Reason #26 Why Dating is Rough: "I've come all this way....."

Parking in my neighborhood is a tricky thing, because like most cities there are more cars than spots to hold them. As such I try to avoid using my car after 8PM like nobody’s business. If I can’t scam a ride off someone, my attendance is questionable. Seriously, it’s just kind of the way it is. I think most people I know have grown to accept this, and if there are those out there who at all troubled by the fact that I am essentially choosing an eight foot section of gravel over their company, they hide it fabulously.

Sometimes, though, circumstances of life demand that I fire up the ole Mariner after the sun has set and take her for a spin. The other night was one of those nights, and I must say it was well worth it.

A friend needed a ride home from the airport after arriving from what was supposed to have been one big out of town booty call of a weekend. A few days prior I had left him at the terminal in full supply of optimism and prophylactics, and now I was picking him up ready to hear all the sordid details. Unfortunately, though, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan, and what got into my car that evening was one unopened box of family planning aids and one frustrated hot mess of a grouch.

Oooo, snap.

What happened?? It had seemed like a slam dunk!

Turns out the weekend had been ripe with weather delays, hangovers, a car accident, you name it, it happened. However, these were not the things that stopped our hero. No, no, these were mere details that certainly poured salt in the wound, but fender benders alone would not have proven a strong enough deterrent. What did? Well, as my weary traveler explained, it had been several years since he’d last seen this girl in person, and, well, the Facebook photos in retrospect had clearly been strategically chosen. In short, she was not nearly as asthetically pleasing as he recalled her being. Not even close. As a matter of fact, kind of the opposite. To make matters worse apparently there was quite a bit of baby talking to the four, count 'em, four cats going on. And all that with a three-pack-a-day voice.

Verdict? No bueno. No bueno, indeed. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a finger on her.

When I asked our protagonist if he couldn’t have pressed forward, if he couldn’t have just closed his eyes, strapped on some beer goggles, made a wish and gone for it, he responded, with deep regret, no. No, he could not. He’d thought about it quite a bit, and the conclusion he’d come to was that if circumstances were different, if he’d been able to do the 3AM dash, he could have powered through. But being that he was a two night houseguest with hockey games, museum visits and all kinds of other activities planned for the cold, harsh light of day, there was just no way.

To hear him relay the tale with all the details was hilarious, but I must admit, I was a little depressed for him. After all, the whole thing seemed like such a waste - of time, of energy, of money and anticipation. He’d traveled all that way for nothing. It must have really been, how shall I put this, a nightmare of a bad scene. (Ok, programming note: You know what? I’ve tried desperately hard to not use the word ugly or any synonym thereof for fear of karmic retribution. But, quite frankly I just cannot muster the energy to word-smith this anymore. You get the jist – according to my friend, our girl was ugly. There. I’ve said it.) But it begged a question – much like Barney Stinson’s famed “Hot/Crazy Scale”, wherein a girl must be at least as hot as she is crazy in order to be a viable prospect, is there an Ugly/Distance Scale? As in, “I’ve traveled X far, I don’t care that she’s Y ugly, I’m gonna hit this”? There’s a term for this in psychology called Escalation of Commitment, which is defined as “increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.” It’s sometimes what’s going on when a long term couple persists in staying together, despite obvious incompatibilities. They aren’t ready to admit that the time invested may have been a mistake, and as more time passes, they become more determined to prove themselves correct. Clearly in this case, the distance traveled was not far enough warrant, ah-hem, increased investment, but suppose my friend had hopped on a plane and flown to Chicago? Denver? L.A.? At what point might he have said, “Aw hell. I might as well get my airfare’s worth….”

I posed this question to a neighbor who without even thinking debunked my theory by denying such a scale would exist. “Under no set of circumstances,” he firmly stated, “would I allow that to happen. I’d leave, find some other girl, then get on the plane to come home.”

Fair enough.

Desperately hoping I’m on the right side of both scales,

khop

Reasons 4 - 205 Why Dating Is Rough: What burner am I on?

Internet dating has been on the back burner. Simply put, I cannot be bothered. Dating in general and internet dating in specific requires a certain amount of fresh-faced, bright eyed and bushy tailed optimism, lest you come across as one of those jaded, life-weary, angry types. And every once in awhile enough becomes enough, and even the most good-natured, happy go lucky dating warrior runs low on the mental energy required for another turn up to bat. Any coach worth his salt will bench an exhausted athlete to allow for “strategic disengagement”, but in the sport that is dating, I am my own coach. Thus, this charm city newbie has hidden her profile for a bit and in the cold winter months is choosing the company of her TiVo, her cat (now where have I heard that phrase before?) and real life opportunities as opposed to another wink and a plate of overcooked chicken at Baltimore’s newest trendy bad restaurant.

Have I declared a strike? No, no, that sounds so hostile. More like an indefinite Match Mancation. Wouldn’t it be nice if I went all “The Weather Is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful” and never came back?

As relaxing as this is, it has posed a problem, though, the problem of writing material. While I can get away with a post or two about Boeuf Bourguignonne every once in awhile, let’s face it. Yes, it is heavenly to motor through a plate of the stuff; however, you and I both know it’s not why you tune into this particular blog. No, no, you tune in because God Almighty you love a good old fashion train wreck. And I ask you, reader, what’s a better wreck of said train than my ass expanding due to a chronic case of datis interwebis horrificus? I’ve been half-tempted to take the profile for a spin just to have something to write about, but this seemed wrong. Horridly, karmically, God will afflict me with the world’s largest impacted colon as punishment wrong.

Besides, it’s too damn cold out. And did I mention real life?

Back to the problem of writing material. Lucky for me, a Baader Meinhof happened recently when in the span of a day or so the concept of “Back Burner” relationships came up as a trending topic of conversation. Seems as though everyone’s got a thought or two on them. More interestingly, everyone’s got a different place for them in their dating line up. These conversations struck a cord with me, as I’ll admit to at times having as active a back burner as the next gal. Moreover, I am acutely aware of situations where I have been the person on someone else’s back burner. And all this interests me. So for a series of upcoming posts, I decided to put the tens of thousands of dollars my parents spent on my science degree to good use. I canvased some friends via email, collected data on the subject and have been trying to tease out trends (or as my former boss would creepily say “massage the data”). I’m comparing it with my own observations and attempting to write it all up. Probably not what my faculty advisor envisioned all those years ago, but really. What has he done for me lately?

I’ve been working on this topic for nearly a month now, and I sense a few folks getting impatient, as more than one person shot me a “what’s this piece of crap?”-type email upon reading the nickname post. My humble apologies. Turns out that the back burner has a little more meat on its bones than I anticipated, and I’ve been spending quite a bit of time scratching my head and staring at it, circling it, kicking it, and wondering if I should throw good judgement out the window and brazenly forage ahead or disappear into the night and pretend this topic never existed.

Much like inviting two dozen people over for a sit down dinner of Boeuf Bourguignonne.

Why do I do these kinds of things to myself???

Upon hearing I was having so much difficulty, my vertically gifted West Coast readership suggested that I calm the $%^& down and break this topic into a series of posts. (BTW, way to use those Wharton management skillz to get some productivity out of me. That degree just paid for itself...) What a great idea. So in a rare display of common sense, I’ve decided to simplify, to eat this elephant one bite at a time. Thus, back burner musings will be coming to you piecemeal.

And the Boeuf Bourguignonne will be a buffet.

By the way, to the freeloading jerks who are reading this now but never shot me a reply, thanks, you know, for being so supportive of my dream and stuff. Duly noted. Now would be a terrific time to send me some thoughts. Just sayin’.....

Firing up the stove,

khop

Pants 1, Khop 1. Final Score: Push.....

I am not going to lie to you.

Internet dating is rough. There are bad dates followed by worse dates followed by dates that leave you wondering just what kind puppy holocaust you spearheaded in your last life. Dates with the guys you hope never call (they do) followed by the rare dates with the ones you hope do call (they don't).

Serenity now!

Most of the time I find it pretty easy to stay upbeat about the hilarity of it all. After all, in what other venue would I have wound up dining with LifeIsShort443, who shared with me a detailed account of his self-diagnosed "abandonment issues" before the first round of drinks hit the table? And I ask you, how else would I have ever crossed paths with HeyItsMe, who's foolproof wooing techniques include referring to the city I openly love as "Filth-adelphia" a record three times in less than five minutes? And dear, blessed reader. Please, oh please, don't get me started about what happens when a good friend in the same metropolitan area who happens to share a pretty good physical resemblance with me also hops on match.com during the same time period. Truly, truly, that topic alone breeds enough material for a series of posts and perhaps an episode or two of "Facts of Life". Of course I would be remiss in not mentioning the fact that I have also met some very cool people, people whom fate chose to bring into my life via a good old fashioned "wink".

However, my heart is not made from tin, and when I am cut, I do actually bleed. Therefore, it is impossible to be immune from the lows that come with online dating. And those lows, boy are they low. On the walk home from dinner with LifeIsShort, my mind was assaulted with visions of married ex-boyfriends, a future with fifty cats and holiday after holiday after holiday of being A-L-O-N-E. Not surprisingly, I wound up working myself into quite a state. It's a good thing the path home didn't include walking across a bridge, because I can see the headline now: "Online Dating Drives Local Girl to Jump: One Meal with "LifeIsShort" Caused Life to be Long Enough".

If this does, in fact, happen, will somebody please take in my fifty cats?

Anywho, aside from the mental trauma, the other morning I discovered another side effect of my online search for love. On Thanksgiving morning I was preparing to head over to my parents' house for a day of American-style gluttony when it happened. Simply put, my pants betrayed me.

And it’s all the internet’s fault.

I don’t know about you, but I hate it when that happens.

Guys, you’re undoubtedly confused right now, but ladies, you know how this rolls. Life is good, not a care in the world, perhaps you’re even singing a little Debbie Gibson throwback number in your head. One leg goes in, followed by the other, pull ‘em up, go to button - wait. Uh oh. What’s going on here? What should be lose is obscenely tight. Lemme see if some squats will help stretch ‘em out. Crap. It’s wearable, but it’s certainly not comfortable, OH DEAR GOD WHY? [Cut to several moments of uncontrollable weeping.]

Such was the scene in my bedroom Thanksgiving morning, of all mornings, and when I finally peeled myself off the floor, I confirmed via measuring tape my worst suspicions: my ass had undergone a secret expansion of epic proportions, coming in at a full quarter inch above what I term acceptable for ass circumference. (Yes, yes, I do have a predetermined measurement of what’s an acceptable ass circumference. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Hel-LO???) This news would send me into a tailspin on any day of the year, but that day was so much worse. Goodbye, pumpkin pie. Adios, stuffing and sweet potato casserole. Farewell, second meal two hours later. Perhaps next year we will be on better terms.

How did this happen? At first I was stumped. I've been swimming just as much as always and have even been throwing some running in. What was going on here? Pardon my language, mom, but what the fuck?!?!

Then it dawned on me. My week used to go like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Stay in, cook healthy meal.

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Stay in, eat healthy left overs. Rejoice in health.

Friday: Perhaps some happy hour, followed by dinner out

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Whatever. Hey Steve, care to go running?

Lately, though, my week has gone like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Date

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Date (sigh.)

Friday: Crap. Another date.

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Really? Another *&%$ing date?

What, perchance, would you think the caloric difference would be between those two schedules? I can’t even begin to guess, but you know the result: a quarter inch above acceptable.

At this realization, I stomped into my office and shook an angry fist at my computer.

GOD DAMN YOU, INTERNET, GOD DAMN YOU!

Knowing that Thanksgiving Day serves as the starter’s pistol on the beginning of a month-long marathon of holiday over-indulging, I decided damage control needed to begin that very moment. I’m a firm believer in putting into place conditions that prevent bad behavior and setting up consequences for if it happens anyway. So what did I do? I took out my tightest, most constrictive pair of jeans, defied a few laws of physics and jammed my rear into them before heading off to a day of No Carb Left Behind at my parents‘ house. I wore those horrific things all day as a reminder of that quarter inch and as a pledge to not allow that quarter become a half. I’m proud to say that I made it until 8PM in those jeans, until I couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed a pair of my mom’s sweatpants and collapsed on the sofa. Moreover, I became the first person in the history of my family to actually have some salad with my Thanksgiving dinner, every bite of which was eyed with suspicion and contempt by my loving clan.

This month is going to be a constant two steps forward, one step back situation, a balancing act between enjoying the holidays and getting rid of that quarter inch. You know what the real kick in the crotch irony of it all is? What do you think is the Number One, Never Fail, Reliable as the Sun Rising Each Day method for Khop dropping a few pounds?

Going through a bad break up. Yep, yep, the pounds slide off my rear like water off a duck’s back.

Seriously????

Off to fat camp,

khop

Internet Dating: Turns out there’s a little bit of asshole in all of us....

As I round third base on one full month of internet dating, I have no shortage of stories and observations. My profile has been viewed almost 2000 times. I have been winked at, instant messaged, “favorite”-ed and emailed. I have been sent one-liner pick ups and encyclopedia-length form letters, both clearly the internet version of throwing spaghetti at the proverbial wall to see what will stick. One potential suitor actually had several friends write references speaking to his “date-ability”, which he provided (not upon my request) for me to peruse at my leisure. I think it’s all because I mentioned in my profile that I can cook.

Think of what the results would be if I could actually take a good picture!

I relay all this only to illustrate the veritable ocean of single members of the opposite sex the new internet dater is suddenly plunged into. After months (who are we kidding here, years) of famine, wondering where all the single men are and suspecting they are on the verge of popping up here or here, I’ve finally figured it out. They are not, in fact, on the verge of extinction. No, no, they are busy running around town, collecting those “date-ability” references for their online dating profiles from their friends.

Why didn’t this occur to me before?

One key observation I’ve made as an internet dater is that there’s an awful lot of poor behavior going on here, on the part of everybody involved, myself included. I’ll give you an example. Somewhere roundabout Week 2, yours truly got stood up. I mean, the Classic Stand Up. There I was, politely refusing the bartender’s inquiry as to if I wanted anything, trying to appear busy texting nobody on my cell phone, finally ordering, drinking and paying for that drink. After thirty minutes, I got up and left.

Asshole, right?? Well, yeah, I should say so!

Were my feelings hurt? Nah....you gotta know someone before they can hurt your feelings. If anything I was annoyed because I had come home from the gym and had to do the whole drying of the hair/ reapplication of the makeup thing instead of lounging around in sweats for the remainder of the night. Plus, I wasn't exactly shocked that he didn't show. I had already started to smell a rat, as my efforts to confirm via email that morning had gone unanswered, even though his profile indicated he had been online later that day. Also, if I’m honest, my motivations in agreeing to go out with him in the first place were more professional than personal (he claims to be in the line of work I’d like to go into someday). Uh-oh, wait a sec. Dating someone with the ulterior motive of professional gain isn’t very nice, is it? Doesn’t that kind of make me an asshole, too?

Wait, it gets worse. Many a time I have made excuse after excuse for a guy who is clearly trying to blow me off. I rationalize; I hand out benefits of doubt like a flight attendant hands out peanuts. If grasping at straws were an olympic sport, I would have a trophy case of all my gold metals. Seriously, no one can top me in this.

“Perhaps he lost his phone and got into a car wreck and found out his grandma died all this afternoon? Clearly, I should withhold judgement until I find out.”

Oh wait, no. That’s what I would’ve said in lives past to the tattoo-covered bartender’s demand that I hand over the guy’s phone number, so that after my departure he could call and let my date know just what a fine lovely lady he’d passed on.

How did I respond to this request? I think it went something like this, “Yeah, sure. Got a pen?”

Doh!!

So what the heck is going on here? We’re standing each other up? We’re giving out each other’s phone numbers to tattoo-covered bartenders? Isn’t the point of all this to find someone to be with? This isn’t the warm and fuzzy, loving, caring stuff that breeds long-lasting relationships, you know.

Best I can tell, there’s (at least) three things going on here: vermin, vacuum and volume.

Vermin:

FACT - There are plenty of normal, reasonable, well-intended people, trying to meet someone special on the world wide web.

Buuuuuut......

FACT - Internet dating sites are also a perfect utopia for creeps and crazies. Card -carrying members of the Jerk Store Club and those with lists of issues longer than, well, long. In real time, these folks are often pretty easy to size up, and within a few minutes it’s possible to faintly see the scarlet “NOT DATEABLE” tattoos on their foreheads, peaking through the layers of stage makeup. The signs are much harder to initially spot, however, when all you’re working with is an online profile, some photos that may or may not actually be of that person, and some emails that, who knows, may have been painstakingly crafted to disguise all that crazy. The result is that internet daters are at risk for investing days, weeks or months only to wind up diagnosing the same terminal prognosis that may have taken all of 30 seconds to arrive at if they’d met this person IN line at the “Singles Safeway”, rather than ON line through “match” or similar.

Turns out I’d had a vermin run-in myself only a few days earlier, and my disappointment and frustration over that no doubt partly fueled my decision to hand over my stand upper’s phone number to a total stranger. Is it an excuse? Oh no, not at all. But it is part of the explanation.

Vacuum: Assuming the spouses from whom we’re hiding our online adventures never find out, our poor behavior seems consequence-free. We don’t have common friends. We don’t work together. I’m not going to see you when I roll in to swim team. Your cousin isn’t going to glare at you from across the Thanksgiving Dinner table for screwing over her friend. In short, our day to day lives are in no way impacted if we shit the bed on this one, aside from theoretically missing out on someone great. But even that is strictly theoretical. In reality, we are no worse off tomorrow than we were today.

Volume: The final piece to this pie is the sheer volume of potential dates one is exposed to via the interwebs. As described above, in the month I have been doing this, a literal swarm of men have flooded my inbox. However, I am no beauty queen, nor do I come close to being the best thing to hit Charm City since sliced bread. In fact, I appear to be a dime a dozen, as a search for ladies in my demographic and geography yielded page after page after page of results. Although I’m sure very few of those women include photos of themselves wielding large, high-powered nail guns - perhaps that’s my secret.

Anywho, I believe that the vast numbers involved result in a distinct loss of humanity. We aren’t people anymore; we’ve become commodities, unremarkable, indistinguishable, and completely interchangeable. The opportunity to meet new single people no longer resembles a small town airport with only one plane leaving each day. No, internet dating air drops you smack in the middle of the main terminal in JFK. It’s ok if I miss this flight; there’s another one leaving in forty five minutes. Similarly, it’s ok if I burn a bridge here or there; I can always refresh my search and “wink” at someone new.

Lesson learned? Well, usually for me a little bit of awareness goes a long way in helping me correct an identified behavioral issue. That being said, I will make every effort to not allow my frustrations to compound and manifest themselves as creative revenge.

That is, unless the guy really deserves it.

My dad always says that there’s an asshole on every corner. Which means there are four at every intersection.

In cyberspace, at the intersection of “Going to Hell” and “Mind Giving Me a Ride?”

khop

Reason #652 Why Dating Is Rough: The Bad Boy

Let's see, what do I know about you so far? You're a jerk. You're opinionated, wildly arrogant, just a hair creepy, I suspect disrespectful, and who knows? If I date you for any length of time, perhaps I will find myself cut up into little pieces and stored in your freezer.

(I'm sorry, but that last one is just a baseline assumption that is necessary for anyone one meets on the internet.)

If you were only those things, it would be so easy to just walk away. And by walking away, I mean clicking on the icon that sends you a pre-drafted Dear John email, letting you down ever so gently.

After all, you do realize, don't you, that you are stealing time away from the SEVENTY THREE other men who have thrown their names in the Khop Ring in the ten days since I've burst onto the Charm City internet dating scene? Of course you do. You wouldn't have it any other way.

For research purposes, I googled the question, "Why do women like bad boys?" and came up with this hit on "Self Growth.com". And even though the dude who wrote the article is trying to sell me a five-part mini-course on flirting with women, I have to admit, he's not all that far off.

How so?

Challenging and Adventurous? Check, aaaaand Check! You've got my attention, partially because I know that at any moment I could lose yours. This is interesting to me, as while I suck at actual chess, I quite enjoy a mental game of it. You take liberties with me in our conversations, pushing the limit of what's appropriate. You're cognizant that you've walked right out on a limb, and you're interested to see if and at what point that branch will break, landing you flat on your ass and at square one with someone else. Why are you not concerned about that happening?

well......

Confidence and Indifference? Check! Check! Your online profile gives a veritable middle finger to the main stream, and based on my preliminary observations, this is fairly reflective of how you live your life. You're not terribly fussed if I throw up my hands and you see the back of me walking away. In fact, in the event that happens, you'll have already convinced yourself that it must be due to a character flaw in me, not you, God's gift to women.

My friends and loved ones are undoubtedly reading this, shaking their heads and thinking, "Please, Khop, not again. We've done this with you before. Please settle down with a perfectly nice, perfectly bland boy. She's got all these choices, and who does she gravitate to? The jerk off."

Come on, give me a little credit.

First off, I'm giving good playing time to the others in the que, lining them up and spitting them out as fast as one who has a full time job, several hobbies and other social commitments can. In fact, I have two dates on the books, three pending, and the other night I had "drinks" (see, I'm learning!) with a perfectly nice gentleman, who unfortunately turned out to have a very elitist world view, not to mention slightly crossed eyes.

[Note to cross-eyed men out there: I beg of you. Schedule an activity for the first date: bowling, skeet shooting, cow-tipping, anything, so that I'm not sitting across a table from you for two hours, having the mental dialogue, "Sweet Jesus, this guy has crossed eyes. Don't stare. Wait, you need to make eye contact. Do I have eye contact? I'm not sure. Crap, what'd he just say??"]

Second, employing Stephen Covey's highly effective Habit #5, "Seek First to Understand", I'm in the information-gathering phase here, trying to assess what I'll find once I peel back the layers of this bad boy's onion. Is there depth and kindness there? Do we want the same things out of life and relationships? How similar are our values? Or, at the end of the day, is he just your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety asshole? I think it's fair to say that I've demonstrated that when the answers come back negative on those big questions, I politely turn and look elsewhere. I just can't bring myself to give up the hope that I can find someone who wants the same things I do and will treat me the way I deserve to be treated, while at the same time catching my interest in a manner that I can only describe as intellectual catnip. In essence, I'm rooting for Bad Boy, but I'm not afraid to cut him from the team if he's not up to par.

Besides. Thus far, he's given no indication that he's poly-amorous. Sadly, given his recent competitors, that puts him far in the lead.

Just call me Sookie,

khop

Reason #237 Why Dating Is Rough: www.oh-here-we-go-again.com

Great news, readers!

No, no, it's not another Soup Swap.

For I, dear khop, have decided to take the plunge to dating, inter-web style.

What prompted this turn of events, might you ask? Probably not what you’d think.

The other morning I woke up in pain. A very sharp pin prick of pain on the left side of my upper back actually woke me from my slumber. I put my hand back there and felt a very big, very hard lump. I thought, "Well, here it is. The way I'm going to die. From a cancerous tumor on my back."

Sigh.

When I got out of bed to peer in the mirror at this thing that was going to kill me, I realized that it was not, in fact, a tumor.

Horray!

It was a big huge nasty back zit. Did I mention how badly this thing hurt? As I contorted my body in attempt to get both hands back there to pop it, I thought, "Well, here it is. The way I'm going to die. From breaking my neck in attempt to pop my own back zit."

Sigh.

The fact that my untimely death could be entirely avoided if only I had a significant other on hand to pop said not-tumor sent me plummeting into a deep depression, very sad George-Michael-Bluth-Charlie Brown-like.

Verily, verily, this was not the best morning ever.

So I decided to do something about it. I’d been meaning to give Charm City interweb dating a try for a while, and things seemed to be calming down lately. No soup swap, no pending granite installations, no triathlon weekends coming up, why not? Any way I looked at it, it was a win-win situation: best case scenario, I find the man of my dreams, my veritable “one”. Medium case scenario, I get the ego boost of having a few irons in the fire, even if nothing materializes. Worst case scenario, I consider the whole thing research for my pathetic little rag.

I’ve dabbled in the world of internet dating before, a few times in fact. The first was several years ago with Match.com while I was living in West Chester, PA. Like the sprinter that I am, I lined up four dates in one weekend. By the end of Date #4, I was thoroughly burnt out and spent the next several months getting the shakes whenever I found myself in the same room as my computer and staunchly preferring the company of my cat and my Tivo.

Ever the optimist, I gave things another shot a few months later with Neil Clark Warren’s shop over at eHarmony. And while I do see distinct advantages to the particular brand of madness he claims is in his method, I struck out over there, as well.

About a year or so later, in a moment of curiosity, I took a gander through Match.com again, and made this little discovery. And until now, that was that for me and lovin’ on the world wide web.

Why start this all up again? Well, for the reasons I explained above, namely back zit, irons in fire, writing material, et cetera, et cetera. I am in a new city, so there is a whole new batch of mens out there waiting to “wink” at the khop. Who’s to say my luck won’t be different this time around? Plus, there are plenty of people I know, cool, normal people, who have found dating success at the swipe of a credit card and a few clicks on the keyboard. So why can’t I? With renewed optimism, I fired up my shiny new MacBook Pro and started surfing away.

Look out, Charm City web daters! Here I come!

So far, I’m six days in, and I have four post-it notes chock full of observations, so if nothing else, my quest for writing material has certainly been successful. I’ll relay one or two now and save the rest for later posts.

First thing’s first: The Handle.

In this uncertain life, I’m sure about very few things. One thing I am rock solid on, though, is that like your child’s name, your internet dating handle must be chosen with extreme thought and precision. When thinking through potential handles, you must consider all the ways it could be contorted to make you look lame, creepy, uninteresting, or just plain weird. This is not only critically important in your attempts to attract quality members of the opposite sex, but also so if (no, when) your friends find out about your quest for online love and track down your profile behind your back, you’re not forever referred to as “Ladyluver” or, ahem, one hot chick.

My first time around, I was stumped. I didn’t want to use any overt name identifiers (unsafe) or my initials (lame). I didn’t want to typecast myself as a “frisbeegal” or try to come up with a clever dating-themed name. In the end, my first attempt was so unfortunate I struggle to even relay it here. The formula I devised was:

cat’s name (oh how I cringe at this, yes, yes, major clue as to why I am single) + year of birth + best frisbee throw/heckle = world class handle.

The sum of this particular equation was Lulu77huckit. (This account has long since been killed so don’t even bother searching.)

Not very far into this foray I realized that my math was a bit off.

To me, cat’s name plus year of birth plus best frisbee throw/heckle equaled Lulu77huckit, but to the average West Chester internet-dating male, the equation probably went something like this:

Lulu77huckit = this girl has a weird first name + year of birth + did she just say “fuck it”? As in, "Fuck it, I guess I'll try internet dating?"

And even after clarification, the BEST this equation would ever amount to was:

Lulu77huckit = this girl used her CAT’S name in her handle? + year of birth + frisbee? you mean like frisbee football? Is that a real sport? I thought only barefoot hippies played that game?

I never was particularly good at math.

This time around, after very careful deliberation, I think I picked a slightly better handle. I’m not going to relay it here; however, if you are any good at internet stalking at all, you should be able to find it on your own without too much difficulty. I am aware that there is some time-sensitivity to the name, as it refers to me being new in town, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I am excited to report that I have been outdone, though, in terms of unfortunate handles, as the other day I was “winked” at by “Lone Ranger seb”. Because of the lack of underscores or spaces, though, it took me quite a bit of time to realize that his handle was not, in fact, “Loner Angers eb”.

Good luck with your anger issues, s.e.b. I wish you all the best with that.

Undoubtedly more soon,

khop

Reason 785 Why Dating is Rough: Sushi Dan

I’ve always been a hater of meeting for “just a drink”.

I mean, come on. Even if shit goes wrong, it’s not as if we can’t put our nose to the grindstone and power through a meal together, right?

As someone who has had her fair share of less than stellar first dates, I know the feeling of knowing ten minutes in that the evening is shot. Pit in stomach, thinking of all the things I could be doing with my evening instead of sitting here, making small talk with you.

But really, how bad could things get? If we’ve agreed to go out at all, can’t we at least invest the time it takes to order and eat a plate of food? After all, let’s face it, we’re not that busy. Besides, deigning only to a drink seems so, well, pessimistic.

I’ve now revised my policy on all this. Why, you might ask? Two words:

Sushi Dan.

Lemme set the scene. Last week, I was meeting a colleague for a sushi lunch when I met this hotter than hot guy. I’m talking hot. We chatted, there was rapport, business cards were exchanged. We seemed to have a boatload in common. I couldn’t believe my luck. So when he called for a date, I was stoked.

The date he suggested was right up my ally, a little too good to be true, actually: tossing in the park followed by cooking risotto together at his house. (Now if you’re reading this and find it a little odd that I agreed to go to a total stranger’s house for dinner on a first date, I’ll give you that one. I wasn’t entirely comfortable at the thought, but I went for it.)

When we met, he was as hot as I recalled. Hotter, actually. Things were off to a great start when about 10 minutes in, he casually mentioned he was flying home to Michigan this weekend to visit his? You guessed it, girlfriend.

Crap. I immediately took a mental inventory of the possible reasons as to how I had wound up on a date with an unavailable guy. Had I misread the signals, and this date was a “friends” thing? Are hot guys really so desperate for platonic friends that they call up girls they meet in sushi restaurants and offer to cook risotto for them? Didn’t gel. Perhaps I had somehow blown it already, and he was aborting the mission by making up a fictitious girlfriend? After all, the very first thing I do to get an unwanted guy off my trail is to start name-dropping a made up ball ‘n chain. But no, it was too early in the date. We’d barely gotten past the basic get-to-know-you stuff, and at no point thus far had my foot even come close to being in my mouth. Maybe they’re on the verge of breaking up, and he’s too stupid to not mention her? After all, they are long distance. Honestly, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was the best I could come up with. In any case, I made the call to stick around and get to the bottom of it.

I mean, I did mention he was hot, right?

A bit later, about five minutes into the 60+ minute risotto recipe, he mentioned her again. This time I took the bait and was told that they are allowed to see other people.

Sigh. Experience has taught me that these things rarely turn out well for the new person, and quite frankly I’m just not interested in the drama and complication. I had a feeling that at the end of the evening I would likely request that he be in touch if his GF ever became an ex-GF, but until then, best of luck. So, mystery solved, but now definitely a wasted evening.

Correction. It would’ve been a wasted evening if he’d left it at that. But no, he continued. Seems as though they’ve moved to their current status somewhat recently, and surprise, surprise, she’s having a hard time adjusting. And he let me know that he feels it’s really important that his girlfriend know that she can reach out to other people since he’s not around. So this weekend, when he goes home, they are going to get together with another couple they know. And they’re going to, you know, all be together.

At this, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, and food shot out of my mouth. I’m talking, hummus hit the wall. Between gulps of laughter, I clarified, “So basically, you’re going home to have an orgy?”

Without a hint of humor, he replied, “well, yeah.”

Woah.

It soon became evident that he was quite eager to talk about this, and seeing as how I was no longer eager to impress, the date turned into a mini-inquisition on the subject of polygamy. I indulged myself not only in asking the blunt questions but also in being a bit “unplugged”, shall we say, in my commentary.

So without further ado, I give you Poly-Amour 101, According To Sushi Dan. Subtitle, At Least The Risotto Was Good.

Khop: In my limited experience with open relationships, it seems that more often than not there is one person who is into it, and then there is another person who pretends to be into it for fear that objecting will result in losing the person altogether. Tell me about that in general and specifically with you and your girlfriend.

Sushi Dan: In general that is often the case. Specifically, though, well…. that is also the case. If I agreed to be monogamous, I’m sure that’s what she would prefer. But, I think she’s slowly coming around. At least I think she is.

Khop: Huh. Would never have put money on that being your answer. And by “would never” I mean “would definitely”.

Khop: You’ve mentioned your relationship to your girlfriend as being “committed”. Tell me, where is the “commitment”?

Sushi Dan: Oh, well I’m very committed to her. I’m committed to being there for her emotionally and to calling her and visiting her and doing all the other stuff that goes along with being a boyfriend. It’s just that I’m free to see other people, too.

Khop: Oh, so what you mean by “committed” is that you commit to keeping her on the roster, most likely in the starting line up. But you're definitely looking to expand the team and evenly distribute the playing time. You commit to continue sleeping with her - that is, when you're not sleeping with somebody else.

Sushi Dan: Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way.

Khop: Ok, just checking.

Khop: So we’ve established that the physical aspect of your relationship has no exclusivity clause. What about the emotional side? Who does the emotional commitment go to? Especially since sex for women quickly leads to emotional bonding. What happens when either of you bond with someone else? And are the women you sleep with just being used as warm bodies?

Here Sushi Dan took the time to explain to uneducated me the difference between swinging, open relationships and poly amorous relationships. Turns out we’re apparently talking about different things here, in an attempt, it seems, to take one Very Bad Idea and give it several layers. The first two are intended to be only physical. Swinging typically occurs with both parties initially present, while open means that the creeping around town is done on one’s own time but with full permission. In both, theoretically the emotional attachment remains exclusive. In poly amorous relationships each partner gets to have their cake and eat it too, as “multiple committed, intimate relationships are acceptable and encouraged.”

Guess which camp Sushi Dan and his lucky GF were in? Yep, not only was the position of girlfriend already filled, but Sushi Dan claimed to have funding for additional girlfriend headcount.

Pun entirely intended.

Khop: Do you mind if I ask how old you are?

Sushi Dan: 26.

Khop: ahhh….

Khop: Have you considered a move to Utah?

Sushi Dan: Now you’re just mocking me.

Khop: You're just realizing this now?

As he walked me home, Sushi Dan asked me how I felt about this, if I would consider going out with him again or if all this poly-amour talk had me “running scared”, subtly implying that if I objected, my old fashioned thinking indicated a character flaw in me. I politely told him that while I generally subscribe to a “whatever floats your boat” kind of philosophy in life, none of this did, in fact, float my particular boat. I thanked him for his transparency, but told him that he’d have to keep looking for the next addition to his harem. In a display of social and self awareness that had been glaringly lacking from the rest of the evening, he said, “well, at least you’ll have a good story to tell, right?”

True dat, Sushi Dan, true dat.

Call me old fashioned, but poly-amours need not apply,

khop

PS: Thoughts?

Reason 539 Why Dating is Rough: Check, Please!

Recently, a certain vertically gifted gentleman and I were catching up over email, and of course the conversation wandered on over to our love lives. He was recounting the various twists and turns he’s currently experiencing when he wrote this (quoted with permission and name changed btw):

“On Thursday I went out with Jennifer (who my friend met at her second cousin's wake). Guess what? I bought two rounds of drinks (as is proper form), but Jennifer neither said thank you nor offered to buy a round. Guess that's how she rolls. Is that weird that I think that's weird? It seems petty on one hand, but strange on the other.”

Upon reading his email I was struck by déjà vu. I just had this conversation not too long ago, but from the opposite viewpoint. A girlfriend of mine had just come home from a first date she had been extremely excited about. The rapport had been great, the signs all good. But then, out of nowhere, I get a text: “I’m done with him – He made me PAY!”

Huh. First dates are so god damn rough. There’s opportunity for fatal error with every word uttered, and I think all of us can probably recount a first date where the evening took a sudden sharp left turn from promising to “well, this was great, but I gotta get up real early….” From “Woo hoo!” to “Uh oh…” From a strong heart beat and good prognosis to flat-lined and morgue-bound. As Wise Cassie recently posted for her gchat status (presumably after a first date), first dates “are like job interviews, except with cocktails.”

Dear God, how do recovering alcoholics and Mormons get through them?

Added to the confusion is this whole “Who picks up the tab?” minefield dance that goes down just as the date is rounding third. As seen from the two aforementioned examples, a perfectly good evening can go down the tubes if this spot is handled incorrectly by either party. A budding relationship nipped in said bud. Good times, but no happy ending. We no longer live in the world of Mad Men when the rules of engagement on this topic were so crystal clear: Boy asks girl on date. Boy pays for date. Girl bats eyelashes, smiles, says thank you, and goes home hoping a marriage proposal is next. This day and age, playing a quick mental game of WWDD (What Would the Drapers Do?) does not a clear answer give.

I don’t know a lot about dating. In fact, some could say I’m the last person that should be handing out advice. This particular spot, however, I do feel as though I have mastered and can execute flawlessly every time. That being said, allow me to recommend a few guidelines for both sexes on how to successfully navigate this oh-so-precarious spot. (a.k.a. “How shit should go down”)

Section 1: “The Main Tab”

Note: The term “Main Tab” is somewhat self explanatory and refers to the main event of the date, usually the meal tab, not including tip.

Guys, as a rule of thumb, know that you are on the hook for paying for the Main Tab at least for Dates One and Two. That being said, pick somewhere you can afford. We’re not looking for you to wipe out your bank account; we’re simply looking to be courted and made to feel special. Plus, it’s cringingly nails down a chalkboard awkward for us if there’s even the whisper of a wince when you see the total. So if pizza by the slice is all you can manage at this juncture, then slices all around. Just be sure to hunt down the best slices in the city.

Normally, I’d like to say Date Three is where it’s acceptable to let the lady pick up a Main Tab, but by all means, if you are aiming to send a strong WOO message, go for it. Think of it as Extra Credit. Please know that if you cruise past Date Four without allowing the lady to treat, you are conditioning her to expect you to treat at all times from now until eternity. Do not, then, get your panties all up in a bunch when after two years of dating her and picking up the Main Tab each time, your lady stops even reaching for the check. You did it to yourself. (Woops, how did that piece of baggage slip into this conversation??)

One you’re past the initial chunk of dates, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to alternate who foots the bill, especially if both parties are gainfully employed professionals. It is never, ever, under any circumstances, in my humble opinion, acceptable to go “dutch”, no matter how long you’ve been together. Nothing kills the romance quicker than the look the waitress gives you when you ask her to “split it between both cards….”

Section 2: “The Secondary Tabs”

The person who has just been treated should now seek out a Secondary Tab to pay for as a gesture of gratitude and reciprocity. This could be as simple as offering to leave the tip at the restaurant (see below suggested script), or to grab the next round of drinks. Or it could be to pick up the next activity on the date: the movie tickets, dessert at a neighborhood ice cream shop, a round or two of ammo… You know, whatever. Whether or not your date chooses to take you up on this offer is immaterial. As you can see from the account my gentleman friend gives, it is the attempt that matters.

Section 3: “It’s the first date, and the check has arrived: A suggested script”:

Scene: The check has arrived. It’s sitting on the edge of the table in the little black sleeve. No one has touched it; the tab is not known. Lighthearted conversation is still bouncing back and forth, as if a time bomb has not been just placed six inches away. However, all mental energy on the part of both parties is now focused on how to navigate the next five minutes. Assuming both diners are even somewhat interested in a repeat of the evening, may I suggest something similar to this:

Man – picks up and looks at the check. Places credit card in folder and closes it, if possible without even pausing in what he’s saying.

Woman – in a timid voice, gesturing towards the closed folder, “Can I help with that?”

Man – “Oh absolutely not. I’ve got that covered.” Smile, showing teeth.

Woman – Show surprise and slightly exaggerated gratitude. “Oh! Thank you so much – that’s so sweet of you!” Touch his arm here, if at all possible. “Perhaps… I could leave the tip?” (Note to women – Always carry enough cash in the right increments to make this easy if he says yes.)

Man – You have two choices. You can either say, “Um, well, ok! Let’s see, looks like $15 should be plenty.” OR you can say, “Nah, I’ve got it covered. Thanks, though. Why don’t you grab us a round of drinks at this great bar down the street.”

See how easy this can be? No muss, no fuss.

I’ve been told the average male dreads this moment during a first date, because he is presented with a potential lose-lose situation. In this age of female empowerment, his date may get offended if he won’t accept her money. On the flip side he may be labeled cheap if he does, as was the case of the guy with whom my girlfriend dined. Upon further review of that particular play, however, a blunder on her part became evident. The bill came, and he picked it up. She offered to chip in, and he declined. Instead of thanking him, though, she went around the bend one more round, asking if he was sure. He froze in panic and then after a long pause finally blurted out, “Err, fine. Why don’t you just give me a twenty?” Yikes.

Don’t worry, fella’s, she’s got the script down now. We’ve rehearsed it several times.

Now, if only the rest of dating could be this easy…..

Buyin’ the movie tickets,

khop