Might be a Waste of Good Eye Makeup Though

I had the greatest date ever today . . . but I'm not sure if it counts if the other person doesn't show up. Good coffee, chatted with the Starbucks crowd and then went to a dinner that was awful for me. And the french fries were delicious.

Is that bad? I really enjoyed myself. Very glad that he didn't show up. And can't figure out if that is a step forward or a regression.

Will consider it a step forward . . . as I am thinking it is all in how you look at things.

Beware the Ides of March

Or, why I can no longer date.

I don't like psychics.

And this dislike goes back to when for fun, E1 and I went to a psychic fair . . .

Got my palm read . . . blah, blah, blah, . . . typical stuff. Except the ending. "Do you want me to tell you this?" the man said. "I don't usually tell people stuff like this that I see."

There is a man your life that is evil. Very dark. Avoid him. He will try to become close to you. Bring you down with him. Avoid him.

E1 was with me. You could ask her.

And I chalked it up to the recently broken-up with ex-boyfriend (who was really just annoying, maybe bad, but not evil . . . ) and called it good.

And then that thing went down . . . you know that thing . . . and I didn't trust anyone for years and my life was completely f**ked up . . . and I was spending every night watching, making sure nothing happened . . . and it took over my life. God love the friends who listened to my crap at that time. God love my family for putting up with me. And thank goodness I took that social workers advice.

So I don't take psychic stuff lightly. And I know that it will never happen in any way that you would think it would happen. I assumed it would be a romantic interest . . . instead it had to do with my career. I wasn't on guard. Had forgotten all about it.

And my mother called yesterday. Said her friend, who sees things, asked about me. Said I would meet someone who is a danger to me. On the internet. Said that I should be very careful about my personal information. This to a girl who blogs her life on the internet. Said some other things to . . . but I don't want to jinx the good things by writing them down.

So fun is over. Cause I can't tell who is a danger . . . and it could be the dating or it could be work or it could be the random guy on the street. Or the dvd I buy next week. And I wasn't there to ask questions. And what level of danger? Annoying? Kill me in my sleep? Destroy my psyche? It sounds like I'm being flip, but I'm not. I'm actually freaking.

E2 offered to give the kids my address and have them toilet paper my house, just so I wouldn't dwell.

And for the record . . . I wasn't trying too hard. I was having fun.

Chapter Eight

It has been requested that I tell the story of yesterday between 3 and 5 p.m.. Somehow, Princess thinks this will be interesting. And we all know what happens when you don't listen to Princess.

I had already cancelled once. He had been too pushy on email. Slightly. The kind of guy who will email you again if you ignore his email. So red flag. So give no last name, no phone number, no location. Everything vague . . . like smoke.

We were meeting at a Starbucks out near him. Another red flag. I live in one of those damn "cool cities" of Jenny Granholm's vision. Men usually offer to meet near me. So I have to drag myself out of my orbit.

And he wants to meet early and only for " a half and hour". Okay. Well, I have lots of rules . . . about children, about not dating the newly divorced . . . I'll tell you how to live your life, no problem. Seems only fair that someone else have some rules too.

I run home from work. Change clothes, shoes. Am fixing my make up when the phone rings. "Private call" Interesting. "You are coming, right?" Why wouldn't I be? I explain my philosophy about being stood up. Just more of a chance for "me" time . . . I'll just get to read my book for half and hour. But assure him that I am not standing him up. (yes, I finally gave him a phone number -- I have caller id)

He then starting freaking out about the meeting place. He knows a guy that goes there three times a day and doesn't want to run into him. " . . . just don't want to deal with that . . . " Another red flag. So you are asking me out but don't want to be seen with me? And men are so weird about meeting on the internet. "Just say we met at the grocery store." I say. "Yeah, that'll work" he agrees.

I am five minutes early. Have the book that I keep carrying around, hoping that I will have time to read. Spook Country. The new Gibson. I have read chapter six three times. And Gibson always starts with about twelve chapters of characterization before he connects the plot line. And he is ten minutes late. At least I'm now to chapter eight.

It funny how your capacity to observe changes when you are waiting for someone. I rarely look at everyone in a coffee shop when I'm just there for coffee. Three employees. One with his mustache dyed to match his toupee. Two women, one pregnant, telling the story of how she announced she was pregnant at school. I assume she is an elementary teacher. One Asian man sitting in the corner, on the comfy chair. He is frowny. One good looking man, slightly older in the other corner, working on a laptop. And when my date arrives, I secretly wish I was on date with laptop guy.

He is not my type. But I knew this from the pictures he sent. But despite the red flags, and the tardiness, and the bo-hunk exterior (which very bleached white teeth), I give it a chance. Eternal optimist.

Within five minutes he is telling me about his girlfriend . . . and his other girlfriend. This dating thing is too much. Too much emotions expended and he doesn't know where the emotions should go. Which girl should he pick? And the one girl? She hasn't called him back. And it's been a whole . . . FIVE HOURS.

"So you decided to solve this dilemma by going out with another girl?"

"Yeah, well . . . I'm sorry, my head is just not in this . . . " Really? I'm shocked? And the half an hour thing? Girlfriend no.2 (the married one) is coming over to his house. (but she is now separated . . . and he just doesn't know what to do with that) And I can't figure out if he is lying or really serious about all this. No, really, wait . . . where are the cameras? Am I on punk'd?

I cut him off at half an hour. Nice meeting you. Go get your head together. Sorry I don't know who Catherine McPhee is (American Idol?).

Maybe I need to start to work on "No". Just saying it in the mirror or something. But then again, where would I get my stories?

And I did get to chapter eight.

Pulled . . . or Finding the Bar Next to the Cyclotron

"I just commented on a post and now it's GONE."
"Yeah, I do that sometimes. I pull them. It was whiny."
"It wasn't whiny."
"It talked about work."
"Yes, it talked about work. It was revealing. But it wasn't whiny."
"Well, I can pull them. I usually put them back up after I get three or four more posts up."
"I just wondered if I was crazy. I had just commented."
"Nope. It's still there. You just can't see it."

Ah, the fine line of personal blogging. What is self-indulgent pratter and what is insightful? I was basically whining about my life . . . again. And I decided that wasn't pretty. So I pulled it to a draft. I always put them back up. I just wait, so that it is not the first entry one sees.

Basically what it came down to was that the internet (the "new" way to meet people . . . even though we've been doing it for years) is not working for me. And as I primarily talk to the waitress at Leo's and the barista at Starbucks, I would like to order something: slightly awkward skinny guy with glasses, dark hair, obscure sense of humor -- graduate degree a plus, but must be smarty pants. And one would think that you would be able to find that on the internet, cause isn't that where they all hang out? I need to find better nerd bars. Next to physics school or something. The ultimate question. Where do all the lonely engineers hang out?

Oh, yeah, forgot to add sane. The non-insane relatively good-looking lonely engineers who will worship the ground I walk on. Who are into alternative music. But not too into it.

And I wonder why I haven't met someone?

Anyhow, that was really what the pulled post was about: angst at not finding the nerd who will at least like me . . . though the nerd bar thing is a yummy thought.

But Not Enough Entertainment

At least it is entertaining. Just received an email from a person who really looked like a friend prospect. And the first three paragraphs were alright. Discussion about bands and such.

Last paragraph? (paraphrased, of course) Haven't worked in a year. On disability. Oh, and can't drive because of my second DUI. And due to my probation, I have weekly Breathalyzer tests.

Ummmm . . . yeah.

So that tipped the scales. Cancelled match as soon as I read it. Okay, I have enough friends. I'm good. Don't need any more. Thanks.

run over by the matchdotcom train . . . again

So once upon a time . . . or about four or five days ago, my mother and I have this conversation which turns toward matchdotcom and summer and possible boredom (although I'm taking a class at CCS AND taking yoga and something else AND volunteering at the MOCAD AND finishing the damn kitchen cabinets and dining room so I can have people over . . . so I don't know when this time is going to be when I'm bored). And mother makes this suggestion: "Why don't you just tell them that you're nice?"

And nice, to me, is a way to describe your not-so-cute cousin. Nice is that poster in middle school with the cat hanging and "hang in there". Nice is just not the best adjective. And so, in my profile, I write the conversation. And a geeky lawyer with glasses and sandals with socks winks at me. Remember, I think glasses and slightly bad fashion sense is hot. And I think, "No way. The nice thing worked?" And I sign up for the three day trial . . .

Actually, I signed up for a month because Princess said that she could not handle more than a month of me being a matchdotcom disaster again. But somehow, the match people forgot that I was ever a paying customer and offered me the three day trial. Either that, or they know it's like crack and figure it's worth giving you a little "rock" to lure you in for repeat business. And everything was going along swimmingly . . . emailed some people. Always loved the "who's viewed me section", always good for making you feel like a princess . . . ohhh, look at all of the people who looked at me today. Vanity . . . kills.

But I got the seven page strange email today about how I should take a chance because this person has frequently reviewed my pictures and has decided that he is my one. (I'm not making it up . . . I'll send you a copy . . . not even the part about frequently reviewing my pictures) And don't even go there, oh positive ones . . . I am not his one. He, however, could very easily be my stalker. Oh yeah, this is why I wanted to meet people in three dimensions. Three dimensional people are good. So I'll let know you what happens with cute bald lawyer guy and I'm off the crank-like match tomorrow. Because, to quote a friend, I always get the good ones.

And I am nice. Sigh. How boring.

Parting Ways

The matchdotcom demons are currently sending me messages about how it "takes a long time" to find your soulmate. I don't feel that this lines up with their current marketing campaign, but I suppose there are several different definitions of "special". I would love to read the fine print on that one . . . is "special" if you make out in the parking lot? How many dates equal "special"? Maybe that's my problem, I keep going out with people who want their next six months free.

Matchdotcom and I are official parting ways on Valentine's day (so appropriate, considering) . . . and this time I have an email confirmation and everything. So I will have to find dates in real time and space. This will take all the surprise out of my life . . . but somehow I'll carry on. And speaking of dates, I think I will take the month of February off. Seems appropriate, with Valentine's Day looming and everything. And very fun to explain, should anyone actually ask me out . . . better than "but I don't call boys" . . . ummm, I'm sorry. I'm not available until March. How does that look for you? Good, so that's settled. It's a short month anyhow.

Had a wonderful "too cold" day off of work. Still have to go to school tonight though . . . bummer. Should have taken advantage of the time, maybe to go work out, get some coffee (can't meet other people inside your house . . . oh, wait . . . I'm stopping that full court press for the month) but instead stayed inside and make some sweet potato fries, watched some MTV. It was too cold to go to work, so it is too cold to go outside.

Oh, and my trash can got hit by a car and thrown down the street . . . and is now broken. So how do you throw away a trash can? I still can't find the lid.

The Ramp of Possibility

Okay, here's the deal.

Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.

And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.

And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.

I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.

But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.

And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.

And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)

Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.

Famine

It really is feast or famine . . . and I can't figure out if I'm doing something wrong . . . though I rarely have the same behavior patterns . . . unless I can't see it and I do . . . have the same behavior pattern that is . . .

Another subject: Bought a humidifier, so hopefully my throat will stop being angry. Found some old pictures for class tomorrow, although not the pictures I wanted. I'm hoping I put those pictures back. Tomorrow is Thursday and then there is Friday . . . and then there is knitmichigan, which I am looking forward to . . . yay . . . yarn.

You Could Just Leave That One Short

Somehow, I broke three nails last night at the Berkley Front. This means I can't go get a manicure for at least another two weeks because she will cut them all to match . . . and I don't want them that short. (ah, more evidence that I have been reading way too many fashion magazines and they're rotting my brain) It's like they have OCD, with the evenness.

I also think I might be coming down with a cold. Yesterday at the allergist, while getting my shots, I had to say something to the nurse, the usual pleasantries we exchange as she is poking me in the arms and shoving burning liquid into my flesh. But I opened my mouth and nothing came out . . . eventually my voice worked, but it sounded like Phoebe in the episode when she does sexy "Smell Cat". And I couldn't figure out why I didn't know that my voice didn't work . . . I had a conversation with my brother earlier -- why I was busting my ass to get to the allergist, because I had to do something with his family. Until it dawned on me . . . the conversation had been on IM. I haven't tried to talk today. Okay, just did and have a voice.

Maybe it's just that my house is too dry. And too messy . . . have to get on the messy today. Cleaned part of my kitchen yesterday and all of my "delicates". But still have two weeks worth of mail to sort through on the coffee table. There are parts of me that love never being home, but the pile on the coffee table is irritating me. So must be dealt with. And I tore apart a bunch of stuff, looking for my jeweler's saw frame and can't find it. So if you know where it is . . . please let me know because I don't have time to buy another one.

And yes, for those of you who are concerned . . . I had fun. Likes to argue, interesting job, nice truck (as if I care what someone drives) and made me laugh. And I gave him this address. So enough. It will not be spoken of again.

Getting Stood Up for an Independent Film

I think. To his credit, I don't even know if my phone is in the house, or in the car. Should go check.

(check) It's on the kitchen table.

This morning I was lounging. Didn't get up with the alarm. Did some stuff on the computer. The im thingy pops up with my brother.

"You coming? Should we pick you up?"

Pick me up for what? Shit. Z.'s class. I promised that I would go. And I when I made the whole stay at home and clean plan, along with the "date" plan, I had this funny "forgetting something" feeling.

"Yeah. Don't pick me up. I'll be there, but late."

Have to go get my shots. Go and work out, so there will be no workout guilt. And this will be great because the guy I'm meeting is somewhere near the class, so we can just meet there. But then have the problem of getting dressed for a date AND getting dressed to go to Z.'s class . . . and merging the two. Black turtleneck sweater. Jeans. Boots. Pink scarf. Pleather motorcycle jacket. Make up casual but on my face (and a bit too pink, once it was all said and done). Trying for Audrey Hepburn. Probably more looks more Joan Jett. Going for the dressed but not looking like I thought about it . . . even though I did. And no heels, because I couldn't explain heels in the snow.

Get to the place with Z.'s class only an hour and twenty minutes late. We go to Traffic Jam and Snug for lunch and have fried dill pickles. Then we take Z. to the DIA again and he goes through all the same rooms but looks at different paintings. Poor Z., he has that damn aunt with an art degree that keeps asking him questions about what he thinks about the art. (insert eye roll here)

Guy said that he would call sometime around five. The DIA closes at five. So I had nothing else to do . . . and so drove home. Now I may take my paper and go to Starbucks for some crack-like latte, because I can't take a nap with the makeup on and I would have to change clothes to clean. But it's after five, and so there is no free parking for crack lattes. And my sweater keeps riding up in the back. And I'm sure he will call . . . you can't plan on when your independent film will stop shooting. But it just would have been more convenient if he had called while I was already down there. But it would have been more convenient to sit on my couch instead of going to Z.'s class . . . and I could have said "no". But I had made the commitment last week.

But if he doesn't call in the next hour, I am so going to sleep.

But Will the List Be Cool Enough?

Someone asked me what is on my ipod today and I don't know exactly how to answer them. I don't remember telling him that I had an ipod in the first place, but now that it's out there, do I list the 4 gig? Or just go over the highlights? Who askes "what's on your ipod" anymore? And plus, how is the other stuff . . . not ripped yet . . . or just hanging out on itunes . . . addressed?

Yeah, I know, I think too much. And I'll go with my standard list for the "what music do you listen to?" question that always comes up.

Last Purchased: Blue October (only like one song . . . there's another song that makes me depressed . . . and that's about it)
Next Planned Purchase: Evanescence (if I can't steal it from my brother) and +44 . . . and Neverending White Lights, if I can find it anywhere.
Playing Right at this Moment: Ben Folds "Landed"
Next Song: Sisters of Mercy "Temple of Love"
Favorite: Matthew Good
Favorite Song: "Suck" . . . but the Trent Reznor version
Old Standards: Tool, NIN, Bauhaus, The Smiths
Classical: Arvo Part, Bach
. . . and I do have Ann Margaret on my ipod.

And you know the title is a joke, right?

Smothered

Starbucks was busy today . . . and there was this girl that had to be in physical contact with her boyfriend. She had to be touching him. When he walked forward to pick up his carmel moccifluffer thing, her hand trailed out . . . her face turned to shock. It was like her lifeline was cut and she was thinking about whether to scream or gasp for air. And then he was back and she did this weird smothering thing, wrapping herself around him again.

It was at that point that I found a desire to punch her. So I watched the woman with the bad Louis Vuitton rip off and the puffed up lips instead. I have never felt the need to smother anyone. And people drink a lot of drinks with carmel in them at Starbucks. (the bad purse lady had received her drink and I was now watching the barista making drinks . . . all of them with carmel, except mine . . . evidently the carmel is even more crack-like than the coffee)

After Starbucks I went to the mall for no particular reason and watched the S.U.V. strollers roll about. Should I ever reproduce, I promise just to strap the little bugger to my back, as to not run over anyone's foot . . . or just so I won't be so in the way. Maybe the reasoning will come to me, should I combine genetic material with another, but I just don't understand why such a tiny person needs anything that big to cart it around.

I have to go write another match profile, in my pursuit of matchdotcom performance art. Last week's seemed to appeal to older gentlemen, so softer than my earlier ramblings I guess. Don't have a plan for this week's, but I'm sure it will come to meet after staring at a blank screen for a while. And what size do you have to be to stop being "curvy"? Or is that a state of mind? I mean, I considered myself curvy at 120 pounds (a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away) . . . I guess it's a moot point. I don't want to date a guy that only wants to meet "athletic and toned" or "slender" women anyhow. Wow, I'm being so positive about match all of the sudden, what's up with that? I'm sure I'll be back to the Eeyore-ness in a second. Maybe the topic should be about how I don't like to smother people.

By the Way

I received this little bit of lovelyness on the email:

"Thanks for writing to me, but unfortunately, we're just not a good match. Good luck in your search! Our profiles didn't match on:
• Interests • Personality"

Someone just rejected my interests and personality . . . when I don't remember sharing either. I just wrote a nice note about William Gibson and how he was my favorite author too. And guys say they like the canned rejection responses? "Then I'm sure" one young man told me. Well, I'm pretty sure if you don't email me for three weeks that you're not interested, but whatever.

Rejected my personality. And he hasn't even read my blog . . .

"Shelia Take a Bow"

"OOooh, Shelia take a . . . Shelia take a bow . . . boot the (something) of this world in the crotch dear. And don't go home tonight . . . go out and find the one that you love and who loves you . . . "

I put money in a jukebox yesterday. I never do that. It was the Front and no music was playing and the place was kinda dead for a Saturday and both my friends have "someones" and are not looking. Plus I needed to show off the shoes. Because I had wicked good shoes on last night . . . peep toe, patent leather, three inch heel . . . very fifties. And right now, the only excuse I have to wear them is when I want to have the Ozzie and Harriet fifties experience, so I'll put them on with an apron to clean. Except that I seldom clean.

Despite the good shoes, again no one talked to us. I went up to talk to some boys for about four seconds but it did not go well, so the mission was quickly aborted. They weren't cute enough to work at . . . so struck out again. Not that I expected anything, in the least. I didn't. I expect nothing at this point. Well, nothing except for the stalker to eventually stop emailing me.

The questions on matchdotcom were difficult to publish . . . the matchbots don't like it when you just have lines of text. They want you to have PARAGRAPHS. And I included an _ , which they didn't like at all. So the word "butt", as "Can you kick my butt in Trivial Pursuit?" somehow better than "kick my _".

The questions were finally approved at about 2:16 a.m. and I've already gotten a pretty cool response from someone, who took the time to answer all of the questions. Impressive, because I just kept typing to fill the space (2000 characters) so there are a lot of questions . . . he numbered them so there must be 39 or so. And he used the word "suckitude" . . . which is awfully cute, in my opinion. Don't get too excited, or your underwear bunched up, he's younger and I think he has a "Failure to Launch" situation going, plus he works midnights. But it's nice to see some more intelligent life on the match.

Speaking of shoes and underwear, I only lusted after shoes yesterday but found the greatest underwear store ever . . . Soma. They have my size and matching . . . so now I don't have to create an underwear store. So takes the pressure off. It was hurting my head, with all the four way and all way stretch fabric. Oh, and I finally bought some damn pants. One pair in a color other than black. I feel like I've grown as a person.

So good shoes, matching underclothes, pants that are a color other than black. I might even look put together. Less like an art teacher, more like an English teacher . . . or heaven forbid, assistant principal.

Just Three More Blocks . . .

Just three more blocks and I am up to 2 miles, which doesn't sound like much . . . but my legs didn't get the memo. Promised myself that I would get to THAT stop sign, which I did. And I'm stinkin' slow. Need to work on speed. Screw it . . . need to work on speed and distance . . . Stuffing Stomp is in November and November isn't that far away.

Lived through today. Living through tomorrow seems very doable, as long as I close my door. Life is good.

Anyone want to be a guest ghost writer on the match? (I've decide to call it the match this week, as in "I thought he was into me but he's back on the match, so I guess not.") I'm changing the profile once a week . . . because it's fun and at this point I don't care. Usually the point of not caring is when things are the most fun. Think of it as a sort of performance art piece. Because according to the match and their commercials, if I had followed their advice I would have "found someone special" in the first sixth months (or it's free!!). But I'm so not good at following directions. So next week: riff on not being able to follow directions. Week after: just questions . . . 2000 characters of questions.

And Thursday, the three blocks. I'm on it.

So Much to Elude to . . .

According to my nephew, there are pirates hanging out at Stately Wayne Manor in the woods. He and Mom routinely pick up trash . . . a Z. anti-squiggle technique and Z. found an empty rum bottle . . . and made the logical eight-year-old conclusion that there must be pirates. He later found a beer bottle and a paper cup, which only confirmed his suspicions. There are pirates in my parents' backyard. I can't wait to meet them.

Remember the guy that emailed me and told me about all the sites I am on and all my usernames? And I was creeped out and didn't respond to him? Well, four more emails from him later . . . and he is getting mean. And I don't know what to do about it. So I'm sitting here thinking about continuing with the current path of not responding, or responding with a short "get bent", or responding with why I didn't respond in the first place. Having a death spiral over someone I have no desire to talk to . . . yeah! My brain is so fun. Any suggestions? Just don't make them mean . . . I can't take any more mean.

Tomorrow is stuff and things for real . . . and I'm not ready, in any capacity. What was my mantra again? "Not my problem" and "Patience". Okay. Got it.

Joys of PMS

As I sit here with tears in my eyes . . . which is nothing, just hormones. I know it's that.

I pulled my profile on matchdotcom yesterday. But I didn't pull the other site. In my mailbox was a notification that I had received a "personal communication" from another member. Pulled up the site (it's always slow), looked at a cute guy with an Oscar the Grouch puppet in New York on a whim. Then pulled up who's looked at me . . . somehow they decided to display who has "hotlisted" me in the last, oh, year . . . so face to face with the picture that I took of RB. (I have blocked him every way I can block him, but evidently the site really wants me to SEE him) Okay, it's okay . . . over it.

So I check the email. From a 60 year old man. Who wants me not to disrespect his hometown (when did I?) and "the multi-colored hair is a tad bit too much".

So the computer wanted me to totally lose faith in humanity for today? Someone spent the points to tell me that my hair is too much? AAAHHHHHhhhrrrggghhhh. I'm so done. And I can't even go buy shoes . . . because I bought them all yesterday.

And I've met so many cool people because of this "journey" that I choose to take but sometimes on days like this, I feel like not trying anymore. And all those bullshit lines that just flowed into your head just now about "when you stop trying you meet someone" aren't true. I stopped trying for about six years. Just shut down and accepted spinsterhood. You don't meet anyone that way . . . good guys or creeps. It just would be nice if people wouldn't bother to email if they didn't have anything nice to say . . .

And even that's not true, he said I had nice eyes. But in a totally socially inept way.

Okay, have to go run.

("tired of watching them wind you up to see if you'll run" -- MG, Sort of a Protest Song)

Craptastic!

Hmmm . . . I thought as I received an email on matchdotcom this evening. I wonder when they will turn this thing off? Maybe I should click this thing that says "subscription status".

I have been re-upped for another six months. Sh*t. Now I have to fight with the robots after I find my cancellation confirmation. Cancelled it again tonight. Now I have to decide if it's a sign from God or a joke from the fates or if I should just pull my profile. Damn. No one is ever successful in getting anything out of matchdotcom. I may just have to eat the $80. And I remember cancelling but only the first part of the process. Could it be that I didn't get to the last screen last time?

And after I toyed with all these boys and told them that I was going away. Making a liar out of me.

I still think that getting out in real time and meeting real people is the way to go. I will still get the museum memberships (I think I'm getting a raise, so I can afford it). I'm thinking Cranbrook Art Museum, the D.I.A. and the Daimler Chrysler museum. The D-C will be strictly to be invited to events . . . figured it was a good bet for men. My father belongs, so I can already go there for free. Because sometimes you just want to go to look at old Dodges (not really, but I do end up there two or three times a year). With those and the running actual races, maybe I could meet someone or something or several someones. Oh, and the college class I'm going to take (which I have to decide about tomorrow) . . . so lots of 23 year old somethings.

23 is the youngest I can go . . . and even that may be pushing it.

So all that whining about match and I'm not even gone yet.

The Wonders of Matchdotcom Never Cease

In eight days, I become a non-paying member of matchdotcom, which as I remember is not very useful. Why I became a paying member, I suppose. I found it intensely amusing at first. Got a "friend" in New York City out of it. Went out on lots of coffee days, which were mostly awkward. (oh, and two bar dates, which were even more awkward) I think of match as the land of the misfit toys, which none of the boys on match found very funny. I don't know why . . . I was including myself . . .

And I find my last week incredibly freeing. I wink at will. I throw emails around. Mostly, men don't respond and quite frankly, I don't care. Frees me up to go to coffee by myself, which is much less awkward. Or to coffee with people that I have met other ways. Or to the bar with my friends, which is again much less awkward, at least until Princess starts in on me about something. (dating 80 year olds? I don't care how much they like martinis)

But today was a first. There is a way to "reject" winks and emails. I never used it. It seemed like asking for trouble. An opening for people to ask why . . . which would just be a mess. So I never, ever, hit the "No Thanks" button. I delete winks and store the emails (just in case I'm killed by a stalker, to give the police something to go on).

Today I was rejected. Not only did he hit the "No Thanks" button, which meant I got an email saying "so and so is not interested in you" (and matchdotcom is usually so sensitive) . . . he then (evidently feeling bad? guilty?) emailed me with a one sentence response -- "Thank you for the wink, but I don't think we're a good match. Take care and good luck in your search." Very nice of him, but who has the time? He must be new.

And now the questions fill my head. How can you tell that we aren't a good match? Did I miss something in your profile that said you were looking for a 20 year old or a devout Christian? And it doesn't even matter . . . but see, once you get that "reject" email, you can't help it. It still churns in your head. But really, if I don't meet another man on matchdotcom . . . ever . . . that will be totally okay. As it turns out, I really was a "matchdotcom disaster". (which is my nickname in our little single girl group)

And the poor Baptist guy who emailed me today. I'm not emailing him to say that we aren't a good match. I think a little mystery is good. At least better for his self-esteem anyhow.