I'm In a Glass Case of Emotion

I'm sitting in the middle of my floor, my bed is covered in crap, I have so much to organize and clean but all I feel like doing is writing. So I'm going to write. This is not your typical date post. It's not funny and lighthearted. Serious Nicole is here.

I'm currently dating three people. Well, sort of. It's all very casual and thus, very complicated. This is my first time ever being in this sort of multiple-people-dating, polyamorous, fluid space. Mostly, it's amazing. I feel so powerful and sexy and happy; three (!!) men are at my beck-and-call. But it's not that simple. It's all open, and that requires a lot of communication and honesty, which can lead to hurt feelings, particularly when this is a new arena for at least one party involved (namely, me). Plus they're grown men with lives; they're not really willing or able to drop everything to be with me. And I'm a grown woman with a life, too. I would rather be up-front about my anger or sadness, though, and communicate openly instead of holding grudges or pretending everything is fantastic when it's not. That is something that is improving with this whole new relationship sphere; if I get pissed off or something is wrong, I tell them, and, we have to talk about it, because holding grudges in any relationship is unhealthy; but, in these kinds of situations, it makes it even worse. It is not an easy thing to do, this weird multi-dating/polyamory/slutty triad I find myself in. And before you ask, yes, they're all aware that I see other people. Yes, they all see other people as well. Don't worry, safety is our #1 priority for all involved. No need to lecture me on that front.

Tonight, though, is a sad one. I struggle with anxiety and depression, and sometimes, no matter how happy you were earlier, life overwhelms you and throws you back into a black pit of anxiousness that makes you want to vomit. That's where I am right now, the vomit pit. I'm choosing wordvomit instead of actual vomit. I thought that maybe going through and doing some cleaning would help me. I did a closet clean-out and reorganization last week, and I thought tonight I would clean out the old bucket storage shelf I have next to my bed. I found a lot of garbage, and a lot of wonderful memories that made me cry. I found a picture of me at 14, holding my young nephew. I'm tan, thin, gorgeous. At the time, though, I felt so poorly about myself. I was self-harming, though I didn't tell anyone about it for a few more years. That little boy gave me so much hope and happiness. Now he is 14 and a total sweetheart, despite having a rough life of his own. I love that kid, and I miss him terribly. I can't believe he's a teenager, and I'm nearly in my 30s. I found a necklace given to me by my beloved pseudo-grandfather George, who passed away earlier this summer. Tucked into the pouch with the necklace was a post-it note that made me burst into tears.

Picture it: November 24th, 2005. Buffalo, NY. A beautiful young girl (who doesn't know she's beautiful) is staying overnight with her sister in the apartment her sister and her boyfriend share. It's just after a Thanksgiving celebration with the girl's stepmother's family. After the sister and her boyfriend have gone to bed, the girl uses the computer and signs on to AIM, and proceeds to have an hours-long, incredibly intense conversation with her high school crush. They talked about everything in the world, and he said something so magnificent to her, she wrote it down on a post-it and saved it to this day. That girl was me. And the boy, was Pablo Picasso. Okay, it wasn't Picasso. 

We never ended up dating; although he did lots of nice things for me and we were good friends (he even wrote a song for me, swear to RuPaul). But that night, and what he said, I will hold in my heart forever. It was one of the first times a guy was truly nice to me. I had a rough childhood, to put it mildly. Yes, I was still self-harming at this point; yes, I continued to do so until almost the end of high school. I confessed it to a friend one particularly bad day and she made me stop. I think I only ended up doing it once or twice after that point, and I haven't for years. I've never mentioned it to anyone else, but I think it's time I put it out into the world that I used to hurt myself, because I did. I'm not proud, but I'm not ashamed. Sometimes we need to be reminded of what we've been through and how far we've come, and how far we still have to go. Sometimes we forget our value, or place all our value onto what someone else thinks of us. It's not about other people. We forget that others' actions towards us often have nothing to do with ourselves and everything to do with that person and what they are going through at that moment. I am sensitive and hurt easily, but I pretend to be otherwise; as such, though, I feel very deeply, which is both a blessing and a curse. When I'm happy, I am HAPPY. EVERYTHING IS PERFECT. But when I am sad, I get very depressed, and it can be hard to see the way out. Which is why we have to remember our inherent value and worth. It doesn't matter if other people can see it or not. If they don't, well, that's terrible for them, but it doesn't diminish who I am. This is why friends are so important, those people who always see the good in you no matter how far you have sunk in the emotional vomit pit. I am lucky enough to have some of the most incredible people in the world on my side. I have an army of female (and a few male) friends who are always there and always supportive. They are the people I need to remember and focus on. Romantic relationships are secondary; although mostly fun, they are a horse of a different color. Particularly when dealing with casual romantic relationships, I need to remember that my life does not revolve around those people. Because it doesn't. No offense, dudes.

I'm going to write the contents of that post-it here, now. Not because of the man who said them to me (although I'll always have a soft spot in my heart because, awe sweetness), but because they have been echoed in various ways to me by friends and lovers alike in the subsequent ten years so often that they must be true, and I need to remember them. For myself.

"Not only are you talented and smart, you're also beautiful and unique. You're funny, and yet you're profound. Furthermore, I don't know what word to use the quality you possess to be open with people, but you obviously can see that you've touched me in the course of three days or so. I've been more open with you in three days than anyone in my life. And if that's not something that's amazing about you, I don't know what is. And did I ever tell you you have gorgeous hair?"

In which I am shallow: part three (the grand finale).

(Background: Part One. Part Two.)

My TimeHop notified me the other day that this date happened, and it reminded me that I never finished telling all of you about the ridiculousness that occurred at the end of one of the worst dates of my life.

We pulled up to Brad's house, after nearly being killed. I was about .005 seconds from peeing myself, so I followed him in to use his bathroom. The house was nice; really spacious. He had roommates, of course, because San Francisco is outrageously expensive for no damn reason other than it's San Francisco and one of the best cities in the world, so they can rip you off completely to live there. I tell him that I really have to go to the bathroom, and he tells me he has his own bathroom connected to his bedroom, which is in the basement. I basically sprint down the stairs to his room. His room is unremarkable but seemingly adult; no Ikea furniture, but there are a lot of boxes as he is packing to move. I run into the bathroom. It's a surprisingly spacious, clean, gorgeous bathroom. Brad yells down at me that he's going to get us some wine. I'm simultaneously peeing and ferociously texting my friends for advice; thankfully, they answer quickly and tell me that if I'm uncomfortable/having that awful of a time, I need to GTFO. I wash my hands, walk out of the bathroom, out of his room, and start up the stairs. I'm hoping I can get out the front door before he even knows I'm out of the bathroom. I'm more than halfway up the stairs...and he starts walking down with a bottle of wine and two glasses, shoes clacking on the wooden steps. Oh, fuck. You know that part in 10 Things I Hate About You, where the dad catches Bianca sneaking out and says, "Shoulda used the window?" Yeah. That's what was going through my head. If only he didn't live in the basement! (Also I can't find a gif or picture of that scene anywhere, so here's a related one, instead):

Brad looks confused. "Where are you going?" 

"I...uh...I'm leaving. Sorry; I'm uncomfortable. I need to go home." 

"But we were having a nice time. I have wine for us! We don't have to do anything; we can just cuddle and drink wine."

"No, no, I need to go home, I'm not comfortable."

"You can't drive all the way back now! Just relax. Aren't you having a nice time?"

"It's like 9:30; it's fine. I just need to go home."

Now, before I say this next part, I should say a couple of things. One: he had admitted to me that he likes to dress in costumes. I have no problem with this. I like costumes! Dressing up is one of my favorite things. And, yes, I know this is different for everyone, and in his case, we aren't talking about cosplay or LARPing. We are talking fishnets and latex and such. Again, this was his deal, not mine. I am not one to judge someone for their sexual proclivities. In fact, I love a man in fishnets. Particularly, this man:

(Do you see those legs?!? My GOD. That FACE. THAT CORSET. PLEASE.)

I wrote my Master's thesis on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, focusing on gender performativity and masculinity. I am not a slut shamer. I am kink-friendly, perhaps kinky myself. I just think I'm open-minded about most things in that arena. So, with all this fresh background for you (in case any of this is somehow a surprise; in which case, you definitely don't know me in real life, but you should because I'm pretty fucking cool), let's pick up where we left off, shall we?

"I should go home, really, it's fine. I'm sorry. I'm just uncomfortable."

And, I swear to RuPaul, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Did you see something?"
"What? See something?"
"Yeah. In my bathroom. Did you see something that freaked you out?"
"......No."
"Are you sure? If you saw something, we can talk about it."
I have now become convinced that there must be either a gigantic dildo collection (which would be fine, really, as long as I didn't have to use them) or, more likely, a dead fucking body, or six severed heads on the windowsill.
"No, I didn't, but I definitely need to leave."
"Can I at least walk you out?"
"Uh, okay."

I sprinted up the stairs and to my car. He caught me on the sidewalk and trapped me in a giant hug. "Please don't go. Please. It's okay; we can just cuddle together. We don't have to do anything." BIG BAG OF NOPE. If we have already talked about how you like to dress up and how I'm fine with it and then you are worried about what I might have found in your bathroom?? Fuck. No. Get out of here. Go away. You are creepy and you're terrifying me. No. I got out of his hug, got to my car, immediately locked my doors and pulled up my GPS. I watched him go back inside his house. I instantly unmatched him on Tinder, blocked him on all social media, and started driving home. I called my friend Sara on the drive back and told her what just happened. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!?!" was her response, because yeah, WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!

I sped home, arriving in just over an hour. In that time, I got twelve texts and a phone call from him. The texts were asking if it was a power trip, if this was a game, if he was supposed to beg me to stay, how I should tell him exactly what went wrong. "Come on, it'll be fun, tell me what I did wrong."

And so he did. I never answered his texts; presumably, he got the hint. I assumed he moved to Chicago.

Time passed. My birthday is in April, six full months after the horrible date. My lady friends and I decided to go out in the city to the gay clubs and go dancing. Yay birthday! Yay dancing! Yay hot gay men in San Francisco! The first club I wanted to go to was beyond packed, so we decided to roam around the district to find another bar/club. Most places were madhouses or overpriced, except for one spot. My friends decided we should check it out. They all go in before me; there's a few people ahead of us in line. My first friend is ID'd, pays her five dollars, goes in. Second friend is getting ID'd and I look at the bouncer. He seems familiar. He's in an Ace Frehley-style wig with a mask, some short shorts, fishnets, a whole getup. He looks me in the eye as my second friend goes in. It's Brad. It's fucking BRAD. And now I have no choice but to go up to him.

"Hey gorgeous, how have you been?" he asked while hugging me.
"Oh, uh, hey!"
"So, tell me, what did I do wrong?"
"Uh.....you just came on a little strong, that's all."
"Well, that's me! No no, you're not paying, keep your money." And I did keep it, and used it to immediately buy myself a shot when I got to the bar. I explained the situation to my friends, but as he was working the door and there was a small group of us, we figured it would be okay. Actually, it was a fun little bar and we ended up staying for a while and dancing. I danced on top of a banquette multiple times, once with a hot dude wearing tiny underwear. I saw Brad a few more times, and he talked to me once more, briefly, as he walked past me on the dance floor.

Later, as we were leaving, he had two women all over him. So, good for him, I suppose. I've never gone back to that bar. I've been up in the city quite a few times since then; thankfully, that was the only time I saw him. But on my birthday? Working the door at a gay bar?! Who does this happen to?!!? Oh, right. Me. #blessed

On Tinder, Feminism, & Female Sexual Agency

Warning: if you are a friend or family member who doesn't want to know specific details of my life and beliefs, mostly of a sexual nature (even though I'm a grown-ass 27 year-old woman), you don't want to read this post. There. I warned you.


I've threatened to write a feminist rant multiple times on this here ol' blog, and the time has finally arrived. I knew it was the right time when I attempted to take a nap today and my brain wouldn't shut up. Yes, that's right, I couldn't nap. I had a perfect opportunity to do so, and it didn't happen. That was my sign.

Quick note: the man mentioned in my previous post didn't last much longer. At first I was upset; but I've learned that much better things were in store for me. I'm now part of a much more fulfilling "thingy," if you will, that's also more complex but not to be discussed today. My apologies. (I'm actually not sorry.)

Now, since I joined Tinder, I've had many people tell me that the subsequent bad dates I've experienced and encountered on the blog are somehow my own fault. "Well, you ARE using TINDER, what do you EXPECT?" First of all, the people saying this to me are not single, and have not been in some time. They're also all older than me by 5+ years, generally speaking. To you I say: you have no idea how to date in the modern world. No offense. But in the past few years, dating has turned from meeting through friends or meeting at a bar to meeting online or on an app (see: Tinder, Hinge, Bumble, Grindr, Match.com, OKCupid, Farmers Only, Jewish Mingle, Christian Mingle, to name the ones off the top of my head). Yes, of course people still meet via their friends/relatives/bumping into each other in a coffee shop, spilling scalding coffee on their genitals, then glancing up and falling deeply in lust with the person who caused them to have third-degree burns on their junk. Happens all the time, I'm sure. It's just incredibly hard to meet people when you move across the country and know only your aunt, uncle, and young cousin. In the past year plus, certainly, I've met and made friends without the use of Tinder or OKCupid. But I have made friends using Tinder. 

Secondly, as shown in multiple examples on this blog, Tinder is not the cause of these bad dates. My early blog posts on this site are all about NON-Tinder dates! Like the man who told me I remind him of his dead ex-girlfriend. That was just a guy at a bar. It's not the medium, it's the people who use it. Any form of dating is going to contain a lot of creeps; that's half of what Sex and the City was about! And Carrie Bradshaw & co. sure as fuck weren't using Tinder, and they had a lot of horrible dates/boyfriends/one-night-stands. BUT. Not every man on Tinder is a creep. Not every woman on Tinder is a whore; we'll talk more about this in a minute.

Thirdly, and related to SATC, people lament the demise of dating and the rise of hook-up culture (you can look up countless articles on Google) because of apps like Tinder, which I call bullshit on. Hook-up culture has been a thing forever; it has just evolved with technology, just like every other facet of our lives. And hook-up culture and the demise of dating is related, in a lot of ways, to a fear of female sexual agency. One of my friends recently said I'm going through a "Samantha Jones" period, aka the super slutty character on SATC. And she might be right about that, and I don't view that as a bad thing. Neither did she; she admitted Samantha is her favorite character from TV ever.

Samantha was lauded and also dismissed, even by her friends, for her give-no-fucks attitude towards sex. Our society as a whole, though, is totally terrified by a woman having her own sexual agency. This morning I read a piece on Vice about a woman who stopped giving blowjobs and having penetrative sex after her experiences with casual sex stopped being fulfilling. (Her sentence about her casual sex period starting in San Francisco is just spot-on.) The comments, though, are the horrifying parts to me. The fact that she mentions how many men have told her she's a "dumb cunt" for having an opinion about it/refusing to do something in her own casual sex life which none of them will EVER experience just proves how many men are afraid of a woman claiming her sexual power. And there's way too many examples for me to list on this here ol' blog about women treating women poorly for owning their sexualities. Basically, a woman engaging in casual sex of her own choosing is a whore/slut/floozy/ho; a man engaging in casual sex of his own choosing is a man. And that's some serious bullshit. A woman's value is NOT, repeat, NOT based on the number of sexual partners she has had. A woman who has had one partner in her life is no better or worse than a woman who has had 1,000 partners. Seriously. Why the fuck does this still need to be said? Oh right, because of patriarchy ruling our lives and telling us what to do and how to do it (double entendre intended).

(That moment in Closer when Natalie Portman calls herself a floozy for saying "Hello stranger" to Jude Law aka one of my favorite things that has ever happened.)

Which brings me back to Tinder, my own feminism, and sexual identity. Look. I get it. Tinder is not a place to necessarily meet the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Yet there are people who have met and are now seriously dating, because of Tinder. And who gets to say why I'm on Tinder except for me? Why the fuck should the reason I'm on the site even matter? I'm on it. I'm meeting people. That's it. You are free to judge me and think I'm a floozy; I'm allowed to think you're a judgmental asshat in turn. Am I meeting people just to fuck? No. But if I were, it shouldn't matter. I am allowed to engage in safe, healthy sexual activity of my choosing because I am, again, 27, single, and relatively attractive. I am trying to build a life for myself out here in California. I have a day job in the tech industry that's going well; I have a side job at a winery that I love; and I'm freelance proofreading. I'm looking to move up to San Francisco area because I've fallen in love with the city. Hard. I'm more interested in working on myself than starting a serious relationship. Besides, if I were to try that right now, I know in my heart it would fail miserably. But does that mean I shouldn't casually date a person/few people/however many people I fucking want to? Don't forget, I was in two back-to-back serious relationships for nearly 8 consecutive years; those "promiscuous discover yourself" days of college never happened for me. And for some people, they never happen. That's totally alright! But for myself, personally, this is what feels right, for right now. I can only go with my gut. My feelings are kind of summed up accurately in this Ani DiFranco song:

This post has turned rambling, and isn't quite the perfect, polished piece I was hoping for. But I'm fine with that. Maybe I'll write a follow-up if these points aren't clear. For now, though, what I have to say to people who judge me for my life choices:

UPDATED TO ADD: How did I forget to put in this video from my new favorite person, Matt Bellassai, ranting about online dating? Pure gold.

In which I am shallow: part two.

(For background information, please read In which I am shallow: part one.)


It's a Friday in October in Northern California. So, naturally, it's one of the hottest days of the year. In Silicon Valley, it's nearly 100 degrees; in San Francisco, it's in the 90s. San Francisco is not a warm city, so when the heat is on, it's stifling. This is, of course, the day in which I meet Brad for a second date. I leave work and drive in hellacious Friday traffic up into San Francisco to meet him at his apartment. As it is with San Francisco (henceforth just known as the city), everything is uphill and winding, including the road to his place. I park; he comes out and greets me. We immediately get into his car and try to decide where to go. As it is unseasonably warm outside, and a Friday night to boot, we are expecting it to be nearly impossible to get a table at most places.

He is driving and trying to decide where we should go. He keeps putting his hand on my thigh, and I keep brushing him off. At a red light, he looks over at me, grabs my face, and starts to devour me. Again, I push him away. "Ooooh, are you one of those people that gets nervous in a car?" he asks. "Yes, absolutely," I respond. And it is true; I am very anxious in cars unless I am driving or I trust the driver completely. Otherwise, I will be panicking for most of the trip. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 because I was so afraid of cars and driving. Funny that five years after that I drove myself across the country and now make a major daily commute. Anyway.

Brad takes me to the Haight, a neighborhood I had ventured around with my family at the age of 12, but which I now fully appreciate and love. I wanted to go into every thrift store, talk to every person, just take the whole experience in. Brad, however, was totally unimpressed and couldn't have cared less; but whatever, he lives in the city, why should he care?

We end up in a tiny Asian restaurant that is, yes, packed, and stifling. So much sweat started pouring out of me as we waited in the narrow entry to write down our names for a table. At this place, you have to write your name down on a chalkboard, and they will erase you when your table is available. I don't remember specifics, but I know someone came in and Brad was a dick about them writing their name down for some reason.

We start chitchatting. We order. Again, he is unnecessarily rude to the waitress. I'm getting pissed, and my gut is telling me to abort the situation. But I am now literally stuck in San Francisco, on a date with a man I'm starting to realize is a gigantic bag of dicks. And not in a fun way. Being that I am an English nerd, I try to bring up books as a topic of conversation. "Oh, I don't read that much," he said. I said something along the lines of, "Yeah, I get it, it's hard to find the time; you told me that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is your favorite book though, right?" And I swear, he said, "Yeah. Well, actually, I've only read parts of it. But I liked the parts I read." YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IS A BOOK YOU HAVEN'T EVEN READ?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?! A lot. A lot was wrong with him.

(This is something I need to remind myself of, as it has been proven to me since Brad that you do not. date. people. who. don't. read. At least, I CANNOT date people who don't read. Also I met John Waters and he was amazing and I love him forever.)

Our food arrives. Brad is snarky to the waitress about something; I shoot her an apologetic smile. It's tasty, but it's spicy, and I am so sweaty I swear I'm sliding off the chair. I put my hair up in a ponytail; Brad asks how I manage to make that look adorable. Oh, a compliment! I'll take it. But I am so worked up and pissed that I immediately respond with something rude. So he takes the opportunity to say, "How does someone with your personality work in a wine tasting room?" Me, genuinely confused: "What?" And his response was one of the following; I can't remember clearly because I went into a rage blackout in my mind: "Well, you're just so sarcastic and bitchy," or, "Well, you're just such a sarcastic bitch."

Listen. I know I can be a sarcastic bitch; I'm well aware. But that part of my personality is brought forth when I am uncomfortable and/or angry and/or hangry. In the rage blackout of my mind, I realized that I am acting this way because I am uncomfortable around him. I am not having a good time, regardless of how pretty he is, because he's fucking creepy and I need him to get away from me right meow. RIGHT MEOW.

He quickly followed up that comment with, "But I like that about you. I like that you're a bitch; it's hot." Okay, no, no, no, we are not doing this, no. Thankfully, dinner is almost over. Unfortunately, my bladder is full and I need to pee something fierce. The restaurant is packed, and there's one bathroom, and there's a giant line, and I have no opportunity to use it while Brad walks out of the restaurant. I'm screwed. I just need to pee! And to get the fuck away from this guy.

Walking out, I'm about two steps off from running smack into a naked man walking down the street. Seriously. Naked dude. Just wandering around. I'm flabbergasted, and ask Brad if he saw him. "Oh, that? Yeah that's normal. You're in San Francisco." Definitely not in Kansas anymore. As we are walking to the car I hear a noise: the click-clacking of heels on the sidewalk. I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that, in fact, Brad is wearing men's dress shoes that have heels. Stacked heels. Stacked heels that fucking CLACK ON THE SIDEWALK. I nearly peed right there. I mean, this is San Francisco; nobody would mind, right?

It's happening....It happened. It happened.

We get in his car to drive back to his place. At this point, I'm concentrating on not peeing and not having a total freakout on this creep. I don't know if you're aware, but San Francisco is a very hilly city. Getting anywhere requires you to go up and down a lot of hills. There's also a lot of stoplights. At nearly every stoplight, Brad tries, again, to put his hand on my thigh and/or make out with me. I again remind him that I am nervous in cars, and to please don't fucking touch me. He acquiesces, somehow. The road up to his apartment is a super steep, winding hill, because of fucking course it is. There's a minivan in front of us going under the speed limit, which pisses Brad off. "What the hell are they doing? This isn't okay." So he decides to pass them, which would be fine if we were on, you know, a highway, instead of a two lane residential street with a double fucking yellow line going upward towards a blind curve in the street YES THIS IS A GREAT IDEA BRAD YOU ARE SO SMART YOU MUST READ A LOT!

Of course, there's another car coming down the road, directly towards us, and Brad veers us back to safety just in time. I seriously was about .004 seconds from peeing everywhere, but he probably would've liked that. I must have screamed or made some kind of noise, because Brad looked at me, incredulous, and said, "What? We had plenty of time. We were fine!" BITCH I ALMOST DIED WITH YOUR STUPID HIGH-HEELED WEARING ASS ON A RANDOM STREET IN SAN FRANCISCO. NO. Thankfully, his house was less than a block away. Unfortunately, I still need to pee, and I have no idea where I can do that except in Brad's house. So I got out of the car, and I followed him inside.

In which I am shallow: part one.

I recently returned from a nice long visit back to Western New York. I had a lovely time, and got to see tons of people, many of whom mentioned they love my blog. It was surprising, but so wonderful to hear that people enjoy what I have to say about dating and all its related drama/craptasticness. Honestly, I took a break from dating from about January-June, and now I am casually seeing someone that, yes, I met on Tinder. He's gorgeous, sweet, funny, treats me like a queen, and I would say more but you don't care about the good things, you just want to know about the fail whales. It's okay. I'm with you.

Back in September, I met a man on Tinder. Not just any man. Legitimately one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen (until recently). I was shocked when we matched, even more so when he actually started talking to me. We seemed to click, although I admit to having a slightly weird vibe, which I was willfully ignoring because HELLO HANDSOME. We didn't end up meeting in person for a few weeks, as we both had traveling scheduled in our near futures, and he lived in San Francisco. We ended up texting a LOT, perhaps too much. His grammar wasn't the greatest, but again, willing to make sacrifices. I know, you can say it: I was thirsty. I am not ashamed. Okay I am slightly ashamed, but shit happens, and I can't take back what ended up transpiring.

Now that that's out of the way... We ended up meeting for dinner at a Thai restaurant in Palo Alto. If you are unaware of Northern California's various divisions, Palo Alto is where Stanford University is located. It's full of rich people and smart, preppy college students. He got there before me, and was seated in a corner booth, arms splayed over the top of the booth, taking up lots of space. He stood up to greet me...and we were the same height. Now, I'm not a short woman, and both of my big-time exes were about the same height as me. I'm just mentioning this now as it's important later on. Ooooh, suspense. I'm going to call this guy Brad. So, Brad sits back down, and resumes sitting in the same position, arms akimbo over the top of the booth. Strange, but whatever. Again: GORGEOUS. Like slap-your-mother gorgeous.

(In which I am Louise Belcher for a change, rather than Linda or Tina. I am also constantly living with this feeling at the moment.)

We're looking at the menu, and our waitress comes over, and Brad is immediately very rude to her. She walked away and I called him out on it, saying, "Uh, you were actually totally rude to that woman just now." He said something along the lines of, "No, I'm here a lot, and if I don't order this way, they mess up my food." For the rest of the night, I am overly polite to all the waitstaff at the restaurant. Our conversation flows relatively easily, with several strained/awkward spots. But hey, first date, right? His favorite author is Hunter S. Thompson, and his favorite book is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Slightly cliche, but at least he likes to read. He mentions that he's leaving his job and moving to Chicago with his sister at the end of October. Okay, this wouldn't be a long-term thing anyway, but I can have some fun with this guy, potentially.

The food is fantastic, and I am, again, overly polite and sweet and smiling to the waiter who brings it out. He smiles at me and glowers at Brad. We are talking about something and all of a sudden, Brad grabs my knee under the table. I smack his hand away. "Ooooh, feisty," he said. "No, it means don't touch me, thanks. Also why do you sit with your arms on top of the booth like that?" "It's more comfortable for me." Mmmmmkay, sure. He suggests we go get dessert. I will never say no to dessert. So we walk across the street to a French cafe that's also a buffet-style dessert place. I mean we went to heaven. Come on that's MAJESTIC. BUFFET OF FRENCH DESSERTS?! But we ended up leaving because he had a hissy fit that they were out of eclairs or some shit.

He held my hand as we walked down to the Cheesecake Factory. He didn't order anything, he just said he wanted to watch me eat cheesecake. Ooooookay but shit I will NOT turn down cheesecake. I'm roughly certain about 30% of my body is made of cheesecake. Just call me Dorothy Zbornak. #spiritanimal

When I was finished and the waiters were ignoring us because, again, he was rude to them, Brad asked if he could sit in the booth next to me, and cuddled me uncomfortably in the restaurant. I am shooting glares at any waiter that's passing and in my mind saying, "bring the fucking check NOW OKAY THANKS." At the same time, it was weirdly flattering. I am not a tiny person, by any means, and at the time, I had gained some weight and felt totally unsexy. But here was this man, who wanted to watch me eat and wanted to grab me in public because he liked me that much. That's flattering, right? No?

We finally leave; he says he'll drive me to my car. I say that I prefer to walk. He asks if, when we get to my car, I'll drive him to his. I say no. He doesn't understand why I, you know, don't want to get in a car with him. I explain briefly that, you know, I barely know you and that's just not happening tonight. All of a sudden, middle of walking, he stops, turns, and kisses me. Hard. Full-on makeout session happening in the middle of the sidewalk for about 10 seconds before I stop him and keep walking. Uh. Okay then. I get to my car, he asks yet again for a ride to his car. I refuse. I drive home. I'm trying to decide how to feel about all of this. Of course I now know he's a total asshole, but at the time, he was a gorgeous dude who was into me at a time of even-lower-than-usual-self-esteem. He sensed the vulnerability I was trying to hide from him, and from the world at large. It was a strangely magnetic quality.

We kept texting after the date. He was so sweet in text, even with not-fantastic-grammar. I consulted with Ashera, explaining my mixed emotions. She said to just go out with him again and have some fun; he's moving soon, and why do I need a serious boyfriend? If I go again and it's awful/I get bad feelings, drop him. If we go out and have fun, drop my pants. So, I agreed to meet him in San Francisco that Friday night for a second date. To be continued...

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...