I wouldn't date that name

When I decided to blog every day this month, I asked the people who've liked my Facebook page* what I should write about. The one topic, other than vaginas, that comes up every time I ask that question is dating, and specifically my 10 Dates, 10 Men™ project. Oh, yeah, that one. The one I started almost two years ago that has been a total bust, and I'm not talking about boobs.

Let's just say I didn't get very far down the number line, and I absolutely will write about 1-of-10 this month, because I promised I would. And why not give credit to the man who broke the camel's back.

But not tonight. Tonight I will confess that I talk about dating and the utter exhausting, depressing futility of it all for a woman my age. And I read about dating, which is even more depressing. I've even joined a couple of dating sites, but only enough to look. I haven't posted any photos, nor have I created a titillating description of myself on a profile page. (Anybody want to take a stab at that for me? I'll print the best one as a guest blog post.)

I do receive an email several times a week from one dating site that shows me photos of five age-appropriate men who live in my area whom they've selected for me. As if the 1-of-10 story wasn't discouraging enough, these emails have persuaded me to just get a dog.

Listen, I realize it's all kinds of bitchy to criticize anybody who's gone so far as to post photos and blurbs about themselves, but for fuck's sake! Most of these guys aren't even trying! In addition to their bizarre attempts at humor (?) and their out-of-focus, distorted photos of themselves beside their post-divorce Harleys or in their bathrooms, or what looks like their 40-year-old graduation photos, some of these guys obviously didn't consult their children before they chose their names.

So, I'm going to give a short lesson just for the guys on naming yourself on a dating website.

Feel free to use your name in combination with numbers. Someone will certainly have already used your name 382 times before you get up the courage to create an account. That's OK. Use your name with the year of your birth or the day or even the one the site generates. Who gives a shit? Don't use your dog's name though, or that of any pet. Nobody gives a shit about your pets.

If you don't want to use your name, an occupation is fine. Lawyer973 wouldn't turn anybody off. Although krogerbagger2 probably would. I personally think all work is honest work, but consider putting your best foot forward in your name choice.

That's about it. Use some combination of your name or your occupation. Hobbies ... maybe. It will certainly narrow your options if you choose suduko79 or fleamarket 253 or golf837. Maybe you don't want to lead with the reason you're divorced.

Do not use these words in any combination when you choose your online dating name: brat, dog, hot, hawt, wild, naked, nakid, buff, car, avaluable [sic], cowboy hat, crazy, rascal, notbadfor__, soul, forever, lonely, smile, wantsyou, child, fun, love, Harley, dirt, dick (even if it's your name), child, dearest, 69, or lick.

These I culled from the 50 or so emails I've kept to remind myself why 10 Dates, 10 Men™ was probably an idea that's right up there with getting a root canal or changing a tire on the side of the road in the middle of the night.

Then again, neither of those comparisons work, because both of those things are necessary. Dating is not. Given my experiences in the past, while it might be fun for a minute, it's probably not desirable in the end, because the fun always seems to end in an extended stay at the crazyland motel.

I would like to continue my lessons on what guys should not do on a dating website with a lesson on photos, but I'm conflicted. While some of these guys are just begging me to mock their photos, I don't really want to mock them. It's not easy to put yourself out there, and even though some of them are creepy, unrealistic 60-year-olds who want to date women in their 20's, I'd hate for someone to pull my photo out of the thousands on the internet dating highway and use it as an example of what not to do.

What do you think? Does it matter? Is it fair game to yoink terrible dating website photos and use them as examples? I've certainly seen it done enough for crueler reasons, and these guys would fail so hard on Tinder. I don't know. Help me out here.

As for 10 Dates, 10 Men™ .... heavy sigh. I'm going to write more about that later, although the reason I haven't is because I'm sure I'll sound bitter when I'm really brutally honest. I'll just say dating is much harder and more complicated now than it was in high school, and I can't even claim that much experience. I'll take any advice I can get though.

Feel free to leave such advice or any further thoughts on names in the comments below. Comments are coin for bloggers.

Night night,

Reticula

* You too can like the Reticulated Writer Facebook page. Just click that button on the right side of the page. I only need 12 more likers to hit 200, which is a tiny number for many bloggers, but an exciting milestone for me.

Let's put this in perspective, Dick Tracy

I thought I would write about vaginas tonight, but something more immediate came up. 

You may have noticed I really haven't followed through with my plan to go on 10 Dates with 10 Men™. I have reasons -- good reasons -- and pretty soon I'm going to share those reasons, and probably bow out of the whole thing entirely. For reasons.

One of those reasons is the ridiculous shit that happens after I date a guy. I'll go into that too, but for now, I'm sticking with what I learned tonight.

I was here at home enjoying a lovely evening with my 2-year-old granddaughter Coraline when my phone announced a text message. Probably Elvira, wondering when I'm bringing Coraline home, I thought. I checked.

Nope, not my daughter. Instead it was 1 of 10, whom I will be writing about in more detail soon, and it won't be flattering. I told him I didn't want to see him any more over a year ago, but he has never stopped testing texting me, trying to get me into a conversation or to meet him somewhere.

My friend Alex told me I should never ever answer him, and if I did I was showing my intention to continue a relationship with him. So I haven't. For over a year, I haven't answered his texts. I don't know how many texts he's sent. I really don't care. I find them intrusive and pathetic, but I refuse to engage.

Tonight's two texts read, "Heading to [a local bar we met at one time]. Need to kiss your cheek .... gently." .... "Actually I meant your supple lips ..." Nice way to intrude on a lovely evening with my granddaughter, asshole.

I was pissed. When I took Coraline home, I showed the texts to Elvira and her fiance Rock Dad. Their friend Stu was there, so I read them to him too.

After Elvira and Rock Dad responded with the appropriate laughter and disgust, Stu said, "I guess you could consider yourself lucky."

"Lucky?" I said. "I don't call it lucky that I can't get rid of guys I don't want to date, but the ones I'd like to date don't stick around."

"To be fair," Elvira shot in, "you don't want to date anybody."

"Not anybody I've met ... yet," I said.

"No, really," Stu said. "At least he didn't trace his dick on a piece of paper and send that to you."

"What? What?" I said. "Why would he do that?"

"Because that's what guys in prison send to women," he explained. "They send drawings.  You could have gotten one of those."

"Well, I thank you for putting this into perspective for me, Stu," I said. "Instead of reacting with utter disdain that this asshole won't leave me alone after over a year, I'll be grateful he isn't sending me prison drawings of his dick like kindergarten hand prints."

"Yeah, Mommers, he's right," Elvira said. "Unless you're getting dick tracings, you've got nothing to be upset about."

"Dick Tracings!" I laughed. "That's a good one!"

They all looked back at me with blank faces.

"Dick Tracings .... like Dick Tracy," I explained, still laughing. "Didn't you do that on purpose?"

"Well .... yeah. Because it's a thing. I didn't make that up. Dick Tracys are a thing," she said. "I'm not being clever."

So now I know: dick tracings are a thing called Dick Tracys. Did you know that? Surely I'm not the last to know. Tell me this is news to you.

When I got home, I googled it. Nothing came up for "dick tracings." At least nothing about guys tracing around their penises and then sending a photo of the drawing to women. But Urban Dictionary did show an entry for "Dick Tracy" that defined it as follows: "What to call yourself when you are tracing your own penis. Your roommate, Trent: "Dude!!!! What in the fuck are you doing?!!? In MY room?!? Naked?!?! With MY markers and construction paper?!?!?"
You: "Shhhh...this is some Dick Tracy shit... calm down Trent."

The only other entry was about a teacher who got in trouble for offering to trace his penis for a couple of students. Trust me. That's not a thing.

You'd think if this dick tracing really was a thing Google would know more about it than Stu, wouldn't you?

I guess I'm grateful for my kids for putting things into perspective. I'll write more about 1 of 10 soon, and put these texts into perspective for you the best I can. Unfortunately, his texts are just one more example of the kind of inexplicable, unpleasant behavior I inspire in some people. Lucky me. I'm afraid that too has become a thing.

Have you ever sent or received a Dick Tracy? Anonymity guaranteed!

Ask Reticula: I Feel Pretty

Dear Reticula. Last week, I found myself googling 'best dating sites to not get raped.' Seriously. Because, you know, I want to meet new people, but being raped? Not even close to making my bucket list. That's why I'm boring and have never had a bar hook-up. Or hitchhiked. Or gotten stunningly drunk around strangers. God, I AM boring! Sigh. Anyway, you need to hear about this and give me WISDOM.

I got on this dating app that feels like a Hot-Or-Not game, but then people MESSAGE you. Or they don't, but if you say they're hot and they say the same about you, the App goes all Price is Right crazy with 'Congrats! You have a match! Go forth and embarrass yourself!' Okay, it might not say that last part, but...yeah. So, after a week, I need advice. I get a face (might not really be his face), a name (same), an age (again I say, same), and the number of miles from my current location (GPS don't lie, yo!). What happens if these guys want to talk to me? WHAT IF THEY DON'T? Should I feel rejected before the games even begin? What do I say/type if they want to talk to me? I need ice cream! Help!

Yours,

I Feel Pretty

Dear I Feel Pretty,

I was hoping you’d steer me toward the rape-free dating sites. Right off the bat I’m discouraged to find out they don’t exist, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't get out there and try to find your man. Let me answer your letter in 2 parts.

Part 1. All of those things you said make you boring simply make you smart. I’ve sought out a significant number of ill-advised adventures in my life, but I’ve never done any of those things never done most of those things. And the hitchhiking was decades ago, back when I thought I was invincible.

Here’s the thing: You’re not boring just because you don’t put your life and your vagina in danger. Doing so would be stupid. So which do you want to be? Boring (by your definition) or stupid? Please choose boring. Rape is not fun.

You can play plenty of dangerous games and still stay in control. So my wisdom about your boringness is that you redefine it. Make a list of those things that make you unusual, appealing, and exciting. Focus on the things that make you not boring, and play to those strengths.

If you really want to experiment with being a stupid bad girl, enlist a wingman to go to a hotel bar with you. She can stay sober and watch from a safe distance while you get shitfaced with a bunch of strangers who are in town for a convention. You’ll never have to see them again. Go crazy.

Or, let's say one of your strengths is acting. When you do meet someone, play out your fantasy of meeting a stranger at a bar, taking him to a hotel and fucking his brains out. Wear a wig. Bring your handcuffs. Get dressed and slip out of the room while he’s still sleeping. Take the cash from his wallet and leave him to pay the hotel bill. Don’t forget to tip the bellboy.

Or play out the same fantasy hitchhiking. Make sure the guy who picks you up is the guy you want to play that game with. You can go all kinds of directions with that one.

There’s nothing wrong with bad-girl fantasies, nor is there anything wrong with playing them out as long as you do it under your own control. Leaving that shit to the vagaries of real life isn’t the way to go.

Part 2: My first reaction to the dating app is that it seems a little like choosing a dog from a puppy mill. It also seems like the most shallow way possible to meet someone (although I love your clever description. You kind of did my job for me). From what I understand, you sit in your yoga pants on your couch scrolling through one photo after another until you find a face that appeals to you and click it. On the other side of the city, a guy is sitting on the toilet scrolling through photos of women until he finds one that appeals to him and clicks it. If you both click on each other, you get a chance to text each other and see if there’s enough chemistry to chance a meeting. Is that right?

I too would be concerned about the bait and switch. In fact, I would expect it. Even more though, I would be concerned that I would click on the only 10 guys who were even remotely a possibility and none of them would click on me …. which would then lead me to believe nobody had clicked on me, even though it’s possible every man on the site except those 10 guys had clicked on me. Maybe your best bet is to click on every one and not leave it to chance, because with this app you’re only going to get one chance as he scrolls by.

Also, you’d better post a really great photo, but one that portrays just what you want to portray. Too sexy and you’ll get a bunch of guys who just want to get laid. Which, if that’s what you’re looking for … OK, then. For me, there’s a difference between a bootie call and a date. But if your photo makes you look like an Amish housewife, you’re probably going to get zero action from men who drive cars.

I have to admit, my initial reaction when I consider doing something like this myself is simply one of defeat. I take the worst photos. I have friends who are professional photographers who have sworn they could take a good photo of me. So I get my hopes up and let them take the photos, and then I never see them, nor does the friend ever mention them again. This has happened more than twice. And this is one big reason I haven’t completed the process on any online dating site. Whatever the word for anti-photogenic is, I’m that. I see no reason to scare a bunch of men away from me.

It's so bad one professional photographer who was trying to take photos of my family told me she hated me. She meant it, and I didn’t blame her. Even cute kids couldn't save me.

However, I think you should put up your best head shots and let the clicking begin. What have you got to lose? …. OK, let’s not talk about how many crazy fuckers there are out there and how hard they can be to shake out of your life. A lot of people simply aren’t normal. And sometimes refusing to date a guy once you’ve made contact is as bad as dating him and then breaking it off. Either one is likely to go whack job on you. Nobody said this would be easy though.

(theatlantic.com)

In fact, most women say it’s excruciating, and then again  some eventually find bliss. So, yes, 99% of the men you see as you scroll by might be lying assholes, and you might will get your feelings hurt. Only you can decide if it’s worth looking for the few guys who really click with you. (Get that pun?) And out of those you can narrow it down even further to the ones who aren’t married or in a relationship, or raging alcoholics, or unemployed and still living with their mothers. Or all of the above.

The other danger is that you’ll scroll right on by the perfect guy because he put up some stupid selfie of himself letting his dog lick his ears. Or wearing one of those hats with the beer cans and straws. Or with his ex-girlfriend, only he cut out all except the side of her face that was pressed up against his. Or with no shirt on in a sexy pose that’s not sexy. From what I’ve observed, a lot of men don’t give much thought to how they present themselves. And maybe they don’t deserve to date, given that. Or maybe they’re fine in person, but a failure at dressing themselves up for the dating sites.

(phimetropolis.com)

All I know is, I get emails from one dating site that I joined just enough to look at photos and to get emails suggesting I pay the money to really join. I get an email with 5 choices every couple of days, and most of the time I skim it and delete it with what I suspect is a horrified look on my face. The grim staring expressions, the weird beards and hair (at least comb your hair if you want to get a second look), the photos that were obviously taken 25 years ago (you’re lucky you don’t have to worry about that), the bathroom selfies.

And then there are the names! Here are some from just one email: rascalmydog, coolnotbadfor58, GhengisJohn, and BrattyBoy57. Some women may be looking for a dog or a murderer or a brat – seriously, a brat? what are we, 5? – but I’m not. Unfortunately most of the photos don’t make up for the names.* The choices are discouraging, but I suspect you’ll have a better selection.

And yet, all that to say this: Fuck, no, you shouldn’t feel rejected. Especially if you’re on a dating app that gives guys one chance to choose you from the photo that’s one of many they scroll by while they’re watching a football game. You can’t take this shit too seriously. They don’t know you.

But let’s say a guy, or 2 or 4 or 10, contacts you. Well then, let the games begin. If you’re interested, text him back. Be yourself, and if he’s a good possibility, you’ll know it. If he’s not, be honest and tell him you’re not feeling it. You don’t owe anybody your attention if you’re not feeling any chemistry. This is your game to play your way.

And then if you want to meet him, take the proper precautions. Let at least one friend  know where you’ll be. Check in periodically. Go someplace public. All those common sense rules that we all know and should follow.

And if you feel discouraged – and you will – definitely eat ice cream. You are pretty. You do deserve someone wonderful. And even if the search takes a while, you can have some adventures along the way, gather some good stories, maybe make some friends. (Although that’s not likely. Men aren’t looking for friends. Most of them want vaginas.)

Good luck. Stay safe. Let me know how it goes.

And keep feeling pretty!

*I’m still debating whether I’ll put up photos as examples in future posts. While it seems like bad karma to mock anybody when I have already said I’m a photo failure, some of these guys are really working against themselves. One guy who keeps popping up has the most ridiculous facial hair, and I guess if he likes it that’s what matters, but I wouldn’t go out with him. There might be someone else out there for him, but I’m not her.

The weight of being alone

A few months ago my future daughter-in-law Montana brought her best friend Arden over to see my house before I moved in. After we'd walked through the empty rooms she asked me, "Who's going to live here with you?"

I said, "Nobody. I'm going to live here by myself."

"What? You can't live here in this big house alone! Won't you be scared?" she asked.

I wasn't sure what the size of the house had to do with my living alone. Houses aren't like jeans or rings or shoes or condoms. They don't have to fit a certain way. A house can't be too big to live in alone. "No," I said, "I've lived alone for several years now. I'm not afraid to live here alone." I was turning off the lights so we could leave and go out dancing at a club.

"I would be," she said. "I would be afraid to live here alone. It's so big."

"You'd probably get used to it," I said. "It's one of those things I find easier than I would have thought when I was married and living with my kids and husband."

"Hmmm," she said. I don't think she was convinced.

"Even if you're not scared, won't you be lonely?" she asked. "I couldn't live here alone because I'd be lonely." We walked out the front door into the frigid winter air.

"Yes, sometimes I'll be lonely. Sometimes I am now," I said, pulling the heavy front door shut. 

"I couldn't take that," she said.

"I was married for decades," I said, "and I was often lonely. I'd rather be lonely by myself here in my own house than lonely in the same room with someone who is close enough to touch. Also, it's much easier to do something about feeling lonely if I'm alone. It never lasts long now."

"Ahh," she said. "That makes sense. See you at the club." She and Montana headed to her car, and I toward mine. Alone, but not lonely.

Someone sent me a message about the post I wrote recently about dating. More on that conversation soon, but that conversation reminded me of the conversation with Arden.

And it reminded me that a lot of people date or stay in relationships because they think they can't stand to be alone. Possibly one of the reasons I don't date is because I'm fine alone. Not that I don't miss certain aspects of being in an intimate relationship. I do .... and sometimes that missing is sharp and insistent.

But I really would rather be alone than enter into the wrong relationship, or into a relationship for the wrong reasons. I won't settle for that just because I'm alone, or even because I'm lonely.

One friend suggested I haven't dated in a long time because I'm not ready, but nothing could be further from the truth. I haven't dated because I'm not willing to let the wrong guy onto my island .... again -- not that the shores of my island are teaming with willing victims suitors. That, though, is the topic of another post.

The real reason I haven't dated in so long is because I feel no urgency to do so. The worst loneliness doesn't come from being alone. The worst loneliness comes from needing someone who is emotionally unavailable. I've watched too many people tilt at that windmill, and done it myself too many times too. I intend to avoid that, even if it means I'm alone in my big house.

What are your thoughts on being alone? Does the idea make you lonely? Or is it your normal, like it is mine?

(Photo credit: freedigitalphotos.net)

Unpacking dating .... eventually

When I asked what I should write about this month, a significant number of people wanted to know when I was going to get back to 10 Dates, 10 Men. In fact, I can't remember the last time I went to a party that somebody didn't remind me that I've slacked off on the 10 Dates, 10 Men project ... and I am also reminded every time I subtly deny giving a guy my number that I'm not really pursuing this dating shit very hard.

It's not that I don't want to but .... well, I have reasons. I always have reasons. I suspect they've turned into excuses by now, but semantics don't replace actions.

So tonight I was going to write about that. No, really! I was! I even picked up a book on dating at the library yesterday and skimmed two chapters. I had every intention of writing about it and getting it going and making a fucking commitment! ... But when I started making notes on a big sheet of paper while I watched The Voice, I realized I didn't have my shit together yet ... not enough to write about it.

But I will. I mean, I am .... taking notes, I mean. Looking at it through the lens of my word for the year, unpacking, along with my epiphany about my "5" years, I really have to consider breaking through my resistance to dating.

I've bought the new house, and I'm unpacking it. I started a new job teaching creative writing at a nearby magnet school for the arts. I'm unpacking a new curriculum and leaving behind academia for an entirely new culture in a public school. And it fits me much better than teaching at the university did.

Much as I'd like to avoid it, dating seems like the next thing to unpack ... which may be why I'm unpacking my house so slowly, because I really can't date if I can't bring a guy home with me. I mean, right?

And yet, when it comes to dating, I feel like I'm sitting on a pine cone. It's time to let loose the spring fever and either get a dog (please don't recommend a rescue. I only live with standard poodles) or date somebody.

So I'm working on a post about that and why it's so fucking hard for me .... and yet seems so easy for other people. I still need to unpack 1 of 10, who has been ridiculously resistant to leaving the suitcase.

And I need to lose 20 pounds and get some blonde highlights in my hair, because isn't that what every woman does when she decides to date?

Stay tuned .....

And the concern is free

As I've been gearing up for another round of 10 Dates, 10 Men™, I've been scaring myself shitless researching various dating protocal and opportunities. To be frank, I talk a lot more about dating than I actual go out and date, but that's another post.

Tonight I ran across a helpful website called bConcerned. It's a free check-in service run by a police detective and someone else with legal expertise (apparently serving subpoenas) for people who want extra security if they're going on a date, traveling, or doing anything that might require someone to check up if they don't check in.

Here's how it works. A member checks in on the website before she leaves -- on a date, for example or maybe to go to the Kroger up the road from me -- and gives the company information about where she'll be, what the guy looks like, his phone number, which vet he takes his dog to, and his photo.

Then she goes on the date where she will find out he's married. If she hasn't checked in within 8 hours, the service sends her an email reminding her to log on. After another 8 hours, the service sends an email to the member and to the member's "alert contact." And then after 24 hours a third email is sent to the member telling her she's going to be slapped on the hand for worrying everybody while she was getting married in Vegas and enjoying mind-blowing sex in the hot tub of a hotel on the strip locked out of the service.

I was surprised calling the police wasn't part of the procedure, but I guess that would be up to the contact -- given the contact gets the message, of course.

I also thought a lot could go on in a period of 8 hours -- anything from a long poetry reading to fantastic sex to rape and murder. By the time her contact got the email 16 hours later decomposition would have set in.

It's an interesting service. Personally, if I were stupid enough to go out with a stranger to a place where he might press upon me his evil intent, I'd have left that information with a dozen friends, including the ones with guns. And they would expect me to check in way sooner than 8 hours.

In fact, last time I went on a date, three people texted me within an hour of my arrival at the restaurant to make sure I was OK, my son insisted I keep Skype open, and I glimpsed one friend hiding behind a potted plant. My daughter didn't want to hear from me unless I got laid.

The question is would I use this service? Maybe, but only if for some reason I didn't want my friends and kids to know I was going out. And it's unlikely I'll be doing any undercover dating. (Hee.)

But I can certainly see how this might be valuable for someone who doesn't have close friends to leave the information with or for someone who doesn't want her friends and family to know what she's doing. It doesn't provide a high level of security, but it could give the person using it some peace of mind.

I do have to add one note about the website: Somebody needs an editor. A professional editor. Like me. I give another kind of peace of mind.

A vagina is like the weather....

Photograph: Daniel Berehulak / Getty

"A vagina is like the weather. Once it's wet, it's time to go inside."

Some guy named Ted tweeted that. Unfortunately for Ted and for his followers, it's the only funny thing he's said on Twitter. In fact, I only followed him for about 5 minutes. But it's still the best vagina quote of the year. (This is not a direct quote. I fixed a typo. Sometimes people pay me for that, but Ted gets a freebie because I'm not linking to his Twitter ..... because he's not really funny.)

Speaking of vaginas, I found a yummy treat that is bound to come in handy at some point during my 10 Dates, 10 Men™ project. It's called a Pussy Lolly. That's right, a Pussy Lolly. A coochie candy. A sugar taco. A labia lollypop.

Doesn't that sucker look delicious? Who wouldn't want to eat one? OK, it's not chocolate, but it's still  unnaturally pink and pretty and shiny.

And yet I was thinking these lollipops might serve a higher purpose, as either a way of sorting the men who don't know when to come in out of the rain or as a training device for those who brought an impressive umbrella and just need to know when to put on a slicker.

So my plan is that I'll buy a 6-pack -- just to be optimistic. And when or if I meet someone who makes the storm clouds gather, I'll give him a vagina-on-a-stick and invite him to indulge himself.


That's not too obvious, is it?

Seriously, I think I could tell a lot about a person's technique by how he ate one of these. If he licks away the right spot, he's a contender to hook up with Queen Frostine and move on to the Candy Castle. In fact, he might even earn himself a 23-karat gold-washed Pussy Lolly (but only if he pays for it himself).

For the guy who shows real promise, but doesn't quite lick the spot ... Hmmmm. I guess we could always use it as a lolly-lingual trainer. That could be fun.

A guy who licks the edges but never gets to the center ... nope. A guy who slurps all over it like a fucking Labrador retriever .... ick. A guy who licks the back .... uh, no. A guy who bites off a piece and chews it .... fuck no, pussy cruncher. A guy who won't .... Ha! Ha! Next!

Feeling sorry for the loser licker? I'm not. He got a sweet pink consolation prize to take home with him. Maybe he could continue to practice and try again another time.

Probably not though. I'm thinking it's a one Lolly Pussy per customer kind of deal. But we can still be friends.

Stood up ... again

Spoiler alert!

I know. I haven't even written about 1 of 10 yet and I'm writing about being stood up by someone else. (1 of 10 is on the roster. I sat him on the bench for a few days. Patience!)

Stood up. Ever notice how the word "stood" starts looking like the word "stooge" the longer you look at it?

I guess I should be glad I got the experience out of the way. When I committed to writing about 10 Dates, 10 Men, I knew there would be some negative experiences. How much fun would it be for you if every date was perfect? Not much, right? Even real life has to be seasoned by tension. So, yeah, last Thursday night I got stood up. It was only the second time in my life, which means it's disappointing .... embarrassing as hell ..... but it's certainly not a pattern.

The first time, I was 14 or 15. I was at the one-screen movie theater in our small town on a Friday night. My best friend and I had just finished sharing a Virginia Slim in the bathroom, and when we came out somebody told me a guy was looking for me. He was, she said, from Colorado!

You know how the heroine's heart leaps up in her chest in romance novels? Mine did that. It fucking leaped. I only knew one guy who was from Colorado, Duane K., and I'd had an enormous, obsessive crush on him for several years. His dad was my dad's best friend since high school, and on rare occasions his family came home to visit his uncle in a nearby small town.

Duane K. was really cute -- tall, dark, and broad-shouldered even as a kid -- but more than that, he was the first boy who had ever kissed me, several years before when I was 10 and he was 11. He was the first boy who made me feel horny desirable when he kissed me long and hard, our eyes closed, my arms around his neck, one of his around my waist, and his hand running through my hair like he couldn't get enough of me. It was just like in the movies .... until he asked me if I wanted to French kiss .... and then had to explain what that meant. 

Stick your slimy tongue in my mouth, Duane K? I don't think so. Your tongue has spit on it. There will be no tongues in my virgin mouth. It took me a few more years to wrap my head around that concept, which meant he was far more sophisticated than I was. A man of the world.

Not Iowa.

And he was from Colorado! Which is not Iowa. 

I found him in the back row of the theater with his cousin, George. We sat back there and whispered through the rest of the movie, catching up. I was cool as could be -- happy I'd worn my favorite tight yellow sweater -- but inside I felt like that 10-year-old girl being kissed for the first time. I had been fantasizing about Duane K. for 4 years and here he was, right beside me. And just as gorgeous as he was when he was 11.

When the movie was over, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him the next night. He said he had some pot and he'd get us some beer. I said yes without even asking my parents. No way my dad would say no to my going out with his best friend's son -- who was from Colorado!

The next night my parents were going to his uncle's house to play cards with his parents. Dad had talked to Duane K.'s dad, so everybody had approved of us going out together. Mom said Duane K. told his parents I had really filled out my sweater since last time he saw me. Somehow that wouldn't be something that would make me say, "Aww. You kids go out and have fun now. Buy that girl an ice cream cone!" But my parents thought it was funny.

They had to get a babysitter. Only a date with Duane K. would have gotten me out of babysitting that night, but they hired a girl from my class who didn't have any plans, and I was free to show Duane K. how much more I knew about kissing since last time I'd made out with him. Even French kissing. Especially French kissing. I imagined he had more to teach me too. I was giddy.

I waited at the living room window and chatted with the girl who was babysitting. I felt a little superior to be going on a date with a boy man from Colorado while she was stuck at my house with my little brothers and sisters. OK, I felt way superior. I felt at least 4 years older than her. She couldn't possibly  have been as impressed with me as I was with myself.

I waited. We chatted. I watched for him to pull up on the street, and I watched the hands crawl around the clock face. We hadn't really set a time when we talked at the theater ..... The babysitter and I ran out of things to chat about, and I desperately wanted to run upstairs and smoke a cigarette out the bathroom window. But I couldn't leave the window in case Duane K. finally pulled up to the curb. I tried not to show how anxious I was. I said, "It probably took him a while to find somebody to buy some beer."

"Sure. That's it," the babysitter said. Although I had no reason to, I suspected she was gloating inside. I hope so. I sure as hell didn't want her pity.

Finally about 9:30 I accepted that he wasn't coming. "I'm leaving," I said. "If he shows up, tell him he'll have to find me."

No way I was staying home and hanging out with somebody who didn't even have a date on a Saturday night.

I put on my coat and walked uptown where I knew I would find my friends circling the square. My best friend was riding around with her boyfriend and some other kids. Typical Saturday night. I hopped into the car. Somebody handed me a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I lit a cigarette and started chugging. Fuck Duane K.

Later I went home and cried into my pillow the rest of the night as quietly as I could, so I wouldn't wake up my little sister sleeping next to me. As far as anybody else knew, I didn't give a shit about that asshole, Duane K. Not one shit.

I never did find out why Duane K. stood me up that night. My parents were surprised when they found out and disgusted with him. I saw him again maybe 6 years later at a picnic. We were both married, and I barely talked to him.

A couple of years after that his parents moved back to Iowa, and on one of my visits home his dad told me I was lucky Duane K. had stood me up that night. He said Duane K. got arrested for beating his wife, and they were getting a divorce. He said he didn't like his own kid any more. I said I hadn't really wanted to marry his son anyway. I just wanted to French kiss him.

I still feel kind of cheated that I never got to French kiss Duane K.

That was the first time. And last Thursday night was the second, when the guy I thought might become 2 of 10 stood me up.

I'd been flirting with Possible 2 of 10 for a while, and recently we'd moved on to texting a little. He asked if I wanted to join him for a glass of wine some time. I said I would like that.

A week or so later he texted and asked if I'd meet him that night for happy hour. I was sick so I couldn't go, but I told him I hoped he would ask again.

A couple of weeks later, he did ask again. This time I had a Shakespeare performance art gig in another town, and I was already on my way there. I said I really hoped we could do it soon though. He said he wished he'd known about the performance. I wished he would ask in advance and get on my calendar.

A week went by. I texted Alex for advice.

Me: How many times would you ask a woman out if she was busy when you asked? 2? 3? More?
Alex: I'd probably stop trying after 2 and let her call me after that. Is there more to the above question?
Me: The question was because [Possible 2 of 10] has asked me to go out twice and I couldn't go. The second time I said I really hoped we could do it soon, so I made it obvious I wanted to. And he really should not wait until the last minute .... but I don't know if the next move is mine. I guess I'll give it a few days.

Alex didn't give me the answer I wanted. Hard as it is to admit, I'm still trying to throw off the chastity belt some of the strict rules for romantic engagement I had shamed into me when I was growing up. I wasn't ever allowed to call a boy. Not even when I was in high school. Not even if I was already dating him. Girls just didn't call boys .... unless their parents weren't home and they were doing it with a girlfriend. Then it was OK to break the rule as long as nobody's parents found out.

Asking a boy to go on a date was out of the question. Social suicide. There were ways to let a boy know you liked him, and then he was supposed to ask you out if he wanted to.

I'd like to say reason has kicked those old-fashioned mores to the curb, but I'd be lying. I was reluctant to ask Possible 2 of 10 out even for a simple glass of wine. I hoped he would try a third time.

I waited almost a week longer. Then on Wednesday night Alex and I were at a pub, sitting at the bar.

Me: Would you even call that a date? If someone texts kind of last minute and asks you to join him for a glass of wine? That's not really even a date, is it? Is that a pre-date?
Alex: Hard to tell. It could be a date. I'd say it's at least a pre-date. Unless you don't want to date him.
Me: I would go on a date with him, but I'm not sure he wants to go on a date with me. So .... yes, it's a pre-date. It's probably not even a date.

I'm telling you, the times they have changed. I didn't even know what a pre-date was until Alex explained it to me last fall. I'm still not sure I grasp all the nuances yet. But I'll try to explain it in another post.

Later we were sitting at karaoke listening to somebody butcher the Eagles. I was on my second salty dog.

Me: It looks I'm going to have to make the next move with Possible 2 of 10. He hasn't texted me again. Should I text him and ask if he wants to go out tomorrow night?
Alex: Only if you want to.
Me: Oh, I definitely want to. I just want him to do the asking.
Alex: That's not really reasonable. If you want to go out with him, it's your turn to ask.
Me: I don't want to ask.
Alex: Then don't go out with him.
Me: He might have changed his mind.
Alex: You'll never know until you ask him.
Me: Fine. I'll text him.
Alex: Only if you want to.

I took my time composing a text. When I was done, I showed Alex the two sentences I'd come up with.

"Do you still want to go out for that glass of wine? Tomorrow night maybe?"

Me: Here's what I'm going to send. Oh, wait. It's probably too late to send this. It's 10:15. I shouldn't send this tonight.
Alex: (rolling his eyes) It's not too late. He's not in kindergarten. Let me see ..... Take out the "maybe." It's weak. "Maybe" is weak writing. I'm surprised at you.
Me: I  know it's weak. I'm a writer. I did it on purpose so he wouldn't think ....
Alex: That you were asking him out? Delete the "maybe." Do it now.
Me: OK. He's probably changed his mind anyway.

I deleted the "maybe," and then I sat with my finger hovering over the send button for at least 2 minutes. Finally I touched the screen and sent my little request out into the night, just inviting rejection.

Less than a minute later I got a reply:

"Sure. Where?"

Me: OMG! Alex, look! He said yes. What should I say? I didn't even think of a place to go.
Alex: Of course he did. Just tell him where you want to go.

I drafted a reply.

"Do you mind coming [downtown]? In that case, [generic wine bar] is nice."

I hit send. It was only 5 minutes after his response.

I waited. I picked up my phone and checked it several times. I ordered another drink.

Me: Looks like he changed his mind.
Alex: How long has it been?
Me: Ten minutes. (And then 20. And then 30.)
Alex: He won't change his mind. He said he wants to go. The hard part is over.
Me: Yeah, maybe he went to bed. You're right. He'll text or call tomorrow.

The next day every time I heard the little guitar riff that announces a text I expected it to be from Possible 2 of 10. It wasn't. By late afternoon, I was starting to feel discouraged, but I thought maybe he thought he'd made a commitment and intended to text me after he got off work to see what time I wanted to meet. That made sense. Sure, that must be it.

I got ready to go. I didn't do much more than I would normally do for a night out with friends. After all, I wasn't really sure if this was a date. Or even a pre-date.

You already know the rest of the story. I gave it away at the beginning. Let me paint you a picture.

He didn't call. He didn't text. It's been 6 days, and he still hasn't. He fucking stood me up.

That night the Hot Italian sent me an email: Did you go out? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Hot Italian: What??? Did you call him and ask him what the fuck? Did you yell at him?
Me: No, I'm not going to call him. Obviously he changed his mind. Or .... who knows. Maybe he doesn't even remember saying he'd go. I don't know.

 On her way home from school Elvira called: Did you go out with Possible 2 of 10? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Elvira: What the fuck? What an asshole!
Me: He probably just changed his mind. Or forgot.
Elvira: Fuck him!
Me: Probably won't happen. Opportunity lost.

I messaged Alex.

Me: [Possible 2 of 10] still hasn't gotten back to me after I suggested [generic wine bar] ... I think he stood me up.
Alex: Yeah, that's a bad sign. I'd find out for sure ....
Me: The ball is in his court. I suggested a venue...

There's no way I was going to contact a man who had stood me up -- not to yell at him or to find out what happened. It took enough courage for me to ask him to go in the first place. How pathetic would it be to call or text him and ask why he'd stood me up? Wouldn't that just put both of us in an awkward position? Nope. Not happening.

I was just glad I was still at home and not waiting for him at some wine bar alone.

And I was grateful for the impersonal distance of email and Facebook messaging when I confessed I'd been stood up. It was just a casual date after all .... or pre-date ... for a glass of wine. No big deal. But I was still disappointed. And embarrassed. Being stood up has to be one of the top 3 ego deflaters. I will admit, I might have gotten a bit teary for a while.

And then I got this message from Alex: I think the important lesson from this, regardless of outcome, is that you sent the message. Proud of ya!

That message still makes my eyes fill up. I should print it and hang it on my refrigerator with a magnet. Or write it on a Post-It note and stick it to my bathroom mirror. A tattoo would be going too far, I suppose.

I may be a dating disaster, but when it comes to friends, I'm the richest woman I know.

All I can say about being stood up is this: the second time wasn't as bad as the first. At least this time I didn't drink a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Somewhere along the line I graduated to Chardonnay.

I don't know why Possible 2 of 10 didn't follow through, but it can't be anything I did so my self-esteem is intact. Bruised maybe, but hey, I'm not the one who stood somebody up. Am I still disappointed? Hell, yes. I would never have gathered the courage to send that text if it wasn't important. I wanted to go out with him; I wanted to get to know him better. But if he didn't feel the same way ..... 

I'll live to date another day.

As for Possible 2 of 10, his name, for the purposes of this blog, has changed. From now on he will simply be called -1 of 10.