Bachelor #64

When Bachelor #64 wrote to me, I could have -- no wait, should have -- done the superficial thing and dismissed him right off as freckly and bland-looking. But I have risen above that sort of thing, and so I gave him points for intelligence, good grammar and a hint of success. OK, one could argue the success thing is just a different flavour of superficiality, but that's really not the point here, now is it?

When he asked about my ethnicity and got a little unnaturally excited to learn that I'm Jewish, though he's not, I decided to let that go too. What's so wrong with dating a heb-hag? Who am I to argue with the unique appeal of the Jewish girl?

So I agreed to meet him for a weekend brunch. He chose a quaint little place in a funky neighborhood. Well played, freckly bland heb-hag. And so I thought, maybe he's just bland in pictures? Maybe his appeal just can't be captured in two dimensions? It's possible! I tried to remain hopeful.

Which was just plain dumb, really. Of course, it wasn't just the pictures. But bland looks can be forgiven. He wasn't ugly. He was just, well, bland. Like when you're little and they tell you to draw a face, without looking at anyone in particular, and you draw a nose and a mouth and two eyes, and it looks like, well, a face. Not a real face or an interesting face or a face with any character. Just a face. Grab a pencil and you'll see what Bachelor #64 looks like.

But I am a mature, rational woman of 40! I am not going to dismiss a perfectly reasonable candidate simply because his face is utterly forgettable. I am, however, going to dismiss an otherwise reasonable candidate because he is more effeminate than any of my gay friends. In fact, he's more effeminate than any of my girlfriends. We're not talking ever-so-slightly metrosexual. We're talking limp-wristed, pinky-raising, cliche-gay-sounding, completely off-putting, how-in-the-world-could-you-expect-me-to-be-attracted-to-you-even-if-you-were-attractive effeminate.

Poor Bachelor #64. And if that wasn't bad enough, though he offered to pay the bill, his credit card was rejected. Which must have been awfully humiliating. I really do feel badly for him. Not badly enough to go out with him again, but badly.

Next.

Bachelors #61, 62 and 63

So many men, so little time to blog about them!

Sometimes it seems there is such a dearth of men, the universe may never yield another date. Other times my dance card is so full I can barely squeeze in another. I am delighted to report that my cup is currently running over with men, and some of them would appear to possibly even be reasonable prospects. Go figure.

Unfortunately, however, sometimes there are things one just cannot share with the internet. No, silly, get your head out of the gutter. The issue at hand is Bachelor #61. He is the brother of my very lovely friend C. And so, by nature, he is not bloggable. Having said that, I think it is perfectly reasonable to share the story of the mind-bogglingly-awkward way in which we were introduced. (Thanks C.!)

Bachelor #61 has a sailboat. C set out to suggest that her brother invite us out for a boat ride. That was all well and good, and potentially ever-so-slightly less awkward than your run-of-the-mill blind date. But that was before C's sister AND HER MOTHER got invited as well. Yes folks, I went on a blind date WITH HIS ENTIRE FAMILY along for the ride. And of course, they all knew why I was there, crashing what had somehow morphed into a floating family dinner. All I can say is THANK GOD FOR WINE.

Amazingly enough, both Bachelor #61 and I survived the excursion and have agreed to go out again. I'm thinking maybe just the two of us this time.

And then there's Bachelor #62. Bachelor #62 is the latest offering from the Overpriced Dating Service. Now, if you'll recall, we are not too confident in the Overpriced Dating Service's abilities. And so this time I asked A LOT of questions. For example, I'm pretty sure I asked the question "IS HE ATTRACTIVE?" about 40 or 50 times. The first time, their answer was, "He has kind eyes." Are you convinced? Yeah, me neither. But after I asked the question another few dozen times, and insisted that they give me a better reason to think I might like him than the fact that he enjoys movies and wine tasting, as, by the way, does every single man they've recommended, they swore up and down that he is appealing in many ways, well suited to me, and yes, he's attractive. So I agreed to meet him.

They described Bachelor #62 as 5"10 with BROWN HAIR and blue eyes. Kind blue eyes, that is. Now, you'll recall I asked for confirmation about his looks REPEATEDLY. And so, you can imagine my surprise when a COMPLETELY BALD man sat down at my table. Now, in fairness, Bachelor #62 is actually a reasonable prospect. He's smart, interesting, charming, successful, active, and the kind of guy who doesn't play games and would certainly know how to treat a woman. And he's not actually UNattractive. Had I not been expecting a man with brown hair, I might not have been so immediately taken aback. Yet another ridiculous misrepresentation by the Overpriced Dating Service. Did they think I wouldn't notice? Still, while I'm not wildly attracted to bald men, in the end I had a nice time with him and in the interest of doing the smart thing -- you know, just for something new and different -- I'm going to go out with Bachelor #62 again.

And speaking of wildly attractive, then there's Bachelor #63. Bachelor #63 wrote to me online. We emailed a few times, and made plans to get together. When he cancelled our date at the last minute, I was a little annoyed and tempted to write him off. But his emails were funny, his stats were good (45, 5"11, fit, successful, divorced, successful, lives nearby) and oh by the way, he's HOT. And he even has hair. So when he texted again and asked to reschedule, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and ignore my instincts that were telling me this one has NO IDEA how to treat a woman.

We met for a late drink. He suggested a very upscale restaurant. Everyone there knew his name. We drank. We laughed. We talked. He showed off. There was flirting. It was fun. He is trouble. So naturally, I like him.

So there you have it. The plan at the moment -- astonishingly -- is to go out with all three of them again, as well as a few more on the agenda (though how I plan to fit all this into my schedule remains a bit of a mystery) and hope that, as is usually the case, the choice becomes easy. Of course, the most likely possibility seems to be that I will be distracted by the fun, sexy unreliable one and therefore lose interest in the nicer ones, only to find I've wasted even more of my relative and rapidly disappearing youth on yet another Mr. Wrong. But acknowledging that you have a problem is the first step towards recovery, right?

Here's hoping. But I make no promises.

Stay tuned.

Bachelor #60

The most amazing thing happened the other day. At least, I thought it was amazing, until I read the fine print.

You see, I have a bit of a weed problem in my new front yard. The backyard is a vision of loveliness, where I sit as we speak, glass of Pinot in hand, savoring the delights of buzzed blogging. But I digress... To say that I have a bit of a weed problem is like saying that guy they had to forklift out of his house needs to lose a few pounds. It's more of an infestation. Sadly, at the moment, I am a little house-poor and unable to afford the services of the hot young team of landscapers I really need. So out I trot for a couple hours every weekend, array of weeding devices of varying degrees of uselessness in hand, attempting the equivalent of emptying the ocean one eyedropper-full at a time, so determined (read: STUPID) am I.

I promise I am boring you with the scope of my weeding problem for a reason. And yes, it is entirely related to the dating fiasco du jour. So there I was, mud stained shorts, sweaty brow, weeding away, when an attractive young dark-haired man slows down in front of my house and says, in all his wisdom, "You have a weed problem."

Naturally, I had no choice but to respond with some sarcastic quip along the lines of "Really? I do? Thanks for pointing that out. I had no idea."

And then he told me he has a landscaping business. Interestingly enough he didn't actually have any straight answers about what I might do that's more effective than the 18-year plan I'm currently on. But maybe that was because that's only one of his areas of expertise. He also plans parties and used to be a real estate agent.

Anyway, he handed me his card, you know, in case I ever need (semi)-professional landscaping help. And then he drove away.

And then a few minutes later he came back, pulled over again, and told me that he really didn't want me to call him for landscaping help. He just wanted me to call him. Actually, he'd rather call me if I would give him my number.

Now, all of this was very flattering, especially given the advanced state of grunginess I was in at the time. And it was really hot and I was probably delirious with sun stroke. And a little bored. So I gave him my number.

It was only as he drove away that I noticed the earring. Strike 1.

Then I went inside to get cleaned up, figuring I'd accomplished quite enough for one day. After all, I'd pulled 6 weeds and picked up one Italian. And without ever leaving my own front yard. Not bad! But before I could even set foot in the shower, he called. A little too eager. Strike 2.

Now, the thing with meeting total strangers in random real-world places is you don't get to read a profile and clear the basic stats first. So here's what I found in the first phone call:
- he's 35, never married, no kids. Strike 3,4,5.
- he smokes. Strike 6.
- he has a dog. Strike 7. I hate dogs.
- in addition to the landscaping, banking and party planning, he also runs what can only be described as an illicit poker house, which, for all I know, could very well be a mafia money laundering operation. Or worse. Strike 8. You're OUT.

So I lied and said I had no free nights all week.

And so he called the next day. 4 times. Since I am a very mature woman and a highly effective communicator, I didn't answer. Then I got a "private number" call, which usually means it's my friend S. So I answered. Have you ever been blatantly busted? Oh boy. Not good. Not good at all. Obviously, under the circumstances, the mature thing to do would have been to lie again and tell him I've met someone else.

So I told him I was too busy to talk.

I think he may have gotten the hint, but Karma is going to kick me in the ass but good for this one.

Still More Miscellaneous Online Bachelors

On the positive side, my new online dating site is once again filling my otherwise dismal social calendar with a bevy of SEEMINGLY successful, interesting men. I am happy to report that I have plenty of blog material -- I mean dates -- coming up. Of course, my expectations are suitably minimal, but at least I'm lining up some dates.

But as I weed through the dregs of singlehood in search of the ever-elusive successful, attractive, intelligent divorced dads, I am once again positively dumbfounded by some of the hopefuls.

Among them:

• A shirtless 25 year old gym rat who challenges all the "womyn" out there to see if we can keep up with him. Much as I ordinarily love a challenge, I think I'll pass.
• A 63-year-old who describes his body type as "a few extra pounds" and his occupation as "haven't decided yet." Another serious temptation.
• One who said "I'm everything your looking for." Must have missed the part where I said grammar counts. And also the part where I said no blatant toupees. Or maybe that was implied.
• A guy who looks and sounds absolutely perfect except he lives in Australia. I try to be geographically flexible but continent is kind of important to me. I'm funny that way.
• A real charmer who told me he has a girlfriend but he doesn't mind if I don't. And besides I'm much prettier than she is. Flattery will get you DELETED.
• A semi-literate and spectacularly tattooed member of the armed forces posing in his photos holding large weapons and looking for "casual". Also awfully hard to resist.

Of course, they're making the screening process very, very easy. Bring on the handsome executives who can spell "you're."

Stay tuned.

Bachelor #59

Bachelor #59 was one of the most obvious forms of online dating hazards: The Good Writer With No Discernible Personality In Person. Yes, in writing Bachelor #59 was positively oozing with personality. He was confident. He was funny. He made a distinct point of demonstrating his commendable command of the apostrophe, which is no easy feat for the average online dater. He came across as smart, interesting and engaging. He was SO charming I was willing to give him a shot even though he was 53.

Then he showed up with a big blob of mustard on his shirt. And wet shorts.

Now, in the hands of a man with a sense of humour and a personality, that could have been a fantastic ice breaker and the beginning of a very amusing conversation. In the hands of a man with the personality of soap scum, it was nothing more than pitiful and embarassing to be seen with.

Ordinarily, even on a bad first date, I do my due diligence and ask the basic questions: occupation, age of children, length since divorce, etc. With Bachelor #59, none of these questions even crossed my mind. There were only 2 things I wanted to know:

- How can you seem so interesting in writing and be so painfully bland in person?
- Is 11 minutes too soon to get out of here?

And another thing: it's time to stop all this "I look young for my age" nonsense once and for all. If you're 53 and you have gray hair and jowls, you don't look "young for your age." You might look young for your grandfather's age, but for your age, you look bang on. I don't care what your mother told you.

Next.

Bachelor #58: The Whole Story

OK kids, pour yourselves a drink and get comfy. This is a good one.

I don't go on dates just for the blog fodder. I swear, I really do want to meet someone. But I am going to confess right now that I had some serious reservations about this one going in, OBVIOUSLY, but I went anyway for 3 reasons: because his pictures were just so stupidly good-looking I was curious to see what he really looked like, because I'm such a gosh darned sweet person I didn't have the heart to say no, and last, because I knew it would provide some kick ass blog material. And man oh man, did he deliver.

But let's start at the beginning, shall we? We don't want to skim over any potentially blog-worthy details. Let's start with the warning signs.

Warning Sign #1: His pictures were too good. They really were. He looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch model. I sent them to my gay friend and he made one of them his wallpaper and apparently it's been providing some pretty interesting fantasy material. Clearly they were modelling shots, and normal 5"4 Jewish 40 year old girls don't date models. Something was just not right.

Warning Sign #2: Two words: ELVIS IMPERSONATOR.

Warning Sign #3: Please don't tell me you love me until AFTER WE HAVE MET. Just a crazy rule I have.

And yet, for the very valid reasons outlined above, I went. You can stop shaking your head now and pour yourself another drink. Trust me, it helps.

Anyway, Elvis is new in town, so I was tasked with the restaurant selection. I chose a quaint little Italian place with a charming and quiet (READ: unlikely to see anyone I know) patio. I wore a lovely little black and white summer dress. Any guesses about what Elvis wore? I had fears of white vinyl and blue suede shoes, but hadn't at all prepared for the sight awaiting me at the table. In fairness, he did warn me he had to dye his hair jet-black for the big show coming up, and he was kind enough to get rid of the side burns just for me, for which I am eternally grateful. But how on earth to explain the flashy pin-stripe jacket and CHUNKY WOODEN NECKLACE? Surely there is some explanation but it would take a far more creative person than me to come up with one. All I could come up with was: ELVIS IS CRAZY. SOMEONE HELP ME.

Now, before I get to the part where I demonstrate that I care about big important issues like GIGANTIC PHILOSOPHICAL DIFFERENCES, I would just like to say one more thing about the shallow, unimportant physical stuff: he really does look like Elvis. And I don't entirely mean that in a bad way. Well, I kind of do. Because I KNOW people were looking at us and thinking, "What is that very normal Jewish girl doing out with that pimp who thinks he's Elvis?" And who can blame them, what with the jet black hair that he said he gelled into normalcy but in reality was not hiding its pompadour tendencies as well as one would hope? Having said all that, I would just like to say here (and I also said this to his face) that if Elvis had managed to make it to 40 and not gotten fat and drug addicted and instead had done a few triathlons, he would have looked like Bachelor #58. He looked like the young cute Elvis only not so young. He really was quite good looking. But again, he looked VERY Elvis-like. IN PUBLIC.

OK, now for the part where I tell you about something other than his looks. Hope you're comfy because we are just getting started here. Maybe you should think about a refill.

I should preface this by telling you that I am probably the world's biggest skeptic. I am a staunch agnostic, largely because I can't even believe in atheism without definitive proof one way or the other. I don't believe in anything I can't see, touch, or argue beyond dispute. Elvis, it turns out, has the opposite problem. He believes in EVERYTHING. He doesn't think this enormous chasm between our belief systems is a problem. Mostly because he thinks he can fix me. I do not think I can be fixed. And I DO think our polar opposite viewpoints are a pretty big problem. That and the chunky wooden necklace. But you see for yourself.

Here are some things that Elvis believes (please note, I apologize sincerely to anyone who believes things I don't, especially the types of things I'm about to describe. While I will be honest and say I find this stuff to be A GIANT PILE OF HOOEY, that doesn't mean others (Elvis included) can't enjoy their beliefs. But this is my blog, so I get to mock. That's just how it goes):

1. We are all reincarnated. If we did something evil in another life, we are here to redeem ourselves. For example, if you killed people in a previous life, you might return as a homosexual. You know, as punishment. He told me this RIGHT AFTER I told him about my close family member and close friends who are gay.

2. If you meditate hard enough you can ask God to move the curtains and he will do it. But only if you REALLY BELIEVE.

3. (My favorite) He once met with a medium who channeled some really cool stuff for him which of course he accepts as gospel, including the very factual fact that he is very fortunate to have 3 guides with him in life. Guides are basically angels, which is what we all become after we've been reincarnated a few times and have finally cleansed ourselves of all our past sins such as killing people and being a homosexual. Anyway, Elvis has 3 guides: Mother Alma, the nun, who guides him in life, Red Bow, the Indian, who protects him, and Thomas Timmons, the actor, who serves as his creative muse.

You know I couldn't possibly make this stuff up. I wish I could, but I am limited and closed minded. Of course, I too have guides trying desperately to help me but I'm just not open enough to realize they're there. But I'm going to work on it because I think it might come in handy to have an angel to protect me sometimes. Like when I'm on dates with crazy people.

But fortunately, the fact that I disagreed with everything he said for 2 hours gave me an easy out. And that was it. Heading forever in our separate directions, Elvis and I left the building.

Next.

Bachelor #58

I’m just going to come right out and say it: I have a date with an Elvis impersonator.

Yes folks, there are dangers to online dating I never could have imagined. People always warn you there are all manner of freaks and weirdos, but this proves once and for all that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. I couldn't have made this up if I tried.

And here’s the really crazy part: I’m still going.

OK, stop thinking what you're thinking! We’re not talking about old, fat Elvis here. We’re talking Elvis, the early years. Elvis who could only be shown on Ed Sullivan from the waist up. I’ve been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I’m not incapable of seeing the appeal of a date with The King. Of course, I have yet to see a picture in a white vinyl jumpsuit…

The truth is, he’s cute, he’s nice, he’s funny, he appears to be reasonably intelligent and articulate (at least off-stage) and he’s got personality and charm to spare. And he’s definitely not boring. I know I may risk being locked up for saying this, but maybe he’s just a nice guy who happens to have a rather unorthodox hobby? Maybe spending a few weekends a year throwing your panties at your boyfriend while he gyrates on stage singing Viva Las Vegas isn’t such a bad thing? Wait, maybe the panty throwing is for Tom Jones. Oh, whatever! We all have our eccentricities, don’t we? I eat cereal without milk. Who am I to judge?

Sometimes my ability to justify just about anything in the name of going on a date is positively frightening.

Send help. Quick.

Thank you, thank you very much.

There are worse dilemmas

So we all get fed up with online dating and write it off, swearing up and down that "it just doesn't work." How many times have we heard THAT? And yet, the fact remains that THREE of my close friends met their very lovely husbands online, and they're all quite happily married. One of them just celebrated their 5 year anniversary. Tell THEM it just doesn't work.

Which is why, skeptic though I am, I keep going back. Only this time I decided to try something a little different and ventured onto a niche site for a certain interest of mine, rather than swimming among the shirtless, moustached, grammatically challenged masses. And low and behold, online dating is fun again. Sure, it helps that I'm fresh meat, and I'm sure the flood of attention I'm currently receiving will grind to a resounding halt in short order. But for now, I'm enjoying the attention.

In particular, I'm enjoying the attention of one triathlon-competitor with a body like an underwear model and a face like Matthew McConaughy. Does that make me superficial? Maybe. Does it make me grateful for being single for the first time in a long time? Hell yeah. Could the pictures be fake? Or maybe he was a model and they're posed and doctored? Sure. But on the off chance they're not, well, SOMEONE has to date the impossibly good-looking ones. Why not me?

As for the dilemma at hand, it is this: Can a guy be TOO good-looking? If by some crazy fluke he turns out to actually exist and look 1/10th as good as the pictures, and we actually have something to talk about and maybe even like each other, would I be insanely insecure dating someone so hot I find myself strangely tempted to lick my computer screen when his picture's on it? Will I be able to handle the constant ogling from other (read: YOUNGER) women? Will I be able to deal with the inevitable fear of eating, lest I gain an ounce and not measure up to his standards which can only be completely unattainable? Sure, he likes my pictures but let's face it, I AM FORTY AND HAVE HAD CHILDREN! I am many things but perfect is NOT one of them. See? My insecurities are out of control already and so far I'm fairly certain I'm chatting with a 300-pound married man hiding behind pictures of a model. Or am I? Well at least for the moment life is interesting...

Stay tuned.

Bachelor #57

Believe it or not, the part I hate the most about dating isn't the really bad dates. Those are painful to be sure, but easy. Thanks, but no thanks. Make a clean break and never look back.

But what I hate the most are the dates about which both the best and the worst I can say is "OK." Bachelor #57 was OK. Nothing more, nothing less. I can't mock him for his height (6"1), his bad grammar, (although I'm pretty sure he said "real-a-ter" instead of "realtor") his poor grooming (hair only where appropriate) or his laughable wardrobe choices (although in retrospect his clothing was so bland and safe I can't actually recall it). On the other hand, he was nice, but not particularly funny. He was easy enough to talk to, but not especially interesting. He was in good shape and decent looking, but I can't say I found myself attracted.

The problem is, he's a perfectly nice guy. Isn't it awful? Can you think of anything worse? OK, I'm sure there are lots of women -- rational, intelligent women destined to live happily married lives -- who would be thrilled to meet a decent, nice, fit, gainfully employed (though I wouldn't go all the way to successful), reasonably attractive man who made no secret about his level of interest. But not me. I am bored to tears by nice. I hate simple, plain, OK. I want biting wit. I want clever banter. I want subtle but undeniable flirtation. I know it's unrealistic to be wowed on a first date, but how about intrigued? Even a little bit? Is mildly intrigued really too much to ask? The only thing I felt with Bachelor #57 was an overwhelming indifference. Go out again? OK. Sure. Why not. Whatever. Never see you again? OK. Sure. That's fine too.

And this, in a nutshell, is why I will be blogging about bad dates from the old age home.

Next.