A few months ago I decided to give on-line dating a shot. After the chore of creating my profile (it’s a fucking chore) and after obsessively revising and resubmitting for approval until I thought I had it “just right”, I finally hit “publish” on my profile and waited for the my first “wink.” And waited and waited. What the fuck? After I had put my profile up for all on match.com to see, I left the house for Saturday errands, yoga class and lunch. I was thinking I would come home to a bevy of “winks” and emails from gentlemen callers wanting to take me out. But nothin’. Zip. Fucking CRICKETS! I hit “refresh” 5 times because surely this thing was not on. It was. I had no action. Whamp whamp whamp whaaaa. It was humbling to say the least. Ok then (assholes), time to readjust my mental outlook, which simply meant, suck it up and be patient. (Patience does not come easy for one Ms. Angie Perodeau - but I’m working on it.)
You know the old saying, “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince” or whatever the hell it is? Well that was like my intro to match. The hits I did get were from guys who seemed to be, oh what’s the word?….Freaks? Yes, freaks. I kept pressing on not ready to lay my sword down just yet. Within a few weeks, I do connect with someone who piques my interest. I nicknamed him “Serial Killer” (not to be confused with this potential serial killer however (http://angiepartyofone.tumblr.com/post/647774083). I name him this because our “date” was set up with such ease and without a lot of communication (i.e. “getting to know you” emails) and he looked super cute in his “only” profile pic so it all seemed too good to be true. There had to be a catch. I figured the catch would be me washing up onto shore a few days after our date. That was the only conclusion I could draw.
Our date is set for a Friday night. He cancels. I’m disappointed but I figure at least I will live a bit longer this month. The cancellation leads to a text conversation about music. We like the same singer-songwriter that no one has heard of and who hasn’t made an album in 10 years. Good sign!! He excitedly asks if I like reggae. Oh God. How do I dodge the question? I fucking haaaaate reggae. Ugh, why does he have to like reggae? I will let it slide for now…
We reschedule the date for the following week. This time, I cancel. I was tired, not into schlepping down to the South Bay on a Tuesday night but mostly, I wanted to hang out with my son that night after being gone for a few days on a business trip. We reschedule again. Third time is a charm. It’s on! I meet him at Old Tony’s on the Redondo Beach Pier. I’m instantly attracted and excited when I meet him. He’s cute and he seems very warm and outgoing. I had never been to Old Tony’s before and it’s a really cool place. It’s a bit of a throwback, family owned, been there for years, all dark wood, they have these big colored glass balls hanging from the ceiling in macrame nets. Very 70s fisherman’s wharf vibe to me. I like it. We sit upstairs which has a great view of the ocean with a dude in the corner singing and playing 70s AM Gold songs on his guitar. I like it a lot.
The conversation flows, we are laughing and having the best time. Not bad for my first match.com date. He’s so not a serial killer at all! We decide to keep the date going and head to the bar across the street. Still laughing and talking endlessly. He keeps saying, “Wow, you’re awesome!” “You too!” I say. The bar is huge and there is practically no one there. We sit off in a dark corner and he leans in to kiss me and we have a full on make out session. He’s such a good kisser and I don’t know about you but I love just making out. It’s so underrated. Could I really nail this thing in one date and get off of match already?
The date ends and he walks me to my car. I leave happy and excited to see him again. I text my girlfriend to tell her I’m alive at that the serial killer is so not a serial killer. I get a text from him by noon the next day. Yay! He says he had a blast and he’s a little hung over. I write back that I had fun too and yes, feeling a bit hung over myself. BUT, he doesn’t ask for a 2nd date. No mention of hanging out again, which confuses me but I sit tight. Since I’m very new to the dating scene in my post-divorce world, I need to brush up on the “rules.” They say as a woman it’s best not to pursue. You gotta sit back and wait, let them come to you. I have a hard time with this plan of action. I’m not a “waiting” kind of girl. I’m a leader not a follower. I don’t sit back and wait for things to happen, I make shit happen so applying this philosophy to my dating mindset is something that takes patience and will-power. Two virtues that don’t come naturally to me. But I really liked him and I don’t want to scare him off so I wait.
And I wait…and a week goes by and I don’t hear a word from him. On match you can tell when a person logged on to the site last. He was on 24 hours after our date. WTF? He’s STILL looking? He didn’t find ALL he needed in ME? Oh god this on line dating thing fucking SUCKS. I am so confused because to me, that was one kick ass fucking date. But again, I’ve been out of the game for awhile so maybe not. But how could have I misread it so terribly? I am hurt, bummed out and I let it get to me. “I don’t get it!” I tell my friends. I am told it’s a numbers game, some people will blow you off, you’ll blow some people off, just keep going. Ok, that sounds like good advice. I can do that. I think. I gotta get my game face on because normally I’m not a game player. If I like you, I like you. If you like me and you want to see my again, then fucking call me the next day and tell me. Bottom line: I’m fucking busy. I’m a single mom with a full time career. I got shit to do. I don’t have time to wait 3 days or whatever the fucking industry standard is nowadays. I gotta plan my weeks out in advance. I need to schedule this shit! Siiiiigh.
Ok, I’m over the reggae loving Serial Killer. NEXT! Back to match.com I go. Click, click, click, no, no, no. I’m getting a lot of “winks” from guys who do absolutely nothing for me. Next! I connect with one guy and we email back and forth and he seems cool. We’re supposed to make plans for a drink when he gets back from a biz trip. I never hear from him. Next! I get asked out by a director/producer on one of those celebrity news shows. (Yay! I can get the real scoop on Sandra Bullock and that scumbag of a man she married.) We have a date and location all sorted out. He writes that he thinks I’m very “attractive” and “can’t wait to meet me.” He doesn’t confirm with me on the day of and his voicemail isn’t taking messages. Without confirmation I do not show up. The next day he gives me some excuse about losing his phone and had no way of contacting me. Really? Are your fucking fingers broken? You couldn’t have emailed me via match? I have no time for his bullshit excuses. Next!
Then the hot 26 year old Texan comes along. He’s young but at this point, why the hell not? We meet for a drink at Rush Street in Culver City. Not the best meeting place for a date for your future reference. It’s just too loud and crowded and seating upstairs can be hard to find. I walk in and see him standing at the bar. He’s about 6’4”. (I love tall.) He blushes when I say hello which instantly endears me to him. We, I, make the mistake of drinking about 5 vodka sodas on an empty stomach. All of a sudden my tongue feels way too big for my mouth and it keeps getting in the way of me talking. Fuck. I’M DRUNK! Shit! I break the first rule of first dates. DO NOT GET DRUNK! Fail. He’s very sweet but kind of shy and quiet. He too is divorced. They get married young in Texas apparently. Our conversation stalls out here and there, so not like the free flowing conversation with the Serial Killer but he’s so young and adorable and I’m amused by being out with someone 11 years my junior.
We’re on our last drink and he says, “What do you want to do now?” so I say, “Well, why don’t we finish these drinks and then we can go make out.” “OK!” he says. Wow - this whole, “Let’s make out” line totally works! You should try it. I swear it will work and the look on their faces when you say it is so priceless because it’s a combo of them being so taken aback that you actually said it combined with the look of them being totally stoked that you did. http://angiepartyofone.tumblr.com/post/606064835
We leave the bar and start walking down to the Backstage Bar. We stop and start making out. Fun! We get to Backstage and it’s a mad house. I barely remember being there but I think we had a least one drink each. We must of, why else would we have gone? That part of the night is fuzzy. He lives right around the corner from the bar and asks me if I want to go back to his apartment. “OK!” I say. I’m somewhat wasted and up for anything at this point. We both know exactly why I’m going back to his apartment. I mean come on, what else are you going to do with a 26 year old? We have a blast. Super fun and I feel like a “cougar” even though I hate that term and refuse to apply it to myself (I’m too young!) but in this case, going back to a 26 year old’s apartment (that he shares with roommates!) to um, “hang out” is a very cougary thing to do. Plus, I really wanted to find out what sex with a 26 year old is like. (It’s awesome by the way.)
Just like the respectable, chivalrous Texan gentleman he is, he walks me all the way back to my car and texts me about an hour later to make sure I got home safely. Manners! Love it. We text a few more times in the weeks following our date but haven’t been able to meet up again so I haven’t had a chance to really get to know him. Because of this, he is the ONLY one in this story I cannot dub as “crazy.” The rest, are fucking mental.
There was the crazy Pinky Nebula guy, http://angiepartyofone.tumblr.com/post/601220969, the guy I didn’t meet on match but had high hopes for just the same, who also turned out to be crazy, http://angiepartyofone.tumblr.com/post/604109063, then there was the (wannabe) “Actor” who didn’t drink who also turned out to have a touch of the crazy in a retarded child-like way. I could tell by his eyes the second I walked into the restaurant. He had crazy eyes and he was very nervous and kind of stammered when he spoke. On our first and only date, he told me about his previous match.com dates and how all of the girls he took out never returned his follow up calls or emails (ouch!) He also told me he wanted me to meet his dad who was coming to visit the next week. (I never returned his call either.) Next!
THEN, the Serial Killer resurfaces. Three weeks later! (THREE WEEKS?) Way to assure your position into my life dude. So much can happen in THREE weeks! Like I said, I’m a busy woman and I do not let the grass grow under my (pedicured) feet. When he resurfaces via text, I’m at a party in Los Feliz (where I run into a guy who shared a condo with me and a bunch of my work friends at Sundance the previous year and who I accosted in the hallway one night after a party we threw and made out with him. I do NOT recommend making out with people who you are sharing accommodations with for a weekend away. It makes for an awkward morning in the kitchen when everyone is getting breakfast the next day. But I digress…) Boom! There he is again. Face to face with him right when I walk into the party. Awesome. We had seen each other once before since the make out incident so the initial shock had already worn off. It was only a matter of minutes before we were chatting and catching up and I had him fetching me glasses of wine, which I promptly spilled all down the front of me which was my cue to leave the party and call it a night. Anyway, back to the my original point…
I’m at this party when I get a text from the Serial Killer, asking how I’ve been, what’s going on, let’s hang out again blah blah blah. Wow - the radio silence works! My friend Penny and I have this theory if I guy blows you off or isn’t giving you the attention you need and deserve, you just go radio silent on their ass and sure enough, they eventually come running back. We’ve tested and proven this theory (but you HAVE to stay strong - you cannot make contact whatsoever!) and here I am again, with my blackberry in hand and our hypothesis ringing true once more. I make sure to let him know I’m at a fabulous party at the moment and it was good to hear from him and sure I’d be into getting together again - when I get back from my business trip to NYC. Like I said, I’m fucking BUSY.
I invite the Serial Killer over to my house one Friday night after work. He tells me he’s excited to see me! I’m excited to see him! Yay! Maybe there is hope after all. He shows up and he’s as cute as ever. We hug and smile and talk and have a few drinks and settle into the couch. He brought over “The Foot Fist Way” which is a hilarious Danny McBribe indie film. We make out a little bit but then his attention quickly goes back to the movie. I love Danny McBride as much as the next East Bound & Down fan but come ON! I would much rather have a make out session on my couch. (Sorry Danny.) Ok whatever, maybe he just really wants to see this movie. I will wait until it’s done. Ok, it’s done. I go to kiss him again and he stops and says, “I’m sorry I’m so boring.” “What? What are you talking about? It’s Friday night, we’re lying on my couch together, (stoned) and watching a Danny McBride movie. Kiiiinda the best night ever. What are you talking about?” I ask.
Here comes the crazy. He starts to tell me all about the panic attacks he’s been having. How he just gets so angry sometimes and he has a really hard time controlling it. (Great.) It’s affecting his hockey team because he keeps getting penalties that put him in the box for MOST of the game. Jesus Christ. He tells me how his bosses tell him sometimes he’s so “on it” and other times, he’s not. Why can’t he be “on it” all the time they ask. His brother and family keep telling him to get back on medication but he doesn’t want to. He was on Ritalin as a kid but doesn’t want to go back on meds he tells me. I KNEW IT!! As fun and awesome as he was that first night there was “something” I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He was kind of fidgety in an A.D.D sort of way and I had a passing thought that maybe he was a Ritalin kid, which I quickly dismissed. BUT I WAS RIGHT!
“You need to take Xanax for your panic attacks,” I tell him. “Seriously. I’m telling you it is one of the best drugs ever created. It just helps you dial all that shit down in your head.” “Really?” he asks. “Yes really.” “Yeah, but I’m not a pill person,” he says. I used to think the same thing and I suffered with anxiety unnecessarily for years. I finally tried Xanax and I couldn’t believe it took me this long to get on board with it. What a waste of energy all those nights when I couldn’t fall asleep because I couldn’t turn my brain off. I will never suffer through that again. We get into this long conversation about anti-anxiety drugs and how no one is getting root canals without medication and the chemicals in your brain are no different if you need to make an adjustment to balance them out. We are lying on my couch and I am counseling him and encouraging him to get on medication. WHY DOES THIS SHIT ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?! I feel like Nancy Kerrigan crying, “Whhhhyyyyy? Whhhhhyyyy? Whhhyyyyyyy?” Shit. I KNEW there had to be a catch. He texts me the next morning and says, “Our talk really helped me last night and I made an appointment with a doctor and I’m going to get on medication! Thank you so much.” You’re welcome crazy serial killer boy. Buh-bye. NEXT!
“NEXT!” comes in the form of a sweaty sweaty man that I hope I NEVER see again. I’ve never seen anyone sweat this much (not even at the gym!) Again, thanks match.com for sending me all the crazies. His profile seemed cool and our email banter was fun. The one picture that he had on his profile that really showed his face seemed ok, there was potential there, although the shirt he was wearing was suspect. The others, were very far away shots. (On-line daters beware. This is never a good sign.) We talked yesterday afternoon to firm up plans. He seemed fun and smart. We make plans to meet at a dive bar near the airport because I have to pick up my sister whose flight gets in at 11pm. I text him when I park and he walks out to meet me. Shit. That must’ve been an old picture on his profile. He’s schlubby and wearing brown pleated slacks (slacks!) with a crease down the front with terrible terrible shoes that I would expect my former 60something year old boss (with the best comb over you’ve EVER seen) to be wearing. It was tragic all around. No psychical attraction whatsoever. Fuck. My sister’s flight doesn’t land for another 2 1/2 hours.
We find a seat and he seems very hyper. He asks if I mind if we move seats. THREE times. The first time he wants to move away from the bar to the side room, then he asks to move over to the window because his new medication is making him sweat profusely. (Meds! Again!) We move over by the window. I tell him he should get some napkins for the sweat. He does. Then he kicks off his shoes to help reduce the sweat. HE KICKS OFF HIS SHOES and then puts one leg up on the seat (we’re in a round booth with a very low table) so his shoeless, sweaty fucking foot is inches away from my leg. This one is cah-raayyyzzzyyy and kind of a dork. He keeps using big words for things unnecessarily to the point where I think he’s making words up. He’s talking a mile a minute, he’s all over the fucking place and the sweat is unreal. “At least you’re getting a lot of toxins out!” I say positively. What the fuck else can I say? “Do you mind if we move back near the bar? I think it might be cooler over there,” he says.
He’s rambling on his whole fucking life story, blah blah sweaty blah, telling me how he used to work for Joe Francis (of Girls Gone Wild fame) and was caught in this whole racketeering ring and some other credit card scam one of his buddies was running and how he’s been connected to “organized crime” in some form or another for the last 15 years. WHAT? But that he loves media and he’s started a blog all about “diegesis” which is the telling of a scene through visual images or something like that. I don’t know, it all sounds made up. But then he says, “But you, YOU are really in “the business” now aren’t you?” “Uh, yeah I guess I am,” I say, “Hmm, could I really date someone in the ‘biz’?” he asks with a creepy smile on his face as he leans closer to me and all I can think is that he’s probably thinking about my vagina (because one of my very close guy friends told me that this is all guys think about in these kinds of situations so I can’t EVER get that out of my head now. Thanks friend.)
“Wow, I fucking hate the Dodgers” I tell him as I transfix my attention to the game on the television. “I’m really not a big sports person, are you?” he asks me. “Oh yeah, I tooootally am.” (I am not) but I figure if I keep drawing contrasts in our interests maybe I will turn him off. I keep (rudely) watching the game. What the fuck time is it? My sister’s plane needs to land early so I can get the fuck out of here. I actually considered excusing myself to go to the bathroom never to return but all I could picture was his confused sweaty face once he’s figured out that I slipped out the back door and I just didn’t have the heart to do it so I endure some more. The topic of medical marijuana comes up and I make a mention of how I sometimes partake in the occasional spliff. “You smoke pot?” he asks in a tone that is judgmental and offended. Here’s my way to turn him off completely! “YES! ALL THE TIME!” I say. “Yeah, I don’t know if I can date someone who does that,” as he shakes his head disapprovingly and gets up to pay the check. NO FUCKING WAY?! Is this really happening? How awesome! Had I known it would be this easy to kill it I would of sparked up a J when we were sitting by the window and ended this sweaty atrocity hours ago! First of all I’m amazed that someone would have such an adverse reaction, ESPECIALLY someone who refers to themselves as a “Professional Alcoholic.” The drunks who pass judgment on the stoners is a blame shift/deflection that I will never fully be able to understand.
He comes back to the table and throws down not one but TWO cards. They turn out to be HIS medical marijuana prescription cards. NO! He was fucking with me! I’d been had! Fucker. I was SO hoping he was going to leave this date in disgust. No such luck. DAMMIT. So he keeps talking. He’s super jacked up now and the sweat keeps coming. He tells me about this really cool place in France that “maybe we could go to together,” (um, no), he asks where our 2nd date is going to be (it’s not) and he also ACTUALLY asks me, “What are you doing for the rest of your life?” because he’s “VERY interested.” Whoa, slow down sweaty cowboy. After tonight you’re never seeing me again.
He’s still rambling on about some NJ crime boss and how he used to be a “mule” for them but it all sounds strangely familiar and I actually think he’s ripping off plot lines from The Sopranos. He talks and I (rudely) check my phone and start digging through my purse. “Am I boring you?” he asks. “No, it’s just really loud in here (it was) and oh my god! Look at the time! I need to get to the airport.” I think it finally clicked in with him that I was ready to bolt. “Well, you know where to find me!” he says. Yep I do. Under a pool of fucking sweat no doubt.
Oh match.com why do you torture me so? They’ve all been fucking crazy thus far. Every single last one of them. I think I’m going to take a little “match” break for the rest of the month. I’m going to Paris the first week of July with my mom and my #1 Gay. Since I no longer have uncircumcised penis fear (http://angiepartyofone.tumblr.com/post/630479969) this opens my options way up in Paris. Yeah, I think I’ll hold out for that or maybe meet someone the old fashioned way, like a human in a bar without the help of the internet, cuz I ain’t been catching nothing but crazy with that there ‘net. Le sigh.
