Yesterday, I mentioned the crazy horse lady. This reminded me of another story that happened at the same museum, a few years earlier.
It was another first date, with a different girl. The exhibit was about ancient Egypt, and this girl and I were really hitting it off, looking over various artefacts and attentively absorbing every minute detail.
Seriously, at one point, I was decoding hieroglyphics. Which was a skill I had at one point. People nearby were asking me questions about them. And I knew the answers. And the girl I was with? She thought this was cool.
I know, right?
It was a very good date. One of the best dates I have ever been on, before or since.
The crowning moment, though, was near the end of the exhibit. There was this giant stone block with drilled holes running through the bottom half. These tubes were for wooden staves, so that people (slaves) could carry the stone block. I knew this, but maybe the average person, seeing the block without those wooden poles, might understandably not realize this.
An old woman, who had seen me speak about the hieroglyphics and must have assumed I worked for the museum, asked me what these holes were for. And I told her.
"Those? Oh. They're actually ancient Glory Holes."
"What?"
"Yeah. In fact, I think they're the first known appearance of a glory hole. You can see how primitive they were, originally."
My date laughed. Which was pretty awesome. The old woman, however, had no idea what the hell a 'glory hole' was, and there was no way in hell I was telling her. I have this private fantasy, though, that she got home and either googled it, or (better yet, in my cruel imagination) asked her grandson.
Good times.
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
"Kind of a Dealbreaker"
Every time I mention dating, my blog gets a bunch of "ugly" hits. It would seem, in fact, that most of my readers don't much like me talking about dating, or women, or anything of that sort. But I like to tell funny stories, and I've found many of my funniest involve the fairer sex.
But until today, I hadn't shared one of the funniest.
It happened a little over a year ago. I had been talking to a girl online, and she seemed rather interesting and intelligent through our chats. She did work in a university lab, looking after and raising the test animals. She was, and is, the only girl I have ever gone on a date with who worked with monkeys as part of her day job, and for this reason alone, there will always be a special place in my heart for her.
We along well online, joking and trading stories. She seemed interested in the fact that I had a history degree, and assured me that she "loved" history. She even suggested we go to the new exhibit at the museum, which I thought was awesome. This was a mistake, however, because around three miliseconds after my money left my pocket and the tickets were in hand, I realized she had lied about loving museums as a way to impress me.
The girl could not locate egypt on a map, had no idea where mesopotamia was, and "knew" that Rome "went extinct, like, a couple of centuries ago." I nearly had an aneurysm on the spot. And it didn't get much better. You know a date is going bad when the highlight is talking to a sixty year old woman about Nordic chess pieces while your date plays with the makeup in the "kiddy korner".
Anyways, the date and I eventually found ourselves in the natural history wing of the museum, and things were looking much better. She mostly just looked at the stuffed moose and woolly mammoths. We were chatting pleasantly, and I had begun to put the awfulness of the main exhibit out of my mind, when we walked by a large stuffed horse. She began to go on, at length, about how much she loved horses.
And I mean at length. Did you know that people apparently think horse shoes are interesting? Or how to feed horses? Or cleaning up after them? I get that these are important things... but they are not interesting in any way. Let this be a rule: you should never discuss the bowel movement of horses on a first date.
Save it for the second date, ladies!
Anyways, I listened, made comments to show I was interested, and did all the usual polite first date stuff. When she asked me how I felt about horses, though, I started making jokes. Because this is what I do.
"Horses? I'm pretty sure horses eat people."
"Horses do not eat people, Dave."
"Really? Ever see a homeless person on a farm?"
This conversation was my crowning achievement. I could live another sixty years, and nothing will ever beat that conversation I had with a girl whose name I have since forgotten. I want my tombstone to mention it.
She didn't laugh. In fact, she looked like she was offended, which perplexed me. Were she, you know, normal, she'd be on the floor laughing her ass off. Because, in case you don't know, I'm hilarious. Despite this, I kept on talking. Because, hey, I was on a roll!
"Think about it. I'm sure horses are carnivorous. I mean, you've been on a farm, right?"
"Yeah..."
"You ever notice how, sometimes, chickens just.... disappear?"
"Yeah...."
"Horse got 'em."
I looked at her, and she began to clue in that I was joking. But still, she did not laugh. At all. Instead, we walked in silence for about a minute, before she asked:
"Dave? Do you really dislike horses?"
I decided to be honest. "No. I'm just nervous around them."
"Well. A guy not liking horses is kind of a dealbreaker for me."
Long pause.
"Fair enough."
And that was that.
But until today, I hadn't shared one of the funniest.
It happened a little over a year ago. I had been talking to a girl online, and she seemed rather interesting and intelligent through our chats. She did work in a university lab, looking after and raising the test animals. She was, and is, the only girl I have ever gone on a date with who worked with monkeys as part of her day job, and for this reason alone, there will always be a special place in my heart for her.
We along well online, joking and trading stories. She seemed interested in the fact that I had a history degree, and assured me that she "loved" history. She even suggested we go to the new exhibit at the museum, which I thought was awesome. This was a mistake, however, because around three miliseconds after my money left my pocket and the tickets were in hand, I realized she had lied about loving museums as a way to impress me.
The girl could not locate egypt on a map, had no idea where mesopotamia was, and "knew" that Rome "went extinct, like, a couple of centuries ago." I nearly had an aneurysm on the spot. And it didn't get much better. You know a date is going bad when the highlight is talking to a sixty year old woman about Nordic chess pieces while your date plays with the makeup in the "kiddy korner".
Anyways, the date and I eventually found ourselves in the natural history wing of the museum, and things were looking much better. She mostly just looked at the stuffed moose and woolly mammoths. We were chatting pleasantly, and I had begun to put the awfulness of the main exhibit out of my mind, when we walked by a large stuffed horse. She began to go on, at length, about how much she loved horses.
And I mean at length. Did you know that people apparently think horse shoes are interesting? Or how to feed horses? Or cleaning up after them? I get that these are important things... but they are not interesting in any way. Let this be a rule: you should never discuss the bowel movement of horses on a first date.
Save it for the second date, ladies!
Anyways, I listened, made comments to show I was interested, and did all the usual polite first date stuff. When she asked me how I felt about horses, though, I started making jokes. Because this is what I do.
"Horses? I'm pretty sure horses eat people."
"Horses do not eat people, Dave."
"Really? Ever see a homeless person on a farm?"
This conversation was my crowning achievement. I could live another sixty years, and nothing will ever beat that conversation I had with a girl whose name I have since forgotten. I want my tombstone to mention it.
She didn't laugh. In fact, she looked like she was offended, which perplexed me. Were she, you know, normal, she'd be on the floor laughing her ass off. Because, in case you don't know, I'm hilarious. Despite this, I kept on talking. Because, hey, I was on a roll!
"Think about it. I'm sure horses are carnivorous. I mean, you've been on a farm, right?"
"Yeah..."
"You ever notice how, sometimes, chickens just.... disappear?"
"Yeah...."
"Horse got 'em."
I looked at her, and she began to clue in that I was joking. But still, she did not laugh. At all. Instead, we walked in silence for about a minute, before she asked:
"Dave? Do you really dislike horses?"
I decided to be honest. "No. I'm just nervous around them."
"Well. A guy not liking horses is kind of a dealbreaker for me."
Long pause.
"Fair enough."
And that was that.
Foolishness:
Oh, God, do I love ginger girls.
I mean, I love most pretty girls of all races and hair colours. I'm not really that picky - I've dated plenty of brunettes and blondes in my lifetime. Hair colour is a very minor thing, and I am fully aware of this. When I think of "Dream girls", hair colour is very low on that priority list.
Be that as it may, I do find myself distracted by ginger girls. Oh god, do I get distracted. I really cease to be myself, and instead turn into an even more awkward lad. It's terrible, it really is.
Thursday, for example. I was walking down Government street, threading my way through the throngs of tourists and avoiding the outstretched hands of street people. I was crossing the street near the Empress hotel when out of the corner of my eye I saw a twenty-something ginger girl talking to her grandmother or something. They were sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, within a few feet of a beautiful kilted blonde fiddler.
Most guys passing by were enamoured by the fiddler. I had my music on, so I don't know how good her playing was, but I have a sneaky suspicion people weren't so interested in her playing. Blonde hair, low-cut shirt, great boobs, short skirt, beautiful legs. I don't blame any of them But I barely gave her a second glance. Because I had my eyes on one of the most beautiful people I've seen in months.
Light red hair, the kind that has wisps of blonde in it but isn't quite "strawberry blonde". A face covered in freckles. Glasses. Small frame, no-nonsense capri jeans, and a plaid blouse. Earbuds around her neck.
Animals have a "flight or fight" reaction in stressful situations. It's how they instinctively respond in times of panic. For human males, in what could be termed "cross-gender social interactions", they have what could be called a "Game or Lame" reaction.
In short, do they swallow their nervousness, man up, and bring their "game"? Or do they shrivel up like a little girl and wind up being "Lame"?
I wish, wish, wish I went with "Game". Although, I suppose if I had, I wouldn't have any blog material. But that would be a problem I wouldn't mind having.
Unfortunately, I went with "lame". And I went with "Lame" with the exuberance and passion of a hipster trying to find a new band ("I listened to that band before their lead singer was even born, man. Their In Utero album is fucking intense").
I just stood there, in the middle of the street, with my jaw agape. I looked her up, and then down. And then up again. I even looked sideways, once or twice. Passers-by had to detour around me, with more than a few looking at me to make sure I wasn't on drugs, or having some sort of epileptic episode.
While ginger girl was oblivious to all of this ogling, her grandmother (unfortunately) was not. She thought it was funny as hell, and kept smiling at me. It was, however, an encouraging smile, and this broke my trance. After all, if the girl's grandmother liked me, maybe I had a shot? I had to think of an approach. Maybe I should grab a flower, and tell her it was for the most beautiful girl on the island? Or ask to buy her coffee? Or-
I got pushed out of the way by some burly dude with a Canucks jersey. I stumbled off the curb like some guy getting pushed around on the beach in those old Charles Atlas comics. As I stumbled, my ipod flew out of my hand and skittered across the cobblestones, and as I dove to grab it, my cell phone, keys, and change spilled out of the pockets of my hoodie.
As people walked by, I scrambled to pick up all my stuff, awkwardly looking over at ginger girl. Who had, by this point, noticed me. And was giving me an "aw, you poor thing" smile of sympathy.
I knew at this point it was probably not going to work out. No "How I met your mother" story begins with "well, she felt so sorry for me, looking like a fool on the curb, that she gave me her number".
I awkwardly scooped everything up, giving her an embarrassed glance and a nervous shrug. I caught the eye of the grandmother, who was laughing quietly under her breath. As my music had stopped playing (I had dropped the ipod), I now realized the fiddling had ended - the fiddler had stopped playing and was watching me. This, somehow, made it all worse.
I blushed beat red, and decided "flight" was the best option. I power-walked away like a friggin' Gazelle, man.
I mean, I love most pretty girls of all races and hair colours. I'm not really that picky - I've dated plenty of brunettes and blondes in my lifetime. Hair colour is a very minor thing, and I am fully aware of this. When I think of "Dream girls", hair colour is very low on that priority list.
Be that as it may, I do find myself distracted by ginger girls. Oh god, do I get distracted. I really cease to be myself, and instead turn into an even more awkward lad. It's terrible, it really is.
Thursday, for example. I was walking down Government street, threading my way through the throngs of tourists and avoiding the outstretched hands of street people. I was crossing the street near the Empress hotel when out of the corner of my eye I saw a twenty-something ginger girl talking to her grandmother or something. They were sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, within a few feet of a beautiful kilted blonde fiddler.
Most guys passing by were enamoured by the fiddler. I had my music on, so I don't know how good her playing was, but I have a sneaky suspicion people weren't so interested in her playing. Blonde hair, low-cut shirt, great boobs, short skirt, beautiful legs. I don't blame any of them But I barely gave her a second glance. Because I had my eyes on one of the most beautiful people I've seen in months.
Light red hair, the kind that has wisps of blonde in it but isn't quite "strawberry blonde". A face covered in freckles. Glasses. Small frame, no-nonsense capri jeans, and a plaid blouse. Earbuds around her neck.
Animals have a "flight or fight" reaction in stressful situations. It's how they instinctively respond in times of panic. For human males, in what could be termed "cross-gender social interactions", they have what could be called a "Game or Lame" reaction.
In short, do they swallow their nervousness, man up, and bring their "game"? Or do they shrivel up like a little girl and wind up being "Lame"?
I wish, wish, wish I went with "Game". Although, I suppose if I had, I wouldn't have any blog material. But that would be a problem I wouldn't mind having.
Unfortunately, I went with "lame". And I went with "Lame" with the exuberance and passion of a hipster trying to find a new band ("I listened to that band before their lead singer was even born, man. Their In Utero album is fucking intense").
I just stood there, in the middle of the street, with my jaw agape. I looked her up, and then down. And then up again. I even looked sideways, once or twice. Passers-by had to detour around me, with more than a few looking at me to make sure I wasn't on drugs, or having some sort of epileptic episode.
While ginger girl was oblivious to all of this ogling, her grandmother (unfortunately) was not. She thought it was funny as hell, and kept smiling at me. It was, however, an encouraging smile, and this broke my trance. After all, if the girl's grandmother liked me, maybe I had a shot? I had to think of an approach. Maybe I should grab a flower, and tell her it was for the most beautiful girl on the island? Or ask to buy her coffee? Or-
I got pushed out of the way by some burly dude with a Canucks jersey. I stumbled off the curb like some guy getting pushed around on the beach in those old Charles Atlas comics. As I stumbled, my ipod flew out of my hand and skittered across the cobblestones, and as I dove to grab it, my cell phone, keys, and change spilled out of the pockets of my hoodie.
As people walked by, I scrambled to pick up all my stuff, awkwardly looking over at ginger girl. Who had, by this point, noticed me. And was giving me an "aw, you poor thing" smile of sympathy.
I knew at this point it was probably not going to work out. No "How I met your mother" story begins with "well, she felt so sorry for me, looking like a fool on the curb, that she gave me her number".
I awkwardly scooped everything up, giving her an embarrassed glance and a nervous shrug. I caught the eye of the grandmother, who was laughing quietly under her breath. As my music had stopped playing (I had dropped the ipod), I now realized the fiddling had ended - the fiddler had stopped playing and was watching me. This, somehow, made it all worse.
I blushed beat red, and decided "flight" was the best option. I power-walked away like a friggin' Gazelle, man.
Three Strikes
I'm on a dating site again, mostly just to kind of expand my options because I've kind of been a bit insular lately. The thing is, though, being on a dating site means that you get exposed to a lot of people who are nothing like you. But this is often coupled with the fact that you're on a dating site, and you sometimes just want responses - even if they're from people who are nothing at all like you.
Men are sharks on the hunt. We can't help it sometimes. But the "shotgun approach" is definitely popular on the sites, and it's something I try to avoid.
To keep that in mind, I have a simple rule - if a person gets three strikes against them from what they say in the profile, I don't talk to them. Not talking to them because of one or two things in their profile (unless they're really big moodkillers, like she's in prison or is a fan of Carrot Top) is a bit silly. But three is a good indicator that I won't get along with this person. Even if their profile picture is incredibly hot. It's served me well.
Here's just a sample of some of the things that I count as strikes, and a bit of the reasoning why. And, like spinal tap, this list goes to eleven:
Men are sharks on the hunt. We can't help it sometimes. But the "shotgun approach" is definitely popular on the sites, and it's something I try to avoid.
To keep that in mind, I have a simple rule - if a person gets three strikes against them from what they say in the profile, I don't talk to them. Not talking to them because of one or two things in their profile (unless they're really big moodkillers, like she's in prison or is a fan of Carrot Top) is a bit silly. But three is a good indicator that I won't get along with this person. Even if their profile picture is incredibly hot. It's served me well.
Here's just a sample of some of the things that I count as strikes, and a bit of the reasoning why. And, like spinal tap, this list goes to eleven:
- No Photo: No photo makes the guy in me a little nervous. It also shows that she's not really committed to it to actually upload something. I'm not looking for or expecting bombshells, but having no photo makes me assume the absolute worst. And that's no fun.
- Sex as an Interest: Guys are going to hit me for this, but girls that list "sex" as an interest get a strike against. Why? Because, while I love sex, I find that people that list it as an interest treat it as a be-all and end-all, and that's really not fun. Either that, or they're saying they love sex to attract guys (like the girls who say they're bisexual but aren't) - and girls that say they love something to attract others are not my idea of fun.
- Kids: Kids are a strike against, unfortunately. I mean, I love kids, and I'd date someone who had kids. But when someone has kids, I have to be a bit more considerate when entering into a dating situation with them - I have to have more in common. I don't want to enter into situation where I have to be responsible if it's just for someone I probably won't really connect with.
- Many Spelling Errors/Syntax Errors: One or two is fine. But if you have a lot, it's a strike against. This may sound stupid, but it's just like a resume - you're making a profile to reflect who you are, and if you're the type of person who doesn't really go over what you produce because you don't want to look bad in front of other people, you get a strike against.
- "I Love to Travel": I'm not talking about the people who say they enjoy travelling - who doesn't? I'm talking about the people who are 23 and have been to Australia, Thailand, South America, all over Europe, and that Denny's in Arizona that has the really good curly fries. It's a strike because, well, I'm not much of a traveller. And I'd hate to be an anchor.
- 420 Friendly: I don't do drugs. I have no problem if other people do, but someone who actively smokes pot enough to put it on a dating profile automatically earns a strike. Anyone who lists harder drugs are automatically deleted.
- Smoker: I dated a smoker once. She was very gross to kiss. I'd only ever date another smoker if she was awesome in every other way. So, smokers earn one strike. Maybe two.
- Bad Music: Yeah. Someone who has terrible taste in music earns a strike. But it has to be terrible. We're talking gangster rap, nickleback, emo punk, slipknot, stuff like that. Also in this category is the person who "loves all music". Because, when you love all music, you're actually saying you don't like music.
- Physical Issues: This is my catch all term for people who have a body that isn't really compatible with mine. ie, someone who is more than an inch or two taller than me, weighs a bit more than me, has some physical characteristic I find off-putting, etc. It's only one strike, because I'd date someone who was otherwise awesome even if she was an amazon. But anyone who says that physical appearance doesn't matter is a fucking liar.
- Short replies: What I mean here is, if I write a reply to her, and it's two or three paragraphs, I expect a paragraph back, at least. Not a text message. You can usually tell these people from their profiles, when they are unbelievably terse. It's a strike.
- Apologies: People that begin their profile with "I'm just checking out this site, don't really think it'll be useful" or something like that annoy me. People who apologize for some sort of character flaw they think they have annoy me (why apologize for your kids to people you've never met? I don't get it). So, yeah, strike.
another (mostly true) story of Newt's utter ineptitude:
It's a well known fact that I get distracted by redheads. They are, to put it simply, my kryptonite, and when a nerdy little red-headed girl walks by, especially one wearing glasses and a geeky threadless t-shirt, I am powerless to resist.
This is definitely a character flaw of mine, because really, it shouldn't matter what someone looks like on the outside, right? It's all about what's on the inside, and while I mostly believe this to be true, I can't help the fact that I go nuts over those with a touch of ginge in the minge.
But this is a character flaw I'm going to take to my grave - as long as I'm single and "on the prowl" as it were, geeky red-headed girls are going to drive me absolutely crazy, and you know what? I'm okay with that.
Last night was kind of silly, though.
I was in a grocery store, waiting for Happy Apple to get off work so we could watch the Sharks game (by the way, can I just say? WOOT). I was browsing through the aisles, killing time, when along walks a fairly pretty blonde. One eyebrow raises. And then walks by my kryptonite, and my other eyebrow raises.
She had red hair. Hipster Glasses. A Big Bang Theory "Bazinga!" t-shirt. I'm pretty sure she also had arms, legs, boobs, and possibly even hands, but all that stuff sort of faded away, because I was floating in nerdy newt paradise. We would have beautiful ginger children and we would spend our days hiding in long shadows avoiding the sun and happily debating exactly when the Rolling Stones sold out.
I instantly tried to make myself look impressive. Males of other species puff out their chests to attract the ladies, or sing crazy songs, or beat up all the other males around them in a display of dominance. But then, males of other species are stupid, which is why my species eats those species.
Naturally, my mating display was a bit more advanced, and developed.
Nope, instead of any of that usual mating dance crap, I did what comes naturally to me. I grabbed a wedge of cheese and tried to look impressive as I read the label, as if to say "look at me, I'm important because I'm interested in imported wensleydale". I adopted my best pseudo hipster pose, and hoped for the best.
She actually came up next to me, gave me a friendly smile, grabbed another block of cheese (Lancashire, for those at home keeping score), and started reading the label. I was stunned - was my infamous "cheese gambit" actually going to pay off? Would this be the first chapter when I told our children how I had met their mother? I felt like a dog who had spent so long chasing ducks that, when he finally caught one, had no idea what the hell to do with it. I started wracking my mind for something clever and witty to say.
You'd think this would be easy. I write a blog that is, occasionally, "sort of" funny. So really, why shouldn't I be at least "kind of" funny on demand? But, nope. I just stood there, my cheese in my hand (not a euphemism!), wondering what the hell to do.
"Hey, look, we both like firm cheeses from England! By the way, do you wanna bang?"
"I think women who are tolerant of lactose are super sexy."
"Bazinga?"
But I said none of those things, which is probably for the better. Instead, I looked over at her, and she turned to look at me. For a moment, we had eye contact, and my heart jumped up into my throat. Gorgeous green eyes behind thick-rimmed hipster glasses. Oh, the plaid collection this woman no doubt had at home, sitting next to her signed copies of albums by Broken Social Scene! Bestill my beating heart!
I smiled, and said, rather awkwardly, "Hey." The last time my voice cracked like that, I was thirteen.
She smiled back, just as awkwardly, and looked at her cheese. I got ready to press in for the finishing move. I think I was getting ready to go all out and try my "imported english cheeses" line.
Before I could say anything, though, her friend came by. The blonde grabbed my future red-headed wife by the arm, and said "there's no way you're buying more cheese, you'll stink up the place. Come on, let's go!"
My redheaded wife-to-be shrugged, put the cheese down, and left, blushing a deep crimson.
And before I could say anything more, my redhead walked out of the store. I wanted to follow, shouting shakespearean sonnets after her. But I didn't.
Because I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Wensleydale.
This is definitely a character flaw of mine, because really, it shouldn't matter what someone looks like on the outside, right? It's all about what's on the inside, and while I mostly believe this to be true, I can't help the fact that I go nuts over those with a touch of ginge in the minge.
But this is a character flaw I'm going to take to my grave - as long as I'm single and "on the prowl" as it were, geeky red-headed girls are going to drive me absolutely crazy, and you know what? I'm okay with that.
Last night was kind of silly, though.
I was in a grocery store, waiting for Happy Apple to get off work so we could watch the Sharks game (by the way, can I just say? WOOT). I was browsing through the aisles, killing time, when along walks a fairly pretty blonde. One eyebrow raises. And then walks by my kryptonite, and my other eyebrow raises.
She had red hair. Hipster Glasses. A Big Bang Theory "Bazinga!" t-shirt. I'm pretty sure she also had arms, legs, boobs, and possibly even hands, but all that stuff sort of faded away, because I was floating in nerdy newt paradise. We would have beautiful ginger children and we would spend our days hiding in long shadows avoiding the sun and happily debating exactly when the Rolling Stones sold out.
I instantly tried to make myself look impressive. Males of other species puff out their chests to attract the ladies, or sing crazy songs, or beat up all the other males around them in a display of dominance. But then, males of other species are stupid, which is why my species eats those species.
Naturally, my mating display was a bit more advanced, and developed.
Nope, instead of any of that usual mating dance crap, I did what comes naturally to me. I grabbed a wedge of cheese and tried to look impressive as I read the label, as if to say "look at me, I'm important because I'm interested in imported wensleydale". I adopted my best pseudo hipster pose, and hoped for the best.
She actually came up next to me, gave me a friendly smile, grabbed another block of cheese (Lancashire, for those at home keeping score), and started reading the label. I was stunned - was my infamous "cheese gambit" actually going to pay off? Would this be the first chapter when I told our children how I had met their mother? I felt like a dog who had spent so long chasing ducks that, when he finally caught one, had no idea what the hell to do with it. I started wracking my mind for something clever and witty to say.
You'd think this would be easy. I write a blog that is, occasionally, "sort of" funny. So really, why shouldn't I be at least "kind of" funny on demand? But, nope. I just stood there, my cheese in my hand (not a euphemism!), wondering what the hell to do.
"Hey, look, we both like firm cheeses from England! By the way, do you wanna bang?"
"I think women who are tolerant of lactose are super sexy."
"Bazinga?"
But I said none of those things, which is probably for the better. Instead, I looked over at her, and she turned to look at me. For a moment, we had eye contact, and my heart jumped up into my throat. Gorgeous green eyes behind thick-rimmed hipster glasses. Oh, the plaid collection this woman no doubt had at home, sitting next to her signed copies of albums by Broken Social Scene! Bestill my beating heart!
I smiled, and said, rather awkwardly, "Hey." The last time my voice cracked like that, I was thirteen.
She smiled back, just as awkwardly, and looked at her cheese. I got ready to press in for the finishing move. I think I was getting ready to go all out and try my "imported english cheeses" line.
Before I could say anything, though, her friend came by. The blonde grabbed my future red-headed wife by the arm, and said "there's no way you're buying more cheese, you'll stink up the place. Come on, let's go!"
My redheaded wife-to-be shrugged, put the cheese down, and left, blushing a deep crimson.
And before I could say anything more, my redhead walked out of the store. I wanted to follow, shouting shakespearean sonnets after her. But I didn't.
Because I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Wensleydale.
Puns will get you nowhere
SCENE: I'm at work, talking to a female client. She's not my client, so I feel like I'm allowed to make stupid jokes and generally act like an ass. Actually, I feel like I'm entitled to this behaviour because it's a temporary job, and I barely make minimum wage, so it's not like I'm really trying too hard.
Plus, she's cute. She has a boyfriend, so I'm just having fun and making stupid jokes about my prowess as a fine male specimen. And I'm making her laugh. Which is probably a bad sign.
GIRL: Yeah? You play the clubs, then? Pick up a bunch of women?
DAVE: Not really. Although I've got a good trick to picking up women.
GIRL: Oh?
DAVE: Yyup. Always lift with the knees. That way, you don't throw your back out.
GIRL: (Pauses, and then groans) That's not funny.
DAVE: A bad back rarely is.
That, gents, is how you don't pick up women. Figuratively or literally.
Plus, she's cute. She has a boyfriend, so I'm just having fun and making stupid jokes about my prowess as a fine male specimen. And I'm making her laugh. Which is probably a bad sign.
GIRL: Yeah? You play the clubs, then? Pick up a bunch of women?
DAVE: Not really. Although I've got a good trick to picking up women.
GIRL: Oh?
DAVE: Yyup. Always lift with the knees. That way, you don't throw your back out.
GIRL: (Pauses, and then groans) That's not funny.
DAVE: A bad back rarely is.
That, gents, is how you don't pick up women. Figuratively or literally.
True Story:
GIRL: I wish I lived on the waterfront.
DAVE: It's nice. I live, like, two minutes away from the waterfront.
GIRL: That's awesome.
DAVE: Yeah. I go down there sometimes at night when I'm in a bad mood. You can actually see the parliament buildings from there.
GIRL: So pretty...
DAVE: Gotta be careful, though. I kicked a seal once.
GIRL: (Pause) You kicked a seal!?
DAVE: Well, it was a baby seal...
GIRL: You kicked a baby seal!?
DAVE: Not on purpose!
GIRL: (laughing hysterically) YOU KICKED A BABY SEAL!?
DAVE: It was dark out! I didn't see it!
GIRL: Why didn't you start with 'I accidentally kicked a baby seal', instead of 'I kicked a baby seal'?
DAVE: Well, I don't-
GIRL: Why would you kick a baby seal? How bad are you?
DAVE: It was dark out. And the seal was sleeping, and...
GIRL: You kicked a baby seal while it was asleep?
DAVE: ...Crap. There's no way I can come out of this looking like the hero, can I?
GIRL: No way in hell.
DAVE: It's nice. I live, like, two minutes away from the waterfront.
GIRL: That's awesome.
DAVE: Yeah. I go down there sometimes at night when I'm in a bad mood. You can actually see the parliament buildings from there.
GIRL: So pretty...
DAVE: Gotta be careful, though. I kicked a seal once.
GIRL: (Pause) You kicked a seal!?
DAVE: Well, it was a baby seal...
GIRL: You kicked a baby seal!?
DAVE: Not on purpose!
GIRL: (laughing hysterically) YOU KICKED A BABY SEAL!?
DAVE: It was dark out! I didn't see it!
GIRL: Why didn't you start with 'I accidentally kicked a baby seal', instead of 'I kicked a baby seal'?
DAVE: Well, I don't-
GIRL: Why would you kick a baby seal? How bad are you?
DAVE: It was dark out. And the seal was sleeping, and...
GIRL: You kicked a baby seal while it was asleep?
DAVE: ...Crap. There's no way I can come out of this looking like the hero, can I?
GIRL: No way in hell.
A very strange moral dilemna: (Warning: A bit raunchier than most of my posts!)
I've been talking to an ex over facebook the last few weeks, little three-sentence messages where we catch up with our respective lives. It wasn't a particularly messy or angry breakup, mind you, but we had been together for a long time when it happened, and I think we both needed a bit of space. And now, just shy of two years' later, we're able to kind of look back on things.It started with a dildo.
It's kind of nice. And it's got me thinking about those times of old, some funny, some not. I've decided to share one of my particularly uncomfortable stories with you all, for your amusement. Apparently, it's my job in life to make you ingrates laugh, regardless of my personal comfort with everything.
Actually, let's call a spade a spade. I'll do anything for a laugh. This is a true story, only slightly embellished for comedic effect - I've compressed a few events and tweaked some dialogue, here and there. Otherwise, it's a completely factual re-telling.
Here goes.
We had been together for a few years, living together for maybe a year, when we decided we wanted to kind of broaden our sex lives a bit. We did the usual things that couples do in such situations - I won't go into the gory details, but it was really the standard stuff. Blindfolds, a bit of rope, and some Star Wars costumes... I won't divulge any details, but one of us was Boba Fett.
After a few months of this, it was decided that we'd pick up a Dildo for her. You see, my girlfriend had never used one of these "self pleasuring devices", but we both decided it'd be kind of fun to play around with one in the bedroom. Use it on her as sort of a foreplay thing. However, after some searching through the busy store, she seemed very nonplussed with the offerings. So, she turned to me and said something that she probably meant as a compliment.
"These are all way too big. Why isn't there one more your size?"
Bear in mind, she said this in a fairly crowded place of business. My face went red, and I went into "inadequate male" mode. Seriously, if I had felt any more inadequate, I'd have been driving a sports car and talking about quarterbacks. I wanted to throw something in the air and shout "It's a perfectly normal size!" and then rush out, screaming.
Instead, I looked nervously at my shoes and smiled awkwardly at the woman working there, counting down from five until my girlfriend realized what she just implied. Then she got to play a very awkward game those in politics refer to as "Damage Control".
"What I mean is, yours is the perfect size for my, um, no, uh, yours is more than enough, er..."
"Oh god..." I kept muttering to myself, trying to figure out an escape plan. Throw the mannequin wearing crotchless panties through the window, push those lesbians buying a strap-on out of the way, and make a break for it...
The girlfriend kept going on, "It's about this large, a perfectly normal size" she said, announcing to the room. "About six inches or so. Which is much better than these monstrous, huge..."
This went on for about five minutes, by which time I was halfway dead of embarrassment. This was worse than the time I called my teacher "mom" in the fifth grade, and he decided to tell my parents about it. This was worse than the time my dad found an issue of Playgirl in my backpack (put there by a friend who thought it'd be the funniest prank ever... actually, it was). This was even worse than that time I had really bad allergies, and everyone thought I was crying during an assembly about losing your virginity.
Luckily, the saleswoman came to my rescue. "If you want, there are kits that you can buy, so you can make the perfect replica of your lover."
We all agreed this was a great idea, although I think my contribution to this conversation consisted mostly of tiny yelps and frequent glances at the door. And so, we ordered one of these kits, and waited for about six weeks for it to be delivered.
It's called a "Clone A Cock" kit, which is probably the best name EVER. When we got the kit, we were pretty excited, and flipped through the instructions like kids flipping through a dirty magazine- lots of nervous tittering, pointing, and trying to figure out exactly what all the pictures meant.
I won't go into the details on how we went about making "Newt #2". Because it involves a large amount of nudity and what those in the adult entertainment industry refer to as "fluffing". But at the end of the process, we had a near exact replica, save for a single air bubble. And Newt #2 went on to have an illustrious career, which again, will not be detailed here.
And then, one chilly spring morn, the girlfriend and I broke up. It sucked, but we both knew it was coming, and we've since both moved on and generally became happier people.
Anyways, we were dividing our stuff one day. We divvied up our DVD collection. Our book collection. Our music collection. Utensils, plates, pictures, furniture.
And then came Newt #2. Who gets to keep it? After all, she had been the only person to use it. But it was completely inappropriate for her to keep it - basically, she no longer got Newt #1, so why should she keep Newt #2?
And so, I kept it. Sitting in my bedroom, in the nightstand by the bed, for about a year.
I know, I know. I should have thrown it out. There was no use for the thing - I obviously couldn't use it with the next girlfriend. How would you even introduce such a thing? "Hey, baby, this was used on a different girl, now I want to use it on you". There's a reason there's not much of a market for second-hand sex toys, y'know.
But every time I decided I was going to chuck it, scenarios began to run through my head: what if the garbageman finds it? My garbage bags are see through - what if the neighbours see it? I'm a single male, what will they think?
I thought about destroying it, but that just felt wrong. After all, it looked very much like Newt #1, and I'm a pretty big fan of Newt #1's work. Tearing it in half, or even just slicing off the tip, didn't really sit well in my head (either of them). So it sat there for maybe a year, slowly being forgotten by yours truly until it was nothing more than a hazy memory.
And then, almost suddenly, I was dating the Special Lady. One night, we were in my bed, doing all sorts of fun things that are detailed on all sorts of websites that are not this one. The Special Lady whispered those magic words that every guy likes to hear, and I replied with haiku-like brevity "they're in the nightstand".
It was dark, and all I could hear were some fumbling noises. Papers were overturned as she rifled through the contents. And then:
"What the hell?"
I hadn't caught on yet. "What's wrong?"
"What is this?"
"aw, crap."
She tittered nervously. "Is there, um, something I don't know about...?"
This was embarrasing. It was more embarrasing than that time I called my teacher "mom" in the fifth grade. It was more embarrassing than the time I got my tongue stuck to the flag pole in front of the school. It was even more embarrassing than the time my girlfriend implied I had a tiny wang in front of a bunch of sex perverts in a "love shop".
What do you say in such a situation? I went for that oldest of guy's cliches: "It's not what it looks like."
The lights came on. We got dressed. And I told her the whole dirty story. And this lead to the usual questions: why would you keep it? do you still love her? why don't we do dirty stuff like that? is it me?
And so on, and so forth. I slept on the couch that night. In my own apartment.
We threw out newt #2 the next morning. It was double-bagged.
Okay, this may be slightly exaggerated
I'm a sucker for redheads.
This is a known fact, and one that is easily measured. You could have me sit in a room, drinking a can of diet coke and watching the hockey game. A smoking hot blonde/brunette/whatever could walk in, and while I would do a sly "check out", I'd be more or less the same person.
Now let's say a cute redhead walks in. Within about three seconds, I will be putty in this girl's hands. Before I know it, I'll be doing her laundry while puffing out my chest and stuttering worse than a CD player in a washing machine.
And then there was... yesterday.
Cute red-headed girl, about 5'4", slim build, glasses with nerdy threadless t-shirt (bonus!). Wanted to buy an ipod.
Yours truly was the salesman. What did he do?
Did he make a move? Did he get her number? Did he make pleasant conversation? Hell, did he even try to make a sale?
Nope. He spoke about the weather for approximately five minutes, nearly broke his hand on the ipod display due to his rapid gesturing, and then said something along the lines of "it'sokayI'mthefirstaiderhereandI'malsotryingtogetintonursingbecauseIlovehelpingpeopleplusIthinkanimalsespeciallypuppiesareamazing."
Then he winced, blushed a deep red, and retreated to the staff room to hide until she left.
Don Juan, I ain't.
This is a known fact, and one that is easily measured. You could have me sit in a room, drinking a can of diet coke and watching the hockey game. A smoking hot blonde/brunette/whatever could walk in, and while I would do a sly "check out", I'd be more or less the same person.
Now let's say a cute redhead walks in. Within about three seconds, I will be putty in this girl's hands. Before I know it, I'll be doing her laundry while puffing out my chest and stuttering worse than a CD player in a washing machine.
And then there was... yesterday.
Cute red-headed girl, about 5'4", slim build, glasses with nerdy threadless t-shirt (bonus!). Wanted to buy an ipod.
Yours truly was the salesman. What did he do?
Did he make a move? Did he get her number? Did he make pleasant conversation? Hell, did he even try to make a sale?
Nope. He spoke about the weather for approximately five minutes, nearly broke his hand on the ipod display due to his rapid gesturing, and then said something along the lines of "it'sokayI'mthefirstaiderhereandI'malsotryingtogetintonursingbecauseIlovehelpingpeopleplusIthinkanimalsespeciallypuppiesareamazing."
Then he winced, blushed a deep red, and retreated to the staff room to hide until she left.
Don Juan, I ain't.
Day As Night #18: Too much "random" on the internet...
I've never giggled so hard in my life. That final panel kills me.
(as usual, click if you want to read)
Death and Taxes... and... love?
I've been working in a tax centre for the last couple of weeks, and yes, it's about as boring as it sounds. It mostly involves processing the taxes of welfare bums and 18 years olds who are eager to process their 1,200 dollar T4 so they can get a hundred dollars (or so) back from the gaddang gubmint.
However, occasionally there are little... shall we say... gems?
During the day, I had the pleasure of coming across people with some truly awful e-mail addresses. We're not talking "Sunshinefan89" or "Iliekmittens" or anything. Nope. These are grown men and women with the most depressing and "gothic" of addresses. I wish I could post the real addresses, but be rest assured that the substitutions I am giving you are pretty much of the exact same calibre. We're looking at names like "Suicidefan666" and "blackenedhart", if you catch my drift. And there were more. Oh, god, were there more.
I had "Dreaming in Darkness" at Yahoo.com, a thirty year old man from Toronto that apparently still lives at home and works part time at a fast food vendor. I'd like to imagine Mr. Dreaming paints his fingernails black, and thinks Marilyn Manson and the Nine Inch Nails are the BEST BANDS EVAR. Personally, the only NIN song I like is "hurt" - you know, the one Johnny Cash fixed?
Then there was "PerpetuallyAlone" at hotmail. Now, I don't know about you, but should one's e-mail address (especially an address that one gives to random strangers like Moneymart in a semi-formal situation) really be an address that shouts out "hey, I'm a loser"? This stunning lass was born in 1985 and lives in Niagara Falls - where she works two mall jobs. Something about her address (and her scrawled writing) suggest that Alone might not be the greatest catch.
Of course, I had a great idea here. Darkness and Alone are both single, and they're only a short ride away. I'm pretty sure, with only a little bit of work, I could introduce the King and Queen goth to each other, and they could go on to rule Gothtopia together. Exactly what Gothtopia is, I'm not sure, but I imagine it doesn't have much in the way of sunlight, and Trent Reznor is deified in some way.
This flash of brilliance bloomed - as insights are wont to do - into the best idea I've ever had. Think about it - an instant tax processing centre that also doubles as a dating clinic. That lonely potato farmer in Saskatoon who pulls in 40K a year could be hooked up with that strict vegan chick from Regina who "lives naturally off the land" (read as: homeless). Single welfare bums from all over the country could be matched up with other single welfare bums - and then proceed to save some money by filing as common law.
Because, hey... whatever keeps them off the streets, right?
However, occasionally there are little... shall we say... gems?
During the day, I had the pleasure of coming across people with some truly awful e-mail addresses. We're not talking "Sunshinefan89" or "Iliekmittens" or anything. Nope. These are grown men and women with the most depressing and "gothic" of addresses. I wish I could post the real addresses, but be rest assured that the substitutions I am giving you are pretty much of the exact same calibre. We're looking at names like "Suicidefan666" and "blackenedhart", if you catch my drift. And there were more. Oh, god, were there more.
I had "Dreaming in Darkness" at Yahoo.com, a thirty year old man from Toronto that apparently still lives at home and works part time at a fast food vendor. I'd like to imagine Mr. Dreaming paints his fingernails black, and thinks Marilyn Manson and the Nine Inch Nails are the BEST BANDS EVAR. Personally, the only NIN song I like is "hurt" - you know, the one Johnny Cash fixed?
Of course, I had a great idea here. Darkness and Alone are both single, and they're only a short ride away. I'm pretty sure, with only a little bit of work, I could introduce the King and Queen goth to each other, and they could go on to rule Gothtopia together. Exactly what Gothtopia is, I'm not sure, but I imagine it doesn't have much in the way of sunlight, and Trent Reznor is deified in some way.
This flash of brilliance bloomed - as insights are wont to do - into the best idea I've ever had. Think about it - an instant tax processing centre that also doubles as a dating clinic. That lonely potato farmer in Saskatoon who pulls in 40K a year could be hooked up with that strict vegan chick from Regina who "lives naturally off the land" (read as: homeless). Single welfare bums from all over the country could be matched up with other single welfare bums - and then proceed to save some money by filing as common law.
Because, hey... whatever keeps them off the streets, right?
Thank you, God, for inventing tight pants
Dammit. This new job thing is not going well.
Or rather, it'd be going swimmingly, were it not for the fact that my supervisor is cute. I've mentioned before how she was attractive, but I thought my checking her out was a one time thing. That, after learning from my awkwardness during the interview, I would learn from my mistakes and avoid ogling her if at all possible.
...yeah, that's not going to happen.
During the orientation a few days back, she came in to help out with the filling of paperwork. I was focusing on what I was supposed to be focusing on (tax papers and sexual harassment policies... read into that what you will), but about 13% of my attention was paying attention to the fact that she's a nice looking lady. And then all those "guy thoughts" ran through my head:
And then I went into what I'd like to call "Guy Ego Mode". Which works a little bit like this - you start to gauge the woman's interactions with you and compare them to her interactions with other, and attribute the minute differences to the fact that she obviously has the hots for you.
Luckily, I'm able to recognize the signs of Guy Ego Mode, so I was able to fight the urge to stand up and proclaim my everlasting love. Barely. Mostly, I fought if off because I was only about 50% sure of her name, and no one likes getting names wrong when you're proclaiming everlasting love. It's sort of a faux pas.
I've had some cute bosses before, I have to say, but I'm thinking this one wins top prize. I'm working here for at least a couple of months. Something tells me it's going to be a long, awkward couple of months.
Or rather, it'd be going swimmingly, were it not for the fact that my supervisor is cute. I've mentioned before how she was attractive, but I thought my checking her out was a one time thing. That, after learning from my awkwardness during the interview, I would learn from my mistakes and avoid ogling her if at all possible.
...yeah, that's not going to happen.
During the orientation a few days back, she came in to help out with the filling of paperwork. I was focusing on what I was supposed to be focusing on (tax papers and sexual harassment policies... read into that what you will), but about 13% of my attention was paying attention to the fact that she's a nice looking lady. And then all those "guy thoughts" ran through my head:
- I wonder if she's single?
- Hey, when she lifts her arms like that, I can see her belly.
- Damn, that's a nice belly.
- I wonder if she's single?
- Thank you, God, for inventing tight pants.
And then I went into what I'd like to call "Guy Ego Mode". Which works a little bit like this - you start to gauge the woman's interactions with you and compare them to her interactions with other, and attribute the minute differences to the fact that she obviously has the hots for you.
Luckily, I'm able to recognize the signs of Guy Ego Mode, so I was able to fight the urge to stand up and proclaim my everlasting love. Barely. Mostly, I fought if off because I was only about 50% sure of her name, and no one likes getting names wrong when you're proclaiming everlasting love. It's sort of a faux pas.
I've had some cute bosses before, I have to say, but I'm thinking this one wins top prize. I'm working here for at least a couple of months. Something tells me it's going to be a long, awkward couple of months.
Tips on how to date a felon
I've been losing a lot of sleep lately, finding myself on the couch at 2 am, bleary-eyed and wishing I could get my ass in bed. But every time I get into bed, I toss and turn, busily engaged in a staring contest with my alarm clock.
So, at 2 am, instead of sleeping in the world's comfiest bed, I'm either watching TV, or surfing the internet.
TV is a lost cause, because - surprise surprise - there's very little on at 2 am that is worth watching. Except, of course, MSNBC's Lockup.
The premise of the show is simple - an inside look at the prison system of the United States. And man, is it an addictive show to watch. Officers searching for shanks, murderers bemoaning their fate, and weird mexican dudes with moustaches doing karate in a cage. Seriously. Weird mexican dudes that do karate while prison guards watch on. And then there was this great bit about a murderer who used Yoga to escape prison.
And people say Yoga is harmless.
The best part, though, are the prison weddings. You get to see lonely men who have had little contact with women, and then they somehow meet a woman and fall madly in love with them. Rather quickly, they get married (mostly because the men want the conjugal visits, I'd guess). Here's the great thing - those women tend to be rather, um, unappealing. They are usually a tragic combination of at least three of the following traits:
So, I laugh when I watch Lockup. Let the prison men get their conjugal visits. And they can suffer through having to make it with a woman in a plus-plus-plus size pink nightie who needs two full tubes of lube for one night of passion. I'm all for prisoners having to suffer for their crimes, and this seems like an imaginative way of doing it.
After Lockup ends, I flip to the internet. And do my late-night perusals of all sorts of topics. I read books on Project Gutenberg. Or, for nights when I have the attention span of a gnat, I browse profiles on Plenty of Fish.
There are a lot of attractive women on Plenty of Fish. And I'd like to think that I've messaged many of them, and made them uncomfortable in new and imaginative ways. But then, there are also women who are not really my "type". Girls with profiles that contain racist comments, obvious lies ("I love hockey - big fan of the Celtics!"), massive amounts of spelling/syntax errors, excessive lol'ing, or any picture in which the woman is standing next to a horse.
But I'm a kind soul, and I always feel bad for these women. I mean, they're on this dating website, but every time I'm on it, I see them there. Over and over again (and don't make a comment about how I'm in the same boat as them, since I check the site over and over again - it's not polite). They must be lonely. They have to be searching for someone.
I have some advice for these lonely women, that I've discovered from watching Lockup. There are plenty of men that have been married, while in prison. And every one of these prison brides is generally a combination of stupid/unnattractive/unhealthy/argumentative/stupid. So, while you may not be the number one pick on Plenty of Fish, I can guarantee you'd make a wonderful prison bride. If you find yourself a guy that has a life sentence without parole, you can get all the conjugal visits you could want, a loving and devoted husband who you only have to talk to a few tims a week, and absolutely no chance that he'll kill you in your sleep.
Lucky you.
As for me? I think I need to invest in sleeping pills.
So, at 2 am, instead of sleeping in the world's comfiest bed, I'm either watching TV, or surfing the internet.
TV is a lost cause, because - surprise surprise - there's very little on at 2 am that is worth watching. Except, of course, MSNBC's Lockup.
The premise of the show is simple - an inside look at the prison system of the United States. And man, is it an addictive show to watch. Officers searching for shanks, murderers bemoaning their fate, and weird mexican dudes with moustaches doing karate in a cage. Seriously. Weird mexican dudes that do karate while prison guards watch on. And then there was this great bit about a murderer who used Yoga to escape prison.
And people say Yoga is harmless.
The best part, though, are the prison weddings. You get to see lonely men who have had little contact with women, and then they somehow meet a woman and fall madly in love with them. Rather quickly, they get married (mostly because the men want the conjugal visits, I'd guess). Here's the great thing - those women tend to be rather, um, unappealing. They are usually a tragic combination of at least three of the following traits:
- Stupid
- Overweight (and not in the "well, most north americans are overweight" sense, either)
- Unattractive
- Annoying
- Excessively Confrontational
- Stupid
So, I laugh when I watch Lockup. Let the prison men get their conjugal visits. And they can suffer through having to make it with a woman in a plus-plus-plus size pink nightie who needs two full tubes of lube for one night of passion. I'm all for prisoners having to suffer for their crimes, and this seems like an imaginative way of doing it.
After Lockup ends, I flip to the internet. And do my late-night perusals of all sorts of topics. I read books on Project Gutenberg. Or, for nights when I have the attention span of a gnat, I browse profiles on Plenty of Fish.
There are a lot of attractive women on Plenty of Fish. And I'd like to think that I've messaged many of them, and made them uncomfortable in new and imaginative ways. But then, there are also women who are not really my "type". Girls with profiles that contain racist comments, obvious lies ("I love hockey - big fan of the Celtics!"), massive amounts of spelling/syntax errors, excessive lol'ing, or any picture in which the woman is standing next to a horse.
But I'm a kind soul, and I always feel bad for these women. I mean, they're on this dating website, but every time I'm on it, I see them there. Over and over again (and don't make a comment about how I'm in the same boat as them, since I check the site over and over again - it's not polite). They must be lonely. They have to be searching for someone.
I have some advice for these lonely women, that I've discovered from watching Lockup. There are plenty of men that have been married, while in prison. And every one of these prison brides is generally a combination of stupid/unnattractive/unhealthy/argumentative/stupid. So, while you may not be the number one pick on Plenty of Fish, I can guarantee you'd make a wonderful prison bride. If you find yourself a guy that has a life sentence without parole, you can get all the conjugal visits you could want, a loving and devoted husband who you only have to talk to a few tims a week, and absolutely no chance that he'll kill you in your sleep.
Lucky you.
As for me? I think I need to invest in sleeping pills.
More Plenty of Fish messages!
So, I've been digging through my old Plenty of Fish messages, hoping to add some more silly ones to this blog. I really liked the first post I did on the subject, and the idea of publishing a book on the silly crap I say on dating sites has merit to me. So, here are a few more I thought were worth keeping.
So, for the next girl, you have to realize that she said that she's smiling or laughing 95% of the time, and that she has a pretty sarcastic/wicked sense of humour. Also, I edited out some of the non-funny parts, because they kind of give this person away if you go on PoF. Which is not what I'm aiming to do.
Re: Iced Cappuccino
So, I've come to the conclusion that no matter what you say, PoF greetings are always gonna suck. I could say "hello", "hi", or anything even close to that, and it'd all be the same to you. So, instead of any of that, I choose to say "Iced Cappuccino". At the very least, you'll have to read a message with such a non sequitor beginning, right?
I like any Plenty of Fish profile that professes an interest in men that are nerdy - not, of course, that I'm nerdy. I mean, people think I am, simply because I read Wikipedia as a hobby, and I quote movies at odd moments. Ah, well. There are worse things to be called.
Like Iced Cappuccino, I imagine.
So, I figured I'd say "hi", but without trying to sound as lame as I'm sure most PoF greetings are. I imagine most just repeat your interests back to you. Saying "hey, you're looking for someone fun and creative and thoughtful. Well, *I'M* fun and creative and thoughtful!".
I'm not, at all. Actually, I've been told I'm an utter bore. As for creativity, nah. And not thoughtful at all. I once kicked an orphan. But I'm still pretty cool. Those nerd-sayers aside, that is.
Hopefully, you'll browse through my profile, realize how awesome I am, and you'll swoon at my ginger-good looks.
You'll look at my awesome qualities, and realize you have to message me back. That you have no choice but to get to know a little bit more about me.
Plus, I know a bunch of engineer jokes. Just saying, is all.
And now I must go, off to do something fun and creative, yet thoughtful at the same time.
Take care,Reading this one, I realize that yeah, I was kind of an asshole here. Also, I believe the woman said she was an engineer, which is why I put in the "engineer jokes" bit. Of course, with hindsight, I think those engineer jokes probably wouldn't have impressed her much... considering how she responded to this message. (She didn't).
-Dave
So, for the next girl, you have to realize that she said that she's smiling or laughing 95% of the time, and that she has a pretty sarcastic/wicked sense of humour. Also, I edited out some of the non-funny parts, because they kind of give this person away if you go on PoF. Which is not what I'm aiming to do.
Re: 95% of the Time, you...
So, I've got one question for you: if you're smiling and/or laughing 95% of the time... how often do you sleep? I'm running the numbers here, and by the looks of it, you're only getting a little over an hour a night.
Unless you laugh in your sleep. Which may be true. I've seen it before. I had a friend who used to sing in his sleep. His girlfriend used to tell us all sorts of songs he'd been crooning.
**Personal Stuff Here**
Okay. I'm gonna shut up now. Take care, and have a great week! Hope to hear from you soon,And here's number three. About the only thing to keep in mind here is that this girl is from Australia. And my original (sadly, deleted) message was pretty bad. Thankfully, I didn't send it... not that it mattered.
-Dave
Re: Reasons of National Security
I'm afraid you're only going to get the quick message.
I like to make nice, long introductory messages that show off my unusually-hilarious self. I'd love to do something similar here, but unfortunately, I have about ten minutes before I have to leave my house. I have one shoe on right now, and my mouth still tastes like Listerine. The pub awaits, and I fully plan on losing at least a dozen games of pool, and poking out somebody's eye with a dart.
So, you get the short "hi" message. I'm a big fan of most of the interests of yours, with the exception of snowboarding (I consider it "falling with style") and travelling (not that I'm against it... but my wallet seems to hate the idea). So, I figured I'd send you a line.
But, I don't get to be my witty self. Which is too bad. You're missing out on a work of art, here. I briefly considered sending you a message pretending to be the Australian Embassy in British Columbia, telling you that you needed to go on a date with Dave, for "reasons of national security".
Unfortunately, you just get honest Dave, here. Would love to hear back from you, show you just how cool Victoria is, and see where it goes from there.
If not, well, take care and have fun.
And keep your ears open for any Embassy Requests.
-Dave
How to Date a Woman in Three Easy Steps
So, I was writing a plenty of fish message, and after about a few sentences in, I realized... "hey, this is going to be one of those messages that will later end up on this blog, unresponded to". Naturally, I didn't hit the "send" button, and instead decided to reformat the message and post it here, instead.
I call this personal growth. You should be proud of me.
So, here goes:
How to Date a Woman in Three Easy Steps
The female species can, at times, seem to be a very elusive, confusing beast. Their logic can be circular, avoiding a head-on confronation in favour of circling around and kicking you in the posterior. Their physiology and sexual characteristics share much in common with subterranean caverns, where the bad things live. And, of course, their obsession with horses and unicorns suggests an uneven psychology at the very least.
Naturally, these characteristics make the pursuit of women a confusing, dangerous undertaking for any man. Luckily, there are guidelines that the well-prepared man can follow to increase his odds of impressing the woman that has caught his fancy.
There are three easy-to-follow steps in successful dating. The would-be suitor should make every attempt to follow these three steps if he hopes to make a lasting impression.
Step One: Distraction.
Distract a women with a shiny object. Women are much like crows or magpies - they have a genetic disposition towards shiny objects, like earrings or necklaces. By presenting such an object, you distract them, allowing you to get close to said woman, allowing them to get used to your scent. Which brings us to...
Step Two: Smell Good
Women do not respond well to poor scents. Mask your natural, dirty male smells with pheromone-ridden chemicals. Women respond heavily to scent, and immediately react with fear and confusion towards "masculine" smells. Do your best to smell like a chemical of some sort. It has been suggested that many marketed scents, such as AXE body spray, are designed towards attracting women. While this is true, the fact is that most women simply respond to any chemical smell whatsoever. Anecdotal evidence suggests that women are just as likely to respond to Febreeze as they are to Old Spice.
Step Three: The Golden Rule
Common knowledge is to just "be yourself". This is a lie. If you act like yourself, you will inevitably scare the woman away. The best way to attact a woman is to be anybody but yourself. Lie for all you're worth, and if the woman buys the lie well enough, by the time she realizes who you really are, she'll be too invested in the relationship to escape. This is how my grandfather got my grandmother. Until last week, she honestly thought she was dating Arthur M. McGuinness, professional bear wrestler and moustache afficianado... when in reality, she'd been married to Arthur N. McPercival, a flatulent uncouth loan shark and anti-semite.
***
So, there you have it. By following these three simple steps, you will find that the women folk are bound to love you.
I call this personal growth. You should be proud of me.
So, here goes:
How to Date a Woman in Three Easy Steps
The female species can, at times, seem to be a very elusive, confusing beast. Their logic can be circular, avoiding a head-on confronation in favour of circling around and kicking you in the posterior. Their physiology and sexual characteristics share much in common with subterranean caverns, where the bad things live. And, of course, their obsession with horses and unicorns suggests an uneven psychology at the very least.
Naturally, these characteristics make the pursuit of women a confusing, dangerous undertaking for any man. Luckily, there are guidelines that the well-prepared man can follow to increase his odds of impressing the woman that has caught his fancy.
There are three easy-to-follow steps in successful dating. The would-be suitor should make every attempt to follow these three steps if he hopes to make a lasting impression.
Step One: Distraction.
Distract a women with a shiny object. Women are much like crows or magpies - they have a genetic disposition towards shiny objects, like earrings or necklaces. By presenting such an object, you distract them, allowing you to get close to said woman, allowing them to get used to your scent. Which brings us to...
Step Two: Smell Good
Women do not respond well to poor scents. Mask your natural, dirty male smells with pheromone-ridden chemicals. Women respond heavily to scent, and immediately react with fear and confusion towards "masculine" smells. Do your best to smell like a chemical of some sort. It has been suggested that many marketed scents, such as AXE body spray, are designed towards attracting women. While this is true, the fact is that most women simply respond to any chemical smell whatsoever. Anecdotal evidence suggests that women are just as likely to respond to Febreeze as they are to Old Spice.
Step Three: The Golden Rule
Common knowledge is to just "be yourself". This is a lie. If you act like yourself, you will inevitably scare the woman away. The best way to attact a woman is to be anybody but yourself. Lie for all you're worth, and if the woman buys the lie well enough, by the time she realizes who you really are, she'll be too invested in the relationship to escape. This is how my grandfather got my grandmother. Until last week, she honestly thought she was dating Arthur M. McGuinness, professional bear wrestler and moustache afficianado... when in reality, she'd been married to Arthur N. McPercival, a flatulent uncouth loan shark and anti-semite.
***
So, there you have it. By following these three simple steps, you will find that the women folk are bound to love you.
Stay away from my kidneys...
So, way back when, I had a plenty of fish profile. And after many, many rejections, I got into the habit of writing introductions more to make myself laugh than out of any hope of getting a message back. Kind of a way to reject them before they get a chance to reject you.
Some of those introductory messages were hilarious, and I really wish I had kept them saved on my hard drive. I really had a book possibility in those introductions - they were funny, they were charming, and they got me absolutely nowhere.
A little over a week ago, I put up a Plenty of Fish profile on a whim, and sent out a few "howdy" messages, thinking maybe I'd get a date or two out of the deal. Not really expecting much... that's exactly what I got. Naturally, my first urge was to start sending out silly messages.
I didn't do that. Well, not exactly. Instead, I started writing messages with the intent of getting a laugh, while at the same time complimenting the person and saying a bit about who I am as a person. At the same time, one of the reponses I got back mentioned how I should post some of these messages somewhere. And I agree - I want these saved for posterity purposes.
So, these are two sent messages that didn't get a reply back. Both of them were messages that had me laughing pretty hard. Hope you enjoy.
This next one, though, is a gem. Really should be published.
I'm seeing a potential book in the future. Just post a bunch of Plenty of Fish messages to unsuspecting women, and see how it goes. But I don't know if I'm really comfortable in making a career out of my rejection. After all, neither of these gems got a reply.
Some of those introductory messages were hilarious, and I really wish I had kept them saved on my hard drive. I really had a book possibility in those introductions - they were funny, they were charming, and they got me absolutely nowhere.
A little over a week ago, I put up a Plenty of Fish profile on a whim, and sent out a few "howdy" messages, thinking maybe I'd get a date or two out of the deal. Not really expecting much... that's exactly what I got. Naturally, my first urge was to start sending out silly messages.
I didn't do that. Well, not exactly. Instead, I started writing messages with the intent of getting a laugh, while at the same time complimenting the person and saying a bit about who I am as a person. At the same time, one of the reponses I got back mentioned how I should post some of these messages somewhere. And I agree - I want these saved for posterity purposes.
So, these are two sent messages that didn't get a reply back. Both of them were messages that had me laughing pretty hard. Hope you enjoy.
Subject: Regarding Astrology and Cults...This girl, who started with a joke about her star sign and her search for a soulmate, before talking about her hypoallergenic dog, gave me about three seconds' worth of consideration before deleting my message. Fair enough. This wasn't one of my better messages, but I don't want to post any that actually got a response. It'd seem like an invasion of privacy, to me.
Now, I have a rule with Plenty of Fish. If a girl mentions her star sign in her profile, it means I should start running now. Because when she catches me, I'll wake up in some compound in Bountiful BC with a shaved head, giving my money to the leader while working on a turnip farm.
But I think I'll ignore that rule this time, because you seemed to be sarcastic. And sarcasm trumps freaky astrology stuff every time.
Now, onto the big questions.
What's your dog allergic to? I'm hoping the answer is "other dogs". Because that would rock. Also what sort of strange books and good movies are you into?
Anyways. I'm a former Timmins/Toronto guy, figured I'd say "welcome to Vic", and if you're at all interested in chatting it up for a bit, seeing if there's any real common ground... there could be a pool game in the future where I would lose horribly.
Seriously. Last time I played, a dude lost his eye.
Take care, and maybe I'll talk to you soon.
-Dave
This next one, though, is a gem. Really should be published.
I'm seeing a potential book in the future. Just post a bunch of Plenty of Fish messages to unsuspecting women, and see how it goes. But I don't know if I'm really comfortable in making a career out of my rejection. After all, neither of these gems got a reply.
Subject: You can't get my kidneys
So, I have a pretty strong suspicion that you get messaged a bazillion times a day. You're a great looking person with a great-looking profile, and that's a rare combination on PoF, it seem. And, because of this, you'll read my quick introduction and start laughing. And then you'll reach through the internet, grab me by the throat, and say "as if, buddy".
I'll wake up in a bathtub somewhere, covered in ice, missing a kidney. But the joke's on you... I happen to have two of the things.
On the off chance that you're not an internet kidney harvester, I figure I'll say "hello". I'm a pretty nice guy, with a good sense of humour, a fairly active life, and my belly is closer to a six pack than a keg. I like to write, try new things, and love cooking. My kidneys are in excellent shape.
I like to joke around, am pretty playful, and a romantic and nice guy. and I'd love to learn a bit more about you - what sort of books you read, your top three movies, what sort of games you're into (that sounded dirty... not what I meant!), and all that awesome stuff. Hopefully, you'll pop back, read my profile, realize how awesome I am, and we'll take it from there.
If not, well, that's cool too. But stay away from my internal organs, please.
Take care,
-Dave
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