18 March, 2010

Mike Yanagita

Remember that scene in Fargo, where Marge Gunderson has dinner with an old school friend? That school friend is Mike Yanagita. Remember the fumbling desperation? The pleading eyes, the excessive enthusiasm?

Meet Candidate No. 3.

At around 5'5" (profile says 5'10". For fuck's sake, Men, do not lie about your height. You will be caught. Seriously.) Candidate No. 3 is a jack of all trades who lives in an office building near the beach. In an actual office. Which kind of raises a red flag in my mind, but I digress.

He turned up looking quite a bit older (and fatter) than his photo, wearing jeans and thongs (if you're an American, that's what we call "flip flops" here in Australia). Now, I don't want to get all uppity, but is it too much to ask for a bloke to wear shoes? And while we're on it, here's a note for the ladies - if a chap's got his mouth shut in his photos, it means he's probably got really bad teeth.

My first impression, frankly, was no frickin' way. I tried not to let my disappointment show.

Now, to be fair, he's a nice guy I guess, but there's something just not quite right about 3. And after an hour or so of chatting, he started making bedroom eyes at me.

Uncomfortable.

Soon after he went for beers, came back and sat on the same side of the table as me. I got a dreadful feeling, like I was being hit on by a creepy uncle or something. You know the sort. The one that kisses you on the mouth at Christmas, when a cheek would have more than sufficed. Or grabs you on the arse when they give you a hug.

It soon became apparent that we were engaged in a slow-motion game of kiss chasey, where he'd move a little closer, and I'd move a little further away. He'd lean forward a bit, and I'd lean back a bit. When I ran out of bench, I declared it home time.

I grabbed my bag, thanked him for a pleasant evening, and made a run for it.  Sometimes, you know, one really does feel as though one has dodged a bullet on these things.

16 March, 2010

Really bad profile names

So this morning, I was contacted by a chap on a dating site with the nom de plume "IwantDDs". If you're reading this, Mister DDs, telling a girl that you're just after big tits probably isn't the best way to get on her good side. In fact, I don't think I know a woman alive who would have "an interest in really large breasts" on her list of must-haves for a potential new boyfriend.

Another favourite is "Dissapointed" (sic). Nothing says bitter, disillusioned and miserable more than "disappointed" mis-spelled. Not only are you carrying more baggage than Paris Hilton on a holiday in Monaco, you're not even clever enough to run a spell-check over your misery.

Okay, and I may be alone in this, but I think horoscopes are really really stupid. So if you've got a handle with your star sign in it, you're basically telling me you're a brainless schmuck. That goes for you too Mssrs BombersRule, HawksRock and DockersFan11. Seriously.

The Bad Kisser

I really don't know why I let him kiss me. I guess it was the twenty champagnes and an inflated sense of manners that made me think I should. But lets go back to the beginning, shall we? Take my hand and let's run through the fields of mediocrity that is my sorry dating life.

Candidate No. 2 is a 42 year old photographer. A good looking bloke around 5'10". Well travelled and articulate, I met him on an internet dating site.

He arrived a half hour late, sat down and ordered a beer. It was the first of several thousand he'd drink that night. Is it nerves? Or is there something about me that drives men to drink themselves into a stupor?

After the first ten or so we got to talking about creationism vs evolution, which developed into a discussion about agnosticism vs atheism (are you still awake? Stay with me). This is where it all started to go pear-shaped.

You see, men love arguing with me. I'm assuming it's just me, because most of my single girlfriends don't have the same experience. It seems to happen to me a lot.

So he starts arguing with me, but without a point. Great, complex trains of thought disappearing into the night without a destination. Frustrated and bored, I tried to change the topic. To be something about him. Three times. But Candidate No. 2 doggedly changed it back, verbally meandering here and there, eyes rolling around his head like a shark in a feeding frenzy, as he ordered beer no. 428.

After an hour or two of this I figured it was home time. And that's when I let him kiss me. I really shouldn't have, and frankly, I wish I hadn't. For our hapless candidate was a Very Bad Kisser. His tongue had a life of its own and, like a dental Indiana Jones, explored the deeper recesses of my root canal, and the folds of my epiglottis.

I pulled away, slightly horrified and feeling oddly violated. He said "what's wrong?" then, eyes narrowed, "I really wanna fuck you." So I told him.

"Whoa, dude. WAY too much!"
"wha?"
"Too much tongue. Really way too much." He looked hurt, and I felt bad.

We sat silently for a minute or two.

"Well, I guess it's home time for me." I said weakly.
"Yep."

He paid the bill, which was kind. Nevertheless, I had to let him go.

The Dirty Liar

Meet Candidate No. 1. He's 5'10", 35 years old, and speaks both French and Latin. An urban, inner-city dweller, he's a sculptor and painter. And while he smokes a little, he's trying to give up.

Sounds dishy, doesn't he? Rrrrrow.

I met Candidate No. 1 for lunch.

I arrived exactly on time (as always), and sitting out the front of the restaurant with a fag hanging out of his mouth was a short little guy with mustard coloured teeth and thinning hair.

Slightly mortified, I took my seat opposite. He flashed me a wide, nicotine smile, poured himself a glass of wine, and lit up another fag. We talked of this and that, and I asked him about his French. Well actually, I said "je parle un petit peu francais. Où avez-vous appris la langue?"

[Insert awkward pause here].

After a minute or two of blank Homer face, he smiled nervously and nodded. Clearly, there was no French there. I'd wager a month's salary that he spoke no Latin, either.

He continued to drink steadily.

Turns out he wasn't really a sculptor (although apparently did a sculpture once in art class in high school - it was an abstract piece), but rather, was a boiler-maker working at a small company that manufactured tin dingies. Fascinating stuff.

Another bottle down the hatch.

It was around this point that he made a comment about his fortieth birthday. Fortieth hey? I mentioned that his internet profile said 35. Caught out again, he shrugged and laughed. I called for the bill. He, on the other had, having nervously scoffed at least a bottle and half of wine, lost his balance and fell backward off his chair.

Needless to say, I had to let him go.