TTS

I was digging through old photos when I stumbled across an old love letter. Funnily enough, I mocked how I purged everything out of my life after things end. But I found that I kept one. The last one. The Dear John letter. From one of the most insanely intense, poetically inclined, lovers in my life. He even sent it to me three days after my birthday. It sent me into a frenzy, I couldn’t sleep all night, I tore through my closet wanting to know if I had kept any more. Overwhelming emotions, of need, of breath catching, and butterflies stirring, arose to the surface to blind my thoughts. I needed to know where this person was, what they were doing, I had to reconnect. But the hitch...I knew him ten years ago. It was a whirlwind affair, across states, and continents. His nickname was TTS, he called me Blumchen. He would carve letters out of wood, and stitch them together with red thread. I would illustrate him my day. We were madly consumed by each other. And now years later, for the life of me, I cannot remember what TS stands for. I simply remember his first name Timothy. It has been racking my brain for days. It is amazing, how we can have these intense moments in our lives, that we shove away, and then become overwhelmed by again. Where oh where has he gone. All I have left is a beautiful poetic note, and a photograph, and the same consuming desire that once haunted me enveloping me again. Reading through the last goodbye letter, I am remind harshly, how nothing in LA has even come close to the intensity of that relationship. And perhaps that is why they all keep failing.

Where are you Timothy?

"Oh, how I wish I had all the right thoughts and, further, the most effective words to express them with. Sometimes even the best of friends, words in this case, are so unprepared for the present moment that they only make one feel all the more alone, isolate, and barren. If I were more musical perhaps I could find the proper melody to play and ponder over and over again until there were no longer the need for meditation. If I were more artistic I would form an abstraction of wood and clay to shape, stroke, and reform until the materials reach their stress limits and crumble and crease into new self-definition. Thus, I carry light from a recalcitrant black void plane with a sharp blade and hope all the while that I will find some loose threads and fabric swatches with your patterns on it. Perhaps you will see bits and pieces, flecks and static, finger prints of me mingling amidst you. Clearly there arises a tension and confusion from the lines and void. I see flashes of you in it, Jessica; However, it is presently too confined and like you, needs a more expansive (perhaps limitless) "horizon" along which to grow and express itself. You are not designed to be statically held in place. I do see you in a fixed place fidgeting and carving your space, anxious to hatch into a new world (your world). I think of exuberant red flowers, willing to explode into an impermanent beauty for one perfect day rather than remain tightly enclosed as a bud for another week to ensure a full spring of blooming. If I may editorialize further, I will tell you that I am drawn to and also fear and am jealous of this unwavering commitment to the course of greatness. This is not to say that I fear and am jealous of you. No, I would be unable to trust and care for you as I have if I feared you. I wish that I could be compulsive like you rather than merely impulsive, as I presently am. As resistant as I am to change, I actually desire and relish it. I’m on my way to changing- my chrysalis is formed, yet I'm not ready to hatch. Perhaps someday Jessica, we'll be ready to fly together in a more elegant synchronized way. I think of large waves, which are the product of many smaller waves of different velocities and periods that happen to synchronize and become absorbed into one another. I think of Alice, the nigh blooming white phoenix tree. I think of Voaness, the Gothic flapper from the Edo dynasty. I dream of your Tokyo antiquarian bookstore and all the sartorial busts and swatches within it.

Imperceptible.
It withers in the world.
This flower like human heart.

-Ono no Komachi, The immortal great beauty poetess (what do the beautiful know of beauty?)

Yours. Timothy"

The Designated Date

One of the first dates I have been on since my reprieve from dating land resulted in intoxication. Not mine, his.

Now see, usually I vet most of my dates through an intense screening process, which begins with:

Photos. Profile. Email. Texting. Phone conversation. Date near me

In that exact order.

I have found if I stray from this order, it can either go incredibly well, or can go incredibly bad. There is no gray to messing with dating order.

Photos can tell a lot about a person, both for men and women. They are the icebreakers to all things dating and online. Now, while they are such flat depictions of the reality of a person, they offer up subtle intricacies to deciphering who this person really is.  The way they took their photo, to which photo they post as their intro, can give up infinite wisdom to this person's psyche. For instance:

If they only wear sunglasses in all of their photos, usually means, they have something to hide.
If they never smile in their photos, usually means, they are self conscious.
It goes for if they only have pictures taken from the head up, they are usually insecure about their body.
If they have photos of small animals, or babies, or both at the same time (and they do not belong to them), usually means, they are just trying to come off as sweet, or they really just want to procreate.
If they have photos next to a person with a blurred out face, you can guarantee that use to be their ex.
I have learned to steer clear of one-photo wonders. Of blurry photos. Of bathroom selfie ab shots. Of drunk photos, or consequently photos of alcoholic beverages. Of those "silly faces". And headshots. My god, headshots. The ultimate deal breaker.

Once the photos are fully evaluated, the next phase is their Profiles. Now depending on the dating site one is using, this intro has become somewhat obsolete, but I still think it is an undeniable clue into the integrity of a person. Do they take the time to describe themselves, what section did they focus on the most, do they talk a lot about what they do not want, or what they really do want, do they say "living life and loving it" (in which case, delete delete delete); or do they write small autobiographies of their person, which I have coined as the "Bragfile." Just so we are clear, I am 100% guilty of the Bragfile. We try to condense as much statistical information as we possibly can, in the most witty of ways, just to show how incredibly astonishing we are, in the hopes that someone will be all, "Holy hell, this is the cornucopia of amazeballs, I MUST DATE THEM. Or maybe BE THEM. No no, definitely DATE THEM. They will make my world complete. Launching downward obsessive cycle." What I have learned though, from my own personal experience, is that people's attention spans are about a minute long (well no more like 55 seconds...tops) and the more a person brags about their accomplishments, even in a highly saturated condensed Ulysses inspired format, the more they come off as an intimidating force of nature. Lesson learned: Bullet point life.

My sex.
My ultimate goal on a dating site.
My career.
My relationship status.
And my height (Truth: LA is the land of short people. A couple of days ago, a man who was 5'-7", and actually very cute and very well accomplished, introduced himself to me, by saying, "I know you probably don't date short men because you might feel like a large yeti, but I wanted to say I really enjoyed your profile." Backhanded compliments, you complete me.)

If they make it past this phase, then of course comes the introductory Email, which can die rather quickly with a, "Hi", and a reciprocated, "Hello." I would say this is about 90% of all email interactions that I have. The life and death with a simple introduction, and a nowhere to go from there.

If per se, we make it past the awkward digital computer poking, then it goes to the awkward digital phone poking, because let's be real, why email when you could be Text Messaging. Instantaneous gratification. But, no, as silly as it sounds, texting inherently tells one of two things: Are they obsessive about getting my attention, or on the flip side, are they incredibly hard to even engage because they simply have no time to respond to a text.

This finally will filter into the Phone conversation, which can, in most cases, last longer than an hour. If they have made it past the upper things, then I know that I can at least have a conversation with them, and all I have to worry about, at this point, is the sound of their voice, and if they are witty.

Lastly, it comes down to the Date itself...and I am going to be honest here, at the end of the day, after all the T's have been crossed, and everything above was thoroughly examined, realize one absolute truth, my assessment is TOTAL AND ABSOLUTE MALARKY. Why? Because of the second absolute truth: EVERYONE'S IMAGINATION IS OUT TO GET THEM. No really, throw out that playbook; ignore everything I just wrote, because everything is a fabricated illusion. No one is who they seem. And what you want to believe, and what daters want you to believe, is never ever ever going to be right. In person interaction will trump any digital form, anytime, always.

So enter, Mr. Drunkard. No amount of analysis could have possibly prepared me to predict that outcome.

Now, Mr. Drunkard was a production manager (which I honestly still don't know what that means, but for me it means, he has a paying job, so, let's play). He was easy on the eyes. He was Tall. Bless his genes. And he was witty. We literally did all the checks I had above in 1.5 days, and decided to meet the second day, impromptu, quick, it felt like a whirlwind, but I was on board. Sweep me off my feet already.

Our locale was at my favorite haunt, because if there is anything I can impart to online daters, it is to meet where you feel most comfortable. I, of course, was early. I am always early to a date. I like watching people approach, that extra minute of watching them look around for you, prepares one for utter disappointment or sheer attraction, both of which you can check at the door by the time they make eyes with you, and for people who wear their emotions on their face (see: me), it is all the time in the world for the mask to slip back into place.

So here I am, early. We agreed to meet at 7. I am there at 6:45. I text him that I am at the back of the bar, and am met with radio silence. That is usually a bad bad bad sign. But I think, I am early, I will just play it off. 7 rolls around. Still nothing. I text him again, jokingly to see if he got lost. Nothing. At this point, I have two guys who have tried to engage me in conversations, locals at the bar, and thus harmless. 7:15 rolls around, and so I call the guy and leave a message. If he doesn't show up at 7:20, I tell myself, I am out of there. At this point, another guy has approached me and offered to buy me a drink, in which I politely thank him but say that I am suppose to be on a date, so that would be rude...he tells me if the guy stands me up that he is more than willing to be the back up plan. Sweet. But no, still bouncing at 7:20. Finally 7:20 rolls around, I am literally getting ready to leave and I receive a phone call. The gent apologizes profusely and says time got away from him and he was helping do a mixed tape for friends and didn't have his phone on him. He apologizes again, and says he is on his way and will be there in ten minutes, and for me to please please please please wait. So I do. I know I know, I have issues. 7:30 rolls around, and he texts me that he is parking. Finally, at 7:40, the longest I have ever waited for a date, he strolls in. Mind you, at this point, I am a little peeved, but he was much better looking in person, so I forgave him. It is really that psychologically easy to forgive attractive people. It is a horrible superficial admission, but it is oh so true. Of course, as I am telling my loins to quiet themselves in the minute reprieve of him searching for me, I note one other thing, there seems to be someone with him.

Wait, no, did he...bring his friend?

As they finally spot me and approach, I realize that yes, in fact, he did. And as he stumbles and catches himself, and sloppily gives me a hug hello before falling on to the stool next to me, I also realize, that he didn't just bring his friend...he brought his designated driver. Let me repeat that: His. Designated. Driver.

I quickly had a flight or fancy moment, but if anyone really needs to ask, in moments like these, my sadistic side smiles its cheshire cat smile, sits back in its chair, and purrs, "oh, bring on the story." So as the date progressed, and Mr. Drunkard sat stone faced and out of it in his stool, laughing at random moments that applied to nothing but his intoxicated haze; I ended up having a roundabout date with his friend, who was, surprise, a recovering alcoholic, and thus stone cold sober. He was actually a very interesting person to talk to, but the oddity of having his friend there who was suppose to be on a date with me, stopped it from being anything but casual interest.

At one point during the evening, Mr. Drunkard, excused himself to throw up, at which point, I made sure to verify with his friend, that he was in fact drunk, in which he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders and said, "I could not let him drive, but he did really want to meet you." Lucky. Me. My inner chesire cat's response, "Puurrrfect."

I have no idea what the dating moral of this story is. Perhaps if I had vetted him longer, I would have noticed his drinking problem, or his lack of manners problem. But I don't think one can fully prophesize these things. There really is no playbook for rookie moves. I think sometimes, you just have to go on a date with a drunk person, and their designated driver. I will say thank you to Mr. Sober. You were oddly, a blessed lynchpin of the evening.

Ode to Backhanded Compliments

Now we all know I am not new to dating.
In fact, if this were an olympic sport, I would probably have beaten Michael Phelps in the gold medal department, and still had time to pop his kitty pool.  I am just THAT much of a dating genetically mutated freak of nature. With that being said, I am continuously dumbfounded by the way men seek to compliment me when we go out on dates.

Sometimes I get the overtly affectionate compliments, like, "Wow, you are cute AND smart, why are you on this dating site, what is wrong with you?" (because you know, a women cannot be both of these things and still be on a messed up quest for love, without the world imploding) or "Will you marry me?" (because obviously I am desperate enough to marry a complete stranger from that opening line), or "Sorry I do not mean to stare, I am just picturing your long legs wrapped around me" (um, no...just...no).

I usually spend a vast majority of my time contemplating how in fact I should respond back to these interludes of sexual repression drenched in desperation and lacking the fundamental air of romanticism.  The other part of the time I am trying not to throw up, curl my lip in disgust, or furrow my brow in irritation. BUT, it does usually spark up the fundamental question of, why AM I on a dating site? I mean,  my statistics are rarely successful.  The only thing I can come up with is, I either A. suffer from a dating curse B. The government is out to get me or C. aliens (because, you know, I am being saved for the progression of the super race,  clearly).

More often than not though, I have come across gents who go out of their way to compliment/critique me in a weird song and dance into my panties (*disclaimer, every single one of these has been said to my person).

"You have such doll like hair, so fine, and so soft"
"You are so tall, I want to climb you like a mountain"
"We are like pointy chin models"
"Oh I can see the witch resemblance, that's so cool"
"Your scars are sexy"
"You remind me of a horse, which I want to ride"
"You have very unique features, you could cut someone with your cheekbones"
"You have the most beautiful toes, I wish your whole body were like your toes"
"You got a Kill Bill thing going on" (... as in, I carry around a japanese sword hoping to enact revenge upon the male population?...ok he may have gotten a second date out of that one).
`
Or my personal all time favorite:
"You are so intimidating, but no really I like it".

Dear male population, if you tell a girl she intimidates you, this is what is bound to happen: Game over.