DC Damsel

I hate Sunday nights. When all is said and done, brunch is eaten, my Sunday NYT is read, my treadmill has beaten my chubby ass into exhaustion, and I’m here, on my own at my perch, talking to the virtual world.

So here I sit with my white wine and half a pack of Marlboros, and as nice as it is to curl up with my laptop, somehow, it just doesn’t replace that other kind of warm button pushing I’d rather be taking part in.

I had a great date on Friday night - the surroundings were corny as hell but the company was, well, splendid. A lot of deep eye-gazing and kissing, and laughter. Saturday was nice too - a long workout, a nice chat with my Mom, an official sign-off on Match.com, Chinese take-out and early to rise this morning for breakfast with an old friend.

The outlook for my week ahead is busy but good. Dinners with several girlfriends, a promising job interview (I hope) and prepping for a trip to St. Paul to take in the GOP convention (my first convention), not to mention, yet another week with my boss out of town and I can’t begin to explain the kind of newsroom nirvana that brings me.

But Sunday nights are almost always a bitch for me. They’re just plain lonely, and despite my ability for prolific blogging in an eleven-dollar-screw-top-pinot stupor, Sunday nights really are my most dreaded part of the week. It sucks to be single on a Sunday night.

I suppose the depressants I’ve chosen - nicotine, booze, and Otis Redding aren’t really helping my cause any, but fuck, what else does a single girl have to relish in if not a bit of tipsy self-pity, black lung, and the master of heartbreaking melodies? I listen to Otis and it conjures pictures of sweaty basements on a hot August night, 17-years-old and nothing to lose but perhaps an over-ripe virginity and a pair of Victoria’s Secret cotton panties. This whole grown-up thing I’m living now, isn’t half as fun. I was so fearless at 17. Not the privately maudlin, love-hungry creature I’ve become now. I really didn’t give a shit, I could walk up to any guy and assert myself into his arms. Wonder what happened?

Divorce perhaps, and age, and rent, and bills, and broken-down VWs and bloviated, yellow-shirted bosses. The pandering, disengenuise DC aesthetic, where PR receptions and networking are like church on Thursday nights…devout, unrelenting, and naustiatingly necessary. It’s never been my crowd, and never will be, and between you and I, I’m ok with that.

Unfortunately, it seems, so many of DC’s eligible bachelors want that Georgetown blown-out, Lilly Pulitzer-clad debutante on their arms. That perfect vision in pink and green, with the Ivy League upbringing and that perfectly-bred sneer, that comes so fucking naturally. It’s like they were born with Birkin Bags sewed to the crooks of their arms, their weekends in the Hamptons scheduled at inception.

Guess I’m shit out of luck. Cuz that belgion waffle I had at 8 AM this morning in that greasy diner seems to have deposited too much elbow fat to ever suit Hermes finest.

So where does Ms. Lonely Hearts U.S.A. find a prince charming to fit properly into her own crook? The boy from Friday night you say? Sigh…he’s out to dinner this evening with a “friend.” But Jesus, the way he kissed me under that bridge…an erotic shiver. What I would give for him to show up at my door right now, an innocent improvisation.

The boy with the squinty eyes and wrinkled nose who broke my heart? He really did seem to have the knack for bridging the District’s domain with everything else in life that mattered. But he’s tied up and taken. Obligation and guilt have too tight a grip on him. But damn if those cowboy boots didn’t melt me into a version of myself I certainly could stand for a thousand Sunday nights to come.

So I know I really must be in trouble now, because Sam Cooke is singing to me on my stereo and my Pottery Barn crystal is sweating more than a Midwestern chubby girl on a hot DC August night.

I’m sure Sam wouldn’t mind a solo dance, just this one time, in my efficiency overlooking Connecticut Avenue, in the purple glow of CNN, and Chinese take-out in the fridge.

“If you ever, change your mind, about leaving, leaving me behind. Bring it to me, bring your sweet lovin’. Bring it on home to me.”

Fuck, I’m toast.

I’m the girl at the party you don’t notice when I walk in the room. I don’t tend to turn many heads. I’m kind of short, my features don’t stand out for good or bad. My hair doesn’t flow, I’m not tanned and golden. No one would ever refer to me as striking or beautiful. I’m certainly not the girl, standing on the corner, who took your breath away while you were waiting for the Circulator Bus on the corner of M and Wisconsin last Friday.

But I may have been the girl standing next to her.

I’ve tended to play a few standard roles in my life…that of the really hot girl’s friend, your buddy’s plutonic female friend who he brings to the occasional baseball game with him, the funny one at the water cooler. I’m the talker, not the looker, and for better or worse, I’ve gotten pretty used to the schtick. I tend to own that particular tag with an equal sense of pride and resentment.

I tend to not like you if you’re bland, daft, or uninformed. I don’t like people who can’t take a joke or understand my sarcastic streak. If you’re not into smart asses, then I guarantee, you won’t be in to me. If you think I’m witty and laugh at my snide comments with fervor, I’ll love you forever. I’ll be a true devotee. If you make me walk on eggshells, cringe when I drop the “F” bomb at the company picnic, or can’t remember when the last time you read a book or a newspaper was, you can pretty much assume, my attention will be taken elsewhere.

I’m only picky about a few things - I like good vodka, Italian shoes and The Boss. As to where drinking shall be done, please don’t ever take me to a bar where you have to stand behind a red velvet rope to get in. You can put me on a waiting list if at the end of it are a nice glass of wine and a great steak. But if you expect me to wait so I can stand on the dance floor next to the cheesy girl in the midriff top thumping her butt up against some guy named Rico’s crotch - you better be ready for a testy ride home.

I’m not easily embarrassed by my own intrinsic silliness, but I’m self conscious as hell when the situation commands it. I will always ask ” Do I look fat in this top?” But will never ask you to bait my hook, open the door (unless I have both hands full), or pump my gas.

I like to look at male volleyball players, but would rather make love with the brainy boy who likes Joyce and a good game of Scrabble.

I’m fiercely competitive against everyone, with the exception of perhaps my Mom or your 4-yr-old sister (though I’ve been known to beat a kid at Chutes and Ladders and do the touchdown dance right in their sweet little face).

I believe all stuffed animals have hearts and souls and can feel pain and or excessive heat or cold (The Velveteen Rabbit impacted me like no other book in my youth).

I will always stop to scratch your dog’s ears and will always attempt to pick up a tab I can’t afford after several Grey Goose martinis. And I secretly love it when guys whistle at me from their car or ogle me from up on a support beam somewhere.

I like to feel the sun on my face in the late afternoon of a summer day and I’m convinced I look better with a face full of freckles and no lipstick.

I hug almost everyone and flirt with the doorman and the bus boy if at all possible. I’m also a huge tipper to my conservative step-father’s chagrin, and am just as happy with a greasy burger as I am with foie gras.

If you ever question whether you should spring for flowers, buy them. I cry at lame movies and laugh at the most inappropriate times. I’m likely to be the one to crack a joke at a funeral, but only if I know the joke would make the deceased laugh his or her ass off too.

I believe life is way too short and hard and sad at times and I believe true happiness is a privilege and can come in tiny bursts you have to grasp as tight as possible and never let go of.

One has to ponder, why anyone would be the least bit surprised that the Chinese may lie about the ages of it’s Olympic Women’s Gymnastics Team? It’s fairly obvious that many of these little girls are not 16 years old. They’re taken from their families at three years of age and are basically made into perfect tumbling robots. The sad thing is, that when you think about it, it’s probably the best future that could be made for them. Far better than ending up victims of infanticide in a communist state that, despite it’s industrial and technological modernization, continues to have an antiquated, backward attitude towards its female citizenry.

As much as I detest any kind of cheating when it comes to athletics (or anything else for that matter), I have to assume that those little girls clutching those gold medals so tightly in their hands will now live better lives, as will their families. And as much as I’d like to see our ladies in red, white, and blue awarded what they may rightfully be due, I fear a Pandora’s box may be swung wide open if the Chinese team is disqualified.

Our women will go home after the games to education, families, happy lives, with silver medal pride to help propel them towards numerous opportunities. But I wonder what will become of the Chinese if they are stripped of their medals? Not sure I want to even guess at that.

We’ve heard endless chatter about the Chinese using computer generated animation to enhance the effects of it’s fireworks during the opening ceremonies. We’ve seen the picture of the little girl who sang their anthem but who was deemed not-pretty-enough to put out front and was replaced by a lip-synching girl with cute pigtails and better teeth. And now we debate back and forth about whether girls who are obviously prepubescent are old enough to compete in the games.

We’ve also seen reports about the thousands, if not millions of Chinese citizens who have been displaced from their homes so the government could build magnificent structures, where they could plant their prison-camp athletes to win gold and glory for the People’s Republic. And don’t forget the people who haven’t been allowed to drive to work for the last several months so the Chinese could claim their chokingly grotesque smog problem wasn’t really all that bad. Oh and what about the two Chinese women who requested permission (yes, requested) to protest the fact that they were insufficiently compensated when they were thrown out their homes? Those two women, both in their 70s and who both walk with canes have been sentenced by the Chinese police to “an extrajudicial term of “re-education through labor.”

I have a sneaking suspicion that these aren’t anywhere near the worst examples of what has been done in the name of athletic unity.

When the INC and its president, Jacques Rogge were criticized for awarding Beijing the Games in 2001, they defended their position by saying the Olympics would “spur China towards greater openness.” Jacques and his Olympic Committee cohorts are naive assholes. If anything, the Olympics have caused the Chinese government to crackdown on it’s people and the few rights they have, to ensure that nothing stood in the way of an aesthetically perfect Chinese Olympic vision.

Perhaps we can award the 2016 Games to Darfur so we can get those pesky genocide victims out of the way. Or maybe Kabul in 2020, you know, to take care of those poppy fields and dead NATO soldiers. I’m sure the Taliban would welcome a chance to showcase their moderate approach to the rest of the world. Karzai can be the master of ceremonies and the suicide bombers, could help save a wad on fireworks.

God can bless America, but Jacques and his INC can kiss my pudgy pink ass.

25 days

I made it 25 days on Match.com. It may be a record for me - cutting this online dating shit off so soon. I’m not even waiting to get my $39.99 worth, I’m just done. And I have a feeling this will be the last time I make an attempt at virtual romance. It just ain’t for me kids. And as tempting as it is to stay on simply to provide myself fodder for a blog no one really reads, I can only stand so many perverts and creeps before I start looking at men like enemy insurgents who have found their way onto my laptop and won’t relinquish control until every last bit of my self-esteem and pride are drained from my body, leaving nothing behind but a pile of clothes and a lonely pair of $400 Italian slingbacks. The price of petro may continue to climb, but the going-rate for my essential oils is bargain basement at best right now.

The following is a chronological accounting of my last 25 days on Match, 7 of which I wasn’t even in town for.

Day One:

Slight regret takes hold as I type in my visa number. A few deep breaths and a shake of my cynical head and I’m off to the races. (If only men were as lovely, loyal, not to mention as long as thoroughbreds…sigh).

Days Two/Three

I’ve done some healthy winking at some men who I find a bit witty, men who are decent to look at, and who have read something besides Dan Brown novels and Harry Potter (riiiiight, you read it because your little sister liked it….she’s ten, you’re thirty-fucking-three you dipshit). And I’ve been winked at by a wide-range of men who make up a tried and true network of serial winkers. Somebody get these boys some Visine and a few original lines. Stop winking at the same girls over and over again, it’s just creepy and sad. Keep a fucking log or something. Jesus Christ.

Day Five

I accept an invitation from a good-looking, successful (according to his income level which he made sure to list…see I broke one of my main rules…I was asking for it), somewhat quick-on-his-feet chap. I get to his place and he asks me for a backrub, I give him…a backrub. Then he proceeds to suggest we watch a movie, but guess what?! The DVD player in his living room doesn’t work, so we’ll have to watch the movie in his bedroom on his California King Size. I suggest we sit on his deck, drink some wine, and talk a bit. He begrudgingly agrees and then proceeds to stare at his Blackberry the whole time, except of course for the 30 seconds he took to look up from his all-important business and check out his “hot” neighbor across the way. “I hate her fucking boyfriend man, she’s too fucking sweet-looking for him.” I’m sure you can imagine how that meeting ended. His dog was cute though, and actually, I don’t think he liked Mr. I-Need-A-Backrub much either. Everytime I called out “here boy” he’d desert his master and put his paws in my lap. If a guy’s own dog doesn’t like him, that’s got to be a sign to get the fuck out of Dodge, or for our purposes, Georgetown.

Day 10

Thank God, I’m back in Wisconsin at my parent’s home and not the least bit concerned, that despite the fact that I’ve been winked and emailed at more times than I can count, I have yet to venture out again on a Match date. I’m just happy to be in the Midwest and sit on the deck reading my book and catching up with my Mom. So of course, out of the blue I get an email from a guy I had contacted a week ago but hadn’t heard anything from. He ends up being, well, lovely. Charming with a sarcastic streak. I proceed to talk to him each night I’m home. Good banter, some flirting, even a bit of R-rated texting. I can’t wait to meet him when I get back. He proposes dinner on the Saturday night I return. I accept. And because I’m a lady (oh jeez, just fucking humor me this one time), I won’t divulge the rest.

Day 18

I’m back in DC, back at work, thinking about this lovely boy, and continue to casually check Match when I get a wink or an email. I can’t help but notice, he’s been checking his Match too, and my stomach sinks a bit. So I analyze, then I over-analyze, then I make my friends analyze (sound famaliar girls?) and so forth.

Day 23

I’m asked out on a date by a seemingly nice young man I had spoken with a few times. He’s educated, kind, nice looking in his picture, and totally not my type. I mean, I can just tell by talking to him. So I make an excuse and tell him I’m too busy getting ready for the conventions to get together for a drink. I feel, horrible. I have a dream about hurting this guy’s feelings. Then I have a dream about my ex-husband’s upcoming wedding. Then I wake up, my hair matted to my head, and an uneasy feeling in my chest. Heartache.

Day 24

I continue to get a plethora of winks and emails. The majority of the men either look like pedophiles, grandfathers, or speak English as a second language. Then tonight, I get emails from another three men within a five minute period. And fuck, they all seem nice and genuine and of course, none of them appeal to me physically, like, at all. When did I become this shallow I wonder? I mean, I’m the girl who can hardly walk to the bathroom at a bar without worrying everyone is making fun of my chubby arms. I’m the girl who has to ask her best friends on a daily basis if it looks like I’m gaining weight? Do I have a double chin? Is my hair too short for my round face? Do these jeans make my ass look dumpy? Who the fuck am I to judge anyone based on their physical appearance? I feel like total shit.

Day 25

I’m signing off, quitting, turning in the online dating towel and heading back to the locker room, the drawing board, the DC dating abyss.

I’ve got a date tomorrow night, with the lovely young man from Day 18, you know, the one who has been “Active within 24 hours,” and is good with the witty banter. But God knows, I’ve been hopeful before, only to be inadvertently humbled, and as much as I would like to romanticize the pants off him, I’ll try and play it cool. I don’t know him yet and he doesn’t know me and if he chooses to, who even knows if he’ll still find me appealing? I’m a complicated chubby girl, with a weakness for a good brain and cute ears who wears her heart on her sleeve, has finished 1/3 of a bottle of Pinot and has listened to Thunder Road too many times tonight.

But believe me, I’ve got the depth. I just need to find someone willing to do the digging.

“Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. You ain’t a beauty but hey you’re alright, and that’s alright with me.” - Bruce Springsteen

You can imagine how dismayed I was when I went to Drudge Report this morning for my daily dose of campaign news mixed with sensational supermarket aisle reads and saw that two of my most favorite things in the world were being bad-mouthed in the NY Daily News.

My new boyfriend (he just doesn’t know it yet), Michael Phelps has signed an endorsement deal with Tony the Tiger, my favorite cereal cartoon character. Mike is going to appear in all his glory on boxes of Kelloggs Frosted Flakes and it seems some annoying nutritionist joy-kills are bashing my man for promoting the frosted yummy goodness.

Now, I don’t want to get into my intense, albeit somewhat unnatural love of breakfast food, but me thinks that these nutrionists should bitch a bit more at the parents of video-game playing, web-surfing, haven’t seen the sun since birth, obese children and less at a world champion who epitomizes what it means to be an active and healthy young person. Far be it from me to not recognize the epidemic of childhood obesity in our country, but I’m thinking it may have more to do with Big Macs for lunch and no gym class during the day, than it does with an Olympic swimmer and an innocent tiger.

So in honor of Mike and Tony’s endorsement nuptials, I plan on buying several boxes of the cereal and spooning my way towards deliciousness while staring at my favorite swimmer. Thank you Kelloggs and God Bless.

I’m a Michael Phucking Phelps Phanatic and I’m not ashamed to admit it. There are dozens of reasons to love this American Adonis, but here are my top ten:

1. Winner of 8 gold medals in the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympic Games

2. He eats 12,000 calories a day and has the flattest fucking abs I’ve ever seen (for this man, I would surely learn to cook)

3. His crooked smile and lisp help remind us he’s human

4. Size 14 feet (God help me)

5. 6′7 wing span

6. He helped kick pompous French ass

7. Possible threesome with Aaron Piersol or Jason Lezak

8. He loves his Mom

9. Baltimore is in close geographic proximity to DC

10. U.S. Mens’ Swim Team poster above my bed will provide countless hours of masturbatory material

Here I sit in my parents’ office (which used to be my bedroom, but got converted years ago) in Waukesha, WI, drinking a so-so pinot grigio and eating cheese curds. Yes my friends, you may be able to take the girl out of Wisconsin, but you’ll never take the curd out of the girl.

It’s Day 6 of my respite here in the Heartland and for the most part it’s been calm, quiet and fruitful (even at 31 - Mommy still likes to spoil me when we shop - god bless her and the patient sales girl at J Crew). I’ve read two books, sat in the sun, taken long naps, eaten a huge cheeseburger, visited with a few girlfriends and gotten some large, albeit less-than-surprising news.

For the first time in over a year, I saw my ex-husband. It was quick - 30 minutes of conversation on a sidewalk outside his office (which coincidentally is in the same building in downtown Milwaukee where I worked for 6 years) catching up on the plethora of our friends’ new babies and mortgages, my ex-in-laws’ lives, and of course, my goings-on in DC. And then, he looked at me, took a deep breath and said, “I have some news.” Well, I knew what was coming, in fact, I had dreamt about it 3 weeks earlier. I said to him, “You’re engaged.” He nodded. I gulped. And then in standard and appropriate form, I hugged him (less tightly than I had 20 minutes prior). I was all smiles and congratulations and 80% of what came out of my mouth I meant. I am happy for him, happy he’s found another partner, perhaps a more deserving one this time. He’s living the life of Midwestern domesticity I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, the life I left to do something that I envisioned was more my style, my speed, my heart.

He’s been dating his girlfriend for 2 years I think, I’ve lost track of time a bit, living a hectic life in the District. He wants me to meet her and I suppose eventually, because it’s important to him, I will.  Perhaps it’s to show me what I could have had, perhaps it’s to prove he’s fine without me, perhaps he still thinks enough of me to seek my approval, whatever the reason, I will at some point have to introduce myself to my replacement. I can only hope, with the will of God’s sweet grace, she’s at least a little bit beastly. I mean, she doesn’t need to have elephantitis of the face, perhaps just a lazy eye and fat ankles. (Give me a break people - I’m gracious, but I ain’t a fucking saint).

Needless to say, I set forth to lunch with my girlfriends, thanking God they knew my history so I didn’t have to explain the slightly stunned, mildly pained smirk on my face when I showed up at the restaurant. I had two drinks, laughed a bit, teared up in the stall in the ladies room, sucked it up, and went on with my day.

Yesterday, on the way home from the mall, my Mom and I drove past the street where my ex and I used to live. I turned my head as we drove by, and looked the other way. We drove through the park where he and I had driven almost everyday of our lives together. The park, in the middle of the city, is a refuge for any number of Northern woodland creatures, and at dusk, bunnies come out of the woods by the dozens to munch on grass. I used to think that was where I would have my ashes scattered when I died. It was just 3 or 4 years ago I thought that was the place my life would play itself out. Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin, a home on Birch Street, a comfortable job at the public radio affiliate, maybe I could hope to be on the air full-time one day, perhaps we would vacation in Hilton Head with my parents twice a year.

In less than 48 hours I will be aboard a plane, headed to Reagan National. Back to my 500 square feet on Connecticut Avenue. Car horns and sirens. Conventions and election stress. Newsrooms and cocktail receptions. The Beltway. The Metro. The Hill. Online dating.

It’s funny, how quickly things change.

 

 

 

I’m headed home to Wisconsin today.

Going home always makes me happy. It’s the Midwestern cure to everything that ails me living in the District.

Back home I have a handful of friends (the ones I didn’t relinquish to my ex-husband in the divorce), my parents, the house i grew up in, the high school I attended right down the street, the bedroom window I used to sneak boys into, the crab apple tree that blooms each Spring, the smell of yeast as I drive south down I-94. The place where I was made but not contained.

For eight days I’ll read my book in the sun on my parents deck, I’ll snuggle on the couch and watch TV with my folks while they endure my rolling eyes and verbal torment over their choice of programming. (You can only take so much Murder She Wrote and Walker Texas Ranger before you implode). I’ll play with their hyperactive dog, lunch with my friends, shop with my Mom, and exchange the noise of Connecticut Avenue with the quiet of Oxford Road. I’ll head back to the life I knew for almost 30 years, drink the Kool Aid, regress slightly into the mild Milwaukee accent, see a few friends, hug and kiss my mother, tear up as I pass the church where I was married, laugh with my cousins, eat a brat, and then say one of what will become thousands of goodbyes in my years to come.

I was riding in a cab early this morning through S.E. (in an attempt to retrieve my car left on Pennsylvania Avenue after a hearty round of drinking last evening) and I couldn’t help but think how lovely it is that I’m still so enamored with the District. It’s home now, but it still feels new in so many ways.  Perhaps what I feel is pride, less of it having to do with the stature and gravitas of this city and more to do with what it represents for me at this point in my life. I’m 31-years-old, successful, single, a bit lonely. I’m equal parts self-sufficient and needy and willing to admit I’m still searching for something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s a life all of my own making. And despite my daily anxieties and frustrations over my lack of love and career stress, I own it outright.

An imperfect journey, with a promising pink slip wedged deep in my pocket. Home defined anew.

I did it.

I signed back on to Match.com

After 10 months, I once again swallowed my pride, took out my Visa, and paid my $39.99 for one month of access to the the biggest leveler of self-esteem I have ever encountered in my 31 years.

I’ve been on and off Match for 2 1/2 years. First using it as a vehicle to meet people in my new city, then as a way to boost my ego, once in a search for something meaningful, and now in an attempt to distract me from my current status of “broken-hearted.”

Online dating in any city can be tedious, exciting, a bit nerve-racking, occasionally bad for one’s health (a lot of cocktails and appetizers). It can even be a tad scary at times (trust me, if you met the guy I was out with who was obsessed with his three ferrets and twitched every time I asked what he did for a living, you’d understand the level of danger I speak of).

But online dating in DC is an experience onto itself, and one I have learned to look upon with equal parts horror, intrigue, and laughter. I’ve made 3 or 4 life-long friends through Match and had one two-month long lovely courtship. But for the most part, I’ve come to think of Match as self-imposed punishment for not finding a boyfriend in the real world. It’s like virtual self-flaggelation and I’m a sucker for its sting.

Some swear by the magical powers of online dating. One can hardly blame them. It really does work for some people. I currently have two best friends, both of which have steady girlfriends they met on Match. And look at the couples in those commercials, they look so god-damned happy I could throw up. Apparently they never went out with guy who requested a picture of my feet or the guy who, after speaking to me for 20 minutes in a bar, declared (on the spot) I wasn’t a long-term prospect. The online dating world coupled with the overgrown hubris of DC men is like a huge swimming pool full of douche bags. And after several years of participating in this sociological experiment from hell, I have become more than adept at pointing out the guys who are peeing in the pool right through their Brooks Brothers swim trunks.

So, from my mouth to the Online Dating God’s ears, here are a few things I’ve discovered while prowling for eligible men on my laptop:

Building the Perfect Profile

99.5% of Match participants include the following in their online introductions:

1. I really love to travel, favorites include Italy, the Bahamas, and Southeast Asia. But there’s so much more I want to see and I’m in search of a travel companion who is willing to throw caution to the wind and hop a plane with me at a moment’s notice.

(I love this - honestly, who the fuck can hop a plane to Machu-fucking-Picchu on a moment’s notice? No one I know, but perhaps I’m hanging with the wrong crowd. I’ve got 200 bucks in my checking account and at least 2 dozen deadlines I need to meet in the next week, the couples’ mud massage spa will have to wait.)

2. I’m a glass-half-full type and I’m really looking for a mate who is an optimist at heart. No baggage please!

(First of all, anyone who admits they’re a glass-half-full type needs to calm their perky ass down and jump out of the ether and back onto Planet Earth. And seriously, who the fuck doesn’t have baggage??! I mean I want to grow roses from big piles of shit too, but I’ve got plenty of fertilizer to feed the seeds. Know what I mean? When I encounter these sentences in someone’s profile I can’t hit the “delete” button fast enough).

3. I’m a physically fit and active type who likes to take care of his body and expects the same from a partner.

(I don’t know about you, but when I’m online dating I don’t expect dick from anyone, except a hope that they’re not bat-shit crazy and that they bathe on a routine basis. I don’t need a man who spends more hours in the gym than I do, so if they list “workout 5 or more days a week,” 9 times out of 10, I run my chubby little ass for the hills).

Smoking

If you smoke, do not admit it. Lie about it, hide it, chew Nicorette gum and wear ten patches, but if they list a “non-smoker” preference, take it to heart and seriously think about whether you can get through a date with a stranger without reaching for your pack of Marlboros. Cuz once you do, there’s no turning back. Take it from a girl with the ultra-light hanging from her mouth as we speak.

Drinking

I’m a regular drinker. I like alcohol. I like men who drink alcohol as well. So if you’re one those guys who lists themselves as a “social drinker, one or two a week,” I’ll either assume you’re lying or popping something far better. It’s DC people, if you’re not a regular drinker, you’re either a recovered alcoholic or someone I simply can’t trust to tell the truth.

Income

The unspoken rule is, don’t list it. Especially if you fall in the “25K-a-year or under” category. I really don’t want to know ahead of time I’m going to have to spring for your Starbucks latte. And if you’re in the “150K or higher” category, don’t brag about it in your profile, only assholes with penis envy have to point it out that they’re richer than the majority of the unwashed masses.

Weight/Build

I always trust the guys who list “about average” more than the ones who list “athletic.” I’m not sure who told men that they qualify as “fit” just because they run a few bases in the company softball game while getting shit-faced in the dug-out. If bending over to lift a High Life from first base to your lips counts as working out, I just found my heaven. If you’re Michael fucking Phelps and have hipbones that can cut glass - by all means - list yourself as “athletic.” But mother-of-god, please no shirtless snapshots - don’t be a tool - you can show her your abs later while doing body shots at Aqua.

The weight category is an even bigger bitch for women. I myself have a build you can’t categorize as any one thing. I’m not “slender,” but I don’t qualify under the “few extra pounds” slot either. I have a big chest and nice legs and list myself as “curvy.” But the “curvy” category comes with one huge caveat. Most of the men who contact me on Match are highly suspicious of the adjective. Believe it or not, I’ve had at least 2 dozen men ask me for  head-to-toe pics to prove I’m not a beached Orca. I know when it’s going to happen too because they always lead with “you’re so cute, why don’t you have more pics up?” When I tell them I don’t like having my picture taken (the God’s honest truth) they rarely believe me. If they’re insistent, it’s usually such a turn-off I send them a picture I saved on my Blackberry of “Happy the Hippo” from the National Zoo and call it a day. There was one guy who flat-out asked me once if “curvy” meant “fat.” I gave him points for bravery and ended up going out with him. He even got to feel me up, so in the end, “curvy” worked in his favor.

The Napoleon Factor

There is a very high percentage of short men on Match (under 5′8). Short men tend to get overlooked (sometimes literally) in the regular dating world. Women like tall guys with limbs they can wrap around them. I’m only 5′2, and I’ll be the first to admit, I’d rather date the guy who is 6′3 than the guy who is 5′6. So short men flock to online dating sites to increase their prospects. No harm, no foul. I totally understand it. And as nice as it is to have someone who can reach the box of Life cereal from the top shelf at the grocery store, short guys deserve love too. So polish up your step stools and give him a whirl.

Pictures

A lot of guys like to post pictures of themselves with infants and dogs, and for some women, this really works. I tend to favor the guys with pooches, but my maternal instinct is in the sub-zero category, so pink, drool-filled babies in onesies don’t really do much for me.

Guys also like to include pictures of themselves with hot chicks. Perhaps it’s to show they can attract super-models, perhaps they really like the picture with their sister in the string bikini, whatever the case, it’s a common occurrence and can work in your favor as equally as it can work against it.

I’ve already addressed the “shirtless pic” phenomenon, but one more tip when it comes to pics in your profile. No matter how hot you think you looked in 1998 when you had hair or were 20 pounds lighter or before you grew that dreadful mustache, no matter what, include current pics. There is nothing more painful than going on a date with someone who doesn’t resemble at all the picture in their profile. It sucks for both of you and unless you like rejection on the spot, cop to the extra pounds, admit to the shaved head and hedge your bet. I guarantee it will work out better in the end.

Coming up in Part Two of Online Dating in the District…

The Wink vs The Email.

So here-in lies the tale

That’s cost many a good woman sleep

It’s the story that haunts girls near and far

Of the Pervert and the Creep.

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You may not want to admit

But you know who they are

They lurk in your hallways

The grocery store or corner bar.

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The Pervert does the recon

While the Creep moves in for the kill

They have names like Radiation Rick

Or Big Ball Sac Bill.

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They blame it on the dog

When they belch and fart

They’re the ones who do the tongue tangle

With that bitchy little tart.

——————————-

They never put the seat down

And often forget to flush

The ones who turn up the game

When you’ve pleaded and begged for hush.

——————————-

They’re the assholes in the office

Who like to converse with your tits

The ones who never hold the door

Always scratching their naughty bits.

——————————-

He’s the guy you slept with

That one, really vulnerable night

Who promises to call you

But vanishes out of sight.

——————————

The Creep is the one

Who never gives in bed

The Pervert is the guy

Who pushes down your head.

———————————

The schmuck who refuses to tip

The looser who never picks up the check

The asshole who takes up two parking spaces

And deals from the bottom of the deck.

————————————-

He’s the one who made fun of you

In grade school or junior high

The one who gave you that horrid nickname

Which made you want to die.

————————————

The ones with the roofies

And mirrors on their shoes

The Peeping Toms and Slimy Sids

Polygamist Peters and Douche Bag Drews.

—————————————

The dude who broke your heart

The asshole who screws the other chick

The one you gave another chance

Despite his roaming dick.

———————————-

He’s the fucker who won’t buy you Ben and Jerry’s

When you’re in bed bloated with cramps

The guys who don’t remember your name the next morning

The cheaters and the scamps.

———————————

So listen to me ladies

My cautions and caveats

Or you may end up in tears

Your stomach tied in knots.

——————————-

The Pervert and The Creep

May be prevalent coast to coast

They may shiver in New England

Or frequent Miami to roast.

——————————–

But their fate will be inevitable

Their price will someday be paid

For in Hell they’ll surely land

Where they’ll never ever get laid.