Bachelor #43

Ever get the feeling that you're banging your head against a wall, hoping to meet someone you actually like?

Last week, out patio-trolling, I met a sexy soccer-player. OK, not a professional soccer player or anything, but he plays soccer. And he looks like he plays soccer. After chatting for quite a while about, well, nothing I can recall, he asked for my number. He was charming, and did I mention sexy? So I gave it to him.

When he called, I was a little taken aback to discover that, charming though he was in person, he did not give good phone. I couldn't shake the feeling he was stoned when he called, almost too stoned to carry on a conversation. But hey, some people just aren't great on the phone, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

He called again the day of our date, this time in the middle of the day, and again, I'm almost certain he was seriously stoned. Now, as a confirmed recreational alcoholic, I'm not one to judge, but I was getting a bit of a maybe-a-bit-too-laid-back kinda vibe. And I realized I never asked him what, if anything, he does for a living.

So we met for a drink. Now, either it's a personality thing and he's just a really super mellow guy, or he is stoned, pretty much all the time. I'm guessing the latter. Again, my point is not at all a judgemental one. It's just that I have a job, children, a house, hell, a blog to update for that matter, and I find it a little hard to relate to a 42-year-old guy whose biggest worry is not running out of rolling papers. Sure, he was charming, in a I'm-so-stoned-everything-is-beautiful kind of way. Which is probably more fun when you're stoned too. But I was getting the feeling there wasn't a whole lot going on beyond the laid back charm. When I asked what he did for a living, he mumbled something about trying a couple things and not quite figuring it out yet. OK... When I asked about past relationships, he told me he'd tried settling down with a girl, but has decided it's not for him. Right... And you want what from me exactly? Yup, I thought so.

Next.

Bachelor #42

Fixups are scary. You want to think you can trust your friends to fix you up with someone you're actually going to like, for better reason than simply because you're both single. You want to think they won't knowingly subject you to a blind date from hell. They're your friends, after all. They have your best interests at heart.


Or so you hope.


My friend H is going to get a serious talking to for this one.


She said she was at her neighbor's house when a friend of their family stopped by. After hanging out and getting to know him for, I don't know, a minute and a half, she decided to give him my number. Well that seems reasonable.

She said he seemed really nice. She said he was good looking. She said he seemed charming and interesting. If she had said he had wings and could fly, it would have been just as accurate.

When I walked into the bar and saw him standing there in his shiny disco shirt, it took every ounce of restraint not to turn and run. But I am a nice person. So I stayed. And this is what I found out about Bachelor #42:

- He is 43 and lives with his mother.
- He is unemployed, more often than not.
- In the place of communication, he rambles incoherently.
- Lookswise, well... what's that expression? Good from far, but far from good. Yeah, that's it.
- Did I mention he was wearing a shiny shirt?

Next.

A Theory

I have a lot of theories. Some make sense, even to people outside of my head. Others, well, my friend D often suggests that I could hurt myself jumping to the conclusions I do.

But this isn't my theory. Credit goes to my friend C, who is the lone straight male voice in my chorus of sometimes loud, always opinionated and quite often inebriated girlfriends. C has the great pleasure of listening to all my tales from the dating dark side, and provides the much-appreciated though rarely-anticipated male perspective.

Here's what C thinks: the reason I'm not succeeding with online dating is that I am a hopeless romantic, and online dating is decidedly not. Romantic, that is. Hopeless? Oh yeah. What he means is, when you meet someone through a dating site, the whole thing is completely contrived, and far too closely resembles a job interview. Where's the romance in that?

I think C is onto something. Here's some evidence that I am, in fact, a hopeless romantic:

- I'm a girl. Really, 'nuff said, but there's more.
- I have been known to write poetry to my beloved (when I had one.) I really did. Please don't click away immediately. It was his idea, I swear.
- I do things like print pictures of us (when there's an "us") in black and white and frame them artistically over my bed. Which is a bitch when you break up, so don't get any ideas.
- When I have a new boyfriend I make everyone around me want to hurl with my incessant gushing, 12-year-old style
- I am 40 and still holding out for true love. That should do it right there.

So can a hopeless romantic meet her true love online? A true hopeless romantic never says never, but it is doubtful. I need a good old fashioned chance meeting. Luckily it's spring, so I'm feeling good about my chances.

If anyone's looking for me, I'll be roaming the streets in pretty outfits, deliberately inadvertently bumping into handsome strangers.

Bachelor #41

I hate Internet dating. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

There, I feel better now.

Wanna know why I hate it? Let me tell you about Bachelor #41. Bachelor #41 is tall, fit, dark haired, hard to tell for sure from the pictures but might be decent looking, etc. etc. You know the drill. So he wrote to me. Note, I said HE wrote to ME. I responded, we exchanged the usual email pleasantries, then he gave me his number.

So I called, and we chatted for about half an hour. I wasn't exactly booking the wedding, but I thought the conversation went fairly well. We found a few things in common, no awkward silences, a few laughs. Then he suggested we make plans to get together. Note, again, HE suggested it, not me. We had a few challenges aligning our schedules, but after a little back-and-forth, we settled on drinks after work on Tuesday night. This all seems fairly normal, right? Typical even?

So explain this: why did he email me an hour after we got off the phone and tell me he changed his mind and decided to cancel our date?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not losing a whole lot of sleep over this guy. I wasn't even sure if I found him attractive. HE wrote to ME, remember? HE suggested getting together. I just don't get it. I've gone over it in my head and I remain convinced that I was utterly charming, as always, and said nothing I can think of that would likely send a man running for cover.

Which leaves me perplexed. And dateless. And hating Internet dating. A lot.

Next.

Bachelor #40

Bachelor #40 was a handsome Greek with dark curly hair and striking green eyes. Yes, I've already visited Greece on my One Woman Tour of the Men of the World, but that is no reason to discriminate.

In our email exchanges, he told me he hadn't been on a date in a while and was a little nervous. Well, lucky for Bachelor #40, he was in the hands of a seasoned professional. I could handle "a little nervous." Leave it to me.

We met at a nearby pub. His first words when we met: "I'm a little nervous." Yeah, I got that.

Actually, "a little nervous" did not quite cover it. I tried to make the usual first date small talk, while he looked down into his lap, where his hands were frantically swirling and twirling like a guilty four-year-old's. Every once in a while, he'd force himself to look up at me and say, before quickly averting his gaze again "I'm sorry. You're very pretty. I'm just a little nervous."

No, sweetheart, you are A LOT nervous. You are a whole crazy mammoth bunch of nervous. You are nervous on steroids. You need to go home and hide under the covers for a few more years before you're ready to come out and walk amongst the humans.

Next.

Adventures in Trolling Cont'd

Ah, at long last, spring is finally here. To some people, that means gardening and bike riding and the arrival of the ice cream truck. For me, it means new venues for trolling: patios.

So H & I decided to check out a couple of the popular ones. When I say "popular" you know we were hoping it means "popular with handsome, successful 40-something men," ever the optomists are we. Well ... there was no shortage of beer-drinking, ripped t-shirt wearing 20-somethings. But grown-up men? In the whole place there were 2 men in their forties, and both were sporting shirts buttoned low to reveal a nest of chest hair. Mm mmm. It must have been our lucky day, because these two charmers made a beeline toward us.

Now I may be free with the critiquing here, safely hiding behind my keyboard, but in person I am actually quite polite. As for H, well, it kind of depends on the day. This day was a GOOD one. Here's how the conversation went:

Man With Overflowing Chest Hair: Hi there.
H (and this is why I love her): Honestly, you couldn't pay me enough.

I swear, she actually said that.

So we tried another patio. The first two guys who approached us were cute, if you want to date teenage boys. Which is a teeny bit inappropriate when you're the mother of one. Thanks, but no thanks. Then, miraculously, a table of men who actually looked old enough to drink without fake ID and kept all their body hair neatly tucked away invited us to join them. Things were looking up. We hung around for a while, H didn't say anything scary, and the cute one asked for my phone number.

So all in all, not a bad night of trolling.

Bachelors #38 and 39

Have you been wondering what ever happened to that Overpriced Dating Service? You know, the one Visa and I were kind enough to hand over $1600 I don't have to in the hopes of meeting someone, anyone that I don't hate?

Yeah, me too.

So I called, just to check in, say "hey", see what's happening in the land of taking large quantities of people's borrowed money, making them wait months at a time, and then setting them up with people they wouldn't ordinarily look twice at if their lives depended on it.

Turns out, the crack matchmaking team has been hard at work, matching away. Here's what I love about the Overpriced Dating Service: No matter how impossibly heinous their previous specimins have turned out to be, in spite of their VERY flattering descriptions, they can always manage to make the next one sound good. Maybe even great.

So... my next match, Bachelor #38, is 44, no kids but fine with dating someone who has kids, 6 feet tall, dark hair, nice looking, fit, blah blah blah, and here's the best part: he's a pilot. Well if you think I haven't spent every waking moment since that phone call fantasizing about Me, Dating A Pilot, you have a thing or two to learn about the inner workings of the mind of a neurotic single forty-year-old woman.

However... by now, in my head, The Pilot and I have circled the globe 3 or 4 times, because I've had a week and a half to explore the fantasy of Me, Dating A Pilot while The Pilot is too busy -- I don't know -- FLYING or something -- to call The Service and book a damn date with me. Which is REALLY frustrating because I can't tell you how much I love the idea of bumping into my ex-boyfriends and saying, I'd love to have coffee and catch up, but my boyfriend The Pilot is flitting me off to Paris for the weekend so I must rush off and pack.

So anyway, amazingly, my good friend at the Overpriced Dating Service is every bit as frustrated at The Pilot's extended absence as I am, and so has moved on to matching me again. I was a little disappointed at first, what with how heavily invested my fantasy life has already become in The Pilot, but all that was ancient history when she told me about Bachelor #39. This one is a lawyer, a gym junkie, has one daughter almost the same age as mine, is smart, funny, outgoing, and this time she actually described him as VERY good looking, in a dark, Mediterranean kind of way. Pilot? What pilot?

But of course, that was 3 days ago and as of today, I don't have a date with a pilot OR a lawyer. I just don't get it. But fortunately I have a very active fantasy life to keep me busy.

Stay tuned...

Bachelor #37

Everyone always tells me to be open-minded. Expand my horizons. So when Bachelor #37 wrote to me, I decided not to immediately dismiss him based on the fact that he's 53. In case somehow you missed it, I'm 40. And I usually adhere to a 10-year cutoff.

But Bachelor #37 was that elusive breed of Internet dater that doesn't post a picture not because he's all too keenly aware that he'd NEVER get a date if he did, but because he's just so darned successful and high-profile in his career that a little discretion is in order. The fantasy that men like that are out there is what made me try the whole Internet dating thing in the first place. When someone writes to me without a picture, I always think, he must be a politician or a prominant lawyer or maybe Patrick Dempsey. (Yes, I know he's happily married but this is my fantasy, OK?) Then, sure enough, he sends me a picture and it turns out he's a bald, toothless, cross-eyed maintenance manager at a nuclear power plant.

But Bachelor #37 sent me a few pictures and they were all pretty good. Turns out, he was a successful downtown trader, so he suggested we meet for a drink at the bar in one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. Naturally, I assumed if all went well we'd be staying for a lovely $300 dinner. After all, he chose the venue.

When I got off the elevator, there was this well-dressed man who, from the neck up, looked just like I thought he would. A little older, yes, but in a sophisticated kind of way, and quite a nice face.

The thing is ... and you know there's always a thing... in my indecision over whether or not to go out with a 53-year-old and my excitement at the notion of dinner with a successful trader, somehow, amazingly, I'd completely neglected to check how tall he was. I know, I know, I of all people should know better. So I guess you won't be surprised when I tell you that, in my 3-inch heels, I could see the top of his head.

But I guess HIS initial opinion was a little better, because he did suggest we stay for dinner. Funnily enough, sitting down he was so much more appealing. He was smart, and nice, and VERY interested in being in a relationship. Then he thought it would be nice to show me his office. Which meant, unfortunately, walking around together. And there was the top of his head again.

For the record, I did go out with him a second time. He was very nice and very interested, and I don't like to think I'm so shallow as to dismiss a perfectly reasonable candidate just because he's 5"6. But then on our second date, he wore a form-fitting t-shirt, and now in addition to seeing the top of his head, I could also see his 53-year old body. Is it shallow to want to want to see your man naked? There's either chemistry or there isn't, right?

Why can't I just ignore this silly desire to want to actually fall in love with someone, and just be a shameless gold digger and latch onto the next successful man that comes along? So what if he's short, he can always stand on his big fat wallet, can't he? And if I don't want to see him naked, can't I just keep my eyes closed? Who's to say the life of a gold digger isn't a happy one? Even if I wasn't in love with my husband, I would be madly in love with my shoes. Surely that is fulfillment enough?

But no. And so...

Next.

Bachelor #36

Sometimes I amaze myself. My ability to attract some of the freakiest men on earth is truly remarkable. Read on at your own peril.

I met Bachelor #36 online, which is, in many cases, cause for concern from the get-go. But he seemed like lots of the good things I'm looking for: fit, smart, nice enough looking, interesting, funny, and even Jewish, which is always a nice bonus for my mother.

We were talking on the phone, actually having quite a good conversation, when Mr. Spontaneous Pants decided he just HAD to meet me RIGHT NOW. A little anxious, maybe, and it was almost midnight, but hell, I'm game for just about anything.

Well, just about.

On the phone, he was a little eccentric maybe, but generally light and funny. In person, in addition to being a little short (why, I ask you, why are they all so short?) and more grey-haired than his photos, he was suddenly all serious. It's not that easy to make this seasoned dater uncomfortable, but I've got to hand it to Bachelor #36. He sat across the table and stared. Wide eyed, silent, and staring. Until finally he said very slowly, and I quote: "YOU ARE THE FACE I'VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF."

Now, I'm confident enough to say that I am a reasonably attractive human being. And I know how to take a compliment (and how to spell one, which is a lot more than I can say about most men on the online dating sites, but I digress...) However, this time, every fibre of my being was screaming "FREAK!"

In a desperate attempt to break his gaze, I got up and went to the bathroom. When I returned, he told me that as he watched me walking away, he couldn't help noticing how beautiful my butt is, and that he would like very much to spend a few hours just rubbing it.

Sometimes my fibres are really perceptive.

NEXT!

Bachelor #35

I'm not sure how it happened, but I seem to be on a one-woman tour of the world, without ever leaving home. Sort of like, Around the World in Eighty Men. OK, there haven't been 80 yet, but I seem to be sampling the nations of the world through their men. Which, admittedly, is kind of fun. I've always felt I haven't seen enough of the world, so here's my chance.

So far, in the last year, I have visited: Greece, Iran, Poland, Israel, and most recently, Italy.

At a bar one night recently with H, we met a trio of very interesting men. Because H is very tall, the two short but attractive and successful Italian men were all mine. Not a bad little situation to find oneself in! I had, for the asking, either: a dashing, sexy, slightly aggressive, over-the-top charmer who called me "bella" and offered to take me to Italy, or a sweet, nice-looking-in-an-understated-sort-of-way, sincere, quieter type who seemed to need a fair bit of effort to work up the nerve to talk to me.

Being the astute judge of character that I am, naturally I eschewed the kind, sincere man who probably would have treated me like gold in favour of the overt charmer who turned out to be unavailable, self-absorbed, primarily interested in getting in my pants, and I suspect, despite his protests to the contrary, married. It's kind of like "two men diverged into a bar, and I, I took the one most travelled by."

Brilliant, huh?

Next.

About The Insta-Boyfriend

Is it me, or are men out there in some kind of hurry? Well I know it's not JUST me, because it's happening to some of my friends too. Now don't get me wrong, I want to get off the online dating hamster wheel as fast as anyone, but even so, one blind date does not a relationship make. Call me crazy, but I believe a girl needs to get to know a random man she meets online at least a little before she's ready to gaze longingly into his eyes and declare herself off the market. But apparently the same does not appear to be true for the guys.

So here's how it goes: We chat online. We agree to meet for a drink. When I walk into the bar and meet him in the flesh, BEST CASE SCENARIO, I'm thinking the following:
- Thank God he has some hair
- Thank God I am not embarrassed to be seen in public with him
- Thank God he is taller than me in my 3 1/2 inch heels
- Thank God there aren't too many awkward silences
- Thank God there seems to be evidence of a brain
- Thank God there seems to be evidence of a personality and I don't have the carry the entire conversation myself. This time.
- OK, I wouldn't mind seeing him again. You never know, it could build into something.

Here's what I'm getting from him:

- HURRAY! I have a new girlfriend!
- Want to go out again tomorrow? And the day after that? And the day after that?
- Let's hold hands and maybe makeout a little?
- How about a weekend away?
- Can I call you baby, baby?
- Wanna meet my mom?

People, am I missing something?

Bachelor #34

I hate talking to strange men on the phone. Call me crazy, but I just find there is just something so darned awkward about talking to someone you've never met. And if the conversation isn't going well, how on earth do you get out of it? But sometimes, try as I might, I lose the battle. Why I don't get to call the shots ALL the time is beyond me, but it happens.

So when faced with the dreaded phone-call-with-a-total-stranger, I always go in with my expectations as low as possible and a few escape routes at the ready, like "Oh, sorry, that's my parole officer on the other line. I should really take that." Or "Can I call you back in a few minutes? I just have to run into the drug store to pick up the prescription for this oozing rash I have that just won't go away." You know, just in case.

But Bachelor #34 got on the phone and had me laughing in the first five seconds. I can't even remember what he said, but he was funny. His pictures were only OK, but he got BIG points for sense of humour.

So we went for drinks. I am fond of drinks. I believe that drinks make for better dates, but sometimes, some people have TOO MANY drinks. And then sometimes they get a wee bit aggressive. And sometimes maybe a wee bit forward. Then sometimes they try to kiss you but get all confused and mistake your head for a lollipop. A large, wet, frightened lollipop.

Next.

Bachelor #33

As a seasoned online dater, I pride myself on the ability to vet the REALLY horrible ones long before it ever gets to the face-to-face meeting. Although none of the men I've met so far have been the one for me -- and some haven't even been close -- most of them have been basically decent human beings. Unattractive, dull, cheap? Certainly, but still essentially decent people. I've never feared for my life. Never thought I was out with a serious slimeball. Never had the desire to throw a drink at anyone, run screaming from the restaurant, or felt an urgent need to wash my hands immediately after shaking his.

Then I met bachelor #33. We went out for lunch. In a restaurant. Which is, for the record, a public place. During the day. Bachelor #33 has some kind of middle management job or other, which is what he told me about in his emails, but over lunch, he told me about the business he's starting on the side: a sex toy web site. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm no prude and although it's not exactly the dream job I'd imagined for my prospective partner, and I'm not quite sure how I'd explain it to my mother, I can appreciate that it's a business like any other. Maybe even a successful one.

But then he took a vibrator out of his pocket, turned it on and offered it to me across the table. In a restaurant. Seriously. It was vibrating. Which makes a noise. Which other people heard. And saw.

I think the fact somehow I managed NOT to throw my drink at him or make any more of a scene is beyond commendable. I am thinking about nominating myself for sainthood. Can you do that? I am going to have to look into it.

Next.