We need to talk

I've never been good at accepting when things are over.

Phone conversations only end for me when the person on the other end of the line pauses awkwardly then says, "Well... I'm gonna have to let you go." I don't make my exit from dinner gatherings until I notice the hostess loudly shoving plates into the dishwasher, moaning about how much she can't wait until she can put on her pajamas. I'm frequently the last person at a party, still whooping and hollering off the front porch at 4 a.m., long after everyone else has gone to bed.

It's been no different with the two defining relationships of my life.

I vividly remember a blisteringly hot day in Rome in July 2007. I'd gone there on a vacation of a lifetime with my mom, and we were sitting on the edge of one of the Eternal City's intricately carved fountains, desperately trying to rehydrate. As I drank from straight from the fountain's spigot, I poured my heart out to my mother about all my doubts about my relationship with Ex-BF v. 1.0, all the things he did that bothered me and how I wasn't sure I really loved him anymore.

"Life's too short to be unhappy," she'd said to me, gazing off into the distance with a look of regret in her eye.

She was right. But I didn't break up with him until the following March, when his plans to move closer to my apartment forced my hand.

Of course, then I'd jumped right into seriousness with Ex-BF v. 2.0 without learning anything from that experience. Six months into our relationship, I'd begun to move my things into his condo, the fledgling stages of our cohabitation.

Another vivid memory: I was sitting at my desk at work, furling my brow.

"What's wrong?" a co-worker asked when she sensed something was off.

"I just moved in with my boyfriend," I said, inhaling deeply. "And I think I made a mistake."

She gave me a look that told me she understood what I was going through.

"It's never too late to change your mind," she said. "Trust me."

But I didn't change anything. Despite my instincts, I lived with him for nine months -- until the day I came home to find all my things neatly stacked in a pile on our living room floor.

In all of these cases, I know what's happening around me. I can always feel it -- a vague sense of dread that clings to me, collapsing my lungs and churning my stomach.

But due to some sense of... I don't know, duty? Responsibility? An unwillingness to disappoint people? I ignore my instincts, and I let my situation fester until someone else makes the decision for me.

Today is Oct. 6. Two years ago yesterday, my already crumbling relationship finally disintegrated. Two years ago tomorrow, I'd come home to that aforementioned pile.

I didn't make that choice back then. And I promised myself I would never let that happen to me again. I would make the decisions in my life; I would walk away when I knew it was time.

And so, bearing that in mind, I need to walk away from this blog.

Two years ago, I was 26, freshly out of seven years of fully committed relationships. I felt like I had wasted my 20s, spending the majority of the years with two men who were completely wrong for me. I'd never "dated." I'd never been on a real date in my entire life.

I started this blog to chronicle the adventure. I wanted to meet men, go out, have drinks, feel infatuation, gush. Make mistakes, and learn from them. And I needed a creative outlet -- I hated my job, and I was constantly bored.

And I did all of that. I did more living in those two years than most people do in their entire lifetimes. I've canvassed this city. I've learned what to do, what not to do, how to talk to people (believe me when I say this: conversation is a learnable skill). I've held happy hours, been interviewed and, in one particularly awesome case, been recognized in public.

But now -- today -- I'm in a totally different place. I'm not a rookie -- I'm so good at first date chatter that I ALWAYS get asked out on second dates. I get asked for dating advice, and I legitimately immediately know the answer.

And the best thing ever? I have an absolutely AMAZING job -- one that I got as a DIRECT RESULT of writing this blog -- that constantly engages my brain and affords me the creativity that I so desperately craved. (And the amount of money I make to do so can only truly be described as "sinful.")

I'm not the person I was when I started this. And it's taken me to a place where I don't quite fit anymore.

So, for once, I'm making the choice and closing this chapter of my life. It's time to move on to something else.

What all that entails, I'm not entirely sure. I do know a few things: For starters, I'm not going to stop tweeting. It's fun, all my friends use it, and it's more addicting than crack cocaine. So if you follow me, rest assured I'm not going anywhere.

I'm also not going to stop going on dates -- the goal is still to find someone and settle down, and the only way to do that is to keep putting myself out there and meeting new people. Just for this new stage of my life, it's not the quantity that matters, it's the quality. I don't need as many experiences to beef up my resume; at this point I've had plenty.

Maybe I'll write a new blog; maybe I won't. Maybe I'll start that book everyone tells me I should write; maybe I'll just keep teaching others how to do it for me.

But regardless of what I decide to do, I'll tell you this: Through the mirror of the men I've dated, I've learned a lot about myself.

That's been invaluable. And I don't regret a single moment.

So... can we still be friends?

Implosion

I don't even know where to begin this blog post.

I went out with a guy for a first date this past Wednesday. It was fantastic. He was funny and charming, and he took me to Pearl Dive Oyster Palace on its opening night. We talked and laughed and kissed for over an hour at the end of the night.

He contacted me immediately the next day and kept in contact throughout the rest of the week, asking me out again for Saturday.

I was SO EXCITED. I carefully crafted every text and email response, running most of them by Sassy Marmalade first. I didn't even blog about it because I didn't want to jinx it.

Then comes Saturday night. I stop by a birthday party first. I do a shot because I'm so nervous about seeing him again. He meets me outside the bar and takes me to Riot Act comedy club in Penn Quarter. Before the show, he asks way too many questions about the blog, to the point where I get uneasy. I felt uneasy throughout the entire show. Something was just... off. Those questions just felt unnatural.

Show ends. We leave. We're walking along the street corner, and he says the following:

"I've been seeing someone else, and it's progressed to the point where we're going away for the weekend together. Also, I just don't know if this is real for you."

I'm horrified.

For starters, let's look at the obvious: If you're dating someone else seriously enough to take a full weekend trip, then WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKING OUT OTHER WOMEN, ASSHOLE??? I bet she'd LOVE to know just how much you kissed up and down my neck and all those things you whispered in my ear. If you're going away for a weekend together, SHE'S YOUR GIRLFRIEND. And by taking me out, you're a fucking cheater.

And beyond that... how many times do I have to write that yes, this is, in fact, real for me? For better or worse, I invest in every single person I go out with.

Every. Single. Person.

I INVEST. This is not a fucking joke to me. And I invested in YOU. And to tell me you don't believe this is "real" for me is too goddamn condescending for words. My heart is on the line EVERY TIME.

I walked away from him on the street corner that night. I was going to go home, but then I rounded the corner to Chinatown and on instinct walked back to the bar with the birthday party. Tears had already started forming in my eyes. I found A Single Girl and sobbed to her in the bathroom.

"At least you aren't that other girl," she said. "She thinks she has this great guy who's so into her he's taking her away for the weekend and when she's not looking he's making out with you. At least you aren't her."

Yes, true. The wool is pulled over her eyes and I guess I'm glad I know now rather than later what a prick he is. But it's not even that I'm upset about him. He's just some guy. It's about that second part of what he said.

I can't keep doing this. Guys don't take me seriously with this thing. I'm tired of being just novelty. I think at first, when I started writing this, it was OK because I wasn't ready to be with someone anyway -- I'd been in a relationship for seven years and I needed to be by myself for a while. The blog created a wall around me to block me off from getting serious with anyone. But now, I'm 100 percent ready to be serious, and I've still got this wall.

So, I don't know what I'm going to do. I've got Doing the District now, so maybe that can just be my creative outlet. I just know that I can't keep putting myself through this. I can't keep letting men like him treat me like I'm expendable.

OkCupid fails: Why I'm not writing you back

Well, as anticipated, OkCupid has been a big goddamn disappointment. I realize it hasn't been that long that I've been on this godforsaken excuse for a dating site, but... son of a bitch. You'd think that in a city where the average education level is a master's degree that I'd get something moderately more advanced than masturbatory grunts, but apparently not.

Seriously, message after message has just been... bleh, bad. I read them and feel compelled to bang my head against the keyboard repeatedly.

With that in mind, a story to tell: One day recently, I was going through the messages I'd received, finding nothing that piqued my interest and losing all hope in humanity. I decided to poke around the section with my "Matches" and see if there were dudes tantalizing enough to write to (I very rarely exercise this option -- I find it better to be pursued than be the pursuer).

As I  was scrolling down the feed, I took note of each man's message button.

Have you used OkCupid? If not, here's a handy guide:


This button means the person replies "often."

This button means the person replies "selectively."

This button means the person replies "very selectively."


But the thing is, you only see the message buttons when you're looking at someone else's profile. When you log into your own page, the site doesn't tell you how selectively (or not) you reply. So, I got curious and logged on with the business account I use when I'm doing profile reviews/rewrites and looked at my own profile page.

My button? The bright-red stop light.

Oh man, I thought. Am I being too picky? I was surely trumpeting the message: "NO CAN HAZ!!! DO NOT WANT!!!"

Maybe I should reconsider some of these people, I posed to myself. With that, I went back through my inbox.

...sigh. No, I definitely SHOULDN'T reconsider anyone. You want to know why? Here, I'll tell you why:



THE MAN: Age 35, from Bethesda

THE MESSAGE: "Hi, I'm intrigued, and I'd like to get to know more about you. Based on your profile I thought we had lots in common, from writing to humor to planning to supporting education. Let me tell you a little more about me:"

FIFTEEN (!!!) PARAGRAPHS LATER...

"I promise to keep other questions for an in-person meeting."

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: Jesus Christ, is this a dating email or a novel? You might as well have started your message with "Call me Ishmael." TL/DNR! Also -- it's just as boring as the real Moby Dick.



THE MAN: Age 33, from Arlington

THE MESSAGE: "Hi...Your profile stood out to me thanks to your detail and humor, so I wanted to introduce myself. I am another person who has absolutely no desire to work on the Hill. I also really have no desire to date a vegetarian. That would simply drive me nuts.

How long have you been in the DC area? What do you like the most about it?

I've been on the road a lot of late...so I'm going to close with one more question for you: what's the next trip you'd like to take and why?"

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: Well, clearly my profile didn't stand out too much, because you MESSAGED ME ON A DATING SITE LAST YEAR. This particular gent and I exchanged a few emails while he made use of a "free weekend" offer from the dating site, and when his time ran out he failed to follow up with me. I was somewhat put off by his scamming the Match.com system back then, and this time I'm REALLY put off by the fact that he's still using the exact same profile picture he was using a year ago (which makes me question just how old that photo actually is -- and whether he looks ANYTHING like it).



THE MAN: Age 32, from Falls Church

THE MESSAGE: "Five stars for this beautiful girl"

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: And five stars right back at you for your gigantic face mole. Seriously, that thing should have its own ZIP code. I fully acknowledge that I am far from a model and I will gladly date awkward-looking men (and have done so many many MANY times), but goddamn, I have my limits.



THE MAN: Age 39, from the District
THE MESSAGE: "I've never worked on the Hill either, and I live in DC. So, you gotta correct that mistake, my dear. :)

I'm not a vegetarian. I like the meat. 'Nuff said.

So how would you digitally transfer your head? I think you'd need a scanner, first of all.

If you'd like to know the other places you missed the mark, I'd be happy to tell you." 

WHY I'M NOT WRITING YOU BACK: WTF? You didn't entice me; you insulted me! Repeatedly! On pretty much everything in my profile! I'm fairly certain the kick-her-in-the-shins-then-run-away tactic only works up until about fourth grade. And even then you still need a sandbox.


And THAT'S what I've got to work with. Sigh. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm totally going to die alone.

"Doing the District" launch party!

Between last night's date and tonight's impending date -- provided both give me the OK to blog about them -- I swear to baby Jesus I will have a legitimate blog post soon (everything I've put in here lately has been crap and we don't even have to pretend otherwise).

But I just wanted to make a quick update to invite you all to the Doing the District LAUNCH PARTY on Sept. 20!

Here are the pertinent details:

• It's going to be at Mie N' Yu in Georgetown. Have you had their drinks? Because they're fucking awesome, and you should.
• They're giving us FREE APPETIZERS. FREE APPETIZERS, PEOPLE.
• They're also reserving the upstairs Venetian bar and lounge for us.
• Finally, the first 20 guests to arrive will get SWAG BAGS WITH COOL SHIT IN THEM.

Click here for the Facebook invite and add yourself to the event! Should be a good time had by all!

This place reeks of "sad girl" right now -- LAME

Since I've been on exactly zero dates since the labor union guy (OkCupid is proving to be a big fail -- blog post on that coming once I finish Photoshopping some shit), I have nothing to write about to push that last sad-sack post out of the top spot. The man well has run dry.*

However, I did start an awesome new series on where to meet men in D.C. for my sister site, Doing the District. So, go check that out while I get my shit together over here.

And keep your fingers crossed for me that the labor union guy calls when he gets back to town.



*Haha, that kind of sounds like "Manuel"... OK I'm tired.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog programming

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -- I know people are probably fucking sick of this by now but something just happened and I have to write about it, have to cry about it, have to kick things and pound my fists into walls until my knuckles bleed, have to heave guttural screams until my lungs are ragged and mucus smears across my face with my mascara and I collapse into a shivering pile of grief.

I don't know why I did it. I never did it before -- not even when we were dating. But tonight, somehow, the idea popped into my head and before I knew it I was clack clack clacking on the keyboard and there it was.

The entrepreneur mentioned in passing that he'd used dating sites. Tonight, I logged on Match and took a guess at his screen name.

I was right. 

From his profile:

And, what about you? You are better off for having your heart broken once, maybe twice. You have a slightly more than vague idea of what you want from life. You help people. Your friends are as good as gold. You know a good thing when you have it. You don't take things for granted. You recognize why some people are good. You aren't afraid to laugh at yourself. You can tell funny stories. You respect yourself and like to be healthy. And, you're willing to figure things out together -- albeit with a friend or a lover. And, you've got enough confidence and moxie to keep up.

Oh my God. In what part of that did I fail? Why wasn't I enough?

The labor union guy

Right before I wrote about my date with the fundraiser, I updated my Facebook page to say that a new blog post would be coming soon.

Before I go any further, I should come clean with the following: If you "Like" me on Facebook, I take at least 20 minutes out of my day to Facebook-stalk you. (And let me just add that if you love me at all, you'll loosen your privacy restrictions so that I can click through the photos you use for your profile pictures.)

Anyway, I updated my page's status, and a gentleman left a comment.

"What's the topic?"

"The newest man to throw his hat into the ring, aka the fundraiser," I responded.

"Interesting. How does one go about throwing said hat into the ring? Or is the ring so full of hats right now that the ring can't handle another hat?" he asked.

... so, like I said, I Facebook-stalk people. And this particular gentleman? Oh boy. Blond, fit, nice smile... he could SO throw his hat into the ring. He could throw his hat into the ring all night long.

"Um, are you inquiring for yourself or for others?" I eagerly replied. "For you, you email me because I have totally Facebook-stalked you and you are hot. For others... well, I guess they email me, too."

Of course, he "liked" that comment.

Then email me he did, telling me that he worked for a labor union and that he'd like to buy me a drink when I had a chance. Done and done. I made plans to meet up with him at Lost Society at U and 14th streets on the Thursday of the following week.

However, that was two days after our extraordinarily raucous happy hour at Blue Banana. Not gonna lie -- I was a little worse for wear the following day. And I still wasn't feeling 100 percent as Thursday rolled around. So when it started pouring down rain outside, I asked to reschedule for Monday instead. The labor union guy seemed disappointed, but he agreed.

At long last, it was Monday and time for our date. We were supposed to meet at 6:30 at Lost Society, but I ended up leaving work late. I texted the labor union guy to let him know I was running behind, and he told me to take my time.

That meant, however, that he ended up arriving at the restaurant way before me.

"You're not going to believe this," he texted, "but Lost Society isn't open on Mondays."

Twice we'd had plans for the steakhouse, and twice we were denied! I texted the labor union guy from a cab and told him to meet me on the roof of El Centro D.F., which is just a few blocks down 14th.

I ended up getting to the restaurant around 7, and made my way to the bar upstairs. It wasn't very crowded, but I didn't see the labor union guy at first.

Just then, a group of patrons relinquished their bar stools. And, like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the deep, the labor union guy appeared through the parting sea of people.

As cute as he was in his pictures, he was even cuter in person -- in better shape and smartly dressed in a suit from work.

Woohoo! I thought. Why is this man single? HOW is this man single??? I win again!

We made eye contact, and I waved as I walked over to take the bar stool to his right side and introduce myself.

When he spoke, he had a pretty significant speech impediment.

Aaaaaand THAT’s why he’s single.

The thought just crept into my brain -- I couldn’t help it! But it’s not like I was going to say anything about it, so I just continued with the standard initial get-to-know-you first date conversation.

A few moments later, he said the following:

“So, I’m deaf in this ear” -- he pointed to his left -- “and I have significant hearing loss in this one” -- he pointed to his right -- “so that’s why I have to have you sit on this side of me. And if I’m staring at your lips, I’m not trying to be gross or anything; I just have to really concentrate to be able to understand what you’re saying.”*

Aaaaaand THAT’s why I’M single. I AM A FUCKING ASSHOLE FOR THINKING THAT THING EARLIER.

Anyway, that whole conversation led to a pretty funny exchange about how when you talk to most guys in D.C., they’re half listening to you but their faces are turned away and their eyes are scanning the bar. To that, I said something along the lines of “Well, I’m looking right at you, but I’m looking at that guy with my peripherals so when you go to the bathroom I’m going to go over there and talk to him next,” which made the labor union guy laugh pretty hard.

And that actually brings me to one of the things I liked best about him: I feel my most comfortable, my most at ease, my most happy when I’m around people who share my moderately twisted sense of humor. I’ve always said I want to be with a man who makes me laugh, but the correlating sentiment to that is that I want to be with a man who I make laugh. I love watching my sister, Annie, interact with her husband because I can tell he thinks she’s the funniest person on the face of the planet. The labor union guy thinks I’m similarly funny.

He also clearly likes my blog, which provided me with one of the most personally embarrassing moments I've ever had on a date: The labor union guy totally read the post I wrote about rejoining OkCupid and not dating guys from blog anymore. I know this because he made a comment about being psyched that he'd been "grandfathered in" -- a phrase I'd definitely written. Then he went on to quote me verbatim where I'd called my time with the entrepreneur "Orgasm Tour 2011."

I have never regretted anything I've written in here so much as in that moment I regretted writing THAT.

We had a couple of drinks at El Centro that were varying levels of gross and we were relatively unimpressed with the bar as a whole, so the labor union guy suggested walking down the street to Cork for dinner. The one thing I always implore my dates to do is take me somewhere I’ve not yet been, so that restaurant fit that requirement.

We continued chatting about our jobs, our friends and life in general as we walked down the street. I get the sense that the labor union guy is an extrovert with lots of friends and a social calendar just as full as mine, which is really attractive to me.

The labor union guy and I rounded the corner to Cork, and lo and behold: It was closed, too! I guess they were on a summer vacation? What the hell? It just was kind of funny that both places he suggested ended up being massive planning failures.

We decided to go further down the street for the small plates and sangria at Estadio, and we were lucky enough to snag a spot at the corner of the bar pretty quickly. We ordered some dishes to share and kept up our banter.

The labor union guy is also from the Midwest, having grown up in Michigan and gone to college in Madison, Wis. My best girlfriend Alyssa lives in Madison now and I've visited there a couple of times, so we had a lot of things to talk about concerning the area.

We ate our delicious food and had two rounds of sangria, and it occurred to me that I should look at the clock -- I'd completely lost track of what time it was. It was past 10, and I definitely needed to get home. We settled up our tab and walked outside.

He kissed me on the street corner before hailing a cab. It was totally awesome, and I couldn't stop smiling all the way home.

I immediately texted the labor union guy to tell him what a good time I'd had, and he texted back to say the same.

In the days that followed, we tried to figure out a time to get together again, but, sadly, our overflowing calendars just didn't mesh. Then I traveled south to visit the Non-Student in her new digs in North Carolina, and he headed out for a week with his family, so we made tentative plans to see each other again when he gets back.

So, who knows what will ultimately happen. Momentum seems so key in the early stages, and the timing for this was just a little off. I'm hoping he doesn't forget me when he goes out of town (or get put off by anything I write in here about him).

But if it happens, it happens, I guess. I'm past the point of being optimistic at this early stage of the game. It took a while, but I think I've finally learned that "he is not different; I am not special."







*"HOW did you not know what that was?!?!" Annie asked incredulously.

"I don't know!!!" I whined in response.

"Heather's husband Mark has hearing loss!"

"Well I didn't know what that was!!!"

"YOUR FRIEND JEN has hearing loss! Are you completely stupid?"

"... I guess so!"

I seriously still feel like an asshole.