“Crying is alright in its way while it lasts. But you’ll have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.”
As these magnificent, albeit, self-exposing tales of one man in Glens Falls, NY and his online dating experiences come to an end-Sorry the few of you that truly enjoy these, but this is only a “triology”-I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for taking the time and I not only mean that from the bottom, top, left, right, front and back of my heart; I hope you’ve enjoyed reading them.
With that, I’ve saved the best for last, so…
In the time between the unfortunate victim from Vol. 2 and this “glorious night”; I had a couple other encounters that deserve “Honorable Mentions”.
The gorgeous hippie girl I scared away because it was way too early for me to start dating. I was like Jo Jo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet…
The gorgeous mulatto teacher that I scared away because it was way too early for me to start dating. This sucked, because she pursued me! Can you believe that? And of course, I fucked it up. Not as bad as Mikey in Swingers with the girls phone number, but definitely a contender for “What not to do with a prospect”.
This led to an epiphany, a moment of clarity, if you will. I needed two things:
- A serious respite from online dating
- Guilt free, no strings attached sex.
What followed was a trip to the Nation’s Capital that was full of sightseeing, shopping and sensational, sinful, sex. Well, up to the point a bag of cashews from Whole Foods gave me paint peeling gas. That goddamn, gorgeous Westin room became Auschwitz.
And no, you will never, ever, hear me say sightseeing, shopping, and sensational, sinful, sex.
Yes, I’m fully aware of the similarities.
Anywho, on the flight back, which consisted of prayers that my salmon couldn’t make their way to Capistrano (think about it) or herpes; I made a conscious decision that I got all this “needing affirmation” hogwash out of my system and it’s time to proceed with my life.
And you can be sure as shit that vanished the moment my plane hit the tarmac. Because you know, now I stank of sex, so confidence was riding high. Surprised I didn’t develop carpel tunnel from swiping right…
What followed was:
The Christian that thought my Himalayan salt lamp was akin to witchcraft. No shit. She was pretty hot though.
The rabid cat I got attacked by. And yes, I literally got attacked by a cat with rabies. She was pretty hot though.
The feminist that would call to yell at me about Donald Trump and show up to every single date an hour late. She was pretty hot though.
The hippie-ish chick that would come over to my place with her massive dog, despite my place not allowing pets, and then drink half a bottle of wine every night. She was pretty hot though.
Sprinkled amongst all of these were one-time encounters that were doomed from the start. And of course, the occasional make-out session.
And there was one…I liked her, a lot. Beautiful, funny, quirky, strange, bright, sanely crazy, hardworking; And of course she lived 3 and a half hours away.
No matter the variety of flavors I attracted, there was one common denominator:
I have to tell you cats and kittens, I had the pleasure of meeting some quite spectacular women that knew they were too good for me. And I also went out with some that were train wrecks colliding with a school bus filled with Special Ed students. Despite that pleasant image, I still had to see if they would be a “buyer” in the stock that was Keith T. Hannigan.
Is it the natural douchiness that is me? Probably.
Is it the natural salesman in me? Probably.
Is it my insecurity needing to be extinguished? Probably
Is it loneliness? Probably.
However, who the fuck am I to dare try and manipulate the emotions of another human being, all the while seizing the opportunity of feeding the beast that is my ego?
Well, I believe there is a God, and I believe she placed the next subject of this here blog in front of me to teach me the most invaluable of lessons:
To grow the fuck up!
The Stupid Genius
I don’t know this as fact, but I’m pretty sure even Einstein smacked himself in the head every once in a while and exclaimed:
“I’m such a fucking idiot!”
Whether this is the first post of mine you’ve read, or for some god-awful, masochistic reason, you’ve made the commitment to read them all; you would gather that I’ve acquired some form of expertise on the subject of online dating over the years…
Well, I made good and goddamn sure to throw it right out the fucking window.
I first met her, the aforementioned female suitor and subject of this blog, on Plenty of Fish. Allow me (you don’t have to, but you’re here, so you know) to paint the portrait for you that is, as we refer to it as, POF.
Back in the day, my friends and I used to joke about how attractive a woman was by saying the name of the establishment where our spirits were consumed and then giving a time.
“She was 8pm at Sabby’s hot.”
Translation: a fine looking lady that if you brought home to mom and dad, even mom would give you a fist bump.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many, meaning any of those.
“She was 2am at Jilly’s hot.”
Translation: When tomorrow morning comes, I more than likely am going to try to sneak out, Mission Impossible meets Naked Gun style, without waking her while trying not to step in her cats litter box. Which for some, who the fuck knows, reason is next to her bed.
Needless to say, I was much more successful with those specimens just looking for love in all the short places.
AUTHORS NOTE: If the dream is realized and my tantalizing tales make their way to the masses; the above is going to find me, and smother me with her gargantuan, hairy, tattooed tits.
And then there was Flubb’s.
Flubb’s was a bar that was right across the border of Vermont in New York State that was open until 4am on a Saturday. Simply put, when you’re losing friends drunk, yet wide awake at 1am in Rutland, VT and they just called last call…well…Lets just say I was quite familiar with this establishment.
Yet here I am, 15 years later, and still making the same goddamn mistakes. Because the point of all this; Plenty of Fish, while providing the occasional 8pm lady at Sabby’s, the mass majority is somewhere between 2am at Jilly’s and 4am at Flubbs.
Why is it like this?
Because it’s free.
Why do I use it?
Because it’s free.
And this is where I met the “love interest” to this far from romantic evening, a woman we will only refer to as:
“I’ve been crying all day”
When the divorce was on the one yard line to being euthanized, I remember saying, like it was my personal mantra, “You can’t see red flags while wearing rose-colored lenses.”
I said it so often, it was as if I was Confucius with this amazingly clever, yet accurate fortune cookie of wisdom.
Clearly, I was on the one yard line to completely losing my shit.
So, when an attractive woman that just so happens to be around the block from your place of employment hits you up on “PoF”; you instantly reply.
For you see, the ones I kept falling for kept living too far away.
And when said woman describes, in detail, how her job causes her to cry from the moment she first punches in to lunch, all throughout lunch, and then from the end of lunch to the moment she punches out, well…One, more than likely, would be inclined to run…
Especially when this happens within the first, I don’t know, two, maybe it was the third email. However, I was somewhat culpable, I did ask the intrusive question of:
“What do you do for a living?”
Full transparency, I did break off communication for a bit, I’m not completely an idiot, but then came the pre-stranger email.
If you’re not familiar with “The Stranger”, allow me to explain.
Other than being a fantastic Billy Joel song; it’s when you sit on your hand until it goes numb so when you rub one out, masturbate, it feels as if it’s someone else.
Well, I will take this one step further. Have you ever been so horny that you start to “reminisce” about an ex? Just to hit them up only to remember why they were your ex?
Well, in the case of online dating, you find yourself fantasizing about the lady you knew good and goddamn well you shouldn’t talk to.
Well, before you know it you throw out a little text:
“Hey, what u doin?”
They respond. with a:
Oh how telling yet frightening an exclamation point can be.
Your response is the oh so leading:
“Just thinking about you.”
I don’t know how fluid the definition of imbecile is, but at this moment, it’s this.
Before she has a chance to respond, you quickly go for what you’re really looking for:
“Send me a pic…please”
The please is crucial. Sometimes you throw in a wink, or a wink with the tongue hanging out. You hear nothing for a few minutes. Deep down, you know it’s because she has taken 37 selfies trying to capture the right one, just for you. Then what do you receive?
A picture that she already has on her profile. But at this point, who fucking cares? The blood flow is coming back in my hand, so it’s go time!
You’re inspired, so you send back.
“You’re so exquisitely breathtaking”
I’m such a fucking asshole…
One minute and seven seconds later… Mission accomplished…But then…
My phone has just decided to become the goddamn ice cream man! Instead, it’s a flurry of messages, or in the case of “The Cryer”, one really long message that is so long in length, it needs 7 messages to send.
Oh sweet Jesus what have I done?
And as if that wasn’t a big enough of a pain in my ass, which I deserved, I have this horrible conscience. Piss off, I do! The guilt is as if I just had a one night stand and I now have to feed her. You realize that? Either we precede or reward sex with food. Simply, I either have to feed you to get it, or feed you for giving it.
Nonetheless, here I am, cloaked in guilt. All because I couldn’t watch lesbian porn on my laptop.
“What are you doing Friday?” I reluctantly ask.
And we now have a new contender for the definition of imbecile.
My profession provides me many perks. One being that I don’t have to always pay for dinner on some of my “dates”. Long story, but lets just say if I want the occasional free dinner, I have that option available to me.
And you can bet your sweet ass I wasn’t paying a fucking dime for this night.
Now, here is the deal, ladies, you’re notoriously late for everything. You know it, I know it, and Father Time knows it. Hence why it’s called Father time and not Mother time.
Yet, this lady was not only early, she was early enough to buy herself an adult beverage:
“I’m so sorry for being late. To be fair, I’m actually on time, but you’re early, which scores some serious Super Mario Gold Coins with me.” I said this with not only charm, but my ohh so arrestingly handsome smile.
“Well, I ordered an IPA and they only had blah, blah, blah IPA, so I’m stuck with this. I don’t even like this. I hate it. It’s awful. I don’t even know why I’m drinking it.”
Mother of God…
“Well, why don’t you tell them? I’m sure they’d be more than happy to provide you another drink. And who knows, maybe they will thank you for your insight.”
I’m a glass half full type of guy. Thanks Tony Robbins!
“Oh not even worth it, they’ll probably spit in it.”
And we’re off.
Now, I’ve been to this establishment numerous times. When food is free, you traditionally find yourself suggesting it quite often. So, to hand me a menu is a moot point. Sometimes, you try to be impressive with your knowledge of this type of cuisine:
“You know the sashimi here is out of this world. The way they prepare the eel is unlike any other place between here and the Capital Region. And I highly suggest the Spicy Tuna Lettuce wraps as it’s the perfect amount of spice with the fresh crunch of the lettuce to cleanse the pallet.”
And other times you just want to get the goddamn food ordered.
Guess which time this was. And of course the waitress was no where to be found…
Now, I remember the first time I heard the word loquacious. My ears perked up. I don’t recall if it was because the word used the letter q or if it was a word that best described me:
Loquacious: talking or tending to talk much or freely; talkative; chattering; babbling; garrulous:
“So, what do you do for fun?”
Silence kills me.
“I couldn’t tell you the last time I did something fun.”
Silence no longer kills me.
“Okay, well do you like to go hiking or anything like that?”
“Oh, yeah, the last time I went hiking (sips her beer), the last time, I was passed by this old lady who had to be 80…”
Stick with me here. One day, years ago, I was asked by a former professor to speak to his class about being in radio. During this class, while I’m in the middle of a sentence describing the nuances of radio advertising, this…kid…in the front row stared me dead in the eye and let out the longest, strangest sounding fart ever…
On this night, after describing this “horrific and traumatizing” hiking experience, she looked me dead in the eye and started to dab them with a napkin.
“Are you crying?” I questioned, with my oh so amazing poker face…
She sniffled while maintaining full eye contact. Which I still find to be so goddamn creepy.
She sniffled again and the tears started to FLOW. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my water with lemon!
But, here was the thing, if you were to load me up with Sodium Pentothal, I’m looking at her thinking, ” You know, she’s not THAT bad looking, not bad looking at all.”
And she wasn’t, she actually was quite pretty. My instinct, you guessed it, lets see how quick I can close this…
And as soon as I had that thought…
“Is the air conditioning on in here? Seriously, there has to be a vent above me with the air conditioning on!”
Not only was it February in upstate New York, there was no goddamn vent!
At this point, I’m about to put an Amber alert out for my waitress. But I see her, she sees me, I make eye contact and give off the whole, “We’re ready to order so get your ass over here” look.
And how did ordering go?
“I don’t know, what do you have?
The menu is the size of a coffee table…with two sides…and pictures…
“Is it the chicken spicy?”
It’s not only noted on the menu with a goddamn picture of a jalapeno pepper, but with the word “Spicy” next to it just in case you were confused as to what the significance of the aforementioned pepper was.
“Well, I want something that tastes like garlic chicken.”
“Well, we have garlic chicken.”
Oh God bless the patient heart of our waitress that night.
“But does it come in a sauce, I don’t like sauce…and why is your air conditioning on?”
“Umm, it does come in a sauce, a garlic sauce, and our air conditioning isn’t on.”
“Well, then I don’t want it and yes it is…”
By the way, all of this, no shit, really happened.
“Well, would you like to move to the tatami seating area?”
I don’t know if I yelled yes, or simply said it, but understand this; if you’ve never sat in a tatami seating area, it’s the drop down seating area that is tucked away from everybody!
So we packed up and moved, hoping the change of scenery may “lighten the mood”.
The remainder of the night included:
More alcohol, which led to more tears, which led to her becoming quite pale, which led to very little eating, which led to her becoming even more pale, which led to more crying, which led to her telling me that she was about to be fired from her job because she was currently serving probation for…you guessed it, CRYING ALL THE FUCKING TIME!
The final straw for me was the moment the waitress came back to see if we wanted dessert. And you guessed it, my lovely date was balling her eyes out like I either told her that I was cheating on her, about to beat her, or both.
Why was it the final straw? Because they had S’mores flavored Molten Lava Cake and I couldn’t have it because my date was acting like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias having a diabetic fucking fit!
When we finally left, the snow that was coming from the sky were flakes the size of frogs. As if God was raining upon me a sign, a sign that this shit needs to stop.
For you see, years, months, weeks, and even days earlier, despite all of what this night entailed; I would have kissed her. And I know she would have been receptive to it.
Instead, I kissed her on the cheek and simply said:
And I meant it. Because, even though I’ve been making light out of this entire night, this girl doesn’t have issues, she has a lifetime subscription. And despite the fact that I feel I can fix anybody (Thanks again Tony Robbins), I know I can’t. Did I spend time trying to be a glimmer of hope in the endless cave that is her existence? Yes. But what this girl needs is something I cannot give her, serious psychological attention.
And I truly hope she finds whatever it is she needs, because, and this is the truth, I felt as if I let her down.
As I was about to post Volume 2, I stumbled across the Mark Twain quote:
“A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn no other way”
As if this was a fortune cookie provided to me by God.
Is it because I was attacked by a rabid cat? Maybe
Is it because in spite of having a failed marriage with a woman I met through online dating, I continue to go back for more? Maybe.
Is it because no matter how much a lady and I are or are not a match, I continually try to see if I can persuade them emotionally to take a chance on me just for it to inevitably? Maybe.
Or is it because, throughout all of this, I’ve learned a lesson that one must learn if they are to ever find what they are looking for:
You must first find it within yourself before you can demand it from others.
What is it? No, it’s not the skill of sitting on your hand, which many of you are going to, or at least should try once you’re done reading this. And yes, every time I hear “The Stranger” on the radio, I smile…
It’s love. (Vomit)
So will I continue to subject myself, and in many cases, subject those that show a sign of interest in me to nights such as this?
Because deep down, I’m still hopeful that I will meet the lady that makes me smile while I think about how much I miss her. Because deep down I’m still hopeful I will meet the lady that whether it’s the first, third, or fiftieth time I see her, she makes my heart race and my palms sweat.
Will it happen?
Fuck me if I know.
The only thing I do know is:
To be continued…And thanks for playing…