Date #1: Bathroom Selfie

Yes, I have a crush on Dave Grohl. Yes, I’ve had a crush on Dave Grohl since I was fifteen. No, I’m not proud of this fact but you know what? Fuck you.

Pertinent stats: This guy went to the same college as me, had the same major as me (graduated one year behind) before he switched to psychological anthropology.  Which sounds fancy and I’m pretty sure that has something to do with the tv show Bones and David Boreanaz?  So yes, fuckable.  He’s my age, 6’0″, works at Cal (heyyy), and is recording an album with his band the week that we’re attempting to get together.  Into all of these things, all of them.

His name stems from the fact that one of his profile pictures features a– you guessed it! my references are so oblique– bathroom selfie.  The odd part of this particular bathroom selfie is that he’s in a suit.  So, saying to the world, “Yes, I like to put in effort but STILL look like a D.”  I actually have no problem with this particular picture but a few friends have assured me that It Is a Problem.

Yeah, well, the only other real romance in my life is my unhealthy crush going on James Gandolfini (are you guys aware that The Sopranos is a really good show?  Too bad it never caught any mainstream traction) so I’ll look the other way on this particular faux pas.

Beardliness:  beard iconbeard iconbeard iconbeard icon
Fuck me, now that’s what I call a beard.  Continue reading

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The End of the Boyfriend Wannabe

Probably I shouldn’t feel this way about someone I’m dating.

The deal with this dude: Ok, shit is getting real.  And by that I mean: he thinks he’s my boyfriend.  I do not think he’s my boyfriend.  I do not even know that I want to see him for a third date. But he definitely thinks he’s my boyfriend.

Exhibit A. The daily texting. Kind of charming.  Kind of a lot.  I don’t think I notice just how much it is because I’m stuck at a work conference most of the time he’s texting me so I’m more welcoming of it– being stuck in an exhibit hall for twelve hours at a time will alter your perception of things. And it’s all kind of fine until evidently I take too long responding to a text so that when I do respond, he says: “Thank God I heard from you, I was getting worried and fearing the worst.  Yeah, I’m neurotic like that.”

What. The. Fuck?

Strongly consider texting back: “We have recovered KBM’s phone.  THE WORST HAS HAPPENED.”

But I’m not totally a dick, so I refrain.

If you’re really that crazy, do me a favor and keep it the fuck under wraps until I’m sure I like you and can deal with it.  Ideally: don’t be that crazy.

I ignore that text– I’m reverse Pavlov-ing him– and things resume but now his texts make me a little bit itchy.  Particularly because it happens again a few days later– I don’t respond immediately to a “Hi! :)” text (also: what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?) so he sends me a picture of a baffled and sad monkey with the caption: “Was it something I said?”

I like no part of this.

Exhibit B. He buys tickets for us to go to the Symphony more than a month out.  I’m not convinced I want to go on date 3 (plus, I’m already feeling a bit like I’m in a sexless marriage, no thanks) let alone that I’ll be seeing you still in a month.  Presumptuous much?

Exhibit C. When I tell him I’m not feeling well (mostly, I’m trying to avoid this crazy texting marathon), he offers to bring me chicken noodle soup and tells me he’s “there for me.”

Oh my God oh my God oh my God he thinks he’s my boyfriend.

As one of my guy friends says: “Oh my God, run.  Run far, run fast.”

I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of time thinking about my lukewarm, non-existent and ambivalent-edging-towards-definite-disinterest feelings about this guy.  I’ve been worried that some part of me is trying to reject a Nice Guy because he is too nice and too sweet to me. That I actively seek out guys who aren’t as interested in me, blah blah, psychobabble, blah blah.

Fuck that.

That’s not what is happening here at all.

I have no doubt that I am lovable and desirable and worthy of being treated well.  My concern is that he doesn’t know any of the things about me that make me such– that make me individually me, and he’s not really trying to.  So this interest in me– it’s not really about me at all.  That’s what I’m chafing about.  That’s what I’m not liking.

Also this passive aggressive texting neediness bullshit?  Wouldn’t be super excited about that in a boyfriend, so I’m really not excited by this streak in a guy I barely know.  Who hasn’t even kissed me!

Goodbye, Nice Guy.  You are nice, you will find someone who appreciates your crazy clingy concern.

Date #2: The Boyfriend Wannabe

“When you meet my parents…” Because men do not own the market on commitment issues.

Pertinent stats: Since date the first, we have been texting back and forth every day.  It’s kind of a nice rhythm.  He’s very caring– asks me often about my day, remembers details of things I told him.  I’m looking forward to his texts but I can also live without them.  Try to make a dirty joke (ok, to be FAIR he lobs me a goddamn softball by saying that he missed some of the messages on his phone and he “needs to turn the vibrator up”– was I not going to swing at that?) that goes over a bit like a lead balloon.  Men are either quite amused by my crass sense of humor or flabbergasted, there is no middle ground.  So the texting is generally good with only that small blip.  He invites me out to dinner on one of the few days I’m in town between work conferences (God, I’m important) and I’m pleased in a lukewarm manner to be seeing him again.

Beardliness: Zero beards!  He’s been shorn.

GONE!  Gone as Ben Affleck’s non-existent penis in Gone Girl!  Not even a hint of stubble.  He has a really nice jawline, though.  Work those angles, boo.  Continue reading

Date #1: The Boyfriend Wannabe

Do I like him?

Update: I’ve stopped things with the Doubtful Professor, because, at some point, I realized that emotional honesty was more important to me than (really fantastic delicious) sex. Womp, womp, I’m an adult.

Pertinent stats: I’m like thisclose to giving up on the whole online dating shebang– not because I’ve finally become so cynical that I have resigned myself to itchy Cat Ladydom (itchy due to allergies, I’m not inherently itchy as a person) but because the focus in my life lately has been on other things.  However, my digital yente (OkCupid bots) have decided that I cannot live until I check out this dude’s profile and so I do– and I’m pleasantly surprised.  28, 6’1″, good job, varying list of hobbies that are not just beer drinking and bro-ing out hard on the weekends (not that there’s anything wrong with that– fuck it, there’s lots of things wrong with that. I guess I am that cynical at the moment) and a few funny Bill Murray references.  We get to texting, he seems so…normal and funny that I’m thinking maybe now is not the time to delete all of my online accounts just yet. Have to postpone our date for about a week because he’s working big shows for Dreamforce and Twitter.  Oh la la.

Beardliness: beard iconbeard icon

Blond stubble which does nothing for anyone ever unless your last name is Hemsworth.  Sorry guys but it’s true. Continue reading

Date #5: The Doubtful Professor

Pertinent stats: So there’s the part of me that’s like, “Listen to yourself.  You are not into him and you know it.” And then there’s the part of me that says, “But maybe you could be into him.  He’s got a lot going for him!  He’s nice and he has good taste in restaurants and he’s driven and he’s got his shit together.” And there’s also the part of me that is a red blinking whore and is just like, “SEX SEX SEX PRETTY DICK SEX.”  And those two latter parts are the parts that are constantly texting him “Archer” gifs (oh man oh man, do I ever know what men like!) and being all, “Hey, so, when can I see you again?  Because I’d like to see you again.  I’d like to see you again with no pants on.”

These two parts are going to run into some issues pretty, pretty, pretty soon, methinks.

Beardliness: beard iconbeard icon

I’d like to demote his beardliness because I am less and less feeling the goatee but 1. That seems mean, kinda and 2. Can’t figure out how to make these stupid icons one half.  I am a bad millennial.  Continue reading