“No More Mrs. ‘I-Love-Long-Walks-Along-The-Beach’ Bullshit”

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WARNING:  This segment was crafted with the help of 3 glasses of wine.  Do not expect political correctness or perfect grammar.  On second thought, don’t ever expect that here.

I admit it, I’ve done it before. Its risqué and frowned upon and cheap and sleazy, but I’ve done it. Whew, I feel better having that off my chest. It started as a joke when I was newly divorced. The girls at work (you know who you are) were gossiping about a site called sugardaddie.com and, since they were all married or committed, they dared me to check it out and see what it was all about. Sugar daddies? In the greater Plattsburgh area? PUH-LEEZE. Besides that, I’m fairly self-sufficient most of the time, and a pretentious prick with tons of cash expecting me to be his little beck and call girl was the very last thing I wanted in my independent, stubborn life. Try everything at least once, right?

I created the profile. Far more painstaking than anyone can imagine. So cliché and cheesy…pimping myself out. However, the girls and I had fun perusing the ads and wondering if the guys really looked anything like their profile pictures. It was on this site I realized what a grammar snob I am. Improper use of “there, they’re, their” or “your/you’re” and you were out of the running. Misspelling? Forget about it. UNLESS…you were Canadian, in which case it just became charming. My other criteria? Must be taller than me (5’8” or taller), have blue eyes, a job, like kids and dogs, not smoke or do drugs or be an alcoholic. Let me tell you…there ain’t much left after that.

So there I was at Dix-30 in Montreal to meet my dinner date. My poor Mother was beside herself, certain I would be raped, murdered, and dumped in the Laurentians, she begged me not to go. I was surprisingly cool and collected as I approached the door, preoccupied with whether or not I was going to have to use my escape plan should the person not match the picture. Then I remembered I didn’t have an escape plan. TA-DA! There he was, all tall and blue eyed and employed (allegedly). His English was broken, my French non-existent, but we managed a fun and intriguing conversation over the course of dinner. I was thinking things weren’t so bad. There was fun to be had in the world of online dating! Then the conversation got deep.

French Guy: “Ow eemportant vould ‘ou say…uh…ow do ‘ou say…ummm…OH! Dee science eez in a relationsheep?”

Me: “You mean chemistry? Chemistry is extremely important, because it’s either there or it isn’t. You can grow to be friends, fall deeper in love, but you cannot create or destroy chemistry.” (The one thing I learned in Chem 101).

My scientific monologue was clearly captivating him, as he leaned across the table, elbows propped up, hands together, fingers flitting, eyes locked on mine.

French Guy: “I can no tell ‘ou ‘ow ‘appy I em to ‘ear ‘ou say dat! I ‘ave at ‘ome dis leetle school girl outfeet dat I jus love my weemen to wear…”

CHECK PLEASE!

I don’t consider myself a prude, and I’m certainly not trying to pull the prim and proper card. I’ve dressed up, I was a Party Gals consultant in a former life…but FIRST DATE CONVERSATION?! REALLY?

Shortly thereafter, he walked me to my car with a kiss on the cheek and we never saw each other again. THE END.

A lot has changed in the 6 years since I went on that date. I’ve created profiles on eHarmony searching for the perfect…(mate is too strong a word – I’m not looking to reproduce again)…uh…partner in crime. I’ve had many a nice chat with many a seemingly nice man, and many a chat with many a freak; but I’ve never gone on another internet date. However, if I were to find myself creating another online dating profile, it would be far colder, honest, upfront, and realistic. Like it or leave it. I imagine it would go something like this:

Must like dogs, but not have dogs. Must not look like a dog. Must not be a dog. Dogs require too much of a person’s time. I require too much of a person’s time. Both will not work, and I must have dogs. You cannot.

Must like kids, but not have kids. I said like, not love. If you say you love my kids, I will know you are a lying bastard (or Woody Allen), because no one, myself included, loves anyone’s kids but their own. Kids are work. Kids are stressful. Kids are demanding, unappreciative, sassy, needy, messy, and expensive. No one will put up with that shit from someone who isn’t their own flesh and blood. Hell, even some animals eat their young, and more often than not I “get” that. However, kids (especially mine…wink wink) are amazing. Kids are dynamic, unique (was that redundant), unconditionally affectionate, inquisitive, huggy, kissy, snuggly, smart, beautiful, brave, and adventurous (which leads me into a whole other list of problems).

I don’t have “baggage”. My kids are not baggage. My divorce is not baggage. My failed relationships are not baggage. My therapist says so. I have “issues”…more than National Geographic. I take meds for these issues, fear not. If you find the fact that I take meds opportunistic, move along. I’ve already dated one of you. My meds and your meds and your alcohol and pot have not proven to be conducive to anything I can tolerate in a relationship.

I am not a morning person. Getting out of bed at 5am is one of my least favorite things to do in the whole wide world. I am never grouchy in the morning, rather, non-functional. If I do, in fact, make it up, brush my teeth, and dress for work, consider that my accomplishment for the day. If I remember deodorant and makeup, that’s a bonus. Do not expect breakfast. Unless, of course, you consider Pop-Tarts breakfast. Oh, and apparently I snore (I’m sure I don’t).

I do love walks along the beach at sunset…IN MEXICO. I do love to eat in restaurants (I almost said “eat out” right there, but then I remembered I have the mind of a 12-year-old boy and I started giggling at the phrase), but it can be at McDonald’s, and I’m totally cool with that. Whatever entails me not cooking is amazing. If you buy, you get bonus points, but probably not sex…unless you take me someplace fancy that involves a giant chocolate dessert. Oh, disclaimer: I am not a salad and tofu girl. If you take me to a nice place, you WILL be buying steak. I do not like seafood. Do NOT try to talk me into trying it (see previous blog entry). Appreciate the fact that NY Strip is cheaper than King Crab Legs and shut the hell up.

Must enjoy cooking (see above).

Must not require an organized house. I can be organized at home OR at work. Not both. You want me to hold down a steady job and contribute to the economic well-being of our dynamic? Good. Dig past the clothes on the table and you’ll find the title to the car somewhere under the kids’ art work.

I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual. Okay, that’s code for nuts. I dabble in astrology and enjoy the occasional visit to a psychic to attempt to miraculously straighten out all I’ve screwed up. Sometimes it works, sometimes I waste $40 paying someone to talk crazy to me. I believe in horoscopes both American (or whatever) and Chinese. I’m a Cancer and a Dragon. If you’re a Libra, so was my ex husband, consider this conversation over. If you’re a Dog, see above.

I am unstructured, impetuous, lack self-discipline, and am horrible with money. I grind my teeth in my sleep, have morning breath, refuse to pee in front of anyone (except my children, with whom I have not peed without since they became mobile), and I really don’t want to see you pee either. I like your hose, but am not interested in ALL of its functions.

Sincerely,

Cute with Brains and Issues

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