Bad news, bloggees. Through a combination of somnambulant clumsiness and poor planning, it looks like I’ve given my laptop a tea bath. Things are not looking good for the poor thing.
Until I get something figured out – and don’t have to peck away on my phone – further adventures will be difficult to document. Gimme a couple days – I’ll be back.
It’s a snow day. In fact, it’s a thundersnow day. Now, as a freelancer, this really shouldn’t mean anything to me – but I can’t help it, it’s a snow day! Sure, I’ll do my writing, I’ll put in my hours… but there’s a different tinge to the air. There’s a certain waft of leisure, of pleasurable endeavors.
This, of course, sends my mind to women. After I’ve thrown enough snowballs and gotten enough ‘whoa!’s from the flashing sky, at least.
Alright – I lie. There was no one out there ready to trade missiles. And, if I may tangent for a second – and who’s gonna stop me – that makes me sad. I mean, it’s expected – it was cold and the snow pelted sideways and everything a person could want was indoors, with nothing good outside.
Save wonder! Save wonder. People sometimes muse, when did I get old? My answer – the moment snow stopped being a joy, and became an obstacle. It’s not unpleasant out there, not for a half hour at a time – and, with trees weighted down, playing limbo beneath their limbs, all above white and sticky and falling in clumps on your head – wait ‘til morning, it will have all sloughed off – this is a kind of heaven.
Now, maybe I’m so sunny because my lights stay on. And maybe it’s childish notions like these that have me edating, instead of nuzzled under a woolen blanket before a fire with one ringed finger twining another. So be it – I’ll keep making that trade.
But, to get back on track – it’s much too slick out to try and get together with anyone – not until I find another nearby lady. The last one was The Feminist Documentarian, who lived up the street that I flung with a few times.
No one like that at the moment. No nuzzling tonight.
So, instead, like thousands of others up and down the coast, I go online to my sites. But I know something others don’t…
Rule #83 The Rule of Two
There’s a mistake many make – mostly men, merely because we’re still the actors online, a good 95% of the time it’s going to be the man who makes the first move (and, in my experience, the first-moving ladies have seldom been any I woulda chosen. Which I’m sure is the way most women feel as they get barraged, as well.)
Anyway, the error: You find someone you like, you start a conversation – an exchange or two – and then, suddenly, despite seeming warmth, they disappear. What do most do? They bug – they can’t help it. They badger, they pester, they get irate if given a polite (or impolite) no thanks… this is no way to win a heart.
The Rule of Two: if you aren’t answered two missives in a row, radio silence. A day like today, and into the night – keep yourself conversing with ongoing things, and writing new matches.
If you haven’t heard back from one in awhile, a second letter is allowed – attractive matches are often a bit lost in interesting options, and it’s easy to misplace one in the shuffle. A gentle reminder you’re out there is fine – nothing long, just a quick ping.
Anything beyond that, though, and you’re only courting the ugly emotions that drag plenty of otherwise good people down. Not only do you ruin your chances with the present prospect, but you’re in the exact wrong mind space heading into future contacts. Remember, you’re not taking anything personally – certainly not before a face-to-face – so, if you haven’t heard back in two, let it go. Simple. Sometimes hard to do, but really quite intuitive, when you think about it. Grow a spine, keep your confidence – another will answer, it’s a guarantee – and move on. Rule of Two.
I woke up this morning the way I wake up every morning, for about two weeks now.
To the sound of a text from my stalker.
As stalkings go, this one is kind of cute. I didn’t even find her on a dating site – I was on a site where folks share stories. I’d gone there to see if there were any good edating tales people wanted to share – for this blog, for the possible book, for my own entertainment – and this girl offered to open up. Via text only, which was a little odd – but hey, when in kiddy land, live as the kiddies do.
So I exchanged a few texts with this college kid, a 20-year old in Kentucky, and thought that would be the end of it.
Then she texted again. And again. And started calling. The amusing thing is, she would have absolutely nothing to say if I acknowledged her – she was like a little dog chasing a squirrel, with no idea what to do once the squirrel was caught. (This happens. This was my prima donna dog – I’ve seen it.)
One time, when I decided to have the littlest bit of echo fun with my stalker (no one said I wasn’t cruel), our conversation went like this:
Hey
Hey.
Hey
Hey.
What’s up?
Sup
Nothin you?
Nuttin
I’m goin to a basketball game!
Hoops
Yeah brotha.
Another time – early on in this process – I asked for her photo, wondering if this is how the kids start their sexting and, if so, well, I will let a college girl send me naked photos, if she wants.
But no, she sent me a shot of her bandaged foot. And then a chain forward about bffs, and another about rainbows or something – I’m not sure, I was pretty tuned out.
The only time she ever really got under my skin was when she called thrice during a Ravens playoff game (which we lost). Her voicemail was near-unintelligible, but it sounded like a drunk frat party… and she’s calling the dude she’s never met 1000 miles away.
Now, The Kentucky Stalker’s text screen is filled with unanswered ‘Morning’s and ‘What’s up?’s and… gosh… you almost feel pity.
Almost.
Rule #42 No Stalking.
And while that seems incredibly obvious in the usual definition, it becomes harder in the softer ways of the modern age.
Yes, no spying from a bush. No following someone around. But that means virtually too.
When you mention a fact of life to a friend that you read off their Facebook – but they never told you directly – even then, it’s a little off-putting. Do that with a girl or boy you’ve been out with only a few times, and up goes their guard (trust me on this one – I’m a recovering FB stalker).
Likewise, if you check their online profile every day, they’ll see that in their visitors list (unless you browse anonymously, in which case you have no visitors list – and you want a visitors list. A visit is a declaration of interest – near 100% response rate off a new face on the visitors list. You want that visitors list.)
It can be tough. It can be tempting. Whereas 20 years ago you might write the name of a crush in a notebook with pretty doodles, today it’s incredibly easy to just go see what they’re up to.
Don’t. Do. It. Not only can it become an unhealthy obsession, but you run the risk of getting all sorts of negative emotions coming out (Who is that who’s status he responded to? Is she another person he’s seeing? Is she newer than me? Why would he see anyone else now that we’ve met…) Google “Facebook ruined my relationship” and see the stories of carnage…
My advice? Don’t even Facebook someone until you’re balls-deep into the relationship – metaphorically. Don’t keep checking on their profile to see if they’ve been online since you wrote. They’ll get to you when they get to you – if they get to you. Checking up doesn’t help, and very often hurts. No stalking – offline or otherwise.
Sunday may be the best time to write your potentials, but Sunday night, for me, is Dad night.
I go over every week now, he cooks something, I eat it, I clean, and we discuss… well, anything, mostly, to avoid talking about ma.
She was a driving force behind me gettin’ online – when she got sick again, she said how she was confident in my sister’s life – a fine career well marked out already, a husband, now in just a few weeks a mother… she, she wasn’t worried about.
I was a different story. Freelancing along, flying by the seat of my pants, single with no particular signs that would change soon, on the wrong side of 30… me, she was worried about. Ma said aloud that she feared I’d die lonely and alone.
Now, that wasn’t a fear of mine – not at my age, 32 is the new 13 – but ma did shake me up a bit with that, and besides I was going to do what I could to ease her mind.
So, online I went – the easiest, fastest way to meet many women. Don’t get me wrong – it’s just one tool in the belt, today online dating is entirely mainstream and most every single between, say, 18 and 40 is doin’ it – but, well, it’s a strong tool.
And then ma handed me a conundrum. She died last month, and amongst all the emotions that brought up, somewhere around the 1,678th priority, I wondered how I should deal with that in this dating life.
I could hide it – I’m a brilliant compartmentalizer, I myself don’t realize what I’m going through unless I’m letting it in, and in bad moments I can slap on a mask as well as anyone – but that wouldn’t feel too honest.
I could admit it to everyone – but that would just open the door to Animal-House-esque manipulations, using tragedy to guilt out sex. And besides, it’d be too easy, and too empty, and the brief relief of carnal amnesia would be replaced with something much less wholesome the next morning.
Most likely what I should have done is take a break entirely, withdraw and nurse and return when healthy again. As it stands, I’m sure – nah, I know for a fact – I’ve had some strange reactions to things at times, with hidden emotions bubbling out in uncontrolled ways.
But I’m not strong enough to retire alone like that, I crave the diversions of dates and lips, and in an odd way continuing on is the best tribute to the old gal I could make – pursuing what she wanted for me, doing my part to make myself happy now that she could no longer contribute to that, her prime directive.
So, in the end, I decided alright – I won’t hide it, but I also won’t bring it up. If the conversation turns that direction, so be it – but I’m not going out of my way, leaving little baits and hints and melodramatic sighs. I’ll play this clean.
Rule #38 Don’t manipulate.
It would have been the easiest thing to twist pity into sex. Fun too.
But it wouldn’t mean much, and would only lead to problems in the end – indeed, things likely went south with The Divorcee after three dates only because I cancelled date #2 on account of funeral. (Best. Excuse. Ever.) Who could turn down later dinner requests from a mourner like me? We never shoulda seen the new year with hopes high anyway.
Now, if some model were to say “What the hell, I’ll give you a night,” I’m not saying no. But I ain’t pushing a pity party on anyone either – works great for meaningless sex, but that’s a mere distraction at this point.
And, as of now… I don’t think I’m dating anyone who knows about ma. And that’s probably exactly how it should be. As I said, I’m not hiding it – but I’m not using it to get in the door either. I want to be able to like myself each day. No manipulating.
“I am equally happy going out and staying in. I can pull off a cocktail dress one minute, and sweats the next! I love my friends and family – they are the most important things in the world for me! I’m very funny, and humor is very important to me. I want to travel and settle down. Looking for my partner in crime!”
Ugh. You know it’s Sunday when you can quote a girl’s profile before you’ve even read it.
Sunday morning is, for the edating world, the equivalent of Saturday night. All the folk who’ve gone to the plate and struck out – or got a hit and found it empty – or didn’t even get invited to the game – whatever, this metaphor’s getting long in the tooth – Sunday morning is a time for lounging with your love, and when you don’t have that love, you go online looking for it.
Sunday is absolutely the best time to contact matches. They’re probably online – you might wind up in a chat. They’ve got the time to read and respond – you’re less likely to get lost in the pile of to-dos and maybes that build up over the week. A good Sunday reinforcing new connections will net you three or four dates over the next seven days. And a good Sunday with new connections will net about the same for the week after.
Sunday is also the day that 80% of the profiles meld into one big, ugly mess. So many girls say the exact same thing – and guys’re no better. According to the groans I’ve heard from women, we talk way too much about our car, our love of Harry Potter (really? C’mon guys…), our gym memberships (a little transparent, don’t you think?) and the common ones like familial love, travel, how we’re just hilarious, etc.
This, this is the worst part about Sunday (aside from the fact that you’re online talking at pixels instead of offline in loved arms giggling and rolling about and getting in maple syrup food fights and – ok, it has obviously been awhile since I’ve been in something serious, but you know what I mean).
I’ve got a few guidelines. When I’m dealing with Another Generic Profile – well, I try not to judge it too quickly, you still have no idea who’s on the other end. BUT! Distance becomes a deciding factor – distance from me, from my preferred age range (skewed lower – I know, men are pigs, but we’re immature pigs and this makes sense), and maybe most importantly, time since last online.
If you’re dealing with the most wonderful profile in the world and she ain’t been around for three weeks, she probably never will be. Oh, I’ll occasionally leave witty messages with a little invite to get in touch if she’s ever back – and that works way more often than it should, and it’s always such a pleasant surprise. This, in fact, is how I became friends with the nude-modeling sometimes fetishing Suicide Girling cam girl (the online world is fun). She opened her profile by saying she doesn’t fib. How can you not love someone who says fib?!!
But, in the normal course of things, if you are too distant in any area – time, locale, age – then you need to make it up in the profile, in beauty or brains or both, make me smile and want more instead of sigh and think “How the hell do I crack into this boring description and come up with something fun or funny to say?” Make my job easier, and you’re much more likely to hear from me.
And if you’re a 28 year old living in Baltimore who is online now and you’ve got some panache in your profile – oh, you’re hearing from me now, and I’m bringing my A game. Let’s see what you do with it.
Rule #4: Be Original.
If I read partner-in-crime one more time, I’m shooting you like a real crime partner would. Different is attractive. It’s interesting – I perk up. I immediately want to know more – I want to know how deep this goes, if I can explore this girl for months and still find new things.
Sure, some folk won’t like the oddities you show – but those would never have lasted anyway. Getting a little crazy with your profile both makes you more appealing, and weeds out the bad matches. Let it all hang out – the chips will fall where they should.
Ok, this time I’m pissed.
No magnanimous oo-it’s-snowing moments, no happy floating perspective, this time, I sting. Because it is a bit personal, and handled pretty poorly, and there’s likely lots of blame for me but that’s for another time. For now, I can be justifiably irritated, and run with it.
So, I certainly didn’t plan to start this lil’ blog with two cancellations. Indeed, last night was supposed be a good one – the event that echoed out in both directions, giving just a little more light to the darker hours of days.
A fourth date – a rarity in the elove world! – after a 3rd that had ended wonderfully, with much kissing and a little pawing but not so much that it’d spook the freshly divorced.
The Divorcee – and, sadly, she’ll never make it out of the nickname phase – I know too many marathoners and nursing students to have given her those monikers, and with her mini-tremors earlier, she’s definitely The Divorcee – The Divorcee, after a month home for the holidays, had returned to Bmore. We were to go glass-blowing – ain’t I fun? – and eat, and I felt it was likely there’d be disrobing this evening, all the groundwork had been laid (and yes, that might have something to do with it, I’m well aware). I was a bit nervous that long a forced lay-off might prove a problem – all the butterfly feelings she clearly experienced the last date, they might be forgotten – and indeed, prescient I was.
3 hours prior to our meeting she cancels, gives a cold mechanical apology (twice), says she’s got an eye infection. (She had used sickness earlier in the week, so hadta step up her game.) I’d given her an opening before – sensing hesitance on her part – asked if she would be feeling well enough by Friday – but she’d left that behind, went for the day-of instead.
Now, that smells a lot like poorly-planned, fall-off-the-wire-one-direction BS. Maybe it’s not, but judging from her earlier hedging, her cluelessness about what she wants or how she’s gonna go about getting it, her near-constant presence on the dating site where we met – I’m calling it a soft so long, even if there’s truth to the symptoms.
So, I do what any self-respecting single man would do. I grab a buddy, go to a bar, and flirt with everything that moves. In the end, my bud is the one who hooks up – I, foolishly, went for the cuter girl who turned out to be dating the front-man for that night’s band, who was to know? – but I didn’t mind that at all. Funny, witty, attractive, I was all that and more – I was frenetic, magnetic, shining brightly in a room where all tried to shine. I didn’t really plan to do much more – I didn’t make my bed before heading out – but just wanted to fluff my ego a bit, and I got that done.
And Divorcee? She got a text that bordered on snarky tellin’ her if she wanted to get together, next move was hers – later the next day (today) had a brief chat on the dating site where I more or less confronted her, got another mechanical apology, and said goodbye. Unless she wants to see me – she’s gonna hafta pursue me from here on out.
‘Cause you know what? We can go into what I mighta done to lose her eye another time, if any fault was mine (and some always is)… we can debate the merits of my yearning, whether her growing tepidity wasn’t just pushing me further up the ladder of desire, the Greener Grass Syndrome, Die Frucht Verboten Syndrome… we can discuss whether or not I coulda saved this budding romance (tho, if she finds this blog, I’d say that possibility is over)… but there’s one thing that’s not up for debate. I’ve done one thing absolutely right.
Rule #23: When things go south, cut the cord but fast.
That’s not to say you give up easily – and it’s an entirely different thing when you’re in a relationship. But, when you’re just dating – and dating multiple women at the same time, trying to eventually win the near-impossible numbers game, finding one you like who likes you without fucking anything up along the way – when you’re deep in that lottery, as soon as you know a ticket has lost, toss it.
There’s no pleasure left there, no matter how wonderful her big ol’ breasts would have felt getting motorboated the evening that wasn’t, no matter what erotic thoughts her taut abs would have stirred in your always-ready libido.
There will be other breasts, and abdomens – and finer asses at that. Why, there’s the beauty from a few days back, who’s hell week of doubles soon shall end, and who quite likely will be back in your bed again. That’s where you can put your thoughts. Leave the Divorcee to deal with her own fucked-up wants, desires, her hazy days of reboundy badness. You’ve better ways to spend your time. Cut that cord but fast.
I’ve just come back from a walk in the snow, and it was quiet and wonderful – good – and a bit of a gift.
Just past midnight I left, trenchcoat and newsie cap donned, to make fresh tracks. The teensy pieces of sleet now falling are too small to bother, and the inch or so of powder gives firm footing.
“Slippery?” a smoker asks from covered porch, leaning forward. “Not yet.” You turn a corner and immediately slip a bit and you smile. It’s not cold, you wear no gloves, the gentle pitter of ice marks time as you cross the pocking expanse.
In the distance an electric motor hums – wisps lift from chimneys of finer houses in the middle of the square. You close your eyes for a few paces, open them to brilliant light, a glowing landscape. You smile again, slip up the stairs, and settle down to gaze out the window and listen to the near-empty highway below.
This night is a gift since you almost didn’t have it. You’d a date scheduled – a first, with a lady you’d barely spoken with for a week – but she wrote, and apologized, and explained that she’d unexpectedly found a match and it wouldn’t feel right going out now.
Although a little disappointed, you know this is right, and she’s done you a favor. She could have stood you up. She could have gone, let you pay for all (as you’ll usually offer), uninterested the whole time, already decided on her target elsewhere.
You feel the slightest pang, as who knows? this could have been love – but that’s unlikely, and pretty much impossible in this case, and that’s why she gave you the gift of the evening.
And it was a great evening. “Snowed in,” you make three-cheese tortellini with alfredo, take your vitamins, write and read and play Madden online with a friend across town and walk in winter.
Your hands are a little full anyway, with other ladies, and there’s certainly no use in worrying about one you’ve never met. Better to enjoy the snow.
Rule #8: Manage Expectations.
We’re all of us dating, many meeting multiple people each week, if you’ve got beauty or wit. Some will fall in love just before you see them. It happens more often than you’d think – or at the least makes a fine excuse for cold feet. Take anything personally, and you’ll become one of those threatening creeps who scare all away before a seed can develop.
And you’ll miss the world. Don’t care so much. Remember all aspects of life, don’t lose yourself in this one. Force, and you lose. Lean back, enjoy, it will come.
How To Find Love Online (or get screwed trying) 