I don't like any of my married friends so I am trying to get Ms.DunThat married off--preferably to someone who doesn't irritate me or my over-sensitive spouse.
I have tried looking for dudes for her in all the 'hot spots' mentioned in the dating articles and can tell you right now, that stuff is total bunk.
1. Adult education classes.
I took an adult ed class(3 of them in fact) to help us on some of the book projects we are working on. There are no single men under the age of seventy in adult education classes. They were filled with retired women. The one guy there wrote a story about riding past a funeral home and noticing that the woman being buried was someone he had known in high school. He then wrote an essay about it for class, wherein he was kind enough to mention that the last time he saw this woman she was 17, standing in a window with her shirt slightly open and jiggling here breasts. So, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen pervert, adult ed is out!
2. Weddings.
I went to a wedding last Saturday. Weddings are full of single women, small children, old people, and single men way past their expiration date. I sat next to one of the few single men there. He bragged about the fact that now that he was working for Roto-Rooter he could get all the parking tickets he wanted--he just added them onto the bill of the customer. The only other cute single guy there was 75. So, again, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen or are interested in riding around town in a Roto Rooter van, getting parking tickets, weddings are NOT the place to be.
3. Church. Old people, married people, and babies.
4. Grocery Store. Old people, babies, and mothers.
5. Bookstore. Ditto.
6. Fun classes like the trapeze class we took. Single women, teenage girls, and one dude with his girlfriend.
7. Networking functions. Lots of single chicks. No dudes.
8. Work. Oh, please.
9. Shopping. Only metrosexuals shop. I married one of those. Trust me, you don't want a guy who takes longer to get ready in the morning than you do.
10. Online dating. Weirdos, Wackos, and Weenies are far as I can tell....
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
On Getting Noticed
I'd been complaining to all my 'peeps' that I've received less and less attention, no matter how hard I try to look good. Even the cat calls from the construction crews have died down. Maybe it's just too damn humid, or maybe the competition is just so stiff in NYC that even the construction workers, who are usually so dependable when in comes to sexist bravado, have become highly selective.
I did, however, receive some recognition yesterday. I had decided to wear a cute Ben Sherman shirt I had discovered at Filene's Basement. I couldn't believe it was only $20. It was hot pink and had puffy sleeves. About three hours into the day I noticed why it was $20. The buttons were attached in such a way as to make the shirt gape wide open in the cleavage area, at least on anyone over an A cup. I started covering the peephole with my bag but eventually got tired of that and just let it all hang out. I told myself maybe you could only see something if you were at a certain angle. I was wearing a bra. As I stepped back into what I thought was my obscure bubble of singleness, I passed by what appeared to be two 18 year old boys. They seemed to be looking at me. "Yo,check it," one of them shouted as I passed, "Your tit's hangin' out." I turned the corner immediately, went into a deli and ordered an impromptu corned beef sandwich to calm my nerves and gather my thoughts.
Also, further evidence that the last of my pheremones leaked through a black hole in my sex appeal- was the fact that this big fat annoyoying guy didn't even want me. I belong to a fellowship that happened to sponser an evening of dinner and dancing recently. There is a guy I don't know too well who is bald and big, and sort of looks like Sloth on 'The Goonies.' Apparently he keeps bothering all the pretty girls and handing them his personal card that details his 'caberet show.' As I was dancing, I almost tripped over the guys small water, which he had put next to him in the middle of the dance floor. As the water rolled away from my foot, the guy comes up to my face and screams "You kicked my water! I would appreciate it if you picked it up please." Then he folded his arms and waited. I clutched arms with my girlfriend as we both stared at him, frozen in horror and disbelief. Then we ran. Later, he came over and gave our other friend his card, and proceded to describe his 'cabaret,' while giving me the evil eye.
This is why I have had two dates in the last year. This is why I agreed to go out with the last loser, who kept hors d'euvres in his gym bag. (Long story.) But I am gearing up, girls. I am going to fight back. I am going to stage a full out effort to meet guys. I am armed with new pics (new, not-heinous ones) and am ready to register with two websites. I have a ticket to a singles event, and I am even willing to try 8-minute dating, even though the whole concept horrifies me. Wish me luck, and give me strength. Mrs. BeenThere?
I did, however, receive some recognition yesterday. I had decided to wear a cute Ben Sherman shirt I had discovered at Filene's Basement. I couldn't believe it was only $20. It was hot pink and had puffy sleeves. About three hours into the day I noticed why it was $20. The buttons were attached in such a way as to make the shirt gape wide open in the cleavage area, at least on anyone over an A cup. I started covering the peephole with my bag but eventually got tired of that and just let it all hang out. I told myself maybe you could only see something if you were at a certain angle. I was wearing a bra. As I stepped back into what I thought was my obscure bubble of singleness, I passed by what appeared to be two 18 year old boys. They seemed to be looking at me. "Yo,check it," one of them shouted as I passed, "Your tit's hangin' out." I turned the corner immediately, went into a deli and ordered an impromptu corned beef sandwich to calm my nerves and gather my thoughts.
Also, further evidence that the last of my pheremones leaked through a black hole in my sex appeal- was the fact that this big fat annoyoying guy didn't even want me. I belong to a fellowship that happened to sponser an evening of dinner and dancing recently. There is a guy I don't know too well who is bald and big, and sort of looks like Sloth on 'The Goonies.' Apparently he keeps bothering all the pretty girls and handing them his personal card that details his 'caberet show.' As I was dancing, I almost tripped over the guys small water, which he had put next to him in the middle of the dance floor. As the water rolled away from my foot, the guy comes up to my face and screams "You kicked my water! I would appreciate it if you picked it up please." Then he folded his arms and waited. I clutched arms with my girlfriend as we both stared at him, frozen in horror and disbelief. Then we ran. Later, he came over and gave our other friend his card, and proceded to describe his 'cabaret,' while giving me the evil eye.
This is why I have had two dates in the last year. This is why I agreed to go out with the last loser, who kept hors d'euvres in his gym bag. (Long story.) But I am gearing up, girls. I am going to fight back. I am going to stage a full out effort to meet guys. I am armed with new pics (new, not-heinous ones) and am ready to register with two websites. I have a ticket to a singles event, and I am even willing to try 8-minute dating, even though the whole concept horrifies me. Wish me luck, and give me strength. Mrs. BeenThere?
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The Greatest Show on Earth
In middle school, when it came time for captains to pick teams for volleyball, Mrs. BeenThere and I were always the last ones standing. Same thing with soccer. And even cruise games. Yes, we had something called cruise games. It’s not that we were total outcasts, just bad sportsmen. We had both long before developed a fear of gym (the quasi-coordinated peers, the oddly pumped and underclothed authority figures,) and compensated by acting like clowns. The last straw came when Mark B., who later played professional soccer, acquiesced to our request to play on his volleyball team. I was stationed in a back defensive position, hands slackly frozen in the ‘bump’ position. It was here that I received my first of many sports equipment related injuries, getting beaned by the volleyball while I was busy showing Mrs. BeenThere how to do a grande plie. A disgusted scowl spread over Mark B.’s face.
Flash forward 15 years. Mrs. BeenThere is now married to a soccer agent (blame it on bad karma), and we are both still allergic to any type of sports equipment. Which doesn’t at all explain how we landed at the entrance of lower Manhattan’s Trapeze school. The force that propelled us there was the opportunity to be featured in a short internet film that would be produced for nycfilms, an emerging internet film company. Seeing as this would bring us one step closer to our dream of co-hosting a show on Lifetime Television, our excitement was initially enough to keep our fear in check.
THE EQUIPMENT:
We were outfitted with their equipment and removed of our own (me-Chandelier earrings, Mrs. BeenThere-glasses.) They might as well as just removed Mrs. BeenThere’s eyes, seeing that she is blind as a bat without those glasses. I had asked Daniel, the filmalker shooting us, if he had a camera setting to decrease the size of my butt, which, already ample, was amplified even more by a shackle-type belt that was cinched around my waist. Even with my aversion to equipment, this one seemed important. There was a safety cable attached to it, and I figured it might actually save my life in the off chance I fainted from sheer terror when I jumped from the platform. Then there was the actual trapeze. It was so high. Higher than the high dive that I was forced to jump off of in swim class as a child, which I had managed to do by squeezing my eyes shut and holding my nose with both hands.
THE INSTRUCTORS:
The instructors seemed to sniff out our history of gym ineptness. The first guy, a foreign type I’ll call Dolf, explained to us the daredevil maneuver that in a few moments we would be expected to execute. This 5 minute explanation, which included safety guidelines, was delivered in what might as well have been his native tongue, at least to Mrs. BeenThere and I. I noted that Dolf may have been an Eastern European stewardess in a previous life, as his instructions seemed to mimic the same abstract brevity. When he had finished, the rest of the class nodded their heads to indicate understanding, which surprised me. We were then asked to line up in front of a mat over which hung a practice trapeze, where Dolf would first spot us before ascending the ladder to the real one. The maneuver was this: grab hold of the trapeze, tuck the knees, curl the legs over the top of the bar, let go of the bar while swinging, hands back on, then a back flip to dismount. This information was surprising, considering I had envisaged my first trapeze maneuver to be more like that of Tweety Bird: sitting relaxed on the bar, hands lightly gripping the cables to my sides, possibly whistling. When I asked if maybe it would be better to save this more complicated maneuver for a more advanced class, I got the still faintly familiar ‘stink eye’ from my classmates, all except for Mrs. BeenThere, who, now visually impaired, was staring serenely into a random corner.
The really troubling part was that I actually failed the test run. I couldn’t get my feet up and around the bar, which was of an uncomfortable metal, not bamboo like I’d imagined. My hands were already slipping off and I could feel the beginning of a blister. And although I could live with a blister, I was more concerned about falling from the upside down position onto my neck, having no health insurance, and spending the rest of my days in a state subsidized nursing home. After being spotted into the hanging position, Dolf had to hold my legs so they wouldn’t go flying off. If I couldn’t complete the maneuver on the ground with a spotter, how could I seriously attempt it at a good 15 feet above the net, by myself, while swinging? Thinking that I, the ‘too weak,’ would be disqualified in the same way that short people were sometimes disqualified from roller coasters, I expressed this concern to Dolf. He mumbled a string of words which included ‘up there,’ ‘weightless,’ and ‘worry.’
Dolf’s female counterpart was stationed at the top of the platform. She appeared even tougher than him, wearing knee socks, Samba sneakers, and short-shorts with the word CIRCUS printed on the butt. She reminded me of one of the girls who would have zig zagged in front of me volleying a puck back and forth saying “Get out of my way.” As I became exponentially dizzy with each rung climbed on the latter, I realized there was no way she was going to put up with my girly whining. I was actually going to have to do this.
"Hut!" That was my cue. I grabbed onto the bar, the mean girl let go of my waste, and I went flying through the air, screaming the whole time. I am ashamed to admit that I was the only one in the class who screamed. As for the commands, I am proud to say that on two out of my four runs, I completed the acrobatic maneuver of swinging from my knees. On one attempt, I really messed up, got in some sort of upside-down pike position, and all the instructors were yelling at me. Mrs. DunThat recalled from her elementary school gymnastic days that I had 'skinned the cat,' and I could have dislocated my shoulders.
When it was Mrs. DunThat's turn, I thought she was in a trance. Before she made her assent, I looked in her eyes and there was nobody in there. Then the instructors yelled for her to take her glasses off. Mrs. DunThat is blind as a bat without her glasses. After she plunged, the instructors kept trying to give her directions from the ground, but all she kept saying was 'What!? What!?' and looking in the wrong direction, like Mr. Magoo.
All in all, it was a great day. It marked the first time we've been recognized professionally for doing what we do best, namely acting like bufoons, and screwing up any directions we are given by authority figures. Who would have known these life long handicapps would be so useful in the realm of reality TV!
I was also very excited that I could walk around referring to myself as 'the talent' and that we received a comped pack of cigarettes (Which I sort of quit but realized i needed before I dove off that platform.)
The shoot went great. The trapeze instructors were 10 times as mean, the activity was 10 times as terrifying. It should make for great television.
Flash forward 15 years. Mrs. BeenThere is now married to a soccer agent (blame it on bad karma), and we are both still allergic to any type of sports equipment. Which doesn’t at all explain how we landed at the entrance of lower Manhattan’s Trapeze school. The force that propelled us there was the opportunity to be featured in a short internet film that would be produced for nycfilms, an emerging internet film company. Seeing as this would bring us one step closer to our dream of co-hosting a show on Lifetime Television, our excitement was initially enough to keep our fear in check.
THE EQUIPMENT:
We were outfitted with their equipment and removed of our own (me-Chandelier earrings, Mrs. BeenThere-glasses.) They might as well as just removed Mrs. BeenThere’s eyes, seeing that she is blind as a bat without those glasses. I had asked Daniel, the filmalker shooting us, if he had a camera setting to decrease the size of my butt, which, already ample, was amplified even more by a shackle-type belt that was cinched around my waist. Even with my aversion to equipment, this one seemed important. There was a safety cable attached to it, and I figured it might actually save my life in the off chance I fainted from sheer terror when I jumped from the platform. Then there was the actual trapeze. It was so high. Higher than the high dive that I was forced to jump off of in swim class as a child, which I had managed to do by squeezing my eyes shut and holding my nose with both hands.
THE INSTRUCTORS:
The instructors seemed to sniff out our history of gym ineptness. The first guy, a foreign type I’ll call Dolf, explained to us the daredevil maneuver that in a few moments we would be expected to execute. This 5 minute explanation, which included safety guidelines, was delivered in what might as well have been his native tongue, at least to Mrs. BeenThere and I. I noted that Dolf may have been an Eastern European stewardess in a previous life, as his instructions seemed to mimic the same abstract brevity. When he had finished, the rest of the class nodded their heads to indicate understanding, which surprised me. We were then asked to line up in front of a mat over which hung a practice trapeze, where Dolf would first spot us before ascending the ladder to the real one. The maneuver was this: grab hold of the trapeze, tuck the knees, curl the legs over the top of the bar, let go of the bar while swinging, hands back on, then a back flip to dismount. This information was surprising, considering I had envisaged my first trapeze maneuver to be more like that of Tweety Bird: sitting relaxed on the bar, hands lightly gripping the cables to my sides, possibly whistling. When I asked if maybe it would be better to save this more complicated maneuver for a more advanced class, I got the still faintly familiar ‘stink eye’ from my classmates, all except for Mrs. BeenThere, who, now visually impaired, was staring serenely into a random corner.
The really troubling part was that I actually failed the test run. I couldn’t get my feet up and around the bar, which was of an uncomfortable metal, not bamboo like I’d imagined. My hands were already slipping off and I could feel the beginning of a blister. And although I could live with a blister, I was more concerned about falling from the upside down position onto my neck, having no health insurance, and spending the rest of my days in a state subsidized nursing home. After being spotted into the hanging position, Dolf had to hold my legs so they wouldn’t go flying off. If I couldn’t complete the maneuver on the ground with a spotter, how could I seriously attempt it at a good 15 feet above the net, by myself, while swinging? Thinking that I, the ‘too weak,’ would be disqualified in the same way that short people were sometimes disqualified from roller coasters, I expressed this concern to Dolf. He mumbled a string of words which included ‘up there,’ ‘weightless,’ and ‘worry.’
Dolf’s female counterpart was stationed at the top of the platform. She appeared even tougher than him, wearing knee socks, Samba sneakers, and short-shorts with the word CIRCUS printed on the butt. She reminded me of one of the girls who would have zig zagged in front of me volleying a puck back and forth saying “Get out of my way.” As I became exponentially dizzy with each rung climbed on the latter, I realized there was no way she was going to put up with my girly whining. I was actually going to have to do this.
"Hut!" That was my cue. I grabbed onto the bar, the mean girl let go of my waste, and I went flying through the air, screaming the whole time. I am ashamed to admit that I was the only one in the class who screamed. As for the commands, I am proud to say that on two out of my four runs, I completed the acrobatic maneuver of swinging from my knees. On one attempt, I really messed up, got in some sort of upside-down pike position, and all the instructors were yelling at me. Mrs. DunThat recalled from her elementary school gymnastic days that I had 'skinned the cat,' and I could have dislocated my shoulders.
When it was Mrs. DunThat's turn, I thought she was in a trance. Before she made her assent, I looked in her eyes and there was nobody in there. Then the instructors yelled for her to take her glasses off. Mrs. DunThat is blind as a bat without her glasses. After she plunged, the instructors kept trying to give her directions from the ground, but all she kept saying was 'What!? What!?' and looking in the wrong direction, like Mr. Magoo.
All in all, it was a great day. It marked the first time we've been recognized professionally for doing what we do best, namely acting like bufoons, and screwing up any directions we are given by authority figures. Who would have known these life long handicapps would be so useful in the realm of reality TV!
I was also very excited that I could walk around referring to myself as 'the talent' and that we received a comped pack of cigarettes (Which I sort of quit but realized i needed before I dove off that platform.)
The shoot went great. The trapeze instructors were 10 times as mean, the activity was 10 times as terrifying. It should make for great television.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Spawn of Brangelina Arrives: Idea of "Karma" is shown to be a load of bunk
So, the much awaited spawn of Brad and Angie has arrived. I tell you, there is no justice in the world.
Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"
1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation
Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.
This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?
Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"
1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation
Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.
This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
I Need Some (Cyber)Space
I hav'nt even gone on my first date, yet I have to get away from the boards for a while. First off, let me say that if you want a man your own age, you're considerably out of luck. The common male preference is something like this: Male, 38; searching for women age 25-35. So some of us are already cut out of a pool of guys our own age.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Internet Dating for Dummies
First off...NO MS.DunThat you CANNOT re-email someone with a better picture of yourself after you went and sent him a picture where you looked like a the dude from "The Mask" in hippy-dippy tie-dye tank top. It is beyond cyber-stalking. It says "I am not only desperate, I am also crazy".
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
Internet Dating Starts Off on a Bad Foot
I remember that video. I think they were dancing in a diner, or something. Brangelina woudn't ever be in a situation like this because a)they would never park in the discount parking lot, b)Angelina wouldn't be caught dead traveling with John Voight, and c)Brad isn't allowed to hang out with his parents. The only thing Mrs. BeenThere's weekend had in common with a Brangelina vacation was the signature oversized child on hip.
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
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