A bug’s love life

I learned about the unsexiness of bed bugs several years ago when I lived in an apartment infested with them. No better way to guarantee that a guy won’t call you than to send him home all itchy.

But I had never really considered bed bugs’ sex appeal to each other until I attended the annual meeting of the American Society for Tropical Medicine and Hygiene (to my dismay this conference, unlike Comic Con, did not include any speed dating– can you imagine the fun of me trying to pick up hygiene experts?)

Anyway, I learned that male bed bugs are even less discriminating in their sexual tastes than frat boys at 2 am. “Male bed bugs will attempt to mate with anything about the same size as a female bed bug,” an agriculture expert drily reported.  And it turns out that there are a lot of things the same size as female bed bugs– of particular note, male bed bugs and child bed bugs. This, um, misunderstanding is so common that the male bugs and young bugs have a special pheromone that they emit when a male tries to mate with them. The experts had some boring chemical name for this pheromone, but I prefer to call it the “Dude, I ain’t your girlfriend” stink. The experts and I also disagreed about potential applications of this discovery– they are looking at it for pest control purposes, and I see it being useful in certain ski town bars I’ve frequented.

But, arguably, bed bugs have much more need of the chemical than humans, because we haven’t even gotten to the yucky part yet. Do you know how another expert at the seminar described bed bug sex? “Traumatic insemination.” And he wasn’t talking about the agony of online or speed dating. Apparently, female bed bugs don’t have any kind exterior access to their reproductive systems, so males STAB THEM WITH THEIR SHARP PENISES TO MAKE A HOLE! Oh, and studies of bed bug infestations have found that the bugs in a single locale have remarkably low levels of genetic diversity. Or, as a lady bed bug might explain it, these guys coming after them with their dagger penises are their BROTHERS.

So, when we got to the explanation of how most infestations are started by a single pregnant bug who hitches a ride to a new home on someone’s shoes or suitcase, I think I was supposed to be scared. Instead, I just thought, Can you blame her?

The wisdom of elders

SpeedDatingGirl is off celebrating Columbus by attempting some conquests of her own (two first dates in one long weekend!). To entertain you in her absence is an unsolicited response to last week’s post from SDG’s dad.

 Dear [SpeedDatingGirl],

   I read an interesting article in the National Geographic about what’s going on in Ullan Bator in Outer Mongolia.  They’ve had terrible droughts in the countryside and  many nomads have lost their herds and come to Ullan Bator in hopes of employment.  They live in yurts and Gers (some kind of round, small and very flimsy dwelling) on the edges of town with no running water or sewers, and I would guess they just do their business in alleys.  One enterprising former nomad set up a business where you could pay to get a hot shower.  He closed down in a few months due to lack of business.  I guess the outer Mongolians can’t see spending good kopeks (or whatever they have there) for something so frivolous as hot showers. 

    So if you meet any outer Mongolians, you probably don’t need to worry about them reacting adversely to your hygiene.

Too hungover for a thousand words.

I know you were promised Part 2 of The Headless Doctor saga this week. And usually Speed Dating Girl’s word is her bond (unless she’s saying something like, “Um, sure, a second date sounds great. I’ll call you.”). But after an exhausting weekend of celebrating people who have dated more successfully than I (more conventionally known as my best friend’s wedding), even typing takes too much effort. So instead, please enjoy this photo of SDG’s latest conquest. I wanted to maintain my anonymity but I hope you’ll recognize my 305-year-old date (talk about manthers!). We had a great time– even ate breakfast together– but I don’t think it’s going to work out: he’s got a job of course, but no car or phone.

You’re never too old.

I promised a while ago to check in with LDB. Turns out he’s been too busy working (or so he says) to have his own dating adventures, but he did have a story to tell on a friend.

LDB and the friend, who is a girl, had taken the train to a nearby city for a night out on the town.

“she picked up a guy in a bar. she went home with him. he was 31,” LDB reports. (Before all of you readers who are elderly capitalizing types like me take offense, know that his age is relevant to the rest of the story.)

In the morning, she and LDB hopped the train home, where he discovered that her date had left a gift to remember him by:  “a trail of hickeys on her neck, maybe six or so distinct very obvious hickeys. was so ridiculous-looking i asked her to switch seats on the train home, so i would stop getting distracted and cracking up.”

But he wasn’t the only one with the potential to be distracted. The hickey victim had a bunch of important meetings in the upcoming week, and it was summer so turtlenecks were out. She had also inconveniently recently gotten her hair cut stylishly short.  “she ended up coating her neck in expensive coverup” reported LDB, thus sadly negating the cost savings of accepting those free drinks in the bar.

I have only one thing to say about this: That date sucked!

Ha, ha. No, actually LDB (dedicated Socialist that he is) had his own punchline for the story.  “also, he was a republican.”

An objective report

Some of you probably think that I exaggerate about my dating experiences. I mean, how could there be that many weird guys out there? And why do I run into all of them? (Just so you know, these are the sort of questions that keep me up at night.) But to prove that I’m not making this any of this up, this week’s post is an email written by a friend of mine. The night before, she and I had gone to a singles event together, but I left early, demoralized. Here’s her description– word for word– of the only guy who asked for my number:

I talked to your buddy [NAME EXPUNGED, BUT IT WAS WEIRD, TRUST ME] for a little while.  When asked what he did for a living, he tiptoed around the fact that he’s unemployed because of disability.  When asked what his disability was, he doesn’t know because no one let him see the paperwork. (?) I asked if he didn’t know what his disability was, how did he know he had one, and how did he apply for it, and this question seems to baffle his brain.  He does, however, volunteer (somewhere weird) and he also plays (and teaches?) chess. He also asked about you and what your deal was. And said the word “supposably.”

A blast from the past

Speed Dating Girl is on a ski vacation right now, so this week’s post is an excerpt from my personal archives (it originally ran in the Summit Independent, a now-defunct Colorado newspaper). It tells the story of another ski adventure, way back on Valentine’s Day 2003:

I’ve been waiting a long time for my writing skills to pay off in my love life. It’s not like I can whip out newspaper clips in a bar and knock them off their feet. Writing is a good way to get a job, but it doesn’t help much with the boys. Until… I won the KSMT Valentine’s Day blind date.

Based on the creativity of our emailed entries [Update: My entry said, "I live in a town with twice as many guys as girls and I still don't get any play." I don't know why I didn't want to share that info with all the newspaper readers. Guess I had more dignity back then.] DJ Steve chose me and a random guy to enjoy an all-expenses-paid evening with him.

It wasn’t your typical blind date. To start with, the ski area had been waiting for us all day. KSMT had decorated gondola number 69 as “the love shack,” complete with heart stickers and crepe paper. If you though the average first-ski-lift conversation was awkward, try the pressure of the love shack.

After skiing we headed off to dinner. By normal standards, this might have already been a long first date. You’ve been through all the obvious conversation, about school, work, family– what to talk about now? [Update: Obviously, I didn't yet know about the monkey/robot dilemma.] That’s why I would recommend taking a DJ along on any first date. There are no awkward pauses when one person on your date talks for a living.

But there were certain weird aspects to winning your date on the radio. Like, the whole world knew about it. And they, or my friends at least, were very, very excited about the date. In fact, the experience wasn’t technically “blind,” because one of my friends happened to go by my date’s workplace and dig up all the dirt she could on him.

And once they had put in that much effort, my friends apparently felt they had a vested interest in the date. Huddled around their radios, they just didn’t get quite enough info. So since then, my life has had one primary topic of conversation. “How was Friday night?” [Update: Turns out this was just practice for when at least once during every party, family reunion, or trip to the office bathroom, someone asks, "How's the speed dating?"]

It was fun. Really. But it would have been near impossible for the actual date to live up to the hype.

It was nice to learn, though, that writing well could improve my social life once in a while. And no, I’m not about to start internet dating. [Update: Riiight.] A friend pointed out that that’s really the way to pick up people with the written word.

I’ll be right here, waiting for the perfect guy to be bowled over by my ability to construct a compound sentence. [Update: Shhh! Better not to tell her how long that wait is.]

A win for monkeys.

As promised, I took my new question for a spin last week, at a lock-and-key party. (Yes, I swore never to attend another one, but this was different– one of my friends actually wanted to go.)

What I learned is that people LOVE monkeys. In fact, it seems that a robot servant may only be tempting to those of us with a family connection to robots. Wait, you’re thinking, Speed Dating Girl is part robot? Sorry, no, I know it would totally explain my cold and systematic approach to dating, but what I meant was that Little Dating Brother (Haven’t heard from him lately, have we? I will have to look into that) programs robots. I’d like to hope that he could come up with one for me to go out with, but in the last demo I saw, the robot fell over when it tried to dance. Would never work as a wedding date.

Anyway, all the guys (and girls) at the lock and key were revealing themselves to be animal-loving, non-poop-phobic people, until one weird dude finally proved the worth of the question in sussing out psychos.

“Why that’s an easy choice,” he said. “I’d pick the monkey, so when I got angry at people, the monkey could throw things at them.”

Sidewalk shopping

Valentine’s Day can drive people to do crazy things: buy sappy cards and ugly jewelry, eat massive quantities of chocolate, or attend embarrassing singles events. You can guess which of these I opted for this year.

Actually, since they were handing out boxes of candy to any women brave enough to attend the “Mile of Meet,” I knocked off two options at once.

That box of chocolate was the last good surprise of our evening. But I have to admit I wasn’t really all that surprised when my friends and I arrived outside the specified bar and found that the “Mile” was actually more like a city block. Still, it was probably the geographically longest dating event I’ve ever attended. The cops had even blocked off parking so that the desperate single men of the Philadelphia area could line themselves up on the street for review by the single women, who filed past in a slightly less awkward line of their own.

But that’ll never work, you’re thinking– how will you remember which guys you want to talk to at the mixer afterwards? Don’t worry, the organizers thought of that obstacle, so they helpfully supplied the men with large numbers to wear around their necks, as in a mugshot. And the women had clipboards on which to write down their “shopping list” (no, really, that’s what was printed at the top of it).

The organizers also had an answer for those overly demanding people who want to know something about their date other than his appearance and how low he’s willing to sink to get a date (yes, I’m talking to you, guy holding up a $10 bill next to your number). The men had filled out profiles before lining up, which were then available in binders for the women to review.

Liked the looks of number 69? Just elbow the other women out of the way to grab the 50-75 binder, look up his page, and you’ve got all the information you need: his name, contact info, occupation, age. (Which was a key issue– a lot of my shopping list turned out to be in their early 20s, probably because I was trying so hard to stay away from the sizable Baby Boomer contingent, whose presence inspired a conversation among my friends about when one is too old for cheesy singles events. “If I’m still here in ten years, shoot me or lock me in the house with my cats” was the general consensus.)

The men’s profiles also listed their favorite restaurants. Among the responses were a lot of nice, high-end places, but also Burger King and Wawa. (Suddenly, Olive Garden sounded appealing.) And, finally, they were given one sentence to describe themselves. There was the usual range of comments from illiterate to clever and charming, but my absolute favorite– for sheer incongruity– was the guy who wrote, “I embrace all that is wholesome.”

Ah, yes, that’s why I came here, too.

Cinco de Mayonnaise

Last week, I celebrated Cinco de Mayo, the holiday that commemorates how Mexico freed itself of cheap beer and ugly sombreros by exporting it all to bars in the U.S. This wasn’t just any Cinco celebration; it was “PHILADELPHIA’S LARGEST SINGLES PARTY!” according to the many email invitations I received.

A friend and I were lured in by the promise of drink specials, prizes and free hors d’oeuvres. The last attraction seemed to be the most popular: every time some food appeared, a line formed and stragglers in the back were left with the garnishes. Lettuce and sour cream– yum! That was actually a more appealing option than some of the new products being promoted. (Even when mixed with good vodka, SkinnyWater tastes like liquified sugar-free gum, in my opinion. And, Nabisco, there’s a reason pretzels and crackers are two separate foods.)

It’s true that none of this has anything to do the holiday we were supposed to be celebrating, but I did have some Mexico-themed conversations. One guy, for example, had this input: “Mexico, it’s pretty different down there. When I got off the plane, I walked down stairs outside instead of them having one of those tunnels into the airport.” (Be fair, you’re thinking, the jetway was just the first of his interesting observations about the country. No, I swear. That was it.)

Luckily, my friend and I had a good excuse to leave him. The Cinco de Mayo (pronounced MAY-o, in this case) competition was starting. As if the embarrassment of coming to this party and wearing stickers that said “Kiss me, I’m single” weren’t enough, some attendees had volunteered to dig through vats of mayonnaise for 5-dollar bills. Ok, I make fun, but to be honest, when I saw some of them had won more than $100, I was a little sad that I hadn’t signed up.

The next event, the grand prize drawing, provided some small consolation. I won…a free order of chips and salsa! It only diminished the thrill a little bit when my friend said, “You know, if you go to Qdoba, they give those cards out for free.” Add in that no guy had the nerve or interest to take my sticker up on its offer, and it’s clear that next year I’ll be attending just to look for the cincos in the mayo.

Not the key to my heart

Are there singles events so ridiculous that speed dating seems normal by comparison? Yes, I learned at my first–and hopefully last–lock and key party. And no, this isn’t like the key/wife swapping parties that swinging suburbanites threw all the time back in the 70s, at least according to retro TV and movies (Old people: did these really happen? fill us in! (but not too much detail, please)). 

The modern lock and key party was held in the back room of a bar. Each man gets a key and each woman gets a lock to wear around her………neck (really, I swear, the setup’s just Freudian, not dirty). Then, for the next few hours, you wander the room, trying to match locks with keys. When you find one that fits, you and your match  visit the organizers to collect your prize (some raffle tickets) and a new lock and key.

The purpose, obviously, is to give people who would ordinarily be too shy to mingle at a cocktail party an excuse to do so. The problem is that it doesn’t really work. People who would chat up a stranger chat, and those who wouldn’t either hide in corners or run from girl to girl (I know I’m being sexist, but it’s true) trying locks with a minimum of conversation.

You’ve probably gathered by now that I didn’t have much dating luck at this event. The first guy I ran into was my sparring partner from Thai boxing– yet another indication that I’ve met, if not dated, every fish in the Philadelphia sea. The next guy seemed nice and our lock and key actually matched. But in the time it took to collect our new set, I had learned about his unemployment, his residence with his parents, and his recent lack of dating luck. (Bonus “Don’t say that”: If you don’t have a job, don’t start the conversation by asking what hers is.) I didn’t feel like we were a match, but our new lock and key disagreed, fitting together perfectly. He saw it as a sign, and I began to see that one of the major advantages of speed dating is the clean exit strategy.

I had mine, though, in the group of normal, non-lock-wearing friends I had left out at the front of the bar and needed to “check on.” I did make a couple passes more through the party, to eat some free hors d’ouevres, meet some guys angry about their lack of unlocking success, and chat with a girl who had already heard through the grapevine about my ”fated double match.” I was there for the grand finale, too: a drunk girl jumping up and down in excitement over winning $25 for having had the most matches.

You know it’s a lame party when the happiest person there is the one who just got a refund of her admission.