Pretty sad

Here's a sampling of my inbox on OKCupid (click image to view larger):

Just once I'd like to get an email that starts out along the lines of "Hey, intelligent and multi-dimensional woman who seems like she would challenge me, how have you impacted the world today?"

Instead I get "Hi pretty."  Like a million times.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy being called pretty and beautiful by someone other than a family member or an old person at my church.  I just wish it was by someone who could form a complete sentence.  

Right.  I didn't respond because I was out getting help.  Did you know that there is such a thing as The National Grammar Hotline?  I hope they've got extra staff on duty because, man, am I sending them a gigabyte of referrals.

Also notice that he has taken a page from Chris' playbook:  if at first she doesn't reply, message, message again.  Almost. Every. Damn. Day.  (*Hypocritical use of incorrect capitalization and punctuation for emphasis only.)

At least Mike typed more than three words in the subsequent emails.  That extra effort certainly does make a girl stop and consider that she just might be missing out on something really great...which may or may not include four children:

One would assume that he'd know for sure.  Or the other kid sucks.

I also think I'm going to have to update my own profile to include punctuation as one of my six things.

And I may also add a "word of the day" feature in an effort to expand the vocabulary of potential suitors...such as:

syntax  [sin-taks]

noun

A.  the study of the rules for the formation of grammatical sentences in a language.

B.  the study of the patterns of formation of sentences and phrases from words.

objectify  [uh b-jek-tuh-fahy]

verb

to present as an object, especially of sight, touch, or other physical sense; make objective; externalize.

anchorite  [ang-kuh-rahyt]

noun

a person who has retired to a solitary place for a life of religious seclusion.

And maybe some synonyms for "pretty."

Only stalk if you're celery

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.  And again.  And then some more.  And maybe give it another shot.  And then one more time.  Ok, one more time after that.  Until you become a stalker.

This guy has been messaging me all year--March 6, April 28, July 8, October 19, November 11, November 12, later on November 12, yet again on November 12, November 17 and today.  I don't respond, but he keeps on trying.  Like a raccoon scratching at your patio door.  I would block him, but it provides entertainment.  And blog material.  But why don't I respond, you ask?  Well, aside from the poor capitalization, lack of punctuation, and cyber stalking, there's this:

Honored and creeped out as I am to be the object of your friend-with-benefits desire, let it be known that I already have lots of friends, I get benefits from work, and I am not an adulteress.  It's a thing with me...the Ten Commandments and all.  (There's a whole other post coming soon about that.)  

But the litany of messages...I mean come on.  The last one came up as I was taking a screen shot of his profile for this post.  Note the green circle next to his photo.  That means he's online.  So he saw that I was online and sent me a message.  Because, you know, today just might be the day that enough of my good-decision-making brain cells die and I message back.  I am on some good drugs for a foot injury, which I washed down this morning with a mimosa (on accident, seriously, I thought it was just OJ), and I did have a lot of anesthetic shot into my cheek for a filling, and have only eaten a 230-calorie Lean Cuisine all day, but even all of that has not clouded my judgement as I have a pretty good tolerance...but not for men like this.

Let me draw you a picture

The other day I matched with someone on Tinder and we chatted for a couple days.  I was pretty excited because he was actually kind of hot.  He was married for 15 years and is divorced (not a big deal)...because his wife left him for another woman (ouch).  Dude, that sucks.  But it opened up a chance for me.  We had a lot of things in common...love of travel, same college degrees, and we both do endurance events.  It was fun having a conversation with some substance.  So I asked if he was on Facebook so we could chat using a real keyboard rather than a smartphone and the Tinder app.  He immediately sent his name and I friend requested him.  He accepted.

And I found out he lives two rectangle states away (and is only here for work periodically throughout the year).

And has four kids (not a big deal since I don't have any).

And his ex-wife left him for the woman in a married couple with whom they were friends (awkward).

Now the ex and girlfriend live in his former house with his four kids and the other couple's one child.

And the girlfriend's ex-husband bought a house down the street from that house so he could be close to his child.

And this guy moved in with him.

But they're not together.  Just housemates.  He even sent me a diagram.

So the moms live as a couple in the one house with the five combined kids, and the dads live down the block in another house as roommates.  But the kids can come and go from either house as they please.

And they all spend their free time together.  Because, you know, they were friends before the whole switcharoo took place.

And he has posted professional family photos of all nine of them and calls the whole group his family and the extra child calls him "dad."

And while this is a great scenario for the kids to have both parents nearby and amicable, it's not a great a scenario for anyone wanting to date either of the ex-husbands.

Because while I appreciate the modern family, the idea of what is essentially a loosely organized commune in the Great West does not light my fire.

So back for more Tinder.

Corn rows

You have absolutely got to be kidding me.  There are no words.  Wait, of course there are.

No wonder the teddy bear is lost.  I'm quite confident he bugged out...as did the six bears before him.  Smart little guys.  The lack of commas and improper capitalization were probably the last straws.

A "bit unusual" is a bit of an understatement.  If I were to dominate you, it would be to scrub my bathtub and dust my knickknacks.  That's the shit I want to see done, not wasting food so you can get your rocks off and scare away another bear.

I also take offense at the "sissy" comment.  I wear panties and I can assure you that I am no sissy.  I'm fairly certain that I could kick your ass.  Or at the very least shoot it.  I'll remember to wear my flowery underwear this weekend when I'm rappelling down the side of a high-rise building for charity.

But let's get down to the Thanksgiving side dish elephant in the room--the creamed corn.  Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  That's got to be the most f***ed up thing I've ever had someone email to me.  The only time corn should be in a diaper is after a toddler eats it...not so your junk can float around in some creamy cradle of maize.  Of course you would be doing this alone--because who, in all honesty, really wants to get in on this?  Maybe there's some dominatrix with a mashed potato fetish out there for you.  Whip those potatoes.  Whip it.

So that's what I think, and, no, you cannot be my bitch.  My sissy pants and I are bitch enough for both of us.

Riblets

I was swiping through Tinder and came across a profile that said, "I don't hunt but I like to BBQ."  I don't exactly see the correlation...I guess he assumes that the majority of carnivores are killing what they're grilling...whatever, but it does make me think I should be a little more forthcoming in my own online profile:

I'm not a mermaid but I like to swim.

I don't cluck but I have eggs.

I'm not a cat but I have lots of hair.

I don't work in a chocolate factory but I am short.

I'm don't plunder and pillage but I like rum and parrots.

I'm not a decomposing dinosaur but I do produce gas.

I like rainbows but I am straight.

I don't listen to country music but I've been in a pickup truck.

I'm not a table but I have legs.  (Also see "not a mermaid.")

I'm not a bear but I have shit in the woods.

And lastly:

I don't own a python but I do have online dating profiles.

Freaks without borders

It's always refreshing to know that I am not alone in my angst.  My good friend in Australia occasionally sends me screen shots of her own online matches to remind me that the situation isn't any better on the other side of the planet.

She rencently had this chat:

Oooh, normally I'd be all over this one except that I can't even floss my back molars without at least one dry heave.  Maybe someday he'll find a nice hot dog eating champion.  Or a funny garbage disposal.  There's an idea...he can go stick his junk in that.

Then the other night she sent me this prospect:

I'm not sure if this guy is seeking sexual partners or a circus troupe.  I have to laugh at the "no strings attached" fun.  Reading this, I assume that he wouldn't mind some strings or rope or what have you.  And that contortion trick...I didn't think that people who live down under actually go down under.  If he can do that, I ask you, does he really need one or two more people in the room?  

I tell you what, after reading these, I do.  One to fix me a margarita and the other to call the convent.

No raptor rapture here

It's no wonder my dating life is extinct.  Look what I have to deal with:

Impressive.  The camera angle really makes those tiny dinosaur arms look a lot longer.  

Is that a drill next to his head?  So it wasn't an asteroid after all...just Darwinism.

Gesundheit.

I won't argue with you there, buddy.  And it's a melfie in an airplane bathroom.  Good God, you've taken the public toilet backdrop to new heights.  

And you, sir, have taken Photoshop to a new low.  (But I will give you points for choosing a reptile other than a python.)  It's a good thing that little guy gave you a ride after he bit off your feet.  

So, in closing, I'm just not feeling a connection with these Cretaceous Casanovas...maybe it's because I don't wear dinosaur jammies, maybe it's self-preservation because I'm a mammal who's lower on their food chain.  Either way, I'll leave these opportunities for some paleontologist living in coastal Montana about a million years from now.