls this Panic Dating. I call it Counting. Counting is when I think “Well, I’d like to have my first child at 30. So, I guess I’d like to get married by 28. I suppose I’d like to be engaged for six months before I get married. It’d be best to date someone for about a year and half before getting engaged. So that means, I need to meet someone… two months ago.”

.
I try to keep a handle on this, to avoid the moment where my dramatic rant turns from a joke to tears, which is a surprisingly sudden occurrence. I’m 26 years old. I won’t be 30 until September of 2017. That’s nearly four years away and four years ago, I was in the middle of my student teaching, had just gazed into the casket of a child I loved, and was married to a man who… well, let’s not get into that. My point is, the whole world can change in just four years, so I should calm the fuck down.

Regardless of the little pep talks that sound suspiciously like Gail, I decided to try OKCupid once again. Everyone on the dating blogs seems to have good luck with it. It’s certainly set up better than Plenty of Fish, which my librarian brain cannot ignore, because organization is hawt. So why not?

I’ll tell you why not. Y’all, the Fates do not want me using OKCupid. If you follow this blog religiously (pretty much only Gail), you’ll remember that the last time I was on this particular free site, I found my ex-husband’s profile. Freaked out by the idea that he might see my information, I promptly deleted my profile and declared myself a Paid Sites Only gal. The paid sites haven’t even been going poorly. I just haven’t really met anyone that seems worth meeting. I’ve also been busy sucking my thumb and reading romance novels under my favorite chair. There’s just no time for dating, peeps!
.

I’m just really busy, right now!

So… realizing that I haven’t been on a date since September, I decided to give it one more shot… and the Fates chimed in, once again. Here we have, the first conversation I had, upon returning to OKCupid.

.
OKCupid, your aim sucks.

Him: You wanna play? 888-888-8888
– I was nice enough to change that number.
.
Me: So fucking creepy.

– Any time I start a story with “I barely even said anything…” Gaily starts laughing. Apparently, my definition of verbal innocence differs greatly from hers.

Him: Why is that?

Me:

– There is no actual way to send reaction gifs, a grand flaw in online dating.

Him: Are you a virgin or somethin? I guess I could have been more detailed but I figured I shouldn’t say that much dirty stuff until after you text me

– For the sake of blog humor, I’m kind of wishing he’d been more detailed.

Him: Tell me something though and don’t lie because I’ve tried several ways on her to get someone’s attention…would you have even responded if I said “hi I’m Andrew. What’s your name”? And was really nice? Truthful I wouldn’t have heard anything back from you and I already know it! Because every girl is the same on here and nice guys always finish last! Sorry if I offended you. But it really didn’t matter what I said to you because you already made up your mind way before we even talked. Hope you find that special jackass;)
– Alright, alright. I’m never mean to anyone online without reason, but he asked.

Me: I’m going to be honest, because you asked. I saw your profile before and didn’t write first, because there wasn’t a lot of information. If you’d sent me a normal message, yeah, I’d have responded. What little was there seemed okay. I’m not a virgin, but you’re a total stranger and I would never appreciate sexual implications from any stranger. You clearly have a negative attitude toward women and online dating, based on your reaction to my disturbance when you suggested whatever the hell you were suggesting. I would’ve responded if you’d been a nice guy, because they don’t finish last. You finish last, because you’re rude.
– Dude, you can hardly accuse me of being shallow toward the “nice guys”, when you opened with the words ‘down to fuck’. I also wasn’t lying. He had a kid, which was a turnoff, but I’d have still responded.

Him: You’re wrong lady. So wrong. You have no idea

Me: You opened with solicitation. There is no other logical conclusion for me to draw, based on the information you gave me, your declaration that all women are the same, and your best wishes for me to end up with a jackass, because YOU’RE a nice guy. I’m sorry you, so severely, lack self-awareness.
– Psh … and Gail claims my apologies aren’t always “real.”

Him: Whatever. If you find a guy that doesn’t want to use you out there you let me know k;) at least I was nice and up front about it.

Me:

– If this is nice, what’s this guy like when he is being a jackass?

Me: Giving your phone number out is going to be so much fun.
– There are stronger women out there than I. Those women would not have started creating a Craigslist ad for male group sex, with every intention of posting it.

Him: Hahaha so it’s like that huh?

…

Him: Please don’t do that. I said I was sorry anyway

…

Him: Can we just start over? Lol

….

Him: Hi I’m Andrew. What’s your name pretty lady?

…

Me: Ugh. Fine. I deleted the Craigslist ad. It could’ve been an adventure for you. It was for a group of men and included the words “your pic gets mine.” But, no. We can’t start over. You should be less sexual with people you haven’t met, especially if you don’t want whores. Good luck out there.

Him: Aww okay

Him: There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind?

So, um… what’s the DOWNSIDE to dying alone?

Posted on January 16, 2014 by Belle of the Library

Alright, alright, despite the January 1, 2014 milestone, I’ve not been trying that hard to secure actual dates. In part, I can’t really muster up the desire. I know I should want to date, because in a month I’ll be “panic dating” as Gaily puts it. My entire New Year’s resolution was to date consistently, which means no longer spending alternating months yelling “Fuck it! I’m just going to buy boots and have Gossip Girl marathons in my underwear for the rest of my life!” and “… then, I’m going to be in a horrible car accident and you won’t even be at my deathbed, because you’ll be on a fucking couples’ cruise!”

Fuck you and your happiness, Gail!

In my defense, though, there has been some effort. Since just before the New Year, there was some promise with one guy from Match. I realized, however, that he was the guy who spoke only in $$$. Don’t get me wrong. I want a man who makes decent money, but did he seriously have to mention it every single time we texted? I really gave this one a shot. I promise. I didn’t even flee when he told me about how the “love of his life” died, but he was ready to find someone again, after we’d texted for like a minute and a half. Really, dude? I’m sorry and all, but you should probably stop opening by calling someone else “the love of my life.” Just sayin’, nobody wants to be Dick York.

Really, what did she see in either of them?

Buuuuuut, I realized that there’s just not an ideal for that situation and he had no control over it, so I’d see how it progressed. If he couldn’t stop mentioning her, big red flag, just as with any past relationship. He never did, though… because he was too busy counting. Like most Southern online dating males, $$$ worked on oil rigs. He lived an hour away, sent me like nine random selfies (not an exaggeration), and this…

$$$: Catholic church is kinda boring. Lots of up down kneeling and sitting lol. I’ve been to other churches that get straight to the point and not in 1 1/2 hours lol.

No. No loling about my Church. My profile makes that clear. It’s your fault if you didn’t freaking read it… but I was still willing to see how things went. See! I totally tried!

Ahem…

I get that oil is lucrative. I’ve seen the’ Beverly Hillbillies. After the initial statement of decent pay, though, you shut-up about it! You certainly don’t pepper all conversation with…

$$$: I’m pretty excited about this job now we are gonna make about 8 grand in bonus have about 600 hours on overtime and 700 bucks in per diem each of us!!!!
$$$: Basically for 1800 bucks a day you get to be the head honcho over everything that goes on out here
$$$: One of my best friends made 418k his first year
$$$: Bought a 300 dollar cell phone booster today… it better work lol
$$$: We’ve been going on about 2 hrs of sleep every 24 hrs. Anything for a 12k check in 2 weeks.

I changed the subject each time, trying to make it subtly clear that I wasn’t interested in how much money he makes, but he would stop responding and text another time, only to bring it up again. Um… no. I’m done. He’s in Texas for at least two more weeks, anyway. I am not messaging him about the gospels of Bank of America for two whole weeks, on the off chance that he won’t talk about nothing but money in person… and refuse to respond when I change the subject. Soooo, what seemed promising was another bust, before even meeting. It’s just like the Power Lifter who opened our text conversation by asking me if I thought Chris Hemsworth was attractive, because he was also super built, somehow coming off as both insecure and arrogant. Then he immediately ranted for several texts about how much he hates Miley Cyrus and never messaged me again. Sorry I don’t feel the need to berate a lost 19-year-old with no guidance. Best of luck to them, I suppose. Lid to every pot and all that. In the meantime, it’s back to pretending I want to date and considering trying ChristianMingle, because it will at least be funny, where CatholicMatch was completely ineffective. The prospects aren’t looking so great, though. Men, listen up, because this is what’s wrong with your advertising, since I’ve already told you what’s wrong with ours.

Fill Out the Damned Profile

The purpose of your profile is to express yourself in limited characters (if you’re doing it correctly and not writing a novel that no one will read). This is really the perk of online dating, period, not having to wade through small talk to find out about whether the other person’s been married or votes Democrat. From the beginning, you know if the fundamentals match up, or if you should both keep looking. That is, unless the other party has refused to actually answer any of these questions. I’m not talking about the important details two people share once they start dating. The problem is not the lack of explanation as to who the baby’s mother is, but rather, whether or not there is or ever will be a baby. There is no reason for ambiguity in these responses, either. If you don’t identify with party politics, “some other viewpoint” is a choice. If you don’t really go to church or pray, but consider yourself a believer, “spiritual but not religious” and “agnostic” are listed as well. If you haven’t really considered kids, “not sure” is a great response. Just fucking pick something.

Furthermore, when you have to type out a response, stop being so damned vague. “Sales?” You can tell me that you sell medical equipment without saying for whom. “Law enforcement?” ‘Police officer’ hardly gives away a precinct, but clarifies that you’re not the guy driving the security car around the Wal-Mart parking lot. “Other profession?” What? Pot dealer? Concert pianist? Mime? “Student?” THAT’S NOT A FUCKING PROFESSION!!!!!!

Ahem….

Regardless, “I’ll tell you later” pretty much guarantees that you’re not going to get the chance. I already asked the question. You refused to answer.

Get Your Ex-Girlfriend Out of Your Profile Picture

I get that men don’t just have hundreds of selfies in their phones or posted to Facebook. I practically had to draw pictures of my step-brothers in Grandma Kay’s Christmas photo album, because there are almost none on Facebook. I admire men for this. It’s really quite healthy. You are, however, using your online dating profile to seek a realtionship. So, if you don’t just happen to already have a current solo photo, make arrangements. I don’t care if you have to take a selfie on the golf course or if you want to post that picture of you and your grandma at Christmas, but your last Facebook photo with half of some chick’s cheek in it, isn’t gonna cut it. Worse? You left her whole cheek in it and you look deliriously in luuuuuv. I once actually saw the caption, “me and an old girlfriend.” No. No one wants to see a photo of the last vag you tasted, so get off your lazy ass and use your forward facing camera phone to take a new friggin’ picture. If you do post a picture of you with your hot sister at Thanksgiving, that’s totally acceptable, just clarify the relation.

Another unacceptable caption: “Me. A couple of years ago, but basically the same.” If it’s basically the same, then there will be no hardship to take a current picture. You know what, though? It’s probably not basically the same. You see, people age. A picture of Belle at age 24 is inaccurate. If I posted it, a man would be disappointed and rightfully so. I may still be able to pass for 21, but my hair, my weight, my fashion choices, are all completely different than what was expressed in that photo where I excitedly presented my fully loaded gun magazine. In short, for whatever reason, I look like someone else. Photos are the only thing we have to go off of, when it comes to physical representation. Just as you should be updating your education or profession or age, you should be updating your photos to give the most accurate depiction of who you are, so we can avoid that awkward moment at Starbuck’s where I’m doing a double take, because the man in the photo was 20 pounds lighter and had a lot more hair.

Obscure Movie References and Humor

If I met a man at a bar and he recognized that I was wearing a golden snitch necklace, I would drop to my knees, then and there, performing glorious Stranger Fellatio as camera phones flashed. Really. As someone who spent her middle school years in Roswellian RPG chat rooms, I totally get the appeal of finding someone who also loves that random thing you love. In person, though, if a guy doesn’t get the reference, it just looks like I’m wearing some kind of kitchy golden ball with wings around my neck. There’s no need for comment, because that’s hardly the focus of getting to know each other. When you make your headline “Cellar Door,” however, you don’t just attract Donnie Darko fans, as I’m sure was the goal. You scare away every single woman who does not get that reference. Seriously, dude? Cellar fucking door is the headline of your online dating profile? Did you not think this through at all?

Not only can these references be misunderstood, but when you make “I love lamp” the sentence with which you identify yourself as a person, you risk an otherwise interested woman deciding that you just must have different senses of humor. You may really click one on one, but she never starts a conversation, having already realized that Anchorman was the worst comedy in the history of time. Bee tea double ewe, Gail, you’ve yet to return the $2 I spent renting that on your recommendation. Bitch. See? It’s totally possible for two people to get along, even though one recommends shitty movies. Why not just name it among a handful of favorites, rather than introducing yourself with it? I certainly don’t immediately tell men in bars that I have a replica of the cross Angel gave Buffy.

On a similar note, your primarily text profile is not the place for sarcasm or subtle humor. I once saw a man write “I used to have ‘often’ under drug use, but clearly some people are too stupid to get the joke.” Um, why would I assume you’re joking? I don’t know you. There are people who use drugs often. Until we adopt a sarcasm font, as the Internet has suggested numerous times, I have only your word to go on, here. You were asked a multiple choice question. It’s no one else’s fault that you don’t understand that there is a time and a place for your humor. If you feel humor lightens the mood, that’s great, just make it clear that that’s what’s taking place.

Man the Fuck Up

One of the most frustrating things about online dating is sending 11 messages to 11 different people and getting back three messages from three other people, who still think the “sexy librarian” comment is clever. I am seriously about to change my online dating screen name. You know how I know that’s so discouraging, though? Because it happens to women, too.

Often, I’ll see a man’s profile state something like this…

“I know you get a lot of messages from a lot of douche bags with their shirts off in the bathroom mirror, so here’s how it’s gonna go. If I like what I see, I’ll favorite you and you can send me a message if you’re feeling it.”

Marry me. Marry me, now. You see, I had to ask, because all he’s willing to do is favorite my profile.

Online dating is a different world than meeting in person. People think the same basic rules apply and they don’t. Here in the South, most women would agree with the statement that a man not paying means no second date. In fact, while I would be perfectly polite to a guy in that scenario and just feel we had separate views of gender roles, a lot of women would be downright offended. Obviously, this practice doesn’t really transfer well to online dating. If a woman never sends the first message, she’s not going to get a lot of attention, so I’m hardly saying a man should always do so. However, rejection is a part of the dating scene and online rejection is about as mild as it comes, so let the testicles descend and message a gal when she catches your eye. Don’t tell her that librarians are sexy because they’re so uptight (cough:: suck my dick ::cough), but don’t just send “hey,” either. Put in a little effort, just as would be expected in person. Say hi, ask how she is, throw in a question about something more specific, like the vacation depicted in her photos. If she doesn’t answer? Don’t be a little bitch about it. I guarantee she just got ignored by someone, too. Move on. She’s not even real until you meet in person, anyway. But don’t just send the next gal a wink, hoping she’ll take the bait and open the conversation. Certainly don’t refuse to eventually send a message if she winks back. Even if she contacts you first, you don’t have to wait for her to ask to talk on the phone, or meet, or what have you. You’re still the boy and if you consider yourself chivalrous, that’s the place for it in an online setting: effort. If she says no, fine. As I’ve said, there’s a lid to every pot…

… or at least that’s what I tell myself when I decide it might be best to let the maggots eat my face, postmortem, until the neighbors complain about the smell.

Looking Back: The Men I Didn’t Date in 2013

Posted on January 2, 2014 by Belle of the Library

Today, my Facebook newsfeed, like many others’, is equally filled with photos of newly healthy meals and bitching because the gyms are crowded. I, myself, am a goal-oriented person. I set goals weekly, so it would just be poor characterization if I missed an opportunity to set them annually. This year, I’m keeping it simple with the following five:

1. Perform more service work. Dedicate a minimum of one day, per month, to helping someone else.
2. Attend church more consistently… and punctually.
3. Swear less… or more creatively, by cutting back on the more universally unacceptable words.
4. Lose twenty pounds… because it’s New Year’s and you have to choose a cliche.

and finally…

5. Put some actual and legitimate effort into dating.

Numbers 1, 2, and 4 have clear guidelines. They’re pretty attainable. Let’s face it though; in regards to number 3, “suck my dick” is a pretty universally unacceptable phrase, from a woman. It’s likelier that I’ll lose twenty pounds by next Tuesday than it is that I’ll suddenly be a Sesame Street extra. I do, however, tend to mix dorky Disney-worthy swears with the worst ones in my vocabulary.

Me: “Zetus lapetus! Fuck. Do you think it’s been long enough since Zenon: Girl of the Twenty-First Century for me to use that?”
Gail:

So, I’m half there. Which brings me to number 5.

2013 was a year of sporadic dating, vacillating between the two extremes of “I CAN FEEL MY EGGS ROTTING INSIDE OF ME!” to “My next wedding will take place ON A SNOW-COVERED MOUNTAINTOP IN HELL!”

Before I got my promotion to librarian, I really hadn’t been dating at all. Sure, I claimed to be putting in effort, but I just didn’t have the time, between finishing graduate school and rocking in a corner, chewing on my own hair. I went on a couple of dates, but that’s about it. So, this year, I’m going for consistency. For the past couple of months, I’ve really had no interest in meeting anyone, because the holidays are busy for losers who crochet their own Christmas presents; and every single guy who tells me Christmas Vacation is hilarious, is just plain wrong. I feel like, if I’d hit the dating scene with half the vigor I hit that bottle of bourbon on New Year’s Eve with Gail and Terry, I’d be madly in love in no time.

::drunkenly discussing Charlie Hunnam::
Terry: “He’s okay looking, I guess. He looks like…”
Me: “Like he fell from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? I know. I would give that man a rim job in front of my grandma. Admit it. You would totally go gay for him.”

Facebook status New Year’s Eve 2013:
Let’s get CRUNK! It stands for crocheting while drunk.

Note to self: don’t drink on any future dates.

In my defense, however, it’s not like the prospects have been great, lately. In fact, I’ll treat you to some of the guys I didn’t date this year.

Aerospace
I’ve briefly mentioned Aerospace in previous entries. He was 27, educated, enjoyed his big boy job, and never sent me a penis picture. He seemed promising through text message… for six weeks. After three, even I had decided it was time to be a little forward. I mean, I didn’t actually ask him to meet me, because I don’t posses my very own set of testicles, but I did ask what his normal time constraints were. When Aerospace said he usually talks to someone for about a month, before meeting, I decided to give it a bit longer. He regularly messaged first and encouraged conversation. He seemed interested. During week six, however, I was just tired of receiving news of how his day went, when I’d never even met him and he was showing no inclination to change that. If I’m not worth meeting, fine. Find someone who is, because I’m not looking for a fucking pen pal. I’m not your chat buddy, when there’s nothing on TV. Suck my big fat furry dick.

There goes number 3.

Clingy Catholic Engineer… because there was already a Catholic Engineer
If Jane were not an engineer, I would seriously be judging this entire profession. It seems every engineer I’ve dated is batshit. CCE was a year or so younger than I, and after having discussed that issue with Jane, I decided to give him a chance. We messaged for a couple of days online, before trading numbers. The next day, after quite a bit of text messaging, I didn’t respond after work, because I was working out. We’d been texting all day, and I’d messaged on my break, to tell him why I couldn’t talk, so I figured that was fair. The next morning, I woke up at seven o’clock to…

I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.

The voice of Gail sounded in my head and it was stronger than my fight or flight response, so I kept chatting with him. At one point, he asked me to send him pictures. I wasn’t sure what kind he meant, and I’m thinking that was the point, to allow for my own creativity. I told him there were current photos online and I wasn’t sending more, but I was a little creeped out by the vague request, coupled with his… enthusiasm. Then, the next evening I got home from work, after having traded a few messages…

CCE: You make it home okay?
Me: Yeah. I have a friend coming over. We’re going to hang out and watch Netflix.
CCE: Ah. Sounds fun.
CCE: You still want to talk, right?
Me: Sure. Just not right now, since I’m about to have company.
:: two hours later ::
CCE: Watching the game?
Me: Nope. Watching Netflix with a friend.
CCE: Oh. A marathon. Cool! Watcha watchin?

First, aside from the obvious issue of clinginess, who has someone over for less than two hours? That’s not a thing. Second, “Nope. Watching Netflix with a friend.” was a nice way of saying I was busy, he knew that, and he needed to leave me alone. That was his chance to feign forgetfulness and apologize. Still, I heard Gail telling me to give him a chance… until the next night.

CCE: You wanna watch the game and maybe have dinner tomorrow night?
– dude, you’re coming on strong right now and that’s several hours together, making it super awkward if I’m still not feeling it –
Me: I’m cool with meeting, but why don’t we do something low-key, like coffee?
CCE: Coffee Sunday sounds great!
– okay, he’s receptive to just coffee; good sign –
Me: How about Monday, since the weather is supposed to be bad on Sunday?
CCE: Sure. We can work out the details then.
– whew… I really was reading into things –
Me: I’m disappointed by the weather. I really don’t want to miss Mass again.
CCE: Oh! We could go to Mass together.

… aaaaand scene. I tried. I did. But the guy asked me to meet him at the chapel. Fine. I’m intentionally wording it dramatically, but we had only been chatting for a few days and he wanted to meet at church, after I’d told him dinner was too much? Dude, calm down, you are making women uncomfortable. I sent him a text telling him that he seemed to want something much more serious, much more quickly and that I wasn’t interested in meeting. Then I spammed his number. Later, I saw he’d responded, but didn’t read it past the “Okaaay. You said…” There was nothing to say. He made me uncomfortable. It wasn’t happening. A week later, I got a “Hey, how are you?” message in my inbox, like we’d never had the “thanks, but no thanks” conversation at all. Um… no.

Kinda Sorta Catholic
KSC and I had been messaging on and off for awhile. I don’t think either one of us saw the other as a real prospect, but we couldn’t pinpoint a reason to blow each other off. We’d each send an “Oh, sorry I didn’t get back to you… blah, blah, blah” type of message every 10 days or so and try to pick things up again, over the course of a couple of months. He had a real job and his profile said he was Catholic, so despite the mutual lack of interest, I decided to give him a chance when he gave me his number. Naturally, since his common religion was a main appeal, I brought it up.

KSC: I’m Catholic because my dad was. The topic of religion is a fun one for me, but I’m not sure where I stand. I think it’s really personal and those beliefs are private.

Um… well, for one, if you’re Catholic, because your dad is, you’re not really Catholic. Unless you go to Mass and receive Reconciliation and Communion and all that jazz, the Catholic Church does not consider you a practicing Catholic. That’s fine and all, but know where you stand. Two, if we’re talking about dating, I think it’s a fair question to ask what someone’s general beliefs are. I didn’t sick the Quizmaster on the guy. Finally, if this is a “fun” topic for you, why are you being such a little bitch about it?

The Quizmaster. My dated references are downright nostalgic.

We continued to chat, and KSC asked to meet at the cowboy bar the next night. Okay, I’ve told ya’ll stories about the cowboy bar. One involved Gaily nearly being dragged forcibly to the parking lot and the other involved damned near nudity on the Saturday before Halloween. This bar can be fun in the summer, with the right crowd and attitude, but it’s pretty sketchy. I told my dad that I’d let Woody Harrelson “stick it in my ear” and he laughed, but the man doesn’t want to hear stories about the cowboy bar. People get raped there.

Me: I really don’t like the cowboy bar.
KSC: 😦 Oh. Well, what do you like, then?
Me: It’s not even that I don’t like the cowboy bar, really, but that I just feel like it’s a really sketchy place for a first meeting.
KSC: Oh. Well, I see it differently, but that’s okay.
Me: I’m also a woman. I have to be more careful.

We made vague plans to meet for coffee and then neither of us ever talked to the other again. That’s fine by me. If Jesus gives you the heebie jeebies, but meeting a stranger at a place I recently described as “a little rapey” doesn’t, this is what I picture…

Just… ew.
I opened the new year with this gem, from a guy I messaged a few weeks ago, but who didn’t really return a lot of interest.

Ew: I’m gonna throw this out there and hope I don’t scare you off. Would you be interested in coming over to my place and having some fun? I guarantee you will have fun.
Me: If you’re “looking for a real relationship,” you should probably keep the hook-up pleas to a minimum.
Ew: I am looking for a real relationship. I still would like to have fun though. I’m not a bad dude I just figured I’d take a chance and ask you.

Um… no. You’re not looking for a real relationship if you’re comfortable with being seen as that guy who begs for sex online, because no one looking for a real relationship will respond. His profile opened with talk about wanting to settle down. If that’s how he puts up a white picket fence, I’ll pass.

I’ll just die alone with my Christmas movies, thank you very much.

Posted on December 16, 2013 by Belle of the Library

If you’ve been following my blog long, you probably realize I have two favorite topics: dating and over-analysis. There’s been little on the dating front, besides magical moments like this opener:

PoF User: you look cute without the glasses. how are you doing?
Me: I look cute with my glasses, too.
PoF User: I prefere u without the glasses…lol…how r u doing

Yeah. That happened. I’m still swooning. I didn’t realize anyone actually used “negs.”

I have two settings when it comes to dating:

1. I’m going to die alone!
2. Hopefully.

Right now I’m on the latter, soooooo in honor of the Christmas season, I treat you to my second favorite topic, with an over-analysis of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

There have been numerous depictions of Santa Claus in the media. He was anti-establishment in the stop action film, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. He was absent-minded in Elf (how do you not realize there’s a human child in your toy bag?) He was on acid in Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. He was terrifying in A Christmas Story…

… and he was a douche bag in Rudolph the Red Nosed Riendeer.

The movie opens with newborn Rudolph residing comfortably in a cave with Donner and “Mrs. Donner,” because female characters don’t warrant their own damned names. It quickly becomes obvious that Rudolph is horribly disfigured, when his nose starts to glow.

Mrs. Donner: “Well, we’ll simply have to overlook it.”
Mr. Donner: “Now, how can you overlook that?”
Santa: “Great bouncing icebergs!”
Donner: “Now, I’m sure it’ll stop as soon as he grows up, Santa.”
Santa: “Well, let’s hope so, if he wants to make the sleigh team some day.”

No one mentions the real concern here, and that’s that Rudolph’s nose makes a high-pitched whining noise. Seriously, light up all you want, but stop that. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, because Santa’s made it pretty clear what his sleigh team values most: conformity.

We even see the universality of this concept, when Hermey the Elf tells his boss that he doesn’t enjoy his job.

Hermey: “I just don’t like to make toys.”
Boss Elf: “Oh, well, if that’s all… what?!?!?! You don’t like to make toys?!?!.. HERMEY DOESN’T LIKE TO MAKE TOYS!”
::Immediately, all of the elves start to whisper about the Freak Elf (not a direct quote)::
Boss Elf: “Do you mind telling me what you do want to do?”
Hermey: “Well, sir, some day, I’d like to be a… a dentist.”
Boss Elf: “A dentist?!?! Now, listen you! You’re an elf… and elves make toys. Now, get to work! 10 minute break! Not for you! Finish the job or you’re fired!”

Okay, dude, first off, you asked what he’d prefer to do. Second, he just told you he hates his job and doesn’t want to do it anymore and you responded by taking away his break and threatening to fire him, though you clearly want him to stay? Also, what kind of regime is this? Elves are born and die in their station as factory workers? They’re shamed for wanting to pursue higher education? Fortunately for him, Hermey grows a pair and decides that he can’t be fired, because he quits.

Meanwhile, Donner makes Rudolph cover his disfigurement with a fake black nose that makes him sound like he has a sinus infection. When Rudolph complains about the discomfort, we get this parenting gem:

Donner: “There are more important things than comfort: self-respect! Santa can’t object to you now!”

So, like a closeted, homsexual, country boy, Rudolph dons his fake nose to make his dad happy, and as long as he’s doing so, Donner is proud.

We return to the elves, as they practice their Christmas song for Santa. As far as we’re told, this isn’t really for any kind of event. They’re just singing Santa a song to make him happy. He accepts this gift with the poise of a mom stomping on her child’s macaroni necklace.

Santa: “Hmmm… well, it needs work. I have to go.”
Mrs. Claus: “What does Papa know? It’s beautiful. You keep it just the way it was.”

See. Even Mrs. Claus is like…

Geez. No wonder my parents’ generation came up with the participation trophy.

Ultimately, both Hermey and Rudolph are shamed into leaving Christmastown, but not before Rudolph’s crush, Clarice, is told by her father

“You get back to your cave this instant! … Now, there’s one thing I want to make very plain. No doe of mine is going to be seen with a… a red nosed reindeer!”

Off they go, and in their travels, Rudolph and Hermey team up with Yukon Cornelius, prospector of silver and gold, narrowly escaping The Abominable Snow Monster of the North, Bumble. Bumble is apparently very dangerous, though he never actually harms anyone. Rudolph’s parents, however, are still quite worried about him. When Donner heads out to find the bane of his existence, Mrs. Donner wants to go as well, but Donner insists on leaving her behind.

Donner: “No. This. Is. Man’s. Work.”

Regardless, Mrs. Donner sets off to search, taking Clarice along with her, also known as kidnapping. Seriously, she’s a child and you’re taking her out, alone, into the arctic? No wonder the men belittle the women in this story.

Rudolph and Company find The Island of Misfit Toys, where everyone different has been banished. No seriously. The lion with wings, King Moonracer, gathers them from around the world and keeps them on the island, until they find homes. It’s never explained how they’re supposed to go about that while confined to a deserted island, though. Read: banishment. The truly confusing part, is that most of these toys’ problems are easily remedied. The water pistol that shoots jelly could be filled with water. The Charlie in the Box could start going by Jack. Also, who made these loser toys? Was it Hermey? I’m betting it was Hermey, either falling down on the job while daydreaming of incisors, or fullfilling some kind of God complex, while he created an inferior species.

Is that… other toys they’re burning?

Sadly, Rudolph, Hermey, and Yukon are denied safe haven on The Island of Misfit Toys, seeing as how they aren’t toys. King Moonracer still has the gall to ask for a favor, though. Rudolph is to plead the case of the banished toys to Santa, in the hopes that he’ll find them homes. They’ve already tried to find homes, so I’m guessing they’ll end up in some kind of orphanage. The elves, of course, could replace the square wheels with round ones or repaint the polka-dotted elephant, but that was apparently too difficult in the first place… Hermey.

When Rudolph returns to Christmastown, his parents and Clarice are still out looking for him. He’s now an adult reindeer. It’s been at least a year since he left, as it takes a male reindeer about that long to reach sexual maturity.* Clarice knew that boy for about 11 minutes and she’s been searching for him for over a year. That’s what I call commitment. Lucky for her, Rudolph returns this sentiment by heading out to search for the search party, where he’s held hostage by Bumble, who honestly, is only seen petting Clarice. No one’s been harmed, until Rudolph attacks Bumble and he clubs him. That, right there folks, is self-defense. Naturally, in response, Hermey and Yukon Cornelius set a trap to knock Bumble unconscious.

Okay, so I get that Yukon is supposed to have some sort of history with Bumble. He’s apparently very dangerous and that petting would have turned vicious… eventually. Here’s where it gets intensely disturbing, though. After Bumble is knocked unconscious, Hermey and his God complex pull out all of his teeth. What the fucking fuck?!?! That’s like half of the procedure used in Human Centipede, also by a man with a God complex!!!

Hermey. So I had a little free time? That doesn’t make me “creepy.”

After Yukon pushes Bumble off a cliff, “they realized that the best thing to do, was to get the women back to Christmastown.”

We all know the ending, of course. Rudolph and pals make it home. Santa finally realizes that the exact same idiosyncrasy, for which he shamed a child all along, can be exploited for use as a fog light in an epic storm… because the elves can’t make a fog light? Then again, I suppose if the task fell to Hermey, it would be a fog light that doesn’t light up, so he can feel better about going against The Regime’s demands of him, when he’s finally allowed to become Christmastown’s dentist. Seriously? The guy has no training beyond his experiments with animals. That’s like making the town butcher your new gynecologist. Speaking of animals, abominable snow monsters bounce, so Bumble is given a job… to put the star on the tree. That’s right. He can no longer feed himself, but for one minute annually, his life still has purpose. Last, as an afterthought, the misfit toys are saved by Santa… though we never do find out who wants these half-assed creations.

http://www.theanimalfiles.com/mammals/hoofed_mammals/reindeer.html

Sick and Tired: The Worst Day to be Single

Posted on November 27, 2013 by Belle of the Library

There are a lot of things one could say about a 26-year-old professional who still sucks her thumb. “Emotionally broken” or “product of abuse” are probably the most fitting, in my case. One that’s hardly ever mentioned, however, is the bomb immune system that comes with the habit. Considering the fact that I will find a way to discreetly sanitize my hands after the “Peace Be With You” during Mass, it’s probably for the best that I’m subjected to germs through less common means, anyway. Otherwise… I would die. Mysterious ways, yo.

I use the term “discreetly,” quite loosely.

My point here, is that I rarely get sick. When I do, however, it’s always with something strong enough to break through the immune system of Achilles. About once a year, I get the opportunity to dramatically post Facebook status updates about how I am Patient Zero and everyone should say their goodbyes, because we are all going to die. I may even quote Hocus Pocus with “This is the end. I feel it. We are doomed. I feel the icy breath of death upon my neck… Goodbye. Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye to life.” It all depends on the amount of energy I have, since I spent about eight hours sleeping on my couch, yesterday. No really. I took breaks to sleep while writing this. You’re welcome.

This year, it all started with ice. You see, we don’t really get snow in my area.The weather app on my phone called it a “wintry mix,” but that just meant “lots of fucking ice.” So, I prepared. Niki came over Thursday night to marathon American Horror Story with me and we interrupted the ramblings of a group of broken souls to go get deicer. We each bought two cans and I figured I was set. That stuff works like magic. The company doesn’t specify, however, that it only does so if you put it in the car, as opposed to leaving it on the kitchen counter. Someone is going to be getting an angry letter.

So, on Friday, I left my substitute teaching job during my planning period, to get a salad for lunch. I ended up with a pack of Reese’s Bells, as well, but I’m a member of the Participation Trophy generation, so it still counts. When I got back to the school, the roads were still clear and dry. Five hours later?

Fine. I’m lying. It still, however, was far too much ice for my sad little scraper, which was proven when it snapped in half. I started the car and wondered how long it would take for the ice to melt as I regained feeling in my fingers. Then I saw the blood. I don’t even know what happened. My best guess is that the ice scraper cut my finger when it broke. I went inside, got some bandages, came out and took another try with the remaining pieces of the scraper. After a bit of struggling, I was rescued by a Big Strong Man. Suck my dick, modern extreme feminists. I take care of myself every day and I even tried in this instance, but I was thrilled to be the damsel as another teacher insisted I get in the car where it was warm, while he cleared my windows. I thanked him kindly and decided I’d go straight to the gym, because I knew I wouldn’t be getting out again, after I’d gone home. Besides, what could a little “wintry mix” do during my one hour workout?

It wasn’t actually as bad as it had been before, but I still didn’t have deicer. My scraper was still broken and the one I’d bought at The Dollar Tree was just sad. So, I decided to walk to Wal-Mart and grab another can of magic. This wasn’t gym clothes weather, folks. I walked uphill in freezing rain, wearing nothing but knee-length leggings, a t-shirt, and my Northface. Unsurprisingly, Wal-Mart was sold out of anything and everything intended for winter weather, so I trekked back to my car, this time downhill in ice, and decided on another method of dealing with this issue: avoidance. So, for the next twenty minutes, I continued texting Gaily about my latest online dating flop.

Me: I could work to fix this problem, or I could sit in the car with the heat on and eat Reese’s Bells.
Me: I am going to die alone. Right here. In my car.
Gail: Better to die alone with a Reese’s Bell than to die with Engineer whispering “I knew you’d like it” in hot breath on your neck.

Hey. At least this time I wasn’t overreacting. Even Gail thought he was clingy. EVEN GAIL.

Every man Gail has ever dated.

Finally, I realized that the ice was melting and I was free to get out of my car and scrape the windows with ease, regardless of my near-nudity.

… aaaaaand Monday morning.

There are a handful of worst times ever to be single, such as when a family member dies, when you’re stranded on the side of the road, and… when you’re sick. I have officially done all of these this year. Despite my humorous melodrama, I am not actually that high-maintenance of a patient. I don’t need someone to sing Soft Kitty to me or clean up my vomit. There is just something uniquely awful about being home alone, too exhausted to stand up and get a glass of water, and having no one there to give a shit. Furthermore, do you have any idea how difficult child safety bottles can be to open in quarantine? At one point, I could not hold my head up long enough to read a trashy romance novel I’d already read, and which therefore required no concentration, but someone had to go get medicine and run by the post office. It would have just been nice to have someone to do that and maybe even a load of dishes. It’s not a selfish wish, as I’d be more than happy to return the favor in a week when he contracted The Black Death. Soup for soup and all that. I’d just like someone with whom to trade that favor.

I suppose part of the problem was my idea to check out a bunch of movies from work, in preparation for being iced in all weekend. If you’re ever in the position to be ill and snowed in alone, do not watch Yours, Mine, and Ours and Pillow Talk.

giphy

I couldn’t have 10 kids if I wanted to, because I’m running out of time!!! I may never get to have ANY children, because I keep turning men down! He just wanted to know if he’d done something wrong when I hadn’t texted him for a few hours, even though I’d told him I had company. What’s the harm in that?!? What if I have pneumonia and it just gets worse and worse and I really DO die alone!?!?!

They’re right! The only thing worse than a woman living alone is one who insists she likes it! I couldn’t even meet a man that way, because there’s no such thing as a party line anymore! Why can’t they bring back party lines?!?

No, really. Skip the romantic comedies. The more rational part of my brain had to talk myself out of joining another paid online dating site out of distress. Believe me, that part was not particularly present as the delirium set in, either.

I’m just trying to remind myself that these are the good ol’ days. One day, I’ll be cleaning poop out of the carpet, while a two-year-old screams in my ear, longing for the days when I only had to deal with my own sickness. At one point, I woke up on the couch, in utter despair at the quiet. When I’m sick at 35, I’m pretty sure I’ll want a time machine to kick my own ass for that thought. In the meantime, I really do enjoy living alone most days. I’m aware that yarn bombing my living room and playing the soundtrack to The Great Gatsby on repeat are activities I’ll have to keep to a minimum when I live with a boy. I have no delusions that the hot pink and teal Christmas tree will be on display when I’m not the only one who has to look at it. These years will be missed and cherished. Now, to just get well and process that fully.

“So, do you still go out and meet people in person?”: The online dating stigma.

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Recently, at one of our daddy/daughter lunches, I made a confession…

Me: “Well, you’re not gonna like it, but I do mostly date online.”
Dad: “Hell, baby. Everybody dates online anymore.”

Even my 54-year-old father seems to accept that this is a legitimate effort to find a relationship. However…

Dad: “Well, we all go out line dancing all the time. It’s a lot of fun. You ought to come sometime. Your cousins meet us up there. Bret even goes with us.”

Look, daddy. I love you far too much to tell you the story about the douche bag I kissed at the cowboy club that one time… or that I ran into Step-Brother Bret the Saturday before Halloween, when I was dressed as a sexy cat… or that Gaily and I have a code word for when a guy is being creepy and it’s time to leave. I don’t need you to invite me out line dancing with the parentals and my cousins, because I am otherwise all alone Googling for a husband. I go out. I drink too much. I flirt with guys. I’ve got this shit. I also have never met a man that you’d want to meet, by going out, drinking too much, and flirting with guys. So, I’m dating online… because I’ve got this shit.

I understand that when online dating came about, it was filled with the same people who took out personal ads in the newspaper. Perhaps you’d meet a successful man, who just didn’t have the time or inclination to go out, but more than likely, you’d meet his 38-year-old brother, who works at the video store, plays D&D and lives with mom. I get that that’s what online dating was, but what people don’t seem to understand, is that nowadays, going to a bar is the equivalent of posting a hookup ad on Craigslist. I don’t date online, because I’m anti-social. I date online, because the last pickup line I got at a bar was “meow, kitty cat.” We have this expectation that dating online is somehow easier than putting yourself out there in person. In actuality, it’s usually just employed because people are looking for something more serious. Sure, I could meet a cute financial adviser who gives a presentation in my library… or I could not. I’m open to meeting someone in person. I’m just not going to waste great years counting on it. So, in the meantime, I’ll continue to date online, even though it takes some serious balls… and here’s why.

You have to learn a completely new way to communicate.
When you first start dating online, you see the word “student” and think:

Oh, he’s taking night classes and working full time.

Six months in, you think:

STUDENT IS NOT A PROFESSION!

Ward: What does BBW mean?
Me: Fat. Big Beautiful Woman. Usually the women who post it are morbidly obese, but still dress really nicely and put in effort. Don’t call it fat, but that’s what it means; so if you’re not into that, don’t message them.

There’s a ridiculous amount of subtext to online dating, because the idea is to present yourself in the best light possible. Essentially, you’re selling a product. Maybe that sentence doesn’t make you feel warm and fuzzy, so they don’t put it in the ads… but that doesn’t make it any less true. “BBW” comes off a lot better than “morbidly obese” and NSA (no strings attached) comes off a lot better than “down to fuck.” After a while, you realize that you also need to lose that little paragraph explaining your divorce or your daughter’s paternity, not because these things don’t need to be explained, but because there is a time and a place. Gradually, you even take out the superfluous demands about height and what kind of car he drives, leaving the things that really matter like religion and political affiliation. Then there is the landmine that is photographs.

There seem to be two photograph problems, which are primarily gender based, among online daters. First, there are the women who intentionally take pictures that look unlike them, because they’re more flattering. Then, there are the men who post older pictures of themselves, assuming they still look like that. Just last week, an old coworker messaged me on Facebook, begging me for help with his online dating profile. He’s 21, absolutely adorable, driven, and funny, so I was surprised when he said he never got any responses. Then I looked him up.

Me: Your headline sucks. You clearly have a defeated, last resort, attitude about online dating. You need a more current picture and more than one.
Jack: I don’t have any current pictures.
Me: Then get cute and take a selfie with the dog. Bitches love dogs. Seriously, you’re like 11 in that picture.
Jack: That was last year!
Me: I don’t care. You don’t look like that anymore. Also, only one picture says “You can’t see the birth mark from this angle.”

If your defense is that you “still look like that”, then fine. It won’t be a hardship to take a more current photo… or several. That’s the key. They must be current and plentiful. They must not be doctored or taken in a fun house mirror at a weird angle. If you can manage that, you’re probably good. But these things take time to learn. I’d love to get my hands on my first online dating profile, because I’m sure it was hilarious. Only after some real experience dating online, does it occur to you that no one is reading all of that; your profile is filled with cliches; your humor is being misread; you’re coming off negatively; you shouldn’t respond to every single person who messages you, because it implies interest. The list goes on. If you don’t have a trusty friend to assist you, you’re left to learn from blogs or online articles, often written by people trying to sell you something.

It’s confusing and frustrating to navigate the waters of both creating and reading online profiles, just like it was confusing ten years ago to gauge whether or not the man at the bar was winking at you or the hot chick behind you. It’s not easier. It’s different.

You really don’t know what you’re getting.
Fortunately, I’ve only had one instance where I had to do a double take when the guy walked through the door. I’ve been lucky enough, that I can honestly say everyone I’ve met online has been (more or less) exactly who they say they are. Yes, there was the guy who said he was getting his degree in business, but happened to be in his first year at community college. He looked like his picture, though. He worked the full time job he claimed to work. It was fine. But as with the aforementioned subtext, you just don’t know if you’re reading into things properly.

When he says he’s “family oriented”, does that mean he wants five kids, he’s close with his brothers, or that he’s a mama’s boy? He’s posted seven pictures, but which one does he actually look like? Is there a reason he doesn’t smile in his photos? How religious is “religious?” Does the fact that he likes to be fit mean he won’t eat cake with me? Why does he want to wait so long to meet? Why hasn’t he asked to text message yet?

Sure, there’s some definite advantage to knowing if someone is divorced, has a kid, considers themselves liberal, or what-have-you; but just like if you were told those things in a bar, you don’t know why they’re divorced, what their parenting style is like, or which political stances are most important to them. We online daters haven’t taken the guess work out of all dating. We’re not ordering Chinese food. These are still incredibly complex individuals with their own interpretation, their own way of doing things, and their own relationship goals. This doesn’t even touch the possibility of someone lying about all of those things.

This is a solo gig.
Oh, my gosh. Do you remember that episode where everyone went out and flirted in groups? What was that show. again? Oh, yeah. It was everything.

Even five years ago, people usually met their significant others by mingling in groups. Today, even if you have a girls’ night, it’s gotten to the point where anyone who wants anything real is too hesitant to actually approach, because you are in a bar. The men I’ve talked to about this have even told me that they feel uncomfortable hitting on a woman in such a setting, because she’s out with her friends. Does she really want to be bothered by some guy making a pass at her? The same, apparently, goes for any other setting. She’s clearly at the library to study. Maybe he should leave her be. She’s working out. She’s in her zone. Best not to bother her. Men are afraid to be assertive, because they’re used to having all of the facts beforehand, via Facebook or Twitter or even Plenty of Fish, so these dating scenes really don’t exist anymore. That leaves us single folks alone to wander.

Unlike with the sitcom group at the bar/party/park/coffee shop, with online dating, you’re on your own. Sure, you can do it in teams and share the bad profiles with a pal. You can be catty about the fact that this guy called himself “about average” or rant about the number of men in their forties messaging you, but when you walk into that coffee shop, to meet a total stranger, you have no wingman. You have no one to keep you company if you get stood up or things don’t go well. Again, picture the traditional dating scene of going out to a bar or club, only this time, it’s just you. How dare you tell me I’m anti-social for dating online? Do you have any idea what kind of social balls it takes to walk up to a man anywhere and ask if he’s the guy from Plenty of Fish? How about how embarrassing it is to go into a pub and announce that you’re there for the Match.com event? That’s about as far from sitting in your mom’s basement, enjoying an AOL Instant Message chat, as you can get.

There’s still a stigma.
There are 54 million single people in this country. Of those, 40 million have tried online dating.* That is 74%! Match.com, however, uses different figures and claims about 40%. Either way, it’s an enormous section of society. I have actually never come across a single woman, my age, who hasn’t tried at least one dating site. Maybe she didn’t love it or take it too seriously, but the attempt did happen. So, why, when 74% of available people are doing this, is my blog the only place I meet individuals who are comfortable with their status as an online dater? Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing to be the person lamenting over their singlehood, while doing nothing to change it? Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing to go trolling for dick in a club every weekend? Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing to be alone forever?

My cousin Delia: “Yeah. I know a ton of people who’ve met online. So, do you still go out and meet people in person?”

Apparently, the answer to those questions is no.

http://www.statisticbrain.com/online-dating-statistics/

“I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

Posted on October 14, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Me: “All I want is someone who’s nice to me and likes his job. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
Gail: “That is not all you want.”
Me: “Yeah, it is.”
Gail: “Fine. I challenge you to go home and message every single person who fits the description you just gave me.”
Me: “Fine. I will… as long as you give me the chance to revise that list.”

In my last two posts, I addressed the (often ridiculous) demands of women on online dating sites. More often than not, my issue was with presentation, rather than intent. For example, at my last-ever-on-Earth Match event, one of the friendly gals who invited me to sit with her made the statement “… but I have really high standards.” My concern was not with said standards, so much as the wording. What are high standards? Are you looking for someone tall, broad, and wealthy to boss you around in the bedroom and bend to your will in daily life? Do you want a man who will not only change the oil and mow the lawn, because those are Boy Chores, but also do the dishes and make sure the vacuum lines are even, because of Equality Yo?

Honestly, when I hear the words “high standards” from a woman, the above is what I conclude, because this is such a blanket term. This is no double standard on my part, either. I read the words “I know what I’m looking for” on a man’s profile and nastily think “… certainly not a girl who knows not to end a sentence in a preposition.” It rubs people the wrong way when you give the impression that you have a clear test or checklist and if they don’t pass with satisfactory results, you’re not interested. That may not be what you intended, but until you meet, online dating is 100% about presentation. It’s important to remember that anyone who does not fit any clearly stated requirements probably won’t bother to contact you. So, if you’re going to list absolute deal breakers for the dating world, then you need to make damn sure that they are, indeed, absolute deal breakers.

This week, I’ve decided I’m serious about dating. Maybe this is because Aerospace has not yet sent me a picture of his tinkle. Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading too many Red Pill blogs. Maybe it’s because I’ve been on another paranormal romance kick. I don’t know. Next week, I’m sure I’ll decide that I want to stay single forever, eat Fruit Loops and sweet potato fries for dinner, and buy a lot of boots. For now, however, I’ve decided that Gail has a point. I’m actually trying… but for me that still entails never dating anyone with whom I cannot see any future. So, here are my absolute deal breakers.

Appearance

I like to fancy myself someone who puts more stock in career focus and lifestyle than appearance, but I’d also like to fancy myself as having the body of a porn star with wings.

Google that. I dare you.

I have to be attracted to someone. It doesn’t have to be a swooning moment from the get-go, but it has to be possible. Physically, however, men, are horrible at representing themselves online. They’re either topless in the bathroom mirror or they have no idea how bad that lighting/angle/ex-girlfriend/blow-up doll in the picture makes them look. I try to keep that in mind. I’ve even regretted doing so, such as when I went out with Gollum from The Lord of the Rings… three times.

Seriously, guys, lose the fucking hat. It completely changes the way you look.

So what are my requirements from someone’s appearance? Well, for starters, I’m short. I am a whopping 5’5.5″ tall and I just want someone taller than I am, if I’m wearing heels. Assuming he’s not barefoot in this scenario, that means 5’7″-5’8″ and that’s not very tall. I just don’t think I could be attracted to man shorter than I am, because that’s really short. Do I prefer 6’4″? Why, yes. Yes, I do want to be a dainty little lady, but I also want to be…

We’ve talked about this.

After height comes weight. This is where I’ve noticed men, in particular, suffer from the most unreasonable expectations. They want “slender” or “athletic and toned” regardless of the fact that hauling around all of their weight does not, in fact, make them “athletic.” You cannot ask for something that you do not offer. Furthermore, if you think it’s possible to be attracted to someone a little further to the chunky side of average, regardless of your own standing, make sure your profile reflects that by either not mentioning weight, such as on Plenty of Fish or selecting “curvy” or “a little extra” on Match. I’ve said it before: after reading a man’s “No Fat Chicks” paragraph, I don’t want him to see me in a parka, let alone naked. However, my ex-husband was morbidly obese. I’m not talking about size 3XL shirts. I’m talking about 6XLT. When we met, he was closer to the former, but by the time we divorced, the man could not sit in your average booth, ride a roller coaster, or walk up some stairs. He was 23. Now, I was no pixie in those days either. I was a big gal, particularly for my aforementioned height, topping out at 260. I have no idea how whales have sex, because I’ve tried it and those parts don’t fit together particularly well when both people are 100+ pounds overweight. Because of our weight, all fun things ever were off limits and it sucked. I mean, the guy was a soulless prick, too, but had he not been, the weight would’ve still been a problem

So, for me, a man needs to be, at most, overweight. I, myself, weigh 174 pounds, today. I can tell a man’s weight from a picture, though, so I don’t include any kind of description in my profile. Honestly, I really don’t mind a little bit of a belly. I can even be attracted to it, though I’m sure you’re not allowed to tell a guy that. I’d just like someone active, so if he’s a little chubby, but doesn’t mind walking around the zoo all day, we’re good. If we can try more than the three sexual positions I’ve ever experienced, we’re golden, Ponyboy. My celebrity crush is Seth Rogan. I’m talking from his Knocked Up days. I don’t need the man off the cover of my romance novels. In reality, the wings would get in the way, regardless of who’s wearing them.

No joke… I have read this book.

Education

This one is a touchy subject. First off, I’d like to clarify that Gaily does not match my level of formal education and she’s the person with whom I’m closest on Earth. She’s far from unintelligent and I’ll admit she dwarfs my knowledge on politics, finance, and how to disappoint your family by wearing the pants in a relationship.

Oh, come on, Gail. I can’t praise you without insulting you. That would be far too emotional. Don’t be obscene.

She’s huge on self-education, to the point that it makes her an exhausting best friend some days. Additionally, Niki drives a school bus for a living and not once have I thought our conversation would be more enlightened if she had a greater level of education. That being said, I’m never marrying either of them. I value formal education, in part, because our society values it. I’m actually horrified by the level of education required by many careers, but it is a fact of life and after a marriage to a man who would not work, I just can’t do it. I can’t attach myself to someone I feel does not have a secure career and education helps provide said security. In the Midwest, many, many men who date online, work on oil rigs. They bring in more money now than I ever will. What happens next, though? Oil work is notorious for coming and going and most of these men are lucky to have an associate’s degree. What happens when he’s out of work and everyone requires a bachelor’s degree? I’ve been there. I didn’t want the fucking t-shirt. Just no.

It’s not just job security. There was also that date with the guy who was clearly threatened by the fact that I was getting a master’s degree. He had a bachelor’s degree, in a field about which I know nothing. I don’t even know what an engineer does. The reason I have my master’s degree, is because librarians have to have a master’s degree. When I enrolled in the MLIS program, there was no regard for status or bragging rights. I just wanted to be a librarian and that doesn’t happen without a shit ton of student loans. Them’s the rules. The end. Choosing someone with a bachelor’s degree, preferably in a field far from information studies, so we’ll never feel as though we are in competition, will help me avoid another awkward moment where a guy mocks my fucking master’s degree. It also increases the likelihood that we’ll be an intellectual match and educational gap is a factor in divorce statistics.

Career

He’s got to enjoy it. I don’t want to have to worry about a “change in plans” just after I announce my second pregnancy. I don’t want to have the conversation where I declare that no, it is not worth it for him to take this time to figure out what he enjoys doing, because he’s committed himself to a family. I will never again be the woman begging a man to fucking do something to contribute to his home life. No. Not happening. He must have his career chosen and intend on keeping that path for the forseeable future. When we’re in our 50s and he decides he wants to open a specialty store selling handmade classic television show figurines, what-the-fuck-ever. At least the mortgage will be paid and the kids gone.

Religion

Growing up Catholic in the Midwest sucks balls. My freshman year, I was taken aside and asked to stop telling people that we sacrifice lambs on the alter at Mass. I was so sick of correcting the misconceptions that I thought it would be funnier to encourage them. It’s sort of like that time I accidentally spread the rumor that I gave myself an abortion so that people would stop asking why I’d been out of school so long after my breast reduction. Oops.

I don’t expect to find a Catholic man. Sure, it would be glorious not to explain Advent, because then I’d have to Google Advent. It would be nice to avoid the “birth control is a sin” discussion and just have it be understood that we’re getting married in the church where my grandpa’s funeral was held. All of that would be terrific, but of the 11 Catholic men I actually know, only one is single and he’s gay. I actually bought a subscription to Catholicmatch.com and I’m thrilled that it supports the archdiocese, because it is entirely useless in this part of the country.

The thing is, Catholicism isn’t that different from most Protestant religions. There are a couple of theological issues that really aren’t up for debate, but the big picture about Jesus and Mary and the cross and such… that’s all the same. I’m cool with that. If he can believe the big picture, we don’t have to discuss the details. That big picture, however, is far too big to ignore. Not only do we worship Jesus in my house, we don’t giggle at people who worship Jesus in my house. I’m not even going to try that relationship, because I know it will end in tears.

Politics

I sometimes wonder if this would be on my list if I worked in a less liberal field. I hear so many extreme political views in a day that, I swear, it’s actually pushed me further right. I would consider myself Libertarian more than anything, but libraries are tax funded and staffed by Democrats who want to help people. We got degrees to help people and regardless of political affiliation, we all mean well. I just disagree that a lot of their ideas are practical. On rare ocassion, I disagree that their opinions aren’t supernaturally stupid. For example, I once told a pretty conservative coworker that I thought it would be a good idea to itemize food stamps, as WIC checks are done. Her rebuttal was that “you can’t tell people how to spend their money.” I did not respond.

It’s not their money!!!!! It’s taxpayer money and it shouldn’t be spent on fucking chips and soda!!!!! I even know many, many far left individuals who agree with me. It was infuriating.

I don’t want to get into a political debate with you, because I don’t fucking care. You won’t change my mind. I won’t change yours. So, instead, let’s just look at a picture of a puppy to calm our nerves.

It’s just so wittle!

Better? Good. I am not printing out said picture of a puppy and holding it up every time my beau and I disagree on fundamental political values. I understand that we won’t agree on everything, but the core points have to line up. Part of the reason is because political values tie in so closely with religious values and we’ve already talked about that. If we don’t agree on abortion, what happens when I get pregnant after three months and his solution is vastly different than mine? If we can’t see eye-to-eye on gun control and he’s uncomfortable with the fact that I sleep with my Smith and Wesson 681 revolver, what happens when I tell him to suck my big fat furry dick? Sure, I may be willing to put the gun away, since it’s only in my bed because my ex-husband broke me, but I’m not fucking selling it. I named it, for crying out loud. I can’t even imagine being in a relationship with someone who’s opinions on Obamacare and the shutdown are polar opposites, regardless of what I believe. I don’t like to fight. I also don’t like to debate over core political values that reflect core religious values, when no one is going to change their mind. I spent such a large portion of my first marriage fighting, in general, that I now shut down when conflict arises. I stop talking and figure we can agree to disagree, especially if it’s about politics. I can’t do that with an entire relationship and maintain it. No one can.

So, there you have it. I’ve narrowed it down to five absolute deal breakers. I am, of course, not including obvious factors, such as a racist comment in a profile or a confession of crippling loneliness during message three. I focused on the things people get hung up on and I’ve set some reasonable guidelines. Jane will tell me I forgot age, because I recently told her I wouldn’t date anyone younger than I am, but I’ve come around. If I can find a guy in the same place in life that I am, at 25, I’ll give him a shot. The important thing is, I’ve barred the collectible model airplanes, the love of Seinfeld, baldness, or affinity for tabletop board games from this list. That’s only fair since I wouldn’t want a guy to list things like no thumb sucking, singing to the dog, or wearing wings during sex, amiright?

The Last Match Event… Ever

Posted on October 10, 2013 by Belle of the Library

The romance novels told me that it would happen like this:

I’m walking through the woods one day, when suddenly, I’m surrounded by a pack of feral wolves, growling and foaming at the mouth. Out of nowhere, the large, proud alpha appears and his pack stands down. I stumble and fall as I take a step back, and look up to see, not a wolf, but a beautiful naked man in his place.

You really don’t want me to continue. I’d be a horrible erotic romance writer.

Me: “Why do you still have his number? He was a such a dick.”
Gail: “I don’t know. I just never deleted it.”
Me: “We should text him something wildly inappropriate, like… ‘Hey there… copper. Why don’t you haul that big… penis on over here and… put it in my mouth… big boy?’ Wait. I used the word ‘big’ twice. That’s kind of redundant.”

Gail

Alas, Disney lied. More accurately, all media ever lied, along with every single person who’s ever said ‘It’ll happen when you least expect it” or “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.” That works so well with every other aspect of our lives, like our education, careers, and friendships, right? Success takes effort and dating is no different. So, I went to another Match event.

I cannot stress the balls it takes to go to these stupid things. Y’all, I am a pretend extrovert, because my job requires it. Despite my energy and humor in any social setting, unless I’m with a small group of friends or family, I can pretty much promise you that I would much rather be at home reading… in a blanket fort.

The original plan was to go to the Match event with a friend from high school, who’s kept in touch via Facebook and has also been navigating the harrowing waters of online dating. When that didn’t happen, I decided I’d still go, since I’d gone to another Match event alone and the world didn’t crumble around me. The problem is, I had been looking forward to having a gal pal with me and was having trouble readjusting the plans in my mind for a solo event. I was dreading it. I couldn’t decide whether or not I even wanted to go and wavered all day long. When it was time to leave, all of my clothing turned to ash and I had nothing to wear. When I finally chose an outfit, it ripped as I put it on. Though I was tempted to give up and get out the chairs and linens, I made the repairs and forced myself out the door.

The event was held at a Spanish grill downtown, which I had trouble finding at first. I decided to go to the nearby outdoor supply superstore to use the restroom and fix my makeup before giving the search a second go. I spent a good twenty minutes in the bathroom, trying to come up with an excuse to just browse the guns and go home. Finally I promised myself that, if I was that unhappy after 10 minutes, I’d just leave.

On the way, I tried to figure out why I was so miserable over the idea of going to a bar, when I feel nothing close when meeting someone. I realized that, when you go on a date with someone you’ve met online, you’re only making yourself vulnerable to one person. At a Match event, you’re vulnerable to about 50 people. Not to mention, on a date, you know exactly with whom you’re supposed to be socializing. There is no guess work. Quite the opposite, at this Match event, I sat alone and worked up the nerve to talk to the girls behind me, reminding myself (with the help of Jane by text) that this was not the first day of sixth grade at lunch time. When I introduced myself and was invited to sit with them, I figured if the worst case scenario was engaging in some meaningless girl talk, I’d be okay.

One woman was 24, energetic and friendly, but something she said did rub me the wrong way.

24: “My man’s gotta love Jesus. I mean love Jesus. I don’t like hypocrites, either. You’ve gotta practice what you preach.”

… then…

24: “We met on Christian Cafe.”
Me: “Is that free?”
24: “It is for a little while and then you have to pay. I just kept using new e-mail addresses, though.”

Wait. He’s gotta be a Christian who practices what he preaches, but you’re stealing online Christian dating? I wouldn’t normally nitpick the misuse of a free trial. To each their own. These statements were back to back, though. I told Gail this story at breakfast, wondering if I was being unfair.

She didn’t think so.

Her friend was 26 and we agreed that, although we’re not really in a hurry right now, we probably will be in four years. Still…

Me: “So, how long have you been on Match?”
26: “Two years.”
Me: “Any luck?”
26: “None. But I have really high standards.”

What exactly does “high standards” mean? Do you mean you’re looking for someone who works in education, so he’ll understand your career concerns? Do you really need to be with a member of the Church of the Latter Day Saints and that’s hard to find in this part of the country? Are you looking for someone with ambition and drive, who has accomplished some of his goals? All of those are completely reasonable, but you have to specify that. Grand generalized statements like “I have really high standards” come off as “No one’s good enough for me”, regardless of gender. I had just finished researching the poor online dating habits of women, so maybe my head was in the wrong space for this, but I can’t stand to see a statement like that on a man’s profile either. It’s a huge turnoff to read that or similar comments like “I know what I want.” Why bother trying if they’re that particular?

Despite the above irksome comments, I had fun getting to know other women who dated online and I really did appreciate them letting me sit at their table. They had some good stories and interesting experiences and we had a nice conversation. Eventually a couple of men came over and struck up some conversation and we started comparing who was worse at deception, men or women. One guy was drunk, but funny and nice. Had he messaged me after the event, I’d likely have responded. He even took my correction of his usage of who/whom in stride. Eventually, though, the older of the two shared a humiliating story about a woman having a breakdown when he refused to come inside after a first date, stating that he was actually still friends with her.

Confused, I asked how they were still close and he said that she’d just been going through a really hard time. I didn’t comment further, but dude, if she’s a friend, it is beyond hateful to tell a humiliating story about her to get a few laughs, especially from a time in her life when she was feeling low. If you come off as a shit friend, I really don’t want to date you.

As the event neared it’s end, I noticed a man I’d been messaging and decided to introduce myself.

Me: “Hi. I’m Belle. We chatted for awhile, not too long ago.”
Producer: “Oh… I don’t remember. If I’ve slept since then, I’ve forgotten.”
Me: “I’m a libarian. My screen name has that in it.”
Producer: “No, I don’t remember.”
Me: “Oh, well then, this is a terrible introduction.”

We talked for awhile online. I think he did remember me, but felt slighted when I stopped responding, because he never asked to meet. Still, we chatted for a few minutes, until the older man who cruelly mocks his friends came over, stood way too close to me, and obviously interrupted a conversation to ask where my friends went. Curtly answering his question, I told him I hadn’t known them, pointedly only told Producer it was nice meeting him, and left. Still, I got a message from him less than an hour later, saying how nice it was to meet me. I didn’t respond.

So, that was my second Match event. At this point, I’m thinking it’s going to be my last. The perk of online dating is knowing the fundamentals of who a person is before getting to know them. At the last event, I devoted two hours to a man, at a loss for why I’d never messaged him. Finally, I realized it was our different religious beliefs that had turned me off and it was still a valid reason. A Match event is pretty much just going to a bar and trying your luck, hoping someone will even want to talk to you and that you’ll have anything in common if they do. It is literally the face-to-face version of Match. You have to deal with the creepy people and the rude people and the pushy people just the same, only you have to do it in person. No thank you.

Belle of the Library

… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.

Tag Archives: online dating

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