Playing With Matches

What started as a means of chronicling the online dating experiences of two picky yet adventurous almost thirty somethings has turned into a chronicle of all that is, was and has made up their collective dating histories. Our two original daters are now joined by several other fun, breezy, sassy gals, and Playing With Matches is now a missive on dating misadventures, a cacophony of ups and downs, turmoil and bliss. With a bit of snark mixed in here and there.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Here Comes the Bride.



Ew. Last night I had a dream that I had a date with Taylor Hicks. It actually started out as a date with some dude I don't even know named Jay. Who is Jay? No idea, but apparently I was kind of embarassed to have a date with him, too.

Oh yeah. I was embarassed about Taylor. And I just kept saying, when people seemed incredulous, "Um, he's People magazine's #1 bachelor, duh." Haha.

I woke up before I actually went on the date. But not before I spent a hella long time preparing for it.

I don't even like Taylor. Not one bit. And barely watched American Idol (what's the point after the auditions, really?).

Friday, June 16, 2006

I'd Like to Thank...

Before the end of this month, my Match subscription will come to an end. And, I've made the decision not to renew said subscription. As we come to the conclusion of this era in my dating history, I'd like to take the opportunity to express my gratitude to the following people:

1. To all those age 65 and over who are looking for a woman ages 18-45 who sent me winks and e-mails, thanks for keeping my inbox full on lonely nights;

2. To those who put no thought at all into developing your profiles (as evidenced by your inappropriate photographs and grammatically incorrect paragraphs), thanks for helping to provide HOURS of entertainment and blog-worthy material;

3. To RD, who "forced" me to join Match and who offered substantial technical assistance in helping me create my profile, thanks for the endless support which started out as technical in nature and developed into a 24-7 dating advice line;

4. To all friends who kept track of my whereabouts in order to ensure my safety and who offered pre-date advice and post-date analysis;

5. To my parents, for supporting this new fangled dating method; and

6. To EE, for making it all worthwhile.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

And So It Goes.

I saw him today. It wasn’t some accidental, unplanned, caught off guard moment. It was completely and absolutely planned. By me. Secretly.

So I had a meeting today in the building where he works, a place I don’t frequent. I decided, once the meeting was scheduled, that I would “stop by” his office on my way out and see if he was there. If not, so be it. But if so…well, God help me.

[Needless to say, it was a superior hair/makeup/wardrobe day…put together and hot without being obvious about it. He needed to be reminded of what he had and what he so callously and without a damn care threw away.]

I was anxious during my meeting. Did I really want to do this? Yes.

I found my way to his stomping grounds. Knocked on the open door. He looked over. Commented that it had been a while (seven months almost to the day, but who’s counting?). Told me to have a seat. Asked if I wanted to get coffee. I declined (major accomplishment), said I had another meeting shortly thereafter. Small talk. Mindless chatter. It was painful. Absolutely and utterly painful. For two people who used to be able to talk for hours on end about everything (even things that shouldn't have been discussed, that normal people would have been embarrassed to bring up, much less discuss at length), we were at a loss for words; for two people who were comfortable in even the most inappropriate situations, I felt very much ill at ease.

He told me I should have given him advance notice of my visit so that we could’ve planned better. Enough with the empty words, dear. I am tired of you trying to ease your conscience. You broke my heart, whether I want to admit it or not. I can’t change that, and neither can you. The fact that I’ve moved on (almost 99%) has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I am not going to make you feel like the good guy. You aren’t. But I’m not going to make you into the bad guy, either, because that, too, gives you a hell of a lot of clout that you surely do not deserve. You were a mere few months in my life. I had lived 324 months before I met you and I’ve lived nine more after you. And I’ve done just fine, thank you.

Monday, June 12, 2006

PS

It appears as though this blog has become a solo endeavor. Objection has disappeared off the face of the blogosphere. I will try to entertain you, alone, as best I can. Unless the ghost of Objection comes back to regale us with her stories of life in the world of Match. Until then, you're stuck with just me.

How to Get the Guy.

Do we single women, those who are looking for love, really need another person/book/television show telling us that we are doing something wrong or giving us new and different means of finding Mr. Right?

As a fan of answering the rhetorical question, allow me to shout NO. No no no no no no no. NO.

Every time I read a book (hello, He's Just Not That Into You) or see a commercial (yes, ladies, the eHarmony personality profile is still free!) or see a celebrity break up with one man and immediately head into the arms (okay, who am I kidding...into the bed) of another man or see another television show (such as today's premiere of How to Get the Guy) I think to myself: Wow. There must be a different way to do things. Maybe if I tried this or said that or went here, Prince Charming will fall into my lap and we'll live happily ever after.

Maybe. But how do I know?

All of these shows and books and "real life" situations with which I find myself inundated just serve to make me more frustrated and annoyed. There always seems to be a new way to do something or a new avenue to venture down...and you're always left wondering "what if." As the typical lifelong overachiever, I don't like thinking I'm not doing everything I can. But, LBH, I'm more concerned with the fact that I feel responsible for the cards dealt to me. Yes, I've surely made bad decisions. But is it my fault I'm still single?

For my own sake, I hope that isn't a rhetorical question.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Longest Three Minutes Ever.

Also known as "Receiving a phone call from your last paramour, with whom you have not spoken in over six months [despite random and varied and extremely infrequent attempts, by him, to IM or text you]."

He called.

Completely out of the blue, unexpected, without warning. Phone rings, number is viewed, heart stops.

I pick up the phone as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Nonchalant. Cool. Breezy.

He acted as though we had spoken earlier in the day...not months and months before. I was not the typically warm and nurturing and flirtatious RD. I went along with the conversation, making sure to tell him without telling him (because, LBH, he and I are the King and Queen of the Kingdom of Passive Aggressive) that I was great and fabulous and happy and not-giving-a-damn-that-he-had-disappeared-off-the-face-of-the-earth. I had Moved On.

But we all know that's not really the truth. Because that part of me, that part that still thinks of him daily (sometimes even fondly) was kind of giddy that he called. I did not allow any of those emotions to surface. We talked work. We talked generalities. He made references to things we used to joke about.

He has apparently been "busy, very busy" (RD, do not take the bait. Repeat: do not take the bait). He kept asking how I was doing, if I was happy.

Fine. Fabulous. Great. Really happy. Can I assuage your guilt and/or conscience any more?

"We should do lunch sometime soon," he said. I told him he knew where to find me. But I have a feeling that he has a selective memory and won't remember the phone number he used to call ten times a day, no matter the time, just to tell me to go outside and look at the moon or to say goodnight. He won't remember where I live, though he came over often enough. Or where I work. Or anything like that.

But maybe that's a good thing.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Because I Said I Wanted Excitement.

But by excitement I did not mean I wanted to feel like vomiting. Which is what I felt like this morning when I opened an email regarding a meeting I am supposed to attend tomorrow and saw, on the distribution list, Rolly Chair Boy. And, not only his name, but also that of The Hooker. Great.

I don’t want to see either one of them separately, much less together (and this is assuming that they are still together). Even if they’re not…being in the same room as they are is not going to be fun. At all. But it won’t be ugly, because I Am Better Than That. I will be Pleasant. I will look Hot (though not in an obvious way). I will give the Obligatory Nod and/or Smile from across the room. Perhaps I will even say hi. Because I am better than they. And I don’t have grossness coursing through my veins.

He is pseudo boyfriend thrice removed. Why is this even bothering me?

Monday, June 05, 2006

Repeat Performance.

You have got to be kidding me.

Our friends at Match are forever reminding us (bashing it into our match needy minds) that there are millions of singles out there who have decided, for one reason or another, to sign on for love. Whatever. If that's true, Mr. Match, why the hell am I getting "matches" from you who have already been in my inbox? The best part of it all is that two of today's matches (I've started getting four sets of matches a week, mind you, instead of the two I was getting when I was an actual subscriber) include "gentlemen" with whom I've already corresponded. And our correspondence was instigated because they appeared as a match in my inbox. Where are these millions of men?

So, not only is Match.com and asshole, Match.com is also lazy.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

I'm It

1. I have a bizarre and almost frightening ability to recall dates. This talent surpasses a mere ability to remember birthdays or anniversaries. For example today (June 1) is the 11 year anniversary of my first day of work at a local theme park petting zoo.

2. When I was about three years old, I was obsessed with dinosaurs. One would think this to be a fairly harmless obsession. And, it was...until that faithful day when I was pretending to be a dinosaur and bit my father's watch resulting in the loss of one of my front teeth. A short time later, I lost my other front tooth when I fell when exiting the Mayor McCheese playground equipment at McDonalds.

3. I am a firm believer in delayed gratification, and nowhere is this more evident than in my eating habits. For example, take your average piece of pizza. Most people pick up said pizza and eat it. Not me. First, I eat all of the toppings utilizing a fork. Then I use the fork to eat the cheese. Once the cheese is removed, I sprinkle Parmesan (if available) on the remaining marinara and crust and eat with my hands. Don't even ask how I eat a Hostess cup cake.

4. I am terrified of monkeys.

5. Every time I use salt in cooking, I take a small amount and toss it over my right shoulder for good luck.

6. When I was in second grade, I would pretend that my life was a television show. I would imagine that cameras followed me around and filmed the mundane activities of my daily life (school, dance classes, etc). Little did I know that years later, t.v. producers would utilize this same concept in developing the genre of reality television. The daily events of my life as an eight year old were much more entertaining than half of the reality shows on t.v. today.