Barnyard

Earlier in the spring I rejoined Match.com again for another three-month stint of online adventure...although I immediately had the feeling that I should have just taken the $63 and fed it to a goat.

Within the first few hours of my reactivated membership I received Match emails from three men:  a German living in a rural area five states away, a friend of mine welcoming me back to the fold, and a local chef looking for an unapologetic smoker who rules her household with an iron fist and a leather whip.

This is my life.

And then there are the profile views.  When you actually pay for Match.com, you get to see who's trolling your profile.  This can be fun.  Or horrifying.  Whatever.

Here's a sample:

I do hope he's referring to a harvest of grain rather than souls.  And we're just going to skip over his marital status because you know that a vein in my neck is already starting to twitch.

And let's talk profile photos.  SO MANY men take selfies at this angle...and they shouldn't.

It's like the last thing you see before he shuts the trunk.

And thus continued several weeks of hungry goats...until I actually got a live one who looked pretty normal in his photos, spelled correctly, and responded to my email.  We chatted for a couple days and then he sent me a link to a video on his YouTube channel.  Fatal error.

I can't make this shit up, people.  That's an almost 50-year-old man wearing a chicken costume and shiny pants strutting his stuff with a sock monkey strapped to his groin. 

And he is damn proud of it.

This goes on for an eternity.  Or four minutes.  Whichever seems longer.

Combine this video with his vlog discussions of government conspiracy theories and UFO sightings and we hit the trifecta.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.  

Or not.

The nutcracker

It's been a busy fall...but not so busy that didn't like or swipe at all.  I did text with a guy for three weeks at one point.  Yes, three freaking weeks...which is like eternity in online time.  And then I made a joke that he didn't get, and he told me that I'm

and then stopped texting.  Well, if me being too smart for you is a reason to bail, then who's the real winner here?  That's right--this girl.

But never fear.  I received an email that same night from someone new:

Now normally I wouldn't even bother to read the profile or respond to this email or any one of its cohorts such as "Hi" or "Your Pretty," especially given his lack of apostrophe, but the screen name and profile pic did merit some investigation...

So I clicked.

And, because I was feeling snarky, I emailed.  He did say we should feel free to ask any questions.

I seriously was not expecting a response.  

You have to freaking be kidding me.  So, I gave him the details.  This guy must be really desperate to have his balls busted.  (Don't worry--I would never actually go through with this.)

Hold the f*** up.  You're willing to have some unfamiliar crazy woman with questionable housekeeping skills assault you, but you can't get on a ladder?  Good Lord, dude.  Grow a pair so there's something to kick.

And I thought that was the end of it.  I'd had my jollies.  But he emailed again the next day.  Twice. 

My God, he's desperate.  Can't he just run full-frontal into a credenza or something?  

He even emailed the following day.

And this, my friends, just continues to prove that the online dating world is chock full of nuts.  Some apparently wanting very much to be cracked.

Tutu much

After a summer hiatus filled with the usual emails...

...autumn was ushered in by this one that arrived yesterday:

Actually, I'm beautiful, but whatever.  

Part of me wanted to reply, saying "Tell me more [so I can post it on my blog]," but I didn't want to encourage him so I just read his profile instead:

Again with the obeying and serving.  Seriously, Mike, if you are really that into it, then let me once again reinforce exactly how much of a turn-on it would be to have a dude dusting my baseboards and deep cleaning my kitchen.  You can wear whatever you want, as long as it gets done.  And don't forget the ceiling fans.  I'm short and I have vaulted ceilings, so it's a job even with an extendable Swiffer.

But WHY would you want me to throw food at you?  Anyone who knows me, knows I'm a foodie, not whatever this fetish is.  Food is for eating, for enjoying, for sustenance...not for throwing at a man in a tutu.  That would just be mean.  (And wasteful.)

And why, for the love of all things gastronomical, are you wearing a tutu with, I can only assume, nothing else?  That's got to be itchy on your game pieces.  And what possesses you to email this to a stranger?  It scares me to think that there might be a woman out there who will actually respond, "OMG my last boyfriend insisted on a purple tutu but you have pink!  You're the one!"  At which point I will completely throw in the proverbial towel because there will obviously be a match for everyone except me.

Side note...as I type, this pops up from a 23-year-old guy:

Ok, I guess I won't completely give up, but I will maintain the requirement that my match isn't young enough to have come out of my own womb.

But back to tutu dude.  He isn't the only guy letting his tulle flag fly.  Exhibits A and B from Tinder:

Of course--because why wouldn't you do this?--the second guy has also Photoshopped a lightsaber into his pic.  The Force is still strong with so many of these men...

Yes, yes, I did capitalize "Force."  I'm not completely innocent in this.  But I do only wear a tutu at Halloween.  Over leggings, and with a shirt.  That shit is itchy, especially if you're doing housework.

Full moon

I cancelled my Match.com subscription a few weeks ago because I'd rather just set fire to three $20 bills.  It yields the same results and would probably be more entertaining.  But never fear, free sites like Tinder and OKCupid have been fruitful of late.

A week or so ago I matched with a local 39-year old named Ramon (similar to his real name) who was an attractive, normal (based on his LinkedIn resume and endorsements...yes, I "researched" him), easy-to-chat-with local IT professional.  We had a nice conversation going for a few days until I had the gall to ask what happened with his 16-year marriage, because, uh, that's kind of a long time and obviously something went down.  I'm going to guess that communication was an issue since ours came to a screeching halt.  Oh well.  It was nice to know that I can still attract normal people, be them far and few between.

At the same time I was chatting with Ramon, I swiped right and matched with Alejandro (again, close, but not his real name), an engineer from Madrid who lives in LA...aaaand, based on that information alone, who was probably just looking for a hookup while working in my city recently.  But he's kinda hot so once again I was pleased that I am capable of attracting men who are not wearing antler panties.  We chatted for a few days and he gave me his cell number:

Hold up, I don't know what that is.  Nor that it's appropriate.  I don't have one, or that.   

(I looked it up...it's a free text/video chat app.)

So while I was Tindering with my potential Latin lovers, I was also chatting with a guy on OKCupid.  Another tick in the non-antler column.  He disappeared after a couple days, though, because he was messaging in the middle of the night and for some reason--probably because I was sound asleep, breathing happily, connected to my CPAP machine--I wasn't answering promptly enough.  Maybe not so normal after all.

Anyway, all of these swipes, matches and chats bring us to the full moon on May 21 when my week of seemingly-normal men completely went to shit.

Here's my first indication of something going awry:

After I recovered, I realized that I've actually written about this guy before.  I clicked on his profile to confirm, and there it was, the "metal" neck tattoo that was the topic of my May 26, 2015 post:

Then something cosmic happened at 9:29pm and I got these emails:

Let's read that first one:

Oooh, sorry, I don't exactly have or want a Christian Grey-style red room of pain.  My bedroom is actually carnation pink, and my wicker furniture could stand to be vacuumed and dusted, so if me commanding you to do that turns you on, maybe we can work something out.  But not really.  Because I'm not contacting you.  Nor am I contacting the other 9:29pm arrival:

Do you have money for me in Nigeria?  That kind of urgency is a little odd, and so is this from his profile:

Even though I smell fabulous, I have no idea what you're talking about with the climbing.  I even checked Urban Dictionary and they don't know either.  And may I point out that, while in this font, a consecutive "r" and "n" do look like an "m," an "m" they are not.

And so the full rnoon carne and went, and took all of these rnen out with the tide.  But really, a wornan with Viber shouldn't need any of thern anyway.

Naked truth

It's been a busy spring.  No, of course not with dating, just life.  I finally found time to watch Star Wars: The Force Awakens and was pleased to see that a new generation of young men has been introduced to an attractive woman wearing a mask and tubing (see my post from February 8).  Sweet.

In recent weeks I've added a couple additional accoutrements to my bedtime ensemble.  In addition to my CPAP I now also wear a carpal tunnel wrist splint and sometimes my plantar fasciitis compression sock.  It's hot.  (Really.  My wrist gets really sweaty.  Couple that with my regular hormonal night sweats and it's a regular steambath of potential passion in there.)  While some men might find this a turn-off, you and I both know that there are probably freaks out there with a corrective medical appliance fetish.

Speaking of weird guys, I did "meet" someone on Tinder this spring.  He was 43, works in IT, plays in a band...no last name sharing but I looked up his band and got it.  Then looked him up on LinkedIn and confirmed his employment story, but also discovered that he was actually 53.  Sure, I'm a stalker, but he's a liar.  Nonetheless we chatted for a day or two on Tinder and then he gave me his cell so we could text.  We texted for a couple days more and then he spontaneously told me that he likes to clean his house in the nude.  And his buddies do, too.  (They talk about this?)  Please tell me you're using the manufacturer-supplied wand for the Swiffer duster.  And you don't clean en masse...  And yet I continued chatting with him because there's weirder stuff out there.    

Like this pig-man:

 And Barney:

And real-life Sid from Toy Story (note the firecrackers):

But soon Mr. Clean mysteriously disappeared like they all do, which is fine.  I probably wear too much to bed--or watching TV, or frying bacon, or, you know, normal stuff that people do with clothes on--anyway. 

Haircuts and sunblock

Oh, thank goodness.  I was growing so tired of the constant badgering from "offthecollarhedgefundmgr" and "emiratessheik71"...

Seriously, though, thanks for finding me on Zoosk, "longhairedredneck73," but I'm hoping that the noticeable absence of any profile photos of me with a freshly-killed turkey carcass, monster truck, or any small off-road vehicle being operated without a helmet has deterred you from taking the next step and sending a message.

But even Match.com with all of its sophisticated software doesn't pay attention to these things.  How this man was selected as one of my "Daily Matches" is beyond me.

I'll write a comment on your photo:  Consider posting a better photo.  Or buy a shirt.  Or perhaps cut down from a quarter-barrel to a six-pack per day.  I know I'm no pixie myself, but I'm also not walking around in one of my Dad's undershirts and calling it acceptable day wear.  Nor does my profile contain the keywords "COPS cameo" or "diabetes risk."  This is a matchtastrophy.

And don't think you're innocent in this, Tinder.  You've got your share of good ol' boys, too, like this one:

Enjoy it, shoot it, make a Marine question his decision to hand you that firearm.  I've got a gun, too--I just don't bring it to family picnics.

'Merica...land of mullets and home of certainly not enough available 40-something hedge fund managers.  

These are not the men you're looking for

With the busy holiday season, two trips, involvement in a couple big events, work and just life in general, I still haven't managed to see the new Star Wars flick.  But never fear, searching for a mate online is just as entertaining.

Did you know that there are 380 men on Match that include "Jedi" in their username?  And this is after I alphabetized them and removed any with the real name Jedidiah.  (I do accurate research, people.)

And look at the results on OKCupid who list "Jedi" as an interest.  And even more scary than five minutes in the closet with Emperor Palpatine is the number of men who list "Jedi Mind Tricks" as an interest.  That's like listing Quidditch and talking farm animals as interests.  Not.  Real.

Who are these people you ask?  Here's a smattering.  Note the tattoos.  And lightsabers.  And Yoda.

And what appears to be inappropriate activity with a cardboard wookie.

Speaking of wookies...

And this guy is full on:

I can think of 159 people who are totes jelly of this profile pic.

These guys would probably appreciate my CPAP since I look very similar to Princess Leia in The Empire Strikes Back when I go to sleep.  You know, when Han hides the Falcon in the mynock cave.

Oh God, why do I know she's in a mynock cave?  I know too much.  Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope...