I Don't Understand Why No Winks?? My Profile is So Great!

What am I like? Well, let me ask myself. What are you like -- oh, sorry, I didn't know I was on the phone - sorry, I'll wait.

OK, now, let me ask you if I may: What are you like? Are you like, some kind of a stalker who won't take no for an answer? Or perhaps a person who uses an online dating service to post pictures that are 6 years old in an attempt to lure some poor schmuck to the rocks like the Sirens in that movie "Jason and the Argonauts"? Or was that Jason and the Golden Fleece? Anyway, the one that got the Oscar for best supporting Cyclops.

Or, continuing this line of questioning: are you generally a nice person who hasn't had sex since 2002 and is just a little anxious? Perhaps a combination of all three? But not a stalker really, at least that's what my friends say (except for maybe David but he's not a friend anymore, not since he sent that mass email about what he called my "problem" which was really not my problem but his which most everybody wrote me back to tell me).

Most of my friends would say I was fairly "normal", just like you probably, and I like all the same things that "normal" people like, for example: long walks on the beach with a metal detector; jumping into public fountains in a wet suit and snorkel collecting spare change; going to shows and shouting out the lyrics to all the songs along with the cast; hitting the rowing machine at the gym while singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat", or, alternatively, “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore”, and also making friends with guys who are bench pressing 200 lbs. right when they’re sucking in their guts for that big lift.

As you can tell from the pictures, I am in pretty good shape for someone who's 45, even though I'm not 45 and I am 37, and my friends are also 37 and I was born in 1971 or 78 (I can never remember). I like to do all the things outside my apartment that other "normal" people do, like shopping for food and toilet paper, and sometimes going to Starbucks and "having it my way" by spending twelve minutes constructing a drink out of all the adjectives they have on the overhead signs. Sometimes I like to go to Starbucks and just sit and listen to people at the other tables, and sometimes I interject my opinions in their conversations just to be friendly. Sometimes I'll join them at their table, just so I don't have to yell. Every once in a while you get a meanie who doesn't want to listen and looks at you like you're some kind of a nut, but I just usually handle that by knocking their mocha latte onto their laptop. Typically, when I come back (I like to visit Starbucks several times a day) they're gone and never return, which is OK with me! As you can tell, I am very social and a lot of fun!

So you might be thinking: why do I have all this time to go to the gym and to Starbucks, but why would you think that unless you yourself were unemployed? If you are one of those judgmental suspicious types, maybe we just aren't meant to be. You might want to ask yourself, why do I always make these negative assumptions about people? Maybe that's why you're still single and have to resort to an Internet dating service, did you ever think of that? Don't you have any friends who could fix you up? Anyway, since you're wondering and even though I don't really care what you think, I do have a job and it is fairly high-paying which allows me to be in actual semi-retirement (even at the age of 39!). But more on that later.

A typical day for me is to wake up (I don't need an alarm, usually the people pounding on my door to turn down the volume on my TV is enough to rouse me), get dressed (by myself, silly!) taking care to turn my socks and underwear inside out, then I take my medicine, and head out for breakfast. I used to go to a local diner but I found that the Episcopal Church offers such a great breakfast special which even comes with a free orange, that you'd be an idiot and a snob to pass it up. And I hate snobs! Right after breakfast I head over to Starbucks where I like to work at my job, which involves typing on my computer and looking at the screen and occasionally looking up to see who else has come in.

I have all the hobbies that "normal" people do, including working out, reading, leaning out my window and yelling "Watch out below!" and waiting to see what everyone does, and dancing. I am a great dancer and will get up and perform at the drop of a hat, or a strategically placed dollar, and I don't necessarily have to have a partner. Sometimes I just get up on the table and let loose, but not at Thanksgiving and never on the kids' table, so don't worry!

And you, what are you like? Well, you are single or you can get out of the house regularly between the hours of 2 and 5:30pm. You like to have sex but you don't always have to have the lights on, and you aren't adamant that your partner takes off all their clothes or even gets in bed with you. You are fit and healthy and willing to be tied up and left for hours on your own without complaining or wondering what the point is (sometimes I like to go shopping and you never know when the urge will hit me!). You also have your own apartment that you own and that there's no way you could get evicted no matter how many cats you had or how loud you had your TV volume turned up or if you liked to check the recycling bins for cans and bottles late at night when it really shouldn't bother people.

So I hope there's someone out there for me; I haven't had that much luck on this particular site, even though I have had a few "repeat" customers (Melvin622 if you are reading this, you can forget about me coming back out to the oil rig!), I am a real believer in that old adage, "There's someone for everyone," or is it, "As long as you don't take the bracelet off, you're not breaking parole"? I look forward to hearing from you!

My Boyfriend is Waiting But My Hands Are Still Wet: a Tragedy in the Theater Bathroom

T'was a date that I wanted to happen and did

With a man whose attentions for which I did bid

Using sweetness and batting of eyelids so coated

In make-up that friends of mine nodded and noted,

I couldn't lift up my own eyelids to see,

The person across in the mirror: it was me.



The lipstick I wore was so pretty and pink,

It said on the advert there'd ne'er be a kink

In approaching a man for his favor to seize,

For as soon as they saw it they'd ask me to "Please,

Kiss me, I beg you!" it said "Guaranteed!"

(And cost me just twenty-two bucks, a small bleed).



So ready I was for the man of my dreams,

That I shaved my legs twice with a number of creams,

And my underarms too, so that they were as bare

T'was if I'd made use of that product called "Nair",

Which stunk to high heaven if one can remember

And always left fuzz on your grill and your fender.



So next up was choosing the outfit to wear,

Something sheerly seductive to lure to the lair,

This man who I'd wanted for more than a week,

Since the first time we'd met and I'd had just a peek

At his talent at kissing which made my face blush.

In fact, in 8 days, I'd developed a crush.



So into the closet I plunged with a passion,

To find the right outfit, no slave me, to fashion!

For when it is up to a girl to seduce,

The clothing one picks must not bag or be loose.

The tighter it fits is the key to the night:

If you cannot breathe, then you've got it just right.



And find it I did! This white blouse made of cotton,

For peasants intended, but that was forgotten

Since women of urban adventure did pick

This pattern for access so blatant and quick,

That neither of you had to wait for too long

To begin the concerto where sex is the song.



I paired it along with a skirt that was slim

(even though my lush hips made the look somewhat grim),

But paired, the two bits set me up for the role;

The sum of these parts, just as great as the whole.

And the very last touch was just that: of perfume,

Like a Siren, this man was to face me: his doom.



The doorbell did ring right on time; I did note

That perhaps he was as happy as me to be smote

By a partner whose skills were so obvious to see,

That perhaps he'd spent 8 days too, thinking of me,

Because that's the best way to approach the first date:

With a hunger and wonder and lust that can't wait.



So open I did (just the door - don't be crude),

Since the guy was outside, and not one to be rude,

I invited him in (the apartment - you pervs),

Having had two white wines just to settle my nerves.

He had eyes just for me (I thanked God, since I noted

The dining room table with dust it was coated…).



And thus it began just as well as I'd hoped

For it seemed into trouble we'd gladly been roped.

It almost seemed pointless to go out to the show,

Since watching most everything else we would know,

That the hero and girlfriend would bond at the end.

Let's just stay home! For themselves they could fend!



But no, the whole point is sweet torture of course;

All the petting and leaning and sexual Code Morse,

(Or at least that's what women are wont to pursue;

For the best way to keep the attraction brand new

Is to drag it as long as one possibly can.

And that is the difference twixt woman and man.)



So off we did go, to the subway we entered,

But toward one another, our eyeballs were centered.

And even though people did bump us and shove,

If you'd looked at we two, you'd have thought "They are in love!"

And finally to the theatre we came,

With hands copping feels (that's the name of the game).



So for hours (just two), we sat close in the dark,

Sharing popcorn and bloodlust and fire and spark,

Touching elbows and fingers and shoulders and thighs,

But respectably so, noting neighboring eyes,

As Solo and Kylo did banter and weave,

And explosions and battles did rumble and heave.



(Just as much as our hearts in our mutual chests;

If they'd read our two minds, we'd be under arrest.)

And so finally, FINALLY, credits do roll,

'Cause the heat and our passion have taken their toll;

He can barely stand up, and me too, I'm not well

(If we're Catholic at this point, we're going to hell...).



So wanting to wash up (from popcorn, my dears!),

I head to the bathroom, to check out the mirrors,

And fix my ridiculous hair since I know

That my partner has mussed it (we were in the last row),

And to pee and prepare for the evening to come,

Anticipation for which caused my body to hum.



And so I did all of those things that I said,

Left my stall to wash hands and to check out my head,

When the worst thing a person can see in that room,

Did appear in my sight, dragging me into gloom.

Instead of the towels of paper you see,

Were those fucking hand blowers that really irk me!



They show up in bathrooms; the last thing you'd wish

For they are as useful as bikes to a fish.

You can stand there with only two drops on your hand

And the blower will blow it all over the land,

But it won't dry you off, because that's not its job

For it only makes noise, like a torch-bearing mob.



And so, there I was, holding hand into space,

Cooking flesh for no reason, as always the case,

And waiting and waiting for drops to disperse,

Which is part of the battle and part of the curse.

Just amazed at the ultimate nothing it dries,

And resenting the option to wipe on my thighs.



So now it's been minutes and longer I fear,

I've lost track of time, in my battle in here,

With the man of my dreams tapping toes right outside,

Yet I can't come out til my hands I have dried.

I'm mad at these things! Wreck my life, will they now?

For decades they've dithered, and I've made it my vow…



… to not let this thing get the better of me,

Yes, I'll stand here as long as the bathroom is free,

Wasting energy, time and the patience of folks

Gathered round with their own hands, awaiting for pokes,

In the air blast which nothing it does, take my word!

So long have I stood there, I feel like a nerd.



And slowly the bathroom does empty of others

No sisters are left (and there never were brothers),

Still shaking and waving my hands at this thing,

‘Til tears in the corners of my eyes do sting.

For I realize that 45 minutes have passed,

And who wouldn’t wonder why his girl is last.



And think as I do of this handsome young man

With blue jeans and white shirt and lovely firm hand,

A-waiting out there as concessions do close,

And he’s getting bored now, and beginning to doze.

But still in the palm of my hands I do find

That the moisture is clinging; to me it does bind.



And finally lights flicker off in the halls,

And all the employees depart with fond calls,

To each other, “is everyone out of this place?”

“Ah, no,” they respond, “there’s a nut in no haste,

To retreat from the bathroom where her hands are wet

From the useless devices in there, I’ll just bet.”



And just as the last light is ready to dim,

I give up the battle so hungry for him

And that body be-clothed in that fitted white shirt,

That I wipe off my hands at the end of my skirt.

And so I emerge worse for wear and still damp

To an empty theatre, a-glow with one lamp.



For my date has decided that this was enough,

After waiting one hour, he's left in a huff,

Thinking I was the one who had cast him aside,

When in fact in my mind I’d imagined the ride

That I’d hoped we would share to the end of the wire.

And so this is the reason I hate the Hand-dryer.

I Don't Understand Women Who Do This and Men Who Let Them...

He's not bad looking, he's a nice guy, and he seems to adore you. And yet, you can't help but treat him like an irritating cowlick -- always in your hair and unable to do anything right. You find yourself making fun of his friends, his clothes, his hobbies and his habits and you hate yourself for it. What's going on? You're dating a "Doormat Man".

Most everyone finds themselves in one of these relationships at some point in a dating history. It starts like this: an arid, dune-filled dating landscape stretches before you when a guy whose best virtue is that he's available turns up. As he's courting you by reciting the story line from last night's "Seinfeld", you're playing badminton with the idea of going out with him. "Maybe," you think. "Naw. Well, maybe. Naw!" Prospects look otherwise grim and hey, at least he's not married you think. So you give him your number, half hoping he won't use it, but knowing that within 72 hours, you'll get that call.

Getting the first call from a new man is one of the most exhilarating experiences in a woman's life -- most of the time. But when this guy's voice comes over the line, all that goes through your head is: "what was I thinking? Should I pretend that whoever he thinks he's calling moved out, why, just yesterday?" But you're a "nice" person. You can't do that. So you settle in for ten minutes of hemming and hawing on his part (you're filing your nails) before he can get to the BIG question. If you're in a charitable mood you might offer, "Yes, actually, I like Jonathan Demme movies too." While he takes that opening and runs with it though, your idle mind turns to thoughts of good old Aunt Tillie who, as family lore has it, was saved from spinsterhood when she unexpectedly fell in love with dull, reliable Ralph (now "Uncle" Ralph), a somewhat lumpy suitor who pursued her relentlessly for years until he finally won her heart. And then it occurs to you that Aunt Tillie was 2 years younger than you are now, when it finally happened.

"O.K.," you interrupt, "Sure. I think I'd enjoy that," you say to whatever he's come up with. And even as you hang up the phone, you wonder at the mysteries of womankind who accept dates from men they really don't want to go out with.

Women are by nature, charitable, sympathetic, nurturing creatures whose first instincts are to soothe and comfort. So it must be said that when we accept that first date from someone who we know is never going to win our heart (nay, not even score too well against it), we always have THE BEST INTENTIONS. Perhaps our first impression was wrong, we think, giving the fellow the benefit of a host of doubts. Maybe I'll learn to love him, we speculate. Maybe he's got a sense of humor á là Billy Crystal in "When Harry Met Sally". Maybe he'll gain more confidence when he sees me in broad daylight.

And sometimes, we're evil and think: Maybe he's got a brother...

"Gee, you look great," he offers hopefully when you open the door, and the strangest kind of irritation wells up in you. It's not that you don't appreciate the compliment (any compliment), it's just that you really want to tell him, "Please don't try so hard!" But he doesn't know how not to try so hard. And you, with nothing better on your dance card, fighting your crawling skin, see him for the second time, and then a third, and soon, you find yourself transformed from mild-mannered nice girl into SUPER WITCH.

He's created a monster and you are she. You find yourself committing every crime in the Code of Dating Ethics and inventing a few new ones. You don't ever really listen to him (and yet you've always been such a "good listener"). You don't bother to conceal flirting with virtually anyone else who might be handy. You drop the phone three times per call because you're juggling two other tasks while he hangs on the other end. You've been "too tired" to have him up to your apartment for the last two months.

Strange, petty things about him drive you nuts. "Do you always have to blink that way?" you ask him, not really as a question. But instead of calling you on it: "And how would you like me to blink, your highness?", he apologizes. "Gosh, sorry!" he offers. "I'll try not to blink like that anymore." And now, for some reason, you're really mad.

When you socialize with a couple like this, you spend all your time cringing. Out for dinner with the gang, they sit across from each other, he, staring at her adoringly, reminds you of a lovesick seal. Meanwhile, she's flirting madly with the men on either side of her, and the 16 year old bus boy. Her date asks a question in an attempt to join the conversation and she rolls her eyes. He laughs at one of her jokes and she rolls her eyes. You haven't seen so much eye-rolling since Linda Tripp said she was "just trying to be a friend". You can't help but wonder why he puts up with it. It's almost as if she (or we, if we're in such a relationship), is purposely being outrageous, trying somehow to provoke him into... something! Defending himself, yelling at her, walking out and slamming the door.

On the surface of our thoughts when we're the ones doing the eye-rolling, we're thinking, "What does it take to get this guy to tell me to jump off a cliff?" But deeper inside us, in that reasonable self hunkered down in social hibernation, another voice asks, "Why am I being so mean?" Every evening we say goodnight to this guy with a sigh of relief and an hour later, the bad feelings start rolling in -- guilt for treating him so badly, and anger, at him, for letting us. The truth is that we're angry at him for letting us be the worst we can be, instead of the best.

A good relationship provides more than companionship. The best of them make us feel good about ourselves, glad to be with someone who is, in many respects, the half that makes us whole. Those cheery older couples who refer to one another as "my better half" are speaking of a symmetry in their lives that calms them when they're threatening to strangle the neighbor; that offers an objective opinion when the handmade birdhouse turns out looking more like a dish drainer; that reminds them that they're more wonderful than they know, or not as wonderful as they think, whichever they need to hear.

When a prospective partner can't provide that symmetry for us, our inner ogre comes out, beats up the Helen Hunt side of us, and turns into the playground bully. Oddly enough, bullying makes such men try even harder. They become kinder, even more gentle and more obsequious than ever. They turn into "Doormat Men". Exactly the wrong approach. When you look at them, all you see is a quivering dessert. You find yourself humming "J-E-L-L-O" during conversational breaks. What self-respecting person, you marvel, would allow his girlfriend to treat him so, well, disrespectfully?

Therein lies the answer. A man (and of course, this applies equally to a woman) who "takes" such treatment, probably does not have much respect for himself. He may feel he deserves to be treated like a sock hamper because he thinks he's somehow unworthy. He may have grown up in a household where he became the whipping boy for an unhappy, angry parent. Or he might have been the always unfavorably compared brother to a sibling who was the "star" of the family. Sometimes just having been largely ignored during childhood shapes a personality that expects to be ignored; an invisible person for whom any attention, whether positive or negative, is better than none.

So now we find ourselves in such a relationship, and wonder about our options. We can end it and throw ourselves back into the pool of wandering, dispossessed single women, staggering through cities, arms upraised like something out of "Night of the Living Dead", or we can stop and reevaluate. Life is short (as women who have wondered if they'll have one more date before they die are well aware of). If we meet someone who cares for us, this is a good thing. A real thing.

Think once again of "Aunt Tillie". She lived the dating life that, demographically doesn't look likely for this generation of women. And yet, she settled for good old Ralph. Take a second look at your boring beau. What would happen if you treated him honestly, told him what you were thinking, kindly? You know, a bird in the hand... might just be the falcon we're searching for.

If after reconsidering him and being honest with him, he still wants to bring you your slippers in his mouth, maybe you should bail out while his ego and your image of yourself as a "nice person" are still intact. But perhaps you can forge a new relationship. After all, something about him made you say yes to that first date (apart from the fact that he asked you!). And maybe someday, in a not too distant future, Aunt Tillie and Uncle Ralph will be dancing at your wedding!

I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 2

We were awkward, but me more than he. He only seemed to be playing the part of the awkward guy for my benefit. In fact, I felt that he had reviewed me, found me acceptable and was settling in to see how I did for the rest of what he needed to evaluate. Would I be smart and sassy? Clever and quick with a comeback? Would I be too sweet? Or too forward? Would I touch him too soon, or seem repressed and reserved – too prim? What was he looking for? I could be nothing but myself because as intuitive as I am, I didn’t know. I started asking questions because his online profile was too vague to get a handle on him. What had happened with his wife? I knew he was divorced. He’d been married for 28 years. 28 years! What had I been doing all that time? Dating, going to grad school, working, dating, moving, dating, writing, dating. Lots of men, so few I cared about that I’d begun to think there was something wrong with my heart.