Now, Boys, Don't Get Your Undies in a Wad

Oooh, oooh! Seems the menfolk are all up-in-arms about me playing this game by some rules. (Yay for controversy!)

So... here's my response to your comments/questions/rants about yesterday's Rules of Engagement post.

My reasoning for using the rules in question is as follows...


Why I wait to respond to messages:

Thing is, I want to be out dating and having fun. Trying new things. Making adventures and having experiences. That really is the whole freaking point of this endeavor.

And... if I'm filling up all my free time responding to messages from strangers on the internets, I'm probably not going to be doing much of the aforementioned adventuring and funning and whatnot.

When I was meeting guys online before, the overwhelming email traffic and marathon chat sessions eventually became a time-consuming burden.

Sure, I had some "great" correspondence with a number of dudes during that time, but the truth is, it took a lot of time to have that "great" communication, which, in turn, rarely translated into anything noteworthy in the real world. In fact, it most often translated into exactly nada in the real world.

While meeting people online has its appeal (speedy for all us busy folks, you all know you're looking, you get some initial insight, etc.), it's not a good way to get to know people. I now know that I can't gauge if I'm going to hit it off with or even tolerate the sight or smell of someone else if we're only corresponding online.

So, basically, I want to go out. I have no interest in hearing someone's whole life story via email over the course of 6 months (ever again! And I mean it). The profile via which these guys are contacting me makes that pretty clear.

It's shit or get off the pot time, fellas.

And, really, what's the point of responding immediately to all their messages? Much like my correspondence with friends and family, I find that going into my inbox and responding to everything at once is overwhelming. I'd much rather take a day or so to think about a response and subsequently pound it out for delivery.

I hope these guys are also enjoying full and active lives (otherwise, I'm not really interested). If not, should it really be my concern that they might be sitting in front of their respective monitors wondering when I'll get back to them? (Been on that side of the screen, too. It's not fun, but I can't freakin' blame it on anyone but myself, now can I? Likewise...)

You can call my delayed responses coy if you wish, but I'll reiterate that I'm making no apologies. All's fair, friend.

Also (and I'll say this full well knowing I'll likely take some heat for it), in the short period I've been waiting a day or more to respond, it seems like I've garnered a lot more dates than I did the last go-'round, when I was responding at lightening speed to Frank, Stan, and Every Man.

It seems some guys might actually be motivated by the absence of constant availability. (Who would've thunk it?)


Why I do not revive communication:

Again, I'm a busy girl. And I'm not wasting time considering these dudes real until I meet them. (Been there, done that. Anyone know where I can get the Tshirt?)

So, while they may have sounded good up to a point, if they drop off the face of the earth, I'm not going to chase after them. Frankly, I have plenty of others stepping up to keep me busy at the moment, thankyouverymuch. And, oh, an actual life going on outside this whole dating venture (fancy that).

That said, if some dude drops out of contact for a while and suddenly reappears, nothing in my rules prevents me from getting back into the flow with him. Dig?


How I define 'creepy':

Honestly, it varies. My friends seem to believe I have a (dangerously?) high tolerance for creepiness, but if I'm creeped out, he's out. No matter the impetus.

(And, really? You're going to question that one? I mean, c'mon... it's MY safety potentially at stake in this whole thing. It sucks that you think you were let go for a case of miscommunication, but I'm not going to compromise my safety to right the wrongs you believe you've endured. Thems just the breaks, man.)

...

Just as an FYI, I didn't create this profile and start out with a set of rules (which are, again, really more like guidelines anyway... Belle doesn't know how to play by rules, yo). Sure, they weren't too long in coming, but, really, I adopted them because they seem to be working well for me so far.

I could sit here all day long and try to explain things in a way that made you all like me or agree with me, but I'd fail in the endeavor, and what purpose would it serve?

Oh, and another thing... I could use some structure and guidelines in this whole dating endeavor. I mean, have you read about some of the stupid things I've done?

To Pheromone or Not To Pheromone?

A brown-bagged, unchilled bottle of BB's favorite vintage in hand, I step out into the sunlit parking lot and start toward my ride. Noting how the bright day only enhances the many layers of grime, I try to remember the last time anyone but Mother Nature has given it a wash.

"Drive a truck, huh?" I glance up to see the curious owner of the voice sitting in a car several spots down.

"Yep," I reply while unlocking my door and wondering, Really? In the liquor store parking lot? Do people find love in parking lots? Is that what I've been doing wrong? Public Transportation: Cupid's Sworn Enemy

"That's cute." The man and his car near me as I place my package on the seat. "Are you getting the attention you deserve?" he asks, pulling to a stop.

"Probably not. But who ever really is?"

"Hold on. Let me give you this." He steps out of his car and hands me a slip of paper, already adorned with his name and number.

"Give me a call if you want to talk, or if you're ready to be treated like you deserve." With that, he is behind the wheel again and setting off.



About six weeks ago, I was approached by a representative from one of those human pheromones outfits to do a review of their product. You know what I'm talking about, right? You're supposed to wear these scent-less pheromones and attract more of the men folk (or women folk, if you're into that).

Seeing as I've been a big ol' blog slacker, I took 'em up on it, figuring it'd at least be decent fodder for a post. They sent me a small vial of what looks like olive oil, asking that I, in return, write at least 300 words (of my choosing) about their stuff and include three links to their site.* So, for the last several weeks, I've been doing a little experiment with the pheromones.

After getting over the slight embarrassment of having a package clearly labeled HUMAN PHEROMONES hand-delivered to my desk** by a colleague, I began the experiment that afternoon. I rolled a few dabs of the oily substance on my wrists, trying not to consider what, exactly these "pheromones" are made of.

Half an hour later, I walked into the grocery with a short list. Not 10 steps into the store, I noticed an older, disheveled man looking intently at me. I nodded curtly at him, and went about my business, keeping an eye out all the while for any appealing menfolk who might get a whiff of the unscented pheromones and come running my way.

A cute guy in his early thirties smiled and blessed me when I sneezed in the produce section. I lingered there a moment, pretending to scrutinize bananas, despite my aversion to the thick-skinned fruit.

Once it started rolling, I couldn't stop my disgustingly optimistic and naive train of thought from going full steam-ahead. He's cute. And nice. And he knows how to pick out a kiwi. Wouldn't it be awesome if he asked me out? And then we ended up together? I'd become the freakin' pheromones spokesperson, traveling the country - nay! the world! - to tell people about this fast-acting-wonder-potion-o'-love. 'I wore this stuff for less than an hour and met my soul mate! Can y'all believe it?!?!?'

Cute guy turned and left, doing me the favor of squashing the small, disgustingly annoying hope that was rising, unbidden, within me. I stopped palming the bananas and headed down an aisle that actually had, yanno, stuff I needed.

As I turned, I noticed the old, disheveled man behind me. He was still staring, this time with a creepy little smile. When I stopped, he kept walking, but we weren't to be separated for long. I turned down the next aisle, and he was right there. Every time I left him behind, he popped right back up again, even when I crossed the store fully (twice!) to get items I'd missed the first time through. For an old guy, he was pretty quick.

Fortunately, as I mentioned, I had a short list and soon found myself parted from my octogenarian would-be lover.

Creepy old man following me around in the grocery store? Is that what pheromones do for me?

Actually, it happens all the time. Okay, not all the time. But often enough for me to know it probably has more to do with me than with the substance in the little vial.

As far as creepy guys go, this one seemed, at least, to be of the harmless variety. I'm pretty sure that if he could get it up, he'd think fondly of me while expelling his little swimmers. I'm also pretty sure that he can't, in fact, get it up. Neither of those things is my concern, though. If I hadn't been conducting an experiment, this creepy old guy would've just gone into the fuzzy mental log I keep of all the other creepy old guys I've encountered.

As it is, the creepy old guy and the cute produce guy were the only menfolk in the store who so much as looked my way. And, trust me, I was paying attention.

After that, I've worn pheromones, let's see... pretty much everywhere. I wore the stuff daily for about a week and a half. In that time, I don't think one guy who didn't have to talk to me did. I had to start spacing out my experiment days because the lack of interaction with males was really bumming me out.

So, what? Did they send me the wrong vial? The one dudes are supposed to wear to attract the ladies? Or is this stuff doing exactly the opposite of what the marketing claims? Or maybe my hair was just crap for those six weeks?

No. Definitely wasn't the hair.

Oh, and dude in the parking lot?
- No, I haven't and won't call him.
- Dude has some serious cajones. I give him props.
- Even if it was creepy, he pretty much made my day.
- And, no, I wasn't wearing the pheromones.

I can attract creepy men all by myself, thanks muchly!


* That's my disclaimer, y'all. I know this ain't the Times, but I do like to maintain some semblance of journalistic integrity (even if it's all in my head).
** No way was I giving my home address to some stranger on the internet who found me through this blog... At least my office has security.

Creepballs & The Impending Shunning

Some random dude on my friends' list starting chatting with me the other day. Unable to remember exactly who he was, I checked out his profile and saw that he's engaged to an acquaintance from college.

His chat was friendly at first, and he referenced several of the parties I threw in college (Toga, anyone?), so I continued the seemingly innocuous thread while wiling away some of the workday.

He and the acquaintance, he told me, are getting married this summer. Kudos and congratulations were shared all around.

Then he proceeded to reference his infatuation with me while we were in school together. Then he proceeded to flirt shamelessly with me and even went so far as to furtively suggest we arrange a rendezvous.

Whoa, buddy.

You're marrying a girl I used to know in less time than bunny babies incubate, and you're telling me we should get together?

Let's forget the fact that I haven't a clue who the dude is. And the fact that he's halfway across the freakin' continent. And the fact that he obviously didn't even register on my radar back in the college days.

Let's just focus on the thread of conversation that went something like this:
- Greetings and Niceties
- References to Bygone Days
- Wedding Talk
- References to Crushes of Bygone Days
- Mild Flirtation
- Invitation to Wedding*
- Make-Your-Momma-Blush Flirtation & Thinly Veiled Propositions

He even asked for my freaking number! What the hell, man? I escaped the conversation, telling him there was work to be done.

The next day, though, he was at it again. And he skipped all but the most minimal niceties to go right to the blatant sexual references. So I called him on it.

Tsk. Tsk. Isn't your blatant online flirtation a bit tacky, considering your impending nuptials? Shame!

Then... nothing. He signed off. Of course he signed off. And then he probably ran right to his fiancée to do damage control, lest I open my big mouth about his (attempted?) indiscretion.

The thing is, I don't really know this girl. And, according to her soon-to-be creepball husband, she didn't even remember who I was. The last thing I would be doing is running to tell her about her man's lame attempts at an online pickup.

While I may not be a lot of other things, I am smart enough to know nothing I could say would convince her that she might be making a huge mistake if she assumes their marriage will be one of fidelity.

Hell, he can't even make it to the alter without trying to get someone he lusted after in college to show up for the big event. (In hopes of, what, exactly? A hand job in the rectory bathroom after he says I do?)

Their situation doesn't really freaking matter to me. Like I said, I don't even remember this dude, and the chick with whom he'll be exchanging vows was a passing acquaintance, at best. If it weren't for these damned social networking sites, I'd probably never even think of the two of them, much less be writing a blog about their impending divorce.

You know what really gets me, though? I have this seriously ominous feeling that he already ran to spin this to her in whatever way he could that made him look like an angel and me look like an evil man-stealing vixen, just in case I decided to rat him out.

His version, I imagine, would go something like this: You know that Belle chick? Today she started telling me how hot she always thought I was in college. Then she told me there are still feelings there and asked if she could see me before our wedding! I told her you're the only one for me, baby. Yeah, you should watch out for that Belle chick.

And, if he did that, guess what? It will make two soon-to-be-married chicks I went to college with who don't trust me around their menz. And you might as well just assume each and every one of their coupled female friends will adopt the same attitude once they hear how Belle was trying to steal these perfectly loyal menz right out from under their ladies' unsuspecting noses. I can just see it now.

They'll gaggle up with all their friends near smoking grills this summer, and the conversation will inevitably turn to my futile attempts to steal their honorable men. Their friends will add gory details from my somewhat promiscuous college behavior, conveniently forgetting they were right there beside me whoring it up on the dance floor.

I can only envision our future reunions now. I'll walk in the door and immediately notice a subtle but growing wave of people moving in any direction I'm not. Upon closer inspection, I'll see the women who used to be my friends and acquaintances dragging their menz out of my path.

Perhaps it's all just egomaniacal paranoia on my part. Seriously, though, I think not.



* "When are you coming this way again? ... Aw, damn. I though you could surprise [The Bride] for the wedding."
Riggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhht.

[Big-Name Dating Site] Users Beware

I just received the following message:

Anti Belle,

As a lifestyle blogger, we’ve selected you as one of an exclusive group of bloggers who are invited to post about your dating experiences while using [Big-Name Dating Site]. To help you get started, I want to offer you a three month trial membership to [Big-Name Dating Site].

This is a great chance for you to expand your dating possibilities by tapping into [Big-Name Dating Site]'s 15 million members. You can search, flirt, and connect with other [Big-Name Dating Site] members through [Big-Name Dating Site] Mobile or online. As you explore [Big-Name Dating Site]’s services and connect with other eligible singles, share your experiences with the readers of Dating is Dead.

If you are interested in more information or the trial [Big-Name Dating Site] membership, feel free to contact me.

Thank you so much for your time.

[Big-Name Dating Site] Representative

So the questions I have are these:

• Has the [Big-Name Dating Site] Representative who sent me this message read anything on this site? Ever? (Likely not...)
  
• Has s/he noted my neurosis or the way in which I take pleasure in ripping my dates to shreds for the entertainment of friends and strangers here on the interwebs? (If so, Devil!)
  
• Are [Big-Name Dating Site] and its Representative screwing over their actual paying customers by exposing them to mean, bitter bloggers everywhere in the hopes of generating some word-of-mouth advertising? (Obviously...)
• But shouldn't [Big-Name Dating Site] and its Representatives have the best interest of its paying users in mind at all times? (Okay, everyone knows even I'm not that naive...)
  
• Are the paying users of [Big-Name Dating Site] ready for the likes of Belle? (Likely not...)
• Am I ready to re-enter the online dating scene? (...)
  
• Will a "free" account at [Big-Name Dating Site] yield results any different from those garnered at other free dating sites I've tried? (...)

What to do, what to do...

teh wrst spelr

The following is a random IM conversation from last night. Enjoy.

tehWrstSpelr: hi
belle: hi. Who is this?
tehWrstSpelr: u happen to be on my buddy list and I wanted to find out the same thing too
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: im thewrstspelr*
tehWrstSpelr: U?
belle: thewrstspelr?
belle: Belle
tehWrstSpelr: Yup
tehWrstSpelr: Hi Belle
belle: hi
tehWrstSpelr: R u in Dc?
belle: yes. how old are you?
tehWrstSpelr: im 28
tehWrstSpelr: u?
belle: 25
belle: did we talk before at some point?
tehWrstSpelr: i shd think so
tehWrstSpelr: did u post an ad on CL?
belle: good lord. Ages ago.
belle: Where are your words, man?
belle: You seem to have lost them in all this IM speak
belle: it's highly annoying
tehWrstSpelr: My bad
tehWrstSpelr: So whats up with u tonite?
tehWrstSpelr: Cant sleep?
belle: about to get to bed. just catching up on some stuff
belle: you?
tehWrstSpelr: oh k
tehWrstSpelr: cant sleep
tehWrstSpelr: so bored
belle: ah
tehWrstSpelr: u wanna sing for me?
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: hahahaha
belle: sing?
belle: I think not
tehWrstSpelr: alrite
tehWrstSpelr: ure in Dc,rite?
belle: you already asked me that


* The name, obviously, is my doing. Not this clueless dolt's.

Something Awkward This Way Comes

Travel Buddy: He only talked to you because he liked your boobs.
Belle: Oh, thanks. You're saying there's nothing else about me that would ever make a guy want to talk to me?
Travel Buddy: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.
Belle: You're a bastard.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Potato* came up with the grand idea of finding an establishment at which we might quench our burning desire to play The Skee Ball.

Travel Buddy and the Fun Committee Chair quickly vetoed the Chuck E. Cheese suggestion and proposed Dave and Buster's as a more adult-oriented alternative. And so the adventure began.

We ate. We drank. We played The Skee Ball. We collected tickets.

And when all was said and done, the Grand Pumba of the fine, fine establishment asked that we make our prize selections so the staff could close shop and go home.

So we found ourselves in a room filled from floor to ceiling with cheap Chinese imports, trying to put our hard-earned points to use. Should we get the goofy glasses? The Family Guy figures that grow in water? A stuffed animal?

Ms. Potato and I stood facing a wall with pens, pencils, gadgets, and novelties galore, discussing our options. Suddenly, there was a low voice behind us.

The walkie talkie pens are pretty cool, if they still have them. We turned to see a guy standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. That voice recorder has a pretty decent recording time, he said, pointing toward a small package to our left.

I thanked the guy for his input and turned back to face Ms. Potato. She had edged her way to the other end of the aisle and was intently inspecting a stuffed monkey with her back to me and the stranger. Smooth. Real smooth.

The stranger was still pointing things out, telling me what was "worth it" and what wasn't. Wow. You really seem to know your stuff, I told him. You must come here a lot. It wasn't delivered as a compliment, but the subtle clue of my intonation seemed lost on him.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dave and Buster's card. The plastic glittered and gleamed under the fluorescent lights, announcing his Gold Status.

If we'd been on television, this is the point where they'd cue the dramatic music and hushed oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Ah, I see, I mumbled, and returned my attention to browsing for something, anything, that would get me a little bit further from this guy.

When I'd successfully navigated away from him and back to Ms. Potato, she raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged, and we went back to our discussion of which items we just couldn't live without.

A few minutes later, I found myself buddy-less with the stranger at my side again. Ms. Potato walked toward me, and I picked up the first thing my hand touched. Scooby's kind of cute, I said to her. She nodded and kept walking, ignoring my telepathic plea to get me away from the guy.

I tossed the toy back in the bin, and he picked it up. Hold on, he said. I'll be right back. Wait, your boyfriend isn't here is he? Without thinking, I shook my head. I don't have a boyfriend, I answered, regretting it immediately.

With that, he was gone to the register, and I felt my face burning. Good lord, he's not going to buy me that, is he? Why didn't I just say yes? I stood helplessly waiting while he swiped his gilded card at the register. I could feel the heat rising on my neck as I noticed my friends in a gaggle in the corner, giggling as they looked in our direction. Thanks, guys.

The stranger returned and held a bag out to me. I thanked him and told him he really didn't have to buy me anything. Eh, it's no big deal. I have about ten thousand points, he said, and I don't see anything I want today.

Feeling somewhat befuddled and a little obligated, I introduced myself. Belle, I'm Mr. Awkward, he said, limply shaking my outstretched hand. I managed a little small talk before excusing myself to find my friends.

Bag in tow, I located Travel Buddy and FCC. Did that guy just buy you something? I nodded. He's weird, Ms. Potato interjected. I nodded again.

A few minutes later, the group having dispersed again to search for individual booty, I found Mr. Awkward at my side again, cell phone in hand.

Uh oh , I thought. He's going to ask for my number. Lying didn't even cross my mind. It rarely does.

To my surprise, Mr. Awkward didn't ask for my number. Instead, he showed me a couple of videos of his friend doing stunts on a motorcycle. I watched distractedly, commenting sporadically and wondering what my escape route would be if the guy suddenly went wacko. When the videos finished, we parted ways again.

Final selections in hand, I met my group at the counter, where we swiped and splurged the night's earnings on meaningless trinkets we'd soon forget. Mr. Awkward was nowhere in sight.

As we made our way out of the establishment and across the parking lot, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the group and wondered if Mr. Awkward would be waiting around the next corner or behind the next car.

He never made another appearance.


* With nary a week's notice, Ms. Potato made a whirlwind exodus from D.C. earlier in the summer and set up camp in the lower regions of these great United States. After enduring the sweltering heat and humidity of the great metropolis she's calling home these days, she returned for a week and graced us with her presence.

LNS Didn't Bring It

Travel Buddy: There are going to be a lot of douchebags at this party.
Belle: This is D.C. I'll show you 10 guys, and if you can point to five of them who aren't douchebags, I'll give you a hundred bucks.
Travel Buddy: Good point.

The driver stopped in front of the white brick house. That's it. With the exception of a few shadows visible in the window, the house seemed somewhat lifeless.

BB: It looks shady.
Belle: It does not look shady.
Travel Buddy: Look, there are people in there.
Belle: Let's just go in. If it's terrible, we can leave.
BB: We're not staying long.

We paid the man, piled out of the taxi, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A lone figure in the shadows of the half-dark confirmed we'd found the right place. You're here. The booze is to the left, and it's going fast. Help yourself.

We stepped through the door, and I felt immediately like I'd been transported back to college days. The walls were absolutely bare. The furniture was nearly nonexistent. Natty Lite and Budweiser abounded, but most of the girls carried Solo cups filled to brimming with lots of alcohol and a splash of soda by chivalrous young men. It was just like a sweaty frat party in the 'Sip, except this one had crown molding and minorities.

Earlier in the night, as we sipped champagne and shared strawberry shortcake, BB laid out our options. We can stay here, go to another bar, or go to a house party in Georgetown. The house party didn't seem nearly so interesting until she informed me it was an LNS shindig.

I've been reading this and that about this crew for months, and I wanted to see what they were all about. To be perfectly honest, I was kind of disappointed; there was very little fodder for this here blog, friends. Perhaps not being a Smith Point threw the LNS game off a bit.

Guys in (un-popped) collared shirts and girls in sun dresses were crammed into the main rooms downstairs, chatting in small groups. I was sorely out of place in jeans, but what the hell did I care? Nowhere close to meeting the size 4 mandate, I would have stood out no matter my ensemble. And, anyway, I wasn't the most out of place.

I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who's under-dressed. I turned to face the only female present wearing shorts. I feel like I should give you a hug or something, she said. I complied just a moment before her J. Crew-clad friend looked me up and down and told me she was going to have to ask me to leave. I laughed at what I assumed was her jest and went back to talking to Travel Buddy.

Our conversation focused primarily on the party. On the fact that it wasn't as terrible as we'd expected. That we'd been to worse. Much, much worse.

The party was decidedly frat-tastic, but there was nothing incredibly remarkable about it. You had your garden-variety homophobia on display from the guy yelling something about a "homo" when we first walked in the door. You had your insecure cattiness from the bitch waiting in line for the bathroom behind BB. You had your spilled drinks and your drunken breaking of household goods.

We were still trying to choke down our huge glasses of gin (soda splashes optional) when everyone was herded out of the house to the enclosed patio area. We stood around postulating about what was going to happen. Travel Buddy suggested that we were to be burned alive. We plotted our escape route should things get out of hand.

I'd been hearing girls buzzing about champagne for a while, and some of them seemed excited that it was time for that. Apparently, they were right. The guy who'd rounded everyone up positioned himself a bit above the crowd and commanded our attention for his little speech. Which was promptly followed by a spray of champagne into the crowd. People scattered like ants then reassembled just in time for him to shower the crowd again. That's when we made our exit.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

Should I Be This Scared?

I've found myself flying pretty much solo at several social events in the past two weeks. Well, three, to be exact.

At the first*, a happy hour, I met a few people (4). I talked easily to the first soon after entering the bar. The others I met a little later. Two of them said they would offer their expertise in the apartment hunt (so far, one has). The last vowed to join me and a new associate in an upcoming social endeavor. I've yet to call. (But I will! I will!)

I was invited to the second event by one of the hosts**. I knew no one save this host, and, being that he was a host, I didn't expect constant entertainment. My feelings on the event are mixed. I met a (small) handful of pretty cool people (again, 4), but the majority of the guests did not seem to be people I'd ever get along with. After a few good hours with the few cool people, I found myself pretty much alone with the not-so-cool people while waiting for a ride. The night actually ended with me feeling very much like a junior high reject with acne, bad breath, and head gear. Perhaps I digress...

The third event was completely random.

Opposed to spending yet another Friday night entertaining Roommate's parents while she was off on date*** and semi****-stood-up by my partner in crime for the evening, I headed to the bar solo.

I've been to this bar a few times before with Quicksylver. The first night we went was our waitress's first night as well. We'll call her Saronno. Despite Quicksylver's initial insistence that she was just being nice to get tips, we hit it off really well and have since talked about hanging out together.

Anyhow, Saronno was at the bar when I showed up Friday, but she wasn't working. She invited me to a small get-together she was planning to hit up before heading to a bigger, swankier party later on. I accepted her invitation.

She and I were the first to arrive. I kicked a little ass on the Wii***** then we moved on to the beer pong. (At which I also kicked more than my fair share of ass, if I do say so myself.) Saronno left, and I was totally fine. Got along with everyone there. Had a fantastic time. Hope to see all the players of the night again in a similar setting.

Before I accepted Saronno's invitation, though, I was prepared to call myself socially awkward. I'd even begun a post describing myself as such and outlining all the ways in which I'd changed that made me feel like I was the social reject.

But, now? I'm not thinking so much in terms of my morphing into a socially awkward woman in her mid twenties as I am thinking of me fucking putting myself out there. Trying to meet new people. Failing at times, perhaps. Succeeding at others, perhaps.

Attending social events and trying to meet people on your own is a scary proposition.

I really have nothing more profound to say on the subject.


* I have to admit, I primarily went to see a boy. The boy was not there. The boy does not yet get a name.
** The host is the aforementioned boy. He still doesn't get a name.
*** Both completely okay by me, by the way.
**** "Semi" because I don't really blame him.
***** I'm saying right now I'd be totally addicted if given the opportunity. That shit rocks. And, no, spending $400-500 on that shit is not an option for opportunity for this chica.

Once and For All: The Serial Killer

Even when I agreed to meet him with that "Oh, sure, maybe sometime..." that's so easy on the Internet, I wasn't exactly excited by the idea. Citing a general disdain for the dating world in general, I'd deleted my online profile and backed out of other dates for the same week, but I couldn't find a defensible reason to cancel with him when I found an actual meeting fast-approaching.

I agreed to meet him at Starbucks, and we had a tentative plan for a movie following that, if we were both so inclined. By the time the day arrived, I was downright opposed to going. Again, though, finding no justifiable excuse, I resigned myself to fulfilling my obligation.

Shit. I'm supposed to meet him in 10 minutes. It's too late to back out now. Shit, shit, shit.

As I was gathering my things to walk out the door, he called to confirm the agreed-upon meeting place. His voice made me shudder. I went back inside to make sure I'd left Roommate all the pertinent details regarding him and our date. Before laying eyes on the guy, I knew I'd already discovered his epithet: The Serial Killer.

In person, Serial Killer was very nice. Had a bit of a stutter. Was seriously, seriously obsessed with music. But completely amicable. Jebus, self, I thought. Get yourself together. This guy is way too nice to be a serial killer.

Um, Ted Bundy, anyone?

When we finished our drinks, we drove (separately) to a theater and bought tickets to a movie of his choosing.[1] We had a beer or two while waiting for the film to start. It was here that Serial Killer told me he sometimes attends one of the few goth nights in D.C. clubs and suggested I join him sometime. Glancing down at my brightly-colored top and newly-pink-for-spring toenails, I told him I didn't think it would be my scene.

After the movie, in the dimly-lit parking lot of the theater, he asked if I would like to see him again. Noting my surroundings, I agreed, and we parted ways. I drove behind him until I got caught by a light. Initially relieved at the distance this put between us, after a short while I became more than a little paranoid that he was somehow suddenly behind me. I actually drove out of my way to ensure that no one was following me before I went home.

For our next date, he suggested hanging out at his place or mine. Still not comfortable with the idea of him having my address, I agreed to go to him. I arrived on time and walked into his sparsely-furnished apartment not long after he'd returned from helping with a Habitat house. Jebus, self, I thought as I listened to him excitedly describe his day of volunteering, give this guy a break. It must just be his voice that creeps you out. He can't help having a creepy voice. What kind of serial killer contributes to his community like that?

Um, John Wayne Gacy, anyone?

After we discussed our days, Serial Killer handed me a stack of DVDs. I pulled out several I hadn't seen, and, of those, he recommended Kids.

-- <rant>Wait a second. Kids? Of the 60 or so movies in your possession, you recommend, for viewing on your second date, one that involves a bunch of teenagers and pre-teens passing HIV to one another like it's a pack of Skittles or something? Two for two with the bad [2] movie selections, buddy. Two for Two. </rant>--

After that painful hour and a half, I suggested we go grab some sushi. I offered to drive, already devising my escape plan before we rose from his uncomfortable futon.

The sushi was delicious, and the conversation was, remarkably, fairly light and fun. Despite a relatively early hour, I announced I was tired when I dropped him off and avoided a kiss by throwing my hand up between us in an awkward little-kid kind of wave before heading home.

For date three (yes, there was a date three...), Serial Killer suggested a couple of other movies, both of which were sequels and neither of which held any interest for me. I countered with the suggestion we go see Bodies, which ended up being awesome (despite his somewhat inappropriate comments about genitalia throughout the exhibition).

After we viewed enough bodies and I held a human heart and brain (he declined. Fancy that), he mentioned being hungry (fancy that), and we ended up in Old Town for a bite to eat and a stroll along the waterfront. The evening was nice, and we hung out for a bit before I dropped him at the Metro and headed home (less worried this time that he was secretly following me).

That was something like a month ago now. He's been asking for another date, and I've successfully avoided agreeing because I've been legitimately busy with a variety of things. The next two weekends have pretty much already taken care of themselves in terms of my not being available.

Before I wrote this (and poured obsessively over the serial killer articles on Wiki pretty much all day today), I thought I was being too hard on the guy. Obviously, no. Something about him creeps me out, and even if it is more pronounced when I'm not around him, there's really no reason for me to keep subjecting myself to the agony that precedes these meetings.

My conundrum is this: What can I say to a guy who seriously creeps me out that will let him know once and for all that I am not interested in dating him without making him stalk me out and really earn his sobriquet?


[1] The fact that he picked a movie this terrible is somehow more disturbing to me than the fact that he picked a movie about a serial killer. I'm not sure what that says about me, really. [Up]
[2] That's not to say I think Kids was a bad movie. It's just not a good date movie. [Up]

A Short Story

<short story> NRA Guy is dating New Girl. Belle is, for some retarded, unknown*, fucking anger-inducing reason, upset by this information. </short story>

* Well, it's not entirely unknown, actually. Last week, in a drunken late-night message, NRA told me he loved me. That he was in love with me. Being that I'm a silly, silly girl (who has been talking to him since last month... I totally asked for this, I know), I couldn't stop myself from thinking all kinds of things. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

First Responder: In Case of Emergency, Vamp

One Thursday night a few weeks ago, I'd managed to get myself into bed at a reasonable hour and was deep in REM when the phone rang. I felt around the bed for the handset and answered without opening my eyes to check the caller ID.

Belle: [mumbles] Hello?
LADirtyDisco: Hey... Were you asleep?
Belle: A little*... what's up?
LADirtyDisco: Sorry, but wake up. You'll definitely want to hear this...
Belle: What's going on?
LADirtyDisco: Sister and I were just talking, and we realized we know the perfect guy for you...

My friend went on to tell me a little about First Responder. He's 30, has a "good" (and oh-so-D.C.) job, is originally from Texas, went to school in the South, etc., etc. My eyes still closed, I remembered a similar notification of said 'perfect guy' via e-mail some months past. This time, LADirtyDisco was insistent that I contact him. I agreed I would, hung up, and made my way back to dreamland.

The next day, First Responder and I exchanged a few e-mails -- fun, flirtatious, and relatively light in content. He asked for my number, promising "a drunk dial or two" in return. I probably should've withheld because he put it in those terms, but I figured I might as well. This guy came with trusted references, right?

Even though I kept officially (and somewhat unsuccessfully) declaring myself out of the dating pool, and even though I typically try to keep my expectations to a minimum, I'd gotten a little hopeful at the prospect of meeting First Responder. Aside from one woeful setup arranged by a distant cousin many moons ago, I'd never been on a blind date that came with recommendations. Guys from the Internets hadn't proven particularly viable, but a guy my good friend knows and likes and thinks would be good with me? Now that had potential... Might as well get the ball rolling soon, right?

First Responder called as Roommate and I were returning from the Nats game that night. We spoke for about 15 minutes. He was drunk. I was nothing of the sort. Still, the conversation was good, perhaps even great. He seemed to be an entertaining drunk, at least. Toward the end of it, he suggested meeting up that night. I declined, telling him we were on different levels, and suggesting we could another time. I refrained from voicing my concern that he'd get his drunk ass to my place and start working toward a hookup.**

Our conversation ended with him telling me he'd call when he woke up and we could figure out how to make me have "the best day ever." I hate to admit it, but I liked the way he was thinking. I was even more excited and began to contemplate blowing off date number two with The Minarchist, which I'd planned for the following evening and about which I was not incredibly excited.

Aside from a missed call from First Responder in the wee a.m., I didn't receive the promised call that Saturday. Instead, we exchanged several very flirtatious texts (initiated by me in response to his later drunk call) throughout the day. I kept my date with The Minarchist fairly short.

When I returned home, the texting with First Responder resumed, and soon I'd invited him over to share a bottle of wine at my place. He showed up around midnight. We sipped our wine and chatted for about thirty minutes before his phone rang. I was distracted by the suddenly-rambunctious Greatest Cat of All Time, so I only heard the latter part of his conversation.

First Responder: You can't be doing this to me... Seriously?... You have NO money? ... Where are you?... Did you check your pockets?... Nothing? [sighs] Okay...

Belle: [Thinks] He's getting the emergency opt-out call! What the fuck? What the hell have I done in thirty minutes to make him vamp?

I did a rapid mental assessment of the conversation we'd had in the last half hour. From my recollection, nothing was amiss. The dude had seen a picture of me before he came over. My hair was a bit shorter and a different shade at the time, but there have been no other noteworthy alterations in my appearance since. So what the hell? Was he really just going to skedaddle like that 30 minutes into it? I've had horrible dates that lasted much, much longer.

First Responder: Sit tight. I'll pick you up... I'm not going to give you a time frame. I'll be there when I am... Okay... Okay. [Hangs up]

After hearing the end of his conversation, I thought maybe it really was a friend in need. Okay, so he's not rushing out. That's... something, right?... I wasn't entirely convinced, but I plowed gamely on.

He stayed for a bit longer than an hour after the call, during which time "we" continued "our" conversation. We talked about his work. We talked about his educational background. We talked about his fraternity. We talked about his friends. We talked about his family. We talked about his hobbies.

Noticing a trend here?

Shortly after his "friend in need" called a second time, First Responder made his exit. I walked out with him to retrieve my ever-so-important visitor parking pass, and he gave me a strange sideways hug** accompanied by the obligatory line about "doing this again sometime."

Back inside, I uncorked another bottle of wine and sat back to evaluate the night's events. I decided that if he expressed further interest I'd go out with him... this time on a real date. Overall, though, I admitted to myself and started working toward accepting the fact that he probably just wasn't that into me.

When I relayed my impressions of the night to LADirtyDisco, she was, I believe, a little mortified and a little pissed. She waited a few days (at my request) to see how he played things before sending him an e-mail. See their correspondence below.

From: LADirtyDisco
To: First Responder

Okay First Responder, what is the deal? Did you really do the whole emergency fake out "Oh No! My friend needs my help!" blah blah blah routine on my girlfriend? WTF?

From: First Responder
To: LADirtyDisco

LMAO - whoah, you guys are like a frickin old wives club!

That was soooooo not a fake out. Had to go rescue a bro up in Gtown; ended up getting into his liquor stash when I got him home. I totally hung out for like an hour! Helped her find her cat and everything! AND drank some fruity wine she hated! I think I did goddamn good. :P

- FR

I could try to save face by going on about how I don't need a 30-year-old who still talks about his frat hazing with deep, sincere fondness and longing. Or that dating a guy who drinks so much on weekend nights that he's useless for the following days is not a scenario I want to revisit. Or how I was completely turned off when he talked only about himself, failing to take the simplest cues to inquire about me. Or how he was too short. Or too work-oriented.

But, really, none of that matters. It all comes down to this: the guy was just not into me.

Admitting that delivers a different kind of freedom than one might expect.



* I'm not sure why this is typically my affirmative response to that particular question.
** The sideways hug was, at least partially, due to the fact that I had finally recaptured Greatest Cat of All Time and was holding him in one arm.

Rode Hard and Put Up Wet

The Misogynist parked his car in the last empty spot in the lot. It was early yet, but the two bars in the strip had obviously pulled in fair-sized crowds. Stepping out of the passenger side, I was hit with a cool breeze of ocean air that reminded me of home (minus the unbearable humidity, of course). I felt relaxed and ready for what the night might hold.

When I'd first agreed to accompany him to Ocean City, The Misogynist mentioned a few clubs as options for a night's entertainment. Picturing myself put to shame by what I imagine are his infinitely more skillful dance moves, I asked if he knew of any dives. It had been a while since I'd been to a bar that didn't thrive on pretense and pomp. I longed for an establishment where I could sit down, order a beer, and strike up a conversation with a stranger that didn't devolve into inane talk about who does what for a living.

We found just the place in a sort of happy accident. The Misogynist had been to one of the bars in the lot a few times, but I wasn't thrilled at the prospect when he told me it was a bit upscale. Glancing down at my much-loved but ratty green 'Roos and distressed jeans and up at the well-dressed patrons enjoying cigars and single-malts, I knew it wasn't going to be my first choice.

We never made it over to the upscale place. I glanced through the open door of the first bar as we approached, and I knew I'd found my dive. The crowd was still pretty thin, and there were two open stools beckoning from the bar as we stepped through the door. Two middle-aged women sat to my right; I assumed they were lesbians. An older couple sat to the left of The Misogynist. Within five minutes, we were engaged in friendly conversation and banter with both parties.

If I'd met them separately, neither of the women seated next to me would have immediately struck me as a lesbian. Seeing them together, though, I didn't really take time to doubt my hasty assessment. I'd guess the two were in their mid-thirties to early-forties. As Brunette, the woman to my immediate right, sipped on her beer, I noticed she had on a little makeup, had a decent haircut, and wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her friend Blond was larger, wore more makeup and jewelry, and had some crazy things going on with her bottle-blond hair. She wore a button-down shirt and a short jean skirt.

As the night progressed, Blond grew a bit rowdy. She spent most of her time harassing the much-younger bartenders and kitchen staff. At one point I heard her tell our server, "If you like screwing older fat chicks, I'll take you home tonight." When Brunette mentioned her husband at home, I made a mental note to figure out exactly when, where, and why my gaydar malfunctioned. I consoled myself with the fact that I wasn't at all alone in my initial and faulty assumption. As Blond continued with her ill-advised methods of seduction, Brunette lamented the fact that the pair were always mistaken for a couple.

Brunette: The bartender told me we look like lesbians.
Belle: What?!?*
Brunette: [Motions toward Blond] We started going out together once a week several years ago. We had a friend who was in an accident and needed care, so we went to her place every Thursday on a schedule. Afterward, we would go out. We were physically and emotionally drained from everything with our friend, and we were always dressed like hell. But we noticed that guys always made it a point to come talk to us. Finally we started asking them why. They told us it was because they thought we were lesbians.**
[Belle's eyes widen]
Brunette: When we came in here tonight, I asked the bartender if we looked like lesbians, and he said, 'yeah.'
Belle: Wow. [Glances at bartender] It really is his first night, isn't it?
Brunette: Yeah. He'll learn.

Eventually, Blond and Brunette headed out, as did the couple The Misogynist was talking with. The woman who next occupied the seat next to The Misogynist was dressed like a teenager, but her caked-on makeup did nothing to hide the wrinkles that belied her age. She was friendly and engaging, if a little drunk, and I found myself liking her at the same time I felt pity for her.

When she excused herself for the ladies', I told The Misogynist she looked like she'd been "rode hard and put up wet." He agreed.

From the conversations we had with her, it was pretty apparent that she spent much (if not most) of her time in bars. And I wondered if that was all she had.

Having been a bit of a bar-fly in my past, I know that you can meet lots of cool people and have lots of fun times hanging out in bars. But that experience has also left me with the knowledge that most of the friendships formed in that setting aren't lasting or true. And that most of the fun times are hard to remember, at best, and often accompanied by a good deal of grief. And that eventually the whole experience will likely come to light as more than a little bit empty.

The whole thing made me wonder how long is too long to keep up the constant partying? When does (or should) that start to matter less than the other things in your life? Or are some people really happy with such an arrangement? Am I just projecting on the last woman we met?

I didn't feel sorry for the other people with whom we'd shared part of our evening. All of them were at least a little bit drunk, out looking to have a good time, just like The Misogynist and I were. All of them had ridiculous things to say. (Blond to Belle: You're making The Misogynist eat seafood?? You're going to have to swallow tonight!)

But I didn't get the same feeling from those folks as I did from this woman. She looked like she was trying to have fun, and maybe she was, but it was quite depressing.

Was the difference that she was alone? That she seemed to be grasping at her faded youth? That it seemed her life was one big bar crawl?

Or was it that I was scared I'll end up like her... alone and living for my next drunk, trying to look half my age and adding years in the process?


* The shock on my part was not feigned, but it was more that a person who works for tips was ballsy enough to make such a statement to a person potentially delivering said tips.
** The straight guy fascination with lesbians still kind of baffles me. You don't really want lesbians, do you? Wouldn't bi girls or women who experiment be more, erm, accommodating? True lesbians are pretty much sexually useless to a straight guy, right?