JENNIE SMASH!

My friend Gina says she likes telling me things because I'm a good listener. My theory is that this means that I'm overly interested in other people's business, and fully aware that I have no idea what anyone should do in any situation, so I don't offer much in the way of advice.

Another reason I don't offer advice: I don't think I've ever gotten any that I really wanted to hear, especially if it was right. For example, when I was single and blue, a lot of people told me that I would meet someone when I least expected it. And then I would roar like King Kong and pull their underpants over their head and tie a knot in the waistband. I mean, doy, right? Just try not thinking about that shit when you're lonely.

However, just because it sucked to hear it doesn't mean it wasn't true. Recent evidence of this: the Marine, aka Sgt Lucky. (BTW, the new nickname is a pun on his real-life last name, not an editorial comment on his good fortune in snagging yours truly.)

We met on the Match.com, as you do, and agreed to go get some coffee. I was in the midst of an "oh, fuck it" dating spree. I had told a friend, a few days before, that I was actually sort of enjoying dating, and didn't really feel like I even wanted a boyfriend.

Her response? "Ha, ha, ha! Now you'll fall in love."

Well.

Sgt Lucky showed up apologizing for being late, due to traffic and parking. I assured him that was fine, probably stammering. My very first thought was, "This guy is way too good looking to be after anything serious, and that is totally OK." I am not kidding when I tell you this was the single best-looking guy I had ever been on a date with, never mind one set up through Match.com. I figured he had to be out for ass, or possibly some sort of military-themed male prostitute hired by Coworker Dennis to cheer me up. Just in case, I started thinking about really nice presents to get Dennis for his upcoming birthday.

Lucky sat down and looked at my green tea, and then at the bar we were sitting at, and then at my green tea. "Do they ... serve alcohol here?"

"Oh. Yeah. They do."

"Do you want an actual drink?"

Did I. I needed it. The other option was to start blurting out, "You have a terribly dashing scar under your left eye, and also, I commend you on having just a touch of silver hair, which is quite distinguished. Incidentally, could you, say, bench press me, if you needed to? I know! Let's try that out right now and see."

So, actual drinks commenced, and actual conversation. I remembered that the reason I'd agreed to break my rule about dating younguns had to do with the charm of his emails, not his pretty pretty face, and started to relax. The emails had included wide-ranging subjects such as zombies and phrenology (of which my nephew is a skilled practitioner) and were so well-written and enthusiastic that I found it hard to believe he was even on Match to begin with.

Thanksgiving arrived just in time for my panic attacks. Several dates in, I was in that state where you're thinking that it might be a good idea to get on a bus and move to another state, and also wondering if he has decided he hates you, because it's been an hour since his last text.

"I need serious drugs," I told Gina. She lives in the same town as my folks, conveniently enough, and we hung out on the last day of my break, mostly to talk about boys and read tarot cards - which amounts to talking about boys, when you and your friend are both dating new people.

Gina flipped over a couple cards and smiled at me. She tapped one of them, a knight. "Dudes are usually kings, but I think maybe this is him, because he's younger than you are and because he's a soldier. And, oh, I like this guy."

"Yeah. Me too. That's why I really have to move."

"No, I don't think you have to. No, I don't think you do at all." She squinted at the cards again, touching each one in sequence. "I don't think this guy is going to want to own you."

Believe in this stuff or don't, it makes no difference to me, but I'll tell you, there's no denying the smartitudinousness of your friends who've seen you through several dating iterations.

"This is a very romantic guy," she went on. "Wow. Very romantic. And not bullshit, either. He's a gentleman, like gentlemen used to be."

"He is. He's a door opener and a flower bringer. It's so wonderful, I'm totally sure that he's a narc and doesn't know I can't smoke pot or I have to go the hospital."

"That's the real thing: It's all just fear. But no, this is a good guy. I like this guy. Maybe you can calm down and give this a chance." She looked dreamy for a minute. "What would it be like to date a guy who treats you like that? I think it would be the most wonderful thing."

Some weeks later, I can tell you that it is. For example, I just received the following text: "Re: Wednesday night, why don't I just prepare dinner while you see [your shrink]?"

If any of you hired him, don't tell me. Just let me live with my illusions.

Labels: match.com, sgt lucky, wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

My friend Rick claims that the secret to dating successfully is to decide what it is that you want, and then stick to it. Don't make exceptions. People get into trouble when they start second-guessing themselves.

With that in mind, I set an age limit for myself. 28 was absolutely the youngest guy I would allow myself to date. And then a 25-year-old marine wrote to me on Match.com, and I decided that rules were made to be broken.

I'm sure Rick is right, but I bet I'm having more fun.

Labels: match.com

As you know, I'm doing the Match.com currently. This is not a terribly new or exciting thing, and is pretty much my go-to when I'm not already dating someone and am too busy to go out every night of the week. I'm having a lot more fun this time around, though, and I think it's because I've finally figured out how to think of this online dating thing. And for this, of course, I must thank teh gayz. Watching my dudes endlessly troll Manhunt has shown me that it's a numbers game, and you have to keep on going until you find what you're looking for. (Whatever that might be. Put it this way: My goals are lot less interesting and pornographic.)

In addition, I have learned:

1) Everyone is crazy, especially after dating in New York for a few years. I've had guys start out by asking me point-blank if I could see myself in a relationship with them. I've also had a dude tell me that he would have been a priest, if he didn't enjoy "keeessing and tooouching" so much. I held my tongue. I grew up in Boston. I know which jokes you're not allowed to make.

2) The less serious you are about the whole thing, the more fun you have. And when I say "serious," I mean "desperate." At the moment, my desperation levels are quite low (as opposed to, say, three months ago when they were at Defcon 1, but that's another story.) Therefore, I'm having more fun.

3) If someone says he only has eight fingers, it's not a joke. He only has eight fingers. You're also not allowed to stare at them while he lifts his pint.

4) Not everyone thinks I'm funny. I know! I couldn't believe it either.

5) Half of the people who say they don't smoke, smoke. All of the people who say they smoke occasionally smoke all the time. The people who are "trying to quit" have cut back to two packs a day.

I'm going to keep track of this stuff, I think. I sense that I could do the world some good here.

Labels: match.com, wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

In this case, what is it with people and the phone? I've been doing Match.com lately and so far, so good. A few guys, though, are totally in love with their phones and insistent on talking to me over them before we hang out. No offense, my very new friend, but I don't know you well enough yet to know if I want you to be able to ring me up at all hours of the day and night. That's why the email system has a double-blind dealie: So that if one of us decides that the other is crazy, we don't have to talk to each other anymore.

The other day, I was supposed to hang out with a Match.com dude, but had to cancel to go to a coworker's housewarming. I apologized, of course - although no creepy card this time - and suggested we hang out this week.

His email said, OK, I'm free Wednesday. Call me Tuesday at such and such a number; I'll be home at 7.

I wrote back and said, hey, why don't we just meet somewhere Wednesday, since we're both free.

He wrote back and said, OK, call me Wednesday and we'll figure out a place.

Do you suppose that he's had extremely bad luck with dating women who secretly sound like Minnie Mouse? By the way, I'm totally sure that right this very moment he's complaining to his internet friends about the crazy girl who won't use the phone. But I'll cop to that. I am that girl.

Labels: match.com

Jennie Smash: hey, park sloper
Jennie Smash: is it safe for me to walk from my apt to stonehome in ft greene tonight?
Jennie Smash: or do i need to get a car?
Drunken Mouse: it is pretty safe
Jennie Smash: that's what i thought
Jennie Smash: and it's a nice walk
Jennie Smash: i have a match.com date
Drunken Mouse: walk straight down flatbush to bam
Jennie Smash: and i just realized that he's not smiling with teeth in this picture
Jennie Smash: do we think he's toothless?
Jennie Smash: i bet you five dollars he's toothless
Drunken Mouse: HA!
Drunken Mouse: no
Drunken Mouse: i hate smiling full teeth
Drunken Mouse: so i avoid it
Jennie Smash: ok, then
Jennie Smash: (i am calling you if he has no teeth)

Labels: all hail the Drunken Mouse, match.com

NB: I did ask my pal if it was OK to post the following. So if you're a real-life friend of mine, it's safe to email me with your woes. I won't just put them RIGHT UP ON THE INTERWEBS. Ahem.

As most of you know, I love social networking. At any given time, I'm an active member of at least three different sites, by which I mean that I check them regularly and actually use them to stalk people, instead of just leaving them out there as dead internets-real estate. (Although I've got plenty of those accounts too.)

Anyway, right now I'm mostly on teh facebook, because that's that has scrabulous and because I like to see people's statuses change. It's so helpful to be informed that your friend "is going to kill her friend Jen" or "would like to buy a drink for a struggling writer" before contacting them. (Neither one of those statuses have happened yet, but there's always time.)

Recently, I check my facebook and discovered that a friend of mine from high school, we'll call her Jane, had logged in and changed her status to the following:

"Jane is horrified at the idea of having to date again. Ugh."

Well. Something you might not know about me is that I like to help. I like to help a lot. I immediately wrote to Jane:

Subject line: Dating

Message: Is disgusting. It's my least favorite. In my perfect world, it would go like this: I would go out and get drunk with fun people until love descended from above. This is called college, sadly, and is hard to recreate.

Anyway, sending well wishes your way.

Jane replied:

You're a sweetheart! Thanks for the well wishes. My college experience was more along the lines of getting drunk with fun people, then discovering them in my bed the next morning and desperately trying to remember what their names were while frantically searching for my bra amongst the sheets. Love descended from above far less frequently than hangovers. Ah, the good old days...

But dating, alas, is even less fun. At least in college, when I was still desperately trying to prove I was straight, I felt like I was accomplishing something, you know? "Tally one more proof of heterosexuality," while now my biggest dating accomplishment seems to be not chucking my drink in some lady's face out of sheer boredom.

Le sigh... what's your most recent bad date? I'll tell you about the Cabbage Patch Nurse if you tell me yours ;)

Cabbage Patch Nurse? Who could resist? I wrote back:

Oooh, girl. Let's see.

OK: One bad date. I met this social worker through Match.com. Sez I to myself, "Social worker! Surely he won't be a sociopath like most guys I meet." Sez my shrink to me, "Oh dear. You know, most of us are very odd. We couldn't afford professional degrees and the amount of therapy we actually needed."

Needless to say, the guy was creepy in a Green River Killer sort of way. He was very nervous, as if the drugs were taking hold, and spent A LOT of time talking about how he was a lapsed Catholic, and how hard it was, and how he would have become a priest, but he loved KEEES-ING and TOOOUCH-ING too much.

I swear it was all could do not to point out that his pervy mcpervs were not incompatible with the priesthood.

Anyway. Do tell me of the Cabbage Patch Nurse. Which should be the name of some artistic work or other, I tell you.

Jane replied:

I know, so hard to pick just one, isn't it? Though that does sound like a doosie- should've checked with me before dating a social worker. I could have told you, from bitter experience, that none of them are just the Hairclub president, so to speak. Good thing he was so, um, tactile...it bodes so well for his future professionally, either in the priesthood or in therapy.

And now, the one, the only.... Cabbage Patch Nurse.

So I worked up my nerve, and went on a date with a friend of a friend's friend. I met her for lunch, thinking it couldn't be a long nightmare that way, if she turned out to be a member of the Manson family or something. Nope, she wasn't: turns out she's a nurse. She turned up, and I shit you not, she looked like my Cabbage Patch Kid, Blythe Marie. Same weirdly squished-but-doe-eyed face, hair in two braids...I kept resisting the urge to drop my napkin, to peek under the table and check if she had those scary dimpled knees like the doll, you know?

Little did I know, she had fiberfill for brains, just like my old doll. She babbled happily along about her ex and her coming out process, and I quietly munched my food, trying not to think about how I finally succeeded in giving the other Blythe Marie an appendectomy on my parents' kitchen table, and tried not to wonder if that meant I was possibly the bigger loon at the table? Finally, just as I raised my cup of tea to my lips she says, flapping her eyelashes earnestly, "I don't really know if I should vote in the next election, you know?...when is it, anyway, January? Besides, I think people have been really hard on Bush, don't you? I mean, he's really likable, in a bland sort of way?" (yes, she ended every clause she uttered with a big fat question mark)

I concentrated on swallowing my tea, and thought peaceful, calming thoughts until the check finally arrived. I kept thinking how this caring, well-meaning woman is a nurse, and handles drug dosages for patients. Heaven protect all the little old ladies in the home where she works.

Now I ask you, with that to think back on as my first dive into the dating scene in 6 years, is this really something I want to get back into???? Horror, I tell you, pure unadulterated horror!

Now, that, pals, is a bad date.

Labels: match.com, teh facebooks

One of the many hilarious things about Match.com is that it asks you to describe your tattoos, if any. I have one, on my lower back, which can safely be described as "strategically placed," so that's what I picked.

My friend Mark, on the other hand, has sleeves, so he had to pick "visible tattoo."

"The thing is," he complained. "ALL my tattoos are strategically placed. It's not like I went in to my tattoo artist and had him randomly throw some tattoos on me."

Mark's best tattoo, by far? A banner that says "Never Say Die" on his forearm. Sounds pretty badass, right? Yeah, it's from The Goonies.

You Goonie!

Labels: match.com, tattoos, the Goonies