Call For Submissions: How Would You Sell Me?

First, just so there's no confusion.  I'm not back yet.  This is a robot typing.  A hypnotizing robot.  You believe me.  You totally believe this is a robot.

So here's the deal.  I'm looking for submissions.  Guest writers.  Blog posters.  Salespeople.  Of me.  Because that's the assignment.  Selling me.  To boys.  How would YOU sell ME to BOYS?  If you were writing an online dating profile for me?  If you were introducing me at a party?  If you matchmaking me with your brother's friend?  If you were trying to procure me a blind date?  If you were writing my eulogy?  (okay that one's a little grim, but you get the idea).

This assignment will work if you know me in real life.  If you know me from what you've read on my blog.  If you know me from Twitter.  So don't feel limited.  It can be 100% truthful.  It can be the imaginative version of what you believe I'm like.  It can be the me you think you know.  The me you want to know.  The me you can't stand but think is the truth.  A totally blatant hilarious lie.  Whatever.  Tim Gunn it.

Submission Deadline:  Midnight Dec. 4 2010

Length:  Ballpark 200-500 but it's not rigid

All submissions will be posted in the blog and one submission will be chosen to actually be my new DATING PROFILE! (don't worry I won't post your name or anything :P)

Please email if interested:  SomethingSheDated@hotmail.com

4 weeks: Or Batman's Bad News

4 weeks.  That's all.  28 days really.  That's barely a blip on the timeline of a life.  Barely hits the radar.

4 weeks.  The break I have to take.  From writing my blog.  From Twitter.  From reading blogs.  Complete.  Break.  Because we all know I'm not high in the self-control stores.  

Chalk it up to you guys all being so awesome.  My readers.  My Twitter followers.  So awesome that it wouldn't work to just engage less and spend less time because temptation's a bitch and this chick has to focus.

School.  The most important thing.  School.  Has to come first.  Because in the next 4 weeks.  There are 6 papers to be written.  3 are research.  Plus all the reading that needs to be done in general for class.  Then there's studying for the GRE and the GRE Subject test.  Add to that picking which programs to apply to.  Writing a personal statement.  Getting profs on my team.  Perfecting a research sample.  And then.   Ya know.  Actually applying to all these schools.  And then Christmas Exams.  Of which, luckily, this term I only have to write 4.

So 4 weeks.  I'm hoping it's a maximum.  It might be a minimum.  But it's a start.  A hope.  Crossies.  That my return will be speedy.  And I'll be hoping and crossies you're all still here when I get back.  Here on the blog.  There on Twitter.

So just 4 weeks.  Or at least 4 weeks.  Whatever it ends up being.  Don't fret.  I'll make it known when I'm back.  It won't be subtle.  I never am.  You won't miss it.  I'll make sure of it.  I'm Batman afterall.  And I'll still be watching out for your dating interests.  Still dating losers so you won't have to.  Doing my civic duty.

He's a Cheater and You're Retarded (But You Don't Have To Be)

I get it.  You don't want to jump to conclusions.  You don't want to feel sad.  Mostly you just don't want to be alone.  But seriously.  Ladies.  Step your game up.  Step your self-esteem up.  Step your common sense up.  And quit being fucking retarded.


So there I was on plentyoffish.com just minding my own business.  Checking out profiles.  Most likely looking for a way to improve mine.  When I get a message.  I mean top of the line.  Witty and intriguing.  Hold onto your panties ladies.  It's about to get wild.


How are you?




But things online are slow.  Let me rephrase that.  Things online are hideous.  And boring.  So basically it's apparent.  While swimming in the seas where apparently plenty of fish are lurking.  I attract the bottom feeders.  Awesome.  Which is what allows me to be open to the fact that this guy is cute.  Not drool on my keyboard cute.  But by no means avert my eyes and delete cute.  So I give him the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe he's not feeling creative.  Maybe he'll pick it up a bit.




Hey :) Thanks for the message...I'm doing great.  How's your day going?




And then silence.  I don't really notice at the time because I'm being bombarded with messages.  Sure.  Yes.  Bottom feeders.  With the occasional poisonous puffer fish.  And a shark once in a while.  But mostly bottom feeders.  However, a week later when I see his face appear in my messages again.  I think.  Hmm...I've seen him before.  Did I delete him?  Did we talk?  So I click the "view all correspondence" button.  And see the meager history.  He messaged.  I responded.  He appears to have forgotten.  And yet.  Here he is again.



Hey wat up?




I mean swoon right?  But like I said.  Times are ugly.  And I'm bored.  And frankly, because I've got nothing invested, there's nothing to lose.  So I message back.  But I take it up a notch.  I can't be talking to boring people.  So either he'll hit me back with info that'll lead to conversation.  Or he'll be boring again and then I'll know.  And delete



Hey :) Not much...just getting ready for school tomorrow...How was your weekend? Get up to any Halloweeny fun?




And this time I get a response.  Almost immediate.  I mean barely enough to type all the words kind of immediate.  Only the response isn't from...well...see for yourself.




Hi,
this is Mike's girlfriend. Yes he has a girlfriend, so please don't bother writing him again. I can't believe he actually turned out to be one of these guys....and there are far too many guys with girlfriends on these websites, I once went out with one of them myself. Not good! My advice to you, go out instead of going online, it's a harder search for a guy, but you have a better chance of finding someone decent!




Hmm...I'm going to have to stop you right there Mike's Girlfriend.  Because your science.  Your logic.  Is off the charts retarded.  Online dating and cheating?  I'm not sure there's even a correlational relationship between the two let alone a causational one.  Though if you can show me data I'll more than happily change my tune.  And for reference I mean.  A relationship that doesn't exist in the same proportion between classical dating and cheating.  Next.  Why can't you believe he turned out to be one of "those guys"?  And I'm assuming "those guys" means cheaters.  Because here's the thing, Mike's Girlfriend.  I doubt your surprise.  Nobody even thinks to check to see if their boyfriend has a POF account, who doesn't already have an inkling he's (thinking about, in the process of, already has) cheating/ed.  Plus anybody who feels the need to message someone talking to said boyfriend on POF, likely assumes even if he shuts his profile down it'll pop right back up again.  It's almost as if this has happened before...hmmm?  Thoughts?  Finally, Mike's girlfriend, advice?  Really?  And then we're right back to faulty science in the advice anyway.  Major fail.  Obviously, I respond.




Not to be mean or anything but do you really think you're in a position to be offering advice?  I mean, I'm sorry a dude has "done ya wrong" but my advice to you would be...break up with him...don't sweat it as he obviously isn't a great guy for you...keep your head up and don't be bitter (or offer unwarranted advice that makes you seem bitter)...and carry on your merry way with a good life.

Peace.




I assume this will be the end of it.  Actually I don't.  I expect some sort of childish rant.  But I had to say my peace.  And just as I'm about to hit block.  As to avoid being baited into an ongoing conversation with this sad retarded chick.  I get another message:




Yeah, whether or not I actually found someone decent is now questionable :(




I hypothetically slap her.  In my mind.  Grab her by the shoulders and shake.  For the love of pretend being you fucking tool?!?!?  How did you let this become your life?!?!  What on earth are you doing?!?!  But that seems harsh.  So I simply respond, as kindly as I can.  And hope she absorbs at least some of my advice.




Questionable?? Oh honey. There is no question. Whether or not this dude is decent or not isn't the point. He's checking out online dating sites...and assuming you two are exclusive...that's a 
pretty big no brainer. Plus...not to be super critical...but if you have to "hack" his account or snoop through a webpage left open or however it is you found his page...if you have to do any of that...you're in a relationship that wasn't working to begin with. And now obviously I don't know your story or situation...but seriously...is there really a question here???




There was no response.  I'm hoping that Mike's Girlfriend heeded my words, grabbed her purse, and hightailed it out of his place (which I'm assuming is where she stumbled upon this situation), and his life.  Grabbed herself a set of self-esteem and brain power and put the two together for good use.  Perhaps she even sought out some counselling (something I'm always in favor of) to deal with her numerous issues.  I expect a thank you message from her in the near future.


No?  You don't think that's what happened?  You're probably right.  Mike probably cried.  Said he was so so sorry.  Maybe he meant it.  Maybe he didn't.  They're back together.  It won't end well.  Because you can't form a healthy relationship with someone who's emotionally broken and/or totally retarded.  Sorry Mike's Girlfriend.  It's never going to get any better until you get your shit together.  Which I have faith that you can do.  If you want to.






Dear Girls, 


Don't be like Mike ('s Girlfriend).  Say no to idiocy and flawed logic.  Use reality as your guide.  Seek help when you need it.  And most importantly.  Don't take shit from nobody.


Yours Truly,


Judgey Wudgey


aka Something She Dated
aka Dating losers so you won't have to
aka Protecting the name of our gender
aka The science (logic) and dating police

The Light Bulb and the Sports Car

The truth is.  I'm not looking for a hubby.  I don't want to be his "one".  This isn't a soulmate search.  Or a long-term lovathon.  But it's not like I don't love boys.  If anything.  I love them too much.  Boys.  Men.  Labels are just semantics.  Males.  I love them all.  The way words can roll off their tongues.  The way their tongues roll around in my mouth.  The way their hands build houses.  And relationships.  And safe places.  I love boys.  I love their potential.  I love the idea of the men they'll become.  With time.  With life.  With experience.  Not with manipulation.

So it's not that I want to change them.  Him.  Boys.  A boy.  Many boys.  A boy of the moment.  I want to amp the wattage in his lightbulb.  I want to be his map on this rough terrain.  The flashlight in his pack.  Make sure he can find the joy in every moment.  Find the hilarity in every situation.  Make every moment better than the one before.  I want to light up his life.  And let him light up mine.  Then, when the time is right, set him free.  To be with the next girl.  The one he'll love forever.  Or as long as they can.  And I'll move onto my next boy. And then the one after that.  For as long as it works for me.  And if at any point it doesn't.  Then the goal will change.  What I want will change.  But not right now.  Right now.  I just want to be the passion.

The only problem.

I'm not sure there's a boy out there who I could tell this to honestly.  They all seem to want a quick bang.  Or their life partner.  Fucking soulmates.  Or just fucking.  Why can't there be any middle ground.  Why can't people just fucking relax a bit and have some fun.  But still...ya know...be normal.  So I'm stuck in this limbo.  Because I don't want to scare away the guys who don't want relationships.  Assuming they might be open to dating.  And I don't want to scare away the guys interested in hot sex.  Because.  Well.  Honestly I wouldn't be that opposed to something like that.  If they could just manage to not be totally retarded in the process of getting there.  I mean.  Shit.

"Sometimes you just want to play some Mario Kart, get laid and have a dude throw you a sandwich as you run out the door." - SSDated

But you can't say that.  Because the guys who want to fuck will forget the Mario Kart and the sandwich (not to mention will likely be not so good at the hot sexing).  And the guys who want a relationship will miss the Mario Kart and sandwich completely and just go ahead and judge me for the sexing.  Oh.  And still likely try to get it in.  Only with minimal effort.  And we're back to being creepy and/or bad lovers.

Now I know this last little diatribe about the inability of boys to really get what I'm looking for...and supply it...seems a little incongruous with my all-out-love for them as a whole.  But the thing is.  Most of the creepy, retarded guys that approach me.  It's not that they're bad guys.  Or inherently creepy.  Or totally retarded.  I have faith in them.  Somewhere along the way.  They'll get it.  And honestly if they were interested.  I'd still probably be willing to help.  Er.  Maybe.

But here's the thing of the thing.  I want to be the light in the life of a guy who already gets it.  Or is at least already on his climb up the mountain.  Like 3/4s there.  And together we'll hike it to the peak.  Because really.  I want to be the dimmer switch.  Cranking him up to full blast.  Not a lonely match.  Trying to find something to ignite in the dark.

And for the record.  He'll be the foot on my gas pedal.  Revving me up.  Taking me to the limits.  Showing me the open road.  A light bulb and a sports car.  Having the time of their lives.

I Was On a Boat: Teaching Richard Gere to Dance

So I had Made out with a drug dealer and then walked the plank of shame and now it was day 3.  The boats had been moored.  The purple sizzurp had been poured.  And someone had hit the dimmer switch on the night sky.  We were on a boat (motherfucker).  And it was time to get wild.

A boat had been secured for the evenings festivities.  Because as any girl can appreciate we certainly weren't about to have 20 dirty grimey boys muckin' about our boat when we could be glossin' up theirs with our beautiful asses.  Just sayin'.  So the crew of this party boat...Several young hotties and two dads.  Two dads?  I know right.  Weird.  It personally had never occured to me that a boy might bring his father and uncle to his stag party...but then again I'm not a guy.  Guy's are weird like that.

But who were we to complain since one of the dads.  Looked like motherfuckin' Richard Gere.  I mean.  Serious doppleganger.  Spit and Image.  So obviously we marked him.  Wrote right on his chest.  That we loved Richard Gere.  That we loved him.  That we wanted to rick it up.  And of course.  That we were hammered.  Young, wild and free.  *makes sexy eyes at Richard Gere*

We had actually met Richard Gere and his sons (3 of them, the oldest being the Groom-to-be), and 10 or so of their closest buddies throughout the day.  I'm sure someone had flirted.  Someone else tied the boats together (frowned upon!).  And that was all she wrote.  There was beer and sizzurp.  Ass cheeks were flashed, lady lumps were motorboated and I'm pretty sure I remember a guy going down the slide in some sort of sporting-cup-banana-hammock-penis-sling-shot type deal.

But then night rolled around.  Freshly showered and makeup reapplied (an olympic feat when down under the obliteratory effects of houseboat-all-day-drinking).  We headed over to the party boat.  And all was set to be amazing.  Except for one thing.  The music.  It was crap.  Not one to let the night be stunted, I ran (read: stumbled) back to our boat to grab the CDs I'd made for the weekend.

Fast forward 2-3 hours.  The clock is striking 11ish.  I'm changing the CD in the living roomish area of the houseboat.  There are boys about.  There are girls about.  And Richard Gere is nearby.  The music is good.  And so I dance.  Richard Gere notices.  Such a good dancer he says.  He's not a dancer....no rhythm...not good...blah blah blah he says.  It's easy I say just move to the beat...it's no big thing.  He cannot.  We spend something like the next 2 hours working on his dancing.  Finding the beat.  Following the beat.  One.  Two.  One.  Two.  Just feel for the beat...Just listen for it.  One.  Two.  One.  Two.  But he's still not quite getting it.  Just follow my hips.  And then he does.

And suddenly it's part dance lesson and part nightclub scene.  Except for the obvious fact that there are a bunch of people around.  The party continues around us.  We dance more.  We drink more.  We talk.  About his sons.  The one that's nearby.  The one that's getting married.  The one that's super smart.  Like physicist smart.  wait.  say wha?!?  Has a girlfiend.  Damn.

The party starts to peter out.  Boys and girls are dropping like flies.  I'm ready to roll.  But wait.  Not everyone is ready to call it a night.  Let's not go yet she says so and so is still in there with such and such a guy and I still want to party with other guy here.  And that's when I got that old nickname.  Goose.  Because of my wingman abilities.  So we stayed.  I kept the party going.  One girl got her man.  Other girl got her man.  And I got Richard Gere.  And dance lessons.  And the raddest nickname.

Now this next part of the story.  Isn't really that racy.  And I'm not even sure it's that funny.  Though because it happened to me.  Because I lived it.  It was fucking hysterical.  Seared into my memory hysterical.  And I'm going to share it now.  Because it falls in with the story in a linear fashion.  Because it's my blog and I can include what I want to.  Because Richard Gere made me KD.  I guess I was hungry (and/or getting bored).  I must have conveyed this to Richard Gere because the next thing I know, he's making me macaroni and cheese.

So I'm sitting on the couch attempting to eat my KD and Richard Gere is talking to one of his sons (the groom-to-be and son-with-girlfriend, having long gone to bed, its the middle son, who has apparently finished with his girl for the night and risen for a snack).  They chatter about.  I barely notice.  I'm focused on my food.  I must have been eating it noodle by fucking noodle because a good half hour goes by and the HUGE bowl he had given me barely has a dent in it.  I mean.  It was like the KD that just wouldn't disappear.  Eventually I just threw in the towel.  Never in my life had I had to say such shameful words.  But the noodles?  They'd beaten me.  Beaten me bad.

My friends, still not being "finished" and being the good wingman that I was...there was no other option but to crash on the pullout couch of this living room.  Apparently this was where Richard Gere intended to sleep as well.  Perhaps all those dance lesson had given him the indication I was okay with getting it on with someone 20 years my senior.  Which I was certain I wasn't. Though Real Life Richard Gere sure is sexy...

And I've certainly never done anything simply because I thought it would offer up a good story...


So there we were.  Big spoon small spoon.  Me and Richard Gere.  Chillin'.  And then there was a hand on my waist.  But not crazy aggressive.  Just relaxing.  Sussin' it out.  Checkin' the sitch.  Only the thing of the thing is.  I was a kid.  Used to fumbly aggressive boys.  Boys who pounced.  Boys who grabbed.  And here was Richard Gere.  Who I was already uncertain about.  Just being.  Patient.  You can do this I thought he's really hot for an older guy...come on!...he looks like fucking Richard Gere...get em girl...just do it...turn over...he'll make the move from then.  This conversation went on forever.  Okay.  Well not forever.  But shy of a positive result.  Because by the time I had convinced myself to give it a go.  To take the dance lessons and rhythm I'd taught Richard Gere and put them to good use.

(Okay sidebar: That's bullshit I'm sure I wouldn't have done more than makeout with him but still that sounded funny)

But by the time all that had happened.  I'd noticed a slight lull in the back rubbing.  And waist holding.  And so I turned around.  To look at Richard Gere.  To make my move.  Or really.  To give him an opportunity to make his.  Only to find.  That Richard Gere.  Was asleep.

And then my ladies emerged from their respective cabins.  I tucked the covers up under Richard Gere's chin.  And we bounced out the bitch.  As the sun rose up over the lack.  Wingman.  Dance Teacher.  Richard Gere spooner.