Does anybody read these?

Thursday, June 07, 2012

Logging on and checking out

I am beginning to think that I should just attempt to date in order to amuse all of you. Taking one for the proverbial team, you know…

Because I am not finding true love. In fact, it will be a miracle if I make it out alive without patches of hair ripped out of my scalp. By me, not some kinky thing or something.

As I may or may not have mentioned, I decided to put myself out there on an undisclosed dating site. It’s bad enough that I’ve lost so much personal dignity by creating an online profile, please don’t ask me where it resides. All you need to know is that every single dating site, regardless of their reputation and guidelines, are electronic meat markets overpopulated by married men looking for strange and men who live in their mother’s basements with an Xbox and a cat. It is possible they live in the basements because umbilical cords are only so long, but that’s a whole ‘nother therapy session.

Right before I met the man who will now have the clever code name The Chef (aka the last douchebag who left me for his ex-wife), I went on another online dating site to browse and see if I wanted to join. I did not join because when I plugged in my info for what I was looking for, one of my matches scared the bejeebus out of me.

Because I did not save his profile photo and am never, ever going back there, you will have to trust me with the description and visualize. Basically for his profile photo – on a website where he was hoping to find his one true love – was a photo of him wearing what can best be described as “nothing but a blanket” (yes, he was buck naked wrapped in a blanket), holding a big, furry cat.

Cee-Lo Green is pretty cool and he barely pulls off holding a big, furry cat clothed. And, let me tell you, this guy was no Cee-Lo Green. I briefly thought perhaps the holding of the cat was symbolic, but unless the symbolism he was going for was “Hey look, I’m a big, giant pussy holding a big, giant pussy,” he failed horribly.

Regardless of the intent, I had lifetime trauma.
Luckily I met The Chef and that distracted me from the dating world for a while. In fact, as I look back it may be some sort of Christmas miracle that he was any type of normal.

But wait – didn’t he get lonely and leave me for his ex-wife while I was at Disney World for a week?!

Scratch what I said about normal. But he was The Chef and he did cook with me and we watched our TV shows together and did romantic things and normal things. Until his ex-wife almost got foreclosed on and needed some extra house payment money. Oh wait, I meant to say “realized he was her one true love and couldn’t live without him.” Semantics.

Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but that last bite tasted a little bitter. Oopsie.

So, after a few months with The Chef and buoyed by his whole “You’re a great person; I just have to do this for my daughter” speech (that speech is pure bullshit EVERY time, by the way), I decide to sign up for an online dating site. And I’m sure as long as I keep logging on there I will have tales for you, but I wanted to share a few observations so far.

First of all, do you know how hard it is to be someone of above-average intelligence who knows how to spell on a dating site? I feel like brain cells are actually dripping out of my ear whenever I log on.

So far I have had some interesting offers: several married guys looking to knock a piece off on the way home from work, young kids with a Mrs. Robinson fantasy, and guys from foreign lands like Arkansas and Colorado who obviously just want to be pen pals. I am also popular with long-haul truckers who’d like to make a “special delivery” in the Music City, and I did get a nice offer from a “Saudi Arabian prince,” who is preparing for my arrival to his harem if I could just fax him my bank info and a copy of my passport to set it all up.

Lovely. I just want to grab a beer and watch sports, maybe go bowling. And, I find that it’s completely and totally impossible to know someone’s your one true love only by seeing a photograph of them. Actually, where I come from, that’s called desperate.

I also had a guy who read that I was a writer in my profile and wants to text me his poems. I haven’t told him that I detest most poetry (and if he’s writing it on his cell phone it’s probably not quality anyhow). In fact, I just ignored his message. He’ll go away eventually, right?

There are more stories, but I can’t tell them all today. Nor can I tell them all while I’m sober. I guess you’ll just have to keep reading to see what happens next.

But those little boys who use the word “cum” instead of “come” in a sentence (like “Maybe I can cum over after work.”)? I get what you’re meaning there, but I’m so not going to pick up what you’re putting down. Mostly because I think it might be chlamydia.

And people wonder why 99 percent of the time I am perfectly content with being single…

Song of the day: "F*$% You" by Cee-Lo Green ("Forget You" if you listen to the radio version)

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