The Cult of Marriage

"Can you imagine how he felt after he left? The last 20 years of his life were a total waste," exclaimed the boyfriend. We were watching Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief,  the HBO documentary that interviews ex-Scientologists about why they left an organization that invasively permeated nearly all aspects of their lives. I disagreed. "Maybe initially, but I think ex-Scientologists are like divorced people," I explained. "They're grateful they finally came to see the light, grateful for a second chance."

One of my brilliant friends--happily single by choice--likes to equate marriage to being in a cult. Specifically, a cult of two. Like a cult, marriage is often mystifying to people outside of it. You make compromises that seem unreasonable to outsiders. The ex-Scientologists interviewed in Going Clear talked about having to do things that violated their own personal beliefs, such as breaking all ties with friends and family members who walked away from Scientology or living in prison-like conditions to "prove" their fidelity to Scientology and its leader. Even though I thrive on the social aspects of cooking and eating meals together, my ex-husband never wanted to eat together, even when we were at home at the same time. So I spent years eating alone. Cults warp you, but you can't clearly recognize it until you're outside of it. 

The ex-Scientologists in the movie all spoke of the high price they paid to walk away, particularly the painful consequence of having their family and friends still in Scientology cutting off all ties to them. Walking away from a marriage extracts a similar high price. To anyone who hasn't left a long-term relationship, that price might seem unbearably high, but the silver lining is that unexpected second chance at creating an authentically happy life. And that's priceless. 

Texting with Strangers

Sometimes life rewards us in ways that are big and obvious. Other times the rewards are hard to recognize because they're seemingly small and ordinary. A mystery text from a local phone number, but no name, seems like a straight-up wrong number. But not if you text back as if you are the intended recipient.

Mystery Texter: Have a wedding to go to. Sounds great though. Probably more fun than the wedding.

It was a number I didn't recognize, apparently a reply to another social invitation from someone else. Depending on the day and my mood, I might have politely texted back that he'd mistexted me. But I was I bored, so when that happens, no one gets off that easy. I texted back something I thought was subtly provocative, but not outrageous.

Bored Me:  Weddings are worse than baby showers for a coworker.

Mystery Texter: Not if you will be the one needing to pick up her workload..... :) It is actually a wedding for Latino neighbors who were illegal here for 22 years. He got the green card and now they can finally marry "in the eyes of God." They have a 9 year old. I am expecting a very joyous event. Would rather skip the church part -- after shooting a bunch of catholic weddings in the past it got old. One thing for sure: at the reception Mexican food!

Holy crap. What kind of novel-length text would I have received if I texted something outrageous?
Still bored, I decided to go for provocative  *and* outrageous.

Bored Me: Can't get away with hiring a male stripper at most weddings, but coworker baby showers? Well, I'm the hero when I do that.

Mystery Texter: Ha ha ha...

Then silence. A day went by and no word from my new best friend. I had so many questions. What would he wear to the wedding? Did he have a toast ready? Did he think I was that pal he was trying to text? Did he know I was f*cking with him?!

Smartass Me: It's *always* nice to hear from you. Even if you have better things to do like a better-late-than-never church wedding. Who knows? Maybe Serendipity will reward me with something fun and unexpected in your absence.

Still waiting, Serendipity. Your move.

Dating Like a Man

I have never been a fan of that odious game "Twister." Oh sure, it's fun to watch your friends contort themselves into hard-to-hold poses, but it's tedious to be a participant. I don't want to brag, but I'm *naturally* awkward. I don't need an artificial method of inducing it, since I've got that all covered by myself. And though it's quite easy to steer clear of "Twister" the game, it's not so easy to avoid the Twister-like contortion that happens in the initial stages of dating. Getting to know someone and letting someone get to know you through dating can feel as awkward and forced as a game of Twister.

I've been dating my boyfriend for eight months now. Since we only see each other once a week, it's taken longer than usual to feel comfortable being the real me -- to shed the persona of always being "on," always being the best version of myself. It's finally come to that stage of me being comfortable in my own skin, warts and all, with him. The other reason it's taken so long for me to shake my tentative feelings is that he's 36 -- 15 years younger than me. Although I don't feel that age gap with him as I would with most other guys that much younger, I've been wary of how that yawning chasm of time would impact our relationship. So far, the biggest effect is that I'm now dating like a man.

Many women date with the main objective of meeting Mr. All-My-Life. They won't date a guy who doesn't have at least the possibility, however small, of turning into a life partner. But many men are fine dating women without a serious thought about whether she's "marriage material" or not. They just date someone they're attracted to and with whom they enjoy spending time. That's the way many men date until they decide it's time to settle down. Before they reach that point, many men are just dating for the fun of it. They don't think 'Is this going anywhere?' They think about *this* date or the *next* date -- at most. It's a way of dating that's very present, very in the moment -- dare I say it? -- very zen. 

And that's what I'm doing now. Since my boyfriend is so much younger than me, he's not going to end up being my life partner. That clarity, while blunt, is also freeing. It allows me to concentrate on the here and now, and let go of the useless speculation of "What might be." Instead of obsessing over whether this one will turn out to be "The One," I appreciate the time we spend together on its own merits. Surprisingly, eliminating the expectation of future "more" allows me to experience more in the present. 

I Love LA

When I'm on the subway, I make a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with anyone, because locking eyes with someone will occasionally be misinterpreted as me jumping up and down and loudly exclaiming, 'Come over here, mumble incoherently under your breath, and lick my face.' The subway was packed last night, so it was harder than usual to avoid looking at people, particularly since I kept hearing these short staccato indiscernible screeches. Were they the loud protests from a pre-verbal child? Or, more likely, the odd vocal outbursts from a disheveled, unmedicated adult?

Neither, it turns out. It was the squawking of a large parrot perched on the arm of a smirk-faced man. I made eye contact with the parrot, and because I was so captivated by the bird, it took me a while to realize what Smirk Face was holding in his other hand -- a long rectangular cardboard-and-wire-mesh carrier with 3 or 4 rats in it. That's when I had to get a big long look at the guy who thinks it's completely normal to get on the subway with a large untethered bird and a box of rats.

I looked him up and down. He was kind of a slob, wearing big faded jeans that were cut off mid-shin -- ratty man capris that looked like he was just so annoyed by the discomfort of wearing full-length jeans, he grabbed a scissors and hacked off the bottom part in a fit of comfort over convention.  He was ambiguously middle aged, falling somewhere in the range of 35 to 55. His head was covered with an  unruly mass of chin-length brown hair, except for the small bald spot in the back. Then I noticed he was wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Smirk Face is presumably married. WTF?! I know many wonderful LA women, who have their shit together, who aren't married, and not all by choice. But Smirk Face -- a walking human game farm -- is off the market. I want Randy Newman to write a song about *that* LA.

Single

"Wrong # So. Cal," he texted in response to my friendly text message that was meant for a friend, but inadvertently sent to him. In town for a work gig and a quick visit with me, my friend had recently dropped her phone, so I was trying to reach her on another phone she had borrowed for her trip. "Sorry!" I texted back, unable to repress my overly polite inner midwesterner.

Less than 30 seconds later, he texted back "Single." Not 'I'm Single,' or 'Hey, you're a woman, and I'm a man, are you single?" Just "Single." Just like that. Like he felt he had to blurt this out and hope that the right moment hadn't passed without letting me know he was single and ready to mingle. It had all the awkwardness of someone answering too soon a question that wasn't even asked. Think about it. At the time he blurted out "Single," he only knew two basic things about me. I had a female name, and I presumably lived in Los Angeles.

Now, under most circumstances, I would have just put my phone down and walked away. He's a stranger. I don't owe him anything. I didn't really understand why someone would try to connect with a woman who lives 1,000 miles away, sight unseen. He struck me as one of those lonely Norwegian bachelors desperate for *any* female contact.

Curious to see how his ill considered move would play out, I texted back.

Me: Go on.

Single: Just checking. Case of momentary bravery.

Me: Have wrong texts led to previous, if fleeting, success with the ladies? Seems like a low-percentage play.

Single: Hehe yeah no...first time caller.

Me: Still, using wrong texts to meet women is probably a more successful strategy than online dating. At least for guys.

Single: Wouldn't know. Anti-online.

And, apparently, anti-girlfriend who lives within a day's drive of him.

Single: So...I'm Dave. Hi <my name written as if I were a rapper>.

Me: Yeah, it deserves your contempt. Online dating is the sledgehammer of romance.

Single: Than 
Oops. I hit send button to (sic) soon. Let me sort it out.

Sort it out?! Winner, winner, chicken dinner. This guy must be at least 70! It just kept getting better and better.

Single: Thank you. And sledgehammer of romance is brilliant!

Me: Thanks. Seems pretty accurate. So, tell me something true about yourself that might surprise me.

Single: True n surprising?

Me: Yep. Given that I only know four things about you, surprising me shouldn't be that difficult.

No response. Finally, 35 minutes later, he texts back.

Single: I'm overthinking it and it's past my bedtime.

What would motivate a guy to try to start something up with a faraway stranger? He certainly didn't have an inkling as to what I look like, and even less of a sense of my good inner qualities. My initial misdirected text to my friend was friendly, but not funny or clever. There was nothing in that text other than my first name and a couple of friendly inquiries.

So it begs the question, 'What kind of guy is Single if he's champing at the bit to tell a stranger with a woman's name, who lives 1,000 miles away, that he's available?' A guy with no feasible options, that's who. A guy who lives in his mother's basement, and perhaps a voracious connoisseur of comic books and hot dogs.  A modern-day Ignatius J. Reilly.

The Day the Universe Mocked Me (most recently, because it happens on a regular basis)

I knew less than two minutes into my Saturday morning kickboxing/tae kwon do class that not drinking more than a few sips of coffee before was a bad decision. Not just bad. Titanically bad. As bad as someone rubbing bacon fat all over themselves before hiking in grizzly bear country. The kind of epically bad decision that makes people scratch their heads and go 'What the...?! How does *that* happen?'

I can't really function without a full cup of Joe in the morning. If I don't bathe my synapses in coffee, my brain continues to doze in its semi-comatose state, while the rest of me is not firing on all cylinders. I'm all cattywampus, struggling to focus and stay in the present. This, of course, is the exact moment when the Universe will choose to mock me with something from my recent past I'd rather conveniently forget. The Universe can be a merciless bitch, barely tolerable with lots of coffee, and simply insufferable without.

I had trouble executing routine basic drills I've been doing since I started kickboxing six years ago. Then the class focused on a difficult kick that requires excellent flexibility if you want to really look good doing it. There's not enough coffee at all the Starbucks in Seattle that could get me to do that kick well. And on a day I hadn't had more than a eyedropper of coffee, there was no way I was going to be able to do a decent kick.  So naturally this is the moment I notice him, not more than four feet away from me. He's a bystander, waiting for class to be over so he can take his kid home, and a guy I went out with once.

It was a perfectly nice first date. There was nothing of the ridiculous that often makes an appearance at many of my first dates. It was easy to talk with him because we had a lot in common, and culturally he felt familiar--part of the NPR tribe. He seemed like someone with whom I could have developed a friendship, and perhaps a relationship. A few days later, he texted me saying he hoped we could go out again after I got back from a short trip. And I would have gone out with him again, except that about the same time, I ended up going on a first date with a guy I liked better -- the guy who is now my boyfriend. Instead of texting "Perfectly Nice" that, except for bad timing, I *would* have gone out with him again, I didn't text him at all. I didn't know how to make 'I had a nice time with you, but I don't want to go out with you again, because I had a better time with someone else' sound like less of a rejection, and more of an explanation along the lines of 'Oops! You're a nice guy -- it's just bad timing.'

So, there I am, bumbling through a series of difficult kicks without the benefit of being caffeinated, when I start panicking that Perfectly Nice might recognize me. I am in full-on Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief mode. My first thoughts are all denial:

No, that's not him. He doesn't even live in this part of town. And I'm not wearing any makeup, so if it is him, he won't recognize me anyway.

Then, when I can't deny that it's definitely him, I turn to anger:

Why did I have to go out with so many guys? Didn't I realize I was bound to run into one of them some day? Why am I so picky? I am a whore! A first-date whore! See what happens when you're too lazy to get up and make coffee for yourself?! 

Then right on cue comes the pitiful bargaining:

Universe, I will NEVER ignore a text or go out into the world uncaffeinated again, if you just spare me from locking eyes with him. Please, let me get through this without an awkward interaction with him, and I pledge I will be a BETTER PERSON from now on!

When the bargaining becomes too pitiful and annoying, I move on to depression:

There's nothing I can do. I'm just stuck in this uncomfortable place until I've done 500 of these damn kicks that I will never be able to do properly, much less with elegance. I don't care. Nothing matters anymore. 

And finally, blessed acceptance:

It is what it is. I am not a bad person. I don't have to say 'yes' all the time. Feeling awkward is part of the human condition. I need coffee to function. Soon I'll be in the comforting embrace of my beloved coffee again.

Searching for that Perfect Calvin Klein Dress in my Size

What the...? You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing here? Can't you see this blog has been abandoned?!

Well, not just yet. Hello Faithful Readers. I'm back from my unplanned, well needed hiatus. Try as I might, I could not quit you. I think I still have embarrassing things to share with you. That's a well that will *never* run dry -- the well of romantic humiliations and missteps. Please continue to slake your thirst. My cup runneth over.

A few weeks before Halloween, my daughter and I went thrift-storing for costumes. While I was pawing through the racks looking for a dress suitable for a 1970s Cher costume, I was struck by the thought that thrift-store shopping might be the *perfect* way to explain online dating. Now, I realize that every other blog post I write seems to contain a new disparaging comparison to online dating. But those comparisons to Dante's Inferno and cable tv (among others) really only apply to the negative aspects of online dating, whereas a comparison to thrift-store shopping fits the *overall* experience of online dating, not just the *worst* aspects of it.

At a very fundamental level, thrift stores and dating websites are places people go to acquire other people's rejects. When confronted with the idea of shopping at a thrift store, people sometimes think, 'No way am I doing that. I'm not the kind of person who shops at a place like that.' But a friend who scored something nice at a thrift store for a dollar might lure you into giving it a try. Likewise that friend who scored someone nice online.

In thrift stores and on dating websites, the garish and outlandish often catch your eye first. Thrift stores are an excellent source for wild colorful costumes, in the same way that dating websites are a wellspring of crazy characters who make it easy to write blog posts about the horrors of online dating. But the real trick is finding something that integrates seamlessly into your regular wardrobe, your daily life.

Dating websites and thrift stores have a similar tradeoff between cash versus time. It doesn't cost much to put up a dating profile (often they're free), but it's as time consuming to go through every message you receive and view every profile of those who've contacted you as it is to patiently go through the thrift-store racks piece by piece. You have to have the patience of Job to look through rack after rack of other people's rejected clothes -- clothes that are too worn or outdated or stained or plain just don't appeal. Sometimes you lose faith that there is anything of interest for you and you just walk out discouraged and empty handed. But every once in a while, the Universe blows you a hot kiss, and you discover that perfect mint condition Calvin Klein dress in your size! You think, 'How is it possible that something so nice ends up here?' Yet it does -- a brilliant gem hidden among all the quietly boring or garishly hideous clothes occupying the racks.

Patiently Learning My Lesson

I started a new job this week. After several years of working temp jobs, I have finally broken out of that temp-job cycle and have landed a permanent one. Halle-fricking-lujah! Finally. I am not a patient person. Oh sure, I can wait patiently in line at Costco behind 50 people with carts overflowing with 100-pound bags of pretzels and other necessities of life, because, well, it's Costco! But when it comes to some of the major categories of my life (job, career, love), I have the patience of a spoiled four-year-old at her own birthday party being forced to wait until the very end to open her presents.

Since my divorce, life's biggest lesson for me has been patience. Even though I really wanted a permanent job, I had to wait a long time for one. My temp jobs helped me brush up my job skills, and I slowly gained enough experience to become marketable again as an employee in the full-time permanent pool. Eventually I got what I wanted, but ding-dang, it took much, much longer than I was prepared to wait.

And life continues its lesson, since I've been learning patience in my love life too. For the past two months, I've been dating a great guy I met online. We see each other about once a week. Even though I would like to see him more often, one date a week is really all our busy schedules will allow.

I like to think of myself as a quick study. (Who doesn't?) But even if that were true, there is no shortcut for learning patience. Cultivating patience is like listening to a long story told by a beloved aunt with a terrible stutter. It takes as excruciatingly long as it takes.

Happy For the Reminder

I am sitting on a bench facing the marina on a beautiful day in Los Angeles. I am struggling to write something witty or insightful about love for this blog, killing time before I pick up my daughter from a nearby birthday party. Less than ten feet from me is a married couple bickering about everything in front of friends into whom they accidentally bumped. He says the fish he caught on their recent trip was 30 inches long. She objects and claims it was only 25 inches. It continues on unabated by the presence of their friends, who seem trapped by an unfortunate circumstance forced upon them by Fate, the black-humored prankster of the Universe. He says something, she disagrees on the nobody-gives-a-f*ck details. They choose to pollute an otherwise serene place with their annoying, slightly hostile vibes rather than breathe in the glorious scene, grateful to be alive. I am once again happy for the reminder of how hard it can be to be married.

A big boat drifts by with a man in a formal tux and a woman in a white wedding dress, presumably sailing off to fulfill their marital destiny. "DON'T DO IT!" yells Mr. Bicker in a half-hearted way, as if he knows he's powerless to warn a man off tying the knot when that man is in the grip of love's sweet pull. The friends react with nervous laughter, embarrassed by the wider implication of Mr. Bicker's half-joking last-minute advice to the groom. Mrs. Bicker half-heartedly hits her loud-mouth galoot of a husband on the shoulder and commands him to "STOP IT! HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Then he reaches over and kisses her and they get on their bikes and ride away. I wonder to myself if I'll ever meet someone who will put up with me enough to kiss me even when I'm *that* annoying. Then I'm happy for the reminder that marriage works in mysterious ways.

A Love Letter to First Dates

When you're a woman using an online dating website, you get *a lot* of messages from guys. All of my single female friends confirm that's been their experience. For a single woman, it seems like having interest from a lot of guys would be a dating panacea, but that's not the case at all. Most of the men are too something: too old, too young, too married, too uninteresting, too encumbered by life's messy circumstances, too geographically undesirable, etc. It's an embarrassment of faux riches -- emphasis on embarrassment -- all that male interest. Think of it like this: Online dating is like having cable tv. You get 500 channels, but only three are interesting enough to actually watch.

July was the month of the long-distance suitor. And when I say 'long-distance,' I don't mean guys who live 30 miles away in another part of LA. I mean long-ass-distance, like Arizona, Italy, and Denmark. I don't understand why a man would waste his time writing me a long thoughtfully composed message expressing his interest in me when there's almost no chance it could evolve into something local and real. Winning the lottery seems more likely. Of course, they may be looking for *only* an epistolary romance that plays out over the course of many emails. That may be all their messy life circumstances will allow. 

An epistolary romance might work for some people, but I'm not one of them. Although I adore highly verbal men and appreciate a well written letter, I want the angsty, butterflies-in-the-stomach experience of a real first date. I want the smile and the direct eye contact. I want the awkward pauses in the conversation because you're too gobsmacked by each other to be able to think in words. I want the spontaneous jokes that erupt organically during the evening. I want the not-knowing whether he's going to kiss me at the end of the date. I want the unexpected euphoria that comes when you realize you feel a real connection. Even with all of my many awful first dates, I'd gamble on a first date over a love letter any day.

Fighting with Slightly Dim Strangers

There is a joke in my dating profile that many men don't seem to understand. I have included one of the biggest online dating cliches ever written -- Living life to the fullest!!!!!!! -- which is funny by itself because of its insistent, obvious exaggeration. (Really? The fullest?! How can you be living life to the fullest if you're single, yet you want to be part of a couple? And so much so, that you're willing to subject yourself to the freak show of online dating?!) But the real punchline follows that cliche as a parenthetical, illuminating statement:

I am LIVING LIFE TO THE FULLEST!!!!!!!

(That'll show my jackass ex-husband what an amazing woman I am!!!!!). 

The joke isn't me calling my ex-husband a jackass. The joke is iterating the subtext that I think prompts such overly emphatic statements of living the fullest life. The second line mocks the first one. But it only really works if one recognizes that 'Living life to the fullest!!!!' is the stalest of cliches. And most guys who contact me don't. I usually won't waste my time with the guys who include a comment about what a jackass my ex-husband must be (or what a jackass their ex is), so the joke serves as a filter for my kind of sense of humor. But sometimes I'm trying to figure out if the guy is in on the joke, as I did recently with a local 47-year-old British ex-pat photographer who claims to be transitioning into writing.

British Guy: your husband was a douche...  

Me: Quit flirting.

British Guy: he was an a hole!

Me: Now it's not just flirting -- you're taking off your shirt. Stop it.

British Guy: What do i have to say to get YOUR shirt off?

Me: Well, not *that*.

British Guy: I'm getting that you don't speak English very well. Or that you can't string more than a couple of words together at a time. Maybe you didn't do so well at school. Not sure what's going on, but it's a little weird. Are you a man?

Me: Yes, me is dumb. Me flunky-flunks village skool in old country of youthtimes of mine personage. The face cheeks of me are fired color red, sting like bulgaria village dunce shame.

I should have just walked away without comment. I know. I shouldn't have engaged in what is the online dating equivalent of that chest-poking right before an incomprehensibly stupid bar fight breaks out. But sometimes slightly dim online jackasses need to be chest-poked with their own idiocy. And I'm, more often than not, happy to do it.

Mr. Hard-Sell

I didn't mean to incite his interest every time I checked for new messages on the dating website. I was merely being lazy, always using the link that opened to *his* profile page, instead of creating a new link to the general home page or my own profile. He initially contacted me a few months ago, not long after I lost my good sense and went back to online dating. His first message to me was kind of over the top with a paragraph of generic compliments in Italian, as well as marveling at our 99% match compatibility. I checked out his page and decided I wasn't interested. He spent much of his lengthy profile talking about his vocation as a lecturer and his many new media projects, which I found exhausting. I could only assume meeting him in person would be even more so. And I didn't like his profile picture either, which featured him at a podium mid-lecture poking the air with all the authority and conviction of a cult leader.

Almost every time I got online to check my messages, he would visit my profile or send me a message cajoling me to agree to a date or at least a phone call. I was turned off by his hard-sell used-car-salesman approach. Instead of 'What do I have to do to get you into this car today?', Mr. Hard-Sell sent me messages like this:

Hard-Sell:  Noticed you stopped by my profile. Wondering what I need to do... to get you to respond to my note. Any suggestions? (Be careful... this is a trick question).

I only responded once with a brief message saying that what I needed was time, since I was very busy at the moment. But because I kept using the link to his profile to open up the dating website in my phone, he must have thought I kept obsessively checking out his profile, as if I found the question of whether I should go out with him or not as complex a question as "What is the human condition?"

Hard-Sell: Maybe we can touch base this weekend. If you want, leave me your number and a good time to chat. And I'll give you a call. 

I did not reply, assuming that he'd just get weary of continuing this one-sided email convo with a no-name mute.

Hard-Sell: Hey... it's a holiday weekend. Good time to go to the beach. Why don't we rendezvous in Santa Monica? Sometime this afternoon or tomorrow. Tell me what you think. Ciao bella.

No reply from me, yet I still continued to use the link to his profile page as a sort of default home page for the dating website.

Hard-Sell: Hey... you're still here. I'm still here. Don't you think we should get on the phone... and see if there's a spark? Pretty easy to do. <his phone number> Or send me your number and a good time to chat. 

Now he was just annoying me. I continued to give him the silent treatment.

Hard-Sell: I see you poking around. I know you're interested. I don't know what's holding you back. Quell your curiosity. Send me a note. I promise not to bite (well, maybe just a little). Sogni d'oro bella.

Nope, still not interested. I'm just lazy. When I finally pushed his patience to the limit, I received a very terse note with not even one word of Italian in it.

Hard-Sell: Talk to me. <Plus his name and phone number>.

I suspect his final email to me will consist of just one glorious, fitting word: Bitch.

Must You Persist With That Annoying Hopefulness? (Part 3)

In my last two blog posts, I explored the first six circles of online-dating Hell. This time I will examine the last three circles of internet-dating Hell. As in Dante's Inferno, the last three circles contain the worst of Hell's bounty. Naturally--because I'm lucky that way--I've had a lot of interaction with bottom-circle-dwellers. In fact, I'm sort of a magnet for these three types, who seek out gullible dupes like me willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

The Seventh Circle of internet-dating Hell is comprised of those who are going through the motions of online dating for purely ego-driven reasons. These are the guys who will ply you with a persistent charm offensive until you agree to meet for that first date, then bail on you with a cryptic "I'm sorry" the day of. The ego-driven guy is just looking for the validation that he can get any woman of his choosing to agree to go out with him. I suspect Aging Hipster was the first ego-driven guy who did this to me, but sadly not the last. Only last month, I got spanked again by another guy who behaved as though an ego boost is the only thing he really wants from online dating.

The most recent ego-driven guy had been online chatting with me on and off over the course of five weeks. He asked lots of questions about me, while revealing very little about himself. He asked me out a couple of times, but I was always busy. He claimed he was a comedy writer, but he didn't squander a lot of his comedy-writing skills on me. I was on the fence about meeting him, because he's nine years older and his alleged career success is frankly intimidating to me. If it happened, fine. But I wasn't agonizing over any lost opportunities to meet him. Eventually, we settled on an evening that worked for both of us. On the morning of our date, "Ego Boost" bowed out with a brief "I'm really, really sorry, but I have to cancel tonight." Could something legitimate have come up to interfere with our planned first date? Of course. Maybe his basement flooded or he got gout or things worked out with someone else he'd been pursuing online. But it just didn't feel as if his cancellation was due to an outside circumstance. It's the no-attempt-at-an-explanation cancellation and no follow-up that makes me think it was just another older guy trying to jump start his ego.

The Eighth Circle of internet-dating Hell is reserved for the Fraudulent, which includes an overflowing subset just for liars, who are legion on dating websites. Among the worst of the fraudulent are the married men who pretend to be single and lead double lives. Think Scott Peterson, who was convicted of killing his pregnant young wife when he decided he enjoyed dating more than being married. But many of the fraudulent are just small-time liars, with no agenda other than making themselves more attractive as a potential first date. The small-time liar prevaricates about his age, his occupation, or his height, just to be less likely to be dismissed before a first date happens.

One of the more benign encounters I've had with a liar involved a guy who responded to my sarcastic dating profile with a hilarious email that ended by asking me to call him "Nutsey." I eagerly obliged, and we started a dueling-banjos sort of back-and-forth with funny emails. Even though Nutsey is 58, three years older than my preferred age range of 45 to 55, I was intrigued by his comedy-writing background and that he's currently writing a book about economics. He asked me out, and I agreed to meet him for a drink and karaoke at a restaurant located about halfway between our places. A few hours before our date, Nutsey texted me to check in and see if we were still on.

Nutsey: I need to come clean about something. 

Me: Oh, I don't like the sound of that.

Nutsey: I'm not really 58. I just celebrated my 64th birthday a few weeks ago. You are free to cancel with no hard feelings of course.

Me: Nutsey!!!!!!! Are you *trying* to get into my blog?!

Nutsey: No, just your pants. ;)

Me: Ha! Don't you get into trouble when you claim to be younger than you really are?

Nutsey: Not really. Women usually say they're younger than their real age, and it turns out to be a wash.

I reluctantly bowed out, telling him I wasn't comfortable dating someone who's at a different stage of life than me. Sometimes I regret not meeting Nutsey in person. He was very funny. But I think I saved myself the likely anguish of dating someone who fundamentally isn't right for me.

The Ninth Circle of internet-dating Hell contains the very worst kind of online dater. In Inferno, Dante designated the Treacherous as the sinners of the Ninth Circle of Hell, condemned to live out eternity frozen in a lake as cold as their hearts. The Treacherous dater at his core lacks empathy. Because he has no real intuitive ability to empathize with you, his needs *always* supersede yours. In fact, the most hardcore Treacherous dater lacks the ability to even recognize that you have needs that are different than his. These are the sociopaths who will use you as a tool to get what they want. You are merely a means to their end. A classic example is the charming sociopath who sweeps a woman off her feet, marries her, and wipes out her bank account before skipping town. That hasn't happened to me (yet), but I don't rule it out as a possibility in the same way that I don't rule out death by killer bees or quicksand. I can't blithely assume it would never happen to me.

A more common sociopath is the narcissist who needs constant praise and adoration from you. He is an emotional vampire who will suck the life out of you and discard you when you no longer adequately serve that purpose. The narcissist is especially treacherous because he's charming and charismatic in the beginning while he's luring you into his heartless lair. Nothing will cure a narcissist, so get out as soon as you recognize your honey bunny is one. Being romantically involved with a guy who lacks empathy or is merely empathy-challenged is the dating equivalent of being the frog in the pot of water on the stove. You will not realize the damage to your psyche until you're suffering from third-degree burns.

Seriously, Abandon All Hope (Part 2)

If you've never had the first-hand experience of using online dating to search for love, you might be rolling your eyes, thinking 'Here she goes again with much ado about nothing -- going on about a few bad first dates. Suck it up, Frosty.' Anyone who's a veteran of internet dating knows I'm not exaggerating the emotional whiplash of this wild ride. Looking for a romantic partner who will be much more than a booty call is an exhausting process when you do it online. Part of the exhaustion comes from trying to recognize the inhabitants of the Nine Circles of internet dating Hell before you make the mistake of going out with them.

In last week's blog, I looked at the first three circles: Limbo, Lust, and Gluttony. This week I examine the middle three circles. We left off at the Fourth Circle of Hell, which, in Dante's Inferno, is filled with the Greedy, including both the avaricious and the wastefully prodigal. But I would use a different word to describe those who dwell in the Fourth Circle of internet dating Hell: the Entitled -- those who believe they are deserving of, or entitled to, certain special privileges because of who they are. You can see it in the highly successful guy who has the attitude that any woman should feel grateful to date him because of his success. Or the entitled hot woman who believes anyone she dates should feel lucky because of her "rare" stunning physical beauty. (Hey, I live in LA, where stunning physical beauty is as common as Starbucks locations.) They're often high maintenance and have an attitude that their needs always come first -- or worse, that their needs are the only ones that matter. 

The Fifth Circle of internet dating Hell is reserved for those consumed by anger. This ring is typified by the Angry Guy, who is disillusioned by intimate romantic relationships in general because he's never adequately processed his angry feelings about previous relationships that went wrong. (His female counterpart is Angry Girl, who can't stop bashing her ex to everyone within earshot.) Angry Guy is resentful not only of his former wives and girlfriends, but of the *entire* female gender. He's the guy who writes disparagingly of women on his dating profile. "I'm just looking for some fun with an attractive, fit, SANE woman until she decides to go loco on me," wrote a guy I not-at-all-sarcastically call "He Seems Nice." Angry Guy often speaks in broad sweeping negative generalizations about women. Yeah, sign me up for some of that shit. 

Heretics -- the ones who go against commonly accepted doctrine -- comprise the Sixth Circle of internet dating Hell. Within the context of online dating, a commonly accepted doctrine is the idea that everyone is looking for that one special partner with whom to spend the rest of one's life. Ha! Tell that to the swingers and the polyamorous, who reject the conventional idea that everyone has one soulmate with whom we naturally, magically pair up. Reading one's online dating messages is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Stay tuned...

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

"ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE," should be legally required in 72-point type on the home page of every internet dating website. It's that famous quote from Dante's Inferno, the foreboding inscription on the gates of Hell as Virgil leads Dante into the depths of despair. But the funny thing is, it also applies equally well to internet dating. At the risk of sounding histrionic and decidedly non-midwestern, online dating websites are a contemporary version of Hell. If that seems like hyperbole, let me double-down by saying that if Dante were writing Inferno today, he would be describing the people who populate the nine circles of Internet Dating Hell.

The First Circle is Limbo, a collection of men (and women) who are stuck in a transitional state that makes them neither completely available nor completely unavailable. These are the married men with no intention of ending their marriage, and who, for various reasons, are dating on the side, often with their spouse's tacit or openly acknowledged approval. It could be the men who stay in an unhappy marriage for the sake of their children or a family-run business, but have sexual and/or emotional needs that are not being met by their wife. Rodeo Clown, the Montana businessman/rancher looking for an out-of-town cowgirl he can pay to be his once-a-month girlfriend, is one of these lost souls in Limbo.

But it's not just attached men in complicated, ambiguous relationships in this First Circle. The emotionally unavailable guy is here in droves, stuck in this limbo despite many attractive opportunities to escape. He *claims* to be looking for the love of his life with whom he can finally settle down after all these years, but she never ultimately materializes because he's simply too uncomfortable in a truly intimate committed relationship. He's that lifelong middle-aged bachelor who has never been married or had a live-in girlfriend.

The Second Circle of Internet Dating Hell is filled with all the men consumed by Lust -- which at first seems like 100% of them. The distinction is between those men who, despite their better judgment, *act* on their lust, and those men who do not let the shiny-metal distraction of lust unduly influence their dating decisions. These are the guys who have no emotional interest in you; their interest is purely physical. You're not their "relationship type," just their physical type. These are the guys who are prone to choosing a trophy wife in their first, second or third marriages, instead of an "appropriate" woman who is similar in age, smarts, and physical appearance. In LA, there seems to be an excessive amount of personal trainers biding their time in the Second Circle.

The sexual Gluttons inhabit the Third Circle of Internet Dating Hell. There are many guys in their 20s who loiter for a time in the Gluttony Circle, but many will eventually move on as they grow tired of the exhausting chase to nail new tail. But some never grow out of it, and continue to choose the short-lived pleasures of quantity over quality. To them, online dating is a cheap sexual buffet where they can stuff themselves with gigantic portions of crapass all-you-can-eat food. I am not amused when these Gluttons regard me as if I were a large tub of fettuccine alfredo at their own personal Souplantation.

Three rings down, six to go. To be continued...

Distracted by Boy Toys and a Rodeo Clown

It's been two months since I went back on the online dating website to shop for potential boyfriends. Surprisingly, I've been contacted by a few guys who messaged me the first time I was on this website. Aging Hipster sent me the world's *second* laziest message: the word "Hilarious" followed by his first name. The world's laziest message is "Hi," which I receive several times a day from mouth-breathing dullards trolling the website for *any* woman who might respond.

Remember Mensa, the pear-shaped man with the avuncular presence who has a thing for women who like to talk politics? Well, evidentally he doesn't remember me, because he sent me a long, funny message introducing himself. His profile is exactly the same brief, hilarious one that grabbed my attention almost two years ago. I didn't have the heart to respond to him. What would I say?! "Hi. We already went on a date. Don't you remember me?" It seemed kinder to ignore him than to reply and underscore the message, 'You're a nice guy, but I'm still not interested in dating you.'

I've had four guys in their early 20s who've specifically offered to be my "Boy Toy." WTH?! Boy Toys are strictly for famous women who've entered that dissolute decade that often comes during their 50s or 60s, when all they do is sit around in brightly colored caftans drinking strong cocktails by the pool. I don't own a caftan! I'm a regular middle-aged woman, not Cher. I don't play with toys. Or boys.

Then there is the 62-year-old conservative "businessman/rancher" from Montana who asked me if I "would be interested in a Sugar Dad type situation." Awww, sweet -- my first proposition. What could I possibly say, other than "Tell me more"? (Oh, don't judge me. I write a blog that trades on voyeurism, People.) He's looking for a girlfriend on the side he can "visit" every month when he comes to town. "Visit" is my polite euphemism for the word he really means. He elaborated that he likes to "visit" at least three times each night because he's "a Viagra Cowboy." I've been to enough rodeos to spot a Rodeo Clown right away. In so many words, I told him I never "visit" the Rodeo Clown. I only laugh at him.

Uncle Exhausted

He seemed old and tired, as if life exhausts him. And it probably does, since he's three-and-a-half years into a long drawn-out divorce he considers needless. I knew almost as soon as I walked into the restaurant overlooking the city that this was not going to work for me. He claims he's 58, eight years older than me by birth, but he seems 20 years older. It felt as if I were having a drink with an uncle who spends all his free time playing golf or drinking high balls at the country club bar.

He pulled out my chair for me. He stood up when I returned from the bathroom to our table. He helped me put on my sweater when it started to cool off on the veranda of this old, faded restaurant that is at least 25 years past its prime -- like a movie starlet who was once stunning, but is now "merely" beautiful for a woman in her 70s.

When the waitress came by to see if we wanted another round, "Uncle Exhausted" asked her to tell the bartender not to put any ice in his seven & seven. I switched from a glass of wine to lemonade. I was driving. 

He rolled his eyes constantly -- like a Middle School girl stuck at a wedding with her mortifying family. He rolled his eyes when he told me the mess his 10-year-old son makes when he stays with him every other weekend. He rolled his eyes when he told me about "the lecture" he received that day from a friend who thinks gluten is poison. He rolled his eyes when he talked about the self-important CEOs and captains of industry he used to encounter in his previous career as an investment banker. If I rolled my eyes as often as he did, I would give myself migraines.

I was surprised I had so misjudged him based on his dating profile. He spent part of his childhood growing up in several European countries, the son of well traveled teachers. And he likes to garden, spend time in the woods, and ski. But I kicked myself for ignoring the gigantic red flags I now see conspicuously waving in his dating profile. Tellingly, Uncle Exhausted used the word "stoked" to describe his love of skiing. Stoked -- a word at least 20 years out of date -- the "awesome" of the early 90s. He also cops to drinking instant coffee every morning -- the horror! Who drinks instant coffee, except my 79-year-old father when he's camping and astronauts? But the real warning I ignored was when he told me, "ABBA really gets a party going!" Um... not any parties *I* attend.

He gently complained to the waitress about how watered down his drink was, even though the second one came with no ice as he had ordered. I squirmed in my chair, embarrassed to be an unfortunate witness to this. He emanated a palpable sadness as he nursed his second cocktail and recounted his two failed marriages and his two careers. I wondered if he is an accidental alcoholic, self-medicating with booze and solitude. It was easy to feel compassion for him -- he's a nice guy. But I was stoked when the date was over, as if someone had interrupted the funeral dirge playing all evening to get the party going with Dancing Queen.

Solving the Rubik's Cube of Love

Trying to sort through all the dating possibilities on an online dating website feels something like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube. Based on limited self-selected information that could very well all be lies, I am trying to sort through all the guys who've contacted me to find the plausible ones with the most appealing combination of traits for me. The Rubik's-Cubing goes something like this: he is geographically undesirable, too tall, and sings in a barbershop quartet, but he makes me laugh, he loves camping, and he's fit -- both physically and intellectually. Solving this romantic Rubik's Cube would mean finding my next long-term relationship using this crude method. Is it a hopeless strategy given the fact that I've *never* solved a Rubik's Cube in my life?

A few days after I came up with the Rubik's Cube/online dating comparison, I was contacted by a guy who was amused by all the 80s references in my online profile. He wondered why I hadn't included the Rubik's Cube, which he told me he can solve in less than 10 seconds. His teenage son is a "Speed Cuber," a competitive Rubik's Cube player who can solve it in two seconds! He even sent me a couple of clips showing his son in competition. I found it all weirdly coincidental and weirdly fascinating.

Of course, sorting through all the qualities/facts about a guy is a highly imperfect algorithm, as I am reminded again and again. I can't speedcube my way to the right guy, because there's no guarantee I will like him in person. Alas, there's no shortcut to finding love, which is on its own damned schedule. Mine seems to be taking its own sweet time, like Prissy in Gone with the Wind when she's dawdling on the sidewalk back to Scarlett's house because she "don't know nothing 'bout birthin' babies."

The Inexplicable Goes to 11

I was very excited when he finally asked me out. We had been instant messaging through the dating website over the last several weeks, and I was dazzled by his wit. The first paragraph of his online profile is a symphony of sarcasm that hit every note of annoyance, pessimism, and reluctant resignation I have been feeling about online dating:

I am old, worn out, torn up with a bitter broken heart and I am a cheap skate. I have baggage, an ex who comes over unannounced in the middle of the night. My teenage daughter is pregnant with her second child, father unknown. My son is a meth addict and routinely breaks in to steal something from the house. I make a living smuggling people across the border. I love my job, never a dull moment as it really caters to my creative side.

He seemed to love my sense of humor too, and our jokes organically fed off each other. He is a year older than me and he loves to ski. I was ready to run off to Vegas with him, sight unseen, but I settled for dinner only a short car ride away. From the moment I woke up on the day of the big date, it felt like Christmas, Halloween, New Year's Eve in Times Square, and the 50-1 longshot you played just getting up to win by a nose, all rolled into one.

When I parked in the lot behind the restaurant, I texted him to say I had just arrived and that, "my profile pictures were 15 years old -- hope that's not a deal breaker!" His reply? "Oh good. Mine are even older."

I walked right past him as he leaned against the hood of his car while he checked his phone. He didn't really look like the hilarious guy I had animated in my head based on his texts and a few shot-at-a-distance photos of him. I went into the restaurant to find him, but came back out when I realized that car-hood-leaner was him. We hugged, but it felt awkward, since I was hugging a stranger. Little did I know, but that was only an appetizer of awkwardness. The whole seven-course meal was ahead of me.

He seemed *completely* not into me, as if he were disappointed with the reality. He didn't say anything about the way I looked, even though I was wearing a dress, and I looked good. I had made an effort. Even if I'm not your type, if I've put on a dress -- A F*CKING DRESS, PEOPLE! -- you'd better say something, even something innocuous like 'You look nice,' otherwise you're just a social clod. I got nothing.

He was distracted throughout dinner, often checking out the thin 20-year-old single mom in the tank top and mini skirt who repeatedly let her young toddler bang her head hard on the table they shared with a group of her 20-something friends. He was rarely present or focused on me, and he didn't say one funny thing all night. It was as if a different person showed up for our date! Perhaps he had a humorless twin brother who had bound and gagged the hilarious twin I had been texting, just so he could take his place.

I can usually find something to talk about with anyone, but I struggled. Finally, when I asked him what he had planned that weekend, he told me he was going to shop for a "yacht." His word. Not a boat. Not a sailboat. Not even a big-ass boat. A yacht. He was going to spend the weekend yacht shopping. I could not relate.

This is when my bad date went to 11. "Not Into Me" mentioned he had previously worked at a well known internet company, the same one where my ex-husband worked for a year or two. Not only did they work there at the same time in the same building, they both worked at the small publicly traded company that the large well known internet company had acquired! Not Into Me searched his phone for my ex-husband's name, and when he couldn't find it, he checked my ex's LinkedIn profile. The 54 people they both knew on LinkedIn wasn't the only thing they had in common though. I realized they both behaved the same way toward me during dinner -- with almost complete indifference. As if they wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. And certainly not with me.

The check couldn't and didn't come fast enough. When it did, I offered to split the bill as I always do on a first date. In all my first dates, I can't remember a guy taking me up on that offer. Until now. Naturally, the guy who was planning to spend his weekend yacht shopping is the one who wanted to split the bill. Whatever. It was a small price to pay to end the awkward misery.

Not Into Me had parked right in front of the restaurant, so he just said good night, hopped in his car, and drove away. He didn't offer to walk me to my car, which was parked in the lot in back. After a night of utter disinterest in me, I was not surprised, and relieved that I wouldn't have to endure even five more minutes of him. I practically skipped back to my car, happy to cross this dud off my list and hopeful that my next date wouldn't be the train wreck this one was.

Two days later, Not Into Me texted me and asked me out again. WTF?! Bet you didn't see that coming. Neither did I. I was stunned and confused. Then it was he who was stunned and confused when I turned him down, telling him I thought there was zero in-person chemistry between us. He said he was tired that night and that he really liked me. No matter. There is no way I will ever knowingly go out with a guy whose behavior towards me reminds me of my ex-husband's during the most unhappy part of our marriage.

Dating is hard. Dating strangers is even harder. Sometimes I wonder how anyone can discover that special someone through the distorting haze of expectation and imagination that clouds online dating websites. Then I go back online to take another hit off that distortion and let myself get carried away again.

Another Reason Why There's Already a Reserved Seat for Me in Hell

Recently a perfectly nice guy -- whose only fault seems to be that he lives 35 miles away and is therefore "geographically undesirable" -- sent me a brief message through the online dating website. When I checked out his profile, I noticed one of his photos showed him wearing a police uniform with the caption 'What I wear to work every day.' And he was built, so I decided to tease him a little bit.

ME: Just wondering if you're a cop or a male stripper pretending to be a cop? I have extreme reactions to both. One is very good; the other, not so much. 

MALE STRIPPER COP: Which one is good, and which one isn't?

ME: I would be amused, and slightly horrified, if you were a male stripper dressed as a cop. I think law enforcement officers are great. So, I guess this means goodbye. I just can't date a male stripper -- no matter how hot!

MALE STRIPPER COP: Lol. I'm not a male stripper. I'm a police officer. What makes you think I'm a stripper?

ME: Cops aren't built like you! Male strippers are though. Do you dance at a club or do you specialize in bachelorette parties and baby showers?

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T:  Baby showers? Lol. I'm not a stripper. But thanks.

ME: Oh, c'mon. You expect me to believe that?! You don't have an ounce of donut-flab on you! And that uniform is fake. I can see the velcro.

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T:  The uniform is legit. Seriously, I really am a police officer.

ME: Hahaha. You'll have to "arrest" me, Officer Hottie. Please! Please! I've been bad.

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T: I don't know what to tell you. I'm not a stripper. I just like to work out.  

ME: How do you get all that money home -- since it all comes in $1 bills? Do you stuff it all in a backpack or do you have to use something larger like a wheel barrow?

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T: Goodbye.