Geographically Challenged

Hello again, and my apologies for my prolonged absence. Life does have a way of, well, getting in the way doesn't it?

So I'm finding myself once again up against my proclivity for "emotionally distant and geographically challenged" men. I don't know what it is, but the further a man lives from me the more interested in them I am. I believe I've already mentioned my New York Ex... well now I can add my London Infatuation.

While in the Caribbean on a very challenging co-production with a UK company, I found myself surrounded by Brits. Funny (and attractive) accents surrounded me on all sides, but I took it in stride, befriended the Brits, even started adopting their slang. (Although it sounds ridiculous to say "sodding" in a Canadian accent) In turn, I found I was adopted, made part of the family so to speak. I was so impressed by the talent and work ethic of the British crew, I was honoured to be an honourary member. We would all return from long shoot days to our luxury resort, eat gourmet food together, and drink rum punches until we could barely stand. It was heaven.

And then one night, it happened. I was minding my own business, drinking my face off in good company, when someone thought it would be funny to mock propose to me! Oh well, if that wasn't unsettling enough, one of my British pals decided he'd have none of it, and scooped me onto his lap, effectively staking his claim to my time and affection, assuming I would give it. Lucky for him, I find talent exceptionally sexy and I was amenable to the situation. Seven lovely nights spooning in a 5 star bed ensued, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

But then reality crashed on my head. The shoot ended, and we returned to our respective cities. Myself to Toronto, Him to London. Now the rational part of me understands this was a week of comfort in a strange land... two people thrown together who found common ground and shared interests and a certain amount of solace from a demanding job by litterally falling asleep in each other's arms. But the daydreamer in me... now she's dangerous.

She likes the exoticism. She likes the idea of pulling up stakes and running of to a new life, a new world. She likes the fairy tale. She likes it when the movies lie to her and tell her that these sorts of things always work out. Despite the fact that's she's quite painfully been proven wrong in the past.

So how do I deal with the daydreamer? How do I set her right? How do I tell her to let go of the fantasy and move on, find a nice local boy, have a real life right here, right now? I don't, I suppose... I let her dream, I indulge her star eyed optimism for a few weeks... and I keep her from sending ridiculous emails (honestly it's how the last one got started... I have no idea of the power of my own prose!) and I slowly let her let go... move on... find a nice local boy and build ridiculous fantasies around him... there was that cute bar owner a couple months back, maybe I can renew her interest in him?

A Blast from the Past... or We're only hurt by the ones we've loved

I received and email today from my oldest and dearest friend. We haven't spoken in a while, but she admitted something she felt she could only tell me. She had recently cyber stalked her ex boyfriend. She had followed a trail of face book breadcrumbs that had lead her to photos of him, his wife, their vacation in Mexico and their toy poodle. And she was ashamed. Also, she was karmically punished, as she literally ran into him while on a jog two days later. It has her spinning. Not because she's sad and alone, she's with a lovely guy in a committed relationship. But he's her ex. And he continued existing after they broke up.

Now cyber stalking is nothing unusual. I'll admit to more than my fair share of it. Despite the fact that my ex lives in not just another city, but another country, any time I feel the need to poke the wound I just need to load up his band's web page to see how he's living it up as a retro rock star in NYC... complete with celebrity guest stars. I won't lie, it's not comfortable... but somehow comforting... to see pictures of him rocking out onstage. It was one of his more sexy traits, the way the testosterone dripped off him when he sang... or was that just sweat. There is a slight perspective I've gained, but the pain is still there. A ghost of what it was... they way it feels when you run your finger over scar tissue. You can't feel it, but you can. The sensation is unique and almost indescribable.

And THE Ex isn't the only way I can poke at old wounds. There's a rotating list of ones that got away. The too young for me guy from university... sweet, goofy, and not quite grown into himself... who years later reappeared as a muscular, suave geologist... a geologist that I let get away- twice. The guy I glanced at once across the room at a friend's party who married into the group and is expecting his first child. The guy I could have had an affair with if I didn't have scruples about that. Even guys I've tossed aside as not worthy, not up to snuff... they all find their partner, settle down, go about their lives.

Somehow I want them to stop existing when they leave my world. There is something supremely disconcerting when the specters of the past reappear... especially when they are the ghosts of what could have been. Honestly, it doesn't even help when I'm besotted with another at the time. I've had the privilege of introducing my (much more handsome, well built and successful) current boyfriend to an old flame. It tastes like victory, only stale... or with some sort of aftertaste.... of what could have been.

The truth is, I've never been completely able to remove someone from my heart once I've found them a place. They may move out, but their presence is forever stamped there... a song, a favorite food, silly rituals, the weight of their arm around your waist. Black Russians, Eggs in the Morning, Convertibles on a Summer Highway, New York City... they all connect back to someone, somewhere. A someone who didn't cease to exist when he left your world, or you kicked him out... a someone who still has a life that goes on and changes and evolves. A life with his wife, his vacation, and his stupid little dog. All you can hope is that when he runs a finger over the scar that is you, he feels something strange and altogether indescribable too.

The Worst

It was a dark and stormy night when I experienced the horror that came to be known as THE ONE EYED SQUISHER.

Gather round children as I tell the tale of an unsuspecting young woman and the ghastly occurrence of the worst sex of her life. It all started so pleasantly, but it all went horribly horribly wrong.

The woman met a man. Tall, handsome, with a rakish eye patch that made her think of dashing pirates and romance novels, he beguiled her with his humour and self confidence. They played pool, he winning her phone number by winning the game. The met again, chemistry ignited, and though they did not consumate their relationship, they stoked each other's fires for yet another meeting. On the third meeting, they met, drank, flirted, touched, walked drunkenly through the streets and made out like teenagers on the porch. It rained, heavy pouring sheets of water.

"I can't make you walk home in this," she smirked, "You'll have to come inside."

Once inside things heated up. Hands and lips and clothing flying everywhere.

"Safety first," and the condom went on.

That's when everything went wrong.

Climbing on top of her, he settled his entire weight, all 200lbs of himself, directly onto her. No supporting his weight with knees and arms, just lying completely on top of her. Already the woman was uncomfortable, being nearly half his size, she was pinned, and having trouble breathing, but things were about to get so very much worse. The thrusting began, his hip bones jamming painfully into her soft thighs bruises forming instantly. Something internal was being poked awkwardly and she was unable to shift position at all. It continued like this for a blessedly short amount of time. And then it was over.

As she lay there, counting her bruises and checking for compression fractures on her ribs, the woman wondered How can someone be so good at foreplay and so very, very bad at sex? It was a mystery. She contemplated that he was perhaps a little drunk, so she decided to give him a second chance in the morning. That did not go any better.

How on earth can someone manage to squish you from the spoon position?!?! No one is even on top of anyone!

Not one to give up easily, and believing that everyone can be taught a few tricks, she gave it one more chance. Another night altogether would surely go more smoothly.

Unfortunately for her...

Seriously? You can be squished from behind AND standing?!?! How is that even possible?

He was completely untrainable, and worse yet, seemed not only to be unaware of his squishing propensity, but to be unwilling to change.

The truth had to be faced. She had met the dreadful One Eyed Squisher. All she could do was walk away...

And dear reader, lest you think that is the end of the tale, listen closely as I tell you the anti-mating call of the dreaded Squisher...

When the woman tried to meet up with the Squisher, with the sole purpose of ending their brief relationship maturely and in person, she received a voice message, rambling, drunken, and over five minutes long, explaining how he was a drunk, the economy was down, and that he wasn't over his ex yet (lucky girl or she'd be squished), and that it wasn't her it was him.

How right he was, children, how very right he was.

3 Dimensional Shift

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'm sizeist.... heightist, weightist, even a little lookist... Yes, I admit it. When it comes to men, I'm a little bit... prejudiced.

It's not that if a man was otherwise fantastic, I'd completely write him off if he were, say, 5'7" (my height) or 125 pounds (my weight) but I'm going to be honest, I'm just more attracted to men who are taller and more... substantial... than myself. I like to wear heels. I think it's weird if I have to bend down to kiss my date. And I'm a fairly skinny chick, my guy shouldn't make me look big!

I know! I know! I can hear you already. Up in arms over the way I judge men.

"How would you like it if men judged you like that?!" you cry.

"That's so shallow!" you (pre)judge.

Well, tough.

First of all, I don't like it when men judge me, or my friends, based on physical factors. But it happens, and it's natural. If a guy doesn't like me because I'm too tall for his tastes, or too curvy, or too thin, my skin is fair and freckled or my hair is the wrong colour, so what? If I'm awesome, he may get past it... or he may not. And if he doesn't get past it, someone else will see how awesome AND how hot I am and there won't be a compromise.

The same goes for my prejudices.

I've dated short before. It was actually him who had more of a problem with our heights being the same. He was a good looking guy, well built, and gainfully employed. He was often sweet and funny, but just as often sort of rough and off putting. In the end it was just our personalities that drove us apart. He saw me as some sort of "artsy brainer" oddity, and that made me see him as a "wall street jock".

And he was so damned short it was like being made out with by an italian leprechan!

In all seriousness, you can try to change what you find attractive, and you may surprise yourself by what REALLY does attract you in the end. If the chemistry is there, you may not care that he's going bald or has a paunch, or that she's not a blonde. But maybe you will. You'll never know unless you try, but don't beat yourself up if you just can't get past it.

Attraction is a multi dimensional thing... and sometimes you just can't make a dimensional shift.

The Case of the Missing Man... or Why Men Just Disappear.

One Week.

That's all it takes to go from cautious optimism to embarrassed defeat. And the worst part is you never know what happened. He just disappears.

We've all been there. One good date is a fluke. Two is a blessing. Fantastic good night kisses, the kind that shouldn't be indulged if one party has no intention of seeing the other again. You're beginning to give the butterflies in your stomach a little free reign, starting to think "Hey, I could like this guy"

And then the communication stops. He doesn't call, he doesn't return texts. He simply ceases to exist in any tangible form you can access. He has become a foggy dream that is starting to feel like an uneasy nightmare. The only blessing is the fact that it was only two dates, and you managed to keep your feelings in check. If it had been four, or even three dates, the emotional fallout could have been much worse.

As it stands, you will be fine.

But it's impossible not to feel the slight disappointment, the sharp reminder that someone has found you not worth the trouble of seeing again, much less giving you a moment's thought afterwords. You are trying not to be hurt.

The truth is that it's the simple cessation of contact that is the most irksome. And the knowledge that if you persist with trying to break through the radio silence that you risk looking "desperate" or "pathetic", but you somehow hold on to the idea that perhaps he didn't get the message... or he lost your number? or he's just holding back and playing hard to get?

And the worst part is you know you've done the same thing to others before... that karmically speaking you deserve it... So really you know you should just shut up and take it. But you don't want to. You're fighting the urge to send one more text. The question is... what response do you expect? And if there is no response again, will that just make it worse?

So do you send that text, leave that one message... or do you put down the phone and walk away?

I am naked in a book...

Let me tell you this is not an easy subject to broach... with anyone... family, friends, co-workers... much less a potential boyfriend.

I figured the best way to handle it, and the possible fall out was to hit it head on. After all, it's not something I'm embarrassed or ashamed of, and if he's going to be, well best we all know now. In all fairness he's the one who brought up skeletons in the closet. I believe the term "Charged but never convicted" was used. So I figured it might be okay to bring up my presence in an art photography book... naked. Granted it was a second date, and maybe telling someone you've stripped down for art that early is like saying "I love you" too soon, but I took a chance.

On the surface it was well recieved... not even a cheap leer or request to see it. He said "Well, it's art." I thought it went over well. But it still wasn't easy to spit out. And later, as we walked along the street and ran into people he knew, I wonder if it began to sink in with him.

This girl is naked in a coffee table book. Some people here will probably see it. Maybe some
of them have seen it already.

It's like how the dream of dating a stripper or porn star is not quite the same when you realize that everyone has seen what you're seeing. Some people just can't handle it. Have you ever seen the look in a man's eyes when he meets someone his girl has slept with? It's this moment where he realizes that someone else has seen his prize.

Now it's the modern age, and few of us are naive enough to think that our partners have not been naked with other people. But the truth remains, we don't like to be reminded of it. No one likes the evidence staring them in the face.

Do I think I made a mistake? No. The photographer is extremely talented, the photo striking, and my dignity intact. Do I think it's something I might hold back a little while longer on the list of confessions? Maybe. At least until I think he's kinda hooked, so there's something at stake for him if he panics about it.

In the end, though, if he can't handle the truth, then it's best to know as early as possible.

The Little Carnivore Takes Another Bite...

Throwing caution to the wind the Little Carnivore decided to meet the Quiet Vegetarian for a late evening drink. They had both spent the day with Sibling Offspring, and were ready to be civilized city dwellers having a couple drinks in the vibrant city scape. After a rain canceled motor cycle ride (more on whether Vegetarians should own motorcycles later), and a rain check on intimate scotch drinking (it was after all, a second date), a bar was chosen, and the Gastronomically challenged couple met.

Thankfully the Q.V. took the lead, conversationally speaking, much to the relief of a once again nervous Carnivore. Good conversation, and a couple Coronoas later, it was time to call it a night and begin the walk home. The Carnivore was relieved to find that he seemed to have every intention of walking her home. A very busy queen street and the Vegetarian's rather large acquaintance base seemed to have other plans. Every five feet it seemed they were stopped by someone who knew him. Brave faced, the Carnivore smiled and nodded her way through conversations that did, in the end, shed some small light on the man she was spending her time with. And to her relief she also ran into a friend that night, so she felt somewhat hip and cool.

Finally extricating themselves from the chatty hipsters, they continued on their way... as raindrops began to fall...

"I like when it rains on my way home" she said.

He smiled.

They walked.

They arrived at the Little Carnivore's home. She turned to him, expectantly, and smiled thinking:

Damn does that boy know how to kiss a girl goodnight... and the best part is it's totally respectful...no hands where they shouldn't be but in all the best ways....
like firm on my back, gently on my neck and wrapped in my hair...
and no drool... and perfect tongue... and tmi... but seriously... just for the kissing i'd go round three

And then he pulls away and puts his hands just there on her waist and says

"Sleep well"

And the Carnivore nods because she can't make words...

And then they're kissing again until he pulls away once more saying;

"Sleep well."

She nods again because words are slippery and she can't find them

L.C. gives him one quick kiss and walks away.

*sigh*


I'll just keep dating him I suspect
Until it all makes sense and I either love him or hate him.

The Little Carnivore's Dillemma

There once was a little carnivore. She loved her burgers, steaks, duck, and venison. If it had a face she'd eat it! More often than she could count, this simple love of meat had won her points with meat loving men.

"I'm so glad you're not a vegetarian" they would say.
"I love that you'll eat a burger on a date" came the wondering praise.

Then one day, the unthinkable happened. The little carnivore went unsuspectingly on a seemingly harmless date. The man showed up, and he was handsome, even sexy, quiet and a little mysterious. The little carnivore grew nervous, and prattled, and chatted, and tried to impress this stranger who had beguiled her so.

I know, she thought, I'll tell him about the lovely meals I can cook... something meaty and tasty!

So the little carnivore began to describe a luscious pork tenderloin with mustard crust and roasted beets and carrots and... it didn't work! No ravenous look of hunger and lust, no approving mouth watering.

"Well, I don't eat meat," Said the man, "But I see how that could be delicious."

Oh No!
Could it be true?!
Had the little carnivore truly found herself in the most unusual of situations?

Yes, the little carnivore had found herself developing a crush on the illusive creature... the Male Vegetarian!

How could this happen? How could this go on?

The nervousness ramped itself up a notch and the babbling increased to a fever pitch until-

"You seem nervous," the quiet vegetarian said.
"Yes, I suppose I am," the nervous carnivore replied, blushing.
"But... Why?" he asked.
"I... don't know" she stammered.

At this, the quiet vegetarian reached across the table and took one of the little carnivore's small hands in both his and just held them... silently... still...

The nervous little meat eater began to panic. She giggled, she twitched, her leg began to thump rhythmically.

"You're trying to make me be quiet aren't you?" she accused.

He smiled.

"Maybe."

"It's a test?" she demanded

"No."

And he smiled again, still holding her hand still. The little carnivore bit her lip and sighed in defeat... giving in at last to the still and quiet man across from her.

"So, let's get out of here." he said, guiding her to the street from the restaurant patio.

And the walk was cathartic, the conversation lively and two sided, the night air fresh. They laughed and joked, and bumped against each other in their flirtatious gait. And at the little carnivore's doorstep they stopped.

"You walked me all the way home." she said, "That was very sweet of you."

The Quiet Vegetarian said nothing.

He simply leaned towards her and lightly, gently kissed her. His soft warm lips pressed to hers, she realized there could be a problem. She really could fancy this strange non meat eater. But as the kiss continued, teasing and enticing, she once again sighed. Not in defeat, but in surrender.

She would enjoy this vegetarian, she decided, at least until their dietary requirements inevitably drove them apart. But until then...

There is a difference...

There is a difference between being broke and being cheap. Broke means that when you invite yourself to a girl's house to watch a DVD instead of taking her out, you bring an inexpensive bottle of wine. Being CHEAP means that after availing yourself of said woman's hospitality, you take the rest of your wine home with you!

Likewise there is a difference between being self confident and being an arrogant ass. Being self confident means you like yourself and you know what you have to offer others. Being an ARROGANT ASS means you feel the need to tell others, in detail, ad nauseum, exactly how much you like yourself, how much you have to offer, and what a great catch you are. It also means that you fail to notice that your repeated sexual innuendos are not welcome, that your sexual interest is not reciprocated, and that when you notice something amiss, it must be because the woman is "sexually timid" and/or a prude.

Gentlemen, please, note the differences!

There is a difference between being straightforward and honest and being blunt and negative. Being straightforward means that you don't lie, fabricate, falsify, gloss over, or sugar coat. Being straight forward in an online profile may read as follows:
"I'm a hardworking guy, who doesn't have a lot of time for a serious relationship."
Being blunt might sound like this:
"Ladies, I just want to get down. If you don't want to be physical then you shouldn't waste my time."
Honest, true, but both of those say essentially the same thing. One is polite. One is decidedly skeevy.

Being honest might go like this:
"If I send you a message, I would love a reply, even if it is to say thank you but not interested."
Negativity is more like:
"All the women here don't respond to emails. WHAT IS WITH THAT? RUDE OR WHAT? Just because I'm not some super rich jerk. All women want is money and gifts! "

I'll tell you one thing... if you start your conversation with me by saying how you have no faith in women, we're going to have a problem relating to each other, and I probably won't write you back since you've already YELLED AT ME (caps are a weapon people... unload your guns). Oh, and chances are that even though you're not super rich, you're likely still a jerk.

Come on people. Put your best foot forward. I won't lie, 95% of the dates I've had have been a let down... even the correspondence has been less than stellar. Some men don't reply. Maybe I'm not their type. Maybe they don't think I'm cute or funny or have great legs. Just because that's how they feel doesn't make them bad people, it just means I have to keep looking. The guy who told me "I'm bored with this conversation shit. Good luck out there" after 2 emails... maybe he wasn't the nicest person, but he blocked me so I'll never get to tell him to stuff it. Does that mean I'm going to put in my profile how if you don't want to email and you're just going to block me you're a jerky arsehole? Nope. My profile isn't about the jerks. It's about me. It's about how cute and funny I am, and about that one picture with the clearly visible great legs.

When I meet a guy I don't immediate inform him "guys tell me girls out there are bitches so I must be pretty awesome cuz I don't think I'm a bitch and I have all this other great stuff." I have a conversation. I ask questions and listen to answers, I answer his questions, I tell funny stories and inevitably do something clumsy and hope he finds it endearing, because I am honestly a klutz and better he know it now than later.

So why on earth would I want to sit across from a guy telling me what a great catch he is? (no, really he actually said "I'm a good catch".) Why would I want to listen to him make lecherous comments like "I like your legs, I wonder how far they would wrap around my waist."? Why would I be impressed by a guy who picked me up in his gym shorts and a stained t-shirt, parked using a handicapped sticker (that he no longer needs) so he didn't have to pay parking, let me buy my own $2 cup of tea and was too cheap to buy a coffee so drank stale water from a 2 gallon bottle while we sat in the park. If you need to tell me what a catch you are, chances are you aren't that much of a catch. Because I'm a good judge of character on my own. And that's the difference.

Know thy self

I recently had moment to take stock of myself... I'm over 30, into men, not sure I want children (mostly sure I don't), still certain there's someone I'm meant to spend my life with... So I'm relatively sure I know who I am and what I may want in life.
That's why I found myself in perplexed shock on my latest date.
Let me preface this by saying I was crushing hard on a face and a profile, which by now I should have known better than to do. (fear not I will fill you in on Daniel Craig's less sauve doppleganger) He seemed cute, fun, a foodie and into great wine, a fantastic attitude, an good sense of humour. I thought he was a contender.
Imagine my shock when the man I was meeting appeared to be gay.

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That (unless of course you're dating women)

He showed up, flapped his hands at me, gave a kiss and a hug and then asked if I wanted a "drinky-poo"...
Alright, I told myself... nerves on his part, inflated expectations on mine... whatever, if he wasn't straight he wouldn't be here.
But I couldn't shake it. His compliments and flattery seemed to be at odds with his demeanor. Not that I'm an expert on sexual orientation, but I work in the arts... i've seen my fair share of gay and closeted men. He would attempt to hold my hand, but almost like an awkward sister, he definitely was interested in me on an intellectual level... but somehow his physical comments were disingenuous... Ex-grlfriends were mentioned in passing, so I know I'm not the first woman he's been on a date with. We spent literally hours gabbing in easy conversation, but not once did I feel the frisson of him mentally undressing me, really (despite him alluding to it) checking out my breasts... he seemed more interested in what I was wearing than the body it was covering.

I'll admit it was a delightful afternoon with a friend on the patio, but when he walked me home it felt like two school chums swinging hands on the way home from class rather than two potential lovers dragging out the eventual good bye.

He did insist on a kiss, pleasant, and well performed, but sadly without passion as far as I could tell.

Sure, none of this is proof positive that this isn't simply a great, but slightly awkward guy trying to impress a girl over beer and conversation. And maybe I'd give him a second date... he is funny and sweet and an all around awesome guy. But it's there, somewhere, the suspicion that I've come across another closeted male who really does want to find me attractive. I guess I'm just hoping that there's no way an urban educated male can make it to his fourties without realizing he's really gay, so this guy must be straight... right?

The spy beside me...

Some people would consider espionage dating weird... or lame... not me.
I figure at least it's kind of interesting to pretend you're international super spies on the trail of a government assassin. That way if you don't hit it off you've always got the storyline to keep you on track for an hour or so. That's what happened with Mr Bond.

Somehow in our online communications, we developed a story where I was a secret service agent, he was a photo journalist, and while abroad in a South American country on our respective assignments we find ourselves embroiled in the mysterious murder case of the diplomat I was assigned to protect. On various rendezvous we discover clues, while drinking strong local liquor and sweating against each other in dark corners. It was all very tantalizing and I decided to take him up on his offer of meeting face to face... in the interests of solving the crime of course.

We met up at a bar local to me, had a pleasant drink, a goofy conversation that switched between the story line and actual reality... confusing, but amusing. In the end he was a nice guy, decently attractive, who I would date again if asked, but mostly because there was a certain sense of not taking the whole ordeal so seriously. It was a date, simply put, two strangers meeting at a pre arranged spot to share details and clues as to whether or not they would like each other.

I felt very Mr and Mrs Smith.

It was definitely worth an hour of my time to play a little game with someone new.

Crash and Burn

There are dozens... hundreds... maybe thousands of ways a guy can knock himself out of the running. Bad grammar, poor hygiene, and unforgivable shoes are just some of the most common mistakes that men unwittingly make when trying to win a girl over. Lest you think I'm strangely shallow, a neat freak germaphobe, or some sort of grammar geek, ask any girl and she'll tell you if a guy shows up in 10 year old sneakers, smells like he hasn't bathed in a week, and has trouble putting together a sentence, the odds are very good he will not be getting a second date.

I'd like to take this moment to tell you about Sammy. Sammy was a reasonably good looking guy who messaged me on Plenty of Fish and somehow managed to get me to give him my MSN address so we could take it "off site" as they say. Now, there was nothing especially distinctive about Sammy, but at some point he played just the right card, and I thought I'd give him a shot. So the door was open, all Sammy had to do was fall gracefully through it. Instead he proceeded to stumble around so much that he kicked it shut on himself.

Let me begin by explaining how shortly after starting the MSN phase of our relationship, Sammy started being... "over attentive". Every single time I signed on, sometimes before my computer had time to register that I actually was online, I would get a message from him. Now I'm not saying that I like games. I don't want someone to ignore me deliberately to pique my interest, but give a girl a little breathing room. The second problem was in his flagrant use of nicknames and endearments, including a nickname that is admittedly my screen name, but as it is obviously not a proper name, should be used after seeking permission. "Hey cutie pie", "What's up sweetie" or "Niff Niff how are you today beautiful lady?" constantly greeted me on opening my laptop. All of these are fine and good, but we barely had spoken to each other and certainly had not met. Beware too much too fast. It leaves a feeling that you're trying too hard to make yourself part of some one's life.

Once I got past the endearments, his conversation was decent and relatively interesting. Nothing mind shattering, and his sense of humor didn't quite hit the mark, but he was sweet and he was trying. So I would indulge him once in a while for a chat. Every time we chatted, he asked to meet, or mentioned how he'd like to drive down at that moment and see me... and occasionally he wished he "could give me a nice massage right now". Again the warning bells would go off. There is a difference between aggressive and pushy, and this guy was definitely starting to cross the line. Still, I had told him we could meet, and allowed a date to be set for a mid week drink.

The day of the date he put the final nails in his coffin. First, as we were settling the location, he began to "prepare" me for meeting him:
"Fair warning, I have no six packs, I'm just a normal, average guy."
(which instantly puts him in a position to blame my shallowness in judging his physical appearance if there's no chemistry)
When I explained that I didn't have expectations either way, nobody is perfect, he replied:
"I know, I'm sorry, I'm just so nervous!"
I told him we were just going to have a drink and see if we connected... which lead him to say:
"But I really really like you."
RED LIGHT!!!
WE'VE NEVER MET.... you can't LIKE me yet!
I told him to relax, go back to work, and meet me in a few hours and take it from there.

I subsequently canceled the date.

Granted I did have a real and practical reason for breaking the date ( a work project had gone overtime and was needed by the end of the evening), but I won't say I wasn't relieved to have an excuse not to go.

As if to all this wasn't enough to solidify my misgivings, Sammy caught me later that night on MSN. He proceeded to tell me he'd been drinking anyway without me, offer me a massage, and then tell me I was always in a bad mood. Guess what Sammy, it wasn't your lack of six pack abs that lost you the girl, it was your needy, crazy with a side of judgy. Good luck out there Sammy, cuz you're not getting another chance with this fish.

"Hi"

As opening lines go, it doesn't get much simpler than "Hi"
"Hi. How are you" is the second runner up.

Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate simple straight forward communication, but when dealing with the internet dating scene you have to give me a little more to go on. When you're walking up to someone in a bar or in a park, where ever you might meet in the real world, there are plenty of concrete sensory clues about a person. How they look, sound, smell, dress, hold themselves and how they look at you. But in cyberland all I have is your intro and a carefully (or carelessly) crafted profile page. So for god's sake man, be a little bit interesting in your opening line!

Take for example, the guy who simply asked me what I thought about parks. He included types and usages from regular parks to parking lots, and even Parker Posey. See... clever... and it gives me something to work with, some way to prove I'm as sharp and witty as he is.

Or how about the guy who sent me a list of 9 possible dates so I could choose something, letting me write back about how each was interesting in it's own way and why.

And then there was the optimistic fella who sent me the pledge of Awesome Possums. Off beat, but definitely worth taking a risk. My response reads as follows:


I "Jean" (that's me) have:

*NOT got into freelancing because of the money (although it's significantly better in film than in theatre) but rather for the love of what I do and also for the fact that two years of nine to five (making hats, which i realize hardly counts as 9-5) was nearly enough to kill my delicate and free spirit...

*got gum, various foods, several brushes, and once a small kitten stuck in my hair... as a matter of fact there may be a small woodland creature in there as we speak... it's hard to tell, it gets pretty wild some days...

*have only broken one bone, my left forearm, at the age of 4, by falling 2 feet off my dad's back... which also resulted in me kicking a medical professional in the delicate parts...

*have an embarrassing number of shoes... to which collection a gorgeous pair of "baby brogues" was added yesterday... black and white men's style shoes made just for my dainty feet! shoe love!!

*don't care about the lack of vehicle, but may feel the need to make jokes about the lack of licence... there's probably a really good reason so I'll save my best jokes for when i find out what it is...

*had not only a cabbage patch doll, but also a pink haired cabbage patch "cousin" doll... yep, a knock off c.p.k. but in hindsight she was very punk rock and edgy...


Really, all I'm asking is the opportunity to impress you, so impress me, and give me something to work with!

An addiction or a choice?

The question arose, over patio beers with my two married friends, about my type. What was I looking for in a man? What attracted me? The truth was, I couldn't really express it, distill it to words... at least not in any way that wouldn't make me look both shallow and more than a little neurotic.
"For example," I said, "I'm about to embark on my last two internet dates-"
"Wait," said Lisa, "You're still internet dating? I thought you swore off it after your last "last" internet date"
"I know," I admitted, "but it's strangely addictive."
"Even the losers, creeps, and weirdos?" Laura asked.
"Especially the them!" I replied.
"Please tell me you're keeping a blog"
"I am now..."

And thus, Glutton for Punishment was born.

I had found myself at 34, single again, finally finished mourning a broken heart (more or less), and fresh out of dating options. Dating the men I met at work was not an option. I'd seen how badly that could go first hand, and had no desire to wander down that path. I'd considered and dismissed most of my friends' friends. Really, it's not pretty when that situation goes south... someone always gets left out of the dinner parties and my friends are really good cooks! I don't suppose I need to go into detail on the bar scene, except to say that in my experience bars are filled with 23 year olds and attached men- both type is interested on a regular basis, sadly I don't return the admiration.

So one night over a bottle of Cuban rum, a very well meaning friend signed me up for Lava life. The particularly amusing part of that wasn't how she managed to extract a binding promise to give it a try for at least two months, but how she signed me up for the "intimate encounters" section of the site. Within 24 hours I had discovered that men could send pictures of their penises in that section. I've got quite the varied collection of male genitalia of all shapes and sizes thanks to Lava I.E. and I don't mind admitting that I laughed out loud upon receipt of each one!

The opening lines I was subsequently subjected to ranged from brilliant to bizar and back.

I've got a soft spot for those freaks and weirdos and the bravery they find in the anonymity of the internet.

I've often also had men send notes expressing surprise at finding a girl like me online.

"You're absolutely gorgeous? [his words not mine, I have some modesty] but I have to ask, what is a girl like you doing online? It must just be some sort of ego trip."

I was truly impressed with how that guy managed to compliment me with one breath and insult me in the next. I mean, I'm attractive, but obviously must be so shallow and narcissistic that I've posted a profile online just to get men to send me compliments. News flash fellas, pretty, intelligent women have just as much trouble finding a great relationship as the next person. I'm single, not an egomaniac.

So after months of regaling my friends with my tales of internet wackiness, I've decided it's time to share it with the world. Strap in, Ladies and Gents, for all the high hopes and bad dates (not to mention the most note worthy opening lines) that I can fit on the internet. It's gonna be a bumpy ride folks.