Currently viewing the tag: "OkCupid"
Now that I’m newly single, I’ve thrust myself back into the abyss of online possibility. Line up the suitors: this Little Disaster has gone to market. Fortunately, it’s taken no time at all to start receiving love letters from near and far.
My most recent came from OKCupid:
hey-wow, you sure are beautiful and seem strong and confident . i am looking for an open minded girl as friend and cuddle buddy and try new experiences which are comfortable . pls don’t be offended , but got to ask, do you have a dominating side or want to try it , or like your armpits admired ? i am not for hookups or a serious relation . are you interested ?
To which I wasted no time replying:
Dear Hemingway,
Let me start by saying I admire your simplicity of language– so sparse, yet so descriptive. I also think it takes a strong, confident man to ignore capitalization altogether. Away with it, I say! Love knows no limits. Or grammar.
As per your inquiry about my dominating side, I am left-handed. This often takes people by surprise, they say, “Really? You’re left handed?” And I have to say, “Yes! Didn’t you see me try to use your carrot peeler? It was a disaster!”
Regarding your interest in my armpits, I’m flattered. I always thought I had fat armpits. (What can I say? Seventh grade was the worst.) But if you’d like to admire them, my underarms would like nothing more than your affection. Just keep it casual–don’t say things you don’t mean, especially if you don’t intend a serious relation. My armpits are very skittish. They’ve been through a lot: the last guy that tried to adore them turned out to be gay.
Looking forward to hearing from you again, my little Scribe.
xox
Disaster
Related Disasters:
This Hump Day. I present a little something I like to call “romance.” I received this (unsolicited) note from a suitor on OKCupid. I think he likes me likes me, because it read like this:
Hi.
My whole life I have been rejected and brushed off by women and am getting so sick of it. I’m too old for this crap.
I am fed up with being alone when I go out. I feel like an idiot when I go to a sporting event, the beach, the casino, the horse race, the zoo, the air show, or any social event by myself while everybody else has someone to dry hump. As a result, I have lost interest in doing the things I used to like.
I have been rejected or brushed off by women because my physical appearance doesn’t make them want to drop their panties and bang on the spot. If you people would just set aside your deviant sexual urges and get to know me without worrying about getting laid at the end of the 1st date, you might actually have a reason to like me or, HEAVEN FORBID, meet with me again. Think what you want about my appearance but I am a great guy with a ton to offer. I am a highly ambitious and successful full-time professional making great money with a wide variety of interests who is easy to talk with. Perhaps looks are all you have to offer.
I know women want to like me because they see a loyal boyfriend, husband and father of their children. But what they want to like and what they actually like are two different things. Even in their 20s or 30s women are still not over the cocky, towering, steroid-infused hot-headed, immature and alcohol-fueled players. I’m the guy who’s been told for years that I will make some woman very happy. I’m 28. I’m not getting any younger so this WILL happen before the end of 2011.
I am taking control. Your days of looking down on me with your condescending eyes are OVER. We are going to meet and have a great time which will NOT be cut short no matter how convincing your excuse is (do NOT try to text or lie your way out. I will see right through you). You will give me the same respect I give you and will not make me feel like a worthless degenerate because you think you’re out of my league. I don’t want to hear about how you didn’t feel a connection or chemistry or some other stupid buzzword. We will meet again and again while growing increasingly attracted to one another until we get married, own a home together, and start a family.
-Henry
So naturally, I replied.
Dear Scott Peterson,
I’m sorry to hear that your failure to dry hump has made you feel like an idiot, and worse, lose your libido for life. I mean, sure, I understand the need to dry hump at an air show (those vibrations!) But there is nothing worse than not being able to get it up at the zoo. Especially when the baboons in the primate house are doing it right in front of you. What teases! I can only imagine what you’re going through.
It’s funny you mention that about dropping panties and banging on the spot, because typically that is the result of some serious dry humping. I’m still waiting for OKCupid to list that as an option. It would be so much easier if they would just list “looking for” like:
- Long term dating
- Short term dating
- Activity partners
- Dropping panties and banging on the spot
It’s so annoying that have to manually fill that in each time. Whatevs.
Anyway. It sounds like we may not be such a fit, and since you are on somewhat of a time frame, I figured I’d just cut to the chase so you can start getting someone pregnant, having children and commanding them to do things like take out the trash, and respect you, dammit, even with that vein throbbing in your forehead. (I had a New Years resolution in 2011 as well, but it was to find more alcohol-fueled juice heads, not a mortgage.) Please don’t think I’m saying this because there is no chemistry, or some other buzzword. I am saying this because I’m pretty sure you have a sex dungeon.
Anyhoo, I’m sure if you keep dropping rainbows like this in other people’s inboxes you will find a woman who, if she doesn’t fake her death during your first date, will let you dry hump her at the racetrack.
I wish you all the best in that.
Disaster
—-
Have you received a ridiculous email from an online suitor? And you’re just going to let that beauty wither in your inbox? Don’t do it! Share with the world! Please send it to me at disasteronheels @ gmail. I will write a response and post through the blog (and keep it anonymous, I promise).
Related Disasters:
Nothing like a heat wave to bring out the passion in people.
Last week I had a date with a guy I met on OKCupid. He sent me three emails, and finally after his fourth, I decided to go out with him. His email read like this:
“Hi! I just wanted to write you back because I promised I would write more later, but nothing really happened since I last emailed you. Except that I made some homemade sausages…and they were delicious!”
In these two simple lines he’d managed to meet my most basic requirements: he’s an attentive man who can prepare meat. I figured, what is there to lose? He looked attractive and athletic in his photographs, and according to his stats he’s 39 years old, so naturally, he has his life together. He just happened to have never married, and he just happened to have a spoon on his nose in his profile picture.
Despite the fact that it was 100 degrees at 8 pm, I went all the way uptown to meet him at The Fat Cat. He beat me there, and texted to indicate he was seated in the back, behind the microphone booth.
The microphone booth?
When I saw him he waved at me quickly, and pressed both hands to his face like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.
“OH. MY. GOD,” he said, “It’s soooo hot outside!”
Oh my god, I thought. He’s soooo gay.
After years in Boystown I have what is referred to as a highly tuned gaydar. And this man was what some would consider a Threat Level Pink. But I was thirsty, I had already commuted 35 minutes to get there, and the way I saw it, I might as well enjoy a beer.
“What’s with the microphone?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, flashing me an over-exaggerated frown, “Turns out, Tuesday is trivia night.”
I did a quick mental calculation: four rounds of trivia would be at least an hour and a half. I could not, under any circumstance, commit to this.
“That’s ok, we don’t have to play,” I said, “I’d just get frustrated anyway.”
Now, here’s the thing about trivia night: if you’re in a bar with an emcee shouting trivia questions, whether you like it or not, you are going to wind up playing trivia. You can only listen to questions about the chronology of U.S. presidents, retired hockey jerseys and The Terminator so many times before you will spontaneously start shouting “Spiro Agnew!” “Wayne Gretzky!” and “James Cameron!” with the sudden fervor of trivia-induced tourrettes.
But not my date. He just sat there sipping his mojito, tapping the table with his straw. That is until the photo round, when the emcee announced with great bravado: “The theme of the photo round is actors in drag.”
My date stood up, grabbed the sheet from the microphone booth, and said, “We should have the pictures too, so we can see what we’re missing.”
I swear, I’ve never seen such intensity–it was like watching a Chinese student with an abacus. Within two minutes he had correctly identified all 15 of the actors dressed as women.
“This is so easy, it’s like cheating!” he said, reviewing each name. “Arsenio Hall, Coming to America, Tom Hanks, Bosom Buddies, Dustin Hoffman, Tootsie, Tyler Perry, Medea … And of course, David Cross from Arrested Development.” He looked up at me with utmost sincerity. “That is an amazing show. Have you seen it?”
“Seen it? I’ve own the DVDs and still watched all 53 episodes on Netflix. It’s probably the best show ever made.”
And with that, I had a flash-forward. I thought about our progressive home. We would grill organic meats. We would share a subscription to Vogue. We would have beautiful children who would eat Cocoa Puffs and then hang their spoons on their noses. And after breakfast I would go to work and hand over parent duty to Bob The Boyfriend who would share a basement apartment with my husband. I mean, maybe this could work, after all…
“Tobias is my favorite character,” he said, interrupting my daydream.
“You mean the repressed gay man married to a woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know if he’s necessarily gay,” he said. “But even if he is, he loves his family, and would do anything to make it work. Is that such a bad thing?”
“No, not at all,” I said, packing up my mental U-Haul in our imaginary driveway. “Here’s to Arrested Development,” I said.
And with that, my beer and his mojito met with a clink in the middle.
Related Disasters:
My match profile launched August 13, 2009—30 days after breakup, 28 days after moving out, 5 days after moving into a studio apartment. It was created in a fervent attempt to “move on!” “get out there!” “have fun!” and all those other things people suggested I start doing. My brother-in-law connected his laptop to a giant flat screen TV, and he, my friend Rachel and I created my dating avatar: my cyber self-portrait. We put pictures up of Wholesome Me roasting marshmallows, Sassy Me hailing a cab in gold high heels, and Quirky Me kissing a lobster. We drank cheap beer called “Simpler Times” and debated my profile quote. Rachel wanted “I won’t make you breakfast.” My brother-in-law wanted “Balls.” I won: “If anyone asks, we met while climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro.”
We set the bait, high-fived, and waited…
It wasn’t long until I started getting hits. On Monday morning my first email came in from a suitor in the suburbs named 2big2blv. By his profile I could tell he took things very seriously because he wasn’t smiling in his picture, and because he took it himself in the bathroom mirror. Clearly he couldn’t trust this photo to just anyone.
His email went like this:
Hey. You have nice eyez. I’m new to match. U like it so far? i’m here because i’m sick of meeting people in bars. Your hot tho. If we did meet in a bar I’d probably say “if you were a tree and I was a squirrel I’d climb into your hole and bust a nut.” lol!! Lol!! lol!!!!! Anyway, I’m from Schaumberg ever been?
My stomach dropped. How could this be? What kind of karmic fuck up had I participated in to make this ok? I have a master’s degree! I floss regularly! Plus, my profile clearly states that I’m looking for someone within 10 miles of 60657!
As depressing as this email was, I kept it. There was part of me that thought, “Someday, you’ll look back on this, and see how funny it all was.” In that daydream this memory would occur while I was on a yacht, getting a backrub from my highly successful-but-not-arrogant fiancé who happened to know how to make delicious pancakes.
Fast-forward one year, and I can tell you not only haven’t I met my pancake-making fiancé, that email is still not funny. The difference is that now when I read it, I only have a fuzzy memory of that unjaded version of myself. If I could sit down with that version of me–that fetus of an online dater — I’d like to give her a hug. I’d also like to tell her to be careful not to lose her mind. It would have been nice if someone would have given me such a warning.
To be honest, I can’t really tell what comes first– being crazy, or online dating. Or maybe it’s the chicken AND the ovary. What I do know is that in my case it was a slow degeneration. Like Alzheimer’s. Things start to get a little foggy and your decision-making becomes questionable: one day you can’t find your pants, and the next day you forget to wear them. That moment happened to me last week when, while trolling for love on OkCupid, I stumbled upon a hot guy. He’s a lawyer, he can punctuate, he had more than one profile picture, and he dislikes cats. In other words, he’s the perfect online package. This man was more than “wink” material, so in my eagerness I fired off a note that I was sure would spark a long and passionate romance:
“Hi!! I see you like Apples to Apples. Me too, I love that game! I also see you also like to go to Italy. I love Italy!
I actually spent Thanksgiving in Milan once. My sister lived there and we had to order a turkey two weeks in advance (because they don’t really eat turkey in Milan). When we picked it up from the butcher it still had feathers in it, so we wound up plucking it with tweezers. Still, it was the best turkey I’ve ever eaten.
Ok, you’re up!”
The sad part about late-stage online dating is the fact that you constantly live between states of cognizance and oblivion. When I “came to” a couple of days later I realized that some guy had received my email and started to question every life decision that led him to OKCupid. He probably opened it and hyperventilated in his corner office.
Yep. Watch out, Chicago. One year into online dating, this crazy train has left the station.
Also published on Chicago Now.
