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...

New year, new man?

In a weak moment I re-upped with Match.com today.  I don't know why.  I'm a glutton for punishment.  I had $60 to blow.  I have buyer's remorse.

Right away I get this notification:

The one what?  The one to put me in his trunk?  The one to leave me in assorted trash bags along a mile of rural highway?  Kind of a hardened selfie there, chief.

He's probably a nice guy...Dateline reports that the young woman said to her friend shortly before she disappeared...sorry, sidebar.  But I figured out who he is.  He's the one (of many) that doesn't use capitals, punctuation or complete sentences...

His entire email:

And his profile:

I just can't escape these guys.  I stand a better chance escaping from a trunk.

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.