Day 5: I've still got it!

If you've been reading here long you'll know that, although I'm a single, theoretically available GILF overweight, middle-aged grandmother with 2 dogs and 2 cats who is raising her (adorable) eight-year-old granddaughter, I don't date. Looking at that description, I'll bet you wonder why. You probably think there are so many people lined up on my Tinder account and outside my door that I simply can't choose one or two or even 20 and break all those other hearts. Oh the irony is thick tonight.

If you've been reading here a really long time and you have a really long memory, you'll remember I was going to do a writing project called 10 Dates/10 Men that would require me to .... you guessed it, didn't you? Date 10 different men and write about my experiences. I still think it was a good idea, but after I finished with 1 of 10, I was done. I didn't even want to write about it. Not even after I had to block his number on my phone because he was still texting me over a year after I told him no more. Ugh.

That's not to say I don't get asked out. Why, just the other day I was propositioned asked out in the most unusual way that didn't involve even one swipe. It's such a charming story, I'm going to relate it to you right now.

It all started when I did this stupid thing: I answered the phone. The caller ID said CARDMEMBERSVC. I've been getting lots of calls from debt collectors who are looking for someone who doesn't live here. The law is they have to stop calling if I tell them to, so I thought I'd get rid of at least one of them. Here's how the conversation went.

Steve [in a heavy Indian accent]: Hello, Ma'am. This is Steve from … 

Me: Take this number off your list and don't call it ag…

Steve (firmly): Ma'am. Ma'am, please listen fir… 

Me: Don't call this numb…

Steve (quite firmly): Ma'am. You will listen to m… 

Me: Take this number off your list.

Steve: Ma'am, first you must list… 

Me: Take it off … 

Steve (50 shades of firmly): No, ma'am, you must listen to me. I have to tell you .... 

Me: My number. Don't call it again. 

Steve: But you must listen, ma'am. I have something ....

Me: Don't call my number again.

Steve: Ma'am. Ma'am. MA'AM! You must listen to ...

Me: Stop talking and remove my number from your list. 

Steve: Ma'am, would you like to sex with me? [sic] [sick]

Me: 

Steve: Ma'am, would you? Would you like to sex with me? 

Me: No, I would not. I'd like to kick you in the face though.

Steve: ha ha ha 

Me: But you'd probably like it.

Steve: ha ha ha ha ha

Me: Click.

Sigh. Really, Reticula? Kick him in the face? Oh boy. You really told him off! I mean, yes, I wanted to kick him in the face like a 21st-century Sarah Connors, but that's not clever. It doesn't make a good story. I wish I'd said .... hell, I don't know even now what I wish I'd said to make that mocking asshole Steve feel like I felt when he asked me if I wanted to sex with him. #metoo

Anyway, that's why I don't date. Steve is the one and only reason I don't date. I'll just leave it at that.

What would you have said? If the answer is, "Yes, Steve. Sex me now!" I don't want to know. If the answer is, "Yes, Steve, I'll sex with you if you promise to never call this number again," I don't want to know. If your answer is clever and makes me laugh though, you win a ham sandwich! And I will use your pithy rejoinder the next time I'm stupid enough to answer a number from a collection agency.

Clever retort .... and go!

Dating: Reasons 396-398: Day 16

You didn't really think I was going to write about dating, did you? Here are numbers 396-398 of the reasons I don't date. 



396. I don't want to worry about farts -- mine or his. Also, the bathroom. I don't want to share my bathroom. At. All. At least farts are kind of funny. Poop. Nope.

And then there's this happy couple. She found out he had been cheating on her for months before their wedding, while they were dating .... and she found out the night before. Of course the cunt helpful homewrecker he was cheating with sent the happy bride their texts, but he still has no excuse. She read the texts instead of her vows at their wedding the next day. Never would have happened if she'd stayed off Tinder.

397. I don't need to become any more cynical than I already am.

And then there's this guy who knows what he wants and won't settle for less. Misogynist dog turd. 

398. I don't meet the criteria. Thank you, Baby Jesus.

So far, even after lots of conversations about the topic, I've come up with hundreds of reasons not to date, and not a single reason why I should. I do like swiping on Tinder for other people though.

NaBloPoMo #19: If we were having a glass of wine ....

If we were having a glass of wine .... is a new feature here on Reticulated Writer. I didn't make it up. Lots of bloggers do it. Some drink imaginary coffee, but I don't drink caffeine, so we're going to drink wine. Because I said so.
*******

If we were having a glass of wine, I would say, "That's enough about you. Let's talk about me. Did you know I won a prize -- $25 and a trophy! -- at my neighborhood chili cook-off?"

And you would say, "But you hate spicy food. One drop of hot sauce in a swimming pool of chili would make you whine unbearably for hours. How could you win a prize at a chili cook-off?"

And I would tell you about how I didn't want to go to the chili thing, but my neighbor and president of the neighborhood and one of my co-stars in All the Sex Monologues insisted I had to. I said, "I'm not coming. I don't like chili. I don't like spicy food. That's why I didn't come last year."
He tried to look patient. "You can bring your own chili then. Whatever you like. It doesn't have to be spicy. Just eat your own."
"But I won't win if I bring my chili," I said. "If I come, I want to win."
"You never know. You might win," he said.
"I did win a chili cook-off at my church," I said. "But I think my daughter and her friends stuffed the ballot box. I don't want to come."
"OK, then, come for the beer. We'll have beer," he said.
"I don't like beer," I said. "Beer is yucky."
"You don't like beer. Fine. Bring some wine, then. You can drink wine, can't you?" He wasn't so patient now, but he was still trying, because he also wanted me to commit to raking leaves at 9:00 am the morning after I was having a party. It wasn't going to happen, because I like letting my leaves rot where they land. Also, my parties go late late late.
"OK, fine. I'll come. I'll bring my mild Iowa chili, which nobody will want to eat. But I'll come."
"Good! And you'll rake leaves too? We want our street to look nice." He's persistent.
"Sure," I said. But my fingers were crossed behind my back.

So 5 hours after my last guests left Saturday morning, I was up making a big fucking pot of chili, because I don't know how to make a small batch of chili. I also stirred up a pan of cornbread, because chili has to have cornbread. As I pulled my cornbread recipe, written in my mom's hand decades ago, out of my old recipe box, a wave of nostalgia hit me. First, because my mom had a stroke 16 years ago, and she prints with her left hand now. Her familiar handwriting is only found on historical documents, like my cornbread recipe.

But also because I remember coming home from school on afternoons when I had a basketball game and smelling the crockpot of chili my mom would have waiting for me. If I had an away game, I'd eat it fast with a piece of cornbread slathered with butter and honey, gulp down some black coffee, grab my uniform, which she'd washed for me, and head back out the door to catch the team bus. Everybody else would eat later, and then come to watch me play. My chili is pretty close to what my mom made: more like soup with tomato juice, ground beef, beans, onion, and a little chili pepper. I add a couple of secret ingredients to mine, but it's still similar.

Many years ago when I was an 18-year-old bride I asked my mom to copy some of her recipes for me, and the cornbread recipe was one of those. My grandma gave me a recipe box she wasn't using, and I started my collection with recipes from my mom and both of my grandmas. It grew with recipes from friends over the years .... until it didn't any more. These days, other than those old recipes, I keep my recipes on my computer or on Pinterest. If I need a hard copy, I print it out. If one of my kids needs a recipe, I email it. But for some old standards, like cowboy cookies, pumpkin pie, and cornbread, I get out my old recipe box.

Back to the chili cook-off. Twelve people brought entries, and most of them were spicy. I tasted 2 or 3 of them, and then filled my bowl with my own. It was delicious -- to me. Just like Mom made.

Eventually it was time to vote. Voting was done on a sheet of paper with hash marks. I cast my vote for the chili that had the most votes already. Mine, I noticed, didn't have any votes. I was probably the only one who ate any. Like I gave a fuck. I didn't even see the sheet for voting on the cornbread.

Imagine my surprise when Jason announced that cornbread #4 had won the cornbread contest! I had to run to the kitchen and make sure that was really my number. It was! $25 cash and a trophy for my mom's cornbread.

As for the chili that won, the woman who made it said she'd followed the guy who won 2 years ago outside and sat on him until he told her his secret ingredient, which was ..... are you ready for it? Velveeta. Velfuckingveeta cheese won the chili cook-off. It's not even food! Whatever though. I was happy with my little trophy and $25 cash in my hand.

I called my mom in Iowa and told her we'd won.
******

If we were having a glass of wine, I'd tell you I went with a friend to an audition Tuesday. She'd never auditioned before, so I went to give her moral support. I know the director, and I knew she wouldn't mind if I just watched. I wasn't auditioning myself because I thought I was much too old for the parts. Imagine my surprise when 3 of my friends and a couple of acquaintances showed up. Apparently the director was looking for older women for this play, and had sent them emails asking them to come. They talked me into auditioning too.

Now, I do love auditioning, but I felt a little silly, because I was too old for this play by at least 20 10 years. And there were lots of young -- I mean young -- women there. The friend I went with is barely over 30. But it didn't matter. Experience showed with the older actors. It was interesting to watch the difference.

I didn't get a part. I didn't expect to. But my 3 friends and 2 acquaintances did get the 5 parts .... and I'd be lying if I didn't admit I felt a tiny bit left out. Not that I imagined myself getting a role as a bride's maid, but .... it would have been fun to work with my friends.
********

If we were having a glass of wine, I'd say, speaking of plays, All the Sex Monologues made over $2000 for Planned Parenthood, and that's after expenses. It's not a drop in the bucket compared to the $1.5 million the fucking Ohio Senate and House just stripped from PP though. I'm proud of what we did. I'm worried sick about all the women who have lost their health care.  I'm worried sick about my vagina and all the fucking Republicans who keep poking their heads up in there like rude tourists. Women are going to have to stand up and get loud.
********

If we were having a glass of wine, you'd probably think I was doing all the talking. And maybe you'd offer me some chocolate, knowing I dearly love me some dark chocolate with my wine. But I'd decline because I'm on some fucking sugar fast, and I can't eat chocolate or anything good. It hasn't really been that hard, and I've given myself 3 cheat days. And Thanksgiving is coming up and that entire weekend is a cheat weekend.

I've probably reduced my daily calorie intake by about 4000 chocolate and wine calories a day this month and I've lost ..... drum roll please! Half a pound. And that's probably because I peed before I weighed myself.

It would be a lot easier to resist that bag of frozen chocolate chips if I had realized one single fucking benefit in the past almost 3 weeks. But it doesn't matter. I've been doing the research, reading the studies, and sugar has zero benefits either. Other than its addictive taste, it's nothing but bad news. Kind of like any guy I ever dated ever.

And speaking of dating .....
*******

If we were having a glass of wine, I guarantee you the subject of dating would come up, and you would say, "Whatever happened to those 10 men you were going to date?" And I would say, "They don't exist." And you would say, "Oh, c'mon now. I don't want to hear that. There's someone for everyone. When you're ready the right person will be there. Because you're too fabulous to be alone for the rest of your life. You have to be open to him when he comes along though. Or she. Why don't you try to find a woman?" And you would raise your eyebrows as if to tell me you know I'm just not open enough or we wouldn't be having this conversation, because otherwise? Otherwise I would be way too busy fucking my brains out with my brand new boyfriend or girlfriend, who adores me and cooks for me and fixes my computer problems and cuddles with me on the couch while we watch Netflix, eat buttered popcorn and drink chardonnay.

My faithful friend, I love your optimism, but you're full of shit. First, because there are too many single women out there for you to still believe there's someone for everyone. And second, surely you can't believe lesbians are more plentiful than men. Seriously? And finally here's where I'm at on the topic of dating .... which doesn't mean I won't write about that shit whenever I want to because I do what I want, but you are still full of shit so full of crap.

But I do love you, and since you want me to find someone so bad, I'm going to introduce you to my imaginary boyfriend Simon soon. He's cute and funny and he adores me. You'll like him. I promise.

I'm glad we could share these glasses of wine together, but holy insomnia do you see what time it is? I've gone on and on .... But don't leave yet. What about you? What's going on in your life? Pour another glass and tell me. I've got all night to listen.

NaBloPoMo #14: Looking for Adam

Recently my friend Roxy Carbuncle posted on Facebook that she'd just discovered her daughter had made her a secret Match.com profile. It was  funny and sweet. Two of her daughter's criteria for her for a man were that he "doesn't hang out at [her] house every day" and that he "would never be mean to [her] children." Roxy found out about it when she started getting emails from Match. And, of course, she deleted the account, but not until after she'd grabbed a few screens.

Kids, right? And then there's this video, which has over 10,000,000 views so far, that a guy named Alex in Norway made 6 months ago of his 69-year-old mother, Eva, so that she might find a man. It's funny and sweet too, and so much better than those dating videos from the 80's. And even has a photo of Eva in a bikini. Watch it, and tell me if you think there's one chance in 10 million that she will find a man who can keep up with her, especially given that most men like to date women who are younger than themselves.

Pretty sweet, right? So far, out of 10 million views, the right guy hasn't shown up. Alex says he'll post a followup when she finds her man.

I hope she finds him. I really do. I just don't think she should hold her breath waiting for him to show up in one of the thousands of emails she's now getting. I know, and know of, so many single, attractive, active, connected, smart women  -- just like Eva seems to be. Just like  .... hey, a couple of those adjectives might even describe me. And there aren't nearly enough single men who share the same adjectives for all of those women to find one, especially the first one: single.

Even if she doesn't find her prince, her son made a charming video, one that will bring lots of shared stories into their lives. That's worth a lot -- maybe worth more than a few lousy dates.

A question about undressing

(photo credit: babble.com.
*Comment below.)

I was just sitting here with a glass of wine in my hand and a bowl of popcorn-flavored butter on my lap watching a slim, pretty blonde woman in a movie squeezed into a pair of Spanx™ under her tight-fitting designer dress before she went out on a date, and my mind suddenly filled with questions. I suppose other women already have this figured out, but I will file this under reason number 803 why I don't date. (Or wear Spanx™.)

Here's my question: What happens when some degree of intimacy occurs? To start, what if they slow dance? What does a pair of Spanx™ feel like under her dress when he's got his hand on her waist when they're slow dancing? Or, what if she decides over her third glass of Chardonnay to have sex with him? It's not really the kind of thing where you can go to the restroom, strip it off and slip it into your purse once you see where the night is headed.

So let's say she decides to go for it anyway. They go to his place. They're making out. Their hands start roaming. He feels like a human (unless see below). She feels like something that's about to pop -- an over-blown balloon, maybe. And then he runs his hand up under her skirt and about 4 inches above her knees he hits the Spanx™. Not her warm, sexy human thigh. Not, further up, a pair of damp lacy panties. Just tight, unyielding Lycra. All the way up to her rib cage. At this point the thing has to come off, right? Because the goodies are secured under what is basically a big rubber band.

Getting into a pair of Spanx™ requires steely resolve and double joints. Getting out of a pair can't be called erotic. It's more like Greco Roman wrestling with yourself. I know. I tried to put one of those on several times .... and failed. It's worse than trying to pull up a wet bathing suit. And then there are the ugly gouges and red ridges that girdles -- oh, it's just a long, expensive girdle, let's stop kidding ourselves -- leave in soft flesh. Ouch. Not sexy.

So her dress comes off, and she's standing there in her bra and her foundation garment? Does that happen now that we're long past the 1950's? And then what? He tries to pull that thing down, but it's like stripping a sausage out of its casing, and they're both tugging and pulling and peeling, and it's rolling up and inside out, but finally it's off and ..... ? She pops out like the Pillsbury Doughboy™?

So now the date is going to see how she really looks anyway, right? He's going to see that she's not perfectly smooth like a blow-up doll, so the illusion will be destroyed as soon as the girdle comes off. Does he then get a chance to change his mind, to claim he was misled?

How does this shit work? Am I the only one who sees a woman getting dressed in a movie and has to pause the movie long enough to write a blog post about neo-girdles and first-time sex and how does underwear work these days?

Oh, and as if women's undergarments didn't present enough problems, men can wear Spanx™ too. Not even kidding. Here. Look if you dare.

(photo credit: wzlx.cbslocal.com)

I gotta tell you, guys .... and I will speak for all women .... no woman thinks the guy on the left needs that girdle on the right. Not only that, we all know that thing is probably going to roll as soon as he sits down and what's that going to look like? A big old roll of fat? Think about it.

And think about this: Could a guy even get any blood to his penis in one of those? Or would Woody just suffocate under all that Lycra?

I honestly kinda doubt Spanx™ for men are running off the shelves. But I can imagine a scene in a rom-com where a couple are trying to get busy only to be thwarted by their respective spanky pants. Look at the photo examples above. Do you see room for even a finger, much less a hand? Not very inviting.

And so far, I've avoided even bringing up the perspiration issue.

Maybe I've over-thought this hypothetical situation. Maybe I should narrow it down to just this one question: When do the Spanx™ come off and how? Somebody with experience needs to just tell me. Please. Don't let me die with this question unanswered.

*Note: I went searching for images of women in Spanx™ and was I ever surprised! I assumed these particular undergarments were for those of us who needed to corral our fat so it doesn't lump up and bump out under our sexy, clingy dresses. Apparently they're more often used to hold bones in place. I'm not gonna judge the weight or size of the women who model these, but I did not expect they were the size women who are buying girdles. If I looked like that I'd just walk around in a tiny bikini all day. Fuck the Spanx™.

Why are people laughing at Louis CK?

I love Louis CK. He can say the sharpest, most insulting, and yet brutally honest words, and people still laugh at what he says. He's showing them their dirty underwear, and they laugh at their stains and poop tracks with him. Because he really does call out the worst behavior, and still people think he's hilarious. That's the beauty of irony, and he is the master. It's funny .... but not really.

Take this video of him talking about dating.

He's brutal, and he's dead right about all of it. He talks about how people like to tell single people, "There's someone for everyone." Do you know how many times I've heard that? Always well intentioned, and I certainly take it that way even though I'm not blind. I see all the smart, attractive single women out there who will never find a mate. I love that my friends think I'm worthy of a happy, healthy relationship, but as LCK says, "Nope. Not at all true. And stop sayin' it because it's mean to people who never find anybody." The audience laughs. Probably because they're all there with their husbands, wives, partners or dates. It's easy to laugh at people who are "lightspeed ugly and nobody kisses them on the lips even." Hilarious, isn't it? His solution is that people who feel sorry for the uglies could "find one and fuck them tomorrow ..."

And there we go: from dating to fucking in under a minute. Just like a man. More on that.

He talks about how people don't fuck down. Only up and sideways. About that, he's wrong. He does say some women fuck down because men persuade them that they, the men, are really ups. But that's not why so many women fuck down. First, we've been told, and we tell ourselves, that we're way further down than we really are. That we don't deserve better. Second, women have to choose from the available pool of men 20+ years older than them who are willing to date them .... much less fuck them. Third, economics. How many dumpy old men do you see with much younger wives teetering on heels and dressed in clothes from Forever 21 hanging on their arms? A lot. Go to an expensive fundraiser and check that shit out.

His main point though is how much courage it takes for a woman to say "yes" to a man when he asks her out, and he nails that one too. (I know somebody with a penis will make the argument that it's just as hard to be a man, and they're the ones who have to do the asking and risk rejection, and my reply is that you'll just have to stand in line behind date rape, cheaters, emotionally unavailable assholes who would prefer to just borrow some tits and a vagina for the night ... I could go on. Being the one who asks isn't the worst thing that can happen. Neither is being told no, as long as you accept it and don't act like an asshole about it.)

I notice LCK isn't laughing. He smiles a few times, but he knows this shit is serious. Maybe the audience does too; maybe their laughter is their way of agreeing and shaking their heads. For those of us who have been discouraged out of the dating pool -- and who don't want those pity fucks he talked about, thank you -- it's not really funny. It's painful. When he says it's dangerous for women to say "yes" to a date, he's not kidding. I'm not sure why that's funny, and I suspect he knows it's not. Dating is dangerous on both an emotional and physical level. The physical we all know about. Men are bigger than women.

The emotional is just as disheartening. I will never go on a date again without expecting that my date will either break the news that he's married (but his wife won't fuck him, so it's her fault he's cheating) or has a girlfriend. And if he doesn't confess, he's lying. And when I finally call him out on it weeks later, his reaction will probably be anger, because he got caught. 

In my experience, women need courage whether they say "yes" or whether they say "no." It can easily turn nasty either way.

LCK's final bit is probably the most disturbing part of this video though. (And let me restate that I love this video. I just don't find it particularly humorous. Ironic, yes.) The worst part is when he describes the difference between the woman and the man on a first date. He says they're walking along, and she's trying to make a connection with her date, and her date is a "blind dick in space just thrusting in independent directions hoping to find pay-dirt."

Wow. This is why she got a mani/pedi, waxed, shaved, plucked, curled, straightened, slathered makeup, bought a new outfit, forced her feet into high heels, tried to lose 5 pounds in 2 days, sneaked a look at Cosmopolitan in the checkout line, made sure at least 2 friends knew where she was going and were on call for check-ins so they could call the police if she didn't text from the lady's room, let hope into her heart ..... This is why she did all that? So he could blindly thrust his penis around in space until it fell into her vagina?

If that's what it's like on Mars, I'm happy to stay here on Earth ... except that the Martians are running the show here too. Check out straightwhiteboystexting if you don't believe me.

I don't think he even realizes he's fallen into the same trap a lot of people do: he's confused dating with fucking. It's hard not to, when half the world's population wants to fuck, and the other half wants to date ... or at least date first.

The real reason I love Louis CK so much is because he's a man, and he gets it. He fucking gets it, and he lays all that cynical bullshit out there. His bit on rape jokes is brilliant. I'm not saying I don't know any men in real life who don't get it. My son does. He's been my white knight in quite a few disturbing Facebook conversations of a feminist nature. I have a few male friends who understand, and can articulate their understanding.

I sometimes think I shouldn't write about dating. First, because I don't do it. It's hard to keep trying when every time I dip my toe into the dating pool I touch a turd. And second, because anything I have to say sounds just as cynical as Louis CK -- only he makes it funny -- and I hate that reality is reality and neither I nor Louis CK will change it by calling it out.

And yet as cynical as I am, I still have a bit of hope the size of a flu virus that someday I'll sit here at my elderly snail of a computer and tell you I was wrong. I hope I'll be the one assuring my single friends that there's somebody out there for everybody. (OK, I'm never going to do that.) I doubt my immune system is going to let that virus live much longer, but we'll see.

Click on more Louis CK videos. He's a worthy waste of time.

Musing on life #56

"Life is one big meat market. Online dating is just a picture menu." ~ Coquette

 The quotation above comes from Coquette, my favorite advice columnist. She's brutal, sarcastic, funny, intelligent, kind of terrifying, and unrepentant. I love reading her razor-wire responses to those who dare to write to her for advice.

After I read these two sentences though, I thought, Fuck me. I'm a vegetarian in the meat market of life. It explains so much.

I could carry this metaphor to its ridiculous end, and talk about fish and those that got away, and those I threw back. Or pigs. Or chickens. Or even squids.

But I'll just sit over here and eat my carrot and shut up now.

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)

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.

November 27: Channeling Dorothy Parker

First let me say it's such a relief to be writing about vaginas again instead of poop. You have no idea how refreshing vaginas can be when you've been swimming in the cesspool.

Second, if you haven't liked Reticulated Writer on Facebook, you've been missing some funny stuff that happens in response to, or maybe in spite of, what I write here. And I only need 9 more likes to hit 100, which frankly, is pathetic, but I tend to get excited about the little things. So click the button over there to the right and make both of us happy.

Third, I spent the night talking with my friend Hockey Puck about dating, and it's scary as fuck to admit but it's no easier at my age than it is at hers and she's younger than my son. Shit.

This is why I don't date.  (Source: http://abstrusegoose.com/114)

A couple of people have noticed I've been hinting about something, and they've have called me out on it. It's true. I have been, and it has to do with dating -- which I don't do. I really don't. Yet. But something is brewing, and I'll post about it soon. Within the next week.

Until then, I offer this poem by Dorothy Parker -- she of the acerbic, witty tongue and pen. Oh, how I love her. She's who I would have been if I hadn't had the utter and total bitch beaten socialized out of me by all the residents of a small town in Iowa.

Nevertheless I offer this poem with a shudder.

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;

I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,

I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;

I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

Dorothy Parker

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;

I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men....

I'm due to fall in love again. 

If I were to write a poem in the style of Dorothy Parker, this is what I would write.

Fuck me.

I'm going back for more.