Adventures in Dating, Episode 8: Oompa Loompa Doompity Don't

Okay, I'm having a social media crisis:  The Oompa Loompa sent me a Friend Request on Facebook.

Spoiler alert:  I've decided to ignore the request.  Some stories simply must be told... and the lure of knowing the mundane details of his life, like which Sex & The City girl he'd be or what he ate for breakfast ("Oatmeal with raisins, yes!") cannot stop me.

So here it is, the 10th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  You can enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 and 7 revisited here.  How am I on #10 if this is the 8th episode?  Well, as previously stated, I'm a mathtard.  I barely understand how money works.

Let's travel back in time, shall we?  It's mid-March.  I've wasted the previous 6 months of my life on the freak show that is known as match.com.  Well, Yoda (my shrink) would say it wasn't wasted-- I was simply practicing my dating skills.  So skills summarily practiced, self-esteem completely deflated, and with nary a spring in my step, I embarked on a new lurch towards love via eHarmony.

For those of you without televsions but with a lot of free time on your hands, let me briefly explain (as if) the difference between the two sites.  On match.com, you can set search parameters and view the entire catalog of men within those parameters, the way you'd build the perfect Volvo for yourself or order a pizza from Dominos.  Romantic, right?  So basically, you've got a bunch of guys looking to get laid by the hottest chick they can score...and a bunch of women lying about their interests, their number of cats, and their level of desperation.  It's like going to a club in the late 80s, only without all the pesky human interaction and spastic dancing.

eHarmony, on the other hand, does not show you the entire oeuvre.  eHarmony is interested not at all in your witty description of yourself.  eHarmony makes you take an extensive survey about your deepest feelings about family, love, sex, money, etc and then ONLY shows you the men with whom you share those feelings.  And by the time you turn to eHarmony, you're so worn out from all of your horrific match.com dates that you're honest.  Except maybe about your number of cats.

In my exhaustion, I agreed to meet Bob. 

Like many men involved in online dating, Bob made a big show of his wealth in his photos (taken at various locations around the world, including the obligatory photo on a boat).  He described himself as an adventurer looking for a partner with whom to explore the world in the style of "The Amazing Race."  And if you know anything at all about me, it's that I'm a natural athlete, so clearly this was right up my alley.  I figured he had a great sense of humor because in one Halloween photo, he was dressed as George Hamilton complete with ridiculous fake tan and cheesy suit.  Plus, the computer said we were a good match, and who am I to argue with Computer Science?  I mean, I come on, I made a D- in COBOL.  That shit's ironclad.

As always, I was nervous before the date and my nerves were compounded by the fact that I was recovering from a sunburn and therefore had a peeling face.  I warned him ahead of time so that he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me...and we laughed and pretended like it mattered or it didn't or whatever, just for the love of God, show up so I don't have to die alone.

We met for dinner at a restaurant on the South side.  As I walked up to the door, there he was.  I definitely recognized him from his photos but was a little bit confused as to why he was still dressed in his George Hamilton costume.  As we said our hellos and shook hands, he took a look at my peeling skin and said "Oh, it doesn't look that bad!" effectively sweeping me off my feet with his gallantry and tact. 

I likely would have been offended if I wasn't trying so hard not to openly stare at his fake tan.  Seriously, he was absolutely tangerine, like Julian from "Bridget Jones's Diary."  And to make matters worse, he was a little on the short side.

We were seated by Vanessa, the hostess.  I know her name was Vanessa, because Bob apparently frequented this restaurant often and felt compelled to introduce me to all of the personnel.  Sadly, Tony wasn't working that night so our water glasses had to be refilled by a relative stranger.

Bob enjoyed talking about himself and was a bit of a name-dropper.  Yes, that Halloween photo was in fact taken at the Playboy Mansion (pause for dramatic effect, wait for gasp).  I tried to play along and act interested, but my heart was sinking.  He was a nice enough guy and he was clearly trying to impress me.  But as I plowed unenthusiastically through my seared ahi salad (my customary date dish-- it says "she's healthy but adventurous-- I can tell because she likes meaty fish") I just kept thinking "How can I take a 52 year-old man who fake tans seriously?"

So the date crawled to its end.  Before we walked out, I took a brief trip to the ladies room where I checked my text messages to find that two of my friends were coincidentally and unexpectedly sitting in the bar of the same restaurant and had been watching my super-hot date.  If I can paraphrase:  "Hey, I can see you.  How old is that guy?"

I didn't want Bob to know that we were being spied on...nor did I want to introduce him to my friends, so I let him walk me to my car.  I drove around the building, waited til he left, then parked again and went back in to join my friends.  I'm sure Vanessa and crew likely ratted me out later, but I really needed the girl time.

Try to contain your shock when I tell you that Bob asked me out again, via text.  I made Yoda tremendously proud by not taking the cowardly way out and was instead honest.  I texted back "You seem like a wonderful man, but this just isn't a match for me.  I wish you luck on your journey."  That second sentence is one that is quite hard for me to say (or text) with a straight face, but Bob was very much the type of man who is on a journey.




But not quite like this.


As bad dates go, it was harmless.  But it reconfirmed what match.com had taught me-- that online dating was never going to work for me.  And also that I should stop lying about my number of cats.  So I decided to give up for good.

But first, I checked my eHarmony inbox one more time... to find that a handsome man with a great-looking dog who lived in a little town southwest of Denver had contacted me. 

Bonus:  He can READ!


Shortly after that, this man became The Boy.  And that has made all the difference.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 5: Night of the Living Dead

This is the 6th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series. Enjoy episodes 1,2, 3, 4 and 4.5 here.


It was late February-ish and I was still suffering through the winter of my discontent. I'd been knee-deep in dorks and poozers for months on end with still not a single normal relationship brewing on the horizon. Most mornings found me crying alone in my bed, so desperate for affection and human touch that even I, master of the dramatic, was taken aback. I just wanted to connect with someone, to feel appreciated, to have someone with whom to share my ever-multiplying stash of Groupons. Seriously, how the fuck was I supposed to eat $40 in dine-in Thai food alone?

But I had learned several things the hard way in the previous months:

A) Do not go out with someone that you haven't had at least a 10 minute phone conversation with, unless you particularly enjoy uncomfortable silences, the sound of crickets and the possibility of a tumbleweed blowing through your alleged "conversation."

B) Do not go out with a man who refuses to provide you with a photo. I promise there's a good reason for the omission and it's not because Quasimodo is a CEO trying to protect his identity or his millions.

C) Not everyone you meet online is a well-adjusted, normal person.  In fact, it's very possible that you yourself may not be a well-adjusted, normal person.

These make perfect sense, right? So it stands to reason that in desperation, I chucked this hard-won logic out the window and accepted a date with a man not properly vetted.

What could possibly go wrong?

His name was Rick and he looked like Anderson Cooper, just with a hard-on for zombies.  Of course for all I know, Anderson Cooper really does have a hard-on for zombies. But as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sure, his profile photos were a veritable "Welcome to My Mid-Life Crisis," and at least one featured him wearing something he called a "utility kilt." Still, the prospect of having a glass of wine with a man in a skirt was more appealing than another night alone. Plus I totally wanted to impress him with my new word: "Utilikilt."

Like this, only way cooler.

We met in the bar of a restaurant. After a quick physical appraisal we both sat down and commenced with the small talk. Approximately 5 minutes into the date, he suggested we play a game.

If someone suggests you play a game on your first date, you should know that things are about to get severely goofy or about eighty-nine kinds of inappropriate.  But whether it was because I was desperate for acceptance (totally true) or because I knew it would make an entertaining Facebook status (also true), I agreed. And so we played "3 Reasons."

"3 Reasons" is just good family fun. The object, he explained, was for me to pick another woman in the bar at random and give him 3 reasons why I'd be a better girlfriend. Despite the strong urge to point to my boobs and say "You only need 2'" I sat silent for a moment, then declined to play.  In a sudden and surprising rush of self-esteem that would've made Yoda (my shrink) fiercely proud, I justified myself by saying "I don't feel the need to justify myself to you or anyone else."

To which he said "You're no fun."

WTF? I'm the poster child for fun! Which is why I remained seated and let him propose another game. After all, the entire population of Facebook-- and eventually you, dear reader-- were waiting to mercilessly mock this guy.  And he did not disappoint, by suggesting we play "3 Questions."  (He was apparently obsessed with the number 3 and quite frankly, the possibilities this suggested were best ignored.)

"3 Questions" is another family favorite in which we each could ask the other 3 questions about anything...and each had to then answer the questions honestly. Not surprisingly, he queried first.

Before I tell you what his first question was, I want you to think of the opportunity and possibilities here. He could ask me ANYTHING he wanted in order to uncover what makes me unique, what makes me tick, what I feel in my little heart of hearts. And so obviously his first question was: "Shaved, natural, or waxed?"

I shit you not.

At this point, morbid curiosity set in and I was determined to see this date through to the bitter end. Not surprisingly, he next revealed he was a Libertarian (well hello there, Dutch!) and then lectured me on why my political beliefs were wrong, stupid, misguided, constitutionally illegal and quite possibly dangerous. My best friend's husband is Libertarian so I'd heard these bullet points before, complete with puffed-out Ayn Rand references as if no one else has ever read a work of fiction.

Yawn, supress urge to roll eyes, change subject.

After the stump speech, Rick must've felt really close to me because he began to share his interests.  I've found that the more you allow a man to talk about himself, the more fascinating he'll find you, and this was no different.  And what interested Rick? In a word:  Zombies. And then more zombies. And then, just for giggles, even more zombies.

Rick, or "Plan Z" as I began think of him, owned 127 zombie DVD's. Over the next two hours, he told me so much about them that it felt as though I was experiencing all 127 of them in real time. We discussed (and by "discussed" I mean he talked and I nodded) his participation in the largest Zombie Walk in the U.S. and he even showed me a photo of this crowning achievement. And yes, even as a zombie, he was wearing a dress.

It's possible we were made for each other.  I'm one hot zombie!

As we ordered dinner, Plan Z mentioned that he was a "Paleo-eater." Not-at-all-interested, I of course asked what, pray-tell, was involved in paleo-eating? His answer began: "Human beings have been on the planet for 13 million years."

Um, hold the phone there, Homo erectus.  Most scientists believe it's more like roughly 200,000 years. But what's a few million years between friends? So, much like during his Libertarian monologue, I bit my tongue. And then bit it again, harder this time, as the sensation was more enjoyable than the actual conversation he was having.

Plan Z continued to educate me:  "Yep, 13 million years. And the reason people have diverticulitis and gluten allergies today is because we're eating the wrong things. We need to eat like cave men did."

And although I was smiling and nodding and acting all engrossed-like, inside I was thinking, "Didn't cave men, robustly gastronomically healthy or not, live to the ripe old age of like 12?" But Plan Z plowed boldly forward, prescribing a simple diet that would cure all that ails us.  According to him, there are only 3 things we should eat: Meat, fruit...and tree nuts.

And then I giggled because he said "nuts."

Oh, and we should also stay away from anything that is intentionally farmed.  So basically, we should all become hunter-gatherers.  I fought the urge to ask him if we should also be nomadic-- is shelter killing us too?

To underscore his point, Plan Z ordered grilled shrimp for dinner. Now I'm certainly no paleontologist, but I'm kinda thinking that most cave men "13 million years ago" were not harvesting shrimp, unless their rudimentary tools included a private jet to the coast, a nice boat, and some naturally-occurring netting. And I'm still a little unclear on whether or not their stance on fire was "fire bad" or "fire good."

You might be asking yourself what a handsome cave man in a skirt does for a living?  I know I was certainly curious!  So when I asked what he did, you can imagine the look on my face when he replied "I dabble." Plan Z was apparently a dabbler of the highest accord who went on to infer that said dabbling was incredibly profitable and in fact, he had published books with 3 different publishers. I began to wonder if he was just a shaved Trout.

In the end, the restraint I showed on this date was remarkable-- I think Gandhi himself would've smacked the guy. But all good things must come to an end, and it was eventually time to bid my dabbling doofus adieu. After the build-up of his political philosophy, the description of his expansive DVD library, the references to his lucrative and varied career, I was remarkably interested in what he drove. Would it be the E Class? A little something from the 700 series? Perhaps something low, sleek, sporty and yet compensatory?

At the heart of this line of thought was this: If this guy was loaded, could I overlook the Utilikit, the zombie fascination, the Tea Party leaning, the cave man diet, the dabbling...and make a go of it to secure an economic future for myself? Might it be possible to ignore his deranged need to define my groin grooming habits in order to avoid becoming a dog food-eating Walmart Greeter in my golden years?

He walked me to my car, said he had a wonderful time and would love to see me again (of course he would).  And then Plan Z drove off.

In a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo.

Complete with a Libertarian bumper sticker.

"Hello, and welcome to Walmart."  It really does just roll off the tongue, doesn't it?

Adventures in Dating, Episode 4: The Disappearance of Dart League

I'm not against games played in bars.

I've been known to dominate a trivia game, put forth a valiant effort In Shuffleboard, and once played an excruciatingly uncomfortable game of pool in front of a group of bikers who stared at my ass while on a touchy/grabby match.com date with a man I like to refer to as "Panty Raider" for reasons I'd rather not disclose.

And no, there will be no episode on Señor Asaltante de Pantalones. 

But I don't get darts. What do you mean I'm not supposed to try for a bullseye? And hang on, there's math involved?  Yeah, count me out guys, I'd rather spend the evening with the Love Tester machine in the vestibule. 

So when "Tim" (that's his real name, I just like the sarcastic tone of voice I use in my head when reading names in quotation marks) contacted me on match.com and a closer look at his profile revealed that he played on a dart league, I was admittedly dubious. Also he looked a little like a douchetard in his profile photo... but as previously confessed in episodes One, Two and Three, I was horribly lonely. So we agreed to meet at Earl's on the 16th Street Mall. For those of you not in the know, this is a touristy, crowded, well-lit public place and perfect for a blind date for those who can't help thinking of shallow, unmarked graves and the pathetically few people who would notice if I never made it back to my home.

(Gotta give a quick shout out to my girl B who served as my safety during these adventures...I'd tell her where I was going, at what time and what his name allegedly was along with his phone number. What up, B? We made it through the reign of terror!)

10 minutes to D-time, I pulled into a parking lot, paid at the self-service machine and walked back to my car to place the ticket on my dashboard.  As I was walking back towards the street, apparently in the goddamn middle of the driveway (so weird when you realize that you're that girl), I became uncomfortably aware of a vehicle with an impatient driver trying to navigate around me. Without even looking, I knew it was him. Cuz that's pretty much how I roll. I stepped aside, turned and there he was.

Admittedly, I don't know a lot about trucks, but for a non-commercial vehicle, this one seemed to have an over-abundance of both doors and tires. I didn't recall him mentioning a ranch or a road crew, so I immediately named his truck "The Compensator" in my head. It's just what I do. I judge.

Seems practical.  If you have a ranch or perhaps a thumb-sized penis.

We greeted each other, laughing at the awkwardness of the situation, and proceeded to the restaurant. It was a pleasant summer night and we snagged a great table on the upstairs balcony. As I recall, he ordered a slightly girlie drink (Bacardi & Diet Coke maybe?) and I ordered a beer and as expected the waitress got it wrong when delivering the drinks.

In person, he was actually quite handsome, having apparently abandoned the salt and pepper pompadour for something a bit less Rick Perry-esque. He was tall (I'm 5'2", so everyone is tall to me), appeared relatively fit and had an easy laugh. I was surprisingly at ease with him and the witty repartee began.

Do I enjoy darts?  Yes indeedy-do!

If you're keeping score at home, and no doubt you are, the game is all tied up at this point. In the plus column, we've got witty repartee and non-douchetardy looks.  In the minus column, we've got The Compensator and a possibly dorktastic past time.

About twenty minutes into the date, we were talking about weight loss and tight jeans and such and he said "Oh believe me, you'd never fit into my jeans," and while I know what he actually meant was that they'd be far too big, I replied "And based on that statement, you won't be getting into mine."

We belly-laughed, and it was a nice moment. Next to inappropriately-timed laughter (think: grandpa's funeral or your own execution), belly-laughter is absolutely my favorite kind.

The next thing I knew, two hours had passed and things were still surprisingly fun...so when he asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, I said yes.  (For those of you who have never endured online dating and who simply have to try it based on just how appealing I've made it sound, here's a tip: Never, and I mean NEVER, commit to meeting for dinner on a first date. Just commit to drinks or coffee so you can kick the tires and don't have to feign illness or chew your own arm off to escape the horror. Look for an upcoming episode featuring "The Whale" which will illustrate.)

Dinner passed in a flash and although we were still clearly enjoying one another's company, I suggested I needed to get home to let my dog Jackson out (poor lil Jax, Mommy's dating pawn). Basically, my intent was simply to leave him wanting more.

It worked. He walked me to my car (a giant Durango absolutely dwarfed by "The Compensator"), and we spent several surprisingly awkward moments saying goodbye and trying not to kiss each other. I mean, we absolutely clicked...for real. There were crazy sparks flying all night and we both knew we wanted it to continue... just at a respectable pace.  Well, maybe semi-respectable.  Okay, I at least wanted to have clean-shaven legs.

I got in my car and drove away, my heart and other regions of my body all aflutter. I hadn't gotten out of downtown before I got a text message from him telling me how much fun he had and how we absolutely had to get together again and he was counting the minutes.

Do I know how to hook 'em, or what?

After The Tongue, Dutch, Trout, Panty Raider and other dates that deserve no blog posts for their ordinary awfulness, you can imagine how pleased I was.  I went to sleep that night with a strange warm feeling I couldn't quite identify. In retrospect I think it was a surge of high self-esteem.  Or maybe just a low-grade fever.  It's a tough call.

But then the weirdest thing happened. Dart League completely disappeared. Not a phone call, text nor email to be had.

Because I'm me, I spent copious amounts of time navel-gazing to determine exactly where I went wrong. I enlisted the involuntary help of countless girlfriends who assured me he'd call. I spoke at length with Yoda (my shrink) on the topic. She said I had nothing to lose and should just contact him.

So, pride suffering, confidence shaken, I finally said "fuck it" and sent the following text (I curse a lot in my head):

"Hi Tim, I really felt like we clicked last week so I'm a little concerned you may be trapped under a heavy piece of furniture. I'm a good person to know in a crisis so please feel free to call me."

And...nothing.

Enter the well-meaning friends to tell me "He just got scared, clearly he really liked you." "You're too good for him." "Are you out of wine?"

Um... No, quite possibly, and fuck yes.

Fast forward 5 months.  I was sitting at the bar at Sushi Den, awaiting the arrival of "The Wookie" so that I could break up with him (details to be shared in a future episode). I was feeling very self-conscious because I was wearing a kilt and Uggs (also to be explained in said future episode) and I realized someone was staring at me. I glanced down the bar and there was Dart League.

Seated next to him was his long-standing wife.

How did I know that a) they were married and b) for more than a few months?  Well, they were wearing wedding rings, clearly together, and miserably indifferent to each other.

We made eye contact.

I looked at the wife and then back at him.  And laughed.

Bullseye.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 1: Winner Wonderland

When I was in the thick of my online dating misadventures, I told my married friends "No matter how fucked up your marriage is, make that shit work.  You have no idea how rough it is out there." 

Really, you don't. 

You may be asking yourself, "How could it have been so awful for someone as beautiful, intelligent, funny, successful and humble as Andrea?" Believe me, I thought the same. So in the Fall of 2010 off to match.com I went, thinking "how hard can this be?"

On match.com your first task is to create a profile name. You can't actually see other profile names at this point, so you're at what us marketing types call a "competitive disadvantage." After some quick and not-at-all creative thinking, I came up with "txtrue1." I didn't really consider the fact that, on the whole, Coloradans dislike Texans for our poor ski etiquette. We, in turn, are mystified over their love for the Subaru and their apparent distaste for both cosmetics and body fat.  So, strike one against me.

Your second task is to write an engaging description of yourself-- your likes, dislikes, interests (assuming you have any) and whatnot. Again, you have no other profiles after which to model yours, so you are flying blind.  Unfortunately, mine did not mention anything at all about my love for running marathons, climbing fourteeners, riding centuries or watching hockey-- mostly because I, like you, have no idea what those things are or why anyone would want to do them.  So, steee-rike TWO!

Then you choose some photos of yourself. Best to choose recent photos and to include at least one full-length shot of yourself so as to appear height/weight commensurate. For good measure, I included a full-length shot of myself on skis so that I'd appear athletic and outdoorsy. In case you haven't already surmised, I am neither. In fact, I think I spent roughly 7 minutes on those skis before marching down that bunny slope in a cold, murderous rage and straight into the warm embrace of the hot tub. Still, you gotta love my moxie.

Sadly, match.com men appreciate neither moxie nor the women who can spell the word or use it in a sentence. You'd think this would be strike three against me, but no.  I was swinging for the fence!

Why yes, I loooove to ski!

So like a good singleton on a happening Saturday night, I published my profile (to the tune of somewhere around $75) and sat back, waiting to be dazzled by the plethora of eligible bachelors who would rush to wine and dine me. In my haste, I didn't think to ask for pointers from anyone unlucky enough to venture before me into this winner wonderland. Mistake.

I almost immediately got some nibbles and settled in to see what happened next. Ok, wow, I didn't expect to be IM'd so quickly by someone who wanted to give me a virtual kiss. Eeeww! How do I block this person? Next up, an email from Lee, whose profile painted a portrait of a successful man who has everything but is looking for that missing piece. Oh wait, in his book, that means a piece of ass. We exchanged phone numbers and he immediately texted to see if I wanted to come to his house to "watch football." How about noooo?  Block!

And so it went. Undaunted, I forged ahead, certain that Mr. Right would find my profile charming and pursue me with flowers, trips to private islands and priceless jewels. I mean, why not me?  Those crazy bitches on "Real Housewives" (any version) can't have married all the millionaires.  Plus, my boobs are real.

Within the first week, I was being pursued by roughly 100 interested parties. And so that next Saturday afternoon I found myself chatting by phone with a handsome "executive." After several glasses of wine and some witty repartee, Mark (or as I later came to think of him, "The Tongue") convinced me to meet him for a drink. I figured I needed to take the plunge with a first date sooner or later, and so at 10 pm, tipsy, on a Saturday night, off I went. In retrospect, I understand that I may have been sending the wrong signals.

We met at a restaurant/bar near my house for said drink. Okay, so he was actually handsome in a 52-year-old kinda way, and an engaging conversationalist-- not that I was a tough audience after several glasses of wine. But he kept touching me. OMG, this dude was waaaay in my bubble and I wasn't digging it. In addition, my Blackberry died within minutes of my arrival and I realized that no one knew where I was or with whom. Thoughts of unmarked graves were dancing through my head as I made my excuses to leave. I foolishly let him walk me to my car, where he shoved his tongue down my throat and told me of his plans to woo me. Um, okay, thanks for the drink.  Gotta run home and Windex my mouth now.

Seriously, make that shit work, people.  This is not a drill.

Stay tuned for Episode Two of Adventures in Dating:  The Unusual Suspects.