Day Who Even Knows . . . 29?

Guys.  Shit.

So.  In just under a month, I have successfully failed (oxymoron?) at procuring a man to accompany me to this wedding tomorrow afternoon.  I get it: I am not a millionaire, I am not gorgeous, and I am not cutting edge cool.  But seriously.  You mean to tell me that in the city of Cleveland, there isn't someone relatively compatible with me who would be up for spending 6 hours with me?  (Answer: Right.)  That is a solid FAIL!

It's been a pretty rough week at work, physically, mentally, emotionally.  Everyone in my classroom got our asses handed to us this week by a group of 10-year-olds.  It gets kind of lonely sometimes coming home to no one, doing things with no one, sounding off to no one.  Don't worry, my parents are extra amenable to me calling them all the time crying about my life, but there are points where I feel like they probably just want me to get my shit together, and last weekend when I was home, my dad DID make the obvious point of stating that he'd like grandkids really soon please.  Dad.  Ask Rachel.  I'm undatable.

I guess I did it wrong over the past four weeks (and, I should add, also didn't update the blog every day, due to . . . NO material).  I went out as much as I could handle, I was nice, I flirted, I did it for the blog.  And in that time, various people contacted me regarding the project, both male and female.  What follows is a sampling of some of the feedback I received.  With this being the last day of the project and all, I figured it was no holds barred.  And if you contacted me, you kind of asked for it.  Names have been removed to preserve anonymity, but rest assured that I am not making any of this up.

(From a guy I knew at John Carroll:)

Hey Lex [I HAVE NEVER GONE BY "LEX"],
We may have hooked up in college [(A) DID YOU READ THE DISCLAIMER; (B) YOU WERE NOT A GOOD KISSER], but let me tell you i am a really great wedding date/dancer:) i read your blog and was smiling the whole time. It was great. I know you are serious in it so I wish you good luck in your search, and if you decide to break all your rules i unfortunately am not sorta single [BECAUSE YOU ARE MARRIED.] and definitely geographically unavailable [BECAUSE YOU LIVE IN NORTH CAROLINA, BUT MAINLY, BECAUSE YOU ARE MARRIED]. Hope all is well write me back and let me know what you are up to besides trying to find a guy to lose in 10 days.
Sincerely,
Blast from the past,
[X]

(From another guy I knew in college and haven't talked to since sophomore year:)

Alexandra, 

Your wedding date search post appeared up on the feed last week. After reading your blog posts (intensely interesting), I debated contacting you. So here I am.

As we were never particularly close in college [AND BY THAT, YOU MEAN, WE TALKED MAYBE ONCE] and haven’t been in touch recently, I thought it might help to go over a few points about myself: [GOOD, BY ALL MEANS, SEND ME YOUR RESUME.]

Basics: Same major as you, working on MBA, nice job, financial analyst.

The superficial: Recently got a new car and I own a small condo in [X] (it’s a great school district; why did that matter to a 20-something, childless, single male? Resale value). [WHO SAYS THIS.]

Physical: Started slimming down (no particular goal, just a happenstance of working out), get to the gym 3 times/week mostly for cardio but more recently have gotten into lifting and weights [UHHH . . . ]

Bonus: Politically liberal, quite a collection of $1 books from library book sales (mostly about investing)

Lastly, as the event in question is a wedding, you will obviously need a dance partner. I am ready, reluctantly willing, and somewhat able to fill this role. While my dance skills are questionable, I took the liberty of listing some references to attest to my dance history. Mind you these individuals have not seen me get down in years, so they’re reviews may not accurately reflect my current, dancing-like-an-idiot abilities:

[X], [X]

I am not asking to be your wedding date. However, I am hoping for the same opportunity as your internet strangers [I AM NOT TAKING INTERNET STRANGERS TO A WEDDING??]: a chance for us to “mingle,” be evaluated as to whether I am wedding date worthy, and ultimately exploited anonymously via the world wide web.

Lastly, in my personal opinion, you should not have to hide the fact that you own a bunny. That’s just plain wrong and any man should be able to accept you and your rabbit for who you two are. [I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ABOUT THIS, EXCEPT -- COME ON.]

Regards,
[X]

PS. Sorry for this long-winded message.

[YOU MEAN, YOUR RESUME. IT IS AT THIS POINT THAT I BURY MY HEAD INTO A PILLOW AND SCREAM]

Other tips from friends included:

-- "Might I suggest spending a Sunday at Lowes or Home Depot (pretend you have a project even if you just buy a pack of seeds or something, tons of single guys there and you already know they have money, are semi-responsible, and probably own a house)."

-- "Go to a gay club and scout out single straight guys.  Single straight guys looking for girls know that lots of girls go their with their gay guy friends, and they figure their odds are really good if they're the only straight guy in the entire building."

-- "Go to a sports bar and talk to guys about the game.  Ask them questions about it so they'll think you're interested in what you're interested in."

I didn't do any of those last three, nor did I take any of the above guys up on their offers, basically because . . . definitely not . . . but I feel like all in all, I gave it a valiant effort.  At the end of the day, I remain convinced that it's more fulfilling to wait for what's right than settle for what's okay.  And maybe I'll have to change the title of this blog, or start a new one, but let's be honest people, the dating adventures are just beginning.  If nothing else, I've chronicled the misadventures of dating as an adult woman, and laughed at the (real) shit that's happened.  I've learned a bit about myself, and, frankly, I've learned what I'm looking for and, at least, how I DON'T want to go about finding it.  Maybe I'm not smart enough.  (Actually, no, I am definitely smart enough.)  Maybe I'm not pretty enough.  Maybe I'm not fancy enough.  But it can't be said that I didn't give it the old honest effort.  I watched "My Best Friend's Wedding" last night for the 350th time (but not in many years), alone, on the couch, mid crying episode, thinking it'd be a fun, light, girl movie (turns out: that movie's really f-ing depressing), and Rupert Everett's line at the end, at the wedding, is what I will leave you with:

[As he moves across the dance floor towards a despondent and single Julia Roberts, sexy gay man that he is] "What the hell.  Life goes on.  Maybe there won't be marriage . . . maybe there won't be sex . . . but, by God, there'll be dancing."

Day 21: Reflecting on a CAB

In light of my recent Facebook references to "CAB," it seems timely to tell a little story that supports the reasons women give out fake phone numbers.

A few weeks ago, I decided to drive to the beach on a Sunday afternoon.  I wanted to go by myself and just relax.  And to be honest, I didn't really give a shit who thought what about it.  It's what I wanted to do.

Never one to mind doing things alone (Miss Independent! She's got her own thing!), I grabbed a pile of magazines, my iPod, a blanket, and my stainless steel, BPA-free, environmentally friendly -- duh -- water bottle and headed to spend a few hours completely checked out.  Since, as we all remember, I've never been to the ocean, a little trip to Lake Erie is going to have to do.

So I'm laying there, on my stomach, sunglasses on, headphones in, donning a not-even-close-to-slutty bathing suit, minding my own business and reading a lovely issue of Vogue.  This random guy walks up to my towel, squats down, and says, "Hi, I'm Bob, mind if I talk to you for a minute?"  Uh, okay Bob, I guess.  "What did you say your name was?"  Bob, I haven't told you my name, you can't use that line on your SECOND line.  Okay, then third line: "So, do you have a boyfriend or anything?"  BOB.  You may never have been appropriately taught that that is a completely unacceptable thing to say to someone within 30 seconds.  Caught off guard, I told him, "Uhhh, no..."  LEARN HOW TO LIE, ALEXANDRA.

Bob proceeds to invite himself to remain in his squat, like 6 inches from my face, all the while I haven't removed my sunglasses, gotten off my belly, or taken out the remaining earphone to actually fully hear him.  Bob should hang out with Parma and enroll in our Social Skills classes held weekly at our Center.  Bob goes on and on for like 10 minutes, asking me where I work, where I live, what I like to do for fun, what restaurants are my favorites, etc., and I continue to give him polite yet mildly irritated one-word answers.  Bob, I came here to relax and have time to myself.  I'd like to reiterate that a woman enjoying time alone is NOT the SD that she wants to be approached.

But wait, you ask yourself.  Aren't you doing this blog to find out if men DO approach women and initiate things?  Why yes, I respond, I am.  But, I would argue that the key difference lies in the fact that there are certain social signals which should play out in order for both parties to subtly but certainly indicate their mutual interest.  Settings, surroundings, all those intangibles that amount to a clear, invited opportunity to engage with someone.  Everything about this just read: please go away.


Bob, still squatting, asked for my number, and, doing it for the blog, I figured, I suppose I'll give it to him?  In a poor tactical move, I'd left my phone laying out next to my magazine, in plain sight, so he says, "Here, give me your number, then I'll call your phone right now and you can save mine."  (In hindsight, this clearly should have been Giant Red Flag About Bob #27: he's got this number-swapping bit down to an inescapable science, because he's obviously been fooled by girls who possess social skills before!)  At any rate, I figure he'll never actually use my number and call, especially since he could (right??) see that I wasn't into this at all (i.e., one earphone STILL in).  Nope!  In 2 days, he calls and leaves a message.  Then he texts.  Regretting my decision to give a complete beach stranger/creeper my phone number, I decide that I'd rather not end up in 3000 pieces in a back alley dumpster, so I ignore it and chalk it up to bad decision-making.  A week later, I get this HORRIFYING voicemail from Bob.  "Hi Alexandra.  Just wanted to tell you that you are a cunt-ass bitch ("CAB"), and you're ugly, and you're fat, and no guys talked to you at the beach anyway (Bob, that was my hope).  And I just want to tell you that karma's a bitch, and what goes around comes around, and I'm always at that beach.  So I hope I never see you there.  And you better hope I never see you there."


Several legitimately terrifying voicemails later, and after repeated pleas from my coworkers that I please report this potentially murderous ass-clown to the police, he went away, thank God, but not without two remnants: (1) lesson learned to NEVER give your real number to someone who asks for it.  Apparently it is also encouraged to lie about being single.  Although I generally never (a) lie; or (b) fake it . . . "it" = anything; and (2) CAB is probably the best, most bad-ass acronym with which to refer to someone, mainly for its outrageously high obnoxious value.  I'm not fond at all of the first word in the acronym, and actually, the entire saying makes no literal sense, but it'll be like reclaiming derogatory slurs and empowering your respective discriminated population with them.  Consider CAB reclaimed.  And used on Bob.