The boomerang rang rang rang et al

I haven’t posted in awhile. Not for lack of subject matter, mind you. Just that when you work 12-15 hours a day  6 to 7 days a week it’s a tad difficult to muster the energy. I’m lucky if I can read two paragraphs of a book at night before crashing. Ugh.

But this evening I find myself with a bit of time and thought why not bestow upon my eagerly wanting public some of my beatific words of wisdom. Hey. It’s the least I can do.

But what to write? What to write?

I suppose I could write about The Boomerang. She’s the woman I met on eHarmony who, after adamantly insisting that we were not a good match kept getting back in touch with me. I believe I dubbed her Lydia. In any case, I’d thought she was gone for good. And then on day while slacking on the couch and randomly texting every poor schmuck who was naive enough to make me privy to their phone number, I get a text:

“Hi. How have you been?” It read.

“I’m fine,” I responded. “Who this?”

It was Lydia and apparently she’d had a dream about me so of course had to get in touch. At this point the wise thing to do would have been to simply tell her to buzz off, but as is probably apparently, I’m not always the wisest of men. Reference: my marriage to a narcissistic, self-serving sociopath — even great sex (which it so was not, I’ve since come to realize) is an excuse for a knucklehead move like that. But I digress or regress or something like that.

We began chatting again, for a time. But after making the mistake — YET AGAIN — of expressing what a pain in the ass my ex -wife can be, The Boomerang, pointed out to me that my ex-wife was kind of a difficult person. “You think?” I said. The problem, The Boomerang pointed out, was that my pain in the ass ex-wife would become, in part, her problem. And in the end, she just didn’t want that hassle. To which I replied, “Cool beans. Bye. And do not contact me again.”

“I will,” she texted. “You do the same.”

I refrained from sending the “Fuck off!” text, which I think I will always regret. But what are you gonna do, right? Live and learn.

And what precisely have I lived to learn? Well, that in some ways, having an ex-wife is worse than having a wife. Strangely enough, when I was married, I had had way more opportunities with other woman than I seem to be having now. Apparently, there is a breed of woman who are more than willing to have an affair with a married man (my ex-wife for example), but if you have an ex-wife it somehow changes things. You can’t talk too badly about the ex or that bothers them. In their mind, it means you’re not over them. And you can’t speak too warmly about your ex either, because again this means you’re not over her. And then there are the woman who just can’t seem to tolerate an ex-wife existence at all.

It’s like a curse really. And I can’t help wondering if this is instinctually what keeps (some) men from wanting to get married in the first place. Because despite a wife being an ex-wife, she’s still a wife of some sort and that is like an dating albatross around a guy’s neck that can never be lifted.

Well…that was far more bellyaching that I’d planned on, but what the hey. It’s a blog, right. A place to let the proverbial shit fly. And I am a rhetorical monkey eager to fling his prose poo! Bazinga!

Up with People on her way to Toledo

Though  it’s been awhile since I last posted it’s not for lack of material. I’ve simply been too busy. With work. And a Memorial Day weekend vacation. And if you think being married and raising a kid takes up time try being divorced and doing it — seems to be even more time-consuming, not to mention stressful. Anyhoo…

The night before I headed down to West Virginia for Memorial Day weekend to visit relatives, I spoke with a woman that I met on eHarmony…or was it OkCupid. I can’t recall now. I do remember that she contacted me and things progressed rather quickly, communication-wise. Long story short — next thing I knew I was talking on the phone with this chick, Vivian we’ll call her (although why I’m bothering with an alias I have not a fucking clue; zero chance we’ll talk again much less anything developing, and I don’t know her last name, but still….), while she was packing up to head to Toledo for the weekend, a bit of coincidence since I was heading in that direction, though ultimately father south.

It wasn’t my idea. She texted me, saying something akin to “Wanna call and keep me company on my drive to Toledo?” How could I resist, right? Why I didn’t it still a mystery to me. I’d been working long days and had planned to wake up early for my 7-8 hour drive to Wild Wonderful West Virginia. But I did….

And almost immediately I knew it was a mistake. I knew this woman I and did not click, were not going to click, were simply not click-able. Why? Well, I’m sure the reasons are varied and complex, but to simplify things — she was just freakin’ annoying.

Now, don’t get wrong. I can appreciate someone with a positive attitude about life, especially in face of adversity. It’s impressive….to a point. And then it just becomes and obvious facade, an act, and you got to wonder who it’s for exactly. Them or the rest of the world. Who knows? Who cares?

But hey, people should be allowed to adopt whatever phony persona they like, right.

What was more annoying than that was the patronizing pity because. To wit: “I’m sorry you’re unhappy.”

To which I retorted: “I’m not unhappy.”

Confused silence. Followed by: “Um…okay…if you say so.”

“I did.”

“Did what?”

“Say so.”

More silence.Then Vivian transitioned into the positive lessons she’d learned from her failed marriage and ugly divorce. She didn’t say what she learned exactly. And being curious/skeptical by nature, I asked. “What did you learn?”

Her response was an awkward mash-up of cliches and platitudes and half-vague sentiments that amounted to little in my opinion. But who knows what passes for wisdom for some people. She then asked me what I’d learned.

After considering for a moment, I said, “Well, I learned that people are essentially selfish and self-serving. And they will do most anything to get what they want/need. Others be damned.”

Again I got the patronizing pity. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Well, because….that sucks.”

How astute, I thought, but did not say so.

From there she proved my assertion that people are selfish even after disagreeing with it by dominating the conversation, barely allowing me to get a word in edgewise. She yammered on about:

• The books she was going to write, entitled something like The Horror and the Humor, about her marriage and divorce and ex blah blah blah. I wanted to tell her that it sounded terrifyingly bad, but I was in a charitable mood, as much as I am capable of such a thing.
• How her step-sons loved her and loathed their mother. Apparently, they pleaded with her to move back to Michigan to be near them blah blah blah. I didn’t have the heart to refute this delusion, even if I had she wouldn’t shut up long enough to allow it. Despite what any step-kids says to their step-parent they will never stop pining for their shitty parents’ love and acceptance. Trust me. I’ve seen this twisted pathology play itself out first hand.
• Her job — I forget what she did.
• Her family — drawing a blank on the details here a well.

Truth is after awhile it just became noise, and I tuned it out. I was tired and just wanted to get to bed so I could get up and get in my car and drive to West Virginia in the morning.

Driving long distances is therapeutic. For me anyway.

The Return of Gigi

This may prove to be an ill-advised post. But aren’t those the best kind?

Gigi has returned. If you’re recall she was the one that gave me the let’s just be friends speech — actually, it was a text, but no matter, you get the point. Some time after that we had a text blow out, based on the fact that she had promised to allow me to contact her if I felt comfortable doing so and then proceeded to contact me anyway. When I pressed her on her intentions she shut down and eventually ended the conversation which led to us basically ending any contact at all. I predicted that she might return. And I was right. She did.

She sent me an email, apologizing, which I did not see until after she texted me, which I did not immediately answer because I was attending a memorial for a friend who had lost her baby.

Gigi and I talked (texted actually) and what came out of it was that we are in fact dating again now, but not exclusively (I know — why?) We both have concerns, which we have not spoken about because we have not had a chance to talk on the phone or in person and these things are far too complicated to discuss via text, but I have been doing the single dad thing all weekend and week while the X is jet-setting around the country for her job apparently, or perhaps not. I’m not sure. Don’t care. (I know, I know. You’re going to say if I didn’t care why mention it? Because it is the truth. Go evaluate someone else’s emotional stability in regards to their ex and leave me alone….mmmmmkay).

Thing is, I’m not sure this is entirely a good thing. I dig Gigi. I do. But I can’t help worrying that I am acting as a placeholder. You know, until she finds someone she really wants. She has said that this is not the case. But honestly if it was would she say so? Also, I’ve found that some people (and by people I mean women because I don’t date dudes, but I’m sure they do it too) do this sort of thing without even realizing it, or at least admitting it to themselves. That way when they do dump you, after they’ve gotten enough use out of  you, they can say, “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” It’s like those people who say offensive things and then follow it up with, “No offense.” Yeah, the thing is, there is offense, and you need to take responsibility for it. That is almost as annoying as “Just saying,” another way of saying something that stirs the pot without taking responsibility for the repercussions.

So where was I going with this…? Oh yeah, this kind of goes against my code of NOT blogging about relationships that have potential to go somewhere, but since this one seemed to already be on the trash heap I’m making an exception. Also, I can always delete delete delete if necessary. But somehow I don’t think that is going to be the case.

We’ll see…

Damn right we will.

That’s what I said.

I know.

Okay then.

Okay.

:-p

Same to you buddy. Same to you.

Emotional Vibrator

Emotional vibrator is a phrase I used in my last post in regards to Gigi, the most recent lady of the online night to take her leave of me. And really, who can blame her, right?

I thought it quite clever myself, although I’m not sure I coined the phrase. In any case, it seemed to me what Gigi wanted me to be for her, an emotional affirmation machine to help soothe her through her most recent break-up blah blah blah. But of course I was unwilling to do that because it seemed a one-sided and ultimately losing proposition for me. I don’t expect a sure thing – although I did like that 80s movie with John Cusack;

but let’s face it I dig any movie with John Cusack in it (and a chick like Nicollette Sheriedan), man I can’t wait to see the new movie with him about Edgar Allen Poe….wait, what was I talking about.

Oh yeah, vibrators, of the emotional variety.

Of course, this is not just a woman thing. Men do it too (though in a slightly different way I suppose), they seek out women to soothe them emotionally, and when they are done being soothed, they clean up, dispose of their emotional self-healing toy and move on.

I’ve been called out for doing something like this, being told – no, not just told but literally chastised: “I can’t fix you!” All for expressing the fact that I was feeling sad and missed my family. I didn’t expect this particular woman to fix me. In fact, the very notion was laughable; she was so fucked up herself.

That’s part of why my date the other night was so cool. I could actually talk about my ex – good and bad – and was not punished for it – some women will come right  out and tell you they are not interested in hearing about it, others will simply glaze over and check out, others will get an irritated look on their face, still others will pretend to listen and simply disappear later. But that was not the case. My date spoke of her ex, in both good and bad terms. And really that should be allowed, up to a point. And I think because I was allowed to express a few things it was easy to simply shut up about it…more or less.

But that is not where I was planning on going with this. No. My intention was to bring up the phrase Emotional Vibrator (you know, even though  I may not have coined it, I wonder if I could still copyright it? Is that possible?) because it gave me an idea for an App.

The App would of course be called: Emotional Vibrator. Or perhaps even better  Your Emotional Vibrator. And it would work like Siri on the iPhone 4. You could lament and complain and bitch and piss and moan and whine an gripe to it all you wanted and all it would ever do is offer you positive affirmation and support, agree with you, soothe you. And it would never get tired of your pathetic bullshit like everyone has.

There could even be a PlusVersion of it that has an actual vibrator attachment that you can…..

Lydia’s Rules

My previous post was about the first woman that I ever dated via an online site. I called her Lydia.

The thing about Lydia — she had a lot of rules, or so it seemed to me.

As stated in my previous post, the first sign of this fetish reared it’s neurotic, anal-retentive, control-freak head shorty after our first date when I did not — and I roughly paraphrase — ask her out in the proper way at the appropriate time. I got quite the tongue lashing over this point, and not the good kind either — Lydia’s tongue was not pierced, though quite effective all the same…oh, no he didn’t! ….oh yeth he did <snap>! Why I didn’t run quickly in the other direction, as most everyone agreed that I should, I do not know. In any case, lesson learned.

Example: when another online connection (this one via OkCupid) went ballistic on me over a simply joke via text, I cut off all connection toot sweet.

General rule of thumb: anyone you meet via an online dating site is severally damaged and should be considered at least an emotional/psychological threat until proven otherwise.

Another one of Lydia’s rules — no talking while watching TV or a movie. And I mean none. Now, anyone who knows me knows that is about as possible for me as sneezing with my eyes open. Shit ain’t going to happen. And didn’t. Which eventually earned me a : “Don’t you ever just shut up and watch the movie?”

If I were to ever meet her family there was plenty I could not say and could not do. One thing in particular was I could not denigrate, criticize or otherwise speak ill of the University of Michigan, especially the football program, because her brother was such a big, serious fan. Apparently he was one of those pretentious pussy UofM fans that simply can’t comprehend, much less abide, that someone might not be a blue and maize fan. Again, this was not going to happen I went to Eastern Michigan In Ypsilanti, a stoner’s throw away from the blue and gold heaven, and not as a stepping stone to The UofM either. So by definition I was not a fan and prone to knock the place a form of penis envy. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to needle this wolverine-loving prick because I never met her family. And I feel all empty inside because of it too.

According to Lydia’s rules I was not allowed to ever complain or gripe about my ex or the results of my divorce but she could bitch to high heaven about anything under the sun that happen to put her panties in a bunch. And trust me her panties were plenty bunched much of the time.

Also according to Lydia I was an idiot,  a fact that she pointed out at every opportunity. It began a a kind of joke, a sarcastic quip, but eventually it simply stopped being funny. You know, like when a little kid tells you the same joke over and over again and expects you to laugh but you just can’t because it’s not funny anymore. Well, in addition to this standard tag line of Lydia’s losing it’s humorous appeal, it simply seemed mean. I politely suggested one night that she might want to come up some new material. She did not take it well.

I remember saying to her one time while we were at dinner, “You have a lot of rules, you know that” I was only half serious. Still, it was true. And she glommed onto that statement and threw it back at me eventually. Franky, I think she was constantly parsing my words for later ammo.

It always seemed as if she was looking for reason for to skuttle the relationship from the get go.

I have to see if I can stand your company….

I have to figure out if you’re cheap….

I have to know if you’re smart enough…

I have to decide if your suitable to introduce to my family…friends…etc.

and on and on.

I kind of felt like science experiment to this woman. He approach to a relationship was very… I don’t know…very not just analytical, but cold and calculating, almost sociopathic. Not that ever felt in danger or anything. Although perhaps I should have. Hmm.

In the end, I think there was something fundamentally sad about Lydia and her little life in her little condo that she’d been living in, alone, for going on 8 years, even though when she bought it she figured she’d only be there 3 or 4 tops. I remember her telling me that when she bought the place there had been some conversation with someone about her future in the place, to which she replied: “If I’m still living here in 7 years, kill me, please.” And I remember thinking, lady, in a lot ways you’re already dead.

In which I cast into the past and snag a barracuda

So last weekend and early this week was a whirlwind of online dating drama, but things have since mellowed, which is cool only it doesn’t provide much in the way of fodder for this here blog.

To remedy that allow me to turn back the clock, to when I first started online dating, signing up pretty much on a whim and plopping down a whole year’s subscription on eHarmony — why not just a six months, or only three even, just to test the waters? Why? Ah, well. Matters not now. Nothing to be done about it.

This particular cast into the past lands us firmly at the end of October, just before Halloween, the most Generation X of all the holidays in my humble but masterfully astute opinion — do not question my author-a-tie! In fact, it was exactly the 30th of the month, when I was first matched with the first woman I would ever date via any online service — I was on yahoo singles (or whatever it is) briefly during my separation but had no luck with it, unlike my ex but that’s a whole other gripe. Anyhoo… back to my online first, the woman who popped my online dating cherry. Let’s call her, oh, say ….Lydia.

Lydia was anything but a tatooed lady — trust me I had ample access and time to investigate — but she was very cool all the same. Or so I thought. What snagged me was how much we had in common in terms of movies and a penchant for reading and TV. Also, she was quite witty, at least at first. Plenty of witty banter  via eHarmony email, which Lydia suggested we abandoned for regular email since being eHarmony wasn’t very, in her words, “work friendly,” by which I now understand her to mean that she was at least slightly embarrassed to be utilizing. I wonder, is she still? Meh. Hardly matters now, does it.

What followed was a barrage of emails, at first, and then chatting via gmail chat. The more we communicated the more we seemed to click. Finally, Lydia suggested we meet. I was all for that. I suggested either Royal Oak or Ferndale as there is much to do  in both places. She put the kibosh on both. “No Royal Oak. No Ferndale,” she insisted. Fine by me although I was more than a bit curious as to why. What was wrong with these places? I supposed I would find out in time. Instead, we met at a bar in Troy, little neighborhood place. We had  drink and talked, and were comfortable enough to order some food. We talked some more. And it seemed to me that the more we talked the more we seemed to click. I was excited to hit it off with someone so quickly. I had been more than tad skeptical of the whole process, and not willing to get my hopes up. But I was wrong. This chick was cool.

And then… Well, apparently for our second date I was not nearly Johnny-on-the-spot enough for her likingI was chastized via chat for not asking her out in the right way, in the right time. Would we have ever gone out had she not suggested it? Fuck if I knew. I was instructed that I needed to ask her out early in the week so that she could properly plan her week and weekends. And fuck me if I didn’t agree. Anyone I told this too insisted it was a red flag. And I did not deny it but for some reason I ignored the warnings.

So we went out on a few more dates through November, leading up to her birthday, for which I decided to get her something. Nothing serious, something fun. I got her days of the week underpants because we both liked the movie “When Harry Met Sally”. I did not expect her to ever even wear them. Also, I got her Reese’s Peanutbutter Cups because chocolate and peanutbutter are her favorite. And a little convertible Hot Wheels car because we’d had a joke — she’d asked me what I was getting her for her bday, and I said, nothing big, just a car. She requested a convertible. There was also a card and a collection of short stories that I hoped she might like, “Bad Behavior”, by Mary Gaitskill. She seemed to like the gifts all around.

Things progressed into December and we actually spent part of Christmas Day together. I introduced her to my brother and his partner. They seemed to like her. My birthday came up and she got me two seasons of SCRUBS on DVD. And we made plans to spend New Year’s Eve together, which we did. I made her dinner, homemade pasta and meatballs, a salad, some wine, a dessert. By New Year’s Day she was done with me. It was clear. She just wouldn’t or couldn’t say it. And for some reason I hung around. Still not sure why.

There were plenty of other red flags and drama and gipes I’d love to expound upon. But I’ll get into those next time. I’m tired.

Which came first, the batshit crazy woman or me? …and other scotch-induced reflections

A jumble of blog post ideas clanking around in my head tonight. Plus, been sipping the Johnny Walker Red again, so look out.

Where to begin…?

Well, first today it was pointed out to me by several people that I seem to have a penchant for attracting batshit crazy chicks. This was pointed out me by someone I’ve known for only 6 months, a woman I work with, as well as an old college friend whom I’ve known for years. And upon scotch-induced reflection I have to say they have a point. It was true in college. It was true before college. It was true after college. It was true in grad school. And after grad school. And now. Apparently.

The question one has to ask is, do I attract batshit crazy women or are batshit crazy women drawn to me? Or are they normal (and by normal I mean just regular crazy) until they mix it up with me and then go batshit crazy? Who knows? Maybe I am the catalyst? Maybe I am the final straw, the missing factor that really sends them over the edge? Or maybe I’m the one who is batshit crazy? Only the shadow knows. …Muh ha ha ha ha ha. Come on shadow, tell already…..you dick!

On the upside it seems to be raining women for me as of late. Sure, a date cancelled on me on Saturday (and thank God for that too, eh), but I managed to find another date that same night. And I met another woman online Sunday morning. We were going to hang Sunday but it never happened. We made plans to meet tonight but she had an accident, fell and hurt herself, and swore it wasn’t cold feet or her pulling a Peter Brady. I guess I believe her. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Cancelled dates are par for the course, I’m learning. Get over it. What are you gonna do? Fucking cry about it? Yeah that’ll work wonders for you.

Anyway, it didn’t phase me because I’d spent the day chatting online with another woman that I’d met on eHarmony, which suddenly is producing for me. In addition, I had email messages from two other women. Although one lives in Ontario, Canada, which is of course within my 25 mile range, but I can’t help wondering how that would work — dating someone from another country? Granted it’s not China or Brazil but still. What would happen if it got serious? One of us would have to move to other’s country. And I’m not moving to Canada, sorry. Guess we’ll find out. I should update my passport in any case.

Then tonight I find myself chatting via OkCupid with three different women, one of whom got frustrated with the slow response time of the chat option and wanted to talk on the phone and handed out her number pretty readily, which I don’t think is a good idea, but she’d only been on the site for two days and may have been an online dating newbie entirely. We texted a few times and then she disappeared. So did one of the other women, which was cool by me because the woman I really wanted to chat with stuck around. Booyah! Sorry, though, no serious details. Dat’s da rules.

And now for something completely different.

Well, not really. It is still dating related. It’s about STDs. From a post by a very sexy, wild lady. Check it. Respect it. And condom up people.

Oh yeah. I know what else I wanted to jibber jabber about — ex talk. Everyone tells you never talk about your ex on a date. Never never never. It the subject comes up, give a short sweet answer and move on. I, of course, have a hard time doing this. It was an issue with the first woman I dated after my divorce. She gave me a pretty good talking to about it. But the way she did it kind of pissed me off and should have been a red flag. Hell it was a red flag, I just fucking ignored it. Look, I got no problem with a woman telling me that I talk too much about my ex but there are better ways to do it. Such as this: I don’t mean and disrespect but it seems to me that you still have some healing to do. Still, though, the message is, I don’t want to deal with your problems, which I’m sorry come with a person. Better get fucking used to it. You can’t expect that issues with my ex are never going to back up on me, especially  when your relationship was a clean break because you were never fucking married and only dated for three fucking years or you divorce didn’t involve kids. Life is messy, like a porno set after a full day of shoot (pun very fucking intended) sometimes, get used to it.

And anyway, the woman I chatted with online tonight told me she enjoyed chatting about this stuff. Of course, that could be a whole other kind of red flag. Who knows? We’ll, see. Because I intend to find out. She’s smokin’ hot, baby.

Thus endith tonight’s drunken blog post.

Don’t blog drunk, you say. Ha! I don’t need your rules. I’m a blogger. SPLAT!

You tell me….

Previously I had stated that I would not blog about any relationship that was currently open, on-going, had potential to go somewhere, I would only blog about those that were closed, dead, finito. I was working up to some that hit the skids some time back, but I’ve got a more recent occurrence I’d like to blather about, if you don’t mind.

So shall we….

In a recent post I explained that a big turn on for me is a sense of humor. I love it. This means not only being able to engage in witty banter but also being able to get/take a joke, most of the time. I know that jokes don’t always go over well, if at all. It’s the nature of the beast. And sometimes they can even hurt and offend. But when that happens one should be at least willing to hear an explanation and/or an apology.

Where am I going with this?

I’m glad you asked.

Last night I had a date with this woman I’d met via OkCupid. Let’s call her ….Rita, okay. Rita and I had already met briefly a week prior and decided that we liked each other enough to try for an actual date. During the past week we had exchanged text messages from time to time, many of which were flirty and jokey in manner, although eventually she told me that she hated texting. Fine. No biggie. Although part of me thought — here come the rules. Still, she said it was fine to text her anytime she just wasn’ that into it, so naturally I not only backed off I told her I’d be glad to call and talk sometime if she preferred, just let me know when would be the best time. She never got back to me on that. In any case, I was looking forward to meeting her again. She was (probably still is too) smart and clever, funny, accomplished, and quite attractive — I’ve never seen eyes that blue before ,I’m telling you.

So Saturday comes and I’ve got some things to attend to during the day. Well, while I’m out I get a text saying that she can’t make it, she’s run into some difficulties with her kids. I was disappointed for sure, but totally understood. I know how it can be with kids, and she has two, plus recently divorced and essentially a single mom. So I texted her back and told her not to worry about it all. And that maybe we could meet another time, if she wanted — not assuming that she wanted, as she may simply have changed her mind about me for whatever reason.

Well, then a funny thing occurred to me and I texted it to her. I texted that I had to make a confession. That I was actually kind of relieved that she’d cancelled as I’d accidentally pulled a Peter Brady and booked two dates for the same night and at my age did not have the energy to run back and forth between two women. I added to the text a wink 😉 and the explicit explanation that it was a joke. Just to be sure.

Rita did NOT get the joke. Her response seemed to indicate that she was serious, although initially I thought she was joking back. She was not. I explained again that it was a joke, that I had not booked two dates, that I would not do that, not for the same night anyway. I apologized if it was ill-advised. I tried to call her, thinking that maybe this required a verbal explanation and even apology. She would not answer. She would not take my call, despite my pleas. She was convinced that I was a playa and trying to purposely hurt her, that this was typical of the men on OkCupid. I told her  (via text) that I did not mean to hurt her. She texted back: I said tried. You did not hurt me. I am stronger than that. Well, clearly I had at least truck a nerve and I felt badly and wanted to understand it, but she was not allowing it.

Finally, I asked her how my joke was any different than when she said, at our initial meeting, that she needed me to go because she had other candidates to interview, which I thought was quite funny. She responded with: Please, no more texts. So I obliged.

For a moment, I considered getting online and emailing her via the site to try and explain but in the end I opted not to. I texted a female friend and asked her opinion, which was that it was total drama and to take it as a red flag and to run. So I decided to do just that. I eradicated her electronic footprint from my life, blocking her on OkCupid, deleting our correspondences and removing her from my cell phone. I do not need that kind of crap in my life. And I will not be manipulated by that kind of emotional terrorism.

Since this incident I have received confirmation from at least two other women that Rita’s reaction was troubling at best, and disturbing at worst, and definitely more than reason enough to have nothing to do with her anymore. It was suggested to me that I tell her to leave me alone but I think a non-response is the best one. It was also suggested to me that it would not be surprising if she actually contacted me at some point. I doubt that, but we’ll see.

What do people think? Was my joke funny? Out of line? Ill-advised? Hurtful? Cruel? Harmless? And if it was a bad joke should I have been at least afforded opportunity to explain and apologize or whatever? Do chime in. Enquiring minds want to know. So do I.

I beginning to believe that online dating sites are receptacles for bat-shit crazy women. Maybe men too, I don’t know. You tell me.

What we (guys) are really thinking ladies

But first let me explain and apologize for not posting last night after work. I know how disappointing that must be for you all. Sorry for being a tease. But it really couldn’t be helped. For, as you see, I had a date, one that I acquired via a dating site that I was only recently turned onto and which blows eHarmony away. It is called OkCupid, and it is free; of course you can upgrade but it seems unnecessary, at least at this point. As it gains popularity I’m sure that shall change. But I’m not going to get into the many fine qualities of OkCupid right now. (That I’ll save for a later date. If you’re interested, and I highly recommend it, check it out here. It’s very cool and very hip and, for me anyway, very successful, much more so than eHarmony has been. ) Nor am I going to get into the details of  my date last night, since it has the potential to be a continuing relationship and I think it would be rude. As a rule, I plan to only blog about past relationship, ones that have ended….more or less (like how I gave myself some wiggle room there — more or less…what does that even mean?)

Anyhoo… onto the true subject of this post.

As any guy will attest one of the few certainties that there are with women (and I’m talking pretty much universally) is that sooner or later they will ask you this question: What are you thinking?

Men, also pretty much universally, react to this question, for some reason, with dread. A friend from high school likes to spout the wisdom of a certain comedian whose name escapes me right now (a little help please) and Al Bundy and no doubt a plethora of other men, men of both renown and obscurity, in response to this question, and that is this: “If I wanted you to know what I was thinking, I’d be talking.” A reply that no woman on the planet would take will, I’d venture, but that makes it no less accurate.

Still, women want to know and will continue to ask that question so I thought in the spirit of educating others, not to mention at the risk of not only being shunned and booed a the next worldwide all-man meeting but getting my ass kicked, I’ve decided to share some tidbits of male thought, real male thought. Of course, this is just a taste, as the list is far more extensive than those of the female ilk might possibly imagine. It may surprise some of those of the female persuasion that we men think almost as much as we masturbate or watch sports or check out other women’s boobs. Almost…..

So let’s set the scene. We’re out, meeting perhaps for only the first or second or maybe third time, and we’re sitting across from each other at a table in a coffee shop or in a booth at mid-priced restaurant or at a bar. Wherever. Here, in no particular order of importance is what I (I’m using myself as a stand-in for most men) thinking:

• What do you look like naked? (this one is in order of importance, it’s pretty much the first thing guys think when they see you)
• What are you like in bed, i.e. sex not sleeping (this one also is in order of importance, it comes quickly [pun totally intended] right after the above thought)
• Will I get to see you naked tonight? And if not tonight then when?
• Are  your boobs as big as they appear or is it a bit of bra technology trickery?
• Why do you still have your coat on? Are you hiding the fact that you have really small boobs?
• Do you have big pink nipples or small darker ones?
• Are you aware that I am checking out your boobs? Is this working against me or in my favor?
• If I were to reach over and grab your boob right now what would happen?
• Will you notice if I adjust myself because staring at your boobs is giving me a hard on?
• What will it be like to kiss you? Should I try to kiss you tonight? Or should I wait? Will you be offended if I try to kiss you or offended if I don’t try to kiss you?
• Are you going to order the most expensive thing on the menu? And if so, are you going to offer to split the check?
• Do you expect me to walk you to your car afterward? If I do, will you allow me to kiss you? If you do allow me to kiss you, should it be a quick sweet peck or a longer, deeper kiss?
• Are you wondering what I’m like bed, if I’m good lover, do I have a big enough penis?
• Does that fact that my hair is thinning a little bother you?
• Do you think I’m tall enough? Big enough? Strong enough?
• Are you impressed by my job? Or my car? Or my education?
• Do you like to perform oral sex? Or do you just do it because you think you have to? (I really don’t care either way as long as you do.) Do you swallow?
• What kind of underwear are you wearing? (I don’t really care that much if they match your bra or if they are cute and frilly as long as I get to tug them off you later tonight.)
• Why do we refer to panties in the plural, i.e. “they” , when they are a single entity. One pair of panties. I mean, who wears two at a time. Unless you’re particularly cold or just really trying to mess with a guy’s head.
• Will you try to  mess with my head?
• Why do women mess with your head?
• Do you have a hot friend that I’m going to be unbearably attracted to and sort of wished that I’d met before you?
• How long will we have to date before I can stop holding in my farts? Can I let out the fart I’m holding in right now and get away with it? Are you holding in a fart right now?
• Do you like to watch sports? Do you care if I like to watch sports? Would you be willing to watch sports with me while naked?
• Do you like watch porn? Do you care if I like to watch porn? Would you be willing to watch porn with me while naked?
• Do you trim your pubic hair, shave it completely, or leave it like a jungle down there. (I’m cool in any case, I’m just hoping I get to check it out for myself.)
• Do the drapes match the carpet? (Again, not a big deal to me, I’m just hoping I get to compare for myself)
• If we get more serious are you going to want to take me out shopping and pick out close for me, dressing me like life-size doll, because I’m not really that cool with that, but if it’s something I have to endure to get laid I probably will.
• Is my penis bigger than your ex’s? All of your exs’s?
• How many positions are you willing to do during sex? Will you do reverse cowgirl?
• Are you going to make a big deal out of it if I leave the toilet seat up? Or if I don’t replace the toilet paper, or don’t put the roll on the “right way” (PS technically there is no right way)
• Do you think I’m smart?
• Do you think I’m funny or are you  just laughing to be polite?
• Who are you texting?
• Do you really have to leave to feed your dog or do you just want to get away from me?
• Will you think about me on the way home? When you get home? While lying in your bed with the lights out, touching yourself?
• Do you realize that I’ll be thinking about you later when I’m home alone, and jerking off? Do you care?
• Will I ever see you again? And if so will I get to see you naked then?

What really turns me on….

Warning: I’m sipping some Johnny Walker Red as I compose this next materfully insightful and witty blog post, so there is no telling where it will end up….if at all.

Anyhoo….I promised to reveal my big turn on in this post, so I guess I’m obliged to do that now.

And for the record it ain’t a huge pair of hooters, although I wouldn’t say no to em. Same goes for nice pair of gams and a cute little tooshy (speaking of which I had the pleasure of getting a look at one to beat the band today, whew baby!) Or beautiful eyes and silky hair. Slender hands. Long, smooth neck….wait, where was I going with this…?

Oh yeah. My big turn on. Actually, it is a sense of humor. Some wit. A sharp tongue — and no that isn’t a euphemism for something else, not that I’m averse. I’m talking about a woman who is funny, can be funny, can dish out the witty repartee and wise-ass banter. That I dig. Especially if it is edgy, even a bit on the mean biting side at times. Give me what you got.

Of course, many people think that they are funny or sarcastic or witty, but of course not everyone is, not everyone can be.

“Everybody thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor but they couldn’t possibly all have good taste and a sense of humor.”    — Marie (Carrie Fisher) in “When Harry Met Sally”

But hey, not everyone thinks I’m funny so….. screw them. Stupid jerks!

Keep in mind that therr is a fine line between an edgy sense of humor and being a bitch, just as there is a fine line between being charmingly sarcastic and being a dick!

I was just talking about this the other day at work. And it occurred to me that what would be really great is if women had a kind of gauge on their head that measured a guy’s witty charm and let him know when we were moving away from being charmingly humorous to being an a-hole. The idea being to keep the meter indicator in that sweet zone between dull and  jerk. Person who invents that will be rich, I’m telling  you.

Here’s the thing: calling me an idiot is hilarious in the right context at the right moment. Overdoing it is, well, just mean. And yes there is a story behind that comment, but you’re not getting it tonight.

Tune in tomorrow faithful followers.

Later