Tinder Moments, Part Two.

Hello fellow Earthlings,

How are all of you gorgeous creatures today? I need to be better about posting not just sporadically. I admit to not being super active on Tinder the past few months. I commute to my big-girl job (which I recently got promoted to at the end of March: salary, benefits, errythang. Woo!), work, go to the gym, drive home, eat dinner, and then usually watch TV or read with a glass of wine and a cat in my lap. I know. I'm really exciting, you don't have to tell me twice. I'm currently at my favorite hipster cafe, drinking an Americano, eating a chocolate-chip-salted-caramel-pretzel-oatmeal cookie, and relishing my one day off a week. I got to see a good friend last night (and make some new ones); I was mentioning my blog to them and realized, shit, I need to update! Working on a three-part post that I've been saving because trust me, it's a doozy. For now, though, let's enjoy some Tinder Moments, shall we?

Here's this gentleman, thinking he's clever as shit:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA YOU ARE SO CLEVER, SIR. TOTES GONNA SHOW YOU ALL THE NIPPLE NOW OBVIOUSLY WAY TO GO. Also if you were somehow unaware, I maintain that dick pics are the most disgusting things on the planet, and most women do not like to receive them. In fact, if we DO get one, we will send it to our friends or show it to our friends in person and analyze your, uh, shortcomings. And laugh. Heartily. It does make for an entertaining pastime, however. Just please be aware gentle sirs that if you do in fact send an (unsolicited) dick pic to someone, you're also sending it to all of their friends. If they request one, odds are slightly less that they'll be showing all their friends. But only slightly less. Now you know.

(Also if you've never watched any Ja'mie: Private School Girl, stop reading this and go watch it.)

 

oMg DoN't YoU lOvE tHaT i TyPe LiKe A tWeLvE-yEaR oLd GiRl'S aIm PrOfIlE fRoM 2002 aNd I'm A gRoWn-AsS mAn?!

So which one are you? The bold man facing forward because you look like a naked, tiny, besunglassed Fabio? Or one of the random asses around you? Also do men really do this as some sort of weird bonding activity? Because there are a LOT of these kinds of shots on Tinder. Seriously? Is this a thing? Men go hiking and then just get nekkid and take pictures of it? 

I have a feeling you wouldn't like my self, Mr. Tenter. Not at all. Sweet Cosby sweater, though.

(Also if you've never seen High Fidelity WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.)

Oh wow, can I meet your dad? He clearly instilled great values and lessons on how to respect women and probably how to treat humanity in general. I bet you think strippers like you, too.

If you use "gay" in this fashion, you are the worst kind of human being, I don't care who you are, and you most certainly are NOT a gentleman. Gay is not an insult. But this is: go fuck yourself. And finally, to round out our newest batch of Tinder Moments:

And I just barfed from your Tinder profile.

Tinder Moments

Now, I've talked a lot about guys that I have actually gone on dates with on this blog (notable exceptions most recently found here and here); but what about those that don't make the cut? There's an assumption out there, that, since I have this blog, I must be talking to every person and auto-matching with every person, completely undiscerning. And that's where you're wrong, good friend. I am actually, genuinely interested in trying to meet cool people, and I have! Not everyone on there is a complete toolbag. But who wants to hear about the cool people when you know you're only here to read about the scum-sucking road whores. Today's post is dedicated to the men with pictures/profiles so atrocious, I laughed with horror or sheer disgust, took screenshots, and said goodbye.

Oh, and if you hadn't guessed, this post will be NSFW. Because, you know, butts and such. To kick us off right, here's some tasteful, suggested nudity:

Ohhh baby, your peen looks like an iPhone, that's hot. Wait, is it an iPhone 4? 4s? 5? 6? 6 PLUS? Now we're talking.

Yeah, thanks for telling me what I'm here for, false Cupid. You're not even wearing a diaper; what kind of cupid are you? 

I'll take Option B, thanks.

"You want chivalry? I've got chivalry coming out of MY ASS!"

No comment because ALL THE COMMENTS, the predominate one being: NO.

In case you can't read his description, it says, "Super not impressed. Where's the quality? More turned off than anything & still yet to be turned on by anyone. 3 months & not even a single date. I won't write you, because I prefer to know you actually read this. Please do not match me only to ignore me. Apparently my honesty, standards, morals, character and values make me difficult. Chances are you're just lazy, don't know what you want & end up playing it safe w/the easy guy. I live 15% of my life as a rockstar the other 85% I spend alone."

Wow, okay, let's translate that. "Hi, I'm a hypocritical, condescending douchebag. I won't message you, but I'll be upset if we match and you don't talk to me, because that's logical. I haven't met with anyone in-person yet because I'm incredibly full of shit, yet I think of myself as a 'nice guy,' and as such, I always finish last. The world owes me more than it is giving me, and I'm pissed about it. My ego is large, and I'm incredibly entitled because I'm a relatively attractive white man. Change my mind because my default setting is: every woman is a bitch unless she conforms with exactly what I want, when I want it. 100% of the time, I'm a terrible human being."

"Beer...And guns, and shit.. Stanford... Blah blah blah. Swipe left if you think your vagina is the center of the universe. Or if it's some sort of black hole sucking up everything within sigh [sic]. people [sic] expect way too much out of this app. Swipe left if you're looking for a husband. I will not follow you on IG, ever. Yes I have a Lamborghini and no you cannot ride in it. 'Sometimes all you need is to not read a corny quote on someone's profile.'"

WOW ARE YOU SURE YOU AREN'T LOOKING FOR A WIFE BECAUSE YOU'RE JUST PERFECT IN EVERY FACET, SIR. I GUESS I'LL SWIPE LEFT SINCE YOU DON'T WANNA PUT A RING ON IT, YOU CLASSY BASTARD. And speaking of husbands...

"I am married. You will probably say good men are all taken or married. Do not hesitate to contact me if your instinct tells you to do so. I do not message first given my situation. Pierced nipples are sexy. I believe in fair trade if you know what I mean."

By Jove, I DO know what you mean. Fair trade is super important to agriculture! You're so wise, and clearly impressive and comfortable with yourself and your life. And, we have to end with my current favorite, whose name I didn't erase because this is clearly NOT his real name (and if it is... well who cares?):

I would say I hope these gentlemen have success on Tinder, but not so much...

My Anaconda Don't

First off, happy one year Singleversary to me! I am celebrating how I’ve celebrated this whole year: not dating someone who treats me like shit. Yay go me! And now, on to regularly scheduled programming.

We judge people based on how they look. That’s a lot of what Tinder and really all online dating is predicated upon. You find this person physically desirable, so you want to get to know them in some way. This also happens in everyday life, at bars, restaurants, coffee shops, clubs, walking down the street. Based upon your own personal standards of what you find beautiful and attractive, you are drawn to people and repelled by others. Women are often unfairly forced into very narrow definitions of what society views as attractive. I could go on some very long, ranty, feminist tangents, but I’ll spare those for now. You may get a very long-winded post about feminism and online dating soon, though. (You will, don’t worry.)

For now, let’s just say I don’t particularly conform to the current societal standards of beauty. I am not blonde, nor thin, and I don’t have a big ass, which is particularly ‘in’ at the moment. I am okay with all of this. I’m a curvy, busty, unnaturally redheaded ball of sass and wit. I’ve been told I’m the come-to-life Jessica Rabbit, and I’m more than okay with that comparison. Again, however, even though I have the boobs (and then some) and hips and thighs, I also have a bit of a tummy, and my ass is flat. Always has been.  I’ve started doing squats to help, and they have, slightly. But by and large, I have a pancake butt. I attract people who are attracted to boobs because I have those in spades. Now everyone who knows me in real life knows this because it’s obvious. On the interwebs and on Tinder, however, not so much, because I don’t exactly take photos of my butt and put them on the internet. I’m not a Kardashian. To paraphrase Judge Judy, don’t pee on my leg and tell me I’m famous.

All of this does have a point, I promise. This man messaged me on Tinder. This is what happened.

Originally, I was going to tell him I lost my butt in an ‘assident,’ but I wasn’t sure he would understand. I’m sure there will be someone else to try it out on. At least we both found out quickly that we would not be a good match. Because… ick. If you lose all interest in me because I lack a big butt, well, you’re missing a hell of a lot more than just a booty, sir. Also I'm guessing he doesn't really have an anaconda. And even if he does, my own anaconda don't want none. I have a lot of latent feels about how we treat women in society, how we are more than just our bodies, the Venus Hottentot and rise of the booty as a sign of sexual fertility and femininity, etc, but this is a lighthearted blog about dating, so I shall spare you all. For now.

The Man Who Met DFW

I am a gigantic David Foster Wallace nerd. Ridiculous. I took a class in grad school called Maximalist Postmodernism, purely because we were going to read Infinite Jest. It was one of those books perpetually on my to-read list, but it’s such a daunting task that I had always chickened out, so I forced myself to do so. And I loved the professor teaching it, and postmodernism is one of my English nerd ‘things,’ so that didn’t hurt. I carried that book around for a month, and did a good job reading a significant portion of it. After that semester ended, I did finish it, and subsequently read it another time, going through and making my own extensive annotated notes. I have since read a LOT of DFW. I call him my literary lover. I have a not-so-mild obsession. I have to pace myself through his works, because they are finite now, although there’s a recently released giant tome called The David Foster Wallace Reader that I want so desperately it’s disgusting. So if you are looking for a present for me, please feel free to buy it. Sooner rather than later because I will probably break down and buy it for myself within the next few weeks.

Anyway, when I first moved to California, I decided to get an OKCupid account. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had an OKCupid account, but I had never actually used it. I decided to properly activate it and see what it was all about. Unpopular opinion time: I feel OKCupid is actually worse than Tinder. Seriously. At least with Tinder, or Coffee Meets Bagel, you have to match with people in order for them to message you. On OKCupid, anyone can message you (at least that’s how I understand it/what happened to me). I was bombarded with messages from random people. Within a month, not even, I ended up deactivating the thing because it was so awful. And there are plenty of people on there looking to just hook up, trust me. I hate that assumption. “Well you’re on Tinder, of course people are assuming you just want to have a one night stand.” No, actually, on most dating sites there are people just looking for that. Check yourself. But that’s an entirely separate, ranty post of its own.

On my OKCupid profile, I had listed some of my favorite movies, including, “Pretty in Pink (minus that bullshit ending);” and TV shows like The O.C. Seth Cohen is one of my dream men, along with Jason Schwartzman, Wes Anderson, and Colin Meloy, and David Foster Wallace. Of course, my DFW obsession was also listed. His first message to me started with, “Yeah, the ending of Pretty in Pink is pretty bullshit, isn’t it? And The O.C. was great until the final season when you could tell Rachel Bilson was phoning it in.” And then he told me that he had once met David Foster Wallace. I looked at his profile, where he listed some of his favorite things as avocados, used bookstores, and David Bowie. Ding ding ding LET’S GET MARRIED PERFECT SIR. He lived in Oakland, but said he would meet me down where I live, and we could get drinks at an Irish bar called The Poet & The Patriot. I was so down with the whole situation. This was my first date in California, and I was so, so excited.

He was already at the bar when I arrived. The conversation flowed easily, and we sat and talked for about two hours. It was actually a very nice time. He walked me to my car, and shocked the hell out of me by kissing me. Not that I minded. We made plans for a second date. I decided that, being new in town and it being the beginning of July, that we should go and stroll the boardwalk, ride the rides, and be terrible Americans together. He agreed. We met up at the boardwalk; he was extremely late, but I was trying to be understanding considering he had a super long drive down to me. Okay, not that big of a deal. We rode some rides; it was going well. We played air hockey in the arcade and it was an intense rivalry. (He beat me by one friggin goal. I’m still bitter about it.) And all of a sudden, things started to go south.

Part of the boardwalk’s outdated attractions/décor are statues of cave people placed on random benches and sections of the park. We had just gotten off my favorite ride, the flying swings, and were walking by a bench that had a large, grotesque African-American female cave woman sitting on it. I was disgusted, and all of a sudden, he pointed at it and said, “Hey! Look! It’s RuPaul!” And I almost punched him in the mouth. That is just wrong on a hundred levels, a very shallow one being that I, personally, am a gay male drag queen in the body of a twenty-six year old woman, and I loooooove RuPaul. Love. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, stupidly, for making that joke, instead of decking him and walking out.

It was the week after the Fourth of July, and he had been down in Southern California visiting his family. He was regaling me with stories of his trip as we walked around the boardwalk. At one point, he started talking about having to pick up a pizza at Domino’s for his family, and how all the employees are behind a bullet-proof glass shield that they have to pass your pizza through. I was going to make a comment about crime, poverty, Los Angeles, etc., when he kept going and said, “But these were the kind of people who looked comfortable behind bullet-proof glass. And this was confirmed when I opened the pizza and the toppings were in the shape of a license plate.” WHAT. I didn’t know young Johnny Depp circa Cry-Baby was secretly working at a Domino’s in Los Angeles. LET’S ALL GO THERE NOW! Allison Vernon-Williams, get in this car!

In actuality, though, I was seriously grossed out at this point, and once again trying to figure out how the hell to get out of this date. We got onto another ride, that was a bit faster than I had anticipated, and when we got off it, we walked and sat on a park bench because I was mildly nauseous and not okay to drive home or do anything at that moment. The conversation turned to movies, music, TV, books, etc. He mentioned DFW again and how cool it was to meet him and get a book signed by him. And then I noticed that he had a habit of referring to celebrities as if he knew them. For example, he kept calling DFW “Dave,” as if they were bros. “Oh yeah, Dave was such a great author.” Yes, yes he was, but just because you met him once doesn’t mean you get to call him Dave. We talked about the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, which had saddened both of us. I have a relative who is an addict, and it’s heartbreaking to witness. It is a serious issue, addiction; and PSH’s death was upsetting to me on a few levels; but much like Robin Williams’ death, I understood that it was not a failure on the part of the deceased. Depression and addiction are serious issues that lots of people struggle with. He felt differently, however. “Yeah man, Phil’s death. That’s so upsetting. But I’m so mad at him! Like, you had so much talent, Phil, how dare you waste your life and do that to yourself! I’m so mad at him.” Okay, yeah, you can get away from me right now, sir.
At that point, I'd had more than enough. My nausea from the ride had faded, but my nausea from this classist, possibly racist, jerkhead had increased. Done and done, sir. I told him I was still nauseous from the ride and needed to go home. He walked me to my car again; this time I just gave him a quick hug because no way in hell was he getting to kiss me after all that shit came out of his mouth. I never heard from him again after that; presumably he understood that I was not feeling it. I'm glad we never had to have the awkward confrontation in which I would call him out for being an asshole. I probably should have said more in the moment, but I was so astounded by a lot of what he said that I couldn't form a response fast enough that would be more articulate and nuanced than, "Fuck off!" Oh well.

The Worst Pablo Neruda Ever.

I possess a Master's Degree in English. It hasn't done a lot for me at this point, except to solidify my nerdiness and sound impressive at parties and on job interviews. People will ask me questions about grammar, spelling, syntax, etc. And no, I'm not an actual expert in any of those areas, but thanks for thinking of me! Yet if someone does not know which "your" to use in a sentence, for example, or cannot spell worth a damn, I admit to being prejudiced against them. It bothers the hell out of me, particularly when it's coming from a person who says they are a college graduate, or working on an advanced degree, or work in a specialized field. I do not hesitate to call people out on their shitty spelling and/or grammar. For example:

Yeah okay I'm kind of a sarcastic bitch, but I admit that in my profile, and in my daily life, of course. But I mean, c'mon dude, what am I supposed to do with that?

Somebody needed to tell him.

I am quite lucky, however, that most dudes have not gotten violent or rude with me; I've seen enough examples on the internet of men getting disgusting towards women when women put them in their place or reject them. I've only had one guy message me to say "Lol your huge." I said, "Excuse me?" He said, "Your fat haha." And I said something along the lines of "At least I can spell and know proper grammar, fuckface." And then unmatched him. This was back in July or August and sadly I didn't take a screenshot. Lesson learned: always screenshot when something ridiculous happens to you with social media. Always.

Recently, I matched with a guy who almost immediately began sending me dirty "poetry." At first, I thought they were Drake or Chris Brown lyrics, and I was disappointed in the lack of originality. And then I realized no, these are in fact original "erotic" "poems." Then I was just grossed out. Behold:

His profile mentioned recently starting to drink coffee, hence, the line about coffee. And, you know, HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO RESPOND TO THAT? "Oooh baby yeah/You're one of the bad boys /Whatchu gon' do /When they come for you /Bad boys, bad boys." Yet it didn't stop there. I'll just let our conversation speak for itself.

All things considered, I feel like I was quite nice and helpful. He actually went on to thank me again for being so helpful. I also missed a screenshot of that because I was doing other things and when I went back to Tinder to get that final caption, he had unmatched us, and my Tinder lothario had vanished. Always get a screenshot, Nicole! Terrible.

Sometimes, men just need to be called out on their gross bullshit. And I'm not afraid to do that if the need arises. *Insert dick joke here.*

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Me.

Sorry for the absence, darlings. Holidays and travel and all that jazz; speaking of, I hope you all had a lovely holiday season surrounded by the people you love, and also, your family. 

It occurred to me over the past few weeks that I have yet to discuss any of my dates from Tinder proper. Thus far, it has just been about dating in Buffalo. Well it’s a new year; time to rehash more recent dating fails! I’m going to talk about my latest Tinder date, which, while it is by no means the worst one I’ve been on, is exemplary of the kind of date/man I seem to attract.

His name was Buck.* I actually broke one of my Tinder Rules (full set to come) (not like that, perv) by swiping right to him: there was no clear picture of his face, but I liked his other pictures a lot, and his description seemed funny and sardonic, so I figured, what the hell? We started talking, and things seemed to go pretty smoothly at first. It turned fairly quickly into a playful butting of heads, but I enjoy a challenge. He told me he didn’t understand my love of Talking Heads, and judged my musical taste harshly because of it. And then he admitted that he had only heard one or two of their songs. I’m not quite sure why I agreed to meet someone who was already admittedly judging my taste level, considering that he himself admitted that he listens to almost exclusively 60s music. Which is great; I love me some Beatles and Monkees. But I’ve learned to be very skeptical of people who only listen to one genre of music, and Buck is confirmation that I should be wary of those people. Homogeny is boring. 

We agreed to meet for a drink near the hotel where he was staying. He was in town for a few weeks for work from Southern California; I wasn’t expecting much except to maybe have a few drinks and meet a new friend. No such luck. Traffic was horrendous that night. What should have been a 10-15 minute drive took an hour, and then I couldn’t find parking. I texted multiple apologies full of cuss words at the traffic, lack of parking, my anger at the Gods of Travel, etc. When I finally walked into the tiny dive bar, he was not there, even though I was extremely late. For a minute I thought I’d been stood up. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my cute dress and expectant face in this dirty, skeevy bar. Perfect. I went to the bathroom, and finally got an answer to my distress signals. He himself was running behind but showed up quickly enough. I was still hiding in the bathroom. When I walked out, I saw him at the bar, and I instantly knew… that I did not like him. I should’ve just kept walking. At this point, however, I was pissed off and in dire need of something alcoholic, even if it meant keeping him company for a half hour.

We were almost the same height (he was slightly shorter) with longer blonde hair and a mustache. The only way I can describe him is a young David Crosby, complete with acne and a jacket with elbow patches. No offense to Mr. Crosby, but that’s not my style. And I don’t mean an actual, young Crosby. I mean take your mental picture of Crosby in his mid60s, and just take off about 40 years. That's exactly right. Buck bought my drink, and we sat down at a table to have incredibly awkward and stilted conversation. He explained that he had been late because his shoes were in the bathroom, and his roommate (or whatever) had been in the shower. I tried to get him to answer why his shoes were in the bathroom in the first place, but his explanation made almost no sense. “You know when you’re running late so you take your shoes off in the bathroom instead?” No, no I don’t. He also said he had to “wax Mario.” Thankfully, that was not his nickname for his penis (that I know of). He had put in his Tinder profile that he had a mustache named Mario, which I thought was a joke. It wasn’t. He seriously calls his mustache Mario, and referred to it as a person. Oookay.

I quickly changed course, and brought up his dislike of Talking Heads. Buck responded that he had listened to a few more songs, and didn’t hate them completely, but still didn’t understand how they are one of my favorite bands of all time. Just then, “Burning Down the House” started playing in the bar. I thought it was fortuitous, and said I would go to the jukebox to put on more Talking Heads. He explained that no, actually, he had an app on his phone that synched to that jukebox, so he could play whatever he wanted. I said I would still go put money in. He said that whatever I tried to play would pop up on his phone, and he would continually block it. I asked if I could play songs through his phone, then. He asked if I would look through his phone and I told him genuinely I would not. I didn’t get his phone. I started pounding my vodka so I could get the hell out of there. 

More random subjects were discussed. He asked about growing up in Buffalo and what there is to do. I said a lot of eating and a lot of drinking. He said, “that sounds boring.” Clearly you don’t know how to do either of these things properly, sir. He told me how pretty I am. And then this exchange happened (not quite verbatim but pretty damn close):

Buck: You have a ten-dollar smile.

Me: What? Ten dollars? People usually say a million dollar smile.

Buck: When I was growing up, we were poor, so ten dollars was a lot of money to me. So I say a ten-dollar smile.

Me: Is ten dollars still a lot of money to you?

Buck: No, of course not.

Me: Well, the expression is a million dollar smile.

Buck: No, that’s way too much.

Okay, asshole, point taken. By this point I believe I have finished my drink, and I’m trying to think of a way to leave. The bar has slowly filled with regulars. I feel trapped. I’m not sure how to proceed. And then he starts asking me if I will put his hair in a manbun. Really. He became insistent quite quickly.

Buck: Please? Pleeease? I don’t know how.

Me: Uh, you gather your hair and put it in a bun on top of your head.

Buck: But I can’t!

Me: Yes you can.

Buck: How about if you put my hair in a bun, I’ll put yours up in a ponytail?

Me: *gathers all my hair, puts in ponytail in under 5 seconds.* I’m quite capable, thank you.

Buck: But you’ll get to play with my hair!

Me: My hair is exquisite; I don’t need to touch yours.

I needed out. He noticed my drink was gone and his beer was only halfway finished. He offered to get me another; I declined, reminding him that I have a long drive back home. I started to panic. I could just leave, right? Or is that rude? Just be honest? I was feeling like a coward, my ten-dollar smile long gone from my face. Suddenly, a decision occurred to me. I would employ the mythical “friend is in trouble” phone call that women have used for years to get out of bad dates. Am I proud of this decision? No. Should I have been an adult about this whole situation? Yes. Yet I was overwhelmed and aggravated and needed a quick out.  I texted my friend Sara, under the guise of texting my mother (whom I had been texting earlier in the date, actually, about a recipe for Thanksgiving), and told her I needed out of a bad date ASAP. She did not disappoint.

About two minutes later, my phone rang. Sara’s name popped up, but when I answered, it was her boyfriend. “Hey, it’s Anthony.” “Oh, Anthony, why are you calling from Sara’s phone?” “Don’t freak out, but Sara and I were just in a bad car accident.” “Oh no! Let me leave this loud bar!” I mumbled some apologies to Buck, slamming together phrases:  “Oh shit, car accident, friend, have to go, might be back, let me go talk outside” grabbed my purse, and nearly ran out the front door. As soon as I was a few feet away, I told Anthony I had gotten outside. He was worried that I would take the whole thing seriously, but I assured him I knew better. Then Sara got on the phone, and I thanked her (and Anthony) profusely as I walked to my car and figured out how to get home. But first I noticed that Buck had apparently added me on Snapchat at some point leading up to the night, and had sent me six snaps that I hadn’t seen. I never added him back; I have no idea what those snaps were. Probably manbuns. 

*Not actually his name, but it was nearly this bad. Should’ve been the first clue.