Something She Dated

Never More Than Once.

2012-01-26T17:17:00.000-08:00

Jumping hurdles over textbooks and I found you,

Ask twice, do you come here often?

Smiled like two halves of a dictionary crashing open

Not often enough you said. And I bit my tongue

Waited for you to swallow a mouthful.

Ask me three times have a drink with me?

Have a cup of coffee with me?

Marry me? Before accepting that the saying is wrong

And it’s the fourth time that was really the charm.

Ask seven times if we can do it, survive the odds?

Something lucky about the number seven you said

And so I never asked again. In front of the mirror,

Ask five times does this look right?

A shirt, a recipe, a smile, evidence of a kiss,

two people together in love promising

Forever.

Ask twice if we can pay the bills.

Ask three times if you mean it.

Ask four times one hundred what do you want out of this life

With me by your side?

Ask for forgiveness ten times more than I ever expected

I could hurt you. Ask ten times less for an apology.

Wait for your broken heart to heal from all the inconsistencies

I could never back up fast enough, trip and fall

Stumble, spider legs and crawl

Over my own clumsy feet, if only I’d stop trying to race

Just this once, or maybe two more times than that.

Ask eight times if you hate me and nine times for

A picture of the horizon, as you see fit to paint it.

Ask three times if the risk is worth the reward

Ask four times how you see it all panning out

Ask five times for a kiss when you deserve it least

But never more than once. Do you love me?

Never more than once. Say you love me?

Never ask for it more than once. Can you love me?

He Sucks, She Sucks, We All Suck Vancouver

2012-01-09T21:38:00.000-08:00

Is this a response? A rebuttal? Or just some thoughts that happened before, during, and after the presence of these two articles showed up in my life? Consider reading the other articles first, though with all of us together you might need a day or two...as together we practically form a novel. Good luck. It'll be worth it. I hope.

Do Vancouver Men Suck by Katherine Ashenburg

Do Vancouver Women Suck, A Reader's Response by Jorge Amigo

Dear Vancouver,

I hear it all the time. I experience it myself. Dating in Vancouver sucks. And according to this article, we might just be able to get away with blaming the men. And to be honest, I completely agree, men in Vancouver absolutely suck. But then again so do the women. See that's the thing about being dicks. Just because you're one doesn't mean I'm not one too. And the same goes for the gender issue brought up in this article. Just because men here suck at dating, and possibly life, doesn't mean women don't too. And while I know I've just thrown a truckload of double negatives your way, I want to make something perfectly clear. I agree with the article. I disagree with the article. I think it said some things worth saying. I think it missed the mark completely. So ya know. Crystal clear right?

The problem with dating in Vancouver is actually pretty simple. Well, at least knowing what the problem is, is simple, everything else like how it got this way and how to change it...well those are up for grabs. But here it is, this is what I know about dating in Vancouver:

1. Vancouver Men are Pansies
2. Vancouver Women are Bitches
3. Everybody is still fucking
4. We've become the "American School System of Dating"

Just so we're clear. I don't have all the answers. But I do know that dudes here are pansies. Full stop. And I know it's politically incorrect. And I know reverse-gender oppression and all that. But the truth is, if I wanted to date someone more feminine than me, I'd pick a chick...they're much prettier and smell nicer. I want a man. I want a man who can grow a full beard. I want a man who's balls are too big to wear skinny jeans. I want a dude who knows how to make a decision, was smart enough to do something with his life, has a plan and takes some action. Truth is I want more than this, but this will suffice for the moment.

1. Vancouver Men are Pansies.
Men in Vancouver are shy. And quiet. The only time I ever see any aggression is in the most negative of ways, bar fights, street fights, etc. Ironically the exact things that are working against getting them laid, which is what all that fighting is about isn't it...sexual frustration? And while you can try to claim that men are like this in every city I assure you, it's simply not true. And I'm not a ten, so you can't blame it on that either. I can go anywhere in the States, and boys are talking to me. Spain and they're hollering down the street. When I was in Paris, I had a Chef (in his full Chef get-up) leave his restaurant and come across the street into the launder-mat I was using and chat me up...and he didn't even have any laundry! The list goes on. But in Vancouver, it's few and far between. And most of the time I'm not even certain they're chatting me up.

And that's out in public. People claim the internet is so different and online dating is so easy and guys will say anything. This is true. To some extent. While I won't get into the idiocy that are the messages of Vancouver men (that's...uh...basically the rest of this blog)...I will say that this lack-of-assertiveness translates onto the net as well. While here in Vancouver I get anywhere between 0-5 messages a day, and at least 80% of those are bullshit like hot tiiiiiiiiiiits and messages from donkey virgins, this isn't the case in every city. And how do I know?? Because I'm a woman who appreciates a little ScienceAndDating and who doesn't love a good experiment.

So, one day I changed my dating profile, just for the day, to say Boston (since, after all I am considering grad school there, might as well see what's up with the dating). And within that one single day I had over 50 messages, at least 75% of which were eloquent and interesting. Now it's not perfect science, perhaps Vancouver is small and we have to factor in that I was a "new" profile in Boston and not in Van but still, that's a pretty huge increase. We simply can't ignore it.

So to sum up. Vancouver men are more feminine than men in other cities and I have no idea why. Vancouver men are shy and less likely to approach a woman, in public or online, and I have a partial idea why. And that's how we get to point number two. Vancouver women are bitches.

2. Vancouver Women are Bitches.
Now ladies, before you start freaking out on me...I love you. To me?? Oh well, to me you're fucking lovely, amazing, sweethearts, princesses, best ever, love ya...but to guys...well...um...it can get a little rough. You see the thing is, the whole dating in Vancouver situation is a bit of a snowball. Because here we are moaning about how guys don't approach us or talk to us, but when they do, we suddenly become the Simon Cowells of dating...critical bitches, yo. He's gay. He's too feminine. Ugh, hipster. He's weird. He's creepy. He's too short. and the list goes on. And while I also, don't really want to date a short feminine hipster who's a little bit weird or creepy and may or may not be gay...it might be a good idea if I don't treat him like shit because

a. he's human
b. he might be a fucking genius (which aside from the gay possibility, could really negate all that other stuff for me) (see #4 coming up) and
c. who knows if he ends up being the most amazing person you've ever known and the whole hipster thing is just a phase.
d. or maybe turns out you love hipsters
e. or maybe or maybe or maybe...have a fucking imagination...and imagine the possibilities

Plus, in the interest of sisterhood, shouldn't we all be particularly kind and pleasant to any fellow interested in talking to us, if only to help propagate a species of males who regularly approach chicks in Van? THINK OF YOUR SISTERS!!

That being said, I take you back to the point above where I mentioned that half the time a boy is chatting me up, it's so timid and feeble I assume he just wants us to be besties. And I'm almost certain during the conversation he hasn't once considered all the dirty things I might be able to do with my mouth (Sidenote: To be clear he should never SAY any of the dirty things he thinking till at least some of them have been put into action, I mean Social Protocol, yo, but still...he should be thinking them...if he wants me, I mean).

That being said, girls in Vancouver are fickle bitches. I can't tell you how many times girls complain about how dudes dress. But here's the thing ladies...you can't ask for a man in a suit and be disappointed when he's metrosexual. And you can't ask for a dude that puts effort into his outfit and then be disappointed when he shows up in skinny jeans and $200 high tops...which you can be damn sure he put some thought into. So the next time you want to complain about how a guy dresses, just remember that you're actually asking him to tuck his little purse of man coins (cajones, nuts, love lockets, berries, wedding tackle, etc.) just a little bit further away from you and hey if you're cool with that then cool. It's not my business. But don't come crying to me while I love a man with a full beard and a baseball cap (and pants large enough to let his man marbles breathe) ready to talk science and fuck me senseless...uh...er...something like that. Basically ladies...stop asking for a Pretty Prince when you want a King. Because you can't have both. And the next time some dude says what's up...give him a shot. I'm not saying you need to sell your soul or makeout with him in public. But give the dude a go. You never know when it turns out he has a PhD. in something other than his pants (though that's fun too).

3. Everyone is Still Fucking.
Vancouver is a city you can get laid in. No doubt. 100%. No question. Maybe it's because we're liberal. Maybe it's because the clubs here suck and what else are you going to do but grind up on someone else. Maybe it's because we're all just so fucking happy to be so close to the mountains, the ocean, and amazing sushi that we're willing to throw caution (and our panties) to the wind and get down. And to be clear...this is a judgement free zone...get down with your bad self. But here's the one drawback I've seen so far.

Why would men want to bother to step their game up? Why would it even occur to them to be smarter, more interesting, kiss better, or any of the other things we want from them?? THEY'RE STILL GETTING LAID!!!! And while I'm currently doing my best to limit this phenomenon (which is quite the sacrifice for someone who rallies around the term SLUTmazing)...I can't do it alone ladies. I'm just one woman!

4. Vancouver is the American School System of Dating.
People typically think of Hollywood as a town of beauty-obsessed starlets and airheads, so perhaps I shouldn't feel so shocked that Vancouver, the Hollywood of the North, has become full of the same. I almost don't know how to describe it. I was to yell at this city, like a frustrated parent screams at their 21 year old who just keeps fucking up...over and over again and all you can do is explode with YOU BETTER GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT KIDDO!!! Because that's really where the problem lies. The bigger, more important problem. It lies in a set of fucked up priorities. In a city where the dating complaints sound a bit like something George Bush might say. We have become the American Education System of Dating.

The first article described three young women:

"they're attractive, smartly put together, and fit. They hike the Chief, do the Grouse Grind, ski, bike the seawall, and kayak"

And then that's it. That's the end of the description. I mean, seriously?! Take a moment. And let's think about what's missing from this list of what I can only assume is supposed to be a description of what makes these women dateable, desirable, worthy, etc. in our fair city. So, let's see...they're attractive and fit. So that's good. And they're smart...oh no wait...they're smartly put together...ok...so I guess that's cool, they have some fashion sense. And...then we're back to descriptions of their athletic pursuits. Super. And to be honest, this is Vancouver. A city where being fit and fashionable are your best assets. I weep for humanity.

But seriously?! Would you date these girls? I mean hot bodies and financials aside, what do these chicks have to offer? And while you could make the argument that for the sake of brevity, details about personality were left out...but in an article that runs for five pages (no judgement, people in glass houses, I'm just saying)...that argument kind of falls flat.

And so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the article focuses greatly on appearances. Which are valid mind you, attraction is attraction. Pretending it's irrelevant isn't helping anyone. But if the women of Vancouver were really able to give that hypothetical Genie lamp a rub...is a dude who dresses up for his lady really what we'd ask for???

How about a man who can hold a conversation, who understands the ebb and flow of asking questions and offering things that can be responded to, who has SOMETHING TO SAY! How about we aim for the stars and ask for intelligent men who have thoughts about science or math, or the history of art, or how a font curves in a way that makes his heart pound, or can tell a joke that is actually funny and not in that stupid I just said something super dumb but I'm going to attempt to cover it up by calling it a joke way that just makes you want to tear your hair out. What happened to wanting real things that matter?? Who cares if he is wearing a sharp blazer if the man can't manage to follow an argument from thesis to proof to proof to proof to conclusion. When did we get so fucking tedious!!

And ladies, you're not excused either. Because there are really only three complaints I ever hear from guys. Stupid, Crazy, Snobs (the nicer way to say Bitches). And while crazy I have some thoughts on (that's another article entirely)...they're often right about the other two.

So this is to everybody (me included, improvement is always possible and required). Step your game up. Read a book. Be more than anyone ever expected you could be. Say something. Do something. Change the world. Be interesting. Make a point. Make a mark. Hold your head high and be proud of what you're doing with your life.

And for fuck sakes...ladies...be nicer to the next guy that chats you up...(but if he's a loser don't sleep with him...it's as bad as faking orgasms and you need to start thinking of your fellow woman). And guys...man the fuck up...put some of that natural testosterone to good use and chat a lady up. And be clear about it. Because the only thing worse than being rejected?? Is being rejected by a girl who probably would've liked you if only she'd known that weren't trying to be her new bestie.

Finally, while I applaud @AmigoJor for getting out there and doing his thing. I have to toss out a few words of advice for the boys.

1. Don't talk to chicks on the bus if it's anytime before noon. She's busy. She's trying to get to work on time. She can't be bothered with you because her boss wants the blah blah on his desk by noon plus she's not really a morning person and dammit can't I just enjoy this latte in peace. Plus daytime isn't sexy, yo. Save that shit for afternoon to evening.

2. Beaches? Park? Sure...those are awesome for July and August...but uh...this is Vancouver.

3. Yaletown. I can either buy into the stereotypes...in which case she's got the nervous jittery look because her body is still trying to recover from all the coke she did last night not because she's anti-social. If we want to go the PC route...don't assume...if you boys want us ladies to see you in your skinny jeans and not think gay! you're going to have to knock the Snobby girls are from... shit off. It goes both ways.

4. Coffee Shops...home run. What can I say...he's right (though I see it in a slightly less cynical way). And I almost kind of hope that one day I might run into this fella in a coffee-shop...and he'll say something kind and interesting and we'll have banter. He'll ask for my number and I'll give it. And perhaps he never calls. And perhaps I don't really want him to. But we'll both go home and start a snowball effect. We'll tell our friends about the time we met a person who was kind and funny and sort of maybe amazing (or at least not creepy and weird/ bitchy and distant) and how he acted like a man and I was a perfect lady. And it will encourage our friends to do the same. And they'll tell their friends and so on and so forth. All because one day a couple different people wrote articles and then some other people put it into action. Or ya know. Something like that.

But one final word of advice...gentlemen...don't ever say something like this "Ahh, lovely sunrise with those heavy clouds in the distance, eh?" (from article)...because while you think she responds with "yahh" out of disinterest, there's another much more likely reason. There is no good response to this. Or at least not one that someone who's just be taken aback by someone new talking to her on a bus can come up with in a timely manner. This is a question for an art gallery or a third date. When your chatting a new chick up on the bus, on the street, at a pub, you have to make sure she can respond without feeling like an idiot. This is not the time to quiz her knowledge of 18th century philosophy. Just relax. And ask her something normal. Like how is your night going?

So good luck out there my lovelies. Because don't mistake my harsh no-bullshit approach for anything other than a love for this city and her people. I love Vancouver. And I wouldn't say it if I didn't care. I just want you to knock off this teenager-apathetic-I-don't-need-to-be-amazing-nonsense and get started. It's never too late. Nothing is permanent. The world is waiting with baited breath. Now go out and date like I know you can.

Yours Truly,

Something She Dated
aka That girl at Starbucks two seats over
aka Your favorite chat up chick
aka Miss Social Protocol 2012
aka Your dating fairy godmother
aka Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One "Something" at a Time

Chokehold

2011-12-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

When the lovely Skye over at the amazing MetAnotherFrog came to me and asked if I’d be interested in writing on breath play my immediate response was yes. And not just a regular yes. But a yes with enthusiasm and gusto. A ‘Hell Yes!’ if you will. And I know what you’re thinking. Is SSD an erotic asphyxiation aficionado? Well, not quite kids.

My enthusiasm stems less from a knowledgeable, expertise, (what’s the opposite of vanilla) standpoint than it does from a recent awesome experience. A recent awesome experience that taught me about how and why I like those man hands around my neck. But I should tell you now. I’m only barely out of vanilla territory. Actually I’m still possibly in vanilla territory but maybe with some sprinkles or something.

Breath is very important. It keeps you alive, that much is obvious. Take a breath. A breath of fresh air. I can’t catch my breath. Under your breath. Your breath is on fire. I just want to breathe him in. A gasp. A sigh. Hot and heavy. Slow and steady. Breathing is everywhere. It’s generally how I indicate to a fella that I’m having a good time if ya know what I mean. So it seems to follow then that as a woman who likes to give up control in the bedroom…I might want to let someone else take control of one of my most important bodily functions.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a friend. And you could say we were partners in crime. Our “crimes” generally consisted of boys and shenanigans. So clearly story swaps and technique talks were a regular occurrence. During one of our many booty banter sessions. She told me the following.

“Yeah ya know…like…I just whip off the pillowcase and throw it around my neck…and he just kind of holds it…like reigns…while he hits it from the back.”

I thought this to be very interesting. And not one to shy away from something new. I gave it a shot. Honestly, it didn’t do that much for me. At the time I didn’t really get it. Later I’d start to understand that everybody needs something different and while the decrease in oxygen may have been enough for her. I required more. I require a story. A fantasy. A reason for the lack of flowing breath into my lungs. A reason for the tension around my neck.

Now before you start picturing me in one of those Law and Order scenes (I may watch too much TV) with extreme asphyxia gone awry. I assure you. I’m still far more of a novice at the sport and my participation is way less dangerous. See for me. It’s more mentally kinky. Than physically. Which, anyone who reads my blog and knows my keen appreciation for science and logic, will know is just about right. Spot on really. Because for me. It’s the why more than the how that’s important.

Now I’m not really going to get into the why (me personally) of the why (the fantasy) that this gets some of us ladies off (and a warning for all you gentlemen out there, because the line is so fragile and not all women even want you anywhere near it, you better ask your lady what she wants before you get your hands all around her neck). But I will just say this. For me. The story line. Is only a fantasy. It’s only fun and hot as long as it remains a fantasy. If you tried to dominate me in everyday life per say, I’d likely tell you to fuck off or simply kick you in the nuts. But in the bedroom. When I’m ready for you to put your hands on me. I want to be dominated. I want to be manhandled. I want to be tossed about. I want to be viewed as so hot that you simply cannot control yourself and must take it all from me. And most importantly (as is the topic of this post). I want it rough. I want your big strong hands around my neck. And I certainly don’t want to have to ask you to do it (that kind of ruins it). I want you controlling my breath (in fantasy). I want you in control completely.

So I say one more time. Before you choke her….talk it out. Because it’s all fun and games until it’s not fun and games. And while Cindy wants a Chokehold, Melanie-Lee may just want to Make-Love. So you better find that shit out first. And even once you’re there. I suggest you take it a little slow and steady at first. Because nothing turns kink into konk (aka FAIL) faster than a bad experience.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

He Is Minty Fresh.

2011-11-22T15:55:00.000-08:00

He is minty fresh. He is dollar bills. He is midnight truck stop diner hot chocolate. He is miserable drivel. He is a Tic Tac in your pocket.

Wake up sweating, laptop heat pulsing like waves of summer on Vegas cement. Put your cheek down on the pavement to see if it’s exactly as you remembered. It is. Buzz and whirr of fans, open your lazy eyes. “Are you done, miss?” Sway from drinking. That stopped years ago. Eyes up. Look around. Maybe he’s the one swaying.

He is lemon scented logic. He is momentary madness. He is the last sip of coffee. He is aggressive, strong, dark and broody. He is built like a tank. He punches you in the face. He is someone you could never love.

“Miss,” he asks again, this time head tilted down to you, “are you done?” His blue eyes would be piercing if not for their heavy brown color. Brown like reasons to order another. Brown like shiny, young and new. Smirk. Smile. It grows. Beaming. Big teeth. Bright teeth. Hollywood teeth. “Maybe...” you blush, “...I’ll just take another.” Part question. Part demand. He’s just a kid. You’re only partly jealous. You’re only partly responsible.

He is a librarian. He is a label maker. He is the moment between thunder and lightning. He is the sound and the fury and the book you threw away. He is a vacuum. He is a constant disappointment. He is a magician. He is a figment of your imagination. He is the color persimmon. He is the taste of dandelion. He is your magic wand.

Your jeans are too tight. Your hair is too curly. Your makeup is too powdery. Your scepticism is broken. And you’ve got bigger problems. Strike keys like picket lines and you write your entire life story in puns. Breathe in the smell of bug spray and regret. You are one endless camping trip and one forever late night hookup. You are an apology. Raise your hand and signal him, two fingers together sway back and forth, close, barely touching. “Maybe a piece of...” you say, trailing off. Think of your jeans, think of your stomach, think of your thighs. Say apple, say apple, say apple.

He is a pony. He is the words of a thousand boys. He is soft lips. He is the way you kiss. He is an advent calendar. He is an opportunity, squandered, on purpose, and with good reason. He is Vaseline on toast. He is diamond earrings. He is a less than charming bracelet. He is a warning label. He is too many carbohydrates and not enough adhesive. He is an empty dispensary.

“Nevermind” you sigh. Ask for skim instead of cream. Ask for air instead of food. Ask for sex. Ask for sex. Ask for sex. “What are you writing?” he asks coming towards you. He is a tightrope walker. He is a circus clown. He wants to shoot you out of a canon. “Nothing special,” you answer. Your left hand twitches and knocks the cup over. Thick sticky liquid, spilling; an accidental river sweeping throughout the keys. And then you blink and it never happened. Look up. Look at his face. Smile. Say “thank-you” and he sets the cup down.

He is a super hero. He is the tooth fairy. He is a pathogen. He will break you. He is multitude. He is myriad. He is things that rhyme with lasagna. He is “I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name”. He is the reason to never leave your house. He is paper mache pie. He is last night’s leftovers.

“I’m an actor” he says and the number 22 leaps out from his chest, animated, like a cartoon heart. Awooooga! “Well..uh,” he admits as he pulls out a chair to join you, “...an actor and a pastry chef”. He is a child. He is an infant. He is an embryo. He has no idea what a fool you are. Did you ask him to sit down? He tastes like salt water taffy. You guess. You try to do the math in your head. 30 – 22 = He is a mistake. He is a regret you consider having.

He is a ticking clock. He is a tuna casserole. He is the Christmas present you’re going to take back. He is behind the glass; a sign that says don’t touch. He is the price of admission. He is locker room sweat. He is a holy roller. He is a ball gown. He is the sex in the backseat of a car when you should’ve been walking down the stairs of your debutante ball.

He is smocked. Brushes his hands across the front, over his thighs and stares at you eagerly. He is a Labrador. He is a puppy. He is an Adonis. He is a cake in a box. He is a trip to Costco. He is the water bill. He will not make up for the past. He will make for good keyboard stroking. He will make for a fantastic story. He is an anomaly. He is a statistical love equation. He is the words Go Home written in black ink across your palm.

He is gone. He is left. He is right. He is a 12 gauge. He is a tree top. He is a thank you card, written but never sent. He is a cockroach. He is a tablespoon of baking soda. He should’ve scrubbed you clean. He is a list on the fridge. He is an audio clip of laughter. He is your blindside. He is a bruise. He is a bag of frozen peas. He is the flavour purple. He is wrong.

Shut it down. Fold it up. “I can’t save you,” you say, knees touching legs together, “I’m just the olives in the glass.” His eyes crinkle. He winks. “I know,” he laughs softly. “I see you,” head nodding slowly. He smells presidential. He smells like authority. You smile at the illusion. You’re in the movies. You are a silent picture. You are a black and white. You are Charlie Chaplin. You are what happens when nobody is watching. You are over exaggerated and underappreciated. You are Grandma’s stories. You are Sarah Bernhardt. You are a county fair.

He is the lights too bright. He is a mouth breather. He is the pages stuck together. He is a spoiler. He is already chewed gum. He is a dripping faucet. He is water-boarding with a bag of sugar, granulated, in your cavities and sitting where your teeth might grind. He is moving day. He momentarily moves Him to the back burner.

“Hey,” he says. You hear it. Soft and low. Turn to where he stands, flicks the lights off. Cash register box laying open. Stand silent, watch him over your right shoulder. You are the moment before it happens. You are the turning point. You are the decision making process. You are a box of iced cupcakes. You are sex in a weekend bra.

Outside. Snow everywhere. Icing sugar floats past gets caught in your hair. You are a Christmas special. You are an empty snowglobe. You are jinglebells. Say it’s snowing, it’s snowing, it’s snowing. Or it’s not. Every time you blink is different. It hits your cheek, cold, wet. You are Russia’s last chance. You are Snow-bunny Sundays. You are a ski-in lodge. Close your eyes. Make it stay like this. You are his frozen moment. You are his TV dinner. You are his bedroom sheets. You are his mother’s neon secret. You are his father’s envy. You are baby soft skin. You are raspberry deodorant. You are teenage sweat. You are 11:34. You are only wearing one shoe.

He is the cold brick against your back. He is the eclipsing hand behind your head. He is a push against your hips. His is the give and the pant and the pull and the desire. He is all the best moves. He is an entry in your 6^th grade Lisa Simpson diary. He is the wrong question. He is a quick fix. He is gauze dressing. He is a Band-Aid. He is spilled dog food on the kitchen floor. He is “I’ll get to it later”. He is this very moment.

And you were right. He is Salt water taffy. He is Peach flavour. He is swallowed whole.

I'm a Man Eater, Not a Pray Mantis

2011-11-21T14:46:00.000-08:00

Preface: This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys...er...I mean days of summer. Is it July yet?

I want to clear something up. Be a little more precise. About Man-Eaters. About who I am. About chicks just like me. Because there’s this notion. That Man-Eaters. Are Man Haters. (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves.) And it’s really just the opposite. Grown Up Man-Eaters. Are Man Lovers. We love ‘em. Can hardly contain ourselves. Gotta have ‘em.

Friend: Man-Eater!!

Me: What?

Friend: *raises eyebrows*

Me: Oh, okay fine. That’s about right

I’ll admit it. I. Am. A. Man. Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific? Sure enough. Awesomtacious. True Story. But at the heart of my rep (pun intended) was my lack thereof. Tin Man. The nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was just a kid. I didn’t know any better.

But I never made anybody do anything. Boys did things of their own volition. For their Goddess, Man-Eater. One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months). One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night. Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs. Boys made offerings. Boys left their chicks. And at dawn I left my socks (and ran). I hunted. I prowled. And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner. I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious. I didn’t care. They seemed not to care. But I don’t really know. Because I never asked. Because I definitely didn’t care. Carve notch. Move bead left. Punch hole. Add name and date. *hunger pains* and prowl again. I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now. Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now. They’re in the know. Whether they listen or pay attention is on them. But I tell them. I say it. I will be kind and gentle. But you are a meal for the summer. I plan to eat you. It is no reflection on you as a person. I’m sure you’re awesome. And if you can handle it. I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys. Really. Let me say that again. I. Heart. Boys. Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard. Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now. And I’ll tell you again if I have to. You are the candy of my summer. You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool. You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster. You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more. You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you. I want you. I need you. This summer. I’m hungry. And I’m going to eat you. But I won’t be mean about it. Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater. I’m a Man Lover. And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome. I’ll make sure of it. Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks. Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory. Ask my name. Ask my number. Show me your balls. And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

Fuck Me Till I'm Thesaurus.

2011-11-20T18:29:00.000-08:00

He tastes like a conversation. Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches. Ablaze. That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries. He stands trial before me. He stands there. Not here but there. Where. In a moment long before I forget him. A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me. My eyes roll back and I wonder how I've managed to last this long without his Dictionary inside me.

Roll my hand across the spine. Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me. Me. Standing. Here. Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we've even begun till a hand something like his stops mine. Bookmark this moment he says. Take this hand. Take his hand. Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me. Hush. Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip. Kisses hard and fast. Wet and warm. Tastes something like cinnamon. Synonym. Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance. Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger. Something bare. Bear with me he says.

Pause. Paws. Silence. Take a breath. There is a break. Here. This spot. This tic. This toc. The very moment. And we break apart. Look each other in the eyes. Long like Johns. Buzzing like summer nights when there's trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones, the rate at which I fall in love. He is. Empathetic. Pause. Silence. A moment. And when it's ready. When we've stewed. In the wanton wanting. I hold what's akin to arms wrapped in armour. Out to him. stripped bare. Next to naked. Stand patient and waiting. Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear. He is my bear. Fish for fun to feed him. Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us. Our love is a cyclone. Cylindrical. Circular. Cyclical. Our love is an Encyclopaedia. Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours. Spreads apart the folds of my blankets. Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet. Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold. Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath. Fresh and sweet. Fun and simple. Find and set free. He is my hero. My soldier. My Professor. Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle. Partners. Patterns. Palpable. Our love is palpable. Our love is passion. Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast. Jam type love. Breakfast nook type love. Who wants to lick the spoon type love.

And he is my reference text. Indexing the moments I can't decide. He is my anchor. Sailor's hands. Rough and sea worthy of my every inch. I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice. Sounding vowels to find guidance. Breaking rules to form poetry. I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements. Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I'm turning his similes into smiles. He parades parables down my throat. Panting. Panting. Panting. Hold close in sweat and pheromones. Fall prey to moments I can't control, for him. Let him hold me for a second something like vulnerable.

Want to be his diatribe, want to write his soliloquy. Hold words like babies until they stop crying. A life of possibility. Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it. 3am feedings from fountains of feelings. Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity. Syllable. Sellable. Seeable. See me able. To breathe. Just this once. Bearable. Bear with me he says. Take this moment and bear it. Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way. And that's when it happens. Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth. Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.

Euphony he says. What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules. You funny he says and kisses my cheek we were always here you know. Long before the first taste. And we fall asleep. Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the broken beauty of each other. Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context. I kiss him once more. And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

I'm Not Clingy, I'm Just Smarter Than You

2011-11-19T11:54:00.000-08:00

*Disclaimer. There are clingy chicks in the world. There are clingy boys in the world. This is about the rest of us. Who get a bad rep.

I’m a planner. Some people think that’s a flaw. I think it’s brilliant. And FYI: Planning and spontaneity are not mutually exclusive. My passport is always up to date. At a moment’s notice I’m ready for a summer road trip. Camping? Sure! House-party in Kelowna tonight? Fuck yeah…I’ll get gas, you get snacks and we can be there in five hours! I’m basically up for anything at anytime. Party at the moon tower and I’m rounding up money for kegs (for you guys of course, I’ll drink diet coke) and Mathew McConaughey. But essentially I’m looking for fun fun fun all the time time time.

Now while I may spend the majority of my days egotistically thinking I’m super awesome and RARE, I would hedge my bets that there are lots of lovely ladies out there just like me. Ladies who have careers. Ladies who have friends. Ladies who have goals, dreams and priorities. Frankly, Ladies who have shit to do. And yet. Ladies who have time to date. Like I have time to date. Ladies like me, who are available. And not because we’re clingy. Or desperate. Or insecure. Weak or sad. Losers or duds.

We’re just simply not retarded. Allow me to elaborate.

The biggest complaint I hear from men (trying to date me, trying to date others, floundering about) is that they’re busy. They’re tired. They’ve just got so much going on *stifles eye roll* But here’s the thing of the thing. There are a lot of hours in the day. There are a lot of days in a week and weeks in a month. Our lives are fucking filled with time. So why can’t these men find any of it.

They’re retarded? They’re confused? Something in their DNA? Momma didn’t teach ‘em right? They’re really just big babies? They can’t see a big picture? I honestly couldn’t tell you. It baffles me to no end.

Logic tells me that fun…uh...ya know...is fun. Experience tells me that fun is…awesome. And since you can never have too much awesome in your life, logic tells me that I would want to squeeze every drop I can of it into my life. I mean honestly.

Therefore, I like to make plans in advance. Why? Because then I can fit more in. I don’t wait till the weekend to make weekend plans. Why? Because when three people call Saturday afternoon to kick it Saturday night…I have to pick one. Only one plan gets made. I only get 1/3 of the fun. However, if those same three people call by Wednesday, it’s likely that I can make plans with one on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and possibly one even Sunday afternoon. Three out of three. That’s one whole cup of fun. Fucking Awesome. Now sometimes shit doesn’t work out and schedules collide and other times there simply aren’t plans to be made. And that leaves all that lovely room for spontaneity.

And I know that often guy’s want to leave their options open. They don’t want to commit to a plan, a girl, an idea for the weekend. And that’s fine. Go ahead and wrap yourself up in your issues. It could very well work out awesomely for you. I’m not saying I have all the answers. I’m just offering an alternative perspective. A reason she doesn’t answer your weekend texts. A reason she cuts ties after three weeks without connecting for a date. So like I said, I don’t know all the answers. Not by a long shot. But I do know about smart chicks. And I know about awesomeness, lol. And I know about planning. And I know about having the most fun possible. So with all that said, I leave you with this:

Boys, I beg you. Next time you meet a girl who only wants to make advance plans with you. Or calls you on Tuesday to make plans for the weekend. Try to remember. While it is possible she’s clingy or high maintenance. It’s just as likely that she’s awesome…and quite simply smarter than you. So do a cross-word or brush your teeth with the other hand and get that brain power up. Step it up a notch, get your shit together and get the most out of your life. Or don’t. I mean do what you want. But don’t be shocked when you call on Saturday and she’s busy. And the best thing that might have ever come into your life is booked solid.

Just Sayin’.

Class dismissed.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

#TwitterBreak: Nobody Likes Me When I'm Studying For Grad School

2011-10-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

So I know what you're thinking. This looks familiar. You've seen this before and before that You saw it
here. And the truth is you're right. This is about to be a repeat of last March and before that November. But this time it's going to be more. And different. But definitely more. Longer. So almost less really. Less me. For you. Kind of thing. Well at least on Twitter.

I'm taking a #TwitterBreak of epic proportions (for me at least). Starting today I won't be tweeting on Twitter for at least 8 weeks. It could end up being closer to 10 or 12 but let's hope for the best.

***I will however continue to still post everytime there's a #NewBlogPost just so you can stay updated.

Why???Why???Why???Why???Why???Why???Why???Why???

January 1 2012. That's the deadline. For most of the masters degree program applications. Which gives me just over 2 months. To not only do amazing in my courses. The reading. The research. The thinking. The papers. The exams. All of it! But also to take the two GRE exams that I've been yammering on about for over a year now. I write one in November and one in December and honestly don't yet feel prepared for either. Then I have to find a way to be less shy and ask three separate Professors to go out on a limb and write me recommendations letters...to anywhere between 12-15 schools. Then there's writing my personal intent statement. Preparing a paper for submission. Not to be outdone by the very task of actually choosing which 12-15 schools I want to apply to. Plus there's the writing (we'll come back to this).

So while I've already started trying to say "no" to friends for drinks and plans and events. I really need to step it up. Because somehow I've managed to RSVP to 2 Halloween parties, and have a ton of "potentials" in the air. MUST LEARN TO SAY NO. THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN ONE PARTY. THERE WILL ALWAYS BE ANOTHER PARTY. So I'm working on that.

But the thing that I really have to say adios to. The thing I really have to put on hiatus for the moment. Is Twitter. Twitter has got to hit the bricks. Twitter has got to get to steppin'. For now. 8 weeks. 60 days. That's not so bad really. Barely a blip on the timeline of a life. Barely hits the radar. You probably won't even notice. Honestly I only tell you guys because if I don't. Well my self-control. It'll go to shit. And I won't break. I won't focus. I won't be vigilant. So I tell you. I make a statement. I make a tiny scene. Because it's like a contract. One that I'll stick to.

8 weeks. The break I have to take. From Twitter. From tweetups and fun gatherings. 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.

And it's really not that bad. And it's for the future. Because like I told my mom when the family expressed disappointment about my skipping Thanksgiving dinner this year.

They'd be a lot more disappointed if I don't ever get into grad school and instead sprial out of control, end up homeless and on food stamps and couchsurfing at their homes. Now that's disappointment.

And the same could be said for us (you, me, twitter, and our relationship together lol). Better I take a break now then go off the deep end and never return. Just Sayin'. So just 8 weeks. Or at least 8 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. Taking many for the team. Batman would take a grenade for you. Real talk. And don't worry. I'll be saving anything funny that happens along the way to tweet about upon my return.

ON THE UPSIDE!!!!! (See how I save the best for last!?!?!)

I'll still be blogging...regularly...over at JadedDaters so at least there's that. Unlike my usual breaks where it's total radio silence. This time I'll still be blogging. Still be sharing juicy details. Good times. Check me out. Comment. Ask questions. Whatever. I'll still be there for you. Until I return here. And to Twitter.

Most Recent JadedDaters Blog Posts

2011-09-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

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A Date By Any Other Name: Part Three

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A Date By Any Other Name: Part Two

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A Date By Any Other Name: Part One

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It's Not Double Booking If It's With A Friend

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The Town Twidiot

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Stunning Potential

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To read Something She Dated's latest post, Click the link above to read it in full on JadedLovers.com or click here to find out about the changes taking place with this blog.

Legitimate Fictional Character or Sunshine French Toast Love

2011-09-13T23:37:00.000-07:00

Friend: "You're legitimately a Carrie Bradshaw"

Me: "I like that I'm now legitimately a fictional character"

"It's like wanting to be a rapper or a basketball star," I say, to MegaLove over breakfast, his fork holding french toast meant for my mouth. "Naw!" He says, "It's not like that at all" his head shaking and the sweet carbs tease my tongue. I laugh. It's because he loves me. And that's what I tell him. He's barely ever read my writing. My choice not his. I'm bizarrely protective of my words (or my heart, you could say) with those closest to me though I share them like air here on this blog. "Nope" he says, "It's because you're talented" and I can see this thing in his eye. Like the image he holds there, the one he knows in his heart and feels in his bones, his image of me, stretches hope like a river of endless possibilities. Stands side by side with my Father who believes I could get into Harvard if I really tried, holding hands with my Mother who asks about Pullitzers in a way that makes space for me to win one. "You're amazing" he says and I have to take a sip of coffee, this lump in my throat threatening to make a scene with wet eyes. Our knees touch under the table. He won't let me share my food. Feeds me like a cub from his plate again. Kiss in public. A love that can't be explained when they ask why we're not together. Can't be explained when they ask how we can continue to eat this love, over breakfasts, on weekends spent away from my dating and his Seattle. Can't be explained in any other way except in that image. Of me in his eyes, his eyes on me, eating French Toast like it was made of sunshine in a world where I could become a writer.

And then somehow, when I wasn't looking, he kind of became right. And I kind of became a writer. And in the most concise announcement possible (because we all know how I ramble) here it is:

1. I'll be writing the Sex/Relationship column for the Ubyssey [UBC's student newspaper]

2. I'll be writing the blog "Jaded Daters" for JadedLovers.com

So on one hand I'll be in print like real actual paper, yo. And on the other I'll be a paid writer. And I can't lie, it makes me exorbitantly happy that all this should happen just shy of my 30th birthday.

Now for the logistics...the best way to stay abreast (yes, I said it) of my writing is to follow me on Twitter @SSDated if you're not already. But the long and short of it is this. The Ubyssey while on paper also comes out online...so just use the link above to go to their website and voila there you have it (first column printed in the coming edition so stay tuned). As for blogging, if you're a new reader or rereading my blog "Something She Dated" (where you are right now) and you notice a post that is missing...there will be a link in it to find the material on the Jaded Daters blog (so don't freak out, deep breaths, I would never just up and leave you). And as for new blog posts, I will be publishing quite consistently over at Jaded Daters so basically just start reading over there and subscribe the same way you do/did/etc. to this blog. Easy Peasy Light and Breezy. No sweat.

So yup. I think that pretty much covers it. Any questions leave them in the comments and I'll answer them as fast as I can. Oh, also...I'll probably still blog here occasionally about things not covered elsewhere or basically because I feel like it so stay subscribed or check back once in awhile ;)

All My Love,

"A Carrie Bradshaw-esque Fictional Character"
~ SSDated

PSizzle...I got no strings on me.

Looks a Bit Jizzy If You Ask Me or The New Thing I Learned.

2011-08-19T11:51:00.000-07:00

The title of this post is mostly just for jokes. I mean certainly I'm about to talk about Jizz. And specifically I plan to share with you what I learned about it. But the first bit. That's really just something I said once. To a friend. When she asked me about a dish of food. And I told her the truth. Because that's how I roll. Looks a bit jizzy if you ask me. And in all honesty it did. And yes, in fact it was delicious. This is yet another reason you should want to hang out with me. I say things like this. A lot. And maybe you don't find that funny. Not everybody does. But then you probably also wouldn't think it was that funny that after eating we went for a walk. And I saw a kebab shop. With a row of rotisseries spinning up some good schwarma. And of course I said...Look at all that meat to which she responded in correct fashion with That's what she said. I'm fairly certain I would've given up a nice little #Heyyooo and we would've carried on our merry way. But not before adding Halal this.

But I digress. What was I talking about? Uh yes. Jizz. Cum. Spunk. Spooge. Joy Juice. Boy Batter. Baby Butter. Man Mustard. Badger Milk. Mouthwash #Heyoooo. Well. I think you get the idea. See the thing of the thing is that I recently found out some very valuable information. Information that affects everyone. Okay well specifically it affects the boys that are privileged enough to wrap themselves in my cotton candy coated lips but more generally speaking it affects the whole world. Because after all. I'm never as big of an enigma as I'd like to think and surely if knowing this information affects how I get down...er...go down...well I wouldn't doubt it having an effect on others too. Just sayin'. So yeah. Back to the matter at hand....er...mouth.

I was at my friend's house. We were watching Jersey Shore (don't judge). And the question came up. Spit or Swallow? And while I know a lot of people's answers vary based upon whether they're talking about "in a relationship" or not. But to be totally honest, that's not a deciding factor for me. Now obviously I'm not just slurping it down with every dude who looks my way on the street. But what I'm saying is that if I'm giving you head, it's pretty certain that we're already at whatever point I needed to be to feel comfortable with you. And Sidebar. Yes. Different boys come with different points of comfortability (it's a word...ok no it's not). So what is the deciding factor you say?

Consistency.

That's right I said it. It's not the taste. Not the flavor. Not the temperature. It's not an aroma or a stinging in your eye (ok technically that's never happened to me but my friend says it hurts like hell lol). It's not a mental thing or a how he treats me thing. It's not a safety thing or a power thing. It's a fucking consistency thing. And up to this point I always thought you were born with what you got. Some guys are thick and gooey. Some guys are thin and watery. I thought it was a DNA thing. So to speak. ;)

But that's when my deliciously gay friend chimed in with some of the most valuable information I've ever been offered. It has to do with how many times they jacked off that day. Wait. What!?! I mean like What The Fuck. My world imploded. In an awesome kind of way.

And to be clear. Here's the thing. I want to swallow like a champ. Slurp my man down with the best of my abilities. Work my magic and then reap the rewards. I want to be his whore his pornstar his special baby...doing all the special things my man likes. But the thing of the thing is. I have a gag reflex. And sometimes there's only so much a girl can do. Now getting all up on his man privates. That's no prob. Lickin' and dipping like I was drinking a cup of tea. Well shit, son...I love that. No prob. But if you ask me to swallow something that looks like I could use it to attach a poster to my wall. Well fuck me. I'll swing and swing like Mighty Casey but the sad fact is I might strike out.

Detour. Now to be fair. And TMIesque. This isn't to say I get you off and that spit it all over you. Or that it becomes a scene like a horror film that contains the murder of several ghosts. I mean. I know how to keep it sexy. Keep it good. Keep my baby happy. Get my man where he needs to go without causing a side show production. I always clean up aisle number 7. Just Sayin'.

Back on Track. So while I may struggle with swallowing down that wall tacky. That man taffy. If you've got jizz like I'm drinking at a water fountain. Well jesus. Let's make this happen yo. Because I'm drinking your Hawiian punch. No prob. SO you can see. That knowing this vital information. Can be incredibly useful. For the men of my future. And for men everywhere.

Now bear in mind every girl is different. So it's always possible this isn't their issue. Or if you're like what my sexy Gay told me...sometimes the boys like you to store it up. Stickify that sucker. Because it means more. Like you saved it for him. But that's not me. Not me at all bubba. You beat that bad boy. Several times if necessary. Because while if you're my dude a beej is always on the table. If you want me to swallow it like a porn star champ. Drink at your fountain of youth. Suck it down like a lonely drop of water in your delicious man desert. The likelihood of it going down smooth...rests in your hands. See what I did there ;)

Oh and also. The more you come to me with buckets of water. The likelihood that I'll get thirsty for, or at least not have a problem with, some thicky thick protein pudding increases. Because after all. Every time Mighty Casey connects with the ball, he's that much more likely to get a home run. But once you fuck with his confidence, you've basically boiled his bunny.

On Dreams of Being a Writer

2011-08-19T02:16:00.000-07:00

I want to describe a flower in a way that makes you taste it

Feel as though you just picked it in a field of your options

Ate it like a salad on a first date with butterflies in your stomach

Gave it as an apology in a bouquet to your mother the day after a fight

When all she wanted was for you to try on that damn shirt

And If you like it, of course, I’ll buy it for you

I want to make a plate of language for you to go home with

Baking intricacies and variances, the boiling point of his eyes

Explain nerves like they’re neutrons, synapsing on his couch

I want you to fall in love with the way I say it

Mix up formulas like dance steps and chemical compound sentences

So that you can taste the hot sticky Tuesday on his lips

I want to be tattooed with the way you understand it

Take what I say and recomprehend it

My words, how they change, in the moment that you love them

Friday night charades and the thing they become in your hands

I want to be wrapped in the instant my words become magic

In the way that you read them, insert your heart in between them

I want you to see how words can love me, a member of their sorority

Inside and outside of the way that you need me

swaddled in the cotton candy love that they give me, posing

on a perch, for a camera, for a smile, for this very moment

I want the language to sell you on the bliss of it all

The very moment that I was told, you were reading my words.

#OperationBalls or That Time I Tried Something New

2011-08-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

So a little while back I decided to try something new. I wasn't getting anywhere with guys on POF and I was getting tired of hitting BLOCK instead of smiling and replying. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I should do some messaging of my own. And not just on POF. But with those boys who'd I'd been talking to on Twitter where I thought there could be a spark. It occurred to me I should ask them out. And that's really all it was. #OperationBalls. My balls. Me having balls, I mean. Metaphorical balls no less. Going after what I want. Making shit happen. And the best part of it was...not waiting. Because I think we can all safely say my patience level is that of I want what I want when I want it.

So to sum up. Message boys on POF. Asks boys I'm talking to, out. Sounds simple. Seems simple. Was simple. At first.

At first it was great. I picked 4 boys. Read their profiles. Looked at their pics. Sent adorable messages. And waited. But not for long. Because very shortly after I recieved replies back from all 4 dudes. And positive replies at that. They all seemed to want to talk. Great. Unfortunately it didn't continue that way.

One dude ended up asking so are you kinky? and at first I carried on with the conversation because after all...I sort of am and at the very least I figured I'd hear him out. Unfortunately what he deemed kinky I deem boring and superfluous. Swinging. Not my style. So he's out.

Another must have simply lost interest because after a couple of messages or so he just stopped responding. Perhaps he just didn't have the time...I mean who could believe this dude didn't enjoy my adorable banter ;) Just Sayin' but nonetheless. He's out.

It was going really well with a third until I didn't hear from him for a bit when I got this message "Are you not receiving my replies? Gah. I was trying to get far enough along to say your boobs are super hot already!" And well. That was the end of him. Which was really too bad. Because he was from the South...and had seemed smart. But nonetheless. He's out.

The final guy. Well that one was kind of my mistake. But only partly. I tend to like older guys. So 40...seems no big deal. But the problem with age. Is there seems to be a larger occurence of corny dudes. And this guy was no exception. Though his profile had illustrated otherwise. But when talking about school he said something along the lines of calling me his little school girl. And that was just the beginning. Nonetheless I lost interest. And that was it. 4 boys into the batter's box. 4 boys struck out. Or were they pitching and striking me out in this metaphor? Either way. I was no closer to landing a good date or meeting a cool guy.

But I was not totally deterred from #OperationBalls because I had a couple other "things" in the mix. Mainly on Twitter. Long long story short. I had been talking to a couple of guys on Twitter for quite some time. General chatter. Witty banter. Sexy flirting. Endless DMing and sometimes even lengthy texting. And I thought to myself I could wait for these boys and have conversations with myself about how long they were taking to either *excuse the metaphor* shit or get off the pot and thus be already mildly irritated when they do lol or I could just ask them out and now and they either say no and that's that or they say yes and we go out. Simple. Easy. Because it really should be.

Detour. I'm a big fan of people who do stuff. People who aren't too tired or too lazy. Now don't get me wrong. I can be an understanding person. I get it. Life can be busy. Things can get in the way. But the bare truth of the matter is...if you don't have time to hang out with me...you're not with me to have laughter and fun and all the other wonderful things that could happen. And this theory even applies to girls. I recently was on Twitter saying something about having a bad day. Linzi, a girl I'd met twice (fairly briefly I might add) tweeted me that we should have a drink sometime. I said how about tonight. She said when. I told her. I said where. We figured it out. And just like that a fucking fantastic evening was born. I had SO MUCH FUN. It was awesome. So the point of this little diatribe. I FUCKING LOVE when people do shit. Want to hang out. Let's hang out. It seems pretty damn simple to me. Just Sayin'. And if you don't want to hang out. Then...ya know...stop the bird seed yo! because mamma's got better things to do.

Back on Track. So I asked them out. The two boys. Who my friend and I had deemed The Socialist Twins. The name might never make sense to you guys. But they were both what I deem "angry" guys. Who were hipsters or not hipsters...what are hipsters again...not that I care. But seriously the name just kind of fucking fit. And if I give more away you'll probably know who they are on Twitter, so I digress. The Socialist Twins.

And the best part. They both said yes. Just like that. Want to go out? Yes. Done. One had stipulations about being super busy and blah blah blah but the truth was I figured I could make it work. I mean...if you could see how awesome I am...how could you not want to make the effort to hang out with me.

But life isn't without its glitches. And before I knew it they had both fallen to the wayside. I texted the busy one once to ask about his schedule like let's plan this thing were my thoughts. And he didn't even respond. Now bear in mind it had been months since I texted. So the following Monday I DMed on Twitter. Same phone number? I asked and he said something about a busy weekend and blah blah blah. But that was enough for me. Being busy is one thing. Not valuing my time or me enough to simply text back. Done. Crush. *Poof*. And he was done.

The other one was out of town for a week and when he was back the plan was to hang. But when he returned he didn't even mention it. One day he even joked about douchebag guys and how dudes can be such idiots after a day of my tweeting ranty-esque things. The hilarity was palpable. But I decided now or never and mentioned it. He asked about my schedule. I told him. Than basically said he was busy all week. LMAO. Like why even ask haha! But I digress...eventually he said something super super lame like I'll check my schedule and get back to you. Weak. I was done. He was done. Though I did eventually ask him down the road what the deal was. And he definitely fell into the unpromising sections of the busy tired scale (mentioned above). Crush. *Poof*. And he was done. And I guess so was I.

POF had proved fruitless. Twitter had proved unproductive. And though the sample size was still fairly small...I had proven that #OperationBalls, while possibly still maintaining the potential for success, was definitely not the be all end all to my dating woes.

The Bird Seed Theory or why he keeps contacting you

2011-08-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

Every so often I come to a realization. About dating. An answer to a dating question that feels so long fought for and so hard-battle-done-by that it's like solving the Riddle of the Sphinx. Like I just destroyed the ring in the fires of Mount Doom. Like I just solved world hunger. Like I just figured out where in the world is fucking Carmen San Diego. Coherently explained the Matrix. And made cold fusion easily accessible and replicable to the general public. It's like I know...just fucking know exactly how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a Tootsie-Pop.

The Bird Seed Theory (or, why he keeps contacting you).

The thing of the thing is. Dating. Is all about effort. And the fundamental difference in how men and women, view effort is the leading cause of dating frustration. Okay so I kind of made that bit up...the "leading cause" bit...but bear with me and you might start to agree. See, if you were to ask most chicks what is the worst part about dating? I would hedge my bets that they would say the uncertainty. Rejection hurts and uncomfortable moments suck and after awhile everybody gets frustrated and wants to call it a day. But the worst THE WORST part about dating is the uncertainty. the waiting. the fade. and then the come-back-charlieness of it all.

And somehow it came to me. One day. Awhile back. The day I moved out of residence back at the end of April. Driving home from UBC, talking to my brother (who had so graciously helped me move), about TheNickName. And just like that. It came together for me. The genius. Sort of like He's Just Not That Into You...Version 2.0...The Bird Seed Theory.

Girls are very selective about the effort they put into boys and dating. We throw thick chunks of bread at select ducks. Only the ones we really like. The ones we see a potential with. The ones who make us swoon. Or dick us down just right (don't get it wrong...it's not always about mush and heart)...but the point is we only throw bread when its worth our while. Effort is precious and we don't like to waste.

Boys throw bird seed *makes bird seed throwing gesture*. Boys throw fucking bird seed constantly...all the time...every moment...of every day...every heart beat...throwing fucking bird seed...not caring who it lands on. Now this isn't to say that boys will date or bang all the ducks they throw seed at. That's not the point. The point is to have the option. Boys are always on the prowl. Always having things in the mix. It's like it's in their DNA or something. And I know what you're thinking...doesn't that negate the theory of effort? And the answer is NO. Quite the contrary. Because in fact, boys don't see throwing the seed as effort. Because it's all in the name of sex. And while we're only keeping the options open with those boys we want right now, boys are inherently thinking...more...possibility...later.So here's your real-world-tangible-practical-jesus-I-wish-we'd-known-this-earlier-so-much-wasted-time-lesson.

The next time Charlie comes back...a text message...a FB wall post...a special Tweet...a phonecall...whatever....that leaves you thinking wow. He misses me. He's thinking about me. He made a mistake in how he treated me before. He didn't mean it when he pulled the fade on me. He didn't mean it those other 2 times he bailed on plans. He thinks I'm special really fucking special.

He Doesn't. but but but. No! He really really fucking doesn't.

Sure it's quite possible he cares about you in the same sense that I generally hope people in the world are happy and leading joyful lives and all that. But to be totally honest. He doesn't give a shit about you. Nothing has changed. I promise. He is NOT the exception. You are NOT the exception. Maybe he enjoys your conversation. Maybe he thinks you're hot and would be cool with a bang. Pending that it fit his schedule. Pending that some other chick he'd been throwing bird seed at and that he wanted more wasn't available. Whatever his circumstances or reasons are...this dude is not interested in you. Even a proper booty call knows how to be blunt, honest and respect your time. A dude throwing bird seed has no concern for your time. Because while throwing bread at him is exacting effort on your part...you're just another duck on his row to throw some seed up. *seed throwing gestures*

And to make sure you all listen. And really know that this isn't just something I'm saying but can't back up with actual facts. I give you both Garbage Man and TheNickName. Both these dudes were done with me by the 2nd date (possibly even before). And after that 2nd date...they kept in contact. For months. Like seriously fucking months. And while in my mind I cannot fathom exerting that much effort to stay in contact with someone you had no real interest in hanging out with again...for them I imagine I was just one in a ton of other chicks. Or one in a ton of other hobbies. Or one in a ton of whatever-the-fuck-they-do-with-their-time. But while I assumed the continued contact was a reflection on the ~~good~~ ~~so-so~~ ~~satisfactory~~ ~~meh~~ times we had spent together and the connection we had. I was wrong. So so fucking wrong. They were just throwing bird seed. And I was just a duck running around with my head cut off. Does that analogy work? I think so. You get the idea anyway.

So the next time a dude who isn't treating you like you think he should. Or a dude that ditched you comes back with a less than grand gesture. Or really you just have an inkling that you're doing all the work. STOP THROWING BREAD at his bird seed throwing ass and find yourself another pond to go loiter at. Because this one is not good for you.

The End of An Era. The Beginning of Another.

2011-05-28T13:12:00.000-07:00

The truth is I don't really know what happened. What's happened. What's happening. But it's not fun like it used to be. There was a time that dating felt like an adventure and boys felt like prizes. But now. They feel like punishments. They feel like anger. And frustration. They feel like sharp objects. Digging into me. Dividing me. Tearing away at all the good bits I've built up. Every disappointment (and they seem to be endless) feels like claws tearing at the cotton candy I had so happily swaddled myself in. They feel like a waste of time. And I can't bear to be in this place. To live in a place where I despise an entire gender. (Okay well not everyone in the gender). But seriously. Rage. Tears. Rage. Tears. Hope. Disappointment. Rage. Tears. Rage. Tears.

And I need a change. Now before you all get concerned I've gone off the deep end or something I assure you I haven't. The truth is I expect that a great deal of additional pressure is placed upon the disappointments of boys....by the fact that not only am I pissed with the disappointment...but there's self-focused anger. I should've been studying. I should've been working. I should've been exercising. I should've been writing a book. I shoulda shoulda shoulda been doing anything other than wasting time on boys. So never fear. I won't be spending all my future time moping around doing nothing. I'll be reading those books. Yeah those ones in the picture. Up There. Yes all of them. Yes right away. Yes studying for the GRE and the GRE subject test. Yes getting a summer job. Yes working my ass off and losing even more Biggest Loser weight. Yes getting into Grad School.

And YES writing a book. It might not happen right now. Right away. But I'm young. And I have a lifetime of writing ahead of me. And when I do. Of course I'll alert you all immediately, if not sooner. And maybe one day I'll even come back here. To this blog. To this blog that I love. With all my heart. My heart that will eventually bounce back to its cotton-candy-boy-lovin'-happiness. I'm certain of it. But for now. For this breath. For. This. Very. Moment. I have to call it a day. I have to walk away. I have to let it be. Until I become that girl again. The one with a love of boys. The one that wrote posts like these...and meant it.

Boys of Summer

I'm Retarded for You

The Light Bulb and the Sports car

Army Fun or Being All the Single I Can Be

And for those looking for a bit of a saucier-racier-more-grown-uppy-more-swoony-more-SLUTmazing send off. Here are a few choice posts.

Tuesday. Hot. Sticky. Delicious.

A Christmas Miracle: TheNickName Gets a Second Date

Nothing Like Work.

Butterflies Fulfilled: Warning 18+ [X-rated]

And finally. A few bits of housekeeping. For now. I'm going to keep my Twitter: SSDated. I may continue to be as active as ever. I may not. Of that I'm not sure. Also. A little while ago I wanted to do some writing. About Twitter. About life. About whatever. So I created another blog. And you may see some writing on there from time to time.

Something She Tweeted

So until we see each other again. I want you all to know how much I've loved your presence...reading your comments...heeding or counter-arguing your advice...always eager for your presence again. I am forever in your debt. Always Love. Always Yours. For This. Very. Moment. And all that come after it. It's been a slice. Deuces.

SomeMaybe: HAZmisappointment?

2011-05-26T20:41:00.000-07:00

3:30pm. Monday afternoon. I was about to start getting ready for my date with HAZmazing. Yes that seems an excessive amount of time to get ready for a date. But I have this condition. Where I dawdle. I'm a dawdler. Dawdle. Dawdle. Dawdle. Word has lost all meaning. Anyway. Time can really get away from me. And since this was a date. THAT I WAS ACTUALLY EXCITED TO GO ON. And not dreading like so many other first dates I had been on (that albeit turned out successfully). I allowed myself a ton of extra time. Even if it meant I'd be sitting around hair and makeup all done for an hour before the date. Didn't care. I know boys hate to wait. So I wasn't going to make that kind of first impression.

And then it appeared. A text from HAZmazing. Well, it said I gotta cancel. I'm at a warehouse spill in Coquitlam. Guess we'll have to wait till the weekend to meet, hope that's okay, sorry. Have I ever told you guys how well I deal with disappointment? No? That's because I fucking don't. On the one hand, the cynic in me automatically assumes that there's no spill and this has all been an elaborate exercise in futility and retardation. The other hand is open to the minute possibility (she's still influenced by the cynical side) that he's telling the truth, shit happens, and obvs we'll still proceed like normal from here on out.

I'm super disappointed. I'm super deflated. And an hour later. When I've calmed down enough to text back something other than FUCK YOU! (which would be so wildly inappropriate and out-of-proportion) I text him back. No worries I say Hope everyone/thing is okay. And that's it. Nonchalant Nancy at her finest. If the excuse is bullshit I assume I'll never hear from him again. But what of that pesky situation of us being all facebook friends and shit? Ugh. If the excuse is real and it really was a real emergency that he really had to go to. Really? really! Then I assume he'll text or call when it's over and settled. Sending waves of apologies and confirmations that he does in fact want to hang out. Hours later I'm tempted to text Just to see how things went. But I don't. Because while I was all excited and ready to jump in expectations first before. I'm now removed. Aloof. Tin Man. Or at the very least full of #ExerRage.

The hours tick away. The night rolls past. Tuesday morning peaks her pretty head into my window. The day is slow and angry. The day is disappointed. The day tastes like dating bitters. This is why I wish I still drank. The Canucks play San Jose at 6:00pm. Kesler scores with 13.2 seconds left on the clock sending the teams into OT. HAZmazing posts something about this on his facebook. In a rush of adrenaline I click "like". I am immediately mortified. I am pathetic. Disgraceful. I am angry at myself. Do. Not. Fucking. Reach. Out. I may be over-reacting but honestly I a. have issues with needing to be the "cooler" one and b. am just tired of being let down by losers who don't like me (the loserishness is inherent in the not liking me in case you were curious).

The night rolls past with no contact from him. I'm certain. He doth not liketh me. Or is retarded. Either way. Not so good. Because though he doesn't have time to contact me clearly. He has time to check his POF. I delete the text convo. I delete his phone number (don't need any temptations). I decide not to delete his facebook yet for fear of looking hysterical. One Week says a friend. *high five* and it's settled. And then it's wednesday. And I'm on my way to the Canucks Outlet store to check out their jerseys. Sidenote: I was planning to get a jersey that said "SSDated" as the name and my phone number as the number. Apparently they have regulations about what you can get on an official jersey. Also, the jersey, with customization would basically cost the same as a trip to Vegas. So I facebook about the dilemma. How badly do I want this jersey? I ask. And there it is. Amidst the adament Badly!s and full on support for getting the jersey. Is a comment. From him. As long as it's 3 it says. And then not much later. I get a text. Asking. Did you get number 3?

It's Thursday night as I write this. And I haven't responded to his text. Or directly to his FB posting. The truth is. And I may be deluded in thinking this. Male or female. Friends or dating. When you bail on someone. It is the bailer's job to make sure the bailee doesn't feel jilted. Assuming of course they give a shit. Now sure enough I'm well aware this dude owes me nothing. WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET FOR FUCK'S SAKE!! But that's also the point. WE'VE NEVER FUCKING MET so I also owe him nothing. And not checking in. Not making sure he didn't totally fuck up my schedule. Or checking in to see if I'd be free for the weekend...in a timely manner...you know...like before the fucking weekend arrives. Well, that's just retarded.

On the one hand most people seem to be indicating that if a boy likes you he'll put in the effort. He'll contact again. He'll call. He'll text. He'll make his argument somehow. HotAndDumb certainly has. *more on his persistence in another post*. This is the camp that would suggest I not respond to his text. You deserve more. In the delightful words of Miss Ho Ken. You have to earn this. And it makes sense. Mostly. It's what boys on Twitter seemed to think I should do.

BUT. And here's the thing of the thing. If someone doesn't respond to me. I'm not contacting them again. Because they obviously don't want to have contact with me. Case close. *Pathetic chick face* avoided. And I know that everybody's all like boys are different and boys like to chase and all that it's in their DNA shit. But here's the really deep thing of the thing. The thing that I feel strongly about. To me. Well. That's just fucking retarded. So where am I left. Ignoring a boy who may or may not care? Hoping for contact from a species of retards? Fuck me. Asexuality it is then?

So what do you think? Should I be responding...er...over 24 hours later? Is the whole cancelling and not checking in just him being a dude...busy with work and life and I'm expecting too much with wanting more effort. Or am I right and he's not interested (for whatever reason). Am I (and my advice givers) being hysterical or HardToGet. My gut is suggesting I wait until the weekend and he'll either contact or not contact but I'll know either way and move past it (and then delete him on Wednesday). PSizzle...in his defense...not that I should be defending him. Though he has checked his POF at least once since cancelling (you can only see the date not how many times FYI)...since supposedly flying up to Prince George he hasn't checked it once. So yeah. There's that. My concern with this is what if his contact is something lame like How are you doing? and not the leap right to I really would like to hang out with you can we make some plans. What if he only texts instead of calls? What do I respond or not respond to? Also, though I'm mega interested in your advice...if you haven't read the original two posts Here and Here I'd prefer it if you didn't give your 2 cents because the only thing worse than bad advice is uninformed advice. Oh...And apparently I'm the Simon Cowell of Dating. Best. Comment. Ever. Also if you're a dude and want to weigh in on the whole...how much unheeded effort do you put in before callin' 'er quits on a girl you dig...click here to go to my new page...for polls and surveys...basically all things related to Dating Research. The Research Lab.

SSDated Something She Dated

@Starita34 But are they though. Was he really funny? Or was I just pathetic and easily impressed? #ImSuchAHardass #TinMan

25 May Favorite Reply Delete

in reply to @SSDated ↑

@Starita34Star

@SSDated Easily impressed!?! You?! You're the Simon Cowell of dating!! LOL

SomeMaybe: He Haz Potential (Part Two)

2011-05-26T16:06:00.000-07:00

So he went to Cancun. And I stayed here. With just enough boredom to keep me *browsing* his Facebook and reviewing our text conversations. But not so much boredom that *browsing* becomes stalking and reviewing becomes obsessing. And I know what you're thinking...uh...what's the difference. And the answer is whether you do it in a positive or negative light. And my sunshine was sunshiney. Mostly I was just checking dude out. And trying to confirm whether or not he was A. funny like my head was telling me he was and B. that our conversations were adorable like my head was telling me they were.

Attesting to humor is kind of hard. That's what she said. No, seriously. Because here's the thing. Sometimes I have quirky funny conversations. With IRL people. With Twitter people. And they're hilarious because it's the two of us being bizarrely weird. Which is awesome. But when you're talking to someone you might go on a first date with. You don't necessarily say all of that. So after reviewing the tapes I can't really confirm that he's hilarious. But I do know this. We had text conversations. We had an hour long phone conversation (on my cell phone...so you know that means I was interested...using up my minutes!). And I laughed. So whether he's funny. Or we're funny together. Or he just puts me in a good mood and the laughter follows suit. Things were looking good.

As for whether or not our conversations were adorable. I'd say they were. Rereading back I scan past several times when I said something funny (and that he agreed with) that caused him to respond with things like...alert your friends...we're definitely getting married (don't freak out, he was just saying it for effect). So things were definitely cute and cuddly. He seemed certain that we would get along just fine and have tons to talk about on our date.

So the irony is that before he went to Cancun, he seemed the one much more upset we had to wait to meet. I was like a week...pshhtt...that's nothing. Until Monday night rolled around and I realized it'd only been 2 nights. Fuck me. This was going to be a long week. And so I did what any self-respecting girl would day. Ate like a bird and worked me ass off at the gym. When life gives you a week...you put that week on a diet...or something like that.

But I will admit. I was excited. About a boy. Like really fucking excited. Like thank goodness they're not all super retarded. Like I wasn't sure if I'd ever find a boy even close to worth swooning over. But I was also rational. You don't fucking know him at all. Settle the fuck down. Chill the fuck out. And for fuck's sake stop telling people about him. Okay that last one was a little hard. I vaguely recall telling a few people at a Hockey watching soiree his hilariously adorable nickname...HAZmazing.

I mean he works for Haz Mat. I thought he'd be amazing. HAZmazing. This shit just writes itself, no? But then someone asked. What if he isn't...amazing? To which I responded HAZmisappointment? *insert rolling on the floor kind of laughter*. But seriously, what if he turns out to be retarded like all the rest? And again. This shit just fucking writes itself. HAZard. Double meaning built in. *Throws up hands and walks off stage it'll never get better than this!*

And that was Friday night. I only had to wait one more day for him to get back from vacation. And though there was a twinge of disappointment that he hadn't contacted me say by Thursday or something to firm up plans for the weekend and our first meet, I totally understood. And I couldn't really be a hypocrite could I? Because the thing of the thing is this. I'm just under 4 weeks I'm going to the Bahamas for a wedding (SO EXCITED!!! which you may already know if you follow me on Twitter). And even if on some ridiculous spin of events HAZmazing and I were dating vigorously (I can't bring myself to call dating serious with a time elapse of less than a month...even in the hypothetical form). I wouldn't be contacting him from BTown. Seriously, yo! I'm going for 6 nights. And I plan to spend them enjoying all that family and fabulousness have to offer. I will NOT be worried about what's going on back home. Deuces! I'll call ya in a week...or something like that. So I can't really fault a dude for not contacting from Mexico to make a date with a chick he's never even met.

Saturday rolled around. He was supposed to get back at 8. 10:30 rolls around and dude texts me. SCORE! He asks my schedule. It's mostly open except for Wednesday night. He's flying to Prince George Tuesday and getting back Thursday? Friday??? At the time I don't ask why he doesn't know when he's getting back or why he's going up to PG. I'll either ask on the date or not my biz ya know. So that leaves Sunday or Monday I say. Monday night he says Done! Firm up details Monday morning? And I respond Sounds great. Because it did. I was so excited!

But here's the thing. We were only in contact for 3 maybe 4 days before he left. But those days were FILLED with texting...seriously, Filled. But after he got our only 2 text convos have been about date planning. No real conversation. No voice conversation. Just...details. And the thing is. I assumed he'd text Monday morning. But 11:45am rolled around and no text had come to firm up details. Now I know there's all those rules about always letting them contact you and stuff. But A. I wasn't going to waste my day thinking I'd have a date only to never hear from him. Rather get it sorted right away. Or B. So far he'd ALWAYS been the contact-initiator so I figured one time...no biggie.

My apprehensions were relieved when he replied almost immediately. Clearly he was interested. Right?!?! He suggested coffee or he could cook us dinner (mmm steak). So funny how boys really don't get what it is to be a lady and having to be careful...you don't...ya know...get murdered. But even more than that...why aren't they worried I could be such a complete and totally horrible dud and then I would be in their apartment and Man Alive that would be fucking awkward. But I digress. Picked a coffee shop. Halfway between us. 7:30pm. See ya then :)

SomeMaybe: He Haz Potential (Part One)

2011-05-25T21:04:00.000-07:00

HAZmazing

The Stats: 6'1 -- 37 -- Haz Mat

The Story: Awhile back I turned off my POF notifications. I had the ~~less than amazing~~ App on my phone and frankly I didn't need all the emails telling me LoserAged65 and RetardedClinicallyDiagnosed were messaging me and saving me as their favorites. But then it came. My ~~ladytime~~ blogistential crisis. And I was flailing. I wasn't really considering closing my POF profile or anything but still. I was. urgh. uh. grrrr. Not impressed with what was on the table for dinner. So I figured I'd do a little perusing. And the first place I looked was the "boys that have saved you as a favorite" list. Because after all nothing bolsters a lady like a bunch of boys who ~~wack off to her at night but never speak to her~~ think she's pretty. And there he was. Hidden amongst the column of duds. A possibility. A chance. A "SomeMaybe".

There he was. Big like a hot sexy bear. And his tagline was about laughter (so is mine). And his profile seemed to stress humor. Dry sarcastic humor. My kind of humor. But what would I write to him? I didn't want it to just be...saw you saved me as a favorite so I needed something to say. And then it came to me. From his profile. The one that said he was looking for someone Open to adventure and any Top Secret Missions. And I'm nothing if not a gal prepared for a Top Secret Mission. Top Secret being my favorite of all kinds of missions. I said. So at the very least we have that.

He messaged back. I messaged forth. He ebbed and I flowed. Asked for digits. Took it to the phones. Texted up a storm. Adorable. Little bit cheeky. Funny. Banter. And one of the highlights. Our humor? Very much the same. So far. I have been wrong before after all. And then he told me he would call. And he did. And it was all pretty fucking flawless. Except. except. e.x.c.e.p.t.....

He was leaving for Cancun in 2 days. And I was busy for those 2 days. And I know what you're thinking. He's only going for a week. But a week? In online dating? Is kind of like forever. And you know what makes it EVEN worse? When he suggests that we Facebook each other. Something I rarely do. Something I NEVER do before I've even met someone. But he charmed me right out of ~~my pants~~ my good senses. And so I did it.

The Pros: Takes a bit of the pressure off of whether or not he'll think I look like my pictures. I always worry that my pics on POF look better than I do in real life (they're not photoshopped or anything...and some "Somethings" have commented I look even better...so clearly...I just have issues lol). But on Facebook I have pictures without makeup, pictures in my weekday bra, pictures where I'm just having fun and laughing louder than you can imagine instead of busy trying to look hot and thin. Good pictures. Real pictures. Me pictures. And, because on the phone, I had said I was chubby and he had said no, you're curvy and I was like no, I'm chubby *said with a giggle and a smile* I had some minor trepidation. But after Facebook, he would have a rounder picture (pun intended). The pros for me? He feels less like a potential serial killer. Especially when I click one of his friends and they have like 10 friends in common with me. He has none in common with me but still. Feels like a real person. With a real life. Who won't ya know. Murder me. Right away.

The Cons: I can be a Tin Man. A pillar of resignation and deprivation. Basically I can easily not eat a donut. Until you put one right in fucking front of me. Even worse. Telling me I can't throw the donut out and in a week (through miraculous science that keeps it fresh) I can eat the donut. So I sit there. All week. Just staring at it. Thinking about it. Fantasizing how good it will taste. The icing on my lips. The jelly on my tongue. How it will fill me up completely but never past full. It will melt like better but be soft and doughy like fudge. It'll be salty and sweet all rolled into one. By the end of the week I'm mostly certain this donut will fucking complete me. And so you can see. Things can get out of hand.

The Standing: I asked when he would be back from Cancun. He said Saturday at 8pm. He said he wanted to hang out right away. Said we would talk later in the week. And then he went to Cancun....

To Be Continued.... HERE

Ironically Idiotic: THAT'S Why You're On Plenty of Fish

2011-05-19T14:25:00.000-07:00

His username? Megamind. Plus some numbers after it. So don't worry I'm still not totally outing this guy. Though I should. I mean with stupidity like this. Normally I don't even hint at a online name. But this one? Just too fucking ironic not to.

He messages. nice set of tits. wanna hook up.

Usually I just block. But I was feeling. Well. Tauntilicious? Engagamentary? Responsamazing? Something like that. I respond. You seem super smart. I would definitely like to hook up with you.

He responds. i sence some sarcasim, lol give me ur # and we will plane something. His attempt at wit isn't completely lost on me. But too little too late and the lack of sense to know that joking about a bomb in an airport is never a good idea is just the kind of thing that pushes me away from dudes like this. Plus there's always the alternative. He's actually this moronic and wasn't being funny but simply honest.

I wanted to respond with one of those rejection hotline numbers. But alas I googled...I dialed...and it was always busy. Not as funny. So I simply told him. Definitely....give me a call...day or night...I'm your gal...absolutely anytime...555-5555.

And perhaps I crushed his super-stout ego. Perhaps his Mega mind just couldn't comprehend all the genius I had laid at his feet. Either way. That was the last I heard of the ironically idiotic MegaMindRandomDigits and his rapier wit. That was until he messaged again a week later. At which point I did block him. Me and my tits are definitely missing out though I'm certain of it.

And That's Why You're On Plenty of Fish. (though I'm always left wondering...what's my reason? best not think too deeply on that one ;)

I Eat Grapefruits To Save You: A Love Poem

2011-05-13T13:41:00.000-07:00

I eat grapefruits to save you, late at night

Rabid, in the moment your words, hard and fast

Become a language, I no longer understand

Push it hard into me, force a peeling of my dream

That vision squeezed tight, in hands too rough to hold

My heart, a madlib, and you write anything, something

Anything, Just so you won’t miss this space, fill me up

With minutes, minute moments, the flutter of a lash

When I laughed and you didn’t. I eat, eat, eat

Grapefruits, in the middle of the night, to save you

Pour my pain into pulp, rip you into sections,

Time you out into pieces, digestible moments

Bearable seconds, of all the days I hate you.

All the years, that I’ve hated you, so much

That I eat grapefruits, in the middle of the night,

Just to save you.

I plot plans, hatch seeds, grope and peel apart

My own skin, because I found it here, found me

Here, because I let it get to here.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, juice runs away

From your chatter, putting me to sleep, by the way,

You just don’t get my jokes.

I stuff citrus down my throat so I won’t say the things,

That make me hate you, offer up the reasons why I despise,

You.

Eating grapefruits late at night like an arangautang

In the middle of the kitchen, the middle of the this life

The middle of however the fuck we got here.

I choke on a seed for a second like heaven,

Only I’m an atheist and this is bullshit. I don’t even like

Grapefruit. They’re bitter, the skin is too thick and

Peeling them makes my hands feel funny.

Last Thursday you came downstairs to look for me,

But instead of a shirt made see-through by sloppy juice

I ate the words I love you. Swallowed hard and crawled

Across the paper.

Pick Up: Milk, eggs, ~~Grapefruit~~

SomeMaybe: The Case of the Missing Intellect

2011-05-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

Hot and Dumb

The Stats: 5'11 -- 29 -- Contractor/Personal Trainer -- Name + Number username (lacks creativity or wit)

The Story: Truth be told he messaged something about my boobs. Which was lame. But he was super hot. Though what actually garnered my response was his profile. He seemed upbeat and honest. Said he liked to travel to Vegas (and Mexico) a couple times a year but didn't drink much. He wasn't into using msn and didn't want a message buddy. Seemed to be anti-ignorance and stupidity and basically seemed to understand the concept that relationships etc. should be 50/50, two equal partners. It all sounded pretty good. In theory.

The Pros: I mentioned he was hot right? And buff? And though I can't actually confirm he seemed super manly...he works in construction and rides a Harley...so if stereotypes could talk. Just Sayin'. Plus he also seemed like he was pretty balls out to make things happen. In under 8 messages he'd suggested we take things to the phones. He was avid in the texting and then took it to the voices, he called.

The Cons: As I try to recount these for you. I know it is NOT a good sign that I'm embarassed to even mention some of them. Because this dude is clearly not for me. CLEARLY. NOT. FOR. ME. But he's hot. And well. People have done dumber things. Maybe.

The Standing: Tough to say. I want to say hopeful optimism (you know how I hate to leave a party first) but I think it's more like reserved pessimism (I'm barely interested and just hoping someone better asks me out). And if this blog were a wingwoman. You might say I'm considering jumping on a grenade. We'll see what the next few days/weeks hold.

The truth is.

The truth is.

The truth is. He was hot and there was no one better. And also because I cannot face it. I cannot bring myself to believe. That boys are as genuinely idiotic as they've been showing me lately. It has to be laziness. It has to be something overcomeable. Something they can change. If they wanted to. And they will want to. They have to. The just have to. And so I stand by. Tagging along. Stringing them along? Until they overcome it. And bring their best to me. Because after all. I deserve it. No?

So that's why I took his number. When he offered it. In something like message 8. Quick back and forths. And I knew almost nothing about him. But that was fine. Because he was moving things forward. And so in a break between classes. I text. I say hey it's SSD from POF blah blah blah. He responds and spells my name wrong. Then messages again to ask for a pic. For his contacts. I tell him it's not a good start if he can't remember who I am from my name alone. He says I know silly and nevermind because he just wanted it for his iPhone. Like that actually logically explains it. I decide to let it slide for the moment. I make some joke about maybe letting him take one some day. Never going to happen. And proceed to ask some banal (but required by social protocol) questions. Travel? Favorite city? etc.?

75% of the time I ask a question he simply answers it. And doesn't ask one back. I get bored with this and stop responding. He sort of picks up the slack. I say sort of because well. It's still barely. And then after I ask a simple question he proceeds to offer this huge unasked for dating diatribe of sorts. Random! But so priceless I thought it could only be captured by photos.

As you can see. I was at a loss for how to respond to the random information. Which btw I later recognized from his profile. Like he just reiterated it. fucking random. And well honestly I was bored of it. Of him. Of asking questions. I gave him one last incredibly obvious chance. Which he promptly blew. And I became a liar for calling it the last chance. His question? Like I said send me a few pics. Fuck. Me. Not only is this not a question. But its repetitive. Idiotic. And really fucking irritating. And so I respond.

Yeah okay. I think we're looking for different things...All the best :) But he doesn't just go off and have all the best. He texts back. Dif things? next message. Ok...well...guess you are I. next message. Looking for a booty call ??? I'm looking for a gf. next message. ???

And you have to wonder. Is he intentionally baiting me? Is he really just retarded? So I spout some shit about how I'm looking to get to know someone and to be honest he doesn't seem that interested in actually getting to KNOW me and something about how asking for pics repeatedly when I have like 7 on my profile is a major turn off.And that's when he says the thing that will be a recurrent theme with us. With him. With his retardation. And why I really don't have a good feeling about the two of us hanging out.

It was a JOKE. next message. I'm at work and hanging off a house...Chill out. next message. It's hard to txt. And I know you're all thinking exactly what I'm thinking. Oh No He Didn't! *appropriate hand snapping head twitching and face scrunching* Did this dude just tell me to chill out? Or more importantly use the guise of a joke for his stupidity???

@SSDated

Something She Dated

You can't just say...I was joking...after every stupid thing you say and have it be true. Being retarded is not the same as being a wizard.

1 May via web Unfavorite Reply Delete

I text back no worries but what I really mean is fuck whatever dude. He messages again later that night. It goes like this. [blah blah blah idle boring chatter blah blah blah]. The next day it's the same. Though I'm starting to notice this weird thing. Sometimes he says stuff. Completely out of the blue. Like he's somehow answering questions I've never asked. Like one day after he messaged greetings etcetera. I messaged I'm good, How are you? And his response was...er...a little off. Not a big deal or anything but...off. I'm in Richmond...it's sunny here. I mean these finely worded answers except that they weren't my question. We banter back and forth a bit (and I'm using banter here incredibly loosely) until he asks if I want to hang out. I can't right now I say I'm studying and it's almost exam time.

And this is when I start to see the errors of my way getting back on Plenty of Fish before school is over. In my defense I did it because boys usually take for-fucking-ever to get to the actual taking me out stage so I figured it would be timed quite right. But I do feel bad for the guy because I too, hate, when someone seems hesitant/makes you wait to date them. And so I tell him this. And lay it all out. Balls to the wall. This is why I'm busy. This is how long I'll be busy for. I DO want to hang out. I understand if he doesn't wait.

His response. That's fat. next message. Far...What's the point really of being on a dating website if you can't date...just say you want an email buddy. Moron. I respond. Because I don't want an email buddy...and I'll have all kinds of time to date...soon...but it's all good if that's a deal breaker for you I completely understand.

His response. Soon? You mean a month away!! My response. 3 weeks. But I hear what you're saying...it is what it is though so... And then I heard nothing back. No biggie. I understood. Back to studying. Only the next day. There he was again. Texting. How's school?

I'm going to stop here. Well stop reiterating the basics of what happened. Because its too fucking long and too fucking tedious. This last message was on April 1st. They continue up to now. And yes obviously that means I engaged somewhat. Though in my defense with incredibly minimal effort. To sum up what goes down in these next weeks....

He says things like: What dooin? and Wanna hang out??(when I was emphatically clear about when I would be available) and I was joking (in situations where there is no joke). He also says random things like Riding my bike when no one asked and Sunny out when no one asked. At one point we talked on the phone. Spent most of the conversation trying to steer him away from racist chatter about driver's in Richmond and even after it was clear I was displeased with that kind of talk and even went through a lengthy discussion about how his argument was not logically sound...he didn't get the idea.

And now I know what you're thinking. With all that fucking idiocy (and you should assume for time's sake I've left a ton of it out). Even if he's super hot. How on earth could I still be talking to him. And I'll tell you. I'll give you access to my Kryptonite. Not that you don't already know. And I know you're thinking. But wait he's not even close to smart. And you're right. But there's potential. Because at some point we were talking about academia. And blah blah blah. And guess what Mr. Hot and Dumb's dear old mommy does/did. Professor of Engineering. I'll let that sit with you for a minute. So she's a woman. With a PhD. In Engineering. I mean shit son. It doesn't get much smarter than that. And so I went along for the ride. Until he revealed his inner smarty-pants. Or at least until I could rationalize how this dumbapple could fall so far from the tree.

So exams came and went. I moved out of my dorm apartment. Summer had begun (in theory) though the weather had yet to reflect it. And on the day I was going to text to tell him all this. He texted me first. Wanting to hang out. But I couldn't this weekend...Easter weekend...Family dinner and plans and all that. How about Monday night? I say. His response. Prob be raining -- I'm only on my bike now. Ugh. What a fucking tool. Hmm does that mean you can only ever hang out when it's sunny/last minute kind of thing? And you all know how much I fucking love spontaneity. Well I won't wanna ride anywhere at night when it's pissing out. And at first I'm a little bit like. Well that does kind of make a bit of sense. Except. Wait. He said he also had a truck. So. Bullshit. True enough I say that makes sense. And that's when he hits me with it. The revelation that he's in fact a bitchy chick.

Well I've been free everyday. next message.
All weekend. next message.
And for the last few weeks -- you've never bothered

I say Never bothered?? I was studying for exams :( . And I know I should stop. Just delete. But I'm all calm and breezy so I figure I'll just press on. But now they're over and I can go back to being a normal person so if you do want to hang out sometime I'm sure we can figure something out. There's no response. No biggie. Except 3 days later. There he is again. Texting me during Game 7. Which he is surprisingly watching. I ask where during commercials. He says pub in New West. He doesn't ask where I am. I don't respond further.

The next day he texts. How's your day? I don't respond. Figure that'll be the end of him. I'm officially too bored to care. Only. Wait. What. 3 days later there he is again. What's up? I give him short responses. He gives answers to questions I haven't asked. The convo ends with me responding a bored Awesome to his unasked for answer of so nice on my bike. And then 3 days later. (Does this dude have OCD? what's with every 3rd day)?

The convo started fine ~~and boring~~. Blah blah blah. But then it happened. One of the final straws (notice I say one lol). He texts the day of Round 2 Game 2. I tell him I'm watching the game. He tries to guilt me into watching the fight instead...something about the fight only comes once a year...this is only game 2. I mean shit son. Is he fucking retarded!?!?! Don't fuck with the Canucks dude. Ever. Fool.

The next day (May 1st) I get another text from him. The ever-charming ever-priceless Hey what dooin. I respond that I'm hanging out with friends. Was thinking maybe we should make some plan to grab a coffee sometime :) I'm heading to Seattle for a couple days but how about Thursday night?

His response. How about now. I mean fuck me. You. Are. Retarded!!! (Both of us since I keep responding to this idiocy). 1. That annoys the shit out of me. If I wanted to hang out now I would've suggested it but 2. I just said I'm with my friends. Which is what I responded. Sorry, like I said I'm hanging out with my friends...so thursday night? At this point I was honestly hoping he'd say no. And never text again. But he didn't. He said. Sure.

I ask if any time or place is better for him. He says don't matter. Grammar aside. It does fucking matter. I don't know what time he gets off work. If he'll want to shower first. Where he's working at the moment. If he even drinks coffee. I hint at this by asking if he's working thursday? He says course. He obviously doesn't find the need for of. But whatever. And then he hits me with possibly the MOST retarded of all the texts thus far.

What you don't allow other people to meet your friends?

Not someone I've never met yet lol...why would I want to? And then I get incredibly blunt. I have to ask you something honestly...do you think there's an actual possibility that you and I will mesh well? And his response I don't know till I meet you. I don't accept this kind of logic. Ok well I usually have a sense of whether or not there's a possibility of me getting along well with someone (it's how I decide who to respond to/message with and who not to)...and I have to be honest...with even text convo we have I become more hesitant to meet and think it less likely that we'd get along... And his response. Which was actually really calm and breezy. Ok well if you don't want to meet that's fine. And the truth is I didn't. So I didn't respond.

And you'd think that was the end. You'd think! But nope. 3 days later. There it was again. Those words I love. What dooin. I respond hours later (I'm certainly not wasting roaming on him) I was in Seattle. His response is I see. I don't respond. The next day he circles the wagons again. What dooin. I respond Out at friend's party...you? He's in Bed. Riveting. Wild night huh ;). No response. And then. You won't fucking believe. To the very day. Like clockwork. Like OCD dating. 3 days later. Only this time it's an improved Hey You. I mean swoon right!?! Hey I say How's it going? Good hunie Bleh. Good to hear I say because after all he never asked me back. And then he asks how POF is treating me. I'm honest. Kind of sucks right now. He asks Right now? lol gone on many dates huh?

Sorry huh? Are you saying you've gone on many dates or asking if I have. He was asking if I have. I tell him the edited truth. No dates. ~~Boys are retarded~~. Can't find any boys that I want to go out with. ~~Boys are lazy and I'm becoming a lesbian~~. Boys haven't been stepping their game up. Etc. How's POF for you? He responds that he's been busy and haven't gone on any dates lately. I say Gotcha. On the upside being busy is a better situation than just not being able to find someone you were excited to go out with...so that's good for you :) He responds lol did I mention there's no one catching my attention. Well wana meet up tomorrow. And then I begin what I think will be the final diatribe but since it happened on the 9th of May and this being the 11th...there's always the possibility of a what dooin coming my way tomorrow.

Here's what I balls to the wall said. Because when you're not really into someone. You've got nothing to lose. And honestly that tiny optimist inside of me (the one I ate not the one in my soul) keeps hoping he'll pull out of his Mighty Casey slump and hit one out of the park.

If it helps I begin I`m empathetic to how irritating it must be that I`m so hesitant to meet...but I`m not really sure anything has changed...I`ve kind of been hoping you`d say something that would change my mind...but aside from the fact that you thought my boobs were hot in that first message I`m not even sure there`s anything you like about me...And to be clear people I think I`m amazing...I`m just not sure this dude thinks that. But let`s press on. And yes I know we haven't met but even so...people have to base whether or not to meet someone on SOMETHING...ya know?

His eloquent charming response that totally convinced me that he is the Robin to my Batman? I got yah...well up to you hun. Uh. Yeah. I know dipshit. But I'd already come this far. I was going to poke this bear till he screamed or at the very least cried. Well...I hate to be so blunt...but IS there any other reason than looks that you want to meet me? And his response. I mean they should put it in fucking Valentine's Day cards. Hallmark it!

Yeah I'm curious to put a person to all this txtn!!! It's getting old lol...what do we have to loose jeez. Loose? Jeez? Fuck me. Wow I say Nothing makes a chick swoon like...curiosity? And he counters Hahaha well aren't you curious to meet me? And for those of you watching my tweets at this moment. You can see just what exactly I was thinking in response to that.

@SSDatedSomething She Dated

He said...well aren't you curious to meet me? How do I get out of this one gracefully...because no...not really.#SeaOfRetards

9 May via Twitter for iPhone Unfavorite Reply Delete

I tried to respond as close to the truth as possible without being a huge bitch. I guess...but I'd bet you'd have the same curiosity for anyone you'd been texting...it's not ME specific. His response. You're a read self defeated huh...never heard if go with the flow. Minus the grammatical flaws and typing errors I understood his message loud and clear. He was fucking clueless. And this is where we get to my final message.

lol see it's stuff like that that makes me hesitant to meet you...who tries to make the chick (they should be trying to impress) feel bad??? Not to mention go with the flow doesn't really apply here...if it did that same logic would have me dating every dude who messages on POF. And his response.

Hahahaha ok I'm tired....Goodnight. I imagine he is. Trying to read that last message alone would likely have exerted the majority of his brain power. And THAT my friend, is exhausting. So after writing these last three "SomeMaybes" - Funny Today Gone Tomorrow & He Blinded Me With Engineering & this one. I've come to a conclusion. This batch of boys is bunk. The truth is. As much as I want to be a hopeful optimist. To hope that some of these boys will pan out. Sometimes I think you just have to start over. From scratch. New recipe. New ingredients. Because this batch. Tasted a little burnt. But at the very least. The positive that comes from this never-ending blog post. I'm now caught up. I can now post about current current (imagine that rollerskating movie with T.I. and the girl saying New New lol) boys. The most up-to-date possible. Wish me luck. Let's press on.

Dear Boys, 90% Curious

2011-05-10T02:03:00.000-07:00

This post has been moved, Click the link

Dear Boys, 90% Curious

to read it in full on JadedLovers.com or click here to find out about the changes taking place with this blog.

SomeMaybe: He Blinded Me With Engineering

2011-05-02T18:09:00.000-07:00

So after yesterday's introduction to the current state of affairs. The "SomeMaybes". Here is the second in my current trifecta of stellar choices. I mean we're talking serious winners.

IntelliSnooze

The Stats: 6'6 -- 28 -- Engineer (specializing in physics...works on fuel cells)

The Story: First he saved me as a favorite. Than a week or two later he messaged. He asked about what I was studying and what my career goals are. Conversation flowed. He was a smarty pants. But in a cute way. Except. Then it started to be less cute. As he listed the books he'd recently read, like he was reading from one of my class syllabi, I started to sense a little bit of pretension. But then he also said something really er...out of place. I had accidentally hit the send button early on one of my messages that was only half complete. I sent another message saying as much. His response was Don't worry about sending the message prematurely. I have a little problem with emitting things prematurely myself. I, of course, assume he's joking. I'm still not totally sure. It was never mentioned again. Ugh. Either way not pleased with the presence of this topic.

Detour. Dear Boys, don't joke about bombs in airports, anything racist and/or premature ejaculation. Nobody is laughing. Yours Truly, Uptight-don't-joke-when-my-potential-satisfaction-is-on-the-line.

But we pressed on. Because honestly he seemed really smart (social awkwardness aside). And I'm guessing he thought I was hot and/or smart. But then school got intense with exams and his questions were limited. And frankly, after one message that though included lots of response, didn't include a single question back...I just left it. I had shit to do.

The Pros: He seemed quite smart. Plus (and this is always assuming someone is telling the truth) his degree in engineering is specialized in Physics (he works with fuel cells or something) so you know I'm digging that. His mom was and an English Lit prof (aka smart genes?) and though not most important something that delights me...he's tall. 6'6. I mean come on! Yes!

The Cons: He seemed kind of pretentious. Now I know I like smart people and I say it all the time. And I want someone who values their own intelligence. But still. There's ways to go about showing/having/etc. it. Plus he seemed to be an avid hiker (like every or other weekend). Which is cool and all but while I'm game for a hike. It's not like a passion or something. Not even something I enjoy all that much. Finally. Though tall, aside from that I didn't find him hugely attractive.

The Standing: But then exams were over and I thought to myself though I didn't find him hugely attractive. Nor ridiculously funny. We all know I have a thing for brains. And so I messaged. With my apologies about the 2 weeks-ish lapse in response time. And he responded right quick. And more convo ensued. But honestly. It wasn't exciting chatter. There was no flirting. It was simple stats kind of stuff. What are you up to for the weekend? and Are you watching the game? and Where did you go hiking? (obvs. that last one was me asking him lol). And then the messages stopped. My last message was something about how long it took me to understand a typo. I was making fun of myself. Maybe he thought I was making fun of him. Who knows. Maybe he was just as bored with me as I with him. But either way. There it lies.

Addendum. He messaged again. No joke. So boring. Another How's it going? type message. But you know. Eternal optimism and all that. So I went balls to the wall. And sent one last message. One last chance for him to be interesting. Because I was tired of being the kindling to our conversations. And I'll admit it was a bit lame. And a bit weak sauce. But it would indicate I was er...um...bored. And yet also give him an opening. So I wrote Anything else you want to ask me? And he responded. There's a ton of things I want to ask you but I'm sure you won't want to answer ;) and then some other day to day bullshit (weather/hockey/blah/zzzzz). At first I was like wtf? Questions I wouldn't want to answer??? And then it hit me. Like a retarded ton of bricks. Sexual questions. And the thing is we all know I'm a perv. So it's not that I don't get all sexual with it when the time is good and ready. But this dude had just revealed his flaw. THIS is why he was on Plenty Of Fish. And THIS is why I was out. No response. Meh. Better Press On.

SomeMaybe: Funny Today Gone Tomorrow

2011-05-01T17:31:00.000-07:00

Because everybody needs a little SomeMaybe in their lives...

I've always said I'm not going to get bitter. About dating. Become one of those downers. Bleh. That person you avoid at parties (or flock to if you're equally bitter and jaded). That chick who dating used up and spit out. And as far as I can tell I'm not. Yet. See the thing is. I still love dating. Butterflies. Magic. Sex. Bliss. Fun. Hilarity. I mean what's not to love. Boys on the other hand? Are another story. I might be losing a bit of faith. That not only can I find one amazingly fun awesome dude but that I can find several and have some fun dating them. But we'll save the diatribe for another day and Willy Wonka ourselves outta this mess better press on.

So since I'm not quite sure how many actual dates I have in my near future. I figured I'd start making the whole "Online Dating" process a little more transparent for you all. You can swoon when I swoon. Laugh when I laugh. Ridicule when I ridicule. It's going to be out of this world. Plus this way it's almost a bit "choose your own adventure" since instead of me telling you the stories a week (or 4 months) after they've happened you'll be letting me know just exactly how awful candidate number 4 is before I have the luxury of partaking in a date with him.

And since we all know how I love the labels. The precise naming of things. You know I would need a separate category for these fellas. The boys in the infantile stages of our courtship. The not-quite "Somethings". The "SomeMaybes" if you will. Because after all...it's the thing that is in question. And we all know the truth of the matter. Boys, you're nobody till SSD has dated you.

When March rolled around this term, I began to think. About boys. About dates. Motivation. Preparation. And so I threw up a quick profile on POF. Posted a wide range of pics (gotta keep it honest). I didn't have much time to come up with something genius...so I just put this up:

About Me:

I'm awesome. No? You don't believe me? It does sound a little suspect I know. Don't worry though I'm sure you'll find some proof soon. Facts are facts. So I realize it can be really irritating when a person leaves the profile blank but think of it as the gift of an approach...you could basically ask me anything and have it be a good first message. Nice how I set that up for you huh? It's like I'm your wingman and your future best first date. Rad.

First Date:

Coffee? Game of pool? Basically something where you can make the judgment of whether you think I'm still hot and I can tell if you're a serial killer or not (and preferably make each other laugh a bit). I like to save the theatrics for the second date

And the messages flooded in. Actually that's a lie. The first few days I barely got a message. My self-esteem took a major plummet. Get ahold of yourself I said. But before I really had time to wallow in illogical self-pity it was essay-writing time to the extreme and I had no time to be concerned. And as it turned out there was no need. I can't explain away those first few days but since then the messages really have been pouring in. Unfortunately the quality of stock has been...er...sub par. But more on them later. Who I want to talk about right now are the boys that made it through. The first few salmon who swam upriver and jumped the falls. Ready to lay eggs? This labored metaphor may be getting a bit lost but you get the idea.

So there they were. Three of them. Three-fold. Third times a charm. or...Bad luck comes in threes?

And here is the state of affairs with the first. Or as I like to refer to him...Funny Today Gone Tomorrow.

Funny Today Gone Tomorrow

The Stats: 5'11 -- 23 -- Radio/Media/Advertising -- Average Username (not indicative of hilariousness)

The Story: The truth is...I'm not so much into young guys. Sure I like the idea that they think about sex all the time and thus should be primed at trying to attain it. But still. They're usually dumb (not that that's exclusive to young dudes), unreliable, inappropriate (aka lacking common sense), lacking in the balls department and the list goes on.

The Pros: There is really one Pro worth mentioning. And it really is the very best and most important one to me. He made me laugh. And I don't mean a little. I mean laugh out loud while reading his messages. Witty repartee. Nothing inappropriate or overly sexual. Dude was hitting it out of the park. And in case it wasn't obvious...hand in hand with the ability to make me laugh goes intelligence. And dude had it.

The Cons: Aside from the young age. Honestly there weren't many. I could nit-pick and say I wasn't the hugest fan of his facial hair. I'm not a fan of the goatee. Grow a full beard. Grow nothing at all. In between. Bleh! But that being said. Honestly we hadn't really even gotten to a point where I saw any majors cons. That was. Until the big blow hit. While waiting for papers to be written and exams to be over. Dude got a job. In Edmonton. And there went my one good chance at happy dating. With this batch of Chex mix I mean.

The Standing: So just like that...he was in. And then he was out. He made me laugh and consider dating someone 6 years my junior. And now sometimes makes me laugh on Facebook. Yes I facebooked him. Yes I know I don't generally approve of that. But honestly what was there to lose. Dude moved away. Just. My. Luck. Better Press On.

Butterflies Fulfilled: WARNING 18+ [X Rated]

2011-04-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

Thursday. 2 o'clock. And he texts. Can I take you out for a coffee before I come see your apartment?  And I swoon a bit. Like someone just poked the butterflies. I mean sure. They're not buzzing about like bees. Because the truth is I haven't seen him in months. Heard his actual voice in months. And I need that stuff. The physical. The tangible. To be fall off my chair swoony. But it's a start. Because whether he sensed it. Or knows me. Or just thinks it's a good idea. I need a warm-up. A moment to get used to each other. A moment to check in and see if there's still a spark. And ya know. I heart coffee. I'm a sober writer. What else is there?

I picked a Starbucks on campus. I don't know if I mentioned this before. But in one of our recent text-convos he'd sent a photo of himself. No doubt in an attempt to get me to send a photo. Which I don't do (more on this another time). But the point of me bringing this up was to tell you that after months of romanticizing his image in my head. The photo was a little. Meh.  So you can understand my apprehension as I parked and walked inside. But there he was. And he smiled. And the moment I heard his voice. I don't know what it is about his voice.  But I just like it. It was good. We ordered drinks. Chatted about life. School. Work. His daughter. Hockey. I can't lie though, there were definitely some awkward moments. But I think awkward more in the sense of like when you just kind of look at the other person. Absorb them. And nobody is saying anything. And then there's blushing and the conversation starts again. Nervous laughter.

It doesn't take long to finish our coffees. I order mine at kids temp so I'm pretty used to downing it right quick. And then we go to leave. He opens the door. We go to our cars. My place is only a couple of blocks away so we're there before I can take a deep breath. I'm nervous. I'm excited. I still don't know what I'm going to do.  He says something about how nice it is here and I say something like yeah. I've never been more eloquent. Inside we wait for the elevator. It seems to take forever. He's standing really close. And though I know his cologne is something super 90s like joop! or something ridiculous. It smells amazing. The doors open. His hand on the small of my back. And we walk inside. I press 14. Stand in the corner. My breathing sounds like a grizzly bear hovering over my shoulder. He seems not to notice. And then he does it. Like he knew. Like someone had told him. I mean it was just too cute. Grabs my hand. Just a finger or two. Like a baby. Sweet. Adorable. Exactly what I wanted.

It feels like it's been 20 minutes. I look at the buttons. We're only at the 7th floor. I look at him. He looks back. He's standing so close. And then he kisses me. Short. Sweet. Quick. Nervous. Kind of like at Christmas when he just wanted to get that out of the way wink. He seems pleased with himself. Or me. Either or. ding.  14. We get to my door. And go inside. I'm nervous. I try not to justify the smallness of my apartment. I'm getting a second BA. I'm working hard. I have a big career ahead of me. This is just a stepping stone. I don't need to justify myself. Least of all to him.  So I say nothing. Just let him look around. Which takes about 10 seconds. Joking. He goes to the window. Checks out the view. It is a pretty rad view. 14 floors up. Overlooking Wreck Beach. Lucky Duck.

I asks if he wants a glass of water or something. And by something I mean all I have is water I say. We laugh. My apartment is completely empty. Except for 2 glasses, a folded up quilt, a fan and an iPod dock. The few things that either couldn't fit in my car on the way home the day before or I thought might be useful today. I'm so creepy lol. Sure he says. And I go to get the glasses down off the shelf. He comes up behind me. My hips against the counter. His hips behind mine. His arms go around my waist. And he pulls my hair to the side. A handful of curls and he brushes them away. Exposes my neck. Kisses me. Soft. Smooth. Good.

I slowly turn around. Brush my body against his. He's ready to go in a heartbeat. But I need more. Longer. Slower. And so he takes his time. We kiss like teenagers. Kiss like danger. Kiss like hot. Kiss like everything. His hands grab my ass and with strength I never saw coming. He lifts me up onto the counter. My face now up to his height. Fold my legs around his body. I cannot express how important good kissing is, boys. MAJOR.  And we've got it going on. His tongue. My tongue. Play. Swirl. Lower lip. Upper lip. Together. Big kiss. Passion Passion Passion. Small kiss small kiss. I slowly drag my tongue across the middle of his lower lip. Gentle. Barely touching. Make him beg for it. Deep breath. Playful. Sexy.

He feels my body like it's the first time. Which for some areas it is. When my bra comes off I hear him moan a bit. My ego soars through the roof. I lift off his shirt and throw it somewhere. Slide down off the counter. His hands in my hair and he tugs a little. In the exact right way. Tugs some more. He's been listening. He knows. It's flawless. It's seamless. It's perfection. He turns be back towards the counter. Lifts my skirt just a bit and pulls the Red Lacies slowly down my legs. He goes to undo my skirt. Leave it on I say. And he gets it. Smiles. His hands glide over my ass across my hips and come together over my lady bits. He leaves one hand there and uses the other to undo his jeans. The first hand disappears for only a heart beat (safety first kids) and he's back. One hand reaches around to my lady bits. The other across my chest. Strong he holds me. Soft he holds them. I arch my back. Lean just a little bit forward. And he slides in.

I'm a writer but I'm not sure how to write the rest. Because when I think back it's all in pictures and sounds. There's onomatopoeia I don't know the words for. Sounds that I can't describe with ooohs and ahhhs because that's just in bad pornos and not real sex. But it's strong and good. It's part bears in the woods and part swan lake or something equally as graceful. There are smiles and eyes open. Panting and eyes closed. His right arm, the one across my chest. Slides up to my neck. Gently at first. Then stronger. Holding me. Controlling me. Because he knows thats what I want. At one point I turn my neck. Lean back a bit. And his face is right there. Lips brushing against lips. Tongues stretch. Kisses that strain to hold. He works his magic until I'm done. And then I work mine until his is too. We're all smiles. I lay the quilt across my bed. My studio apartment dorm bed. And we lay there. Exhausted. Exhilarated. Satisfied. The what if being answered. Butterflies fulfilled.

Only....

That's not exactly what happens. Because this is me after all and shit is just never straight forward laid out awesome like that. And this is TheNickName. A man who I would characterize with epic retardation except for the fact that if he's retarded what does that make me for playing along? I'd rather not think about it. See the thing of the thing is. I read all the comments. From blog readers. From close personal friends. And you all had valid points. (I'd be more alarmed that a great majority of you were sending me into the Lion's Den if it wasn't for the fact that I know you're doing it because you know I could handle whatever the Den had in store for me). That being said. I have a gut. I often don't listen to it. I blame my eternal optimism and the faith I have to have that people are A. not all retarded and B. not all total shit. But regardless I do have a gut. That tells me things. And on Wednesday night. My gut was telling me. It was not a good sign that when I texted TheNickName during the Canucks game and there was no response. Even though us hanging out on Thursday had been his idea. So I sent a text. Because I sure as fuck wasn't going to wake up on Thursday and get all gussied up and drive out to UBC only to get bailed on or something.

Fuck. You. Silver Lining. Well actually there's a couple things.

1. I didn't reply. Everybody loves Nonchalant Nancy. Nobody loves Angry Angie or Bitter Betty. Messages deleted. Number deleted. I will not be engaging in any further contact.

2. Those "what if" butterflies that I had been wondering about (and The Hel had been hoping for in the comments section). Done. And not like angry-I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-give-a-shit-even-though-I-actually-do kind of done. But actual done. Like actual butterflies-dead-fantasy-over-reality-trumped-turns-out-he-really-was-just-your-average-retard kind of done. And I tell ya it actually feels pretty grand.

3. And the most practical one of all. I didn't waste my Thursday waiting for a boy who wasn't worth his salt in theory let alone in practice.

Now the truth is. I do have a couple more thoughts sparked by this situation. About boys. And time wasting. And general jack-assery retardation. But this post is long enough so I'm saving it for another. You're welcome.

So in closing. Hope the post was...er...stimulating. If sadly it ends in disappointment. Is it wrong that I think this post by far exceeds anything he would have actually been able to offer if we had hung out? Hope it wasn't too racy. Love ya, SSDated.

A Room with a View: Butterflies of Epic Proportions

2011-04-27T14:17:00.000-07:00

BTW...My Actual View. Till Friday.

You know when you want something. Lust after it. Crave it. Fantasize about how amazing it will be. How those little butterflies can be found aflutter in your stomach every time you think about it. Palms sweating glee and you can almost taste it. You know that feeling?

Only what if life got in the way. And when it actually happens. Or is it about to happen. The butterflies which had stood on guard. Waiting. WAITING. waiting.  Finally gave up. And now instead of excitement. You only feel irritation. Irritated because it's not exactly what you wanted. Irritated that it seems your theory (that you had, in fact, stirred up those butterflies all on your own) seems quite likely to be true. Irritated that not only do you feel you have to but pissed that you're even considering cleaning your apartment for a boy that's not. Butterflies. For a boy that's. What. For what? A booty call? A one-off?

I'm not a phone talker. I'd much prefer to just wait to hang out in person.  But when we talked. It was magic. At least for me. And I think for him too. At the beginning. After our first conversation he already thought I was a genius. But more than the ego boost of him thinking I was quite intelligent. Was the fact that he wanted to hear about it. My papers. My essays. My words. Written academically. He wanted to hear about it talk about it know about it. My face was flushed with lust. Even now. Months and months later. He asks. About school. About my grades. How did you do?

I always see an ending. With Trucker Joe, even if it had survived past the summer it would never have made it past Christmas. With all the other "somethings" I always felt a sort of 3 month max. kind of just looming in the distance. Not negative or positive. Just obvious.  But with him it seemed. A little different. I actually. Er. Um. Kind of liked him. And maybe it was all just chemistry and pheromones and the way I amped it up by fantasizing about it on cold nights of studying and stress. But the truth is. I once sat in a restaurant. And held a friends hand. In the cutest way. Just to show her how I felt about him. Which in and of itself (revealing mushy feelings to a third party) was pretty apocalyptic. But it was true. At the time.

I'm the queen of booty calls. Okay well sort of. But I'm definitely the queen of being able to separate sex from feelings when the case benefits from it. But there I was a couple months ago. Asking TheHel a question that I've never asked before. Because I've never had a doubt. Do you think I could handle it, with him, just a booty call?  And her answer. Point blank. No.  Real talk, she didn't even fucking hesitate. It was that clear. Whether the feelings were real or fabricated. They were present. And I liked him. Wanted to hold hands kind of liked him. Gross.

And it wasn't all perfect and swoony because after all he wasn't able to give me what I wanted. And so when dating didn't work. To the contrary advice of TheHel, we attempted a booty call. And maybe it was life. First he was busy. Than I was busy. Or maybe there just wasn't enough interest. It's hard to tell when the boy isn't a sex-crazed 19 year old willing to sell his best friend into domestic slavery for the sake of a good bang. But either way it didn't happen. And yet. We never lost touch. Kept in contact. Sporadic certainly. A lengthy text conversation every 2-3 weeks. And I'm not retarded. I know the lack of phone calling speaks volumes. But in my defense I'm used to being able to portion out the emotions and just ya know...put them over there. For the sake of a purpose.

Detour.  Unfortunately I have to write this blog post out of order (because I need advice now!) and I don't have time to write all the details of the past weeks but just know that there are no other boys. Right now. In the last few months. Besides him. That have given me butterflies. And turns out. Sex. Not as mind-blowing (for me) without the butterflies.

6 weeks till school/exams are over. He tries to hangout. There's flirting. Sexy innuendo. I have butterflies. I would if I could. But I can't. School trumps boys. No question.

5 weeks till done.  He tries to hangout. Flirting. Innuendo. Butterflies. Can't. School.

4 weeks till done. I'm back on PlentyOfFish in preparation of pending freedom. I notice his profile is gone. Recently. Not that I occasional check to see. Whaaatt!?!?! Shut up I'm human. lol. And he was right. I'm a smart cookie. He's dating someone. I don't know really why I assume this rather than he's taking a break from dating or something. But I do. And then we're texting. I ask if he's met any cute girls lately? He says yeah...asks about me. I congratulate him That's awesome :) and tell him no but I just put up a POF profile again. He responds I'm sure you'll get tons of hits :) and I smirk to myself. Damn straight. Though of quality...and I can hear myself sigh lol. You're too smart for most guys he quips the sexy is obvious. And I feel a bit swoony. Because I know he believes it. Though I wonder if he includes himself in the "most guys" category? I ask about the new girl (I assume we're going to be buddies...one of the many options on the table for awhile now). He says She's pretty cool, maybe too sweet, but we are both making efforts. And I think to myself. I bet they`re a perfect match. Or at least a lot better of one than we are. Good for him. And I actually mean it. Only. While I`m trying to be buddies. The conversation keeps taking a turn (driven by him) to sexy and flirting and whatnot. At first I feel guilty. I don't DO interference. If you've got a girl. I don't run temptation. That being said. Is it even my responsibility. I mean 100% yes if he's married. 85% yes if they're committed. But a dude who just started dating a chick? Not sure.  He still wants to see my new apartment. I bet his does. I suggest we go play pool somewhere or something lol. But either way. Right now I'm studying. School. First. Boys. Second. Or Eighth.

3 weeks till done.  He texts. I don't partake in the flirting. I have no time. School is burying me. I text back. No time for hanging out/flirting I'll text when school is over. He responds. Ok.

And then I'm done.  And almost a week goes by. I think about texting. Like I said I would. But I pause. Because it suddenly feels like we had an expiry date. The butterflies took off. They just got tired of waiting. For him. For me. For life. But I'm an optimist. And a single girl who hasn't had the kind of hot sex I've wanted as of late. And I've got an apartment all to myself. For only 4 more days. Sure I'll have one again in September. But that's 4 fucking months. Privacy is a bitch, no? I digress. So although the butterflies have faded, their memory is still impressed into my body. And so I text. I'm done. I survived.  He asks about my grades. I ask about his work. We talk about school. And hockey. It feels like we're talking about the weather. But the truth is every time we do text. There's always a bit of a butterfly resurrection. It might not be butterfly Armageddon but there's a definite resurgence. He asks how long do you have your place till?  I tell him Friday. But I'm mostly all moved out. Just have to clean it. And then I ask Do you still want to hang out or was my prime real-estate the real draw ;)?

And to be clear I don't think I'm totally retarded in thinking he wants to be buddies. Who flirt. Because a. He's said so before. b. he's now dating someone (and however, committed or not they are, it's enough that he took down his profile). c. Apparently some of you folk out there in the real world think men and women can be just friends. However, that is until this last bit of conversation. Because no joke he seems really disappointed I won't have my own place. Which I would understand more if he didn't have one either, but he's a grown man with his own place. So it's not like there wouldn't be a place to bone?

Detour.  In writing this last bit I figured out a bit more about his disappointment. He once told me that after our first date, he was kind of bragging about how I was only 29 to his friends, being just on the verge of 40 himself. Which btw I was hugely flattered by. Say what you what about superficiality but who doesn't love being a hot young thing. Just Sayin'. And since my apartment is in a dorm after all. I'm guessing someone has a little fantasy about banging some hot young co-ed. It all becomes a little clearer.

His response to the text about real-estate? LOL. Yeah [I still want to hang out] that would be nice. But having your own place was hot :)

1. Ouch.
2. I agree.
3. Okay no way to rationalize now. He does not want to be buddies who flirt.

Haha. Part of me feels my ego just took a hit...but the other part completely agrees...having my own place is hot...guess I'll just have to be extra adorable to make up for it ;). And here is where I should quite possibly have stopped typing. But I didn't. Because I'm a flirty bitch who's got all kinds of pent up energy from months of studying and sex that wasn't-hair-pulling-body-slamming-tell-your-friends-too-much-information-later-while-you-regale-them-with-hot-stories-to-vicariously-live-through-your-SLUTmazing-ways type sex. And ya know. I'm feeling a bit butterfly-ey. Technically I have it [the apartment] till Friday ;) Just Sayin'.  And thus he responds I could come by Thursday before or after my meetings in Vancouver. Just Sayin'. I ask something about whether or not it'll dampen the hotness by the fact that none of my stuff is there anymore?  And then I ask what time his meetings are.

11am and 1pm. Butterflys stop moving. What is it with dudes and daytime. Daytime is NOT sexy.

I respond. lol definitely after :).  And thus the conversation ends. Butterflies are at a minimum at this point. But still ya know...present. Albeit laying dormant. But still.

Detour.  Here's a random aside for you to ponder. A thought just occurred to me. He wouldn't know that since my apartment was technically part of UBC residence, the bed comes with etc. Aka that it's still there. What does he think...doing it on the floor? lol not that I'm opposed to that. But just saying.

So this kind of brings us to now. Like right now. 2pm on Wednesday April 27, 2011. And tomorrow is D-Day. Or not. We'll see. Because the truth is. Right now. With him. I'm being a fickle bitch. All term I would've been gung ho to get it on with him. Monday I was all butterflies. Little fewer with the talk of hanging out in the daytime. And then last night I texted him. How are you doing??? I can barely breathe lol (for those not local or...not being local is the only excuse for not knowing...but last night was Game 7 of the Canucks vs. Blackhawks round one - Stanley Cup - Game) and so yeah that's how the text makes sense. But that being said. no response.  Now sure I'll admit maybe he was too into the game to answer a text even on a commercial break. Plus maybe he was...er...with someone. But this morning rolls around and no response. Which for him is actually a little bit unusual. And thus. All butterflies disappear.

And now I've just got dread. And irritation. And I keep flip flopping between what to do. Options:

1. Forget about it. If he texts tomorrow...ignore it. And honestly never talk to him again. He doesn't like me. And since he can't give me exactly what I want in a booty call...is there really any point? No. Drop him. Leave him. Ignore him. Become a lesbian. Whatever.

2. Text something. (for this option I'd really need some advice). Text something that gets you out of this predicament but keeps future sexy predicaments a possibility. For reference, I'm not sure what that text would say...so advice would be mucho requireo. That's right. I make Spanish words by adding an O.

3. Text him something about just being friends. Real talk. He's got a girl. It makes me feel weird. Or at the very least it's a good guise to get out of this situation and possibly become friends. Is that even possible? Do I even want to?

4. Hurry the fuck out to UBC, clean my damn apartment, go to ball practice at 6pm, come back to suburbs to sleep. And tomorrow morning/afternoonish head get dolled up...go out to UBC. Throw some sheets on the bed. Hang out with him. Bang his brains out. Have disappointing sex? Have amazing sex? Have super awkward situation? Have amazing story to tell? You'll never know unless you do it.

5. Don't bother cleaning apartment. Go to practice. Go out to UBC tomorrow. Fuck in the filth. THIS IS A JOKE....all my OCD and need to be smokin' hot when hanging out with boys I do smokin' hot things with would totally prevent this from even being a possibility. Do you know me at all?!?!? lol

6. Some option I haven't considered.

So there you have it. Fuck. I rarely ask. So you know that means I'm seriously torn about what to do. Help me!!!!!!! lol. Seriously. And be quick about it lol.

Oh and BTW. I'm talking about TheNickName. Oh shut up lol you saw this coming.

Nothing Like Work.

2011-04-24T20:52:00.000-07:00

I want to just stand there kissing you forever. Or at least until you no longer look like sex and happiness. You break us apart only for a second. Offer whispers cross cheeks fall into my ears...something about how do you want me...to touch you? And so I tell you. Soft and slow. Work me up. Work me down. Work me over. Work me out. And you say this is nothing like work. And you've sold me. Sold like houses without escrow. Houses bought with cash. Houses bought with sweat. You sold me without a sign. Your hand. Big like safety and potential. Big like control and freedom. Your hand that pulses with testosterone holds mine like baby fingers. Excited, clasping, soft and you push it behind me. Palm across the back pocket of my jeans and you manage to hold my ass and my hand at the same time. Like popcorn snacks salty and sweet you make butter taste like chocolate and honey taste like lemons. Everything you do sweeps me off my feet but your hand holds strong to support me. Clings without crushing. Grasps without breaking. You stand there and you've got me. Like really got me. Another hand pulls me closer arm up and through mine round the back like a dance step and you twirl me. We don't move but my head is spinning butterflies swirling and you twirl me. Kiss me again you say like somehow my kisses are favors. Like you're the luckiest boy in the world to be breathing upon my soft lips that you swear taste like cotton candy though you want to eat me like steak. You make meat talk sexy. You woo me with jokes. You make laughter burn. Hotter than Vegas. You light me up like fireworks and hotel room sex in the middle of the night and then later again that night and than again in the morning just before the sun rises. And afterwards. You play with my hair just long enough to keep me awake. Watch it arrive through our window. Because you just knew how it would flicker off my eyes and spread apart my heart. Like somehow my rise, my sway, my lift was all you needed to feel a beat in your chest. You swoon for me. I'm man enough to say swoon you tell me. And as I watch the hair on your chest curl like wood shavings from a carpenter's plane I wholeheartedly believe you. You rock me. Like world championship fights. Like quotes repeated 50 years later. Sting like a bee. And you move me. Push me pull me make me want to break into two just so you could put me back together again. Glue me with your hopes, ply me with your dreams and smoosh us together with questions that have answers we can only get to if we work together. Nothing like work you say again and kiss me. Those lips you say and I blush because I can't explain what you mean but I know that you mean it. Absorb you in their softness cool you in their breeze and then burn you up whole. You pull back again. Only for a second but this time you don't say anything. I hear everything. In your panting. In your smile. In the way you look into my eyes with the kind of confident hope that swears the blue pools might just save you if you let them but you don't need it. Like somehow your eyes and your grasp give me the freedom to love you as much or as little as I need and that exact amount will be all you ever wanted. Like our love would never be a burden I would buckle under. Like every moment would be like this one. This very moment. Where your kisses only ever give more. More more more. And Nothing feels like work.

Catching You Up OR Girls Do It Better

2011-04-23T21:50:00.000-07:00

It seems to always be like this. After having not written for awhile. I get stumped. And not because I have nothing to say. But the complete opposite, in fact. I have too much to say. Months of stuff to say. Because though I've written a post or two since then. I still have stuff to tell you. From December, and January, and Febraury, and March, and April. Things like...

how I went on a date once. Something like 8 years in the making. And it was amazing. There was laughter. And tears. Princess crowns and sex chatter. See the thing is. I'd been waiting to meet this chick. For ages. We'd been in contact since before there was a MegaLove. Since before there was Facebook and Twitter, way back before there was MySpace and Fotki, way back in the days of Blackplanet. And so over Christmas break, I went to visit her. Drove hours and hours for a date. And it was amazing. Because afterall, girls do it better.

I thought I might need a pass to her heart. Turns out I just needed one to get onto the base. Are you Hispanic, the desk clerk asked. Like that was somehow relevant. Are you allowed to ask me that, is that even legal? Shit like that doesn't happen in Canada I said. No I'm not, I told her. And I thought dating was bad, I stood there in judgment, of a country that holds borders like desperation.

But alas, they let me in. McChord Airforce Base. Turns out I'm not quite the criminal/trouble maker I like to think myself. So off we went on our date. Met the kids. Met the hubs. And that's when it happened. I knew it was meant to be. Real true love shit. Perfect first date magic. Signifying of soul mate connection. She asked if I wanted something to drink. And then offered me a Diet Coke. That she had bought. A whole pack. Extra special. Just for me. In preparation of my arrival. Because she had listened. To all those dates before. All those before. All those "somethings" before. And she knew what I wanted. A crisp. Sparkly. Diet Coke. WeatherGirl hit it out of the park. ;) And then suddenly our date was a threesome. And the hilarity continued. Dinner and cupcakes. Boy chatter and reminicing. Babies and kidlets. Love. Love. Love. And that's why girls do it better. Because after I left. I knew. Exactly where I stood with everybody. And they with me. WeatherGirl. JennyHustle. RainNJenn together in their hilarity. And me. Together something like awesome. On a girl-date something like a lasting friendship.

And for those on Facebook. Well MY facebook I mean. The best part are the pictures. Me in my princess crown. EVERYBODY doing my signature pose. And then of course the tagline. Wondering if there would be any trouble getting me on the base. WeatherGirl asked the hubs. And his answer. I don't know...I've never smuggled a foreigner on post before. Awesome.

They Blew My Mind. Twice.

2011-04-05T12:10:00.000-07:00

There we were. Having ladies night. A night filled with boy chatter. My boys. Their boys. Boys in general. Boys in specific. Boys doing stupid boy things. Boys and their special boy ways. Boys we were swooning over. Boys making us want to tear our hair out. Boys to laugh with. Laugh at. Loathe. Love. Boys Boys Boys.

And I can't even tell you exactly how we got there. To that point in the conversation. But there it was. Dropped like a bomb. This thing I couldn't comprehend. Not in the sense I didn't believe it to be true. But that I couldn't...Empathize? Associate? Relate? I literally couldn't imagine life as such. No judgment. And it really was like dropping bombs. They fucking blew my mind. The first one.

I've only slept with 2 people. In my life.

Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk! Mind blown. And then the other.

I've only slept with 3. Ever.

Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk! Mind blown. I was speechless.

Okay that's not totally true. There were a lot of Oh My Gods and I can't...how...I can't...how is that even possible...I can't even fathom.  And then Seriously?!?!?! Seriously?  And then of course the statement that characterized the night. You two just blew my mind. My mind is fucking blown. *hand gestures to indicate head being blown* BLOWN! And for reference yes. I believe the table of 10 guys sitting right next to us. May have gotten a kick out of this whole scenario. BLOWN!!!!

Because the thing of the thing is. It's not something I can even imagine. I can't even fathom what life is like having slept with less than a handful of people. And there's no judgment on them. And no judgment back at me. But I will admit that it made a ton more sense now. You see I had spent the evening advising one of them on her booty-callesque situation. And now it all made sense. For christsakes. It all made sense now. Because throughout the night I had been undecided. I'd been trying to suss it out. Figure out whether or not she was the kind of chick who could separate from the sex. A girl who could have sex with a boy and have that be just it. See...we've known each other less than a year. A year in which there haven't been any drunken nights at the bar. I haven't seen her work magic on the boys. She hasn't seen me work mine (well the magic I used to have when drunk).

And while I had an inkling that she was a cutie pie who could not handle it. A sweetheart who would get crushed by this dude (who btw probably also didn't know this valuable info). Because it had never even occurred to me that this was the situation. I'd been leaning towards go ahead. Do it. Sure I'd tried to arm her with advice. What to expect from him. Very little.  From the sex. Better be good. When to call.  Only late at night.  What to talk about. Nothing really, the less chatter the better, he's not trying to be your friend. The dude, truthfully, was a bit of a dick. And as we all know, I'm experienced with those. Well technically I think it's becoming clear I'm experience with a lot of things. But I digress. So when they hit me with the bombs. When she hit me with the bomb. I knew the right answer. Right away.

You can't do it. I said.  Nope. Not at all. Don't do it. Get out. Get out now. Delete his number. Out Out Out.  Because see the thing is. I had been uncertain whether or not she could handle the situation as he was offering it when I assumed she'd slept with at least half the amount of people I had. But 3. Just 3. Ever?!?! No fucking way. She was not the kind of girl that could handle the terms his actions made clear. So that was that. Case closed. Answer given. The Guru has spoken.

But that night got me thinking. Were they the aberration? Or was I? There isn't really a clear answer. I've read the average number of guys a chick has slept with by the age of 30 is 9. I've also read 11. There was this survey by YourTango. And the Kinsey Institute had some numbers based on lifetime partners that frankly, I just can't believe. Plus there's the old adage that men lie-up and women lie-down. Haha just realized my inadvertent pun there. Awesome Sauce.  So basically what I'm saying is I have no idea. But if I had to guess. If I really had to guess.

I'd say it's a little less sparse out here on Sluts Island. The Gen. Pop. is a bit smaller in Slutstown, West Slutterton. Mighty Casey doesn't strike out in Slutsville. But then again, I've heard that the chicks living there make Slutmazing neighbors. It's a veritable Slutopia of awesomeness. You wish you were this slutterrific.

But no. I'm not going to tell you my number. Because frankly your math skills have been slipping. And I think you could use the practice. So get out your pencil and paper. An abacus maybe? Or a calculator for you cheaters. And get ready to crunch some numbers. So let's see. What's half of Vancouver. Plus the majority of Washington. Plus that one guy in New Orleans. Oh well. I'm sure you can figure it out. Get back to me when you do. And I'll consult my list. And see if you got the statistics right. Though I'm going to have to check your work either way. It's not just about the answer. It's how you got there.

Term 2: 4 weeks: Or Batman's Bad News

2011-03-07T00:47:00.000-08:00

So I know what you're thinking. This looks familiar. You've seen this before. And the truth is you're right. This is about to be a repeat of last November. The crunch time right before finals. The last weeks of class. When all the papers are due. On top of reading the books that I'll be writing about. There's the research. There's the thinking. And then comes the writing. Plus don't forget reading all the books that will be on the exams too.

So why is this happening? Because I'm a creature of habit? Maybe. Because I'm not any better at self-control now than I was a couple months ago? Very possible. Because I have to choose the career that has the highest chance of paying me (academia) over the career that I love the most (writing/dating/generally being awesome)? Word. Truth be told I kind of blame you guys. You're just too awesome and I can't stay away. So here's the spiel. Much like it was before. With a change or two made...

Just a smidge over 4 weeks. That's all. 30 days really. That's barely a blip on the timeline of a life. Barely hits the radar. You probably won't even notice. Honestly I only tell you guys because if I don't. Well that self-control. It'll go to shit. And I won't break. I won't focus. I won't be vigilant. So I tell you. I make a statement. I make a tiny scene. Because it's like a contract. One that I'll stick to.

4 weeks. The break I have to take. From writing my blog. From Twitter. From tweetups and fun gatherings. 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 3 Major papers to be written. 1 huge research paper. 2 smaller papers and one exposition/close reading of sorts. Plus all the reading that needs to be done in general for class. And then April 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. Taking many for the team. Batman would take a grenade for you. Real talk.

Plus you know. If you really needed me. Like real life crisis. Like really need a friend. Needed me. Video Time (0:41) Should you need me...Should you need us. Well you know I'm here. MUAH!

Dear Boys, Blame Your Buddies

2011-03-03T18:28:00.000-08:00

This post has been moved, Click the link

Dear Boys, Blame Your Buddies

to read it in full on JadedLovers.com or click here to find out about the changes taking place with this blog.

Come Back Charlies (Part V)

2011-02-15T03:41:00.000-08:00

I like a good recap. Everybody likes a good recap. Because even as I tell these stories. In real life. To my friends. To myself. Silently in my head. It gets a bit confusing. Who was who? Who came back when. Who was super ridiculous. Who was the most ridiculous of them all. So before I tell you about Charlie #4 (a man you've all grown to...well...not totally sure...but someone you'll recognize). Here is the recap. Of the Come Back Charlies:

Charlie #1: The Oxymoronic Lawyer and his return in Parts I and Parts II
Charlie #2: Mr. Basketball
Charlie #3: The TACTician aka Mr. Tacky aka The Old Guy
and finally
Charlie #4: And so the story goes...

It had been two weeks. To exact weeks. To the day. I mean honestly, I can't make this shit up. And on the one hand. It was a total surprise. Because of course. He had said there was something missing. A spark? Chemistry? I had asked. If that's what you want to call it he had said. But then truth be told. I had assumed it was an attraction thing. I had assumed he'd never been with a chubby bunny before. And after catching a glimpse of me sans shirt. He'd changed his mind. Not the girl for him. Attraction nil.

On the other hand. I wasn't surprised at all. Because of course. He'd liked me. I was certain. The irony is at the time it never really occurred to me that a person might not know what the fuck they want. I mean after all this dude wasn't 22. He was fucking 38. He had a grown up job and a kid (are you starting to see who it is? lol). I mean. I know what it is to be 25 and not know what the fuck is going on. I can even fathom that at 30 there will be some that are still confused. Still uncertain. I'm not saying you'll always HAVE what you want. But at the very least you'll have a picture in your mind of what it might look like. But to be 38 and clueless. I mean shit son. How does that even happen. And thus I give you....

TheNickName. Come Back Charlie #4. The Cat Came Back ~~The Very Next Day~~ 2 Weeks Later.

Hey you!! :) It said. His message to me on Plenty of Fish. How's things? Ha ha, Back to school! And I should have done nothing. But well. Unlike the other boys. The other Come Back Charlies. TheNickName was IRL (in real life) for me. We had gone out. We had hung out. We had made out. And now that I was indeed back in school. And had pretty much forsaken dating and the blog for the time being (I wasn't totally sure how one could exist without the other). The idea of bringing a man off the bench. Bringing a horse out of the stable. Well that sounded like a damn good idea. Plus ya know. I wanted to know what was going on. 2 weeks ago. Now. What had changed. What was different. What did he want? And so I messaged back. Tried to keep it breezy but conversational.

Hey :)
Things with me are fantastic (as usual lol) and though a longer break would've
been awesome...yes lol I am back at school. How are things with you? How
was the rest of your Xmas/New Year's?

And then he responded. Right away with

That's awesome. Xmas and New Years was good. Lots of daughter's name time.
How was New Years with your ex? What mid term grades did you get? A's I'm
guessing!

But wait? what? Does anyone find the thing about New Year's with my ex a little bit weird. That's what he remembers? Something that got mentioned once, in passing, in our final phone call. AFTER he had said he didn't want to date me anymore because he felt something was missing. Really? really? But I kept it breezy. And honestly, honest. Because truth be told, he had been there all that last month while writing papers and taking exams. So I kind of did want to tell him all about my grades. Lame I know.

Aww I bet daughter's name loved that :)

lol you have such a good memory for things I say...NYE with my ex was good
...my grades were the best yet (I'm so proud which hopefully discounts this
sounding like bragging and making me look like a douche) but I got 2 A-s and
an A+ (I'm so proud lol...It's the highest grade I've ever gotten)...and to have
gotten it as a final grade means even more...Harvard here I come!...okay I'm
kind of joking about Harvard...but still...who knew right!?!?!?

Harvard would be missing out, without you! I'm glad your grades went awesome.
So were you planning on the ex time before our time together? Yah I guess, cause
you went to Seattle 2 days later.

Wait. What?!?! Why all the harping on the ex? The irony is how he'd mentioned at some point how he can't stand jealousy and wasn't a jealous person himself. And yet. Really? really? And the thing of the thing is. I don't even mind jealousy. In fact I think people who claim they never feel jealous are liars. Show me your stripes. All the colors. The bad and the good. Show me your true stripes and I can understand you. Empathize with you. Deal with you. But pretend to be something. And not only do you irritate me but I full on dislike you and finally, don't trust you. If you can't be honest with yourself, how are you going to be honest with me?

I didn't answer his message for awhile. I was thinking. I was purposely making him wait. I was partly as bored with the whole situation as I am now typing it. The truth of the matter is. In the space of those two weeks. He'd become what I either was to him. Or possibly much less. He was a means to an end. A dude I was attracted to who I felt had the potential to scratch an itch. And then he texted. And then he instant messaged on POF and sadly that ends my exact recounting of our interaction. Because unlike messages, you can't keep the instant message script. So now three weeks later I'm going to try and give you the gist of what was said.

He was 100% attracted to me. Thought I was a babe. Super sexy. Also I think he used the word sweet too. Basically I'm awesome lol. At the time of our convo and then the next day on the phone. I had come to the conclusion that the problem had been his jealousy/assumptions about my ex (and me). And that in some attempt to protect himself/or because of an averse reaction to those feelings he'd cut things short.

However, knowing what I know now. I think he's part totally retarded and part slow and/or satisfied sex drive. But at the time I kind of figured. Okay well I know that dating won't work. But *dreamy eyes* perhaps I had finally found my Golden Egg. Someone to keep me from going insane during the school year. Someone to gimme some man love without all the baggage.

Only the booty call satisfaction never happened. I waited a week and a half (I was sick with a cold at the time). Waited till the weekend. Gave him a shout. Have a hockey game he said. Uh yeah I wasn't thinking until way later I have dinner plans tonight and we'll probably be out till 1ish I told him. I'm gonna be bagged and have to get up early tomorrow to go to a job site. Sorry! Another time please!  And I thought. Fuck that noise. But well. I was really itchy. And I don't drink anymore. And none of my exes live in Vancouver. And Goddamn Mamma needed some ass.

So the next night. After going out with a friend. And scoping out The New Oxford for a possible location for the upcoming tweetup. And then heading over to Society for cotton candy. I texted. Last time. Last chance. Last attempt. This was really getting pathetic.  But at the very least I thought it would be funny. Because after all. What I decided to text. To him. Was something that had been clarified to me oh so clearly. And though he likely wouldn't get the irony. I thought it was delicious. What are you wearing?

But alas. No response came. Done. This was awful. I'm a hottie. I'm a dynamo in bed. Chubby bunny or not I'm fucking awesome and I don't know how I got all turned around but this behavior had to stop. But of course. He responded. The next morning. With something ridiculously lame.

I was in a low cut number, with sheer and lace. lol.

I won't lie. The petty part of me decided to be snarky.  Too bad you didn't respond last night I said.

I was out at a fundraiser. Your outfit sounds lovely! I had a buddy with me, and he stayed over, Sorry.

My thoughts? Don't give a shit. Plus...uh...wait...I didn't say what I was wearing. Weird. lol...maybe he's still drunk ha ha.

No worries I said I'm thinking your life is too busy for sex lol and I want it to be very present so I'm out. And to be clear. Yes, dear readers. I know this was a little hysterical. A little. Why bother? Just stop texting him. But I urge you to try to understand. This was the build up of 2 months of both sexual and mental frustration. And quite honestly I was horny, irritated, and pissed. So yes. You could say I was being petty. And annoying. And about to get even more petty with my last and final text to him.

BTW...if you ever want to check out some of my writing just google "Something She Dated" :) All the best kid!

And thus. The end of TheNickName. And essentially the moment that I decided this was fucking ridiculous. The moment that prompted another moment. The Announcement. So gentlemen of my future. Gentlemen who will not be getting laid. Gentlemen who will not be able to just "see what's what". Gentlemen who will have blue balls. You have TheNickName to thank. You're welcome.

Now the thing about these Come Back Charlies is. On the one hand. I'm certain they're absolutely fucking retarded. But you have to wonder. Why me? Why again? Why me? Do I smell like a second chance? Can they taste it in the air? Or is it that they've seen that I'm just so awesome they simply HAVE to try their hand again? I want to believe the latter. But the thing of the thing is. If it was the latter. Why didn't they just try harder the first time around. Alas. It must be the former. Yet another reason I need to coat myself in HardToGet speedstick and keep the relaxed and breezy stench off of me. Not to mention just generally roll around in some cotton candy happiness and quite dealing with this kind of ridiculousness and aggravation thrown my way (albeit permitted by my engagement with it). But I digress. I was done. I am done. With the losers. Time to be Hard. To. Get. Full stop.

Come Back Charlies (Part IV)

2011-02-13T20:53:00.000-08:00

Continued from Come Back Charlie's (Part III)

Okay so I know what you're thinking. Aside from I can't stand how she keeps breaking up blog posts into digestible amounts aka making me wait to read the whole story. You're thinking. So What? I mean what's the big deal that the Oxymoronic Lawyer and Charlie #2 (Mr. Basketball) returned right? Except we all know the story doesn't end there. Can't possibly end there. Because this is me we're talking about. And I don't set up a big theme like this unless I have some follow through.

You can't title a group of boys the "Come Back Charlies" if there's not enough members to fill up the caucus right? Right. And the hilarious-ironic-coincidental-amazing-shocking-ridiculousness of these CBC's isn't just in their return. It's the timing of return. Because it's not like we're talking about "in the space of a year", several boys decided to try their hand again. It was a 2 week period. 16ish days. 3 weekends (bookended). That they all swarmed. Like they were preparing for an earthquake and I was canned goods. Sudden. Out of nowhere. Ridiculous.

And thus I bring you Charlie #3 (TheTACTician). Oddly enough, just like Charlie #2, the chatter began a year ago as well. And I only remember because it was right around the time of the Olympics. I love that Vancouver 2010 Olympics are a signpost of my dating. When Jon Montgomery won the Gold for Skeleton and did his infamous walk through the streets of Whistler and drank the pitcher of beer. I was sitting on Garbage Man's couch. Moments away from making out and the infamous meat talk. I was a week or two from being blown off by Charlie #3 (TheTACTician). Or as I referred to him at the time. The old guy.

He was 41 or 43. I can't totally remember. But he was above 40 and I remember this part most clearly because I was talking about his age at the time to my cousin who thought that it was too big of an age gap...and that we'd be so obviously at completely different points in our lives. Particularly being that he had a 17 year old kid. Freaky. But I digress. It was early in my dating journey and was willing to give it a go. We chatted a bit. He seemed alright. (yes...just...alright...and...yes...I was still willing to go out with him.) I'm special like that. It was the week after the Olympics. We were going to do something on the weekend. Asked for my number. Gave him my number. And then nothing. That was the end. Weekend plans never came to fruition. In fact he never even used the phone number. Now no biggie. Except. Here he was. Come Back Charlie #3.

And he had moves. He was suave. Wooed me with his words. Soothed me with his swagger. Tamed me with his Tact. No? You don't believe me? My readers are so perceptive. Of course he didn't. He was absolutely fucking ridiculous. The message read something like this.

Wow. Is it possible you're even hotter than before?

I know right?!? So diplomatic and TACTful. It's like a love poem. I'm being courted by charm. I'm being serenaded with sonnets. I've practically got Shakespeare and Don Juan (yes I know one is real and one is fictional) penning me pages of romance novels. Just Sayin' Wouldn't you swoon for this shit.

The irony is that I am way hotter. Ha Ha. 40lbs. lighter. 40 lbs. hotter. It took all the restraint in my body not to respond snarkily with Thanks, I am and fuck off sailor, this ship has sailed. But I didn't. Because I've said it once (okay a hundred times) and I'll say it again.

NOBODY LIKES BITTER BETTY. EVERYBODY LOVES NONCHALANT NANCY.

So I said nothing. At first. Because like I was just telling you...I'm Engaging Edith. Mother fucking Questioning Quinn. I just can't help myself. I seek answers. And so I asked. What had happened to him before? And his response. I believe possibly the weakest yet. I mean shit boys. I'm sure it's your morals and not sheer laziness/retardation holding you back. But fuck. Make SOMETHING up! Jesus! This was like levels of idiocy I'd never even consider. So yeah his response? Something like...I don't know. Okay he didn't say I don't know. But I can't remember the exact wording. I do know it was the same message. No reason basically. Nobody died in his life. No admission of being a scaredy cat pans (which though I mock here would still have been a possibly acceptable reason). No I was casually dating and it suddenly got serious. No I lost my job and couldn't bring myself to start dating someone at such a precarious time. I would even rather have heard, I wasn't sure if I was attracted to you. Because honestly, I feel that a lot of the time while online dating. But nope. Just a moronic I don't know.

And with that. It was Control, Block, Delete. Control my irritation. Block his ass. and Delete all messages. Come Back Charlie #3 (The TACTician) had gone down in flames. And there wasn't a chance in hell that the loser of a dude I had once (in my inexperienced days) considered going out with was getting anywhere near my 40lbs. lighter, 100 times more dating smart, totally awesome ass. Just Sayin'.

And though 2 makes a pair. And three makes a crowd. Three does not in fact make a caucus. A coincidence maybe. But not a caucus. And thus you should be able to infer what is coming next. You've seen it before and you'll see it again. And though I know you hate it. Sometimes it's a necessary evil. At least until I write that book. And so here it is. Those three beautiful words.

To Be Continued.....

Come Back Charlies (Part III)

2011-02-10T00:29:00.000-08:00

Continued from Come Back Charlies (Part II)

...But that wasn't the end of it though. Not by a long shot. He was just the first. The first Come Back Charlie. The first boy who mistook me for easy. The first boy to return and announce by his actions (or messages as the case may be) that he was absolutely fucking retarded. Moreover, that he thought that I, was absolutely fucking retarded but boy was he mistaken.

And I don't know who was spreading these rumors of delusion. I don't know who was whispering in their ears. Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst You should give it another go Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst You should try her again Pshh pss psst pssh ppssst She totally gives second chances and definitely doesn't put up walls between herself and those who have jilted her. I bet it was some magic little sprite. Leading them all astray. If only they knew. But alas. Maybe the same way Bitter Betty doesn't always know she's bitter. Come Back Charlie's might not always know they're retarded.

And so back they came. Charlie #2 and Charlie #3. Both of whom were "somethings" that could have been but never were. Maybe they lacked balls. They were shy. Just a case of the pans. Maybe I was a backup chick. A third tier. Just a fallback and not a priority. Maybe they were just fucking retarded. Out of touch with the physical act of dating (that which entails a meeting). Perhaps they simply didn't know how to plan. Just not as smart as me. But whatever it was. They never made it past the first step. Fucking babies.

Charlie #2 was the 2nd potential "something" there ever was. After Barbie. Before Garbage Man. He was black. He was hot. He was a native ATLien. Win. Win. Win. He was 32 and tall like Kobe. Almost. 6'4. Close enough. He'd played basketball at SFU (not a first for me oddly enough) and graduated with a BSc. The wooing started with messages. Messages led to texting. Texting led to plans. More than once. And more than once those plans were broken. And thus I'm out was my sentiment expressed. And yet. He still called. And upon not getting the response he sought. Contact stopped. Done.

I should mention. Just in case you're not super up to date on the whole time line that is this dating journey of mine. This all occurred over roughly the period of November/December 2009. So you can imagine my surprise. When December 2010 rolls around. For all you non-math majors that's a mother-fucking year. A fucking year gone by and then who should stroll his ass into my POF inbox? None other than Charlie #2 himself. Mr. Atlanta. Mr. Basketball. Mr. Planning and failing himself. I couldn't fucking believe it. Right on the tail of The Oxymoronic Lawyer aka Charlie #1. Here was this douche bag. Throwing a hail mary. On the off chance a year would have softened me?? Honestly I don't what he was thinking. We'd only ever talked on the phone maybe once.

But I know this. I wasn't buying. No thanks. Take those wears and peddle them elsewhere. Mamma isn't interested. Because his messages (yes plural). Well. They weren't anything to write home about. No confession narrative about what a retard he'd been. No diatribe about the trials and tribulations that had kept him from my deserving arms (deserving of awesomeness, not deserving of his idiotic tendencies). Nothing about how he had changed or how things would be different. Until. Wait for it. Wait for it. I asked him!

Oh don't act so fucking shocked. You know me better than that by now. I'm Engaging Edith. Mother fucking Questioning Quinn. I just can't help myself. I seek answers. However, I'm not a naive child anymore. Because when I get the unsatisfactory answers (as they most surely are). I walk away. Nonchalant Nancy. Learned my Lesson Lisa. Walk. The Fuck. Away. And I did. Just like that. And his answer. FYI. For what was different? Oh. He'd grown up. Retard, please!

And I know what you're thinking. Wow. Charlie #1 (aka The Lawyer) and Charlie #2 (aka Mr. Basketball) both returning for a second shot. Another crack at the bat. Within what. Like a two week period? Christmas break? Yep...That was exactly two weeks. December 21, 2010 - January 4, 2011. That's crazy. Only the thing is. Not even close to crazy enough. Because of course. After all. You know for sure (foreshadowing). That there is at least (foreshadowing) one more Charlie, Charlie #3.

But alas my loves. It is late. And this story does indeed drag on. Like any good never-ending story should. And yet this delicate flower needs her beauty sleep. So this story will have to yet again be put on hold. To be resumed soon. And I will have to bid you adieu. Until I can return. And begin again, with the saga of Charlie #3.

To Be Continued...

Come Back Charlies (Part II)

2011-02-09T08:38:00.000-08:00

Continued from Come Back Charlies (Part I)

So there I was on my last days of Christmas vacay. Things with TheNickName were over. He had said so pretty clearly. "something is missing" and all that jazz. And I can't lie. I was feeling a bit slumpy. Ready to take a break from dating. But not wanting to ~~look like~~ be a hysterical chick. I didn't take my POF profile down right away. The messages kept coming in. But there was no one I'd even consider. And then there it was. A message from a familiar face. Well. Familiar picture. Because. After all. I'd never seen his real life face. He's an Oxy(Moron) [It was] The Indecisive Lawyer. Was he fucking serious?

Remember me? he says. And then something about how good I looked and how are things. And that he really wants to meet me still.

I did nothing. Okay well not nothing. I tweeted about it. I called TheHel and told her the hilarity. Which was hilarious in it's own right because I said GUESS WHO just messaged me. And she said TheNickName?  No, I said. Intelligence Officer?  Gotta love her. A real friend knows who really has an affect on you. Of course there's no lingering feelings for Garbage Man, or Twitter Guy, or Trucker Joe or ThePhD. But the boy who made me laugh, laid it down oh so good and then managed to leave things on a good note. Yeah. He might have left me with a bit of a crush. (Don't worry I know it's just lusty). But I digress. Back on point here. So I told her who messaged me. We had a chuckle. And though I was just telling her because of the ridiculousness of it all. She jumped right into Are you going to?

Uh...wait...what?....not a fucking chance! I say. But here's the thing. He was the PERFECT booty call situation. Home during Summer and Christmas breaks (aka when I'm not busy with school). He was hot. And if I believed him. He was smart enough to be in Law school. Top fucking Notch. But. And this is a big but. I'm not fucking retarded. And to be clear. I was not expecting this dude to give some huge heartfelt apology about why exactly he'd been such a pans before and acted like such a douche. And yes. Sadly. With my soft heart. An apology (heartfelt and authentic) might have made a difference. But I knew it wouldn't come. And how could one really even expect it. We don't even know each other!  Just Sayin'. So in the end. I just did nothing.

But then. Another message came.

Let's chat again. You're looking damn sexy. MSN?

Retard, please! And so again. I did nothing except hit delete. But I guess you can blame POF for a system that now shows the other person is online (and yet has recently changed so that unless you pay you can't see if they deleted your message...which would have been a clear indicator to him...I'm assuming).

I would like to make up for that lost opportunity still. Let's meet. We'll both be completely satisfied. I'm sure of that.

Ugh. Gross. Now you're just being creepy. It was almost a weak ass apology and then it went straight into what I like to call...if you have to say it, you aren't it. The balls on these boys (and not the awesome kind, the delusional kind). Claiming I'd be completely satisfied somehow I fucking doubt it you moron.

And that's when I caved. Wait! Don't start freaking out. I don't mean caved in that I was even the slightest bit tempted. But caved in the sense that one of my fatal flaws is engaging when I shouldn't. Because I naively expect the possibility that I could hear a good (good as in satisfactory, not good as in forgivable) reason for certain behaviors and through that I'll learn more about ~~retards~~ boys. And so I messasged back. Doh!

What's changed?  That's it. Short and sweet.

I suppose what's changed is that I'm realizing how much fun we would have together and I don't want to waste that opportunity. Where abouts are you living now?

Yeah. No shit, son! I'm fucking amazing. But that's not really a good excuse because technically he likely thought the same thing in the summer. And yet squandered his chance(s) then. Nothing has changed. Oh wait. I have. He's still retarded. I'm not. Progress. And just to be a dick. I don't respond any further. I mean after all. He doesn't deserve it. His behavior certainly doesn't warrant it. And honestly...nobody likes Bitter Betty but EVERYBODY loves NonChalant Nancy and can't fucking stand it when she can't be bothered to respond to you. Just Sayin'. His messages however, continued for a couple more days.

I promise I won't back out this time. I'd REALLY like to meet you. What do you think?

And then....

How's your night coming along? What are you up to? Let's chat.

And then a couple days later he deleted his account. Who's hysterical now, bitch! Okay that was petty. Whatever. Don't care. I win!!! Okay sure it's kind of like winning a free corn dog not the Dream House at the PNE but still. I win! NonChalant Nancy. Whaaaaaaaat! (one day if you meet me you'll know what that sounds like and the hand gestures it comes with ;)

But don't think he was it. The end of this.  No of course not. One guy returning doesn't warrant a blog post(s) of this magnitude. Of this awesome Titlemonium. No way. He was JUST the fucking beginning. It's Come Back Charlies. Plural. Numerous. Enough to form a pattern. Enough to warrant this discussion.

To Be Continued...

Come Back Charlies (Part I)

2011-02-08T11:44:00.000-08:00

It's an online inconsistency. An incongruency between my online and offline personality. Because in real life I'm no Second Chance Sandy. I'm not Come Again Carly.  And I won't be Waiting Winnie. Shit, son. If anything I might be a bit too far the other way. Too hard on the fellas I mean. Because the thing of the thing is. With me. It's often a case of now or never. My way or the highway. You're either in or you're out*. Shape up or Ship out**. I don't take second place. I don't get down with sloppy seconds. I don't date exes. I don't do tradesies and I don't buy day old buns. I don't wait forever. You'd be lucky if I wait a week. I don't fight another chick for your heart. I don't play second fiddle. I don't ride in the backseat. I. Don't. Take. Second. Place. Some might think this is harsh and judgmental. But a reminder I am harsh and judgmental. And honestly. I don't want the guy who didn't see me and just swooooon in a manly way of course.

But there I am. Online boy after online boy. Giving second chances. Because maybe they're just nervous about online dating. Or. maybe he's just busy with work.  Or. everybody is a flake now and again.  And maybe it's because I take absolutely NO shit in real life. That online. I've gotten caught up in thinking that I should relax a bit. Be a bit breezier. More easygoing. That's what boys want isn't it? And along the way that became manifested as. Pushover. But then a funny thing happened.

I realized that was fucking bullshit. What the fuck was I thinking?  Well I partly know what I was thinking. I wanted to ensure I'd have enough dates to have enough blog material. I wanted a summer of boys. But shit son. Summer is long over now and I'll write erotica if I have to. Because putting up with ridiculousness has limits. And I've reached mine. Not in a bitter way. But in a "doh!" "oopsies" kind of way. And so I decided. Since I already felt worth getting. It was time to make the act or effort of the getting of me to match the value I felt that specific me entails. AKA I, SSDated, would henceforth be Hard To Get.

But then it happened. That thing. That situation. That circumstance. That moment where you finally stopped giving a shit about something and it being THAT EXACT MOMENT that it comes right back around to you. A sort of fucked up version of The Cat Came Back. Like that old adage

"If you ~~love~~ like someone ~~set them free~~ don't be mad when

they let you down and if they ~~come back to you~~ try for a

2nd (or 3rd or 4th) chance, you'll know ~~it was meant to be~~

they are absolutely fucking retarded"

And so I'm telling you. The moment it happened. The moment I got my head together. Wrapped my head ~~legs~~ around being Hard To Get. They all fuckin' heard my heart ~~legs~~ clamp shut. They came a runnin'. Well. Metaphorically. I mean. Literally they came a messagin'. Chomping at the bit. Biting for another chance. A "Something" that WAS. Several "Somethings" that could have been but never WERE.

To Be Continued....

*Thanks to @LoveYourCake for suggesting this phrase of perfection
**Thanks to @Wanderlust1ng for suggesting this phrase of perfection.

Dear Boys, Nobody Likes To Be A SideShow

2011-02-05T23:03:00.000-08:00

This post has been moved, Click the link

Dear Boys, Nobody Likes To Be A SideShow

to read it in full on JadedLovers.com or click here to find out about the changes taking place with this blog.

Somebody Loved Me Once

2011-01-31T20:26:00.000-08:00

Somebody loved me once. Says so on my resume,
Somewhere in between ability to chug beer
And affinity for listening without judgment,
It's there. A badge of honor. A letter of recommendation
Cupid's parking lot attendant stamped me, I'm
Validated. Insured. A tally sheet and value assessment
I've got it in writing. R.I.P. it says. Here lies,
A relationship. We had it, we had one, we had,
Each other. Once. Grew past it though,
I guess. Like braces and summer camp,
It changed us, memories stuck to the bottom.
Our sticky feet taking careful steps now,
That it's over. You loved me once. He loved me,
Once. Somebody loved me once. See,
I'm amazing, see like proof, see like
Tangible. Someone loved me once. Says so,
On my resume.

What I'd Give For A Discussion

2011-01-25T13:55:00.000-08:00

This post has been moved, Click the link

What I'd Give For A Discussion

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Never Leave the Party Early: Or, Why I Tell "Somethings" About the Blog

2011-01-23T19:04:00.000-08:00

I hate to leave a party early. Literally. Metaphorically. Consistently. I hold strong to this. I'm committed. It's vital. Fucking integral. To my happiness. I never leave a party early. I'd hate to have to leave a party early. Don't make me leave the party early.

It has something to do with opportunities. A fear of missed opportunities I think. You see. I don't believe in God. And I don't believe in fate or destiny. Life just happens. And it's beautiful. But that's it. Ebb and flow. Tide comes in. Tide goes out. Life carries on. So the fun won't wait for me. Won't hold strong for me to return. So I feel a need to be there for it. Squeeze as much out of the lemon as I can. Drink it all. Laugh at it all. Take pictures to remember it all. Love. Every. Goddamn. Minute. Of it all. Every moment is the time of my life. So you can see. How I wouldn't want to leave a party early. How I wouldn't want burn a bridge between me and fun. Even. Just. Hypothetical-chance-it-might-happen kind of fun. Dating. Is sort of like that for me. The not wanting to leave early.

Now don't get me wrong. When dating goes bad. When lusting goes sour. When hanging out becomes not fun. I'm ready to throw in the towel. Cut the ripcord. Burn that mother down. But when it goes. Just. Nowhere. Maybe to a let's just be friends kind of place or a booty call passionate nights kind of thing. When it goes there. I don't know. I just feel. A ~~flaw~~ compulsion not to end things. So permanently. I feel compelled to offer a tie. A hand. An olive branch. To be like. Yeah you screwed up, you lost me. But obvs. it wasn't a good fit. No biggie. Maybe you're retarded. Maybe I'm retarded. Hopefully one day we'll both find someone we can be retarded for. And so I wish you the best. No hard feelings. We're straight.

And that's why I tell them. About the blog. That's why. I show them a piece of me. Let me in a little. Let them see a little. Give them a place of contact. A point of reference. I won't push them out of the party early. I won't leave the party early. And we don't have to talk to each other. But at the very least we can still share a bag of chips. Share the possibility of cotton candy. Share the potential for a joke.

So it's not about showing them what they did wrong. Or revealing how they might have hurt me. It's not even really about them. It's just about life. And people. Them and me. Us. Divided by a bridge. That I won't light a match over. Even if at first they think my words are the thing doing that for me. This blog. Holds strong. Because after all. When the dating profiles get taken down. In a world where I still maintain some privacy over my facebook. And major privacy over my home phone number. And have a cell phone that is both unreliable and maintains an often changing number. It is a link. Keeping a presence. Holding a place. For contact. For a joke. For a smile. For the fun at the party. Mind the Gap. And never leave the party early.

He Was a Dick and I Got Cocky

2011-01-20T12:08:00.000-08:00

The PhD. We had a first date. He seemed super interested. I wanted to be super interested. But the next week. The one in which he said we should go out again. It came and went. And we did not go out again. In fact after that initial date and texting session. We never spoke again. Nothing. Nada.

Now I can't say I'm super upset. Mostly I'm just peeved the same way a child is when you tell them they can't have a toy even though they likely forget what it is they wanted within an hour. Mostly just upset when somebody isn't fucking falling-off-chairs-writing-love-poems-masterbating-non-stop-to-thoughts-of-me-swooning over me. But I'll survive.

The truth of the matter is. This was a glaring rebuttal to my previous theories about A. my ability to manipulate my own feelings of chemistry and B. the fact that simple intelligence is enough for me. The thing of the thing is. He was a bit creepy. I wasn't very attracted. Truth be told. If it hadn't been for his raging intelligence...I likely would've never gone out with him at all. Not even a second look. And I definitely wouldn't have been up for a quick peck on the date. A lip or two. A kiss kiss wait and kiss and done. But it happened. Because he wooed me. Just a smidge. Just a titch. Barely at all. But a bit. With his brain.

The same brain which I attribute his being a dick to. Because honestly he was a bit of a dick. In the arrogance kind of way. But honestly I get it. I don't know how you can be that smart and not be a little dickish. Just Sayin'. And did I want a second date. Certainly. Did I want a future. Likely not. But at the very least I wanted to be nominated for an award. I wanted a callback. A 2nd round job interview. I at least wanted my name on the fucking ballot.

And the truth is I thought it was. Would be. Was getting one. I was cocky. I assumed he'd thought I was awesome. And maybe he did. Maybe he lost interest because I didn't get frisky on the first date. Maybe he sensed my lack of lust for him. Maybe the after date texting was a trap that I sluttily fell into. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe he's gay. Maybe he's dead. Who the fuck knows. And aside from the fact that. Pause. I know this doesn't make me look good. Unpause. Aside from the fact that this would have been excellent research into what it's like dating smart guys (something I have no experience with), it's really not a huge deal. That and ya know I had been hoping to have sex with a super aggressive guy. Fail. But hey. You win some you lose some. Sometimes it's as simple as that. He was a dick. I got cocky. Nobody made contact. And it all just went away. The end (of ThePhD).

7: (A poetic doodle of sorts)

2011-01-19T17:40:00.000-08:00

I love you.
I love you. Like the number 7,
the one everyone always guesses first.
I love you luck, and odd, and integer
full and fractionless
You are the whole pie, lick blueberries off your lips.
Ice cream off your hands and I love you.
More than, halfway plus 2
Above an average of kisses and days
More more more, I love you. More.
Flashlights through trees like you lost me
Stealth and hunting, for the perfect 10.
Waiting, orange vested love. Safety first love.
Safety in numbers love. Buckle me in.
Love you like right answers. Just one.
Plus half a dozen donuts, you coat me
I love you upside down L. L for love. L for lonely. L for leaving me. Never. Number. 7.
I love you.

The Announcement.

2011-01-17T19:15:00.000-08:00

So here it is folks. The announcement. That is likely irrelevant to most of you. But very important in my life nonetheless. Because it changes everything. Completely. Alters everything. Wholly and fully. My approach to dating will be different. The boys in my life will be different. Different. Different. Different. The balls in my life, that would have been satisfied in my life, will be denied. Denied. Denied. Denied.

See the thing is. I've always felt I was hard to get. In the quality sense of the word. As in. I'm a quality chick. A boy would be lucky to have me (as I would him, assuming he's awesome). And to get into my heart. Well that's pretty fucking hard. Just sayin'. But somewhere along the way I got all mixed up with what I thought being nice and breezy and go with the flowy wise. Plus the whole ya know...used to having sex like a dude...slash...thinking about sex like a dude...slash...wanting sex all the time like a dude. Really clouds your judgement sometimes. Just sayin'.

So perhaps I've been going about this all wrong. This whole dating thing. So here's the change. And I know it'll sound simple at first. Oh so very simple, you might not even spot the difference at first.

I. Will. Be. Hard. To. Get.

Simple I know. Easy peasy you'd think. Got it. But the thing is. This isn't a rules type thing. I'm not going to be playing hard to get I'm actually going to be fucking hard to get. Genius I know right. And yes I'm well aware ladies and men the world over are aware of this concept. But don't hinder my growth. This is new for me. So I'm going to say it again. One more time. Just to make it really clear.

I. Will. Be. Hard. To. Get.

So this is me, SSDated, telling all of you. Kind of like a contract. I will be accepting no shit. I will not be stooping from my station. I will not be getting down and dirty in heated nights of passion strings flapping in the breeze. I will be sexless. And focused. Mamma's got her head on straight. Because you know what. Even in the conceptual round of booty calls. I've been accepting too little. In the future I will only be dating boys who are gentlemen, who think I'm beyond fantastic, who swoon for me. In the future I will only be taking part in raucous romps with a man who is so intensely into me he can barely contain himself. He should think I'm so beautiful it hurts. So funny he might die. So delicious he never needs food again (don't worry though I make a mean sandwich, I'll keep him fed). Now I'm not saying he has to be nuts...and fall in love with me overnight because that's not what I mean. But here's the thing of the thing. I will not hold my breath for boys who think I'm awesome but there's something "missing". I will not waste time on boys who feel I'm "awesome" just "not awesome enough".

And who knows. Maybe between all the studying. I might find that I. Meet a boy. Worth swooning over. And not simply because we're feeling lusty at that exact moment. A fickle bitch that lust is. But someone of quality. Who sees that I'm of quality. And feels swoony for me in return. And his Chuck Norris sized balls. To go after what he makes. To claim his prize. Me. Because after all. Maybe there is a boy out there worth waiting for, who one day might say those words that I would then return right back [I'm Retarded For You]