Wednesday, January 18, 2012

I'd Tell You Everything If You'd Pick Up That Telephone...

I am pretty darned new to the whole on-line dating thing, but from what I can gather, there is a very simple formula to how things are done.

Guy or Girl looks at Girl or Guy.  Sends wink or message.  Guy or Girl chooses to respond.  Electronic message banter ensues.  Numbers are exchanged.  Squirrely text messages are traded.  Phone calls are exchanged and either one of two things happen: 1. You meet up with person or 2. You contact your wireless company to block numbers.  Note:  I've been having my issues with you lately, Verizon Wireless, but you've been more than wonderful in assisting me in blocking numbers as of late.  My sincerest appreciation.

To date, I have only gone on one actual date as a result of my membership.  I have, however, made it so far as to have some phone conversations and e-mails with some gentlemen.  Remember how last time we visited this topic I stated that the results have not been fruitful?  This is why.  For your reading enjoyment, some actual conversations that have taken place with other lost souls of internet dating:

Kingpin messaged me a clever and thoughtful note, he was far from tragic in his photos, so when he sent me his number, I figured nothing bad could come out of a conversation. After all, he loved dogs, volunteered frequently and enjoyed trying new restaurants.  This works out well for me as I have a dog, I am accepting volunteers to do my laundry and walk said dog and as a fat girl, I love to eat at new restaurants.

Kingpin called me one night.  It was awkward, both of us grasping at conversational straws. I was not very comfortable talking to him, which struck me in the moment as I can make just about anyone feel at ease around me and am also comfortable talking to appliances (That one is for another post...)  Anyway, I busted out the very unoriginal line of, "So what do you like to do for fun?"

Kingpin: "Bowl. I like to bowl.  In fact, I get quite angry if I bowl less than 3 times a week."

Cari Bear: "Oh, so are you in a league?  Play the semipro circuit?  Work at an alley?"

Kingpin: "No.  Not at all.  I just am not happy if I do not bowl at least 3 times  a week."

Just let that one settle for a moment.  I am in no way whatsoever bashing bowling, although I do severely question it's classification as a "sport."  I think hobbies are good, and recreation is very important as well.  But to get angry if one doesn't hit the alley half of the week? This made me think of things, outside of my daily routines of eating, sleeping, etc., that I would be angry if I did not do three times a week, and the list is short:  Socialize with friends on some level, get tipsy, make people uncomfortable with conversation and wash my hair (No, I do not wash my hair daily.  It's naturally curly, can you even imagine the Hair Shrub I would be rocking if I scrubbed it daily?  It would probably work well with my Tom Selleck mustache, though....)  Anyway,  I quickly realized Kingpin and I would probably not be compatible and quickly shot off a "Thanks but no thanks" text the following morning.

You Say Cari, I Say Cara

This is pretty short and to the point.   We exchanged three messages each on the site and each one he sent was addressed to "Cara."  Now, I know that if you only hear my name phonetically, there is more than a good chance that you will spell it: Carrie, Carie, Carey, Keri, Kari, Karey, Keri, etc.  It's been my beast of burden my entire life.  However, when I send you a message and you come back with, "Hi Cara..." and my next message is signed, "Cheers, CARI!,"  Your inattention to detail shines through pretty strongly. 

And (un?)fortunately, I have a theory on men with poor attention to detail.  Granted, I know that almost all men have a weaker attention to detail than most women, so I cut a pretty generous slack of rope on this one.  However, if you continuously spell my name wrong despite my best attempts to convey its proper spelling, it can only mean one thing- That you, Sir, are the type of man who forgets that women's breasts are actually attached to them.  You're the type of guy that during a late night make out session would try to rotate my lovely chest hams a full 360 degrees while squeezing them like balloons that will burst full of champagne...only they're not full of champagne, they are full of fat and empty milk sacks, and they happen to be attached to me!!! Men, those sweater pups are in fact included with the display. Ladies, don't even lie, you know exactly the type of guy I am talking about here.  And that type of guy is the same one with shitty attention to detail. I've become pretty fond of my unique name spelling as well as my breasts, and if you can't get one right I doubt you will be able to handle the other.

Next please...

Rub It In, Rub It in...

I will skip all of the messaging on and cut straight to the meat here, because I am pretty sure you are traumatized at my breast twister description as you are 1. Having flashbacks of being with one of those or 2. Realizing you ARE one of those...

Actual text dialogue from a gentleman in the Chicagoland area:

Foot Man: "Hi Cari, It's Foot Man."

Cari Bear: "Hey there, how are ya?"

FM: "Im  good. How u doing"

CB: "I am quite well thanks, just heading into work."

FM: " What time u work till."

CB: "Late."

FM: "Do you like massages."

CB: "I guess. Why? Are you a massage therapist?"

FM: "Just askin"

5 hours without a response from me

FM: "I give a good foot massage"

CB: "Thanks for sharing...?"

FM: "How's work going"

3 more hours without a response from me

FM: "Do u like to give massages"

CB: "You seem to be quite preoccupied with massages.  Have you tried or"

No response from FM

The most painful part of this exchange was not editing his shitty text language for grammar.

Needless to say, the search do the blocked numbers.

1 comment: