Read ye, read ye...
http://www.metro.co.uk/news/884324-how-not-to-get-a-second-date-bankers-1-600-word-email-fail-goes-viral
Filled me with all kinds of smug glee at stepping away from the dating game, and horror that such morons exist...
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Monday, 2 January 2012
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Brief Encounters
 | |||
| "Oh, Elec, dear, I am so frightfulleh fed ahp of this Interweb dating malarkeh..." | via here |
The sort that begin at 5.30pm and end but two hours later.
I became quite skilled at those over the summer. Dating lite, one might call it.
I prefer to call it a portent. But I always have been a little melodramatic.
After the shocktail of a date that was SSM, I was of the opinion that...
So I kept an open mind.
And I went on a duck-feeding date (that's not a euphemism) followed by Malaysian dinner-in-an-underground-yes-secret-but-only-to-the-non-Malaysian-population restaurant in Bayswater with an Australian-Malaysian; and by definition the date was a vast improvement on the last if only because this Aussie was friendly, easy-going and unpretentious -- genuinely nice.
...Needless to say he and I had nothing in common, so we did actually run out of conversation matter round about half seven. But that was OK. I think I'd decided by this point that I'd had my fill of internet dating -- plus it was bankrupting me, financially and emotionally.
So... since September it's been somewhat quiet on the Dating Front.
 |
| via here |
But that's fine by me. Either a person is suited to the Whacky Whirlwind of Internet Dating...
...or they're not.
And I'm, er, not.
Sorry about that.
I just don't enjoy it.
Shocker.
...Of course, if I come by a date by less artificial, more personal means, I'm not ruling it out. Bring it ON. I'm open to that.
What I'm less open to is the judgment, the expectation and the subsequent disappointment leading to the inevitable Puncturing of the Morale time after time.
I'm significantly less open to having everyone tell me that their sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour found their life partner on the internet dating treadmill*. My closest friends (with the notable exception of J) met their partners because their partners appeared naturally in their lives.
But. BUT! In spite of the last few colourful months, I have absolute faith that if a person is meant to be in my life, he'll fit into it as it is and as I am (give or take a small amount of effort to Get Out More, admittedly).
*Speaking of treadmills... I've joined the gym, to train for a charity walk next year. And You Never Know how that might pan out...
 |
| Screenshot from Sex and the City, Series 4, Ep2, The Real Me |
As a footnote, I should assure you, my two lovely readers, that although I have officially Leapt Off the Internet Dating Merry-Go-Round, this 'ere blog, in the manner of a certain theme tune about a certain sunken ship, will... go on for as long as it takes me to Find My Lobster.
Sorry about that. :-)
Oh and as another footnote (how many footnotes can you have before it becomes a legnote?) you may remember Back in the Early Days of Dater Overload I took issue with this advert:
There's been a new MisMatch advert out of late, and it's safe to say that the bile/vitriol currently rising in my throat is a direct result of having seen this MisLeading Schmaltz-fest:
in which a young man serenades a young woman (of
My issues with both of these adverts are
1. These are both the sorts of people who in reality, will never, ever find themselves needing to internet-date.
2. Both of these scenarios imply that the couples are meeting spontaneously and not via the internet dating site they're actually promoting.
3. The virtues upon which Boy in the Second Ad is serenading Girl are as follows:
Best smile he's seen for a while
Great skin
Hair colour (he's fond of her because she's a blonde albeit not a natural one -- that's refreshing...)
Beautiful beguiling eyes...
So, her appearance, then. Reassuring.
Let's hope that if they get together it soon transpires she's a slob who leaves her toenail clippings on the side of the bath, never takes out the recycling, won't let him watch the Grand Prix because there's a Kardashian marathon on and only buys top-of-the-range clothes thus leaving them in £20,000 of debt by their thirtieth birthdays. That'll learn him.
4. The train that goes past at the beginning of that ad is a Southern Failways train going through a Southern-line station, shortly before an announcement is made for a Southern service, so how on earth is she just "off" to
Congratulations, MisMatch, you just shot yourself in the foot(note). Again.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
We're Gonna Score-ore-ore Tonight...
Yes, my friends, I am back from a temporary blog-abyss – I'm running out of anecdates so in order to keep you interested it has become necessary to string out these entries I like to keep you lovely readers both in suspense. :-)
And in case you're misled by the post title into thinking I gave in to the demands of the KIB (far from it) this blog title paraphrases a song "ostensibly" about bowling; really about, well, 30-year-old teenagers getting it awn, from the filmic fabness that is Grease 2.
Here it is, just in case you feel you're missing out on something having never seen Grease 2*:
During my last meeting (I shan't say Date) with KIB in which he poked his noodle salad and narrated the Museum of 1951 to anyone who may be hard-of-caption-reading, he had managed to bait me again and subliminally persuade me to give him one more strike... with the promise of bowling.
Oh man. I'm making bowling/baseball puns. This is not good.
Now. I like to bowl. I'm fairly heinous at it (see: all sports and games involving co-ordination) but occasionally I pull one out of the bag (like when I play pool after a couple of drinks) and hit a pin or two.
And from what KIB had said, and based on his fetish penchant for all things vintage** he would find us an old-fashioned bowling alley where You Actually Had to Keep Your Own Score. Imagine.
Well, he didn't. He found us a contemporary alley in Bayswater and was (typically) keen to have me commit to the bowling so he could book it. And by book it, I genuinely thought he meant, just ring and reserve. So after his barrage of texts (including two within twenty minutes without even waiting for the reply to the first…) I said aye, or, in non-committal language, "That sounds OK".
Of course, there was a small amount of time between PseudoDate The Third and DeciderDate the Fourth (six days) and in those six days I'd Done a Lot of BrainThinking and Worrying and Overanalysing that Actually I Wasn't Sure I Wanted to See Him Again.
And I'd been doing a lot of Overheating too.
Yes, the day we'd chosen for our bowl-fest was a Wednesday in early August when it had been absolutely broiling all day. And the air-con (or lack therein) in my office had left me lethargic and in need of an evening of Doing Nothing and essentially feeling a little bit like this:
Bowling, i.e. Something That Involved Exertion and Also Finding My Way in the Heat to Bayswater was not something that appealed. Plus, I knew I'd be grumpy in the heat, and for all his flaws (and one of mine) I didn't think I could inflict Grumpy QB on him yet again.
So just before the end of my working day I sent him a text to apologise, and pull out. It went something like this:
Which I thought was fair. Wasn't it? Who knows? Much like Sheldon in The Big Bang Theory my grasp of social cues isn't all that strong. I thought it was polite, anyway, and apologetic. A little cowardly, maybe, but hey, that's just me.
I did not expect this reply five minutes later:
That was it. No salutation, no signoff. Just STROP.
WHOA. Back it up, huff-boy, no need for that.
At which point, I hate to admit, I think I gave a little primordial growl, right there in the office, to the tune of, "Arrrrrgh! MEN!"
This little one-liner actually served two purposes: 1) it guilted me into retracting my cancellation and yet 2) made me see KIB in a whole new light, and let's say, it wasn't flattering. It was the sort of light that makes Dates who were Once Good Prospects actually seem Scary and just a little bit Sociopathic. The kind who if irked will lash out. And I wasn't sure I could be doing with that.
But yet. I then sent a grovelling apology (that I'm not sure he deserved).
And he sent an overlapping apology asking me to excuse his last text. It had been "a rough day at work".
Yes, I have those too. And when I do, I try to spare relative strangers from Grumpzilla QB by calculating my responses. But anyhoo.
He said he appreciated my text and was sure I had a good reason. Which made me feel even guiltier because, well, it wasn't like my pet gecko had died or I'd misplaced a limb under a vehicle somewhere.
I was just hot and bothered, and wanted out of the Date.
Colour me this bird:
but I also still had considerable reservations about KIB after the Hair-Pulling Incident and although he'd been well-behaved enough at our last meeting, the Over-Narrating (or, as I perceived it, Treating Me Like an Illiterate Imbecile) was also Something of a Deal-Breaker.
And yet… off I toddled to darkest Bayswater via my coffee retailer of choice (which rhymes with Foster Toffee) for something cold and tasty, and sat in Hyde Park for about an hour with my book and my continuing reservations over the integrity (and incidentally the mental status) of KIB.
We met, we chatted, we popped into another coffee retailer (which rhymes with Tar Sucks) then headed to the alley. And by and large, we were actually fine. It was actually sort of fun. He was kind enough to steal back our bowling balls from the Japanese teenagers in the next lane who appeared to be stockpiling them. Plus there was an interview with dishy Dominic Cooper playing on the TV that hung over the alley so I was neatly distracted.
(Yes, I was ogling Le Cooper while KIB was bowling. But I did mention it wasn't a Date, not really. And besides. Mr Cooper is but fantasy. Sadly.)
All was going well.
Except for one small snag.
Either KIB is the worst bowler known to humankind, or I'm the worst bowler known to humankind and he was humouring me but I Won. Two games in a row, I won.
And he seemed almost incapable of accepting that I was winning. Maybe it's a Male Competitive/Ego Bruising Issue but he seemed to feel the need to give me a near-patronising congratulation every time I hit more than two pins (Well done, little lady! You can throw a ball in a near-straight trajectory, even though you're a girl…) and then proceed to throw a ball down into the gutter as if that was the way to score.
Je pense que NON.
I did ask him outright if he'd let me win and he denied it… but I have my suspicions.
After my TRIUMPH we decided to grab something to eat and settled on a Tex-Mex place on Notting Hill Gate. Ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail (some sort of daiquiri) and a heap o' nachos and he ordered some sort of potato-skin dish. And I thought, marvellous, we can just eat and be.
No chuffing chance.
Now, not that I'm one to disclose the ins and outs of my innards but I'd recently been suffering quite horrid bouts of indigestion whereby I'd actually looked somewhat pregnant after eating (talk about a food baby…) and felt really uncomfortable and balloon-like.
After much Google-based self-diagnosis I'd finally put it down to not letting myself sit and just eat quietly whether it was at lunch at work, or out with KIB – there always seemed to be the need to talk or break up the monotony of digestion with, I don't know, doing something less monotonous. Like Holding Conversation.
He hadn't helped matters in the past -- on the night of the Incident we'd been looking for somewhere to eat after the gallery, but I was just after something small following our chips earlier that night, and he'd made some comment along the lines of, "Ah, are the chips layin' heavy on you?".
A world of urgh.
Concern it may have been, but there's nothing less attractive than a man drawing attention to your stomach and its contents. Of course we then had that Black Forest Gateau but we'll gloss over that.
So having concluded that talking-whilst-eating was my problem I was all ready to sit quietly and scoff my little self silly on tortilla chips and cheese (and yes I expect my carb-tastic diet may have contributed to the afore-mentioned discomfort but we'll gloss over that too). And bask in his company comparatively safe in the knowledge he wouldn't try pulling my hair again, and there were no captioned pictures nearby for him to narrate to me.
But of course not.
He talked.
And talked.
And talked.
Which would have almost be OK if at each juncture he hadn't waited for my response on questions relating to my recent activities. Such as my visiting friend J for a weekend in Somerset.
Now. Before you label me Queen of the Hypocrites after smiting down ODNU for not upholding a Conversation, at least with ODNU we were just conversing over a drink, not trying to eat as well. Two very different media, people. Very different Kettles of Fish.
Subsequently when I did respond to KIB's Spanish Inquisition – or should that be Texan-Mexican Inquisition – after pointedly finishing my forkful very slowly I felt the need to emphasise that one of the many upsides to spending that weekend with J in Somerset was the Quiet.
Yes, the Lack of Need to fill every moment of silence with Words.
And he seemed to agree.
Yes, the man who could not just let me wander in Silence around a gallery or exhibit without filling the void with his insights claimed to like Silence.
Je pense que NON!
**KIB was one of those overly perky puppies for whom London is not the overcrowded, overpriced every-man-for-himself metropolis that it really is; it is full of tiny vintage hidden alleyways, secret vintage dinner clubs, secret vintage cinemas,secret clubs for Those Who Like to Pull Hair, secret vintage rooftop pubs, everything that a Londonophile with a Thing for Vintage could dream of.
And yes, to begin with I was almost convinced that there was more to our c(r)apital than this:
but then reality set in and the London Love was soon lost in the crowds of Very Unvintage Pushy Me-Me-Me-ers barging me onto the Tube of a morning/evening/mid-afternoon.
I did find a good opportunity to "sit quiet for a while" (as my grandmother used to say) and ingest my nachos while he regaled me with the details of an Average Week in the Life of KIB. This usually went along the lines of:
[some incidences contrived for comedy value but not by much.]
And yet here he was telling me that, just like me, he liked his Me-time, and his Quiet.
I'm not quite sure when he ever had time to be Quiet with all the secret vintage carryings-on with which he filled his every day.
And then...
...he raised the Big Question.
"So… I really like you, like. How do you feel?"
…
WHOA.
I have to answer that?!
OK. OK, admittedly I'd seen this coming and if anything I was hoping this discussion would happen as at this point I had reached the inevitable conclusion that if KIB and I were ever anything more than Friendswe would just get on each other's gourds he would just get on my gourd. And that's not criteria for a Lobster, I'm sorry to say. If he were my Lobster I could have overlooked all of this.
But no.
So, I took a deep breath, finished my forkful of nachos, and decided that honesty was the best way to go.
I'm not sure what I want at the moment. [Read: Or, I know what I want and it's not you. Soz.]
Aaaand... I think I'd like to try just being Friends. [Read: Abandon hope, ye KIB. Soz.]
...
Silence.
Actual silence.
REJOICE! I'd actually left him with Nothing to Say.
...
After that little bombshell I may have mentioned that I'd be incommunicado for the next couple of weeks as I was off to Austria.
I may or may not have committed to getting back in touch.
Either way, I didn't.
To his credit, neither did he. Obviously he wasn't in to being Friends, and all honesty I was relieved to sever the connection at this point.
So... thus endeth that nonDate... And subsequently thus endeth all Dates with KIB.
...It was too weird an experience and also far too stressful given how friends seemed to be promoting Dating as Fun when I found myself all too often trying to find a way to get out of a Date, or to concoct an answer to a question like, "Do you like having your hair pulled?"
So, onto the next...
And in case you're misled by the post title into thinking I gave in to the demands of the KIB (far from it) this blog title paraphrases a song "ostensibly" about bowling; really about, well, 30-year-old teenagers getting it awn, from the filmic fabness that is Grease 2.
Here it is, just in case you feel you're missing out on something having never seen Grease 2*:
Yes that is a young Michelle Pfeiffer. She went on to better things. I'm told.
During my last meeting (I shan't say Date) with KIB in which he poked his noodle salad and narrated the Museum of 1951 to anyone who may be hard-of-caption-reading, he had managed to bait me again and subliminally persuade me to give him one more strike... with the promise of bowling.
Oh man. I'm making bowling/baseball puns. This is not good.
Now. I like to bowl. I'm fairly heinous at it (see: all sports and games involving co-ordination) but occasionally I pull one out of the bag (like when I play pool after a couple of drinks) and hit a pin or two.
 |
| ...like zis. via here |
Well, he didn't. He found us a contemporary alley in Bayswater and was (typically) keen to have me commit to the bowling so he could book it. And by book it, I genuinely thought he meant, just ring and reserve. So after his barrage of texts (including two within twenty minutes without even waiting for the reply to the first…) I said aye, or, in non-committal language, "That sounds OK".
Of course, there was a small amount of time between PseudoDate The Third and DeciderDate the Fourth (six days) and in those six days I'd Done a Lot of BrainThinking and Worrying and Overanalysing that Actually I Wasn't Sure I Wanted to See Him Again.
And I'd been doing a lot of Overheating too.
Yes, the day we'd chosen for our bowl-fest was a Wednesday in early August when it had been absolutely broiling all day. And the air-con (or lack therein) in my office had left me lethargic and in need of an evening of Doing Nothing and essentially feeling a little bit like this:
 |
| Yuuuuuuuurrrrhhhh... via here |
So just before the end of my working day I sent him a text to apologise, and pull out. It went something like this:
Hi KIB. I'm afraid I need to cancel this evening. I'm sorry if this is a pain as you've already booked. QB
Which I thought was fair. Wasn't it? Who knows? Much like Sheldon in The Big Bang Theory my grasp of social cues isn't all that strong. I thought it was polite, anyway, and apologetic. A little cowardly, maybe, but hey, that's just me.
 |
| via here |
30 quid non refundable
That was it. No salutation, no signoff. Just STROP.
WHOA. Back it up, huff-boy, no need for that.
At which point, I hate to admit, I think I gave a little primordial growl, right there in the office, to the tune of, "Arrrrrgh! MEN!"
This little one-liner actually served two purposes: 1) it guilted me into retracting my cancellation and yet 2) made me see KIB in a whole new light, and let's say, it wasn't flattering. It was the sort of light that makes Dates who were Once Good Prospects actually seem Scary and just a little bit Sociopathic. The kind who if irked will lash out. And I wasn't sure I could be doing with that.
But yet. I then sent a grovelling apology (that I'm not sure he deserved).
And he sent an overlapping apology asking me to excuse his last text. It had been "a rough day at work".
Yes, I have those too. And when I do, I try to spare relative strangers from Grumpzilla QB by calculating my responses. But anyhoo.
He said he appreciated my text and was sure I had a good reason. Which made me feel even guiltier because, well, it wasn't like my pet gecko had died or I'd misplaced a limb under a vehicle somewhere.
I was just hot and bothered, and wanted out of the Date.
Colour me this bird:
 |
| BOK! Bok bok bok! via here |
And yet… off I toddled to darkest Bayswater via my coffee retailer of choice (which rhymes with Foster Toffee) for something cold and tasty, and sat in Hyde Park for about an hour with my book and my continuing reservations over the integrity (and incidentally the mental status) of KIB.
We met, we chatted, we popped into another coffee retailer (which rhymes with Tar Sucks) then headed to the alley. And by and large, we were actually fine. It was actually sort of fun. He was kind enough to steal back our bowling balls from the Japanese teenagers in the next lane who appeared to be stockpiling them. Plus there was an interview with dishy Dominic Cooper playing on the TV that hung over the alley so I was neatly distracted.
 |
| ...Smoulder. via here |
All was going well.
Except for one small snag.
Either KIB is the worst bowler known to humankind, or I'm the worst bowler known to humankind and he was humouring me but I Won. Two games in a row, I won.
And he seemed almost incapable of accepting that I was winning. Maybe it's a Male Competitive/Ego Bruising Issue but he seemed to feel the need to give me a near-patronising congratulation every time I hit more than two pins (Well done, little lady! You can throw a ball in a near-straight trajectory, even though you're a girl…) and then proceed to throw a ball down into the gutter as if that was the way to score.
Je pense que NON.
I did ask him outright if he'd let me win and he denied it… but I have my suspicions.
After my TRIUMPH we decided to grab something to eat and settled on a Tex-Mex place on Notting Hill Gate. Ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail (some sort of daiquiri) and a heap o' nachos and he ordered some sort of potato-skin dish. And I thought, marvellous, we can just eat and be.
No chuffing chance.
Now, not that I'm one to disclose the ins and outs of my innards but I'd recently been suffering quite horrid bouts of indigestion whereby I'd actually looked somewhat pregnant after eating (talk about a food baby…) and felt really uncomfortable and balloon-like.
 |
| ...like zis. via here |
He hadn't helped matters in the past -- on the night of the Incident we'd been looking for somewhere to eat after the gallery, but I was just after something small following our chips earlier that night, and he'd made some comment along the lines of, "Ah, are the chips layin' heavy on you?".
A world of urgh.
Concern it may have been, but there's nothing less attractive than a man drawing attention to your stomach and its contents. Of course we then had that Black Forest Gateau but we'll gloss over that.
So having concluded that talking-whilst-eating was my problem I was all ready to sit quietly and scoff my little self silly on tortilla chips and cheese (and yes I expect my carb-tastic diet may have contributed to the afore-mentioned discomfort but we'll gloss over that too). And bask in his company comparatively safe in the knowledge he wouldn't try pulling my hair again, and there were no captioned pictures nearby for him to narrate to me.
But of course not.
He talked.
And talked.
And talked.
Which would have almost be OK if at each juncture he hadn't waited for my response on questions relating to my recent activities. Such as my visiting friend J for a weekend in Somerset.
Now. Before you label me Queen of the Hypocrites after smiting down ODNU for not upholding a Conversation, at least with ODNU we were just conversing over a drink, not trying to eat as well. Two very different media, people. Very different Kettles of Fish.
|
| via here |
Yes, the Lack of Need to fill every moment of silence with Words.
And he seemed to agree.
Yes, the man who could not just let me wander in Silence around a gallery or exhibit without filling the void with his insights claimed to like Silence.
Je pense que NON!
**you thought I'd forgotten those double asterisks, didn't you. No, never. I never abandon punctuation.
(Except maybe parentheses.
) < there you go.
**KIB was one of those overly perky puppies for whom London is not the overcrowded, overpriced every-man-for-himself metropolis that it really is; it is full of tiny vintage hidden alleyways, secret vintage dinner clubs, secret vintage cinemas,
And yes, to begin with I was almost convinced that there was more to our c(r)apital than this:
 |
| "MOVE DOWN THE CARRIAGE!" via here |
I did find a good opportunity to "sit quiet for a while" (as my grandmother used to say) and ingest my nachos while he regaled me with the details of an Average Week in the Life of KIB. This usually went along the lines of:
Monday, tea in a secret tearoom
Tuesday, secret gig
Wednesday, secret vintage car rally
Thursday, secret BSL class
Friday, secret evening class in Gallery Narration for Insecure KIBs
Saturday, secret cinema screening
Sunday, watching a motor race on a rooftop. A secret rooftop, natch.
[some incidences contrived for comedy value but not by much.]
And yet here he was telling me that, just like me, he liked his Me-time, and his Quiet.
I'm not quite sure when he ever had time to be Quiet with all the secret vintage carryings-on with which he filled his every day.
And then...
...he raised the Big Question.
"So… I really like you, like. How do you feel?"
…
WHOA.
I have to answer that?!
OK. OK, admittedly I'd seen this coming and if anything I was hoping this discussion would happen as at this point I had reached the inevitable conclusion that if KIB and I were ever anything more than Friends
But no.
So, I took a deep breath, finished my forkful of nachos, and decided that honesty was the best way to go.
…uhmmm…
Oooh!
…Er, well…
I'm not sure what I want at the moment. [Read: Or, I know what I want and it's not you. Soz.]
Aaaand... I think I'd like to try just being Friends. [Read: Abandon hope, ye KIB. Soz.]
...
Silence.
Actual silence.
REJOICE! I'd actually left him with Nothing to Say.
...
After that little bombshell I may have mentioned that I'd be incommunicado for the next couple of weeks as I was off to Austria.
I may or may not have committed to getting back in touch.
Either way, I didn't.
To his credit, neither did he. Obviously he wasn't in to being Friends, and all honesty I was relieved to sever the connection at this point.
So... thus endeth that nonDate... And subsequently thus endeth all Dates with KIB.
...It was too weird an experience and also far too stressful given how friends seemed to be promoting Dating as Fun when I found myself all too often trying to find a way to get out of a Date, or to concoct an answer to a question like, "Do you like having your hair pulled?"
So, onto the next...
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Breathe and Reboot
You know when you're at the start of a Dating Site Downer when...
But in May, I opened the Metro to find an article about a new "alternative" dating site which we'll call "QuirkersAnonymous", for, erm, anonymity's sake, where folk meet up and do something they'd both like to do, such as feed pigs on a farm, go ice-skating, drink cocktails, visit a gallery, dress up as clowns and try juggling. That sort o' thing. I was intrigued. I tore out said article and stashed it in a pile of articles labelled, "hmm, may do something about this if the mood strikes me". And sat on it. But didn't stop thinking about it.
Then, in June, I spent the weekend with a friend who made me rethink my whole perspective on dating. This friend, whom I'll call J, is something of a dating aficionado now, and has very recently got herself engaged to a man she met online. Evidence if ever there was any that there is that Hope to be Had.
J had some brilliant stories to share about her experiences in dating, andsomething a few things she said to me struck a chord and made me think, I'm going about this all wrong.
At the time I think there may have been an aura of desperation and resentment about me, and I was taking entirely the wrong attitude. I wasn't enjoying the Game at all, I was doing it because I felt it was my Last Resort and if I didn't try it, well... this was my future:
But J, while confirming the frog-kissing adage, also reminded me that dating could be fun, I could throw myself Out There, meet some new people, and even if no Big Romance came of it then maybe I'd make some new friends.
A fog lifted for me at that point, I think, and I decided that I could have some fun with the whole Dating Game if I didn't place too much pressure on it.
So I signed up to the new site I'd seen advertised in the Metro. And I used a Very Serious Picture of myself as my profile shot, thus breaking my own rule no. 5 of Dislikes by using a seemingly Overthought Profile Shot. To which not one blighter responded unsurprisingly.
Only when I replaced said Serious Shot with a more Quirky, more Natural Shot (taken by J) did my fortune start to change, especially when I hinted that I might like to see this Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit.
Shortly thereafter I got an email on the site from an Irish Chap, which went along these lines:
Now, as you can imagine if you know me at all (!), it was a War of Wills to overlook the grammar and punctuation errors in this message.
But I reasoned that a) this guy (we'll call him Keen Irish Bean, or KIB for now) was the first to contact me on the website and b) he had three photos on his profile so seemed genuine and quite cute to boot and c) actually sounded like a fun person to meet.
After I'd replied to his email, we exchanged details and after discovering to our annoyance that the Courtauld Gallery never seemed to be open after 5pm, decided to visit the Titanic exhibition at the O2 instead as our first date. His suggestion.
And I was -- wait for it -- actually quite excited.
I think I changed my dating fortunes by changing my dating attire for this occasion -- I tipped up in the blue, daisy-print dress I'd been wearing in my profile photo (in case KIB couldn't distinguish me in a crowd otherwise...), waited outside the tube station at North Greenwich and true to his assertion in his profile that he valued punctuality (as do I) he turned up well on time, armed with tickets to the event. Big tick. He also turned up in a colour I'm particularly fond of. See my reference to (over)attentiveness to detail in my last post under no. 9.
We were early, so we grabbed a coffee and had a conflab over caffeine. He was a caretaker by day, an arts volunteer by, er, weekend day and was about to learn BSL. All sounded pretty good (I've always wanted to learn more BSL and, well, I like the arts). He was passionate about motor racing and vintage cars and he mentioned the Goodwood Revival and other retro events like the Prohibition Parties, which in the flush of Good First Date Euphoria did sound like good fun at the time (I'm quite into my 1920s style these days). It was one of those conversations that actually worked -- we seemed to click.
I got hopeful.
The exhibition itself was astounding and would have been enjoyable in its own right if I hadn't been there on a date. We even had our photo taken in front of a green screen as we went in, and received copies at the end of us as if in front of the wreck of the Titanic. It was sort of cute if not a little premature...
As it happened, KIB was very knowledgeable about the Titanic and its sister ship, both of which were built in Belfast, and his knowledge added a dimension to the experience, which was, yay, a good thing. (Though, me being me, and not being quite able to disassociate any real-life experience from a film experience, I couldn't quite shake this song from my head the whole way round...)
Afterwards we had a quick drink and a bowl of chips at the venue. Now, this was a square bowl, full to the brim of chips, and quite frankly I had issues keeping the ruddy things in the bowl. Cue un-date-like behaviour of dropping chips into my lap, onto the leather seating, onto the floor. Cue apologies for my lack of decorum. If this was a Guardian Blind Date he'd be marking me down for table manners by now. But oddly he didn't seem put off.
We parted soon after the last chip was down (my gullet), and I headed home, with that odd sort of positivity that, chip-fail aside, actually this had gone pretty naffing well. I actually liked this person. And he seemed to like me.
For the next couple of weeks, we messaged. OK, he was a little over-keen with the messaging at times but at least he was messaging, and we even spoke on the phone -- yes, Spoke, on the Phone! -- at one point when he was extolling the virtues of obtaining tickets for Radio 4 comedy show recordings, and trying to send me links to the Prohibition Party website. Keen Bean he certainly was, and when he talked about meeting up again I was just as eager.
And we made Plans for Date Two.
Yes, Dear Readers, I had me a First Second Date.
Things seemed to be on the Up.
- You list a non-smoker in your criteria and the site recommends you... a smoker
- You list men between 31 and 40 as your criteria and a 45-year-old gets in touch
- You're a prim little missy in need of an emotional connection, so when a matching service claims that "hornydevil82 seems really right for you" you begin to mistrust their judgment. BIG TIME
But in May, I opened the Metro to find an article about a new "alternative" dating site which we'll call "QuirkersAnonymous", for, erm, anonymity's sake, where folk meet up and do something they'd both like to do, such as feed pigs on a farm, go ice-skating, drink cocktails, visit a gallery, dress up as clowns and try juggling. That sort o' thing. I was intrigued. I tore out said article and stashed it in a pile of articles labelled, "hmm, may do something about this if the mood strikes me". And sat on it. But didn't stop thinking about it.
Then, in June, I spent the weekend with a friend who made me rethink my whole perspective on dating. This friend, whom I'll call J, is something of a dating aficionado now, and has very recently got herself engaged to a man she met online. Evidence if ever there was any that there is that Hope to be Had.
J had some brilliant stories to share about her experiences in dating, and
At the time I think there may have been an aura of desperation and resentment about me, and I was taking entirely the wrong attitude. I wasn't enjoying the Game at all, I was doing it because I felt it was my Last Resort and if I didn't try it, well... this was my future:
via here
But J, while confirming the frog-kissing adage, also reminded me that dating could be fun, I could throw myself Out There, meet some new people, and even if no Big Romance came of it then maybe I'd make some new friends.
A fog lifted for me at that point, I think, and I decided that I could have some fun with the whole Dating Game if I didn't place too much pressure on it.
So I signed up to the new site I'd seen advertised in the Metro. And I used a Very Serious Picture of myself as my profile shot, thus breaking my own rule no. 5 of Dislikes by using a seemingly Overthought Profile Shot. To which not one blighter responded unsurprisingly.
Only when I replaced said Serious Shot with a more Quirky, more Natural Shot (taken by J) did my fortune start to change, especially when I hinted that I might like to see this Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit.
Shortly thereafter I got an email on the site from an Irish Chap, which went along these lines:
Hello QUIRKY_BRUNETTE. I hope your enjoying the weekend.
So. Ive checked out the exhibition youd like to see and it looks good.
Fancy some company attending the event sometime?
Any plans for this weekend?
Now, as you can imagine if you know me at all (!), it was a War of Wills to overlook the grammar and punctuation errors in this message.
But I reasoned that a) this guy (we'll call him Keen Irish Bean, or KIB for now) was the first to contact me on the website and b) he had three photos on his profile so seemed genuine and quite cute to boot and c) actually sounded like a fun person to meet.
After I'd replied to his email, we exchanged details and after discovering to our annoyance that the Courtauld Gallery never seemed to be open after 5pm, decided to visit the Titanic exhibition at the O2 instead as our first date. His suggestion.
And I was -- wait for it -- actually quite excited.
I think I changed my dating fortunes by changing my dating attire for this occasion -- I tipped up in the blue, daisy-print dress I'd been wearing in my profile photo (in case KIB couldn't distinguish me in a crowd otherwise...), waited outside the tube station at North Greenwich and true to his assertion in his profile that he valued punctuality (as do I) he turned up well on time, armed with tickets to the event. Big tick. He also turned up in a colour I'm particularly fond of. See my reference to (over)attentiveness to detail in my last post under no. 9.
We were early, so we grabbed a coffee and had a conflab over caffeine. He was a caretaker by day, an arts volunteer by, er, weekend day and was about to learn BSL. All sounded pretty good (I've always wanted to learn more BSL and, well, I like the arts). He was passionate about motor racing and vintage cars and he mentioned the Goodwood Revival and other retro events like the Prohibition Parties, which in the flush of Good First Date Euphoria did sound like good fun at the time (I'm quite into my 1920s style these days). It was one of those conversations that actually worked -- we seemed to click.
I got hopeful.
The exhibition itself was astounding and would have been enjoyable in its own right if I hadn't been there on a date. We even had our photo taken in front of a green screen as we went in, and received copies at the end of us as if in front of the wreck of the Titanic. It was sort of cute if not a little premature...
As it happened, KIB was very knowledgeable about the Titanic and its sister ship, both of which were built in Belfast, and his knowledge added a dimension to the experience, which was, yay, a good thing. (Though, me being me, and not being quite able to disassociate any real-life experience from a film experience, I couldn't quite shake this song from my head the whole way round...)
Afterwards we had a quick drink and a bowl of chips at the venue. Now, this was a square bowl, full to the brim of chips, and quite frankly I had issues keeping the ruddy things in the bowl. Cue un-date-like behaviour of dropping chips into my lap, onto the leather seating, onto the floor. Cue apologies for my lack of decorum. If this was a Guardian Blind Date he'd be marking me down for table manners by now. But oddly he didn't seem put off.
We parted soon after the last chip was down (my gullet), and I headed home, with that odd sort of positivity that, chip-fail aside, actually this had gone pretty naffing well. I actually liked this person. And he seemed to like me.
For the next couple of weeks, we messaged. OK, he was a little over-keen with the messaging at times but at least he was messaging, and we even spoke on the phone -- yes, Spoke, on the Phone! -- at one point when he was extolling the virtues of obtaining tickets for Radio 4 comedy show recordings, and trying to send me links to the Prohibition Party website. Keen Bean he certainly was, and when he talked about meeting up again I was just as eager.
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| via here |
Yes, Dear Readers, I had me a First Second Date.
Things seemed to be on the Up.
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Top 10 Internet Dating Dislikes
(Because Dating Cynicism isn't born of nowt, you know.)
(Best buckle up and crank up the road-trip tunes -- we're in for another long haul, my lovelies.)
1. The whole contrived set-up
If you're anything like me, then you may have found, over the years, that the pool from which you can fish your Lobsters shrinks in inverse proportion to the aging process. So, unless you got lucky in junior school, and unless you work in an industry that doesn't operate on a ratio of 80:20 females:males, then, where on earth will you find this lobster to which you're rightfully entitled?!
- We've covered hobbies. Hobbies are out.
- We've glossed blithely over blind dates. Blind dates are out.
- We've complained about the poorly thought-through scheduling of decent adult education classes...
- And our grandmothers' means of meeting Eligible Bachelors, such as civilised Tea Dances, went out with, well, grandma (unless you're into that whole undercover retro scene…)
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| via here |
You could denounce Coupledom entirely, decide that actually One is More Fun and become a proper actual Spinster:
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| via here |
Try Internet Dating!!!
Yes!
Rather than strike up a dalliance with a Man who fits neatly into your life as it currently is, you must force a dalliance to happen by following these rigid, time-honoured steps:
- Sign up to a service/site promoting a free weekend/free trial period as my goodness you do not want to be the Girl Who Pays to Find Her Lobster. (Yes, there's still a stigma. Yes, I'm perpetuating it. What of it?!)
- Post up the one flattering photo of yourself taken since your early twenties where you don't have a volcanic eruption on your nose/jawline/expanse of forehead, Bad Hair, or a bit too much gum showing in that dazzling smile of yours.
- Spend the next week trying to pick the perfect 200 characters to encapsulate the Youness of You
- Click a few boxes that then categorise you as, and match you with, the sort of person who would either live in the city, or in the country or in a ski chalet, who likes jazz, classical or pop music. No other options. Sorry, was there no box for "beach house", or for "yes, all of that, plus, folk rock in the style of the sublime Thea Gilmore"? No? Harrumph.
- Wait and see if you tickle anyone's fancy, or anyone tickles yours.
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| Doubter Overload. Screenshots from Sex and the City, Series 5, Ep2, Unoriginal Sin |
2. The need to self-promote
Because we all want to show the best side/s of ourselves in favour of the more mundane reality. As a very nebulous example:
Compare: I'm quite laid-back with
I don't wash up, clean up, tidy up, or even get up unless Doctor Who is on.
But there is always the risk that while most 'normal' folk have to self-promote a little in order to garner the attentions of other folk, some may take it to extremes (and this is something of a composite...):
"I'm fun-loving, easy to get on with, work hard, have a great job, party hard, love socialising with my huge group of friends, love good wine and good conversation with intelligent people, love spending time at the gym, work out at least three times a week, love sport, love any kind of music, love trying new things esp food and new recipes, love to travel... would love to be on top of Kili right now... or back on a beach in Kho Samui..."
OK, now you're just trying to cover all bases. Seriously, if you're so staggeringly astounding and open to so much, why are you still single?!
And then there's…
3. The inability to self-promote
I like to think that it's a truth universally acknowledged that Dating Can Be Difficult. It's a game of emotional ten-pin bowling. You get knocked down. Then propped up again. Then knocked down. Once in a while you'll get a strike (and yes, this is a poor, poor analogy). But let's be honest, you're helping no one by including any or all of the following statements in your profile:
"back on here again -- better luck this time"
"been hurt in the past, looking for something real"
"don't know why any of this would be interesting to anyone"
Here's the dealio! We're all hoping for luck this time. We've all been hurt and are looking for something real. And if you don't know why any of this would be interesting to anyone, then no blighter else will either.
Time to impart some tough love as well as some more advice given to me by my very good and wise friend N--- (whose advice, I know, I may not always have followed but that doesn't mean I didn't keep it all in mind) which goes along the lines of, in order to get anyone to love you you need to love yourself first. It's not the easiest thing to do but it'd be a good start at least to project enough self-belief to snag the attentions of someone who will realise that yes, you are shy, you have been hurt, but hey, you're ready to Go Prospecting with the rest of us.
4. The need to edit yourself into the kind of person People Will Want to Meet
Because in the Dating Game you will need to do a little self-editing. Don't reveal all in the first instance. Maintain your mystique. Then once you've met your date, then you can confess that you know all the words to Total Eclipse of the Heart. With power-ballad-fist-pumping actions to match. But in the first throes of Internet Dating, I'm afraid "Yourself" doesn't cut it in Dating Town, buddy.
5. Overthought profile shots
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| Say. No. More. via here |
6. Ill-considered profile shots
You know.
- The one you rapidly took on a webcam the night you signed up to CatchInfinity.
- The one someone took on a phone last night that you can't remember having been taken but you're having THE BEST TIME EVER and you haven't yet spilled your drink or defiled your outfit.
- The one where your ex has been torn out prior to scanning, though her hand still rests oh-so-casually on your shoulder. Like Thing from The Addams Family.
- The one where your ex hasn't been torn out prior to scanning.*
7. Great Expectations
Best to have none, then you'll never be disappointed. Hands up who's a big cynic? Me! Me!
But for all the cynicism, there is always a significant element of Hope involved in the Dating Game – hope that for all this cynicism you may be proven wrong. That if your sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour found her lobster online after x years of Prospecting, then so might you!
So you start overlooking crucial flaws in your Dating Prospects that would normally have been Dating Dealbreakers (poor spelling, misuse of 'you're/your', that sort of thing) in case you're being picky and ruling out your lobster on the basis of what you consider borderline illiteracy.
You meet every Date with that ever-so-hopeful, winsome, open little grin with the possibility lodged deep in the back of your mind that this may be The Fabled "One".
But the flipside of Great Expectations is of course Great Disappointment, and after a couple of rounds in the ring you are more likely to be Disappointed than Pleasantly Surprised. That's when the frog-snogging analogy really takes on new resonance. And you start all over again. Sigh.
8. Those who don't make any effort
ODNU. Nuff said.
9. Those who make too much effort
They Google you beforehand. They read every single word of your profile and try to glean the essence of your very soul from within those 200 excruciatingly-chosen characters. They notice that you said you like the colour green. And they turn up to your first date bedecked in green. (Admittedly it can be quite sweet on the first date as it means they're paying attention and they read your profile, at least.)
You meet up, you discuss general likes and dislikes. You liberally drop into the conversation that the retro shindigs he's into sound fun (because they do and also because you're being polite, not that you want to go to one immediately. We're Prospecting, remember?).
Next thing you know you're being sent links and suggestions on an all-too-regular basis for Tea Dances, ghost-hunts in old hotels, battle re-enactments... SLOW DOWN.
I should interject here that I'm painfully aware that I'm picky. You betcha. But hey. Isn't that the point of this whole malarkey anyway -- to pick someone to click with?
And finally...
10. The post-date post-mortem
...Sometimes you'll know straight away that the Date erred on the side of Disaster. The Date that spawned this whole blog was a little like that. Not a catastrophe but -- something of a Fail.
Other times, you just won't know until three days have passed and he still hasn't messaged or rung you. There is the temptation to go a little Lichtenstein over it:
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| M-Maybe // Roy Lichtenstein, via here |
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| Screenshot from Sex and the City, Series 5, Ep4, Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little |
Your realistic, irrational mind thinks, well, that was a big fat waste o' my time.
(But on the bright side that's one less frog to kiss, eh?)
Monday, 19 September 2011
Date Deux
Hello dear readers, and thank you for returning to this little puddle of self-indulgence!
I believe I may have made reference to my propensity to simu-date to keep my options open. And maybe the Menfolk can pick up on this, or maybe they're oblivious (Menfolk, can you tell if a girl is simu-dating, and moreover do you mind?)... but while I was emailing ODNU over that cold, November (free) weekend on CatchInfinity I was also emailing DD (Date Deux).
He seemed, well, nice. Normal. Used to be a primary school teacher, now working at a university not too far away.
We arranged a date (after the noncommunicative nonevent that was of course ODNU) and he agreed to roll on down to Surrey, and break some naan bread with me. I did the civilised thing of booking a table in my favourite curry establishment (which he was most amenable to).
I had a whole evening in which to beautify (which to me is picking out the pink dress again and maybe hauling the straighteners through my hair...).
Then I made the fatal mistake of trying to pep myself up with a film. I chose Must Love Dogs -- divorced Diane Lane is set up on dates with a) her father, Christopher Plummer, by accident, then b) fellow dog-lover John Cusack whilst also c) romancing single dad and general dish Dermot Mulroney.
Word to the wise: before a date, don't be tempted to watch "inspirational dating success story" films in which unfeasibly witty and attractive (though slightly more mature) women are faced with the "dilemma" of whether to pick charming boat-builder John Cusack over charismatic divorced dad Dermot Mulroney. Oh boo. Normal chicas like me don't have those sorts of choices and it'll just feed into our insecurities and thwart our expectations even more. D'oh!
...But I would not be thrown off my stride (that much).
So I trundled around to the curry house. I waited a while, read a book (can't remember which, now, but something hugely intellectual, I'm sure... ahem). He turned up. Very tall, very chatty, very charming. We talked (and by we I mean, well, he, and I, in turns, in the manner of Actual Conversation). It was reassuring. We both agreed on the comedy value and quality of that cinematic pinnacle known as Kindergarten Cop. Which is a bonus. We shared dinner (we had to check beforehand that there were no peanuts involved as DD was allergic).
We went on to a pub afterwards, chatted a bit more about his time as a ski instructor. It was all very encouraging. Finally, he went to catch the last train. And he messaged on his way home to say thanks and to reassure me that he had caught the last train. I wrote back to congratulate him on this, and to thank him, too, for a nice evening.
I was very, very encouraged. I thought we'd sparked. We texted a little after that, mostly perfunctories...
...but then...
Radio Silence (from his end, not mine).
Nothing.
Nada.
Nowt.
Zilcharoo.
That was it.
End of. (And I wasn't about to start text-stalking. I don't want to be That Girl Who Won't Go Away, or have the words bunny boiler aligned with my reputation. Perish the thought.)
And I guess so often it just happens like that. I'll never understand why and I could overanalyse it to death but I just thought, OK, stop, breathe, reboot... stay single. Step away from the dating sites. They are no good. No good, I tell thee. And start liking cats because you are fated to end up a mad cat lady.
And so I stepped away from the sites, for quite a few months.
Then came a visit from a friend.
And that Metro article...
I believe I may have made reference to my propensity to simu-date to keep my options open. And maybe the Menfolk can pick up on this, or maybe they're oblivious (Menfolk, can you tell if a girl is simu-dating, and moreover do you mind?)... but while I was emailing ODNU over that cold, November (free) weekend on CatchInfinity I was also emailing DD (Date Deux).
He seemed, well, nice. Normal. Used to be a primary school teacher, now working at a university not too far away.
We arranged a date (after the noncommunicative nonevent that was of course ODNU) and he agreed to roll on down to Surrey, and break some naan bread with me. I did the civilised thing of booking a table in my favourite curry establishment (which he was most amenable to).
I had a whole evening in which to beautify (which to me is picking out the pink dress again and maybe hauling the straighteners through my hair...).
Then I made the fatal mistake of trying to pep myself up with a film. I chose Must Love Dogs -- divorced Diane Lane is set up on dates with a) her father, Christopher Plummer, by accident, then b) fellow dog-lover John Cusack whilst also c) romancing single dad and general dish Dermot Mulroney.
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| via IMDB |
...But I would not be thrown off my stride (that much).
So I trundled around to the curry house. I waited a while, read a book (can't remember which, now, but something hugely intellectual, I'm sure... ahem). He turned up. Very tall, very chatty, very charming. We talked (and by we I mean, well, he, and I, in turns, in the manner of Actual Conversation). It was reassuring. We both agreed on the comedy value and quality of that cinematic pinnacle known as Kindergarten Cop. Which is a bonus. We shared dinner (we had to check beforehand that there were no peanuts involved as DD was allergic).
We went on to a pub afterwards, chatted a bit more about his time as a ski instructor. It was all very encouraging. Finally, he went to catch the last train. And he messaged on his way home to say thanks and to reassure me that he had caught the last train. I wrote back to congratulate him on this, and to thank him, too, for a nice evening.
I was very, very encouraged. I thought we'd sparked. We texted a little after that, mostly perfunctories...
...but then...
Radio Silence (from his end, not mine).
Nothing.
Nada.
Nowt.
Zilcharoo.
That was it.
End of. (And I wasn't about to start text-stalking. I don't want to be That Girl Who Won't Go Away, or have the words bunny boiler aligned with my reputation. Perish the thought.)
And I guess so often it just happens like that. I'll never understand why and I could overanalyse it to death but I just thought, OK, stop, breathe, reboot... stay single. Step away from the dating sites. They are no good. No good, I tell thee. And start liking cats because you are fated to end up a mad cat lady.
And so I stepped away from the sites, for quite a few months.
Then came a visit from a friend.
And that Metro article...
Friday, 16 September 2011
The Ex-Replica
Well, hello, kind readers!
You join me as I prepare to divulge the deets on Date Numero Uno.
Though I have to warn you at this juncture that you may want to a) grab a comfy chair and b) read this in two parts. It's a long'un and no mistake.
...OK, technically Date Numero Uno wasn't the first date I'd ever been on. (I'm not that green!)
The first one took place (whoooosh, mists of time, etc etc) in June 1999 (just in case you thought I was really late to this dating game -- nuhuh) with the man (or, manchild as it later transpired -- he was very immature) after whom I had lusted, vocally, for the whole of my last year of university.
Aaaaanyway, said manchild was apparently immune to what the rest of us called Cold Weather, and wore shorts almost all year round. Which actually... was not necessarily a bad thing. He had some good pins on him. And magnificent eyes.
He was also (at the time, to my naive 20-year-old self) rather charming. And tall. And smiley. And wore shorts almost all year round. ...Ah. Mentioned that already. It is pivotal to the story, however, so do bear with me.
We went for an odd little date that kicked off in a well-frequented university bar. I had some weird end-of-term-lurg-thing that meant I was a) as good as mute, and whispering/coughing sweet nothings all night and b) knocking back the throat sweets, so smelling alluringly of blackcurrant.
Foxy.
To his credit he was, well, charming. And smiley. And he may have been wearing shorts. But then it was June. There were very casual trousers involved, I know that. I dressed up, of course. This was the lust of my life at the time!
There may have been some very innocent kissing involved. And that was that. (I knew he was heading off for the States to work as a summer camp counsellor imminently, and I was heading back home-for-good shortly and, again, what kind of girl do you take me for?) But I still hoped he'd ring me before he left. He didn't. And yet I still pined after him for the next few months. Glutton for punishment? Almost certainly. But I learned. Oh, I learned good.
I came back up to my university to visit a friend a few months later, was an appalling friend to be with (I'm so sorry, A-----, I was rubbish) as all I wanted to do was find Mr Shorts (who was either on a new course, or repeating a year, or something -- old age/selective memory has robbed me of the specifics)... I gleaned his email address a couple of months even later, got in touch... and nabbed myself a boyfriend for about a year (again the specifics are hazy, though for some worrying reason I've never forgotten when his birthday was. The blighter probably never remembered mine).
But in the end, fantasy and reality did not compute, and we had a weird, largely long-distance relationship (SouthEast vs Westcountry) that involved the following negative events:
1. Me being bitten at his house... by bedbugs. (He was living with his parents. He was 31. They all smoked like chimneys.)
2. Him bringing bedbugs to my house. A world of Eew.
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| via here |
3. Him returning to the States without telling me he was leaving. This involved the humiliation of me ringing his mobile and getting his brother-in-law on the other end, laughingly telling me that Mr Shorts had already flown out.
4. Him subsequently cheating on me in the States.
5. Me in a fit of childish insanity still agreeing to see him after that.
6. Him promising to visit me when I had my own little flat for a while that year as he was going to stop off on his way back from the States. Me waiting all night for him to turn up and worrying when he didn't. Me ringing his house.
This involved the humiliation (part II) of getting his mother on the other end, telling me that Mr Shorts had come straight back to the Westcountry, and was now off visiting his sister who lived nearby. A rather curt, "Oh. OK then." from me was then followed by crying passionately into my denim futon mattress for the remainder of the evening and deciding that All Men Were Almost Definitely Not Worth It etc on the basis of one man(child).
Then, the tipping point:
7. Me realising that every time I rang him, he was laughing at something on Channel 5 and wasn't listening to a word I was saying, not even when I was saying something of devastating importance. OK, I was by then 22, had little life-experience, and probably never did say anything of interest... but still. It's the principle.
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| via here |
So I broke up with him. He dun me wrong and I weren't having it.
Plus my parents had to replace a mattress that had succumbed to an infestation of bedbugs.
...You still awake in the back there? You are? I owe you.
"But what does all this malarkey have to do with anything?" I hear you ponder into your [ ] insert beverage of choice here.
Well, good reader, I shall tell you!
...But not before I've dropped into the mix that in the years between Mr Shorts and let's call him Official Date Numero Uno, or ODNU for short, I was set up on two blind dates, one by a friend, one by a workmate, which taught me one thing: I don't do blind dates. Nuff said.
I also went on a day-date with a chap from a certain site on which your friends recommend you (you know the one). From his photo (note: singular photo) he looked like a blonde Declan Donnelly:
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| Yep, this poppet! via here |
and in reality... didn't so much. Though, he did buy me a DVD of Pan's Labyrinth (which I'm yet to watch all the way through). And yes, I will address, in a later post, the fact I may be a bit shallow, amongst other significant flaws... Sigh. But I never saw him again, largely because we ran out of things to talk about halfway through the afternoon.
So! This brings me up to the now. Or, the Now that is November 2010 when I went for a hot chocolate with Fellow Single Friend S--- (have added some dashes just in case I cite multiple Friends whose Names begin with S and I get confused), who gave me the famous Nugget of Advice I Have Actually Followed (mostly).
That Nugget was, when Prospecting on dating sites, only click on/respond to those men who have more than one photo.
Makes a world of sense. Just means that the two photos corroborate each other and the subject is more likely to be who they claim to be on all levels.
In the same conversation I declared that next time any of the dating sites were promoting a free weekend, I'd subscribe. And lo and behold, a site we'll refer to as "CatchInfinity" promoted a free weekend that very weekend. I was on it like Sonic. I decided this was it, this was my New Approach.
I am woman, watch me date.
And ODNU was the first victim date after that epiphany.
When ODNU messaged me, I noted his multiple photos, and responded. We chatted. I discovered he sang in numerous choirs. Which is always good, I like a singer. And he worked in IT. Which is also good. I like a geek.
We exchanged phone numbers. Before the free weekend was up ODNU said, pseudo-boldly, "I think we should meet up soon, see if anything comes of this", or words to that effect. I agreed I'd phone him to discuss times, dates, etc. So I did.
Alarm bells should have rung on the Ex-Replica front when he slipped into the conversation that, despite this being November, he rarely felt the cold... and wore shorts almost all year round.
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| via here |
...I decided not to dismiss him out of hand without meeting him though.
The night of the date was ill-fated. Dire weather (sleet and wind) and subsequent issues on the motorways meant heinous traffic for him; train traumas meant lateness and no time to spruce up for me. I may have reapplied some lipgloss in the taxi on the way to the pub. But I needn't have bothered. He turned up in, basically, jogging bottoms. I know. CASUAL TROUSERS. The cheek of it... And he was tall. But not smiley.
I bought him a drink [thus emasculating him...], and we talked.
Correction.
In the spirit of Showing an Interest and Making Conversation, I asked him questions, he responded. He made a couple of lame jokes.
Awkward silence.
I asked more questions. He responded.
Awkward silence.
I asked more questions. He responded.
Awkward silence.
...Had he not got the memo on Etiquettes of Conversation? That if someone asks you questions you ask them questions back out of politeness if not out of interest? No?
Nope.
A bit like Mr Shorts not clocking on to the fact that I was racking up a phone bill to talk to him, and he was guffawing at Jeremy Clarkson (or someone) instead of listening to whatever I had to say, it was just too much like hard work!
At about 8.45pm, ODNU looked at the clock on the pub wall, stated that it was, indeed, 8.45pm, and he had to drive home. So, that was that. Game over.
I booked a taxi. I left in the taxi.
I had no idea what to make of the evening. My suspicion was, we had no chemistry. But even if he thought I was the most ebullient sparkler and conversationalist he'd ever met, well, he just reminded me too much of Mr Shorts. To which I'd have to have said, no, no, no.
But I was spared that particular awkwardness.
Three days or so later, I got a text from him along the lines of, "Hi Quirky. It was nice to meet you but I don't think we have any chemistry. But you're a nice girl and I wish you luck." Which was admittedly politer than I'd given him credit for.
And, dare I say, a relief to receive.
Onto the next.
PS I am having issues with formatting. Sorry for the annoying inconsistency of type size and colour.
PPS The issues with formatting probably only bother me. :-)
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
Hobbies and Horses
Imagine if you will: Summer 2010, when I was a jaded young thing of... 32. Ish.
Whooooooosh <<< that's the sound of Time Passing
I won't go into the details, but one morning, after being in a Situation for quite some time whereby I was emotionally bound to one individual with whom nothing could feasibly happen, I woke up feeling like this:
And It. Was. Liberating! After years of investing my emotions in one very unavailable person, at the expense of maybe a few available persons on the periphery, I snapped out of it.
Which left me a) readily available (but not in an "easy" way, you understand... what kinda girl do you take me for??) and b) not quite sure where to direct my affections, though I managed to find a crush or two to see me through the summer/autumn.
But I do have a tendency to crush on safe men and by safe I mean gay. Ergo more futile channelling of affections.
Ergo the need to focus myself on straight, single men -- and enter the murky Dating Pool. Which to my mind can look a bit like this:
WARNING: This video may give you the wiggins.
Especially if you grew up in the 70s and 80s.
One of the nuggets of advice people always give you when you're looking to Date is to Join Clubs! Join Groups! Meet Like-Minded People. Find a new Hobby!
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| via here |
Good advice in theory.
My interests and hobbies are not the sort of interests held by Prospective Dates.
To give you some context, when I was 22 and just out of university I took a series of line-dancing classes for fun. AND I ENJOYED IT.
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| via here |
...But that's just me...
I'd already decided to join a rock choir with the vain hope that Eligible Single Men Under Forty would also feel compelled to join... Hmm. One year on, I'm yet to meet my lobster among the Tenors and Basses but rock choir is my hobby axis. Love it. Made some gorgeous friends.
I'd also started Nordic Walking the year before, but sadly no Eligible Single Men Under Forty In My Local Area seem to feel compelled to up sticks (literally) and get Nordy with the Quirkster. They're all across the field undergoing British Military Fitness training.Which, oddly, does not appeal.
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| via here |
And then there's photography. Sigh.
One day maybe I might rock up to a DSLR course but until my local adult education centre opens itself up to the possibility that People Who Work Full-Time Might Also Want to Take a Course So Please Stop Scheduling the Good'uns at 10am, that might have to wait. Which is a shame because I heard an unsubstantiated rumour that Straight Single Men Under Forty Take Photos too. Can anyone corroborate?
So... I conceded, of my own volition (excuse my abuse of the English language) to Start Dating. I got on that horse (having never really been on it in the first place in order to fall off it, proverbially speaking, I can't exactly use the "get right back on that horse" analogy but you catch my drift).
And here we are.
OK, we're not quite Here yet, we're somewhere in November 2010. But this post is already overlong and you're probably working this look:
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| via here |
so I'll lock it down until next time, when I might cover off Date Numero Uno: The Ex-Replica, and share some dating advice from the friend I'll call S— -- and this is advice that I actually heeded.
Yup.
And Why Not?
So. Hi.
If you found this blog there's a very good chance Ibegged asked you to follow it. And if you're following it there's a good chance you know me and have already been subjected to one of my anecdotes. Sorry – you get them all over again here. Hence why I've monikered this little hub of self-indulgence Dater Overload. Clever, huh? Punny.
So, why the blog? What's with all the blogging already?
It occurred to me last Wednesday, as I sat on a train home at about 9pm at night, after a "date" that had kicked off at 7.40pm(ish), and had clearly bypassed success in favour of AWKWARD (I'll explain why in a later post; when it comes to dating, awkward is my default setting.) ...that cometh the hour, cometh the blogging opportunity.
In the last few months since taking a new approach to dating – that is, actually dating rather than complaining about my other default setting: perpetually single – I've accumulated a few anecdotes that I felt needed to be shared, and through the medium of blogging.
And since I haven't kept a diary for longer than five months since about 1998, well, writing to an invisible audience should spur me on, right?
I have to admit, I'm not a serial dater. I'm a simu-dater*, yes, though I like to term my approach prospecting; at best, keeping my options open, or as my friends would so prosaically put it, KISSING A LOT OF FROGS.
...I should state for the record that it helps none that I look nothing like this girl.
Nor am I "kooky" like this girl (just quirky, and that's not the same as kooky, OK?):
…Oh wait. Maybe that's where I'm going wrong. Instead of rocking up to dates in this (minus fairy lights):
I should channel this little fashionista:
Though I'm not sure attire is necessarily the issue.
I digress.
So, I have been Dating (cap. D) on and off since about November, December 2010, with varied results, though the fact I'm still single is testament to (deep breath) how flawed the whole set-up is, how certain sites feed into your insecurities by encouraging, nay, forcing you to create this whole, attractive persona that will drop away the moment you make human contact with that individual who happened to Nudge you... or the affinity tests don't ask the right questions, or the sites play host to people who, let's be honest here, would be better placed defending their honour to 55p women's magazines that shall remain nameless. (And nothing at all to do with my extreme pickiness and exacting standards.)
...Yeah, I think we've hit on the real issue here. I suffer from DATING-RELATED CYNICISM.
But the moment that I get over the hurdle of believing that I won't meet my lobster through a dating site, that may well be when dating really starts to work for me.
But only I can come to that conclusion. You can tell me until you're blue in the face that your sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour met her soulmate online but I'll just counter that I'm not your sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour, it hasn't worked for me thus far – and I need to be proven wrong, clearly.
So as I recount my anecdates** I'll also be trying to change my mindset and channel some positive energy into my endeavours.
Wish me luck.
(Please?)
* "Simu-date" -- see Sex and the City, Series 6, Ep1, To Market, To Market when Carrie offsets the pressure of dating Berger for the first time by meeting a different date.
** Anecdates = anecdotes + dates... See? ...That was my blog name of choice, except someone got there first, blogged for three months then abandoned it. Who would do that? (Um... See my earlier statement on keeping a diary... :-) )
PS Not sure why but my line breaks vary from standard to colossal. One day I'll understand HTML …
If you found this blog there's a very good chance I
So, why the blog? What's with all the blogging already?
It occurred to me last Wednesday, as I sat on a train home at about 9pm at night, after a "date" that had kicked off at 7.40pm(ish), and had clearly bypassed success in favour of AWKWARD (I'll explain why in a later post; when it comes to dating, awkward is my default setting.) ...that cometh the hour, cometh the blogging opportunity.
In the last few months since taking a new approach to dating – that is, actually dating rather than complaining about my other default setting: perpetually single – I've accumulated a few anecdotes that I felt needed to be shared, and through the medium of blogging.
And since I haven't kept a diary for longer than five months since about 1998, well, writing to an invisible audience should spur me on, right?
I have to admit, I'm not a serial dater. I'm a simu-dater*, yes, though I like to term my approach prospecting; at best, keeping my options open, or as my friends would so prosaically put it, KISSING A LOT OF FROGS.
 |
| via here |
Nor am I "kooky" like this girl (just quirky, and that's not the same as kooky, OK?):
…Oh wait. Maybe that's where I'm going wrong. Instead of rocking up to dates in this (minus fairy lights):
I should channel this little fashionista:
 |
| via here |
I digress.
So, I have been Dating (cap. D) on and off since about November, December 2010, with varied results, though the fact I'm still single is testament to (deep breath) how flawed the whole set-up is, how certain sites feed into your insecurities by encouraging, nay, forcing you to create this whole, attractive persona that will drop away the moment you make human contact with that individual who happened to Nudge you... or the affinity tests don't ask the right questions, or the sites play host to people who, let's be honest here, would be better placed defending their honour to 55p women's magazines that shall remain nameless. (And nothing at all to do with my extreme pickiness and exacting standards.)
...Yeah, I think we've hit on the real issue here. I suffer from DATING-RELATED CYNICISM.
But the moment that I get over the hurdle of believing that I won't meet my lobster through a dating site, that may well be when dating really starts to work for me.
But only I can come to that conclusion. You can tell me until you're blue in the face that your sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour met her soulmate online but I'll just counter that I'm not your sister's housemate's cousin's neighbour, it hasn't worked for me thus far – and I need to be proven wrong, clearly.
So as I recount my anecdates** I'll also be trying to change my mindset and channel some positive energy into my endeavours.
Wish me luck.
(Please?)
* "Simu-date" -- see Sex and the City, Series 6, Ep1, To Market, To Market when Carrie offsets the pressure of dating Berger for the first time by meeting a different date.
 |
| Screengrab from DVD |
PS Not sure why but my line breaks vary from standard to colossal. One day I'll understand HTML …
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