A guy who knows what he wants.

I’m being terribly lazy using other people’s material two weeks in a row, but the profile of a guy who recently emailed me was so great, I have to share it with all of you. Not sure we’re compatible, but at least we know he gives good presents.

My self-summary

lookin for someone sexy n has sexy lips. must be sexy 2 hit me up.

I’m really good at

sex yes i said it sex i cant help it im blessed down there. as well as basketball.

On a typical Friday night

I am chillin n the crib with a bottle of apple 99

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

that i was part of a threesome but i had to it was her birthday


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.

Dirty girl

I’ve been ripping pretty hard on the single men of the internet recently, so maybe it’s time to turn the guns around and make fun of myself for a minute. When I’m checking out a new guy online, there’s an option to see the questions that we’ve answered incompatibly. In addition to discovering a depressing quantity of guys who prefer burning books to flags and are more OK with lesbians than gays,  I’ve uncovered one other difference between me and the men of Philly– hygiene.

Having come to adulthood in a town where it was perfectly acceptable to hit the slopes, work, the bar, bed and work again without changing clothes, let alone bathing, seems to have left me with some permanently low cleanliness standards. Because when I answered the question about how often I shower with the “Usually daily. I skip some.” choice, I thought I was leaning in the direction of clean-freakiness. Yet, time after time, that answer is popping up as unacceptable to my potential dates.

So I was already aware of my abnormal acceptance of dirt when I went to a wedding recently (yes, I did shower before the wedding. it was a special occasion. duh.) and was seated next to a cute guy. We had been chit-chatting successfully when the food arrived, and I, with my usual seductive grace, knocked a serving spoon onto the floor. I hustled to grab the spoon within the official five-second limit, and then wiped it off. I looked up to replace the spoon on the tray and saw my neighbor staring in horror as he whisked the food out of my reach. I was mystified. Not only had I made the five seconds, but it was definitely the kind of situation where you could reasonably extend it to 10– tile floor, recently cleaned for the wedding, no furry animals in residence. And it was only a serving utensil!

I quietly placed it back on the table, resigning myself to the fact that the two of us would definitely not be spooning later.

Damn you, science.

Usually I feel like science and I get along pretty well. It provides me with a job, and in return, I support it by sneering at people with Creationist bumperstickers. I also have high hopes that the scientific method is eventually going to supply me with a suitable mate. After all, my best friend found her soon-to-be husband thanks to the eharmony guy, even if he is one of those anti-Darwin nuts (the eharmony guy, that is, of course, not my future bff-in-law– I wouldn’t put up with that).

But this week, I’m pretty sure science is out to get me. First there was this study. It found that single women die seven to 15 years sooner than married ones. Can you believe that? 15 years?!? I mean, I already knew that I had a 99% chance of being eaten by my cat (note to scientists: this and any following statistics are completely invented), but I had no idea that it would happen so soon. The data seems to require some kind of dramatic response, but what? The article reporting on the study was not much help, since its suggested survival technique was “staying positive.” Yeah, thanks, that effort was going a lot better before I read your stupid story.

Despite this setback, I mustered my positive attitude and my belief in algorithms of love and (Hmm, if no one has written a romance novel called “Algorithms of Love” yet, I’m calling dibs. A spunky Victorian damsel in distress meets…a high school math teacher?)…anyway, I reactivated my online dating profile. I jumped into “Quickmatching,” an endlessly entertaining process where you get to rate guys with 1 to 5 stars based on a photo and a fraction of their profile– it’s basically Netflix but with vastly less information and higher stakes.

The website quickly found me one guy with whom it said I’d be very compatible, and a review of his profile proved him to be so incredibly hateful that my married friend renamed him Mr. Misanthrope, and opened an account on the site solely to start a flame war with him. [I’m not kidding; here’s a sample of their conversation: An articulate–albeit spellcheck-challenged (e.g., “du jour” not “du juor” and “original thought” not “original though”)– computer genius like you should be able to live and work anywhere he likes. Is it that you enjoy feeling superior?]

He was bad, but one terrible match could fall within the confidence interval of their perfect calculations, right? So I didn’t give up, and moved on to the next suggestion. Who was my ex-boyfriend. Yup, that’s right, the guy I had broken up with just days before for being almost, but not quite, perfect for me.  It not only raised a major rating dilemma (1 because we’re definitely not going to go out or 5 because he actually is a way better match than average?) but also, arguably, showed that the computers know exactly what they’re doing. Which brings me back to my original point. Damn you, science.

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.”

Don’t park there.

Some girls care about a guy’s car, but recent experiences have led me to a new, admittedly ridiculous, basis on which to judge a date– his parking style.

This concept first occurred to me when a guy picked me up to go out to dinner. He was a surgeon, and he drove an Audi, so I probably should have realized that he was rich. But it didn’t really hit me until we got to the restaurant and he parked his car with a valet! Without even looking for a street spot! On a weeknight! My mind was blown. I thought only celebrities lived so lavishly. (The glamour was diminished a little bit when we tried to get the car back after dinner and had to hang around in the garage because the valet had locked himself out of the office containing all the keys.)

Not surprisingly, Dr. Valet turned out to be too fancy to be compatible with me, so some time later I found myself giving directions to my house to yet another date. I offered up some parking advice (eg., finding an empty spot on the alley that glitters with past visitors’ window fragments is not actually lucky) and he appeared at my door remarkably quickly. “You found a spot?” I asked. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I parked in a lot for some cafe or something.”

Now you out-of-towners may not know this, but Philadelphians will park anywhere: hanging off the corner, on the sidewalk, on the median (no, seriously, that’s standard procedure in parts of the city). But we do not park illegally on private property. Why not? Because the parking authority will ticket you, but private tow truck drivers will do much scarier things, like extortion, gunfire and arson. (To quote Dave Barry: I am not making this up.)

How to explain all this to an innocent guy just in from the suburbs, where “no parking” signs are more like a friendly nudge than a death threat? It was beyond me. So I just talked fast, ordered no dessert, and generally tried to wrap up our date before his car disappeared.

A dating stay-cation

One of fun parts of travel is uncovering the little differences: the variety of cheeses in France or smoked fish in Iceland. But the more places you see, the fewer surprises remain– I’ll never again experience my first taste of Icelandic fish from a tube. (Or a second. Blech. Some surprises are not good.)

But recently, I got to vicariously experience my home as a totally new place by dating a foreigner. He came from the far, far away land of… a suburb 25 miles outside of Philly.

Our date began at the most normal restaurant I could find in my neighborhood (since his first suggestion had been Olive Garden, I figured we should avoid the Ethopian dive bar), where he marveled at the strange food on the menu. The next stop was an independent coffee shop. The kind with a glass case of homemade pastries, a chalkboard listing every imaginable kind of coffee and some mismatched tables and chairs. Perhaps you’re familiar with the model? He wasn’t. “I’ve never seen anything like this before!” he exclaimed.

After our coffee, we stepped outside. “Who’d have thought I’d be walking down the street in Philadelphia some night?” he marveled. Um, anyone who heard that you lived immediately outside the city, I thought. (In reality, I kept quiet, since I usually try to reserve my SDG attitude for later dates.)

His gaze turned to the sky. “I don’t know if you can imagine this,” he said. “But out where I live, you can see so many more stars. It’s beautiful.”

It was too much. I had to point out that since I had actually spent most of my life living farther out in the country than he does, I am well aware of the quantity of stars.

We had just arrived at my house, so our date ended on that awkward note. He went off to search for a girl who can better share his sense of wonder, while I went inside to draft cynical blog posts and add “dislikes Olive Garden” to my list of must-haves.