Playing Catch Up, Like Playing Catch But With Fewer Balls Thrown At My Face

Playing Catch Up

[dropcap]January[/dropcap] was all about finalizing grad school applications and the disastrous effects of dating Cry Baby Romeo.  I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it but on that first date of ours, he had told me about how he dated a girl from Vancouver.  They’d gone out, had a nice time and chastely parted ways.  However, the next morning she was sexting dirty messages and asking when he’d be over.  He, of course, went to her place later that night, they boned and that was that.  He said she called him two weeks later, just to say that she couldn’t see him again because she didn’t want him to think she was that kind of girl.  At the time, I joined in his laughter, ha ha ha fucking crazy chicks ha ha ha.  Because with the way he told it, that was how it sounded.  But after my own experience of awful sex, followed by him texting a joke about how you’re not going to never talk to me again are you?, I began to see what had really happened with them.

I bet they had sex.  It was awful.  She ceased contact.  Eventually he reached out with a phone call and she was so flustered that instead of beating down his manhood with a quick and to the point um…you suck at sex, also you’re boring, she simply hit him with something that would scare any boy off: crazy talk.

And here’s why I’m so certain that’s what happened.  Because we had sex.  It was awful.  I ceased contact.  And lo and behold two weeks later, I get a text about what’s up Houdini?  To which I promptly informed him I wasn’t interested.  I hadn’t felt compelled to inform him earlier since to be honest, he hadn’t contacted me until then.  Obviously, he had one playbook and wasn’t about to stray in order to throw a hail mary.  Sadly, it’s too bad he didn’t have a better coach working with him on some plays.  But I digress.  So that was January.  Worst.

February was…slow.  At least in the dating department.  I read once that dating websites (and probably dating in general) see a big lull in February.  This is mostly because in the few weeks before Valentine’s Day people don’t want to get involved with someone new.  It opens the door to a ton of problems, or potential for missteps.  Is a 2nd date on V Day weird?  do you have to get her a gift? was the teddy bear just a cute gesture or a sign he’s really into me?  and the list goes on.

And in the weeks after Valentine’s Day people are generally at work on themselves.  Maybe you spent V day alone (and felt bad about it) and now you’re working on you.  Maybe Debbie dumped your ass or Teddy told you to take a hike.  Maybe you just have the winter blues.  Who knows.  But they were totally right.  In the 2 weeks before Valentine’s day I saw a 98% drop in contact.  No joke, I almost didn’t get a single message, not even a Nice Tits from a lonely web trawler.  And then about a week after Valentine’s day the flood gates crashed and I was swept away in a torrent of stupidity.

March.  And then March happened.  Final push for grad apps.  Final push for school.  It was term papers and class presentations and to be honest…even for me…sometimes the stupidity of peoplethe sheer idiocy and social dysfunction of the masses, it just all becomes too much.  And so at the beginning of March, I deleted my Plenty of Fish.  But not before messaging two fellas.  You see, somewhere among the 40 odd messages, left un-responded to, were two guys who seemed…well…promising.  Sure, I wasn’t super excited.  Sure, we’d barely messaged.  But they were both clearly interested and both had relatively good profiles.

So, I went balls to the wall.  Let them think I’m weird and acting hysterical by removing my profile I thought.  To be honest, I didn’t care enough to worry about it, I had shit to do.  So I told them I was off Plenty of Fish but if they wanted to talk more they could hit me up on my email.  And that was that.  I actually thought I was miss it more.  And maybe it was school, or friends, or the fact that MegaLove and I still hang out every few weeks, but I barely even noticed.

And I know what you’re thinking.  Wait…it’s almost May…where’s the entry about April…and that’s when I say the words all blog readers hate…except for those who like mystery and suspense.

To Be Continued…

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-Calls (Part Two)

Snowballs

 

To read the beginning of this second date with Cry Baby Romeo click HERE

For the rest of you, let’s just right back into it…

So like I said the movie ended, he didn’t get up to leave, and I was busy rolling snowballs.  And yet somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to move onto the bed with him.  It could’ve been the lack of flirting or the fact that I would have to find another way to be turned on by him since humor was clearly not a strong point.  But whatever it was, I was hesitant and frankly it all just seemed to cheesy.  So instead, like a pair of nervous 18 year olds, we put another movie on.  Good Will Hunting.  Which he had never seen.  Obviously we were doomed.  And then he made fun of my desire to live in Boston regardless of the fact that I haven’t ever been there.  And yes yes, I know I know, it all sounds so disastrously bad now.  But remember hindsight is 20/20 and it’s that goddamn eternal optimism always biting me in the ass!

And that’s when it happened.  I grabbed my balls grabbed a blanket and joined him on the bed.  It was all very go hard or go home and I was going to get it hard or he was going to go home.  And that’s when it happened!!

Just kidding.

I laid there awkwardly in some sort of big spoon to his little spoon situation for another ten minutes before he finally got the balls to throw up a move.  He lifted his arm and gave me the nook.  Finally.  And at first it was good *push snowball* not half bad I kept thinking *go snowball go*.  Only.  Then.  He pounced.  He turned to me and while I was expecting the icing sugar kisses of our first date, he plied me the weight of a thousand bad decisions.

I’m not even joking.  It’s like he was on top of me but he wasn’t.  I honestly don’t know exactly what was happening but it’s possible I was in some sort of pseudo lover’s headlock.  What I DO know!?!  Is that at one point I actually smacked my head against the wall because it had taken that much force to wedge it away from his misguided attention.

And then here’s where it’s like I had rolled the snowball up a mountain.  Slowly.  Laboriously.  I had committed to this goal.  I had plotted the plan and put it into action.  And I was at the top.  I could breathe easy.  Except.  Except.  oh my god.  it’s rolling towards me.  it’s going to topple me.  crush me.  and then it does only it takes me with it.  Before I even have a chance to catch my breath the snowball is dragging me down the hill over and over and over again.


You see.  In some sort of lightening quick motion we had gone from bad kissing to tops off to ridiculously misguided  unarousing pizza dough kneading  rough in all the wrong ways 2nd basing.  And I know what you’re thinking.

You told him to stop right?
You sent his ass packing right?
There’s no way you slept with him right?


And my optimistic head hangs in shame.  And not because I had a one-off.  But because I’m officially part of the problem.  I rewarded pathetic pansy ass no balls moronic idiotic undeserving unendearing behavior with sex.  Now certainly not repeat sex.  But the very fact that CryBabyRomeo even got to see my skivvies is a testament to the kind of dizzying effect optimism and the belief that people have to JUST SIMPLY HAVE TO be more than they’re showing me has on me.

And here’s the even worse part.  We weren’t that far in before I realized the snowball had obliterated me down the hill and I know longer wanted to play outside in the snow.  But, like how do you get out of that?!?!  And on the one hand, the feminist in me says you put a stop to it immediately, you tell the boy you’re not feeling it, and you send him on his way.

But sometimes you can’t think that fast.

And sometimes it’s just not that easy.

And there’s still always that goddamn optimism that thinks it’ll get better, if you just…if you get him to just…aww fuck just cum already so I can go to sleep yo…and quit fucking poking my uterus you moron.  And that was really it too.  If I was turned on maybe his long dick wouldn’t have been such a problem.  But I wasn’t.  And so it was.  And speaking of long.  It fucking went on forever.  FOREVER!  Worst.  Ugh.  Worst.


But is he really a moron?  For a hundred other things yes.  But for this, no.  Now to be clear, no orgasms were faked in the making of this disaster but…  I will admit that I pretended to be having a lot more fun than the real me was having.  And that’s mostly because I just wanted him to finish already and take a hike.  Worst. Blargh.  And I would file it all under things that I regret except for what ended up happening much later than week…all because I had ridiculously bad sex with CryBabyRomeo.  But more on that later.

For now I’ll just finish this decidedly disappointing tale of the booty-call that couldn’t.  After we had finished (and I use the term we loosely, as I clearly did not finish) and gotten dressed, he just sat there.  On my bed.  As if waiting for a chat or something.  I’m not even joking, I was literally ready to start tapping my wrist to mimic a watch with the international sign language for let’s fucking go buddy.  Luckily he eventually got the hint and hit the bricks.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

He Sucks, She Sucks, We All Suck Vancouver

Dating

 

[dropcap]The truth is[/dropcap] I hadn’t planned to write anything.  I was busy with school and papers and grad school apps etc.  But there came a point when I just couldn’t bite my tongue anymore and the things that were being said…well…just seemed…so…totally and completely off the fucking mark.  And with that, here is my “response” to the 2 articles stirring up a dating storm in Vancouver (though you don’t have to read them to understand my post, I don’t think…): Do Vancouver Men Suck & Do Vancouver Women Suck, A Reader’s Response

 

Dear Vancouver,

I hear it all the time.  I experience it myself.  Dating in Vancouver sucks.  And according to this article, we might just be able to get away with blaming the men.  And to be honest, I completely agree, men in Vancouver absolutely suck.  But then again so do the women.  See that’s the thing about being dicks.  Just because you’re one doesn’t mean I’m not one too.  And the same goes for the gender issue brought up in this article.  Just because men here suck at dating, and possibly life, doesn’t mean women don’t too.  And while I know I’ve just thrown a truckload of double negatives your way, I want to make something perfectly clear.  I agree with the article.  I disagree with the article.  I think it said some things worth saying.  I think it missed the mark completely.  So ya know.  Crystal clear right?

The problem with dating in Vancouver is actually pretty simple.  Well, at least knowing what the problem is, is simple, everything else like how it got this way and how to change it…well those are up for grabs.  But here it is, this is what I know about dating in Vancouver:

1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies
2.  Vancouver Women are Bitches
3.  Everybody is still fucking
4.  We’ve become the “American School System of Dating”

Just so we’re clear.  I don’t have all the answers.  But I do know that dudes here are pansies.  Full stop.  And I know it’s politically incorrect.  And I know reverse-gender oppression and all that.  But the truth is, if I wanted to date someone more feminine than me, I’d pick a chick…they’re much prettier and smell nicer.  I want a man.  I want a man who can grow a full beard.  I want a man who’s balls are too big to wear skinny jeans.  I want a dude who knows how to make a decision, was smart enough to do something with his life, has a plan and takes some action.  Truth is I want more than this, but this will suffice for the moment.

 

1.  Vancouver Men are Pansies.
Men in Vancouver are shy.  And quiet.  The only time I ever see any aggression is in the most negative of ways, bar fights, street fights, etc.  Ironically the exact things that are working against getting them laid, which is what all that fighting is about isn’t it…sexual frustration?  And while you can try to claim that men are like this in every city I assure you, it’s simply not true.  And I’m not a ten, so you can’t blame it on that either.  I can go anywhere in the States, and boys are talking to me.  Spain and they’re hollering down the street.  When I was in Paris, I had a Chef (in his full Chef get-up) leave his restaurant and come across the street into the launder-mat I was using and chat me up…and he didn’t even have any laundry!  The list goes on.  But in Vancouver, it’s few and far between.  And most of the time I’m not even certain they’re chatting me up.

And that’s out in public.  People claim the internet is so different and online dating is so easy and guys will say anything.  This is true.  To some extent.  While I won’t get into the idiocy that are the messages of Vancouver men (that’s…uh…basically the rest of this blog)…I will say that this lack-of-assertiveness translates onto the net as well.  While here in Vancouver I get anywhere between 0-5 messages a day, and at least 80% of those are bullshit like hot tiiiiiiiiiiits and messages that make you think you’re Drowning in a Sea of Idiocy, this isn’t the case in every city.  And how do I know??  Because I’m a woman who appreciates a little Science and Dating and who doesn’t love a good experiment.

So, one day I changed my dating profile, just for the day, to say Boston (since, after all I am considering grad school there, might as well see what’s up with the dating).  And within that one single day I had over 50 messages, at least 75% of which were eloquent and interesting.  Now it’s not perfect science, perhaps Vancouver is small and we have to factor in that I was a “new” profile in Boston and not in Van but still, that’s a pretty huge increase.  We simply can’t ignore it. [Update: the messages are just as fucking stupid in Montreal (see my SSDated instagram for proof), so clearly I just need to move to Boston *half joking*]

So to sum up.  Vancouver men are more feminine than men in other cities and I have no idea why.  Vancouver men are shy and less likely to approach a woman, in public or online, and I have a partial idea why.  And that’s how we get to point number two.  Vancouver women are bitches.

 

2. Vancouver Women are Bitches.
Now ladies, before you start freaking out on me…I love you.  To me??  Oh well, to me you’re fucking lovely, amazing, sweethearts, princesses, best ever, love ya…but to guys…well…um…it can get a little rough.  You see the thing is, the whole dating in Vancouver situation is a bit of a snowball.  Because here we are moaning about how guys don’t approach us or talk to us, but when they do, we suddenly become the Simon Cowells of dating…critical bitches, yo.  He’s gay.  He’s too feminine.  Ugh, hipster.  He’s weird.  He’s creepy.  He’s too short.  and the list goes on.  And while I also, don’t really want to date a short feminine hipster who’s a little bit weird or creepy and may or may not be gay…it might be a good idea if I don’t treat him like shit because

a. he’s human
b. he might be a fucking genius (which aside from the gay possibility, could really negate all that other stuff for me) (see #4 coming up) and
c. who knows if he ends up being the most amazing person you’ve ever known and the whole hipster thing is just a phase.
d.  or maybe turns out you love hipsters
e.  or maybe or maybe or maybe…have a fucking imagination…and imagine the possibilities

Plus, in the interest of sisterhood, shouldn’t we all be particularly kind and pleasant to any fellow interested in talking to us, if only to help propagate a species of males who regularly approach chicks in Van?  THINK OF YOUR SISTERS!!


That being said, I take you back to the point above where I mentioned that half the time a boy is chatting me up, it’s so timid and feeble I assume he just wants us to be besties.  And I’m almost certain during the conversation he hasn’t once considered all the dirty things I might be able to do with my mouth (Sidenote:  To be clear he should never SAY any of the dirty things he thinking till at least some of them have been put into action, I mean Social Protocol, yo, but still…he should be thinking them…if he wants me, I mean).

That being said, girls in Vancouver are fickle bitches.  I can’t tell you how many times girls complain about how dudes dress.  But here’s the thing ladies…you can’t ask for a man in a suit and be disappointed when he’s metrosexual.  And you can’t ask for a dude that puts effort into his outfit and then be disappointed when he shows up in skinny jeans and $200 high tops…which you can be damn sure he put some thought into.  So the next time you want to complain about how a guy dresses, just remember that you’re actually asking him to tuck his little purse of man coins (cajones, nuts, love lockets, berries, wedding tackle, etc.) just a little bit further away from you and hey if you’re cool with that then cool.  It’s not my business.  But don’t come crying to me while I love a man with a full beard and a baseball cap (and pants large enough to let his man marbles breathe) ready to talk science and fuck me senseless…uh…er…something like that.  Basically ladies…stop asking for a Pretty Prince when you want a King.  Because you can’t have both.  And the next time some dude says what’s up…give him a shot.  I’m not saying you need to sell your soul or makeout with him in public.    But give the dude a go.  You never know when it turns out he has a PhD. in something other than his pants (though that’s fun too).

 

3.  Everyone is Still Fucking.
Vancouver is a city you can get laid in.  No doubt.  100%.  No question.  Maybe it’s because we’re liberal.  Maybe it’s because the clubs here suck and what else are you going to do but grind up on someone else.  Maybe it’s because we’re all just so fucking happy to be so close to the mountains, the ocean, and amazing sushi that we’re willing to throw caution (and our panties) to the wind and get down.  And to be clear…this is a judgement free zone…get down with your bad self.  But here’s the one drawback I’ve seen so far.

Why would men want to bother to step their game up?  Why would it even occur to them to be smarter, more interesting, kiss better, or any of the other things we want from them??  THEY’RE STILL GETTING LAID!!!!  And while I’m currently doing my best to limit this phenomenon (which is quite the sacrifice for someone who rallies around the term SLUTmazing)…I can’t do it alone ladies.  I’m just one woman!

 

4.  Vancouver is the American School System of Dating.
People typically think of Hollywood as a town of beauty-obsessed starlets and airheads, so perhaps I shouldn’t feel so shocked that Vancouver, the Hollywood of the North, has become full of the same.  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  I was to yell at this city, like a frustrated parent screams at their 21 year old who just keeps fucking up…over and over again and all you can do is explode with YOU BETTER GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT KIDDO!!!  Because that’s really where the problem lies.  The bigger, more important problem.  It lies in a set of fucked up priorities.  In a city where the dating complaints sound a bit like something George Bush might say.  We have become the American Education System of Dating.

The first article described three young women:

they’re attractive, smartly put together, and fit. They hike the Chief, do the Grouse Grind, ski, bike the seawall, and kayak

And then that’s it.  That’s the end of the description.  I mean, seriously?!  Take a moment.  And let’s think about what’s missing from this list of what I can only assume is supposed to be a description of what makes these women dateable, desirable, worthy, etc. in our fair city.  So, let’s see…they’re attractive and fit.  So that’s good.  And they’re smart…oh no wait…they’re smartly put together…ok…so I guess that’s cool, they have some fashion sense.  And…then we’re back to descriptions of their athletic pursuits.  Super.  And to be honest, this is Vancouver.  A city where being fit and fashionable are your best assets.  I weep for humanity.

But seriously?!  Would you date these girls?  I mean hot bodies and financials aside, what do these chicks have to offer?  And while you could make the argument that for the sake of brevity, details about personality were left out…but in an article that runs for five pages (no judgement, people in glass houses, I’m just saying)…that argument kind of falls flat.

And so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the article focuses greatly on appearances.  Which are valid mind you, attraction is attraction.  Pretending it’s irrelevant isn’t helping anyone.  But if the women of Vancouver were really able to give that hypothetical Genie lamp a rub…is a dude who dresses up for his lady really what we’d ask for???

How about a man who can hold a conversation, who understands the ebb and flow of asking questions and offering things that can be responded to, who has SOMETHING TO SAY!  How about we aim for the stars and ask for intelligent men who have thoughts about science or math, or the history of art, or how a font curves in a way that makes his heart pound, or can tell a joke that is actually funny and not in that stupid I just said something super dumb but I’m going to attempt to cover it up by calling it a joke way that just makes you want to tear your hair out.  What happened to wanting real things that matter??  Who cares if he is wearing a sharp blazer if the man can’t manage to follow an argument from thesis to proof to proof to proof to conclusion.  When did we get so fucking tedious!!

And ladies, you’re not excused either.  Because there are really only three complaints I ever hear from guys.  Stupid, Crazy, Snobs (the nicer way to say Bitches).  And while crazy I have some thoughts on (that’s another article entirely)…they’re often right about the other two.

So this is to everybody (me included, improvement is always possible and required).  Step your game up.  Read a book.  Be more than anyone ever expected you could be.  Say something.  Do something.  Change the world.  Be interesting.  Make a point.  Make a mark.  Hold your head high and be proud of what you’re doing with your life.

And for fuck sakes…ladies…be nicer to the next guy that chats you up…(but if he’s a loser don’t sleep with him…it’s as bad as faking orgasms and you need to start thinking of your fellow woman).  And guys…man the fuck up…put some of that natural testosterone to good use and chat a lady up.  And be clear about it.  Because the only thing worse than being rejected??  Is being rejected by a girl who probably would’ve liked you if only she’d known that weren’t trying to be her new bestie.

Finally, while I applaud @AmigoJor for getting out there and doing his thing.  I have to toss out a few words of advice for the boys because I almost think everything he said was misguided.

1.  Don’t talk to chicks on the bus if it’s anytime before noon.  She’s busy.  She’s trying to get to work on time.  She can’t be bothered with you because her boss wants the blah blah on his desk by noon plus she’s not really a morning person and dammit can’t I just enjoy this latte in peace.  Plus daytime isn’t sexy, yo.  Save that shit for afternoon to evening.

2.  Beaches?  Park?  Sure…those are awesome for July and August…but uh…this is Vancouver.

3.  Yaletown.  I can either buy into the stereotypes…in which case she’s got the nervous jittery look because her body is still trying to recover from all the coke she did last night not because she’s anti-social.  If we want to go the PC route…don’t assume…if you boys want us ladies to see you in your skinny jeans and not think gay! you’re going to have to knock the Snobby girls are from… shit off.  It goes both ways.

4.  Coffee Shops…home run.  What can I say…he’s right (though I see it in a slightly less cynical way).  And I almost kind of hope that one day I might run into this fella in a coffee-shop…and he’ll say something kind and interesting and we’ll have banter.  He’ll ask for my number and I’ll give it.  And perhaps he never calls.  And perhaps I don’t really want him to.  But we’ll both go home and start a snowball effect.  We’ll tell our friends about the time we met a person who was kind and funny and sort of maybe amazing (or at least not creepy and weird/ bitchy and distant) and how he acted like a man and I was a perfect lady.  And it will encourage our friends to do the same.  And they’ll tell their friends and so on and so forth.  All because one day a couple different people wrote articles and then some other people put it into action.  Or ya know.  Something like that.

But one final word of advice…gentlemen…don’t ever say something like this “Ahh, lovely sunrise with those heavy clouds in the distance, eh?” (from article)…because while you think she responds with “yahh” out of disinterest, there’s another much more likely reason.  There is no good response to this.  Or at least not one that someone who’s just be taken aback by someone new talking to her on a bus can come up with in a timely manner.  This is a question for an art gallery or a third date.  When your chatting a new chick up on the bus, on the street, at a pub, you have to make sure she can respond without feeling like an idiot.  This is not the time to quiz her knowledge of 18th century philosophy.  Just relax.  And ask her something normal.  Like how is your night going?  


So good luck out there my lovelies.  Because don’t mistake my harsh no-bullshit approach for anything other than a love for this city and her people.  I love Vancouver.  And I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t care.  I just want you to knock off this teenager-apathetic-I-don’t-need-to-be-amazing-nonsense and get started.  It’s never too late.  Nothing is permanent.  The world is waiting with baited breath.  Now go out and date like I know you can.


Yours Truly,

Something She Dated
aka That girl at Starbucks two seats over
aka Your favorite chat up chick
aka Miss Social Protocol 2012
aka Your dating fairy godmother
aka Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

I’m a Man Eater, Not a Praying Mantis

 

NB:  This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys…er…I mean days of summer.  Is it Summer Vacation yet?

I want to clear something up, be a little more precise, about Man-Eaters, about who I am, about chicks just like me.   Because there’s this notion that Man-Eaters are Man Haters (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves).  And it’s really just the opposite.  Grown Up Man-Eaters are Man Lovers.  We love ‘em.  Can hardly contain ourselves.  Gotta have ‘em.

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”light blue”]

Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

Me:  Oh, okay fine. That’s about right
[/colored_box][/one_half]

 

I’ll admit it.   I.   Am.   A.   Man.   Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific?  Sure enough.   Awesomtacious.  True Story.  But at the heart (pun intended) of my fun  was my lack thereof. Tin Man, the nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was young, I didn’t know any better.

But I never asked anybody to do anything.  Boys did things of their own volition.  For their Goddess, Man-Eater.  One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months).  One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night.  Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs.  Boys made offerings.  Boys left their chicks.  And at dawn I left my socks (and ran).  I hunted.  I prowled.  And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner.  I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious.  I didn’t care.  They seemed not to care.  But I don’t really know.  Because I never asked.  Because I definitely didn’t care.  Carve notch.  Move bead left.  Punch hole.  Add name and date.  *hunger pains* and prowl again.  I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now.  Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now, well, they’re in the know.  Whether they listen or pay attention to what I say is on them, but I do indeed tell them.  I say it.  I will be kind and gentle.  But you are a meal for the summer.  I plan to eat you.  It is no reflection on you as a person.  I’m sure you’re awesome.  And if you can handle it.  I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys.  Really.  Let me say that again.  I.  Heart.  Boys.  Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard.  Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now.  And I’ll tell you again if I have to.  You are the candy of my summer.  You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool.  You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster.  You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more.  You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you.  I want you.  I need you.  This summer.  I’m hungry.  And I’m going to eat you.  But I won’t be mean about it.  Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater.  I’m a Man Lover.  And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome.  I’ll make sure of it.  Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks.  Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory.  Ask my name.  Ask my number.  Show me your balls.  And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.  Unless you’re into that sort of thing.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Operation Balls, or That Time I Tried Something New

Dating

 

[dropcap]So[/dropcap] a little while back I decided to try something new.  I wasn’t getting anywhere with guys on POF and I was getting tired of hitting BLOCK instead of smiling and replying.  The thought occurred to me that perhaps I should do some messaging of my own.  And not just on POF.  But with those boys who’d I’d been talking to on Twitter where I thought there could be a spark.  It occurred to me I should ask them out.  And that’s really all it was.  #OperationBalls.  My balls.  Me having balls, I mean.  Metaphorical balls no less.  Going after what I want.  Making shit happen.  And the best part of it was…not waiting.  Because I think we can all safely say my patience level is that of I want what I want when I want it.

So to sum up.  Message boys on POF.  Asks boys I’m talking to, out.  Sounds simple.  Seems simple.  Was simple.  At first.

At first it was great.  I picked 4 boys.  Read their profiles.  Looked at their pics.  Sent adorable messages.  And waited.  But not for long.  Because very shortly after I recieved replies back from all 4 dudes.  And positive replies at that.  They all seemed to want to talk.  Great.  Unfortunately it didn’t continue that way.

One dude ended up asking so are you kinky? and at first I carried on with the conversation because after all…I sort of am and at the very least I figured I’d hear him out.  Unfortunately what he deemed kinky I deem boring and superfluous.  Swinging.  Not my style.  So he’s out.

Another must have simply lost interest because after a couple of messages or so he just stopped responding.  Perhaps he just didn’t have the time…I mean who could believe this dude didn’t enjoy my adorable banter 😉 Just Sayin’ but nonetheless.  He’s out.

It was going really well with a third until I didn’t hear from him for a bit when I got this message “Are you not receiving my replies?  Gah.  I was trying to get far enough along to say your boobs are super hot already!”  And well.  That was the end of him.  Which was really too bad.  Because he was from the South…and had seemed smart.  But nonetheless.  He’s out.

The final guy.  Well that one was kind of my mistake.  But only partly.  I tend to like older guys.  So 40…seems no big deal.  But the problem with age.  Is there seems to be a larger occurence of corny dudes.  And this guy was no exception.  Though his profile had illustrated otherwise.  But when talking about school he said something along the lines of calling me his little school girl.  And that was just the beginning.  Nonetheless I lost interest.  And that was it.  4 boys into the batter’s box.  4 boys struck out.  Or were they pitching and striking me out in this metaphor?  Either way.  I was no closer to landing a good date or meeting a cool guy.

But I was not totally deterred from #OperationBalls because I had a couple other “things” in the mix.  Mainly on Twitter.  Long long story short.  I had been talking to a couple of guys on Twitter for quite some time.  General chatter.  Witty banter.  Sexy flirting.  Endless DMing and sometimes even lengthy texting.  And I thought to myself I could wait for these boys and have conversations with myself about how long they were taking to either *excuse the metaphor* shit or get off the pot and thus be already mildly irritated when they do lol or I could just ask them out and now and they either say no and that’s that or they say yes and we go out.  Simple.  Easy.  Because it really should be.

Detour.  I’m a big fan of people who do stuff.  People who aren’t too tired or too lazy (fix links).  Now don’t get me wrong.  I can be an understanding person.  I get it.  Life can be busy.  Things can get in the way.  But the bare truth of the matter is…if you don’t have time to hang out with me…you’re not with me to have laughter and fun and all the other wonderful things that could happen.  And this theory even applies to girls.  I recently was on Twitter saying something about having a bad day. Linzi, a girl I’d met twice (fairly briefly I might add) tweeted me that we should have a drink sometime.  I said how about tonight.  She said when.  I told her.  I said where.  We figured it out.  And just like that a fucking fantastic evening was born.  I had SO MUCH FUN.  It was awesome.  So the point of this little diatribe.  I FUCKING LOVE when people do shit.  Want to hang out.  Let’s hang out.  It seems pretty damn simple to me.  Just Sayin’.  And if you don’t want to hang out.  Then…ya know…stop the bird seed yo! because mamma’s got better things to do.

Back on Track.  So I asked them out.  The two boys.  Who my friend and I had deemed The Socialist Twins.  The name might never make sense to you guys.  But they were both what I deem “angry” guys.  Who were hipsters or not hipsters…what are hipsters again…not that I care.  But seriously the name just kind of fucking fit.  And if I give more away you’ll probably know who they are on Twitter, so I digress.  The Socialist Twins.

And the best part.  They both said yes.  Just like that.  Want to go out?  Yes.  Done.  One had stipulations about being super busy and blah blah blah but the truth was I figured I could make it work.  I mean…if you could see how awesome I am…how could you not want to make the effort to hang out with me.

But life isn’t without its glitches.  And before I knew it they had both fallen to the wayside.  I texted the busy one once to ask about his schedule like let’s plan this thing were my thoughts.  And he didn’t even respond. Now bear in mind it had been months since I texted.  So the following Monday I DMed on Twitter.  Same phone number? I asked and he said something about a busy weekend and blah blah blah.  But that was enough for me.  Being busy is one thing.  Not valuing my time or me enough to simply text back.  Done.  Crush.  *Poof*.  And he was done.

The other one was out of town for a week and when he was back the plan was to hang.  But when he returned he didn’t even mention it.  One day he even joked about douchebag guys and how dudes can be such idiots after a day of my tweeting ranty-esque things.  The hilarity was palpable.  But I decided now or never and mentioned it.  He asked about my schedule.  I told him.  Than basically said he was busy all week. LMAO.  Like why even ask haha!  But I digress…eventually he said something super super lame like I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.  Weak.  I was done.  He was done.  Though I did eventually ask him down the road what the deal was.  And he definitely fell into the unpromising sections of the busy tired scale (mentioned above).  Crush.  *Poof*.  And he was done.  And I guess so was I.

POF had proved fruitless.  Twitter had proved unproductive.  And though the sample size was still fairly small…I had proven that #OperationBalls, while possibly still maintaining the potential for success, was definitely not the be all end all to my dating woes.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas: A “Something” She Dated Christmas Carol

Hearts


‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through house
Not a “something” was likely, def not a spouse
The sexting had happened because of the wall
In the hopes that a “something” would show me a ball
SSDated was nestled all snug in her bed
While visions of throwdown danced in her head
The Nick Name had been, so busy and sick
ThePhD though smart, seemed a bit of a dick
When over the phone arose such good chatter
The Nick Name, his cancelling appeared not to matter
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Closing the shutters and tying the sash
When what to my wondering ears should appear
But a boy indicating things should be clear
I should not worry, grown ups after all
If I wanted to talk, all I had to do was call
He thought I was awesome, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick(Name)
More rapid than eagles the talking it came
And he whistled, and panted, and called me by name
“Now, Sexy!, now Baby! just like that and more!
On, hottie! on awesome! my dirty little whore! 
Because of the window!  Because of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all” (hopes of dating me)
So onto the blog, my stories they grew
With an Xmas full of boys, and St. Nick(Name) too
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in his voice
What I thought was excitement but perhaps another choice?
As I hung up the phone and was turning around
Down the chimney, a new “something” came with a bound
He was dressed in nice clothes so far I could tell
And like an advert for axe, so good did he smell
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back (so I didn’t judge)
That he looked like a peddler just opening his pack
His smile– how it beamed!  his humor how funny!
His muscles were bulging, his demeanor how sunny!
His stance it was good, so confident and sure
And no beard on his face, his skin baby pure
He wasn’t a smoker, you could tell by his teeth
Exactly the man, I’d want to be underneath
He had a broad face and not a hint of a belly
Which made mine more special, shaking like jelly
I was chubby and plump, he had ears like an elf
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Had me ready and willing to jump into bed
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
Took care of his baby; then turned with a jerk
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose
He sprang to his truck and revved it up loud
Driving away like a kid with an A+, so proud
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight
“Damn that chick’s hot, and man-alive is she bright.”

 

The PhD (part three): The Aftertext

How to Write a Dating Profile
[dropcap]So[/dropcap] things had gone well.  He was smart as hell.  A bit of a dick.  But the date went pretty good.  He got a kiss.  I got to hear someone say they thought I was the total package and looked even better than my pictures.  And at the very least I wanted a callback from the audition, whether I wanted the part or not.  And sure enough.  Like almost every “something” before.  Before I’m even home again.  There’s the text.  Reinforcing what I thought.Had a fun time 😉 he texts.  And when I get home.  I return the sentiment.  Me too.And then it gets.  Well.  A bit cheesy.  If I remember correctly even before our date ThePhD had said something lame about the wonderfulness of my curves (paraphrasing).  And I’m pretty sure he mentioned it once again on our date.  Plus there was that inappropriate story *looks up to the right like I’m tallying things in my head*.  Needless to say.  If the touching and kissing hadn’t made things clear.  All these other things did.  The dude was into me.  Or at the very least.  The dude was into chubby chicks like me.  (more on my thoughts about this to come in another post).  But the point of this little calculation.  To illustrate why his next text, though not alluring/sexy/awesome, was not a surprise.

Your softness is very tempting 😉  he says.  Ugh.  Gross I think.  But not one to miss an opportunity to be cheeky/gain information.  I responded.  What do you mean by softness? my lips? my personality? my body?


They are intertwined.  Hmm.  Interesting.  Nice save dude.  Nice save.  Which is exactly what I tell him.  Nicely put.  Until of course.  He ruined it.  You definitely have what I have a weakness for.  Maybe it’s because it was late.  Maybe it’s because I was bored.  Maybe it’s because of the texting conversation I had had earlier that day with The Nick Name (don’t worry if you’re thinking…what conversation? I haven’t told you yet it’ll be in the next post).  Maybe it’s because having no booty call in my life, no dating during the winter semester and only an imaginary affair with my professor, I hadn’t had sex since August.  Maybe because I don’t have a crush on him yet and thus nothing is at risk.  Who knows but either way.  I find myself playing along.
And what is that exactly?  I ask.  Smart, curvy, and maybe very naughty lol.  LOL is right, I think.  Technically the only compliment in that group that I actually liked was the smart but still.  Like I said.  Bored. Or playful.  Or perhaps I’m just a dick/douche myself.  But either way I was playing along.  Maybe very naughty?  What would make you think that? I asked.  You definitely earned a penalty. (he meant for cheating at pool)  Hmm.  Didn’t even really now what to respond to that.  Frankly it seemed a little out of sync to me.  Luckily it didn’t matter because before I needed to respond, I was getting another text.Are you a good listener?  it reads.  Um…depends what you’re talking about I guess.  The truth of the matter was I wasn’t even trying to be difficult.  The things he would say next hadn’t really even occurred to me that he was capable of.  So when he asked are you a good listener I almost thought he was trying to figure out if I would be a good support system for him or was perhaps going to critique me on my ability to listen instead of talk on our date or something.  But alas.  Obviously.  Not the case.
Well I like to take charge…in a firm but pleasing way.  Okay so he had me at take charge and if it had been anything else would have lost me at the firm but pleasing way ugh. gag. cheesy.  But because well.  I like a take charge guy in life.  And I REALLY like a take charge guy in the bedroom.  I was willing to overlook it.  No big deal.
Unfortunately for you guys.  I’m going to stop the publishing of the exchange right there.  I want to say it’s because of privacy or something.  But honestly it’s because A.there are some things people don’t need to read about me in an explicit way (I prefer to insinuate and let you infer) and B.because frankly the cheesiness that is mixed in with the awesomeness is frankly…a little embarrassing.But let’s just say.  Turns out this nerdy geeky intellectual…was Balls out like Chuck Norris or what I expect an MMA fighter to be like (regardless of whether or not any of them are actually like this).  And in case you need a clearer picture of the kind of take charge attitude I can appreciate…Check out two posts I previously wrote for metanotherfrog.com.  They’re actually a fairly vanilla version but.  well.  you’ll get the idea.I Am The Christopher Columbus of Kink and Chokehold (fix links)

The conversation carries on.  Blah blah blah.  This that this that.  Says the right things.  Yada yada yada.  Nice he says I think we’re on the same wavelength.

Indeed I say but it’s getting late and I should probably get some sleep.  Tomorrow being Christmas Eve Day and all.


Goodnight he says and talk soon 🙂


N.B.  Attention Readers.  I have a question for you.  Just a matter of semantics really.  And mainly just out of curiousity.  My question is Would you consider the texting interaction between ThePhD and I to simply be texting or sexting?  The reason I am unsure is this.  All topics/conversation/questions/statements were of a logistical nature.  This is what I like to do.  What do you like.  That kind of thing.  And not a This is what I’m going to do and then and then and then responded with oohs and ahhs and this is what I’m going to do back to you.  Etc. etc.  So is sexting only when the conversation imitates sex? or when it involves sexy chatter of any nature?  Comments (as always) wholeheartedly encouraged xoxo

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

The PhD (part two): Never Let Them Take You to a Second Location

Dating

 

[dropcap]So[/dropcap] like I was saying in the last post…things were going good.  That was until he said something.  Something that just didn’t sit all too great with me:

He’s not close with his family.  Like at all.  Neither parents.  Nor brother and sister (having one of each).

Now I know what you’re thinking.  What does it matter what his familial relationships are like if you’re just trying to have some fun and date him.  But the thing of the thing is.  To me.  It’s weird.  No judgement.  When people don’t get along with their families.  Now it’s not a dealbreaker per say.  Because after all.  People don’t choose the family they’re born into.  You can’t blame a 6 year old who spends the next 30 years fucked up because his dad’s an alcoholic and his mom has intimacy issues.  But still.  We’re not talking just not close with his parents.  He’s not close with his siblings either.  And he told me it’s basically because they each married spouses who resemble their father…who is not his father.  But shit son.  This is your flesh and blood we’re talking about.

Don’t worry though.  All of this goes through my head in a matter of 30 seconds and as soon as it does we carry on.  Because after all.  There’s rarely ONE THING for me that is a dealbreaker.  Deals are broken by chipping away at them.  Little by little.  And there weren’t nearly enough chips yet.  So while pool was fun.  Like most dates.  The boys are done with the pool before I am (not necessarily the date, just the pool).  So he suggests we go just up the street to this little place to get something to eat.  Now you all know me and my food issues.  But alas.  You also know I KNOW guys hate that shit so obviously I’m like sure…food…sounds great.  He pays the bill and we leave.

We walk to less than a block, go inside and grab a table.  It’s a small place.  We get menus.  He orders another beer.  He orders some kind of prawn thing.  I get edamame.  I figure.  Easy to eat.  Nothing garlicky or saucy.  And no spinach to get stuck in my teeth.  I’ll be set.  Only.  This is me here.  The worlds most awkward dater.  I’m like a fucking bear.  Or Godzilla.  Toppling small cities and crushing children in my wake.  So there we are just chatting away.  When what should happen.  Maybe I was laughing.  Maybe just breathing in at the wrong time.  Who knows.  But what I do know is that in one fell swoop.  I inhaled a fucking soybean.  Don’t worry.  I somehow managed to swallow and act like no big deal.  Unless of course that soybean is sitting in my lungs and will one day kill me.  Other than that I was fine.

But it’s as if awkwardness is contagious.  Like somehow by remaining in my proximity one can become infected with a case of the awkwards.  And so in keeping with this theory it was not surprising when ThePhD upong trying to eat a pod.  Shot a soybean into his beer.  *splash*  Where I swear it disappeared until his very last sip when it was recovered.  Just Sayin’  Awesome.  Oh but wait.  Speaking of awkward.  I forgot to mention another awesome sauce moment being the very moment I walked into the first bar and saw him.  See I didn’t notice till I went to the bathroom.  But I had button my tunic-length sweater thing…into the wrong buttons.  Aka lopsided.  Aka just call me Poindexter.

Detour.  So I kind of forgot to mention.  A little bit about the balls on this dude.  Because the PhD. wasn’t so subtle.  Unlike TheNickName and Trucker Joe.  Dude was going for it.  Almost right from the start.  Within an hour of our date commencing he was hand-around-the-waisting, close-standing, and I’ll admit it first-kissing.  That’s right folks.  He planted the first one on me while we were still at the pool hall.  Now it’s hard to say if I was keen on it or not.  But what I did know, was that I was undecided and thus didn’t want to blow my chances pending I did want future kissing.  So I allowed that first kiss.  Short and sweet.  Adorablly cute pulling away.  Something about being shy and all that jazz.

Back on track.  So while at the restaurant things were no different.  But here’s the funny thing.  Touch my thigh under the table.  Sure.  Even get a little frisky/slutty/ballsy and move from the one thigh to the centre of two.  Whatever.  But start feeling my waist.  My sucking-it-in-already-trying-to-look-thin-you-know-I’m-chubby-right-what-are-you-feeling-for-waist-area-touching?  What.  The.  Fuck.  Um…no.  Because now again I’m going to have to pull out the I’m shy and I like to take things slow.  When in reality the truth is please-don’t-touch-my-chubby-belly-when-we’re-out-in-public-and-people-can-see-me-with-you-on-this-first-date-in-a-city-where-there-is-always-someone-nearby-who-knows-me.

But he takes it all in stride.  Our plates are cleared.  He orders another beer.  Now I know I sound like a prude.  Counting beers.  And a hypocrite in fact since as far as drinking goes.  I was always go hard or go home.  But here’s the thing of the thing.  At a house party.  Or a nightclub.  3 beers in 2.5 hours is no big deal.  It’s fun.  It’s a night out.  It’s barely anything.  On a first date when both people drink.  3 beers in 2.5 hours might not be the best idea.  But it’s not a fucking disaster by any stretch of the term.  But 3 beers in 2.5 hours when your date is sober?  I mean really.  Come the fuck on Bridget!

Because the thing is.  A first date.  Is like a job interview.  There’s a reason you dress up.  Make sure you smell delicious.  Pop in a breath mint.  Get your hair did.  Etcetera!  Because though you haven’t a clue if you want the job forever.  In fact you don’t even know if you want the job at all.  But you damn well want to make sure that they offer it to you anyways.  And then you’ll have the option to accept or decline.  I mean shit son.  Best.  Fucking.  Behavior.  People.  Social fucking protocol.  And another little sidebar for you drinkers out there who tend to forget.  With every drink you down.  A breath mint should be considered.  Because no matter how full up with the natural equivalent of parsley (aka have good breath)…alcohol ruins that.  And while your tipsy ass might not notice.  Your date sure as fuck will.  Just Sayin’.  Not to mention.  You’ll want to be very careful of what stories you tell.  Because you’d be surprised what doesn’t seem so inappropriate after 2-3 beers.

But don’t get me wrong.  I know I’m kind of making this date sound.  Er.  Um.  Not that great.  But the truth of it was.  All evidence pointed to him being a great deal smarter than your average bear.  Not to mention so far my only real life reference for Grad school information.  See the thing is.  I know some people with BAs (all from Canadian schools).  I know almost no one with an MA or a PhD. and of those whom I must (though I can think of none right now) I can almost guarantee that they didn’t get them from American schools.  The few people I know who took the GRE are not people I can talk to in real life, physically I mean.  And to have contact with someone who not only has a PhD but also has experience with American universities.  Well that’s fucking rare.  And fucking awesome.  To me.

So needless to say.  The conversation was good.  He was a wealth of information.  And I was having a good time.  However, I can’t lie.  He was a bit arrogant.  In his defense.  I can imagine if you’re incredibly smart.  Arrogance can creep up on you.  But real talk.  At some points.  He was a bit of a dick.  And I said so You’re a bit of a dick! *laughter*  He face reads no surprise nor hurt/anger at me saying this.  Because it’s kind of true.  Don’t worry though.  It wasn’t like he was being a dick to me or anything lol.  And the truth of the matter is.  We have a lot in common.  Well.  At the very least.  We both like cop movies.  (a category I’d never really thought about until he used it to answer what kind of movies do you like).  For reference.  I also like law movies and military movies.

After awhile it was time to go.  He lived nearby.  I can guarantee he was hoping we’d go back to his place.  But alas the moment we left the restaurant I insinuated I was parked just over there.  And so he walked me to my car.  And then came this awkward moment.  I’m not entirely sure he knew it was awkward.  I credit the beer for this.  But he just kind of stood there.  Arm around my waist.  Looking at me.  In his defense I had been saying I’m shy to his advances all night.  And in fact I think he kind of mumbled that in some sort of not-sure-if-I-should-kiss-you-because-you’ve-been-saying-you’re-shy-all-night.  And then there was me.  Also awkward.  Mostly because honestly.  I was still totally undecided about this guy.  But I did know I didn’t want to blow the job interview.  At the very least I wanted to be offered the job.  And I’d decide later if I’d accept it or not.

So there we were.  Standing in the street.  In the misty Vancouver rain-ish.  Trying to navigate the end of this date.  He said something about us going out again later this week.  I said sure, that sounds great, just gimme a call.  And then I.  I.  Yep.  Kissed him.  Longer than a peck.  Not so long that I let him taste the magic in my tongue.  And I was off.  Leave him wanting more I say.  Or at least that’s what I’m trying to do these days.  It’s not a science.  It’s a skill in progress.  But that was it.  Date over.  And I was off home.

To Be Continued…Here:  The PhD (part three): The Aftertext

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

 

The PhD (part one): A New “Something”

Dating

Exams were coming to a close.  The infamous Dec.21st (also known as the last day of exams) was a mere day away.  Things with The Nick Name were at a standstill, caught somewhere between a window and a wall space.  But as a major advocate for dating more than one person at a time.  You can damn well bet I had some other boys in the mix.

In fact I find with the flakiness of people in general, the inexactitude of online dating and the general retardation of boys on POF it’s a good general rule to keep a whole bowl of chex (fix link) mix in circulation at your boy party.  Because after all.  Cheerios can get soggy.  Peanuts are a cheap staple that you can do better than and frankly pretzels can cut ya!  So best to keep refilling and tossing that bowl so that the quality bits can find their way to the top.  Just Sayin’

So with exams (and apparently things with The Nick Name) over.  It was time to stick my hand back in the bowl and hopefully pull a cheezie.  Lucky for me there was a guy waiting on my exams to be finished so we could go out.  A new “something” if you will.  And his name.  The PhD.

Aliases:   ThePhD

Stats:   37, 6’0 
Profession:   Researcher/Academic
Education:   PhD. Ecology and Statistics

Crimes:
Met:   Plentyoffish.com
Dates:   One

Honestly it all happened rather fast.  In fact almost as an exact opposite to the situation with The Nick Name.  He messaged me on POF.  Within about 5 back and forths he asked me out.  I told him about exams.  He could wait he said.  Then exams came and went.  I texted All done!  He responded with When is good for you?  I answered Thursday.  Thursday at 7 he said.  Look at this dude I thought.  Handling shit.  People think it’s so simple.  Making a plan.  Taking control.  But honestly.  In dating.  In the dating I’ve experienced.  Balls are very rare.  Where should we meet? I asked.  Name of local billiard place he answered and included the address in the text too.  Boy had been prepared.  *Denzel Washington Voice* My Man!

Thursday rolled around.  I got gussied up as per usual and went to meet my new “something”.  I was full of nerves.  For a couple of reasons.  One.  Because we’d had such minimal chatter beforehand, we knew very little about each other.  Two.  Ever since my brother said those fateful words:

“So how do you know he (is in law school, has a PhD, etc.)?  silence  Because he told you?? pointed look” (fix Link)

Well.  Let’s just say I’m trying to learn to take things with a grain of salt.  And thus, did ThePhD even have a PhD in fact?  And finally.  Three.  Though the third reason could almost be split.  A little 3A and 3B if you will.  3A being that as of yet.  As of just his photos.  As of his blonde hair.  I wasn’t so sure I’d be attracted to him.  Like at all.  And then 3B was the affective factor of TheNickName on my perception of attraction.  Sure we weren’t going to be dating.  But honestly it’d only been a few days.  I was still hopeful for some other…attention.  And honestly I have this theory.  And it seems pretty straightforward.  Common sense like.  But I’ll explain nonetheless.

The thing is.  If I’ve gone out with a guy and let’s say I rate the whole overall experience as a 6/10.  And there’s a new guy in the mix.  With the unknown but suspected potential of an 8/10 experience.  But also the potential to be a 2/10 experience.  If I was given only one choice.  Could only go on one date.  No backsies. I’d take the 6/10.  I’d take the dude I’d already met.  The one I was certain wouldn’t embarrass me in public.  Wouldn’t be a TOTAL dud.  Etc.  Now in real life this never happens.  There’s no one saying YOU CAN ONLY GO ON ONE DATE!  But the point of my story is this.  Sure I’d go out with the PhD.  But my excitement will always be less and my nervousness/anxiety oh so much more with the new guy.  Just Sayin’.

But not one to shy away from a chance.  Let alone a chance with someone who at least has the potential to be my unicorn.  My own personal version of a unicorn.  Because after all wasn’t it me who said, “I Want To Lick You Brain(fix link)  I want to fondle your frontal lobes.  I want to get complex with your cortex.  I went to meet ThePhD.  In Kits.  To play pool.  And see what’s what.

And there he was.  I saw him right away.  Looking basically exactly like his pictures.  And the first thing he said after hello?  The bar had some weird rule (or lack of extensive liquor license) that drinks couldn’t be taken into the billards section of the bar.  Awesome I thought.  Fuck me.  I don’t even get a chance to get my bearings before I have to awkwardly break it to ThePhD that I don’t drink?  Ugh.  He takes it well.  Finishes his beer while we chat.  And then we head on over to the pool tables.

The chatter is.  Well.  Pretty good.  I find out he’s American.  Just finished his PhD at UBC in Ecology and Statistics.  He spends most of his days behind a computer crunching numbers and doing science-y things.  He’s done a ton of travelling (like myself) [something I found very bizarre with both Trucker Joe and The Nick Name having neither done much travelling nor having a desire to really pursue it any further].  All is going quite swimmingly.  He’s letting my cheat.  Which I always do when I play pool.  And making mildly cheesy remarks about being awarded penalties for the cheating later.  When it happens.  He says something that well.  I don’t know.  Just doesn’t sit well with me.

To Be Continued…Here:  The PhD (part two): Never Let Them Take You to a Second Location

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

T.I.T.S: Top Investigative Tracking Sisters

T.I.T.S.

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”blue”]Dear Hottie McGymerson,

Hi. It’s me. *Drool* *Swoon* *Falls off treadmill*

XOXO
Tearsy Sweaterson[/colored_box][/one_half]  [dropcap]It’s his ass.[/dropcap] I mean. His buns. Like. They’re so.  Nice.  And I’m not even really into bums.  But as he runs on the treadmill directly in front of me.  Every day.  I can’t help but take a look.  Sneak a peak.  Lurk.  Hawk eyes.  Leer.  Whatever.  But wait.  It’s also his back.  And he’s so tall.  And it’s also his arms.  And the way he looks back over his shoulder all the time.  At me?  More likely the clock.  Or waiting for a friend to arrive.  But I’ll pretend he’s checking for me.

So that’s what happens.  For six weeks.  The last six weeks really.  As I’ve been working my ass off at the Steve Nash Sports Club (Morgan Crossing).  I stare at him.  Casually.  Non-chalantly.  And sometimes I even think he stares back.  But then again.  It might be the clock.  And one time.  He was talking to (presumably) a friend at the gym.  And the friend looked and kind of pointed at me.  Did that just really happen?  And at the time I was mortified.  The conversation in my head went like this.

Friend:  Dude…did you see that chubby chick.  Kind of looks like she’s going to have a heart attack.
Hottie McGymerson:  Yeah.  She’s here everyday.  Sure is sweaty.  Don’t point…she’ll see…oh…

Detour.  The funny thing is this moment stuck with me for days.  Like seriously hindering my gym experience.  Until one day I went for coffee with a friend.  And as we’re walking through the parking lot she says check out that hot guy and being the stealthy chick that I am.  I turn my head and look right at him.  This is obviously the moment he looks up and catches us.  We turn away in mortified laughter.  And no lie.  I’m guessing dude probably thought we were making fun of him.  When in fact.  We were basking in the heat of his hotness and only laughing out of embarassment.

Back on Track.  So yeah.  Time flies by.  And I’m at the gym.  Literally just shy of every day of my six week pass.  He’s always there too.  Every night.  We’re like clockwork.  But do I talk to him?  Fuck no.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I think I’m pretty.  Cute.  I can be hot.  But not at the gym.  At the gym.  I’m a sweaty bitch working my ass off trying not to cry or vomit.  So I’m saying.  I’m not about to start flirting up a storm.  Not to mention I SUCK at flirting.  And then add to that the fact that it’s not like when you’re at a bar and you can smile naturally.  Because it just looks normal.  Or like you’re in a conversation.

But at the gym.  On the treadmill.  Trying not to slip on my drool.  Trying to catch my ipod as I snag my arm on my headphone cord.  At incline 9.  Wiping sweat.  Trying not to cramp.  Drink water.  Drink water.  Go Go Go.  If I flash a smile when he walks by.  I’m going to look like a serial killer having just spotted fresh meat.  Seriously.  So the weeks end.  The gym pass ends.  My chance to talk to him ends.  Well.  Sort of.

See the thing is.  Part of what made me recognize him.  Lust after him.  Be attracted to him.  Over the other guys who are also there everyday.  Was his workout attire.  Warm up gear.  Like an athlete would wear.  Like an athlete who plays for a university would wear.  Often doing the double shirt.  And we all know how I love the double shirt 😛  So on the second to last day.  When I managed to un-shy myself long enough to read his shirt.  I got my first clue.  That began the detective work for which I’m famous.  Just call me motherfuckin’ KGB baby…I got this.  Or as my friend recently referred to us.

T.I.T.S.  Top Investigative Tracking Sisters.

So I like I said.  I read his shirt.  And it lists a university.  Obviously he plays varsity.  So I check the media rosters (with pictures duh!).  Football?  no.  Basketball?  no.  Rugby?  bingo.  And if there was any doubt.  The “hometown” of our hottie clears it up.  Whiterock, BC.  And where’s our gym?  Whiterock baby.  So I facebook the name.  And there, my friends.  Is Hottie McGymerson.  And for reference.  His wall is not private.  Just Sayin’.  I mean people seriously.  Control your shit.  Privatize your business.  For real.

So normally.  This is where it would have ended.  Aside from on this blog and with my friends.  I rarely like to reveal my stealthy KGB skills.  And contacting him would definitely reveal them.  However.  What good is having a blog for if I can’t use it as an excuse to do ridiculous things?  I mean seriously…what could happen?  (worse case scenario) I get a good story or (best case scenario) a hot date?  So I decide.  Fuck it.  Maybe it’s not balls to the wall like talking to him in real life would have been.  But it’s at the very least balls to the sofa.  no?

So I facebook him.

Subject:  The Girl From The Gym

Hey 🙂

So this is either going to be:

A. The creepiest message you’ve ever gotten (not my favorite choice obviously)
Or
B. An awesome message to tell your friends about the ingenious rad chick, who was too shy to talk to you at the gym but found a way to message you (though sadly you were not interested in responding)
Or
C. (I’m voting for this one btw) An awesome message from an ingenious rad chick, who was too shy to talk to you at the gym but found a way to message you…and now that you see her (not looking like she’s ready to cry/covered in sweat) you’re thinking…nice 🙂


So yeah…I could pretend like I just stumbled across your profile but then that WOULD actually be a bit psycho…instead here’s the tale of my detective skills (which hopefully seems cute and smart and not…er…um…creepy).


Day before my last day at the gym…I managed to un-shy myself long enough to read your shirt…with said what I assumed was likely your uni…figured you seem pretty buff so it seemed likely you were an athlete…found your pic and name in rugby…and then facebooked you…


So yeah I can’t really pretend like I know you have an awesome personality or something (because I don’t know)…but you’re really cute and I could never quite bring myself to talk to you at the gym…so this is me…talking…plus I figured the worst case scenario of me messaging is you don’t message back and at least you’ll have a hilarious story to tell your friends (and I do love me a hilarious story :P)


SS “the sweaty chick who looks so much better when not at the gym” Dated

And maybe he responds positively.  Maybe he responds negatively.  Maybe he never responds at all.  But the hilarity of it will never be lost on me.  And I hope it won’t be lost on you either.  And next time you’re afraid to do something ballsy.  Think of me.  Think of this blog.  And just do it.  Because worst case scenario.  It’ll give you a hilarious story.  And who doesn’t love a hilarious story?

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time