Plenty of Fish in the Sea?

People, I signed up for Plenty of Fish again. I know, I am such a glutton for punishment! Why do I do this to myself? I'll tell you why. YOU! I hear it all the damn time, how people met their spouses or soul mates online. And I thought, hey, that could happen to me, right? Maybe I'll actually meet someone who won't send me running for a galaxy far, far away.

Alas, me? I'm the eternal optimist. And when I say optimist, I mean magical thinker. And when I say magical thinker, I mean ridiculously hopeful sap.

Anyway, within an hour of signing on to POF, my inbox filled up. You might think that would be a good thing, but not so much. I like to say I'm discriminating, but really I'm just picky. For a lot of these guys, there's a reason they're still single that has nothing to do with being picky.

I promise you, I'm a serious fan of men and all their uncomplicated charm. But on a dating site, you have three chances to get attention. (1) Your profile. Your self-authored sales pitch. (2) Messages. They're your calling cards, so make them count. (3) Your best, real, recent photo. The real you—hopefully, you from the front, side, back, and shirtless. Heh, totally kidding. Not. (Have you seen Spartacus on Starz? Fan me down.)

So of all the messages in my inbox and all the profiles I reviewed, only two or three really caught my eye. The others . . . Well, you tell me:

1. Mr. I Sat Out Language Arts. Go ahead, call me elitist, but when your one chance to hook me in a profile looks like this:

ladies i dont know want to email pingpong forever just sea if weget along dont drag it out cuz mytime is valable you know it lol what about coffee or a beer instead and then?

. . . and then I'm gonna have to pass.

2. Mr. Socially Awkward. Those inbox messages I mentioned? Oy. Filled—FILLED—with single-line stuff like this:

• Hey you and me match. I hope you want to meet me. Write me back.
• I like your profile. Your special. But you have to have things in common I know.
• I am an acquired taste. A mix of little boy, dominate male, artist, poet, intellectual, and mechanic with a dash of essentricistism thrown in.
• Hi pretty lady, how's your evening going? Fine I hope.
• What am I living for, if not for you?
• Your pretty. LOL. But seriously.

Guys, I need meat. And when I say meat, I mean conversation. And when I say conversation, I mean big people words. How about an adult exchange? That stuff above? That makes me worry you have skinned knuckles and grunt a lot. Come on, what do you really need to know about me?

3. Mr. Love Me for What's Inside. Dude. That won't be a problem, IF I see merit in your profile and IF you show your photo, which is actually #1 in the whole "Pick me!" process. This is the guy who sends you a two-line email about how pretty he thinks you are, but lets a blank blue square be your window into his soul. Why so afraid to reveal yourself? Call me shallow, but I don't buy prime rib I can't see.

4. Mr. I'm Embarrassed about How I've Let Myself Go. Ancient photos of you do NOTHING to tell me who you are now. Same goes for a photo of you taken from across the Continental Divide, where I can't tell if you're a man or a mailbox.

5. Mr. Heavy Petter. Just as useless is the heavy-handed use of your dog(s) photos. I don't care how sweet and lovable your schnauzer is, I'm not going to date him, and he can't sway me to date you.

Plenty of fish in the sea? Depends on if we're counting all the ones ya gotta throw back. (sigh) Now are you feeling my pain? Ladies? It's all your fault.

P.S.  I should mention, I'm not perfect either. I went all Chatty Cathy on a guy, which was outrageously out of character for me. Obviously.
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Dating Debacle #1,242

I marched into the SW baggage office because my suitcase hadn't appeared on the conveyor. I'd just quit the guy I'd gone on a trip with, and he'd just delivered a last litany of stupid, compounding my outrage to the point of tears. Big titty baby, I know. I needed to vent like a live grenade, but the pin was stuck.

To the woman behind the lost baggage counter, I sniveled, "My bag . . . didn't . . . come through." Whimper, whimper. "I'm sorry. [gasp, blubber] I hate a man right now."

She gave me the solidarity grimace. You know, the one that says, Oh girl, I hear ya. Want me to kick his ass? This is what I love about women when you're feeling vulnerable; they get the entire picture in six words. If her coworker hadn't been there (a guy), we'd have pow-wowed with chocolate, a bottle of wine, and a cheese block we could carve into a voodoo doll. Helpful hint: Frilly foil toothpicks make the occasion more festive.

What, you've never done that?

Dating, you take your chances with complete strangers and, at minimum, hope for chemistry and enough things in common to keep things lively. Let's amp that up with the hope that your date's not that guy with the core belief that all women are sneaky and out to get him, cuz that's the guy who'll plant you in a no-win scenario where he can prove that his core belief is true. That's the guy who'll negate everything fabulous and wonderful and fun he did for you because of a single lame-ass assumption about your character.

And just so you don't feel too in the dark, here's a visual for you about how the weekend went:

Click to enlarge.

Here's what I came away with: a renewed appreciation for waterproof mascara and a deep crevice between my eyebrows. Like I need another reason for that.

And now I choose NEXT!, a nice Malbec, and Bridget Jones. Why BJ? Because when it comes to men, I am Bridget, looking for someone to like me just the way I am and holding out for something extraordinary. Someone extraordinary. Dude, where are you?

I leave you with my fave song from the movie, a sexy number you'll want to listen to while you're doing . . . stuff.

Now where are those toothpicks?

P.S. Yes, y'all. I found my luggage. It got to the office before I did. So weird.



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Mr. Right Up My Alley

I might have mentioned it before, but while lazing in front of the tube watching old movies, the geniuses at Bravo targeted me for repeated airings of eHarmony, Match, and Chemistry commercials. I mean, how do they know I'm single? How do they know when I'm spending all day in my pajamas, regarding brazieres with disdain? How do they know I'm debating a real penis versus some kind of vibrating purple beaver thing? Am I that obvious?

Well, I confess. Their advertising was just too damn effective. Plus, all my friends and office mates (14 women, 0 men) pushed me to "just give it a try" so I don't have to spend all my time in testosterone-rich environments like bars. Not that there's anything wrong with that . . . So I officially lit up my VACANCY sign.

To be honest, I normally date younger men. They're generally more playful, and playful is important to me. But I thought maybe this time I would shoot for someone older, someone with a lot of life experience and time to spend on me. So I entered all the appropriate search criteria and came up totally, disappointingly, vacuously empty. There aren't a lot of hotties who have aged well, and that's important to me too. In fact, most of the pickins are a bunch of bubbas. I don't care if I do live in Texas, I don't want anything to do with a paunchy redneck in a cowboy hat, a tombstone-sized belt buckle, and a cheek-full o' chew.

In fact, the old bucks seem to have given up on presenting themselves in the best light, if the pictures they post are any indication. Yes, I'm judging. That's just part of it. Listen, if you're putting up grainy pictures of yourself in a fishing boat from fifty yards away, or holding a rifle while standing on a moving jeep in your camos, or straddling a motorcycle as an expression of your virility, let me enlighten you: That's not attractive!

Hey, I have standards. First impressions count. Did you ever buy a smokin' New Year's Eve frock (I just wanted to say frock) based on its history in the dress factory? No, it caught your eye from the rack and drew you in for a closer look. You imagined how fabulous and sexy you'd look when you stepped outta the limo in it. Only then did you try it on, see if it fit in all the right places, seal the deal and buy it.

The one scholarly guy I took a chance on for coffee and dinner turned out to be a latin Eeyore. While he had a few things in his favor (LA-tin!), it all ended rather abruptly and unpleasantly. Ladies, gender communications issues have still not evolved beyond, "I'll never understand women."

On broadening my search criteria and accepting that I just can't hang with a stodgy old fart, I did manage to find a couple of yummy prospects. By yummy, I mean intelligent, successful, family-oriented, adventurous, confident, a little vulnerable, playful, hot, and normal. Which begs the question, did your sister fill out this profile form for you? Because you're saying all the right things!

Since things are looking up, you can expect another episode of Fragrant Liar's Search for Mr. Right Up My Alley. Meanwhile, where's that catalogue with the vibrating purple beaver things?
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