Well, another eHarmony match kicked me to the curb Sunday night. That makes 406 failed eHarmony matches since last fall, that's on top of the failed attempts at Nerve, Match, True, Cupid, Love and Seek, Perfect Match, J-date, Christian Singles, Planet Redhead and Craigslist. Then there was the 8 Minute Speed Dating fiasco down at Bar 71 with my brother, whom I have since decided to date. We have so much in common I can hardly believe it.Having horrified and offended all available men located in eHarmony's definition of "my metropolitan region," followed by "my geographic region" and finally "my country," last night I added Canada, the U.K. and Monaco to the list. I've always had a thing for Canadian Mounties, I like the English accent that a man from the U.K. could provide, at least in theory, and although I've never been to Monaco, the pictures I found when I did a basic Google image search exuded warmth and I think I might have a touch of the seasonal affective disorder.
Perhaps I'm overreacting to Andrew, who I was matched to based on our 29 points of compatibility and who proclaimed to me on Sunday, "You know don't take this the wrong way, but usually when I'm interested in a woman I start working out and getting in shape to keep her. But with you I've really let myself go these past couple of weeks. Look at this roll of fat!" He then lifted up his shirt and waved his roll of fat at me.
I waved back.
"And my tits! Look at them, they're bigger than yours," he cried out.
Ouch.
He then asked me where I thought my looks fit into the eHarmony percentile. I said, "I don't know, how about 70 percent?" He just looked at me and said, "Humph." He bragged that there have been close to 200 closures for him.
Amateur.
I haven't given up hope though. For I have been corresponding with Marc, a Swiss interior designer I met via eHarmony who is now living on Long Island. Unfortunately, we only exchanged one phone call a few weeks ago and have just been exchanging recipes via email ever since, with absolutely no sexual undertones to any of the recipe exchanges. Still, he has given me a lot of insight into making a proper fondue. (The trick is to add a teaspoon of baking soda at the end so the cheese fluffs up nicely like a gentle volcano - if volcanoes were made of Gruyere, Emmental and a dash of Kirsch.)
Then there was Scott, the Sacramento venture capitalist who teaches entrepreneurship and sits on his local symphony board. He said he would continue "open communication" with me if I'd agree to raise our children Jewish. Perhaps I should have mentioned that my knowledge of Judaism doesn't extend beyond the occasional purchase of Matzo crackers when I need to settle my stomach. Instead I said I'd be willing to consider it pending further discussion. He countered with an offer to fly up for a half-day date and forwarded me a copy of a proposed flight itinerary. Then his Blackberry went on the lam and that was the end of our correspondence.
So I conned my 25-year-old brother into signing up for 8 Minute Speed Dating with me so I wouldn't be the only one in my family humiliating themselves. The line, "Just think, you'll have more dates in one night than you've had in your entire life!" really reeled the sucker in.
The evening began with me grabbing hold of the back of my brother's jacket to keep him from running out the door of Bar 71 as the women waddled in, sequined purses clutched tightly to their henna tattoos and flabtabulous sides.
A few of the men who didn't have their older sisters there to restrain them ditched the event by entering, flipping a U-turn and diving back out the open doorway, leaving the male sucker to female sucker ratio down by four. The 8 Minute Speed Dating event coordinator started pulling random men who looked like they fit into the 23 to 34 age category off their barstools and offered to sign them up free of charge and buy all of their drinks if they'd just sit at a table and "chat with a few lonely ladies."
The conversations with the sloshed men went like this:
Inebriated man wearing a name tag with "Number 8" scribbled on it: "So what the hell are you doing at speed dating?"
Me: "Just came here with my brother to check it out."
Man Number 8: "How old are you?"
Me: "32."
Man Number 8: "Do you have a house or anything?"
Me: "Nope. I prefer to rent."
Man Number 8: "Pfft!"
After 8 Minute Speed Dating bilked both me and my younger kin out of $35 each, I next outed a 27-year-old virgin named Chris. Unfortunately, he had left out the 27-year-old virgin part until I was sitting across from him at the Ram's Head. Upon hearing the news I remained calm and asked the most obvious question: "So, do you ever have thoughts about men?" His response: "Well, I did dance with a couple of guys in college and I like to cuddle with guys now and then, but that's it."
The night I went out with Gary the environmentalist I was starting to feel pretty hardened so I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic and a medium-rare steak only to find out he was an undeclared vegan. Apparently that hardened me even more because two days later Dennis the corporate recruiter stood up mid-sashimi at Sin Ju, announced "I have a young son at home and would never subject him to your foul mouth," and walked out the door. That really ticked me off because I would much rather be left sitting alone at Mio Sushi, where the unagi and toro are far more palatable.
Next, I attempted a lunging kiss at the end of a date with Greg the aviation engineer, (the lunging kiss had aided in the acquisition of my ex) but Greg's response was "Whoa! What do you think you're doing?"
Clifford drove from Yakima (the first expansion into "my geographic region") only to spend the entire dinner at Serratto wondering aloud if the rich food would trigger his irritable bowel syndrome and telling stories of monkeys throwing unpalatable things at him during a summer internship at the Cleveland zoo. To be fair, he was in medicine, but still, I shouldn't have had to keep saying, "Clifford, I've already asked you repeatedly to please not talk about anus while I'm eating."
Doug from Microsoft made the effort to drive down from Seattle for a Delmonico steak dinner at Paley's Place only to stand me up the following weekend because he forgot the Seahawks were playing.
Matt, a geographer for the county, was "startled" by my femininity and told me he was just looking for a woman who could play a good game of basketball and hang out like one of the guys.
My date at Palio with Bryant the patent attorney lasted four minutes and fifty-two seconds, which was four minutes and fifty-one seconds too long.
Todd, a New Mexico law student, was the first expansion into "my country" and flew in from Albuquerque to check out Portland for the weekend. Two days of sightseeing concluded with his accusatory question, "Does it always rain like this here?" He emailed me shortly after saying he had decided to move back in with his ex-wife.
At times like this it can be tempting to fall back to memories of one's ex, who emailed me from North Carolina three times last week saying that he was going to call me each of those three evenings but never did. (Okay, I admit that I did try calling him but he never answered.) Then I saw a picture on his blog that showed him at some night club, dancing with assorted females he photographed while being entertained by another female friend of his who was busy eating fire on a stage. Apparently his decision to leave the corporate media and return to grad school is working out well for him.
Now it's Valentine's Day and it's just me, a bottle of Elk Cove Pinot Noir and a half box of Girl Scout cookies. No big deal. I'm expecting the matches from Canadian Mounties, debonair Englishmen and Monaco princes to come in any day now.
 | Currently listening : Hound Dog: The Peacock Recordings By Big Mama Thornton Release date: By 22 December, 1992  |
