Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Musings on OkCupid

Last November, I decided to try out OkCupid. I was getting a bit of an itch to get back into the dating scene, and it seemed like an easy way. I posted my obligatory close up, body shot, and "hey, I'm cute and quirky and can come up with fun and unusual dates to do like apple picking" pic, came up with a witty profile, and sent it out to the masses.

After about a week or two, I agreed to go on a date with a guy who'd been messaging me. He was decent looking, and it sounded like we had a lot in common, so I figured, what the hey.

Cut to the actual date. About two minutes in, it is clear to me that I'm not the slightest bit attracted to this guy. He's just not my cup of tea. Forty-five minutes in, he has barely let me get a word in edgewise, opting instead to tell me all about Lord of the Rings and the Civil War and why he loves The Music Man. The few times I start to talk, he cuts me off halfway through my first sentence. Now, to be fair, I can talk someone's ear off, but this guy was overdoing it even by my standards. And all the while he keeps sprinkling in little elusions to later dates. "Oh, you like this movie? I have it on Blu-ray, you'll have to come over and watch it." "Your roommate sounds great, I can't wait to meet her." "I'm going to take you bowling!"

I was polite, but I also tried not to seem like I was having too much fun, so as not to lead him on. I thought I was doing ok until he says, "So, I guess it goes without saying that there'll be a second date."
I, of course, handle this like a proper lady by promptly letting out a loud, nervous, slightly maniacal bark of laughter, then say, "Um... I'm sorry, but I actually don't really feel like we're clicking... I don't know that a second date is a good idea."

He stares at me for a good three seconds. He draws a deep breath, and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Then he screws his face up, covers it with his hand, and as he draws his hand away, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

This is about the time I start to panic.

He then proceeds to spend the next FIFTEEN MINUTES begging me to go on a second date with him. He tells me he had a bad day so he wasn't his best tonight, gets angry and asks if he's not "dark and dangerous" enough for me, tells me I have eyes like a Disney princess ("Not big and creepy like an Anime girl, but like, the really beautiful Disney princess kind), all the while occasionally hiding his face and coming up glassy-eyed. I try to be patient and explain, and really, I feel bad for the guy, but the whole time I'm thinking "OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD PLEASE DON'T START CRYING I CAN'T HANDLE THIS OH GODDDDDDD".

I finally escape, go home, and promptly delete my OkCupid profile. Time goes by, I date someone else for about a month, things are good.

A few weeks after my brief December romance, however, and I'm feeling a little bit lonely. It seems that seeing someone reminded me of the nice things about dating, and now I'm finding myself a little dissatisfied with my singledom. (Ironic, seeing as I ended things last time around because I was missing being single). So, bearing my last disastrophy in mind, I cautiously re-activate my OkCupid account.

Here's the thing I've learned about me and men. It is damn near impossible for me to determine if I'm attracted to someone based on pictures and self-descriptions. I just cannot tell until I see someone in person - not because of how they look, but because personality is such a big component in attraction for me. In the world of online dating, there are two ways to handle this predicament. One, you can be open-minded and give OkCupid gents the benefit of the doubt, going out on many dates to see who you might click with. Or you can assume they all suck, and respond to any advances with unadulterated hostility, like me.

Perfectly Pleasant Guy: Hey, how was your day?
Me: Who the fuck is this guy?! He doesn't know me. Why the hell is he asking how my day was?!
Ann: You don't really get the point on online dating sites, do you?

Charming Gentleman of the Internet: Saw you like red pandas. Do they remind you of foxes?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK? Does he think that's witty? Does he think it's clever? OF COURSE THEY REMIND ME OF FOXES, ASSHOLE! Do zebras remind you of horses? YES! What a stupid question!
Ann: ....

Ann: How's it going with this guy?
Me: Ok, I guess. He seems cool, and we've been talking for a couple days, and it seems to be going well, so now I'm afraid he's going to ask me out for coffee or something.

It was about then that I decided OkCupid is not for me, and deactivated my account once again. I'm not sure exactly why I reacted to all these men with such needless hatred, but I think maybe it's my subconscious' way of telling me that I'm not done being single. If Mr. Perfect shows up in my life tomorrow, I'm in a good enough place that I could start dating him without feeling like I've lost a sense of self... but I don't think I want a significant other enough to start actively seeking one out. In the meantime I'll celebrate my singlehood like any other red-blooded woman: by staying in on Friday nights and doing photo shoots with my cats.

Oh god.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Stella Sucks.

Finger update: I caved and went to the doctor when I realized my finger no longer needed a joint to bend. It's broken. Splint 2.0 is way sexier.

My weekend has been filled with friends, auditions, and cat wrangling. It has not been filled with the room-cleaning and laundry-doing I promise myself I will accomplish every weekend. The laundry thing might happen today though, because yesterday I made Ann smell my clothes to see if they were too rank to wear to an audition. True story.

The cat wrangling primarily has to do with these fools.

Early September I adopted the little lady on the left (Stella) to be a sister for my gingercat Sir Kirbington Ginger Sacksy of Sandy Desert Pyle. Kirby. They complement each other perfectly. He is very clever but very cranky, and she is frighteningly stupid but adorably loving. Something about her sweet, dumb little face wormed its way into Kirby's heart and brought out a kind, gentle side I'd never seen in him. It's adorbable.

However, Stella, aside from being cute and stupid, is also surprisingly an utter tyrant, and Kirby, for some unfathomable reason, has decided to go along with this. When they eat, she growl-chews, and Kirby sits back patiently until she lets him eat. As a result, he's wasting away while she's turning into a bit of a chunkster.* She also has deemed it necessary to assert her dominance by peeing on everything I own.

Seriously. Everything. The wood floors in the corner by the kitchen table are stained black. My hand-me-down rugs all have little yellow stains. The new scratching post I got them for Christmas was immediately pissed on. And the other day I put on a sweater only to find it was stiff with dry urine. (This could have been avoided if I didn't pick up dirty clothes off the floor to re-wear. See above section on my lack of laundry-doing and room-cleaning). Yesterday she peed in her litter box, meowing to herself the entire time (both my cats are extremely chatty), then promptly skipped around the apartment in plain sight of Ann and myself, squatting until we sprayed her full on in the face with the spray bottle and screamed obscenities at her.

And that's the other thing - unlike Kirby, whose days of youthful disobedience were marked by a clear "I don't give a fuck about you or your feelings" attitude, Stella clearly wants our love and hates when we're angry at her. She just doesn't seem to have made the connection that jumping on the table/running out of the apartment/waking me up at 6 every morning by shredding the fabric of my box spring/peeing on everything is precisely what makes us loathe her. And she does all of these things EVERY FIVE MINUTES. And is shocked every time when she gets sprayed in the face, or yelled at, or locked out of my room.

So my weekend included a lot of that. More specifically, Ann's weekend included a lot of that. Stella apparently went on a pee-rampage for about an hour after I left for an audition, and Ann was left to desperately defend our belongings/security deposit. Thanks, boo.

Stella's delightful, snuggly ways mostly make up for the horror that is her young, kittenish self. I'm pretty sure she'll outgrow this in a year or so. In the meantime, we'll just keep making our neighbors wonder who Stella is, and why we threaten loudly to skin her all the time.

*Kirby's not really wasting away. What kind of cat mom do you think I am? He's just fashionably slender.

Monday, January 9, 2012


About a month ago, I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, followed by an older gentleman. As I scurried up the stairs, my foot slipped and I fell, bending the tip of my middle finger backward.

As in any such embarrassing situation, I turn around to look at the guy behind me and make that "Hey, wasn't that embarrassing that I just fell down the stairs but good thing I have enough of a sense of humor about it to laugh so it's really not that embarrassing after all hahaha" face. He, however, is beet red and determinedly not making eye contact with me. This makes me feel like even more of a dumb klutz, so I gather myself and my dignity and run up the stairs to my apartment as fast as I can.

In all the hubbub, I missed out on the fact that my finger was hurting like a mf-er. This became pretty apparent once I got to my place. I put some ice on it and went about my life.

Three weeks later, my finger is still swollen and pretty painful. After consulting google and some accident-prone friends, general consensus is that it's fractured. Being the starving artist that I am, I figure I can either go to the doctor and get charged $300 for them to say, "Yep... it's fractured. Here's a splint". Or, I can go to CVS and buy a splint for $7.

I was pretty pumped about this splint at first. I think injuries are exciting. They get you attention, and I like attention. Plus, insta-conversation starter. Most of the conversations are pretty basic. People ask what happened to my finger, and I basically say verbatim what I just wrote. (So... if you already asked me, and now you're reading this and hearing it all again... sorry). Sometimes, however, you come across gems like this:

Plastered 60 year old rich lady: That is ADORABLE.
Me: Oh. Um, thank you. It's not really a fashion accessory though... it's a splint. My finger's fractured.
P60YORL: You know, in the '80s I used to get my one pinky nail plated in gold - real gold - and that reminds me of it!
Me: Oh. That's... good.

I've had this thing on my finger for a week now, and the novelty has worn off. It makes my finger stiff and makes it hard to do things and I worry that drivers in other cars think I'm flipping them off when I drink from my water bottle... and my finger is still swollen and painful. According to my dad, who's had more than his fair share of injured bones, I'll probably need to leave this thing on anywhere from 3-6 weeks.

At least the baby boomer elite of DC think it's classy.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

So this is the year the world ends, right?

I haven't blogged in almost 6 months. I realized that I had kind of been using this to sort out my feelings from my break up, and once that was neatly sorted, I lost the urge to keep writing. I keep feeling a faint tug to keep sharing my thoughts with the ether though, and since it's a new year, I've decided to add blogging to my list of New Year's resolutions. (My other resolutions include doing yoga every day, drinking more water, and playing with my rats every day. I'm currently sitting on my bathroom floor while Pippin sits on my lap and Merry makes himself a nest in my pant leg.)

During a conversation with my dad a couple weeks ago, I told him that my happiness is not something he ever needs to worry about. I said, "Don't ever worry about me living a life that I don't love." I have a low threshold for unhappiness. I know my life has the potential to be fucking awesome, and I accept no less. I have periods of deep despair, anger, anxiety, of course. But I have never felt that anything happening to me was insurmountable. I will never settle. I will make myself temporarily miserable perhaps, fighting for something I want. But ultimately, I will either get what I want or realize it's not achievable.

I didn't realize this until the words started coming out of my mouth. But as they did, I knew, in my gut, without the tiniest shadow of a doubt, that my life is going to be good. I am going to be happy. Horrible things might happen to me, but I will always still find the good. Nothing can break me.

It's a good thing to know about myself.