Celibacy is the New Route

Well, here's the update on the date this weekend. Again, Paulie told us to meet the group for happy hour.

But the mutual set up with "shy guy" was a no-go. He was polite, but clearly "not that into me." So JJ and I split for Target, which frankly sounded like more fun anyway. Buh-bye, shy guy.

OK, so like two weeks ago, I got stabbing pains in my lower right hand groin. Panicky, I made an appointment with my doctor, prepared for the worst. It turns out that I only had a bladder infection.

Wait.

Isn't that the condition that women who benefit from wild romps in the sack get?

And if so, what gives? Let's do a quick tally of my sexual adventures, as pathetic as they might be: sex in 2007 with Cactus Man when he visited me for a weekend, sex in 2009 with Cactus Man (when he was here five days). Wait, did I get that right? So basically I've been celibate since 2007 (that's four years) with a few moments of ecstasy thrown in with Cactus Man just to remind me of what something once was? How sad!?

Well, here's the clincher. Ya'll never gonna believe this ladies, but when your hormones change, (with a few exceptions) you don't really care all that much about sex like you used to in your 20's (unless George Clooney walks in your front door).

20 min. massage with my massage therapist, or a crummy quickie in bed? Massage please!

Blade Runner and a slice of Chicago deep dish with fresh mozzeralla and basil, or a crummy fling in bed? Pass the pizza and get the helloutta my way.

Am I giving up, losing hope as JJ would say?

Hell no.

I'll still go out on comical dates; I mean, hell, it's fodder for my posts, right?

But you could say that expectations and childish notions are out the window. And I've had an epiphany!

God, my friends, is a woman.

After all, consider the facts:
1. Men lose their hair. I mean, they LOSE their HAIR, how gross is that? But women don't.
2. Men still have a manical sex drive, even when they're bald and have weird hair growing out of alarming places (the ears, for example) and at that age, they can't even do it right anymore (i.e., Hugh Heffner, can you say gross, ewwwww!?). But we don't pine away about it when we get old.

We age with dignity.

That ain't so bad in my book. Now pass me a piece of pizza!

Shy Guy

Signs that a guy is just not that into you:

1. He doesn't ask for your number.
2. He doesn't call you.

But the big thing, is he doesn't ask for your number, right?

OK, here we go again. Remember a few weeks ago when Paulie invited me to a group get-together/happy hour with mutual friends where that cute and cool guy was? Then we hit it off, but at the end of the night, he never asked for my number!

Well, Paulie tells me tonight that Cute Guy with his roomie might be at happy hour and that I should go. I plan on going, but I wonder what Cute Guy's deal is. Is he just shy or is he not interested in me? It will be weird because since that was weeks ago, he must have by now told his friends either, "I'm not interested in her," or "She's cool." Either way, I do not know. Maybe he's just slow going? He did say that he hasn't really dated much since his ex-wife broke his heart (clear back in 1994!). Could it be he's DONE with women? Or am I just too fat for his taste?

The plot thickens.

Another Recollection: The Pee'er

Memories of bad dates, my active time spent in the War of Dating from 2004-present. Funny how I've blocked so many of them.

While I was in the coffee house today, I recalled a few "first dates" that took place there over the past seven years of hell. And I recalled The Pee'er.

Oh yes, if memory serves this winner was from Yahoo Personals which has since morphed into Match.com. Anyway. It sounded good at first. In his description he said he loved to work out, and that he was Italian (don't cha just love big, Italian boys?). His picture SEEMED OK. He looked sort of cute. So I agreed to meet him at the coffee house.

Well, there was a grocery list of things that were yucky. I like big boys, and he was all of 5'6", easily weighed 30 lbs. less than me, and, sigh, greased his hair back. Not in a good way (not that there really is a good way), but sort of in a mullet-way. He also had a high-pitched, horse-riding jockey voice, which I hate. I mean, I have a tenor's voice. Soprano? No way. We conversed, and he had none of the "Italian Guy" qualities I like. In fact, it was like talking to Ferris Bueller's teacher in Ferris Bueller's day off. Remember him?

Anyway, here was the clencher. After a super boring, one-way monotone monologue about himself, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. I sighed, looked at my watch, started to invent excuses to leave when he came back. Here's how it went.

Pee'er: Sorry I took so long.
Me: You weren't gone but five minutes. It's OK, really.
Pee'er: Well, there I was standing at the urninal and I just had to pee. I can't believe how bad I had to pee.
Me: Uh . . . OK.
Pee'er: Then I started to pee. I peed and peed and peed. I can't believe how much I had to pee. I mean, I peed so much I thought I couldn't pee anymore. At least a quart.
Me: I, uh . . . OK.
Pee'er: Then I started to shake it to stop. (I thought "it" then I figured it out. His freakin' weenie, gross!) I shook it and shook it, and it wouldn't stop peeing.
Me: That's, uh, too bad. Wow, look at the time. I gotta go.

What does one say to that? The story didn't quite stop there. I didn't give him my number, and he belonged to my gym, and for months, whenever we were both there together, he glared at me, as if I broke his heart. Whatever, pal.

Ahhh, the coffee house memories. I DO have more. They're coming back to me slowly, sort of a dating PTSD.

The Fake Laugher

What do you do about a situation with someone who's either 1. laughing too long at something that's not remotely funny or 2. fake laughing?

The Andy Gibb meeting went OK, but at several junctions, he was laughing, so hard at seemingly nothing, that I did raise an eyebrow in concern. I tended to wonder if the laughter was even real.

Example--

Me: I can't but help notice your rings. They're gold. Very nice jewelry. Me, I'm more of a silver person.
Laugher: Bwahahahahahaha, Nate you're so funny.
Me: Well, I just like sterling silver actually.
Laugher: Bwhahahahahhaha, you're killing me. Gosh, you're funny.

At one of these awkward laughter fits, I started to burst out with laughter, too. Only I wasn't laughing with him.

It just was so uncomfortable and completely weird that I laughed really hard, too.

At one point, because he was laughing so hard at something that was not remotely funny, I re-imagined a really funny joke Seinfeld said, just so I could laugh along with him. Man, what the people in the coffee house who were eavesdropping might have been thinking--cringe.

And no. He was NOT laughing because he was nervous. He appeared very confident, which makes this whole thing weirder.

What gives?

The Laugher: A New Date with Andy Gibb?

So there may be a new date on the future horizon, and he looks amazingly like Andy Gibb, including the straight nose, pretty teeth (teeth are good) and hair (though his hair resembles Andy's when Andy was going through the "feathered back" phase), which isn't a bad thing, I suppose, especially if you're able to overlook the fact that, that hairstyle went out of style around 1979. He's sent me pics, but I'm in no hurry to meet yet. We're friends on Facebook, and, get this, he lives in town for a change. He's the one a few posts back that I thought had disappeared after whining for my number, but he's actually stuck around.

He seems nice enough. Well-mannered, definitely cute from his pictures. So what's the snag? Well, besides a picture only four years old sporting a Don Johnson style "white blazer and matching pants" on Facebook, and the hair cut circa 1979, there's just one thing.

The Horse Laugh. Aka, the Hyena Laugh.

Let me explain. Laughs should be free and easy, natural, right? And they should be over something funny, like a pun or a joke. Right? No one likes a Fake-Laugher. Andy Gibb look-a-like doesn't have a fake laugh. It's just that he laughs really hard at things that aren't even remotely funny. Let me give you a telephone example.

Andy: So what would you make me if you were cooking me dinner?
Me: Well, that's hard to answer as I like to cook lots of things. Maybe fried chicken.
Andy: Bwahahahahahahahahah, Bwahhahahahahahah
Me: (thinking: what the fuck is so funny?}
Me: (uncomfortable) Uh, yeah. Fried chicken.
Andy: You're so funny!

OR

Andy: So what are you going to do tonight?
Me: Take a bath, maybe get my stuff ready for work tomorrow.
Andy: Bwahahahahahahaha.
Me: (thinking WTF?)

He's not laughing at me. He honestly finds something bone-tickling funny. You gotta look at the big picture. Would getting together with someone like this be funny after 45 min? What about the rest of your life?

When would his constant inappropriate laughter start to get old? Really old?
Get the big picture?

Toothless in Seattle

You know how you have those fleeting memories of something from not that long ago, something embarrassingly weird that you stowed away?

I think I forgot to tell you guys about one of my entertaining internet/phone dates from two years ago. I'm assuming I blocked it due to embarrassment, but then I recently read comedian Kathy Griffin's autobiography and saw her spill the beans on some of her turds she dated then figured why not?

Toothless.

It's all fun and games til you find out your internet friend has nary a tooth in his gummy jaw. Yes, about two years ago, when I was in the "extreme throes" of trying to get over Cactis Man, I stumbled upon a dude who wrote me on my dating site who seemed pretty cool. 1. He was into old west history without trying to pretend he was Custer from another life. 2. He loved and identified with "Chris-in-the-morning" on Northern Exposure 3. Loved and lived in a historical part of Colorado.

Well, I should have known by his paragraphing that he was a nutcase. Does every two sentences randomly thrown together equal an entire paragraph? Plus, he said some alarming things about politics, like . . . that we should all be living in . . . bunkers. I tried to pass this off as someone with a bad sense of humor. After all, we all can't be Jerry Seinfields, Kathy Griffins and Janine Garofallos, right?

We eventually graduated to talking on the phone, and while I thought I detected a lisp, I ignored it due to a bad phone connection.

I was talking about my bad dates and I JOKINGLY said, "Well, you know every person's nightmare is about finally meeting someone online." He paused too long and said, "No." I said, "Well, heh, heh, you know, a psycho-killer, bad-breathed, idiot, toothless weirdo." Then I laughed.

Total silence.

"Hello? You there? Hello?"

"You got something against someone who's missing a few teet (teeth)?

"Uh, no. I uh, heh, heh. Are you missing all your teet, I mean teeth?"

"Just my front teet, and bottom teet. I mean, havin' teet isn't everything."

"That's right. Heh, heh. How about I call you later."

Sort of says it all, doesn't it?

I've got it.

All right, so as I was riding my bicycle down the street today, I finally figured it out. This is simply because like Ruthanne in above photo, I'm getting old, fat, and hopefully wise. And like Ruthanne, I might just say fuck it, get my own Harley and head on out, folks.

What are single men and women looking for? I can answer that in one sentence.

Men are looking for a trophy, but women are looking for a bargain.

Any takers on that?

A New Year, alone

Well, I've been remiss in my posting, and am promising to get better about that. Oh, and I have an update.

Wouldn't it be great to say, "See this dude in the picture? That's my new boyfriend." Sorry folks. No dice.

BUT I DID finally meet the man from Happy Hour I blogged about after Thanksgiving. He wasn't a dork but was super cool. He was cute, manly, well-liked, and from a group of people who are pretty cool whom I've known for years. It's funny I'd never met him before. Consequently, just when I thought we were hitting it off, he told me he would never marry or fall in love again (since his ex wife of 1993 had broken his heart so badly). His roomie was eavesdropping behind him and mouthed, "Don't listen to him," laughingly trying to reassure me, I guess.

Well, considering he never asked our mutual friends for my number, I would say he was telling the truth. The thing is, you have to really LISTEN to people. You can't change what they're saying, nor can you change them. People can't be "edited." So, shrug.

Then there was a dude I met online who was local and wanted to meet me. Gasp, right? Well, with three years of hell with Cactus Man, I really have got to take it slow, friends first. S--l--O---w---w---w. But this new guy cried over the internet, whined, begged for my number, and guess what? I agreed to give him my number, but before I could do it, he disappeared.

While that happened with "local guy," another interesting guy started writing me from Kansas. He too just disappeared.

You know, I just don't get it. Do people REALLY know what they want? Or do they just tell themselves what they want. The two aren't the same thing.

Sigh.