Crash Boom Bang: Disappointments Upon Disappointments

Crash Boom Bang

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] know that life is what you make it, that you have to decide to be happy.  I know that I’m privileged and lucky and fortunate and life really is pretty fucking beautiful for me.  But I still get sad, and things can still suck.  That being said, there can be a certain hilarity when life gets miserable all at once, when you’re piled up with disappointment after disappointment, in a very small period of time (picture a cartoon of me being buried alive by a landslide of rocks…don’t worry it’s a cartoon, I’ll survive).

And that is what happened last week.

Crash

So, I had finally started dating someone really smart.  And then he dumped me.  And I was sad.  And maybe I was sad because I had been rejected.  Or maybe I was sad because I had been rejected by someone I liked.  Or maybe I was just upset because he was smart and now that would be gone from my life.  Or maybe I was sad because of how he did it (rather than just ripping the bandaid he blamed it on academia and being busy) or maybe I was sad because I felt like I had been dumped before he’d even had a real chance to get to know me or maybe or maybe or maybe.  Who knows.  What I do know is this:  I felt sad.  I felt a huge sense of disappointment.  Like this was my one shot to hang out with someone who was seriously smart, who thought I was attractive, who wasn’t completely socially stunted, and who seemed interesting (if not hilarious).  And though my mother assures me that,

you’ll meet tons of smart people

I have to say, at 32 and in a graduate school program, WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY???

Boom

Bummed about being dumped, I went to my first fiction workshop (up to this point the classes had been a lot of discussion of published works and writing techniques).  And that’s where my Professor repeatedly called my writing “Chick Lit”, and proceeded to drone on about how men are basically all super awesome and the narrator of my story is a judgmental bitch (more on this later but the gist of it was that he couldn’t understand how a girl wouldn’t want to hear a bone-head guy discuss his favorite muscle group…all the while never asking her a single question…or how a girl could possibly be upset that an old man had lied about his age [by ten years] and shown up to a date looking like a completely different person than the images on his dating profile).  Oh, and I should mention that many people in the class agreed (so we can’t just chalk this up to some fucked up Professor).  The only conclusion I could come to was that I myself was an idiot, or I was surrounded by idiots.  Either way, I pretty much wanted to throw myself off the balcony.

One student actually said “why doesn’t your narrator stop dating if she hates it so much”

*throws self off balcony as life is hard and that is apparently the answer*

But then things seemed to be looking up.  I let someone in emotionally (okay, admittedly, it was kind of accidental, but needless to say a man called me within hours of said horrible writing workshop and I burst into tears while on the phone).  But that’s something.  You see, it was Top Secret, from just before I moved to Montreal.  He had moved to Ontario and was now coming for a visit to Montreal and had called to let me know of his plan.

At Christmas, when I came home to Vancouver, we didn’t have a ton of time but he wanted to hang out and hang out we did.  We went out for lunch.  It was fun.  It was nice.  It was real friendship shit.  But then, just as before winter break, he went right back to barely having any contact with me.  Sure we’d quick message here or there but if you want to be friends with someone and especially if you want to be more than friends with someone you have to put in that effort to get to know them, to stay in contact with them, to keep their (and yours, presumably) lust alive.  But he didn’t, we didn’t.

But here we were, visiting in his hotel room, eating pizza, watching youtube videos and getting reacquainted.  Or so I thought.  Because before I know it, he’s trying to kiss me.  Which, in theory, is fine.  But, honestly, I wasn’t really feeling it yet.  I didn’t, however, want to shut things down permanently, I just needed some time, because we had gone back to zero and I might need a couple hangouts and conversations to get back up to 60.

The next day I had to finish an already late scholarship application, and he seemed busy with work stuff, so I stayed in and said that we would meet up the next day.  Friday came, and I was running late to meet him for his show so I skipped the bus and jumped in a cab.  I made it to the show before him and when he arrived we went in.  Given that he was in the show, I was seated at a table by myself, at the front (WHY DO THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME SIT IN THE FRONT!!).

After the show we talked a bit, he basically insinuated he wanted to bone but didn’t want me to feel pressured and I finally had the balls to say, at this moment (and because of the reasons mentioned above), I just wanted to be friends and we could just see what happens.  He seemed to take it pretty well.

Because we were at the show, they told us we could go upstairs and hear the rest of the Motown show that was happening, and though I wasn’t super keen at that exact moment (I had developed an excruciating migraine) I went anyway because he wanted to go (plus I had just taken some excedrin so the headache would foreseeably dissipate).

The show turned out to be AMAZING!  I had an absolute blast.  The music, the dancers, the fact that it was free, what more could a girl ask for?!  We were joking and having fun, things seemed great.

SPOILER ALERT:  they weren’t, apparently.

Bang

After the show wrapped up, he asked so how are you getting home?

I was baffled.  Home?  It was only 11:00pm, I had assumed we’d go get some food or at least hang out and do something.  I mean shit son, I was in full hair and makeup, I’d even worn a brand new dress with uncomfortable shoes!  I said the bit about food and hanging out.  He said he wasn’t hungry and that maybe we could meet for lunch or something tomorrow.

Was he fucking serious?!?!  He expected me to wake up and do my hair and makeup for a lunch date with a dude sending me packing on a Friday night???  This dude was nuts.

I tried to convey this sentiment nicely.  I tried to convey that I thought we were friends.  After all, he’d just spent the evening telling me how awesome I was, how much more awesome it was to have a girl to hang out with and write jokes with than to have a pretty girl to just fuck, how much of a lousy lay he was to begin with…blah blah blah

(sidebar:  If I let you take a joke I wrote and then you treat me like shit, you have to take it out of your act, those are the rules)

His response:  I have enough friends

Interspersed in this dialogue was some bullshit about him being a gentleman and wanting to put me in a cab rather than have me take the bus home (which had been my original plan).  I declined and declined and declined.  However, after he said the thing about having enough friends I thought well fuck him and took the $20 he was handing me (I am a broke grad student after all, I can’t even see the poverty line let alone live above it).

Plus, I figured, as I walked for 6-10 blocks fueled by pure rage and disappointment, I would just take the bus anyway and that $20 would reimburse me for the cab I had taken earlier because I couldn’t fathom being late to his show.  I mean…

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUUUUUCCCCKKK HIM.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of the week of shitty things.  Almost as soon as I got on the bus (a packed bus no less, given that it was 11:30 on a Friday night), a group of fine young gentlemen proceeded to talk loudly (though mostly in French) about how fat I was and whether or not all black guys or just some black guys dig that.  The discussion included hand and arm gestures.

And before anyone gets all well don’t listen to them and they’re idiots etc.  I know this.  This conversation didn’t ffect how I feel about myself or my body (I’m lovely).  It did, however, make me feel very uncomfortable and admittedly a bit unsafe.  You see, I’m rarely scared of being raped or murdered, however, it is a very real fear that a teenage boy might spit on me or something.  Also, it made me sad because while I’m able to block out this kind of despicable behavior, I know that there will be other girls, who will experience this, younger girls, more fragile girls, girls who don’t yet know that they are entirely enough and absolutely beautiful, and for those girls I felt the hurt a bit more.  Not wanting to give these boys the attention they misguidedly and desperately sought, I put in my ear buds and pretended as if the conversation didn’t exist.

And thus ended my week.  Undateable.  Isolated and alone in a writing program that fits like a wet wool bodysuit.  Having lost all faith in the ability of men to not be the fucking worst (hyperbole, I know, some of you are fucking wonderful, even if I’m currently having a difficult time remembering this).  Spiraling into sadness.  Blargh.

So to sum up…Dumped Crash!…Writing trashed Boom!…all faith in the male species dashed Bang!  Sorry for the downer post.  Let the disappointment really sink in tho.

 

 

 

Stripped Naked: Dating a Smarty Pants

Stripped Naked

 

After being lost for weeks (months? years?), adrift at sea, perpetually pounded by the waves of idiocy and boredom, I had met a man, the Scientist, who felt a bit like a life raft.

We had met on Thursday.

We had had a second date on Sunday.

I thanked him for having me over for dinner.

He said Glad you enjoyed.  Me too.  Thanks for coming.

For the next few days I would be busy preparing for, and then attending, a conference at Yale University, but, I suggested, Maybe when I get back from the conference I can make you dinner at my place?

He responded when are you leaving? and then Have lots of fun.

 

Okay.  Now, admittedly, I found it a tad off putting that the response wasn’t a resounding Yes, that sounds amazing you hot beautiful intelligent funny magnificent creature, you but I just assumed that it was an oversight and that responding at all in a manner that both asked a question and was considerate was good enough, no?

Five days later, home from the conference (and unfortunately having caught a cold from my travel mates), I texted him.

 

Hey 🙂 How’s it going?

Hi Victoria.  How was your trip?  I’m going crazy!  Deadlines for all postdoc fellowships are due in 10 days and I just started the whole process.

The trip was good (except the other two girls were sick with colds and now I am too – I’m really hoping it doesn’t last long.)  Yikes about the fellowship deadlines but I’m sure you’ll nail it 😉  What do you have to do for your applications?  Did you want to hang out again as soon as I’m feeling better?

Hi Victoria.  Sorry, I worked from 9 to 1am yesterday and I didn’t even look at my phone.  For my applications I have to do a million things, including writing a grant proposal, academic CV, etc.  It’s madness for me right now.  I hope I survive.  I can message you when the whole thing is over.  Glad you had a good trip.  Hope you feel better soon.

Sounds good, and good luck with all the applications 🙂

 

I mean, after all, it did sound good.  It would give me 10 days to relax and get better and he would be full of relief after completing the applications (which, as a fellow grad student, I 100% get the pressure and need to accumulate that funding).

But I will admit, I was feeling a tad, insecure.

I mean sure, our first and second dates had gone really well, hadn’t they?  And while logically, I understand putting school before…everything.  I mean hell, that’s basically the reason I hadn’t gone on a date in over a year until Skinny Jeans and then the Scientist.  Emotionally though, I’m an impatient petulant child who wants what I want when I want it.  That or I’ve just seen He’s Just Not That Into You too many times and bristle at even the slightest…slight.

I was talking about this on a phonecall to my mother, who then promptly told me You sound a bit clingy.  Hearing which set me straight within seconds.  The truth is, I think I was just so damn excited to finally be going out on dates with a man who didn’t think it appropriate and/or interesting to say things like hey hot tits and ask me questions and form full sentences and stuff, that I had gotten really wrapped up in it all.  But the moment my mom said those words, I immediately stopped checking his dating profile (after all, on OKCupid, the other person can see that shit and though I’d only done it twice, it was two times too many in my book, plus I didn’t need to know whether or not he was logging in or even if he was dating other people.  Just as I expect men to respect my freedom and privacy, I should respect theirs.  And thus I did).  I also just immediately relaxed.  It’s bizarre to think that a little bit of logic and reality can affect your emotional state so completely but in the space of a few seconds I’d gone from Eager Edith to Relaxed Regina.

 

 

He’d text or he wouldn’t, and in 10 days I would know.

 

 

 

And on the tenth day…I got this:

Rejection

 

 

And just like that it was over.  I was dumped.  My hopes of dating a smarty pants were stripped naked and thrust in the dirty hamper.  And the worst part, is that it took me awhile to see this as a full on blow off.

Upon first reading I took note of the length, the apologia, the confirmation of the pleasantries of meeting me, the well wishes.  But upon further inspection I’ve, sadly, come to see it for what it really is…a bullshit blowoff.

And because you know I can’t let a dating lesson go unmentioned, I have to say, yet again, to the rejectors, to the dumpers, and the kick ’em to the curbers…

It is 100% okay to not want to date someone

You are allowed to like or dislike anyone you want

You can make your own decisions, you don’t even need to justify your reasons

But FOR FUCK SAKES just rip the fucking bandaid like a goddamn grownup.

 

See, here’s the thing kiddo (and yes, this is me infantilizing you [in the universal form] for your infantile behavior), I don’t need your reassurance.  We went on two dates, I barely fucking know you.  I don’t need you to hold my hand, I won’t have a breakdown, no one is committing suicide on your watch.  So there’s no need to gloss it all up with how great it was to meet me or the well wishes etc.  Because while you think you’re being clear and concise, I’m thinking you’re just too polite and kind to suggest I wait around for two months to date you.

Short and sweet, rip it fast, rip it clear, be honest.

I don’t like you enough to keep going out with you.

I don’t feel a connection with you and don’t wish to go out again.

I’m no longer interested.

 

Anything along these lines works fine.  Don’t talk about friendship (unless you genuinely want it).  Don’t talk about how great they are.  Don’t wish them specific success, thus reminding them how much you were paying attention to their conversation.  Don’t give excuses (because those can so easily be excused).

Because instead of immediately going, yep, he definitely doesn’t like me, after reading that text my first thought was, oh, well maybe he’ll call in 2 months because at this rate I could potentially still be single then, or even perhaps he and I could be friends or something.

 

But he doesn’t want that.  He doesn’t want me.  And that’s totally fine.  Onto the next right?  right?  right?  hello?

 

*gets consumed by cloud of dating disappointment*

How to Screw Yourself Out of Getting Screwed: Lessons in How To NOT Have a One Night Stand

 

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he first time I tried to have a one night stand I may I repeat MAY have been rushing my young self a little fast.  You see up until that point I had only ever made out with a boy (whose attempts at fondling I’d brushed aside).  But as far as feasts or famines go, I was in the mood for a feast, or at least wanted to get stuffed and in my excitement and never having actually seen a real live grown up man penis before (and by seen I’m speaking metaphorically as the tent was a black hole of darkness…I couldn’t see anything) I was unsure of how to proceed.  And thus…in my overzealousness, squeezed a little too hard…which in turn made sure that he was not.  He suggested I suck his dick.  I was 17 and inexperienced but smart enough to know I wasn`t interested in going down on some random…in a tent…who I was only vaguely interested in…while my entire grad class partied in near pitch blackness…in the middle of the forest…of a logging road…near Harrison.  And thus my first one night stand fell flat…much like his flacid penis.

And for someone as experienced as I, as I look back now, I’ve had a surprising number of near misses, total failures and all out regrettable blunders.  It would appear that instead of being queen of the casual sex…I may in fact be its court jester.

 

There were times when the malfunctions were mechanical (theirs…not My machinery).  There was a fella named Doug when I was in 2nd year university.  He didn’t watch TV.  He didn’t even own one.  I should’ve known right then it would never work.  He was 30.  I was…19…barely.  And his height matched my experience…short.  And while I may have had some trepidation…the problem was really on his end…and his tiny penis…that…well…never seemed to get quite hard enough…and given that I’d maybe had sex twice before (and I’m not even talking with 2 guys…I literally mean 2 times)…well…it was not the little engine that could.  We eventually parted ways with a few shrugs, a few embarrassed smirks, and after he was on his way I’m pretty sure I made some ichiban noodles in my hot pot and watched some sex and the city in the common room, no biggie.  I imagine he went home and cried.  But that’s just me.

 

There were times when location became a problem.  There was the guy from Blaine who I met at the nightclub just this side of the border (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was called).  My friends and I used to frequent the bar on wednesday nights…for the hip hop…for the Americans…for the black guys.  Ironically, Spencer, was as white as white can be.  But he was cute and American and that was good enough.  Only…there were a few hiccups.  You see, Spencer lived with his parents (a fact I didn’t find out till way later and would’ve been helpful to explain the route we took).  When we left the nightclub he suggested we stop by a friend of his place because he was having a party.  Now perhaps I didn’t speak American at the time because I misunderstood party to mean party but not Spencer…to him party meant helping my friends move at 2am.  Um…what…the…fuck.  I sat on a couch.  He helped his friends move.  We ended up making out in a car later.  A makeout session he clearly didn’t deserve given the weird happenings.  But since I wasn’t interested in fucking in a car, at 4am, in Blaine, when it was freezing outside…we eventually called it a night…and I dropped him off at his parents house.  Worst.

 

There were times when excessive substances were an issue (like with Marcothe drug dealer…should’ve seen that coming)…there were times when the presence of a girlfriend only came up after the things had already got rolling…like with Ricky…the firefighter with a girlfriend who said “but I can still finger you”…um…no thanks…I’m all set dude…unfortunately, given that we were both sleeping over at a friend’s house there was no easy exit…so instead I just kicked his ass to the floor)…and then there were simply just those times when the dicks came out just as the dicks were coming out (like with…uh…too many to mention…but when fellas were about to get laid and just couldn’t help talking themselves out of getting some).  Worst, boys…worst.

That being said, there was definitely a time or two when the act of non-consummation was entirely my fault.  Like blatantly, hands down, no question, because of something I did.  And admittedly the thing I did was usually another guy, but there’s neither here nor there.

 

The Bouncer. There used to be this bouncer *cough* at Atlantis *cough* who was such a fine specimen of hot huge beefy muscley manliness that a girl could hardly be expected to be responsible for her actions.  The truth is, I barely remember what his face looked like…but years later I can still picture him in all his bouncing glory.  He’s was a black Adonis.  No question.  And while I didn’t frequent the nightclub, I had seen him more than once, maybe he freelanced, maybe I had just seen him out at the club and in my dreams but regardless, he was hot and I wanted him.

And that’s basically what I told him.  Walked right up to him…and said:

You…are taking me home.  Tonight.

To which he said, with a face chiseled in stone, give me your number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m off.  And so I did.

Unfortunately, I continued to party.  A couple friends and I headed over to the Purple Onion where we had several bouncer/bartender friends who were continuing the night after hours.  Now as far as I can remember the bouncer called pretty soon after.  I told him where I was and he said, I’ll come get you.  Yes.  I said.

Only then I got distracted.  Because you see there were other boys.  And coupled with the boozing and other illicit activities, it was really no wonder that when he showed up, I was already interested in another party with another boy.  In hindsight, I totally made the wrong choice but I was young and foolish and a bird in the hand was better than a hot bouncer in a car waiting outside for me…right?  Wrong.  Life lesson learned.  Always ALWAYS pick the hot bouncer who looks like he could take down the hulk with just a look.

And fyi (before you think…well that’s not really a story of fucking up a one night stand because she still got it on with someone…I did not, in fact, get anything on with choice number 2.  Probably because I sobered up and realized the erroneous decision I had made.  Not to mention I felt like a total dick for having lured the bouncer around to where I was, only to never go down and meet him.  See that’s the thing about being 21, you’re a moron.  And an asshole.  When Mr. Bouncer came around, I never even went down to tell him that I had made a change of plans.  I just left him out there.  In his car.  Till he presumably figured I was never coming.  Total Dick Move.  Worst.)

And those, my friends, are just a few of the many tales I have of one night stands gone awry, or really, one night stands that never even occurred at all.

 

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

Conversations in Dating: How to Talk to Someone Like a Normal Human Being

How to have a conversation

A conversation.

It seems so simply, so easy, so… totally and completely fucking unattainable?

And the irony is that I’m actually not asking for the world.  Your questions don’t have to be of Pulitzer Prize winning caliber.  They don’t have to be inventive or intuitive.  They don’t need to be exciting or exculpatory.  They just need to be present.  Occurring.  Is this really happening?  Yes, we are on a date and asking each other questions.

The truth is childhood prepared me for dating, and I don’t really understand how there are so many boys who missed the test prep of their youths.  You see, when all else fails, when you’re nervous and shy, when your mind goes blank and it takes all your strength not to simply bolt for the door…the shadow game will save you.

I ask so where did you grow up?

You tell me.

Silence ensues.  This, is your cue.  It’s so simple.  Why are you making it so difficult?

You say where did you grow up?

Sigh of relief.  And now I get to talk and fill the silence with the first chapter of my story, I was born in…

And when I’m done talking I’ll wait for a moment.  Just in case there was something you wanted to interject with.  Maybe you’ve become less shy.  Maybe some exciting thought leapt to the front of your mind while I was all a-babble.  But if not, that’s cool.  I’ll ask another, admittedly borderline tedious, question but the point is we’re just getting used to each other, it’s not yet time to find out about the traumatic experience you had when you were 15, tedious will suffice for the moment.

I ask so, do you like camping, and what are your thoughts on the sport of mini-golf?

You respond.

Silence ensues.  Again, this is your cue.  Come up with something new or simply play the shadow game.  Repeat back what I asked.  Ask me what I’ve just asked you.  It doesn’t even require any real thought.  Just say the words.  Why can’t you do this?  Why don’t you know how this works?  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?!

You ask so, what about you, do you like camping, and what are your thoughts on the sport of mini-golf?

And that’s how it works.  A functioning conversation.  The flow of a first date.  Things that are endlessly easy for $200, Alex.  And yet…and yet…I keep going on these dates or having these online dating message and/or texting conversations that are more work than pulling taffy in the winter.

So what is it?  Am I unworthy of conversation in the eyes of these boys?  Are men (correction: the men who like me) incapable of even the smallest modicum of intelligence and/or common sense?  Are these dudes stretched so thin with their expansive pursuit of women that asking a few questions falls under the “too much effort” category?  Have the boys lost all their sense of curiosity?

And before anyone responds with something like “they don’t care about you, they just want to know what’s in your pants.”  While admittedly boring and telling about the human race, even that curiosity should be enough to get the conversational ball rolling because common sense tells you…woo the girl…get the goods.  It’s really a pretty simple concept.  If you want to fuck me, ask a fucking question.

So what is it, men?  Where have all the conversations gone?

 

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

The Mess: A New “Something” in the Mix (Part Three)

Dating Fail

[dropcap]At[/dropcap] this point, it was about 8pm.  I had spent the first half hour waiting for him and the second half deflecting inappropriate comments and trying not to be horribly disappointed with the mess of a man that plenty of fish had served up to me.  Not to mention thinking this has to be as bad as it gets, right?  RIGHT?!?!  Wrong.

The waitress came over to see if we wanted to get something to eat.  I didn’t really but he wanted to share something little Yam fries?  Sure.  So he ordered some yam fries to share and another beer.  The waitress brought the beer, and since he was only half done his other pint, the logical thing to do on a first date would be to chug it, no.  So he did.  Then the fries came.  I ate about 10.  They were good, certainly.  But honestly I hadn’t been that hungry and since every time he said something creepy or awkward or uncomfortable I would sip down some diet coke, you can imagine I was getting damn full on that.  Plus, to be totally honest.  Watching a guy who is completely oblivious to the world in general and to social protocol specifically, eat yam fries dipped heavily in mayo after pounding back a few beers has got to be one of the grossest things ever.  Not to mention his conversation never lagged so I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point I had yam bits spattered across my face and arms.  Ugh.  KABOOM!


And then…came the dating experience chatter.  The moment that occurs more often than not on dates that sprung from dating websites.  They say you shouldn’t talk your past on first dates, but I think your past says a lot about you as a person.  And, in my date’s case, it said way way too much.  First he told me about some dates in the recent past.  Only 12 or so since January.  I assume, of course, these were all first dates.  He tells me about the chick who freaked out on him because of the fact that he was a smoker.  Obviously she is my idol.  And then there were a lot of dates that had the same three factors:  wine, him getting laid, ceasing contact.  It’s like these ladies had never heard of masturbation or standards because honestly there wouldn’t be enough beer in the world for me to have sex with my date.  boom.  And then he mentioned his upcoming date with another lady two days later.  boom.  And then finally he mentioned “we’re clearly not getting married”  boom.  He meant it as if to say that he and I could have some real fun together before I potentially went away to school but even so.  dude.  smh.  worst.  KABOOM!

 

Now something I haven’t mentioned thus far but spanned the entire duration of our date was The Mess’s overall demeanor.  To be honest, it’s a bit hard to describe.  The best way I can think of is by comparison, which allows me to tell you that he basically acted like a tweaker.  There was a lot of movement in every gesture.  The topics were scattered and uncomfortable.  And more than once was there an invasion of my personal space.  What can I say, I’m not really into guys who hold up their finger to your face (repeatedly) because they want you to stop speaking so they can chime in.  Charming.  And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.  You see, well he was getting shitfaced, I was stone cold sober (and perhaps even more alert than normal given my chugging of diet coke to avoid awkward moments).  And that’s when he hit me with it. Blah blah blah stupid story blah blah blah I’m 41 blah blah blah  HOLD UP!  What’s that?  41?  That’s not what your profile says.  KABOOM!  KABOOM!  KABOOM!



You see, his profile said he was 38.  The irony is that I wouldn’t have cared.  41 or 38 – there isn’t really that big of a difference.  But someone who lies on their dating profile?!?!  Someone who lies repeatedly on their dating profile?!?!  That’s not going to fly with me.  And since I knew there was no way this date was EVER going anywhere not in a million freaking years and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stand up, tell him this wasn’t going to work and flee the scene I felt it was my duty to women everywhere to educate this douchebag on just why exactly it was so awful to lie on a dating profile.

His logic, by the way, was that if a person really liked him it wouldn’t matter what age he was and fyi isn’t that the same logic of sexual predators and pedophiles alike?  And so I explained to him that the problem isn’t the age, it’s the lying.  I went on to explain that by lying on his dating profile, he had taken the decision away from me as to whether or not I would want to meet the real him.  This was dating fraud of the first  degree.  To be honest, he couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.  He just keep jamming mayo covered yam fries in his mouth and saying that at least he wasn’t trying to hide it now.  Yeah, thanks, jerkoff. Now is too late, I’ve already wasted good hair and makeup on you.

But the truth is.  All this.  All these lengthy lengthy paragraphs detailing the endless torture that was my date with The Mess pale in comparison to the piece de resistance.  At some point I went to the washroom and when I returned to my bar stool, I had just about had it with this date.  I had held off as long as I could, and since I couldn’t bring myself to white lie about having to get up early or having to pack or having to hold the hand of a dying relative…I knew that my parking would be my out.  You see, I’d paid for 2 hours.  And I wasn’t going to get a ticket on account of this dick.  So at about 8:50 we got the bill.  Which the waitress had surprisingly split up.  Now I don’t know about you guys but I have never NEVER had a waitress split a bill when out with a fella without asking first.  Which leads me to believe that during my trip to the ladies my Prince Charming, this true Mess of a man, asked for our bill to be split.  That’s right, even after torturing me for two hours and gorging himself on the fries…I had to pay for my own diet coke and “half basket of fries”  KABOOM!!!!!!!!!

 

I.  Was.  Livid.

 

The irony, I don’t think he did it to be a dick.  I think he just is a clueless one, by pure accident.  Because after we had paid, and I was ready to high tail it out of there, he asked if he could walk me to my car.  Was this dude for real!?!?!  Get bent homie!  Sure.  And then I practically jogged to my car.  Upon which he exclaimed how can you afford that *insert weak complaints about his shitty 20 year old truck*.  Yeah, because nothing makes a girl hotter than exclaiming about your poverty when you’re a grown up with a government job who supposedly only has his thesis to finish to complete his MSc at SFU.  So I just told him I’m independently wealthy.  Get.  Real.  Son.  Kaboom!!


He mentioned a lovely coffee shop up the street and I could tell, sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, was going to be an invite to join him.  And while I haven’t perfected my break-away-during-the-date-dash, I damn sure have my already-getting-in-my-car-adios-kid stride on lock.  I hit him with a quick,  well it was nice meeting you and pretty much ran around the car to the front door, jumped in, slammed the door, hit the gas, and drove to chronic tacos…a reward for the torture I’d just endured.  Scarred for life.  By a Mess in a lavender leather jacket.

 

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

The Mess: A New “Something” in the Mix (Part Two)

boom


Continued from – The Mess:  a New “Something” in the Mix

Have you ever gotten a present, like say for a birthday or Christmas, which you then opened only to find that there were more and more presents inside?  Like, you had thought yourself lucky enough to get the first edition book you wanted, but then hidden beneath that was also that diamond necklace you’d been mooning over for months and beside that a round-trip ticket to Paris?

Yeah.

This date.  Was the total opposite of that.  Instead of presents upon presents it was like I had just walked into a mine-field of disappointment and loser bombs were exploding all around me.

I lied about being a non-smoker KABOOM!

I lied about my age KABOOM!

I’m going to eat all your yam fries and then make you pay for them  KABOOM!


But I digress.  I’m getting ahead of myself here.  I mean come on, if I had to live through the whole disappointing experience I’m certainly going to make you share in the misery too.  That’s only fair, right?

Sidebar:  I feel the need to preface this date with two thoughts.

One, that while I may be a judgmental person, I’m also a very understanding person.  While the rest of the world seems up in arms over a few spelling mistakes in a dating profile, I’m more likely to let them slide.  However, if you couple those errors with tedious conversation, a general lack of ambition, a disheveled appearance, etc. suddenly it’s death by paper-cuts and I’m throwing baby out with the bathwater.  So I’m guess I’m asking…don’t judge me for the bombs exploding on this date but the fact that they murdered me in my entirety.

Two, somehow when I go over this date story in my head, it doesn’t seem quite as disastrous as it felt at the time, which is why I’m certain I’m not doing it justice.  I want it known that any inability to convey the absolute ickiness of this whole date is due to a inferior ability to put into words the sheer awfulness of the experience.  So I’m guess I’m asking…multiply everything by two and then push it off a bridge into icy waters…yes…it was that bad.

Back on Track

So there I was…casually sitting at the bar, with my diet coke, a nervous disposition and the optimism of champions a hope for a fun night when suddenly there was a palm on my back, I turned the left and there he was.  In all his mauve lilac lavender colored jacket wearing glory.  KABOOM!

And then he spoke.  And without evoking too many I’m-a-total-jackass-it’s-not-his-fault-that-nature-gave-him-this-but-it’s-also-not-my-fault-that-it’s-not-a-turn-on-sexist-stereotypes, he had a seriously feminine voice.  KABOOM!

But then again, haven’t I always lamented feeling like my voice was too husky?  So the date carries on, because this is just superficial bullshit, right…and for all I know his personality is amazing.  And speaking of superficial bullshit, that’s when he takes off his jacket to reveal himself quite the little potbelly.  And I know what you’re thinking aren’t you a plus-sized chubby chick?  And indeed I am, and I make no effort to hide it, in fact I do my best to make sure it’s as visible as possible. Of course, I make an effort to look my best in photos, the same way I do for dates (I’m not showing up in jogging pants and a ponytail here right…I mean I’ve done my hair, I’ve all gussied up in pretty smoky-eyed makeup), but I don’t like to pull any punches because can you imagine showing up to a date and having someone be like ugh…you’re way fatter than I thought…I’m out of here.

But I digress.  And like I said, maybe his personality would be stellar.  Maybe he’d knock my socks off with his interesting questions or the kind way he listened to me talk about writing or traveling.  Maybe we would laugh over witty repartee and cry over the loss of the Canucks and talk about the other teams still in the playoffs.  Maybe.  maybe.  maybe…

But that’s not quite how it went.

Once he was settled and had ordered a beer, I started with one of the most simple questions known to man.

How was your day? I said.

Good he replied I bought a bunch of packets *inaudible ramble* to quit smoking *in audible ramble*

Wait what!?!  He’s a smoker?!?!  Uh…that’s not what his profile says.  And cut the bullshit, if you can’t actually say you’ve quit smoking (past tense), you’re still a smoker.  That would be like me saying I’m an average body type…because you know I’m working out and trying to get to a healthy weight and all.  So yeah.  KABOOM!


And the worst part of the whole thing, it’s not like he was even apologetic.  No, I’m so sorry I fudged the truth but I hope you’ll forgive me.  No, I get that it’s a really shitty thing to do, lying on dating profile, but blah blah blah.  None of that.  The dude acted like it was no big thing.  And while perhaps I should not have, I too acted like it was no big thing, I mean, we were less than 5 minutes into the date.  I don’t even know how you bail this early.  So I smiled and he carried on.  To the next subject.

Which was the mobile vaporizer he had just purchased, for $300.  At first I thought he had asthma.  Then realized it was for smoking weed.  Which in theory is fine.  But here’s where social protocol comes in.  This is a first date.  Keep that shit to yourself, son.  Seriously.  And then he explained further.  Indicating the shape of the device with his hands kind of like a stout penis or a small vibrator he said *insert gross creepy laughter, encroaching on my personal space and attempting to touch my hand*.  Oh, and of course my awkward laughter.  KABOOM!


Luckily, he changed gears and asked me one of the only two questions he laid on me all night.  What are you studying at UBC?  I told him English Literature.  Usually when I tell people this the conversation goes one of three ways.  Nowhere, they’re not interested in this and we move on to other subjects like dating or politics.  They ask who my favorite author is, which is fine, I usually just say Dickens or Defoe because there’s a fairly good chance they’ll know who I’m talking about or I’ll just mention anything that falls under the heading of Eighteenth Century Whore Biography.  The third option makes me the most uncomfortable.  It’s kind of like that Pros vs. Joes TV show where regular Joes try to beat Pro athletes at their sport.  It’s where the person lists off their own favorite authors, books, etc. (without me actually asking them) and then grills me about all sorts of obscure authors I’ve never even heard of, and act shocked that I might not know about number 13 on the current New York Times Best Sellers list for hardcover fiction.  Like, are you serious?!?!  There are Billions of books…yes yes, please go ahead and try to feel a sense of superiority because you know a few books that an English Literature major has never heard of.  Congratulations, you’re a genius.  And that’s exactly what happened.  We spent the next 5-10 minutes in an awkward tango of him attempting to outdo me, and me being fine with that.  super.  KABOOM!


Maybe he sensed how uncomfortable I was.  Maybe he had just exhausted himself.  For whatever reason though, I was given a reprieve when he asked about Grad Schools.  Which ones had I applied to and did I know any results yet.  I listed off the schools I’d applied to and told him that both Georgia State and North Carolina State had accepted me but I was still waiting to hear about the rest.  Somehow this lead to a discussion about water, and I informed him that Georgia does, in fact, have water access.  Now perhaps I’m at fault for what happened next as my finger-on-bar-top drawing skills may be a bit sub par but when I drew the state of Georgia and where it touched the ocean, his response was It’s like a nipple *insert gross touching of my imaginary drawing*.  KABOOM!


To Be Continued…Part Three

 

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

The Mess: a New “Something” in the Mix (Part One)

Total Dating Disaster

 

[dropcap]A[/dropcap]nd then it was April.

Guy #1 emailed.  It was eloquent.  It was adorable.  He was going back to London.  Fuck.  We decided to keep in touch anyway because with his job moving him around and my academic adventures on the horizon, who’s to say we wouldn’t one day rendezvous in Paris or Boston.

Guy #2 emailed.  Weeks later.  Apparently it had been very difficult to find my email in the message that I had sent him.  This seemed a rather weak and unnecessary excuse but it was heavily offset by the fact that he seemed to think I was fantastic and definitely wanted to take me out.  Unfortunately for him I was still wrapping up exams and schoolwork so, as is often the case, this boy would have to wait.  He seemed okay with that.  We exchanged phone numbers.  But you see, in my tornado of a end-of-semester-brain, I managed to inadvertently give him the wrong number.  I gave him the 778 version of my phone number when it’s actually a 604.

Luckily or not so luckily, I decided to text him since he’d been the one putting forth all the effort up to this point.  And to be honest, the text was nice.  Not amazing.  But not bad either.  It was the exact caliber of texting you would expect from someone who was ready to take you out the moment you were in, and was thus saving up all their good convo or is just super tedious and boring.  Either way it was all looking good…until he texted:
Ok text me with a heads up when you are ready to giv’er! Lol.
Now I’m not saying this is the kiss of death or anything but do you ever have those moments where you look back and you’re like this right here, this is why I knew we wouldn’t be a good fit?  Yeah.  Well.  This.  Giv’er?!?!  Giv’er is fine…er…it’s acceptable…if you’re camping or surfing or anything involving beer and a high school reunion or a trip to Whistler.  But when you should be trying to impress a lady?  When you’re a 38 year old man?  Giv’er is not good.  Not sexy, honey, not sexy.
But I let it go.  As I’ve been known to do.  Because I have this eternal optimism that people are better than they present themselves.  Sadly, I’m wrong more than I am right, but I digress.  Soon after this, we were finally able to make plans to meet.  But not before he asked me to meet IN THE MORNING before he had to fly to Portland.  Was this guy fucking serious?!?!  A first meeting in the morning?!?!  To which I promptly responded that asking a writer/student to hang out on a Saturday morning would never fly with me, not even if you were Bon Jovi.  

We fixed a time to meet on Monday.  On Sunday he texted to remind me, it was actually rather cute.  He took the initiative and picked a place (St. Augustine’s on Commercial).  Now you may be thinking…um…a place focused 75% on beer…for a sober chick…might not be the best idea.  But see here’s the thing, I’m actually fine with bars and pubs, other people drinking and nightlife.  Just because I no longer engage doesn’t mean I want to sit home alone in silence.

And then at 7pm, I met him.

Or more, I went to meet him.  You see, just as I pulled up and parked, I got a text.  Going to be about 15 or 20 minutes late.  Followed by CUSoon.  Ugh.  To be honest I was more disturbed by the teenage texting skills than the lateness.  Shit happens.  I’ve been late for a date once before, and the fact that he let me know boded well with me.  Plus this way I could get all situated, order up a nice diet soda, watch the game on the big screens and get my relax on.

Earlier in the day we had texted a reminder pic of ourselves to the other, since it had been weeks since I’d had a dating profile up on POF (though I didn’t really need one of him, obvs I saved his profile as a favorite to keep my memory fresh).

And then 20 minutes later I felt a hand spread across my back…I turned to look…and there he was…a new “Something”…known henceforth as TheMess.

To Be Continued…Part Two

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

Good and Bad Kissers: Is It In His Lips?

Kissing.

It’s relative, sure.

Some people are leaders.  Some people are followers.  Some people like soft and sensual.  Some people like deep and passionate,.  A kiss with force.  Some people are just lucky they’ve found someone willing to let them hoover on down and slobber on up.

Detour.

We all know I love Science.

I like facts and figures.  I like knowing things.  I want answers and explanations.  I want to know about aberrations and anomalies.  I want to know about replicatable skills and test subjects.  I want to know about sociology and psychology.  I am curious.  I am eager.  I am a student of dating.

The Tie In.

But here’s the thing about kissing.  White boys kiss different.  No lie.

Okay, wait.  That’s so very unscientific of me.  Let me rephrase.  The white boys, that I have been kissing, as of late, kiss very differently, than Mega Love and the black guys that preceded him.  Is that a little more precise.

Detour.

Now I will concede the following potential variables in my findings:

Prior to October 2009 were the six years I spent kissing Mega Love.  That’s a lot of kissing.  Passionate kisses.  Soft kisses.  Drunk kisses.  Nightclub kisses.  Kisses in dark movie theatres.  Stolen kisses on public streets.  Hello kisses.  Goodbye kisses.  Kissing-away-my-tears kisses.  Can’t-breathe-without-you kisses.  True Blood-is-on-and-we-can’t-control-ourselves-another-single-second kisses.  Wake you up at 3am for lovin’ kisses.  Distract-me-from-turbulence-till-the-stewardess-comes-with-my-sugar-free-jones-cream-soda-in-a-real-glass-in-first-class kisses.  Skype-across-continent kisses.  Must-keep-from-leading-further-first-attempt-at-closure kisses.  Leading-somewhere closure kisses.  Final kisses.  That’s a lot of kissing.

Now for those unaware.  Mega Love is Black.  His lips.  Beautiful.  Full.  Juicy.  Delicious.  Amazing.  Maybe they have something to do with it.  Maybe they don’t.  My lips are fairly full themselves.  My bottom lip has been known to give the impression I’m pouting when I’m not at all.

When Mega Love and I would kiss.  It was wonderful.  He would ebb and I would flow, he would flow and I would ebb.  Flawless Tango.  He would play with my bottom lip, suck it gently, kiss it, play with it, our lips would play with each other.  I would stipulate that it’s a possibility that it was because we knew each other so well and experience and all that.  But I really don’t think that’s it.  Because I remember the kissing in the beginning.

I can actually still picture our first kiss right now.  I can see him sitting on a bar stool at the side of the dance floor.  I’m standing between his legs and wrapped in his arms.  He’s just told me how good of a dancer he thinks I am…though I don’t need him to say it, I can see the shock on his face white girl got moves.

But I digress.  We’re getting off on a tangent.  So back on point.  The white boys.  Of late.  And their kissing.

The Tie In.

So the first guy I kissed after Mega Love was Garbage Man.  And I’m not going to lie.  Not great.  Chemistry was hot, sure.  But actual kissing.  hmm…well…it was okay.  First I should admit, being that I hadn’t kissed someone NEW…sober…in almost a decade I was fucking nervous.  So it’s always possible I contributed to the lack of awesomeness.  But even regardless of technique.  There was a decidedly lacking amount of lip.  Perhaps it was actual physical makeup (they were definitely white people lips) perhaps technique/style.

Intelligence Officer (fix link) was good.  Still not the most amazing ever.  But far better than Garbage Man.  Far.  Plus the chemistry and frankly everything about the whole night was awesome.  But still.  A specific lacking of lip play.  His lips were still definitely white, but by no means lacking in size enough that it should be relevant.  So why was there no lip.  And I’m saying, sometimes I’d try.  And Guide.  Play a little, catch and release.  A little stop and tease, till it was clear, it’s my turn to lead for just this moment.  But where Mega Love’s lips would pony up with ease…Intelligence Officer was giving me little to work with.

Twitter Guy (fix link) was good.  Like Intelligence Officer the kissing was good.  But still.  This lip thing.  This lack of lip thing.  And maybe it’s a first date thing.  A nervous thing.  A shy thing.  A work up to thing.  But it’s a thing nonetheless.  A decidedly white guy thing.

But it’s a thing.  And I miss it.  So I ask you.  Is this phenom specific to these “somethings“?  Wherein lies the difference?  Is it in their lips?  Is it a White boy thing?  Is it a me with novel “somethings” thing?  Is it possible *gasp* *shock* *awe* that I’m not that great of a kisser?

*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*

Death By Plague: The Garbage Man’s Demise

Dating Mistakes

[dropcap]I had a friend[/dropcap] who dated this guy several times. Things were going great, they really connected, they had great sex, things were off without a hitch and then one day he tells her he’s going over to the Island (Victoria, BC). Days go by, followed by weeks and eventually she tells the story of the man who fell overboard, “drowned at sea” if you will.

When I tell my story of the Garbage Man, I will attribute the demise of our ill-fated romance to his death by Plague. You didn’t know the plague still exists in these modern times? Shocking I know, but alas there can be no other explanation.  Um…hello!?!?! I’m Hottie McHotterson – betta recognize!  For real though, it’s been almost three weeks since our first date.  If I can get past my six year relationship with relationshippy with some counselling, closure sex but more importantly 3 months without regular contact….how long does this guy think it’ll take me to get over a first date?  Boy please!  And yes, I know what you’re thinking, give the dude a break, he might actually be sick.  Yes, this is true but I’m an insensitive bitch who wants what I want when I want it (though I keep these tidbits of crazy hidden from him).  Veruca Salt taught me what’s up!  That and I’m not the hugest fan of putting myself out there…nobody puts baby in the corner…nobody makes SSD look a fool!

Seriously though…I’m super pissed Garbage Man hasn’t called to say he’s better and to make plans and also pretty convinced that our first date is the last time I’ll see him since his death by the plague (the picture of him on the stand at the funeral won’t count and I’m hoping for closed casket).

 

Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time