Initial Contact

First contact. Source: Google Images

 

There is nothing more precarious than the premier étage of dating. The solid connection forged in person can collapse as quickly as a poorly made soufflé if the ingredients aren’t integrated perfectly. And we ALL know what a bummer it is when your soufflé collapses. (OKAY fine I don’t, but one of these days I will fulfill that dream.) Actually, a fallen soufflé would probably be more disappointing then a missed connection with the lackadaisical way dating is approached nowadays.

Pardon my stream-of-consciousness blogging style, but can we pause and discuss the missed connections section of Craig’s List? Depressing and unlikely. 24-year-old MFW, do you really think the blond girl in jeans you shook hands with at a bar last Tuesday will remember that? How does that description even identify anyone? That could be me, for all I know. OMG how many connections have I missed?! I think that page is supposed to inspire hope, but really it just reminds me how little confidence people have. Man up and talk to her at the bar, MFW! This ‘speechless’, butterflies-in-one’s-stomach excuse is not believable and NOT hot.

That said, the key to initial contact is, crazily enough, establishing contact! (And not in a way that involves throwing a first move out into the ‘cosmos’ in hopes that said person will respond.) But just what is the best way to contact your new flame?

Scenario. Late one Sunday night, a connection is made between two consenting parties. Beer → conversation → karaoke → phone number. (That’s the typical progression, correct?) So now Journey is sitting there with Bonnie Raitt’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket. He has several options.
 

a)      Rip up the number and throw it away. Sure, she was great, but her vocal skills were akin to Cameron Diaz’ in My Best Friend’s Wedding, and he’s not trying to get with that. Also, the dramatic ripping-up gesture was very satisfying.

b)      Abide the three-day rule and text her at a time when it appears nonchalant, e.g., 4:57 p.m. Obviously NOT 5:00 p.m., because it will then seem too carefully orchestrated. Plus, this will deepen Bonnie’s interest as she nervously awaits his call. (Or, more likely, it will give her time to forget him or move on. Obviously I’m not a fan of this rule.) 

c)       Text her back immediately and/or the next day with a witty comment/inside joke. Caution: with this approach, the guy should not expect the girl to follow up since she now has his number, and that had better be one hilarious comment. Otherwise this option can come across as needy. 

d)      Call her (gasp) within the next few days with a pleasantry about the other night and an invitation to dinner, or coffee if the situation seems sketchy. I get it guys; nobody wants to spend that much money on someone who could just up and start planning your wedding on the first date. Or worse, is a vegetarian. 

All of these options are a plausible means of getting the girl (or guy..woo feminism). Well, except the first. I guess the first could work if you immediately regret ripping up the number (because she is a girl, there’s that) (or boy) and post your MFW/WFM on missed connections. Then the cosmos can bring you together just in time for the holidays, a festivus miracle!

OR you can choose one of the latter three, more sane options. Unfortunately there is not really any good standard, because typically if someone likes you they will like your approach. Feel it out, though; if she (…/he?) seems shy, maybe a sooner call-back to inspire confidence is in order. A younger girl will probably expect a text as opposed to a call, as she only uses that aspect of her Smartphone for her parents, and vice versa for an older girl. Although that extra initiative is always appreciated. A confident, independent girl may be turned off by a quick reply, as the chase is a necessary evil.

Most importantly, if you text, DON’T start a boring conversation. And don’t make the person you’re texting start it (i.e., “what’s up girl” is unacceptable). Do yourself a favor and think of something interesting. Because if we resort to talking about Wheel of Fortune immediately, so help me, that’s it. I’m not trying to fast-forward to our conversations 40 years from now. (You know Pat and Vanna will still be alive and running the millionth season.)

Hopefully with some basic steps to follow we can make this process feel easier and slightly less foreign than alien contact. (I’ve never seen E.T., but I think “E.T. phone home” was probably established because he wanted to call up a chick.) Next time you find yourself wearing a foil helmet, surrounded by glasses of water and a baseball bat, staring at the phone…Who am I kidding, if it gets that far, you’re way beyond me. Joaquin Phoenix, I’m looking at you.

Holiday (tequila)

Source: Google Images

As of late a gentleman named Jose has had a significant impact on my life. At least, Jose spurred a chain of events that led up to this moment in time. Things were getting pretty serious between us back in college…but then I met his worldly uncle Patron. Jose had the tall, lean build, but Patron really introduced me to the finer things in life. And of course by the finer things I mean things that are not fine at all, but somehow seem so when a rich, worldly uncle describes them. (You know, sort of how I’m trying to make tequila shots sound elegant in this paragraph.)

Actually, Patron and I had a nasty breakup and I typically avoid him like the plague. But this story begins and ends in Mexico. A place where the waiters frown when you order water and admonish, “No tequila, no vacation.”

Really, the question of the week stems from utter bafflement on my part. Why is this Mexican nectar so toxic for those who are north of the border?

Sidebar: [Meddlesome reader: But wait, isn’t this a dating blog? Knowing blogger (aka radiant sunbeam of light): Not only did I introduce this blog in a datey (yep, invented that) way, but if anyone here would like to say that no relationship has ever begun or ended under the influence of tequila you may throw the first stone. Pertinent. Topic. Lawyered!]

Anyway, according to an article from 1977 whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell, tequila can only be produced in the state of Jalisco and limited regions in a few other Mexican states. Mexico also holds exclusive international rights to the word ‘tequila’. 

Naturally, what I take from this is that tequila appears to be an elitist, segregated alcohol. This makes me think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry eats the black and white cookie, and the two sides don’t get along and break his near 15-year vomit-free streak. (What? Only three of you understand that reference? The rest can stop reading my blog.) First off, all of this pondering made me hungry—stopping mid-thought for a sweet, and yet refreshing Junior Mints break—and second, ARE our bodies being taken over by some sort of fascist dictator every time we drink tequila? Probably.

I mean, if we weren’t being puppeteered by some eccentric middle-aged man by the name of Patron, how could one possibly go from avoiding a certain person by hiding behind a friend or locked door to chatting and carrying on enthusiastically with said party in just a few short minutes? Of course, those minutes were really hours and that carrying on is a euphemism, and your friend did abandon you for her own selfish reasons (ugh, sleep is so bourgeois).

And how could one go from Cuervo (perhaps a tall, lean, good-looking Israeli from Denver) to Patron (a rich, worldly…let’s just not talk about it). The anecdotes could LIT-erally (oh, how I love Rob Lowe on Parks & Rec) carry on for days, but the answer is simple: One. Drank. Too. Much. Tequila. 

According to the mythology behind this ‘nectar of the gods’ (here), reader’s digest version, a goddess stole the light of the earth, and another god got angry and went to kill her. Instead, he fell in love with her daughter and forgot his original intent (sounds like tequila), and when the mother goddess found out and sent people to kill him, he and his lover of course decided to become a tree (?). Unfortunately, the mother still killed her daughter. Harsh. The man god buried her remains and they grew into the agave plant. The rest of the gods took pity on him and struck the plant with lightning, producing tequila to ease the man’s pain of lost love. Soounds like a pretty accurate story of tequila’s influence on the world today.

So what we’re dealing with here are angry gods and elitist puppeteer dictators. NO WONDER Saturday night was so crazy.

Thirty

Typical thirty-somethings. Source: Google Images

Thirty-somethings love to be around other thirty-somethings. They love to remind twenty-somethings that they are younger and better off in a condescending way that does not make them feel better off. Most of all, they love to commiserate (because, of course, they are old and gray and have no good years left).

From the perspective of a naïve twenty-two-year-old whippersnapper, this is understandable (and yet ridiculous). One gray does not an elderly person make. Also, I suspect if they really thought, really thought back to their twenties, they would remember the turmoil and uncertainty of these years. They are great in their own way, but sometimes a girl would kill for a little stability. Fresh off yet another failed dating venture (no complaints, no complaints, no complaints…), I’m posing the question: who really has it better?

First of all, let me point out that my thirty-something friends go out more than I do. (And no, I’m not a cat lady who sits at home and knits, so stop picturing me that way. STOP.) They stay out later drinking, they drink more intently and they are always throwing and attending parties. Granted, this may be a fervent effort to make up for lost time, but it is so. 

Let me add to this that Sex and the City kicked off with the women in their 30s. The 20s didn’t even exist for these women, who were supposed to represent the savviest and most successful of their day. Of course, this is a double-edged sword. I love that show as much as the next girl, but there is NO WAY I want to be like those women in my 30s. They really had no idea what was going on. And let’s be real, they were whores. (The definition of ‘whore’ says usually for money, so yes, it applies.)

Okay, okay. The benefits of being in one’s 20s are numerous and oft-quoted. The world is at your feet, you’re not tied down, you have no real responsibilities, you don’t have to ask your hubby (ugh, that word) if you can stay out later at happy hour (this, I’ve learned, is something the thirty-somethings dread).

First of all, I don’t agree that these are all positive. Who decided that it’s better to go through the monotony of meeting and greeting new people every night, talking once again about yourselves and your work and your dreams (I’m getting bored already), instead of going home to someone you actually like and can spend more than a drunken hour with? 

And in the current economic recession, double dip looming over our heads, is the world really at our feet? No. No, it’s not. Better to have a steady job and stable money for which to use on nights out. Downside: twenty-somethings can’t afford bottle service. As Ke$ha put it, “we don’t buy bottles, we bring ‘em, we take the drinks from the table when you get up and leave ‘em”. Ah, just another twenty-something living the good life.

Lastly, call me a freak, call me old-fashioned, call me a radiant sunbeam of light that touched down on this earth just for you (just an idea), but I like responsibility. Drifting aimlessly with no money, no job and no prospects sounds like a hernia and a half. I prefer not to stress about where my next meal/roof is coming from. And I really don’t want to end up like those homeless guys on the side of the road with a dog slung over their shoulders for warmth.

So sue me, thirty-somethings, I do think you have it better. You won’t get anything because I’m broke. Ha.

Google +

Source: Google Images

Well, Google + is out. Boring as it seems at the moment, if this catches on, it is going to be very difficult to stalk people on the Internet. (Don’t act like this isn’t your main concern.) Good luck getting into the circle where your object of interest puts all their juicy photos. No, the potential crush you’re stalking will most likely add you to the ‘acquaintances’ circle because they PROBABLY don’t know who you are. 

Having spent a lot of quiet reflection on this issue (so many of my close friends are stalkers, this will devastate them), it crossed my mind that maybe social media like Facebook and Google + (and MySpace? Or, I’m sorry My_____ now, right? Cause a name change is what they need) are hindering rather than helping our relationships.

So, Talk or Stalk?

Perhaps the world ran better the old-fashioned way, when people met in person, agonized over the first phone call, asked each other questions about their histories and were delighted to find they had things in common. As opposed to the mode of the day, when people meet in bars or online, send out first texts like candy, scour the Internet for information about the other person and are not surprised to learn they both like Zac Brown Band, because they both liked that page on Facebook. (I mean, this isn’t surprising anyway, they’re genius! And it’s okay if you know that about me, as long as you read my blog.)

Don’t anyone act like you haven’t had that conversation. You know the one. Them: “Oh yeah, my ex and I went to his concert right before we broke up in November.” You: “Oh, so it was pretty recent huh?” Even though you can pinpoint the exact time it happened via their mobile uploads, you know what they were wearing and you know what seats they had. Probably you witnessed the breakup on newsfeed and have been waiting a decent amount of time for them to be ready to date. Seems just a tad inhumane, n’est-ce pas?

Yes, it is creepy to be so aware of all the inner goings-on of an acquaintance’s life. In this respect, it would seem Google + has it right with the circles. 

Of course, there’s the other side of the coin. There will always be that scumbag who decides to try to date while he is in a relationship (a closed relationship—I can’t believe I have to clarify, thanks a lot Facebook for that extra ‘open relationship’ option), and in these instances a good stalking could save you worlds of hurt.

The fact that we’re even trying to date that scumbag in the first place, though, could be because of the Internet. Maybe our douche-o-meter has been silenced because we’ve had too much help and don’t have to do it on our own anymore—just like in the case of our short-term memory and intelligence. We figure, hey, we can meet guys in bars and then we’ll weed out the bad ones later on Facebook or according to what we glean from their texts. When you don’t actually have to put any time or effort into dating someone standards drop to record lows.

SIDEBAR: Does everyone use the word douche or is it just me? Recently I’ve only heard it used in certain contexts, and some people have been offended by it, but I thought it was pretty widespread. I mean, yeah, duh, the origin is gross, but that’s irrelevant. On a recent trip to Phoenix, the bellhop WHISPERED to me that there were douches at this bar in Scottsdale I asked him about, like I would be offended by the fact that he said douche. I would be surprised if someone DIDN’T say douche while I was in Arizona. Scottsdale is their capital! Well, now that I’ve officially used douche about 87 times I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.

What can we make of all these pros and cons? Since the world seems to be pulling away from human contact at a shockingly accelerated rate, I vote talking every time. Besides, remember that movie Catfish? You have absolutely no idea who is actually behind that person’s profile. And even if it is them, they’ve probably hand-selected the only two pictures that make them look attractive (i.e. sunglasses and a hat, or the subtle my-more-attractive-friend-is-in-the-center-of-the-picture-so-I-hope-you-think-they’re-me gag). Actually, go for the stalk. I personally can’t wait until you see that person sober!

Naughty or Nice

Source: Google Images

Well, Murphy’s Law was in full force this weekend. Actually, let’s throw timing into the mix; Finagle’s law is more appropriate. (For those who don’t realize that the most powerful search engine ever created by man—the dictionary, duh—is at their fingertips, Finagle’s law is ‘anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment’.)

Apparently there is no specific unwritten law of dating to describe this state of affairs, so I’m creating one: All of the losers who neglected you in the past will suddenly find you irresistible when, and only when, you start dating someone new (Douches’ Law?). That’s right, as soon as Rapunzel finds a prince willing to scale a tower via her hair, her past suitors will surely be waiting in the wings with heavy artillery for a chance to disrupt his pursuit (only to decide that the tower is REALLY high, they can’t climb hair, they made a mistake, etc., when they succeed).

There is no scientific explanation for how people from your past are able to sense your happiness and promptly interrupt it, unfortunately. So Rapunzel is left on her own to choose between passionate (be it unreliable), once-unrequited feelings and possible (likely) requitement from the ‘good guy’.

It’s the ever-present question on Santa’s mind: naughty or nice?

Funny, on paper this seems like a non-issue. Of course, if you’ve ever seen a romantic comedy or even spoken to a girl you should know it is THE issue. Everyone at this age secretly wants a love affair that is passionate, rife with drama, scandal, lust and mistrust. They want fireworks (ahh Fourth of July reference!) They will swear they are ‘sick of the losers’ and ‘ready to settle down’, but as soon as someone starts opening up car doors and calling when they say they will, generally forgoing any of that pesky mystery, they will yearn for their past ‘lovers’.

Allow me to quote Taylor Swift (please, just one I swear!) “I miss screaming and crying and kissing in the rain, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m cursing your name, so in love that I acted insane, and that’s the way I loved you.” 

Now, I realize Tay-Tay is no expert on love (she’s definitely headed toward Aniston-ville), but she is a girl of my demographic and this is the way we think. Girls are crazy. Let’s just admit it. We are. Given the choice between a sure bet and a toss-up, it’s sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Charlie, but Chris has a motorcycle and a hotter name, and I’m really just not ready for a boyfriend right now (ahem, BS).

Actually, I think only girls in movies care about motorcycles. They’re very dangerous.

Anyway, the only sort of closure I have gleaned from this issue are my friends’ proclamations that with the ‘right’ guy, all the passion will be there with a negligible amount of the sorrow. And, if you’re lucky, they’ll open a few doors for you too. Isn’t this the fairy tale ending everyone loves to be constantly reminded of?  Yep, it’s the old ‘someday’ cop-out. Someday, your prince will come. Someday, you’ll stop eating frozen meals on the couch by yourself. Someday, you’ll pour two glasses of wine (and only drink one!). Someday, you will actually be able to ignore the messages from your own past suitors instead of allowing them to consume your life. Ah, someday.

Until then, girls will be girls. Raving mad.

Summer Solstice (Asexuality)

?????? Source: Google Images

Today is loooong. Summer solstice long. What is America going to do with all this daylight? There’s too much time for thinking today. (Read: disclaimer for the thoughts that follow.) There is time to weep and time to laugh, time to mourn and time to dance, time to be born and time to die, and time for asexuality.

That’s right. A-sex-ual-ity.

Recent conversations with friends have inspired this revelation that there are times when it serves one well to forget about the boy/girl mumbo jumbo. Really, every movie does not need to stifle its viewers with the idea that life is incomplete until the guy gets the girl. Maybe my choice of movies is to blame. Nevertheless, it gets tiresome. Ah, to be free of decoding texts, to dispel that knot of worry that ties itself up in your stomach as you await a call.

Is asexuality worth a try?

We’re obviously talking short term (don’t inundate me with your complaints of ‘needs’, I’m well aware). But speaking with the expertise of someone who has recently been on a family vacation where the pretense of asexuality is a must (What, mom? What are ‘pecs’? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where? No. ‘Abs’? I’m not interested), it can be pretty relaxing.

Sure, vacations are obvi relaxing on their own, but think about how nice it is to just turn off your phone and not worry about social networking. Some of you may have just had cardiac arrest at this idea, and if you did I hope we’re not friends. Don’t invite me to the funeral. I swear I won’t go.

Think about all the time we’d gain without these distractions. According to the Nielsen Company, users spent about eight billion hours a month on Facebook in 2010, and now Twitter is huge and everyone has a smartphone. Probably half of these hours are spent talking to a significant other or trying desperately to find one. That is a LOT of time, people. And summer solstice day, when everyone is going crazy indoors with the idea that they should be doing some outdoor activity because there’s extra light, must be even higher.

That’s an extra four billion hours a month to solve problems, volunteer, take your grandmother to lunch (she deserves it!), invent a portable bread cutter for restaurants (I, for one, am sick of my friends squishing the bread down when they cut their slice), or finish (start) that novel.

Selfishness is likely the root problem. Time spent looking for love is almost always for oneself. And while humans were not cut out for asexuality like the jellyfish, the amount of time invested in searching at bars, on Facebook, on the phone, even in line for lunch, is something to think about. To supplement this, consider that the relationships that are the most tiresome, that you fret over the most, that take up all your time are often the ones that are unhealthy or never get off the ground.

The search for love is not to be discounted, as love itself is one of the best things left in the world. And sometimes, okay, love is time spent on others. (Promise this is not the cynic ranting of a loser going through a dry patch…okay fine! I live with my grandma and I’m knitting a sweater as I write this.) But, insert cliché here →, everything in moderation.

Asexuality is an extreme, yes. Plus, if you adhere to that there’s no point to the rest of this column (whoops). On an unrelated note, this will be the last post.

Okay, not really. Obviously asexuality is not actually biologically possible for most of us. But think of our friends the jellyfish! They just swim and float and glide, all footloose (footless, really) and fancy free. And you can bet they have some MAJOR ideas going on somewhere in all that gelatinous mass.

Perhaps a watered-down version where we focus more on our family, friends and those in need rather than our own needs is worth a try. Also, not to be that annoying aunt, but love always comes when you least expect it. Think about it.

Sext-astrophe!

Sorry you have to see old man chest again. Source: Google Images

If anyone ever wonders why time was spent on this subject, it is because of the idiocy of American congressmen. “Weinergate” cracked wide open today, and as it turns out yet another American representative was LYING…about SEXTING. Please hold your startled gasps. (You’re all much too dramatic.)

Honestly, this topic doesn’t deserve a column. All it really deserves is a swift slap on the wrist by a ruler-wielding Catholic nun. But since it has become pertinent not only to the average bourgeois but to those who are representing us to other countries, I will deign to address it. (If this blog feels like a metaphorical trip to the principal’s office, that’s because it is.)

After multiple scandals have broken loose, from celebs (cough, Blake Lively) to congressmen, it seems fair to ask, does sexting have ANY positive impact on our lives?

Resisting the urge to scream and mustering up as much journalistic objectivity as possible, let’s begin with the texting of pictures (i.e., the déclassé way to sext). Speaking purely from a woman’s perspective (yes, that girl at the beach, the Starbucks cashier, your friend, your sister, your mom, not your grandma…she doesn’t understand), EW. Nobody wants to see that.

This isn’t some weird cooties issue (everyone’s been vaccinated by now, I presume). This is a U-G-L-Y issue. To quote Elaine from the—brief lapse in objectivity—best show of all time, Seinfeld, “…the female body is a...work of art. The male body is utilitarian; it's for gettin' around, like a jeep."

Men, if you don’t believe it, let’s look at some facts. Members of your tribe are being humiliated in both the public (^^^^^^^) and private sectors. 

Remember all that time you spent achieving the perfect MySpace-esque mirror photo, posing seductively, working Axe into your hair to achieve the messy look, oiling yourself up and doing 10 quick push-ups right before because you heard that was a good way to get definition fast? Well, true story, there are girls that have collections of these photos of yours on their smart phone and they sit around with their friends like gaggles of geese ridiculing and critiquing every little detail.

Let’s clear a few things up.

1.       Pictures in the mirror where your cell phone is visible have NEVER EVER been cool. Pretty sure people would prefer to think someone they like is NOT sitting around alone in a darkened room staring at themselves in the mirror with an angry-looking “sexy” straight face.

2.       Middle-aged congressman chest is NOT hot. Dear Internet, no more. Please?

Cool? Cool. For the record ladies, guys are almost certainly showing their friends your pictures because they actually WANT to see them. Keep that in mind (cough, Blake Lively). 

Sure, some girls will reply to these Adonis photos, but only for attention. They are most likely not admiring your, ahem, stature. (All this coughing and clearing my throat, I must be coming down with a cold! Darn post-nasal drip.) And yes, it is obvious that you’re only sending pictures out to get some in return. And perhaps you will, because sexting has become yet another mainstay of this sex-obsessed, throw-morality-to-the-wind culture.

As far as the written word goes, sext (cringe) at your own risk, preferably with someone who is NOT A STRANGER ON CRAIGSLIST (ahem, Chris Lee). At least it’s less easily traced back to you. Of course, you never know, as it seems even some of our very own intelligent congressmen have not yet mastered the intricate art of a Twitter DM. (I mean really.)

In all seriousness, the most important thing to remember is who the publicly humiliating sexting is hurting (besides my eyes). The last couple congressmen had spouses. Serena Blake Lively has Lily a mom who probably isn’t under home arrest for forgery (okay, enough GG). Is the brief payoff worth the risk of hurting loved ones? Weiner-schnitzel’s probably saying no right about now. (Hmm…maybe a hot dog for lunch?)

So girls of America, even though macramé is in this season, let’s resist the urge to photograph ourselves in it with nothing underneath (for you, B J). Congressmen of America, we respect your physical fitness efforts, but finish buttoning up that shirt.

Can we just end this discussion already? It’s stupid and would be inexcusable even in junior high. You can all sit in detention with Dominique Strauss-Kahn and think about what you did.